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Chapter Text

[. . .]

"Welcome."

[. . .]

Chapter 1

The Lovely Miss Dupain-Cheng

[. . .]

"Your drink, Monsieur Wayne."

The steaming cup is set above an aesthetically swirled gray coaster adorned over the pristine dark oak desk where a contemplating 21-year-old Damian Wayne resides next to, in an executive mahogany office chair. He takes the cup without looking, silently raising it for a sip. His focused eyes never wane from the bright screen depicting most of the drooping stocks of his father's company as he tastes the scalding liquid creating a waft of sugary plume inside the otherwise desolate room.

"Tolerable, Miss Dupain-Cheng," He states as soon as the gulp is swallowed.

"Of course," His 20-year-old secretary answers him. "Is there anything else you require, Monsieur Wayne?"

"Cancel my 1:00 PM appointment with Vlad Masters and move it towards the end of March. I've got a lunch meeting with Father I must catch up on," He answers, internally contemplating when it'll be best to send that particular name out the window. Ghost Research doesn't sound appealing.

He hears her fingers tap at a screen. "Will March 28th around 12:30 PM do?" She asks dutifully.

Damian finally strays from his computer to regard the woman he has had with him for the better of three years since he's stepped up to aid in the company he will someday, likely, own.

Her light, favorable shade of pink collared dress shirt is exquisite as always, tucked in her signature black pencil skirt covering the stockings and pair of flats she chooses to wear as an alternative to heels in her work environment. Her state of dress is simple compared to other times he's seen her; it is one of the primary reasons he has chosen her, her practicality when it comes to fashion is both suitable and bold, and Damian has never wanted anything less.

And though it has never mattered what she might look like, ever since the betterment of five months ago, he's found himself getting distracted by her bluebell eyes and pretty smile.

It's... a curse.

One he has already, countless times, tried to get rid of but to no avail.

"It'll do," He agrees, tipping his cup again for another taste. He watches as she sets up his preferred timing in one standing, something prior workers in her position have failed to do. Their incompetence stemmed from a suitable fear they held for his rumored wrath. As such, Damian saw no need to keep feeble-minded workers and dismissed them per a rebellious encounter denying needing an assistant with his father. His father's insistence for him to have someone to manage his work ethic around had been undeterred, so Damian was forced to reconsider time and time again, simply to fire them not even a week after they gained the job.

It wasn't until Marinette Dupain-Cheng came about from the roots of the company that he reluctantly reconsidered and is now happy he did so.

She's without flaws. Any time he has had an issue, she's there to manage it. Anytime he needs her to do something, she's there to provide it. He fully abused her capability with likely dozens of impossible tasks just to see how well she could handle him at his worst the first few months she came in. And he was pleasantly impressed that she managed to hold on with an eloquence befitting a lifelong professional.

There is a reason why she has yet to be replaced.

Two, really, but Damian chides himself for his unprofessionalism when it comes to Miss Dupain-Cheng as of late.

The main reason is her reliability.

Her prep before a situation arises is uncanny, similar to that of Alfred. Tim Drake and his father have already worked with her in his absence, and Damian had to put his foot down before they could take her for themselves. Damian earned her dutiful conduct fair and square, and he will not give her incredible employment up for his family of hooligans.

Not anytime soon, anyway. The credibility she has as an individual is one of a kind.

She worked her way up to this position, too. Not quite a rarity, but a tough thing for anyone to do when it comes to him.

She has earned his respect and will keep it for starting so young; the minimum requirement for a job at Wayne Enterprises was 18 at best, but according to her file, she's been working for the company for close to four years now. Recommended by Music Artist Jagged Stone and trained under his assistant—now wife—Penny Rolling, she started at sixteen as an intern and in a few short months got promoted for her excellent time management and problem-solving executions within the otherwise tame work environment.

Many of her skills are as follows:

Her verbal and written communications are organized and literate, commended by renowned Former Fashion Mogul Gabriel Agreste.

His son, Adrien Agreste, famed model and successor to his father's business, is an active commenter on her naturally adaptable teamwork.

The famous director of the fashion magazine Style Queen, Audrey Bourgeois, remarked that her flexibility and responsibility are indefectible, one that her daughter Chloé Bourgeois has seconded.

Her multitasking is phenomenal and borders close to inhuman from what he's read and experienced (it is impressive that she finished about twenty-four sixty-page newly updated stacks of Wayne Contracts in three days without spelling errors or missing bullet points in the fine print). It is enhanced by her attention to detail on huge projects she's contributed to; technical difficulties have since been improved nearly as closely as Drake's intelligence prowess, so her handling of computer and science aptitudes is a fortunate addition.

She is also an excellent listener. Her attentiveness to his person is much to be desired.

All in all, Marinette Dupain-Cheng is an astute, resourceful, and amiable company to work with.

She is also trustworthy.

Many others have attempted to win her over with extra pay or supposed better dental and health plans that come with the job. He wasn't worried in the slightest; the job provides all of it and more, courtesy of himself because he's the one that oversees her salary and timetable. Still, when she denies their offers with utmost professionalism, it brings a smug satisfaction.

Others have folded under other expensive offers. Miss Dupain-Cheng has not.

Her character is strong. She does not break nor display the slightest hints of emotion when under what others consider immense pressure, which is something Damian has always watched out for.

This brings him to the second reason as to why she hasn't been replaced.

Her endearing characteristics.

She's kind and firm. She is very smart and demonstrates it with humility others should take into practice. Her empathy for other people is to die for according to the Eldest, pestering, Wayne, which Damian does not doubt. At first, he cared little for how she acted as long as she got her work done, but he's seen her consideration first-hand and how much of a difference it makes.

Those late nights she spent at his side, clicking away at her own work while he slaved to catch up to Drake's messy productions, were a consolation he will never admit to anyone.

Most of Miss Dupain-Cheng's coworkers like her. She is like a sun who brightens the room, providing supportive energy. Thomas and the extremely rare times Todd has come across her have all been full of honorable tributes (or how kickass she is in Todd's standard of speaking), something that Brown and Gordon liked to pick at him about because apparently he's a 'sucker' for pretty eyes. Which. Not true. Damian chose her under professional affairs and nothing more.

(Never mind that they are unfortunately correct.)

Cassandra has even come to him to take her away for herself under the pretense that she needs a new fashion designer. Something that Damian, very much aware, points out she has never had or considered to have.

Unintentionally, Damian finds as she asks him another question for tonight's communal meeting, she has endeared herself to his family.

