Robert knew it was coming, of course. Everyone knew. His health had been declining for quite some time, and so he had expected that he might take the old man's passing a little more gently, but of course, nothing can really prepare you for loss. It's hit him with all the weight of a building crashing over his head, and while Robert has a thousand voices in his ear telling him what he should do, where he should go from here, he has disregarded all of them. There's been a great flurry of activity as those involved attempt to pick up the pieces, to decide what should be done with his father's work, to decide how Robert should handle it.
But Maurice Fischer was more than work, and Robert, perhaps, is the only person who has seen that. At least, it certainly feels that way. While everyone is busy mourning the passing of a man of great ambition, wealth, and power, Robert is mourning simply the man. Certainly his father represented so many things to so many people, but to Robert and Robert alone he was family. His only family. He can't possibly consider the next step just yet, couldn't care less about all the things everyone else is trying to foist on him; disrespectful, the lot of him. His father's body is hardly cold and they're already swarming like buzzards at his meat, while Robert is left with his wheels spinning, trying to right himself, to find an equilibrium that continues to slip out of his reach.
One step at a time. For all his heart is aching and his gut roiling with turmoil, Robert knows how to pull down the mask, how to school his expression into stern calm, and even though he's fraying at the edges beneath it all, his professional persona remains entirely intact. He moves through each hour as it comes, making plans, navigating his father's funeral, services and guests and cemetary arrangements.. it's overwhelming, everything about it, and it feels as if he's moving through a veil, like he's drowning but no one is reaching a helping hand into the water, and all he can do is wait patiently for the darkness to close in.
Robert's posture is stiff and straight, his hooded eyes cool and his shoulders square as he steps back onto the street from Madam Malkin's, dressed in crisp black. When he hears his name called, he stiffens, a bubble of quiet, irritated apprehension rising in his chest; he's approached rather often in public, and generally speaking he's very good about maintaining his aristocratic behavior, but it's become increasingly difficult these last few days. It's not easy to force professionalism when it feels like he's crumbling to pieces.
But he's been doing it his entire life. Clearing his throat, Robert schools his features into tranquil smoothness, turning to face the source of the voice to find -
".. Oh."
to his credit, the surprise that flickers over his face is very brief, and it only takes him a moment to compose himself again.
"Yes, it has been. I didn't think you were in England anymore."
no subject
Robert knew it was coming, of course. Everyone knew. His health had been declining for quite some time, and so he had expected that he might take the old man's passing a little more gently, but of course, nothing can really prepare you for loss. It's hit him with all the weight of a building crashing over his head, and while Robert has a thousand voices in his ear telling him what he should do, where he should go from here, he has disregarded all of them. There's been a great flurry of activity as those involved attempt to pick up the pieces, to decide what should be done with his father's work, to decide how Robert should handle it.
But Maurice Fischer was more than work, and Robert, perhaps, is the only person who has seen that. At least, it certainly feels that way. While everyone is busy mourning the passing of a man of great ambition, wealth, and power, Robert is mourning simply the man. Certainly his father represented so many things to so many people, but to Robert and Robert alone he was family. His only family. He can't possibly consider the next step just yet, couldn't care less about all the things everyone else is trying to foist on him; disrespectful, the lot of him. His father's body is hardly cold and they're already swarming like buzzards at his meat, while Robert is left with his wheels spinning, trying to right himself, to find an equilibrium that continues to slip out of his reach.
One step at a time. For all his heart is aching and his gut roiling with turmoil, Robert knows how to pull down the mask, how to school his expression into stern calm, and even though he's fraying at the edges beneath it all, his professional persona remains entirely intact. He moves through each hour as it comes, making plans, navigating his father's funeral, services and guests and cemetary arrangements.. it's overwhelming, everything about it, and it feels as if he's moving through a veil, like he's drowning but no one is reaching a helping hand into the water, and all he can do is wait patiently for the darkness to close in.
Robert's posture is stiff and straight, his hooded eyes cool and his shoulders square as he steps back onto the street from Madam Malkin's, dressed in crisp black. When he hears his name called, he stiffens, a bubble of quiet, irritated apprehension rising in his chest; he's approached rather often in public, and generally speaking he's very good about maintaining his aristocratic behavior, but it's become increasingly difficult these last few days. It's not easy to force professionalism when it feels like he's crumbling to pieces.
But he's been doing it his entire life. Clearing his throat, Robert schools his features into tranquil smoothness, turning to face the source of the voice to find -
".. Oh."
to his credit, the surprise that flickers over his face is very brief, and it only takes him a moment to compose himself again.
"Yes, it has been. I didn't think you were in England anymore."