AN: Apologies for the late update; there's been a lot going on and this has sat in my outbox for far too long. Enjoy the chapter!
Like it always does when she falls apart time seems to simultaneously burst into speed and slow down; she feels as if the whole world is spinning, no longer under her feet but instead around her, consuming her from the outside in. For a long time it feels as if the anxious buzzing has escaped her head, the frightening whirring of thoughts leaking out her ears and twisting everything in sight into a flurry of color, of emotion, of sound. The only thing that feels real is the rapid pounding of her pulse, thrumming angrily against her skin and seeming to echo in the spaces between her bones.
Breathe.
Focus.
("In and out." Wally tells her, ghostly breath warming her neck. She senses chapped lips brushing against her ears and feels her skin burst into goose pimples. "Breathe, Artemis. In and out with me." She knows it isn't real but still feels too-warm fingers dragging her wrist to the column of his neck, where his pulse is pounding under his jaw. "It's okay. Listen to my heart beat, okay? Breathe with me. In and out. In and out together."
Garfield's fingers switch from scratching at the side of her face to clawing at her sunburnt shoulders; the pain is so startling and intense that it forces her eyes open, her senses dragging random pieces of her surroundings into focus. Her heart is exploding, her head faint from not breathing, the sensation of the ground gone even though she knows there is dirt beneath her knees and a little boy screaming in her arms—
It takes nearly a minute, but slowly some things start to jump out at her, more solid as she sees them emerge from the blur of color: the strange greenish-blue hue of Marie's skin when Connor lays her on the sand, her horrifying likeness to M'gann; the contrast of congealed blood and the trees, of red metal and dirt; the sound of tears dribbling down cheeks and the feeling of tiny limbs struggling to fight her off...
She doesn't want to see anymore.
And even though she knows she is too old and too strong to want such things she suddenly can't help but crave a different kind of blurriness; for the first time in a long time she longs for that lost moment in the Bialyan desert, the first time she could ever remember wanting to run away from her whole existence. More strongly than she has since the last time she saw him she wants Wally; wants him here to take her away, wants him here to hold her, to tell her she won't have to deal with this— because even at fifteen and sixteen they can still be children if they want to, they can still run away from the wreck of a life they were guaranteed the moment they first placed symbols on their chests—
("I can't do this." She wants to shout the words until they drown out Garfield, until they burst ear drums, until it's loud enough to somehow call Wally to her side. She can't do this. She gives up. She wants to go home, she wants a cup of tea and for someone else to deal with her demons, her ghosts, with the brokenness that's inside her. "I can't do this." She repeats, saying the words over and over inside her head until the meaning is tattooed on her ligaments. "I can't do this.")
("Yeah, you can." Wally whispers. They are playing chess and she wants to give up, bored and losing badly. The day is overcast, clouds reflecting off the water when she looks out their window. "Don't be stupid. You can do it.")
The dirt returns under her feet when she starts breathing again. She's vaguely aware of the locked nature of her limbs, how panic has made them like a bone and wire cage.
("In and out." Wally tells her, but this time she doesn't long to feel him, doesn't allow his ghost to touch her. "In and out together.")
She breathes again, the air in her lungs stirring phlegm. Although she wants to throw up she will not. It is not her time to panic.
The world spins, wildly and uncontrollably, and no matter how loudly Garfield screams and sobs Marie Logan remains dead.
(She can't do this.)
She's not equipped for grief, doesn't know how to comfort; she feels as helpless as she did when she was ten years old, watching her own mother's battered shell be bloodied and hauled away from her that horrible Gotham night. Except this time there is no back alley to escape down, no Jade to follow when she wants to disappear into the darkness. Instead she is forced to bear the load like a soldier, sterile and disinfected.
(She can't do this.)
Even the inside of her head feels blurry; she can feel trauma setting in, burrowing under her skin and waiting for her to feel it. Although she can sense part of her retreating into the shadowy depths of her mind she knows she can't indulge it, can't submit to the too-human emotions of grief and pain when there are decisions to make and no one else to make them. Distantly she registers herself asking some sort of question, looking on helplessly when M'gann trembles and Connor listens for a pulse all of them know isn't there.
(She can't do this.)
Garfield's shrieking seems to become a part of her, as in-sync to her existence as her own heart beat— she feels it thrumming through her veins as she lifts him in her arms, feels its pain in the way his little hands fight her when she removes him from the shore of his mother's watery grave. The screaming pounds through her feet and into the sand as she starts the trek back to the sanctuary, which now feels more like hell than anything else.
"Mom!" The little boy yells, sounding more childlike and shattered than ever before as she squirms in her arms. "Mom!"
("... Mom?" She had whispered; Jade had shoved by her, already gone, as Paula's blood dribbled over the uneven pavement and into a sewage drain.)
She feels as if she's slipping down a nightmarish rabbit hole, being buried under the weight of age-old grief; Garfield snarls and claws at her, nails digging at the corners of her eyes and drawing blood down her neck. He screams for his mother, screams for M'gann, screams at her to let go of him. She does her best to tuck his head under her neck, trying not to gasp out in pain when he bites into her like a wild animal.
She knows she will have to be the one to tell him; she knows it is worse, far worse, to be a child and never have these things explained to you. Sometimes you need to hear the truth of it before your mind can process what your grief already knows.
(She can't do this.)
Her muscles are tired but she keeps walking, knowing the moment is coming. When she finally speaks she registers that she's bitten a swollen line into the inside of her cheek. "... She can't hear you, Gar." She says quietly, the words burning the backs of her teeth when they come out, like acid in her stomach being spit onto the ground. "... She's gone, okay? She's dead."
Garfield goes limp, his last scream dying as quickly as if she'd just slit his throat. Although he doesn't say anything more she feels tears staining her collar bone.
The next few hours pass in an almost dream-like fashion, time spurring on in its strange way. The League is called, as are the dusty patrol cars of the local law enforcement. By the time the sun disappears behind the horizon Marie's body is placed in a plastic bag and shoved firmly out of sight.
She tries her best to stay out of the way, instead hovering awkwardly between door frames and trying her best to block out snatches of conversations; she can't stand to listen to the sound of M'gann's sobs into Connor's shirt, or look at the blank expression on Garfield's young face as he stares, waxy and unseeing, at empty stretches of paint on the wall. People try to ask them questions that don't make sense and force her to repeat her last conversation with Marie so many times she's sure she'll never forget it.
"I'm supposed to be meeting— someone— soon... Just a friend up in town..."
Hours later she sits alone, long after the local sheriff and the League have disappeared into the darkness, hating that the quiet doesn't offer any relief. In the silence she can feel the sterility inside her beginning to stain, can feel all her coldness unthawing as panic sets in; the quiet of the night seems to only be broken by the sound of the oryxs shifting in the barn, a soft thrum of animal noises, wondering where their dinner has gone to, oblivious to the fact that their care taker is dead, unknowing that at this very moment there's arrangements being made to bury her five feet underground...
She closes her eyes, head automatically leaning back to press against the wall of the barn; on the other side she can hear more soft noises, no doubt her sitting just outside has been noticed by the hungry animals inside. The ground here is strangely warm after a hot day, seeming to thaw her limbs in a way that she doesn't feel; dirt and sand cling to the sweat on the backs of her knees as she pushes her legs into the ground, quietly wishing to be buried alive.
(She can't do this.)
She presses her fists against the tops of her thighs, the dirt on her hands leaving imprints above her knees as her nails curl into her skin. Even though he isn't here, even though he's been silent for hours now she can still hear Garfield's screaming; she doubts she'll ever fully erase the memory. It will be one of those things that stay with her months, even years after.
How many of those things does she have now?
Too many. Far too many, for fifteen short years.
And at the age of nine, now Garfield has one too.
She can feel the emotion rising in her throat and automatically her hand moves through the dirt to find the pocket of her jeans, clenching tightly at the denim and feeling the familiar outline of her cellphone; when she takes it out she's not surprised to see the blaring No Signal flashing across the screen the same way it has been since they first arrived. It's stupid, wanting to talk to someone— she doesn't know who she would call, even if she could.
... That's a lie, of course. More than once her thumb has ticked through her contacts, taking inventory. Kaldur, maybe— although she's sure he's already aware of what's happened. Dick, or Zatanna, too...
