Chapter Text
The theatre was in chaos. Perfectly delightful chaos.
If Marinette had had the time, she would have loved nothing more than to curl up in one of the velvet chairs and sketch the scene before her. Not just the gilded columns and picturesque danseurs and the heavy grandeur of the auditorium’s decadent baroque interior, but as it really was. A barely concealed mess. The flurry of movement, the yelling, the noise, her fingers itched to sketch it all. In the pit, the orchestra was practicing Mazurka for what was possibly the twelfth time that morning because someone in the brass section kept screwing up the bridge, while onstage, Madame Bustier was casting a critical eye over her danseurs, calling Non! Non! Avec grâce! as she drilled them through their movements once again. She had to yell louder than usual to be heard over the cacophony the stage-builders were making. The dulcet tones of hammers, saws, and drills were clearly not a tune she appreciated. Nor were the efforts of the stage-crew as they tested the sound and lighting, though that was probably just because they had blinded her danseurs twice this morning already.
The closer it got to opening night, the more chaotic the theatre became. And while Marinette might have had a certain sick love for the frenzied tension that was skyrocketing as they approached the big day, she might have been alone in that feeling. There was just over a week and a half left, and that meant that instead of the theatre being booked in at separate times, everyone’s schedules were overlapping and they were all stepping on each other’s toes in their efforts to get the million-and-one tasks that needed doing, done. Unfortunately, most of those tasks seemed to fall to Mari’s lot. There was just one problem standing in her way.
Literally standing, in this case. Chloé Bourgeois was not afraid to take up space. However, it wasn’t the standing that was getting to Marinette in this case, it was the tapping.
“Keep still,” Mari warned, as Chloé jittered impatiently, “or I’ll stick you with a needle.”
She was kneeling before the danseuse with a handful of tulle skirts and the rapidly fading hope that maybe this time Chloé would let her finish.
“Could you stitch any slower?” Chloé snapped, her eyes glued to the stage and her foot tapping up and down. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. “How long does it take to hem a skirt?”
“Depends on whose skirt it is,” Mari muttered to herself. The tapping was doing nothing to aid her patience, or diminish her desire to escape into the wilds of the theatre with her sketchbook,
“Was that Marinette with one ‘t’ or two?” asked Mari’s other distraction. Her much friendlier, warmer, livelier distraction. But a distraction just the same. And in Alya Césaire’s case, ten times as unavoidable.
“Two.” Mari grunted, tying off a knot and biting the thread between her teeth.
Alya was the loud-mouthed, copper-haired, bombshell of a journalist assigned to cover the Opera National De Paris’ upcoming production of Coppélia, and oversee all press-releases and information regarding it. Which meant that she had free reign of the theatre, and could basically interview whoever she wanted without anything to stop her. Not that Alya seemed like the type to allow anything to stop her. Usually Mari would have loved nothing more than to chat to someone as fun and smart-alecky as Alya, but she had fourteen costumes to finalise and she hadn’t had her morning coffee yet.
“You’re only twenty-two.” She noted, typing away, “That’s pretty young to be a costumes assistant on a production as big as this one.”
Mari smiled. “Yes. I’m lucky to be able to work under a designer as talented as Gabriel Agreste. I’ve always admired his work, and getting to be a part of a costume’s creation from start to finish and watch it come to life is a lot of fun.”
“And lot of work, I bet.”
“That too,” she admitted. “There’s been more coffee and tears in the last month than I care to recall. And it’s not over yet.”
Alya threw her legs over the seat beside her as her sharp eyes took in the scene around her. “Is it usually this crazy?”
“It’s not usually this bad,” Mari said. She winced as Chloé’s jittering caused her to stab herself with a pin – typical – and sucked at her finger. “There were some last minute ‘issues’ with one of our sponsors that meant the opening night got pushed forward three weeks. It’s screwed up our timeline royally.”
“Issues?”
Mari rolled her eyes. “Fancy talk for ‘we’re too low on the pecking order to get to know’.”
