#I know most British people don’t use honey in his tea but according to google the British royal family does so I say Alfred does too

[fic-over-cannon]

A Spoonful of Honey

After the Lazarus pit, after the pit madness, after his attempts at revenge, Jason Todd realizes just how much he has changed when Alfred invites him to tea. In the time Before, Jason and Alfred would have tea together regularly, doctored the way Alfred preferred. A spoonful of honey with a dash of milk added last.

Today the brew isn’t comforting, not the way it should be. Jason expects the taste of his childhood, with maybe a hint of regret. Instead of home, and warmth, and quiet afternoons with Alfred, it tastes like terror. Just the scent turns his stomach. The first sip nearly has him retching. Honey curdles in his mouth, crawling across his tongue like a dead thing. The honeyed scent of the tea conjures the sound of screaming, green tinged memories flickering in the corners of his eyes. The second sip doesn’t fare any better. If anything the flashbacks intensify, a pulsing ache in his temples. Sickly sweet honey clogs his throat, his heart beat accelerating in his chest. His hands shake as he places the cup and saucer on the side table, china clattering delicately. The cloying honey smell seems to stick to his skin. The wrong parts of his past has its teeth in him. Alfred’s expression is inscrutable as always, but Jason thinks he detects grief in his grandfather’s eyes. Standing suddenly, Jason excuses himself, doing his best not to stumble on his way out of the library.

Tea with Alfred was one of the last vestiges of home to be corrupted by the League. It came with memories of being cared for unconditionally, of being listened to and loved. His feelings for Bruce were the first that the League weaponized, but Jason hid and held on to his affection for Alfred a little longer. Afternoons in the library, curled up in an armchair with a book in his hand a cup of tea on the table beside him, sunlight streaming through the windows. Cups of tea over the kitchen table after a hard day at school. Alfred lending a sympathetic ear to his schoolboy troubles. A large mug left on his bedside table after fighting with Bruce, warming his heart as much as his hands. These memories were enough to sustain him, until they became fleeting impressions, and then nothing to hold onto at all. Memories of watching Alfred prepare tea were some of the first to pierce through the haze of anger. When Alfred offered tea again, Jason took it for the olive branch it was. A chance to be a part of the Wayne family again, not just a member of Batman’s vigilantes.

It’s just one more thing in a long list of things that have been taken from him. It shouldn’t matter to him more than the first or the tenth thing he discovered missing, but it hurts in a way that feels like grief. One of the last things to really tell him he was home, that he had held onto with bloodied fingers, and it was all wrong. His favourite drink in the world, and he couldn’t even choke down a few sips. Even now, his fond memories are tainted, the warmth of honey and tea replaced by the metallic tang of terror. Nostalgia is a blade and it is cutting open the tender parts of his childhood that he tried so hard to protect.

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