Damian was certain that his wife was keeping a secret from him.
He trusted her with his life, of course—Marinette had kept a number of things from him in the earlier stages of their relationship, like her experience and trauma in Paris. He knew not to pry, and eventually she opened up. He was glad that some burden was taken off her shoulders.
But this was different. She was deliberately trying not to get caught; she took care to hide her phone from his view, and there were days she'd come home very late. When asked, she'd get irritable but also nervous around him. Damian didn't want to assume things right off the bat, but he did hope she would finally grow comfortable to talk it out with him. And so he resisted using his ‘resources’ to peek into her life—what kind of distrusting partner would he be if he did that?
He knew, too, that he was being awfully hypocritical. He was still yet to sit her down and reveal his vigilante alter ego to her as well as his family's. Damian would swear he planned to rip the bandaid off when they got engaged. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, out of the fear that she'd leave him. As far as he knew, Marinette wanted a normal quiet life after living through the Evil Butterfly Man's reign of terror. Telling her his identity would just put a target on her back, if there wasn't any already after she became a Wayne.
He couldn't imagine his sweet innocent wife exposed to the horrors of vigilantism.
Still, even though he had his own secrets, it felt quite frustrating not to know hers. That was what Damian was thinking one dark night when the door finally opened, signalling her arrival from work.
“Damian?” Her eyes widened. “Why are you still up? You shouldn't have waited for me.”
“It's alright. I couldn't sleep anyways.” And I will be sneaking out for patrol later. He stood up to kiss her cheek—
But froze upon seeing a red mark right at the base of her neck.
Marinette hummed tiredly. “Next time, don't wait for me if you're tired, okay?”
“. . . What's that on your neck?” He dared to ask.
Her hand immediately flew to the spot on her skin. For a split second, her expression changed into a hint of annoyance. “It's—it's . . .” she stammered, “I accidentally hit myself.”
“You hit yourself?”
She nodded meekly.
Damian stared at her for a moment. There was one thing he knew about his wife: she was a bad liar. But she was expert at omitting things, partly because she probably knew he wouldn't interrogate her further. He knew that she was aware it was the vaguest of explanations but she never tried to elaborate.
He mustered out a smile. “Be careful next time.”
She let out a nervous laugh and squeaked out a ‘yes’.
“By the way.” He took a deep breath, “I visited your office this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and your secretary told me you hadn't punched in for the day yet.”
The silence between them was thick.
“Ah . . .” Damian could practically see the gears turning in her head. “That was . . . erm, I had to run an errand before work! Yeah . . .”
“I see. I was hoping to have lunch with you earlier but it seems that you're busy nowadays.”
She cursed in French under her breath.
“I'm really sorry, Damian.” She fidgeted with her fingers. “I'll make time this week. I promise.”
She hurried off to their bedroom, leaving Damian with his thoughts.
