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Bruce Wayne's Headache Classification System Chapter 5
You can read it on ao3 here!
A/N: *Strolls in three and a half years later.*
You would never believe the traffic on the way here.
I rewrote this chapter five times!! Every time I thought I had something, I found out that I hated it. Finally, FINALLY, found a version that I liked.
Is it perfect? No. But it's done, and if the urge to ever write the follow-up where Damian and Marinette get together, Marinette wins over the family, and the whole Gotham curse situation gets resolved ever grabs me by the throat, I'll have a much better jumping off point than the limbo it has existed in for the last three years. Now, without any further ado!
Chapter 5:
Bruce lasts all of an hour - a frustrating, hair-pulling, concerning hour driving him to a state of manic paranoia, and opening three more case files alluding to the magical events happening in Paris he had worryingly missed - before he concludes that his sons vastly underestimated the amount of trouble Paris, and one Miss Dupain-Cheng, happened to be.
Concern is an understatement of the utmost kind. And that migraine he drove away remerges with a vengeance on par with his own mission.
Paris was essentially besieged by a magical terrorist for years. And no one knew. Not a peep from the UN, or the EU, not a call to the Justice League, not a contemporary mention on social media. Nothing. It’s like Paris became a sinkhole for all information regarding the situation for years. All the tourists never mentioned it, and none of the citizens ever complained.
And then, a year ago, the information slowly leaked out. Fits and bursts, seen as an internet joke, but with enough evidence to prove it true, if you knew where to look.
And it was hard to look.
If Bruce were not overwhelmingly familiar with how magic could fool the mind, directing it away from certain modes of thinking, knowledge so obviously right there in front of you, he would have missed it. But he worked with the impossible every day. Trained his mind and his body to look past the obvious into what lay hidden beneath. The magic, and he doubted it was anything but magic, at play here lay quiet and hidden until it needed to obfuscate, and then it showed itself with force.
Too bad he knew how to fight back.
Already, he could tell that the focus of attacks circled Collège Françoise Dupont, the very school Dupain-Cheng attended. Attacks continued on through the years, varying wildly, always seeming to circle a core group of people. People who, through the few social media posts Bruce could find on the girl, were in the young woman’s social circle.
Frustration bit deep as, at every turn, the internet refused to give him the answers he sought. His head pounded, trying to make sense of what had happened in Paris for the last six years.
An alert cut through his research-induced fog.
Tim: Patrol ended early. Jason and Damian are fighting in the cave
Tim: Damian has his swords out
Tim: Might need some backup
Tim: pls
Bruce sighs. Heavily.
Like clockwork, a pain at the base of his neck builds into a fever pitch, his why-did-I-think-children-were-a-good-idea headache hitting full force. Heading for the hidden entrance to the cave, he preps himself for breaking up a fight between his two volatile sons.
Clanging metal hits his ears the second the elevator doors open. Angry yelling registers next.
“That the best you can do, demon brat?”
“Come closer and face me like a man, Todd!”
“What? Like how you trapped me after your little girlfriend made me think you were dying!?”
Bruce grits his teeth; why are they acting like untrained children? Racing to the cave's open area, he finds Jason dodging away from furious sword strikes. Tim sits over by the computer. Amused, concerned, and filming on his phone. While Dick stands off to the side, looking three seconds away from jumping in. “What in the world is going on here!” he yells. Four heads swivel to face him.
“Damian attacked me!” Jason’s eyes shine a bright, toxic green, glinting in the cave's dim light.
Damian growls, face twisted in anger. “I told you to cease your baseless slander of Marinette. You continued to do so, and I demonstrated the consequences of such a poor decision.”
“Aww, are you sad because I’m being mean to your little girlfriend?” Jason mocks, grin jagged like spikes. “Grow a pair, Dami.”
“How about I take yours for recompense,” his youngest hisses.
“Enough!” Bruce orders, using the voice his kids knew meant business. All four straighten up in an instant. “You both are acting like children.”
Jason shakes off the reprimand first and blanches, “But he-”
Damian quickly bristles, “I’m just-”
“Cease.”
Reluctantly, both boys settle, tension still suffusing the air with the promise of violence yet unwrought. Bruce grunts, walking down the steps to the platform, the occasional wrong movement a jar to his broken ribs. “You are all trained vigilantes, professionals. And yet you can’t complete a simple patrol without devolving into pointless bickering.”
Jason and Damian refuse to meet his eyes, staring at the ground as if it will save them. It won’t.
“What happened?” The order barely bothers to be a question.
“I made the decision to cut the patrol short,” Dick answers, jumping in like his eldest clearly wanted to from the start. “Low chatter on the police comms, no rouges out of Arkham-”
“Besides Harls and Ives,” Jason mutters.
Dick waves him off. “They hardly count these days, besides, they’re vacationing in Brazil this month-”
“Which means they’re terrorizing deforesters in the Amazon,” Tim points out blandly. And, yes, he is likely correct. But Bruce long gave up on containing Ivy, and she kept her destruction to industrial equipment and scaring the living daylights out of reckless loggers. Compromises.
Whatever kept her busy enough to stop her from besieging Arkham to get at the Joker.
Dick continues without missing a beat. “Which is not here, and thus not our problem. So, I said we’d all do one last check of our areas and call it a night because we could all use the sleep-”
“Because someone was up early primping and preening for his little date,” Jason says, sneering in Damian’s direction.
“It was not a date,” Damian shoots back. “It was an enjoyable outing, with. A. Friend.”
“That’s not what the pictures Stephanie sent look like,” Tim says, scrolling through his phone. Nose scrunching in disbelief. “Did you really pull out her chair for her?”
Damian’s face turns a vibrant shade of red, turning to face Tim. “What?” he growls, body tensing like he was set to pounce. Bruce brought himself closer to block the easy path from his youngest to Tim.
“Damian,” he intones, putting as much disapproval in his son’s name as possible. “Stop acting like a child and control yourself.” Damian breathes deep. Had he been a dragon, there would be sparks thrashing in the air, barely leashing his anger, tension radiating off him. Bruce nods to his eldest to continue his report.
“Right, yeah. So everyone circles out, when Jason-”
“Don’t put this on me, Dick. I didn’t start this.”
Tim scoffs. “Yeah, you kinda did.”
Damian sneers, bearing his teeth. “To instigate conflict in the field demonstrates the foibles of the weak and inferior.”
“I’ll show you inferior, ya little piece of shit.” Jason makes a lunge for Damian, who flips onto the railing. Bruce barely restrains Jason from engaging, to the detriment of his ribs. With an inch on him and the raging strength of a pissed-off bull, Bruce hates feeling his age, and tonight is a damn good example of that.
“Anyway!” Dick yells, gathering the attention back to himself. “Jason insults Damian’s new gir-”
Damian’s scowl deepens.
“Damian’s new friend. Damian challenges him over the comm. Jason threatens him back. I say no chatter on the comms-”
“Oracle said no chatter on the comms,” Tim corrects.
Dick throws up his hands, exasperation pouring off him. “Whatever! Can I stop getting interrupted? Babs tells us off, we all come back here because interpersonal fighting has no place in the field,” he stresses, looking pointedly between Damian and Jason. Both of whom are turned away and barely engaged. “Then, Jason insulted Marinette again. Damian pulled his sword, and the rest is as you saw.”
“So, behavior I taught you all better never to bring into the mission,” Bruce glares. Dick raises his hands again, as if washing himself of the responsibility, which was exactly the opposite of what Bruce expected of him when he asked his eldest to take point on patrol.
