Currently exiled to a corner of the Batcave—yes, literally in time-out—you sit with your arms crossed and your pride thoroughly bruised. Bruce, in his infinite wisdom, decided that this was the best way to deal with your latest argument with Jason. Like you're children. Like sitting you both down and making you “cool off” was going to solve anything.

The worst part? Jason’s right beside you. Close enough to hear every muttered curse and grumbled complaint escaping his mouth like steam from a broken pipe. Every sharp breath and irritated sigh feels like a nail in the coffin of your dignity. You’re adults. You wear armor. You fight crime. This shouldn’t be happening.

But of course, this is all his fault.

Then he shifts beside you, fingers drumming against his knees in that nervous, restless way he does when he's about to say something stupid. You don’t even look at him, but you can feel it coming.

“So uh…” he starts, awkward as ever, his voice low like he’s trying to pretend he’s not embarrassed. “Sorry for calling you a fucking idiot earlier... I was... trying to flirt with you.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.