#rushfic

---

She is just so tired.

The worst part is the type of tired she is. It isn’t something that could be taken care of with a good night’s sleep or a strong cup of her mother’s herbal tea. It sinks marrow deep in her bones and stays there, clinging to her from the moment she opened her eyes to the second she finally drifts off into a fitful sleep.

The one thing that nullifies this aching pain was the rush. It’s exactly as she predicted, before she “died”. It’s a nice coping mechanism, she thinks. The hooks had gotten in, and she was only too happy to hop from the sadness to the smell of her own sweat and the symphony of bones breaking beneath her boots. She swears she’s not a sadist. At least she doesn’t think she is. But being Tigress as a hero isn’t too different from being Tigress as a villian, except for there’s a lot less time in an underwater tin can. Which is an improvement. But it’s also alarming the more you dared think about it.

Aquabad’s Tigress was brutal. And cold. And calculating.

It isn’t that Artemis (Kid Flash’s partner) wasn't brutal, because kicking people in the face had been her signature move. But Tigress wasn’t just a deadly fighter. She was ruthless in a way that Artemis never was.

And Artemis- the woman behind the mask- wasn't sure she minded the change. Her newly minted viciousness was a kind of catharsis.

So when Tigress went after her prey, she was committed to the hunt.

Drug rings were tricky. Not because they were all headed by some mastermind with an army of well trained hitmen. It’s because, given enough time, even the dumbest of ringleaders could spread his operation through seven different cities. It made tracking down all the morons a group project.

Artemis decided to handle it herself.

This particular ring wasn’t that big. It reached from Gotham to Bludhaven.

And speaking of Bludhaven.

---

Batman wasn’t as scary now that she was older. Or, maybe, it was because for once, he hadn’t been a comm call away, ready to fix everything. He hadn’t pulled them out of the fire with fancy tech or his brilliance. He hadn’t saved them. Not all of them. And now something about him wasn’t as omnipotent anymore. His cape wasn’t a piece of the starless Gotham sky, it was just some kind of synthetic Kevlar cotton blend or something.

So she could stand to sound irritable with him. Only fractional to the frustration she was actually feeling.

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is?”

“Just that,” Bruce didn’t give her the courtesy of his full attention, typing with one hand. The index and thumb of his other hand rested on the rim of a crystal cut chaser. The deep rosy liquid was half drained. She can’t remember ever seeing Bruce actually drink. Not counting Christmas of ‘14, because who hadn't been drinking that night?

“You don’t have tracers? GPS? A cellphone?” She can feel her knuckles straining, about to pop. Like her temper. She’s two seconds away from calling bullshit on Batman. She’s been called a spitfire once or twice, but that might be overstepping her boundaries. Especially if she wants his help.

“He requested I didn’t.”

And now she sees it. There’s a faint line formed in between Bruce’s brows. It’s a tiny crack in his blank expression. She knows all about how the Bats have a monopoly on poker faces, and Batman is the all out champion of impersonal expressions... So she also knows how bad it is.

“His last place was in Bludhaven, wasn’t it?” she asks. Her temper has cooled and her voice is softer.

Bruce nods. The frown deepens. But only slightly. “Will you look for him?”

Artemis shrugs, tugging open the door to his study. Exhaustion is sinking in again. She gives him a sardonic smile, stepping out of sight. “Everyone knows Nightwing’s aren’t migratory birds, Bruce.”

---

It takes longer than she thought to take care of the drug ring in Gotham. Pinkish blotches are bleeding over the harbor by the time she makes it to Bludhaven. Sunrise. She could’ve gotten there faster, but she had driven cautiously for once. For some wild reason, she thought a flash of blue would flicker into existence, to escort her into the city limits with a wry smile and messy black hair.

That might’ve happened before. It was wishful thinking now.

That’s what was bothering her. Maybe. She didn’t know.

The fact was that Dick had inspired her. Of course he did. He was the first sidekick. Or partner. However you cut it, he was the first. He’d forged the path and he never quit. He hadn’t quit when Tula... or Jason...

Now, just like when she looked at Bruce, Dick had diminished. That irrepressible trickster had finally bowed out. He’d endured through the countless crises and close calls, even the death of his teammates, but the universe or God had finally dealt him a hand he couldn’t manipulate to his favor. He folded and faded quietly out from everyone’s peripherals in typical Bat fashion.