Chloé snorted derisively, and Mari glowered at her. She bet Chloé knew. Chloé’s father was their biggest sponsor, and what Daddy Bourgeois knew, Chloé was sure to wheedle out of him. Mari had no idea what had gone down, but she did know Madame Bustier had stormed around for a week in a black fury as she tried to re-organise months of planning, and co-ordinate every detail so they didn’t fall flat on their asses. Hence the reason Mari was here in the first place. Usually she’d be working in the costume-department at the Bastille, safe from any of the more annoying danseurs, but with the deadline so tight and so many last-minute alterations she didn’t have time to run back and forth between her workshop and the Palais Garnier.
Alya grinned but her reply was cut short as Chloé groaned.
“How much longer is this going to take?” she snapped. “I’m needed in rehearsal. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the premier danseuse – the star of the show!”
How could anyone forget when you keep reminding us every five minutes? Mari thought, rather uncharitably.
Aloud, she was more diplomatic. “I’m going as fast as I can, Chloé,” she assured her. “There are a lot of last-minute adjustments and you have more costumes than anyone else.”
“Whatever,” Chloé rolled her eyes. “Just hurry it up.”
“Marinette!” Natalie called. “Once you’re finished over there I have four more costumes that need hemming!”
“Yes Natalie!”
Alya’s hazel eyes gleamed with curiosity behind her wicked cat-eye glasses. “I heard somewhere you have three-thousand pearls to sew onto bodices?”
Mari rolled her eyes. “And a few hundred fake roses. Thankfully most of that is done though. Now it’s just-”
“Ugh, that’s enough,” Chloé swatted Mari’s hands away from her.
“Chloé!” she cried, as the ballerina stomped very gracefully towards the stage. “I haven’t finished yet!”
“Finish it later,” she snapped over her shoulder. “You can come to the penthouse after the last rehearsal.”
“Chloé!”
But further argument was useless. The danseuse was already beyond her reach. If this were a cartoon, Mari would be shaking her fist by now. Instead she settled for getting to her feet with a sigh, and packing up her sewing kit.
“Lovely,” Alya muttered. “Is she always this charming?”
Mari rolled her eyes. “I’ve known her since we were fourteen so believe me when I say: unfortunately, yes.”
“She seems like a brat.” Alya snorted. “Tell me, is it true that the choreographer had to change everything because Chloé insisted on playing both Swanhilda?”
“She had to play the principal role but she couldn’t bear not to end up with the leading man,” Mari sighed, as she packed away her things. “…But if that ever makes it into your article, you didn’t hear it from me.”
“I guess you can afford to make those kinds of demands, when your daddy is the production’s biggest sponsor,” Alya said slyly.
Mari laughed. She most definitely liked Miss Césaire. “Tell me about it. I have four dresses for her alone, and they’re all unfinished because she’s always running off.”
“I wonder why?” Alya asked dryly, waggling her eyebrows at the stage.
Mari glanced over her shoulder. Onstage, Chloé was looping her arm through one of the danseur’s flirtatiously. But not just any danseur. He grinned at Chloé, and ducked his head to whisper in her ear. Whatever it was it caused Chloé to give a sultry laugh. Though Mari doubted it was worth the enthusiasm.
Alya leaned in conspiratorially, “What’s the deal with him?”
“Adrien Agreste?” Mari barely restrained an eyeroll.
“Mm. What’s the story with golden boy?”
This time there was no stopping the eyeroll. “Classic overachiever, arrogant beyond belief, been dancing professionally since he was six.” She shrugged. “He’s an ass…but he has a great ass, so that kind of makes up for it.”
Alya cackled, “I wonder if I can put that in my article?”
“God, please don’t,” Mari laughed. “If I lose my job I’ll lose my will to live…on the other hand,” she waggled her eyebrows back at her, “it might drive up your ratings.”
Alya was still eying him closely. Not like Chloé – there was no drooling involved – but like she was trying to figure out how his cogs worked. “So, he’s arrogant?”
Mari shifted uncomfortably. “Well – I mean look at him. He has every right to be.”
They looked. On stage, Adrien was executing a short series of complicated jumps. The danseurs were in casualwear today, which for him meant old leggings and a grey t-shirt. But on him it was something else. He performed a grand jeté, leaping and scissoring his legs mid-air. For a moment, the stage lights lit up his hair in a golden halo, and he was suspended in flight. Mari rolled her eyes. Doesn’t he ever get tired of being so perfect?
