AN: Enjoy the update.
She runs. And for the first time Wally doesn't follow.
She feels as if she's collapsing in on herself; vividly she recalls Wally's hands gesturing wildly at the night sky, remembers him telling her about dying stars and how they always implode with a burst of light, a last bit of energy before they dissolve from the inside out.
(Her heels hit the pavement hard when her molecules reconstruct and she wonders if she starts sprinting before all of her is really there—)
She had never really understood it. She would get lost in his words and the look on his face— he'd grown so handsome in the months they spent together, his jaw getting more angular and his body becoming more man than boy— her mind only able to conjure images of sinkholes she's seen on the news, only able to remember how the earth would split open and swallow houses or people or whole cities in one clean but violent motion. She feels that same splitting occurring in her heart now, opening ventricles and ducts along invisible lines of organ and sucking in her lungs, her ribs—snapping off parts of her whole and consuming her, creating landslides that slice her skin open and quicksand that drags her down into the buzzing of her mind, the buzzing that won't stop—
(Pathetic.)
She beelines to her bedroom the second she gets home. Later, when she can only partially breathe again, she tells Paula what's happened through a thick layer of tears and the wood paneling of her bedroom door.
Her mother jiggles her door handle, her voice nearly impossible to hear over her sobbing. "Darling, I don't understand—"
"It's over!" She shrieks, banging her fists on the ground like a child. The blisters on her fingers burst and her ribs ache as she gasps in air. "Dad came after W-Wally and now it's over!"
She knows it doesn't make a lot of sense but it's about as much as she can manage, the bursting and vibrating in her head so overwhelming she can hardly think; she can feel herself sinking into a panic like she's never known, the lines of her uniform digging into her skin as she forces herself into a shaking ball. Her fingers comb relentlessly over her scalp, scratching open healed wounds and creating new ones, what's left of her hair growing blood coated and stiff.
And above everything she can hear Rudy's voice, snarling in her head: "Get away from my son!"
(She's gone, she's gone. And why does it hurt this much, nothing in her whole life has ever hurt this much, why—)
((It's over. It's over. She must repeat these words a thousand times inside her head, screaming them silently in her mind and trying to drown out everything else that's happened in just a few short hours. No matter how many times she repeats them they don't feel real, begin to lose meaning, as if she's speaking another language inside her head. Wally haunts her like a ghost, and she half convinces herself that should she open her eyes he would be there, watching her suffer.))
It hurts constantly, never ending and unceasingly in her bones. Her body aches with the absence of someone who was once there.
After years of insomnia she finally discovers the key to a goodnight's sleep: crying. Night after night she thinks herself into a panic, until no amount of snarling or shaking or clawing from the Metropolis girl can contain anything anymore. She screams into her pillow and digs her nails into her mattress, hating herself and her father and her mother, who doesn't know a cure for a broken heart.
Her phone remains silent. Nobody calls, or texts, or leaves her any voice mails demanding she return to the Cave for a debriefing. She supposes even her friends don't know how to comfort her, or probably have their hands full with Wally. While she's retracted quietly into isolation she suspects he's probably seeking comfort in others, no doubt crowding the Cave and forcing everyone to be miserable with him.
She's in exile.
She stops eating, knowing full well that whatever food she manages to keep down will simply come up again in the evening, during the vomiting that frequently accompanies her panics. The cups of tea her mother brings her grow cold sitting untouched on her bedside table. She doesn't shower the whole weekend, doesn't go to school when Monday hits. It takes more energy than it should to finally strip herself of her uniform and yank on mismatched pajamas. The Metropolis girl is annoyed at how pathetic she's acting but even she can't convince her to do anything other than waste away.
She tries to live in books more than anywhere else; it doesn't take her long to find Alice in Wonderland on the shelf and almost desperately crack open the pages, hating that she finds comfort in the sourness of Jade's lingering scent. She manages several pages before the white rabbit makes his appearance, not knowing at first why the character sends bile rising in her throat. When she remembers their booth at the diner she hurls the book across the room.
(She stares at the cover long after it's hit the floor, until she memorizes how the pages look crinkled and flattened against the hardwood. Her life is one long novel, filled with dog-eared pages and words that skate over her mind in long, seamless bounds and symbols she won't know are important until it's too late, until the story is nearly finished. And maybe her life is supposed to feel this divided, sectioned off into chapters: an unhappy childhood and Paula leaving and Jade disappearing in the middle of the night— loneliness and training and beatings and the Team, the Team, the Team has been the best chapter thus far. And maybe everyone has that one chapter they never read aloud— maybe Wally is hers, the one thing she won't let cross her lips again, no matter how much time has passed...)
She begins to lose herself the same way she loses time. She can't stand to track the minutes and days that have passed since she last saw Wally, can't stand to think of how he's doing or remember the last smile he sent her that was so warbled by the glass of their window; whenever she's foolish enough to let her mind stray she feels an overwhelming aching sensation in her chest, as if the weight of his absence is sitting atop her lungs and choking her. Everything seems endless, anyway, the only thing keeping her going—and alive, as always—is the occasional prompt from the Metropolis girl. Time to wake up, Artemis. Time to cry, Artemis. Time to miss Wally, Artemis. Time to swallow your heart, Artemis.
Despite not wanting to she sees Wally in everything: the lines of her floorboards remind her of the lines on his forehead when he laughs, the greenish hue of her curtains, although nothing like them, resembles his eyes; the sun warming her through her window feels as comforting as his hands used to on her skin, the stars speckled across the sky like the freckles on his cheeks.
(She makes lists in her head of all the times she almost told him she loved him and tortures herself over the fact that he doesn't know.)
She knows it's crazy. But she can't stop.
One afternoon the light shines through her window so brightly she feels as if she's looking into the sun itself; the heat that once hit Happy Harbor is now rolling into Gotham, and despite the sweltering weather she keeps herself burrowed under her blankets, as if she can sweat all this heart break out. Rolling onto her back, it doesn't occur to her that anything is different until she registers that the blinds on her window aren't on her window anymore—someone has drawn them entirely open.
Someone laughs when she sits bolt upright in bed, blanket slipping from her shoulders and revealing the stained nightshirt she's been living in; the laughter is too loud, bark-like, and in less than a second she places it.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty." Zatanna smirks, sitting primly on Jade's old bed.
