sorry for the delay, everyone. As usual, I would desperately love some feedback on this, thanks :D


~interlude~

She knew because she woke up one Saturday night and the city sounds had faded and the room she was in wasn't dark, it was nothing, and where was the air, and her entire being were burning and twisted, withering, oh, God, this is how it ends, this is her well-deserved fiery death -

And if her mother hadn't come into check on her just a few moments later, who knows what would have happened to her - would she have exploded, or the opposite, turned into nothing but a rib cage and a scorched heart? - because she didn't have the will or the ability to scream anymore.

A faceless doctor tells her the truth and Artemis can only lie there, utterly stupefied. She listens to her mother begin sobbing and she mechanically responds to any stimulus with the proper motions, but inside she -

Well, truthfully, she is just baffled. She is Artemis, the archer of the night, the graceful and battle-wearied fighter with the sinewy muscles and well-worn boots. She fought the Joker. She helped to take down the single most successful attempted infiltration of the Justice League. She survived her father.

How can a few rampant cells take her out of commission?

And maybe she is sad, too, grieving for a diploma and a house with a wraparound porch and a life that was never hers, but so easily could've been.

~in case of emergency~

The calendar is tearing from where it hangs, nailed to her wall, but her resolve is not. When she wakes up, she clenches the red Sharpie in her hand and grimly crosses off another day. It occurs to her later that each one of those days was the last time she would experience that particular date. The idea is sad, of course, but it quickly slips from her mind when the doctors visit and needles are unsheathed and gloves are snapped to wrists.

A lot of things slip from her mind, though.

M'gann makes a sort of strangled sound when Artemis explains it. "But are… is that safe?"

The idea of anything being safe anymore is so far-fetched that Artemis snorts. M'gann flushes and tries again. "I mean – oh, Artemis, I want you to be with us as long as possible but no one will begrudge you for letting go when it's natural –"

"No," she snaps, and it is a testament of how much time M'gann spends in the cramped and ragged room that she does not flinch. "There is no way I am dying a week before Wally's birthday, which means I have to survive past it, which means I have to survive past Thanksgiving, which means I have to survive past Christmas, which means I have to survive past our annive –" She snaps the clip off the Sharpie cap in her hands without meaning to. "I have to –"

"You don't have to do anything!" says M'gann, her voice shriller than it usually is. In one rushed, surging movement (that somehow still manages to be graceful and pristine because that's who and what M'gann is), she is kneeling beside her bed, and suddenly Artemis is staring at green knuckles that are clenched and tight, covering her own chapped hands. "Artemis…" whispers M'gann. "We – everyone is going to be okay, you know that right? Like… obviously, it will be horrible, and hard, and I love you so much…"

Artemis eyes her friend (her dear, oldest friend, her best friend who flashed her knowing glances and giggled and hugged her when she least wanted it but most needed it), who has stopped, broken down on the side of the road, blinking rapidly. "You're not doing a very good job of convincing me you're going to be okay," she says critically.

M'gann smiles and breathes out, and it's almost like a laugh. "We, we love you, and I can't imagine you, you not – not being here, but… I promise, I promise, we'll… we'll be okay, we'll figure it out. Don't worry about – you shouldn't feel obligated to stay because of us."

But the carpet gets wet anyway, and Artemis watches M'gann gather her frayed ends into a neat bundle and leave, and she knows more than ever that she must live to see the New Year.

~but not really~

She is sitting outside her apartment building, on the cracked and chipped stone steps, when her sister walks up to her with two cups of coffee.

It is the most unexpected thing to come out of this disease, and yet, Jade being Jade, it makes perfect sense that her sister would decide to make amends a month before Artemis' EFD (estimated final day) by buying her a cup of Starbucks.

It also makes perfect and imperfect sense that Jade would, after a few moments of studying the girl with the blood red bandana and the jeans with the holes in the knees and the beeping equipment next to her, would proclaim, "You look fucking awful."

Artemis is too bewildered to do anything but bob her head briefly, as if she is agreeing with the blatant insult (she is, though – Artemis has never looked more terrible in her short, stupid life). Jade presses one of the cups of coffee into her hand and she shudders at how hot it is."Uh," she says. "Hi Jade."

"Is Mom home?" asks her sister, checking the cell phone in her pocket, the phone that couldn't possibly have been purchased with any money except the money she earned from the Shadows, the phone that she had not once bothered to use to call Artemis, or their mother, who has never shown it but bites her lip when she watches the news and sets out an extra stocking every year in case the prodigal daughter decides to return, even though survey says that she never will. She is as casual as if the coffee was the only thing that had taken her away from their apartment, as if she had been gone for minutes instead of lifetimes. And Artemis remembers that this is the sister that left her in a house with a father who didn't care how much she hurt and who didn't care when her birthday was, and this is the sister who left her. She stands and shakes and, in a moment of brilliance, throws her cup onto the ground and watches the coffee seep into the sewer.

Jade is not phased, which only serves to make Artemis angrier. "You don't like decaf?"

