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Putting on the cowl is the most terrifying thing Tim’s ever done, and that’s ridiculous.
It’s ridiculous because he’s worn cowls of various shapes and sizes most of his life, and he’s nearly died more times than he can count, and Joker once made him think that he’d been served his own face for dinner, and he accidentally ended up being a dad to two super powered toddlers, all of which should logically be scarier than this.
They weren’t though. This is…
The thing is, he’d never wanted it. He’d wanted to be Robin, more than anything, and he’d had that and it had been everything and nothing like he’d expected, so much more painful and joyful and heartbreaking than he’d ever expected. And then he’d wanted to be something more, part of the family, but independent, trusted to act as his own man without the dark shadow watching his every move. And he’d had that too.
But he’d never wanted this. He’d never really wanted to be Batman.
Until Bruce had disappeared of on this mad quest after the Joker, and Dick had shaken his head ruefully and declared himself too old, Tim had never even considered the possibility. He wasn’t a hero, not like Batman had to be. Tim was a support character, a perpetual sidekick, and that was how he liked it. It gave him freedom. Red Robin didn’t have obligations or expectations placed on him the way Bruce did. Red Robin could decided for himself what was right and wrong, and where the line was drawn, and if it was a little further over than Bruce would ever agree with, well that was between Tim and his conscience.
Dick had said, when he’d seen Tim’s terrified expression, that it wasn’t as bad as he was clearly expecting. That it was possible to make Batman your own. Dick had certainly managed it, Tim remembered that, remembered the laughing Batman, light on his feet as a cat, throwing out flirtatious one liners as often as punches.
Tim didn’t know if he could do that. He didn’t have that same… that sense of self he’d always admired in Dick. Dick knew who he was, always had. He was comfortable in his own skin in a way Tim had never been. Tim was amorphous, uncertain, not quite one thing or the other. He’d expected that would go as he got older, that he’d pick a self and cement into it, harden like clay. But instead he’d come to slowly accept that that uncertainty, that changeability, that was something that was part of him. He was a workaholic, and a Bat, and he lied as easily as breathing. Everything else about him was optional.
Could Batman be that? Bruce was an actor, and a liar, but it was something he did, rather than something he was. Dick was honest to his bones, even when he was spinning tall tales. He somehow managed to make even deceit honest.
If only Damian was still… But he wasn’t, and he probably never would be again. Tim had never really liked the boy, but he’d understood him, and knew that by the time Damian’s broken heart recovered enough for him to face them all again, it would be too late and his pride would force him to stay where he was.
So Damian couldn’t be Batman, even though he was clearly born for it. And Cass was gone, so Tim couldn’t give the cowl to her. Steph… no, Steph wasn’t anymore cut out to be Batman than Tim was, and she’d sworn when she’d taken on the kids that she wouldn’t go back out there again, at least until they were grown up.
So there was only him.
He examines his reflection in the dark monitor. He still looks so young, even though he isn’t. He looks like a kid playing dress-up. Batman is supposed to be scary, but he just looks comical.
He puts on Bruce’s scowl. He can mimic it perfectly, but it just looks wrong. Too big for his face. It looks at much like playing dress-up as the cowl does.
He tries Red Robin’s signature grin instead, the one he spent years perfecting, that’s a mixture of Jason and Dick and Babs and Bruce, and a little bit of pure Tim for good measure, and that looks a little better. More confident, less cute.
He doesn’t have a costume yet. One’s being made for him, because even Dick’s old suits are too big on his skinny frame. Too big, and too light. He doesn’t want to heavy padding Bruce uses, but he’s also not an acrobat, doesn’t want or need the skin-tight spandex Nightwing wore, that always ended up in artfully sexy tatters by the end of the night.
Maybe if he avoids being seen, he thinks. His fighting style has always relied more on surprise attacks and retreats. He hasn’t got the strength of the others, but he’s got a kind of obsessive perfectionism that even Bruce can’t match, which lends itself well to his more sneaky fighting style. In the early days, before Dick, people hadn’t even really believed Batman existed. Bruce had hit from the shadows, precise and sudden, and then withdrawn. Something like that would suit him better, and maybe if he’s lucky there won’t be so many people laughing at this new skinny Batman.
“I’m Batman,” he growls at his reflection, and laughs softly at the ridiculousness of it all. He isn’t Batman. He will never be Batman. But maybe he can pretend for long enough. Tim is good at pretending.