Note: Sorry I've been such a procrastinator lately. Everyone who's seen this over on Tumblr, disregard it. Anyone knew to the fold, hi there, and enjoy two spitfire drabbles. Hope you like them!

Stormy

Boom, crash, all night
You scream, we fight
These words, they strike like lightning
Dark skies tell no lies
Like your stormy eyes
If it's cold tonight
I'm here now

They're on each other the moment the Team steps out of the zeta tube—and not in the way you'd think, either. Her face is pinched, lips drawn into a tight line. His anger is so palpable you can practically see his hair crackling with the static of it.

"Artemis—"

"Our mission failure had nothing to do with me!" She whirls; ponytail twirling around so fast he wonders, briefly, if could cause her whiplash. He certainly hopes so.

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure if you'd actually taken the shot—"

"Oh, with you in the way? Do you want a hole through your head, Baywatch? Because that can be arranged, no villains needed."

"Don't need villains around when we've got you… you… you harpy!"

"Harpy? Ouch. Your words scathe me."

"I'm sure, what with you having no heart and all. I'll bet you were raised to hate everything, weren't you? Raised by demons."

"Yes, because you're a real bundle of rainbows and kittens, aren't you?"

"At least I helped on the mission. Unlike some people. I'm still wondering why we haven't traded you in for Roy yet."

"So you keep saying," she huffs, crossing her arms, her back to the rest of the team as she musters the fiercest glare possible. "Why don't you just call up your precious Roy and ask him, then? Set a date."

"Maybe I will," he stands at full height, matching her stance. "Then you won't have to be so jealous that we like him better."

"What do I care? You can think what you want, but if it helps you sleep at night, go ahead and bring in your man-crush. We don't have a quota, remember? Maybe then you'll get off my back."

"Or maybe you could throw in the towel. Leave. Let the people who actually belong here step in and take the shot—sorry, a shot."

She knows it shouldn't hurt. It really shouldn't. She knows he's just getting into it with her the way he always does, but there is something about the way he says it, something in his eyes and in his voice, that practically slaps her across the face. That chews at her insides. That stomps on her heart feet. That hurts.

She feels the sting. The burn in her eyes and the ache in her chest. She opens her mouth, wills a retort to come flying out, needs to say something back to wipe that stupid smirk on his face. He thinks he's won, and she needs to tell him he hasn't. But she can't. Nothing comes out.

Nothing except anger and pain and hurt. And her hands ball into fists, and her nails dig uncomfortably into her skin, and her teeth bite into her cheek, trying to calm the wave of words that will not go over well from clawing their way out her throat. "Fine!" she chokes, her voice much higher-pitched than intended. "I will!"

And then she turns toe, walking right out. Only, it isn't into a zeta-tube, it's out. Out of the main room, out of the Cave, out of Mount Justice.

The others say nothing. Wally, in his defense, looks momentarily out of it, a frown etching across his brow. But then, it's gone in a huff, and he drags himself to the kitchen to make food. Bread, lettuce, tomatoes, ketchup, mustard, pickles, chips, olives, hot peppers, cucumbers, bean sprouts, dried apricots, and leftovers from last night's late-night fry run. You name it, the boy finds it.

It's a little more aggressive sandwich-making than his teammates are used to, and in silence, they keep casting glances at the door, hoping to see the blonde archer waltz right back in, sock him in the arm, and continue on as normal.

Robin, despite being his best friend, can't bring himself to words. His hands are tightly balled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking with his anger. Kaldur stands beside him, face composed, eyes narrowed, never betraying his emotion as he stands vigil. M'gann is in tears now, cheeks flushed and fingers intertwined with Superboy's. In the end, it is Conner who approaches the speedster, very casually, taking the fully-made sub from his grip before he can chow down.

"Hey, what do you think you're—"

"There's a thunderstorm rolling in, you know."

"Thank you, Mr. Weatherman; did you get all that from the static channel?" Wally reaches for his food, but Conner stands tall, holding it out of his grasp.

"And Artemis has a uniform fairly… lacking in coverage."

"Easy, dude, 'cuz you've got Megalicious, and I think that's enough for—"

"Surely, you want Artemis gone, but not dead," he barks, finally, and Wally nearly jumps with the sudden viciousness the boy laces behind his words. His green eyes trail across his other teammates, who meet his eyes with the same determination behind Conner's.

Grudgingly, the speedster sighs, shoulder drooping. His eyes gaze haphazardly upwards, squinting against the ceiling light, picking out his sandwich. "Can I finish my snack, first?"

"It'll be in the fridge when you both come back," he offers. Wally contains the growl building in his chest.

"Fine," he bites out. "I'll go get her."

He stalks off down the hall so quickly that he never sees the others place bets.

He finds her on the beach, and she's soaking wet. Her hair, wild and free of its ponytail, is now plastered against her skin. It isn't its normal luscious gold, but dull in the rain and the dark of night. She is seated on the sand, arms hugging her knees to her chest, staring with distaste out at the waves. If he looks close enough, he can spot her fingers shaking as they to retain their grip on her knees.