When she speaks her voice sound hoarse, and she realizes suddenly that it's been a while since she talked, since anything came out of her throat other than screams and sobs. "How did you get in here?" She croaks out, glancing automatically towards the window.
Zatanna uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs, the hem of her mini skirt rising up her thighs. "Oh no, not through the window. I don't like you enough to scale a building for you."
She scowls. "You wouldn't have to scale the building." She says peevishly for some reason. "You could have climbed the fire escape."
As if the conversation is losing its entertainment value Zatanna reaches towards her purse, extracting her phone and snapping it open. "I don't do fire escapes. Unless I'm being carried down one by an older but still attractive fireman."
"Zatanna."
"Your Mom let me in." The other girl says easily, flipping her phone shut. "She seemed glad to see me. Unlike you."
It occurs to her that she's beyond thirsty, her lips aching and splitting as she speaks; when she reaches out to lick them her tongue feels so dry it's almost sandy. She can't remember the last time she drank more than a mouthful of water. "... What day is it?" She asks stupidly.
Zatanna raises a well manicured brow. "Wednesday."
She feels her eyes narrow in confusion. She feels as if she's been trapped in a swirl of misery and anxiety a lot longer than simply a few days. "... Why are you here?"
Zatanna raises an arm to flip the long length of her hair over her shoulder, the ends fanning down her back and swooping below her shoulder blades in one clean motion. "To take care of you, silly."
The haughty way she says it makes her roll her eyes, and with a huff she collapses back into her mattress, ignoring the heat and sinking under her blankets again. "You're wasting your time. I'm fine."
("You're lying again, aren't you?" Wally's voice sounds out in her mind.)
She doesn't blame Zatanna for laughing. Underneath it she can hear the sound of the zipper of her purse being dragged open, can hear her floor boards creaking as the other girl crosses the room, seizing an empty glass of water that's been sitting on her bedside table for a while now. "Oh yeah, just fine. That's why this room smells about as bad as you look." She feels her face sour and tugs her blanket up over her head, cutting out the brightness.
"Shut up."
There's a pause in which she gets the impression that Zatanna's trying to phrase the next part tactfully. "... Dick says you haven't been at school for a few days. Don't you think that's a bit... I mean, finals are soon." She says with the air of lecturing her. "He just wanted to make sure you aren't—"
"Don't lie." She scoffs under her blankets, feeling her cheeks burn with anger. "Dick doesn't give a damn about my school work. If Wally wanted you to check on me just say it."
There's a long silence. "It wasn't just Wally." The other girl says evenly; despite the words she feels her nose wrinkle. "We all wanted to—"
"I'm fine." She snaps.
"Artemis—"
"I don't need a baby sitter, okay?"
She knows she's being childish but she can't help herself, grabbing one of her pillows and pressing it hard against her ear, blocking out whatever argument the other girl is about to make. Through the cotton she thinks she can hear a sigh and the sound of glasses being knocked together—maybe she has more old cups there than she remembers. "Come on." Zatanna prompts her after a second, sounding annoyed. "Your mom sent me in here with some water. At least drink it so I can leave."
She hesitates, hating the offer but obliges the other girl in sitting up— she is thirsty. Very suddenly she's aware of how awful she must look; her hair is blood slicked and matted in plenty of places, her body reeking of sweat and infection. The pajamas she's wearing are stained with her own vomit and she can tell her face is oily and stained with unwashed make-up, probably bursting with acne. It's very hard not to blush and feel self-conscious when Zatanna passes her a glass, looking expectant when she raises it to her lips.
She gets as far as taking a mouthful before the burning hits her, angry and blistering over her cracked lips and tongue as it trickles down her throat; before she can stop herself she's spraying the liquid across the room, eyes watering as vodka drips down her chin. "Fuck—Zatanna!"
"What? I thought after everything you'd like a drink more than anyone." The other girl smirks, looking delighted as she swears and slams the glass down. Her whole mouth is burning, from the back of her throat to the parched cracks on her lips, no amount of swallowing or gagging relieving it.
"Where the hell did you even get that?" She coughs out, glaring as Zatanna sits on the edge of her bed, leaning until the back of her tank top is pressing against the wall and her legs are curling demurely towards her chest. "You're fourteen!"
An odd expression crosses her face, a long panel of ebony hair obscuring her face for a moment before she tucks it back behind her ear. "Fifteen, now." She smiles. "Today's my birthday."
She frowns, trying and failing to yank her blankets up to hide underneath them again. "Oh." She says dumbly. "... Happy Birthday."
The other girl nods in acknowledgment, something a little bitter sweet in her attempt at a smile. "My Dad had expensive taste before he—" Zatanna breaks off, not finishing. "Figured I might go back to our old place, see if there was anything I felt like celebrating with. What you just spat all over your blankets was probably worth about twenty dollars, you know."
Her eyes narrow when the younger girl leans across her, grabbing the cup of vodka from where it's sitting beside a half empty glass bottle with a fine golden label on it. "… Sorry." She says without meaning it.
Zatanna takes a small sip without wincing, pulling back the glass to stare at its clear contents. "… It's my first birthday without him." She says very suddenly before sipping again, as if to silence the words as they come out of her mouth.
She hears herself sigh, and when the younger girl offers her another sip of the noxious drink she accepts, mouth puckering when she swallows a proper mouthful. The liquor burns in her throat the way her screaming does but it also lights a fire inside her that wasn't there before, igniting in the low part of her stomach that she hadn't realized had been chilled until now. The warmth reminds her of Wally, and unthinkingly she takes another generous sip, wincing.
They're too young to be doing this sort of thing yet here they are, sitting in silence and drinking: two teenagers who have seen too much, felt too much hurt, known too much badness. Back and forth they pass the vodka between them, until pink blotches have appeared high on Zatanna's cheekbones and the empty glass is set on her bedside table. Then, still without breathing a word, Zatanna crawls under the covers with her.
It feels like it did back in November, the two of them trapped under blankets and miserable—only this time the grief is doubled. The two of them mourning the loss of two different men. She can't tell if it's the liquor or the blurriness of her own unhappiness but all she registers is sensations: a well shaved leg wedging itself between her calves. A hand closing tight around hers and refusing to let to. Their breathing slipping into a common rhythm. She's not aware of either of them starting to cry until they're facing each other, sharing her lonely pillow and watching each other's tears dripping sideways towards her mattress.
