Chapter Text
She should kill him.
Okay, no, she shouldn’t. Firstly, because that’s bad. Secondly, because she doesn’t actually know who he is. She should at least know a man before sinking her teeth into his neck, right? It’s common courtesy, and she’s not the type to just put her mouth anywhere without prior knowledge on where it’s been. At the very least, she should at least find out what his whole deal is. Didn’t Hawkmoth say something about bringing his family together? Something sympathetic yet twisted? Something about his son? She’s honestly got no idea— Hawkmoth is a theater man, always interested in making things into a spectacle whenever he can— so she’s not even sure what’s true and what’s just make-believe. He could just be completely lying, even if the whole family-man angle is honestly way too interesting to just leave behind.
That still doesn’t stop the urge to throttle him, though.
She could kill Hawkmoth. But she won’t. But she could.
It is the middle of the night and this Akuma is absolutely miserable, but at least it’s over with. Maybe she’d pressured the Akuma a little too hard to hurry up and move along, but it wasn’t a bad thing. If anyone asks, she did it for the safety of the city; was it important that she threatened to rip off the Akuma’s arm if he tried dazzling her with that wand of his? No. But. Paris’s safety still is a thing.
“Kitty?” Mister Bug asks, a knowing smile on his face, as he comes back from the van. “How are you doing?”
She’s sitting on the curb of the sidewalk, giving the victim some time to breathe— victims don’t know any better, since they’re technically not sentient at all when they’re Akumatized, but she still recognizes his face and knows that he’s the reason why she’s awake at this hour and it’s causing her to hiss. Hard. A lot. The social worker van is here to pick up the victim, a common sight whenever she’s in this suit and has debris in her braid from a fight, and they’ll be taking care of the victim and making sure that they’re okay, and has the man who’s made her night a living hell for the time being currently wrapped up in a thermal blanket. After all, no one ever wants a recently-purified Akuma walking around without any additional help, least of all her. She’s not a monster, she’s a sweetie.
Mister Bug always does his best to comfort them the best he can. He’s a natural at it. People look up to him with stars in their eyes, so thankful for someone so calm and collected during moments of peak stress.
Usually she’ll join, offer a few jokes and have a snack or two with the person in the back of the van, offering to open the packet of crackers in that weird cellophane that never tears the right way. She makes sure that they have their standard, government-issued, thermal-saving blanket on their shoulders. And makes sure that they know, above all else, that superheroes will never hold a grudge to them. Because they’re victims. And got taken advantage of from a super villain. That’s the whole point.
She’s still hissing.
So, she’d put herself in time-out.
“How are you awake?” she mumbles, scooting over on the sidewalk to make room for his shoulders when he sits down. He’s got kilometric-long legs, and he folds himself in like a burrito in an attempt to sit down next to her, just trying to be close to her without being completely in her space. They’re superheroes. Not exactly dating in the public eye. He laughs, something silly, nudging her with an elbow in friendly banter.
“Because it’s ten at night.”
“It’s not.”
“Might be ten thirty by now,” he continues, with what she can only identify is a smirk on his face. He looks way too smug. Oh, doesn’t he look excited to finally get her right back. “Did the Akuma wake you up?”
She’s in the middle of yawning. “You noticed?”
Another laugh, wrapping a giant arm around her shoulders, sneaking a kiss to her forehead by pretending to whisper in her ear instead. “Something like that.”
It’s the only app on her phone that she keeps to ring when she’s on ‘do not disturb’ for the night. She kind of has to; it’s either that, or have Plagg play guard-dog and watch the news all night from her computer and wake her up if he needs to, but she’s not sure that much screen-time for him is doing the Kwami any favors. Maybe it’s better that he’s not so in touch with the internet. He can barely handle radio.
“I don’t think there’s going to be any other Akumas tonight,” Mister Bug mumbles. “Maybe you should go home and get back to sleep.”
Another yawn, but she powers through. “You should come over.”
They haven’t really been able to talk much today, but they’re just so busy. She’s still working two jobs, and that consists on running across the city to satisfy her family’s intense work ethic, so it’s not like she has all the time in the world to text. She does try, sending pictures of funny things she’s seen throughout the day, spare pieces of thoughts she’s had that don’t provide much context to him while he’s currently studying in University. From what she remembers, he has a midterm coming up. Wasn’t that what he was studying for when she was there two days ago? She doesn’t even remember, more interested in his bed, piling all of his blankets from the linen closet on top of her and dozing off from the weight.
