Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“YOU. . . MUST HAVE BEEN PRETTY surprised to discover there was another holder.”

The voice came from behind, soft, tentative. He’d known she was coming, of course, with his feline hearing. But Chat Noir didn’t turn his head.

He set his jaw, staring into the brilliant golden afternoon. The Eiffel Tower rose to prominence in the distance, the late afternoon sun creeping closer to the horizon. Tonight’s sunset would be brilliant and rich—common for autumn in Paris—but he felt none of the warmth.

Don’t look at her.

“I’m really sorry, Chat Noir.” Ladybug sat down next to him, swinging her legs over the ledge of their spot, their rendezvous point for patrols and meetings. 

The meetings and patrols didn’t matter much to him. Not as much as the other things. The privacy. The late nights. The aimless conversations and laughter. Their spot. To him, this was his favourite place in the world. 

Chat Noir had a new partner to defeat an akuma today. Scarabella. Ugh. Scarabella was out of her element and sassily aware of it, which just made him more antagonistic in turn. Really, his prickly attitude in today’s battle had nothing to do with the replacement. It had everything to do with whom she was replacing.

He’d laid eyes on Scarabella for the first time and panicked, thinking his greatest fear had come to life. Scarabella had said his Ladybug was out of town, but what if that was just to keep his morale up? What if his Lady was sick? Dying? Dead? Never to patrol or battle enemies with him again, forever replaced by some witty smartass with voluminous hair?

Chat Noir had been sitting at their spot for nearly an hour, squinting at the skyline until he could believably say the liquid in his eyes was from glare instead of fear, trying not to imagine a world where he and his Lady never met again.

Ladybug cast a gentle look in his direction—he could see it, those sapphire eyes, even in his periphery. “I should have told you. I mean, if I had found out that you told someone your secret identity, I’d. . . probably be upset, too. I’m really sorry I hurt your feelings.”

Chat Noir blinked, willing his eyes to dry. He was seventeen now—very nearly eighteen—and in the four years that Ladybug and he had been partners, she’d never shared her true identity, and she’d forced him to do the same. It was too dangerous, as the guardians of Paris—hers with a capital G, and his with lowercase. 

If that knowledge fell into the wrong hands, it would be a swift game over . Miraculous wielders were forbidden to know each other’s daytime personas. If Hawk Moth corrupted one of them, the secrets about the rest would spill out as easily as water from a faucet.

So in telling Scarabella, Ladybug had hurt him, deeply. Did he not deserve a warning at least? Still, his heart refused to let her bear an ounce of that weight. His sole purpose was to protect his Lady, even from her own guilt.

Chat Noir wondered if his anguished thoughts would tint his words insincere when he said: “You didn’t hurt my feelings. You did everything right.”

Ladybug hadn’t done everything right. 

She could have told him a replacement would be coming. She could have told him that there was someone in her life that she had confided in, when he’d been in self-imposed isolation for four years, trying to live up to her moral standards. Below the skyline, civilians basked in the early evening, toddlers laughed, even the pigeons seemed to amble instead of viciously scurrying for food. 

“Paris will always need a Ladybug superhero to watch over her. It’s just, I realised that if one day that hero wasn’t you, my Lady, since we don’t know each other’s identities, that means. . . I’d never see you again,” he confessed hoarsely. “Ever.” Chat Noir placed both his palms on the concrete ledge, turning his head away. “You know, I just don’t know if I can bear it.” 

A gentle pressure landed on his right hand. Chat Noir met her caring, earnest eyes and felt his frantic heartbeat settle down. 

When they first met and Ladybug was still a mysterious, irresistible stranger, his heartbeat skipped whenever he saw her. Thinking of her brought around giddiness and fantasies and butterflies in his chest. 

Now, terrifyingly, Chat Noir had familiarity instead of giddiness, memories instead of fantasies, and the butterflies had become this crushing weight on his chest that only abated when he could touch her.

There were moments like this that gave him such an epic sense of calm and completion that he thought, I really love you. But he’d thought that yesterday. And the day before. Each new sunrise, he was convinced this was the deepest in love, the most hers he could ever be, and by each sunset he had proven himself an idiot because she would never feel the same. 

“I’ll never abandon you, kitty cat,” Ladybug murmured, squeezing his hand in hers. 

The sunset sky seemed to curl around them. Chat Noir was close enough to trace the different whorls of blue in Ladybug’s eyes—sapphire, with flecks of sky and periwinkle.

She was heartbreakingly beautiful. He knew that in his soul, even though the quantum masking in their suits obscured any true facial features. If all the people who had ever seen Ladybug described her to a forensic artist, no two drawings would agree. 

