Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is ninety-five percent sure she’s about to die. 

Not from supervillains, akumas, or any sort of ancient magic. 

No – her cause of death will be caffeine overdose, courtesy of her final exams.

Gotham’s night presses cold and glassy against the café window, pooling with reflections of neon and sleepless ambition. Inside, the air smells like burnt espresso and despair – Marinette's, specifically. She’s been staring at the same paragraph on Polka-dot Theory for twenty-three minutes. Maybe twenty-four. The numbers are starting to blur, and the words might as well be the runes Suhan has been trying to teach her during her monthly check ins at the Temple.

Marinette's leg bounces under the table, vibrating with the sheer force of her caffeine addiction. She's pretty sure her heartbeat has somehow synchronised with the hum of the espresso machine. She’s had twelve shots of the heavenly liquid in the past four hours, and if she charted her bloodstream right now, it’d probably read: 60% caffeine, 30% regret, and 10% spite.

Regret is, surprisingly, the most prominent ingredient in the breakdown. Really, what was Marinette thinking trying to double major when she's already got her duties as Ladybug to think about? Gotham's weird layering of curses aren't going to just purify themselves and she'd decided to throw not one, but two disciplines worth of work on top of that – in her second language. She's lucky Adrien and Felix had insisted on perfecting their English before moving to the United States after lycée. She would have drowned the first year if she had tried to do this without a working knowledge of the local language.

A near-hysterical garble escapes Marinette's lips at the thought, a quiet hiccuping sound that echoes through the empty cafe. She's still ended up drowning, just not because she doesn't understand the material or the language. No, she's drowning because she's an overambitious, perfectionist fool who can't bear the thought of getting anything other than a perfect GPA come graduation at the end of the year. She's doing this to herself – but she'll be baked, fried, and sautéed before she admits defeat.

She's so close to being done. So close to her degrees and her future as a real designer with her own brand – and credibility. Adrien and Felix are already on board and once they all graduate, they plan on bringing Marinette in on the re-brand of Gabriel, which Adrien had inherited after his father's incarceration by the Order of the Miraculous 'mysterious disappearance in the Andes.' The only caveat is Marinette's 'Guardian' duties here in Gotham, but Adrien seems to think it won't be an issue once they open a branch here as well.

Taking a deep breath, Marinette tries to refocus on her laptop and the books laid out in front of her, her highlighter gripped between her fingers like a lifeline. She tries to ignore the fact that the words are starting to look like inchworms trying to crawl their way across the page.

Marinette squints and rubs at her eyes. They hurt, but it’s negligible. She's had worse – like the time she'd stayed up four days in a row using the Snake miraculous to cram before a rather important final at the end of sophomore year. Adrien had given her a rather harsh lecture about using the miraculous under her care for personal reasons after that night, namely as she had come out of it somewhat manic and nearly burnt their apartment down because she'd technically been baking croissants at the time.

Marinette finds that ridiculous, especially considering she knows for a fact Adrien sneaks Kaalki out to visit Luka while he’s on tour with his dad (the guy really can't stand not talking to his boyfriend for five minutes).

Rubbing at her eyes, Marinette purses her lips, considering.

A few uses of second chance couldn't hurt that bad, could it? This final is far more important than the one sophomore year. Surely she could justify getting Sass' help, just for a few hours –

Marinette nearly jumps out her skin when the barista appears at her elbow, his eyes hollow, red-rimmed, and seemingly resigned to fate.

“Last call,” the barista states flatly, levelling Marinette with a look that screams death-by-customer-service, his soul long lost to the daily grind. 

Marinette squints up from her laptop, her eyes bleary, her brain still wrapped up in the concept she's been pondering the last twenty-nine minutes.  

Her mouth moves before her brain catches up. 

“Do you think polka-dots are a form of predatory distraction meant to disarm and confuse –” 

“We closed fifteen minutes ago,” the man interjects, his expression unchanging as he stares down at Marinette pointedly. 

She blinks slowly, like she's trying to mimic an owl. “You can’t close academic pursuit." 

The young man stares at her, blinking just as slowly as he tries to figure out what she's just said.

“. . . Maybe not, but I can close this cafe. You’ve been here since eight – it's two am.”

