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Damian Al Ghul-Wayne was five years old the first time he met a girl his age. And in typical League of Assassins style, he went for efficiency by meeting ten at once.
“These are your betrothed,” Talia told him. “All but one will be dead by your twelfth birthday. You will marry the sole survivor on your eighteenth birthday and produce an Heir to carry on the great legacy of the League of Assassins.”
Nine of the girls heard the words without so much as a flinch. The last stared in shock at Talia, then broke into tears.
“Quiet, Marinette,” Talia hissed.
“No,” she yelled defiantly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I want my mama!”
Talia backhanded her and she fell to the floor with a yelp.
Damian surveyed the girl – Marinette – with distaste.
“Mother, surely you don’t consider this sniveling coward worthy to compete for my hand?”
“Her mother, Sabine Cheng, was our best assassin for years before she turned traitor. I suppose she’s lost her touch if she raised such a weak daughter.” Talia shrugged elegantly. “No matter, if she turns out to be useless, we’ll ship her mutilated corpse back to Sabine as a reminder of what happens when you cross the League.”
She waved the girls away. “To your training now.”
Damian watched as Marinette sniffled and followed the other girls out the door.
She won’t last a week.
He had no idea how wrong he was.
Marinette Dupain-Cheng was five years old the first time she won a fight. And in typical Dupain-Cheng fashion, she did so in the most unpredictable way possible.
“You’re going down, pigtails,” shouted a pretty brunette, charging at Marinette with a sword that was as tall as she was.
With a startled shriek, Marinette darted away. She hated how behind she was here. Back home, she was good at everything – reading circle, art class, tussles when the teacher’s back was turned. Here, it felt like she was constantly playing catch-up.
Not to mention, the constant threat of death was not fun.
Skidding around a corner of the labyrinth arena, she tripped over a protruding stone and fell to the ground. The brunette grinned viciously, advancing towards her.
Marinette smiled nervously. “Can’t we talk this out?”
“Not a chance, shortie,” said the brunette.
Marinette glanced around frantically.
I don’t want to die!
She reached for a rock, a stick, anything that could help her fight, but came up with only a handful of sand. With a pleading glance heavenward, she flung it into the brunette’s face and lurched to her feet, grinning when the girl had to stop to get the grit out of her eyes.
Taking off into the labyrinth of passages, she nearly stumbled again, this time over a nearly buried metal object.
She shifted away the dirt surrounding it and smirked. “Finally, a weapon I know how to use.”
Ten minutes later, the watching League members straightened in surprise as the smallest and weakest of Damian’s betrotheds utterly decimated her opponent.
With a frying pan.
“What are you doing here?”
The two children spoke in unison, glaring daggers at one another.
“I always come here,” Marinette said. “It’s my drawing spot.”
“The vents are my domain, Dupain-Cheng,” Damian said. “Get out.”
Two years’ worth of resentment and anger simmered beneath Marinette’s skin.
Drawing is the last thing I have of home. I won’t let him take it from me.
“No.”
Damian looked thunderstruck and Marinette couldn’t keep the smirk off her face.
“I am Heir to the Demon! You will obey me!”
“You may be Heir to the Demon, but right now you’re also a kid skipping classes,” Marinette argued. “And if you make me leave, I’ll tell Talia exactly where you go when you’re not in class.”
Ha, take that, you tyrant!
Damian froze. Marinette watched as emotions overtook his face – anger, resentment, then acceptance.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Marinette smiled and returned to her sketchbook – which wasn’t really a sketchbook, just some loose papers she’d tucked into her history book.
A few minutes later, Damian peered over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Drawing,” she said, holding out a few of her older sketches, the ones she wouldn’t mind losing if Damian decided to rip them. “There’s your mother fighting, cook making soup, the sunset from this other spot in the vents – actually, that one’s pretty bad because I didn’t have any colors.”
Damian stared at the drawing of his mother.
“I’m keeping this,” he announced.
Well, at least he didn’t tear it up.
