#celestewrites

She fixes Jagged with a firm look to show him she means business. He hadn’t shown any sort of concern until Luka had called in sick the previous night, and now Jagged was acting like she would keel over without his presence.

“I know, Rockette,” he says with Fang cradled in his arms, “but this isn’t like that time you were running from that model’s fanclub in your pajamas!” Jagged nuzzles his face into the alligator’s stomach as if he hadn’t just reminded her of her horrible online footprint.

“Oh my god,” Marinette groans , running a hand down her face. “I thought I told you to stop bringing that up!” The unfortunate part of designing for Jagged since she was fifteen years old is the fact that she’s designed for him since she was fifteen.

Before Jagged can respond, Penny clears her throat and steps forward. “Sorry, Marinette,” she smiles understandingly, “Jagged is just a little worried about Luka right now. He’s never seen him get sick before, so he’s a little… disoriented.”

Ah. Luka is normally unflappable—Marinette doesn’t even think she’s seen him sneeze before—so Jagged’s behavior is a little more understable, especially since he’s only been in his son’s life for a few years. She sighs fondly. “Luka will be fine. I think it’ll take a lot more than a common cold to knock him out. Besides, aren’t you excited to see your old friend again?”

He looks up slowly with an expression far too lost for someone at his age, honestly, before breaking out into a smile. “Right you are, Nette!” he crows, his attitude completely turned around now. Fang makes a strange, almost-growl when he’s dislodged from Jagged’s arms so the man can gesticulate wildly. “My boy is one tough rocker. That cold won’t know what hit ‘em! And neither will ol’ Brucie. You’re gonna do those lads in, eh?”

Marinette isn’t quite sure what Jagged is imagining when he says do them in, so she settles for a snort, shaking her head fondly in response. She hopes the night won’t end in some kind of bodily harm, but considering the kind of luck she has and the kind of place Gotham is… it’s more likely than not, honestly.

“Jagged,” Penny interrupts, typing on her tablet with her violet-tipped nails, “the limo is scheduled to take you to Wayne Manor in an hour. Fang’s babysitter is already here, so I suggest you drop him off now so you can finish getting dressed. We don’t want a repeat of your concert last year, hm?”

Thank Kwami for the work of personal assistants everywhere. Marinette shoots a relieved look in Penny’s direction—she did not want to experience a repeat of that fiasco. During the penultimate concert of last year’s tour, Jagged had insisted on letting Fang hang around backstage; expectedly, it had resulted in terrified workers, shredded pants, a distraught Jagged, and a very unhappy Marinette.

“Fine,” Jagged says, looking very put-out. “But tell ‘er not to give him too many treats, ey? He’s starting to get a little chunky. Might start eating my assistants next,” he adds with a full-bellied laugh. Penny rolls her eyes, but Marinette can see the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile.

At least they’re not in the company of the other assistants right now—they’d definitely believe it.

ཐིཋྀ

In the end, they get to Wayne Manor without a hitch.

Marinette steps out of the limo and is met with flashing lights, which is her first real reminder that this event is kind of a big deal. She feels a little bit like how she images Adrien might—actually, scratch that. She feels a little bit like her fifteen-year-old self, running through the streets of Paris in her pajamas while trying to avoid his rabid fans. Marinette can practically see the sponsorship banner ripple the air: Special thanks to Jagged Stone for the reminder!

There should be some sort of question as to why there’s a red carpet at a charity event, but Marinette’s pretty certain it’s because of the simple reason that people, especially those in high society who are preoccupied with their reputation, will do a lot for their image. She certainly wanting to present oneself well, but there’s a difference between that and making a charity gala more about appearances than raising awareness for the cause at hand.

Marinette won’t question Monsieur Wayne’s methods, though. She hadn’t intially known of the man before Batman had informed her that he was a trusted civilian ally, but she’d done her research and concluded that he seemed… not entirely evil and actually quite fatherly. Low standards? Maybe, but between Adrien, Chloé, and Kagami, she’d learned that they were still too lofty for rich parents to reach.

Marinette’s personal assessment of the man is cautiously positive. She’d met with him a few times after Diana and Batman had assured her that Monsieur Wayne operated under a ‘no-questions-asked’ policy and could be trusted to offer assistance to her civilian self without prying. To his credit, he had been nothing but helpful, but there was something about him that made her intuition prickle whenever he was around.

It’s not like she doesn’t trust the word of her mentor and the greatest detective in the world, but Marinette can tell that there’s something more to him that she hasn’t figured out yet. For now, she’s chalked it up to the juxaposition between his ditzy public persona and the serious, perceptive man she knows as Bruce Wayne. Even if the theory doesn’t feel complete, it’s close enough.

…She still thought it’d take longer this to be reminded of it, though.

Within a few seconds of stepping into the ballroom, Marinette is met with the sound of racuous laughter cutting through the live orchestra, drawing the attention of everyone in the room like Batman’s honing beacon in the depths of night.

“Mon dieu,” she mumurs, feeling vaguely disturbed at the sight of Monsieur Wayne with a concerning amount of empty wine glasses. She may be French—not to mention friends with Chloé, who knocks back far too many drinks for someone of her stature—but even she knows that can’t be healthy.

The chorus of laughter that follows reminds Marinette of the American sitcoms she watches with Alya, and she holds back a grimace.

“Ol’ Brucie’s always the life of the party, ain’t he?” Jagged exclaims, slinging an arm over her shoulder. “Bit of a stiff when he’s not in the mood, though. Strange man.”

“He’s something, alright,” Marinette agrees, laughing a little.

They linger by the entrance and watch the guests mingle for the next few minutes. Marinette idly smooths down her dress, letting her hands run over the cool fabric. Jagged’s bluntness is a refreshing reminder that she doesn’t have to be so preoccupied with secrets all the time, even if she doesn’t always have a choice in the matter.

She wonders if Monsieur Wayne ever gets tired of acting like someone he’s not.

The thought is gone almost as soon as it comes, though, lost within the music as Jagged prods her further inside the ballroom. It had already looked intimidating from the entrance, but as they make their way towards the crowd, Marinette quickly realizes that she had underestimated the sheer size of the room. It’s massive, and they don’t get very far before her attention catches on the beautifully sculpted pillars and sparkling crystal chandeliers.