"Why are you here?" demands Artemis, clenching her fist and standing up with more effort than she cares to admit. "Why? What could possibly make you think that a stupid cup of coffee would make up for everything you've done to me, to Mom?"

"Mom told me about your – your condition." Jade is forever the assassin, the calm one, the cool and smugly confident one, but even Cheshire cannot hide her stumble over the word condition, the nervous fidget.

"So, you hear that I'm dying and you think that it's the perfect time to make amends?" snaps Artemis nastily. "As if you care. You left us. You're – you're just like dad."

Her sister's face darkens and she almost lunges at Artemis. "I am nothing like that him. Do you know Dad has known for months that you're sick?" This is new, and surprising yet not surprising, and Artemis stops, blinking. "He – he has seen me at least once a week for, for months and he hasn't bothered to mention that you – that my sister –"

"He didn't mention it because he didn't think you'd care," says Artemis, and she's delighted when Jade looks as horrified as Jade can get. "You haven't shown once, Jade, that you care about this family – about me, or Mom, at all, so why – why would he tell you? You – you're just as bad as Dad."

"Shut the fuck up, I –"

"You are!" She has hit a nerve and she continues on, delighted, invigorated. "You are worse than Dad because you could've done something to help me and you didn't, you never did. He - you had a choice and you chose yourself over me, over our family! And Dad is an asshole but I could have – I might've been okay if you had stuck around, Jade, but you didn't, and at least Dad would never come back here and pretend to care about me! You're just here for yourself because it – because you feel guilty, and that's so, that's so messed up, Jade, and I hate you. I hate you!"

The words ricochet off the brick buildings. She is screaming now, and crying as well, which is so stupid that she feels herself start to cry harder. Taking deep, gulping breaths, she wipes the tears away from her face and forces herself not to wince when they burn her skin. Her sister's face has reset, clicked back into the blank neutral that makes Artemis shiver. After a few moments of horrific stillness, she shrugs. "If you don't want me here, you only had to say so," she says simply, and she turns and walks away.

The night swallows Jade so easily (enveloping her is a habit of the darkness), but as she slips away, Artemis suddenly sees her mother in the cold living room, writing another card that will never receive a reply, and her insides spasm because how could she be so selfish. "Jade!" she yells, hoarsely, but like always, there is no response other than the relative silence of the street.

The glass slides up less quietly than expected and the figure slips in, and she stands by her sister's bedside and presses her lips to where hair once was. When Artemis wakes up, she frowns at the books that are open to pages they weren't last night, but assumes it was the breeze sweeping in through the open window.

~every you, every me~

Wally arrives in her room at 2:34 am carrying a bouquet of stems and a jagged-edged heart.

By her room, of course, she means the hospital room she currently exists in. After her collapse in her kitchen – broken glass, orange juice spilling from her head like strange blood, a window of light that illuminates her shadow puppet bones – it is like they have suddenly lost their faith in her ability to function like a normal human being. Which is not only aggravating because no, she does not need someone to bring her a goddamn glass of water, but also because in a way she has to admit they are right. Normal, healthy human beings do not host previews of their own deaths on the linoleum floor.

Now, Artemis pretends to smell the broken flowers (they died in a whirl of whiplash and hundreds of miles per hour). Wally sits and pretends to be invisible every time a shadow crosses the light from the hallway that shines into her dark, nighttime room, as visiting hours do not extend into the gentlest hours of the night, even though that's when she needs it most. They both pretend they're not in a hospital. They both pretend this isn't the first Valentine's Day Wally actually remembered. They both pretend it's not the last.

"These are lovely," murmurs Artemis after the nurse walks by. She waves the stems with the broken flower heads and leaves in front of her nose. "Absolutely exquisite."

He rolls his eyes, but it isn't harsh and the soft set of his jaw lets her know that he, for once, is content. "Wow, Artemis, you're so funny! What a joke! I'm so amused!"

She snickers. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"I just think that this is the first time I have ever remembered Valentine's Day, in the history of not only our relationship but also my existence, and I should be commended instead of criticized."

Artemis smiles at him, and gently swats his knee with her broken flowers. "Come here," she murmurs, scooting over in the bed that is altogether more comfortable than she'd predicted. He doesn't hesitate, but is exceedingly gentle as he crawls in next to her, carefully moving his body as to not disrupt the wires and tubes that protrude from her skin (she almost wishes he would rip them out, all of them). Lightly, carefully, she kisses his nose, then the corner of his mouth and then, finally, slowly, his lips, and his right hands finds its way to her head and the kiss deepens and if she ignores the IVs and the beeping it is like they're back in Wally's room and when he rises she'll be able to get up with him –

"There," she says when she breaks away. "There's your commendation."

He blinks slowly at her, and suddenly sighs heavily, sitting up but not leaving, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, and she stiffens because it's secretly her favorite thing he does and it makes her insides wriggle and her eyesight hazy but in the way not induced by medicine, the way that's sweet and natural and thrilling. "I wish…" he says distractedly, and then shakes his head. "Never mind. I just… I have never wanted to believe in an after-life more than I do right now." He winces. "Sorry if that's a shitty thing to say."

