close your eyes (light carries on)
In his dreams, he is on mode.
They're never completely the same, his dreams. Sometimes it's day, sometimes night. Sometimes they're in the Cave (gone now, destroyed, nothing but ash), other times they're at JL headquarters, or outside, or back with the Reach. Sometimes he experiences what is happening through his own eyes, sometimes he is watching from a distance.
His dreams are never entirely identical, but two things always remain constant.
He is on mode, and his team lays dead around him.
Cassie's eyes are wide, vacant, her head twisted and neck broken. Garfield is still, stiller than he's ever been, and Batgirl's hair spills out around her frozen face like a fiery halo. Robin's mask conceals his eyes, but behind it they are blank; blood coats his lips.
And Bart—Bart is choking as Jaime's fingers wrap mercilessly around his neck. His eyes are bright and desperate and pleading.
"Jaime," he chokes. His fingers scratch helplessly at the ones around his throat. "Jaime… please… you're stronger… than this. You can… beat it…"
There's the sound of somebody screaming, distant and muffled, as if the sound is trying to reach him through miles and miles of water. Jaime's fingers tighten.
Jaime Reyes, someone says.
"Jaime," Bart repeats, pleads. "Please…"
Jaime Reyes.
There's a voice, inside his head. What…?
Jaime Reyes, you must wake up.
He opens his eyes, Bart's terrified face burned into his retinas, and breathes in the scent of laundry detergent from his pillowcase, as he processes the dream – nightmare—and that he's awake in his bed, his friends are alive, and he's completely in control of his own mind.
And that Khaji Da's voice is resonating in his skull, loud and grating.
"Dios mio," Jaime mutters to the scarab. "Don't you ever sleep?"
Sleep is a human function characterized by the need to restore and rejuvenate both the body and mind, says Khaji Da. I am merely a cerebral form of consciousness, and therefore do not require—
"Ok, ok," Jaime grumbles. He rubs at his eyes to wake himself up, resigned to the fact that he won't be getting any more sleep with the talking going on in his head. Not that the sleep he was getting was in any way restful. "What'd you wake me up for?"
The Impulse was causing a disturbance, is the matter-of-fact, if slightly annoyed, reply. He appears to be in distress of some kind.
"It's Kid Flash now," he corrects, brain still fogged enough with sleep that the words don't immediately register. When they do, it takes him an embarrassingly slow moment to recall why Bart would even be at his house, before remembering the speedster came to hang out yesterday, and when it had gotten late Jaime told him he could just crash in the guest room for the night.
"Bart?" Concern cuts through the fog in his brain, rouses him from his sleepy state. "Is he okay? Did something happen?"
Thermal scans show no intruders or nearby threats, the scarab informs him, yet the Impulse was making undue noises of upset and appears unnecessarily agitated.
"Kid Flash," Jaime corrects again, this time absently, as he pushes himself up and shoves away his covers. The room is dark—the clock is blinking the numbers 4:27 up at him—and he swings his feet around, out of the bed.
Where are you going? asks the scarab. He sounds annoyed.
"To check on Bart," he replies, opening his bedroom door, and frowns when the scarab is suspiciously silent. "What, no suggested alternative courses of action? No insistence on violence?"
I would suggest immediate termination, but know you will simply ignore me.
"Damn right I will," Jaime mutters. He has no idea why the scarab continues to insist on killing Bart quite frequently, but has learned to ignore it. "Now butt out. I don't need you in my head right now."
He walks down the hall to the guest room, just a few doors down from his own (past Milagro's room and the bathroom), and opens the door slowly. Bart is on the bed, his eyes closed. The blanket had fallen or gotten shoved off at some point and is now on the ground. Bart's breathing is harsh, loud, and Jaime walks further into the room to see him better.
The speedster's face is pale, screwed up as if in pain, and there's a worried crinkle between his eyebrows that Jaime's fingers itch to smooth away. His nails are clenched into the pillowcase, knuckles bone-white, and his breathing is shallow. His expression twists, and a small whine escapes his lips.
The noise feels like a hand twisting Jaime's heart. Bart always avoids looking vulnerable or weak in any way, by brushing things off, forcing a familiar laugh and flashing a familiar smile. But in sleep he looks so helpless and young and… breakable.
Bart's never looked like that before. Jaime knew that fear was there, somewhere beneath the surface of that mask, but Jaime's never seen it, Bart's never allowed it to slip.
