Author's Note: I am so sorry. I actually had most of this written, but I went back to edit more than half of it, and I ended up re-writing so much, and actually I was SO BUSY because Prom and Graduation and trying really hard not to slack off and fail the remainder of my tests. So yeah, there was that.

Also I lied. This is apparently going to be longer than I thought. *Sighs. Why can't I just write oneshots like normal people?


The static is crackling and ominous. The television is jumping around, showing barely three seconds at a time (at best) of whatever program it is that he's watching, and the noise pops and fizzles in the silence of the dark, empty room. Shadow figures are hunched in corners, spread in cracks and over the worn leather sofa, only blinking out of existence during the brief respites when the television flares back into sudden, short-lived life.

He sighs, long and tortured, and stretches along the length of the worn red leather. He picks at the stain on the armrest and decides that his parents were right – this is possibly the world's ugliest couch. He'd been young when they'd picked it out, and he'd been sulking and moaning and making a general nuisance of himself while they'd traipsed around the furniture store. It had been his birthday – he can't remember which anymore, maybe sixth or seventh, somewhere in that age bracket – and he'd agonized over the terrible unfairness of the expedition. So when he'd seen the bright red couch, with the yellow piping, he'd stomped right over to it and refused to move.

It wasn't just that it had been there, and he had been tired. He'd been watching the news recently, and he'd seen the Flash, a dashing crimson figure that embodied all the adventure and marvel of the world in his adolescent mind, and the couch had been made with a very similar colour scheme.

After a scene with a sales associate and the store manager, his parents had finally relented and purchased the couch. He remembers the feeling of brash, young victory, even as his mother had leaned over the back of her seat on the way home, and told him, "Son, I hope you know that we now own the world's ugliest couch."

He kicks his foot, listless, and turns away from the snowy grey screen. He can see this any day over at the cave, thank you very much. He stretches, and grips the ends of the armrest in vexation. Another birthday spent on the world's ugliest couch. His parent's aren't even home tonight – they'd been away visiting his mother's cousin or some other such person, and they'd intended to return this morning. The snow storm had shut everything down for the day – all transportation, communication, hell, even most stores had elected not to open. And the damn zeta tubes are down.

He blows a ruffled red hair out of his face, and rises creakily off the couch, turning the television off as he passes by. He needs something to eat.

The hallways are empty and cold, but he can't be bothered to turn up the heat. The thermostat sits high on the wall, thick with dust, and he brushes by it. One of the perks of being a speedster (and there are many) – his body temperature is always satisfyingly toasty, no matter how cold it gets. (Of course, when the weather gets hotter, it's slightly less enjoyable, but he's been working on a way to remedy that. Mainly with ice cream).

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is dark. He can't even be bothered to turn on the lights – the mood he's in. He jerks the freezer open, grabbing the tub of chocolate brownie avalanche, and sits at the homey wooden table, covered in the scuff-marks and graffiti of regular use. He grabs a spoon from the cabinet and digs in, eating away at the feeling of lonely self-pity and boredom.

It's fair to say he's disappointed. Wally West birthday parties are usually grand affairs: with presents, and food, and games, and outstanding cuisine, and good company, and delectable victuals. So far today he's woken to an empty house, cold sheets, and no birthday cakes or birthday breakfast or even just food – birthday or otherwise. And right now, the company sucks.

He's already scraping the bottom of the tub on one side when he hears the knocking. It isn't that he hadn't heard it before; he'd just imagined it had been the blustery wind throwing blocks of ice and snow and maybe the occasion tree branch, in a full-on assault of his home. But the sharp rap, the decisive hollow echo, is definitely courtesy of a much warmer body. He darts up so fast; his spoon hasn't even dropped into the tub by the time he's at the door.

In the space of time between being there and twisting the knob (because to do so at speedster pace is just rude – not to mention that it typically causes the entire thing to become unhinged), his mind is already racing and euphoric. His parents are home! They'd somehow overcome the sheer impossibility, the danger, the inconvenience, to see their son on his birthday. His heart races a million miles a minute, and he knows that even though they won't have presents, or cake, or birthday treats, it doesn't matter. They're home.

