Chapter Text
Marinette was exhausted. She was forty-two, her physical abilities no longer the same as when she operated as Ladybug or during her twenties and thirties, and she felt a deep, painful nostalgia whenever she thought of home.
She had spent decades traveling, hiding, fighting, and defending. Decades living as a nomad, without a home, never staying in one place for more than a month or two, always choosing randomly to avoid creating a pattern that could be tracked.
She had been away from home so long that she no longer remembered what her own room looked like, and, worse, she wasn’t even sure how her own son looked anymore. That was what hurt the most; it hurt because she knew, deep down, it was her fault and no one else’s. Hers and her husband’s. Nobody else’s.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Adrien asked. His hair, once a beautiful golden blonde, was now a light brown, slightly wavy and discreetly combed back, with some gray at his temples and sides giving him an air of wear that made him look like a busy, well-traveled man.
Marinette nodded, showing him a photo—a message from Tim. Something simple, a picture of a beautiful spot he had taken himself in Gotham, with some ducks that Tim later described in detail with additional fun facts in a voice message.
“Does he have a new hyperfixation?” Adrien blinked. His intense green eyes, slightly darker and duller than they once were, sparkled with genuine amusement and affection as he listened to his son’s voice.
“Yes,” Marinette nodded. “It’s the ducks this time.”
“I thought he’d gotten over ducks when he was six,” Adrien said, looking at the photo Tim had taken.
“Apparently, it’s back.”
“Mhm. Yeah. Sounds like something Timmy would do…” Adrien said with an amused smile. “And you too.”
“Me?” Marinette raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Adrien nodded, amused, leaning against a table cluttered with documents. “He got all of that from you. Even his obsession with certain things… or people.”
“It’s not—”
“You knew my schedule in detail,” Adrien teased. “At fourteen years old.”
Marinette blushed. “And what of it?”
“Tim does the same,” Adrien reminded her. “Or should I remind you about Batman?”
“Don’t remind me about Batman,” Marinette said, frowning slightly. “I still don’t like that our son has been secretly following him. And without getting caught.”
Adrien shrugged. “He’s smart like his mother. Maybe even smarter. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised it happened.”
“Sometimes I wish he weren’t,” Marinette sighed. “It will put him in danger.”
“We’ll protect him,” Adrien said.
“Yes,” Marinette looked at her son’s latest message, something about more ducks. “We will.”
She replied with a simple, «That’s interesting, Timothy.» Then, hesitantly, she added: «But I’m busy. Maybe you can tell me more later during our usual call?»
Tim didn’t respond. Marinette could only sigh before returning to her paperwork. She couldn’t even talk to her son as much as she wanted. And she knew it was purely her fault.
Adrien moved beside her, picking up some papers from the table as he put on his glasses and began reading. It wasn’t long before the search team entered the tent to comment on a new find.
Adrien and Marinette feigned more interest than they felt, leaning in to look at the new pieces. Marinette’s heart tightened. She missed her son.
“Jack,” she called to her husband, aware of ears that could be listening. “The gala season is coming. We should head back to Gotham.”
Adrien nodded without looking at her, seemingly focused on a clay bowl inlaid with gems, but clearly listening. “We should,” he finally replied. “Anyway, we only have a few days left of this expedition, Janet, my dear.”
Marinette couldn’t wait to see her little boy.
Adrien resumed talking to one of the attending archaeologists, feigning enthusiasm over a piece neither of them intended to study closely. Marinette stepped aside just enough to settle into the most protected corner of the tent. There, between a couple of closed suitcases and boxes inscribed in dead languages, she took out her secure communication tablet and swiped through until she found what she really wanted to see.
Not Tim’s latest message. Not the security reports.
But an old photograph.
Taken eleven years ago. In Gotham.
Tim, six years old, hugging Adrien’s leg, with a toothless grin and his shirt on backward. Marinette behind them, hair messy, dark circles under her eyes already part of her, and a tired smile. All of them together in Marinette’s office at home, in front of the first Drake Industries logo they were designing.
It was a blurry photo. Imperfect. And to her, sacred.
Marinette swiped her fingers over the image. No tears. She no longer cried. She had learned to store her grief in her bones. But she let out a sigh—the kind that only escapes when the heart is constricted deep inside.
Then, a secure notification blinked.
[Codex Channel. Protocol 8.]
Priority message from Gotham – Source: M.
Marinette tensed.
She opened the message.