"Well." She says after a long time, voice sound water logged. "If you're looking for a pity party, you can join mine."
Zatanna lets out a laugh that isn't loud enough to be real. "Better than any birthday party M'gann's planning on throwing me, anyway." She sneers, rolling onto her back.
She hesitates, waiting for something. It takes her a second to realize what for, her cheek pressing harder against the pillow as she waits for the right words to come to her. "… You aren't going to ask me what happened?"
She doesn't need to get more specific. Zatanna understands. "No." The other girl shrugs, not looking at her. "I know what happened. Same thing happens to me five minutes after I leave Dick." One tear rolls down her temple and disappears into her dark hair. "You remembered who you are."
The words are strange and she actually lifts her head, as if hoping the other girl will repeat herself and make things more clear. "What?"
Zatanna finally looks at her, pink lips curling into a frown. "… You know what I mean." She says unhelpfully. "You and me have unfinished business. Both our fathers—they need reeling in." She blinks, and when she pulls the other girl back into focus she's not looking at her anymore, staring instead at the Alice in Wonderland poster across the room. "You can't be yourself with another person if half of you is hunting someone." She says frankly. "You can't devote yourself to anyone when all of you isn't there. It's not fair."
She nods, settling back against her pillows. "I guess." She mutters. "… You said you were already after Fate?"
"... Not in the same way you're after Sportsmaster." Zatanna concedes. "But yeah. I've got my hands full."
She nods, mind back to buzzing as she rolls over, staring hard at her wall for a moment and pretending the other girl isn't there. "… Ever wonder what would happen if—"
"Don't think about the 'what-ifs,' Artemis." Zatanna cuts her off, and even though her voice isn't stern she recognizes the warning. "They don't matter, okay? They don't change anything. All they do is make it impossible to move on."
And maybe Zatanna's right. Maybe there are some choices you can only make once— like when she turned her back on Wally for the last time, or when he sprinted away without bothering to listen to her screaming after him. Maybe it's better to accept that they happened and deal with it, instead of pretending that she can go back to that choice and make a different one. Maybe pretending this is fixable in some way is only making her feel more broken.
She can sense they're nearing dangerous territory and decides to change the subject. "… Is that why you're here? To help me move on?" She forces herself to snort.
The bed creaks as Zatanna rolls closer. "Maybe." She doesn't know why she jumps when she feels fingers running through her hair, picking at tangles and over long pieces. "... Although I thought first I'd start with a haircut."
True to her word Zatanna starts with her hair, although even that seems to a take a while; the uneven and straggly strands have grown so filthy and matted together that her once platinum locks now sit in a tangled, brownish mess on the top of her head. Even though it's almost unbearably painful when the younger girl runs a brush mercilessly over her scalp in a repeated attempt to get the knots to unravel she doesn't let her feelings be known beyond a tiny, barely there hiss that manages to escape between her lips.
"Drink your water." The younger girl tells her when this happens, gesturing to the fresh glass she retrieved from the kitchen.
The shower Zatanna draws for her is too hot for even her taste but she doesn't have the energy to turn it colder, instead staring unfeelingly down at herself as her skin is scalded and turned bright pink. She doesn't feel as if she belongs to her body, doesn't recognize the limbs holding her upright; it's amazing how much damage has been done in only a few short days. Ribs poking out of her side in skeletal ridges. Skin too loose in some places and coating seemingly deflated muscles. Bruises coloring her in violent patterns of blotchy purple and blue. Strange cuts and abrasions she can't remember getting.
Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the obvious signs of abuse. Maybe it's the liquor— all she knows is that she doesn't try to stop herself when she vomits, stale vodka dribbling off her chin and sticking to her feet. Instead of fighting all the toxic things coming out of her she scrubs herself viciously with soap and is thankful that the mirror is steamed when she leaves the bathroom, too cowardly to examine herself properly.
Parts of her feel like they're emerging again, remembering how to work. Pull on your socks, Artemis. Put on a clean pair of jeans, Artemis. Fasten your bra and put on a tee shirt, Artemis.
(Automatically she reaches towards her wrist for a hair elastic. Put your hair in a pony tail, Artemis. It takes her several seconds to remember that she can't anymore.)
Zatanna takes the sharpest pair of scissors from the bathroom and sits her around the kitchen table, ordering her to keep her back straight. She feels like she's a specimen in a lab as Paula rolls in, watching as several long strands of hair fall to the floor, coating the tile in what's left of the girl she used to be.
"You were born with hair." Her mother says suddenly, just as Zatanna's prodding her about the jaw to tilt her face towards the ceiling. "It was still blonde, but a lot more yellow. It looked strange when your hair started growing in so light. I remember cutting it in this kitchen when you were hardly more than a few months old."
She doesn't know what to say and is saved by Zatanna, who makes a few minutes of easy conversation before holding up a hand mirror for her to look in. "What do you think? I always thought short hair was cute for the summer."
Her hair is shorter than it's ever been in her life, now bursting from her head in slightly uneven but still mostly uniform patches. She can still see her scalp in some places.
She stares blankly at the girl in the mirror, whose hair she can barely pinch between her fingers, and wonders what to make of her.
She's forced to put her life back together.
The first few days after Zatanna arrives are the hardest; despite the near constant company she feels so alone it's as if the Metropolis Girl is consuming her heart from the inside out, making it hollow and cold.
It feels like much longer, the two weeks that pass without Wally. The taste of vodka never seems to leave her mouth, and the fire it lit inside her isn't extinguished no matter how much water she drinks. Between the Metropolis girl and Zatanna she's prodded into leaving her bedroom.
She thrives on distractions, the Metropolis girl latching onto the intensity with which she throws herself into things. She stays up half the night focusing only on school work: re-doing old assignments, completing extra credit, studying for exams. She starts eating again, starts preparing elaborate meals that don't appeal to her but make Paula happy when she comes home from work. She starts running, training harder, pushing her broken body to heal before it's ready. She gets called out for infrequent low-ball missions that always feature a small squad, always missing the scarlet and bright yellow she's forgotten she's not supposed to be looking for.
She goes to the Cave once and leaves the second she smells walnuts.
She tries not to allow herself to think too much but nothing she does will silence the buzzing in her mind, the Metropolis girl's impatience with her growing more intense every day. Occasionally she types her father's name into search engines, into Justice League indexes, but doesn't have the courage to hit 'enter.' She wonders if she'll ever be ready, really, to see what comes up.
