Chapter Text
It was not raining when the sleek black car rolled up in front of the crowd. A strange thing to dwell on, surely, Marinette thought as she craned her neck along with the other spectators, but she couldn’t help it. This was the sort of occasion that would have called for a gloomy, overcast sky to weigh down on them as light rain mixed with glistening tears. However, the day was bright with sunlight, the air crisp and clear like glass, albeit a bit chilly with the gusts of wind that drove white splinters of clouds over the deep blue sky. There were no tears shed as the two men, one old and one young, exited the vehicle, and the whispers were more of a cruel curiosity than of actual pity.
He’s actually gonna do it. He is actually going to speak. Gabriel Agreste. And his son of course. That’s right, his mother. How long has it been? Must’ve been years now.
Marinette buried her hands in her pockets, doing the best to tone out the whispers spreading around her like fine cracks on a frozen lake. The Agrestes were moving on thin ice indeed as they made their way to the front, dozens of eyes and almost as many cameras focused on every step, every twitch of their faces. Rising to her tiptoes, Marinette watched Adrien as he took position behind his father. At this moment, the family resemblance was undeniable. The same light, combed-back hair framing the same sharp cheekbones and jaw. Both faces wearing the calm and impenetrable expression of people used to dealing with the public. To anyone else, they must have looked like statues. To anyone else, the paleness of Adrien’s face, the tension in his jaw and shoulders, must have been unnoticeable or perhaps an effect of the cold November weather. But Marinette wasn’t anyone. She knew Adrien.
Had known him.
“He doesn’t look good,” Alya whispered beside her. She’d put away her small spiral notebook as soon as she’d seen their friend’s face, something Marinette had to give her credit for. “I don’t like this.”
Marinette couldn’t help but agree.
Up on the podium, Gabriel Agreste started speaking and Marinette had to fight down a wave of sickness. That voice. That man. All those years of terror and pain.
“ Mesdames et Messieurs ...”
The crowd around Marinette fell silent instantly, determined not to miss a single word.
On their own accord, her eyes flickered to Adrien. His hands were wrapped in modern leather gloves, but she didn’t have to see them to tell they were bare beneath.
No ring.
On which side had he worn it? Right?
She couldn’t remember.
“… I am finally speaking to you again after ten years…”
Marinette felt her breath quicken, panic rising in her chest. Left or right? She should remember. She had to remember.
“Hey, you okay, girl?”
Alya’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“… three of which my son and I have spent in mourning ...”
Marinette squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to summon an image of the ring, of how it rested against Adrien’s skin. His suit. Silver and black.
“… when I lost the love of my life…”
Had it glittered when he waved at her?
When he raised his weapon in battle, when he reached to kiss her hand?
“… my beautiful wife, the mother of my son …”
Milady. My Lady?
“… pronounced dead ...”
What had it felt like? Cool and unyielding to her touch? Or humming with hidden power.
“… after seven years of searching …”
Her hands snapped to her ears.
What had it felt like?
“Marinette?”
“… my Emilie …”
She pressed her hands against her head, muffling the noise. The more she thought about it, the more fleeting the images became, the harder it was to come up with even the faintest of impressions.
Remember.
Left or right?
Suddenly there were hands grabbing her shoulders, pressing her dissolving consciousness back into a tangible form.
“Marinette, please talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
She had to get out of here. Had to collect her thoughts, put them back in their place before they all seeped through her fingers like melting snow.
“Overload,” she warbled, shaking off Alya’s grip. “Gotta … fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you!”
“… thank you for all your sympathy …”
“No, stay.”
She turned and fought through the mass of bodies surrounding her, Alya’s protest turning to white noise along with everything else. Marinette pushed blindly, the hammering of her pulse drowning out even the speakers amplifying Gabriel Agreste’s voice as she darted for the gates and onto the equally crowded street.
Remember.
She had to round the opposite building before she finally broke free from the crowd, legs trembling as she slumped against the wall. Marinette slid down to the floor, the coarse stone riding up the layers of her tops until it scratched against her bare back. She hardly felt it. In a frenzy, she ripped open her purse, the small notebook and pen almost sliding through her numb fingers.
