Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Action figures?" Ladybug's eyebrow quirks, cutting some of the roundness of her features, all suspicious confusion as she pulls some unidentifiable but mouthwatering pastry from her literal picnic basket and hands it over. 

Chat Noir's hypersensitive nostrils flare, and the intimate yet homey melange of Ladybug's natural sweetness, something floral with a thrilling, dare-he-say nearly alluringly-dangerous mingling of ozone and a metallic undertone, fresh pastry, and clean skin floods him, fills up all the great empty space inside of him that he doesn't want to think about.

It's home, and adventure; familiar and exotic. It's everything, ranging as far and as wide as the East is to the West.

But she's not picking up what he's putting down as she plucks a profiterole from the basket of goodies she brought for their post-patrol pig-out. As if bounding about the city using super-powers wasn't amazing enough already!

"Action figures!" he affirms, miming a little explosion of confetti with his hands.

She scoffs, head shaking as his eyes are drawn to the sight of her plump, pink lips closing around the tip of her thumb to suckle up a small spurt of some kind of fruit jelly that had leaked out of the dessert she'd just polished off. 

"Who'd want action figures of us?" she asks, withdrawing her thumb at last. 

"Who wouldn't? The only thing hotter than you and me, My Lady," he says with a grin, framing his gorgeous face within a rectangle made of his fingers, as if he's been photographed, "is our licensing rights."

"So you want to talk to a company about ... selling our rights?" Her nose scrunches as if she's smelled something foul. "I don't know. That sounds kind of, well, mercenary. We're super-heroes, Chat. Not celebrities."

"Speak for yourself, my Ladybug. I'm a star in the sky." A gesture towards the hosts of heaven, washed out almost completely by the Parisian skyline's myriad lights, does not impress. She's Ladybug, so of course only the brightest star, and best flirts and puns, will do. He'll have to exert himself.

"Your head's in the sky alright." Leaning into his space, she flicks his bell, eyes narrowed, tempting and dangerous. Flirty. He wants a closer look. Like, drowning close with their faces smooshed.

"Better get down to the Earth, Kitty, before someone starts taking pot-shots at your inflated ego to try to bring you down."

He and his bell alike are still ringing. Before she can withdraw, he's captured her hand, checking her eyes and still-loose shoulders. Boundaries are important, but they don't need to speak. Not them. Not anymore, when they're bound up together, yin and yang carrying a little dollop of each other inside of themselves.

"I don't have to worry about that, LB.” A kiss feathers against her delicate-strong fingertips. The material is smooth and scalding, tingling, and he could stay there forever, lips bathing in electric sparks, just looking up the stretch of her arms into those brilliant blue eyes. “You raise me up so I can soar on eagles' wings. Nothing's bringing this cat down."

"Oh, and here I thought you were just filled with hot air," she demurs, tugging her hand away and booping his nose, shoving him back in an exaggerated flop as he mimes a mortal wound. That's a potshot, but it's an intentional miss.

"Scalding hot. It's warmed by my smolder." Despite his best efforts to mimic the sultry expression of a few of the older models he'd seen on the catwalk or in some steamy shirtless photoshoots that had taught him how to properly appreciate abs and made him realize that he'd be just as into his Lady if she was his Lord, he's grinning too wide.

Her head shakes, pigtails swaying, but there's only gentle affection, easy and slow. "Silly Kitty."

"Your Kitty?" he asks, hopefully plaintive as he nuzzles up to her and unleashes the kitten eyes.

"Always, Chaton." She leans back against the brickwork of the chimney that rises from their rooftop rendezvous spot this evening, scootching her butt out an inch before munching on a macaron thoughtfully.

"So, what do you think?” he asks while rummaging for a passionfruit macaron of his own. There have to be some left. He couldn't have scarfed them all down! “Are you interested in the action figure idea?"

"It just seems weird, but I guess if it matters to you, we could find some time to talk to a few, uh, what are they? Representatives?"

He perks up when, from from behind the chimney, she retrieves a second box, much smaller than the veritable tub of goodies she'd brought for them to share. When its artfully arranged bow is undone with a few smooth plucks of her fingers, a specially-prepared passionfruit macaron, its surface glassy-smooth, is revealed. Excitement is cut with trepidation at her fallen countenance as she hands it over. He knows better than to press, so instead he savours her gift, moaning in an only slightly lascivious fashion that is in no way feigned.

"Oh, I've already handled all of that," he mumbles after swallowing, the subtle sweetness a perfect compliment to the sumptuous texture.

"Really?"

"Yeah.” Shrugging, he closes up the little box and returns it to her with a nod. “I didn't want to bother you with it, and it was actually really easy to set up a few meetings with some reps from Bandai Japan, Hasbro, Square Enix, and Figuarts."

"When did you find the time to do that?" Her tone is more than slightly jealous.

"I'm pretty good about organizing my schedule." It's not as if he can tell her that he has a personal assistant.

"Okay, so what were their offers?"

"It's kind of complex." A few flicks on his baton's keypad sends a quartet of extensive and detailed offers to Ladybug's yo-yo screen, and she goes cross-eyed scrolling through just one page.

Said eyes are wide and glazed when she looks up at him, and his chest goes all warm and fluttery at the realization that he's surprised her, the same way she does him every day. "You didn't... read this, did you?"

"Sure!" he exclaims with just the right bubbly enthusiasm to suit the situation. 

"How?"

"I read at a university level.” It's only slightly egotistical. The boy she's – she likes must be attractive and kind, but there's no way that he's had the benefit of Adrien's education. “And I- uh. I mean, business contracts aren't all that hard to understand, really."

"Now you're just boasting," she grumps, lips pressed together in a pout that makes him want to nibble on those delicious lips, just a little – just to see what flavour that fruit jelly actually was, of course.

"I don't boast. I demonstrate." To deflect attention from the glowing red that's creeping its way up his cheekbones, he mimes shining and polishing his claws on his chest, examining their gleaming surfaces like a vain Prima donna.

A smack to this shoulder has him wincing as she quirks her brow. "I don't listen; I defenestrate, if you don't tone it down, kitty."

“No windows out here, Bugaboo.” He gestures to the open vista around them.

Crows-feet bloom around her squinting eyes, and that's enough.

"Okay, okay.” Warding her off with one hand, he flicks his baton screen to the most salient portion of the offer from Hasbro and highlights the text. “Seriously, though. I have read and thought about their offers."

"So what did you find?" Her eyes are on his face; not the screen. She's watching for his reactions, processing the thoughts and subtle tells so he has to exaggerate them. Not that she can't read him like a book, but she sometimes accepts the surface thoughts and feigned responses too readily. It's what lets him get away with so much.

"Habsro's got everyone beat for state-side development and distribution, but I like Bandai for import products; they're a little bit better on the price range because they produce multiple variants using the same molds," he summarizes.

"Uh. Okay," she draws out, tone questioning as she tries to work it through, gears turning behind her eyes.

"But Figma is the one we should go with for Japan." It was the obvious choice, really

"Why?" Her eyes are focused again, evaluating him, like he's something that she has to consider and work through and it feels good to have someone try to look deep. Ignore the surface because there's more to him than that.

Like he's more than that.

"Best royalty offer." He shrugs.

"Are you-" She looks ill, face falling and splitting with grim lines and it makes him feel ugly in a way that no dietitian or fashion critic ever could. Like his body – no, his soul is wrong. "Are you asking about this for the money?"

"No!” he croaks immediately. That would be superficial. Ugly. “We're not getting any of the royalties!"

"Then who's getting them?" she asks, head shaking in clear confusion that has him scrambling and rambling.

"Well, for Figma, fifty percent of our royalties would go to Akuma-relief charities. Most of them finance counselling services for akuma victims. There's this girl in my class with anxiety, and, well, you can heal broken bones but people get put through a lot of stress. So- so I just was thinking about her, and I guess I realized that someone who has panic attacks or struggles with something else must be really hurting from all of Hawkmoth's akuma."

A clawed hand rises to his neck, trying to work out the tension that blooms and tugs and his vertebrae. She's still looking at him with a blank expression, lower lip drooping, and there is a haze of uncertainty in her eyes, as if he's as opaque and incomprehensible as the legalese in those offers.

Then it breaks in a smile like a sunrise.

"Kitty," she breathes. Her eyes are shimmering stars – the same stars he sees in the sky, and he's swimming in them. Her hand rises to his cheek, soft and tender, before easing upwards, tangling into his hair and he melts into her scritches, purr like the engine of a motorboat as he sags against her shoulder. So warm and soft. So gentle, like nothing he'd felt since his mother.

It's everything he ever wanted.

She is.

Her voice is thick.

"Good Kitty," she sniffs, and her lips find his blushing cheek.

Reading those proposals? All those meetings? Reviews of appropriate charities to see where they invested their donations, just to make sure?

1000% percent worth it. 10/10. Would negotiate again.

“You're sure that you can manage these deals?” she asks, withdrawing, and he misses the heat, the soft wetness of her slightly chapped lips, already. “Do you know anything about contracts?”

“I do, but, uh, you're just going to have to take my word on that. I- it's not like I can tell you why.”

Fortunately, she doesn't press him on how "Chat Noir" knows such things.

No. She takes it on faith.

"I trust you, Chat," she says, flicking off her yo-yo screen because she doesn't need to look. Because she trusts him. "If you really think this is a good idea, I'll go for it."

He'd thought that he couldn't love her any more than he did, but her saying that?

He was wrong; there's no end, knowing no height nor depth nor breadth. He just keeps falling further and faster every day.

The limited edition collectibles had been commissioned and sold out already, but this? This is a contract with a mainstream company.

Ladybug and Chat Noir are getting their own action figures!

Chapter Text

As a boy, Adrien had adored action figures. Plastic representations of all his favourite super heroes and film characters had been stored in massive tubs under his bed, and lined the shelves of his room.

There was something simply satisfying about digging his tiny fingernails under the blister card of a new action figure and tearing off the bubble packaging to expose the toy inside, picking up another familiar face, a friend to join in his adventures. Best of all, his mother would play with him. It was license to be silly, to invent all the madcap adventures that he wanted to see in the comicbooks and films and anime that he loved, and to weave those stories together with his mother. There were even crossovers! Han Solo and Optimus Prime teaming up to stop Lex Luthor from using his new Klingon transporter to steal the gold from Fort Knox had been a treasured adventure.

His mom adapted on the fly to his crazy innovations while using her acting talent to throw on impressive voices for Wonder Woman, Majetia, Princess Leia (all of whom Adrien had crushes on, but not when they were being played by his mom because that was just weird). Originally, all the stories were action and adventure, villains plotting world domination and death-rays and damsels in distress, and his mother made great sound-effects and mock-screams for the ladies who got tied to time-bombs or train-tracks so that Wonder Woman and Superman could save them. When she wasn't around, he had to be a little bit more inventive; rescuing damsels wasn't quite so fun without proper voice-work. So began a seven-year-old Adrien's exploration of plot to make up for her absence.

Month after month, his stories became more and more complex, and it wasn't so bad because he had his toys and his imagination.

That was enough.

It had to be enough.

Eventually, there was nothing else.

By the time his action figures started to shift towards real conversations and drama – Wonder Woman was in love with both Majestia and Superman! How could she choose?! (The answer of Polyamory only came to Adrien as a teen.) – rather than explosions, his mother had stopped playing with him at all. And Chloe wasn't interested in action figure. Making up his own stories, his own adventures, became a necessity as much as any of his other hobbies, filling up his brain with something that would counterbalance all the facts and figures drilled into him by his tutors, leaving no space left for anything else.

It was nice not to think about things.

His interest had waned over time, but he still tugged out his collection to stage a Death Star Assault with his 3.75" Luke Skywalker and X-Wing fighter every now and then, just so that he could swoop in with his Millennium Falcon and imagine Han Solo arriving to save his friend, a callous rogue revealing his heart of gold: a man choosing to change and grow and let himself care. The boxes under his bed lay untouched, save for those times when he wanted to swap out some action figures in his display shelf. That hadn't really changed when he became Chat Noir. Being a super-hero was far more fulfilling, adrenaline surging through his veins as he punned and fought and flirted, than playing with plastic representations of them.

Now everything has changed.

After months of tooling and a couple of consultations and photography sessions - that were actually kind of fun because he got to guide Ladybug through the process - so that the company's designers could obtain detailed reference images of their constumes for the purposes of replication, the figures are ready. Of course, Adrien had pre-ordered two cases of the full first wave of the “Miraculous” line, which features a fairly reasonable approximation of Hawkmoth, Chat Noir, Ladybug, and RogerCop, Darkblade, and Guitar Villain (Jagged Stone had signed off immediately because 'getting an action figure was absolutely metal'), with a Stoneheart “build-a-figure” piece packaged alongside each one.

Wave II is already planned, and will feature a build-a-figure Dragon-Fang to go alongside Guitar Villain, as part of a marketing scheme. You couldn't have a piece of Dragon-Fang packaged alongside Guitar Villain to give Jagged his pet if you bought the entire first wave. You'd need to buy a completely new wave as well. Adrien has already pre-ordered that wave too.

He's weak, even to disreputable business practices.

But now, it's time to actually do something he'd dreamt of since he was a child.

He's going hunting.

For toys!

Actually leaving the house to do his own shopping was unthinkable for his parents; they were too concerned about keeping him safe, after all. Now, he's old enough, and clever enough, to sneak out, meet up with his friends, and go to a real toy store, rather than sending someone else or ordering online.  They wend their way down aisle packed with parents and whining children, and find themselves in the appropriate spot, right next to the Lego section. Sandwiched between the Hasbro marvel legends action figures and a host of role-play toys and the Star Wars: The Black Series figures, with all the Original Trilogy figures sold out while every single Sequel Trilogy peg is still completely full because children and collectors alike have taste, they find his action figures.

And only his action figures.

Empty rows of pegs, labelled with Darkblade, Guitar Villain, and the other figures, surround one skew of Chat Noirs. Two of the empty rows have stickers labelled with “Ladybug,” centered under a massive display sign, announcing the figures, that features Ladybug's image. 

And only Ladybug's image.

“Shoot." Nino says, mostly for Adrien's benefit since he hasn't shut up about them for three weeks, while removing his cap and scratching at the fuzz that's been unveiled. "We've missed out on all the figures.”

“Scalpers, probably,” Alya offers while flicking at her phone with a scoff. “The Ladybug figures were one per case, and they're already up on ebay for fifty Euro a pop.”

Marinette's face is growing red, lip gnawed between her front teeth. She must really have wanted one of those Ladybug figures, and as a great swell of regret bubbles up in his gut, a feeling akin to the twisting revulsion that erupts when smelling surfer or moldy cheese, he knows that as soon as his two cases of pre-orders arrive, he'll surprise her with a gift. After all, he doesn't really need two Ladybug action figures. Seeing Marinette happy, maybe even half as happy as she makes him on a regular basis, is more important.

“I guess that's fair, even if it's pretty unkind,” he says, eyes on Marinette because that's an uplifting sight.

It – it is fair, really. People were right to buy up all of his Lady's figures. It isn't as if he'd really be needed in any child's fantasy, or in any scalper's ebay store. Ladybug could handle any given crisis or akuma assault on her own, after all. Still, he would have thought that someone would buy a few of his figures, just to get the Stoneheart Build-A-Figure head. 

“Still, it's take one and leave one for the next collector, right, dude?” Nino elbows him gingerly, and while it feels like a bruising strike, light though it is, he reciprocates.

He's about to reply when Marinette surges forward to pluck a Chat Noir figure off the peg, likely to review the bio on the back before returning it to its long-term resting place. The packaging is nicer than the figure, in all likelihood. Rather than flipping the box over, though, she stuffs it under her arm with a nod to herself. It takes a moment for the implications to really register.

"Are you sure you want to pick up one of those, girl?" Alya asks, cocking her head towards the black and green package in Marinette's hands. "I mean, what's a Chat Noir without a Ladybug?"

Marinette's eyes darken with brimming, whelming ire like unto that which she looses on Chloe every now and then, before Alya presses on.

"I mean. They're a pair. You can't have one without the other," she tries to deflect while shuffling over to Nino as if to disperse the fire that's income over a wider target area, but considerate boyfriend he may be, Nino's no fool. He's backing off. There's a little twitting drum of her fingers on the rear of her cell phone case, which has been raised like a shield to absorb some of Marinette's downright baleful glare. Of course, it's nonsense, though; a dozen collectors or kids, or one scalper, would argue, judging from the empty rack of Ladybug figures.

Marinette relents, smiling as she draws the Chat Noir figure to her chest. Lucky little blighter. Why did he think that?

"No. It's alright, Al.” She pats the case in a fashion that is as superficially innocuous as it is deeply threatening as Alya sweats out the terror and Adrien can only be grateful that he's now behind Marinette, a simple observer to this exchange. “I only need my Chat Noir."

Alya, however, does not seem to have full control over her mouth.

"You sure?” she asks. “You, uh. You could pick him up on clearance in about a month. Just like those figures from that really horrible Star Wars film that they just ignored with the Rise of Skywalker."

"You mean that admiral, or the ... uh – what's her name?" Nino pipes up in a clear attempt to divert the conversation into this safe topic.

"Rose Tico?" Adrien tosses it out while admiring Marinette's fine grip on his little alter-ego.

"Yeah." Alya thumbs her chin towards him. "All those figures that ended up in a garbage dump somewhere."

The thickly warbled snarl catches Adrien's breath away as Marinette, rather than rounding on her best friend, turns to the rack. For a moment, he knows. She's just going to put the figure back; it's not like she really wanted him – or Chat Noir. He was... bargain-bin fodder. Maybe- maybe even fit for a dumpster because no one wanted the side kick. Who wanted Robin without Batman?

"You know what, Alya? You're right," Marinette sneers, and instead of tossing little Chat to the store display, forgoing even hanging him back up, she plucks another one off the peg, she tucks him under her armpit and grabs another box off the shelf. "I should get a second figure. Chat deserves to stay mint in the original package and be played with."

She wants to... play with him and keep him... “perfect?” Admire him, and take him out of the box?

He has to clear his throat to rid himself of the tickle while Nino affirms him by crossing the warzone to squeeze his bicep, seeming to feel something wrong even if Adrien can't let him know what it is. Acceptance is a strange thing in that he's only ever been able to show off one piece of himself, be embraced as Chat Noir by Ladybug, who played hide-and-seek or tag over Parisian rooftops, and Adrien by a legion of fans who would never know him because he was kept in a hermetically-sealed blister card of fame and propriety.

“Hey, Marinette?” he asks because he's not thinking. He doesn't think enough, and he knows that, but it's still coming out. “Are- are you really sure that you want those?”

She should say no; but he's breathless and quivering with the need to hear her say yes. She wants them.

Her eyes are narrow window-slits, cutting off the sight of her bubbly and adorable soul while pinning him in place so that he can't move. Can't think. There's only her frosty glare.

“You got a problem with that?” she asks, defiant, cradling the two little plastic Chats as if she's a mamma bear defending her cubs.

“No!” His hands waggle as if he's trying to ward off that stare. “It's just- just, uh-” Sheepish, he rubs at the back of his head and tries to laugh her off. “Could you... could you grab one for me too?”

Marinette blooms bright and grins, showing off pearly teeth and such genuine joy it makes him feel it too.

He already has preorders that should arrive in the next few days, but as Marinette deposits the second figure in his hands, the box still slightly warm after have been held under her arm, pressed to her chest – though that might just be his imagination – and she turns to pick up another one, he actually feels for a moment that it's worthwhile to own another one of him.

Chapter Text

Okay. People may have had legitimate reasons for completely disregarding his figure at the store, build-a-figure piece notwithstanding. Now that he's taken himself out of the box, fiddling with his joints and comparing little Chat's insubstantial biceps to his own, flexing in the mirror, he decides to turn to youtube for second and third opinions. On the figure, of course; not his sinewy guns, which he cocks once again.

There is no doubt that they are, indeed, fire-arms. Flexing turns to finger-guns, which he fires off at the mirror, driving Plagg to duck into his Camembert-stocked mini-fridge and cry. He may or may not tug out some scrap paper to write that one down for future use. The fourth review playing in the background, all he can think about – all that he lets himself think about as he's scribbling down the note is how his Lady will groan and grin when he does the same with her, trying not to laugh because she doesn't want to encourage him, but giggling just the same because she always tries to affirm him.

Like acceptance, affirmation is an alien experience, and he clings to that image, driving out for just a moment the thought of the scathing review, and the new reviewer whose channel he has now blocked because of the closing shtick, wherein he tossed an action figure “fit for the pit” into a trash can. Initial impressions are confirmed by skimming several more Youtube video reviews from trusted sources, including one gentleman who also produces some phenomenal custom action figures and intends to kickstart his own line to illustrate the failings of mainstream production companies.

The general sentiment appears apt.

Little plastic Chat kind of sucks.

Parisian skyline diorama backdrop in place in the photography area that he had established in anticipation of the first wave's release, ready with miniature accoutrements for a rooftop picnic date with his little Lady when she arrives, Adrien struggles to find some means of displaying his figure without it appearing, to use Chloe's favored turn of phrase, ridiculous. A grunt of frustration bursts through clenched teeth when little Chat topples over for the umpteenth time. His hip can barely reach forty degrees and includes a ridiculous T-joint that, according to reviewers, was replaced with ball-joints in mainstream figures over a decade ago. Utterly ridiculous. Every effort to get little Chat to do the splits or throw his leg over a rooftop ledge leaves a gaping hole in the crotch, compromising Adrien's intended action figure photography. Spindly legs – there's no way that he's that lanky – lead into a torso with an unsightly ab-crunch that obliterates appropriate anatomy unless little Chat stands ram-rod straight. Who'd want that?

Chat's figure is all but unaccessorized too, unlike the Ladybug figure, which, from promotional information, comes with an assortment of Ladybug-spotted Lucky Charms, including a wrench, soft-goods oven mitt, hairspray canister, and a wind-up toy, alongside two version of her yo-yo. He may be fashionable in his black-leather, but all he's got going for him is his baton. It's a nightmare to try to find an appropriate angle for a shot from his cell phone camera that doesn't catch sight of either the hip joints or said baton, which is about an inch too short to be proportional. The soft-plastic mess droops in the middle as it's held in little Chat's hands while he mimes some vague approximation of a battle stance. Nothing Adrien has tried actually got his weapon to stay straight, largely because, for some reason, it splits in the centre to form two smaller batons.

Well, the reason is that they re-used a preexisting model, rather than creating a new one.

Bereft of hope and lamenting the fact that Marinette wasted her money on – on him, Adrien lays “himself” down on his desk and then makes his way to bed, falling into a disgruntled lump and overturning a suddenly irate Plagg, belly distended after he'd gorged himself on cheese, who had been napping, excuse you!

Staring up at the distant ceiling, drumming his fingers against his chest, he can only hope that the rest of the figures are better than him as Plagg lays into him with a verbal tirade of squawks and snarls that helps.

It's nice not to think about things, sometimes.

Plagg's efforts to throttle his nose with surprisingly gentle nubby arms, though the Camembert-breath is vomitous, have him plucking the little guy from the air between his eyes to shower Grumpy Gus' ginormous gut with tickles. Soft fur parts under his fingertips as he quests after that particularly sensitive spot right under his kwami's right arm. The cat puts up a valiant resistance, but even a God of Destruction is no match for Adrien's nimble fingers and familiarity with the little guy's weak spots. Despite himself, Plagg squeals with outrage and paroxysms of delighted guffaws alike, scratching and flailing at Adrien's index finger, before trying to bite it off halfheartedly.

And this is exactly why Adrien nearly squashed his kwami flat when he threw himself onto his bed.

While Adrien had, in the past, been able to receive most kinds of orders at home, anything from extensive supplies of the odoriferous fromage necessary to power Plagg to an assortment of collectibles from his favourite anime series, this time, Gabriel and Nathalie had drawn the line. Ladybug collectibles were acceptable, but not anything from this line of mass-produced toys. As a fashion mogul who prided himself in his own work, Gabriel was utterly appalled by the inadequate contracts that had been developed between Ladybug, Chat Noir, and the two companies that had been selected to produce the molds for their figures.

Ignoring the masterful designer responsible for the creation of the myriad inventive and stylish characters arrayed against the heroes, even if he was a terrorist who could never self-advocate due to his criminality, was an affront to both his father and his nursemaid. They had professional pride, after all. As a result, Adrien has to smuggle the first wave into his home piecemeal after having them delivered to Nino. In a corner of the lunchroom under Alya's watchful gaze, they make the clandestine hand off of illicit goods.

“You've got the full pack?” Adrien asks while looking over his shoulders. His father's agents – namely Lila – and classmates' cell phone cameras, are everywhere.

“Yeah. Sure thing, bro,” Nino replies as he sets down a fully stocked cardboard box, the packing tape on the top having been sliced open to review the contents to make sure nothing was damaged in shipping. Nino's a caring friend like that. The package is ample to say the least, forcing him to brush aside his kale salad and bottle of water and the assembled flotsam that made up Alya's lunch.

Of course he had to preorder two cases of figures, which means three little Chats.

“You're a lifesaver, Nino,” The cardboard box opens like a treasure chest for him, revealing the glittering hoard of... smaller cardboard boxes within. “I have no idea what I would have done if I hadn't been able to change the shipping address. You sure I can't pay you for holding on to these?”

“Nah, man.” Nino waves him off while he starts rummaging through the package to find his Lady so that he can see her in person. It had been torturous to avoid the promotional shots and online reviews from youtubers he'd come to trust, having hunted them down when the prospect of being made into an action figure had reignited his passion for, well, adult collectible figurines.

“You know that I'd hide a body for you, let alone toys,” Nino assures, hat held to his heart, and it's so wonderfully affirming to know that he has a civilian best friend who has his back, just like Ladybug, even if...

“Nino, they are highly-articulated collectible figurines.” The error still warrants correction. His Lady, at least, is not a toy.

“Uh, sure bro.”

“You have Ladybug in there?” Alya asks from her position, standing watch over the lunchroom of utterly disinterested students. Impatience has her foot jackhammering, and it's only revving him up more, the feeling twisting up his gut because this is it! After all these months, he's getting his Lady in miniature form, along with a host of villains to recreate their greatest moments together, revisiting and imprinting the best memories. From the bottom of the box, Darkblade – who has a really nice gunmetal flake paint job, actually – having been pushed to the side, Ladybug emerges, held gently so as to avoid any edge damage to the package. The clear plastic window box shows no signs of damage whatsoever, despite the lack of packing material.

A grinning Alya darts forward to snatch the box from his hold, but stops herself, face twisting up.

“Ugh. What is that?” she veritably snarls, arms falling limp.

That is Ladybug, but as he shifts the box from side to side as if an alteration in the angle of light will effect some kind of metamorphosis, or melt away the sight of the object in his hands, he's very nearly on the verge of crying.

He did this to her.

This is his fault.

He can't give this to Marinette, especially...

Especially in light of her own heritage.

Holding his little Lady in hand, thumb tracing the bridge of her nose and blotchy plastic cheek, he can only lament and wonder: what is he going to do about ... that.

Chapter Text

“I am so sorry, Milady!”

The keening cry echoes over the rooftops of Paris during their evening meeting, arranged by a simple call using the bug-signal. While they had agreed after the New York debacle, for which he is still trying to work towards redemption, that their respective signals were to be used in emergency situations, this nightmarish offence that is likewise wholly his responsibility must classify. He's spent the last few minutes trying to work up the courage to apologize while she wrested his Ladybug toy from its packaging and began to experiment with its accessories and dance it along the rooftop.

“It's not a big deal, Chat,” she assures, shifting the little piece of plastic in her hand. It mimes a stroll down a rooftop ledge, stuck arm-joint creaking along with the warp of flexible material as little Ladybug tries, and fails, to raise her arm up and wave. The real Ladybug frowns, plucking up her little self and bringing it to eye level. “It's hardly something that you have to apologize for; you didn't design them.”

“Still, I was the one who came up with this ridiculous idea. I should have known that a company like Hasbro wasn't right for this kind of thing,” he wails, smacking his fist into the meat of his thigh and drooping. “I should have read the contracts more carefully- or – or something! You deserve better than that.”

Tongue now stuck half out of her mouth, she's fiddling with the butterfly joint on little Ladybug's shoulders, thumb to the flexible hair, threatening to snap the wire-thin connection of a pig-tail with unpainted Ladybug hair-ties.

Speaking of hair, several strands had been torn from her pigtails during a rooftop game of tag before they settled in for a snack, chat, and review of their mass-market figures, and it suits her. Looking a little disheveled and liberated. With a huff, she turns to favour him with an indulgent smile.

“Did our part of the proceeds go to akuma-relief charities?”

“Well,” he demurs, undeserving of the positive reaction that she's begging, eyes shimmering like a warm stream in the sun, to be able to bestow upon him because she knows that the proceeds for preorders have already been deposited. They attended the Hasbro executive's photo-op themselves, after all. “Sixty percent of them did; the rest was divided up between some charities for the homeless and animal shelters.”

Allowing mini-bug to rest on her thigh, she takes his hand, fingers interlocking. Holding hands always makes him think back to one of his earliest memories when, on one of their rare excursions outside of the mansion, the guttural gravel rumble of car engines, shouts and hollers from drivers and pedestrians, rotten-egg stench from the Seine, and the people, throngs and throngs of bodies, had him looking up to his mother, his lip quivering. She smiled, and enveloped his chubby hand in her own to guide him across the street.

He hadn't let go, so neither did she.

In that moment, he knew that she'd never let him get lost.

As long as he held on tight, he was safe.

He just had to hold on tight.

He just has to hold on.

But, of course, she let go, and so did he.

“That was the only important part of the contract,” Ladybug continues, dragging him back so that all that he can feel and all that he needs is the pressure of her fingers and the warmth that's starting to bleed through their gloves. “That's all that matters, Chaton. ”

The flesh on the bridge of her nose scrunch, mask bunching up cutely as she scowls. “Except for how people are treating your figure.”

“It's perfectly fine, Milady. He's a pretty worthle- ack!” The exclamation is more an expression of shock than pain as she bears down on his hand, bones flexing and groaning with the pressure of her grip.

“Bad kitty,” she reprimands, letting him loose to shake the feeling back into his palm.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the radiating heat of her palm dissipating with the little ache that's nothing compared to the one in his heart – the one that's sitting about two feet to his right, ignoring him as she focuses on the stubborn arm-joint again, torqueing it like a stuck winch. He hurts her when he tries to take the blows, or when he rains them down on himself, and the apparent sulking petulance on her part, a rare demonstration of some childish affectation that doesn't suit his Lady, is her way of telling him that. No one gets to hurt him – not really. Not when it matters. He sniffs, slicking the back of his forearm against his nose and averting his gaze to focus on the dingy rooftop brickwork for a moment while she pretends not to notice, gives him a little dignity.

No one gets to hurt him - not even himself.

Though he's more than certain she could unlock the secrets of the universe – most of which are to be found in the fathomless depths of her eyes – if only she applied herself, he still flicks a claw towards the quaking, frustrated fingers that are trying to wrench the shoulder into place.

“Ugh-” That's part uncertainty and part effort to clear the fiery lump from his throat as he tries to apologize, but doesn't have the words after too many manufactured concessions to his father. “Stuck joints usually get loosened up with some heat, like with boiling water.”

The obstinate joint still refuses to move until she, rather selfishly if justifiably, Lucky Charms a battery-powered hair dryer in a spectacular burst of Ladybugs and lightning and loosens up the wiry thin arms that almost immediately fall limp, floppy. A whirring gust batters his sensitive ears, pinning them back, as she hits it from all angles, circling the joint, before plopping the hair dryer to the ground and finally arching little Ladybug's arm upwards to give him that wave with a malleable and spindly-looking limb.

“There we go. She's perfect.” What she's really saying is that he's perfect and maybe that love is enough.

Seemingly satisfied with her victory, as if Ladybug triumphing over any obstacle, including her miniature self, had ever been in question, she proffers the little figure to him. When it drops into his palm, she winks and ribs him with an elbow, forgiveness and apology alike.

That, though, is not enough.

“But look at her hair, and – and her face!” Chat's lament seems to have no effect on her, save for the little tremulous giggle. It baffles and boggles that she doesn't mind this. She tucks the loose hair behind an ear, still grinning down at the toy, making light of the insult in his hands.

“It's not exactly the most flattering colour combination, I'll grant you,” she hums as she starts to gather up the remaining foil-wraps for their homemade tuna sandwiches with butter before the mayo because it kept the bread from getting soggy, she said.

And little Ladybug is blue in more ways than one. Blue hair! Why blue hair and not the lustrous raven tresses that he's admiring out of the corner of his eye even now while she stuffs the trash, other than him, into a recyclable paper bag?!

But worse yet, the skin tone.

Clearly, Hasbro had not attempted to make use of the face-printing technology that was the staple of their Black Series and Marvel Legends lines, because the expression on little Ladybug is a lopsided mess. Paired yet mismatched splotches of pink mar her cheeks, a sickening contrast that highlights the pallid, chalky, and yellow, of her base skintone, and the blue pupil-less, off-center eyes. Affronts to good taste are not uncommon in advertisements and media campaigns; Adrien Agreste can attest to that reality easily enough when even his pasty-white-bread self is airbrushed into oblivion to create a cherubic counter-point to the noir tones of certain outfits, but for a half-Asian super heroine?!

This is not what the promotional shots looked like! It's an abomination and feels so racist that he should go crawling into an ally somewhere to start spitting and hissing like a cat in the night. God, what has he done to her?!

“You're really not... upset?” he asks as his thumb traces over the blob of shapeless, smooth plastic that doesn't capture his Lady's cheekbones and obliterates the jaw and chin structure.

“Not in the least, Chat.” She shrugs with a little hiccupy laugh, winking at him to boost his spirits, he knows. “What does it matter if my figures are a little off-colour?” A playful wink does improve his mood somewhat. “In more ways than one.”

He has to wonder whether she understands and appreciates the depths of the insult that has his skin flaming, heated blood efflorescencing under his actually pale cheeks. The thought that his offence on her behalf is somehow patronizing or itself dismissive has him stuffing little Ladybug back into her packaging for the trip home while Ladybug rises to the increasingly-frantic warning klaxon of her Miraculous. A languorous stretch of her arms above her head and limbering of back muscles with a smooth, acrobatic twist leaves him dry-mouthed, sliding his tongue along his lips to savour the last remnants of the treats that he'd been enjoying on their rooftop picnic non-date.

Regardless, though, as he bundles up his figure and bids his Lady a somewhat forlorn good evening before parkouring his way over Paris on his way back home, he resolves to fix this. Somehow, Chat Noir is going to ensure that his little Lady is just as beautiful as his human one, at least after he's finished throttling some Hasbro executives and designers, while also ensuring that the advertising representative from Figma knows in no uncertain terms that this debauched massacre of good taste is not to be tolerated from that company when they release their version in a few months.

Yes.

Something must be done.

He only wishes that his brain wasn't so fixated on self-recrimination for the abomination that he's carting around in his pocket that actually developing a course of action seems impossible. What is he going to do about this mess?

It's only as he slips into his room and dispels his costume, looking towards his shelf of action figures, a display that had grown and shifted as his renewed interest led him to pull out some of his old Transformers and arrange them in an artful diorama, that he comes up with the solution. A hasty bust of vigour has him flying towards his computer chair to call up one of his favourite action figure reviewers who creates custom collectibles, embarking on a mindbogglingly complex journey that takes him to all four corners of Youtube as he's exposed to a whole new world of hobbies and enthusiasts. But the answer is right there in the pixels of his computer screen as he grins and whips out a pad to begin taking notes from a beginner's tutorial.

He's going to transform his little Lady.

Adrien Agreste has the money to bump himself to the head of the line for custom figures from any artificer of articulated art on the internet, but Chat Noir's apology must be hand-crafted.

Or hand-painted.

And maybe he can give Marinette her Ladybug figure too if the prototype pans out.

After all, Marinette is such a good and supportive friend that she deserves no less than the best he can offer.

Chapter Text

Initial exploration of the techniques involved in action figure customization includes tutorials in kit-bashing various figures into an amalgamated piece, typically one which requires further painting to match colour schemes. As the actual Hasbro Akuma figures appear to have been crafted with a great deal of care, and his Lady's design is perfectly acceptable, if flimsy, he files links to beginners' tutorials away in a well-organized series of nested folders on his desktop.

Those might come in handy when he gets to ... little Chat.

Instructional videos on painting are helpful, and he crafts careful notes while seated before his computer, contemplating the basics of matching skin-tones and hues with the costume sported by his little Lady, and the necessity of thinning paints, whether he uses an airbrush or hand-painting.

An airbrush?

Like the makeup applicator, he presumes, and is proven correct through yet more research that lasts long into the night.

Without a second's hesitation beyond a thorough layer of research into different models of compressors, airbrushes, and paints, he lays down five-hundred Euro on supplies, intent on experimenting with the myriad techniques on display.

Fortunately, he has three junk – he thinks back to his Lady's scowl – three expendable Chat Noir figures on which to practice, when the time comes.

School in the coming days is awkward in many ways, largely because he's being unintentionally excluded from the major conversations that are unfolding, keeping his head down because he can't face Marinette.

He knows his Lady, and knew that all of this mess was ultimately his responsibility, so he had to slink over to her and apologize to her, but becoming the object of Marinette's censure and wrath when discussing the figures, or extending his regrets for – for his failure and his insult against her...

The very thought of her scowling up at him, spurning him, sneering over his contribution to this racist offence as if she could see right thought him and know, somehow, that he was responsible...

For whatever reason, that might be one hit that he can't take.

Particularly because Marinette is on a perpetual warpath, and he's not getting caught in the crossfire or her pint-sized blitzkrieg advance.

That, and his disheartened withdrawal, begins the morning after he puts in his expedited order for painting supplies.

Before class, and thus long before Marinette's inevitable late arrival, Lila is mocking the Chat Noir figure, showing off the video footage of the reviewer who- who had binned him. The other students gather around to listen to her describe in detail Ladybug's appalled response to the products.

Apparently, she and Lila had been chatting on a rooftop and sharing smoothies and pastries in something that sounded very much like a date, or, at least, that was Lila's implication as Alya scowls over the tacit breakdown of LadyNoir and the other students hang on for dear life to every word, drooling and frothing at the mouth over the exchange between the super-heroine and her... very good friend.

Ladybug, Lila confirms conspiratorially, looking about the room as if fearing that Chat Noir himself might leap from the shadowed corners and tear her limb from limb, had split with chortles at the flopsy failure of a figure, resting an arm to Lila's shoulder and holding her close – Ladybug's arms are so strong, aren't they?! Lila gushes and swoons, fanning herself alongside about half the class.

True, but Lila would probably only be aware of that after having her lights knocked out by a solid Ladybug haymaker.

Then, according to the narrative that Lila weaves with typically emphatic skill, her g – uh, that is to say, Ladybug dropped Chat Noir off the roof.

Not threw. That would take effort that little Chat Noir didn't deserve.

Even though he knows that Lila is pathologically incapable of telling the truth, Adrien succumbs, face falling for just a moment, before-

“How dare you.” It's a hissed whimper from the doorway where, Adrien realizes as her turns in his seat, Marinette stands, balled-up fists shuddering as her backpack drops to the hardwood floor.

The sheer agony that screams from her posture and garbles her voice makes Adrien long to throttle someone due to his cat-like protective instincts which are totally a thing. Cats could be incredibly loyal and defensive when their loved ones were threatened. Totally.

“What's that, Marinette?” Lila offers sweetly.

“How dare you suggest that Ladybug would ever do that to Chat Noir!” Marinette rages, and a single step forward into the classroom is sufficient to press Adrien away, scooting his chair back from his desk.

Alya sets her cell phone to the table, grimacing as she appears torn between the two girls.

“Yeah, I mean, they must have had final say on the figures, right?” the blogger offers, hands raised to try to placate both of the girls as if she's warding off two lionesses from different prides. “So it's not like she'd really tear into it, or be surprised.”

A reasonable defense on Alya's part that, sadly, is in no way accurate because he was an overconfident idiot who'd bitten off more than he could chew when it came to contract law and had only really looked at the royalty offers, trusting experts in their field to actually produce quality material.

“Oh, Ladybug told me that she hadn't even seen the figures. After all, she's too mature a woman with refined tastes to be interested in kids' toys,” Lila offers in a syrupy innocent tone, and he nearly snaps a pencil in two underneath his desk at the infantilization, the suggestion and the fact that he was, and is, just a stupid child. “It was all Chat Noir's idea, so I think that, as the real superhero, Ladybug has a right to be upset."

Much as he would like to deny the assertion, she's right, really. Failure to review the contracts properly or retain veto rights on design choices had led them to this situation, and that's entirely his responsibility.

“Well, if that's true, than I guess La Cité de Refuge homeless shelter has Chat Noir to thank for the extra funding they'll be receiving this year, right?" Marinette growls in retort, closing the distance with Lila, the crowd of students shattering and parting like a formation of Russian irregulars before the German advance. "That's all on him too, just like the donations that are going towards more professional help for students across Paris."

Lila rises, thumbing her chin towards the other girl, her warm smile oozing unabashed contempt that only he and Marinette appear to be able to detect.

Seeming to collapse into her desk as she watches the exchange like someone who can see the doomed smart car, stuck on the tracks, and the train bearing down, but is too far away to shout a warning to the driver, Alya massages her brow.

"He didn't have to sell himself and Ladybug alike to get that money," Lila snorts into a huffing Marinette's face that's creasing up to the point that she almost looks like a rabid pug, face all folds, and it's as terrifying as it is adorable. "He had no right to speak for her without getting her consent. That's the most important thing.”

There are some uncertain nods of agreement from the students who have retreated to their desks. Did they realize that signing over rights, which both he and Ladybug had done, at least as a formality, was really irrelevant when you were operating anonymously, or under a super-hero guise? Hadn't they seen Ladybug alongside their Hasbro liaison when the donation to La Cité de Refuge was presented? 

Lila is far from done, though, pushing on too quickly to allow the other students to really think things through. “He could have just organized a fund-raiser or gone on the news. I think that he was just trying to be more famous- get his face in the store shelves."

"Chat is a pretty cocky showboat, isn't he? Just look at this video!" Alya scratch-laughs in a clear attempt to short-circuit the disaster that's unfolding before their eyes, thrusting her cell phone into the air to show off a random Chat Noir video clip that actually involves him face-planting into a wall after getting caught up in a bevy of sneezes due to the effects of a passing flock of pigeons.

Not his finest moment, but he'll take a bloodied nose over this catastrophe any day.

Marinette is not paying attention, though, jabbing a finger into Lila's wide-eyed face that's starting to show signs of flushing and tearing up.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing, so maybe Ladybug should have gotten off her fat butt to actually use her fame to help people, just like Chat Noir did.” Marinette's snarl drives their classmates back to their seats as they seem to decide that close proximity to roughly equal masses of matter and anti-matter – apt, because Marinette matters a lot and Lila is the antithesis of mattering to him – is unwise.

Lila's mouth opens, lips starting to quiver or, more accurately, flap so that what should be a subtle motion can probably be seen in the back row, before a third combatant tosses herself into the charnal pit.

“But he embarrassed Ladybug and himself, not that he had to do much there. That kid's toy is an affront! Ridiculous!” Chloe chirps from her seat, finally seizing upon the opportunity to refocus attention on herself.

That's his moment. He has to take the chance as Lila and Marinette alike swivel towards the heiress, surging forward to capture Marinette's arm in a gentle handhold.