She tries not to sleep and only goes to bed exhausted, knowing full well that if she doesn't she'll find Wally in her dreams, feel him hovering on top of her and feel the warmth of his laughter as he runs his fingers through the full length of her hair—
When this happens she wakes in a cold sweat, growing bitter over the fact that she feels more alive in her dreams than in reality.
And she knows, deep down, that nothing but time with heal her. And she supposes that she's started feeling better, started thinking straight again. But some things she suspects will never change— like the fact that when she tries to smile it won't reach her eyes anymore, like the fact that she won't laugh when someone makes a joke but can hear Wally's chuckle in the back of her mind, snorting with mirth...
May ends and June bursts open with a flurry of school work and she does so well on her final exams her mother can't believe it. She wonders what Wally would think.
Zatanna, who seems determined to get her through this, is the one who convinces her to push through the final barrier. "What's this?" She asks when the other girl appears at her apartment one evening, tossing a dry cleaning bag over the back of her chair.
"You're borrowing a dress from me." Zatanna explains, waving hello to Paula before placing her hands sternly on her hips. "Megan and Connor's graduation is tomorrow, remember?"
The dress is a light grey thing she's never seen before that seems to hang off of her too loosely; months ago the two of them were the same size, but she's lost so much weight recently the dress bunches oddly in some places. "It looks bad with my hair." She tells Zatanna when she puts it on, raising a hand self-consciously to run over her forehead, pushing the too-short bristles back.
Her hand is smacked away as the other girl smudges more make-up on her eyelids. "Don't be stupid. You look great."
She's thankful her eyes are closed when she bites her lips, brows furrowing. "... Maybe I should stay home." She mutters, cheeks reddening. "Wally's going to be there."
In answer the other girl sighs, the brush placing make-up slowing. "... You're going to have to face him sometime, Artemis."
It's the truth, and she hates it.
The graduation ceremony is a lot to handle, all the happiness and the photography and excited squeals that only seem to make her more on edge. Zatanna links her arm firmly through hers and steers her through the crowds, thankfully indulging her when she suggests sitting in the back row of the auditorium. Her heart, which has been so void of any feelings other than misery, feels overwhelmed enough when Connor's name is called and he stomps across the stage, hat crooked. She nearly cries when M'gann accepts her diploma, looking so happy it half reminds her how to be too.
She knows the rest of the Team is hidden somewhere in the crowd; it's been so awkward lately, as if her break up has been with all of them and not simply with Wally. It's hard not to feel resentful for their spending so much time with him and so little with her, hard not to feel annoyed at the fake way they all pretend to like her hair, the way their eyes fix on her with worry folded into the lines of their faces when they think she isn't looking. Still, she supposes she might be too hard on them; maybe there's some kinds of sadness so intense that you can't help but stay away.
Her head turns automatically to scan the crowd for the familiar mess of red hair and finds nothing.
She hugs Kaldur when he comes over and allows Dick to waggle his brows in mock flirtatiousness at her appearance, trying to ignore the nervous twisting in her stomach that can't be quailed. The only thing that half settles it is when M'gann and Connor make an appearance, bursting through the wall of bodies with grins on their faces; she's still weak and nearly falls over when M'gann collides into her, squealing and insisting she pose for photos. Even Connor looks somewhat excited, shoulders broad with happiness as they all congratulate them.
Almost blissfully she welcomes the distraction from her worrying about Wally, and she forces herself to focus only on their happiness.
She's doing oddly well, posing for photos even though her grin has begun to feel like less of a smile and more like a snarling mess of teeth. She's just half convinced herself she's going to be alright when she glances over her shoulder, only half hearing M'gann's request for a shot of her and Connor as a camera is shoved in her hands.
Her heart stalls and like an idiot her hands spasms, nearly dropping the camera. She sees Wally, and all at once times both stops and speeds up.
He's a good twenty feet away from her, almost hidden behind passing bodies, his absence explained by a bag of chips he's no doubt paid too much for out of a vending machine. Even from here she can see the bags under his eyes, the paleness behind his freckles. He's done something strange to his hair— it looks as if someone, not him, has combed product through it, tried to get it to lie flat instead of in the permanent wind swept way she's still trying to tell herself she no longer adores. She swallows, he blinks. She watches the redness begins to blow out at the top of his ears; even from here she can see his eyes flickering up to look at her hair, now shorter than his, a frown appearing about his lips.
So this is what they are now: two people who can't stand the sight of each other.
And a thousand thoughts burst inside her head, filling the momentary blankness: she wants to run full speed at him, to bury her face in his neck, to kiss him full on the mouth; simultaneously she wants the shift back into the crowd, go into hiding, but also storm up to him and punch every surface she can reach, clobber him until he feels all the pain she's been enduring, just a fraction of it—
(And now she remembers why she shouldn't have been with him in the first place: love is a different kind of a fire, and different kind of danger. The kind that sends a thrill over her skin, the kind that makes a person look death in the face and not care, not care at all, as long as the other person is fine. And she can't do that, can't afford to not care about herself, not when she's the only one who can beat Sportsmaster, the only one who can put an end to the torture—)
Even after everything Wally's still dangerous; even at over twenty feet from him and she can still feel a pull towards him, her heart aching and struggling to burst out of her ribs and be cradled in the arms it belongs to. But she can't. She can't allow herself to be consumed by that fire. She can't be reduced to ash again.
Something shifts behind his eyes and before she can figure out what it is she's forced to watch as he looks away first.
She drops her eyes too, and when she gets the courage to look back at him he's gone, disappearing and leaving nothing behind other than the ruffling of people's hair and the flipping of the hems of dresses, so fast nobody will ever know of his presence or his absence. Her own hair is flickered back off her forehead.
She doesn't know why this hurts as much as it does, watching him run away from her; she doesn't understand why her lungs are refusing to inhale the air she needs or why her heart feels as if it's being boiled alive in the acid of her stomach. She was the one who ended things.
"Say cheese." She hears herself say hollowly, snapping a picture of Connor and M'gann that's about as out of focus as she feels.
Time passes, as it always does.
She replays the moment over a dozen times in her head, even though she tries not to. She can't help it, she can't not remember the blankness in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw. Everything around her—her apartment, her bedroom, the Cave, the beach—it all reeks so much of Wally and happy memories that she can't stop herself from obsessing over it, memorizing the memory in a way she's sure isn't healthy. She walks the paths they used to walk together, her footsteps sounding oddly lonely without their usual, too quick partner.
