AN: Okay, a very very long explanation is overdue. But first... Enjoy the chapter.
(They both watch as her wrist falls back to her side, deadened by the weight of the elastic. As if it's been waiting for her to notice the kitchen seems suddenly cold, her skin prickling despite the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.
If Wally notices any sort of emotion pass over her face he doesn't mention it; instead his eyes flicker once to her wrist and then the floor, ears setting off as usual. "... You should get some sleep." He mutters, lips pulling up in what might have once passed as a half-smile. "You know, somewhere other than the couch."
And as he says it he makes to leave, turning his back on her the same way he's done the last few weeks, abandoning her and what's still between them all over again. And she doesn't know where it comes from, why the words bubble up out of her mouth before she can stop them—
"Why would you quit the Team?"
She sounds weak, stupid; as if he's been expecting this Wally sighs. He still hasn't looked up from the floor. "Artemis—"
"We should be dealing with this together." She says over him, the blanket nearly slipping from her shoulders as she takes a step forward. "You need us. We can help you. That's what we do, we—"
(("We take care of each other."))
She cuts herself off, lower lip trembling for a moment before her teeth claim it; as if he can sense the movement his apple eyes meet hers, eyelashes flickering to the blush on her cheeks and the glistening of the gold chain around her neck. "What do you want me to do, Artemis?" He asks, sounding tired.
She doesn't know how to respond to the question, doesn't know what to say back to the defeated expression on his face; feeling herself blink stupidly she watches as he runs a hand through his hair, musing the ginger ends before his fingers find the back of his neck. "... Wally—"
"Because I can't figure out what the right move is here." He grits out, voice caught between exhaustion and exasperation. "Either I stay and let this— this thing wreak havoc on the Team, or I disappear and let it—"
His voice breaks and so does her heart; suddenly she's the cowardly one, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze as he stares her down, beginning to look desperate. "Tell me what you want me to do." He breathes.
(And for a moment she senses something; for not the first time she feels as if they're on the edge of something, skirting around old feelings and habits and whatever else is now forbidden between them. And suddenly nothing else in the world feels entirely real, as if it's just the two of them awake at this witching hour, as if air itself is frozen. For a moment everything ceases to exist except for Wally's hand as it falls from his neck, except for the shift of his weight as he drops his jaw, except for the tiny movement he makes in her direction: pleading, hoping, needing.)
((And maybe she knows what she's supposed to say: "Come home, Wally. Stay."))
(And in that moment she wants him. She wants him to rush towards her, wants him to throw his arms around her and never let go. She wants him to stay the way he always has, wants him to belong to her the way he used to, the way he belonged to her ever since she woke up to sand between her teeth and him between her legs— she wants him, wants him, wants him. She wants him to come home.)
... But the seconds tick on and the feeling fades and suddenly she feels cold again, numb to his pleading and his hoping and his needing her. Suddenly all she can feel is the weight of his abandonment, the agony of his leaving her, the pain of his rejection, the noose-like tightness of his chain around her neck. And she feels worthless all over, as needless as her father has ever made her feel.
She wasn't even worth one lousy phone call.
(Because he was the one who locked her out, first the one who threw her into the eye of the storm. He's the one who brought her into this mess and the one who left her to deal with it alone. And doesn't that prove something? That they're no good for each other, that they're all wrong, that they bring nothing but hurt for each other. It's one more reason to stay away, one more reason to stop feeling, one more reason to run from whatever the Speed Force has lured them into—)
((And why does he need her to say it, anyway? Why won't he listen until she's broken and begging—))
(She's tired of being the girl thrown out in the cold. And she's tired of clawing and biting her way to a place at the table. And she's tired of never being good enough.)
((She's tired of hurting her pride for him.))
She can't figure out what to say and after nearly half a minute of silence Wally chuckles. "See?" He grits out, blinking quickly as he turns away. He's back to looking at the tile. "... You don't know what to do either.")
Septembers seeps open like a wound, stuttering and jutting with a distinct flurry of activity; even in Gotham where the air is clotted with city life everything feels fresh and too clean, and for the first time in months she's busy. For her, summer ends the way it began: in the loneliest way possible.
Kaldur is right, she supposes: she's best kept busy. Autumn creeps inside her bones and settles in the places her last goodbye with Wally have left hollow. Soon she is so caught up juggling school work and the Team and Roy— Roy, who insists on almost nightly patrols; Roy, who sends her phone buzzing at all hours of the night, as if aware that she is wide awake too— that she forgets how alone she feels, only reminded of it at all when she makes the mistake of glancing at the overlarge elastic now wound twice around her wrist.
(She doesn't know why she wears it.)
Time forces her onward, counting the days through with seconds and moments where she tries to trick herself into normalcy, into feeling anything other than lost and lonely. She smiles. She eats. She tries to sleep. She drinks her cups of tea in the morning alone and at night with her mother. She laughs when Zatanna prompts her to, returns the pressure of M'gann's hugs, and shows up to her meetings with Black Canary three times a week.
She's fine.
(Or at least that's what she tells herself, when she realizes the water in the shower has turned from screaming hot to ice cold while she was too busy staring blankly at the tile to notice.)
(Or at least that's what she tells herself, when she catches sight of the necklace still clamped around her throat and her stomach turns over at the thought of taking it off.)
(Or at least that's what she tells everyone when they ask her if she's sleeping, if she wants something to eat, if she's heard from Wally since that last night in the kitchen—)
((Because she isn't sure what is wrong or what's right, or how it felt to not be swallowed whole by this incredible nothingness. All she knows is that it feels as if a piece of her has vanished, been stolen, been stomped on; and she can't tell if it was always gone and she just noticed, or if it disappeared beneath the ice when Junior smashed her skull through it, or if perhaps it slipped past Wally's lips the moment he pressed them into hers, or if it slipped below the welcome mat of Jade's apartment and was trod on too many times to be recognized.))
((All she knows is that she can sense its absence, can feel it waiting to be noticed, can make it out in the darkened edges of her vision when she squints; something is wrong, wrong, wrong, but she is too broken and too fragile to try to make it right.))
She can tell the others notice it too. She can see it in the way their eyes trace her smile, wondering if it's real; can hear it the moment she walks into a room and the conversation stops as they all watch her count them off, Wally's absence screaming out before they say hello. Their pity and their worry drills into her, into all of them, and in a strange desperation to get something right they do the only thing they're good at: being a Team.
Except they aren't good at it, at least not anymore— uncharacteristically the Team feels disjointed, unaligned, miles behind where they began only a year ago. It starts with Kaldur's low-stake tracking missions, then watches, then stale leads following anything no matter how remotely connected to artifacts. No matter the mission they come up empty handed, bruised from skirmishes they're too antsy for that aren't worth the lack of information. The Team feels lopsided, confused, without a purpose as long as the question of what the Light is planning remains unanswered. The whole uncertainly of the situation puts everyone into a foul mood, and in a flurry of frustrated disappointment Kaldur erupts into a long string of curses she never thought him capable of saying.
Although everyone has noticed a sudden dip in the Atlantean's mood she's sure she's the only one who knows the real reason why; more than once she catches him prowling the Cave's halls late at night, searching for Tula and wondering of her absence. Time goes on and she still can't think of any words of comfort, instead bringing her water to a boil and offering him a cup of tea in silence.
... She wishes Wally were back.
He would know what to say to Kaldur, how to make things more tolerable for the Team. He would know how to ease the tension and stop their fighting, would know how to fix the disconnection between them all; he would know how to make them laugh and start over, would know how to fix things.
(She hates him for making her miss him.)
No matter how hard she wishes for his return Wally remains gone; lost to normalcy and pretending and insisting on keeping his distance from them all, as if worried about infecting them with a lightning born disease. The thought of him forcing himself into isolation physically hurts her, digging under her skin and wriggling up to curl inside her belly like acidic guilt. She should have told him to come back. She should have ordered him to stay.
... But she hadn't. Instead she stood there in a silence so screaming it forced him away, back out of her life. She should have run after him, should have followed him home, should have— what? Ignored the way he hurt her? Ignored her own pride? Ignored the fact that the one person she thought would never really leave finally gave up on her?
… Something changed, the night he gave her the elastic back.
Knowing everything they do now, about the Speed Force and Lightning Rods and what it is between them... It would have been like a betrayal, telling him to stay. It would have felt like admitting they were supposed to be together, admitting that she needs him as much as she does, admitting that they're slaves to whatever power is bigger than the two of them, whatever power has insisted on throwing her in the crossfires. And it isn't right, being forced to be with someone, being forced to take care of them—
But it still hurt, seeing how easily he had surrendered her elastic.
(But it hurt even more, watching him leave.)
It had been like sealing some sort of pact, repaying a debt she had forgotten about; the talisman that had once been a reminder of what it cost to be a hero had been disregarded so easily, as if what happened— as if everything between them— didn't matter.
As if she didn't matter.
She thinks herself in circles over it, rotating constantly with how she feels: furious with Wally, for leaving her to deal with the repercussions of That Night on her own; upset with him, for shutting her out; hurt, over his leaving without a proper explanation; confused about how badly his abandonment hurt her, about what she's supposed to feel for him now that their whole relationship seems like something beyond their control; annoyed over how much the whole thing bothers her—and tired, she's so tired of feeling so much at once—
More than anything she feels lonely: lonely for Wally, longing for him the way she longs for a warm cup of tea after a particularly hard day. She misses his comfort, his reassurance, his friendship, his warmth— despite everything that's happened between them, despite all the confusion and hurt that's still clawing at her she knows she would feel better if he would at least... Be there. If he would just find his way back to her, like he always does. If he would just be her friend again, like before.
... But it's too late now, she supposes. This time she's pushed too far, distanced too much space between them. He's not coming back.
(She's fine.)
The first time it happens is on a Tuesday.
It's not late, at least by her standards— midnight seems to feel like dusk to her now, her nights so sleepless and her body so weary that the witching hours seem to pass by without her noticing.
She likes being up late, no longer missing sleep; the loneliness of the night seems almost comforting, the city lights through her window glimmering through the Gotham smog as if silently promising that the world is empty and she's alone, safe, hidden. Autumn creaks through the apartment and she lies still beneath her sheets, staring so hard at the night she forgets to blink.
(She's fine.)
(She's fine.)
(She's fine.)
She's not sure how long the feeling of being lost lasts, how long she stares out into the darkness beyond her bedroom window; all she knows is that she stares and stares until it happens.
She blinks, and her phone lights up.
Almost at once she winces in confusion at the brightness, not sure if she's dreaming or lost inside reality; as she lifts her head off her pillow her phone vibrates the once on her bedside table before slipping back into silence, nearly ghostly in the dead of the night. For one long second the sound seems to echo inside her, piercing the quiet almost painfully before she reaches towards it, thumb flipping it open.
Missed Call: Baywatch (12:11 AM)
She blinks again, now staring so hard at the screen the backs of her eyes ache. It takes nearly half a minute before she realizes she's forgotten to breathe.
(Wally called her.)
(—And she knows what that means, can hear the words as clearly inside her head as if she's just exhaling them for the first time—)
(("This... This doesn't change anything." She had forced out, fingers resting with a sickening familiarity on the creases of his wrist. "If you need me—"))
(Wally needs her.)
She doesn't realize she's sat up until the chill of the night is swooping over her, the skin beneath her sleeping shirt prickling as her sheets crumple into her lap; and it's stupid, how quickly her stomach twists and her heart aches— too habitual, too predictable to even feel real beneath her layers of exhaustion and loneliness and pain.
(She should be upset. She should ignore the call. She should call him back and scream at him, throttle him, murder him for leaving her and ignoring her and trying to forget what they meant to each other—)
((But—))
Wally needs her. And for the first time ever she can't decide if she wants to help.
Her fingers tremble, her pupils blowing out as the light behind her screen dims, leaving her alone and trembling in the dark.
(She's fine.)
(Except she isn't fine. Except Wally needs her and she's not strong enough, not brave enough to confront the pieces of what they had; except the boy she could have loved is now the man imprisoning her. Except she has been beaten and bruised and bludgeoned by what the world has put them through and she is still stupid enough to crawl back to him, back to his green eyes and his freckles and the heartbeat that once ticked alone with hers, marking home—)
(Except she isn't fine. Because Wally will always be her only exception, because he is the only one who has ever made an exception for her— he has always come back, always saved her, always been the arms she found wound around her shoulders. And maybe this time he's not the one strong enough to come back, maybe this time it's her turn to save them both. Maybe this time she's the one who has to find the way back.)
((Except she isn't fine, because he's not even that same person to her anymore. He's no longer her protector, her keeper; no longer the boy with the bony elbows and the narrow hips and the warm, always warm hands. He's the man who left her, the man who used her, the man who chose to run away from her and what she meant to him. He has been cowardly and broken and gone— as vacant from her life as he could possibly be. And he's left her shattered, left her to deal with this— with them, with what's left— alone, as forgotten as the elastic he so easily gave back to her. And she can only admit in the darkness now that he's doing exactly what she's done to him a dozen times over— and she's selfish, but so is he, and why is he calling her, how many more ways can he be cruel—))
She shivers, alone in the night. The screen lights up again.
Incoming Call: Baywatch (12:17 AM)
And she's stupid, and desperate, and lonely for him in the worst way. And without thinking she answers on the first ring.
She can't think of anything to say as the line crackles, static clicking between them in the silence. Almost painfully she presses the phone to her ear, fingers clenched so tightly around the metal she's sure she's denting it, ears straining to hear some sort of noise.
More silence, and then an inhale— something sharp and un-Wallyish that immediately sends a twist through her stomach. "Artemis?" He whispers. She hates that she can hear the catch in his voice, the mark that something is wrong.
(She's fine.)
"You called me." She grits out, voice breaking halfway through the words. She doesn't notice the way her fingers knot themselves in her sheets, clamping down on the fabric coating her lap. She can't think of anything else to say.
For several seconds he just breathes, the kind of inhale and exhale that tells her something's not right; she can hear something catching in his throat again, something phlegm filled and bitter and wrong, all wrong. "Hi." Is all he says, the single word warbling.
The nothingness of it all sends a low thrum of panic through her. "... Hi." She ventures slowly, brushing her hair back behind her ears as her brows furrow. Without meaning to she catches her fingers migrating towards the chain around her neck before she forces them back to her lap. "You called me, Wally."
He ignores this. "You okay?" He asks almost gruffly. "... You sound tired."
She hears the breath she lets out echo through the line, the exhale half-impatient and mostly worried. "I'm fine." She lies, knuckles white around her sheets— because no, she's not fine. She hasn't been fine since he left her, and if he had any decency he'd apologize and come back, he'd admit he's a coward, he'd let her rip him limb from limb—
She clears her throat. "... Are you alright?"
"Yeah." He chokes out; again she can hear something break at the end of the sentence, something rugged and jagged and not like Wally. "Sorry. I didn't mean to— it's raining here."
An old instinct seems to flare inside her, a surge of protectiveness and feelings she can't quite get rid of; all at once she's caught between hating him and wanting to protect him, her muscles tensing and spasming as she curls in on herself, try to decide what to do. "... Where are you?" The words sound like a flat-line; deadened, low, dangerous. She wonders if he can hear the mixture of pain and hurt in her voice, wonders if he can sense the way her hands begin to sweat, wondering if he can tell she's afraid to die for him all over.
"... Home." He manages to tell her, throat sounding tight.
And she can tell he's waiting for something; waiting for her to offer to come over, waiting for her to throw herself into the lightning storm for him once more, waiting for her to be what he needs her to be. And that feeling, that instinct to protect him seems to flare inside her throat like vomit, burning her insides with its insistence, but... But she can't.
She hates him.
Nearly a minute passes where all they do is listen to each other breathe; his exhales sounding ragged and hers too-restrained as she forces herself to pretend not to feel. "I—" He starts, pausing to swallow loudly into the speaker. "... Can we just talk? Please?"
("Sometimes... Just the sound of your voice... It helps.")
The edge to his voice nearly undoes her, sending a twist of pain through her stomach so powerful she nearly throws herself out of bed; fighting back the instinct she forces herself into stillness, one lone traitorous hand slipping to grip the edge of her mattress. "... It's storming there?" She whispers, gazing past the emptiness where her bedside lamp used to be, staring out to the gloom of the Gotham night.
"Not here. A couple miles away." He grits out. She doesn't ask how he knows this.