And thus, to him.

No, he doesn't like it. Yes, he likes it. No, he's certain he's an idiot. Yes?

Internally, he wilts at the sight of her perfection.

The feelings have grown more over the years he's had the luck of having her working for him, and they came to a head months ago in the middle of a cumbersome night of dealings he wonders how his father dealt with all on his own.

And it's because he saw her run into the damn glass door of his office.

Out of all things, what he likes most about her is her clumsiness.

Her handling of relevant work is peak perfect performance, nothing less. However... manible tasks such as getting coffee or merely walking from room to room result in many nonsensical stumblings. Hence, the door and her lack of eyesight.

Damian has always been a witness to that trait. In fact, the first time she ever tripped and spilled coffee on herself was the very first day he decided to hire her. Initially, seeing that made him question if it had been a mistake that almost resulted in firing her, but Damian held strong because his father was vehemently certain he'd like her.

And begrudgingly, the man was correct.

Maybe too correct, because as Miss Dupain-Cheng states her usual dismissal to her office connected with his, his disappointment that she will not stay for longer is overwhelming.

"Should there be a need for an emergency or my assistance regarding Monsieur Masters if his threat to show himself in your office rings true, refer to me via cell," Miss Dupain-Cheng's French accent pierces his occupied head, causing him to raise an eyebrow at her.

"Cell?" He prompts incredulously, and her reply is immediate.

"I will not be in this afternoon."

"What?" He murmurs, flicking his eyes to his computer when he receives an email from his father. "Why?"

She gives him a look. "I have sent you a detailed email discussing my time for today, Monsieur Wayne. One that you replied to stating it was quite fine," Her explanation somehow manages not to sound deadpan.

His brows furrow and he moves to check, clicking away at his computer.

Sure enough, after a minute of searching, he finds it. "Oh."

"Yes. My cell number should be in my resume. Have a pleasant day, Monsieur Wayne," She tells him, and just like that, leaves. This isn't the first time she's needed elsewhere. She has connections she must attend to because he's pretty sure she's the famed MDC Drake fawns over, so he has mercifully let her do as she must on the account that she returns as soon as she's able.

It's a leniency he's allowed due to her extraordinary performance in her profession.

(Not because he liked her or anything.)

In any case, oddly enough, her sudden departure has left him... upset.

It's not like him to forget. And she is not at fault because, like the exemplary employee she is, she let him know beforehand and even showed herself to work today when she did not have to.

Tim's earlier accusations about Damian's feelings for his assistant ring in his head like an answer.

He wrinkles his nose.

What does Drake know? He sniffs, despondently fixing the disarray of his papers on his desk.

For the rest of the day, Damian angrily sulks, yearning for her return.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"We're so young, we ain't got nothin' to lose."

[. . .]

Chapter 2

I Want To Ask Of You

[. . .]

Damian stares at his black-cased phone in contemplative anxiousness.

Residing in his father's manor within the solace of his never-changing childhood bedroom, an exhausted Damian Wayne regards the low-brightened screen of his cellular device, eyes locked on the saved number of his assistant she granted him use of as of three days ago. Throughout her absence that lasted an agonizing twenty-four hours, he's worked himself silly to catch up on all the vocations he put off to make himself forget that she's not there.

When she returned the day after noticeably well-rested than before, Damian had to hold his tongue from commenting positively on her appearance. He's never done so before (unless it was a nod of approval for what she'd be wearing at a Gala with him) and doing so would promote an... odd exasperation from her he's been getting for the past few weeks. So instead he opted to further dismiss her presence with work-related associations for the last two days despite the relief at having her around him again.

Instead of checking up on her like he wanted, he stayed in his office, scratching at the itch around his chest that had been grating on him for months.

None of his family members seem to take him seriously on the rare times he discusses his chest problems with them. They laugh or smile knowingly like he's the stupid one, so he's since ceased asking them about anything. Going to the doctor has also brought no knowledge to fruition. Perhaps a mild arrhythmia is in due process from his rigorous activity as Robin in the evenings he's been free, but that doesn't make sense.

For one, as of his resurrection years ago, his human-like issues such as common colds, muscle aches, and fatigue have since been wiped. It doesn't mean he won't get tired—he's human, after all. His point is this: he shouldn't get an abnormal heart rate.

Secondly...

It only occurs whenever Miss Dupain-Cheng is around.

He's checked everywhere and even discolored her office to see if she's done something to him. Curse his paranoia for deflowering Miss Dupain-Cheng's belongings, but he had to know if she was up to something. He found nothing. He followed her home the first two weeks he'd been going through such irritating effects as well; nothing. She has no incriminating evidence to deduce she's been harming him in any way.

He'd probably confront her if he had been in his teenage years. Or not consider her someone worthy of messing with him, but because of her uncanny ability to know when something's wrong (and because he's seen her fold a metal spoon in half with her bare hands), he's built up a respect grand enough to consider her a mildly concerning opponent.

The moral of his dilemma is this: he's been feeling things.

And he does not enjoy it, no matter how much he craves her attention.

It's not her fault. Miss Dupain-Cheng is a lovely person. It'd be weird of him not to feel so... relaxed when she's around. The issue is with him. Years spent with his father and his adoptive family improved his sense of self, but the irreversible damage done to his psyche as a child has forever attuned him to a realistic aspect of things. He can indulge with the thought of her all he wants but he still cringes when it comes to physical, love-sick interactions.

Not that he's thinking about that, of course. He must keep it professional when it comes to Miss Dupain-Cheng.

He huffs.

Maybe if he was knowledgeable about his personal feelings, he'd understand how to manage the disaster that is his heart.

Due to his father's emotional constipation, Damian knows he doesn't know everything there is about sentiments.

At best, Richard can clarify it for him. Is it platonic want, or romantic want? Damian can't tell for sure. And Damian doesn't ask because he understands Richard is busy with his family. Handling a Tamaranean daughter sounds like someone who needs all their senses up to the nth degree.

As he hovers his thumb over her contact like some idiot, Damian thinks about every possible event that could occur if he strangles the nervous part inside him and hits call. Miss Dupain-Cheng could very well be asleep. It's 3:37 AM and he has a millionaire to discuss share prices with at 7 that she scheduled for him per her recommendation because Tim's been pushing it off for months now.

She could be sewing, too. He's heard her speak of her passion for fashion more than once when he indulged her in the nights they had for themselves (working, but still). Winter collections get tough.

She could be baking those chocolate chip cookies Duke swears they're to die for.

