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Batfam x Batsis Miraculous Holder.
Chapter 2: Plagg and the fresh start
Β Chapter 2.1: A Fresh StartΒ
The sky over Paris was a brilliant, unblemished blueβa sharp, almost jarring contrast to the perpetual bruised-purple clouds of Gotham.
When the plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport, the sudden absence of tension in your shoulders was almost physical. For the first time in months, there were no flashing cameras blocking your exit, no reporters shoving microphones into your face to ask how it felt to lose a brother, and no looming shadow of the Bat waiting to drag you into a damp cave. You slipped through the terminal seamlessly. Here, you weren't a Gotham heiress or a tragic headline. You were just another face in the crowd.
A private car arranged by Alfred was waiting outside to take you to your new home. As the vehicle glided away from the airport and onto the highway, you pulled out your phone. The screen was blissfully clear of missed calls from Dick or cryptic alerts from the Bat-computer. You dialled a familiar, private number.
It rang exactly twice before a crisp, reassuring voice answered.
Β "Miss [Name], I trust your flight across the Atlantic was agreeable?"
"I landed safely, Alfred," you said, leaning your head back against the leather seat. "No press at the gate. No one followed me. Itβs... quiet."
There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of quiet that meant Alfred was letting out a rare, relieved sigh.Β
"Extremely gratifying to hear, my dear. The apartment should be fully prepared for your arrival. I took the liberty of stocking the pantry with a few familiar comforts, though I expect you will find the local culinary options quite superior to Gotham's takeaway."
"Thank you, Alfred. For everything," you murmured, watching the Parisian suburbs give way to classic, elegant architecture. "How is... Dad?"
"Master Bruce has thrown himself entirely into his work,"
Β Alfred replied, his tone shifting into that guarded, sorrowful register he used whenever the cave demanded too much. "As expected as always. But you must not worry about the manor now. Your only assignment is to breathe, Miss. Enjoy the distance."
"I will. Talk to you soon, Alfred."
After disconnecting, you watched the city unfold through the window
The car eventually pulled up to a modest, beautiful apartment building in a quiet arrondissement. It was miles away from the crushing grandiosity of Wayne Manor. Inside, the rooms were sunlit, simple, and entirely yours.
Once your bags were unpacked, the walls started to feel a bit too still, so you decided to explore. Walking down the Parisian streets felt like stepping into another dimension. In Gotham, you walked with your head down, your hand close to a concealed weapon, constantly scanning dark alleyways. Here, people sat outside at cafes, laughing over espresso in the middle of the afternoon.
You tracked the route to your new school, Collège Françoise Dupont. It was a beautiful historic building, lively and completely open compared to the private academies Bruce usually favoured.
On your way back, a rich, buttery aroma caught your attention, drawing you toward a bakery with a striking black-and-white facade, Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie. Intrigued, you stepped inside, the little bell above the door chiming merrily.
Β A warm, friendly woman with indigo hair behind the counter greeted you with a bright smile. You bought a small box of fresh pastriesβthe flakiest, most perfectly golden croissants and colourful macarons you had ever seen.
Stepping back out into the afternoon air, you cradled the bakery box carefully in one arm. You had only gone a block when your Gotham instincts, honed by years of hyper-vigilance, flared.
An elderly man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt was stepping off the curb, leaning heavily on a cane. He was completely oblivious to a heavy delivery truck rushing around the corner, its brakes screeching too late.
Β To make matters worse, the jolt of his sudden movement caused a small bag of traditional hard candies he was holding to slip from his hand, sending the sweets flying into the air.
Your brain didn't need to process a choice; your muscle memory simply took over.
In one fluid motion, you lunged forward. You hooked your free arm securely around the old man's torso, pivoting your weight and pulling him firmly back onto the sidewalk just as the truck roared past, its horn blaring a split second after the danger had passed.
At the same time, your eyes tracked the trajectory of the airborne sweets. With a quick, precise sweep of your hand, you managed to intercept the falling bag mid-air, catching it cleanly along with your bakery box without crushing a single pastry.
You landed solidly on your feet, completely balanced, your breathing even.
"Whoa there," you muttered, ensuring the man had his footing before slowly letting go. "Careful. Drivers around here are almost as reckless as the ones back home."
The old man blinked up at you, remarkably composed for someone who had just looked a grill plate in the face. His sharp, unusually wise eyes swept over your stance, taking in the perfect defensive posture you had instinctively assumed. He smiled gently. "Merci, mon enfant," he murmured, his voice rich and steady. "A remarkably sharp reflex for someone so young."
You shrugged your shoulders, shifting the weight of your backpack. The praise made you slightly uncomfortable; back in Gotham, reacting like that wasn't a choice; it was a survival mechanism.Β
"Just paying attention, mister. It's nothing. really. Anyone would have done the same thing if they saw the truck coming," you said, breathing out a small breath as you held out his property. "Here, you dropped these. Caught them before they hit the dirt."
The man looked at the bag of candies in your hand, then up at your bakery box. "You have exceptional coordination, young lady. Most people would have panicked, or perhaps saved themselves. But you saved me and salvaged the sweets. You move like someone who has spent a great deal of time preparing for the unexpected."
Your eyes narrowed slightly, a tiny flicker of internal caution waking up. You wondered for a split second if he was looking at you too closely, or if he somehow recognised you. But looking at his wrinkled face and the simple, faded pattern of his shirt, you let the suspicion drop. He was just an observant local.
βI mean, a Hawaiian shirt in Paris? really? In a city known for its fashion? Even the Joker fits in betterβeven if it was a tacky purple suit, eugβ¦β
"I just don't like seeing people get hurt," you replied, your tone shifting back to a casual, flat drone. "Paris is supposed to be a beautiful city. It'd be a shame to ruin your day over a distracted driver."Β
You popped open your own bakery box, offering it toward him. "Here. A bit of sugar helps with the adrenaline. Take one."
The elderly man let out a soft, delighted chuckle that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "A very pragmatic and generous outlook. Paris is a beautiful city, but it can be quite unpredictable.βΒ
He reached into the box, taking a macaron with a polite nod. βIt requires people who are willing to watch over it from time to time."
He gave you a formal, respectful bow of his head. "Merci encore, Miss. Please take care on your walk. The streets here can be full of surprises."
"You too, sir. Watch the crosswalks," you said, giving him a small, parting nod.
You watched him turn and walk away, his cane tapping a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walkway until he disappeared around the corner toward the Seine.Β
You closed your bakery box and pulled your jacket tighter against the slight afternoon breeze, a faint, cynical smirk touching your lips. If Bruce had been here, he would have spent the next twenty minutes lecturing you about situational awareness and the dangers of exposing your physical conditioning to random civilians.
But Bruce wasn't here. And for the first time in your life, you didn't have to listen to a lecture. You turned the corner, heading back to your apartment, completely unaware of the tiny, ornate wooden box that had just been slipped into your backpack.
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