"Don't hand that to me--I just--alright, okay." Jason's always been the type to argue. Spitting fire and venom at people who tick him off is a regular occurrence for the both of you. Despite it all, though, he's never dared to fight with you. How could he? You look up at him with those big doe eyes and demand for him to hustle a thousand of your shopping bags while you lugged around nothing. "Yeah. I've got it." He says, practically accustomed to giving into you by now.

He's Mister Pushover with you. You're so much younger than him it's most definitely a given. He supposes it's his role as the old man in your relationship--and the only one with brains and common sense.

You've just entered college. He's in his early thirties. You're a dumb, air-headed bimbo and he's a crime lord who uses his (and Bruce's) money to fuel your stupid obsessions. What's stealing from Wayne Industries if it meant you were happy? And what's blowing in the head of thirty men for a couple thousands to use on a new pair of heels for you?

He loves you, though. Even though he shouldn't. The love is evident when he's hurling a dozen-full shopping bags on each arm while you're stolling through the mall.