“He is a stunner,” Alya murmured appreciatively. “At least if you have to put up with her, you also get to ogle him.”
Mari had been going to say he was talented, but she shrugged.
Adrien made it look effortless, dancing the way he did, though Mari knew for a fact it wasn’t. He was the company’s youngest premier danseur for a reason, and that reason was hard work. But sometimes – sometimes Adrien swanned across the stage like he owned it, and it was really hard to remember he was talented, and not just a total tool. The role of Franz probably suited him. Franz, the love-struck hero, who spent so long pining for Coppélia up in her window, that he forgot all about his fiancé Swanhilda down on the ground. He was a bit of a dimwit in Mari’s opinion. He didn’t even realise that Coppélia was a doll, or that her ‘father’ was evil. In the end, Swanhilda had to save him from Doctor Coppelius, who was going to sacrifice his soul in order to turn Coppélia into a real girl. Kind of like Pinocchio gone wrong.
Adrien wiped his brow and beamed at something one of the other etoiles said to him, his charisma and charm practically oozing across the stage. Mari wrinkled her nose, but she knew she was only half as disgusted as she should be.
“There should be a limit to how unfairly attractive one person can be,” she muttered.
“Amen,” Alya said. “Has he always been like this?”
“Adrien has been brilliant since birth,” she rolled her eyes.
“Those leggings…” Alya shook her head at the stage. “Three words: Butt. And. Thighs.”
Mari giggled.
“Marinette! Where did you put the extra boning for the bodices? Gabriel needs it right now!”
“Coming Natalie!” she called. She cast Alya a frazzled look. “Sorry, I’m a bit busy now. Can we finish this interview later?”
Alya nodded. “How about we grab a coffee sometime this week?”
“Sounds great,” Mari sagged in relief.
“No problem.” She waved at a teen with tan skin and messy dark brown hair running around with a camera. “Manon! Remember to get behind-the-scenes shots of all the main cast and management, yeah?”
“Yes, Alya!”
Alya smiled indulgently. Then her wicked gaze shifted to the orchestra pit, where the musicians were taking a break. “I think I’ll go interview the musical director while I have a chance. He’s been eying me up for the last half hour.”
Mari chuckled as Alya sashayed off to accost Nino. She watched them a moment. Guys were a nice thought – hypothetically. She caught sight of Natalie waving, and hurried over.
She just didn’t have the time.
~
When Marinette arrived at Le Paris Grand late that evening, security waved her past without a glance. It wasn’t her first time paying a house-call to Chloé’s place of residence. It was however, the first time Chloé hadn’t bothered to show up.
Instead, it was Sabrina that opened the door for her and showed her in. Mari smiled at her. Sabrina could usually be found at the Bourgeois residence; she was supposed to be Chloé’s personal assistant, but often ended up playing her maid. Mari wasn’t sure how purposeful Sabrina was when it came to managing Chloé’s affairs – it wasn’t like Chloé would ever listen to her if she advised her against something she’d set her mind to – instead, she rather suspected Sabrina was just there to be bossed around. Chloé had a habit of treating everyone like they were her personal servants. Everyone except the people she wanted something from, like her father, or the people she wanted, like Adrien.
Even then, she wasn’t particularly civil.
The most annoying part was, Chloé was incredibly talented. She’d been dancing professionally since she was a child, perhaps earlier even than Adrien. She’d probably had to practice twice as hard as him too, since ballet came to her less naturally. Instead, it was Chloé’s stubbornness that had gotten her to where she was today, to a place where she could bask in the attention that came with the role of the Academy’s prized princess. And as Mari glanced around again at the Bourgeois’ lavish penthouse, it seemed that Chloé really was every inch the princess. She shuddered, and turned her attention back to Chloé’s PA.
“How are you doing Sabrina?” She asked.
The girl bobbed her head meekly. That clearly hadn’t changed since their days at the Academy. “Good thanks, how about you? You must be busy with the show so close.”
