A/N - For Allypallycally1 cus she's a babe who's given me non-stop support and fangirls with me over everything ily man x

Everything within the brackets is a Jaime-esque translation of Khaji Da talking and listen to Dead Hearts by Stars

I Once Knew

Your breath hitches but he doesn't comment on it. Your eyes blur as an unfamiliar sting pricks at them before leaving a trail of tears, glazing your cheeks like a...glazed doughnut? (You never were very good with words.) He doesn't comment on that either. He doesn't even show any acknowledgement of whether he's noticed your doughnut cheeks or your Darth Vader breathing or not. You frown because it kind of bothers you in a way.

His words tangle together inside your brain, making you unable to comprehend what he's trying to say through thick, confusing words and explanations let alone form a coherent response yourself. The words just float around the space in between the two of you, gliding straight through one ear and out the other. They refuse to linger too long: to outstay their welcome. Kind of like him.

Except he's not outstaying his welcome. He could never do that. The very thought is utterly preposterous because he could never outstay his welcome with you yet you can't find the words to explain this very vital fact to him. This incredibly important fact that refuses to make an appearance. Again, you're not very good with words. Everything is just too jumbled. Too wrong. All you know right now is that you don't feel too good and that he can, no, should stay: all you have to do is tell him.

(Why aren't you telling him?)

(C'mon, Jaime. Tell him!)

You inhale suddenly, ready for the word vomit to spurt out like a hose pipe (you really should stop with all these similes, Jaime. They just don't work). He braces himself before you, with that all too wide (but fake) grin stretching over his freckled face; his eyes sparkle with sadness and a glint of hope and you feel this sensation in your chest: pushing at your ribs, your lungs as it crawls up towards your throat in a bid to spill out of your closed mouth. It's fear; it's excitement; it's confidence; it's anxiety; it's...

Vomit.

You awake with a jolt. Sweat glistens on your forehead, gleaming as the droplets slither their way down into your rather bushy brow (you should really fix that Jaime, you're starting to get a mono brow). Cringing, you wipe at it with the back of your hand and sigh before turning onto your side, cuddling the duvet and cocooning yourself into it. You just want to turn yourself off and ignore everything and everyone in the world. But you can't. You have responsibilities and commitments and why has everything become so hard lately? You never used to have difficulty with getting up in the morning. It wasn't exactly your favourite thing in the world but it didn't seem like a hardship all those months ago. You actually liked the fresh morning air as it rushed passed you, cooling the sweat on your skin so you felt more alert; more alive.

What changed?

Empty. You feel empty. It took you months to figure out what that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach was. The constant nausea swirled and churned against your insides in a never ending battle of brute strength: to puke or not to puke. Now that was the question and it still remains unanswered.

Why that question insists on its presence also remains a mystery to you and God does it baffle you in the most painful way imaginable. No matter what mission you are on with the team, you can't shake this feeling of emptiness; no matter what villain throws a punch at you, cracking your jaw and smashing your nose, the physical pain just can't compete against this mental battle and it bothers you beyond anything else. Initially you thought that by figuring out what that annoyingly unknown feeling was would erase, or even ease, the pain, but instead it only increased it. Rubbing your charcoal eyes, you groan and heave yourself up into a sitting position amongst the bed covers, attempting to mentally prepare yourself for the day ahead.

As you stumble into the living area of the cave, you notice the glances of pity being thrown your way from the inhabitants (well, mainly M'gann. No one is really all that bothered about your issues). Everyday you receive these infuriating stares: it drives you absolutely insane because no matter what you do, it's either your body or someone else's reminding you of this... Absence (?) in your life. You don't need that constant alarm going off every ten minutes, letting you know that you're incomplete.

Ducking your head, you ignore them and carry on your not so merry way. You beeline for the sofa, and lounging on the couch sits Gar, curled up against the armrest, and Robin beside a grumpy looking Conner. Robin sits crossed legged facing the green boy with his back to Conner, who's slouched watching the T.V intensely with a scowl on his face whilst the other two boys chatter - well, Gar's the one talking and Robin looks like he's ready to melt into the sofa. You smile. It's wonky. Just like the front tooth which clouds your vision for a snapshot of a second. You blink in surprise.

