Chapter Text
Jason knew he needed to get another hobby that didn't involve traversing cities at night and beating the shit out of scummy criminals. That he needed stability. So cooking had kind of filled that slot. He liked knowing his hands were capable of things other than maiming — though he did enjoy said maiming.
He wasn't particularly good at it. An expert on the basics of course, but not so much for anything else. Which is why he's stood at his stove lazily stirring a pot of (attempted) soup, when his front door was flung open and a certain blonde kid strutted through the door as if he owned the place.
A sigh escaped him, he might as well have removed his doorbell at this point.
Ezra. Now, on the surface you'd think this was a no-nonsense kid, all stone-faced and furrowed brows. Someone who'd cut all shit before it got properly started. Haha no, you'd be dead wrong. If the situation allowed for it, he will egg on whatever stupid shit his friends were pulling. Looks were absolutely deceiving because this little bastard caused his pulse to spike at exactly the same rate as the rest of them.
It had been a week or so since PJ's appearance in his flat and no signs of further break-ins. So, Jason was beginning to accept that maybe, just maybe, it had been a one off. And with Ezra marching up to him, steam practically shooting out his ears, he knew that all fragile hope he had been nurturing was ripped from his hands and subsequently smashed to the floor.
"I know what you're gonna say, and I don't care. I'm not leaving." Well, Jason thought, this was definitely a different approach from PJ's break-in. Ezra shoved his hands in his pockets and started to pace. He's frustrated — that much was obvious. His shoulders up to his ears and those furrowed brows were so prominent, Jason was worried he'd need a crane to level them back in place. "I can't stand being in my house anymore, so I came here. PJ said he was allowed to stay 'cus he was fixing your gear right?. So, I want you to teach me to fight. With my fists, I mean."
Jason was still standing at the stove, surrounded by an anxiety-inducing mess of pots and pans and dressed in an apron with the words 'Kiss the Cook' stamped across it. He was very much not prepared for this outburst. So, he says the first — very smart — response that came to mind.
"…Why?"
Ezra gave him an unimpressed look. "You're our mentor, aren't you supposed to teach us shit?"
"Starting to regret that now, but sure. When?"
"Now."
"Now?!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, turning back to the counter to grab a grater and a block of cheese. "Whatever, fine. But you burst in the middle of dinner, so if you want to be taught, fine. But first, you help me make soup."
And with that, Jason pressed the items into Ezra's chest. A rainbow of expression flickered across his face, from confused, to affronted, before ultimately landing on begrudging acceptance. Without another word, he got to work.
See, Jason could have just tabled his soup; combat training wasn't a bad way to spend his time, he was actually kind of looking forward to it. But, one, the kid was obviously pissed at something and he was just not going to learn anything in that headspace. And, two, he was not about to lose a great attempt at soup because some little shit decided he wanted impromptu combat lessons. This is what he gets for interrupting.
Though he did give the kid props for taking it upon himself to learn what he's missing.
They worked in relative silence. It was a little heavy, a little awkward, the kind of silence that was begging to be popped. The clatter of pots and simmering soup filled the kitchen, Ezra's shoulders still hitched up high. Between the rhythmic scrape of cheese against the grater and the periodic watch over the steaming pot, he studied Ezra. The warmth radiating from the stove seemed to have steadily softened his earlier frustration, and Jason felt like giving himself a pat on the back. And by the time the soup was done, the kitchen felt lighter. The silence settled amongst them now comfortable and uncluttered.
With a hearty bowl of soup in each of their hands, they leant against the counter, side by side and close enough that Jason could practically see the unsaid words trying to claw their way out of Ezra's throat.
"So, why do you actually want to learn to fight hand-to-hand?" Jason asked. He had a pretty solid idea, but he thought he'd let the kid speak for himself.
A sigh. "I can't rely on my powers all the time." He sent his half-empty bowl floating in the air and continued. "If I'm ever alone and I get jumped by some semi-talented fighter, I'm screwed. I want to rely on myself, not some extension of myself. And I'm supposed to be a leader, I need to know how to stand on my own."
Jason had to admit his reasoning was respectable, if a little juvenile. And although it seemed like Ezra didn't think of himself as a worthy leader, Jason thought that want to better himself for the sake of the team said otherwise. He didn't quite agree with the last statement, however.
"Like it or not, your powers are a part of you, not an extension or added part. I'll teach you hand-to-hand, but if I were you, I'd find ways to combine them both — telekinesis and physical combat. That is what will give you an edge in the real world."
The bowl landed back in Ezra's palms, some droplets of the soup escaped and splatted to the floor. He was deep in thought, clearly mulling over his words and hopefully taking them to heart.
"Okay. Okay, I understand." He whisked both their bowls to the counter with a flick of the hand. "We've eaten, can we get started with the training now?"