Marinette’s fingers itch to reach for her sketchbook, but she knows they’d come up empty since she had made sure to leave it behind for the night. Before she can linger for too long, Jagged clucks at her. “You can look at the walls for inspiration later, little lady! This night is for you to make some connections.”

…Either she’s embarrassingly transparent, or he’s suddenly gained the ability to read minds. She hadn’t even stopped to look for that long!

“Right,” Marinette flushes, following his dark purple suit tails before they can leave her sight. Some habits never change.

ཐིཋྀ

Despite feeling more than a little out-of-place amongst the people who possess years upon her youth, wealth older than her Grandpa Roland, and familiarity with the English language where she does not, Marinette manages to make the most of the opportunity she’d been given. By the time she decides to retreat, she’s collected a few contacts for prospective commissions and feels thoroughly worn-out.

She hadn’t talked to that many people, but it had felt like a little like dealing with an army of Audrey Bourgeouises—or one very pissed-off Chloé Bourgeouise, and Kwami knows she’d already gotten that lecture when the blonde had caught wind of her plans to stay in Gotham. So while none of the conversations had left Marinette feeling particularly satisfied, she finds relief in the fact that none of them had gone wrong.

She decides to recuperate by stationing herself by the pillars that had caught her attention earlier, tilting her head as she considers the ideas that flit through. She imagines that it wouldn’t be too difficult to use some sort of stiff fabric to mimic the vertical-running flutes. The silhouette of a column dress would be far too rigid for Clara, but Marinette has other clients that would appreciate the simplicity. The chandeliers, on the other hand… those would definitely work for a pop star’s stage outfit. Maybe a dress with colored panels and dangling crystals, or even a stage outfit made of LED strips?

Marinette pulls out her phone to take notes, sorely regretting her decision to leave her sketchbook at home. She should’ve known it would have come to this, but alas, the handbag she’d paired with her blood-red dress is far too small to hold anything other than Tikki and her phone.

She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice the lithe figure that slinks up to her until the sound of someone clearing their throat breaks through the haze.

“Ah, sorry! Wait—Selina?”

A smile blooms across Marinette’s face when she realizes who it is. Selina looks absolutely gorgeous, draped in an black dress and a sparkling diamond necklace that balances her pixie cut wonderfully.

“Hello, darling,” the tall woman purrs. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence? Bruce didn’t tell me you’d be here.” She clicks her tongue, putting a fondly annoyed emphasis on her lover’s name.

“It’s my first public appearance as MDC today! I thought it’d be a good opportunity since Jagged was also invited.”

Marinette flushes happily, excited to share the news with a familiar face. She’d first chatted with Selina when the woman had spotted her in the halls of the manor, leaving after a meeting with Monsieur Wayne. By the end of their conversation, Marinette had a list of museum recommendations and a new commission to work on.

“That’s wonderful, dear.” Selina’s painted lips curve into a genuine smile. “I hope you’ve been getting along well this evening. Have you tried the refreshments table yet?”

“Not yet,” Marinette says, glancing at the long tables to the side. There had been waiters walking around with trays of canapés to offer to the guests earlier, but it hadn’t exactly seemed like a socially acceptable time to accept.

“Well, I’m going to steal a few treats from the snack table,” Selina says, her eyes twinkling like she’s laughing at a joke only she’s privy to. The mischievous sparkle reminds her of Chat Noir, which is another thing Marinette likes about her. “Care to join?”

ཐིཋྀ

Selina is great company. Together, she and Marinette rate the food while pretending to be culinary experts (she’s picked up a thing or two from her Uncle Cheng) and critique the formalwear of passersby. There’s a particularly gorgeous dress with a carefully layered skirt that is the subject of their attention for some twenty-odd minutes.

Marinette learns that Selina does have a penchant for trouble (and perhaps a mild case of sticky fingers) when she swipes at least three celery sticks from some man’s crudité tray without his noticing. It takes far too much effort to school her expression when she sees him look from his plate to the two of them in confusion, before offering an awkward smile and reaching for the tongs again.

They part ways after a while, with Selina joining Bruce and Marinette returning to Jagged, until the drinks catch up to her and she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

When she exits, fiddling with her handbag to make sure that Tikki isn’t too squished, she nearly jumps when she sees a pair of glowing green eyes in the shadows.

They’re the same shade of emerald as Plagg’s, but far too wide and curious to belong to the Kwami of Destruction. The only thing Plagg is ever curious about is cheese. 

“Hello,” she says, stepping closer and leaning down to get a closer look. It’s a child, who looks around the age Manon was when Marinette had started babysitting her, so… six, maybe seven. “Do you need help?”

She’s surprised to see a kid at the gala since it’s an invitation-only event, but maybe Monsieur Wayne had made an exception? With the way he talks about his own children, she knows he has quite a soft spot for them.

“I’m playing a game,” the girl whispers, holding a finger to her lips.

“Oh?” Marinette responds, blinking at the unexpected answer. “What game?”

“Hide-and-seek,” she says, narrowing her eyes and looking around. It’s altogether very cute, and Marinette doesn’t bother hiding the smile that spreads across her face.

“Ah. It must be hard to find hiding spots around here. It’s a very open space, no?”

“It’s the worst,” The girl pouts glumly, tugging on a strand of her ponytail.

Marinette giggles at the peeved look. It’s true that the sprawling space of the ballroom doesn’t offer much apart from hiding in plain sight, but luckily, she possesses much more experience in hide-and-seek than the average person would.

ཐིཋྀ

The gala being attacked is an expected occurrence, but knowing it’s a possibility doesn’t make it any less of a bitch to deal with.

Things would be a lot better if Jason could deal with it, but it would be way too obvious if he and Bruce disappeared only to have Red Hood and Batman take their place.

As Scarecrow’s goons disperse throughout the crowd, Bruce catches his eye and gives Jason an almost imperceptible nod to confirm that he’d already signaled for help. It’ll probably be Batwoman and Robin, then.

Jason glances down when he notices that Marinette is no longer behind him.

“Mar’i,” she hisses quietly, her brow furrowed with worry.

Fuck, he thinks.

Jason isn’t worried about Mar’i—not because he’s some sort of heartless bastard, but because he knows she’s fine. He’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to explain to Marinette that the six-year-old has a Tamaranian pocket dimension she can escape to, though. If he claims that she’s fine with no way to prove it, he will look like a heartless bastard.

