Title: It's Me
Author: uhhhmmm…it's me (HAHA I'M FUNNY!)
Characters: Bart/Jaime
Words: 400 words
A/N: "Imagine your OTP" on tumblr said "Imagine your OTP meeting in the afterlife"….so I did.
It's only as he's dying, that he finally remembers. The corrupted scarab that had taken over his mind and body peels its claws away and he remembers it all. Rich, brown-red hair that flops unevenly and quick fingers that rummage through a bag of chicken whizees. Fast lips; soft tongue flipping over them to pronounce quick, beating syllables.
He remembers wild arm gestures; crazy, untethered, ever-opening up for him. He remembers a cocky "Ta-da!" and a work of art made from pebbles. He remembers "crash" and "mode" and he remembers laughing and smiling.
He remembers soft green eyes staring at him and a quiet voice warning him of what was to come. He remembers being adamant that he wouldn't let it happen, promising that he wouldn't let it.
He remembers breaking that promise.
He remembers those same soft green eyes looking up at him desperately. He remembers them filling with tears. "Jaime, please."
He remembers blasting it away. The tears. The eyes. The hair. The arms. The body. The scream. He blasted it all away.
He remembers them coming back.
Only when they come back, the eyes are dull and dart side to side in fear. The hair is dirty and the face is covered in grime and ash. He remembers this new copy being afraid of him, avoiding him at all costs.
He hates this new copy. It's incorrect. Faulty. It's not the copy he wants.
He eliminates it too, soon enough.
But now, mind and body being pulled apart and twisted, he remembers…and he regrets.
And when he finally lands, on something that could be described as grass, but can't really be grass (it's too airy - there's no proper density) - he drops to his knees and presses his hands up against his face. He gulps in sobs through breaths and the constant phrase: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
And he finally pushes his hands away, and they're not covered in blue and black armor anymore. His whole body is free of the armor. There's no scarab attached to his back. He's sixteen years old again, with far less mistakes and far less pain and nothing more to regret.
And he looks up in front of him, and there are soft green eyes with a slight smile waiting for him.
"It's me," he says, raising his hands a little in surrender. "It's- it's me."
The smile widens. "'Course it is."