Maybe she could be waiting for your call, too.

He shakes his head. Unprofessional, he scolds himself with a scowl, turning off his phone. For what purpose would I call her for? For what reason would she wait for a call from me?

Nothing, he finds. Nothing that has to do with the dynamic of their relationship. Coworkers.

He wrinkles his nose as he leans back on his bed and lies sprawled in misery.

That's all that they are. Coworkers. Does Damian want to be more? Maybe. He has some friends, but being friends with Miss Dupain-Cheng feels... lacking. Being more than friends with Miss Dupain-Cheng feels...

He closes his eyes, exhaling in apparent frustration.

His mind is at its wit's end. He should sleep, he considers. That way he could think with further clarity on the situation he finds himself in, all because Tim decided to point out months ago how Miss Dupain-Cheng's eyes sparkle when she gives him his schedule every morning.

All because she left her lips caked in powder from the donut she so enjoyed for the whole day.

Damian decides not to think about the decisions that have led him here anymore.

[. . .]

"Why not invite her to an outing of her choosing, Master Damian? It would give you the answer you seek," Alfred tells Damian later at breakfast, eyeing his dark circles with disapproval while he pours him a special caffeinated brew of Tim's that should he be caught with it, would make Tim whine about its dwindling amount.

Damian stares at his pseudo-grandfather in deadpan.

The most he remembers sleeping is two hours. Half-sleeping, that is. He nevertheless dressed himself as he did every day with no delay. With additional pestering thoughts about Miss Dupain-Cheng too, which he had been prepared to dish out and ask his father about to see if there was still a smart man in there (the admiration he had for his father died during his rebellious teenage years) but didn't because he was nowhere to be found.

Everyone was out when Damian came to sit at breakfast with intentions of receiving an answer to his dilemma; his father and Tim departed for work early for a renovating project of the eastern wing of a new hotel made for the homeless around the city limits, and Duke wasn't home because he was visiting someone in Illinois. The rest of the family was either out of the country or living elsewhere.

Richard visited the most out of the others. He would have been the first person he would've asked if he was here.

Jason was... still scarce. At the very least he attended the spare dinners Alfred bribed him with using his famed Chili Dogs. The damned idiotic brother of his would've had merit if he wasn't so difficult to find. He managed himself a significant other that Damian takes pride in being the only one to know.

Stephanie, on a technicality, did not live with them but was allegedly a permanent resident according to his father—she was in Paris, partaking in an AI-creation tournament set up by someone named Max Kanté. He would have never asked her.

Cassandra was visiting Hong Kong. She was busy.

Barbara was down in Mexico. Damian can't remember why. He also wouldn't have asked her. His sisters are insane. All three of them. Except not so much Cassandra. She was okay.

That left... Alfred.

Damian feels foolish for not asking. And very much confused. "That's hardly appropriate, Alfred," He tells the elder, scanning his facial expression for any mischievous nature. He finds none. So the man is serious.

What the hell, Damian thinks petulantly. He's already thought of that. Alfred is basically repeating the same nonsense.

The Butler hums. He grows older every year, and unlike the first time he first saw him, Damian can see that his hair is coloring a bit more whiter every day. The observation is small. But it welcomes a benign possibility he may be taking over the top but cements within himself anyway. Alfred's adding words further stabilizes his thoughts.

"The only way to know is to court her properly, Master Damian."

Court, Damian mouths, thinking it over.

He feels like an idiot for asking. "Again," He drawls, "Not appropriate. The nature of our relationship is simply... coworkers. Nothing more. It would be highly inexpedient if I, as her supervisor, requested a romantic outing with her."

Alfred tuts. "I would think you would know better than the rest of us when it comes to the nature of love. Surely you have already reasoned with yourself that your hypocrisy on the matter is evident? As her boss, you should have not affiliated yourself with indulgent sentiments unbefitting of 'coworkers'," The Butler drones. Damian picks up his mug to drink to hide his blush. "But you have already done so," Alfred continues, "Therefore, the best solution to your ailing wiles is to pursue her."

Damian sighs. "I suppose," He mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He is in no mood to argue with Alfred. Not that he'll win the argument should he do so. Alfred is annoyingly all-knowing and Damian questions how a man can know so much. Part of Damian trusts his Grandfather's advice. Alfred knows best. The other part of Damian—the weak, wimpy, nervous wreck that only surfaces (when it comes to a lovely woman) now of all the times in his life—is deathly afraid of his assistant's reaction.

Miss Dupain-Cheng is unpredictable. She's perfect in all the ways that matter and that don't, and Damian can simply ask her in the most elegant and superior ways (because he has never half-assed things in his life) but she could still say no.

And that's okay. Damian will respect it.

The problem lies with his heart. If he fucks it up, he'll forever mercilessly damn himself for it.

For the first time in his life, Damian is frightened by rejection.

(Because what if the situation makes everything awkward and she renounces her job?

What if she disappears?

What if, what if, what if?)

Ugh. He's never been this idiotic before.

No wonder Father was so stupid when it came to Selina...

Alfred straightens, pleased. "You do suppose, Master Damian. I am no stickler for the rules. By all means, date your assistant. Is it so much of a scandal if half of Gotham knows of your feelings for the girl already?"

The last sentence makes Damian pause. "Pardon?" He snaps.

Alfred merely walks away.

[. . .]

Marinette Dupain-Cheng angles her head as she hears her boss call for her from the other room like there isn't a phone he can't send a quick text through.

It's been one of those weeks; dealing with extensive paperwork, opening up employee resumes, and revising the salary count of several workers ever since she updated the terms of service for the Wayne contract a month ago, etc. All of which she's done in careful haste. Accompanied with helping the shadowed CEO Damian Wayne's overbearing schedule, of course. And his rude, stupid clients...

When she gets off her chair with her trusted tablet in hand, a thousand thoughts run through her mind.

Being an anxious person by nature, Marinette prides herself in developing the skill of foresight after so many years of being a Superhero. She mentally checks out everything she's kept track of regarding Mr. Wayne—when his selected lunch is, what his selected lunch will be, when he must talk to the charity hosts he's been giving revenue to, when he must head his meetings with stakeholders, management, and other members of the C-suite to oversee operations...

All of it that Marinette can keep track of.

So, then, what else is there?

She searches the mindscape for a hint of Fluff's pulsing power that's lingered behind from her occasional, rare, use, but there is nothing significant. Could it be that she must have gotten the amount of sugar in his hot chocolate incorrect? Has she missed a paper or has he created a problem that she must have, impossibly, not discovered yet?

