#damianette

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.

The previous year, when they’d still been dancing around each other, she had only made him a cake and bought a pair of cufflinks she thought would suit him. This year? They’d been together for over six months and she had already sewn several articles of clothing, crocheted a few plushies, and planned to make an entire feast of his favourite foods. Let it not be said that she was taking this relationship lightly. 

The other part of her plans…she wanted to share her secrets with him. Tikki had been locked safely back in the box since her first semester at université but she was going to bring her out so that she could get her advice and inform her of her decision. As the grand guardian of the miracle box it was her choice alone but that didn’t mean she didn’t still want her kwami’s input when she was making big decisions. Besides, a short trip outside the box would probably make the god of creation extremely happy, so she was going to bake a whole batch of macarons for Tikki to take back for the others. 

The day before Damian’s birthday, Jon showed up to spend the day with him, the plan being that they would have fun before returning him home. Then, Jon would stay the night so that after Damian had opened his gifts he could take Dick over to Wally’s house for a sleepover, leaving the soulmates blissfully alone for the night. 

The plan went off without a hitch, and Marinette set up their candlelit dinner on the roof on the evening of Damian’s birthday. She took a deep breath before trying to cram her nerves into a box so she wasn’t impeded when explaining this part of her life to him. Gotham vigilantes were well known for disliking all who practiced magic, and magic wasn’t something she could just give up without destroying her life, so she had every right to feel nervous but she wished she didn’t. Damian had been the perfect soulmate over the past months and she felt secure enough that he wouldn’t just dismiss her the moment she said or did something he didn’t approve of or like. 

“This looks wonderful, Starling,” he murmured when he finally arrived, and she almost leapt out of her skin at his sudden appearance. He seemed half-amused, half-concerned by her jumpiness and held onto her upper arms loosely to keep her steady. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine!” she squeaked, blushing when he raised a sceptical eyebrow, though he didn’t press her for information. “I’m fine, just a little nervous.” 

“What is making you nervous? Surely you do not think I would be anything but charmed by your efforts to make my birthday memorable,” he said softly, hands sliding down to her own before bringing one up to kiss her fingertips. The gesture had become familiar quickly and it soothed the part of her that wanted to run, just enough that she could breathe again. 

“I was a superheroine,” she blurted, completely unable to take the pressure building within her anymore. When he blinked at her, eyes firmly on hers and hands remaining in her own. “And, um, I kind of, maybe, have the responsibility of watching over more than a dozen little gods because the alternative is losing all my memories from the time I was fourteen, and I’ve been nervous about telling you because I know you hate magic users but there’s nothing I can do about it and that’s kind of terrifying and I really like being with you and-” 

“Marinette, breathe,” he instructed, placing a hand on her cheek and keeping her close. “I do not hate magic users, and I especially do not think I am capable of hating you. More than a dozen little gods?” 

“We should sit down,” she said begrudgingly, hating the thought of him releasing her so they could eat their dinner. Thankfully, he kept hold of her hand as he maneuvered them to sit down at the table, twirling her before seating her in his lap. Highly impractical but she relished the contact as he picked an hors-d'oeuvre from the table and ate it. 

Over the course of their dinner, she gave him as much information as she could, and he was receptive to it all. He was curious about the tiny gods, obviously, but his questions leaned more towards how it would affect her in the future. If she had doubted at all that telling him was the right decision, that assured her it was. It was a relief to tell him everything and, when she finally ran out of things to say, he let silence fall between them. 

“Thank you, for sharing this with me,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the crook of her neck. “I am unsure whether I am worthy of knowing it, and I am honoured that you believe me to have earned the privilege. My only concern is that you do not know my entire past and I worry that it will change your perception. I do not want you to regret sharing this with me but I cannot imagine you will be pleased that I did not share soone-” 

“Damian,” she interrupted firmly, twisting in his hold until she was looking him in the eye. “Whatever’s in your past, it’s past. And just because I’m sharing this with you doesn’t mean I expect you to tell me everything you’ve been keeping private. I’m telling you this because I’m ready to tell you, not for any other reason, okay?” 

“Thank you,” he murmured again before kissing her languidly and pushing all other thoughts away.

