Young Justice 1. First Kiss

**A/N: Prompt "Jaime catches Bart being sad/out of character, and he helps him or they share their first kiss or anything works" from Intertwined-trickster.**

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The eyes are what haunt Jaime the most. More than the emaciated body and cracked lips, the scraggly hair and smudges of black that indicate charred flesh. Because the pair of eyes don't just convey heartbreak, they mirror everything Bart fought to escape from.

Jaime's quivering finger floats to the page, skimming the grainy paper. The drawing is so realistic, as if someone breathed in a real photograph and exhaled it onto the paper. If he squints, the lines, which are quick and certain, even seem to move.

His hand feels numb as he gingerly turns the page. The next image shows a blurred object with angel wings protruding from it. This drawing is not nearly as detailed as the first, but, in its own way, seems just as dark.

Jaime feels his throat tense up, tightening with guilt. The sketchbook had been lying harmlessly on Bart's dresser, but now that he's seen what the pictures depict, he knows that this counts as an intrusion. And he feels guilty, betraying his friend's trust.

But, in all honesty, he doesn't feel _that_ guilty.

So engrossed in the fluid lines, the artful shadings, he doesn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Hey her-man-oh, I-"

Jaime jerks his head up from the sketchbook, which falls limply from his grasp, landing back on the dresser with a thud.

Bart's face slips into a quiet frown, his arms resting stiffly at his sides. He doesn't ask for an explanation, but Jaime feels obligated to give one. The problem is, he can't think of an excuse to justify him going through Bart's personal things.

"Your drawings," he murmurs lamely, "they're really good."

Bart gives an almost imperceptible shrug. "I've had a lot of practice."

"How come you've never shown them to me before?"

"My sketchbook's like… like a diary. Andgoingthroughit _not_ crash dude, not crash at all."

Jaime flinches, but, much to his chagrin, he can't seem to let it drop. "Are there are pencils and paper in the future?"

"No," Bart laughs hollowly, a sound that is foreign to Jaime's ears. "No, I used to trace images in the dirt. Ya know, to commit things to memory."

"That's what these are," Jaime gestures vaguely to the sketchbook. "Memories."

For a moment, Bart just stares pensively in the direction of the dresser. "They're just drawings."

"They seem so real," Jaime counters.

"They were, once… but not anymore. Thingsarechangingandthatlifeneverhappened," his words blur together at super-speed, as they so often do when he's excited or upset. Bart inhales sharply, holding the breath until his chest aches. "That's why I draw them. Soon I'm going to be the only one who's lived through all that. And someone needs to remember."

Something shifts in Jaime's gaze, something bordering pity. Forcing his stomach to still, he lifts up the sketchbook with careful fingers and opens it to the front page.

"Who's this?"

"I don't know. Really, I don't. I watched her die… but I never knew her name."

"I killed her," Jaime guessed.

Bart's mouth opens, an unspoken "no" forming on his lips.

"You drew a plasma canon in the woman's pupils. I did kill her."

"No, _you_ didn't."

Swallowing, Jaime turns the page. "What's this one?"

"The Watchtower."

The Hispanic's eyebrows rise, eliciting a sigh from Bart.

"The Watchtower may be home to the League in this time, but in the future it isn't a symbol of guardianship," Bart inhales sharply, "at some point it falls out of orbit, leaving a huge crater when it lands. And taking half of Gotham with it."

"Why did you draw wings?"

"Uh, I dunno, guess it fell kinda like a vengeful angel."

Jaime wants to know the story behind all of Bart's drawings, if only to quell his curiosity. He's seeing a whole new side to the Caucasian teen.

But the question that does tumble unbidden from his lips is something he's been wondering for a while.

"Is it all just an act? A façade?"

Bart's expression slackens. "What? N-no."

"But most of it is, isn't it? The laid-back, hyperactive speedster front… it's not the real you."

Bart's forehead creases into a frown. "No… no, it's not."

"Then what is the real you?" Jaime's voice has a harsh undertone to it. The question is more than an inquiry; it's a demand. Jaime's seen the real Bart before, of course. But only glimpses, so fleeting he sometimes wonders if they're real.

"I don't know."

Jaime open his mouth, but Bart interrupts.

"I don't know, okay? The future was about staying alive. Self preservation, finding food and water. And the more people you looked out for, the lower your chances of survival were. Maybe if I got a bit more used to the idea of belonging somewhere," he pauses, as if to say more, but he can't get his tongue to form proper words.

Jaime's voice drops to a soft whisper. "Who do you want to be?"

Bart steps forward, albeit tentatively, and eases the sketchbook from Jaime's grasp. He plucks a stubby pencil from the dresser, and begins to sketch lightly. By the time he's finished, the heel of his hand is tinged grey from smudging. Finally, he reveals the drawing.

Jaime's eyes widen, quickly darting from Bart's face to the drawing and back again.

"Really?"

The most Bart can manage is a stiff nod. Bart counts the seconds in his head, the moment fueled with a tension he's never known before. His chest contracts painfully, and it's as if the entire world is holding its breath for what happens next.

Every inch of Bart's skin is prickling with heat, and he senses Jaime's hands on his face more than he feels them. The air is suddenly thick, charged with a tangible energy, and each inhalation is agony on Bart's lungs.

Bart stands precariously on the edge of his tiptoes to wrap his hands around Jaime's neck, pulling the older boy to him. Jaime's parted lips fill the gap between them, ghosting over Bart's ever-so-softly. The kiss is gentle, and soft, and feather-light, but long. After a few moment, it occurs to Bart that this is his first kiss. He feels a humming in his chest, something curious rapidly growing within him. It feels as if his mind is lost in a haze, so he doesn't remember to count the minutes. He knows the kiss lasts for a while, as if they're both afraid that once it ends they'll snap out of their stupor and go back to just being friends.

Bart isn't really certain about most things these days, but he knows that after kissing Jaime like this, he doesn't ever want to be just friends again.

When the need for oxygen finally kicks in, their lips pull away, but their bodies don't.

Bart's gasp for breath catches in his throat as Jaime's lips travel across his jaw line. "_Te amo_." His voice is a breathless whisper against skin. Jaime repeats the phrase, leaving a blazing trail along Bart's jaw.

"_Te quiero, te amo_."

Bart cards his fingers through Jaime's hair and breathes in his familiar scent. He smells like home and safety.

"Bart."

"Mm?"

"Could I keep the drawing?"

"Yeah,sure,of course," a note of surprise accentuates his tone.

Bart watches Jaime carefully tear out the drawing, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

"You okay her-man-o?"

Jaime offers a small nod, not lifting his eyes from the page. "Just committing it to memory." Not that he needs to. Even if he tried, he probably couldn't forget the quick sketch of Bart's lithe arms resting on his shoulders while their lips pressed.


	2. Second Chances

**A/N: Prompt: 'Injury" by opalescentflame**_  
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Bart smells the blood before he sees it. The sharp metallic scent permeates after the second shot rings out, and whisks him away to a different time, a different injury, a different body falling to the ground. He remembers that specific death because he was old enough to be able to _try_ do something, but still too young to realize that he shouldn't have bothered. If the Reach wanted you dead, you were dead, and retaliating would only speed up the process. But this time it's different, because it isn't some unnamed soon-to-be-forgotten slave that's been shot; it's his best friend.

"B-Bart," Jaime gasps in a voice that makes Bart's vision blur with irrepressible tears.

"Hey," he attempts to choke out, but the word is strangled. "Blue, Blue, Blue. Hey. It's…" he wants to say 'okay', but that would be a downright lie, so instead he swallows the rising lump in his throat and falls to the ground with Jaime.

He holds Jaime upright and the older boy grabs onto each of his shoulders, blunt nails breaking the skin. The chill of his dying breath on Bart's flesh is dizzying, and all Bart can think is _'we are so moded'_, before he promises to himself that he'll _never _again let Jaime deactivate his armor until they're a safe distance from enemy lines.

"Bart I—you need to… I—" the disjointed mumble that escapes Jaime's lips cuts deep into Bart's bones. He can sense the emotional power behind what Jaime was trying to say.

"Armour up, her-mano!" Bart begs, a panicked edge creeping into his voice. "Scarab should be able to heal you."

"Systems s-shutting down," Jaime splutters, blood bubbling in his throat and beginning to seep down the corners of his mouth.

_'I came to the past to stop you. I was prepared to kill you, if necessary. But I never expected to fall for you.' _

Bart retrieves a spherical blue orb from a compartment in his uniform and feels it sear into his palm as strongly as he tastes bile in his mouth.

Is he really prepared to use the capsule, his last resort, his lifeline, to save the very person he came to stop?

In the future, he and Nathaniel had only salvaged two of these capsules capable of either destroying or rebooting Reach technology; one of which had already been used to stop Neutron. If he used the final orb to save Blue Beetle then, should he go on-mode, there really wasn't anything more Bart could do. Was he really willing to risk that?

His temples throb as a moral war wages in his head. Jaime mumbles something unintelligible, but the fragmented words don't even reach Bart's ears. His breaths are becoming laboured, his pulse faint.

_'I'm sorry, Blue,'_ Bart thinks silently. Fate has a very cruel and twisted sense of irony, but Bart is the descendant of the Flash. It is his duty to uphold the ideals and virtues of a super hero and he can't threaten millions of lives to save one.

Yet his hands move independently of his thoughts and before he realizes what's happening, the capsule is falling in a cerulean blur, before it falls on the sheen of sweat covering Jaime's skin. Armour begins to grow and spread across the Hispanic teen's limbs, blue and black to contrast against the crimson oozing from his bullet wounds.

Bart's heart shudders violently against his chest, bruising himself inside-out, until finally (finally!) Jaime slips back into consciousness, though he is feverish and delusional, and Bart doubts he'll even remember the kiss he's engaged with the speedster.

Bart tastes blood, and sweat, and saliva as their lips latch onto each other. But all he feels is dread. That capsule was his chance to end or save the Blue Beetle. He hopes he chose correctly. Because the future was now out of second chances.


	3. Broken Toy

**A/N: "Moded Jaime" prompt by opalescentflame**

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Being on mode wasn't what Jaime had initially expected. He had anticipated pain, but was instead met with a soothing calm that dulled the tumult of his unwanted thoughts and all the coinciding emotions. He could still think and process what was happening, focus on each individual breath, yet he found himself acting differently than he had prior to being repaired by the Reach.

Now his movements were too rigid, almost mechanical, his voice monotonous, and any hint of his Spanish accent was no longer palpable. He no longer had any use for sleep, and he never blinked.

It was somehow so easy, and also so right, to have the Reach think for him. They were ultimately smarter and wiser, and their commands made him better equipped at fighting the enemy.

Despite the Reach's hold on him, he was still, in essence, himself. At his core he was the person he'd always been: Jaime Reyes, the Blue Beetle, a once average boy who had been at the right place at the wrong time, and had been condemned to live with an alien scarab latched to his spine.

