AN: I've been fussing with this chapter for the better part of two weeks, and after some humming and hawing I'm proud to finally show you the longest work I've ever uploaded to Parenthesis- over 26,000 words! Enjoy it.
This chapter is rated M.
(She's doesn't like where they're sitting; the booth in the diner is coated in a strange plastic film that sticks to the backs of her thighs with the early spring heat. She shifts uncomfortably for what feels like the thousandth time, the skin exposed beneath her academy skirt peeling off the booth in a quietly gummy way.
Wally smiles at her despite the scowl still on her face, setting down his burger and instead picking up a fry from his plate. Even with the finality of their last conversation still hanging in the air he's surveying her almost thoughtfully, his black eye twinging as he glances back at his food. "… You ever think about college?" He asks her suddenly.
It's a far cry from his father, or his eye, or Alice in Wonderland, or anything else they've talked about this afternoon. Feeling skeptical she shrugs, her pony tail trailing in a long line down her back as she leans forward to sip her milkshake. "… You do."
The way she says it is almost challenging in her sureness, her brows raising demurely to watching his face. Wally, for his part, indulges her with a smirk and a quick roll of his eyes before popping the fry in his mouth. "That wasn't the question, Blondie."
"So? What do you think?" She's deliberately not answering him properly, a fact that she's sure he's noticed— although he pretends to scowl she can see the expression on his face softening for a moment, taking his time to chew his fry before he answers.
"I dunno. A lot of things, I guess." He says vaguely, leaning back. He raises his hand unconsciously to scrub through his hair, fingers lingering about his black eye for a second too long. "… Dad is kind of obsessed with it. Wants me to start getting serious about applying."
She scoffs. "You're only in the 11th grade."
"Yeah, well… Rudy thinks the earlier I apply the better." Wally shrugs; at the mention of his father he gets a sour look on his face, gaze wandering briefly out the diner window to stare vacantly as a passerby strolls down the sidewalk. "He's got it into his head that I'm going to Harvard, or Yale, or—"
"Stanford?" She guesses, ticking off the only other prestigious school she can name off the top of her head.
The corners of Wally's mouth twitch, his eyes finding hers again. "Yeah. But... I have the grades or whatever. And if I did some extracurricular stuff next year, or joined a few clubs... I might stand a chance. And sure, studying Physics would be..." He trails off, not finishing; after a long moment he drops his jaw, surveying her seriously. "I was just wondering… You know. What you were thinking."
"About you going to school?"
"… About your plans. For… The future. And us."
She feels herself swallow, brows raising. "You're serious?" She hears herself say, eyes widening.
"Course."
She's not exactly sure if there's a polite way to say this; she feels her hands slide back underneath the table, her thighs sticking again. "… Wally." She sighs, shaking her head. "… I haven't heard from you in… Like, a week. And you just show up here with a black eye, telling me to be normal, and—"
He cuts her off before she can get too far. "Just answer the question." He tells her frankly, looking annoyed. "You ever... You know. Think about that stuff?"
"Look—"
He must be able to sense that fact that she's intent on avoiding the subject; with a huff he throws himself against the back cushioning of the booth, arms crossing childishly. "Whatever." He mumbles. "... If you don't want to tell me that's fine."
As he exhales the words she catches a wisp of walnut scented breath, the whole of the diner seeming to fill with it; suddenly she feels so small sitting there, next to someone with their whole life planned out and her, hardly counting on living until tomorrow. "... Do you ever think about it?" She asks too quickly, not looking at him. "I mean... You're a planner. Am I... Part of the plan too?"
She doesn't know why she asks it, more wanting to turn the question around on him than know the actual answer; when she gets the courage to look at him again she's taken aback first by the crimson glowing of his ears, and then by the sheepish smile he's wearing. "Babe..." He exhales, voice sounding slightly exasperated as he leans forward, voice dropping as if he's telling her a secret. "You are the plan."
Immediately she feels her whole face heat, mouth twisting into a strange mixture of horror and something else she can't quite name; as if he's expecting the reaction Wally leans back, chuckling loudly and grin straining the blackened mark around his eye. "... Wait here, okay? I got the cheque." He tells her, as if what he's said should have more no significance than that afternoon's weather forecast.
She's left gaping at his empty seat across from her as he vacates it, stomach dropped as she stares in shock at the ugly red vinyl— how can he be so casual about this, about building his life around her, as if she's somehow important or valuable or irreplaceable or—
Loved?—)
She's not sure what wakes her in the morning; the whole of her body feels hazy, almost intoxicated as she rolls onto her back, letting out a hum of breath that blows the hair out of her lashes. The Gotham air is warm around her, sheets tangled between her legs; her eyes open, seeing only peeling paint and water stains on the ceiling. Before she can realize she's smiling the dream fades, leaving only a lingering twisting in her stomach.
(She won't understand why, later— why all day she feels as if she's misplaced things, left a part of herself behind— she checks her pockets again and again, searching for an unknown something she knows is lost.)
She rolls over, Wally's necklace settling neatly into the dip of her clavicle, sleep pulling her under again.
Her eyes find the clock on Black Canary's wall. She's been sitting here for nine minutes.
For nearly twenty seconds she watches the fastest hand spin round, running past the numbers in its routine fashion. 1, 2, 3— She looks away, back to her feet. The red nail polish adorning her toes is now chipped and peeling and nowhere as nice as it was when Zatanna had painted it there nearly two weeks ago. She can actually hear the hand on the clock tick past another minute, the straps of her sandals straining against the tops of her feet as she flexes them into the floor, willing herself not to get up and leave the way she's been itching to for—
10 minutes.
"Artemis?"
She tries to look up at Dinah and instead fixes her gaze on the potted plant on her desk. The silence ticks on and she counts twenty-one leaves.
When she doesn't do anything beyond wringing her hands more firmly together on her lap Black Canary sighs, leaning forward in her desk until her blonde hair is dripping over her elbows. "I'm trying to be patient, Artemis." She tells her not unkindly. "... But I can't help you if you don't say anything."
This time she's brave enough to spare the older woman a glance, watching as her ruby coated lips roll together— restraining a smile— before she looks away.
It's not much, but Dinah seems to take this as a good sign, finally unclasping her wiry hands and glancing down to the thick wad of papers she can only assume is her file. "Okay." She mumbles, pausing for a moment to read whatever's written there. "Well, if you won't tell me what's going on then I'll just have to start with what I know."
She goes back to staring at the clock as the older women looks her dead on, brows furrowed and eyes scrutinizing. "It's been a long time since we talked. The last time you were here..." There's a pause that feels fake, Dinah's hands rifling through her papers feeling more for show than anything. "We had talked about your father. Do you remember that?"
This is putting it politely; vividly she remembers what happened months ago: being terrified of the news of Lawrence's escape, running away, and eventually ending up here, snarling the meanest words she could imagine at Oliver. It's not a moment she's proud of, and feeling slightly surly she sinks lower in her leather chair.
Black Canary must take this for a yes. "Not a fun day for anyone." She muses, dropping her eyes tactfully back to her file. "... But a lot's changed since then, hasn't it? You've been to Quarac and back. Fought your father head on. Ended a relationship with a Teammate."
She feels herself scowl and lifts her legs, hiding childishly behind her knees.
Dinah must get the sense that she's onto something; not one to be thrown she continues, voice low but kind as she ploughs on. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time, Artemis." She tells her. "And I'm not the only one— a few of your Teammates have said things to me. Kaldur, Zatanna, even Wally—"
It's borderline treachery, knowing they're talking about her behind her back; she accidentally breaks her silence with a loud exhale, her knees knocking together. For a moment the older women goes quiet, as if waiting for her to finally say something. She counts nearly half a minute before the Dinah tries again, sounding more serious. "... But you never came to see me."
More quiet, and this time she hears the distinct sound of the exaggerated riffling of papers, as if the older woman wants her to know that she's going through her file again. "On July 25th you talked to Kaldur about starting up our counselling sessions again." She tells her, as if she doesn't know. "And today, the 27th, you were in here waiting for me without setting up an appointment."
Despite herself she feels her resistance crumbling; when she peeks out behind her knees Black Canary is surveying her, the smile about her russet lips looking slightly tired. "... It's silly to sit there and act like you don't have anything to say, Artemis."
As the older woman stares at her she feels her stomach twist uncomfortably; for the first time since she entered the office almost— she glances at the clock— fifteen minutes ago her mouth opens, lips raw and chapped as she exhales, trying to find what she wants to say. Now more than ever the words seem lost inside herself, what's wrong with her slipping through her fingers and remaining unknown, intangible.
She closes her mouth again, then opens it. "... Sorry." She blurts out, shaking her head behind her knees. "I can't figure out what I want to tell you."
It's a bit of a lie; she knows what she wants to say. She wants answers, wants to know how to fix herself, wants to know why the things that come so easily to others— like love, like happiness, like closeness— feel so hard for her. Why she's spent months denying that she's broken, that something's wrong with her, that she's not as tough as she's pretending to be. But how is she supposed to say that? How is she supposed to get the words out without sounding more damaged than she is? Without wanting to die at the embarrassment of it all?
Instead of being impatient Black Canary straightens her spine, still smiling. "That's okay." She says quietly. "Do you want me to tell you a few things? About you?"
She's not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean; peeking out behind her knees again she stares too long at the older woman, trying to figure out what's about to happen. "... Okay." She mutters warily; without meaning to her one hand reaches up to press the chain of her necklace against her skin, hoping the pain will help her think.
Dinah keeps smiling the same too-kind smile, the one she's starting to think isn't fake. "You are Artemis Lian Crock." She tells her, glancing down once at her file to confirm her middle name. "I know you as Artemis. You are sixteen."
She suspects this is some sort of therapy tactic; grounding the patient with the facts so they feel steady enough to spill their guts out. Even though it's a bit cliché she keeps her eyes on the older woman, silently willing her to continue and get the worst over with. "You grew up in Gotham City. You live there now with your mother, who you love very much."
Her stomach squirms and she doesn't know why, her knees lowering as she struggles to sit up straight. Dinah's face is growing more serious, watching sharply as she adjusts, looking for signs of weakness. "You save lives with your bow and arrows, which were a gift from your mentor Oliver. He loves you like a daughter."
(The words hurt to hear, and she doesn't understand it.)
"You have not lived an easy life." Dinah says in a hushed, too calming tone. For some reason she can feel sweat beginning to press against her temples, clinging to the lower part of her back. "You've been through a lot more than children your age. It has made you scared of trusting, of caring, and—" She hesitates, long enough for her to feel all her muscles tensing in her chair. "...of abandonment." As the older woman says it she feels a strange surge of anger running through her, her feet flexing against the floor as she's forced to listen to what are now presumptions being made about her—
As if she can sense she's misspoke Black Canary hesitates, changing course. "But it has also made you very brave, Artemis. And empathetic. And incredibly strong." She feels her eyes narrow at the compliments, suspicious. "I don't know very much about you." The older woman amends, nodding respectfully in her direction. "I don't have a right to tell you any more than this about yourself. But I know you came here today, and I know you want me to listen... Would you like to share anything with me?"
Her feet are screaming as she tenses her muscles into the straps of her sandals, pressing as hard as she can into the floor. She can't run. She came in here because she owes it to herself— she wants to get better, she wants to get better—
"You can start with your name, if that helps." Dinah suggests after a moment.
She inhales, fingers clenched and feet aching. She keeps her eyes on the clock— she's been here nearly twenty minutes. She can feel the ancient claws of unknown hands as they try to pull her back into silence, invisible fingers working their way around her throat. "I'm Artemis." She says croakily. "Artemis Lian Crock."
The first few days of August trickle by slowly, the heat once again growing unbearable in what she's sure has to be the summer's final grueling blaze.
Although she doesn't want to she can't help but think of Jade; August had always been her sister's favorite month. She remembers watching her perch on the fire escape, the place she knows now is something sacred to all Crock women. Without wanting to she can picture the wind rustling her ebony hair and the moonlight catching the milkiness of her skin... Jade had loved the beginnings of Autumn in Gotham, the way the crispness would slowly return to the air, the way the sludgy perfume of the city would be cut through in the evenings, marking the beginning of summer's fading and winter's arrival.
... She wonders where that girl is now.
(Wonders where she went that first night, when the city was unparalleled before her and memories of her family were left locked in the Gotham apartment, hidden...)
More than once she hears Black Canary's words hissing at her, digging into the scar on the back of her neck and latching there— "afraid of abandonment—"
She's not afraid of Jade leaving her. It already happened and she survived just fine. Besides, that girl now... That isn't her anymore. Cheshire isn't her sister.
... Despite these hardened thoughts she can feel the etching of worry digging into her skin, scarring her; like an addict craving a cigarette she dwells on old memories, half-remembered sensations and longing for the girl she stopped knowing years ago. She should know better— mourning someone who doesn't exist anymore— but her encounter with Roy has left her glancing over her shoulder, rethinking things he said in passing. "She's still your sister, Artemis... If she was in trouble she'd call you first..."
Is that even true?
... As much as she doesn't want to believe it she can't help but linger on the thought, on what Roy had meant when he said it. The Jade she knows is more memory than a person, more whisperings of her past than solid. She's Cheshire now, not Jade, and— and Roy knows Cheshire better than anyone. Would Cheshire come back to her?
... Even more, if Cheshire needed her... What would she do? Try to help?
(She thinks the question over repeatedly, unable to figure out an answer.)
She's provided plenty of distractions, at least— the Cave seems busier, as if the usual suspects are trying to remind them that the leisurely days of summer are coming to a close. Between training Garfield, her teeth-gritting sessions with Black Canary, and running out at all hours of the day and night for low-ball missions there's hardly a moment to herself anymore, save the few minutes before sleep when she fights against the questions that bloom up at the back of her mind, unwelcome.
