AN: Enjoy the update!
Picks from the Playlist: Holy Ghost by BORNS, Ribbons by Ingrid Michaelson and Something Vague by Bright Eyes.
Her cheeks are bright red and she's still sputtering half-empty threats when the door to the pantry bursts open; suddenly both her and Dick are peering a little stupidly at the intrusion of light, and as if she's been caught in the act of doing something wrong she steps away from him, elbow bumping against the corner of her shelf and knuckles still burning angrily from where he kissed her.
"Time's up!" Even though she's squinting into the brightness of the hallway unseeingly she knows it's Zatanna speaking, can hear the familiar sharpness hidden in her teasing tone.
"Thank God." Dick sighs, shouldering around her and sending her a playful smile before turning to someone she can't see. "You certainly have your hands full with that one, don't you?"
She's not surprised when she emerges and finds Wally, arms crossed and glaring at his best friend with reddened ears. "Yeah, yeah. As long as they're my hands and not someone else's." He glances at her as she approaches him, her stomach twisting as he tries to read the expression on her face. "Zatanna and I are next."
"Oh." She says a little blankly, caught between lingering feelings of jealousy, embarrassment and shock at what Dick's just told her; before she can say anything more intelligent she hears the sound of the pantry door shutting again, Dick and Zatanna no longer accompanying them in the hallway. "... Sorry, Baywatch." She says after a moment, trying her best to grin at him. "Looks like you've been swapped out for a newer model."
The corners of his mouth quirk up when he smiles, as if he's relieved to see she's acting somewhat normally and no longer scowling at him like she was earlier on in the evening; almost leisurely he wraps his arms around her and somehow doesn't manage to read the whirring of emotion and panic wailing around inside her head. "I don't mind." He says seriously, leaning in to kiss her.
There's nothing off about the way his lips fit against hers, but suddenly she's stiffening at the intimacy of the contact; it's too familiar, too caring, the way his fingers hardly brush against the small of her waist, the way he sighs softly into her mouth. All at once she hates Dick, hates what he said to her and any truth there is behind it and how she's suddenly reading too much into the way his mouth feels on hers, her eyes refusing to close despite his closeness and staring, as if frightened, at the blurred dots she knows to be his freckles.
He pulls back, and as usual she's not quite fast enough to hide the muddled expression on his face. "... What?" He asks, the grin on his face dropping suddenly. "Oh God... You and Dick didn't, like, you know— in the closet? Because that means according to the transition theory that now I've—"
"Don't be an idiot." She sneers when he starts looking panicked. "Nobody kissed anyone, on purpose or through transition." The back of her hand burns slightly at the lie, and in the look of relief that passes over his features he doesn't notice her rubbing her knuckles along his sleeve, as if trying to ride herself of the sensation. "Bet Zatanna's doing more than her part to make up for what a disappointment I was, though."
As if they were listening to her words there's a sudden pounding on the pantry door, as if Dick and Zatanna are standing on the other side banging their fists like idiots against it and letting out overtly sexual moans. "Yeah, well. Who says they're the only ones who have to make up for lost time?" He starts, grinning when she grimaces at the noise and turns crimson. "Come on. Nobody's going to miss either of us for a few more minutes..."
Despite everything she smiles when he pulls her face to his, trying her best to ignore both the noises behind them and the fact that her heart is suddenly thundering in her chest.
She moans when Wally shifts his weight on top of her, forcing his hips between both of hers. He has no idea what he's doing to her, no idea how sensitive that point between her legs is, how suddenly hot she's getting beneath his feverish skin as he grinds against her, the hardness in his jeans pressing achingly against her thigh.
"Oh, god." She catches herself sighing, Wally's lips stretching into a smile as he presses a wet kiss against her jugular, one hand skimming the bottom of her tee shirt and thrusting inside, pawing at one of her breasts through her bra.
She loses patience when he licks a line up her jaw and blows warm air in her ear, one of her hands wrestling out from where he's pinned it against her mattress and fitting along the curve of his neck, skimming his skull and burrowing into his hair for the purpose of yanking his mouth off of her. "I don't remember saying it was time for a study break, Wallman—" She starts to say almost sneeringly, not even finishing her sentence when his mouth reclaims her. Because they had been studying, truly; she can hear the crinkling of her notebook papers as he hitches her knee up and presses her closer, can feel the edge of one of his text books digging into her back...
She doesn't know why they even bother studying together; even before they were dating they were distracting each other with their bickering. Now it's just—
Wally pulls back from the kiss, breath still warm on her lips and nose barely skimming hers; there's a half second where he looks her in the eye, lower lip twitching as he exhales in a moment of hesitation. As quickly as it happens it also passes, his head ducking and mouth kissing its way down the side of her face.
Dick had said that Wally was in love with her.
As she remembers the conversation she feels her stomach twist with nervousness, her clouded eyes suddenly pulling into focus at the partially deflated balloons shoved unceremoniously in the corner of her room; they're just as pink and disgusting as they were almost a week ago. It hadn't been her idea to keep them—she had been strongly advocating simply popping them as they were cleaning up— but M'gann had insisted they all hold onto them until the helium inside them finally spoiled and Wally had glanced at her and whispered, "Souvenir," and she hadn't the courage to say anything sneering back because she was still reeling over the fact that—
Well, Dick had told her that Wally was in love with her.
Even now she's not sure how she feels about it, not sure how she's supposed to feel even. Certainly from a practical stand point she can understand it— they spend quite a bit of time together, they make each other laugh, and there are plenty of moments (like this, she thinks, as his hand slips inside the shell of her bra and his softened callouses skim her nipple) that make her want him so badly she wants to scream out in frustration. The logic of the situation isn't was bothers her.
It's how... Sure, Dick had sounded when he told her. The confidence he had said it with, as if he had heard it with his own ears come out of Wally's mouth. How often has Wally talked about loving her? Does he tell everyone? How long has he known, with complete confidence, that he loves her?
(And is that what all those pauses means? All those little ones where she can't quite read the look on his face and he simply opens and closes his mouth like a trout— is that what he's trying to say? That he loves her? Because those pauses have been going on for ages now—)
(But this is the boy who has a hard enough time deciding on pizza toppings— how can he be so sure of something so serious? So unyielding? Love is something you can't take back once it's out there; it's permanent, scarring, leaving etches on skin like sais or arrows or the sharp points of javelins—)
(And Oh, God, what if he tells her he loves her? What is she supposed to say to that? Because she's not going to look him in the face and lie but she very well can't say nothing... Is there a polite way of telling a boy you care about him so much you could die but you aren't IN LOVE with him, because in her experience anytime she loves someone they leave or they get hurt and she ends up crying alone in her bedroom for five years with only the characters of her favorite books for company and Wally can't leave, her, he can't he can't he can't— if she's alone again she's going to die, she can't go back to being that person—)
Almost unconsciously she feels herself grip him tighter as if worried he'll vanish into thin air from on top of her, suddenly aware of the fact that she's started holding her breath as if to ward off the invading panic from her lungs. Wally licks up the column of her throat just as she forces her lips to part and draw breath, and somehow the sensation seems magnified; without knowing why her hips buck against him and her mouth shoots out a hoarse sounding moan, so feral that she actually feels her cheeks redden when he repeats the movement curiously, tongue dipping down to tease her collar bone.
Focus.
He's not leaving, nobody's leaving—
"Wally." She says warningly when his hand leaves her breast, snaking around her waist and trying to fumble between her and the mattress to tend to her bra. It takes too much effort to smooth the wrinkle over her nose and force all her worries to the back of her mind (because she's caught dangerously between wanting to kick him off and wanting to rip his clothes off,) and perhaps a second too long for her to curve her mouth into a gentle smile, one hand pulling at his hair until his lips are off her neck again and he's looking her in the eye. "You have an exam on this in two days."
It's hard not to feel her chest tighten when he lets out a playful groan which sounds a little too real to simply be teasing, the back of his head pressing against her hand as if hoping she'll go back to running her fingers through his hair; when she doesn't he lets out an annoyed huff, lower lip protruding. "You're killing me, Babe." He sighs, ignoring her when she nudges his shoulder, trying to get him to roll off her. "Come on— this is Biology! Technically, technically, you're helping me study the—" He runs a hand down her side, carefully letting his fingers stray along the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. "Female anatomy."