Her stomach squirms; she knows who she almost wants to call. As she thinks it she scrolls absently, pausing for a half second.
Baywatch flashes once before her eyes, so bright in the darkness that she squints. Scowling, closes the contact list. She wonders if Wally would even answer.
No, she knows who she would call if she could, who she wants to talk to more than anyone— perhaps it's just taken the trauma of the night, perhaps its some old childhood instinct she's half forgotten. The barn feels too hard on her back and overwhelmingly she thinks of her own mother, of the stiffness of her wheelchair on the few occasions she's hugged her, and suddenly she wants to talk to her so badly she could burst. A mother would know what to say, how to comfort Garfield— and better yet, would know how to comfort her.
(She can't do this.)
She shoves her phone back in her pocket, curling her knees into her chest; despite the warmth of the air and the dirt she still feels cold, frozen in some places... Would Paula even know what to say? How can she? Things have been so... Broken, since Lawrence got out. The silence in the apartment has been so loud, the absent look in her mother's eyes more pronounced... They've hardly talked since Oliver came and tried to clear the air. Granted, things haven't exactly been great, ever— even before her father was out there was something between them, a five year old ulcer that seemed to grow in the years prison kept them apart. From here, oceans away, it almost seems irreparable— and how can it be? How can anyone pretend that five years of nothing isn't a big deal?
... But Paula's always tried, at least until Lawrence was a threat again. That's the truth, isn't it? Her mother had tried her best to tear down barriers, to cover up the cigarette burns in the carpet, to fill the empty walls... She's the one who's been putting up boundaries, the one who sneaks around and hides things... Why is it like that, anyway? Is it guilt, for becoming what she did in her mother's absence? Or is it resentment, for being left in the first place?
(Or is just that she's her father's daughter, and Paula can never save her from that?)
She winces at the bile rising in her throat, pushing her platinum hair behind her ears— in the few weeks they've been here it's grown a lot, now just long enough to tuck back off her face. She can feel her mind overflowing with buzzing, the sinister girl inside her beginning to claw at her insides.
(It takes a certain kind of screwed up person to only realize they love their mother when someone else's mom is dead.)
There's the sound of voices several yards to her right, a mix of words unfamiliar to her ears and broken English ones; she doesn't have the energy to move, to reveal herself or hide from her quarry around the other side of the barn. She hears boots crunching in the dirt and the sound of fingers being run along wooden planks before the speaker bursts into something she can understand.
Talking, and then some sparse English. "... Is that what they are saying?"
More unintelligible words and shuffling before another voice sounds out, lower than the first. "... Justice League. Americans. It is impossible to be sure of the real story."
"But Marie Logan only had one child—"
"Two. You have seen her daughter. The resemblance is... Uncanny."
Behind the buzzing in her mind she can feel herself growing more alert, muscles tensing where she's sitting; her fingers seem to clench into the dirt as the two officers argue in their native Quarac tongue for a moment, no doubt trying to figure out who her and Connor are and why the death of a local has prompted Justice League intervention. After a while the two voices mutter into silence before starting again in their strange English, apparently having reached no conclusions otherwise. "... There was no suicide note."
"The woman had been living here for years. She knew our roads. Nobody simply drives off a cliff—"
She can hear the two officers switch back into their Quarac tongue, arguing again as they walk off into the night; at once she can feel anger boiling about her temples, her fingernails cutting though the dirt and pressing painfully into her palms. Marie Logan? Commit suicide?
The thought alone is insulting, so much so that she's seized by the wild impulse to get to her feet and run after the Quarac officers, cursing; although her knowledge of the older woman is limited she knows that Marie would never take her own life. She had too much to live for— she loved Garfield, lived for the animals at the sanctuary, had adorec M'gann— then suddenly her stomach twists and she feels her fingers relax, pressing deeper into the dirt beneath her.
She remembers the story of the lonely girl who had hidden in the desert and hates that a flicker of doubt bursts to the front of her mind.
... Marie Logan had been lonely, she had said it herself; as she thinks it she leans forward, legs curling in and chin resting on her knees. And she had been terrified that Garfield's real father would track them down and demand something of them... But in running away to hide in the desert she had effectively chained herself here... She can see how it looks to the police: single mother, all the pressure... But she would never kill herself. Marie Logan wouldn't do that—
An oryx mulls out a low grunt when she jerks her head up, knocking her skull loudly against the aged wood. Marie had been meeting someone in town, that's the last thing she had said before she had disappeared that morning— and Garfield had said that there weren't a ton of local people she would be meeting, so the visitor would have to be an outsider—
She inhales sharply, breathing in the scent of sand and sweet grass that does nothing to calm her. It's a coincidence, surely— but in the few seconds it weaves between the buzzing in her mind the thought seems to fit in an almost blood curdling fashion, all her other senses and logic so scrambled by exhaustion and panic that they won't allow it otherwise... Because no matter how she pieces it together—
No. No. No—
She screws her eyes shut, feeling a small part inside her fall apart.
What if Sportsmaster killed Marie?
What if that's who the older woman had been meeting in the city— a rugged stranger who was no doubt as good at manipulating her as he had been his daughter, whose charms had managed to conceal the fact that he was a murderer. Who else could it be? He was close by enough— just in Bialya, it would be easy to attack someone this close to the border and then make an escape—
The thought wells inside her as she screws her eyes shut, the insurmountable pressure of grief and misery seeming to build hard against her temples. But why though? The voice inside her head that often speaks in Wally's voice seems to perk up with interest, challenging her. Why would Sportsmaster kill Marie? She feels as if she's missing part of the puzzle, something hovering just beyond the extension of her peripheral vision. What reason would he, or the Light for that matter, have for killing an innocent woman?
Was Marie linked to them in some way?
And suddenly, before she can quite catch up to it, the buzzing in her head seems to pulse, slapping so hard against her skull that one of her hands flies up to press against her forehead, anxiety and panic welling up out of her and bursting forward with thought. Was it simply because Lawrence knew she was here, knew she had grown attached to the woman... Had he killed her as some sort of signal? To remind her of his power? To remind her that he was hunting her, to tell her that he's coming for her, that he'll kill anyone he needs to before he gets to her—
She can feel her mind racing, her heart pounding manically in her veins— This is her fault. This is all her fault.
She can feel her limbs seizing up, her breath faltering; the panic she's been forcing at bay all day seems to surge inside her, licking her insides like fire and burning her from the inside out. This is all her fault. Marie is dead and Garfield is motherless and M'gann is crying and this is all her fault—
Lawrence is coming, she's sure of it, hunting her like he once hunted Jade. She needs to leave; she's putting everyone in danger— And she can't be bothered with packing, can't return to the house; she's got to go it alone now, she had to leave immediately. There will be no goodbyes, no explanations— This is all her fault. All her fault. Stupid, worthless, pathetic—
She needs to leave, needs to get out of here before her father comes and kills them all; the urgency is there, hard and painfully sharp in her mind, but for some reason the impulse isn't translating to her limbs. Instead of getting up she can feel all her muscles tightening, panic setting in the longer she sits there, hands shaking as they find their way to her hair, tugging pieces out of scalp and trying to force herself to focus...
She can feel imaginary hands choking her, pressing down on her throat and cutting off oxygen, a small squeaking noise firing out of her trembling lips. She needs to run. She needs to leave, because if she stays she will get everyone killed— she will get everyone killed because she is awful and worthless and not wanted and she needs to leave but she also needs to breathe—
The clawing hands seems to rise up the back of her neck, twanging through her spine and cracking open her skull; overlong fingers seem to scrape over her scalp and cut open the skin of her forehead, nails scratching at her eyes and deepening the marks Garfield has left there—
Focus. She tells herself, repeating the word again and again. She can barely hear herself over the buzzing in her mind, angry bees threatening to hollow her out, threatening to replace the phlegm in her lungs with their stingers. Focus. Don't be a baby.
Stop it. She tells herself more forcefully. The clawed hands tighten their hold and any other words she can think to say disappear into the darkness.
(Stupid.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
Better off dead.)
