Author's Note: Sorry! I know it took a long time for me to put up, and I think it still needs work but. Guys. If any of you want to beta for the next what? Two chapters. That would be awesome.

Beeeep!

He pokes his head out the window, hair disheveled and sleep carved into his eyes, and waves a fumbling hand to the sky. "Coming, coming!"

He stumbles over to his dresser, nearly tripping on the haphazard piles of laundry strewn at the foot of his bed, some of which he'd dumped there the night before. A foot catches on an outlying pant leg, and his knee crashes into a sharp corner of his desk, forcing a very uncouth word from his mouth. He's about to chuck the offending garment to the other side of the room, but the hem is still clean, and he figures it's still wearable, so he shrugs and shimmies into them.

He's in and out of the bathroom, barely bothering to even run a hand through his hair, before he's already running down the stairs, hand grabbing for the hanging strap of his backpack as he goes by the coat rack.

"Wally?" A curly red head of hair pokes around the doorframe of the kitchen, alerted by the sound of thundering footsteps wrecking havoc on the foundation of her stairs. He barely turns. "Going to the library to study, be back by eight, don't wait up!"

The door slams and the hall is suddenly eerily quiet.

"Was that Wally, Mary?"

His mother turns, stepping lightly back into the kitchen and wiping damp hands on her fluffy red apron. "Yes, it was." She turns a small smile towards the direction of the front door. "He didn't even stop for breakfast."

"'Bout time you came out Float," she jokes, hair swept behind her into a messy bun. A pair of heart framed sunglasses are pushed high up on her forehead, keeping the stray strands out of her eyes.

He pulls them off, dropping them over his own eyes, as he grins at her. "I told you not to call me that."

"What else did you want me to call you?" she starts, hand reaching towards the ignition.

"How about my name?"

"Hey, when I asked you what your name was, this is what you said."

"I was trying to order another Root Beer Float! And I was hung over, so I really don't think anything that I did during that brief lapse of judgement should be held against me for the rest of our friendship."

She snorts. "Well, that is when you said you wanted to be friends."

"Obviously by that time I was sober enough to realize what a jewel you are," he laughs, only halfway to sarcastic. His hand reaches for the radio dial, powering it on, ears expectant. He winces when the pure sounds of bluegrass come floating from the stereo at decibels unsafe for human hearing.

"Why," he exclaims, hands clapping firmly over his delicate eardrums just in time to miss the sound of her reckless laughter. "I thought we were friends!"

"Why Mr. West," she turns, eyebrow arched, voice low. "Are you saying you would like to – pursue a friendship with me?"

He reaches blindly for the volume control as she demurs, "Why, I'm flattered. I didn't realize a gentleman of your distinction would ever so much as glance in my direction without the illuminating effects of alcohol."

"Ms. Brodner, if you keep that up I'll have to re-evaluate my now abstemious stance on the subject," he grumbles, the sounds of the music faded out to the back of the car at a whispered volume.

"Keep that up, and you'll have to get out Float," she responds, fingers tapping lightly on the sides of the wheel. "This car is a friends only privilege, you understand."

"In that case, it looks like my stance hasn't changed much after all."

He kicks his sneakers up onto the dashboard, and she stabs him in the ribs with two deftly pointed fingers. "Make a mess and I'll kill you."

He laughs, the sound fading into a low hum at the back of his throat, following the melody of whatever song it is that's playing in the background. She winds down the windows after a minute, and the light chill of the cool morning air is filtered in with the smell of burnt coffee and damp grass, and he closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

He jerks up as the lumbering Chevy makes a sharp left turn, moving into the parking lot of the Taggert University Library. "If you're sleeping again, I swear to God I'm not dragging you into the library with me. I'm just going to roll up the windows and let you suffocate. Or freeze to death."

His expels a violent "Oof!" as she chucks his bag at him, the heavy textbooks striking him in the stomach. It's the first time he's ever been grateful not to have eaten.

He lifts the shirt, rubbing gingerly at the skin and she immediately dons her shades, exclaiming aloud and shielding her eyes from his blindingly pale skin. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just turn it off!"

He scowls. "It'll turn off on its own if the skin starts bruising. Don't!" He backs away, scrambling for the door handle and sprawling out on the grass island, hand scraping the sidelong blacktop. "You keep away from me!"

"Fine," she shrugs, pulling a canvas strap over her shoulder. "You can buy your own breakfast then."

It's enough to get him on his feet and following her at a dogged pace, just out of throwing distance. "I hope you brought your credit card Liza!"

She's disappeared behind the thick mountain of dusty book jackets and yellowed pages, and he cranes his neck over the top trying to catch a glimpse of notebook, almost black with tiny marks and scrawled-in notes. "How the hell do you even read that?"

She snorts and shakes her head derisively. "I'm not writing it for you, you know. I can read it just fine." She tuts, shaking her head in mock disappointment, and his eyes follow the sheen of her hair, undulating in waves as the strands shift under the warm yellow light. "Eyes on your own paper, Mr. West."

He groans and drops his chin into his hand, staring unseeingly at the wall of text before him until the lines blur into a continuous striped pattern, words indistinguishable. He watches the dust motes as they float through the air, landing on the book covers and settling into the creases of the paper and decides that even that is more interesting than writing another damn page of reference notes.

"I don't think I can do it anymore," he starts, blowing slowly at the stack of pages and watching as they ripple in the slight breeze.

She touches him softly, hand comforting and warm on his upper arm. "Midterms are only a little while longer, and then we can go out and get drunk off our asses. I'm not taking you for coffee next morning though."

He turns his head and sighs, and that's when the sound of ink flowing smoothly over paper ceases. Her eyes are low and concerned and that one little beauty mark by her mouth is lost as her lips pull down, and she cautiously puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Are you alright?"

His smile is soft and blank when he gives it, and she's struck by the idea that he's an old VHS tape, suddenly wiped clean of nostalgic, honest, family movies and written over with a bland sitcom story, complete with canned laughter and carefully scripted ending. It's a strange feeling, to fall so fast into the sensation of strangers after weeks of being friends. She's perturbed, and she isn't sure what the appropriate measure to take is, what the right thing to say might be.

"Are you hungry?" The words are light and teasing and she turns too fast, her hair whipping by and catching him just under his chin. He starts, sitting straight and watching as it floats down on her back, and the moment has suddenly passed.

"Starving," he groans, and he stretches and starts stuffing notebook and pen and text into his shabby green backpack. "Excuse me?" Her eyes follow the movement incredulously. "We're not done here, I'm just going to grab us some lunch!"

He flops face-forwards onto the hard wood of the table. "I throw myself at the mercy of the court! Please be lenient with your conviction Judge Brodner! A reduced sentence!"

She almost laughs, a little bit, at the dramatics, and she grabs her things too, stretching as she stands. "Fine. Whatever. I can keep studying on that cafe over on Downsview. I'm not paying for lunch too, though, that's your treat."

He shrugs, because she eats like a rabbit and it's too much to make her buy him anything else – he's already eaten out half the stock of coffee cake and muffins in the library cafe. "Please, just being with me is a treat." The line is ruined by the yawn that punctuates it, and she flicks a careful finger at his incisors. "Ow!"

"I'll be in the car when you're finished . . . cleaning up." He glances down at the stacks of books he'd pulled from the shelves, with only a half-hearted intention of even going through them. They're all opened to various pages, the books no longer arranged by section. He grumbles as he grabs a handful in his arms, heading to the nearest reference stack. "Fine. Don't expect me out too soon," he frowns, peeking at the decimals on the top book. The shelf is at the very back of the room.

She gives a jaunty wave that he doesn't see, her footsteps soft and padding on the carpeted floor as she walks away. He waits until the door is closed to speed through the rest of the stacks, moving fast enough to send the pencil still on the desk rolling over the side. He's lucky today; the legal reference section is deserted.

He grabs his bag and swings over to the back exit, tripping down the slippery metal stairs and gulping in a deep lungful of fresh, crisp air. The traffic is slow on this side of the road, and he barely counts two cars speeding by him, ruffling his hair in the wind as he speeds just barely towards the redhead standing at the bus stop, hands pushed deep into his pockets and his frown etching lines into the scruffy shadow around his chin. He doesn't even look up when the thrumming vibrations underfoot stop.