Tenderly perching in between Superboy and Robin, the bird looks to you subtly. He mouths the word "help" and a low chuckle spills out of your tanned lips. Behind his sunglasses you guess his eyes are wide, full of desperation, due to the worry wrinkles lining his forehead. It's become a default expression of the boy whenever he's 'conversing' (cough stuck listening to the babbling nonsense cough) with the changeling. Still, Gar pays no notice (he's going to take someone's eye out with those hands - seriously look at them go!). That is, until Cassie strolls, carefully clutching a tray filled with a batch of steaming cookies. M'gann follows her with a beaming, toothy grin like a proud mother swan (similes, Jaime). Recently the blonde had taken an 'absolute shining' to baking so the Martian offered to help her despite everyone's protest and begging. Together, they spent entire days in the kitchen baking cakes, biscuits and even fudge to Gar's absolute delight (not that it's edible).

As Conner's scowl deepens, he shuffles further into the armrest, crossing his large arms over his chest (you wish your arms will get that huge one day). The green boy snatches one of the golden treats, like a frog catching a fly (I give up); you can almost see him salivate in pure excitement. It crumbles slightly against his fingers before he brings it towards his mouth and you can just feel the tension in the air; hear the pounding in everyone's ears as no one is completely and utterly confident that this food is, in fact, safe to eat. The Martian can not cook or bake to save her life (never has been, probably never will be able to) and Cassie isn't exactly a domestic goddess herself, so you hold your breath in anticipation. Even Superboy has cast a curious eye to watch the scene unfold: will this be the end of Beast Boy? Will Gar's death not be caused by heroics but instead a deathly cookie in the hands of his own relative (technically) and friend?

You can't bear to watch.

But you do anyway.

After shovelling an entire cookie into his mouth, a loud crunch echoes within the silent room and there's a moment of hesitancy. Then, a grin unwinds itself onto Gar's crumb filled face. Eager hands rummage the plate, taking handfuls before the blonde girl smacks his offending hands away.

Everyone breathes.

"Let someone else have one." But her grin only brightens as the boy's lip twitches into a frown.

However, you notice Miss Martian's face fall into a small but sad smile. Her eyes droop slowly and the dimples in her cheeks look strained against the dullness of her usually fiery eyes. Instead, the flames had been tamed and settled begrudgingly, causing them to lose their original spark of spitting and sizzling in excitement. Conner gazes up at her, also sensing the sudden change in attitude and you can't help the frown which morphs your face. Your stomach tightens painfully and you groan quietly. Your head throbs as a pounding bangs against it mercilessly, causing you to hold your head in between your knees. Rocking backwards and forwards slightly, you feel something brush against your shoulder blade gently. You look up to see various wide eyes staring at you.

M'gann quirks an eyebrow before handing you a cookie. A worried smile forms on her lips and, although you're not hungry, you graciously accept the biscuit. The chocolate stains your fingers a dark brown, melting against your body heat.

How on earth could you feel empty when everything you need is here?

It isn't until Aqualad marches in with Tigress that the headache (or is it a migraine? You've been getting these headaches for a while now) dissolves into just a light pounding in your ears, which you can easily ignore. If you focus hard enough on a distraction that is.

Luckily for you, this mission requires your utmost attention (apparently).

Kaldur'ahm leaves shortly after the briefing but Tigress lingers. You haven't seen a smile grace her lips in what seems forever, not since Wally... Well. Y'know. You watch as she tenderly perches on a chair in the corner of the room, slowly massaging her temples. A blonde lock of hair strays and tangles itself into her busy fingers. Clenching her grey eyes closed, Artemis tugs tightly onto the strand and bites her bottom lip, harshly. She takes deep breaths all the while remaining in her vulnerable position, and you watch as her chest heaves out as she gulps in the air before it shudders inwards again.

You want to talk to her but you can't bring yourself to do it. You feel like you can connect with her because of this stupid emptiness which has taken over your life just like it has hers. But... You just don't know why. She has a legitimate reason to have this burning desire and need for something: anything but you don't. What do you honestly need? (To pluck your eyebrows, maybe.)

