Work Text:
Contrary to common belief, Jason’s death does not implode your world.
You are not ridden of your habits after those two simple words are uttered over the comm, heard thousands of miles away from the site of their origin. Your routine is upkept through Bruce’s growing anger, Alfred’s sterner lip, and the manor’s looming silence.
Indeed, the manifestation of your grief is far worse than an immediate springboard over the edge.
Your grief is the awkward recovery during dinner conversations with Bruce after an ill-timed joke whose recipient isn’t there to finish the punch line. It is the cold of your study on a rainy afternoon when there is no one on the other end of the couch stealing your throw. It is the excess cans and goods in the cabinets, purchased for a child too used to sneaking and storing reserves, lest he go hungry.
It is waking up five minutes before your alarm to get him ready for school.
It is packing extra bookmarks in your bag so that he won’t have to resort to dog-earring his personal copies or losing his place.
It is making an extra sandwich during your late night snack because he always knows when your feet patter into the kitchen for more than tea.
It is making the afternoon drive out of the house because nothing is more suffocating on a weekday than the quiet of a home before 4:00 p.m. pickup.
It is embracing Bruce for seconds longer without remark or complaint from a third party.
It is knocking on his bedroom door before entering to ask him if he’s done his homework.
It is weekly calls with your eldest trying to confirm plans when you pause to say, “Let me tell Jason I’ll be busy.”
Grief is quiet apologies to those around you for reminding them of that which they cannot forget but eagerly avoid.
And you are a stone in the path of grief’s unforgiving stream, eroding away under its tortuous flow.