YJ Fic | i missed you today
TITLE: i missed you today
CHARACTERS: Primarily Wally-centric with numerous cameos
WORDS: ~1800
SUMMARY: He really wants people to stop touching him. Everyone’s hands are on him, patting his back, squeezing his shoulder, and just pressing into him. He wants none of it though. He doesn’t like the way it feels, or how it’s not her hands. It’s all empty.
NOTES: I got multiple requests to write depressing, post-funeral feels. I don’t think I did it justice, but I tried.
He’s not exactly sure when green hands had found his free one, though he’s not really focused enough to recall. Any sense of here and now is probably still at Palo Alto, in their apartment that isn’t really theirs anymore. He’s zoned out, only tuned into the sounds of a faint pulse that is ebbing against skin from the inside of his own wrist that he’s resting upon. He’s alive. He’s reminded of it with each dreadful pulse, and dull ping and hushed cry of the audience he’s seated with.
His feelings are a bit non-existent, but his movements are always immeasurable, leg jittering and humming at an uncomfortable speed. And it’s not helping that he’s wired, muscles tight and running on the remains of caffeine circulating through his system because sleep was a luxury these days. He likes the movement though. He likes it way too much, and he’ll just keep doing it to help keep his mind elsewhere. Far, far away. Just please be empty. No more feelings.
Subconsciously his thumb is padding along the soft contours of M’gann’s damp knuckles. They’ll be damp for a while if they keep passing over bloodshot eyes, a constant motion of fingers collecting tears diligently for her. The lump in his throat finally goes down and meets his barren stomach as his thumb slowly rolls over her middle knuckle and she’s already buckling over in agony. The hold on her hand gets tighter.
He feels like an ass.
And what can he say? He’s not sure if he can offer pretty words or anything of meaning when he’s too busy trying to hold back the bile that’s collecting at the back of his throat. He never liked lying like this. This type of lie had consequences.
He’s clumsy in every motion that isn’t solely for him, and he tries desperately to smooth over her rumpled blouse, but hairy fingers are already there and he’s accidently bumping into them, and that’s when it hits him. He’s really alone. Garfield is ready to take his place, and he’s silent, but holding her in a way that she really needs. And he’s alone.
He wants to scream. But how do you scream when there’s nothing left?
-
He really wants people to stop touching him. Everyone’s hands are on him, patting his back, squeezing his shoulder, and just pressing into him. He wants none of it though. He doesn’t like the way it feels, or how it’s not her hands. It’s all empty.
Their hands don’t offer anything even though their voices say it. They can’t take her place. They can’t pinch that spot between his shoulder blades that she knows will make his muscles a little less achy after a rough work out. They can’t show him that she’s here or anywhere. They offer nothing.
It wasn’t enough getting reports that she was somewhere out there, but okay by someone else’s account. He had to see her, and feel her, and it’s impossible. Going by word was never enough.
The sound of a choked sob breaks through him suddenly, and he’s surprised by the way it trickled out and set his lungs shaking in the worst possible way. He didn’t think it was there, and he didn’t practice this. He never practiced not having her.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m really okay. Just…” his words fall short against the crisp jacket that covers his mother’s shoulders because she’s pulling on him so tightly like he’s this strong pillar that won’t budge. But he’s bending into her, she’s shorter than him now, but he really needs this. He really needs to drop his head here and let her embrace him because this is as close to home as he’ll get.
“Wally, I know.”
He takes a deep breath, and his senses are assaulted by memories of family dinners and the first time she was over, and how easily she fit in. She fit in everywhere. He’s breathing it in again, and letting it settle within him. So close.
“You don’t.” And it’s hushed and so private that he’s not upset over the fact that she doesn’t give him words to console him. He didn’t want them anyway.
-
“I think it’s kind of amusing how we always end up back in this very spot. Should I cut to the chase and say I’m swell so I can be on my merry little way?”
The words might as well have never been said because the drawn out look that she’s giving him is really piercing this time. It’s different. The air is different, filled with static and he can feel his jaw automatically setting in place to let her speak.
“Are you swell?”
These are the most honest words he’s heard all week, and he has to take a moment before he decides to relax and press his back into the cushions of the chair he was preoccupying. He’s really not ready to answer that question yet, so he deflects with a question of his own.