Regret and shame alike roil inside his intestines when she nearly leaps to the ceiling, held to the ground only by his grip, it seems, when his fingers close around her shockingly thick bicep. Thick lines of muscle are firm and warm under his palm and that's – that's a little too hot for friendship because he likes a girl with a good throwing arm.

What is he thinking?!

“Marinette, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks before her flapping lips can form coherent words. “It won't take long.”

With a baleful glare towards Lila, she allows him to tug her out towards the hallway beyond their classroom. A conveniently quiet corner, their potential conversation drowned out by the din of passing students and the chatter of friends who gab about upcoming films and tik-tok videos, will be perfect.

"Marinette, you- you shouldn't upset Lila," he says, a wince splitting his face when she tugs free of his grip halfway through the word “upset.”

"Are you serious right now?" she spits like a cobra, flaring up and looming large.

"I'm completely serious,” he insists to defend both him and her, reaching out for a hand that she refuses to give him, snapping it back to her chest, the prospect of his touch nearly scalding her. “She's been leaving you alone recently, right?"

She'd darn well better be in light of their Faustian bargain that allowed her to clutch and cling to his arm at photo shoots, the reek of her perfume tearing at his sensitive nose, and the clammy heat of her skin clinging like sludgy sweat mingled with the spray of oil so fine that it violated his pores and sunk in under his skin so that no amount of time spent in the shower could ever remove the itchy filth.

Only a rooftop jaunt that left him so burnt out that his chest heaved and burned as he rounded the towers of College Francois Dupont and saw the warm light that spilled from Marinette's attic room, or caught a streak of red the colour of the dawn and chased after his Lady, was enough to squeeze it out.

"I don't care." There's a resolute flippancy to Marinette's tone, the dismissal punctuated by a flick of her hand.

"Listen, if you're flying under her radar, then you don't have to worry about her turning on you or trying to get you expelled again," he insists, interlocking his own fingers before his stomach to squeeze out some of the tension, but the pressure and Marinette's expression only trigger a flash of Ladybug from last evening.

"I am not going to allow her to lie about Chat Noir like that, or put him down. He's died for this city,” Marinette insists, jabbing him in the chest, a minute tremor racing its way up her arm, her mouth drooping as she sucks down air. After a momentary whole-body convulsion that's surely an undulation of outrage as her gaze jerks about the the hallway, she settles.

The ensuing frown is so ugly on her, even though she's glorious and fiery in her wrath.

“He might seem like a goofball, and he is, but he's a hero, Adrien." Strain renders her voice rough and pebbly as her eyes plead him to relent and a thousand prickling sewing needles cascade into his heart. Chat Noir shouldn't be so important to her. "If you heard someone talking about – about a fireman who died trying to fight his way through a tenement fire to pull someone out, would you just let her keep doing it?"

If it was his Lady, he certainly wouldn't follow his own advice, but she deserved the defense.

"No, but Chat Noir's not worth it," he nearly whines like a plaintive child, and it's only then that he realizes he's saying it because it's true, and he wants her to lie and tell him it's not.

Marinette blinks and shakes her head as if she's just heard him say with complete sincerity that he's actually a Reptillian from Alpha Centauri and has been sent to Earth to scout it for an invasion – like the very words got folded up together like a sheet of origami paper that somehow become, with a few skillful pleats, a jet engine aircraft weighing in at 200 metric tonnes and carrying France's national soccer team.

Then, blood blooms hot in her suddenly snarling face, her fists clenching up and twitching. She looks like she's just on the verge of slugging him and grinding his nose to powder in one blow. Instead of lashing out, however, she's suddenly his father, icy-cool and emotionally-distant as she judges him and finds him unworthy.

"Adrien." Her voice is not a hiss. It's a steady stream, barely flowing, clogged up with the winter freeze, as she grabs his outer shirt and brings him down with a slow, easy pull. He swallows, mouth dry, staring into her crystalline blue eyes that are tugging him under, trapping him beneath the frozen surface to drown, pounding and scrabbling in terror. "You listen to me. Chat Noir is always worth it."

There's no chance to muster a defense or a retort, or even to squeeze out an inarticulate expression of gratitude. Marinette wheels away from him, shoulders rolling as if to work out tension, but he can't quite fathom the new shudder, like a hiccup, that rocks her form and nearly has her tripping, bracing herself against a locker.

Bringing pain to his very dear friend was the exact opposite of what he'd intended, hoping to spare her from Lila's reprisal, but he can see from the way that she limps off, stung, surely, by his inarticulate and inconsiderate betrayal, that's he's only hurt her worse.

His back collides with the wall, the only thing keeping him upright. He's such a mess that he really is fit for the trash if he can do that to a friend.

When he slouches his way home that evening, his mute driver checking in on him, stoic eyes flicking up towards the rear-view mirror periodically, he endures a lecture from Nathalie regarding his posture and the impression that it conveying to a judgmental public.

Dinner consists of a half chicken breast, unseasoned, accompanied by a plethora of vegetables from which he can eat his fill. His father does not join him.

In his room, he checks on his order, and boy is it a blessing that he paid for expedited shipping, because his parcel is two days away.

Those two days are utter hell, as, though Lila has quieted down and no longer launches into screeds against Chat Noir's legitimate incompetence, Marinette is ignoring him, or trying to ignore him.

Her face contorts whenever he enters the classroom, her effervescent and energetic conversation with Alya dying down and that massive smile – too massive because he knows what a fake smile looks like – dies away, impossible to maintain in his presence, and the vibrant girl becomes a mealymouthed mouse around him.

The only time that changes is when she sees someone starting to disparage the other him, and another Marinette takes over – the one that's driven by a fiery-wild sense of justice that makes her seem as if she could overcome Ladybug herself if they ever contended for the position of “the true heroine of Paris.”

That's when the blitzkrieg starts its advance once again.

It's a good look on her.

He'd like to see it more often.

Oh!

That's it, of course.

His supplies might be two days away, and even then it will take some time to practice his stills so as to ensure that his Ladybug figures are properly painted and worthy of them – although nothing that he has to give will ever truly be worthy of Ladybug or Marinette, not with how he's insulted them and failed them – but there may be another gift that Chat Noir can give Marinette.

At least that would make him feel a little bit better, knowing that he tried, even if she can never be allowed to learn that it was Adrien's way of apologizing, or at least trying.

Being Chat Noir is the most liberating and exhilarating aspect of his life, allowing him to shuck the burdens of identity and fame, claiming both again by manufacturing them on his own terms, and working to earn them and define them, rather than having them handed over to him by his father.

He can't think of a greater gift, a more meaningful apology.

And if Char Noir can maybe, just maybe, put in a good word on Adrien's behalf, or even convince Marinette to give up on defending him to her classmates because he's a macho, debonair, and qualified hero, unconcerned regarding public perception, and she wasn't meant to take emotional and social blows to defend him, well, so much the better.

Heck, if everything goes his way, they may actually be able to find out which girl deserves the title of the “true heroine of Paris.”

In response to that tail-wagging prospect, his mind immediately conjures the phrase “My Lady.”

But for some reason, he sees Marinette, defending him against Lila.

Chapter Text

The next two days pass like a kidney stone, which Adrien has heard is really unpleasant even if he's not going to investigate that matter too thoroughly.

As if they can sense the bitter tension that's fomenting between Lila, Marinette, Adrien himself, and their entire coterie of friends who are being split apart at the seams, the remainder of the class stays quiet, refusing to rise to Lila's increasingly outlandish provocations.

He hates the way that Marinette looks at him now; typically, there's a fondness when they're at a distance, glances in his direction to see if he's alright or even stares when he's really having a rough day.

Now, when she's not ignoring him, her gaze passing over his slouched figure as if he's a table or a chair, a random piece of furniture in the room, there's merely a flicker of acknowledgement – a momentary glance when her eyes flood with something and her cheeks crease with a flinching frown, gone in a mere moment.

...

Action figures are really great, though. He invests the free time that he can't spend with his friends admiring and rearranging his old collection: setting up a diorama of his Power Rangers figures, searching the internet for sales on some older pieces, either used to complete his loose collection or still mint because it might be nice to have a little display of mint-in-box items, or-

How is a really cheesy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure from the 90s with about five points of articulation worth nearly $1300 US?

This is a strange world.

Does he really want to be a part of it?

He thinks of his little Lady and how the real one and Marinette alike might – might smile at him and forgive him if he can just give them what they need, or just be what they need and not himself, show them that he's sorry.

Yes.

The answer is yes.

Finally, the day arrives. His package should be waiting for him when he gets home from school.

To keep himself from tearing the car door off its hinges as his foot pounds like a power hammer against the carpeted floor of his sedan while the Gorilla chauffeurs him and Nathalie back to the Agreste mansion, he compiles an itemized list of reasons that Marinette should be permitted, and indeed encouraged, to take up her mouse miraculous when appropriate to the situation.

It's composed while Nathalie drones on about his schedule for the upcoming week, listing off the various different appointments with his dietitian, hair stylists, production manager for the next photoshoot, and not a single dinner or even brunch or afternoon tea with his father. He's learnt that it's better never to ask about such things; just allow the waves to wash over and through him, lulled into a stupor by the even murmur of Nathalie's voice, and the grumble of the engine in their luxury car.

The list. That's what's important because Marinette is a vital part of his life, one of his first and best friends whose presence soothes and excites and wounds in equal measure with her fiery disposition, mousy meeps! and flustered bumbles, and that massive heart that's giving Chat Noir more than he deserves, and maybe – he blinks rapidly – maybe shutting out Adrien after what he said that wounded her so grievously, though he can't quite tell why.

1. Multimouse's identity was known only to Chat and Ladybug, both of whom could be trusted beyond measure, as mutual respect and faith formed the backbone for their partnership.

2. Multimouse was brilliantly effective, kicking butt like no one's business.

3. Marinette had proven herself time and time again as an “everyday ladybug” who fought for people, and with people in an effort to encourage them to become better versions of themselves, on a daily basis.

4. Chat can put in a good word for Adrien and make sure that Marinette's not endangering herself as a civilian by attempting to intercede on his behalf.

   1. He can't share that one with Ladybug; can he?

5. Those puffy meatball hair-buns that he wants to nom on are really cu-

“Adrien, are you listening?” Nathalie growls from her passenger-side seat, setting her tablet down to her knee.

Well, yes. He was listening; his latest hearing tests suggested that his auditory senses were well above average. He just wasn't paying attention. When your schedule doesn't matter because you're a piece of luggage to be carted about and arranged into a back seat along with the other inanimate objects, you don't need to know where you're being taken. You just get there.

“Um. I have a photoshoot this week and a session with our design team to have new measurements taken?”

Nathalie arches a brow, adjusting her spectacles before a ghost of a smile flits by her face. “Good guess.”

Within the rear-view mirror, the Gorilla flavors him with a unique expression of detached interest, eyes flicking off the road to assess traffic in order to merge into another lane, but for that single blissful second, there's a roll or a quirk, as much of an alteration to his typically stoic mien as Adrien ever sees from his silent guardian.

It means a lot.

More than he can really put into words as he struggles to split his attention between compiling the every growing list and Nathalie's equally extensive itemization of his responsibilities for the week.

One is as easy to populate as the other is difficult to stomach.

Far more so than his discovery when he arrives at home the mansion and tears his way to his room, expecting to find the package at his door.

It's been delayed.

He throws on a smile while slipping into his room so that he can stuff Plagg with enough cheese to butter him up for a jaunt this evening.

At least the second item in his plan is still possible.

Half-way through their post-patrol meeting, Ladybug does not appear to have been motivated to action by the well-constructed and formalized list that he has produced to lobby for More Multimouse!

Perhaps he should have included a power point presentation or arranged some form of strike action.

“Look, Chat,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, palm concealing only half of the flush on her cheeks. His belt-tail bristles, then droops like an overcooked noodle. He hadn't meant to upset her. “I appreciate your input on this, but Multimouse isn't really someone we can call up regularly.”

“It doesn't have to be a regular thing,” he placates as he rolls his fingers together. Surely Multimouse had proven herself on her sole outing, even more so than any of their other teammates. Had the two girls, who clearly had some form of friendship based on Ladybug's insistence that he protect her from Evilustrator, gone through a falling out? “Even though she totally could handle it, and probably deserves it, too. We can just invite her out for a patrol every now and again.”

“I like holding her back as a reserve, Chat,” Ladybug prevaricates. The way her shoulders fall into that easy, effortless droop, butt sliding forward so that she's laying out flat on the roof, might suggest relaxation, but to him, it screams drop it. “For when times are at their roughest.”

“Now that makes sense, but just because she's our secret weapon, doesn't mean that she can't practice a little bit every now and again.” He's pressing forward through the dubious expression she levels at him; it's important for her to see and to say just how special Marinette actually is, even if he's not entirely sure why. “I mean, you saw how much butt she kicked when she was just starting out! Imagine how amazing she'd be if a few practice sessions and some time to get used to using her miraculous.”

Ladybug scratches her cheek, then her jaw, coughing lightly while glancing downwards. “Well, she was pretty good, I guess, but, uh, you shouldn't oversell her, Chat.”

“I don't know if that's possible,” he gushes, rubbing his clawed hands together like a child about to dive into a smorgasbord of Christmas presents to uncover the hoard of action figures his parents had bought for him. “I mean, she's human and all, but you should see her in action, My Lady. It's almost like watching you when you're coming up with one of your plans, or bulldozing an akuma! Heck, with the way she's putting Lila Rossi in her place – I know you remember her from how many times she's been akumatized, or targeted by an akuma; Chloe levels right there, eh – it's just like that time you butted heads with Lila after she stole Adrien Agreste's book!”

His Lady cocks her head at his effusion of praise which, granted, may have gone overboard. A faint pink dusting of blush is a delight that he can so rarely pull from her, but it seems to have been caused by his recognition of Marinette's awesomeness.

That's distinctly odd, really. The only explanation that flutters in and out of his mind is that Ladybug, who clearly knew Marinette well enough to grant her a miraculous, might have a tiny girl-crush. If it was someone else, the thought might be enough to send him into a spitting-cat rage, ready to claw up said someone's face or launch into the poor soul like he did Theo Barbot who deserved it because he was a twenty-something creep thirsting after a teenager and ended up dating another teenager, Mirelle, just because she was of Asian descent and looked a bit like Ladybug.

And he thought the action figures were racist!

Totally beside the point.

It was possibly a tiny girl-crush on Marinette, if that blush is anything to go by.

Everyone in their class has had at least a little crush on Marinette – well, other than Chloe and Lila, but given the former's taste in makeup and the latter's hairstyle, they had no aesthetic sense anyways.

Yes. It's completely normal for people to crush on Marinette. Everyone other than him must have felt at least a sliver of affection or interest in her that went beyond the bounds of friendship.

“Wait, how do you know about Lila trying to steal Adrien's book?” Ladybug asks, calculating intellect surging over what might have been embarrassment to draw him back to the moment. Of course. He shouldn't be thinking about Marinette when his Lady is right in front of him. Right? “Actually, either of those things?”

“Oh, well.... someone from her class told me.”

“Who?” Twisting to peer around the edge of a chimney as her eyes blow wide and then narrow into unimpressed slits, Ladybug glances towards College Francois Dupont. “And for that matter when?”

“Uh.” He coughs, drawing her suspicious gaze back to him. “I am going to invoke my right to remain silent on that one - for secret identities."

“Duh!” A palm collides with her forehead and it's all he can do not to chastise her for being so mean to his Lady. That delicate forehead should be touched by nothing other than the two blushing pilgrims of his lips.

“Of course. Sorry, Chat. I should have thought that one through... even though there were only two ... people...” A flurry of blinks wipe the confusion from her eyes, her head shaking viciously as if to try to clear the fog of a concussion, to no positive effect. “Nope. You're right. Let's drop that one.”

“Anyways, you will think about her, right? She- she's been really, really good recently. Really trying to be a hero, because real heroes don't need super-powers.” Oh, God, he's starting to ramble. Starting? Continuing. That's not a good look on him. “A firefighter or a police officer, a friend who sees something's wrong and steps in to make sure that you're alright. They're heroes too, and she makes a great one. Superpowers would just... give her another chance to be who she really is more often.”

“Well, it sounds as if you're really taken with her,” Ladybug snorts but there's no humour there, only a bursting of air, nearly manic, reaching out a hand to flick his bell as if by instinct – like she's operating by rote or autopilot.

He had no idea that he could blush so hard that it burns while the sonorous echo of his thoroughly rung bell cascades down the corridors of his mind, but here he is. Being taken by – uh, with! Totally taken with Marinette!

That's not too hard to imagine, really. Not that he's unfaithful, by any means, and even if he does have feelings for her, which he totally doesn't because cats are faithful and don't go around lapping up milk from foreign neighbours' saucers, he'd completely blown his chance back when he got her father akumatized.

She'll never forgive Chat for that.

Although, she was still quite vociferous in his defence, so, maybe-

“Chat, you're... blushing,” Ladybug gasps, leaning in to examine his flushed - and he only now realizes sweating – face, one long finger to his jawline in a heavenly stroke that stokes the fires even further. “Are you-” Her hand jerks back, leaving him to trail after her on instinct. “I'm sorry! I was just teasing. I didn't really mean anything by it.”

“No, no.” He waves her off feebly. “You're fine. I just didn't really expect to – uh. My love life's kind of private, so-” Yeah. Private because he doesn't have any. So private that it consists of one person.

“If you're sure.”

He nods to placate her and himself alike. There's nothing else to do when confronted with such a ridiculous suggestion as him being taken with Marinette, who is totally and completely just a friend.

Seemingly having determined by mutual, silent agreement that they have no need for further conversion on the matter of Marinette, Multimouse, and the feelings that he doesn't have for her, they part ways for the night.

Maybe tomorrow, he'll be able to finally get hold of those painting supplies and work on what has now become, he realizes as he bounds home, nearly smacking into a wall when he mistimes a leap, more of an apology gift to Marinette than to Ladybug,

He doesn't think about what that means.

Chapter Text

With his Lady's tepid yet ever dependable assurances that she would at least consider allowing Multimouse to train alongside them, Adrien resigns himself to the painful pins and needles prickling of delay.

He plays the long game.

The waiting game.

And the waiting game sucks because he wants satisfaction now.

He can barely sleep that night, caught within a happy spiral of dreams that flutter about in the haze between waking and sleeping. They feature a grey and pink little mouse scampering over rooftops alongside his Lady while he trails after them, just trying to keep pace so they won't leave him behind.

It's a happy fantasy.

Of course it is.

There's nothing to be done, though, so instead of sulking in an aggrieved huff like Plagg, who's wailing and gnashing his teeth over on his silk pillow while lamenting Adrien's terrible mistreatment, only offering him a quarter-wheel of Camembert for a very early breakfast, Adrien focuses on productive pursuits.

If he can't sleep, he can at least learn.

His paints, airbrush, and assorted brushes are set to arrive tonight, so now's the time for him to continue to educate himself on their proper use.

Tossing on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones to drown out Plagg's kvetching is just an added bonus as he settles in before his computer screen and loads in youtube, roughly an hour before Nathalie is expected to call him for breakfast.

The details are enthralling. There's an intricacy to the the techniques on display in the latest video tutorial that he never could have imagined.

He's so busy attending to the dictates of colour contrast and coordination while jotting down notes that he doesn't hear Plagg's squawking cease – doesn't hear anything but the thickly Belgian-accented voice of the painter who's running through glazing techniques.

Caught up within the smooth flowing strokes that have transformed a Warhammer 40K miniature's grey plastic into the war-torn face of a space marine, pitted, scarred, and shadowed in the recesses, the alien warmth of a hand on his shoulder sends him whirling in his seat, ripping his headphones off his ears as he yelps and cat-hisses.

The little yowl is paired with a leap that, had he not tamped down on the instinct, might have had him clinging to the ceiling using nothing but his fingernails. Instead, the undulation of his butt and hips only swivels him around to stare, heart dropped and throbbing in his gut, at the taciturn face of his bodyguard, towering above him.

The man nods once, almost feebly – certainly gently for him. An apology.

It matters when he apologizes, or even when Nathalie apologizes.

“Oh, uh- sorry. I didn't hear you come in,” Adrien says, gaze flicking over to the pillow on which Plagg had been beweeping his outcast state. Fortunately, the little guy had either phased through the floor or darted off by all appearances.

Unperturbed, the massive hulk of a man brandishes the watch on his wrist, tapping the glass face with a shake of his head.

“We're going to be running late?” Adrien offers while closing down his browser tab.

A nod confirms his supposition regarding their deadlines, but for a moment, the Gorilla is drawn towards the arrangement of action figures next to Adrien's computer desk.

Little Chat Noir and Ladybug sit next to each other on a pair of miniature deck chairs, the extensive gap in Chat's crotch obvious as he leans into the other toy's space so as to receive as close an approximation of throat scritches as possible given the figures' articulation.

He'd set them up last night, tugging them out of his drawer, because he liked seeing them. Stupid. He should have put them away. They are, after all, contraband. Unlike his other figures, they can't be on display.

If his father knew...

Well, Nathalie would- would throw out little Chat too, and, more importantly, his Lady.

“Yeah, I – I picked up a whole set of them because – because they're going to be giving some of the proceeds to charity, you know? It seemed like a good cause. You- uh... you won't tell my father, will you? He didn't want me to have them.”

The Gorilla eyes him critically, but without judgment, impassive gaze locking in as if to assess for threats while Adrien sweats under the examination. Hot even through Adrien's shirt, the Gorilla's hand is still on his shoulder and the tension, the fear that this is it – the jig is up and his bodyguard is going to turn him in – coils in his gut like a spitting cobra.

Of course his bodyguard is going to tell his father. Nathalie and – and everyone are always on his father's side. He pays them to be.

Suddenly, the grip loosens, and something deep inside of his chest, something he has never quite realized was there until this moment, does too, the heat of that massive palm and tight-squeezing fingers releasing.

His bodyguard guides him gently out of his room, giving him a minute to stuff his toys back in their drawer, covering them with some papers. He gathers his bag, using his back as cover to scoop Plagg into his pocket at the same time, and they make their way to the garage.

Striding towards the car behind his bodyguard, Adrien blinks, befuddled, as the man stands to the side of the front passenger side door, ushering him inside with a wave of his arm, an invitation to join him in the front seat.

The drive passes in a blur with Adrien sneaking glances at his bodyguard the entire way, while taking in the new view afforded to him by this strange position. It's ... odd to sit besides someone rather than behind them; and all he can do is stare at the Gorilla's sideburns which bristle and shake in ways he's never seen before.

Normally when they're driving, he only ever catches glimpse of the large man's eyes in the rear-view mirror or the prickly fuzz along the back of his neck.

This is a nice change.

Having arrived, as per usual, well in advance of the first bell, Adrien knows that he has time to spare. Typically, he spends the few extra minutes steeling himself for the experience of school which is mostly a joy, but a strain for someone who has to work through social quandaries that are obvious to the majority of his well-socialized peers.

Today, it's the fear of facing down Marinette that bubbles up inside of his intestines, and the thought that maybe Nino or Alya or other people who- who really matter might be talking about his figure and his failure.

He has to set the smile in place, real, but buttressed by falsehoods that can be erected if the first level of defence falls.

From his place, buckled into the driver's seat, the Gorilla disrupts Adrien's attempts to psyche himself up, extending his arm to tap the dashboard, just above the glove compartment.

It's not quite clear what he's implying.

Another tap.

Tentatively, Adrien reaches out, slipping his fingers into the dashboard handle and giving it a tug. The compartment falls open. He'd expected a smattering of maps, some mint chewing gum, or some documents like the car's registration and insurance, and they're there, of course, in a disorganized little pile.

But seated atop the little bed of important papers...

Breath held tight and hot in his lungs, as if as the slightest perturbation could dispel the mirage, he scoops up the items inside, one in each hand.

Little Chat.

And his Ladybug.

They're still a mess, sloppy paint applications miming makeup that his Lady doesn't wear or need to compliment her natural beauty , clumsy accessories, wonky joints and more.

Including jaundiced possible racism.

But for some reason, he thinks that they're kind of beautiful as he tears his eyes away, blinking rapidly, and looks to his bodyguard.

He's smiling.

Not really, of course. The Gor- His bodyguard never smiles; no laugh-lines ever crease his cheeks; his eyes never shift and slant with a brow furrowed by amusement or joy; those thin lips never curl.

And they aren't. They don't.

But after all these years, Adrien can still see it. Maybe see it and see so much more for the first time.

The lumbering hulk of a man is smiling at him, just in his own way.

It's the opposite of the superficiality that defines Adrien's life as an Agreste, a model and celebrity who is adored by screaming fans, obsessed with the heavily airbrushed and photoshoped teen-heartthrob his father's PR firms have manufactured.

He has to look deep, beyond the facile facade to see it.

They have to know and understand each other.

And he sees it: a brilliant, heartfelt, and- and proud smile that has his jaw quivering.

After a furtive glance through the tinted windows of their car, his bodyguard picks up the Ladybug figure from his hands and mimes a flying leap that takes her from Adrien's knee to the dashboard. She bends at the waist, the Gorilla's thumb twisting her shoulder downwards so that her hand is palm up, outstretched to the little ugly-beautiful Chat Noir in Adrien's lap.

Adrien swallows, blinks, looks at – at his bodyguard's passive-smiling face and the little outstretched hand, a – a real invitation.

Held in Adrien's gentle grip, as if the toy is actually something valuable, Little Chat has no choice but to mime her leap, punctuated by an acrobatic barrel roll, and join his little Lady to survey the landscape of their car and peer out the widow, keeping a watchful eye for akuma.

Typically, Adrien has to work himself up emotionally to brave school. A smile is genuine and fake alike, provoked by the simply joy of being pressed up alongside his friends, hearing the bustle of other people's bodies and their chatter, but it's always necessary to double check so as to make certain that those grins won't falter from some ill-timed thought or Lila's grip or Chloe's bitter arrogance that makes him long to see the girl she was, and perhaps still is, underneath that cracking plastic-and-makeup mask.

Today, though, is different. He doesn't need to psyche himself up to keep his smile in place

After five minutes adventuring with Ladybug, maneuvered about the dashboard by the Gorilla's careful fingers, so gentle with the flimsy plastic because the toy – and maybe more than the toy – mattered, he doesn't need to think or try.

If little Chat's fixed, painted plastic face could split with a grin, it would be a perfect mirror to the one that Adrien has on his face when he steps out of the car.

Leaning over the passenger-side seat, his- his friend points to Adrien's chest, then back to his own bulging barrel of a torso, and mimes zipping his lips.

Adrien can only swallow down the fire in his throat and nod.

Nothing's washing the pang from his eyes, though, that pricks all the way to class.

He's late for class, just by a few minutes, and he can't find it in him to care. Even when Marinette flinches away from him, her conversation with Alya cut off mid-rant so that she can pretend to be reviewing her notes, his spirits are still flying high.

He can fix this.

All you need is someone in your corner.

At the end of the day, he finds his bodyguard waiting for him, and as the rear door is opened for him, his heart sinks. Was that moment they shared really so fleeting, a one-time expression of intimacy that the Gorilla regretted?

His packages are in the back seat, piled up and waiting for him, save for one that the Gorilla pulls out from behind his back and hands to him.

Except this one is not packaged for shipping or emblazoned with postage information.

No. It's neatly wrapped with Ladybug-spotted paper, offset by a dainty neon green bow that clashes horribly with the deep red of the packaging but nonetheless looks utterly perfect.

Tugging at the tape along one fine edge and then the other, trying to preserve the pristine wrapping paper while undoing the knotted bow, Adrien reveals a starter paint set with a dozen shades of flesh-tones arrayed from Flat Flesh to Salmon Rose.

“How-” he looks up at the stoic Gorilla who, for once, seems to be fighting a real smile. “How did you know?”

As if it sufficed for an answer, his bodyguard raises one meaty hand to point his index and middle fingers at his eyes, then casts them back towards Adrien's chest, repeating the gesture until Adrien feels himself grinning.

I'm watching you.

No. 

I'm looking out for you.

“Thank you,” he croaks despite himself, cradling the assortment of miniature paints to his chest and wondering if it would be weird, or wrong, to ask for a hug.

He doesn't have to.

It's friendly, his Gorilla's body a few degrees hotter than his, and the suit jacket rough against his cheek when he clings back. Much as he wants it to go on, he allows it to last just a moment because that's all that a bodyguard can give to him, even if it's far less than the titan who squeezes his shoulder in parting is really offering.

When they get home, his friend helps him smuggle every box, every item in his massive hoard, into his bedroom, and then settles in with the action figures that he withdraws from his pockets to mime a tea party with little Chat and Ladybug while Adrien unpacks and explores the collection of tools that are now at his disposal.

Even if he's inexperienced, he's going to make sure that his Lady is perfect.

And, especially since his father never allowed him to have even a single friend join him in his palatial room, it's a delight to have been able to smuggle in two living ones as Plagg floats up through the desk, just out of the Gorilla's view, and nuzzles his hand.

The Gorilla's slow and steady breathing fills the silence, and Adrien sets to work.

Chapter Text

His bodyguard helps him, of course, as Adrien promises to pass on the pre-order bonus framed postcard from his Ladybug and Chat Noir Figma two-pack when it's released later this year. Despite the attempt at bribery that he's certain they both realize is a gift, just like the ones he's preparing for Marinette and a “mysterious girl” - the Gorilla raises a thick, bristly brow at that - Adrien is confident that his bodyguard would lend his aid and his surprisingly keen eye for action figures and realistic paint-applications even if he wasn't being paid-off.

He cares without being paid.

Maybe he always will.

After all the tutorials, which prepare him conceptually but, like the Quora questions and how-tos that he'd reviewed before first going to school, do nothing to convey the experiential reality of painting, he's still in a reasonable position to complete his first attempt at fixing his Lady.

Late into the evening as his bodyguard covers for him with Nathalie, he works at his desk. The wet palette thins his first application of a base skin-tone to the point that he leaves pigment-stained water droplets on his little Lady's cheeks. He wipes off his mistake and begins again, choosing to experiment with different brush-strokes and paint combinations on one of his little Chat Noirs.

He takes the hits like a champ.

Way to go, little guy. You stand up for your Lady.

By nine o'clock, the practice runs are through. The work-desk is spartan with only his Lady, a fresh wet palette, a handful of paintbrushes, and a plastic cup filled with water to rinse them. A thin line of blurred paints runs along the surface of his palette, colour transitioning from a dark rose undertone to mirror his Ladybug's delicious flush, through a flat skin-tone, to a slightly olive hue that will serve as the base for her face.

The hair is first, thinned black paint covering the blue, and he's careful not to slop any on the face or neck. That would take a heck of a lot of work to paint over. A dry-brush highlight with Thunderhawk Blue, which is more of a grey than anything else, leaves each strand popping, definition and layering created with only a few passes.

Multiple thin layers applied to progressively smaller areas are the way to go when he gets to the skin, but he starts with a full coat of the base tone to wipe away the yellow that might – might – just be production incompetence.

The eyes are a trial; his steady hand from piano practice and fencing, and a keen eye for details, one of the real gifts that his father gave him, lets him pick out the right shade of blue for the irises, followed with a tentative little dot of black for the pupil.

Lastly, he plucks up the detail brush. It was hard to find the precise paint needed to match the red used in Ladybug's costume, but he did it; the once-black hairbands are now a flowing red, which he edge highlights using the base colour mixed with a hint of white and metallic silver because there's always been a popping sheen to Ladybug's costume with the thin meshwork that's so subtle only he can really see it when they're up close.

It... works.

As he holds her in his hands, her face a natural slight-off-olive with a hearty flush as if she's been puffing and parkouring around Parisian rooftops with him, her hair-ties flowing and gleaming, he knows she's not perfect.

But, like his Lady who has her faults, she is, just the same.

He did this to her.

He created this, and he hasn't done it alone.

He can't wait to show it off to Marinette, just because he can't stand the silence any longer. If she likes it, and starts talking to him again, he can refine his craft and create yet another, superior model. 

She's an artist too, and she's Marinette; she'll understand. 

Oh, and he has to give one to Ladybug herself.

He's just going to see Marinette before he has the chance to meet up with Ladybug for one of their patrols. It's for that reason, as the bubbly, heady excitement sets his stomach aflutter and he slouches off towards bed, the exhaustion and the intense fixation finally catching up to him at around 1:00 AM, that he's contemplating giving Marinette his apology gift.

Chapter Text

Like the static-crisp air before a lightning storm, a portentous tension crackles through the halls of their school.

So many times in the past, braving the rain, Chat Noir had burst free from the stifling confines of his palatial room, so large that it crushed the air out of his lungs and left him a shivering mess in the gloom, longing for the transformation that would liberate him and grant him sight. He knows what a storm feels like, when he's in one, or preparing to leap into one to escape another.

That “Marinette blitzkrieg” – or lighting advance – threatens to start up again, and caution is demanded by the precarious conditions. No seeding the clouds.

In the bright and cheerful classroom, relatively lavish and well-maintained given that Francois Dupont services some of the Parisian elite and is an affluent, respected educational institution, Lila and Marinette are sizing each other up.

The storm clouds gather.

Classmates have drawn lines: Marinette, Lila, and the panic-stricken citizens of Tokyo, huddling together in a clutch, hoping not to get crushed underfoot in the Kaiju battle.

Not that Marinette is anything less than the cutest and most resplendent of monsters when she gets flushed and righteous, as Adrien has found.

Lunch is the time at which Adrien expects the next round to break out: Lila vs. Marinette III, or is it V?

It's a Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla thing at this point. Too many sequels, remakes, reimaginings, and continuities to count.

One an unfairly wounded creature, assailed by forces beyond her control and roused from her slumber to do battle, and the other a monstrous perversion of the first girl's form: a travesty.

Yeah. That checks out.

It also may be Adrien spiraling in horror and retreating into giant monster movie and anime metaphors just to keep from sweating himself into unconsciousness as he settles in next to Nino at their school desk, setting his book-bag at his feet while contemplating the myriad responses Marinette might have to his apology.

She's too good to throw it back in his face. That much is obvious.

Just like his Chat Noir figure as it joined the Gorilla's Ladybug, it's a rare, beautiful, and ugly thing, he realizes, to have someone stand up for him.

Chat Noir doesn't deserve to have someone standing up for him, not when he makes so many mistakes. Can he make her understand that while also apologizing and earning her forgiveness, maybe earning back her friendship?

It's just that he wants to get hurt before anyone else. That's his job. Maybe that's all that he's really good at.

A great swell of bubbles burst up around his heart, and he squeezes together sweaty palms when class lets out mere moments, and days, after it began. He has to bite the bullet and intercept Marinette before Lila holds court and begins to brag again – she got in about two minutes prior to class and Marinette's late arrival - about the jeweled bracelet that Ladybug gave her last night.

Half the class seems convinced that they're dating. There's a betting pool.

Lila aside, how could you do that with someone's love-life? To have someone love you – to know you and still love you-

That's not something to tarnish or belittle.

The expression on Marinette's face is akin to the one he would expect to see if she had just cracked open her lunch and taken a huge bite from her sandwich, fluffy-fresh white bread with the crusts cut off, only to find that her mother had left her a “Candwich” with vegemite, jeotgal, and strawberry jelly filling.

That only covers about one-fifth of the pure mortified disgust that Marinette is radiating, brow bent downwards, mirroring her curving lips, while trembling shudders race through her cheeks.

If he could show that kind of emotion, he would have a similar manifestation of disgust.

Even as a famed male model, world-renowned for his features, he surely wouldn't be half as adorable as her, though.

What?

Not important right now.

There's also nothing to do about Lila's Lilaing.

Nearly leaping from his seat as he compresses his chest and slips past Nino before the other boy even seems to realize what's happening, Adrien bee-lines for Marinette, catching her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Marinette?” he asks softly, making a conscious effort not to provoke the beast, one step away from twisting the toes of his shoe into the ground like a bashful child.

With a shiver, she looks back to him. “Uh...” Her throat undulates like she's guzzling thick molasses. “Y-yes Adrien?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

The slight pinching of her brow as she weighs his request and surely finds him wanting in the balance of her attentions after what happened the last time he'd made such a request. She glances over at Lila, who again starts to hold court, Alya skirting the edge of the throng with a judgmental glare.

“Okay,” Marinette concludes finally, and he perks up at her having granted him that grace, finding him worthy of her attentions.

The heated bustle of students departing their respective classrooms for lunch carries them away, sweeps them up in an energy that is so blissfully easy to get lost within. So that she doesn't get lost, he reaches out toward her stiff hand and takes it after she nods her slow approval.

She squeezes hard and soft enough to make him believe that everything will be alright.

When the waves of pupils push them out of the college proper and into the rear courtyard, he tugs her over to the shade of a nearby tree, just beyond a few gaggles of teens who are mostly faffing about on their cell phones, though two of them are... giving each other oral examinations.

Adrien flushes, Marinette's palm becoming hot and heavy in his clasp, and he's suddenly aware of her proximity.

Her scent is that of sweet vanilla and strawberry perfume, but just a little tiny dab or two so that it's not overwhelming, concealing a floral scent and lighting, if it could be bottled. Why is that so familiar?

The subtle gleam of sunshine filtering through the trees glistens off her immaculate, silken hair, pig-tails bouncing with her even steps. His newfound understanding of colour combinations and skin-tones permits proper appreciation of the subtle pinkness to her cheeks that may be the most adorable colour he's ever seen, almost – almost more appealing that the dusting of roseate on his Lady when she accepts his equally pink rose in his dreams.

He has to stop being such a horrible blushing mess! Marinette is just a friend. There's no reason for him to be acting like this.

Also, he really needs to let go of her hand, as they've reached their destination and she's starting to look up at him with the big, curious sky-blue eyes that leave his heart aching for some reason but he can't.

So she does so instead, tugging free to smooth her shirt and then start to fiddle with the edges of her jacket.

“Uh, you- you wanted to speak to me, Adrien?” she mumbles. The loss of her obstinate fire makes no sense, and is almost disappointing, even if having it directed at him is a nightmarish prospect.

Ladybug would be scooping up pieces of Chat Noir – what of him wasn't ash – to sift through the junk to find his ring so she could give it to a new partner.

“Yeah, Marinette,” he presses forward in a burst that leaves her blinking, taking a step back. “I really wanted to talk to you about what happened a few days ago.”

“Oh- oh, yeah. I should have realized that was it.” Her shoulders fold over so that she looks like a drooping crank-toy running down, and Chat Noir wants to wind her right back up with some puns and flirts.

Adrien can't do that though, so he settles for the most genuine sad smile that he can muster.

“I wanted to apologize,” he presses through the lump in his throat and the scratchy sensation that prickles across his entire body.

Her nose scrunches. “You- what?”

There's nothing to understand, really. Nothing more complicated than what's already been said and the simplest thing that remains. “I'm sorry, Marinette. I- I should have been more considerate and thought about what you needed.”

Like an overtaxed levy that had been bulging with days and days of rainfall, she bursts, waggling her hands in denial as words tumble out in a flurry.

“What? No! You were coattaly tonsiliderate! I mean totally considerate! Considerate was you! Trying to protect me and I just threw that in your pretty face cruelly." She grimaced. "I - what I mean to say is threw it in your face pretty cruelly and - and not that you don't have a pretty face because you're a model, or that you're just a pretty face! I was so frustrated with Lila, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you when you had never said anything about Chat Noir and he'd probably agree with you, which is what made it all the worse – like ... like he would actually believe that he wasn't worth someone sticking up for him. I was – I thought that you were ignoring me because I'd screwed everything up,” she concludes before sucking down a massive breath.

It's a rambling mess, so many commingled and ill-expressed concepts and blurring fears, but all he can take from it is relief that's immediately washed away in a deluge of self-recrimination and guilt.

He'd though that he was giving her space; instead, he'd been shutting her out.

Of course this was his fault too.

What an idiot!

“What?” he croaks. “No. Never, Marinette. I- didn't you want me to leave you alone?”

That's what his father wanted when Adrien had offended against him, or failed to live up to his expectation.

Such performance will not be tolerated. You may go to your room. Nathalie will retrieve you when your presence is required, and at such time, I expect better of you as an Agreste.

Isn't that what he should do until he was able to get a gift to apologize? That's how it worked when someone hurt you, right?

The twitching mortification on her face settles into steely focus as she tosses her shoulders back, taking a deep, apparently-calming breath, and pint-sized though she may be, it's like she's towering above him. 

“Never. You're my friend, Adrien,” she says as if she's trying to convince herself, setting her jaw like Ladybug preparing for a fight. “That's important to me.”

“You're really important to me, too, Marinette. I didn't want to see you get hurt, just like you wanted to protect Chat Noir.”

“Thank you for speaking to me about this, Adrien,” she says with a cool and gentle resolve. “If you hadn't tried to reach out first, we might have just kept on fumbling around, keeping quiet.”

“I- I guess that it seems kind of silly now, but I got, well... I know that the Ladybug figures are hard to come by, and, uh, I thought that your Chat Noir might get a little lonely on your shelf.”

That seems to give her even more confidence for some reason.

“You never have to worry about that, Adrien,” she offers in a tone like the calming gurgle of a brook in the middle of a glade while she swings her backpack from her shoulder and rummages through its contents to pluck out... his action figure from a secure, otherwise empty pocket. “Chat's never alone. He'll always have me, after all.”

Don't cry. Don't cry and have to explain it. There's no need to cry; be a man – a real man like your father doesn't cry.

Adrien Agreste doesn't cry in public. He feels sad; he's privileged and perfect and doesn't have the right to cry when other people can see him.

He's already crying.

“A-Adrien,” she offers with a hiccup and a grimace that leaves her no less beautiful. “Are you alright?

“I-” gravel is cleared away by a choking cough that's as loud as the clatter-smash of a dump-truck. “I just think that's one of the sweetest things that I've ever heard. How- how can you be so sweet?”

The corner of her eye twitches, hands gripping tight while she starts to break down right in front of him.

Mood whiplash. 

He empathizes. 

“Oh, sits tweet!” She squawks, blush blooming and that's his fault for having embarrassed her with his stupid comment when he should have had the wherewithal to keep his mouth shut. “I mean I'm not sweet like you – I mean like a treat or a really nice tweet like the ones that you put out on the internet where people post their tweets!”

“But I still want you to have this, Marinette,” he insists, ignoring the enraptured and flustered expression as he pulls out the Ladybug figure over which he had slaved last evening and holding it out to her like a guilt-offering to a patient and loving god who would accept it because generosity was in her nature. “Chat Noir might not get lonely, but- but I think that Ladybug and him are a pair. They're best friends and should always be together.”

The little figure is raised upward, finding a place before her face to be examined with a critical but warm eye, and she suddenly bursts out giggles. Marinette's skin tone is an appealing reflection of the layers of thin paints that he'd applied with painstaking detail to his little Lady.

Apparently that tongue-twister on which she was labouring earlier has been worked out because she softens, plump pink lips curving up in a gentle smile that has his heart pitter-pattering as his palms grow sweaty. Can't she take his little Lady already?! He doesn't want to get her all soaked with sweat.

“It's a gift,” he clarifies the obvious, leading her to blink her way out of the little stupor.

“Yeah,” she chortles, then presses a hand to her chest, steadying her rapid breaths. “A gift! That they can do anything together.”

He meant the figure, but, yes, his Lady is a gift to the world, bundled up in a human-sized package and sometimes he can imagine that she's just for him.

“Yeah. Them against the world, I'd still bet on them every time,” he sighs, thumb to the sealed paint job on this Lady's little face, stroking the fine brow, pad catching on the little ripples in her hair. A soft coo bubbles up from in front of him: Marinette, her expression a reflection of his own, just askew but cut with something calculating and uncertain, as she veritably pets little Chat's head.