“I’m almost done,” she promises as devastation hits her, which is the kind of lie students tell when they’ve hit stage five sleep deprivation and are bargaining with God – or rather, Marinette supposes, the kwami.  

The young Guardian frowns. Which kwami would she have to bargain with –

“You can be almost done somewhere else,” the barista points out, abruptly cutting off the young woman's train of thought. "We're closed." 

Marinette shoots the young man a look of desperation. “Can't I just have fifteen – no, twenty more minutes? Just until I finish this section? And maybe one more espresso for the road?” 

The teen just stares at her, unimpressed. “Out.” 

Marinette visibly deflates.  

So much for 'last call.'

Muttering under her breath about 'academic betrayal' and 'crimes against the overly-caffeinated,' Marinette packs up her excess of textbooks and notebooks, fumbling with her charger and pencil case, nearly forgetting her laptop, before finally stumbling out the door and into the Gotham night. 

The frigid air hits her like a mallet to the face. 

Regret: 40%.

The young woman shudders and wraps her coat around her protectively, wishing she'd remembered to bring her scarf. She hadn't planned on staying out so late and it had been uncharacteristically warm that day, so she hadn't thought to bring one, nor had she dressed for the usual nighttime chill that never seems to leave Gotham.

Marinette sighs, her regret pooling in the recesses of her exhaustion. Losing track of time in the cafe is coming back to bite her. Normally, she would have had a barrage of texts from Adrien – and occasionally even Felix when he's in town – to remind her to get home at a reasonable hour. However both young men are currently in Milan for fashion week (which Marinette is only slightly salty about), meaning that she's been on her own for the last few days. . . hence her current state of sleep deprivation, which has admittedly gotten slightly out of hand without her best friend to nag her into self care.

Desperate to get home and out of the cold, Marinette begins her trek back to her apartment. The night air tastes like metal and smog, and the streetlights flicker above her like dying fireflies, casting ghoulish shadows along the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails – the city’s lullaby. Her boots echo off the cracked sidewalk as she quite literally trudges, the late-night chill biting through her coat and exhaustion.

Trying to fight the urge to succumb to said exhaustion, Marinette internally reviews everything she'd just read under her breath as she walks, anything to fill the static buzzing in her head. Her eyes feel like sandpaper. Her brain feels like cotton candy that’s been dropped in gutter water and degraded, sticky clumps hanging onto existence by mere threads. The longer she trudges through Gotham, the more she realises that she’s running on pure survival instinct and academic spite – which, in Gotham, is practically an invitation for trouble. Honestly, she thinks the only reason she hasn't been targeted by thugs or kidnappers yet is because she must look insane – which, yeah, she might be. Her family and friends back home in Paris seem to think she is, and who is she to disappoint?

A manic giggle escapes Marinette at the thought, the sound echoing off the empty street.

And then it happens.

The Urge.

The sudden, undeniable, biological imperative that strikes fear into the hearts of even the strongest heroes. 

Marinette jerks to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and her entire body stills. Her eyes widen when she realises it's not just a tepid sort of urgency. Nope – this is the sudden 'if you don't get to a toilet soon, you're going to pee your pants' sort of urgency.

Dread grips Marinette's chest, regretting her choice to down that last few shots of espresso – and not using the coffee shop's bathroom before she left. What's worse is that she's at least another twenty minute walk from her and Adrien's apartment – fifteen if she runs, which is never a good thing to do in Gotham. 

“No. No, no, no, no, no –” Marinette repeats under her breath as she picks up her pace, glancing around at caged storefronts around her, scanning for salvation to no avail. Every storefront is closed. Every alleyway looks like a death wish with a discount coupon. There is nowhere safe, let alone open, for her to relieve herself.

Marinette comes to a halting stop and groans, head falling back toward the starless sky. 

“This city is ninety percent crime and zero percent public restrooms,” she bemoans under her breath, wincing at the faint cramping of her kidneys.

And so Marinette's brain, fuelled entirely by caffeine and desperation at this point of her two day sleep deprivation, decides now is a great time to start problem-solving – not as Marinette, but as Ladybug.

Home is too far away and there's nowhere else in Gotham that is either open or safe enough for a young woman such as herself to use without threat to life, limb, or freedom. Where is she supposed to find some place private, secure, free of muggers, murder clowns, that's not a bio-hazardous alley, and that has a bathroom.

