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The moniker of ‘replacement’ burned. Pretender and imposter were not pleasant titles either but at least their impact on him was minimal. They were reminiscent of mere shards of glass; he could casually brush them off after a hard night's work of being (Red) Robin.
No, ‘replacement’ was a long trail of ashy black that infected his vital organs and curled around his heart precariously, always in danger of crushing it entirely. For a long time, Tim Drake tirelessly pondered over why the nickname affected him so. Though its origins were ominous, nowadays, his predecessor used the term borderline affectionately.
It was not until Damian Wayne, displaying an uncharacteristic loss of control, spat words coated with venom that he figured it out.
Tim Drake was nothing more than a usurper. This trait would follow him to the grave.
He could distinctly recall his first hero being his father. Not Batman, not Robin, but pure and simple Jack Drake, who had once promised to pluck all the stars in the sky for his family. The man who always loved to hold his wife's hand delicately as if she were a blushing bride. His father.
With his sandy-blond hair and stormy grey eyes, Jack truly represented the Drake lineage and his ancestors who came before him. From a very young age, Tim was aware that his appearance stuck out like a sore thumb in contrast, with the dark hair and blue eyes he had inherited from his mother.
But Jack never cared. He loved his son dearly, regardless of hair and eye colour. Especially regardless of the nasty rumours which stained Gotham's elite and threatened Janet Drake's sanity.
The Drakes often accepted excursions to far and foreign lands in a bid to escape the ghastly gossip. Many assumed their son accompanied them on these long trips.
They were wrong.
Tim Drake was four years old when he usurped his first idol.
Jack Drake, the kind man who ran away from his issues instead of confronting them, instilled a deep sense of compassion in his son and the drive to avoid and bottle up his problems.
The compassion would crop up constantly over the years, glaringly obvious when Tim courteously forgave his murderous adoptive brothers.
(As would the genetic cowardice.)
Ah, but Tim supposed he was getting ahead of himself.
After all, before he was four, he had been three. Meeting Dick Grayson and his parents had been everything and nothing at the same time. Being held by the literal ‘Boy Wonder’ and having evidence of it was no laughing matter. How many people could claim they had been held by the first Robin? Especially before he had even assumed the superhero mantle?
(That did not sound right. Dick Grayson would always be Robin, at his very core. He had given life to the precious legacy of Gotham's Boy Wonder.)
Dick Grayson had not been his hero, but something quite close to it. Though the first Robin could never touch his heart like how Jason Todd once had, the man still had his place in Tim's life.
And he remembered, oh so clearly, usurping every aspect of Dick Grayson. Countless nights spent pouring over trapeze textbooks. Bruises upon bruises littering his skin as he painfully lacked Dick's natural aptitude and Jason's surprising dexterity. Disappointed half-hearted glares from Batman as his third Robin refused to be caged into the ‘detective’ role, wishing to be an acrobat instead.
Something he was not. Wasn’t that the root issue? Tim Drake had lost himself entirely - his vague sense of self slowly turning nonexistent - because there had never been enough of him, to begin with. He had never bothered cultivating what little he already had, instead choosing to take and adapt from others.
(Janet would be proud. Jack would not.)
Jason Todd's Robin ignited something in Tim. An epiphany that had laid dormant for numerous years, only choosing to spark when the second Boy Wonder began to protect Gotham.
He wanted to be a photographer. He wanted to capture every precious memory. He wanted to preserve his present.
Tim Drake had nothing to give, but he always wanted so much.
So, pictures upon pictures of Robin - the ones he had taken himself - decorated his bedroom walls. Laminated posters and failed attempts at paintings were not an uncommon sight in young Tim's bedroom. Action figures gradually joined the general clutter as he used every gala as an opportunity to eavesdrop on Jason Wayne's latest commercial interest.
He could never usurp Jason, though he tried his hardest.
When Jason died, time stopped. For several hours of the day, Tim did not feel like a real human being. The object of his constant attention had permanently disappeared; he had nothing to fall back on.
(He could not recognise it at the time but he had been mourning Jason.)
And then Batman began gallivanting around the city recklessly. Tim became the third Robin to grace the gritty streets of Gotham. Dick mentored him more often than Bruce ever dared. Hiding everything from his parents became the norm.
The spark of a new beginning rejuvenated him.
(Then, his parents died. And Jason didn’t.)
To him, Jack Drake was caught in the suffocating embrace of living death. Comas had always unnerved him as a child. To see his father under the grasp of one was borderline unbearable.
Jason's violent return did nothing to improve the situation.
But Tim resumed taking parts and bits of the second Robin.
His lack of humanity. His endless rage. His righteous reign over Gotham. Tim slowly and surely implemented this into his personality. It shone when he donned the Red Robin costume. Jason's Red Robin costume.
(Though, he could never quite shake off Jack's compassion.)
He distinctly recalled stumbling across a messy blueprint filled with rough drawings and hasty scribbling. 14-year-old Jason Todd's future aspirations of a personal costume included ideas based on the Kryptonian legend ‘Flamebird’ and his favourite birds at the time - red robins.
(As always, Tim Drake took everything from Jason Todd.)
Ra's was delighted by him. It appeared both grandfather and grandson could see Tim for all he was.
A usurper, relentlessly chasing after Batman and Robins.
An orphan almost as lifeless as his parents.
A replacement.