“You know, Adrien-” Her palm is warm against his when she gentles his little Lady from his hand, fingers catching as if with a burst of static cling, and for Marinette, and for both Little Chat and Little Bug, he's willing to hand over his Lady. “You're absolutely right.”

Although she's staring down at the little figures, it doesn't seem for a moment that he's being ignored; quite the opposite.

She's examining his work.

“Did you... have someone paint this?” The fine furrow of her brow bespeaks careful contemplation of his work, and suddenly, he's too embarrassed to admit what he's done. She's going to think that it's a horrible mangled monstrosity.

She takes a step back towards the wall of the school, an outcropping casting her features in shade.

“I- uh... sort of?” he chuckles, moving in the shade of the building alongside her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Gorilla helped, you know?”

Having favoured Ladybug with his fair share of smitten expressions, captured for posterity and publicity in innumerable Ladyblog posts slavering over the prospect of LadyNoir, he knows what reverent adoration looks like, how it transforms a face. Light blooms across every inch. A looseness and easy confidence, surety in a storm, takes the place of pain or fear, flooding away everything else in a torrent that could consume the world and does just as long as you keep staring.

That's how Marinette is looking at his Ladybug figure.

She must like Ladybug nearly as much as he does.

He and Lila alike might have genuine competition, given that Ladybug's girl-crush on Marinette seemed to be reciprocated.

Unlike the conniving girl, who merely used Ladybug and innuendo as a means of securing social capital, and him, Marinette likely deserves Ladybug.

But he's not giving up without a fight.

Who was fighting for whom in a doubtlessly disastrous duel involving some complex combination of a Knight, a Princess, and a Lady?

“You... you made this for me?” she asks in a hush, examining the hair-bands with renewed interest.

“Painted it. I know the face isn't very life-like, and the red's all wrong on the hair ties, and- and you might not want it,” he stammers, holding out a hand in an offer to take back the toy. “I can get another one. I mean, have someone good – a professional painter – make one.”

“No!” she retorts, and nearly clutches the little Ladybug and Chat Noir duo to her chest, his little self getting up close and personal with his Lady. Lucky little guy.

Becoming jealous over a plastic representation of your alter-ego was probably not a sign of emotional health.

“It- she's perfect!” she exclaims, flush burning a path up her cheeks and down her throat. The pinkish red shade offsets the sapphire shimmer of her eyes that aren't really precious jewels but that's the only way he knows how to describe them. “I can't tell you how much this means to me, Adrien. I mean – you made this. For me!”

“I- I wanted to let you know that I was sorry, and – and that I care.” Shrugging bashfully, as if he's trying to escape that adoring expression because it's making him feel things that he doesn't really want to think about. “I didn't know how else to do that.”

“You don't need to give me a gift to let me know that you care, Adrien,” she offers with yet another grin, now hugging both figures to her chest. “All you ever have to do is tell me what you're feeling. I- I'll try to be a better... friend and not make you feel bad for doing it.” A mournful head-shake seems directed at herself. “I should have given you something to let you know that I was sorry for not doing that.”

“It's alright, Marinette,” he assures, putting a hand to her shoulder. ”All that matters is that we talked, and- and that you're still my friend.”

Shifting the two figures to one hand, careful of the paint applications that are protected by a coat of matte varnish, Marinette trembles for a moment and then presses in, closing the distance between them with a hurried lunge.

Soft.

Delicate.

Feathery.

Thrilling.

Friendly?

Before he even can register the feeling, she's pulled back.

If he ever made a Marinette action figure, he'd have to use pure Ladybug red for her face.

Not that he's much better when he slaps a palm to his cheek, warm-hot-scalding with an electric tingle that cascades like a waterfall into rapids right into his heart. Fitting, because that's moving very rapidly. He and his gut are tumbling, rolling, flying and drowning all at once, which may explain the stupid cheesy grin on his face because something has to.

Marinette just kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Adrien,” she mumbles, eyes to the ground, but the lines of a shy smile splinter up her cheeks.

The rest of his day is all the brighter for the affirmation.

As when they travelled outside, they walk back to class holding hands.

Friends totally hold hands.

For safety and warmth, and to make sure that you didn't get lost.

Totally.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, after his five-minute super serious and sober-minded strategy meeting with his bodyguard, wherein he laid out surreptitious plans for patrol routes and maybe some dates while pretending to simply play with action figures, Adrien finds that “Wave Three: The Heroes” is on the way.

The new run, whose release date is yet several months away, is announced prematurely in a hasty press release as a means of cutting some of the negativity surrounding the launch of the first wave and Chat Noir's figure in particular.

Between practice fencing matches, Adrien takes a quick break to pound back a quarter bottle of water, slick a film of sweat off his brow, and contemplate the announcement on his phone while off to the side of his fencing arena. Other students mill about, chattering among themselves or comparing techniques, while yet more resolve their duels.

Ryuuko's prototype images, which he examines carefully on his cell phone because the Dragon deserves respect, suggest brilliant paint applications and the use of face printing technology.

No whitewashing and general racism helps.

Alongside her, the wave also contains Carapace, Rena Rouge, Viperion, and Queen Bee, the rights to whose likeness had to have been negotiated with Chloe and Mayor Bourgeois, though for the acclaim, the heiress must have leapt at the chance to be turned into an action figure.

How had he not noticed her bragging about it?

Is is possible that he had been so enraptured by the contemplation of his customized Ladybug figure, and absorbed by Marinette's strangled silence, over the past few days that he missed Chloe's self-aggrandizement?

No, she would have mentioned something earlier than that, if the action figure had really mattered to her.

It probably doesn't, even if in some strange vicarious fashion, it means something to him, as if she's joining him on his adventures, becoming part of the fun.

The other more obscure heroes such as King Money, Pegasus, and Multimouse are sure to-

Sure to follow...

Flailing in a frantic spasm of horror, as if his muscles are coiling and degrading under the effects of some horrible snake venom, Adrien nearly tosses his fencing foil into a passing student's face.

Multimouse! he laments mentally, staggering over to the benches than line the gymnasium's walls while said nearly-impaled student glares balefully and continues on his way.

No time to worry about that little mishap!

Other than Ladybug, Chat, and Marinette herself, no one in the world has even heard of Multimouse!

He might have first-edition versions of every figure that Hasbro and Figma alike produce, and be able to pick up all the limited-edition Walmart, Amazon, and Target exclusives, even though he has to have some of them flown in from the States, but he can never have a Multimouse.

Given that Hawkmoth too knows of Multimouse, it isn't as if he can order a commission, either. No matter how scant the chance of Hawkmoth catching wind of Adrien Agreste's familiarity with the super heroine, no self-respecting defender of Paris could ever take the risk-

But without Multimouse...

Gulping down the rest of his water bottle's contents as his instructor, veins popping in his forehead as his aristocratic reserve breaks, begins laying into him for his dangerous lack of focus, Adrien can't swallow down the burn.

He's only just realized that without Multimouse there on his shelf, in a place of honor right next to the only girl who really deserves to stand beside her, his Lady, there will always be a hole in his room. A great gaping chasm.

He has to find some way to plug up the fissure before the entire dyke bursts and crumbles.

Adrien Agreste needs a Multimouse figure.

Even if Ladybug never acquiesces to his request to allow the most generous, effervescent, courageous, kind, and cute girl that he knows rejoin them in their fight against Hawkmoth (he's really going to have to press her on that point).

Even if she's only been in the field once, never to be seen again, which breaks his heart for some reason...

He needs Multimouse.  

There's only one person in the world who can make her figure.

But before that, he still has another customized action figure to create and deliver on patrol tomorrow evening.

Working on his second little Lady is how he spends this evening.

Given that he's had the opportunity to practice and refine his techniques through the creation of his first customized Ladybug figure, the gift for the girl herself is completed in record time. It's not as if he took greater care in sketching the fine line-work of an oil wash to make the first figure's eyes pop, or applied substantially more layers from his spectrum of skin-toned paints to bring out the highlights.

Why would he invest more effort in Marinette's gift than Ladybug's?

That's crazy-talk.

Ridiculous. 

Utterly and completely and totally ridiculous in the same vein as a suggestion that good friends couldn't hold hands and walk each other to class or to school generally and back again which he might start doing if his schedule and Marinette, who is more important than the former, will let him. 

Regardless, his little lady is perfect, and so very similar to the first; he's used all the same colours, that were kept viable due to the fact that he had slipped his wet palette into the otherwise-Camembert stocked mini-fridge in his room, and even painted in the same silver edge-highlight to Ladybug's tassels. Improved brush control permits the creation of an even finer layer.

He's just a day away from patrol - one day away from giving Ladybug her gift!

But the best laid plans of mice and men and boys who dress up in leather and pretend to be cats gang aft agley...

Chapter Text

The next day is relatively uneventful, a temporary truce having been declared, it seems, between Marinette and Lila. Apparently, there is to be some kind of hiatus between releases in the Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla series, much to everyone's relief; that franchise was getting a little bit overwrought by this point.

The disruption to Adrien's carefully-planned meeting with Ladybug, which includes an offering that might genuinely demonstrate just how beautiful he believes her to be and reduce any lingering resentment on her part, if not extinguish it outright, comes just after he returns home for the evening.

Child akuma are objectively the worst villains Chat can conceive.

Their mercurial temperaments and nativity made for a fascinating interplay. Endowed with super-human powers, a child tended to be just as capricious, formulating dangerously unpredictable stratagems that were wholly rational to the tangled maze of a child's cognition, as the akuma was easily manipulable.

The worst aspect of engaging a child was just how abhorrently unheroic it was, though. While Ladybug could set right the worst of injuries, even ripping a soul back from the bony clutches of the reaper, he left every altercation with a child-akuma feeling like sweat and filth had caked his skin. Oh, he punned and flirted and made a dopey mess of himself all the while, but fighting hurt children was ugly.

Fortunately, in this case, the princess, hermetically sealed in some strange form of humanoid blister packaging that emerges as a shield whenever they attempt to land a blow on her, is not one of Hawkmoth's most formidable akuma. The little girl appears driven by a fixation on finding “that mean man,” which is all the information that she's willing to divulge regarding her akumatization, beyond sealing up anyone who catches her ire inside unbreakable action figure packaging (with air-holes, fortunately) and stripping them of accessories. MP3-players, cell-phones, purses – anything other than the clothes on their backs – disappear.

A generally morose temperament leaves her distracted, and the quick and efficient battle that doesn't even require the use of the Miraculous power has the little tyke flattened, de-evilized, and safe in only about twenty minutes.

That's not at the heart of the problem, though, as a roughly six year old girl is left in place of the villain who had been bent on wreaking havoc on the city.

A wailing, lost little girl whose piercing cries cut right through any mental defence that Chat could hope to erect, and stab so deep through his mystical leather uniform that he wants to vomit.

He's functionally paralyzed and broken, gummed up with model cement and shattered into pieces, bereft of any cogent idea as to how he should approach the little girl. In the past, he's dealt with children who just needed a friend, or someone to distract them or play with them, but a little girl who's nearly wailing in the middle of a Parisian street?

There's no tool in his modelling arsenal or his non-existent super-hero training that's left him properly equipped to deal with this.

As is fitting, he's saved by the intervention of his partner. For a moment, the expression on her face sets into a grimace; her visage all disgust and righteous outrage unlike anything that he's seen since she shot down Lila when she first appeared, but without even a hint of joy.

For the child's sake, she smiles softly, closing the distance between them.

“There, there, baby.” Scooping the sniffling child into a hug and wiping the dribbling snot from the girl's nose, Ladybug coos in the most heart-stoppingly maternal of ways that leaves him caught within a phantasmagorical and eerily visceral daydream of her cuddling a clutch of cat-bugs seated on her lap. He clings to that image like a child's fleece blanket, just so the plaintive voice won't make him remember... so many things that he'll never hear or feel again.

... too late.

Watching her fly to the distraught child's side, he realizes that this is the moment.

This is the moment that both he and his Ladybug really learn to hate Hawkmoth.

What kind of man could ever leave a child like this? Rip her away from all of the people who love her and leave her an emotionally-traumatized mess, feeling completely isolated because some callous and distant and utterly repugnant man had inspired, fostered, and preyed upon her pain? A child had no means to process it, and lacked experience enough to understand a world that was just too wide and complex for her infantile mind. She needed someone to support her; instead there was only an abuser, ready to dig his fingers into any wound, twisting and exploiting.

What kind of man could do that?

He's crying again.

He blinks them back, but doesn't stop.

That's okay.

Chat Noir can cry.

As she strokes the child's cheeks, rocking the little body in her lap, her embrace looks so warm. Adrien knows hugs as only someone who cherishes them does.

It's the antithesis of the perfunctory, functional, and coolly professional manhandling of his design team or mock-intimacy or levity of a photoshoot – the image of a simulated couple or a joyous teen, airy and ethereal as in that advertising campaign for Adrien: The Fragrance – cultivated for public consumption.

“You're okay, little one,” Ladybug reassures, letting the girl cling feebly to her neck. “We're here for you; and we're going to keep you safe.”

“C-can I get my mommy and daddy?” the girl sniffles, arms limp.

“Absolutely, sweetie.” Her gaze shifts towards him, even if the sympathetic pain is crystal clear.“Chat will go get your mommy and daddy.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm,” Ladybug hums, her smile so earnest that who in the world wouldn't reciprocate? Not Chat or that little snot-nosed bawling girl, so brave as she nods and returns the toothy grin with a watery attempt. Of course. Ladybug is inspirational; she makes everyone want to try. “Can you tell me where you live? Do you know your address?”

Apparently, the girl had conscientious and concerned parents, who made certain that she did.

He's just about to pole-vault off into the sky to track down “mommy and daddy” - would that it were so easy to find all parents – when from the crowd of onlookers Roger Raincomprix, who had been assisting a cohort of other officers in their efforts to hold back reporters, hungry for an interview, emerges, waving him off.

A quick thumbs up, followed by a flash of five fingers reassures Chat that the police in this city are heroes in their own right. Even more than him, if not Ladybug, since they do their jobs without super-powers.

“What happened?” Ladybug asks while he turns back to watch, awe-struck like the civilians that are crowding her. “You can tell me, and Chat and I will do anything we can to help, okay?”

“I – I shouldn't tattle, right?” Rubbing at her swollen red eyes, the girl looks up at Ladybug with a watery expression and Chat's stomach and heart are suddenly an odd-couple, roommates trying to share the same space.

Ladybug simply strokes her hair, a vague petting motion that she picked up from dealing with him. “If you're sad, or if someone did something that hurt you, you should tell someone you trust.”

“O-okay,” the girl gulps and laves snot from her nose, blowing the excess into her sleeve. Gabriel would likely faint or vomit, but Ladybug appears unperturbed, a mere glance in Chat direction sending him delving into the crowd to pluck a pocket square and even a small portable packet of disposable facial tissues from a generous civilian.

“Mommy and daddy took me to the store, 'cuz I wanted a Ladybug doll,” the girl begins to explain, and then smiles, showing my friend off a few baby tooth gaps, at the woman holding her. “You're my favourite hero.”

“That's very kind of you- what was your name?” Ladybug asks, her tone soothing. “I should have asked.”

“Marie.”

“I like that name, Marie,” Ladybug encourages, wiping the sheen of tears from a plump cheek with the tissues he's just handed over. “Can you keep going?”

“Well, mommy let me go into the store with my birthday money, and daddy was there too. He was watching, even though he was trying to hide.” She cups a hand to the side of her mouth and only Chat's enhanced hearing lets him pick up the ensuing whisper. “He still thinks that I'm a little kid.”

“Okay, so you took your money into the store, and you were going to buy a figure.” With a brimming fake smile, Ladybug settles the child more firmly on her knee, setting it bouncing slowly.

“Mm-hm. I got there, and saw all the dolls. Chat Noir was there, and the knight, and that man with the guitar, and then there was just one Ladybug left, but she was really high,” the girl rambles as Chat admires that simple juvenile ability to get lost in memory and story, to forget present pain, feelings turning on a dime. "I thought i could reach it if I could climb, and I did!"

A hand smooths over the child's hair, but Ladybug is serious if not stern when she speaks. “That was very clever of you, but next time, you should ask an adult for help.”

"I know, I wanted to get it for myself to show daddy I could. Then the man came over." Shadows pass over face, and much as Chat wants to surge forward and beclown himself to ward off the clouds, he can't.

Instead, he paces, watching helplessly and it feels worse than it should for reasons he can't identify: the helplessness.

But the girl continues in a breathless burst: "He was really big and looked really mad, and he had two Ladybugs but he wanted mine too. Then he grabbed my toy and I fell and hurt my leg. I cried and daddy was trying to get me. He was talking but so was another man. He sounded really scary but kind of funny, and he told me it was okay and mean people who steal toys shouldn't get toys and then I woke up."

Ladybug has never looked more terrifying and indulgent at once, and just like that, he has to move.

The concerns that he's had regarding Ladybug's forgiveness, his own errors of judgment and inability, despite his braggadocio, to properly attend to the dictates of contract law and fine print, even Marinette's unmerited favour – all of it pales in comparison to the sight of this little girl whose simple dreams had been crushed by a careless adult, who intended to twist a child's plaything into an ugly vehicle for profit.

Adrien isn't one to judge others too severely for whatever they might do for a living; he's never tasted poverty or want, and had every physical need and transient whim satisfied by attentive caregivers. If a scalper wanted to make money, and had an adult collector willing to pay exorbitant fees to add some treasured item to his collection, he hadn't seen the harm. After giving away his two Ladybug figures to Marinette and Ladybug, he'd intended to pluck one off eBay for himself, funding the disreputable practice.

This girl is the real snotty, red-rimmed eyed, gasping and sobbing victim of adult cupidity, a little piece of innocence chipped away by the cruelty of some random civilian with dollar signs in his eyes, rather than a spark of human compassion.

He's not going to be buying from a scalper, no matter the cost.

Neither Chat Noir nor Adrien are going to stand for this, and with a perfunctory nod in Ladybug's direction, he's off, ripping his baton from his belt to go bounding into the sky without a word.

Sweat pours from his brow as he pushes himself and his lungs are aflame, even though he's not tired; the suit enhances his endurance to the point that he can sprint the distance without true exertion, even when he tests the utmost limits of his speed, but he's trying to outrun something.

Recrimination catches up so easily, the little voice that tells him that those tears are his fault; he sold his rights, their rights, to make those figures.

And, more than that, the little girl, crushed so cruelly under heel by an adult who should know better...

His throat burns, but he makes it to the rooftop cache he'd set up for a rendezvous with Ladybug later that night, and returns to the scene of the akuma battle just in time.

Ladybug is there, handing a now-sniffling and grinning child over to a clearly distraught and relieved couple, the somewhat swarthy man large enough to give Tom Dupain a run for his money. Cupping her daughter's chin and fussing over her, the woman's light fingers tremble. The adults mirror their daughter's tears, the man's skin a hearty caramel that's the spitting image of the little girl who reaches out her short arms and clasps at his shoulders.

Keeping the crowds at bay, Roger and the rest of the officers stem the tide of curious reporters and fans as he lands on the pavement with a *th-bump.*

“Wait, uh, Marie?” The gaggle turns towards him. Idiot; he's such an idiot, but there's no time to stop now that he's bounding towards them, his precious cargo outstretched. “I have something for you.”

Her face brightens immediately, and he's going to have kids, when he's older of course, just so he can see that every day.

He will see that every day.

Why is it so important?

He only has time to ask the question; no hope of answering it.

The little girl coos at the sight of him, or, more precisely, what he's carrying.

No one would ever look so happy to see him.

Her eyes are a brilliant blue, filled with longing that he understands more than he'd ever wish to admit, and she cups her palms, not greedy or grasping, but in awe as she receives his gift.

“You didn't do anything wrong today-” Well, not quite. He laughs and rubs the back of his neck, ignoring the gurgling sound from his Lady because for this one moment, this little girl is more important even than her. “Other than trying to climb the store shelves. After everything that you've been through, you deserve this.”

Turning to Ladybug because the gleam of sunshine off the girl's teeth is nearly painful to take in, it's so bright, he only just manages to suppress a whimpering snarl.

Maybe he was terribly mistaken in his efforts to repaint the Ladybug figures.

That ashen complexion and chalky skin, marred by a strangely incongruous flush splashed over her cheeks, is just as alien as the paint-job that he had so painstakingly obliterated.

“Ladybug, are- is everything alright?” he asks, letting the girl pull the much beloved action figure to her chest so that she could give the little toy a hug, embracing it as her parents smother her in turn.

“Thank you, Kitty,” the girl scream-coos loudly enough for him to turn from his Lady and pet the little girl on the head. Once again, she's more important than Ladybug; just for now.

Her eyes are shimmering with a different kind of tears. She's crying, and as the mother and father cradle her and dry the few droplets from her cheek, he doesn't know why that hurts so much and so good. “She's so pretty! It's even better than the one that I saw in the store!”

“Only the best for Ladybug's fans,” Chat assures with a flourished bow, hamming it up so hard that he nearly face-plants.

Then, she's reaching out one chubby little hand, coaxing him forward on instinct so that her fingers curl into his hair and with all her childish might, his head is enveloped in a perfectly awkward and perfectly beautiful side-hug, made all the weirder by the parents who are looking down at him as if they're... proud of him.

Proud of what he's done for this little girl and even more proud – maybe it's wishful thinking – of him.

Just him.

God, what is wrong with him? They're random people off the street!

They part, the girl giggling when her arm falls from his cheek because he's twitching his cat ears, almost instinctively.

All those hours of work? The money that he had to invest in his painting supplies while braving the dangers of discovery by his father?

Giving away his gift to Ladybug?

1000% worth it. 10/10. Would gift again.

In a heartbeat.

“Chat?” Ladybug coughs to draw his attention.

“Yes, My Lady?” He's at her side. The pallor to her cheeks bespeaks some grievous error or terrible realization, a horror beyond anything that he can imagine, but it must be his fault. She seemed perfectly fine in every way, perfectly herself, before he returned.

“Where did you get that?” Her voice trembles, but her gaze is all steel as she clutches his shoulder and forces him to turn.

“I-well-”

“Where, Chat?” she insists, fingers bruising even through his padded shoulder armour.

The family is just standing there, seemingly lost just like him.

“I- I made it,” he admits awkwardly.

His furiously palpitating heart drops right into his gut when her ashen face twitches, mouth flapping to expose teeth that range through grins, grimaces, curved expressions of shock and a dozen different contortions that he would have thought possible only of a melting wax dummy.

Not his Lady's finest moment as she jerks as if caught in a seizure and nearly trips into his arms while staring at his – his apparently hideously-painted action figure.

“It was... supposed to be a gift ... for you,” he offers, taking a step forward because he needs her close – closer than she's ever been now that she's looking at him with such horror.

Despite the hissed intake of air through her clenched teeth, the mist is clearing from her brilliant sapphire eyes so that they focus, whipping between his mussy hair to his chin to his chest which he doesn't even have the wherewithal to puff up or flex, and finally to his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

And then a sound unlike any that he's ever even imagined.

A trilling mousy meep mingled with the searing whistle of a tea-kettle puffs from her mouth, alongside what just might be, in a cartoon, a gout of steam.

“You're fine and I'm fine because why wouldn't we both be fine but I have to go now because my planet needs me!”

He had been unaware of the fact that his Lady was an alien, but before he can pose even a single query regarding her potential extraterrestrial origins that seem like a suspiciously familiar and incoherent deflection, she's off, launching into the air with a toss and jerk of her yo-yo.

She's leaving him.

And she does.

Leaves him standing there in the middle of a Parisian crowd clustering around him.

What has he done?

What has he done wrong?

Chapter Text

Ensconced under his thick comforter to sweat out the uncertainty in his own private hot-box, the cloying darkness a reprieve from the cavernous room that echoes with his own unspoken thoughts, Adrien scratches at his chest.

His arms.

His itchy red scalp that must be notched with crosshatched red marks from his blunted finger nails.

Plagg, having been forced to take a breath-mint, which, for once, he did without complaint about it searing the lingering flavour of his beloved Camembert from his mouth, is invisible in the darkness, but his presence is firm and ... furry.

Very much a cat claiming his territory, the god had plopped right on Adrien's face when the boy himself had thrown himself into bed. Little paws jerk about as he dreams, mumbling sweet-nothings to his imagined cheese, by the sound of things.

Adrien sighed when the little guy first plopped into place with a dismissive huff, as if it made any sense whatsoever: “My bed feels weird. I'm sleeping on your face now.”

With Plagg slumbering, his minuscule puffs of breath tickling Adrien's eyelashes, he can't move or scratch too vigorously for fear of disturbing his friend.

He doesn't need someone else outraged at, or disgusted by, him. Ladybug has always proven the most patient and indulgent of partners, despite the heavy burden that seemed to be crushing her at times. That she should be so terribly offended by ... whatever he'd done, is actually something of a surprise.

She was right to leave him.

Though nothing like his father, the girl should put some distance between them, cool off, let him try to understand what he's done.

But that darn itching is everywhere!

It's even in his eyes again.

Presumably, Adrien is not allergic to his little buddy, his only friend at the moment, as that purring snore rumbles into his brain, vibrating out the dark thought on which he should probably fixate because he needs to find a solution.

But the rumble is too soothing, and the ghost-fire-ants go marching legion by legion under his skin.

There's an ugly dichotomy at play: Plagg's presence and the swirling thoughts that he wants and needs out as badly as Chat Noir hungers to escape this room and glut his never-surfeited desire to run circles around the Parisian rooftops.

He has to get out.

Even though his body is slick with sweat, the air heavy with his exhaled breath, the moist and rough comforter that he wishes was a weighted blanket like the one that his mother had given to him when he was suffering from night terrors as a child, young enough for her to still play action figures with him, and sat with him through the night so that he wouldn't dream, didn't have to be afraid to sleep with her in the easy chair beside him...

God, he has to get out!

He's not crying. Sweat is just in his eyes.

...it's too cold.

For once, there are no complaints from a visibly disgruntled, near-somnolent Plagg as Adrien bursts from bed, not looking at his desk, at the drawers with his hidden, ugly stupid action figures that his father was right he never should have bought.

He should just listen.

That's the problem. Isn't it?

Not listening. Not hearing what people need so that he can give that to them, be that to them.

He didn't really listen to Marinette, and hurt her; he ignored whatever injured Ladybug, and wounded his partner; he didn't heed the warnings about the contract, so sure of himself, and Marie's tears are his fault too.

It feels like Guilttrip.

He has to get out, and he's not even thinking about the room, now.

And he is, Plagg's power allowing him to burst into the slightly chill Parisian night, Chat Noir playing among the stars and the glittering host of lights that bloom throughout the city.

Running the rooftops usually burns thought out of him; Adrien thinks, plans, measures and weighs responses in light of company policy, PR firm marketing strategies, and his father's expectations.

Chat Noir just does.

Doesn't he?

He's honest as Chat Noir, just being and living and trying so hard to prove himself to Ladybug. That's who matters. Whose opinion matters.

He's honest.

He tells himself that, being honest.

But how can he be genuine about his feelings and his needs when he doesn't even understand them, he wonders as he vaults past his school, flipping along the edges of the masonry so that he can bounce between ledges and outcroppings for no reason beyond the fact that it seems fun.

Chat Noir laughs, and the guffaws bubble up, beating on his own ears as he peers into the classroom windows. Music equipment, tucked away with care and attention, and a piano, well-used by dozens of students over the years, shared, passed down, lie in one familiar music hall. His fingers find the grooves between brickwork as the leather-clad boy clambers to the next, Chat Noir not thinking or needing to know where he's going, and he finds the art-room, dark, especially against the lights behind him from the cityscape.

Granted preternatural sight by Plagg, Chat Noir can see in the dark – he can see, but can't think, doesn't want to – and the normally bright room is dull, bereft of its typical frenetic activity, overseen and directed by the gentle, middle-aged art-teacher.

It was here that Marinette had, in her own way, helped establish the partnership that saw Marc and Nath joining their work together as much as their lives. Only the cool, still darkness lies there, unperturbed, when normally the room is awash in brazen creativity and authenticity, expression unrestrained from dozens of students who weren't judged, but embraced, encouraged to create something that mattered, that spoke to them as they spoke through it.

A shake of his head tosses out the burgeoning thoughts before they can truly form as he takes off again. What is he even doing here?

There was no reason whatsoever that a small child being able to get the present she wanted for her birthday should have affected him to that degree. He's being an idiot, irrational, emotional, childish.

He always is, so much so that he'd dropped everything and maybe displeased his Ladybug by giving away the gift that he'd intended for her.

Could her censure have been due to the possibility, however remote, of an identity reveal? Like, someone stealing the toy and taking his fingerprints off of it?

God, why hadn't he thought of that? Anything could happen!

Maybe it was favoritism shown to a particular civilian who – who should be rewarded for striving to her utmost, in that painfully sincere juvenile way, to show her daddy that he didn't have to be concerned for her, that she was growing up and it was vital for her to prove that to him?

...

Marinette is pacing her rooftop balcony.

When had he arrived, hunkered down behind the ledge of the building sitting across from the Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie?

That's the problem with acting on instinct; it leads him places that he doesn't want to go, makes him do things that Adrien, after Chat Noir has had his fun, is then required to contemplate. Assess. 

Marinette doesn't give him the time. There's a grimace-inducing smack and smash of his heart against his rib-cage as he watches the girl freeze up and then glance around the rooftop as if seeking an escape route, nearly, it seems, on the verge of leaping off the two story building, tucking into a ball, praying, and rolling to cushion her fall before breaking off into a sprint.

That might not be necessary, though.

With the vibrations and flailing arms, she could probably flap away like Mister Pigeon.

She looks so pained, so uncertain, so unlike Marinette when she's been faced with Chat Noir in the past, save for that moment on her rooftop when -

When she said that she loved him.

Completely unlike the sassy spitfire that called to his feline instincts.

Why is she so close that he can see his own reflection in those massive sky-blue eyes that are kind of like heaven opening up to him?

Oh.

He's leapt down to the roof right next to her.

That's why.

Chat Noir is leaving Adrien a lot to think about.

But for now, he's got to bite an unexpected bullet.

Chapter Text

Marinette interrupts him before he has a chance to speak, to apologize or execute a careful tactical withdrawl.

“Chat Noir!” she gasps, stumbling, having to support herself by clasping onto the railing of her balcony. “What are you doing here, not that you shouldn't be here because it's a free country and you can go wherever you want except military bases or quarantine zones or private property or if you're a prisoner, but you're a superhero so of course you wouldn't go to jail unless they actually start prosecuting vigilantes and I'll be on your legal team if you need me-” Marinette only seems to pause because, if that beat-red face is any indication, she's about two seconds away from asphyxiating herself.

Also, Marinette has impressive lung capacity, but there's no reason for her to be so frazzled, unless something else has happened in her life that he doesn't know about.

A vehement snarl gets caught up in his throat while he strives to placate her with raised hands.

Maybe another run-in with Lila.

“Marinette, it's going to be okay,” he offers, breathless for her sake. Yes. That's the only reason. “Whatever is wrong, we can fix it. I was just passing by and saw you pacing like – I don't know. Like you were thinking about something serious.”

“Thinking? Me? No!” She waves him off, as if trying to direct him away from a hideous impending car crash wherein there would be no survivors. “I don't think that I sink thoughts – I meant think thoughts which are probably the only thing that you can think, but not me because I don't think at all!”

Chat Noir blinks, a tentative claw held up in the air as he can feel the grimace split his face. She looks like she needs to sit down, maybe get a glass of water. “Uh... why don't we go inside?”

Her eyes blow wide, fixating on his face as she licks her lips.

“You want to go in my room?!” she squawks, recoiling and clutching at her heart.

“I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Marinette,” he reassures, settling to his haunches with his belt-tail drooping and ears tucking themselves flat into his blonde hair with the sense that she needs him to look as small and innocuous as possible, like a leather-paper-tiger.

Her hands worry together, blood squeezing tight, bursting to the surface and the sound of shifting bone is actually audible.

“Yeah.” She nods. “Comfortable. Not like you came for my table, but like it would be comfortable if we went into my room where my table is.”

That's one way of putting it.

“And your chaise or bed-”

She shudders for some reason, face as red as her hands.

“-just something more com- more cozy so you can maybe take a seat?” he offers while taking a slow step towards her. Given that he's also crouching, that makes him kind of scuttle, which is also intentionally goofy enough for her to grin almost painfully wide.

“O-okay. Yeah!” Her right eye twitches. Then her left. Then both. Out of sync. “We can go into my room and get – get cozy.”

“So you really don't mind if we head down into your room,” he blurts, ears stiffening. Is rambling contagious and might this be the effects of an akuma? “I know that privacy is really important, and – and you don't really know me so it might make things a little awkward even if I'm just trying to help.”

“Oh, I know.” She affirms like that gif of a deer from Bambi. “You're totally helpful – could help in lots of ways that a girl needs, like with lifting heavy objects and putting them down places.”

“Nah!” He waves her off, still scuttling, getting closer so that actually has to start craning his neck to look up at her like she's some form of distant benevolent goddess of whom he is actually graced to be within touching range. “You don't need help lifting heavy objects when you're as strong as you are since you live in a bakery and that – that makes you strong, right?”

A wince crosses his face, which he tries to suppress because he's making an idiot out of himself. What is going on here, and why?

It's good, though, this feeling of flustering incompetence. For once being a mess doesn't seem like a burden on him or others and it's a distraction, forcing him into the moment so that he doesn't think...
Resolving to act without thought seems to be something that they're both doing today, as she lances out to grab his arm and tug him up to shaking feet, legs a little wobbly from crouching while his head swims from the rush of blood which must also account for the burning in his cheeks.

“Let's get you inside and get some chocolate inside of hot milk and then hot-chocolate inside of you!” she declares, tugging him along.

That does sound rather nice to him as he permits her to shove him through the hatch to her room, and very nearly cart him over to her chaise, plopping his kitty-butt down and settling him just so like he's a treasured piece of furniture she's rearranging before hurrying off downstairs.

It's an odd feeling, really.

He's seen her toss around Kagami like this, but never him. Ladybug has the same liberties with Chat Noir, hefting him like a sack of kittens or lobbing him like a football, but-

Never Adrien.

Adrien isn't really touched, or handled.

That's the thought that lingers as he takes in the bedroom. Everything appears to be largely in order, a state of carefully controlled creative chaos providing the room with a touch of humanity, as opposed to the clinical perfection left behind by the cleaning staff that tends to his room. Because he doesn't want to burden them, he tries so hard to make sure that every toy and DVD is stacked away in its proper place, all the shelves dusted, bed sheets smoothed and clean.

It – it's terrible to return to that room and not find it the way that he had left it, so pretending that it is makes things better. Someone was in there, rearranging, plucking up, cleaning messes that might have simply been him reorganizing his belongings, putting his possessions where he wanted them.

Of course, they weren't his.

His father's house. His father's room. His father's possessions.

His father's son...

Saving him just in time, his everyday Ladybug appears, entering through the hatch with two mugs of cocoa. Visible steam carrying with it the odour of rich and dark chocolate gets caught up within sloppy dollops of whipped cream, homemade from the smell of it, which is dusted with chocolate shavings.

Marinette looks calm as she returns, stable and set.

Resolved.

It's a really good look on her, and he swallows down a funny feeling in his tummy and chest that's making every effort to crawl its way up his throat as a purr.

“Here we go, Chat.” She hands over a mug, which he accepts without hesitation, his gauntlets protecting him from the heat that, shockingly, still penetrates his gloves when her fingers brush his as they make the hand off.

Strange.

Maybe his conflicted feelings are impacting his powers.

With a quick breath and grin that's sweeter than the whipped cream that brushes his lips on his first sip, then gulp, she settles against the nearby wall.

Why is she keeping her distance?

“See, the trick to hot-chocolate is to melt-down real chocolate in a saucepan with the milk, but that takes a long time, and I didn't want to leave you waiting, so I just made instant.” A quick puff of breathe sends steam flying, trying to cool off the beverage. “We had fresh whipped cream left over from today, just a little bit, so that should help.”

“Oh, yeah.” He mimics her, and maybe it was terrible, but he didn't mind the way that his first sip had burnt his lips and tongue. He hadn't felt it. Or maybe he had, and just not thought about it. “I guess that makes a lot of sense.”

Against the sting that blooms and spreads, his lips smack.

He looses a throaty hum, still clamping down on the purr despite the fact that the flavor is a little artificial. “I've never really made it myself, so I wouldn't know.”

“Yeah. It's – it takes some time to learn, and- and that's okay, you know? Everything does.” Her fingers trail the rim of her mug, the girl herself staring at the dark liquid. “To work on things and understand them so you can get things right.”

“If you want to be good at it. At anything,” he adds, looking up at her with a superstitious side-glance. “Practice is pretty important. That's why Ladybug and I go out for patrols, I think. So we can, get used to working as a team, learn how we move together.”

That's something that took no time at all to learn, though; they fell into it.

This is weird. Awkward. Everything about it badly so.

The puns and flirts should flow like mercury when Marinette usually tugs them out.

Why aren't they?

“Yeah.” There's a little stuttering chuckle from her curved lips. The girl raises her mug. “When I first tried to – to make it, I was about five years old, and we just boiled water and added in a packaged mix, just like this one. It really wasn't rich enough, but I was really proud of making it, and learning.”

He can see the little girl, eyes and face tight with focus, being watched over by her papa, Tom Dupain, wincing at every step that she took and ready to race in at a moment's notice as his little girl paraded about the kitchen, trying her best to pour boiling water.

Would Tom have let her do that? The image is so clear. Was that... normal?

“That sounds like a good memory.” Is it the memory, or the one that he manufactures? Is there a difference?

Chat Noir is doing too much thinking. He takes another sip, sugar, cocoa, and cream rich on his scalded tongue.

She pops her lips, drumming the side of her mug and then looking up at him. “So, you wanted help with something? What can I do for the, uh, hero of Paris this evening.”

Completely the opposite. He starts swirling the hot chocolate in slow circles, watching the cream melt and dissipate. “Actually, I was just checking up on you. To see if you were alright because- because you looked a little stressed, and it's my job to look out for you.”

He flinches and looks up at her, just as she's in the middle of swallowing what appears to be a golf-ball sized lump in her undulating throat.

“Uh, I mean civilians! A hero looks out for all civilians, right?”

Don't ask her that, you dolt. Tell her that.

“Right,” she coughs on a mouthful of chocolate, wiping a thin dribble that curves its way on a languid journey from her pretty pink lips, red with the heat of her drink, to the top of her chin. “You and – and Ladybug have to look out for civilians.”

“Yeah, so, uh.” A finger gun is cool. He shoots one off. “How can I look out for you tonight?”

His idiocy truly knows no bounds.

“Oh, well... it's really funny that you should ask, or, well, that you should stop by.”

“Why's that? I mean, I don't make a habit of that.” He's not an unfaithful kitty, after all; the only person on whom he's ever “stopped in,” multiple times, in fact, is Marinette.

“This is going to sound really strange, but... I saw the news today and... I saw how you looked after Ladybug left the battle.” Her face darkens and warps, almost like his father's when Gabriel reminds him of some terrible gaff. “You seemed... really hurt.”

“Me? Never, princess.” He brushes the piping along his chest with a closed fist, offering a half-bow. “Nothing could be fuuurther from the truth, I a-purr you.”

Marinette is clearly not impressed with his admittedly anemic and forced punning.

“You know that... it's okay to feel hurt, and to tell people that.”

It's a statement; not a question, however much he would like it to be.

“Oh, it- it's really nothing.”

“If it hurt you, then it's not nothing,” she assures. “That's the opposite of nothing.”

Giving voice to an idea gives it power, makes it real in some act of transubstantiation that's arcane as alchemy, operating by abstruse laws even by the standards of theoretical physics or the magic of the miraculous.

Perhaps its the opposite; an idea concretized into words, acknowledged, might be like ripping a knife from a wound.

“I- it's just that I think that I really did something to upset Ladybug.”

Her face twitches and shakes like that of a dog loosing a sneeze. “What?”

“After we finished with the akuma battle-” there's no reason to be telling a civilian this, but Marinette ... she makes Adrien hurt less. Yes. That's it. And that's a truth. He's hurting; isn't he? Has been hurting. Has been hurt. “She took off so fast, and – and looked pretty ... angry. She was fine before I got back with the, uh – after I bought that Ladybug figure for Marie – the girl that we rescued. So it must have been something that I did.”

A sarcastic and long-suffering roll of the eyes or spiral into an awkward bumble are the two reactions that are to be expected from Marinette during a typical conversation with Chat Noir – however rare they might actually be – or Adrien, respectively.

This time, she looks him right in the eye. She's fearless and cool, the opposite of the Marinette that flails through life around him.

“Chat, it's possible for someone to do nothing wrong and still get hurt – or for someone else to get hurt,” she assures. The gentleness and that gaze are so intimate, like she's trying to cradle him without even needing to lay hands on him. “You're not always responsible for how other people act around you, what they feel, or what they do or should have done.”

“I know it's not my fault per se,” he admits, withering under that stare, the boiling warmth of Marinette's room intensifying, as he pretends to lounge on her chaise. “But if I was smarter about it, I could – I don't know, make it so that they didn't have to act that way.”

“I... I think that one of the hard things to learn, for some people, is how to let people take ownership of their actions. It's not on... Ladybug to make Chloe a better person, or me to always point out when Lila's lying to people if they choose to believe her, or you to... smooth over problems.”

“But I did something, or said something to make Ladybug upset.”

“Chat, its like you said to that little girl – I – I heard it on the news.” She looks to the floor and then right in his eyes. “You did nothing wrong and Ladybug was just... an idiot to make you feel that you did.”

“But I...”

She halts yet another objection with a raised hand.

“Chat, I'm not trying to invalidate how you feel!” she growls, the sudden spurt of near-rage yet one more cryptic mystery.

There's nothing to say to that, beyond giving her time and space, letting her set their gait in this strange sack-race wherein all four of their legs feel bound-up together by camouflaged puppet strings.

In what must be a huff, she leans down to scoop up his mug which, apparently, he has finished without noticing, and carts it to her computer table, rearranging the handles slightly once, twice, three times so that they're both angled in exactly the right way, she faces him. With a nod, she leans her butt on the edge of the desk.

“That's the last thing that I want,” she continues. “I'm just trying to... give you an outside perspective. Not... from your own head.”

“Princess, you're acting like I have thoughts in my head,” he scoffs and taps his skull, right under his kitten ear, the lingering taste of cocoa somehow bitter, all the more so because as he's speaking, he realizes that it might sound like mockery. “Rest assured that this cat only ever goes where his heart leads him.”

“Feelings are important, but they lie to us a lot too.” Her gaze shifts to her work desk. There, amid piles of papers and school textbooks, lay Ladybug and Chat Noir next to writing implements, protractors and compass, sloppy-illegible notes that might be in code, a magnifying glass, and some cutlery.

A break to play in the midst of completing homework.

“I know that, Chat. I've dealt with that for... for a really long time.”

“I wouldn't dream of comparing the meagre travails of this cat's existence to your burdens,” he schmoozes, though completely honest. Don't make comparisons; there's no point in thinking about them.

She looks bereft of answers; perhaps that's why she says nothing whatsoever. Her shoulder merely slump, and there's a lurid sensation that forces him to look away, like he's staring at her while she's changing, putting on a different outfit for school.

Obviously, he looked in the wrong direction.

The itching is back, but deeper.