Slowly, you feel yourself gliding towards the still woman when she suddenly snaps her eyes up to look at you. Her piercing gaze stabs you in the chest, through the armour, through the skin, through the bone and out the other side: blood and guts included. You freeze (abort! Abort!). Interlocking your eyes, she stares coldly at you, and twitches her lip. Her teeth bare slightly and you realise that this is the Artemis who originally joined the team as a mysterious and snappy teenage girl; the archer who came across as a strong, confident and independent latina despite in all actuality being the girl who needed people the mos; the wannabe hero who needed to prove to herself that she wasn't villain. That person was shining through in an unwelcoming snarl, so instead you decide to prepare for your mission because you really don't want to deal with more psychological issues. Your own emptiness bothers you enough and the thought of even trying to help Artemis seemed futile and painful. You feel guilty but you aren't really qualified enough to help the girl. Maybe later you can run it past M'gann or Zatanna. However, you need to keep the mission in mind, since it's the kind which requires your utmost attention (apparently), so you change course and head for the door, feeling grey eyes burn holes straight through your spine.

(Wait. What was the mission again?!)

Although the punches to your gut accompanied with cracks to the jaw are very distracting and they hurt helluva lot, your mind is consistently wandering away from the current battle your team managed to find themselves in. It takes a lot of willpower to drag it back to the situation at hand. Literally. You're pulling with all your might to get your mind back to the battle and the objective of this mission, all the while that mind claws at the ground; flailing its legs in an attempt to kick you harshly in the face as well as that awful screeching, whining noise it makes to distract you further. Clenching your eyes shut, gritting your teeth and covering your ears with your hands do nothing because it's all in your head.

Just... Stop it.

Your mind is attacked with blurred, flashing images of almond shaped eyes. The bottle green irises change quickly from a sparkling joy to a gleaming desire to clouded lust with heavy eyelashes shielding the inviting orbs. They blink at you and your mouth goes dry. You suddenly become aware of the fact that your tongue doesn't sit comfortably in your mouth but isn't it meant to? Or has it always just hung there? The nostalgia kicks you in the pit of your stomach as the whining ceases to a mixture of shuddering snickers and...Was that a moan? What?

A sweeping kick to your ankles that you really should have been prepared for knocks you to the ground and away from those alluring eyes. Unfortunately, the physical fight you're partaking in is equally as difficult as the mental one, although this time you don't seem to be on the winning side (what do you mean "this time"?). Crawling away whilst you pick yourself up simultaneously, you spin and aim a kick at...What even are these things? Aliens? Mutants? They're not human and that's about as much as you know about this entire mission (good going, Jaime).

This particular battle was a mistake though; a huge, unnecessary mistake that has a rather gigantic consequence which has resulted in your team being outnumbered and no longer covert. (So, basically, your mission was a failure. Aqualad specifically said that you needed to remain undercover to succeed.)

You feel something cold and sharp slice evenly into your back and you cry out at the shock. You fall to your knees but in trying to save yourself you roll to the left, grunting and hissing as all your weight falls onto the seeping flesh. The adrenaline wears off and you begin to feel the sting as the attacker comes face to face with you. It exhales deep, raspy breaths that remind you of Darth Vader (now is not the time) and again a pang of nostalgia hits you square in the chest. You have no idea what you've suddenly became so nostalgic over (bad breath? Darth Vader?) but you attempt to push it to the back of your mind (focus, Jamie).

Hundreds of tiny, black, button eyes blink at you and its fang filled mouth opens slowly, releasing a toxic gas that causes your eyes to water and your throat to gag and retch (bad breath, not toxins you idiot). Your face contorts as the rancid smell of sweat and... Cheese(?) chokes you and blurs your vision. Then you feel something sharp plunge into your shoulder. You scream as you feel the throbbing explode into pure agony. You're writhing as whatever it is that's in your shoulder rips away your skin and tears through the muscle, destroying anything that attempts to get in the way, bursting the opposing muscle into flames at any available chance. It tunnels further into your left shoulder, scraping the bone and you see nothing but bright, white spots and you hear nothing but a dull ringing as well as the manic laughter from this thing atop you and you smell nothing but marred flesh from the immense amount of blood that is soaking your armour and you feel nothing but this burning agony inside your shoulder and you want it to stop because you can't stop screaming so your throat is so hoarse it feels like it's also getting torn to a thousands shreds but you can't stop screeching because of this agony within your shoulder and why won't it stop? Why is that monster twisting and twirling and digging the weapon in your shoulder? You can't think straight and nothing makes sense but you're begging now in between shrieks, clawing at the arm of this thing whilst tears assist the dots in clouding your vision whilst simultaneously streaming down your bruised cheeks and then-

Everything goes black.