Opening the door to her boss's office and stepping inside, she calmly assesses his poise when her eyes make contact with him.

He sits, hands folded in front of him, expectantly awaiting her arrival. His bright, verdant eyes perk the slightest of ways they always do when he looks at her, so she stomps down the confusing sentiment of bashfulness and approaches him.

"Good morning, Monsieur Wayne," She greets him respectfully, mentally toying with the stupid comments she heard on her way inside the tall office building about her and her boss. Tamara likes to yell it out loud the best. "What can I do for you?"

He says nothing.

Instead, she hears the lightest of chuckles coming outside the door.

Are they being spied on?

She narrows her eyes.

Years dealing with a manipulative Lila whom she's satisfactorily put behind bars after the ending battle with Hawkmoth at the ripe age of seventeen comes back to storm her brain, highlighting a vexing sensation she's been haggling with for months now. Rather than the anxiety she would've felt in her teen years, a boiling anger surfaces.

The first thing that comes to mind is how she could be finishing up her long list of assignments pending on the computer screen.

The second thing is that Marinette might have to deal with nosy, gossiping employees who will probably get fired for violating her boss's privacy.

Who, if she's not mistaken by the subtle eye-twitch, can hear them and has done nothing to make whoever it is at his door go away.

And now Marinette's hackles rise, questioning if there's something she's missing.

It isn't often that Marinette finds herself wrathful towards her boss. He's a sensible if strict man that she is thankful bears less of a stupidity gene from all other employers she's worked for (hint: Gabriel Agreste, Audrey Bourgeois, her lovable step-uncle Jagged Stone, etc). The rumors she'd heard about him were all morbid, so the start of their tempting work-related companionship was terrible. Marinette isn't stupid—she knew he was trying to get rid of her when she first came to this position. She never wanted the pressure of it. She'd heard the stories about all the lives her boss ruined in doing so, and she kept to herself.

Unfortunately, her luck tended to come to the surface in the worst of times, so she was recommended for the position when her dedication to the craft became more than exceptional.

Thus, Marinette adapted because she felt like she needed to keep this job just in case her pursuit as a fashion designer failed. She did her job and she did it well, reigning in her frustrations and flinches whenever she'd screw up. She thought she'd get fired the very first day! The embarrassment of soiling her clothes with coffee when they met still hasn't left.

Surprisingly, though, he kept her around. She never knew why, nor did she want to know. The workload kept her occupied enough and one mistake could cost any future she might've had here, therefore, she managed her best.

As the months progressed, Marinette had yet to connect any of the rumors she'd heard of him.

"He kept an assistant for just a day"—she'd been here for months.

"His words were harsh and merciless"—he had yet to call her to attention even though she was a clumsy idiot in front of him.

"His eyes could cook you alive"—if his intense staring was called anything, it would be calculation, not hatefulness. Marinette knew hate. Damian Wayne was not a person who carried it.

"He had demanding expectations"—Who wouldn't in this line of work? This job entailed taking care of any particular work in business settings like scheduling meetings, handling correspondence, and taking notes of important information in regards to the person they were working for. All of it trusting information.

"He was a demon in disguise"—Marinette thought he was just a person. He made mistakes like any other.

In any case, Marinette had a decent boss. Maybe a tad nasty with his expressions whenever he saw something he disapproved of, but okay all the same.

Most of the time.

So, imagine Marinette's surprise that Damian Wayne is tolerating obvious chortles from his door. And has done nothing about it!

Keeping a cool facade, she holds a hand up right as her boss finally opens his mouth to address her summons and calmly walks to his office door. She yanks it open and glares directly at a set of muscular men with blue eyes and black hair. That and Stephanie Brown who grins right in front of her face. "Marinette! Hey!" She pushes Dick's head away, causing the adult man to make a noise and groan when his skull hits Tim's nosy nose.

"Is there a reason you're at my employer's door, Mademoiselle Stephanie?" Marinette questions politely, ignoring the woman's slow reach for her nose. Marinette has since stopped asking why the woman is here when she should be out of the States. She should be in Paris right now if she remembers right. Did she only yesterday return?

"Nah," She replies casually, pinching the tip of it. Marinette sniffs and regards the other two with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm here to deliver important documents," Tim's nasal voice prompts, shoving Dick off of him.

Dick recovers quickly and straightens his clothes. "I was here because I heard something interesting from Alfie, earlier. And I wanted to speak with Damian about it." His composed expression gives away when the corners of his lips wobble. "But, if he's busy..."

Marinette deadpans. "I am very sorry Monsieur Grayson, but you need to make an appointment if you wish to bother Monsieur Wayne during working hours." She turns to Tim and offers her hand, demanding. "I will take care of your half of the work for today, Monsieur Drake," Tim hands it over, carefully making sure not to look chastised. When Marinette looks at Stephanie, the woman has a knowing glint in her eye. "As for you Mademoiselle Stephanie, if you wish to invite me over for a 'girl's night', then you may do so by leaving me a message. I am free tonight, tomorrow, and on the upcoming Sunday. Good day."

The mousette slams the door closed. The snickers resume, but they at least sound like they're drifting away from the door.

She turns around, ordering the papers in her hand. "Now, Monsieur Wayne, what is it that you wished to see me here for?" She tucks them underneath her tablet and locks eyes with him again.

Her boss stares at her for a moment.

Marinette waits patiently.

Then, "Go out to dinner with me."

Marinette blinks.

Immediately, she turns on her electronic device and picks at the screen until she opens the personalized schedule app she coded with Max a while back. "When? Tonight is not available. You have a meeting with Madame Samantha Manson and Monsieur Daniel Fenton for Veterinarian Development Courses in Local Schoolings. Following that, your interview with Jon Kent is due for your standings on the inhumane uses of Animal Control management. Tomorrow you are to attend Madame Manson's Sea-life charity Gala. The day after tomorrow you're occupied with visiting the re-opening of Gotham's Museum of Art you needled me to shove in between lunch with your father and—"

"Will Sunday at 8:30 PM do?"

Marinette clamps her mouth shut and looks wordlessly.

It's clear.

She has no idea why he asked her to go out to dinner with him. Neither does she have the indulgence to figure out why. She's tired and running on four hours of sleep after staying up last night sewing up the designated parts of a red peplum dress. I'm sure I'll freak out later about it, She thinks, hoping she hasn't accidentally lizard-blinked.

"Yes," She answers plainly.

The relief on her boss's face is bewildering.

