Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Abyss

At first, the changes were subtle, so easy to dismiss as teenage moodiness. Damian started staying in his room more, missing meals and skipping out on sparring sessions. He kept quiet, brushing off any questions with a clipped response or a carefully guarded stare. But as the weeks dragged on, his absences grew longer, his silence heavier, and the haunted look in his eyes deepened into something darker.

Dick noticed first, or thought he did. But whenever he tried to talk to Damian, he was met with walls that were impossible to scale. Damian had become a master of deflecting concern, countering any attempt at closeness with a stoic distance that felt impenetrable.

Bruce brushed it off as stress. Damian, he thought, would talk when he was ready. After all, he was young, strong, built to survive anything. But Bruce's dismissal was not out of lack of love; it was out of a misguided trust that Damian could handle his inner battles alone, that he didn't need to be checked on—at least, not yet.

Alfred sensed something, a lingering unease that tugged at him as he passed Damian's room, hearing the muffled sounds of restless nights and occasional murmurs. Yet even Alfred, with his keen intuition, believed Damian would find his way through. And so, the days slipped by.

Until one day, Damian didn't come out of his room at all.

It wasn't until Bruce went to fetch him for a particularly urgent mission that he realized something was wrong. He knocked, called Damian's name, and waited. No answer. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, and a chill ran down Bruce's spine. He twisted the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and stepped inside.

The room was dark, curtains drawn, and a stale smell lingered in the air. Clothes were strewn across the floor, an untouched plate of food sat on his desk, and there, on the edge of his bed, sat Damian—eyes vacant, staring at the wall as though it held some terrible secret.

"Damian," Bruce said softly, his voice a mix of concern and disbelief.

But Damian didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed, distant, his usually sharp features softened with an unfamiliar fragility. Bruce could see it now—the weight that had slowly, silently crushed him. It was a heaviness Damian had borne alone for too long, his defenses finally crumbling.

"Damian... talk to me," Bruce tried again, his tone more urgent now, yet laced with a helplessness he rarely allowed himself to feel.

At last, Damian's gaze flickered, his eyes moving to meet Bruce's. But there was no recognition, no spark of the boy who had once fought beside him with unyielding determination. Instead, there was only emptiness, a vast and suffocating chasm where hope had once lived.

"I... I'm tired, Father," Damian murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the words seeming to sap the last of his strength. "I've been... falling... and no one noticed."

Bruce's heart clenched, a pang of guilt twisting inside him as he reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly before resting on Damian's shoulder. "I didn't see it, Damian," he admitted, the weight of his failure settling over him like a lead blanket. "I thought you were fine. I thought..."

"You didn't want to see," Damian interrupted, his voice filled with a bitterness that pierced through Bruce's guilt. "None of you wanted to see."

Dick entered, alarmed by Bruce's absence. He stopped short at the sight of Damian, his eyes widening with shock. He'd never seen him like this, so vulnerable, so broken. And in that moment, Dick knew they had all failed him in ways they could barely comprehend.

"Damian... I didn't know," Dick whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he sat beside him. "Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you let us help?"

Damian's laugh was hollow, bitter, a sound more like a sob. "I tried, in my own way. But every time I faltered, every time I showed weakness, you all looked the other way. I stopped going on missions. I stopped training. And none of you... none of you even noticed."