This is written from another headcannon by Incogneat-oh on tumblr... I hope you like:

Disclaimer: I do not own the Bat's DC does

Headcannon: Tim is sort of savagely pleased whenever Jason calls him "pretender". He loves it as much as it makes him sick to his stomach, because Jason is validating Tim's own insecurities that he has never and will never belong

Also written for Celticlily who has been getting Supernova deprivation symptoms as I've been ill... so I thought I might as well upload her a fic :)

"Where you going Pretender?" he turns to Jason slowly, the pain, that's always brewing in his stomach, slowly pushes into him; into him and into his chest cavity, attacking his heart and lungs. Swirling around, causing as much damage as possible, making it excruciatingly hard to breathe, before bubbling into his throat and threatening to take possession of his facial features.

It always used to succeed: the pain. Sometimes it would make him tear up, other times it would make his face harden, jaw set, teeth grind and eyes narrow. He would sometimes be so overcome by the pain that he couldn't breathe, couldn't look at the face spitting truths; that he would have to turn away from the older teen and just smile. Break out into a Cheshire Cat smile and muffle a laugh because it was funny, even more so now, that it was Jason who had the guts to tell him, who could put it so bluntly, so graciously, so full of misplaced charm.

He didn't belong here, never has, never will.

"Nowhere"

Now he didn't have to try to school the pain, he let it consume him, he didn't try to repress it; merely control it. Master it. Until it burned in every fibre of his being but let his face stay blank. Blank so that they couldn't see the enjoyment he got from that one word, that one affirmation of his place in the 'family': that there wasn't one. Blank so they couldn't see how that enjoyment turned swiftly to convulsions because somewhere, deep inside of him, he wanted to belong here. He wanted to belong next to those he had idolised for so long, he wanted to be able to stand next to them confidently, to be able to look at them without having to turn his head away or cast his eyes to the ground because he wasn't worthy.

They each told him in their own way;

Bruce with his lack of touch, lack of communication, lack of contact for weeks on end. How they could be in the same room and he wouldn't even acknowledge his presence; like he was some piece of the furniture, or another blemish on the cave's wall. He was never chosen, not like the rest. He was just the pushy Robin; the one who wouldn't take no for an answer; the annoying little fly buzzing around his head easily meandering around swats until he finally gave in. There was no choosing, no tragedy, no I want you accompanying his naming as Robin, more I'm going to give in and hope that in a few months you either get bored and give up, get scared out of your wits and run home screaming or get injured so you have to give up preferably all three of the above. He wasn't wanted. He was never wanted; always someone else's child, someone else's responsibility, someone else's to want, to love: even when nobody did. Even when Bruce adopted him it was not out of want for him but rather to keep the leech that had attached itself to him, and that he had begrudgingly come to rely on, close; and maybe he would stop sucking out so much of his blood.

"Doesn't look like nowhere Pretender"

Dick… Dick had managed to fool him. He had actually thought that Dick wanted him around; wanted him to be his 'little brother'; wanted him to be Robin. Obviously he had been mistaken. Why else would he have replaced him the moment he had the chance? Why else would he not have believed him when he said Bruce was alive? Had their rolls been reversed he would have believed him, he would have helped him. He wouldn't have told Dick that he needed help; someone else's help, he didn't need them… they didn't need him and his 'stupid' problems, delusions, bad temperament. They didn't need him at all. The news had told him that. Dick had told him everything else he needed to know, he wasn't needed here, and he wasn't welcome here… so you might as well leave.

"Out"

Damian almost put it subtly, in the hate that spewed out of his mouth. In the mean words and angry gestures. In the snarly attacks and the spitting of his name, his family well not really a family but blood relatives' name, the name he no longer held. It didn't matter that they now shared a name, it didn't matter that he was now in charge of the family's company; Damian tried to kill him anyway. Tried again and again to rid the world of him of Timothy Drake-Wayne as though he didn't matter in the least; and he didn't. The world wouldn't miss a beat if Timothy Drake-Wayne disappeared from the face of it. If he died. If he just went poof; because who was left to morn him? Damian tries to kill him and Dick doesn't stop him, doesn't reprimand him, tells Tim to grow up, to be mature; it's not Damian's fault that he's like that, it's not his fault he was raised by the League of Assassins and can't control his murderous tendencies. So if it's not Damian's fault then it must be Tim's. Tim's fault he was brought up by a respectable family, a family who had money, a family that held manners above *everything* else. Tim's fault he wasn't brought up an acrobat, or fighting for survival on the streets of Gotham or fighting for his life and inheritance in a league of assassins, Tim's fault that he was just an ordinary boy trying to do something good for the city that raised him. It was Tim's fault that he wasn't special enough to be one of them.

"Wow Pretender, doesn't take a master detective to work that one out, doesn't answer my question either."

At first it had been Replacement, and it took a knife to his throat- a pretty little scar on his neck, one that will never go away, a reminder- for Jason to realise his mistake. He can't be a replacement because really how could he have replaced someone when he didn't belong there. Jason had seen it, had smirked at it; the truth. The truth that he wasn't one of them he was merely a salt bridge, bridging the gap between two true Robins, giving his vital components but never receiving, never taking anything for himself; because if he did how could the electrochemical cell, that was the Bat family, work?

And Jason had never been one for subtlety. Why try to sneak around a problem when you could just punch it head on in the gut and be done. So he does, and in one word accomplishes what the rest of his family had been trying to do for years;

To tell him he doesn't belong there, he isn't one of them; he's a pretender, a fake, a thorn in their side, a splinter in their finger that they can't get out and Jason's the tweezers they use to extract it in an almost pain free way.

At least for them.

"I don't know, somewhere it doesn't hurt, somewhere I don't have to pretend anymore, somewhere I'm needed, somewhere I'll finally belong."

Because; although he may find it somewhat pleasing, somewhat satisfying that Jason so bluntly verifies his place in the family-

(Reminds him that he has none and it would be better for everyone if he just left)

- it makes him sick to his stomach that does. He doesn't want to be reminded of those voices niggling at the back of his mind, doesn't want to be reminded of those little truths he tries so hard to forget. They make him twist and jerk in pain, in sorrow, in guilt and everything in between.

The others let him forget, the others twist their displeasure at his existence into something he can manage to live with because;

He is a leech, a mosquito, a life sucking parasite. He attached himself to his idols and can't let go not now, not at this present moment in time; maybe never. So his can live with it; their subtle attempts to tell him he doesn't belong, because he has to… he's always had to, with his parents, with his friends, and now with his adopted family. Because once something's in his hands, something substantial that he can touch, feel (Robin) he can't let go.

"Pretender, for someone so smart you're pretty dumb"

He would call it an excommunication, but be excommunicated you had to belong to something in the first place.

It's called emancipation. He had done it for them, for their company, their legacy… he had just hoped they wouldn't take it literally. He had hoped it was merely a political thing, and he could go *home* and be met without animosity; he had thought that because he had been useful he could have somewhere he belonged.

See he can be useful; he's still needed… right?

He was wrong.

He made a face, Jason made one back.

"You belong here Pretender" it lost its kick, its spite "Now come in out of the rain because Dick, Bruce *and* Alfred will kick my ass if you catch pneumonia"

"They would?" he had probably never sounded more like a lost child before in his life

"Yeah kid, who knows what would happen if they found out I let their favourite get sick… the world might implode you know"

Favourite? He suddenly felt empty, and devoid of the bubbling, boiling, searing pain. Like the rain had somehow passed straight through him and washed it all away.

"Favourite?"

"Yeah kid; don't rub it in."

...Favourite?

I made it better... kinda

Thanks for reading

Supernova95