But Ladybug was just as beautiful as a person, and Chat Noir saw it every time they were together. Her morality, her quick wit, her stubbornness. Those qualities shone out of her and hit him squarely in the chest.

And it was starting to bruise.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug anchored her magical yo-yo around the TV antenna on top of the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery.

Aside from those training-wheel weeks back when she was thirteen, the yo-yo always felt like an extension of her body. She hardly had to think to navigate around Paris with neck-breaking speed. She’d been curious about it back then, but no amount of research could make the physics make sense to her.

The string contracted, dragging her soaring body through the air. A warm breeze caressed the exposed lower half of her face. Her momentum carried her into a perfect somersault and onto the balcony.

Ladybug slipped into her bedroom through the sunroof and transformed. Marinette’s kwami, a mouse-sized magical creature with hot pink fur and enormous sapphire eyes, materialised from her ruby earrings. 

The first thing Tikki did was sigh.

“It’s a good thing you spoke to Chat Noir after sending Scarabella,” Tikki said, folding her paws in front of herself. “He really loves you, Marinette.”

Gah. Whenever Tikki pulled her baby eyes, Marinette was utterly helpless. 

It was incredibly deceiving; the way kwamis manifested in the mortal realm. With giant eyes, tiny, rounded limbs and a plump body, no-one would ever guess that they were overpowered entities as old as the universe. Kwamis levitated, phased through solid matter, travelled to interdimensional realms, and bestowed their unique abilities on human wielders through their Miraculous—a jewel conduit for sacred magical power.

And one of Tikki’s many powers was the power of the gentle guilt trip.

“He really loves the woman in the suit,” she defended. “Not Marinette. There’s a difference. A pretty huge one.”

“Maybe so. But he’s wanted to know your identity for so long. It must have been a shock to discover that you trusted Scarabella and not him.”

“A surprise, yes.” As Marinette slipped her ballet flats off in favour of her inside slippers, her gaze landed on the posters decorating her baby pink walls. “But Chat Noir knows that we’re just partners. And why it’s too dangerous to tell each other. I have friends and confidants in my real life, too, and Chat Noir pales in comparison to some of those people.”

It was impossible to stop the dreamy lilt from sneaking into her voice when she said those people .

Adrien , a name which must always be sighed instead of said. He modelled, fenced, danced, played the piano, spoke several languages, and above all, he was kind. So kind. And pretty. Giddy adoration washed over her at the mere thought of him.

Marinette couldn’t help it. She’d printed the highest-quality posters of Adrien Agreste for this exact reason. Perfectly symmetrical features and lush blonde hair. He was a walking painting of summertime, all ripe plantlife and fields of sunflowers. It was almost like those were his real grass-green eyes staring back at her. 

Adrien’s eighteenth birthday was next week. She’d been working on his gift for a month, and had set all her search engines to notify her when an article mentioned the love of her life. He was the son of Gabriel Agreste, Paris’ most exclusive designer, and a powerhouse idol in his own right. Therefore, Adrien’s birthday party would be studded with more stars than Chloé Bourgeois’ rhinestone handbag.

Marinette had to get his attention. She had to. She’d prepared her outfit, his birthday gift, the transportation to the Agreste mansion with her classmates, and seven different conversation starters depending on the potential times and locations of her inevitable run-in with Adrien. 

If they were near a waiter, she’d ask about the canapes. If it was early into the event, she’d glance around at the people not-dancing and say “we should really get this party started” and ask Adrien to dance like he had in New York. And if it was late—

“Hm.” Tikki observed Marinette’s dreaminess with an odd stillness.

Marinette chuckled bashfully. “What?”

“Marinette!” Her mother’s voice drifted upstairs, through her bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready!”

Marinette tucked all thoughts of Scarabella and the mistakes she’d made, and Chat Noir and how ridiculously green his eyes were when he was sad—and even Adrien Agreste—away when the thought of food hit her. 

“Coming, Mom!”

It had been such a long day. She was famished.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

There were bubbles floating in the air when Adrien walked into Francois Dupont High School.

For a second, the iridescence took his train of thought down a detour—watching the rainbows swirl on the round surfaces, wondering who blew them, wanting to pop one with his forefinger. But then Adrien cleared the entrance foyer. 

Leaning against the wall, in the shadowy corner, was Nino Lahiffe, Adrien’s bestest friend in the world. “Hey, Nino. I got to tell you something.”

“No,” Nino interrupted. He lowered the bubble stick from his lips. “I got to tell you something.”

Nino took Adrien to a part of the school he never knew existed. 

It was two stories down from ground level, accessible by a heavy door with lots of warning signs on it, mostly pertaining to the electrical hazards in the plant room beyond. It was lit by one bulb that was definitely on its way to dying, blinking frequently and casting the empty maintenance room in a weak blue light.

