If I wanted to lounge around all day, swim in the pool, do some work or watch Netflix, I could have just stayed home. But when you're forced into an Arranged Marriage with an absolute airhead who leaves you at the start of the Honeymoon, you end up doing all of that in Paris.

I can't exactly go out because people will ask Where is your husband? And what answer can I give that is not suspicious, because we're on our Honeymoon?

Grumbling to myself, I post a picture on Instagram. One of the fake ones we took the other day; cooking in the kitchen. It was great, because I got to throw flour on him to make it look like we were cooking.

In reality I can only cook pancakes and he can't at all, so....

More lies.

I miss my cats. I miss...my cats. I can't say I miss my family yet. I do miss the ocean and the sand.

After last time, Mai has refused to come here, but she has called every day to make sure I take my medicine. Since it's the most interesting thing to do all day I've been quite on top of taking my pills.

Throwing my mobile on the couch, I crawl over to the table, pick up the hotel phone and call for room service. I read over the menu and order two seafood mains and two chocolate-y desserts.

Without much else to do I shrug off my jacket under which I am wearing a swimsuit and slip into the balcony pool. 

Our apartment in Gotham will have one of these. Set in the balcony ripe for some nutjob of Gotham to poison. Poison Ivy or the Joker or Scarecrow.

I wonder how many of these days alone I will spend there? How many times will he leave me?

Whatever he is out there doing, it is something covert. There is no big news story about Nightwing or any other hero fighting a villain, or taking down an Empire.

It must have been pretty important seeing as he has been gone for almost a week. And I have yet another week left of Netflix, swimming and work.

Not fair really. At least when he's here things stay a little bit more interesting.

I imagine a life over the next few months living with him. We cross the street together, holding hands, heads bent wearing sunglasses. The paparazzi get a photo.

The elevator to our expensive home will open to us. We'll step through, still acting, until those doors slide shut. We let go of each other and step apart. I feel like I can breathe and he feels like he can move.

When the doors open again he turns to the left and I, to the right. We slip our rings off at the two decorative tables there in the same way that we drop our keys and wallets. 

I retire to the master bedroom where the California King bed resides. He is the opposite; a room believed by the outside world to be an office, but is only that on one side. On the other it is a guest bedroom with a Queen-sized bed he comes to collapse on at night.

I wake up first because I don't go out at night to protect the city. I eat my cereal (one of two things I can make), go for a swim, take a shower and get ready for work.

As I'm leaving he is emerging from his bedroom. We say a short farewell.

I'll eat a lot at work so that I won't be hungry when I get home. He'll eat at Wayne Manor. When we get home neither of us have to burn the kitchen down whilst attempting to cook.

I swim, he watches a movie. I watch Netflix and he's in the gym.

That will be our life.

That will be our marriage.

◊

◊

I get startled awake by noises out in the kitchen. The leather restraints around my wrists creak softly as I turn over, spitting my mouth guard out before slipping out of bed.

Releasing myself, I climb over the mattress and creep towards the door. I press my ear against it; it sounds like someone boiling the kettle.

Slowly, I press the handle down and pull the door open.

He hasn't turned the light on, but the image of Nightwing's armour outlined against the moonlight in the kitchen is clear. I watch him pour kettle water on a cloth, then directly press it against his neck.

The hiss of pain is sharp and loud. As if realising the risk he quickly looks over his shoulder in a panic. I remain frozen and he sees nothing that raises his suspicion.

He's hurt. 

A part of me wants to go out there and see just how badly. Perhaps it needs stitches. I have opiates he can take.

Instead, I watch as he takes deep, slow breaths, trapping the cloth on his neck before he begins clicking a series of latches. They seem to unlock together, allowing the armour to fall away. It clatters from his arms, torso and legs in three pieces, but he catches them first.

Then he is left in his spandex, which he wastes no time in hoisting off of his head, revealing a singlet underneath. After that he bends down a starts to take off his pants. I draw back then, realising I'm perving on a guy taking his clothes off.

I suppose I've seen all of him already, but there's something much more dark about the removing clothes being vigilante armour.

Especially since last time I was the one doing the removing.

When I look back he is wearing boxers and his singlet, groaning softly with the effort of picking up his armour. He must be in so much pain.

He slips them into a black suitcase by his feet. I wonder if that suitcase had been here the whole time, or if he had just brought it, when I realise he's coming this way.

No, no no, you're supposed to sleep on the couch buddy. 

In a mad dash I gallop back to the bed and dive beneath the covers, shuffling over to the side where my bounds hang loosely. There is not time to get them on as I wrestle the blankets over my body and face ditch myself into the pillow, turning away from him.

The door makes no sound but I can feel it opening. He does, when he steps across the carpet and shuts it behind him. I remain completely still, wondering if it looks like I literally just climbed back in.

"Cleo?" He whispers softly, "Are you...awake?" 

I'm not up for a midnight chat. Or a midnight anything, for that matter, so I don't respond.

I feel the bed dip and the pulling of the covers. He slides in with a soft groan reminding me that he is hurt. I want to offer to help, but at the same time I don't want to deal with him panicking and coming up with the lie as to how he got it.

With a relieved sigh his head hits the pillow, far away from me.

Far away from me.

