"Can I have this?"

I look over my shoulder to see Logan holding up some ceramic camel my mother probably bought to add some life to my apartment.

"Take whatever you want out of here," I say, gesturing to the living-dining area, "Just don't touch my room."

I watch as the kids scuttle around, putting things they think I'll need in boxes and emptying out the fridge. Jeremy and Gordon are competing for the cleaner's attention. A pretty, young girl who is trying to escape both of them.

The air holds awkwardness to it. Perhaps it is Mai glaring at me from across the room, still mad about the whole 'younger siblings being superheros' thing. It could be Hallow and Klover refusing to meet my gaze, out of shame or fear of my wrath.

Or, the big ringer; Richard Grayson and Tim Drake loading up whoever's car with pot plants to be taken to the house, flipping the chairs up on the table, carrying out the other heavy stuff I don't simply want to 'buy' in Gotham.

There are glints of disgust in both their eyes as Fantasia and Mai carry my rifles, assorted firearms and their mounts out of my room. I bet Richard Grayson doesn't want anything of the sort in his apartment. 

Think again, pretty boy. I like my guns where they belong.

"'Patra?" Logan calls out to me again using the name only he can use.

"What is it buddy?" I ask, sitting on the sofa and patting the spot next to me.

"When we get sick of mom and dad we can come here. That's what you said, right?" He asks, turning the camel in his hands.

"Buddy, when you're old enough to know why you're sick of them, you can come here anytime you want. Until then, embrace the fact that you are the youngest and therefore the most spoiled."

My youngest brother pouts as I pat his head and stand up.

"What about us?" Jeremy asks, gesturing to himself and the others. 

I scan them for a moment, and I know Grayson is watching. I take a few steps forward and point at each one of them.

"Yes," I point at Klover, "Yes," Jeremy, "Yes," Ignatier, "No way in hell," Hallow, "Nope," Gordon, "If you're good," Fantasia.

Ethan and Demitri aren't here.

"'If I'm good'? I'm nineteen," Fantasia responds dully, smacking her gum.

"Coulda' fooled me," Gordon says, which earns him a feisty comeback, which earns Fantasia a nasty chide, which earns Gordon a hurled travel mug.

All six of them erupt in a fight. Seizing the opportunity, I turn around and duck out of the apartment. I slide the balcony door open and slip out into the breeze by the pool.

As I move towards the right look-out the door opens again. I turn around to tell Logan he can't go in the pool, only to find my fiancé standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking all perfect.

He wears a tight smile, breathing through his teeth with a chuckle, "That's a lot of guns."

I could indulge him, but ignoring him might be all the more fun.

"You shouldn't leave him in there on his own," I say, nodding to the doors, "especially with Hallow there. She really wants him."

He chuckles- a real, actual laugh. 

I abandon the idea of walking over to the edge of the balcony and pitching myself off of it in favour of talking to him.

"You got a problem with guns?" I ask, folding my arms.

He breathes through his teeth again; an annoying, hissing sound. "Sort of," he says, hands still tucked away, "I mean, I am from Gotham."

The thought of laughing in his face and saying something like 'you think Gotham compares to Afghanistan? Iraq? Relasia?' crosses my mind.

Instead, I just shrug, "They're important and they're coming with me."

"Do you have permits for them?"

Do you have permits for the escrima sticks in your bag bitch? ...Is what I want to say.

"What are you? A cop?" I ask sarcastically, "Of course I do. I also have a licence to kill but it's not one I exercise much."

If he were a pretty rich boy who likes hot women and fast cars that would have him packing his pants. But Nightwing unmasked just laughs, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets.

Awkwardly, I look around the balcony, searching for any spark of conversation.

"Is the apartment in Gotham as big as this?" I ask.

He nods, "Bit bigger, pool, garden. I promise it's in our safest neighbourhood too."

My eyes flicker back to him to give him the dullest look of his life, but when I see him smirking I realise he is only kidding.

As if that is something an Elite gives a shit about. Mai, maybe, but not me.

"What about my assistant?" I ask. When he answers, he doesn't give any indication of doubt. So, even though it's likely they know she's my doctor, there's no reaction.

"She has her own studio down the street from ours. Will that suffice?"

I shrug, "Up to her."

When I look inside and search past my squabbling siblings, I can see Mai staring at me with hard eyes from inside. The urge to flip her off builds but I fight it down in favour of not looking like a dick in front of Grayson.

"Well, there's a week to go," he points out.

"Hooray," I drone, turning towards the pool and folding my arms, "Did you write your fake vows yet?

He shakes his head no, "You?"

"No," I nod to the apartment, "I'd get one of them to write it but it will come out sounding either way too sexual or way too cold."

"Yeah I think I'd try my luck with my foster sister, maybe."

