Chapter Text
| From: | Dispatch |
| To: | Marinette Dupain-Cheng |
| Subject: | Travel |
As we are currently preparing a new edition of the Guide for the eastern seaboard of the United States to be released next year, we need additional inspectors to provide their opinions on a number of locations. As you know, the guide's star ratings are decided on through combining the ratings of multiple different inspectors on multiple individual visits.
We know you are traveling in that region for several upcoming fashion shows, and many of these places are known specifically for their desserts, your particular expertise would be of value. Attached you will find a list of the establishments we would appreciate your opinion on, though we of course invite you to visit any other promising venues you learn of.
[Attachment: locations.pdf]
“And as always,” Marinette intoned in her best attempt at a serious government official voice as she finished reading the last of the mail, “should you or any of your team be caught or killed, the Michelin corporation will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This email will self destruct in ten seconds.”
The email did not self-destruct.
In actuality, she saved the attached list to print out later, and sent off an affirmative reply, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic for her first real set of assessments. Still, she leaned over to scratch her lazy black cat behind the ears. “Well, Plagg, sounds like I get to go on an adventure while I’m in New York for fashion week, hm?”
The black cat blinked lazily at her, then let out an enormous yawn before rolling over to present his belly for rubs. Marinette couldn’t help but think a little wistfully that Adrien would have adored this Plagg every bit as much he had as the cat’s namesake.
The fact that the thought only brought a little pang of sadness somehow made her feel worse than the thought itself did. She felt as though it was a betrayal, like she should still be raw with grief. It had only been four years, after all.
Only four years since they found that her partner’s father was Hawkmoth. Only four years since he was defeated. Only four years since she became just a normal young woman with a normal life again. Only four years since Master Fu reclaimed her Miraculous and vanished with the now-full Miracle Box.
Only four years since Gabriel had destroyed a feather during that final fight, ending the life of Marinette’s beloved fiancé and partner—of his own son—with merely a snap of his fingers. And only four years since she’d used a Miraculous one final time to help Master Fu stage a “death” for the man who would have become her husband had he lived just one more month.
Only four years since she’d started telling the world the lie that he’d been killed by an unidentified drunk driver in a hit-and-run, rather than telling everyone the truth of his origin or his identity as Chat Noir.
Marinette sighed, rubbing at her eyes for a moment as though to wipe away the tears that should be there, even if they no longer always were. She wondered when it had stopped feeling like her heart was being torn out every time something made her think of Adrien. When had it become an ache, a memory of an old injury, rather than a wound that was still raw and bleeding?
Her therapist said it was a sign of healing, but more often it felt like a betrayal to Marinette. Some days, she wanted just to rip into herself, to bring back that raw pain. Because her partner deserved better than for her to walk away from everything they had, to let him fade into nothing but fond memories. Deserved more than having her lie to everyone about why he was gone, instead of screaming from the rooftops that he should be remembered as a hero.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly as she tried to put those thoughts aside. She had a new challenge to focus on, after all.
When she’d joined the Michelin Guide inspectors as a side job a year ago, she’d thought it would just be another activity to try to distract herself from how empty her life often felt while also putting her pastry expertise to good use.
(And, of course, an excuse to eat at really classy places she wouldn’t otherwise try, and then expense everything.)
But the secrecy and the need for the identities of the inspectors to remain unknown—to prevent anyone from stacking the deck and giving an inspector special treatment—gave the whole thing a somewhat thrilling air of intrigue. It wasn’t the same as the thrill of running across rooftops with her partner, but she told herself it was a little like being a secret agent. Something that let her pretend to herself that the fashion job was the cover, and she was undercover. Like she was in the culinary equivalent of the CIA.
(The Central Intelligence Agency version of that acronym, obviously, not the Culinary Institute of America one.)
Not for the first time, Marinette wondered if it really was only that she needed distraction, or whether there was also a small chance that spending her formative years as a superhero might just have turned her into an adrenaline junkie.
She then dismissed the thought. Again, not for the first time.
With a sigh, she reached out to pet her cat again. “Who am I kidding, Plagg? I can pretend this is like being a secret agent all I want, it’s not like anything actually exciting is going to happen.”
❖
There were many times in the past four years that Marinette had missed her former kwami, but none more regularly than when she felt a need to talk to someone when she didn’t have anyone there.
And right now, she really wished she had someone to talk to. Unfortunately, the convention that Michelin inspectors generally dine alone when dining ‘on the clock’ meant even if she had someone she could’ve theoretically invited along, she wouldn’t have actually done it.
And so she found herself really missing Tikki. Because in her opinion, this place definitely deserved at least one star in the guide, and she kind of wanted to gush to someone about it. And it would have been fine if that someone was a tiny god she had carried in her purse for six years.