Proudly displaying the complex web of relationships that he wishes that he could understand, her photo-wall no longer features any modelling shots; only those taken when he was at school. One photograph shows them together, her reddened face cast to the ground as they work together on a school project. He remembers the moment, but not the picture. Maybe Alya took it without their knowing.

That photograph makes him look like Chat Noir, showing off those teeth as a day's labour and laughter has unsettled his pristine hair.

Through his tablet screen that night, his father had scolded him for sullying the company image. He was an Agreste; not a child. Prove yourself worthy of that, and what he meant was prove yourself worthy of me and the family. Have some dignity.

Another photo sets his heart hammering: Marinette, chin in her palm, again unaware of Alya, clearly. Free from a blush but consumed with the simple joy of a child looking at a pile of Christmas presents not with avarice, but awe. Undiluted. Pure. She's staring down at him while he gabs with Nino.

God, that look...

She's making him think, peeling off the mask like one of Hawkmoth's victorious akuma, voice a gentle burble rather than a husky victory cry. She says something, lips moving but words inaudible over the rush of blood, and the itch that has its own sound. Synesthesia for something, he knows not what.

Right now, in Marinette's room, he's Adrien, but not the one that can just survive as Gabriel's poster-boy, a walking billboard.

He doesn't think that he likes it in Marinette's room, though the scent of pastry and perfume and her skin is everywhere, though she's brought him hot chocolate.

It's too warm, scalding like he's been holding his hands in icy slurry, only to dip frost-bitten fingers into a lukewarm glass of water, fresh from the tap.

Thawing hurts.

It hurts so much, but so, so good.

It itches so hard that it burns like the flesh just under the thin membrane of skin is trying to claw its way out.

“Are you okay?” she asks quickly as she sits down next to him gingerly. She smells of sweat and uncertainty, aggression, concern, disappointment that has no direction; after so long as Chat Noir, he knows the odours of those emotions, sees them in the twists of her body and brow.

“Nice toy, Marinette,” he says, pointing to her desk instead of answering, and gives her his best model smile that Chat Noir shouldn't have to proffer as an offering. Marinette doesn't deserve to have more burdens in her life. It's all that Adrien has, though. “My Lady would be so flattered to know that you're a fan.”

She blinks. The faint smile she offers is so.. shy. “It was a gift.”

“Oh, from a friend?” He scratches his cheek, looking anywhere but her face and he runs smack dab into his own – all those pictures of him and her and their friends.

“Yes.” Her hand is soft on his shoulder, fingers to the grooves of leather. “One of my best friends.”

“Oh, you- One of your best friends?” Marinette holds him to be one of her best friends! “You think that much of him?”

“I think the world of him Chat,” she says, rising up, but not leaving him, to reposition the figure, letting his little Lady stand next to two Chat Noirs.

“He may be the best man I've ever met,” she proclaims while turning on him. “The- the most special boy in the world.”

Oh, God.

“But even if he wasn't, he'd still be him, and- and that's why I'd still care. He doesn't need to be... good to be... cared for.”

She stands there, resplendent in the low light of her room and the sight is enough to have him licking his lips, not even tasting the chocolate because the firm stance and confident smile, like that day at the Eiffel tower when Ladybug challenged the world, but seemed like she was speaking just to him, are so painfully evocative.

Everyone has at least a little crush on Marinette.

He understands why.

But she shouldn't call him a man.

He's not.

“I'm sure that he can't be all that, Marinette, but it was very nice of him to try to get you a gift." Hopefully his boot, grinding into her wooden floor panels, doesn't leave scuffs. His eyes fall, only to check. Nope. "He- he must really care about you a lot.”

When he finds the courage to look, she seems visibly flustered at that, cheeks puffing up before she slaps them nervously. “He is, though, and more in a lot of ways that I'm still learning about.”

“Sounds pretty considerate, but if he did something stupid and upset you, it's nothing less than you deserve.”

“That's not it at all. He thought that he'd hurt my feelings because... because he was doing what he thought was best, and that matters, even if we disagreed, and he made that-” she points a finger towards his little Lady - “as an apology.”

He just wishes that he had that Multimouse figure to give her too ... and one for his own room. She deserves to be reminded that she's a hero too.

“Chat Noir,” she begins with a hint of trepidation. “I know that this is probably a little bit weird since, well, I – I confessed to you that one time, but.. can I hug you?”

“You don't have to ask, Marinette,” he assures gently.

She doesn't move, and his arms drop to his sides halfway through the process of rising up. “No, I think that I do. People should... they should always ask if it's okay to touch you, or- how you feel about something, rather than just assuming it.”

“We live by assuming things, Marinette. Just... how people act in the past, or what they tell us at one point, or even how they move- all of it can let as assume how they feel.” Everything about Ladybug and Chat Noir was based on that, really – the truths they couldn't speak; the carefully-maintained facades.

That was okay because they knew each other by instinct and nature, intimately conjoined.

Two halves of the same whole.

That he'd split.

Chat Noir wasn't honest.

That was just him lying again.

He had to be stripped down to something raw in order to admit that to himself.

“Maybe, but when it matters, we shouldn't keep living by them. It's like-” If she wasn't a responsible teen, Marinette would have looked like she wanted something stronger than her hot chocolate as she gulps down a mouthful of saliva, and breathes, a little sniffling huff through her nose. “Like with any skill. We have to try to get better at learning how to live with people too, not just get stuck in the assumptions, even if they seem reasonable or – or easier than putting in the hard work to learn.”

“Oh, I guess that I, uh, wouldn't know much about that either,” he posits. “I mean, with me, what you see is what you get on the tin.” He pats a pectoral muscle. “Knight in shining leather, debonair hero of Paris, Chat Noir at your service, princess.”

“You don't have to, you know?” she asks.

“Have to what?”

“Have to be 'Chat Noir,' or – or answer the question if you don't want to.”

“What question?” His eyebrows wiggle, silly, hammy, like he wanted to, but couldn't, be for Marie. He's asking stupid ones, and that must be offensive to her.

“Can I hug you? You're deflecting because you don't want to say yes or no.” She swallows and shrugs, but it's not dismissive - more a twitch. The best thing about Marinette has always been her energy, that vibrant explosive force that got you caught up in the directionless whirlwind of effervescent charm and creativity. Now, all that glittering energy narrowed through a convergent lens, a spotlight scoring a path right though him.

“And I just wanted you to know that you didn't have to say either,” she assures. “It's okay for you to not know how you feel, or- or to be confused about things, or ... or to say yes or no. It's your choice, and even not choosing is a choice of its own that's valid.”

A curl of his lip that flashes teeth is an attempt to get the words out, but something snags up and snarls, a confused, multi-hued ball of yarn in his throat.

If she had just hugged him, he'd have enjoyed it, the simple sensation of a chest rising and falling against his, the heady punch of the floral shampoo that she wore getting caught up in his nose as he strove to be gentlemanly and not take a deeper whiff. Perhaps that's the real difference between Chat Noir and Adrien; one of them knows the criteria by which to make decisions, the expectations that have been drilled into him with such thorough precision that he can recite them by rote.

Without that net, his father, his Lady - he just does.

The contracts, the toys, the gifts, foot-in-his-mouth Chat Noir trying to deflect Lila's attentions, taking over for just a few minutes in class, Marie, Mari-

“Okay,” he says at last, even though... even those his throat is closing up because he knows the ways she's looking at him. It's the way he looks, and she looks at – at Adrien when she's content, those rare moments when she's at ease.

Oh, God.

What is he going to do?

There's only one thing.

With the way that she's looking at him, the way she looks at Adrien when she's completely sincere and truly unperturbed, the way she was looking at him, the most special boy in the world, in the photograph, when he didn't know it, but now he does...

How can he do anything else?

“I- I think that I'd like that.”

He does.

As she sits next to him on the chase, drawing his face down to the crux of her throat and arms cradling his head tighter than even the Gorilla could hug him, his every sense floods with her.

In that moment, his world is Marinette and only Marinette.

He does so very much.

Chapter Text

As Adrien trips and bumbles his way back home after departing Marinette's room with a gentlemanly bow and an attempt at pressing a kiss to the back of her hand that she forestalls with a shocking nose-boop, he contemplates the fact that there's only one thing in the world that's a worse floppy tangle of uselessness than Chat Noir himself.

His thoughts.

Adrien is the most special boy in the world to the most special girl in the w- his class!

Only his class and maybe the school or the world except for Ladybug who is also his world.

Chat Noir is a suave and competent super hero, though; he would never allow himself to fall prey to errant thoughts pertaining to a perfectly petite pastry princess possibly pining for his civilian self and his alter-ego, even if her hugs were like being dipped in molten-candy sunshine.

Oh ... no.

His feet have barely touched down on his bedroom floor before he dispels his transformation, flooding the gloomy bedroom with a brilliant flash of green energy. He doesn't even give Plagg the chance to yawn and blink, let alone kvetch over cheese.

"Plagg!”

The deity in question cocks his head, a single fang poking out beyond his quirking lip. “Yeah, kid?

It's pouring out from his lips like a secret message that could doom the Allied forces in their battle against the Axis, and it feels like it is. Something so momentous, so ... so well-concealed. It isn't that he had been unable to pick up the signal itself, but there were layers and layers of code that he just didn't have the cipher to decrypt, leaving a senseless mess.

“I- I think that Marinette... likes me."

Plagg blinks his toxic green eyes in a cat version of a languid unpressed eye-roll before a smile spreads across his rubbery lips, larger than any that Adrien's seen save for that one time that the kwami stole his credit card and ordered some particularity rare and ripe Pont l’Eveque that might have actually been produced in the 13^th century.

“A-and I... I think that I like her too,” Adrien finishes in a whisper, nearly too afraid to give voice to the foreign idea that had been pounding at the inner walls of his skull for release ever since his heart had swelled on hearing... what Marinette really thought about him.

And her hug had just been s-

“Yes!” Plagg screams loud enough to have Adrien clapping his hands over his sensitive ears before pleading for silence. The last thing he needs is for someone to come barging into his bedroom.

In light of Marinette's quasi-possibly-maybe-I-hope-but-I-shouldn't-because-I-love-my-Lady confession, the situation is at its most desperate, and a pint-sized cat god is about the best source of advice he can find.

At least he would have been before what appears to be a kwami mental breakdown.

Cackling in glee, literally pirouetting in the air as if he's dancing a jig, Plagg starts gushing. “Oh, lord, it's over! The long nightmare of my existence has finally come to an end! No more pining!” A little nub chops the air. “No more hormonal rants!” Another chop! “No. More. Misery!”

“Plagg,” he whines like a child, such a child! “What am I supposed to do?!”

“Ask the hat kid. He'll tell you all about dates and smooches and icky stuff like that, but you're not getting it, kid!” In his jubilation that has Adrien grimacing most severely, Plagg smacks right into his nose, causing him to wince once again. “Oh, our nightmare is over!”

“What nightmare?”

“Your love life!” Plagg squawks, still cavorting.

“This doesn't solve anything!”

“Of course it does! What part of “no more hormonal ranting” did you not get?” It's almost amusing, almost enough to make Adrien smile despite the seriousness of the situation, as Plagg offers an aerial cat butt-wiggle “That's like ... 70% of the problems in our lives solved.”

“But I love Ladybug!” He winces and the thought is like getting the air and life squeezed out of him by Gorizilla, right before the tumbling fall. The only solution is to trust Ladybug. Hold on to her. She's solid, sure, will never let him fall because she'll never give him the chance. “Not Marinette.”

Plagg's waltz aborts mid-barrel roll as he whips around. Blooming consternation sets his brow trembling. “What?”

“I love ... Ladybug?”

“Oh, kid.” Plagg's head shakes as he floats over to the grand piano and flops down to it, using the action frame as a fainting couch. “Why are you like this?”

“Look, Plagg, I know objectively that Marinette's awesome, always looking out for us, making gifts to give to the class to boost people's spirits and really sweet and kind and she opened up her bedroom to me when I really needed someone to talk to-”

Plagg is flapping his paw and making 'blah blah' motions, but that's not enough to stop Adrien when he's on a roll.

“- and she's really sort of cute objectively speaking not that I've noticed but everyone has noticed, you know? And she's a hero to the entire class even though she doesn't get any thanks for standing up against Lila and – and taking on so many responsibilities without ever complaining, but- but I could never – never do... that!”

“That?” Ignoring the rest of the ramble, Plagg scrunches his nose, as if he's finally realized that Camembert is foul enough to peel paint. “You mean like pigtails? Give me one reason why.”

“I... the same reason as Kagami. I can't-” It feels like his lungs are compressing. The roiling rage, the icy silence, the way that Kagami tried to hurt him by- by just using him as a tool at fencing practice because he'd used her as a tool to get over Ladybug. The memories are like a pleural effusion; he's drowning inside of himself, and winces as he continues, “She.. wouldn't understand why I have to leave her all the time, and – and that wouldn't be fair to her.”

He expects an immediate response; Plagg is conditioned to overreaction and offence, both genuine and feigned. In a way, Adrien understands that, expects the normalcy and craves it, something to resettle the world.

Instead, after rising and crossing the distance between them, stopping only a few inches away from Adrien's burning cheeks, Plagg stares at him, really stares as if he's judging something, distances and angles and force, assessing the scope and breadth of a chasm that he's contemplating an attempt at leaping.

“Kid,” he begins, chasing after an itch behind his twitching ear with an absent motion of his paw. “I think that you're so afraid of being hurt that you choose to run after someone who you know will reject you. At least that way, you can just... get hurt on your own terms.”

“That's ridiculous, Plagg! Ladybug would never hurt me! And she doesn't owe me love. She's her own person and can make her own choices.” Foul like banana-flavoured antibiotic paste that slimes its way down his throat, the words make him want to vomit, even though he knows they're true.

“I'm not just talking about Ladybug, and she may not owe you love, but someone does.” Plagg's little paw is so, so soft against the bridge of Adrien's nose, his green eyes suddenly anything but toxic as he speaks slowly. The nasal snivel that typically defines his voice as it oscillates between ridiculous tones and pitches while he whines for cheese is suddenly airy but even. Plagg's being serious and gentle.

“You deserve to be loved, Adrien.”

He can't stop the snarl, not anger but a hiss of air because he doesn't have enough, the only thing that's holding back his tears.

What a child.

His father would be ashamed because he didn't lov-

He looks up.

Plagg is just a black haze, an indistinct shape that he can't bring into focus no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he blinks the pressure building behind his eyes until they feel like they're going to burst.

He swallows, and the whisper – the one in his head – finally spills out: “... do I?”

“Yes.” Plagg's voice is just as soft as his, but as sure and tender as it is hushed. Impossible for him.

“Why... why do I feel like this?” he asks, even though he's not sure what he feels.

Plagg responds with a listless shrug. No answers. No more understanding than Adrien might offer himself. “I don't know how you feel, Kid. You'd have to tell me.”

“I don't think that I can. It's... I don't know how.”

“That's okay too. We have all the time that you need to figure it out.” Adrien watches the kwami with keen interest as the little black creature darts off to the mini-fridge to tap at its surface, his nose upturned. “As long as you keep me well-stocked with cheese.”

He snorts, nearly blowing phlegmy saliva right up through his nose.

Plagg's still looking at the fridge. “But, Kid, I think that it's because you're afraid that... that someone will realize – not that it's true or they would – that you don't deserve to be loved,” Plagg continues, tone mocking but not Adrien himself, and the petulant dismissal is a balm, “that you don't see things that are right in front of you.”

The little fellow has waited patiently enough to receive his cheese, a recharge after a night on the town, so Adrien crosses the room to gather up a few wedges from the top shelf in his refrigerator and hand them over, one at a time. While typically Plagg inhales his cheese like a drowning man cresting the surface and sucking in life-giving air, this time, he truly savors them, nibbling away at each piece while Adrien shifts each ugly, stinking hunk in his fingers before handing it over.

“Plagg?” he asks while offering the kwami a final wedge.

Plagg takes it, but doesn't begin to eat - just holds it. “Yeah, kid?”

“I... I think that I'm scared, and I don't know why.”

The cheese is ignored, left to quiver alone on the top of the fridge as Plagg rises. “It's okay to be scared, kid, or sad, and darn, it's okay to be angry to the point that you want to, I don't know, punch someone in the nose or shred up his very important papers, which I can help you with, by the way.”

“I ... shouldn't be scared, though,” Adrien insists, collapsing back against the wall beside his fridge as Plagg continues to judge him. “I'm a hero, and if I'm... becoming an adult, I shouldn't let things like ... whatever get to me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Plagg!”

“And let me tell you something, Adrien-” Punctuating the word, Plagg jabs his chest with a surprisingly forceful nub before floating back up to eye-level. “Angry, sad, or scared, here or out there, even if you burnt down this entire city, I'm always here for you.”

“...thanks,” he says as he draws in the cat for a hug to his cheek, Plagg's doughy, rubbery body straining against the tug of his hands. Fangs flash as his ears pull back flat against his head, spit flying, little teeth nipping and nibbling. Camembert breath reeks in Adrien's nose, but he swallows down the vomit, holds on through the struggle.

It's ten seconds...

Thirty seconds...

A full minute before he finally lets go.

Plagg looks like a cat who's just been woken from a nap by having a bucket of ice water poured out over him. “You didn't let me finish.”

What more could there be?

“I'm here as long as there's cheese,” he huffs, folding his arms over his chest and turning up his nose like a haughty gentleman. “So you'd better keep me well-stocked.”

“I forgot that you were only in it for the cheese,” Adrien laughs, surprising himself at the genuine tone that echoes through the room as he pokes Plagg's bulging belly.

“Well don't. You forget my cheese, and I'm outta here!”

Even if he's realizing it only just now, treading the mire, blinking the stars out of his eyes so that he's no longer blinded by the light, he knows that people lie to him... so very often.

This time, it's actually kind of nice to know it.

That ethereal and indescribable feeling persists until he's just preparing to fall asleep, winding down by watching School Babysitters on his phone while curled up in bed, Plagg snoozing on the other pillow beside his head. There's always been something engrossing about the way in which the screenwriters used a depressing backstory of recently- orphaned brothers as a springboard into the series proper, somehow transubstantiating melancholy and misery into something distilled, free from impurities and harsh realities, washed away in the antics of toddlers playing and embracing.

Now, he thinks that he's beginning to understand why.

So many things slot into place; so many things remain a disorganized jumble, pieces of himself butting up against each other.

But there's motion, and anime, and hobbies – good places for forgetting, when he needs to hide in them.

That feeling is broken by the buzz of the "Lady-alarm," a little chibi Ladybug figurine that sits on his shelf, a toy to anyone who enters his room, but the reassurance that his Lady is right there with him, only a buzz away.

An akuma?

A scrabbling transformation. Heart palpitations and the rush of adrenaline set his hands trembling as he's fully awake, his cell phone clattering to the floor as he gropes for his baton and pulls up the messaging app, certain that -

Bugaboo: Hey, Chat! I'm really sorry that I had to "Bug Out" so quickly today. That was really rude of me, and I should have at least said goodbye.

It's the first of a series, sent only a few minutes after he returned to the mansion. The latest one arrived only sixty seconds ago, which might have led his oftentimes impatient Lady to make use of the "Lady-Phone," even if this wasn't an emergency.

Though it kind of feels like it.

Bugaboo: Marie was just so cute! Ugh. I could just die over that little bean. She loved your gift. I could really tell.

Bugaboo: That's what I wanted to talk to you about.

Bugaboo: What you did meant a lot. Thanks for reminding me that we don't just fight akuma, Chat. We can be heroes in lots of other ways too.

Bugaboo: With the toys for charity and the way you handled civilians.

There was a long wait. A single glance for him covers the ten minutes between messages.

She thought about this: weighed, considered, judged it to be real before she sent it.

Bugaboo: Thank you for always being my hero, Chat.

It's good that Chat Noir can cry, even when he's trembling, shoulders hunched and heaving as he weeps ugly tears that would appall his father and ruin his makeup, leaving his stylists and makeup artists furious with him, rather than for him as they shoved him back into a cosmetics trailer and began the painstaking work needed to render Adrien Agreste presentable.

Chat Noir cries on the edge of Adrien Agreste's bed.

Magical leather cradles him from the tips of his clawed fingers to his thick-booted toes, the pressure like a warm comforter on a cold winter evening and if he thinks just hard enough, he can still taste the hot chocolate that Marinette made for him, completing the picture. He's warm and swaddled.

And the latest messages, five minutes old now.

Bugaboo: By the way, your gift reminded me that I really have to see Marinette. If you believe in her, then she deserves the Mouse, just like you said.

Another message from about five seconds later.

Bugaboo: I mean that you gave marie a gift and that made me think about you and gifts and giving things so I thought about Marinette and giving her a miraculous you know?

A minute later in his timeline.

Bugaboo: lol

Bugaboo: If we're going to train her as our secret weapon, I think that she should join you for patrol on Friday.

That makes no sense. Ladybug would be the obvious choice to induct Marinette into their ranks, so he responds.

Chat Noir: Sorry for not being around to respond earlier.

Bugaboo: np

He thinks long and hard about the question he needs to ask, that he needs to have answered, watching as those three little red dots that indicate that Ladybug is typing spring to life and then die out over and over again.

Chat Noir: Are you sure that you want me looking out for her?

The three red dots again, but the message flies out in only an instant.

Bugaboo: Of course! There's no one better. No one I'd trust more.

That might not have been the question that he needed to ask.

But it is the answer he needed to receive.

Even better than an action figure, which he'll still have to make one of these days, Chat Noir is getting a life-sized Marinette-Multimouse.

Chapter Text

Adrien has never had any difficulty rising in the morning for school.

Oh, sure, Nino and, in deed if not in word as she always fumbled them in his presence, the perpetually tardy Marinette have both told him that his obsessive punctuality is abnormal, but the prospect of actually escaping his father's mansion and delving into the bustling Parisian streets and then settling into a classroom with other kids is just too enticing.

Even if he always has to sit in the car and settle himself, make certain that nothing slips through the cracks in his skin that might compromise the brand, it's not enough to disrupt the joy or the shivering anticipation.

For weeks after he had first made his escape and enrolled in Francois Dupont, he'd awoken long before his alarm had sounded. He would rise with bruised eyes, carefully touched-up with concealer, because he had been wiggling his toes and shifting in excitement for hours as he lay in bed, gazing at the latticework of lights painted on his distant, white ceiling and dreaming. Possible interactions would cavort about in his mind, plans for games, conversations, and group-work assignments and lunches shared with his classmates.

His friends.

Today, it's worse and better than ever.

He barely sleeps, and when he rises, it's an hour before he actually has to wake.

All he can feel is shivery excitement and that's a pretty good place for forgetting too, plastering over so many of the reasons that he longs to break free of the mansion, but not quite all of them.

Plagg, Ladybug, Marinette, even Marie, in her own way as she was crushed under foot by- by someone who robbed her of something precious to her just to satisfy his own cupidity-

All of them are making him think.

He can't conceal all of that, and, maybe, that's a good thing.

It's nice and horrible to think.

And he has not even the slightest desire to stop thinking about Marinette, despite the fact that she sets his heart racing and leaves his palms sweaty. The way she looked when she declared not with bluster, awe, and frothing frenzy like his fans, or cool confidence like Kagami, but with voice and face tender and sincere:

He's the most special boy in the world.

The school is abuzz when he arrives. With his classmates thronging, court is once again in session, held by the new undisputed queen bee who has long since displaced Chloe: Lila. Even Nino is there, caught up in the press of students that are all listening in as the Italian girl regales them with some new tale about... something. Adrien's tuned her out. From the furtive gestures he shares with Alya, his bro is in some strange silent lovers-conversation with the blogger, but still tips his cap as Adrien enters.

Nino knows how important it is for Adrien not to be ignored.

That's not just true of him, though.

His oldest friend sits against the far wall. Chloe is waited on only by Sabrina, who cleaves and clings as if in parting from the blond girl she would be swept out into the wide ocean of their classmates by a riptide, adrift without someone to hold her.

There's another thought there, another thing that, maybe, he should think about, but now – now is the time for feeling and not for thinking.

He thinks that's true.

That too is a choice, and one that only now he's aware that he's making: to choose to feel and let that feeling guide him. To realize that there's something to master, when he's always been thrall to it, and those who could use it.

“Hey, Chlo.”

“Adrikins! Were you coming to sit next to moi for this class?” Her fingers snap right in Sabrina's face before pointing towards the redhead's chair. “Sabrina, disinfect your seat and desk. You can go sit somewhere else for today's class.”

Apparently, Sabrina carries a bottle of organic spray disinfectant around in her bag. Without question or objection, she sets to work, squirting and scrubbing.

“Uh, that's okay, Chlo.” Abashed by a show of servility that he doesn't deserve or desire, Adrien holds up a hand, though that's not enough to actually interrupt Sabrina's task. “I really just wanted to talk to you for a bit.”

Lila's voice echos in the stifling heat of the classroom, despite the open windows, despite the width and tall ceilings, and he props himself up on the desk, seated before his oldest ... possible friend. It's always difficult to tell, now more so than ever since he's felt ... the confused melange of whatever this is for Marinette, and has Nino, and Ladybug, and Kagami alike, though she's still not really on speaking terms with him since they broke up.

“Of, course,” Chloe coos in what might be an attempt at emulating her mother's inflections. There's a quick glance over to the crowd around Lila, a bubbling laugh that feels only half genuine, and half another lie, catching up in his lungs at the glare. “I can see why you'd want to talk to someone worthy of your time.”

“I just thought you might be a little lonely over here.” Perhaps he should have realized that a long time ago, but it's better to see the truth, even if a situation might be too far gone to correct, than continue to ignore it.

“That's so sweet, Adrikins, but you don't have to worry about me.” She thumbs her nose at the gaggle of students on the other side of the room. “It's not like I want a bunch of filthy peasants clustering around me, getting their germs all over me! I prefer someone who's a little more well-bred and knows a thing or two about personal hygiene.”

It's at this moment that she would normally lean into his space, tuck an arm under his, splay a hand over the developing muscles along his back, press their chests together, but in the few seconds' pause as she rises, he has time to think – think about Marinette and her hug, the experience before and after.
A hand stops her as Chloe's rounding the desk. Her face betrays shock, incomprehension that mirrors his. “Adrien?”

Hand still raised, he licks his lips. “Just... just a friendly hug, right? Not too hard and... not too long, okay?”

He sounded so stupid and for a minute he thinks that she's going to cackle into his face and clutch him to herself like he's some kind of massive stuffed animal that her father had one of their bodyguards win for her at a carnival, not that Chloe would have left the car, but she's staring him right in the eyes, and he's not looking away.

“Okay.”

It's a side hug, just long enough for the floral punch of an exorbitantly expensive perfume that would have a pleasant aroma were it not over-applied to tickle his nose. When his arms drop, hers do too.

With faltering steps, she takes her seat again.

“It seems like we haven't really talked for a while.”

“Well,” she sniffs as he watches Sabrina scuttle off to the corner of the room to pretend to read while still watching both of them, yearning, hungry for something, waiting to be called. “I can't always make time for you, Adrikins, even if I'd like to. I'm a busy young woman, you know. So many responsibilities. Daddy's hotel would fall apart without me.”

“Is that how you're keeping busy these days?”

“Oh, it's just dreadfully busy there, all the time, entertaining the world's best.”

“Well, I hope that you're taking some time for yourself.” Of course she is; there's a good person, or what he'd once conceived of as a good person, under that facade that runs so deep it might have coiled its tendrils downwards like a fungus, right into the root system. “If... if you ever need to take a spa day or something, you... you could call me.”

Does she understand the underlying invitation? Does he? Chloe has her toys, her places for forgetting as she burrows herself further and further down. Maybe there is no depth; only a hole to exhume.

“Well, I know how much you must have been missing your time with someone as fabulous as moi.”

“You remember how we used to have spa-days as a kid? Most days, we'd head out to, uh, get pampered, and sometimes-” ten percent of the time “-you'd come to my room and we'd play.”

Given the disgust with which she'd viewed his action figures, the majority of their games had focused on role-play as she'd assumed various “important” duties, bustling him and, on occasion, her butler around the room at her whim. mayor, super-heroine, CEO, queen – all roles into which she'd slipped during their play-dates, but in rare instances, on her cell-phone, she'd just watch as he played, not participating.

“Even then I was such a talented actress.” Even though her golden mane is perfectly locked in place by hairspray, she primps it, unsettles it.

“Well, maybe we could do that again some time.”

“Ugh. You're far too handsome to play Chat Noir, Adrikins,” she scoffs, eyeing him up and down. “I'll have Jean order up a new costume – something special for you. Something worthy of you.”

Like two charging rams fighting for territory, cracking skulls, the dismissal crashes straight into Thanks for always being my hero, Chat.

There's no question which one will survive the concussion, this time, even though the loser has a lifetime's worth of inertia behind it.

“Actually, Chloe, I was thinking that we could go to the spa, and then head back to the mansion or the Grand Paris so that I can show you ... some of my action figures. Something that you really like, and then something-” phlegm is caught up in his throat, and he has to dislodge it, even if she looks mortified and disgusted while he clears his throat - “Something that I really enjoy.”

That's the offer, the olive branch, and he thinks that she might actually see it as such.

The mortification on her face is wiped away with an eye roll, a scoff, a hand wave dispersing a stinking cloud of inconvenient smoke. “I'm an adult. I put away silly, cheap toys a long time ago. That's all they are, you know.”

“Maybe, but they matter to me.”

“Egh.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Why?”

“Well, because they're a part of my childhood. I – used to play with my mother, and it's nice to be able to revisit the good moments.”

Chloe falls silent, that usual air of dismissive concealed interest falling away as her posture settles into something natural. Like she's watching a really good movie, getting swept away by feelings

“It just ... reminded me of how important the past really is.” A flurry of blinks has her image flickering. “Made me feel like I did back then and more.”

“Why would you want to feel like you did when you were just a silly, snotty, filthy brat?” Chloe caws, rolling her eyes. “I mean, you were always gorgeous, Adrikns, but kids are totally icky.”

Of course Chloe wouldn't want to delve into the chasms of the past.

“But I got to control that, you know?”

“Control what? Being your usual gorgeous self? Of course you do. Just like me.” She's preening again, pulling a nail file from her purse to scrape off the excess keratin, sharpening, even though they're immaculate claws. “Get enough sleep, Estee Lauder Energy Crème, some pampering in the spa – that's all you and I need. No wonder the peasants are so hideous. They can't afford to take care of themselves."

Chloe cannot take chastisement; in a way, perhaps, their antithetical upbringings have led them to the same place, shutting down in their own unique fashions; while the impulse to correct and guide is strong, stronger than ever since his everyday ladybug has told him that Adrien is brave, he doesn't give in.

Chat Noir bulldozes.

Adrien should think.

Because he's thinking, part of the truth comes out mangled. "I mean being a kid – on my own terms. It feels like – like I didn't quite get to do that the first time, and now, maybe, I can."

"Who cares about the past? It's the future we should be thinking about! You and me, Adrikins, taking Paris by storm." She edges forward in her seat, pressing closer to him, a way of imposing, of breaking boundaries because, he realizes, he's testing hers. "A power couple to rule the city – fashion, politics, business, tourism. We'd have every angle covered."

“You know, the person who controls the past controls the future, and the person who controls the present controls the past." He's a literature dork. Sue him. Books and toys were among his only friends, aside from Chloe herself, in his youth.

Chloe blinks, marring the concealer on her cheeks by rubbing at it faintly, loosing a tsk in frustration, and then delving into her purse to pull out her compact mirror and makeup. “The what? What does that even mean?”

It's never a surprise when Chloe's vain, haughty, arrogant, or selfish; she displaces the burden of all her work onto the shoulders of toadies, at least as she views them: her butler and Sabrina, but she's not actually stupid. Not really.

“I guess the important thing is that I want them.”

Though there's no disruption in the smooth motion of her hands as she evens out the tone on her cheeks, her eyes flick from the glass to his face and back again.

“Well,” comes the huffed reply, “That's all that matters. If you want something, you should just get -” There's a hiss, a pause, a thought as her fingers stall out and then race back to work again. “You should have someone buy them for you.”

“I have to buy them myself.” So many things to do by himself, for himself, that he has to learn. “My father won't let me have them.”

“Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous,” Chloe spits, pitching high on her 'ighs' in a twisted screech that attracts some of the other students and dismissing the idea with a roll of her wrist. Her designer golden bracelet with gem-studded charms jangles.

“I thought that the toys were.” He hates the sneer on her face, even though it's not directed at him any longer, but still jabs him in the heart.

“Of course, but that's not the point!”

“Oh, no?”

“No!” It comes across as a child's remonstrance, snivelling and violent. In her own way, Chloe also revisits the past, stays tucked away there so that nothing can harm the girl that she is now. “A parent should buy you whatever you want. That's the only thing that they're good for.”

“But now I get to buy it on my terms. Do something-” his voice drops a few decibels, whether that's for the sake of maintaining a clandestine conversation rendered utterly ridiculous since the toys have already been shown off at school or because it's a challenge to get out the words, he doesn't know. “Something that I'm not supposed to.”

When all the pretense falls away for that single instant of stupefaction that makes Chloe look a little bit more like the child who didn't, but might have played with his action figures, might have done what he wanted for a change, she's actually kind of cute.

A smile that is in no way malicious, but still keen and imperious, warps her countenance, and he doesn't have time to wonder what effect that actually has on her appearance, good or bad.

“I'm so proud of you, Adrikins,” she sniffs, feigned hysterics bubbling up as if she's on the verge of cackling and crowing. The compact mirror in her hands snaps shut with a clack like a hammerhead striking a nail. “If someone doesn't give you what's yours, you just take it.”

Of course what he wants, the forces that truly give shape and meaning to him, all his efforts to placate his father and apologize to Ladybug, and that paint his life – his toys, his heroism, and his juvenile fixations – in such beautifully ugly water-colours isn't something that he can take, inherit, demand, or earn.

Perhaps Plagg was wrong and it's unfathomable to deserve it when only grace, favour unmerited by anything he could ever do, might grant it, and that's what makes it precious.

It's nothing that can be earned, or traded, even if he can invest everything in it, all that he is on one turn of fortune.

And something that he might already have.

Marinette walks into class.

She's even more beautiful when she's at peace than she is when in a righteous rage.

Lila's still talking, only imperceptibly louder now that it's not to a crowd, even though they're still clustered, so that her voice pitches upward and pierces.

“So you see, I know that Ladybug was- was just so hurt by Chat giving away that toy. It made that poor little girl a real target for Hawkmoth.” Condescension and consternation, feigned but well delivered, has her cupping her hand to her cheek, eyes surveying the breathless crowd, hungry, seeking heroes and gossip to devour like sweet morsels. “They can't show partiality to any civilians, and with how the figure looks, it's really just reinforcing racist stereotypes, you know?”

There is no detonation of the TNT that's been stocked and compressed and shaped to form Marinette's body, no revisitation of the Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla franchise that everyone seems to be anticipating with dread.

A smile twists Marinette's lips as she settles into her seat, placing her bag on the desk before her and turning to her foe. She's looking at Lila, but it feels like she's talking to him, or for him, and though he's always hated it when people do the latter, this time, it's like being given back his voice.

“Lila,” she asks with painful gentleness, none of the enmity or acrimony or indignation or mutual-loathing, plastered over by pretense, that crackled between them day after day, pulsing and building up. “Do you think that you could not talk like that when I'm in class?”

Lila sniffs as if she's been offended, rubbing her arm, eyes flinching away. "Well, Marinette, Ladybug was completely okay with me sharing things like this. She never asked me to keep it to myself. I- I just want to be honest about what she's told me."

The shockingly robust muscles in Marinette's forearms and bicep flex, clench, unclench, her hand tight on the strap of her purse as she sets it to the floor and then releases like an eagle dropping a turtle to shatter its shell.

"Okay,” she grants slowly, eyes locked with Lila, “but I'm not asking you to stop. I wanted you to know that hearing that sort of things about Chat Noir really hurts me because I think that he's a hero, so as a friend, I'm asking you not to talk about it when I'm in class. We are all friends here. Right?"

As if taking note of the quick flash of teeth that, to anyone not so used to faking broken grins as Adrien himself, might seem to be a smile, Alya interjects, twirling her cell phone in her hands.

"Yeah, I mean, I love spilling the tea as much as anyone, and nothing's more important than the truth, but even the news puts up content warnings, so people can make the choice if they want to see or hear about something.”

"Ladybug was donating all that charity money to help with mental health, right?" Mylene ventures, and there's a quiet, rolling wave of acknowledgement that starts to split the crowd.

Inspired because he's a good boyfriend, though it looks like he's holding Mylene's hand for his own comfort and confidence as much as he is for hers, Ivan adds, “That's important. Thinking about that sort of thing.”

All of them, in their own unique ways, some of which Adrien can detect merely as a cleaving away from Lila so that they're orbiting, rather than clustering, are supporting Marinette.

He-

He can't let her go it alone, which is folly because she already has support.

I trust you.

Thank you for always being my hero, Chat.

The most special boy in the world.

"Actually, Lila, as a friend," Adrien strains, not looking, "I don't think that I'm comfortable hearing those kinds of things about Chat Noir either. I- I don't think that he deserves it."

People lie to him all the time. Some lies are comforting.

And there's something about putting an idea to words that makes it real, metamorphoses it into a nearly tangible object, a force that pushes, pulls, and echoes.

If he says it, maybe he can make it real.

“And I'd rather not hear it, either,” he finishes lamely, repeating himself.

The flash of honesty that splits Lila's face like a lightning bolt cracking open an ancient tree, sagging with its rotten core bursting forth from the fissure is actually terrifying.

He's never seen honest and true revulsion, real hatred, real ugliness. Given years in a cutthroat industry and a bevy of instructions on how best to deflect ravenous paparazzi, he thought that he understood it, but now, now he knows how women and even little children could accuse neighbors of being witches, or watch as the consequences unfolded before their eyes in grim, forgotten hollows or darkened rooms.

He's seen it now.

Lila smiles, and the moment passes. “Of course, Adrien. All anyone had to do was ask.”

That silent conversation that is still ongoing between Alya and Nino leads them to request permission, with Marinette and his leave, to swap seats.

Class begins shortly after the other students disperse, but he does have a minute to spend with Marinette.

“Thanks for standing up for- for me, Adrien.” Her hand rises to squeeze his shoulder, but it hovers there, as if assessing his response and she works up enough courage. A shade of pink that he never realized until this moment might be even more flattering than Ladybug red tints her cheeks. “I really appreciated your support. Chat Noir probably would too.”

“Alya had more to do with that than me,” he deflects, but a subtle shift in his posture is read instantly, almost instinctively, and he enjoys the pressure of her friendly squeeze.

“Yeah, but she's my best friend.” Marinette begins to unpack her schoolbag, splashing her desk in a chaotic mess of school supplies. “She has to stick up for me. It's in the code.”

“There's a code?” Adrien boggles, though it might be exaggerated. How – how is he supposed to act around her? Chat Noir flirts? Puns? Adrien Agreste, the model? What makes up the person that she wants him to be?

Does he have to be that person at all?

Who is he if he's not?

“Something close to it.” Her fingers drum across the table before she clutches at a pen and starts to twirl it in her fingers, energy rolling off her hands in hot waves. “There are always... little unwritten rules to everything, right? Every relationship.”

“Oh. I should probably talk to Nino about that, then.” That feels like a defeat or a retreat. “He could give me some lessons.”

“Maybe, but they're not really something that you can learn like that.” Her voice is gentle, and it sounds like she's teasing something out of him, or that she knows something that she's aching to tell him. It's the opposite, though. This is so unfair to her – that he should know how she feels, and – and not be quite sure if he can, or does, reciprocate. He thought he did. “They grow and change with time as you get to know each other. Decide the rules together.”

“It would be nice if I could just study for it like a test.” There's a weight in the air, a heaviness to his motions, as if he's dreading exactly that: a test when he knows that he doesn't have the answer.

Marinette's easy to like, easy to be with, easy to-

But how does he know? How can he?

He's off-balance.

“Ugh.” That nervous twitching and fiddling dies down with a shiver of disgust before she elbows his arm playfully. “No thanks. I'm failing enough tests as it is.”

“Do you need some help?” With sufficient bribery by way of good behaviour and cajoling, Nathalie could be convinced to free his schedule, or the successful More Multimouse campaign could give Chat Noir the chance to tutor her. He just has to play his cards right. “I could tutor you if you like.”

“Th-that would be nice. I... I'd like to spend more time with a really good friend.”

“Yeah that- uh. That would be pretty nice. Helping each other out?” It's when he's holding her hand in his own, having taken it without meaning to, watching her resolve crumble and blush bloom so hot that her blood vessels appear as if they're trying to burst out from under her skin that he realizes.

He likes making Marinette blush, and not just in a cute cat-playing-with-his-food way. No.

Even rough with callouses on her thumbs and sewing fingers, the skin of her hand is soft.

“Mm-hm.” A bouncing head approximates a nod that sends pigtails flying. “Yeah, just froo tends yelping each other.”

Right. Just froo tends and maybe not just friends. Maybe it's okay to try now, to see what possibilities are out there, to see if it's worthwhile to put himself out there.

Of course, Marinette's worth it.

It's not a betrayal of Ladybug or his feelings for her, no more than was Kagami, but the resolution to explore this strange new world that he'd never considered because friendship and safety were too important feels different.

Maybe it's just a permission of the will to take the first step, reconsider things, try to see the world differently.

But not everything is different, of course. No matter how warm Marinette's palm is, no matter how much he wants people like Chloe to change, or how many lies he tells himself to try to make them become real and true.

At the end of the day, Lila's grin chases him out of the classroom. It's a sick thing, like a swollen maggot, gorged, ready to burst.

When they get home from fencing practice, his bodyguard is called away to discuss contractual matters with Nathalie while she orders him, by way of tablet as today is a “bad” day, to go to his room, as he must be certain to focus on his studies.

In his room, his shelves are empty, pristine and freshly dusted.

His drawers have been ransacked and then carefully reordered.

He looks, and feels nothing except the gentle weight of Plagg on his shoulder, cheek to the soft bare flesh of his neck.

Of course he knew what he was going to find.

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Hello, Adrien. I just wanted to say that you seemed a little upset this afternoon, and I'm really sorry if you were hurt by something that was said in class today. Some people really don't know how to keep their mouths shut, right? But if you're feeling down, or need help with anything, just let me know, okay? It's no trouble. After all, what are friends for?

                                                                                                                                                                - Lila

As he lays out on his bed, reviewing the email that Lila had sent only an hour after their final class let out, Adrien thinks that he should feel something, expect something. If Plagg's reaction, a bevy of curses that echoed through the room, hissing growls, and discontented purrs, was anything by which to judge, the little guy was and is angry enough for both of them.

All Adrien feels, though, as he finally tosses his cell phone to the side and rolls over to flop face down onto his pillow, is stupid.

He is stupid, after all.

No thought had been given to any step that he took along the way; just the unconscious permission to allow himself, as ever, to be carried away by what felt right in the moment: buying the figures as if he had the chance to really hide them, as if any part of his life was his own, castigating Chat Noir, customizing his little Lady, apologizing to Marinette, pleading for a return of Multimouse.

There was no logic, order, or scheme at work, just the frantic thrashing of a fish, impaled through the throat with a hook, being reeled in. The net motion was always inevitable.

It's impossible to forget, even when he needs to, when all those special places can so easily be ripped away.

Then all that's left is to admit it: this was the only conceivable end.

Maybe he had always known that this was going to happen, but accepted it, unconsciously believing that it was better to strive, to try, to seek something out and enjoy it for however long he could clutch the shifting sands in the palms of his hands, even as the fine grains slipped through his clenched fingers, grit scraping away layer upon layer of skin as they fell.