Marinette purses her lips, wiggling uncomfortably in place as she struggles for a solution. There's no way she can make it to her apartment before –

The answer comes with the clarity of divine revelation breaking through the fog pressing down on her caffeine-addled brain. 

This is Gotham – the home of Batman.

The Batcave.

Marinette's lips part in a soft 'oh' at the conclusion.

It’s perfect. Underground. Secure. Secret. And probably has titanium bidets and that imported Japanese hand soap Kagami and Adrien rave about (and Marinette secretly 'borrows'). 

Even better, Marinette' knows Batman -- err, well, Ladybug does. Twice, when she and Chat Noir had been summoned by the Justice League during the miraculous war. They'd even gotten to chat briefly after the last meeting. Well, Chat had tried to talk to him, namely pestering the vigilante about whether or not the Batcave is real. Batman hadn’t denied the Batcave existed, either; he’d just stared at Chat for three solid minutes before turning and vanishing into the shadows. Which, by Marinette's sleep-deprived logic, counted as confirmation. . . and perhaps, even an invitation.

At least, that's what Marinette's choosing to believe.

Even more poignant is the fact that Marinette just so happens to have Kaalki's miraculous on her at Adrien's insistence – meaning, quick, easy transport, even to somewhere she's never been and technically isn't one hundred percent sure exists. While Ladybug can't be caught in the city of Crime (they hadn't exactly gotten permission from Batman on that front but Marinette's sleep deprived mind is choosing to ignore this fact), there's no reason why Marinette can't be seen as Chevalette.

Objectively, Marinette's logic – in her bleary, half-coherent, need-driven state – resembles wet spaghetti in terms of stability, but she’s far too tired to care or second guess this abrupt determination.  

The Parisian turns down a particularly shadowy alley (which, again, is not the brightest decision at two in the morning in Gotham) and ducks behind a dumpster. A moment later, her fingers close around the cool metal of the Horse Miraculous.  

A near hysterical giggle of relief leaves Marinette's lips as she pulls out the wire-frames glasses and shoves them on her nose, hardly pausing when Kaalki appears in a flash in front of her, appearing similarly bleary-eyed from sleep.

“Marinette–?” The kwami starts, blinking at the young Guardian in confusion, before Marinette cuts her off. 

“Kaalki!” She hisses with grave urgency. "Can you get me to the Batcave?" 

Kaalki blinks, long and hard, like she’s buffering as she wakes.  

“Marinette,” the kwami starts slowly, “you cannot possibly mean –” 

“Emergency situation,” Marinette cuts her off, voice flat with her signature 'Ladybug' conviction. “Can you get me there or not?” 

“What's the emergency? Is there a threat? Where is Tikki if –” 

“It's not that kind of emergency!" Marinette hisses, dancing in place as she stares down the kwami. "My kidneys are at stake!” 

Kaalki blinks again, seeming uncertain as to the woman's sanity. 

". . . do you mean that your body requires. . . relief?"

"Urgently!" Marinette presses, desperation leaking through her tone. "Now can you get me there or not?!

“Well, yes, but my Lady, could you not simply teleport back to your own abode –” 

Marinette cuts the kwami off. 

"That's all I needed to hear!" She all but cries in relief, already activating the Miraculous. “Kaalki, Full gallop!”

The next moment magic flares, blue and brilliant, flooding the back alley with light as the kwami is pulled into her miraculous. In the blink of an eye, Marinette Dupain-Cheng vanishes from Gotham’s streets and Chevalette stands where the young woman just was, her long braid and brown suit hidden in the darkened alleyway.

"Voyage!" Chevalette cries out without pause. As soon as she does, a large portal appears before her and the young heroine jumps through.

And just like that, the portal disappears, leaving behind one very startled pigeon and the lingering scent of espresso and questionable decisions.

Exhaustion isn't new to Tim Drake. It's a familiar companion during his late nights on patrol and when doing his usual research and case studies in the Cave. The hum of the Cave is soothing to him, familiar – comforting.

