Jaime didn't remember falling asleep. The last thing his groggy mind recalled was being embraced by his scarab, safe in his armour - his second skin; the HUD glitching to life.
The whirring in his spine.
Purring, almost.
He'd never tell the team, never tell Artemis this, they'd probably think he'd gone back on mode or something, but… Jaime felt like part of him had been anesthetized when the scarab was knocked offline. He'd been so relieved to have that part of him back.
The scarab agreed.
The armour peeled back from his face, letting the sun's warm rays cover his skin. Thoughts started racing in his head; contingencies to prevent this from happening ever again, countermeasures for such a weapon—
What kind of weapon was it, even? he asked himself, lifting his hand to look at it still covered in the metallic black scute-like structure, blue energy glowing through the cracks and from his fingertips. He needed to find out what could even shut down the scarab like that.
If not for them, then at the very least, so the team wouldn't look at him like that again.
So Artemis wouldn't look at him like that, rather.
He needed to report the weapon, report whatever he could find about it. Nightwing would want details. He had some footage from the scarab, but every time he thought about it, his memory blurred—replaced with the weight of her body, her hands, her teeth.
Jaime's thoughts wandered to the night prior, his fingers ghosted over his neck, over his shoulder. Over the bite.
Heat flushed his cheeks, warming its way down to his collarbone.
"I need a shower," he said to no one, and heaved himself into a sitting position.
His joints felt rusty; like his insides were a thick paste he needed to grind slowly into position as if he'd been bed-bound for a week. Standing was an ordeal in and of itself. Jaime heard and felt the whirring of the armour in his joints and the scarab in his spine; felt his skin pull around it as it vibrated - twitched, almost - and worked the armour's systems to stand him up.
"Still waking up, 'ey?" he whispered, patting his leg like one patted an old dog struggling to come down from the porch. "Gonna need you to retract, buddy. Can't get to the shower looking like this."
Slowly, Jaime felt the musty Texas air touch the rest of his body, and despite the heat, he shivered; exposed.
His knees almost buckled, but he caught himself on his desk. It was like his limbs were asleep. Walking like a newborn deer, he made his way to the washroom and locked himself in, leaning against the door.
He pointedly ignored the mirror, feeling dread at the sight of himself. His heart dropped when he inevitably caught a glimpse of his face. God, he looked like shit. His eyes were bloodshot and smudged wtih darks rings beneath. He looked away, only for his breath to catch as he caught sight of his shoulder. The injury. The bite.
The bite, he mouthed, fingers once more ghosting over the mark Artemis had left him. His hand shook as he traced the edges of her teeth, of her possessiveness.
Something sick twisted in his chest at the thought.
Growling, Jaime ripped himself away from his treacherous reflection and forced himself into the shower, ignoring the sting of pain as the hot water hit his wound.
The bite.
Her mouth on him.
Her fingers, groping—
His hand found himself, and despite his cursing, Jaime found that his body was betraying him.
Why had it been so… hot?
Why had she done that to him?
With him?
Artemis was a lot of things, but she'd always looked out for him; they had… They'd been on a date, for Christ's sake!
He tried to make sense of it. To sort the pieces. She'd been scared. Terrified, even. She told him that; told him with her eyes that she had almost lost him. She wanted to ground herself. Maybe she thought he wanted that. Maybe he did. But no explanation fit right. Every angle cut him open.
Jaime grunted as he finished, thinking of her intense glare, her pink lips, her sharp teeth—
He turned on the cold water.
He didn't want to want it. That was the worst part. He didn't even know what "it" was.
When the cold water failed to distract him, he slammed his fist into the ceramic wall, shattering a tile and slicing his fingers and knuckles. Jaime didn't curse, didn't gasp, just panted as he dug out the chips of tile from his bleeding hand. His hands were shaking, and he was pretty sure he'd just torn more of his flesh open, digging for fragments that weren't even there.
He didn't care.
He focused on the pain.
Pain.
Pain was simple. Honest. It didn't lie to him, didn't shift under his feet like everything else.
A knock on the door.
