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“Right,” Jaime snaps, haughty and sharp. “‘Cause heaven fucking forbid you let the people who love you take care of you without knocking you out first.”
Bart’s retort dies on the tip of his tongue, an intense swooping feeling tumbling through his stomach.
It’s not guilt. Well, it is guilt, but it’s not just that.
The people who love you, Jaime'd said. As though counting himself among them.
Well, doi, right? Of course he does. Why is that a surprise?
It’s just—he doesn’t think Jaime’s ever actually said it before. Out loud.
Yeah, no, he’s sure he hasn’t. Bart would remember. He always remembers Jaime related things. Not even on purpose, honestly. He can’t seem to train his brain to stop.
His throat feels too tight, suddenly. Invaded by heat.
He wants to ask, ‘do you mean that? ’ He wants to argue, ‘I can handle it,’ or ‘You don’t need to keep fussing over me all the time.’ He wants to say, ‘I’m sorry I keep making this hard for you.’
He doesn’t. He can’t. The words are all competing to come out at the same time and getting stuck as a result.
‘The people who love you.’
Do you? Love me?
He finally manages a swallow. There’s an ache taking shape in the center of his chest.
Why does that—why is that so much? Why does he feel too small all of a sudden? Like there’s not enough room in his body to fit those words inside him.
That’s a very stupid thing to feel, in his opinion. Your best friend telling you they love you should not suddenly make you feel like you’re about to combust.
Jaime starts to turn his head questioningly. Bart can’t always tell if things are happening for him in standard or relative time, especially if he’s taken off guard. It must be standard time right now though, and he’s been quiet for too long.
“...I’m sorry,” he finally manages. It’s barely a murmur and more than a little croaky.
Jaime meets his eyes and looks...exhausted. Still pissed off, too, but the fight is already going out of him. Bart’s glad. He hates fighting with him. He isn’t trying to make this hard.
Jaime sighs and rubs his temples again with one hand.
“You just. I can’t keep doing this, Bart. I can’t keep wondering, every day, if you’re going to jump off a bridge the second I take my eyes off you.”
That’s not fair. He’s not trying to make things hard. He’s not.
“I’m not suicidal, Jaime,” he says, more flatly than he means to.
“Could have fooled me.”
Bart bites back what he wants to say. What he wants to argue. He doesn’t want to fight with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats instead, and tries to sound like he means it. He does mean it.
Jaime’s eyes have a hard edge to them, but there’s something close to pleading in them, too. “It’s really Ed you should be apologizing to. You scared the hell out of him, pulling that stunt.”
Bart’s eyes fall to his lap, guilt squirming back into his chest with a vengeance.
“I know you’re used to the Team knowing the way you do things, but he’s brand new at this. Ed hasn’t been with us long enough to question a decision from another team member. When you tell him to do something, you have to assume he’s automatically going to trust you and do it, because you have more experience in the field.”
He’s right. Bart knows he’s right. But this guilt feels even worse than fighting does, so.
“I couldn’t just leave those people to die, Jaime.”
Jaime sighs, forcefully. “That’s not even the main issue here. You lied about agreeing to leave, Bart. You can’t do that.”
“There wasn’t enough time for him to help me! It would’ve been too much of a risk if he stayed.”
“Bart, he teleports instantaneously! If it’s too dangerous for him, then it’s also too dangerous for you!”
“Instantaneous to your eyes maybe. Besides, I don’t know if anything he’s not trying to teleport can end up going with him. It’s like you said, I know what I’m doing. I knew how much time I had—”
“Except you didn’t!” Jaime snaps, getting agitated again. “You waited until the last possible nanosecond, meaning that if I hadn’t gone back for you, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
But you did go back for me, Bart thinks. You always do.
‘You can’t always assume it’ll work out like that,’ Jaime would say back. Bart already knows. He can hear Jaime’s voice in his head as if they did go down that road, so he doesn’t.
“You can’t lie about that stuff, Bart,” Jaime says instead, and Bart can’t tell if it’s a demand or a plea. “Not for any reason. Especially not if you think it’s for a good reason, because I’m telling you right now that it’s probably bullshit.”
Turns out, fighting is only making Bart’s guilt feel worse rather than being a distraction from it like he hoped, so he gives up on it again.
“Okay,” he concedes. “Fine. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.”
“Tell it to Ed,” Jaime repeats tiredly, the edge to his voice softening out again. Bart nods, slumping down a bit into his pillows.
“...Is he okay?” he asks, tentative. “Physically, I mean.”
“Yeah. Just…shaken up. I told him I’d let him know when you woke up.”
Heat flares at the tips of Bart’s ears, and starts to creep across his cheekbones.
He’s not sure he’s ready to face him just yet.
“...Can you tell him in a few hours?”