And where was he? He is- was- IS Wally’s best friend. But he wasn’t there. With them. They only had each other to lean on. Artemis never pigeonholed herself as emotional. But lately, they gathered around the table just to talk. And it was helping. Zatanna’s smile had stopped looking like jagged glass. Conner sentences had stopped wandering off into nothingness. They were healing. M’gann still reached out for Artemis whenever her thoughts took a turn north into the Artic, but that was the whole point. They were there for each other.

Except him.

How could he cope?

Artemis had respected his pointed absence for months. But... her extended stay in Bludhaven isn’t exactly an accident.

---

“Artemis?”

“If you say it’s random to meet me here, I swear to God, Grayson.”

That earns her an amused smirk, which is slightly more comforting than his blank confusion.

“I could ask you about that State Spelling Bee,” he remarked. Artemis is looking for a falter in his tone. They all flinch when they reminisce on how good they had it back then. She’s annoyed that she detects none. But then, she’s dealing with a Bat. They will never play fair.

“N-O,” she replies. But she runs a hand through her hair, a clear sign of her discomfort. She doesn’t want to fall into a memory loop. Those memories can stay buried (if only they had a body). “I came here to talk about you.”

Dick looks at her. Really looks. Artemis feels raw and angry, but bites her lip and lets him look.

“You look good, ‘Mis,” he says finally. There are circles under his eyes and his hair is shaggy and unkempt and is this man really two years younger than her?

“Can it,” she snaps, because it scares her, how old he looks. It’s in direct conflict with their impromptu spelling bee. The Dick Grayson of mathletes and D-R-A-G’s is gone. Now he’s filled out and become meaner and more angular. Not in an entirely bad way. But hedging around a scary way.

“As the lady wishes,” Dick shoots back, complacent. There’s a maddening expression on his face, an impression of Batman’s impassive stare, but Artemis can sense the amusement behind it. His lighthearted attitude is getting on her nerves.

She stalks toward him, hand still stuffed in the pockets of her windbreaker. He stands immediately, setting his lunchbag on the bench. Little Dick Grayson bringing his bag lunch to eat in this shithole of a park. How cute.

“What the hell is your problem?” she hisses lowly. She crowds him, leaning upward, into his face. She wants him to take back what he said. She’s not looking good. She maintains personal hygiene. But she’s got her own shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes. And if he looks real close, he might see how completely shattered she is on the inside. Like someone punched through a pane of glass, and the leftover glass is jagged and sharp and brittle.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Dick responds, almost angrily. Of course, when he stops being an emotionless freak, he starts being an irritable jackass. “Since you clearly have an answer in mind.” He folds his arms, hands brushing her stomach. She ignores them, too riled to think about things like human contact and isolation.

“Don’t play stupid,” she growls. She suddenly doesn’t want to do this. Emotions are messy. She has far too many of her own choking out her heartbeat to try and fix Dick. She should’ve just laid low, beat the bad guys, then left.

Instead she went looking for him. Bludhaven wasn’t big enough to hide the son of Bruce Wayne. Not from her.

Dick’s expression is unimpressed. But Artemis doesn’t want to impress him. She wants to hug him if he wants it and talk about Wally if it’ll help. It’s helped her. Hugging Kaldur and mourning over the many walls with a Wally-shaped imprint on them had helped her so much. Dick couldn’t be coping. Not alone. Could he?

“Humor me.”

God, she hates that neutrality. The apathy.

It isn’t fair. Because she knows Dick Grayson. She saw the way he reached out to every new member of the Team. She knows he spars with La’gaan when no one else volunteers. He doesn’t comment when Blue had muttered to himself. And don’t even mention his successors. He was like a mother hen with the Robin’s.

He cares. But why doesn’t he care now?

“My problem,” Artemis begins. But she doesn’t know where she’s going. So she casts her gaze around them. Bludhaven’s grimy and dark everywhere, opposed to Gotham, which has the glamour of the Palisades and the Business District. It’s really filthy. And she doesn’t know why Dick choses this place when he has the world at his fingertips and Zeta beams to get there.

Dick stares hard at her.