_ _ _ 

Dick arrived back home the day after Damian’s birthday and immediately started gushing about his sleepover at Wally’s place to Marinette. She grinned at his enthusiasm, listening as she prepared their lunch and started the sauce for dinner. Damian had gone to visit Jason, his father and Tim for the morning as he hadn’t bothered to see them the day before. Jason had understood his desire to have his actual birthday for the family he had chosen for himself, even if Bruce had practically pouted about being treated as lesser than Marinette. 

“And then, Barry said he could take us for a run - but Walls said it was a bad idea if I didn’t want to end up eating a bunch of bugs, so we just watched him race around the garden doing tricks and stuff,” Dick laughed, leaning forward and snagging a couple of the carrot sticks Marinette was preparing. “But I might ask him to take me around some time, just for fun. There aren’t all that many people who can say the Flash gives them piggybacks, you know?” 

“Oh yeah, even if you only ever do it once it would be an experience,” she nodded sagely, tossing him another carrot stick before he could reach for one again. “I should ask Damian to take me out with the grappling hook, I’ll bet it’s way different to the old Miraculous team’s transportation. Chat’s baton was…interesting.” 

“Is that a euphemism?” asked Dick, wrinkling his nose in disgust while Marinette started laughing outright. “Oh, gross, if you tell me you hooked up with one of the Parisian heroes-” 

“You’ll what?” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “I was a person before I became your maman, Dick. But what I was referring to was his actual baton, a magical weapon he used to be able to extend at will and used to leap tall buildings. I doubt it’s anything like a grappling hook, so it would be nice to compare it.” 

“No, you didn’t exist before Damian conjured you up to be my mother,” Dick said stubbornly, scowling again when she giggled again, and pointed his finger at her sternly. “Look, I can pretend you and Damian are just making out occasionally if you don’t burst my bubble with logic and I would appreciate it if you let my delusions stand. God, why are you trying to traumatise me? Haven’t I been through enough?” 

“Isn’t it kind of my job to traumatise you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. The look he gave her was enough to make her giggle again, throwing him another carrot stick as appeasement when he looked offended. “Dick, mon cher, if the idea of me having a life traumatises you then we should probably get you therapy because that’s not normal. My parents raised me to be very aware of their lives before they had me and I’m just fine.” 

“Well that’s different because you’re French,” he argued, just as the apartment door opened and Damian walked through to them. “Dami, tell Maman that it isn’t normal for parents to suggest they had sex lives before they knew you.” 

“I would not say that I am the benchmark for a normal childhood,” Damian mused, stepping around the counter and kissing Marinette hello. “Why are we discussing sexual encounters in the kitchen?” 

“Not important,” smiled Marinette, continuing her vegetable prep and supplying Dick with more carrot sticks. Dick scoffed and she narrowed her eyes at him but he was undeterred. 

“You just don’t want Dami to know one of the Paris heroes gave you a good time with his magic stick,” he muttered, making Marinette flush slightly and Damian raise an eyebrow at her. It didn’t look like he was offended by the insinuation but they hadn’t really discussed past relationships beyond what he already knew from her background check. 

“I think we should make all conversations about sexual activities off limits where we prepare food,” offered Damian, pressing his hand to her side in a way that comforted her. “What we should probably discuss is our plans for Christmas this year. Father brought it up when I visited and suggested we should all gather at the manor.” 

Marinette hummed a soothing melody to herself as she waited for the elevator to arrive at her floor. Nerves buzzing under her skin from how her date had ended. Not buzzing in a bad way, no, the compatibility date had gone far better than she had hoped, seeing as her expectations were to walk out of the blind date with a new friend, not to walk out with an actual date, but she was left buzzing with energy nonetheless. She was still slightly flushed from testing their physical compatibility, her mind replaying the moment as she stepped out of the elevator and fumbled with her keys, flicking through the clicking metal for the one that would unlock her apartment door.

She hadn’t expected to like Damian as much as she does, but, well, to say that Marinette wouldn’t mind a repeat of their parting moments would be a blatant lie. It was strange to be looking forward to something as simple as a date again. Especially with someone who didn’t start as a friend, but she was excited to see where this spark with Damian would go, which unfortunately left Marinette a ball of anxious energy. Positive as the feelings are, she still felt the need to do something.