Had she not had a whirlwind of thoughts pressing against the back of her mind she probably would have laughed at the wild wagging of his brows; instead her mouth quirks up and this time she practically throws him off in her exasperation. "You're an idiot." She rolls her eyes, gesturing for him back to his work. "If your test is so close I don't see why you wanted to study together— You know we always distract each other."
"Doesn't matter if we're together or not." Wally sighs almost frustratingly, looking annoyed about going back to his school work as he reaches for his text book. "Either you're here and I can't stop looking at you or you're gone and I can't stop thinking about you."
She feels a pang run through her stomach at his words; hands tugging the hem of her shirt until it sits evenly on her hips as she stands, putting a little distance between them as she stalks off nervously towards her backpack. "Laying it on a little thick there, Baywatch." She tells him warningly, not looking at him as she bends over to examine her bag's contents. "… Shit. You might have to settle for that second one."
Wally glances up at her from where he's settled back onto her bed, one elbow propped up on her pillows. "What's up?"
"Left my English book at home. I wanted to finish it by tomorrow… I'll be back in like a half hour, I'll run home and grab it."
There's a pause in which Wally's gaze follows her as she grabs a jacket off her chair, eyes narrowed. "… How about I come with you?" He asks her.
She hears herself snort as she loops the leather over her shoulders, leaving it unzipped as if hoping to later tempt some spring air into wafting warmly over her. "You're just trying to get out of studying."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"Am not."
She hesitates, hand on her door knob and glaring at him from across the room. "… My mom's home." She says evenly, hoping to scare him into backing down.
"So?" He grins, getting up from her bed and crossing the room all before she can blink. "Come on, you've met my parents—"
"—and we all know that went so well—"
"So why don't I meet yours?" He pauses when she looks at him dryly, brows raised. "Artemis, you do realize both your sister and your dad have already tried to kill me multiple times, right? How much worse could your Mom be?"
She stares at him sceptically for a few seconds, mind racing and trying to find some way of getting around this. She doesn't know why she's so afraid of Wally meeting her mother… After all, he's right—she has met his parents. But still, she can't shake the feeling that doing so will cross too many lines, blur her life with the Team and Wally with that of her life with Paula, as if suddenly she's two different Artemis' that can't be together should something awful happen...
But, the frightened part of her still tucked inside her head thinks, she can't think of anything about her that's more replant than her home, can't think of anything about her so obviously entrenched in evil and hate—it's not like it's a romantic place to be, not like he'll suddenly burst out with his feelings in the middle of her smoke stained living room where he knows she spent her childhood being beaten half to death—
Finally she sighs, securing the straps of her backpack over her shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't be an idiot about this, okay?"
Wally lets out a delighted hum and she resigns herself to defeat.
She wonders immediately if it's a mistake, backing down so easily and allowing Wally to follow her home; as usual she's caught between wanting to pull him closer and wanting to shove him away, wanting to speak her mind and remain silent. She wonders if maybe the crumbling walls and dingy carpet will say more than enough for her.
But maybe it's a good thing, bringing him here, reminding him who he's bet his money on; she's the girl that comes from half-lit hallways and police sirens, who lives and dies by the muggy Gotham air and the way the dirt of the city seems to cling to the folds of her skin. Maybe he needs the reminder of how broken she is, of how gentle he needs to be as he takes her hand and drags her on this adventure too quickly behind him.
It's strange; neither her nor her mother have spent very much time together since the New Year, both of them too busy with their collective lives to somehow manage to collide together more than once or twice a week for tea and exhausted looks across the kitchen table. She plans to enter the apartment at a break neck speed, as if hoping to allow Wally little more than a few seconds for awkward conversation with her mother and perhaps a stray look at the walls that aren't as blank and void of color as they once were before they disappear into the late afternoon drizzling again.
Instead this plan quickly goes to hell when she bangs the door open and drags Wally in behind her; she realizes before she even finishes with the rain soaked laces of her boots that her mother is rolling down the hallway. "Uh, hey." She calls out, glancing at Wally warningly as he bends to tend to his shoes, silently telling him to stay still and shut up.
Paula stops rolling almost right in front of them, her brows shooting up into her hair as she glances between her and Wally; it doesn't take much more than a second to register the bewilderment on her face, no doubt wondering why her daughter (her sneering, spiteful, cold-hearted daughter) is dragging a completely normal looking boy through her front door.
Wally ignores her warning look entirely as his face bursts into the dumbest grin she's ever seen. "Hi."
There's one full second of stunned quiet on her mother's part, and deciding she'd rather die than spend another second with her mother looking at her with such surprise on her face she finishes hurriedly with her boot laces. "We're just here to grab a text book, then we're leaving." She says quickly.
Paula seems to snap out of it when she start running full force towards her bedroom. "Who's your friend, Artemis?" Her mother calls after her when she practically twists an ankle side stepping the wheel chair and racing off down the hallway without another glance.
She's already in her bedroom and can practically hear Wally's smile as he steps forward, probably extending a hand the way his mother taught him. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crock. I'm Wally West."
Paula's delighted laugh tinkles down the hallway, light and happy and so unlike anything she's ever uttered in Artemis' presence as of late. "Oh, darling, you're sweet. Call me Paula. Do you go to Gotham Academy as well?"
Wally locks eyes with her when she emerges from her bedroom, already racing back to the doorway where's he's still shaking her mother's hand. "No Ma'am. I, uh…"
There an awkward silence, and she finishes for him. "Wally's like me, Mom." She says plainly.
Paula blinks twice before a wide smile crosses her cheeks, as if out of all the things her daughter has accomplished it's dating a superhero that makes her the proudest; the expression is ill-suited to her features, making the prison-worn skin look almost waxy rather than attractive. "Oh, lovely." She grins. "Would you like to stay for tea?"
Before she can even open her mouth and say that there's No way in hell that's happening, Mom, Wally's kicking his shoes off. "Tea sounds great."
Paula adores Wally.
And Wally adores Paula, or at least she thinks he does; she's almost a little offended at how easily the two warm up to each other after it took so many months for her to tolerate either of them. But suddenly Wally is helping do the dishes and putting away plates in the top cabinet that neither of them can reach, and the Vietnamese music always playing is being asked about; suddenly her mother is prompting him to sing along teasingly and Paula is laughing while she shakes her head and tries to teach him proper pronunciation. For the first time in a long time the little Gotham apartment feels full of life and people and happiness.
It scares her, and she hates it.
"Mom." She groans when Paula reaches across the kitchen table to rewind the tape again, insisting that Wally tries once more to say the line he keeps fumbling with (and she's only mildly horrified, because Wally has no idea what he's actually saying and his singing is grossly out of tune.) A little peevishly she taps her pencil against her open notebook, trying to remind Wally that he has a test that he hasn't finished studying for. "We have homework to do. Shut the damn music off." She sighs, grabbing Wally's cup from his hands— it's over half empty, she tells herself, he'll need a refill soon and she isn't dumping his barely cold tea down the drain out of spite— and getting up to stalk towards the tea pot.
Paula pretends to glare at her and mercifully turns off the tape. "Watch your mouth, young lady." She says sweetly (and Wally doesn't know why the two of them are smiling and can only look a little bemusedly between them, unaware that there have been far worse words said around her kitchen table) switching from the tape player to the radio for the evening news.
"Whatever, Mom—" She says almost cheekily, glancing back at Wally and frowning when she realizes he's no longer paying attention to either of them, his head turned sharply towards the radio.
"—reports have confirmed nearly a dozen mass break outs in meta-prison facilities across the country, many of America's worst terrorists and super villains now running rampant across all fifty states. A full list of the escapees is said to include Icicle Senior and Junior, Captain Cold, Poison Ivy, Sportsmaster—"
She hears Wally's cup shatter against the floor, and realizes all too late that she's no longer holding it.