Adrien glanced around wherever he could, watching his feet for things that might trip him up. But Nino seemed to know his way around, walking straight to a desk in the corner.

Nino spun a wooden chair around facing the desk, hands clasping the back of it. “Sit down.”

Adrien watched with a little amusement and a lot of concern as Nino rounded the desk, sank into the larger and cushier chair behind it, and crossed his feet on top of the wood. 

Adrien sat. 

Nino said nothing, puffing bubbles into the air like cigarette smoke.

Adrien folded his hands underneath his thighs.

“Uh. . .” he murmured, unsure what to say. 

Nino had been having a rough time this week. Relationship troubles. That was exactly what Adrien had wanted to address when he walked into school.

Was there music playing?

There was music playing. 

Some dusky, sultry jazz was pouring out from a handheld radio on the right-hand side of the desk. A stack of books sat on the left-hand side. Behind the desk was a sprawling poster of the New York skyline. With the crime film soundtrack and bad lighting, Adrien expected to see a private investigator from the underbelly. 

Not Nino, in the damp basement of their high school.

“When did you set all this up?” he asked casually.

Nino slammed a fist onto the desk. Adrien flinched; that had to have hurt. 

“I’m the one asking questions. Remember what I told you yesterday?”

Yeah. Adrien did. Nino had gotten it into his head that Alya Césaire—his girlfriend since seconde —was in love with Chat Noir, and soon to dump him. It was ludicrous and impossible and just plain dumb, and yet it was something Adrien could have easily fixed for his best friend. 

So he’d gone to Alya’s place last night as Chat Noir, intent on setting things straight. With brilliant success, in his opinion.

“I got proof now.” Nino held up his cell phone, the glaring brightness doing more for the room’s lighting than that struggling bulb overhead. “What do you say to this?”

Nino shoved the screen into Adrien’s face. It showed a video, paused on a specific frame of Chat Noir and Alya hugging. 

For fuck’s sake. 

That was taken out of context. They’d hugged only after she’d laughed—more like guffawed—in his face for ever thinking she could love anyone but Nino. She was deeply committed to her boyfriend.

“Uh,” Adrien stamped down the urge to swear at the twist of fate. He reached for the radio dial and turned the smooth jazz down. “Come on. That doesn’t make any sense. You’re wrong. That’s not at all what happened.”

Nino stood and dialled the music back up, eyes piercing and inquisitive. “How do you know? You were there? You’re in on it, too?”

His best friend was just projecting. On most days, Nino was incredibly mellow. He was slow to anger, easy-going and forgiving. But, damn, Adrien knew there was a dramatic side to him. And now he had to parry with it, taking extremely careful steps not to set him off.

“No, no, of course not.” Adrien shook his hands. “But it’s impossible. I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. Alya and Chat Noir have nothing in common.”

Adrien tried to think of all the times he’d interacted with Alya as his superhero persona, and he was damn sure there were about—what?—four? Five? 

He didn’t count those times when she pleaded with them for an interview with the Ladyblog, Alya’s online website dedicated to the heroes of Paris. She always glossed over his presence in favour of his Lady. I mean, if Alya had to have a celebrity crush, the entire world and then some knew it was Ladybug, not him.

“They barely know each other.” Adrien turned down the crooning saxophone sounds, intent on making Nino listen . “Alya is just a superhero fan. She’s been filming Ladybug and Chat Noir, that’s all.”

Nino frowned, leaning closer to Adrien, hands propped up on the desk. “They know each other well enough.”

“But no-one knows Ladybug and Chat Noir’s secret identities,” he reasoned. “Can you imagine Alya falling in love with someone she doesn’t really know? The girl who wants to be a reporter? Who always wants to know the truth no matter what? Who wants to share everything with the boy she loves?”

Yeah. Think, dude. Adrien could see he was getting through to Nino. In the watery lighting, he saw a flash of uncertainty cross his best friend’s face. And when the angsty wall came down, he knew Nino didn’t truly doubt Alya. He doubted himself. 

But then Nino turned the stupid fucking jazz back on. 

“They actually know each other much better than you think!” he exclaimed.

Adrien painted a comforting smile on his face. “You can’t assume that from this video.”

“Listen.” Nino dropped his head with a heavy sigh and walked around the desk. “Here’s what you don’t know. I’m not talking about the video, dude,” he said cryptically. 

Nino kneeled to the ground at the side of Adrien’s chair. His hands landed, faster than a blink and weirdly heavy, on his shoulders, eyes blazing with determination. “I’m talking about something I shouldn’t be telling you. A mind-blowing secret.”