The next week, when Marinette arrived at her drawing spot, Damian was already there. With an annoyed grunt, he shoved a sketchbook and colored pencils into her hands.
Marinette looked between him and the supplies in confusion. “What’s this for?”
“Teach me how to draw.”
Marinette bit her lip, looking longingly at the colored pencils. Then, she pushed them back towards Damian.
“I want you to give me weapons training. As often as I teach you drawing.”
I may be naturally talented at combat, but the other girls have been training their entire lives. I need to catch up.
Damian eyed her suspiciously. “That’s against the rules.”
“So? Are you scared?”
“Never.”
“Then it’s a deal?”
“It’s a deal.”
Damian lunged, making a displeased noise when his quarry danced out of his reach.
“You’re slow today, Dami,” Marinette teased. “Losing your touch?”
Marinette was no longer the scared little girl she’d been at five, or even at seven. She’d thrown herself into her training with single-minded determination and two years of training with Talia by day and Damian by night had made her a formidable – and snarky – combatant.
“Never,” Damian replied. His next attack nearly threw her off-balance.
With a grunt, Marinette recovered her footing and countered with a flurry of blows that would have left a lesser opponent dizzy.
Damian smirked, parrying each attack easily. “Completely mediocre. Should I tell my mother that her protégé is slipping?”
Although he’d never admit it, Damian was proud of her. She’d gone from being the worst of the League’s trainees to the only one able to keep up with him in a fight.
“Me? Slipping? Not a chance.” Marinette flipped backwards, knocking his weapon away. “Hey, Damian?”
“Yes, Marinette?” He scooped up his katana, readying himself for her next move.
“The floor is lava.”
With a startled intake of air, he leaped onto the nearest table.
“Really?” he asked, half annoyed, half amused.
Marinette giggled, peering down at him from her spot in the ceiling rafters. “I thought we could use an extra challenge.”
Damian glanced up at her. “You just like having the high ground.”
“Technically speaking, it’s the high rafter,” she pointed out.
“Either way, it won’t prevent me from defeating you,” Damian said, pulling himself into the rafters.
At that moment, the door opened and they both immediately went still.
“Damian? Are you here?”
Marinette raised an eyebrow at him. “Skipping again?” she mouthed.
Damian shrugged in response.
Rolling her eyes, Marinette gestured to the vents behind him. “I’ll meet you in the lower training rooms to finish our bout.”
“Marinette!” The teacher startled as she caught a glimpse of the pigtailed girl. “What are you doing up there?”
Effortlessly, the girl swung down from the ceiling, drawing the teacher’s attention away from Damian’s hiding place.
“Just improving my arm strength, Mistress Eva.” As she distracted his teacher with false information about his whereabouts, Damian climbed into the vents.
Marinette makes a surprisingly tolerable ally.
It didn’t seem to matter how many people Marinette killed; it never got easier. Surrounded by the bodies of Deathstroke’s traitors, she retched.
She was alone. Somehow, in the midst of the fight, she’d gotten separated from the rest of the League’s loyalists.
I need to get moving. I’m an easy target right now.
With a shuddering breath, she climbed to her feet and made her way out of the compound and into the shadows. It was there, staring at the ruins of the League’s strongest base, that the realization hit her.
“I’m free,” Marinette whispered, tears trickling down her face.
The Head of the Demon was dead, his followers scattered.
“I can finally go home.”
She ignored the voice in her mind that said her home was here, with the League, with Damian. She ignored the tightness in her chest at the thought of never seeing Damian again. She ignored the fear that he might already be dead.
The League kidnapped me. Talia abused me. Even if I managed to be happy here, I owe the Al Ghuls nothing. A vow of loyalty made under duress is no vow at all.
Her hands curled into fists.
And if they come for me again, I’ll be ready.
Damian scowled as their plane descended into Gotham.
“This is imbecilic. I should be assisting you in decimating our enemies, not hiding like a frightened child.”
“Damian,” his mother’s voice was cold. “This is not up for negotiation. You will stay here and train with your father.”
“Yes, Mother,” he replied bitterly. A moment passed, then he tilted his head in thought. “But what of my betrothed? If she is to be my equal, should she not train with me?”
