Finding Myself Again

Chapter 4: Can't Be Shellfish

Sooo my friend named the driver Javier. You'll know when you see it ;)

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The trip to the airport went fast. Faster than Marinette thought could be possible. It was impossibly easy to avoid the messages when she requested an Uber. Too easy to just relax in the backseat of a strangers car, plug in headphones, and listen to Jagged’s latest album. So easy, it made her want to cry. To force herself to have a mental breakdown because it’s her fault. But no. No one has to see, has to worry, for her. Don’t be selfish is her new mantra.

The kwami’s in her purse press up against her leg, as if to comfort her. A flash of annoyance bounces through her and she moves her leg away from the bag. She can’t be selfish and want comfort from others. This is her problem. No one else’s. If they’re busy worrying for her, something would happen to them. Just like Adrien.

No. She pushes the thought away. I can’t be akumatized. It’ll hold off the flight, and other people need to go to Gotham for more important reasons than her. Not just to run away from her problems.

The Uber driver pulls into the drop-off lane at the Roissy Charles de Gaulle Airport and stops in front of the doors. He throws the car into park and turns around to look at his passenger. He eyes her various injuries and braces and asks, “do you need help getting your bags, Miss. Cheng?” Marinette internally cringes at the mess up -it makes me feel like my mother- but assures the driver that she’s perfectly capable of getting her various suitcases from the trunk, yes even with her wrist brace and boot. What she didn’t say is that she has, in fact, gone through worse. Much worse.

The man relents after several minutes of his offer being rejected, and waves to his most-polite and well mannered consumer since he started. When she’s safe with all of her luggage, and didn’t leave anything behind, he leaves the parking lot to get his next passenger.

Marinette watches the driver, well, drive away for a couple of moments, before gathering her things, and marching into the vast building.

Meanwhile in Gotham...

It was lunchtime in Gotham, and everyone wanted seafood. Well, if the Wayne’s counted as ‘everyone’.

As the time approached 12:15, the Wayne’s were sitting in the manor, waiting for Alfred to return and make lunch.

Jason throws himself onto the couch with a groan. “Does anyone know when Alfred’s coming back? I’m starving.” No one in the room bothers to point out that he’s always starving.

“Well,” Damian counters without pausing from polishing one of his many Katanas, “if you didn’t decide to be such an idiot, you would still have kitchen rights. Then, you’d be able to go get food.”

“Well,” Jason mocks Damian, “ if you weren’t such a brat, you would utilize your own kitchen rights, and go make food.”

“Tt. Why would I make food for such an-” Dick cuts him off before he can finish his insult. “You know what we can do? We can order out or go out. Sure, it’s not Alfred’s cooking, but I’m craving seafood. Particularly clams.”

Damian huffs. “I guess I can go for some lobster.” Jason mutters his agreement and Dick stands up from his seat to gather the rest of the family.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

When everyone’s gathered in the main foyer thirty five minutes later (fifteen spent luring Tim from his computer with the promise of a gallon of his favorite coffee (and the threat of smashing all his coffee related beverages- and anything that makes it- from Damian himself)), they’re prepared to leave and go eat not-Alfred’s cooking.

Dick opens the door, and herds the group outside. He closes the door behind him, trusting the auto-lock system for once, and claps loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Okay guys. We’re going to Sally’s Seafood downtown-” Tim looks to the side, and sprints off with a yell. “Timmers! Wrong direction!” Dick yells with his hands circling his mouth to project his voice.

“Nope!” Tim yells back, without pausing or turning around. “Alfred’s back, so I don’t have to eat shellfish. Alfred! Alfred, help! They’re making me part with my computer by threatening my coffee, all to go eat seafood!” Alfred stops the car smoothly in front of Tim and gets out.

“What are they making you do, Master Tim? Eat seafood? I’m pretty sure you do whatever you want, whenever you want. I think there’s another reason why you ran up to me.” Alfred says, staring at the blinking man in front of him.

Tim mutters “I swear to god, this man knows everything,” causing a wry grin to appear on the man mentioned, then he straightens and boldly states, “I would like to know who’s staying with us. I know they’re female, for you remodeled Steph’s old room, but no matter how much I tried, I wasn’t able to find a name.” The other residents of the manor slowly creep closer, not saying anything, fearing that if they make any noise or move suddenly, Alfred would turn to them.

“And how, Master Tim, did you find out that information?” The old butler’s face, from far, seems confused and curious, but his eyes already seem to know the answer.

Tim practically wilts underneath the older man’s stare. He shrinks in on himself, his head ducking down and his shoulders drawing in. “I snooped,” he mutters quietly, but still loud enough for the surrounding people to hear.

“And what is the rule for snooping?” Tim seems to get smaller by the second. His hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt as he hesitantly replies in a small voice that people only get in front of a disapproving Alfred. “Not to do it.” Alfred hums in agreement.

“Now, what exactly di-” he’s interrupted by one of the car’s doors opening behind him. Everyone immediately turns toward the distraction, the bystanders slightly miffed at the interruption.

But then a small girl- no more than 5’3”- peeks her head over the door. Or tries to; she ends up having to step around the door in order to see anything. “Monsieur Alfred? Is this it?” Her brows scrunch together as her gaze lands on the group of onlookers. “And who are these?”

“Ah, you woke up. Yes, Miss. Marinette, this is where we’ll be staying. And these,” he waves his hand in the general direction of the group, “are the Wayne’s.” A spark of recognition flairs in her eyes, but is immediately replaced with anxiety.

“Oh, oh! I’m sorry if I’m an inconvenience for you! I can leave, if you want, and go… somewhere else…” The girl- Marinette- switches over to French by habit. "Of course Grandmere would send me to the Wayne's. I should’ve told her-” She doesn’t notice Dick approaching her, but her blunder stops when he sets his hands onto her shoulders. She looks up into his eyes to read his intent and scans his body language, and calms down almost immediately.

Black hair, blue eyes, carries herself as if she has a weight on her shoulders, has anxiety, may have a troubled past- Dick turns back to the group, keeping one hand on Marinette’s shoulder, and says, “Well, shit, guys. Bruce’s at it again.” Majority of the group groans, and there’s an audible smack as Damian facepalms from the back.