AN: I ended up accidentally taking a bit of a break to catch up with the holiday season, but now that that's over... Enjoy the update!
Her elbows dig into the kitchen island, the heels of her palms pressing hard into her eyes and sending strange warbled colors to the front of her vision. They've been over this at least three times now and she feels no closer to understanding what's happening or why, her brain feeling as if it's about to dribble out of her ears as she swings her head up, glancing to her left. "Okay." She say slowly, mind buzzing and trying to grasp at what she's only half sure she knows. "So... So when you gave Garfield the blood transfusion... You altered his blood cells?"
M'gann sighs as every eye in the room is pulled towards her, her green frame looking oddly small as she perches on an island stool; the energy in the kitchen is so tense, so confused, that anything as normal as her birthday feels long gone from everyone's mind. "... I don't know what I did." She admits, sounding miserable.
Someone hisses, low and annoyed at the suggestion; feeling frustrated she sweeps her palm over her forehead, the other slapping against the counter and crossing the few inches between them to entangle in the other girl's fingers. "You saved his life, Meg." She murmurs, low and forceful, as if wanting to remind the other girl as much as everyone else in the room, whose thoughts are no doubt as muddled as hers. "...That's nothing to be upset about."
There's the usual encouraging nods around the kitchen, the majority of the Team squished amongst the counters and appliances with the intention of helping the Martian think this out. Rather than respond to their insistence the other girl shrugs, a pained looking smile adorning her lips as if she understands they're all pretending not to be as shocked or confused as they really are.
M'gann sighs but still says nothing, simply casting a forlorn look at the speckles darning the island counter; despite herself she lifts her eyes to meet Wally's, exchanging a worried look. Being alone in Quarac has done something to M'gann— the lines about her eyes have a deeper, more carved in quality, as if she hasn't slept properly in weeks; even her artificial appearance, usually so meticulous and perfected, seems off, uncharacteristically ruffled, what with her hair more dull and the ends scraggly, dry patches of skin flaking off her elbows and knees.
(She looks older and not in a good way— it's as if the Quarac sun has drained years of her life away, the childish joy and optimism she once possessed rotten and buried miles beneath the sand.)
The seconds pass and nothing more is said. But she takes it as a good sign when M'gann's hand shifts in hers, clinging to the spaces between her fingers like they're tethers to the earth, the only thing stopping her from floating miserably away.
The silence in the kitchen doesn't last long, as it never does when there's this many of them gathered together; across from her Dick exhales, heels knocking against the counter he's sitting on and scuffing the surface with dirt from his shoes. "She can't have altered his blood cells." He starts, rubbing the tired eyes beneath his glasses. "We were there when it happened. You only morphed your own blood so you would be a suitable donor—"
Wally cuts him off, hand rubbing at his neck. "Which means there's a possibility the effects could be temporary." He mulls, although she can tell the thought is more half-baked, a theory his scientist practicality won't allow him to really believe but rather something he's saying more to comfort M'gann. "... The human body will have regenerated entirely new cells in seven years, this could very well be something he grows out of when he hits his teens, but— I mean, he's not really just human anymore..."
"And how do we know M'gann's cells won't regenerate inside him?" Dick counters, glasses glinting. "There's never been a mixing of Martain and human blood before. Our own government's studies of Martian Manhunter's cells is inconclusive, how do we know they won't multiply and regenerate in a human host—"
"That's a stupid question, they're already regenerating enough to turn him green, Rob—"
"Guys." Zatanna cuts their bickering off, laying a hand on M'gann's shoulder and glaring at the two of them. "Now's probably not the time to be arguing about this."
"Agreed." Kaldur says across her, effectively stepping between the matching glares firing from one side of the kitchen to another; instantly all the under-the-breath hissing ceases, all their backs stiffening the way only Kaldur's authoritative tone of voice can make them. "But Garfield is here. Decisions must be made. And we must talk about it."
Her fingers are now screaming between M'gann's painfully tight grip but she doesn't even allow herself to flinch, instead returning the pressure in what she hopes is a comforting way; in the thickness of the silence between them all of their eyes are draw to her and Wally's window, to the startlingly different backs of Connor and Garfield as they stand, overlooking the beach. "... The temperature of the human body is much higher than a Martian's." M'gann croaks after a moment. "... Connor and I thought— the stress of being in such an inhospitable environment must be making them multiply faster than his. Plus..."
The other girl trails off, glancing at her a little helplessly; feeling her throat go dry she nods, finishing for her. "... His mother died." She mumbles, hating that everyone is staring at her now. "He went into shock not long after— we couldn't break his fever."
Her voice breaks and with it some restraint; for the first time she feels the whole weight of her guilt, the heaviness she's been trying not to think about since she returned home. Feeling her throat tighten she drops her eyes to her and M'gann's interwoven fingers, staring hard at her white knuckles and focusing only on the pain, on what she deserves...
This is her fault.
(It all comes down to her, as it always does. Her running, her denial, her screw ups— she is a never ending storm of hurt to others, of pain. She had run away to Quarac, chasing the untied end that was her father... And even though she has no proof she knows it was Lawrence who did this, who killed Marie; it's always him, always, just like it's always her fault, all her fault—)
((And even if it wasn't... She ran away. She left M'gann alone. And she's horrible, horrible, she's just like her sister—))
She can sense Kaldur's eyes lingering on her, and sense the way his gaze focuses on the tightness around her eyes. He's seeing through her, as he always does— or maybe it's just the fact that he's the only one who knows her secret, the only one who she confided in...
Sportsmaster. It all comes back to her father, and to her, and the fact that she's let her past hurt too many people in this room.
She swallows, hand going numb; it's the not knowing that bothers how. The not know why Lawrence went after Marie, not knowing why he would take his need for revenge as far as Quarac. But he had been seen there, he had been close— and she knows this is her fault, even if the League nor Kaldur can prove it for sure she knows the fact as well as she knows her own heart beat— this is her fault. Everything is always her fault.
"... The heat would have triggered it." Wally says gruffly after a moment, arms crossing as he leans against the counter; when she glances up at the sound of his voice she locks eyes with the familiar apple eyes, tight around the corners, before he looks away. She's just realized the kitchen has gone silent again, everyone lost in thought. "His fever probably send the Martian cells into overdrive, what with trying to stay alive in such a hostile environment. That's why his appearance has changed so much."
More quiet, in which Kaldur frowns; to her surprise he seems to not even notice Tula as she winds her fingers between his. He's got a strange look on his face, something thoughtful and severe that she associates with strategy, with the sort of deep level problem solving and plan making that only their more dangerous missions require. "Have we any idea the full scope of his powers?" He asks suddenly, voice void of emotion and strictly business.
"I have no idea." M'gann answers, shaking her head. "By the time I got him out of the hospital we were being watched, not just by the Quarac government but by the Bialyans too. I was afraid it would attracted too much attention to test—"
"Of course." Kaldur amends, continuing to look serious. "But has he shown any aptitude for your telekinesis? Telepathy? Density shifting?"
M'gann swallows, her hand going slack in her palm; doubling her own grip on the other girl's fingers she glares at Kaldur. "How about we ease up, Kal? She's been here all of five minutes—"
To her surprise M'gann talks over her, waving off her objections with her free hand. "Just shape shifting— all his clothing has to be organic now, it's the only thing that will respond his mental commands."
"Makes sense, I guess." Zatanna mumbles.
"But there are limitations." The Martian sighs, shaking her head again and looking troubled. "Garfield has to know the entire bone structure and anatomy of anything he wants to transform into— he has to study it, know it literally from the inside out. That's why he's latched onto animals; after living in the sanctuary his whole life he knows more than most of us ever will."
A Pause. "But what about people?" Dick asks, saying what they're all thinking. "Could he transform into one of us?"
She watches as M'gann shakes her head. "People are more difficult—there are variations between races, men and women, even bone structures can be different with deformities or injuries. And even then…" She pauses, smiling that strange weary smile she first greeted her with that afternoon. "He can't get rid of the green skin. I don't know why, but he can't."
There's a long silence where they all mull this over; absently her gaze drifts out the window again, her teeth biting hard into the inside of her cheek. Before any of them can ask the question that's been lingering in the air for the past hour M'gann sighs, leaning forward to press her palm to her forehead. "... I'm sorry." She murmurs, voice wobbly. "... I don't know why I— He's mine now. And I don't—" Her stomach sinks as M'gann's voice breaks. "I can't even figure out how he's going to go to school— I mean, he's green. I-I just needed to get him out of there before something even more awful—"
M'gann hiccups, cutting herself off and blinking very quickly; before she can do anything more miserable Kaldur moves forward, extracting himself from Tula and occupying the stool beside her. "Hush." He mumbles in his low and soothing tone; it seems to have an effect on the kitchen as a whole, all of them going still and quiet. "The Cave is your home and it will be Garfield's too, as long as you both may need it. No crying, M'gann."
"Yeah." Zatanna murmurs, smoothing the other girl's hair back behind her ears before she wraps her arms around her shoulders. "It's going to be okay."
A clanging noise tells her Dick's resuming the swinging of his legs from the counter. "We'll figure something out. Talk to Batman, rumor has it he's got a soft spot for orphans—"
"Or we could always keep him around here." Wally suggest after a moment. "We could always use another pet."