“Don’t move,” he says, keeping his voice low. “The vigilantes will be here soon. It’s… she’s okay,” he settles on lamely. “Just trust me.”

Jason tries not to react at the way Marinette’s brow furrows as her blue eyes flit over his face. He feels oddly bare underneath her gaze. It takes a few seconds, but she seems to decide on something, her expression steeling as she sends him a single nod in return.

It feels fucking stupid to stand there, watching as Scarecrow injects his victims one by one, but there’s nothing he can do as Jason Todd except listen to their screams as the other attendees cower in fear.

It’s a display that works perfectly for Scarecrow’s intended purpose. The rogue thrives off of fear, but what most people overlook is that he doesn’t necessarily need the toxin to create it. His victim’s anticipation, and the fear that they’ll be chosen next, is what makes it fun.

Jason’s eyes flit over the crowd. Three people injected. He knows Crane is capable of affecting a lot more people at once, so he must be playing at something new.

His focus shifts to Marinette, pausing when he sees composure in place of fear. He’s guessing that it’s related to the years Paris spent being attacked by an evil butterfly villain, but in this case, emotional stability isn’t a good thing. If Scarecrow notices, he’ll take it as a challenge.

“Who’s next? Will it be you?” the rogue says gleefully, a grin stitched across his face as swoops to bare his pointed teeth at a woman in black. “You?” he asks, pointing to a cowering man, “or you?”

Scarecrow directs his last question towards the woman holding hands with the man, and Jason inhales sharply when he notices that she’s pregnant.

Rage begins to flood through his veins. If that piece of shit so much as tries anything, he won’t hold back.

Fuck, where are his guns when he needs them?

“So potent. I can taste your fear,” Scarecrow titters.

Then, fast as a whip, he takes the syringe and impales an older guest standing further back, not one of the three he’d initially threatened.

The man begins to scream, loud and desperate, and the people around him scatter. Scarecrow cackles, looking satisfied—except this time, the crowd doesn’t stop running.

Some of the bolder attendees decide to make a break for the exit leading to the gardens. Scarecrow turns slowly with an unsettling grin.

“You’re trying to leave already? But we’re having so much fun.”

He snaps his fingers, and the henchman standing a few feet away from Jason and Marinette raises  a gun, pointing it at the column by the door. Jason narrows his eyes. He’s willing to bet on his life that he’s a better mark than any of these people, which means he knows there’s no way in hell a few rounds would be enough to shoot it down.

If the rest of them open fire, though… best-case scenario, people get trapped inside. Worst-case scenario: death by way of the house turning against them.

If he’s being frank, Jason isn’t willing to bet that the column will hold up. Like most rich-people things, it’s more decorative and less structurally sound.

He braces himself as the henchman prepares to shoot.

In his periphery, he sees Marinette’s eyes widen—and before he can stop her, she moves.

To her credit, the Parisian manages to divert the bullet before getting injected.

She moves faster than Jason thought possible, grabbing the henchman’s gun and pointing it to the side. It breaks a vase, which shatters harmlessly, at the same time the henchman pulls out a syringe and jams it into her thigh.

Fuck. Not good.

He backs away, giving Marinette a wide berth in case she’s the type to attack. It’s not the typical response they get from victims, but being from Paris, she may very well be.

Kate and Damian had better be on their way soon. There’s nothing Jason hates more than seeing people in pain and being unable to help—and right now, the only thing that can help Marinette is the antidote.

Stepping in and drawing attention to his civilian identity would only result in his getting drugged up, and that would be a benefit to no one.

So Jason watches, digging his nails into his palm.

Scarecrow steps closer. Closer again. And Marinette—she whimpers.

Crying isn’t an uncommon reaction among fear toxin victims, but it normally has a faster onset. Delayed reaction? Uncommon, but not unusual.

Jason holds his breath, preparing for the tears to start—except nothing happens.

A second passes, then another.

The front of Marinette’s brow twitches upward in distress, and if Jason were any less observant, he’d make the mistake of assuming she wasn’t scared at all.

But although her face is eerily blank, he sees the signs: dilated pupils, trembling hands, her chest heaving with the rise and fall of her rapid breathing. His immediate instinct is to label it as some sort of catatonic reaction, but he has a feeling that there’s more to it than that.

Jason is all too familiar with emotional regulation due to having to curb his pit madness, but Paris or not—freeze response or not—there’s something about it that feels too controlled.

“That’s no fun,” Scarecrow tsks.

The rogue’s growing interest is becoming obvious. This needs to end fast, because he’s pretty sure he sees where this is going.

Just when he’s about to do something stupid, the doors slam open, and Batwoman and Robin charge inside.

It’s a serious situation, but Jason almost laughs. It figures that the only time they choose to take the door instead of breaking through the ceiling is because they don’t want to destroy their own home.

Kate goes straight for Scarecrow while Damian moves to apprehend the henchmen, and Jason feels a sense of affection for the little brat (not that he’d ever say it out loud. Can it, Dick, he’s not a softie).

Bruce takes the opportunity to round up the civilians, smiling genially all the while. Jason shudders. That smile is creepier than Scarecrow’s could ever be.

Kate actually manages to detain Scarecrow in record time, and Jason snorts at the victorious smirk she sends Bruce’s way.

“I’ll drop him off at Arkham and take care of the goons,” he overhears her saying to Damian. “Robin, you distribute the antidotes. It looks like a new strain of toxin, so you might have to take a blood sample from someone and send it to the cave.”

Damian nods shortly, administering the remedy with rapid efficiency. Jason’s guessing that it won’t be enough to purge the toxin from their systems completely, but it should do most of the work.

“Get the sample from Marinette,” Jason says when Damian materializes them. There’s only one person he hasn’t given the antidote to, and of the two, Marinette is more likely to stand still.

Damian narrows his eyes briefly, likely annoyed at the fact that he’s getting instructions from Jason, but seems to acquiesce. The kid begins to approach her, but before he can get too close, an arm blocks his path.

“Robin, don’t,” Bruce orders, shaking his head decisively.

“What?” he responds. He drops the arm holding the syringe, aborting his motion halfway, and clicks his tongue impatiently.

“Give her the antidote. You can get the sample from the others.”