The hand on her mattress eases, squeezing once more on the fabric before her fingers seek the bend of her knee. As if he can sense the twisting in her stomach or the teeth about to seek her lip Wally clears his throat. "I just... Thought we could talk. It's okay to still talk, right?"
"Wally—"
"It's okay." He says over her, cutting off whatever words of comfort she couldn't think of quickly enough to say. "I get it. Just... Talk to me. Please."
She swallows. "... Why would you ever think you couldn't talk to me?" She whispers, the words more quiet and cowardly than she means them to be. "I told you that you could always come to me if you needed me. I thought we agreed nothing had changed."
"... Come on, Artemis." He sighs after a moment, beginning to sound more in control.
"What?" She snarls, voice cracking as she increases in pitch; she can hear him exhale through the speaker, sounding frustrated as she spews out same old words they're both pretending are still true."I'm supposed to be your best friend—"
("So what? I'm supposed to... To put him before me? To stop my life so I can take care of him?")
She can hear something through the line, some kind of static or whistling; in her mind she can imagine him standing beside his bedroom window, staring into the night the same way she is. "... We agreed a long time ago that we were going to take care of each other, Wally."
The phrase is supposed to be comforting but it only sounds brash coming out of her mouth, almost cruel; she can practically hear him wincing at it, his own voice sounding suddenly jagged and hard. Distantly she hears the echo of a sai hitting tile, can hear the sound of her bare skin sticking against their window, can taste his blood in her mouth; suddenly the words sound like the lie she's just realizing they are. They're supposed to take care of each other— but she's too busy playing the hero, she's too busy tracking down her father, she's too busy killing herself for him—
(How many more ways does she have to hurt herself for him? How many more times will he draw her blood before she gets it through her head— she's no good for him.)
As if he knows what she's thinking Wally snorts. "I didn't call to have you take care of me—"
"Then what do you want?" The words are too rash, too sudden, almost impatient in the way she throws them at him; at once she hears whatever Wally was about to say die in the back of his throat. "What am I supposed to do? How do you want me to fix this?"
The silence goes on for nearly a minute. Her question hangs between them for what feels like forever, too snarling and painful; she listens to the rain beating down on his window for nearly a minute before she tries again. "... Wally—"
The line clicks over, dead, and she knows she's lost him all over again.
More to channel her heartache and confusion than anything she spends more time with Roy, the two of them bickering often and thinking themselves in circles as they try to bring Jade home; slowly any leads they have on her sister begin to dry up and fizzle into nothingness, the two of them working out their frustrations during frequent nighttime patrols of Gotham that leave their knuckles bruised and spirits slightly raised.
It's the morning after one of these patrols now, a yawn slipping out of her mouth the second the zeta beams reconstruct her into existence; she's still clad in her academy uniform, bag slagging on her shoulders as she wanders towards the kitchen, searching for a snack before she begins studying. She only has a few hours before her mother will be calling her home, and she knows better than anyone that it's impossible to get any work done with the blaring of Gotham sirens in the background.
She yawns again as she enters the kitchen, watering eyes blinking for a moment as she takes in the scene with a low thrum of bemusement: there's dozens of plates and glasses floating in the air, some still dripping hot water and suds onto the floor; for one wild moment she's sure she's dreaming, glancing around in a half-asleep sort of way before—
"M'gann?' She says cautiously, spotting the other girl at the sink.
Despite the gentleness of her tone the Martian jumps; at once every piece of glassware is sent plummeting towards the tile floor, her reflexes only fast enough to catch the single plate in front of her. M'gann whirls around in time to gasp her name, the word hardly audible over the sound glass shattering.
"Oh, god." The other girl moans, tossing the soapy rag she's holding into the sink; she's immediately buffeted by the dust pan and broom whipping out of the closet beside her, flying towards outstretched green hands. "Sorry. I was doing the dishes—I meant to put them all away, but I just—"
She places the only saved plate on the counter beside her, feeling more than confused as M'gann starts sweeping in a maniacal manner. She's wearing a strange sort of expression, too-full of emotion to be read properly from across the room. "Meg, are you—alright?"
"I'm fine." She mutters hastily, waving her hand and sending the trash can flying towards her as she kneels amongst the pile of shattered glass now loudly clanking into the dustpan. "I'm just… Distracted. Sorry."
The last word is said with so much defeat that she can't help by feel worried by it. "… What's wrong?" She asks carefully, crossing the room and kneeling beside the other girl, ignoring the glass gritting beneath her shoes. "Can I help at all?"
Green hands tremble slightly, fumbling as she pours glass into the garbage. "No." M'gann sighs, hesitating for a moment before something in her face breaks; at once there's another clatter as the dust pan hits the floor, the other girl's fingers flying up to rub at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm just—this whole thing with Garfield—I've been trying to figure out how to get him into a school—"
"Meg." She says quietly, knees aching as she shifts to place a hand on the other girl's shoulder. "It's going to be alright—"
"I'm sorry." M'gann says again, hands still busy as she struggles to stop the tears now flowing too-quickly down her cheeks. "I know, I know it's going to be fine, that's what everyone keeps telling me. But it's September already—and he's been wanting to go to school so badly, he wants friends his age—but—" M'gann sucks in a breath, a single sob escaping her lips before she goes quiet for a moment, still trembling. "I'm not good at being someone's mom." She chokes out, finally sending her a broken sort of look. "I'm never going to be Marie."
She's never been very good at comforting people, her stomach twisting slightly as the other girl's bleary eyes meet hers; feeling a little out of her depth she shifts her arm round M'gann's back, pulling her towards her. "You don't have to pretend to be Marie." She says as firmly as she can, one hand reaching up to press against the other girl's hair. "Gar knows you're doing your best—"
M'gann lets out a very wet sounding sniffle. "I just want him to be safe." She chokes out. "And happy. But the League has all these restrictions, not wanting to expose the Team—and schools won't take him, all they see is green skin—and the Garfield's getting upset with me. He's hiding somewhere now, I don't know where he is—"
"Shh, M'gann." She says gently, trying to think of a solution; the other girl is leaning on her so heavily she's being pressing into the cabinets, glass still scattered on the floor around her. "Quiet, okay?"
"… Okay."
It takes nearly half a minute before she can get the other girl to pull back, her green cheeks tear stained and swollen. "I'll find Garfield, alright? Remind him how hard you're trying—"
M'gann makes a face. "You don't have to do that. I know things between you two have been tense ever since—"
"I don't care." She says as firmly as she can, pretending not to wince as she dodges around any mention of Siberia. "I'll take care of it. You stay here and clean this up and—and go back to bed. Try to sleep." She says gently, extracting herself from the Martian and helping her to her feel. "Everyone feels better when they sleep."
She says the last part unthinkingly, another pang running through her; still she supposes there must be some merit to Wally and Barry's words, especially in M'gann's case—the other girl looks as if she hasn't slept properly in weeks, too stressed out to enjoy her first school-free September.
"Okay." M'gann agrees, wiping her eyes one last time. "I have no clue where he is though—"
"Doesn't matter." She cuts the other girl off, shrugging. "I'll find him."
It doesn't take much time to find Garfield; perhaps it's all the tracking she's been doing as of late, or perhaps it's simply the fact that she knows him better than most—either way, it doesn't take her long to figure out that his first move would be to find some fresh air.
She takes a longer route around the Cave; if M'gann and the little boy got into a fight in the kitchen she's betting he'd storm off towards his bedroom, skip the confines of four walls and beeline towards the hanger, the closest place towards an exit without having to meet his sister again. Following this instinct she paces through the halls, feeling slightly out of place in her academy uniform.
She's disappointed when she reaches the hanger—the overlarge room feels dank and damp, as if it's been a while since someone opened the garage-like door hidden along the groves of the mountain wall. Letting out a huffy breath she allows her eyes to flicker once over the numerous motorcycles and quads, taking in the shining silver sheen of her own car before turning to leave.
She catches the movement out of the corner of her eye, mere seconds before she finishes turning on her heel; feeling her pony tail flicker about the back of her neck she turns back towards her car, squinting. Despite the tint on the windshield there's no question as to what she's seeing.
"Hey Greenie." She barks, throwing out the nickname at random as she changes course, heels pounding back towards her vehicle. "Feet. Off the dashboard."
It's almost funny, watching as Garfield jumps at the sound of her voice echoing off the walls, the drink he's been slurping back nearly spilling as she comes to a stop outside the drivers' side window. "Great." He mutters moodily, sending her a dry sort of expression that doesn't suit him from the passenger seat. "Did M'gann send you to find me?"
It's more snark than she's expecting; feeling her brows raise she gestures for him to roll down the window. "Someone's in a bad mood. Mind telling me how you got into my car?"
"You left the keys on your desk." Garfield sighs, fiddling with the button and allowing the driver's side window to come down only an inch before he stops it. "… Wasn't exactly hard."
This strikes a nerve of her own. "You went into my room?" She sniffs, bending at the waist the glare at him.
"So?"
Feeling her face sour she tries the handle, not surprised to find that it's locked; ignoring the dour expression on Garfield's face as he takes another sip of soda she forces herself not to glare. "Cut the attitude, Gar. Let me in."
"No."
She's never been very good with children—despite the time they've spent together she's not used to dealing with Garfield's moodiness, nor the newfound contempt and mistrust he seems to have for her. Ignoring the rapid reddening of her cheeks she exhales, forcing her temper to simmer beneath her surface. "Fine." She says evenly, backing up.
Garfield makes to take another sip of his drink, the movement quailing when he sees her set her muscles. "What are you doing?" He asks, sitting up in the front passenger seat to get a better look at her.
"Breaking into my own car, genius." She says plainly. "I figure a few good kicks should damage the window enough to shatter it. And when Green Arrow comes after me about paying for damages, I'll have to tell him who was responsible for locking me out in the first place. Sound like fun?"
He calls her bluff long enough for her to take a bit of a run at it, her Gotham Academy uniform straining as she swings one of her legs up. "Fine!" He hisses before it's too late, the locks clicking open before she even has time to place both feet back on the ground.
She tries not to feel too smug as she opens her door, smirking slightly as she settles into the driver's seat; beside her Garfield only continues to look sulky, slurping back the last of his drink. "You could have just asked me for the keys, you know." She tells him, still half annoyed about his going into her bedroom. "I get it. Everyone needs a hiding place."
"I'm not hiding." He mutters, sinking into the leather of the seat and slamming the empty drink into a cup holder. "I just needed a break from… Her." She can sense there's more to this; forcing herself to stay quiet she pretends not to notice the way he glances at her, taking in her Gotham Academy uniform. "… You had school today?"
"Sure did."
"How was it?"
It's a bit of an odd question to ask; chancing a glance at him she feels a little off put by the earnest expression on his face, as if he's genuinely curious about her answer. Almost self-consciously she places her hands on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing into the leather. "Fine." She shrugs. "It's mostly the same, year after year."
She's said the wrong thing; almost instantly Garfield's face falls again. "I wouldn't know." He mumbles. "… Mom used to homeschool me. I thought… I mean, that was the only thing that I was really excited about when M'gann told me I'd be moving here… But now they won't let me."
She doesn't know who "they" is supposed to be, although a few guesses immediately pop into her mind: M'gann, the League, the school system. Feeling herself suck in a breath she does her best to smile. "It's not really that great, Gar." She says honestly. "Most people can't wait to graduate and be done with it."
"Yeah, but—" He starts, seeming to hesitate for a moment before continuing. "... At least you get to hang out with people your own age. Everyone on the Team treats me like I'm a kid."
She nearly reminds him that he is a kid, but the words die the second she catches the look on his face; suddenly something as simple as the truth seems too cruel to say out loud. "It'll happen, Gar. You know it will. M'gann and the League and trying to figure something out for you. If they can't find a way then—"
"It's impossible?"
"I wasn't going to say that." She says quickly, finally turning to stare him down. "… We'll figure something out. We always do."
It isn't much of a pep talk; rather than look comforted Garfield snorts, head swinging round to stare moodily out over the windshield "... Whatever."
... A few days pass before it happens again.
This time she hates that she feels as if she's expecting it, hates that she's been waiting for it without meaning to; in the hours that have passed since she last spoke to Wally her phone has remained unconsciously gripped in her hand, a lone threat of connection between her and the person she's killing herself going without. Almost absently she flips it open, checks her voicemail, keeps one finger on it at all times— because she knows Wally. She knows he can sense the unfinished business between them as well as she can.
(And maybe, just maybe, he knows her a little too well too.)
The phone rings just as she's beginning to doze off, her head lolling uncomfortably as she sits at her desk; at once the sound jerks her awake, her fingers fumbling over her homework and discarding a pen before they find the source of all the noise. Squinting at the light she gives herself enough time to see the familiar contact photo light up the screen before she answers. "Wally?" She gets out, voice hoarse from sleep.
Maybe she's a little less guarded than she should be; his name sounds almost desperate when she says it, comical even. As if he can sense the hidden question there as well as she can— Are you okay? What's wrong?— he clears his throat. "I'm fine, Artemis." He says flatly, voice deadened.
For some reason she doesn't say anything back and in the silence she's sure he can hear her mind whirring, sure he can hear her walls flying up and her guard resetting, her anger with him prompting a thousand more unsaid questions between them. Why are you calling? Why haven't you come home yet? What am I supposed to do?
"... You're okay?" He asks gruffly. "Did I wake you up again?
Feeling herself blush she gets up from her desk chair, pulling her phone back for a moment to glance at the time— a few minutes before midnight. "No." She lies, her free hand shoving into her jeans pockets before she hesitates. "I just... Didn't expect to hear from you again. So soon, I mean."
There's a pause, an awkward one, where she can practically hear his ears going off through the phone. After what feels like a too-long he clears his throat, voice sounding clipped and gritty. "That's why I'm calling, actually. I... I didn't mean to call you. The other night."
"... Oh."
"No." He says quickly, voice breaking. "I just mean— I didn't mean to call you and like... Make you feel like you had to do something about it. I just... Wanted to hear your voice." The tail end of the sentence is rushed, as if he doesn't want her to think too much of it.
Despite how quickly he forces the words out she still feels her stomach twist; biting her lip she crosses her bedroom, twisting the handle of her door until it's properly shut. "... Okay." She mumbles, not sure what to say.
She knows almost immediately that it's not what he wants to hear; the silence through the phone is almost painful as she leans back against her door, listening to him breathe. She can hear it in the silence, can taste it on her own tongue: he's waiting for her again. Wanting her to call him back, wanting her to go to him. Wanting her to save him in the one way her pride won't allow her.
... In the one way she knows she shouldn't.
"... Sorry." He says after a second, sounding almost choked in the way he forces the words out. "It's just weird, not seeing everyone. Being normal is more work than—"
"Then stop being normal." She huffs without thinking.
It's a mistake, letting the words slip out; at once he goes quiet, listening intently as she winces and gnaws on the inside of her cheek. And she knows that if she's ever going to say it, ever going to get them through this she has to say something now; if she's ever going to get Wally back now is the moment—
Without thinking she catches her reflection in her mirror, one hand unconsciously migrating to the chain around her neck. Brazen as ever, the elastic still blackens her wrist.
(Her heart seems to swell inside her chest and anger with Wally leaks like bile into the back of her mouth.)
(And again she remembers all the reasons she's keeping herself from this boy: she's too screwed up. She's too busy hunting Jade and being hunted by her father. She'll just hurt him. Or he'll hurt her. Or the world will hurt them both. And it's not safe, it's dangerous, it's killing her that they're both bound sickeningly together by the Speed Force and that bond is exactly the reason why they shouldn't be together—)
(She's supposed to stay away from him. She's supposed to be keeping him safe.)
The moment breaks and she listens to him exhale, long and drawn out in a way that silently hurts her. "... Look, I didn't call here to— to get a lecture. I just want to talk."
It takes a lot of effort not to swear at him. "So talk, Baywatch."
"Fine." He spits back. "... How's your mom?"
It happens again and again, nearly every night until she loses tracks of how many times they speak: Wally calls, and like the fool she is she always answers.
She doesn't know what he means by it, why he keeps calling no matter how often it ends in a fight, why he won't simply come back and face her— all she knows is that she can't keep herself from picking up, can't stop herself from wanting to hear the sound of his voice. And even though she's sure no good can come from it... She can't keep herself from Wally. She never could.
(Selfish.)