It's not funny, all of them turning to glare at Wally; M'gann however lets out a watery sounding chuckle, her fingers scrubbing hard at her lashes for a moment before she emerges, red-eyed and blotchy cheeked. "Sorry." She says thickly, shaking her head. "I just— Oh, Artemis. It's your birthday, and here I am crying—"
She feels her cheeks color. "Oh, Meg— Don't be stupid, it's fine—"
She's cut off when the other girl seizes her around the neck, dragging her into a rather wet hug. "No, it isn't. I baked you a cake this morning— someone call Gar and Connor back in—"
"You don't—"
Whatever she's about to say she doesn't finish, voice dying when the other girl stops her from pulling back, cool palms clinging to her skin. "Happy Birthday, by the way." She whispers, cheeks wet as they press against her temple. "... I missed you."
By the time her cake is placed in front of her she's not in much of a mood for celebration; feeling oddly blank she lets the rather hasty chorus of "Happy Birthday" wash over her, impervious to the cheerful pink of her icing.
... This is all her fault. And maybe she's been avoiding thinking about it on purpose— after talking to Kaldur however long ago, after realizing he had no answers for her... She had buried it. Let it be shoved into the blackest parts of herself, as out of sight and mind as Garfield and M'gann have been these last few weeks.
... Marie was killed because of her. Because of her father. And now Garfield is motherless, and M'gann's falling apart, and it's all her fault.
(She ruins everything.)
She shifts uncomfortably on the couch cushions, not paying attention to the movie she insisted they put on to disguise her foul mood; it's late now, the last glimmers of evening light fading through the old window. She can't remember wanting her birthday to end this quickly in her whole life, every second the clock keeps her on the 20th of July heart wrenching, almost painful.
... She supposes it's not really her birthday anymore, anyway— the party broke up fairly quickly after she blew out her candles, what with her mood becoming so sour after they had discussed what to do with Garfield. M'gann had stayed of course, wanting to babble and catch up, with Connor and Garfield staying ever present by her side... But that hadn't lasted long.
(And if she ever found out why Marie was killed, M'gann would hate her...)
Her stomach twists uncomfortably, glancing around the room at who's left; overlooking the heavy breathing of M'gann and Garfield she locks eyes with Connor, stick straight and as alert as ever, before twisting her head to survey the rest of the group. Kaldur and Tula are in bed, Zatanna gone too; Dick, awake and scrolling through his phone, and— she doesn't look for him in the darkness, instead listening to the sound of a watch clanging gently against the side of a popcorn bowl. Wally. Eating as usual.
... Nothing worth sticking around for. And besides, she'd rather be alone.
Extracting herself as gently as she can out from underneath Garfield she ignores the few glances that stray in her direction as she makes to leave; she knows she's supposed to say thank you, say something to her friends but... But she can't. Not with her stomach twisting and guilt threatening to bubble up out of her throat— she can't trust herself not to blurt out what she's thinking, can't trust herself not to confess that it's her fault Marie is dead...
She gets as far as rounding the corner out of the kitchen, thinking only of Gotham City and her mother, when he calls out to her; feeling her stomach sink lower inside herself she winces at the sound of his sneaker squeaking against the break in the tile. "Hey." Wally calls after her, rounding the corner and stopping short when she glances at him over her shoulder. "You leaving?"
She shrugs, one hand tugging self-consciously at the hem of her shorts for a moment. "Yeah." She says stupidly, hesitating. "Sorry. I— Yeah. I'm going."
His brows furrow slightly, and she not surprised when he reads right through her, can tell just by her muddled words that she has too much on her mind. Between her mother, Oliver, and way Marie is haunting her... She just wants this day to be over.
She's not lucky enough to avoid his questions; for a second Wally's eyes flicker between hers, as if wanting desperately to see through the iron grey of her eyes."... What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She mutters too quickly, wincing. "I just... It's been a weird day. I kinda just want it to be over."
Wally nods, gripping the doorframe and back tracking a step, almost like he's about to leave and go back through the kitchen; she frowns when he seems to change his mind mid-step, rolling his weight around the corner and releasing the wall, as if he's finalized a decision of some sort. "Bitter Sweet Sixteen?" He asks knowingly.
She hears herself sigh, wishing he would just leave her alone. "No." She mumbles, crossing her arms. "It was fine. Sixteen was fine."
There's a silence where Wally sends her a knowing look, crossing a few paces down the hallway until he's right in front of her; it hits her again how tall he's gotten in just a few weeks apart, his chin dropping significantly to look her in the eye. And she hates it— the looks he's sending her, how she can't help but notice the thickness of his jaw, the muscles of his biceps as he crosses his arms, the playful tugging of his lips as he silently tries to pull her out of herself, read through her, get her to spill all her secrets for him—
The few moments where neither of them speaks unnerves her, her stomach twisting, and before she can stop herself she cracks. "... It was just weird." She repeats, feeling stupid as she blushes, fingers automatically smoothing her hair behind her ears. "Everyone kept on making these grand gestures that I... You know."
She doesn't know how Wally understands what she's trying to say when she doesn't have a clue herself, but still— it's comforting when he nods, hands shoving themselves in his pockets as he looks down at her. "... You wanna go for a walk?" He says after a moment.
An almost foreign feeling of relief passes through her, an emotion she can't place and isn't sure there's a name for; suddenly she's caught between saying yes and making some sort of excuse, not sure which one wins out as her eyes meet his with a dry look. "... How about a drive?"
"You're kidding." Wally says for the fifth time, circling the glinting exterior of her car. "... You're kidding."
She shakes her head, the same way she's been doing for the last two minutes, her keys flexed tightly in her fist. "If you say that one more time I'll get in there and run you over."
His mouth opens and then closes, as if knowing she'll deliver on the threat, before he walks another few paces around her vehicle, parked pristine and shining in the hanger as Oliver had promised it would be. "A car." He finally says, voice breaking. "Green Arrow got you a car."
She shrugs, watching as he finally rounds the hood, fingers dragging along the metal and smudging the shine slightly. "I can see that, Wally."
"He's crazy."
"That's what I told him."
"A car!" Wally bursts out, flapping a hand accusingly at the vehicle in question before running it through his hair. "I mean, I don't know a damn thing about cars but—"
She cuts him off, rolling her eyes. "I know, Wally." She sighs, feeling annoyed that he's enjoying the gesture more than she did. "It's a nice car."
Ignoring her enthusiasm Wally shakes his head again, ducking past her under the pretext of bending to examine the glinting chrome of her rims. "Of course you get a millionaire for a mentor. You know what Flash got me when I turned 16? A pack of condoms."
She snorts. "That was hopeful of him." She teases.
At once Wally's ears go off, vivid red even from behind before he straightens, a mock glare crossing his features. "Those came in handy, if you do recall."
It's a sticky moment, both their eyes narrowing at each other a little too closely; she's sure that they're both remembering their first time together, how they had fumbled and been clumsy and not sure what they were doing. Feeling a strange jumping sensation in her stomach she's the first to look away, firmly shoving whatever that is aside and listening hard as he clears his throat. "You got a car for your birthday... And you're not excited at all."
She slouches over her crossed arms, thankful when he goes back to examining her rims. "... I don't know." She mutters. "I am, I mean— Yes, I am." She forces herself to say, squirming. "I just... It's a nice car."
"Uh, yeah." Wally interrupts.
"... But it's worth more than my apartment. And everything in it. Combined." She huffs, fists tightening around the silver of her key; out of the corner of her eye Wally straightens, looking curious at the change in her tone. "How am I— I'm never going to be able to pay him back." She grits out through her teeth. "I'm always gonna, like, owe him for it. It's always gonna be a hand out and I— I didn't do anything to earn it."
To her surprised Wally snorts, looking slightly bemused at the expression on her face. "It's was a gift, Artemis." He says slowly, as if she's stupid. "You don't have to pay someone back for a gift. GA got you this because he wanted to, okay? He didn't do it to, like, make you owe him something."
Despite his reasonable tone she feels her annoyance flare up. "You don't get it." She scoffs, waving him off. "You've always had money, okay—"
"So has Oliver." He counters before she can finish, crossing his arms. "He probably wanted to just get you something nice because he knew it would make you happy. And if he knew how freaked out you were about it he'd probably be sick over it—"
"Wally—"
"Oliver's not playing games with you, Artemis." He says over her, any argument dying in her throat as he stares her down, jaw thick and apple eyes glinting with an unsaid challenge. "Stop overthinking it."
It's said with such a finality that almost at once she believes him, the anxious and suspicious buzzing in her head dulling slightly; still, she bites the inside of her cheek hard, glaring at him for nearly half a minute before she sighs. "... You're right." She mutters, shaking her head as she looks away. "Sorry. I'm just not— I'm not used to people being nice to me for no reason. And that whole thing with my mom just—"
She doesn't mean to let the last slip part out, cutting herself off before she can finish; she's not fast enough for Wally through, whose brows instantly furrow. "What whole thing with your mom?"
"Nothing—"
"Artemis."
When she glances at him again he's looking at her a little too closely; taking a page out of his book she sets her face. "I— I don't wanna talk about it, okay? It was nothing, I swear."
She knows he doesn't believe her but she's thankful when he looks away, taking a few steps around her vehicle in silence. "... Where are we going?"
"What?"
"Where are we going?" He repeats in that slow, over-pronounced way she hates; when her brows only bristle in confusion the corners of his mouth perk up, coming to a stop on the passenger side of her car. "You said we were going for a drive. Where are we going?"
To her annoyance he actually opens the door, getting inside her car before she can answer. "Wally, I wasn't being—"
"It's okay if you can't think of anything." He interrupts her before she can even figure out what to say. "I actually found this really cool place when I was out on one of my runs— it's not too far, maybe twenty minutes if traffic isn't bad."
Yanking her own door open she bends at the waist to glare at him. "You're an idiot." She tells him, scowling when he reclines his seat. "Get out of my car."