Damian is clearly unhappy with this solution, and Jason can’t even blame him for it. It’s clear that the old man knows something they don’t, but Robin has no business getting into it with Bruce Wayne in front of a bunch of civilians.

“Tt. Fine.” He injects Marinette with the antidote and strides off, looking for all the world like the menacing, katana-wielding child he is.

Jason shakes his head. “Kids, am I right?” he says sarcastically, looking at Bruce as he jabs a thumb in Damian’s direction.

He gets a flat look in return.

ཐིཋྀ

“Mar’i?”

The sound of her name breaks through Marinette’s reverie, and she turns her head, her arms slipping from the railing to return to her side. She doesn’t know how long she’s been standing on the balcony, too busy soaking in the view.

“Um, yes?” she replies, furrowing a brow in confusion.

She turns to the sliding door, expecting to see someone in the doorway, but the only thing that greets her is smooth glass and empty air.

Marinette’s eyes sweep past the door, wondering how they’d managed to evade her so quickly, until she realizes that the person who had presumably called her name had already crossed to the other side, having brushed past her entirely.

“Um, were you looking for me?” she asks, observing the figure’s back.

It’s not a voice she recognizes, and the nickname is altogether too familiar for someone she doesn’t know, but there’s always a chance. Maybe it’s a friend of an associate? Or maybe someone she’d been introduced to tonight that she’s already forgotten, or even—oh.

The person who turns around is a man, and an exceedingly gorgeous one at that. Tall, broad shoulders. Muscled form with scars running along his arms. Black hair with a white streak. His stance appears casual, but when he hears her voice, he shifts like he’s preparing for a fight.

He’s a lot more physically intimidating than the people she typically finds attractive, but Marinette knows there’s no way she could have forgetten someone like that.

She opens her mouth to speak up again, not sure whether she’s about to correct herself or ask again—and then he looks at her.

Pure, piercing green eyes, crackling like a summer storm.

Somewhere in the distance, there’s a deep rumble and a flash that accompanies the murmur of the rain, but Marinette’s head is roaring too loudly to notice. Her glossy lips part in sheer wonderment, and she stands there, bewitched.

(Lightning strikes twice. This time, there’s no umbrella to shield her from the storm.)

“I don’t think so,” the man speaks up, his voice gravely.

Marinette sees the movement of his slightly chapped lips before she hears him, and it takes her a few seconds to drift back into the present.

“Unless you happen to be a six-year-old child with a really good disguise.” His lips twitch, forming the hint of an amused smirk.

It’s sheer instinct and years of banter with heroes and villains alike that kicks her brain into gear.

“Well, my name is Mari.” She accompanies the response with a smile that appears far more composed than she feels. It’s like her lips are moving of their own accord, and she’s drowning despite not having caught a single drop of rain. “Wait, was that a short joke?” she frowns. She can feel some of the fog clear amidst her indignance.

He chuckles, putting a hand in his pocket and leaning his weight on one leg. The stance is casual yet confident, and Marinette could practically see him draped in the clothing line she’d been designing for her first public release. Would it be weird to ask if he’d model for her in the future?

“You said it, not me.”

…Never mind. She already gets this level of sass from Alya, not to mention the rest of her friends. It’s a good thing she can at least dish it as well as she can take it.

“Well, to answer your question,” she replies, even though he hadn’t really been asking a question at all, “that depends on who’s asking. And in this case, it seems like I don’t know who’s asking.”

It’s a little hard to maintain her confident veneer underneath a gaze so intense. Marinette hasn’t felt the stark contrast of a facade since earlier in her tenure as Ladybug, when the citizens of Paris were depending on their symbol of hope to keep a brave face.

“So, not the six-year-old,” he drawls, stepping closer. He’s so tall that Marinette has tilt her head up to meet his eyes. “Just the six-year-old’s accomplice. And the name’s Jason.”

Jason. Marinette mouths the name without thinking. The way it rolls off her tongue feels… right, for some reason. And she supposes it all makes sense considering the little girl—also named Mari?—had said she was hiding from her “Uncle Jay.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Maybe I have seen her. But as a fellow hide-and-seek champion, I’m afraid I can’t disclose any details.” Marinette would absolutely tell Jason if he asked seriously, but from the looks of it, he doesn’t have such concerns at the moment.

“Birds of a feather?” Jason cocks his brow, looking faintly amused.

“I think you mean bats,” she corrects, jutting out her hip in a pose that Ladybug shows to the world a lot more than Marinette does. Luckily, the more they talk, the less her confidence feels like a façade.

“Birds are to bats as feathers are to… what, exactly?”

“Um,” Marinette replies. He’s got her there. “A cave? But that is too… comment dit-on… local?” She frowns. That doesn’t seem right.

Before she can spend too long wracking her brain for the right word, Jason laughs. It’s a short thing, but it makes Marinette feel like she’d done something right.

“Fuck if I know,” he grins. Marinette finds that she likes his bluntness.

Unlike most of the people she’d met tonight, Jason seems intentionally unconcerned with his image. And although she’s not sure who he is or what he does, she probably should have expected it from someone playing hide-and-seek at one of the biggest high-society events this side of the world has to offer.

A moment of silence befalls them, and Marinette watches with poorly disguised interest as Jason leans back on the railing.

Before she can attempt to pull a conversation topic out of thin air, another chill sweeps by, sending the curls outside of her bun fluttering. She tamps down on a shiver, trying to hug herself in a way that appears graceful and not uncomfortable.

Judging by the way Jason’s eyes follow the movement, she fails.

“You wanna go inside?”

Marinette blinks in surprise.

His voice is slightly rough; if she’s not mistaken, she even senses a hint of unsureness. Is he offering to keep her company?

“You can tell me why you’re in the shithole that is Gotham when you could be in France, I’m assuming. And watch me try to find the kid.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, jumping at the chance. “Yes. That great sounds! Merde. I mean, that sounds great.”

Jason tilts his head towards the door and sweeps his arms out. “After you.”

ཐིཋྀ

Like everyone, Jason has contradictions.

Marinette learns this rather quickly within the first ten minutes they spend giggling and dodging guests. He’s sarcastic and blunt. He doesn’t make a habit of entertaining people when he doesn’t want to—which means he wants to talk to her for some reason or another. His behavior is deliberately flippant, but not careless.

Above all, there’s an underlying seriousness that accompanies his defiant demeanor—but in all honesty, she could probably just attribute it to the grave aura that seems to cling to most people in Gotham.

