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Tim has never been a good child, not even when he's five, and he's ahead of his class in preschool. That's what his parents have said, "you're a disappointment." They say it when he spills food, when he cries, when he complains about not getting a toy he wants or to go somewhere. And he tries to be a good child, to not disappoint them. He learns to write and read, and he ties his own shoes and he tries to stay clean and quiet, because that's what good children do. But he's always a disappointment.
When he's seven, his parents finally tell the truth.
“You weren’t planned. But you happened, and we let you stay. Be thankful.”
And he tries. He tries to be thankful for the schooling and tutors they get when he has trouble with math, because “we wouldn’t know how to help you best”, for the camera they get as a good-bye present before leaving for months, “so you can show us what we missed later.”
They never want to see what they missed.
When he is nine, he complains about a meal.
“This isn’t my favorite food.” He says, because they said that’s what he’d get for his birthday.
“We tried, and at least we remembered your birthday meal,” they say. “Don’t be ungrateful.”
And he tries. He tries not to be ungrateful for the dress suit they bought him for a gala instead of the t-shirt he’d been trying to get them to notice for months, for the credit card that allows him to go all over Gotham without trouble because his parents get tired of requests for money. At least they remembered that he likes to take pictures.
His parents say that he’s unreasonable a lot. When he was upset that they didn’t come back for his tenth birthday—“don’t be unreasonable, Tim. Do you know how much tickets would cost? Do you realize how much this dig needs our supervision?” When he is sad that they don’t put up a tree or buy presents for Christmas—“we spend so much on your hobbies. Money doesn’t grow on trees, stop being unreasonable.” He tries not to be unreasonable.
He’s read enough books to know that when a person is worthy, when they are good, and they are not disappointments, then they are loved and wanted. He figures that he’s just not worthy enough, not good enough, but if he works hard, maybe he’ll be allowed to love others instead, and they’ll want him around, because he can be useful, even though he's not good. He doesn’t expect his parents to love him like that—they love him in their own way, but he loves them because they are his parents, and sometimes they say that they love him back, when he is useful. It doesn't hurt if you expect it, he's realized. If you know that you're just not what they want, it doesn't hurt if they reject you.
He’s hoped for years that Batman would come save him, would make his parents love him, would make it so he’s not alone all the time. But he figures, when Batman doesn’t show up and it’s been years since he started hoping for it, that there are people worse off than him. After all, Batman helps those who need it the most. He’s just being unreasonable.
When he becomes Robin, he doesn’t expect to be loved, but he loves the entire family anyways. They’re not his, but it’s okay, he doesn’t expect to be anything more than useful. And so it doesn’t hurt when Bruce sends him home to an empty house night after night, when Batman reprimands him for not getting a move right, for not being fast enough, smart enough (Jason enough). It doesn’t hurt, because he doesn’t expect more.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Tim doesn’t expect to be a priority, because there are people who are more important, there are things that are more important, and, honestly, his problems are not that big. So it confuses him when Dick acts like he’s important, like he wants to spend time with Tim for no reason. It doesn’t make sense, and Tim’s pretty sure it won’t last, that eventually, Dick will stop calling him “little brother”, like he’s important, like Dick loves him, because Tim’s really not that important and he’s barely useful. He tells himself that it won’t hurt, when Dick figures this out, because he doesn’t expect love.
And then Jason comes back, and he calls Tim “replacement”, and Tim doesn’t argue, because he is, and he’s not even a very good one—Jason was loved, is missed, and Tim can’t make Bruce feel less sad, miss Jason less. When Damian shows up, he’s sure that it’s only a matter of time: Bruce has a real kid and Tim’s only around because there’s nowhere for him to go, and this kid needs Bruce’s attention more. But it won’t hurt, because he expects it.
But, when he’s right, it does hurt. He tries to be thankful—at least they’ll let him live at the Manor still. He tries to be grateful—there were those years as Robin that he can keep. He tries to be reasonable—after all, Damian is dangerous, and he needs Robin, probably more than Tim does. It doesn’t stop him from feeling like a child again—waiting at his window all night long, hoping that someone will come to save him and love him, but knowing deep down that it’s never going to happen and that he’s just being unreasonable and ungrateful and not being thankful for what he does have. After all, you don’t need to be loved. You just need to find a way to be useful, and then you’ll be wanted, at least for a while.
But Bruce is gone, and his parents are gone, and Kon and Bart are gone, and everything and everyone he’s loved is gone, and the ones who are left don’t want him, because he’s not useful now—he’s obsolete and he’s sad and he’s angry and all he does is fight with Damian and get in the way. They don’t need him like this, they need Bruce and all the others who’ve died and where important, who mattered, who they loved and miss.
When Tim realizes that Bruce is not dead, no one wants to believe him. "We miss him too, but you need to accept this."
But it’s fine, because he knows it’s true and he knows he can prove it. And maybe he can be useful that way—he can bring back Batman. Maybe he’ll be allowed to stay then. Maybe that will be enough to make him worthy. After all, a good child would never give up, right?