The silence in the kitchen is loud yet it's nothing compared to the thundering of her blood against her ear drums. Paula fumbles with the radio dial and twiddles it all too late, and before the reporter can even finish they're all wincing at the sound of broken static.
She feels Wally's old tea seeping through her socks, staining the white fabric. Paula's voice is high pitched and terrified, and rather than attempting to comfort her daughter she hears her announce to the kitchen as a whole that she's going for a walk.
—But Paula doesn't walk, her father had made sure of that—
The door slams shut and Wally stares at her.
She hears herself mutter something distantly but doesn't quite process what it is; she hardly feels glass crunching into her feet as she turns on her heel and sprints towards the bathroom.
Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck—
Instantly she can feel the cold sweat spreading all over her body, can feel the way her fingers and toes feel as if they're numb yet still swollen with so much blood that they're aching and tense as she pounds her feet against her carpet, can feel the terrified bile beginning to kick up at the back of her throat— but she won't let him see that, won't let Wally see her fall apart like she always does— She hears him call her name just as she reaches the bathroom, slamming the door shut so hard behind her that she rattles a few loose articles perched on the sink, muddled fingers fumbling with the lock. She needs space, she needs a second to breathe—
Except she's not breathing. Her lungs aren't working, her lips aren't parting to let anything inside her; whether from panic or lack of oxygen she can feel her vision beginning to blur, can feel the muscles of her knees shaking and can feel the scar on the back of her neck throbbing louder than the radio static in her kitchen, louder than any of her thoughts, as if it too knows— She opens her mouth as if to sob, as if to try breathing again, and suddenly she can taste her father's cigarette smoke on her tongue; before she can even screw her eyes up in disgust she's gagging, knees buckling and giving out to allow her to crouch over the toilet, mouth spewing out a mixture of tainted saliva and bile.
He's out.
Sportsmaster's out, and she's as good as dead.
Wally's calling her name again, almost hesitantly, sounding too far away to be standing outside of the door; it's suddenly as if he's afraid of her, as if he's scared of getting too close. Still feeling nauseous she reaches up to flush the toilet, eyes unable to focus on the vomit she's spit up as it disappears down the drain, scar aching but not blocking out the sound of the static in the kitchen abruptly being turned off.
Focus...
A plan.
She needs a plan.
She forces herself to pull in a breath through her nose, this time her own sick overpowering the smell of Lawrence's cigarettes as she pushes herself off of where she's been slumped against the toilet bowl; her hand drags across her mouth, pulling the messy remnants of vomit off her chin before it clatters against her stomach. She's sweating so much she can feel the back of her tee shirt sticking to her skin, her rickety mind trying to pull together information despite her anxious state.
Okay.
What does she know?
... Sportmaster is out of prison. Her father, her abuser, the man who drove Jade away, the man who sent her mother to jail, is walking the streets again.
... She put her father in prison. She betrayed him, humiliated him, and her and the boy sitting at the kitchen table are part of the Team who ensured he'd be locked up for months on end.
Lawrence will want revenge. He'll want someone to bleed for what has happened, will remember the way she had kicked him square in the jaw and the Team who had him locked up for the first time in years. She knows that she's in trouble, so is Wally. And the rest of the Team.
... But so is Paula.
... So is Jade.
She feels herself draw in a staggering breath, and even though it's all of them versus her father she still feels overwhelmed, unprepared; by now she knows not to underestimate her Lawrence, knows not to think lightly of a man with endless resources and no moral conscience. She's in danger, Wally's in danger, her friends, her family, everyone is suddenly threatened and she sitting here useless, she's—
She's crying. She's vomit covered and crying, unaware of the sudden wetness of her cheeks until she feels her own tears dribbling off her chin, warm even on her feverish skin and landing in large droplets on the swells of her breasts; without knowing how she got there she suddenly realizes she's managed to curl her shaking muscles and bones and tendons and filth into a ball on the floor of her bathroom, mucus and tears and old sick getting caught in the end of her pony tail. Her hands, missing the habit from the winter, start desperately clawing at the healed skin around her cuticles, wishing for some part of her to peel off and release.
... Wally is in danger.
This is what really scares her. Suddenly it feels as if her own heart is being ripped out of her ribs, feels as if she's staring at his ghostly pale face bleeding out in the streets of Metropolis all over again; because Sportsmaster will find out, he always does, he'll find out that this boy is her weakness and then he'll kill him and make her watch. He'll carve out Wally's heart with his javelin and force her to hold it as it fires out a few too fast dying beats. He'll kill this boy because he knows it will kill her, and only when he's broken every last piece of her through him will he give her the pleasure of being murdered... She hears herself panting, hears the gross sobbing noises she's making before she stops drawing in breath all together, wondering if it's possible to drown in the mixture of tears and phlegm rattling in the back of her throat. It's hard, trying to contain the screams of anguish she's threatening to cry out with, because here they are again, they're back to the beginning and it's too dangerous, too damn dangerous for Wally to be in love with her—
Her scar is still throbbing, the blood pounding almost painfully in her head as she yanks at her hair, trying to force herself out of her own panic; a little too savagely she pulls her head between her knees, her legs knocking violently against her temples and forcing her teeth to clatter loudly together in her ears.
She bites her tongue, hard; instantly she can taste her own blood in her mouth, can taste the memory of Wally's gunshot wound gushing past his lips and down her throat when she had kissed him, and suddenly as if she's been standing at the ready this whole time the girl from Metropolis who's built a fortress inside her seems to grab her by the shoulders, bracing her.
She's not going to lose Wally. She refuses to lose Wally.
A strange sense of calm overcomes her as she feels the familiar, wild hands sinking their nails into her heart, the feral part of her squeezing between the bars of the cage she keeps it in and seeming to fill her with its emptiness, with the cold calculation and hatred she operated under when she first joined the Team. She feels her breath coming in steady again, her knees still pressing tightly against her temples as she swallows a mouthful of her own blood, thinking. That's what she had promised herself, when Wally had turned his back on her and told her to make up her mind; she had sworn to protect this boy, sworn not to run from him anymore. She had promised to keep him safe from the horrible parts of her that would veer up their heads to hunt him. Leaving him now, even for his own sake, feels a lot like going back on her word.
... This is a game of kill or be killed.
And she's decided that Lawrence Crock won't be the only one playing.
It's as if the girl from Metropolis has been ready for this moment for far too long, her feral lips curling into a sneer as she unfurls herself from where she's been coiled, waiting; suddenly there are stolen Bialyan rifles being loaded, bullets ready to be fired into knee caps and sharpened arrows being pulled from her quiver. The fight is coming, her lips are snarling back to bear her canines and this time she's going to rip out her father's throat. She's done being a terrorized little girl, afraid of the dark.
But if this is going to work, if the girl from Metropolis is going to fight back, she needs a plan.
She needs to make sure Wally is safe.
She needs... She needs to be Artemis, for just a little while longer. Maybe the feral part inside her needs to wear her skin for just a few more moments, needs to make sure that the ever moving piece that is Wally West is contained, compartmentalized, shoved into a far back corner where he can't see or be seen, where he won't have to witness the murder of her father and the murder of the person he's in love with in the process...
The feral girl is calling Artemis into battle, and her fight is pretending nothing is wrong.
And maybe it's crazy, the way her hands are numbly rubbing her tears off her face but her mind suddenly feels clear... or maybe she's simply losing it all together, to think the best solution to the problem is to pretend nothing has happened, to simply not acknowledge that her murderous father has no doubt started his hunting for her, has probably spent the past months imagining all the ways he's going to peel her skin off her skull and shove the brittle pieces of her broken fingers into her eye sockets.
Maybe crazy is her only option. Maybe it always has been.
After all, being with Wally probably wasn't her sanest decision.
It's only been a few minutes since she came into the bathroom, her panicked mind making it feel like hours; still, she takes her time pulling herself together. When she finally gets to her feet it feels almost rhythmic, as if this were just a step-by-step process: wash her face, scrub the vomit and make up from her cheeks, brush the sick out of her mouth, re-tie her hair, stare in the mirror, do her homework, protect Wally, protect Wally, don't die, don't die, don't die, murder— When she emerges from her bathroom she doesn't feel like herself; she feels as if another person all together is inhabiting her body, forcing her to put a spring in her step and twist her mouth into a maniac smile.