She wishes she would stop hurting. Not just over the fact that it's over—no, she accepted that the moment he left her side to play hero, the moment he broke his promise. She wishes she wasn't left with the knowledge that it ended before either of them were ready for it to be over. She wishes she could forget that they both still want each other, still love each other. She wishes he had been the one to do it—it would make it so much easier to hate him, to turn her back on him. She wishes she didn't have to live with the knowledge that she hurt him, that she was the one who made him fall in love and she was the one to tear him apart. She wishes more than anything that she were dead.
(She wishes she wasn't left with the fact that he ignited her. She wishes that life before him had meaning, had something for her to cling onto. But it didn't and it still doesn't now. Before Wally she had been surviving, she hadn't… She hadn't been living. She had been cooped up in that apartment alone and half-crazy and hardly existing. But somehow he saw her—and he had loved her, and she hadn't been good enough or pretty enough or brave enough or just plain enough to give that back to him... She's ruined him, she's destroyed him—)
In the evenings she lies on her side of the bed—she still hasn't dared to roll over and feel the hollow beside her that means his absence—and avoids sleep, instead recalling more obscure things about the half second they had together, so detailed she's almost sure she's making them up. How the wind had caught his hair despite the stiffness of the product, how it's growing a bit too long. The glint of overgrown stubble about his chin telling her that he isn't shaving. The dullness of his skin, the way it's taken on the same pasty, almost waxy hue hers has. The bags under his eyes. The gaunt look to his cheek bones.
(Wally needs her, but she can't be the one to go to him. Not anymore.)
Sometimes she wakes up and for several seconds it's as if nothing's happened. She rolls over in bed and squints at the morning light, sometimes buries her face in her pillow and wishes for more sleep. She's allowed two heart beats of normalcy before the remembering of what's happened washes over her, drowns her all over again, the Metropolis girl dragging her back under the second she manages to breathe.
When she has to be at the Cave she takes to hiding in the small grove of trees just off the beach, craving silence and solitude and escape from the awkward glances she's forced to endure if she has to be around her Teammates. Sometimes she reads. Mostly she sits with her back against the bark of a tree and digs her fingers into the dirt in a way that's almost painful, listening for the moment when her presence is no longer noticed and the small thrum of chirping birds begin to sing out a few notes of incomplete songs. She wishes she could hide in here, unnoticed and forgotten, forever.
One day her eyes snap open when the bird song abruptly stops. In the silence she listens to red-breasted feathers rustling against grey waxen wings, and without being sure if she'll get a response she hears herself speaking. "... How's he doing?"
There's several moments of quiet and she watches as a few startled robins leave their branches, finding a more lonely part of the copse to sing their songs. "… About the same as you." She hears Dick's voice call out somewhere to her left.
She doesn't turn her head to try to find him. "… Did he send you here?" She asks, trying not to sound bitter. "Because I don't need anyone checking in on me. I'm fine."
There's more silence, and when she doesn't receive an answer she rises from her spot at the base of the tree, trying not to resent the loss of another hiding place.
After that she resigns to return to her regular haunts; as much as she dislikes being pitied she hates being pitied in secret even more— hates being spied on like some sort of mental patient being observed only quietly behind two-way mirrors.
She supposes she'll have to get used to Wally all over again. And have to get used to all the brokenness she's caused.
And she doubts she'll ever be ready to face him, even though she knows she must. Is there any way to prepare for that? Ready to hear what he thinks of her now? Ready to know how much hurt her rejection caused, is still causing—ready to hear everything she could have done, should have done, if she'd only been smart enough or paid better attention? She knows there isn't a way to prepare for all the words he's going to throw at her when it finally happens, isn't ready for him to scream at her all the ways she's failed him, even if the screaming is only done in the blankness at the backs of his eyes as he looks at her across the room.
She grits her teeth and shuts herself down, preparing for the worst. The Metropolis girl ties Artemis' hands behind her back and is happy when she doesn't struggle against her restrains.
She sits now at her usual stool around the kitchen island, staring hard at the pages of her book and pretending not to notice Kaldur's presence on the couch several yards away, scowling as he flips absently between channels. Lately it seems she can hardly go anywhere alone, as if members of the Team are taking turns to watch her—yesterday it had been Connor, lurking unusually while she was training and offering to be her sparring partner, and the day before it had been Zatanna, who had lingered outside the stall as she showered, insistently making small talk and pretending not to hear her swearing when she dolled out her usual, but now too large, dose of shampoo. She suspects that despite her renewed presence she's still being talk about, as if they're all secretly worried about her.
Eventually she manages to tune out the changing of channels that are obviously not really being watched and submerges herself in her book, feeling strangely numb as the words wash over her, sounding monotone and lifeless even inside her own head. For the first time in a while she feels hungry, one hand reaching out to pick at a plate of cookies someone had placed there to tempt her into eating, her fingers breaking off small chunks and coating themselves in chocolate. She feels the familiar burst of warm sweetness coat her tongue for several seconds before it hits her—she can't figure it out at first, what suddenly forces her mouth to go dry and sends her teeth grinding unpleasantly.
She glances back at the plate and nearly spits the food out of her mouth. Walnuts. M'gann made chocolate chip walnut cookies.
It's painful to swallow but she does it anyway, eyes watering and stomach churning and threatening to send her vomiting in the sink. It disgusts her, how easily she can come undone, how the smallest, most innocent thing can slap her across the face and threaten the entirety of the wobbly existence she's operating in. Wally. Walnuts. She prods the plate away and clenches her hands tightly around the cover of her book, fingers shaking.
Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. She repeats the word inside her head, trying to convince herself of the repulsiveness of the taste. Instead she only remembers Wally's mouth on hers and the smell of his bedroom in the mornings, and she thinks it would be less painful to skin herself alive.
Focus.
Don't be a baby.
She's not even fully recovered from this when she senses the change in the air, can smell the dreaded walnut scent much more strongly than she should. He's coming, Wally's coming and—and it can't happen like this, not when she's already halfway undone, she can't do this—
She hides behind her book when she feels the familiar burst of air slamming into the kitchen, cover raised so high that the whole of her face is hidden, back hunched as she presses her elbows into the counter. Her too-short hair is ruffled and she's all to aware that her fingers are still trembling.