He’s not sure Jaime hears him at first, his voice too quiet, but then Jaime looks at him again and sighs out through his nose.
“Fine,” he agrees. “You’re not getting rid of me though, and tough shit if you don’t like it. You’ve lost your being-out-of-my-sight privileges.”
That knocks a laugh from Bart’s chest. Just a small one, more of a huff of breath than an actual laugh. It’s still enough to make his ribs twinge.
“Okay.”
He swears Jaime’s eyes actually change to a warmer brown when he stops being mad at him. That they shift in tone with his mood. Maybe that’s nuts. He probably shouldn’t even notice things like that.
Old habits.
The hospital bed is small but Bart moves over anyway and pats the open space. Jaime looks skeptical, but as Joan likes to tell Bart, he’s thin as a reed and twice as springy. He doesn’t take up much room. Jaime seems to come to the same conclusion and scoots in beside him.
It is a tight fit, but they manage it, maneuvering around each other until Bart is lying angled on his hip, curled into Jaime’s side. Jaime fishes headphones out of the pocket of his hoodie and sticks one side in Bart’s ear and one in his own, plugging the other end into his phone and pulling up a video.
Bart’s head is on Jaime’s shoulder. He has to adjust his earbud a bit so it doesn’t press too hard into his skin. Jaime slouches a little and tilts his own head to rest on Bart’s hair once he’s settled. It’s cozy, and that makes up for the squishiness, he thinks. He likes being this close to Jaime anyway. He’s much more solid than him (Jaime’s always complaining that Bart’s too bony) and there’s something comforting about that. He feels like...steadiness. Like safety. Which is maybe kind of ironic.
Or, maybe it isn’t. Jaime had never been the one that hurt him, after all. Not really. He knows that now, for certain.
This gray hoodie in particular is also the softest one he wears. Mrs. Reyes must have finally wrestled it off of him recently, because it smells like laundry. It also already smells like Jaime again though, when Bart breathes in deep enough. There’s something comforting about that, too.
Is that weird? Should he even know what Jaime smells like? He supposes there isn’t really any avoiding it. They spend too much time together not to know.
It must not be that weird. He knows what Cassie smells like too, and Gar, and Cissie.
And Tim.
Another lump forms suddenly in the back of his throat. He’s not sure what it’s made of this time. Anger, probably.
Stupid secret bat plots. Batman can jump off a bridge for all Bart cares.
He’s probably lucky Robin isn’t here though, in this case. He would’ve chewed him out much worse than Jaime.
Then again, if he’d been here, maybe their plan would have actually gone smoothly like it was supposed to, and he’d be busy sipping strawberry milkshakes at the MHYC with Ed right now instead of being stuck in a hospital bed.
Bart sighs. Stop it. No what-ifs.
His heart skips, startled, as Jaime’s shoulder shifts away from him, nearly knocking his earbud out. Bart lifts his head, thinking Jaime’s pulling away to get up. It’s the opposite. Jaime’s just moving his arm, wrapping it around Bart’s back before settling down again. Guess Bart’s sigh must’ve been too big.
It’s nice. Being held. Jaime, holding him.
‘Heaven fucking forbid you let the people who love you take care of you.’
Bart glances away from the video on Jaime’s phone down to Jaime’s forearm around him.
Maybe he’s right. It’s just…he’s not used to having people that love him. Well, not used to those people still being alive. He’s used to surviving. To making things work, even when they aren’t supposed to be possible. That was his job.
That’s what he’s always been told he’s supposed to do.
‘Let the people who love you take care of you.’
He hasn’t. The minute Gar offered them rooms at the Hub, Bart practically stopped sleeping at Jay and Joan’s all together. It’s been four days, and Artemis is still waiting for him to call her back. He babysits the twins two times a week, and yet he hasn’t really looked Barry in the eye since the arctic.
Jaime’s arm fits snugly around Bart’s torso, hooking just under Bart’s own arm. Just over Bart’s ribs. Jaime’s picking absentmindedly at the cuticle of his thumb. The rise and fall of his chest is steady under Bart’s cheek.
Fine. He can try. He probably owes it to Jaime to try. He did save Bart’s life today (again).
He’s lost track by now, how many times they’ve traded off doing that. Saving each other. Probably ‘too many for two kids who haven’t even lived through two decades yet,’ as Jay would put it.
‘The people who love you.’
Growing up, he never thought he’d get to make friends that he’d have a chance to keep. He certainly never expected Jaime. How could he have ever expected Jaime?
Bart lets his full weight sink into Jaime’s side. He lets himself be held.
‘The people who love you.’
Bart snakes an arm around Jaime’s stomach, curling his fingers into the far side of the pocket of Jaime’s hoodie.
I love you, too, he thinks, holding tight. Holding him.
I’ll try. For you.