It's not loud – it never is this late, when the family is either asleep or out on patrol, which is why he prefers to do his case work at ungodly hours. But when it's just him and the quiet, constant thrum of servers, the low pulse of hidden machinery, he feels at home. Sure, it sometimes gets chaotic randomly depending on what patrol's like and whether or not Babs is working the comms as Oracle, but when it's just him? Tim gets shit done, especially with no one breathing over his shoulder condemning him for his caffeine addiction or lack of self care.

Tonight, for instance, Tim Drake has been able to indulge on his vices, the evidence of which is scattered across the desktop in front of him – empty soda cans, energy drinks, and coffee mugs abandoned and forgotten as he sits slumped at the console, empty mug in hand, mask abandoned, Nirvana hoodie rumpled and stained over his Red Robin armour, and staring at four monitors that as far as he can tell, haven’t changed in forty minutes.  

Admittedly, Tim's starting to think he might be reaching his limit.

He's not sure how long he's been awake, but it's been a while. His eyes sting. His brain hums like static. He’s running Batmobile diagnostics for what might be the fifth time, because he can’t remember if he’s already done it with the new parameters. The case file sitting in front of him is covered in what looks like was once his own handwriting before it devolved into unintelligible scribbles.

He's also pretty sure that the bats in the depths of the cave are snickering at him, but he's choosing to ignore that.

Somewhere around the third hour of absolutely nothing happening, he's starting to think that maybe – just maybe – he needs to get some sleep. The only thing keeping him from turning in and admitting defeat is the fact that he hasn't reached the point of hallucinations (as long as he ignores the snickering bats). Given his current state and the ungodly amount of caffeine he's ingested in the last two hours, he figures he's got at least another hour or two of viable mental resilience before his brain is completely gives out and he starts seeing unicorns and fairies.

Tim lifts the mug for another sip. 

There's only cold dredges left at the bottom. 

He scowls and takes another sip anyway, ignoring the discomforting way the remnant grounds feel moving down his throat, the acrid taste they leave in his mouth. For a moment, he considers making himself another shot of espresso, but he's pretty sure that the pitiful dregs are the last of his stock.  

He’s halfway through typing note to self: buy more coffee when a flash of light detonates behind him.

Tim jolts so hard he nearly launches his chair. Coffee – the last of the cold, bitter dregs –flies out of the mug and all over his uniform, staining the front. 

“What in the –!” He screeches as he turns toward the light, scrambling for his baton as he stares at the circular swirl of blue light that has appeared above him. He stares a spit second, unsure if he believes his eyes, when suddenly a figure falls from the circular light and slams onto the catwalk in a graceless heap.

For three long seconds, Tim can only gape as the portal – because yes, that has to have been some type of portal – disappears, leaving behind what looks suspiciously like a magical, horse-themed someone in brown spandex, lying crumpled in the middle of a highly secure warded (magically as well, courtesy of Constantine) secret base.

Tim inwardly curses.

A unicorn-horse-fairy person.

Yup. He's hallucinating. He's officially reached the point of no return.

Tim nearly lets out another scream when he's further startled by yet another flash of light, and the person's appearance and clothing changes, revealing someone much less. . . horsey.

As Tim stares down at the heap of limbs on the floor, he realises it’s a girl – or maybe a young woman? She's small and vaguely resembles Cassandra apart from her startling blue eyes. She tangled in the strap of her straining book-bag, her hair messy, and blinking dazedly at the cavernous darkness like she’s walked into an illustrious museum exhibit. Meanwhile, her seemingly magical arrival leaves a faint scent of ozone, cherry blossoms, and. . . is that espresso?

Tim blinks, staring blankly as the last dredges of his coffee continues to stain his hoodie. A cute girl, roughly his age, magically appearing at his feet and smelling like his favourite thing in the world? 

He lets out a long, dispirited sigh.  

“. . . Definitely hallucinating.” 

Chapter Text

Cheek pressed against metal, Marinette groans, pain radiating through her as she inwardly regrets not looking before leaping into what she quickly learns is solid floor.

Regret: 50%.

Really though, Kaalki could have opened the portal anywhere else.

The ceiling. A carpet. A soft landing. But no – apparently, the Horse Kwami thought Marinette needed yet another near-death encounter with a titanium catwalk (not a first for her, but not something she was looking to ever repeat). And then Kaalki had the audacity to undo the transformation and disappear entirely, which is just plain rude. Then again, Kaalki does get cranky when her 'beauty sleep' is interrupted.

