@greatfailure: can you pass the salt?
the dining table in wayne manor is large and long, more formal than casual, extending out far more than needed for two people— evident by how far apart they sit. opposite ends of the table. both heads of their own table. it's a snide remark, one meant to burrow underneath bruce's skin. it's what jason does best nowadays, and often succeeds. he doesn't need to confirm the context, the younger one's tone of voice paints a clear enough picture, but he does anyway. there's a compulsion in him. perhaps for jason to see what bruce already knows lives beneath the surface of his skin, or for the confirmation of a simple fact: how much he hates him. when his cerulean irises glance up from the plate of dinner prepared by alfred, gaze meeting the other's— bruce's answer becomes broad as daylight. by how jason's eyes are narrowed, staring daggers from the opposite end of the table and room, it's quite substantial too. deeper than bruce will ever be able to comprehend and he can't even begin to decipher what's hidden beneath his eyes— the ultimate detective failing one more. "sure." the salt shaker to his right is slid across the table, landing in the middle of the table— close enough to grab, but not without the other standing up. "sorry." for the salt shaker or everything else? jason can figure that out.