"I'll get out when we get there."
"Wally."
"Artemis."
"Wally."
"Artemis."
Sensing they're not going to get anywhere arguing like this she sighs, straightening for a moment to tap her fingers along the car roof and seriously debating shoving her keys into his eyes. "... I hate you." She grits out after a moment, getting in.
Looking annoyingly smug when she buckles her seat belt Wally grins when she starts the ignition, ignoring her scowl as he reaches forward to mess with the radio. "Nah." He chuckles.
She's clutching the wheel so tightly that her knuckles are beginning to cramp, a muscle in her cheek twitching as a high note fires clumsily out of his mouth; the street light switches to green and she seriously considers swerving into oncoming traffic. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?" She shouts over the music.
Instead of answering right away Wally spews out some lyrics, making a soppy face at her from the passenger seat and ignoring her when she rolls her eyes. "Right at the next set of lights."
"You're an idiot."
Although at one point she must have told him this multiple times a day Wally looks genuinely hurt when she shouts it at him, his brows furrowing as he reaches to turn down the volume completely. "Relax, Blondie." He snorts, staring moodily out the window for a moment before looking back at her. "... What's your problem? I'm trying to be nice."
Her fingers clench around the wheel, the car warbling for a moment before she follows his directions and turns. "Well, stop." She mutters, scowling through the wind shield.
She doesn't look at him but she can sense the way he glances at her, eyes squinting and critical and wondering why she's so tense. "Alright." He says after a moment, voice no longer teasing. "Fine. I won't be nice."
His tone sounds strained, untrustworthy; when she gets the nerves to glance at him again he's rolling his window down, not stopping until the warm evening breeze is rolling through the car, filling the silence with the strange walnut scent that seems to linger too long around her cheeks, sending her blushing. "... What?" She says after nearly a minute, hating the quiet. "What, you're not talking to me now?"
"You're not talking to me."
"Am so! I just asked you for directions."
"God." He huffs, one hand running through his hair. "I can't be nice, I can't not talk— I didn't realize this car came with a weird list of rules—"
Feeling the wrinkle popping up over her nose she glances at him, glaring. "You can talk if you're not singing, Wally, because your singing is—"
"Shut up."
"Only if you will."
It feels like old times, back before the two of them got together, before there were all these feelings and a history lingering between them; without wanting to she remembers doing this with him for hours, following each other around and picking fights. It had been a game between the two of them, a way to hide how they were really feeling...
But they're older now, and the rules of the game have changed. And suddenly there's no hiding from Wally, the one person in the world who knows her too well, the one who can see through her glaring and her white knuckles and figure her out. And he's doing it right now; she can sense his eyes on her as he dangles a hand out her window, can sense the way he's reading the slop of her jugular, the angles of her collar bones, the stiffness of her shoulders...
She hears him sigh. "You'll feel better if you tell me about it. Whatever happened with Paula, I mean." He tells her plainly, eyes scowling out the window; still, she doesn't miss the way the corners of his mouth twitch upwards when she glances at him, as if he's just been remembering the old times too. "You're acting like a brat. I know you're thinking about it."
"Wally—"
She doesn't have anything to add after saying his name, and as if covering for her he pretends to interrupt. "Left up here, and follow the road for a bit."
She bites her tongue, flicking her signal and thinking hard. She hates when he does this, how he can undress her thoughts with just a look. She hates even more that this is the second time he's done it tonight. Flexing her fingers around the wheel she takes the turn a little more sharply than she means to, following the road he's leading her down. "... Paula wants me to be Huntress."
It's blurted out badly; she doesn't blame Wally for turning his head abruptly towards her, her lips fumbling when she tries to back-track. "N-not like that. The other night she just... She gave me a piece of her old uniform, like it was a family heirloom or something. And she had this weird speech prepared, telling me how proud she was, and— And she told me she wanted me to be her. Like, if I ever went into the League."
"Do you even want to join the League?"
She winces. "That's not the point— Well, I don't know, maybe it is. But she just shoved this huge thing at me, like it was my responsibility to take her old name and fix all the fucked up things she's ever done and—" She hesitates, long enough for Wally to drop his jaw to look at her more severely. "... I mean, I saw Huntress kill people." She says quietly, the words so low it's as if she doesn't want them heard. "I don't want that on me."
She can tell it's not what Wally had been expecting, can read his silence just as easily as he read hers; before he can figure out what he wants to say she keeps talking, afraid now to stop once she's started. "And I said that I would do it, because— I mean, what else was I supposed to say? After all that I couldn't tell her I didn't want that, that I didn't—that I don't want another link to my shitty family, to all the awful things they've done. That was why I joined the Team in the first place, to get away from all that, and lately I just feel like— Like it's closer than ever. Is that stupid?"
(And she doesn't know how to put this feeling into words, the one that's been lurking, unexamined inside her; how all she can feel lately is her past and her future pressing so painfully hard on either side of her that there's no room for the present, for her own decisions, no room for her to screw up or think or even consider what the hell she wants—)
She's rambling, her breath coming short, beside her Wally shakes his head, speaking too slow. "... Of course it's not stupid." He says quietly.
It's not enough; exhaling loudly she presses down harder on the gas pedal, the road they're following fading into an empty stretch of highway. "And I know I was acting like an idiot about Oliver giving me the car but— but it just felt like another huge promise that I wasn't sure I could keep. And I wasn't even on the Team this time last year, and now I have all these people who are like— relying on me, and invested in me, and—"
"Artemis." Wally cuts her off, voice warning; at once she releases the gas pedal, watching as her speedometer slips back down within the speed limit.
She swallows. "Sorry." She mutters gruffly after a moment, mouth dry. "I— Sorry. I don't know why I said all that. You're just—" She glances at him, not sure what she's about to say. "... You're just easy to talk to. For me."
She doesn't know why she adds the last part, dragging her eyes back to the road and not wanting to see the surprised, almost tender look that crosses his features; the road beneath them is beginning to turn more rugged, the sleekness of the paved city roads fading. "Hey." He says after a moment, voice soft, too quiet. "... I get it, okay?"
When she doesn't say anything back Wally sighs. "Artemis, all that stuff—"
For some reason she can't stand to be comforted, and before he can say anything more she reaches for the radio dial, allowing music to drown him out.
With the absence of the city lights the darkness of the highway feels all encompassing, too thick; as if silently understanding that she's done talking about it Wally cranks her music almost painfully loud, humming along to the choruses of songs she doesn't know as she clicks her headlights on.
"Here." He tells her nearly ten minutes later, twisting the volume down until it's quiet enough to be yelled over, directing her towards a roughly hewn path away from the street lamps on the highway. "Right down there."
The grass here seems overgrown, the road dirt covered and wide enough for only one car. When he finally tells her to stop it's because they've run out of road; all around them are empty fields full of too-long grass and rocky hills that slope underneath her tires. "Come on." He tells her, already opening his door before she even gears into park. "Leave your keys in, okay? We need the head lights, it's so dark."
This sounds strange, and bad for the battery, but rather than argue she sighs, switching her music off and taking her time opening her door. "Are you going to tell me why we're—"
Her question is answered before it's even really asked; gripping the edge of her door she looks out at the glinting lights of Happy Harbor, beyond Wally's silhouette as he marks a few feet in front of her car, staring out at the city they both have a home in. She doesn't ask how he found this place, the top of a lonely hill and that feels as if it's on the edge of the earth itself, Happy Harbor blossoming out in front of them, nothing but a mess of lights and ocean in a valley level with the horizon.
She doesn't close her door; she's never been more sure in her life that it's just the two of them, alone in the countryside and in the darkness. The grass seems to ripple around her bare calves as she makes to follow him, her hair stirring about her chin as she gazes, unblinking, towards her favorite place in the world. "Okay." She breathes, crossing her arms at the hint of chill in the air. "Never mind."
Wally looks pleased when she comes to a stop beside him, glancing at her once before going back to staring at the twinkling city lights. "Found this place while you were gone." He says vaguely, and for the first time she senses no hurt behind the words. "I used to run up here to think. You can see pretty much the whole city from here. Look— the Cave. It's a little hard to see in the dark, but if you look close you can see the outline of the mountain against the water."
She squints, following his hand as he extends it; although she knows it's there she can only just see it, more a figment of her imagination than anything else. "This is..." She starts, not finding a word to follow it.
Wally fills in the blanks, as he always does. "Worth the drive?"
In the glow of the headlights he grins at her, and despite herself she smiles back— how they can go from fighting to moments like this is so baffling to her, so strangely reassuring in its abnormality. It's so quiet out here, so still that when he chuckles lowly in the back of his throat it very well might be the first sound she's heard in years. And she's spent so much of her life in silence, the awful kind, that feeling the quiet blossom between them now makes her want to drink it in, swallow it whole, keep a part of it inside her forever. It's so peaceful here, with the distant scurries of mice, the low hum of crickets; it's so far away from the city, from the lapping of the water on the sand, from everything...
But that's the thing about silences, she supposes. In all the quiet, you sometimes hear things you wish you didn't.
"There's..." She trails off with an exhale, finally tearing her eyes away from the beauty of the view in front of them. "There's something else, actually. That's bothering me."
When he glances at her something in her expression must tell him this is more important than anything else she's revealed tonight; at once his smile is sobering, wavering into seriousness and growing older in the half light. "Okay."
She hesitates. "... But it stays between us, Wally. You have to promise me."
"Artemis..." His brows furrow, jaw tightening; he knows how she feels about promises. "Of course. Promise."