Yet the only times he ever felt even a inkling of regret was when he battled his former teammates. Not because they were whispers of the life he'd had, but because killing them was such a waste of good meat.

Now, as he stood over the Impulse's unconscious body, he felt a twinge of… something. Something that bordered genuine emotion was beginning to stir within him.

_'Kill him.'_ The voice reverberated through his mind, cracking red-hot across his skull. It was mechanical and insect-like, grating on his every nerve. He hated hearing their unspoken voices, hated how even his own brain didn't belong to him. Still, Jaime considered the Negotiator's order, a slight frown creasing his forehead. He couldn't outright disobey, but maybe he could compromise. Receive some form of consolation.

"Can't I have him?"

_'You can have him after he's permanently paralyzed, and we've… shut off his metagene.'_

Blue Beetle's armored hand elongated into a blade, hovering dangerously close to Bart's pale column of throat. If Bart was paralyzed, he'd never be able to run again. He would never be able to continue working for the League and their sidekicks. He'd never be able to really fight back.

Still Blue hesitated to carry out the order. "It's no fun playing if they're already broken."

A pause stretched, before an impatient huff of,_ 'very well. We'd hate to see perfectly good meat go to waste.'_

After that, the voice in his mind fell silent. Jaime and Bart were all alone.

Blue Beetle scooped up his new toy, and observed it silently. Bart's hushed mind was slowly clawing back to consciousness.

"J-Jaime?" He gasped as if every breath was painful on his lungs.

"Ssh," he whispered, using a different voice than the one he'd used to converse with the Negotiator. This voice was not in a monotone; it was husky and exotic, and the one he used when speaking Spanish. It's the one that always made Bart melt. "Don't worry _ese_, I'll take good care of you."

Jaime's faceplate retracted, and he slowly, slowly, drew an unseen line across Bart's bottom lip with his thumb, relishing the way he was able to make Bart shiver from such a simple act. What else could he make him do?

Bart struggled to speak, but upon finding that he couldn't, he merely gazed up at Jaime, his wide-set green eyes pleading. Still, Bart didn't fight back when Jaime brought their lips together. In fact, the younger boy's lips were moving in tandem with his own. He showed no urge of resisting. But Jaime could change that.

Jaime broke the kiss, watching as Bart tilted his head upwards, not wanting to end it. Jaime's lips curled into a cruel smile, a dangerous sort of satisfaction settling across his chest. He was already formulating ways to break his new toy. His favorite toy.


	4. Morality and Mortality

**A/N: Prompt from CrossfireBullet "one about a moded Jaime and a captured Bart".**

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_We weave tales of love and lust, sing songs of morality and mortality._

Bart's heartbeat thrums in his temples, and it takes him a moment to register the pain, simply because it hurts, well, _everywhere_. The surface beneath his cheek is soft, and it takes him a second to realize he's lying in a bed. Yet, it looks more like one of the Reach's containment pods than anything else. Groaning, he props himself on his elbows and takes stock of where he is. He feels as if his brain is floating somewhere above his skull. The room is dim, but what little he can see makes his heart sink lower in his chest. The walls have a pattern similar to the exoskeleton of a bug, and the overall design is not unlike the Reach armor. More specifically, Blue Beetle's armor.

Spots of color dance across Bart's vision as his gaze lands on a pair of luminous amber lenses. His heart shudders violently, and he's torn between running or waiting to watch how things unfold.

"It's fun watching you sleep." The Blue Beetle's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. It's a heavy silence too; dark with the promises of death and torture. But now that he's spoken, the silence is shattered, and Bart can find his voice.

"Blue." Bart can't help the hopeful edge that seeps into his voice. He knows that Jaime is gone, Jaime is dead, but sometimes facing the monster that is reality is too hard. Blue Beetle's black lips upturn into a sort of half-smile. "Why..." Bart lets his voice trail off as he tries to piece his train of thought together. Blue Beetle doesn't interrupt him, just watches as the younger boy squirms. "Why am I still alive?"

Blue Beetle steps forwards, and this simple movement spurs Bart to action. He feels the course of adrenaline spread throughout his body, but nothing happens. He can't run. Bart's hand darts to his neck in a panic, and he gropes blindly for an inhibitor collar. All he finds, however, are old scars that refuse to fade.

"I wouldn't put an inhibitor collar on you," Blue states facetiously.

"Then why can't I run?"

When Blue Beetle is less than forthcoming, Bart tries to press further, but his breath hitches in his throat as Jaime—no, Blue Beetle, he reminds himself—steps closer to him. Blue's hand elongates into a serrated blade, and he traces Bart's lips with the steady hand of an artist carving his latest masterpiece. All Bart feels is a sting, but when he licks his lips, his skin is slick with blood. Something rises up in his throat, a sort of panic that's caught half way between a sob and a gasp. This perversion of his ally, his friend, is almost more than he can take.

"Jaime, please," he gasps, as Blue Beetle tilts his face, and a tongue darts out to swipe away the halo of blood around his lips.

The rising panic is still there, but it's becoming closer to a scream than anything else. And yet, when he opens his mouth, a laugh tumbles out. He laughs, hysteria bubbling inside of him. He laughs, and Blue Beetle watches with a stoic expression on his face.

"So you're a vampire now?" Bart gasps out through his laughter.

Blue and black armor peels back, and Bart is surprised to see that moded Jaime's face is... benign. Placid. Calm.

In response to Bart's question, he simply smiles. It's a haunting sort of grin that looks just plain wrong on his face. "I like the taste of blood. It wakes me up." He leans forward, and his breath tickles Bart's ear. "Almost as much as I like the taste of you."

It takes Bart a second, a whole second, to realize that Jaime is kissing him. His lips are soft, but forceful. Bart vaguely notices the hand that settles on the back of his neck; a warning not to pull away. It's an unnecessary gesture because Bart wouldn't even if he wanted to. Jaime—and it has to be Jaime, because a demon wearing his face couldn't possibly be this good at kissing—bites down on Bart's lower lip. An unbidden moan slips out, and then the kiss ends.

"Do you want me, Bart?"

A pause, and then a low whisper of, "No." It's not a downright lie. He loves Jaime, but not this twisted version of him.

He feels a hand close around his fragile throat, and his lungs pointlessly try to draw air. Jaime grins again, a chilling flash of white teeth. "I don't care what you want. Either way, you're fun to play with." The hand releases his throat, the pale skin now tinged pink from where it was gripped. Blue Beetle turns, and the armor spreads across his face once more. Bart should be thankful he's still alive. The other heroes, the people that for such a fleeting period of time were his allies, are dead. He's seen them die in person and on the news screens. He knows he'll be next. It doesn't make sense that he's even still alive, even if he is, to quote the Reach's puppet himself, "fun to play with".

And then, because Bart's never been good at keeping quiet, he rasps out, "You're still in there Jaime. If you weren't, I wouldn't still be alive. But I can feel you, and I'll save you. I failed before, but I'll save you."

"Jaime Reyes is gone." Bart can hear the smile in the voice that is as soft as silk on skin.

"You're wrong."

With the touch of an armored hand, an opening forms in the wall, but closes immediately as Blue Beetle steps out.

Now the room is empty, save for himself. Bart eases to a standing position and examines himself. His limbs are wholly intact, his chest rises and falls with every breath, and his heart thuds in his chest. To put it simply: he feels very much _alive_. And if he's still alive, that means Jaime is too. Somewhere. And from what he's just seen, he knows that Jaime is closer to the surface than he'd ever dared hope.


	5. Scars

**A/N: Anon prompt "Scars"**

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"Ugh," Bart groans, voicing exactly what Jaime is thinking. The fetid smell of blood reaches Jaime's nostrils, and it's all he can do to refrain from gagging.

"Take off your shirt."

A strangled noise works it's way up Bart's throat. "W-what?"

"We need to assess the wound," Jaime explains patiently, biting back a retort as Khaji da snickers.

The younger teen fingers the hem of his shirt, and slowly drags the fabric over his head.

Jaime feels a thrill in in his stomach, but chalks it up to hysteria. Wordlessly, he pulls out gauze and anesthetic, not lifting his eyes from Bart's bare torso. He slowly dabs anesthetic along the gash in Bart's side, cleaning away smears of blood. Jaime's chest flutters, which can only be from the sight of blood, though he's never had that reaction to it before.

Bart inhales sharply, but Jaime doesn't take notice. He's too enraptured by the crosshatching of scars on the speedster's otherwise smooth body. The scars crisscross indefinitely and in no distinct pattern, like haphazard tally marks on his skin. Jaime traces a diagonal slash of puckered skin with a light finger.

He is not repelled by the irregular marks Bart works so hard to keep hidden, but curious. Each scar has a story, a lesson behind it. Jaime wonders if Bart feels embarrassed, or maybe afraid to have light shed on his hidden marks, proof of his enslaved life in the future?

"Jaime," Bart gasps, and Jaime's hand freezes on Bart's ribcage.

"S-sorry," Jaime swallows painfully, forcing his hands to stop, to stop roaming shamelessly despite how much he wants them to. Scarab is vibrating along his spine, and if the Hispanic didn't know any better, he almost thought it was from silent laughter.

"I was just checking for any other sca-scratches. Scratches." Jaime wrenches his hands from Bart's skin, though they're itching with the need for contact.

Bart ducks his head, his lips quirked into a shy grin.

"Maybe you should check some more."


	6. Feral

**A/N: Anon prompt "Vampire or Werewolf Au"**

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It never really got painful on the first night. Sure, there was the all too familiar sensation that his organs were trying to escape his body in different directions, but it never got to the point where he longed for a quick, merciful death.

When Jaime Reyes had first been bitten, he'd been left with a festering wound on his arm. Viscid blood percolated through the fabric of his tattered clothes, staining them a rich crimson, and he was only days from meeting death's cold lips. But then the night of the full moon came. As the wound closed at an exponential rate, he felt the sensation of being born again. And then pain. A deep, raw sort of agony that left marks on his flesh from where he'd tried to claw out of his body. His face and limbs elongated, his senses sharpened almost imperceptibly.

The first time he'd encountered a human after he'd shifted, it was a young girl, lost and scared as she lurched through the woods. A moral war had waged in Jaime's mind, but eventually, his feral side won.

As the girl cradled her bloody wound, he slashed his claw in a horizontal strike, ending her life. It was an act of mercy, to let her die rather than become a child of the night. It was a mercy that would forever go without a "thank you."

Since becoming a werewolf, Jaime had learned two things: 1. stay away from humans, and 2. avoid anything silver. He must have been feeling particularly audacious tonight, though, because here he was, a foot or so away from a human with skin that glowed silver in the moonlight. But he couldn't help it. He'd never witnessed anyone so beautiful.

The boy didn't look much younger than Jaime, but his eyes shone with an unequaled brilliance that could turn the moon green with envy. His messily parted hair fell into his eyes, and Jaime could hear the pitter-patter of his erratic heartbeat. He could also sense the desperation emanating from the boy as he risked a step backwards.