Uh-huh.

“Alya is a superhero.”

Huh.

“She’s Rena Rouge.”

Adrien’s brain went numb. “Wha—”

“Shh,” Nino hissed, placing his forefinger to Adrien’s lips. “I know what you’re about to say. That’s nonsense. ” He got to his feet, gesturing wildly with his hands. “ And how would Nino know that anyway? ”

Yeah. What the hell was going on?

Nino turned his back to Adrien, wrangling with himself for one last faltering second. 

“I know because I’m a superhero, too.” 

Adrien stopped breathing. His best friend turned around, walking closer, and Adrien wished he could pause time so his mind could catch up with his surroundings. God, would the jazz just shut up?

“I’m Carapace.”

. . .Adrien had walked into school with a fair idea of how the morning would go. 

He would tell Nino the new information he’d obtained—Alya 100% doesn’t love Chat Noir—and then the lovebirds would make up, and then everything would be well again. He and Marinette would then make gentle fun of Nino’s melodrama at their usual cafeteria table at lunchtime. Gentle because Nino would undoubtedly still be a bit sensitive, and because Adrien couldn’t envision Marinette ever saying anything truly mean. 

That’s how it was supposed to go.

That’s— how. . . it. . .

“You’re. . . Carapace? But—” 

Adrien pictured the Carapace he knew. He’d called him the Lean Green Machine in his head. Tall, tanned, with quick jokes and unwavering determination. As one of the earlier wielders to be given a Miraculous, Carapace was great for easing new, uncertain heroes into the team.

Then he pictured Rena Rouge. Clad in orange that brought out her amber eyes and auburn hair, Rena Rouge was slick-talking and full of creative ideas. She was trained in melee combat, but best used as a mastermind. No-one could out-think her illusions.

How could they have been superheroes and hidden it so well from each other? Adrien had once tried to date, with disastrous consequences, while juggling his duties as Chat Noir. Kagami Tsurugi was his first girlfriend—if someone he’d always held at arm’s length physically and emotionally was considered a girlfriend—and his last.

How did they do it? 

Nino. And Alya.

Nino and Alya.

Oh.

Adrien leapt to his feet, the chair crashing to the ground behind him. Whatever. Consider it percussion to accompany that smooth jazz. 

“The two of you know? ” he accused, voice emerging harsh and way too accusatory. Adrien remembered that he was supposed to be a guileless schoolboy, and softened his tone. “You know each other’s secret identities?”

“Of course. Alya and I have never kept anything from each other,” Nino said, full of pride. Then his features darkened. “Until now. All that Chat Noir business.”

“Wait a sec. I don’t understand. I thought that secret identities had to be protected at all costs. If it were true, you’d never just tell me like that,” Adrien insisted, watching Nino with wary eyes. “Ladybug would never agree to that!”

I’ll never abandon you, kitty cat.

Nino frowned at Adrien, hands on his hips. Nothing in his posture was guilty or defensive. “Are you kidding? Ladybug is the one who gave us both our Miraculous at the same time.”

She wouldn’t. She said. . .

The truth pierced Adrien like a bullet. In through his heart and out along his spine. Surely, that deflating feeling in his chest was his body collapsing on itself. 

“No. That’s impossible.”

Ladybug hadn’t let him reveal himself in all the years they’d been working together. Claimed it was too dangerous. Claimed it was to protect them both. No Miraculous wielders should know about each other until Hawk Moth was defeated. But Nino. And Alya. Nino and Alya.

“What are you trying to say? That I’m lying or something?”

“No, no. What I meant was. . .” Adrien squeezed his eyes shut and dragged all his wayward thoughts back onto track. He could still save this morning. 

“Okay. You’re Carapace, she’s Rena Rouge, and Ladybug’s okay with this,” he rattled off, voice trembling. “But, it still isn’t like Alya or Chat Noir to be. . .” he waved his hand suggestively “. . .you know.”

“You don’t know what Chat Noir really is!” Nino yelled. “But I do. I’m part of the team. I see how he acts in real life. Sure, as soon as Ladybug shows up, he throws himself at her feet with roses and big declarations.”

With hands clasped romantically, Nino leaned up to Adrien’s face and mimicked kissing his cheeks. Then his lips flattened into a stern line. “But he gets blown off every time! Because Ladybug thinks he’s obnoxious, and she’s right!”

Oh, God. Adrien thought Carapace liked Chat Noir. 

Lean Green Machine. They were the first two boys on the team, and their dynamic was like a well-oiled engine in his opinion. When he made those cheesy jokes, he was certain that Carapace would see the pompous irony for what it was. A cheap pun or an innuendo wherever it would fit—ha, wherever it would fit —because he was going for humour so bad that it was good.