There is League movement in the slums. Near the docks. Batgirl reports Lazarus symbols. Batman has begun surveillance, apparently concerned… The League isn’t looking for something. They’re waiting for something. Or someone.
Talia Al Ghul was seen at the opera a week ago. She was alone. Watching the Wayne family box. Silent. Just watching. Timothy was accompanying the Waynes.
Be careful. —M.
Marinette deleted the message immediately. Then she sat in silence, the device still in her hands.
Adrien approached from behind. He didn’t ask. He just placed a hand on her shoulder, soft yet firm.
“Are you alright?”
“I don’t know,” Marinette replied. Noticing some glances, she added, without seeming to lie: “They need us at our company. Apparently, some major shareholders are demanding to see us.”
Adrien looked at her, then shifted his gaze to the side of the tent, toward the resting suits, equipment, and things they no longer used but never left behind. Things that knew them better than anyone.
“I understand,” Adrien said.
The expedition ended for them that day, even if the rest of the team stayed a little longer.
.
.
.
Tim was in the Wayne Manor library when he received the message.
He hadn’t noticed his phone was on silent until the screen flickered once, then twice. He unlocked it, expecting nothing special. Maybe a reminder from Oracle, maybe an alert from Damian about a patrol. Or a picture his father had sent of some shiny rock that caught his interest. Maybe even a strange photo of Dick, dressed as a cow, because it was Tuesday.
But no.
It was a message from his mother.
From: Mom
"We’ll arrive in Gotham Friday afternoon. The gala is at eight. See you there."
That was it.
No “How are you?” no “We’re excited to see you,” not even a simple “Son.”
Just a notice. Short. Formal.
As if she were his boss and he her assistant.
Tim read the message three times.
Not because he didn’t understand it. But because he wanted to convince himself that this time, maybe there was a hidden word between the lines. There wasn’t. Or if there was, he couldn’t find it.
Because his mother was never so formal, so cold. She had always shown warmth, even with simple words. She always made sure to tell him she loved him. This time, she hadn’t. Why not? It felt strange.
His phone buzzed again.
From: Dad
"See you soon, champ. Your mother and I are bringing gifts; your mother even knitted a scarf for you in her spare time, but don’t tell her I told you. Take care. I love you."
He didn’t respond. A smile, however, crept onto his lips. Yes, of course. How could he forget? His parents were like that. They loved him, even if they weren’t the kind to openly show it (though there had been a time, he remembered, when they had been: affectionate, sweet, and full of care).
“What’s got you so happy?” Jason, who had just entered the library, asked.
“My parents are coming back Friday,” Tim replied. “We’ll see them at the gala.”
“At the gala?” Jason raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Not even meeting you first?”
Tim blinked, confused. “Why would they? We’ll see each other at the gala anyway.”
Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watched him for a few seconds, then let out a low, humorless laugh. “God, you’re so civilized I sometimes want to kick you.” He muttered.
“Thanks, Jason. Good to see you too.” Tim replied, returning to his previous task.
“No, seriously. Are you listening to yourself?” Jason snapped. He hadn’t been able to help noticing it all this time, ever since he met Tim. Dick had said to ignore it, but moments like this made it difficult. “Your parents come back after months without seeing you, and the first thing they do is go to a gala? Really?”
Tim calmly set down what he was doing. “Jason…”
“No, listen to me for once, Tim.” Jason silenced him. “It’s not normal, Tim. It’s not normal for your parents to see you once or twice a year like you’re a houseplant that needs watering every so often. It’s not normal for your neighbor and his butler to raise you more than they do.”
Tim stayed quiet. For a moment, he just looked at him.
“And speaking of which, did you ever even hear about the dangers strangers can pose? Because even I knew it when the old man brought me here, and I still struggled until I was sure he wasn’t a threat.”
Jason looked at Tim as if he couldn’t understand him, as if the fact that Tim was so confident wasn’t normal.
“I know how you ended up here, and it still bothers me that it didn’t even bother you to move into the old man’s house or spend time alone with him even though you’d never interacted with him before.”
“I did.” Tim defended himself.
“Did what?”
“I made sure Bruce was safe when I was observing him, obviously.” Tim replied. “I knew Bruce wasn’t a threat, so it’s fine.”
“So you just came here and moved in? Without considering the risk? Without your parents telling you anything?”
“My parents know,” Tim said, as if it were obvious. “And it’s fine. They don’t mind as long as I stay with them when they’re home.”