Her nails cut into her scalp and her knuckles snap when her hands shake. She keeps her eyes closed, screwed tight; she's convinced that if she opens them the Metropolis girl will claw her eyes out or the bees will force them out of her skull. Somewhere, she hears boots crunching in the dirt.
("In and out." Wally tells her, sounding more desperate this time; she's too panicked to listen, her hands trembling too much to feel his pulse. "Artemis, come on, breathe. You can't not breathe, come on!"
She wants very badly to listen to him but the buzzing is too loud, her head too heavy on her shoulders. The Metropolis girl yanks on her hair and scratches at her cheeks. "I can't do this." She tries to tell him. "I can't do this.")
"I can't do this." She hears herself say out loud, as if oceans away the real Wally will hear. She trembles with shivers that aren't from the cold.
"... Are you okay?"
The words make her snap her eyes open, and for one wild moment she convinces herself she's about to see Wally; she's disappointed when the blurriness of her vision fades and brings only Connor into focus.
"... What?" She gets out, not feeling the word leave her mouth.
In response the older boy shifts from where he's crouching in the dirt in front of her, brows furrowing when she scrubs her hands over her face, half-convinced she's imagining him. "Are you okay?" He repeats, jaw dropping to survey her better.
She's suddenly very aware of her trembling, of the tightness of her limbs; feeling embarrassed she drops her hands from her face, sure her hair is sticking up at odd angles on the top of her head. "F-fine." She gets out. She doesn't trust herself to say any more just yet.
(And even more, she doesn't trust him; sure, they're Teammates. But if she had to pick anyone to find her like this she's sure M'gann, or even little Garfield, would be a better substitute—)
Connor doesn't look convinced, eyes narrowing; he's several feet from her and looking wary, as if he's found an injured animal on the side of a highway. She wishes he would leave her alone. "... I could hear your heart." He tells her frankly, in the same almost monotone voice he always uses when he talks to her. She wonders how long they've been alone in the dark together. "I was counting the beats. 125 a minute."
Her mouth suddenly salivates, and when she tries to swallow she nearly chokes. "...So?"
"... That's how fast it goes when a person has a tachycardia. A heart attack."
She wants very badly to silence his questions, to go back to her panic and its loneliness; it takes too much effort to unlock her limbs, muscles aching when she gets to her feet. "I'm fine." She tries to say steadily, ignoring the violent pounding still in her chest as she places a hand against the barn for balance. "I'm good, just... I'm fine."
It's a terrible lie but Connor doesn't contradict her, instead standing and watching for a moment as she tries to force herself to walk away; she still feels lost inside her own head, body too anxious and pumped with adrenaline to move as quickly as she wants to. "Where are you going?" He says, voice loud in the darkness.
She nearly twinges her ankle when she tries to keep going, knees shaking violently; she knows herself, knows that when her anxiety gets like this she's often too weak to move— still, she forces herself another step or two before she glances back at him. "A walk." She says lamely. "... Need to clear my head.
As always his face is impossible to read, although she's sure he knows that there's more going on than she's telling him; perhaps he even overheard the conversation between the two Quarac officers and drew his own line of conclusions from it. If any of this is right it doesn't show on his face— for a long moment he simply stares at her in that eerie way of his, looking expectant as she firmly avoids his eye.
"... W-well." She says when nothing more exciting happens than Connor crossing his arms; she never quite knows how to talk to him, and more to hide her shaking hands than anything she shoves them in her pockets. "... See you, then."
She gets as far as half turning before he finally speaks, throwing out a sentence in his usual choppy manner that seems to slice through the stillness of the evening. "I'm supposed to keep an eye on you." He says softly; the quiet around them makes his words sound as loud as if he'd just yelled them in her ear.
She pauses, and for a moment she feels more of the unnatural chill wash over her as the words imprint in her mind; at once her feet still, her rolled ankle aching slightly as she shifts back to face him. "... You're supposed to keep an eye on me?" She repeats, this time managing to keep her voice steady. "Who asked you to do that?"
Connor seems to realize that he's misspoken and for a moment she's rewarded with a shiftiness behind his eyes, his thick throat bobbing as he struggles to talk his way around it. "Does it matter?" He says plainly. "You're not supposed to go off alone."
He's got enough of her attention that she turns back towards him fully, hands clenching inside her pockets. "Who asked you to watch me?" She repeats, scowling.
Although she still feels weak she can feel the other girl steadying her, shoving aside lingering panic and forcing her to focus as she stares him down, trying to read him. "Why are you going, anyway?" He fires back, and she hates that her mouth opens and closes, biting back a response. "You can't leave us."
There's the faintest bit of emotion behind the words that catches her off guard. "You can't tell me where I can and can't go."
The words are supposed to be sneered and instead sound faint, too soft and broken; for a long moment her and Connor size each other up, the muscles in her back tightening as she draws herself up to her whole height, muscles throbbing along to the quickened pace of her heartbeat. He must get the sense that she's waiting for more of a fight because at once he exhales, looking troubled when she turns away again. "... Garfield already lost his Mom." He says severely. "He doesn't need to lose someone else too."
She hears herself make a disbelieving noise, and for some reason she can feel tears stinging at the backs of her eyes. "... I'm not good at this stuff, Con." She whispers, throwing the nickname out at random the way Oliver does when she needs some convincing. "I'll just end up making things worse."
This is all her fault— but she can't tell him—
"So? Not like I'm any better." He fires back, sounding as stubborn and brash as always. For a second there's quiet before he speaks again, voice much softer but still demanding. "... Look, I heard them as well as you did."
For some reason this bothers her, and before she can stop herself she's turning back to face him, glaring so hard the wrinkle pops up above her nose. "And?" She snarls, hands clenching into fists. "You don't believe it, do you?
In the half-light she can see him wince, a painful looking shrug sounding from his shoulders before he looks away, staring moodily at the ground. "... Maybe."
The word sounds disgusting coming out of his mouth, and at once she can feel renewed anger throbbing through her. "Marie Logan would have never killed herself." She hurls out, voice deadly. "She wouldn't have done that to Garfield. Or M'gann."
Or us.
"That's what they think it is." He says, voice almost emotionless as it always is. "Suicide."
She wants to throttle him, wanting to shout a thousand things— but she's not brave enough to mention her father, and with nothing else to do her face curls into a feral snarl. "Fuck you." She throws at him.
Connor looks at her, long and hard, and she wonders if he's ever had anyone swear at him the way she's just done, if he even understands the meaning of the words she's been hurling at him since their driver training started. There's an angry silence, and despite how much she hates him in the moment she can't bring herself to sprint away into the desert like she wants to. "… No point fighting about it." He says after a while, sounding frustrated. "... She was in the water for a while before we found her. They'll never be able to figure out what really happened."
She exhales, breath firing hard out of her mouth as she grits her teeth. They'll never be able to figure out what really happened. So she'll never know, really, if she's responsible for this. Even though she knows it's the truth she hates him for telling her, wishing she could un-hear everything, wishing he left her alone and panicking on the ground. "Fuck." She hears herself swear under her breath, before repeating it louder. "Fuck!" Her nose wrinkles and she feels one of her palms slip loose from her pockets, flinging upwards and clenching into the ends of her hair in a way that makes the too-short ends stick up wildly from her scalp.
There's more silence when she turns her back on him, mind whirring and thoughts moving too fast for her to process; she can feel sweat breaking out across her forehead, hardly hearing Connor when speaks. "… Are you going to cry?" He asks her, sounding uncomfortable.
"No." She says between her teeth. She wishes she were alone.
Connor's right; she can't leave now. Not when it's just him and M'gann here with Garfield—
But, she supposes, she's been alone for nearly an hour now... If her father was going to come, surely it would have already happened.
She can sense him watching her as she tries to force herself to breathe, one hand rubbing down from her hair and scrubbing angrily at her cheeks. She gets the impression that he's not entirely sure what to make of her. "... Are you still going to leave?" He asks her after nearly a minute, voice much softer than it had been before.
The question makes her stomach squirm, and she finds she can't answer it beyond her hand dropping from her face and returning to her pocket. As if he can sense her indecisiveness Connor keeps talking, his tone gruff and unsure of his words. "Because you shouldn't." She hears the sound of feet shifting in the dirt.