“How do you think I am?” His apple green eyes are borrowing into her pristine irises for answers.
She ignores his question, and gears the conversation back to him giving the answers. She was always very good at that, and he can feel himself sinking further.
“Wally,” she says with as little attachment as she can muster, but she knows she’s heavily wounded by this loss as well, and he can see it with how her fist clenches suddenly and releases, “Artemis has been gone for a wee-“
And he’s instantly standing, running a frustrated hand through unkempt red hair before he’s pressing his palms into his eye sockets and trying desperately to blot out any semblance of light or her or this stupid room. All he does is blur his vision for a brief moment, and it’s coming back into focus. She’s still there. Sitting with a different expression on her face, and he’s sure that you’re not supposed to have that look on your face when you’re trying to dig into someone’s psyche. There were things he had picked up on with each and every long and drawn out session between them both. He never thought anything good came of them. They all ended the same, and he would always be guarded. Guarded was safe and no one got hurt. But the words are on his lips before he can even stop himself.
“She’s like family to me.” And it’s not even in the past tense because he forgets and maybe that makes it hurt a little bit more, but he figures that it’s at least an improvement that he’s feeling anything at all now.
“Me too.”
He takes a seat. He’s ready to talk.
-
“Hello, Wally.” She’s doing her best to smile. He appreciates it and does her the favor by getting behind her and pushing.
“Hey, Mrs. Crock,” he says through his teeth.
He hates this part, and hopes that Artemis will be home soon because he never imagined doing this at such a young age. It makes the appeal of retiring more alluring. You didn’t really have to worry about seeing your loved one’s name etched in cold marble at such a young age. At least, he imagines it is cold. It’s making him shiver without even touching it, and definitely not in the good way that he remembers her being able to do so well in the comforts of their room. He’s swallowing hard as he comes to a stop, and grabs the tea cup and saucer resting in Paula’s hands to rest in front of the all too familiar grave marker. She begins recounting her day, and her voice is so calm and steady as she tells Artemis how she accidently made extra soup that afternoon and that now it will be leftovers for the entire week. And when she starts laughing, and there are tears in her eyes as she’s gripping the armrest of her wheelchair, Wally wonders if she’ll ever forgive him for this. There’s just no way.
“Wally’s here too. He doesn’t exactly like me coming here by myself. You really picked a keeper. I am and will always be so proud of you.”
She’s looking at him, almost urging with her eyes for him to offer anything to the moment. Anything that might ease the pain of the absence. She really just wants to feel less alone.
“Don’t worry, Artemis. I’ll help her eat the soup.”
The teacup starts shaking in her hand.
-
He really hates getting up now. The lack of her in his arms makes his heart ache, and the cushions on the couch kind of make his left side sore.
Sometimes he kicks the dog in the face by accident, but he always remembers to apologize now. Their relationship was never all that great to begin with, but it’s improving. He’s honestly impressed with the fact that she hasn’t given up yet. She’s still searching for traces of her existence in clothing that still smells like her, and has claimed her old hoodie as her personal blanket. He doesn’t blame her though. He misses her scent too.
That hoodie was Artemis’ favorite. She’ll be pissed at him for letting the dog do this to it when she gets home, but he’s hanging on to that thought because he just really wants her to be home already regardless of how she’s feeling about him.
-
“Hey, if you aren’t going to finish that, can I have it?”
His uncle hands his burger over without a second thought. Wally’s been hungry, and he’ll eat anything from anyone if presented the opportunity.
“It’s good to see that some things never change.”
He’s chewing his food before replying. Artemis always hounded him about talking with his mouth full. He should at least be polite.
He swallows before saying, “I’ve changed.”
-
This is hell. Every day is a living nightmare and he’s counting the days even though he can’t keep up with them on his hands anymore.
Just come back already.
There are no more cares about how people will feel when she gets back. They can figure it out eventually. At least together. Together is such a nice word, and he likes how that word is humming in his head and making him feel like she’s almost here.
He honestly just wants it all to stop. The feelings, and the hurt, and the weight of it all bearing so uncomfortably on his shoulders.
