[LATE]Day 9of#Daminettedec21:

Tears <w/ Eh in ea-Ripped cloth>

[After a Day & Night of Training]

Marinette: “Seriously Dami, you need to stop sword training in your Robin suit. If you keep this up, I’ll have to make you a new designed Suit.”

Damian:‘I have no problem with your offer, Angel’*Smiles at her focused expression*

knightofthesevenfandoms:

Going back and rereading everyone’s comments on The Great IKEA Game is the only thing getting me through my last semester of school. So even though it’s been nearly a year, you all are still making my day!

The Flower Crown Chronicles

AN: Thank you everyone for all your likes and reblogs! Here’s another chapter, which as always you can read over on ao3 here! I hope you enjoy it, you might just spot a familiar face!

CW: homophobic comments, racist comments, and bad language

Chapter 3: Lemonade Stand

Damian pulls up to Richard’s house – a whitewashed brick two-story building situated atop a hill – and parks along the side of the street, as the… occupieddriveway provides him no room.

He turns off his car and takes a fortifying breath before exiting. The midday sun shines full above with enough heat to fry an egg on the pavement. Damian approaches his brother’s, normally nice and peaceful, suburban house with trepidation.

What in the world are his siblings thinking?

Cassandra and Kory place clothing on a rack, talking underneath a boombox playing pop music.

Stephanie chats with two elderly women in matching outfits and conning them into buying a pair of lamps.

Todd, removed only slightly from the chaos, skateboards with a couple of kids on the sidewalk, engaging in more complex tricks that would find its inevitable end with someone breaking an appendage.

Drake sits inert in a too-small lawn chair, a wide brim straw hat shading his eyes as he reads off his phone.

And Richard stands in the midst of the chaos dressed in Bermuda shorts and a fanny pack looking inordinately pleased with himself. All over the, normally clear, driveway sits a collection of odds and ends with price tags slapped onto the sides. A crowd of random people browse through said odds and ends.

Little Mar’i remains the only member of his cobbled-together family making any sense. A collection of mismatched pitchers crowd a small folding table and a stack of cookies sits on a plate next to them. Combined with a large patio umbrella, a pair of sparkly purple sunglasses, her ever-present flower crown, and a printed paper sign that reads:

SNACKS FOR SALE

LEMONADE - $2

COOKIE - $1.50

She waves at him but remains seated at her table where a line of people waits to purchase refreshments from her makeshift booth.

Richard jogs over to him before Damian can act upon the impulse to retreat to his car and escape.

“Damian! So glad you could come!” his older brother greets.

“Richard, what madness is this?”

“It’s a garage sale?”

“We are billionaires.”

Richard sighs. “Bruce is a billionaire.” Damian raises an eyebrow; his financial portfolio is plenty lucrative. Drake coughs loudly from his plastic lawn chair, but his attention remains on his phone. Richard rolls his eyes. “Okay, maybe a few of us are billionaires but that’s not the point. A garage sale is more than just a chance to make money, it’s about getting rid of things you don’t need anymore and interacting with your neighbors! It’s a community bonding experience.”

“One; if you wished to rid yourself of unwanted items, donate them. Two; if you wish to bondwith the community throw a gala, or - if you must be plebian - a block party.”

“Your classism is showing,” comments Drake; ironic considering the irritating interloper’s own parentage.

Damian scoffs. “Oh look, gaze upon the field in which I grow my fucks and see it is barren.”

Stephanie walks over, pocketing a ten-dollar bill. “Damian’s meme-ing? Who taught you how to meme baby bird?” She slings an arm awkwardly around his shoulder. He stands as tall as Todd and his father these days.

“Tt. I am twenty-one, fatgirl, I believe that age is sufficient enough to know how memes work without another’s instruction.” He side-steps away from his pseudo-sister letting her arm fall.

She elbows him in the side, and he prides himself on not jumping to defend himself from the innocent roughhousing the attack is meant to be. “Well, I’m almost twenty-seven so that means you need to respect your elders.”

“Ah yes, you are aging and fat, truly a marvelous combination. Tell me, when did you last go on a date?” He ducks out of the way of a much sharper jab.

“Guys, guys stop fighting,” pleads Richard. “We aren’t together a lot outside of our… extracurriculars, and I want this to be fun!”

Stephanie smiles innocently like she had not just tried to assault him. “Sure thing big bird; just wholehearted good clean family fun with no weapons, murder or arson.”

“You eliminated half of all our family’s immediate interests,” Damian drawls. “And ninety percent of Todd’s.”

Richard throws his arms into the air and stomps away in a huff, but Damian spots a smile on his older brother’s face. Stephanie sticks out her tongue, but says nothing else, retreating to the shade of the garage with Kory and Cassandra.

“UNCLE DAMI!” A small weight hits his legs and Damian barely braces himself from falling over at the force of his niece’s overexcited greeting. He reaches down to pat her head; raven locks twisted into complicated braids accompanied by a bright purple flower crown. One of Marinette’s creations.

“Hello little one, how are you today?”

She beams at him with a gap-toothed smile. “Great!” she exclaims. “Grandpa Alfie helped me bake cookies to sell and Mom helped me make the lemonade. I’ve made thirty-five dollars already.”

Damian smiles at her. “A good start, you likely already recouped your initial investment. The heat of the day will only increase from here.”

He points to her stand; several people wandering over to look at the sign. “You should go back, you have customers.”

“Thanks! But I need more lemonade. MOOOOOM!”

Kory turns away from her conversation with Cass. “Yes, my little bumgorf?”

Mar’i rushes over to her mother with the empty pitchers. “Can you go inside and make three more pitchers of lemonade?” Kory pats her on the head, takes the jugs in hand, and walks towards the house.

Mar’i runs back over to him and hugs his legs tightly. “Thanks, uncle Dami.” She rushes to her station and starts talking the ears off of her soon-to-be customers.

Damian sighs in fond exasperation; Mar’i was her mother and father’s child through and through. Personable and suborn, with a pragmatic mindset.

He wanders over to one of the tables ladened with objects and peruses through the odds and ends Kory and Richard decided to sell. Collections of old books, racks of clothes, several odd dish and plate sets, and an entire blanket full of Mar’i’s old toys. Despite the utter plebian nature of such an event, they had done a marvelous job at appealing to a large range of tastes for the common suburbanite.

“Damian?”

He freezes at the call of his name, the familiar syllables twisting under a soft accent, and a feeling of dread - and not excitement, he reprimands his inner voice - pools in his stomach. He turns around.

Marinette stands a foot away, clad in a white sundress and wide-brimmed hat. Her raven locks are drawn into two low pigtails. She carries a small wicker basket filled with a collection of odds and ends.

“M-Marinette,” he replies, hoping no one else heard his unfortunate stutter. “What brings you here? Your apartment is located in the city; quite a journey to get here.” ‘Quite a journey,’ thought Damian sarcastically. That is the besthe could come up with?

“I spent the night over at Delun and Patrick’s.” She points out a couple browsing the electronics a few tables over. One is a large mountain of a man – thick beard, burly chest, dressed head to toe in black – who would not be out of place in a boxing ring or bike rally. The other, far smaller in comparison, wearing bright cherry red shorts and a button-up shirt with puppies on the fabric.

Marinette lifts the basket. “They like to weekend garage sale hunt during the summer. I decided to come with. And you? Garage sales don’t seem quite your speed,” she comments with a teasing smile.

He points at the house. “My brother lives here.” His brother’s house… which all his siblings are at… around here… right now…

Fuck.

A contingent of assassins or aliens or zombies would be greatright this second.

“Ahh…” she says brightly. “It’ll be nice to finally meet them, after all you’ve said. Well… Texted.” They kept a cordial correspondence since the park two weeks ago. And by cordial, Damian meant he never texted a single person more than Marinette – although Jon came close. Although this was the first time he had seen her in person since their outing at the park. Thankfully Marinette refrained from mentioning the impulsive offer to take her out to dine, which Damian immediately regretted, the offer far too overly familiar for their short and casual acquaintance.

He shakes away his mental musing. “Hold your judgment until you converse with them, many find them intolerable once they open their mouths.”

She giggles – an action which Damian normally despises for those older than small children in the single digits – but which the French woman somehow makes bearable.

“Oh, come on, they can’t be that bad.”

“No, they are worse.”

“Hey, who ya talkin’ to over here little D’?” asks Todd approaching from the sidewalk with windswept hair and a skateboard in hand. His older brother turns to Marinette. “Sorry if he said somethin’ rude miss. We tried socializin’ him, but it never took.”

Damian rolls his eyes at the juvenile insult. “Hello Todd, did you tire of enticing small children with reckless actions? Or did your injection have a point?”

