it takes so long to earn; you can double up, or you can burn.
Though he doubts it was ever Bruce's intention he knows it wasn't, and isn't little by little, it's getting ... better. (Other things may be getting worse, but those things aren't of any concern to him.) It isn't that he needs direction, or the uniform, or Batman (though he does). He's been on his own and he does okay. He could do "okay" for the rest of his life. There are worse things to be.
Typically: it's not enough. Typical, that is, of a high percentage of Tim Drakes throughout the multiverse. He'd always made a study of them, until he met Owlman, who'd told him: you don't have to be Robin, you don't have to be Talon. You couldn't, anyway, you don't have what it takes. This might-have-been bullshit is for non-entities. You're just afraid to be something else. Stop watching. Start doing.
It wasn't anything he hadn't already known, but that time, the way it hit him ... and he can't say it's anything even vaguely resembling a reasonable reaction, or one that speaks well of his mental and/or emotional health.
He also can't say that his life would be completely different if he'd never gotten into his little Bat-identity guessing game. He'd probably be dating heh Darla, taking as many AP classes as the school (would it still be standing?) allowed him, dislocating his fingers on the soccer field. College. He doesn't know what he would've majored in. It's both alien and familiar, like picking up something you just barely remember making in a dream.
Bruce shouts at Tim a lot, but this is like a mandatory aspect of training; he's rarely sincerely angry at Tim, who is still loitering in afterthought status. For Bruce, you kick a dog to discipline it, not because you're pissed off (though that is always an option). Dogs generally don't know better. That's why you train them. There's only one incident Tim can recall when Bruce seemed genuinely irritated with him. He'd hooked the PINpoint up to the main computer and was watching a Robin with fascination. The look on his face: Tim wasn't sure, but he thought he used to have that look too, a kind of disassociated despair. An absence of will or desire. He'd never thought, somehow, that a Tim who was Robin could ever have that look.
Bruce had at some point entered the room, and he'd surprised Tim with his sudden disconnection of the PINpoint. And, admittedly, the part where he'd hauled Tim out of the chair and spoke very quietly but intensely for about three minutes. Then they're gone down to an underground arena for an impromptu training session, one that mostly consisted of consecutive bouts with increasingly skilled opponents. That was the day he fractured the ulna in his left arm (see, Jason? No more "left side."), cracked three ribs, broke two fingers, and lost two teeth. A "learning experience", Bruce had called it as he paced at the perimeter, brusquely informing him of mistakes, sloppiness, and the time he was wasting on Tim when apparently, all Tim wanted to be was a moron in spandex.
The next day, they did it again. After that, however, Bruce seemed to lose interest or become preoccupied in other matters. Injuries and grueling pace aside, Tim prefers this method, but he's not going to suggest that to Bruce. The practical applications are definitely outweighed by the pain, as well as having to pretend he'd fallen off the climbing wall as explanation for his state. But perhaps Bruce had noticed anyway, because he finished installing the hard light combat simulator.
As Tim glanced through the database of opponents, a flash of orange and blue caught his eye.
"Him." It had to be the equivalent of Slade. The costume was unmistakable.
Bruce gave him a weird look. Tim raised an eyebrow. "Someone else?"
Still the weird look, but Bruce shrugged, voice uncharacteristically dry. "He's as good a start as any. Despite the."
The sentence remained intriguingly unfinished. Bruce rolled his eyes and waved Tim into the chamber. After about five minutes, Tim stuck his head out the door and gave Bruce an accusatory look.
Bruce's smirk was just discernible. "Someone else?"
"Someone else. Please."
Typically: it's not enough. Typical, that is, of a high percentage of Tim Drakes throughout the multiverse. He'd always made a study of them, until he met Owlman, who'd told him: you don't have to be Robin, you don't have to be Talon. You couldn't, anyway, you don't have what it takes. This might-have-been bullshit is for non-entities. You're just afraid to be something else. Stop watching. Start doing.
It wasn't anything he hadn't already known, but that time, the way it hit him ... and he can't say it's anything even vaguely resembling a reasonable reaction, or one that speaks well of his mental and/or emotional health.
He also can't say that his life would be completely different if he'd never gotten into his little Bat-identity guessing game. He'd probably be dating heh Darla, taking as many AP classes as the school (would it still be standing?) allowed him, dislocating his fingers on the soccer field. College. He doesn't know what he would've majored in. It's both alien and familiar, like picking up something you just barely remember making in a dream.
Bruce shouts at Tim a lot, but this is like a mandatory aspect of training; he's rarely sincerely angry at Tim, who is still loitering in afterthought status. For Bruce, you kick a dog to discipline it, not because you're pissed off (though that is always an option). Dogs generally don't know better. That's why you train them. There's only one incident Tim can recall when Bruce seemed genuinely irritated with him. He'd hooked the PINpoint up to the main computer and was watching a Robin with fascination. The look on his face: Tim wasn't sure, but he thought he used to have that look too, a kind of disassociated despair. An absence of will or desire. He'd never thought, somehow, that a Tim who was Robin could ever have that look.
Bruce had at some point entered the room, and he'd surprised Tim with his sudden disconnection of the PINpoint. And, admittedly, the part where he'd hauled Tim out of the chair and spoke very quietly but intensely for about three minutes. Then they're gone down to an underground arena for an impromptu training session, one that mostly consisted of consecutive bouts with increasingly skilled opponents. That was the day he fractured the ulna in his left arm (see, Jason? No more "left side."), cracked three ribs, broke two fingers, and lost two teeth. A "learning experience", Bruce had called it as he paced at the perimeter, brusquely informing him of mistakes, sloppiness, and the time he was wasting on Tim when apparently, all Tim wanted to be was a moron in spandex.
The next day, they did it again. After that, however, Bruce seemed to lose interest or become preoccupied in other matters. Injuries and grueling pace aside, Tim prefers this method, but he's not going to suggest that to Bruce. The practical applications are definitely outweighed by the pain, as well as having to pretend he'd fallen off the climbing wall as explanation for his state. But perhaps Bruce had noticed anyway, because he finished installing the hard light combat simulator.
As Tim glanced through the database of opponents, a flash of orange and blue caught his eye.
"Him." It had to be the equivalent of Slade. The costume was unmistakable.
Bruce gave him a weird look. Tim raised an eyebrow. "Someone else?"
Still the weird look, but Bruce shrugged, voice uncharacteristically dry. "He's as good a start as any. Despite the."
The sentence remained intriguingly unfinished. Bruce rolled his eyes and waved Tim into the chamber. After about five minutes, Tim stuck his head out the door and gave Bruce an accusatory look.
Bruce's smirk was just discernible. "Someone else?"
"Someone else. Please."