But Carapace didn’t get it. And neither did Ladybug.

“And then, whenever Rena Rouge shows up, it’s like: well, hello there, pretty lady.” Nino caressed Adrien’s chin, the mocking touch an uncomfortable reminder of just how many ways this situation was truly fucked up. “You look so fine. You smell so good.” 

Fucked. Up.

“So yeah! It’s easy to figure out that the first mission I missed— I mean, Carapace missed, he made his move,” he said furiously. “And bam, this is what happened.” 

Adrien watched with a hurricane of thoughts in his head— Carapace, Rena Rouge, Nino and Alya, Ladybug lied to me —as the anger trickled out of his best friend. Nino hung his head, sniffing quietly. 

“Now, I’m all alone. I’ve lost the love of my life.” He held his phone to his eyes like it was a lifeline, a window into the world he wanted, where Alya would never leave him. Nino’s lip trembled with rage, and he muttered violently, “If I could, I’d sew his sweet-talking mouth shut with his own whiskers.”

Adrien attempted a conciliatory smile in case Nino glanced at him for support, but he was sure it looked pained. Or panicked. Or constipated.

Because, well, how could he even begin to fix this?

Chapter Text

LADYBUG FIXED EVERYTHING, AS ALWAYS.

With one of her convoluted plans, she'd completely cleared up any doubts Nino had about his relationship. Nino and Alya were still in love, and now their communication skills were stronger than before. Together forever. Ladybug had saved Paris again from the destructive powers of yet another akumatised victim. The city's hero.

Good. Great. Fantastic for them. The only person not joyously tap-dancing his way out of the emotional rubble of Rocketeer was Chat Noir. His Lady had lied to him.

She's not your Lady.

He landed with catlike elegance on the centimetre edge of a pane of glass.

Chat Noir had left his bedroom window open for easy entry and exit. He always did. A bad move, considering there was probably not a single place more coveted by burglars than Adrien Agreste's bedroom. A rock climbing covered the east wall, and a full length bookshelf the west. He owned an arcade machine, foosball table, the PlayStation 5, which his father procured two months before its public release.

And yet he couldn't give a damn if one day he returned, and these treasures had been stolen. Not that the ten-feet walls around the perimeter of the Agreste mansion and the military-grade security system would ever allow it.

Descending noiselessly onto the polished hardwood floor, he whispered, "Plagg. Claws in."

Green light swept his body, toe to top, and then he was Adrien Agreste once more. Great.

Plagg's head snapped to the door. Adrien knew the Black Cat kwami's enhanced hearing was picking up on something, and seconds later the door handle twisted. Adrien dove for the grand piano, dismissing his shuffled playlist of classical pieces. Replacing the phone, his fingers landed on the keys just as his father stepped into the room.

"Adrien," his father greeted stonily. Gabriel's mouth flattened into a stern line.

That was his way of showing affection, he'd learned. Adrien nodded at his father, hands conjuring Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 17 with rote expertise. His father stopped by the threshold and listened intently.

Plagg, who had zipped into the lid of the piano, let only his green eyes and feline snout melt out of the music stand. "Close one," he mouthed devilishly, pulling faces at Adrien while the boy played.

"How is the sonata coming along?"

Adrien's eighteenth birthday party was in two days, and Gabriel had been arranging the most opulent celebration for his son's coming of age. The type of event with tiny food portions held by massive plates held by impeccably dressed waiters, security checks at the door of the Agreste mansion, and a live piano performance by the birthday boy himself.

His father had been so busy planning his birthday celebration that Adrien felt like he'd hardly seen him. He supposed it must have been a complicated affair—catering, decorations, extra security, housekeeping. If he didn't know better, Adrien would have suggested simply hosting a few of his school friends in his room, ordering pizza and watching action movies late into the evening.

But he did know better.

"I'm making excellent progress, Father."

I'm making excellent progress, Father, Plagg mimicked silently.

Adrien's kwami adopted an annoyingly cherubic expression, a teasing rendition of his wielder. It was a good thing he was hidden by the music stand, and Adrien not, so he couldn't even glare at Plagg.

As if proving himself, Adrien completed a grand flourish down the scale of B-flat major and sank into the next set of bars. Gabriel Agreste looked mildly impressed.

"Good," his father said.

Good, Plagg mocked, face drawn tight into a rigid mask.

Gabriel Agreste nodded imperceptibly, a sign of approval Adrien had honed his eyes into detecting. "I trust that you will be ready for your party. Many of my industry connections are looking forward to hearing you play live for the first time."

"Yes, Father."

There was once a time that his father used to sit alongside his son and play the piano with Adrien.

