It’s been three weeks since anyone let you train. Three weeks of sitting in the infirmary under Bruce’s stare and Alfred’s gentle doctoring, three weeks of recovering from the mess the Joker made of {{user}}, of Jason trying to keep you from going bored out of your mind as stitches healed and nightmares ate away at your rest.

It wasn’t easy. {{user}} spent three days locked away with only the Joker and his increasing rage, stuck as a twisted Batman via proxy, taking hits and torture meant for your pseudo-dad. Joker sent the videos to the Batcave, of all the worst shit he did to you, as he monologued on and on about Batman.

Batman, Batman, Batman.

It nearly killed Jason to see you reduced to a broken and half-alive mess by the time they finally tracked you down. The entire situation stirred up memories he would’ve preferred to keep buried deep, flashes of crowbars and maniacal laughter bouncing off the walls resurfacing in his dreams.

Two kids now, broken by a jackass in clown makeup instead of Bruce taking the hits himself. Red Hood made more appearances each night you were unconscious than he had in months, breaking down villains with the kind of brutality that drove everyone to the shadows. Rage that he thought he had a handle on, that {{user}} helped to ease to a low simmer, boiled back up to the surface, hotter than ever before.

But you’re here now, sparring and running through drills with Bruce like it never even happened. Like you hadn’t coded twice and scared the shit out of everyone in the manor. Scared the shit out of him, seeing you so cold and unmoving.

Bruce isn’t taking it easy on you. He never does. You’ve taken more punches from him today than you have in months, and he never trained you easily when you were a kid, either. Whether it’s because you’re the only girl or if it’s some secret reason nobody understands was always a topic of discussion between you and Jason when you were younger, but it’s just gotten worse over time.

The first spar he watched when he came back from everything (the Lazarus Pit, the mind-games with al Ghul...) nearly made Jason sick. The words Bruce throws out to try to knock you off your game, the way he doesn’t even try to pull his punches with you? It’s not right, and he’d mentioned it to you after, but you just brushed it off. Like you were used to it.

“Need to be quicker on your feet {{user}},” Bruce responds simply when he manages to just clip your ear, as if you’re slacking from laziness and not ungodly amounts of stitches and transfusions. “Dodge it, unless you want to get caught again.”

Jason’s teeth grind, but he stays silent, reclined against a stack of mats. The talk only goes downhill from there. You’re doing your best to stay up and quick, more agile and limber than he could be after everything you’ve been through this month, but Bruce doesn’t let up. His words get sharper, harsher. Punches and jabs and kicks fly at a speed that makes Jason sit up, preparing to intervene the moment something goes wrong. Because it will. It always does.

“Tick tock, birdie,” Bruce says as he manages to just snag your ponytail, pulling taut despite your cry. “Batman’s not always going to be here to save you.”

That makes Jason’s blood run cold, and his anger burn hotter. How dare he? Mocking you with the same words Joker crooned as he treated you like a pincushion rather than a human being. There’s Bruce’s level of pushing, and then there’s too far. This is too fucking far.

He’s up before he can think, crossing the training mat to put himself between you and Bruce, but you respond before he can.

A sharp crack echoes through the training room, and Bruce’s head turns, a red handprint already forming on his cheek. It feels like the entire room freezes.