Wally's on all fours when she enters the kitchen, one hand filled with the shattered pieces of his cup and the other scrubbing at her tile with a tea towel; upon her entrance he gets to his feet, one of his fingers bleeding slightly from where it's caught an edge of the glass. "I, uh—" He pauses, blinking at her, and she knows immediately that whatever effort she's put into looking normal has gone to waste; she can still feel herself sweating, her lips swollen from where she's bitten them to shreds. "I tried to clean up, I couldn't find the garbage though."
"Underneath the sink." She says, and despite the odd smile on her face her voice sound completely void of emotion.
Wally hesitates, eyes narrowing when she sits back down at the table. "... Are you okay?"
"I'm great." She says through her teeth, swallowing another mouthful of blood.
"... So we're just going to pretend this isn't happening?" Wally asks, one hand straying across the table to press against her pen, stopping the anxious tapping she's been unknowingly drumming against the table.
It's been almost an hour since her mother left. In the silence of the kitchen she can hear Gotham sirens wailing; each time they draw a little too close to the walls of the apartment her shoulders raise like the haunches of a wolf, half expecting her father to come bursting through the door.
"Nothing's happening." She says blankly, trying not to glare at the page in her book she's been stuck on for almost twenty minutes now. She wishes there was a polite way to ask him to leave her alone, or even ask him to please go back to being silent and pretending to study like they've been doing for the past half-hour; the happiness that filled the kitchen seems so far away now, like it happened in another place so much different than the one she's currently inhabiting. "I mean— nothing's changed. I-it doesn't matter."
Wally pulls his hand back and drops his eyes down to his textbook, brows furrowed. She makes it another ten seconds before she's tapping the pen against the table again. "Talk to me, Artemis."
"... Wally." She says almost too quietly, screwing her eyes up as her scar pounds along loudly with the beat she's banging into the edge of the table. "Don't. Can we just— study? Please?"
He pauses and then sighs, reaching out to grab her hand this time, fingers wrapping around hers and forcing her to release the ball point. "Tell me what you're thinking. I mean, what does this mean for—" He pauses, glancing down at her hand. "Babe, you're ice cold..."
She's not surprised to hear it; even though her skin is still feeling feverish with panic she's coated in buckets of freezing sweat, the dampness clinging to the small point of her back and forcing clamminess in the webbing of her fingers. "I'll go grab a sweater." She ignores the way Wally's eyes narrow when she extracts her hand from his.
She nearly screams when she hears his chair sliding out from the kitchen table seconds after she leaves the room, actually considering turning around and trying to knock him out when she hears him following her further into the apartment, into the darkened corner that is her bedroom. She doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to talk with him, doesn't want to answer the dozens of questions he's bound to keep asking her—What does it mean now that's Sportsmaster is on the loose, what does it mean for them? She can practically feel him waiting for her to make plans to ditch him, can feel him gearing up for another battle between them, another tug-o-war as she fights to ignore the beginning of their inevitable falling apart and he tries desperately to force them back together.
She's already at her chest of drawers and riffling through the crinkled pile of pullovers inside it when Wally pokes his head through her bedroom door; even with her back to him she can sense the way his eyes rake over the room, examining Jade's abandoned bed and her Alice in Wonderland poster as if he's mentally checking to make sure it's how he remembers it. She can hear the sound of fingers tapping a little anxiously at wood, can hear his stalled breathing as if he's about to start badgering her, hears the sound of her bedroom door being clicked shut behind him and for once her mind works fast enough.
In some sort of weird attempt at avoiding things she yanks two crinkled sweaters from the drawers. "Navy or Green?" She shoots at him.
"... What?"
"Navy or Green." She repeats, turning back to him and holding two different sweaters in her hands, her eyes slightly buggy as they stare at him with a strange intensity. "You asked what I'm thinking before—I'm thinking about which sweater I should wear."
She doesn't fault him for the stunned expression that crosses his face, brows shooting up in surprise before they furrow as the whole of his face stretches into a grimace. "... Your Dad escaped a security center designed to contain a hoard of super-criminals." He says very slowly, looking like he thinks she's lost it entirely. "... And instead of talking about it you— you want my opinion on which sweater you should wear?"
She nods violently. "Yes."
"Artemis—"
"No." She hears herself yell, a lot more haggard and broken sounding than she means to; her voice must be a lot louder than it sounds to her because Wally jumps slightly, looking as shocked as if she's just slapped him when she waves her sweaters more insistently. "I know, Wally, I'm aware of what's happening. But just because it's happening doesn't mean I have to deal with it, okay?" She snarls, running out of breath before she can finish yelling, voice cutting off with a feral pant. "Can we just... Can we just pretend we're normal teenagers for a second?"
"... I don't really—"
"Please!" She bursts out, and it's the first time she's really begged something of him; impatiently she raises a sweater filled fist up to her eyes, brushing away tears that haven't fallen yet. "... I can't do this right now, Wally." And it's true, the girl from Metropolis isn't ready for another battle just yet; despite her loaded guns and blood stained fingers she can't quite bear to talk about it, not when her strategy is so precarious. "Just pretend with me for a bit, okay?"
It's about as pathetic as she's ever felt, standing there waving pullovers at him and trying not to indulge the panic that's threatening to spill over her edges or the lurking presence beginning to linger in the cartilage of her joints. For a moment Wally's mouth opens, and she's almost sure that he's about to protest or argue with her; then suddenly his lips are sealing into a straight line and he's nodding, looking much older than sixteen. "Okay. Normal... I can do that."
She doesn't miss the way he walks, deliberately at a slow, regular human pace across the room, eyes not straying to the pile of arrows so recently sharpened on her desk. When both his hands extend to cup her chin it takes a lot of her effort not to crash into him, the feral part of her not trusting the closeness that would come with finding the hollow in the center of his chest and burrowing herself inside it. "... You look beautiful in green, Babe." He says very seriously, eyes flickering between hers before he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead.
That's what undoes her; in the midst of her half-assed pretending she can't stop herself from feeling the unnatural warmth of his lips, can't entirely turn off the strangled sounding sob bubbling out of her throat. More than anything she wants an escape, wants outside of her own invaded body and back in the happy hours of before—not just those in her kitchen, but those in her bedroom, with notebook papers flying and the only worry in her head being the fact that this amazing, whole, wonderful boy might be in love with her… She wants to get lost in him, drown in him and all the feelings he has for her that she can never reciprocate, and maybe that's why she suddenly pulls back, looking at him dangerously. "We're normal." She repeats, feeling her features hardening.
"... Right." He says uneasily, brows furring again; it's the first time he's seemed like he's actually afraid of her— but, she reminds herself, she isn't exactly Artemis anymore.
She feels herself hand over her body entirely to the desperate Metropolis girl, the one with the plans and the action and the ferocity only a dying woman can summon; as if he senses the change Wally's throat bobs, taking a step back and looking around a little wildly as if trying to find something to distract the two of them from the way her blood is suddenly thundering in her ears and sending feverish heat over her skin. "... Uh, here. You put that on and I'll put this away—"
She almost snarls like a wild cat when he ducks around her, taking the navy sweater that's been hanging limply in her hands and refolding it a bit too quickly, walking towards her set of drawers. "My mom isn't home." She says lowly, registering in the back of her mind that the words sound threatening rather than enticing; Wally, for his part, suddenly stiffens at her words, all the muscles of his back growing taught before he continues with placing her sweater back inside the drawer. "... What do you think normal teenagers would make of that?"
The drawer shuts and a muscle in Wally's neck jumps when he turns back to face her, the green sweater dropped on the floor behind her as she stalks towards him. "Uh…" He says dumbly, ears reddening. "I don't know."
"I think I do." She breathes, and he seems to have about enough restraint to take the smallest step backwards, his back hitting her drawers and jostling it against the wall.