The shelves stand utterly empty; of course rows of books remain, alongside a plethora of DVDs and video games, thousands of dollars of merchandise and gifts.

Every element of his display – the Original Series Transformers, his X-wing with Luke and Han, the Majestia figure that used to bear his mother's voice in those early days when she still played with him – is gone.

It's a feeling that he knows. All those empty spaces where something precious to him used to reside, and if he squints in just the right way, sight and memory blur until he can almost see them, almost keep his imagination alive.

But there's only empty space that sets his chest aflame, the fire crawling up his throat so that he has to rise and guzzle down a bottle of water from his fridge. Plagg shouldn't be raging for him; no one should.

Affluence and privilege have given him more than most could ever dream, more than all those people who needed the help granted to them by the Ladybug and Chat Noir charitable donations could imagine, really.

What right does he have to complain about the fact that some member of the cleaning staff took away his toys?

That really is kids' stuff.

It doesn't matter.

That's what his father is telling him, what he has to tell himself.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't.

He polishes off the rest of his water.

If the toys haven't already made their way to the trash compactor, perhaps he can convince Nathalie to give them to charity.

Just like they don't matter, he doesn't deserve them.

More than anything, he wants to run, bursting out of the wide bay widows that gave him a glimpse of the outside world, teasing and taunting. He has to run, sweat slicking the costume to his body, and race shadows of himself until he's heaving and there's not enough air, his lungs torn apart by a flurry of ice, and keep running nonetheless.

He can't, of course.

Adrien has to wait.

Eventually, after an interminable wait that burns and itches, Chat Noir desperate to flee his room but imprisoned by Adrien's mind, the knowledge that his father will call on him, he receives a phone call from Nathalie.

Plagg stops fussing to dart into view just before Adrien departs, jabbing a nub into his nose and telling him that a single good cataclysm could bring this entire place down to its foundations.

Just in case he ever needed to know.

For whatever reason.

Just bragging about his powers, of course.

It would even leave the cheese unharmed. Plagg could make sure of it!

Adrien laughs, and needs the laugh.

Nathalie can't get out of bed.

Can't come to get him, this time.

They make him go to them, and as he enters her room, she's in the midst of one of her coughing fits.

Today is a bad day.

He hadn't meant to disturb her like this, but he has unsettled her and exacerbated all of the thick tension that pervades the mansion like a miasma. Stress and anxiety often trigger the attacks, something else that is usually locked up in this room and forgotten, kept out of sight, never acknowledged.

Where had he gotten that tendency from, after all?

Shocking that he can see it for once.

Great heaving shudders rock her body, her expression reserved but split open and raw in a way that's unique to the regularly taciturn woman – one part pride, one part concern for herself or for him as he watches and sees his mother, wasting away, and so much embarrassment.

The bedroom is spartan overall, just like Nathalie, but like his mother's room during the agonizing crawl of her decline, it bears the marks of its occupant, a long-term tenant. A work desk lies in the corner, topped with an old computer monitor, unpowered, but every free inch of the table bristles with itemized papers in neat stacks. Pill bottles with expansive labels that Adrien can't quite read lie next to a lamp on Nathalie's bedside table. Before the table sits a padded chair. It's possible that his father might sit there, sometimes. For whatever reason, he's allowed to care for Nathalie, but not love her. There's only-

"I am thoroughly disappointed in you, Adrien."

Nathalie's coughing fit having abated, at least for the time being, she's raising up the tablet in her hands.

Prim and perfectly coiffed, suit immaculate, tie not even slightly askew, his father is on the screen. Adrien has always thought that the tablet did his father no justice. It makes him seem small and stretched out, almost like a caricature of himself, but one that's mocking the world, everything that's not shown on the screen.

There is no scowl; everything is controlled, precise; not a single wasted movement, not a single twitch unconsidered, and this is where Chat Noir comes from, really. Not just from Adrien's favourite anime and the heroes that he always wanted to be, suave ladies' men and farmboys with a special destiny and a million other sources of inspiration.

Chat Noir is the antithesis of his father.

"I understand, father," Adrien grants.

"Do you, truly?” Gabriel's eyes narrow; hands rise up from outside of the frame and steeple together, hiding his mouth. “What is it that you've done, Adrien?"

"I – I bought those Ladybug and Chat Noir action figures."

His father's nostril's flair like he's not able to get enough oxygen, like Adrien's sucking out the air in the room even at this distance. "Do you think that they really matter?"

"They-" He wants to say that they mattered, and matter to him, even if every one of them but his little Ladies is probably in a trash compactor, but he has no idea what his father wants to hear, what the right answer could possibly be. Why couldn't life be like physics, or even English. Learn the rules of composition, dot your eis, put your commas in the right place, perform the calculations properly, and you'd get the right answer.

Maybe there is no right answer.

And maybe that's the one real answer that's only just come to him, through a lifetime of education.

"No?" he offers tentatively.

"Correct.” The fingers strum together, but all that Adrien sees is the slight tremor in Nathalie's arms and the slow shake of her head. “Now why?"

"I... I don't know." What is Nathalie trying to say, seated behind his father, wielding the tablet like a shield or a prop, a stand that's just there to carry his father? Sweat is caught up in her brow.

"You disobeyed me." It's as close to a sneer as he's ever seen from his father, the only referent that moment when Adrien suggested that it would be okay to move on from his mother, as if either of them could.

"I- that wasn't-"

"Wasn't what you intended? Wasn't what you were thinking? ” A scoff crackles through the tablet's speakers, and Adrien doesn't flinch. He has to hold still, stand there, be the man that he's not and just take it. Never let his posture falter. That's another failure. “That makes it worse. I explicitly forbade you from doing something, and in flagrant disregard of my wishes, you did so anyways, aided, I understand, by that boy."

"Nino?" As he locks his arms behind his back, the tight clutch of his fingers to the bony protrusions of his wrist bruise, squeeze out feeling.

"Yes,” his father affirms through the screen. It's just a blur; everything is narrowed down, focused, on the pressure on his arm, in his chest, in Nathalie's reddened face. “I have already expressed my misgivings about him, and it seems that they were well-founded, though I did misjudge your bodyguard."

He can't touch his neck. His father doesn't like that. It's unseemly, so there's just the crushing pressure that creeps up his arm and radiates down to the bone, keeping him there.

The toys suddenly are meaningless – worthless. Why would he need to burrow into the past and try to revisit and reshape it if it cost him the present?

"Is- what... what's going to happen to him?"

As if it's utterly meaningless, like small talk about the weather, his father recites, "We are discussing his current contract and the application of the relevant punitive clauses as he's abdicated several of his duties."

"What?"

Now both their eyes are focused, locked. "He was seen touching you in an inappropriate fashion."

"That- he didn't do anything! I – the hug-" How can he object when that's not true? His bodyguard, his friend, did everything in that moment – everything that Adrien realized that he'd needed for so long.

"That doesn't matter, Adrien.” There's a crinkling of his father's brow, something drawing away his focus. “What matters is the appearance of things – possible ways in which those actions could be misconstrued."

Adrien is familiar with paparazzi, the frothing fans that have chased him across Paris and the gossip-mongers who dissect his life, but surely something like that – in front of an entire schoolyard of departing students – couldn't be...

"I am frankly disappointed in your selfishness, Adrien. The world does not revolve around your every transient whim, your every random desire or thought."

"Of course not. I-"

Plucking his glasses from his nose, such a rarity that Adrien almost gasps at the enervated stranger who's rubbing bloodshot eyes, Gabriel looses a reverberant sigh before raising his gaze. It's like he can see everything, pierce through the dividing line between flesh and muscle, scrape him raw.

"You both need to understand that your actions have consequences.” It sounds so resigned, so aggrieved as if Adrien's placed a burden on his shoulders, made him suffer through this. “Throwing a fit in class like the Bourgeois girl, making a scene, your interactions with your bodyguard, and your collusion with him- all of these things have natural and necessary results."

"I – I understand, father. It's just that those are my fault. Other people shouldn't suffer for them. He- he was just doing what I asked, when –" He can't make it worse, can't say anything about the toys in the dashboard that Lila can't really know about. Why is everything in life a fencing match? Why does he have to watch each word? "All of it was my fault."

"Be that as it may, you are an Agreste. As such, your actions will always affect those around you. Me, the shareholders, the employees and all their families who depend on them."

"It... it was just toys and – and a hug and a-" what was it that he'd requested of Lila? What was it really? He doesn't know, and for whatever reason, shame and sickness like he'd just guzzled milk mixed with orange juice froths inside of his gut. His father is staring down at him, even from the tablet screen, looking for an answer that he can just shoot down. 

Adrien doesn't have any.

"It was just disobedience, just impropriety, and just selfishness."

"I'm sorry." It's a whimper, like that of a beaten dog who has nothing else, can only limp away, holding up a broken leg and praying that someone will have mercy on him for the wound. Not hit him again. As he flinches away, thinking of his bodyguard and the subtle smell of the spiced cologne that wafted up from his chest, the sensation of being enfolded in flesh and muscle, the scent of Marinette's hair, her slender arms around his back, the steady rise and fall of a chest against his own...

As he lies and tries to escape into those lost sensations, the worst feeling of all is that he really means it.

He really is sorry.

“I believe that you are,” Gabriel says from the tablet that wobbles in Nathalie's hands, though Adrien's stopped looking at him, just as his father has turned away to attend to some other matter, something off screen. His eyes are unfocused, voice trailing off, absent, but all that Adrien sees is the pinching of Nathalie's throat, the quiver of those iron hands that once seemed so strong, the stoop to her shoulders and the riffling around her mouth, all repression and pain, chest shuddering..

It's harder than you might think to learn how not to love someone.

“Your bodyguard will be docked pay in accordance with the relevant articles in his contract, but he will not be replaced at this time.” The shuffling of papers sounds out from beyond the screen, Gabriel still glancing away. “All of the items on your shelves will be withheld for two weeks as punishment, and the Miraculous toys have already been disposed of. Also, you will be eating lunch at the mansion or in the presence of miss Rossi from this point forward.”

“I understand.”

“Considering your defiance of my explicit instructions, you should be grateful that Nathalie advocated on your behalf. Do not make me waste time on this kind of childish outburst again, Adrien.”

“I won't, father.”

“Good.” Without any warning, the connection drops, and so does the tablet, Nathalie's arms clutching over her chest and stomach as whooping coughs wrack her entire body. He's by her side in an instant, seated on the edge of her bed, stroking his hand in smooth circles between her shoulder blades, doing everything that he can, which is, as always, nothing, to ease her through the attack.

“Are you...” stupid “okay?” he asks, and knows that this was another thing that he'd been forgetting. Of course he'd want to revisit and rewrite the past when they were living it out again in the present.

Face split with pain, Nathalie still smiles and nods, eyes compressed into slits behind her glasses. “Of course, Adrien. I'm just having a bad day.”

There are too many bad days for too many people in this house.

“I'm really sorry that I made things worse for you.”

“I know, Adrien.” 

And, obviously, she does. 

She knows in the same way that he does the expression on her face, the gravel in her voice that's all that she can offer to conceal a rasp. 

Adrien flees from Nathalie's room.

Chat Noir flees from Adrien's prison.

Chapter Text

The school reeks of ammonia and lemon-scented cleaning solvent, antiseptic, artificial in a way that Adrien has never noticed. It smells like his room, freshly cleaned. Each pass from the house staff should provide relief from the ubiquitous if subtle stink of Camembert that wafts out of his mini-fridge, but they offer only the antithesis of comfort.

He's never noticed before how much the school can be like home in all the worst ways; hallways press in, the heat of bodies and the shuffle of feet and groans of students lamenting yet another day in state-sponsored child prison, as one blurry-eyed pupil puts it, slapping a plethora of books into her locker before moping off to class.

They don't really fathom the nature of a prison. Iron bars and stone walls are stiffing enough, but it's the loss of individual identity, of any ability to impose or assert yourself – to sleep when you wanted, rise when you wanted, eat what you wanted – and the constant justified paranoia, fear of peers and authority alike, that he thinks really cripples a prisoner psychologically.

Adrien thinks that, of course; he doesn't know either.

Obviously, his selfishness cannot be tolerated, and is utterly unbecoming of an Agreste. Unexpected, touch-starved physicality again breaks the thin veneer of propriety demanded by his father when he collapses next to Nino and gives him a side hug, eagerly reciprocated, at their desk.

"Everything alright, Mec?" Nino inquires as he pulls back to examine him, adjusting his hat in one of those many subconscious tells that Adrien recognizes as an expression of anxiety. "You're looking a little bit green around the gills."

"Just glad to be at school, Nino." Fiddling with his pen, capping and uncapping the ballpoint that his father gave him two years ago for his birthday, he stares at the notebook that Nino has open before him. There's nothing but illegible chicken-scratch. The pen is never used; only taken with him in his school bag, held and manipulated, twisted between his fingers. 

"Always glad to have you here.” The other boy enthuses in his own, uniquely 'chill' way. “Sucks when you have to skip because of a shoot or something."

"Thanks, Nino."

Almost like the skittering of mice feet, a scuffing sound reaches Adrien's ears, and when he turns to look, he finds that Nino has doffed his cap and is scratching at his scalp, questing after an itch that he just can't seem to scratch. An irritant he can't find. "But, uh, you being glad to be here isn't exactly a reason for the scowl, or the bro-hug – not that I'm complaining about it. Hugs are a-okay in my playbook."

"Oh, it's... a lot of things really."

Nino takes his shoulder in hand, and smiles. If only Adrien had the words to describe the tenuous amalgam of feelings that give it shape. "If you want to talk, I've got a pretty good ear, but no pressure, Mec. Don't know if I can give you any idea what to do, but I can listen."

His hand covers Nino's, squeezing gently. “I really appreciate that."

Despite his best friend's assurances, Adrien can't quite suck down enough air, as if his chest is being compressed, like he needs to cough but can't quite hack up the sensation and clear it away, and it becomes clear that the space itself is to blame.

There's a sickly violation of something intimate and precious, not just in his room but in the school as the edges of his vision blur. The whiteboard is smeared with algebra equations and formulae long-since-memorized and he should be paying attention to the teacher out of respect, should be listening to know how far the other students have progressed so that he could be prepared at a moment's notice to tutor Marinette if she ever asked, but focus eludes him. All the meaningful answers do.

Marinette, as ever, is late, so even as the warmth of Nino at his side sinks into his arm, and though court is no longer in session, the mercurial moods of the class having shifted away from Lila once again, it's almost as if the room is empty save for him and the girl who told his father of his reception of the collection of action figures.

Just her and him, furtive glances in her direction to see if she's watching. Her presence like the tingling static before a thunderstorm just ready to burst into a squall.

Until Marinette arrives, tumbling in through the door in her usual explosion of giddy awkwardness and scintillant energy, bearing in her hands a paper bag that, after a quick chastisement from Madame Mendeleiev, she sets at his desk before spinning away from him with a flush and taking her seat.

He doesn't even need to open the rumpled bag, but wants to so badly, licking his lips. As he puts his hands to the crinkling brown paper, there's no way for him to tell whether the radiating warmth that soaks into his palms is physical or spiritual, but it's real nonetheless and it floods him with an alien courage.

Buttery pastry, thick and rich even through the bag, hits his nose. A substitute memory blooms, conjured from the ether, projected like that vision of a little Marinette bustling about the kitchen, making hot chocolate for the first time. He sees a kitchen, a cluttered counter, cooling racks, cheeks flushed with the heat blossoming outwards from the open oven door, a girl, a boy, a home.

Easing the mouth of the bag open, he's awash in the full force of the scent, and it's enough for him to lose himself. A pair of still slightly steaming croissant, fresh from the oven, lie inside. He should feel guilty; he, this gift for him, is the reason that Marinette's late, but he can't find the room in his heart for the recrimination.

Raising one of the breakfast treats to his mouth and taking a slow bite, he finds the experience almost sensual: flaky texture compliments the fatty yet not greasy flavor, introduced by a fresh, evocative fragrance that floods his nose just before he takes a bite.

She really is the sweetest girl in the class and more; the thought of her joining him on patrol, only a few days from now, is almost more than he can stand, the excitement setting his foot jack-hammering against the wooden floor until Nino jabs his gut to caution him to cease.

He's never quite felt so full.

Halfway through class, when Madame Mendeleiev turns her eyes to an equation that she's formulating on the board, he slips a little thank you note to the girl behind him, watching the flush on Marinette's cheeks, red hot, creeping up to her hairline and dipping down her throat.

And that's it; just as he'd thought. It's like Lila's gone, like she can't hurt him. The persistent ache remains, the pains that he can't understand let alone describe, but Marinette truly does wash away some of the discomfort, but maybe that's unhealthy. Maybe it's just another place for forgetting, another thing – worse, another good and kind person – who he's just using rather than cherishing her the way that she deserves. Is it merely a matter of flattering his ego, stroking his deflated pride and the sense of self-worth that- that he now realizes thanks to Ladybug's chastisements, Marinette's fury on behalf of Chat Noir, and Plagg's – Plagg's talk about ... love is woefully tenuous?

The heart is desperately wicked. Who can know it?

"Bro." The hissed exhortation is accompanied by a stomp of Nino's foot to Adrien's toes that sets him yelping and swiveling in his seat to refocus on the teacher while a ripple of suppressed chuckles reverberate through the room.

Reflecting back on a mental echo of the past ten seconds, he realizes belatedly that he'd missed two attempts by Madame Mendeleiev to catch his attention by clearing her throat viciously, and is now glaring at him balefully.

"Sorry, Ma'am," Adrien half-coughs. Blood races hot under his cheeks, and he must look an absolute mess.

Madame Mendeleiv glowers at him, tapping her white-board marker to her open palm, looking as if she wished that they hadn't taken the rod out of schools. "I expect better of you, Mister Agreste."

That cuts deep.

Deeper than it should.

Don't cry in front of the class.

His father wouldn't cry.

But that's not why he's telling himself that he can't.

He doesn't want Marinette to worry, and doesn't want to give power to the echo of pain that's resounding through his body.

Holding himself together through class might have been impossible if not for Nino's intervention as they begin to exchange clipped message in the margins of their notebooks, bantering in short form scribbles about the upcoming release of a sequel to the Ladybug and Chat Noir movie that features a new voice actor because the producers felt that the male protagonist needed a more masculine inflection.

The softness of Marinette's steady breathing, the pastry that he works through, even though it loses all of its physical warmth after only a minute, Madame Mendeleiv's robotic transcription of notes, fluid and even just as much as the script itself is a jagged mess, the scent of Nino's skin that's the same odour that pervades his cramped apartment – all of it together lulls him into something akin to a trance.

When he wakes, Alya badgering Nino to examine a new set of images posted to the Ladyblog, Adrien takes the opportunity to slip out from behind his friend, leaving his bag and belongings for Nino to watch, and appreciates the way that Marinette giggles and shies away when he smiles in her direction. Mood much improved, he realizes, now that his sense of bodily awareness has returned, that he needs to duck out to the men's room in the few free minutes.

After attending to his business, Plagg popping out for a few minutes in the empty room to badger him for additional cheese only to be stuffed back into a pocket when another student barged in, Adrien slips out of the public washroom, scraping his hands across his pant legs to remove the last of the moisture the air dryer left behind.

The sight that greets him is unwelcome, but should have been expected. He should have known what would happen.

Leaning against the lockers while poking away at her cell phone, feigning interest in some application that releases periodic beeps and notification dings, is Lila. Green eyes, partially concealed by her thick lashes, scan the door, find him immediately, and crimp up along the edges as the pretense drops along with her hands, the cell-phone tucked away into her pocket.

“Adrien,” she begins, closing the distance between them with only a few strides as she worms and wriggles her hands together. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

The model smile comes easily when it's most painful, and the scraping of his hands becomes almost violent, even though they're completely dry now. “Lila. How can I help you?”

What appears to be resolute contrition has her setting her jaw. “Oh, I just wanted to apologize again for yesterday.”

Absent any determinable alteration or development, any sense that the thought or feeling or consolidation of both has had any time to gestate, he's struck by the sudden sense that this game is utterly bereft of meaning – an absurdist dance of pretense.

He has to force his hands to still, knowing her eyes are on them, watching and weighing, assessing responses for any tells, but in this moment, he's beyond hiding them "You know, Lila, I was completely honest about being willing to become your friend.”

A flurry of blinks are the only sign that she's been destabilized. There's a reassessment, coldly logical and detached, almost alien as her eyes flick, taking in his stance, the angle of his feet, the rigidity of his shoulders. She's looking for tells.

In response to whatever she finds, as he's beyond caring what she can see because she'll simply manufacture anything that she requires, she adopts a posture of casual intimacy, leaning her weight into the locker by his side, legs partly crossed, so close that the wafting nearly visible tendrils of her lilac perfume claw their way into his nose, delve down his throat and curl up into his mouth to choke out the lingering taste of butter.

“Of course I know.” Fingers drum across her bicep. “You don't have one fake bone in your body.”

It's truly amazing how poorly Lila is able to perceive people, how a myopic and narcissistic fixation on herself prevented her from realizing what he has only now come to understand. Adrien Agreste is a lie, and Marinette, if not Ladybug, saw right through Chat Noir too.

“I just don't understand what you get out of this.” The sad part is that that too might be a lie.

Her eyes widen perceptibly, glassy oceans of brown and white. “Why do I have to get something out of it? An apology isn't about getting something from another person. It's all because I care about how you feel.”

“I just wanted you to know that...” He licks his lips, trying to recall the flavour of the croissant and finding only iron. “That I would forgive you, if you asked and – and you actually meant it.”

Lila's brow folds up, a hand clasping at the smooth front of her blouse, creasing it up just above her heart. “Have I done something else that needs forgiving, Adrien? If I said or did something to hurt you, please tell me. I really would like to know.”

Lila's actually somewhat terrible at lying, leaving inconsistencies of sufficient size to allow Gigantitan and Gorizilla, locked in mortal combat, to tumble through, but there's something indescribable about the way that she twists up words, saying exactly what she means and only rendering the barbs cruelly hooked. If it weren't for his experience with feigned smiles on set, at school, for his fans, and for himself, he might not know what that means. .

He's so sick of this.

He leaves her there, and she's not smiling. Maybe she senses that, this time, there's no need.

Safely back at his seat, head buried in his folded arms so that there's nothing but the darkness and the hustle and clatter of the students around him, a sea of voices murmuring, chortling, punctuated with guffaws and raucous insults and boasts exchanged between Alix and Kim, he has to wonder if, perhaps, Lila isn't the only one whom he's longer willing to tolerate.

Before he leaves his next class to return home for lunch in an empty dining room, he pauses at the door, withdrawing his father's gift from two years ago. Though they don't say anything while he scrutinizes the curling faux-gold-inlay, the pen turning over and over in his fingers while he runs his thumb over the clip and rimmed edge of the cap, Nino and Marinette both stand with him, waiting to leave until he's ready. 

When he returns to the schoolroom and checks after lunch, the pen has disappeared from the tabletop where he left it. 

Hopefully someone will actually be able to find a use for it.

Chapter Text

Although Adrien expects the intervening period between his most recent encounter with Lila and patrol night with Multi-Marinette to be yet another slog, punctuated by slips on mossy outcroppings that send him tumbling into quicksand pits of his father's reproach, there's nothing.

Nothing awaits him when he arrives at home for his meals.

Nothing resides in his room – no surprises or losses; just the palpable absences that seem novel but have truly been lingering all the while.

No masterstroke reprisal from Lila; no further restrictions on his behaviours or hobbies.

The action figures, assuming that they went out with the regular waste, are gone, their trash taken away yesterday morning. He watched the passing garbage truck from the second floor music room, a sweat-sodden workman wearing earphones and stained jeans, wiry arms lightly tattooed and visible under his off-green city vest, clambering off a rung and foot-well on the back. He watched as this stranger gathered up each pail to toss one tightly sealed black garbage bag after another into the back. He made himself watch the slow, mechanical press crush and fold and chew them up to the crash and clatter of refuse being smashed.

With the windows closed, he couldn't smell the diesel of the engine, or the wafting odours of rotting food and muck and slime that smeared up all of his figures – if they were even there – before his three little Chat Noirs, his Guitar Hero, his completed Build-a-Figure Stoneheart, and all the rest had their flimsy plastic limbs mangled, joints ripped apart, heads and torsos crushed, straining and straining, stress-fractures and fissures spider-webbing their way across the black and pale-pink plastic, until the support pegs gave way, spraying shards.

It would be stupid to feel anything for them, as if they were sensate to pain, but in the crush, he can hear the scream of tortured plastics.

He doesn't care.

Of all the reactions that he could have imagined, that surprises him.

There are so many items in his room for which he cares, all the wonderful mementos that he accumulated from the little Ladybug signal buzzer to his limited edition Cordelia – pining romantic, forever devoted to her Prince – statue with the alternate colour scheme, to his collection of Star Wars figures and Majestia, beaten up, battered, her paint scarred and scored and pitted, worn away with use and time spent in a tub of other action figures.

He can still hear his mother's “Majestia” voice, cottony and penetrating, an unacerbic authority that left him staring up at the woman and seeing the figure as she mimed the motions of a triumphant victory flight or inspiring pose, hands locked into molded fists, planted firmly on her hips. It was at those moments, when his father was most distant, that the little figure seemed to swell up in her hands, as large and imposing as the giantess from New York herself, like she contained within herself a whole universe of possibilities.

She grew larger as his mother diminished.

And then there was Ladybug.

So many things to lose; so many things to be taken away as punishment.

He doesn't care.

Maybe he's just lying to himself again.

It doesn't matter.

He's wallowing, or “sulking like an infant.” When he passed by the dinner table while Adrien was eating lunch yesterday, Gabriel had ordered him to stop doing just that. For just a moment, his brow had folded up in confusion, his eyes flicking to the door and back as he stopped in his tracks, like he had to think in order to recall the reason that Adrien was pushing kale salad around his plate in the mansion dining hall instead of eating lunch at school. Then, delivered with a characteristic sneer of cool command, his exhortation had been wholly emotionless, direct and disinterested.

“Stop sulking like an infant. You're an Agreste.”

There really was nothing there for him.

From comparisons with other students at College, Adrien knows that he's well-educated; the privileges and responsibilities afforded to him by his father's position, his father's demands, his father's name, and his father's wealth have never been cause for smugness or self-satisfaction.

Quite the opposite.

Only alienation.

But nothing in his vast education has prepared him.

From the convolutions of rhetorical thought and logos, the couched narrative sparring of the Symposium as Plato reflected on the myriad forms of love or Aristotle, following his chain of causes and teleology back to the ultimate good and the unmoved mover – to the gloom and the sublime of poetics ranging from Poe's kingdom by the sea and love that was more than love or Shakespeare's imperfect actor on the stage, fear and awe plucking out the threads of his once-memorized part in the play.

That might at least be apt.

His tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth; his throat aches to the point that he would croak like a man hoarse with pneumonia if he tried to articulate thoughts that are themselves gummed up with molasses, rich and dark and oh-so-sweet.

Multimouse scampers into view, having lashed her jump-rope to the side of the wide rooftop on which he stands.

While her skin-tight costume is all pastel pink highlights and what should be a dull-grey bodysuit that hugs and caresses every plump, mousy inch of her figure, she glows.

Golden and red radiance, crisp in the cool evening air so that the intersecting beams and ambient illumination from the stoplights and lampposts in the street below bloom over her body. Her wiry arms are tight, bulging even as they uncoil. That smooth belly expands with her heated breath, quick panting gasps for air as she recovers from her jaunt across the rooftops, and her flushed and sweaty face is consumed with a smile that grows as she watches him looking at her.

He has to use his extended baton to help him maintain balance.

Or he would, but for the fact that he's already plopped down to his butt because his legs gave way, even though this is expected.

Yet nothing prepared him, or gave him the words or the thoughts for this, and his heart crashes and clatters like a bull, drunk on fermented grapes, meandering his way through a cupboard full of pots and pans.

His stomach growls, and not just because she's carrying in hand a picnic basket, just like his Lady so often did, intending to spoil him after a patrol. The feeling is there again, and even deeper than his gut, deeper than his flesh. On and in and beyond him, the hunger pangs ache.

He aches.

For what, he doesn't know, even if he's starting to realize just how special this hunger is – that he could live off the starvation alone – a painless, easy comfort that's becoming a pleasant throb accompanied by the luscious odour of buttery pastry and the curling stormy exhilaration of sky-blue eyes open and gleaming and splitting with forked lighting.

So very unexpected, that little hint of swirling danger, sweet adventure and mystery.

So much like Ladybug, but so different. Marinette's not the leader here.

She's arrived at long last, sauntering towards him, treats in hand. Ready to patrol or veg out or – or do something that has his muscles quivering like he's a race horse, ready to burst from the gate, flaring nostrils flooded with the scent of his competitors' sweat and frothing mouths.

“Loving the mask, there, Princess,” he hums, shooting her a flirty wink because that seems appropriate for Chat Noir. There's no letting all this mess – his mess – him show. He's got to keep up the act; she knows Adrien, and has seen too much of him, and for whatever reason the idea of permitting her to see more is unconscionably terrifying. “Perfect thing to help you remain anony-mouse.”

“I hear that's pretty important for a superhero.” After setting down the basket of goodies that his sensitive cat nose lets him smell, however distracted he is by the sweet odour of vanilla and rose perfumed mouse that he's an absolute heel for noticing, she rolls her shoulder, thumb working the divot between her breast and the socket, as if the joint is unused to the strain of bearing her weight.

That is rather strange since, sometimes, when she lifts him up and carries him through the day, the rippling sinew of her arms and back seem sufficient to hold up his entire world – oh, God, this is bad because he's got it bad, he realizes as he gulps down a puff of air to restrain a whine, whether over himself or her, he doesn't know.

“Yeah. Second only to the part about rescuing princesses and protecting civilians in general,” he schmoozes, laying on the cream as thick as he can. “How are you finding it?”

“It's alright.” The handle of her jump-rope flicks and twists in her hand, a little showboating that even he can't quite manage when he bungles around his baton. She's talented, masterful with the quick wrist-flicks that are nearly like the hypnotic sway of a little mouse's tail, drawing in a predatory pussy cat's gaze. “A little bit weird getting used to the feeling of the jump-rope. I don't know how long it extends, but it sure seems to. It's almost like the more I think about it, the less it does what I want.”

“Same with the baton, really.” Not that he's as good with it as she'd probably be, if her jump-rope is any indication. “If I start trying to judge distances and math out the jumps, I fall flat on my face.”

“Ouch.” She mock flinches. “That would be a real shame.”

“Oh, absolutely, my purrity face is a treasure.” Is it wrong, the way that he showboats, mirroring that gesture from so many months ago, boxing in said purrty face with his fingers so that it looks like he's framed, caught in the camera's eye, photo-perfect complete with airbrushing? It's almost like he's taunting her, knowing how she feels about Chat and Adrien.

All of him.

Multi-Mari-Mouse looks unimpressed, but he likes to think that the subtle blurring of pink around her mask is more than just his imagination. “That's one way of putting it.”

To dispel that awkward air as his busy fingers start to drum The Imperial March on his knee, he clears his throat and can't force the mouse-sized lump out. “So how much have you practised with the jump rope?”

“Not much.” As if to show off her admittedly marvellous talents, perhaps accrued from her sewing not that he knows about the transferability of skills, she lashes out with the jump-rope like a bullwhip. The thick cord coils and releases, tip splitting the cool Parisian night air with a supersonic crack as she arches a brow.

Pretty darn impressive, really, he has to admit as she spools up the rope once more and the compact handle is affixed to her hip.

She blinks. “Since, uh, Ladybug made sure that I was coming back, I haven't used the mouse.”

“Then how do you want to go about this, M-uh Mouse?” Well that's a stupid nickname. Suddenly, the most important thing about tonight is not offending her again, not driving her away like Adrien had before.“Is that okay”

“Mouse is fine, Kitty, though a little uninventive for you.” Her brow furls as she scratches at the edge of her hair bun. “I'm pretty new with these powers, so why don't you let me know how we should handle this ... training session? I know that Ladybug was hoping that I would keep out of sight. Stay – what did you call it?”

“Our – our secret weapon?”

Her smile shifts, strangely nostalgic, and she affirms him with a head-bob. “That's it.”

“She told you that?” He asks while focusing on her expressions, trying to read any subtle shifts, though what he's looking for is a real mystery.

Arranging the picnic basket – a literal wicker picnic basket which just seems so whimsical and childish – she plops down next to him, so close that he can admire the subtle honeycomb hexagonal texture of her costume which is so appropriate because she's just dripping with sweet honey. “I think that I know pretty much everything about the conversation that you two had about me.”

“Oh, well... good.” Did Ladybug narc on him too? Share his mortifying More Multimouse Campaign list? Like he's savouring the air around her, flowing with full-fat milk and honey from the promised land – oh, lord – he smacks his lips.“That's good.”

Keep it together. It's just Marinette it a skin-tight mouse costume, dressed like the hero she is everyday.

“If I'm only going to be called up for emergencies, then we shouldn't tip our hand while training,” she begins, tracing the edge of her picnic basket like the weave of wicker is a maze she's trying to navigate. “I kept a pretty low profile getting here, and transformed only a few blocks away from where we were supposed to meet, just to be safe.”

“Pretty clever, Mouse, but, uh, what did you tell your parents?” He can't help but shuffle his butt a few inches closer, the full experience of her like this, Marinette all wrapped up in super-hero garb, just too much to process.

“My parents?” If only she had whiskers to twitch. Only that would make her scrunchy nose cuter as she turns away from the labyrinth she's tracing out.

“Yeah,” he offers, dragging out the word. “I know that my – mine wouldn't just let me out of the house at 22:00 without at least some explanation where I was going.”

“Oh.” She slaps a fist into her palm, abandoning the poor picnic basket while loosing a chuffing laugh and grinning so, so wide that it sets off a cascade of heat that rises up from his belly and staves off the chill of the evening breeze. “I... uh, sneaked out from my balcony.”

“You what?!” How could she possibly have done something so utterly asinine? Clambering down from a rooftop somehow – she really was inventive and brave, if stupid and reckless – was a prime way to get her neck broken, and that would be his fault too. “You can't just do something like that, Mouse! You'll get yourself killed.”

“It's – it's okay, Chat,” she assures, clearly slightly aggrieved by his wholly justified concern for her well being. Utterly ridiculous! “I'm staying safe.”

Clawing at the air, he scoffs before he senses a sliver of hurt in her expression, as if the chastisement, however justified, cut too deep, but he's committed, and doubly so to ensuring her safety. “Obviously not if you're climbing down from your balcony into the street to sneak out in the middle of the night! Who knows what could happen to you?!”

“It's not like I can transform into Multimouse if we're keeping her a secret. Do you have a better idea?” The oddest glimmer of a challenge sparks in her eyes, a little candle-flame next to the atomic breath weapon that he's seen in all those Marinette vs Lila films that played on a reel for weeks.

Playfulness is a fetching quality, mingled with a little bit of heat, but far more smoke.

Does she want him to have a better idea?

“I can pick you up,” he blurts, leaning into her space so that they're nearly nose-to-nose. He's not going to be taking no for an answer. Imagine if she was hurt because of his stupid insistence!

That's a horrifying place for forgetting, but it's not just pain that's being plastered over. Oh, no. Not when his mouth is going dry and every sense is flooded with her; her face so close that it blots out every other sight; her skin's scent hot and cloying in his nose; his ears twitching as they strain to luxuriate in the whistle of her breathing, picking up.

She's not leaning away, despite the quiver of her jaw. “What?”

“It's simple.” And it is. Like the myriad objects that lock together into one of Ladybug's Rube Goldberg machine plans, the pieces are slotting into place so easily. It's nice to have a plan for once, to tamp down on the feline urge to leap forward and play with his food. “You need a training space where no one can see you, and have to get there safely. Well, I can figure something out for the first one, and, when I do, I'll stop by your rooftop to pick you up as Marinette.”

“Won't people be able to take photos or footage of you?” she objects with a floundering grin, worrying out nervous energy by scraping her ungainly hands together as if she needs to burn off all that mouse-anxiety, but he can't bring himself to relent. Not when her safety is in the balance.

Does she want him to relent?

“Maybe, but it's night, and I'll sneak up to your balcony, and- and if you're not wearing something that really stands out, no one is going to be able to tell who's with me.”

“I guess that you could climb down from the chimney behind my balcony,” she offers, still clearly uncertain as she steeples her fingers.

“Totally stealthy.” He taps at his puffed up chest, flexing, feigning and serious at once, and the little squeak that pops from her pink lips that glisten with flare of Parisian lights frays every fibre of his being. Is his cheesy grin enough? Wide? Too wide? Too needy? She doesn't look like she can perceive the tumult, but they're wearing masks. How could he know? “I'm already dressed for my night operation.”

“Well,” she snarks with a tiny jab at his chest, the motion fumbling just before she reaches her target. She holds her breath visibly, poking the piping over his pectoral while glancing away. “I- I wouldn't want to leave you hanging, after you put in all the hard work to dress for the occasion.”

“Speaking of being dressed for the part, you're looking good – I mean for what we're doing tonight-” he only just holds off a face-palm because what is he even doing or feeling or wanting? - “Which is just training, so – ugh – how do you want to start?”

“Chat, you've had your Miraculous much longer than I've had this one, so where do you think that we should start? What did you learn when you were just starting out?”

“Well... actually, I hadn't really thought about it.” A deep inhalation, so rough and jagged that the air is gravel as he thinks back to Fu and the desperate, petulant pleas for mentorship, and feels his chest constrict with an unnameable fear. “You're so good with plans – at least from what I saw when you dealt with Kwamibuster, not that I really know you very well or anything, that, uh, that I thought that you'd have an idea of where you'd be comfortable starting.”

Fully confident this time, her hand presses to his chest as she re-angles herself on the rooftop ledge, and beyond the facade of her mask that dissolves away in the twisting veneer of shadows cast at this new perspective, he just sees the girl herself, as she is when mulling over a math-problem, focused, chewing the nub of her eraser absently. Is he a problem? He feels like it, and doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing.

“From what I heard, Ladybug put you in charge of my training, and I trust you with that,” she says.

“O- okay.” He nods in part to affirm her, but her smile does that and more for him. “Well, then, I guess the first thing that we have to worry about are the basics.”

“The basics?” Though her hand falls away in a jerk like she's just suffered a static shock, and she takes a few seconds to stare at her gloved palm that appears to contain the road-map to El Dorado from her expression of enthrallment, there's no queasy sensation of abandonment or distance. She's still here.

“Yeah. Like – how strong are you, how agile, how fast?” he offers, and a brief hesitation is enough for her to look up from her hand, tossing her head as if she's just remembered something vital and is kicking herself mentally. “That may have something to do with our natural fitness, like Lu- uh, Viperion was pretty strong, but that could have been because he's a little older than us or because of the unique effects of the Snake miraculous. I'm a lot more flexible and quick on my feet than Carapace, so it's different for each one of us.”

Mulling over the suggestion, processing it to weigh the idea, she strokes her chin. “So we test the basic physical powers that my miraculous grants me first.”

“Right.” He taps his baton, fearing that perhaps she's going to reject the idea – tell him that it's stupid and realize that she should have just taken charge – his Everyday Ladybug leading the way just like his... other Everyday Superheroine Ladybug. “And then... then we move on to how to use those physical attributes. Powers and weapons are always an extension of what you're capable of doing with your own body.”

The Dodge! meme from Dragon Ball Z Abridged is echoing in his head, but it's mingled with a hundred fencing matches, footwork drills on the piste as he stared down Kagami, sharing smirks, then grins, then frowns, then nothing – pure cool absence because the lies piled up and crushed out anything but mechanical function.

Start with the basics, and the one that can best ensure Marinette's safety.

“A lot of things come down to instinct and preparation,” he elaborates, fixating on her even breathing as she listens to him, her attention rapt. “There's not much time for thinking in the middle of a fight, at least not for you or me if we're giving Ladybug a chance to plan.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of planning out our training,” she assures as she rises up, extending him a hand so that he can do the same.

As he makes certain that he has his feet under him – his legs are a little bit limp and noodle-y after sitting down for so long, or maybe from sitting next to Multimouse for so long – he replies: “Yeah, well, it's important and – and I have the time to do it, you know?”

“Like you give Ladybug time to plan things out by distracting Akuma,” she says, a wistful air to her voice as she takes him by the hand and guides him to the rooftop edge. Her palm is soft, fingers snug and gentle at once.

“I guess so.”

With that settled, the actual training session goes well, with a bundle of Dupain-Cheng pastries as a reward for a job well-done waiting for them. There's an exceedingly abnormal ambience of domesticity and normalcy to that: a rooftop picnic... meetup with... a very good friend who it's obvious now he's crushing on so very hard.

Liking Marinette was just so easy, such an eminently simple and vital aspect of every day as unspectacularly dazzling as waking up to the feeling on the sun, slipping through the cracks in your blinds to warm your cheeks and ease you into the day. A great atomic furnace gave life to the entire world, scalded your skin, left you pink and peeling if you exposed yourself for too long; only when you actually contemplated the seething nuclear fire that burned a hundred and fifty million kilometres away, warming you but still out of reach, did you realize how astounding it truly was.

It was just so natural that you didn't notice the miracle shining above your head every day.

Maintaining a low profile even with two rather garish super-heroic teens cavorting about is actually slightly easier than he'd anticipated. An economic downturn and the inquiries he had made into homelessness rates before signing off on those action figure contracts, permit him to identify a construction zone for low-cost subsidized housing that suits their purposes well enough.

He doesn't like how the place makes him feel – not that he's better than this dilapidated portion of Paris! Far from it!

But that his father probably thinks that they are.

And that he has so much, whines and complains and sulks over so little.

Their contributions were a drop in the bucket, a meaningless gesture like so many that Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir offer, that seem to define him, but every action has led him here, and he can't find it in himself to regret a single one.

Here: sparring with Multimouse through the skeleton of a new housing complex, correcting her shockingly well-developed stance and form with observations gleaned both from his self-defence classes and his own experience as the more direct melee combatant in his partnership with Ladybug, who preferred to hold back at mid-range to strategize or lance out with her yo-yo in lightning quick precision strikes rather than barging into battle like ... well, like a bit of a foolhardy dullard.

It's ... bizarre, unnatural, to teach someone else, especially when it feels like he should be learning – is always learning something new and vital at this very moment. Even as he slides up behind her, hand to her hip to nudge her legs slightly further apart, radiating cheeks amplified by the glowing flush that's mirrored on her face as she glances over her shoulder at him with a stuttery smile, he knows he's being taught something too, though for the life of him determining its nature, let alone its implications and application, is impossible.

He retreats into simple, direct commands and detached observations, hard though it may be, because this is just too important for him to play. Marinette's safety – her life, he realizes and feels like he's just bathed himself in reeking, molten Camembert – could depend on her being well prepared for battle. Responsibility to Paris dictated that he could only ever die for Ladybug.

And that's the feeling.

Responsibility.

On parting from her with a ... date set for them to organize another training session after he gathers up his precious cargo from her balcony, he sees the lighting in a sea of blue, placid and churning with luxurious heated currents.

He knows what it is, now.

That lightning in her eyes.

It's the fear of loss in the thunder and the storm.

And it's good to feel afraid to lose something – to be able to feel that.

Chat Noir returns to Adrien's prison.

He thinks that there's nothing there for him. That it's empty.

He carries warmth home with him.

And finds it waiting for him.

His painting supplies are stacked on his desk, everything in order, right in its proper place not as determined by the cleaning staff, but just as he'd left them, save for the box of flesh-toned paints that his bodyguard had bought him.