The Agreste mansion had always been huge. But on those distant afternoons that he, his mother and his father filled its grand chambers with music and laughter, the mansion had felt cosy.

It had been a long time since that feeling had come around.

Sometimes it was so faint Adrien felt like he was imagining it all—or, at the least, glamourising his memory. Surely his father couldn't have played Rocket Man and belted out the wrong words at the top of his lungs. Surely Gabriel couldn't have encouraged Adrien's passion for passion's sake rather than impressing others. Surely the mansion couldn't have grown so cold in so few years.

Adrien knew his father loved him. Was it sad that he had to dig for a sign his father liked him?

Gabriel made to leave, and Adrien blurted, "Will you be at dinner tonight?" Even as he asked he knew the answer.

Emilie Agreste had been gone for nearly five years and Adrien missed her daily. He kept pictures of her everywhere, frequently listened to old home videos, to keep her memory alive. Since his mother disappeared, Gabriel had thrown himself into his work to distract himself.

It was counterintuitive, the fact that utter tragedy could produce work so prolific as to make these last five years the best ever for Gabriel, the brand. Ten new seasonal lines of garments, three new fragrances, multiple fashion shows and award ceremonies.

The grief of losing his wife sat inside, completely unprocessed, whereas Adrien had let himself rage and cry and run away.

But he had to ask. He would always ask.

Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? How about a picnic? One day, his father—the caring, energetic creative he remembered from childhood—would sit down at the piano again. One day, the Agreste mansion would fill with music, laughter and other people. One day, Gabriel Agreste would come back to the world.

And his son would be ready to welcome him.

"I'm sorry, Adrien. I am incredibly busy finalising your party arrangements with Nathalie, on top of everything at work." Gabriel fixed his tie, his fingers carefully smoothing down the pristine silk. "I need to focus."

I need to focus, Plagg intoned.

Adrien cast a reproachful but affectionate glance at his kwami. He waited until his father's footsteps faded before he shut the piano. Then he launched himself onto the plush couch in front of the 8K OLED television, burying his head in a cushion.

Plagg rested a fuzzy paw on his shoulder. "PlayStation now?"

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette's entire world came grinding to a halt when the bodyguard at the door shook his head.

Her eyebrows jumped so high she could feel them touch her bangs. "What do you mean we're not on the list?"

The primate-like bodyguard glanced at the clipboard in his hand, eyes scanning meticulously, and then back at Marinette. He shook his head again. Even with his taciturn nature—seriously, the man dropped Adrien off and picked him up every day at school, and yet she'd never heard him speak—the body language for no was universal.

Miss Bustier's entire homeroom class had shown up for Adrien's birthday party.

And it was hard work getting everyone assembled like this, let alone getting into the party and surviving it. As the student body president of Francois Dupont High School, Marinette had naturally taken the coordination upon herself. Some people had to manoeuvre shifts at their jobs, some were missing extracurriculars, and others simply had to be violently forced into a tuxedo to fit the dress code.

Cough, Lê Chiến Kim.

Nino shouldered to the front of the crowd of their schoolmates, clad in a hunter green blazer. "Hey, that's my best friend's birthday party." His voice wavered, suddenly overcome with emotion. He wiped invisible tears from the corner of his eyes. "Adrien's my rock. He's gotten me through some rough times lately, and if you think you're keeping us from celebrating him—"

The bodyguard was a mountain of stone.

Nino growled, dropping his facade. "Jesus Christ, let us in!"

Marinette raised a fist, encased in a white satin glove that offset her baby pink dress, and Miss Bustier's class rallied behind their leader. "Yeah!"

The pale, ornate doors opened with a clunk.

Gabriel Agreste stepped out, dressed in a fitted blazer made of the highest quality silk—dark, and yet so exquisitely woven that it seemed to reflect light. Damn it, the man had taste, and the aspiring designer noticed it every time.

From inside the mansion, Marinette heard the party.

Well, party was being generous. She registered the dense noise in the atrium as the type that was all conversation and no laughter. Slow string music underscored the discussions that would surely be about politics and the economy and the fashion industry, and then the door fell shut again.

Gabriel Agreste arched a manicured eyebrow. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"Mr. Agreste, please hear us out. I'm Marinette, one of Adrien's classmates." Marinette placed a palm on her chest, eyes pleading and hopefully genuine. "I was under the impression when you said that you looked forward to welcoming everyone to your mansion for Adrien's party, you meant everyone was welcome."

Gabriel's face remained flat. "It was a turn of phrase. Perhaps a clumsy one on my part. I'm terribly sorry, but we simply didn't plan for such a high number of students at this party. Catering, security and housekeeping are not prepared."

