I watch him sleep from my seat on the plane.

My father wanted to measure his dick against Bruce Wayne's in materialistic form. Since he rushed off to cry about how we have betrayed him, we are on the Wayne's jet instead.

Bigger, better, apparently.

Across from me Richard Grayson is fast asleep. I'm tired and drunk as well, but the last thing I want to do is sleep in front of him. I'm not tied up for my and his own safety, plus, I could have a nightmare.

So, I take a shower and change into some plain clothes, fighting the urge to simply tear the silver dress off.

After that I pick up the remote to the entertainment screen and flick through the available shows. In the end, I pick Gordon's favourite show Rick and Morty.

Two weeks in Paris. It's an abnormally short honeymoon, but we can make the argument that we both 'work' at such 'big' companies.

The flight is seven and a half hours; something I really, really should have better prepared for. Only three have passed and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. It's been a big day, waking up from medicated sleep via an adrenaline shot followed by lots of alcohol.

If only I had that adrenaline now.

One thing that makes this journey a little bit more doable is him sleeping. When we boarded I checked the news and somehow Nightwing and Robin were present at an attack in Jump City earlier that morning.

Funny, that. Whether they use Darkseid's boom-tubes or some other device I'm not sure, but I wish we could have used that instead of this slow process. It also explains why he is so tired. He literally had a massive fight before the wedding.

I slip in and out of consciousness as the episodes pass. All together the two seasons basically cover this flight. The attendant comes in and offers food. I don't know if she's suspicious of the lack of love or paid to not notice. Either way, she's just as fake as us.

My favourite episode of this show is strangely the one concerning the most romance. Auto Erotic Assimilation, starring the main character's ex-girlfriend. Somehow it leads me to find myself staring at Grayson. He's still wearing his tux, which is gross. He is slumped back in the gargantuan chair with his legs hanging down to the floor, his arms wrapped around himself and his head tipped back.

It's almost...cute.

Almost. 

He wakes up four episodes later, suddenly, sitting up in a rush like he's had a nightmare. 

I barely glance at him.

The words 'Remove my penis!' bursting from the TV screen catches his attention. Dazed he swivels around in his seat and looks at the screen, before turning back to me.

He groans as he rubs his eyes, "How long was I out?" He asks.

"Well the flight has just over an hour left, so about six hours," I answer plainly. 

"Jeez."

It takes his sleepy self a while, but eventually he gets to his feet and stumbles over to the bathroom for a shower, either completely wasted or really hungover. 

Unfortunately I think I've sobered up.

Unwilling to enjoy anything like media with him, I turn the show off and put the news on. For some strange reason I actually find myself observing my own appearance in the mirror. That alone makes me cringe.

When he comes back out I refuse to look at him. He smells good though and that merely makes everything worse. 

"Have you slept?" He asks, sitting back down across from me.

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"No."

"Uh...okay."

Oh jeez. 

We accidentally make eye contact which reminds me of our disaster first date at the beach restaurant.

"Mr Grayson, you're awake!" The plastic chirpy attendant comes out of her hole, striding up to stand in the wide aisle beside us. "Is there anything I can get you or you, Mrs Grayson?"

Immediately I hand over an answer and most devastatingly, so does he. 

"More wine," we both say, looking up at her in startling unison.

Great, this is literally the first date.

The attendant still has that same silly bright smile on her face as her head flicks backwards and forwards between us. She's like a barbie doll watching a tennis match.

"Wine! Of course. Red or-"

"White," I say before he can. He merely nods his approval.

"Okay!" Malibu struts away and I'm surprised that his eyes don't follow her behind.

Instead he turns and starts to neaten up the blankets and carefully fold his suit into the next seat, almost methodically. I know the process because I used to do it; if you destroy for a living, everyday things can become soft and creative.

"So what's the plan?" I ask, suddenly levelling with him, "You mentioned something about leaving?"

"Uh, yeah," he says uh a lot. A nervous habit. He has had to break a lot of bad news to a lot of good people. Such is the life of a hero. "I don't know when or for how long but yeah, I might have to go at some point."

I fight the disappointment down. When we danced, I was a silly little girl in a magical love land.

"We can take some photos when I am there and then I can post them to the social medias so it looks like-" He cuts himself off, obviously distressed on what to say and how to put it.

It's funny enough to make me chuckle shortly, "It's fine. I get what you mean." Female Ken comes back and places two open bottles and two glasses down.

"Just leave them here, thank you," Grayson says, moving forward in his seat. Note to self; he doesn't treat his staff like slaves. Good to know. He takes a glass and starts pouring himself some as she retreats again.

"So what kind of photos actually make it look like a happy honeymoon?" I ask, mirroring his actions.

"I suppose we do what we normally do, just...with each other?" He tries to explain. I stare at him dumbly as I lean back and start drinking.

"Like?" I frown. 

He takes another sip and squints as he thinks, staring up at the roof. It's...annoying. Yeah, annoying.

"We can go in the pool together 'cause you like swimming. Maybe I can post a picture of you in the pool," he suggests brightly.

I drain the glass.

"You wanna' swim together?" I clarify, not looking at him, reaching for the bottle instead. The thought of being in our private hotel pool together, me in my usual minimal wear and him shirtless is...This isn't enough poison.

"Yeah," he answers.

I snort, "You'll need more wine than this," I say, holding my glass up.

He smiles back at me. People should not have teeth that white when they're vigilantes. Do vigilantes actually have time to brush their teeth, or...?

"What about bed-selfies?" He suggests. There's a joke in his tone. The little crease in his eyebrows it what prompts me to play along.

Fall in love. 

"Sharing a bed are we?" I respond with a smirk, staring down at my wine. "We'll really need a lot more of this then."

"Oh, so that's what it's going to take, huh?" He asks. 