For a long moment, Marinette just lies there in a motionless heap, cheek still pressed against cold metal, debating whether or not she should just. . . stay. The ache behind her eyes, the stiffness in her limbs, the exhaustion that's radiating deep into her bones; they all feel like arguments in favour of never moving again.

Her bladder, unfortunately, disagrees.

With a pitiful groan, Marinette pushes herself upright, her nose throbbing from where Kaalki’s miraculous had dug into it. She blinks, trying to focus. At first, all she can see is shadow and metal, the faint blue glow of monitors painting the cave walls like veins of light.

And then the details start to come into focus – the massive stretch of computer screens, the gleam of machinery, the polished vehicles parked in the shadows. A dinosaur skeleton. The echo of running water and the faint, fluttering chatter of bats overhead.

Her breath catches.

“Oh kwami,” she whispers, voice echoing softly through the cavern as she slips Kaalki's glasses from her nose and slips the miraculous into her pocket. “The Batcave is real.”

A grin breaks across her face despite herself.

“Felix owes me fifty euros.”

For one surreal heartbeat, the absurdity of it all hits her. She’s in Gotham’s most guarded secret, the legendary lair no outsider has ever laid eyes on – and all she can think is if I don’t find a bathroom in thirty seconds, I’m going to pee on Batman’s floor.

Filled with a renewed sense of urgency, Marinette drags herself to her feet and begins to look around for anything that might resemble a hallway – a door leading to a bathroom – a neon sign screaming 'bathroom here.' She barely takes in the rest – the glowing lights, the gothic atmosphere, the giant penny in the corner – before she freezes again.

There's a person staring at her.

A figure stands awkwardly by the rolling chain in front of the main console of the Batcomputer, hoodie rumpled over red armor, mask abandoned on the desk beside a cluster of empty coffee mugs, soda cans, and energy drinks. His posture screams exhaustion; the faint blue light from the monitors sharpens the shadows under his eyes.

Marinette squints, really searching his face.

He's not Batman. He's too. . . slight. Not as tall, but still taller than she is by a decent margin. Despite the hoodie thrown over his uniform, she's able to see the bottom design and recognise it as Red Robin's. The baton he's holding half-out in front of him adds to the assumption.

To her surprise, Red Robin's young – Marinette's age, she thinks. His dark chin-length hair is half held back in a Superboy-themed hair tie, messy but strangely adorable with his facial features. His blue eyes are bright and brilliant even in the dim light surrounding them, framed by dark lashes that stand out against the fairness of his skin. She's also fairly certain he's vaguely familiar.

Marinette's heart sinks. Her brain short-circuits.

Oh no.

He’s cute.

The kind of cute that someone can only get mid-sleep-deprivation – messy, vaguely tragic, and clearly over-caffeinated – and totally Marinette's type.

And she's currently haggard, similarly sleep-deprived, bruised, and about to lose control of her bladder.

Regret: 60%

For a moment, the two just stare at each other, until Marinette breaks the silence, palpably concerned that she's about to get kicked out before she can use the bathroom.

“You’re not Batman,” she blurts before her brain catches up with her mouth.

The boy startles, seemingly not expecting Marinette to speak. His pupils dilate, his jaw drops slightly. There’s a long pause as he just stares at her – like he’s waiting for her to flicker out of existence.

“. . . You’re not real,” he states at last, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and resignation.

Marinette blinks.

Alright. Not the reaction she was expecting.

“Excuse me?”

He rubs a hand down his face, muttering, “Hallucination. Sleep deprivation. Happens sometimes. Around hour seventy-two, usually.”

She stares back, deadpan, as she all but dances in place.

Her bladder can't make it much longer.

“Look, whoever you are, I don’t have time for this – where’s your bathroom?”

The young man blinks again, slowly, owlishly, before taking a long deep breath.

“Yeah. Definitely a dream. A hallucination. Shit, Bruce is gonna be so annoying about this.”

Trying not to think too hard about who 'Bruce' might be (because she really has only ever heard of one guy named Bruce and Red Robin's starting to look really familiar), Marinette exhales sharply, pressing her knees together in desperation.

“I don't care if you think you're dreaming or not, but if you don’t tell me where your bathroom is right now, this hallucination is about to pee on your floor!”