He lets out a hiss of breath when she reaches for him, her nails digging against the side of his neck and fighting against the way he's trying to extract himself from her lunacy, looking as if he's trying to contain himself when she rakes her hands through his hair. "A-Artemis, what the hell—" He gasps out, wincing when her nail catches on the side of his face.
"Shut up." She whispers back, pulling his face to hers. It's ravenous, the way she kisses him, her teeth reaching out to bite him and her nails no doubt leaving reddened lines along his scalp; still, she finds it endearing that he can't resist her, a strangled moan bursting out of his mouth, warming her lips before she presses her mouth hungrily against his.
She forces as much of herself as she can into the kiss, as if somehow Wally can lick up the better parts of her that she's leaving behind and somehow save them for later—she needs fast, she needs a little pain, she needs the small gasp that escapes his mouth when she mashes him up against her dresser, his fingers clenching against its warbled edges and trying to press loose drawers back in place when they rattle open.
"Babe—" He gasps out, groaning when she refuses to release him, her nails digging down his neck and her tongue licking the enamel of his teeth. She hears the swear he mutters when he finally escapes, her teeth breaking the skin of his lower lip as he snaps his jaw back, panting as she jerks his head to the side and starts attacking his neck, deliberately trying to leave marks. "W-What..." He breaks off, moaning loudly when she starts palming at the stiff point of his jeans, lips firing out a gasp when she's a bit too rough with his not quite hard length.
She gets about as far as fumbling with the belt on his pants before he seems to realize what's about to happen; just as she's getting to her knees in front of him he jerks back, jostling her dresser and attempting to stop her hands as she tries to yank his pants down his legs. "Whoa." He pants, shaking slightly. "Artemis, slow down."
She doesn't sound like herself when she lets out a snarling laugh, giving up when his jeans are barely more than hanging loosely off his hips, her eyes staring hungrily at the stretch of blue cotton that's barely containing him. "That's rich, coming from you—"
Wally lets out a grunt when she starts pawing at him through his underwear, looking like he hates himself when he finally grabs her wrists. "I mean it, Artemis!" He says a little too loudly, yanking upwards until she's forced back to her feet when she doesn't stop trying to touch him. "What's wrong with you?" He gasps out, and when she makes the mistake of struggling against him it's immediately embarrassing how easily he pins her wrists behind her back, catching her off guard and managing to spin her on her heel until she's the one pinned against her drawers, her wrists aching under the tightness of his grip and her lower back digging into a painful edge of her dresser.
Despite everything she can still see the wanting in his eyes, can still feel the heat that's coursing through her veins at his closeness to her; through the pain of being shoved so tightly against a mess of edges and knobs she can still feel the way he wants her, can still taste it in the haggard breaths he's panting against her cheeks. And she's surprised too, at how badly she wants him back— she can feel it in the tightness of her jeans, can feel the way throbbing parts of her are mashed up against seams of denim and cotton and wanting to be ripped apart at their stitches...
She decides the girl from Metropolis isn't a girl at all. She's an animal.
"You're acting like a lunatic." He snarls at her, pressing so tight against her that his breath his hot on her face and she can feel him, still hard and pressing achingly against her thigh. "Just— tell me what's going on, slow down for a second—"
She can't stop the frustrated noise that bubbles up in the back of her throat, anxious to revel in the intimacy of him inside her mouth rather than in the terror of her new plan or the animosity of the person waking inside her; it's not the right thing to do but she tries to kiss him again, her lips claiming his for a second before he's jerking his face back from hers, snarling and pressing her tighter against her drawers. "Really?" She barks, letting out a sneering laugh as she opens her thighs, hating that she enjoys the way his whole body tenses as she rubs against his barely hidden shaft, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Slow down? Is that really what you want?"
For a second she's not entirely sure what he's thinking; maybe that he wants to hit her, maybe that he wants to spin her around and bend her over and take her altogether. Either way it takes too long for those violent impulses to leave the corners of his eyes, his breath still panting in her face when he releases her wrists, shoving himself off of her. "Yes." He grits out through his teeth, stalking across her bedroom and running his hands through his hair.
"You're lying." She sneers almost mockingly, because it's easier to be mad at him than hate herself.
"Of course I'm lying!" Wally yells at her, whirling back to face her; as if on cue his belt buckle jostles and they both automatically glance down to where he's sticking out of his barely undone jeans. "How could I not be, I mean—" He trails off, ears still crimson but seeming a little less angry as he re-buttons his pants "... You know I want you, Artemis. But look at you right now, Babe, you're not— I can't just… Not now. It feels like taking advantage."
"I want you to take advantage!" She bursts out, hating that he's suddenly calm, no longer looking at her with clouded eyes and growing hardness between his hips. "God, can you just— be a normal guy, for like five seconds? Why are you always so goddamn nice to me, anyway, I don't deserve it, I don't—" She snarls, practically in hysterics. "I don't want to talk, okay? I don't want to think, I just want us, I want you—"
Stupidly she charges forward, forgetting that he's done playing their pretend game of normalcy and forgotten superpowers; before she blinks he's vanished from the spot in front of her, the gust of air that follows pushing all her hair in front of her eyes. As if she's drunk she hardly skids to a stop, ankle twisting around the post of Jade's old bed and sending her crashing into her book shelf.
She cries out when she hits it, eyes stinging with tears as edges press against her ribs and her head smacks with a dull thunk against the wall; she can feel her cheeks stinging with embarrassment as several articles crash to the floor, the air in the room finally stilling as Wally skids to a stop behind her. "Artemis—" He starts, freezing when she whirls around to glare at him, practically shaking with rage and humiliation.
"Get out!" She screams at as she paws behind her, unseeingly grabbing a book and hurling it across the room at him, growling when he easily doges it.
"Babe—"
She reaches for another book and then several more, snarling and shaking as a sob bursts out of her throat when she misses him again and again, the speed of his movement sending her hair whipping about her face and making it nearly impossible to see. "Leave!" She screams, throwing things blindly around the room and chasing his too-fast figure as if hoping to attack him.
She's just managed to wrap her fingers around the lamp on her bedside table when he grabs her from behind, one of his arms wrapping so tightly around her waist that she's lifted from her feet and the other trying to stop her from tossing the lamp across the room. Predictably there's a violent struggle that involves plenty of swearing and crying on her part before his fingers manage to pry her off, and more out of spite than anything she elbows him as hard as she can in the stomach, taking too much pleasure in the way his breath puffs out into her ear. For a second all his muscles tighten in response, and before he can set her on her feet he's accidentally dropping her.
She's too upset to support her weight and doesn't care when she goes crashing to the floor, her head knocking with a jarring painfulness against her bedside table and nearly toppling the lamp Wally's just put there; she doesn't know why but the shock of the pain is what does it again, what forces the feral creature inside her to be tamed for a moment and suddenly she feels almost normal, her head aching and her skin goose pimpled and her mind no longer fogged with violence or murder but overwhelmingly with shame, humiliation, both at what she's been thinking and what she's done.
She can hear things over the sound of her pounding scar again, can hear the gurgling way she's drawing in breath, can feel her muscles spasming and shaking, and behind her she can hear Wally wheezing, diaphragm aching as he bends over at the waist, trying to force himself to breath properly again as he drags his head up to pant at her.
"Artemis—"
"Please, Wally." She says quietly, hating how broken and pathetic she sounds as she begs again, her eyes screwed up so she doesn't have to look at him from where she's lying on the floor. "Just go."
There's a hesitation before she feels the familiar rush of air, hears the sound of the window behind her opening and the clattering of the fire escape. She doesn't know why she bothers opening her eyes again, why she's surprised to see the trashed remains of her bookshelf or hear the sirens of the Gotham night filling her bedroom. All she knows is that when she stands to look out her window she doesn't really expect him to be gone.
She has enough time to look for one long moment into the smog of the Gotham city lights before her phone rings; sliding the glass pane shut she reaches into her back pocket, registering the name Oliver flashing wildly across the screen before she flips it open. "Yeah?" She says shakily, sounding badly congested.
"I have your mother." The voice through the other line says, and for a half second she almost tricks herself into hearing Sportsmaster in Green Arrow's voice; before she has enough time to be properly afraid he's charging on and speaking too quickly for it to be anyone else. "I'm coming there now for you. Is Wally still there?"