"Hey, Roy."

The older man grunts, and turns in the direction of the road, refusing to meet his eyes. "Anything?"

His hands reach into the hidden pocket of his shoulder strap, withdrawing a paper rumpled and smeared and worse for the wear than forgotten shopping receipts put through the wash. "Last I heard was Angola." The sun is high overhead, burnishing the tips of their hair, and a slight chill is settling in. Winter is pulling out, sluggish and slow, and his sneakers are damp.

"Right." He takes the paper without once glancing at it, moving it to his pocket immediately. His shoulders are stiff, and he takes a heavy breath, finally turning to look at him through the corner of his eyes. "Nothing on my front. But there's someone . . . new. A girl, I think, but I can't be sure." He levels his gaze skywards, staring at the golden tinge on the low-hanging clouds. "Not a blonde, though."

He nods, and hunches forward, mouth drawn. "Right."

They stand, awkwardly, until the bus roars to a stop at the station, and an elderly woman steps off gingerly, feeling for her footing on the cracked sidewalk. "Your ride?"

He nods a goodbye, but otherwise doesn't make a move. It's Wally who finally turns and walks away, without ever once glancing back.

When he gets to the lot, a blaring honk sounds just behind him, and he jumps nearly a foot in the air, turning and being nudged forwards by the fender of a shiny black car. "God damn!" he starts, chest pounding, hand on the hood while he pants and attempts to regain his balance. He can see the smile through the windshield, mischievous and bright under the heart framed lenses, and he wonders for a moment whether the expression under another familiar pair of shades would be disappointed or proud that someone had managed to sneak up on him in a Chevy.

He throws a mocking scowl in the driver's direction, and throws his bag into the back, watching in a mixture of amazement and dismay as the force causes the car to bob. "That cannot be good for me," he mutters, sliding into the passenger's seat.

"Can't be good for the car, either," she responds, eyeing him. He shrugs. "Car nearly disabled me; I think I'm entitled to throw a few punches back."

She doesn't acknowledge him, instead hitting the accelerator with primal glee, nearly whooping as they speed out of the lot and onto the street, curving around the back of the library and passing by the empty bus stop in a blur. He fumbles with the seatbelt, desperately trying to get himself secured before they hit the intersection and she reaches terminal speed.

If the car was less than fifty years old, he's pretty sure they'd have hit the sound barrier by now, and he's not particularly sure he wants to find out what that's like in a hundred-tonne metal box filled with highly flammable fuel. He yelps and the sound is small and comical and the driver laughs manically again.

It doesn't take nearly enough time for her to pull in front of the cafe, drifting into a parallel parking position. He's clutching at the edges of the seat, breathing hard, as he turns to her. "Ever considered driving for NASCAR?"

She shakes her head as she considers. "I don't think so. After a certain number of collisions and blowouts, you're little more than a liability."

His shoes catch on the edge of the sidewalk as he staggers out, slamming the door a little roughly behind him.

"You walk really gracefully, Float." The sun is high overhead now, and she ducks beneath the shade of the trees lining the street. "Like a giraffe on ice."

"I'd pay good money to see that," he starts, and she turns to him, one arm sweeping wide in the direction of the reflective cafe windows. "I take payment up front."

His scowl is half-hearted, dying completely away by the time they're entered the cozy coffee house, the smell of strong coffee and hot chocolate and warm cookies making him instantly start salivating.

"Patio, please," she says to the hostess, before turning to her companion with a no-nonsense look. "I don't need you drooling all over my notes."

"I would never!" His eyes grow, wide and innocent, but she's already following the young woman through the tall glass doors outside.

"One mocha latte and a triple hot chocolate please, extra whipped cream. And a turkey club wrap, if you've got them." She flashes a bright smile, all pearly whites, before pulling her notebooks out of her bag and immediately spreading them all over the table. He watches with a wry expression before turning back to the hostess. "Could I get some Belgian waffles to start with? And a menu please?"

"Sure."

Her heels click against the ground in the quiet afternoon air, and he sighs, breathing deeply. It's nice out now, the sun shining high and hot overhead. The sound of pen on paper is relentless, adding an uneven rhythm to the lazy buzzing in his ears. He glances over at her but she doesn't look up.

"Wally! Is that you?"

He turns, surprised, at the familiar voice, falling half off the warm metal chair. "Wendy! What are you doing here?"

"I work here, or don't you remember?" She's only teasing though, pen and pad held forgotten in one hand.

"No, sorry, it's just been a while. Holing up for midterms, you know how it is."

She laughs, and the sound is pleasant and light. "Yeah, I do, actually." She smiles down at the books scattered over the glass surface, giving his table partner a curious glance. "I don't know who this is, though. Care to introduce me, Mr. West?"

"Oh, sorry! Liza, this is Wendy; Wendy, Liza." He makes as if to show her off, (flicking her lightly on the forehead, first, to grab her attention). She rubs at her skin and scowls at him in irritation, before turning to their waitress with a much more amicable expression. "Pleasure to meet you!" She sticks out a firm hand, and Wendy, slightly bemused, shakes it. "Nice to meet you too." Then; "I love your hair."

She pauses, slightly, and Liza can almost see the fleeting look she shoots across the table before it flies straight back. "I've always thought lemon and ginger were a good combination."

An eyebrow raises in slight confusion, but she smiles anyway. "He came here often, then?"

"If that's a line, I don't think you're saying it right," he declares, butting obtrusively into the conversation and reminding them that 'he' is still here, thank you very much.

The brunette rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Not really. He used to come here a lot, before, you know. University and life I guess, started catching up?"

Liza nods understandingly. "Oh, alright. I just figured he must practically have lived here if he knows all the waitresses by name."

He shakes his head, eyebrows drawn. "Hey, don't make me out to be some sceezeball here, okay? I just know Wendy. (And Rita, the owner). We used to be friends in high school."

"Why Wally, are you trying to say you don't want to be friends anymore?" She's smirking though, and he takes that as his cue to laugh an apology.

"You guys went to the same high school?" It's the first time she's looked up from her notes since they've sat down, her eyes sparkling with a devious hint of interest. It's not that he doesn't tell her about things, when she asks, but he isn't exactly forthcoming with the finer points of 'Life-before-Liza'. It's mundane, he says, and maybe that's how he remembers it, but no one goes through high school without gathering a few good stories to put under their belt.

"Sorry to disappoint, but no, we didn't." She shakes her head. "We just had some mutual friends, that's all."

Her smile hasn't dropped yet. "But you've got to have some stories about our man-about-town."

Wendy's shoulders lift in an apologetic shrug. "What can I say, we were boring teenagers. Nothing much really happened."

Liza's face falls, and she pouts, disappointed by their apparently shared views on the subject. "You guys are probably the worst people to play 'Never have I ever' with."

He jabs a finger at her. "There are easier ways to get drunk, if that's what you're trying to ask."

She snorts. "You'd know allll about that, wouldn't you Float."

He nods. "I am the undisputed master, and I'm glad that you recognize that."

"You're a terrible drunk, Wally," Wendy cuts in. "Are you going to order anything? Or have your 'usuals' changed?"

"Usuals, please!" She nods, grabbing a laminated card from the front pocket of her apron and walking away. Liza can barely read the name printed in black over the glare on the plastic.

"God, you were here often, weren't you?" She drops a little wink, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Though it wasn't just for the food, was it?"

She starts it, and soon they're both laughing, artificial and suddenly unsure. They peter out, together, until she's forced to turn her attention back to studying to prevent the creeping awkwardness from slowly stealing in on them. It's too late of course, but it doesn't matter. They're both very good at pretending.

The soft clink! of the glasses as they're set on the table draws their attention, for a moment. Her pen stills in her hands, and she sets it cautiously on the table beside her books. He follows the movement, and realizes that it's more than the pen she's set aside. She's pushing down a wall, or two, or maybe only cracking open a window, but he can see the tense hesitation as her eyes delve into the bottom of her latte.

"Did you –?" The words are whispered though, and it's an out she's preparing. The question dies in her throat, and he lets her pretend that she'd never said anything at all. The steam from the latte curls around her hair and he watches it, waiting.

"Wendy seems nice," she tries again, and her smile is large and genuine. She picks up the pen and the brief moment is over, her eyes light and protected behind the volume of work spread around her. "We should hang out here more often."

