Archive of Our Own

Jaime. Jaime Reyes.

You’ve always liked that name. The sharp, sweet taste of it on your tongue. The way your heart kicks up its beat every time it’s dropped in casual conversation. The little twist of accent when he introduces himself, that lilt you can’t manage to mimic.

But most of all, you like the way it sounds when you say, “I love you, Jaime Reyes.”

You’re just hoping it’ll sound as good to him.

It’s been three years since you first met. In that time, you’ve saved the world. You’ve defeated supervillains. You’ve led missions. You’ve saved people. You’ve nearly died. You’ve faced all of that with bravado and recklessness, staring disaster down with a wink and a wave.

And yet you’re absolutely terrified to knock on his door.

"Come on, come on, this is stupid," you mutter, rubbing your shoulders and pretending your shivering is from the midwinter chill. "I can crash this, it’ll be fine."

You’ve never been a coward. But then, you’ve never had much to lose. Your life, yeah, but you’ve lived with that on the line for your entire existence. This is different. This is cutting yourself open, letting him reach in and wrap his fingers around your heart. This is giving him the power to destroy you in a battlefield you’re barely managing to stand on.

As much as you trust him, you can’t help but wonder how much you’re really worth in his eyes. That’s the thing about caring. It’s a currency. Back in the future, you learned pretty damn fast that no one had the time or energy to spend on you.

You don’t know why you think it’ll be any different with Jaime Reyes. You’re still not sure why he kept letting you come around after the Reach were defeated. What use does he get out of you? You’re just the stupid, obnoxious future kid who doesn’t know how to shut up. Why should he—

"Ese, you’ve been standing out there for the past five minutes." The crackle of Jaime’s voice over the intercom makes you jump, and you nearly slip off the icy step.

It takes you a minute to recover from your panic. Fuck, you think, because it’s an accurate as any description of how you’re feeling right now. “I—took you long enough!” you shoot back, pretending there’s no startled crack in your voice. Forcing down your staccato heartbeat, you launch into a nonsensical ramble; anything to keep him from guessing the truth. “I mean, I was just testing your—observance! And—attention skills! I mean, really, dude. I totally could’ve been, like, Adam Savage or something, and I’d walk right in and you’d be like whaaaaat, I did not see that coming!”

"I’m sure." It’s difficult to hear over the static, but there’s a ring of amusement in his voice that you’re clinging to. "Come on in, the door’s open."

You think you’re going to shatter as you open the door. Jaime’s disappearing into his bedroom when you step into the entryway, and he throws over his shoulder, “You should’ve called first! I would’ve gotten dressed.”

That’s… not a mental image you really need right now. Fidgeting on the too-white carpet, you glance about the room and attempt a shaky jibe: “What, is this lounge-around-in-your-PJs day?” You already know the answer, because you have just about his entire being memorized. Saturdays are his lazy days, and he won’t get off the couch unless he has to. He’ll go about in nothing more than pants if he can get away with it. Oh God.

Jaime returns in under a minute, thankfully clothed in a hoodie and ripped jeans. Of course, he looks great in anything, so it doesn’t do your wandering thoughts much good. “It’s a Saturday, ese. What’d you expect?”

"Like I can remember all your weird habits." You roll your eyes; probably too hard for the act. Jaime doesn’t seem to notice.

"So what’s up? I mean, I don’t mind you crashing here whenever, but usually you’ve got some wild plan cooked up." He gives that stupid, gorgeous little grin, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching you.

Right. That drags your careening thoughts back to center. Didn’t you have a plan here? “I—uh—well, it’s just—” A hundred excuses race through your brain, sugar-tipped lies to keep him in the dark a while longer. But you’ve been doing that for three years now. You’re not sure you have the heart to go through the motions again.

Finally, you sigh and wrap your arms about yourself. “I just—I need to talk to you about something,” you mumble, avoiding his curious gaze. It’s like he’s stripping you down layer by layer, and he’s going to hit the truth any moment now.

After a beat of silence, Jaime says, “Okay.” He glances into the living room, gesturing towards the couch. “Wanna sit down?”

You feel like a train wreck as you slump onto the couch cushions. Pulling your legs up, you fidget with your sweater collar as Jaime takes the armchair opposite you. How did you ever convince yourself this was a good idea? You’re feeling the mode and you don’t think it’s going to crash any time soon.

"Bart?"