And she still has to stamp out that little part of her that marvels. Part of her mind still has the gall to feel honored to know what color irises are behind Nightwing’s mask. It’s annoying. But that’s how much it means to her. Even after all this time.

“It’s you, okay?” Artemis blurts. Screw tact. Leave that to sneaky bastards. Like Dick.

She almost misses his reply. “Some specificity?” Dick says. His voice is hollow and whispery. She can’t tell if he knows why she’s really here in this god awful place. Does he know how fucked up he is? Does he even know where to start?

His eyes look huge and wet.

That only makes her angrier. If he cries... He should’ve cried. He should've-

“You should've been there,” she screams.

The world must’ve stopped to listen. There is nothing but silence. No cars. No birds. She can’t even feel herself breathe.

Dick reaches up a hand, maybe to rake his fingers through his dark hair. But then he drops his arm, gripping his elbows tightly. Is he shaking?

“You should’ve been there,” Artemis repeats. She glowers. She can feel the lightning in her eyes. The crackle of heat and electricity. “He is- he was- What kind of man calls himself a best friend and doesn’t even show up to the funeral?”

He’s definitely trembling. She can see it through his jacket. But he’s face is that same damn mask. Not the black arches that hide his secret identity, the blank expression that hides HIM. She thinks she sees tightens around the eyes. Maybe hope isn’t lost. Maybe she can reach him.

“I- And then you just,” she can’t get enough air into her lungs. It’s like they’re being crushed. Forced through a trash compactor. “You left. Dick, he died for us. And you’re just going to quit?!” She gasps, lightheaded. It feels good to air out these festering thoughts of hers.

It takes her a moment, but she reorients herself.

There’s wetness sliding down Dick’s face. It catches the afternoon sun, clinging to his jawline. He can’t maintain eye contact. He’s shaking so hard, clutching himself so hard, he’ll bruise.

“You two left us.” He twists her words around. Trying to protect himself, grabbing for something to hold onto. To pull the famous razzle dazzle show that is so typical of Dick Grayson, so he recollect himself and put that ice cool facade back into place. Not this time. Artemis is determined to break him down. She doesn’t understand why she needed to. But she feels more and more desperate watching tears slide down his face. He’s trying to keep his expression blank, despite the wetness spilling down his the planes of his cheeks.

“We were going to come back,” she tells him. “How could you think we’d be gone for good? You... moron.”

Dick hiccups. It might’ve been a laugh. The mask is crumbling. It’s beautiful. Or it would be, if it wasn’t so horrifying.

“I... I wanted you two back so bad, ‘Mis,” he admits. He has no right to sound like that. Like a child afraid of the dark. Like a frightened child, watching his parents plummet through the bright lights into the depths of the center ring. “I c-couldn’t. I-I wanted you both back. But I didn’t for mean it- for THIS,” he shakes harder, arms tensed and straining against his jacket. He looks hollow and empty, pouring out raw emotion. Finally. “I didn’t expect him t-to. Oh God. Oh God. It shouldn’t’ve been Wally. It shouldn’t... He shoul- I-I.”

Artemis rushes him, cradling him in her arms. He’s taller, but he sags bonelessly into her embrace. He’s hands are still vices on his own biceps, but his chin hooks her shoulder when he bends slightly. She strokes his hair. God, he’s a moron. But she’s there.

Slowly, slowly he relaxes enough to unlock his arms and slide them around her waist. They cling pathetically to each other for a very long time.

It’s only later, when she sees her reflection and her puffy eyes, that she realizes she was crying just as hard as him

---

Tigress is in rare form tonight.

That nap probably had something to do with it. Artemis sleeps hardest after sobbing grossly all over her boyfriend’s best friend. Which... makes him her best friend, now.

She’s tracking down her prey with stunning efficiency. She tracks down the final group of armed thugs. That’s when things veer unexpectedly off course.

The Bludhaven PD is already on the scene, setting up a barricade around a warehouse. Artemis assumes that the perps are holed up nice and tight in there. She can slip behind enemy lines and take ‘em out from there. But she’d rather not get drilled full of holes.

She addresses one of the officers. One with a walkie talkie.

“I need you to tell your men to hold fire.”