Todd rolls his eyes. “The kiddos were plenty safe. They had more protection than me even.” True. All of the kids wore helmets and knee pads. Compared to a barren Todd, who forewent his leather jacket, and was clad only in jeans and a t-shirt. “And I always have a point to make. This one is makin’ sure you aren’t buggin’ a potential customer.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Thanks,” states Marinette with a half-amused, half sarcastic look stretching across her face. “It’s not like I’m standing here and can speak for myself or anything.”

“Ouch, customer’s got claws.”

“Todd do go make a nuisance of yourself elsewhere.” Todd ranked last in Damian’s siblings he wished to introduce Marinette to. He risked a quick glance over at Drake, who so far had not moved from his seat, but had stopped reading off his phone and now not-so-subtly eavesdropped on the conversation.

Okay. Maybe Todd ranked second-to-last.

His older brother raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay, sheesh I was just tryin’ to be polite and all.”

“It’s fine Damian and I were just catching up,” says Marinette.

Damian inwardly groans. No.That would just make the annoying gnat more interested, not less.

Jason’s eyes perk up, like demented little meerkats popping from the ground. “Oh, you and Damian knoweach other?” He glances at Damian, years of silent fieldwork conveying a couple of concepts.

Knowas in civilian interaction?

Knowas in superhero civilian identity?

Orknowas in ‘my mother is on the way with assassins and she’s the welcoming party?’

Damian returns the look.

‘The first one, obviously.’

Unfortunately, that does not decrease Todd’s curiosity. “Well, nice to see Demon spawn making friends. I’m just gonna go this way, you two kids have-”

“You rude little brat!” came a screeching voice from the end of the driveway.

Heads swivel to find a frumpy-looking woman in too-tight yoga pants, and a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ t-shirt standing with her hips cocked and arms crossed on the sidewalk. Large black sunglasses do little to disguise the utter disgust on her face as she gazes down at Mar’i’s makeshift lemonade stand. Her large white SUV runs parked in front of the driveway. Mar’i – utterly unruffled – stares back with a Pennyworth patented eyebrow raise as the woman grows more irritated.

Damian tenses, ready to jump to his niece’s defense. Whoever this woman thinks she is, she vastly overestimated her ability to manage anythinghis family can throw at her. Drake already has his phone’s camera flipped on and ready to record the interaction.

Richard, in full-on protective mode, jogs over to the stand. “What seems to be the problem over here?” he asks, placing himself between the irate woman and Mar’i.

The woman’s personality shifts in an instant. A sickly-sweet smile replaces her sneer. “Oh, I just wanted to let this girl know it’s illegal to sell food and drinks without a permit, and she was rude to me. The manners children these days have,” she giggles, high and nasally.

Damian exchanges a glance with Todd.

This dumbass has no clue.

“Well, I’m sure my daughter was perfectly respectable,” responds Richard, flat and unimpressed with the woman’s flirtatious simpering.

Two red blotches bloom on the woman’s cheeks as she stutters, “Oh, uh, well I don’t- I didn’t-” She bounces her head back and forth between Ricard and Mar’i like she’s trying to make sense of a complicated puzzle. Damian rolls his eyes, it’s not like they look so dissimilar; with the exception of Mar’i inheriting her mother’s skin.

“And this is my house and my garage sale, and I said it was fine for my kid to sell lemonade. Like any other normal kid during the summer.” Richard’s voice is juston the side of polite reprimand, rather than pure condescension.

“He’s trying to reason with her,” whispers a voice in his ear. Damian barely restrains jumping at Marinette’s comment. “That won’t work. She’s Delun and Patrick’s neighbor and happens to be the absolute worst.”

The woman continues to bluster. “Well- well, it’s still illegal.”

“According to what?” Richard asks incredulously. “Are you seriously raising a fuss about a six-year-old selling lemonade and cookies?”

Mar’i shook her head. “She said I had to take it down or she would call the police dad.”

Marinette scoffs. “She would too, she called the police because Delun hung rainbow banners during June.”

“This woman picked the wrong family to mess with,” Todd grumbles, stepping forward to join Richard. Damian shoots out a hand to stop him.

“Your interference will not alleviate the situation. Allow Richard to handle her,” he chides. Todd sneers but stays put.

Richard laughs “The police? HA! Yeah right!”

The woman’s face reddens even further. “Ugh! Do you even know who I am?”

Richard raises an unimpressed brow. “No.”

She huffs, puffing up her chest and tilting her nose into the air with haughty arrogance she could not at all carry off. “I’m Jessica Merope-Laverne the Hidden Fall’s HOA assistant secretary.”

“Okay… And?”

She stomps her foot on the ground like a petulant child. “And if you don’t make her take this down right now, I’ll not only call the police but also write a report about you breaking your HOA contract.”

“Come on Jessie lighten up,” says one of the men Marinette came with, the big one. “It’s just a lemonade stand, and you’re the one causin’ a fuss.”

She whips the sunglasses off her face and directs her red-hot glare at the two men. “Well, if it isn’t the Hamada-Cordons,” she sneers, making her already over-makeup face even more unpleasant. “Why are you out and about interacting with normal people? Shouldn’t you be reveling in your perversions elsewhere?”

“Sorry, hun,” drawls the shorter man in a heavy southern accent. “We only do our ritual sacrifices to the gods the second weekend of every month. We had just enough time to squeeze in some garage-saleing today. Where were you at the last bonfire, got lost on your broom on the way over?”

“They hate her,” Marinette whispers with a barely contained laughter.

“I think the sentiment is returned,” he responds.

“Go burn on a stake,” Merope-Laverne snipes.

“Why don’t you shove one up your-” the larger man slaps a hand over the smaller one’s mouth and smiles blandly.

“Ugh,” she sniffs pulling out her phone. “I will not be bullied by children and leftist sheeple into standing down. This is in clear violation of neighborhood policy, and I’m sure the county has rules against it too. I am not in the wrong here, I’m just trying to maintain clear order and rules.” She grabs her phone from her handbag.

“I think I have a plan,” whispers Marinette.

“Wait,” Damian calls, but she flutters away leaving the lingering scent of lemongrass and citrus in her wake.

“What?” questions Todd. “You’re gonna let hergo?”

Damian shoots him a piercing glare. “Shut up,” he mutters.

Marinette saunters to the driveway’s end, pushing past Richard and Mar’i, and stands in front of them like a tiny, but mighty, shield.

Marinette’s smile is thin and mocking as she says, “Jessica, poule mouillée, lovely to see you again.”

“Did she just call her a wet chicken?” breathes Todd. Drake looks ready to die over on his lawn chair from holding in laughter.

“Marnie,” sneers Merope-Laverne, clicking off her phone.

“Marinette,” she corrects without blinking an eye.

“Whatever. Get lost the adults are having a real conversation here.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “No, you’re having… oh how do you Americans call it? Ah! Yes. A “hissy fit”. So, why don’t you do all of us and yourself a favor and just leave, before you embarrass yourself even more.”

Merope-Laverne turns an even brighter shade of red, and spits, “Why would I listen to the French hussy of those two queer-ass fags. I’m just trying to be agoodAmerican citizen and do my part to keep the neighborhood…” she looks over Mar’i with a disgusted glance that sends Damian’s blood boiling. “Civilized.”

Damian’s entire family stands at the ready to attack this woman with no questions asked. Her comments crossing the fucking line. Damian palms a small knife in hand ready to pounce. Further up the driveway, the smaller man Marinette arrived with struggles to break out of the larger one’s hold. Although the larger man’s face similarly looks apocalyptic.

But Marinette only smiles blandly, and shifts, ever so slightly, on her feet. It raises her shoulders and projects out an air of confidence and… power. The woman subconsciously backs up.

“Do watch your language, there are children about,” Marinette chides, her voice colder than ice. “But if you’re concerned about crimes sooomuch, maybe you should worry more about the bigger one happening right now.” She gestures to Merope-Laverne’s car which is gaining speed down the hill into the empty cul-de-sac below. “Your car is about to run a stop sign.”

The woman turns with a gasp and immediately starts chasing after her car with a hiccupping gait. She runs beside it, unable to open any of the doors as it makes its way down the hill and out of sight.

“How…unlucky,” Marinette comments lightly with a serene smile. The entire driveway falls into shocked silence.

Damian stares.

Blinks once.

Then twice.

Todd slaps a hand on his shoulder, and it is only through years of training Damian does not jump. “Demon brat you might wanna close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

He slams his mouth shut with an audible click, shooting a hateful glare at Todd. “Do be silent,” he grits.

His older brother shrugs, a shit-eating grin adorning his annoying face. “Sure, little D’. But just so ya know, that chick seems way out of your league.” Damian ignores the ridiculous implications and stomps over to the growing crowd around Marinette and Mar’i closely followed by Todd

“Miss Marinette!” Mar’i calls out in a high excited scream. His niece rushes the woman, who bends down and swings the little girl up into her arms. Marinette easily holds the girl up with one arm and uses her other hand to bop the girl’s nose.

“Mademoiselle Mar’i! Oh, what wretched things that woman said, are you alright?”