She had to be quick, every second meant another day lost.
The paper almost tore as she searched for an empty page.
Write it down. Write it all down.
Her right hand clenched into a fist around the pen. Its tip poked a dark hole into the pure white of the paper and —
Nothing.
Her hand remained frozen, a dark spot bleeding from where her pen was touching the page.
She couldn’t remember.
Anything.
Marinette forced a deep breath, fighting back tears as another wave of panic threatened to pull her under.
Relax.
Small steps.
Start with what you know.
My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.
The words looked scrawly, like they’d been written by a child, but Marinette didn’t care. She had to keep going, keep up the flow.
I’m 23 years old.
I was Ladybug .
I had a partner.
Her pen stilled. Marinette shook her head violently. She couldn’t stop now. She couldn’t forget
Adrien Agreste.
Chat Noir
The last letter ran off the page as the first tear hit the paper. She drew quick, shallow breaths.
He doesn’t remember. No one does.
But we did it, we saved everyone, we —
It was impossible to tell how long she stayed like that, huddled up on the cold ground, writing. Her back grew stiff against the hard stone. The only noise was her shaky breathing and the scratching of pen on paper as she filled page on page with narrow black text.
Remember.
It was only when the notebook completely blurred before her eyes, hands and back and neck aching, that Marinette lowered the pen. Suddenly, it felt almost heavy in her hand.
She flipped back through the notebook, through her memories of today. Three days before that. A week.
My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.
She’d almost reached the end of this one. Better get a new one soon.
“There you are!”
As if woken from a dream, Marinette blinked up at the voice.
“Alya.”
“Girl, what is going on?” Alya crouched down, her face getting level with Marinette’s. “Are you okay?”
On its own accord, Marinette’s consciousness tried painting an orange mask around those worried eyes. Was it more amber or apricot? She’d have to look it up once she got home.
“Marinette!”
“What? Yes, I’m — I’m fine.”
Alya frowned. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
“This isn’t” — she lowered her voice and huddled closer — “this isn’t about that superhero thing of yours again, is it?”
Marinette swallowed. “No.”
There’s a brief silence in which Alya watched her carefully.
“No, Alya, of course not.”
She could see the relief flurry over her friend’s face.
“Oh thank — ” Alya muttered under her breath. “Good. That’s good.”
Knees and back protesting loudly, Marinette pushed herself up from her cowering position. “So, is the conference done then?” she asked lightly. “What’d I miss?”
“It’s not over yet. I — you weren’t coming back and I — ”
“Oh, Alya, I’m so sorry. What about your scoop?”
“Don’t worry. There’s plenty of press around. It wouldn’t have been exclusive anyway.” Alya had gotten up with her, patting dust off her jacket. “And, honestly, if Adrien’s dad feels like he can just pop back up after ten years of radio silence, I will be tripping over myself — ”
“W — Ten years? He hasn’t spoken to the public in ten years?”
That didn’t feel right. She — there’s memories of public appearances. Fashion week. Style queen. New York.
“Well, it’s been ten years since his wife disappeared so… Seriously what is going on in that head of yours?”
Marinette felt her headache rising again. There had been public appearances. Right?
“… High time he shows his nose again, too, if you ask me. Adrien’s been working through it since he was fourteen and he’s doing a way better job. Sure, the funeral was hard on him too, but it’s not like they actually buried her, just that little plaque and — Shit that sounded super insensitive. That’s Adrien’s mum we’re talking about. Of course he’s still upset. He’s got every right. But the way his father’s been — Girl are you okay? You’re as white as a sheet.”
“Just a little tired,” Marinette managed as images of a crowd in black and a field of umbrellas surrounding the Agreste Mansion flooded her mind. Nino hugging a puffy-eyed Adrien, Alya holding her hand as they walked up to them —
No, that’s not real. Not real. She held onto that thought as she felt reality boil around her, new memories threatening to wash away the old ones.
“Are you coming down with something?” Alya asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Alya locked their arms, pulling Marinette out of her sway. “Well, you don’t look too good. Come on let’s get you home.”