Disclaimer: It's on my Christmas list.

Contemplation

He needed a drink.

As an assassin, and a damn good one at that, he rarely hit the bottle. Years had been dedicated to perfecting himself, and it wouldn't be undone by alcohol.

Now, though, his feet obtained minds of their own and were leading him to a bar in the Narrows of Gotham. Run by a former kingpin, it was the only joint where current criminals could quench their thirst or silence their demons without fear of getting the cops called. Normally, there would be some excitement in that possibility, bloodlust and adrenaline rush, but with the headache splintering his skull, he was in no mood or position to fight.

Artemis damn near died that day.

It was supposed to be another training assignment. Just her and her bow and the targets, with the resources she needed in hidden, but completely accessible, locations. Wakening her at five in the morning, he released her in the woods, returning that night at nine to judge her. Every single target was hit in the beginning, but it started waning, getting sloppy, and he was ready to chew her out for it when he found her passed out on the ground. And he knew she'd passed out, hadn't fallen asleep, because she was in the middle of a clearing, no shelter or anything, and she was too well-disciplined for that kind of mistake.

Shaking her roughly, practically screaming, he demanded what happened, what the Hell could have happened, but her only response was, "Thirsty."

"Thirsty?" he had snarled, nails digging into her skin. "There were canteens everywhere for you! You would have had to been blind to miss them!"

And she just met his eyes, storm clouds flashing with lightning, and responded, "I thought you might have poisoned them. As part of the test."

To hear that from his nine-year-old daughter, his precious baby girl…

"Scotch and soda," he demanded, dropping onto the stool.

The bartender shot him a look. "Haven't seen you in a while. When was the last time? Day Paula—"

"Just get me my fricking drink, will you?"

Scowling, he complied, slamming the glass in front of Lawrence. The force sent droplets flying onto his hand, but he was too out of it to even start a fight.

People died because of him. So much blood had been shed that he could damn near drown in it. Bodies of husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, rotten in the earth, unidentifiable corpses, were all his handiwork. Each dollar bill he earned was tainted with death. He was Sportsmaster, a title carried with pride.

There was another title he had, though, one that, deep down, he cherished even more: Dad. Despite all his flaws, he did love his children, even the one who was now nothing more than a shadow in the night, and his harsh training methods were only to assure that they were safe, that they would never suffer backlash for their parents' mistakes. Sure, he wanted them to carry on the family legacy, but their lives were far more important than his reputation.

He knew that. To him, it was obvious. To Artemis, so young and innocent and good, he must have been a monster. And really, how else was she supposed to see him, the man who demanded perfection when she practiced, the one who yelled too often and stayed home too little, the one who would, on occasion, lose his temper and slap her?

Gulping down the contents of his glass, he tapped it twice on the counter, an indication for a refill. As the bartender topped it off, Lawrence noticed, from the corner of his eye, someone else entering. Convinced he had seen wrong, he turned his head. Joar Mahkent looked his way, offered a small nod, and sat beside him.

"Long time no see," the blonde mused, accepting a second round. "What are you doing in my neck of the woods? Working with Freeze?"

"Him and the other ice villains." Speaking to the bartender, he grumbled, "Single shot straight vodka."

Raising an eyebrow, Lawrence questioned, "Bad night?"

"Tell me what brought you here, I'll tell you why I'm here."

Leaning back slightly, he explained quietly, "Artemis was training today. Target practice, survival, the usual. She got dehydrated and passed out because she thought the water I provided was poisoned." Absentmindedly, he played with the Scotch and soda, spinning it around on the table. "That's what my daughter thinks of me: I'd be willing to poison her for the sake of a damn exercise."

The older man watched him thoughtfully before countering, "I broke Cameron's wrist."

The liquid burned in his throat. Having worked with Joar on a handful of occasion, he knew how he punished his son. Hell, he watched him beat the kid for a solid ten minutes once. Still, there was a difference between bruises and a broken bone, infinitesimal difference though it was. "What happened?"