Jason looked incredulous.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then rubbed his face, as if needing to make sure he wasn’t having a stress-induced hallucination.
“Tim, are you even listening to yourself?”
Tim shrugged, uncomfortable but not annoyed. “It’s no big deal. I grew up like this.”
“Yes, and that’s exactly what’s not right.”
Jason stepped closer and sat across from him, like he was about to explain that the sky was blue and that people who disappear for months and show up only for galas shouldn’t be allowed to raise children.
“Listen… I had parents before Bruce. They weren’t the best, but even they wouldn’t have left me with strangers to go search for rocks in the Himalayas. I swear I would’ve at least expected a damn video call.”
“They called me every night when I was a kid,” Tim replied calmly. “And they sent me gifts. And Dad sent letters. And Mom even encoded puzzles in the postcards for me to practice logic. I never felt abandoned.”
Jason looked at him. Not mockingly, but with that kind of frustrated compassion one feels for someone who justifies a wound because they’ve learned to live with it.
“And again, they don’t mind that I moved here. They know Bruce is safe. Mom even spoke with Alfred, as far as I know.”
“They don’t mind?” Jason repeated, stepping closer as if he wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him. “Tim, do you hear yourself? Their ten-year-old son moved in with a man they barely knew, and their only reaction was ‘Well, as long as he comes back for Christmas, it’s fine.’”
“I was thirteen,” Tim corrected softly, slowly turning in his chair. “Almost fourteen.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” Jason exclaimed, raising a hand. “Do you know what happens to thirteen-year-olds with negligent parents? Usually ends badly. Very badly. I was one of them.”
“Jason…” Tim sighed patiently. He had had this conversation—or some version of it—more times than he could count, always with different people. Usually it was with Dick, who didn’t seem to care much for his parents even though Tim didn’t understand why.
“And the worst part is it doesn’t even seem to bother you,” Jason continued, ignoring the warning in Tim’s tone. “It doesn’t affect you. You talk about it like it’s normal. Like having parents who show up for a gala is enough.”
Tim lowered his gaze, but not because he was hurt. Rather, because he was thinking.
“I don’t know what you expect me to feel,” he said finally, calmly. “Don’t get me wrong, I wish they were around more often. Of course I do. But… I’m not lacking love, Jason. I never have been.”
Jason clenched his jaw. “Love?” he repeated. “And how do you know you have it if they’re never there to show it?”
Tim looked him straight in the eyes.
“Because they made sure I never lacked anything,” he said, without raising his voice. “Because they call whenever they can, because there’s a giant mute man who followed me for years without saying a word just to watch over me until he got too old and died—that was the same man who practically raised my father.
Tim still missed Placide, Gorilla, sometimes. He was like a grandfather to him. And he had Alfred now, of course. But it wasn’t the same.
“Because every gift they send has a story,” he continued. “Because every letter I receive is written by their hands, even if they’re crossing continents. Because my mother knitted a scarf in the middle of the desert when she barely had time to sleep.”
Jason looked at him, more serious now. Silent.
“They may not be here,” Tim went on, quieter, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t love me. It just means… they can’t be. And that, too, is love. Even if you don’t see it that way.”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Jason sighed, scratching the back of his neck, uncomfortable. He seemed to want to say more but held it back.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said finally, turning toward the door. “I’m just worried that one day they won’t come back. And you’ll still think it’s okay.”
And with that, he left.
Tim stayed in his chair. He didn’t respond. He just took out his phone again and reread his parents’ messages. He smiled, faintly, as if that smile hurt. He really didn’t understand Jason and Dick. What was wrong with his parents? They loved him! Shouldn’t that be enough?
Then, without a word, trying to ignore the previous conversation, he wrote:
To: Dad
"Okay. You take care too. And I’m looking forward to the scarf and the gifts."
To: Mom
"See you Friday. I’m counting the days too."
What nonsense, he thought when he saw the photo of a cat his father had sent. And then the heart emoji his mother sent. Jason and Dick definitely didn’t understand.
.
.
.
[Gotham International Airport. Private Terminal. 3:14 PM.]
The plane descended without turbulence, as if even Gotham’s sky—gray, dirty, still—knew it was better not to draw attention.
From the window, Marinette watched the city without emotion.
Towers twisted by time, dense clouds that never seemed to leave, and a suspended feeling in the air, like old ash. Gotham hadn’t changed. Not even in their absence.
