swallow your tail

Every morning when Bart Allen woke up, he immediately had one thought. I'm a time traveler, he reminded himself. Every day. Today was no different. Why he did it was a mystery to him. It was an instinct, a protocol, and an automatic action. Like he would forget he was living in a completely different time.

Today he'd woken up to a red sky. He remembered sitting up. I'm a time traveler, he thought dazedly. Then, he saw the familiar stain of crimson across the morning sky, dripping along the clouds and letting it soak in all the ruddiness. Red sky in the morning, travelers take warning, he recalled, feeling a little sick.

The air around them was growing thicker, and the more they breathed, the less it felt right inside their lungs. It burned their tongues, too hot and too acrid, and though they tried to ration their breaths, they simply could not withhold the urge to suck down the poisoned air, tainting their lungs with the toxins that spilled all across the city. There was no safe air to breathe. They were forced into living themselves to death.

"We lost 'em," Bart said, skidding to a stop at the foot of a makeshift shelter. It was gone, far too late to save, and he knew checking for survivors was hopeless. They would have done that already, and snuffed out any sign of life. He sounded out of breath, even though he hadn't been running long at all, and he knew it was the air, the stupid, stupid air, which was moding, and stifling, and oh god, it was killing him. He kicked a bit of plywood into the air, watching it sail as Jaime landed beside him. He was worse for wear, somehow. When Bart turned to look at him, he realized it was because he was hurt. "Right…? Hey!"

Jaime collapsed to one knee beside him, and Bart grabbed him, his fingers sliding over the dark blue armor faster than he could blink, searching carefully for holes, dents, nicks… and then he felt it. The damp, sickeningly hot and sticky substance that leaked through his suit, gushing against his skin. Bart didn't understand how it was possible for Jaime to have a crater in his armor the size of a tennis ball, but he did, and now he was bleeding. He was bleeding badly from the stomach, and it caused Bart to relapse, cold memories taking hold of him and throttling him. He didn't want to remember all of that. It hurt too much to remember the people he'd lost, and the people he'd abandoned.

"No," Bart gasped. This wasn't supposed to happen! He saved Jaime! He had! "No, no, no, nonononononononono—"

"Aahh," Jaime groaned. "Stop, stop… por favor… you're do-doing that speedy talk again."

"You've got a hole in your stomach the size of Jupiter," Bart said. He looked around worriedly as Jaime's head lolled, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Sorry for getting panicky at that tiny detail!"

"No," Jaime said. "No, I'm fine. Really. Do you think we bought him enough time?"

No. They hadn't. Bart knew it all too well, and he also knew that they were far from safe. He thought about Robin, who was MIA, and not answering his communicator. They'd found his utility belt a little while back, but no body was found, so Bart had convinced Jaime not to report their friend's disappearance to Nightwing. It was a Dick Grayson move, and the man would understand when this was all over. They couldn't afford to let Nightwing's mind get clouded by worry or grief right now.

"Yeah," Bart lied, grinning at his friend as he put some pressure on his wound. It wouldn't kill him. Not yet. But he needed to get medical attention, and fast. "Do you think you can fly back to him? I'm going to keep the chase up for a little while longer."

"Alone?" Jaime looked uncertain, and he shook his head, pushing himself shakily to his feet. His knees bucked, and he gritted his teeth, hissing softly to the voice of the scarab on his back. "I know, I know…"

"I'll be fine!" Bart laughed, pulling his bloody hand away from Jaime's stomach, taking a few deep breaths of poisoned air to keep his stomach from churning. "Fastest boy alive, ese. And you're not in any shape to be—"

"Shh!" Jaime raised his head, his eyes darting fast around them. The street was abandoned, and half of it was blown apart, rubble and dust cluttered around their feet. The makeshift shelter had been a building once. Jaime didn't need to know that. "Ay, dios mio… Go. Go!"

Bart stared at the hole in his armor, wondering how anything had pierced it. He couldn't concern himself, though, not with the sounds of war raging around them, and the bitter taste of the toxic air as it poisoned him. He nodded, and waited until he was in the air to start running. If he had to, he'd carry Jaime somewhere safe. He didn't know where. Not to Nightwing, because if they were followed…

If Bart had known when he'd woken up that morning that today was the day the Reach took its first step toward overtaking humanity, maybe he wouldn't have gotten up. He had so desperately hoped he had prevented this already. He was stupid. He saw that now. History was so much more than one event setting off an explosion of results. It was a slow and steady build up, that could not be tacked down to one specific moment. Things didn't just happen. Tension built within the lining of time, and with every moment another pebble was added to the scale. When the chain snapped, it became clear there was no reversing the weight added. There was nothing to do but pick up the pieces.

If Jaime's wound hurt, he ignored it. He sailed overhead, following Bart without so much as a peep about the blood that was gushing from his stomach. Perhaps the Scarab wasn't working correctly… or maybe it simply did not see the point of protecting Jaime anymore. Maybe it didn't want Jaime as a host anymore. Please, no, Bart thought, looking up at his friend. It wouldn't be fair.