"Why not?"
"Because they need you." He says in that simple way of his.
She's not sure how he manages it, but something in Connor's quiet and brash nature makes her follow him back inside. Without saying anything he moves past her, following the sobbing until he finds M'gann, and it occurs to her that she's just been banished from their shared bedroom for the night.
The house feels horribly empty, the rooms more hollow, and although she tries it's impossible to get comfortable in the too-big hollow Connor's spent the last few weeks carving in the couch cushions. Sleep finds her, once—
("—don't leave." She hears herself whisper, half-woken out of sleep. She's not entirely sure she's really speaking.
Wally goes still beside her, the arm he had been sliding out from underneath her tensing beneath her cheek. She can feel him, naked and sweat slicked, a mess of freckles and skin clinging to her. Her bedroom is quiet.
"Babe?" He whispers back. She can tell he thinks she's dreaming, talking in her sleep. She wonders if maybe she is.
"Don't leave." She repeats, voice still half muffled as she rolls towards him, blonde hair streaming out behind her and sticking to the ends of his fingers. She keeps her eyes closed as she presses her face into his bare chest, lips brushing the scar Metropolis imprinted over his heart. She can feel herself growing sore, the point between her legs still sensitive from when he had first moved inside her hours ago.
His fingers hesitate when they touch her, half worried he'll wake her out of the vulnerability of sleep as they find the familiar dip of her spine. "I won't." He whispers into her hair, and for the first time she feels small in his arms.
"Good." She breathes, and before unconsciousness sweeps her under again she feels emotion welling in her throat, keeping time with the patterns he swirls into her skin. "... Everyone always leaves me..."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"... Okay.")
— but she wakes almost immediately, left with nothing but muddled half images and a strange loneliness she can't place. No matter the temperature or the number of blankets she piles on top of herself she can't seem to stay warm.
The noise from her and M'gann's bedroom doesn't compare to the silence from Garfield's, which seems so loud and heavy her eardrums might as well be splitting open. At half past three she rises from the uncomfortable makeshift bed in the sitting room and forces her chilled toes to creep across the floorboards. She doesn't knock before she enters, wanting to make sure he's alright.
In the daylight she knows the bedroom well; the walls are a cheerful blue, although you wouldn't know it for all the news clippings and posters on it— all snap shots of the Justice League in action. The shelves make up for their lack of books with elaborate animal models and plastic toys, several having been shoved unceremoniously aside to make room for gifts from M'gann, or souvenirs from their visit; without even looking for it she can make out her arrow occupying one of these places of honor.
In the darkness, however, the bedroom seems almost grotesque; the haunting early morning light seeming to distort every shadow, the shapes of shelves and toy boxes seeming almost sinister. For a half moment she doesn't enter, feeling almost childish in her fear— then she spots a pair of emerald eyes glinting at her in the darkness.
"You're awake." She hears herself croak out, voice crackling and hardly managing a notch above a whisper.
Garfield doesn't answer, instead looming at her silently like an owl from a tree, blanket yanked up to his chin the way Marie used to tuck it before she said goodnight. She wonders who has done it for him, or if perhaps he did it himself. For some reason the thought of Garfield tucking himself in makes her throat tighten, and she rushes on with words before he can catch her crying. "Do you mind if I come in?"
More silence. She's never heard him be so quiet before.
She stands in his doorway for nearly a minute, knees trembling with the strange chill that's been following her for hours. She's almost afraid of advancing further, as if she's approaching the bedside of an infectious hospital patient rather than the bedroom of a tiny, grieving child; it takes longer than it should for her to gather the courage to click the door shut behind her and make her way across the room in the darkness.
(She can't do this.)
If Garfield blinks at all she misses it; his eyes seems to be pulled open, fixed in a bug-eyed and horrified grimace ever since he stopped screaming. His stare seems to follow her, penetrate her, unseeing yet seeing through her as she pads nervously over the hardwood, the glassiness of the early morning light bouncing off it and blinding her. In the few short hours without his mother he's gained the hollowed look of a soldier emerging bloodied from war, or a sailor hurling water out of drowned lungs— as if he's surviving, but only just.
His bed gives an almighty creak beneath her when she sits on the edge of the mattress but neither of them indulge it, his ghostly stare unwavering from her face; it's not just his eyes— his skin seems to have grown waxy, translucent under his freckles, a thin sheen of sweat coating his face and making the uneven ends of his fringe stick to his forehead. For a moment his mouth opens, as if about to ask her why he is being forced to feel so much pain, before his lips seal shut again.
There are many ways a person can die and still be alive; a thousand ways someone can scream and yell and shout their pain. In the silence that stretches between them and in the unwavering stare Garfield fixes on her she thinks she feels them all. Picking at her. Peeling her skin from her bones.
It feels useless to tell him that tomorrow is another day, or that there will be many more days to come. She knows that from now on that when Garfield looks back on his life he will count the days, as she did— the days before the loss of a loved one and the days after. She knows that is one thing people outside of grief do not understand; you don't just lose the person at that point in time. You lose their presence in every aspect of your life. Your future is muted forever.
(She lost Paula, she lost Jade. And although they sometimes return, it never feels as if they are truly back.)
But Garfield lost his mother. And nothing will change that in doing so he lost the carefree boy with the freckles too.
It feels like hours pass before she drops his gaze, hand seeking his in the darkness. When she touches his skin she's unnerved to feel how hot it is.
Garfield's fever does not break.
She strips back his blankets and removes the shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, throws open the window to tempt a non-existence breeze. She forces dribbles of water down his throat and rubs ice cubes on his skin, and still each time she touches her palm to his forehead he seems to grow hotter.
Only once does the little boy speak, his throat sounding raw and splintered when the others are drawn to the bedroom by the sound of her frantic movements. "Meg." He gets out through cracked lips, his waxen stare fixing on his blood-sister when she appears, eyes blood shot, in the doorway.
(The word, small as it is, seems to burn in the other girl like fire, and for the first time since Marie was pulled from the water M'gann wipes her tears.)
None of them know what to do; the fever isn't high enough to be lethal by any means but it's enough to get them worried. All morning they switch between cold and heat, alternatively trying to force it out through sweat or chills, nothing they do creating the slightest impact.
Garfield's skin seems to cling to his bones, as if the body encasing him is shrinking, boiling from the inside out; by ten in the morning the vomiting starts, strange yellow fluid the consistently of custard pooling in the back of his throat and choking him. By eleven the glassy stare disappears behind his waxen lids as he goes unconscious, and they aren't stupid enough to pretend like they shouldn't go to a hospital anymore.
The chair in the waiting room makes her back ache.
"... You want tea?"
She looks up above her stiffly interlocked limbs to glance at Connor; while she's been sitting stock still for the last few hours he's been alternating between pacing and attempting to get past the plastic doors that M'gann and Garfield have disappeared behind accompanied by a dozen doctors. For a moment she stares at the purplish half moons below his eyes before her gaze drops to the pathetic looking styrofoam cup in his hand.
She decides it's a peace offering, perhaps to make amends for their fighting earlier, and she reaches for it. "Thanks."
It's some shitty blend the hospital's put out beside the free coffee, not even in the same league as the kind of tea she has at home— rather than the citrus and cinnamon flavors she's used to she's slapped with the scent of herbs when she inhales; mint and some other crisp, almost sour taste lingering when she cradles the cup below her chin, fingers soaking up the warmth. "Sit." She tells him, and as if he were waiting for the invitation he settles into the chair next to her, arms folding.
He allows her a moment to sip her tea before he uncharacteristically breaks the silence, talking low and fast. "They still don't know what's happening. The Doctors have never seen anything like it."
She feels herself nodding although she's not sure why. "No sign of infection? Or anything?"
"Nothing. I caught a look at him when M'gann came out to talk— he was so pale I could see the green of his veins under his skin."
For some reason the image makes her stomach flip, and when she sips her tea again the fluid seems to works its way down her throat slowly, as if determined to stay and sour her mouth forever. "... How's M'gann?" She forces herself to ask.
The older boy hesitates. "... She wants us to leave." He says quietly, scowling at the wall opposite.
She doesn't turn her head towards him, knowing there's nothing hidden there to read; rather she feels her eyes widen as she stares a the murky grey of her tea. "... What?"