“Pretty busy, yeah.” Mari gave a rueful smile. That was an understatement. She hitched the bags she was carrying over her shoulder. “How’s your dad?”
“Good,” she smiled shyly. “Even busier than us, if you believe it.”
“Oh yeah?” Mari asked with interest. “Has he got a big case at the moment?”
Sabrina hesitated, but only for a moment. Mari imagined the girl must be eager to be listened to for a change, instead of always listening. “He is actually.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know the cat-burglar that has been plaguing Paris?”
“You mean the one that broke into Chaumet?” she asked. It was one of the biggest jewellery stores in Paris; she’d have to be deaf not to have heard of it.
Sabrina nodded. “They’re calling him Chat Noir. My father is heading the investigation and he says Chat Noir has hit a dozen civilian properties in the last month.”
“Really?” Mari’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“They’re keeping it quiet to avoid scaring the public,” Sabrina said, with an air of superiority. “Especially with the production coming up. The Paul Saint Peter Collective is the show’s biggest sponsor – aside from Mr. Bourgeois – and how many rich people are going to show up to an event partnered with Paris’ biggest jewellery collective, if they’re afraid their valuables will be stolen?”
“Not many, I’m guessing.”
“Exactly.” Then she gasped and grabbed Mari’s hand in panic. “But please don’t tell anyone – my dad told me not to say anything!”
“I won’t,” Mari promised. “I won’t.” she repeated when Sabrina failed to look convinced. Eager to change the subject, and to regain the circulation in her wrist, she cast a glance around and asked, “Do you know where I can find Chloé?”
Sabrina shrugged. “No idea.”
What a very helpful PA.
Mari said a quick goodbye and entered the bowels of the Bourgeois home. That was how she felt every time she entered Chloé’s apartment; as if she was entering the jowls of a hungry beast that would gladly swallow her whole. It had eaten everything else: money, artwork, lavish furnishings, and priceless furniture. She wondered how much everything in the penthouse would come to. She shuddered to think of it.
As she wandered around in search of Chloé – otherwise known as Mari’s biggest waste of time – she wondered where the hell she’d gotten to. She hadn’t gotten lost in her closet again, had she? But nope, she wasn’t there. Wasn’t in her bedroom, or her personal lounge, or in any of the usual places. When she did find her, it was purely by chance.
“Daddy.”
And boy did Mari know that familiar whine. She paused outside of Mr. Bourgeois’ private office to listen.
“Madame made me do a hundred soubresauts just for dropping out of position.”
“And next time it will be two hundred,” came Madame Bustier’s voice in an unforgiving tone. “This is not the Academy, Chloé, and you are not a child.”
Mari snorted quietly. She begged to differ. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop…but heck, she was going to anyway. If Chloé could afford to give her the run-around twenty-four hours a day then Mari could afford to be a little nosey.
“Madame,” came Mr. Bourgeois’ severe voice. Even though he was no longer mayor, his voice still carried that old authority. “May I remind you it was my connections that helped you secure this job in the first place. I am not sponsoring your company solely for you to persecute my daughter.”
“No. You employed me because you expected the best,” Madame replied, just as severe. Mari could almost picture her raising one sharp brow, the way she used to do in class. “To deliver the best, I must demand it from my danseurs.”
“She’s always picking on me,” Chloé moaned petulantly. “Nothing I do is ever good enough for her.”
“Chloé is extremely talented,” Madame continued, as if Chloé had not spoken. “But she lacks respect, and above all, she lacks focus. I will not apologise for treating her as I do my other danseurs.”
“You do realise, Madame, that I have had people fired for less disrespect than you are giving me now?”
“You wish to intimidate me, monsieur,” Madame’s voice rang clear and steady. “But I will not lie down for your little princess to walk over me in her Prada heels. Fire me or no, I will continue as I have done.”
“Daddy.”
“If you want your daughter to be the best, let me do my job,” she said quietly. “I promise I will make her shine as Coppélia, far greater than any jewel.”
There was a long stretch of silence. Not even Chloé broke it to whine. Then Mari heard him say gravely, “Alright Madame, as you wish.”