Tucked under that gift is a note.

Check the trunk tomorrow.

After the students are released for the day, with Lila conveniently distracted on the other side of the school by a dispute with Chloe that Marinette, as everyone's “good friend,” is trying to defuse, he hands off a bag to Nino.

Doffing his cap to the Gorilla, addressing him as sir instead of dude, Nino promises that there's more than enough space in his room for three little Chat Noirs, and both an open and mint-in-sealed case collection of the first wave of Miraculous figures.

Chapter Text

Sentiment and sensation have returned in a tidal wave that wipes clean the Earth, and if Marinette's the sun, and Ladybug the stars in the sky, then Multimouse is a rainbow after the deluge: a covenant that binds up the entire world and tells him that the nightmare will never come again.

Every time he picks her up for a training session, clambering down from the adjoining building as a liquid shadow that she can point out so easily, as if she instinctively senses his presence, the yearning that he projects towards her and her home and her scent and every single thing about her, he's blinded by the explosion of colours. There are too many hues for him to count, no way to separate them as they transition so smoothly, one to the next so that they're distinct yet one and the same.

Hot reds stab and boil his blood and leave him cooking from the inside out.

Hearty oranges are the flames of a campfire, setting his nose twitching with the curling smoke as he sits alongside a collection of friends in the wilderness, out on a safe adventure.

Warm yellows hold within them the sun, surrounded by every other feeling, made alive and highlighted.

Sickly greens are the tainted shade of every riotous thought that can't coalesce, the coloured filter to all those moments when she has to pluck out her fidget spinner to calm herself, or bite her tongue when Lila or Chloe speak, and suddenly it's alright because even something beautiful can have ugliness in it, and that's okay.

It really matters that it's okay.

The cool blues of a clear, crisp sky in mid-day and the sun soaks into his unmasked face.

Chilly violets, lulling him to sleep in the midst of a night where there are no terrors.

Patrols are doubled in frequency, with Carapace and Rena Rouge taking on the rare nights.

Multimouse is a regular fixture in training sessions that aren't actually designed to do anything more than instruct her on the basics of combat. As he should have expected after seeing her on the Piste – really seeing her the same day the he did Kagami, when she screamed to every student with her nimble footwork and keen eye for exploiting weaknesses, picking out the loose threads in Adrien's defences – she has "the basics" down in only a few weeks.

Legs part at the right angle; she knows to keep her eyes focused, avoid the appeal of distractions without sacrificing her peripheral vision to scan for possible amok or brainwashed civilians. With Marinette in a skin-tight costume as they spar, he realizes that he has the far more difficult task in that regard ...

Just because he's studying her callipygian figure in anticipation of one day crafting a Multimouse custom toy.

That's all!

Yep.

He teaches her how to beat him.

That's the most important thing, right up there with making sure that she can secure her own safety when the time comes, when things are at their most desperate.

Too many akumas have been able to brainwash him, twist up his will. It was always okay, always safe to let go and become nothing – just drift in that insensate oblivion after he leapt into the path of a gout of flame that seared away pain in an instant, a ray of ambiguous capabilities that could turn him into a hunk of cheese, or a pigeon, or a painting, or any number of inanimate objects.

Ladybug always redeemed his mistakes and then cradled his head in her arms, or pressed a glove, cool and smooth, to his cheek and his world was her eyes, pained and yearning, as she told him that she was so scared for him. That she needed him. That he wasn't allowed to get hurt anymore.

He understands the junkies whom he sees in the underground tunnels that he and Ladybug have traversed in some of their subterranean battles.

It's a hit.

He takes them.

But Marinette's not allowed to get hurt.

So, she has to be able to beat him, if he fails, and he can't fail anyways.

It's not all serious, though, when they're wrapped up together, her jump-rope coiled around his forearm as he shifts his weight forward in a stutter-step concealed by the dark haze of shadows in the construction zone.

The line goes slack and momentum propels him forward, but in that crucial moment as her eyes widen not with fear because she doesn't feel that with him and he doesn't know what he'd do – if he could take the hit – if she did, his arcing baton swipe sends him tumbling like the black and green fidget spinner that he's seen on Marinette's desk at school. Bones singing with strain and muscles firing randomly like they're trying to peel out from under his skin, flee from the collision that's coming, cat and mouse collide.

No.

It's not all serious.

Her breath is warm and moist against his chin and cheeks, goose-flesh breaking out across every inch that she's touching, and every inch that she's not, just for different reasons. Laying there in the wiry snarl of her jump-rope that's somehow become wrapped within his belt tail, itself looped around her waist, he's gazing down at the creamy peach flush of her cheeks, thinking about paint combinations because he has to think about something or he won't think at all and that's just too dangerous. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, there is no palette or airbrush or canvas that could do justice to that moment – the vision of her smile and the emblazoned blooming roses on her cheeks accompanied and complimented by butter-cream and mint breath that floods his nostrils, the two of them are so close, tempting and refreshing in turns.

Shakespeare got it wrong.

Women can totally have roses in their cheeks, and there isn't a perfume in the world that even Chloe could afford that compares to this.

The moment breaks, and he starts giggling like a schoolgirl, not that he's ever seen or heard that in real life, but he assumes that it's true, while tugging at his unruly tail that seems so stubbornly stuck on Multimouse that he starts apologizing even as Marinette babbles and bucks, tearing threads from the spiraling cord of her jump-rope.

It's not all serious by a long-shot.

But it is.

She's better that he thought she'd be, and that was already amazing. There is a heady novelty to their masked interactions. From their banter, it's like Chat Noir and Ladybug; from her uncertain stutter-steps, it's Adrien and Marinette; from his instruction and her submission to his tutelage, it's ...

It's like nothing that Adrien or Chat have ever enjoyed and there are no parallel experiences on which to draw, no comparisons or guidelines, so he has to invent the rules himself with Marinette as his ... partner.

Junior partner.

The taste of it is so sweet and sour in turns that it thrills.

Patrols with Ladybug, having been cut down to half their previous number, are a delightfully old and comfortable flavor, savoured because of its rarity, but training Marinette takes the place of the sessions they decided to forgo.

She's attentive. Learns well. Is always eager to listen, and not just to his stupid instructions amalgamated and plastered over with generic language so that she can't put any of the pieces together, well aware of Adrien's extracurricular sports, hobbies, and self-defense training.

No.

She listens to him, no matter what he's talking about, whether it's his day in general terms, complaints about his boss and the overburdened schedules or a girl who's really interested in him and makes him feel filthy, like he is filth, when she touches him. That could come across as bragging, or false modesty – a boy being pursued – but he's been watching Marinette closely enough, long enough, to recognize disgust and moral indignation of the sort that set her jaw and launched her off on the warpath against Mayor Bourgeois' air pollution initiative and impractical space refuse plan, or even Adrien Agreste when he'd run afoul of her.

Those expressions and just the fact that she listens hurt so good, leave him so breathless as his cheeks ache with grins and laughter, that he can't even cry when he tucks himself into bed after a training session and falls asleep staring at the Lucky Charm bracelet that may be more magical than anything that Ladybug has ever conjured.

Probably due to the fact that it can be magic without a miraculous. Be miraculous without having been imbued with magic.

Funny that.

Then, one Monday morning, just when things appear to have settled at school, Lila having retreated and Marinette eating lunch with him, Nino, and Alya again because his weeks of punishment are over, Nathalie informs him that he is to have dinner with his father that evening. 

Adrien can only wait and wonder through the rest of the day. 

Fortunately, good friends and someone so much more than that now, Marinette and Nino and even Alya, all see it in his faint twitches and uncertain glances, leading Alya to ask to swap seats with him so that she can flirt with her boyfriend, much to the chagrin of their teacher. 

Under the desk, her palm sweaty but her eyes sure and certain in a dare and an invitation that he sees each training night with Multimouse, Marinette offers her hand. With trepidation, his mouth dry, he takes it, and every muscle in his body tenses up, then releases luxuriously, as if he's been soaking in a warm bath for an hour, surrounded by soft white noise and jasmine bath oil, when she squeezes his hand. 

Maybe that's not fair because of how she feels about Adrien, but he can't help it.

He holds on throughout class.

All he can do is hold on and wait. 

Chapter Text

Now that feelings have returned, the anger can rise, flashing out in one chill instant.

In a rare show of largess that's become even more uncommon in recent days, his father deigns to have dinner with him.

The good China and appropriate silverware are brought out by a few members of the waiting staff and the table is arrayed with finery that Adrien hasn't seen since his mother used to host dinner parties on those rare occasions that his father permitted it. There's a gesture towards her memory, towards a childhood spent playing hide-and-seek with his doting parent and adventures imagined and real because those weren't always different things.

This particular blend of carrot soup has just the right hint of apple and ginger to offset heavy notes of iron, and comes out steaming, the fragrance wafting up into Adrien's nose when it's deposited before him.

His father sits at the far end of the table with his tablet. Careful flicks of his fingers scroll past design notes and emails from financial advisers, marketing firm executives, and the staff at Gabriel itself. Those are the images that Adrien projects onto the distant, invisible screen as he watches his father's eyes trailing back and forth while the gaunt giant ladles soup into his pursed lips absently.

For the next ten minutes, he stares at his warped reflection in the gleaming bowl of his spoon and twists the utensil in his hands. Can someone be hungry and full, unsatisfied and satisfied, at the same time? Have a meal in front of them that they love, yearn for it, mouth watering at the scent that fills up his lungs, and still not want to eat it?

Apparently so.

Now slightly congealed, the soup leaves cold, long after Gabriel is finished. Adrien had taken only a single spoonful and found it had been made just as he adored. With care and attention and the correct balance of spices so that it was vibrant and clean, one of his favourites.

When the main course is brought out, Adrien is genuinely shocked that Gabriel rises up from his seat and takes in hand a small box proffered to him by one of the three waiters who enter the room.

The distance between them closes and for some reason Adrien can't stand it. He's sick to his stomach, something clenching up deep, deep inside of him and that ailment must be why he can't eat. '

“Adrien,” his father begins, stopping at his side as he holds the box stiffly. The absurdity of his father's height becomes so clear, and it's all that Adrien can do not to laugh. From this angle, he can see his father's nose-hairs, little prickles of black that Adrien thinks must be trimmed and plucked.

“Yes, father,” he says instead of chortling, and for once it's good. Good not to laugh. Good to control the feeling. “Is everything alright?”

Like Mylene about to deliver an oral presentation, all soft-spoken nerves, his father shifts from foot to foot. “Yes. On the advice of Nathalie, I wished to speak with you regarding your hobby.”

Even the lingering urge to laugh dies, and something else does too. He feels it withering up.

“Of course, father.” Adrien smiles, just like he always does. It's easy to smile these days, even the ones that only make his heart hurt and not his cheeks. “I've learnt my lesson about being selfish, though. It was very generous of you to return my other figures and painting supplies.”

There's a moment of hesitation, Gabriel's fingers strumming the edge of the box in his hands. It's roughly the size of a shoebox, wrapped up in meticulous silver paper. “Yes. About that. This item is for you.”

Something stabs into his heart, like Hawkmoth's sword cane, aimed for his Lady and landing in him. A blow that he's stepped into willingly, and the lingering bloodless numbness that spreads out from the wound reminds him of Nathalie's face as she crushed down on everything in her strength and her weakness, refusing to budge and disrupt his father while holding his tablet in those increasingly frail hands.

The package is in his hands, and he can't even remember taking hold of it as his father strolls back to the other side of the table to resume his meal, tucking into his own risotto as Adrien can only stare. Smooth, high-quality silver wrapping paper crinkles under his fingertips.

“You are permitted to open it,” his father instructs, taking a sip from his wine.

He does, tentative fingers to the edge of one thin strip of clear tape that holds in place a pleated fold of spotless wrapping paper, and eases the present open, so very gentle, so very careful not to tear the paper that seems as precious as real sliver. Through the din of his own heartbeat, throbbing in his throat, he hears himself say thank you.

Unwrapped and sitting in his lap, the back of the box displays an assortment of miniature statuettes and busts, all of which depict classical works of art ranging from The Mona Lisa to Michelangelo's David, idealizations of feminine and masculine beauty that surely resonate with his father. Immaculate musculature and that faint, seductively ambiguous smile that has enthralled millions stare back at him while he runs his hand over the cool plastic wrap that seals the box.

“I have also arranged lessons with an art instructor.”

Adrien looks up from the images; they chase him away so that he's gazing at his father. A pitcher of water, the half-empty bottle of wine, and an ornate centrepiece in the form of some kind of fowl that he remembers vaguely from his childhood and is ugly in its beauty, though he can't understand why, half conceal the distant Gabriel Agreste, mopping his upper lip with a cloth napkin.

“What?”

A flicker of consternation draws in Gabriel's eyebrows. “Nathalie suggested that new interests and hobbies are natural for you at this age, and that it would be ... counterproductive to stifle them entirely. Instead, we will ensure that the skills that you develop are well-directed. Your paints and supplies should be in order, and if you wish to procure another suitable item once you have finished with this one, you may speak with Nathalie to arrange its purchase.”

“I... an art teacher?” A teacher. He always wanted a mentor, so why does that burn like he's drinking rubbing alcohol?

“Speak in full sentences, Adrien.”

Of course. Complete the thought, especially the ones that aren't his.

“An art teacher would be welcome, father.” He looks down at the package in his hands, shifting it over to examine the front, which displays a white plaster cast of the Girl with a Pearl Earring next to a representative sample of a painted version. Painted by professionals. Displayed for sale to entice prospective buyers. “I'm sure that he or she will help me in developing my approach.”

“I expect that you will be honest with me regarding your hobby from this point forward. Do not take this kindness as an indication of permissiveness.”

“I won't, father.” He places the package on the table, next to his glass of water, folding the pock-marked silver paper, marred with small tears from the tape, and setting it atop the package. Neat and clean.

He feels like he should be grateful.

He should.

And a sense of relief should flood his entire body because his father has apologized. Hasn't he? That was what was between the lines, in all the words that his father couldn't say.

The very thought leaves him sick as he pushes mushroom risotto around his plate, thanking his father once again for the kind gift while he simmers in a cool dry ice rage.

Both his parent and his guardian support his painting hobby. He's even getting lessons.

“How will the lessons be integrated into my schedule?” he asks, staring at the cool sludge in his bowl.

His father doesn't miss a beat. “As you already devoted your free time to it, Nathalie will find some way to arrange lessons during that time. In that way, your other extracurricular activities will not be disrupted.”

“I see.” Does he? “Thank you, father.”

A ghost of a smile passes over Gabriel's face, and Adrien remembers Marinette and Marie when he gave them his gifts, even though he doesn't know why. “You're welcome, Adrien. Be certain that your performance in your Mandarin lessons and fencing does not slip.”

He nods, and knows he should be grateful.

So why does that thought only make him feel sick as he glances down at the classical bust and all he can see is Marinette and Ladybug in the Girl with a Pearl Earring?

After retiring to his room and feeding Plagg, he lays himself out on top of his sheets, too hot inside and out to snuggle under the covers. His jeans are stiff and scratchy against his thighs, and socks weird and icky, constraining his toes that wiggle, feet just off the edge of the bed though he could scoot upwards.

Plagg has his cheese, but he's not eating. Not yet. Just watching. Slitted green eyes leak toxic ichors in the dark.

Why, Adrien asks himself, isn't he happy? His father approves of his hobby, and even gave him a gift and promises lessons.

He wants someone to make sense of this, to observe the knotty tangle of his own brain and heart and knit them up into something beautiful. A brilliant robe inlaid with scarlet and lustrous blacks and greens that somehow all mesh together into a wonder that's as radiant and complex as it is so soft against his scaled skin that it barely seems to be there, its weight and threads fusing into him. Something that he can show off to the world. Something that's his and theirs because he chooses to share it as it was shared with him. Freely.

Marinette would be able to help, of course. Maybe she's the designer that his father used to be, reflecting the person that the memory of his mother could love and still be everything that he recalls. He'd like to think that Emilie Agreste would be as taken with Marinette as... as he is.

But that intimacy is dangerous, a calamity waiting to unfold just as it did with Kagami, especially when he knows her feelings for him and for his alter-ego and his mask that he may be willing to take off, even if there's no way to tell whether Adrien or Chat or someone else would be peeling away the stage masks – comedy and tragedy in turns, layer after layer.

He can't permit her to see him and become intimate.

For all the reasons that he betrayed and failed Kagami, the tangle of lies and a divided heart in more than just his love for Ladybug, he can't open up. The weight of secret identities and the responsibility of being Chat and ensuring Marinette's safety weigh him down more heavily than ever before.

Yet it's impossible for him to continue on like this, just tamping down on this new frothing and directionless rage that tastes just like pablum. The flavor is reminiscent of a juvenile age, experiences long forgotten, something mealy and saccharine and nostalgic, though he'd forgotten its taste and consistency until this very moment.

There's only one person who understands. Nino tries, of course, but he's so caught up in Alya and his own familial challenges that placing the additional burden of care on him is simply inconceivable, and Adrien does know what that word means.

It means that he can't let himself conceive of it; merely permit that half-formed concept to flit in and out of his brain, refusing to grasp hold of it as it passes.

Only one person can help him untangle the threads and try to spool them up again.

Waiting for him to begin with his elbow propped up against the armrest of the driver's side seat in their luxury Tsurugi-brand automobile, his bodyguard takes a shockingly adorable dainty bite from the Dupain-Cheng cream puff that's dwarfed by his chunky-stubby fingers.

It's still a treat to be able to rest in the front seat, right next to him, and take in all those subtle shifts of his eyes as they transition lanes, commit to memory the gentle and sure motions of his hands, held at ten and two on the wheel, when he parallel-parks their silver car. Each one is like a safe secret that they share

Still bound up in its plastic wrap, unmarred and pristine, the package containing the Girl with a Pearl Earring miniature bust lies alongside one representative bottle of “Medium Flesh Tone” paint on his lap. His seat-belt has been unbuckled, too stiflingly safe for him to keep it on for a single moment now that they're parked in front of his school.

“So, I just don't get it. When you... your gift really meant a lot.” Adrien's finger stroke over a small smear of dried paint on the bottle as he believes he sees the Gorilla smile, but knows that he isn't; he never does. “It really seemed like – like you were paying attention to me and cared.”

The Gorilla nods once, finishing the cream puff and putting his hands back to the wheel.

“Why doesn't this make me happy? My father's actually interested in my hobbies. He gave me a gft that matters – that... the first one since my scarf, you know?” It's like he's begging his friend to say yes. Yes, he knows the gift, hand-sewed and so considerate. Precious. It was real, even outside of his head, and no one can take that away from him because he didn't just imagine it.

Slowly, the Gorilla turns towards the school and stares at it for a long while, line of sight leading just past Adrien's face as he squirms. It's unclear what the Gorilla is actually looking at, what he's trying to find, and all that Adrien knows is that he doesn't like the expression on his stony features. The Gorilla, his first ... real friend even if had been too young and naive to realize it, seemed incapable of emoting, but if you paid enough attention, you could see beyond that placid facade.

Maybe nobody paid enough attention to the Gorilla to really see. Not Nathalie. Not his father.

An emotion that even Adrien can't understand because it may not be a single one breaks on his friend's face as he turns back, and smiles, just in his own way.

It's a sad way.

His hand is warm against Adrien's shoulder, and he has to swallow down the sensation that such a simple gesture provokes, waiting for a revelation that feels as weighty as – as him telling Marinette his identity.

The Gorilla points to the bottle of flesh-tone paint, and then moves to tap the same finger against Adrien's chest, soft enough for him to nearly cry. Sludgy saliva chokes him.

Then, dragging his hand away, eyes flinching closed, his driver points to the little miniature bust, pristine and perfect in its wrapped box. Adrien's locked in place by the man's eyes when they open again, now steady and firm. There is no demand in them, but a question to which the Gorilla already has an answer.

He points to the distance.

Towards the mansion.

The Gorilla doesn't say it, can't say it.

And the Adrien of two years ago wouldn't have heard him if Gorizilla had climbed the Eiffel tower, beat his chest, and hollered it out to the world in an echoing scream that resounded through empty streets.

Again, a finger towards the flesh-tone paint and then his chest.

For you.

As the hulking man shakes his head, a glare back towards the refined bust and slip of paper with notes on the lessons orchestrated by Adrien's father, and then the distant mansion.

For him.

The Adrien of today, this day, hears his bodyguard's wordless plea.

He squeezes the bottle, holding it to his chest, and doesn't breathe, the Gorilla's hand safely to his shoulder, unseen through tinted windows.

For the rest of the day, Plagg sleeps next to a little bottle of paint in his pocket, while his father's gift to himself sits in the back seat.

Chapter Text

Ladybug's costume doesn't have any zippers.

It's only now, for the first time even though he'd customized her action figure, attending to the tiny details of her construction and passing off little idiosyncrasies in her depiction and impractical clothing as allowances made for the medium, that he realizes it.

No stitch-work, either.

Superhero attire sported by Ladybug and Marinette consists more of a body-stocking, skin-tight and absent any seams or creases or stitching lines at their joints. Why does he have a bell and zipper, a costume that can be peeled off?

It's odd the things that you think about when you have the time.

Patrol was thoroughly uneventful, though they did swoop down on a swaggering teen who was catcalling a passing pedestrian and generally making Chat Noir ashamed of his gender for its boorishness and lack of consideration. The young gentleman – and Chat used the term loosely – had not responded well to his chastisements and a thorough lecture on conduct befitting the presence of a lady, but at least he knocked off his harassment in favor of demeaning Chat Noir's own fashion choices, giving the grateful young woman time to power-walk away.

So many people in the world; so many less privileged and beset by trials that he'd never even think to imagine, let alone understand how to endure.

Now, he and his Lady are seated just off-center of the city that, on good nights, is their playground. Across a stretch of water, great tiers of scaffolding loom large, glistening dark in the Parisian lights that flood even this sacred ground, above flying buttresses and the great gaping chasm in the building's heart, crisscrossed by the exposed skeleton of wooden framework.

That's the strange thing about Notre Dame de Pari s in the reconstruction efforts – a commingling of ancient and modern built atop it, trying to shore up something whose purpose had, in many ways, been forgotten. Architectural monument, a tribute to history, an attraction for tourists to fawn over while they bought kitschy overpriced postcards and miniature models to collect dust on their shelves.

But even burnt out, half its heart carved out and maybe the rest dying, it's being rebuilt and it's still beautiful enough to leave Chat sniffling back tears as Ladybug hands him some pain au chocolate that he receives with grace and gratitude. Butter and only that, pure and fresh, fills his nose as he breathes, and then the crust flakes and tears under his fangs, fine dark chocolate an earthy counterpoint that cuts the richness.

This place is made holy by the little ceremony that he and his Lady are enjoying: breaking bread together, communing. There's something even more radiant about her in this light.

The time they've spent apart only makes his heart ache, and the love, love, love flood right back in, so that he understands how his father felt that day when he'd suggested that it was okay to give up on a memory and a dream of the woman that you adored, but couldn't love you back.

It's like he's seeing Ladybug for the first time, just because a few days between patrols make everything new again, like the parting of rain clouds after a storm that's left the world pressure-washed and glistening clean or the sun dropping below the horizon so that he can watch the stars emerge in all the constellations of Ladybug's freckles, all the twisting myths and mysteries that tantalize beneath her mask.

“You know,” he mouths around the chocolate and flaky pastry on his tongue, giving his Ladybug heart eyes as he leans back on the roof. “Multimouse is really doing amazing.”

That wasn't what he'd wanted to say, and it baffles him why he sounds like he's boasting.

“Oh, yeah?” Ladybug flops down next to him, settling her arm behind her head and then turning ever-so-slightly so that, when she breathes, he can feel in on his cheeks that are reddening just... just like hers for some reason. “I guess that you were right to suggest that we bring her out for training, Sensei.”

She believed in him, trusted him, and he can't prove unworthy of that. Not when she's on the line.

“While she's blossomed under my keen tutelage, maestro of martial arts that I am-”

Ladybug rolls her eyes heavenward, which is where, as he'd already established, they belonged, right alongside all the starry host. Her scoffs is a guttural and honest sound that has his toes curling inside his boots.

“- Only a poor teacher fails to acknowledge the contributions and talents of his pupil,” he finishes while brandishing his baton like he's conducting traffic or delivering a lecture, pointing out diagrams and schematics of martial arts manoeuvres on a blackboard with a dozen miniature multi-Marinettes running through kata.

Actually, that's a great idea now that he thinks about it. Ten times the sparring experience for each of her miniature forms, and practice with her power to boot; that's a logical point of progress for her exercises now that all the fundamentals are so securely in place that she can probably (face)-plant him firmly in his without breaking a sweat.

While he mulls, Ladybug rolls onto her back and plucks her yo-yo from her hip, magical magnetic clasp giving way at the slight tug. A coiling web of thread and glistening line forms between her fingers as she plays. Cat's Cradle, weaved by her dainty red- gauntleted hands, and for some reason as he watches her brow pinch inward with concentration, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth as the skein grows more complex, he thinks of Marie and the knots of his brain and his father's pain that can never be unwound because he's too caught up in and within himself.

More than anything, though, he thinks of puppet strings, a marionette with his legs and arms wrapped up inside his own cords because he'd been tossed into a toybox haphazardly, and he hates himself for ruining something this beautiful.

“You're really taken with her, aren't you?” Ladybug's voice sounds like it's coming from far away, echoing down a tunnel that's being sealed up by a great stone.

He gives his head a shake, scooting closer to her so that he can watch the tangle of string flick from rectangle within a rectangle to a cross, and back again, a mess taking shape, and then a new one, and then being deformed once again.

But she asked about Marinette. Why, when he should talk about Ladybug, does he turn to that precious and generous girl from school who offered him forgiveness and a hug and a choice that neither Chat nor Adrien had done enough to earn? Why, when Ladybug asks about Marinette, does he flee back to his Lady love, his first love, bold and pure and inspiring?

“I don't know why you'd say that.”

Her tongue sweeps over her lips, leaves them glistening in the lights from the city, from Notre Dame. “Just that you talk about her a lot.”

There's something hypnotic about watching Ladybug, the way her hands move, the connections she has and that she forms.

“She deserves to be talked about,” he says. “By everyone. She's brilliant like you wouldn't believe, and one day, everyone's going to know it. If you and she ever teamed up as civilians, you'd probably end up as president and vice president of France before you were done.”

Much to his disappointment, though he doesn't know why when it's just a game, she lets the yo-yo sting collapse after pulling it taut with a twang that echoes across the rooftops like piano wire being plucked, and then looks up at him.

Her eyes wide and smile flowing like molten metal, languid and scalding but only in the best of ways, she says, “She'd be really happy to hear you say that, Kitty.”

“Oh?”

She nods, and sucks in a quick breath that from anyone else, might seem a little worried. “Yeah. She wouldn't be a hero if not for you.”

That much is obvious, considering the lobbying campaign that he'd orchestrated on her behalf to overcome Ladybug's reticence regarding a sequel to Multimouse. Multimouse II: Myriad Mischiefs.

“You'd have picked her out for another miraculous eventually, Milady,” he assures, turning to pick out another croissant from the collection that she'd brought to share. Between Marinette and Ladybug, he's one seriously well-fed cat. Buttery pastry fills his mouth, but something itches inside of his throat, lodging there even as he swallows down that sweet and marvelously textured baked good.

“I don't think that I would have seen her potential, Chat.” Inching towards the side of the roof, she rises to a seated position and twirls her yo-yo like she's knitting something in the air with her hands, and suddenly, she's walking the dog.

“But you've got such an eye for talent.” The very thought that Ladybug could be blind to, rather than blinded by, Marinette's brilliance! The notion that the precious and courageous girl might not have been given this kind of opportunity because someone – anyone let alone a woman whom he trusted with... everything that he was: life, and heart, and soul – didn't believe in her is...

“And Marinette only accepted her miraculous when she heard that you believed in her, Chat,” Ladybug explains. Her eyes are focused on the gentle sway of her yo-yo, studiously fixated, and for that he's glad. He doesn't think that he could stand it if she looked at him now as he bites down on the inside of his cheek and claws prick at the palms of his gloves.

“I, uh-” he clears his throat, but it doesn't help. Maybe that's beyond his power to dislodge the ache. Maybe some things need help. Partners. A team. He's a mess. “I didn't realize that she thought so much of me.”

Ladybug's yo-yo falls into a tangle, catching around her fingers, but she doesn't even bother trying to tug them loose as her weapon betrays her. Leaving her dexterous fingers bound up, she turns her face towards him, without even a hint of aggravation visible across her creamy, just-slightly-olive skin. No frustration at the mess of wire and twine that's his fault for disrupting her concentration.

“Chat.” With the wire dwarfed only by the even worse snarl around his heart, she cups his thigh with both her hands, a gentle stroke leaving every muscle in his body tense and relaxed at once as he melts and soars with her gaze, heart kicking into overdrive at the unbridled softness of her expression and her voice. “We think the world of you. I've told you before that there is no Ladybug without Chat Noir, and I meant it. You made me who I am, and there's nothing that I could ever do to repay you for that, Minou.”

He blinks back tears that leap out to threaten him without any warning. She can't say things like that. Can't believe things like that. She can't, and neither can Marinette. It's just not fair to him.

Practice and propriety and the need not to worry Ladybug far exceeding his yearning to avoid embarrassing himself and the fear that clenches so far down in his guts, he thinks for a moment that he's going to vomit.

Those are the only things that keep him from really crying.

Instead, he places his hands over Ladybug's knuckles and spends the next few minutes plucking away at the yo-yo line that's coiled around her fingers. It's painstaking and meticulous work, gentle brushes sending sequels of mystical-latex and leather echoing into the darkness before the Cathedral.

He hates the tremor in his voice. His father would hate it. “You don't know how much that means to me.”

“Maybe.” She smiles, and her hands are free, one of them cool against his flushed cheek as she speaks. “But I do know how much it means to me.”

As is so often the case now, that night, he lays awake in bed, just thinking, the soft silken sheets pushed down to his navel so that his bare chest is slightly chilled while his lower body basks in the comfortable, toasty warmth. It makes for an interesting disparity that he finds soothing for reasons that he can't understand.

It's getting easier to think, now, the more that he does it. Everything gets easier with practice, and practice, in turn, comes easily when you're striving to hone a vital new skill. When you yearn to be able to play the piano so that you can reproduce all the resplendent melodies of others' songs that have touched you and transformed you, and find some way to amalgamate their influences into a new piece, just for yourself. Adrien had wanted to play the piano, just like his mother and father, when he was a boy.

Plagg is snoozing on his second pillow, the slow rise and fall of his chest punctuated by the nasally whistle of his snores, and that little white noise, the comfort of even the tiniest of bodies right there next to him, lets Adrien sink down into his thoughts without becoming mired. Once, he delighted in distractions when in bed, indulging until he was so exhausted that his eyes ached: thumbing through the Ladyblog to review articles and scrolling their twitter feed rife with speculations and fantasies so much like his own that it made him feel like he wasn't alone; checking for sales on hobby sites for new anime merch, even though he had the money to pay full price, questing after prospective future purchases; or just staring at that blank-white ceiling in the distance, evacuating his mind and allowing snippets of songs and memories never-fully-coalesced to consume him.

Now he thinks.

It's not fun.

But it is good.

At the forefront of his mind, odd though it is to him after he'd just spent the evening with Ladybug, is Marinette. All of the time that he's spent with her has been revelatory, not just because she unveiled her feelings for Adrien Agreste, a match for those she apparently still harbours for Chat Noir, but also because he had been graced with the opportunity to know her, plucking out all those little details of her life and character and charm that he can never replicate with paint and plastic.

The way that she scrunched her nose when annoyed by his antics.

The way she twiddled of her fingers, pencil twirling to and fro between her index, middle, ring, and pinkie.

The way she dipped her French fries and then swirled the ketchup in the little paper cup before salting them. Salt over the ketchup; not on the fries before ketchup.

The way she loosed a sputtering snort alongside her laughs when she was embarrassed and it mattered because it was over him.

The way she wiggled her hips, folds rippling out across her tight pink jeans, when she was preparing for that trip to Andre's cart, or a ride on a Ferris wheel, or any of the other thousand things that delighted and excited and drew out all that brilliant joy.

The way that her upper teeth flashed into view as her dainty lips curled while handing over a pastry, just like his mother “trading” action figures with him on one of their playdates when he was almost too young for the memories to form, leaving her face a haze save for that indulgent smile.

The way she meeped and jammed a fingertip into her mouth after pricking herself with a needle, slicking a droplet of blood over the smooth flesh of her pink and pouting lips.

The way Marinette could die.

Oh, God – he kicks off his comforter and clasps his chin and cheeks with bruising fingers - he doesn't want her to die.

He doesn't want her to leave him.

He's crying again, and there's no one there to tell Adrien Agreste that it's alright, so he tells himself and even though he doesn't mean it, that makes him feel better.

People die. They leave him.

He tried with his father - tries so hard, and he kept leaving.

That's why he won't let it happen to Ladybug; he can't lose other people, and it's different for Adrien. There's only one mask to hide behind.

If she's hurt, or dies, it's his fault.

If he tries, and hurts her, and Marinette leaves him, it's his fault.

But she said that it wasn't.

That hadn't been the subject on their minds. It was Ladybug and Marie and the fear that his over-investment in that precious little girl's life and trauma and a scalper's cruel exploitation, trying to abscond with one more of the figures that he had commissioned, had enraged his partner.

That was it.

Wasn't that it?

Just that.

Not everything is his fault, she'd said.

Does he make it that way?

Day after day; month after month; and, now, year after year, he's tried to tease out the specific combinations of behaviours that are necessary to unlock his father's attentions, break down the dividing wall to his office so that the mansion can be flooded with his presence in Adrien's life again.

Maybe the fact that he's a failure isn't his fault. Not entirely.

In a cacophonous blend of different colours, Marinette and Nino and the Gorilla and Plagg, and even Nathalie in her own way as she hacked and wiped blood from her lips while trying to hide it behind her forearm after the tablet fell from her hands, are all blurring together, their words a discordant chorus.

He doesn't want to think that the things that his father does are for himself, rather than Adrien: the gifts, the extracurricular activities, the painting lessons, the fencing, the modelling. He wants to believe that they're all there to make him better, to make him stronger, refining him into a keen-minded man of culture like Gabriel Agreste himself.

Giving up on trying was one thing.

Giving up on all of that - all those years – is another thing entirely.

And, like that, Marinette's voice cuts through the maelstrom.

He'd still be him and that's why I'd still care.

Though he'd deny it if ever asked, and it's really weird and awkward, he rolls to his side, careful not to disturb the little feline beside his head, and feathers a kiss to the top of Plagg's head before turning over, shifting his pillow into his arms and holding it like it's another person. With his head flat to his mattress, he'll wake with a crick in his neck.

He'd said it himself. It wasn't a question of emotional attachment or reciprocation, and it still isn't.

It's a choice.

You deserve to be loved, Adrien.

But to be loved in all the ways that actually make it vital and meaningful, no longer simply a passive experience of distant adoration forever unreciprocated, he actually has to take a risk.

Multimouse on rooftops and friendship and fear simply aren't enough anymore.

Maybe that's selfish and unhealthy and a rush and dangerous and possibly disastrous and painful, but as the thought flutters through his mind, ragged edges just slipping the clasp of his slippery mental fingers, he doesn't care.

Chapter Text

When there's nothing but a sheen of sweat shimmering and chill on his exposed cheeks and forehead and the swirling smog, stinging his nose, wafting up from the cars far beneath his feet, jaunts over the Parisian skyline are bliss.

In those moments, trailing behind Ladybug or leading Multimouse, or cradling the weight of Marinette in his arms, her breath prickling the soft hairs on the back of his neck as she nuzzles into his throat, it's perfection because there is no more Adrien Agreste.

That's what Chat Noir is, really. An escape not from his father's mansion and his father's personality, but from himself, and still he tries to flee whenever he becomes entangled in the uncertain maelstrom of an akuma battle.

Most people have a survival instinct, something that spurs them forward through agonies un-dreamt by a sheltered and privileged infant like Adrien himself. From stories perused on the internet, seen in sources reputable and disreputable but he doesn't care, he's heard of mothers fighting off bears threatening their babies; fathers lifting a thousand pounds for one shining instant of need, just to rescue a trapped child.

Adrien has the opposite. He has an escape instinct as Chat Noir.

Get out of his room.

Get out of his skin.

Get out of his life.

All right into the path of a searing, prismatic death-beam because Ladybug makes it safe. In those moments, he knew with the faith of a zealot that she'll save him, and if she didn't, then there was only cool oblivion and, before that, the fading knowledge that he would never have to return to his room.

Where was the freedom of Chat Noir when you knew that at the end of your jaunt, your daily exercise in the yard, that you'd have to return to your cell?

Where was the freedom of oblivion when he knew she'd bring you back?

How much of Chat Noir is just that?

How much has he failed to see?

Just how much thinking does he have to do?

This time, at least, his expedition across Paris is motivated by the blaring klaxon of the akuma alert. Droves of police officers and paramedics and other civil servants fan out across the city and direct the populace into evacuation and shelter zones, cordon off streets to try to contain the akuma itself, however futile those efforts might be, and start arresting adrenaline junkies and overly-exuberant reporters or civilian bystanders hungry to sneak into position to capture a viral video clip.

The akuma is relatively docile, really, content to remain within the six-square block quarantine zone established by the police. The individual of indeterminate gender is a melange of different colours that would give The Bubbler conniptions over his colour-coordination. A puffy and theatrical suit, somewhat akin to the flowing and mismatched patchwork outfit of a clown billows around its body, provoking a frown. Abhorrent. Garish. Eye-bleeding.

Worse still are the civilians who have been affected, though.

A snarl works its way through his diagram and out of his clenched teeth as he kneels on a rooftop, one leg propped on on the rim, hands to his knee, squeezing out feeling.

Silence from absent pedestrians holed up in shops and other nearby buildings leaves only the distant wail of the police sirens.

The victims too slow to duck into cover dance as if on puppet strings, their voices raised in a cacophonous harmony that's a slurred amalgam of a dozen different songs all weaved together so that antiphonal notes form into something that twists up Chat's guts as he hunkers down on a rooftop to survey the situation in an effort to pick out patterns and weaknesses.

In frustration at the sick impotence, he smacks his baton against the rooftop, narrowly avoiding his own foot. Increasingly frantic, wavering jerks of the akuma's arms clearly correlate with the half-crushed-cockroach-skittering of the victims, like they've been sprayed with RAID and are in their death throes, their screaming song rising and flowing so painfully broken that Adrien's ears flatten and another hiss erupts through clenched teeth.

This akuma alert early in the day cut short his morning class and will probably make it impossible for him to approach Marinette, and after he spent all last night – he has the exhaustion-bruised eyes to prove it – struggling to piece together his Lego-brick thoughts into something resembling a coherent speech. Trying to think of the way that he should paint himself up. Trying to convince himself that he shouldn't and can't and doesn't need to.

He endeavours to focus on the akuma, on the victims, as they slow, their motions oscillating in frequency and energy. Through the shuffle-stop of a hundred feet, he hates himself because neither Adrien nor Chat has the vision to pick out the akumatized object.

This isn't his role, after all; he should probably just stay in his lane, but he needs this whole thing over yesterday.

Which means that he needs his partner.

Amid a cluster of cruisers, lights flaring but sirens now silent, and barricades, one relatively robust officer whose rank Chat can't discern is directing subordinates and coordinating with Ladybug who is standing at his side and reviewing deployment information on her yo-yo when Chat pole-vaults in for a landing without preamble or any of the cocky showmanship that had defined him in his early years.

He still enjoys the performativity, but today is not the day for an akuma battle.

“What have we got here, LB?” he asks, watching her stern features unfold, the tension in her shoulders give way as she turns to him.

“Seems like the akuma victim was one of the team working on the cartoon series that Hasbro was developing for our toy line.” A wince creases his face as she reads from her yo-yo screen, flipped open in her hands, her sapphire eyes trailing back and forth. Curiosity and shame commingle to send him peeking around her hand to review the information alongside her.

His throat is scratchy as a bevy of negotiations and legalese floods his mind. “I didn't even know that they were making a cartoon to promote us.”

“Hasbro has rights to market the figures however they please.” Flicking the yo-yo back to her hip, she smiles, and it's a brilliant, ethereal thing but this time it only makes him ache for Marinette and freedom from something that he cannot name. “That includes a cartoon show, I guess. Not really important now, Chaton.”

“Oh, I- I guess that I didn't read that fine print closely enough.” Gripping his baton tight, he shies away from her gaze while the police give them a wide berth, letting kids – and he is a kid – handle the planning and the cleanup and whatever else is racing through his empty head. There's an ache deep in his throat, visions of Nathalie and his mother in their sickbeds crawling through his brain like burrowing worms, like the smell of rancid pork, like bitter herbs, and the screaming song of all those puppets resounds in his ears. He feels like throwing up. 

And then, instantly, one hand is to his shoulder, the other to his chin as she tilts his head up to make certain that he's looking her in the eye. “This is not your fault, and we are going to fix it, okay, Chaton?”

Measureless gulfs of trust, crackling with a kind of empathetic energy, flow across her sainted features, and he feels it right into his heart and tear-sore throat.

He nods, gripping her wrist to let her know that he's okay and she can let go. He's not going to fall apart over something like this. “Right, LB. So, what was his job?”

She doesn't have to review the notes on her yo-yo again this time as she takes a step back, pulling away from him to rub at her wrist gently. Had he been holding on too tightly? Had he hurt her. Nearly-burst capillaries in her cheeks suggested aggravation rather than pain, so perhaps not.

“I'll fill you in on the way.” Jerking her thumb towards a rooftop from which they could again get a better view of the akuma and the cavalcade of dancers surrounding him, she directs him upwards and they begin moving together with staggering precision, yo-yo and forceful baton strokes carrying them to a new vantage point.

“He was a composer for the theme songs that they had written,” she hollers as they're in the air, neck and neck, nearly as if they're racing, and the distant song and whistle of wind, sharp and chilling against the exposed skin of his face, muffles her words. He always hears her, though; whatever she says; whatever she needs; with words or without.

Through the whistle of wind and song, he hollers, “I guess that his day hit a sour note.”

The smooth and slender gymnast's musculature of her shoulders rolls in enthralling waves with each spinning arc and barrel roll, and the sight of her in motion is simply too much for him. All he can do is follow along, his parabolic arcs through the air unguided and ugly physics rather than the fluid magic of her motions.

He can look, and feel, but the decision, the choice, has already been made.

“Apparently the company changed course for the series.” She touches down one half-second before him.

The akuma is still mired in its grotesque dance routine as they gaze down on the street, though several groups of revelers or dance troupes have broken into discordant masses, their movements like those of manikins brought to life as each collection intones a separate, alien song. Ladybug's grimace mirrors the ache in his heart. All those poor people didn't deserve this.

“They wanted it to be more kid-friendly,” she continues. “So they scrapped the theme music he and his team had been working on and ordered them to start from scratch.”

Rancid slime pours into his mouth, mind whirring with images and sensations, injudicious hands and disaffected eyes all over him and still it felt good just to have his neck wrenched backwards without warning, to have someone grab his tight collar to undo the first button, the backs of bony fingers bruising his throat. Skin on skin. Pain on pain. Photo shoots and wardrobe changes, a thousand different aesthetics plastered over his body like he was a ken doll that he couldn't even dress up himself, manufactured to be perfect and innocuous.

Neutered.

That was art. The industry.