He doesn't respond, staring at the whorls of whipped cream and chocolate shavings and remembering, suddenly, the last time he'd been here. It's such a distant memory, now, and he wonders at how little things have changed, around here. He downs the cup before the waffles arrive.

There's a steady chink of silverware as he plows through the stack. It falters, though, slowing steadily. She pushes aside a thick curtain of light hair and looks up.

"What's the matter?" Her eyes are wide with concern, the notebooks forgotten on the table. He taps the fork restlessly against the edge of the blue-trimmed porcelain, and watches the cars as they blur by in bright, shaky lights. The waffles sit, only half eaten, on the plate.

"I remember these waffles tasting better."

The room is dark, still, even for so late in the morning, but he doesn't bother opening the curtains to let in some light. In the dark he can foster his thoughts, drawing them out like distorted images on the surface of his ceiling and scrutinizing them, analyzing them.

Liza's down at the library again, he thinks. Probably still studying for her criminal justice something-or-other class. Fingers – still strong despite the waning training regime – brush against his lips as he turns memories over in his mind, and speculates.

She kissed him, yesterday.

He closes his eyes, even though there really isn't much difference, and remembers the way her hair had hung, loose, around her shoulders, and her smile had lit up the evening, and her eyes had shone. They'd been at another stupid University party – the type where everyone is pretentious and self-conscious and trying their best to be the mature adults they think they're supposed to become. She'd been assailed, cornered, in the most literal sense, on one side of the room, two men in well-cut blazers and ugly glasses attempting to engage her in a conversation about the ephemeral nature of bullshit.

He could see her, searching frantically for some means of escape, and had walked over, ever the gallant knight, to help her out of her unfortunate situation. The classical jazz had been mellowing him out the entire evening, and even though he found most of the conversation grating, he'd been meeting some interesting people, his muscles growing lax and his grip on the wine glass slowly slipping, ever so slightly.

He'd smiled, wide and loose, as he'd reached her, cutting through the pair of freshman with a slightly drunken swagger in his step (something she was sure to have noticed, because he saw the way her eyes had narrowed, lashes thickening attractively as they grew closer together). "Excuse me," an irate voice got out from his right, and he'd turned, a little slow, and frowned. "I'm sorry," he'd started, apologetically. "Was this lovely lady bothering you two gentlemen? It looked like you were in the middle of a very insightful conversation."

She'd frowned up at him, petulant and relieved at once. "Don't always assume that things are my fault! How do you know they weren't petitioning me for something?"

He'd laughed. "I think I know you better than that."

"Well, what if they were hitting on me? What then?" He could almost tangibly feel them tensing beside him, and he smiled, playing along. "Then I'd have to fight them for your honour," he'd replied. He could feel the one on the left drawing himself up stiffly, and he turned, suddenly just a little bit quicker, and looked him coolly in the eye, smile never leaving. "Is that what it's come to gentlemen?" But they'd already excused themselves, trapping another pair of women into a cyclic conversation.

Well, it's not like he was really a violent man to start with.

She'd laughed with him, and the lazy mood had returned; all languid movements and slow jazz melodies. "You're awfully eloquent when you've had a drop to drink, Mr. West."

"Why of course, darling," he'd lifted his wine glass in some imaginary toast. "How else would I begin to conduct myself in the gentlemen's clubs?"

"Well, you saved me, anyway, so I will go get you a slice of that gorgeous looking cheesecake they're bringing out over there."

An eyebrow raised. "It would be counterproductive if that endeavour ends with you needing my help, again. Not that I could ever refuse the request of a damsel in distress."

She'd reached up then, and given him a quick peck on the lips. It hadn't been a lingering moment, or particularly tender, but she'd been gentle and sweet and he'd been fleetingly rendered speechless. She reacted, though, as though she'd given him nothing but a slight hug or a squeeze – a thank you.

"It's not like I'll let anyone else corner me again. Besides, I can take care of myself."

She'd rolled her eyes, and twisted on a spotless black heel, marching purposefully towards the dessert table.

He'd had to sit down, in the armchair at the edge of the room, and he'd rested his chin on his fist, propped on the armrest. He could have taken it in stride, probably, except that as she'd rolled her eyes, in the slightly tipsy, dim light, he'd sworn for a moment that they had spun grey.

His lids flutter open, again, and he stares at the picture she'd propped up on his bedside table, a little before they'd begun to study for midterms together. Blonde and beautiful and young – so carefree and energetic and fun and kind and somehow different. Not the same.

He knows it's not fair of him, to compare them. They don't even really look all that alike – it's just that strange similarity in their locks that leaves him unable to stop. She's there, still, a softly blurring picture superimposed on this new, strange, almost normal world that he's thrust himself into. He curls a fist into his blanket and lets out a breath.

He wonders, sometimes, if it's the idea of her that he's chasing. If he's trying to recreate the girl with the confidence and wit and unbearably selfish selflessness. He keeps half an eye out for her, all the time, and sometimes he whips his head too fast to catch that disappearing flash of gold, causing a crick in his neck and putting him in serious danger of developing whiplash.

But she's just some unmentionable presence, lingering in the corners of his mind, like the poster on his door that he never looks at, or the left drawer, second from the bottom, that is never opened. He's debated, sometimes, clearing out the remnants of painful memories and sad stories that didn't really have an ending. But he won't, and he knows that. It's like his own personal souvenir room for something far more private and precious, and he can't decide if he's holding trophies or a cross.

The clock buzzes when the hour changes, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is even and he doesn't stir from where he's thrown himself over the bed. He's just so tired.

When the knocking comes, loud and insistent against the brittle wood of his door, he jerks suddenly awake, gazing blearily into the blackness of late evening and mumbling an incoherent response to whoever's woken him. Words skim the surface of his thoughts, dredged up from some half-remembered dream, and his fingers close involuntarily around phantom warmth.

"Where are you going, Float?" A feminine hand catches his arm, and lips brush softly against his when he turns around.

"Liza! God, where were you, you said the cinema at 8!"

She tsks, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "That's nowhere near what I said. I said Cinema 8 at 9. Although I did sort of have the feeling you hung up before I'd finished talking." The glare she levels at him makes him flinch, uncomfortably.

"My battery was dying! It's charging in the car, okay?"

She stalks off, hair swinging behind her. The spring is slowly blooming, and he can see her smile when a short flower brushes against her leg. "You're buying the popcorn!"

"You have to help me carry everything!"

She's laughing when he catches up, and the sound chimes in the empty lot. "You're going to have to buy an extra ticket just so you have somewhere to put all that food!"

"I am a master at balancing movie snacks," he starts. "Through years of practice –"

"And hard, intensive training –"

"No, Liza, I don't think you appreciate the extent of what I did for this. For us."

"You didn't do it for us, Wally."

He snorts. "Not you and me. Me and my snacks."

She laughs as he swings into step beside her, enjoying the way they've settled into this friendship. It's not entirely platonic, they know, but they've found a groove that they're comfortable in, and they can stay here for a while. She reaches a hand up to muss his hair, standing on the tips of her toes and scuffing the toes of her canvas shoes against the ground.

"Better watch yourself, Float, or you'll be sinking your steps in the sidewalk in no time."

"Please. I've got a lightning quick metabolism," he smirks, wallet already out as the cashier begins to tally up the movie snacks. They've been every week, recently, to alleviate the burning in their heads caused by all their intensive studying.

Her fingers tap lightly on the counter, and she stares at the candy behind the display case; polished and immobile. She wonders, vaguely, how long they've been sitting there, warming under the fluorescent lights. Patiently sitting and gathering dust.

"Hrmmmf." She turns, arms outstretched at the signal word for 'Please help me carry this unnecessary amount of food.' She can't see over the fluffy white peaks of popcorn, letting him guide her in a strange, jostling motion into the theatre.

The area is dark and empty – she doesn't know, exactly, how old the theatre actually is, but the poor dinosaur is definitely on its last legs. They debate on whether or not they're going to sit together or take up whole sections, but the end vote is decided by Wally's need to be in constant proximity to all the food at all times.

She settles in with a score of candy bars strewn across her lap, and he arranges the popcorn around himself; a veritable fortress of white, buttery heaven. He's tearing into the first couple of chocolate bars already, the paper crinkling and loud in the blank silence of 'serious' pre-movie trivia.