She wishes the kitchen tiles would split open and swallow her.
There's several seconds of silence in which nobody moves—even Kaldur, who she can see out of the corner of her eye, has stopped his channel changing in favor of sitting painfully still on the couch, pretending to be absorbed in the sixth inning of a baseball game but no doubt listening closely. She stays hidden behind her book, knuckles gripping the pages so tightly they're turning white; she can tell without looking that Wally's startled by her presence in the kitchen, as off guard by the moment as she is—and he can hardly turn around and leave now, not when his presence has been so obviously announced, not unless he wants her to know that he can't stand to be around her (and at this thought her stomach quirks, because is he only staying because he doesn't want her to know that he's repulsed by her? Or is he staying because he's not taking this as badly as she thinks he is? Is he fine? Is he fine when she so obviously isn't?)
(And she thinks only of their first meeting in the kitchen, his first glimpse of her without a mask; how his eyes had widened at her appearance, how he had stopped his eating to stare at her... How she had found out later in that moment he was only thinking of how beautiful she was, how he was in trouble...)
Her heart aches and her fingers flex around her book, so stiff than half her knuckles crack. Then she hears a sigh.
(And she's several feet away but she may as well be an inch in front of him, judging by how hard that walnut smell hits her—)
She listens as Wally remains still for several more seconds, not aware of the fact that she's started holding her breath until she exhales loudly upon hearing movement; her breath flutters her pages as Wally lumbers around the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling a plate from the cupboard, rattling around with cutlery. She hates how aware she is of every sound, how colossal every one of his movements feels to her, as if they're magnified and borderline explosive in the claustrophobic nature of the kitchen. She flinches with every beep of the microwave, eyes unmoving on her page but refusing to give up her hiding place behind her book, not even when she smells what can only be, undoubtedly, her leftover stir fry being warmed up.
("Amnesia, remember?" Her own voice snarls in her head. "Completely forgot how truly annoying you are.")
Her nose wrinkles, but not even a love of her mother's cooking can coax her out of hiding.
(He has to know that's her food— he's eaten dinner at her house enough times to recognize the distinctive Vietnamese flavors, the few unique spices her mother is so prone to using. Is he doing this to get a rise out of her? Tempting her into a fight? Or has he already forgotten, forgotten his favorite meal at her house as easily as he's forgotten her—)
She realizes with a jolt that she's started angrily holding her breath again when the time on the microwave runs out, now feeling lightheaded as she tries her best to inhale quietly, listening as he extracts the stolen plate of food and starts moving again. She just needs him to leave, she just need to get through this without wanting to kill herself or him, she just needs to—
She nearly screams when she hears the stool across from her being pulled out, his plate being set noisily against the counter top. The platter of cookies beside her is rummaged through and left empty.
He's got to be kidding.
Ridiculously she's again reminded of months ago, reminded of sitting in this very spot and trying to decide whether or not to hide from him, trying to decide whether or not she could trust him to enough to see her bare face. It's so stupid to her now, how so much has happened between them yet nothing has changed, not really. She's still sitting here like a coward. Still sitting here, waiting for his judgement.
For some reason her stomach twists to the point of throbbing, something inside her that she's trying to keep buried beginning to fight back against its confines, beginning to bother her. He's still Wally. And she's still (mostly) Artemis. She's going to have to do this eventually.
She hears herself exhale sharply, and it takes more bravery than it should to lower the book, painfully slow, until just her eyes are visible above the cover.
Wally glances up at her as she emerges, still looking sleepless and unshaved and distinctly un-Wallyish, except for the fork that's suspended halfway to his mouth. He's still got cookie crumbs around the edges of his lips. For a long moment she stares at him, two unblinking eyes barely visible over the top of the navy cover of her book—she's suddenly very aware of the fact that she must also look sleepless, unshowered, not like herself.
They stare at each other for so long that Wally's hand grows shakey, still suspended on its way to his mouth. "… What?" He finally asks her almost accusingly, frowning. Several grains of rice fall from his fork and onto his plate, pulling her eyes away from his; her mouth opens behind the book, about to glare pointedly at his food and demand to know why he felt the need to—
The thought stops in her head, bile instantly rising in her throat.
He's wearing her hair elastic on his wrist.
Her elastic. His wrist.
She recognizes it immediately—it's overstretched, the way all hers are, now loose enough to fit properly over his knuckles and palm and sit a little too large around his tendons. As she looks more closely she can see a slightly reddened mark underneath it, as if he's accidentally caught it on something and sent it snapping mercilessly against his skin.
Vividly she remembers a thousand memories at once—she's wearing a ridiculous circus costume and he's fixing her hair so it sits properly under the cheap white material of the mask… No, she's interrupted him doing homework and noticed it sitting around the mug where he keeps his pens and for some reason she almost cries—Now he's handing it to her on the Bioship and she's kissing him like it might be their last kiss but it isn't, that happens much later after her hair is sliced off and he's shoving her against a window and there's her elastic, there's her elastic—
("You still have this?" She had asked him, not understanding why her throat was tight.
"Yeah." He had said, half spinning in his desk chair. "You know. Souvenir.")
Vomit almost bursts into her mouth before she swallows it down, her heart beating so loud in her ears that it drowns out any other thoughts. She deserves a medal for not reaching across the table and strangling him.
That's her elastic.
Because it makes her far angrier it should, especially when he rolls his eyes at the scowl on her face and shoves the forkful of her food into his mouth, as if not understanding why there's suddenly no blood anywhere except her cheeks, which are now past maroon. It's infuriating, mortifying, evidence of her awfulness as a person right there, adorning his arm as a token of his heartbreak. Her food, the elastic— he's doing this specifically to piss her off.
She can feel herself shaking with anger and quickly hides behind her book again, breathing heavily through her nose.
Souvenir. Souvenir. Sourvenir. Souvenir of the girl who broke his heart.
It must be obvious that she's not really reading because Wally sighs again, a clattering sound telling her that he's thrown his fork down in frustration against his plate. "Artemis." He says her name, and she hates how rusty it sounds on his lips, as if he's unfamiliar with using it all over again.
She lowers the book just below her eyes again, glaring with as much maliciousness as she can muster. "Kid." She sneers, before disappearing again. She hopes he takes the renewed us of his alias as the insult it is.