But she hasn’t properly talked to him in forever. Going longer than twelve hours is practically a crime, and she’s not one to break any rules unless it’s intentional.
“Can we finish the movie today?”
He’s such a night owl. They’ve been trying to finish this movie for a week now, but she’s just capable of staying awake after dinner without snoozing on his chest. It must be lonely, trying to watch a romantic movie, only for her to snore. She’s asked continuously if he wants to watch it earlier, but they just never have the time. It’s not something they have control over.
“I’m probably going to end up falling asleep,” she replies honestly.
“That’s okay. Another time, then.”
“Still want to come over?”
“Always.”
So, he does. She’s practically limping by the time they make it through the balcony window of her parents’ apartment, because it’s too late at night for her to care and keep up appearances and people aren’t really paying attention, anyway. She’s stolen a croissant from the bakery, shoved half of it in her mouth while she paws open for the latch; her mother’s at the TV practically in the dark in the living room, watching highlights of the news of the latest Akuma attack. The walls bleed that off-white blue color that always permeates the background of the news, and it reflects off her mom’s face when she turns to face them.
“Baby, is that you?” her mother asks.
“Oh, hey mama. Why are you awake?”
“Your dad’s snoring kept me up,” she admits, though Lady Noire knows better than to assume it’s the whole truth. Her mother doesn’t know how to stay calm when there’s an Akuma on the loose, and refuses to go to bed until she knows for certain that her only daughter is back in the house or at least texts to let her know that she’s fine. It’s endearing, if not a little frustrating, to know that she’s not able to do much about the worry that crosses her mom’s face. They’ll just keep dancing this little dance until one of them admits to it.
Lady Noire closes the latch behind her after Mister Bug manages to get his legs through. They’re just too long. He’s folding himself in some more as if an origami paper, making some weird choices with his feet so that he can squeak his way through the small opening and get his shoulder through in the right angle.
Ever the courteous man, Mister Bug waves and smiles at her as Lady Noire wipes at her eyes again and makes her way to the staircase. “Hello, Madame Dupain-Cheng.”
“Oh! Look who it is,” she laughs. “Have you eaten dinner, yet?”
“I have.”
“There are leftovers in the fridge if you want some,” Sabine offers, intonation in her voice implying he doesn’t have to be shy about being hungry. He’s been inhaled into the Cheng family, after all, and Lady Noire can admit that she likes it a lot that no one in the family ever goes hungry if there’s something to be done about it.
Nevertheless, Mister Bug is quick to reassure her that he’s okay, telling her to have a good night; with the courage of a man possessed by good luck, he climbs her staircase without a lick of embarrassment. Not that there should be. Both of her parents adore him.
The two of them detransform and Marinette is desperate to hit a nearby dimmer switch before Plagg starts complaining about the light.
“Scram,” she tells her Kwami, who’s already starting to open his mouth. “I’m not hearing it, little Chef.”
“Princess, you’ve got to learn to keep the lights off before heading out.”
“Hush,” she whines into her hands. “Sleep time. No arguing. Did you brush your teeth, or am I going to have to do it for you?”
Plagg suddenly is nowhere to be found, most likely hiding in the peace lily on her desk, fleeing at the mere thought of having to deal with mint-flavored toothpaste. Tikki isn’t nearby either, and she suspects that she’s probably made her way down to go be with Sabine in the living room downstairs and try to get something to eat before coming back up. That’s fine. Marinette knows better than to stop Tikki from being with her former Guardian, after all.
In her room, there are plenty of options for Tikki to choose to fall asleep when she finally comes back; there are plants galore, turning the place into a forest, each pot with a convenient little pocket dug into them for a perfect cubby for a Kwami since Plagg enjoys terraforming with his little paws when he’s bored. Not only that, but she still keeps her dollhouse next to her bed, with doll-like furniture and an actual closet full of handmade clothes she’s made for Plagg over the years. Sometimes she’ll catch Plagg napping in the doll bedroom, if he’s not interested in the potential chance of getting squished by her head in her bed.
“And what about you?” Adrien asks. “Did you take off your makeup?”
“How do you know that I’m wearing makeup?”