Stepping into the apartment, Marinett is met with the familiar scent of Pomeline’s lavender candles wafting through the air. Something familiar and grounding, welcoming her home as she takes a steadying breath.

Walking further into the apartment, Marinette is surprised to find none of her roommates up and about. She had sort of expected to be interrogated, if not by Olive, the resident psych major, then at least by Maps, who is not only the one who set up this blind date, but also the nosiest of her roommates. Plus, there was also the fact that Damian is a good friend of all three of her roomates, meaning that this was prime time to be interigated, or maybe Marinette was way too used to Alya’s brand of chaos, Marintte couldn’t help but think with a fond roll of her eyes as she locked the door behind herself, and slipped of her shoes.

Padding past the living area, Marinette stopped by her bedroom to grab a change of clothing before heading to the bathroom to shower. Making a pile on the counter of her wet clothing and Damian’s similarly rain-soaked jacket. She’d have to handle the laundry before going to bed, but preferably, after her shower. Right now, she could really use the warmth of a hot shower to chase away the chill that has settled in her bones. Setting the water just the way she liked it, Marinette was quick to step under the shower spray once the steam had started to rise. Breathing out a calming breath, Marinette forced her anxiety-tense muscles to relax. Letting the ritualistic pattern of washing away that day’s dirt, conditioning her hair, letting it sit, and rinsing it out. The familiar movements helped to calm some of the buzzing under her skin, but even as she stepped out of the shower and began drying off, the feeling of needing to do something still buzzed under her skin in a restless sort of way.

Marinette scrunched out the excess water in her hair before wrapping it up in a towel and patting herself dry with a fluffy towel. She quickly dressed herself in fluffy pajama pants and a warm top, hoping to preserve as much of the warmth from her shower as she could. Taking down her wrapped hair, Marinette ruffled her towel through the strands gently a handful of times before letting her hair rest on the towel around her neck.

With a tired sigh, she gathered her damp clothes, Damian’s jacket, and the wet towels into her arms and made her way to the laundry nook. She set about loading them, grateful for the clear, step-by-step structure that doing laundry offered. Sorting out the items that needed extra protection, like Damian’s jacket, her sweater dress, and her undergarments, she slipped each into its own mesh laundry bag, carefully zipping them closed to prevent snags or stretching. The towels, sturdy as they are, were left free to tumble in the drum. Only once everything was properly arranged did she add detergent and softener with practiced precision and set the cycle in motion, following each rule like a lifeline that had been offered in the middle of a storm.

Having properly taken care of the wet clothing, Marinette padded quietly toward the kitchen, only to pause in the doorway at the sight that met her eyes.

Pomeline stood by the stove, her sharp profile illuminated by the soft under-cabinet lights as she poured steaming water into a pair of ceramic mugs. A teapot steamed gently next to a bowl of freshly made strawberry oatmeal, the pink-red fruit bright against the creamy oats. Marinette blinked, genuinely surprised. Of all her roommates, she hadn’t expected Pomeline to be the one waiting for her tonight.

“Pomeline?” Marinette asked, arching a brow as she stepped into the kitchen. “I thought for sure it’d be Maps or Olive lying in wait to interrogate me about my date.”

Pomeline didn’t look up immediately, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Maps and Olive drew the short end of the straw. So, you’re stuck with me.” She finally turned, offering Marinette a mug. “Coincidentally, I made enough tea for two.”

Marinette smiled, accepting the mug and sliding into a seat at the kitchen table, content to be interrogated as it followed what she had expected to happen upon arriving home. Plus, with Pomeline’s dry humor, this interrogation was sure to be interesting if nothing else.

Pomeline sat across from her, stirring her own tea. Her gaze was cool but not unkind, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. “So. Did anyone get hurt?”

Marinette blinked, startled by the bluntness, but laughed softly. “No, Pomeline. No one got hurt. No fights, no drama.”

“Did either of you end up hating the other?” Pomeline pressed, tone casual but intent.

Marinette shook her head, unable to hide her amusement as she answered, “Actually, we got along really well.” She said, feeling the flush of her cheeks, and hoping that it wasn’t too noticeable. 