The man starts, eyes wild. Artemis gets some satisfaction from that. She understands why it so fun for Robin (her Robin) to play in the shadows.

Then she starts.

He’s dressed in a slightly rumpled uniform, a silver badge pinned proudly on his breast. But she couldn’t forget those eyes ever. They’re still a little red from their cryfest earlier.

“You think you could do that for me, Officer Grayson?” she purrs. Looks like she was wrong. Dick doesn’t stop fighting the good fight, just because he’s not in a skintight bodysuit. She’s grinning, she can feel a ridiculous smile on her face. She shouldn't, but she feels proud of him.

She feels less stupid about it, though, when Dick matches her smile with a smirk of his own.

Things suck. Wally is dead.

But they’ve started healing. And this time, “they” doesn’t exclude Dick. They’ll get through this. Dick, Conner, Megan, Kaldur, Zatanna, and Artemis.

So maybe things suck a little less than they could.

“It’d be my pleasure, Tigress.” Dick tips his hat. Forever the gentleman. There’s life in his face, as opposed to that unholy blank mask. His eyes dance. They’re... not mirthful. But they’re just shy of playful.

Quickly, she reaches out. Cups his cheek, strokes his nose with a finger. She just needs to... reassure him. Or herself. She needed to touch.

“I’m counting on you,” she warns, withdrawing. She’s got her grapple in her hands. And she can see that yearning buried beneath Dick’s simple glance.

Maybe there’s more meaning behind her words than she thought. Dick squeezes her arm, with a really earnest look on his face. It must be the cop getup. “I’ll come through for you,” he promises.

Something in her gut twinges.

Yeah. They’re healing. They’ll get through this. Together.

"Yeah?" Conner's voice was bleary. Tim could imagine his hair sticking up, the unnatural blue so exclusive to Kryptonians just barely peeking out from beneath his half lidded eyes. Wait. No time for imaginings. This was serious.

"Hi, Conner," Tim fidgeted, thankful that Green Beetle's telekinesis probably couldn't pick up how squirmy he was all of a sudden. "It's, uhm. It's Robin." He paused, trying to figure out how to phrase his request.

"Hi, Robin." There was a shuffling, blankets shifting near the receiver. "Back from the mission already?"

A tiny smile threatened to break his stoic expression. The worrying bit was Tim didn't know why.

In the background, Jaime was having a three pronged argument with the Scarab and Bart about the necessity of turning his armor into a personalized entertainment system.

"Ah, no," Tim's discomfort level multiplied- possibly exponentiated (was that a word? ...if it wasn't, that counted as creative thinking, right? Dick would be proud.)- when he sensed Arsenal turn his attentionaway  from the endless corn blurring beneath their feet. The archer (or mercenary?) was sneering in his direction, Tim could feel it. He stuttered slightly over the line, trying to regain his composure. "Uhm, y-you have a place in Smallville right? You- I remember you mentioning it, once."

Silence.

Tim fretted his bottom lip, tugging at it with his teeth. Had he gone to far? That conversation had been somewhat personal. Maybe he wasn't supposed to mention it. He waited.

Then Tim heard the slide of fabric against skin. "Sorry, had to find my shirt." And. And that meant Conner slept shirtless. At least sometimes. Excellent. Just another harmless fact to file away for later analysis. "Uhm, yeah. I think Ma and Pa'd be okay with it. Sending coordinates."

---

MONTHS EARLIER.

---

"'Hello Megan!'" Tim hovered by the arm of the couch, shades reflecting the pep filled girl onscreen. "I... didn't know you were a fan?"

Conner looked up, smiling a little. There was something fundamentally pained about the expression, so Tim automatically knew he had accidentally crossed a line. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from twisting them together.

"Not really," the Superboy said, shrugging broad shoulders. "Got a specially commissioned DVD set for Gar's birthday. Just thought I'd... watch them." Megan hugged Conner onscreen, so Tim pretended not to notice the tension gathering around Conner. His Conner. Er, the Conner not on screen.

"Gar must've loved it," he said, as casually as he could, boldly taking a seat next to to the other boy. Conner looked at him, questioning, before slouching back into his seat. It made Tim want to correct his posture and straighten out all the wrinkles in his shirt. But he simply sat still, head turned at an angle where he could be plausibly watching the TV and not Conner.