He means to ease the door open, he really does, but the wind is strong and vehement, and it rips the door right out of his grasp, throwing it violently against the wall. He barely notices. Dripping wet, shivering from the cold, hair thrown up in a twisting hurricane of sharp, icy strands, is an angel of death. He'd recognize her anywhere, he sees her enough – in his dreams, in his thoughts, imprinted in a grotesque negative against the inside of his eyelids – but having her standing in front of him makes him realize that it's not nearly enough.

He's staring at her so blatantly, so stupid, so slow, that he's shocked when the icy packages are shoved into his open arms, still lifted in preparation for the family hug he'd been expecting. They're damp and distorted, but he can still read the words on the red, cardboard packages. Strawberry cheesecake pudding cups.

"Happy birthday, Wally." Her voice shivers and breaks, punctuated with the chattering of teeth and bones. He moves to the side immediately, discarding the pudding on the nearby hall table and ushering her indoors. He's shocked and surprised, and his emotions are still a hellish vortex of hurt and anger and disgust and confusion and desire, but Wally West is every bit a gentleman and his sense of chivalry and responsibility comes first. He closes the door behind her, struggling against the wind, and the jagged shards of ice and sleet are so hard and sharp and cold that he nearly flinches. He wonders how long she's been outside.

Her clothes are soaked – penetrated with the thick, relentless pelting of sleet and snow, and she's shivering so violently he thinks she might stand a chance of vibrating through the wall she's leaning on. Her jacket is off and a towel wrapped around her shoulders before she's even had the chance to take off her boots. "Thanks."

He watches her, shivering, and he wants so badly to ask what she's doing here, why she came, how far she came from, how the hell she even got here, but he doesn't. He nearly thinks this is just a lucid dream – a hallucination induced by another ice-cream coma – but his hallucinations are usually more warm, and happy, and less heavily clothed, and having a girl in his hallway suffering from hypothermia does not exactly bring the romance. Still, he whispers her name with reverence and caution; as though it's a charm that might somehow make her disappear. "Artemis."

She looks up at him, beneath lashes thick and heavy with frost, and she's about to answer when she gives a violent sneeze. "Damn." Her voice is hoarse. He shakes himself, and offers a pale, freckled hand to help her up. He's not responding to the situation as gallantly or as helpfully as he'd like to – the entire thing is just a kick to the teeth – and it stabs at his sense of moral obligation and general compassion.

"You're going to get hypothermia in those clothes," he observes. "You can use the upstairs bathroom to get cleaned up, and changed." He moves to help her stand, but her legs are already going numb with cold. He frowns, and picks her up, bridal style. The familiarity of having her pressed against his chest is combated by the way she shakes, by the coldcoldcold skin, by the utter lack of response. She just leans her head against him, soaking up his heat, grateful and reserved and so different from the fiery girl he'd held before. He's too unsettled to speak after that.

He drops her off, on the tiled floor, switching on the light and making a quick trip back into the hall. He needs to turn up the thermostat after all.

By the time he's found some clean, freshly laundered sweats and an old t-shirt, the water's already running, and her wet clothes are all hanging off the railing, damp and cold. She's wrung them out so they aren't dripping anymore, but he notices with a racing flush that her underwear is hanging there too. He goes back into his room to look for some really clean boxers.

He's waiting in the kitchen when she finally comes down, ice-cream packed away and spoon haphazardly tossed in the sink. Her clothes have already been transferred to the laundry room, but the thought still lingers in the back of his mind. So when he sees her, hair braided and off her face, coming into the kitchen in his clothes, it's difficult to stop the images of lacy straps and silk ribbons. Even though the shirt is baggy, and leaves her shape ambiguous, he can't help the blood rushing to places where it really isn't wanted.

He slouches over on the chair as she walks around the table, pushing a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her direction. She picks it up appreciatively, hands wrapping around it in an attempt to leach the heat straight into her bones. "Thanks again, Wally." Her voice is soft and still hoarse, but more gentle now, more calm. The seductive lilt that she had when she used to talk to him still hasn't quite disappeared. "Are your parent s home?"

He can't help the heat rising in his face. "No," he chokes out, spreading himself over the table as though that will help him hide. "They've been gone all day. Why?" He can't keep the slightly petulant note out of his voice.