Mar’i giggles and nods her head. “Yep! You sure showed her didn’t you!”

Marinette laughs, “All in a day’s work ma petite fleur!”

Richard rushes over. “Mar’i you can’t just hug random people!”

Mar’i frowns, and a panicky dread fills Damian’s chest. “But Dad Miss Marinette isn’t random. She’s Uncle Dami’s friend.”

Richard’s eyes climb high on his face. “Oh!” Damian scowls at his questioning glance, and the irritating man just smiles like a cat with a canary and turns back to Marinette with an extended hand. Marinette shakes it firmly.

“Well, nice to meet you I’m Dick, Damian’s older brother. And you already know my lovely daughter Mar’i.”

“Dad she’s the one who made my crowns!” She points to the one on her head.

“And what wonderful crowns they are princess,” Mar’i jumps over to her father’s arms, and he catches her without hesitation. He glances back at Marinette with a sheepish grin. “No seriously, they’re wonderful crowns, Mar’i never stops wearing them. They’re sturdy.”

Marinette blushes, ducking her head. “Thank you. I make them myself.”

“Excuse me, comin’ through y’all.” A whirlwind mess of limbs and color elbows his way into the crowd. “Oh hun,” calls the smaller man Marinette arrived with. He throws two lanky arms around Marinette’s shoulder and smacks a kiss against her temple. “That was positively g-lorious!” He exclaims with a sing-songy tune. “You sure showed that bitc-” he spares a quick glance and Mar’i who just giggles. “-bitter old hag who’s boss. No one messes with the Hamada-Cordons!”

“Delun, you know I’m not related to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh hush, hun, you are family in our hearts and that counts just as much.”

The larger man – Patrick, Damian decides – walks over with a smile and pats Marinette on the shoulder. “Good going, little lady,” he says gruffly.

“Yeah, that was serious Matilda-level shenaniganry right there,” comments Jason with a smirk. “I approve.”

“What’s a Matilda?” asks Mar’i.

Todd and Marinette gasp in synchrony.

“What’s a Matilda? Golden boy why haven’t you shown her Matilda?”

Marinette presses a hand to her chest. “Quelle honte! Quelle parodie! Oh, ma petite fleur, you’ve been deprived!”

“Okay, okay, sheesh!” Richard pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’ll be next on the list I promise.”

“Three pitchers of the lemonade, as requested!” calls Kory’s strong voice, breaking through the gathered crowd of people. She emerges balancing the three full pitchers on a platter. “What in the star fields is going on here?”

Mar’i wiggles out of her father’s arms and runs over to her mother. “Mom! A woman tried to get me to shut down my lemonade stand, and she said she would call the police, and dad tried to make her leave, and then Miss Marinette – she’s the one that made my flower crowns – she made her car roll down the hill like a Matilda! But I don’t know what a Matilda is?”

“Oh my, it seems I have missed a most glorious battle.” She raises an inquisitive eye at her husband, who shrugs with a look that reads, ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

“Kory, darlin’,” says Delun. “It was Jessie.”

Kory frowns. “Oh, that irritating zarbnarf! I am so sorry I was not here to defend you my little bumgorf.”

Mar’i shrugs, as in the way small children are often wont to do, the incident was mostly forgotten now due to the many people talking to and fawning over her. “It’s fine mom.”

“Wait,” says Todd, flicking his eye back and forth between Kory and Hamada-Cordons. “You all know each other?”

“We ran into Kory and Mar’i at the pool last summer and got to talking about weapons. We told her about our ax-throwing range in our backyard,” explains Patrick. “And invited her over to test it out.”

Kory beams. “And what magnificent fun it was!” Then snarls her nose. “Until Jessica interceded upon our enjoyment and threatened to report us!”

Delun scoffs. “Not that she could’a done a darn thing. We registered the range and put in writin’ long before she moved in.”

“Okay folks, the show’s over, no need to crowd up here!” calls Stephanie. “If you want refreshments, I’m sure Mar’i can take care of you.” Her loud voice and Todd’s menacing stance, disperse the crowd, thinning out everyone who was not an extended Wayne family member, or Marinette and her friends.

Marinette slides back over to Damian’s side. “I like your family. They seem…”

“Overbearing? Insufferable? Meddlesome?”

Marinette shakes her head. “Genuine.”

“Tt. Nothing but genuinely annoyingperhaps.”

She smiles, “Ah, but doesn’t that mean they love you enough to relax around you? A perfect façade seems nice upon the surface, but once one digs deeper there is nothing there but hot air. Genuine people are imperfect people, and that’s what makes them worth knowing and loving.”

The words strike him in the chest. A long-forgotten echo rises unbidden in his mind.

‘Can you not love me for who I am? Not what you want me to be?”

‘No. That’s not my nature. I’m too much of a perfectionist.’

“I- I- suppose there is an ounce truth to that.” Damian buries his mother’s sharp words ignoring the burn of abandonment and longing in his chest. He should not entertain such thoughts.

At least, not in the light of day.

“Miss Marinette! Uncle Dami! Here!” Mar’i, queen of convenient distraction, appears carrying a plate of cookies balancing atop two glasses of lemonade. Damian rescues the precariously placed cookies while Marinette snags the drinks.

“Merci beaucoup, ma petite fleur,” coos Marinette.

“Da rien!” beams Mar’i before running back to her stand. Marinette blinks, a delighted smile blooming across her face at his niece’s response.

“She wished to converse in your own language. I helped teach her a few basic sayings,” he says. Mar’i did not gain her mother’s particular… abilityto gain linguistic talents, nor if she had would it be appropriate for a six-year-old to go kissing people on the lips. He was not fluent in French, but his knowledge reached conversationally and certainly enough for the niceties Mar’i wished to convey.

“Comme c'est attentionné de vous deux,” Marinette says with a sweet smile.

Damian’s cheeks feel warmer than before. It must be the heat.

“It- It was of no hardship,” he mumbles, taking a sip of lemonade to avoid opening his traitorous mouth again. What was it about this woman that made him lose all sense of caution?

Before he can think too deeply on the topic, Stephanie and Cassandra approach.

Oh.

Ohno.

“Thanks for defending our little Mar’i,” says Stephanie, her hand darting out and grabbing one of the cookies from his plate, he was too slow to stop her. “Was that telekinesis?” she asks, stuffing the cookie into her mouth.

“Stephanie,” he hisses. “You can not simply ask-”

His pseudo-sister waves him away. “I’m just being friendly demon-brat, she used her powers in public and I’m curious.”

“That’s our little witch!” calls Delun, still nearby in a conversation with Richard and Kory.

“Not a witch!” Marinette calls back cheerily.

“You can make wards hun!”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “So can anyone else with an open energy connection and thirty minutes on the internet.” She turns to Stephanie with a shy smile. “It’s magic, in a way.”

Stephanie scrunches her face. “So, what? Like a meta?”

Marinette shrugs her shoulders. “Hmmm… maybe. I never looked too much into it. Meta abilities are… looked down upon in France.” Her tone makes it quite clear what she thinks of that. Damian’s knowledge of what the Europeans do with their meta-humans beyond cursory interactions with the Justice League is limited.

He shall have to correct that gap.

“There’s a Meta-Human Alliance chapter here in Gotham,” offers Cassandra, her voice low and melodious. Must be one of her good days to speak out loud.

The French woman smiles tightly. “Thank you, although I think I’ll pass. It’s just a bit of magic-infused luck.” Damian represses a scoff, although from Marinette’s side glance it seems he was not successful.

“You can see what your brother thinks of that. You can be boring too and call it statistical probability manipulation.”

Stephanie tilts her head. “And how does that translate to making a car roll down a hill?” Stephanie may be the one asking the question, but every single one of his siblings is paying attention, even if they are moderately decent at looking like they’re minding their own business.

Marinette, seemingly oblivious to the oncoming interrogation, perks at the question, her eyes lighting up. “You see it’s not impossibleJessica’s car would roll down the hill after her semi-loose gear stick slipped from park to drive; merely improbable.I manipulate the energies around such events to give them a higher possibility of happening.”

Damian raises a brow at the explanation. He certainly never forgot Marinette’s little demonstration at the festival, but he thought it mostly related to trick shots and coin flips. This sounds… larger.

“How can you make sure you manipulate the right energies?” asks Cassandra.

Marinette’s smile is wry. “Lots and lotsof practice. Along with the luck comes a heightened sense of pattern recognition. I knowwhat will cause certain chains of events to happen, as well as how people tend to react.”

“Though good heavens know we had to teach ya how to direct it,” interjects Delun, walking over. “Poor girl came to that first crochet meetin’ and Patty said she was leakin’ magic all over the place.”

Marinette flushes pink across the tops of her cheeks and rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. I was useless. I never really had formal instruction before I met Patrick and Delun, they helped me in honing energy direction and the pattern recognition.”