Beside her, Adrien slept with his arms crossed, his coat draped over his shoulders, a crease on his brow. He didn’t dream. He hadn’t dreamed in years. He just closed his eyes and pretended the world vanished.
The light flickered once.
Marinette closed the notebook she’d been filling with loose sketches. Designs without shape, without purpose. It had become almost a ritual now—drawing things she would never finish, only to later recall the warm feeling in her chest that her son gave her, and then her designs would transform into clothes for him. For little Timothy.
“We’ve arrived,” she whispered.
Adrien nodded without opening his eyes.
Ten minutes later, they walked across the airport tarmac, shielded by long shadows and the discretion of those who knew money could buy silence.
She was dressed in midnight blue. Long coat, leather gloves, dark glasses. Everything that wasn’t Marinette, but that Janet Drake would be. Adrien, elegant as always, looked like a ghost in an expensive suit: dark gray, shirt without a tie, and that expression of his that said, don’t bother me—which sometimes reminded Marinette a little of Gabriel Agreste.
They looked more like fallen royalty than parents on a family visit, which was ironic, considering Adrien’s mother’s origins.
A chauffeur waited by the armored car. No questions were asked. No greetings exchanged.
Only movement.
The chauffeur opened the back door, and Marinette went in first. Adrien lingered outside for a second longer, gazing at the city as if waiting for something to stop him. But nothing did.
“Do you know what time it is in Mongolia right now?” he asked as he climbed in.
“Three in the morning,” she replied, without thinking. She always knew these things.
“We could have stayed. Just one more day.” Of course, Marinette knew it was only a dream speaking for him.
“Weren’t you the one who said the sooner we get to see Timothy, the better?” Marinette teased.
Adrien smiled. “I did.”
The car started, disappearing into Gotham’s thick smoke.
For a few seconds, there was only silence. Adrien turned to her, looking as if he could read her heart in her eyes.
“Are we going to tell him?” he asked, without harshness. Only worry and doubt.
She didn’t answer immediately. “Should we?” she asked. “He’s already seventeen.”
Adrien sighed. “He’s still a child.”
“He is.” He was. Tim was still a child, a teenager. Not even old enough to drink yet. “Let’s wait a bit longer,” she finally said. Marinette gazed out the window. “At least until he turns eighteen.”
Adrien nodded. He didn’t argue.
“Or we could never tell him.” He murmured. “We’ll handle it anyway.” But both knew that was no longer an option.
Gotham surrounded them again. Its distant lights. Its sleeping monsters. Its lies.
Marinette closed her eyes, and for a moment wished she had never returned.
But their son was there.
And for him, they would walk through hell once more.
When they arrived home—their home—Marinette felt a void fill her. The mansion was large, with a beautiful garden tended weekly by gardeners, and it was stunning inside. But it didn’t feel welcoming as it should. Not anymore.
“Tim isn’t here,” Adrien noted.
“He spends time at the Waynes’, remember?” Marinette said, avoiding the truth. Tim had moved out. He hadn’t wanted to live there alone. And that was their fault—hers and Adrien’s, both knew it. But ignoring the truth was far easier than facing it.
“Right,” Adrien murmured. “He has friends there.”
Marinette let the housekeeper—who now only appeared once a week since Tim no longer lived there—carry their luggage to their room. Her eyes scanned the spacious house, with white walls and expensive, ancient artifacts that a pair of archaeologists were supposed to own as decor.
There were no photographs of them anywhere, except for a family portrait taken when Tim was ten, hanging in the living room where they received guests or spent time together, right above the fireplace.
She smiled.
Tim looked adorable there.
“How many hours until we have to go to that gala?” Adrien asked, yawning.
“Three hours.”
“Good.” He began climbing the stairs with her. “I’ll sleep until one hour before. Then eat and get dressed.”
“I’ll shower then,” Marinette said. “And then send some emails to the company before getting ready.”
“As you wish, darling.” Adrien said goodbye, kissing her forehead and then flopping onto the bed as soon as he took off his shoes. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
Marinette hummed in agreement. She would try.
.
.
.
[Winter Gala. Wayne Foundation. 8:10 PM].
The hall was lit by hundreds of warm lights hanging from the ceiling like tamed stars. Everything smelled of old money, expensive perfume, wine bottled decades ago. The floor gleamed as if someone had painstakingly polished each tile. Laughter was soft, murmurs measured. Gotham knew how to fake elegance better than anyone else.
Of course, that was Gotham—pretending at elegance over its rot.
And there, in the middle of it, were they.