Superboy snorted, affectionate. "Yeah. He did. Wouldn't shut up about it for weeks." The thing about Superboy that Tim liked and admired wasn't his boundless strength. It was his boundless strength in conjuncture to his soft heart. While not as vocal and tactile as Wally had been or Bart was, Conner was just as feeling. "M'gann loved it too," he continued, eyes misting over, remember a better time. (And a time with no Tim.)

Tim's hands tightened in his pockets. "Oh?"

"Yeah, we'd watch marathons up in the barn in Smallville. The one place with a working VHS." There was another fond smile on his lips. It twinged something in Tim's chest, despite his attempt to remain objective. This a very personal matter, meaning Tim shouldn't feel anything than the standard sympathy and support. He didn't want to endanger their new friendship. "Martians love television," Conner confided, smirking slightly.

Tim felt a rush of emotion, like adrenaline or anger, shot through him. "As I'm sure you've found from Dick and my predecessor-" Tim couldn't quite say his name. "-Robins love TV too."

Conner studied his face, brows quirking upward in appraisal. Or surprise. Tim usually wasn't this brazen. But after a second, he smiled, relaxing into the cushions. "Sure. I'm on the second episode. We can do a marathon."

Tim didn't like TV. Didn't have time for it. He read some spoilers and synopsis's so he could participate in social side conversations at school and with the Team, but that was it.

And yet somehow, the eight hour Hello Megan marathon didn't seem remotely like a waste of time. Tim actually felt happier in than he had in a long time. He didn't even mind cleaning up the debris from the miniature Cheeto war that had broken out somewhere during episode nine.

--- 

PRESENT DAY.

---

It was a nice surprise that Superboy, along with Nightwing, was at the Kent Farm when Alpha Squad arrived. Kon even clasped his shoulder. Tim knew it was just a friendly gesture, but he recorded the sensation of Conner's heat and strength. Just for future reference.

"Martians love TV," Tim said. And Conner's gaze predictably snapped to fix on him. Tim smiled, remembering their conversation. 

There was an admittedly horrible moment, when Conner's eyes darted toward the loft, to the TV and VHS gathering dust there. No doubt, wistfully running through his memories of M'gann and marathons. Tim feared he said the wrong thing in the context of him and Kon, no matter how appropriate it was in reference to Green Beetle.

She wrenched back his shoulder, fingers crushing the skin, making him bruise. Even through armor plates. It’d been a long time since she’d touched him, comforting or otherwise; he could remember her hand on his back, a small gesture of support, when Batman had reprimanded him more severely than usual. He couldn’t remember an exact time frame, though; those memories didn’t seem to belong to him, misty and unclear. They were from some spindly boy full of arrogance and confidence. Not a man, back bowed with regret and blame. “Talk to me,” she commanded, her blonde hair falling over her face as she leaned earnestly toward him, grip tightening, maybe to ground him (there was focus through pain). Or maybe to keep him from running. Even though that was Wally’s thing, he thought spitefully. The burn of his anger quelled immediately beneath weighty resignation, his frown slackening back into a blank slate, for her to analyze and misconstrue as she pleased. Her perfect brows wrinkled thoughtfully as her cool eyes darted across his face, attempting to disassemble his smooth facade. Suddenly Dick smiled at Dinah; it was something shattered, but beautiful.

She tensed instantly, wary, but still determined to save him. He’d unburdened his heart to her. He had admitted his insecurities, his failure, and she had told him it’d be okay. She had told him that he was Dick Grayson. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t Batman. And however childish it had been, he had believed her. Every step he had taken, he always had her words to fall back on. For years, her words were his reassurance. As he forged a new identity, he clung to illusion- the one she helped create- he was taking a step away from the shadow of the Bat. Hindsight, as always, was harsh reality; the only thing separating him from Batman was the cape and cowl. “Hurting?” he repeated, icy and terrible. She flinches, fingernails biting his skin. He really ought to reinforce the suit to prevent this happening again. Not that he’d allow her to get this close after tonight. It was just bad luck that she had caught him, alone, at the Cave. The rest of the Team had left hours ago. “Try traumatized,” his voice constricted, words quiet, breathless, and bone tired. To her credit, she did not waver the second time. “Artemis’s death wasn’t your fault,” Dinah said fiercely, blue eyes earnest. Dick wanted to shy away from that radiant warmth, the resolute conviction in her voice. She believed in him. Still. She'd watched him spiral downward in fits and false starts (but he'd ended up in hell, because of his good intentions) and she believes that that child, with his slumped shoulders and stammering confessions, could grow into something wholesome.