He looks fragile now, and Jaime can't help but feel it's wrong somehow, him seeing his friend so unguarded; like he's violated some sacred trust he hasn't yet earned the right to see. It pulls at something in his chest, makes his breath catch in his throat.
Jaime slowly lowers himself onto the very edge of the mattress, his hand hovering in the air uncertainly. Should he shake him awake? Jaime's sure he read somewhere about how it's a bad idea to wake somebody from a nightmare like that, especially somebody who has no doubt been through what Bart has in his life. But what, then?
Jaime hesitantly places his hand on the younger boy's shoulder, making the contact as light as possible. "Bart," he whispers, squeezing his shoulder. "Bart, wake up. It's a dream."
Bart whines again, pressing his face into the pillow. He's muttering something now, and Jaime has to lean down close in order to make it out:
"…don', please, I'm s'rry, stop stop stop…"
Jaime's gut churns, and he feels sick imagining who Bart could be begging like that to. Is it him? Is Blue Beetle the face that's haunting Bart's dreams, making him plead like that, for just the slightest bit of mercy?
He shakes Bart more firmly this time, rougher. "Bart! Hermano, wake up."
"I'm s'rry, I'm s'rry, I won't do it again, I swear—"
"Bart! You're dreaming! Despiértate!"
Bart's eyes snap open and he reacts just as Jaime feared he would, lashing out blindly at an unseen threat. Jaime jerks back and narrowly avoids a punch in the jaw.
Threat present, says Khaji Da suddenly, like a machine rebooting. Activating—
"No!" Jaime yells, countering the command before the familiar blue armor can begin to encase him. The last thing Bart needs is to be woken from a nightmare and the first thing he sees to be Blue Beetle. "Don't!"
Bart's eyes, initially bright with panic, have now registered his surroundings. "Jaime! Ohmygod," he yells, his words running together as they often do, "Did I hit you, dudeI'msosorry, that's so not crash—"
"I'm fine, ese," Jaime assures him. "You didn't hit me, I'm good."
"Oh," says Bart. He fidgets, uncomfortable. "Did I wake you up 'cos I didn't mean to, sorry—"
Jaime shakes his head. "You didn't." The scarab did, technically. Jaime looks into Bart's face, his eyes, so green that looking too deeply into them feels like falling.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Me?" Bart's eyes widen. "Yeah, sure! Totally crash, dude! Hey, I'm really hungry, did you get some more chicken whizzees 'cos those things are—"
"Crash?" Jaime guesses.
"Read my mind, hermano."
Jaime sighs, at both Bart's atrocious Spanish and his lame attempt to change the subject. "Seriously, ese. You alright? You can talk to me, you know."
Bart's eyes have a slightly nervous look to them now. He looks reluctant. "I'm… I'm good. Just—dreams, ya know?"
Jaime nods. He does know. His mind flashes back to Bart's pleading face as Jaime's fingers wrapped around his neck, and he shivers.
"I still dream about it sometimes," he confesses softly. "About when the Reach had me on mode… I keep seeing myself hurting people…"
"Not your fault," Bart reminds him firmly, eyes suddenly like steel. "And you didn't hurt anyone. We're okay."
"But… Wally…"
The boy flinches slightly at his cousin's name, but still insists, "That wasn't your fault either. It was Wally's choice. No one blames you."
They should, he thinks, but keeps his mouth shut.
"Was it… me?" he asks, then elaborates, "What you were dreaming about?"
Bart presses his lips together. "It… you're not him, Jaime. It doesn't matter."
But it does! Jaime wants to shout. Because he put that look of terror on Bart's face, he put that shrill tone of hysteria in Bart's voice; maybe not him exactly, but some future version of him. He did that to Bart. He made Bart completely petrified.
"How can you even look at me?" Jaime wonders. "After what I… what he did?"
"Because none of it was you!" he insists. "You could never be that… that thing. It's not in you. You are nothing like the Blue Beetle from my time. You're kind and brave and good, and—and he was none of those things. He was cruel and he was cold, and you—you are so much better than him."
Bart looks down at his lap, and Jaime feels his face flush. Does Bart really think all that stuff about him?
Still, now that he's said his piece about how he feels about Jaime's (entirely warranted) guilt, the steel fades from his eyes and he's back to looking shaken. Jaime realizes they've managed to fall off the track of the conversation, and he realigns himself.
