Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Out of Time

Damian Wayne stood on the rooftop of Wayne Tower, gazing out over the Gotham skyline as the cold wind whipped through his hair. The city was alive beneath him, its dark corners illuminated by the occasional flicker of streetlights. But he felt none of the usual excitement that came with standing above Gotham, no sense of duty as its protector. All he felt was numb.

His hands trembled slightly, not from the cold, but from something far more sinister. He clenched them into fists, trying to stop the shaking, to hide the truth from himself for just a little while longer. But there was no hiding from it anymore.

He was dying.

It had started months ago—an odd pain in his chest, then sudden bouts of weakness, dizziness that left him stumbling in the middle of training sessions. He had ignored it at first, chalking it up to overexertion, pushing through the discomfort as he always did. But the symptoms only worsened.

And then, the doctor's visit. Damian had gone alone, using a fake name and an off-the-books clinic to ensure no one in the Bat family would find out. The diagnosis had hit him like a blow to the chest: a rare, aggressive illness, one that had no cure and no mercy. He had weeks, maybe months, left to live.

Damian had stared at the doctor in disbelief, refusing to accept the words. He was Damian Wayne—son of Bruce Wayne and the heir to the League of Assassins. He had been trained since birth to be the perfect warrior, the perfect weapon. He was invincible, wasn't he?

But this... this was something even he couldn't fight.

He had walked out of that clinic without a word, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest. He had kept the secret from everyone. Telling them would make it real. And worse, they would pity him, look at him as though he were fragile. Damian couldn't bear the thought of them seeing him like that—broken, weak, dying.

So he had made a choice: he would push them all away. He would protect them from seeing him at his lowest, his most vulnerable. If they hated him by the end, maybe it would hurt less when he was gone.

It started with skipping patrols. At first, he made excuses—he was busy with League business, had personal projects to attend to. Then he just stopped showing up altogether, disappearing for days at a time. He avoided family dinners, training sessions, anything that required him to be around the others.

Dick had been the first to notice, of course. His older brother had always been able to read him better than anyone else.

"Damian," Dick had said one night after catching him sneaking into the Batcave well past midnight, his face lined with worry. "What's going on? You've been MIA for days."

"None of your business, Grayson," Damian had snapped, brushing past him.

Dick had grabbed his arm, stopping him. "It is my business when my little brother starts shutting everyone out. Talk to me."

Damian had jerked his arm free, his voice cold and sharp. "I don't need to talk to you. Or anyone. Leave me alone."

Dick had stared at him, hurt flashing across his face, but Damian didn't let himself care. He had to push him away. Had to make sure Dick didn't start prying, didn't get too close.

After that, the Bat family had stopped trying as hard. Tim stopped asking him to spar. Jason stopped inviting him on missions. Even Alfred, who always knew when something was wrong, gave him space. It was what Damian wanted, what he had worked so hard to achieve.

But as the days passed, that hollow emptiness inside him only grew.

The illness progressed faster than the doctors had predicted. The pain in Damian's chest became a constant ache, a dull throb that never went away. His body, once finely tuned and powerful, began to betray him. His reflexes slowed, his strength faded. Every punch he threw felt weaker, every movement took more effort than it should have.