“Don’t look at me,” says Tim, swiveling back to the batcomputer. “I’m just the messenger.”
Jason wrenches out of Bruce’s hold and hisses out a stinging, “Fucking narc.”
Damian ignores it completely. “This is harassment! I am attempting to cement a civilian connection, which you all have badgered me to do on several occasions, and these worthless wastes of oxygen-”
“Wow, that’s a little harsh,” Dick mutters.
Damian glares viciously, “-are turning the entire affair into a vaudeville side show!”
Jason scoffs loudly, bringing the attention back to himself. “Yeah, no way, I don’t buy girlie pop as a civilian. She knows way too much magic and way too many tricks not to be a plant. And what’s concerning is you don’t fucking seem to care, Demon brat.”
“She is not a plant.” Damian shoots back, pacing above while the rest of them look on in shocked amazement. His youngest is rarely this demonstrative, especially in defense of another. “She is not a trick from my mother, or a floozy trying to use our family status to raise rank. She is a fashion designer from Paris who knows magic, that’s it!” Damian’s voice grew higher and more frantic as he belabored his point.
Bruce grunts again as the pain in his head grows from mildly problematic to throbbing; a prime example of his something-is-wrong-here-but-I-don’t-know-what-yet headache. He powers through, trying to bring reason to the conversation. “Damian, your brothers explained the situation, and further investigation has proved sparse. She’s a ghost. You’re allowing your judgment to be compromised.”
Damian’s jaw ticks, furious green eyes narrow, and Bruce holds back a wince at how much he resembles his mother in this exact moment. “I have run myself through the magical influence protocols. Richard ran them on me a second time. I am functioning with a perfectly sound body and mind-”
Snort. “Debatable,” mutters Tim.
“Your days are numbered, Drake.”
“Dami…” Dick sighs, tentative chiding, lacing his words. It only serves to irritate. Damian bristles at the mollifying tone.
“No, this was your fault we all ended in this mess, and now you blame me for doing all that I could to win!? Marinette did nothing more than follow my requests and utilize her skillset. It is not illegal to have magic-”
Bruce is not a fan of any interference in the city - metas or magic, all of it could turn on a dime. Even the best-trained supers could fall to influences that occurred all too often in his city. “There is a strict no metas in Gotham policy, Damian. And for good reason.”
Damian actually rolls his eyes. “A policy which, beyond the super community - a community Marinette is not a part of - you have no actual way of enforcing beyond financial enticement to leave, disguised as charity from Wayne Enterprises. Marinette chose to attend school here-”
“Suspicious,” Jason sneers, and Bruce resists the urge to groan; he does not need further commentary riling Damian up.
Defensive and on edge, Damian sends another withering glare in Jason’s direction. “No, it’s not. She had no wish to remain in her country after the actions of the magical terrorists that besieged them. That is rather common from what I hear.”
“Yeah, but normal people don’t jump out of the frying pan and into the radioactive acid bath,” Tim says, leaning over the railing with a contemplative look on his face. A comparison Bruce finds quite salient. For all that he loves his city, finds purpose in protecting it from the dregs of humanity, it is not a safe city. If you want a break, and he couldn’t blame the girl for wanting a break if even a little of what he found about the situation in Paris was true, then Gotham was a frankly ridiculous choice.
“Why would you escape a city with one terrorist to a city hosting a dozen, plus gangs, and the occasional alien invasion!?”
“Find me a major city on earth that has avoided having one alien invasion in it by this point,” Damian sneers back.
“Damian-” he starts again, his head aching with the clear pain of why-is-stubborness-genetic but his youngest remains a bulwark of refusal, stiffening his shoulders with a determined edge that triples the pain in Bruce's head.
“No. I proved I am under no outside influences twice. There is no compulsion to steal, reveal information, or engage in self-destructive behavior. Marinette openly and fully admitted to using magic; she is not trying to hide anything. Your suspicion is needless.” Here, he turns to Jason. “And your words are vulgar and untrue, and if you persist upon this course, I will demand retribution.”
He needed to nip this in the bud yesterday. “Damian, you attack your brother, and you’re benched.” Damian’s jaw flexes as he fights to hold back whatever he clearly wants to say. Restraint it may be, but Damian clearly wants to throw caution to the wind and lose it on his older brother.
Meanwhile, Jason leans back against the wall with a dark smirk. “You, demon brat, are letting your dick think for you for the first time, and I’m gonna laugh and say I told you so when this blows up in your face.”
“I am doing no such thing,” Damian hisses, hands clenched on the cave railing, white and leaking rage. “You may allow your base feelings to run rampant, but mine are thoroughly subjected to reason. Which is why all of you are wrong.”
“You have no proof, Damian.”
Damian’s smile turns haughty and cold. “Well, neither do you.” Huffing, he draws into himself, walls slamming down, cutting himself off from anything else they might say. “I see that no amount of words will sway you from your preconceptions. I find it galling, Father, that you would let bias overcome reasoning.”
“Your actions aren’t doing much to persuade me otherwise, son.”
“Tt. I see.” Bruce wishes to cross the gorge that's wrenched open between them, but Damian is already turning on his heel in the shower's direction. “When all this plays out as I have said, I will expect an apology for your mistrust.”
“Yeah, when hell freezes over,” Jason shoots back, but Damian doesn’t reengage. The door to the lockers slams with a definitive clang.
Silence lingers; the hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional rustle of wings do little to alleviate tension so thick they could swim through it.
“Well,” says a clipped, clear voice from above. Bruce turns to see Alfred, standing on the stairs, quiet as a mouse. “I do believe that went down rather like a lead balloon,” Alfred’s wry comment can’t even bring a bit of levity to the situation for Bruce, who, on top of his headache, is battling a deep fear that his son is in over his head.
And how odd is that? Damian is his one child he knows can handle matters of an interpersonal nature with the distance their job requires. But this? Battling between believing the best in a person and the danger they might pose?
That is never a fight Bruce wished for his children.
“Bruce, that was the exact opposite of talking to Damian separately. He has an entirely different perspective on this whole situation than we do,” Dick reprimands. And while his eldest is correct, after his own research on the case, Bruce finds himself increasingly agreeing with Jason and Tim that the girl is hardly what she seems.
“Well, I didn’t see you jumpin’ in to defend the girl, golden boy,” Jason sneers. “Come on, do we really believe that this chick isn’t dangerous?”
“There is a distinct difference between dangerous,” Alfred cuts in. “And a danger to us.”
“A distinction that doesn’t matter if we can’t find any information to tell us which she is, Alfred,” says Tim. “Especially when she’s around Damian, who is hardly the most subtle person regarding our skills and occupation.”
“You mean the fact that we run around at night in suits and beat people up?” drawls Jason. “Or the fact he’s a recovering cult assassin?”
“Damian is an adult; he’s been keeping our family secrets quiet for his entire life. He’s not gonna drop the information to a girl he just met, even if he is crushing on her,” Dick says. “I do worry whether he’s trusting her too quickly, though, because of that…”
Alfred would never dignify shrugging, but Bruce imagines this would be a moment where he would. “I hardly think it matters at this point whether that is a wise choice of action or not, Master Dick. Master Damian has set his course and is not to be deterred from it.” The look he pins Bruce with speaks volumes about where he thinks that tendency stemmed from. Bruce would like to counterpoint with Talia’s… everything. “A rather common trait in this family, I do believe.” All three of his boys find elsewhere to look at, while Bruce stands against the accusation alone.
Traitors.