"Talk to me." Jaime shifts on the bed so he's facing Bart, reaching out his hands to cover Bart's. "Let me in. Por favor."
Bart takes a shaky breath. This must be extremely hard for him, Jaime knows. He's spent months in the past under a carefree façade; to let it drop for even a second takes a tremendous amount of trust.
"In my time… in the future…" he begins, "I was basically a slave. All metas were collared with inhibitors, and when Blue Beetle got ahold of me…"
Bart exhales shakily. His hands are fisted tightly, and Jaime squeezes them reassuringly with his own hands.
"He never even had to touch me," the speedster continues after a moment. "The collar… it gives off electrical impulses. He didn't even have to touch me to break me."
Bart looks down at their hands in his lap, and looks pained. Looks scared.
"I'm sorry," says Jaime. He feels sick with it, with how sorry he is. With the knowledge that, even if that future has changed, even if that will never happen now, it still happened to Bart. Bart has to live with it still, even when nobody else does.
"I told you, it's not y—"
"I know. I just meant… I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Sometimes—" Bart cuts himself off, swallows, then continues, "Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep. I feel like if I so much as close my eyes, that when I open them everything will be gone. That I'll still be with…"
Bart doesn't finish, and he doesn't need to. His words are coming hesitantly, so unusual to his normal rapid speech. Jaime lifts his hand and places it under the speedster's chin, gently turning his head up to look at him.
Bart's eyes are filled with so much fear and pain that looking directly into them is like drowning. He's sucked under, the breath stolen from his lungs, and when he tries to surface for air a new wave drags him back under.
He knows there's more to the time-traveler's story—more darkness and suffering and hurt, the likes of which Jaime can't possibly imagine—and that he isn't going to tell him, not now anyway. That's alright with Jaime, though; he doesn't need to know. He wishes that Bart would trust him but knows that that will take time. He just needs to make sure that Bart knows all this is real. That he's safe.
He moves both of his hands so they're on the back of the younger boy's head. His fingers don't tangle in his hair but simply rest there lightly, solid and real. He tilts Bart's head up so their eyes lock and—before he can second-guess himself, before he can overthink it—leans down to brush his lips against his.
Bart stills for a moment, frozen, and Jaime starts to panic and pull back, but then Bart's lips move and he's kissing back, hesitant and inexperienced. It's a very chaste thing, short and feather-light, and both of their lips are dry and chapped, but that's okay. This isn't about want or desire; it's an act of comfort, of reassurance. A soft touch of their lips meant to communicate I'm here, you're safe, I won't leave you.
Jaime pulls back. Bart blinks up at him, green eyes dazed.
"What was that for?" he asks. His voice sounds a bit in awe.
"You closed your eyes," says Jaime. His hand reaches up to brush a red strand of hair from Bart's face, and lingers there. "Look around. You're still here. I'm still here."
Bart actually does look around the room, and when he turns back to Jaime there's a single tear tracking down his face, though he's smiling.
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Blue."
Jaime nods, lets his hand drop from Bart's cheek onto his shoulder. Squeezes it.
Bart gives an embarrassed laugh, wiping the tear from his face. "Sorry, for, uh, being so moded. I didn't mean to, like, puke all my feelings on you."
Jaime shakes his head. "I'm glad you talked to me. You better now?"
Bart nods. Jaime shifts on the bed, and maybe Bart thinks he's going to leave, because his arm shoots out in a blur, grabbing Jaime's wrist. "Waitdon'tgo!"
He freezes as the words escape his mouth, and begins speaking rapidly, "Imeanofcourseyoucango, Ican'tkeepyouhere youcanleaveIjustthoughtmaybe… you could stay?...OnlyifyouwantI'msorrynevermind—"
"Bart," Jaime says sharply.
Bart stops.
"I'll stay."
Bart flushes. "Oh. Ok."
Jaime maneuvers his body so he's laying out on the bed next to Bart. After a slight hesitation, he wraps his arm around the smaller boy's waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. They don't talk about the kiss, or what it means for them. It doesn't matter, really. They're still Bart and Jaime, and nothing will change that.
So I would be guessing correctly in saying I am not allowed to kill him? Khaji Da chooses that moment to come out of hibernation.
Jaime rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up."
"D'dn' say an'th'n," Bart mumbles sleepily.
I find him most irritating, the scarab confides. But… I suppose… I could learn to tolerate him, if I must.
"Then get on that," says Jaime. He looks down at Bart, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "He's not going anywhere."