Author's notes: oh, hey, a snapshot. Originally I was planning to post it on Friday (and now we're an hour an a half into Saturday) but I missed the deadline, hope that's all right :o)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters – DC Comics do (does?) and Bob Dylan owns the song. What song, you'll ask? Well :o)

Snapshot Collection

20. Door

The door was tall, dark, and as uninviting as ever.

But the temptation was still as strong.

Wally didn't have a mean streak in him – that's what his mum usually said when she stuck up for him against his father after a prank gone wrong – but something about ringing the doorbell and running away to hide always seemed the funniest thing. Not to mention that he always did what 'seemed like a good idea at the time'.

Note to self: what seemed like a good idea at the time probably wasn't really.

This door, though, had something special about it. Wally always thought it had to do with the guy that lived behind it. He seemed to scare the other kids so much they never wanted to come near it.

But Wallace Rudolph West had never let such limitations hinder him.

So, like many other times, he crept up the few steps, tiptoed to the doorbell, and pressed it. Immediately after, he ran – the fastest he could – round the side of the house, and waited, loving the thrill that ran through his body and the special, erratic beat of his heart that meant he had gotten away with it yet again.

The door opened. Wally had never seen the man with his own eyes, but he was rumoured to be tall and really, really thin.

He did have the deepest voice Wally had ever heard, though.

"I KNOW IT'S YOU, YOU KNOW."

Each word that fell into place had something definite and inexorable about it, like mountains would sound if they decided to move and hit each other. It made Wally's skin crawl, but he didn't budge from his hiding place.

"YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO COME IN ONE OF THESE DAYS. YOU CAN KEEP ON RUNNING, BUT SOMEDAY I WILL OPEN THE DOOR BEFORE YOU KNOCK. AND THEN YOU'LL HAVE TO COME IN."

Oh, the guy was weird, all right. Every instinct of Wally's was screaming for him to turn tail and run as fast as he could – or faster – to a safer place. But he remained where he was, rooted to the spot.

The weirdest thing was, there was something inside him that actually wanted to go through that door. It was cold, windy, and it rained (oddly enough, Wally was certain it wasn't raining when he rang the doorbell). Not the ideal time to stand outside, blowing in your fingers and shuffling your feet and generally feeling like an idiot.

He peeked round the corner.

The guy was thin, and tall, and sort of … crooked. In fact, it was all that he seemed to be, because when Wally tried to focus on a particular feature everything seemed to go a little blurry. Maybe it was because of the rain that dripped from his hair into his eyes, but it was strange all the same.

And he was looking right at him. He had the kind of stare that went right through you and stripped away any hint of bravado and cockiness that you might possess, leaving only a sudden, icy dread.

The warmth inside was inviting. But fear quickly gained the upper hand.

Wally turned tail and ran.

It was high time to get home, anyway.

Home smelled funny, and Wally slowly became aware of a steady beep that felt entirely out-of-place with the notion of 'home'.

And then he was aware of nothing else but the crushing, burning pain in the middle of his chest – its impact made him gasp and fight for breath – and the colossal weight of every square inch of himself. He couldn't even open his eyes or move a finger.

What on earth had happened?

His mind was fuzzy and unclear and filled with white-hot pain, but his last memory seemed to be a recollection about ringing a doorbell and running away snickering, like he used to do when he was a kid. And the guy's voice.

Oh, God, that voice. There had been whispers of the patience of drifting continents, and the absolute – absolute – certainty that, sooner or later, Wally would have to open the door. When was vague and not really important, but there was something about that calm, confident tone that suggested he was waiting, and he could wait a long time.

The worst thing was, there had been something familiar about it. As though he had already heard it, but couldn't place exactly where and when.

That had actually been what had made Wally's skin crawl. Even now, he still felt the remnants of the primal terror that had risen in him at the sound of that voice. He never wanted to hear it again.

In spite of the pain, in spite of the fact that it was playing merry hell with his senses, he tried to focus on hearing something else.

"… alive?"

Only the end of the sentence made its way through his ears and into his brain, and slowly – especially for him – he finally connected the voice with a face in his mind.

It was Diana. Her voice had sounded choked and her breath caught in her throat.

