Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Blackout

The first thing Damian noticed was the pounding in his head, a dull, relentless ache that throbbed behind his eyes. His body felt heavy, as if every limb was weighed down by lead. He groaned, blinking slowly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—stained and cracked, dim light flickering through the slats of a boarded-up window. The room reeked of alcohol, sweat, and something metallic, sharp enough to make his stomach churn.

Then the pain hit.

Every inch of his body ached—deep bruises blossomed across his ribs, his knuckles were raw and split, and his lip stung with the distinct burn of a cut. He sat up too quickly, gasping as the room spun around him. His hands trembled violently, like they didn't belong to him.

His clothes were wrinkled and stained, his shirt torn along the hem. Blood—someone's, maybe his own—marked his sleeves and knuckles in dried streaks.

And the worst part? He couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, couldn't piece together how the night had ended. Everything was a blur—flashes of sound, scattered images: bottles clinking, a stranger's laughter, neon lights glowing through thick smoke.

His mind raced, trying desperately to reconstruct the night, but it was like chasing shadows in the dark. Every thought led to a dead end. The harder he tried, the more his panic grew, clawing at his chest like a wild animal trapped inside his ribcage.

He stood slowly, wobbling on unsteady legs, hissing at the pain that flared in his side. There was a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. He stared at his reflection—a pale, haunted version of himself, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes and bruises darkening his jawline. His lip was swollen, and his knuckles told the story of a fight he couldn't recall.

His heart pounded, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, biting back the rising wave of nausea. What did I do?

The thought of asking for help made his stomach twist with shame. He could already picture it—Bruce's disappointed stare, the lectures from Dick, the pity in Tim's eyes. And Jason... Jason wouldn't even try to hide his disgust.

"You're supposed to be better than this," they'd say.

But was he? He didn't feel better. He felt broken. Weak. Lost.

His hands shook uncontrollably, and he clenched his fists, hoping the pain would ground him. It didn't. His breath came in shallow gasps, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out again.

He needed to know. Needed to understand how the night had spiraled so far out of control. But there was no one to ask, no one he trusted enough to admit the truth.

The truth was, he'd been slipping for a long time—feeling like a ghost in his own family, struggling to find his place among people who always seemed to shine brighter than he ever could. Tim was brilliant, Jason fearless, and Dick... Dick was everything Damian could never be.

And Bruce... Bruce only ever seemed to see the things Damian did wrong.

Suddenly, a fragment of memory broke through—fists flying, glass shattering, shouting voices. He saw himself in the middle of it, reckless and angry, lashing out at anyone who came near. He remembered the burning sensation of alcohol coursing through his veins, numbing the edges of his thoughts, drowning the pain for a little while.

Another image flashed—he'd been thrown out of a club, landing hard on the pavement. Someone had laughed, a stranger helping him to his feet, offering him another drink, and Damian had taken it without hesitation.

He'd wanted to forget. Forget the disappointment in Bruce's eyes. Forget the nagging feeling that he wasn't enough—wasn't worthy of the family name, the mantle of Robin, or the legacy that weighed so heavily on his shoulders.