It's not just her who seems distracted; the number of people routinely haunting the Cave at regular hours seems to drop drastically, as if they're all getting ready to go back to school or get back to a more routine life. Even then, when they're together it sometimes feels strained, foreign, as if they're all suddenly strangers again rather than the few people in this world she would trust her life with. The amount of bickering and squabbles seems to increase a tenfold, be it from stress or not seeing each other enough, and on the tenth day of August she gets in a yelling match so violent with Dick that he leaves the Cave in a flurry of curse words and obscene hand gestures.
"Do you even remember what you were fighting about?" Wally asks her when she accidentally corners him in the kitchen, the last few minutes spent unwillingly ranting to him after he had made the mistake of asking her what her problem was.
She narrows her eyes; the question is asked between a mouthful of crackers he's just shoved in his mouth while raiding the Cave's fridge. Rather than snap at him for the few crumbs he's sprayed in her direction she sighs, instead making a grab for the box when he tosses it to her and scrounging around the insides. "That's not the point." She says defensively, passing the crackers back to him. "He's been acting like a total ass the last few days. Like, when he found out Zatanna was seeing that new guy—"
Wally glances at the box before apparently giving it up as a bad job, tossing it back towards her before he resumes his ransacking of the fridge. "This is Ben, right?"
"No, he's the old one. We're on Jacob now."
Over her mouthful of crackers she hears him make a vague noise, watching as he emerges from the fridge with what must be the entire contents in his arms. "Oh, him. I thought she already dumped him?"
She takes a final handful of crackers before sealing the almost empty box, placing it back in the cupboard for someone else to deal with. "She did, because she started seeing Ben. But Ben turned out to be..." She trails off, frowning at him as he takes a seat around the island. "I think he was boring? Or... I don't know. There's been about five of them now, I can't keep track."
Wally shrugs, reaching for the bread bag on the counter and dragging it towards him. "Glad to know I'm not the only one." He chuckles, grinning at her.
Her stomach jumps as something silent passes between them, a quiet and familiar sort of tenderness that fills her with both aching and unburdened happiness. Things have been better between them— so, so, much better since her birthday. The things that they had murmured in the darkness overlooking Happy Harbor seem to have sealed something between them, something stronger and deeper than before. For the first time since the New Year she feels as if she's gotten her friend back, her Wally back— the one who is her best friend, her everything, the one person she can count to always be there for her, no questions asked, feelings be damned...
(The familiar green eyes glance downward, tracing the golden chain that's been sitting around her neck since he gave it to her, something unreadable creasing around his temple...)
All at once the twisting in her stomach seems to reach an almost painful point; feeling herself blush she leans back against the counter, shifting her weight until she can clumsily pull herself up to sit on it. "Whatever." She says dismissively, swinging one of her bare legs up to press against her chest. "The point is, he was a complete ass to Zee when he heard about Jacob—"
He makes a strange clicking noise, rolling his eyes as he unscrews a jar of mayonnaise. "Give him a break, Artemis." He tells her, smearing a knife across a piece of bread. "Look, I don't doubt he was being an ass but... Just cut him some slack. He's going through a thing with Bats right now."
"So?"
"So be nice. I know that's not your strong suit—" He tells her frankly, not looking bothered when she glares at him. "— but try, okay? Bats is already on his case, he doesn't need you bothering him too."
This isn't entirely fair but she gets the sense not to challenge him; there's something in his tone that's severe, menacing, in a way that makes her sure he's speaking from experience— now that she's thinking on it she can't remember the last time she saw Wally and Dick hanging out together. "... What's the big guy bugging him about?" She asks after a moment.
She's not expecting Wally to reveal anything beyond his ears, which as usual go off and tell her there's something he's hiding. As anticipated he shrugs, finishing his sandwich and taking too big of a bite. "Not my thing to tell." He mutters through a mouthful. "Let's just say I wouldn't want to be in Rob's shoes right now."
He's not going to budge on this; still not looking at her he takes a bite and then another, eating his food quickly and disgustingly as always. "... You're eating a lot." She says dryly, watching as the sandwich he's consuming rapidly disappears; now that neither of them are talking all she can hear is the sound of him chewing. "Fast Metabolism acting up? You go for a run this morning?"
For some reason his ears go off again. "Uh, sort of."
It's such an odd and simultaneously vague response that she can't help but snort, slipping off the counter with the intention of making a cup of tea; moving round the island towards the kettle she sends him a weary sort of look. "Why are you acting so—" She starts, pausing when she goes to pass the stool beside him.
Now that she's on his side of the island she can see it— the red and white fabric, the suppleness of the leather. It's not meant to be hidden, the varsity jacket emblazed with the number 13 swinging slightly from where it's hung on the back of the stool. "... What's this?" She asks, sounding almost accusing as she seizes the letterman jacket off its hook, swinging it in the air between them.
For some reason Wally grimaces, setting down his nearly finished sandwich. "It's... A varsity jacket." He says lamely, wincing at the stunned expression on her face. "I had practice this morning... I, uh, started running track."
She's caught between bursting out in laughter and staring at him in shock; she seems to settle on the former as she snorts, waving the coat at him teasingly. "Running track? You're running track?" She sneers, holding the jacket up in front of her and making a face at the emblem on the breast pocket. "Since when?"
Wally's ears are glowing once more; as if determined to never look at her again he goes back to his food, eating far more quickly than before. "Since end of July."
"So what? You just tried out?"
"It wasn't a big deal—"
"Oh, not for you. Kid Flash, was it?"
The redness from his ears is beginning to flush down into his cheeks, coloring his whole face in a spectacular maroon. "It wasn't a big deal for anyone!" He snaps. "Look, try-outs were July 31st, I went, I got on the Team. Will you just drop it—"
She snorts again, running her hands over the leather. "Isn't that, like, against some sort of rule—you know, no steroids, no super powers—"
She's not even finished teasing him when he takes the jacket back, ripping it out of her hands almost violently; the crimson on his cheeks is now coloring his neck and beginning to blossom in angry splotches against the top of his collar bone. "See, this is why I didn't tell you when I tried out. I knew you were going to make fun of me for it."
"I'm not making fun of you!" She counters, eyes narrowing at the annoyance on his face as he gets out of his seat. "Wally— come on, don't be an idiot—" She scoffs, following as he makes to leave the kitchen. "Why are you getting mad at me? I'm just— Come on, Baywatch, we used to laugh when your gym teacher would suggest it, remember? Because it was ironic? You can't blame me for—"
She can sense what she's saying isn't making anything any better; Wally continues to look ill tempered as he rounds on her, glaring. "Well, I changed my mind then." He says shortly, scowling at the half ghost of a smile still on her face. "It might have all been some stupid joke to you but— I mean, why shouldn't I do it?" He asks her accusingly. "I'm fast."
She makes the mistake of snorting again. "No kidding, idiot—"
"And I don't use my powers during the race. It's fair." He cuts her off, sounding as if he's trying to convince himself as well as her. "And— so what? It... It looks good on college applications. I win a few races, get my name in the school paper, get a few scholarships— I'm going for Stanford, Artemis." He adds the last part almost lowly, as if daring her to challenge it. "They have a great Physics program—I have the grades but— I need this, okay?"
She doesn't even know how they got here; back to fighting again, when only a few minutes ago they were friends. "I—Stanford." He won't stop glaring at her, the look on his face dulling her brain and making it nearly impossible for words to come out. "... I didn't know you had even decided that's where you wanted to go."
Another glare, more crimson blush. "Well, I don't have to tell you everything." He says defensively, the words so short and cutting that she feels as if she's been slapped by them.
She blinks, feeling her stomach settle somewhere below the floorboards. "... Okay." She mumbles stupidly, feeling her eyes narrow.
"Okay." He says gruffly, looking impatient when she bites the inside of her cheek; before she can figure out something mean to say he's turning his back on her. "I have to go. Mom wants me home for dinner."
She still can't quite figure out what's just happened, stomach churning unpleasantly as he ducks around her, heading towards the zeta tubes. "Wally—"
He doesn't even look back when she calls for him.
She doesn't know why it bothers her but it does— why would Wally not want her to know he was on the track team? Why would he not tell her about Stanford? When they were together she could hardly get him to shut up about colleges: Harvard or Yale, Princeton and— and Stanford, Wally had always had a soft spot for Stanford, for the North California air and the geeky lure of Silicon Valley...
It's a big deal, right? Deciding which college is your top pick. He spent all that time with her talking about it, why wouldn't he tell her when he finally figured it out?
... She supposes he's right. It's not like they have to tell each other everything. Sure, they're friends, but... Well, things between them won't ever be like they were before. And it's not like she tells him all her secrets anymore; she hasn't mentioned to him that she bumped into Roy, that Jade's missing and apparently it's her problem now...
She had thought things with Wally were finally good, settled, finished between them; now it feels as if he's hiding something from—
She ducks, not expecting Connor to regain his balance as quickly as he does; pulling her thoughts from Wally she's suddenly frighteningly lost in the middle of their sparring, her hair whirring in her face and thighs aching as she struggles to dodge the blow, an iron clad fist shoving upwards and intent on clobbering an uppercut to the underside of her jaw—
Just as she winces in preparation for the blow Connor stops short, muscles freezing and becoming unnaturally still in the familiar unnerving way of his. "... You're not much of a challenge today." He tells frankly, dropping his fist and looking at her, expectant and dry as always. "You're not even paying attention."
She exhales, half out of annoyance and half out of relief, the rush of air blowing several pieces of hair out of her face. "Whatever." She mutters, feeling ill tempered as she resets her position, fists raising and bare feet flexing into the floor. "Come on. Let's go again."
Rather than look intrigued by the offer like he always does Connor merely frowns at her eagerness, brows furrowing; despite their time apart she can tell he's listening intently to the too-quick beating of her heart, trying to understand why her cheeks are an angry red. "... There's something bothering you."
As always he reads her too easily, his unnatural hearing telling him more than she wants him to know. Beginning to feel stupid she clenches her fists tighter, gesturing for him to do the same. "I'm fine." She says between her teeth, nose beginning to wrinkle when he still doesn't adopt a sparring stance. "Let's go again."
When nothing happens other than Connor straightening and crossing his arms she throws caution to the wind; grinding her teeth together she charges at him, bare feet pounding against the floor. There's a predictable amount of movement, one of her fists flying forward and then another; before either of them can find their mark along his jaw line his palms are slapping against both her knuckles, effectively encasing her and shoving her backwards.
She staggers, matching jolts of pain firing up her arms and bursting in her shoulder sockets; hissing, she nearly trips over her own feet, her heels becoming skinned at the friction on the floor. It's jarring, rattling, and more than anything a message— Talk, or no fighting fair. Biting her tongue around the choice swears that threaten to burst out her mouth as she struggles to reset her position, muscles aching in protest. "God." She snarls, nose wrinkling. "What the hell was that? We're supposed to be training."
Ignoring this he straightens again, eyes narrowed. "... You're upset." He says softly, voice adopting an unfamiliar, almost caring tone she's never heard before.
She supposes this is how he's gotten M'gann to break several times before; for a moment she debates attacking him again, fists clenching tightly before she abruptly drops them. Dammit. "... It's stupid." She tells him frankly, shaking her head. "I probably don't even have a reason to be upset. It's nothing."
Connor rolls his eyes. "It's never nothing with you. Talk."
This is a bit of a jibe but she ignores it. "Can you..." She starts before trailing off, not quite managing to look at him; instead she drops her eyes to her feet, pretending to examine the raw skin on the bottoms of her heels. Several seconds pass in which she debates a few different questions in her head, deciding on the safest of the bunch. "Can you think of any reason why Wally wouldn't want me to know he joined his high school track team?"
It isn't what she wants to ask, not really— but, she supposes, it's somewhere to start.
She's not looking at when she says it, but immediately she can sense the tension in the silence that fills the air. She's expecting him to laugh at her stupidity, or at least dismiss the thought; when she glances up at him she feels a dull ache run through her when she catches him looking away, expression almost guilty. "Con?" She blurts out the nickname, brows raising.
Instead of answering right away he shrugs, apparently unable to tear his eyes away from the ceiling. "Hm."
"Con."
He may have his tricks but they're nothing compare to hers— her stern tone, long since mastered with the hours she's spent training Garfield, seems to get to him; finally he looks her in the eye, expression wary. "... He did say something." A weird pause, the kind that doesn't suit Connor. "About a girl he met there."
It's the last thing she's expecting, a painful ache of surprise and hurt twanging once inside the hollows of her stomach. "... A girl."
Her tone is cold, flat and hard as the edge of her arrows; she hardly hears herself repeat the words, the ringing in her ears making her own voice sound strangely distant as it comes out of her mouth. Very suddenly the golden chain around her neck feels too heavy, the delicate letter A burning like cast iron into her flesh—
A girl...?
Her pulse is pounding too loudly through her veins, pressing against her skin and threatening to burst through the sinew and ventricles holding her together. At once she feels simultaneously as if she's swallowed lead and helium, her head threatening to spin off her shoulders and float away while her soul seems to shatter through the floorboard, tumbling low and lost in the depths of the rock and loam beneath her. He's still talking, saying words that are too awkward and painful to hear; she's sure he can hear the stuttering of her heart as it skips several beats and then rips open, bleeding and seeping into her other organs, intent on drowning her.
Wally met a girl.
"...Linda, I think he said." She finally hears Connor say. She realizes with a jolt that she has no idea how long she's been quiet, staring at him wide eyed and limp across the training room. "She's a writer on the school newspaper— she's going to be covering all the track events this year. They met at the try out."
Her mouth is suddenly too dry and her tongue too big; when she tries to say something the words come out intelligible to her own ears. "Oh." A pause in which she tries to swallow, only choking on her own saliva. "... Okay."
As if he can sense something awful is happening Connor winces, taking a half step forward. "Artemis—"
"Let's go again." She croaks, raising her fists and feeling as if she's been set on fire. "Please."
The floor in the hallway of the Gotham apartment creaks, as it always has before and will into the future. Maybe she once found the sound annoying, back when she was alone in the apartment and jumping at every sound, or when she was slipping through silence to sneak out under Paula's nose. Now the sound feels almost reassuring, dependable in the fact that she knows which panels of wood will creak, which ones will groan under her feet. It's the sound of reliance: unchanging, no matter how much time passes.