◊

◊

Amazingly, I wake up first. I want to order breakfast, but waiting until he is up so the butler can see both of us might actually work a lot in our favour. No doubt the server is becoming suspicious of my husband's unwillingness to appear.

I don't want him to think that I murdered him or anything like that.

So instead I take a shower and change into a swimsuit before excitedly running out to the pool in the Paris morning. The water is cool, refreshing and somehow a lot less dull than it has been over the past few weeks.

I suppose I can credit that to Grayson being here.

Finding peace beneath the surface, I sink down to the bottom and hold myself there against the wall. 

Most people know their child is a water baby after their first bath. The child cries as it is taken from the warmth of the water. As toddlers they beg for a pool. As kids they are the last ones out.

Growing up by the beach you'd think all of my siblings were water babies, but a life of privilege had them worshiping the finer things. If anyone is most like me in that regard it is Logan, who adores yachting in the minutes our father can spare him.

Up above the water a figures ripples, leaning over the edge. I push off of the floor and break the surface, flicking my hair back and accidentally splashing water across Richard's shirt.

"Sorry," I say, not really looking at him out of guilt from last night.

"It's fine," he chuckles as I wring out my hair. I move over to the edge and fold my arms on the limestone, right next to where he has seated himself on a deck chair. "Have you been awake long?"

I finally look up at him to see he is wearing a pale blue shirt and white shorts.

"Half an hour or so," I say. My hair starts to get annoying on my shoulder, so I sink back down into the water again and emerge with it slicked down my back.

I wipe my eyes and pretend I don't see him watching very interestedly. 

"Are you ordering breakfast?" I ask. The menu is in his lap.

"Huh?" He finally draw his eyes from me to look down at the book.

"Distracted?" I tease, but he pretends not to hear me and starts reading over the menu.

"They don't have French Toast."

"Courtesy of my father," I respond, stretching to float on my back and stare at the sky. "He wants people to remember that they're in a luxury hotel owned by an American, I assume."

"Right..."

In my own head I must admit that I am showing off. Can you really blame me? I am, after all, supposed to be making him fall in love with me.

Yet I keep going back and forth on it.

When I straighten up again his eyes dart back to the menu.

"Bacons and Eggs?"

His posture has changed to leaning over the pool. He's still in his chair but on the edge of it more than sitting back. Having grown up with so many siblings, I see opportunities that some don't.

I come right up to the edge again and push up half way out of the pool, leaving inches between our faces as I remove the menu from his lap. He tries to keep cool, act natural. He doesn't draw away out of nerves and I give him kudos for that.

"Sure," I answer.

Then, in an act of pure evil, I reach up, place my arm around him like I'm about to kiss him. He leans into it and I yank him into the pool. I duck to the side as he gives a little gasp before crashing into the deep head first.

I have to laugh as I quickly swim half way across the pool.

He emerges laughing, which doesn't actually surprise me. He flicks his hair back and I have to look away because it's just too good. 

When I look back he's taking his drenched shirt off.

Well this is not going in the direction I thought it would.

It slaps on the limestone when he tosses it away.

Then we face off. He smirks, floating there because it's the deep end. I'm kneeling down in the shallows.

"You really want to take on an Elite in the water?" I challenge. 

He shrugs, "I'll take my chances."

Then he dives and pushes off of the wall, coming straight at me down the middle of the pool. As soon as he's close enough I spring up from my stance, vaulting myself out of the water, over his body and onto my hands behind him. I end up face first in the water but it means little to me as I crash down, submerging and swimming back to the deep end.

I turn around expecting him to be stunned in the shallows but he's already half way coming back towards me. I sink down and push off of the bottom of the wall, beneath him. When I come up I feel his hand wrap around my ankle.

My instinct is to kick him but that could be...counterproductive. 

So I let him drag me under. In fact, I sink down to his level. He lets go of my ankle and grabs my hand instead, pulling me the rest of the way until we're both sinking down to the floor. I realise he's holding onto one of the plugs, which keeps us grounded.

The blue paint makes everything the same colour. He looks paler and his hair fans out behind him.

And he smiles at me.

I smile back.

I can't let go of his hand because I'll float back to the top, so instead I link our fingers. He watches me do it curiously.

Suddenly, he lets go. I feel myself start to rise before he grabs my other hand and places it on the arm holding the floor. I don't understand why until he holds his other hand up, open.

I get it. 

With the hand he let go, I press our palms together. His fingers are just a little bit longer than mine and much thicker. My nails are covered in chipped polish from the wedding I haven't bothered to remove. Callouses are hard in four different places for him. For me they are on my fingers where the trigger has been.

Our eyes meet again.

There is something inherently romantic about being down here together. No noise, no distractions, just us.

It's magical. 

I remember him being the one to kiss me last time. So I draw my hand from his and place it on his neck instead. We're both about to drown, so I lean forward and seal our lips together as he lets go of the plug, rising us to the top.

When we break surface we have to separate for a brief second to breathe. No normal couple could have withstood that, but a trained Elite/Vigilante couple with the ability to hold their breaths for astonishing amounts of time, it's possible.

It is also possible for them to catch their breaths in less than a few seconds, before he's looping his arms around my waist and drawing me towards him. I put my hand back on his neck, the other on his shoulder and we're kissing again.