Even still, the situation pings all of his internal alarms, and he’s not gonna let his youngest’s safety rely on a feeling of trust. “As much as I would like to believe in Damian’s judgement, the situation is concerning enough that I believe our worries are justified and not simply paranoia. We’ll have to remain vigilant if Damian doesn’t approach the situation with the caution that a foreign unknown agent requires.”
Alfred’s sigh carries a disappointed air, but the man merely nods. “Very well, sir. Merely keep in check that your worry does not turn into an unfounded witch hunt, lest you alienate a woman who may be innocent.” Observing them all with a discerning glance. “I see that all your limbs are attached and unmarred. Are there any injuries that I can not see?” he asks, pointedly glancing in Tim’s direction.
Tim huffs. “I’m not the only one who hides injuries.”
“No, but you are the only one lacking a spleen, Master Timothy.”
“Patrol was quiet, Alfred, we’re all good,” confirms Dick.
“Then I shall bid you all a good night.”
Bruce grunts as Alfred heads back upstairs, massaging the side of his head as it goes from aching to throbbing with the distinct edge of I-don’t-know-how-to-solve-this, which is a sensation he utterly despises. He’s Batman, solving situations is his entire job.
“Tim, have you or Barbara found anything on Dupain-Cheng or the Paris situation in general?” he asks. Maybe they had better luck than him.
Tim’s demeanor darkens. “No, and I don’t know if we’re going to find anything, either. It’s a communication blackout and seemingly citywide psychosis. It’s an acknowledged fact that attacks happened in Paris from 20XX to 20XX, but nobody else knew about it at the time.” Tim sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “As for Dupain-Cheng, and any sort of social media the girl may have had in that time period, is sparing at best, and outright glitched at worst.”
“Contact Diana, Paris was her home base until recently; she might have more insight as to what happened there than we do.” Bruce hesitates, thinking of the pain this next request will bring. “And see if you can pin down John Constantine for a chat. He’ll be better versed in magical methods of obfuscation.”
Jason scoffs. “Good luck with that, old man. Constantine’s a mindfuck on a good day.” He strides over to his bike.
“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
Jason waves him off. “To go beat someone up, or blow something up, I’ll decide on the way.”
“If it’s the latter, be sure it’s condemned and fully abandoned,” yells Tim.
“If the former, anyone from Penguin’s current goon pool would be great,” Dick chimes in. “I think they’re smuggling heroin in through the harbor to Blud. If you get any info, text me.”
Jason grunts, kicking the stand on his bike and shoving the helmet over his head. Bruce wishes for the right words to say, but with how on edge his second son looks, he fears saying the wrong thing will send him tumbling into a rage. Soon enough, it’s just Tim, Dick, and him in the cave.
Tim stretches and suppresses a yawn. “Well, if Damian is gonna make his lack of judgment a public issue, I'd better prepare our PR people to engage in damage control.”
“In the morning, Tim,” he orders.
Tim narrows his eyes. “But-”
“Send the messages to the Leaguers, but leave PR alone. They won’t be awake at this hour anyway, and neither should you. You’re still recovering after forty-eight plus hours awake.” Tim grumbles but obliges, which is good because Bruce is suddenly hit by his own wave of exhaustion that barrels over him like a hurricane. Getting old sucks.
“In the meantime, what should we do about Damian?” Tim asks.
Bruce sighs. “As Dick said, he’s an adult. I can’t ground him or restrict his movements.” Not that he could do that easily when Damian actually was a child, but there was an attempt. “All we can do is keep an eye out and be vigilant.”
“Aren’t we always?” Tim yawns. “I’m crashing here tonight. I don’t feel like driving back to the city. Are you coming in to work tomorrow?”
“I’m still technically out on leave for a few more days.”
“And your ribs are still healing,” says Dick. “Take the time, Bruce, the company can handle itself.”
“You would say that,” grumbles Tim as he leaves. “You’re not the one making sure it doesn’t collapse out from underneath itself, when it’s left alone for two minutes like an understimulated toddler without an iPad.”
“Night, Tim,” Dick calls out. Tim waves back halfheartedly, disappearing through the elevator.
“Staying the night, chum?”
Dick nods, stifling a yawn. “Bruce, you’ve gotta be careful with this one. Alfred’s right, Damian’s not in a state to be persuaded, and if we push him too far…”
“The situation could spiral before we know how to handle it.” He hoped Diana, or even Constantine, would have answers to give him. A direction on how to approach the situation. Because his current method was only alienating Damian. “I wish I could have gotten a chance to speak with him before all this happened.” Poor planning on his part; curse his migraine. Now his son sits against him, even if he brings valid points to the table. While Dupain-Cheng may have remained pleasant for the brief time at the store, that did not mean she always would be. And she had far too much power at her fingertips for them to remain off guard.
“Doubling down on the warnings when he was already riled did not help.” Bruce turns away, grunting. His son was right, but he didn’t have to say it. Dick sighs. “I’m gonna get some sleep. Don’t stay up too late.”
Bruce sits at the computer. Finding what little Barbara and Tim have compiled, he reads over their findings. Opening a new file, and ignoring the lingering ache shooting up the back of his neck - the same one whenever he’s staring down the barrel of a dangerous situation, he starts fresh, maybe this time he’ll find what he didn’t before.
His family and city might depend on it.
A/N: This is for everyone who has commented, kudos, shared, and recced this story. Thank you. Thank you for loving it as I have loved it. It was never far from my mind, and I always wanted to complete it. I'm glad that I could finally put words to a page, and I only hope they are a somewhat fitting end to this story.
Do I ever see myself continuing in this world? Maybe. Never say never. I finally finished this story, didn't I? For now, though, thank you once again, and see you later.
It's a simple thing. Almost silly. Plucked vegetation, doomed to die, withering away in a small vase or cup. Damian thought he would despise such sentimental acts of affection from a partner. He was a fighter, once a killer, blood soaking his hands and violence written into his veins. What need did he have of flowers?
But every offering of blooms unravels a vice around his heart. Every instance is accompanied by an anxious grin, a reticence that does not suit Marinette - bright, wonderful, hopeful Marinette. She offers him the flowers, and asks - cheeks red, eyes abashed, teeth worrying her bottom lip to a blushed hue - if he would like to know about the tiny bits of brightly colored flora. As if her attempts at coaxing life to bloom in the midst of this smog-ladened, poison-infested city were anything less than a miracle.
He accepts every time.
A smile spreads across her face. Almost timid at its reveal, like its very act of existence is an affront. Haltingly at first, but then pouring out like an unstopped damn, histories, stories, and meanings flutter forth, and Marinette's confidence grows. The flowers, apparently, an instinct, a habitual longing, after so long influenced by Ladybug. Growing them, tending them, and spreading their presence around soothed an unquantifiable need inside Marinette.
It was, apparently, seen as irritating by those who once called themselves her friends.
A fact that sent Damian seething. Hand itching to take up his sword and deliver a well-placed stroke to those who would fault an instinct and shame her for its presence.
But he didn't. Instead, he stills himself and listens, taking the flowers in hand and offering kindness - something he always doubted he was capable of - in return.
It made Marinette happy. And that, he finds, quickly becomes an increasing need in his life.
And so each and every bloom finds its home in a vase - crystalline and beautiful - for however long they last. And every time Marinette catches a glimpse of her gifts - spread across the manor, his room, even the cave if someone is convalescing in the med bay - her smile brightens, and a sliver of uncertainty slips from her shoulders.
It's a more beautiful sight than all the flowers of the world put together.