"Mijo?" His mother. "I heard a noise, are you okay?"
He spat the thick saliva that came with the pain. "I'm fine, Amá," he said, fixing his best good-son voice. "Just slipped. I broke a tile," he added, dialling up the sheepishness to ten.
"Did you cut yourself?" The doorknob jiggled lightly. "I can fix you up, mijo?"
He forced out a lighthearted-sounding chuckle. "I'm okay, it's barely a nick. I've done worse shaving. I'll clean it and put a band-aid on it when I'm done, I promise, okay?"
There was a pause. "Okay, but make sure you disinfect it after cleaning it with soap and water, just in case!"
Jaime hummed in response and finished his cold shower. He armoured up his hand for the scarab to stitch it back together and wrapped the remaining injury with the gauze from the first aid kit under the sink.
"There we go," he said, looking at this handiwork. "All fixed."
Except he wasn't.
Jaime descended the stairs and made his way to the kitchen; slipping on a smile the way one puts on a mask. He ruffled Milagro's hair, helped his mom with breakfast - his favourite - joking all the while. He watched himself from a distance—hands moving, lips smiling, voice hitting the right beats. Like watching someone else's life in real-time.
He felt sick to his stomach, his insides twisting at the nauseating smell of the homecooked meal, his heart dropping deeper into the fathoms of his chest with every fake laugh that came out of his lying mouth.
Milagro glanced up at him once, brow scrunched, but didn't say anything. Just passed him the juice like nothing was wrong. Jaime poured himself a glass, suppressing a gag at the sound and smell. The eggs were perfect, the toast golden—everything he used to love. But the smell of grease hit him like blood in his mouth. He forced himself to chew.
"Did you sleep okay?" his mother asked, voice softer than usual.
He nodded, eyes on his plate, a polite smile on his lips as he pushed his food around. She didn't push. All he could stomach so far had been the coffee - black, with some sugar, which his mother noticed.
"Since when do you not put cream?" she asked, conversationally.
He hummed something as he dipped a toast into it and forced himself to eat something.
"What was that?"
"I said I dunno," he replied around the piece of toast. "Since I tried Artemis' iced coffee a few weeks ago, I guess." He dipped his toast again and finished the slice.
His mother paused at the stove, her spatula hovering above the pan. Just for a second. Then she moved again, like nothing happened.
"How is she? Artemis, I mean, she hasn't been around since that night." There was a question in his mother's voice, unspoken words asking, 'are you alright?'
Jaime didn't reply right away. "Amá, please. Not right now. I'm... just tired, okay?"
"Did you two have a fight? A lover's quarrel?' asked Milagro in a grating sing-song voice, completely disregarding Jaime's deflection.
"Yes, okay!?" he snapped at her, and immediately set his coffee down to run his hands down his face. "M-Mili, I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. His chair scraped loud against the tile as he stood—too fast, too clumsy, like he couldn't get away from himself fast enough. "I-I'll be in my room."
And just like that, he left them behind. The kitchen was silent for a moment, a beat too long, before he heard his sister's voice, broken, asking their mother why Jaime was angry with her.
He wasn't. But why couldn't Milagro just butt out? Jaime had not even been ready to talk about anything to their mom, much less his bratty younger sister! God, why couldn't they understand? He had so much more on his plate than just 'girl trouble.'
Did what happen with Artemis even count as that? Was it 'girl trouble' when, really, it was more 'PTSD and anxiety trouble managed by the only girl in the world who would even look his way'?
He slammed his bedroom door shut.
Jaime collapsed in his chair, feeling like a towel that had been wrung out until the threads came apart. He couldn't think - didn't want to spend another second lingering on what he and Artemis-
Stop, he told himself. Control yourself.
Jaime forced himself to take a deep breath and held it before letting it go. It didn't do anything, but the illusion that he could at least control his breathing gave him some recourse. He just had to distract himself, avoid thinking about her, and avoid thinking about how hurt his little sister had sounded after he snapped at her.