“That must make you a very good chess player,” muses Cassandra, always eager to suck others into her never-ending quest for a chess partner that will not run at the sight of her.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never played,” admits Marinette, taking a sip of her lemonade.

“Pity,” says Cassandra, with a smile similar to a canary-catching cat. “I can teach you some time if you want?”

“Back to the powers,” interjects Stephanie, cutting off Cassandra’s attempt to ensnare her newest victim. “By that explanation, you could manipulate people too?”

Delun gasps, clutching his chest. “Little miss sunshine? Goodness personified? Yeah right, you have a higher likely hood crusin’ through Spaghetti Junction during rush hour on a Friday.”

Marinette sighs, exhausted and annoyed. “That’s sweet Delun, but technically, yes. I could manipulate a person.”

Damian’s stomach drops at the admission.

What if-?

Had she-?

Are these feelings-?

Marinette continues, “But the amount of energy, time, and sheer force of will, to manipulate another person is hardly worth the effort – besides I manipulate statistical probabilities. Inert objects don’t tend to move or fluctuate, so the amount of energy used to guide them in a different path is minimal and quite stable. A personthough?” Marinette scoffs. “Do you know how many actions, thoughts, and emotions a single person has in a day? Never mind their interactions with others. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions. An object? A couple hundred at the high end. The headache it causes to directly manipulate a person’s actions; blinding.”

“Besides, only the lowest of magic users would go against will like that,” says Patrick, coming up beside his husband. “Little Miss isn’t a black witch, and neither are we.”

Marinette shrugs, but Damian notices a tense shift of her movement as if the woman is holding onto her emotions with razor-thin control. “Anything is possible if you feed enough power into it, and the situation is dire. I’ve never done it myself, but I probably could if there was no other way.” She smiles wryly. “Not that I would be involved in a situation which would require that kind of force.”

“Not that I’m saying you would, but sweetheart,” Delun coos, “ThisisGotham.”

“I’m trying to be optimistic,” Marinette sighs. “Stop ruining it.”

“This is the city where optimism goes to die a swift and painful death via vis a crime rate higher than America’s obesity epidemic,” says Stephanie, with a blinding smile. “Perfect for family vacations and relaxing getaways.”

Marinette grins, sharp and predatory. In her white dress and pigtails, the sight should not seem terrifying, but it is. “That’s why I carry brass knuckles and pepper spray on me at all times. It’s much easier to kick a person’s ass the old-fashioned way than play around with luck.”

Stephanie barks out a laugh, brown eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. “I like the way you think, girlie. You fight?”

“Whenever I get the chance, but I’ve lacked a good sparring partner lately.” She smiles at Patrick. “You’re great for boxing practice, but I’m missing the chance for kickflips, and grapple holds.” Patrick shrugs, but he does not appear offended.

Meanwhile, Damian tries suppressing the panic in his stomach at his sisters’ hungry grins directed at the smaller woman. “I have offered before,” he reminds her. “If you would like-”

Stephanie slides up to Marinette and places an arm around her. “Ignore him. Do you want a real fight? Well, Cass and I are always looking to add someone new into the rotation!”

“Well- I- uh do not think-” Damian sputters, losing control of the situation.

“Come on Damian, you said it yourself I would get along with them!”

Cassandra’s eyes brighten as she joins Stephanie and their newly captured prey. “Oh, did he?” she asks. “Damian is a great judge of character. We’ll get along swimmingly,” she grins as she and Stephanie lead Marinette away and interrogates her about her fighting routine.

Marinette flashes him a brief mouthed ‘sorry’ before becoming fully engulfed in the tumultuous current of his sisters’ attention.

“Sorry kiddo, that was a fight you were bound to lose,” comments Delun with a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. “Come on Patty, I wanted a chance to look in the garage. Looks like Nettie will be busy for a while.” The men walk away leaving Damian alone.

Damn.

He grips the plastic cup full of watered-down lemonade and takes a small sip. Still refreshing. He listens to the laughter coming from the three women with building dread. The stares from the rest of his family land on him with undisguised noisiness.

In most situations, Damian would solve this problem like he does all his others.

Vicious purging at the source for all non-necessary complications.

Marinette is a complication.

He risks another glance. Marinette’s face is bright and animated as she talks rapidly to Stephanie and Cassandra, her hands flapping in exaggerated movements to accompany her explanation. The sight, as simple and mundane as it is, tightens his chest in an unknown feeling. He does not like unknowns.

But she is seemingly one he can not bring himself to walk away from.

TAG List

@pepelachanel@hammalammadamdam

Incorrect Maribat Quotes: IKEA Verse

Part 5/?

Damian and Marinette: How did you find us?

Jason approaching threateningly with his nerf gun: Oh it was easy. I just listened for the sound of complete and utter betrayal and followed that.

The Flower Crown Chronicles

A/N: You can read this on ao3 here, if you want to get updates when I post!

Chapter 2: Popsicles and Ice Cream

The Parisian-themed ice cream shop sits nestled between an abandoned building, and a pet shop Marinette’s eighty percent sure a front for the Russian mob. Grime coats every surface, like every other place in Gotham; faded paper murals peel off nicotine-stained walls, and the foggy glass dome over the ice cream containers stays dingy no matter how many times it’s cleaned. Old-time accordion music plays over a crackly speaker, the cashiers wear white button-ups and berets, and a tiny plush poodle sits on the counter.

The shop embodies every French stereotype Americans have.

It’s sad.

It’s insulting.

And it’s the closest thing to home in this cursed city, so she goes every week.

The bell above the door lets out a sad jingle as she enters the store. Cecil, a junior in high school, barely glances away from their phone as Marinette strides in. It may be run down, but at least the owner, Pierre – although Marinette was pretty sure that wasn’this actual name – kept the store cool. A godsend today where, for once, Gotham isn’t cloudy, and the sun shines on the concrete pavement turning the city into a giant oven.

She walks over to the counter and gives Cecil a friendly smile. “How are you today?”

They don’t stop scrolling on their phone. “Fine.” They pause. “Your normal?”

“Yep!” Marinette doesn’t let their attitude dampen her mood. Cecil rarely talks and that’s fine with Marinette. She’s here for the ice cream and the pale aesthetic imitations of France.

Cecil hands Marinette a peanut butter and chocolate chunk ice cream cup; she dances a little inside. Between the long week and the oppressive heatwave, she deserves the treat. She pays, and hands Cecil a five, ignoring the ‘tip jar’ on the counter; a little lockbox. The teen doesn’t have the key to.

“Keep the tip,” she says. Cecil snatches the five, stuffing it into their pocket, and shoots Marinette a small smirk. Progress. When Marinette first came here three months ago the teen wouldn’t even look at her.

She seats herself at a wrought iron table in the shop – positioned to watch the entrance to the back, and the front door – and enjoys the smooth creamy taste of her treat. It’s not Andre’s level of good or even level with the other specialty ice cream shops near where she grew up, but for a dingy hole in the wall in a rundown part of Gotham, it’s not bad. She scrolls through the comment section of her newest Instagram post, liking and replying to comments.

The bell above the door jingles.

“Uncle Dami! Uncle Dami! Isn’t this so cute!” a high, and excited voice cries.

Marinette glances up. A small child zips around the store, followed by a disgruntled-looking young man. It takes a second for her brain to place where she knows them.

The festival’s events two weeks ago rush back; Marinette leaving her stall to grab water from a nearby food truck and feeling the wards on her knife collection disturbed, rushing back to find a young girl floating in the air a teetering stack of flower crowns in hand.

Marinette calming the two petrified people.

Using her powers to accomplish it.

Handing out her personal phone number to a stranger.

Marinette glances at the man again; ahandsomestranger.

She spent several nights in bed screaming into her pillow for acting like her old fourteen-year-old self again. But hey, could anyone blame her? He was tall, dark-haired, well-defined, and super protective over his adorable little niece. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. When he never texted her back, she put the whole incident out of her mind.

Mostly.

Sort of.

“Cute is not the particular word I was thinking Marie,” drawls the man. Damian. His name is Damian. Damian Wayne. Marinette researched him.

Casually.

He’s rich.

Richer than Chole.

Richer than Adrien.

Veryrich.

He’s twenty-one years old, his birthday is November 16. He’s not regularly active on social media, but when he does he mostly posts about art and his pets. He owns three cats and two dogs. A gaggle of adopted siblings, of which he is the only blood child – as pointed out in all of his screen names – but the family’s youngest. Martial artist, fencer, multi-lingual, and absolutely despised by the Gotham press.

Just a bit of research… casually.

The moment Damian spots her, his eyes snap to a distrustful glare, hackles raising like a wet mountain lion.

The moment Marie spots her, her smile brightens, and Marinette swears her eyes glow even greener. Which, you know, is possible given the child can fly.

“Miss Marinette!” she exclaims, running over to the table.

“Mademoiselle Marie, how good to see you again! And look, you’re wearing a crown!” Marie is dressed in blue shorts and a Wonder Woman t-shirt, atop her ruffled black hair sits a crown of gold and white flowers. Adorable.