The absurdity of Marinette's statement seems to get through to Red Robin and he pauses to really look at her.

His gaze lingers on her messy hair barely contained by her haphazard bun, her book bag laying all but abandoned on the floor, a few pens and textbooks spilling out onto the floor – fashion and business with the Gotham U sticker logo along the spines, the ones that come from the campus book store. Her breath fogs faintly in the chill air and the scent of espresso and cherry blossoms is stronger now – coming from her. Every detail of the strange young woman is too specific – too tactile – to be a product of his overtired brain.

Tim's pulse spikes.

No way.

More in control of his faculties than he'd been in a moment prior, the young man's expression hardens and he holds out the tip of his baton threateningly, instincts kicking in faster than thought.

“You – how did you get in here?" He accuses, the cute resignation gone from his expression, replaced by a deadly, calculating hardness (which Marinette also notes, is still very cute). "This cave is sealed – physically, magically, electronically. You shouldn’t even be possible!” His voice rises, panic sharpening each syllable. “How did you bypass the wards? The detection protocols? The biometric locks?”

Literally dancing in place from her need to pee, Marinette stares at the man blankly, a twinge of guilt piercing her.

Okay, maybe teleporting into the Batcave was a little presumptuous.

“Look, I didn’t – I just –” She lets out a frustrated groan. “I’m already here, and I really don’t have time for this right now! I have to pee –”

“You don’t have time?” Red Robin sputters indignantly. “You just teleported into the Batcave without authorisation!”

“Yes! Great! You saw it happened! Mystery solved! Now can you please tell me where your bathroom is before –”

"I'm not telling you anything until you give me a straight answer –"

Marinette's kidneys cramp yet again and she loses the last of her patience. She's not about to pee herself in front of Red Robin just because he's panicking about how she got in.

Turning on her heel, Marinette sprints down the catwalk in the direction of the closest landing, her eyes scanning the space for a door that might resemble a bathroom.

“Stop right there!” Red Robin calls after her, but Marinette's already half way down the catwalk, stalking toward the nearest hallway, muttering under her breath in rapid French about men, coffee, and the idiocy of genius vigilantes who don’t label anything.

“Hey – don’t – !” Tim lunges after her as she approaches a sleek metal panel beside a reinforced door. "Don't touch that –"

Her hand slaps against it before he can reach her. Immediately, the surface lights up under her palm. A faint hum vibrates through the air as a blue print scanner flickers to life.

Marinette blinks down at it. Her sleep-deprived mind finds this incredibly fascinating.

“Oh. Pretty," she states, bewildered by the bleary patterns it casts before her tired eyes.

The scanner chirps once.

Then again, louder.

“USER NOT RECOGNISED. SECURITY ALERT. SECURITY ALERT.”

Red Robin turns to the panel in horror.

“Oh no – no, no, no, no, no –” 

The Batcomputer’s voice booms through the cavern like the wrath of God. 

“INTRUDER DETECTED. ENERGY SIGNATURE: UNKNOWN.”

“Get out of the way!” Red Robin screams, his tone laced with genuine panic. 

“What? Why?!” Marinette freezes mid-step, fear mixing with her biological urges, caffeine overconsumption, and sleep deprivation, leaving her fed up and about ready to just pee her pants and deal with the consequences. 

“I can fix it – just don’t touch anything!” He shouts as he runs to the panel beside her, pressing buttons in succession that keep flashing red with an 'access denied' message across the screen.  

“I’m not touching anything!” Marinette steps backward, pressing her back against the wall behind her.

Tim turns in horror as she presses her whole weight against the wall – which turns out to be yet another secret panel.

“No – not that! That’s the –!”

The world erupts in water. The sprinklers explode to life overhead. 

A rush of freezing water drenches them both instantly. Marinette lets out a strangled noise – half shriek, half exhausted sob – while Tim shouts something unintelligible. 

Cold rain hammers down from the ceiling in relentless sheets. Marinette’s haphazard bun flops down her neck from the weight, unravelling down her back till the hair tie is stuck at the bottom of her wet locks. Her coat clings heavy and miserable against her frame, and her eyes squeeze shut as she makes a noise of pure, hollow despair. Tim just stands there, water running down his face like someone who’s reevaluating every life choice that led to this moment. The air smells like wet metal and burnt coffee, which feels like a personal attack to them both.