Surprise overcomes me, "Sister?"

"Yeah," he nods, "She doesn't like the spotlight much. You'll get to meet her when you come to Gotham."

This just proves how good the Waynes are at hiding things. Even I, who did investigate them after I found out what was happening, didn't know.

"Anything you want me to say in the vows?" He asks.

Nothing.

"Make sure they know you pursued me," I say. He comes up beside me and leans on the glass railing for the pool. 

"That's lying."

I scoff, "It's all lying."

"True."

I suppose this is a better turn out than I could have asked for. I could have ended up with Jason for all I know; not a situation I desire.

Everything is counting on this working out. The words of future Nightwing, the takeover of my dad's company. Everything.

"Don't say anything hinting we know absolutely nothing about each other," I tell him, turning around to lean my back on the railing.

"We know some things about each other."

Oh, this'll be good. 

"Yeah?" I say, turning towards him. I shut my eyes, "What colour are my eyes?"

"Purple," he scoffs, "too easy."

"Easy, huh? Yeah?" I snap my eyes open. "Name a purple stone."

"Amethyst?"

"What's this?" I ask, pulling my hand into view and flipping it around, the gem twinkling in the setting sun.

"Sapphire."

"Mm, yeah," I nod, eyes wide.

"...Oh."

The look in his eyes shifts from confusion to embarrassment. He breaths through his teeth again and turns his head up to the sky.

"We listen to each other. Agreed?"

"Agreed," he says immediately. I decide to back off then, lowering my hands and taking a couple of steps away from him. "Do you want it replaced?"

I shake my head, "I don't care much about it. It just proved that you didn't listen enough, which I guess jut proves that you don't care either, which is a good thing. So I guess, in the end..."

"-We don't care," he finishes.

We meet eyes at the same time, lilac and cerulean, before we silently decide to go back in. Neither of us speak for the rest of the day.

◊

◊

"Have you contracted a venereal infection yet, Drake?" Damian demands as Tim pours a glass of juice from Damian's beloved carton.

"What kind of question is that?" He asks, hardly reacting to the younger's antics anymore.

"The Perich girl that advances on you daily."

"Are you jealous babybat?" Jason interrupts from the corner.

"-Tt, you are. Does Perich's fake bodyguard even know your name Todd?"

Dick sighs, pushing his face into his hands as the three of them start arguing. With Bruce off on a tedious dinner with Alan and Brittany Perich, the four of them are alone and riled up.

Notebook and pen in hand, he gets to his feet and silently travels across the room towards the balcony. Only when the door is shut behind him does he get any amount of peace.

Balconies. Much of his time today has been spent on one of these. His idiotic mistake was pointed out on one, and his first fact about the notorious Cleopatra Perich is being drawn from it.

Bruce's advice had been to document the little facts a normal file would not have on her in order to have backup should things come into question.

Dick flips open the first page of the dollar store booklet, titling the blank Fact #1.  

Adores guns. Keeps them in her room. 

It's nothing at the moment, but it could be something later. If there is one thing he has learnt in his time as a vigilante, it's that conclusions can be drawn from the strangest facts.

Fact #2.
Does not trust siblings Hallow or Gordon.

He's not sure why yet. Whilst promiscuous, her sister seemed kind enough. The boy seemed a little nonchalant, but it was clear to Dick they give Cleo the most grief.

Fact #3
Does not over-value material possessions, bar guns. 

Whilst her care for the firearms is clear, she has not shown much care for the ring, nor or the items of her apartment. She values her cats and her fake bodyguard. That is it.

When something loud breaks from inside the hotel room, he shuts the book with a sigh and turns around to appease the situation.

It's not much on the mysterious girl, but it's a start.

Entering the hotel room again, Jason is laughing as he ducks the knives being tossed at him from the kitchen by an enraged, blushing Damian.

Tim it seems has left the kerfuffle, instead sitting back at his computer leaning in too close and squinting too tightly.

"I've found something," he says when Dick stops next to him.

"What is it?"

"It's her files and the files of her squad members. Remember when I said they're fake?"

"Yeah?" Dick puts the notepad on the desk and leans next to Tim.

"They're not fake," he clarifies, "They're hiding the real files. She was an Elite, but perhaps not a Marine. This was a program run by none other than our good friend Amanda Waller."

On the screens above the desk, multiple images open up in the files Tim had just uncovered. Chills run down Dick's spine at the varying types. Some are profiles, some are evidence, some are gore.

"This one," Tim says, clicking on one of them, "is the one we should be focusing on."

Cleo is standing in the middle of the jungle with a man, surrounding by greenery and holding all types of weapons, unlike the man. He is wearing a trench coat, holding some otherworldly device.

"Hang on," Dick says, leaning it. "Is that...?

"Yep," Tim nods. "That's Rip Hunter."