"We don't have to eat anything!" Marinette insisted.

"And we won't cause any trouble," Alya added.

Nino nodded in agreement. "We can even help clean up afterwards!"

The students behind them chorused their support.

"Please, just let us attend this party. We all love Adrien," Marinette told him. Her heart ached at the thought of not being able to deliver this gift, on one of Adrien's most special birthdays, with her eyes looking into his. "We want to be there for him."

But Gabriel, eyes like a glacier, did not so much as give them an apologetic smile. "You may see Adrien at school tomorrow. Enjoy your evening."

The bodyguard opened the door for Gabriel, and it slammed shut in their faces.

Marinette tried to keep everyone's spirits up as they trudged down the stairs of the mansion and towards the opulent front gate. There were other ways into the party, surely. Maybe if she called Adrien, he could pull some strings to get them in. Sure, she'd wanted to surprise him with the class' attendance, but surely the attendance was more important than the surprise—

"What's the point?" Nino muttered, glancing forlornly back at the mansion. "Even if we did get in, someone would throw us out again. I'm so sick and tired of his old man."

Ivan Bruel nodded. "It must be hard with a father like that." Mylène Haprèle, Ivan's girlfriend, curled her arm around his back, her face looking just as pitiful.

All around her, Marinette's classmates wilted in their disappointment. It was hard not to feel the same, the tug towards the deep and dark.

"Come on, everyone," she encouraged, steeling herself. "We need to think positively."

"Why?" Max Kanté whined.

His robot companion, Markov, emitted a sad, modulated sigh. "According to my calculations, there's a 0.01% chance that we'll ever be able to set foot in Adrien's house."

"Why?" Marinette spluttered. "Because—"

A flash of movement caught Marinette's eye.

And then the sky disappeared behind a swarm of purple butterflies.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Adrien was beginning to think that, aside from his father, he wouldn't see anyone he truly cared about on his birthday.

And then the akumas had descended—dozens of them, way too many to count, and it was absolutely sick the way he'd been relieved. Because Ladybug would come to save the say. She always did. And he would get to be with her.

He'd thought long and hard about the situation. Perhaps because Nino and Alya did not hold their Miraculous permanently, the rules about secrecy didn't have to be as strict. Perhaps because they held the two most powerful Miraculous, they were bound by harsher oaths. Perhaps she hadn't done anything wrong.

Adrien slipped away throughout the furor in the atrium. The mega-rich were scrambling for the solace of their private security details, and everyone was simply running for cover behind statues or under tables. He followed the crowd initially, then ducked into a linen closet and transformed.

Chat Noir took his place on the roof of the mansion.

Hawk Moth had only attempted mass akumatisation a few times prior to this. From those experiences, he'd always shown his face, and Ladybug determined that it was a consequence of the limits of his power. One akuma could fly for miles and miles, but spreading the Butterfly Miraculous' power among many akumas meant that each one couldn't travel as far from its maker.

Hawk Moth had to be close by.

He hadn't been waiting for a minute when Ladybug landed next to him, shooting a wry glance at the frantic people filing out of the doors and into their town cars and limousines. She started catching the corrupted butterflies with her yo-yo immediately, though there were people holding their own on the ground.

Specifically, Nino and Alya, helping to keep the crowd calm and upbeat.

"What a pity we had to crash this party," she quipped. Another de-evilised butterfly flew out from her magical yo-yo, now coloured pure white.

"It's not a pity," Chat Noir chuckled. "I heard the mew-sic sucked."

Ladybug chuckled and shook her head, eye crinkling, midnight hair swaying. "That was such a bad pun, kitty."

Ladybug thinks he's obnoxious, and she's right!

Chat Noir turned his head to the civilians in his front yard.

"Have you seen any sign of Hawk Moth?" Chat Noir asked, looking for the familiar silhouette of their nemesis among the surrounding buildings. "Wait."

He slung an arm around Ladybug's shoulders, dragging her lower to the marble, and pointed his other claw to the horizon. The sky was a rich blue in the late afternoon sun. "There."

Ladybug nodded silently, poising her yo-yo at her hip. She saw him.

Hawk Moth, half-hidden behind a chimney. That building was beyond the gates of the Agreste mansion, just across the road. Where the potential akuma victims went, running for the vehicles that had delivered them, so did their enemy.

Without exchanging a word, the superheroes crept around the roof until they were closest to Hawk Moth.

Then they gave chase.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug landed on the fractured concrete and somersaulted out of her fall.

Chat Noir fell into a sprint beside her as she gracefully rolled to her feet, not an inky hair out of place as they bore down on Hawk Moth. She was flawless, as always, even in the most dire of battles.