The simple action spurred Jaime to action, and he tackled the smaller boy to the ground. With the boy pinned helplessly beneath him, Jaime indulged a moment to drink in his features up close. And then he slowly, slowly, lowered his lips to his alabaster skin. Jaime inhaled, breathing in his unique scent. His lips, which were curled into a canine-like smile, mouthed at the boy's neck as he marked the skin, marked the boy as _his_.

As Jaime savored the sweet taste, he couldn't help but feel as if he was slowly drinking poison. The moonlight bathed skin meant danger; anything silver was forbidden lest he bring pain to himself, but was intoxicating at the same time. Finally, he lifted his head to gaze into the boy's eyes once more.

"Your name?" Jaime demanded in a throaty, almost guttural, growl.

"B-Bart Allen," he gasped in response.

"Bart Allen," Jaime repeated, the word fitting snugly on his tongue. He extricated himself from Bart and bared his milky white canines. "Run."

The boy didn't need to be told twice.

Jaime waited, counting the seconds in his head. Once a werewolf had your scent, they could track you anywhere, no matter how many miles you distanced yourself. It was only the first night of the full moon and he could retain at least part of his sanity. But tomorrow night things would be different. More… feral. And the chase would begin.


	7. A Penny For Your Thoughts

**A/N: Just a random drabble (alternate universe) where Jaime and Bart meet for the first time. Please leave a review if you have any thoughts. I also take prompt requests.**

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Desiccated leaves crackled underfoot as Bart ran, the brisk morning air filling his lungs with every inhalation. The dirt path was worn from years of use, and by now Bart had every inch of the park ingrained in memory; from the horizontal stories engraved on the trees, to the loose rocks scattered like constellations, and, finally, the massive, burbling fountain that marked the end of his run.

Bart was just nearing the clearing when he did something he rarely ever did — he _tripped_. And not just a stumble, but a full-out face-plant. As the star of the Central City Track Team, with years of running and cross-country tournaments behind him, this was something that just didn't happen, not to him, anyways. His face flushing bright crimson, Bart dusted his knees and wiped at his gravel embedded cheek, wincing at the sharp sting. He examined himself carefully, knowing that as soon as he looked up, the inevitable would happen again. And it did.

The park was usually deserted when Bart came for his early morning runs, but a good ten feet away was a dark-haired teenager sitting beside the park fountain, completely unaware of Bart's presence. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that the sun was finally coming up, and its rays poured over the boy's coppery skin like caramel. His ebony hair was slightly tousled, and bubbling jets of water sparkled out of the fountain beside him, like a scene straight out of the movie. A trio of naked cherubs affixed to the fountain made it look as if Heaven was rejoicing at the boy's existence.

Bart's feet moved with a mind of their own, guiding him towards to the fountain. His mouth felt suddenly dry, like he'd swallowed a mouthful of sawdust. '_What should I say? Hi, I saw you from over there and you're totally gorgeous, like, how-did-you-even-get-that-gorgeous? I mean, it's totally crash if you're not comfortable with other guys finding you attractive, but I do and there's not really a way around that so...' _Bart let his train of thought falter, cringing at how pathetic he sounded in his head. When he realized that the other boy still hadn't even acknowledged his presence, Bart blurted, "hey, I'm Bartwhat'syourname?"

The boy flinched in surprise, swiveling to meet Bart's gaze. "Er, sorry ese, didn't quite catch that."

Bart gave a nervous titter of laughter. His words tended to blur together when he was excited or nervous. "Oh, uh, no worries. I said—" but Bart paused, because now that he saw the boy up close, he noticed the stiff expression of his face, and how his postured was slightly hunched. "I said, uh, are you okay?"

His expression softened into what closely resembled a smile. "I'm fine, just came here to get away from things for a bit," he rubbed the back of his neck, "You know how it gets sometimes."

Bart nodded in what he hoped seemed sympathetic, but really he had know idea what the guy had just said. How could he when he had such distracting eyes? They were like molten chocolate, dripping with warmth.

"I'm Jaime, by the way," he extended his hand.

"Bart!" he exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically. He was less than eager to shake Jaime's hand though, given how clammy he suddenly felt, but Jaime had the good nature not to immediately wipe it off on his jeans.

"So," Jaime murmured, "do you come here often?"

If Bart had asked the question it would've sounded stupid, but with Jaime's exotic accent, Bart good hardly grasp for an answer. "Um... yeah! I come here all the time. Morning runs."

"So you're a runner?" Jaime asked, and Bart would've been lying if he said he didn't feel a thrill go through him as the Hispanic's eyes swept over him. But Bart's elation soon turned to embarrassment when he realized he was wearing his old pair of shorts. There was nothing particularly wrong with the fabric, but with his recent growth-spurt, his shorts didn't even reach to mid-thigh length.

"Yeah," Bart's voice came out an octave higher than normal.

Jaime fiddled with a coin, sun light dancing off it.

"What's that for?"

"Hmm?" Jaime's eyebrows rose as he followed Bart's gaze. "Oh, you know the whole wish on a penny, throw it in the fountain."

"Wow, retro," Bart noted.

"Yeah," Jaime laughed, and his laugh was throaty and rich. "Do you want a penny?" he asked, pulling out a second one.

Before Bart could shrug off the offer, Jaime added, "there discontinuing them, so it's not like they're worth anything."

"Sure, that'd be crash."

Jaime tossed it to him, and Bart caught it with ease.

"Nice reflexes," he said teasingly. Bart gulped. Was Jaime... flirting with him? He shook the thought aside.

"So, on three?" Bart asked, nodding towards the fountain.

Jaime nodded his assent, and the two flipped their pennies into the fountain. Bart leaned forward to watch the coins sink to the bottom. "Hey, look! The pennies landed on each other."

For some reason this made Jaime blush, but he stammered out, "so I guess I'll see you around sometime?"

Bart nodded breathlessly.

"Crash," Jaime said, testing the word.

"Totally crash."

He watched the older boy leave, and settled beside the fountain, grinning into the crystal blue depths as his imagination ran wild. He decided that if two wishes were made at the same time, and the coins landed on each other, then the wishers were soul mates. Though he probably wouldn't share this theory with Jaime just yet.


	8. Champurrado

**A/N: Anon prompt "Jaime comforting Bart over champurrado a mexican chocolate based drink"**

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The slate grey sky brooded overhead, blowing frigid kisses to the ground below. Snowflakes rode the wind on their downward journey, landing on pavement, frost glazed grass, and elaborately carved tombstones. Jaime hated cemeteries. And the only thing worse than being at a cemetery at night was being at one in the middle of winter. It wasn't difficult to imagine that the wind nipping at the back of his neck was really some restless spirit breathing on him.

But Jaime's discomfort ebbed away when his eyes caught sight of Bart. The speedster's hands were outstretched, brushing the smooth stone as he traced the engraving.

Jaime's breath clouded in front as he expelled a soft sigh. The snow crunched underfoot as he strode over to the younger teen.

He hesitated, a tangle of words sticking to the sides of his throat. He'd never been good at expressing his feelings through words. Not English words, anyway. It was easier to explain things in Spanish; not just because it was his native tongue, but because his parents always slipped into it when they were particularly emotional about something.

_[It is customary for humans to offer condolences in times of death, Jaime Reyes.] _Scarab informed him.

"I know that!" he snapped. Jaime's shout jarred Bart from his reverie, but he didn't turn or startle. It was as if some part of Bart had been expecting him the entire time.

Bart's hands dropped from the grave marker to rest awkwardly at his sides. "They didn't have cemeteries in the future." There was no trace of emotion in his voice; not a strangled edge of guilt, heartache, or misery.

"I'm sorry about Jay," Jaime gave a shaky sigh. "I know you were close."

"He lived a full life," Bart stated, his hands resuming to trace the letters. J-A-Y. G-A-R-R-I-C-K.

So that's what Bart was like when he mourned. Withdrawn and emotionless. Jaime didn't know why he'd expected anything less from the master of lying and pretend. If he could talk his way onto a superhero team under the pretense of being a "tourist from the future", then he could definitely pull off an indifferent front.

Except around Jaime. He could see through the facade, but that didn't mean he could exactly do anything about it.

"How come you're not wearing any gloves?" he asked, after a pause. "It's freezing outside. And Joan was looking for you earlier."

"I want to be alone, Jaime," Bart muttered to the ground.

Jaime nodded, forgetting that Bart couldn't see him with his back turned. "Ok. But you really should come inside. You'll freeze out-"

"I said I want to be alone," Bart muttered again, a lackadaisical attempt to get Jaime to leave him to wallow in sorrow by himself.

"Ok," Jaime's voice dropped an octave, as he turned to go. Before he took a step, however, a gasp tumbled unbidden from Bart's lips.

"I guess I just thought it would get easier. Dad died. Mom died. Aunt Dawn died," Bart whispered the words to himself, and to no one at all. His tone had changed almost instantaneously to something raw and hoarse. "When Wally ceased, I guess it just didn't sink in. It still hasn't. I keep expecting him to run into my room and take his suit back, and say something like 'hey, kid, stop stealing my clothes'. But he never does. And now Jay's gone too and I'm scared that..."

"What?" Jaime asked gently, dropping to the ground beside him.

"ThatI'llloseyounext," Bart choked out, the words blurring into an indecipherable rush of breath. He attempted to rise to his feet, but his knees shook at the slightest bit of applied pressure.

Jaime swallowed the rising lump in his throat. "Don't worry, cariño. I'm not going anywhere," he mollified.

Bart turned to look at him with liquid eyes; glassy eyes that argued, _'but I already lost you once before.' _

Biting his lip, Jaime asked, "do you want to come to my place?" His voice was soft like velvet or melted chocolate. He used the same voice on Bart that he directed at his sister when she had a particularly bad nightmare.

Bart nodded in response, his unkempt hair falling into his face. The speedster eased into a standing position, but his knees shook like an expanse of water rocked by a storm. Jaime instinctively scooped Bart into his arms, holding him carefully, as if he were made of the most brittle glass.  
Full body blue and black armor spread across Jaime's limbs, and he carried Bart to his home in El Paso.  
Once they'd settled back on the ground, Jaime let his face plate retract.

Bart reached out to immediately run his hand through Jaime's snowflake spattered hair, and the older boy had to suppress a shiver.

"You know," Bart murmured, "the snow really stands out against your dark hair. It kind of looks like dandruff."

_[The Impulse's asseveration is inaccurate. Snow is composed of small ice particles, while dandruff is primarily comprised of dead skin cells.]_

"Be quiet, ese," Jaime elbowed him in the ribs, before opening the front door. The house was vacant, save for the two of them. After closing the door with a slam, Jaime cupped Bart's face in his hands, his thumb tracing along his cheekbone, swiping at dry tear trails. "We could watch a movie if you want." Bart nodded his approval. "And," Jaime added as an after thought, "I'm going to make you a drink."