She hums, rustling around in the cupboards behind him. Her firm butt slides briefly against his shoulder, and he shivers involuntarily. "Because that seriously sucks. And also because that means you haven't eaten anything decent today." She walks casually over to the cabinet she knows holds the saucepan, lifting it out with a slightly unnecessary amount of pomp and circumstance. "You should put the pudding in the fridge, by the way."

He starts, having completely forgotten about the pudding cups, soggy and dripping on the clean, hall table. He curses, racing around and depositing the cups in the cool white container, mind momentarily calmed by the mundane activity. When he sits again, he's unruffled, focused, in control of himself. All of himself. And the shock of having her turn up in the middle of a snowstorm on his birthday has finally worn off.

He crumbles the heap of soggy red cardboard in his hands into a ball, tossing it theatrically towards the recycling bin beside the kitchen counter. "Where did the pudding come from? None of the stores in town are open today." His voice is neutral; carefully constructed with solid tones and mild curiosity. The only answer for a moment is the pan sizzling as she throws bacon on it, already at home.

"The stores off 23 are open. Mostly convenience stores, but it's your birthday and it's rude to show up empty-handed," she explains, as though his apparent lack of education in etiquette is the most pressing topic of conversation. He watches her, and the sounds of fat frying are the only sounds between them. He wishes he could believe that she'd braved ice and wind and possible hypothermia just to see him on his birthday.

"What are you doing here?" It sounds dull and far too blunt, and for a moment, it feels as though he's somehow turned his words into a tangible weapon. Her stomach clenches involuntarily. He doesn't mean to sound unwelcoming or cold, but the words are out and he isn't going to expend the energy needed to soften them.

She doesn't turn from the pan; doesn't even stop the minute ministrations she applies to the food. She remains quiet though, and he isn't sure if she's ignoring his question, or if she simply has no idea how to answer. He wants to press the issue, but he isn't sure how, and the smell of food is driving him in small part to distraction. When she puts the steaming plate in front of him, he doesn't bother giving it the evil eye before he digs in, fork already in hand. She sits across and watches him, holding her mug between her hands. She isn't eating.

It always made him a little bit uncomfortable when she just sat there, watching him eat. He'd asked her about it once, expecting her to say something slightly sarcastic and demeaning. She'd shrugged instead, shoulders lifting in a gentle slope. "I don't know. You just . . . you look really happy." She'd paused, turning to look at him mischievously. "Besides, when you know people are watching, you slow down a little bit. Makes it kind of less disgusting to be around."

He slows, placing the fork gently on the table beside him, plate unfinished. She doesn't comment, turning her gaze instead to the steam rising from her cup. Her knuckles show white. If she thinks she can freeze him out, distract him and make him forget, then he can do it too. He sits back, the tantalizing scent of food wafting up at him and making his mouth water. They stare at one another across the table.

"Thanks for, uh, coming," he starts lamely. He's never been able to break her, and the silence is making him uncomfortable. He doesn't say it, but they're both more or less operating on the assumption that that's the reason she's sitting there, across from him right now. To visit him on his birthday.

She pauses, and the tumble of thoughts in her mind cascade and collide in a violent landslide. She isn't sure what she wants to tell him. He's let her in, even though she remembers the way his words had dragged in sharp nails down her heart, angry and judgemental, when he'd found her months ago. She knows he's still mad at her – the sudden swings in attitude, the cold, detached conversation. But damn it all to hell. She didn't have a choice.

Silence. The room was dead silent. That was never a good sign. The heater, the ventilator, the fans – everything was off. And she didn't even hear them coming.

"It wasn't something I arbitrarily decided," she says, and although her voice is calm, it sounds like a hiss, an accusation. He stares pointedly at the plate, unsure what she's talking about anymore. He doesn't press the issue, because he's had enough experience to know what tactics make the conversation run south.

"I know," he offers. He won't look up, and the absence of startling green in the warm kitchen is jarring. "You must have been thinking on it for ages."

She stares at him, hard, daring him to meet her gaze, to acknowledge what she's really talking about. She's done running from him, even though she knows he can keep going without ever turning back, nothing but an orange blur on the horizon that she'll never catch up to. If she doesn't pin him down when she gets the chance, she never will.

"What? You'd rather I just impulsively decided?" Her words are acerbic. "You KNOW I can't do that! Not for something so important."