When they walk past Monsieur Wayne and the gaggle of guests hanging on to his every word, he gives them a wide-eyed double take (the most genuine expression she’d seen him make the whole night), which is when Marinette also learns that Jason is his second son.

She has pretty good instincts when she chooses to listen to them, and right now, they’re telling her that Jason is someone she’s going to be seeing around quite a bit. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but the same deep-seated feeling of this person is going to change you is how she felt when Alya had sat next to her for the first time.

Something about him seems different in a way she can’t explain.

“Where the hell did that kid hide?” he grumbles. “I swear Dickhead raised her so she could stress us out just as much as he does, ‘cept none of us can complain about it ‘cause she’s too cute.”

Marinette laughs, shooting Jason a knowing grin. “Just like you live to stress out your dad? You can’t tell me you didn’t drag her into your antics because you know he’s soft on his grandchildren.”

“Hey,” he corrects gruffly, “I did it because I’m the favorite uncle. But touché, I guess.”

“I guess,” Marinette mimics in a horrible impression of his voice, which earns her an amused eyebrow raise.

In all honesty, she’s not sure where Mar’i is. All she’d done was give the girl some tips and tricks, as well as possible secondary locations to hide in. Personally, Marinette would have hidden atop the column obscured by the velvet curtains, but it looks hard enough for an average adult to climb, let alone a child.

Wait a second…

She eyes the column with narrowed eyes. 

“By the way,” Jason says, clearing his throat. Marinette diverts her attention, trying not to appear too suspicious, and looks at him curiously. “I was thinking.”

“Thinking,” she parrots dutifully.

Jason snorts. “Should’ve known better than to think I’d get someone without attitude in my life.”

It’s an off-handed statement, but even the implication of Marinette being a part of his life makes her heart skip. It’s ridiculous considering she hardly knows him.

(But she wants to get to know him, doesn’t she?)

“Anyways,” he drawls. She watches as he runs a hand through the silky strands of his black hair. “I was thinking. After I find Mar’i—or you give me a hint—”

“I’m just as clueless as you are!”

“—I can pawn the squeaker off to Bruce to give him a break. And ‘cause I was thinking,” he says, his green eyes darting off to the side. “Do you maybe wanna—”

Before Jason can finish his sentence, the sound of shattering glass breaks through the soft music, and Marinette finds herself being guarded by his broad frame before she can react.

Amidst the screams, a voice emerges.

“Yeah, yeah,” Marinette huffs fondly, holding up the skirt. “What do you think?” She presents it alongside a cute top she’s been wanting to wear for a while but had never found the right occasion for.

“Fashionable as always, Dupain-Cheng. Honestly, I thought fishing for compliments was supposed to be my job,” the blonde harrumphs. Marinette suppresses a smile. Chloé has a special talent for disguising compliments as insults.

“And Adrien’s,” Alya pipes up. “But Chloé’s right, you look great, girl! You’ll totally knock him out.”

“Hopefully not because of how disastrous I am,” Marinette groans, but it’s more out of habit than anything. Even if she’s a little nervous, she has a good feeling about this.

Luka gives Marinette a slight smile when she walks by the couch, tugging on one of the ribbons dangling from her top. “It makes you charming, Ma-Ma-Marinette.”

“Thanks for that reminder, Luka,” she grouses. The guitarist manages to trick everyone into thinking he’s nothing more than a relaxed, perceptive individual, but Marinette knows the truth: he’s a menace just like the rest of them.

“Anything for you, Melody.”

Truly—a menace.

ཐིཋྀ

Marinette has heard more than enough stories about Gotham’s doom and gloom, and she’s had about a week of firsthand experience with the city’s… unique appeal. Quite frankly, she started to buy into the common notion that it lacked any sights to offer other than smog (which hinders one’s sight, really) and its assortment of murky, polluted rivers. 

She should have expected Jason to be the type of person to prove her expectations wrong.

The courtyard in front of her is absolutely gorgeous, with grass greener the kind in Paris and delicate flowers scattered across the ground. “What? This is so pretty,” Marinette says, looking at Jason. She’s a little awestruck, both because of the knowledge that someplace like this exists in Gotham, and because he had taken her there.

“I thought you might like it,” he replies, rubbing his neck as his eyes dart away. If she’s not mistaken, she’d say he looks nervous, which is almost a laughable thought. Marinette is supposed to be the overthinker within all her interpersonal relationships, and someone like Jason isn’t supposed to be fazed by a girl who barely breaches the 160-centimeter mark.

“I do,” she gushes, trying to make her gratitude clear as she watches Jason lay out the picnic blanket he’d brought. It’s aptly placed in a shady patch beneath a tree, which makes her feel another rush of appreciation. “I didn’t even know places like this existed in Gotham.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “Yeah, this city is a shithole unless you know where to go,” he says. “You’re not gonna find a lot of nice gardens in these parts, though. Hole-in-the-wall diners? Sure. But the pollution in this place has pretty much killed all life.”

“This place is so… nice, though,” Marinette says, looking at him questioningly. It feels oddly rejuvenating, like the flowers are breathing life into the very air.

“Yeah, that’d be Poison Ivy for you. This place is pretty much her territory.”

“Uh… are we allowed to be here, then?” The question is more perplexed than accusatory. Jason doesn’t seem like the type to trespass with her in his company.

“Yeah, I cleared it with her. Nowadays she’s pretty neutral unless someone disrespects the space, so we’ll be good.”

“Oh, okay.” Marinette relaxes, watching as Jason begins to lay out the food he’d brought. “Friends in high places much?” she teases.

“Says you,” Jason snorts. “I’m pretty sure you’re the youngest person I’ve seen at the gala who isn’t related to one of the people there. And you’re not even from Gotham,  which is pretty fucking cool.”

Marinette flushes, shifting a little. “It’s all thanks to Jagged, really! I wouldn’t be here without him.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, taking a seat on the picnic blanket and patting the spot next to him. “You wouldn’t be here without your own work, either.”

Marinette settles down onto the blanket, smoothing her skirt over her legs. She supposes she can’t argue with that.

ཐིཋྀ

Despite looking like what most Parisians would call a delinquent, Jason is a perfect gentleman during their date.