Connor shifts, and out of the corner of her eye she can see his eyes narrowing, glaring at nothing. "M'gann. She wants us to go home." He pauses. "She's worried about an inquiry from the government, worried they'll catch on to Justice League intervention, worried they'll figure out who we are— their president was just impeached, you saw on the news. They're more vulnerable to Bialyan intervention than ever... And there's Garfield too. Last time we were here..."
She doesn't need him to explain, she knows the story; the last time the Team was here M'gann saved Garfield's life with a blood transfusion, the first time Martian and human blood had ever been mixed. "... What does she think is happening?" She asks gruffly. "That her blood has been poisoning him all this time or something?"
"I don't know." He says softly, and she believes him— whatever M'gann is really thinking seems to be hidden from the both of them. "... She's already contacted the League. We're getting on a flight tomorrow."
The words make her feel sick to her stomach and at once she feels anger whirring inside her. "Tomorrow? You can't be— we can't leave Garfield alone. You said it yourself, the kid's just lost his mom, Connor, we can't leave him alone in a hospital—"
"We aren't leaving him alone." He cuts her off sharply, now glaring so hard at the wall that angry lines are appearing around his too-tired eyes. "M'gann's staying."
The air in Gotham feels only vaguely warm when she arrives. She thinks of the heat in the Quarac desert and stares at the goose pimples on her bare arm, unfeeling.
Her sneakers catch on the uneven steps as they always do, the light in the hallways dingy as she climbs her way up to her apartment; whole parts of her feel as if they're in the process of falling off, weighed down so heavily by her exhaustion. She hasn't slept in well over two days; the closest she's come to it is the twenty minutes of dozing Connor had allowed her on his shoulder in the hospital before he had grown restless and gone back to his pacing.
The strap of her gym bag seems oddly heavy, carving a reddened swatch into her skin as she shifts its weight. Her eyes feel irritated, blotchy, and each time she closes them she can see M'gann's face as they said goodbye...
("We can stay." She says with as much conviction as she can muster in her exhaustion, leaning forward in the uncomfortable hospital chair until her elbows her resting on her knees. "I'm serious, M'gann. We want to help."
The other girl's eyes follow her fingers as they gesture to Connor one seat over; he's been even more stoic than usual since his last attempt to infiltrate Garfield's hospital room, and even she can taste the lingering bitterness of a fight in the air. It doesn't help matters when he remains more stubborn than usual, bulky arms crossing as he scowls at a point on the ceiling. "It's fine." M'gann finally says unconvincingly. "I have it under control."
Connor huffs but doesn't say anything, leaving her to reach out until her hands are looping through familiar green fingers. "But—"
"It's okay." M'gann cuts her off, pulling herself out of her grasp. "You guys need to go home. And Garfield needs his sister.")
It had been a mistake to leave, to say goodbye. She has the same feeling she did before they even started the trip— like when they finally see each other again everything will be different. No longer constant. Changed.
Her key clicks in the door and with a twist it opens.
The apartment smells the same, the lingering scent of stale cigarettes and something floral, like tea leaves, wafting forward and caressing her about the cheeks. With a gruff exhale out of her nose she marches onward.
She's not sure why it strikes her as hard as it does when she crosses the threshold into the living room, her bag slipping from her shoulder— perhaps it's the darkness, the way all human senses are sharpened in the dim light. She's expecting a silent apartment, expecting to have to weave her way through the fixed locations of tables and chair legs. She expects emptiness, loneliness. Nothing.
She stops short when she hears the television blaring an commercial, eyes squinting as she adjusts to the blaring colors of the flashing telephone number; in the shifting of the light she can clearly see Paula.
Her mother is sitting in her chair, head lolling on her shoulders and elbows braced on their usual rests above the wheels; below the loudness of the announcer's voice she can hear the softness of her breathing, the gentle hum that indicates sleep. She doesn't sit upright when she approaches, or look round when she crosses across the stained carpet and crouches beside her. One of the older's woman's fingers twitches in her lap, curled around a cup of cold tea.
It shouldn't make her throat as tight as it does, shouldn't inspire any emotion, but she can't help but be touched by the normalcy of it. She knows Paula isn't intentionally waiting up for her to get home, but still— she might as well be a girl returning for her first date, instead of one returning from death and loss. A part of her wants to dismiss it as habit— Paula's simply fallen asleep in front of the television, as she always does; ever since her father escaped prison she's taken to sleeping on the couch rather than in their marital bedroom.
... But another part of her, the part that she's been hiding, a smaller part that's full of softness that Wally put there... That part of her wants to believe that Paula knew, somehow, that she would be home tonight. It knew that she would come home. And it knew that when she arrived, no matter how much she didn't want to admit it, she would need some comforting.
(She thinks of Garfield, who is alone and motherless, and wonders why on earth she would ever want to lock the older woman out.)
And maybe it's time she trusted that smaller part of her, the part her father didn't quite manage to break; maybe it's time she stopped being bitter and cold and stopped trying to let resentment come between the two of them. Because as much as she belongs to Lawrence she belongs to Paula— she's her daughter as much as his and it's time she stopped being afraid of that. Because if there is anyone who understands her father, if there is anyone who understands what it's like to live with his burden... Well, it's her mother.
She follows that smaller part of her onto her knees before Paula, and before she has time to be afraid of the strange affection inside her she leans forward, linking her arms around her shoulders.
Paula jerks into wakefulness and she feels the coldness of the old tea spill down her front, but she doesn't retract from the embrace; there's a half-second when the older woman tenses with well-tested instincts before she places the familiarity of her skin, the platinum of her hair as it settles beneath her chin. "Artemis? Darling, what are you—"
"Hi, Mom." She croaks out, nearly crying when her mother's arms circle around her shoulders, wanting to hide in her warmth and the protection of her pointed nails on her back.
"Darling—"
She cuts her mother off again, not wanting to explain or be questioned. "I came home early." She says firmly, turning her head until her forehead is pressing into the older woman's neck. "Because I missed you."
If she can tell she's lying Paula doesn't say anything, instead pressing her hand more firmly into the center of her back. Something in the weight of it makes her sure the older woman knows something is wrong.
And although it springs up between them as it always does all she can think of is how much she hates silence with Paula; she's so tired of swallowing all the bitterness and hurt between them and pretending everything is better left unsaid. Because it isn't better off that way— instead the words turn inwards and poison her and make her into the foul creature she is, the girl her father would want her to be and she's so tired of that, of waking up and looking in the mirror and seeing the worst parts of her there instead of anything else.
But maybe this is where she is right now. She's spent so much time hating, criticizing, being disappointed and miserable with the person she is. She's spent her whole life digging herself deep and deeper into a hole of regret and guilt and distance between her and the people she loves most—her mother, her friends, Wally— and now the hole is so deep that the idea of climbing out seems impossible, almost threatening. But maybe this is the start of that scary change she wants so desperately to make, the first steps towards the person she knows she can be. And perhaps that darker part of her keeps trying to remind her that she's worthless and clawing hands are trying to drag her deeper, but maybe one day she'll get better at ignoring that voice, or at least quieting it enough so she can prove herself wrong.
Paula suggests a fresh cup of tea, and she's surprised at how easily she agrees.
At first the days with Paula pass as bumpily as they ever do; several times her mother asks her how Quarac was, or tries to get her to tell her the real reason she came home so early. Both times she tries to answer properly and can't, her lungs suddenly empty and her fingers shaking.
One of her favorite things about Paula is that she's a fast learner, and realizes quickly that she's never going to get the full story out of her.
She finds peace in the way they sit around the dining table in the kitchen, speaking only occasionally about the easy things: the weather— which is the hottest Gotham has ever been— the Team— who haven't called her yet, what with being so busy with their own summers. Although she suspects it's only a matter of time before this changes— and the prospect of returning to Gotham academy in September.
"Do I have to go back?" She hears herself whine one afternoon, leaning forward in her chair until her head is resting on her elbows. "I tried Mom, I went for you. But I hate it—"
"You'll go and that's final." Paula says sharply, wheeling around the kitchen. "You're almost sixteen, Artemis. Time to start thinking about college applications, attendance at Gotham Academy will look great on your transcript."
