Chapter Text
Artemis is a responsible person, right?
She is. She has to be. Because sometimes, instead of up the wall, Wally drives her into a stunned, angry silence, and instead of killing him, she just shuts her eyes and nods her head, tells him whatever, that she's off to go train some, see you guys later. Wally sees his mistake when she does it, says he's sorry and offers her half-eaten bags of bad potato chips in apology, and Artemis tells him it's fine, it doesn't matter, keep your stupid potato chips. Because she is a responsible person.
Her hands still itch for a bow and an arrow, though, and seeing as Wally isn't an acceptable target and there's no mission tonight, she's free to brush past him and M'gann, lock herself up in the training room, and snipe at dummy after dummy until Wally gets lost or her fingers bleed, whichever is latest.
Presently she supposes, as she notches three arrows and aims for the moving targets, that she can't exactly blame him for not liking her, for not catching onto her subtle limits as readily as the others. Wally's an idiot. No amount of promise in chemistry or physics will change that. But then nothing can really change that it's frustrating having to prove herself even further for him, specifically, even if his teasing has gone less from suspicion and more the joy of annoying her, because that's exactly the point—he annoys her, pisses her off. Usually it's something she can handle, maybe even laugh at later when she's alone, but today? Nah. Not working for her.
She's really not in the mood to deal with stress. She's got enough of that, you know? As a hero, as a daughter, as a student. Because, like, responsible. In three different ways.
Archery, at least, is something that brings all of her together, a de-stressing release no matter its backstory. When she pulls back the string and releases the arrows, knocks out six targets with three points, she feels her heart laugh, uplifting and light in her chest, and she allows a smile.
Sometimes she's not a hero or a daughter or a student. Sometimes she's an archer. Sometimes she's just Artemis.
She's hit with a rush of adrenaline and suddenly she's on the move, her feet carrying her without thought as she notches more arrows and, running, aims for target after target. She can't miss any, won't miss any; once she's on the move she just goes, the place where she is now her greatest escape, an occupied and concentrated state of mind, a person in control, happy. Arrow after arrow, target after target, Artemis is Artemis and she feels okay, better than okay; she feels good, great, knows who she is and doesn't know at the same time—which, for a moment, is fine, too.
Artemis is in the perfect state of mind when she stops and steps back and aims at the last target, the elusive troublemaker, most challenging of them all, when she pulls back on the string and lets her shot fly.
Then there's a laugh.
A snicker, actually, echoing around the training room, and then a boy on a grapple flies by and her arrow lands three feet away from its target. Artemis scowls and looks around furiously for the flying troll wonder that is Robin, but—of course—can't find him.
"Okay, really? That was the first time I've been anywhere near close to getting that one."
She throws her empty quiver to the ground and scowls, arms crossed.
Robin's laughter echoes again, this time closer, more reserved. A moment later he's in front of her, the arrow in his hand, him playing with the tip.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Couldn't resist." He twirls it around and offers it to her.
She's not in the mood for his antics, so she pushes him aside and heads toward the showers.
"Hey!" he complains, chasing after her until they fall in step. "They said you weren't feeling great so I came here to getcha, you know, concerted again. Seriously, sorry for messing with you."
"It's fine," she says, and she knows she's being difficult and unfair, but being cold is easier, a nice little barrier in which to hide her frustration and anger, because being miserable isn't something she likes to indulge in, but it works.
Robin puts a hand on her shoulder. She stops.
"No, it's not," he says, and when Artemis look at him disbelievingly, wonders if he can read her mind—she wouldn't be surprised, get out, asshole, he explains, "You know we're not just a team, right? You're our friend."
She… She knows.
"And since you're my friend, you don't have to worry about my trusting you." He shrugs, no trace of a smirk or laughter. Instead he continues with a grimace. "You might have to worry about me getting upset when you are, though."
Something strange, something warm and embarrassing crawls into her chest, and Artemis turns to face him properly, this thirteen-year-old kid who is so weird and so different and so… so unexpected. Robin is always a surprise, snickering from shadows and stealing her shots, but how does he always manage to hit nails right on the head when he shouldn't even know they exist? What, was it something surgically installed by the Bat?
She guesses she's supposed to say "thank you" or maybe grunt or something now, but it's hard to voice what she's feeling through her wave of up-and-down thoughts. He tilts his head at her total lack of response, which is bizarrely cute, boyish charm prevailing. Which is also weird, because until recently Artemis has always thought of Robin as… well, Robin, the Boy Wonder, an enigma and legend in Gotham, so sometimes it's easy to forget that he's just a boy, just thirteen. Easy to forget that he's human and superpowerless like she is (unless unyielding charisma and getting along with Wally can be called a superpower). Easy to forget that she even knows him personally (is she allowed to say that?), because she remembers days in Gotham where she'd hear what the Batman and Robin did the night before, when she'd silently cheer them on, shaking under her paper-thin covers, remembers a time when Robin was unreal to her.