"Someone's eager… alright come on then, you better pay attention because I don't tolerate dull students." Jason proclaimed. "Now, this isn't gonna be the most advanced of training, I don't exactly have all my equipment here, but I'll run you through the basics.
They move into the open living room, Ezra hot at his heels. Jason positioned them face-to-face.
"Show me how you'd hold yourself before throwing a punch — your stance is going to be the most important part of this."
Ezra got into position and Jason was already listing the several things that needed work.
"I can see you trying not to laugh, old man." He deadpanned.
Jason ignored him. "You're right-handed?" A nod. "So, you want your left foot forward, and widen them apart more, you look like a gust of wind could knock you over."
"Like this?" Ezra eyed Jason's form, matching his stance to his own.
"Yup, nice. Now copy me. You need to be able to guard your face properly, otherwise you're gonna take some nasty hits. Fists should be level with your cheekbones, elbows tucked in."
He followed the instructions pretty well, Jason thought.
"Now we'll move onto throwing some actual punches. Here, this is called a jab." Jason snapped his fist forward within a blink of an eye and retracted it just as fast. "A jab is your bread and butter. It aims to open up your opponent — it sets everything up. Start with your left fist, so your follow-up punch from your dominant hand will cause more damage."
Ezra threw a couple example jabs at the air and Jason had to hand it to him, he was a pretty quick learner. After mastering the mechanics of the jab, Jason held his palms out, outstretched, and told him to throw a couple at him — to put his all into it.
They get into it. To his credit, Ezra really did put his all into it and before long, each breath came in shallow bursts and sweat started to collect on his forehead, sticking down stray strands of bleached blonde. Jason watched as he steadily improved, weak-willed hits became reliable punches — not perfect, but getting there — and he felt sort of proud. An odd feeling when it concerned these fucking kids, usually he just felt exasperation and exhaustion. Mentorship was obviously some kind of infection.
His thoughts drifted far from the punches pounding at his palms, leaving him oblivious to Ezra's upwards glance, those ever-present furrowed brows returned at full force. Midway through a jab, Ezra's gaze snapped past him. A wash of colour enveloped him, and Jason's instincts flared up, hairs on the back of his neck stood up. And, without thinking, he ducked.
A book went flying over his head, smacking into the opposite wall and dropped to the floor. With a blink, an involuntary smile stretched across his face and for once, he didn't immediately suppress it.
"Now, that is what I'm talking about, kid!" He ruffled his hair. The sweat-soaked strands stuck up haphazardly. Ezra puffed up like a pissed off cat. "Shit like that? Unlimited potential there."
"…Thanks." The pissed off look quickly melted into the pleased grin of the cat who'd gotten the cream.
"We'll end it there for today. And before you argue, I'm old — I need my beauty sleep." Jason claimed. He was lying, of course. He knew Ezra was getting tired and he didn't feel like working the kid until he passed out.
Walking over, he reached for the book, only to grit his teeth when he realised it was one of his Jane Austen novels. Maybe he'd take back that earlier statement and he would work the little fucker until he dropped.
Ezra huffed, then questioned, "Today? So this'll be a continuous thing?"
"No shit. This was basically a taster session." The kid deflated, his eyebrows creasing into what Jason had then understood as their natural state — seemingly realised that he no longer had a reason to stay in the flat. Feeling somewhat miffed at that, Jason continued, "If you want to be competent, you'll have to come back for more lessons."
Ezra slightly brightened at that and Jason considered that a win, though he still looked… lost?
His mind wandered back to what he had said earlier, about not wanting to stay at his house. How relatable. He didn't think he'd find a level of understanding between the kids and him, but here it was. Overwhelmed by sudden clarity, Jason impulsively blurted out an offer.
"Ezra?"
"Yeah?"
"If you or the others ever need a place to stay, then—" He gestured around him, voice a touch stilted. "I can't have you here 24/7 — I'm not trying to catch any kidnapping charges, but this place is open. As long as you use the fucking doorbell, it's there for a reason."
Ezra was silent for a moment, and just before Jason was able to make a snarky comment on talking to a brick wall, he responded in a low voice.
"Thanks. I'll um, I'll tell the others. They'll appreciate it too. He chewed on his cheek, clearly battling with whatever he was about to say. "I'm staying here for the night then." He forced eye-contact, as if challenging Jason to disagree.
"Sure, whatever, just go use my shower or I'll retract my offer. You reek."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, old man." Ezra smiled something small and true. He waved Jason off, wandering in the direction of the bathroom.
Now stood alone in his bare living room, his first thought was, he's gonna regret this. But, thinking about it, maybe he won't.
In the distance, the shower was turned on.
His space was far too empty for just him anyway.