(Wally met a girl.)
She hesitates outside the bathroom door, listening to the sound of running water and teeth being brushed. "... Zatanna?" She calls, forefinger reaching out once to tap at the wood.
Before she's even knocked twice the door is jerked open, the other girl hardly glancing at her before she turns back to the mirror. "One second." She says around the bristles of her toothbrush, some toothpaste slopping down her chin before she spits into the sink. "You showering tonight? I'd give the water a few minutes or so to warm back up—"
"—No—"
"—I'm never going to get used to the whole one bathroom thing." She continues, talking over her and only pausing to gargle with water, spitting again. "Not that I'm complaining, or anything. Kinda feels nice, all this girl time with you and Paula. Have I thanked you lately for letting me crash?"
Zatanna smiles so sincerely at her that at once she's aware of the fake feeling pull of her own mouth in response, casting an awkward look to the steamed up mirror. "Right." She says vaguely, only glancing back when the other girl grabs her towel off the floor, twisting her hair up and off her neck. "I mean, of course. You don't have to thank us, or whatever. It's your place now too."
It's phrased clumsily, not at all like her usual wry remarks; she's not surprised when the other girl looks away from her reflection, brows raising in a way that crinkles the fabric of the towel. "... You okay?"
"Fine."
(Wally met a girl.)
She's sure Zatanna can tell she's not entirely being honest because at once there's another quiver of her brows, mouth smirking. "Okay." She says, stretching out the word the way she hates. "Well, hurry up, then. That show we wanted to watch is on in ten and—"
"Actually." She cuts across the other girl, moving to block her when she attempts to slip past her into the hallway. "I, uh, had a question. Have you talked to Dick lately?"
(Wally met a girl.)
It's a bit of an odd question— predictably Zatanna's eyes narrow, blue flecked irises hardly visible as a swatch of damped hair escapes the towel. "Not really. He's been in one of his moods."
This isn't exactly helpful. "Okay, well—" She can feel herself beginning to grow embarrassed and promptly charges onwards, ignoring the reddening of her cheeks. "Did he happen to mention anything about Wally meeting someone?"
Again the other girl's brows raise, arms crossing in front of her chest. "Wally met someone?" An awkward pause. "Like, a girl someone?"
She feels herself make a funny twitch movement with her head, hating the way she can't stop herself from grimacing; at the movement the chain around her neck seems to scratch into her. "Yeah, I mean— that's what Connor said. Wally's on his school track team—"
Zatanna cuts her off with a snort. "He's on the track team?" She repeats, voice teasing. "Isn't that—"
"Completely ridiculous?" She throws out, running her hands through her hair in frustration. "That's what I told him. And then he made this big deal about how he didn't want to tell me—"
"Because you would make fun of him, like all of us would—"
"Exactly. But then when I asked Connor he said—" She can feel her voice raising and promptly cuts herself off, scowling. "He said Wally didn't want to tell me because he met a girl there. Linda."
(Wally met Linda.)
Something must show on her face because at once Zatanna grows sympathetic, finally slipping past her and into the hallway. "Linda?" She repeats, ruffling her towel about her head until it's sitting straight. "Sounds like she could be like someone's grandmother."
She snorts, appreciating the dig as she follows the other girl into the kitchen. "So... I don't know. Dick and I are on bad terms but I thought..." She trails off, watching as the other girl riffles through her cupboards for a moment, extracting a bag of microwavable popcorn. "I thought if it was serious he would know, and... He would tell you, right?"
For some reason Zatanna hesitates, the kitchen silent for a moment as she unwraps the popcorn and places it in the microwave. "Things with Dick are still... Confusing." She says vaguely, pressing the buttons a bit more savagely than she has to. For several seconds she's not given anything else except the annoying humming sound of popcorn cooking. "... We haven't exactly been talking about fun stuff lately... Him and Bats and going through a bit of a thing right now. It's mostly heavy conversations."
It's almost the same answer she got from Wally; feeling a bit out of the loop she makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat, leaning against the counter. "Well, if you hear anything... I don't know. Just tell me okay?"
The popcorn in the microwave has started popping, neither of them paying much attention to it; when Zatanna looks over at her the expression on her face is almost critical, too severe. "... I thought you wanted Wally to move on."
"I do." She says quickly, crossing her arms. For some reason she can't quite look at the other girl. "Of course, that's— I don't know. It's just... It's weird. We— The Team— don't know anything about her."
"We didn't know anything about Owen when you went out with him."
"Yeah, and that turned out great." She says dryly, immediately regretting it when Zatanna's face sours. "... I didn't mean that. I just— I don't know."
Zatanna fills the awkward silence between them by digging through the cupboard again, reaching for a glass. "Sounds like you're jealous." She muses, crossing the room and filling it from the tap.
Instantly she feels her cheeks going off; rather than look at the other girl she makes a show of shoving her hair back behind her ears. "I'm not jealous." She says lowly, ignoring the discomfort in her stomach.
"You're a bad liar, Artemis." The other girl muses, pausing in her sipping to stare at her over the rim of her glass. "You've always been Wally's girl, even when you weren't." Zatanna tells her, sending her a coy look— she has no clue what this is supposed to mean. "And it was fine when he was still pining for you, but now he's going to drop you for Linda—"
She knows Zatanna's only teasing but the words truly bother her, tickling a nerve they ought not to touch. "Shut up." She says lowly, bristling. "Besides, he's not dropping me. We aren't even... We're not together."
Her words must reveal more than she means them to because at once Zatanna goes quiet, the microwave sounding out several jarring beeps as the popcorn finishes. "Don't get mad at me." She says dryly, setting her glass on the counter. "You came to me for advice, remember?"
"I didn't ask you for—"
"Then don't listen." She tells her frankly, sounding much older than fifteen as she opens the steaming ba of popcorn, shaking the blossomed kernels into a bowl. "All I'm saying is that when I found out Dick was going after Barbara-something I hated it— enough to want to remind him who he was leaving behind."
She hears herself snort. "So what, you slept with him? Just because?"
"No." Zatanna says evenly, brows furrowing again; she can sense the two of them are both annoyed with each other now, the other girl extending the popcorn bowl towards her so roughly that she nearly spills some over the edge. "But I'm saying I would have, if I had the chance. Would have made him think twice before he left for good, you know?"
She takes some popcorn, staring at the other girl and struggling to read her face. "So... What? Dick gave up on you?" She repeats, eyes narrowing. "I thought— you said no to Prom, and you dated Kaleb—I thought that's what you—"
"Come on." Zatanna shrugs, stepping around her and walking towards the living room. "Our show's on."
(She can feel herself shrinking in the booth, retracting back from the questioning look on his face as the seconds tick past without an answer. "... Look—"
Before she can even figure out what she's trying to say Wally huffs, throwing himself backwards against the red vinyl. "Whatever." He mumbles. "... If you don't want to tell me that's fine."
Her stomach twists, fingers scrambling into a jumbled mess on her lap; she doesn't want to fight, not when things are so confusing between them, not when the blackened skin around his eye is telling her that he needs her, perhaps more than ever. "... Do you ever think about that stuff?" She asks suddenly, not looking at him. "I mean... You're a planner. Am I... Part of the plan too?"
The diner is growing cold, the windows steamed in a way they shouldn't for a warm spring afternoon. The air feels muggy, stained with something that seems to stick to the back part of her memory— sweet grass and the cutting scent of alcohol, of stale cigarettes and festering wounds. She feels vulnerable, sitting there in her school skirt, the bare skin exposed along her knees prickling with the awareness that something isn't right. Not anymore.
When she gets the courage to look at him again she's taken aback first by the crimson glowing of his ears, and then by the violent snarl exposing his teeth. "... Wally?" She blanches, feeling shock numb her.
"Baby girl..." He hisses, the words dragging out and becoming marled.
And she can't move, can't brace herself, can't do anything except gasp when a sai bursts out of the inside of his skull, popping the skin beneath his eye and sending crimson splattering across the table; his blood tastes metallic and poisonous as it coats her tongue, clinging to her teeth and gritting into her gums."Baby girl..." He snarls again, except this time it's not him talking— she can see something, someone inside Wally's head is peeling him open, dragged back his skin and spewing dribbles of his brain down his front, the sai carving him open and puncturing his skull, a single clawed glove extending towards her, threatening to drag her under. "Artemis—" Cheshire screeches, wailing the words— she's in trouble, Jade's in trouble—)
There's a loud clattering overhead and she jerks out of sleep, the air in her bedroom cold as she screams in a breath; for several seconds she clutches at her blankets, legs kicking and frantic gasps coming from her mouth. Her hair seems to stick to the back of her throat, several pieces getting caught in her teeth and ripping from her scalp as she struggles to push it back behind her ears, nails scratching reddened marks into her own skin.
(It takes too long for her to realize she's been dreaming.)
Her bedroom is half lit, the light on her desk still on and the book she fell asleep reading lying crumbled several feet beside her. Distantly she can feel herself becoming aware of the low roll of thunder, the angry pattering of rain. Above it all she can hear her heart, which seems to be threatening to bang out of her breasts, so loud in her own head she can hardly hear herself when she swears.
She crumples slightly, head banging back against her headboard; it was a dream, just a dream. She wants to curl around herself, but rather than indulge the weakness she slips back down beneath her blankets, intent on warding off the shaking that's now making her teeth chatter in a mixture of cold and adrenaline.
"It was only a dream." She repeats, whispering the words that quivering and desperate way she's almost forgotten; it's been so long since she was last awoken to nightmares like this.
(She reaches up a hand to click off her light, pressing herself as tightly as she can to the mattress. When she makes the mistake of closing her eyes she sees Wally's blood dribbling down his cheek, oozing onto the diner table and—)
And she rips the blankets off herself, fumbling to turn the light back on.
Breathe.
She forces her eyes to open too wide, determined not to so much as blink ever again as she sits up. Her lungs don't work when she tries to inhale, throat catching on phlegm; when she finally manages to pull something in the air seems to linger too long inside her, the hoarse and whistling exhale she gets out making her feel as if she may vomit. Her hands, now numb, won't stop twisting and knotting in the her tank top, yanking the fabric about her ribs so tightly she can hear the seams straining and ripping...
... Ripping, like Wally's skin—
It was only a dream.
Breathe.
(("… You can't not breathe, Artemis…"))
The thunder sounds again, this time more insistently; for the first time in her life all the noise is welcome— sitting here and listening to the familiar crackling of lightning, the dull rapping of rain against her ceiling, the endless sound that fills in the spaces the nightmare has left inside her. It was a dream, it was a dream; She repeats the words inside her head and even whispers them softly again and again, head curling forward until she's resting it on her knees.
"Breathe." She says to herself, safe behind the barriers of her hair and her legs. "Breathe."
… She'd been doing so well. This is her first nightmare in weeks.
They'd once been almost nightly; any time she'd close her eyes she'd been tormented by something, haunted by her family or what she'd seen on the battlefield that day. Now they're infrequent, irregular, always starting normal and ending strangely, a brief moment of unpleasantness and blood—
… She's cold— she'd fallen asleep in an old and thinning tank top and her underwear, legs tangled more in sheets than blankets. In her sleep she's yanked on quilts, pulled on comforters, the tightness of her limbs telling her she'd worked her way into an uncomfortably ball, trying desperately not to freeze as the Cave's overzealous AC kicked in during the night ... Well, she supposes it's about time. The heat of summer had to start fading sometime.
Maybe that's what caused the nightmare—the cold. It had started out… Nice, actually. An old memory, she thinks, one that she's visited before. The longer she sits there the harder it is to recall any details; already her mind feels foggy, not quite right in her tiredness... Wally had been there, as he always is. Despite the new, one-sided distance between them in their waking lives he never fails to linger too close to her in dreams.
... She shouldn't even be thinking about him. She was the one who ended it. Zatanna's right: this had been what she wanted— for him to meet someone, to forget about her, to move on.
But... Linda. What a stupid name.
She inhales again, finally raising her head from behind her knees; in the half-light her room remains still, peaceful, nothing lurking behind her desk chair or under her bed to attack her. Wally meeting another girl is good. It's great. And she's happy for him.
This is how it's supposed to be. He moves on, meets a nice girl with a stupid name. And she... She gets to sort herself out. It's fine. She's fine.
Linda might be fine too, for all she knows.
Her limbs ache when she forces them to move, crawling out of bed in search of proper pajamas; scurrying across her bedroom she yanks an old pair of flannel sweats on. Above her she hears a crack of lightning sound, followed instantly by a roll of thunder— she's never thought of August as a particularly rainy month, but she's seen the forecast: Happy Harbor is entering a few days of bad weather to officially mark the end of summer. She had meant to tell Wally—
(The light on her desk wavers and surges, no doubt bothered by the storm; at once the letter A around her neck catches it, glimmering once before dulling once more.)
... Wally.
She had meant to mention the weather to Wally so he could stay away from Happy Harbor over the next few days, so he could avoid... Whatever the hell happened to him the last time.
She hardly registers her hands knotting the string of her sweatpants, an unfamiliar fear beginning to bubble up in the pit of her stomach at the memory. Even remembering it now makes her frightened, the hair on the back of her neck bristling in the dark. His shaking, snarling. The way he had attacked her, slamming her up against the window. How vulnerable he had been, how uncontrollable— How the storm had seemed to make everything worse.
But it hadn't been because of the storm, Wally had said that. He had... He'd had a bad dream, been upset by something, and the sound and light from the storm had set him off, bothered him in some way... She feels her brows furrow as she pulls her tank top over her head, pausing half naked for a moment and shivering in the dark. He had told her he had thought it wasn't because of the storm.
(... But it had made things worse. There's no denying that...)
Her head swings automatically towards the door, goose pimples coating her breasts and hair frizzing with static as she stands there, naked from the waist up and thinking hard. Last time he had come to her— he'd waited outside her door, trying to knock. And she'd been the one he needed—
She doesn't know why she's worrying about this. Wally doesn't need her.
... He doesn't need her.
