AN: Enjoy the update!
She runs, as always, her joints aching and muscles crying out in protest as she clambers up the stairs and away from the darkness of the Underground; her whole body seems to scream at her, barely-healed wounds ripping open and fighting relentlessly against her panic as she forces herself to keep moving, to keep running, to get away—
Her shoulder clips a door frame as she sprints into the main part of the Cave, oblivious to anyone or any shouts that clang after her as she peels through the common area, not sure if the voices are from outside her head or within it, distant echoes of Wally's snarling or Barry's words—
("You two are intertwined together…")
("You have a responsibility to him...")
The zeta tubes seem to stutter to life as she bangs the three digit code for Gotham City into the keys, not waiting for it to finish glowing before she moves forward. The beams of light swallow her, rip her apart, her atoms crumbling the same way her heart is inside her ribs.
Gotham is as sinister as ever, but for the first time in her life she doesn't care what's waiting for her in the darkness, what's lurking in the shadows to reach out and scratch her. Any feeling, any pain, would be welcome—anything would be better than the overwhelming numbness threatening to boil over her edges. Only the sensation of aching ribs and straining lungs seeming to keep her inside herself rather than ripped from her body altogether.
She doesn't slow down, moving so quickly the movements are almost violent, her toes crying out when she stubs them an even four times climbing the familiar rickety stairs of her apartment. She can hear herself making some sort of noise—panting but worse, the tail end of each inhale catching on her heartbreak, on her own fear, on the fact that she's as trapped as she's ever been— the familiar dingy white of her front door comes into view, stained from dirty fingers and chipped beside the hinge, the whole complex disgusting in its familiarity as always.
… She's trapped all over again.
And it makes no difference whether it's within the walls of this apartment or Wally's arms. She's still being groomed, someone else's to control, something for someone else to exploit. It's all the same, it's all her being used and manipulated and spoiled by lingering affection or duty or guilt. It's no different than being dragged into a battle, no different than being thrown into a cage to fight—she is someone else's pet, someone else's play thing, and she will never, ever be more—
… She's just like Jade.
Jade, who ran and ran and ran some more but still couldn't outrun their father. Jade, who is imprisoned again and doing the bidding of a man who used to sharpen his knives on their backs and admire the bruises he left on their cheeks. Jade, who was hardened and edged out and beaten until there was nothing left inside her to shape into anything other than the Cheshire Cat—
If Jade—who is stronger and faster and smarter and better—couldn't outrun Lawrence… Well, what chance does she have?
And even more, if she can't outrun her father… What chance does she have of outrunning the fastest boy alive?
Her breath catches in her throat, a tiny noise squeaking out of her mouth before she can smother it. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Joining the Team was supposed to change things. Was supposed to give her a chance, an option, was supposed to make her more than someone else's weapon. And now what is she? A last line of defense against Wally's own demise? A object, a landmark, to serve someone else's purposes? How is that any different than what she was before, another body for her father to throw in front of his own—
She winces at the thought, shaking her head as she forces herself forward. No, it's different. She knows it is. She would take a bullet for Wally—has taken a bullet for him. She would die for him, a thousand times over. This is no different.
… But it is. And maybe the thing that bugs her is the difference comes down to one thing: diving in front of the shot for him, and being thrown.
The door creeks open after she finishes fumbling with her keys, dark and silent as ever. Paula is no doubt sleeping, hidden in the dust-coated bedroom she once shared with her husband. Dimly she registers the feeling of her feet—bare, blistered, cold from running the whole distance home without shoes—ghosting along the smoke stained carpet.
… And maybe she's just bitter because it comes down to one thing: Wally's life is worth more than her own.
She's hardly aware of what she's doing, barely registering the sound of the bathroom door shutting behind her as fingers strip clothes from her body and adjust the shower as hot as it will go. She doesn't have a right to be bitter—she knows between the two of them which one she would rather emerge alive. A boy like Wally is too kind, too soft, to be taken away. Nobody would save a girl carved from ragged stone.
Nobody has ever come back for her.
... Except Wally.
She doesn't even realize she's scrubbing herself clean until her skin screams out at the temperature of the shower; the hot water only sends her wounds stinging beneath their bandages, but she doesn't care—the pain seems to ground her, seems to settle her mind. No, no one would save her. But how it is fair to ask her to be his keeper, to tell her that his life is in her hands—how is it fair to burden that on someone so young?
... She's sixteen. Still a child, by most standards. But maybe it's time she stopped pretending, stopped acting like this life hasn't gotten to her. She's bled out on pavement. Killed grown men a dozen times over. She's fired her arrows knowing that meeting her target meant death. She's broken bones, smelt blood in the air, had her skin sawed into—
Unconsciously her fingers migrate between her legs. She's had someone try to rape her.
The tears come hot and fast, pouring out from her eyes before she can stop them. The response is so mechanical, so void of true feeling, that she's sure it's more out of shock than anything else; her breasts heave beneath the shower stream as she clutches at her forearms, lungs aching as she tries to draw in steamy breaths. The panic feels old, unfeeling almost, as if her body is trying to prompt her into responding to the trauma rather than be consumed by the impenetrable nothingness that seems to have filled her veins on the run home.
She's already back in her bedroom before she even realizes she's turned the water off, wandering naked and dripping wet down the hall. Her ears are ringing, head pounding, skin flush and scrubbed raw as she stumbles forward, not thinking straight.
Her end table squeaks when she shoves it aside, the old window creaking as she slides it open; the evening air seems to prickle against her nakedness, the dribbles of water from her hair curling down the swells of her breasts and disappearing under the line of bandages around her ribs. Unthinkingly she swings a bare leg over her window ledge, one foot swinging down and pressing against the metal grate of the fire escape.
She doesn't know how long she sits there, naked and hovering along the edge of her window still. Her eyes fall to the place Wally once stood one cold spring evening, begging to be let in, before they glance down the four stories to the cement below.
She wonders, for the first time, if four floors high would be enough to kill herself.
Her foot trembles against the grate, debating silently as she listens to the Gotham night.
(It takes too long before she retreats back through the window, sobbing.)
The moment of weakness comes later, long after the crying has stopped and the marrow of her bones has been replaced with an unyielding numbness.
She feels as if she's trapped in a dream as her shaking fingers scroll through her phone's contacts, searching.
(She shouldn't do this; not when she hates him this much, not when she's feeling so confused, not when he's still so broken. But she knows, deep down, he's all she has— they're intertwined, in this hell together—)
Wally's phone rings nearly half a dozen times before it clicks to voicemail, his usual chipper tone clicking at her through the line. She doesn't know why she thought he would answer.
"... It's me." She whispers, trying not to let her voice shake. "I just— Call me back when you get this."
(It's not very brave, not saying what she really wants to— that she needs him, that he needs to take care of her, that she spent the night holding him together and now it's his turn to do the same for her—)
(Because they take care of each other. That's what they do.)
(And she's been in this alone for so long— been fighting her demons and waging war against her own mind. But without her realizing the battle's reached a climax; all at once she feels as if she's cornered in a way she's never been before, as if she's out of arrows and all her effort is spent. And she's been depending just on herself, on her own strength, for so long that somehow in between boxing up feelings and putting up walls she's ended up caged inside herself, corroding in the center of her wounds. And she's checkmated and beaten, bloody and bruised, and more than anything exhausted— she can't do this alone, can't do this alone—)
(And even if he's part of the reason she feels this way he needs to help her, she needs him—)
She clicks the phone shut, forgetting to breathe.
She forces herself into an anxious sort of half sleep, her body exhausted but her mind wary of rest; hours pass and she repeatedly twitches awake, out of nightmares whose endings she can already guess—Cameron pinning her in the snow, Wally tied up and screaming, the medical bay and it's many miles of mysterious beds…
True to Wally's word she counts a hazy three hours as they pass. Eventually she slips unconscious, not really sleeping but not really doing anything else.
She wakes suddenly, stiff and sore in the usual predictable places; as wakefulness settles into her body she cracks her eyes open, trying to ignore her aching ribs as she squints at the dull paint chipping from her walls.
... The last day comes back in pieces, chunks of time unaccounted for at first. Fighting with Wally, leaving in a hurry to Siberia, hearing her sister's voice for the first time in months; abandoning little Garfield and then fighting to save him, running after Cameron and— and Jade, saving her.
Her eyes narrow at her wall, replaying the memory again and again. For some reason it feels almost choppy, half-forgotten as she clings to fragments of moments— being dragged from the cracks in the ice, being rolled in the snow... Hands pinning her down, her throat growing ragged with screaming... Was Jade saving her? Or had she simply hoped it so badly that she imagined it, her memories only the result of oxygen deprivation and one to many hits to the head?
And Kaldur... Kaldur had said he had found her screaming, struggling to escape. He wouldn't lie to her, would he?
(He's lied before.)
Her head gives an almighty twinge at the sound of a siren outside, a slow groan unfurling from the back of her throat. Still, if it's between Kaldur's word and her own disjointed memories even her own instinct is betting against itself. She had been... Confused. Vulnerable. And that— that memory, of Jade attacking Cameron, it had... Warbled her judgment. Made her susceptible to old feelings, attachments that have been long gone...
There's another motive, something she's missing. Jade wouldn't save her for the sake of saving her.
(Not after Athens.)
More sirens sound out, the possibility of sleep fading quickly as she sighs, shifting more surely against her mattress. Somehow the sound of the August morning outside her window feels odd, unnatural; as she blinks at the sunshine seeping through her blinds she has to forcible remind herself that the world is still turning, things are still happening, that just because her life feels disjointed and muddled and disconnected from reality that doesn't mean it's that way for everyone else—
"… You awake yet, Sweetheart?"
The words are hushed, unexpectedly gentle—still, the sound of the hoarse whisper makes her jump, her muscles spasming and jolting with pain as she starts, rolling abruptly onto her other side. "Oh." Roy says easily, the chapped corners of his mouth quirking when she only stares at him, affronted, between pieces of her hair. "Morning."
"What," She snarls, yanking her blankets up to her chest and spitting hair out of her mouth, "the hell, Red. What are you—"
"Shh." He cuts her off, leaning back from where he's sitting on Jade's old bed, filthy clothes no doubt wrecking the luxurious blankets Zatanna had placed there. "Your Mom's still sleeping."
She feels her nose wrinkle, the mention of her mother making her uneasy; feeling naked beneath her sheets in only an overlarge tee shirt she does her best to set her face into a snarl. "Is that some sort of threat?"
"No." He says plainly, looking around her bedroom carefully, eyeing the books on her shelves and squinting at the heaping pile of clothes Zatanna left in the corner. "Just remembering last time I was here. You didn't want her to find a boy in your room."
"You have some nerve to— after last night—" She starts, shifting against her sheets and making to get to her feet; at once the movement sends a strike of pain through her, ribs aching and muscles pulled as she's forced back against her bedding.
Roy seems to read her pained silence correctly, sitting back against Zatanna's pillows and at last looking her in the eye. "You can take a punch at me for it later." He tells her uncaringly. "…Doesn't change the fact that you should have told Wally about Garth."
The way he says it—tone accusing, eyes judgmental, nearly sets her off; again she feels her face twist into a glare, cheeks coloring. "Yeah, well, you didn't exactly give me the chance—"
"You had months, Artemis—"
"I get it." She cuts across him, temples throbbing; overnight the bandages feel as if they've tightened, her head wound oddly swollen. "If you actually broke into my apartment to give me a lecture about this, let me save you some time—"
For some reason Roy makes a strange scoffing noise, forcing her to stop the rambling she throws at him whenever he goes on these strange protective bouts of his; at once he's sitting up, elbows bracing on his knees. "I'm not here to talk about that, Sweetheart. You already know you're a shitty person, I don't need to say that twice." He pauses, almost politely, to give her time to react to the dig. "I'm here to talk about your sister."
The change in subject makes her sit up straighter, her fists clenching around her sheets; she wishes she had her quiver close by. "I already told you, Red, I'm not involved with whatever the hell is happening—"
"Then let's fix that." He says sternly, fingers twitching as he presses them together. "If you really don't know anything then let's… I have a proposition for you." He sighs uneasily, shifting along Zatanna's bedding. "Let's find her— you and me. Track her down. Save her."
The idea is so far from what she's been expecting him to say that her eyes narrow, looking for a lie or some sort of joke. Roy only looks at her almost expectantly, fingers scratching nervously along his forearms and red rimmed eyes unblinking. He looks almost ill, his nostrils red as if he's had a cold for the last few days, his hair overlong and lank.
"… You're kidding." She hears herself say, the tail end of the words almost sneering.