Instead, she tried to silently make a mental bullet-point list of her observations.
The decor was classy without being ostentatious; clean cream walls, dark wood accents, brass fixtures, strategically placed potted small trees and other tall plants giving the tables a slightly private air without feeling claustrophobic. So, points for atmosphere.
And the food… oh, the food. If dessert was as good as dinner, she was definitely looking forward to it.
Even the salad had been excellent, and Marinette was not normally a salad person.
She chased the final piece of the best chicken picatta she’d ever had around her plate with her fork, trying to mop up the last bit of lemony sauce. In her head, she was working through the way she’d write up her assessment for ‘dispatch’ back at the Guide offices.
So it was a bit of a surprise when a man stopped at her table and asked “Hey, is this seat taken?”
Marinette blinked, looking up. And up. And then a little further up. Crepes, he’s tall. “Is… that a thing here? I thought they required reservations.”
“Oh, they do. That’s why I’m hoping to slide in on someone else’s.” The man offered her a charming smile, one that had just a little bit of a sharp edge to it that promised mischief. His eyes were a striking teal, one that looked like it was trying to be blue but had been flooded with green. His black hair had a single white steak running through it and was touseled in that artfully-disordered way that took hours to get just right on a model. Obnoxiously, something about him made Marinette think for this man it just naturally fell that way.
And to top it all off, somehow he managed to wear his suit like it was a leather jacket, giving him an air of a James Dean style movie rebel without any of the matching costume. She wasn’t even certain how, and she’d had extensive experience with models.
“Uhm,” she managed, trying desperately to reboot her brain when she wasn’t even certain when or why it had crashed. “I… sure, yes? The take isn’t seated… I mean, the seat isn’t taken.” She took a deep breath and let it out, silently reassuring herself that she could in fact speak to the man like a sane person. “But I’m just about to get dessert, so they’ll be getting the table back before too long.”
The man pulled out the chair and dropped into it in a single fluid motion, offering her that smile again. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t need to order. I’m just trying to dodge someone who I really don’t want to talk to, and a restaurant that requires reservations seems like a place they’re less likely to look.”
“Encward acco... awkward encounter with the ex?” Marinette asked, arching one eyebrow and trying her best to portray a calm and cool exterior. What the hell is wrong with me, she wondered. I haven’t been this bad with words since collége!
“Eh, something like that,” the man replied, his smile thinning for a moment. “She and I have a History with a capital H, and it’s not fu— it’s not good. But I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, Pix.”
“…Pix?” Marinette frowned, wondering if the man had mistaken her for someone else.
“Because you’re tiny and colorful, like a little pixie,” the man answered. “Also, since I’m trying not to let my face be seen from the entrance, if you see an Arabic woman in a blood-red dress turn up, can you let me know?”
“Hmph. Making fun of my height? You are extremely rude, and I am considering revoking my permission for a stranger to sit at my table. And my name is Mari.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mary. I’m Jason. Now we’re not strangers! But I’m serious about that woman.”
Marinette sighed. “Fine. I’ll keep watch for your oh-so-fearsome ex.” Deciding that she’d caught as much sauce as she was likely to, she popped the last bit of her dinner into her mouth.
“So, not from around here, are you?”
Marinette very pointedly finished that last bite of her dinner before acknowledging the question. “And what makes you say that?”
“Well, the Boston accent tends to eventually infect everyone who stays here too long, but your accent is... French? Not local, anyway. And you keep stumbling over words, so I’m guessing English isn’t your first language and you’re not totally fluent.”
Rude. And only half right, not that she was acting particularly fluent at the moment.
“Oui, I’m visiting on business. And non, I’m fluent. Just jet lagged.” Marinette’s tone was dry as she put the plate aside, folding her arms on the table as she studied the man across from her. “And you?”
Jason smirked. “Pix, do I sound like I’m from ‘Bawhstun’?” The terrible and comically over-exaggerated accent he put on the final word made her cringe.
“Please never do that again. English is a terrible language and you should all learn something sensible like French, but even it doesn’t deserve...” When words failed, Marinette just gestured sort of vaguely in Jason’s direction. “...whatever that was. Because it was definitely not a Boston accent.”
“Fair,” Jason agreed. “So, what sort of business brings a lovely pixie from France all the way to Boston?”
At first Marinette was about to answer truthfully, that she was a designer and was in America for several fashion shows and meetings while there. But then a mischievous impulse struck her. None of her fashion obligations had brought her to Boston specifically; this was purely for her Michelin role, which needed to remain secret.
So she just offered him a smile, a little quirk of an eyebrow, and a simple “Mine to know.”
“What, I can’t know what you do?”
