Tootsie Foot

... intoxication ...

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Song of the chapter- She's Alright by Jet Black Alley Cat
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Dear God, why did Chat Noir think bringing her here while she was this inebriated was a grand idea?

Marinette had been so unbelievably stubborn the night previous, refusing to get to sleep in a timely manner. This forced him to do something he never would have done, had there been another option. It was somewhere near three in the morning, and he was desperate.

Having made her tattoo appointment at eight A.M., she needed a decent amount of rest. The timing had perfectly worked out, seeing as how not too many people would be populating the area during that time of day. Under the sweet guise of the sunrise could they conquer her need for pain. 

Last night had been a fluke. 

It had to be.

He refused to believe things had gotten that bad for his watch. Marinette only resulted to razors or sharp objects when her self-injurious behavior flared its ugly head. She had been diagnosed at the ripe age of eleven- her mother refusing to think something was "wrong" with her daughter. Otherwise, she would have been able to put a name to her condition much, much sooner. This was all until the young girl had coated her skin in scratches. 

Ms. Cheng did not want to face the repercussions of the damage she inflicted on her own daughter. She least of all wanted to drag healthcare professionals into her dark business. Evading the hard pressed questions had been tricky, yet if anyone could achieve what she wanted, it was Ms. Cheng.

It was under Chat Noir's binding contract that he was to look out for signs of her mental health issues being exhibited. Granted, he was no psychologist, but it secured him a job. Back then, he sought only one thing, and one thing alone; an escape from his past life. 

He shook his head, ridding the troubling thought from his mind, instead focusing on Marinette.

Regrettably, Chat Noir allowed her to drink over half of a bottle of Lambrusco salamino di Santa Croce wine. He knew the right amount of the liquid would cause her eyes to close in sleepiness. What the blonde haired man gravely failed to calculate was how petite she was, thus how it would be difficult for a young woman of her stature to have naturally ridded the potent ruby drink.

So, here they were, dressed in clothing that hid anything identifiable, via her tattoos and his mask. Chat Noir thanked the good heavens for concealing hoodies and nearly empty streets. As he parked his sky bike near the building, he noted how she still sat on the vehicle, looking content to stay put. 

"Come on, Sugar. We have to get moving to your appointment."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, refusing to move. Huffing, he said, "Normally, I wouldn't hesitate to pick you up and force you, but that would draw attention to ourselves. We're not exactly in a position for more wondering eyes right now, okay? So, please get up. We need to get you tattooed. I'm not letting you revert back to razor blades if I can help it."

The dark haired girl hesitantly slid off the bike, nearly loosing her balance along the way. To support her drunken musings, Chat Noir wrapped a hand around her slender waist. As luck would have it, the parlor was not too far off from where he parked. She wasn't heavy or anything, but her muscles refused to cooperate, resulting in hard to manipulate dead weight. 

He supposed they didn't look too odd to outsiders; just like a couple or a pair of close friends. The man must have done something right for once in his life for everything to be lining up like this. He couldn't afford to screw it up, for either of their sakes. Chat Noir took care to hold her gently, yet firmly to make sure she never lost her balance. The darkly tinted sunglasses poised on the bridge of his nose did well to conceal the worry that tugged on his eyes.