Her lack of enthusiasm only seems to spur Roy further, his elbows knocking against his knees as he leans closer; his breath reeks of stale alcohol and the sourness of unbrushed teeth. "Why not?" He says insistently. "We both want the same thing—we both want Cheshire back, we both want her home and safe and—and out of the game—"
She snorts. "Jade doesn't want out of the game—"
"She wants out of the one your father's playing." He argues back, almost loudly; at once both of them fall into silence, glaring at each other and ears straining to hear noise in the back of the apartment, sounds of her mother getting out of bed. "… If the two of us get on this together—Ollie would get involved. The League would get involved. The Team, they'd have no choice but to help us. She's still your sister, Artemis—"
"No she's not, Red." She hisses, shaking her head until it aches. "She hasn't been my sister for 6 years."
"Well, you're still hers." He counters. "I read the mission debriefing last night, I know what happened to you out there, whatever lie Kaldur is trying to tell you—Cheshire saved your life. She sacrificed the entire integrity of her mission to save you, and you're sitting here hiding her bed underneath expensive sheets and pretending she doesn't exist—"
"Shut up!" She snarls, her voice echoing loudly around the room; distantly she hears the beginning noises of wakefulness, her mother's voice calling her name almost sleepily from the other bedroom. Ignoring this she keeps talking, voice so low she's nearly hissing. "You seem to be conveniently forgetting about Athens, Red. And about Thanksgiving last year—did she happen to mention that I spent that happy holiday having her shove my head through the television screen?"
"Artemis—"
"You're unbelievable." She continues, nearly throwing her pillow at him. "Coming here and asking for my help, after last night, after everything you—"
There's the sound of her mother's wheelchair against the floorboards and at once Roy is on his feet, not even waiting for her to finish swearing at him before he's hobbling towards her window, slipping past her night table that's still shoved aside from last night. "You'll come around." He snarls at her, slipping through the window pane and onto her fire escape. "You want her back, just as much as—"
She launches her pillow after him, missing and snagging the lamp; Roy's already gone by the time the thing falls to the floor, the sound of shattering glass filling her bedroom. "Artemis?" Paula calls, fiddling with her door knob. "Are you alright, darling—"
Her mother opens the door in time to catch her settling back into her bed with reddened cheeks and a startling glare; it takes too long for her to smooth her features, realizing only after several seconds that her mother is sitting there, wide eyed. "I'm fine, Mom." She grits out, sinking into her sheets. "I—Sorry. I knocked the lamp over."
Paula's eyes flicker once to her pillow that's flopped on the floor, tracing the lines of shattered glass before they find her again. "Hm."
There's a beat, a long one, where she can tell her mother doesn't believe her; in a second the lie spews out of her mouth, unstoppable. "Bad dream." She amends. "Last night was… You know. Rough mission."
It takes a moment before Paula nods along to this, tracing the bruises that have blossomed along her throat overnight and the crusted over cuts along her cheeks. She can tell the older woman knows she's hiding something, can tell by the way her Huntress eyes wrinkle as she squints at her, the hand still on her door knob tightening.
She's expecting her mother to tell her to get more rest, expecting to be told that she's allowed to sink back into unconsciousness the way her body is craving; instead Paula braces both hands along her wheelchair, scrutinizing. "I'm making breakfast." She says at last, turning to leave.
It doesn't sound like an order, but a final glare tells her she'd be foolish to do anything other than get out of bed.
She dresses quickly, hardly paying attention to what she's wearing; her whole body feels tender, fragile, as if the only thing holding it together are the tensor bandages and medical tape.
(She pauses once to check her phone. Still no call from Wally.)
She lurks in the hallway until she can hear the kettle boiling, the screaming of steam seeming to echo around the Gotham apartment the same way the never-ending shrieking of trauma has been echoing in the back of her mind all night. She doesn't know what's waiting for her in the kitchen: what Paula's going to say or accuse her of, if she even has questions or suspicions.
And it's not just that— she doesn't know what she's going to say herself. If she's going to be brave enough to offer an explanation, if she'll be bold enough to demand answers of her own: about Jade, about Cameron, about the strange blocked out memory that came back to her the moment her head broke through the ice. She wants to demand help and explanations and be given the information she needs— yet her mind seems to be fogged, clouded as she stumbles down the hall, her blistered fingers dragging along the grey stained walls as she's drowned by the weight of her own thoughts.
She can't do this.
Paula's in her usual place around the kitchen table, a steady stream of blackened tea being dribbled from the pot into two identical, delicate cups. "Sit." She tells her, gesturing to the plate already made beside her.
She follows the order, mostly because she doesn't know what else to do with herself; she feels disjointed from her own body, from her muscles and joints and tangled vertebrae, as if she could cease to exist if a strong wind were to come and blow her over. Her knees wobble as she takes her seat beside her mother, hardly noticing the stale piece of toast hastily covered with jam in front of her.
She must look worse for wear—she can sense the swollen bags beneath her eyes, the blotchiness of her complexion, the reddened rims around her irises. More to avoid looking at Paula than anything she forces herself to eat, teeth gritting around whole wheat and sickly sweet blueberry preserve.
Paula for her part watches her carefully, running her thumbs around the rim of her cup twice before speaking. "Don't keep an old woman waiting, Darling." She says almost demurely, smiling with a strange sort of gentleness.
"… What?" She chokes out, mouth still full of food that she can't quite manage to get down.
"Marks like that mean there has to be a good story." Paula tells her, an unfamiliar roughness sounding in the back of her throat as she gestures to her cheeks. "Where did you get to go this time? Louisiana again? New Orleans?"
It takes her nearly a minute to swallow her mouthful of toast, digesting her mother's words and hoping the food will somehow settle her stomach and block out the strange implications behind Paula's tone— there's an edge to the question, an uncomfortable sense of longing, as if the older woman is envious of her battered skin and pock-marked cheeks. All at once she hates that they're even sitting here, that her mother is pretending to be excited and supportive of the hell her daughter puts herself through, hates that despite herself she can hear Huntress' voice below the words, hates that she can almost taste something close to jealousy hidden there...
She hates this. All of it.
She attempts a sip of tea, the warm liquid mixing with bile when she forces it down; Paula only continues to look expectant until she clears her throat and speaks. "… Who's Cameron, Mom?"
The question catches the older woman off guard; there's the rarest flash of surprise on her mother's face before she can hide it. "… Cameron?" She repeats, nose wrinkling. "I don't know. Is he one of your little friends from—"
She lets a low hiss out from under her breath, shaking her head. One of the few things they have in common is that neither of them are much for lying— vaguely she registers that this is one of her mother's attempts to hide the past from her, erase memories of the less than perfect life they used to live. "Don't, okay? I know what you're trying to do. Don't—protect me—or whatever." Her fingers clench around her cup as she finally looks at Paula, doing her best not to blink. "Icicle Junior. Cameron. I fought him. Last night, in Siberia—and he knew me. And I… I know I knew him. I know I remembered that place—"
(—And now she knows she will always remember the way his hands felt too, will never be able to erase the feeling of ice coated fingers mashing between her thighs—)
Her temples throb and she's forced to stop speaking, fingers shaking as she fills the silence with a sip of tea. "… Just tell me." She mutters to her cup.
Paula hesitates, watching carefully as she sits in silence and chances another bite of toast; when her mother finally speaks her voice is hushed, oddly hardened in the quiet of the kitchen. "He was the son of one of your father's business partners. Icicle Senior, as you know." She murmurs, shaking her head. "You must have met him a dozen times, maybe more— not that stopped you two from becoming thick as thieves. I remember Jade was jealous."
There's a pause where she can tell right away her mother is holding something back. "He… He was a strange little boy." She says suddenly. "He was never quite right—I don't know the details, of course.
"He adored you, though." Paula sighs, shaking her head. Something about talking about the old days is changing her, making her voice lighter. "He wouldn't want to leave your side if you were ever together. I've never seen a child obsess over someone like that. But the two of you seemed to like each other, even if you only saw each other for a few moments..." For some reason Paula hesitates, sipping her tea. "I've never met an odder child. Became even stranger after his powers began forming. Colder. More cruel, with a mouth that was almost as filthy as Jade's. And then things began happening…"
She looks up when her mother trails off, eyes narrowing. "What sort of things?"
The older woman squirms for a moment in her wheelchair, fumbling to pour another cup of tea. "Just funny moments here and there. I remember once, the two of you had been playing in an alley and… You rushed home crying because a stray cat had hissed at you. I don't know what happened, really—when I went back to find Cameron there wasn't a cat in sight but… There was a lot of blood."
Paula pauses, shaking her head. "And then, of course, you two had a falling out of some sort, and Jade took it into her own hands—you should have seen the state she left him in. Your sister ruined any chance your father and I had of ever doing business in Siberia again. To this day I wouldn't be able to get my hands on a good brew of Russian Vprikusku if I had the nerve to try."
She narrows her eyes as her mother says these last words, forgetting that the older woman doesn't yet know about Jade, or her father, or the fact that the two of them are once again tangled up with the Icicles and The Light. For a moment she nearly opens her mouth to tell her, the words bubbling up inside her mouth only to be cut off as she clears her throat.
Something, some larger instinct, seems to be holding her back— and as she sits there, she supposes it's right. What would be the good in telling her mother about Jade? In telling her that she's teamed up with Lawrence, in telling her— judging by her own hazy memories and Kaldur's much better ones— that the two of them nearly fought to the death a matter of hours ago? What good would that bring? Does she really want her mother to be reduced to the sniveling mess she was last Thanksgiving, when she had poured over photo albums and sobbed over old picture frames, too busy mourning the loss of one daughter to care for the other?
No. It's better if she doesn't know.
... It's better for everyone if they just forget Jade altogether.
She blinks as her mother takes another sip of tea, looking serious. "So he's calling himself Icicle Junior now... Not unsurprising that he would try to follow his father." She mutters, thumbing the rim of her cup again. "And he recognized you, did he?"
She winces before she can stop herself, staring hard at the table top to avoid her mother's eyes. "Yeah." She mutters, hunching her shoulders. "He knew who I was."
Paula makes a strange sort of sniffing noise. "I imagine that was awkward." She sneers. "Like running into someone at a party who knows your name without you having the slightest clue who they are."
Her mother lets out a bitter chuckle, as if the whole thing is amusing to her; the sound seems to cut through her, as cold as Cameron's hands. "Yeah." She says mechanically. "... It was kind of like that."
And at once she makes up her mind: Paula will never know what happened in Siberia. Somehow finding the words, admitting to what happened, would make her feel weaker and more pathetic than she already is— and she can't be weak, she can't, can't let Paula know she isn't strong enough to take care of herself, let alone the two of them—
Her mother's still talking; she seems to snap out of the shrouded numbness that's been consuming her just as the older woman turns her attention to her injuries again. "Back to your story." The older woman says demurely, not noticing the tensing of her muscles as she sits there, frozen from the inside out. "That Icicle boy was there— I imagine he couldn't bring himself to—"
She's not expecting her mother to touch her, aching muscles jumping when Paula attempts to lay a teasing hand on her still frost-bitten forearm; at once she jerks from her chair, on her feet and breathing heavily before it occurs to her to be more guarded. "I—" She starts, heart thundering and blood screaming inside her ears.
(Her bare feet are damp— she's accidentally spilt tea everywhere—)
"... Darling?" Paula calls out the pet name, looking confused when she backs away from the table. "Artemis, what—"
Her mother extends a hand towards her, trying to touch her, trying to read the suddenly terrified expression on her face. "I feel sick." She hears herself say almost dazedly, wincing away from the comfort of the older woman's palm and already sprinting towards the bathroom before Paula can finish stuttering out a response.
She can't do this.
She listens to the repeated knocks of her mother's tapping at the bathroom door, not bothering to get off of the floor even when she hears the sound of the lock being tested. She stares, unmoving, at the ceiling, only blinking when the flickering of the light begins to bother her eyes. She's not sure how many hours pass until she hears Paula leave the apartment.
So she knows the truth now—or at least, what her mother knows of it. Knows at last about Cameron, a childhood friend who she'd long since forgotten; about the boy who would slaughter stray cats for frightening her and stay attached to her hip the few times their paths crossed.
Now she knows about the strange little boy who grew up to be so cruel.
Despite not moving she can feel her body aching, can feel the bruises swelling beneath her skin and making her bones feel tender. Even through the August heat her skin feels chilled, frost bitten around the scratches of her cheeks and numb between the seams of her thighs.
… He had adored her.
It feels so strange to imagine anyone loving her—finding something worthwhile in the lopsided ends of her pig tails and the grass stains on the knees of her overalls… But that must have been why he got so angry, right? He had loved her and she had… forgotten him. Blocked him out, like so many other horrific things.
… It makes sense, forgetting him. Jade going after Cameron had been the beginning of the breakdown of their family—the beginning of her sister fighting against their parents, against their twisted home, against the fact that something as precious as a first kiss was little more than another thing to be stolen, ripped apart. Inadvertently she had been responsible for turning Jade against their family, for forcing her to leave…
It's always her fault.
