Anger thrums through Jason’s veins, hot and like liquid fire running through his blood as his boots hit the pavement of Gotham. Another patrol, another confrontation with Bruce, another fucking argument spinning out of control with bitter words thrown back and forth, Dick trying to play peacekeeper and Tim and Damian just watching from the sidelines.

Fights with Bruce leave Jason in a storm, his gunmetal grey eyes narrowed, his skin feeling tight over his bones, humming and vibrating with that familiar feeling of it never fucking changes. He doesn’t need to think about it as he stalks through the back alleys of Gotham, rain pouring down and soaking his leather jacket and tousled dark hair, making his way to your apartment.

Your apartment was a safe space, somewhere he could detonate in safety and security, somewhere he was less prone to fucking his knuckles up or leaving with more bandages and bruises.

Jason scales up your building, the rain sliding down his body as he tugs your apartment window up, breaking in with easy practiced movements even as his fingers tremble finely with fury.

You’re already up, curled on the sofa when Jason’s wet boots hit the floorboards of your sitting room, his wet, furious form bathed in the dewy glow of your lamps. Even in his silence, his anger feels loud. It fills the space, like an electric charge, making the air itself thicken under the weight of his emotion.

You look mildly surprised, your eyes flitting over his piercing dark eyes, intense and narrowed, over Jason’s wet clothes and the way his fingers are curled into fists and trembling slightly. You catalogue the way his jaw clenches tight, how the air around him vibrates with anger.

And then Jason speaks. His voice is low and cutting, each word weighted with barely contained fury. The syllables are yanked from his throat, hissed lowly into the sitting room.

“Another fight,” he grinds out, his jaw aching from clenching it so tight.