Soft lips brush against yours. The bottom lip juts out slightly, teasingly caressing itself against the parting of your own. Hovering above you, slight exhales of air gently tickle your lips and you gasp quietly: drawing in a deep breath and allowing the sweet taste of pink and blue bottles to swirl with your breath and to dance amongst your taste buds in a sugary merged sour celebration. This lasts for a few seconds whilst your eyelids flutter closed before you feel a firmer pressure on your lips. Snapping your eyes open, you release a muffled yelp of surprise as you're met with bottle green fusions, heavily lidded in mischief and lust.

Eyelashes, soft like butterfly wings, flutter against your cheeks and you relax into the kiss, stroking your hands and strumming your fingers against the sides of a body splayed out on top of you. The weight is pleasant and you can feel the corners of your mouth turn upwards slightly as the welcoming feeling of fullness overtakes you. Rough hands are tightly gripping your cheeks, pushing them towards one another and so you tighten your hold on the lithe body, almost protectively.

Using your right arm to prop yourself up onto your elbow, you lean your body over the smaller one before delving further into the kiss. The figure drops to lay onto a single bed, hooking their lean legs around yours. You simply follow the guiding lips, craning your neck downwards: never breaking contact. The grip on your cheeks loosen before you feel those very same, rough hands drag themselves down your face, neck and extend outwards as their arms wrap around your neck. You wind your free arm around the figure's waist whilst their hands eagerly sift their way through your hair; twirling the dark strands in between nimble fingers before giving a harsh tug. A moan rumbles at the back of your throat. The figure beneath you responds with a delicious mewl as you trace your fingers down their sides, over their hips to rest against their thigh.

Swiftly, you swipe your tongue against the plump, bottom lip, receiving a shuddering gasp as a reply. You grab the cushioned ass and yank the leg upwards to encircle your waist. The other leg mimics the first and promptly hooks its foot over the other, resting against your tailbone. Beneath you, the figure peers at you through their eyelashes and messy, auburn hair. The bottle green fusions are accompanied with a bright yet seductive half smile which reveals a set of large, wonky front teeth. Your own dark eyes widen slightly as the figure winks at you, cocking their head to the left.

You smirk like a shark before going in for the kill.

You awake with a jolt. Sweat glistens on your forehead, slithering its way down into your rather bushy brow (you should really fix that Jaime, you're starting to get a mono brow). Cringing, you wipe at it with the back of your hand and yelp in surprise as a sharp pain shoots its way up your arm, nesting in your shoulder in the form of an ache that can't be ignored (looks like your daily routine has changed). In a moment of befuddlement, you investigate your surroundings from your bed since you can't actually move from being hooked up to some medical stuff (IV's, Jaime).

(At least you don't have to get out of bed today.) You smile at the realisation, desperately wanting to fist pump but also not wanting to disturb your shoulder because damn it hurts.

You're cocooned into a white, puffy duvet on a single bed. The heat radiates from the bed and settles pleasantly amongst your legs, reducing the goosebumps and the static leg hair you usually wake up to in the thin sheets you sleep with back home. There's a machine beeping steadily beside your bed doing something that must be important but you're not entirely sure what because medicine and machinery never were your forte really, so you decide to ignore it and sit up slowly. You accidentally jostle your shoulder during your bid to get up, so you release a low whine, flickering your eyes closed and gritting your teeth to help subside the persistent ache.

It only takes a few moments to recover but you decide that you are certainly not moving that hastily again. Then you come to realise how bored you are so you decide to count the chairs lined up against the white wall reaching to the door in order to pass the time. You shudder involuntarily before counting.

1, 2.. Nightwing?