But of course, that would imply he's sitting close enough. Which he most certainly isn't. Not close enough to feel the heat leeching from her skin. Not close enough to hear her ragged breathing, hoarse and uneven, as if she's been crying. Not close enough to notice that her cheeks do look a little streaked.

Not. At. All.

He watches her quietly for a few moments before she finally speaks. "Come to throw me in?"

"Come to make sure you haven't."

"Funny. I almost believe you." There is a pregnant pause as the rain pelts the surface of the water, their heads, the sand, everything. Then, she speaks again, and her voice quivers ever-so-slightly as her lips move. "What's wrong; remember something else I screwed up tonight?"

He bites his tongue to make sure the wrong words don't come out. Because he's just so used to hashing it out with her, that a weakly-formed apology just doesn't seem to fit into his vocabulary. He's not sure why she's different. Why she makes his blood boil, or his skin crawl (and not in a bad way, either), or heighten his urge to pull out his own hair.

Like right now, when she's cutting him off (in her defense, he hasn't even started up his stupid apology). Actually, it's not so much cutting him off as flicking a switch and letting verbal vomit tumble from her mouth like a broken tap. The tears rain on her cheeks just makes it worse.

"You know, I realize you hate me, but it would be nice if once in a while you could back off. Because I actually like it here. And contrary to what you think, I'm trying to fit in. I'm trying to meet the expectations of the Team. I really am." She hugs her knees tighter to her chest, refusing to sniffle and instead glancing sideways at him through a glare. "I've tried it, for a very long time. Tried fitting in. At home. At school. And now here. And for once, I thought it might be working, but if…if I can't get you to like me, then why am I bothering with the rest of them?"

He formulates a million ways he could take a shot at her for wanting him to like her, regardless that she doesn't mean it that way. He thinks of how angry he can make her by pushing her buttons about opening up to him. He ponders how much of an ass everyone would think him if he went that far.

And really, as mouthy as he can be around her, he isn't an ass. No, don't give him that look, he's not, okay? Really. He just lets his anger get the best of him sometimes. And he knows he shouldn't. Knows that treating a teammate like that—a friend, if we're stepping out of that comfort zone everyone deems denial for just a moment—is a bad idea. Knows he doesn't mean to hurt her. Ever.

So he throws caution to the wind and lets his lips form words he think sound funny in his ears. And judging by the look she gives him, she must think it, too. "I'm sorry."

She splutters, rain comes flying off her lips and cheeks. "You're…what?"

"You heard me."

"No, I… I'm not sure I did."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, squaring his shoulders and staring straight at her. "For what I said, back inside. I…I don't hate you." She gives him a skeptical look, sniffles ever-so-slightly. Internally, he kicks himself, because he actually thinks she looks cute doing it. "I don't. I just… I let my anger get out of hand, sometimes. And… and I know it's not fair, to anyone, especially not you. Because I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at me."

"At you?"

"Yeah. It was my fault tonight, on the mission. I was in the way of your shot. It was my fault he got away. I just… have an issue with admitting when I do something wrong. So I take it out on others—on you, mainly, because I know you'll hit back."

"You realize that's not healthy, right?" she points out, but he can see that despite his problems, it's working. The corners of her lips are curving up, and there is a light in those dark eyes of hers that was unsettlingly absent when he sat down.

"You know what else isn't healthy? Bottling your anger," he says, hating the way he's licking his lips as he talks. "You need to let it out." And he pulls her to her feet, holding his arms wide. "Hit back."

And hit, she does. Without hesitation she socks him, in the arm, in the chest, once, twice, and then that's it, she can't. Suddenly there are more tears than frustration on her face, more exasperation than anger in her chest, and she's so so so exhausted, because she hasn't rested from their stupid mission yet. She collapses into his arms, hating the way her body is tired enough to let him catch her. Hating the way she doesn't mind that he's seeing her cry. Hating the way he's not making fun of her, but comforting her.

"It's okay, beautiful. I've got you." He whispers in her ear, her hair fluttering softly because of his breath only a moment before they're on the move, back towards the Cave, the archer in the speedster's arms, hating the way that she loves the feeling. Even if it makes her remember the stupid desert, and things.

She's dry by the time he makes it to her room. By the time he sets her on her bed, and whispers that he's sorry, and turns to leave. By the time she reaches out, and takes his hand, and whispers that she wants him to stay, at least until she falls asleep.

Neither is sure what has come over them. What has changed from harsh words and screaming and kicking earlier in the evening to this—whatever this is. But as he sits on the edge of her bed, and watches her slip softly to sleep and cautiously, oh-so-cautiously, holds that callused hand of hers, he doesn't care. Because though he is sorry for sending her into the storm, and he is sorry for saying terrible things….

…he isn't sorry for taking a chance. And he's certainly not sorry for how things turned out.

And I'm not sorry that I'm never letting go.