"Good," Is all he says, lingering an intense gaze on her person before getting up from his chair and leaving the room.

Marinette idles for a lingering second, confused.

The hell was that look for?

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"The Cat and her Prey Bird."

[. . .]

Chapter 3

If It Wouldn't Hurt

[. . .]

A woman daubed in ebony jumps from rooftops high and low.

She leaps and grapples with her claws, long braided hair billowing in the wind. The pressure laps her raven locks in her venting haste, currents kissing the lower portion of her face.

She feels alive.

Donning the old get-up via Plagg of Lady Noire, Marinette Dupain-Cheng pants in destressing exhilaration, relieved to run free late at night in the esoteric City of Gotham after months without going out. Initially, her first thought was to suit up with Tikki for old time's sake. She opted against it because she didn't want the ruby of her suit calling attention to her during the twilight hours.

She wants to be alone right now.

She knows she should be in bed resting. She has another long day of work tomorrow (as every other day besides the weekends) and keeping her idiotic four-day streak of staying up much later than she has to will make her more miserable than usual.

In truth, Marinette can't sleep.

Oh, she's tried. Behind the green lens of her mask lies irritated, red sclera from lack of adequate slumber. If not for the protection, the wind would have made the dryness in them worse than it is. She's attempted to close them and will her body to sleep after returning home from work, but the shock from what transpired during work today is pumping just enough adrenaline to keep her awake.

"Go out to dinner with me."

The bewildering use of words nearly has her tripping and falling off a considerable height on her next jump.

Scrabbling to find purchase on the edge of an old bricked building with a broken satellite she's seen on her way to work every day for the past four years, she lands on her stomach in defeat, sighing at the bits of gravel sinking into the exposed portions of her face.

Her eyes close.

What a question.

Marinette didn't catch it the first time. When he said it, she immediately functioned on auto-pilot, so used to her job and his demands that have lessened their harshness throughout the years he's gotten used to her. It wasn't until she got home that everything decided to hit her all at once. The feeling of her heart dropping to the cold soles of her feet felt like a warping coherency that elected to spazz her lethargic brain into an anxious realization.

One that caused her to toss her body onto the creaky bed of her barren room in the Gotham Tower Apartments and scream into the pillows, gobsmacked.

Just... What the hell? What did he mean when he asked her to go out to dinner with him that she had unintentionally but also intentionally agreed to?

Why, out of everyone, had it been her boss?

Why now!?

Marinette gets up from her dropped position, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. All those rumors. All those claims that he likes her. There is no way the confirmation happens in the form of Damian Wayne asking her out. She stops when her fangs poke at the scabbed part of her bottom lip she's been chewing on the past few hours.

At first, she thought he meant it as a date. That sent her into a spiral. And then she thought he meant it as a business meeting. That had given her scarce reprieve. But the more she thought about it, the less sure she became. Her rapid thought caused her to abuse her powers narrowly to see into the situation she was in, but the timeline refused to answer. She was going to go unprepared.

She was going in unprepared.

And because she learned that she was going in unprepared for a probably-is-but-isn't date with Damian Fucking Wayne, Marinette's stress levels upped to a disturbing degree.

So much so that all of the Kwami had forced her to go out and steam it off.

So she did.

Which finds her here, protected from the chilly Gotham evening, staring outward at the fumes and light pollution of the sky.

The tail of her suit flickers with irritation.

She just... doesn't understand.

Why?

Why has Damian Wayne, the least likely to initiate contact with anyone voluntarily, ask her out to dinner? Wait. He didn't even ask. He demanded that she attend with that deer-in-the-headlights look he's been making a habit of these past months and she had idiotically agreed! When he might've meant it as a full-on date! Which she shouldn't be having with her boss!

She rubs her forehead, sighing heavily.

Kwami. This is so bad.

She's going to lose her job. It's already bad enough that she's going on a not-date but is-date with her boss, but what if she enjoys it? What will those implications bring especially around a no-nonsense workplace? How will PR handle it? Romance has never suited her. She'll probably self-sabotage or—or—

What if he doesn't like it?

She runs a gloved hand down her face with a groan.

So much to think about. Such little time to come to terms with it.

She can't cancel now, either. For one, it's not polite. And though her boss isn't unreasonable, a small part of Marinette fears that he'll fire her because she got cold feet mid-way. It might be worse when the day arrives and she doesn't show up, but Marinette isn't that insane. She'll show. Just... reluctantly. The second reason she can't cancel now derives from a sheltered emotion inside her chest that she's preserved to drown in the abyss of memory.

Stomping down that rise of heat to her cheeks, she coils in the shiver traveling down her spine when her sixth sense activates.

I'm being watched, she thinks with slight annoyance.

Her ear twitches when she hears the careful exhale coming from a few feet away from her.

"Catwoman."

That voice sounds scarily familiar. She doesn't turn around. "You might want to get your eyes checked," She answers placidly, tilting her head back slightly to side-eye the perpetrator misaddressing her.

Hints of red, black, and yellow catch her eye.

"Robin," She greets. So much for being alone.

"Lady Noire." The Boy-Wonder—or should Marinette say, Man-Wonder, seriously he's tall—greets with his infamous terse tone she's well acquainted with. This isn't the first time the two of them meet under the guise of moonlight.

The first time they did meet like this was four years ago. She was transformed into a newly reformed Ladybug then, a tense, cautious version she still gets embarrassed about to this day.

The change in scenery during that time had not been fun and the baggage she carried had unfortunately affected her battle performance, thus diseasing her confident attitude in front of real, experienced heroes.

Robin was... to put it lightly, an asshole. He still is, but more of a dismissive type. Before... It was bad. He had demanded she introduce herself and why she was patrolling in his territory using the sharpened edge of his blade pressing at her throat. Batman made for an intimidating figure back then, so Ladybug informed them of who she was to keep the peace. Evidently, she was put under surveillance by many of the Batwing Brood because of it, even chancing running into the Crime Lord Red Hood who made it keenly apparent he wanted nothing to do with the Batman when he warned her not to interfere in his business so that she didn't drag him with her.

When it was made clear she wasn't an invasive threat, the following stopped. The only person who didn't stop was Robin.

He kept barking insults and giving her distrusting glowers when they faced each other, and Kwami forbid she help when crimes were in full course. He wouldn't allow her to prove herself to him that she was genuinely trying to be helpful (and not another adoptee to Batman according to Nightwing) so she gave up on that pretty quickly.