“That's really terrible, forcing him to give up on his art, trying to control his music, just so they can make sure that the show is marketable to a target audience.” His baton taps against his palm. The akuma is largely ignoring them, caught up in its own world, reveling in forcing others to dance to its tune. It gives them time.

“That... that does sound pretty bad,” Ladybug admits. She seems distracted; is looking at him funny like she can peel back the layers of his costume and skin, ready to salt a wound. Is he just imagining that? “But still, it's a children's cartoon show theme song.”

He clears the gunky feeling from his throat and looses a cocksure grin, knowing that he's trying to hide. “Well, themes the breaks in the music world, but this tune is getting so old that I think it's starting to de-compose. So, My Lady, shall we conduct out business?”

A quick glance down at the assembled revelers seems to assure her that they're not going anywhere, and not in any danger of attacking. Transitions between the groups at irregular intervals that seem somehow familiar, itching in the back of his brain, have left them uneven.

“Are you sure that your head's in the game?” she asks with a note of concern and not an ounce of criticism.

It's not. He's seeing himself everywhere, in everything. Is it narcissism? That sounds like him. Maybe it's just because he's starting to see himself in himself for the first time.

Gleaming teeth still displayed, the smile on his face stutters downward into something that's not exactly a grimace, because nothing that she's said or he's experience warrants censure. Whatever her brilliant tactical ploys and innovations, oftentimes, Ladybug misses out on the little things, fixates too closely on problems to see the world around her. Marinette's good at checking her peripheries, learning to see things from side angles just like he taught her. Maybe his Lady can learn a thing or two from her.

Maybe he has to cut down the angles.

He nods his head, trying to clear it. “Yeah.”

Letting down Ladybug, and leaving the city and Marinette, The Gorilla, Nino, Alya, Chloe – all those people who matter – defenseless because he hasn't got his head screwed on right and tight is not an option. He has responsibilities – ones forced and ignored, now accepted.

On the rooftop's edge, surveying the crowds, they share a fist-bump that surprises him. Usually – always – that's the capstone of an akuma battle; not an affirmation beforehand.

Ladybug's yo-yo line zips across the street, tangling around some outcropping of masonry in the distance and snapping tight as she winks at him before diving in. An extension of his baton, butt cracking against the rutted, chipped brickwork beneath his feet, has him flying through the air behind her.

Hopefully, they can wrap this up in time for lunch.

He has another partner to see, after all.

Chapter Text

The hollers start the moment that they're beset by the crowd, Ladybug veritably having to scream orders, just to be heard over the chorus.

If that fist-bump was for luck, it turns out that they need it, the battle, once joined, rages through dozens of city blocks, overwhelming the flimsy barricades established by the police and roping in dozens of additional civilians that swell the akuma’s ranks of thralls.

Ladybug, perceptive as ever, locates the akumatized object easily enough: a sheet of music that's sticking out of the villain and victim’s breast pocket.

Getting a hold of it is another matter.

The collections of dancers converge into the equivalent of a human shield wall, rebuffing all attacks. Atonal intonations and the cacophonous background ululations of the akuma itself, baggy, multi-hued clothing billowing inwards and outwards like he's an accordion, buffet them about as much as the clawing hands of dozens, then hundreds of brainwashed civilians, all of whom grope and clutch for their Miraculous.

It's a slog. Frenetic notes pierce his ears, all four of them, and the sound echoes inside his skull, making it almost impossible to think. As the brains of their operation, Ladybug’s having a worse go of it. After an hour of pointless struggle, hit-and-fade assaults and lucky charms pulled out and lost, her brow pinching in concentration as she tries to put the pieces together while he holds back the swarm, they have to retreat and regroup.

Sheltered from sight, if not the banshee-wails of a thousand mouths and the clop of feet, regimented chaos, is provided by a nook between two abutted mansard style roofs. The sound starts dropping off as the collection of victims spreads out, returning to their dance, but with a general search outwards.

He and Ladybug have to close their eyes this time as they detransform so that Plagg and Tikki can feast, and her lithe body is pressed to his in a way that, under other circumstances, might have been rather pleasant. 

Now, there's the tang of sweat on his tongue, the feeling of it soaking through her tee-shirt, warm and cold, as they huddle close. She is so close, so hot, so human with all that exposed flesh, arms trembling with exhaustion as they hook around his waist, and they share an intimacy alien to anything that he could ever experience with anyone else.

Heroes on the brink of collapse, breathing each other's air, too weak to stand, but strong enough to hold each other up.

“It's going to be okay, Chat.” Her breath is against his throat, and he shivers despite the heat of her chest to his. Delicious prickles tiptoe over his whole body as he's suddenly so painfully aware of her, every sense flooded because he's blind. She sounds strong, voice sure as it was that day before the Eiffel tower when he fell in love, but he sees through that lie. Police sirens and the clap-hiss of tear-gas canisters in the distance, punctuated by an amplification of the akumatized horde's shrieking opus, isn't enough to blot her out. He's not the only one who lies to bolster others.

“I know it will, My Lady,” he assures, holding tight to the small of her back, her face to his chest but he still doesn't open his eyes. He bathes in that trust, the even rise and fall of her chest, the smell of her hair – strawberry shampoo and sweat from the battle that they'll have to rejoin. The song is still droning and screaming, louder alongside the police sirens, almost enough to wash out his voice as Plagg's loathsome slurps and slobbery gulps begin to slow. Almost time. “It's you and me against the world. It doesn't know what's coming for it.”

That declaration might have had more force if the wailing chorus wasn’t ramping up again, shifting into a new movement, as the distant chop of news helicopter blades draws... closer.

“I've got it!” Though his voice is still subdued, he almost blinks open his eyes before catching himself, the mere flutter in excitement exposing only the briefest shimmer of blank hair, pigtails in shadow under his chin.

“What?” Her hands clasp a little tighter to his waist.

“The song.” Memories and melodies crash through his mind. If only he can pull out the pattern. Look at the much, much larger picture. He was thinking too small. “It sounds like chaos, but it has movements. Large scale. Like – like an oratio.”

A tiny burst of air through her nose is somehow adorable, just the sound. “A what?”

“Like Handel's Messiah,” he explains as something brushes his shoulder. From the stench, Plagg, ready to go. “I mean, not technically an oratio, but, like, pieces conjoined. Different tones and sounds and themes, but all one piece, and then it starts over again, another performance, but jumbled up again.”

“Okay, that might be a little bit beyond me. I don’t know much about music. But you’re saying that there’s a pattern to it,” she breathes against him. Her breath smells like mint. Toothpaste. Still. After an hour. That's impressive. “Can you figure out what it is?”

“I think so, but that's not all. It's the sounds. The sirens, the helicopters. Us.”

“What about us?”

“It hates competing sounds,” he explains, hoping that he's actually on to something, even if all the pieces fit. “That's when it starts picking up, getting more jumbled, becoming more fast paced when we were screaming, or the police sirens started up again.”

There's a moment of trepidatious tension as he waits for her to respond, maybe to shoot down a stupid idea and supposition because she sees patterns and plans; not him, and then a chuffing laugh sends his heart soaring because it's like the noise itself can cradle him. There's no mockery.

“Astro suits,” she says, excitement thrilling. “No flight mode to keep the noise down, but we can turn off the external speakers and work by headset radio.”

“And if it's attracted to sounds, or has to try to drown them out, we can use the police and akuma alert sirens to lead it into a trap.” The hands at her hips squeeze tight, celebrating, and he can very nearly feel her grin.

“Sounds like you've got a plan, kid,” Plagg murrs from atop Adrien's shoulder, the amplitude of his purr oscillating, ranging through a spectrum of tones.

With a groping scratch to the kwami's scalp, though Adrien is loathe to let loose his Lady even for a moment, Adrien responds, “You ready to go?” Scraping through soft hair that scratches and tangles, her scalp firm, bone on bone, he juts his chin forward. “Both of you?”

Her laugh is a giggly burst, like the firing of a gun at the start of a race mingled with the explosion of a confetti popper.

“Always, Chaton.” It's a sigh, inspiring excitement and calm in equal measures. Hands firm to his hips with her fingers to the divots of bone and the edge of muscle that flinches in time with the fluttery butterflies in his belly, she breathes against his chest, lungs expanding, hot and full. 

A clipped nod and subtle shake of her head follows, felt but unseen.

“Let's do it.”

And they do, calling for their transformations to restore a sense of distance and propriety that doesn't seem quite so far out of reach now, and suddenly they are no longer simply a boy and girl in the shadowy crux of two buildings; they're the hero and heroine of Paris ensconced in their Astro-suits, bounding into danger side-by-side.

The battle is not easy, but it is manageable. Coordination with the police allows them to redirect the akuma's ire towards distant collections of police cruisers, their sirens on full blast while Ladybug and Chat Noir keep their decibel levels at a minimum. Careful manoeuvring into tight alleyways while directing the mob from place to place allows them to avoid becoming overwhelmed by the crush of marionettes, all organized by Ladybug who can split her attention between a map of the arrondissement and the battle itself, while Chat focuses on the music.

Within the cacophonous racket, patterns emerge, if he just trains his ear to listen past the surface interactions; he doesn't have the words to describe the techniques, but there is an instinctual resonance, a myriad of interplays and responses from a dozen different songs in a conversation. Reading the music, breath hot and heavy in his lungs and sweat clammy between his suit and skin, he forces himself to not be distracted by Ladybug. The taste of iron and copper in his mouth with every gasp, memories of piano recitals for his father assail him. Only for his father. His music was always meant to be a performance for a single man, never shared.

Not for others.

Not for him.

But he doesn't have time to think about that, so he pushes it down. Presses through. Focuses.

There’s deliciously, deliriously heady power in choosing what you think about; what shapes the world you project and map onto reality. 

Move and counter-move all in response, he starts weaving his own song through the mass of victims, the one, crystalline thought - cutting as deeply as did his yearning to ensure that Marinette doesn't die, that she's safe and can protect herself – is that he has to defend … her.

And he can do that by defeating the akuma.

While the initial portion of their battle involves copious amounts of radio-chatter to synchronize their movements, there comes a point when he bounces off a wall, executes a precision extension of his baton to redirect the path of his parabolic arc in the air, and grasps hold of Ladybug's arm to dance them out of the path of a new symphony of akumatized victims, that he realizes they've stopped talking.

They don't need to talk.

It's a song as melodious and harmonious as the deeper melody inside the seemingly inscrutable polyphonic tunes of the akuma, belted out in exhilarating horror.

She's conducting the mass; he's performing the aria.

And they win.

Just like that.

Chat delves in when the music swells up in just the right way, and plucks the little slip of sheet music from the Akuma's breast, rending it to shreds, and the tiny black butterfly doesn't even have time to float a foot into the air before Ladybug snags it in her yo-yo and dispels the swirling corruption that had rendered the villain's music, his art, into a asphyxiating curse.

Bone-weary with exhaustion, needing to recharge their kwami and just sleep, they end up on a roof together, on either side of a chimney. Their hideaway is scattered with detritus, including two heaving teenage bodies, little more than lumps. Blessed clean and fresh air floods his lungs to the sounds of life being restored to normalcy in the streets below them: people chattering and bustling; cars grumbling along the roads; no music but the mass of humanity and all their citizens restored and safe.

“You okay, Chat?” From the other side of the brickwork, her voice is almost sleepy.

“Yeah,” he replies, watching Plagg licking clean his paws and bathing in normal, human sounds. All the pressure is gone, but the music, their music, echos and it's a sweeter melody than most, weaved and performed and orchestrated together. “Just tired.”

Sweat drenches his shirt, the material clammy. He needs a shower and a change, as he probably stinks. Plagg doesn't appear to mind, snuggling into his lap.

“You want to talk about it now?” she asks.

“What?”

“Whatever was bothering you earlier,” she explains as if it's obvious. As if it's the only thing that, even now, dripping with perspiration, nearly ready to drop unconscious, their days ruined by a backbreaking akuma battle, that she could want to talk about.

She makes it hard to move on.

“It's not really all that important,” he deflects because he shouldn't worry her, shouldn't keep her from her life.

“I'm curious, Chat, and not just because it was obviously important enough to bother you.” A soft tapping, accompanied by what he assumes must be Tikki’s coo, resounds from the other side of the brickwork. “I'd like to know a little bit more about you. You're my partner, after all.”

He looks downward at the rooftop, greyed and weather-worn, and then up into the sky. Late afternoon light bathes him; it pours down from the cloudy sky. Chill breezes buffet them, as they're exposed to the elements here, naked as wind cuts through soggy clothing.

His thoughts actually lock together.

“It was just what you were saying about cartoon shows.”

“What do you mean?” The confusion in her voice is really rather adorable; it's not often he gets to stump her. Rarer still are the revelations that unveil aspects of the boy underneath the leather, underneath the designer clothes, underneath his skin.

“Well, I guess that cartoon shows are... a little more than just 'cartoon shows' to me,” he says, glancing over the edge of their rooftop. Returns to normalcy even after an arduous akuma battle have become relatively quick: citizens reverting to their proper roles, living their lives.

“Spots on!”

A flash of red light signals that it's time for them to leave or talk, face to face.

“Claws out!” he cries while rising up, hearing her the scrape of mystical-spandex on stone and the clap of feet approaching.

“A lot like action figures?” As she rounds the corner, her voice is focused like her eyes and that easy smooth confidence, the level tone, has him shivering while they watch the performance.

“In a way. I like cartoons,” he begins slowly, scratching at the apple of his cheek with a claw. “Kids stuff. It's really interesting to me, I guess.”

“I didn't mean to insult you, Kitty,” she says, shielding her eyes, focusing on the cracked and leaf-strewn rooftop. “I guess that I wasn't thinking, but I should have remembered that you liked toys.” She grimaces, waggling her hands as she jerks upwards to stare him in the eyes, her face crimson. “Not that they're toys because they're collectible figurines produced for adults even though there's nothing wrong with joys – Toys! For adults but not, like, adult toys what even are those other than pollectibles- collectibles produced by you – I mean for you because you're nearly an adult collector of adult toys?!”

He blinks and tamps down on the laughter that's trying to creep out of his throat. It wouldn't do for him to appear to be mocking his Lady for an utterly adorable and uncharacteristic little flustered breakdown. She really must be apologetic and guilt-ridden for her to crack like this.

“No, no, LB,” he assures. “I'm not mad, or insulted or anything.”

“Oh!” Her lips pop, hand rising to her cheek to rub at the flushing heat while he extends his baton, the pole clacking against the ground so that his folded arms can balance on the tip, bearing half his weight like he's a cat tripod. Bent over, he's shorter than her, and the angle of her chin and undersides of her plump cheeks is a nice change. 

“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her bicep. Pretty bicep. Muscular. Kind of like Marinette’s when she pinned him to a roof while training. 

Beefy women, particularly pint-sized powerhouses, are under-rated. 

“I guess that you wouldn't be too upset over something like that. I, uh, overreacted.”

They quickly return to their observations of the cleanup crew, civilians beginning to emerge from their hiding places and life resuming. The creased worry lines along her face spur him to explain himself, just to assure her that there are no hard feelings.

“I just mean that cartoons. Toys. They're important in a way.” Head to the cool, rutted brickwork of their chimney, he takes a moment to breathe. “More important than some people realize.”

“How so?” She's watching him, considering, and he likes it. He's silenced her, but not in a way that’s imbalanced or authoritative or ugly. Relationships, partnerships, are a process of ceding control, balancing.

“Cartoons may be kids' stuff, but those are some of the first stories that children see. That they get attached to. The kinds of lessons that you learn, that stay with you because they shape how you see the world.” Can a child change the way he sees the world? Are those foundational lessons scribed in indelible ink, carved into the neural pathways that shape how you think? What you think? What you are? “Whether you're treated like a kid, or a stupid kid or a – a smart kid. That's a lot of responsibility for someone who's producing what parents see as just a half-hour-long toy commercial.”

“I suppose that there's something to be said for that,” she offers, seemingly a little abashed as she scratches her cheek. “I never really thought about it that way.”

“Neither had I, really.” He hasn't thought about a lot of things. “I guess I've just been thinking about the lessons that we learn from parents and teachers, and, well, cartoons. What we pick up about ourselves and the world without even knowing it.”

She looks at him funny.

That's the only way that he can describe it, and the feeling in his belly that results.

He's never seen that look before.

“Well,” she says, rising up to her feet and stretching her arms heavenward before giving him a quick nudge, elbow to his ribs, but there's a softness to the teasing, like she's afraid that he's nursing a wound that he's trying to hide, a deep blood-bruise to his ribs, concealed by the leather of his costume. “Thanks for giving me some food for thought.”

“Well, you feed me all the time.” Shrugging off the compliment that has his chest burning and his cheeks itching to suppress a grin, he rises up to his full height, twirling his baton. “It's only fair that I pay you back now and then.”

“Oh, and Kitty?” she asks from the ledge, yo-yo cocked and ready to let fly.

“Yeah?”

“Good work out there today,” she praises, hand to her hip in that heroic and smugly self-assured pose. A little cocky. A little flirty. A whole lot dangerous. And all her. “We made a great team.”

“We always do, my Lady.” There's no way that he can let this exchange go by without taking her palm in his and feathering a wholly platonic to her knuckle, only for a moment. To his shock as he withdraws and she rubs at her knuckles, starting at them, before shoving him in the face with an open palm, it feels platonic and playful, without the spark of exhilaration, the tingle of electricity and yearning that was Ladybug herself.

But he's smiling all the way back to school.

Whether that's because he did good work, was a good partner, and he believes it for once, or because he's minutes away from seeing Marinette, settling next to her in class...

Well.

He's content to say that it's all of the above.

Chapter Text

Unlike in the majority of his inopportune, extemporaneous confessions while in conflict with an akuma, or even the ostentatious if cliché rooftop-strewn-with-rose-petals proclamation, this time, Adrien plans.

It's restrained. Not that Marinette deserves less than Ladybug.

No.

This time, he wants it to be ... just him.

He doesn't have anything else to offer

Adrien has the forethought and planning skills necessary to ensure that Lila is otherwise occupied, relying on Chloe's fury, tenacity, and unassailable position within the social hierarchy to keep the Italian girl occupied.

He releases the Kraken, as it were.

A sneer that's downright villainously wicked, or, perhaps, that of a callous anti-heroine, lit his oldest friend's face like sunlight dappling a wasp's glistening carapace when he gave her leave, or even encouraged her, to let loose.

Would Chat Noir ever have thought to do evil so that good would come of it? Maybe not. Adrien does, though, and in the twilight of that moment, he's either just stumbled into a pit, or emerging from the other side. Was whatever she was going to do really worthwhile? Bickering and a screaming match and who knows what kind of property damage might erupt as a consequence of a head-on collision between the immovable object and unstoppable force of the class's two bullies, old and new.

With a deliberate conscientious air of spontaneity, he saunters towards Marinette on the front steps of College Francois Dupont. She's doodling sketches in her notepad, and doesn't seem to be aware of his presence as he mulls, just absorbing the image of her enraptured by her work, the fine details.

Someone might even get akumatized – Lila, most likely – and that would actually be his fault.

It's selfish, and he'll deal with the fallout. Take responsibility for it because he didn't go in blind.

“Hey, Marinette, do you think that I could talk with you for a minute?” he asks when her shoulders unfurl and she stretches out the tension. Like it's the most natural thing in the world, he settles in next to her. It kind of is the most natural thing in the world. It feels that way given that it has become so easy after all their patrols, though she has no idea that he's ... him.

Pencil lifting from the page right at the crux of an armpit in the chic suit jacket that's taking form in her sketchbook, she looks up at him and smiles. There's no artist in the world, no teacher or prodigy or experienced master who could hope to capture that smile. No imitation could ever make him feel the flooding warm inside his gut that moves like spilled paint, thick with rich pigment.

“Of course, Adrien.” She nods and begins folding up her design book, which is somewhat disappointing because it's a window into her mind, her soul poured out in art and creation and beauty that he wants to bathe within. How is it that it's so alien from his father when they're embroiled in the same industry? “Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Yeah, actually-” He rubs the back of his head, the old gesture, familiar and comforting and awkward like so many affectations. “Well, I mean, I don't want to make it seem like it's a favor to me, or have you put yourself out.”

Her pencil taps against the cover of her notebook, a little nervous twitch. That's it. Nerves like him. He realizes that now that he knows how she feels, rather than being certain that she was bored or impatient or trying to spur him on just so that she could get away from him. That's what he used to think.

“Whatever it is, I'm sure that I'll be happy to help, if I can,” she assures, putting a hand to his wrist to draw him gently away from from torturing the back of his neck. Only the release of his trapezius muscles informs him that he was really rather rough with himself.

“Well, I was just, uh-” His fingers twiddle towards her drawing for some reason. “Wondering if you were busy this Saturday night?”

She blinks, a little twitch spurring her hand to clamp down on his wrist. “Um, why do you ask?”

“You know that my- my bodyguard and Nino smuggled out my Ladybug and Chat Noir action figures, right?”

Wiping clear the little undertone of pink, her face darkens like he'd just spilled Abaddon Black into his palette, mixing with medium flesh tone and a smidgen of burnt umber.

“Yeah. The grape vine was pretty short.” As she looks around the courtyard for a moment, eyes focused and tightly analytical in a way that reminds him of her gaze when she's sparring, breaking down his stance and teasing out weaknesses, she smiles. This time, it's not directed at him, and it's not a kind smile. “Nino didn't want Lila or Gabriel to know, but it got to me from Alya.”

“Oh, good.”

“I still can't believe that- that man-" She says the word like his father doesn't deserve the title, and he doesn't know how that makes him feel. He's destroyed Marinette's innocence, her faith in an idol - "tried to just destroy all of them.” Even though she doesn't really seem to need her hands, she slips her pencil into a side holster of her sketchbook and then begins speaking with her fingers, gestures pointed, aggressive. “After all the work you put in to creating that ... that beautiful custom piece for me.”

“Thanks, Marinette.” The sky is a comforting and affirming blue, wisps of clouds half blotting out the sun so that it's still warm, but there's no glare to cause his eyes to sting. “That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Your gift?” she asks, the motion of her hands stalling out as if they've frozen up.

“Sort of,” he admits, reaching a hand out for her design book, which she hands over with a moments thought. Trimmed with thick black lines, everything kept in order, the pink surface is worn but clean. Scuff marks crisscross its surface because it's been well-used over the years, but well-cared for. A precious treasure is in his hands. “Custom figures.”

“What about them?”

“Well, I can't really work on them at home anymore, and, uh, you're really talented with your hands – I mean, your own art when you're being creative.” He waves a hand over her sketchbook, the cover a lustrous pink with white polka dots that's just so adorably her. “So I was just wondering if- if you might want to hang out some time and work on them?”

“With our friends?” she asks softly, tracing the heart-shaped black buckle on her sketchpad, just next to his hand.

Now is the moment, the last moment, that he can turn back, and a whole horde of butterflies bristling with fine hairs that tickle his ribs and throat have been set loose by that tone. There's an ethereality to the moment, to her, like she's otherworldly, out of reach, already knows how all of this is going to turn out, but maybe that's only fear and memory and projection.

“Uh, if you want,” he begins, hating himself because he can't quite take that step and only prays as she shifts her hand down ward on the smooth surface of her sketchpad, fingertips butting up against his own, that she'll take it for him. “But I was thinking that it might be... just you and me.”

The world warms up, fire spreading out and immolating all those butterflies as she smiles at him, knowing in a way that's beyond any artistry that he can fathom, and her hand moves the rest of the way. They're holding hands again.

“Like... a date?” she asks, blinking slowly, and he can see the minute perturbations of her cheeks, little mouse twitches, feel the breakneck pulse in her wrist, her fingers sweaty against his.

Nervous. She's nervous though there's no justification for it any more than there is for him and his fears for the simple reason that he's facing Marinette.

“A date,” he assures, their fingers locked. “Not just like a date.”

Sitting there in that innocent moment, just a boy and a girl without overbearing parents, bullies that twist up every truth and every lie to form nooses around their necks, they lean even further into each other's space until it's not his and hers; it's theirs together. His fingers still laced with hers, they're both clutching on as if that point of contact grounds them in a storm, the last threadbare connection that prevents them from being caught up and whisked away. Warm and moist mint-scented breath passes over his lips and then caresses the side of his face as the inches close, and he can't help but think that it's too quick and not the right moment because she deserves it to be special, perfect, ideal, set up with precise care so that she'll remember it forever, while something else screams that it's already been too long, that he shouldn't make her wait another instant because of his indecision. Something doesn't need to be planned and crafted to be perfect, and there is no longer any need for him to conceal himself behind lies and excuses.

And all that passes in a moment of indecision before fizzling out like a match-flame that's run out of cardboard.

Her lips are even softer than he remembers, and the moment ignites and burns once again, a cascade of sparks tingling through his cheeks and pouring down his throat so that he's shivering while her hand clutches tight, so tight that her fingers tremble.

And then it's done after what must have been nothing more than a half-second, both of them pulling back. Marinette's tongue swipes over her lips, and then she grins like he's just dropped the best pun ever conceived by man.

A bashful nod follows while they both transform into giggly disasters, Marinette dropping her rosy face right into the crook of his neck while letting loose his hand so that she can hug him, adorable snorting chuckles sending great huffs of air across the exposed flesh of his throat, just above the neckline of his shirt.

“I'd love to,” she murmurs between flowing and harmonious chortles, enough to leave him grinning into her hair like an absolute love-struck dope, swimming in the sea of possibilities that had kicked up into a whirlpool inside his brain.

He just had his first real kiss, and he's grinning so hard that it hurts in ways that he'd never imagined. What an odd thing, for pain to be soothing. Maybe it's not. 

A little rushed; a little put off; surprising and expected; climax and anti-climax all rolled into one, and somehow the duality of the moment is simply perfect. 

And they're going to have a date .

Chapter Text

Dating Marinette is ... wonderful. Thrilling and heady and hazy in a way that's like drinking wine – Adrien's had it at business dinners, but hated the acidity and the way that it made him feel like his fingers and brain were bloating up, grip on everything becoming slippery, edges indistinct.

This time, though it's a contradiction in terms, the fog, scattering her light so everything is suffused with it, soaked with it, only brings things into focus; the edges of reality are somehow sharper, and the taste of Marinette in his life is like frothy-warm hot chocolate, perfectly balanced between sweet, rich, and bitter so that he can savour the entire robustly complex experience.

Maybe that's reality.

The sound of Marinette is the crackle of a fire on a chilly day.

The smell that of baked pastry, heavy with fat and sugar and home-feeling because it hadn't been bought in a store, but mixed and poured and baked in your own kitchen. Two sets of hands working together, you alongside someone you loved.

And all of that illuminated by the bright sun.

But there's more to them than that as they meet for clandestine dates, him bursting from his bedroom as Chat Noir in the dusk, whooping his way over rooftops only to duck low between buildings, reorienting himself, and then weaving a secret path through alleyways and back-streets, and Marinette just waiting for Adrien to knock on the door to her home.

Maybe that was what she'd always been doing.

What he'd always been doing.

It's a rush unlike any he's felt because it's just... real.

That's all it is.

That's all that he ever wanted, he realizes.

There's a simple wonder to it all.

Sitting together on her chaise, Marinette drooling slightly as she drifts off into a nap despite her resolution to stay up with him, to make the most of the time they share. It's okay. He loves watching her sleep, just feeling her skin, seeing her eyelids flutter, knowing that she needs her rest and joying in seeing that, pressed to his chest, she can get it.

Blabbing about anime and finding that she doesn't like Shoujo programs – how dare?! – and a difference of opinion becomes a joke, something to tease each other about because they can be different and still be ... loved.

Admiring sketches and modelling nascent designs for her, which should taint their time together, but when he walks the invisible runway for her, there are no leering eyes, no judgments of posture, poise, and performance. He's wearing something that she created; making it as beautiful as he can, pouring everything that he has into it – when he's not mock preening, breaking character, having fun.

Showing off his paints and plans for future custom figures, less his precious Multimouse that... that he will give her one day, when he's ready. When they're ready. He's like a child holding a Christmas present in his hands, fingers tracing the edges of that immaculate wrapping paper, just waiting for Marinette – clumsy, sleepy, indulgent Marinette who woke up a hour early, put herself out for him – so that, together, they can open the gift that they've purchased for themselves,

An identity reveal.

And it is a gift, isn't it? Sharing who you really are.

Oh, right, and sneaking pecks and nuzzles in school closets.

Marinette might be a mouse, but she's a cheeky one.

They're playing with fire, but he can't stop. It's too warm.

Dating Marinette is ... sublime.

But not perfect, he realizes as the sheen wears off somewhere in the first few weeks of secret dates in her room (her parents know; no shenanigans) and patrol-training-sessions with Multimouse, who's still a little flirty with her rosy cheeks and flicking tail, when she pins him to a rooftop by slipping from his grasp or ducking under a swing of his baton, to straddle his lap. 

That triumphant smirk does things to him. No pulled punches. She's too skilled at this point, and there's no reason for Chat to take it easy on her. He's not dating his adorable partner.

There are fights, disagreements, disappointments, make-ups, breakdowns, everything that they are and that they want to be a tumult, but it's their ability to be honest – about who they are, what they need – and come back together again that's challenging and real.

It's not perfect, but who ever wanted perfection, other than his father?

He's not his father.

Never will be.

Never could be.

Patrol schedules, always organized by Ladybug, shift again; Multimouse decreases and Marinette increases, and he's flying with his Lady more often than not, now.

Tonight is yet another instance when they've met on a rooftop, ready to discuss, in a way that they never did before, patrols, plans for grappling with Hawkmoth, and, as it turns out, action figures once again.

“So, I've been doing some research into the whole 'action figure collecting' hobby recently, since we learnt about those scalpers,” Ladybug notes in the voice that she uses when she's pretending to not be interested in something.

”Oh yeah?” The stars in the sky are barely visible in the City of Lights, but he's got all that he needs right here on this roof. Of course, he could do with Multimouse by his side as well, given that it would be a miracle in its own right to merely be witness to the resulting interplay. “Find anything really interesting? If you need any suggestions for youtube content creators, I can send you a few links.”

Muscles along her back flex and roll in a very ... muscly fashion, undulating like a wave as she rolls her shoulders. Bad kitty. He looks away immediately, sick self-recrimination bubbling in his gut.

“Mostly the design aspect,” she sighs, arms falling back to her sides. “How all the joints fit together and the cost associated with paint jobs and tooling.”

“Ah, yeah. That is kind of cool. It's neat breaking things down, seeing how they work.” Is it, or is that just something that he's saying, though he's never believed it? The words sound a little hollow in his ears.

“I know that Ma- uh-” In a gesture that reminds him of himself, a hand rises up to scratch at the back of her head as he leans in, all eager kitten eyes, to encourage her to share. “Multimouse,” she continues, “has been working with her boyfriend on some custom action figures and miniature painting.”

His tongue has suddenly become a genuine choking hazard, swelling up in his mouth, and it's all that he can do to hide the bloated, treacherously-floppy thing behind a broad grin. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. It looks like it's a lot of fun, something you can do just to be creative, or, maybe, when you're mass painting miniatures, turn your brain off.” She taps the side of her head, just under her bangs while he frets and masks it by sneaking a peek into their basket of goodies for the evening. Pain au chocolat. Perfect for the eating and the hiding, so he starts scarfing it down, watching her from behind bliss-hooded eyes. “Sometimes, I overthink things, so I know how important it is to just... turn off, sometimes.”

“Can't underestimate the importance of thinking, though,” he retorts with a surprising level of bitterness, wiping his lip. Must be the dark chocolate. “It's too easy for people to just... not think.”

“Sure,” she grants. “With all the work that people do - families, jobs, school, driving to and from work, drama and school, whatever – it can be really hard to think about things deeply, or think at all.

True enough. Maybe society is, while not to blame because it seems childish to throw off all your problems onto a collective, disburdening yourself of responsibility, but at least a contributing factor. When you're bone-tired to the point that your head is stuffed up with cotton balls after a shoot that ran long thanks to a photographer who speaks only in pasta-related metaphors, and your fingers ache because you had to put in two hours of piano practice when you got home, and you have three homework assignments before evening patrol...

Who has time to think?

“But when we're not thinking about what we have to do, the next class, the next assignment, the girl at school who bullies you -” He wants to murdur someone, but assumes that to be a hypothetical. “Maybe, we can think about deeper things.” With her yo-yo in hand, she's weaving cat's cradle again, in and out, over and around. He should learn how to do that. “When you're caught up in everyday life, you can't see things from different angles. Learning how to shut off your yammering brain can... can really help with that, I think.”

“So, do you think that you're going to pick up a hobby to help with that?” His temperature-controlled gauntlet is cool against his mouth as he wipes butter from his lips, flicking his tongue into the grooves between his teeth to clear out the remnants of pastry.

“I already have a few, but miniature painting seems kind of fun.” Ravelling in a tangle that, between blinks, is suddenly an ordered, straight single string – just another illustration of his Lady's magic – her yo-yo spools back up, cracking open on the seam to reveal a web-browser that displays Jeux Au Feu, a garish page that appears to be for an online retailer specializing in board games and miniatures.

It takes them only a few minutes to review the collection of miniature-heavy board games, including a Norse-themed strategy game entitled Blood Rage , and, per his request, a Star Wars miniature war game, Star Wars Legion . What fun. Adult games and mathematics, the luck of the dice, and strategy, all with collectible and customization little figurines, ripe to be painted and deployed. A little battle between miniature friends and companions, stories forged out of your own imagination and chance, all shared, built up, with a far more precious collection of friends.

“That looks like a lot of fun.” A claw taps her yo-yo screen, right over the tiny master-painted Luke Skywalker miniature.

“Star Wars isn't exactly my thing, but I know what you mean.” Her yo-yo snaps closed in what seems to be a gesture of finality and closure. “That's why I'm going to buy a starter set to try to see if I've got what it takes to paint it up.”

The glands on either side of his throat seem to tighten; his lungs fill up with gloriously warm air, even though the mercury has dropped and he's just on the verge of seeing his breath. The pastries, his suit, Marinette, and his Lady have all kept him so warm that he didn't even notice until his lungs expanded, heavy and hot. “You are?”

“Yeah, and I was wondering if-” he imagines the way that she looks down to her yo-yo screen, and a trick of the light sets a Pale Pink blush over her cheeks - “if you might want to take a crack at it with me?”

“But... I- don't you have friends that you'd rather do that with?” he asks, and that's enough to dispel the illusion as she smiles up at him confidently, looking him in the eye without hesitation.

“Of course, Kitty.” The contact breaks, snapping like an ethereal spider web, glistening with dew, but that's perfectly acceptable to him. The heroine he loved asks without words, he nods, and she hugs him tight, head to the crux of his shoulder. Pastry, vanilla, and girl , so familiar because, maybe, every angel smells like this, flood his nose as he nuzzles her hair, so very careful to avoid impropriety.

Because even Ladybug isn't...

Isn't worth Marinette.

“But you're my best friend.”

Oh. 

He swallows back a yelp and sniffs back snot and everything inside of him is only just enough to keep the tears from falling. 

Why did these two girls want to kill him?

He might not have an answer to that one, but he does know what they'll be doing on their next patrol.

Miniatures and Ladybug; Ladybug action figures with Marinette.

The reality of their exchanges seems to overlap and reverse, some aspect of their relationship as his affections shifted over to Marinette – because who wouldn't love her; who could resist the force of her gentleness? – but he doesn't think about it.

For now, he doesn't think that he needs to.

Chapter Text

One Saturday evening, it's the memory of his father that nearly breaks him when he finds Multimouse out on her own, waiting for him in place of Ladybug when he'd been scheduled to patrol with his best friend.

Reminiscing over his mother before the marble statue that she'd used to teach him about heaven, and angels, and a hope that it was impossible for a privileged child to fathom, Adrien himself must have looked just like that on the anniversary of his mother's disappearance.

Flushed with an eerie form of shame, as if he is a victim of gossip, a secret shared with the class, he finds that the first instinct is to chastise her for exposing herself so recklessly, going out having failed to inform him or Ladybug of her intentions. The reproof fizzles out on his tongue when she looks up from the abyss of pretty lights that stretches out before them when she hears him land.

Plump cheeks, their rosy apples – Salmon Rose with a hint of Vallejo medium olive - highlighted by the shifting Squid Pink and Flat Grey (ugly names; ugly colours) of her mask, are strained, creased unnaturally like worn cracks in peeling paint.

He's thinking in terms of paints.

Retreating from the moment.

Trying to distract himself.

That's not good.

“Hey, Mouse,” he begins, something catching up in his throat – an overly-plump mouse, wriggling and choking him out, fighting all the way, perhaps – as he sits down next to her on a ledge. “What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, Chat.” She coughs to dislodge something phlegmy, the same kind of gunk that seems to be trailing from her nose. Carroburg crimson hue is shot through her eyes, fine strokes from a 4pc brush lancing across the whites. Bloodshot. Crying. “Just out for a run to clear my head.”

“Okay.” He can't do this alone. “Have... have you seen Ladybug tonight?” If only she was here. He's not good enough to do this alone. Help her. Still he tries, hand to her bicep in a vague, comforting petting gesture, as her brave and broken smile falters and she's suddenly against his chest, his entire arm around her shoulders

“She... I'm on patrol this evening,” Marinette sniffs, and he yearns to kiss away those tears. There's an intimacy to this moment that he can't stand because he's Chat and not Adrien. Six months ago, dissociative jealousy may have bloomed hot, but now he just wishes that he had the right to hold her properly.

“Oh, is- is everything alright?” he asks, taking a seat on the craggy brickwork next to her so their thighs are touching. Chat is allowed this kind of casual intimacy in the same fashion as Adrien, even if he wants to crawl up into her lap, press his knuckles into her belly, and knead her until she's a giggling mess.

Avoid the conflict.

Forget the pain.

That's... not healthy.

He tamps down on the conjoined human and feline instincts.

She sniffs, leaning her weight into his shoulder. “It's a little tough to explain.”

“Did-"LilamyfatherI “someone hurt you?”

A glimmer of pearly white teeth, just a hint of yellow and cream, and she flicks his bell.

“Knight in shining leather wants to race to my rescue?” she scoffs, an easy, playful tease into which they could descend, an escape route that coils its way down into opaque darkness, Noir, washing out everything.

Marinette's not meant for Noir.

“If you wanted me to,” he grants as her body heat just begins to penetrate the fabric of their suits, warming his chest, “but for now, would you settle for a friend who wants to listen?”

The smile stutters downward , falling like someone tumbling down a flight of stairs, bones snapping at each step, but an air of sagacious contemplation that he associates more with Fu or Alec Guinness' Obi-Wan Kenobi settles over her features: kindly downturn of her lips; eyes narrowing, focused but far away.

She's thinking, judging him and what he'd said for... something.

“You don't have to talk about anything that you're uncomfortable with, and I can just... grab us some late-night pizza so we can pig out and watch cute cat videos on youtube using my baton.” A flood of warmth shimmers in her eyes, wiping clear the focused concentration as she blushes cutely. Forcing someone to think usually doesn't end well, and even Marinette might have reasons to shut down, what with all of her responsibilities and anxiety. If Adrien can't give that to her right now, at least Chat Noir can.

“I think that I would like to talk about it, Chat, but that's kind of the problem.”

“No one to talk to? I'm here if you need a pair of attentive ears.” Given that his cat ears are firmly affixed and immobile, sadly, unlike the responsive fluffy triangles atop a real cat's head, he can only show them off, giving his left a quick tug with his claws. “I've got two of 'em, after all.”

Like the sweet stutters that sometimes sent her blushing face crashing into his chest, giggles bubble up, but underneath the joviality is a crackle of some vague sub harmonic whine, audible only to his enhanced hearing.

She slaps his chest. “Silly kitty.”

He wants to say that he's her kitty, and there's something so terribly familiar about that yearning, stronger than any he'd ever experienced when he hoped to reveal himself to Ladybug.

“Your choice,” he says instead, giving her a poke to the gut. Muscly. Of course, he already knew that. Bakery girl muscle and a little bit of healthy paunch.

A sigh hisses through her lips, like she's spent the last week in hard labour and only now allowed to slump down into bed. “It... it's not that I don't have people to talk to about this. Actually, I have when I needed an expert opinion.”

“Expert opinion?” Immediately, his thoughts turn to the crystalline image, Nathalie hacking blood into her fist and trying to conceal it - stuffing her stained hand under her sheet. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I'm fine, Chat,” she assures without hesitation. Marinette lies poorly, stumbling over herself when trying to invent excuses, which seems to imply that she's being honest. “It's not me that I'm worried about.”

“Then who?”

Her lower lip rises above the upper one, teeth scrape over tender skin, and then she speaks. “It's my boyfriend.”

Feeling like a wound, salted and then wrapped in bandages soaked in gasoline, fumes acrid, killing brain-cells, his smile must seem so fake.

“I just – I really wish that I could talk to him about something, but it's hard, you know?” There's no comfort in the way she flexes and waggles her hands, a spiral starting up, and while he should focus on her, all he can hear is we have to talk.

That never ends well with people he loves.

“What about?” he asks, swallowing against the rising tide of bile, eyes misting so that the few stars he can see are turning into little lances of light. “Did he do something wrong again?”

“No. He's been amazing. Is amazing.” Even though her eyes are tight and blood-shot red, she smiles at him, not knowing who he is and he feels like grime and sweat are slathered over his skin for taking advantage of her trust when she doesn't know that she is telling him. It's like he's lying to her or playing two roles, manipulating her, pulling her apart from both ends like a man being cruel and irrational one moment and affectionate and generous the next. She can't know where she stands.

“One of the most amazing people that I've ever met because he's so... damn good .”

“Good?” His baton is firm and comforting in his grip as he watches her mull. “What did he do?”

“Being good is –“ she breathes into his shoulder, mousy hair buns shifting under his chin and he thinks back to his More Multimouse list: nom on hairbuns . Why can't things be simple? “It's also what you don't do. What you keep yourself from doing when you know that it's wrong. He has every right in the world to be cruel and bitter and- and hateful, but he's not.”

That magnanimity is wholly undeserved when it's precisely all the things that he hasn't done, that he should have done, that are the never-surfeited ocean - the one he just puts his back to and pretends the sound of waves lapping at the shore are comforting - and his eyes fall away from the slow motions of her luscious lips.

“From what I've heard, he's a bit of a wuss, though,” he says, tapping his baton against his thigh in reprimand, foreseeing chastisement.

It doesn't come, though; with Marinette-in-a-mask just stilling the motion by placing her hand over his, a counterpoint to the ache that runs through his upper leg. “He ... sometimes lets people do things to him that he shouldn't. That- that's something that I can understand, and what I really wanted to say to him.”

Leaning back so that he can drink in the complete picture of her features, the blurry sincerity of her eyes and the bloodshot whites and so much pain that he realizes might not just be hers, he grits out, “You think that he lets people take advantage of him?”

“Yes,” she nods, the tips of crooked fingers butting together, steepling and collapsing before her chest, “but it's more than that.”

The idea deserves to be waved off. He does. In a way, he doesn't want her to think that there's more to it than that. Because there isn't. “What could be more than that, unless he's encouraging them to do it.”

For all Marinette's adorably appealing softness, the crinkled vee of flesh above her brow, pinching her mask, makes her look almost as ill as Nathalie. “It's his father.”

“Gabriel Agreste?” Emotional whiplash nearly has him snarling; if his father did something to punish him for his defiance, taking away his action figures, destroying his hobbies, even locking him up in the mansion. Hell, if he learnt about Plagg and ripped the miraculous from Adrien's finger, all those things, he could endure.