Bart could not run anymore. Whatever the Reach had poisoned the air with, it stung, and he couldn't breathe properly. He had a stitch in his side, which never ever happened, and it caused him to stumble and flip, his face skidding across the concrete. His goggles shattered, and he gasped, as the glass tore at the skin around his left eye. He was have blinded by blood as it trickled hotly down his cheek, and he ripped the goggles off and threw them. They crunched and burst into glittering yellow shards, nothing left of them but the busted red rims. He crawled into his knees, clutching his chest as a demon seized his lungs, gripping him tightly from the inside and yanking over and over, screeching in his ears as it realized his lungs were stuck inside his ribs. Nightwing, you've gotta hurry up, I'm not doing good here, come on, come on, you can do it, you can do it…

"What are you doing?" Jaime gasped, landing and stumbling at his side. He reached, grabbing Bart by the arm and yanking. "You said we bought Nightwing the time to get the antidote ready and distributed!"

"I lied," Bart gasped, his vision blurry as he coughed, spitting the putrid taste of the air. Every breath he took was heavy, and it was so scalding all around him, he felt the scorching touch of the toxin scratching at this throat and tear at the walls of his lungs. "I wanted… you to get help…"

"Seriously? Gah! Stupid! You are so stupid! I'm not leaving you to disappear like Robin, or— or die, or suffocate! I wouldn't do that!"

"You…" Bart winced, pushing himself upright. He felt lightheaded, and he saw that Jaime was on his knees too, his hand against his abdomen. They were cornered, he saw, staring at the pileup of cars that he could have jumped over easily— if he wasn't dying of asphyxiation. He looked up, and he could see the looming figures of the Reach's infantrymen. "… pl-please… fly?"

He wasn't fast enough to outrun fate. Wasn't that funny? He had asked Wally once why he'd quit being Kid Flash. Wally had answered simply, that it was college, and stress, and dude, he outgrew the Kid Flash thing. It was fun while it lasted, but Wally was an adult. He couldn't be Kid Flash anymore. Bart was the master of this evasive tactic. No, Wally had quit being Kid Flash because he feared his own weakness. Wally wasn't as fast as Barry Allen. He wasn't fast enough. He'd seen the demise of two of his teammates before he realized this fact, and then he had given in to his insecurities. Bart understood. He felt like he was in a constant race against time. Who was faster? The impulsive time traveler, or Fate and his strings? The answer was simple. Ask History.

Jaime did the exact opposite of flying away. He stared into Bart's eyes, big and incredulous and terrified. And then he smiled. The armor melted back, and he slumped forward, gasping as he breathed the toxic air. Bart wavered, not understanding, because the scarab was supposed to protect him from all of this. What was he doing? Was he trying to kill himself? Without the armor, without the beetle… Jaime was just Jaime. Just a normal kid, who was bleeding to death, and now he was suffocating too. Just not as fast.

It hurt a lot more than Bart had expected. His mouth was dry, and his throat was raw, and he heaved, but every gasp of breath sent him into a fit of rasping coughs. He blamed Nightwing, but he realized he had no reason to. This was Bart's fault. The gas that poisoned the air only worked quickly with him because of the amount of air he had to breathe while running. It burned right through his lungs. He felt himself grabbing for his throat, his body writhing against the ground, and then he calmed, a gust of pure air curling through his parted lips. Suddenly he wasn't suffocating anymore. Suddenly he was breathing through something, and he felt it on his lips as the world around him crashed down, and Jaime slumped, his eyes glassy as he stared at the oncoming squadron.

Bart was well enough to sit up, his blood fingers rising and brushing against the respirator, and he looked at Jaime with wild eyes. He could not speak, but his look said all it needed to. You took this from Robin. You stole it from his belt earlier, when we were looking for him. Just in case.

And Jaime sighed, leaning his head back against the beaten in door of a totaled car. He merely shrugged, wincing a little. "Ah… scavenger rights?"

Bart would have laughed if he could have. Instead he just stared at him, a gleam of awe and gratitude in his eyes, and he breathed. The air wasn't natural, and it had a strange tang to it that he couldn't quite place, but it was cool and it soothed him, even as he stared out and watched them come closer, closer, closer. Jaime couldn't fly. Bart knew it now. The Scarab was speaking to him, and Jaime was nodding, looking scared, his eyes wide and wet as he kept nodding. His jaw set, and he kept nodding. He wasn't fighting anymore. He couldn't fight anymore.

But Bart wasn't done yet.

For his entire life, running had been the only thing he knew he was truly good at. The best at, really. He grew up in a world where the only thing that made sense was to keep moving, and never look back, no matter what horrors lay on the road ahead, no matter whose face the corpse left behind wore. It was hardly a sin, and he had never felt much guilt. It was the way he'd been raised to live. The world had molded him into a survivor at heart. But Bart couldn't look back any farther than where he stood. There was nothing before this moment, and nothing after.