If Pomeline noticed her blush, she didn’t mention it. In fact, Pomeline seemed satisfied with what she saw, nodding once. “Good. That’s all I wanted to know.” She pushed the bowl of strawberry oatmeal across the table toward Marinette. “Eat. You’ve had a long day, and you will have an even longer morning once the other two can get a hold of you.”

Marinette huffed in amusement, bidding her roommate goodnight as Pomeline collected her own mug and slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Marinette with her tea, a warm bowl of oatmeal, and a faint smile lingering on her lips.

Left alone in the soft kitchen light, Marinette ate her oatmeal in slow, thoughtful bites, savoring the burst of strawberry against the creamy oats. She sipped at her tea, feeling the warmth settle into her bones, and once her bowl was empty, she rinsed it and her mug, washing the bowl with soap, leaving it in the drying rack while her mug was left on the counter for later use.

Padded back to the laundry nook, Marinette listened for the familiar click that signaled the washer’s end. She transferred the clean, damp clothes to the dryer, shaking out each piece and tucking delicate items into the mesh bags again. When she started the dryer, she set a mental timer and returned to the kitchen, filling the kettle once more and preparing a second cup of tea, the actions so ingrained she hardly thought about them.

With her cup warming her hands, Marinette set about gathering ingredients. Pulling out flour, butter, salt, and water to make the dough. Measuring and sifting the flour. Dicing the butter into cubes. Tossing them together into a crumbly mixture with a pinch of salt and a splash of icy water, that she mixed together until it combined into something that resembled a shaggy dough. Marinette then gently pressed it into a rectangle before wrapping it in cling film and placing it in the fridge to chill while she cleaned up.

By the time she was done cleaning, the dough was ready to be pulled out. Dusting the counters with flour, Marinette worked quickly, folding the dough over itself, rolling it out, folding it, rolling it, until the dough began to warm and needed to be wrapped back up and placed back into the fridge.

Putting the dough back, Marinette pulled out the apples and lemons for the filling before closing the fridge door and moving to the spice cabinet, pulling out the cinnamon and sugar. With everything gathered, Marinette began peeling and coring the apples, dicing them into small cubes in smooth, practiced chops. Tossing the apple bits, sugar, and cinnamon into a pot, Marinette halved and squeezed the lemon juice into the mix and left that to simmer. Washing her hands and the work space once more before dusting the area in flour again. The dough folding process was repeated until it was smooth and streaked with butter.

Once the apple compote was finished and cooled, Marinette pulled out the chilled dough and rolled it out for a final time, cutting perfect rounds of pastry dough that she then filled with the apple compote. Brushing the edges with egg wash, folding the circles shut and sealing them with a fork, crimping the edges, and arranging them on a tray.

Once the last of the pastries were filled, Marinette covered the trays with cling film and slid them into the fridge, planning to bake them fresh in the morning. The rhythm of the kitchen soothed her, each step familiar and easy, hands moving with the confidence of a long habit.

The dryer beeped just as Marinette finished cleaning up the kitchen, leaving her to unload and fold warm, clean clothing. Sorting her clothes from the towels and Damian’s jacket. She put everything away in its correct spot, leaving Damian’s jacket folded neatly on her desk as a reminder to give it back when she next saw him.

With everything in its place, Marinette poured the last of her tea and gave the kitchen one final glance, the scent of apples lingering in the air as she headed to bed, already looking forward to the morning.

Sleep came quickly, exhaustion and anticipation mingling in her dreams. It felt like no time had passed at all when Marinette was abruptly roused by the unmistakable sensation of someone, or something, perched almost on top of her. Groggy and confused, she blinked her eyes open to find Maps, knees tucked up and chin propped on Marinette’s blanket-covered hip, peering at her with the intense focus of a cat demanding breakfast.

“Maps?” Marinette croaked, voice rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”

Maps, unrepentant, grinned down at her. "Morning! I need details. All the details. You promised, remember? What did you do, what did he say, how did it go? How long did it last?"

Marinette groaned, squinting at the clock. "Why are you waking me up for this? Couldn't you have asked last night instead of sitting on me like a needy cat?"

Maps pouted theatrically but didn’t budge. "Mel banned us from interrogating you last night. But it’s morning now, so it’s fair game!"