There's still sore feelings between them, more things that remain unsaid rather than spoken aloud. More than once they run out of words to say, out of nastiness to snarl at each other, simply listening to each others gentle breathing in silence before it occurs to one of them to hang up. She doesn't know what's happening between them anymore, where they stand or what she's supposed to feel. Her cellphone feels more and more like a lifeline, Wally's voice like an anchor she's clinging to in the middle of the tempest that is her life.
No matter how often it occurs to her to ask him to come back to the Cave, the Team, to her, she still can't bring herself to say anything to him about it; somehow admitting that she misses him, admitting that she needs him, would hurt too much. In so many ways it feels as if asking him to come back would be like telling him it was alright to leave her stranded, that it was alright to abandon her like that when she needed his comfort most.
Soon they fall into a rhythm, a nightly ritual so predictable she begins to sleep around it. He always calls at the same time, always dials her number down to the second. Midnight hits, and before her phone can sound the second ring she answers.
("Hi." She will breathe into the receiver, her exhale rustling the speaker.
Always a beat, as if she's really just sighed against his cheek. Then, "Hi." A pause. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah.")
She supposes, a lifetime ago, the monotonous opening might have seemed sweet, caring; now that she knows what the forces beyond their control have in store for them it only sounds like bitter obligations between two people unwillingly bound together, like prisoners shackled to the same set of chains. They never tell each other that they're doing anything other fine. She wonders what they would do if things were different.
… She wonders what would happen if they didn't know about the Speed Force.
After that things get better, the conversation more comfortable: the two of them swap bits of news, recap the latest mission, ask about home, go quiet when they hear movement outside their bedroom doors. The sound of Wally's voice through the speaker is a poor substitute for hearing the real thing.
He seems okay, she supposes. Some nights when they forget to be angry with each other he talks more easily, words coming out of him in droves and occasional soft chuckles warming her ear through the speakers; others times he seems almost frozen over, his responses clipped and steely. On the bad nights it feels as if the distance between them is greater than ever, as if she's on the other side of a stone wall barricading him in, all his suffering cemented inside himself.
... She feels bittersweet. Hearing Wally's voice, talking to him— it's a piece, a tiny part of him to hold while he's gone. And as much as she needs it, craves it... It's not enough.
(But she's fine.)
The whole things feels shallow, fake, a shadow of the friendship and closeness they used to share. Instead of being each other's secret keepers and confidants they're now stuck tiptoeing the line of their new normal, steering clear of the words they really need to say. Neither of them mention Linda, or lightning, or That Night, except once—
"You back to rocking the ponytail again?" Wally asks one night. She doesn't ask why he wants to know.
"Oh. Yeah." She mutters, hand automatically going to her neck before realizing her hair is down. She wonders if he can sense the way she rolls through her sheets, staring at the elastic on her bedside table that's still stretched from his wrist. "I hated wearing it down."
A pause. "... It wasn't so bad."
"It looked terrible."
"It looked fine."
"It was in my face constantly—"
For some reason he chuckles, the unexpected sound sending a jolt through her stomach. "That was your own fault. You should have pinned it back. Linda always wears hers—" He catches the slip too late, and before she even has time to notice the strange pang that seems to echo inside her his voice is stuttering to a halt, breath crackling in the phone speaker. "Never mind."
The silence is painful and at once she has the sensation of falling, as if they've both blundered and tumbled off that edge of normal they've been balancing so precariously on. She doesn't know what to say next, caught between curiosity and loneliness; her stomach clenches as she curls her legs up to her chest. "… Tell me about her." She whispers, not wanting to hear.
"Nah." Wally mutters, voice suddenly cold. "... You don't really want to know."
She doesn't deny it, prompting him again to be polite. "... Tell me."
She regrets the invitation almost immediately; after that Wally mentions the other girl almost every time he calls, little snippets of his new life that effectively paint a bitter sort of picture in her head where there once was nothing. Linda Jasmine Park. Senior and writer for the school newspaper. Aspiring Yale student. Lover of Korean food (but not the proper kind at home,) and oldest of three siblings, daughter of two doting parents, possessor of the softest hands Wally's ever touched and overlong bangs she keeps pinned back behind her ears. She files all this away and pretends it doesn't bother her, trying her best not to be resentful.
She also tries not to wonder— too often— what Wally's told Linda about her.
(She's not sure if it hurts more or less to think of him never mentioning the few months they spent together.)
Although she tries not to think of him more than strictly necessary her thoughts continually drift to Wally, questions she's not sure of the answer to haunting her as she mulls their conversations over during her morning cups of tea—is she doing the right thing, not pushing him back into joining the Team? Is being normal something he really wants, regardless of how often he calls her? Is he waiting for her to—to rescue him? To shock him back to his senses? Is she failing him again, without knowing it?
More than ever she can't help but think of her and Wally's deal—to take care of each other. To protect each other. That's what they agreed, right?
… But that had been before everything. Before they both knew about the Speed Force, before they knew about the way the universe had bound them together… Before that night he had given her back her elastic.
((She shouldn't be thinking about this. It's over. It's done.))
((He's trying to be normal.))
((And normal means not caring about her. Not anymore.))
But he does care about her, she's sure of it. Why else would he choose her to reach out to? Why else would he pick her, call her, talk to her— why not Dick or Kaldur or Connor or—
"… Roy?" She ventures carefully.
They're both out of breath, sweat clinging to the seams of their uniforms, the smoke hazed night sky of Gotham City stretched out almost endlessly before them. In the almost hour they've been patrolling together they've done little other than retrace old leads, double back over recently trodden paths, moving almost mechanically though the siren spangled streets of the city they both half-heartedly call home.
When he doesn't respond she glances at him, studying the almost easy way he leans against the metal of his fire escape, masked expression reflected back at him from the window beside his and Jade's bedroom. She still feels strange about being here, about taking up space in Jade's apartment—despite the fact that she's been here nearly a dozen times she still can't make herself comfortable inside it.
It had been her idea to sit on the fire escape, but it had been Roy's idea to crack open a bottle; she watches as he takes another sip of the bitterly acidic spirit inside, now almost half empty in the few minutes they've been sitting here. "Roy?" She tries again.
Something tightens about his eyes, straining his mask as he lowers the bottle. "Don't call me that."
"Fine. Red?"
"Better." He says vaguely.
She's not sure whether it's an invitation to say any more; for several moments she stares at him, waiting for him to speak, to break the silence. "I just—" She starts before she can figure out what to say, the words dying when she realizes she's not sure what she's about to ask. Deciding better of it she swallows, thumbs slipping underneath the seams of her mask to peel it off her forehead.
The bottle clinks as he sets it down. "What?"
It's very hard not to blush at his impatient tone, as if he can sense she's about to be stupid; with a sigh Roy's eyes flicker towards her, eyeing her with disdainful interest. More to keep herself busy than anything makes a show of pulling a knee up to her chest, fingers fumbling with her boot laces. "Never mind."
She's been spending too much time with him; as she glances up at him she's caught off guard by the look he's already sending her— a mixture of brotherly exasperation and something else, something so foreign she can't quite see through it. She's never seen him wear anything like it before. "Out with it, Sweetheart." He sighs, removing his own mask and rubbing his eyes wearily. "Might as well do it now and save yourself the twenty minutes of lip biting."
She feels herself scowl, teeth retracting from where they were about to pursue her lips; feeling a certain amount of disdain towards him she slouches behind her knees, sighing. She supposes there's no point in beating around the bush. "… Have you heard from Wally?"
There's a beat, hardly a second long, where his eyes flicker open to meet hers. "No." He snorts. "Not since his little meltdown at the Cave. Look, if you want boy advice I'm not the guy to—"
"I don't need boy advice." She cuts him off, glaring. "I'm only asking because… He's called me. Talked to me… Only me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She nods, annoyed at the almost uncaring tone he's adopted. "It's always the same—always at night, always when he knows I'll be awake. Last I heard he was trying to be normal, trying to pretend like I—I mean, the Team—doesn't exist. And now it's like he's sneaking around, calling me, checking everything is okay, like—"
Roy snorts again. "Sounds like you're asking for boy advice."
She feels herself blush again, nose wrinkling. "Whatever then!" She huffs, throwing down her leg in frustration. "I just... It's not like I'm telling him to come back—"
"But you want to."
Again her cheeks flush crimson; letting out a low hiss of annoyance she flattens her back against the railing, scowling. "I don't care what he does." She lies. "All I know is that—I don't know, I feel weird having to be the one to knock some sense into him. Or haul him back before he's ready. I just thought— you know him." She says badly, losing her nerve and shrugging. "You'd know what to do."
Roy drops his eyes to his hands, fingers flexing along the lines of his mask and frowning in a rough sort of way that makes her sure he's thinking hard. At last he sighs, leaning back against the metal of the fire escape and surveying her through somewhat weary eyes. "Come on, Artemis." He puffs out, shaking his head at her. "You don't need me to weigh in on this."
"Red—"
He doesn't let her finish. "It sounds to me like you already know what you have to do to get him back, even if you're still pretending otherwise." He sighs, sending her one last dry look before replacing the mask over his eyes. "I just thought by now you knew better than to chase after Speedsters."
The words make her feel stupider than before; looking away from him she scowls at the smoke stained Gotham skyline. "I'm not chasing after him." She mutters, feeling defensive.
There's another snort; when she glances at him he's not even looking at her, reaching for the bottle once more. "Whatever, Sweetheart." He says uncaringly, swigging the last of the beer back. "... Let's just see how quickly he comes running when you stop picking up his calls."
Despite Black Canary's orders she starts training again, harder and more intense than ever. It's another thing to focus on, another way to forget the real world— soon she's ignoring the lingering pain in her ribs and her occasional dizzy spells in favor of sweat and sore muscles; she's never been one to simply wait to get better, and the older woman should have guessed as much.
She hears herself let out a grunt as she sends a kick flying, hips twisting and bare heels blistering along the floor—before she can even place both feet on the ground again Dick lunges at her, wrapped knuckles slamming forward and skimming her jaw before she jerks backwards, stance resetting. The air in the training room is muggy, humid, reeking of sweat and snark.
She likes sparring with Dick; although there is a certain novelty in facing the rest of their superpowered Teammates there's no more of an even match than the two of them. Both without powers, both highly trained. Both highly competitive.
She juts forward again, one punch slamming forward and then another, her fists being thrown off steadily by his forearms; he's trying to unbalance her, each time practically wrenching her arms out of their sockets as he throws them back—and it's easy, too easy—
Before he can correct his mistake she uses it to her advantage, allowing the whole of her weight to swing round as he throws her off balance; once again her heels blister against the floor as she swings her leg up, using the momentum in her hip to catch him about the shoulder. It's imperfect—she'd been aiming for his neck—but it's enough; at once he's sent staggering sideways, nearly thrown to the floor.
"Come on, Bird Brain." She huffs, still breathing heavily as he rights his stance, fists raising. "It's like you're not even trying."
She's expecting him to start moving, to bombard her with another attack; when all that happens is Dick's smile fading behind his knuckles she feels her brows furrow. "… What? Not up for another round?"
"No." He says quickly, half-heartedly shifting his weight for a moment before he stops moving altogether, fists dropping. "I mean—I was just wondering if you… Had heard from Wally?"
Although the question itself is unexpected it's the way he asks her that seems to quail her the most— the hesitancy, the embarrassment, the tone implying that any answer she could possibly give wouldn't be the right one; at once her own wrapped hands drop back to her side as she surveys him, trying not to look too calculating. For one wild moment she considers lying, a dozen excuses and evasive words swelling inside her throat before she remembers who she's talking to—if Dick's asking her something, odds are he already knows the answer.
"… A bit." She mutters vaguely, blinking.
His eyes narrow when her already flushed cheeks color a delicate pink; for some reason she feels guilty, standing there and remembering that Wally last called her the only night before. "Just a bit?"
Despite herself she winces. "... Okay. More than a bit."
She doesn't know why he's asking her this, why they're even talking about it—the last time he brought up Wally she had been very firm on avoiding the subject, on refusing to discuss plans to drag Wally back to the Team. "Sorry." He says, not sounding it. As if he can sense her eagerness to avoid the subject he takes a step forward. "But I don't care if you don't want to talk about it. He's my best pal, Artemis. I get to keep tabs on him. I don't need to know what's going on between you two—"
She feels herself blush again, fists clenching. "Wally's with Linda, Dick." She says severely. "There's nothing… There's nothing going on."
There's a pause, an awkward one, where all she can think to do is raise her fists; for a second nothing happens save for Dick's eyes narrowing by another fraction. "… If you really think there's nothing going on then you don't know him like I thought you did."
"Dick—"
"He calls you almost every night, Artemis." He says over here, and although he doesn't raise his voice in the slightest she still winces.
She doesn't ask how he knows this and is caught off guard by the fact that she doesn't want to. "Wally and I have a deal." She says cuttingly. "We take care of each other. He calls to make sure I'm—"
"He calls because something is wrong. If you're supposed to be taking care of each other—"
Her temper flares and before he can finish his sentence her nose is wrinkling, annoyance creasing across her features. "You can't go running after him just because you miss him." She snarls back, her nails digging into her palms and slicing through the thickness of her hand wrappings. "I'm sorry he—I don't know, chose me this time. I'm sorry he doesn't want to talk to you about what happened all those weeks ago. But he's trying to be normal and—"
For some reason Dick laughs in her face. "Normal? You think normal is staying up at all hours of the night? Calling you obsessively? Avoiding the rest of us because he's—I don't know—ashamed of what happened?"
"I told you." She huffs, raising her fists again. "We're not hauling him back here before he's ready. That's not our job."
To her surprise Dick only shakes his head at her. "Maybe it's not your job, but it's still mine."
"Dick." She sighs impatiently, feels her face sour when he starts undoing his hand wrappings, ripping them from his fingers ferociously. "Dick, come on—"
The wrappings fall to the floor as he jerks his head up to glare at her, blue eyes startling against the angry red now coursing over the bridge of his nose. "We're supposed to be his friends, Artemis." He snarls at her, voice so loud it seems to echo around the training room. "I don't know if you're just being stupid or selfish—"
"Selfish?"
"Yeah, selfish!" Dick hurls at her again, ignoring the flash of hurt it sends across her face; although she's already called herself that a thousand times over it hurts hearing someone else throw it in her face so easily. "You said it yourself, Artemis, he chose you this time. He chose you because you're always the one who kicks his ass into doing something. Instead you're too busy waiting up for his calls and pretending you don't feel anything when you're really enjoying having his attention back, pretending he's still in love with you—"
The words are too real, too painful to hear; against her better judgment she lunges at him, throwing him backwards by the shoulders as hard as she can. "Shut up!" She snarls.
It's hardly enough to deter him; before his weight can even settle into the floor he's shoving her back, the force nearly toppling her as her heels spike against the floor. "You're not doing him any favors by keeping him from us, Artemis." He barks at her, breathing heavily between the yelling. "Have you even asked him to come back? Have you even tried?"
She wants so badly to spit something back in his face, something better than the truth; at once she feels cowardly, weak beneath the intensity of his gaze. "It's not that simple." She says after a moment, wincing when her voice breaks.
It's not a real answer, not even close to what he wants to hear; with one last disdainful look Dick shakes his head at her, not bothering to look back as he leaves the training room.
As September passes her by she grows weary, more exhausted by the day. The days tick on in a blur of rhythm and predictability and she begins to feel as if she's losing herself in time.
Talking to Wally nightly takes its toll on her, and not just in that she's losing sleep over it; the whole situation is confusing, her emotions battling between habit and memories and the reality they're both trapped inside. Missing Wally, hating him seems to consume her every thought, swallow her from the inside out; his lack of presence in her life seems to disjoint her, distract her from living.
And she remains distracted on the walk home from school, hardly hearing the sound of the usual police sirens as she prowls her way down the Gotham streets—she's being stupid, letting someone devour her like this. She's killing herself trying to fight this— fight him— off.
... Maybe Dick had been right. Maybe she's being selfish, not telling Wally to come home.
(But it's disgusting, telling someone that they're responsible for someone, that they have to take care of them; sick, telling her that she's supposed to in some way belong to him—)
... But she's always belonged to Wally, hasn't she?