Twitching, you look up at him and try to tape your shattered confidence back together. It doesn’t work. “Look, I—man, no, you know what, it’s totally nothing, I’m just being stupid—”

"You aren’t stupid."

The conviction in his voice is just enough to make you pause. You drag your gaze up to his, breath frozen as you try not to fall apart in front of him. There’s a tense stretch of silence between the two of you, your mind overloading as you search for a path out of this disaster. Maybe you can scrap together another time machine.

Jaime’s just… sitting there. Waiting. As much as that sets you on edge, you have to admit it’s better than the pressure he could be giving you. He’s always been patient, and maybe that’s part of what draws you to him. Makes you think that maybe, if you’re very lucky, he’ll have time for you.

You steel yourself with thoughts like that. Memories, mostly: of 3am phone conversations and midnight escapades; of a shoulder to cry on and steady hand when you’re struggling. Of a mission gone wrong and his panic as you bled out; of a day saved and his grin meant for you alone. Of that one night not-so-long ago when you lay sobbing and he came up to your room with nothing but quiet words and gentle hands.

"I really want to kiss you." The confession spills out before you can think about it, and the millisecond your mind processes what you’ve just said, you jerk back. "Oh God! Shit, no, that’s not what I meant, I—" This wasn’t the plan, this isn’t how it was supposed to go! Pressing your hands to your face, you shake your head and wish for reality to open up and swallow you whole.

When that doesn’t work, you force yourself to look up—but Jaime’s risen from his chair, walking off into the kitchen. You nearly choke on the stab of anxiety that rises up in you, and for a few moments you stop functioning.

Then, you bury your face in your knees and try not to break open. The stupidity of this endeavor threatens to drown you, dragging over the particle remains of your crushed self-esteem. His name flashes in your mind, nothing but mocking now. Jaime Reyes. Jaime. Reyes. How the hell did you think you had any sort of chance with him? Are you out of your mind? Learn your fucking place.

"Hey."

You almost break your neck with how fast you snap your gaze up. And before you can fully comprehend what’s happening, there are fingers in your hair and a mouth pressed against yours, warm and dry and tasting of reheated coffee. Just as your mind catches up with reality, he pulls back.

He offers you a can of Arizona tea, saying, “Here. You look like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin. It’s no Chicken Whizzies, but it might keep your blood sugar from crashing. Or, feeling the mode, I guess you would say.”

You take the drink with trembling fingers. At this point, it’s all you have the mental capacity for. The surreality of this situation has left you in that half-blank state where you’re moving primarily on instinct.

Jaime joins you on the couch, sitting crosslegged on the other end. He watches you for a few minutes, as you sip your deathly sweet comfort drink and try to figure out how to react. “I’d ask how long, but that’s kinda cliche.” There’s a pause, before he continues, “And I’m pretty sure I know the answer, anyway.”

You don’t respond—what can you say? There’s nothing but static playing over and over in your head as you try to keep breathing.

"I mean, it was kind of obvious." He flashes you a grin (and you have to pretend you weren’t just kissing those lips if you don’t want your heart to stop). "But… I didn’t think it was serious, you know? I mean, it’s kind of a Flash family thing, from what I’ve heard. Excessive flirting. With everyone." He gives a small laugh, and you suppress a wince.

There’s still nothing for you to say, so that’s exactly how you reply.

He fidgets with his sleeve for a moment, before glancing at you. “Um, look, if I’m really fucking this up, I’m sorry. Should I stop? I mean—god.” Drawing in a deep breath, he lets out a sigh and rubs his face with his hand. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… I love you too.”

For a frozen moment, you can’t do anything but stare at him. He stares back, a little edgy and nervous to match your own fluctuating anxiety.

"Was that the wrong thing to say? Should I—"

There’s quite suddenly tea soaking into his pristine white carpet, because you’ve got your hands on his shoulders and your mouths crushed together. For a split second, he’s tense beneath you. But that melts away as he pushes his hands up into the thick tresses of your hair and leans in towards you. You kiss for all you’re worth, lips moving against his and nails scraping the back of his neck.

It’s all too soon that you need to breathe again, and your separation is like emerging from ice water. There’s a faint tremble in your hands, and his chest rises and falls at a rate far too rapid to hide. You stare at each other until your lungs stop working overtime, and it’s only then that you think to say it.

"I love you, Jaime Reyes."

(Tomorrow morning, he’ll tell you it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.)