Sure, he drives a motorcycle, swears more than anyone Marinette is acquainted with, and is as big as her Papa (albeit much more built)—but she likes motorcycles, she likes how blunt he is, and she finds his presence to feel less like a threat and more like an assurance of safety.

Marinette would have been happy talking to Jason over a simple dinner, but the picnic setup had blown her expectations out of the water. It’s more thoughtful than she’d ever expected, especially for a first date. The choice of location is not only gorgeous, but shows that he can most likely be trusted to keep his word; the selection of food he’d chosen includes things she’d mentioned liking when she told him about rating the gala’s finger food with Selina; and the way he interacts with her is genuine and easy. It makes her feel heard.

Time passes by quickly enough that Marinette could almost be convinced that Jason is in possession of a time-traveling Miraculous. She doesn’t think to check how long it’s been until she notices that the sky has gotten darker.

“Do you need to head back soon?” Jason asks, leaning back on an arm.

Marinette bites her lip. She doesn’t want their date to end, but she also has to wake up early the next morning to say goodbye to Jagged and Luka before their flight back to Paris. “Yeah, probably in a bit,” she sighs. “I have to get up early tomorrow. But maybe we can stay until the sun sets?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll take you back whenever you want.”

The two sit in silence for a few moments as the speaker Jason had brought hums merrily in the background. It had been a pleasant surprise to find out that his taste is much more varied than Marinette initially expected.

Jason takes the opportunity to pick up his phone, and as he scrolls through it, Marinette wonders with slight disappointment if he’s finally checked out of their conversation. But then the music changes to something soft, and he sets his phone aside before turning to her.

“This might be a stupid idea,” Jason starts, getting onto his feet, “but, uh, d’ya wanna dance?”

He holds out a callous-covered hand, which Marinette blinks at with wide eyes.

“I was g’na ask you before Scarecrow interrupted,” he says, glancing away, “but if you don’t want to, that’s—”

“No!” Marinette interrupts, standing so abruptly that she nearly causes a collision. Jason’s expression shifts imperceptibly in what looks like surprise, but his gaze remains firmly fixed on her.

Marinette takes a deep breath, trying not to feel nervous under the intensity of his stare. His eyes are so green—verdant as creation, sizzling like acid destruction. “Um, I mean. I’d love to! Really.”

She takes his hand, noting the contrast between the two of them as she slides her palm across his. Where Marinette’s fingers are delicate and slender thanks to the healing powers she’s slowly gained from the Miraculous after years of use, Jason’s are rough and calloused. But they feel soft to Marinette—both the warmth  and the way he holds her so gently.

“Okay,” Jason rasps.

A slight smile spreads across his lips, and they begin to move.

The two dance around the gardens in their socks, their shoes having long been abandoned in the grass. The blades tickling at Marinette’s feet feel funny, but good. Like she’s being grounded by the soil beneath her feet and living in a dream all at once.

Although it takes a bit to settle into a comfortable rhythm, Marinette has grown much more familiar with dancing over the years, and Jason is a good lead. By the end of the first piece, their movements are gracefully in sync.

One song passes, then another, and before they know it they’re goofing around, trying to do complicated footwork and spins without following the beat of the music.

“I don’t think that was the one,” Marinette giggles when she nearly trips over her feet at a particular maneuver they’d tried to pull off.

“Nah. We just have to try again. One more time?”

When the sun finally begins to descend, painting the sky in delicate strokes of pink and orange, the pair switches to slowly swaying back and forth to the music. Jason’s hands are steady and warm, a pleasant weight on her waist. It feels like they’re being pulled into each other in a way Marinette can only compare to the depth in his green eyes.

(Crackling like a summer storm. A fire, warm and alive.)

When she wraps her arms around Jason’s neck, he cranes his head down slightly to meet her, shifting to accommodate their rather significant height gap. She’s still too short to rest her head against his shoulder, so it falls against his chest instead.

Marinette keeps one ear on the music and one pressed against Jason’s beating heart. It’s steady, maybe a little rapid, and hears him take a deep breath before his arms wrap around her. At the same time, she feels the weight of his chin landing atop her head as he tucks her further into his chest.

“Don’t give me that sass, Spots,” Alya scoffs, though Marinette can’t miss the way her eyes twinkle with humor. “Seriously, are you okay? Scarecrow is probably the worst rogue you could have run into, considering…”

She trails off, waving a hand in the air.

“Yeah. Considering,” Marinette agrees, laughing a little at the sheer dumb luck of it all. “I’m fine, though.” She waves a hand in the air dismissively. “The vigilantes showed up and handled it in time—although Monsieur Wayne almost made them suspicious of me.”

“Really? How?” Alya leans closer to the camera, frowning.

“Apparently Robin wanted to take a blood sample from me so he could make an antidote, but Monsieur Wayne told him not to. I guess the vigilantes there know he’s close with Batman, which makes sense?” Marinette wonders aloud. “He said that since he knew I was from the Akuma Class, he didn’t want me to react badly under the influence of fear toxin, but it felt like he knew more.”

Batman had promised not to tell Monsieur Wayne anything that would hint too strongly at her identity, so she’s pretty sure he’d kept his lips sealed about her taking an assortment of wacky, unidentifiable potions from the Grimoire that may or may not have messed with things.

There’s also something about resonating with Tikki for so long that makes her body want to purge things that shouldn’t be there. She doubts it’s in a way that would alter how a blood analysis shows up, but it could result in an antidote that’s less effective than the other victims had required.

“Even if he does, the fact that he’s not even letting you know about it means he knows how to keep it on the low,” Alya reminds her. “I know you’re still nervous about the whole identity thing, but he’s a good person to have on your side. Have a little faith, girl!”

“Yeah,” Marinette echoes, suddenly reminded of the weight on her shoulders. “Faith.”

She doesn’t realize she’s been lost in thought for a little too long until she hears Alya clear her throat. “What did you see, Marinette?”

Her voice is soft—too soft. Her heart squeezes. Marinette looks back down at the piece in her hands, absently noting that one of her stitches is slightly uneven. That’s a shame. “I… just the usual stuff. It was like Sandboy, I guess. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, Als.”

Her voice sounds pleading instead of decisive. Maybe that is what she’s doing—pleading. She doesn’t really want to think about what she’d seen, even though she knows her denial will hurt Alya because it makes her feel like Marinette doesn’t trust her.

