I for one support the headcanon where Tim has to work his ass off to become as fit and athletic as the other Robins. None of this “oh he was a star gymnast in school” or “oh he was a natural athlete” crap. No.
I want Dick and Bruce having serious doubts about whether Tim really has the stamina for vigilante work. I want Bruce sitting him down and saying “son, I admire your resolve, and your detective skills make you more than qualified for this… but I just don’t know if you’ll make the cut.” And Tim simply looks at him and says watch me.
I want the months of gruelling physical training to really mean something. Because everyone had to go through them. Dick had to learn how to channel his acrobatic prowess into fighting. Jason had to learn how to use his street knowledge to save others and not just himself. Even Damian eventually had to unlearn everything the League had taught him and replace it with non-lethal combat.
But Tim. Tim had to start from scratch.
I want Bruce reassuring him that it’s okay to start with small weights. Tim only getting up to five chest presses and feeling like a failure as Bruce finishes his tenth rep. Tim gasping for breath, sweat dripping down his face as he pushes himself for five more minutes on the treadmill. Tim sitting alone in the batcave, crying as his muscles burn from yesterday’s workout… but dragging himself back to the gym anyways. Tim getting up at 4am after only three hours of sleep so that he can practice and perfect his bōjutsu technique.
I want Bruce, Dick and Alfred seeing the determination in Tim and rallying behind him because of it. Dick making the time to come all the way over from Bludhaven so he can teach Tim stretches to increase flexibility, and work with him on the balance beam, rings and flips. Bruce training him in between school hours and patrol with weights and batarangs and martial arts. Alfred sending him off with homemade protein shakes and giving him massage therapy and encouragement when needed.
And I want Tim Drake, riding on all this support, gritting his teeth and getting down to business because he knows. He knows that the voices in his head telling him to just give up, that he’s worthless and a nobody, that he will never make it as Robin, that he’s stupid for even getting involved in the first place… Tim knows that they are lying. He knows that he damn well deserves to be Robin. That he is good enough, that he has fought for this and earned it with his own blood, sweat and tears.
I want Tim looking back on his time as Robin, seeing how far he has come and smiling, because it was all worth it in the end. And even if he doubts himself constantly, even if other people underestimate him and laugh at him, even when he feels like he’s at the end of his rope and there’s no way he can make it… Tim simply takes a deep breath and whispers quietly to himself:
I have this headcanon that whenever Jason and Tim have an opportunity to refer to Damian’s age, they keep progressively saying he’s younger and younger just to get under Dami’s skin.
*Watching TV and there’s a sex scene*
Jason, leaping over the coffee table to cover Damian’s eyes: Don’t let him see! He’s only ten!
Damian, hissing like an angry cat: I am fourteen you idiot, and I already know what intercourse is!
*One of the Titans cuss in front of him*
Tim, allowing his coffee mug to drop and shatter on the ground in order to cover Damian’s ears: Conner you can’t speak in front of him like that, he’s seven for hecks sake!
Damian, bright red with anger: Unhand me Drake before I punch you with my FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD FIST
*After carefully glancing around to make sure no one is watching him at one of Bruce’s charity galas, Damian sneaks a sip of champagne*
Jason and Tim after appearing from out of nowhere:
“Goodness gravy, Damian! You’re only three years old, stop trying to grow up so fast.”
“Why don’t we get you some juice? Nine month olds are allowed to drink juice right?”
Red Hood 