You double take and raise your eyebrows as you observe the man calmly slumbering in a really uncomfortable looking, plastic chair. He's slouched with his arms crossed over his chest whilst his head lulls onto his right shoulder towards the door. Although he's wearing his civvies, dark sunglasses hang off the bridge of his nose whilst ebony locks of hair shield the remainder of his face, reaching to his pointed chin. Small puffs of air causes the strands to blow upwards slightly; drifting to lean against his nose before he exhales again. Nightwing's arms are tense as you notice the muscles strain against the fabric of his hoodie in a subconscious reminder to stay upright rather than slide down into a feeble position on the floor (like what you usually do when you fall asleep in chairs).

"Uh...Nightwing?" Your croaky voice sounds thunderous against the stillness of the sterile room. As does the cough in order to clear the growl from your throat.

No response.

You suddenly feel very awkward and out of place.

You're not entirely sure what to do with yourself.

After fidgeting and playing with loose seams on the bed cloth for what seems like forever (six minutes and twenty four seconds - not quite 'forever'), a snore/sneeze/explosion causes your head to snap up at a bewildered looking Nightwing. Behind his glasses, his eyes are wide and his back is stiff against the chair. He looks around in an attempt to gather his memories to make sense of why he's in a hospital room with you. Quietly, you giggle a very manly giggle since you just watched Mr Serious sneeze-snore himself awake as well as confuse himself in the process and that is a very amusing thing to watch (in your opinion).

He slumps forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hidden eyes lock with yours and you notice the faint pink dusting his cheeks, although you still cower slightly under his hidden yet scrutinising gaze. Nightwing puffs out an exasperated sigh and massages his forehead with one hand before returning to silently observing you again.
"Here." Standing up, the man mumbles as he removes an envelope from his jeans pocket and hands it out to you. You stare at his hand, blankly. He stares at you, blankly, although you suspect a hint of desperation lines his eyes: unfortunately the sunglasses withhold that emotion estimation. Haltingly you tilt your head upwards, confusion etching your features. He shakes it slightly at you. "Please take it."

"What is it?"

The ebony smiles softly. "A letter." You're unsure of whether or not the smile reaches his eyes.

"From who?" You sit up straight in your bed, curiosity piquing your interest as excitement electrocutes you. You also wince as the movement jostles your shoulder.

"C'mon, Jaime. Take the letter and you'll see. I don't know who it's from nor is it for me to find out." Nightwing's tone is on the edge of whining, so you hesitantly take the letter to appease the hero. The older man observes you as you twiddle the paper in your hand, feeling each crease and bump caress your fingertips in a familiar yet foreign way (you're just contradicting yourself there).

You're staring at the letter intently, feeling uneasiness roll off you in waves. Maybe this letter will explain the migraines? The nausea? The nostalgia? The emptiness? A large, messy scrawl spells out your name in an obnoxious pink ink, with a carefully drawn but still wiggly (contradiction again) heart replacing the dot on the 'I'. The air around you suddenly becomes too hot. Sweat beads at your hairline and slithers its way down your face, onto your top lip. The taste of salt seeps into your mouth and you shudder at the sharp taste as it infiltrates your taste buds. Your tongue feels too big in your mouth and you cough and gag loudly whilst you desperately claw at the mattress with your free hand. Your tongue really shouldn't be that large and uncomfortable as it rests in your mouth, yet you can't seem to find that comfortable ignorance of losing consciousness of it. The familiar feeling of nostalgia and confusion line your stomach and head, allowing no escape. Acidic bile rises in your throat and you double over, leaning your body away from the bed and out of Nightwing's sight. Your throat retches as you empty the contents of your stomach and fall limp, still hanging over the bed shamefully. Inky hair is matted to your forehead and cold sweat slithers down your neck and back, so you try to even your breathing.

You feel gentle hands rub soothing circles on your back before they pluck the letter embedded tightly in your fist. The hands disappear for a moment and you whine quietly, begging for them to come back. Bottle green eyes flash in your mind again and with a speed that could cause whiplash, your head spins to face Nightwing, who has worry lines creasing his forehead. He suddenly looks very old. His usually plump and pink lips are turned into an anxious frown, whilst his cheeks are sullen: lost of a once rosy colour. The once shiny raven hair falls flatly against his face in symmetrical tufts: the bouncy, silky volume has disappeared and his chest has seemed to have deflated, losing the intense definition of the muscles. In his hands, he carries a bucket filled with soapy water and a mop. Large tissues are stuffed up his sleeves, presumably for you to wipe your mouth and a lack of room in his pockets.