Ladybug WIP for my portfolio…. Gonna try for art school! Sorry for the inactivity, been solo studying reeaaaaaly hard all year so I can actually realize my ideas in full :) Every time I go to make a comic I get upset that it’s not what I envisioned, then do a study instead… so here’s a crumb of art… sorry…
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Here's a Tip — Don't send your bestie to tease your brother if you don't want to become a third wheel in your own friendship
Also on Ao3 right HERE
Summary:
Jason and Marinette are friends. Jason wants to take a little petty revenge on his brother and talks her into helping him.
Notes:
@boldlyanxious dropped the prompt. The discord spit-balled. @theladylu made a sketch I couldn't resist, and @starwarsmum egged me on. Enjoy!
Jason Todd was livid. He'd spent weeks building the perfect library and filling it up just so. It was like something out of a damn fantasy novel. It was his oasis. A childhood dream that was his and his alone, and it had been torn from him while he patrolled. Only Dick knew he'd finished it. Dick and Pixie. And Roy. But only Dick was the right mix of clever, stupid, and capable to pull off the kind of heist that had set Jason off. Each one of his carefully curated books had been replaced with boxes of cereal. He turned to his best friend, holding a fifty-dollar bill out to her. "He stole my books. You gotta help me."
Marinette shoved his hand away. "Jay! It's your brother. Just ask him to bring the books back."
"Please, Pix? It'll be so funny." The anger lacing through his expression gave way to something lighter, a little giddy, but she wasn't ready to go along with him yet. He had sabotaged their meet-up without warning. All she'd wanted was a cup of coffee and a moment to enjoy a bit of rare Gotham sunlight.
Meeting Jason for coffee was hardly a new thing. But instead of one of their relaxing catch-ups, it had turned into… this. "Ugh, Jay. I don't want to get in the middle of a sibling feud."
"That's just it! He will have no reason to suspect me. I just need him to get slowly more and more miserable until I pull the big caper."
She rolled her eyes at him. Sometimes he was such a kid. The only reason she was even tempted to go along with it was because Jason had never introduced her to his family before. It would be nice to know him better, and family was usually full of insights.
"C'mon, don't think of it as revenge, Pix. It's just a prank. It'll be fun."
She paused: pranks could be fun… but they could be hurtful too. "I don't know—"
It was all the opening Jason needed. He explained his plan, pressing the cash into her hand. "Please."
With a sigh, she accepted the cash.
"Yes!" Jason grinned, and Marinette couldn't help but smile at his antics. It hadn't always been like this. She liked happy Jason. The first time she met him, the most generous description she could have used would have been gruff.
-----
Red Hood stared as the pint-sized woman took down two would-be muggers before he could get a swing in. She backed up a step or two to retake her suitcases from where they'd fallen in the scuffle. He slipped out of the shadows and zip-tied the thugs for safekeeping.
"That was somethin' else, Pixie."
The eyes she turned on him burned blue under the streetlight, and her stance shifted once again—as if she was ready to take him down if he proved to be another threat. "Who are you supposed to be?"
He gestured to the red helmet on his head and the blood-red bat symbol beneath his leather jacket. It was fairly obvious. Once upon a time, the name Red Hood had been little more than a threatening whisper slinking through the worst alleys in the city. But now? He was a known anti-hero. The black sheep of the Bats and Birds. Dangerous to a fault, but with a soft spot for the truly innocent. Children knew to come to him if they needed help with anything. Dead men didn't hit their kids.
She blinked once before turning to walk down the street. Her heels clacked against the sidewalk. "What is it with Americans and their ridiculous cosplay?"
That racket would bring every thug within a mile. "Wait! Pix. Need a hand with your luggage?" He could escort her safely home since he'd been too slow to help with the first set of muggers.
Marinette stared at the helmeted vigilante who was offering to walk her home. She had asked the cab driver to drop her off in front of a building two blocks from her actual apartment complex to avoid doxxing herself. Her trip to Paris had been good, but she'd arrived back in Gotham with double the luggage she'd left with. Parisian textiles were irresistible. Despite her outward display, she was aware of the city's crime-fighters; she simply hadn't run into one in her last year of living in the city. The rest of her walk would be easier if the hulk gave her a hand.
"Oh, alright. But I've been gone a fortnight and don't have any snacks to offer you once we arrive."
He tilted his head. "You in the habit of feeding vigilantes?"
Marinette sighed, shaking her head against a half-smile of remembrance. "In another life, I fed a hero or two."
"Right. So, where to?" Red Hood grabbed one of her bags as she led the way to a decent building that he knew had a doorman by day, but left its security to other measures by night.
Marinette smoothly used her palm, a key card, and a solid brass key to open the outer door nearest the stairwell. The elevators didn't operate between the hours of midnight and five — for security reasons. She opened the well-lit stairwell door, waved to the camera, and started up.
"Stairs?" Hood grunted behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder. "If you can't handle it, I can take my bag from here. I'm not likely to be jumped in the stairwell." She had chosen this building in particular for the security. Not only was she an acclaimed fashion designer who needed to keep some of her work out of the public eye, but she was also the sole caretaker of a miracle box in a rather danger-filled city.
"Oh, I can handle it."
Marinette listened to Hood's breathing as they climbed. He sounded a little like Darth Vader as his breath twisted its way through his voice modulator. Magic was much more convenient than all the layers and technology that most of the Bats employed.
"Something wrong with the elevator?" He huffed as they passed the fifth floor.
She shook her head. "Thieves don't like stairs. Slows them down. No doorman, no elevator—at least without an ADA badge to override it."
Hood growled as they climbed, lapsing into silence for a floor or two. "I guess that's as smart as anything else in this town. Pain in the ass though. Couldn't you have gotten a better flight?"
Marinette paused on a step to crack her neck before continuing up. "I had a better flight. I got bumped." She'd made out like a bandit for the inconvenience, though. You don't travel between continents as often as she did without knowing all the ins and outs of air travel. One lost night of rest was hardly the end of the world… although the stairs were wearing on her.
"Huh. Bad luck there."
She heaved her bag up the last flight. "Not for the family that didn't get split up instead."
"That is an extremely altruistic attitude for three in the fuckin' morning."
Marinette keyed herself onto the twelfth floor with a smile. "So is carrying my bag for me. Thank you."
He glanced back down the stairs, then down the hall. "You're welcome. You gotta balcony or big window? I'd rather take my chances grappling than with those stairs again."
She shrugged, holding the door open. "I guess I could allow that."
The floor opened to a wide hall with only four doors. Hood took another look at the tiny woman. Her clothes were nice, but he'd assumed that it was a European thing with the accent and all, but it must be more than that. Most of the floors in this building had a dozen apartments. She wasn't quite penthouse material, but she wasn't hurtin' either.
She unlocked the door marked 12D, and he walked in as she flicked on the lights and set her suitcase aside. He dropped the slightly larger bag next to it. "Nice digs."
One wall was all windows with a balcony that traveled the full length of her quarter of the building. The furniture was nice, but plush. The place screamed comfy and cozy in the kind of setting where he was used to seeing overdone elegant austerity or a mess of antique knick-knacks.
"Thank you." She kicked off her shoes, slid into slippers, and padded across thick rugs over dark hardwood to open the French-style balcony doors. He paused in the entryway, glancing at his boots. He didn't owe her anything, but it seemed rude to track Gotham muck into her homey oasis. "Don't worry about it."
He shrugged. It was her place. He followed the shortest path and slipped out of the doors. "Night, Pixie."
"Thanks, Hood."
"Hah!" He whirled. "You do know who I am."
She only smiled as she shut the door, leaving him to grapple back to the street in the noisy excuse for nighttime silence that was the melody of Gotham City.
-----
"He's undercover, playing Barista Ken for the foreseeable future. All you have to do is resist his charm."