At least the old Wally—the boy with the freckles and the apple flecked eyes, whose crooked smile was always so quick with snarky remarks. Thinking back, remembering him now makes her heart ache. This old Wally... He was the first one to make her feel like she was enough. The first one to come back for her. The first one to make her feel safe. But this new Wally… The one who she met after weeks away at Quarac, the one who turns feral the second static begins to buzz in the air… He feels like walking into a childhood home only to discover the walls painted. Familiar but entirely foreign.
She should stop thinking of him as two different people, she tells herself as she pauses, waiting for a crossing light to change; she should stop thinking of the tall and handsome stranger who had stretched into the boyish body she once knew as just that—a stranger. He's still Wally. Wally West, Baywatch, Kid Idiot, the Wallman... But why does he feel so different? Is this all just an impact from their break up? From the Speedforce? From everything that's ever happened between them?
Why can't she trust herself with him? Why, no matter how many times they swear to be friends— why, after all the times they come back to each other, why can't she stop trying to see through him? What is she so suspicious of?
(Why can't she ever accept that they need each other?)
((Why did Barry have to tell her about the Speed Force?))
The cross light flashes and she steps off the pavement, shoes skimming the sidewalk. She wishes she could figure out how to fix things between them, wishes she would get the courage to say what needs to be said. But why are these things always left up to her, anyway? Why can't Wally just understand that she needs him back? He's already put her through enough, why does he need this one last piece of her dignity?
... Why is this her problem?
(Why, no matter how hard she tries to keep him at an arm's length, can't she stop him getting too-close?)
The evening is beginning to chill; as she steps through the door of the Gotham walk up she's almost thankful for the heat—in less than a few weeks' time autumn will die, winter settling in a gray fashion on the city streets… She's been on the Team for over a year now...
It's not her place to ask him to come back. It's not up to anyone on the Team, not her, not Dick... He's stuck on being normal now, busy running track and getting ready for college and with Linda. What if he doesn't even want to come back? What if he wants to pretend the Team never happened? How would it be fair of her to ask him back?
(And she is so tired of trying to hold things together than cannot be held. Of trying to control what can't be controlled. The lightning inside Wally was never meant to be tamed, never meant to be held back. And it's not fair to expect anything for her— how is she supposed to save him? How is she supposed to stop him from breaking when she can barely keep herself from falling apart—?)
Her feet catch on the usual step, her fingers slipping the key out of her pocket as she rounds the stairs to her apartment. She's over thinking this, she knows this—she's not supposed to care this much about whether or not Wally comes back to the Cave.
She doesn't bother shouting out a greeting when she enters her apartment, slipping off her boots in near silence as she closes the door behind her. Paula's working late no doubt, putting in more hours than usual in the wake of the flurry of back to school shopping they had to do. Those Gotham Academy uniforms, as cheap the materials are, don't come for free. Pacing down the hallway she does her best to ignore invading thought of Wally, instead thinking only of pajamas and a steaming cup of tea—
She gets as far as flicking her bedroom light on before her thoughts are cut off by her own gasp, the hand not on her doorknob immediately flying to her eyes. "Oh my god!" She chokes out, half shutting her door as if to hide behind it. "Zee—oh my god—"
"Sorry!" Zatanna gets out, voice still sounding breathless. "Oh my god—sorry, we thought you and Paula were both out tonight!"
There's a flurry of movement, not quite loud to enough to block out what she's just seen—even as she screws her eyes shut the image won't fade: half naked bodies pressing against Jade's old mattress—
"Sorry." Dick's voice sounds out through the sudden rush of movement.
When she gets the courage to grimace away from the paneling on the door she's relieved to find the two of them off each other, although still not entirely clothed. "… We're back to this again?" She asks weakly, looking between them. "You two are together?"
She's not surprised when the two of them do little more than shrug and avoid each other's eyes—they've both never been much good at committing, both far too independent to bother. Rather than answer the question directly Dick makes a show of getting to his feet, still clothed in only his jeans. "I came here looking for you actually—"
"Although I'm pretty sure what you found was much better." Zatanna cuts in, yanking her shirt back over her head.
Ignoring this she glares at her ceiling. "What do you want, Dick? I already told you, I'm not dragging Wally back before he's ready."
"It's not about that—"
"Good, because I'm not in the mood to be yelled at again."
It's a sticky moment; despite the snarling edge to her tone she can sense his naked eyes narrowing at her in defiance as she continues to avoid his gaze, instead focusing on Zatanna when she speaks. "You two are fighting?" She snorts, looking between the two of them. "And you're plotting to bring Kid Mouth back? God, Dick, you could have mentioned something before you shoved your tongue down my throat—"
"Wally doesn't matter, not right now." Dick says over the other girl, expression still uncharacteristically hard as he reaches towards her bedside table and retrieves his glasses. "Look, it's about the Medical Bay. And the Underground. I told you I would look into them, and I did. That's what friends do."
Feeling her nose wrinkle she turns her eyes back in time to watch him replace his glasses over his nose. "... What did you find?"
"An opportunity." He says shortly. "Canary's out tonight and we have about an hour until Red Tornado returns from the Watchtower. I'll work the cameras, get us some time—you want to investigate, or what?"
"We'd better hurry." Dick tells them as their molecules burst into existence again, the tiled floors of the Cave sounding underneath their heels as they start moving. "We have an easy half hour before RT comes back—forty minutes, maybe, if one of us can head him off—"
She snorts, glancing back over her shoulder. "Well, whose fault is that?" She sniffs. "Next time you have one of these little opportunities of yours don't stop looking for me once you reach my bedroom. You could have called."
"His mouth was a little busy, my fault." Zatanna cuts across their bickering, sending a smirk in her direction as they enter the kitchen. "Now are you two going to tell me what the hell our little mission is about? Because—"
"Our mission? Last I checked this was between me and Dick."
"Hey, you're borrowing Boy Wonder on my time. I get to tag along."
As if he can sense the snarky retort on the tip of her tongue Dick interrupts them both, turning to face them the second they clear the kitchen island. "There's not enough time to check out both the Underground and the Medical Bay. Best we can hope for is a quick sweep of one and cross our fingers for the opportunity to go back more in depth later. Artemis?"
It takes half a second for her to read the look he sends her, realizing suddenly that this is her call. "… The Medical Bay."
For the first time in a long time they feel like a Team as they charge forward, past the common area and down the vaguely familiar hallways—there's no time to doubt herself, no time to back track and second guess the decision to favor the Medical Bay over the Underground. She knows better than anyone how quickly time goes when on missions, how easy it is to waste precious seconds doubting yourself.
The three of them practically skid to a halt, stopping in front of the white door emblazoned with crimson letters. Ignoring the prompt of the keypad next to the door Dick seemingly pulls a cord out of nowhere, linking up his phone and cracking the alarm so quickly she nearly misses it when she blinks. "Pretty sloppy security." She mutters, following Dick as he clears the doorway.
"Same system as the Batcave. Besides, there's not much in here worth protecting at the moment." He mutters good-naturedly, pausing after a few paces inside and looking around. "… Not that they're not ready for it."
The room feels as massive as she remembers it, with the same sterile looking beds lined up in too neat rows against either wall. Despite herself she's overwhelming reminded of a military barracks, all the surfaces too clean and artificial looking to suggest anyone in habiting the place by choice. For some reason they all pause at nearly the exact same spot, standing in a row much closer than they normally would; for some reason the room has almost a haunted quality to it, as if in its emptiness and sterility any movement would expose them, mark them as a target.
She's still gathering her courage when she feels Zatanna exhale sharply before brushing beside her, making her way inside and glancing around confusedly. "Okay, I so don't remember there being this many beds in here." She mutters, brows furrowing. "I was here, back in April—routine burns—there weren't even ten beds in here."
Unconsciously she counts the rows of bedsides and cabinets, pausing at the seventh from the door. It feels strange thinking of it as her bed. "Canary told me the Medical Bay was built to house the whole of the Justice League at one point." She pauses, glancing down at the set of drawers. "She made it sound like it'd always been this big."
Across the room Dick pauses at a shelf, surveying the medical supplies sitting in organized rows and piles. Even from the distance she can tell by the sheer quantities of cotton swabs and scalpels that they're meant to be part of the supplies for a much larger patient list. "... I've seen the blueprints for this place." He mutters, nearly under his breath. "This expansion has to be recent, a few months ago tops."
She can't shake the feeling that they're being watched, her eyes migrating up to the cameras she knows are unseeing thanks to Dick's handiwork; ignoring the instinct to retreat she forces herself to move, walking along he right hand side of beds. "And there's something else—" She starts bending down to examine her cabinet; as ever, the bottom drawer slides out easily, revealing the carefully-sized clothing, while the top remains locked. "There's something in this top drawer, I didn't even think to try unlocking it last time—"
Without her needing to ask the question Dick comes to her side, bending to examine the cabinet with interest. "Looks easy enough to open. Either of you got a bobby pin?"
"No luck, Boy Wonder."
"Ah well." Dick says easily, crossing back and flipping a scalpel from the supply shelf between his fingers before returning to jam it into the lock. "Let's hope no one does an inventory count." There's a loud click followed by a thick sounding clunk, and almost at once the drawer pulls open; not bothering say thanks she elbows past him.
The inside is emptier than she expected; rather than loose papers and medical files there's only one plain looking manila folder emblazoned with the same sterile looking red letters than coated the door outside. "Project Safe House." She hears herself say, squinting at the title as she seizes the file. The weight in her hands feels too-heavy, almost like a paper back as opposed to medical information. "... Either of you ever heard of this?"
"No record of any Project Safe House in Team database. Must be something associated with the League."
There's a creaking as Zatanna sits on the edge of the bed, leaning around her to read. Behind her back she can sense the two of them exchanging a look, as if communicating silently without her; still, as she reads the title wordlessly once more the words send a strange, almost sinister pull through her stomach. With a sense of increasing foreboding she forces herself not to hesitate, flipping the folder open and allowing them both to continue reading over her shoulder.
She'd been right—inside the file is some sort of medical record. She can see her name—first, middle, last—written in a detached, blank looking font. Almost hungrily her eyes drink the words in, skimming down the page, her brows narrowing the more she reads.
Name: Artemis Lian Crock. Height: 5'5. Weight: 114 pounds. Blood Type: O. Powers: None. Priority of Survival: Beta.
Zatanna finishes reading seconds after she does. "Priority of Survival?" She repeats, glancing up at her.
Beta.
The heaviness of the word sends a sick sort of jolt through her stomach, a deadened weight that makes her nauseous as it echoes around in her head. "Do you guys have files too?" She hears herself say, sounding almost as if she's speaking from a distance. "Your beds— your number corresponds with your bed—"
She doesn't know why she sounds so blank, why her throat seems to be closing up; forcing herself to swallow she turns her eyes back to the page, heartbeat beginning to pound in her ears. She's hardly aware of the sound of Dick charging back across the room, stopping at the first bed in the row, ramming the scalpel into what would be his own bedside drawer. Not bothering with the front cover of his own file he practically rips it open, flipping through papers. "Dick Grayson." He says grimly, eyes flickering behind his sunglasses as he skims the page. "… Priority of Survival—Beta."
Her stomach twists again, the thrumming of confusion and fear so loud in her blood stream she hardly notices Zatanna's usual jumbled words; the other girl rushes to her feet as she counts off the beds, meeting her drawer when it springs out magically to meet her. "Zatanna Zatara." She reads, ripping the file open and fingers fumbling over the pages. "Priority of Survival… Alpha."
She can't even look at her, instead turning back to stare at Dick—for once he seems without a snappy comment. "… What the hell?" He breathes, riffling through the papers.
"They're ranking us." She blurts out, feeling disconcerted as she glances between them both. "They're deciding who they'd rather survive—"
"... In the event of what?" Dick finishes the thought for her, glasses catching the light.
Feeling nauseous she glances down at her own files, pawing through the pages a little more desperately now; paper after paper seems filled with minute information about her, little details she can hardly think of a normal use for—a photo copy of her birth certificate, a whole page devoted to her family medical history, diagrams and charts that look as if they've been taken from hospitals.
"Do you guys remember giving the League this kind of information?" Zatanna asks as she leafs through her own file, voice sounding hoarse.
She's about to answer but something catches her eye: a page, printed on thicker paper than the others and labelled "ATTRIBUTES" in the same block-like crimson writing as before. Disregarding the rest of the file she fumbles to place this on top of the other pages, her stomach beginning to churn as she looks at it.
Name: ARTEMIS LIAN CROCK. Powers: NONE. Special Skills…
Her eyes hardly glance over the rest of the list, pausing briefly on more familiar phrases like "ARCHERY" and "HAND TO HAND COMBAT" before being pulled further down the page; there's a diagram of a human body in the center, emblazoned with one heading: WEAKNESSES.
... Why would the League need to know her weaknesses?
All at once her stomach gives a lurch as she surveys the figure, marking every serious injury she's ever sustained: she can see the different colors in pen as they were added in over time, pock marking the drawing like the scars on her real body. In the few seconds she stares she can see entries from Metropolis—muscle damage to her leg—and from her childhood—a dainty circle, scratched in the same place her warbled scar used to be… She doesn't want to read anymore, but despite herself she can't look away; beneath the model of her body her eyes flicker over the words "POSSIBLE POINTS OF EXPOSURE."
She feels preyed on, hunted, bile beginning to rise in her throat as the page lists off her suggested places to attack her: the old injury on her thigh, the weakness in her ankles; with a lurch deep in her stomach she reads her mother's name, her sister, Oliver, and—
Wallace Rudolph West.
She stares at Wally's name for what feels like too long, salivating and attempting not to vomit; although there's more words after this she forces herself not to read them, not to know. It's the most disgusting thing she's ever read, all the possible ways to extort her, to hurt her, and the worst part of it is that it's true, it's all true—
"Why would the League need this?" She croaks out, voice shaking as she glances between the other two; she can tell by their own hardened expressions that they're both reading their own list of weak points. "Why would they need to—to hurt us—"
"It's like they're preparing for something." Zatanna cuts her off, looking wide eyed at her. "And all the beds—you're right, Artemis, it's like they're building an army… Like we're the army. Whether we want to be or not."
Her first instinct is to shoot this theory down—this is the Justice League they're talking about, this is Oliver, and Dinah, Batman and Superman—privately, she knows she'd be hard pressed to find a group of people more invested in the betterment of the lives of such a rag tag group of teenagers. On the other hand, no amount of caring can erase certain facts: the presence of the Underground, the expansion of the Medical Bay, the interest in young Cassie and the insistence, the insistence that M'gann bring Garfield here…
She looks back at Dick only to find his eyes already trained on her, watching as she comes to what's already the same conclusion he's found; before any of them can voice this aloud they're interrupted by a loud beeping from Dick's phone. "The zeta beams are being triggered at the Cave. We need to move."
Almost blindly they ram their files back into the drawers before they start sprinting, her fingers pocketing the damaged scalpel Dick's absently abandoned on his bed to dispose of later; wishing she could keep the file to prowl through later she makes to leave, feeling Zatanna rush past her.
It's an impulse more than anything; as she makes sprint towards the door her head automatically counts off the numbers she knows so well—Red Arrow, B-06. Miss Martian, B-05. Superboy, B-04—
"Artemis!" Dick hisses warningly when she beelines towards the third bed from the door. Before she can stop herself she's ramming the edge of the scalpel into the lock on the drawer. "We don't have time—"
She's not as good as Dick at this kind of thing; in her rush she feels the scalpel splinter, pieces of metal getting caught and damaging the lock. But there's no time to care, not anymore—as the cabinet springs open she rips the file from its place, shuffling wildly through the pages. She hardly knows what she's looking for, eyes flickering over words and diagrams, charts and—
And she feels her stomach sink. Name: Wallace Rudolph West.
(Possible Points of Exposure: Artemis Lian Crock.)
"Artemis!" Zatanna snarls, seizing her wrist; before there's time to put the file back the other girl is slamming the cabinet shut.
"I—"
"Come on!" Before she can stop him Dick's pulling her in front, shoving her out of the Medical Bay before she can even think twice about taking Wally's file.
"You are, without a doubt," Zatanna drawls, shaking her head, "one of the stupidest people I've ever met."
She can't bring herself to deny it, slouching into her mattress and feeling guilty. "Shut up."
They're all crowded in her bedroom, hiding out like children who just got caught snooping through their parent's things; she can't decide which of them looks angrier with her. "Why would you take Wally's file?" Zatanna huffs, throwing herself into her desk chair. "What could you possibly want to see in there?"