Mari smiled to herself. Ten points to Madame.
A sudden noise broke her from her revere. She startled. She had been concentrating so completely on the voices behind the door that she hadn’t paid any attention to her surroundings. She should probably move though. Best not to be caught snooping in front of Mr. Bourgeois’ office door. Then she heard it – a low curse.
Her skin prickling with goose-bumps, Mari forced herself to think of who else would be inside the house. No one, that’s who her mind came up with. Security was stationed outside the perimeter, everyone else was behind the office, and that did not sound like Sabrina. So…who was around the corner? Mari swallowed, and hitched her bags higher on her shoulder and set off to investigate.
Tapping her way lightly down the hallway, she peered around the corner. The hallway was dark down here, and for a moment she was confused. The only thing this far into the Bourgeois house was the family safe. Why would anyone be down here?
Then a shadow moved in the darkness.
Mari gasped. She didn’t realise she had dropped her bags until she heard the plastic crinkle – all those layers she’d swathed Swanhilda’s two peasant dresses in, to protect them from the subway – and the shadow heard it to. Or not a shadow. Because shadows didn’t move that fast. One moment it was crouched beside the Bourgeois safe, the next it was storming towards her, grabbing her by the neck before she could take a step back. Her head reeled as she was slammed against the wall. One hand pinned her hands above her head. The other clamped itself over her mouth. A little scream of terror bubbled up by died in her throat.
“Well, well, little lady,” he purred, in a voice low and husky. It raised the hair on the back of her neck. Dangerous, her mind screamed. “What do we have here?”
He couldn’t have expected her to answer him, not with his hand clamped over her mouth like a vice. But he grinned anyway. In the darkness of the hallway, he was just a lithe figure clad in black, and Mari’s mind was running a mile a minute over every story of the bad things that lived in the shadows. Then she blinked. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realised that his smile was painted on. He wore a bandana across the lower half of his face split with a Cheshire grin. With his hood pulled low, it was the only feature she could properly see. She shuddered.
The weight of that grinning mask was feral.
Still pining her hands in place, he shifted backwards to look her up and down. She might not be able to see him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her. She knew what he’d see: blue-black hair in a messy bun, casual clothes, frightened blue eyes. Just a scared little girl. Not a threat.
“…Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”
Her blood ran cold. He knew her. How did he know her? How did he know – she writhed under his grip, starting to panic. There was something so violent about being silenced like this. He wasn’t really hurting her – only her shoulders a little from being pinned by his ferocious grip – but her brain was screaming that she couldn’t get enough air. She forced herself to breathe through her nose. But her chest was rising and falling in sharp, violent bursts.
He had claws on the end of his gloves. Oh God he had claws –
Something about his stance shifted, and then his grip was softening, his hands releasing her wrists. Her shoulders cried out in relief. He lifted his hand from her mouth at the same time as he raised a clawed finger to his lips. Don’t scream. She got the message loud and clear.
“How do you know my name?” she asked, once she could do more than gasp in shaky breaths.
“I know a lot of things,” he whispered. “I know you work for Gabriel Agreste. I know your parents own a bakery. And I know you love them very much.”
And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe again. This time he didn’t need to use his claws, she was choking on her own fear. He leaned in and she felt a cold, distant feeling settle in just below her ribcage.
“If you love them so much,” his breath tickled her ear, “I suggest you don’t tell anyone about our little encounter.”
His voice was barely more than a whisper, but so much more than a promise.
He moved backwards, and the sudden space between them made her dizzy. From relief. From the last dregs of adrenaline that she could feel fading. From the knowledge that after this she could go home and hug her parents and not have to think about shadows or Cheshire smiles.
“Well, that’s enough chatting for now,” he said, tone suddenly light. And God, did he just wink at her?
She sank to the floor to gather up her fallen bags and when she looked up, he was gone. Already vanished into back into the shadows. It was a long time before she could push herself off the floor. Even longer before her hands stopped shaking. They were still tremoring when she made her escape, telling Sabrina to let Chloe know something had come up, when the PA asked why Mari was leaving in such a hurry. She was in a hurry alright.
She had a feeling she’d just met Chat Noir.