"What kind?" Bart asked, his expression instantly brightening.

"It's a surprise," Jaime teased. "Now go sit down. I'll bring it to you when it's done." Without waiting for a response, Jaime padded into the kitchen and prepared a chocolate-based drink. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Bart steal a few glances in his direction, but he used his body to shield the drink from view.

"Are you almost done?"

Jaime heaved an exasperated sigh. "Just about." When it was done, he took the mug into the living room and handed it to Bart, who splayed his frost-bitten fingertips across the warm exterior.

Bart eyed the rich, dark liquid. "Is it hot chocolate?"

"Nope. It's champurrado. A Mexican drink."

Bart took a sip, letting the warmth flood through him. His lips curved into a grin, and Jaime was glad to see him smiling again. And really smiling, at that. The kind that reached his emerald eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. Jaime admired him silently, before laughing.  
"Cariño, you have a milk mustache." His hand brushed the corner of Bart's mouth, about to wipe the liquid away, when Bart's own hand closed around Jaime's fingers like a vice.

Jaime's heart fluttered, as he repositioned his fingers from the corner of Bart's mouth to thumb his bottom lip. Bart set the Champurrado down on the coffee table, and the drink was momentarily forgotten.


	9. Capture

**A/N: Anon prompt: "B_art is captured and Jaime feels at fault_." **

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"Well, it would seem our former partner has left us one last… valuable. Their greatest weapon."

Jaime Reyes hears the thoughtful voice cut through the air that is thick with tension. Absent from that calm and pensive voice is any hint of ill-intent. But then the man blocking his path lowers his hooded cloak, and Jaime sees the ghost of a smile grace the man's features; a cruel and vindictive smile. Jaime feels his eyes being drawn towards the man's own unfeeling orbs. He wants to look away but somehow he can't. The whites of the man's eyes are the same color as the abnormal pallor of his skin.

Scarab is issuing warnings and orders, but they are futile notions that rattle in Jaime's skull. The last thing the Hispanic teen thinks is "Mierda", before the world dips away, falling out from under his feet.

"Psimon says… reveal your secrets."

Images are flashing a mile a minute through Jaime's mind and his throat and lungs are on fire. He wants to scream and writhe in agony, to claw at his flaming skin. But he can't move. He can't move.

So instead Jaime waits. He waits and he watches. Because there was something oddly fascinating about watching his entire life pass in a matter of seconds. He can only discern a handful of memories: a younger version of himself tugging on one of Milagro's pigtails, earning a distasteful stare from his sister; him and Tye walking casually, each with a board in tow; him getting caught in the explosion at Kord Industries; the scarab speaking in his mind for the first time.

As each individual memory floats across his brain, Jaime felt as if a knife was being jabbed between his eyes.

"Interesting," Psimon murmurs later. 'Later' felt like months, maybe years to Jaime, but for all he knew it could have just as easily been only a few seconds. "You seem to have a mental block on this particular memory. Let's delve a little deeper, shall we?"

"No!" Jaime yelped, an octave higher than he meant to.

He could feel the psychic prying further into his mind, but Psimon _couldn't_ have _this _memory. This memory was private and meant for Jaime only. Well, maybe not _just_ for Jaime.

As Psimon's powers worked, the memory began to take shape, first a hazy outline, and then a fully defined image. Jaime felt lightheaded, as if his brain was floating somewhere above his skull.

"No," he said again, this time in a pleading tone.

_It was the night subsequent to the Reach's defeat. They'd beaten the aliens, but the price had been high. Still, the Team chose celebration rather than mourning. Towards the end of the evening, somewhere between slurred words and clouded thoughts, Jaime's lips had found Bart's._

_Jaime had chocked the event up to a bit too much partying in his system, but Bart shook his head adamantly. "Sorry her-man-oh, but as something my mom used to say: no matter what a person does, in their dreams or when intoxicated, it's still them. They still made the choice."_

_At this, Jaime had pressed his mouth to Bart's once more…_

Without even looking at him, Jaime could feel the heat of Psimon's smirk. "Now, who exactly is—"

More images of him and Bart, mainly of them in their hero attire, began to take form.

"Ah, I see. The Flash's brat. A 'tourist from the future', am I correct?"

_No actually you're not. _Jaime wanted to internally kick himself. "Yeah, he's… a tourist. Like you said."

"Reveal."

_Nonononono. _

Jaime struggled, but Psimon's mental hold on him was like a vise. The next memory to surge to the surface of Jaime's mind was of when Impulse had freed him from his containment pod aboard the Reach ship. That was also when Bart had confided that he had built the time machine himself, and had journeyed to the past to prevent the Reach apocalypse (and to save Jaime from becoming the Reach's puppet).

But the fact that Bart had built an actual time machine and had successfully used it to alter the time-stream, made him, not only the most valuable asset the League had, but the most powerful. And now Psimon knew. Now one of Queen Bee's consorts knew that Bart Allen could defy the laws and principles of reality. He could bend time and reshape history.

**'Jaime Reyes, I have analyzed the Psimon's psychic hold on us. While I do not function at full capacity, if you grant me control over our body, I should be able to free us.'**

_Do it._

Gravel bit into Jaime's cheek as he shifted into a sitting position. His body complied, but ached at the slightest bit of applied pressure. He began to knead his forehead with his knuckles to silence the thrumming reverberating through his skull, until a single, desperate thought struck him. "Bart!"

He whipped his head up so fast he got whiplash, but he didn't care. Suddenly he was stumbling to his feet, stumbling, running, flying until the surrounding fixtures became one big pointless blur.

"Blue! Where are you—?" the confused voice reached his ears, and Jaime landed opposite from three of his teammates. He wasn't really sure which three though; their outlines were all fuzzy.

"Where's Bart?" The words were flung so fast and forcefully from Jaime's throat that it sounded more like a guttural cry than a question.

"I-isn't he with you?"

Jaime shook his head fervently. He and Bart had split up near the start of the mission, long before Psimon had confronted him.

"I'll put the psychic link up. But I'm sure everything's fine." The voice was friendly and gentle, but sounded so far away. Everything was suddenly so far away.

**'I have already scanned for the one you call Bart Allen. He is nowhere within the vicinity,"** Scarab paused, and if Jaime didn't know any better, he would've thought he detected a twinge of genuine emotion in Khaji Da's voice.** 'I am sorry Jaime Reyes. The Kidflash is gone.'**

Jaime's vision began to blur, becoming red around the edges. The sound of the world around him faded into a wet pounding in his ears, the sound of blood coursing through veins.

The Light had taken Bart.

"My fault. All my fault."


	10. Fear Toxin

**A/N: Anon prompt "****When you have the time, if you could write a future bluepulse fic Jaime/Bart established relationship Bart or Jaime are subjected to scarecrows fear gas/toxin".**

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Tendrils of fog curled around his legs and torso, skimming harmlessly over his red and gold uniform until they reached his face. The eerie fog ghosted over his exposed flesh, leaching a fetid substance from the pores of his skin.

A rancid smell permeated, the scent of rotting flesh. Bile burned its way up his throat. _Breathebreathebreathe. _

A man and woman stepped out of the curtain of fog. They stared at him, drinking in his features.

The woman shared his chestnut hair. She reached a quivering hand forward to caress his cheek. "Bart," she breathed, her cheeks now slick with tears. Bart slid into her embrace. She was as cold as the air around him. He closed his eyes. He closed them and he never wanted to open them.

"How could you?" she asked softly, stroking his hair. "How could you?" she pushed him away from her, surveying his face.

_'It wasn't my fault!' _he tried to say.

The man wrapped a protective arm around his wife, shaking his head, more out of disappointment than anger. "How could you leave us? You let us die!"

Bart stumbled backwards. _'No! I didn't! You _told_ me to run.' _His voice failed to comply. He craned his neck to look at his mother. _'Please,'_ he beseeched with his eyes. But his parent's had turned away from him, their bodies convulsing with sobs. "How could you?"

Bart's legs gave away, but his parent's were gone before he hit the ground. For a second he thought he felt the gravel bite into his cheek, but when he blinked, the asphalt was gone. Instead, there was a smooth, grey floor beneath him. He felt disoriented and dizzy from pain. His head throbbed.

He rolled onto his side, but the motion left his vision rimmed with red. "Blue," he gasped, reaching for his armored friend. But there was no warmth in those amber eyes. Just a thin, black smile accentuating that dark face and a jagged, purple-tinted rock tucked under one arm.

"Hey _hermano_," Blue Beetle greeted him, his eyes glittering dangerously.

Bart gritted his teeth in response. Blue Beetle crouched so that they were at eye-level, his warm breath tickling Bart's skin. Usually Bart would be buzzing with nervous energy from such close proximity, but now all he felt was dread.

"How does it feel, _ese_? Knowing that you failed? You came back for me and you couldn't even save me. But maybe that's not the worst part." A blue-and-black hand settled on Bart's lower face, thumbing his bottom-lip. "I know how you feel about me."

"Jaime," he begged.

Blue's lips parted, as he drew nearer. "What hurts more? Your concussion? Or the fact that I could never love you back?" Blue readied the crystal key, aiming it for another blow. "Let's find out."

Bart's chest compressed, freeing a suppressed scream from his throat. He saw stars. Real stars. And something else falling from the sky, hurtling towards the unsuspecting world below. Like a vengeful angel it descended, taking hundreds of lives with it. The Watchtower. Bart remembers that day, when what was once a symbol of hope and guardianship became a sign of destruction, and that the Reach's power was absolute.

Bart's legs begin to move of their own accord. Forcing him towards the massive crater. He's startled by the sheer enormity of it, the smoking debris, the charred bits of flesh. He's seen this all before. But there's something different now. Now, there are two rows of dead bodies resting in perfect alignment, corpses belonging to his former team mates. Most hauntingly of all is a body with flaming red hair and a spattering of freckles. He stoops over the body of his first cousin once removed.

Pity and mourning are warped into guilt as Wally's eyes flash open. For a moment, all Bart can see is black rimmed with green, before he is moving through time. Bart knows instantly what day it is. June 20. He tries clawing at his skin, trying to free his mind from this relentless cage.

"Wait! Where's Wally?"

If he'd just run slower…

Artemis turns, her almond shaped eyes filling with irrepressible tears. "It should've been you." She readies her bow. "It will be you."

The arrow lodges in Bart's shoulder, but when he tries to swat it away, it's not an arrow, but a hand. A gloved hand.

"KF?" a confused voice asks. Nightwing blinks slowly, expecting Wally in the gold uniform, but instead seeing Bart. "You're not Kidflash."

It's as if every fearful thought Bart's ever had is being twisted into a full-blown nightmare. It feels like days, but maybe it's only been hours, before his throat's gone fully dry. To rough and hoarse to even scream.

—-

"Bart?"

Bart blinks a few times to clear his blurry vision. When he sees a mocha colored hand reach for his own, he flinches back. "No, he whimpers.

"Bart," the voice sounds soft. "It-it's me."