Her heart is pounding as if they're still in the Medical Bay, Wally's file splayed across her thighs as she sits on the edge of her bed; she can't bring herself to open it again, her fingers gripping the manila pages so tightly she's sure she's leaving imprints. "You realize they're going to notice." Dick snarls at her through his teeth. He's still hovering by her bedroom door, as if he's too furious with her to properly enter. "A broken lock, a file missing— they're the Justice League, Artemis—"
"I know, Dick. I'm sorry."
She watches him turn back to bedroom door, staring at the wood for a moment as if about to leave; all at once he seems to change his mind, spinning round to face them again. "... Why would the League need that kind of information on us?" He bursts out. Nobody answers him; she supposes it's the kind of question there's not an answer for. "It's like they're preparing for something—waiting for the moment they'll have to use it... We don't even know what the hell this is yet, and now you've exposed our whole investigation before it's even started."
"I didn't mean to take it, okay? I just—" She's about to lie, about to make an excuse; before she can get any further Zatanna sends her a look so piercing it makes her stomach twist. "... I saw my name. My name under a list of other people who could be used to hurt him. I just... I just took it."
(Because now is her chance— the chance to finally unmask Wally. To finally pin him down, to read through him the way he's always seen through her; without knowing how she's so certain of it she's sure this file contains some sort of answer, some sort of reasoning, some sort of proof that whatever the Speed Force might map out for them what's between them is real—)
She doesn't want to see the disgusted look on their faces, nor does she want to feel the wave of shame that seems to press her into the mattress; before she can huff out some sort of explanation Zatanna's already turning away, locking eyes with Dick. "It doesn't matter. How are we going to get it back?"
She's expecting him to immediately chime in with a plan, with some way to solve the problem she's created for them; for some reason his expression darkens behind the lenses of his glasses. "... Maybe we don't take it back."
"What?"
Rather than answer right away Dick crosses the room, taking a seat beside her on the bed. "At least not right away." He mutters, almost under his breath; feeling wary her eyes automatically migrate towards Zatanna, the two of them exchanging a bewildered look as he slides the file from her lap to his. "... This file contains all the information the League has on Wally. Everything from the limits of his powers to—"
"Dick." Zatanna hisses, cutting him off.
For a long moment she stares at the revulsion on the other girl's face, the realization of what he's suggesting hitting her too late. "No. No way." She snarls. "You can't be—"
"Why not?" He huffs, looking offended when she grabs the file back but not making any move to stop her. "Look—"
"Just because he's being an idiot doesn't mean we get to crack open this file and extort him however we want, Dick." She snarls, nose wrinkling. "What the hell is wrong with you? How screwed up are you that you'd actually want to manipulate your best friend into coming back to the Team—"
"Because he's not going to come back on his own, Artemis!" Dick bursts out, getting to his feet. "He's trying to deal with something alone and it's not working, I know it's not working. He needs to come back and I don't know why I'm the only one trying to save him—"
"He doesn't need saving, Dick!" She snarls back, ignoring him when he lets out a curse; throwing the file onto her bed she gets to her feet, nose wrinkling. "He's trying to be normal. He's not on the Team anymore. The sooner you realize that—"
"What do you think?" He says over her, turning to where Zatanna is still standing, frozen and staring at them wide eyed.
She's not sure what happens; over Dick's shoulder she watches as Zatanna's features sharpen into a glare, overlong lashes blinking only once before she gets the nerve to answer. "... I think you sound like Batman." She says, the words sounding hushed. "I think extorting someone into coming back is something he would do."
The silence that follows is nearly deafening; she can't see the look that crosses Dick's features as the two stare at each other, every muscle in his body stiffening at the insult. It takes nearly ten seconds before he looks round at her, features nearly emotionless. "Get the file back yourself." He tells her, turning to leave.
"Dick—" She doesn't know what to say; before she can think of anything to call out after him her own bedroom door is being slammed in her face. "... Nice one, Zee. I thought you two were on good terms again."
For the first time ever she's caught off guard when she makes to send an exasperated look towards the younger girl; rather than adopt her usual haughty and uncaring expression her eyes are narrowed, troubled. "Not anymore." She drawls, reddened lips twisting into an unconvincingly careless smile. "... Dick only likes to sleep with people who pretend not to see the worst in him. He'll forgive me once he forgives himself."
She's not sure what this is supposed to mean. "... Zatanna—"
"It's fine, Artemis. He needed to hear it." She says, not meeting her gaze as she glances towards Wally's file. "... Just do us all a favor and get rid of that thing before Dick can get his hands on it."
The words send an unpleasant twist through her stomach, something sinister seeming to curl inside her as she watches the other girl cross the room. "... You think he was being serious?" She ventures, pausing to watch as Zatanna retrieves Wally's file, throwing the pages back together in a random order. "He's that desperate to get Wally back?"
"Of course he is."
Again her stomach squirms as the other girl straightens, shuffling with the last of the pages. "... I don't need to do anything, Zee. You know Dick as well as I do. Better, even. You know we can't stop him. He's been asking me for weeks to help him get to Wally— it doesn't matter if I put the file back, he'll just go and get it himself."
There's more scrambling of pages, the fumbling of fingers over paper; Zatanna's eyes drop to the file, brows furrowing. "... Dick needs Wally back here, Artemis. Almost as much as you do."
"I don't—"
"All I'm saying is, you're both fighting a losing battle." She says over her, finally glancing up from the page. "I've never seen him like this before, okay? He's not sleeping, he's not eating, he's clearly not thinking straight. Maybe it's time to take him seriously before you're forced to."
Without meaning to a whole lurch seems to run through her, back aching as she straightens. "What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, chin jutting out.
"It means," Zatanna starts, fingers wafting over the file and opening it to the worst of all the pages, "that Dick's just been handed a Wally themed manual. A Kid Flash playbook. And you can bet he'll use it to get him back here, whether or not he comes willingly."
"So?"
"So think, Artemis." She huffs, shoving the open file into her arms so forcefully she nearly creases the pages. "If you were taking the shot, where would you aim? Where's his weak spot?"
And she doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see; without meaning to she glances down at Wally's file, throat tightening before she even reads what she knows is there.
((Possible Points of Exposure: Artemis Lian Crock.))
"You pick the target, Artemis." Zatanna whispers, finally turning away. "There's a dozen names on that list Dick could choose from. But we both know that when it comes to Wally— you're the bulls-eye."
She feels sick, nearly faint; long after Zatanna shoves the truth in her face and storms out she stands there, knees shaking with the weight of remaining standing. Her lungs seems to ache as she tries to breathe, eyes watering with the intensity with which she reads the words on the page, drinking in the foulness of the words written there as if her insides were aflame.
(Possible Point of Exposure: Artemis Lian Crock.)
(Subject B-07. Previous romantic partner of Subject B-03. Affection that extends into present date. Subject shows a willingness to endanger his own life and the lives of others to ensure Subject B-07's survival.)
(Physical and emotional intimacy uncharacteristic for both parties. B-03 has been shown to actively fear the termination of Subject B-07. Evidence suggesting B-07's termination whether intentional or accidental will result in B-03's unwillingness to engage with further Team activities.)
And she can't breathe, she can't breathe— her whole insides seem to combust the longer she stares at the page, pieces of her she'd long forgotten existed igniting and being burnt alive as her eyes roam over the page, her heart seeming to leap into her throat as she spots a footnote, written in fresh ink in an unfamiliar hand—
((Evidence suggesting B-07 is essential for Subject's capacity for survival.))
And she hates it, hates how easily the sterile words consider her death, how carelessly the possibility of her not existing is tossed across the page— but she hates it even more that that's not the thing that hurts the most, it's seeing the truth there, hearing the words screamed inside her head: Wally needs her to survive.
(And here she is, shutting him out in the cold.)
((Selfish.))
She hates how plain it is, how the disgusting words have unmasked Wally in a way she's never been able to. And she hates herself, hates herself for bringing the truth out like this— because that's why she took the file, isn't it? Now that Zatanna and Dick are gone and she's free from their disgusted looks she can admit it to herself; can admit that the temptation of knowing Wally again was too great, can admit that she didn't want to get to unmask him on his terms, can admit that there are some things she needed to know—
(And she knows now— it doesn't matter. Whatever it is between them started long before it the truth was lightning born.)
Because this thing between her and Wally— the history and the lingering feelings and the leap in her stomach every time she hears his voice through the phone line— it's so much bigger than she thought. Bigger even than Lightning Rods and the Speed Force and whatever she might have been fighting against feeling for him. This is survival, this is life or death; and her and Wally take care of each other, that's what they do, so why is it so hard for her to call him home, why does she hate him so much for it—
The pages fall from her hands, and it hits her suddenly that she's shaking; the floor seems to blossom up underneath her knees as she collapses into it, a mess of skirt pleats and cold sweat and paper scattered around her. She shouldn't have stolen the file, shouldn't have read it, but even more she shouldn't be feeling what she's feeling. She should feel selfish, should feel vile, should want to hate herself like she hates the truth of the words. Instead all she can think of is her own file, her own papers, and the realization seems to hit her all at once—
(She needs Wally to survive too.)
The thought makes her wince; without wanting to she can see Wally's name written in that awful sterile writing at the front of her vision. And she can't explain why it bothers her so much, the thought of him seeing his name listed as one of her weaknesses, the thought of seeing the name of the boy who left her, who broke her, who left her to wage war against hell all on her own—
She hates it. She hates it because she knows it's true.
(She needs him.)
(And it kills her, admitting it even inside her own head— how badly she's needed him, how much she's needed him since the moment they first met. She needs him, she needs him and although it's selfish she wants him to need her like this too—)
(And she always thought she didn't deserve him, that she was too broken and too damaged to deserve something as good and pure as Wally West. But maybe she's been wrong, too brainwashed by years of cruelty to see things the way they were— because yes, she is mangled and raw and far from perfect. But maybe she does deserve him, because having him in her life is forcing her to change for the better, forcing her to forget her blood stained fingers and the scars tattooed into her skin—)
Because that's what it comes down to. She needs Wally to survive, she understands now. Because what she's been doing the last few weeks— the fake smiles and the showers that nearly drown her and the numbness underneath her skin— has been the worst way to exist. And she is flawed and she is selfish and she is weak, weak because she will never stop wanting him. She will never stop craving the feeling of his breath against her cheeks and the sound of his gentle humming inside her ears. She will never stop living for the feeling of his fingers caressing her thighs and his hips buckling against hers. And these last few weeks, the lost weeks of loneliness and emptiness and seconds without Wally have been little more than proof of how sick she is, how much of an addict she is, because she can't live without him, she isn't living without him—
(And maybe her father was wrong— maybe she's not as good at running away from things as he thought.)
And maybe it's time she stopped being stubborn, stopped shutting him out and holding him at an arm's length. Because Zatanna's right, isn't she? It doesn't matter if she forces him back, doesn't matter if she wants to hate him. What's between her and Wally is loud and clumsy and broken and it is also the perfect target, the chink in the armor, the weak spot neither of them can deny—
Because it doesn't matter anymore— the thousand reasons not to be with him, the history that's torn her apart from this boy. Keeping herself from Wally, Wally keeping himself for her, all that sacrificing was done in the name of keeping each other safe. But what's the point? That promise, the oath of taking care of each other— someone out there has already put two and two together better than they can. Whoever created this file knows that underneath that promise there are other things—other things like loyalty and protectiveness and maybe the remnants of first love, and they're still planning to use that against them.
(And maybe all this time she's tried to pretend not to care because that means being vulnerable. Because that means getting hurt. But it doesn't change the fact that somehow her heart has slipped between her hands, doesn't change the fact that she's lost control, doesn't mean that somehow those feelings have still caught up to her.)
So why is she pretending? Why is she holding back? She wants Wally, wants to dig into him and cut into him the way his absence has cut into her. She is tired of pretending not to want him, tired of the games and the side-stepping and the denial that's been killing her from the start. She wants to exhale her loneliness and sadness into him and make him choke on it, wants to breathe in the broken stranger who inherited the bones of the boy she could have loved. She is done with running, done with hiding, done with pretending neither of them will get hurt.
She hates him. Truly, she does. But there's no point in pretending not to want him, not to care. It doesn't matter anymore.
(Because the world will never stop hunting them. But if this is what it comes down to— another fight, another battle, another instance of life or death—)
((And she's terrified.))
(And like so many other times before she knows her greatest comfort, knows who she wants to protect her. Because there are some people who simply make you feel safe— not because they understand you, and not because they'll die for you, but because they'll still be there despite everything.)
She's not sure how long it takes for her to get up, how many hours pass before she manages to piece herself back together; her fingers tremble as she gathers the pages of Wally's secrets back together, sealing them back inside the manila folder without ever wanting to look again. She feels dazed, dizzy— when she finally seems to return to her body she's sitting on the edge of her bed, fingers clenched so tightly into the golden "A" about her neck that blood is dripping down her palm.
"... Now what?" She whispers into the emptiness of her bedroom, voice crackling and hoarse.
Because that's the question, isn't it? Now that she's done running, now that she's given up... What's her next move? What's the next step? What's her plan of attack, now that she's finally turned on her heel and facing the threat?
Her blood feels hot against the metal keys over her phone, coating the numbers and sticking into the plastic creases as she raises it to her ear.
He answers on the third ring; at once there's the sound of crowds, of voices shouting and yelping with laughter. "Hello?" He says too loudly, yelling over the noise. She realizes it's too early— he's not expecting her to call. "Hello?"
The barely-there blood flow down her wrist has stained the crisp white of her school shirt; as she swaps her phone over to her other ear she hardly notices the shaking of her fingers or the way they smear crimson over her naked knee as she curls her hands into her lap. For some reason it doesn't occur to her to say anything, her throat tight as she listens to the sounds echoing through the speaker. "One second..." He says distantly, as if speaking to someone else; she can almost picture him placing one hand to his ear as the sounds fade out further, as if he's trying to find somewhere quiet. "Hello?"
"Wally?" She chokes out, voice breaking.
"Artemis?" He shouts her own name at her; there's the sound of a door slamming behind him as the line crackles. "Is that you?"
The wind whistles through the phone. "Yeah." She exhales, trying to remember to breathe. "Yeah, it's me."
For some reason he doesn't say anything for a moment, as if it takes him a second too long to process whatever she's given up hiding. When he speaks again his voice sounds harder, as if he already knows the answer to the question he's about to ask. "... You okay?"
Her hand is still bleeding, light red trails flowing out from where she's accidentally carved into herself; when she does little more than let out a wobbly exhale Wally tries again, words so sharp he might as well be the one cutting into her. "Answer me, Artemis. Are you okay?"
"No." She forces herself to say. "... Where are you?"
She can sense him stiffening, can sense the way the one word answer strikes through him; all at once the moment passes and he sighs into the phone. "... It's Friday night, Artemis." He says gently. "I'm out with Linda. What's going—"
"Wally." She whispers, ignoring the way his words seem to stab through her, ripping her open.
And she knows immediately he understands, knows that he can hear it in the hitch in her voice; at once she hears him exhale, the breath short and sharp as if to set his resolve. "... What do you need?"
And maybe, if it was months ago or if even minutes ago, she would hesitate. But this time, she doesn't. "You." She grits out, hating the way the single word nearly chokes her. "I need you to come to the Cave, I'm— I'm in my room. Please, Wally."
(She can sense it— through the line his hesitancy slices through her, the hardly two seconds that pass before he answers feeling like a knife twisting between her ribs. She hates that she has to beg him for this kind of pain.)
"... Okay." He says after a moment; she can hear him moving, the noise growing louder as if he's just gone back into the thick of things. "Okay, just... Just give me a few minutes. I'll... I'll make some excuse. Stay there."
"Okay." She whispers, swallowing once before she tries to gather her nerve. "Just, Wally—"
"It's okay, Artemis." He says over her, sounding a hurtful mixture of impatient and tired. She doesn't get to say anything else before the line goes dead.
She doesn't move, doesn't dare to breathe; her muscles seem to seize up as she sits on the edge of her bed, blood crusted finger tips clenched around her knees as she counts the seconds until Wally arrives.
(She doesn't know what she's supposed to say, if now is even the time for words; the miles she's seemed to have travelled in the last few hours have done nothing to prepare her for this moment, haven't given her a clue as to how to approach this. Is it even possible to explain something like this to a boy, possible to explain it to someone like Wally? Because nothing has changed between them yet everything has, everything is different now, different and strange and better, better, yet somehow so much worse—)
(Because she is done with running. And Wally has never known her when she's standing still.)
