Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Poison in My Veins

The mission had gone wrong in ways no one could have anticipated. They had entered the abandoned factory as they always did, silent shadows slipping through the dark. But this time, they weren't careful enough. A masked figure—a villain they'd assumed was long gone—emerged from the shadows, a twisted grin on their face as they launched a gas canister straight at Robin. Damian barely had time to react before the sickly green fumes wrapped around him, seeping into his skin, into his bloodstream. He staggered, coughing, vision blurring, the edges of his world fading to black.

The others managed to bring him back to the Batcave in time, and, after days of treatment, the physical effects of the poison began to wear off. His strength returned; his breathing steadied. But something felt... wrong. He couldn't shake the gnawing feeling of unease, the strange whispers echoing in his mind, filling him with doubts he couldn't ignore. It was as if the poison had seeped into more than his bloodstream—it had crept into his thoughts, twisting and warping them into something dark, something he couldn't control.

At first, he brushed it off, chalking it up to recovery, telling himself it would pass. But as days turned into weeks, the darkness only grew stronger, deeper, entangling his thoughts until he couldn't tell what was real and what was his own imagination. Shadows seemed to stretch longer, faces appeared warped, and he began to hear things—soft voices murmuring behind his back, laughter when he wasn't in the room. It felt like his family was conspiring against him, their looks colder, conversations shorter.

One evening, he overheard Bruce and Alfred in the hallway, their voices hushed but tense. He leaned closer, trying to catch their words.

"Do you think he's ready?" Bruce's voice was strained, a hint of worry in it.

"Only time will tell, sir. But this isn't something he'll overcome overnight," Alfred replied, his tone grave.

They were talking about him. He was sure of it. He froze, heart pounding. The distrust began to fester, growing into something bitter and insidious. He convinced himself that they had given up on him—that maybe they saw him as a liability, an unstable piece in their perfect, calculated machine. They didn't trust him anymore. They didn't believe in him.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. They were trying to replace him. They had always wanted a perfect Robin, and he had never been that. He wasn't enough for them, not in the way Dick or Tim had been. They would all be better off if he just... disappeared. The whispers agreed, mocking him, their voices echoing in his mind, poisoning him against everything he had once held close.

Soon, Damian started withdrawing from the others, training alone, taking patrols that kept him as far from the Batcave as possible. He avoided eye contact, kept his responses short, deflecting concern with a cold, practiced indifference. It wasn't long before the others began to notice. Tim would stop him in the hallway, his brow creased in worry, or Dick would suggest going out for a night on the town, anything to get Damian to relax. Even Bruce had started looking at him differently, worry etched into his usually stoic expression.

But every offer, every glance, every concerned hand on his shoulder only made Damian feel more trapped, more certain that they were lying, keeping secrets, plotting behind his back. The whispers told him they would betray him, just as everyone else had. They were just waiting for him to slip up, for the poison in his veins to finally break him.

One night, after a mission, Dick confronted him directly.

"Damian, you're not yourself," he said, his eyes searching Damian's face. "Talk to me. I know something's going on."

Damian tensed, anger flaring up inside him. "You think I don't see what you're doing?" he snapped, stepping back. "You all think I'm weak now, don't you? Just waiting for me to mess up so you can replace me."