“Just make it stop.”
CHARACTERS: Primarily Wally-centric with numerous cameos
WORDS: ~1800
SUMMARY: He really wants people to stop touching him. Everyone’s hands are on him, patting his back, squeezing his shoulder, and just pressing into him. He wants none of it though. He doesn’t like the way it feels, or how it’s not her hands. It’s all empty.
NOTES: I got multiple requests to write depressing, post-funeral feels. I don’t think I did it justice, but I tried.
He’s not exactly sure when green hands had found his free one, though he’s not really focused enough to recall. Any sense of here and now is probably still at Palo Alto, in their apartment that isn’t really theirs anymore. He’s zoned out, only tuned into the sounds of a faint pulse that is ebbing against skin from the inside of his own wrist that he’s resting upon. He’s alive. He’s reminded of it with each dreadful pulse, and dull ping and hushed cry of the audience he’s seated with.
His feelings are a bit non-existent, but his movements are always immeasurable, leg jittering and humming at an uncomfortable speed. And it’s not helping that he’s wired, muscles tight and running on the remains of caffeine circulating through his system because sleep was a luxury these days. He likes the movement though. He likes it way too much, and he’ll just keep doing it to help keep his mind elsewhere. Far, far away. Just please be empty. No more feelings.
Subconsciously his thumb is padding along the soft contours of M’gann’s damp knuckles. They’ll be damp for a while if they keep passing over bloodshot eyes, a constant motion of fingers collecting tears diligently for her. The lump in his throat finally goes down and meets his barren stomach as his thumb slowly rolls over her middle knuckle and she’s already buckling over in agony. The hold on her hand gets tighter.
He feels like an ass.
And what can he say? He’s not sure if he can offer pretty words or anything of meaning when he’s too busy trying to hold back the bile that’s collecting at the back of his throat. He never liked lying like this. This type of lie had consequences.
He’s clumsy in every motion that isn’t solely for him, and he tries desperately to smooth over her rumpled blouse, but hairy fingers are already there and he’s accidently bumping into them, and that’s when it hits him. He’s really alone. Garfield is ready to take his place, and he’s silent, but holding her in a way that she really needs. And he’s alone.
He wants to scream. But how do you scream when there’s nothing left?
-
He really wants people to stop touching him. Everyone’s hands are on him, patting his back, squeezing his shoulder, and just pressing into him. He wants none of it though. He doesn’t like the way it feels, or how it’s not her hands. It’s all empty.
Their hands don’t offer anything even though their voices say it. They can’t take her place. They can’t pinch that spot between his shoulder blades that she knows will make his muscles a little less achy after a rough work out. They can’t show him that she’s here or anywhere. They offer nothing.
It wasn’t enough getting reports that she was somewhere out there, but okay by someone else’s account. He had to see her, and feel her, and it’s impossible. Going by word was never enough.
The sound of a choked sob breaks through him suddenly, and he’s surprised by the way it trickled out and set his lungs shaking in the worst possible way. He didn’t think it was there, and he didn’t practice this. He never practiced not having her.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m really okay. Just…” his words fall short against the crisp jacket that covers his mother’s shoulders because she’s pulling on him so tightly like he’s this strong pillar that won’t budge. But he’s bending into her, she’s shorter than him now, but he really needs this. He really needs to drop his head here and let her embrace him because this is as close to home as he’ll get.
“Wally, I know.”
He takes a deep breath, and his senses are assaulted by memories of family dinners and the first time she was over, and how easily she fit in. She fit in everywhere. He’s breathing it in again, and letting it settle within him. So close.
“You don’t.” And it’s hushed and so private that he’s not upset over the fact that she doesn’t give him words to console him. He didn’t want them anyway.
-
“I think it’s kind of amusing how we always end up back in this very spot. Should I cut to the chase and say I’m swell so I can be on my merry little way?”
The words might as well have never been said because the drawn out look that she’s giving him is really piercing this time. It’s different. The air is different, filled with static and he can feel his jaw automatically setting in place to let her speak.
“Are you swell?”
These are the most honest words he’s heard all week, and he has to take a moment before he decides to relax and press his back into the cushions of the chair he was preoccupying. He’s really not ready to answer that question yet, so he deflects with a question of his own.