He starts at her sudden change in tone, but his stays neutral, even lightly confused. His fingers tap incessantly on the polished wooden table. "Why not? You're the queen of snap judgements."

Bang! The plate jumps, and several slices of crispy meat slide off, staining the table with rivers of fat and oil. He's startled into glancing up, and the look in her eyes makes him immediately regret making such a rookie mistake. Her eyes have always been so expressive. They burn into him, holding his stare, forcing his gaze, and they are unabashedly fiery and fierce, and to an extent so unnoticeable as to be almost insignificant, they are hurt. He's shocked and mystified and guilty all at once, so he doesn't move when she stands, her chair falling beneath her in the process.

"Goddamn it, Wally! You know, you know why I . . ." her voice cracks, and she whips around, stalking angrily into the hallway. It takes him a moment before he moves, but the sounds of the hall closet whipping open are enough to startle him into action.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice is sharp and loud in the empty hallway, despite the chaotic background noise provided by the roaring storm outside.

"Just relax! I'm not going to steal it, if that's what you're worried about," she bites out, forehead screwing up in frustration. His mom's old yellow winter jacket is loose on her shoulders as she shrugs it on. "I'll pass it along to Robin, or M'gann or. . ." Her words cut off. "Whatever. You'll get it back."

He starts, surprised. "You visit them? You've been talking to them?" And he knows it's unfair, because up until now, even he's pretty sure he hadn't wanted to talk to her, or see her, or acknowledge her at all. He knows he's in fact been acting contrary to that; running far and fast and wide. But he's finished with lies, and he's done lying to himself. "What the hell?" His words are quiet and trembling and so, so livid. "You go visit them, but you won't come see me? Not a line, nothing? WHAT THE HELL?" His voice explodes in the darkness, but she doesn't even flinch.

Her hand is on the knob before he can react, and she throws the door open, inviting in whirling torrents of frozen water and biting air. "You made it pretty clear I wasn't on your list of favourite people anymore!" Her words are snatched away by the wind, and she makes determined, decisive strides farther and farther down his walkway, her boots sinking in laughably tall drifts. She doesn't look back.

Wally curses, the word dying in the ferocious weather. "Artemis!" He runs out in his socks, and stands, blocking the end of his driveway. She's already started moving forward, and she's too unbalanced to stop. She crashes right into his inhumanly warm chest. And then reaches back and punches him in the shoulder. "MOVE THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY, WEST!" The force of the blow is in no way impaired by the cold.

He rubs his shoulder, scowling. "Freaking – Just come back inside, idiot! You'll catch your death out here." The sharp pellets sting his face and his ears and his neck, and he's soaked all the way through. She glowers, completely incensed, and turns to walk around him. She doesn't get very far before he's turned and picked her up, slogging slightly more slowly through the snow than he had when he'd come out to get her. He still makes it inside, with the door shut, before she's had time to register what he's done.

"You ASS." Her voice is hoarse, and he thinks he can hear the tell-tale growl starting in the back of her throat, but she makes no move to go outside again. A small victory. He sneezes, and glances down at his soaking wet clothes. He glares at her, debating, then grabs her again, throwing her boots against the front door and dumping the yellow jacket on the hall table. It was already wet anyway.

He dumps her unceremoniously on his bed, and stands, chest heaving with frustration, and frowns down at her. Her borrowed clothes are a little bit damp on one side, but she'll dry out in a matter of minutes. "Don't. Move."

She snarls at him. "Don't think you can tell me what to do." She moves to stand, but he grabs at her hand, palm wet and cold. She stares down at it, and he shifts beside her, gently tugging her back down. "Please." She scowls. He knows when he gives her the choice; she always works in his direction. Even after months of silence and cautious reservation, that much hasn't changed. She hates how well he knows her.

He's barely gone ten seconds; dropping his wet clothes in the laundry, taking a quick shower, changing. When he re-enters his room, though, her mood has shifted drastically. He isn't sure why until he notices what's drawn her gaze. "When did you take that?" Her forehead puckers in bewilderment, and he can see the barest glint of alarm in her eyes. He shuffles guiltily away from the Alice in Wonderland poster, feeling far too much like the stalker ex-boyfriend that he desperately doesn't want to be. He throws out a half-assed answer, trying and failing nonchalance. "You weren't using it anymore."