"He gave away our presence by tripping over his own fricking feet. The whole thing was a wash." Voice losing all anger, he continued, "I was pissed, started whaling on him when we got back to the hideout. I don't normally hit him because I'm mad but because he has to learn that screw-ups aren't acceptable, but…this time, I wanted to hurt him, you know? And he was just taking it, but he raised his hand a little, like a reflex, and I just grabbed it and squeezed…" Downing his drink, he muttered, "There was this God-awful crack."

"Christ," Lawrence muttered. He couldn't hold it against Joar for beating Cameron—he sure as Hell wasn't in a position to judge, and in their line of work, only the toughest got to live—but it was painful to imagine that scrawny, meek kid getting injured like that.
"You want to know the worst part? He kept saying he was sorry, like it was all his fault I snapped his wrist like a frigging twig."

"What are you going to do?"

"Cold's taking him to a clinic. Being a Rogue, he's got the best chance of being accepted without having the police on his ass. Besides, they won't turn away a child." Even as he said this, he glanced toward his companion, as though seeking confirmation.

"They won't."

Motioning for the bartender to get him another shot, Joar muttered, "I don't understand how he doesn't hate me."

Thinking it over, Lawrence responded, "You're all he has. He needs you."

He laughed, an empty sound. "God, he must've done something real fricking terrible in a past life to get me as a dad." He was silent for a moment. "Sometimes I wish he hated me."

It might have been a surprising statement for anyone else, but Lawrence understood. The unconditional, unwavering love kids had for their parents…that was difficult to take when affection was dangerous and compassion was weakness. If it was gone, there would be a detachedness, a separation, and training and punishments would be easier to dish out.

Jade had hated him. There was so much of her mother in her, that spirit and fire and independence, and she wouldn't take him bossing her around, not after letting Paula get sent to prison in his place. Artemis was different. More naïve than her sister, she believed in happy endings and whole families, and as her world was cracking and crumbling around her, she clung to him, obeyed all his commands without a word and didn't question anything he did. If she was only a little more like her sister, it wouldn't hurt so much to be doing this to her.

There had been a moment, when she looked at him, that he saw that glare his eldest would send his way. And it killed him at the same time it lightened him because maybe, just maybe, she was realizing that he wasn't someone who deserved her love. Then they went home and she offered to help with dinner and washed all the dishes and asked, with the tiniest amount of hurt in her voice, where he was going. And he'd bet that she was on the couch, waiting for him to walk through that door.

He hoped she wasn't. He hoped she was.

He ordered straight scotch.

"Do you ever apologize?" he asked his companion, busy downing the vodka and holding it out for more.

"Nope."

"Neither do I. I try to make it up to her—let her get the next day off, make something she likes for breakfast—but I never say I'm sorry."

"I tend to his wounds. Tell him he'll get better. Sit with him till he falls asleep. Never fricking indicate that I regret what I did."

"We probably should."

"We won't."

Raising his glass, he proposed, "A toast. To being the worst dads in history."

"Cheers."

Tossing back their drinks, the two threw money onto the table and stood. "You staying in Gotham long?"

"Probably three days before we head back."

"Come by tomorrow. Artemis would want to see him."

With that same humorless laugh, he mumbled, "She'll get to sign his cast."

"He'll get to hear about her exercise from Hell."

With nothing left to say, they parted, walking in opposite directions. Upon returning home, Lawrence spotted his daughter on the couch, fast asleep. Gently, he slipped his arms underneath her and carried her to her room.

Twitching in his grasp, her eyes snapped open but, realizing who it was, she relaxed slightly. "You're home."

"'Course I am."

"You were gone a long time."

"I know. I met up with someone. Guess who's coming tomorrow."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who?"

"Cameron."

"Cam!" The smile wavered. "A mission?"

"No, not a mission." Placing her on the bed, he promised, "Just a visit."

"Okay." She slipped under the covers. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I didn't do good in training."

There was a stabbing kind of pain in his chest. "Nonsense, Baby Girl," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "You did just fine. Good night."

"Night, Dad."

Entering the hallway, he let out a small sigh and placed his back to the wall. Sliding down, he stared into the darkness and whispered, "I'm sorry."

He liked to think she heard it.