It's childish, making him swear to it; already beginning to feel ashamed of herself she drops her eyes to her sneakers, skin beginning to prickle in the evening air. "I've been... Worried about something. For a long time. And I just... I can't ignore it anymore. And I talked to Kaldur and— and we both think it might be a possibility Sportsmaster killed Marie."
She doesn't look at him, doesn't wait to see his reaction; instead she rushes on, addressing her feet in a hushed voice. "At least there isn't any evidence to suggest otherwise. But we know he was in the area just before we got there—a-and... And I just— I know he did it. I know he wanted to get back at me, or control me, or... I don't know. But I was there, and Marie was killed, and now Garfield is M'gann's problem and—" Her voice breaks and she abruptly seals her lips, refusing to indulge in the weakness of crying. "—And I just wanted to hear what you thought. Because I know you, and I know that— that whether I like it or not you read the mission report of what happened. And you're smart. And you can help me plan my next move."
It's lot to ask: of his secrecy, of his trust, of his mind. But she knows him— and he knows her. And if there's one person in the world who she knows will up her figure this out it's Wally.
He's quiet, too much so for her taste; she may as well have said everything to the Happy Harbor skyline for all that she's getting back. Hissing lowly in the back of her throat she finally jerks her head up, glaring at him. "Well?"
To her annoyance Wally isn't even looking at her, instead staring out with furrowed brows towards the ocean. "Well what?"
"Well, what are you thinking?" She hisses.
She watches as he shakes his head, his tongue firing out a low clicking noise that cuts through the quiet. "I'm thinking you don't have a next move—" And he pauses, long enough for her stomach to plummet to her knees, "—because Sportsmaster didn't kill Marie."
She makes a strange choking sound, as if she's just tried to swallow despite her throat not working. "You don't know that for sure."
"He didn't kill her." Wally says plainly, voice flat; she can tell he's trying very hard to be rational, logical. "I don't need to know a damn thing for sure, it— it doesn't make sense. I don't even know why you would... Artemis, it doesn't fit his profile at all. I mean, when he went after me that one night... He did it to hurt you. And it only hurt you because you knew it was happening, right?"
Her brain feels as if it's moving oddly slow. "I guess." She admits, not quite trusting him.
Wally shakes his head again. "So there wouldn't be a point in killing her if he didn't make it known that he was the one doing it— he'd lure you out there, or leave something behind so you'd know it was him, so you'd have to feel messed up about it. Otherwise you're just left wondering what might have happened and not linking it with him directly. That's not his style."
"But what if he wanted me to drive myself crazy thinking—"
"God, Artemis." He sighs, and for the first time since they've known each other she realizes he's beginning to lose patience with her; turning away from the view he runs a hand through his hair, walking a few paces back towards her car. "You've got to stop thinking everything is your fault, okay? I read the report. Marie's body had no javelin marks, no signs of bruising, nothing. She got in the car and drove off the cliff."
She feels anger burning inside her for the first time. "Marie wouldn't have done that." She says lowly.
"Fine." He spits out shortly, kicking a rock absently before sitting on the hood of her car. "But whatever happened didn't have anything to do with you, okay?" Although it's meant to be comforting it sounds harsh, unyielding in the loneliness of the highway. "You're beating yourself up over something that never even happened instead of trying to help M'gann, who actually has to deal with it." A beat. "God."
It's brutally honest, almost mean in the way he can spit her own flaws back at her so quickly; even though she knows he's right, knows very suddenly that she's acting childish and pathetic and as fucked up as she's always been she can't help but hate him for recognizing it when she's passed over it blindly.
(He's right. Kaldur had said it himself; they couldn't rule Sportsmaster out, but they couldn't link it directly to him. Her father hasn't even done anything and she's afraid of him— weak, pathetic, damaged, scarred, haunted—)
((Selfish.))
And why does she always need Wally's opinion anyway? Why can't she figure this stuff out on her own? When is she going to stop needing him, when is she going to outgrow him, outgrow her fears, why why why—
She wishes she had something to say to defend herself with; wants to shout something at him, to demand answers to the questions rolling inside her head: How can he always be so sure of everything? How can he believe in her? How can he, again and again, drive her crazy with his dependability, for his unfailing ability to believe the best of her when she knows she doesn't deserve it? She wants to hit him, to scream, to do something to quail all the feelings inside her— instead she stands, fists clenching, mulling over the words he's just said and wishing they didn't comfort and infuriate her as much as they do.
She can tell he's angry with her now, probably itching to spew a few well chosen swears at her; feeling slightly reckless she turns back to where she knows he is, squinting and not quite able to make him out in the glare off her headlights. "What's your problem?" She hurls out, glaring.
Even though she can't see his expression she can sense the annoyance in the way he pauses, can practically feel his ears radiating in the dark. "My problem," he starts, voice cutting and annoyingly slow, "is that I'm trying to be nice, because it's your goddamn birthday, and you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice—"
"I didn't ask you to do this." She snarls, unfurling her arms and allowing her fists to clench at her sides. "I didn't tell you—"
"Shut up." He huffs. "You asked me, Artemis, the night before M'gann's birthday. You told me you wanted me to do something for you too. So here I am."
She feels the old memory tug at her, and despite herself she deflates; he's right, of course. Still, unable to quail her bickering now that it's started she shifts her weight, feeling like an idiot. "... We broke up, Wally." She says harshly. "You didn't—"
"Yeah, I did."
It's said so dismissively that she doesn't argue, instead flexing her toes angrily in the dirt. It takes a long time for her shoulders to relax, for the tense and bothered muscles in her back to unclench, for parts of her to unwind. She's very aware that she's being an asshole. "... Thank you." She says gruffly after a moment, teeth gritting together as she hesitates. "And sorry for being... Yeah."
It's not an apology, not really, but they both know the fact that she's even trying is progress; as she squints through the headlights to find him she can see him shifting his weight uneasily on the hood of her car, overlong legs rustling up the loose dirt on the ground. "Whatever." He says, voice still rough. "... Come here."
She holds back for a moment, unable to see him the darkness, before finally moving blindly towards him; raising one hand to block out the light she moves clumsily over through the overlong grass, stubbing her toes on unseen rocks. "Are we going?" She asks, patting her pockets stupidly, searching for her keys before she realizes they're still in the ignition.
For some reason Wally doesn't say anything for a moment, simply watching her get closer, his heel catching on her bumper as he shifts his weight again. "Sit."
She ignores this, not wanting to be bossed around; rather than follow the order she stops less than a foot in front of him, his bent knees inches from her stomach. "What now?" She asks peevishly, wanting to go home.
And it's strange, this silence between them, more thick and angry than it's been in a while; neither of them feel like celebrating anything anymore, sporting matching glares as they stare each other down, stubborn as always. Finally Wally sighs, as if sensing she's not going to actually sit beside him, and shifts his weight again.
He fumbles with his pocket for a moment, rolling his eyes at her and sending her a look that seems to say a thousand things at once— annoyance, tenderness, something bigger than the two of them. Like always she's not brave enough to see what he wants her to, her cheeks flaring up before she can stop them and her eyes dropping to the several inches she's placed between them, glaring hard at her feet. "... Can we just—" She starts, intending to ask him to let her take him home; she's distracted when her eyes catch movement, glancing up despite herself to watch as his hand, still adorned with her elastic, as it places a small velvet box on the swell of his knee.
"What—" She starts, blanching slightly; it's about the last thing she wants to see: another present, this time wrapped clumsily with ribbon. Feeling annoyed she looks away, hissing out a breath that ruffles her hair. "Wally, come on—"
"Open it." He insists, picking it up off his knee and holding it out to her.
She glares, blowing a piece of hair out of her face as he waggles the tiny package tauntingly in the empty space between them. ".. You didn't have to." She grumbles, feeling ill-tempered as she snatches it from where he's waving it, inches from her face.
"I did, okay?" He mutters, beginning to sound annoyed again. "Just open it."
Deciding there's no way around it she bites her tongue, finally indulging him; slipping the ribbon off the box she flicks the top open, an odd feeling to foreboding sounding in her stomach.
It's tiny, too delicate for someone like her to wear; she must make some sort of noise, a small intake of breath or something else stupid sounding because at once Wally laughs, the sound almost brash and too-loud with the sudden ringing of her ears. "Wally." She mumbles, knees wobbling and fingers reaching out to press against the delicate gold chain, the light glinting off the dainty looking "A" it's woven through. "... God. You— You didn't—"
Her throat tightens, caught between still feeling upset and now caught off guard. She can't figure out what she's trying to say, thumb and forefinger removing the fragile little necklace from the box to hold it up in front of her; for some reason her mouth's no longer working, her silence only making him grow a mixture of annoyed and sheepish in front of her. "I bought it ages ago. Meant to give it to you after Prom." He mumbles, hand predictably going to the back of his neck. "I-it's probably meant for girls with names like Ashley, or Alexa, or something normal, or whatever, but... I don't know. I thought it would look good on you..."
He trails off when she places the empty box back on his knee, not noticing the way he blushes as she unclasps it. The metal is cool as she clips it around her neck, the tiny "A" fitting perfectly into the dip of her collar bone; when she doesn't do anything beyond reaching up to press the chain against her neck, as if wanting to make sure it stay there, branded, forever, Wally makes a nervous tittering sound. "Do you like it?"
(... God.)
She keeps her head ducked, hiding behind her hair and not sure what to feel. Her mouth still isn't cooperating, her fingers still frozen as they press the necklace into her skin; already the metal has adjusted to the warmth of her skin, seeming weightless as it curls around her neck, already a part of her.