She hums, suddenly unsure, fingers fluttering against her legs before she seems to come to some sort of a decision. She turns back, a little slowly, and shuffles over to his bed, dropping herself on his deep green sheets, still wrinkled and messy from the morning. She stares at him expectantly, expression serious. He stares back, nervous and bemused. "What?"

She rolls her eyes, and suddenly it feels like the tension has lifted. Like things are back to normal. Like they've snuck up to his bedroom after another mission or dinner or something, and they're just going to hang around and enjoy each other's company. "You're the one who said you wanted to talk. So talk."

He sputters. "What? No, I . . . I meant I wanted you to talk!" She lifts an eyebrow. "I'm talking." But she freezes, just a little bit, and he realizes she's scared. She's afraid and worried and still so unbelievably brave. Because she's still here, and she's ready, and waiting, and she'll tell him if he asks. He stills, then walks over slowly, dropping on the bed beside her. His hand falls on the sheets beside hers, and he doesn't move to take hers, because he isn't sure that falls within the realm of possibility anymore, isn't sure he can claim that privilege, but she doesn't move away.

She takes a deep breath, and her gaze loses focus, staring vacantly at the poster he's hung up on the back of his door. "I couldn't just do it – I didn't even really want to." Her voice is soft, quiet, tentative. He doesn't tap his fingers, doesn't fidget, just nudges his leg against hers. "But he was just, always . . ." she pauses, and swallows thick in her throat. "The Shadows are particular like that. They don't like to leave a job unfinished. Especially when it's a matter of personal pride." Her voice is empty, blank, and her eyes have lost their lustre. "It wasn't a choice I wanted to make. But it was him or you."

She withdraws, arms circling her chest, as though she can block out the desperation and hurt and anger and conflict that had set in months ago. He can see her, sitting there, physical and real, but he's certain that she's millions of miles away – too far to reach. And she looks so impossibly small and fragile and he can't even touch her. His foot kicks fitfully against the bed post.

"It wasn't much of choice," she whispers, and her voice is steady and strong, but he realizes that tears are coursing down her cheeks, shiny and foreign. "And I just – And then you!" She shakes her head, and a hand comes up reflexively to wipe the tears now, unrestrained and messy and free. "To think that – to tell me that it was just because – because I could, because I was just sick and twisted and maybe that I was more influenced by the Shadows than I'd led you to believe –" He grabs her hand, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb instead.

"That wasn't it!" he whispers fervently. He gently swipes his finger across her cheek, soft and sweet. "I was mad yeah, but I was stupid and angry and it wasn't really at you. I mean, I can't understand killing my father –" She swats his hand away, irritated and upset.

"Of course you can't! You, Kid Flash, Mr. Wally West of the congenial West clan, son to the perfect and loving and happy Mary and Rudolph West! How could you understand?" She's not angry, he realizes, just sad. Just unbearably hurt and confused, a little girl abandoned in the world by the safety and familiarity of true family. He isn't sure whether this goes against appropriate ex-boyfriend etiquette, but he reaches over and pulls her against his chest anyway, stroking her beautiful, golden hair. Her tears soak his shirt and she stays, so he assumes it's okay.

"I'm sorry," he says, and this, apparently, is too much. Too much forgiveness, too much understanding, too much, too much, too much. Because she does expect him to be difficult and obstinate and stubborn. She expects him to work against her, to argue and yell and be judgemental and cruel. She shakes her head, hands fisting in the front of his shirt and burying her head against his shoulder. "But he raised me anyway," she whispers, and the sound is so broken and strangled and hopeless that he can't control himself anymore. He plants gentle, feathering kisses against her crown, and makes comforting sounds in her hair. She pushes against his chest, violent and sloppy. "You can't! You can't Wally, you can't, you can't." She shakes her head, turning away from him, breathing laboured and eyes downcast. Her voice is a weighty whisper, carrying and hiding in the corners of his room.

He withdraws, but his arms don't remove themselves from around her waist. His voice is low and gentle. "Why not?"

She turns, hands tugging restlessly at her braid, the gold as shiny and bright in the dark as he remembers. "Because. You're not my boyfriend anymore."