At that moment, Olive appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hands. She offered Marinette the cup with a sympathetic smile. "Hot chocolate. And sorry, I tried to contain Maps, but clearly my powers are limited."

Marinette accepted the mug, her lips quirking in amusement. "You’re not really sorry, are you? Now you get to ask your questions too."

Olive only shrugged, hiding a smile behind her own mug, eyes bright with curiosity.

Rolling her eyes, Marinette slipped out from under Maps’ weight, slipping on a robe and pocketing her phone before she padded to the kitchen, pulling her robe tighter around her. Setting the oven to heat, Marinette hopped onto the counter next to the stove, taking a sip of her hot chocolate drink.

"Alright, you gremlins," Marinette said, shooting Olive and Maps a wry look over the rim of her mug, "Start asking your questions before I cut you off, and I won’t answer anything more."

Maps, of course, was first to dive into asking questions, or reasking in her case, since she had woken Marinette up with these questions. "How did it go? What did you do? How long did it last?" She rattled off once more, barely pausing between questions, eyes wide with anticipation.

Marinette huffed a tired laugh, taking a sip of her drink to buy herself some time before answering. “It went well once we switched to a Parisian dating structure.”

Maps furrowed her brows, clearly thrown off by the unexpected answer. “What does that even mean? What’s a Parisian dating structure? Is that like, an itinerary or…?”

Marinette couldn’t help but laugh, the sound lighter now that she was surrounded by her friends and the familiar comfort of morning routines. “It means that all expectations of romance were cut from the date. The first date is more of a compatibility interview than anything else. It allows for both parties to ask the nosy, invasive questions that might cause problems later on, and if one of the parties thinks they wouldn’t work as a couple, the date can end before anyone gets hurt.” Marinette explains. “It removes the risk of akumatization later on in most cases.”

Maps blinked, then grinned. "So you interrogated each other the whole date? That actually sounds kind of fun.”

“Definitely something Damian would enjoy." Olive agreed, sipping at her hot chocolate, eyes twinkling with mischief. "And what was the result of your interrogation?"

Marinette opened her mouth to answer when the oven beeped, giving her the perfect excused to close her mouth, offering her roommates a slight smile as she jumped off the counter and went over to the fridge, pulling out the trays of chilled pastries, the dough firm and cold beneath her fingers. As she uncovered the trays, Olive and Maps edged closer, clearly not deterred by the short interruption but also curious as to what Marinette had made. Marinette grabbed the small bowl of egg wash from the fridge, dipping her pastry brush and methodically painting each pastry until they gleamed with a golden sheen.

“You’re not getting out of answering- but what are those?” Maps inquired curiously as Marinette put the trays in the oven.

“Chausson aux pommes.” Marinette answered, setting the timer on her phone before turning her attention back to her roommates. “Apple turnovers.” She translated with amusement.

Olive’s eyes widened with delight. “You made homemade apple turnovers? Marinette, you’re spoiling us.”

Maps immediately leaned against the counter, nose twitching as the scent of baking pastry began to fill the kitchen. “I knew there was a reason I liked living with you,” she said, only half-joking.

Marinette rolled her eyes, but affection warmed her smile. “If you want anything freshly baked in the future, then I expect my answers to be respected. One question at a time, no shouting over each other. And your time is up when the timer is.”

Maps and Olive shared a look.

“Deal.” A third voice answered before either roommate could.

“Good morning, Pomeline.” Marinette greeted with a slight raise of her mug and an amused smile.

Maps crossed her arms, already bristling with frustration. “Wait, wait, Pomeline doesn’t get to set the terms! She already got to interrogate Marinette last night. She can’t just waltz in and call the shots now!”

Pomeline fixed Maps with a flat look, unamused. “First of all, I did not ‘interrogate’ Marinette. I merely ensured that her date went well enough that introducing her to our friend group later wouldn’t be a disaster. There’s a difference.”

She set her mug down with a soft clink and arched an eyebrow at Maps. “Second, you know very well that food rights, especially the distribution of fresh treats, are a collective decision. You can’t just leave me out because you’re feeling impatient.”

Olive snorted into her mug, clearly entertained, while Marinette hid a smile behind her cup. Maps looked mutinous, but couldn’t quite argue with Pomeline’s logic.