Luckily, he had the perfect distraction. Summoning his armor, Jaime went through the scarab's last memories, viewing the footage in first person once more. Despite this being so much clearer than an actual memory, Jaime could tell the scarab was dealing with corrupted files - still struggling to hold up the HUD, or even analyze the surroundings during the memory analysis. It was as if the scarab was hungover, trying to remember a drunken night; Jaime supposed that, in a way, it must've been.
"I dunno what they knocked us down with," he mumbled to the scarab. "But I need your help to make sure it doesn't happen again."
His head was filled with buzzing, the scarab straining to recover whatever data it could before it had been put offline, but no matter how slow, how precise or how generic he tried; Jaime was simply not able to receive a useful image. Not even a single frame of usable data. No heat signature. No visual clue. Just a blur—then blackout... Every attempt went from comparatively fine in one frame, to a near blackout in the next.
He had a migraine.
He could feel the pressure in the base of his skull, the angry buzzing of the scarab as it fought to gather an ounce of data. It wanted - it needed - to adapt, to neutralize the threat. for itself, and for Jaime.
Plic.
Startled, Jaime stared down at the sound, as static in his ears joined the buzzing in his brain.
Blood; a single crimson drop had fallen on his desk.
Plic. Another.
Jaime reached up with his bandaged hand and wiped his wet nose on instinct. His hand came away, gauze smeared with bright, angry red.
Through the haze of the migraine, Jaime managed to groan. Nothing like a nosebleed to top off this wonderful Sunday morning. What a shit sundae, he thought bitterly, stuffing some tissues in his nostrils.
Jaime leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, eyes burning.
"Nothing. Nada."
His voice sounded flat even to himself. Not even annoyed—just empty. The scarab buzzed weakly in the back of his skull, like it was sorry. He opened his comms interface with a flick of his hand. Typed without thinking.
BB: Scarab footage corrupted. No usable logs from EMP.
BB: Need access to Kord internal CCTV—especially near vault.
He stared at the message for a second, then hit send. A reply immediately followed:
NW: Got it. Forwarding request the footage rn. Might take a bit. Looping Artemis in—she saw what happened irl.
He slumped back in his chair, tissue stuffed in his nose, migraine burning behind his eyes.
This was fine.
This was manageable.
At least it wasn't—
He stopped himself.
God, what was wrong with him?
His phone chimed and Jaime felt the weight of a thousand tons settle into his bones. The phone suddenly weighted like a dumbbell in his hand.
He did not want to look.
Another chime.
A long, suffering sigh escaped his lips. After a beat, he looked down:
Artemis: hey :) NW looped me in
Artemis: sending you my bodycam footage, hope it helps!
His stomach flipped, and the phone almost slipped from his weak grasp. Jaime barely managed to hold onto it long enough to let it clatter on his desk instead of the floor, where he inevitably would've left it until he had the courage to respond to her when she was being this... weird.
It made his skin crawl.
He felt the bite more so than any point since yesterday. Hot, feverish, angry, almost.
Staring at the screen, Jaime wasn't sure how to respond. Did she expect a thank you? Did she... was she being nice because she regretted yesterday?
Or maybe she's looking for more? an intrusive thought whispered in his head, and a dark tentacle twisted, wrapping itself around his loins and stomach; squeezing in a delectably painful way.
Artemis: lmk if you wanna second pair of eyes
Artemis: I remember more than I wish i did...
"Me too," he mumbled in reply. "And yet it's still not enough."
The texts went unanswered.
He opened the footage from her bodycam. The CCTV was still transferring. Good—more time to drown himself in work. That's what his brain needed.
He pressed play.
The hallway. The vault door. The team moving in formation. Artemis giving him quiet instructions through comms. Her voice low. Calm. In control.
Almost in control.
There was a faint layer there, Jaime thought, of something familiar. Her voice wasn't quite as steeled as he had thought he remembered it to have been. In the moment, he had heard her bark at him. Now though... his fingers ghosted over the bite one more time.
She said his name the same way, didn't she? Like a command. Like a plea.