“How do you think I am?” His apple green eyes are borrowing into her pristine irises for answers.
She ignores his question, and gears the conversation back to him giving the answers. She was always very good at that, and he can feel himself sinking further.
“Wally,” she says with as little attachment as she can muster, but she knows she’s heavily wounded by this loss as well, and he can see it with how her fist clenches suddenly and releases, “Artemis has been gone for a wee-“
And he’s instantly standing, running a frustrated hand through unkempt red hair before he’s pressing his palms into his eye sockets and trying desperately to blot out any semblance of light or her or this stupid room. All he does is blur his vision for a brief moment, and it’s coming back into focus. She’s still there. Sitting with a different expression on her face, and he’s sure that you’re not supposed to have that look on your face when you’re trying to dig into someone’s psyche. There were things he had picked up on with each and every long and drawn out session between them both. He never thought anything good came of them. They all ended the same, and he would always be guarded. Guarded was safe and no one got hurt. But the words are on his lips before he can even stop himself.
“She’s like family to me.” And it’s not even in the past tense because he forgets and maybe that makes it hurt a little bit more, but he figures that it’s at least an improvement that he’s feeling anything at all now.
“Me too.”
He takes a seat. He’s ready to talk.
-
“Hello, Wally.” She’s doing her best to smile. He appreciates it and does her the favor by getting behind her and pushing.
“Hey, Mrs. Crock,” he says through his teeth.
He hates this part, and hopes that Artemis will be home soon because he never imagined doing this at such a young age. It makes the appeal of retiring more alluring. You didn’t really have to worry about seeing your loved one’s name etched in cold marble at such a young age. At least, he imagines it is cold. It’s making him shiver without even touching it, and definitely not in the good way that he remembers her being able to do so well in the comforts of their room. He’s swallowing hard as he comes to a stop, and grabs the tea cup and saucer resting in Paula’s hands to rest in front of the all too familiar grave marker. She begins recounting her day, and her voice is so calm and steady as she tells Artemis how she accidently made extra soup that afternoon and that now it will be leftovers for the entire week. And when she starts laughing, and there are tears in her eyes as she’s gripping the armrest of her wheelchair, Wally wonders if she’ll ever forgive him for this. There’s just no way.
“Wally’s here too. He doesn’t exactly like me coming here by myself. You really picked a keeper. I am and will always be so proud of you.”
She’s looking at him, almost urging with her eyes for him to offer anything to the moment. Anything that might ease the pain of the absence. She really just wants to feel less alone.
“Don’t worry, Artemis. I’ll help her eat the soup.”
The teacup starts shaking in her hand.
-
He really hates getting up now. The lack of her in his arms makes his heart ache, and the cushions on the couch kind of make his left side sore.
Sometimes he kicks the dog in the face by accident, but he always remembers to apologize now. Their relationship was never all that great to begin with, but it’s improving. He’s honestly impressed with the fact that she hasn’t given up yet. She’s still searching for traces of her existence in clothing that still smells like her, and has claimed her old hoodie as her personal blanket. He doesn’t blame her though. He misses her scent too.
That hoodie was Artemis’ favorite. She’ll be pissed at him for letting the dog do this to it when she gets home, but he’s hanging on to that thought because he just really wants her to be home already regardless of how she’s feeling about him.
-
“Hey, if you aren’t going to finish that, can I have it?”
His uncle hands his burger over without a second thought. Wally’s been hungry, and he’ll eat anything from anyone if presented the opportunity.
“It’s good to see that some things never change.”
He’s chewing his food before replying. Artemis always hounded him about talking with his mouth full. He should at least be polite.
He swallows before saying, “I’ve changed.”
-
This is hell. Every day is a living nightmare and he’s counting the days even though he can’t keep up with them on his hands anymore.
Just come back already.
There are no more cares about how people will feel when she gets back. They can figure it out eventually. At least together. Together is such a nice word, and he likes how that word is humming in his head and making him feel like she’s almost here.
He honestly just wants it all to stop. The feelings, and the hurt, and the weight of it all bearing so uncomfortably on his shoulders.
“Just make it stop.”