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

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 Withdrawn and emotionless.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.