And Jade had left, and Cameron… she never saw him again, she's sure of it. Not with the way things ended between their families… And then what? He grew lonely? And bitter? And deranged?
But Paula had said he had always been strange.
An unpleasant shiver rips through her body. Perhaps that kind of insanity drew inward, made him even… Stranger. That's the word Paula used, wasn't it? She made it sound like he was an unbalanced child, as if the morphing of his genetics that granted his powers also unsettled something inside him. And what? Did her absence make it worse? Did he go crazy? Did his powers turn inside him and unhinge something—
… Is the same thing happening to Wally right now?
(... Is that why he still hasn't called?)
The thought makes her sick, her ribs aching as she forces herself to sit up, spitting hair out from between her lips. Her fingers migrate to her pocket, extracting her phone long enough to see that he still hasn't called her back.
... Maybe it was unfair of her to call in the first place; maybe it's expecting too much to think he'd call her back so quickly. Maybe he doesn't want to talk to her the way she is so desperate to speak to him, but... But he would call her back. She knows him, knows what kind of message she left, how she sounded. And that had been the deal, hadn't it? That they take care of each other? If he had called her sounding like that she would have—
She would have gone to him. The same way she went to the Underground last night.
But going to someone, taking care of them... It's different than being bound to them, having a responsibility to them. And what's she supposed to do, anyway? It's… It's not fair. Barry, insisting that her and Wally are supposed to be intertwined, trying to manipulate her into serving someone else. Expecting her to drop her life to care for someone else, expecting her to be willing to play a part in someone else's game—expecting her, even more, to do it willingly.
… She's not that kind of girl. She's not good at following orders, or fulfilling expectations or—or following one step behind someone. She's not programmed for it, for caring for someone, for living happily ever after… She's not meant to sacrifice her own story to prop up his.
And it's not fair, for a grown man like Barry to come around and expect her to want to do this. To expect her to go along with it just because he said so. Not fair for him to look her in the eyes—eyes that have, granted, seen much more than sixteen years should see—and tell her that she has a responsibility to someone else.
What about responsibilities to herself?
… Jade would understand. And maybe that's what makes her suddenly so bitter: Jade would know how she's feeling. She would know what to say to her, know how to get her out of this, know the perfect way to run away. She would know how to avoid being thrown to the slaughter. She would know how to fix this.
… But Jade isn't here. Jade's gone, she's been gone for nearly six years now— and she's alone and muddling over her thoughts on the dingy bathroom floor the same way she's been doing since she was ten years old. And whatever else Roy might be convinced of... The Cheshire Cat isn't coming back.
Not this time.
She had told herself she wouldn't hide.
For the third time her knees twitch up to her chest before she remembers to force them down, all her fidgeting making her sink into the oversized leather chair. As if she's tracking the movement Dinah marks it with a tick on her clip board, red lips perking. "I expected you'd put up more of a fight coming here today." She says smoothly, shifting easily behind her desk. "I thought I'd have to send Oliver over to round you up."
Her legs twitch again and she forces herself to cross her ankles. "… Not sure I have a lot of fight left in me anymore." She says without thinking, voice nearly emotionless.
The words are perhaps a little bit too honest; as she says them a sticky sort of silence falls, Canary's half-smile sobering quickly. "That's understandable. You've been through a lot."
She can feel herself staring, almost buggy eyed, as the older woman drops her jaw; she knows she's being invited to talk about what happened, invited to open the door to her trauma. Her stomach won't stop squirming. "… Yeah." She mumbles, stretching out the one syllable until her voice breaks.
She's not sure what she's supposed to say, how she's supposed to feel— from everything Canary's ever told them about trauma and coping she knows there isn't exactly a right or a wrong way to go about it, although sitting here not talking about much of anything at all doesn't exactly feel productive. But still, she had been the one to get herself here, had gotten up (albeit, after several hours) from her bathroom floor and slouched over here. That has to mean something good, right?
The one word and the silence that follows isn't much to go on, but Dinah does her best; smiling gently the older woman leans forward behind her desk, hands folding neatly atop her clip board. "… How are you feeling?" She asks carefully.
It takes her several beats to figure out how she wants to answer. "Cold."
"Numb?"
"No." She half lies, glancing down to where her arms are goose pimpled. "… Like I have a chill, or something. I can't seem to get warm."
She can tell it isn't what the older woman wants to hear, but it's the most she can force out of herself; glancing at the clock she ignores her legs as they fumble over each other, changing the subject to the first thing that pops into her mind. "… Why are there so many beds in the medical bay?"
Taupe brows raise across from her, the pen that's been documenting something on the clipboard freezing mid-scrawl. "Excuse me?"
"The medical bay." She presses, clenching her fists against her knees; it feels good, grounding almost, sitting here and demanding answers of someone else. "I've never spent enough time in there to notice—it's really overstocked. There's at least fifty beds in there. There's less than two dozen of us."
"I—"
"And the Underground." She continues, watching the older woman's face very carefully as she speaks. "The Flash called it a governmental standard interrogation facility. And Zatanna told me she thought it looked like people had lived—or were held—down there at once point."
Canary's careful to keep her expression muted, only a slight furrowing of her brows revealing any sort of guardedness. "You know the Cave used to serve as headquarters for the League. At one point there were many more heroes here who needed medical services than just you kids."
She considers this for a moment. "...My number is B-07." Her legs cross and uncross. "I was in the seventh bed from the door. And the clothing in my drawer seemed like it was outfitted for me." For some reason the older woman doesn't say anything, instead dropping her jaw to survey her carefully; the silence unnerves her slightly, her mouth spewing out more words before she can stop them. "... Why would the League need interrogation rooms? Especially ones that were built into the basement of their headquarters? I thought we usually turned our captives over to the police?"
She doesn't understand why Dinah's lips quirk upward. "Asking all these questions isn't going to help you process what's happened to you." She says patiently, leaning forward onto her elbows.
They're playing an old game, one of cat and mouse; before their usual banter truly starts she feels herself give in, exhaustion outweighing her usual desire for answers. "... Whatever." She glares, forgetting herself and hunching down behind her knees.
It strikes her very suddenly how normal she feels for a moment—moody and slouched in her usual too comfortable chair opposite Canary's desk. Almost the moment she notices it the feeling disappears. "… Being the victim of a violent attack is always difficult." The older woman says slowly, cautiously, as if she didn't truly expect her to give in so easily. "It can be harder to process if you have a personal relationship with the attacker—"
"I don't have a personal relationship with him." She snaps. "He's just—somebody that I knew as a kid."
More quiet, only broken by the sound of Dinah's pen against her clip board. "Do you know his name?"
"… Cameron." She grits out, biting the inside of her cheek. "... Mom says we played together a few times. I don't remember much of it."
She bangs her knees together, risking a glance at the other woman and feel distinctly unsettled when she catches the sad sort of smile she's wearing. "Sometimes, as small children, we suppress memories of events or people than we associate with a particularly traumatic or upsetting—"
"I already know, okay?" She says impatiently, dropping her feet back to the floor. "I know this already, I—I remembered when he was slamming my head through the ice. He—he tried to kiss me, once, when we were little. And Jade got upset because I was upset and she… I don't know what she did."
This last part is only half a lie—she knows her sister. Knows how brutal her instincts are, how sharpened they were even as a child. She can imagine what Cameron must have looked like when Jade was finished with him. Clenching her fingers around her knees she forces herself to exhale, slouching forward. "I know why I blocked it out. Jade attacking Cameron and the break down of Icicle and my parents' working together— that was the beginning of the end for us. Jade turned against our parents, and then after Mom was taken away… There wasn't a reason for her to stay anymore."
"Hm." Canary exhales, looking at her very carefully. "... Your family is very important to you, isn't it?"
Answering feels like a trap, and more to buy herself time than anything she shrugs, glancing at the clock. "When I was a kid, maybe." She mutters, voice almost gruff as she looks away.
"Do you think your sister felt the same?"
She feels her eyes narrowing, shoulders growing hunched. "I don't know how Jade felt about anything." She mutters, wishing she sounded less bitter. "... Look, I don't want to talk about her, okay? I just... I want to deal with— the whole Cameron thing— and move on. I just want to get back to normal."
For some reason Dinah scratches away at her clipboard again, hesitating. "I don't mean to pry." She says in a measured voice, letting her know that she's not quite finished yet. "I just find it interesting, the way Cheshire plays into this whole situation—"
"Interesting?" She hears herself scoff, cheeks going off.
"I'm not trying to upset you, Artemis." Canary says patiently, one hand extending towards her in an effort to calm her. "But I think a lot of the emotional distress you're feeling is surrounding the role your sister played in both these traumatic events. You mentioned earlier that it was Cheshire who came to your defense when that boy— Cameron— tried to kiss you—"
"—He did kiss me—"
"—And that she was the one, in Siberia, who protected you from him again."
She can feel her cheeks darkening, her throat tight for a moment. It takes a lot of effort to force her face to sour. "I don't think she was trying to protect me." She forces herself to say, shaking her head. "Kaldur— Kaldur says he heard me screaming, I was... I was upset. Jade was hurting me. I don't remember how, but—"
"But," Dinah interrupts, surveying her through understanding eyes, "it doesn't change the fact that she was still the one who pulled that boy off of you."
Her cheeks have now passed maroon; for a long moment she simply sits there, blushing furiously, before she straightens, shaking her head. "That doesn't mean anything." She chokes out.
"I think it does." Canary counters. "Each of these events were marked by Cheshire's interference. I think you are so determined to think the worst of your sister that you're forgetting that she still might care about—"
"Jade doesn't care about me." She snarls, nose wrinkling before she can stop herself. "She's tried to kill me a dozen times over, she's— she's crazy. She used to have this saying when we were little— Every girl for herself—"
"It's also interesting," Canary cuts her off, lips quirking. "That since the assault you've started calling her by her real name again. Jade."
She scowls, suddenly so furious she can't even speak. She doesn't bother to stop herself before she slouches behind her knees once more.
By the time she's finished with Black Canary she feels pried open all over again, exposed and rubbed raw in places. She's not good at talking, at letting her feelings burst out of her. She's so used to letting them churn inside her that attempting to release them now feels less like a gentle trickle of emotion and more like a volcanic eruption.
As the door closes behind her she feels herself exhale, releasing the handle and pressing her shoulders back against the wood. She knows, one day, she'll feel better. And maybe she does right now, at least a little bit— despite the fact that parts of her still ache and feel as if they don't belong to her, and others still feel numb and too cold, she knows this is good for her. Talking. Sharing. Unpacking.
But it's still the hardest thing she's ever done: trying to figure out all the feelings inside her, trying to give them names and take them out of the compartments she's hidden them in. It's harder even to admit to the worst parts of her that are dragged out with them— that pieces of her are encrusted with the monstrous claws of abandonment, of trauma. That she's afraid to let that go, afraid that without it she'll be untethered to reality as she knows it, that the last pieces of her sanity are tangled up in abuse, that she's terrified just thinking that letting that go will leave her with nothing to cling to. That she's scared of owning up to the fact that she's spent her whole life losing track of who the enemy is, that she no longer knows the difference between killing herself and fighting back, and she is tired, tired, tired—
She hates this.
But maybe… She can do this.
Whatever this is, exactly—this great bubble of foreboding that seems to have inflated inside her stomach, expanding there and making it almost painful to breathe. The great sense that a line is about to be drawn in the sand, that she's about to stand up for herself in a way she never has before, even if it takes her a second or two to figure out just how that's going to happen.
… She can do this.
And maybe this isn't facing her sister. Maybe that's one battle she'll never be ready to fight.
But she can find Wally. She can finish was started between them. She can find him and tell him what needs to be said.
(Maybe she should call him again.)
... What is she going to say, anyway? Is it even possible to sit a boy down and tell him everything she's feeling without sounding like a complete idiot? Is there any way to admit to her own weaknesses, her own imperfections, without gritting her teeth? Without ruining the wobbly balance they've managed to strike up these last few weeks?
... There probably isn't. And maybe, if Wally were any other boy, she wouldn't bother. But he's... He's never going to be just a boy to her. Not anymore.
… And she's not just any girl to him, she knows that. There's… Feelings, there. And history. Is there any way to say what needs to be said without… Actually saying it? How is she supposed to get through this exactly? What does she even want to tell him?
That she's angry that he still hasn't called her?
That it's not fair that she killed herself saving him and he can't even be bothered to check if she's still breathing?
That whatever the universe might be telling him she's not sure if she can do this— not sure if she can save them both, not sure if she's strong enough to be what he needs her to be—
That this isn't fair to either of them.
... That she hates him, just the smallest bit.
It doesn't sound good, even in her head; letting out a single frustrated exhale she forces herself off the door, hoping somehow the words will figure themselves out.
