#character: bart

[fromfalklands]

Her hips sway with the steady thump, thump of the bass and the screech of the lead vocals. Strobe lights illuminate the smile creasing her features, and you test the waters by reaching for her. She spins into you, with the sort of graceful ease meant for ballerinas balancing on tippy-toes. 

She leans into you, and with a bright-eyed laugh, says, "Keep your hands on the waist, Junior. I've got a killer right hook."

She twirls far enough away to make you want more (everything with you is want, want, want).

While she tosses blonde locks from side to side, she says, "And plus, I'm equipped with mace."

You laugh, and it matches her her blinding aura.

"A regular Boy Scout."

She keeps edging towards you and then twirling away, managing to keep you on your toes with the simple shimmy of her hips and the shuffle of her feet.

"Or a teenage girl that can handle herself."

(You never doubted that.)

*

She sips at a God-knows-what through a bendy straw, neatly tucking stray locks of hair behind her ear. She leans forward in her seat just enough that her tank top rides up just enough to reveal porcelain skin (lacking flaws as far as the eye can see).

You ask, "Aren't you only, what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

She waves her glass slightly, causing the ice to clink against the sides.

Says, "It's Coca-Cola, genius."

*

You ask about her (reaching for a name, hobbies, whatever she's willing to offer).

She laughs, ruffling your hair in one, easy motion.

"That's cute. What is this, eHarmony?"

*

At the end of the night, she scribbles a phone number on the palm of your hand with a Bic ballpoint pen. Blue ink. 

(She writes bubbly enough to be flirty, but adds enough pressure to the pen to make a point.)

She clicks the pen and points it at you, says, "Let's get one thing straight, I'm not your booty call."

You flush pink, all the way up to your ears.

She smiles and pinches your cheek between her thumb and forefinger.

"But then, I probably didn't need to warn you in the first place."

*

She leaves all smiles, in a flurry of skirts and blonde locks.

(You think you might like her.)

[fromfalklands]

Wild heart, child heart.

There's static on your end of the comm, fading quickly into a voice-- one that spits laughter and paints cocksure grins. It asks, "Race you to the Grand Canyon?"

Tommy.

You duck and weave through debris, the scarlet suit fitting you like a second skin-- boots slapping against the sun-drenched pavement in a desperate attempt to save the world, or something like it. You tap the comm as you push forward (one thing speedsters are never short on is time. Except for now, maybe). There's an out-of-breath sigh falling from chapped lips, you saying, "Wish I could, Tommy. But I'm kind of-- busy."

He sighs, too. And it stings like a slap to the face.

"You understand, right? I mean, this whole superhero gig-- you know how it is." There's a silence that seems to stretch out forever, him trapping his breath inside corrupted lungs. He says, "No, I don't. You're the big shot here. I wouldn't know anything about that."

You frown, weaving through back alleyways in-between words. "Yeah, but you're a part of the Young Avengers and--"

"That's just it, Bart. You're The Flash. The Scarlet Speedster. The guy everyone looks up to with stars in their eyes. They barely even know who I am. You should know better than anyone else how that feels. After all, you were just Kid Flash a few days ago."

"I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't. Go save the world, Bart."

There's static.

And then soon, black follows (an inevitable death, bloodied knuckles pounding against your skull, laughs cracking against the air like a whip). 

And then when he's got arms folded, his back facing you as you stumble onto the rooftop-- you ask, with an everlasting smile,

"Still up for that race to the Grand Canyon?"

[fromfalklands]

01. ALL IS WELL (GOODBYE, GOODBYE) — RADICAL FACE (x) 02. KIDS (MGMT COVER) — LADY DANVILLE (x) 03. YOUTH — DAUGHTER (x) 04. SUNSHINE EYES — POLARSETS (x) 05. DEAD HEARTS — STARS (x) 06. YOUR BONES — OF MONSTERS AND MEN (x) 07. HALO — BLOC PARTY (x)   08. I'LL BUILD YOU A FIRE — SEABEAR (x)

[fromfalklands]

Teach us to sit still.

He has hands tucked into denim pockets while you use the edge of the building as a balance beam, arms outstretched in an attempt to provide some sort of balance. He has his eyebrows furrowed together, the space between them stretched thin-- you think this is the most focused you've ever seen him. When you're too busy traveling the distance between the 'you are here' point and Spain, neither of you have a lot of time to think-- all you can do is listen to the heavy footfalls. 