She gets as far as counting off ten minutes before there's a knock on the door, the distinctive two quick and one long combination telling her immediately who's on the other side; at once her heart seems to jump up into her throat, her limbs aching as she leaps up from the edge of the bed, crossing the room and a few measured paces and flinging open the door so quickly it slams against the wall.
"... Wally." She breathes, feeling as if she's about to collapse into the door frame.
He looks tired— the purple shadows underneath his eyes look more etched in that she remembers, the skin beneath his freckles a sickly sort of pale— but besides that it strikes her how utterly fine he seems. Fine. Average. Normal— He looks so normal, so completely unlike himself; if she had just happened to see him on a street corner she wouldn't have ever suspected him to be anything out of the ordinary. He's done something funny to his hair— the windswept locks look glued in place, as if he's attempted to get them to settle but not quiet managed it— a few ginger pieces poking out behind his ears and clashing horribly with the stark scarlet and white of his letterman jacket.
Her stomach twists and she blinks, eyes falling to the vivid '13' plastered on his chest.
"Jesus Christ." Is how he greets her; when she looks up again he's frowning, brows knitted together. "Artemis, what the hell happened to you?"
He doesn't make to touch her, doesn't even move, yet she can feel it; as his eyes flicker over her so do the ghosts of his hands, imaginary fingers flying over her skin. Cheek, chin, lips, collar bones, wrists, knees— cheek, chin, lips, collar bones, wrists, knees— her breath seems to hitch as she pulls her hand from the door frame, realizing she's left a trail of half-dried blood. "I cut myself." She tries to say, voice sounding distant. "By accident. The necklace—"
"God." He sighs, making a funny movement as if to grab her wrist but stopping suddenly, as if rethinking it. More to cover the sticky moment than anything he rocks back on his heels, hand migrating to his jacket pocket. "Here—" He says, extracting a wad of what look like cheap movie theatre napkins and shoving them unceremoniously in her direction. "Is that, uh... Why you needed me?"
His eyes flicker down to the top button of her blouse, where she knows the letter A is sitting above crimson stained skin; taking the napkins from him she swallows. "No. Just— can you come in?"
Wally hesitates when she moves aside, several seconds passing before he finally moves forward. For some reason he takes his time glancing around her bedroom, taking in everything from the clothes on the back of the chair to the unmade bed, waiting until she shuts the door before he speaks. "... What's going on, Artemis?" He asks her, turning in a full circle as if looking for something lurking in the half-light.
She feels as if her throat has closed up, words trying to get up but only fizzling out once they reach her tongue; feeling like a coward she grips the napkins he gave her, hardly aware of how her blood is soaking through the flimsy material. "... You said you weren't okay." Wally reminds her, frowning at her as she just stands there. "Did something happen? ... Another nightmare?"
"No." She croaks out.
"Then what's going on?" He tries again, ginger lashes flickering once again to the blood drops on the top of her blouse. "You asked me to come here. Did someone hurt you?"
"No." She says quickly, finally leaving the door. "No— I mean, not yet, anyway—"
"What does that mean?"
"Just— shut up, for a second." She chokes out, one hand migrating automatically to her forehead, pushing her hair back into the seams of her pony tail and tugging sharply at the delicate hairs around her face. "Give me a second while I figure out how to say this."
It feels like a dream, the two of them standing for a moment in silence in the center of her bedroom; when she lowers her palm Wally's staring at her, jaw dropped and popping against the muscles of his neck. She's not sure if she imagines seeing his pulse flicker against his skin before he swallows, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his letterman jacket again, as if it's become a habit of hiding in there. "... You're freaking me out, Blondie." He whispers, the old nickname crackling in his throat.
And maybe that's all it takes; the familiarity and comfort of the old nickname seems to quail the flames inside her, sending the kindling to burn low in her stomach. She can do this. She needs to do this. "... Do you remember that night?" She starts, voice oddly hushed. "The night I got back from Siberia?"
His throat bobs again; beneath the material of his coat she can sense him clenching his fists. "... Parts of it." He mumbles, ears reddening.
"I know." She amends, taking a gentle step towards him. "I— this isn't about you. It's about me. After what happened to you... Happened." She says vaguely, ignoring the way his eyes flicker with embarrassment towards the floor. "I was taken to the Medical Bay. And while I was there..."
"Yeah?" He says gruffly, eyes jerking back towards her when she trails off.
"There were beds, Wally." She bursts out badly.
"Beds." He repeats after a second, tone suddenly so dry it fades into a short, annoying chuckle. "... In the Medical Bay."
Instantly she can feel her cheeks heat, hating the fact that he's using that slow, sarcastic tone he knows she doesn't like; she's not good at this, not explaining this right. "No— there were too many beds, Wally. And supplies, way too many supplies for just us—" She makes some sort of desperate move towards him and his brows only raise, as if half sure she's in the middle of a break down. "Listen, okay? Each bed had a cabinet. And it was like, each bed was meant for us— I was in the seventh from the door. Because—"
"B-07." Wally finishes for her, nodding as if pretending he follows. "Okay."
"Right." She nods back, feeling like an idiot. "And in my drawer there were clothes— all my size. As if the bed was made for me."
For some reason Wally exhales, hands leaving his pockets to run through his glue stuck hair. "Artemis." He says patiently, taking a step towards her. "You wear what— a small? Medium? Those aren't exactly uncommon sizes—"
"Listen!" She bursts out, nose wrinkling when he rolls his eyes, hands falling back to his sides. "The whole time I was in there I got a weird feeling, Wally. You know me, you know my gut— it's never wrong. But I couldn't sit around and investigate anything because you were—"
She's ranting, she knows it, but the second she ventures a bit too close to that one forbidden topics she stops short; the pause isn't unnoticed. "Because you were worried about me." Wally says stiffly. "Okay. Anyway?"
"Anyway." She agrees, fist crumpling the napkins and flinging them aside. She doesn't even notice that her fingers have stopped bleeding. "I knew something was off, so Dick, Zatanna, and I went back there today. Back to the Medical Bay." She hates than she hesitates, throat closing in on itself for a moment before she gathers the nerve; crossing the room she reaches the edge of her bed, snatching his file off the covers. "Each bed has a cabinet, and each cabinet has two drawers. And inside the top one—"
She feels like an idiot, standing there brandishing the manila folder at him; for a long second Wally only looks at it, one hand extending as his mouth curls into a frown. "... Project Safehouse?" He reads, glancing at her for a moment before he takes it.
"We have no idea what the hell it is." She forces herself to say, heart picking up as he flips the pages open. "But there's one for each other us. I grabbed yours on the way out— as proof." She makes up wildly, thankful when he doesn't glance up to see through her. "It's all the information the League has on us, even some I can't remember disclosing. Our whole family history, special skills, limits to our powers... And other things."
Any trace of disbelief or laughter is gone from Wally's features; when he glances up at her hesitation there's something hidden behind his apple irises, something that sends a twist through her stomach. "... What other things?" He asks carefully, voice hushed.
"... Priority of survival. Weaknesses." Her voice breaks. "Things they would need to know if they wanted to... Use us. If they needed to control us, but... Couldn't. I don't know what's going on, Wally." She chokes out the last part, staring so hard at his features she can feel her eyes straining, trying desperately to read what's running through his head. "I don't know what to do."
Something flickers over his face, some sort of emotion she can't quite place— all she knows is that the sight of it, that maliciousness and anger that's underneath it sends her stomach twisting. "Oh my god." He says more to himself than to her. "Oh my god, what— why—"
"I don't know, Wally!" She nearly yells back, her voice breaking as she tries to hold it together; his eyes are moving so quickly, reading so fast she can hardly see them, his own panic and anger beginning to undo her. "I just found it, and—"
"Why would you show this to me?" He says over her, words sharp and gritty as he shoves the file back into her arms. "Why would you— You're crazy."
It takes a second for her to realize he's angry with her. "... What?" She chokes out, nearly dropping the file. "Why are you— you're mad at me?" She balks out, brows furrowing.
"Of course I'm mad at you!" Wally hurls at her, ears reddening. "I was fine, Artemis. I was off the Team, I was doing okay— why are you showing this to me? Am I supposed to want to come back here now? Am I supposed to want to skip on back and work with the people who are— are what, now? What exactly do you think they're doing—"
"Wally!" She snarls, nearly swearing as him when he knocks past her, already storming out the door. "Wally— did you read any of it? They have a list here of people they'll use to get to you—"
"I know, Artemis." He yells, ignoring her when she tries to pull him back by the arm. "I saw. But did it ever occur to you that I was already on the outside of this? I have a life now, things going on outside of the Team— I could have put all this behind me. You calling me back here, getting me involved, now I've given whoever the hell has this information a reason to go after me."
He swears when she rips him back by the arm, nearly toppling over as she forces him to spin on his heel and face her. "So what, this is my fault?" She snarls, wincing when he jerks his arm out of her grasp. "I thought you would want to know that—"
"Then you thought wrong, Artemis!" He hisses, the redness from his ears beginning to stain his cheeks. "You think I didn't suspect something like this would start happening the second I got lost in that storm? You think I didn't clue in that someone would want to know how to control me, if I ever got lost like that again?"
Wally makes a break for a door again and she swears, throwing the most vile word she can at him as she throws his file on the floor. "So explain why they need this information on the rest of the Team, if you're such a genius Wallman." She snarls. "Explain why they had all this stocked and ready long before that night, explain why the Team—"
"I don't give a shit about the Team!" Wally yells in her face, so loud it sends her ears ringing. "I don't care, Artemis, okay? The only thing that matters to me is that you just closed off my last exit point. I don't have anywhere to run to now—"
And she doesn't know what makes her do it; Wally makes to turn back towards the door and she hurls herself in front of it, the force of her back hitting the wood nearly winding her. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Baywatch. There is no running from this." She screams, spitting a stray piece of hair out of her mouth. "They've had this information stock piled for a while now. So you can go ahead and pretend to take your vacation to normal-city, pretend you can't break the sound barrier in those beat up trainers of yours— sooner or later whoever the hell has this information is going to make you come back."
"Artemis—"
"Shut up." She snarls, punctuating the words with a blow against the door that sends her fist aching. "Shut up and come back now, Wally, while it's still safe to. Because whoever made that file is going to find a way to drag you back here, and even if you can outrun them— I sure as hell can't."
They're both breathing heavily, her breasts heaving as she remains flat against the door; the second she screams the words in his face Wally blinks. "... What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He spits at her.
"I means I read your file, asshole." She hisses. "And I saw your list of names the same way I saw my own. And it means I'm smart enough to know that if I was the one trying to get you back, and if I knew even a fraction of the history between us— I would know that the best way to get you anywhere is to hurt me."
Wally rolls his eyes, letting out a single frustrated breath; despite this a muscle jumps at his cheek and she can tell he's beginning to believe her. "You can't seriously—"
"Why not, Kid?" She challenges, stomach jolting when his green eyes flicker to hers. "Look at tonight. Look at how fast you came here— I didn't even have to ask you twice."
It's almost cruel, watching the way his face twists into a scowl as she snarls at him. She wants to hit him, wants to beat the truth into him; for once in his life Wally stays still, nose sucking in a long breath before his jaw clenches. "... You really think they'd do that?" He asks her, tone almost jarringly quiet compared to his yelling before. "The League—whoever the hell is behind this— you really think they'd..."
She doesn't know if it's a good sign that he doesn't finish, if it means she's finally getting through to him; forcing herself off the door she takes a step forward, glaring at him as hard as she can. "I don't know." She says honestly, hating him. "Are you willing to bet my life on it? ... Because I'm not willing to bet yours."
It's another challenge, another war being waged silently between them; as if daring him to say otherwise she pries herself off the door, glaring at him so hard her nose wrinkles. "... They won't kill you." He spits at her, shaking his head as she shoulders around him. "That was the whole point of the notes there— they have to keep you alive, if I'm going to— how did they put it—"
"Then leave, if you're so sure." She snarls, so angry now she can't stand to look at him.
And as she stands there with her back to him she has the strangest feeling— it's as if they've suddenly come full circle, traced back to that moment months ago when he had been the one daring her to leave, daring her to stop running and be with him. The memory feels so long gone, so lost in time that it feels as if it's been years since then rather than just one summer. Except this time she's the one with her back to him, the one with the most to lose, and Wally's the one with all the power; crossing her arms in front of her chest she closes her eyes, trying not to feel the stinging of tears behind her lids.
(And suddenly she's remembering the feeling of her lips pressing into his, how it felt to let go into that reckless abandon, how it felt to make all those silent promises to him. How she would stand by him because she cares about him, how she was finished running— looking back now, after everything that's happened, the words sound like lies. But there's one thing, the one promise she couldn't break— when you care about people, really care about them, you don't leave. Not forever.)
((And in that moment she knows they're not finished with each other. They never will be.))
She doesn't realize she's waiting for him to touch her until he doesn't; rather than open her eyes at the feeling of his fingers on her skin her lids flicker open at the sound of him sighing. "... What exactly are you asking me, Artemis?" He huffs, voice sounding nearly raw from all the yelling. "What's the plan, exactly?"
"I don't know." She blurts out, feeling angry and suddenly stupid too; when she whips around to glare at him Wally's rolling his eyes, shaking his head at the ceiling. "Just— look, I've already told you everything I wanted to." She lies. "If you still don't understand what I'm trying to tell you—"
"Of course I don't understand!" Wally hurls at her, one arm waving out in frustration. "You're not explaining anything to—"
And without warning her temper flares, hot and furious anger spilling out of her; before she can stop herself she's screaming at him again, the truth thundering in time with her heart beneath her skin. "We're supposed to take care of each other, Wally!" She snarls, nails cutting into her palms as she curls them into fists. "That was the deal we made, that was the one stupid promise we made before everything fell apart. We take care of each other. You and me, that's what we do."
She's breathing too heavily, not in control; rather than yell back at her Wally's ears merely go a shade darker, his voice so steady she could throttle him. "I know that." He says flatly, jaw tight. "Why do you think I've been staying away this whole time? That's what I thought you—"
"The game has changed, Kid." She sneers, hating him. "You aren't the bad guy anymore. This time we have no clue who's coming after us or why, all we know is that they're willing to break the rules. Willing to hurt whoever they have us to get us to play—"
"Then tell me what you want me to do—"
"I want you to come back!" She screams, voice seeming to shatter inside her throat. "I want you back on the Team. I want you—" She stops short, cheeks flaring up for a moment before she forces herself to keep talking. "Me and you, Wally. That's what it comes down to: whatever the hell we're facing... I need you to have my back, here."
For some reason he shakes his head. "I always have your back—"
"Wally."
She says his name almost softly, pleadingly, breasts heaving again with the effort of getting it out; for some reason he still winces as if she's just screamed again. Ignoring the way her heart is thundering inside her ribs she forces herself to stare him down, watching as he blinks again, glassy eyes catching the low light in the bedroom. "Okay." He says gruffly after a moment, swallowing before he nods. "If that's what you want. Whatever happens— me and you."
"Okay." She puffs out, feeling suddenly awkward. "... Thank you."
There's a strange sense of finality in the air, as if they've just pledged something between them that can't be broken— but, she supposes, in a way they have. It feels as if both hell and high water have swallowed them whole, as if the world as they know it is ending, and at the end of it all... It's the two of them. Artemis and Wally.
(In and out together.)
Her throat feels suddenly tight; ignoring the way he's still staring at her she turns her back on him, wiping at her eyes. "... That's all I wanted to say." She mutters, feeling stupid as she makes a show sucking in a breath. "Sorry about all the yelling."
She doesn't look at him as she resumes her sitting on the edge of her bed; it seems to take a long time for him to clear his throat, voice still hoarse. "That's fine." He pauses, watching as she runs a hand over the top of her head, giving the ponytail up for a bad job and tugging the too large elastic out of her hair. "... Anything else I should know before I get out of here?"
And it's a moment of weakness, of pure selfishness; as she makes to smooth her hair over one shoulder she gets a sudden burst of courage. "... Would you mind staying?" She blurts out, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair.
"On the Team?"
"No, Wally." She sighs, pushing her hair back to look at him properly; she doesn't blink, eyes flickering down to watch his throat as it bobs in nervousness. "... Would you mind staying here with me? Just... Just for a little while?"