"Artemis?"
She's off her game; when Connor speaks she practically jumps out of her skin, wincing when her elbow knocks against the door frame. He's sitting on the floor a few feet down from her, hunched over his limbs almost stiffly, his presence there suddenly so obvious that she can feel her cheeks heating in embarrassment. "God." She hisses.
She always forgets how big he is; as he gets to his feet he seems to fill up the hallway, imposing and brutish as always as he takes several cautious steps towards her. "Did I scare you?"
It's not meant to be teasing but she still glares, wishing she would stop blushing. "No." She lies. "Just—thinking about other stuff."
Connor's face doesn't even flinch but she can still sense a sudden softness as he looks at her, blinking exactly once before looking away. "… How was Black Canary?"
She suspects this is kind of a roundabout way of asking her how she is. "Fine." He nods, thick jaw bobbing only once before stopping. "Were you… Waiting for me?"
To her surprise Connor goes a strangely delicate shade of pink, the color high in his cheek bones for a moment before it disappears. "No." He says gruffly.
"… Okay." She says awkwardly, not sure what to make of any of this as her brows furrow. The hallway goes silent again, the two of them staring at opposite walls. "Well—"
She's not expecting him to reach for her, her whole body tensing and knees nearly buckling as he claps a hand to her shoulder. "You're alright." He tells her, seeming not to notice as she winces at the pressure, unable to escape his iron clad grip. "I—you're safe now."
"Con—" She starts, cutting off when she's pulled roughly forward.
It feels like she's been slammed up against a brick wall, her muscles aching as her face is forced into the dip between his chest; the breath is literally forced out of her lungs as he claps her in the center of the back again. There isn't time to react—no time to stiffen, to wince, to even feel disgust at the closeness. She doesn't even realize he's hugged her until he's already pulling back.
The pink is back in the high point of his cheeks. "M'gann wanted me to give you that." He says gruffly. "She's out with Gar—we're having trouble finding a place for him to go to school—but she… I was told to—Yeah."
It takes a few seconds for her lungs to work again, still not quite functioning between being winded and the shock of seeing him fumble so badly. "… Right." She says uncomfortably, wishing he hadn't touched her at all.
It hits her suddenly, as she watches him stare awkwardly at the ceiling, that this is what she has to look forward to— people feeling bad, pitying her. She doesn't know why but for some reason seeing unfeeling Connor attempting to show her some sympathy makes her feel ten times worse. "… Have you slept yet?" He asks her finally, glancing once at her before going back to the roof. "Wally wanted me to make sure you were sleeping."
At the mention of the other boy's name she comes back to herself. "I'm fine." She says distractedly. "Is he around still? At the Cave?"
(Is she ever going to get an explanation as to why he didn't call?)
Powder blue eyes finally find hers. "… I guess you wouldn't know yet." He mutters. "Wally's off the Team."
The words seem to scream inside her head a half dozen times, her brain refusing to process them as her stomach drops to somewhere about her ankles. "What?" She blanches, stuttering out a snarl before she can stop it. "They can't—he's fine, Con. We both know he's fine. They can't kick him off, he needs us. He—"
"Artemis." He cuts her off, expression hardening. "They didn't do anything. Wally took himself out."
"What? Why?"
Connor makes a disgusted sort of noise in the back of his throat. "Why do you think?"
She feels as if someone's knocked the air out of her lungs all over, one hand clutching against the doorframe. "He can't—so that's it? He's just gone? Forever?"
"I don't know how long." Connor huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He just said he needed some time to… I don't know. Be normal again."
(Normal.)
(There's a moment where she nearly loses it altogether, nearly screams in his face that Wally's never been normal, at least not as she's known him. But then it hits her— that's why he hasn't called. That's what he's doing: he's being normal. Going back to life before they met, before he was Kid Flash. He's forgetting her. Pretending she doesn't exists; pretending the Team, this life, means nothing. Pretending she means nothing.)
((What if he isn't pretending?))
She feels tears stinging the backs of her eyes; for some reason she lets out a choked sort of laugh. "Normal. Right. The kid can break the sound barrier in his sneakers and he wants to be—"
She cuts herself off, swallowing the strange burst of anger she's feeling back inside her stomach. Despite herself she can picture it clearly in her mind: Wally, being normal. Finally being home for dinner with his parents. Not staying up half the night to finish the homework he'd forgotten about before a mission. Wally, running track and earning scholarships. Wally, in their booth at a diner, grinning and stealing French fries from Linda—
(She doesn't know why she feels sick.)
((So that's why he didn't call. He doesn't care, can't care about her anymore.))
(Worthless.)
At once she feels the sick burning of the betrayal at the back of her throat, a single furious exhale firing out of her nose as she stands there, shock reeling through her. She feels suddenly as if Wally's double-crossed her, or been dishonest with her somehow— because they had a deal, didn't they? They take care of each other. They take care of each other, regardless of how their worlds may be crashing down, no matter how angry or upset they might be with each other. And where is he now? Running away on her? Quitting the Team? Not even bothering to return the call he must have known killed her to make? Disappearing when she needs him most, when she needs to talk about what's going on between them, when she needs someone to confide in, needs someone to hear about Cameron and her sister and all the other wounds she's reopened in the last day or so—
Her face must show something because at once Connor lets out a puff of annoyed breath. "Look, all I know is he told me to… To look out for you, or whatever. Did you sleep last night?"
(She feels as if she's a burden, shoved aside from someone else to deal with.)
"… Yeah." She mutters, glaring at the floor. "I slept."
"Then come on." Connor grunts, turning to leave and gesturing for her to follow. "… Let's go for a drive."
Without her wanting it to time slips by, the evening air beginning to pick up the coolness of Autumn. Summer, once endless, seems to blister her skin less often.
Paula doesn't ask about the Siberian mission again, but over the next few weeks she suspects that someone has told her the details— more than once she catches her mother's gaze lingering on the places where old bruises used to be, or squinting at the soon-healed cuts on her cheeks. Whatever she might know her mother doesn't offers words of comfort, the silences between their sips of tea growing colder and more distant. Neither of them can think of much of anything to talk about.
She returns to the Cave every few days, only dwelling there for what is quickly becoming a standing appointment with Black Canary. Neither of them mention Wally, or her sister, or what is quickly becoming known in her mind as That Night; the few times Dinah attempts to breech the subject again she falls into a blank sort of silence, unable to find the words she wants to get out. On her better days, she's able to talk about less meaningful things.
"I don't know why she insists on keeping it on the top shelf." She mutters bitterly, sitting sideways in the too soft chair in Dinah's office, legs draped over the leather arm with what she hopes looks like easiness. "It's the tea pot—we use it about 50 times a day. But each night she'll wash it and the next morning I'll have to watch as she clambers out of her chair to try to get it, or I'll have to—"
She makes an annoyed noise, going quiet and glancing towards Dinah as she raises a brow. "You feel a lot of responsibility towards your mother, don't you?" She asks smoothly, writing something non-descript on her file. "Would you say that since she returned from prison you almost feel like the roles have reversed? That you are her parent, in some sense?"
She's not sure what to say back, and spends what's left of their hour together in a glaringly loud silence.
The days drift past and she spends the tail end of her summer bumming around Gotham, reading the same old books and running through the maze of streets until she can no longer distinguish between the lingering ache of old injuries and the rawness of tender muscle. Predictably Zatanna makes an appearance every few days, insisting on painting her nails a gaudy shade of pink and sleeping off hangovers in Jade's old bed.
Neither of them mention Wally, although she does gather from their snippets of conversation that he's still as absent from the Cave as ever. More than once her fingers scroll to the familiar Baywatch still branded in her contacts list, staring at his phone number until her eyes lose focus. Somehow calling him again would mean admitting that him leaving the Team— and her— is somehow forgivable, which it isn't.
On the morning of the 20th of August she finds herself staring at the unnervingly familiar marble and brick of Gotham Academy, her shoulders buffeted by the usual suspects of senators' sons and socialites' daughters as she climbs the overbearing front steps. Even after the wreck of a summer she's had she's not looking forward to school starting again.
The photographer's flash is still ringing at the front of her eyes long after she's taken an ugly student ID photo, her arms laden with the year's text books and a new uniform (the usual ugly pleats and blazer now accompanied by a new crest, fixed with different colors to indicate she's a junior) as she squints at the row of lockers in front of her. Something about the normalcy of it all is almost shocking, the tediousness settling in her bones as she checks the slip of paper again—locker 791 now, wherever that is—wanting to dump her books and get home as quickly as possible.
She rounds the familiar halls, currently filled with soon-to-be freshmen attempting to find the classrooms they'll be sitting in a mere ten days from now; turning right past an old English room she pauses, double checking the paper and finding her locker: several from the end and almost on top of the gymnasium entrance she once ran through to save Wally's life.
It's almost disgusting how little has changed.
"Hey, Crock!" The use of her last name sends her stomach twisting; feeling her features sink into a glare as she spots the usual crowd of freshman boys—well, she supposes they're sophomores now— leering at her. It takes less than a second to spot Dick, hair too-groomed for his civvies, lurking at the back of the crowd. "Nice haircut!"
She scowls as hard as she can, shifting her books in her arms and fixing her eyes on her locker. It makes her nauseous, pretending not to notice the feeling of their eyes digging into the skin of her legs, so much more exposed in shorts than they normally are in the pleats of her skirt. "Go to hell." She says, voice hoarse and without the usual venom.
The comment only says a ripple of sniggers through the group, one of the braver ones speaking up again. "I mean it." He tells her, watching her fingers tremble around the lock as she fumbles with it, trying to get it open. "Looks good on you. Really brings out those lips of yours—"
Her hands are sweating; losing a bit of her nerve she actually drops a book, her cheeks flaring red as it clatters loudly against the tile and she's forced to scramble to pick it up, only dropping more. "Alright." She hears someone say over the ensuing cackles, the laughter quickly quailing. "That's enough—"
"Dick—"
"I said that's enough."
She can hear the sound of the boys dispersing, another girl further down the hallway getting their attention; doing her best to breathe properly again she ignores him when he kneels down beside her, collecting the books she's shaking too much to manage. "Your friends are such assholes." She hisses at him.
When she finally looks up he's smiling almost sympathetically, gathering the last of her notebooks into his arms. "I know." He says easily, the words still under his breath as if afraid they're going to be overheard. "But… You know. Gotta keep up with appearances."
"In that case," she mutters, ignoring the hand he stretches out and instead getting to her feet on her own. "You'd better get back. You don't want to be seen talking to me."
Dick makes a bit of a face when she grabs her books back, her fingers finally steady enough to open her locker with a slight jerk. "… How're you doing?"
For a long moment she ignores the question, instead shoving her books almost violently into her locker and slamming it shut. "Fine."
She's not entirely sure where she stands with Dick; lately he's been so distant from her life she's almost forgotten what it's like to be alone with him, how scrutinizing the gentle blue of his eyes can be when staring at her, not hidden behind glasses or a mask. They last time she spoke to him properly the two of them were bickering, and there hadn't been time to smooth things over between them before—
… Before what happened with everything happened.
She tries her best to glare at him, but somehow without either of them saying it she knows the fight is nearly forgotten. Maybe it has been for a while, now that she's thinking of it—maybe there are some things, some kinds of friendships, that aren't hurt by bickering or swearing or arguments.
... Or maybe she's just such a mess he feels too bad to fight with her.
Dick blinks when she clears her throat, finishing with her locker. "... Listen." She starts, not entirely sure what she's about to say next. She doesn't know why she feels like she should apologize.
When she wavers into silence Dick seems to understand, smiling. "You want a ride home?"
People stare when Dick leads her down the steps towards the school parking lot, no doubt wondering why they're together; as they weave through the usual mass of students still flooding into Gotham Academy for the predictable start of the year rituals she catches the hushed ends of whispers, sharpened eyes lingering on their backs.
"You're kidding." She hears herself say, shifting her backpack on her shoulders as he pulls up short beside his motorcycle—she's only been on it once, in the dead of night, while incredibly intoxicated. "You drove here? You don't even have a valid drivers' license."
Dick sends her a boyish flash of teeth. "As if I need it." He says easily. "Besides, what are you worried about? You've been on it with me before and survived."
She's about to point out that she wouldn't exactly call repeated vomiting and the worst hangover of her life 'surviving' when she's interrupted by a loud whistle behind her. "Hey Crock!" Someone shouts out; glancing over her shoulder she spots another one of his skivvy underclassman friends in the process of snorting at them. "If you were after a ride you should have just said so—"
The words are drowned out by Dick's curse, so unexpectedly venomous that it immediately shuts the other boy up. "I'm sorry." He mutters after a moment, rifling through a bag before extracting a helmet for her. "I've tried telling them to back off—"
"Whatever." She cuts him off, not wanting to hear his pity. "… I'm not stupid, Dick. I understand— Nobody likes the scholarship girl."