Talia studied him carefully. “You use the singular of betrothed,” she noted. “Despite the fact that three remain alive. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me which one you consider your wife-to-be?”
“Tt. Your protégé, the Cheng girl, is the only one that even approaches competent. You know this.”
“I also know that you trained her separately – against my orders,” Talia said.
Damian nearly flinched. “And yet you didn’t stop me.”
“I wonder if that was a mistake,” his mother said. “You feel more for her than you should.”
“She is an effective ally. That is all.”
“Then you won’t mind being separated from her for a while.”
“Not at all, Mother,” Damian lied.
“Marinette? Is that you?” Her mother looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
Marinette smiled. “Hello, Mama.”
Sabine reached out a shaking hand to cup her face. “How are you here? We saw you die.”
“Sabine, do you know where – ” Tom dropped the pan of croissants. “Marinette?”
He jumped over the counter and raced to her. Marinette took a step back before her mind caught up with her body.
This is Papa, you idiot. He’s not a threat.
She threw herself into his arms, shoving away her fears.
Twisting to face her mother, she said, “I don’t know how my death was faked, but I never died. The League kidnapped me.”
Tom’s arms tightened around her.
“The League?” Sabine’s face went pale. “What did they want with you?”
“The usual,” Marinette said with a shrug. “Revenge on you for leaving and a capable assassin and potential wife for Damian if I turned out to be any good.”
“Who’s Damian?” Tom asked with a frown.
Marinette grinned. “Oh, Damian’s great! He’s the Heir to the League, but he’s actually pretty okay for an assassin. He helped me get good enough to survive. You know, after I blackmailed and bribed him.”
“What?”
Meeting his father did not go the way Damian had imagined.
Talia always spoke of Bruce Wayne’s great intellect, his strength in combat, his determination in all things. She never mentioned his brainless playboy act, his absurd prohibition of killing, or his habit of taking in strays. Damian wasn’t sure which one was most offensive, but he was incredibly disappointed in his father regardless.
He had to reassess after he saw Batman at work. When not purposely acting like a buffoon, Bruce Wayne was everything his mother had described and more, entirely deserving of Damian’s respect.
He set out to prove himself in his father’s eyes. It didn’t go well. Whatever he did, it was the wrong thing. In any fight with the imposter sons, Damian was punished – even if he won. Assisting his father with Wayne Enterprises was met with an eye-roll and a request to stay away from Bruce’s office.
It should have made Damian angry but instead it hurt and Damian did not understand why.
And then his father was gone. Richard Grayson became Batman.
Damian became Robin. Finally.
And yet the triumph felt hollow.
Not to mention, it came with strings attached: ‘Murder is bad.’ ‘Justice, not vengeance.’ ‘Robin doesn’t kill.’ ‘Protect rather than avenge.’
Grayson’s teachings were imbecilic. And yet he had to follow them. His mother had yet to finish with the traitors.
He wondered where Marinette was, if she was undergoing similar training, if she fought the way he did to reign in the bloodlust. Considering how she had to hide her dislike of killing, how she helped heal her competitors, he thought probably not.
Slowly, things got easier. Grayson became tolerable. Damian learned to suppress the instinct, the muscle memory that said ‘kill or be killed.’ He found an adoration for animals and learned to deal with his classmates. He finally began to understand why Grayson and his father valued life so highly. His father came back and he chose to deny the League. Wayne Manor became home.
On days when he struggled, he retreated to his room and the comfort of his sketchbook. And if a certain blue-eyed girl made an appearance every few pages, well, who would know but him?
Returning home did not go the way Marinette had imagined.
She knew it wouldn’t be sunshine and roses, of course. But she hadn’t expected the magnitude of the changes in her home, or in herself.
School was laughably easy. Marinette had the equivalent of several college degrees. Finding x and learning how to spell ‘earthquake’ was a waste of her time. Instead, she spent class drawing and coming up with increasingly complex plans for fighting off the League should they try to kidnap her again.