Just then, Marinette’s phone buzzed loudly on the countertop, cutting through their bickering. Maps whipped around. “Wait! That’s the timer already? I didn’t even get to ask any questions!”

Marinette rolled her eyes and picked up her phone, thumb swiping over the screen. “It’s a text message, Maps. The timer hasn’t even gone off yet.”

She glanced at the message, blinked, then read it again. Pink crept up her cheeks, warming her ears. Olive, ever observant, grinned. “Was that Damian? Did the date really go that well?”

Marinette ducked her head, pretending to fuss with her mug. “Yes, it’s Damian. He’s just checking in with a good morning text, nothing more.” She says while sending a text back.

Pomeline raised a brow, her voice dry. “That’s considerate.”

Olive leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re blushing, Marinette. So, is this a one-sided thing, or should we expect another date in your future? We need to know if we should get invested or not.”

Marinette sighed, tapping her mug, knowing that it was futile not to answer, as her roommates could quite literally just text Damian themselves since he was their friend first. "Yes, we will see each other again. He asked last night, and I said yes."

Maps let out a whoop, pumping her fist in victory. "Knew it! Knew you two would hit it off!"

Olive, ever the calm counterbalance to Maps' exuberance, smiled warmly and nudged Marinette’s shoulder. "I’m glad. You look happy, Marinette. It's nice to see."

Marinette’s blush only deepened, but she couldn’t hide her smile. "I am. It was good,  different. I had never done a compatibility date before, so it was a little intense sometimes, but in a good way."

Pomeline, arms folded and expression unreadable, gave a short nod of approval. "Damian’s intensity is part of his charm, if you can handle it. You’re one of the few people I thought would be able to match him beat-for-beat.” The ‘and it looks like I was right,’ was left unsaid but not unheard.

Maps, never one to let a moment sit, leaned across the counter, her eyes wide and eager. "So, what did you actually do? Did you two just sit there and swap life stories, or was there, you know, actual chemistry?"

Marinette laughed, the last of her embarrassment melting away in the face of Maps’ relentless curiosity. "We talked a lot, actually. We talked about family, future, boundaries, and weird pet peeves, what we want out of life, and yes, I suppose there was chemistry. Enough that we lost track of time until it started to rain.”

Maps groaned dramatically. "Ugh, you two are so mature. When did we all get so grown up?" She pressed both palms to her cheeks, only half-joking, while Olive snickered behind her mug.

"So, what happened after the rain?" Olive prompted, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter. "Did you two just run for cover or...?"

Marinette offered a small smile, warmth in her eyes as she remembered. "We ducked under one of those covered structures- with the benches?” She tries to explain, making a house shape with her arms.

“A gazebo.” Pomeline supplied.

“Sure.” Marinette assumed Pomeline was correct and continued. “We stayed there long enough to get our bearings, he gave me his jacket to borrow, and then we headed back into the rain so he could walk me back.”

Olive let out a low whistle. “Dramatic and chivalrous.”

Marinette shook her head, but her grin was soft. “It was sweet. He didn’t say much on the walk, but he made sure I didn’t step in any puddles. And when we got to my building, he asked if we could see each other again.”

Before anyone could tease her further, the timer on Marinette’s phone finally went off, its cheerful chime breaking the moment. She hopped off the counter and headed straight for the oven, slipping on her mitts. With practiced care, Marinette pulled out the trays of golden, flaky apple turnovers. The smell of warm pastry and cinnamon-sweet apples filled the air, making everyone in the kitchen go noticeably quiet for a few seconds.

Maps let out a dramatic sigh, unable to contain herself. "Honestly, I did such a good job matching you two up. If it weren’t for me, this whole adorable love story wouldn’t even exist!"

Pomeline, still leaning against the counter, deadpanned, "Marinette and Damian are literally the only successful blind date you’ve ever set up for anyone in our friend group."

Maps just grinned, undeterred. "Hey, I stand by my record. Quality over quantity!"

Olive laughed, reaching for a pastry but waiting for Marinette’s nod. "Well, here’s to the one pairing that worked out, and to Marinette’s baking."

Marinette sighed, cheeks pink but eyes bright, as she placed the trays on the table. Surrounded by the laughter of her friends and the scent of fresh pastry.