He scoffs, moving to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek. She cringes and moves back. Bright green dims, and she can see the heartbreak as clearly as though it had happened yesterday, can remember the way it had looked, under the harsh lights of the hallway, as she'd walked away. She averts her gaze, focused instead on tracing the pattern on his old t-shirt, tugging it slightly off her shoulder. His arms withdraw, releasing her, and he slides off the bed.

"You can . . . I'll set up the guest for you," he starts, motioning vaguely towards the hall. She doesn't respond, and he turns and walks out of his own room, dejected. She curls up minutely on the bed, and listens to the sound of snow being hurled against the windows, howling in tortured empathy.

Cold, shattered glass scattered on the floor. Dozens of black shapes, fluid, spilling through the window and up through the vents and hiding in the suddenly darkened hallway. Two arrows in the right shoulder, pain and blood. Out the door, breaking through the window in the hallway, dropping off a flagpole, hitting the concrete, hard. Snowdrifts break the fall, stunt blood loss. Hike to an interstate convenience store, dress the wound. Pudding cups in the fridge beside the check-out. Blood loss and stupid decisions go hand in hand.

"Wally," she calls out, and it's tiny and strange and she half-hopes he doesn't hear it. But the soft, padding footsteps proceed back towards the room, and she looks away when he stands in the door. It doesn't matter; he's unable to meet her face anyway. The silence stretches past uncomfortable before she fidgets and tangles her fingers in her hair and says, "Can I just stay here tonight?"

He's baffled, to say the least. He wants to sit with her and be with her and make up for all that time they've been apart. He wants to touch her and know that she's really here, instead of waking up with his fingers tangled in strands of air and sunlight. He wants to tell her what he really means when he says sorry. But he tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him, and he doesn't know how things stand right now. He prefers the before, when he was shocked and she was standing, wet and cold, outside his door. When they were still just estranged exes, and the boundaries were there and he at least had some idea of what lines he couldn't cross. But he still can't say no.

"Sure."

They don't even change – just drop on the mattress, a strong, freckled hand pulling the sheets from underneath them and arranging them in some semblance of warmth. Artemis rolls towards the wall, cocooned and safe and feeling so, terribly guilty for ever showing up at all, ever coming to his house, ever risking him. But she's gone so long without his warmth.

When he wakes in the morning, the bed is cold. A single strand of gold lies on the pillow beside him, and he laughs, bitter and angry and so disappointed in himself. He plucks the hair and winds it between his fingers, just to remind himself that it wasn't a dream.


The gym at Mount Justice is well-equipped; training dummies lined along one wall, weights along another, with mats and bars and obstacle courses and all manner of other exercise paraphernalia. The most prominent feature, however, is the large sparring ring in the centre, all tight red ropes and movable platforms. Robin especially appreciates these features, using them to great advantage as he and Wally spar; rigging the machine to restrict his friend's momentum and alternately creating leverage or temporary shelters. He cackles as a platform springs between them, causing the redhead to run directly into it. He's most annoying when he's in his element.

The bright green eyes aren't even annoyed when they look back up; gaze unfocused and distant. It's obvious from just a glance that he hadn't really been paying attention anyway. In fact, it's a wonder he hasn't run into anything else. The acrobat frowns from his perch on the platform, suddenly forcing himself into his friend's field of view. He shouts and backs away, stumbling into the ropes just behind him, arms pinwheeling comically. He doesn't even berate him.

Now the brunet knows something is wrong. He flips lightly over, landing on the ropes just beside his friend's head, amused at the way the short strands of his hair are already getting caught in the tightly twined threads. He's not disappointed when he tries to sit up, yanking several hairs out in the process. He winces, but instead of the exclamation of pain he was expecting, his voice is matter-of-fact and curious instead. "They know, don't they?" He turns to his friend, eyes bright and wide and expectant.

Sometimes, Robin hates how easy he is to read. He pretends anyway, gaze flickering wildly away from him, unseen beneath his domino mask. "Who? Knows what?" He cocks his head, messy raven hair hanging around his face, further obscuring his already elusive eyes. He already knows what must have happened. The only available place to run, in a closed world, shut down by snowstorms and terrorists. He saw the hotel room.