Everything went sideways, both in the video and real life. Disoriented, Jaime barely managed to catch himself on the edge of his desk before he faceplanted. With the footage of the fight replaying in front of his eyes, Jaime hobbled to his bed, grasping at the wall like a blind man. The fight dragged on, Jaime felt nauseous, seeing his body from her perspective - god he really was so slow and clumsy, wasn't he?
Then it happened, Jaime barely saw the weapon and his body seized on the camera, a bloodcurdling scream escaping the gaping maw his mouth had become.
"Stop it," he mumbled weakly, closing his eyes, turning away.
"S-Stop it," he repeated more firmly, but his voice quavered pathetically.
The video should've stopped, the sound at least - why was he still screaming in the video?
Was he screaming in the video? Maybe he was screaming in his bedroom, like a lunatic.
Buzzing.
Static.
More blood dripped down his nose, the tissues long since torn out or fallen. The last few seconds were continually playing on repeat behind his shut eyelids.
It just wouldn't stop.
Why wouldn't it just stop?
Jaime tried to breathe, tried to hold it in like before, but his lungs were a stuttering mess, gasping for air and letting it all escape before he could even enjoy the damn oxygen! His fingers shook violently as he navigated his phone clumsily. He barely managed to drop it on the desk instead of the floor—where he knew he'd leave it until he could face her again:
BB: come plz
There was no soft knock on his door. It just creaked open slowly with the practised paranoia of someone who's lived too much. Artemis stepped in, padding her way to him, like a cat worried for its human.
As if he'd disappear if she made too much noise.
Jaime thought he might actually disappear.
Her fingers brushed against his, clenched on the windowsill.
He jumped, the scarab coming alive to protect it; but it knew her, knew this place. And while it crackled with power, scutes flaring protectively, Jaime knew he was finally safe.
She sat down gently, next to him as if he wasn't fucking melting. At first, she didn't say anything or Jaime couldn't hear it over his hyperventilating, and the thumping of his heart. Finally, Jaime managed to focus on her lips enough to guess she indeed was talking to him.
Faraway, like screaming underwater. Still, her voice cut through the fog and cacophony.
"You look like shit." Her eyebrows creased together in genuine concern for him - for *him* - and her fingers tightened around his. "But you called me," she breathed out, as if all the anger they'd spat at each other, the marks she'd left on him, had never happened. Like he was the apple of her eyes.
Her hand left his, and a disgustingly pathetic whimper escaped his lips at the loss of her grounding touch. She shushed him gently, cradling his face with her gentle, caring, loving hands. She wiped the blood from his lips, as if she was cleaning a divine idol, like this ritual was the most sacred act she could ever hope to perform. Her hands didn't tremble, but there was something fragile in her breath.
"Jaime," she muttered, voice like in the bodycam footage - like in the infirmary.
Like in his dream.
He cried harder, but his lungs were empty. No sound came out as he curled into her, grasping at her shirt like a child woken from a nightmare clings to their parent. Her arms wrapped around him, gentle at first, then tightening with the comfortable ease and pressure of someone who knew - knew that simple touch wouldn't ground you, couldn't bring you back from that other life your mind was seeing.
Pressure.
Jaime sputtered, coughing on his nosebleed. He probably spat some blood over her, but Artemis didn't care, she only adjusted them, moving him with her; like she knew he'd be too weak to follow on his own. His breathing started to slow, as he felt her face in his hair, her breath on him, his own in the crook of her neck. He felt her pulse, her heat against him, and for a moment he forgot how cold he'd been.
Weakly, but no less earnest, his arms wrapped around her, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of her hoodie, and without thinking, Jaime buried his face against her. Artemis hummed - or maybe crooned - as she held him against her like this.
What kind of hero ends up like this—crying in bed, dragging down the only people still willing to look him in the eye?
Entwined.
Jaime woke up when the sun was setting.
A quiet ping echoed in his head, as the scarab finally received the entirety of the Kord Industries' footage. But Jaime could not bring himself to care right now. He was warm, he was comfortable, and he and Artemis were all but melded to each other; legs tangled together as if they'd done this a thousand times. He was wrapped in her arms and she, wrapped in his.
She looked so peaceful, a few strands had come out of her usually stern ponytail, softening her image from J.I. Jane to a sexy librarian - minus the glasses.
