Cleo looks far too drained to do much but go straight to bed. When they get into her apartment, she spends less than a minute looking around to see what has changed. It's obvious some of the kids had been there, thanks to the minute rubbish left around.
"Assholes," she mutters.
Dick follows her to the bedroom. She's distressed, but he knows it has nothing to do with him. She tosses her bag on the bed and tugs her jacket off roughly.
"Hey," he says softly, stopping behind her, "Let me."
She doesn't fight him, though at this point in the relationship she rarely does. Before there would have been a façade up. She would have wriggled away from him, instead of settling as he peels off her jacket gently and kisses her shoulder.
He wraps his arms around her from behind. Cleo places her hands on them and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.
There is always something there in her body when they are close. A warning of how powerful she is, like untapped instincts sensing her strength, the dangers. She runs hot and he feels her often coiled muscles calm slowly beneath his hands.
"Why did we come here? We should have just stayed in Gotham."
It's awful how that statement makes him feel. Happy, because he was sure she hated Gotham enough to decline going back.
"It's your home," is all he says.
She laughs, dismissively, then moves from his grasp. She stalks towards the floor-ceiling windows.
"I didn't want to come back last time either."
Realising he's about to get another rare glimpse into his guarded wife, he follows her.
"Last time?" He treads carefully.
She hums, "After the Marines."
They stand shoulder to shoulder looking upon the city. It's a far shinier sight than Gotham, but they both agree there is something less regal about it. Trading the gothic arches and ruling sharp points for cheap modern art donning the roof of every building.
It isn't ugly, but it hardly inspires.
"See that cliff over there?" She points to the very edge of the coast visible to them. Dick nods. "When I was seven, I jumped off it, hoping I'd die."
His body goes cold. When he looks at her, panicked, she is oddly calm and emotionless.
"It's funny isn't it?" She smirks. It only furthers his concern. Does he reach for her? Tell her he's sorry? "A girl who has everything trying to end her life so young."
"You-" The need to comfort bubbles up inside him and he tries to speak, but can't get any words out. Sorry doesn't fit. Not yet. And besides, he doesn't want to discourage her from letting this all out.
"I imagine that's what my parents thought when the family physician diagnosed me. They argued against him, fired him and hired a new one who had the exact same conclusion. They got outside opinions, did their own research and no matter what, refused to acknowledge that I was completely and utterly depressed."
His heart aches, watching the confession pour from her completely blank face. He still doesn't touch her, afraid of spooking her.
"They showered me with gifts. A horse, a car I couldn't drive, a letter from Holly Marie Combs, trips to Disneyland. It didn't seem to sink in until I was eight. I just...didn't care anymore."
She moves then, head turning, eyes shifting to the other window. Dick watches her move towards it slowly but doesn't follow. There, she has a better view of the ocean.
"My father took us out on his new sailboat one day. It was jam-packed with all these new shiny toys. Deep sea fishing tech, rods and hand lines, canoes, floats. But all I could focus on was this ridiculously over-sized anchor. It was heavy, way too big to be used for where we were, so they cast out a smaller one when we stopped to eat. My mother took Ethan, Fantasia and the babies into the cabin."
She stops for a moment and Dick moves in it silently, coming up behind her.
"As soon as I was alone, I heaved it up over the side, hooked the chain on my rod belt and followed it into the sea."
He steps up and presses a barely-there kiss to her hair. Her continued composure is haunting, but he knows there's turmoil underneath. So he only touches her arm, tentatively, and rubs his thumb there.
"I would have died but Demitri didn't go to the cabin with the others. He heard the splash. When he realised the anchor was missing and saw the bubbles, he screamed for our father."
She doesn't talk for awhile and just let's Dick's small touches soothe her as the admission washes over them. His heart aches for her. He was only a little bit older than that when his parents died. He can't imagine going through trauma any younger.
And he's angry for her as well. Who made her pain feel so insignificant? It can't have been just her parents, or else she wouldn't have said it. The kids would be too young to understand and she already told him she preferred to be alone at school.
"I wasn't afraid. I was...impatient," she snorts vainly, "Guess I should have chosen a faster method."
Just like Jason, he thinks instantly. He jokes about his death and trauma often to cover up the pain he feels over it.
"Your father saved you?" It's a strange choice for his first question, but he feels confident enough to ask it.
Her head turns but she doesn't look at him, "Yeah. I remember the water was dark and I was sinking and drowning. He dived in, swam all the way down to me and undid my the belt. They never doubted how fucked up I was after that."
"You're not fucked up," he interrupts quickly, bowing his head, "Not to me." His hand slides down her arm and they join fingers. "Not to them either."
Cleo sighs, showing her disagreement.
"My father found me when I crashed a Bentley on purpose. I sent it straight into a tree an hour out of the city. It was the first time I'd driven in it. I swallowed all of my meds with some vodka in the bath. Logan found me there, unconscious and drowning again. Just a week later Hallow and Gordon found me bleeding out on my bedroom floor after I had a nightmare and tried to cut Am-" she stops, abruptly.
She was about to say Amethyst. About to refer to her tattoo as more than that, by its name, which she must have forgotten Dick doesn't know (as far as she thinks). They both simultaneously realise how close they are, without even knowing everything.
"...tried to cut my tattoo out."
Their eyes meet and a silence settles over them. It's uncomfortable for Cleo until Dick takes her other hand and turns her towards him.
"Eventually you stopped."