She kept herself closed off from her classmates – she didn’t know how she’d ever called them friends. They were neutral parties at best – not one ever stood up for her against Chloe. Her parents encouraged them to give her classmates a chance, but the League had trained her well. Misplaced trust could kill. And Marinette had fought long enough for survival to know that dropping your guard was a death knell.
She hated hurting her parents though.
Though they tried to hide it, she saw the pain cross their faces when she flinched away from hugs. When she moved like an assassin rather than a child. When she gave away her stuffed animals. When she skipped family game night and spent her time training.
She hated hurting her parents. So she changed.
Marinette locked away her lethal grace, faking clumsiness and turning it into an art form. She hid her weapons, training only when her parents were asleep. She returned to family game nights; she initiated hugs. At school, she became bubbly and friendly again, though she trusted no one.
More than anything, she tried to atone. She sought out those in need and tried to help – whether by providing food, babysitting, or making them warm clothing. She discovered an interest in fashion design, but mostly stuck to making the essentials for those in need. She met a tiny floating bug named Tikki and became a superhero.
On days when she struggled, she retreated to her room and the comfort of her sketchbook. And if green eyes and a cocky smirk featured prominently in the book, well, who would know but her?
Damian frowned as he followed his brother into Wayne Enterprises.
"I don't understand why it's so important for me to be here."
"C'mon, Baby Bird!" Dick said. "You said you wanted to be more involved in the company!"
"I meant the business side of things," Damian said. "I have no interest in showing around a gaggle of unruly teenagers."
"You're a teenager too," Dick pointed out. "It'll be fun!"
Damian sniffed. "I'm an adult. And fun, really? Surely you don't truly believe that?"
Dick sighed. "Just give it a chance, okay? They seem like really great kids."
They walked into the lobby and Damian stopped short, eyes catching on long black hair and brilliant blue eyes.
"Marinette?"
In truth, Marinette wasn't all that excited about the Wayne Enterprises tour. The architecture was interesting, sure, but her class had a habit of making themselves a target and Bruce Wayne's patronage was not helping.
She gave it three days, at most, before they got in trouble with Gotham's Rouges.
Which meant she was on 'keep the class from dying' duty. Joy.
She kept her eyes and ears peeled, which meant that she heard the faint whisper of her name from an unfamiliar voice.
"Marinette?"
Forest-green eyes filled with far too much emotion had her breath catching in her throat.
"Damian?"
With obvious effort, the League's Heir pulled himself together. "Fancy meeting you here, Dupain-Cheng."
His voice. Oh, kwami, it should be illegal to look AND sound that good. Nope. Nope. Not doing this. He's an assassin, get your act together, Marinette.
"Al-Ghul." She was proud that her voice betrayed nothing. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you here. This doesn't seem like your scene."
She reached out for a handshake and was taken off guard when Damian kissed her hand instead. She blushed.
"It's Wayne now," Damian said. "I'm... no longer associated with the Al-Ghuls. Or their business."
He's not an assassin anymore? Yes! I knew you were a good person deep, deep down, Dami!
"Really? I broke ties with them several years ago myself."
See that, Damian? We're both good people. Good people that would be great toget - no! Bad Marinette!
Damian grinned. "In that case, I look forward to reconnecting. Perhaps after the tour?"
Oh, kwami, I'm doomed.
"I'd like that."
"What was that?" Dick asked in a low voice. "I've never seen you open up to someone so quickly."
With difficulty, Damian tore his gaze from Marinette.
Stars, she grew up gorgeous.
Damian smirked. "Don't be ridiculous, Grayson. I met Marinette over a decade ago."
I wonder, does she still consider our betrothal valid?
"Wait, so she's an assassin?" Grayson blanched. "Who is she here to kill? Who do I have to protect? Ugh! Why can't you ever have normal friends?"
"Relax," Damian chided. "She's an ex-assassin. Like me."
"That does not make me feel better. Who is she to you?"
Damian hummed in thought, running through years of teasing, fighting, and spending time together. "She was my first friend."
And maybe now something more.