Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Threadbare

The stitching along the edge of Damian's cape had frayed beyond repair. Each tear, each rip in the fabric had been a testament to the countless battles he had fought. The once-immaculate suit—dark, intimidating, and tailored perfectly to his frame—was now threadbare. The deep reds and blacks of the Robin emblem had dulled, and the once-glossy finish of his gauntlets was now scratched and chipped, with patches of worn leather barely holding them together.

But Damian refused to replace it.

Every night, as he suited up for patrol, Bruce or Alfred would suggest it. They had spares, after all—fresh, polished suits waiting to be worn. All Damian had to do was hang up the old one, let it be retired as a symbol of everything he had done. But the idea made his stomach churn. The thought of putting on something new, something unscathed, felt like a lie.

This suit was him. The broken seams, the frayed edges, the stains of blood and grime—they reflected what he felt inside. He couldn't hide behind something new, something perfect, because he wasn't perfect. He hadn't been for a long time.

Standing in front of the mirror in his room at the manor, Damian stared at his reflection. His suit sagged in places, the fabric stretched from too many brutal fights. The stitching along his shoulder was nearly undone, hanging on by a few fragile threads. His cape, torn at the ends, no longer billowed majestically behind him. It dragged.

But even still, Damian couldn't bring himself to part with it. Each tear felt like a scar—another battle won, another enemy defeated. But more than that, they reminded him of his failures. The times when he wasn't fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect the people he cared about. The times when he had gone too far—when his own brutality had scared even him.

He traced the edge of his tattered sleeve with a finger, feeling the rough texture of the fabric beneath his touch. I'm broken, he thought, staring into his own green eyes, hollow and tired. The eyes that once held fire, confidence, and an almost arrogant belief in his superiority now only reflected exhaustion. Damian had been through too much, seen too much, to feel anything close to that anymore.

He had grown up under the harsh, unforgiving training of the League of Assassins, taught that emotions were weaknesses, that every fight was a battle of survival. When he had become Robin, things had changed—or they were supposed to. He had tried to be what Bruce wanted him to be. But deep down, he was still that same broken child, fighting battles he wasn't sure he could win.

The suit—torn and falling apart—was a symbol of that. A reminder that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many victories he claimed, he was always just barely holding it together. He didn't deserve something new. He didn't deserve to hide behind a pristine, untarnished façade when inside, he was anything but.

There had been moments, brief flashes of connection, where he thought he might belong, where he could be part of something greater. But those moments never lasted. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made—always pulled him back down.

He remembered his last argument with Bruce. It had been about his methods again. Damian had always been willing to cross lines that Bruce wouldn't. The mission mattered more than the rules. But Bruce had lectured him, again, about the importance of restraint, of preserving life at all costs. Damian had stormed off, too frustrated to listen.

Now, standing in his room, Damian knew Bruce wasn't wrong. But he wasn't right either. There was no black-and-white in this world. Just shades of grey, and Damian was constantly stumbling in the darkest parts of it.

As he stared at the worn-out suit, a knot tightened in his chest. What's the point of pretending I'm something I'm not? he thought. This is who I am.

His thoughts wandered back to the battles that had brought him here. He could still feel the phantom pain from the blows he had taken, the bruises hidden beneath his skin. His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside him—the one he could never seem to shake.

A knock on the door broke through his thoughts. "Master Damian," Alfred's voice called gently from the other side. "It's nearly time for patrol."

Damian's eyes drifted back to the mirror, to his reflection—this broken, threadbare version of himself. He sighed, pulling his tattered cape tighter around his shoulders. "I'll be down in a minute," he called back, his voice betraying none of the turmoil inside him.

As the door closed behind Alfred's retreating footsteps, Damian stood there for a moment longer, staring at the worn fabric hanging off his frame. Maybe I'm holding on to this because it's all I know, he thought. Because once this suit falls apart... what's left of me?

He picked up his mask from the table beside him, the once-polished surface now scratched and dulled. Slipping it on, he felt the familiar weight settle over him. The mask hid his face, but it couldn't hide the truth.

With one final glance at his reflection, Damian turned and headed for the cave. He wasn't sure how much longer this suit—or he—could hold together. But for now, it would have to be enough.

Just like it always was. Barely enough. But still standing, for now.