"You've got chocolate on your mouth."

He barely turns, his pupils focused reverently on the movie snack counter deals parading across the screen. She laughs and licks it off and settles back down, the seat reclining comfortably beneath her. Every sentence spoken in the theatre is punctuated by the crunching of movie food, like the unnecessary bass track to a classical music remix.

She tastes like chocolate and summer.

It's a strange thing to think – that someone can taste like a season. He might have thought it nonsensical (he did, after all, have the largest comprehensive knowledge of tastes of anyone in likely the history of ever), but he recalls in the back of his mind a girl who tastes like autumn, and he thinks he's much more equipped to deal with these foreign flavours.

It's taken quite a number of light, friendly kisses to pin it down. He'd been considering perhaps chai, or butter cookies maybe, mixed in with the cool, waxy feel of buttered lip balm. He'd spent far too much time scouring his internal reference library, attempting to come up with the one, correct classification. And wondering, afterwards, why figuring it out was so damn important.

Screams echo in the empty parking lot as the steady thunderous beating of soles slap against the pavement. The sounds are whipped into the sky, the easy breeze a welcome change from the stagnant classroom air.

"Finally! We're finally free!"

He drops to his knees, forehead pressed against the pavement, prostrating himself before the venerable exam gods. She offers a generous kick to his backside, using her previous momentum to carry an unfortunate amount of force into the action. He's propelled a good foot forward, hands scraping against the gravel.

"God damn it, Liza, I'm bleeding!" She doesn't flinch when the bloodied hand is pressed into her face, bits of grit and flesh mangled together. A hand ruffles his hair affectionately, honestly managing to reinstate some semblance of order after his harried exam time ministrations. "Don't cry, please, you'll kill my buzz." She motions behind her with a brief jerk of her head. "Jenny and Harold are coming too, so you better be living it up tonight. I'm not going to be the person who brought the killjoy to the party."

"You know the party don't start till I walk in," he starts, grin already growing. She smiles, and flicks him on the nose. "You started something last time, for sure, but fights really don't count."

He raises his hands. "That's how you know it's a party!"

"You're not allowed to start anymore fights," a clipped tone interjects, affable with elation and relief and perhaps an undercurrent of slight jocularity.

He spins, grabbing a hand and bowing low over it. "As my lady has decreed it, so shall it be."

Another voice sounds, close by on his left. "Man, I have stats coming out of my ass. Tonight we are getting completely trashed. I don't want to remember a single case precedent six hours ago tomorrow." Harold stretches, arms high, fingers reaching for the sky. "Party tonight?"

Wally side-steps the kick Harold aims at the back of his knee.

"Is there any better way to celebrate?" Liza sing-songs, jumping lightly on the balls of her feet.

"Finally! We're casting off the cold, hard shades of sobriety!" Harold's words are slightly slurred with exhaustion and anticipation. They're all clumsy in their elation, and Wally accidently slaps him across the face when they run together for a high-five.

"Oh, damn. Sorry," he tries, fingers fumbling for tissues for a bloody nose.

"Holy crap, West, the hell is with those meat tenderizers at the end of your arm?"

"You're not even bruising." He turns to his girlfriend, the shattered look of betrayal on his face. "Blood. There is blood. I'm bleeding!"

Jenny scoffs. "You got a nosebleed in the middle of your English Lit. exam because the room was too hot."

"I am a DELICATE man."

"Right." The syllable is emphasized by a roll of the eyes. "While you boys sort out your little manly bonding problem, Jenny and I have to go get some ridiculous, slutty dresses. We'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Hours?" Wally spins, hair falling in his eyes as all concern for Harold is pushed to the backburner. Jenny hands him a tissue. "How long does it take? You don't take hours!"

"Well not for you. But Jenny and Harold are coming, so I have to pretty myself up."

He pouts. "What, I don't rate that much effort?"

"Hours, Wally. Is anything worth that wait on a regular basis?" She grins, confident in her victory, before spinning and stalking away. "Later boys. Try to do something about –" she turns and eyes them critically, gesturing in their general direction. "That situation."

"I think you're gorgeous too, thanks," he calls back.

They watch the retreating forms of the girls as the silence descends between them.

"We lucked out, didn't we?"

The starchy collar of his shirt scratches the skin beneath his bright red hair as he turns. "What?"

"Our girlfriends, I mean." Neat, dark brown hair nods in the direction in which their friends had disappeared.

"We're not dating, man."

He rolls his eyes. "Just because you turned me down months ago, don't think I've given up. But I'm talking about Liza."

"Moron." He shakes his head, shoes kicking against the ground.

"So you haven't even thought about it?"

Wally ducks away, averting his face from a sceptical gaze. "Liza and I are friends, dude."

"She kisses you like every time she sees you." Harold spins on his heel, walking alongside him. "Are you saying you'd say no?"

"What is with all these questions?" His voice is tired, but without hostility. "Did Jenny or Liza or someone put you up to this?"

He shrugs. "Even I get curious sometimes."

It's a nightmare of flashing lights and exposed skin, the smell of alcohol hanging in a cloud of fruity drinks and perfume. It's been ages since he's been to any sort of scene this wild, and he crests the waves of his intoxication with a strange, easy grace. He's gotten much better, as of late, at getting drunk.

A hand snakes its way against his side, skin glittery in the dark. He turns, expecting a petite blonde college student, and finds himself trapped in a dance with a lanky brunette. "Pleased to meet you, handsome. Want to be my dance partner, tonight?"

The words are oddly pretty, coiling through the atmosphere, until he can't distinguish it from the scope of the experience. His smile is effortless and genial, a positive answer ready to slide between bright white teeth.

"Sorry sugar." His words are snatched away by someone else's interference. The voice is low and slightly rough, an odd edge of amusement peering out between the syllables. "This man's been promised to me, for tonight."

He turns, eyes immediately drawn to the sparkly embellishments on a low blue bustier, the refraction of the gems and the strobe lights flashing iridescent colour on the milky white skin just above it. "Oh, I was wondering where you went."

She offers a delicate hand, short lace glove arched to accept a kiss. "You promised that I'd be your dance partner tonight, didn't you?" He complies, bowing to brush his lips against the slightly rough fabric. "Actually, I think I promised you whatever you liked, tonight."

Her eyes grow, the significance of which he can't fully appreciate in his current state. He settles a loose arm around her waist, and she clasps a hand over his, guiding him to their booth table in the corner. He can just faintly hear the sound of her pumps tapping across the floor in a steady rhythm, and he focuses in on the sound, slowing his own beats to match it.

"I found him!" The words are declared to gracious but unenthusiastic applause, and she pushes him into the booth, wedging him in between herself and Jenny. Her friend's long black hair falls messy and thick onto the table, her head only barely prevented from falling forwards by her boyfriend's protective shoulder. "Alright, show of hands, who is stroke-inducing-ly drunk?"

"I can't even remember if alcohol has anything to do with strokes. Jenny? Does it?"

She barely shifts, mumbling an incoherent response into the dark fabric of Harold's shirt.

"I count Jenny and Harold, then. How are you doing, Mr. West?" Her eyes are curious but not yet concerned, and he waves an airy hand above his head. "I think I'll be okay. Minus the hangover headache in the morning, I mean."

"Alright, then. I think we're done here for tonight – can you help me with Harold and Jenny? We need to get them into a cab and back into at least one of their dorm rooms." He stretches, arms limber, and makes to get out of the booth. "I'll grab Harold, you grab Jenny. We can probably shepherd them out the back door. Can you call us a cab?"

Her phone is already affixed to her ear, the telltale holographic scales of justice emblem shining on the back. "We'll have to go with them though, there's no way they'll make it in on their own."

"Harold's res. is closest," he nods, thoughts still swimming in viscous disharmony. He floats along the stream, chasing the thought to the end. "I have his key with me, we can just drop them off there."

She's already helping Jenny slowly out, her feet sluggish and her movements slow. Heels drag slightly along the floor as she staggers against her support, and they make their way in stilting steps to the back. Harold watches for a moment, before following of his own accord.

