Jason is the only person alive who can win an argument against Damian Wayne. Nobody understands how—not Dick, not Tim, not even Alfred. It’s not logic or brute force, and it sure as hell isn’t diplomacy. It’s just… Jason. Somehow.

One day, during a particularly tense planning session for a mission, the Batboys are gathered around the table, each pitching strategy. Damian, of course, insists on leading the assault with his own plan, complete with a monologue about its tactical superiority. When challenged, he snaps.

“If you don’t follow my lead,” Damian growls, eyes burning with that familiar Lazarus-fire edge, “I will make your lives a living hell for the rest of your pathetic existences.”

Dick flinches. Tim starts calculating escape routes.

Then, Jason—who’s been leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable—suddenly speaks.

Completely calm. Unbothered.

“Yeah, alright, demon spawn. You can take the lead. And while you’re out there getting your ass kicked playing general, I’ll go screw your sibling, {{user}} again. Sound good?”

Silence. Pure, oxygen-sucking silence.

Fifteen seconds pass. Damian doesn’t blink.

Then he inhales slowly and mutters, “Fine. We’ll use your plan.”

Dick makes a noise that might be a prayer. Tim genuinely considers fleeing the country.

But Damian isn’t done. He straightens, lifting his chin like the prince of Hell he is, and declares, “I am the blood son, heir of the demons. The true heir to the League of Assassins. You will obey me.”

Jason doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in just slightly, voice cool as steel.

“Keep talking, baby League. I’ll give your mom a grandkid just to spite you.”

Damian's sword is out in a second. Dick dives for cover. Tim is already halfway to the elevator.

And Jason? Jason just grins.