Bart took a few deep breaths from the respirator, and he pulled it from his mouth. Jaime watched him, still nodding, and Bart saw his shoulders shaking. They were going to take Jaime. They were going to turn him into the monster that brought about the apocalypse. He wouldn't be Jaime anymore, he would be moded, truly moded, and Bart couldn't stand the idea of it. He couldn't live with it.

He pressed his hand to his communicator, wishing for Miss Martian's mindlink, but knowing it was offline. He closed his eyes and winced as more toxic air filled his battered lungs. "Nightwing," he croaked. "Nightwing, it's Impulse— it's Bart… and it's Jaime…"

"I hear you," Nightwing breathed. He was working where the toxin couldn't get him, but he was running out of time. "Report."

He hadn't done this to report. He'd done it because he knew he wouldn't be able to again. Jaime was breathing heavily at his side, and he slumped against Bart, still nodding helplessly. "They're here," Bart said. His eyes swiveled, following the line of them as they marched. Closer and closer and closer… It was familiar to him. Not so much a horror as a distant memory. "Blue's out… Jaime's hurt bad, Nightwing, and… I can't…" I can't breathe, and I can't think, and you have to save them, you have to save Jaime, you can't let them have him!

"Impulse! Slow down, don't breathe too much! It's okay, I did it. Batgirl is with Miss M, about to distribute the antidote. Can you find a place for you and Jaime to hide until then?"

"That's good…" Bart whispered. He smiled. He looked at Jaime, and he smiled. He was still nodding, tears on his cheeks, but he smiled weakly back anyway. Bart looked up, and he saw was face to face with a Reach infantryman, his face masked by a war helm. "Thank you… thank you so much… and I'm really sorry."

"Impulse, stop. Whatever you're doing, stop and hide. I'm going to come get you two right now—"

Bart tore the communicator from his ear and tossed it aside. It was already much too late. If Bart had the ability to stand and face his soon-to-be killer with dignity, he would have. Instead he sat, and he nodded to Jaime. The boy had wiped away his tears, leaving his face smeared red, and he leaned his head back against the bent and dented door of the car, turning it toward Bart. They both knew that the soldier was waiting, thinking that it was a trap for two heroes to be sitting ducks waiting for the hunters to snag them. Maybe he forgot that they were human, and the poison they'd sent into the air affected them just as much as everyone else— more, in Bart's case.

"I did it," Jaime murmured, his voice soft against the noxious air. More infantrymen stepped up, swarming them. "Me and… me the scarab… me and Khaji Da… we agree on something. For once, we agree on something. We're… we're not getting used. By anyone. Ever."

And this was why the scarab had withdrawn its armor. Its desire to survive no longer fueled it. It had made a resolve to not become the monster of Earth's future, and of Bart's past. It was strange, and Bart scarcely understood it, certainly not now when he was choking on the air in his lungs, and staring down Reach weaponry without so much as batting an eye. But the scarab knew well what it was doing. It had made a decision. If Jaime Reyes died, then the scarab would die too. Host and parasite, life and death. Conjoined till the end.

It was poetic. It was all so poetic, and stupid, and crazy, because in a way, Bart had done what he'd wanted. The Reach would not get what they wanted. By killing Jaime, they killed their prize. They would never win Blue Beetle. They would never have Jaime. So Bart had succeeded, and it was awful. He had not wanted this. Jaime's death had never been part of the plan.

Damn it, Bart thought, looking up at the aliens who knew well what they were about to do, and he jerked his chin at them. He felt Jaime slump against his side. You did it, mi hermano. You did it.

He only felt it for a second. It wasn't hard to get a kill shot from three feet away. His last thoughts were about the future. His future. Would he have need to come back in time? What would happen to his body? He'd already changed history, and now he was a paradox. What if his father never met his mother because of the circumstances he'd arranged for this world? Did that matter now? Did anything matter anymore?

Jaime and Bart were dead long before Nightwing got to them. The scarab attached to Jaime's back was crushed, and there was too much blood on him to tell exactly what had killed him. Bart had died from a headshot.

Very far into the future, Bart Allen awoke to a red sky. He stared at it blankly, his head pounding, and he sighed. I'm a time traveler, he told himself. Or at least, I'm going to be…

Failing and forgetting never mattered. What mattered was that he kept going forward. And for him to do that, he had to keep going back.

I'm not sure if the ending counts as a twist. It's more like I was kind of just like, "Oh, time loops are fun, go with a time loop, but he doesn't know it's a time loop, just do that, it's a good place to end it." I don't know, I really like time loops.

Sooo, this came from a post adorable pragmatism made on tumblr when fangirling about Les Mis (which was great). "now i want fic where bart and jaime die together during Invasion like enjolras and grantaire so i can cry forever"

I took some liberties. And prayed I got Bart's and Jaime's characters right, because writing them was more difficult than I thought. Bart's pretty damaged, and Jaime's just a normal kid with a bug attached to his spine. It was weird. I hope I did okay, though! This was just mindless angsty fun. So, my favorite type of story, of course.

i also don't know what type of weapons the reach use or even exactly what their soldiers would look like, so i just didn't describe them. shhh.