"Are you okay? I saw you drink a lot." He nods, allowing him to place a kind hand on his shoulder anyway. "I'm still good for a few more drinks, but Jenny's pretty much finished. I'll have to stay up with her for a little while, until she blows whatever she's ingested."

"She might be less of a lightweight than you think," he tries, attempting to soothe away his friend's exhaustion.

"She's gotten drunk on a bottle of beer before, she'll never be able to handle this. I just have to make sure she doesn't throw up in her sleep and then choke on it."

He smiles, freckles coloured in ghastly palettes under the changing lights. "You're a good boyfriend, man. I'm kind of jealous."

"You'll never measure up my friend, it's my guarantee. 'Better than the rest', you know."

He shakes his head. "Man, I am seriously reconsidering dating you right now. Come on, Harold, marry me. I'll make you happier than Jenny ever will!"

He scoffs. "Shut up. You had your chance." His hands pat against his pockets, and he turns stiffly against Wally's chest. "Do you have my keys? I think I can take us back on my own."

"I don't know, dude, you downed a lot of alcohol."

"I've done keg stands before, I think I can handle this."

He shakes his head. "That's not actually making me any less nervous. I don't exactly expect keg standees to make it home on their own. And the fact that you think that's a qualifier pretty much guarantees that Liza and I will be sending you guys back." He stops his barely uttered protest. "Don't worry too much about it – we'll just share the cab, alright?"

"You guys are good friends. I might take you up on that engagement offer after all, fiancée."

"Excellent. But be gentle when you break it to Jenny."

He laughs.

The world is deafeningly quiet outside the party, and they stand in a narrow alleyway just before the wider street. The silence and the cooler air sober them, and Jenny manages to force herself into more of an upright position. She braces a hand against Liza's arm, swaying slightly in the dark. "I am so sorry, Liza. I must be such a mess." She looks genuinely apologetic when she turns slightly towards the party. "I didn't mean to make you cut the celebration short."

"Don't be ridiculous! The goal was to have fun, and it looks like you got as much as you could out of that! It was getting kind of suffocating in there anyway." She starts towards the street, heels picking their way carefully around the garbage strewn debris. "I'll keep a lookout for the cab, and you guys head over when you feel up to it."

"No, don't worry about that." Harold sweeps Jenny off her feet in two short strides, arms securely steadying the hem of her dress. "We'll wait with you."

"I can walk on my own," she protests, her argument made less convincing by the arms twining themselves around his neck.

"Just sleep, gorgeous, we're all going home now anyway. And I really don't want you to trip on something and kill yourself – those skyscrapers on your feet could literally kill you."

"I have not heard a single case of heels causing accidental death."

"So you're saying it's all done on purpose?"

Wally pushes him gently forward, a hand just below his shoulder blades to help propel him. "I don't know what her memory retention is like right now, so I wouldn't worry too much about it." He points with one hand to the entrance of the alley, the crumbling brick buildings on either side rising so high above them that they're nearly bent together in a tall, sharp arch. "The cab is here."

It takes a little bit of careful manoeuvring to get Harold and Jenny into the car. Liza sits in the front, with the driver, and Wally seats himself on the other side of Jenny, to better help her groggy boyfriend prevent any nasty accidents. The street lights are flickering ornaments against the tinted glass of the windows and he leans against them, the shining orbs blending into a strange stream of hanging lights, strung up against the sky. The night is warm but the streets are nearly empty, growing ever more unpopulated the closer they get to the University residence. It's as though they're the only people in the world.

The car glides to a stop outside the tall grey brick building, and they shuffle the unconscious girl out, Wally carrying her while Harold makes his stumbling way into the building. The corridors are quiet and empty, and to be perfectly honest he isn't sure whether or not they're breaking one or ten of the dorm's rules. Their clothes shine in the darkness in stark contrast to the drab beige walls and the unpatterned carpet underfoot.

"Just lie her on the bed, for now. I'm going to clean up a little bit." Wally pauses on the threshold, the room dark and cluttered, and attempts to make his way through the landmines on the floor. He pulls out the desk chair, but a tanned hand stops his. "You can go back – I know Liza's got the cab waiting, and Jenny will be fine for a little while longer."

"Are you sure? You kind of freaked me out a little bit when you started talking about the possibility of her choking to death on her own vomit."

"I'll watch her. You guys should head home or – hell you can head back out if you want, I think you guys are still okay for tonight."

He shakes his head, red hair messy and falling into his eyes. "I'm pretty sure we're done. We'll catch you later. Remember, we're going to the burger joint on Sunday."

"Provided we can sober up enough by tomorrow evening, we'll be there."

He stretches as he passes him, grin growing. "That's nice. You think you have a choice."

He pussyfoots along the hallway, doing his best not to disturb the other residents, and slips through the glass door at the front. The cool air makes such a big difference, he's almost reluctant to step back into the taxi. He stills, slightly, and makes a meandering path back to the vehicle, Liza watching him quizzically. "Are you still good?"

He nods, sliding into the back and rolling down the windows. "Yeah, I'm fine. Where are we headed next?"

"Oh, Mr. West! You're still up for another party?" Her eyes shine mischievously, and his head snaps in her direction, suddenly apprehensive. "That's a joke, right?"

"Maybe. You'll figure it out when we get there."

He turns cautiously to the window, eyes straining for any signs of revelry, but the streets remain dark and empty. He doesn't realize how inebriated he really must be at this point, until he sees his front door without recognizing the street. He groans, paying the taxi driver and watching the taillights disappear around the corner, floating through the heavy dark, before leaving them, standing under a series of dim, flickering streetlights. He offers her his arm. "Ready for another exciting social event, my lady?"

She smirks. "As always, my lord."

They step into the entrance hall, doing their best not to make any noise. The lights are off and the silence hangs, heavy and familiar, in their wake. He herds her into the kitchen, and gallantly pulls out a chair for her, tucking her securely beneath the table. "Can I get you anything? Water? Bread? Anything else, edible or not?"

"Two shot glasses, please."

He snorts, carrying the tiny glasses to the table. "I hate to break this to you, but my liquor cabinet isn't exactly well-stocked."

"I figured as much." She rolls her eyes, digging into her purse for a moment before extracting a tall bottle of tequila. "So I came prepared."

He stares at the bottle for a moment. "You brought alcohol to a club?"

"For a little pre-party buzz, but we never got that far. So instead, the two of us are going to finish this bottle in your kitchen at one in the morning, after an exhausting day of babysitting our friends."

"I don't know if I like the sound of this." He watches as she pours smoothly into each glass, frown deepening.

"Don't worry, we won't wake up your parents."

"No kidding – they're away for the weekend. I saw them off this afternoon."

She shoots him a derisive look. "Are you serious? Then why were we tip-toeing in the hallway?"

He shrugs. "I forgot. I'm smashed, okay?"

"Can you handle any more alcohol?" Her brows are drawn together in neat lines, concern visible in her features. "I really don't want to kill you with alcohol poisoning."

He waves a hand. "It's fine. I can handle a lot more. Besides, I promised you whatever you wanted tonight."

"That's true, but I'd rather not have it on my conscience." She slides his glass towards him, the small container flying over the nicks in the wood. "We're going to play a game."

He raises an eyebrow. "I have to warn you right now, I'm not very good at drinking games."

"Never have I ever," she starts, fingers curling determinedly around her glass. "had a crush on a superhero."

"That is such bullshit. I know for a fact you have a thing for Nightwing." He tips his drink towards her, unwilling to concede the first loss.

"Yeah," she smiles, and downs the glass. "Are you saying you haven't?"

"For Nightwing?" He stops, tapping the glass thoughtfully against his chin. He downs it in one sip. "Is it my turn now?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You aren't going to elaborate on your little super crush?"

"Never have I ever," he begins, talking over the tail-end of her question, "cheated on a test."

"Damn." The liquid burns a little bit going down, she's taking it so fast. She grabs a tissue from the counter and wipes daintily at her lips, the lipstick smudging slightly. "Never have I ever gone skinny-dipping."

He curses, and they both down their glasses. "That, at least, deserves a story."

"It's not like it's a big deal. Besides, you're not telling me any of yours, are you?" He rolls his eyes, and sets the glass on the table, topping them up. "I didn't realize story-telling was one of the rules of the game."

She shrugs, shoulders brushing against long blonde hair. "It's not. It just makes the game more interesting."

