[ Jack tries to read Bruce's reaction; read it completely, because his kneejerk feelings get the spirit into trouble more often than not and Tony was a case in point. He sees the pain before it gets cleared away again, the pass of one hand across his face (Jack does that himself, when he's thinking, when words don't cooperate, and he finds a tiny bit of contentment in being like someone else).
He smiles a bit at the attempted deflection, thinks that's okay, I'm not a good choice either and the thanks that comes without a smile, though he gets the understanding and something like let him down gently and Jack thinks, that's more than most people have ever bothered to do.
Jack almost laughs at the reassurance, but that would have been cruel as well. Still, there's a soft pain lingering behind his eyes like an old ache, like a phantom limb. He knows three centuries of loss and it shows if one knows how to see it, like counting the children on the playground because there were rumours of Scarlet fever going around, like sitting on January farmhouses where little boys who he'd watched grow into young men got letters delivered with military condolences. It is with our deepest regret to inform you that...
Academically Jack knows that it's never been personal but he goes to the winter funerals when they're held and when the mourners are gone he leaves frost on the new headstones, wishing he could chisel away the born and died dates to add a few more decades between them. He might be new to making two-way connections -- bonds formed and reciprocated but he's always, always known what it's like to be the one left behind. ]
Re: action;
He smiles a bit at the attempted deflection, thinks that's okay, I'm not a good choice either and the thanks that comes without a smile, though he gets the understanding and something like let him down gently and Jack thinks, that's more than most people have ever bothered to do.
Jack almost laughs at the reassurance, but that would have been cruel as well. Still, there's a soft pain lingering behind his eyes like an old ache, like a phantom limb. He knows three centuries of loss and it shows if one knows how to see it, like counting the children on the playground because there were rumours of Scarlet fever going around, like sitting on January farmhouses where little boys who he'd watched grow into young men got letters delivered with military condolences. It is with our deepest regret to inform you that...
Academically Jack knows that it's never been personal but he goes to the winter funerals when they're held and when the mourners are gone he leaves frost on the new headstones, wishing he could chisel away the born and died dates to add a few more decades between them. He might be new to making two-way connections -- bonds formed and reciprocated but he's always, always known what it's like to be the one left behind. ]
I know.