He felt something warm close on his hand.

Another hand. Probably hers.

Wally still didn't remember what had happened to land him in this state, but for the moment, he didn't care, concentrating instead on getting his senses back and being able to speak again. And ask questions.

When he was eventually able to open his eyes – not much, and the image was still pretty foggy – he saw Diana's face not very far from his own. Her eyes were a bit red, as though she had been crying, but she was smiling the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

She was a sight for sore eyes. He wished he could tell her that, but his head still wasn't working well enough for him to actually form words.

He did catch something in what she said that made him blink and go, "Huh?"

"Nine days, Wally. Nine days. We thought you'd never – I thought you were dead."

Nine days? He'd been out for nine days? That had never happened before! He was famous (even infamous) for his hyper-accelerated metabolism, and aside from being able – and actually having to – engulf twelve burgers in as many minutes, it also meant he always recovered fast. Not Superman kind of fast, but still.

Nine days!?

"… shot you while you were down. Three times, in the chest." Her eyes and hands were quite steady, but there was a tiny something that quivered in her voice. If Wally had been in any other state, he would have been quite touched to see that the Princess so much as let her voice quiver. Diana of Themyscira was a kind and compassionate woman, but strove to remain as unflappable as royalty should remain in all circumstances.

Then again – whoa, three times in the chest? More than reason enough to have been afraid. Wally himself was astonished to even still be alive.

Nine days …

He still found it hard to believe. So much could happen in the space of a second for him – and he had lost almost eight hundred thousands of them. At least.

… Where had the memory of knocking on doors come from?

And who had been that guy? There hadn't been a tall, thin stranger who talked with a voice that sounded like the creak of an old coffin lid opening. Where'd he spring up from?

And why did he feel so familiar?

A nasty realisation dawned, and Wally suddenly felt cold. He would have shivered if he'd had the strength.

He knew when he had last heard – or thought he heard – that voice.

Simply, the last time he had been a little too close to actually buying the farm.

Knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door …

Diana peered at him in concern, her smile evaporating. "Wally? What's wrong?"

His heart hammering painfully in his chest – good, pain means you're still alive – he focused on her face and managed to take a deep breath, effectively clearing his mind. No need to freak out. You've been there before – thatvoiceohGodthatvoice was the scariest thing I've ever heard – and if you don't do anything really stupid you probably won't go there again for a long time.

The deep, steady breathing helped. Wally smiled.

It felt painful as hell, and it probably looked strained and funny – and not his usual kind of funny – but it was a smile.

The dead don't smile.

"… Nothin'. 'M okay."

Aw, jeez. That hurt like nobody's business. But it did make her own smile reappear.

As he drifted off again – into real sleep, this time – Diana made to leave. Wally made a monumental effort and managed to close his fingers on hers.

"Please … stay."

He didn't have the energy to drown his fear and need for her to be there with the usual quick-shot words – "I'm just, you know, it'd like you to stay, 'cause I'd feel better about everything going black and I've just slept non-stop for nine days and if you're there it'll feel more like sleep and not like having been inches from Death's door and knocking and running like some snotty brat bent on mischief. I mean, if it's all right with you."

– Wally just wanted his friend to be there. To make sure that, if he went to sleep, he wouldn't just close his eyes and never wake up again. He wasn't used to saying things in so few words.

Diana nodded, and sat back on her chair near the bed. She didn't shake his hand off.

Wally barely had time to smile his thanks when he drifted off to sleep for good.

This time, his dreams were completely free of doors of any kind.

He was really glad of that.

Okay, couple of things. Those familiar with Terry Pratchett's Discworld series know the the (anthropomorphic personification) character of Death always TALKS LIKE THIS. This is a shout-out (partially for the fun of it, but also because I genuinely can't imagine a personification of Death who doesn't TALK LIKE THAT) but also I like to imagine that the mysterious dark and thin character Wally 'sees' was actually the Black Flash, the weird entity that appears to all speedsters right before they die. There's no reason he should TALK LIKE – okay, I'll stop with the repetitive joke :o)

Next up: "I've always wondered, Clark… You change into Superman in phone booths, right?… Where the hell do you keep your cape in that suit?"

:o]