"Never have I ever broken into the faculty lounge." She's surprised when they both top up their glasses again. "Really, Float? You're more adventurous than I realized."

He rolls his eyes, and gestures for her to take her turn. "Never have I ever discretely 'borrowed' someone else's car."

She's amused by his grimace as he downs the glass. "Oh, Mr. West, you are a man of many talents, aren't you?"

"Never have I ever melted a cast iron pot."

"Now you're just being vindictive."

The bottle is almost finished by the time the kitchen clock reads two in the morning. He'd taken pity on her, closer to the end, and started diluting her glasses with a little bit of water. He might have done it for himself, too, but he wasn't quite ready to stop living in this state of mind. His head rests on the table and he watches her, slumped over her glass as she contemplates her next question. The world is shifting and hazy, and he's only just beginning to think they should really stop playing this game.

"Never have I ever pretended I wasn't in love with someone."

His hand slides over to his drink, pushing it as close as he can before he sits up. His throat is burning and his eyes are almost watery. When he slams his glass back on the table, the surface jumps and the tequila bottle is thrown onto the floor, the shards sharp and the sparse liquid seeping across the tile.

He slouches out of his seat, turning to the kitchen counter for a cloth. Liza is already on the floor, picking up the shards of glass. "Oh." It's more a statement than an actual exclamation of pain, despite the burning sensation he's sure the alcohol is causing. He lifts her finger to his mouth, and kisses the blood away. "I'll get the rest of it."

She doesn't respond, staring instead, the bright colours of her eyes shifting as she traces the outlines of his face. She places a hand gently on his cheek, and turns him towards her. And kisses him.

It's the first time he ever feels like she's kissed him and meant it as a kiss; as something other than a greeting or an apology or a physical thank you. The shards scatter from between his fingers, and the sharp jagged edge of one cuts his palm. Pain and twisted pleasure all at once. He wonders, vaguely, why his hands are at odds with themselves, alternately trying to push her away and drag her closer. His fingers run through her long, golden hair instead, and the feeling is comforting, familiar. Safe.

They don't bother with the tequila on the floor anymore, Wally hoisting her against the counter and Liza sliding him against the wall. They do a strange dance out of the kitchen, fingers fumbling for the light switch and banging against the doorframe. It's a miracle they make it up the stairs, the redhead half-speeding and the blonde turned breathless and disoriented. Their breaths and their sounds are loud in the empty house, drowning in the darkness of his room and suddenly the world stops spinning.

He wakes up in the afternoon, head pounding and the smell of freshly roasted coffee floating down the hall towards him. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, staring at the piles of clothing strewn all over the room, at the desk drawers pulled and discarded in various corners. He can't quite remember why everything is such a mess – what would have possessed him at all to start tearing apart his furniture like that, but he can't focus and his thoughts wander along a meandering path, staggering and going nowhere.

He walks downstairs, the hall cool despite the afternoon heat, and leans against the railing, head poking over the landing to see into the living room. The soft sounds of network television drift towards him, the familiar canned laughter and overly dramatic acting a strangely comforting noise. The stairs creak as he staggers to the kitchen scratching at the edges of his boxer shorts, hands stopped at the bare skin just above his waistband.

"Morning." The word makes him freeze, and he stares cautiously into the kitchen, wary of being caught, hung over, by his rather conservative parents. He's too groggy to realize the voice is too light, and young, to be anyone really capable of getting him into trouble. He pokes a head carefully into the room.

"Glad you could join me, Sleeping Beauty." Her smile is genuine but tired, and she shuffles out with a white mug of what smells like very strong coffee, headed towards the living room. It takes him a moment to realize that she's wearing one of his old Kid Flash memorabilia t-shirts. The one he'd worn to sleep when he'd been younger. It hangs off her, baggy and only barely concealing the pink lace slip of her underwear.

"G'Morning," he mumbles, grabbing the entire pot of coffee and popping some bread in the toaster. He opens an overhead cabinet, rifling through it for some Advil. The alcohol's after-effects will run through him in another hour or so, but he has a feeling that his friend could really use some.

She doesn't look up when he walks in, the coffee pot in one hand and a stack of toast and some Advil in the other. Legs push lazily against the floor, and she shifts over, making room for him on the couch without taking her eyes off the program. Her face is drawn, and she stretches, limbs stiff.

"Take these," he whispers, handing over two small red pills and a piece of toast. She doesn't even glance at them as she pops the medication in her mouth, downing it with a strong wash of coffee. "We've got the burger thing tonight with Harold and Jenny."

She grunts.

He stretches, mind only half awake. "Hey, what happened in my room last night? The place is a mess."

She finally turns to him, eyes half-lidded, and stares incredulously. "Do I look like I know? I just woke up in my underwear and your shirt, and I can barely remember my name. There's no way I'm making it to that thing we have tonight."

He groans, an arm flung over his eyes. "That's what I thought. Damn, I shouldn't have given Harold such a hard time about it last night, he's going to rub it in my face the next time I see him."

"I doubt he's conscious yet," she mutters, and turns her disjointed attention back to the television screen.

He leans forwards, head near his knees. "I need a shower."

"Me too." She groans and lets her head fall to the back of the couch, hair caught beneath her shoulders. "And clean clothes. I could really use some clean clothes. My dress from last night still smells like alcohol and sweaty dancers. I'm going to need to have it dry-cleaned."

He pitches forwards, trying to propel himself into a standing position. Half the coffee has already been drunk. "I'm going to take a shower first, and then I'll root through my stuff and see if I've got anything wearable for you."

She tugs at the hem of her shirt. "Why can't I just wear this? It's cute."

"That is a limited edition first printing of the Kid Flash introduction series shirt. You can wear anything else that is not worth a million points to the valued collector."

"A million points?"

"Well, a million and three hundred thousand, but I'm rounding."

She lifts a hand in a gesture of surrender, even as she lifts the mug to her lips. "Alright, fine. I wouldn't want to interfere with your oddly obsessive super crush."

"I do not have a super crush on Kid Flash, no matter how dashing and handsome he is."

"It's alright, Float, you can admit it. I'm not in any position to judge right now, after all."

He starts to make a retort but she's already lost interest, turning to the plate of toast and digging into the pieces at the top. He makes his way up the stairs instead, bumping once or twice into the railing before stumbling into his small bathroom. The steam from the showerhead helps clear his mind, and he walks more steadily out of it, grabbing a clean pair of boxers from one of the drawers on the ground and trying to maneuver his way towards the closet for a pair of pants or at the very least, a shirt.

"You're not going to find me anything wearable in there."

He turns, startled, to the slight girl leaning against his doorframe. "Could you please stop sneaking up on me? How is it even possible to be so quiet?"

"Loud noises make me want to vomit."

He shuffles over, kicking pieces of clothing out of the way as he goes. "The bathroom's on the right – you can just get started and I'll bring you whatever I can find." She casts an appraising look at the state of his room but doesn't argue.

He waits until he can hear the pipes pumping warm water before he turns to the task at hand. There are shirts thrown on his dresser, and a pair of shiny blue heels beneath his bed. He turns to the closet, rifling through it for a clean, blank shirt and a pair of velocity running shorts. He isn't entirely sure that they'll fit, but she can wear the shirt as a sort of dress if need be (a remnant from one of his XXL 'gangster' phases). He carries them out into the hallway, just able to pick her bra out from the mess of clothing on the floor, and lays them on the banister across the hall.

He's ready to turn back in, to make sense of the rest of his mess, when he hears the shrill sound of the phone, the ring echoing in the house and making him cringe. He runs to the nearest one, desperate to stop the sound, and picks it up without considering who might be on the other end. His words are still slightly slurred and his voice groggy. "Hello?"

"God damn it Wally, are you hung over? I've already called twice today."

"Can you keep your voice down, just a little bit please?"

He can almost hear the exasperation on the other end. "Are you serious? I swear to God, you better listen up because I am not calling you again."

"Look, I don't have anything else for you, okay? Did the Lithuanian tail run cold? Or did you find him?" His voice is biting and impatient.

There's silence for a moment, the static on the line tense. "No," he starts, calmer now. "I didn't find who I was looking for."

He rubs a hand over his face, immediately regretting his initial outburst of frustration. "I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to say it like that. I know it's really important to you."

