Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Nightmares and Needles

Third Person

The nights were the worst. No matter how hard Damian Wayne tried, sleep always eluded him. The nightmares came relentlessly, vivid and merciless, dragging him back to a time he wished he could forget. A time before he was Robin, before Gotham, before his father. A time when he was just Damian al Ghul, trained by the League of Assassins to be a weapon, a killer.

The images were always the same: blood, faces contorted in fear, and his own hands stained red with the weight of his past. He would wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing, gasping for breath as if he had been running for hours. He could still hear the screams, feel the rush of adrenaline that had once fueled him, but now only left him hollow and empty.

Each night was a battle he couldn't win, and it was starting to take its toll. Damian could see it in the way his hands shook when he tried to hold his sword. He felt it in the sluggishness of his movements, the way his mind seemed to be one step behind in every fight. His performance as Robin was slipping, and he knew it. Worse, so did his family.

"Damian, you're not yourself," Bruce had said to him one night after a patrol. His father's voice had been gentle but firm, the kind of tone that made it clear he was both worried and frustrated.

"I'm fine," Damian had snapped back, avoiding eye contact as he peeled off his suit. "I can handle it."

But that was a lie. He couldn't handle it—not anymore. The pressure of being the perfect soldier, the perfect son, was suffocating. He was haunted by his past, tormented by the very skills that had once made him feel powerful. Now, they only reminded him of the blood he couldn't wash off his hands, no matter how hard he tried.

It started innocently enough—just something to take the edge off. A small pill, something to help him sleep, to push the nightmares back just long enough for him to get a few hours of peace. It was something Jason had mentioned offhand once, back when he was still angry and reckless. Damian remembered how Jason had shrugged, saying, "It helps. Numbs everything. Just don't get hooked."

Damian told himself it was only temporary. He just needed a break, a moment of quiet in the storm. But the moment stretched into days, then weeks. The pills stopped working as well, so he took more. And when those weren't enough, he turned to stronger things. At first, he could justify it. He was still functioning, still going on missions, still wearing the Robin mantle. But inside, he was unraveling, and no one seemed to notice.

The drugs numbed the pain, the guilt, the memories. They made the nightmares go away, at least for a while. But they also dulled everything else. His senses, his focus, even his emotions. He felt disconnected from his body, like he was watching himself from a distance. It was a relief in some ways. The constant pressure, the weight of being Damian Wayne, began to lift, even if only for a few hours.

But it came at a cost. His reflexes slowed, his judgment clouded. On missions, he became more reckless, pushing himself further into danger just to feel something again. He made mistakes—mistakes that could have cost lives, and sometimes did.

One night, after a particularly brutal mission, he stumbled into the Batcave, blood dripping from a gash on his arm. He had barely registered the pain. Bruce was there, of course, waiting as usual.

"What the hell happened?" Bruce's voice was sharp, and Damian could feel the weight of his father's gaze.

"I handled it," Damian muttered, brushing past him, his mind already fogging from the pills he had taken earlier.

"Handled it?" Bruce grabbed his arm, inspecting the wound. "This isn't handling it, Damian. You're getting careless."

Damian wrenched his arm free, glaring at his father. "I said I'm fine," he growled, his voice more hostile than he intended.