She doesn't freeze as much as halt. It is the first time she has ever heard him speak of his faith, or lack thereof, and it makes her uncomfortable, because they can't talk about his atheism without talking about her atheism. Or lack thereof. And although Wally is Wally, and his skin cells are the ones tossed up in her blankets and his eyes are the ones that watch her as she rages and whimpers (as much as she can without hurting him), Artemis suddenly feels awkward, afraid. "Well… yes, that would be what we like to call shitty, but… um, yeah."

He nods seriously, and his fingers are playing with the edge of her blanket. "Do – uh, well. Do you –"

"Yes," she whispers, and it sounds almost dirty coming from her mouth, and she's very nearly ashamed, which is stupid. Because it's her own faith and who gives a damn if he thinks she's stupid and naïve, even though she's always liked being the smart one, the one that knows when something's so wonderful that it's fake and when something's so horrific it couldn't be anything but true. "Yeah, I do. Something has to happen after death, and I… have to believe, I think, at this point. For the sake, you know, not going crazy. Because if I'm just a collection of cells, just a body, a body that by the way kind of sucks, I – I don't know. This… this can't be the end."

Tonight is just full of firsts. Her hushed words, blinking in and out of focus, are the first hopeful ones she's spoken in months, the first ones that acknowledge any possibility for her other than oblivion. Encouraged by her own daring, she shoves on, in stops and starts, "And Wally – when I, if there is a, you know, heaven, or reincarnation, or whatever, I swear –"

"Same," he says back. "If it's real, I'll – I'll find you." She loves him because his voice is burned off in the same places hers is, and she loves him because he's talking about something that's an impossibility for him without treating it like a joke, and she loves him.

~ending~

She tried so hard, she really did. The days seeped and stewed and turned into frothy never endings and hours of sleeping without dreams, only to wake up to find her mother's hand on Wally's shoulder. There was no light in a tunnel, but there were blurry, sleepy thoughts, gently telling her about how quiet it could be, and how peaceful, and how dark and lovely. And even when the thought got louder and when it screamed, she ignored it to blink at the boxes and the twisted game of tic tac toe on her wall. It was with a grim sort of victory that she realized she was winning.

But in the end, there was nothing left of her body to hold on to, and when the ambulance crashed through her bedroom door and the sirens wailed and held her hand and promised they'd be okay, three days before Thanksgiving, she wasn't too surprised. She sighed and let herself be carried upwards and she forgot what her room was the moment she disappeared through the door.

~postscript~

The funeral, he admits to himself, is rather lame.

Which is a terrible thing to think, and Wally hates himself for even allowing the thought to evolve from a vague feeling of annoyance. (Of course, by "hates himself" what he really means is that he despises himself a few shades more than he already did during the previous moment, because every exhale tastes like things he should've done and every inhale sounds like regret). But think it he does, as he shuffles his feet while staring at the corner of an oak coffin smaller than anticipated. They had predicted a snowstorm for last night but the grass, frozen and hard under his feet, is only lightly dusted. The day isn't overcast as he had hoped, but shining, and the man giving a speech (whom he has never seen before in his life) is squinting because of the sun. There aren't even any clouds. It is, for practical purposes, a gorgeous day. He is not only offended by this but disappointed, because Artemis loved rain, and overcast days, and clouds, and as much as she was the most accurate explanation for sun kissed, she was happiest when it poured. And for the universe not to give her that (he has to keep reminding himself that she is not actually at the funeral) seems – well, it seems spiteful.

Regardless, her funeral is inexplicably boring, but boring in the sense that he feels sick to his stomach, boring in the way that he expects his life will be for the next few months (years, decades, centuries) – predictable, never ending, and the ground constantly looks like a good place to be. When they lower the coffin, he remembers suddenly that Artemis had wanted to be cremated, and he swears and starts to cry again, because in her final, single digit countdown hours, she had asked for so little, so goddamn little, and he couldn't do it. And he wonders if someone else would've been lucid enough (in the horrible purgatory between her life and her funeral) to make sure she was thrown into fire and tossed into the wind, and then he feels ashamed because he is making her death about him (but that's human nature, isn't it?).

When the ceremony ends, he leaves quickly (the idea of Kaldur giving a speech and seeing Dick cry shakes his spine). It isn't hard to find a tree to shove his civvies behind, and it's even easier to yank his goggles over his head and wince when they snap around his eyes a little too hard. Batman's voice is in his head, and it is growling the same words he growled at them this morning, words like low profile and clear head, but he is far enough away from the black and grey (of both the cowl and the funeral) that they do not seem relevant anymore.

He runs. It makes it into the newspaper (because, since she's gone, nothing can go right anymore) that Kid Flash was spotted tearing alongside a highway near Gotham, almost recklessly, and Uncle Barry rubs his face but doesn't have the heart to yell at him, but he doesn't care about that right now. All he focuses on is reminding himself that he doesn't believe in an afterlife, that there is no such thing as neither heaven nor hell, that the soul is a concept conceived by people yearning for an explanation, because with the wind burning his cheeks and the sun in his eyes, he can almost feel her near.