"... He left." She mutters, trying not to let the silence be too telling before her mind sudden jerks, old habits and ancient paranoia flaring to the front of her thoughts. "Wait, how did you know where I am? Or Wally? Did Paula tell you?"
In response she hears a dry sounding chuckle through the phone. "Tracer in your phone, Sweetie, so the League can track you through cell towers. You have to be sharper than that to outrun us." He pauses. "Although Paula told me about Wally, I can't take credit for that..."
Even though he's trying to be charming and comforting his voice still sends a renewed sense of anger and fear running through her; her fight with Wally has got her thinking illogically, gotten her furious at the whole world and firmly avoiding her own whirlwind of emotions. "Y-you put a tracer in my phone? Without telling me?"
"Course I did, Kaldur asked the League to as part of your revamped security a couple weeks ago; put one on your Mom's chair too—" He starts, cutting himself off before he can babble. "I'm in my car right now, stay in the apartment, okay? We don't want either of you alone there now that your father's out, not just yet—"
"I can take care of myself!" She snarls, and before he can even finish his sentence she's slamming her phone shut.
She's no better off than she was all those months ago, when she was just some kid with a sneering gaze and a hunger to prove herself; she's back to being a weak little girl that her boyfriend has to protect and her mentor has to send into hiding— nothing's changed, she's still her father's Baby Girl, still the daughter he can frighten with ghost stories and with a few well placed punches to the cheek...
Despite the shock she can still feel that feral presence inside her, can still feel the death grip the girl from Metropolis has on her through the bars of the cage she's back inside; without thinking she gives into the wild impulse still burning inside her, her fingers hardly noticing when she extracts the battery from the back of her cellphone, preventing Oliver from following the trail of pings her service provider would leave that would lead him to her. Blindly, she turns on her heel, grabbing her leather jacket off the back of a chair and yanking the hood up to hide her hair. As if knowing what she's about to do, she spots her worn out sneakers by the door, still sandy from the late summer afternoons she would spend sprinting along the Happy Harbor beach.
Her father was right about her.
She's a born runner.
She doesn't know where she's running to, or why she's running even; the streets of Gotham City are slick with the rain that's pounding against the pavement, and she nearly slips three times when she rounds corners a little too sharply. She wonders only briefly how much trouble she'll be in for disobeying a direct order from a member of the League.
She tries not to waste time on regrets, on worrying, on much of anything at all; her head feels oddly blank as she forces her feet to pound too hard against the sidewalks, every second strike to her heel sending a dull pounding up the length of her leg and lingering in her spine. She tries to ignore the sensation, tries to ignore even mapping where she's going in the city— she wants to get lost, wants to hide, wants to outrun what's coming for her (either inside her own head or out of it) and simply exist unburdened for a few more moments...
Because that's what this is. Her father coming back, hunting her; it's a burden that she's been living without for months, one whose weight she's no longer strong enough to carry. She's been borrowing time from another person, stealing moments from another girl who doesn't have to second guess her blonde hair or double count her arrows; now that her past has come back to haunt her and dismember her and bury her in an unmarked grave under an overpass all over again she's suddenly realizing that she'll never, ever, be strong enough to fight it off entirely.
Her jeans are soaking wet, damp denim sticking to the creases of her knees and slicing into her thighs as she runs, but she won't stop— she'll never stop running, never, no matter how much her lungs ache or how much phlegm she coughs up, no matter how many head lights flash at her as she spits mucus and dribbles it down her front...
She rounds another corner and this time her shoulder catches on something; she hears another voice cry out as she's sent stumbling, a stray paper bag of groceries and an umbrella clattering to the ground as she collides with the edge of a building. She hears a predictable amount of Gotham choice swearing as she stumbles, hard, to the ground.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Someone snarls at her as she tries to get to her feet; she's hit her head more than once tonight, this time her impact on the pavement leaving her dazed and slightly dizzy—but, she thinks thankfully, the pain seems to be sending the Metropolis girl into hiding, as if despite her tough exterior she's afraid of truly getting her hands dirty, and suddenly the fingers that are holding her through the bars of the cage pull back, leaving her shaking and panting but free. "... Are you alright?" The gruff voice asks hesitantly when she does little more than wobble on the ground, bracing herself on all fours. She winces when someone yanks her hood off her head, her pony tail becoming instantly soaked as it falls down her shoulder, pooling in a puddle of rain and filth between her palms.
"Jesus Christ, Artemis?"
She jerks her head when the guy bending beside her says her name; her vision is still a little wonky and the rain is coming down hard, forcing her to squint. "Roy?" She snarls out.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He asks her, looking clean shaven and shocked as he tries to help her to her feet; still shaking and out of breath she hears herself let out a feral sounding hiss, jerking away from him when he tries to help her up and accidentally hammering into the building she's just collided with again.
"In Gotham City?" She snarls, pressing her palm against the wall and trying to force herself upright; her muscles are still twitching from the intensity of her running and won't quite let her manage on her own. "I live here, asshole. What the hell are you— Oh my god." She cuts herself off when the corner of Roy's mouth twitches upwards. "... You're seeing her. You're seeing Jade?"
She must sound hysterical because his smirk only half flickers up; as if he can sense there's something bigger going on he bends to pick up the groceries she's spilt, hands fumbling with a half opened container of some sort of pre-made pasta dish. "Come on, Sweetheart. Answer the question." He pauses, glancing once at a broken jug of milk that's leaking all over the sidewalk and not bothering to pick it up before he looks her in the eye. "... Seems like a weird place for a jog. You running from something in particular?"
"I—" She starts, not knowing how to finish. "... No."
Roy replaces the umbrella over his head, not bothering to share it with her as he steadies his jostled bag of groceries. "... You've always been a shitty liar, you know that? I don't know how anyone ever thought you were GA's niece." She must have grimaced at her mentor's name because suddenly his eyes narrow, watching as she shakes and keeps trying to get properly to her feet. "... What? Is he trying to con you into dinner or something? Trying to play the whole daddy-dearest act again?" He pauses. "... Are you drunk?"
"No." She says quickly, his last words stirring the memory up in her mind (Roy drunk on her couch, Jade in her kitchen and making her tea and all her hatred for the Cheshire Cat mask hissing to her surface) and suddenly making the spasm of fear she had felt hours ago for Jade feel out of place, oddly rooted deep inside her, so much so that all her muscles clench in discomfort, at last allowing her to stand steadily, free from the wall. Stupidly her toes flex against the pavement, telling her to turn on her heel and start running again as her stomach squirms, weaving tightly around one word: Sisters.
Before she can stop herself she realizes she's panting again, words tumbling out of her mouth before she can pull them back inside her. "Look— can you just tell Jade something? From me?" She says quickly, the words tasting bitter on her tongue as she takes a couple steps back wards, as if trying to sneak away. "She'll probably know in a few hours anyway, or whatever, but... Can you just warn her that Dad's out of prison? Just let her know, please?"
"What?" Roy stiffens when she says it, but she doesn't stick around long enough to read the shock on his face; he only has time to yell out her name angrily before she's sprinting away, unable to be called back.
She runs until her muscles are aching and there's a soreness in her bones that she doubts will ever really disappear. She runs until her wet hair is matted against her forehead and her clothes are practically dripping off her, until the sun breaks the city blocked horizon and until she realizes that she's somehow managed to find her way back to her part of the city.
She doesn't want to go back to the apartment, where her mother and Oliver and maybe even Black Canary are huddled in her darkened living room, trying her cell phone every few minutes and mentally rehearsing what they're going to yell in her face when they finally find her— about how she's being reckless, how she's being as impulsive and illogical as she was when they first found her running wild on the Gotham streets and living in chaos and homemade arrow-heads. She can't go back to that, can't face their disappointed looks and concern...
Going to the apartment means facing the fact that her father is really out, and somehow seeing her own fear etched in someone else's face makes it feel more real than anything planned by the feral girl inside her.
