Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Cold Shoulder

Wayne Manor, always grand and imposing, had never felt this empty to Damian before. Every corner, every shadowed hallway seemed to stretch on endlessly, void of any warmth or life. The rooms were quieter than usual, but it wasn't the comforting kind of quiet that he had grown used to. This silence was oppressive, a tangible weight pressing down on his chest with every passing hour.

Damian could trace it back to the argument. It had started like so many others—sharp words exchanged between him and his father, tensions brewing after a mission went wrong. Damian's quick, impulsive nature had clashed with Bruce's methodical precision, and, as usual, tempers had flared. But this time, it had been different. The fight had spiraled out of control, voices raised to the point of breaking. And then, like a switch had been flipped, everything stopped. No one yelled. No one screamed. The fight was over, but the consequences had only just begun.

They didn't talk to him afterward. None of them did.

The Bat family had always been a complicated, dysfunctional group. There were fights, arguments, and disagreements, but beneath it all, Damian had always thought there was some unspoken bond—something stronger than blood that tied them together. He had been wrong.

At first, it was subtle. Dick would walk into the room and barely glance at him. Jason, usually so eager to provoke him, didn't bother with his usual taunts. Tim, who Damian often butted heads with, now avoided him altogether. Even Alfred, ever the calming presence, had grown distant, his polite words now tinged with a formality that felt more like a wall than a bridge.

Bruce, however, was the worst. His silence was colder than any reprimand or punishment. There was no lecture, no disappointed sighs, no heated discussions about tactics and responsibility. Just... nothing. Damian had grown accustomed to his father's gruff demeanor, but this was different. This was a void, and it consumed everything in its path.

Days passed like this. Damian would enter a room, and the conversation would die, eyes avoiding his. At first, he tried to rationalize it—maybe they were busy, caught up in their own work. But the longer it continued, the clearer it became that this was no accident. He was being deliberately shut out.

Every meal became an exercise in isolation. They all sat together at the long, ornate dining table, but Damian was left to pick at his food in silence. He could feel their eyes on him, fleeting glances that held judgment, disapproval, disappointment. Even when they weren't looking at him, the weight of their absence hung in the air. Damian's chest tightened with every bite, the silence gnawing at him more than hunger ever could.

The emptiness of the manor amplified the feeling. Its cavernous halls seemed to mock him, each step echoing with loneliness. Damian walked through rooms filled with memories of happier times, of moments where he felt like he belonged—training sessions with Dick, late-night strategy talks with Tim, sparring with Jason, even awkward attempts at bonding with Bruce. Now, all of those memories felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

He stopped in front of the grand fireplace in the main hall one night, staring into the flames as they crackled and hissed, the only sound in the oppressive silence. The fire should have been comforting, but even its warmth couldn't reach him. Damian stood there, motionless, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn't control.

Would they even notice if he left?

It was a thought that had been creeping into his mind more frequently. At first, it had been fleeting, an idea he dismissed as irrational. But now, it lingered. If he walked out the door right now, would they care? Would they even bother looking for him? He wasn't sure anymore.

The thought of leaving, of disappearing, gnawed at him. There was a part of him that wanted to go back to the League, to the place where he had been trained, where his worth had been measured by his skills, not by emotional connections he seemed incapable of forming. Talia, his mother, would welcome him back. Ra's al Ghul would respect his strength, his ruthlessness. He wouldn't feel like an outsider there. Not like here.

But even as that thought tempted him, a deeper part of Damian knew it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want the League. He wanted them. The Bat family. His father. His brothers. He wanted to be accepted, to be a part of something more than just missions and bloodlines. But how could he, when it felt like every mistake he made pushed them further away?

He pressed his hands to his head, his nails digging into his scalp as frustration and anger welled up inside him. He had tried so hard. He had tried. But it never seemed to be enough. No matter what he did, no matter how much he sacrificed, they still saw him as an outsider. He was still the son of Talia, the grandson of Ra's. The boy with too much darkness inside him. The one who couldn't quite fit into their world.

His vision blurred as tears threatened to fall, but Damian blinked them away. Crying wouldn't solve anything. It would only prove their point—that he was weak, that he wasn't strong enough to handle the weight of being a part of this family.

The next morning, Damian woke with a decision heavy in his heart. He would leave. Not for the League, not for some grand rebellion, but because he couldn't stay here any longer. The coldness of the manor, the silence, the judgment—it was too much. He couldn't endure it. He couldn't spend another day pretending like everything was fine when every room felt like a prison cell.

He packed his things quietly, methodically. No one would notice. No one would care. As he zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, he paused, staring at the door to his room. A small, bitter part of him hoped that someone would come to stop him. That someone would knock on the door, tell him to stay, tell him they needed him. But the hallway outside remained silent, just like always.

Damian made his way down the stairs, the manor as lifeless as ever. He passed the Batcave, hesitating for just a moment. He could hear the faint sound of someone typing at the computer, but he didn't bother looking. They wouldn't miss him.

He stepped outside into the early morning air, the sky just beginning to lighten with the dawn. The cold bit at his skin, but it didn't matter. He was used to the cold now.

As he walked down the long driveway, leaving Wayne Manor behind, Damian glanced back once. The massive structure loomed behind him, as imposing and indifferent as it had always been. He turned away and kept walking, the sound of his footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know if he'd come back. All he knew was that the emptiness inside him was too much to bear.

And he doubted anyone would notice he was gone.

As the weeks passed, no one came for him. The Bat family continued their missions, their lives, without him. It was as if he had never been there at all. Damian had always feared being alone, but now, more than ever, he understood the true meaning of isolation. Not the kind where you're physically alone—but the kind where you're surrounded by people, and none of them see you.

No one noticed.