Marinette rolled her eyes. She could handle charm. Chat Noir had tried for years to turn her head. "How do you know he'll even hit on me?"
Jason snorted. "Listen, Pix. And don't take this the wrong way—You're hot. You're cute—adorable even. You're confident. He'd hit on anyone with any one of those characteristics. You're basically catnip. He'll want to roll around in you until he can't think straight."
She looked at him with a grimace, appalled. Jason was like a little brother to her. "What's the right way to take that?"
Jay poked her shoulder. "I'm your big brother, right? I can admit basic truths without drooling all over you. Those are all objective observations."
"You— You're the little brother! By almost four years."
Jay laughed. "Age is irrelevant. Just a number. I've got like three feet on you."
"Three—" Marinette screeched, shoving him as hard as she could, but without leverage or momentum on her side, he didn't budge. "You keep up those wild over-exaggerations, and you'll need to find a new bestie to harass your brother. I bet Roy wouldn't work for your plan."
Marinette didn't actually know Roy, but Jason talked about him often enough. Of course, she didn't know his brother either… Maybe Dick really would flirt with anything.
"Sorry, sorry. You're the tallest four-and-a-half-foot woman I know. Just shut him down—with a little flair. Okay? That's all I'm asking."
"Hair up or down?"
Jason grinned, glancing her over quickly. She was dressed down since this was supposed to be a casual meetup and not one of her business meetings or client things. But Paris casual was in a different league than Gotham casual, and she looked good. Classy, but chill. As luck would have it, she had a fancy little hair stick holding a simple twist. "Pull the hair stick out and give your head a little shake just before you order."
Marinette blinked twice. "This better not be some kind of librarian feti—"
Jay shook his head, waving her off. "Don't make this about me, Pix. No straight man can resist an action even remotely close to undressing. Not that you'll need it. Catnip, remember?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Stop saying that. It's weird."
Jay rolled his eyes at her discomfort but nodded in agreement. "I'll behave, little sis. You torment Dick."
Jason hadn't been… well, he had been joking, but the Barista who grinned at her really did have a name badge that read Ken. Was his whole family ridiculous? And hot? Because while she and Jay would never be an item, she could admit he wasn't bad to look at. But Dick…
Feeling flustered under the light of his deep blue eyes, she shook her hair out while Ken asked what he could do for her and, admittedly, enjoyed his reaction. His words slowed to a stop while his eyes traced the movement of her hair. She glanced at him and quirked an eyebrow.
He shook his head. "Sorry—what, uh, can I do for you?"
Marinette offered him a sunny smile. "I'd like a café au lait, and the closest thing you have to a croissant, please." She wrinkled her nose, laughing softly. "Nothing here is quite like what we have in Paris, but I can't give up my daily pastry even if it isn't the same."
"Sure thing. Can I get a name for the order?" Ken stood with his pen poised over the cup and an eager look in his eyes.
Given his alias, she was tempted to say Barbie, but resisted the urge. Not that she wasn't open to trolling him a little more, but she was starting to feel guilty about what she was here to do. Maybe she could keep the lies to a minimum. "Marinette."
"I'll get this started for you, Marinette."
The sound of hissing steam joined the jazzy café music and engulfed her while she waited. She loved coffee shops. There was something soothing about them… although that was probably on purpose.
Dick/Ken turned back to her with an admittedly charming smile, her coffee and croissant ready and plated on a tray. The latte was perfectly formed with a leafy sort of heart crafted from foam skimming the lip of the mug. Her heart sank. He'd done such a nice job…
"What do I owe you?"
He winked. "Nothing, if you call me handsome."
If it had been a usual day, she would have laughed and gone along with it. Not for the free drink, but because he was cute (and yes, handsome) and not everyone flirted so sweetly. She probably would have flirted back and tipped him anyway. But she could almost feel Jay's gaze boring into her back. She couldn't let her best friend down.
It was just a prank. Backed by brotherly revenge. Carried out by her.
She handed him the $50 without a word.
Dick's smile dropped along with her heart. Hurt dimmed the light in his gorgeous blue eyes. "Oh. Right." He swallowed and nodded. "Thanks."
Riddled with guilt, all she could do was say, "Keep the change," as she took her tray and slipped out to the rarely used outdoor seating where Jay waited for her.
Jay was already in stitches where he'd collapsed into a seat. His boisterous laughter felt at odds with her sudden sadness. "Keep the change. Oh. My. Fucking— that was beautiful. Pixie, you're a genius."
Marinette dropped into a seat and slumped over her coffee. She took a sip; it was perfect. She set it back down quickly — as if it had poisoned her. "It was awful. I feel sick. I don't know how Lila and Chloe could act like this all the time."
Jay glanced up. "Who?"
She couldn't meet his eyes. "Just these girls who bullied me in school."
He reached across and tapped her chin lightly in a 'buck-up' gesture. "C'mon, Pix. You're no bully. Dick can take it. It'll probably be good for him."
Spiders in lockers, gum on chairs, a well-timed foot for her to trip over, and accusations of stolen bracelets rattled around her mind along with the sick feeling that came with being told all her friends would be taken away if she didn't play along with lies and schemes.
She was no better. Not now. Dick didn't even know her. Didn't know why. She had been open to teasing, to having fun with Jay, but this feeling wasn't fun. The memory of hurt and embarrassment in Dick's eyes slammed into her as she shoved her coffee and croissant in front of Jay.
"Here. I bought it with your money. I'm not hungry anymore."
She ran, jumping the little gate that separated the outdoor dining area from downtown Gotham proper, ignoring Jason as he called after her.
Why was it always the wounded ones who got under her skin?
-----
Marinette was sensitive enough to the whims of luck that she wasn't surprised when Red Hood landed on her balcony only a couple of weeks after their first meeting. She wasn't expecting him exactly, but what man (regardless of heroic tendencies) wouldn't come around for baked goods if he thought they could be had?
She hadn't expected him to be hurt.
The thunk against her balcony doors was anything but stealthy. Hood was big enough—an easy foot and a half taller than her—that his dark form would have been terrifying if he'd been able to stand. As it was, she dragged him in, scolding him for getting hurt, for bleeding, and for waiting so long to stop by while she helped him out of his armored uniform enough to patch him up.
He'd lost just enough blood to be… difficult.
"Stupid helmet. Can't see." Hood reached up with unsteady hands and unclasped his stupid red helmet before turning to look at her in a domino mask. "Heeey, Pixie-girl. Little French fighter woman. D'ya have a bandage I could use? Or a cookie? Somethin' to take the edge off?
"Hood! What happened to you?" She'd had to cut his leather jacket off when his limbs wouldn't cooperate.
He lifted his head to try looking down at his torso. "Guy had a knife. Big one. Not sure where he was hiding it." He'd pouted, frowning in confusion as she lifted his shirt to find a messy stab wound. Hood's head dropped back to thunk against the floor.
"Owwww. Whatcha do that f— Bandaid? Or! Or a really stiff drink, maybe?"
Marinette pressed her hands against the wound, and with little more than a whisper, her first aid kit was delivered to her side by a plethora of tiny, colorful deities who disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared. Even if Hood had seen them, he would never believe it.
"You could have stopped by for pastries without getting hurt, you know," Marinette said softly while she worked. Cleaning the wound made him pull away from her, but she didn't want him to get an infection.
"Hold still." She yanked him back, pressing gauze against the wound, and begging a dozen gods for him to start clotting. She knew how to do basic stitches, and thanks to her occasional leatherwork, she had the tools for it, but she didn't really want to have to.
