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“After all these years, you still haven’t changed a bit.”
Marinette looked up at those words, cautious as she made eye contact with Chat Noir. The wet rag in her hands begun to warm up as she placed it on his open wound, but even still she was sure the sensation passing over on her cheeks rivaled it.
“I haven’t?” she finally asks him, hands stilling as she held the rag in place. Chat winced a bit as the pressure, but didn’t waver as he continued, pushing through. Marinette was sure it was his way of passing time and to lessen the pain, and as long as he cooperated while she tended to his injuries, she was more than willing to listen in.
Even while the topic moved towards an area she wasn’t so fond of.
“You’re still here for me, patching me up after every little bump and scratch I get,” he says, moving his uninjured arm to gesture at his weak one, then a move for the bowl on the floor that awaited added ingredients.
“A gash in your arm is hardly a ‘little scratch’, Chat,” she says, scoffing.
“It’s a lot better sounding though, don’t you think?”
Marinette pressed down a bit harder, watching him flinch. “Maybe if you want to walk away with scars, kitty.”
“Under your hands, I doubt it.”
“Well,” she says, reaching behind her to pick up a piece of paper, “that’s if I can still do this right.”
She squinted to decipher the words, the page freshly ripped out from the journal it had been nestled in and penciled in words beginning to fade. Before he had given up the guardian role, Marinette had spent long enough in Master Fu’s presence to learn a few tips and tricks necessary for the long run with the miraculous. Recipes to cure the common cold, paired with a few that would soothe any aches and pains after long days had become almost a habit to write them in her diary after meeting with him, both a way to log the details of her day and to commit tricks and tips to her memory. Back then, with Chat Noir often getting in harm’s way, Marinette had also taken extra steps to ensure she noted the more important ones as well, of medicinal plants and salves that could ensure a swift recovery.
It had been some time since Marinette needed to break out her healing skills though, enough time to warrant ripping out an old diary entry and a grip on the hope that she still knew what she was doing. Setting the paper down, she reached for a bottle of eucalyptus oil and added a few cautious drops into the bowl before her.
“It’s been a while since you’ve gotten hurt like this,” Marinette says, beginning to stir a few rounds as she spoke. “You’re practically invincible by now.”
“I’ve gotten better at avoiding it,” he responds, chuckling. “Not invincible. There’s maybe one person I know who rarely gets hurt.”
“Really?” Marinette asks, gently lifting the rag from his arm to dip into the mixture. Letting it soak in, she wrung it once, twice, thrice before setting it back down on Chat’s arm, looking for any signs of distress as she did so. “Who?”
Closing his eyes for a moment as he took in the sensation of the rag being reapplied, Chat smiled. When he finally let them open, half-lidded and hazy, he kept steady eye contact with Marinette as he answered.
“Ladybug.”
There was silence shared between them. A moment where no one knew if enough had been said or not enough, where the only true sound could be in the water dripping off the edge of the bowl and landing on the floor. Where there was an unacknowledged truth, one that couldn’t be brought into question the same way they wouldn’t discuss the way Marinette knew all the ways to fix the injuries Chat Noir had or why he always went to her first.
It was a silence they had gotten used to ages ago, and now had to relearn all the ways to work around it.
“Let’s get back to patching you up, huh?” Marinette asks, moving before receiving an answer and ending the pause in the air. “That ‘little scratch’ won’t fix itself.”
“Yeah,” Chat says, watching her work. He sank back into the chaise, supporting himself with his stronger arm. “Let’s.”