“I know the color of your lips,” he mumbles, and something about it softens her into goo. “You’re still wearing that long-lasting lipstick from our date earlier today. Let me go get the makeup remover in your bathroom.”
The cotton pad on her face is cold but soft when he finally starts to wipe. She doesn’t want to flinch, but it’s habit; he follows her with his other hand right at her chin, keeping her still while he works on cleaning her up. He’s methodical in this like he with everything else, making sure to be careful around the eyes and not injure the delicate skin there, and she watches, enraptured, as Adrien’s face is so… close to hers. Endeared, if that’s even a word. He’s got a look to him that reminds her that he loves her, even while she’s cranky and tired, and it makes her want to purr.
He traces her skin like he’s kissing her with that cotton pad, following the edges of her cheeks with it and going up to the brows. A swipe against her mouth feels like yet another kiss, wiped clean yet slightly damp with a dry cotton pad.
“That’s better,” he says with a smile. Her face is damp and shiny, feeling clean now that he’s used micellar water on her face. “There. Perfect.”
She should kiss him.
God. She should kiss him.
He does it first, leaning into her to press his lips against her mouth before she can even blink, turning around to walk back to the bathroom before she can pull him closer on instinct. Damn it!
Adrien’s currently fighting to paw away a vining plant that’s just too long to not hit him on the forehead while he goes back to the bathroom to wash off the makeup pad, but she pays no mind to his struggles, more interested in faceplanting into her mattress with a groan and a blush that is heavier than a thousand suns. Her head is pounding. Why did she get interrupted from her sleep? That should be illegal. Shouldn’t someone be fined for this? At least yelled at? Growled at. Hissed. She’ll take a meow. A mewl. Whatever— she should not be awake past nine at night if people want a socially acceptable Lady Noire prowling these streets. How in god’s name did she ever do nightly patrols? She must’ve lost her mind at some point.
Behind her, Adrien laughs, going through one of her pajama drawers to re-steal a politely-permanently-borrowed shirt that just so happens to be his size, odd circumstances it may be. He’s pantsless. She heard that zipper of his jeans come right off. She doesn’t have the heart to find out what color underwear he’s wearing, because that’s not a thought she wants to follow with his migraine she’s sporting.
“You’re going to scoot over, right? Please don’t make me sleep on the floor.”
“Mmmm,” she replies, into her blanket.
“I’ll let you play jetpack.”
“Mmmm.”
“Give me a good night’s kiss?”
“Mmmm.”
He laughs again, voice suddenly closer. “Alright, Kitty. Hold on.”
Giant, gentle hands attempt to scoop her up from the mattress. She’s not helping, because she’s pouting and she’s tired, so she’s dead weight; Adrien grunts, cusp end of a chuckle that sounds warm and soft, as he gathers her up in his arms and does his best to shift her over just a handful of centimeters over so that he can join her in the bed correctly. By no means is her bed considered massive; it’s a couple’s bed in the most basic, rudimentary sense of the word, though it never had Adrien in mind. It doesn’t help that the mattress is filled with cat stuffed animals lining the headboard and pillows, because they take up quite a lot of headspace and cause his feet to almost stick out… and yet he never complains, even though they both get better sleep on his mattress. When he’s finally got the blanket out from underneath her and covers her up with it, he’s no less closer to actually making her give him enough space to reasonably exist.
He cocoons her with his giant, massive arm. In the end, he ends up being the one who jetpacks her, though it’s more like a big spoon and a little spoon. He can even reach the nightstand to find the remote to turn off the dimmer switch, though it takes him a few seconds to find it in the middle of the mini forest that populates the surface, trying to get the lucky bamboo out of the way enough to snatch it. He kisses her hair, mumbling about something that sounds like he’s saying he likes her shampoo, but she doesn’t really hear much of it. She’s more interested in that hand, that thumb, that slowly traces the skin on her hip where he’s got his hand on her as she’s lulled to sleep.
Their legs are intertwined. Maybe it’s an attempt to placate her into not putting her cold feet on his ankle and making him squirm. Maybe it’s because he likes how silly it is when she rubs her legs together like a cricket and wants to keep his feet nearby so he knows when she’s about to do it. Maybe he just knows that she likes being covered up in him like he’s a weighted blanket of her own, still smelling like that soap she likes from his house, like he’s her stuffed animal.
Either way, she’s practically flat-lining into her pillow.