"I don't think it's a question of whether or not they like you." He says darkly. "It's more the fact that they like you a little too—"
"Dick." She says warningly, taking the helmet from him. "It's fine."
It's awkward for a few seconds, a strange sort of silence covering the way he tries to hide the discomfort from his features as she looks away, hair flopping out from behind her ears. After a moment he seems to pull himself together, yanking another helmet out from his bag. "… How are you, though?" He asks again, amending himself before she can lie again. "I mean, really. Are you doing okay?"
She shrugs, which she supposes must be some sort of an improvement. She doesn't know why she blinks a few times before answering. "… Been better." She mumbles, palms flexing around the helmet before she decides what to say next. "I know I haven't been around much—"
"I get it." Dick cuts her half attempt at apologizing short. "We all get it. Sometimes a little distance... It helps everyone."
"Apparently." She mutters dryly.
She doesn't really mean anything by this, but Dick seems to see through her; at once he lets out a hoarse sounding chuckle, shaking his head. "… I haven't heard from him, if that's what you're wondering." He says plainly. "Flash took him a few hours after and—"
"I don't want to talk about Wally." She says abruptly, with so much severity that he immediately quails, voice dying in his throat. "I don't want to hear about— he's trying to be normal." She says flatly, wishing the words didn't taste so bitter. "He left the Team and... I know I'm supposed to ask questions and you're supposed to have answers and then the two of us are supposed to— I don't know. Haul him back to reality." She sighs weakly, trying to smile at him. "... But I'm not dealing with that. I'm not... He left. And I'm not chasing him."
(And he's not chasing her anymore either.)
((He doesn't care. She's just another thing for him to deal with, another problem. And let's face it, they both have too many of those—))
She knows she's not making much sense, even inside her own head; whether he understands her or not Dick nods. "Okay."
The helmet is too round, an odd weight in her hands; she drops her eyes to stare at it again rather than watch the wariness behind his eyes, the too-calculated look that's trying to read parts of her she's not ready for anyone to know just yet. "You want a distraction?" She blurts out, jerking her head up to meet his confused eyes. "From… Everything? Want to be distracted with me?"
It's worded badly, but it makes Dick smile. "… What's the mission?" He asks, voice dropping low so only the two of them can hear.
She nearly grins, her mouth stretching but not quite turning into anything before she continues. "The Underground."
She can tell that he's been expecting this, that perhaps he's been thinking about it too. "Yeah?" He prompts, arms crossing.
"Yeah." She nods, finally unclasping the chin strap on her helmet. "Why it's there. Why it's not on any of our maps. I've tried asking Black Canary—"
For some reason Dick snorts. "She doesn't know." He says, so surely that she immediately quails. "Or at least, she doesn't know enough. The second after we left you in that room with Wally I went straight to Bats. Usually he gives me a good reason for keeping secrets but this... Whatever it is, it's over Canary's head."
She allows herself a moment to process them, teeth seeking out the inside of her cheek until she remembers she's already bitten it raw. "... And the medical bay." She muses, watching as he loops a leg over his motorcycle. "Have you been in there recently? I don't remember anyone ever mentioning that it was outfitted to treat a whole army."
There's the thrumming of a motor as Dick eases the engine to life, glancing at her. "... Sounds like you're going to be keeping us distracted for a while."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
Dick doesn't answer right away, instead looking at her for a long moment; behind the shadow of his helmet she can hardly read his face. "Artemis—"
There's a loud vibrate from her phone, her hand automatically slipping towards her back pocket. "It's home." She mutters vaguely, shifting her helmet in her arms and flipping the screen open before she can catch the slightly annoyed expression on his face. "Mom?"
Static, and then Paula's unusually stern voice comes blaring through the line. "Artemis Lian Crock." She snarls through the speaker.
She has gone toe to toe with super criminals, encountered the Injustice League, faced her own death a thousand times over. But in that moment Artemis realizes that real fear is hearing her mother call her by her full name.
Dick's hardly even come to a full stop before she leaping off the back of his motorcycle, fingers unclipping her helmet and flinging it back at him. "Hey!" He calls after her indignantly, ignoring her swearing as she peels up the front steps. "Just because your mom's about to kill you doesn't mean you can get off without thanking me for the—"
His teasing is cut off by the sound of the door slamming behind her, muscles aching as she starts pounding up the stairs two at a time; never in her life has she heard her mother say her name with so much venom, never before have the words "You are coming home. Now" terrified her so much—
(It was an order, and order straight from Huntress— and she knows the consequences for disobeying are paid in blood and sweat and pain—)
Her toes catch on the usual step but she doesn't even stop to feel the pain of stumbling, her knee skinned and bleeding as she forces herself to keep moving. She can't even begin to think of what she's about to walk in on, what possible thing she's done or what lie her mother has caught her in; all she knows is that the terror she's feeling rivals few moments in her life, all long forgotten memories of arguments with Jade and childish wrong-doings—
She bursts through her apartment door in a flurry of frizzy hair, ignoring the way her feet catch on that morning's disregarded sandals. "Mom?" She calls out, becoming suddenly afraid as she scrambles into her living room, chest aching as she pulls in labored breaths. "Mom, what's—"
She pulls up short, feeling a sudden rush of relief when she spots Paula seated around the kitchen table; at once her eyes are drawn to reddened hair sitting beside her.
(What. The. Fuck.)
"Hey, Sweetheart."
"Roy?" She blurts out, so stunned for a moment that she forgets she's still furious at him; at once she feels a flare of rage snarl up inside her, forcing her feet to pound forward. "What the hell are you—"
She breaks off into a few choice swears when all he does is smile at her; as if realizing she's seconds away from starting an all-out brawl in the kitchen her mother raises a hand to stop her. "Language, Darling." She says warningly, steely eyes narrowed at her from across the room.
She feels her heart pounding as she stares at her mother, neither of them breaking eye-contact; at once she feels stupid for racing here, for racking her brains over what possible infraction (leaving dishes in the sink, forgetting to turn off the television, leaving mascara stains on the towels) could have prompted such a vicious reaction. Because if Roy is involved, she needs only one guess to know what this is about.
Paula blinks once, the silent permission she needs to look away; her eyes dart automatically to the smirk still on Roy's face, her jaw lowered and grey eyes flashing. "… What's going on?" She says carefully, fists clenching.
She's expecting Roy to talk over Paula; almost uncharacteristically his eyes switch to her mother, waiting for her to decide the direction of the conversation. "Sit." Paula orders, Huntress licking on the heels of her words.
It's the second time in a matter of weeks that she's heard her mother sound like this: the sneering coldness, the cruelly commanding tone reserved for taunting quarry and catching her daughters in wrong-doing. Like always it has the same effect on her; at once her stomach is squirming inside her, a infantile sort of fear bubbling inside her as her feet drag across the floor. The chair squeaks when she sits down.
She recognizes the familiarity in her mother's interrogation style; as soon as she sits Paula refuses to look at her, instead keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the pot of tea she's reaching for. Without saying anything the older woman pour three cups of identical bitter liquid and ignores her thanks when she passes it to her.
Roy glances at her, smirk fading a bit about the edges. Maybe he's finally realizing that he's in trouble too.
The silence is unbearable, her tea boiling hot against her lips as she takes a sip for something to do. Paula waits until the scalding liquid is burning her tongue before she speaks. "Artemis Lian Crock." She hisses again, practically venomous.
Although she's sure there's more to this her mother stops speaking, apparently too angry to continue. Forcing down a somewhat painful swallow she tries not to wince, afraid of what showing weakness will cost her. "Mom—"
"Do you know who this is?" Paula cuts across her, gesturing once towards Roy.
Apparently Roy's not amused anymore, instead looking properly afraid of the splotchy maroon now coloring her mother's cheeks. "I should have introduced myself properly. My name is—"
"I don't care who you are." Paula hisses, glaring at him so hard her nose immediately wrinkles. "You tell me, Artemis, what a mother is supposed to think when she comes home to a strange man in her apartment, claiming to be her daughter's boyfriend—"
She makes the mistake of sipping her tea again and nearly chokes. "Mom, he's not my—"
"Quiet! You think I don't know that now? You think I'd have a man in my home for nearly a half hour and not take the necessary steps to know something like that?"
For some reason Roy snorts, one thumb reaching up to run against the slightly swollen line of his jaw. "Is that what you're calling it? Necessary steps—"
"You are to be quiet." Paula snarls at him. "Unless you would like to see what else I find necessary."
Roy winces but obeys the order, and for one wild moment she nearly laughs; the impulse is immediately gone when she catches the look on her mother's face. "Mom—"
"How long have you been keeping secrets from me?"
The question is asked in such an entirely different tone; at once the sharpness has faded into a dull sort of sadness that seems to dig underneath her skin and wound her. "I wasn't keeping secrets." She hears herself say, fingers curling around her cup. "I swear, Mom—"
Paula scoffs. "You didn't tell me you saw your sister." She hisses, sharpness back. "You didn't tell me she's building a life with someone. That she's working with your father, that she might be in trouble—Why is it that I have to hear these things from a stranger—"
"Roy." The man in question blurts out, scowling above his cup of tea. "I—my name is Roy."
There's a moment where she's sure her mother might hit him; after a very long scowl Paula juts her jaw back in her direction, glaring. "You are to tell your mother the truth." She hisses, seizing her wrists and forcing her to release her cup, her overlong nails curling against her palms as she clutches her. "That is an order."
Her fingers twitch in her mother's hands, desperate to get away, but Paula doesn't yield; at once she feels like a child again, pinned and caught and deciding whether or not to fess up to accidentally breaking a lamp. Just like when she was a kid the command works on her, and at once the words start flooding from her mouth, unencumbered.
"The last time I saw Jade alive was in Athens." She starts, pulling the beginning out of nowhere; at once Paula's hands tighten around hers, nails cutting into her skin in a silent warning not to stop. "And before that… I don't even know. When she brought Roy back, I guess."
"Back?"
She nods across the table at him, silently thankful when he seems to understand he won't be knocked out for speaking anymore. "… Your daughter took me, for some time." Roy says tactfully. "Was helping me out with a mission of my own."
Paula's eyes narrow, and she can practically see her trying to picture Roy with a mask on, wondering what sort of hero he must be after hours. More to save him from any scrutiny she continues. "Jade dropped him in the apartment while you weren't home, knowing I would be able to get him back to the safety of the League. Roy was… sick. Very sick. I thought it wouldn't be a nice way for you two to meet."
Her mother's eyes narrow, although the pressure on her struggling wrists tells her that she's believed. "… I see."
"From then on… I only tried to communicate with Jade the once. I passed a message along through Roy, warning her about Dad. I knew he'd get it to her because of their… Arrangement."
"And that is what?"
She doesn't blame Roy for looking slightly sheepish under the severity of Paula's gaze. "I'm her... Boyfriend, I guess. We live together. Sometimes." He says awkwardly. "She comes to me when she feels like getting out of trouble every once in a while."
There's a very tense silence where she can tell this doesn't sit well with her mother; more to stop Paula from looking at him as if he's some sort of slug she forces herself to keep talking. "After than... Jade and I had a falling out in Athens." She continues. "I mean, more than usual."
Paula's nails cut into her skin so hard blood begins to well around the wounds. "I remember."
(Despite the pain in her wrists what makes her wince is the memory coming to her mind; even thoughtshe has almost no relationship with her sister she feels ashamed of recalling how she had screaming at her, of admitting she had wished the other girl was dead, of hating her—)
The silence must go on for too long because Roy suddenly speaks, filling in the spaces she doesn't want to remember. "... I was on that mission." Roy mutters, voice low as he takes a sip of tea, wincing at the taste. "It took a long time for her to… We weren't sure if we could trust each other. But when she finally showed up she seemed… Off."
She's out of story to tell, and Roy seems to understand this, picking up where she left off. "Jade got more reckless after that. More missions, higher stakes… More intense around the house too. I started thinking… Well, I knew something would have to break. But there were some days I could almost convince myself we were… Normal. Moving forward. Working towards something.
"She asked about you two a lot." He says suddenly, glancing between them. "She became obsessed with tracking you two. Not in a sinister way." He adds quickly, seeing the looks on their faces. "Just… Updates. Making sure you were okay. When Wally was still hanging around here I could usually get him to slip out a few details—how Artemis did on missions, how things were around the apartment. Little things that made her feel like… I don't know. You two were safe.
"She started getting worried when your father came back. The night he nearly killed you on that rooftop." He says lowly, fingers skimming the rim of his cup. "She was sure it meant something, that something had changed. She started leaving for longer and riskier trips. She started disappearing for weeks at a time, and before I knew it'd been a month since I heard from her."
