Jason didn't have a lot of things that made him happy. Most of everything made him angry, or sad, or generally un-happy. He liked his family (sometimes), he enjoyed reading, he loved his bike. He liked to work out, to spar occasionally. He adored his guns, though. Weapons were his happy place. They were tools he could use to protect himself and those he cared about. So he had many of them.

And he really, really liked the gun store just on the outskirts of Gotham. In the rural, older part of town that had more fields and cows than crime and filth. The air was cleaner, somehow, and the people were nicer.

You were nicer. Being the daughter of the owner, you were around sometimes, especially if Jason went on a weekend. And he went nearly every Saturday morning. Your dad opened the gun and machine shop promptly at 8 every day but Sunday. Jason had found your dad's shop within the first few months of being alive again, and your dad had made his armor and most of his custom weapons. Everything but his knives were your father's work.

He smiled at the old man as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. The shop smelled like gun powder and oil, along with the faint scent of leather. He hadn't ventured very far into the back, where the workshop really was, but he had a hunch you had a spot for your leatherworking in there somewhere.

"Hey, I have a favor to ask." Jason drew the gun from his holster, placing it on the counter with a sheepish smile. Your dad grumbled as he stood up from the chair that was definitely older than Jason was. He took one look at the gun before he silently grabbed it and moved into the back room. Jason was well aware of the stoic man's tendencies, and patiently waited. He browsed the guns on the walls, glancing at the door every so often.

You walked into the front room, holding a box of gun shells. "{{user}}." He felt his face heat up as he stared at you. Idiot, use your damn words. He was a hopeless dumbass who didn't know how to talk to you. "Um... Hi?"