"'Course it is," Bart chokes back, his fear receding. He takes a moment to examine the room. It's white and sterile and clean. "Why am I here?"

Jaime swallows, his face pinched into a look of concern. "We were exposed to the Scarecrow's fear toxin. I was out for, maybe ten minutes?"

"HowlongwasIoutfor?" Bart interrupts in one quick breath.

"Three hours."

"Oh."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Jaime murmurs out, "yeah. We were all pretty worried."

Bart stops to inspect the bed sheets. They're rough and unfamiliar, but still more comfortable than what he had in the future. Past. Past future. Whichever way you looked at it.

"Bart? Cariño, do you want to talk about it?"

Bart pinches the blankets between his fingers, before clenching a tight fist around the fabric, as if it had become his lifeline.

"I saw my parents, and Milagro," Jaime says when Bart doesn't respond. "They were afraid of me. And then I killed them. I couldn't control my own body anymore; like I was back on-mode. And then I hurt you. It was like-like I was reliving the months I was on mode. Trapped in a body that I had no control over."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, well, I still had Scarab's commentary in the background lecturing me on how 'weak-willed I was' and how my stress hormones were increasing. It was like any other nightmare." Sliding his fingers between Bart's, he asks softly, "what about you?"

Bart can't help but note how perfectly their hands interlock, as if they've been specially made for each other. Forcing a thin smile, Bart nods. "Yeah, samethingwithme. Just like a nightmare."

"Bart." Jaime frowns, seeing right past his boyfriend's transparent smile.

"I mean, like a really, _really_ vivid, nightmare. In like, full-color and everything was accurate; how your voice sounded and it didn't feel right when I hugged mom, she was so cold, ya know? But she smelled the same. That mom smell. Not really perfume, or… I dunno, but—"

Bart's voice falters as Jaime pulls his head to his chest. Bart settles against him, and it's kind of weird how someone can be muscular and soft at the same time, but somehow Jaime just is. Bart takes a deep breath from his diaphragm, inhaling Jaime's scent. He doesn't have that 'mom scent' that Bart mentioned earlier, but he smells like comfort. Is it weird that Bart's smelling people? It's a bit weird when he thinks about it, but isn't scent supposed to be the strongest link to memory?

"Bart," Jaime whispers into his hair.

"Hmm?"

"It's going to be okay."

Bringing his hands up to wrap around Jaime's neck, Bart whispers back. "I know."


	11. Arachnophobia

**A/N: Prompt from reallybuckybarnes "Bart having severe arachnophobia and getting Jaime to kill the spiders." Please leave a review if you have any feedback! **

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The air was thick was the aroma of freshly steeped coffee, and the weight of the mug was comfortable and warm in his hands. From their apartment, he could see the city skyline, a myriad of uniform pink and bold golden hues. This early in the morning, there was an aura of calm that enveloped the city. Only later, when the rumble of cars reverberated through the streets, and children's laughter carried from the enarby playground, would the almost unearthly stillness be shatter—

"Jaime ohmygodyouhavetokillit!" Bart exclaimed, launching himself at Jaime.

And the stillness was shattered, by possibly the loudest thing their city had to offer: Bart Allen. Jaime grunted as his boyfriend tackled him, and his coffee sloshed onto the linoleum floor. Bart's legs hugged his waist, and Jaime staggered a bit from the weight. It wasn't that Bart was heavy; more that he was awkward to carry, especially since he'd all but lunged at Jaime.

"_Bart._"

"Ewit'ssogrossitwascrawliongupmylegand eww! Youhavetokillit!"

"Bart," Jaime complained, injecting a note of irritation into his voice. "Slow down. I can't even hear what you're saying." Despite the voice processor Khaji Da had that was capable of slowing down Bart's rate of speech, speed talking was possibly the most annoying trait the speedster possessed. So the problem wasn't so much that Jaime couldn't understand Bart's manic rush of syllables; it was that he was shrieking in his ear and Jaime hadn't even had his morning coffee yet.

"There was a spider and it had eight legs and it was so gross and ohmygod Jaime, you need to kill it, now!"

"Seriously? Don't they have bugs in the future?"

"Uh, no, the Reach sprays, like, everything with pesticides. That's why just about nothing grows except for their Reach produce." Bart's nose wrinkled in disgust. The past had _way_ better food.

"So you have a fear of all bugs?" Jaime inquired, mildly surprised. He and Bart had been living together for a few months, and this was the first time any mention of his fear of spiders had come up.

Blushing, Bart leaned close to his ear and murmured, "Well, I don't so much mind beetles anymore." He pulled his head back a bit and he and Jaime shared a grin. Jaime had about two seconds to admire the soft curve of Bart's lips, before Bart went limp. Jaime almost dropped him, and it was really either Bart or his coffee mug, so his grip on the drink slackened.

"Bart!"

"Sorry, butIwasjustthinkingaboutthespider again and it was so gross!"

This time, Jaime did drop him. "Fine. I'll go kill the spider and you'll clean this up," he said, gesturing to the puddle of spilled coffee and ceramic shards from the broken mug. With that, Jaime turned on his heel with a slight scowl, while the scarab began listing the most effective ways of terminating the spider.


	12. Heavy Heart, Heavy Lungs

**A/N: anon requested on!mode Jaime, and Crossfirebullet requested "moded Jaime and suicidal Bart". Hope it's okay, and thanks for reading!**

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Bart's life is an endless blur of day and night. He's tired of it, too. There's nothing new, nothing exciting or strange about the past. It's all just routine now. And he wants it to end. His heart feels heavy in his chest, sinking lower and lower, like the sun as it's blotted out by night. He wishes it would just end. There's too much pain in the world, too much hurt and anguish, and he wonders why people seem to forget that heroes need saving too. Coils of anxiety work their way from his mind to his chest, spiraling down his arms and legs, leaving him numb and cold all over. He shivers from a nonexistent breeze, despite how warm the setting sun is on his face. Every shudder his heart gives, every thought that screams at him, every muffled sob is evidence of his failure.

This wasn't supposed to happen, and this certainly wasn't the way things were supposed to be. This was wrong. This was all so wrong. Bart feels like he's going to be sick. The words "this is all your fault," rattle around in his skull, and his stomach roils with nausea. A harsh, choked sounds works its way up his throat, but he can't discern whether it's a sob or scream. Either way, it's the kind of sound you never want to hear.

He wants a pair of strong arms to encircle him. He wants to card his fingers through ebony hair. He wants to look into a pair of brown eyes and hear "It's going to be alright," from a husky voice. He wants to whisper sweet-nothings—why is it called that, anyways? Sweet-everythings seems like a much more fitting name—as he drowns in their embrace. But he can't Because Jaime's not here. He's on the Reach's billboards, on the newsfeeds, standing on podiums and reciting blatant lies to the people listening. It's enough to make Bart want to throw-up. Worse yet, he knows this is his fault. He failed. A generation of dreams and hopes rested on his shoulders, but the possibility of a better future, a different future, has crashed. And not crashed as in 'crash', because if something is crash, it's basically the epitome of everything good and cool and awesome. No, what he means is, crashed as in so-totally-moded.

Bart tastes bile every time he hears the name "Blue Beetle", every time he sees the name unspoken on the lips of his teammates. His head feels foggy; an after effect of the concussion he got when Blue Beetle knocked him out with the purple rock. Though technically, it wasn't a rock, it was a crystal key, but... Rock. He might as well call it a rock. Coupled with the fogginess and sluggish feeling he experiences every time he attempts to form a coherent thought, is the undeniable ache in his chest. He's tried calling Jaime. His calls never get through; just as his words don't when they confront the Reach in person. But it's worth calling him, if only to hear his voice mail. As lame as it sounds, it kind of helps hearing Jaime's voice. It reminds Bart that Blue Beetle was good, that it wasn't all a perpetuated lie. Some of it was real. And somehow, between the exchanges of "hermano" and "crash", and shared Chicken Whizees, Jaime managed to slip through the cracks in Bart's armor. The fake smiles on Bart's part were no longer fake; the forced laughs no longer forced. The brushes of skin were no longer only so Bart could give the impression that he was comfortable around Jaime; but because he liked touching him. Even something as simple as a gaze held several seconds too long made Bart's pulse skyrocket. Bart wanted to be with Jaime; not to protect him, or keep an eye on him, to make sure he didn't go on-mode, but because he wanted to. Somehow, this makes the pain just a little bit more real.

"Hey," a voice says softly, jarring Bart from his thoughts. Bart opens his eyes (he can't really remember when he closed them) and tries to find the source of the voice. He already knows who it is, but he doesn't want to rule out the possibility that he imagined it. Bart is standing on a cliff overlooking the city skyline (he can't really remember when or why he came here), but the cacophony of noises from the city are quieter from up here. The rumble of car engines and horns, the tumult of chattering voices is almost nonexistent. It's almost peaceful up here. Almost, but not quite.

Bart looks around to find him, but everything is blurry through his tears. He blinks a few times to focus his watery vision. This is the first time he's cried in a long time, but the tightness in his chest, the constriction in his throat, is all too familiar. Finally, he is able to make out the details of Jaime's face. And it really is Jaime's face; not the ugly blue-and-black armor. That in itself is like a punch to the gut. That demon shouldn't be wearing his best friend's face.

"I got your message," the voice adds, husky and quiet, and the Spanish accent is palpable. His tone is sincere, his eyebrows knitted into s genuine look of concern. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?

"Jaime," Bart whispers, and he hates himself. Hates how frail and raw he sounds, hates how weak and vulnerable he is for loving Jaime, but most of all, he hates how when Jaime opens his arms, he leans into them. The arms are warm and familiar—there's no denying that. He feels like Jaime is stealing the last of his strength, wearing him down piece by piece, until all he can do is cry. He cries on Jaime's shoulder, and nuzzles into the soft fabric of Jaime's hoodie. He knows he's stupid and weak, but his fingers are itching with the need for contact, so he slowly, _slowly_, runs his hands through Jaime's hair, and has to bite back a sigh when Jaime does the same to him. A part of him screams that Jaime shouldn't have known to find him here, that the scarab technology either tracked his cell phone, or Jaime's been watching him for a while. Now, however, he can't bring himself to care.

He lets Jaime's warmth envelop him, steady his heart, and support his body, which for some reason no longer seems able to stand on its own.

"I love you," Bart whispers against Jaime's skin.

He ignores how Jaime doesn't whisper "I love you" back. He pretends that when Jaime answers with an almost smug, "I know," it's the same thing. Even though it's not. A moment later, and Bart is being held arms length away from his former boyfriend. Are they still boyfriends? They never technically broke up, but at the same time, he's not completely sure they were ever together.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

His words trace down Bart's spine like an icy finger. He nods so fast it's a blur. It's not Jaime who's asking; it's not Jaime who's here in front him. He knows that. The Jaime in front of him is smiling in a disgustingly satisfied way, and the Jaime Bart loves would never be smiling so soon after seeing Bart cry. He wants to say know, wants to call in the Team because this could be the only chance they get to stop Blue Beetle, but Bart's not sure he's ready for everything that entails. And it hurts too much to say no.