“Marinette…”

The sadness in Alya’s voice causes shame to burst in Marinette’s chest. It’s an unwanted feeling, but not an unfamiliar one. She hates having to lie to her friends, but she’s never really stopped doing that, has she?

But telling Alya that what she’d seen under the influence of Scarecrow’s fear toxin would do nothigng but burden her needlessly. The endless calling of being a hero, the weight of her role as Celestial Guardian, the inevitability of losing her memories—there’s nothing that can be done to relieve Marinette of her responsibilities. Maybe it’s true that she keeps choosing this life, but it keeps choosing her right back.

She looks down when Tikki nudges her leg in a way that she’s come to recognize as both comfort and disapproval. “You should tell her, Marinette!”

Marinette shakes her head, and the Kwami pouts in response, her cheeks puffing up.

“Sorry. Tikki,” she explains, turning back to Alya. “But I’m fine, really. Can we just drop it? Please?”

Alya sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Fine. We both know you’re lying, girl,” she says pointedly. “Buuut since I’m the best friend ever, I’ll let it go. Don’t think we’re done talking about this, though!” she adds before Marinette can feel too relieved about being let off the hook. “Other than that, did you have fun at the gala? Any good scoops you picked up?”

“It was pretty fun, actually,” Marinette says, gladly latching onto the change in topic. “And I wouldn’t say there were any good scoops, but I did meet someone? I think?”

To Alya, the only thing better than a good scoop is a development in Marinette’s love life. “Cute guy? Cute girl? Cute person?” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you’d better drop a name right now, or so help me.”

“Alya,” Marinette whines. Her best friend has a propensity for digging up anything and everything she can find on anyone remotely involved with Marinette. Alya claims it’s for safety reasons, but if that were her only motivation, she wouldn’t find so much joy in flaunting obscure information that Marinette definitely shouldn’t know about them. “Fine. But you’d better not be weird about it, okay?” It’s Jason. Todd,” she adds, mumbling his last name.

Alya leans closer to the camera, squinting at her. “Uh, who?”

“Jason Todd,” she mumbles again.

“Girl, you’re gonna have to speak up—”

“JASON TODD!” she practically screeches.

Alya’s jaw drops. “Jason Todd? As in, Bruce Wayne’s second son, Jason Todd?”

Marinette nods miserably.

“Damn, girl, you really know how to choose ‘em. He’s, like, the most mysterious out of all of them. How’d you even manage to bag a Wayne? Wait, no, don’t answer that,” she laughs.

“I didn’t bag him, Alya, we had a perfectly respectable conversation!” Marinette squawks.

“Sure,” Alya snorts. “You expect me to believe you had a ‘perfectly respectable’ conversation with Mr. Bad Boy Extraordinaire?”

“He was actually very sweet, thank you very much,” Marinette says, her lips screwing into a pout.

“I’m just playing,” Alya smiles. “I know how the media likes to mess with people’s images. It’s nice to know that he’s actually a prince charming in real life.” She waggles her eyebrows, winking at Marinette. “But for real, how’d that even happen?”

“I don’t even know,” Marinette admits. “I was going to the bathroom, and I saw Mar’i—Monsieur Wayne’s granddaughter—hiding in the dark. She told me she was playing hide-and-seek, so I decided to help her. Afterwards, I heard someone calling my name, so I thought they were looking for me, but it was actually Jason looking for Mar’i, and… yeah. We just started talking, I guess?”

“Aww,” Alya coos, “that’s so cute! I am a little surprised that he isn’t as rough-and-tumble as he seems, though. Was he totally sweet? Or just sweet in the way that people who hate everyone reserve only for you?”

“Alya!” Marinette splutters.

“Don’t try and deny it, you know I’m right,” she sing-songs. “Now answer the question.”

“Mm, he did curse a lot,” Marinette muses, “and he was very blunt. Kind of like Chloé, but… also not at all like Chloé. He doesn’t seem as pointy as her, if that makes sense?”

Alya snorts. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”

“Ugh, I don’t even know how to describe him,” Marinette groans, flopping onto her stomach. She lays her head on her arm and looks into the camera longingly. “I feel like we just clicked—like the second I looked at him, I knew we’d get along, you know? And even though I messed up my words a few times, I was totally comfortable.”

Alya’s brows inch towards her hairline. Marinette can’t even blame her for it—for the past year or two, Alya has been more than privy to her glaring lack of a love life. Somewhere between Hawkmoth 1.0 and 2.0, she’d started to get tired of it all; then, after the Butterfly Miraculous had been returned safely into her care, she’d gotten far too busy juggling her responsibilities as both MDC and Guardian to even think about finding a partner.

“Leave it to you to have the love of your life be a billionaire’s son in Gotham,” her best friend laughs eventually. “You know Hawkmoth is gone, right? You don’t have to keep running into danger,” she teases.

“I could say the same to you, Madame Journalist,” Marinette mocks playfully. “But I doubt he’s the love of my life. I mean, I’m probably never going to see him again, Alya.”

The thought makes Marinette unreasonably sad, but she can’t possibly hold on to hope like this.

“Like hell you won’t!” The recording jostles as Alya sits up straight, a determined glint in her eyes that can only mean trouble. “You’re working with his dad, so there’s no way you won’t see him again. Not to mention you’re literally Lady Luck! If you want it to happen, it’ll happen,” she says confidently.

Marinette appreciates the pep talk more than Alya could know, but quite frankly, she has no expectations that her ‘relationship’ with Jason will go anywhere, even if she hopes otherwise. “You know that’s not how the Miraculouses work, Alya,” she deflects gaily.

“It won’t with that attitude,” she retorts just as quickly. “But seriously, I’m happy for you. Scarecrow should be jealous, because it sounds like the only thing you’re drugged up on is looove.”

Tikki giggles at their banter, which earns an earnest giggle from Marinette.

“No, seriously, I—oh, wait a second,” she frowns, swiping from the video chat with Alya to her messages when she sees a notification from an unknown number at the top of her screen. She’d already received a message wishing her well after the attack from a prospective commissioner she’d given her information to at the gala, so she can only assume this is the same thing.

Hey, this is Jason. I got your number from Jagged.

How are you holding up after the attack?

Marinette squeaks involuntarily, her face heating up as she rereads the words.

“What is it?” Alya demands.

“Um, he just texted me,” Marinette ekes out. “And asked how I was feeling.”