The thunder rolls overhead, loud and demanding; without wanting to she can picture the tortured look on his face as he had sat, alone and afraid, in front of their window. She had never seen him look like that, so... So terrified, so feral, so completely at the mercy of the impulses running through his muscles.
... He had needed her then. He had tried being alone, hadn't he? He had needed her—
(He had needed her as much as she needs him.)
((She's losing him, he's abandoning her like everyone else—))
As soon as the thought enters her mind she dismisses it, throwing her tank top to the floor and stomping angrily towards her closet. Wally doesn't need her anymore. She's not his girlfriend, she's not his— Her fingers slip as she pulls a long sleeve off the hanger, the memory clanging sharply inside her skull.
((Before she can demand any answers it's Connor who's speaking, not looking at her. "... He called you his lightning rod." He says gruffly. The words don't mean anything, sounding like another language to her ear, but they scare her.))
... She's being ridiculous. At once she makes an annoyed clicking noise, yanking the shirt almost violently over her head. She's being an idiot. Wally's... He's fine, she's sure. If he's here, he's… He's fine. She shouldn't worry.
She shouldn't worry.
She shouldn't worry.
She shouldn't worry.
… She shouldn't worry, but that doesn't stop her from turning towards her bedroom door, fists still curled around the hem of her shirt.
… Wally's fine—but he hadn't been all those weeks ago. Not when she found him in front of their window shaking and… And with a look on his face so completely and terrifyingly un-Wally-ish. He had felt the lightning inside of him, and he had been afraid, and she had been too stubborn to help him—
(And he hadn't been fine, just now, in her dream— and what if he needs her, and she's just standing here being an idiot while that whatever-it-is inside him is hurting him—)
((She needs him, can't lose him, and she can prove to him that he needs her just as much too—))
She looks away from her bedroom door and back again, caught between the impulse to seek him out and her own common sense; neither of them knew what was happening that night. He had been so… She's not even sure if there's a word to describe it—the way his body had seemed to fight against him, the way he had thrashed between violence and revulsion, between closeness and distance… The ghostly pale of his skin, the sweat on his face—
The way he had needed her. The way he could only find his way back to himself if she was close.
She swallows, mulling over the thought in her mind; when she finally releases the hem of her shirt she's left fist shaped wrinkles behind, permanent indents in the fabric that settle about her hips as she crosses the room towards the door.
... If things were reversed Wally would do the same. This much she knows for sure.
— he would hold her, comfort her, make sure she was okay—
((—just like he did on the 4th of July—))
... And maybe it's selfish, the way she goes after him— but she's not thinking about that now. The crack beneath her door illuminates with a flash of lightning, and without breathing she charges headfirst into the storm.
The lights are dimmed when she rams her door open, the floor cold as the tile presses against her bare feet—she can sense it again, the strange static in the air, the kind that makes her hair begin to frizz the second she steps into the hallway. For a long moment she hesitates, wondering whether to go directly to Wally's bedroom, but that thought quickly changes—she knows where he'll be.
(He's the only person she knows this way. Instinctively— the way she can always find north, the way she can smell rain before it falls. She feels him as naturally as one feels air in their lungs, blood in their veins, life in their heart—)
The common area is almost pitch black when she enters it, static sparking between her thighs as she practically runs in her hurry; the violence of the storm outside makes it nearly impossible to see the familiar outlines of furniture, the angles of counters and appliances in the kitchen. She hardly spares a second to look around the room, eyes drawn automatically to the window with a sharp inhale— this is where she'll find him—
(He needs her.)
She nearly calls out, mouth freezing as she squints in the darkness.
… He's not there.
Her own breath tastes sour on her tongue when she exhales; it seems to take her several seconds too long to be sure of the fact, feet still trotting towards the emptiness of their window until she's more than halfway across the room. He's... He's not there. Wally's not there.
The view of the storm through the empty window pane seems to mock her, unrelenting in it's violence; for too long she stands there, unblinking as she stares at the rain pounding against the beach, as if half expecting him to appear out of nowhere. "Wally?" She croaks out to the room as a whole.
Silence.
... Wally's not there.
All at once the twisting in her stomach unclenches, the looseness seeming to pool at a low point somewhere near her toes. In its place she can only taste a strange, selfish disappointment flooding there, dripping and being tainted with some other emotion she can't identify. Wally's not here—he's fine, probably home, and she's over reacted.
... He's doesn't need her.
(She doesn't want to but she can hear Black Canary's voice at the back of her mind, more mocking and cruel than in her memory: "You've been through a lot more than children your age... It's made you scared of trusting, of caring, and of abandonment.")
She exhales again, her throat now painfully tight— she's an awful person. Hoping Wally was hurting so she could rush off to help him, wanting him to be suffering so she could remind him why she's worth keeping around. Talking herself into imagining some kind of horrible pain so she could fix things between them, so she could have a purpose again, so she could remind him that whether together or not she's his girl...
She's being selfish, wanting something to happen to him so he'll need her, so he'll be reminded that he still loves her.
(Because whether or not she wants to admit it she still needs him. And even though she wants him to forget about her she can't stop her heart from caring, from being selfish, for still looking at him like he's hers. She's disgusting, and flawed, and full of ragged edges but it's not fair that he can move past what's between them so easily when she's left pretending as usual, trying to keep up with him like always—)
(Is this how Wally felt when she went on that date with Owen? Is this is why he went after her that night on the beach?)
((She's heartless. She's cruel. She's the worst kind of person—))
She breathes in hard through her nose, hating herself as she turns her back on the view of the storm raging outside; the rain seems louder in here, the static stronger. Despite all the noise she can hardly hear anything over the humiliated ringing in her ears, the angry twisting in her stomach. She... She can't believe herself.
She's awful, her own selfishness sending a dull wave of nausea through her; ignoring the rain she turns on her heel, marking the path back towards the embarrassment in the loneliness of her bedroom. Now more than ever she can't hide the fact that she misses Wally, her Wally— she hates him for moving on despite telling him to, can't stand the fact that she's once again not wanted by the one person who she always thought would need her. Distantly she can hear the low roll of building pressure, the static in the air sparking about her calves as she passes behind the couch, trying her best to swallow down the shame burning at the back of her throat.
Selfish.
Worthless.
Better off dead...
"God." She hisses, shaking her head; behind her the storm is reaching a boiling point, tension filling the air as thunder gets ready to sound.
... She's got to stop thinking like this— that the distance between them is only temporary. That they're only apart for now. She can't determine what Wally does on his own time, she can't stop him from moving on. And why shouldn't he? She's not ready for forever, she's too messed up, clearly; if he wants to find a girl ready for that he should, and she should stop hanging around, stop messing with his head— or at least wanting to, during her weaker moments in the dark. For all she knows this Linda is his dream girl, and she'll just fade into some forgotten part of his past, the girl he couldn't save... There's a flash behind her as she pauses behind the couch and instinctively she nearly stops, bracing herself for the—
The flash dies and the thunder sounds, clanging around her head but somehow not hiding that fact that she's the worst kind of person—
The lights in the kitchen are on.
Although she can't immediately explain why she feels her muscles tense, eyes straying around the room as if searching for another person, some reason why the lights would be suddenly on. Not just on— glowing so brightly in the darkness that they're violently flickering, the wires in the bulbs radiating so much electricity that they're emitting a low ringing noise, an angry buzzing that makes her ears ache the longer she stands there. The wire beneath the glass is positively thrumming, the pressure in the air building to an aching point that presses down on her ear drums, nearly bursting them—
The sky outside lights up with a fork of lightning once more and she nearly cries out when the bulbs in the kitchen burst into blackness, the relief of pressure against her eardrums making her slap her palms to her ears.
... She's trembling again. And this time the darkness feels almost sinister, lurking, her nails digging into her scalp as she stands there, and—
And before she can even think to run away the air outside seems to explode with the reverberating crashing of thunder; despite herself she screws her eyes shut, the loudness of the sound seeming to clang against her head through her palms, the low buzzing noise building to a screaming point—
She lets out an involuntary gasp as the air whips around her, ice cold and merciless as it bites through her clothing—she chokes instantly as the static of her hair whips upwards, blinding her and sticking to the back of her throat; stumbling slightly she feels her hip knock against the edge of the couch, a pang striking through her body—
She slaps the hair out of her eyes, panting and struggling to figure out what's happening, eyes scanning the room—
The air crackles, small sparks of static seeming to fly off him when he stills, a dark mass illuminated only by the storm outside their window.
"Wally?" She breathes.
He doesn't seem to hear her, muscles jumping and vibrating under the fabric of his shirt; his very outline seems to quiver, quaking and shivering into blurriness. For half a second he's visible, back taught and inhuman as he pauses, staring unseeingly out the window at the heart of the storm.
Somehow she knows what's about to happen before it does; in a moment the lighting illuminates the sky and she hears the feral sounding gasp fire out of his throat, his very outline beginning to disappear and waver into the darkness. "Wally." She repeats, beginning to charge towards him, voice breaking. "Wally, no—"
He's gone in a second, the backdraft off the movement so powerful it sears her skin—her hair seems to whip backwards in a frizz of static that stings the back of her neck, Wally moving in a blur she can hardly see, all the lights in the room surging into a brightness so white it blinds her—he's going fast, too fast, so fast that at once the memory claws into her—
("He told me he gets afraid, sometimes, when he runs." M'gann says in an undertone. "Like if he goes too fast... He'll just be sucked away by it. Disappear.")
It's like being sucked into the center of a typhoon; she can barely trace his movements, can only follow the path of destruction that seems to burst seconds after he passes, the lights in the room surging between blinding and a blackness each time he sprints by: M'ganns magazines are flipped open and rocket off the coffee table, pillows blasted from their places on chairs, the ceiling fan wavering precariously as the force of Wally's running disturbs its rotations. She feels helpless, trapped, turning too slowly and eyes so frustratingly human as she staggers in multiple directions, hardly able to see through the flashing lights and tripping over her own feet as she's buffeted again and again, stumbling and nearly falling onto the kitchen tile.
Her heart is pumping too fast to focus on anything, sweat pooling in her lower back and adrenaline furious in her blood stream with no direction to move in, her mind racing as she tries to think of something, anything, to slow him down…
And she can't run away, even if she wants to— Wally is everywhere and she's helpless, frightened, too pathetic to figure out how to shout for help—
The too-strong backdraft buffets her violently her towards the kitchen island, her knees knocking painfully against the end of the counter; it's as if Wally's sprinting uncontrollably from one end of the Cave to the other, retracing old routes blindly and pushing through anything that stops him. Around her the cabinets are slamming open and closed, the wind so harsh she can feel her eyes stinging, lights surging on and off—
She just needs to get him still, needs to—
It's stupid, she knows it, but this time when she senses the stinging of the static she reaches for it—she hardly touches him but the whole of her weight is whipped back against a cabinet, a gasp ripping from her throat as a jolt of pain runs from her shoulder to her wrist; her hand is slammed backward, so painful it might as well be ripped off, arm aching as if she's just popped it in and out of its socket.
It's enough—at the sound of her crying out Wally stills, the lights surging and then simmering to a low half-light all around them. He doesn't even resemble himself, ginger hair frizzing and sweat dripping down his temples, unblinking and panting and inhumanly blurred at the opposite end of the kitchen—staring at her, almost snarling but not really seeing.
It's all she needs though—in that fraction of a second of hesitation, the half second where it seems to occur to him that something is about to happen, she ignores every instinct in her body— the ones that are telling her to run, or hide, or scream for help; instead of reeling through the thousand impulses telling her to save her own life she launches herself at him, nose wrinkling.
He may be faster but she's the better fighter; Wally lets out a feral growl at her when she attacks him, one of his arms swinging out in a misaimed punch. With a twist of her abdomen she ducks, fist colliding with his stomach as she rams her fist into his diaphragm. There's a puff of air, a wheeze of pain, and before he can even indulge the human weakness of doubling over she's on him, the two of them twisting and hissing and clattering against cabinets, her fingers curling around the unfamiliar ice cold flesh of his wrists—
Wally grunts when she pins him against the fridge, every part of him quaking and struggling against the jutting edge of the handle pressing against his back. "Wally!" She yells in his face, practically spitting as he struggles, one of her legs kicking up to slam his thighs flat when he attempts to throw her off of him. "Wally! Snap out of it!"
In response he lets out an intelligible sort of growl, not hearing her still as his lips pull back to expose his canines; at once there's a dull burning sensation about her hands, and with a jolt she realizes he's actually trying to vibrate his atoms out from underneath her—
There's another clang of thunder, the nerves in her hands screaming in a kind of agony that flashes through her so rapidly she can't even feel it; before she even has time to hiss at the sensation Wally exhales with a groan, a strangled half-cry of pain blowing his walnut scented breath hard against her cheeks. At once his face falters, features waxy as the sweat about his temples starts bursting into beads; before she knows what's happening he seems to slump forward, a thick dribble of blood bursting from his nose and flowing thick and fast over his lips, staining his teeth scarlet and trickling too-quickly down his chin.
(And she's back in the booth at the diner— and Wally is bleeding and Cheshire— Cheshire is coming—)
The sight makes her instantly nauseas, a low wave of horror and some other unknown emotion taking over her for a moment. She's seized with the overwhelming impulse to run, to disappear, to hide from him— "Wally." She says as steadily as she can, fighting against the frightened warbling of her voice as she ducks her head, trying to find his eyes. "Wally, you need to—"
He coughs, low and guttural— before she can close her mouth she tastes phlegm and blood on her tongue.
She nearly screams, unaware of the way her hands loosen around his wrists; before she can even brace herself there's a loud crashing overhead and suddenly Wally's throwing her backwards, her feet not even feeling as if they belong to her as she stumbles over them, slamming against the countertop too hard.
(She doesn't feel the pain, doesn't hear herself cry out with impact. She doesn't register the sensation of her ribs bruising or the bolt-like sensation of the edge of the counter cutting through her. Above it all is the taste of his blood in her mouth, the way it sticks to her tongue, the way it tastes of Metropolis and nightmares and hell...)