She swallows, her tongue bitter in a mix of tea and bile. "The other night was the first time I've seen her in months, Mom." She says honestly, squeezing her mother's fingers. "She was working for Dad again, with Cameron and…"
Paula understands what it means when she trails off. "… And we both know she would never go back to your father without a reason." The older woman sighs, looking troubled. "… Which is why you—" She sends Roy a mistrusting look. "—believe she's in trouble."
Her and Roy exchange a glance; before she can decide how much to tell her mother he cuts across her. "I read the mission report, Mrs. Crock. And I know Cheshire—she's a Shadow, she doesn't mess with things that are… And she nearly blew the whole mission protecting Artemis from Icicle Junior. Whatever her faults may be I still think she's being coerced into working missions with your husband, and I think she's doing it to protect you and Artemis."
She blinks, eyes narrowing. "From what, then? Dad? … Other things?"
As she finishes the sentence Roy sends her a very pointed look that she's not entirely sure what to make of. "… Not sure." He says evasively, hesitating before sighing, turning to her mother. "I apologize for… Well, breaking into your apartment, for one." He tries to smile, brushing his fingers over his jaw again before continuing. "I just need someone else out there to know what's happening. I—" A very long pause, where he seems to be gathering his nerve. "... Whatever else she might be, I'm in love with your daughter."
She feels her nose wrinkle as Roy stares the two of them down, waiting for an answer. "… What do you want from us?" Paula asks suddenly, sounding tired.
At once he drops his jaw, surveying her mother almost carefully. "The same thing you want." He says plainly, not blinking. "I want our girl home. And I need Artemis to help me."
He must know she's about to wrinkle her nose because at once he's speaking again. "I've been trying to rally support for weeks now— I don't exactly have the best track record with the League. If you sit down and— and vouch for me, throw your support behind it, the League will have to... They'll have to save her."
"... What if she doesn't want to be saved?" She hears herself say, glaring at him.
It's not the right thing to say, but she can tell Roy's been expecting it; perhaps he knows that now more than ever she doesn't trust her own instinct, doesn't trust the false memories of that night in Siberia. Still, as they sit there silently fighting with each other she can't help but be reminded of Canary's words: It doesn't change the fact that she still saved her from Cameron.
"She's your sister." He says firmly, leaning back in his chair. "And if the tables were turned... She'd save you every time."
She feels her face set, not sure how to feel or what to say; at once Paula's hands tighten around hers, forcing her gaze towards her mother. "… What are you thinking?" She mumbles childishly, for the first time unable to see an answer written on the older woman's face.
(Maybe there are some things she'll never be brave enough to do without Huntress snarling out the order first.)
The fingers clutching her tense and then release, sliding from the table top and disappearing into her lap. The steel coated eyes she inherited find hers, striking and fierce in a way she can never find within her own. "… The same thing you are, Darling."
The answer strikes her suddenly, hot and painful. At once she sees the memory of her sister in the door frame, offering a single backwards glance before disappearing into the night. She wonders what the ten year old girl who was first abandoned all those years ago would be thinking now.
"Okay." She croaks, sealing her resolve. "… On one condition."
He makes the mistake she's been hoping for. "Anything."
The apartment is nine blocks away from hers.
It's an old building, like the one they've just come from, with rickety stairs and a jutting elevator with a grate that doesn't quite stay closed. When they reach the fifth floor they're greeted with an ancient sort of chime.
She counts the few doors that pass before Roy comes to a stop outside a dingy looking one with the brassy number '58' tacked in its center. "I still don't know why you have to see it."
Her nose wrinkles. "Just open the door."
He makes a strange sort of muttering sound underneath his breath, fumbling with his keys for a moment before obliging; she's left to catch the door after he rams through it, bracing the faded wood against her arm before shoving it open after him.
She doesn't know why she wanted to see it—why it was so important, so suddenly, to see proof of Jade's life. Why she wanted to see the place where her sister lived her most normal hours, without masks and sais and the impassable borders between League and Light. But she knows at once that this is it, can tell by the lingering scent of sweet grass and cigarettes that her sister once passed through these halls, breathed in this air the same way she once did in their first home a mere nine blocks south of here.
It's simple, small; when she finally gets the courage to stop lingering by the stooped-in entrance she steps immediately into the kitchen which is strikingly similar to her own. Across a rather chipped looking counter is an over-stuffed couch placed across from a fireplace.
It's cozy in a way she didn't expect it to be. Unwillingly she can feel the comfort in this place: in the overfilled ashtray on the coffee table, in the mismatched plates in the sink, in the thickness of the pillows piled in the couch corners. She had wanted, needed even, to feel some sort of emptiness in this place, some of the void-like coldness her own home can't shake. She hates that this place feels warm.
She hates that she's disappointed.
(She hates even more that her fingers clench around her phone in her pocket, craving the sound of Wally's voice more than anything; he always had a way of helping her make up her mind, helping her figure things out. More than ever she wishes she could talk to him, wishes she could ask his advice, wishes she could have five minutes alone with him to sort out her thoughts. He always made her feel sure of things, made her mind less violent and confused— he would simply have to touch her and everything would pull into focus and for once in her life she would be something other than furious or terrified or ashamed or frozen—)
Roy doesn't even glance back as she takes it in, instead bee-lining directly to the fridge. She feels her eyes narrow as he opens it, glaring at the magnets and the shopping lists and—she can recognize Jade's handwriting even from the few feet of distance—a briefly scrawled note signed off with a rather pointed heart.
He must notice her glaring as he straightens, extracting a mahogany bottle and cracking the top almost self-consciously. "You hungry?" He asks her gruffly. "I haven't been shopping in a bit but—I don't know."
She ignores the question, taking another hesitant step forward. To her left is a hallway of some sort, no doubt leading to a single bedroom and a bathroom. "… Sorry." She hears herself say suddenly. "I—" Her voice cuts out and she doesn't do anything to retrieve it. As if he understands what she's thinking Roy sighs, crossing the kitchen tile towards her. Almost jokingly he offers her the beer bottle.
She doesn't think twice about accepting, the glass feeling cold in her hand as she swigs the sour liquid back; beside her Roy only raises his brows, amused. "It just… Looks like a home." She says badly, the liquor bitter and fizzy in her stomach. "I didn't think Jade would ever have a home."
She's not entirely sure if this makes sense, but Roy seems to get the point; taking the bottle back he pauses, swigging his own sip back before speaking. "… So that's it, then?" He sighs, glancing at her. "You'll help me?"
She doesn't know why it makes a difference; why she's so much more sure now, standing here in Jade's apartment. But she does know it seals something, makes it more real—if Jade has a home she has somewhere to return to. And even if it isn't the old fourth floor Gotham walkup that's nine blocks away it's close, closer than she's been in six years. And maybe that's better than nothing.
She takes the beer back, not waiting for him to pretend to offer it again. "Fine." She says, tipping it back.
Roy and her set to work.
It feels good, having a purpose again. The two of them set to about tracking Jade, scouring through Justice League databases and weeks' worth of security footage, piecing together her sister's whereabouts and patterns before her sudden disappearance. It's dull work, but it gives her mind something to focus on other than the monotony of lingering trauma.
Unexpectedly she finds she likes spending time with Roy; unlike the rest of the Team he doesn't bother with pity, or asking how she's feeling. The two of them never get into depth about what happened in Siberia, and the few times they breach close to the subject he has a way of brushing all mentions of Cameron off without making her feel bad for it. She wonders, vaguely, if he's trying to make up for his cruelty the first time around—but she doesn't ask, and following her lead he doesn't apologize.
Paula's still cautious around him, lingering about hallways and listening behind corners the few times he swings by the apartment. She never gets the full story of what happened the half hour before she got there, but she can tell by the way the two skirt around each other that whatever else the older woman might be she's not as helpless as she appears.
They decide to keep what they're doing a secret from the rest of the Team, at least at first— from what Roy tells her he has a bit of a "cried-wolf" reputation with the rest of the League, and steam-rolling ahead without a solid mapping of their quarry would only result in too-many eyes watching them too-soon. Instead they set about stalking their prey methodically, silently, pretending not to make much of their meetings in the Cave's library or afternoons spent hovering around the holographic computer in the briefing room.
"Am I missing something?" Zatanna snorts on the first of September, glancing down when the phone on her bedside table vibrates with another missed text from Roy. "Are you two dating or something?"
"No." She says flatly, slamming her hand against the metal and switching it to silent before the other girl can pry. Luckily for her it's easy to shift suspicion by bringing up the one thing no one wants to talk about. "He's just... I like talking to him. He's removed from the Team and... Siberia stuff."
The lie is enough to make Zatanna's cheeks fire off a spectacular pink before she flops back into Jade's old bed, hiding behind a magazine. "Whatever you say." She mumbles. "Doesn't change the fact that you obviously have a thing for red-heads."
Although she's started haunting the Cave more frequently there's still no sign of Wally, his absence screaming out almost painfully— without him there there's far too much food in the fridge and far too few bouts of laughter.
As September breaks so does she: finally she calls him again, just the once—before the dial tone can even finish she gets a hold of herself and snaps her phone shut, already hoping that she was quick enough to stop her name from popping up on his missed calls list. Somehow the idea of him seeing her number, and knowing she was thinking of him, is more intolerable than his absence.
(She reminds herself she's still mad at him.)
Even though the days tick on and she knows it's useless she doesn't stop scouring the halls, making repeated trips to the kitchen and taking extra-long routes around the Cave in the hopes of catching him while at the same time praying she never does. It's all so confusing, her own feelings bubbling in the pit of her stomach and contradicting each other, her thoughts whirling in circles every time she goes over what Barry said—about Wally needing her, about the two of them being bound together, about the fact that it's completely and totally unfair—
(About the fact that as much as she hates it, as much as it goes against every instinct she has… She would do it. Be the Lightning Rod. Because he's already saved her a thousand times over, how is one lifetime enough to make up for that—)
((But he's not here now, the one time she's needed him to comfort her more than anyone. And he owes her, he owes her, why hasn't he called her back—)
(And yes, maybe some things will never change: she'll always want Wally. But like this? Forced together? Against what either of them want?)
(How is this fair? To either of them?)
((Why isn't she worth one stupid phone call?))
She exhales, unconsciously drifting through the kitchen for the third time this hour and hardly glancing at the empty seats around the islands; her head feels bogged down with the weight of her thoughts as she drags onward, heels catching on the tile as she changes direction. She should be in bed, getting used to going to bed at a decent hour—trying to sleep, even though none will come.
It's quiet, as it always is this time of night; all the Cave's usual occupants have settled from their post-dinner buzzing and retired to their bedrooms, not quite sleeping but not quite doing anything exciting. Now that the days are beginning to shorten and the evenings are beginning to cool she's been forced to stop spending this time reading on the beach the way she used to, just a few short weeks ago—
The memory pauses, her ears catching voices on the other side of the door she's just passed. "—and I have already told you. He is not a welcome visitor to the Cave."
Despite herself her feet immediately still, caught off guard at hearing Kaldur's voice so rough and unpleasant. She's hardly made it down the hallway towards the sleeping quarters, the first door on her right no doubt the entrance to his bedroom. "And I have already told you, Kaldur'ahm," Tula sneers out, tone sharp and snarling. "That Garth is of no threat to your precious—"
"You are acting childish."
"I am—"
"Enough, Tula." Kaldur cuts across her, words powerful even through the door. "As I told you months ago, I will not have anyone on my Team feel afraid of someone you still deem to call a guest. Garth is not staying, nor is he a welcome visitor."
There's a disgusted sort of clicking. "You speak as if you did not once call him your best friend. You know better than anyone that he was simply upholding our customs. You know he would not have wanted touch a filthy surface girl—"
"I said enough!" Kaldur snarls, yelling over the insult so she can't hear it; she can feel her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears as she stands there, listening hard. For a long moment there's nothing but the sound of silence, as if the two of them are both so angry at each other that they can hardly speak. "… You are pretending not to know the real reason he is here. Pretending not to remember that it was you he rushed here to see—"
"Now you are the one being childish."
"It is childish to pretend not to know the truth, Tula! To pretend not to notice that he is still in love with you, and even worse to pretend that you do not still feel the same way— to pretend that you did not spend the last night in his bed—"
There's a loud slapping noise, as if Tula's just raised her hand and struck him across the face; before she can even brace herself the door is being flung open, revealing the other girl in tears. "Oh, of course!" She snarls, fists clenching for a moment as if she's about to strike her too.
Kaldur appears in the doorway almost instantly, looking distinctly furious as Tula elbows past them both. "I—" She hears herself blurt out, glancing between him and the other girl's back. She doesn't even know how to begin to explain. "I wasn't listening, Kal. The door, I was walking by—it was hard not to overhear. Sorry."