Jack and Janet Drake.
Perfect.
Janet and Jack Drake, entrepreneurs and archaeologists, arrived at precisely ten past eight, as they always did: late enough to seem indifferent, early enough to prove they were not.
She, draped in a simple black dress, with lace details on the sleeves and an updo that revealed discreet but priceless earrings. He, in a tailored tuxedo, no tie, as always, jacket casually unbuttoned with deliberate nonchalance.
They looked charming. Powerful. Untouchable.
And, at the same time, invisible.
“Look at how they watch us,” Adrien murmured, leaning toward Marinette with a glass in hand. “I wonder if they think we steal Egyptian art or hobnob with Himalayan cults.”
“Maybe both,” Marinette whispered without looking at him. Her eyes scanned the room with patience—not like an anxious mother, but as someone who belonged there.
Adrien was scanning too, though with the same diplomatic smile he had used on runways at fourteen.
Their steps made no sound. Their gazes seemed to roam the room with vague interest, greeting faces they didn’t remember, nodding to people they thought they knew. But their eyes were searching for something else.
They were looking for Tim.
“Do you see him?” Adrien whispered, lips barely moving.
“Not yet,” Marinette replied, turning toward the area where company representatives stood. No. Just bankers. Politicians. She recognized them all.
No one with a red bow on their lapel, though Marinette recalled Tim was too old for those adorable red bows now.
Adrien brushed his champagne glass without tasting it.
Marinette continued scanning.
Until she saw him.
It wasn’t his voice, nor his walk.
It was the way he smiled as he leaned to say something to Bruce Wayne. That smile—soft, contained, so much like Adrien’s at seventeen, so much like hers when clinging to hope. He was their son. In the midst of that distant, polished hall, he was their home made flesh and blood.
Bruce was at his side, hand barely resting on his shoulder. Like a guardian, silent, oblivious to the storm.
Marinette straightened. “There,” she whispered.
Adrien turned his head. His eyes softened. Just for a second. Then he returned to the expression Jack Drake usually wore.
Tim wore a perfectly tailored suit. Midnight blue, sober details. Hair neatly combed, posture straight, eyes sharp. He looked older. Not because of the clothes. Because of the way he carried himself, how he seemed to measure every word that came out of Bruce’s mouth, even though he appeared happy.
An invisible knot tightened Marinette’s chest.
Adrien had noticed it too. He said nothing, but his fingers lightly brushed her wrist. A small gesture. Silent. Familiar.
Both knew their son had changed. They had felt it long ago, but never wanted to address it, too afraid of the answer.
“Shall we?” Adrien asked.
She nodded.
They approached without hurry.
Every step rehearsed. Every gesture studied.
They walked toward him as what they were: Jack and Janet Drake. A polished, affable couple, confident in themselves.
And when they were close enough, Tim saw them.
His expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic or exaggerated. Just a sudden spark in his eyes. A slight lift of his eyebrows. And then, that smile that always disarmed them.
“Mom. Dad,” he said with a polite, perfect smile, though still unable to hide his emotion.
Bruce Wayne also turned, greeting them with a slight nod, as if measuring something in them that remained unspoken.
“Timothy,” Marinette whispered, and only then did she realize how much the wait had hurt.
She hugged him.
Not with the desperation of a mother absent for too long, but with the delicacy of someone still feeling guilty, unsure if they had permission to hold him. Yet she held him. For a second. Two.
She embraced him, forgetting decorum for a moment, holding her son—now taller than her, yet still shorter than Adrien—between her arms. Tim tensed for a few seconds, then relaxed, wrapping his arms around her.
“You look good, sweetheart,” Marinette said, adjusting Tim’s tie out of habit.
“You too, Mom.” He replied, simply letting her do it. His words were so simple, so honest, they hurt more than any reproach ever could.
Adrien ruffled his hair as they pulled away, and Tim feigned annoyance, then smiled back at them.
“You made it,” Tim said.
“We always do,” Adrien replied with a smile more genuine and soft than the one he usually reserved for others.
Marinette smiled.
“Yes, it’s true.” Tim nodded. Then turned to Damian, whom Marinette only now noticed was there. “See, little guy? I told you—they’d come.”
“Tt.” Damian clicked his tongue but studied the adults with curiosity hidden in his eyes, analyzing them.
Marinette thought that child, Damian, looked oddly familiar. Especially his eyes. Those green eyes seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place why.