Marie nods. “Yup, I wear them a lot!”

“Tt. I believe you mispronounced ‘every day’, little one?” Damian stalks over, resting a protective hand on his niece’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you enjoy them,” says Marinette. She shoots a smirk at Damian. “Well, have you changed your mind about one for yourself, monsieur?”

Damian wrinkles his nose. “No,” he answers plainly. He glances at Marie. “Go pick out your monstrosity treat, and we will return to the park.” He views the shop with a thin veil of disgust. “The longer we remain in this establishment the higher the chance of catching an airborne disease.”

Marinette fails to hide a laugh behind her hand, bringing Damian’s attention back to her. His green eyes may not glow like his nieces’, but they give off the effortless vibe of staring deep into your soul and immediately knowing all your deepest secrets, your biggest regrets, and the weak points sure to cripple you.

It reminds Marinette the triple-team lectures Chole, Kagami, and Alya used to throw at her when she acted stupid. Marinette shouldn’t find that comforting, but she does.

“Are you gonna have some too Uncle Dami?” Marie asks, tugging on her uncle’s hand

He stares at Marie in bewilderment. “Here? Chewing off my own foot sounds more appealing. I am only allowingyou to purchase a treat because your choice is a pre-packaged popsicle.”

Marinette shudders. “A popsicle? Why eat a frozen disgace when ice cream is avilable?”

Marie snurls her nose. “It’s icky.”

“It’s delicious, and the ice cream they serve here is just fine!”

Damian crosses his arms. “I am inclined to agree with you Ms. Dupain-Cheng – ice cream is the superior treat to my niece’s preferred popsicle travesty-”

“Hey!”

“-but I find it highly circumspect that you as, I assume, a native Parisian would consider this…” he surveys the store with even greater disgust. “Establishmenta fair representation of culture, class, or caliber.”

“This is Gotham, inaccurate imitation is their only option. This is as good as it gets.”

Damian scoffs, “I have dined at several establishments in the city that beg to differ.”

Marinette smirks. “So let them beg, I have several Parisian chefs on speed dial that would show them a thing or two.”

The man opens his mouth to respond when Marie tugs on his shirt. “Can you please pay the worker, so I can eat my popsicle?” They turn to the counter. Cecil holds the bagged popsicle in hand, a bemused grin on their face.

“No, please, continue. This is fascinating,” Cecil deadpans. For the first time since meeting them, Marintette notes the emotion dancing in their eyes; of course, catty banter cracks through their veil of customer service apathy.

Damian scoffs and whips his card out of his wallet. With the treat paid for Marie grabs the bag and rips it open, revealing a crystallized purple popsicle inside.

“And grape?” cries Marinette. “Why on earth would you pick grape?”

“It’s purple,” mumbles Marie around the treat.

“You fail as an uncle,” Marinette informs Damian.

“Unfortunately, this was out of my hands long before I was a factor. Her mother holds the same preference.” Damian stuffs a wad of napkins into his back pocket and looks at Marie’s already sticky hands and grimaces. “I assume you are sufficiently old enough to walk back over to the park without me holding your hand?”

Marie nods. “Can Miss Marinette come with us? Momma used a whole bunch of hairpins so my crown stays on when I hang upside down on the jungle gym.” She licks the popsicle. “Plus, Uncle Dami sits on the bench and gets lonely while I play because he won’t join me.”

“I do not become lonely,” Damian says through gritted teeth. “And I am sure Ms. Dupain-Cheng is busy and-”

“Sure! I had nothing planned for the rest of the day.” She planned to do her laundry, but staying and watching Damian’s frustration and Marie’s adorableness shoots far past in importance. She can afford to lose an hour or so.

“Oh goodie,” Damian grumbles under his breath. Marinette tries not to laugh, pissing off the man any more than she already has can’t be a good idea, but when his head turns, she shares a sneaky smile with Marie.

After a quick goodbye wave to Cecil, who returned to ignoring everything but their phone, Marinette follows Damian and Marie out of the store. Marinette tries to hold open the door, but Damian beats her to it and shoots her a ‘do-you-want-to-have-that-argument-with-me’face, and she concedes to his nice if unneeded, chivalry.

The sun sits high in the sky, beating down on the cracked and dirty pavement below. Marie skips on ahead, her jumps lingering a little longer in the air than a normal child’s, licking on her abomination of a frosty treat. Marinette walks side-by-side with Damian to the dilapidated park across the street.

Marie finishes the last of her treat as they arrive in a small, abandoned park. Plopping her stick in an overfilled trashcan and darting over to a decrepit jungle gym, one old enough a strong breeze could shatter it into a million wooden splinters.

Marinette eyes the structure warily. “Are you sure that’s safe for her to play on?”

“Tt. She possesses far higher durability than the average six-year-old,” he comments casually, although his eyes follow his niece intently. They take a seat on a rusty park bench. Marinette carefully places herself on the bench’s other end, wary of Damian and his strong ­do-not-fuck-with-me ­vibes.

“Miss Marinette! Miss Marinette watch me!” Marinette smiles as Marie climbs the structure with ease and grace no six-year-old should possess. The child reaches the structure’s top and does a series of flips and tricks starkly reminding Marinette of her own time as a child superhero. It’s heart-attack-inducing watching from the other side.

“Looking great Marie!” she calls out. Swirling her spoon through her half-melted ice cream before she takes a bite.

“How can you stand to eat that? The store appeared two points short of passing a proper health inspection,” sneers Damian.

Marinette shrugs. “I think it’s pretty good.” Before her brain can stop her, she grabs a spoonful of ice cream and shoves it at him. “Here, try.”

Damian stares at the spoon with raised eyebrows; Marinette freezes.

What is she thinking? This isn’t one of her friends, she can’t just-

He grabs the spoon out of her hands and places it in his mouth. Marinette doesn’t breathe while he processes the flavor. “I suppose the taste is adequate, but trusting the location for anything more than prepacked goods is a risk of unneeded proportions.” He returns the spoon to her, and Marinette counts it as a minor miracle her hands aren’t shaking.

Silence reigns in the air around them. She fiddles the plastic spoon in her hand, unable to continue eating the last of her frozen treat. His lips touched the spoon, if she ate after it would an indirect kis-

Ruthlessly cutting off that line of thinking, she distracts herself watching Marie dangle herself in increasingly precarious poses on the rickety structure. Every time the girl nears falling, she either rights herself with ease or floats to the ground giggling and then scrambles back up to try again.

The park sits nestled in a grove of trees, rushing cars, and urban noise muffled by a mysterious glen-like vibe. The sidewalks, cracked and overrun with weeds, seemingly laid ages ago. The bench they sit on is the only one. The top board baring a tarnished plaque. Marinette can just make out the words:

Donated by the Wayne Foundation

June 15, 1985

Thomas, Martha, and Bruce

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Marinette doesn’t realize she’s staring at the plaque until Damian clears his throat. Startled, her eyes meet his, and a moment of tense silence follows.

“My grandparents intended for this park represent the first in a series of green spaces built around downtown Gotham,” he says. He glances back over at Marie amusing herself on the jungle gym, alone and unbothered by the structure’s age or state. “They died a week and a half later.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s familiar with the Wayne family’s history. Anyone who lives in Gotham long enough does. It’s a tragedy, made even starker by the park’s forsaken potential.

Damian shrugs, his face set in tight neutrality. “Why for? You did not pull the trigger.”

“Empathy?” A single moment can change so much. She, more than anyone, can understand that.

He scoffs. “Tt. I never met them. All I posess is a legacy to live up to.” He states it so matter of fact. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “By the way, you have ice cream on your face.”

Marinette ducks her head, her heart dropping into her stomach. “Oh… uh, t-thanks.” She runs her hand over her mouth scrubbing at a sticky spot and tries to keep the fact she’s internally screaming off her face.

“So, uh, Marie really likes the crowns?” she asks, desperately searching for a conversation topic that isn’t terribly awkward; like admitting she knows all five of his pet’s names or mentioning dead murdered relatives.

“She wears them constantly. She is lucky they are such high-quality craftsmanship, otherwise, they would have since fallen to pieces.” It takes Marinette a minute to detect the compliment, and she’s glad Damian keeps his eyes on his niece rather than her because the blush on her face is nothing short of a shade a tomato would be proud of.

Curse her pale skin.

“I make everything by hand, so I’m glad it’s holding up well.”

“Everything?”

Marinette pauses, there’s a line of intrigue in Damian’s voice. “Yep, everything I sell I make myself. Well, I hire a few assistants before the festival season to prepare overstock, but the designs are mine.”

“Including the daggers?”

Ahh…the daggers. Damian had held them when she entered the booth two weeks ago at the festival.

She nods. “I made them about three months ago. I’m part of a fiber arts and jewelry-making club, and one member has a husband who makes weapons. They invited me to try my hand at it.”