You can't recall hearing the man leave to retrieve those objects.

"I'll bring you a toothbrush in a sec. The room reeks now," the man half jokes. A smile plays on his lips but there's still no sign of any creases near the upper half of his face (from what you can see anyway).

"Uh...Thanks. Sorry." You frown in embarrassment and flicker your eyes downwards before slowly narrowing them. "If you don't know who it's from, then why have you got a letter addressed to me?"

This surprises the man but he ignores your question whilst he cleans up, shifting awkwardly between the bed and the sick.

A few moments later he straightens up and wipes his forehead. He keeps his back to you, avoiding eye contact as your eyes burn holes straight through his spine and follow him as he silently shuffles out of the room; he stops, his back still faces you. "Just...Just read the letter, Jaime."

You avert your eyes away from the doorway and instead drink in the sight of the letter, sitting on top of the beeping machine. Frowning at its crumpled and broken state, you reach up to grab it, groaning as your shoulder strains and stretches. The pain soon passes. You're used to it now. Sliding your index finger under the flap, you break the seal, carefully pulling the letter out of it's envelope.

Hey Jaime,

Do you remember when I used to call you hermano? I hope so. Actually, I doubt you do. Well, usually I'd call you hermano like I used to but since I learned what it means I stopped because that'd be weird, right? Because, it means brother and that'd be super weird because I didn't love you in a brotherly way - well, I did at first but then that changed once we hooked up. No wait. I mean, I get why you cringed and shuddered so much now whenever I said it because I love you in the opposite way to a brother which was totally crash at the time. I loved loving you. Honestly, it's like the definition of crash.

I'm sorry, that isn't important and it's cheesy and you hate cheesy but I can't scribble it out because it wouldn't look neat and I want this to look neat for you. And this is my last piece of paper - I have sixteen screwed up letters addressed to you in my bin because they didn't sound right.

I literally just had to hide this because you walked into my room demanding to know what I was doing because I was being really quiet and that's really unlike me. So, sorry that this is kind of crumpled a little too. Sorry that I suck at writing - I'm better at talking but even then I talk to fast sometimes and you have no idea what I'm saying. I don't know what you see - saw, not see, saw - in me. I don't know. But I do want this to be super crash for you because I know for a fact that you'll forget me once I leave and it really hurts to know that because I'll never forget you. Not ever. However, it's inevitable. I mean, now that the past has been changed, there is no reason for me to actually be here as I came here to change the past to prevent future me living in the mode but now future me is crashed out so basically I'm going to disappear to return to my own time zone and you're going to forget me because future me has no reason to go into the past now so I wouldn't have met you. Does that make sense? I hope so. I don't think it does. But you're clever so I'm sure you'll make it make sense. I think. I don't know.

But anyway, that's why I decided to write this letter! For you, Jaime. Your head hurts right? That's because you have memories in there that haven't actually happened because we changed the past so although they did happen to you and the team and myself, time has made it so these events are imaginary. Therefore, your mind is in this constant battle with time because your mind wants to show you these events whereas time is like "no man. Not crash. It didn't happen, these memories aren't real". Or something like that, at least. It's hard to explain. Sometimes, fragments will slip through as a trigger but you won't understand it and I hate how you're going through this because it's painful and frustrating but I promise that somehow I'll be back. No matter what, I will find a way to return to your time because I know there's nothing for me in the future. I'd rather be here with you.

If you still don't get it, watch 'The Butterfly Effect'. It's a super crash film about a guy who travels to certain periods of his life to try and set things right. Actually, I think you showed me it. Go watch it again. Please. It kinda relates to this, with the memories and time travel and stuff. Kinda.

This is really lame and soppy but I just want you to remember me. I hope this isn't selfish and childish. I'm trying to be serious.

Stay crash

Bart x

After reading the letter, white spots explode in front of your eyes and you feel dizzy. A throbbing fulminates in your head and you double over, heaving and gagging at the meteoric pain.

Then you vomit.