I nod, "It's inevitable. If this were a shitty book about an arranged marriage, the author's only choice is to get us drunk for the good stuff."

He shrugs, "Sex sells."

I draw back with a gasp, "Who said anything about sex? I was obviously talking about bed selfies."

"You're right," he nods, "It's too soon for the sex."

"I don't know," I pour myself another glass, "This is the Honeymoon, right?"

"Right."

"And we have alcohol."

"We do," he agrees, tipping his own now. 

"Doesn't have to matter." 

"No it doesn't."

"We are husband and wife."

"Yes, we are-" He suddenly stops with a faux gasp, like a genius idea has come to him. He points over his shoulder at the bathrooms, staring at me with wide eyes. "We could join the mile high club."

That's it for me.

I lose out and start laughing. He wins the game. What an idiot. 

"As if you're not already part of the mile high club," I snort, shaking my head into my glass.

He pulls an overly-offended face, "You dare question my maidenly virtue?"

"Virtue?" I exclaim, staring at him, "On what planet, Mars?"

"You believe the tabloids," he pouts. Not in a cute way, in a scary way.

"Stop, you're ruining your face," I cringe, holding my hand up to block his expression from view.

"Oh," he says, forming a hot smile, "So you like my face."

"In your dreams," I roll my eyes.

He nods, "In my dreams you do like my face."

"So you admit you dream about me?"

We share a smile.

It feels good to let go, especially with someone I had been so apprehensive around. Hearing the sound of my own free laughter not being in vain or at my own pain is kind of nice.

And so is his.

I need more wine.

◊

◊

We hold hands as we walk through the private airport and I realise on our way through customs that I don't want to let go. The hold has me feeling grounded and...braver. 

Occasionally he makes little jokes, whispering them into the space between us. Every time I laugh I'm reminded of how wasted I am.

Outside a limo from our hotel rolls up.

"What's with the name?" he asks with a snort, reading the hotel plaque on the side of the car.

"My dumbass father trying to be worldly," I tell him. The driver gets out and greets us, taking our bags and placing them in the boot of his limo. 

As we get into the back seats, Dick holds an air of suspicion.

"What's wrong? Does he look as drunk as us?" I ask as I shut the door behind us.

Grayson shakes his head with a nervous chuckle, "Bruce kind of made me suspicious. If a limo isn't driven by our butler, I don't really trust it."

To anyone else, that may sound crazy. However even I have been skeptical of anyone I don't know. You ask yourself, do they know me? Are they here completing a contract on my life?

I've never checked but I imagine my bounty is quite high.

"Have you been to Paris before?" He asks as we start driving away. My hand is cold.

"When I was a child. My mother is French. You?" I already know the answer. Nightwing helped out like many heroes here in Europe after another typical maniacal super villain attack.

"Yeah, a few years ago I think," he says, looking me directly in the eye now. I hear a Disney song playing in the back of my head, murmurs about 'something being there that wasn't before'.

Ignatier justifies love as the person you look at who makes you feel music. Then again, she might have just snuck some of Hallow's shrooms. 

Either way, this is what Rip wanted me to do. I have to make this relationship work. And the best way to do that is, well, carefully. My confidence boost came with the alcohol at the wedding. We even danced together which for my is revolutionary. 

In front of the Shell of la France, the valets are ecstatic to see us. Our bags are loaded up and all my wine frizzled mind is thinking about is the big soft bed in our hotel room. 

We get a welcoming in French and English by three hotel staff. I don't even realise it, from exhaustion or the alcohol, but we're holding hands again.

Good.

They offer us many opportunities for the night, but we both relay that it has been a long journey. The attendee in the elevator takes us all the way up to the penthouse. The higher we go the looser the screws in my head become.

The room itself is actually two stories. Decked out in clean crisp white with leather, glass, crystals, diamonds and much like the hotel in Sunset; pearls.

It's beautiful.

Outside there is a terrace with our own private pool, a kitchenette, a seating area. The usual but done to the extreme. I find myself staring out at the city, listening to the bellhops wish Grayson a goodnight as our bags are brought in. 

After that, he sidles up beside me and stares out at the night lights too. For that brief moment I try to gather my courage.

I can do this.

I need to do this.

"Uh..." There's that sound again.

I look away from the window view we have to stare at my husband.

"Drunk enough?" I ask him plainly, but softly. Neither of us have to really ask.

"I..." He trails off, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I don't know."

That's silly. How can he not know?

Opiates, alcohol and adrenaline. A raucous concoction streaming through my blood like water in pipes. Three things that don't mix all leading up to me having a better idea on whether or not we're drunk enough than him.

In a small corner of my mind I wonder if he does drugs too.

I step right up to him. Confidence. A confidence built from a deadly cocktail. This strange desire for him did not exist before all the alcohol. Hell, it didn't exist down there in the lobby.

Richard Grayson himself may just be some sort of drug.

I don't know why we're kissing, or when it even starts. All I know is that one moment I'm standing in front of him, then I'm pressed against him. His hands, those I had observed to be just as rough as mine, clasp around my waist like they could crush it.

Neither of us know where the bedroom is and even if we did, we're both so wrecked it wouldn't matter. We wouldn't make it there.

So we collapse on the sofa instead. 

On the plane he had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. He hasn't got a shirt on underneath which means the moment he pulls it up off of his head I can reach up and touch.   

If I were a dumb girl ignorant to my husband being Nightwing I would question the considerable amount of red and pale white scars. I'd question the bruise atop of his ribs, instead of pressing against it with my fingers enough to make him hiss.

My top is being undone but I don't care because all my hazy mind can think about is how soft his hair is between my fingers and the feeling of those lips I'd only met twice and the coiling muscles of this body pressed against my palm.

None of it matters.

But in that moment, it's everything.