But if he had done something to Marinette, crushed that pure ray of ... acceptance that illuminated all the dark things in his life, in himself, and scoured them clean in a warm summer rain?

There were unforgivable things in this world.

“Did he do something to you?” Growling like a territorial tom cat really didn't suit him, but he can't hold it back. 

Pink lines along her mask folding over as she squints at him like she's seeing him for the first time, she shakes off the suggestion.

“No. He did – does something to his son.”

“What?”

“Maybe-” As if rubbing an itch or ache that can't be reached beyond the impenetrable fabric of her costume, her hands clutch at her arms. “I mean, I'm not an expert in this kind of thing, and – and I never saw it before until I started to think about it.”

“Saw what?” he asks, watching, his throat clenching up, as she manipulates the end of her tail to dig through the ethereal pocket dimension, like the one in Ladybug’s yo-yo.

It reminds him of her rummaging through the picnic basket that he's seen on all their rooftop dates, including a few between Adrien and Marinette on her balcony, meetings orchestrated with meticulous care. The first time, she'd set out a table with flowers, daisies because she wanted to buy roses, only to realize they were too expensive, and her parents had served as waiters, like they were on a restaurant terrace. She wanted him to feel like it was a real date because, she said, he deserved it, even though he could never deserve her

And, maybe, that was a good thing.

Maybe, he was learning, loving and being loved wasn't about deserving.

Lost in the memory of the candlelit balcony and Marinette's hand in his as they leaned in and their lips brushed to the mingled taste of the apple tarte that she had just eaten, and all his senses flooded with her – the smell of her strawberry shampoo and skin; the quiet murmur she loosed at the spark of their kiss – he barely registers the fact that she's sitting up properly again, a small sheet of paper in hand.

“I feel so stupid,” she admits, and his first instinct is to deny it most vociferously, tell her that no one gets to insult her when he's around, and he only dimly remembers why that's familiar.

“I don't know what this is about, but you're not stupid,” he assures, knocking her stocking-clad foot with his boot, careful to maintain distance because now he just wants to kiss away that self-deprecation and smother her in a cat-cuddle. “You are one of the most brilliant people I've ever met.”

“The really frustrating thing is – is that it's gone on for so long and I really didn't see it. It's – I think that people don't see it. The school has mental health programs and counsellors, and Pride days, and – and everything.”

His nose wrinkles in what his father told him once was an expression that made him look like a dullard. “What does that have to do with anything? Do you – do you think that Adrien's, uh, closeted?”

“No,” Her hair-buns bob as she shakes her head. “That's not what I mean.”

“Well, you did mention pride day.”

“What I'm saying is that we think that we've come so far." The piece of paper she's holding on to has been folded into quarters, though the creases that splash over its surface suggest that she's been worrying it in her hands like one of her stress-balls. Maybe she crumpled it up.  "That we're so open and understanding and that we look out for bullying, but people still slip through the cracks. We're still so – so stupid and ignorant that we don't see things.”

“Uh, Mouse, I'm getting really lost here.”

“I- this really shouldn't be so hard to say.” The small, folded piece of paper crumples even more before she turns it over to him like he's making a drug handoff. “I don't think that I understand Adrien. Not really. I knew that his father was harsh, but that was just a man being a bit of a jerk, you know? Just an overprotective father.”

“So what are you saying?” he asks as he receives the sheet. He can't even feel it through his gloves.  

“I'm saying that... I don't know if this is true, but I started thinking about it and doing some research.” He listens to her, all senses honed in on the minute shuffle-squirm of her butt against the brickwork, the forced level breathing, the intensifying heartbeat. This has to be his fault.

“I even spoke with the counsellors at school, and maybe I'm not in a position to say one way or the other, but I can't help thinking it and I don't know how to tell him. I'm trying my best but- “ Her voice cracks and she swallows back the sound, trying to protect him from her pain. How much does she know? “But I'm so afraid that I'll mess it up.”

He puts a hand to her wrist.

“Marinette,” he says gently, feeling her pulse, her life, under the pad of his gloved thumb. It's so good and terrifying to hold, and be held by, life. Her eyes lift up so that she's looking at him in a way that makes him feel as if, together, they can make everything okay, because that's what – not what she does, but it's close enough. “Your... your boyfriend loves you.”

It's still a surprise, like every good thing about receiving a birthday and Christmas present rolled up into one moment without any selfishness or crass materialism, to say that.

Getting a hand-knit scarf or a custom action figure.

“Even if you mess up, that won't change,” he assures. “He'll go right on loving you; how could he not?”

She smiles, but, for the first time, it's not one that he likes. “For once, that's not what I'm worried about.” Her hand tugs free from his fingers, but only so that she can lock them with hers. “I'm just... really afraid of hurting him, and... and that's the last thing he deserves when- when-”

Looking away towards the gulf beneath their feet, she jams the sheet into his hand, only crumpling the thing further.

Holding the little slip of paper between his fingers, he finds himself blinking as he unfolds it. His eyes ache like he's been staring at something for too long, like they're too tired to stay open, and he wants to shut them tight so that he doesn't have to read, doesn't have to see her face and how gentle she looks, how patient, now that she's turned back to him.

God, he doesn't deserve someone being patient with him, not when he can’t say the words that he doesn't think, can't think because thinking hurts worse than it ever has before and all he wants to do is eat pastries and kiss her, and feel her lips, and play with toys and escape, running away from that list, but he no longer controls his eyes or his throat, swelling up like he's suffering from anaphylactic shock. As his claws dig in, nearly shredding the paper, he realizes that he's started speaking because she’s saying this to Adrien, has to say it to Adrien, but he’s the one who has to speak the words.

Emotional Abuse: Any act including confinement, isolation, verbal assault, humiliation, intimidation, infantilization, or any treatment which may diminish the sense of identity, dignity, and self worth.

Ordering you to feel differently.

"I am frankly disappointed in your selfishness, Adrien. The world does not revolve around your every transient whim, your every random desire or thought."

Don’t want; don’t aspire; don’t grow.

Ordering you to look differently.

“Do you believe that your appearance is acceptable? That grin makes you look like a fool."

Denying your perception, defending.

"It... it was just toys and – and a hug and a-"

"It was just disobedience, just impropriety, and just selfishness."

Trying to make you feel guilty while invalidating you.

“Throwing a fit in class like the Bourgeois girl, making a scene, your interactions with your bodyguard, and your collusion with him- all of these things have natural and necessary results."

"I – I understand, father. It's just that those are my fault. Other people shouldn't suffer for them. He- he was just doing what I asked, when ... all of it was my fault."

The image of the spider-web cracks running through the glass of the framed  picture he’d drawn for his father, years before Emilie had died, flashes through his mind. 

Trying to isolate you.

“You will be eating lunch at the mansion or in the presence of miss Rossi from this point forward.”

Minimizing your feelings.

"Do not make me waste time on this kind of childish outburst again, Adrien.”

Judging and labelling you.

“I have to apologize for my son. He's like his mother, too overly dramatic.”

Telling you how you 'should' feel or act.

“Speak in full sentences, Adrien.” 

Of course. Complete the thought, especially the ones that aren't his. “An art teacher would be welcome, father.”

“I-” He chokes, and she's so patient that she lets him try and fail to breathe, putting a hand to his shoulder.

“It's okay,” she says in a voice like mother’s when he awoke, face tear and snot-stained, from a nightmare, but Multimouse is looking at her training partner like Marinette does Adrien and it’s all too much. 

“A-” his throat is so tight, and her skin is so soft. Everything about her is soft, her hug, arms around his shoulders from behind as his vision hazes and the words on the page grow fuzzy; her chest against his upper back; her even breathing, washing his flushed cheeks, cool because it's wind over wetness, trailing down; her voice.

Something deep and dark inside of his belly is bubbling up, and it scares him. It scares him so badly that he doesn't know what it is.

There's not enough air, no way to suck it in, no way to breathe, only hiccups and laughs, but he's not laughing, not really, and Marinette is soft against his back, not saying anything. Her breathing is level and slow, setting time as he stares down at the words that he can read but he can't think and can't say as everything comes together in a picture that's too broad, too wide for him to see. It's all there, every detail, but it's like he's in the front row of a theatre and has to crane his neck to stare at each part of the screen as shocks of stress and the agony of torn muscle leave him screaming and the sound system is too loud.

“You don’t have to say anything, Kitty. It’s alright.”

It's watching the picture, but the film is about someone else's life, and that makes it okay.

No. Not okay.

He has to. 

“I-” There are tears in his eyes and he can't say it. “Adrien's father-”

She's stroking soothing patterns on his bicep, the paper trembling as he's choking and his head fogs.

His teeth grit together as he forces the words out. They need to get out. Adrien needs to hear them.

Saying it makes it real, makes it hurt, pulls out the thorn in his flesh that's so deep that it's become a part of him, and he doesn't know who he'll be when it's gone.

But he owes it to her to be honest.

He owes it to himself.

And he's speaking.

“I... think you're right," he chokes out, garbling, words barely discernible. "Adrien's father a-abuses him.” 

The tears are flowing so quickly now, dribbling down his cheeks, dripping from his chin and snot and spit and slime smear up his pretty model face, and he's too ugly for her to be looking at him that gently – like he's beautiful. That's what makes it perfect and shameful as he sniffles back snot. Slime gums up the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat, bubbling, and he swallows it down, only to feel like he's going to vomit.

“And- and that's not okay,” he finishes, and then breaks completely, letting the stained and smudged and crumpled paper fall from his hands. Multimouse – Marinette – is right there, warm and inviting, an endless wellspring of dutiful support and care. Slathering her own costume with his mucky tears, she lets him lay out so that his face is pressed to her belly and says nothing.

There's no hatred, no bile, no recrimination against Gabriel; not even a word of pity for him – Adrien, him. Standing in the face of that kind of intensity, hearing pity, would be too much, like an insult.

Naked, truly naked even inside the costume that's no longer a lie and an escape and an excuse to not think, Adrien Agreste cries himself to sleep on that rooftop, his head to Marinette's thigh as she runs her hands through his thick locks of hair.

Chapter Text

That he'd been injudicious in maintaining his secret identity was obvious from, retrospectively, Marinette's clarion call announcing that she knew .

Chat Noir was the only being who could absorb blows meant for Ladybug and shrug off torrents of scalding water, dance among the acid rain with a cheery grin plastered on his face, all to his father's conductor's baton. Jerky limbs flailed on puppet strings, screws bored right through the bone of him. In his own way, Chat Noir was just the antipodal, antiphonal response to his father. Born from him. Created by him, a travesty and mockery.

Marinette knows – knew and used the mask to cushion the impact.

Whether the right choice was direct confrontation or the flaying away of his last layer of dead flesh, he can't say.

But she's done it, and they can move on, the terminal prognosis delivered.

Adrien...

Hates his father.

Not in the way that he hates cool and impersonal photoshoot preparations, being manipulated by uncaring hands, mechanical touches still sending shivers of revulsion and bliss down his spine as he tamps down on his squirming – just sits back and allows them to prepare him like a slab of beef to be set out for sale, a doll to be dressed up.

In such moments, he can extricate himself from his body so that his mind wanders through images of Tom Dupain cradling his little princess in his arms, twiddling his mustache and scraping it against her laughter-dimpled cheeks; Ladybug soaring high and fast above him, the play of lightning gleaming gold and silver as, for an instant, the webwork of her costume is suffused with radiance – resplendent in the tempest that leaves them soaked and laughing but warm in their suits.

Hatred is so much more complex than he'd ever imagined.

He doesn't have the words for it, the concepts. No mental fingers to grasp hold of his thoughts; no palette properly equipped with the range of colours needed to trace and fill out the simple sketch that Marinette had drawn on the canvas of ...

Numbness?

Apathy?

Deadness?

Perhaps it, like everything else, is just part of the larger picture, and he'll have to wait, collect the right paints, solicit the proper masters and teachers for aid, in order to complete it.

Maybe it's an opus. A life's work.

Part of one.

But, oh, the colours he already has! The ones that he's already been given as gifts are more precious even than the physical paints offered to him by his bodyguard, but just as perceptive and sensitive to his needs!

They're enough to render his life vibrant.

It's not very long before Chat Noir appears in Marinette's bedroom in a recapitulation of what might prove to be their final Multi-Chat meetup. The coarse and stiff fabric of Marinette's jeans against his cheek, actually scraping the flesh over his orbital bone because his mask has been left behind, grounds him, makes the moment rough and real just as much as it is soft.

Kept in the box, opened up to reveal his sloppy paint job and mangled, ill-suited accessories, left pristine, and played with all the same.

Just like she's doing with his hair, his head on her lap as fingers curl through thick locks, messing them up and resettling them again while a random animated movie plays on her computer screen opposite their chaise. 

The low muttering of voice actors playing their parts trickles into his foggy brain, a noise that's drowned out by the sibilant melody of her absent hum, punctuated by occasional clucks of her tongue.

Marinette has the most beautiful voice, but its cadence and harmony can't be registered and refined by any voice coach as it resounds through the room and echos inside his sleep-empty skull and his world condenses down to her. Her smell. Her touch. Her eyes. Her melody. He knows now what a siren-song is – the way that it could fill you up and drive Odysseus to risk madness to hear it.

Why people would be willing to drown themselves just to escape a life without it.

Marinette's voice, even when she's failing and squeaking in a blind panic, flows from the abundance of her heart, and when compared to measured tones, meticulously crafted and coached, honed so as to ensure that what was inside could never emerge, could never betray you, that sincerity is to be treasured.

Lidded with half sleep held off because this liminal space between the perfect and the broken is heady and seductive and coercive, his eyes are focused on her face, even intakes of air just quirking her nostrils as bliss like a waterfall seeps into his scalp, scampers on little padded cats' paws down the back of his neck and wells up inside his throat, even if the flavour is bitter on his tongue, like salt and ash.

There's no place for forgetting anymore.

But there is a place for love and truth.

And Marinette makes all those things okay.

Ladybug will probably kill him, cool chastisement mitigated by genuine affection and, maybe, some ugly pity that an even more grotesque part of him – he can see it now – screams that he should use to his advantage. Making someone pity you, being a... victim , wallowing in it.

There's a power in that, and maybe he's retreated into it too often without even knowing.

“What are you thinking about?”

His spine stiffens marginally before he plays off the tension and allows himself to melt into her lap again, her fingers having slowed but the magic – oh, the magic – still being weaved, as she looks down at him. Little folds run over her brow now that she's focused on him, her hands digging deeper into his scalp to tell him that it's perfectly acceptable for him to think, to speak, to remain silent, even if her eyes are bright with hope.

“Oh, not much really,” he answers, nuzzling her belly and breathing deeply. Laundry detergent – laundry that she showed him how to do during their last date – and the floral odour of her body wash fill him up. “I guess that it's just - well, everything.”

“That's a lot to be thinking about all at one time.” The scriches change pace, following the curve of his neck, and suddenly he has to wonder what she's thinking about. Marinette, bright as the sun, has also been so opaque on occasion.

“What can I say?” he shrugs, unsettling her in a gesture that's partially defensive. “I'm a pretty smart guy. Lots on my mind.”

“A pretty smartalec,” she coos, booping him on the nose with an air of mock-playfulness, not deception, but deference, “I think.”

The degree to which she accommodates him is always staggering, tiptoeing around the landmines, dancing around his pitfalls like a ballerina who has trained her entire life just to execute this one performance. “Well at least you agree I'm pretty.”

“”Oh, I don't think that,” she deflects with a quaking grin that has his heart bumping and cavorting around in his chest, swiping at all the stray butterflies.

“I suppose that my sultry, smoldering self is enough to rob any tender maiden of thought.” A good smolder, eyes lidded in that perfect way that renders them dark and sultry without creasing the folds of flesh around his eyes, has her squirming just right. Practice helped a lot. So did a more coherent and conscious reflection on colour palette and the study of artwork.

Resettling his weight with unsurprising ease – he likes a girl who can toss him around like a football, or, at least, put him in his place on occasion – his girlfriend raises her legs so that she's now fully on the chaise.

Squirms take on a different cast, fit into a new yet familiar mold that impels him to grip onto her lower back more tightly.

A brief fumble as they jockey for position leaves them, at least, comfortably entwined with his cheek to her chest, their legs tangled together, and her head propped up against the back of the chaise.

He's fully awake now.

That's a good thing to be.

Is there a bad thing to be when he's here?

A kiss feathers into his tangled hair, and her breath tickles his scalp as she pauses there. “It's okay to play, Kitty, and I- I love that you feel like you can with me.”

“But?” he presses, though in his gut, he detects the sick, oily sensation of his father's touch, those probing hands that never actually make contact with seared and peeling skin yet still dig so deep to rearrange organs where there are no nerves for Adrien to feel.

“But... you can also tell me the truth, unless you want me to-” Her hand falls on his cheek, cupping his chin. “I don't know. Figure it out on my own.”

He swallows as he nuzzles into her palm and mumbles the ensuing words. “The truth is that I don't even know what I'm thinking. What to think.”

How.

Learning to think may be the most challenging task ever set before him; every step requires new footing, new grounding, like scaling his rock-climbing wall in the dark, not knowing where the hand-holds actually were.

Swiping over his cheek, the pad of her thumb is rough with callouses, just like all her fingers from a thousand sewing-needle pricks. Imagine that. Being hardened by a thousand lances  – hurt because you were stitching something new together rather than clutching at the tatters or being torn apart.

He loves the way that she looks at him in these moments, without even a glimmer of pity as her canorous voice crests and flows. “Like... if it's something important, but you need time and I need time to put it together because it's ... it's good to learn about the people you love-

How can she say that so casually? When it was a lie, love had always seemed so grandiose, a great romantic epic fit for poetry and song – Odysseus on his journey home, questing through land, sea, and hell itself; Romeo abandoning his family that wasn't a family to him.

Marinette says it like it’s something that you can live each and every day.

“Then I suppose I'm wondering how you figured me out.” Sometimes the easy questions suffice. His lips find the hollow of her throat and it's impossible to discern which of them is shivering.

Arms around the back of his head, enfolding the entity of him – the two pounds of twisted, creased, and folded flesh that might be all that he is outside of meat that's sold on billboards and magazine covers and bought on store shelves.

“There were just too many similarities once I started to see the real you,” she says, her voice wavering between that bubbling confidence of Multimouse at play and deep and old that can only affect play, like a mother's tone as she put on alien voices to perform the role of characters in a bedtime story.

“Well, at least one of us can.” He can feel her spine stiffen up under his hands, still running the length of her back. It's lovely when she becomes indignant on his behalf, and that makes him feel even more sick. How can a person be sickened by an expression of love and care? Maybe it's possible when you know that you don't deserve it.

Pushing him back, but not away, the distance only drawing them closer, she gazes at him with all the confidence, absent the swagger, of Ladybug at the Eiffel tower decrying Hawkmoth's villainy. His hands stop roving because he can only cling on to a whirlwind of iron like that.

“I promise, Adrien,” she assures and makes him believe, “that I'll always try to see you, and help other people to see him too. You deserve to have people see you.”

The instinctual reaction is to throw up his model's smile. Instead, a huffing breath erupts from his lungs like he's holding back the vomit and he hates himself for ruining this. Always ruining everything because that's what his father taught him to do and be and think.

He hates his father more.

“Maybe that's not something that... that I want.” he offers lamely, even though he's not entirely sure what he means.

She nods, and not for the first time, it's unclear as to whether she knows either. “That's fair, but – and I'm going to be honest, I don't know what to say or – or what the right thing to say here, is, so – so I'm not trying to say what you want to feel is wrong, but -”

Of course she doesn't know. Neither of them should. 

“It's okay, Marinette.” He takes hold of her hip-bones and brings them flush, sensing the tremors. “I know that you'd never really want to, well-”

“Right.”

“So, what is it?” After the time spent on her chaise, a lock of hair – several, in fact, though this one is being particularly unruly – has tumbled onto her forehead, rendering her a little bit disheveled. To set her right, he puts a palm to the smooth and warm flesh of her forehead and pushes the strand back into place. Much better. Her eyes, a wet blue, shine even more brightly. “You – you can say it.”

“It's okay to set boundaries.” Marinette begins tracing patterns along his sides, fingertips rolling over the bumps of his ribs. “Good, really, and so is choosing who you're going to – to share with, but I don't want you to feel like you have to be someone you're not just so you can get along. You deserve to have people in your life who – who love you like I do for who you are, or love you and are willing to figure out who that is.”

“I don't – I want that.” What does he want, really? Her, of course, but it can't just be her. “I mean, that sounds good. Intellectually , that seems good and – and healthy, but it's a lot more complicated than that.”

“What do you need me to do?” she asks with an indulgent air. 

“You already do so much.” Too much.

The frown on her face is a reprimand that feels like a caress. How does that work? Not even like Ladybug's chastisements that put him in his place, told him that it hurt her when he hurt himself. Maybe because Marinette wasn't thinking about herself. Only him.

Oh, god, he's a child who's tearing up again.

“That is not something to feel guilty about,” she insists fiercely.

How does she know him like that?

He scoffs and hates himself when a flickering scowl crosses her face and then is wiped away by understanding.

“Try telling Gabriel that.” His heart jumps in his chest, but the cause is indescribable, possibly because there's a confluence of them.

“I would,” she begins, dewy sweet, baring her teeth, “but after I punched him out, he wouldn't be conscious to hear it.”

A laugh bubbles up, though it feels like it's canned. Their lives are not filmed in front of a live studio audience. “My hero.”

“No, Adrien.” Now it's serious. “You're mine.”

Raising her up into a seated position so that they're both properly reclining against the back of her chaise, he puts his chin to the top of her head, the hair scratchy against the film of stubble that he's just noticed has started to come in. His father will loathe that. Another half-hour in the makeup seat, surely.

“But that's it, though,” he breathes, taking in as much of her as he can on the inhale.

“Your manifest heroics?”

He almost snorts. As if he can compare. “Punching out my father.”

“Just say the word.” A playful little tap to his side has him grinning for no reason.

“Patricide?”

Even though that's a joke, Plagg appears highly intrigued, drumming his nub against his thigh as he actually pauses in his gluttonous consumption of the cheese platter that Marinette laid out on her work desk, one wedge of cheddar held partway to his mouth.

“I mean...” she lets the word hang, her brow cocked playfully.

Not a place for forgetting, but for softening.

“I'll never be able to do that.”

“Do what?” she asks without pressure.

“Be-” Me? Free? Alive? Healthy? The culmination of that thought eludes him, so he gives up trying. Perhaps some things can't be put into words. Maybe there are no colours or shapes for certain concepts. Of course that's true. As if he could ever capture her with a thousand lifetimes of experience no matter how steady his hand, how refined his technique. Why should this be any different? “Well, just be , I guess.”

“Not as long as you're with him, right?” Her snarl resounds and it cuts deep, like a surgeon's scalpel held in expert hands, cutting out a malignant mass. “In that- that place .”

“Yeah.” It's a hiss more suited to Aspik, a creature of pure obsessive fixation who brutalized himself for months, than Adrien, but who is Adrien anyways? “And I – I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

“Here,” she answers instantly, tilting her chin upwards so that their eyes are locked. “You start right here. We talk to the guidance counselor-” God, that's terrifying - “my parents, anyone who can help us figure things out.”

“I- I don't want anyone to- to ...” So that he can't see her, to quell the rolling images of blank or, worse still, pitying faces, his eyes squeeze shut and burn. “They shouldn't know.”

Marinette has auras about her, warpath and fire, static electricity. Almost tangible emanations of her moods. There's a palpable sensation, as if she's poised to object, launching into a tirade that's half Alya on the warpath, and half Ladybug, but all Marinette, yet she must see in his tight-set eyes, furtive and vulnerable, what he truly means.

Then liquid heat fills him up, coaxing his eyes open so that he can look upon her. “You don't have to – to talk about that, even if I think that you should consider it. When you're ready.”

“Then what would we talk about?” he asks with a small stutter.

“How to live .” She says it like she said that she loved him. As if it was an everyday thing that could be wrapped up in normalcy, an experience that awaited him at the breakfast table like a mug of soothing tea.

“Well, that's focused.” He shouldn't play it off, but the yearning is too great – to play, to cajole, to hide again, when learning how to live is just as alien as being loved in the simple ways.

She pats his cheek, tracing letters and symbols. “I mean – bills, budgeting, career plans – everything that you need so that you can- can get out.”

Keeping his eyes on her easy and relaxed features, eyes bright and open, his lips flutter over the inside of her fingers. When he speaks, his voice comes out rough, sluicing through the gaps between her digits. “Not going to be happening now.”

“No,” she reaches up, tracing the hollow of his ear. “But in a few years.”

That sounds like a lifetime.

“I wish that I-” Her motions transition into a quiver, as if her bones have become gnarled with age as they hold each other more tightly, youthful, well-muscled bodies sculpted by Hawkmoth and his father slotting together in combinations unimagined. “I'm just a kid, Adrien. If I knew something - was an adult, I could tell you something else. Do something more.”

“You do everything.” His insistence doesn't seem enough to convince her, regardless of how candid he's being at this moment. “Never think otherwise for a second.”

“That's sweet.” A thick blush creeps down her chin. He's still got it, on occasion, and there's a certain power in that. “You're sweet.”

“It's because you stuff me with so much sugar.” He pats her stomach and then his, repeating the gesture again, noting the slight layer of paunch on hers, and his emaciation. Perfection . “The smoothness is from all the butter.”

“All the more reason to keep feeding you, then.” Motion stalls out as her hand covers his.

“Not going to object to that.”

“Sometimes that feels like it's all that I can do, though,” she says in a way that's just as bitter as her pastries are sweet. “That's why – maybe I can help just... plan things out. Know what you can do when - when you are able to get out of that hell.”

“That- that may be all that we can do.”

“It's not right, though,” she insists.

This time, it's not nearly so hard for him to push the words out. Maybe everything – this, hate, love, healing, sickness, and health – is just a matter of practice, normalization and familiarity.

“No.” He settles her into his arms, thumbing his chin in Plagg's direction and then gesturing towards the computer. In response to his prodding and raised brow, the Kwami sighs while brushing a dollop of cheese from his chest and then suckling up the remnants. Then, he floats over to the computer keyboard to increase the volume on their Disney film.

His girlfriend snuggles into him. Rather, they furl into one another like paper just catching fire.

“It's not alright,” he says with feigned indifference creaking like a rusty gate opening for her. “I don't think that it ever will be, but I have something better. Now, and to look forward to.”

And that's enough.

Both Ladies in his life are more than enough.

As per her request weeks earlier, lost in the tangle of life, he starts helping Ladybug paint, sharing secrets and skills and favoured techniques that they're developing on their own, and they make a habit of customizing figures, painting miniatures, and playing board games.

At the same time, Marinette does the same thing.

Free time after patrols is spent with his Lady, chatting about techniques or hunkering down in a rooftop nook with a basket of goodies to watch youtube painting tutorials on her yo-yo screen. 

She learns more quickly than he does, and indulges him by replaying sections when he regains focus and begins to watch, only to realize that he missed a half-dozen steps because he was too absorbed in her bright blue eyes, keenly focused. Too fixated on the steady rise and fall of her chest, shoulders expanding and contracting in his arms. The way she bites her lips while she's focusing, absorbing.

Each moment with her by his side, or even in his lap after she shoots him a no-doubt unintentionally flirty wink, is slow torture; she sets him ablaze as if he's been chucked, or yeeted by her well-muscled arm right into her sun.

His soul should be bifurcated, but all he experiences is a sense of wholeness. The two ladies in his life wring out the guilt.

And his free time on weekends is all Marinette as she slowly eases into his presence. So often, he greets her with awe. She just boops him on the nose and winks.

He nearly swallows his own tongue because that hip-cock and saunter is like nothing that he's ever seen from her.

Flushing and sweating as Plagg rumbles his contended, mocking purr inside of his shirt pocket, Adrien trails after her like, well, like Chat Noir after Ladybug, one big blush-emblazoned fluster, to show off his collection of model paints and the new airbrush that he picked up, to be used only in a well-ventilated area, of course.

Her balcony works.

Flopping on her chaise, hands under her head as she stares at him, she exudes easy radiance. She prefers to paint purely with brushes because skills transfer more easily from sketching and some experimental figure painting that she'd done, and that's ... that's amazing. She's so talented, and when he tells her that, her body rolls and she's either trying to drown herself in her pillow, show off her butt, or both. Regardless, it – or rather she – is adorable.

Marinette takes compliments poorly, but beautifully, because she isn't really used to them, he realizes.

He makes it a mission to ensure that's no longer the case.

It reaches the point that as he's in his room, working on his custom paint job for the Ladybug miniature for the Miraculous board game, also produced by Hasbro (he sucks at contract negotiations, but the proceeds – the proceeds are still going to charity, so maybe he just sucks at the things that, in the end, weren't important), it's almost like he's slipping into being Chat Noir.

He's not, though it's close.

Really, he's not embracing a preformative persona for his father, fans, or the public. Little slivers of Chat bubble up through the cracks, moderated by his deference and genuine desire to see Marinette smile while also respecting him for being courteous and attentive, and tolerating him for being slightly sulky when they compare their work and he sees that her fine hand and skilled fingers have produced far more precise contour lines on the Chat Noir miniature than he did with Ladybug.

He's just ... himself.

The melodious hum of Marinette's voice rings out, filling the silence and rebounding off the walls so that it almost sounds like she's right next to him. Even in the unconscious hushed murmur as the tones rise and fall, there's a clarity – a surety to the voice that uncoils the tension, letting him fall into the work alongside her so that they're in the same rhythm, brush-stroke for brush-stroke. Glasses filled with clean water, changed periodically, clink, reverberating as a counterpoint to the white noise of rainfall or a podcast that they've put on.

It's nice to learn about Marinette this way. They shift from toy news to pop culture to sewing or design blog podcasts to even a few philosophy and religion discussions.

And it's just like the time that he spends with Ladybug.

Sometimes, when he hears that sweet voice, singing, he's caught up and it is Ladybug. Expecting to see his Lady, he turns to show off a particularly fine series of brush strokes, multiple layers of thinned paints applied with progressively lighter tones, that have properly highlighted the peach flush of Chat's cheeks.

Strong shoulders lead up to the graceful arch of her neck, the flesh tanned and hale from being out in the sun because she forgot, in her haste, to apply sunblock and he really should have reminded her because it's his job to keep her safe. The pigtails, bunched up and bouncing almost imperceptibly while she nods her head, are achingly tight and tempting. He wants to bury his hands in that silky black hair – not a hint of blue – and scratch her scalp to show her just how good it feels.

And it's Ladybug.

Until he blinks, and it's Marinette, singing, humming absently, focused on her work, with her back to him.

Of course it is.

“Hey?” he begins, turning away from the little miniature Chat Noir whose eyes are the crowning achievement of his entire corpus of paint work over the past few months. There's a little burgeoning spark of life in them, a few fine strokes of bone-white to emulate the reflection of light.

“Hm?” The hum is absent and half-committed as Marinette fixates so easily on her work.

His wheeled desk chair squeaks like a petulant and grumbling mouse as he rolls over to her side.

“Could you pass me the Carroburg crimson, Ladybug?” he asks, leaning over her work desk.

“Oh, sure, Chat.” Her tone is absent – the words slow. The bottle is extended behind her, even as the girl fixates on the finishing touches she's just applied to her latest miniature – a Ladybug with her Lucky Charm blooming into a horde of mystical insects, all glazed with varied, progressing tones of black, red, pink, and white miming a flood of light from her magic that cast shadows over the little bug's face. Distraction is so common for her, and watching her enthralled is in itself captivating.

When their fingers brush, flesh-on-flesh, as he reaches out to retrieve the bottle of paint, Marinette's soft blue eyes, laser-focused, blink and then flutter, and then pinch along the edges as she smiles, and her hand curls around his, fingers cupped around the plastic. He can't help feeling a little silly at not being excited, or surprised by the revelation that was more of a gradual unveiling of something that he just had to admit that he already knew.

She blinks and squeezes his fingers. “How did you figure me out?”

A silly question, really, considering how obvious it should have been for so long, he knows as he locks their fingers. “You didn't make it very hard.”

“I wasn't trying to,” she assures as she plucks up her brush and plops it into a little glass of clouded water, just to keep the tip from drying out with the remnants of paint.

“Well, you weren't trying to do that .” To grant her space to angle her chair, her hands curling under the seat as she crab-shuffles a few inches to face him, he lets go and recedes. “Everything else you were doing – that took a lot of effort.”

When she places it on his thigh in a way that might have had him gulping and thrilling – Ladybug was touching him so intimately, in the confines of her own bedroom, of all places! – were this not Marinette , her hand is instantly warm through the fabric of his jeans when she strokes his thigh. 

“I'd tell you that you have no idea, but you really do.”

“Yeah.” He strums time on the back of her hand, eliciting a giggle at his silliness. “That was... I'll try to make sure that I carry my share from here on out.”

She gives her head a shake, but it feels inwardly directed. “You were already carrying more than enough.”

“We both were.”

Foot to the protruding base of his rolling desk chair, she tugs him into position so that she can raise his hand to her lips. The kiss has his stomach knotting up and leaves him shivering because her eyes never leave his. Fine hairs along the back of his hand prickle at the little puff of air that leaves her nostrils as she parts from him with the faintest of wet pops.

His hand is scalding hot, much like his cheeks that also ache for the grin that's cropped up as he rubs at the tingling flesh, still slightly slick with moisture from her lips.

“So,” he coughs, clearing his throat to stop sounding like a teen in the midst of puberty, voice cracking and frying randomly, “what do you say we crack open those mint in box Ladybug and Chat Noir figures.”

Her head quirks. “Another custom job?”

“Multimouse and Aspik.” Who else could they create together, after all? One for her shelf and one for his. Both of them in her bedroom.

In perfect synchronization, her brow and lips quirk together, playful and full of promises that are only now beginning to take shape, and be visible in full colour. “Custom original superheroes?”

A simple hug is all that he needs, largely because it's her hug, and maybe – maybe it shouldn't be enough, or shouldn't be what he perceives as enough to fill up all those empty spaces inside of him, even if Marinette-Ladybug-Multimouse is the most grandiose woman in the world, a raging nuclear inferno 1.989 × 10^30 kg in mass and all the freckled stars in the sky that should obliterate him, wash him away in blissful tidal waves of fire.

There's still so much work to do.

Not to be worthy of being loved.

But to be the person he deserves to be.

He shakes his head. “More just... Marinette and Adrien.”

Her grin.

Her scent.

Her voice.

Her soul.

Her.

“Sounds like the perfect collectors' two pack.”

For now , that's enough.

Chapter Text

Unlike prior villains encountered by Ladybug and Chat Noir, the bulbous entity, parading between buildings and tossing cars to the side with his titanic footfalls, was beyond the human capacity for description, an eldritch nefandous monstrosity. Fetid stench, as of something moldering, poured forth from its cruelly fanged mouth, yawning wide to loose a cackling roar that left every pedestrian in its path frozen as if wracked with terror. Each colossal stride shook the slapdash, papery foundations of adjoining buildings as it stormed down the streets, reveling in the destruction that it wrought.

Little lifeless playthings, the deposed heroes of Paris, Chat Noir and Ladybug, lay in its wake as heavy footfalls were accompanied by the quavering wail of high-pitched voices in a symphony of destruction and chaos. 

Nothing could sa-

"Are you three nearly ready for dinner?"

Emma and Louis Agreste-Cheng glanced up from the miniature cardboard city that had been spread out across the playroom floor. They were laying in the midst of a horde of cardboard milk cartons and amazon shipping containers, splattered with uneven asymmetrical windows that had been etched in felt marker or carved out with safety scissors – a few by the real ones that mamma and papa had warned them never to touch without permission and supervision.

Throughout the scene of carnage, littered between miniature cars smaller than the majority of the action figures, Duplo-men and Lego-people (mostly used to simulate children), a fold-out play streetway had been slightly bunched up underneath the titanic monster, half the size of a cardboard skyscraper: Plagg, his fangs bared as he was frozen in the midst of feigning an attempt at clambering up the side of a towering building with stick figure people screaming and waving noodle arms from the windows.

Promptly, the kwami floated up into the air and began dusting himself off as if he was thoroughly above this entire affair, which he was by nature, and soon was physically when he rose up to roughly Adrien-eye level.

“Well it's about time,” he huffed, sparing a glance at the kittens whom he'd been indulging most graciously but only at the behest of Adrien, who had promised copious amounts of cheese for a few minutes of babysitting.

“You've been behaving for Plagg?” Adrien asked as the kids tossed aside their “civilian” Duplo people and rushed to their father's side.

“Yeah, papa.” A paragon of juvenile innocence with her pigtails bouncing, Emma rocked back and forth on her heels. “We're always good for Plagg.”

Adrien gave him the parent look.

It was a good look on his Kid.

“And you haven't had any trouble, Buddy?”

“With your kids? They're wild, destructive little gremlins. Agents of unmitigated chaos.” Plagg scoffed deep in the back of his throat so that the sound came out between a growl and laugh, tossing a paw in his now rather exceptionally large Kid's direction. “They're perfect.”

“What were you playing, Sweetie?” Adrien asked when little Emma clutched hold of his leg in a random surprise hug because she was still a bit of a daddy's girl when she wasn't in the midst of yet another one of her forays out into the muck around the Agreste vacation house, or trying to break her neck and drive her father mad as she clambered about on the park equipment everyday after school, challenging the other children to keep up with her.

“Plagg was a sentimonster, and he beat up Ladybug and Chat Noir!” That exuberance was all Louis, at least when he was trying to show off to his father at home. The little kitten was a mouse in school. Racing over to one of the distant cardboard boxes, he withdrew a 3.75” Ryuuko figure that had emerged from the box without any gold or black highlights, but five minutes with Adrien and twenty-four hours for the paint and dull-coat to dry had taken care of that.

“Ryk- Rukku-” He shook his head and showed off his gapped-toothed front teeth, too exuberant to let his failures slow him down. “She's going to rescue them!”

“Oh, that does sound dramatic.” Kneeling after he peeled an insistent daughter from his thigh, only to hug her properly, Adrien nodded for his son to continue. “How are they going to win this time?”

“I don't know, Papa,” Emma mumbled into his chest, half rubbing the top of her head into his chin. “Maybe Ladybug has a lucky charm or...”

“Maybe you could help us, Papa.” With enough consideration for his father's work to take the time to place Ryuuko back on a nearby 'building' before joining his sister, Louis clambered over to Adrien's side and appeared willing to allow himself the indignity of a hug. Plagg would never! At least not when people were around. “You're great at coming up with stories.”

Bedtime stories were a favorite with Adrien's now luxuriously deep but harmonious voice taking on a soothing cast regardless of the dangers faced by Majestia and Superman, or Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, or any one of a thousand heroes and villains all weaved together from the ethereal substance of his imagination as he held his two children to his chest, one under each arm, and then carted them off to bed.

Sometimes, even after they had fallen asleep, he and Plagg, and Marinettte and Tikki alongside them, would just watch as the twins slept, each hand to a floppy black mop of hair. Husband and wife would look at one another, and though Plagg could never understand creation, he could appreciate it. In many ways, only he could appreciate it. She was his other half.

In those moments, he looked upon the boy he'd helped to create, and the girl who reached out for his hand as he mouthed the words, silent as breath so the stillness could last, children snuffling into his chest: “They're ours. We made them.”

How could I have made something so beautiful?

“Well, then, I have just the thing.” Rising up from his little kittens, Adrien gave both of them a parting squeeze before crossing the room to begin rearranging boxes atop one of the distant shelves against the far wall, finally lowering a small, gray plastic tub to the floor and cracking it open, the latches along the rim popping with a series of pops that had Plagg's ears flattening against his skull. Inside, the tub was brimming with action figures, some of which the Kwami recognized from past Christmases and birthdays, and a handful, as Adrien began rummaging through them, even tracing their way back to the shelves of his Kitten's childhood room.

They'd just been passed on, a meaningless gift from his father, a treasure from his mother for all that she'd shared with him, and daddy's toys that brought joy to his own children as they clutched a classic Optimus Prime or five-point-of-articulation Darth Vader to their chests, seated in the crook of their momma or papa's arm before the living room television screen while Transformers or The Empire Strikes Back played on the television.

Even to ones so small, so young, unable to forge the connections needed to understand, those toys were special.

But the dearest was-

“Mommy!” Emma cried out as Adrien crooned with success and emerged with a tiny gray and pink mass market action figure.

Nothing like the one that stood alongside ticket stubs to the first screening of Solitude that he'd seen alongside his Lady, a little Aspik collectible - the only one in existence – the first pair of misshapen and unmatched mittens that he'd ever knit (kept from the bin and smuggled into the display case by Marinette because they didn't have to be perfect to be beautiful, and they didn't have to be beautiful to be treasured), and a tatty and threadbare blue scarf.

In the years following Gabriel's unveiling, trial, and imprisonment, Multimouse had made the rounds openly, though she was a confirmed auxiliary hero unlike Ryuuko, Viperion, Rena Rouge, and Carapace, each of whom could be seen stalking, slithering, flashing, or cavorting about the city, addressing anything and everything from thugs smashing store windows, to street harassers, and the new Hawkmoth's supervillain lackeys.

Of course Hasbro had pumped out another figure.

Adrien had gone to business school and hired a team of specialized lawyers before he went about signing any legally-binding contracts in his civilian life.

“Multimouse should be just what the Sentimonster ordered.” Kneeling down before the massive playset, Adrien set Multimouse atop one of the cardboard buildings and gave both of the marginally befuddled kittens a wink. “After all, this is Paris, and your mom will always be there to keep you safe.”

“But Mom's already Ladybug,” Louis objected as Adrien twisted the little figure's shoulder and forearm joints so that she appeared to be shielding her eyes from the sun, surveying the carnage as she contemplated joining the battle.

“Ah, but Multimouse can split up,” Adrien explained with a faint smile that Plagg had come to appreciate over the years. “Maybe she's Ladybug and Multimouse at the same time.”

“What about you, Papa?”

“I think that Chat Noir's still got some fight in him.” A hand wave indicated the toppled action figure version of his alter-ego. “A triumphant return at the last minute, when no one expects it. Someone has to keep mom safe while she's looking out for Paris and you two, right?”

“That's a great idea, Papa.” With a baleful glance at her twin, Emma placed a hand to her father's shoulder as she gave him kitten eyes powerful enough to make Plagg proud. Little gremlin indeed. “You do come up with great stories, so you'll play with us after dinner?”

Feigned disinterest was pretty easy after all these millennia. Plagg had that down to a science, so there was no way that he let the mask slip from his little rubbery face while Adrien passed a gentle hand over his daughter's head. “After you help clean up the dishes.”

For just a moment, as the kittens for all their redeeming qualities did not properly value a home-cooked meal in the same way that Plagg privileged a properly cultured and aged wedge of the good and gooey and glorious stuff, Emma sulked.

“Okay.” 

“Now, you little gremlins,” Adrien laughed, “go wash up for dinner. Your mom called and she should be home in a few minutes.”

“Hey, Kid?” Plagg began as Adrien ushered said little gremlins out of the playroom, which wasn't even a trial when they heard the front door creak open and began hollering for their mama, racing to throw themselves into her arms.

“You did good.”

Not for the first time, though it had taken years to even begin to uncoil the miles of knotted barbed wire and uproot the landmines that had been buried inside of his brain, Adrien agreed.

“Yeah, Plagg.” He swallowed and let the tears come now that his children weren't there to worry for no reason as he watched the pair scamper down the hallway to join their mother for the dinner that he had waiting for her when she got home from Agreste Designs .

“I really think that I did.”