Day 3 - Homework

Princess Marinette strew out their images side by side upon her counter. The list had been shortened first by their age, then knowledge, and moral standing.

It didn't make the choice any easier.

She lifted the furthest left candidates portrait, reading a paper beneath of an excerpt on their person from the perspective of those close to him.

Kind, yet distant in the realm of emotion. However, give him a task, and it will be done, says a miner regarding the child he apprentices.

She sighed. He's fine, but... Shaking her head, she braced herself against the wood. Pick one. He has flaws— they all have flaws. If a candidate were to be flicked off the counter for one wrong in a sea of right, they would all be gone.

Picky picky.

"Princess," Chat Noir stepped lightly to the windowsill.

Chat Noir, a member of The Royal Miraculous Guard, how silly is it that this cat laments not seeing his partners more often, when he sees their team leader out of costume daily?

Marinette turned to sit atop the counter, watching his boots descend noiselessly as he curtsied upon the carpet.

"Such charm, Sir Noir," she noted wryly, reminding him, "a gentleman bows."

"And cat's curtsy," he tapped a claw thoughtfully to his chin. "The rhyme sounded appealing enough, but..." He shrugged. "At least you're the only one who saw."

Yes, head lowered, one leg bent behind the other, and arms spread. A perfect curtsy. A perfect... A corner of her lip tugged up. "Did you... did you practice?"

His cheeks pinkened, flattening ears the only indication of how right she was.

She sniggered into her palm. "You stood - before a full body mirror - curtsying for a rhyme?"

"You were meant to laugh!" He defended. A boisterous guffaw poured into the room. "But not like this!"

He kicked the floor, huffing when she couldn't stop. "What are the portraits?"

"Ah." Her joy subsided. "Candidates." She flicked a crooked smile off the counter. "I'm to pick one."

He hummed, considering them. "Is there a tournament?" His brow questioned a rather lanky artist. "Doesn't the choice of a champion to represent us in neighboring lands fall to my partner the Butterfly?"

"It's a different candidate," she tip-toed, picking up a bespectacled youth as an excuse to avoid his eyes. "I'm to be wed in May."

His gaze on the men turned critical. "Wed?" She wondered what he was searching for, then again, what does she seek in these eyes whose worlds have nothing to do with her.

"Royalty, commoners, Father allowed me the limitless choice as if I were any other girl, in hopes that our marriage will be pure."

His head snapped up. "Commoners?" A thread of disbelief, and yet, what does it mean? "A-anyone?"

She carefully nodded.

"Then why not meet these men in person, as any other girl?" His claws, not so subtly, swept the candidates into a messy pile. Then, "this isn't all the townsfolk."

She waved dismissively to the trash, he followed her motion as if led by the nose. "Filtered out those unfit for ruling. Be it by skill, age, or mental stability." She sighed. "There is law involved, the council will not allow me to choose beyond certain specifications."

Hand hovering, he backed from the trash pile with a small "oh." Shoulders falling, Chat took a deep breath.

"Does it bother you?" She cautiously side-stepped to him.

His lack of an answer was one in itself.

"Which? That I must wed, or how I'm choosing?"

"Why must you choose at all? Shouldn't fate tie lives together?" Again, his failure to answer told her all she needed to know.

"My Mother, the Queen, is wiser than you and I. She tells me, always do your homework on a man before meeting him." She smirked at Chat. "Had I known that before you..."

Faster than she could follow, Chat scooped a portrait from her personal writing desk. "Why is this one separate?"

Marinette tripped in retrieving it from him.

"You told me of him, that as the Sempster would tutor you, his son would often visit. Adrien, was it?"

She hugged the portrait tighter, as if hiding his face would banish the conversation. Why does he care for her opinion of another man? Seasons ago she asked who he was under the mask, and seasons later the question floats between them.

"You seem rather invested," she noticed. "Tell me, are you among the men lain here?"

Walls in place once more, Chat crossed his arms. "You know I can't say."

"You're sworn to secrecy by the royal family," she retaliated. "My family, just tell me!"

His jaw clenched.

"Very well," reining in her outburst, Marinette tied on a cloak. "I'll take my homework on the field."

He blanched. "Where are you off to?"

"To meet them," she tilted her head to the counter. "As you said; in person. It will make the decision an easier one."

His cold heart caught fire. "Now you take my advice? To spite me?"

She slammed the door in response.