It's been a long day, and she still has papers to grade and a paper of her own to edit before the head of the department actually kills her and five different phone calls to return based on how many times her cell phone rang from its place under her passenger seat, and she's juggling her dinner and coffee and nearly misses when she drops the mail on the counter without looking. The only reason she turns around is because half of it it ends up sliding into the floor, and she swears softly, setting her coffee and take-out down as she bends to pick up two bills, a credit card offer - and a small, paper wrapped box.
She freezes, half-crouched, her hand an inch from closing around the box, because, while there's no return address, she knows that handwriting, will always know that handwriting. She nearly collapses, shifting to sit down right there on her kitchen floor as she carefully slides her finger under the tape, preserving it as best she can.
Once she's set the neatly folded wrapping aside, she turns her attention to the small, white jeweler's box. It's a little worse for wear, like it's been carried in someone's pocket, and she hesitates longer than she likely needs to before she breaks the tape (which has obviously been pulled back and reapplied a few times) and opens it --
And then, as she runs her fingers over her mother's necklace, she can't stop the tears from rolling down her face, the relief simply pouring out of her. It's been almost three months since Harlem, since she's heard anything from Bruce, and even though she knows what the... other guy can take, that knowledge has done absolutely nothing to stop her brain from running through everything that could have happened to him in that time.
And now she has proof that he at least has been okay somewhat recently, and all her fear turns back to hope.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
For Bruce
Date: 2015-05-17 02:27 am (UTC)It's been a long day, and she still has papers to grade and a paper of her own to edit before the head of the department actually kills her and five different phone calls to return based on how many times her cell phone rang from its place under her passenger seat, and she's juggling her dinner and coffee and nearly misses when she drops the mail on the counter without looking. The only reason she turns around is because half of it it ends up sliding into the floor, and she swears softly, setting her coffee and take-out down as she bends to pick up two bills, a credit card offer - and a small, paper wrapped box.
She freezes, half-crouched, her hand an inch from closing around the box, because, while there's no return address, she knows that handwriting, will always know that handwriting. She nearly collapses, shifting to sit down right there on her kitchen floor as she carefully slides her finger under the tape, preserving it as best she can.
Once she's set the neatly folded wrapping aside, she turns her attention to the small, white jeweler's box. It's a little worse for wear, like it's been carried in someone's pocket, and she hesitates longer than she likely needs to before she breaks the tape (which has obviously been pulled back and reapplied a few times) and opens it --
And then, as she runs her fingers over her mother's necklace, she can't stop the tears from rolling down her face, the relief simply pouring out of her. It's been almost three months since Harlem, since she's heard anything from Bruce, and even though she knows what the... other guy can take, that knowledge has done absolutely nothing to stop her brain from running through everything that could have happened to him in that time.
And now she has proof that he at least has been okay somewhat recently, and all her fear turns back to hope.