There's another sigh followed by an angry silence, and before she can stop herself she's lowered her book to peek at him again. The two of them must look stupid, her leaning forward in her seat and looking as if she's about to commit a murder, him slumped on his stool and slouching over crossed arms. It strikes her how so much has happened and yet very little at all has changed; they're still the same people they were in August, still sitting in the kitchen and bickering. The only difference is the few months worth of complicated history.
The thought makes her sadder than it should.
She watches as Wally frowns at her, disregarding his fork and instead reaching with his fingers to forage through the rice for the larger chunks of vegetable strewn throughout— predictably he goes right for a large chunk of carrot. She doesn't know why but there's something she can't read in his eyes, something unsaid and sad and painful to look at, and before she can stop herself her anger is getting the better of her. "… Will you just say it?" She blurts out, more hissing than actually speaking.
Wally's eyes flicker up from his plate, looking wary when she doubles her grip on her book, the only barrier keeping her from launching herself at him. "… Say what?" He says after a second.
Her book lowers itself below her chin and she feels a surge of annoyance when Wally's eyes flicker up to examine her hair again. She supposes she owes him the pleasure of doing it to her face. "I don't know." She says dumbly, clarifying after a moment. "... Tell me all the awful things you want to say to me."
It takes more effort than it should to look him in the eye as she says it; it's painful, forcing every ounce of bravery she possesses to prompt him into getting it over with, convince him to scream all the horrible things she's not strong enough to hear but knows she must if she's ever going to be able to look at him without having her whole body ache with wanting. She needs to hear him say it, needs to know he's done with her, that he hates her— but instead of saying anything he blinks, looking at her as if he's only just now seeing her properly.
(And she wonders if he's trying to decide which is worse: the girl with the heart of ice he met in August, or the girl with no heart in front of him now.)
It's nearly a minute before he replies, his head shaking confusedly. "... I don't have anything to say to you."
She makes it about a second before she understands what he's saying. "Oh."
It's about the meanest thing he's ever said to her.
And it's worse, so much worse than the thousands of words she had been expecting to be flung at her, screamed at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear: Worthless, Pathetic, Heartless. She had wanted hatred, had wanted only the worst because it's what she deserves— because it's easier to fight anger, fight spite. You can't combat indifference... "I don't have anything to say to you." The honesty of it kills her, is more painful than stab wounds, than bullets, than her own skin being torn to shreds... Because that's all Wally has left for her. No feelings, no hatred. Nothing. That's all she left him with. He feels nothing.
Before she can stop it there are tears burning at the backs of her eyes, angry and threatening to spill over; at once she raises her book back to hide herself, hands shaking all over again. She doesn't know why her breathing suddenly sounds like barely audible sobbing, but it does.
She can practically sense the alarm on the other side of the book as Wally sits in silence, apparently too surprised by her reaction to starting eating again. "Artemis?" He says after a moment, and hearing him say her name in that stupid unused way again sends one angry tear sliding down her cheek before she has the sense to try to stop feeling again. "Artemis, come on, you know I didn't mean it like that."
She doesn't know how he was supposed to mean it and resigns to glare at the words on her pages as hard as she can, fingers flexing as she struggles to both maintain a grip and wipe the wetness from her cheeks without him seeing. "Whatever." She mutters stonily. "Not like I have anything to say to you either."
She's more than a little offended when his hand shoots out across the counter, getting soy sauce on her cover as he forces her to slam her book against the island. "Hey." He says fiercely, the tell-tale red of his ears telling her he's beginning to get angry too. "What the hell are you doing?"
She can feel the heat of his hand, only a few inches from hers. The fact that's she's so aware of him makes her sick. "I'm not doing anything." She tries to snarl.
She watches as Wally's eyes flicker around her face, taking in the single tear track on her cheek. "Why are you crying?" He asks almost accusingly.
She feels the wrinkle over her nose pop up as he says it, and as if it's what he's been waiting for Wally pulls back, returning his hand back to his side of the no man's land between them. "I'm not crying." She sneers unconvincingly, very aware of the fact that as she says it more tears are burning, hot and insistent, at the backs of her eyes.
"You broke up with me." He blurts out very suddenly, shaking his head in confusion as his eyes narrow.
She scowls again, teeth gritting together. "… I know."
She can't follow what he's going to say next and is instead silently thankful when they're both interrupted by the thrumming of the zeta tubes. She watches for a half-second as another glare crosses Wally's features, watches as his mouth opens, as if he's about to angrily tell her off for—
"Aquagirl. B-11."
The two of them have enough time to register the rapid change from anger to shock on each other's faces—she can feel her brows raising and Wally's eyes widen and she can see the tiny hazel flecks she so rarely gets a glimpse of—before both their heads are whipping in opposite directions, his towards the zeta tubes and hers back towards Kaldur.
Seconds pass. The room is painfully silent except for the sound of the television remote slipping through webbed fingers. Even from here she can see the stiffening of Kaldur's back, tattooed muscles rippling along his arms in a panicked response.
Her heads whips back towards Wally and it's immediately unnerving how suddenly things feel almost normal between them—she can see her own alarm and surprise reflecting back on his features, can see the way both of them are waiting in the silence for the announcement of Garth's number—
A muscle tightens in Wally's neck as he surveys her, the two of them communicating silently and waiting for the next move. Her ears are straining for noise and her hands are straining against her book, fighting against the sudden temptation to touch him.
In less than a second she's saved— Tula finishes reconstructing and bursts into life; none of them can see her, not with the kitchen cabinets and walls in the way, but her presence is so close to them it's suddenly as if the other girl never left at all, the familiar salty-sweet hue all Atlanteans carry seeming to flood into the air and announcing her arrival just as well as the disembodied voice did.
Garth's number is still absent and in the silence Tula hesitates, unseen and no doubt hovering by the zeta tubes. "Kaldur?" She hears the familiar voice call, sounding nervous. "Kaldur'ahm?" As if it's what he's been waiting for this whole time Kaldur immediately rises from the couch, obediently moving towards the somewhat desperate edge to her voice.
"Kal?" She hears herself say weakly, half rising from her stool and struggling to read the tense lines of his expression. Something about the other girl's voice isn't right— it sounds odd, too feminine to be in character.