Marinette tries not to cry.

She just wanted to pee.

“What – what's happening?" Marinette cries out instead, holding her arms over her head in a futile attempt to shield herself.

“You triggered the biometric failsafe for fires!” Tim yells over the noise, blinking through the downpour. "How did you even do that?!"

“I didn’t mean to trigger anything!” Marinette shouts back, pressing her thighs together with as much force as she can muster. “I just touched the wall!”

“That wasn’t a wall! That was an encoded biometric scanner!”

“How was I supposed to know that?! It’s a door! Most doors don't do that! They don't glow blue or – or – trigger things! They open! They go to places like bathrooms! And they sure as scones don't look like walls!” She screams, slamming her fist on the wall that had triggered the sprinklers.

Red Robin stares at her in furious exasperation.

“Stop touching things!”

“I’m not!” She hisses back, jerking as cold water seeps through her jeans. Her face twists in a grimace; the water raining down on them is not helping her urgency. “I just – ugh – look, you – Red Robin – I'm serious, I can’t –”

Tim blinks, disoriented and low key drowning from the artificial downpour. “Wait, how do you know my name?”

“I can see your pants! I know Batman! I know his team! I know your uniforms! I'm a fashion designer! Take your pick!” She snaps, bouncing between her feet. “But I’m seconds away from wetting myself in the middle of the Batcave, so can we please –”

Before she can finish, the Batcomputer’s voice blares across the cavern.

“INTRUDER DETECTED. ENERGY SIGNATURE: UNKNOWN. RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL GAMMA.”

Tim’s stomach drops. “Oh, no, no, no – not Gamma –”

Marinette gapes at the unmasked vigilante.

“Containment what?!”

“Gamma,” he mutters, grimacing. “That means–”

A metallic hiss echoes from above them as the water cuts off abruptly.

The relief is brief.

The next moment, several panels in the ceiling slide open with precise mechanical grace, and from them descend a half-dozen sleek black drones, each one armed, hovering, and humming ominously.

“–that,” Tim finishes flatly, dragging a hand down his drenched face, splaying his long bangs across his forehead in wild patterns.

Marinette stares above them, her eyes tracking the drones, nonplussed, her need to pee momentarily set aside, but not forgotten.

“Oh. Great. You have flying murder toasters.”

Regret: 65%

Taken off guard, Tim turns to Marinette with a half-manic, pride-filled smile, momentarily distracted.

"I call them our 'murder rumbas.' I programmed them myself."

Marinette stares at him flatly.

"Glad to know you're so capable before we die by them."

Tim scowls, offended.

"They aren't going to kill us – I mean, not yet, at least. They're a sequence of actions it's got to take before –"

The nearest drone swivels its lens toward her.

“INTRUDER: STAND DOWN.”

“. . . I just need to pee,” Marinette states weakly, her shoulders slumping as tears prick at her eyes. She's tired and she is starting to think she should just pee her pants and be done with it. They're already soaked as it is – who'd be able to tell the difference at this point.

Tim shoots the girl an incredulous, tired look.

“They’re automated defence units! You need to stay still!”

“I can’t stay still!” She yells, shifting on her feet in visible agony. “I told you, I have to go!”

“Are you serious right now?”

“I've been serious since I got here! You're the one who thought I was a hallucination and wouldn't point me towards the bathroom!”

The drones chirp again, lights flashing red as they circle Marinette.

“INTRUDER: NON-COMPLIANCE DETECTED.”

Tim steps forward, voice raised. “Computer, override Gamma protocol! Authorisation Drake Four-Seven-Charlie!”

“OVERRIDE DENIED. SECONDARY AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED.”

Marinette makes a pained sound through her teeth, her knees practically knocking together before turning away from the vigilante, desperation fuelling her.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m finding a door. Any door. I'm not being taken out by your 'murder rumbas' before I find a bathroom. They can kill me after I pee.”

Tim stares at the random girl who'd appeared in the cave, wondering if she's actually suicidal – and why she's not more concerned.

“Wait – don’t –”

But she’s already gone, trudging through puddles, muttering under her breath in half-French, half-exasperation as the drones trail after her. “Secret lair, no signage, who designed this–”

“Stop moving!” Tim lunges after her, slipping on the slick floor and nearly falling.

