[ fight ]  my  muse  stops  your  muse  from  getting  into  a  physical  fight  with  someone  else @catalystsofchangeâ
This felt like something out of an old, dusty memory. Barely even five foot and a chip on his shoulder, something to prove to the world that had been so intent on seeing the bad in him, in his situation. Immediately lashing out when something got underneath his skin, far too close to a button. These guys werenât even worth his time if Jason were being honest, but the anger came to light all too easily at their jeers they had been throwing at people passing by. Fingers curling up into a fist, about to hit the guy nearest before he was stopped by an all too familiar, annoying figure.Â
The guys were quick to scatter, Jason wheeling around to face Dick, practically snarling. âAre you serious?â He snapped harshly, âSeriously, what the fuck? I didnât ask for you to interfere, in this, in my lifeââ Jason hissed out, gloved fingers jabbing harshly against the bright blue bird on the older manâs chest. âI am not something for you to try to handle, because thatâs what youâre trying to do, right? Handle the problem child. I am a grown man, Iâm not that thirteen year old that you barely gave a shit about.â It was a bad habit, venomous words dripping off of his tongue when he got angry. It was what Jason did best: violently push others away.Â
He used to be able to pick Jason up. He thought about it sometimes, remembered the days when separating his little brother from a fight was as easy as tossing him over his shoulder and marching away, ignoring the screaming in his ear. Things were so much easier then, and not just because Jason was smaller. Back then, Dick could talk him down. He could offer reassurances that Jason would actually believe, could say Batman isnât gonna let them get away, Robin, letâs go deal with the henchmen and be met with a reluctant nod instead of an argument. Back then, Jason trusted Dick.Â
Dick wasnât so sure that was the case anymore.
âIâm serious,â Dick confirmed, leaning back on his heels. âCome on, Hood, those guys are assholes but theyâre not worth a damn fist fight. Theyâre nuisances. Better to focus on something worth your focus, right?â His smile, stiff and forced already, faltered when his little brother continued, falling off his face all at once. Jason did this, when he got mad. He lashed out, he hit you where he knew it would hurt. What Dick had never known for sure was whether he believed the things he said, or if he just wanted to poke at a bruise until it was black. âI always cared about you,â he said defensively, and he had. He hadnât always known how to express it, was the problem. Heâd been a teenager, been so furious at Bruce that he couldnât stand it, been jealous of Jason for wearing a costume Bruce had taken from him and having a piece of paper from a judge that made all the journalists refer to him as a son instead of a ward. Dick hadnât particularly wanted a little brother, but heâd loved Jason anyway. And sometimes, he was pretty sure that Jason didnât know that. It stung a little. âCan we not do this today?â