(Stay; even as it passes over her lips the word spikes into her, rubbing her raw and exposing her in the worst way. And it hits her how powerful that word is, how permanent it is in its needing. And as she utters it she can feel it pierce into her, tattooing her and marking her; and she wonders if she wears the scars of everyone who has ever stayed and left her—)
((But she needs this. She just needs him to stay, and to take care of her. The way he always does.))
She instantly regrets the words, hates the way they sound coming out of her mouth; she's expecting him to frown, shake his head, remind her in a million little ways that he's moved on. Instead something about his jaw tightens, apple eyes squinting in the slightest, as if trying to read through her. "Yeah." He says after a moment, tucking his hands back into the letterman jacket's pockets. "Yeah, of course."
Her heart seems to clench inside her ribs as he walks towards her, looking suddenly boyish in a way he hasn't as of late; it occurs to her for the first time that being here, being alone together in her bedroom, has made him nervous. "Sorry." She says, feeling her cheeks heat as he sits down beside her. "You don't have to—"
"I want to, Artemis." He interrupts, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he settles. "I promise."
And as he says it something shifts in the pit of her stomach, like an old, much warmer flame kindling inside her; for a long moment they simply look at each other, her eyes tracing the handsome features she's only just now getting familiar with. For the first time in a long time she wants to touch him, wants to feel how hot his skin used to always feel; rather than act on the instinct to move closer she forces herself to lean back, her eyes falling to the '13' emblazoned on his chest. "... Nice jacket."
For some reason he clears his throat again, glancing at her almost sheepishly. "Linda hates it." He says gruffly.
Immediately she gets the impression that he's bringing up the other girl on purpose; before her face can sour she looks away. "I thought all girls liked guys in letterman jackets."
"Do you?"
"No." She says too quickly, cheeks reddening; for some reason Wally lets out a dry chuckle and she wonders if that's what he wanted to hear. "I mean— I don't know. The girls at my school always go for the guys wearing them."
"Huh. Must be me, then." He says sheepishly, the corners of his mouth perking up again. "Linda thinks it clashes with my hair."
She snorts. "It doesn't clash with your—" And she doesn't know why she does it; like an old habit her hand reaches out towards him, going to meet its forgotten mark on the back of his head. She doesn't know what she means by it, why it happens before she can stop it— her words die in her throat before she even touches him, her hand falling awkwardly back to her lap. "—Hair." She croaks, blushing.
For not the first time she wishes the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
As if he knows very well what she's thinking Wally laughs. "... Oh, man." He chuckles, the trail ends of the words bubbling up into laughter.
And she can't tell if it's because she's missed him so much, or if it's simply become impossible to keep him on the outside of her walls; before she can smooth her features or do anything to hide from him she hears herself laugh too. And for the first time since she returned from Bialya all those weeks ago it feels like old times; feels as if they're children again and nothing is broken between them even though they both know the complete opposite is true. In this moment, here and now, it's her and Wally— the two of them, neither friends nor lovers nor heroes. Just the two of them, the way they've always been.
And she laughs, harder and louder than she's done in a while— harder than she can remember laughing in months. She's not even sure what's so funny; whether it's the awkwardness between them or the strangeness of the situation or if it's just easier to laugh when the rest of the world is shut out and it's just the two of them. But it doesn't matter, not now— not as she's struggling to breathe and there's a stitch in her side and her eyes are watering with happy tears—
She throws herself backward onto the bed, cheeks aching as she grins up at him. "God." She sighs, voice weak in a way she it hasn't been in a while.
"I know." Wally grins back, the freckles on his cheeks flushed and boyish in the best possible way; clapping a hand to his forehead he pushes his hair back, twisting to look down at her. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
She means to say something back and merely hiccups, the ridiculous of the sound coming out of her mouth setting them off again; with a larger than life snort Wally throws himself down beside her, rattling the mattress. "God." She breathes, finally managing to quail the laughter. "... I don't know how long it's been since I've felt like this."
"Like what?" He chuckles, grinning up at the ceiling.
And she catches herself before she says it— light. Excited. Happy, even. Rather than admit to anything she shakes her head, smiling.
(And as she rolls towards him she feels it— that heat, so different than the fire of before, burning inside her. She's not sure if there's a name for it, for these old feelings haunting her insides, a mixture of old memories and habits and too many other things that won't die without a fight. And maybe she's in too deep, pushing too far, clinging to her vulnerability like a security blanket; all she knows is that her guard is down, her walls have been dropped, and for the first time she feels clothed in nakedness for Wally West like she's never been before.)
(And maybe it's the fact that he's here, like all the other times before— or maybe, really, this is the time that's meant the most. And maybe she's missed him in ways she shouldn't have, felt lonely for his touch like she's long since lost the right to be. But she can't fight against this anymore.)
Wally grins at her, apple eyes crinkled from where his cheek is pressed against her mattress, and she stops trying to resist anything anymore.
(Her fingers find his wrist first, then his hand.)
The smile fades and the apple eyes flicker shut, brows tensing in the slightest. And she expect him to pull back, expects him to sit up, expects him to push her away... But as her own lashes flicker shut she feels it, as familiar and ancient to her as her own heart beat— Wally's fingers tense around hers like a lifeline and for the first time she realizes they've both finally come home.
She's not sure how long they stay there like that, whether hours or simply minutes pass as they lie still, hands clasped together and curled too far apart atop her sheets; somehow time seems to slip over them unnoticeably, for once not clawing and ripping at them in its usual wearisome way.
When she finally opens her eyes it takes her a minute to place her surroundings, to find herself in time and place the person beside her. As she blinks sleep from her eyes the first thing she notices is their intertwined hands, gaze flickering to where Wally is now looking down at her, propped up on one elbow. "Hi." She croaks out.
"Hey." He whispers back, sounding much more awake than she is. She wonders if she was the only one who fell asleep. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."
He gets as far as extracting his hand from hers before she realizes he's about to leave. "What time is it?" She asks, blinking blearily as he sits up.
"Late." He says unhelpfully, tugging the front of his jacket as if trying to get it to sit properly about his shoulders. "Linda's gonna kill me— I didn't really explain to her what was going on when I left, I was supposed to call her hours ago with an explanation—"
It's clumsier than she wants it to be— vaguely she registers the numbness of her fingers as she whips out a hand towards him, fisting the leather about his bicep and holding him in place as he makes to stand. "Wally— hold on a second—"
"Don't have a lot of those." He says gruffly, flashing a ghost of a grin at her; he's already getting to his feet before she even finishes sitting up properly. "I have to go, Artemis."
The finality of the tone scares her, as if she doesn't trust that his absence won't be as permanent as it's been the last few weeks. And she doesn't know why her stomach twists, why her throat seems to tighten—and there's no time for embarrassment, for her whatever reservations or doubts that might otherwise talk her out of it; feeling her cheeks redden she scrambles up after him, nearly stumbling over her undone boot laces. "Don't go." She forces herself to say, reaching out to seize the sleeve of his jacket again. "Just— stay. For a bit longer."
"Artemis—"
"Wally." She cuts him off, heart clenching at the way he sighs her name. Against her better judgment she redoubles her grip, forcing him to turn back and face her. "... Stay." She repeats, fingers flexing until she can feel his skin burning beneath his coat.
She's not good at this; as much as she wants the other words to come out— (Stay, because she can't live without him. Stay, because she is done with starving herself. Stay, because they've wasted too much time pretending to want anyone other than each other. Stay, Stay, Stay)— they don't, nervousness flooding through her as she bites the inside of her cheek. And how quickly her nerve wavers, how quickly she falls back into old habits; at once she pulls back, fingers missing his closeness as they twist nervously in front of her stomach.
And she hates it, hates standing there without the words she needs to get him to do what she wants. She hates how weak she feels, hates that watching the confusion blossom across his face sends a wave of pain through her, and feeling like a coward she drops her eyes to the floor. "I—" Wally starts, brows furrowing as she shakes her head. "... Artemis?"
"Never mind." She says quickly, fake smile cutting into her cheeks as she pushing her hair back behind her ears. "I— It's stupid. Forget it, I'll see you later."
She wants to run away from him, away from the feelings she's afraid of and the truth that's bubbling inside her; crossing the room she makes a bigger show than she has to of gathering her hair into a pony tail, glaring at her reflection in the mirror beside her dresser. "... Okay." Wally mutters, chuckling nervously in confusion; she can hear his feet brush across the carpet as he makes to go. "I'll talk to you tomorrow?"
"Great." She says without meaning it, blinking quickly as she tightens her hair against her scalp.
She hates him, hates how stupid he is; it seems to take all her strength not to turn and scream something after him as he crosses the room, even more not to start crying then and there. How stupid does he have to be? Isn't he supposed to know her, supposed to be able to see through her? Shouldn't he know that something's changed, that she's changed, that everything has changed—
The door opens as she fires out a frustrated breath, fingers trailing down to rub at a sore spot along the joint of her neck. Unconsciously she rolls her head, listening to the unsatisfying cracking of her joints.
He's an idiot.
(But she is too.)
And as her teeth nip into her lower lip she realizes the door hasn't closed; almost comically her lashes flicker up to the mirror, about to send herself a dour expression before it hits her.
... He's staring at her.
He's wearing a look she knows too well; the same look that seems to start at furrowed brows and painted freckles and ends at pensive lips. It's the same look he always dons when he's thinking, trying to see through her— the same look she associates with chess games and hot tea and steam collecting on their window. It's the same look that always reminds her that he's a scientist and that he's still trying to figure her out, the same look that usually proceeds a rash decision in the name of collecting data.
"... What?" She whispers, voice hushed in the half light.
His hand tenses around the doorknob as he stares at her back, eyes flickering to where she's looking at him in the mirror. "... When you said— when you said 'You and Me'." He pauses, voice suddenly hoarse. As if to buy himself some time he swings the door back shut. "... What did you mean by that?"
"Nothing." She says automatically, feeling like a coward as she arranges her features and turns back to face him. "I—"
She realizes too late that it's been a while since she could lie to him; as if he can tell she's making light of things Wally shakes his head, a lone nervous chuckle sounding in the back of his throat. "Artemis." He says warningly, taking a step towards her. "... Come on."
(And she's not sure what makes her do it, why she's suddenly the rash one and so completely ruled by her inability to tell him what he needs to hear. All she knows is that he's looking at her like that, eyes bright and confused and thoughts exploding in the back of his mind, and that look— that stupid look— still sends a flooding of heat through her so powerful she gives up on trying to speak.)
When she does little more than avoid his eye Wally tries again, offering up another flash of his familiar crooked smile before advancing a few more steps. "You can tell me things, you know. We're friends."
And she's sure he doesn't realize it, doesn't realize he once said these words to her months ago; suddenly she's remembering two gangly teens sitting side by side outside of Canary's office and the first brush of his feverish skin against her. And maybe that's what does it— maybe it's the memory, maybe it's the fact that he's now only a foot or two from her, maybe it's the fact that she can see what's between them far more clearly than she ever has—
(There's no point in keeping him away now. The world will kill them anyway, the same way it's killed her spirit and her drive and her belief in anything better. And maybe she doesn't want it the way she once thought she would, maybe knowing that now only hurts more. But she's meant to die in his arms, that's what the universe wants, why not listen, why not obey—)
The tailored ends of her skirt brush over her thighs as she turns to properly look up at him, biting the inside of her cheek. Once again it occurs to her that he's a man, no longer boyishly bashful or embarrassed over the unexpected movement; when she gets the nerve to step ever closer she can practically feel his eyes flicker over her as they follow the movement of the garment, lingering for a moment about the blood drops about her collar and the one too-many open buttons of her blouse before the meet her gaze again.
"... I don't know what I meant." She says honestly, voice half hushed as her hand makes to pull the end of her pony tail. "I just... It's us, Wally."
Apple eyes watch her fingers and for a moment the weight of the words settle between them; after a few seconds his eyes narrow. "You ended it." He reminds her, voice uncharacteristically steady.
"I know I did." She amends, hand falling back to her side; more out of instinct than anything else she takes a step closer.
They're less than a foot apart now, so close that she can feel his unnerving heat radiating off his body; the closeness is beginning to get to him, bothering him or making him nervous— she has enough time to watch his hands ball into fists before he shoves his hands in his pockets, shaking his head at her. "You broke up with me." He tells her, voice hoarse but firm. "You're the one who gave up on us. You're the one who— and all the times since then. How many times have you slammed a door in my face—"
"I know, Wally." She interrupts, hating the way the truth sounds coming out of his mouth. "I know I haven't been... I don't know how to say this." She says, voice hushed and catching in the back of her throat. "... When I told you to come home, I meant— I know that since things ended I've been a mess, and— and I've been—" She hesitates, watching his face carefully as the confused expression he's wearing begins to quail into something softer, less easily defined. She's still very aware that she's stammering, not really saying anything at all. "But— but that doesn't mean... I just want you to take care of me, Wally. That's all I want now."
"... You're not making any sense, Babe." He tells her, voice firm but edged with something she can't read, some kind of tender emotion she's not entirely familiar with.
(And it doesn't make sense— this feeling now, the old memories buried inside her, the fact that she's changed her mind. And maybe she'll never be able to explain it the way she wants to. Because her and Wally don't make sense, and maybe that's the best part of it. They're flawed and malicious and cruel to each other but somehow they work. Somehow they've made a home out of each other, a home built of warm fingers and sturdy bones and bitten lips. And her home for him is in her heart, and even though over the last few months she's been building fences and putting up walls and drawing curtains to keep him out, and even though the doors inside her might not always be open... For him, they will always ben unlocked.)
((She doesn't care anymore. She's tired of fighting.))
"I know." She sighs. "... Maybe this will explain it."
And for the first time she's the one to close the distance, the one to make the first move; ignoring the way her stomach is twisting she reaches for him, fingers curling around the underside of his jaw as she pulls his mouth down to meet hers.
He tastes like an old memory, of boyhood and walnuts and the warmth of sand; as she kisses him for the first time in weeks she feels him exhale into her, breathing what feels like nectar into her lungs. And suddenly it's not enough— not enough to feel his chapped lips be stunned into kissing her back, not enough to feel one of his hands leave his pocket to sneak beneath the material of her shirt, not enough to feel the shaking of his fingers as they skim against the bare small of her back, not enough to trace the line of his jaw and knot her fingers in the overlong ends of his ginger hair. Suddenly she is craving heat, craving a fever pitch, craving nakedness—
(—craving something as stupid and desperate as she is now—)
Wally pulls back just as she runs a hand down his chest, fingers pausing at the zipper of his letterman jacket. "Whoa." He breathes out dazedly, warm hands curling over her wrists and forcing her back. "Just— Linda, Artemis. I'm with Linda."
She very nearly says "So?" but catches herself in time, instead lowering herself from the tips of her toes and settling back onto the balls of her feet. "Right. Linda."
The hand tenses on her waist before it seems to occur to him that he shouldn't be touching her; sending her an awkward look he pulls back, taking an extra step away for good measure. "... Look." He starts, sighing. "I think you're just— you've been through a lot today—"
"I'm not doing it because I'm— vulnerable, or whatever." She says quickly, reaching out to hold him in place and hating it when he shrugs out of her grip. "That's not why—"
"Then tell me why, Artemis." He sighs, for some reason looking annoyed; there's no longer any trace of affection underneath his confusion, just frustration and hurt. "Because I'm getting tired of this. Every time I get my head on straight— I was doing fine — I don't need you to kiss me just because you're going through something—"
She feels her expression sour, nose wrinkling as he throws the words carelessly in her direction. And she hates his tone, the implication that she's being weak, that she's doing this for any reason other than the right one; feeling her cheeks flush an angry crimson she glares at her feet. "Well, what's your excuse?" She mutters darkly. "You kissed me back."
"I shouldn't have." He says quickly, shaking his head. "It's— I mean, it's you and me. But I still shouldn't have— it's not fair to Linda."
"I get it." She says over him, not wanting to hear him explain his rejection. Feeling her cheeks burn she makes a show of wiping him from her mouth, forcing the taste of walnuts from her lips. "Forget it happened, Wallman."
(And she knows the hurt she feels in her bones isn't his fault, but she needs someone to blame for her own mistakes; it's far easier to blame him for his rejection and hate him for it than to hate herself and all the mistakes she's made that led to this.)