She was hurt enough from past experiences. She didn't have time to force someone to desist from disliking her just because she existed.

So she did her thing and let him stew on his.

After the first year, Batman introduced her to the Justice League. She was then temporarily placed in the Teen Titans where she met Starfire and the reserved Raven, but after three months she was moved into Justice League Dark. Zatanna had been a kind mentor to her (allegedly it was Wonder Woman who urged upon putting her in the magic mistress's care). John Constantine was someone she never wanted to talk to again.

There were more members, but she was never introduced.

But that too, was soon dropped. Marinette didn't have time to manage an entire world of the Magic Arts. She knew she had the talent (a dangerous one at that) but keeping track of the world when she could barely keep track of France was too much. Besides, messing with the Miraculous at Wonder Woman's behest (Tikki said she was a former host, which Marinette had been shaken to learn of) caused some very... interesting changes in her body that Zatanna kept track of.

Super strength, for one. Which made her miserable for weeks when she'd use too much force on fragile things she didn't think could be fragile. Insect characteristics were another. Both a pro and a con: in freezing temperatures, instead of dying, she'd enter a coma-like state of hibernation until she was warmed at her regular temperature.

Also, Constantine made a very rude comment about her outliving everyone. According to him, her weird, mutated blood foreshadowed that she could live on up to five hundred years. Which wasn't so odd. Master Fu was 180 when he relinquished the Miracle Box to her.

Regardless, the new powers permanently ingrained in her body made her formidable in battle, but in truth, spooked her.

Toughened skin and Miraculi Regeneration were only great in theory; in practice, during an enigmatic mission dealing with Satanic rituals only she could remove using a Miraculous, being mauled on for hours while her skin rehealed itself was torture.

When the defeat of Hawkmoth came to be, it was when she retired completely from Justice League Dark. She informed Batman of it as well, seeing as the man seemed to take on a parental role with her no matter if she insisted she could handle everything on her own.

(Martian Manhunter claimed it was an inside joke within the Bat family.)

Marinette decided to temporarily retire as a Superhero. She was just... done. Her teenage years were wasted on the 'blessing' of being an individual humanity relied on. After the disaster that was Hawkmoth and the ruination of something she and Adrien could've had, the foremost thing she desired to do was tangle herself in things a normal, teenage girl would do.

She was met with protests but she wasn't swayed. She selected to focus on her schooling and the job Penny promised would be good for her if she stayed and built upon it. So Marinette stayed.

She stayed until it became permanent.

Eventually, she took to becoming a heroine again. This time in Gotham. But it was more of a scope out and stopping minor crimes rather than the outrageous assignments taken upon by the Justice League. That and any occult cases people in genuine need sought her out through JLD.

After her reappearance, it didn't take long for Robin to find her. By himself, too. He remained the same both in attitude and appearance, but Marinette didn't care anymore. And she told him as such. Either he respected her space, or he would be met with the force of her yoyo.

"Is that a threat?" He seethed.

"That's a promise," She retorted, which must have caught him off-guard, but she wasn't there to see it because she had left just as quickly as she appeared.

His harsh words didn't deter her heroic escapades. They increased even more when Lady Noire came to be, too. She was more of a day-time hero, but with the raucous job as Damian Wayne's assistant on her back, Marinette resorted to night-time thus, using Plagg for convenience. A few times she got involved in serious dilemmas. One she had saved Robin in during famed team-ups, though to his credit, he kept up with that irritating conduct of his.

As time passed, however, Robin's deadly threats and aloof behavior slowly waned, leaving the ruminative man standing before her today.

Marinette decides to fully turn around, taking the sight of the vigilante in with appraising curiosity. Although his signature hood covers his head, thick, voluminous, black strands of his hair still settle against the edges of his green mask. The bistered pigment of his skin glosses in individual parts, glowing from the city lights while the crinkle between his brows lessens when she finally gives him her attention.

He seems to be doing okay for himself.

"What brings you around here?" She asks, eyeing the R of his suit. The extended eyesight provided by Plagg's Destruction power allows her to catch the vivid red splotch of what might be blood on it. He must've just stopped the heist of the jewelry store in The Narrows, Marinette thinks. One that she had gone to herself, but ultimately backed off when she saw that Red Robin had it handled. She instead dealt with a minor chase involving a mugger who had stolen an old man's cane.

The things these crooks get up to, Marinette internally grumbles.

He remains at a distance from her. "I saw you loitering around where you don't belong," He sniffs, eyeing her up and down in evident disapproval. He juts his sword back into the scabbard on his waist, "Is there any particular reason you didn't provide aid to Red Robin?"

Not even a Hello, How are you?

She refrains from rolling her eyes and calling out his contradictory statement. She's used to his cranky antics by now. Although it's only a handful of times she's worked alongside Robin (reluctantly on his part), she's caught up with him surprisingly frequently whenever she gets antsy about being cooped up inside. Perhaps he followed her because she hadn't shown herself for months until now. "He had it handled. Besides, you Bats don't like it when other vigilantes meddle in your business," She points out.

Robin harrumphs. "I suppose," He allows.

"So is that all you came here for? To harass me about my elusive whereabouts?" She raises an eyebrow.

It takes a few stagnant minutes, but Robin eventually answers. "For the most part," He approaches her, rudely inviting himself in during her brooding time.

Marinette knows she can't kick him out now that he's taken his position next to her like some spoiled cat. Since the team-up two years ago against an otherworldly threat, Robin has attached himself to both her main Ladybug and Lady Noire personas like a stray. It's been hard to shake him off, and it definitely doesn't help when Superboy (or Superman, now) adds fuel to the fire by declaring he's convinced that her ability to tame Robin is because he considers her the 'fairest' of everyone he's ever met.

Marinette is pretty sure that Robin said she was 'fair' in the cognitive sense. Somehow, her strategies and effective combative skills have charmed him enough not to spew an insult at her with every sentence he makes.

"And the other part?" She grumbles, tearing her eyes away from him now that she's gotten an eyeful. There's no need for her to burn her retinas from the traffic-light color scheme.

He gets straight to the point. "I noticed you took a leave of absence for six months. Rather suspicious that it aligns with the series of narcotic dealings Nightwing discovered as of six months ago down in Bludhaven."

She ignores his second statement. His insults do little in giving damage. "What?" The influence of Plagg makes her grin cheekily at him. "Miss me, birdie?"

He snaps his head at her, expression severing. "Hardly," He scoffs.