She's panting, breathing too fast and too hard for it to really sound like breathing; the noise she's making is almost like a whimper, too-soft and delicate for what she needs to be. Her knees don't seem to want to hold her up anymore, her elbow bracing against the counter top as she tries to stay upright, one hand pressing against the bruised line beginning to blossom along her ribs. She can feel something, an old and unpleasantly familiar something stirring beneath her surface, a kind of panic that she hasn't felt is so long— But she can't lose herself. Not now. Not when... As she thinks the thought she feels herself growing sick, hating herself. Wally needs her. She can't panic when Wally needs her.
She can't breathe, throat gurgling as she struggles to focus. She spits red-stained saliva onto the floor, then swallows twice. Her mouth still tastes metallic when she looks at him, bracing for another outburst.
She's expecting him to advance on her, slam her to the floor, carve her out like her father would; instead he's staring at her, caught on the noises she's still making as she struggles to control her breathing. He doesn't look remotely like Wally; as she continues to stare at him, panting, she finds nothing familiar in his waxy features, nothing well known in the blood and sweat pouring off of him. There's nothing human in the way he continues to stand there, freckles screaming out against his too-pale skin, his pupils reduced to pinpricks and his body at the mercy of the terrifying instinct running through his veins...
(She exhales again, the breath getting caught in the back of her throat— at the sound something runs through him, a strange sort of shiver that blurs his edges, his atoms fighting hard against the temptation to sprint away—)
She doesn't know why it's suddenly very difficult not to cry, her chin wobbling and muscles aching as she straightens; the pain in her ribs seems to echo the pain in her heart, which feels as if it's breaking all over again. He's never once looked at her like this, as if she were nothing, worthless, the scum that she is. Somehow that's more painful than anything else he's ever slapped her with.
The blood is still trickling hard and fast out of his nose and dripping steadily on the kitchen floor, eyes still wide and unseeing... She's half hoping he'll start running, start sprinting far enough away for her to never see him again— but for some reason he stays stalk still, panting and staring at nothing in that unfamiliar animal way of his. Waiting for something. Drawn here, tempted into a moment of stillness.
She wants to leave, to disappear... But he's not running. And she supposes neither should she.
(She can do this. One more time... Maybe.)
((For Wally, she'll do anything.))
It takes more courage than she has to face him again, heart still pounding with a mixture of fear and adrenaline; she doesn't want to leave the safety of the counter. Bracing one hand on the edge behind her she extends her other towards him, half expecting him to slap her away at any second. "W-Wally?" She tries to say, stuttering accidentally and sounding weak. When she tries to say his name again she can't.
She stops her hand less than an inch from his chest, too afraid still to touch him. Vividly she can remember the last time at the window, how he had attacked her when she had tried to get close... How the only thing that had calmed him was the feeling of her lips pressing against his, her breath replacing his own inside his lungs—
... She could kiss him.
Unwillingly her eyes scan the stiff, almost carved features of his face, pausing unnoticeably on the lips that may as well belong to a strange; it would be over in a second and this... Whatever it is that's happening would be over. She could leave. It would be done. She blinks, and the thought leaves as quickly as it arrives.
(She's too much of a coward to kiss him again. Not when she knows the only thing she'll taste there is blood. Not when kissing him would be a betrayal of everything she wants for him— He should move on, she's no good for him—)
Her hand's been hanging in the air too long, extended but not touching; everything from instinct to her ribs seem to scream out as she inhales, gathering her nerve. "Wally?" She whispers, fingers trembling. The seconds shriek past, each one seeming to dwindle her bravery even more. "... It's me." She breathes, voice unsteady. "It's Artemis."
There's a fraction of a second where her own name seems to linger in the air, meaningless to Wally's unblinking eyes and the blood on his lips. His whole body seems to tense, muscles quaking in time with the pressure in the air. The storm outside is building, the static in the air growing painful; he inhales, sharp and rattling, the air he's taking in seeming to inflate the deepest parts of him—
His chest brushes her fingers, cold as ice through his shirt, the lightning outside illuminating the whole kitchen. "Artemis." He bursts out, atoms vibrating underneath her skin as he looks at her for the first time, white and scared.
She's expecting to lose him, to be whipped back by a sudden burst of speed; instead the tenseness in his muscles seeming to unravel like looping fabric as he instinctively leans into her palm, the sweat from his back unsticking from the fridge. His chest seems to hollow out beneath her fingers as he exhales, head dropping to stare at her hand as her nails dig into the cotton of his shirt. His heart is going so fast she can hardly count the beats, its thrumming underneath her palm scaring her more than anything else.
She can feel her own breath picking up again, trying to ease out the panic in her voice by adopting a low and soothing tone. "I'm here." She tells him when he begins trembling, ducking her jaw and trying to see his face as he begins blinking rapidly. "You're upset because of the storm again. But I'm here now, okay? I-I'm here."
(Her throat catches again, forcing her to whisper the last part; she glances down to her wrist in time to catch a single tear as it dampens her skin.)
She releases the counter, not wanting to get closer but somehow not able to help it; Wally's breathing is beginning to rattle in his throat, still not quite human but not quite anything else as she loops her other hand over the fabric on his chest. "It's alright." She takes it as a good sign when he exhales, he stiffness of his muscles loosening as she talks. "You're okay."
His shaking is getting worse now—not violently like before but in a softer, more vulnerable way. He's still got his head ducked, hiding from her as he stares at her hands. "I'm here." She repeats, not sure of what else to say but wanting him to say something, anything— anything to make it easier to ignore the way he's almost convulsing—
He exhales again, throat catching on something; finally he raises his head, face screwing up in a mixture of torment and anger. He's got his eyes shut, as if afraid of what he'll find in the half light of the kitchen. "A-Artemis?" He breathes.
"... I'm right here."
He doesn't seem to believe her, shaking his head as she pulls back; she can see the imprints of her palms clearly in the center of his chest, the wrinkled fabric telling her how tightly she's been gripping him, how afraid she's been. As she returns back to the safety of the counter she can feel that fright spasming inside her, unsure of what's about to happen.
He seems to deflate when she stops touching him, muscles shrinking and no longer popping angrily under his skin. For a moment he seems to hang there, unsuspended, before he opens his eyes. "I—" He starts, looking at her as if still not sure he's seeing her; after a second his eyes seems to sharpen. "Oh my god." He whispers, voice cutting and terrified in a way that instinctively sends a jolt of fear down her spine—
(When he raises a hand towards her she can't help it; forgetting herself she feels the something old and feral flare up inside her, an old instinct for survival she'd thought she'd buried long ago. He moves and she feels her muscles spasm into panic, her fists raising without her permission, nose wrinkling—)
She feels like a wild cat, haunches raising and teeth bared; before she can hide the look on her face Wally stops short, looking as if she's just slapped him as she stands there, trapped against the counter. "... What did I do?" He breathes, staring at her in horror; at once his voice is raising, a look of sheer terror coating his still waxy features. "You're covered in blood—"
He gestures to her face and she makes the mistake of flinching again, realizing too late that she still has her fists up. "Wally," She hushes him. "You need to—"
Instead of listening to her he backs up against the fridge, looking tortured as he runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck." He hisses, catching a glance at the reddened marks she's left around his wrists, the dribbles of blood staining his shirt. "Oh my god, what did I—"
He looks at her, horrified; at once she can feel his blood, the stickiness of it still splattered and hot all over her cheeks. "It's—" He reaches for her again and she nearly screams, fingers shoving him back against the fridge as he tries to charge towards her again. "Your nose is bleeding, Wally. It's your blood." She hisses, pressing him once, too hard, against the handle before she releases him again, retreating back to the safety of her counter.
He's still not right, eyes waxy and so wide it's as if they're about to fall out of his head; her own heart is still raging so loudly in her ears that she can hardly even hear the swears he's beginning to utter under his breath. It feels as if the kitchen is spinning around her, the speed and dizziness beginning to overtake her— she can't think, she doesn't know what to do— why did she think she could handle this—
The skin on her knuckles is beginning to strain, the tightness with which she's clenching her fists at her sides suddenly searing over the screeching inside her head. "You're fine, Wally." She bursts out, the words coming from some unknown place inside herself; feeling the unnatural wrinkle popping up over her nose again she scowls, not wanting to watch the way he prods once at the blood on his lips. "We're both fine." She mutters, reaching for the paper towel.
Standing still is making her anxious, the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach increasing a ten-fold when she realizes Wally's still staring at her, fingers covered in his blood and looking as if he still thinks he's trapped inside his own head. She feels as if she's cleaning up after a murder, ripping sheet after sheet of pristine white towel and trying to coax the blood on the kitchen tile into moving. "... What happened?" Wally breathes after a moment.
As he asks her she feels something stir inside her; the Metropolis Girl, the darker part of her, the one she's been fighting to control for so long, seems to curl her talons around her heart. And when that cruel voice whispers inside her she knows it's the truth— she can't keep doing this. She can't keep being soft for him.
... Being soft is what's going to get both of them killed.
She doesn't look at him, instead getting to her knees to blot at the reddened stain she's spat on the floor. "I told you." She says as flatly as she can. "You were upset. The storm made it worse."
There's crimson specks all over the tile, remnants of Wally's coughing; it takes several wipes with the paper towel for her to be sure she's got them all. "So..." He breathes, the uneasiness in his voice making her pause in her cleaning to watch as his bare feet twitch uncomfortably.
She knows him too well, can read the unknown question lingering on his lips before he figures out how to ask it. "I was coming out for a cup of tea." She lies. "I think I found you before anyone else did."
She gets to her feet in time to catch him nodding; he still doesn't look quite right, his pupils still too small, showing too much of the hazel flecks in his eyes. "... Thanks." He says awkwardly.
The paper towel she's holding in her hand becomes crumpled, her palms beginning to sweat; before she can stop herself the words are bubbling out of her, unstoppable. "I thought you told me there wasn't going to be a next time." She mutters too quickly, eyes narrowing at him. "I thought— you made it sound like you were going to get this under control—"
"Don't, okay?" He cuts her off, shaking his head; he's beginning to tense again, shoulders broadening and the lines of his neck growing more taught. "I— I can't talk about this right now."
"Then when?" She hisses, glaring at him. "Wally, you can't—"
A muscles jumps in his cheek, the whole of his body seeming to tighten as his head snaps towards the storm brewing outside; her words are cut off by a violent crackling overhead, a flash through their window illuminating the sharp, almost alien angles of his face as he sucks in a painful breath, the blood still flowing out of his nose dribbling over his tongue—
Her stomach seems to tighten and the words bubbling inside her fizzle. "Okay." She whispers, sounding angrier than she means to; biting her tongue she tries again. "Wally, it's okay..."
Neither of them are expecting her to reach for him; he's as still as stone when she presses her hand against his chest again, the fingers of her right hand smoothing over his shirt until she feels the raised scar she knows is so close to his heart. "Focus." She tells him, ignoring the swirl of feelings choking her at the back of her throat. "It's me, okay? Focus on me."
Wally seems to stiffen under her touch as he turns her head towards him, the muscles on his neck too rigid. "A-Artemis—" He breathes, beginning to tremble again.
"I'm here." She whispers back, one hand reaching up to wipe clumsily at the blood still dripping out of his nose. "... You're okay."
Something, some sort of feeling she doesn't understand, is beginning to make itself known inside her; as she makes to pull back she's stopped by a too-large hand seizing her wrist, Wally's skin still ice-like as he presses his fingers to her pulse point.
(And this feeling, the one she can't name, seems to flare inside her; when his eyes lock with hers his pupils blow out, hardly green as he stares at her. And she feels it, all over; how it felt to end things with him, the misery of those first few weeks without him, the intensity of the loss of the first person she ever loved that way— in the few seconds he stares at her she feels it all over, more overwhelming and painful than ever before. The old memories they have together seem more traumatizing, more tainted, more stabbing— and distantly she can hear echoes of what could have been screaming at her, telling her it isn't too late—
... Wally's gone from her now, moved on. And she needs to learn that this time he isn't coming back.)
Despite knowing this she doesn't stop him with he raises his other hand, fingers skimming her cheek in a way that might convince her that he still cares. She can hear herself breathing, too fast and through her mouth, salivating when she tastes walnuts there. "... You're okay too, right?" He breathes, brows furrowing and begging for an answer she doesn't know she can give.
At once her skin is boiling, words getting caught in the tightness of her throat. It's nearly impossible to breathe when his fingers skim over her skin, following the imprint of her bones and lingering about the crimson of his blood as he struggles to wipe it from her cheeks.
(She can't do this anymore; she's supposed to be letting him move on.)
((They've got to stop taking care of each other.))
She ducks her head, ignoring his fingers when they fumble over her chin. "... I'm fine." She mumbles, not looking at him as she crosses towards the sink. Tossing the paper towel in the trash she cranks the water as cold as it will go, ignoring the way he stares at her as she scrubs his blood off her face.
"... Artemis?"
"We're both fine." She spits out, slamming the faucet off and wiping herself clean on her forearms. "So... I— I'm going to bed."
He means to say something, call out to her, but before the words can get out of his mouth the thunder sounds again; the storm brews on but this time she turns her back on it, ignoring the sound of his gasping as he tries to call her back.
It's cowardly, running back to her room— but that's what she does.
Quite literally, actually; as the lightning strikes behind her and Wally's low hiss sounds out she breaks into a run, heels pounding against the floor as she peels back towards her bedroom. She needs to get away from him, he— he always does this, makes it so she forgets herself, can't think, can't figure out what she's feeling or why she feels it—
("Artemis is a born runner.")
She practically slams her bedroom door behind her, clicking the lock into place as if something's running after her; even then she can't stop moving, feet pacing absently for a few seconds before she grasps the back of her chair, jostling her desk in her haste as she drags it across the room, wedging it beneath the door knob.
(What the hell is wrong with her?)