She deliberately turns her back on him, walking back to the mirror and ignoring the reflection of the troubled look he's sending her. "Artemis—" He starts, clapping a hand to his forehead and ramming his too-stiff hair back. He doesn't seem to know what else to say.
She saves him the trouble of feeling sorry for her; glaring at her reflection she pretends to fix her hair. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" She snarls at him. "... A girlfriend to call?"
Maybe the last part is a little childish; a few seconds pass before Wally blinks, getting the message as his glare sets into place. "... Fine." He says blankly, turning to leave properly this time. "I— Sorry. Night, Artemis."
It's possibly the stupidest she's ever felt, standing there and watching him leave; as the door shuts behind him she tries to swallow down the tightness in her throat, hating that she can still taste him on her lips.
... For the first time in a long time it occurs to her that things really are over between them. In some way what's between them feels more dead than it did the first time around, all those months ago when she first finished things in front of their window. Because now there are no more loose ends to tie up, no more moments of weakness where both of them will cling to each other in the dark, nothing left unsaid. She told him how she felt— or at least tried to— and he... He turned her down.
(... She never thought he would turn her down.)
(Because this is what the world wanted— the Speed Force, the universe, everything had wanted them to be together.)
(So why did he say no?)
Her heart feels as if it's combusted, a mixture of ash and hurt burning at the back of her throat; brushing impatiently at the wetness beginning to splinter at the corners of her eyes she sucks in a breath. It's over. It's finally over.
((But they would always come back to each other— and that had to count for something, didn't it? They were tied together by more than history, by more than lingering feelings, by more than even the Speed Force; what's between her and Wally is magnetic, a kind of pull towards each other than woke the same way they did that day in the Bialyan desert. But... maybe this time it's different. It feels different. As if a string between them as been severed, as if the path back to each other has been blocked, as if... As if the universe itself stopped throwing them together.))
(She never thought it would really be completely over.)
And maybe she should feel relieved— and maybe, as she turns her back on her reflection, some small part of her is. No more wondering what would happen if things were different. No more wondering if telling him how she felt— how she's always felt— would change things. No more secrets between them.
(And maybe what hurts the most is that things changed. She changed, broke down, indulged in the feelings she's been barely keeping at bay for long. But Wally changed too, didn't he? He gave up on her. She pushed him too far this time.)
((And it occurs to her that for the first time she really can't call him back, can't convince him to turn on his heel and return to her. He's finally outrun her, finally sprinted past her, and more than ever she feels lonely, worthless, selfish—))
Again she wipes at her eyes, hating that she's crying over him— the whole situation is stupid. She shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have tried to get him to stay. What does her wanting him mean to Wally? He's wanted her a thousand times over, and all this time she's been to cowardly to allow it. She's ruined things, her and her stupid walls and her stupid insecurity and stupid flaws. He doesn't want her anymore, nobody does. He's moved on, forgotten her, just like everyone else...
(And it kills her that every person she's ever cared about has become toxic to her. Another living breathing reminder that she's better off alone. Because she messes everything up, she ruins everything, she's not worth it. She's better off alone.)
She doesn't want to stay here tonight, not when she knows her sheets will stink of walnuts and rejection the second she crawls into them; the whole day has been somewhat of a disaster and she can't think of a time she's wanted the comfort of the fourth floor walk-up more. Ignoring the invitation of her bed she grabs an old hoodie off the back of her chair, already thinking of a cup of tea and how the Gotham sirens will down out the sound of her broken heart.
And as she makes to leave she throws a careless glance around the room, half-expecting more belongings she needs to collect; with a dull pang her gaze comes to a rest over Wally's file, her stomach twisting as she considers it. She can't very well put it back in the Medical Bay, but Zatanna's right— leaving it unprotected in the Cave is only inviting it to fall into the wrong hands. Hating herself she seizes an old gym bag from the corner of her room, shoving the file inside it without looking.
The Cave is cold and quiet, as it always is the time of night; as she pulls the hood of her sweat shirt over her pony tail she feels for the first time watched, hunted as she makes her way through the darkness. In the silence she can almost fool herself into hearing the low buzz of surveillance, a barely there hum that indicates not all is right; as she passes on of the hallway security cameras she wonders if whoever is looking through the other end is aware of Wally's presence in her bedroom tonight, if they're already taking notes, if they know why she called him here...
Hell, she doesn't even know why she called him here. It wasn't just about the file, or Project Safehouse— although it might have started that way. But Wally's presence had held the promise of protection, of comfort when she was at her worst. She had wanted him to come back, to be by her side again— but she shouldn't have told him, tonight proved that instinct was a mistake...
Her shoes squeak as she paces along to the living room, shivering slightly beneath her school uniform; the whole thing was a stupid idea— investigating the Medical Bay, calling Wally, intending to disclose secrets she's not meant to share. And now what does have for it? No Wally, no solution, only more questions than answers. He's right— he was better off not knowing. But still… She's sure if the tables were reversed Wally would tell her, would want her to be aware of what they found. He has people to protect too, he deserves to know, even if he doesn't want to—
... But he's right, she supposes. He was on the outside of this, he was safe. And she dragged him into the center of it, pulled him into the storm— because she's selfish, and stupid, and she ruins everything—
(And she feels numb again, numb and tired. Too much has happened today, too much is always happening. And she feels beaten, trampled upon, feels as if she's been out in the pounding rain. She is soaked clean through with emotion.)
She's on the verge tears again, torturing herself as she makes her way into the common area and glances automatically out towards their window in the same way she always does; pausing mid-pace she stiffens, squinting into the darkness. In the pitch black of the room she can make it out, a silhouette just visible in the darkness outside, broad shoulders visible against the light of the moon on the other side of the window.
And for a second she stands stock-still, fingers clenching around the strap of the gym bag on her shoulder. And she hates herself, hates the lurch in her stomach as she half convinces herself it's Wally— and for a moment she's sure he's come back for her, so convinced that she actually jolts forward, sprinting across the room until she's up against the glass— this is their window, this is their place and he's come back for her, he always comes back for her—
It's not until she's lurching open the glass door to the outside that she realizes something is wrong, not until the chilled October air is whipping up the ends of her skirt and biting into the bare skin on her thighs that she realizes it isn't Wally standing in the alcove. "... Kaldur?" She whispers, throat croaking as she slouches in the doorway, flinching against the cold.
Uncharacteristically he jumps when she speaks, as if he's been so lost in thought her sudden appearance has gone unnoticed; "Artemis?" He whispers back, turning towards her. Beneath the light of the moon she can hardly see his face, only making out the angles of his cheekbones and the blonde top of his head. "... Why are you not in bed?"
"Long story." She shrugs, setting the strap against her shoulder as she shuts the door behind her. "I was just going home when I saw you out here. Thinking of going for a swim?"
"No, I was not." He says blankly, going back to staring out at the water as she makes to join him, arms crossing across her chest to block out the cold. "... I have been meaning to tell you, there is a lead on another link to the artifacts. There is a collector in Gotham City—"
It's only when she gets close to him that she realizes something is wrong, the light finally catching his face; his familiar angular features seems almost blood splotched and swollen, as if he's been crying. "Kal." She interrupts, blinking in confusion. "What's the wrong?"
He doesn't respond right away, a strange wet noise sounding in the back of his throat. "It is nothing." He says flatly before he disappears, scrubbing his cheeks almost childishly on the backs of his hands as if trying to erase the tracks of his tears. "As I was saying—"
"Kaldur." She whispers, one hand reaching out to press tenderly against his arm when she realizes he's shaking. "... Why are you outside? It's cold out here, even for you."
"I—"
"Kal."
For the first time he seems to quail beneath the look she sends him, whatever excuse he's about to throw at her dying in his throat as he shakes his head. "Apologies." He mutters, wiping his face savagely as if embarrassed by the tears. "I did not mean to worry you, I believed everyone was in bed. You should—"
"No, Kaldur. What's wrong?"
She's never seen him cry like this before, never seen him look so young and broken—once more she watches him scrub at his eyes, knuckles dragging over his skin once before they fall back to his side. "It is nothing." He tries to tell her, voice breaking. "Truly. You should return to bed—"
"What's wrong?" She repeats, eyes narrowing; she feels too much like her mother as she drops her jaw, staring him down in the darkness. "… What happened?"
For a long moment he looks at her, and somewhere behind the milky eyes she knows so well something breaks; before she can even hide her own surprise his expression is crumpling, carved cheekbones and full mouth twisting into misery. "… She is gone." He says gruffly, turning back towards the window. "Tula has returned to Atlantis with Garth."
The last words are almost choked out, his head bowing to hide in shadows. She wishes very suddenly that she had just went home. "… Oh." She says badly. "Oh, god, Kal. I'm so sorry."
She's expecting him to keep it together, but the little bit of composure remaining seems to collapse underneath the weight of her hesitant hand as it makes to curl around his shoulder; at once Kaldur's usually steady voice warbles. "She accused me of placing the Team above her. All she has wanted of me is to return to Atlantis." He mutters, fingers wiping clumsily at his cheeks as tears begin to fall again. "It was the third time she had offered me the choice, in one way or another… Now she has returned there with Garth."
He trails off, breath catching in a choking noise that sounds more like a sob than anything else. Wishing she were better at this sort of thing she shifts her hand, fingers flexing into the middle of his back as he leans into her. "I'm so sorry." She repeats, pressing her lips into his temple the same way her mother would when she was a child. "I'm so sorry."
He must find some comfort in what little she's doing, drawing in a shaky breath before reaching for her; not expecting it she unconsciously stiffens as he hugs her, throwing more of his weight on her than strictly necessary. "Shh, Kaldur." She hears herself say, clumsily patting him on the back as he struggles to pull in level breaths; she's never seen him lose control like this before, never seen him as completely unguarded as he is in this moment. "It'll be okay. It'll all work out. Shh."
She's not sure how long they stand like that, her arms quivering under the weight of his shoulders and her chin tucked into the hollow of his neck, her lips still pressing unconscious kisses into his skin as she comes to a loss as to how to comfort him; by the time he seems to get the sense to pull back her muscles are aching with the effort of holding him upright. "Apologies." He mutters again, a stray tear still rolling down his cheek. "I did not mean to—you did not have to—"
"Shh, Kal. I don't mind." She tries to say kindly, forcing her face into what she hopes is a comforting smile; feeling somewhat out of her league she lets a half-forgotten instinct guide her, one hand reaching up to brush against the wetness on his cheeks. "… Come on. I'll— I'll make you some tea, okay?"
She makes to pull back, hand leaving the angles of his face; before she can get much further than an inch from his skin his fingers ensnare her wrist, holding her still. "… Kal?" She asks, watching with confusion as another few tears dribble off his chin.
A few of her shorter pieces of her hair have escaped her hood, tickling her chin and getting caught in the chapped skin on her lips as she stares at him, brows furrowing. Somewhere at the back of her mind she senses several alarm bells firing, another great billowing wave of confusion thrumming over her as she watches him make to push them back into place. "What—"
(And it seems to happen slowly, like a long forgotten dream she's never had. But she feels him move closer, closer than they've ever been, closer than he should be. And somewhere between them something slips, and dangling into another universe, another timeline, another place where things between her and Kaldur aren't as defined—)
Although she's sure the whole thing lasts hardly longer than a few seconds the awareness of his closeness thrums through her in a silent mile of alarm, as if every nerve and sensation in her body is somehow dulled by the sheer amount of confusion flooding through her. She feels the rounded nails scratch her hair behind her ear, feels the calloused fingers run behind her jaw, into her hair, down to the crease of her neck. She watches another tear cling to his lashes and then fall, catching the swell of his cheek, dribble down to his chin—
(And before she can pull back, because she can do much more than consider what's about to happen, before she can stop it—)
Kaldur kisses her, shattering through whatever boundaries exist between them and tasting momentarily of sea foam and honey dew and copper; almost at once the noise of protest erupts from her mouth, practically spitting him off her lips before she jerks her head away. "Kaldur!" She snarls, shoving him backwards so hard he nearly stumbles into the railing of the alcove, looking as shocked and confused as she feels. "Oh my god—what was—Kaldur—"
"Apologies." He blurts out, neck flushing a brilliant deep purple as he extends a hand to calm her. "I had not—I did not—"
"Oh my god." She repeats, wiping her mouth along the back of her hand, her nose wrinkling as she runs her hand through her hair. "Oh my god, oh my—"
She doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to hear his stammered out apologies; she catches her reflection in the window glass—her cheeks red, hair messy—but before she can take it in—
Beyond the glass a light flickers on in the kitchen, shattering through the illusion of being hidden in the darkness and underneath the howl of the wind on the beach. And what she sees there is worse, far worse than anything else: Wally, standing stock still in the kitchen, staring at them.
(And there's no way he didn't see, no way to what's just happened. She's sure he could see their silhouettes in the darkness, sure he could tell who was out there and what was happening—)
"No!" She hears herself snarl over Kaldur's apologizing, but it's too late—before she can do much more than slam a hand against the glass Wally's fingers have left the kitchen light switch as he turns on his heel, ears glowing even in the half light. "Wally!"
"Artemis," Kaldur says her name for the first time, calling her attention away from where Wally's still retreating; to his credit he doesn't flinch when she turns towards him, looking murderous. "I will fix this, I will go and—"
It takes more effort than it should not to slap him. "No." She snarls, running a hand through her hair, already turning to follow her charge. "You're not going to—stay here, Kal. You've done enough."
She doesn't look back, doesn't spare him one final glance; any feels of affection, of tenderness towards him seems to have vanished, been sucked out of her the few moments their lips touched. She feels used all over again, as pinned down by him as she was beneath Cameron, beneath Wally, feels as dirty and betrayed now as she did a few weeks ago.
Kaldur calls her name once more, the sound warbling in the darkness and abruptly stopping as the door to the alcove shuts behind her. He doesn't even try to chase after her.
AN: Okay. To start things off: to anyone who sent me messages, enquiries, or any other follow-ups wondering what the hell was what going on— thank you for your concerns. I owe you, and everyone else, an explanation.
As some of you may or may not know through private messaging, I accepted a job this summer up in the Canadian Rockies. The job was in a location that had no cell service and no wifi available without a 40 minute hike in the woods. At the end of May I thought I would have enough time to post another chapter explaining my absence and my brief hiatus in posting, but... Things got busy. I graduated university, broke up with a boyfriend, and was franticly struggling to pack up the remains of my life to go live in another part of the country. Things got away from me, as they do sometimes for everyone.
... I'm sorry for vanishing without a proper explanation.
But thus started a long, amazing summer of working and writing and getting inspiration for Parenthesis. Even though I couldn't actively post my content I was sitting on a chapter that was ready to be posted the day of my return mid-October plus a nice little nest egg of drafts— I had ten extra chapters all ready to post, meaning my return to fanfiction would be marked by a flurry of posting on a biweekly basis.
Then tragedy struck, as it tends to do the second you make big plans.
On my way back home I stopped overnight at a friend's place and had my car broken into. I lost a great deal of my belongings but the tragedy in this case was that my laptop was stolen... Meaning I lost all of Parenthesis. All my archived work. All my drafting. All my planning. Over 900,000 words of work, over 5 years of my life. Gone.
... Yeah. It sucked.
Naturally, I've been in a bit of a funk. I nearly quit writing this fic altogether. But I figured... Wally and Artemis' story isn't finished, and season 3 is still a long time coming. The fandom needs this, and frankly— I do too.
So I rallied. I've been composing this chapter on my phone and pasting my work into the doc manager every few days, a task that was to say the very least frustrating. I can't afford a new laptop at this time so for now you'll have to bear with me as I figure out a way to make this fic work. That being said, I have set up a gofundme to help raise some money for a new laptop, which you can find the link to on the Parenthesis tumblr page (of which there is a link for on my profile. If you're willing to donate money and are having trouble finding the link please message me, I will be more than happy to help you.)
(Also, the Parenthesis tumblr community is now negotiating that in addition to more updates I throw in some Wally-Artemis sex scenes for their trouble of donating. I LOVE THIS. Go take a peek and give me your two cents.)
Long story short: I'm back, and I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. To everyone who left reviews asking for more material, wishing for my return, and even checking in on the Parenthesis tumblr... You guys are the best. I'm so, so happy to be back.
As always, Please Read and Review. I'll try to be back with another chapter as soon as I can.