Marinette was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the waiter, bringing the dessert she’d ordered earlier. He paused upon seeing Jason, giving Marinette a look which silently asked if she needed an interloper removed.
Before she could come up with a good explanation, Jason was already speaking. “Don’t mind me; I saw my friend while I was passing by, and since she was alone I grabbed a chair so we could catch up.”
At the waiter’s questioning look, Marinette nodded; it worked well enough for an explanation, after all. Thus reassured, the waiter put down the chocolate and caramel mousse she had ordered. It was a decadent thing served in something like a wine-glass to show off the pattern: the bulk of it was rich chocolate, but a ribbon of caramel spiralled gracefully through it and a dollop of fresh-made vanilla bean whipped cream topped it.
It looked almost too good to eat.
Almost.
“Shall I bring a second spoon?”
Marinette paused, her attention drawn back to the waiter—and to the man seated at her table, who was openly staring at her dessert like an Arthurian knight who had just finally glimpsed the Holy Grail and was currently having an intense religious experience.
Marinette was so tempted to just tell the waiter no and eat the whole thing herself, but something in the way Jason was staring at the chocolate with wide eyes reminded her vaguely of her kwami around sweets. And maybe she was feeling sentimental, but...
With an exasperated huff she nodded to the waiter, who turned to depart. “But only a few bites!”
“Do I look like I would take someone’s entire dessert?”
“I don’t know, Zilla, would you?”
Jason paused. “‘Zilla’?”
Marinette raised an eyebrow in challenge. “If I’m a pixie because I’m small, then you’re Godzilla because you’re...” She made an irritated noise, gesturing towards Jason and then the ceiling. “You-sized.”
For a moment Jason looked bewildered, and then he laughed. “Oh, that’s good. I’ll have to tell my brothers that one.”
Marinette slowly took a spoonful of the mousse, gathering a bit of every flavor into one bite. Closing her eyes and savoring the rich flavor, she couldn’t help but let out a little moan of pleasure. Dessert definitely did not disappoint.
“Geez, Pix, do you and your chocolate need a room?”
Marinette’s eyes flew open, and she could already tell her cheeks were flaming scarlet. She swallowed the first bite and stammered out something that was more a general puree of various syllables than any sort of coherent human speech.
“Damn, it made you forget how to talk too? Definitely looking forward to my own spoonful now.”
The arrival of the waiter with Jason’s spoon made Marinette pause until they were alone once more.
“You are horrible and I should deny you the chocolate.” Before Jason could raise a protest, she added, “But I will not, because I would bet you that your reaction isn’t any better.”
Jason leaned forward, spoon in hand. “Interesting. What are the stakes?”
“Mon dieu, I didn’t think you’d take it literally! You remind me of some school friends who would bet on everything. Besides, what would you even want if you win?”
Jason made a show of looking thoughtful. “Hm. How about your phone number?”
“Wh- I-” Marinette felt her cheeks flame again, as the speech center of her brain apparently experienced a critical system failure. What is wrong with me??
Jason smirked, reaching out dramatically to slowly take a spoonful of the mousse and make a whole show of putting the spoon ever so slowly into his mouth.
Marinette thought she might be dying. She felt like her ears were going to burst into literal flame.
Jason smirked victoriously at her for a moment, but she could see the instant the full flavor hit him and he let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh of utter contentment.
“Ha!” Marinette pointed accusingly at him, making Jason’s eyes widen as he took in her victorious grin. “You lose, Zilla.”
“Fuck,” Jason moaned. “You know, right now I don’t even care. I would kill for that chocolate if it asked me to. No regrets.”
“Oh, I can make you care,” Marinette said with a smirk. “See, you set the terms for if you won... but we didn’t say what I get if I did. Which I believe means I can set whatever terms I want.”
“Okay, now I have some regrets.”
“You’re about to have more.” The new voice carried an elegant accent Marinette would guess was Middle Eastern in origin. She couldn’t be more precise, because she was somewhat distracted by the actual literal sword that was suddenly at Jason’s throat, held by a tall woman in a striking dark red dress.
For a moment no one reacted, until finally Marinette remarked as calmly as she could manage, “...Jason, you seem to have forgotten to mention your ex was a sword-wielding psychopath. I feel like that’s the sort of thing that’s polite to disclose when asking to sit at someone’s table.”
“I said we had history, not that she was my ex,” Jason said, very carefully. “And hello, Talia, what an unpleasant surprise. Have you tried the chocolate here? It’s to die for.”
“And yet neither of us is very good at dying, are we?” The woman—Talia?—pressed the sword a little closer to Jason’s throat. “Where. Is. It.”
Marinette’s mind went crystal clear, just as it always had in akuma fights, her gaze flicking to everything around her as she tried to draw on old instincts to form a plan on the fly.
