( tim's never going to be jason. just like jason can't pull off being dick grayson. jason's intentionally imposing; his size wasn't luck but a shitton of work. if he hadn't been thrown into that pit, he doubts he would've gotten much bigger than tim even if he'd managed to put on some of the weight. only so much one can do to combat years of eating scraps. but he knew what his purpose was when he returned from the grave. and tim's always fit significantly better into the role of robin than jason had: listens well when it's necessary, talks back when he knows it's not, smaller. better at playing into the role of sidekick, where jason's always been prone to outbursts and an inability to bend. he's too stubborn, too mouthy, there's too much alley kid in him. they've all got their strengths and weaknesses.
tim would never make it as a crime lord. a gun-touting batman with a stick up his ass in the future? possibly.
not that it matters much now. tim rubs at his neck, and jason's eyes focus on the edges of that knife wound, one he'd left. )
I'm not doing anything. ( eyes back up to tim's, even as jason slouches forward a little. ) This's the same shit he pulls on me, y'know. Sprinkles in contradictions with his rules, throws in a few compliments an' a lot of bitching. I've tried to get on his good side - he always finds something to get pissed off about. I can't get out from being the Robin who died. Either he looks at me like I'm a goddamn ghost, or like I'm the villain. Every once in a while he'll throw in a pat on the shoulder, a good job, son, before he goes back to yelling about how he made me, he'll unmake me. He's harder on us, on you, than he is anyone else. Grayson gets a pass sometimes 'cause he was the first. D does 'cause he's the youngest, his real son when he's getting particularly fed up with the rest of us.
( if jason sounds bitter, it's because he is. )
He shouldn't be lining us up, comparing injuries or whatever the hell else is going on through his mind. Or coming down on us at all for getting fucked up when he's the one who trained us to put ourselves in the line of fire. You're not me, I'm not you. But he still does, and it fucks up the rest of us. You can't give him what he wants.
no subject
tim would never make it as a crime lord. a gun-touting batman with a stick up his ass in the future? possibly.
not that it matters much now. tim rubs at his neck, and jason's eyes focus on the edges of that knife wound, one he'd left. )
I'm not doing anything. ( eyes back up to tim's, even as jason slouches forward a little. ) This's the same shit he pulls on me, y'know. Sprinkles in contradictions with his rules, throws in a few compliments an' a lot of bitching. I've tried to get on his good side - he always finds something to get pissed off about. I can't get out from being the Robin who died. Either he looks at me like I'm a goddamn ghost, or like I'm the villain. Every once in a while he'll throw in a pat on the shoulder, a good job, son, before he goes back to yelling about how he made me, he'll unmake me. He's harder on us, on you, than he is anyone else. Grayson gets a pass sometimes 'cause he was the first. D does 'cause he's the youngest, his real son when he's getting particularly fed up with the rest of us.
( if jason sounds bitter, it's because he is. )
He shouldn't be lining us up, comparing injuries or whatever the hell else is going on through his mind. Or coming down on us at all for getting fucked up when he's the one who trained us to put ourselves in the line of fire. You're not me, I'm not you. But he still does, and it fucks up the rest of us. You can't give him what he wants.