(She's not supposed to be wearing this. Girls like her wear their mother's old uniforms; they are given gifts crusted with blood or melted from steel. She is carved from muscle and sinew and arrow heads. She is not supposed to be wearing a necklace.)
((But she doesn't take it off.))
... A small part of her, hidden, might cry if she was a different kind of girl. If she were Ashley or Alexa she would do what she wants to right now— she would follow the strange mixture of annoyance and emotion swirling inside her. She would reach for him, pull him in, kiss him the way she's been longing to. She would cling to him, broken and vulnerable, and whisper something predictable: "You're an idiot." She would sigh, more tender than before. "You are an idiot and I can't stop pretending I don't love you."
And he would be there. And that would be enough.
But she isn't Alexa, or Ashley. She is Artemis, and she isn't ready.
(Tonight has only proved how broken she still is, how tangled her insides are; she isn't ready for something like this, for the words she wants so badly to speak. "I love you," can't be a part of her vocabulary right now, now when her heart is pierced by broken glass so sharp others are ripped open when they touch it.)
(But she wants to say it, for the first time she wants him to know. And that has to mean something— that has to mean something good.)
The "A" is too tiny, too delicate between her fingers; when she closes her eyes she can imagine the feeling of the letter getting lost between the seams of her skin, a memory of what Prom night could have been a part of her forever.
... It's good, she decides, that they aren't together. It's good for both of them.
Her and Wally... They never could get the timing right. That was their problem, she sees it now; distantly she wonders how things might have turned out: if they had went to Prom, if she had let him kiss her on New Years Day, if he hadn't tripped over his own feet that first day they met. Her thumb finds the chain, skimming the metal and thinking hard, pressing the souvenir from the boy she once loved into her skin as the man he became sits in front of her, growing nervous.
... She loves him, she knows she does. And he loves her. There's a reason people like them find each other. Maybe it's fate, some sort of higher calling neither of them believe in. Whatever it is it isn't an accident, this pull between them that brings them back to each other, again and again...
But right now, this moment... The timing isn't right. Not when she's not sure who she's supposed to be, not sure what kind of girl Artemis is. And she's done with letting him try to fix her, done pretending what's wrong with her is something anyone but her can deal with. There's a war inside her head, her heart is learning how not to be small, and she needs to learn how to stop destroying herself before she can let anyone as perfect as Wally near her again.
And right now, to try to love him like this... It isn't worth it. There were the good times, she supposes; the ones where he would laugh and the familiar wrinkles would crease his forehead and she would forget to be numb. There were moments where Wally's arms once meant invincibility, safety, the kind of warmth she's never understood being pressed into her skin.
But she can't, not right now. Not until she learns to be okay on her own. She is too broken, and the pain of loving someone when she doesn't love herself is too much. It's crippling, it's terrifying, the idea of losing herself in another when she's so lost in herself. She's tried it before and it had left her shaking, left her in fear of how vulnerable she was, of how much she had tied up in another person... She's spent so much time being along, being scared, being empty, and as much as she might want him... There isn't room for him in her heart right now.
(And she'll wear the necklace— a souvenir of what has happened, and a hope for what's to come—)
One day her heart won't be so full of the worst parts of herself. One day she will understand why she's so broken— and then they'll be together. And when it happens for the two of them again... She knows that will be it. Wally and Artemis, her and him— that's the way it's meant to be. He had said that to her once, hadn't he? The two of them, together. That's what it comes down to. Her and Wally. She can feel tears prickling her eyes but she doesn't indulge them, blinking rapidly as she looks at him; his ears are burning in the darkness, looking earnest as he watches her face, boyishly nervous.
"I—" She tries to say something, voice breaking. She'll have to wait, like he is now. She'll have to wait until she's whole enough to love this boy, until there's room in her heart to do it properly. She won't hurt him like she did ever again.
... There is love is holding, in clutching, in clawing to be together. But there is also love in letting go.
Although she wants to hug him she doesn't, instead raising her head to look him in the eye. "I love it." She croaks, keeping her hands to herself.
((It's past midnight now, no longer her birthday. The hood of her car doesn't hold the heat of the July day inside it anymore as it hums beneath her back, the engine rolling softly as her headlights bathe the few feet in front of them in yellow light. There's no noise out here, no talking between the two of them. Her and Wally have had their share of silences but this is by far her favorite one.
The night grows thicker, darker. Soon the twinkling of Happy Harbor fades into the stars, a mess of city and sky and quiet; this kind of thing, this kind of silence, should not be experienced alone. Wally shifts on the hood of her car, his arm warm as always as it brushes against her.
(... She thinks of the early summer, of the first few days when the sun blazed over their faces; she thinks of Wally's sunburnt nose and the new freckles that would blossom on his back, of her fingers trailing between them, connecting the dots, tracing the tiny stars and moons and galaxies that held him together...)
That's the thing about summer, she supposes. It makes you realize that you can love something immensely and profoundly for a moment, a limited amount of time, without it having to continue forever. She loved Wally before she knew how to love herself. But that moment is gone, their summer is over, and forever is never promised. And the seasons will change, and her and Wally will find their way back to each other as they always do, but right now it is her autumn— her time to change, to grow, to die, before she can find him in the spring.
She's tired now, the kind of exhausted that makes her more vulnerable than she would want anyone other than Wally to see; her knees knock together as she struggles to stay awake, eyes catching a glimmer of an unknown something in the distance. "... Shooting star." She mumbles, hand stretching out above them to point.
Wally tilts his head until his chin is brushing against her temple, trying to follow the path of her forefinger. "... Satellite." He corrects her.
"No."
"Yes."
She's too tired to argue. "It's my birthday." She tells him, even though the last time they both checked his watch it was almost one in the morning; still, as if this settles it he goes silent, a twitching about his jaw telling her that he's smiling.
Again quiet stretches out between them, the kind of quiet with Wally that she's always liked; she doesn't know how long they sit like that ,sprawled backwards in the warmth of the summer evening. For the first time in a long time it feels like it once did with Wally—this ease, the comfort of friendship. Nothing forced or fake about the moment—just two people, alone in the dark.
The silence envelops them, soft and smooth as always; slowly her eyes slip out of focus and the night sky seems to blur together in one glimmering mass, a mixture of starts and city lights so beautiful it almost doesn't seem real. Dimly she registers the sensation of his breathing, the inhales and exhales that keep him alive, the occasional twitch of his muscles as his body starts protesting at the stillness.
She waits until the darkness is thick enough to hide behind. "... You're my best friend, Wally." She whispers.
He doesn't hesitate. "You're mine too."))
Sixteen, as it turns out, is not entirely different from being fifteen; other than the driver's license there's almost no difference.
The time passes, as it always does— the remaining days of July begin to fade and with it summer begins to waver; although it's still unbearably hot the evenings occasionally have a new chill in the air, the early morning breeze rolling off the Happy Harbor ocean somehow more crisp, cooler. She rises early most days, running before the heat of the days sets in; it feels good, the familiar pounding of earth beneath her feet, the stickiness of the sand as it clings to her skin. Life seems settled, sturdy. Simple, at last.
Most mornings she finds M'gann, the two of them trying their best to talk about the easy things rather than all the horribleness of the last few weeks. Wally's right, of course— it wasn't her fault Marie died, and thinking so had been little more than a distraction— but it doesn't stop her from feeling guilty: for running back home after it happened, for not being there to help. She's not sure if anything she will ever do can fix her abandoning M'gann, but she wants to try. Oh God, she wants to try.
"I still don't know what I'm going to do about him." M'gann sighs one day, no longer paying attention to the magazine she's been flipping through; marking her place on the page of her book she props herself up on an elbow, following the other girl's gaze to where Garfield is laughing loudly, floundering around in the ocean water with Wally and Dick.
By far the biggest change of the last week or so has been having Garfield around. The little boy is endlessly amusing; during her free afternoons the two of them go for long walks down the beach and through the grove of trees she used to hide in, and he makes her laugh with his uncanny ability to transform and mimic each one. He's learning quickly— it's only taken him a few days to master the swallows and robins and wood peckers, save for the exact shade of green as M'gann's skin that he still can't figure out how to get rid of.
As if reading her mind M'gann sighs again. "... I don't even know what I'm going to do about getting him into a school. I mean, he's green..."
She exchanges a look with Zatanna lying on her other side and does her best to don a reassuring smile. "We'll figure it out, Meg. Don't worry."
Despite her saying it she knows that the other girl has been doing nothing but, her mood seeming permanently damped and her silences more tense than usual. She has a right to be worried, if course. It became obvious, the first time they took him on a tour of Happy Harbor, that Garfield's skin made him a stand out in crowds; that day they had been bombarded with stares, with whispers, with disgusted glances that had made the little boy go from excited to upset in a matter of minutes.
"It will be easier in the Fall." Zatanna says helpfully, and she knows at once they're all thinking of hiding the little boy in hoodies and jeans.
She does her best to keep Garfield entertained, taking him for car rides and basically anything that will give M'gann a break. Although she thinks it must be quite boring for the little boy he seems endlessly thrilled by the prospect of simply haunting the Cave, the long hours filled with her showing him things like the training room and the common area, the wall of souvenirs and the stories behind them. Despite the monotony it's all a little too much for him, after being a fan of the League for so long, and although his laughter quickly changes from infectious to shrill she does her best not to get too annoyed—she remembers the unsettling silence in to Quarac all too well, and is in no mood to hear it ever again.
