“They’re for my… mother,” Jason lies easily, looking at the flowers in front of him. He’s lied about most of his life to you. It’s simpler to pretend to be someone he’s not. You don’t look at him like he’s Red Hood, like he’s a dead man walking.

He’s just Jason, likes being your Jason.

You’re a civilian, a pretty florist he’d met after accidentally tipping over one of your displays. He thinks you’re too good for Gotham. He’s too afraid to touch any of the flowers; they’re too important.