When in fact, he was lying to the Team, to her, to the League. Her simple faith in him ate at his conscience like a parasite, sapping the life from his veins. It would hurt, to see the realization dawn on her face, on everyone's faces when they knew  the truth. But Dick would never blame Bruce for how he turned out. He couldn't even blame Gotham, in all her glorious damnation. He could only blame himself. "Yes it was," he replied hoarsely, letting the regret weigh down his shoulders. The remnants of his smile was a pained grimace. When Dinah shook her head, intent on protest, he couldn't stand to hear any defense of his innocence. He didn't deserve it, any of it. His reality was a hellish dream that didn't disperse when the sun came up. And... he deserved it. Artemis didn't deserved choosing between life as a double agent and something happy and innocent. Wally didn't deserve the omnipresent sense of helplessness. Kaldur didn't deserve the dizzy mix of fear and hatred from his former friends. But he deserved this. All the guilt and worry and pain and doubt. There was no defense for what he's done. In the name of the Mission. "Yes. It was."

---

"Dude, you sound plugged up," Wally remarked offhandedly, throwing a tennis ball at the wall.

Lazy Sunday's were the best. Partially, because BC and Bats gave 'em a day off (unless a world crisis came hopping along), and partially, because the Team kinda gravitated toward the Mountain. It was unofficial hang out day. Which translated to time plotting the semantics of an actual Dorito bath with Dick. Approximately twenty eight bags of Nacho flavored Doritos would be needed to fill up the Wayne Manor's master bath. Twenty-eight bags, and, balls of steel. If Batman caught them... Wally mentally shuddered at the thought.

"What?" Robin remained dead focused on his laptop, shoulder blades wedged into the corner between the bed and the wall. Wally doubted that anyone but Dick Grayson found that position remotely comfortable. Still, it wasn't Dick's insanely bendy limbs that captured the speedster's attention today.

It was that distracting, phlegm-iness of Dick's voice that had Wally tripped out. The fifteen year old always assumed that Batman had given instructions on how to defeat all his enemies, including microorganisms. The idea that Robin, the Boy Wonder, had the sniffles was kinda satisfying. But also completely endearing. Er, in the bro-iest way possible.

Wally's wrist snapped forward, and the tennis ball whizzed through the air. "I said-" he noted how Robin winced when the ball impacted the wall, before catching it effortlessly, "'you sound like you've got a terminal case of the sniffles'. Bro, seriously. Blow your nose," Wally continued pleasantly, simply tossing and catching the tennis ball now. "You're grossing me out."

"Busy," Dick replied. The corner of his mouth twitched up, into a smirk. Usually that spelled trouble, but in the washed out glow of his laptop, Dick kinda looked sallow.

"What could possibly be more important than my mental wellbeing?" Wally groused, nudging Dick's leg with his shoe. He mouthed along with Dick's answer, with a practiced roll of his eyes.

"Generally? Everything." Dick must've spotted Wally's blatant eyeroll, because without a second's hesitation, Wally fell hard on the floor, rubbing at his elbow.

"What the hell, dude?"

Dick leered down at him from the floor, laptop balanced precariously on his knees. "I just gave you, Wallace West, my peon, a catalyst. If you're so concerned with my nose, then go get me a tissue box." With a lofty snort, the thirteen year old fell back into his original position, resolutely tapping the keyboard.

Wally pouted. His eyes widened and his bottom lip quivered. The patented West Pout could break hearts and make miracles.

If only Dick would look at him.

After a minute, Wally's face muscles were cramping and Dick had resisted his charms. Heaving himself to his feet, Wally made a big show about leaving. He fussed his way out the door, then let it slide shut behind him. That was one con to life at the Cave. These doors just didn't make a dramatic door-slamming possible.

