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He finds her in a church in Italy on Christmas Eve. St. Peter's Cathedral, Vatican City, actually; she's sitting in the very back bench-thing (he thinks they're called pews?) in a very unholy slouching position. Dressed in all black, her golden hair and semi-Asian features are drastically different from the Italians' dark hair and eyes. Her eyes are flickering from statue to person to painting, but it's more out of forced interest and habit rather than actual wariness. Quietly, not to disturb the people listening to the priest speaking, he walks up behind her, and as soon as he gets within twenty feet, her posture stiffens, then relaxes as if in defeat.

A delicate sigh is all the sound of resignation she allows and, without looking, she scoots over slightly to allow her friend to sit beside her. For a few moments he takes heed of their surroundings: the massive ceilings, ornate carvings, lush colors, zealous voices that define the most extravagant church in the world. Beside him, she stares straight ahead, chin slightly tucked into her pea coat as if in shame.

"Why are you here?" she asks in a whisper.

Green eyes examine her peripherally. "You didn't think we'd find you?"

She fidgets. "I didn't know you were looking."

Now he turns to face her, expression confused. "Why wouldn't we?"

"I…" white teeth flash as she bites her lip, "You—I—we didn't part…on good terms."

"You called me an asshole and I called you a bitch, if I remember correctly," he says dryly.

Sultry lips twist into a wry smirk. "We're in a church; you can't say those words."

"I'm Atheist; I can say whatever I want," he smirks right back, but it fades. "You really didn't think we—I would look for you?"

A pause, and it's a moment before her grey eyes find his. "No," she murmurs. "I guess I didn't."

He smiles with a hint of bitterness. "I know it's probably too late, but I'm sorry." Now it's his gaze that drops hers and it's her whose eyes harden. "For not understanding and not listening and…"

"For not trusting me?" she finishes quietly.

Wally looks at her, really looks at her, and sees that beneath the hardened exterior of a woman whose life has been broken too many times, Artemis is still that girl who is sassy and snarky and spiteful and loving and kind and desperately wants to be loved. "Yeah," he nods, "For that too."

"Forgiven." She smiles, and it's fleeting, but true. "You aren't entirely blameless, so I guess I'm sorry for taking off without saying anything." At his raised eyebrows, she amends, "Well, anything nice."

He chuckles. "So, how've you been? You know," he gestures incoherently, "aside from…"

"My mother getting killed and all that came with it?" she asks bluntly, shrugging. "Fine. I've been traveling a lot. Italy's not the first place I've been to." A slim finger taps her chin thoughtfully. "Brazil was fun. Japan was exciting. Paris was..." grey eyes meet his. "Lonely."

He holds her gaze and says firmly, "Well, I'm here now."

"But why?" she asks, eyebrows furrowing. "Why come after me, especially after—"

"After me accusing your sister of matricide?" he says, just as bluntly, and mirrors her earlier shrug. "Because we miss you, Artemis. Robin has no one to mock me with, Kaldur's going crazy being the only responsible one around, Connor has no one to talk tactics with, and M'gann has no one to be girly around." At her grimace, he grins. "That's a compliment."

She hmphs, but the roll of her eyes and soft smile say she's not annoyed. "You know, I used to go for months without talking to anyone and I'd be fine, but I've been gone for, what, five months?" He nods, but she doesn't look at him, instead studying the ceiling. "And I—it's hard going on every day by myself, and…I don't know why." She looks at him, and his heart breaks at the hopelessness in her features.

"Artemis," he says quietly, and calluses scrape on her delicate skin as he threads his fingers through hers, and he reminds her, "I'm here now."

Half-lidded eyes flicker, and her fingers barely tighten against his. "I know." Cautiously he wraps an arm around her shoulders; she doesn't tuck her head into his neck like she used to, but does shift enough that her curves fit perfectly into his.

Chapped lips press onto her forehead and her eyes close in contentment. " And There's no place I'd rather be than here," he assures her in a whisper.

And there, in a church in Italy on Christmas Eve, Artemis finds peace.

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