He hardly glances at her, instead raising a hand in dismissal. "Something has happened." He says simply, bare feet picking up speed and slapping loudly against the tile as he moves through the kitchen, addressing her quickly. "Stay here. I must go to Tula."
He brushes past her without looking, even though she knows that he can sense the questioning look on her face; her eyes follow him out of the kitchen, staring hard at his back as her fingers clench her book, wondering what is going on. Almost habitually her head swings back to Wally, a little off-guard by the fact that he's already looking at her.
"Do you—" She starts before immediately stopping, not sure if they're allies anymore. Not sure if she's worthy of asking him questions.
Wally blinks at her, waiting for her to finish what she was going to say and frowning when she remains silent. "... Do you?" He asks after a moment.
She's not entirely sure what he's asking but when she risks a glance up to his face she can see the end of the sentence written in the crinkles of his brows. Neither of them feel right, sitting here being useless, when something may be wrong. Instead of answering she shrugs, flattening her book against the counter. "Kaldur said to stay here."
For some reason Wally sends her a hard look, as if he's disappointed by her answer. "... Whatever." He says after a moment. "You do what you want to do."
"... What's that supposed to mean?" She asks gruffly, but before the sentence is even out of her mouth he's on his feet, popping a last chunk of carrot into his mouth before slipping away from the island. "Where are you going?"
She knows she's lost the right to demand things from him and feels stupid doing it, especially in such a ridiculous undertone— the zeta tubes aren't that far, and she knows that Kaldur and Tula would no doubt be able to hear them bickering if they were to talk at full volume. Wally glances back at her over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at her. "Where do you think, Blondie?"
She feels a pang at the renewed nickname and instantly scowls; she makes it about ten seconds before her curiosity gets the better of her and she's forced to follow him, seething.
From the kitchen it's really only a small hallway that separates the common area from the zeta tubes, and it's here that she finds Wally; he's hovering about the final edge of the hallway, peeking around a corner and watching Kaldur's progress, no doubt almost hidden from the other two in the vastness of the room in front of them. Feeling odd about it she takes her place on the opposite corner, ears straining to catch the voices by the zeta tubes.
It's childish, to be spying like this, but she has to admit that she's curious— the last she heard Tula had left after a fight had broken out between Kaldur and Garth (which she was partially responsible for) and she had been forced to pick between the two of them. Her appearance now, without the other boy at her side...
Wally ignores her appearance; she has a second or two to register that this is as close as she's been to him since they broke up, the two of them taking opposite sides of the hallway and leaning around it, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body and for her to notice the uncomfortable bobbing of his throat. Once again she's thankful for the distraction of Kaldur, who has only just stopped bounding towards Tula in almost the dead center of the receiving room.
"What has happened?" She hears Kaldur calling out, now straightening; even though she can't see his face she suspects he's got his jaw clenched, brow furrowed in the same look that always crosses his face in times of distress, the same look she's grown to be both assured and panicked by. "Tula? Are you alright?"
The second he asks the question the tip of the other girl's nose turns a delicate pink, the shade quickly blossoming out to color the insides of her cheeks like a rash. "I—" She starts, immediately stopping as she bites her lip. Even from here she can see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, as if she's out of breath.
Kaldur pauses, and she's sure he's having as much trouble reading the expression on her face as she is; there's several seconds of silence in which his hands repeatedly clench and unclench at his side, mind no doubt whirring with confusion. "What has happened?" Kaldur repeats, taking a cautious step closer. "... Is Garth alright?"
"He is fine." Tula manages to get out, still bright pink and staring at him with wide eyes before a guilty look crosses her features. "Or—well, he will be. In time."
She something clicks inside her mind and automatically she glances at Wally, instantly regretting it as she does— he's already got his eyes fixed on her, trying to read her face. The two of them exchange a quizzical look as Tula's hands wind together nervously in front of her stomach. Kaldur for his part seems to deflate slightly. "I do not—" He starts, shaking his head. "... Then there is nothing wrong?"
Tula blushes an even brighter pink, hands now curling together so wildly that the webbing between them looks as if it's straining almost painfully. "No."
Kaldur seems to hover awkwardly on the balls of his feet for a moment, obviously confused. "I do not understand." He mutters, and she thinks she can see the beginning of purplish blush creeping down the back of his neck. "... I thought... You are simply visiting? But... You are visiting without Garth? He knows he is not permitted inside the Cave."
Tula lets out a loud exhale, looking as if she's caught between tears and laughter. "Oh, Kaldur'ahm. You are such a fool."
Kalur gets as far as stammering out something in Atlantean before Tula launches herself at him, crossing the room in only a few nymph-like bounds before her arms being thrown around his neck. Ridiculously she feels a burst of happiness in her stomach at the sight of them kissing, and unthinkingly she turns to Wally again, beaming.
For what feels like the thousandth time this evening it's as if nothing's changed between them as they stand grinning at each other, both their backs pressed flush against either side of the wall and eyes crinkled as they pretend to be disgusted by the kissing noises now coming in louder from the zeta tubes. It feels as if, should she want to, she would simply have to lean in, throw herself at him and kiss him and... And everything would be fine again. All would be forgiven.
She wonders if that's what she wants.
(Yes. Yes please.)
Wally keeps grinning at her, the smile looking out of place among the shadows under his eyes and the patchy stubble on his chin. For some reason he raises his hand, whether to fix a piece of her hair or to scrub at his own, she can't tell; either way she catches another glimpse of her elastic, still wrapped firmly around his wrist.
(And it would be so easy to lean in again, to kiss him as if nothing were wrong. So easy to pretend that this was just another one of their squabbles, another of the bumps on the road back to finding each other… But it isn't. It can't be. She knows why she can't be with Wally again.)
The smile on her face sours, and before his hand can find its destination she forces herself to walk away.
AN: Another chapter up! Thanks to everyone who reviewed. As usual I'm overwhelmed with support and kindness towards myself and this story. You guys are amazing.
Q&A:
Q: Will you ever give us Wally's POV of Artemisia?
A: One of these days, probably when I have a lot more time and can have two different stories on the go. But it is on my to-do list, don't you worry.
On another note, this story might be on a brief hiatus. Usually I try to update once every two weeks and I'm expecting that to be stretched out by a few extra days— I'm taking off to Pemberton music festival next week and won't be near a computer for the whole weekend I would normally spend getting the next chapter ready. Rest assured, I will update as quickly as I can when I get back.
Please Read and Review!