He can never quite muster the courage to think about all of her at once.
He sees her close to every day now, of course, but he can avoid it enough if he concentrates on carefully measured fragments of her instead. She moves through the air like she is sweeping it aside to make room for her own edges, bold as they are - all chunky equipment and sharp angles, but for the curve of her cheek and the bow in her lips. Somehow there is little aggression in all of her purposeful force, just a warm confidence that (for once) he doesn't have a word for - except maybe Holly.
This is all, of course, very abstract. It is more dangerous to think about the specifics, like the colour of her eyes or hair, the sound of her voice or the things that make her laugh. But he often lets his mind stray there anyway, as long as he doesn't think about it for too long. There is the curl at the edge of her mouth when she is trying not to smile at one of his jokes - not because it is particularly funny, but because he is trying his best and she knows it. When she does laugh, it sounds like she has enough joy in her to last for centuries, (which, in fact, is probably quite true). It is not always for him that she laughs, but he has long admired the enormous capacity for love that is inside her; love that she holds for her friends, her family.
Then there is the soldier in her who always subtly checks the corners and blind spots when she is entering a room, which is funny because he is so used to the same thing from Butler. Artemis is aware that he is a constant source of anxiety for near everyone - no, actually everyone - who is a part of his life, but it manifests itself in those two quite differently (his mother, meanwhile, plucks at his collar and fusses and leaves apples in strategic places around his room, or else friendly little post-it notes aboutcould he please do his laundry himself, he's a grown boy now . He has to smile at that, despite it being more than a little irritating). Since his illness, however, he has noticed that Holly's habit of resting her hand on her gun holster has developed into a kind of obsessive tick. It seems as though any sound above a certain number of decibels, or just the plain sight of an unfamiliar face, makes her hand twitch into place quite violently. Neither of them mention it, although it is quite clear that Artemis has noticed. He worries about it. While she may have his back just as much as Butler does, she could never quite muster the same stoic strength as his bodyguard. Perhaps the two are not that similar after all, despite their silent shared agreement to protect Artemis.
The hardest but also best thing to think about is her touch - or rather, the lack of it. They are far more comfortable with each other now than ever before, and he frequently finds himself reveling in the comforting weight of Holly leaning against him or resting her hand on his upper arm or shoulder. But growing used to this contact has made him more hyper-aware of the moments when she is not touching him, so it is in fact the space between them that he dwells on the most. It is far from empty; in fact, it is full of charge. Somehow that in itself feels like a different version of her arms around him.
Artemis never thinks about all of these things at once. He saves different fragments for separate occasions, and always for when he is alone. He knows it is impossible, but he still feels that the others can somehow hear his thoughts otherwise.
It's all incredibly futile, really, he knows that. Holly burns far too brightly. There is no part of her which is subdued enough to really make him feel safe to think of. He keeps trying, because he thinks he's learnt a little something about perseverance from her, although perhaps this is less to do with courage and striving on and more to do with his own stubborn refusal to lose, and that's something he has always had.
Artemis reflects that, in his entire life, he has never been so unsure of his own thought process before.
All she has to say isArty, anyway, before it all falls out of his head.