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Jason thinks he might just suffocate here.
It’s like he’s being waterboarded by grief; one moment he’s fine, but the next he’s choking on his own emotions like it’s dirt.
So, yeah, the funeral isn’t going so great for him. Not that any funerals would be, unless it’s one of the many people he hates, but this is one he didn’t think he’d ever be at.
One he didn’t want to ever be at.
He’s late, he’s always late, but in time for the last bit of speeches. Faces, some familiar, go up one at a time and talk. Half the time they choke up and frantically wipe away tears, and the other percent only say a few words.
Jason can see the struggle in their eyes, though. He can see the overwhelming sadness and the tangle of frustration. He can see this because he’s a hypocrite, and a coward.
Almost everyone goes up, even if they only share a sentence or two. There’s a deafening silence at the end of it all. Eyes shift his way, then the other, but no one says anything.
Then the friends, family, and three possible assassins leave. One by one. Nobody wants to stay with a dead body for long.
Duke’s fighting for his life as he hesitantly steps away, his arm around Damian’s shoulder. Cass is already gone with Steph and Babs, just outside the gates of the cemetery. Jason is sure the other cape and mask members are in the manor with Alfred.
It’s just him and Dick looking at a casket already in the ground.
Parallels, he thinks bitterly. Because of course it is. That’s how this family works.
It’s quiet for a few more beats, other than the wind quietly rustling the red leaves in the trees. Jason lets out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding.
Dick glances to him. Maybe he’s surprised Jason’s here, or maybe he isn’t. The scary thing is: Jason can’t tell.
Dick’s always been the most expressive. Even when he was sad and moody, he was sad and moody . He’s never been blank.
Jason hates it. Hates the blankness.
“I’m sorry for not being there.”
“It’s alright. You wanted to be.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. He closes his eyes, balling his fists in his pockets. The lie burns, digs into his skin, hurts .
“No, that’s what I’m sorry about. I didn’t want to. Not back then.”
“We’re not talking about how you’re late, then.”
It doesn’t contain any of the sad, wilting humor it usually would. He doesn’t know how to respond, he doesn’t know how to apologize to someone who can’t listen, so Dick does it for him. He always has.
“You’re here now. For everyone.”
“But not for him.”
“No,” his brother agrees quietly. “Not for him.”
-
Duke is struggling. That’s all he has to say about it. There’s nothing else to talk about. Not the shaking eleven year old in his arms. Not the void of space that’s usually filled, one that everyone can feel isn’t there. Not the young face smiling in the family portrait on the wall.
Actually, there is. There’s one thing to say. Alfred’s brownies are great. (Damian, the hellish little beast he is, is the only one who refuses to eat them.)
They’re so great, in fact, that they’ve moved Duke to tears. No circumstances before now caused this reaction, or the fact Alfred made fudge-cookie-brownies in the first place.
“I’m not going to hell, Duke, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to do shit! This- this isn’t something you’re supposed to be calm about!”
“Duke.”
“It’s not a vacation to France! it’s- it’s-“
“What I have to do, yeah. You’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.”
Duke hopes that motherfucker’s pants are on fire.
“Damian?” He winces as his voice cracks. Not his greatest moment. Understatement. This whole predicament is not a greatest moment.
There’s a punch to his gut as a response. A really weak punch, so Duke knows the kid is on 5%. He can’t bring himself to be alone, though, so he shifts Damian over until he’s clinging onto Duke’s shoulder like a sloth.
The fudge-cookie-brownie sugar rush must hit hard for a grieving eleven year old who doesn’t even like them.
-
Half of the family doesn’t cope well. Jason kills and nobody stops him. Dick almost kills, and only Roy stops him. Duke, Damian, Cass, and Steph are doing… better than those three.
Babs and Alfred stay strong, from what the others know.
The Titans mourn. Even a few of the Rogues stay silent. Everyone is quiet for a few weeks, but the city will always keep living, even when one of it’s protectors is dead.
This is, Tim muses, pretty much how he thought it would go.