“I can’t do it,” Tim gasps, staring at the floor after yet another round of sparring. “I’m not... him.”

Even saying the last Robin’s name feels wrong. You had been so close with Jason at the time of his death–best friends, lovers, it was all grey area for Tim.

It was a cruel twist of fate that Bruce put you in charge of training Jason's replacement.

Tim’s not an idiot. He hears the way your voice catches when you talk about Jason, sees the lifeless look in your eyes when he puts on the Robin suit. He knows the silent comparisons you draw in your head, chalking him up against Bruce's former protégé–with whom he never had a fighting change against.

How do you compete with a dead precursor? You can't. Tim can't.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice barely audible and filled with shame.