She scoffs, absentmindedly dog-earing the corner of this morning's newspaper, still folded on the table. "College? Do you even hear yourself?" She says a little too meanly. "You work at a grocery store. Where are we supposed to get the money for college?"
There's a long silence, the kind she hates. When Paula finally wheels moodily out of the kitchen she can't help but feel awful, not sure why the words bubbled out of her in the first place.
It feels as if she sleeps constantly; napping at all hours of the day, falling asleep early and getting up late. She sleeps dreamlessly, soundly, more like a rock in her bed than a girl and still she wakes feeling unceasingly exhausted.
Her heart feels heavy in her ribs, so broken and weighed down by life, by the cruelty this summer has put her though. She thinks of Wally—who feels like a stranger— of Marie, of her Mother. She thinks of Garfield— and M'gann, who is alone and doing her best. Of Connor, who she hasn't spoken to since they landed in America a few days ago.
It seems like another lifetime altogether since she's been happy; even now the days in Quarac with Garfield don't feel like they actually happened— like she was watching a well scripted movie rather than live her own life. Nothing feels real, nothing except her own exhaustion.
Her own exhaustion at what? Of having to grow up so suddenly? Of trying to keep her walls up all the time? Of making the mistake of letting her guard down only to have her heart shattered again and again? She feels as if she's trying and failing to mend the broken pieces, filled every crack with cement until she's both horribly whole and hollow at once.
"... I'm sorry." She says to her wall on her third evening home; she can sense Paula hovering in her bedroom doorway, her wheels sending the hardwood squeaking. The wall looks back at her, willing her keep talking despite the fact that all she wants to do is burrow more surely under her covers and go back to sleep. She rolls onto her back, feeling her bed creak beneath her as she stares at the ceiling, and reminds herself that she's supposed to be trying to be a better daughter. "I didn't mean to be... You work hard, Mom. I know that."
The floorboards squeak, as if Paula's fiddling nervously with her wheels. "... And so do you." She says vaguely before clearing her throat. "... Oliver called last night. Thought I would like to hear the official report... For what happened in Quarac."
The ceiling feels as if it's about to fall in and she closes her eyes, rolling back onto her side. "Oh."
And maybe it's progress, the fact that when she hears her floorboards squeak she doesn't hide beneath the covers. And maybe it's good, that when she feels fingers pressing against her shoulders she doesn't flinch away. Maybe this means she's doing better.
Paula offers no words of comfort, doesn't try to put her arms around her like she so desperately wanted just a few days ago. The horrible silence consumes them both again, and when Paula rolls out of the room she wonders if maybe things are more broken between them than she thought.
Paula rises early the next morning and disappears the second it occurs to her to get out of bed; by the time she's even poked her head out of her bedroom door her mother is slamming the front one behind her, yelling something about an early morning shift at the grocery store.
She's sure it's a lie, but she supposes there's not much a point in arguing with an empty apartment.
Her phone buzzes while she's picking at breakfast, and when she reads the words on the screen she actually freezes, mouth stilling around the mushy remnants of half-chewed cereal.
SMS Text Message: Received at 8:21 am
From: SB
Wake up. Coming over
She stares at the message for nearly a minute, still half asleep and not quite processing what this is supposed to mean; when she finally messages him back her words are rushed, thumbs clicking over keys and misspelling her words.
SMS Text Message: Sent at 8:26 am
To: SB
what od you mean coming over
Ten seconds don't even pass before her phone is buzzing again, vibrating loudly on her table.
SMS Text Message: Received at 8:26 am
From: SB
Here
As if one cue she can hear the dull alarm going off by the doorway, signaling that someone on the ground floor is trying to buzz their way in.
Connor doesn't come into her apartment; for some reason he wrinkles his nose when she opens the door and refuses to cross the threshold, instead waiting out in the hall. By the time she makes her way out to meet him he's looking more surly than usual, as if annoyed by how much time it took her to brush her teeth and run a comb through her hair.
"What are you doing here?" She asks him as she locks the door behind her, turning to him as she thumbs her way through her shorts pockets; she can feel a bill and some change there, pressing against the top of her thigh.
In response Connor shrugs, allowing her to take the lead as they approach the stairs. "Got bored." He says in his usual short manner. "... Everyone at the Cave is driving me crazy."
"Oh." She says dumbly, glancing at him and as usual not getting a read. "... They, uh, heard. About Marie?"
Again Connor shrugs, and she assumes that means yes; she doesn't press him, not much in the mood to talk about it either. For a moment she thinks they're about to slip into one of their usual silences before he suddenly looks at her, side eyed and critical. "Do you smoke?"
As usual her feet slip on the uneven stairs, and she feels stupid when she has to catch her balance on the railing. "What? No."
"Does your mom?"
It occurs to her that he must have smelt the lingering tobacco scent when she opened the door, probably nearly overwhelming to his acute senses; she can feel her cheeks blotch as she continues down the stairs, fingers automatically tucking her hair behind her ears. "No... My Dad used to. And Cheshire too, although only to make Mom mad. It's practically baked into the carpet there."
Connor considers this as they round the last set of stairs. "Didn't realize you still lived in the same place." He says simply. "Figured you would have wanted to move."
The muggy Gotham air hits her in the face as she opens the door on the ground floor; she's not sure what to say to this and decides to change the subject. "How did you even know where I lived?"
"Wally."
For some reason this sends a pang through her that seems to force her heart to occupy a spot close to her knees; rather than indulge that feeling she turns to him, facing him as they step out onto the baking hot sidewalk. "Why are you here, Connor?" She asks again, raising one hand to block out the sun as she squints at him.
He shrugs again, moving tactfully until he's blocking the worst of the light; when she can finally see his face again she's not surprised to see him looking moody, almost pensive. "I told you." He says impatiently, half scowling. "I'm bored. And everyone at the Cave is... How they always are."
She's not sure what this is supposed to mean and feels her brows raising. "... So?"
"So... Do you wanna hang out?" The words are rushed, as if he's embarrassed by asking although no trace of blush crosses his cheeks. "Driver training? ...Or you could just... Be there."
The words are so unexpected that for a long moment she stares at him, squinting suspiciously up at him. Although they've been teammates for the better part of the year she's had next to nothing to do with him for most of that time; she's never really known how to talk to him one on one, a strange awkwardness in the air that neither of them were competent enough to shake. And even though they've lived in close quarters for the better part of a summer neither of them have ever spent much time alone together— the exception being when he was teaching her to drive, and more often than not that had ended in a lot of screaming and swearing.
Connor shifts his weight; she's taking a bit too long to answer. They don't really get along, it's true enough— in fact, the only time she's felt remotely like they were friends was when he had told her to come to the Cave more often. But...
But that doesn't change the fact that they were the ones to pick up the pieces when everything else fell apart in Quarac; and even more, he was the one who found her when she was panicking, and he was the one who managed to talk her back inside when he was on the verge of running away.
Maybe some things you can't go through without coming out the other side a little closer.
"I need to go to the library." She tells him instead of saying yes.
Habitually she holds her breath when they enter the zeta tubes, the dull vibration of nothingness flooding through her as it always does; dimly she's aware of the Gotham sirens going quiet. Beside her, Connor fades.
There's the strange half-second that seems to contain only absence: a lack of anything under her feet, a lack of oxygen, a lack of any sensation except for the realization that there is nothing. She feels as if she's mid-jump on a trampoline, stuck in that heart-beat length moment before she falls, when all she's aware of is her stomach leaping up into her throat—
Whatever she's feeling disappears before she can really process it and is replaced by the dull numbing sensation of her molecules reconstructing; dimly her feet register tile beneath them and beside her she feels Connor begin to step forward into existence. Somewhere above her she hears the familiar disembodied voice announce their arrival.
It feels strange, being a wary of home. She doesn't know why she hesitates, why she stays still when Connor steps past her. "What?" He asks her, pausing and looking back.
She can't explain it; it just feels as if something here has changed, like if she were to really look around everything would be different, unrecognizable. Instead of answering she shakes her head, as if to clear it, before she takes a step forward.
"You're back!"