“So you haven’t found it yet either, have you?” Jason’s voice was smug. “Guess that means I have more time than I thought.”
Talia considered this for a moment, then turned her gaze on Marinette. “If you have no care for your own life, perhaps you care for your little friend here. So tiny and easily snuffed out. What is your name, girl?”
“Pix, run.” Jason’s voice had gone into a low growl, his gaze much darker.
“Non. I am from Paris, madame.” Marinette smiled as the pieces of a plan came together, even if she silently lamented what it would cost. She also tried to ignore the way both Talia and Jason’s attention seemed to sharpen at her words. “And if you know anything about what we saw as a city, you will know this about many Parisians: we do not run. Even when perhaps we should.”
So saying, she took the edge of the tablecloth she was holding beneath the table and out of Talia’s view and yanked it upwards. Her judgment of trajectory was flawless, her dessert launching straight at Talia’s face and—as she’d hoped—causing Talia to reflexively move the sword from Jason’s neck to deflect the projectile.
The blade sliced cleanly through the glass, spattering chocolate and caramel into the woman’s eyes; Marinette and Jason shared a brief mournful look as they grieved for what could have been. But the mousse died for a noble cause, and before Talia could recover Marinette had rolled herself under the table and kicked one of the nearby potted trees. It teetered for a moment, then crashed down on Talia’s sword, ripping it from her hands.
A second kick sent the blade spinning across the floor, and she felt a moment of smug satisfaction to realize she hadn’t lost all her old hero skills.
Then suddenly someone screamed, and she heard the stampede start.
Marinette rolled out from under the table. (And if she sprang to her feet less quickly than she would have in her superhero days, she thought it was still pretty good by civilian standards.) As she came to her feet, however, she saw Jason brandishing a gun—no, two guns—and snarling at Talia while other diners fled. “Holy crepes, what...?”
“We’re going to take a little walk somewhere private to have a little discussion,” Jason growled, and she felt betrayed to notice he was shifting to point one of the guns at her. “All three of us.”
“Me too? Why?? This is between you and your... whatever she is! I just wanted a nice dinner!” Marinette made a gesture of wordless frustration, before she added in a heartbroken wail, “I let you share my chocolate, and then it died for you!”
Whatever either of the other two might have said to that particular lament, it was interrupted by shouts from the two police officers who burst into the restaurant, one proclaiming into their radio that “Suspect has a gun! Repeat: suspect is armed!”
At the shout, Jason cursed and all three dropped into cover. Which was a good thing, because moments later several bullets tore through the plants around the table.
“Again, why?? Mon dieu, what is wrong with your country?” Marinette glared accusingly at Jason, pointing a finger at him.
“Many things,” Talia muttered.
Somehow, given that she’d assaulted someone with a sword as though it were a casual greeting, Marinette suspected that whatever list of things Talia had in mind would differ from her own. It was probably just different versions of “irritating restrictions on importing biological weapons” or something similar.
“Why are you asking me?” Jason sounded slightly offended.
“Because you’re part of the problem, Monsieur Cowboy!” Marinette glared meaningfully at the dual pistols he still had. “I came out to have a nice dinner, and instead I got... whatever this is!”
Another round of bullets, as though to underline Marinette’s statement.
“Well, this has been deeply unenjoyable, so I believe I shall take my leave.” With a mocking smile, Talia tossed something on the floor, and Marinette instinctively took a deep breath. She was glad she did, because within moments the area filled with a thick smoke.
“That was mine... wait, did you pickpocket me?” Jason’s voice from in the smoke was even more indignant as he began to cough. “Get your own smoke bombs!”
Marinette held her breath as she rolled out of cover and quickly scrambled in the direction she remembered the kitchen, which was away from the trigger happy police at the door. And the (irritatingly hot) gun-wielding lunatic who had cost her the best dessert she’d had in some time.
She plunged through the door into the empty kitchen and took shelter behind one of the prep areas, releasing the breath she’d been holding now that she was in relatively clear air again. Glancing around the area, she noticed the rear delivery door standing ajar, as the kitchen staff—evidently having more sense of self-preservation than Marinette had displayed—had seemingly fled.
She decided to follow their lead, hastily grabbing a spare chef’s jacket that someone had left behind so that she could blend in, before dashing out into the alley behind the restaurant. Once she was reasonably certain the coast was clear, she made her way as quickly as she could the several blocks back to the hotel she’d gotten for the night.
It wasn’t until she was safely back in her hotel room fifteen minutes later, sprawled on her bed and staring at the ceiling after triple-checking the locks, that she let herself try to process what had just happened.
Which was when the realization hit her, and she threw an arm over her face with a groan.
“I didn’t even pay before I left!”