Hello everyone. Let me say first that the hello, my old heart second half is complete. It is probably going up sometime tomorrow or Tuesday, when I have the time to sit down and go through final edits.
Anyway, on to this. I have recently collected a list of over 19,000 writing prompts. No, I am not joking. I think the exact number is 19,011. Recently, I realized that I will, realistically, never be able to write full-length pieces for every single one. Which is a shame, because there are some truly wonderful prompts on this list. So I have decided to do this instead: write as many short drabbles for as many prompts as possible. And what better characters to write for than for Artemis and Wally? That's right. From now on, I will be publishing short stories inspired by prompts, all featuring either the lovely Artemis Crock or charming Wallace West. Will each story be Spitfire? Probably. Will both of those characters be in every story? I don't know. Right now Artemis has better odds, because I a) love her and b) love her relationships with Zatanna and M'gann. But we shall see - this is really just me pushing myself as a writer to write more, so I'm not forcing a lot of restraints on myself.
Also, obviously, even cut down to this story length it is unlikely I will ever finish the entire list. Even if I wrote one of these short stories per day, it would take me 52 years to get through the entire list. So don't expect me to get through all of the prompts any time soon!
She never realised how truly despicable she was until she met him.
The sun does not even dare wake yet, and she wriggles her bare toes under the sheets and stares at the tiny eclipse created by his head in front of the open window, the one that can only be observed from her exact location. Lying next to him, she studies his gleaming bare chest and his tufts of hair that smell like the fruity shampoo he denies he uses and she feels as though she has to vomit. She feels as though she has to violently, desperately vomit, because he is clean and good and whole, and she is the flower pot tossed onto the pavement, dirt spilling through the cracks. Except there are no flowers. Just a whole lot of dirt.
"Uh, I – well, you are…very, important to me," he says huskily just the night before, his eyes hidden by the shadows of the gun near her head and the line of blood that trickled down from her temple that tastes like her father. She is sitting on one end of his bed (sheets crisp, the pillowcase bloodless) and he sits on another, and Artemis finds herself incapable of moving until he reaches over and gently softens her elbows with his long, calloused fingers.
As usual, her body ensures she is the first person awake in the room, and she lies as still as she can, because his room is a museum and everything is beautiful and she's terrified to see her grubby hand-prints when she steps away. But Wally is a restless sleeper by nature, and he kicks her accidentally, and mumbles words that are not only not English, but also not a language at all, and every so often throws his arms around her. This is not her first time with him but it is her first time with him in the morning and his mouth hangs open and his skin burns hers and the sound of how, how, how did this happen is quite near.
If she separates herself from her own skin, Artemis can sort of see his side; she has kicked and clawed and fought her way through barricades and bullet showers and bombs in order to stand in the Team's circle of trust. She is smart and she is usually honest and occasionally funny and she is in no way useless. She belongs, in a bent sort of way.
And yet… and yet it is five am, and all she can think is that she does not deserve this. Already, she can see Wally's wide eyes as he attempts to convince her otherwise, but her little truth will always be a lonely one. He is the boy who makes his parents breakfast in bed on their anniversary and who always has a good review for M'gann's cooking, regardless of its quality. He walks his neighbor's dog for free, because she has arthritis and can't move like she used to. He taught Artemis to drive like she was someone he wanted to go for a road trip on. She thinks about this, and thinks about the stumbling words spoken last night, and she can't help but wonder how those words would change if he knew about the tally marks on her bedroom wall or the unmarked grave near Route I-95.
And when she realises they wouldn't change at all, she is overcome with both relief and guilt, and she is not sure which is stronger.