Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Cold and Empty

Damian's eyes cracked open, the dull ache in his skull beating in time with the pounding in his chest. His mouth felt dry, and his tongue was coated in the bitter taste of last night's alcohol. The room was spinning—dim light filtering through the curtains, casting shadows on unfamiliar walls.

He groaned as he tried to sit up, his body protesting every movement. His head throbbed with the memory of too many drinks, and though the fog clouding his mind was thick, the emotional weight pressing on him was even heavier. The silence in the room was suffocating, filling the air with a kind of emptiness that gnawed at him.

The night before was a blur—a swirl of laughter from strangers, clinking glasses, and the warmth of liquor. For a few hours, it had dulled the ever-present ache, masking the cold void he carried inside. But the numbness never lasted. Morning always came, pulling back the curtain to reveal the truth: he was alone, and no amount of alcohol could change that.

Damian shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking as he tried to gather his thoughts. His gaze landed on the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, a mocking reminder of his escape attempt. Beside it, a broken cigarette rested in an ashtray—snapped in half, as if he'd thought better of it at the last moment. He hadn't even remembered doing that.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. The room felt too big, too quiet. The ache in his chest burned hotter than the hangover splitting his head. This wasn't just a bad morning; it was every morning.

The crushing weight of isolation never left him. It lurked in the quiet moments, in the pauses between missions, in the empty spaces where love and connection should have been. It had become a constant companion—cold, familiar, and inescapable.

There were flashes—memories that clawed their way to the surface of his mind. Arguments with Bruce, words spoken in anger. Dick's reassurances that always fell just short of what Damian needed to hear. The subtle distance that Tim kept, and Jason's constant reminders that no one ever really stayed.

He had tried, so many times, to be the son they wanted, to be the brother they could trust. But it was never enough. And no matter how hard he fought, how much he bled, there was always something missing. A piece of him they didn't see, a part of him that would never belong.

He clenched his fists. The loneliness was unbearable. It wrapped around him like chains, dragging him deeper into the cold, dark ocean of his thoughts. It didn't matter how many villains he put away or how many battles he won—nothing could fill the gaping hole inside him.

The sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand broke the silence, but he didn't move to answer it. He already knew who it was—Bruce, or Dick, or maybe Alfred, checking in because they hadn't heard from him. The thought of facing them now made his stomach twist with dread.

What would they say if they saw him like this? Damian Wayne—Robin, the son of the Bat, heir to Ra's al Ghul—reduced to a hungover mess in a cheap apartment, surrounded by bottles and ashtrays. They'd be disappointed, of course. But more than that, they'd pity him. And Damian couldn't stand the thought of being pitied.

His phone buzzed again, and he groaned, finally reaching over to glance at the screen. Bruce. Of course. Always Bruce. Always the man who expected more from him, but never knew how to give him what he truly needed.

For a moment, Damian considered answering. Maybe Bruce would say something different this time. Maybe, just maybe, he'd say the words Damian had always longed to hear.

But he knew better. Bruce didn't change.

With a bitter sigh, he tossed the phone aside and leaned back against the bed. He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting through the haze of alcohol and memories.