The second she moves there's a distinct uproar of noise, as if a herd of elephants has been set loose in the Cave; she has enough time to exchange a startled look with Connor before she's being cuffed about the ears by an unexpected pair of arms, her own words of surprise being promptly cut off by a mouthful of onyx hair.
"You're back!" Zatanna wails again, pulling her back by the shoulders; there's another loud shout and she can see Dick running over from the kitchen, presumably marking the path the other girl's just sprinted through. Zatanna keeps jabbering, pulling her into another hug. "You have no idea how bored I've been—"
"Let her breathe, Zee." Dick says with a grin, slowing to a walk as he gets closer.
Zatanna ignores this, still talking loudly and impervious to her gagging as she spits out the other girl's hair. She didn't know she would be missed so much. "I have so much to tell you— Oh, god, look at your hair!— You have to come to the club with me this weekend, there's this guy there, Kaleb, and his friend Owen— Artemis, oh my god, you would love him—"
She's thankful when Dick cuts her off with a small nudge, forcing the other girl to release her. "Enough about the country club." He says almost peevishly, sunglasses glinting as he turns to grin at her. "About time you got back. I thought you were going to be gone forever."
"Felt like I was." She admits, pressing her hair self consciously behind her ears. "How—" She cuts herself off, blinking stupidly as Dick leans in to throw an arm around her shoulders. "Did you get taller?"
Now that her vision isn't being obscured by Zatanna it's obvious how much he's grown in just a few weeks; true enough, as she says it he pulls himself up to his full height, at least an inch or two taller than she is. "Growth spurt." He says proudly, jutting out his chin as he releases her. "Although this is nothing— you should see Wally. He's almost taller than Kaldur now, that stupid fast metabolism—"
She feels herself try to swallow, knees suddenly a bit weak; she hardly hears Zatanna as she starts talking again, the sound of her own heartbeat achingly loud in her ears. "... Well, who cares about that." The other girl says quickly, as if she can read the pained expression she's just managing to hide. "Tell us about Quarac. How was it? I mean... You know. Before everything."
Abruptly her stomach tightens, aware of the sympathetic looks that are suddenly crossing their faces; beside her Connor glances at her, and strangely he seems to understand better than anyone else "Later." He says shortly. "Artemis and I are going to the library. Then for a drive."
This statement is one of the oddest that's ever come out of his mouth, and Dick and Zatanna can't be bothered to hide their surprise; when she ducks her head and shuffles after Connor she can see the two of them exchange a look, clearly bemused by this sudden turn of events. "... Oh-kay." Zatanna says dryly, stretching the word out. "... What about a movie later? Or a welcome back dinner?"
Connor makes a funny twitching movement with his head that she copies. "... Maybe." She mutters. It doesn't take a genius to tell that she really means 'No.'
"... Does that always happen?" Connor asks her sometime later.
Absently she glances up from the pages she's pursuing, balancing her book a little precariously on her forearm as she looks at him. "What?"
Connor shifts his weight from where he's sitting on the library floor, shrugging but not dropping the half-curious expression on his face. "Your heart speeding up." He says simply. "When Wally's mentioned."
She feels her cheeks blushing an unpleasant crimson and quickly returns to her book, shutting it and reaching for another marked Sand County Almanac on the shelf. "Uh." She mumbles stupidly, glancing once at the hard cover's title before ramming it back into place. "I don't know."
"It happened again just now."
She grimaces, suddenly very aware of the fact that her pulse is pounding against her skin in her embarrassment; rather than indulge him she passes him the book still in her arms, watching as he adds it to the pile growing beside him on the floor. "I guess it does, then." She mutters, going back to pursuing the shelf.
Connor won't let it sit, or at the least doesn't understand why she doesn't want to talk about it; for a moment he simply straightens the book pile before abruptly getting to his feet. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why does your heart rate increase?"
She's beginning to feel annoyed; although her first instinct is to intimidate him into silence she gets the distinct impression that Connor— at nearly six feet and two hundred pounds— doesn't find her that scary. Resisting the urge to throw a book at him she sighs, fingers hesitating in their skimming of the shelf, pausing on a rather beaten looking volume called Bloodties. "Because... I don't know. Doesn't your heart beat go nuts when M'gann enters a room?"
There's a half-second of silence where he considers this. "Yeah."
"So..." She trails off, waving her hand in slight annoyance when he continues to look confused. "It means emotion, Connor. Feelings." She can feel herself blushing again and rather than look him in the eye she pulls the book off the shelf and rams it at him, her knuckles aching when they collide with his chest.
She can sense him looking at her. "... Feelings." He repeats, taking the book from her grasp.
"Feelings." She confirms.
When she glances at him he looks more confused as ever, azure eyes scanning her face as if trying to find an answer there. Although he isn't saying it out loud she can tell he still doesn't understand.
She sighs, her head lolling back on her shoulders as she stares at frustration at the ceiling; of all the goddamn things Cadmus could have put in his head she wishes they would have spent a little more time in this department. "What?" She hisses, one hand scrubbing along her forehead and pushing her hair off her boiling cheeks.
"M'gann said you were coming with us to Quarac so you could get over Wally." He clarifies, and once again her heart does a back flip in response to the familiar name; traitorously her cheeks blush again. "So you wouldn't have any more feelings. What was the point in coming if they didn't go away?"
She opens her mouth, fully intending to offer an explanation that, suddenly, doesn't come. He has a point, she supposes; that had been the point in tagging along to Quarac. That had been her mission: to get over Wally. And she had thought she had done it, for a little while at least; that first night in the desert she had sworn to herself that she had left him go, that she was done with him forever, but...
But then, of course, Marie had died. And being weak like she was she longed for her favorite source of comfort.
Her mouth closes and she forces herself to clear her throat, a low hiss of breath firing out of her nose; this isn't any of his business anyway. They may be friends now but that doesn't mean he's entitled to anything close to an explanation. "... Connor..." She starts, not sure where she's going. Absently she grabs another book from the shelf.
Something on his face shifts as she says it, and she knows at once he's no longer paying attention to her; instead his jaw is dropping, eyes leaving hers as if he's listening to something just out of her range. "... What?" She asks dumbly.
In answer Connor shakes his head, bending to retrieve the pile of books she's accumulated on the floor; distantly she can hear the door to the library opening and closing. "What?" She repeats, watching as she straightens and walks around her, heading to the end of the isle; without thinking she starts to follow him into the main strip between the shelves. "If you have something to say then just say it, Con—"
"There you are."
Her feet seem to trip over each other and she's only saved from falling by walking abruptly into Connor; for a moment she simply wobbles on her own feet, staring directly between the older boy's shoulder blades. She seriously considers making a break for the exit.
Ten whole seconds pass in which she doesn't move, relying on Connor's broad shoulders to hide her; finally the boy in question makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat and drags her forward.
"H-hi." She hears herself squeak when she's finally forced into view. Her hair flops stupidly about her crimson cheeks.
God.
(She can't do this.)
He looks more handsome yet so much more different than she remembers; the very air in the library seems to grow solid, unbreathable as she looks at him. Dick hadn't been lying about how much he's grown in the past month; even from several feet away she can tell he's a full head taller than her now, the wiry limbs she used to be held in suddenly almost thick with new muscle, the sleeves of his t-shirt fitting tightly around his biceps. Something about his face has changed too; his jaw has grown more angular, the freckles that used to coat his cheeks seem somewhat faded, blotted out by sun burn and covered in new constellations that she's never seen before, never touched.
When he sees her his lips part. For the first time in a month, Wally West smiles at her.
She inhales the scent of walnuts, and wonders if it's possible to die from wanting to touch another person so badly.
That's all it takes; as always the crooked lips that frame his straight teeth reel her in, pulling emotion out of her that for so long has been pushed aside. At once this person in front of her no longer feels like a stranger, and whole parts of him seem to jump out at in her their familiarity: the windswept way his ginger hair grows, the vibrant apple green of his eyes that crinkle in delight the longer she looks at him; even the bitten edges of his finger nails scream of the boy she once knew— the boy who, quite suddenly, has become a man.
And here it is: all the emotion she's been trying to tuck away is suddenly threatening to burst out of her, an atomic bomb to affection and heart break and a thousand feelings at once. His smile widens and she can't stop staring at the way his eyes crinkle, the lines in his unfamiliar yet familiar face like the wrinkles on the margins of her favorite books.
