Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Counting Scars

The door to Damian Wayne's room slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the long, empty halls of Wayne Manor. He stood there, his chest heaving as he struggled to keep his composure, fists clenched tightly at his sides. The mission had been a disaster, every move going wrong, every calculated plan falling apart like sand slipping through his fingers. His failure stung, but it wasn't the first time.

It wasn't even the worst.

The weight of his father's disappointment sat heavy in his chest, the silence that followed the botched mission cutting deeper than any reprimand ever could. Bruce hadn't even looked at him when they returned to the Batcave. He had simply walked away, his cape billowing behind him, leaving Damian to stew in his own thoughts.

Alone. Again.

Damian locked the door behind him, as though that small action could keep the world—and the people who hurt him—at bay. He sat down on the edge of his bed, the familiar sting of shame burning in his throat. His breath was shaky as he began pulling off his suit, piece by piece, exposing the bruises and cuts littering his body from the mission. His skin was marked by the remnants of countless battles, each scar a reminder of his failures, his weakness.

He stood in front of the mirror now, shirtless, staring at his reflection. His eyes moved over his chest, his arms, his legs—every inch of skin bearing a mark, a story. Damian ran his fingers over the old scars, his mind drifting back to the moments that had caused them.

Flashback One: The Broken Rib

The first scar he traced was a faint, jagged line across his ribs—a knife wound from his early days in Gotham. It had been one of his first missions with the Bat family. Damian remembered the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he fought side by side with his father. He had felt invincible then, determined to prove himself worthy of the Robin mantle.

But things had gone wrong.

He had moved in too close, too fast, and a thug had slashed him before he could react. The knife had cut deep, slicing through his suit and into his flesh, leaving him gasping for breath, clutching his side as the pain overwhelmed him. He had fallen to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.

He remembered looking up, expecting Bruce to come to his side, to help him. But his father had been too busy, too focused on taking down the rest of the gang. Damian had crawled away, gritting his teeth, trying to stop the bleeding on his own. When the fight was over, Bruce had barely spared him a glance.

"You need to be more careful," Bruce had said, his voice devoid of warmth. "We don't have time for mistakes."

No concern, no comfort. Just cold, clinical words. Damian had been left to stitch up the wound himself later that night, his father already back at the computer, analyzing their next mission.

The scar on his ribs had healed, but the memory of his father's indifference hadn't.

Flashback Two: The Bullet Wound

Damian's hand moved next to the bullet wound on his shoulder. It had happened a year later, during a mission with the Titans. They had been ambushed, caught off guard by a group of armed mercenaries. Damian had thrown himself into the fight, determined to protect his team, to prove his worth as their leader.

But in the chaos, he hadn't seen the sniper. The bullet had ripped through his shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. The pain had been excruciating, but even worse had been the realization that no one had come to check on him.

He remembered lying there, blood soaking into his suit, his vision blurring as the pain overwhelmed him. He had called out to his teammates—Dick, Kory, Gar—but no one had answered. They were too busy fighting, too preoccupied with their own battles to notice that their leader had been shot.