Wally scoffs; he sees right through him. He knows he knows, knows he's pretending, because when has the Dark Knight or his ward ever missed anything? He elaborates anyway. "The Justice League knows where Artemis is." It's the first time he's spoken her name in months and it falls, familiar and kind and only slightly halting, from his lips. It's not a question anymore.

Robin's face remains impassive – a stone slate in the bright lights of the room. The smell of sweat and exertion and hope stings his nostrils, and he turns away. "Barely." The word is heated and heavy, pushed between his teeth like a rock that's cracked right through.

Wally turns, then, watching Robin's shoulders stiffen, watching his hunched posture, his feral stance. He's pissed, and he doesn't know why. "What do you mean? Aren't they keeping tabs on her?" He shrugs, arm lifting in the air in useless gesticulation. "I mean, for discipline or punishment or whatever?"

Robin hops out of the ring so quickly, Wally wonders if he's going to just walk away, avoid the question. He stands though, just beside the door, and pauses. He can barely see the glisten of sweat pouring down his neck. "They're already punishing her."

He doesn't know what's happening until it's already happened, and the edges of his friend's cape are whipping around the corner. He doesn't think he's seen anyone damage the wall of the cave to such an extent (besides Superboy), and he stares in amazement and bewilderment at the crackling stone and plaster pieces as they fall to the floor, exposing the damaged pipes and electrical cords underneath.


It's Superboy, of all people, who explains it to him.

"What did you expect? They don't approve of that . . . method of problem solving." Solid and clear – the clone's speech is completely unaffected, and Wally wonders briefly if the lack of emotion is indicative of his friend's stance on the subject. He feels a strange surge of something, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's protectiveness of all things. He tries not to let it creep into his voice or his expression when he asks, "What are they doing?"

His friend stiffens, and it's all the more noticeable because of his solidity – because of his muscles, his power. He has the fleeting impression that he might coalesce into some sort of giant rippling vortex of density and anti-matter, and he flinches imperceptibly away and back again. "Nothing."

His brow furrows, the red burrowing into the folds of his forehead. "What do you mean? You said they were –"

"That IS what they're doing." The muscles are rippling, twitching in an involuntary reflex of agitation and repressed aggression, and the speedster takes a quick side-step, in case Superboy decides to relieve himself of some of it. The emotion in his voice is cautionary, and Wally, at long last, has finally, mercifully, learned at what point he should probably stop talking.

His strong fingers flex, digging into his arms as they sit, crossed and tight against his chest. "God Wally, you need to wake up! There are repercussions – Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, or, whatever." The voice is beginning to grate, sandpapery and coarse as the anger and frustration start to bubble to the surface. "The Shadows – they were – are – pissed. Sportsmaster is – was – one of their best operatives. They didn't appreciate –" He stops, breathing deeply, and closes his eyes.

He's been distracted recently (for months, but he'd been getting better, he'd been improving, he'd been slowly climbing back up to his peak level of performance), so it's forgivable if he's just a little bit slow nowadays. But now, his mind races over a hundred miles a minute, and he can feel the brutal force of his full faculties slamming into him as his thoughts catch up. "The Shadows are hunting her."

Superboy nods, terse, neck tense and veins jutting out in sharp relief, straining against the skin. His knuckles show white, and Wally can see him desperately trying not to damage the wall beside him. The self-restraint is appreciated, but he can understand the desire. In fact, he might feel a little bit better if the clone breaks the wall away, chipping it to pieces, chunk by chunk. The glorious image of dust flying, or plaster falling to the floor, of the loud echo of destruction and anger pulsing through the base dies in seconds, but his mind is calmer now. Clear.

"I want in."

He's grateful for the fact that his friend doesn't bother trying to dissuade him, trying to pretend he has no idea what he's talking about. He understands, now, what the secret meetings at the base were. The whispered words, the long, meaningful glances exchanged just above his head, just out of earshot. The strange undercurrent beneath every debriefing, every interaction with the League, every slightly resentful touch, every flinch, every repressed look. He resents, almost, being left out of the loop, but he can't deny that he would have been a hindrance, at the very best.

"Keep yourself under control. And don't tell anyone."

He nods, barely registering the words, question already falling from his lips. "Where is she?"