original Tumblr note: I want to quickly thank everyone who reblogged and commented and received the first fic with such love. You mean the world to me, brand shiny new YJ family, you do.

That said, this was written in the wee hours of the morning, so please excuse any ndjfnajdbasjd that may occur (see, I can't even complete words anymore. Ugh.) They're aged only a slight bit, and it's a sort-of-kind-of-already-established Spitfire but shhhh. Lastly, I'd like to point out that none of the future playlist drabbles are connected, at all. They're all just random things that popped into mind as the lyrics played on. This one's based on the Hedley song of the same name. Huzzah.

fanfiction side-note: because formatting on the website does not allow strikethrough the way Tumblr does, all things crossed out in the original are in [brackets] here. Mmkay? For the proper, how-it-was-written version, see tumblr. Thank you, darlings!

Carry On

Well I've been beat down to the sound of laughter, but I'll be okay
And you can keep calling me your beautiful disaster, all damn day
See I hold your heart like a part of me, baby
It's the only thing that's stopping me from falling down
Yeah, you're the harmony that keeps me sound.

I've always believed his penchant for keeping these ridiculous souvenirs after missions was silly. Realistically, he's never going to use them again, so why bother. All he does is frame them up and place them on shelves to collect dust. And yes, contrary to any statements he may give against it, there is, in fact, a load of dust on said shelves. And souvenirs. Especially in that empty spot where my arrow used to be.

Yes, my arrow. Not Roy's, as someone loudly and quite [falsely] annoyingly likes to point out. My arrow that saved his arse from Amazo. My arrow that saved the whole freaking team from the Reds. After I took it back from this ridiculous room, of course.

My arrow is the only souvenir that's been reused after shelving. (Because no, I don't count the incident with the stupid helmet. I like to pretend it doesn't exist, ever since I caught him talking to it. Addressing it as Nelson. About me.) Mine is the only souvenir that's not coming back, either, no matter how much he [whines] [begs] asks politely.

The room's better off without it, anyway. It's crowded enough as is. I remember what it was like, once upon a time, when his collection was small. But then we all got [slightly] older, and the Bats gave us more missions, and it grew and grew and grew. And I suppose it hasn't helped that he's not just adding things from missions anymore. He's got a whole section of it dedicated to us.

And us, let me be clear, is the Team. Anything containing Wally and I together is with the group, not separate, because really, there's no reason to have a section just for your girlfriend in your souvenir room, right? [Okay, so maybe I'm a little bitter, but come on.] He's got trinkets from trips, and pictures from outings, and things that let him remember the stuff we've all done together and been through, not just as a team, but as teenagers. As friends. As family.

Like when Kaldur finally completed his sorcery training, and Robin helped the Bats create a suits that would take us down for his graduation without killing us. Or when M'gann baked our first family Christmas dinner, and it grew from the six of us, to half the League, by word of mouth (and sacred speedster appetite). Or when Conner finally had his long-awaited adopt-a-parent moment, only it was with Wonder Woman, not Superman, and he couldn't have been happier. Or when Robin coaxed us all into dressing up as ourselves for Halloween, then came as himself—literally, as Dick Grayson, and I nearly strangled him, because the little shit was at school with me the whole time.

But as I stand here, scanning the shelf that the Team adorns, I can find nothing of us. Just us. Nothing for him to remember our adventures, when we were forced from the Cave because the others were sick of hearing us argue. Nothing from the excursions, when we went willingly because we'd actually become friends. Nothing, either, from the outings neither of us would call dates, because we weren't sure what to call ourselves, making the slow transition from friends-with-potential to -potentially-considering-couple. When we were comfortably sitting in denial, thinking the other was stupid, or oblivious, or moronic, or—maybe that was just me. Moving on.

And really, it wouldn't bother me so much if maybe, perhaps, on a whim, he'd added things from our actual dates, when we're made the awkward transition from potentially-considering-couple to, y'know, actual couple. That still fought, and argued, and made each other want to pull out our hair, but never failed to make-up afterwards and—am I getting carried away again? Oops.

"Ahem." Startled, I pivot on my heel; hand already in motion to unfold the crossbow hidden in my leather jacket. Only, it's just him, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, grinning. "Looking for me?"

"Would've look in your room then, wouldn't I?" I place a hand on my hip, trying to muster a smirk to cover up the fact that he's not wearing a shirt and yes I noticed and damn him to hell, it's late, what is he doing up?

"Only it's four in the morning, and that's where you've left. Because I woke up to a cold bed."

"Psh. What happened to enhanced metabolism and heightened body temperatures?"

He shrugs, stepping into the room, eyes scanning the shelves. "Not the same without you."

I can't tell whether we're still talking about his [bed] room, or here. His green eyes are still searching everywhere but with me, so I snort, displeased. "You certainly don't mean here," I huff, crossing my arms in an attempt to brace against the draft he seems to have brought with him. "Because I don't see me anywhere."

He looks sideways at me, a grin creeping onto his lips. "'Course you're here, Arty. You're in every one of those pictures." He points behind me, and I don't need to turn to know where the collage of photographs is. Of the Team. So I raise one eyebrow, just one, as my eyes and lips settle into a decidedly unimpressed line.

He has the audacity to chuckle.

"You had your own spot in here until you stole your arrow, you know."

"I didn't steal it; it was mine to begin with!" I huff again, blowing a loose strange of blonde out of my face. "Besides, it's not like you asked for it back afterwards."

He raises his hands at his sides innocently, coming closer. "Would you have given it to me? At the time?"

"No."

"Exactly," he grins, and reaches out, his fingers feather-light as they brush against my skin, pushing the strand of hair back behind my ear. I try to pretend the touch doesn't send shivers traveling down my spine. Jerk. "Besides, I've got something far better as a souvenir of all this."

I raise the other eyebrow very suspiciously. "Which is?"

He doesn't even hesitate, my words just the green light he was looking for. He crashes his lips to mine, his hands pressing against the side of my face, pulling me closer, until there isn't any space left between us. Any air. Anything. Just a mix of the same heat and intensity I feel every time he does this. I wrap my arms around his middle, raking my nails lightly against his bare back. In retaliation, one hand slips from my face and downwards, inching beneath the hem of my tee, settling on my waist, burning through my skin and inwards, to my heart.

Every inch of me is on fire when he pulls away, all too soon, a grin on his lips.

He holds his forehead against mine, the smile capturing his whole face, freckles bunching together, lighting him up the way it does on Christmas. Or any holiday, really. Or when he sees food. Or Robin comes home with a new unreleased game for them.

"You, beautiful," he winks, and I suddenly remember we had some important conversation going about souvenirs, and the lack of a section for me, and him having something better, and I just don't care. Because he might've been finished, but I sure as hell wasn't.

Corny fluff is cornyyyyyyy. I blame writing this when I [should've] [could've] wasn't sleeping. So, anyway, I tried writing it not through Artemis's eyes. Really. I did. Only it didn't work, and it just sounded too her in my head (especially because I could be an italics-whore when it came to her frustration), and I changed it all. So, huzzah. There you have it, dears. I hope you enjoyed :3