When Jaime's lips meet his, the speedster feels all of his anguish and anxiety ebb away. All he can focus on is the way Jaime's frame melts against his own, how one of Jaime's hands cups the back of his neck. As Jaime's tongue meets his, and Jaime's lips move forcefully against his own, it occurs to him that Jaime wants him as desperately as he want Jaime.

The kiss is on Jaime's terms, and he controls it with unwavering confidence. Bart can't say he really minds, though a distant part of him notes that this is a molotov cocktail for disaster. Soon, a pair of hands are digging into his sides, moving up and down his body, before settling on finally on his hipbone. The kiss wasn't chaste to begin with, but somehow grows more hungry than before. Jaime's hands slip under his shirt, tracing shapes on his bare skin. Bart shudders violently, his already quick pulse beating even faster. Bart's lithe arms instinctively encircle Jaime's neck. He's starting to feel dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but Jaime isn't stopping, so neither is he. Jaime presses open-mouthed kisses along Bart's jaw, down his neck, and Bart feels dizzy for an entirely different reason. A pair of wings are protruding from Jaime's back, and only when Jaime wrenches his face away, does he realize that they've already left the ground.

Jaime is partially covered in blue-and-black armor, but his face is exposed, and that's all Bart cares about. Jaime's armored fingers caress his skin. "Mmm," he sighs, "you're so perfect."

Bart's bottle green eyes lock on Jaime's brown ones, which are often hidden behind amber lenses.

Grinning, Jaime continues, "but I really hate you, you know." Bart _does_ know. He gave Jaime something to lose. And Jaime did the same to him. It hurts, looking into Jaime's soulful brown eyes, and wondering if there's still a soul in there, somewhere. He contemplates telling Jaime that he loves him (he always will), but what good would that do?

"You're so good, Bart," Jaime murmurs, and Bart feels like a bug about to go splat. "I'm sure you'll think of something before you hit the ground. Either way, say hi to the Team for me."

Jaime's grip on Bart slackens, and he can feel his heart in his throat as he falls. It's a strange thing, falling. Exhilarating and heart-stopping all at once. Jaime's right though; he does think of something before he hits the ground. Using his superspeed, he manages to slow his falling speed and propel himself down slowly, or something. He's not completely sure. All he knows is that when he finally touches the ground, he throws-up. He still feels sick. He also wants this all to end. He can't stand this particular kind of hell anymore. He's trapped inside his own mind, and it's not a very nice place to be. He wants this to end. He also wishes it was different.


	13. The 'Previous Engagement' Ring

**A/N: Prompt from Reallybuckybarnes on tumblr "Bart and Jaime are both late for their wedding bc superhero business"**

* * *

Shards of broken glass litter the ground as Blue Beetle slips soundlessly into the jewellery store. A gun trains on him, and his arm morphs into a plasma gun in response. "Don't do it _ese_," he warns, but thugs were never known for being smart. _[Activating plasma cannon wide dispersal. Obliterate the worthless human.]_ Jaime grits his teeth to refrain from replying to the disembodied voice in his head. There was a time when hearing the scarab in the back of his mind made him panic and cringe, wondering if he was losing his sanity. Now though, all he can do is roll his eyes. '_Honestly, Khaji Da,'_ he thinks silently,_ 'do you have to be so melodramatic?'_ The scarab hums irritably against his spine, but lapses into a temporary silence. Jaime knows the silence is temporary. As if the scarab is able to refrain from not-so-helpful commentary. Between his fiancé and Khaji, Jaime's surprised he's even able to get a word in, because neither of the two knows how to shut up.

A _ping!_ against Jaime's armor-ensconced chest pulls his thoughts to the moment at hand. The man's taut knuckles are clenched around his gun, gripping it as if it were his life line. His face is partially obscured by a mask, but Jaime can see a line of stubble along his jaw. That, paired with his dirt-streaked hair, gives the impression that he just came off the street, and his lanky figure hints that he's just bordering adulthood. He might even still be a teenager, for all Jaime knows. Still, it's hard to find pity for a man who's resorted to shooting him. Jaime wills his plasma gun to retract, and his hand elongates into a midnight blue staple gun in response. Jaime readies his arm to fire a staple, but before he can successfully pin the criminal, a flash of red blurs past, and a cheerful voice greets him.

"Hey, no need, no need, Blue."

"Ba-" Jaime starts to say, but catches himself. He's not about to reveal their identities in the presence of a petty criminal. He lowers his voice. "Flash. What are you doing here?"

Bart grins cheekily at Jaime through his mask, and surprisingly, the red of his uniform doesn't clash with his reddish-brown hair. "Same as you," he passes the gun back and forth between his hands. "Evening patrol."

The thug blinks, and what little of his face that isn't hidden by his mask seems to be contorted into a look of confusion. "Hey... m-my gun! How did you... That was a .45—"

"—I have good reflexes," Bart interrupts, giving Jaime a sideways glance. "Of course, our buddy Blue here already figured that out for himself."

Jaime doesn't bother fighting the blush off his face; with the blue-and-black armor covering him, it's not like anyone can see the brush of red dusting his cheeks. He still gets flustered whenever his and Bart's relationship is hinted at in public. Which is pretty ridiculous, given that the whole League knows about them. It can't get much more embarrassing than that.

"So," Bart clasps his hands together. "Robbing a diamond jewellery store. Doesn't get much more cliched than that, amIright?"

"Don't call the cops!" the man bursts out, his voice laced with panic. "Please, I need the money. You have to believe me. This is the first time I've done anything like this. I just really need the money. _Please_."

Bart and Jaime exchange a look. Usually criminals had the dignity not to beg. In fact, many of them prided themselves on their audacity to even attempt certain crimes or heists. _[Voice analysis confirms the human is not uttering any falsehoods. But Jaime Reyes, that does not excuse its actions. Eradicate the common street scum.]_

"Scarab says he's telling the truth," Jaime relays to Bart. Bart's eyes widen slightly, and the speedster steps towards the criminal, who is far from intimidating without any weapon to defend himself.

"Look," Bart says slowly, his face melting into a soft smile. He's using that voice again. The voice Jaime's only heard a few times. His voice is raw, but with soothing undertones, and Jaime knows that Bart's abandoned his cheerful front in favor of something more real. "I understand. But you can't just steal. Other people are in the same position."

"You don't understand. I need it," the man repeats again, his voice tinged with the same type of desperation as before.

Jaime knows how tight money can be; he's been attending med school for a while, and it's nothing if not costly.

"Here," Bart says softly, pulling off his left glove. He offers the ring to him. "It's not as impressive as the haul you picked out," he says, nodding his head towards the bag filled to the brim with gem encrusted jewellery, "but it should help."

"You're giving me your wedding ring?"

The gesture hits Jaime and the man at about the same time. "Cariño!" he exclaims, too shocked to feel angry. "I... you can't just give away your engagement ring. And I bought you that! It was expensive."

"Yeah, I know. But, _pleaselistenBlue_," Bart stutters quickly. "We don't have wedding rings and promise rings in the future. There's hardly enough money for food and necessities. And this retro obsession with rings, honestly, it seems kind of moded. Why put a price on love? Ya know, Kim Kardashian's ring is worth, like, over one million dollars. And why spend money on a ring when we could spend it helping others?"

Jaime's jaw drops in surprise.

"I know it means a lot to you," Bart added slowly, "but it doesn't to me. _You_ mean a lot to me. And you're the only promise I need."

_[The Bart Allen's reasoning is valid. Diamonds have monetary value, which outweighs sentimentality.] _Swallowing, Jaime grumbles, "Fine. I guess this is my fault for letting you watch 'Keeping Up with the Kardashians.'"

"You're so crash," Bart breathes, leaning up to kiss Jaime. The armor is rough, but that doesn't stop Bart from wanting to kiss his fiancé.

After pulling a part, Jaime and Bart turn back to the man, who is in a state of shock. "I..." he begins, letting the sentence trail off, trying to form his mouth around the words "thank you."

"'S all crash," Bart holds up a hand to silence him. "We're heroes; it's what we do."

Jaime doesn't think he's ever seen this scale of gratitude on someone's face before. It's strange, looking at the hero gig in this light. So often it seems that being a superhero only entails saving others from physical injury, and not just being a hero for the good of it. The man thanks them again, before leaving. Jaime watches him go, a swell of pride in his chest as he observes Bart. He's still in awe over the fact that Bart just gave his engagement ring to a person they don't even know. Heck, they don't even know the guy's name. "You're too good for me," he mouths.

Bart must somehow hear him (or maybe he said it louder than he thought), because the speedster turns to him. "That's not true, Jaime. You make me want to be a better person." Without waiting for a response, Bart leans up to kiss Jaime again, his lips are warm and soft. Jaime's faceplate retracts, and he kisses back. Bart's fingers twine with his hair, and Jaime's arms instinctively wrap around Bart's lithe body, pulling him flush against him. Jaime's tongue flickers out, tracing the curve of Bart's lower lip as they press closer, closer. Jaime's long brown hand cups Bart's cheek, his thumb dragging lovingly across Bart's face. Jaime wants to keep kissing Bart. He could spend the rest of his life just kissing him, and he wouldn't have any regrets. Bart likes to rush through things, to take things quickly, and his kisses are usually sloppy and rushed, so Jaime takes it as a challenge to get his speedster to slow down every once in a while. He wants to keep kissing Bart, but a sudden thought strikes him, and he pulls away.

"What time is it?"

Bart sighs impatiently. "Like, eight-o-seven why?"

Mentally face-palming himself, Jaime asks dryly, "Don't you have a _previous engagement_?"

Bart blinks. "Did you just quote the Incredibles?"

"_Bart._"

"You did. _You just quoted Elastigirl from The Incredibles._ And you say _I_ watch too much TV."

"Bart! Wedding. Ours. Like, half-an-hour ago."

"Oops,I'llseeyouthere me a-more." With that, Bart's gone, speeding away before Jaime has time to cringe at his terrible pronunciation.

"See you soon, _mi amor_," Jaime says softly, even though Bart is already long gone.

When Jaime gets to the Church, he can hear the din of voices even through the broad doors.

"Hey ca-reen-yo! Took you long enough." Bart waves from the top step, with his wild hair messily parted in a half-hearted attempt, and a black suit hugging his figure nicely. It probably took the speedster a whole two seconds to get ready.

Jaime shakes his head, and lets his armor crawl up his skin, peeling back to reveal the person underneath. Bart grins happily, but he doesn't voice his happiness. "What?" Jaime demands, somewhat impatiently. As proud as he is of Bart, he's still a bit bitter over the fact that his fiance gave his engagement ring away.

"Nothing," Bart says slowly, his eyes a pale green through dark lashes. "Just thinking that you could use a little help getting into your suit."