Rather than look at her Kaldur stares after Tula, mouth opening as if to call after her; after a moment he seems to think better of it, sighing. "It is alright." He mumbles, shutting his bedroom door behind him and joining her in the hall. "... Did you wish to speak to me?" He asks stiffly.
She can't imagine anything she'd rather do less. "No. I—I'm so sorry, Kal." She's not sure what she's apologizing for.
Whatever the words are worth Kaldur seems to take comfort in it, nodding his head solemnly and not quite looking at her. "… You are well?" She's growing tired of the repeated question but doesn't want to lie, instead making a funny jerking motion with her head. Whatever it's supposed to mean it makes him frown. "As expected. I have been… Worried about you. Would you care for a walk together?"
This seems like a bad idea. "Kal—"
"As a favor to me. I have been wanting to ask you something."
She's about to tell him that his place is with Tula, that he should run after her; before she can open her mouth to say something she's caught by his tone, that their conversation is about to be all business, not personal. "… Okay."
He makes the motion for her to follow, going back the way she came; suddenly the few seconds of silence between them are too loud, and before she can stop herself she's speaking. "… You and Tula are going through a rough patch?"
"Yes." He says shortly, glancing at her once before sighing again. "It is the same rough patch we have been going through for months."
She's expecting him to leave it at that, already nodding solemnly when he continues. "Tula and I are very similar. We are very… In sync. Usually in couples that is preferable, to possess so many of the same traits… But we are both easily jealous. You know as well as I do that there is only friendship between us, but Tula—she has always been most suspicious of you."
"The same way you are with Garth." She says automatically, backtracking almost immediately. "Except, you know. You have good reason."
Kaldur's lips quirk appreciatively, leading her through the common room and down the hallway opposite. "Garth's sudden reappearance has made things complicated. I cannot allow him to reside in the Cave but he is still… Around. Meeting her in Happy Harbor, or— and the two of them are…" He hesitates. "Tula did not come to me last night."
"And you think she… Went to him?"
Another sigh. "Is it foolish to assume so?" He asks guiltily, coming to a stop in front of a door she's never been through before. "After all… I was once where Garth is now. I knew where she was on the nights she was not with him."
She can't think of anything polite to say back and instead sends him a sad sort of smile, glancing around awkwardly. "… You wanted to ask me something?"
The weak question is enough to distract him; with another nod Kaldur opens the door for her. "Yes, forgive me. Go in."
It's a lab of some sort—the room feels sterile but warm as she walks into it, taking in the white of the cabinets and the files along the shelves. In the center of the room there's a plain looking desk, the same kind that decorates the chemistry labs at Gotham Academy. And in its center—
"The artifact?" She says automatically, quickening her pace forward. "I thought the League had—"
"It is in temporary transit." Kaldur explains. "I will be moved from Justice League facilities to S.T.A.R Labs tomorrow."
It's how she remembers it—and aged looking disc, almost plate-like, adorned with symbols and lettering that she can't read and cracked down the middle from where Jade forced it out of the ice. It's damaged in several places, crumbling in the grooves where Garfield had clenched it in his mouth, the majority of the center symbol cut off from the damage. "What does that mean?" She says, glancing at him. "They're transferring it? Like, that has to mean something, right?"
"Initial League analysis has revealed it to have select intense traces of EMF radiation. Much like our squid."
Her eyes narrow. "And I'm betting that's much like the artifacts stolen back in Athens."
"As is the rest of the League." Kaldur nods. "Whatever the Light is planning on doing with the collection of such artifacts it is clear that it is becoming a race between us and them. It is going to become a high priority to track global traces of EMF radiation and attempt to retrieve more of these artifacts before they do. I have been meeting with Dr. Sandsmark and it appears as if she will finally be receptive to aiding the League in finding them."
She can sense there's something he's not telling her; looking carefully between both his eyes she tries to read him. "… What changed her mind?" She asks, careful to keep her voice measured.
For some reason Kaldur smiles. "I believe that was her daughter's doing. You remember young Cassie? It took some time to arrange— several meetings, physical testing— but the League has a vested interest in taking her on under a semi-permanent role. A side-kick— to Wonder Woman."
She hears herself let out an exhale. "Hm. Wow."
"Indeed. You can see the appeal— what with her daughter so involved in Justice League happenings, it only makes sense that Dr. Sandsmark turns to us as well. Even simply for the sake of keeping watch over her daughter."
Again, she feels as if he's holding back. "So, the artifact is being moved, Cassie's working under Wonder Woman... What did you want to ask me? Whether or not I think Garfield's ready to be a tag-along too?"
Kaldur swallows, throat bobbling thickly against his neck before he glances away. "I was hoping to ask you to head several of these missions." He says carefully, looking at her again. "… Roy has been telling me that you seem most adept at tracking."
The second he says it her eyes narrow, mouth twisting into a slight frown. "... Did he?" She asks vaguely, voice gritty.
It only takes a second or two of her glaring at him for his resolve to crumble. "He also mentioned—"
"He wasn't supposed to mention anything." She cuts across him, an annoyed sigh ripping out of her throat. "That's what this is about? You want to what—keep me busy? Because you don't like what Red and I are—"
"Artemis." Kaldur talks over her; although he hardly raises his voice she senses the warning there, her mouth closing before she can finish. "I am asking you because you have long since proven yourself as part of this Team."
She keeps her eyes narrowed but still feels her cheeks heat. "Oh."
"I am also asking you because I know you. And I understand that keeping busy helps you—I know that you will feel better much faster if you are not allowed to dwell on what is upsetting you."
They're getting near the one thing she can't stand to talk about; shoving her hands in her pockets she glares at her feet. "… Kal." She says warningly.
Whatever the rest of this speech may be he seems to cut himself short, instead reaching out to clap her on the shoulder and ignoring her when she tries to shrug him off. "Red Arrow is my best friend on the surface world." He says suddenly. "And I have learned long ago not to try to stop him when he sets his mind to something. I am sure the two of you working together would be… Formidable, to whatever you chose to encounter."
"What's your point?"
"That you should be wary." His fingers tighten for a moment, almost painful. "I might not know the specifics of whatever the two of you are planning, but I do know what Roy feels for your sister. I know the lengths to which he would go to protect her. You must make sure that, should his heart interfere with his head, you are not caught in the cross fire."
Her brows furrow, and before she can think of what to say back the hand on her shoulder falls.
(She pulls her bow string tight, muscles setting into place. Her cheeks feel frost bitten as she squints through the snow, her pulse pounding against the warbled bump of skin against the base of her neck. She can hear people shouting, can hear the explosion of thought screaming inside her mind—can feel, for the first time, the raw fear of her Teammates licking at her insides—
She's braver than she thought she would be, in the less than a second she has left. She doesn't feel afraid, or maybe it's simply that she doesn't have time to feel anything at all; she sets her arrow against her finger, hears her own name being screamed inside her head, and before she can find a target the beam consumes her.
At first it isn't bad; she feels weightless, atoms separating and mind suddenly silent as it's torn from her body. The voices cut off suddenly, her own thoughts frozen inside her skull.
Then the pain comes.
She screams, or at least tries to; she can feel her skin melting from her bones, her hair falling out from her scalp, can feel her eyes popping from their sockets and tongue unfurling from her mouth. Organs and intestines and the pieces of sinew and muscle that hold her together collapse in on themselves. Artemis Crock combusts from the inside out, as violent and consuming as a dying star.
She's expecting the feeling to fade into nothingness—expecting, as it was before, to feel herself die and be reborn a thousand times over, expecting to be torn apart and stitched back again in the small infinity she was lost in until the Exercise was over. She grits her teeth together, feeling them fall apart and bleed into gums and bone and back together again, waiting for her mind to break free from the hell M'gann once locked her in.
((It's only a dream.))
Instead she breathes in salted air, her limbs sticking to blood-soaked snow. When her eyes appear again she sees the shape of the Hells Gate Bridge, blooming in the Metropolis darkness.
((She hasn't been here in a while.))
But she's here now, lying beside Wally the way lovers would. And the snow is swirling down and people are shouting in her mind again, screaming at her to turn back—but she is still, lying here, she can't move—
"... Artemis?" He tries to say, a bubble of blood bursting at the corner of his mouth.
The beam hits her as Wally screams, the movement bursting his lungs; blood gushes out of his mouth and chokes him as the skin melts off her bones, her eyes dribbling out of their sockets as he tries to look at her. He tries to say her name, tries to touch her— but neither of them can move, they are dying, they are dead, they are better off that way—
((And this isn't right—she knows this dream, has lived it more than two dozen times since it happened. She is supposed to comfort him, soothe him through death—he is not supposed to see her dying, not supposed to—))
She's reborn and blasted away again, and Wally is forced to watch her go. Each time he screams, the noises he gets out of his throat less human the longer he lies there—at first he tries to say her name, then tries shouting for help; then he is wailing, crying, fading, making the same feral sounding pants that first drew her to him, the one that once saved his life—
She hears footsteps, people coming; without knowing how her hands wrap around his body, keeping him tight to her dissolving flesh. They are both dead but they are together, and she has to protect him, that's what they do...
Someone screams, guttural and tortured as they seize her mangled body, whole pieces of skin and muscle ripping off her bones as they try to pry her and Wally apart. She feels like a slab of raw meat, chunks of her thrown away as the unknown person tears her open, rotten blood and flesh spewing over the Metropolis streets.
((And she can't tell if this is a real memory anymore— she sees Oliver's moustache and hears him scream her name, but the sound is far away, blurred and muted over the pain of her body being ripped apart—))
She's not strong enough; Wally is taken from what's left of her arms and dragged through the upturned street, the tender wounds created by bullets ripping open as he's pulled along the pavement like an animal to the slaughter, crying and screaming for her to save him. And she can't stop it, can't help him. She tries to raise her hand only to watch the skin on her arm burst open, dripping from her bones like tenderized meat. Wally's shrieking and she dies all over, is reborn again, tortured by the smell of his blood and the—)
The dream is ripped from her mind as she wakes suddenly, drawing in a breath that sends her ribs aching. "Hey!" Someone snarls at her when she kicks out, a too-warm hand suddenly pressing into her shoulder when she tries to sit up. "Artemis, calm down—"
Wally swears when she throws his hands off her, her palm swinging of it's own accord to slap violently against his cheek, another kick colliding with the center of his chest. There's a clattering as he topples into the coffee table, her mind screaming out as she clenches her fingers into the fabric of the couch, breath coming out so hard and fast she's sure her lungs will burst—
She hears him curse again as he slides to the floor, clutching where the edge of the table has jabbed into his side. Her vision is still splotched with blackened edges, nausea running through her as she looks at him through pieces of her hair; she's—she's not in Metropolis. She's somewhere else now, the Cave, the Cave—
(... Another nightmare...?)
"Goddammit." Wally mutters, one hand still clutching his ribs; his cheek is a bright red where she hit him, a matching hue popping up on his ears as he raises his head to look at her. She doesn't know what he sees written on her face— horror, terror, weakness— but at once he frowns, looking impatient. "It was just a dream, Artemis. It's over. You're awake."
She doesn't trust him, trying to remember to breathe as her eyes adjust to the darkness of the living room; her forehead feels almost slick with sweat when she makes to push her hair out of her face, eyes darting around the room and waiting for another wave of the nightmare to wash over her. She's not in Metropolis. She's at the Cave. She'd… She'd been reading.
(She's shaking.)
Her book is on the floor now; Wally notices her glancing at it and quickly moves to pick it up, placing it carefully on the jostled coffee table before turning back to her. He's kneeling beside her, as if he's been there for a while, trying to wake her. "You were having a nightmare." He tells her.
She opens her mouth to snarl something back, feeling her cheeks color when the only sound that comes out is an rather shaky exhale. It's been too long since she felt like this: wide eyed and vulnerable and not sure of her own reality; she can feel sweat dribbling down her lower back, her heart pounding and breaths still coming out too-loud and phlegm catching in the back of her throat. It occurs to her, suddenly, that this is the first time she's been properly warm in a while.
(—And as she thinks it another violent tremble rocks through her, chilling her. She feels as if she's waiting for something, for her flesh to melt or for Wally to scream, waiting for him to be gone again; almost desperately she stares at him, unblinking, not sure if he's real or if she's only moments away from a fresh wave of hell—)
"... Am I still having one?" She asks weakly.
A twisted sort of frown, followed by a dry chuckle. "No."
"But you're here." She blurts out, back-tracking when she catches the hurt look on his face. "No— I mean— you were in the dream too. And you haven't been here, in real life, so—" Her voice breaks as she winces, running a hand through her hair as she stops speaking.
Wally doesn't take her silence for a good sign; he shifts almost uncomfortably as she keeps her eyes fixed on him, as if her staring is making him nervous. "You're not dreaming." He says firmly. "I know I've been... Gone. But I—I left my physics textbook here. Kinda getting hard to do the homework without it." One almost forced chuckle. "I didn't think anyone would be around but… I saw you on the couch. At first I thought you were just shivering."