He opens and closes his mouth multiple times, like a fish. Like he's searching for the right words to say, but has yet to find them-- or like they taste bitter on his tongue. Foreign, unfamiliar. That's how it's been recently. You expected it to all fall back into place, simple and easy-- but you've been wrong before. Plenty of times, actually.

This was one of those times.

You mumble, "I didn't think we'd have to talk about it. I didn't think we'd need to." He glances up, eyebrows still furrowed. You turn on the ball of your foot, start the other way-- still practicing your tightrope walking routine for the circus. His voice is dry, sounds like tinfoil-- like static, snow on the television screen. "Bart, you died." You shrug, never looking away from your feet (that's how it usually goes). "Most people do. It's the circle of life. Hey! Ever seen the Lion King?"

"Don't change the subject."

You frown, go silent-- something rare for you. He sighs, heavy like the tension weighing down on the both of you. "Most people stay dead, you know." You pause, your footing nearly slipping (you notice him flinch, reach out for you). "You sayin' you wanted me to stay dead?" He sighs again, even heavier this time. "No, no. I'm just saying-- it's a surprise, that's all. It still hasn't sunk in, you know?" You slip into a sitting position, shake your head. "No. It's not like anything's changed." He, Tommy, laughs at this-- but it's not a funny laugh. It's the sort of laugh that's meant to feel gaps, dulled down with sandpaper. "You can't be serious. You became the Flash-- you ditched. I'm not saying it was completely your decision, but things changed, Bart. Things changed and then you died. And now--" He hesitates. "Now you're back."

You swing your legs over the edge so you can face him-- so you can have feet firmly planted on the ground. "Yeah. So-- can't we just fall back into routine or something?" You've never seen him falter so much. He's Tommy-- he doesn't falter. He's ten shades of confidence and then some. It makes you itch. "You're different, you know." 

"Duh. I went from Impulse to Kid Flash to the Flash and back again. I went from sixteen to twenty and back to sixteen. I died and then I rose from the grave. Sort of like Jesus."

He laughs-- now that's something familiar. "Maybe it's the second coming of the Messiah." You grin, flashing pearly whites until your jaw feels heavy. "Think so? Dying for your sins might take a firing squad or something. Nothing personal." You both laugh and laugh until you're sick to your stomachs-- dull aches penetrating your sides. He rubs at his arm, scuffs his sneakers against the ground. "But you are different. Calmer, more patient, always one step ahead of everyone-- but not in the same way you used to be. Not just in speed, I mean. It's weird."

You grin. "Yeah? You're different, too." 

You watch his features twist and morph into confusion-- but yet, he still grins. "Yeah? How so?"

You're on your feet, quickly becoming a blur-- "You're slower."

[fromfalklands]

Cyborg's face blurs in front of you while they're lifting you onto a gurney-- too many noises, too many to count on fingers and toes, rushing past you. Someone shouting-- a doctor, you think. You're holding your knee (or what's left of it) between bloody hands. You bite your lip until you taste copper.

He says, "This is going to hurt, Impulse."

You know, you know, you know.

With voice rough, a croak (you first think it belongs to someone else), you say, "I don't care. Just..." There's a weighted pause in there-- something that surprises you. A pause, a measured one. You don't pause. You never pause. You don't think too much about it. Not when you can feel the warm liquid soaking your second-skin suit.

"Just don't tell the Flash I messed up."

[fromfalklands]

"I never meant to hurt your feelings, Bart."

That, too, makes you laugh. Still not the funny sort.

"Gimme a break. If I can survive being kneecapped by Deathstroke, I can survive getting slammed by you."

"Deathstroke? What did he--?"

He didn't even know. He didn't even know. That might hurt most of all.

[fromfalklands]

You think back to your Impulse days. Just don't tell the Flash you messed up, you want to say. But with a painful glance, you realize, you are the Flash. You want to laugh at that, too. 

[fromfalklands]

With more venom than intended, he says, "Can you just do something useful for once, Bart? Please?"

While jutting out your lip in a pout, you tug down your goggles.

"Aye, aye, captain."

And he scoffs-- scoffs like you're a blip on his radar. And maybe you are.

"Just, for once-- think."

Everyone's always telling you that. Just think, Bart. Just think. 

They say it like it's easy. Because, for everyone else, it is.

It's easy to take a moment to pause-- to slow down. You can't. You're not allowed that luxury. You're stuck in subjective time-- stuck forever thinking a second moves at the pace of a century. A minute at the pace of an era.

He asks, "Can you at least do that, Bart?"

You were already taking off before he completed his sentence.

You think you can still hear him sigh-- fifty miles back.