She's panting, breath sharp in her lungs as if she's just sprinted several miles; for a moment she stares at her door, breasts heaving, before she rips her chair away so violently it crashes onto its side, the clattering not even finished before she lunges forward, unlocking her door, twisting the knob—
She's halfway out of it again before she exhales, mind whirring so quickly she can't focus; hissing, she retreats back into her bedroom, ramming the door closed after her.
It's still cold in her bedroom, her skin prickling as she presses her back against the panes of wood on her door, thinking hard. She can't figure it out, this— feeling. Even now it's there, curled in her stomach, seizing up in the back of her throat like vomit, intelligible as far as she knows. Knocking her head backwards she blinks hard at her ceiling, feeling the low sharpness of pain as she repeats the movement, mulling it over.
... She broke up with Wally.
She doesn't know what that's the first thing that comes to her mind, why that's her starting point; vaguely she's aware of shifting off her door, her teeth biting hard on her lip. She broke up with Wally, ended things before either of them could get hurt even more than they were. It had made sense at the time— saving him from the inevitable wrath of her father, the complication that was her sister, and—
... And from her. The thought jumps out at her as she picks up her chair, dragging it back towards her desk. That had been part of it. She had been so damaged, too-hurt by the past. At the time she had thought she would never heal from it... It had made sense to make sure he wasn't hurt by it too.
She's not aware of sitting, elbows bracing on her desk for a moment before she starts searching for a pen; she had broke up with him with the intention of leaving him behind. Forgetting it had ever happened, writing off the feelings between them as a mistake— which they were... There's no paper here— after a moment of searching she gives up, instead reaching for one of the many books piled there, flipping to the back few pages she knows are always blank and ripping one unevenly from the spine.
Broke up.
She scrawls the words in her usual pointed and messy script, staring at them though narrowed eyes. For some reason they don't look real.
... But then there was that first storm, at the window— Thunderstorm, she writes beneath it— that had changed things. They were fighting, sure, but that night... She had saved him, accidentally.
And kissed him. She had kissed him too.
And she had been upset enough about it before Connor had told her what Wally had called her... A lightning rod. Even as she writes the word now is feels strange, as if it's in another language. It had been those two words that had scared her so much, so huge in their unknowability, the fact that meant something to Wally and not her... She had run from it, from those words and the feelings left between them. Run all the way to Quarac and back.
Quarac.
But even while she was there... She had thought of him every day. Missed him with every part of her that was only vaguely holding things together while trying to let him go. And when she had gotten back things were—
Her hand tries to scrawl and question mark and ends up spurring a jutting squiggle in the center of the page.
... The rest of their story is all too familiar now. The two of them fighting, and then... The fourth of July. Her birthday. Two different times when she had let her guard down, let him in again, and it had felt so... Right. Familiar. Safe.
He's the one who told her he wanted to be friends.
(Her fingers find the necklace around her neck, pinching the golden A so tightly it threatens to cut through her skin.)
She had thought the necklace had meant something to him too— the ending of what was between them, sure, but... But what? That hope of something else to come? The childish wish for a future— a future when? When Lawrence is dead? When Jade's back home? When Paula can walk again?
... It's stupid. He's the reason why she's been doing all this. Why she's been trying to make herself... Better, she supposes. He's why she's been making herself look like an idiot in front of Black Canary, why she's been trying to get her head on straight, why more than ever she wants to forget everything her father carved into her—
... She knows they can't be together now. But she had always thought, one day—
(He had told her it was real, that what they had... That was it. And granted she had only known what she read in books, or long forgotten poems, but— she supposes she had felt the same. And perhaps she still does; when the pain doesn't face and the scars don't heal, that has to mean something, right?)
((Her and Wally. That's the way it's supposed to be.))
She kills the thought before she finishes it, crumpling the piece of paper in front of her and shoving it to the bottom of her garbage. She's acting like a child— writing down her feelings, sneaking around in the dark. She's being a jealous idiot; getting upset over Wally's secrets, over the fact that he's doing exactly what she told him to— He should move on, he should move on—
She throws herself back in her chair, snarling a breath at the ceiling.
((Linda's a stupid name.))
... Being upset over this won't do her any good, she knows that. But neither will chasing after Wally. She needs to let him go, impose distance, make it easier for the two of them to move on with their lives. Laying out the plan right now she can see it: it's logical, makes perfect sense. Stop being friends. Let him date someone else. Stop being jealous. Stop thinking he belongs to her. Stop convincing herself that he needs her. Stop pretending that he's going to come back. Stop dwelling on what could have been.
... But the thought of someone else touching him, making him laugh... It doesn't sit well in her heart.
((Zatanna smirks at her over the rim of he glass. "You've always been Wally's girl. Even when you weren't."))
What the hell is that supposed it mean?
She thinks herself in circles for nearly twenty minutes, not sure what she's trying to work towards; in the half light of her bedroom she only feels more confused, more overwhelmed by her own thoughts and feelings and the war seeming to brew between her heart and her mind. Before long she's got the heels of her palms pressed against the backs of her eyes, torturing herself— why, why can't she just let Wally go—
((He can't abandon her, not like everyone else—))
The knock comes quietly, hardly audible above the patterning of rain; one rap, then two short ones. She doesn't need to open the door to know who's there. "Go away." She grumbles through her hands.
A pause. Then another rap, two short ones. "... It's me." He whispers though her door.
She can't be around him, not when she's as confused as she is. "I know." She sneers, throwing her hands into her lap and glaring over her shoulder at the wood of her door. "Go to bed, Wally."
There's a long hesitation and then another round of knocking; losing patience altogether she rips her chair back from her desk, stomping across the room. "What do you want?" Her door opens before she can reach it, the wood swinging open so quickly she's nearly hit with it. "What are you—"
"You forgot your tea."
She deserves some sort of award for not screaming out with frustration, instead coming up almost short as he stands there, still gaunt and waxy and not like himself; he's not inside her room, not really— merely occupying the inch or two beyond the line where the tile meets the carpet, lingering in the darkness of the hallway so she can't quite read his face. She can feel her lips open in surprise when he extends a cup towards her. "You said you got up to make tea." He tells her, as if aware that it's a lie she's already forgotten telling. "You left without making any."
Her eyes narrow, not reaching for it. She seriously considers spewing a half dozen different swears at him before she sighs, struggles to control the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "I don't want it anymore." She mumbles, blushing and reaching for the door. "Anything else? I'm trying to sleep."
"Just—" He cuts her off when she tries to slam the door in his face, his free hand catching it and nearly spilling her tea. For some reason he hesitates, face unreadable in the darkness. "... I met someone. I— I wanted you to know."
This isn't what she's expecting— she counts nearly ten seconds before it occurs to her that he's waiting for her to react to this. "Oh." She hears herself say. "... Right. Connor mentioned something."
There's several moments of awkward silence in which she can sense him staring at her, off guard by her answer and struggling to read the expression on her face; she wonders, vaguely, what's showing there— what hints of her feelings are managing to slip between her cracks, what someone who knows her so well can see when she's doing her best to ignore the foreign twisting in her stomach...
When she doesn't say anything else he keeps talking. "Sorry." He blurts out, dropping his head to stare at his feet. "I should have been the one to..." He trails off, not finishing. It takes too long for him to gather his nerve, head jerking up as he struggles to look her in the eye. "Her name is Linda Park."
She doesn't mean to say it but she does. "... That's a stupid name."
There an awkward pause before Wally tries to laugh, the chuckle he forces out not quite sounding real. "Right. Says Artemis Crock." It's not meant to be affectionate but something in the way he says it, the way it rolls off his tongue, feels good to hear; despite herself she feels her lips tug upwards at the sound, another break in the mask she's trying to wear. The smile must encourage him more than she wants it to because at once Wally's eyes flicker to her lips, curious."... Can I come in?"
(For some reason she moves aside, accepting the tea as he makes to pass it to her; when his fingers brush hers they're still unnaturally cold, not like him.)
Now that he's moving into the light she can see him properly, her eyes narrowing as he takes exactly three paces into her bedroom; he doesn't want to go in too far, she's sure, something about the familiarity of the space or the memories inside it stopping him. He looks better, although still now quite right— he's not sweating anymore but there's still a strange tightness to his muscles, the hair on his arms bristling either out of cold or static or something more terrifying that she doesn't understand. There's still stains on his clothes from his nose bleed, his upper lip reddened from all the wiping he's done, trying to clean himself up.
(This isn't her Wally.)
She makes to set the cup of tea on her desk table, not wanting it; it's cold by now, as if he made it immediately after she left and forgot about it. For some reason Wally can't let the few seconds of quiet sit between them, shoulders tense as he starts rambling again. "She covers sports for the school newspaper." He tells her, staring at her book shelf instead of anywhere near her. "We were in the same Biology class last year... I always thought she was pretty."
This stings but she doesn't say anything, sitting on the edge of her bed. She doesn't know what's going on but she gets the sense it will be faster to bite back all the scathing words she wants to say— he's come her for a reason after all. Maybe this is it: he wants one last chance to hurt to, to remind her that she's nothing to him, and finally scream all the awful things he's been meaning to since she first broke his heart.
She's not aware of her hands as they clench into her bed sheets, the dull throbbing of his words cutting into her as she's forced to hear them. "... She's smart too." He says after a moment. "Honor roll. She's wants to go to Yale."
That feeling is back again— the one that shrieks at her in memories of the past, the one that builds inside her in a tornado of torment and heart break; in the beat or two where Wally is silent she can feel it boiling underneath her skin, burning her alive as she glares at the cold cup of tea on her desk. "She's pretty much the exact opposite of you, now that I think about it—"
She actually winces at the last words, shoulders hunching as if she's expecting a blow. "Wally." She cuts across him, seething. "... What do you want?"
He's being deliberately cruel, talking to her about Linda; for some reason his brows raise when she snaps, looking hurt by the scowl on her face. "I—"
"Why are you here, anyway?" She snarls, not letting him finish as she begins to bristle in the half light. "Why— Why does this keep happening?"
She's not entirely sure what she's asking— Why do they keep hurting each other? Why can't they be friends without all this fighting? Why do they keep coming after each other, time and time again, despite the fact that they're nothing to each other anymore—
(Why is it that they can only talk like this when a thunderstorm is tearing them apart?)
It's his turn to be silent; when he finally looks away to glare at her bookshelf again she feels her temper slipping past her, the words tumbling out of her and firing at him across the room, settling on the last question that's shot through her mind. "… You need to talk to someone about this. About what happens during a thunderstorm." She hisses, shaking her head. "I can't be the only one who—"
"You're not." He interrupts, still not looking at her. His voice is too quiet, no more than a low hiss lurching at her across the room. "Uncle Barry knows."
"What about everyone else?" She counters, nose wrinkling. "What about Black Canary? Red Tornado? Hell, even Kaldur—"
For some reason Wally cuts her off, an annoyed noise sounding in the back of his throat when he finally rounds on her, glaring. "Kaldur can't do anything." He scoffs. The emphasis sounds bitter, odd to her ear, as if he's mad at the other boy for some sort of discretion. "It's a Speedster thing, okay? He wouldn't know what was—"
"So what?" She starts again, voice catching on an edge as she struggles for a moment to find the right words. "If you're running around in the middle of the night with no control that's a problem, Wally."
The tips of his ears are beginning to redden, one wrist raising to wipe clumsily at his nose as if worried it's started bleeding again. "It's not always like this! Usually I can... I don't know why it was worse tonight, the—the storm just—" Apparently he can't figure out what he's going to say either, promptly changing the direction of his sentence. "...Next time—"
"Next time?"
"—I'll be able to control it." He talks over her, now beginning to nearly shout as he tries to talk over her. "I'll—I'll get better at controlling it. Nothing even happened—"
"Nothing happened?" She snarls, beginning to get truly angry as she stands up, flapping her arms once over her head. "Like hell it didn't!"
"Blondie—"
"Shut up." She cuts him off, wrinkle popping up over her nose and fists clenched as she crosses the room, one finger pointing accusingly at him. "Don't give me shit about next time, Kid. Don't lie to me." She snarls, so low and terrifying that for a moment it may as well be the night they broke up again, the two of them bellowing in front of their window about who was a liar and who wasn't brave enough to salvage things between them— at the intensity of her words Wally's throat bobs, the redness of his ears flushing down into his cheeks, a signal of something much more dangerous brewing underneath his surface. "This is twice now you've gone completely psycho on me. What if next time it's M'gann? Or Dick? Or Garfield?"
Her voice is too high pitched, breaking with fury on an octave; at the sound of the crackling in the back of her throat she feels herself deflate, hands waving once in defeat. "… I'm not stupid, okay? I get it." She spits out, shaking her head before turning away, not wanting to see his face when she says what's really on her mind. "... You don't care if you slam me into cabinets or try to kill me—or—" She can feel herself losing her nerve. "But can you at least pretend you do?"
There's a stunned silence on the other end of the room, the kind that seems to last too long for comfort; at once she registers the cold again, her arms wrapping around herself and attempting to rub heat back into her bones. When he finally speaks his voice is much softer, more fragile. "...Artemis—"
Whatever he's about to sigh out is cut off by the loud clattering, a clang of lightning touching down somewhere close by; the sound is loud and all encompassing, the rattling against the walls of the Cave seeming to unfurl deep inside her. Without looking she can sense him retracting, stiffening, the static in her bedroom beginning to spark almost instantly—
She doesn't look, instead listening hard to his breath as it stutters in his chest, caught between annoyance and something else. "... Wally?"
There's an unnerving quiet, cut short only when he makes a choking half-noise in the back of his throat, enough to let her know that he's still with her but only just; at once his breath starts coming out in pants, another roll of thunder sounding in the distance. "Don't, okay?" She huffs, not wanting to turn around and look at him, knowing she'll want to drop the fight the second she does. "It's not fair. Don't disappear on me."
There's silence for a moment, the nothingness so loud she can hear the static beginning to cackle in the ends of her hair. "H-Hey." She stutters, hair frizzing as she turns her head to look at him. "... Wally?"
"Sorry." He wheezes out shortly, voice catching and throat tight with a kind of agony she doesn't understand; that one word, more than anything else that's happened tonight, terrifies her.