---

Conner's eye was naturally drawn to M'gann. Even in the mess of people crowding the bleachers, he could see her. Her cheeks dimpled prettily as she waved at him, surrounded by the cheerleading squad. He felt his stomach twist pleasantly as he ducked out of the dugout, wiping the nonexistent sweat from his brow.

He hadn't really wanted to play baseball. But the coach for football was friends with the coach for baseball and somehow that meant that Conner Kent was gonna play baseball willingly or not. Still, it wasn't so bad. At least with baseball, Conner didn't have to worry about mowing down his teammates in practice. The most they did in baseball training was sprint the bases and play endless games of catch. Catch ended up being disappointingly boring in comparison to the version he had played with Wally; the speedster had encouraged him to hurl the ball over county lines.

Shuffling his bag to his opposite shoulder, he parted the waiting crowd loitering outside the baseball diamond. He felt his lips curve into a small smile as the path to Megan cleared. His classmates and teammates and parents and fans had figured out his post game ritual by now.

Pink was starting to highlight the delicate curve of Megan's cheek as Conner strode determinedly forward, but she beamed at him, skipping forward in her sandals. Kon's hands landed firmly on M'gann's hips, her hand sliding into his soft hair, cradling the back of his head.

Today, she's dressed in a loose fitting dress. The fabric clung to the curves of her hips but it wasn't provocative. It was just... beautiful.

He gathered himself to tell her just that, but she interrupts him. Her dark eyes flickered down to his mouth, then back up, so brown eyes met blue. Then she leans in, pressing her lips against his, sweet and chaste. Conner swallows his words roughly, wrapping his arms around her more securely, loving the light weight of her in his strong arms.

Catcalls start ringing out from the crowd. His teammates, mostly. They're loud and noisy, whooping like monkeys (Conner almost frowns at the mental comparison, but doesn't) but since Megan is here, he's not even slightly annoyed. He considers it a personal achievement.

Aware that several pairs of eyes were watching, Con lifts Megan by the waist and twirls her, just so he can feel her smiling against her mouth. She laughs, and it sounds surprised but happy, so it makes his heart flutter like the winds of a joyful bird. Her breath hiccups slightly when Conner gently puts her down again.

Her blush has deepened to a candy apple red, and Conner is reminded of her hair and her lips and he really wants to kiss her again. Unfortunately, PDA can land him in detention (again), and while it's worth kissing Megan, he doesn't like explaining his tardiness when detention clashes with Canary's training sessions. It's not like Canary doesn't know he and Megan kiss, it just none of Canary's business.

So he let's Megan lean away from him. She smiles at him, shyly smoothing his rumpled button down with her fingertips. Almost impulsively, he stoops down to kiss her again. He forgot he was wearing his hat this time, and ended up bumping her forehead with the bill.

Megan giggled, and it was musical and nice, but Conner still felt sheepish, if the heat prickling up his collar was anything to judge by. Carefully, she readjusted his cap so it was backwards. Her ruby red lips pursed thoughtfully before she laughed again.

---

To: mis<3 11:32pm 

you owe me $$$$$

To: the asster master 11:34pm

you clearly have the wrong # so sorry

To: mis<3 11:37pm

no no, i'm pretty sure this is the number to a Ms Artemis Crock's cellular device. 342, Apartment 4, McCartney Ave. Gotham, NJ. :D

To: the asster master 11:39pm 

creep :P

To: mis<3 11:40pm 

;D

To: mis<3 11:40pm 

no srsly. check it. traught is a word

To: the asster master 11:41pm

pass. I got better things to do

To: mis<3 11:42pm 

you're hunting down your dictionary rn :D

To: the asster master 11:44pm 

like hell if I'm gonna take your wood for it

To: mis<3 11:44pm 

my wood .---.

To: the asster master  11:45pm 

WORD I meant word!!

To: mis<3 11:46pm 

sure you did ;)

To: the asster master 11:47pm

shut up I'm trying to learn

To: the asster master 11:54pm

HAR HAR HAR

msg att:

To: mis<3 11:55pm

HAHAHA

To: mis<3 11:56

and the good lady says? i did mark geniune, yknow.

Contacts_the asster master_edit_name: <"my boy blunder"> SAVED! 

To: my boy blunder 11:58

...yes. ok. 

To: my boy blunder 12:00am