"Hate holding still." Hood slurred.
"Unless?" She needed to keep him talking. Surely he had some kind of hobby that he'd stop for.
"Huh?"
"What is something you like to do that keeps you still?"
Hood's head twisted toward her. "Yer lll-ittle."
"Next to you, maybe."
"Next t' most people." He lifted a hand up and held it over his face to study it, but he was too weak, and it dropped back to the floor. He sighed heavily, then winced. "Hood doesn't hold still. Too angry. Jason though. Jason likes to read. Whole ass worlds are in stories, and they are all better than this one."
Marinette taped the gauze down securely and scrambled for a glass of water with a straw and her phone. She linked to her speaker and started an audiobook before offering the straw to Hood.
"You need to stay hydrated. You probably need an infusion of blood." She said worriedly as he slowly sipped the water she offered him.
The straw fell from his lips as he whined. "I just wanted a cookie and a Band-Aid."
With an incredulous huff, Marinette grabbed a plate of macarons, an older blanket and dropped to the floor next to Hood. "Here. I don't want you to choke or mess up your bandage." She helped him sit up just enough to slide the rolled blanket under his shoulders and handed him a cookie.
Hood stuffed it into his mouth with a smile. "Can't believe that worked."
"Next time, you only get one if you don't bleed on my floor." Marinette watched the wound site carefully while they talked. If the bleeding didn't slow, she'd have to call someone. An ambulance maybe.
"Shit. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"Jason always was a screw-up."
"Who would Jason call if he needed help?" She asked carefully, "I bet someone cares about him." There's no way he was completely alone—he'd have died from some previous fight.
"Alfie would come. He'd stitch me up too, iffin' I needed it. But you gave me a band-aid and a cookie. Soooooo I'm aaaall good."
He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her heart hurt. Whatever this man had been through had left more scars than the ones that riddled his skin.
"Thanks, little pixie-girl."
"You're welcome, Jason."
She was stiff and sore by the time the dim daylight crawled through her windows. Jason—Hood—snored on her floor where he'd fallen asleep. She'd spent the night cleaning him (and her floor) up the best she could and monitoring his wound. Thankfully, it didn't seem too deep and had stopped seeping through the gauze about an hour before daybreak. He still looked a little pale from the blood loss, and she didn't want him trying to walk or, worse, grapple on his own. She rifled through the pockets of his jacket until she found a cell phone next to a small paperback copy of Jane Eyre. It wasn't a new model, just a basic old thing with a very short list of contacts. Alfie was the first one.
Scooting across the floor with the phone, Marinette dialed the number of the one person Jason thought might care enough to sew him up, which hopefully meant that this Alfie also knew that Jason was Red Hood.
He answered after only one ring. "Ah, Jay-lad. What can I do for you?"
Marinette paused at the formal British accent. Not what she'd expected, but he sounded like he cared. "Bonjour. Hi. I mean. Sorry. Jason is hurt. Can you come help him?"
"Certainly, miss. Can you tell me what's wrong and where you are?"
She rattled off her address, along with instructions for the doorman, before explaining Jason's injuries. "I don't think he should walk on his own, and if he tries to leave the way he came, he'll reopen the wound for sure. I didn't stitch him up… It's just gauze and bandages. He might need clothes. Something less conspicuous, if you know what I mean."
"Yes. I think I do. Anything else?"
"He lost a lot of blood."
"How much, Miss?"
"Enough that he was babbling like he was drunk. He referred to himself in the third person a lot."
"Ah."
Dead air hummed over the line while Alfie took care of things on his end and Marinette watched Hood sleep. He looked softer, younger than he had that first night.
"Alfie?"
"Yes, miss?"
"How old is he?"
"How well does the mademoiselle know the young master?"
She filed the 'master' comment away to scrutinize later. "I've only met him once before. He helped me carry my luggage late one night."
It should be impossible to hear a smile over a phone line, but she swore Alfie was smiling when he spoke next. "Good lad. He was always a good lad. He's twenty now, Miss."
Twenty to her twenty-four. How long had Red Hood been operating? Had he been a child-hero too? If the rumors about Red Hood once being a Robin were true… then quite possibly.
"I'll look after him until you get here."
"Thank you, miss. I should arrive in approximately fifteen minutes."
Alfie—Alfred—looked exactly like he sounded, except he wore a black suit coat instead of the cardigan she had imagined. He'd inspected the wound, made a satisfied expression in her direction, and set up a blood transfusion right in her living room. After a little while and an injection of some kind of painkiller, he'd made the call to add a few stitches before Marinette re-bandaged him.
"I'd like to let him wake up here, if that's alright with you, miss."
"Of course. I don't know that we could move him even if we wanted to."
"Quite so."
"Besides, I wouldn't want to put him through the stress of not knowing how or where he was," Marinette added. The idea of being moved while she was unconscious was terrifying.
"Quite right."
She took a turn getting cleaned up while Alfred watched over Jason before they shared a cup of tea and waited.
And waited.
She kept an audiobook running while Jason slept. It was after noon before he stirred. Alfred remained calm, poised in his seat, but his eyes didn't leave his charge. Marinette wasn't stoic enough for that.
"Jason? How are you feeling?" She slid her hand into his and squeezed.
He squeezed back but remained quiet.
"It might take him a moment, miss."
Jason's eyes fluttered open. "Alf?"
"Right here, Jay-lad."
Jason scoffed, then coughed, wincing as he tried in vain to clutch at his wounded side. Marinette held him back. "That bad, huh? I must be near to dead if you're dropping the honorific."
"Not so, Master Jason. I simply wished to offer you an added layer of support in this trying time."
"Thanks, Alf." Jason turned his head to find Marinette holding his hand. He grunted. "How'd you get here?"
She shook her head. "You came to me. For a bandage and a cookie."
"Shi—"Alfred cleared his throat, and Jason snapped his mouth shut before trying again. "Cool. I'm an idiot."
"Are not. You got everything you wanted." Marinette said.
"Doesn't count if I don't remember it."
Marinette let go of his hand to fetch the remaining cookies. "Here, and it's not polite to suggest a lady's baking is forgettable, for future reference."
"Good to know." He popped a macaron into his mouth and moaned. "That's good. Alf?"
"Yes, master Jason?"
"Nobody else knows about Pixie. Ya hear me?"
"Yes. Of course."
Jason turned to look at her. "You're my friend now."
Marinette smiled. She didn't necessarily want all of Gotham's vigilantes crashing her place, so she had no problem being exclusive. She'd never had a little brother. "Sure. Why not?"
-----
Dick flipped the open sign to closed with a sigh. He'd spent a lot of time undercover. In bars, warehouses, a couple of times as a loiterer in a popular alley, and once as a hired goon—none of it had been as devastating as the sick burn he'd received from that girl, Marinette. She hadn't even been willing to call him handsome for free food. In Gotham of all places. It was possible she'd been embarrassed or had a jealous boyfriend, but something about the exchange had sunk into his psyche and refused to let him alone.
Maybe it was karma. He probably deserved it. He'd pulled the most epic prank in the history of the bat-clan (depending on who you asked), and his whole life had tanked directly afterwards. He hadn't even been able to enjoy Jason's reaction before being sent on assignment. And Ken the barista, didn't know Jason Todd. There was no way he could check in with him; he couldn't even go to his own apartment or the manor if he wanted to protect his cover.
Marinette had broken his heart like a cheap coffee mug.
His fake apartment had been broken into, and all of his left shoes had been stolen.