Instead she finds herself throwing the door open to an abandoned looking phone booth, exhausted fingers tapping out the digits she's known by heart for a while now.
The Cave.
Home.
She isn't stupid and neither is Oliver; she knows he's probably checking the zeta tube logs, will see that she was here and will know where she was going. He'll know where to find her and he'll know that she's safe.
Still, before she thinks of her bedroom and of the sun bursting across the Rhode Island shore, before her molecules to scramble and she allows herself to give in to the sensation of weightlessness, she reaches into a hidden pocket on the inside of her jacket, extracting the cellphone battery she's somehow managed to keep dry. She hesitates a moment before popping it in, leading whatever is coming right to her.
She's not surprised when she's summoned to Black Canary's office the next morning.
Maybe she's pressing her luck, or simply being bratty, when she takes her time getting there; she can sense a glaring gaze through the security cameras as she takes an unnecessarily long route to get there, walking down winding hallways and back tracking more than once. Defiantly she makes a point to lock eyes with each one she passes, staring unblinkingly at the glowing red light that seems to follow her.
Strangely she doesn't meet anyone on her whole walk there; she supposes it's still early in the day but it's still odd, a building so full of people and so empty around her. She wonders if that's perhaps intentional, if her friends are being kept hidden from her.
She knocks once, hard, against Canary's door, glancing coldly at the camera beside it and wondering if she's still being watched. Not waiting for someone to answer her she shoves the door open.
She's also not surprised to see Oliver and Canary inside, both hovering behind her desk and talking in hushed tones; she hardly gives them much more than a glance before her eyes are pulled to a darkness in the corner of the room, lit up by only the bluish light of a computer screen. With a pang in her stomach she realizes that Batman himself is present, her shock no doubt showing on her face as the formidable mask turns her way, whatever he's saying abruptly cutting off.
"... I'll leave you three to it." He says to the room at large in his typically gravelly voice, and she feels about three feet tall when he swishes by her, and half repelled and half in awe she catches herself slouching, as if afraid of touching him or his cape despite the spaciousness of the door frame.
The door clicks shut just as Oliver's eyes narrow at her, and she's already started grimacing before he utters in a cold tone, "Sit."
She's expecting it, when he finally gets the nerve to yell at her; there's a lot of raving about being worried and scaring him half to death accompanied by the bristling of his moustache. She tries her best to keep a stony expression the whole while, to keep her posture rigid in the over filled chair— she only loses focus once, when Oliver waves his hand a little too enthusiastically in the general direction of her face, and suddenly before she can stop herself she's flinching, as if expecting an impact, the movement silencing him before his hand falls limply at his side and he glances a little helplessly at Canary.
"Dinah..." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose; it takes her a second to realize that he must be calling Black Canary by her real name rather than her alias, because immediately Canary rises from her spot behind the desk and moves to fill the chair opposite her. "You take over. I need a minute."
Canary settles and almost then hesitates, one crimson lip drawing up into her mouth and being pinched for a half second by her pearly teeth before she starts talking. "... Why did you run?"
"I don't know." She says lowly; unlike most things she's ever uttered in this office it's the truth.
Canary— or Dinah, she supposes— narrows her eyes at her, leaning forward to press her elbows against her knees. "Yes you do, Artemis. You had just received orders from a member of the League— your mentor— telling you to stay where you were." She says fiercely, staring her down and reminding her suddenly why Canary is one of the best interrogators in the Justice League. "... Tell me why you ran."
"I don't know!" She repeats, beginning to get frustrated. "I just did... I couldn't be there anymore. I hate that apartment, the whole place stinks of Sportsmaster— Look, I know I disobeyed orders. Just give me a slap on the wrist so I can leave, okay?"
"You don't get the luxury of disobeying orders, Artemis." Canary insists, voice steady despite the look of annoyance on her face. "You lost that the day you joined the Team. When you wear that mask, on or off duty, you're a soldier. And soldiers who disobey orders get themselves killed— Batman wanted us to make it clear that this can't be a reoccurrence in the future. You disobey orders again and you're off the Team. End of story."
She feels her mouth fall open in surprise, her lips quickly pulling back into a snarl as she tries to sit up, her backside sinking into the leather. "Off the— God, nothing happened—"
"That's not what Roy said." Dinah interrupts. "He called us last night, said you looked like you were trying to outrun the devil himself when he saw you—"
A disgusted noise sounds in her throat, her nails practically clawing at her arm rests as her eyes find Oliver's. "Been talking with Speedy, have you?" She snarls at him. "So what, Roy can literally be sleeping with the enemy but I can't go for a jog at night?"
He scowls. "Roy's a big boy, he can handle himself—"
"And I can't?"
"That's not what I meant." Oliver raises his voice again, standing from his chair and glowering at her. "You scared me Artemis. I told you explicitly to stay where you were so I could keep you safe—"
"Why do you care?" She spits out. "I'm not your kid, or something!"
As she says it she can sense that she's crossed some sort of line; for a moment all the anger on Oliver's face drops entirely, blank eyes staring at her with hurt etched into his crows feet before his glower returns and seems to double with disgust. "... You're right. You're not my daughter." Oliver says in a cold voice, glaring at a few stray sheets of paper on Canary's desk before he clears his throat.
Despite the fact that she's still angry she feels a shocking spasm of guilt at the hardness on his face, his moustache framing a frown. "Oliver." She says, narrowed eyes widening and glancing at Dinah for help. "... I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"You're dismissed, Artemis."
She immediately bites her tongue again, reopening the wound from the previous evening and flooding her mouth with blood like it did the night before. "... Fine." She sneers, stalking towards the door and taking care to slam it shut behind her.
She calls Wally twice and neither time he picks up. She figures it's for the best, because she doesn't really know what to say.
Kaldur finds her in the kitchen when she's brewing tea, oddly not replying when she greets him and instead seizing a mug from the cupboard, holding it out to her expectantly. "You are making tea, yes?" He says stiffly.
"…Yeah." She says in a slightly dumb voice, taking the mug from his hand when he gestures to her with it, her brows raising when she lowers the kettle over the leaves he's shoved inside. "… You okay?"
"I am fine." He says back unconvincingly, not allowing the leaves to even sit for a moment before he's slugging back the hot liquid, pulling back with a wince. "… It is Tula and Garth's anniversary today." He says plainly through swollen lips.
Despite her own bad mood she instantly feels her heart sink for him, her fingers curling around her cup just so she can touch something warm. "I'm sorry, Kal..."
"There is nothing to apologize for." He sighs, trying to sip at his tea again and scowling when the steam warms his face. "… I simply thought it might be better if I spent time with someone who… Was not a guest. Unless you are otherwise preoccupied? Perhaps with Wally?"
She hesitates. "No. I'm not busy."
Kaldur's eyes narrow when she bites the inside of her cheek, and as if he can suddenly see clearly inside her head he blinks, looking serious. "… Am I correct in assuming that you heard the news of the recent prison breaks?"
She sighs; it's always been easier to talk to Kaldur. "Yeah, both of us heard last night."
He nods. "I am glad. I must admit, I was dreading the possibility of becoming the bearer of bad news. You have seemed so happy lately, I would have hated to… burst your bubble, as it were."
She doesn't know why but she chuckles dryly; it's always funny to hear Kaldur try to use modern slang, especially in his thick Atlantean tone. "Well, one less thing for you to worry about then. But… I don't know." She pauses again, staring into the depths of her cup for a moment before she sighs. "... I guess I knew he wasn't going to stay locked up forever. I don't know why I'm so screwed up over it."
Kaldur simply looks at her, brows narrowing. "I do not understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"... You do not seem screwed up, in the meaning I am familiar with." Kaldur says plainly, pausing to survey her across the kitchen island. "... You are worried? Frightened?"
"No." She says almost defensively, lying quickly and hiding in the slug she takes of her drink. "I— I don't know how to explain it. I found out last night and I just... freaked out. And Wally had to deal with it, and I kind of... I kind of took off on Green Arrow in a way he didn't appreciate. I just made a lot of people angry with me in a short amount of time. And I don't really know how to fix it."