"That means you missed me a little," She prods teasingly, tail still. From the corner of her eye, he bristles. So, she adds with a purr, "It's okay. I missed you too." And it's somewhat true. Maybe when she's Ladybug Robin is less tolerable, but when she's Lady Noire, Plagg's effect makes her take pleasure whenever she pokes fun at the vigilante. No wonder Adrien was so adamant in his tomfoolery. The Cat Gene is a meddlesome one.

She should call Adrien to catch up. It's been a while... Would he even want to, after storming off on him like that the last time they spoke, though? It's not her fault he decided to drop her projects because she was eating herself alive trying to complete them. So what if she gets obsessive? It's how she copes with stress, damn it! By adding more stress—but still.

A pang of hurt inches in her heart.

With a sigh, she squats and then sits with her legs dangling over the edge.

It was a problem that could've been solved without taking drastic measures like firing her. Well. He didn't, technically. She still gets requests from her Agreste Industries email. Not on par with her personal MDC one, of course. That on its own is her thing. But... it's the principal of the matter. Unlike her teetering rage, Adrien had gently told her to take care of herself first.

Which Marinette does! Very much!

She goes to the spa with Stephanie from time to time! And she even participates in sports with Cassandra and Alix! She hangs out with people, that's her thing. Art, Cycling, Video Games, Dancing—anything that can be thought of, Marinette's done with a plus one.

Yeah, like a year ago, her mind betrays.

Her shoulders sag.

So what if she doesn't have much of a life anymore? She's still doing okay for herself. Mostly.

I miss Paris, she sulks.

"What's wrong with you?"

Marinette doesn't have the energy to glare at him. "Personal issues," She replies breezily.

Robin takes his seat next to her.

Shouldn't you be going home by now? She snarks internally, though deep down she appreciates the company. He doesn't have to. He really doesn't have to. But he chooses to reside, maybe out of pity, though Marinette is aware that Robin doesn't do pity, so he's probably just nosy. But he's also not nosy. He respects people's boundaries. Kind of like someone else I know, Marinette compares, thinking back on her boss.

And his proposal.

She groans again.

"What is it?" Robin asks, though not unkindly.

She waves him off. "It's just... stupid relationship stuff," She shrugs. Kind of. Not really. She phrases it that way, hoping he gets awkward like other men do when it comes to girls and their feelings. So he can leave her alone. Maybe.

Robin eyes her intently.

She stares back.

They both stare.

"What?" She huffs, narrowing her eyes. "Jealous that you're not part of it?" Plagg seriously needs to tone it down.

His countenance harshens. "Not at all. I'm merely surprised someone like you is experiencing... marital problems."

"Wha—Marital problems?" She sputters, "No! I'm not married!"

"Ah. So boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"No," She feels her cheeks burn at the thought of being with her boss. As Chloe would say, Ridiculous! Utterly Ridiculous! She should call her too.

"Then what?" He deadpans.

She scowls at him. "That's personal business, Bird-boy."

He falters a bit. "Not if you're vague enough. You're agitated. I think it would help if you release these frustrations."

Her scowl becomes a smirk. "Are you propositioning me?" She purrs, cackling internally at the face he makes.

"Don't be crude. I'm merely offering a listening ear," He admits, which catches her off-guard. There have been times Robin's been nice. It's not as alien as others think. It's just... rare. "As your friend—"

"You think we're friends?" She blurts, surprised. This is news to her. After all the years she's attempted to befriend him, and this is when he admits it? That means Superboy claiming Robin liked her company was true! She thought he was just pulling her leg.

He goes rigid. "Are we not?" He grits, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to notice that the subtle flinch he exceeds is from hurt.

She quickly backtracks. "No, no, I meant—Wait yes! Yes, we're friends!" She exclaims, waving her arms in panic that she might've messed up a connection unintentionally. She forgoes from feeling ashamed from the instinctual mannerisms whenever something is blown out of proportion. "I was just, well, a little surprised?" She informs, tail swishing. "You're a very reserved type of person, Robin. And you don't have many that you would like to call friends. So. It's—It's very nice to hear that you think of me as one," Her sheepish smile becomes unpretentious.

He relaxes. "Perhaps I should retract my statement. Your fatuity in failing to see our reciprocal friendliness is eye-revealing," He huffs, propping one knee up to settle an arm on.

She grins. "Oh, is that what we're calling flirting now?"

Robin looks away from her. "Tch. You're insane."

"Insane for you," She coos, leaning forward to pat his head consolingly.

He swats her away. "So?" He goads, changing topics. "Now that we have established the obvious, what bothers you so?"

And like a switch, the thing that's been driving her crazy all night drops on her like a weight of anxious butterflies. Marinette frowns, despondent. "It's... Okay. Can I ask you a question?" She reverts.

Robin waves at her to continue.

She does. "What would you do if your boss you've known for years suddenly asks you out to dinner?"

He freezes.

She doesn't notice. "And before you ask any more questions; this boss is a recluse. Reserved. Kind of like you, actually. Wait. That works. Okay. So, imagine you work under yourself, right? And you have known yourself for years so that means you know your schedule, your um personality, and everything, and then all of a sudden you do a complete turnaround from the norm—wait, this is getting confusing. Okay. Let's just... Okay. Hypothetically," She raises a clawed finger, "I work under you, yes? Wait. Ignore that. Let me rephrase it: So let's say someone works for their reserved boss who doesn't entertain the idea of romance or normal hangouts at all, yes? And then that boss calls her in one normal work day and demands that she attend a dinner with him. What would you do?"

He's staring at her.

Like. Really staring at her.

Marinette burns. "It's hypothetical!" She insists, "Not that I'm suffering about it! Or. Wait. That came out wrong. Of course, I'm not suffering about it," She laughs nervously, dreading that she might've revealed too much information. As much as she (and she concedes this forcefully) trusts Robin, her secret identity is the last solace she has. "It's just a question." Though keeping it secret is getting overwhelming with how much shit she has to deal with every day.

Robin is still silent.

Marinette slumps, upset, mistaking his silence for judgment. "So maybe it wasn't so hypothetical."

He still doesn't respond.

She fidgets with a spare curled strand of her bangs. This silence is killing me, she sweats.

"This happened to you?" He murmurs finally, shifting.

She shrugs. "Maybe."

"...And you're asking me what I would've done?" He continues, scrutinizing her.

Marinette smiles tiredly. "Yes, Captain Obvious." That's the right idiom, right? Insult? Her English has vastly improved but it's not the best.

He considers her. Looks at her. He doesn't stir at all from her teasing.