Maybe, she thinks, looking into his mask, there's a part of him that still is. Artemis is Artemis is Artemis. Robin is…
"Thanks," she finally mutters, and looks to the ground, because maybe his mask is intimidating, okay? She never knows whether she's looking into his eyes or not.
She's a little embarrassed, anyway. She hesitates before asking quietly, "How long were you watching me, anyway?"
"A while," he admits, shrugging, then turns to scan the area and the targets, like he's mentally recounting Artemis's progress, but backwards. He points one of them out. "Wally told me you were upset when I asked where everyone was, so I came to find you and you'd just gotten really into it. So I just watched you for a while." He lets that sink in before adding, sincerely, "You were awesome, by the way. I've never seen GA with that much raw concentration or passion or energy. You'd put Roy to shame."
"Is there a reason you're showering me with flattery?" She jerks her head in the direction of the cooler so he'll follow her for a drink.
He snickers. "I'm cajoling you."
"Some of us aren't human dictionaries, Robin."
He shakes his head with that grin like he's just shared a really good joke with himself, and rocks back-and-forth on his feet as she sips at her drink. He's playing with her arrow behind his back, too, like he's about to ask his parents for something and he's been a good boy and kept his grades up and everything, so can they please, please, just get him that new video game for Christmas?
"Spit it out," she says.
"Artemis, can I convince you to make up or make out with Wally already?"
Suddenly she's choking and Robin stands alert in case of an emergency—for example, her dying at the very idea of kissing, never mind making out with, Wally. The episode passes with some difficulty, but her eyes are wide and now she's not upset or sad or anything but entirely confused when she whirls on Robin and exclaims, "Where the hell did that come from?"
He puts up his palms defensively. "Just saying! You guys have this, like, tension. Does the phrase 'can cut it with a knife' mean anything to you?"
"W-We do not! He's too—Wally's too Wally for me to have anything with him!"
Robin laughs, motioning for her to calm down. "Alright, alright, relax. If you say there's nothing, I believe you."
Her shoulders slump. "Yeah, right."
"Hey, friends, remember?"
"Friends," Artemis repeats, nodding. She gets another cup full of water and offers Robin the same. He accepts her offer and they wind up sitting on the bench in silence, except that Artemis's thoughts trail on a train that starts with Wally and heads into life, to whatever love is, to boyfriends, to Gotham City. It's not an uncomfortable quiet—they're both thinking, it feels like—but there's something melancholic that stirs in her when she realizes they're both Gothamites and he doesn't—or, at least shouldn't—know that.
"—Artemis?" Robin breaks into her stupor, waving his arms in front of her face like he's been trying to catch her attention for some time now. Her head jerks up. "Lost in thought?"
"Sorry," she says. "I was just, um, thinking about what you said."
"Hmm?"
"About Wally." She hesitates before continuing, "...Even if he wasn't obnoxious, I don't think I could date him. I kind of… I've always thought I'd want a boyfriend from G—home." She pauses, wonders if she should go on, wonders why she's telling Robin of all people this, when she could just as easily talk to Zatanna about it later. But Robin's a good listener and it feels good to tell someone something personal for once, and… he's her friend, right, so she'll trust him a little, too. "Like… there's nothing wrong with being long distance and stuff, but I'd really like someone close by."
Someone she could crash with on a stressful night, someone she could just know's around, Zeta or not. Even if he is the fastest boy alive, even if he weren't annoying beyond all reason, Wally West is just too far away.
She looks up. "Does that make any sense?"
His expression is unreadable when he goes, slowly, "Someone from Star City, huh?"
It catches her off guard for a moment, what does Star City have to do with anything, but then looking into Robin's mask she remembers her own, and goes, "Yeah. Home."
He grins. She's getting tired of his grins and wary of what comes after them. With a dramatic sigh, he heaves himself up and stretches. Leans in close to her so there's a domino mask all up in her face when he asks, "You've thought about all this?"
Artemis rolls her eyes and pushes him away, but he ends up in a totally unnecessary backflip to regain his balance. Typical.
More laughter. "So, if I was from Star City,"—god—"any chance I'd be a candidate?"
A beat.
"What? Am I on a game show or something? You're way too young for me, Rob."
She regrets saying it the second it leave her mouth, because she sees the twitch, how for a moment he looks absolutely put-out. It's gone as quick as it comes, chased away by the boyish grin, and—she sees it now, how did she ever miss it?—the small bit of insecurity he holds behind it.
She snorts. "Are you even allowed to date, Birdbrain?"
Robin grimaces. "You know, hasn't actually come up. Not a conversation I'm looking forward to."
That makes her laugh, something true and full that brings the fluttery beginnings of a good mood.
"Hey," he says, spotting the improvement and leaping to capitalize on it, "Miss M was baking cookies when I got here." He proffers a hand. "You want?"
"Sure," she says, and accepts it. He pulls her up and there's an arrow in her palm when she lets go, but before she can say anything he's running down the kitchen, arms stretched like an airplane, laughter trailing behind him.