... Summer edges onward and the Cave feels different. She can't explain why; the feels just lurks there, unnoticed but present, like the ever-passing nature and the knowledge that they're all getting older. She tries to explain this feeling exactly once, picking perhaps the worst audience to do so; when she tries to explain how she feels to Connor she receives a dry look in response, his head swinging back to the television to stare at static.
Huffing slightly she goes back to her book, missing the way his eyes glance back at her after a moment, gaze drifting down to where the golden glint of metal is shimmering about her collar bone. "... Nice necklace." He says stiffly.
She blushes.
On the last day of July she starts the day by seeking refuge in the library, wanting some peace and quiet; after so long of nearly constant company she's anxious for some privacy, to hear her own thoughts or at the very least her own voice repeating written word in her head. She's just on her way to the shelf she's left off at—she's made her way out of the non-fiction now—when a movement catches her out of corner of her eye.
"Kaldur?" Her feet automatically change their course down the main isle, turning towards him and down his row of shelves—he's passing through the classical section, nothing but aged spines detailing ancient myths, old texts by Homer and other long dead Greeks, pausing once on a row of shelves that she's never looked at, the volume all much older than she can imagine, written in languages long dead to the living ear. "What are you doing in the library so—"
In response he raises a webbed hand, glancing once over his shoulder as she approaches; following his line of sight she can see Tula, slumped back in her chair in sleep, stirring slightly at the sound of their voices; with a twitch of his head Kaldur steers her by the shoulder further down the aisle. "Apologies." He says quietly when they're out of range from the other girl. "Tula and I spent the night here. We were doing some research."
"Research?" She half-snorts, grinning up at him. "Some romantic night out, Kal."
Rather than look annoyed he grins, one of his rare ones that shows all his rounded teeth. "You are too impatient to appreciate such things." He tells her, an air of teasing surrounding his tone. "Come. Care to help me until she wakes?"
It's not exactly what she wants to do, but Kaldur's always been good company; since returning home she's spent hardly any time alone with him, just the two of them, beyond their fighting and hasty making up. Thinking distantly on their once frequent afternoons on the beach she turns smiles, leaning against the shelf he's led her to. "Things are going well with her, huh?" She smirks.
Kaldur glances at her once, hesitating; he must understand that he can't hide much from her especially when the dull purple blush begins rising up his neck. "Very. I cannot recall ever being so happy, not since..."
He trails off, and she doesn't push him; instead she lets whatever else is hidden in his sheepish grin remain so. "What am I supposed to be helping you looking for, anyway?" She asks, turning back towards the shelf and squinting at the titles, all written in something older than Greek and unreadable to her eyes.
Again Kaldur pauses, although this one is of an entire different nature; she can tell she's being measured, the half-second of quiet between them signaling his own marking of how much to trust her. She's not sure what to make of the short, hardly there silence before he continues. "I am searching for early Mesopotamian myths." He tells her, eyes returning to the shelves. "… Perhaps early Babylonian ones as well. I am particularly interested in articles detailing the ancient god, Marduk."
She makes a low humming noise in the back of her throat, thinking as she glances at the shelf. "Does this—" She starts before stopping herself, watching as his webbed fingers scroll along the spines of several books before pausing, extracting a particularly thin volume with interest. It doesn't take much to put two and two together, and taking a page out of Zatanna's book she cuts straight to the chase. "You've been gathering information about the tablets he stole." She says, watching his expression carefully. "Sportsmaster? From Sandsmark's museum feature?"
He glances at her, and she takes care not to let a flicker of any emotion, not even anger or disgust at her father's mantle, pass over her face. "You are correct."
She swallows, turning back to the shelf and pretending to look critically at a title she can't read. "… You shouldn't be looking here." She tells him frankly, shaking her head. "Doctor Sandsmark was an ancient Greek historian, she worked in Athens. Anything she dug up would have had to be Greek in origin—"
"Not necessarily true." He counters, as if sensing the beginnings of her stubbornness setting in and wishing to head it off. "You are not familiar with Greek history, are you?"
She shrugs. "Amusing, considering your name." He says vaguely, and although it's meant to be teasing she narrows her eyes, unamused. "The Greeks were not the beginnings or the end of ancient civilization, although they paint themselves as such. Before the Greeks there were the Babylonians. Before the Babylonians there were the Mesopotamians. Before them there were the Minoans."
"So?"
"So it is impossible for so many generations and cultures to walk the land without leaving their presence behind." He tells her frankly, with the air of explanation. "Just because one culture dominates another does not mean the old one is lost. They leave imprints of themselves in religion, myth…"
It's taking her longer than usual to follow his train of thought, and after several seconds something clicks. "So the Doctor dug up something more ancient than ancient Greece?" She asks.
He doesn't immediately answer, flipping through a few pages of the book he's extracted before replacing it back on the shelf. "From what she has told me the artifacts detail the rise of an all-powerful god doing battle with a demonic entity."
She bites her tongue. "So it's old." She says stupidly, watching as his brows raise. "... Really old?"
"The word does not begin to describe it." He chuckles, voice levelling out after a moment. "The inscription names the god Marduk— if I am remembering the Atlantean archives correctly, he originates from the Mycenaean era. Tula and I were simply trying to find more of a record of his existence within their religion, and of the demon he did battle with. It is difficult, of course... The Myceneaeans conquered the Minoans, and altered their myths to suit their own needs... Perhaps his legend is older than the Minoans themselves..."
She feels her brows raise, sensing his thoughts drifting away from her; it feels as if he's deliberately being vague, unfocused.. For some reason an odd feeling swoops through her, a strange pang of jealousy and wistfulness for the days when she had been his confidant rather than Tula... Ever since the other girl arrived she's felt as if there's something wedged between them, the other's girl's influence on him so profound that there's no room for her to be his friend anymore, no room for the closeness they once shared when it's being marred by another person's thoughts and feelings. "... Why bother?" She asks, brows furrowing as she tries to reclaim his attention. "You don't think Marduk was actually real, do you?"
It takes him a second to get out of his thoughts, no doubt getting caught on research or words exchanged from the previous evening. His shoulder twitches into that strange half-shrug all Atlanteans are prone to as he looks down at her thoughtfully. "... There have long since been debates about whether the gods exist, in both the surface world and Atlantis. Even Superboy and Red Arrow have opinions... There have even been debates about figures like Superman, and Wonder Woman, and how close they are to immortal..." He muses, still lost. Finally he blinks, irises clear as he looks at her. "— I am curious. That is all."
"But..." She trails off, thinking hard and feeling as if she's missing something. "Okay, let's say you find out Marduk is real. Would that make... I mean, that would mean the demon he fought was real too." She mulls over, watching his face very carefully for some indication that she's following the right path. "And that means the Light is gathering artifacts that have something to do with them."
There's a pause in which Kaldur's eyes glance between the shelf and her several times, finally resting on her face with a strange expression she can't recognize, his brows and jawline oddly thick as he surveys her. "... As I said before: I am simply curious." He says carefully, looking stern. "I do not believe learning as much as I can would be... Forgive me." A little too much must be showing on her face; as if suddenly thinking better of the conversation Kaldur shakes his head, looking solemn. "You did not come to the library to listen to my theories." He says kindly, turning to her. "Perhaps I can help you find a book?"
The way he says the last part is too light, too easy for the conversation they've just been having; it feels as if the cogs whirring in her head have been forced to come to a halt, her brows furrowing as she reads the mocking easiness of his expression. "... What?"
She's not expecting him to but for some reason Kaldur sighs, still trying to keep his face unreadable. "Apologies." He mutters, shaking his head. "I am worrying you over half thought theories. They are nothing."
"Nothing?" She repeats, eyes narrowing.
And suddenly she understands what's happening, the weight of all the secrets between her and Kaldur feeling oddly heavy as it settles in the swell of her shoulder; vaguely she can registers the flickering of old memories in her mind: her feelings about Wally, Kaldur's attachment to Tula, the own fears about her family...
There's trust between them, the kind that would prompt him into telling her as much as he has, but not enough to tell her his every thought; no, those days are long gone between them, wedged and separated by the girl currently sleeping several shelves behind them. But despite this newfound... Rift, between them, she knows him far better than he would like. She knows him well enough to understand that he's onto something, following a thread to the end of a path he's not sure of. And although they are each other's secret keepers, and although she would trust her life to Kaldur... He can't tell her everything. Not until he knows himself.
She's disappointed by the change in conversation, wanting to know more about what he's thinking— but she knows Kaldur. He'll tell her when she needs to know. In response she shakes her head, feeling slightly sour as she straightens off the shelf. "I don't really need help." She tells him, but none the less gestures for him to follow as they loop around another row of books, further away from Tula where they can talk in normal volume. "I just… I don't know. Felt like being alone for a bit."
"Ah." He nods back. "You have been spending too much time with Garfield?"
For some reason she grinds her teeth, feeling instantly guilty over the fact that he's nailed her so quickly. "… Not too much. Just…" For some reason she can't think of what to say next, her voice trailing off as they round the corner to the row of shelves she's left off on.
"… It is just that you like being alone." Kaldur clarifies for her.
She grimaces, wincing at the suggestion. "Well…"
She doesn't say anything more but Kaldur seems to understand; nodding again he pauses at the end of the isle, jaw dropping as he surveys her progress further. "Hm."
The noise is too thoughtful, too vague; at once her eyes leave the path she's marked on the shelf, no longer searching for the place along the row that she's left off on and instead finding their way back to him. "What?"
Kaldur shakes his head, taking a slow steps towards her. "I had a favor to ask, but perhaps—"
"Kal."