Jaime flushed. At this thought, at her heat on him; at the thought that a girl was in his bed. Artemis was here. Real. Breathing. Holding him like he was hers.
Jaime breathed it in. It was quiet, but full. Good.
Another ping - possibly from the scarab trying to urge him to get to work for their own sake. Jaime breathed in the calmness one last time before he stretched, reaching for his phone to reply to Nightwing.
He didn't even realize she was awake until he heard the faint rustle of fabric—followed by a soft, sleepy hum against his shoulder. Her fingers found his other shoulder and squeezed gently - where she had bit him, except this time it felt reverent, not painful - like she was trying to bring them closer. Jaime obliged, shifting to face her. Faces mere inches apart.
Artemis brought her hand to his temple, gently scratching his head with her nails, raking her fingers through his curls tenderly. Without thinking she brushed a strand from his forehead, smoothing his hair down.
It was such a small gesture. So casual. Like she'd done it a hundred times.
Like it was hers to do.
He swallowed the sudden dry lump that formed in his throat. "I... Sorry I wasn't trying to wake you," he said, his voice gravelly from his impromptu nap.
"'S okay," she replied, her voice still low, and half-laced with sleep. "We should probably get up soon. You-" the hand that was around his waist pulled him even closer- "need to eat after bleeding like that."
"I probably ruined your shirt," he replied, trying to see how much blood had gotten on her.
She shrugged and hummed softly. The way her sleep-husky voice resonated in his ears sent a shiver up his spine.
"Speaking of," she finally said, and giggled - *giggled* - at his expression. "Relax, Blue. I'm kidding... mostly."
Jaime let out a small sigh of relief.
"But really, you should apologize to your baby sister."
A pang of guilt hit him square in the chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "How d'you-?"
"Oh, um..." Artemis bit her lip in an uncharacteristic display of bashfulness. "Your mom and I kind talked when I ran here."
"You... ran here?"
She levelled a look at him, but it was more endearing than anything. "Part of the way, yeah," she admitted, looking away. "But I did use the zeta tubes and my motorcycle. It's probably blocking your dad's parking space right now."
"Wait, you and my mom talked?"
She chuckled. "Yeah... she was really worried about you. Said you never acted like that towards Milagro."
He looked away in shame. "Not one of my proudest moments as her big brother, that's for sure," he admitted.
When he didn't continue, Artemis pressed him, gently. "What's going on through your head, Blue?"
"I... I was scared, and confused," he said, still not looking at her. "About... About the mission, the scarab, the infirmary-"
"What was so confusing about that?' she asked, an edge to her voice; but it wasn't anger. No, this was warmer; more dangerous, yet more tantalizing.
"I-I," he stuttered. "J-Just... I don't know why..."
Artemis leaned into the crook of his neck; her lips ghosting over his pulse - it was strong, hot, healthy, present - and she kissed it tenderly. "Jaime," she whispered, in a voice unlike anything she had ever said to him. "I needed you, needed to know you were still here. Still..."
"Yours..?"
He felt her smile against his neck, and she nipped at him playfully here and there. He gasped, but he was flustered and covered in a crimson blush. A smile was on his lips.
A fire ignited in his belly.
As if she'd been witness to the sparks lighting inside him, she leaned back, putting a gentle hand on his chest. Jaime was pretty sure that hand was the only thing keeping his heart from punching through his ribs.
"Enough of that," she chastised playfully, as though she wasn't the one to rile him up in the first place. "Will you go apologize to your baby sister? If not for her, then for me?"
He looked at her - really looked at her.
"You don't know how much it would've meant to me if my sister would've done that as kids," she whispered, looking up at him.
Jaime looked away.
On the screen, the Kord Industries footage finished buffering. The mission—the threat—was waiting.
But Artemis didn't look. Not yet. She was still watching him. Still brushing her fingers through his hair, like she'd found something soft inside him worth untangling.
And something did.
"Yeah, let's go," he whispered to her. "Maybe we can take her out for ice cream, if Amà'll let me."