Bruce watched them with his all-seeing eyes. He said nothing, but Marinette felt his judgment as a silent pressure behind the quiet. She held herself steady, as someone who had carried heavier burdens for years.
“Bruce,” Adrien greeted in a neutral but polite voice, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you for taking care of our son. It’s always a relief knowing he’s with someone trustworthy when we can’t be.”
Bruce didn’t reply immediately. His gaze traveled from Adrien to Marinette, then to Tim.
“Tim is very capable on his own,” he finally said, low and firm. Yet without losing the playful tone that “Brucie Wayne” used as armor. “He doesn’t need much supervision.”
Then he smiled. That smile—perfect, disarming, vaguely empty, charismatic. The smile of someone raised in a mansion with more mirrors than affection, learning to hide wounds behind the reflection of a dandy.
Adrien returned the smile with equal skill, as if they were playing a silent game.
“Ah, yes. That’s what school says too,” Adrien replied, with a soft, barely forced laugh. His eyes moved to Tim. “By the way, we need to talk about school.”
Tim made a face. Right. He had forgotten that leaving school was something he should have discussed with his parents first.
“It’s always been this way,” Marinette said, her smile that of an ancient queen carrying impossible secrets, completely ignoring her husband’s comment. “Even when he was little. Timothy has always been a calm and intelligent child.”
Tim shrugged slightly, a little embarrassed.
“Do you have time for a drink before the speeches start?”
Marinette looked at him. Not as Janet. Not as a guest. She looked at him as his mother. And gently, with a gesture no one would notice but him, she smoothed a small wrinkle on the lapel of his suit.
“Of course, mon cœur,” she whispered in French, barely audible. As if it had slipped out, as if the language meant nothing. “In fact, we assumed tonight you would come home with us.”
Tim blinked, then shrugged. “Sure, okay.” A smile appeared on his lips. He turned then to say something quietly to Damian, diverting his attention from his parents but staying close, as if unwilling to lose the chance to reclaim time with them.
Bruce looked back at them, his smile now softer. “It’s good to see him smile like that,” he said, as though he hadn’t really said it. Like a casual comment about the weather. But Marinette knew it wasn’t. She noticed.
She held his gaze a moment longer. And then, as if he had never broken character, Bruce spoke again:
“And how are things in Egypt? Or was it Peru last time? Archaeologists are harder to track than paparazzi here in Gotham.”
Adrien let out a perfectly fake laugh. “Lately more Peru than Egypt. Fewer curses… though more snakes.”
“And less elegance than in Gotham,” Marinette added, adjusting the sleeve of her dress. “But they have good coffee. And wonderful culture.”
“Wow, that sounds lovely!” Bruce said, barely rotating the glass in his hand. “Though undoubtedly exhausting. As for me, I stick to Gotham’s old mysteries. They don’t require bug spray.”
“Oh, never underestimate old mysteries,” Marinette said softly. “Sometimes the oldest are the most dangerous.”
Bruce let out a laugh that made a nearby couple chuckle, as if it were the punchline to a joke everyone was supposed to understand. “Quite true! I’ll remember that next time Alfred forbids me from entering the east wing with my muddy shoes.”
Tim turned toward them at that moment, unknowingly interrupting the scene, with a bright look. “Can I steal you for a moment?” he asked, still as if asking permission to approach.
Bruce raised his hands theatrically. Marinette noticed Tim tried not to grimace at that. “Of course! Just make sure you return them for the second round of toasts. This hall won’t be the same without the charming Drakes present. The audience loves you, Janet. And you too, Jack,” he added, with that conspiratorial tone that made reporters laugh and disarmed politicians.
Marinette smiled back with the same dangerous elegance she had once used to defuse bombs. “I will, Bruce, dear. But I can’t promise much. We’re quite sought after, you know.”
Bruce smiled. “And you will remain so. It’s Gotham. Here secrets are worth more than gold.” With a wink, he turned halfway, shedding the charming host mask for a few moments… until someone else needed him.
Tim looked at them with a sincere smile, as if unaware of the edge beneath every previous word, even though he had noticed. “How was the trip?” he asked, polite but with genuine curiosity in his eyes.
Adrien was the first to respond, as he usually did when Marinette needed a few extra seconds to breathe. “Calm. A stopover in London, another in New York. Your mother slept most of the way.”
“That’s not true, Jack,” Marinette said, smiling with a gesture only Tim and Adrien could read. “I was drawing. New designs. They don’t have a purpose yet, but… they were for you.”