Someone had called his bank and frozen his account, citing questionable purchases. It was his undercover account, and he wasn't allowed to use any other assets while on assignment. By the time he'd sorted it out, his rent had been late, and he'd been hungry enough to consider stealing from his fake job. Which would have been bad considering he was trying to earn the trust of the mochaccino mafia (his name, not theirs, like villains could be that awesome).
Undercover life was just plain lonely. He couldn't trust anyone in the organization, and he couldn't break the trust he was building by connecting with his family or friends.
He'd gone so far as to stop by the library and borrow a few books that he knew Jason liked. Fictional friends had to be better than nothing, right?
Wrong.
The stories were great, but the characters all had their own lives and friends, and there wasn't room for him. So, with nothing better to do when he wasn't at the café, he closed his blinds and trained in the little living room of his cheap apartment. Focusing on his muscles and the burn that came from focusing on individual muscle groups before putting them all together with basic acrobatics. He walked himself through empty-handed sword drills because he knew Damian would challenge him when he finally returned, and he wanted to be in top form.
And he moped. He'd grown up in the circus — with a big, bright, loud family in addition to his parents. The slow accumulation of Robins had revived some of that, but for now it was all gone.
What else could go wrong?
It didn't take too long to close down. He'd wiped the tables and cleaned most of the dishes before closing time. Once everything was clean and locked and balanced, he let himself out the back door, only to come to a dead stop.
Marinette was waiting for him. And she was so much prettier than he'd allowed himself to remember.
-----
Jason had gotten his books back. Marinette had helped him restock the shelves with his careful arrangement of genre and author name. He'd apologised for asking her to do something she wasn't 100% comfortable with, and things seemed to be back to normal.
But a furious guilt still gnawed at her stomach. Jason had not apologized to Dick (she tried not to think about what else his revenge had entailed)… and neither had she.
He probably didn't even remember their exchange, what with how many people drank coffee every day. And Dick was attractive. Plenty of women — and men — would make sure to flirt with him. But that didn't help the feeling of self-disgust.
So she had decided to do something about it. Dick closed the cafe on Tuesday nights, and there was a working streetlight above the employee entrance at the back. It was as safe a place as Gotham had to offer outside of her apartment.
She tapped the ring on her finger while she waited. Plagg was better for stealth in the dark shadows of Gotham if she had to fight or run. Finally, the door swung open, and Dick Ken (she wouldn't bust his cover) stepped out.
He froze. His eyes raked over her red silk skirt and white polka-dotted blouse. She'd had a client meeting earlier.
"Wha—This isn't a safe place to be loitering. Unless you came to mug me for the $50. But I have to warn you, I don't have it anymore."
Her hand twisted around the ring. She shook her head. "I came to apologise."
Dick looked up and down the littered street. "Is this some kind of prank?"
She waved her hands frantically at him. "No! No pranks. Not anymore." She clutched her stomach. "I'm not cut out for cruelty… I thought I was fine with joking or teasing, but that requires some kind of relationship. And we don't have that. I'm sorry."
Dick frowned. "For paying for your drink?"
Marinette leveled a glare at him. "It was more than that, and you know it."
He gestured away from the shop, and she fell into step beside him. It would be safer to join the greater populace on busier sidewalks. "Can you tell me why you did it?" He asked as they walked.
"Someone put me up to it," Marinette answered quietly. "A friend of mine was hurt and wanted to play a revenge prank."
He eyed her again, his eyes lingering everywhere but refusing to meet hers. He was probably used to hanging out with masks. "Do we know each other? Because I'm pretty sure I'd remember a woman like you… and I've got nothing."
She shook her head. "We have a mutual friend. He likes books and freaked out when he found his bookshelves empty."
Dick's eyes widened. "Oh, shit. Wait—has he been torturing me the whole time?"
Marinette shrugged. "I didn't want anything to do with his pranks after the first one. The guilt has been eating at me."
"No way. You're way too sweet to be friends with— that guy."
Marinette scoffed. "He can be good when he wants to be."
"So are you guys…" Dick crossed his fingers and waggled them suggestively.
Marinette gagged lightly. "No! He's my friend. Practically my little brother. One hundred percent platonic."
"Okay, then. Apology accepted."
Marinette paused. "Really? Just like that?"
Dick narrowed his eyes at her. "Why? What did you have in mind?"
"I was going to offer to buy or make you dinner. You know, to make up for my rudeness and lying. And to keep me out of the next prank war."
"You cook?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'd kill for a home-cooked meal."
Marinette took a step back. "Ummm…"
"Not for real. And not you. Obviously."
Marinette knew Dick was a decent guy—book theft aside—but she wasn't going to let that comment slide. Jason would kill her for her stupidity, even if he was the reason she trusted Dick. "Right. How about I buy you dinner tonight, and if we live through it, we can see what happens next."
"Sure."
"Well, come along, handsome."
A grin spread across Dick's face, making him even more attractive. He slipped a hand around hers. "Just for that, I'm buying."
-----
Hood stared across the rooftops at Marinette's balcony. Things had gone back to normal over the last few weeks, but Marinette had been busier than usual, and their hangout time had dipped. He noticed movement in her apartment and grinned. He hadn't had a macaron all week, and she always had something fresh on Friday nights. He'd pop over, make sure she didn't have company, and steal a couple of sweets. Keeping her to himself and away from the rest of the flock had been one of his smarter moves. He liked that he didn't have to share. The cookies or his friendship.
With a smooth grapple, he dropped almost silently onto the balcony and looked around the edge of the curtains. It wouldn't do for some random client to discover that their designer was an anti-hero hot spot… but Marinette was very French and didn't approve of working overtime. She was sitting on the edge of her sofa, relaxed, a glass of wine in her hand. He couldn't see the rest of the sofa, but she never looked that chill when she had a client up. He walked to the door, but found it locked. Which was good. Safety first and all that, but she usually expected him on Friday nights. He could have knocked, but their friendship was more 'barge and bluster' than 'niceties and etiquette', so he pulled his lockpick kit out and got to work.
Quietly, he opened the door to see if he could get the jump on his best friend. She was surprisingly aware and prepared. He'd only managed to sneak up on her once over the last couple of years. He ditched his helmet in the kitchen before slinking around to the living room behind the sofa, where he came to an abrupt stop.
She wasn't alone.
Abort! Abort!
Some dude had his arm wrapped around her and was plastered to her face. Marinette had dated on occasion, but she hadn't been in a relationship since he met her. No wonder the balcony door was locked—but why hadn't she told him she met someone worth bringing home?
He tried to back up and out, but bumped into the edge of the wall. "Shit. Fuck. Crap!" It was a whispered slurry of words, but whatever show was playing on the TV wasn't loud enough to hide his reaction from Marinette and her guest. Marinette jerked back and up off the sofa, clearly ready to throw down. And more surprisingly so did—
Oh, shit. Fuck him ten ways to Sunday.
Dick.
Jason recoiled in horror. Then he turned to his best friend. "Ew, Pix! You put your mouth on that?"
Marinette blushed. Blushing wasn't enough. She should be horrified. Jason had thought she was smarter than that.
"Hey, little wing!" Dick grinned. What little space their reaction to his intrusion had caused disappeared as Dick pulled Marinette back into his arms—where she went willingly.
Jason scowled. This was not the revenge he'd wanted. He looked around balefully. From the way Marinette was blushing and nibbling on her lip, eyes darting towards Dick, to the last remaining cookie crumbs on a plate at the table, and Dick's smug face, Jason knew that life with his best friend as he knew it was over.
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[id. A twitter post by @/Bennieeexyz
Jury duty letter came addressed to my cat.