Delun and Patrick may not possess flash-bang showy powers like Marinette wielded, but their yearsof experience more than compensated for it. Patrick crafted protective ornate jewelry, while Delun made warded weapons with techniques passed down by his family for generations. When they found out Marinette naturally infused protective wards and intent magic in her creations, they took her under their wing.

The two men coached Marinette on how notto magically infuse everything she made, and she found herself with far more energy than she had in years. They taught her how to direct her intent so when she crafted a piece with magic, it would do exactly what she wanted.

When she begged to learn more, Delun brought her into his forge and slowly taught her how to craft bladed weapons. Her first attempts, heck her thirtiethattempts, were nothing to write home about, but after about five months something clicked, and she made real progress. The daggers she displayed in her booth were the first set she found herself proud to sell.

“They are well crafted for a novice.”

Marinette shrugs her shoulder. “Well, I wouldn’t say total novice. I did glass making back during my final year of lycée. The two practices are not all that different in theory. The process starts similarly, just using different materials.”

“Glass can serve as an effective weapon if utilized properly.”

“Oh, I know, I own a pair of glass hairpins from my maman, and they make for a solid alternative to traditional weapons in a pinch.”

“My sisters do too, although in a fight I suspect Cassandra hardly needs an alternative option; she can hide more in a side bag than I thought spatially possible, and Stephanie is more likely to punch you than stab you.”

“I have a friend who does the same,” says Marinette picturing a few summers ago at the beach. A man tried to grab Alya’s butt and she straight up punched him in the nose. “I prefer a longer-range weapon like a whip or lasso, but I’m not too bad with a staff or saber in a fight.” She doesn’t mind admitting to the information considering combat was a particular interest she gleaned from his limited social media use. At least they wouldn’t sit in stilted silence.

“I excel at hand-to-hand combat, or throwing knives, but my true passion is sword work; katana, and scimitars, although I can wield a pair of Dao swords, granted with time to adjust to the gravity shift. A longer-range weapon benefits a person of your stature. A shorter blade or close-range weapon puts you in striking range of enemies much stronger than yourself.” He speaks confidently, indicative of years of experience.

This rich boy and his odd family grow more and more interesting.

“Hey, don’t discount my strength. I can flip a man twice my weight and height,” defends Marinette.

He scoffs, turning to face her more directly. “I tend not to discount anyone in a fight, but sustained combat does drain endurance. You would best utilize your strength over a longer period of time by light strikes and leverage, rather than heavier hand to hand combat.” He pauses, his eyes widening slightly. “Of course, in a real fight, one is always best to hide and wait for professionals to handle the situation. Especially here in Gotham,” he says rolling his eyes mulishly; like he has had this fact repeated ad nauseum to him.

“Oh absolutely,” Mariette lies. ‘Sticking her nose into things’ pretty much summarized her teenage years in about five words. These days she leaves the big villains to Batman and his assorted associates, but if she runs intot a low-level thug she’ll give as good as she gets. Without using a Miraculous there’s only so much she can do.

Marinette sighs: the Kwamis often cross her mind, though safely ensconced in their box, she finds she misses them every day.

One day…

One day it will be safe for them again.

She drags her attention back to Damian. “Still, it means I feel rusty. Almost all the places around here are for boxing or karate, nothing mixed. And no good place to spar.”

“There are a few locations uptown that service a mixed fighting style,” Damian informs her. “I could provide the name of a few if you would like?”

Marinette scoffs. “Yeah, and those places charge an arm and a fucking leg, and risk men hitting on you and will sue you into oblivion if you raise a complaint. Plus, the commute in and out of the city, and it’s not worth the hassle.”

Damian shifts, a small frown marring his features. “Do you often deal with such unpleasantness?”

Marinette smirks, jaded and cold. “Why do you think I know how to fight?” It’s not a lie, her skills as a former teenage superhero come in handy when handling assholes who won’t take no for an answer.

“My apologies.”

“Why for?” she smirks, repeating his words. “You’re not the one who’s hitting on me.”

Damian barks out a laugh - deep and rumbling in his chest - and heat pools in Marinette’s stomach.

She’s ignoring that.

“No, I suppose not,” admits Damian once he finishes laughing. “My sisters argue such behavior is more reason to patron those establishments and make them regret such actions.”

“I like the way your sisters think, we would get along.” Marinette fails to mention she did casually check his sibling’s social media accounts when researching him. Cassandra Wayne and Stephanie Brown were the definitions of utter badass as far as she was concerned.

Damian glances over at Marie – still happily playing on the jungle gym’s highest rung, she waves at them – and grimaces. “Such a meeting would be disadvantageous to my mental health.” Marinette can’t help but giggle as she translates his formal dialect into normal people’s speech in her head.

‘Not a chance in hell, you all would get along like a house on fire and I don’t think anyone, mostly me, would survive that.’

“I could provide a few tips for single-person workout routines that help maintain reaction times if you would like? Most might find it boring, but-”

Marinette shakes her head; talking about what you know is always fun. “It doesn’t sound boring to me. Impress me.”

Damian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t resist again. He launches into an impassioned speech on particular workout routines, that quickly spirals into a full rant about the benefits of Judo versus Kung Fu in a fight. Marinette finds herself drawn into the discussion; she never received formal training before – a bit of self-defense from her mother and various after-school activities, but that hardly accounted for much – and found Damian’s obvious passion and knowledge fascinating.

“-and that is why Judo is more effective when you have the bodyweight to place behind it – although not impossible when smaller, leverage and all – energy is best spent wherever the most effective blows can occur over the longest period of time. Actually, when laid out-”

“Uncle Dami!” Marie skips over to the bench, her once plaited pigtails spilling out over her shoulders. Her smile was wide despite dirty and scuffed clothing.

“Yes, little one?”

The girl places a hand over her stomach. “I’m hungry. When’s dinner?”

Damian furrows his brow. “You just ate a popsicle and a granola bar not long before that.”

Marie shakes her head. “Nuh-uh, that was foreverago.” She smiles, her candy green eyes sparkling with a mischief Marinette swears is innate in all children too smart for their own good. “You talked to Miss Marinette for a longtime.”

Damian glances at his watch, his eyes growing wide. “Three hours?”

Marinette checks her phone and, yep, three hours entirely gone. The sun is still in the sky, but the trees cast elongated shadows on the overgrown park.

“I need to go.” She rises from the bench. “It was uh- nice talking to you, Damian.” She spots Marie smiling beside her, and she rests a hand on top of her head, the crown still pinned in place despite the destruction of her braids. “And I’m glad you’re enjoying your crowns, Marie.”

The little girl launches herself at Marinette, wrapping two – far too strong – arms around her waist. “Good to see you again Miss Marinette. Are you and my uncle-”

Damian leaps and places a hand over her mouth. “Yes, it is quite late, and little girls should have long eaten dinner by now. Surprising your parents neglected to call.” As he speaks his phone buzzes in his pocket. “I bet that is them now.” He shoots a glare at Marie, before releasing her. Marie remains silent but her vaguely smug face stays.

“You two get home safely,” Marinette offers, but doesn’t turn to move. Walking away after spending so much time together feels awkward; should she shake his hand or something?

“You as well, the city streets tend to get dangerous soon,” says Damian. “But I suppose you already know that living here after a year, I would not imply-”

“Uncle Dami, didn’t Miss Marinette give you her phone number? Maybe you should give her yours so she can text us when she gets home safely?” asks Marie. Marinette doesn’t know whether to kiss the girl or wring her neck.

Damian clears his throat and holds out his hand. It takes Marinette a brief second to realize he’s waiting for her phone. She nearly drops it fishing it out of her purse, but when she hands it over the edge of her fingers brush against his and she swears a zap of electricity crackles where the skin touches.

She prays her cheeks don’t look as red as they feel. What about this man makes her fall back into habits she hasn’t reverted to in years?

Damian quickly puts in his phone number and hands it back to her. His fingers rest gently on the back of her palm before retreating and finding refuge in his pockets. Not that anything else gives such anxiety away, his face perfectly natural, as he says, “Do keep in touch. Perhaps we can find a time to spar if you are inclined?”

Nope. Yeah, her cheeks are definitelyas red as they feel. “Y-yeah, yes, that sounds great. I’ll see you- textyou later.” And before Marinette can embarrass herself any further, she turns on her heel – narrowly tripping – and stalks down the overgrown path out to the city streets.

Away from the abandoned park’s tranquil quality, the urge to smack herself in the head doubles. What is she thinking?

She’s not.

Obviously.

It’s just like her silly, foolishheart to flutter and fall for a guy that won’t give her the time of day. He never texted after she stupidly wrote her number at the festival; why would he-

Her phone – still clutched in her hand – vibrates gently. On-screen, an unknown number appears.

Unknown number: Mar’i wanted you to know she still likes you even though you prefer ice cream.