Tim tilted his head, like when he was a child trying to understand what his mother meant when she spoke in half-words. “For me?”
“I always draw when I think of you. I guess I never stopped,” she admitted, lowering her voice. “You’ll have a new suit soon.” She let him know. “I just need to take your measurements again.”
“Okay,” Tim replied, guiding them out of the center of the hall, toward a side terrace where the murmurs were softened by the glass and the music’s hum barely became a distant vibration. Gotham’s night was cold, but there, amid the soft lights and the distance from the world, it seemed more bearable.
Marinette was the first to break the silence. “You’re taller.”
Tim smiled, glancing at her while leaning on the marble railing. “You say that every time you see me, Mom.”
“And every time it’s true,” Marinette replied, shrugging.
Adrien stayed at her side, watching him silently. Something in his expression was softer than usual. More… honest.
“The suit fits you well,” he finally said, gesturing vaguely at the dark blue fabric. “This cut is better than the previous one. More mature.”
Tim grinned, amused. “Thanks. Alfred helped me choose it.”
Marinette smiled too, though her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her clutch. A tic Tim didn’t recall noticing before… or perhaps had forgotten.
“You okay?” she asked suddenly, looking at both of them. Her eyes darkened slightly, alert. “Are you in Gotham for anything besides the gala?”
Adrien raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Can’t we come just to see you?”
“Of course you can,” Tim replied calmly. “But normally you show up two days after the gala, not before.”
Marinette swallowed, sharing a glance with Adrien. “We just… wanted to spend a little more time with you this time,” she said, her voice breaking ever so gently without fully cracking. “Work can wait.”
Tim lowered his gaze, a serene smile on his face. “I’m fine, Mom. Really. Gotham hasn’t tried to kill me in weeks, I haven’t been kidnapped recently, and that counts as stability.”
Adrien let out an involuntary laugh, but Marinette gave him a half-squinting look.
“Don’t joke about that.” She scolded them both, sending a reproachful glance. Tim and Adrien shared a similar sense of humor after all. It was obvious her husband would laugh.
“Sorry,” Tim said. But he didn’t really mean it, and his parents knew.
Marinette shook her head, sighing resignedly.
Adrien placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You really are taller,” he said, the silliest and most inevitable thing he could have said. But sometimes parents said silly things when they didn’t know how to say ‘I missed you’ without breaking their voice. “Taller than your mother, at least. I think you inherited her height.”
“You’re grayer, Dad,” Tim replied, smiling.
“Lies!” Adrien exclaimed, hand to his hair, pretending to be offended. “It’s just the lights’ glare. And stress. Lots of stress.”
Marinette let out a low laugh. Adrien had recently started dyeing his hair to make it look like he had gray hair, but only so people wouldn't notice that his natural hair color wasn't actually that.
"How have you been, Tim? Really," she asked her son this time, without the usual tone of politeness.
Tim blinked, as if the question had caught him off guard. "Good." He hesitated for a moment, then corrected himself. "Busy. School, the Foundation, the company. You know, Gotham stuff."
"Dangerous stuff?" Adrien asked casually, though his jaw was tense.
Tim shook his head. "Just… intense. But Gotham’s always like that."
Marinette studied his gestures with the precision of a seamstress who knows every fold of the fabric she works with. She noticed the faint lines of fatigue under his eyes. The way his back was straight—too straight for someone so young. She saw the mask.
She felt guilty for having taught him so well how to wear it.
"You don’t have to pretend with us, you know," she said softly.
Tim looked at her, genuinely confused. "I’m not pretending."
And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe, for him, this had already become normal.
"We just want to make sure you’re okay," Adrien said, more seriously now. "We always want that."
"I know," Tim replied without hesitation. "And I am. Really. Bruce has been… a constant. And the others too. I’m not alone, if that worries you."
Marinette lowered her gaze. Just for a second. Only a second. But enough for Adrien to notice how her eyelashes trembled.
"Speaking of school…" Adrien continued, deciding to change the subject before his wife started to cry.
Tim made a face. "Ugh," he complained. "I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you first."
"Why did you leave in the first place?" Marinette asked her son, without reproach—only curiosity and concern.
"I was bored." Tim admitted. "I know everything I should. And I have other things I want to spend my time on."
"Like what?" Marinette raised an eyebrow. Tim looked at his father, but Adrien was standing with his arms crossed, raising both eyebrows, clearly waiting for an answer too.