Not a mistake. "Felix Martinez" - that's his full name according to his vet records.
My last name. His first name. Somehow he's a registered voter now.
Called the county clerk.
Me: My cat got summoned for jury duty.
Clerk: Is the name correct on the summons?
Me: Yes, but he's a cat.
Clerk: Is Felix Martinez a legal resident of this county?
Me: He's a legal cat.
Clerk: Sir, if the name matches our records, he needs to appear or file an exemption.
Me: He can't file anything. He has paws.
Clerk: You can file on his behalf.
Me: Under what exemption? There's no box for "is a cat."
Clerk: (pause) Check "unable to serve due to medical reasons."
Me: What's the medical reason?
Clerk: He's a cat.
Me: That's not a medical condition.
Clerk: It is if it prevents him from serving.
Sent in the form. Got rejected two weeks later.
"Insufficient documentation. Please provide medical professional's statement."
Took the letter to my vet.
Me: I need you to write that my cat can't do jury duty.
Vet: Why is your cat summoned for jury duty?
Me: Excellent question. No good answer.
Vet: This is the weirdest request I've gotten.
Me: Can you just write that he's medically unfit to serve?
Vet: On what grounds?
Me: He's a cat.
Vet: (started typing) "Patient is unable to serve due to species-related limitations including inability to speak, read, or comprehend legal proceedings."
Me: Perfect.
Sent it in. Got another rejection.
"Summons is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in contempt of court."
My roommate thought this was hilarious.
Roommate: Felix is going to jail.
Me: This is serious.
Roommate: Bring him to court. See what happens.
Decided that was actually the only option left.
Day of jury duty, put Felix in his carrier. Brought the entire paper trail of rejection letters.
Checked in at the courthouse.
Clerk: Name?
Me: Felix Martinez.
Clerk: (looked at the cat carrier) Is that Felix?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: (long stare) He's a cat.
Me: I've been saying that for six weeks.
Clerk: Why didn't you file an exemption?
Me: I filed three. All rejected.
Showed her the letters. She read through them, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.
Clerk: Someone rejected the veterinary documentation?
Me: Twice.
Clerk: (called her supervisor over) You need to see this.
Supervisor read everything. Looked at Felix. Looked at me.
Supervisor: How did a cat get registered to vote?
Me: You tell me.
Supervisor: This is a data error.
Me: Took you six weeks to figure that out.
They dismissed Felix immediately. Apologized for the inconvenience.
Supervisor: We'll remove him from the voter registry.
Me: Appreciate it.
Supervisor: (pause) Out of curiosity, how would he have voted?
Me: Probably whatever party supports universal treats.
Got a formal apology letter a week later and a voter registration card.
For me this time. Apparently I wasn't registered, but my cat was.
Roommate: Felix committed voter fraud.
Me: Felix committed nothing. He's innocent.
Roommate: That's what they all say.
Felix is sleeping on the jury summons now.
Fitting end to his legal career.
end id]
Redraw of an old ML post I made years ago!!! Now with the new seasons of Miraculous context, I like to think maybe this is what would happen in an angsty timeline where Adrien finds out Marinette and/or Ladybug lied to him about his father and he's the one that picks up the butterfly miraculous instead of Chrysalis.
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alternatively, could we have an au where Jason has to be the one that delivers Damian to the manor in Gotham, and he gets so distracted with trying to make Damian's first trip outside the league enjoyable (road trip, theme parks, bunch of stop-offs along the way) that he completely forgets to set up his own place to stay in for after Damian's gone to the manor. and the two end up in front of the Wayne Manor driveway in the middle of the night arguing about it like
Damian: it's just a night or two, and it's not like Father doesn't have spare bedrooms available.
Jason: that's not the issue, the issue is that i don't want them to fucking know i'm here.
Damian: ok so i'll distract them and you can sneak in the back entrance.
Jason, flatly: you want me to sneak into my old house to spend the night, when everybody thinks i'm dead and i want it to stay that way?
Damian: i'm just saying that his long lost blood son showing up is a good distraction, and it IS a big manor. i'll bet you anything that i could keep you hidden in there for as long as you needed.
Jason: you fucking could not.
Damian: i could.
Jason: could not.
Damian: i could and i'll bet fifty dollars on it.
Jason:
Jason:
Jason: alright.
Damian ends up keeping Jason hidden in Bruce's own house like a kid trying to hide a puppy they found on the street in the back of their closet. he's sneaking Jason food and building him a little hidey-hole in the attic above his bedroom and literally nobody else in the manor has a single fucking clue. Jason already knows all the hidey-holes and secret passages from when he lived there anyway, so it turns out not to be as hard as he thought.
to be clear, he still becomes the Red Hood. he's not spending every second in the manor; he's sneaking in and out on a daily basis while he sets up a rulership in Crime Alley. it gets to the point where he fully has his own apartment that he could move into at any point, but he and Damian are being so stubborn about this bet that he's just staying at the manor anyway to prove that eventually they'll figure it out. plus it's starting to get really fucking funny because he's started playing ominous ghost sounds in the ceiling above Tim's room and the poor guy fully thinks he's being haunted by his predecessor's ghost. a fact which is almost correct.
the only thing that's frustrating the hell out of Jason is the fact that after every single interaction with the bats, no matter how exhausted he is from working all night, he has to watch Bruce drive the others right back home while he waits and then has to walk back by himself. eventually there's an arkham breakout and it's so bad that the bats are readily accepting Hood's help with dealing with it and it takes so fucking long to sort everything out that when it's finally over and they're ready to 'go their separate ways', Jason is so genuinely dead on his feet/in pain and need of sleep that he stops caring about everything. Bruce tells the bats to get in the batmobile and Jason just trudges over and slides in next to Tim.
everybody freezes and. straight does not know how to respond. Jason's just half-asleep already leaning his head against the window, and Bruce eventually has to clear his throat and ask like "...would you like a ride home, Hood?" and Jason just grunts.
"where do you live?"
"Wayne Manor," Jason mumbles, barely conscious. the bats all bluescreen apart from Damian who is so resigned to his big brother's idiocy at this point that he just tells them to take him back to the cave with them.
"just- just bring him. look at him. what trouble is he going to cause? he's tired, Father. let him rest."
Bruce is... so confused. and so concerned. but if Hood's injured then what harm is there in letting him get checked over and sleep the worst off in the batcave medical suite? he did help out a lot that night, after all. except when they get to the cave Bruce and Dick start preparing to carry the asleep Red Hood onto a medical bed when Damian just kicks him in the ribs and says 'we're home', and they watch in baffled fucking silence as Hood wakes up, blearily blinks while he takes in his surroundings, and then gets up to start trudging straight up and into the manor.
the others can do nothing but watch in quiet disbelief as Hood proceeds to go through the manor like he truly knows it, gets to Damian's bedroom, and then sleepily climbs up through a secret passage in the ceiling that, when Bruce pokes his head into, reveals a fully renovated bedroom filled with the Red Hood's gear and personal possessions. Hood flops down onto the bed and passes out immediately. Damian just bids Hood a good night and calmly closes the opening behind him, before turning to face the incredulous faces of his entire family staring at him like he's a fucking alien. he narrows his eyes.
"we will talk about it. tomorrow."
"Damian-"
"we are all tired." Damian determines. "for now, let him sleep."
"IN OUR HOUSE-"
"WE WILL DISCUSS THIS TOMORROW."
the next morning Jason wakes up at like. noon. and remembers the night before. and he crawls down into Damian's room to nudge him awake and firmly tell him 'i am not giving you fifty dollars'.
the ensuing argument wakes up the rest of the family.
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