Chapter Text
Marinette Dupain-Cheng lived a very normal life. She was the most normal, unremarkable person to have ever walked the streets of Paris, and she was very quick to say so. She definitely did not go around at night wearing spandex, and she most definitely was not also sometimes known as the super-heroine Ladybug.
Definitely not.
No, Marinette Dupain-Cheng lived with her parents above a bakery, studied fashion design at university, and worked at Starbucks. She was an average twenty year old, and she enjoyed keeping it that way.
Unfortunately, despite (totally not) being the real-life embodiment of good luck, nothing ever seemed to go her way. For example: on this fine, beautiful, sunny, warm, glorious day, Marinette Dupain-Cheng was to work inside her local Starbucks from opening until two. She slept in through all three of her alarms, yet somehow managed to rush to work with seconds to spare. Frazzled, but on time, it was considered a win.
And then, of course, it wasn’t.
Humming along to the music through the cafe speakers, the young student was working at work. With pencil in hand, she did her best to do drafts of her upcoming major work. Rush hour was over, so she could finally relax.
She so should have known better. Alas, on this almost-great day, she didn’t.
So there she stood, sketching and shading and paying zero attention to her paying job. The bell above the door chimed once, twice. Open and closed, where once there was one, now there were two.
She was still humming.
And sketching and shading.
And paying zero attention to the new customer.
Then he politely coughed and all sense went out the window.
Scrambling, flailing and falling, Marinette let out an undignified squawk. In her haste, she managed to draw deep, dark lines onto her drafts and completely ruin them. She also fell and hit her head on the way down, but this was a common occurrence, and she was much more concerned about her assignment than her own physical health.
She saw a shadow.
Oh, she thought, maybe I should be more worried about the customer who definitely thinks I’m an idiot.
Yes. The dreaded customer. Shit. Slowly, she stood. Bravely, she met his eyes. With dignity, she asked him for his order.
His mouth opened. Marinette’s heart stopped for a moment. “Hi! Can I get a grande iced green tea latte? Thanks.” No it didn’t. He smiled with perfect teeth. Marinette…couldn’t really handle it. She typed in his order, fingers flexing and unflexing. Hands curling and uncurling. She grabbed a cup, pen ready. “And your name, Sir?” She asked, to which he…didn’t reply.
She looked up at him, this time, for the first proper time, really seeing him. Eyes piercing green. Soul baring, some might say. Haunted, Marinette thought. His hair fell in his face in a way that Marinette was sure would have annoyed her if it were her own, but recognised that it was done on purpose. As much as she tried to distract herself from his eyes…she just couldn’t. Where there was sadness, she could also see shock and confusion, and, as the seconds passed, she saw faint amusement. But Marinette couldn’t escape his sadness. Placing the cup on the counter and leaning on it herself to gain some height, she furrowed her brows.
“Monsieur…are you alright?” His head quickly shook, but not as a no. Whatever stupor the beautiful stranger (she wasn’t blind) was in, he was now out of it. He ducked down to Marinette’s still-leaning-on-counter-for-support height, so they were practically nose to nose, smiling some more, this time however it was decidedly more mischievous, and wow, mon dieu that looks familiar, and if Marinette couldn’t really handle him just smiling, then this—
“Yes, I'm quite alright. And, the name’s…Bond. James Bond.”
He had the audacity to wink.
To wink.
Marinette was already struggling and then he winked.
In her mind, she imagined smoothing her hair, clearing her throat, and thoroughly shaking her entire body to be rid of his effect. As it was only in her head, it didn’t help at all. But it was the thought that counts. Instead of actually doing as her mind told her, she, firstly, sighed and stared at the ceiling, because that was ridiculous. She heard him laugh, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. Loud, and almost surprised, as if laughing wasn’t something he did often. All she could do was calmly lean away from the counter to pick up the discarded cup. Yes. Right. He told me his name. A ridiculous name that is definitely fake.
It was almost like a lightbulb moment.
A fake name.
Well, she smirked, let’s give him a fake name.
She made his ridiculously rich-girl sounding drink and, after handing it over, went back to her designs. She pretended she didn’t hear his surprised choke of laughter, she pretended she didn’t get a thrill at knowing she was the cause of it. She stood and she restarted her drafts.
It wasn’t until she heard the telltale ring once, twice; heard the heavy thud of wooden doors slamming shut, that she let herself relax.
007, she had written. And it made him laugh.
Mon dieu, she thought. I’m in trouble.