Tim sighed. He had forgotten how strict his parents were about education.
"Wayne Industries." He confessed, choosing to omit the part about being a vigilante. "And Drake Industries."
"I understand your focus on our company," Adrien said, frowning at his son. A protective air surrounded him instantly. "But why Wayne Industries too? Has Bruce been using you to escape his work? Do I need to go talk to him?"
Tim shook his head immediately, raising his hands in peace. "No, it’s none of that. Bruce doesn’t make me do it. I volunteered."
Adrien narrowed his eyes, clearly still unconvinced. "Why?"
Tim turned to them calmly, leaning against the marble railing and crossing his arms with a posture that was part adult… and part child defending his mischief.
"Because it’s useful," he told them. "Because if I want to do something with what I inherited from you, with what you gave me, I need to understand the world you and Bruce move in. The world of companies, foundations, decisions that change real things."
Marinette watched him silently. She could recognize when someone was telling the truth… but she also knew when that truth was incomplete.
"And doesn’t it feel… overwhelming?" she asked gently. "You’re running one of the largest economic empires at seventeen."
"I only manage a few departments," Tim replied, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "Technology. Communications. The essentials."
Adrien let out a dry laugh. "The essentials, he says." He repeated it, then looked at him—not harshly, but with genuine puzzlement. As if a thought had just occurred to him that he hadn’t considered before. "Tim, you don’t need to prove anything to anyone." He let him know. "We’ll be proud of you no matter what you do."
"I’m not trying to," Tim said. Then he lowered his gaze for a second and murmured, "But it’s good to know." There was a pause. "I just want to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?" Marinette asked, keeping her voice soft.
Tim hesitated. The silence stretched. Then, simply, he smiled. "For whatever comes." He answered. And it was such a bright, polished smile that Marinette felt a pang behind her sternum. Because that smile wasn’t that of a seventeen-year-old boy. It was someone who had already had to survive too much.
And she didn’t like it, because it made her realize her son was hiding things—not like any normal teenager, but in the same way she and Adrien had once hidden things from their own parents.
Adrien sighed, running a hand through his hair, which now definitely had more gray than he admitted.
"Sometimes I wish you had inherited my stubbornness instead of your mother’s," he joked.
Tim smiled. "Isn’t your sense of humor enough?"
Adrien tried to smile. "It is." But his son resembled his mother too much at that age, and it worried them. "So," Adrien continued, "you’re not going to tell us you’re in an illegal biker gang or something?"
"Maybe in another life," Tim replied, raising an eyebrow with humor. "This one, I’m content with shareholder meetings and quarterly reports. I know, I’m so rebellious."
Marinette laughed softly, but her eyes didn’t leave her son’s face for a second. "Just promise us one thing," she finally said.
Tim nodded. "What?"
"That if you ever need help… really," she paused, looking him directly in the eyes, as if she wanted to pierce every layer of his self-control, "you won’t try to handle it alone."
Tim didn’t answer immediately. He looked at his mother. Then at his father.
And for a second—just one—he seemed five years old again.
"I promise," he said, with a smile that was not entirely false.
But neither was it entirely true.
"And for God’s sake," Adrien added, "at least finish school. Even if it’s online."
"You won’t insist on college?" Tim teased. "I thought you cared about my education, Dad."
"As if insisting would do any good." Adrien huffed. "Just finish school. You don’t need a college degree anyway. Your mother doesn’t have one, and she’s done very well."
"Jack, stop telling people that, especially our son," Marinette scolded him. "I do have a degree. I just don’t use it."
"And that’s why I handle the legal and administrative matters of our company, my dear," Adrien reminded Marinette, with indulgence and sweetness.
Marinette let out a small laugh. And she looked at her son. "By the way, Timothy, we’d love to spend more time with you while we’re here." She said softly and calmly, a sweetness in her tone that made Tim smile. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"
Tim shook his head. "I’m free."
"Perfect." Adrien said, wrapping an arm around his son as if he could still lift him off the ground like when he was five. "We could take you to that Japanese place you liked when you were nine. It’s still there. I asked."
"The one with celebrity photos on the walls and soup that looked like lava?"
"That’s the one."
"I’ll take it," Tim said, his smile still shining.
But as they spoke, Marinette watched him again. How naturally he wore the suit. How he glanced around the room by instinct. How he kept a story in his chest that they no longer knew.
And she felt, with sharp pain, that every day they spent away from him was a day he learned to live without them.