“What? No way. Show me, show me!”

Marinette tries to hold Alya at bay as she types out a response, toeing the line between honest and safe.

Hi Jason! It’s nice to hear from you again.

I wish our conversation didn’t get cut off, but I’m totally okay now! Thanks for checking on me. Is the manor okay after the attack?

She reads the messages aloud after she hits send, worrying at her bottom lip. “He could just be being nice, Alya,” Marinette says, trying to minimize her own hope. She wants it to be more than that—of course she does—but can’t afford to let go of her doubt.

“So what if he’s being nice? That man still wants you,” Alya insists even more firmly. “You’ve got a good thing in front of you, Marinette! Stop expecting things to go wrong before they even start.”

Marinette opens her mouth, ready to argue that she’s just being realistic, when another notification interrupts her.

Glad you’re doing okay. The manor’s fine. It’s so ancient I’m surprised it hasn’t started falling apart on its own already

And about that

You can tell me to fuck off if you’re not comfortable with it, but would you want to go on a date with me sometime?

Oh. Her face feels warm again, and Marinette is sure that Alya knows what’s going on based on her built-in Marinette Squeak Translator.

Jason walks up the grand staircase in the direction of his room, the petulant response emphasized by the apparent lack of a cool exit. Those things always work better when he’s somewhere where he can blow shit up.

Once he gets to his room, he strips out of his suit, heading into the shower to think over his next steps. He’d prefer if he hadn’t been kicked out, but he can grudgingly admit that he knows Marinette will be okay either way.

Damian will make sure a sufficient antidote is made, Batwoman will no doubt take her home, and Bruce will… do something suitably cryptic, in all likelihood. Jason doubts he’ll be able to wring any information out of him, which means he’s on his own as far as that goes.

Looking into her files is the easiest option since Bruce does background checks on everyone attending the gala. It might cause the guy to get even more cagey if he’s set on being secretive, though, which would be a sign. A good or bad sign, he’s not sure, but a sign nonetheless.

Marinette doesn’t seem like the villainous type, though. Jason knows far better than to underestimate people based on first impressions, but he has a feeling he’s right about this. If she were a threat, Bruce wouldn’t act quite so… familiar is the only way he can put it, even if it seems like an exaggeration. Besides, he’s pretty sure most villains would know better than to draw attention to themselves like that.

Despite what Stephanie calls their natural inclination towards Bat-Suspicion™, Jason decides not to look into it. If there’s a problem, he’ll deal with it when it comes along. He’s never taken interest in a civilian like this before—no use ruining a good thing before its expiration date.

There is one thing he wants to know about her, though…

ཐིཋྀ

It only takes an hour for the remaining Scarecrow victims to get cleared. Jason gives Bruce approximately forty-seven minutes after he’s dealt with the entire mess to get settled in again—but who’s counting, really?

“Yo, B,” he says, barging into his office.

Bruce sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Jason—”

“I’m not gonna ask what that was about, so you can cool your tits,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes.

“...That’s not what I meant,” Bruce replies, sighing again. “I already filled Damian in. I was going to tell you not to kick in my door. You dented it. Again.”

Jason looks back to see a crack in the wood, right next to the other two he’d left there years before. In his defense, he’s stronger than most people.

“It adds charm. Anyways, I don’t care about that. Give me Jagged’s number.”

Bruce blinks at him slowly. “You want Jared’s number? Why not look through his file?”

“It’s called being normal. You should try it sometime.”

Jason feels himself prickle with defensiveness when Bruce gives him a dubious look in response. “Yeah, okay. Sue me for trying to get to know someone without all the bullshit,” he snaps. “Not everyone wants to be a detective-mode freak all the time.”

He turns on his heel, preparing to leave, but stops at Bruce’s reply.

“It’s not that. I’m just… proud of you, son. For choosing this. All I want is for you kids to be happy.”

Ah, fuck. He is not going to tear up right now. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure that’s what you were thinking when you put me in a Robin uniform and turned me into a child soldier,” he retorts, but there’s no heat behind it the same way there would have been a few years ago.

Bruce’s eyes soften. He looks far too fond despite the way Jason had just insulted him. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s because of the insult. “If you want to know anything, just ask. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to answer you, but Marinette is a good kid. I hope you can make each other happy.”

“Jesus, B. I’m asking her on a date, not getting married. Save it for the vows.”

“Hn.”

ཐིཋྀ

“Todd,” Damian says, barging into Jason’s room in a way that is uncannily reminiscent of what he’d done to Bruce not too long ago, “I am here to inform you that the French woman is alright. You may cease your sulking.”

Jason looks up from his phone, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “Sulking?”

“Yes,” he sniffs, crossing his arms. “It is unseemly. I would not involve myself; however, Father informed me of your… intentions with her. He said you were not interested in learning about his directions towards me.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. Sometimes it’s not worth doing all that digging. I just wanna get to know someone the normal way, y’know?” Jason shrugs. “‘Sides, didn’t you get mad when you found out that Bruce did a background check on your school friends last year?” he asks pointedly. 

“Tch. You ought not to let your guard down just because you are attracted to someone,” Damian continues, ignoring his completely valid point. “But admittedly, she did not seem insufferable, even when she was no longer incapacitated. Father said the blood sample was simply a matter of her belonging to a class in Paris that was frequently targeted by their… magical supervillian,” he finishes distastefully. “He claimed he did not want me to provoke her ‘reflexes,’ although I fail to see how a civilian could cause me much trouble.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jason drawls. “You’re tiny and you manage to cause this family plenty of trouble.”

“I am a trained assassin,” Damian scowls. “And do not pretend as though you do not cause more trouble than me. Of your own volition, no less.”

“So what was the point of you barging into my room again?”

“To remind you of your poor history with romantic escapades, but it appears you got lucky. According to Dupain-Cheng’s file, she makes regular donations to a charity which aims to prevent animal abuse in the fashion industry, so I suppose your taste is not abhorrent this time.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jason replies. He can’t even be mad when he knows this is just Damian’s weird way of showing support. “Man, what is it with you freaks today?”

“You’re welcome,” Damian sniffs haughtily, pointing his nose in the air.

“Okaaay, now you’re overstaying your welcome,” Jason says, returning his attention to his phone. “And close the door on your way out,” he calls after his brother.