His expression is the most devoid of emotion she's seen on him. Usually, it's stoic, but now...

Is he in shock?

She puffs her cheeks, affronted. "Is it so crazy I'm asked out?"

"Not at all," Is his immediate and... calculative response.

What?

"What?" She blinks.

Despite his eyes hiding behind a white screen, his gaze is piercing. Almost as if he's burrowing under her skin in search of her soul. "You... are compassionate. Powerful. Smart. Anyone would admire you and endeavor to pursue your affections."

She gapes.

He draws back, as if catching himself. "That is," He clears his throat, "If you are exact in conduct as you are in your civilian self." The words come out so casually that she misses the hidden meaning behind them.

She smiles shyly. "I guess?" She allows. Marinette isn't that insecure teenager anymore. If someone tells her she's all the good things listed, she'll accept the compliment and move on. Sure, handling them is still... overwhelming, but it's not something she'll struggle to believe. "Maybe I'm less expressive," She reveals, watching him keenly for any subtle indicators that he might be fishing for information to figure out her identity.

Alas, it's for naught. Robin's expression is hard to make out. Besides, he's the only person who's kept a solid boundary when it comes to identities.

"But um. Thanks, Robin."

She expects him to scoff and call her an idiot.

He doesn't.

"I would accept, by the way."

She startles. "Huh?"

He stands, and his cape flutters behind his imposing frame. He tilts his head at her, for once looking so soft that she's momentarily stumped that Robin is capable of making a face like that. "I would accept. Your employer's proposal."

"I did!" She throws her hands up in the air, standing too. "I didn't even realize I did!"

Robin crosses his arms. "...And you are... comfortable?" He looks uneasy. Concerned.

She nods. "Yes, I... Well. I guess the main issue was what I should do," She confesses, wringing her hands together. "Wouldn't it be a scandal? For—For an assist—a worker to go out with her boss? And what if my boss meant it in a friendly way and I'm taking this out of proportion? What if he decides—"

"Lady Noire." The name sounds forced out of his mouth. She clamps her mouth shut, looking at him imploringly. He proceeds with a gentle tone. "...His intentions will be made clear throughout the dinner," He explains, watching her calm down.

She laments. "That's what Tikki said too..."

"Who?"

"Never mind that. I guess it makes sense... but not really. I want to know now to prepare myself for what might happen," She grunts, kicking a pebble petulantly. It hits Robin's shin.

He rubs at it, but he doesn't glare. Weird. "...Why not just question him?" He offers like she's stupid.

Her eye twitches. "You think I'm going to ask my boss if his dinner is a romantic volition when my job is on the line?"

He has the decency to look put off. "I believe everything will be just fine. Is your superior an unreasonable man?"

"...No," She mumbles, scratching her head.

"Then I am sure whatever choice you make will be accepted respectfully. A real man abides by rejection in stride. You are also not weak in character," His face hasn't even twitched once, "As anxious as you are, I know you will make it known to him if you are not comfortable by any means."

"You're right, Robi-poo," She says seriously and hits the bottom of her fist on her palm with renewed conviction. He's as still as a carcass. "I'm overthinking things. It'll go how it'll go and... and I'll handle things based on how they will. But first I need to sleep because I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass out if I stay out here any longer..." She trails off, blinking one eye at a time.

Robin opens his mouth to agree—

She abruptly has her face inches from his. "You are a lifesaver," She vows, leaning forward and pecking his cheek without any warning. The whites of his mask widen considerably. "Merci Mille Fois, pretty boy!" She enunciates in her usual flirtatious cue and bolts, throwing herself off of the building.

Robin sees her extend a silver staff from the ground, departing the same way he's seen her do.

When he can no longer see her, Robin lingers, a furious blush and his hand cradling the cheek her lips touched.

Ah fuck, he thinks.

[. . .]

When Damian comes home from patrol, he's not nonplussed to find the Bat Cave bereft of his family. His father is off-world. Tim was still out—Robin isn't supposed to be home so early tonight. But he couldn't withstand spending another minute out there doing god knows what in the state of stupefaction he's in.

His placid expression doesn't waver; he removes his suit and puts on his civilian clothes in a robotic motive to stalk upstairs and greet Alfred. The elder offers him a treat that he declines, asking in that elusive all-knowing way if he's okay. Damian expresses that he's fine, and it's only after he checks in with the man with a tight-lipped conversation that he finally enters the comfort of his bedroom and succumbs to his shock.

He covers his face and crumples unceremoniously onto the floor with a groan.

He's been stupid.

So.

So. Stupid.

Lady Noire. Ladybug.

They're both Marinette.

He swallows thickly.

What the fuck.

When Lady Noire—the lovely assistant Miss Dupain-Cheng—revealed the issue he was sincerely approaching to soothe her with, it was like a haze lifted from his mind. His vision unfurled with clarity, and he blinked a few times to readjust and wonder why in the fuck Lady Noire's chin looked so damn familiar.

Upon her developing speech insinuating a supremely knowledgeable issue burning in her mind, something clicked.

Marinette.

The glossy, plump lips and button nose somewhat covered by the sharp black of her cat mask belonged to his assistant.

And he thought: No fucking way.

The reveal was gut-wrenchingly groundbreaking—more severe than when he fucking died—that he hadn't heard half of whatever else she said because of the deafening pounding of his heart in his ear. He eventually composed himself enough to listen in to what she was saying, making every effort he's come to know from the League and the Batman about poker-faced deceiving.

He prays she didn't notice how much he was taking her in while she talked about what she wanted from him. Or she might have and hasn't said anything. But then if she had, she would confront him. Marinette is confrontational. She's a no-nonsense type of gal.

Oh no, Damian cringes in horror, I'm speaking like Richard now.

He does not sleep that night.

For the rest of it, he scrambles around his room, eyes glued to his laptop while he compares pictures of Marinette, Ladybug, and Lady Noire.

[. . .]

The next morning arrives too soon for Damian's liking.

He stumbles to the kitchen with his clothes a bit more ruined than usual, rubbing his eyes hard with the bottom of his palm.

Alfred doesn't say a word.

"So," Tim starts, rummaging through some paper while Stephanie side-eyes him with the obscenity of thick strips of bacon stuffed in her mouth. The Breakfast table has never been any more tense. Alfred is looking pretty damn mischievous in his little butler corner (he's cleaning the sink). "I heard from the grapevine that you asked Marinette out."

Damian slams his head on the table.

Then Dick, Starfire, and Mar'i walk in.

No...