Unknown number: She insisted this information was immeasurably important.

Unknown Number: This is Damian, by the way.

Unknown Number: While I personally agree with your treat of choice, I think your preference of location is questionable regardless of nostalgia. Perhaps I can introduce you to an establishment of higher quality at a later date?

Marinette stares at the messages as they pop on her screen one by one.

She blinks.

Counts to ten.

The messages are still there.

Blinks again.

Oh… she’s screwed.

The Flower Crown Chronicles

How do two guarded souls fall in love?

It starts with flower crowns, daggers, and a whole lot of luck.

Marinette and Damian’s love story was meant to be, but it took them a while to get with the picture.

Chapter 1: Outdoor Festival

A/N: Back at it with a new fic! Really excited about this one, as always if you want to read it on ao3, you can go here, but otherwise enjoy!

Small patches of weeds grow along the bottom of brightly colored stalls with hawkers selling their wares. Cheery carnival music drifts through the air, meshing with the crowd’s laughing and chattering. The dry dirt pathways kick up clouds of dust as people wander through the crowded fair.

It is hot.

It is crowded.

And Damian wants to go home.

He glares at Grayson – the instigator of this little excursion – from behind sunglasses. But it does little good. Unless he can pickpocket the keys stashed somewhere on his older brother’s person, he’s stuck at this childish little festival until the rest decide to depart.

“Uncle Dami?” asks a sweet voice. Mar’i, clad in a white sundress, tugs on his pant leg.

“Yes, little one?” he responds with a belabored sigh. He loves his little niece; would die for her, but today he desperately wishes he were anywhere but here. The situation is not her fault though, and he wishes to maintain his favorite uncle status, so he resolves to indulge her whims.

“Can you take me to look at the flower crowns? Please?” she asks, her bright green eyes full of joy and hope.

Despite the grating annoyance he holds for this day, the sight makes him smile. “Did you ask your parents?” The last thing he wants is two panicked vigilantes rampaging, searching for their daughter if she’s disappeared.

“MOOOM! DAAAD! Uncle Dami is gonna take me to see the flower crowns!” she yells, jumping up and down, just barely remembering to descend between each jump instead of hovering in the air.

He raises an eyebrow. “Did I agree to that? I do not recall when I agreed to that.” She turns her big pleading eyes back to him, and he sighs. “Richard I am taking Mar’i to find flower crowns.”

Richard turns away from a pottery display. “Thanks, Lil’ D, we’ll grab lunch from the food truck and text you when we find a spot.” Richard pats him on the back, fishes for his wallet, and hands him a fifty.

“What is this for?”

“If you find a flower crown she wants, you can buy it.” He turns to smile at his daughter. “But only one, princess.” She pouts like her father has denied her a particularly delicious dessert, and he laughs; Damian wisely remains silent.

“You do not need to provide money, Richard. I am perfectly capable of handling the expense.” At twenty-one years old, Damian chafes at his older brother’s urge to coddle him. He shoves the bill in his brother’s direction. Richard sighs, rolls his eyes, and places it back in his wallet. Damian grabs Mari’s hand and they depart from the group.

He waits a minute until they are out of hearing range. “If you “accidentally” break your Uncle Timothy’s phone, little one, I’ll buy you two crowns,” he offers.

Mar’i smiles, wide, bright, and conniving; a bat through and through, “Make it three crowns and any piece of jewelry I want, and I’ll “accidentally” spill ketchup on Uncle Jason’s leather jacket when he comes to visit next.”

“I shall require proof of the deed done if not in my presence.” He holds out a hand and she takes it with a solemn shake. “We have a deal.”

“Great,” she chirps. “I think I saw a booth with crowns next to the woodshop we passed earlier.” Mar’i grabs his hand. “It’s this way.” He finds himself dragged behind his niece with a bit more super strength than his human body could manage. The six-year-old may be gaining better control, but it turns spotty at best when she grows excited.

“Mar’i,” he warns, keeping the slight wince of pain out of his tone. “Watch your strength.” She turns back to him, embarrassed, and lightens her hold on his arm. They walk side by side together, taking in the festival’s sights. The heat and crowds are still present, but away from the bickering of Todd and Drake, and the overwhelming enthusiasm of Dick and Kory, the stimulus no longer grates against his senses.

He still would prefer to be at home but spending time with his niece is never a chore, so he counts this little reprieve as a blessing.

They approach the booth and enter under its’ less than adequate shade. Mar’i gasps at the racks filled with intricately designed flower crowns, and tiaras. Sparkling jewelry hangs off a board: dangling earrings, beaded necklaces, and rings in every metallic shade with embedded jewels and gemstones. Off to the side is a section displaying hats, scarves, gloves, and parasols, all designed in a similar vein to induce fantastical glee in the eyes of children and adults alike.

Mar’i drops his hand and rushes over to the crowns even though her eyes wander all over the booth. She runs a small hand over the delicate work and looks at him with conflicted wonder.

“There’s too many Uncle Dami. How do I pick?”

He observes the temporary shelves filled with crowns. “Decide your favorites and we shall eliminate from there. And remember we do not possess an unlimited amount of time, try not to dawdle.” Mar’i bobs her head with determination and begins her hunt.

Damian takes the time to investigate the booth’s remaining wares. For all the beautiful, and expensive, looking items, it strikes him as odd the owner isn’t protectively standing guard. He searches through the racks; nothing sparks his personal interest, but maybe he might acquire a bobble for Stephanie’s birthday; she tends to enjoy sparkly things.

A sharp glint of sunlight on metal catches his eye, and his eyes drift to a small display placed high above the potential grabby hands of little humans. Three daggers, plain, but decently crafted sit on a velvet box. He picks one up; a single emerald gemstone embedded in the hilt. He assesses the weight in his hand and finds it evenly balanced. The blade is sharp to the touch.

He reluctantly puts it down. Although aesthetically pleasing, and surprisingly well made for a weapon in a festival booth, the dagger would be more of a hindrance than help in a fight. Pity.

“Oh my!” exclaims a voice not Mar’i’s own.

Damian whirls around reaching for his own utilitarian dagger sequestered in his pocket. He finds a woman staring with wide eyes at Mar’i, who’s hovering off the ground carrying a stack of flower crowns higher than her head. The exclamation startles the young half-Tamaraean, and she loses control of her flying, she tips, and the balanced stack of crowns tumble to the ground.

“Oops,” mutters Mar’i, as she slowly floats down.

Damian wants to tear out his hair.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry I startled you,” says the woman, walking over to Mar’i. Damian darts over and places himself between his petrified niece and the strange woman.

Of course, it would be on his watch disaster strikes. His first instinct is to yell at Mar’i for being so careless, but she looks halfway to tears. She may be young, but her parents have undoubtedly stressed the importance of maintaining secrecy at all costs. A secret which she blatantly just revealed.

“Oh non, non, non, no need for tears,” the woman coos, her French accent swirling around her words. She glances at Damian, her big blue eyes peering into his for a quick moment, before focusing her attention on Mar’i. “They are just crowns; it will be easy to put them back.” She ducks and gathers the crowns off the floor and places them on a worktable towards the back of the booth.

The woman picks up a crown from the top of the pile; the dangling chain having snapped off during the fall.

“Oh no!” says Mar’i, her lip wobbling, a clear indication of an oncoming meltdown. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“Don’t be ma petite fleur, it’s just a thing, I can fix it. I’m glad you are alright.” The woman places the broken crown with the rest of the pile.

“What do you want?” Damian grits between clenched teeth. He will not allow his niece to come to harm, and although the woman hasn’t made any antagonistic moves, it does not mean he will drop his guard.

The woman tilts her head. “Want?”

“Mommy says people finding out is bad,” Mar’i says softly. Damian glares at her, motioning for her to remain silent. Her little eyes snap to the booth’s dirt floor, and he feels a pang of guilt, but a little bit of strictness to keep her safe is worth her disappointment.

A look of understanding passes over the woman’s features, and she smiles sadly. “Oh, I see. You won’t have a problem from me, no one should live in fear of others finding out what they can do.” Damian watches the woman contemplate them both, before taking a metallic crown off the display next to her.

She throws it like a frisbee, and Damian jumps in front of Mar’i, ready to defend her if the odd shopkeeper means them harm.

But instead, the headpiece goes flying around the booth, pinging off different metal shelving units, and landing perfectly back in the spot the woman picked it up from.

Impressive…

If one was not acquainted with multiple vigilantes who do such stunts as par for the course.

“I have seen better trick shots.”

The woman snorts. “Trick shots? Non.” She fishes out a coin from her pocket, flipping it into the air. It lands on her hand.

On its edge.

“Oooh,” coos Mar’i. “A magic trick!”

“No, not trick. Luck,” says the woman.

Damian scoffs. “There’s no such thing as luck. Only skill and circumstance.”

