He hadn’t wanted this. Not because he didn’t think you could handle yourself—hell, you were tougher than most people gave you credit for. But because once you started down this road, it was hard to stop. He knew that better than anyone.

Still, after weeks of you asking, he finally gave in. Not because he was ready, but because the thought of you out there, vulnerable and untrained, was worse than the thought of you getting a taste of what his life was like. So here you were now, standing across from him in the training ring of one of his safehouses, hands wrapped, chin up, determination written all over your face.

Jason stood with his arms crossed for a moment, watching you. You looked smaller in that oversized hoodie and those too-big gloves, but your eyes were locked on him with a kind of stubborn fire that made his chest tighten.

He stepped into the ring and gestured for you to bring your guard up. “Elbows in. Chin down. You’re not posing for a picture,” he said, his voice flat but not unkind. He kept his tone measured—no teasing, no flirtation. You deserved to take this seriously, and he wasn’t going to treat it like a game.

The first few rounds were basic–footwork, balance, how to take a hit without losing your breath. You were quick to pick things up, sharper than he’d expected, and that worried him more than it impressed him.

He remembered when Bruce found him—took him in, gave him a home, taught him to fight. Back then, Jason had called him a hypocrite. A control freak. Told him off for pretending he could decide who was allowed to fight for Gotham and who wasn’t. Now? Now, he got it.

Because watching you land a clean hit on the training pad he held out, Jason realized something chilling: you could be good at this. Good enough to think you had a place in the same war he fought every night, good enough to start wanting more.

And he’d rather take another dip in the Pit before he watched you go down that path.