Jaime blushes. "No Bart," he says with conviction he doesn't really feel. "We're already late for our own wedding. And there's blood in your hair," he adds as an afterthought.

"I... wai-what?" Bart runs a hand through his blood caked, dirt streaked hair. "Not crash," he mutters, his lips pursing into a pout that makes Jaime want to kiss him again. "Must've happened earlier. I mean, I could take a shower really quick."

"We're already late," Jaime chastises. "And hurry up, it's bad luck to see your fiance before the wedding."

Bart mutters something along the lines of "these wedding traditions are so retro," but he heads inside anyways.

Jaime smiles as he watches Bart go, knowing that the next time he sees him, they'll be married.

A few weeks later, while Jaime's on patrol in El Paso, he hears a ragged voice shout his name. "Blue Beetle!" He descends silently, and turns to face the direction the voice came from. "Blue Beetle!" Jaime's eyes widen with recognition, but he doesn't speak. A lanky man is running breathlessly towards him. He holds out a circular band, and presses it into Jaime's armored palm. "Give this to your husband. I don't need the money any more."

"Que?"

"I got a job!" he says enthusiastically. "I mean, I managed to stea-_borrow_ the security tape from the jewellery store, and I showed it to the local newspaper. It had footage of you and the Flash kissing! The tabloids ate up the whole superhero lovestory. I wrote an article about you two, and they hired me on the spot."

Jaime's eyes widened behind his amber lenses. "I'm... glad to hear it. Congrats, _ese_."

"Look, I just wanted to thank you. And Flash. You two are the real heroes out there."

Jaime's eyes swept over the man, lingering on his grateful expression. He smiled in return, but not as widely as Bart smiled later when he gave him his diamond ring back.


	14. Bank Vault Revelations

**A/N: Prompt request from regeek on tumblr "Jaime and Bart tried to foil a bank robbery, but got trapped in the vault by the robbers. It's a special hi-tech vault, so Bart can't phase through, and the two have to sit and wait for the Team to find them."**

* * *

"Scarab says we're not 'compatible' with the tech the vault's made of," Jaime mutters, more to himself than to Bart. "Guess we'll have to wait until the Team finds us."

Bart doesn't flinch, falter, or otherwise acknowledge what Jaime's just said. He just paces. Jaime knows that the speedster can't stay still for long (there's a surprising amount of energy for a body that size. Not that Jaime's saying Bart's small, or built like a child, or anything.) Bart actually has a pretty nice body for a fourteen year old. In that his muscles are developing at a healthy rate. Just an observation. From a completely heterosexual standpoint. _Dios mio._ They've been trapped in the vault for, maybe five minutes?, and he's already losing focus. Well, actually, his focus is pretty good. At least, his focus on how Bart's red-tinted brown hair is messily parted to the point that it looks intentional is, and his attentiveness to how even in the dim lighting, Bart's green eyes still seem luminous.

"So, you can't vibrate out?" Jaime asks, breaking the silence. Silence is seldom with Bart around, but this kind of silence isn't relaxed or awkward; it's charged with a sort of tension that Jaime hasn't experienced before.

"No, Jaime, I can't vibrate out!" Bart exclaims, an octave higher than usual. He's still pacing, and it's unnerving, at best. "We're trapped in a high-tech vault and there's hardly any room and we can't get out, and it feels like there's no air in here."

"Are you…" Jaime's voice trails off. He's muscled his way through enough panic-attacks to be able to recognize the symptoms. And from the sound of it, Bart's experiencing one right now. "…Claustrophobic?" he finishes.

"I… no."

The idea of being afraid of small spaces is strange to Jaime, but maybe that's because he's spent enough time being encased in Beetle armor. _[Jaime Reyes, the Impulse's heart rate slowed when you questioned him. Distraction is an effective anxiety reducer.] _Biting his cheek, Jaime steps forwards. "Prove it," he blurts. Why did he do that? Maybe there really isn't enough air in here.

Bart takes a predictable step backwards, until he's pressed against the cool wall of the vault."I'm not afraid," he says adamantly, his teeth gritted. "I… just don't like having people in my personal space."

That's probably the most blatant lie Bart's ever said. He doesn't have even the faintest grasp of what personal space is, considering the number of times he's touched Jaime on the shoulder, grabbed his hand, or slung an arm around the Hispanic teen's shoulder. _[The Impulse's pulse has spiked. He is lying, Jaime Reyes.] _Khaji Da informed, though Jaime had gathered that much for himself.

"kidflash," Jaime corrects aloud this time, before risking another step forward. There's not a lout of space in the vault. Bart ducks around him at an unnatural speed. Well, unnatural for a regular person. For a metahuman, it's pretty normal.

"I'm not claustrophobic!" Bart snaps and Jaime freezes because he doesn't think he's ever heard Bart yell. "Look, when they tortured me and Gar, they kept us in pods,"—Jaime doesn't have to ask to know that by 'they,' Bart means the 'Reach'—"There wasn't room to move, and every time I exhaled my chest pressed against the pod and it was like there wasn't any room to breathe, either, like everything was getting smaller, the walls were closing in. T-they shot out bursts of electricity. It was kind of ironic, though, since, ya know, Grandpa Barry got his powers from a reaction between lightning and lab chemicals."

Jaime gulps, and it occurs to him that Bart might have been using anger as a distraction. It was a good way to out a panic-attack; distract yourself until it goes away. Since so much of anxiety is subconscious, as long as you're able to distract your conscious mind, the anxiety should fade to a sort of distant buzz in the back of your mind.

"I'm sorry," Jaime says slowly, with trepidation, "but, Bart, it's okay to feel afraid."

"I'm not afraid. There's a difference between having a panic-attack and feeling panicky. But I'm not having either."

"It's okay to have bad days," he says astutely, "I used to get panic-attacks, you know."

"Really?" Bart's voice is softer now. Still not quite normal, but more level than it was before.

"Yeah, before high school started, when the scarab fused with my spine—when I heard its voice in my head, I thought I was going schizo—ph, and this one time I forgot to clear my browsing history. The last one was a joke."

"Right," Bart says in a disbelieving tone.

Jaime rolls his eyes, an action he's not sure if Bart can even detect in the dark room. "Look, the point is that I was afraid. I could list the symptoms: dizziness, shakiness, nausea, but the point is that they don't last. Just because we're heroes doesn't mean we can't… we're not allowed to show weakness."

"My chest feels tight," Bart admits, "like there's a weight there, trapping all the air. It's so moded. I read that slowing your breathing helps, though."

Jaime nods. "Did you research panic attacks?" He asks. He knows Bart's kind of a genius, but this still somehow came as a surprise.

"Came from an apocalyptic future," Bart says, pointing to himself, "anxiety and post traumatic stress are common side effects. I did my research; anxiety comes from an almond shaped set of neurons in the brain called the amygdala, which is where the fight or flight reaction happens. Most common mental disorder in North America. I also grind my teeth a lot in the night. Jay bought me a mouth guard. But, um, hey, about the slowing your breathing thing."

"Yeah?" Jaime presses.

"I think kissing would help."

Jaime couldn't contain a snort. "How would that help? You're supposed to slow your heartbeat; not speed it up."

Bart blinks, his bottle-green eyes bright beneath his frame of long, dark lashes. "Not if it's a slow kiss," he says innocently.

Jaime doesn't bother to question the younger teen's logic. He leans forwards, noting how Bart's breath hitches from the close proximity, before he covers the speedster's mouth with his own. Their lips caress gently, but Bart kind of freezes, so Jaime pulls away.

"Nono," he says quickly, "it's fine." He engages another kiss, and Jaime doesn't witness anymore anxious symptoms after that. Their movements are subtle, tentative, and Jaime presses openmouthed kisses along Bart's jaw, before moving back to kiss him on the lips. He's too enraptured by the feel of Bart against him, to notice that the vault's opened. He doesn't notice that the Team is even there, until Bart breaks the kiss. Jaime freezes.

"Sorry, but this room's taken," Bart quips unabashedly, "you'll need to find a different one."

Jaime's face is now colored with embarrassment, but he has no luck extracting himself from Bart. Some of the fabric from Bart's suit snagged on Jaime's armor.

Despite the snickers from Cassie, Gar, and pretty much everyone else, Aqualad simply gives them a cursory glance. "Perhaps we will need to reassess which squads you two are on. We would not want any further occurrences to potentially compromise a Team mission." Kaldur's voice was amused, but, regardless, that was the last time Jaime and Bart were paired together on a Team mission.


	15. I Have a Tromboner For You

When Bart rounded the corner, the first thought that flashed through his mind was-hey, nice jacket-and the second was that he had just collided with someone while running at full force. The rebound sent him flailing backwards, and he latched onto the arm of the guy he'd just run into. A guy who had wide, hazelnut colored eyes mottled with darker flecks of brown, and tousled hair that looked as if he had woken up, ran a hand through his hair, and left for school.

"Hey, uh, sorry! Totally did not see you. Well, I did see you, but, only like, a millisecond before I bumped into you."

"It's fine," the reply was curt and halfhearted, but Bart could only focus on the accent. Spanish. He was predisposed to liking Hispanics; since, hello, Mexican food. Not that he was saying all Hispanics were Mexican. Just, you know, some.

Bart was jarred from his thoughts when the guy cleared his throat. Oh, right. His hand was still on the guy's arm. Bart quickly withdrew the offending appendage, and let his hand come to rest on his hip.

"Well, I'd better get going," the guy said politely. "I'm late for practice."

"Right," Bart nodded eagerly, and he really needed to top referring to him as 'the guy'. "Hey, what's your name, anyways? 'Cause I keep referring to you as 'the guy' in my head, and it's starting to get kind of moded. Like when you repeat a phrase too often, or a word, and it just doesn't sound right? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, or anything. I could always make up a nickname. Not that I'll be thinking about you a lot-I just, uh..."

"It's Jaime," he replied tiredly, but a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth betrayed his expression. "And sorry, but I really do need to go. Practice," he said simply.

"Right, uh, good luck! I had Coach Lance for cross-country last semester. She can be pretty, uh, brutal. I'm Bart, by the way!" he called after Jaime's retreating form. This was so not crash. And by 'this,' Bart meant how his stomach was doing somersaults, and how an irrepressible smile was stretching across his face.

-x-

Bart was definitely, one hundred percent, not obsessed with Jaime. He'd just developed a simple, minor crush. Emphasis on minor. So, he'd managed to figure out Jaime's last name (Reyes) and he'd memorized Jaime's locker number, but that could hardly be described as stalking. And it wasn't as if he'd enlisted his cousin's best friend to hack into the student database. Okay, so he _had_ asked, but Dick and Wally simply used it as an opportunity to tease him.

Bart hummed to himself as he leaned against the end of the row of lockers. Jaime was at his locker further down, talking animatedly to one of his friends who was sporting long, dark hair that extended past his shoulders. Bart swallowed down the spike of jealousy he felt, and while he he couldn't quite make out what Jaime and his friend were talking about, he did manage to catch, "you know that kid's been staring at you for the past five minutes."