"I didn't find who I was looking for. But I have some news for you." There's a pause as he clears his throat, and Wally's heart catches up before his brain, kicking into overdrive.

"You found her? Roy, where is she?"

"I'm sorry man," he starts, and his excitement and anticipation nosedive, sinking to the soles of his feet. "She's dead."

He almost laughs. "That's impossible. There's no way they can take her."

The melancholy regret seeps through from wherever the other man is standing, travelling through the phone lines and paralyzing him where he stands. "I saw her, Wally. I could recognize her. It was Artemis."

"But did you say anything? Did you actually talk to her? How did you know it was her?"

His words are solemn and sad. "She wasn't in any position to answer any of my questions." A pause. "Look, are you okay? Do you need me to come over, or. Something?"

The words are awkward and stilted, but Wally can still almost appreciate the effort. "No. Don't worry about it. I just need some time."

"Don't do anything rash, okay? I'm still here if you need me."

He shakes his head, shoulders slumped and hands braced against the table. "Thanks, but you have your own things to deal with. Good luck, okay Roy? And don't do anything stupid."

"More stupid than chasing the Shadows and breaking into their hideouts?"

He almost laughs. "Yeah."

He stands for a moment, breaths shallow, phone clenched in his hands. He puts it down when he hears the plastic begin to crack, and backs away, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The room swims around him, but he can't move. He doesn't even notice the sound of the bathroom door cracking open.

It's not until a muffled Bang! and a curse emanate from his room does he turn, walking towards the sound, the world inside his house suddenly the only real thing he can understand. His attention turns, focused with nearly laser-like precision on the girl slouched on the floor, rubbing a bruise on her leg with one hand, and gathering clothing and garbage with the other. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She scowls at the ground, her belt from last night cinched around his shirt, the hem brushing halfway down her thighs. The shorts lie on his counter. "I was just trying to grab my stuff, and pick up some of the trash. I think I walked into a drawer or something. God, it looks like a tornado hit this place."

He frowns down at the mess. "Yeah. Don't worry too much about cleaning it up, I can handle it."

"But I must have helped! There's no way someone can make such a mess on their own." She holds up a hand as he starts to protest. "Look, at least just let me sort it into . . . into manageable piles or something. Or I will lose it."

"It's not even your room!" He nearly throws his arms up in exasperation, but her eyes are narrowing in a dangerous way, and he backs up a step, mumbling a "Fine. Whatever. Thanks."

She looks infuriatingly pleased with herself.

He drops to his knees, crawling around on the floor and helping her pick up random items. He grabs a drawer and she follows his lead, slotting them into random spots. "God, Wally, you're disgusting! Do you keep garbage in your drawers or something?"

"What? No! What are you talking about?" He turns, glancing, confused, in her direction. A white, plastic bag dangles from her hands.

"You have a garbage can in the corner of your room, and you keep your trash in your desk?" She wrinkles her nose. "I'm taking these out."

It takes him a moment to appreciate what she's holding, and his breaths stagger, coming in short bursts. "No, just leave it. I can get to those."

Her eyes wrinkle in confusion. "What? It's not really a problem, I can just get it for you."

"No, it's fine, I can get it." A hand reaches out, ready to take them from her grasp. "Why are you being so weird about this? I can do it for you!" She tugs back, and he doesn't release the plastic in time, the bag splitting along the bottom seam and sending the contents spilling over the floor, like unexpected treasure.

He averts his eyes. "Could you please leave for a minute?"

She stops, her extraction of the arrow and lightning pendants halted halfway. "Sorry?"

"Could you please just get out for a second?" His words are strangled, wrenched from a slowly closing throat and frustrating him.

"Wally, I'm sorry, I didn't want to make a mess. Look, I'll help you pick it up, okay?" Her hand is inches from a framed silver photograph, lying face down on his carpet, fingers outstretched.

"I think you should leave."

Her breath almost stops in her throat. "What?"

"Look, I'll call you a taxi, okay? Just, get your stuff."

"Are you kicking me out?" Her words are almost incredulous, eyes wide and sweet and hurt. Confusion plays with the edges of her lips. He doesn't respond, sweeping the objects onto the sheet of white plastic, almost reverently, and wrapping them up like a shroud.

He pulls out the drawer on the far left, second from the bottom, filled to bursting with hastily placed boxer shorts and socks, and replaces it with another one, deep and empty. The package in his arms is tucked at the very back. She stands abruptly, wiping discretely at her face, her footsteps almost soundless as she pads out of his room. It takes him a moment to register the sound of the front door closing, softly, behind her.

He's drained and stiff, slumped back against the foot of his bed, eyes closed. He's not being fair, and he knows it, but he needs some time to himself. His clothes have been folded and put away and his room is cleaner than it probably was yesterday, and he's more or less pieced together what's happened last night.

It's strange how much the world can change in a day, in an hour, in a second. He leans back, arms tired, mind slogging through the muddy swamp of his once pristine beliefs. His absolute truths lie somewhere else, dashed against the jagged spires of reality. He'd once thought he knew who he was, had once believed he understood the people he loved. He's drowning now, in an oppressive, intolerable world, where reality has finally managed to suffocate the last hopeful strands of his carefully cultivated existence.

The time passes of its own accord, and he realizes somewhat belatedly that he's missed the appointment with his friends, at the burger joint across town. He wonders whether or not Liza's gone to meet them, her name floating further away, an abstract more than the girl who'd woken him up this morning.

The drawer is still open, and an empty condom wrapper lies, obtrusive and unwelcome, just inches away on the floor.

They don't know what to make of it, anymore. It's obvious enough that there's some sort of a rift – some un-repairable damage done to the foundation of their friendship. Harold and Jenny still come study with him, sometimes, in the library, and join her for her varsity soccer games, but they hardly ever hang out as a group anymore.

The decision is made in the midst of it, his forcefully swallowed reality turning his perspective. He was really only in town because he wasn't quite ready, just yet, to believe that he wouldn't find that flash of gold, whipping just around the corner and enticing him – hoping to engage him in another friendly game of Catch me if you Can. He digs a little bit less, each time Roy calls him up, until he's no longer his long time friend's go-to source for sensitive information. The older redhead isn't angry that he's not longer helpful, exactly, just apologetic about his role in his disillusionment.

Wally sighs, expelling the last of his hope with his breath. All they really wanted was closure, he thinks, and now that he at least has it, he can't stay here anymore.

They'd talked, jokingly, of their future together, of their plans for university and careers outside of the ones they'd volunteered for. When she'd still been open to such courses of action, when she'd still believed it was possible for the two of them to make something of their time together. He's always spoken fondly of Stanford, something he knows rubbed off on her a little bit too. He signs the papers over the course of the last week before break, talks to the Dean of his facility and somehow makes a last minute spot.

The year ends without any fanfare, and he doesn't really say any goodbyes.

"Hey." The words float in, sharp despite the cautious tone, and he shifts immediately, nearly dropping off the edge of the steps.

"Hey."

She hesitates before him, then drops onto the porch step, a noticeable foot between them. The silence is long and awkward, and he fidgets, unsure of what to say. "So. You're transferring."

He can't look at her. "Yeah. I'm uh, going to Stanford this fall."

"Congratulations." The words are stiff and tense, and he flinches. "I'm sorry – I was going to tell you, but I wasn't sure what to say."

"Hey, Liza, I'm transferring to Stanford in the fall. How great is that? Also, I'm sorry for sleeping with you that one night, that was a huge mistake. But at least we won't have to worry about that now!"

Her words are acerbic, and they burn, acid on the heart. His fingers twine together, nails scratching at his calluses. "It wasn't a mistake."

She sighs, the fight flying with her breath. "Everyone's entitled to make mistakes."

He shakes his head, and she watches as the distorted edges of his hair pierce the concrete. "I'm sorry I was yours."

The sky is blue for so early in the morning, and she closes her eyes against the warmth of the sun. "I don't know if I am, just yet." She's silent, for a moment, weighing the variables in her mind. "It's my fault too."

"You don't need to say that. I was wrong for doing –"

"I knew."