(And suddenly she wants to devour every page of him.)
And despite her shaking knees and her twisting stomach and the whirring of her mind suddenly the only thing she can think of is the steps leading up to her apartment; all she can think of is that she's lived in the same place for fifteen years and each time her feet touch those stairs she trips. And with a frightening jolt she wonders if it's the same way with people, if everyone has another person they think of when they wake, before they fall asleep; she wonders if she will live another fifteen years and still trip over him the way she's always tripping on those uneven stairs—
(And she wonders if that's supposed to be as terrifying as it feels right now.)
Wally blinks exactly once as she stares at him, looking as if he's recently been clubbed about the head with a baseball bat. "Hi." He breathes back, voice breaking and prompting him into clearing his throat. "... Dick said that— he said you'd both be here."
She wants to go back to hiding behind Connor, her hand trembling slightly as she pushes her hair back behind her ears; for his part the other boy glances between the two of them, looking confused when her and Wally keep staring at each other. "And?" He says gruffly.
Wally glances once, a little shiftily, as if only just remembering that Connor's there. "And— uh—" He fumbles, voice breaking and the end of the non-sentence finishing in an awkward chuckle, his hand going to his neck with an almost comforting amount of predictability.
There's a moment of awkward silence before Connor rolls his eyes, looking annoyed with both of them. "Whatever." He mutters, taking the book from her hands and adding it to the stack in his arms. "Come find me after. Driving lessons." He tells her, not listening to her stuttering as he stomps his way out of the library.
She's so embarrassed she can't even move, refusing to look at Wally and instead spending her energy blushing at the carpet as the sound of Connor's footsteps fade away; neither of them speak for nearly a minute, not until long after the door has clattered closed, loudly signalling that it's just the two of them.
"Uh." Wally starts again, and when she glances up she catches his hand falling from his neck. He seems to lose whatever he was about to say when she looks at him, his ears going off in a startling red. "... Hey."
She wishes she had something to do with her hands. "Hi." She repeats, settling for folding her arms and slouching stupidly over them.
The corners of Wally's mouth twitch, his head ducking as he glances at his feet. "I just— Dick said you were back. And I just wanted to say—"
"Hey." She finishes for him. She can feel her eyes crinkling, as if willing to tempt a smile, but one doesn't come.
"Yeah." He confirms, nodding. This time he actually does grin, and at once her stomach twists, seeming to flip upwards and curl around her heart.
There's more awkward silence in which Wally keeps looking at her and she shifts her weight between her feet; like always she feels translucent under his gaze, completely naked, as if all her secrets and feelings are splayed in front of him and ready to be flipped through. This isn't one of the silences between them that she loves, the ones where they could just be; all it feels like now is two people who were once inseparable now struggling to make small talk, and knowing that fact makes her more upset than it should.
Wally inhales and exhales loudly, still staring. Slouching more she scowls, wishing he would look away. "... What?" She finally bursts out, blushing.
Wally's ears go off again and he seems to get the message; at once he's shaking his head, still grinning as he looks at the ceiling. "Sorry. I didn't— You just look different. Good, different."
She feels her stomach twist again, her eyes glancing down self-consciously; her toes wiggle stupidly in her sandals, tanned knees quivering and exposed in her shorts, tee shirt sitting a little lopsidedly on her shoulders. She can't imagine what exactly looks good about her right now, especially after being thrown together so haphazardly this morning. Feeling strangely nervous she straightens her spine, looking up at him again. "... Thanks." She says almost warily. Her mouth decides it's the time to be honest. "You look different too. Good, different." A beat, short enough for her embarrassment not to set in. "Taller."
Wally beams and she feels like an idiot, already wishing she hadn't said the last part. "Thanks. Mom's going crazy; in the last month or so she's bought me more clothes than she has my whole life. My jeans from spring are two inches too short now." He grins, one finger rubbing at his nose; she realizes it's as burnt as it was before she left, now with the addition of dry, peeling skin that no doubt itches. "Dad's mad about all the money of course, but I think he's kind of happy too— Mom's family isn't that tall, I know he was hoping I would get my height from him."
She doesn't quite know what to say to this and settles for a forced half-smile. "That's great." She mumbles, not sure where to go from here.
Wally nods again, apple eyes refusing to leave her again; even from several feet away she can feel him memorizing details of her face. "... Your hair has grown a lot. Gotten blonder too." He says, and she stops her hand from reaching up to smooth it behind her ears again. "Looks good on you."
She can't bring herself to thank him for the compliment and instead mimics the jerky shrug she's recently taken to borrowing from Connor, unfolding her arms and shoving her hands in her pockets. He's still looking at her too much. "... Right. Well..."
She trails off, uncomfortable; at once Wally's ears go off again, some of the crimson leaking down and coloring the tops of her cheeks. "Not like that." He says quickly, holding up a hand as if afraid she's going to run away in anger. "Not like— I just— it's good to see you. That's all I meant."
"No, I know." She mumbles, sandals catching on the carpet when she scuffs her heel nervously. "... It's good to see you too... Wally."
She doesn't know why she says his name like that— slow, deliberate, as if wanting to taste it coming off her tongue; for some reason hearing his name come out of her mouth seems to calm him, some of his blush receding up his cheeks as his expression grows more serious. "... How are you doing?" He asks her.
She can tell by his tone that he knows about what happened in Quarac, even if he isn't saying it; it's strange, how the person in front of her is so unrecognizable but his mind is all too familiar. Instead of answering right away she shrugs, glancing once at the carpet before she finds his eyes. "I..." She starts before stopping; as always it's very hard to lie when he looks at her like that, and immediately her mouth changes course. "... Okay. Not, I mean..." Her voice breaks and she's forced to clear her throat, embarrassed. "Alright."
It's a stupid answer, not really an answer at all, but Wally seems to soak up her words, nodding when she finally finishes. "... Kinda figured." He says kindly, the corner of his mouth twitching up; she knows he's trying to be charming and understanding but for some reason the little half smile makes her feel like he pities her.
He makes to take a step forward and seems to think better of it, stopping when he sees the look on her face. "... Listen." He starts again, hand returning to his neck. "That's kind of why I... I just wanted you to know, you know? If you need someone to talk to—"
"—Wally." She cuts him off, her voice low as she shakes her head at the carpet. "Come on—"
"Not like that." He says quickly, and this time the words come out more defensive than the last. "Not like— I'm just trying to be nice. I mean, we're teammates still, right? ... We're friends."
Although he says the last part he sounds as if he doesn't believe it; for some reason the words seem to hang in the air for too long, and she doesn't do anything to collect them. He's back to staring at her, waiting for her to look up from the carpet. "... Artemis?"
Her knees knock together, and she becomes aware of the fact that she's got a death grip around the change in her pocket, the coins cutting into her skin. "... Thanks." She forces herself to say. There are other words, more dangerous ones, trying to get past her lips, and resolutely she bites the inside of her cheek, staying quiet.
Wally exhales, finally looking away; he's blushing again, a bright red coloring the tops of his ears. "... Okay. Well— I guess I'll see you around."
"Yeah." She mumbles to her toes. "Sure."
She forces herself to stay rooted on the spot but it does nothing to quail the emotion erupting inside her; she wants so badly to run at him, to call him back, to do something to make her feel like he's still the boy she fell in love with. She can feel it bubbling up inside her, pounding along to his footsteps as he turns on his heel and leaves, threatening to overflow from her eyes and burst from her pores, on the verge of coming out of her in waves of words—
"Wait." She whispers as she jerks her gaze up, the word exploding out of her before she can stop it.
It's too late for him to hear her, and the only response she gets is the sound of the library door clattering shut behind him.
AN: Another chapter up and running! Again, sorry for the late update. I've had a lot of my plate the last few weeks and unfortunately one thing I have in common with Artemis is that we both tend to disappear when things get a bit overwhelming. More regular posting will resume once I get my act together.
On another note, thanks to everyone who sent me messages wondering where I was— it's pretty rare that I have readers legitimately worried about me, and I have to say the care was appreciated. You guys are the best!
Please Read and Review!