He seems to understand that she's done humoring his excuses, his attempts at being tactful; for a moment he considers her, and feeling herself losing patience she leaves him to his thoughts for a moment, finally finding her spot on the shelf and reaching for the next book along the row, a thin volume bound in burgundy. "… I was considering asking you to train Garfield." He says suddenly, blurting out the words almost uncharacteristically.
She makes a stupid sounding noise, a ridiculous half-snort mixed with an obnoxious sounding exhale that immediately cuts off as she glances at him, reading the alarming seriousness of his face. "... What? Why?"
If Kaldur notices her nearly drop the book he doesn't say anything, instead coming to a stop beside her. His posture has changed, no longer relaxed and slouched but alarmingly straight, hands folded seriously behind his back; at once she feels herself straightening in response, very suddenly aware that he's no longer addressing her as a friend but as a leader. "We still do not understand the full extent of his powers." Kaldur says reasonably. "Although I believe there is some potential for… After Athens, even Metropolis, I have been considering the advantage of having a larger group of Team Members at our disposal."
She blinks at him, still feeling entirely caught off guard by the proposition, let alone what she's hearing right now. "You're considering letting Garfield join the Team?"
"It seems prudent." Kaldur tells her. "M'gann certainly brought him into our inner circle—not that I am against it. And I do believe that with the right training he could be an asset."
She mulls this over for a long moment, thinking hard and fast— Garfield on the Team? Garfield, fighting someone? Garfield, maybe, possibly, getting hurt? "… M'gann should train him." She says, throat rough sounding. "He got his powers from her."
"Of course. But what of combat training?"
"Connor."
She expecting him to at least consider this; as if he's ready for the counter offer he lowers his jaw, scrutinizing her. "I am asking you."
For some reason her mouth goes dry, mind buzzing and anxious in a way it hasn't been in a while. It takes a moment or two to place the sudden panic clawing at her, but at once she can see flurries of memories flashing at the back of her mind: her father, putting her through drills. Her father, beating her senseless. Her father, cutting into her, screaming at her, breaking her in ways children aren't supposed to—
She can't. She can't do this.
As if he can see what's going on inside her mind Kaldur reaches out to clap a sturdy hand on her shoulder; despite not wanting to she can feel her knees buckling underneath the weight, toes flexing into the carpet and grounding her firmly. "Garfield likes you." He says lowly, voice not sharp but rather smooth, reassuring. "He will perform best with someone he trusts."
"... I'll hurt him." She blurts out, blank façade fading for a moment, exposing a flash of some emotion she can't explain.
(She's afraid of turning into her father— of pushing for too much, too soon. Of tearing down a child and molding them into something monstrous, irreversible, of breaking them the way she was broken—)
Whatever it is Kaldur understands it, his fingers tightening around her. "We both know you will not." He tells her firmly. "You will teach him what he needs to know to protect himself— that is what you are best at, Artemis. Protecting people."
She doesn't know why he says this, what it's supposed to mean; for a moment she can see herself, wild and impulse as she sprints forward beside the waterfall, fighting with everything she has to stop Garfield from seeing Marie's dead body. The memory makes her sick, its manipulation from his mouth twisting inside her, tasting ugly.
"... He's too young." She says after a moment, shaking her head. "He's not like Dick. He can't do this."
For several seconds Kaldur stares at her, and she senses it again; the silent debate, the question of how much to trust her. Once again he decides quickly, the fact that he still even has to think on the decision bothering her more than it should. "... It is the only way." He whispers after a moment. "You do not know the full details—"
"Then tell me."
Another pause, this time longer. "I cannot." He says solemnly, wincing when her eyes narrow. "... Garfield is being watched by the Bialyan government. To release him into the world, unprotected... It would be risking his life. Putting M'gann in danger. Exposing the whole Team." His throat bobs before he continues. "I am asking you to train him— if he can earn a place on the Team he will remain safe. Please, Artemis."
She can't think of anything for a long moment, instead looking away when Kaldur takes his hand back. "…If M'gann wants me to—"
"Of course she does. But she will not ask—she does not want you to feel obligated."
"It's putting a little boy's life in my hands, Kal, how can I not—"
She's interrupted when he raises a hand, cutting off the loudness of her voice as it carries around the library. Distantly she can hear Tula stirring, several pages of books creasing as she shifts in sleep. "… M'gann is at a loss as to what to do with him." He whispers after a moment. "She is considering leaving the Team to care for him. Finding him a place here will ensure both of their futures and their safety. Garfield will face Black Canary and the rest of the Team when he is ready, and you are to prepare him."
As if he can sense her about to get angry with him he shakes his head, looking far more stern than she's ever seen him. "I am asking you because I trust you." He whispers, as if afraid the other girl will hear. "I know you will not give up until Garfield is ready. And he is safe."
He always does this; words things so smoothly and says them so firmly she can hardly say no. "... Okay." She mumbles, clutching her book painfully tight as an idea hits her, spurring the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. "But you owe me— I want to be kept in the loop with this whole artifact thing." She says stubbornly, waving the book at him angrily before she folds it into the crook of her arm. "... Spartsmaster is my father. I deserve to know what the hell he's planning."
For a long moment they stare at each other, his jaw tightening and gaze too shrewd as he looks at her; she can tell he isn't fond of the idea, isn't fond of forcing her father and her together more than either of them can stand it. Still, it takes nearly half a minute before he nods. "Deal."
And she opens her mouth to say something— something she's not sure of, the words not coming to her as easily as they once would. Is she trying to thank him? To tell him she misses him? To tell him that despite the fact that they're not as close as they once were that his secrets are safe, that they'll be kept safe until she dies, because, like he just reminded her, they can trust each other—
Before she can figure out how to say any of this Kaldur nods once in dismissal. She's left holding the burgundy bound book alone.
"Arms up." She says, pausing to press her hair back behind her ears before she raises her own fists, knees bending into a proper stance.
(She has her father's hands, a fact that she's just become aware of in the last few days: weather beaten so often that the rough skin has grown smooth. Now more than ever her eyes are drawn to them in moments like this, when she's waiting to strike, staring at the cracked and wrinkled rivers mapped down her blistered knuckles. She hates them.)
Garfield for his part continues to look wary, the same way he's been looking for the past hour or so; almost reluctantly he raises his tiny green fists for the umpteenth time, thumbs curling inside his fingers the way she's scolded him for doing twice now. "You'll break your thumbs, Gar." She tells him, trying to be patient as he makes the correction.
It's their third afternoon of training now—it had taken most of the first two sessions to calm Garfield down, to get him to stop morphing into animals at the slightest impulse and clambering all over the expensive training facility. She's not the best teacher, and she knows it; their second afternoon she had snapped at him, losing patience when he had kept interrupting her training with questions she didn't want to answer—how had she learnt these things, who had taught her, was her father a hero too? Is she actually related to Green Arrow? Or is that some sort of lie?— and she had shut him down too quickly, to snarling.
... Cutting, the way her father would.
(She can't do this.)
(Don't be a baby.)
But she's learning. They both are.
"Better." She tells him when he gets himself pulled together, making the correction and adjusting his feet until he's mirroring her. "Let's do the combination I taught you, okay? And this time I'll counter-attack, so be careful to dodge too. Slow at first?"
Garfield's face sets, fists tightening for a moment. She can tell he's still not sure why they're doing this, why they're continuing with training long after it's stopped being fun."Okay."
It takes a few seconds for him to realize she's waiting for him to move, embarrassment flashing on his face for a moment and his first punch coming at her a little clumsily; ducking around it she makes a show of moving her arm unrealistically slow, countering the move with a cross of her own—
Like Wally he's a fast learner; bending at the waist she easily misses, one of his fists upper cutting her in the abdomen the way she's shown him. He's so small, he'll take plenty of people off guard by this, but he's not really hitting her—just touching her, tiny bones barely imprinting on her diaphragm. "You actually have to hit me, Gar." She says forcefully, taking a few steps back as if she's just been hit and setting up the opportunity to reset the approach.
"Okay, okay."
"Faster now." She commands, already flying at him again.
("Faster now." Her father had once shouted, not allowing her time to brace herself before his fists had come flying her at, broad knuckles knocking against her jaw and clobbering her backwards. She is ten, maybe eleven, screaming for him to stop, to let her think, too young and afraid to anticipate his movements; stumbling over her own feet she had tried to outrun him, hair ripping from her scalp as he had caught her by pig tail. "Faster Baby Girl, or you won't survive out there...")
((Her nose is bloodied and her lip is split, and he only stops when she is shaking on the floor, crying for her mother—))
It goes on—the first few times he misses a step to the combination, or adds in new punches and blocks. Despite the mistakes it's improvement, better than what she's been expecting from only a few sessions, but—
Garfield aims a kick about the backs of her knees, forcing them to bend—it's one of her old moves she used to favor when she was smaller, and using the momentum she falls hard on her back, legs whipping round to roll her upright, shoulders bracing against the ground—and he's not expecting the sudden change in maneuver, the fist flying towards him but he still digs his heels in, as if determined to—
(("Stop!" She had whimpered, elbows bracing round her skull, trying to block out the dull pounding bruising her limbs. "Dad— Stop—"))
Her fist freezes of its own accord, a sudden and unexplainable bolt of pain bursting out from the ghost of the old scar on her neck; it happens in a second, too quick for her mind to understand, only her body stuttering and muscles freezing with terror. It's so fast that it hardly alters the pace of their sparring, and before she can even figure out what the fuck that just was she registers the familiar squelching sound—
Her heart is pounding, muscles spasming with adrenaline she doesn't know the cause of, and before she can brace for what's about to happen the mass of green shifts as it bounds towards her, her fists failing and forearms raising in defense as she's suddenly face to face with the snarling teeth of a wolf—
"Garfield!" She hisses, dodging out of the way of the animal and landing in a somewhat awkward roll, her shoulder hitting the ground funny and twinging her whole arm as she hurls to a stop. "I told you—you can't always turn into something when you're caught off guard—"
The ugly squelching sound drowns out her scolding and at once the little boy is standing across the training room from her, grimacing. "Sorry!" He whines, green cheeks blushing an odd pink. "I didn't mean to…"
Annoyance is throbbing in her temples, the entirety of her back contracting and trembling with fear; trying her best not to sound shaky or frightened she struggles to pulling in a breath, strange black lights bursting at the edges of her vision. Her old scar, sliced off by Jade, is suddenly throbbing with pain.