Lashes flicker, brushing the skin above his cheeks as he turns to her. She doesn't move, doesn't open her eyes, just wills her breath not to fail her and hopes he doesn't interrupt. It's bizarre, but for some reason, she wants to write a clear outline; detailing just where the fault lies. "I liked you even before we first met, did you know that?" Her hair wisps against her cheek as the breeze catches it, and she shifts slightly, to keep the ends from tangling her words. "You were that one handsome ginger freshman, who was somehow both incredibly confident and still soft-spoken and shy and kind. And you always had this strange look in your eyes, this sort of intense inner emotion that made you seem so . . . so different.

"Anyway, I probably would have let things go at that; just checking you out, out of the corner of my eye as you wandered through campus. But then there was that one day, and – do you remember Rachel? The Sociology and Women's Culture T.A.? It was raining all afternoon sometime in early October, and the ground was wet and muddy and no one was walking across the Quad. Except for Rachel, apparently, because she was late to this meeting or class, with an arm full of papers and a determined stride. It was slippery and wet and the heels, obviously, weren't her best choice, and she slipped in the middle of the field and scattered her papers all over the grass with the rain still coming down.

"I was watching from the windows and I had an umbrella under my arms and I realized that no one was going out to help her. The rain was coming down pretty hard and she was in the middle of the Quad. I was on my way out to give her a hand when I saw you hunched over, out of nowhere, with a bunch of soggy papers in your hands and your knees planted firmly in the mud. You picked up everything.

"I came over anyway, even though you were more or less done, and you were offering to help her bring everything back to her office or wherever it was that it needed to go. And you had the sweetest, kindest, expression on your face. You turned around without ever once seeing me, I think, but that didn't mean I didn't get a pretty good look. Your eyes were the most open I'd ever seen them. It wasn't difficult, after that, to realize that I was being pulled in; like I was standing at the edges of a whirlpool, about to be sucked down.

"And then I met you, really met you, and the first time we ever talked you were hung-over and completely incoherent. You eyes were unfocused and wild, like you were chasing a conversation I couldn't see, and I chalked the majority of it up to your presumably impressive headache and inability to form any real strings of conversation. But I was finally talking to you, and I was so excited, and I decided to take you up on your offer anyway – to be friends, I mean.

"You can't even imagine how happy I was." Her words swirl around his ears, and he drops his head onto his arms, watching her mouth as the sentences tumble out, controlled but unstoppable. "I was finally friends with you after catching glimpses of you and wondering after you, for months. And your eyes were so much more expressive up close.

"That's why it was probably impossible for me not to have known. It wasn't obvious, if you're even worried about that, but I could see that you were always watching in the peripheral of your vision. Not like you were looking for someone, more like you were watching memories play out in the background. Like you were constantly seeing a ghost.

"But then there was that one night, and you were looking at me with that expression, and I was optimistic to the point of being unbelievably, stupidly, deluded, and I thought maybe you were done chasing shadows." Her eyes are still closed but she can barely hear the slight, soft breath of maybe laughter, and she pauses for a moment, gathering her courage and willing her frustration not to break. Not just yet.

"You shouldn't have done it. But I was stupid and selfish and willfully blind and I did it first, I guess." All the air seems to escape with the sentence, and she slumps forwards, suddenly tired, her composure gone. "It wouldn't have killed you to tell me, though."

He shakes his head and his shoulders shudder and it takes her a moment to realize that he's almost laughing. She frowns, ready to stand and leave and admit to herself that even coming over was a huge mistake, when he stills as best he can and turns to her, giving her the deepest, saddest, most genuine smile she thinks she's ever seen. "You're probably the most perfect girl I've ever met."

A blink. "Excuse me?"

"I broke your heart because I was an idiot and a jerk and you came over here just to tell me that you had a hand in it too? You have every right to be furious, to punch me and scream at me and defame me all up and down the internet, and you're coming over here trying to make me feel better." His eyes are shining and clear and she can tell, this time, that he's really seeing her; fully looking at her, his attention secured. Focused.

"You're the most perfect person I've ever met. Compassionate and beautiful and smart and kind."

Her lips lift in a small, heartbreaking smile. "It's not enough though, is it?"

The expression is wiped from his face, and the genuine apology replacing it makes her look away, almost cringing. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs sadly, and turns to the sky again. "It's never enough." The wood of the porch is rough and scratchy against her palms when she presses up, pushing onto her feet and turning towards the road. "I'm not perfect, anyway. I'm certainly not above wishing you would have your heart broken in a million pieces by someone else, too. Not that it would work."

"I'm sorry the only part of me you ever got was some heartless bastard," he says, eyes downcast, tracing the paths of the ants in the cracks. Even ants can't function alone.

"It's not that you don't have a heart." She hasn't turned back, but she hasn't moved forwards, and he watches the way her golden hair flows around her shoulders. "You just haven't managed to put it back together again."

He's standing, too, then, and there's a sudden stillness, descending upon them with such rapidity that it feels as though it's been dropped on them with a terrible, unnameable force. The toes of her sneakers scuff against the sidewalk, and she pushes her hands into the pocket of her hoodie.

"Good luck then, I guess. Make lots of new friends."

He walks over, and she can feel the slight breeze of his breath on her shoulder. "Thanks." She turns, just slightly, and suddenly she's smiling, and he tilts just slightly forwards to brush a kiss against her cheek. She shifts just enough for him to catch the sweet strawberry balm on her lips.

"Make me proud."

A whirl of gold colour floats across his face and she's already walking back down the street, tall and straight-backed, leaving her regrets trailing in a pitiful cloud in her wake. "Hey!" He calls, and the sound echoes in the early morning air, stirring the silence and the quiet and all the remaining feelings left hanging unsaid at their feet. She rotates until he can see her slight profile, soft smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah?"

"You'll be happy." It's his promise, to her, that he wants to leave her with. Something that he'll fulfill with his own strength, if he has to. "And if anyone ever breaks your heart, just let me know. I'll beat them up, I promise."

He's inexplicably proud at the short laugh she releases. "You'll be happy too."

Then she's facing the end of the street again – facing the horizon and the future and another beginning, and he lets her go, her footsteps so silent that he wonders whether or not she's already gone. His hands are pushed into the front pockets of his jeans, and he ambles back up the steps, settling onto the porch and watching the sunrise, the morning air disturbing his already messy hair.

This summer is unseasonably cool.

X.

X.

X.

The steady beeping kept pace with her breaths – she used it as a marker, of sorts, forcing herself to breathe. She hadn't expected it, obviously none of them had, and the fact that she was sitting in this chair, again, and waiting for the first sign of cognizance, pressed her solidly into the seat with a guilt and anguish that she knew she wouldn't be able to handle feeling ever again.

The light in the bay had been turned off ages ago; hours or minutes she isn't sure. But she doesn't like the yellowness of it, the way it makes his skin turn sickly and gaunt and causes her heart to jump into her throat as she's forced to remember, all over again, what a human corpse looks like.

She's startled when the hand in hers suddenly squeezes her, and her eyes snap, quick, to his face. His lids are closed, the lashes almost obscured by the heavy white bandages, and she shakes her head, afraid that she's going to go insane.

". . . forever."

She nearly jumps, the sound is so unexpected, echoing in the empty medical bay and bouncing along the inside of her skull. She shifts forwards, face leaning towards his. A whispered word drifts, soft and hesitant. "What?"

"It doesn't matter what happens." The sentence is broken, interspersed with heavy, laboured breathing and a slight cough. She squeezes his hand, watching his mouth to be sure she isn't imagining it. His lips part only slightly, expelling a slightly antiseptic smell. "You can't get rid of me."

A cool finger alights on his cheek, trying to feel for the possibility of fever. "Artemis."

She pauses, pressing her hand gently against the curve of his jaw. "Wally."

"I love you, you know." Her breath hitches, throat closing as she forces her fingers not to clench. "You'll be stuck with me forever."

Her words are soft and soothing, like a spoken lullaby. "Forever, huh?"

"Until the end of time."

She smiles, her eyes suddenly drawn and sad, and she wills herself not to cry on his freshly wrapped bandages. Forever is never as long as people tend to make it out to be. His breathing is already slowing, the result of an automatic morphine spike for erratic heartbeats, and she can feel him slip back into unconsciousness. They won't be able to make it to forever.

She bends over him, her lips brushing against the tip of his ear. "Keep up as long as you can, Wally."