Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Morning After

Damian awoke with a start, his head throbbing violently, the taste of something bitter and unfamiliar lingering in his dry mouth. His eyes blinked against the harsh light seeping through the window, making him squint and pull the unfamiliar blankets over his face. It was cold. Too cold for his liking, and the sheets smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old beer. This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his room.

Panic flashed in his chest as he shot up, the sudden movement sending a wave of nausea through him. The room spun, and Damian groaned, his hands gripping the edges of the thin mattress for support. He tried to collect his thoughts, but they slipped through his fingers like sand. Where was he? What happened?

A quick scan of the room told him nothing. It was a small, dingy space with peeling wallpaper and furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster. A dresser with chipped paint, a stained armchair in the corner, and a cracked mirror hanging above a dresser. There were clothes scattered on the floor, but none of them were his.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he forced himself to breathe, to think. He struggled to recall how he got here. The last thing he remembered was... He frowned. What was the last thing he remembered?

A bar. Loud music. He had been at a bar.

Damian closed his eyes and tried to focus. He had left the manor the previous night, furious and desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the place. There had been another argument with Bruce. Nothing new, just the usual condescension, the coldness that always made Damian feel small, despite everything he had accomplished.

He'd stormed out, not wanting to deal with anyone. Not Bruce, not Dick, not anyone in the family who always pretended like everything was fine when it clearly wasn't. He had wanted to be alone, to disappear into the chaos of Gotham and drown out the noise in his head. And then... the bar.

Yes. He had gone to a dive bar. Alone. He remembered ordering a drink. Then another. The burn of alcohol sliding down his throat had felt good, numbing the anger and frustration. He'd kept drinking, ignoring the unfamiliar stares of the patrons around him. He wasn't one to lose control like that—he had been trained to keep himself disciplined, to always stay sharp. But last night... last night was different.

And now he was here, in this room. Alone.

Damian groaned again, pressing his hands to his aching temples. He needed to get out of here. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold, dirty floor. A wave of dizziness hit him, but he forced himself to stand, even though his legs felt shaky and weak. His body ached as though he had been in a fight, but there were no signs of injury—just the deep, hollow ache of regret.

There was a faint sound behind him, and Damian turned sharply. A figure lay slumped in the armchair, fast asleep. It was a girl—probably close to his age, though he couldn't tell in the dim light. She had dark, smudged eyeliner and wore a faded band t-shirt. Damian stared at her for a moment, his chest tightening with anxiety. What did I do?

His mind raced, but nothing came back to him. Had they...? He didn't know. He had no memory of her or how she came to be in this room with him. The shame burned hotter in his chest as he quickly gathered his things. His boots were lying near the door, his jacket thrown haphazardly across the chair. His gloves—he didn't know where his gloves were, and he wasn't going to waste time searching for them.

Damian dressed as quickly as his sluggish limbs would allow, each movement punctuated by the pulsing headache that refused to relent. Once fully clothed, he slipped quietly out of the room, not wanting to disturb the girl. He didn't want any more questions—especially ones he had no answers to.