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The longer he watched Ladybug, the more confused he got.
In the past two hours, he had arrived at their hotel suite, kissed her, changed out of his photoshoot clothes, showered, dried off, changed into his pyjamas, kissed her again, then settled into bed with a well-thumbed copy of Wind in the Willows .
Ladybug, throughout all of this, was bent over her nails. Painting. Adding details. Top-coating. Drying. Removing.
Rinse and repeat.
At first, he had thought she was painting her nails for the awards ceremony tomorrow. It was a big one — even bigger than the elitist fashion awards Nathalie would pencil in his appearance for every year. This one was for all of Paris — a ceremony for the city's most altruistic citizens.
(Of course, as superheroes, they were the guests of honour).
But everytime it looked like she'd settled on a colour, Ladybug would scrunch up her brow, yank off the cap of her nail polish remover, and wipe it straight off.
It was this he found the most bizarre — Chat Noir watched her fingernails turn from blue skies with white stars to red ombres with polka dots to yellow daisies on a white base coat. Painting and removing, painting and removing, even if the designs were some of the most intricate he had seen.
"My Lady," he said. She jumped; her nail polish wand smeared past her cuticle and dragged down a pink streak to the dip of her first middle joint. Chat Noir let go of his novel to put a hand on her shoulder. "Everything okay?"
Ladybug's eyes — wide and frantic and, if Chat Noir were being honest, a little terrifying — went from him to the pink streak and back again.
"Yep," she said, popping the p . Ladybug reached for the half-empty nail polish remover on the bed with shaky, pink-tipped fingers. "Of course. I just gotta—"
"Ladybug," he said again, and this time, shifted his grip to her arm. "Are you sure everything's okay?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Well…" Chat Noir gestured to the litter of acetone-soaked tissue paper strewn around the bed. "You seem a little…"
She sighed, capping the nail polish remover.
He didn't press her for an answer. Pressing her would do no good when she was in a state like this — she would take her lips out from between her teeth and tell him what was wrong when she felt the time was right.
Then, pushing the bottle aside, Ladybug lay her head in his lap. "I'm sorry. I… stress-paint my nails."
"Stress-paint?" He slipped his fingers under her fringe and ran them along the embroidered brow of her mask. "Why're you stressed, honey?"
For a while, she said nothing. Ladybug inspected her pink nails, and picked at the streak on her middle finger.
"Well, it's just…" she said. "I don't know, I guess I'm nervous for tomorrow."
Chat Noir hummed thoughtfully, and continued rubbing her brow.
From a young age, Adrien learned how to deal with smart, suited-up, verbose adults that were insistent on praising him as a star in the making. Polite nods, thank you s where necessary, and even if it were about him, to make it as little about himself as possible.
(This was a lesson from his mother. She was the one to elbow his father whenever he called himself 'revolutionary' in the middle of a conversation).
From what Chat Noir had heard, Ladybug wasn't quite experienced in that department.
(And to his relief, at that — his lady didn't deserve that kind of childhood.)
At his silence, Ladybug turned her head to look at him.
Chat Noir put down his book, smiled, and opened an arm out to her. "Come here."
She complied — Ladybug hoisted herself onto the bed, opened the duvet (to which her litter of painted tissue balls rolled into the footboard) and snuggled into his side. Habitually, she lifted her leg and placed it in between Chat Noir's.
He kissed her head. "What are you nervous about?"
"Well…"
She chewed on her lip, and in the meantime Chat Noir undid her pigtails and combed through the knots in her hair with his fingers.
"There'll be so many people," she said finally. "And they're all going to be looking at… us ."
He said nothing, but rubbed her head when she rested it on his shoulder.
"What if my hair gets messy? Or if I get food in my teeth? Or if I twist my ankle in my heels and faceplant into the floor in front of hundreds of reporters?" She gasped, and grabbed his arm, her freshly un-pigtailed her bouncing around her head. "What if my dress is out of fashion? What if it looks cheap? What if there's a giant rip going through the skirt because I wasn't careful when I was bringing it over here— oh, God, I need to check the dress right now."
Before she could shoot out of bed, Chat Noir caught her by the arms. " Or ," he said, easing her back into the pillows, "what if everything goes right?"
Ladybug blinked at him. "Things going right? For me ?"
“ T’es Lady Chance,” he said with a smile.
“More like Lady Maladroite .” She sighed. “Tomorrow is… huge. I can’t afford to have everything go wrong.”
“And nothing will go wrong.” He squeezed her arm. “First of all, your dress is incredible. I saw it while I was drying off — I’ve never seen a dress like that before. And I’ve seen a lot of dresses.”
He hoped the sentiment was clear even if she didn’t know about his life in the fashion world. Ladybug’s dress was gorgeous — a scarlet, off-shoulder gown with lace appliques flocculating at the bodice and scattering over the swell of the skirt. He didn’t ask — she couldn’t have answered, anyway — but he had an inkling she had it commissioned from Marinette, and Marinette’s designs were always pristine.
“And I’ll tell you if you get food on your teeth,” he said. “And you can hold onto my arm the whole night if you’re scared of falling.”
Ladybug leaned back in his arms and smiled.
“I’ll keep you upright like this.” He grabbed hold of her waist and, once he had her half-pinned to the bed, tickled her.
Ladybug laughed. “No!”
No matter how much she swatted at his hands, no matter how much she wriggled out of his grip, her laughter — accidental and involuntary and so, so beautiful — did little to dissuade him. He loved how fast her face could flush so bright even in the middle of a morose moment. He loved even more when it was because of him.
(He made a mental note to tickle her tomorrow morning, if her nerves were to flare back up while they got ready).
She made a cursory effort to grab at his hands when he hitched up her pyjama top, and it was only then he relented.
Ladybug caught her breath a few moments later. Now, she was slumped back in bed, Chat Noir almost on top of her, throat bobbing as she swallowed in the middle of her breathing.
She rose herself onto her elbows and met his gaze. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. And you’ll be perfect tomorrow.” He looked down at her hands, which he had a firm clasp on to stop their fidgeting. “Even if you tried painting your finger pink.”
Ladybug looked down, too. “Oh, God, that’s embarrassing.”
Chat Noir laughed, and returned to his seat against the headboard. "How about you paint your nails and we can put on a film while they dry?"
Ladybug smiled. "Deal!"
She parted from him with a quick kiss on the lips.