"Hm." Kaldur muses, staring at her unblinkingly above the rim of his cup. "… I am afraid I am not going to be of much help, never having dealt with a villainous father myself."
He pauses when she snorts, slugging what's left of her tea back and setting her empty cup in the sink. "Great time to develop a sense of humor, Kal."
Kaldur shakes his head at her, fighting the corners of his lips when they quirk up into a toothy smile. "Come. I believe it is finally warm enough to walk along the shore."
"So." Kaldur begins as they drag their feet through the sand, glancing upwards as a wayward drop of rain falls from the sky. "Sportsmaster is loose again."
"Yeah." She sighs, turning her head automatically to look towards the clouded horizon, watching a grey foamed wave crash against the shore before she replies. "He is."
He hesitates for some reason, as if waiting for her to say more, frowning slightly when she doesn't elaborate. "… You do not have to pretend, Artemis. It is alright to be afraid."
She feels the whole of her face pinch into a scowl, one foot reaching out to kick a stray rock, squinting to watch its progress rolling across the sand. "I'm not afraid." She lies again, as if hoping that the more she says the words the more true they'll become. "I guess I just feel... These last couple months, with the Team, with Wally… It was almost like I was free, or untouchable… I guess I just wish I had made better use of my time."
"How could you have made better use of your time?"
She shrugs. "I don't know—spent more time training? Preparing for this moment? … Or maybe just spent less time worrying and more with Wally." She swallows dryly, a stray thought occurring to her in the silence. "... I wish I had just let him kiss me on New Years Day. I wish I hadn't spent so much time trying to push him away, or being stubborn... Whatever, I don't know what I'm trying to say."
Kaldur's head swivels from where he's been gazing out towards the water, frowning. "You sound as if you are considering leaving him." He says carefully.
"No." She says too quickly, neck aching with the speed she turns to look at him. "No, I mean… Of course not. I just wish…" She sighs, not quite knowing how to word it, shrugging under the scrutiny of his gaze and putting her chilled hands into her jean pockets.
"… You wish you hadn't allowed yourself to be so burdened." He finishes for her, going back to squinting towards the clouds. "Perhaps you wished you had made a better use of your time before reality set in, or that you had allowed yourself to live more fully when it was easier to do so?"
"Yeah." She nods at the water.
Kaldur looks as if he's suddenly aged a thousand years when he sighs. "I understand how it is, living the kind of life we do, the necessity of some sacrifices… But you must also understand, Artemis. You are not your family. I have fought beside you for the better part of a year now, and that could not be more obvious."
"I know that." She says impatiently, frowning. "I know, Kaldur, that's not the point—"
"I am aware." He cuts her off, looking stern. "You miss my point. Your father, your sister… They are cowards, Artemis. It is why they fight for the side that they do, why they commit their crimes… The only thing you are guilty of is your own second-guessing. You forget too often how brave you are."
She can feel her scowl deepen, still glaring out at the ocean. "... I was a coward last night though. Oliver and Wally... I ran from both of them, Kal. I wasn't brave."
"Sometimes it is easier to run from those with the best intentions." He says gravely. "... I said you were brave, Artemis, not clever."
She hears herself snort out a laugh and Kaldur chuckles too, jaw dropping as he grins at his feet. "Forgive me. I have been… I have been questioning my own decisions, lately. Especially that of becoming Aqualad." His lips purse, reading the look on her face when she glances at him. "Do not mistake me—I do not regret it. I simply… Sometimes I wonder if that was my own cowardice, leaving Tula. Even my own parents…"
He falls silent again and she can practically feel her ears quirking with interest. "Your parents?"
"I suppose I have never mentioned them— My mother, Sha'lain'a, was a high priestess in the Atlantean city-state of Shayeris… My father was a surface-worlder genetically altered by the villain Black Manta, employed to infiltrate Atlantis as a water breather." In his pause she feels a small ripple of fear sound through her; even though the name Black Manta is unfamiliar to her ears she can still sense the hatred in Kaldur's voice, the anxiety just uttering the name fills him with.
"My mother is a creature of extraordinary beauty: her skin is nearly as golden as her hair—you reminded me quite a bit of her when we first met, if you will pardon the compliment. My father took one look at her and turned his back on villainy, made the deadly mistake of betraying Black Manta… He was dead not long after their wedding night." Kaldur pauses again, glaring out over the ocean. "Perhaps I am simply being a sentimental fool. Perhaps my father was also being foolish, I am unsure. Maybe I am being idealistic… Or maybe I should have stayed behind with Tula."
"Kal." She says quietly, reaching out to place an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "… Look, if things are meant to work out… They're going to work out, okay?"
"I could easily say the same about your worries." Kaldur smiles gently, not showing his teeth. "You are too good of a listener, Artemis. Why is it that whenever you come seek counsel in me it is always me that ends up seeking counsel in you?"
"Bad luck, I suppose." She grins back, glancing up at the sky when it lets another couple rain drops fall on the two of them.
Not long after Kaldur mutters something about the library and she's left alone on the shore.
The sand feels cold when she sits on it; it's a different kind of cold than in February, when she and Wally had sat in this exact spot and asked each other stupid questions to fill the time. Back then the beach still had a coating of dry snow on it, the leaves still stripped from the branches behind her. Now the cold sprinkling of late-March rain is dampening the sand, sending a chill through her skin and an ache in her leg that tells her that summer isn't quite here, not yet.
She doesn't know how long she sits there for, staring aimlessly out at the dreary water and thinking about what Kaldur had told her; how she's brave, how she lets her stubborn mind get in the way of her good heart. She thinks of his parents, thinks of the unknown soldier and his Atlantean wife, thinks of their lovelorn son. Most of all she thinks about Wally, thinks of the disgusting thing inside her that drove him away like it always does. She can still feel her, the feral girl, curled up and waiting in the cage where she keeps her, and she wonders if she'll ever be cowardly enough to release her again.
She wonders what she'll do when she sees her father.
Without knowing how it got there she realizes her phone is being clenched tightly in her hand, and before she can even process her whitened knuckles she's scrolling through her phone contacts.
He must be screening her calls because she only hears a quarter of a ring before it goes straight to voicemail, Wally's voice loud and happy in her ear. "You've reached the Wallman. Leave me a message and I'll call back in a flash!"
She hears herself let out a weak sounding laugh, the sound catching as the automated voice on the other line talks blankly at her. She hears the beep and realizes too late that her throat is a bit too tight to speak.
"—Hey. It's me." She bursts out, wincing at the barely concealed weakness in her voice; suddenly it seems like too long ago that he was whispering those words into her bedroom door, trying to coax her into opening up and allowing him and his bloodshot eyes inside. She wonders if he'll be able to hear the ocean through the speaker, wonders if he'll be able to tell who she's just talked to and whose advice she's acting on. As if to block it out she drops her head to her knees, pressing her phone tight to her ear.
"... I'm sorry about last night, Wally." She says after a second. "I shouldn't have... I don't know why I did it, okay? I was acting crazy, I—" Her voice catches and she finds she has to a pause for a moment to stop the wobbling of her lower lip. "You were right. We should have talked, we should have... Well, we shouldn't have been doing what I was trying to do."
The wind picks up, her pony tail streaming out over her shoulder like a white flag, and she hears herself sighing into the receiver. "... Please call me back. I'm so sorry, just please— talk to me." She finishes quickly, hanging up before she has the chance to get really desperate and say something stupid.
The water crashes against the shore and the wind whirls speckled droplets of air onto her skin. She stays on the beach because feeling cold is better than feeling nothing at all.
AN: Thanks for all the reviews! I honestly wasn't expecting such a big response to my return, nor was I expecting so many well wishes for the semester! I'm getting around to replying to everyone, just know that I appreciate the time it takes to sit down and tell me what you think. What a great welcome back!
(For those of you who are asking me questions about plot/requesting to see certain things under the Guest mantle, just know I see those too but won't reply to them on here, should they spoil the story. Thank you for your suggestions and reviews though!)
Read and review, read and tell me what you want to see, or read and cuss me out for posting yet another angsty chapter. Makes me happy either way, and might just make me post quicker too!