She moves without thinking, more instinct and impulse than anything else prompting her to take a step closer; he's shaking again, struggling to breathe as the electricity in his veins jumps through his muscles, blurring his edges as sending a low buzzing through the air. "Hey." She says firmly, stopping short after a second, not sure what to do as her annoyance fades into alarm. She can hear his name slipping past her lips, beginning to raise in octave, high pitched and feminine. "Wally? You're alright." She tells him, even though he's not, skin turning a ghostly white and breaking out in a deadly cold sweat. "Stay with me. Wally?"
He inhales sharply as he tries to answer, the words not coming to him. Something unfurling inside her stomach won't let her go to him, won't allow her to get closer. "... You're okay." She tells him; a fresh wave of panic runs through her when his pupils, now beginning to reduce to pinpricks, scream at her like a siren to come closer when she can't, she can't. "It's okay. I'm here."
For one terrifying second he doesn't seem to see her, eyes no longer blinking as he stares at something horrible but invisible in the air in front of her, expression beginning to crease into lines of pain. The muscles along his neck are beginning to jump, threatening to burst from his skin— fighting the fear inside her she raises her hands, terrified as her thoughts begin racing, too quick for her to catch. "Don't, Wally. Listen to my voice, okay? Okay? Focus on me."
At the words he seems to choke on his own breath, head ducking for a moment as a dribble of sweat drips down his temples; then all at once he jerks his head up to stare at her, pupils blowing out as his hands as flex into the edges of her bookshelf— trying, no doubt, to cling to something to stop from running. "K-Kid?" She whispers, trying her best to keep the fear out of her voice as she swallows. She doesn't speak again until she's sure her words won't tremble. "Wally?"
There's a retching noise, as if he's attempting to force something contaminated from his body; his shoulders are relaxing, neck loosening as he struggles to nod. "Yeah." He grits out between still clenched teeth, beginning to tremble. "Yeah."
He exhales, louder this time; she's still standing there with raised fists, half expecting him to lunge at her. "... Talk to me." She whispers, muscles tense. "What— I mean—"
She can't figure out how to word it, watching as he finally releases the edges of her shelf, flexing his knuckles as if trying to convince them not to seize up. "I feel it." He pants, wiping sweat from his face. "The lightning. If it hits too close— It's like I'm hit with it too. And then—"
He trembles so much he can't speak for a moment, watching through too-wide eyes as she lowers her arms, haunches still raised and wary. "...I just need to run. I feel it in my body, and if I don't move it's like I'll— I'll be burnt alive. Or explode. Or—"
Another round of shaking, too strong this time, cuts him off. He doesn't try to speak again.
She doesn't want to look anymore, doesn't want to watch as he suffers while she's too cowardly to bring herself to help; exhaling hard through her nose she turns away, heart still pounding and adrenaline still tainting her veins. "... Why did you come here?" She whispers after a moment. "I-I mean... It's not like I can do anything."
The question hangs in the silence too long again— she's not even sure if she wants an answer, not sure if there's anything he can say that will make her feel less trapped here, alone and in the dark with a person she doesn't feel as if she even knows anymore. Trying her best to breathe again she presses her frizzing hair back behind her ears, feeling the static as it sparks against her finger tips.
"... You make it better." He says after a moment; she's sure he can see the way the words send a spasm of stiffness up her spine, all her muscles tight in the seconds he hesitates before continuing. "I don't know why. You just— When I'm running or... Lost, like that. It's like I'm in another consciousness, or somewhere where I— I can't figure out how to stop, or where I want to go, or how to find my way back to myself—"
"Wally." She says warningly, voice low and cold. "Don't—"
(Don't say things that will make her lose control.)
She can hear him as he crosses the room, all her muscles tight as he continues to talk over her. "But if you're there, or— close. Even little things like reminding me what my name is. I— You're like a landmark I recognize. The only landmark I can recognize..."
She can sense him, no more than a foot behind her, the words he's mumbling rustling the hair on the back of her neck. "... Why did you come here?" She repeats, and despite herself the words are softened— still hard but no longer cold, an edge to them that seems to say more than she can.
He exhales, long and loud, the walnut smell washing over her; at once she can feel warmth pooling inside her, a hot sort of stickiness that dribbles down her bones, making it impossible to think straight. "I needed to be close to you. If I'm not, I—" He hesitates, not finishing.
There's something unsaid there, the unspoken words trying to unthaw her completely; the muscles in her shoulders, now dangerously tight, seem to spasm with all the emotion she's trying to keep in, all the reasons she's fighting to keep him at a distance clanging, useless, against the walls of her heart. "Don't. You— you shouldn't say stuff like that." She whispers, not meaning it.
"Fine." Wally must be able to sense the lie, his bare feet shifting closer to hers on the carpet despite her half-hearted scolding; he's still not radiating heat like always but she can sense some of the warmth returning to him, his breath hot as it hits the side of her neck. "... Can I just..." A pause where he exhales, sending a whole shiver through her body. "Can I touch you? Please?"
She can't do this— can't comfort him when she's not sure what from, can't even begin to think when he's this close. She's still furious at him, still sore from where he threw her into the counter, still exhausted from the lateness of the hour... But despite all this, all the reasons in her head to stay away from him— her heart seems to leap up into her throat, forcing her to stay silent.
She doesn't say yes but she doesn't say no either; nearly a minute of nothingness passes between them as he waits for an answer, the rain still pounding against the roof overhead. She feels as if she's being strangled, caught in a trap she's been baited into; all at once she hears herself let out a puff of air, closing her eyes. "... Wally."
It's a plead for something, the last twang of her crumbling resistance; as if he can sense he's winning the silent fight between them she feels him shift ever closer. "Please..."
This time he doesn't wait for her to figure out what she wants to say, doesn't wait for her to even try to get her guard back up, for her thoughts to start whirring more clearly and prompt her into saying no; before he even finishes saying the word she feels his fingers reaching for the small of her waist.
She hardly breathes as he pulls her in, the hand on her middle snaking around her— his fingers drag along the fabric of her shirt, wrinkling it as he glides his hand over her ribs, hip, stomach—
She can feel herself tremble as he moves closer, the lines of his body fitting neatly against hers; she feels every breath he draws in, feels the rush of walnut flavored air as he dips his head, lips skimming her temple as she turns her head, trying to meet his gaze. "Why—" She whispers, heart stalling as his palm tightens on her ribs, forefinger skimming to find the dip between her breasts; when she tries to turn to look at him his other hand catches her wrist, fingers finding their place between hers.
She doesn't know how long they stand like that, too-close as they hold hands in the dark; the quiet seems to envelop them, making them untouchable from the eyes of the night and the storm, now settling beyond the walls of her room. Wally's fingers fit between hers so neatly it's as if that's where they were meant to be, his thumb running along the uneven edge of her nail, over her knuckles, fingers shifting until he finds the exposed skin of her wrist.
She feels her lower lip tremble as he traces her bones through the seams of her clothing, following the lines of her muscles up her forearm, bicep— behind her he lets out a ragged breath as he reaches her shoulder, hesitating as his fingers cup the swell of it; he's testing her, as if worried she's not real, some sort of hallucination.
Every cell in her body is on high alert as he brushes her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger about the side of her neck; she can't help the way her head starts to loll back, the way her lips part at the touch. He ghosts ever closer to her, still cold, and when he presses her into him she can feel it all at once—
He wants her.
She can't stand this anymore, not looking at him, standing their prisoner as he drags his palm down her stomach— when his fingers skim the bottom of her shirt she feels a loud twang of sense at the back of the mind, prompting her to twitch out of the spell he has her under; her skin seems to burn as she twists out of his grasp, eyes narrowed and challenging at the tortured look on his face when he's forced to stop touching her. "What are you doing?" She whispers.
It's not the right thing to say, her glare unsteady and her skin still blazing where he's touched her; for a moment his eyes lock with hers, burning with a kind of wanting and aching she's never seen before. She doesn't even have time to figure out how she feels about it before Wally stops looking at her, scrubbing once over his face in frustration. "... I don't know." He sighs.
She doesn't want him in her room anymore, afraid of what's just happened and what it means; instead of telling him to leave she remains quiet as he continues to not look at her, hands falling back to his side. "Yes you do." She hisses, her bare feet flexing hard into the carpet.
He hesitates, glaring hard at her bedroom door; she can sense there's something he's not telling her, something he doesn't want to say. At last he sighs again, the breath catching on something raw inside him, as if he's trying to chuckle but can't quite manage it. "... I'm scared."
It's not just the words, it's the way they're said— the thickness to his voice, the way he begins shaking again. At once she realizes he's got tears in his eyes, his apple irises picking up odd reflections in the half-light as he stands there, inches from her and falling apart. "I don't know what the hell is happening to me." He chokes out, trying to smile as he starts wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "What happens during the storm, it's— it's getting worse every time."
Her heart feels as if it's shattering underneath her ribs, the scowl on her face beginning to waver. "Wally—"
"And you're the only thing I know that— that makes me feel okay again." He shakes his head, the words so quiet she can hardly catch them. "I know it's screwed up but just... Please, Artemis." He whispers at last, finally looking her dead on in the face. "Please."
The smarter part of her wants to say no, wants to tell Wally to leave— but standing there, watching him try not to cry, makes it impossible. Her resistance, flimsy from the beginning, is non-existent now, her heart picking up as he moves closer, reaching for her—
Her hands raise automatically, half curling into fists as if expecting something far worse when he touches her; she's still waiting for him to disappear on her again, to run away without looking back. Instead he looks her dead in the eye as he finds the familiar dip of her waist, staring her down like some sort of animal. "I don't know why, okay?" He breathes, answering her unasked question. "Why it's you who can make me... Stop. I-I don't understand it either."
She keeps her eyes fixed on his when his hands begin moving, tracing the ridges up her ribs, thumbs hesitant as they linger, oh so softly, about the beginning curve of her breasts. When she exhales a shiver seems to run through him, his mouth opening to drink her in until— "Hold still."
"Why—"
"Experiment."
It's slow, too slow: she keeps her eyes open when Wally's gaze traces the lines of her face, pausing with purpose on her lips; without seeming to register what's about to happen she feels one of his hands leave her waist, skimming the skin of her neck, up her jaw, cupping her cheek—
Her fists clench with surprise; it's hardly a kiss, the way his mouth presses into hers— she can hardly feel the heat of his lips as he ghosts them over hers, pulling back with a ruddy sounding exhale before she can even close her eyes. "... Better." He whispers after a moment, so quietly she realizes immediately he's talking more to himself than to her. "... It's always better."
He makes to pull back and suddenly whole parts of her seem to spur into movement, seizing him roughly round the biceps and keeping him pinned against her. "Wait." She says too quickly, biting the inside of her cheek. "Just... Wait."
Wally seems to still, brows contracting and jaw line taught— for several seconds she can't figure out what she wants, her heart seeming to guide her as she shifts closer to him. She's not thinking as she touches him, running her hands over him for the first time that night; her fingers linger over the swell of his shoulders, the thick lines of his neck, the jutting of his clavicle...
It's foolish, what she says next; she feels as if she's drunk, caught up in the panels of his chest, the new unexplored bumps of his abdomen, and the overwhelming selfish want that's pounding through her heart. When her hand stops about the jutting of his hips Wally lets out a rugged breath, as if she's just hurt him in some way. "... Tell me you need me." She breathes, pulling closer to him until she can feel how badly he wants her, hard and aching as he presses into her. "Tell me."
He must think she's toying with him but he doesn't say anything about it, seeming to understand that neither of them will get what they want unless he plays along; his palm digs into her almost painfully as he runs his fingers down her spine, considering her through hazy and half lidded eyes. "...I need you." He admits after a moment, dropping his head until their foreheads are touching again, the swollen middle of his lower lip hardly skimming hers. "I need to feel you close to me."
... Then he hesitates, waiting for her to stop him.
But she doesn't— she can only stand there, vulnerable to the thickness of his ginger lashes and the hot taste of walnuts he keeps breathing into her. Her heart feels as if it may explode, her stomach twisting into knots, and—
And all at once she gives in— to Wally, to her own jealousy, to all the old and worn out feelings still clattering between them. But she can't take it anymore, can't handle keeping him at an arm's length, can't stand the thought of someone else replacing her; indulging in the selfish want pooling in the low part of her stomach drags his mouth towards hers, already moaning before he's even kissing her.
It's instant, how quickly they fall back into well-worn rhythms; his lips taste as they always do, his breath firing against her cheeks as he exhales into her. He's not her Wally— and he never will be again— but as she crashes against the unfamiliar man in front of her she's caught off guard but how much feels the same: the desperate clawing of his thumbs as they trace the lines of her hips, the way his arms tighten around her, the low and needy grunt that she pulls out of his throat as she plunges her tongue into his mouth—
He pulls back again, panting in her face as he struggles to catch his breath. None of this is enough for her; she wants to kiss him again, wants to make him remember what it was like to be with her, what it means to touch her— she can't do slow, not right now. He ignores her when she tries to pull his mouth back to hers, hands dragging down her sides in a way that makes her want to scream out in agony, a frustrated whimper that sounds more like a snarl ripping from her throat—
When Wally's fingers find their way underneath the hem of her shirt she goes silent, her skin searing as palms skim her abdomen. Before she can even let out a breath she's being forced to raise her arms overhead as he makes to undress her; again he's too slow with the movement, her shirt peeling off her like a layer of skin as he drags it up her stomach, over the swell of her breasts, his eyes fixed on the fragmented glare still on her face as the fabric lifts over her head.
And she knows what that look means, can read the fire behind his clouded apple eyes. He needs her, yes. But he's about to prove that she needs him more.
She feels more naked than she's ever been, her skin prickling with the chill in the air as her shirt hits the floor. His eyes seem to bore into her, memorizing the taught lines of her stomach, the swell of her breasts, the glinting of the necklace he gave her as it sits crookedly on her collar bone. He exhales again, his walnut scented breath skimming her muscles, digging beneath her bones and carving his initials somewhere deep inside her—
And at once she knows why he came here, why he followed her into her bedroom in the middle of the night— and even more, why she's allowed him to stay this long.