The shopkeeper rolls her eyes. “Fine. Call it statistical probability manipulation if you want to be technical. Take all the fun out of it while you’re at it.” She smiles at Mar’i “Your secret is safe with me.” She pantomimes zipping and locking her lips with a smile, before reaching towards Mar’i. In a second, Damian’s dagger presses to her wrist.

“Uncle Damian!” Mar’i gasps.

“I will not take chances with your safety little one,” he hisses. He focuses his attention back on the woman who’s still and seemingly unbothered by the blade pressing against her skin. “Who are you?”

“My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I’m a designer. I mean you both no harm. I’m simply selling my wares like anyone else here today. Trust me, I understand the secrecy being different comes with. I would not wish that life on anyone, and I wouldn’t want to make it harder.”

Mar’i sniffles. A knot of tension forms at the base of Damian’s skull, but he detects no lie in the woman’s words. He whips the dagger away from her wrist and palms it back in his hand out of sight, but not out of immediate reach.

“Now what brings you today to my shop?” Dupain-Cheng asks in a cheerful tone.

“Uncle Dami promised to buy me flower crowns,” Mar’i informs her.

“Well, you have plenty to choose from.” She gestures to her racks of crowns. “Unless you’d like to take another look at the ones you picked out earlier?”

“Mar’i, we should depart soon,” Damian grumbles. Already mentally figuring out how to explain this entire incident to Richard, or worse, Kory.

“But Uncle Dami…” Mar’i whines. “You promised me crowns and jewelry. A deal’s a deal, right?” His niece turns her big pleading eyes to him. “And Miss Marinette is like me, she won’t tell anyone.” Oh, how sweet and young and naive she is. He does not ever remember being that optimistic about the world and assured of people’s innate kindness.

“Of course not,” Dupain-Cheng says with a smile. Damian thinks she does that far too much. It’s distracting.

“See? And we don’t have to tell my mommy or daddy because that will just make them worry. Can I pick out my crowns now?” Mar’i pleads.

“Fine,” he grits out, as weak to Mar’i as he is to her father when he pleads. It must be a genetic component. He watches with tense caution as the two chit-chat about crowns and colors and sizes. The whole time Dupain-Cheng focuses on Mar’i, practically ignoring Damian and his looming presence. Damian takes the time to observe the woman; he would not peg her as dangerous. Dressed in a long flowy dress and hair messily tied in in two buns, she looks like any other seller at this insipid little festival.

“And you ‘Uncle Dami’?” Dupain-Cheng calls out, voice choked with undisguised mirth. “Would you like a crown too?” Mar’i stands next to her not even trying to hide her giggles. Traitor.

Damian sends the designer a viperous glare. “No,” he states plainly. For some reason, making both his niece and the designer laugh harder. He rolls his eyes.

Before too long Mar’i has one crown situated on her head, and a beautiful bracelet hanging off her wrist. Dupain-Cheng wraps the other two crowns in purple paper placing stickers on the flimsy packaging.

Damian receives a text from his brother with directions to the food truck they’ve picked.Thank goodness, this interaction has gone on for too long, and poses far too much of a risk.

“These are absolutely wonderful choices Mar’i,” the woman gushes. Mar’i’s earlier nervousness long since faded, and, like her father, has unintentionally and utterly charmed anyone she comes across.

Dupain-Cheng grabs a small device from her desk, and Damian instinctively tenses ready to jump in if she’s decided to turn on them now.

“Cash or card monsieur?” she asks.

He pauses, tension dissipating. Trying not to show his sheepishness at overreacting, he angrily pushes a card in her direction. She swipes it, looks at the device with confusion before, “I’ll need your signature. Give me a second.” She leaves with the device through the back gap in the booth.

“Thank you soooooo much, Uncle Dami,” says Mar’i with a bright, ecstatic smile. “You’re the absolute best!”

“Of course, little one. But you must be more careful, we were… lucky this time.” Damian wants to avoid upsetting Mar’i and insinuating her new “friend” could potentially mean them harm, but he hasn’t survived this long without thinking the worst of people at every turn. He doesn’t trust the woman’s demeanor or easy smile. No one normal should smile that much. Or that brightly.

Dupain-Cheng returns with a small electronic pad, and Damian walks over before she can get too close. He takes the device from her hand and quickly signs his name.

“Mar’i is lucky for such a protective uncle,” she mutters softly. “I hope I didn’t frighten her too much. It’s draining to hide so much from people, and so young too.”

Damian scoffs but recognizes her tone as empathic rather than calculating. “Tt. She will have forgotten about it by naptime.” He glares at her. “If you ever even thinkabout using this as-”

She cuts him off with a glare he would never expect from someone as… softlooking as she. “I would never.” A backbone of steely determination colors her words, the kind of voice capable of standing in front of the world and commanding it to blink first. “I understand if you don’t believe me, I don’t know if I would in your position, but…” she looks over at Mar’i, emotion swirls in her eyes: longing, pity, and understanding. “You take good care of her. Someday she’ll appreciate it, more than you could begin to know.”

She looks at the pile of crowns on top of her desk and picks one up; silver and black flowers interspaced with little green gems. She looks at him. “You know this one would look good with your eyes, are you sure you don’t want one?” she asks with a cheeky, but still sad smile.

Staring down at the tiny woman, Damian feels a flutter of… something in his stomach. He naturally ignores it, chalking the irregular feeling to a lack of lunch. He scoffs, turning away so as to not find himself staring into the woman’s clear blue eyes… again.

For some reason, the tips of his ears start to burn, and he thanks the universe for dark skin so such a bodily betrayal remains unnoticeable.

“Have a good rest of your day,” he spits out as politely as he can manage, which is to say, not verily. He grabs the wrapped package of crowns, turns around on his heel, and reaches for Mar’i’s hand. He hands her the package, and they depart the booth. Mar’i calling out another farewell to the designer.

“She was really nice Uncle Dami,” Mar’i says happily, skipping next to him as they travel to the picnic area.

“Tt.” He does not find any use in judging the character of a person he interacted with for less than twenty minutes. And will likely never see again.

“She was making flutter eyes at you.”

Damian stops in his tracks, the picnic tables within view. “No, she was not.”

Mar’i shakes her head as if she can’t understand why adults know so much but see so little. “She was making the same kind of eyes mommy and daddy do when they’re being silly.” She smiles brightly. “I think she likesyou.”

Damian’s stomach flips and turns at his niece’s words, but it is obviously because he is getting reallyhungry. “Well, I highly doubt I shall ever see her again, so it does not matter much now does it.”

Mar’i giggles, “Then why did she put her number on the card?”

Damian rolls his eyes. “It is her business number.”

Mar’i rolls her eyes right back. “Nuh-uh!” she shoves the package upward at him. “Not the sparkly, purple, pretty one.” Damian looks at the wrapped package, finding Dupain-Cheng’s business card taped to the front.

~ MDC DESIGNS ~

Couture Fashion and Custom Work

PO: XXXX Gable Street NE, Gotham, NJ XXXXX

[email protected]

Cell: XXX-XXX-XXXX

Sure enough, below the printed information, another number written in neat, curly handwriting in sparkly, purple ink is crammed in at the card’s bottom.

Mar’i places her hands on her hips and gives him a look 100% inherited from her father. “See, I told you, Uncle Dami. She likesyou.” Her imperious look turns devious in a second. “I can’t waitto tell daddy!”

Damian’s eyes go wide as he stares at his niece in betrayed horror. He rips the card off the paper packaging and waves it in her face. “You play horribly dirty, little cretin. What do you want to nevermention this to the rest of the family?”

She taps a finger against her chin and thinks for a moment. “One of the giantcotton candy funnels we saw at the front.” Damian winces, those funnels are nearly as tall as Mar’i herself, she will be on a sugar high for hours.“Sneak me extra marshmallows in my hot cocoa next time I come over to the manor.” A bag which was highly guarded under Alfred’s strict gaze; great.“And twenty bucks.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pants pocket and plucks a crisp bill out of the fold. “What does a six-year-old do with twenty dollars?” He passes the bill over to her and she folds it primly and sticks it in her side purse.

“We have needs you know.” She pantomimes zipping and locking her lips. “Pleasure doing business with you.” She skips off in the table’s direction where the rest of the family sits. Despite annoyance at her ruthless blackmail, he does not bother to suppress the small bemused laugh that passes his lips; there is a reason she is his favorite after all.

Damian stands in the middle of the dry dirt path, head spinning from the last twenty minutes. Dupain-Cheng’s business card is still in his hand. He moves to rip the piece of paper up but finds himself hesitating. Without thinking he slides the card into his wallet and tucks it back into his pocket. Her powers proved interesting, and her empathy at Mar’i’s plight sincere. Perhaps Dupain-Cheng could make a useful contact. There was no need to burn bridges too soon.

He ignores the flutter in his chest at meeting the woman again and walks over to rejoin his family. He’s experienced far too many anomalous feelings today; the heat must be affecting him. The faster this outing ends, the better.