He gestures a little sheepishly at the blanket she's now noticing, the scrubby throw everyone on the Team has curled up with at one point that's currently draped almost clumsily over her legs, as if he'd thrown it over her a little carelessly. "I figured… Well, you were still twitching a lot when I came back. I've… I mean, I've seen you have nightmares." He mutters awkwardly. "I can tell when you can't wake up on your own."
She doesn't know what to say, feeling her cheeks redden as her lower lip trembles; she can't decide if she wants to thank him or throttle him for being the one to find her, alone and helpless in the dark. Deciding its better not to say anything at all she sucks in a breath, finally dropping her gaze to her lap.
"… Artemis?"
And she doesn't trust it— the way his voice is gentle, tender, too-soft as he looks at her through furrowed brows; at once she feels her face twist into a scowl, her knees automatically flying up towards her chest. "... Don't." She mutters, arms wrapping around her legs as she hides behind them. "Don't be nice to me, okay? I'm mad at you."
There's a beat, a loud one, where she can feel the sirens of bewilderment firing inside Wally's head. "What?" He snorts out, brows furrowing. "How are you mad at me? We haven't seen each other in weeks— we've been talking for five seconds—"
"Exactly." She snarls, head turning towards him so quickly her hair flops into her eyes again. "You've been gone. Completely MIA. After everything that's— I needed you. I needed you, and you couldn't—" She swells angrily for a moment, not sure why she's hesitating— there are no secrets between them anymore. "You couldn't even return a lousy phone call."
She's not really yelling, but Wally's face is wrinkling as if she's spewing the worst of him in his face. "... I didn't think you'd want me around." He mutters after a moment, ears glowing crimson.
"Then you're an idiot." She hisses back, sinking down behind her knees and pretending not to notice her own blushing.
Because that's what had hurt the most about Wally's stony silence: the fact that he hadn't been there. And maybe it's childish of her, to shove him away and then drag him back in, to switch so rapidly between hating and needing him. But they've both said it before: they take care of each other. And she had been there for him— had pulled him back from the eye of the storm, had killed the small part inside herself to save him. And now she's dead, bleeding on the ground, and Wally can't be bothered to escape him façade of normalcy to save her in the same way, even to return a phone call—
There's silence again, a moment of it that lasts for far too long.
She's waiting for him to apologize, waiting for him to put on his usual moping expression and talk her out of her own feelings. She's waiting for the moment she can snarl over him, continue spewing out all the angry words she's spent too long building up, waiting for the moment she can take all the hurt and pain she's been feeling and blame it on him—
She nearly jumps when the silence is broken by his fingers pushing her hair back behind her ear.
And suddenly she hates that she can't help it, that at once she jerks back from whatever comfort he might be trying to give her. She hates that being touched by him has become intolerable the same way everything else has since that night within the sterile white walls in the Underground when the kiss he forced on her had stolen the last piece of her she had to give. She hates the low hiss that hardly sounds in the back of her throat as she flattens herself against the the couch, preferring the cold leather to the feeling of his warmth.
((She hates everything, including herself.))
Wally doesn't smile, instead looking almost impatient with her again. "Relax." He tells her stiffly. "I'm just getting your hair off your face."
It's not the apology she wants; her first instinct is to glare at him, as untrusting and hard as the first day she met him. Feeling her nose wrinkle she stiffens, her eyes unwillingly falling to watch the movement of his fingers towards his wrist, peeling her old elastic from its usual place.
It's clumsy, the way he reaches for her; she feels her whole body tense as he tucks her hair behind her ears, pulse quickening despite the way she's frozen in a mixture of anger and stubbornness. Again she feels like a cornered hare, caught between holding its ground and sprinting to safety, wary of both starting a chase and of staying still. Wally doesn't meet her narrowed eyes, focused on pressing her hair back into place; she drops her eyes to stare at his empty wrist, not sure what to feel as his warm fingers accidentally brush the soft skin behind her ears.
It's imperfect. Lopsided and bumpy along her scalp, missing pieces around the bottom.
But it is a ponytail.
"… Better?" He asks her gruffly.
Despite the coldness to his tone he sounds too normal, as if what he's just done is no different than handing her a pencil or grabbing an out of reach book. "… Sort of." She mutters, watching as he gets to his feet, already rounding the back of the couch before she can finish answering.
For one wild moment she thinks that's it— that he's going to leave her all over, go back to being normal while she's left dealing with her emotions and the wreck of a pony tail he's arranged her hair into. Over the back of the couch she stares him down, watching as he walks rather stiffly into the kitchen. "You want tea?"
"I—" Her voice cracks as she turns to look towards him, watching as he comes to a halt in front of her usual cabinet, already assuming the answer and finding the tea leaves before she can figure out if she wants to say yes. "… What's going—why are you—"
As if he can tell what she's trying to ask Wally pauses, glancing at her before reaching into the cabinet for a cup. "… Just say yes, Artemis." He grunts, ears going off.
She doesn't oblige, instead glaring at him owlishly over across the room; he only tolerates a second of this before he sighs, glaring as he places a mug on the counter. "Look— I'm not going to... Apologize, or whatever the hell you want from me." He says coldly. "I don't exist just to make you feel better—"
"Neither do I." She hisses back before she can stop herself.
It's a sticky sort of silence, the kind where both of them pretend not to notice the other blushing. "... Well, okay then." He grits out, busying himself with the kettle. "Then it's settled."
But it isn't; feeling her face twist into a glare she gets to her knees, spitting at him over the back of the couch. "You should have called me back." She blurts out. "I would have called you—"
"I know." He cuts her over, voice suddenly raised nearly to a bellow; for a moment the words seem to echo around the room, still stinging her ears even when he sighs again, hand running through his hair and speaking quietly. "... I know you would have. I know."
It's still not the apology she wants, but somehow her desire to hear the words is gone— somehow she knows, without being sure of how she knows it, that demanding anything else from him would only make things worse.
... He looks tired, she realizes, watching as he fiddles unnecessarily with the heat of the stove. She's used to seeing him running on little sleep; months ago when he was juggling missions and school his eyes would seem almost glassy sometimes, the pale skin beneath his apple irises faded into a dull sort of purple. Even from across the room she can see the familiar lines of exhaustion on his face, his skin oddly pale beneath his freckles.
(She wonders if he's sleeping.)
She relaxes slightly into the couch, not sure if they're still fighting. "… How have you been?" She asks suddenly, not sure where the question is coming from. Perhaps people have simply asked her this so many times over the last few weeks that she's not sure how else to start a conversation.
Wally shrugs, not really answering. "... You?"
She shrugs back.
The kettle's boiling before he seems to figure out what he wants to say, the words blurting out just as he starts pouring the steaming water into her cup. "… I saw Linda." He says suddenly, glancing at her. She can't decide if he's telling her this to hurt her, or if he just wants her to know. "Went on that date."
She nods, teeth clenching. "How was it?" She asks carefully, hoping she's not prying.
"Good." A pause. "Really good. Easy."
(She's not sure if this is an insult.)
He doesn't see the look on her face, his head dipping to let out a strangled sounding chuckle. "It's just weird." He says honestly, setting the kettle back against the burner. "Pretending to be normal. Taking a break, or whatever. I don't know how you did it last Thanksgiving."
"I wasn't really doing it." She scoffs, finally leaving the couch. As an afterthought she seizes the end of the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders as she walks towards him. "I was bored out of my mind. I think I kept M'gann on the phone for an hour, trying to get news out of her."
"Well…" Wally trails off, sliding her tea towards her when she approaches the counter, catching her eye for a moment before looking away. "… I'm sorry." He says at last. "You're right. I should have—called you back, or something. After everything that happened. I wasn't… Uncle Barry didn't think it was a good idea."
The tea sits on the counter between them, steaming invitingly. She doesn't touch it. "… He said something to me." She hears herself mumble, cheeks reddening as her fingers clutch the blanket tighter around herself. "Before I left. That night."
He lets out a lingering sort of exhale, the kind that can't help but send the walnut scent wafting through the air, one of his hands clutching at the counter. "I know." He mutters, shaking his head. "And I'm sorry. That—it wasn't his place to tell you all that—"
"I'm glad he did." She cuts him off. "If this involves me too then I need to know, Wally. How am I supposed to help if—"
"Not that." He says impatiently. For a moment he seems to hesitate, gathering his courage. "I mean… About the other stuff. About… Us. He shouldn't have made you feel like—" He cuts himself off, not finishing; before she can stop him he reaches out towards her tea, forcing a scalding sip of the bitter liquid into his mouth, wincing. "—Like how I made you feel. The morning after we... Like all this was somehow your problem too."
He curses under his breath, whether from the taste of the tea or the temperature she can't tell; feeling her brows contract she swallows hard, shaking her head. "Wally—"
"I mean it, Artemis." He says before she can start arguing. "This is my problem. I'm dealing with it. You don't have to care."
He takes another swig of her tea, as if the foul tasting liquid is somehow making his resolution more firm; for a long moment she simply watches him swallow, fingers jutting nervously around the cup handle before he sets it back on the counter. "… I do care, though." She whispers.
Without thinking one of her hands slips out from where she's clutching beneath the blanket, seeking his wrist; like an old habit she finds the familiar dip in his bones, thumb twitching once before she marks his pulse.
She's not sure whether or not to feel hurt when he makes to pull away. "Artemis—"
"Wally." She says almost bracingly, fingers stilling him and holding him against the steaming cup. "Just… Listen. For a second. Because this—I'm not good at this. Just listen, please."
He hesitates but still obliges, the tension in his wrist easing as he allows himself back under her touch. She can feel his heart beginning to pick up, the words that had seconds ago been bursting out sounding almost strangled as she forces herself to speak. "… I know you're not asking me to care. And that… makes it easier, I guess. It makes me hate you less."
This is a bad start, Wally's face twisting into a frown before she starts back tracking. "Not that I—I don't hate you. Just this whole thing… You hate it too, don't you?"
He doesn't say anything, whether out of honesty or trying to preserve her feelings she doesn't know; his silence only makes her more nervous. "I just wanted to say—that I care, okay? Not because I have to. But—" She swallows awkwardly. "… You know that if you needed me I would be there. Same as always. This… It doesn't change anything."
This last part is a lie, and she suspects he knows it; at once his face is breaking into a smile that's not quite crooked enough to be real, his skin twitching underneath hers. It's stupid, even saying it—of course things have changed. How can they not have? How is she supposed to ever be there for him again without second guessing the instinct, second guessing her feelings, second guessing her own emotions against the will of the Speed Force—
And suddenly it's very hard not to question everything between them: the good times, the heat between them that brought on the summer, the paralyzing happiness he flooded through her. She had always thought it was some sort of miracle, how she could push him away only to be pulled back in, the way they always found their way back to each other despite their nasty words and snarled curses. The way Wally West was the only person to hook into her, unmovable.
(But this time she's pushed too far. And no matter how she might try to fix it... She knows now that she's alone again.)
… She wonders what would have happened if she had fallen in love with him. The proper way—not with half-dead realizations and whisperings that never left her own mind. What if she had been unafraid of falling, unafraid to scream the words in his face? Would she still care now, still be clinging to the memories between them?
Wally's hand finally slips out from underneath hers, the fake smile falling from his face. "I know." He tells her.
(He doesn't promise the same back.)
(And she thinks she understands it. Now that they both know the full truth about Lightning Rods, about the Speed Force... She gets it. He doesn't want it— their friendship, their feelings, her— like this. Doesn't want it to be something forced on them, something half-fake, predetermined by something much bigger than the two of them. And as much as she wants to fight him on it, wants to tell him that what is between them is so much more than that... She can't. She's out of words, maybe never had them in the beginning; either way, she doesn't have the strength to try to change his mind.)
There's nothing else really to say, and she thinks they both realize it—they run out of small talk long before the tea goes cold, Wally glancing awkwardly at the half empty cup before sighing. "… I'd better get back. Still have all that homework to finish."
"Right." She nods, watching with interest as he collects his textbook before she remembers something. "I almost forgot—"
Wally chuckles when she yanks the elastic from her hair, offering it to him between pinched fingers. "… You keep it. About time I gave it back to you."
She blinks twice before she slips the now too large elastic back onto her own wrist. She's not sure why this hurts.
AN: Finally updated this! Sorry that it took so long- pretty much everything got put on hold the last couple weeks, but I have news: I am officially finished with exams and am now a university graduate! That and a birthday this weekend and I am a very happy camper.
On another note: be sure to check out .com! I'm sure a lot of you followed along with my humming and hawing over this chapter but if you want to see some awesome YJ posts/fanart (and even submit your own) as well as frequent writing updates please follow me on there!
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