There is a notably charming quality to a book borrowed by Wally. An irritating taintedness which might aggravate as much as endear. To put it bluntly: he always wrote in his books. Comments, underlinings, sarcastic remarks or sometimes completely garbled diaries of whatever he was associating in his life with that paragraph at that time. He- well and truly- wrote in all his books.
It'd be a distraction and perhaps it still was, if it weren't for the illegible nature of most letters. Whether anything was perfect evidence that he was a speedster or not, the charred edges and garbled letters were two suiting elements.
For instance. He never crossed his t's. Instead they'd cross over the "a" or the "e" two letters over. His mind already on the next three letters, and so on. This habit would be less mysterious if he didn't know several languages and could just as easily be using the tilde or an umlaut amidst a copy of Vonnegut's "Timequake."
The slew of chemistry notes sprinkled about only further corroborated his case.
A sort of dyslexia was abound. Words skipping ahead in line, several left out entirely until the sentence was a blur of symbols. Words with words midway inside. Sentences upheaved by the addition of the forgotten word but mid-way and inevitably askew and not always correct.
It was hectic, frenzied, almost reckless in it's ink menagerie. So very speedster. So very Wally.
And so very hard to get rid of. It'd been three months since he vanished in the chrysalis. The clothes, while fond and worn and smelling of a damp and fading version of him- were somehow easier to give away. The friction-worn socks. The plethora of pens hidden everywhere, while leading to this moment in subtle drops and finds- was also easier to toss into a box or bring to the office for actual use.
But these books. They're boring chemistry ones or nerdy science-fiction ones. Books on theoretical science and metaphysics and- in short- books Artemis was never going to read. She never would have before and never could even try to now. They were heavy - in subject, in weight and in memory.
These books were laced with him. The scribbles of scattered thought felt too much like he was here - distractedly agreeing with whatever takeout Artemis pitched. Distractedly reading while he dropped the takeout on the page. Distractedly dropping the book as he was shoved off the couch by Brucely. And distractedly setting the book down as he pulled Artemis into his lap on the floor.
A knock on the door. A needed distraction from all these damn distractions.
So she pawned them off on Dick. Who pawned them off on Bruce. Who added them to his library. A brand new shelf with a small card stating "Wally West: A Private Collection".