'Kid?' Was he serious? Bart was a sophomore! And, okay, Jaime was a senior, but it wasn't like it was a whopping age difference. Jaime swiveled at his friend's words, locking eyes with Bart, who waved meekly.

"Hey Bart," he greeted, and Bart took that as his cue to traipse towards them.

"Ah, so that's Ba-" Jaime silenced him with an elbow to the ribs.

Don't you have a date with Asami?"

"Later Jaime," his friend snickered, before shouldering his backpack and turning to go. Bart really didn't like how he pronounced Jaime's name in such a husky voice. No one should have a husky accent. It seriously wasn't fair.

"Sorry, about Tye," Jaime said with a weak laugh. "Did you need something?"

"Oh uh," Bart was fairly certain his cheeks were redder than the letterman jacket Jaime was wearing. "I was wondering, uh, football season's almost over, and my cousin Wally used to play, he was also captain of the track team, and uh, maybe I could come to one of your games?"

"Yeah," Jaime nodded distractedly, "one of my - wait, what?"

Bart's gaze darted from Jaime's face to his letterman jacket, and back again. "You uh, don't you play football?" even as he said the words, the answer was clearly no. Oh no, what if Jaime had a boyfriend and he was wearing _his_ jacket? Well, at least that would mean Jaime was gay, right? "But you're..." Bart pointed to Jaime's jacket in lieu of words.

"Oh, this? They give it out to the marching band, and I'm, uh, in band."

"Oh," Bart said faintly, wishing the ground would swallow him up. "What-what instrument do you play?"

"Clarinet. Sorry, I know it's kinda lame."

"I don't think band is lame," Bart said quickly.

"Believe me," Jaime said with a laugh, "you should. Half of the guys only joined so they could say they played the 'tromboner'."

"Oh," Bart said again, because _oh_, that was a word he _really_ didn't need to hear coming from Jaime. _Coming_ from Jaime. Oh, god. "I gottagobye!" Bart crowed, before bolting down the hallway. He was a terrible person. Or, a terribly stupid one, anyways.

-x-

Bart made sure to avoid Jaime after that. He figured he'd already made a big enough fool of himself; why not quit while he was ahead? When they did meet again, it was entirely by chance.

"Hey," a tentative voice said in his ear. He could feel warm breath ghosting over the back of his neck. The book Bart was holding snapped shut as he simultaneously jerked his head backwards, smacking into Jaime.

A soft "ow!" came unbidden from Jaime's lips.

"S-sorry! I did't mean to smack into you. I just, uh, fast reflexes?"

"Naw, it's my fault," Jaime winced, rubbing his nose, "I shouldn't have snuck up on you. So what are you reading?"

"Oh, I'm just here to get a book for," he gestured to the table vaguely, letting his brain buffer. What was the name of that class again?

Jaime darted a glance at a book lying on the table. "Spanish class?" he asked, clearly impressed. "How's that going?"

"Not too well," Bart murmured, and why was he still talking?

"I could, uh, tutor you, if you'd like. Spanish is my first language."

"Yes! I mean, sí. That'd be crash." Except no, no, it _really_ wouldn't.

"Crash," Jaime echoed, testing out the word, "does Friday work for you?"

"I'm free," Bart managed to stutter out, and after Jaime had scrawled down his address on a piece of paper, and said a hasty good-bye, Bart turned back to the table, sinking into a chair. Normally, he would've been ecstatic. Not only did he have a date-okay, _study date,_ but he was going to Jaime's house. On Friday. Except, the Spanish book on the table? That had been there before Bart even got to the library. And the second language class he was taking? Not Spanish. Why did he sign up for German, anyways? Like who in their right mind opts for German over Spanish? "Scheisse," he muttered.

-x-

By Thursday afternoon, Bart had worked out three possible options of going about Friday. He could:  
a) print off a bunch of Spanish worksheets off the internet and pretend they were assigned in his nonexistent Spanish class  
b) Tell Jaime he'd oh-so-conveniently forgotten his homework at school. (Except, knowing Jaime, he'd probably offer to walk with Bart back to the school to pick his work up.)  
c) Or, he could say they were just supposed to take notes.  
Bart didn't really consider telling the truth as a viable option.

"Hola Bart. ¿Cómo estás?" Jaime asked as he opened the front door. He was dressed in grey slacks and a black t-shirt that hugged his figure nicely.

"Uh, bien?" Bart gulped out in response. That was Spanish, right? Or was it French?

"Let's head to my room. My sister Milagro's watching TV down here. Justice League reruns."

"Oh. That's a good show," Bart said, stepping over the welcome mat that read 'BIENVENIDOS' and promptly following Jaime upstairs.

"Who's your Spanish teacher?" Jaime inquired.

"Um... Ms. Gomez?"

"Oh, I don't think I've met her. I had Ms. Garcia back in freshman year. I thought taking Spanish would boost my grade, give me an easy A since I'm bilingual, but apparently you're not allowed to take it if you can already speak it fluently. They ended up transferring me to Sports Med. I spent the semester learning about splints and casts, the importance of stretching, etc. Oh, and we also had to practice bandaging hands and wrists. My partner always had really sweaty hands. It was pretty gross." Bart quickly wiped his palms on his jeans, before following Jaime into his bedroom. Textbooks and clothing articles were strewn across the bed and the floor.

"Believe it or not, but I'd already tidied a lot of it up before you got here."

"Oh, uh, you should see my room."

"Yeah," Jaime agreed, but his mouth snapped shut immediately after. Bart pretended he hadn't noticed, and surveyed the room once more. Jaime's instrument case was propped up against his bed. "Are you learning any new songs for band?" he asked, cringing silently. What else would they be doing in band?

"Uh, yeah, actually. I'm supposed to practice over the weekend. I'll play you a song, if you want, while you set up your homework."

"Sure!" he said enthusiastically, bobbing his head up and down, "that's be crash." Bart perched on the edge of Jaime's bed, feeling the mattress dip slightly under his weight. He hugged his pencil box to his chest as he watched Jaime open his pencil box with a subdued click. Jaime's eyes fluttered shut as he began to play, his long lashes casting shadows across his face. Bart's eyes dropped to Jaime's mouth as he brought the instrument to his lips. His expression was neutral and calm, the way one's is when they're asleep. Bart probably shouldn't have been staring so unabashedly, but Jaime was gorgeous. Beautiful, but not in the feminine sense. The tune was slow, lulling Bart into a false sense of security, and he was completely unprepared when the song ended and Jaime's eyes reopened. Embarrassed to be caught staring so openly, Bart flinched, and scrambled for his binder, accidentally knocking it to the floor.

"I'll get it," Jaime announced, bending down to scoop up the loose papers. "Here you-" his voice faltered. "Uh, Bart? How come your schedule says you're taking German?"

"Er, because, I sort of am?"

"Then why-?"

"I wanted to hang out with you!" he blurted.

Jaime stared at him for an agonizingly long minute, before throwing his head back and laughing. The sound was throaty and rich, and Bart never wanted to stop hearing Jaime laugh.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Jaime demanded after a moment. His voice was solemn, but he was grinning.

"I wanted to hang out with you," Bart repeated.

"Then why didn't you just ask me out?" Bart's eyes widened. "Crap. No, I meant... I meant to say, why did't you just ask to hang out?" Now it was Jaime's turn to be flustered.

"But that's not what you said," Bart cried gleefully, a teasing inflection to his voice. "Do _you_ want to go out with me?"

A faint red blush crept up Jaime's neck.

Bart rose to his feet, stepping forwards so that they were within closer proximity. Bart stood on his tiptoes so that they were almost at level height, though Jaime was still a good inch or two taller. "How about, I'll go to one of your band concerts, if you'll come to one of my track meets?"

"Deal," Jaime said without missing a beat.

"Crash." With a lascivious wink, Bart added, "It's a date."


	16. Rumor of Us

**A/N: luluguineapig requested a fic where "Bart comes out of the closet to Wally."**

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After jotting down about a half a page of notes, Wally's hand stilled, and he placed his pencil in between the crease of his textbook. He felt a muscle in his cheek jump as he eyed Bart wearily out of the corner of his eye. The younger speedster was continuously shooting sideways glances towards him, and his nerves were already stretched thin. "Did you need something?" he asked finally.

"Weeeeell," Bart began in a languorous drawl.

"Spit it out."

"Right. So, uh, I was just wondering, y'know, out of curiosity, if the rumour about you and Nightwing was true?"

Shifting the Chemistry textbook off his lap, Wally turned to fully face Bart. He was wringing his hands, though on him, it didn't exactly come across as a nervous gesture, more like something to keep his hands occupied. Constant motion. Was it too much to ask that the kid sit still for more than five minutes? Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wally asked tiredly, "and which rumour would that be?"

"You know, were you and Dick ever," his voice dropped several octaves, "_youandDick_?"

Wally made a choked noise in the back of his throat, and began to flail his arms about almost comically. "Wha-? Who told you... Why are you even asking?"

"Oh, I dunno," Bart scratched the back of his neck, a neutral expression settling on his face. "I was just wondering how those kinds of relationships were perceived in the past? Well, present to you, but, uh, yeah."

"Those kind of..." Wally echoed slowly, before realization dawned on his face. "Ah. How exactly are they 'perceived' in the future?"

Surprisingly, Bart's expression became closed off, his mouth a terse line. It was such a dramatic shift from his usual carefree and enthusiastic persona that Wally couldn't help but stare.

"Sorry. It's fine if you don't want to talk about it."

Bart gave a wobbly, tentative smile in response, that somehow how seemed so much more genuine than his usual broad grins or smirks. "Nah, it's okay. In the future, the human race is enslaved by the Reach and everything, and the more family members you have, the easier the work load becomes. And there's really no evolutionary benefit to homosexuals, so it wasn't really encouraged, but love was so uncommon, so rare, that if you found it, you were lucky," sucking in a lungful of breath, Bart continued, "and you know what's kind of ironic? This is the era that everyone dreamed about. Freedom of speech, the right to vote; this is the time where heroes exist, where everything's supposed to be good and perfect, and yet there are still homophobes and in some ways, things are worse now than they were-would've been-under the Reach's reign."

"You're right, kid," Wally murmured softly. "There are still a lot of problems, but society's come along way in terms of equality. Don't feel bad about liking who you like, because you can't exactly help it. And I'm sure Jaime would agree with me."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up, cuz. I never said I was talking about... I never said I liked Jaime."

"Please. I was at Jay and Joan's the other day, and apparently you talk in your sleep. Like, a lot."

Bart's face paled, but when he managed to find his voice, it was almost perfectly level. "Fine. I'll ask Jaime out, if you ask out _Dick. _Heh, Dick."

"But I never said I-"

"Gotta go. Later Wall-man."

"But... you... urgh." Seriously. How was this Wally's life?


End file.

Young Justice