She hums fondly, "One night I found Ignatier outside my room. She was standing guard and checking on me every five minutes, all through the night. I didn't try again."
"See? They love you."
She scoffs, "If they loved me they'd want me to be happy instead of trying to scare my husband away." Despite her tone, he laughs. It brings a small smile to her face. She looks down at their hands.
"It's going to take a lot more than mocking me and calling me a penis," he chuckles.
Cleo takes his face in her hands, "Good." She kisses him, right as his phone chimes with a notification. Dick hums with delight against her lips before he draws away.
"That'll be our dinner. I ordered from a place called The Reef's Kitchen."
The way she lights up is a direct blow to the heart, "I miss their calamari so much! Nothing like that packaged garbage in Gotham."
Just like that, they've transitioned back to their happier selves.
"Oh," he feigns disappointment as she starts to dress into something more comfortable, "I didn't get calamari..."
Cleo stops mid-change to frown at him.
Dick snorts, "Kidding. You think I don't know your favourite?" He opens his arms up, smiling at the playful frown he gets. She pulls her shirt down as she moves back towards him. He wraps his arms around her and lifts her up.
"You know I hate this," she complains, but she still locks her legs around his waist.
"Do you want to FaceTime Damian? We can see the cats," he suggests, ignoring her ire.
"As much as I adore our little brother, I'd rather not make tonight any worse for myself."
"Right, right," he nods, feeling a bit silly. "So...dinner and sex?"
She nods affirmatively, "Dinner and sex."
◊
◊
Brittany sobs into her hands. It's a painful sound that drives most of her children from the room out of guilt, or shame, immediately. Only Ethan, Ignatier and Fantasia stay.
"Amore," Alan whispers. He kneels beside his wife at the dinner table.
She had been looking forward to their first family dinner in a long time. Cleo had never really indulged in such an activity. Brittany knew why. Her oldest had stopped feeling at home, at ease, with her family. She can not count their dinner with the Waynes either. That was more duty than leisure.
Tonight was supposed to be their first proper dinner, with a new member no less- a man her stoic and stubborn daughter has clearly come to love. A man bound to be an important (and beneficial) part of their dynasty.
"Why are you crying?" Fantasia complains.
It earns her glares from Ethan, but Ignatier takes her anger a step further by driving her elbow up and back into her older sister's breast. Fantasia gasps in pain, grasping her chest and staring at the girl with wild eyes.
When she steps towards Ignatier threateningly, Ethan moves their little sister behind him.
He and Fantasia size each other up.
"Get out," he tells her, voice low. "No one wants you here."
Ignatier frowns at her from behind Ethan. The sisters have the same face, but the younger received the family's purple eyes. She looks every bit like Cleo and acts like her as well. The thought crosses Fantasia's mind as she adjusts her shawl.
"Well," she whispers, sharp glare fading into a thinly veiled, nasty smile, "You sure know what that's like, don't you?"
She pats Ethan's stern face, making sure her clawed acrylics leave scratches before she turns away and swaggers out. Probably to an orgy, Ethan thinks.
Ignatier forgets about the fight quickly, rounding the table to her mother.
"Cleo was looking forward to this as well, maman. Can't you tell? She's not upset at you," she soothes, taking the seat beside her mother.
"I know sweet," Brittany sniffles, wiping her tears away, "It's not that."
Ethan slips his hands into his pockets, "She's finally living a happy life and they've just ruined their chances at being a part of it."
It's the truth, but saying it out loud doesn't do anything to fix it.
"I just don't understand why they're so angry with her," she explains, gripping Alan's hand. "It's all ruined."
"They're just afraid of losing Cleo again," he says softly. He then looks over his shoulder at Ethan and Ignatier, "Can you call her? Maybe the four of us can have lunch with her tomorrow."
Ethan nods, "I'll send her a message."
The two watch their parents, whispering within their small huddle. Ignatier thinks little of it, but Ethan can see there is something else wrong. Whatever it is, it clearly won't bode well for them. Is it to do with the company? The leak? Or is there something else happening with Cleo?
Time to retreat and regroup.
"Come on Ig," his sister looks up from her phone, "Come out to dinner with Chris and I."
Alan doesn't even hear the mention of his son's unsanctioned fiance. Their parents clearly want to be alone to discuss the secrets between them.
Ignatier hugs her mother quickly before jogging around the table to Ethan.
"Where are we going?" She asks him absentmindedly, heading towards the garage. He spends a few moments analyzing his parents, the way Alan whispers with worry, contrasting against Brittany's panicked demeanour.
Strange.
Do they expect him to believe they are making such a fuss over a little family drama?
"Eth?" His sister yells from outside.
"Coming."
He follows the girl out to the car and finally the parents are alone.
"Will you tell me what's wrong now?" Alan asks, levelling his tone.
Brittany shakes her head firmly, getting to her feet, "I've told you. I just... I want our family to be whole. I thought it would start tonight." The blonde keeps her eyes on her husband's chest. "I wanted it for all of us. For the kids. For you."
Alan smiles, looking worn and tired as ever.
"I'm sure there will be a day-"
A chill runs up Brittany's spine and she snaps, "No."
In the darkness outside, waves crash on the white beach, thundering impact lulling the children upstairs to sleep. What they don't know, what Alan doesn't know, what Brittany can feel but not see, are the red eyes observing them from where the water meets the sand.
Always there, always watching.
"Alan," she whispers, taking her husband's face in her hands, "We're running out of time."