She slaps her hand on another panel beside a random door.

The blue lights ripple beneath her fingers, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The system hums ominously.

“Come on, come on,” Marinette whispers. “Please just be the door to a bathroom—”

“USER NOT RECOGNISED.”

“SECURITY ALERT.”

Tim goes absolutely still. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—”

“INTRUDER CONFIRMED. CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL ENGAGED.”

There’s a sharp whine as the drones fully arm. Foam bursts from hidden vents in the bedrock around them – a containment suppressant, thick and suffocating, turning the air into a chemical blizzard.

For one long, silent moment, both of them just stand there – drenched, blinking through foam, and reevaluating every choice that led to this point.  

As foam slowly finishes it's decent over Marinette and an emotionally resigned Tim, the girl lets out a strangled scream of frustration, soaked to the bone, hopping in place as her patience – and bladder – hit their breaking point.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” She shouts at the ceiling. “I just needed to pee!”

“You broke into the most secure facility on the planet!” Tim turns and shouts back, grabbing her by the wrist before she can trigger another disaster. "What did you think was going to happen?! Who even are you?!"

“I teleported! That’s different!”

“Not to the sensors, it isn’t!”

The computer chimes again.

“ENGAGING DETERRENT SYSTEMS.”

“Deterrent – wait –”

A whoosh of compressed air floods the catwalk as one of the drones releases a net launcher. It fires wide, slamming into the Batmobile windshield instead.

Marinette stares.

It missed them completely.

Comically so.

Blinking away the water from her eyes, she turns to Red Robin with a frown.

“Is it just me, or is that a really stupid design flaw?”

“That one wasn't me," he dismisses in a mangled shout, dragging her backward towards a less water-intense space before another drone re-aims.

And then, mercifully – or not – a giant garage door grinds open from the other side of the cave and a vehicle rips onto a nearby platform – another Batmobile, Marinette realises.

Crepes, how many cars does this guy need? How can he have so many vehicles and not a single sign pointing out the bathroom?

The next moment, the door of the Batmobile opens upward and a familiar brooding Bat exits.

Marinette lets out a faint whimper, her thighs holding on for dear life.

Her kidneys ache.

She's frozen to the bone.

She's pretty sure her laptop was destroyed by the sprinkler system.

Yet the chill in the girl's veins is tied directly to the aura of the famed vigilante straining toward her and Red Robin with an expression of fury and disapproval.

Regret: 70%

Heavy footsteps echo down the ramp, followed by the unmistakable growl of a voice that sounds exactly like someone who’s been woken up at 3 a.m.

“Tim,” Batman demands, his voice like thunder and his glare seemingly fixated on the fact that Tim is not, in fact, wearing his mask – and has brought an unknown girl into their base of operations. "Why is the alarm system reading an intruder with an unknown energy signature, and why are the sprinklers on?”

Marinette blinks residual water and foam out of her eyes.

Red Robin's name is 'Tim?'

That gut feeling that she knows him somehow flickers through her again, sharp and undeniable. 

And it hits her:

Bruce. Tim. That cute, exhausted face she's only seen in glossy magazines – polished and manicured beyond recognition – and occasionally alongside Adrien.

Rocked by the realisation, Marinette's breath catches in her throat and she tries not to choke.

Holy macaroons.

Unaware of the connections being made in Marinette's mind, Tim doesn’t even turn around. He just stares up at the ceiling, soul leaving his body as the drones continue to circle the three, the sound of the alarms echoing dully through the cave.

“I don’t know, B,” he says wearily, still gripping Marinette’s wrist like he thinks she's about to bolt – or maybe disappear right before his eyes. “But I think my hallucination broke in to use our bathroom.”

Marinette lets out a half-hysterical laugh – wet, exhausted, and completely done.

A beat passes as Batman glares at her, waiting for an explanation or merely studying her, she doesn't know. Neither can she bring herself to care.

The whole situation is ridiculous.

And she has other priorities.

Batman’s expression doesn’t change. Tim looks like he’s praying for death.

Marinette sniffles, voice cracking as she turns back to Batman – Bruce Wayne, she’s come to realise – and pleads, tears welling in her eyes.

“Please. It’s an emergency.”