(It's the fourth of July all over again, except this time he's the one begging for it— the one begging for closeness, for comfort. And he hadn't been strong enough to give her what she needed before, but maybe she is— strong enough to ground him without getting hurt, strong enough to feel him inside her without feeling all the complications between them, tearing them apart—)
Wally has to know too— he's maybe even realized what he wanted back in the kitchen, back when he touched her like this for the first time. But he's waiting for her too— for her to figure out what he wanted, what she wanted, what they both needed from each other—
(This is another fight between them, perhaps their biggest yet— it's an all our war, a battle to prove which of them is the weakest, which of them is more vulnerable to the other...)
((And she won't lose. Not again. Not like she did on the fourth of July.))
Wally disappears for a moment as he rips his blood stained shirt over his head, revealing the new muscled and rippling abdomen she's only seen a handful times; it hits her again: how grown up he's become in a few short weeks, how different he is. How his body, once well known, is now a mystery. Without thinking she reaches for him, fingers running across his stomach, tracing the unknown muscles and the ginger trail of hair leading down to the waist band of his sweat pants. "Do you want me?" She whispers again, fingers skimming the edge of him as he strains against the fabric.
"Yes." He nearly groans, head rolling back on his shoulders.
"How badly?"
He looks as if he could hit her, a muscle jumping in his neck as she shifts closer. "Artemis." He snarls, the tail end of her name coming out like a hiss.
She's not expecting it: the way he pulls her hair, how savagely he grips her face— he's desperate, wild, wanting her as badly as the lightning inside him wants to run. "... Show me." She sneers.
And he does, with all the desperation and neediness of a drowning man; at once his mouth is on hers, lips unrelenting and arms like a cage as they wrap around her, pawing at the exposed seams of her skin. It's not gentle, not kind— it's the kind of kissing two people do when they're trying to hurt each other, the kind of clinging that's more nails than hands. She hears him gasp into her mouth as she bites down on his lower lip, teeth dragging as his fingers cut into the bruises he's left on her.
She nearly cries out when he pulls her against him, her breasts crushing against the panels of his chest as she moans, the two of them still fighting but in an entirely different way; she feels herself stumble backwards into her desk as he rams her against it, trying to peel her legs apart— hissing into his mouth she shoves him backwards, twisting against him as she feels him lose his footing—
They break apart as Wally's back hits the bed, her swollen lips free long enough for her to sneer at him before he's retaliating, his hand seizing her wrist and yanking down on top of him. When she gasps hard against his face all of him seems to twitch, his hips bucking up underneath her until she can feel his hardness, aching and thick as it presses against the hot point between her legs.
Before she can decide how she wants to make him moan again Wally's pulling her back in, a feral sound erupting out of his throat as her hands find his hair. In an instant he's rolling on top of her, fingers shaking as they claw at her hips, seizing the top of her pajama pants and dragging them so quickly down her legs she can hear the seams stretching; he doesn't even stop before he's clasping the waistband of her panties, the thin black cotton cutting into her skin as he rips it from her thighs—
She knows him too well— before his fingers can find the how wet she is for him she knocks him in the diaphragm, ignoring the grunt he makes as her knee collides with his stomach before she flips him onto his back. She's done with being gentle, with playing by the rules; Wally groans as she pins him beneath her, her hands pressing his wrists into the mattress and thighs pinning his hips flat. It's merciless, when she kisses him again— more teeth than tongue as she inhales the very breath out of his lungs, body heating when she hears him panting, feels his muscles straining beneath her as she struggles to break free...
She drags her tongue down the edge of his jaw, lips finding the pulse point on his jugular and pausing to place one languid kiss there— a reminder, as she hovers over him, of who he's at the mercy at. She can hear him moaning, his breaths ruffling her hair as he begins to gasp out, her mouth suckling and teeth biting as she makes her way down his neck, to the sensitive point on his shoulder—
She suckles onto the skin there, teeth pressing into his skin; at once his whole body is straining where she's pinned him into the mattress and his hips are bucking beneath hers, desperate to touch her— and when she licks her way up his neck again she's not expecting it, the way his hips slap into hers, the roughness of his sweats and how perfectly hard he is for her; and at once she moans into his ear, breath hot and fingers flexing unconsciously...
It's enough for him; that moment of weakness is all it takes for his wrists to slip through her hands. Before she can brace herself he's knocking her backwards, one hand seizing her breast and the other locking around her waist, holding her to his lap as he sits up, mouth capturing hers as she throws her arms around his neck, seeking reddened hair to knot her fingers in.
He pulls back, just long enough to exhale, breath hot on the moisture of her lips—he's properly feverish again, hands almost hot as the palm on her back shifts, nails burning her as he drags them down her spine, scratching the joint of her leg and thumb tracing the jutting of her hip bone—pulling her closer, needing her, wanting her— following it she shifts closer, feeling the sudden edge of his shaft pressing anxiously between her legs.
The two of them moan, more breath than actual sound as he guides her, his head dropping down between her breasts as she grinds her hips against him. It's too much to feel, too many old memories stirring inside her— at once she can remember how he used to feel inside her, the way he would scream her name into her neck when he came, the feelings of his hips as they had collided against hers. These half-remembered moments feel so much more real than they ever have, his lips pressing ancient and clawingly familiar imprints into her, drawing breath out of her the way he always has. For a moment she feels stunned as the pleasure begins to twist inside her, unsure of what's happening—it feels like an old dream, a half-memory that she's not entirely sure was ever real—
Her mind feels foggy but her body remembers, the stiffness of surprise melting into something tender, lush. Through the din of alarm she can feel her skin heating, muscles unwinding then tensing in the right ways, unthawing through the haze of his hands as she clings to him, hips jerking at the tightness of his fingers as he squeezes her breasts, pressing her bruises painfully into her skin— she needs him, she needs to be closer—
And she moans, low and guttural, when he nips the top swells of her breasts; the sound seems to spur both of them off, exhales catching on each other as she drags him back by the hair to meet her lips. For a second she can hardly thinking anymore, not of fighting or getting even or much of anything she pushes her tongue into his mouth, her nails digging over his scalp, down his neck, craving her favorite walnut flavored closeness. And he's pulling her back just as hard, just as painfully, her hips rocking against him growing more insistent, needier, the sensitive point between her legs aching for something more—
She's close, so close already— the hand on her breast releases her, skimming down the lines of her stomach. "Wally—" She warns him, pulling back to try to drag some air into her aching lungs— but he won't let her stop, won't let her try to get away; his lips attack her neck, his fingers twitching down to the wetness between her thighs.
His fingers plunge inside her just as he licks a line of sweat off her neck, and at once her groan sounds more like a hushed scream; her hips won't stop twitching around his hand, his thumb skimming the most sensitive part of her, her nails digging into his shoulder as he reaches for her bedside drawer, fumbling for the condoms she knows are still there—
The battle between them is still raging on; as her head rolls back on her shoulders she catches the look on his face— the languid panting, the haziness behind his eyes— he's winning, he's winning, her whole body twitching as his fingers circle her clit, pressing pleasure inside her and relishing in her wetness for him, for how badly she wants this. She can hardly think but she can't stand to lose this war between them, not this fight— she tries to press him back into the mattress, her whole body screaming out as she yanks his hand away, trying to pin him again.
She can't even finish the maneuver without Wally thinking ahead of her, not about to fall for her tricks this time; she gasps when he pushes her off him, swooping down on her and imprisoning her underneath the bulk of his weight as it presses her into the mattress. Before she can even retaliate he's attacking her neck, a mixture of teeth and suckling that makes her head toss back, feminine gasps ripping out of her throat. "Wally—" She gasps, legs tightening around his waist and hips aching to find his hardness again.
And he pulls back, the look on his face dangerous and wild enough to send her heart spinning into overdrive, the heat between her legs building to a breaking point. It lasts hardly longer than a second, the strange and almost terrifying look on his face, but that's all it takes for her to understand what it means; as if to hurt her his hand trails down her stomach, pausing just before her inner thigh. You need me. The look seems to whisper, practically snarling in the dark as he teases her, nose skimming hers as he drags his finger along the wetness of her opening.
You need me just as badly as I need you.
Her thighs are shaking, beginning to fall apart the longer he makes her wait; she feels her back arch as he begins to press too-wet kisses against her neck, tongue dragging down the tense muscles squirming there. "Wally—" She gasps, inhaling sharply as he nears close to her hot point again. It's almost cruel, facing all these sensations at once. "I-I—"
She doesn't manage to find her way through the words, around whatever she's trying to say; instead she nearly screams when he dips a single finger inside her, thumb dragging her wetness upwards to run in circles around her clit. He doesn't even seem human anymore when digs his teeth into her shoulder— his lips savage as they work their way down her bare breasts, teeth catching on her necklace and stubble scrubbing hard against the sensitive flesh that's flushed in her wanting of him. And they're past the point of stopping anymore, past the point of anything other than animal instinct; it's feral, inhuman, the way she's moaning, the way he's spurred on by the sound...
She doesn't ever remember being with Wally feeling like this— doesn't remember this roughness, the panting, the almost painful ache all her wanting is pooling inside her. She feels as if she's trapped in the eye of a storm again, clouds swirling and nails dragging, lightning flowing between both their veins...
It's almost violent, the way she grips at his shoulders, nails nearly slicing through his skin as she guides his mouth, both wanting and dreading feeling more; it feels as if all the heat, all the tension between them is at a breaking point, an explosion of want burning too hot to touch. But he's wrong— she needs him, he needs her, and they're never going to escape how badly they want each other— He pulls back, trying to kiss her, but before he can pounce on her again she launches herself at him, throwing him backwards and ramming him as hard as she can against the headboard, relishing the grunting sound he makes as his head knocks back against the wall.
It's her turn to touch him, fingers dragging and nails scratching as she runs up the panels of his chest, the new angles of manhood she's never touched before as she climbs up his legs like a jungle cat; Wally groans as she claws over the thick muscles of his thighs, following the indents and ripples upwards until—
His grunt is low and guttural when she grasps him through his sweats, feeling his hardness as it presses hungrily against her hand; his fingers seem to flex hard around her sheets, as if intent on ripping them, or reaching for her, trying to pull her in again...
And in an instant she realizes this time there's no asking for permission, no thinking twice; she strokes him again and he finally gets a hold on her, fingers so tight on her wrist that she's sure he can feel the wild charging of her pulse—there's no time for questions, no time for even looking at each other as she pulls the seams of his sweats down his legs, his erection springing up between them. And it's blind, it's feral, it's more need than want, a blur as he fumbles with the condom, hands shaking—
And then suddenly it's clear as she curls her legs around his waist, her muscles aching as she lowers herself into him, the two of them exhaling sharply at the sensation; she can feel her tightness stretching, hips loosening around him and bruised skin on her ribs aching as he grips her waist, one hand slinking round to guide her—
He's not even fully inside her and she can already feel the twisting in her stomach beginning to crack open, her hips rolling and her wetness throbbing when he touches her, his fingers skimming the place where they're joined. It's too much, all too much, the tenderness in which he strokes her, the way he rolls the sensitive points over his thumb—she can't do this, she needs to feel him, needs to—
His fingers freeze and they both moan as she slams her hips against his, not stopping to feel the pleasure; for the first time she feels tiny, stretched out across him, his fingers too large as they fumble over her hips, her biceps, the small off her waist, mouth burying in the swell of her breasts, thumb still busy on her clit and fingers splayed as she rams herself into him, again and again—
She hardly registers the sound of skin slapping against skin, of his breaths as they turn into pants and then moans; every other sensation feels muted, as if she's oblivious to anything except the flicking of Wally's fingers pressing more insistently against her. And the tension is too much, overcoming everything, it's—
His name rips out of her mouth, high pitched and too loud as her orgasm slams into her; she can feel every part of her tighten, head throwing back, Wally's breath sounding stuttered as he groans—
She's hardly finished before he follows; suddenly he's shaking, thighs spasming under hers and she's—and she's shaking too, their breath ragged and their minds foggy, bodies sweating and spent— and he screams into her neck, mouth licking as the sweat that's pooled there, her name tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop it.
(And later, when she rolls off him and hides between the fabric of her sheets, it will hit her harder than expected; as she dims the lights to hide the mess of memories sticking to their naked flesh all those unknown feelings will scream at her, breaking the muggy silence of her bedroom.
(("Artemis?" He whispers in the darkness, still out of breath. She pretends to be asleep, already ashamed of what they've done.))
She can still taste him on her tongue, can still feel the stinging of his fingers as he clawed at her. She's not sure if either of them won tonight— how do you declare a victor when the two of you are left licking so many wounds, nursing reopened scars and creating so many new ones?
... She's selfish. And maybe, in some ways, Wally is too— he knew what he wanted when he came into her bedroom tonight. He knew that she wouldn't turn him away. He had used her, and she had used him, and now that they're left so shredded and broken from their love making she can see fresh lines of hurt creasing through them both, unresolved.
((Wally sits there, unmoving from where she's left him; she wonders what he's thinking— about her, about Linda, if he's thinking of anything at all. Rather than get up and leave he slides down onto her mattress, settling into the old indentation marking his side of her bed.))
The rain pounds on her ceiling, and her necklace glints around her neck. She hears Wally roll over, pulling her blankets around himself.)
AN: Once again, apologies about the late update. I originally had this going somewhere else entirely but Artemis and Wally kept fighting me on it— which explains the ending. The heart wants what it wants.
In other news, thanks so much for all the reviews guys! I got so many for last chapter— probably because I've been such a shit head about updating the past little while (blame school and a change of jobs, I'm now working waaay more than I was before.) I promise to TRY to get a little more predictable with my upload times but until then HIT THE FOLLOW BUTTON! It's the best way to ensure you can read the second a new chapter is up.
*Side note: shout out to misspandalily for recommending Parenthesis on her blog! That was ridiculously nice of you and it kind of made me emotional. You're the best!
Read and Review Please!