Her not responding is worrying Garfield, and as much as she wants to understand what's just happened she forces it to stay buried, instead standing and breathing hard through her nose. She won't yell, she won't become her father. "I know, I know." She sighs, rubbing her injured shoulder, sneaking a few fingers beneath her shirt to probe the old scare tissue— no longer warbled and ugly, she traces the familiarity of the new scar Jade left her, finding nothing different. What the hell? "... At least we know your training with M'gann is going well."
Garfield isn't impressed by the compliment. "Why do I even have to learn how to fight?" He whines. "You hate training me, I hate training— and I have super powers now! What's the point?"
"I don't hate training you." She mumbles, eyes narrowing in annoyance at his honesty as she pulls her fingers from her scar, doing her best to ignore the pain still lingering there. "And you'll do it because we tell you to. Connor still trains almost daily with Black Canary, and he's Super Boy."
She exhales the last part as if annoyed, fingers splaying across her face to press her hair back behind her ears— (Vietnamese features that belong to Huntress, the golden hair of her father. She can't do this, she can't do this—)
She seems to catch him on this, his lower lip jutting out childishly for a moment. "Yeah, but his powers are different. I can turn into any animal I want to—"
"If you know the animal's physiology." She corrects him, beginning to come back to herself when he makes a frustrated noise. "What happens if you're in a climate that none of the animals you know are adaptable to? What if you get an inhibitor collar slapped on your neck, beast boy?" She tries her best to tease, crossing the room to clap him on the shoulder with as much normalcy as she can manage. "Even M'gann knows enough to get her out of trouble, Gar. Are you telling me you know better than your sister?"
"Fine." There's a grumbling noise before Garfield sends her a lop-sided grin. "But if I get it right we go for a drive— and we get milkshakes from the drive thru I like. And—
She exhales normally this time and does her best to send him a shaky smile. "Again." She tells him. "Arms up."
(("Again." Her father snarls, ignoring her crying as the blisters on her fingers burst, dribbling blood over the string of her bow. "Again, Artemis!"))
The heat swelters onward, the entire country reaching a feverish burning point that can only felt at the final high point of summer; even Gotham is hot, the air muggy and pollution seeming to cling to her skin.
"You're going for a run?" Zatanna asks her sleepily, eyes barely cracked open as she lies in what she once thought of as Jade's old bed. "When it's hot like this?"
"That's why you go early, Zee." She says impatiently, yanking an old tee shirt over her sports bra. "Beat the heat."
In response Zatanna yawns, rolling over until she's facing the wall. "You're crazy."
The sidewalk beneath her feet seems to already positively radiate from the five am sun, the streets mercilessly empty as she pounds over them. It's true, she supposes—the only people up this hour are either crazy or drunks leftover from the night before, and seeing as she hasn't had anything to drink…
She rounds the corner, habitually dreading this street; although one of the safer ones on her route it's always a bit of a gamble, what with the local bar open so late. Despite the fact that the place usually clears out by three the drunks all tend to linger until the early morning sun slaps them across their faces, asking for change and yelling at girls on their way to their morning shifts. It's unpleasant, sure, but it sure as hell beats getting—
"Hey!" A straggly voice yells at her as she passes; resolutely she keeps her eyes fixed forward, ignoring the figure as he continues to shout after her. "Hey! Sweetheart!"
Fuck.
Experience has told her not to look back, not to humor any guy in Gotham; judging by her own experience it only leads to getting trapped in darkened alley ways, the kind of cornered that would be trouble to someone who wasn't like her. Despite the heat bothering her she picks up the pace of her strides, pushing herself and doing her best to ignore the man still calling after her, a flurry of movement behind her telling her she's being followed—
"Sweetheart!" He slurs again, somehow managing to keep up with her; surging forward and trying to put the bar stragglers behind her she rounds the corner off the main street, listening to the sound of sneakers pounding behind her— this guy isn't giving up easily—
As she runs as catches flashes of other men leering at her, making snide remarks as she passes, eyeing her legs— "Hey!" The voice snarls at her, much too close this time; before she has time to brace herself a calloused arm is grabbing at her shoulder, throwing off her stride.
It's too early for her to be messed with, her run not even half-over. Her ankle twists against the pavement and with a surge of weary annoyance she snaps backwards, losing her patience too quickly; ignoring grubby fingers as they pull at her shoulder she yanks as hard as she can at the unknown man's forearm, yanking him forwards and pinning his arm behind his back before he can even whimper anything incoherent at her and taking care to ram him as hard as she can against the brick wall beside them.
There's the usual struggle, the sound of skin being scraped open as she grinds his bare cheek against the edge of the wall, the words he's trying to say to her sounding muffled, not understandable. "Jmmfh— 'sus Christ, Artemis. What the f— mfh—"
It takes several seconds for her to realize he's saying her name, and seizing a fistful of grubby hair she yanks his head backwards. "How do you know who I am?"
For some reason the guy laughs, bitter and brash sounding. "You're fucking crazy."
"Roy?" She hisses, instantly releasing him; save for his voice he's unrecognizable, only vaguely resembling what she remembers. His hair is filthy, hardly copper anymore and faded into a dingy brown color with grime, skin pock-marked and dull. "What the—"
He swears, stumbling as he struggles to remain upright. He looks rough; hair overlong again, cheeks scraggly and unshaven, sinister purplish circles under his streaming eyes."Don't call me that." He says through a clenched jaw, breath reeking of alcohol as he exhales, sounding haggard.
"Red, then." She mutters, fist uncurling as she watches him stretch out his shoulder, checking to see that she didn't dislocate anything."… You're drunk."
"And you're crazy." He counters, scowling and finally releasing his shoulder to check the damage done to his cheek; she's left an angry looking scrape on his face that's beginning to bleed. "How come whenever we see each other you try to kill me?"
She feels her nose wrinkle, serious considering throwing him against the wall again; when he doesn't do anything other than look at her for a moment she feels her spine straighten, scowling. "… You in Gotham to see Jade?" She asks stupidly, feeling uncomfortable.
Roy shakes his head, one hand scrubbing his filthy hair from his face. "No. I, uh, actually was hoping to find you."
"Me?"
"Yeah." He shrugs. "I knew you lived around here from… Before. Couldn't remember exactly where but figured I might catch you on your way towards the zeta tubes or something. Got a little side tracked last night though."
The last part is said with a strange, almost out of character chuckle, another warm wash of alcohol stinging her nostrils. "… What do you want?" She asks suspiciously.
Roy seems to hesitate, shrinking slightly under the scrutiny of her gaze. "Just to ask—you haven't, uh, heard from your sister lately, have you?"
It's about the last thing she's been expecting, her surprise showing on her face. "Jade?" She asks stupidly, as if she needs clarification—at once a scowl returns to her face. "That last time I saw my sister she was clogging my throat up with mud. I don't think we're on speaking terms."
Roy shakes his head. "… I figured." He says seriously, the lines around his eyes that she's never noticed before seeming suddenly more defined, more visible in the early morning light. "I just thought… I haven't heard from her in nearly two weeks. She usually… She would have dropped in. I'm worried about her."
She's getting tired of this conversation, rubbing once at her fist before turning away. "So Jade disappears on you and you fall apart?" She scoffs, glancing at her feet to check her shoe laces. "That's a bit pathetic, Red."
"Everyone's pathetic when they're in love."
She feels her face crumple, not expecting this answer as she turns back to glare at him. "You're wasting your time. Jade's a big girl, Red." She says firmly. "She's more than capable of handling herself."
"I know that." He says harshly, as if she's implying that he's being an idiot. "I—she was leaving on some big deal with the Shadows. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't in too deep—"
"Jade's fine."
"—and I know that if she was in trouble she'd call you first." He talks over her, glaring. "She's still your sister, Artemis, and she—"
She feels bile rising in her throat, a flash of anger crossing her face before she can tame it. "She's not my sister." She says as savagely as she can, the wrinkle on her nose popping up with severity. "She stopped being that a long time ago."
As if he can sense how bothered she is by this Roy snorts, looking amused at the fury behind her eyes; before she can sprint away from him he's seizing her round the bicep, forcing her to look him in the eye. "I can see you're going through something." He sighs, the words sounding gloating as they roll off his tongue. "Join the club. My point is, if you see her—"
"I'll kick her ass in your direction." She snarls, ripping herself from his grip.
AN: Happy Holidays everyone! Hopefully this slightly longer update serves as a bit of an apology for going MIA during Christmas. I promise I'll be back in the New Year with more frequent updates.
(I got a question asking what Artemis' hair currently looks like at this part of the story. Unfortunately I don't really have a visual reference beyond that of what's in my head, which is pretty much as described in the story: it's hitting her just past jaw length right now, still not quite long enough to pull back in a pony tail that will stay.)
Read and Review please!