The superhero duo had corralled their nemesis into a ring of rubble, their battle laying waste to the 6th arrondissement. On either side of the narrow road, ivory residential apartments framed the conflict, some buildings flattened, others only missing chunks of their creamy, gilded facades.

At the beginning of the evening, curious families had peered from wrought iron-wrapped balconies and silk-curtained windows at the standoff. When they realised who was fighting, all the civilians smartly hid. Chat Noir knew no-one else in Paris knew what it meant to witness tragedy upon tragedy, reverse it all, and have no-one remember the trauma.

He and Ladybug were the only two to carry that grief forward. No-one else would really understand the way it weighed on the soul with no evidence it ever happened.

With any luck, this would be their final battle.

"Now, Chat Noir!" Ladybug called, her yo-yo blurring a pink circle by her side.

Chat Noir yelled, thrusting his fist to the ruined cobbles. "Cataclysm!"

His power drove deep cracks into the ground, splintering and snaking their way to Hawk Moth's location with a rumbling vengeance. Just before the supervillain could leap to solid ground, Ladybug threw her Lucky Charm—a quilted blanket—over his fleeing form, obscuring his vision.

Her yo-yo looped around the blanket and cinched before Chat Noir could even blink, unfailingly securing Hawk Moth. The latter struggled and writhed even after he fell into the tight chasm Chat Noir's Cataclysm had pried open. Trapped.

"Hawk Moth," Ladybug intoned as she strode forward. Chat Noir followed, his staff extended and poised to knock Hawk Moth back into his place should he try anything shady.

"You have terrorised this city and its people." Ladybug didn't waste any time—he was slippery enough—reaching between the folds of the blanket and ripping the purple locket brooch from his collar.

Her hand closed around the amethyst. Hawk Moth roared in fury, in defeat, his voice ricocheting off the surviving buildings. Purple light swallowed him.

Ladybug spoke through it all. "Paris' guardians are reclaiming the Miraculous of the Butterfly so that you may never harm her again. Ever."

The violet glow faded. Hawk Moth's head lolled forward under the crushing weight of failure, the head of white-blond hair strangely familiar. Chat Noir thought of all the people he'd watched corrupted, the years of destruction and loss they'd witnessed and then erased. On the cusp of finding justice, suddenly all of his bottled anger rushed up into his throat, unstoppable as a tsunami.

The end of his staff slammed into Hawk Moth's throat. The weakened man spluttered a cough. Chat Noir tipped it up, and with it, the face of the person he hated the most.

He wanted to look Hawk Moth in the eyes before the authorities came and took him away.

Ice grey. Chat Noir knew those eyes, that face, and his heart cracked. The pain was visceral—surely, some fibres of his aorta had splintered and now he was bleeding internally, why did his chest burn—and he saw his father playing the piano with his twelve-year-old self and he saw all those decimated buildings and then he saw nothing as his eyes swam with tears.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

He couldn't think or speak or even help his Lady clean up the aftermath as she threw the blanket to the sky and rejoiced. "Miraculous Ladybug!"

Chat Noir let Ladybug's fist go un-bumped, their little ritual at the end of every battle now a hundred items down the list of his most pressing thoughts.

"I have to go," he whispered numbly, stumbling away as the Channel One news crew, spearheaded by Clara Contard, crowded around their heroes.

"What? Chat Noir."

He had to get out of here. Get the fuck out of here. Because the man he hated the most?

It was his father.

Chapter Text

CHAT NOIR’S FIRST INSTINCT WAS to burn the Agreste mansion to the ground . 

It was a blight on the city. The headquarters of the man who’d held Paris in a cruel fist for four years, targeting people at their lowest and warping them against their will. The nexus of so much evil and pain. It would be very easy to do. One strategic Cataclysm could destroy the foundations, and then he would tear apart the remains by hand if he had to.

But when he arrived at the Agreste mansion, Chat Noir did not see an evil lair.

He saw his childhood home. 

The foyer where he’d decorated the Christmas tree every year, without fail, even that holiday after his mother vanished. The rooms he and his father had filled with piano music, playing duets side by side in brighter days. The dining hall where Nathalie Sancoeur kept him company, reminding him of his next scheduled extracurricular. 

Chat Noir wandered without seeing, guided by his muscle memory the way children wander in the dark to their parents’ bedroom after being woken by a nightmare. Except this nightmare was very real.

There were certainties he’d always held, certainties he didn’t know about until they were stretched taut and stabbed like a stomach. The sun would always rise in the sky. Good always triumphed in the end. His parents were always heroes. Now the sky was falling, splintering like a frozen lake and crashing down on his head.

Did Nathalie know? Did his mother? A lance of pain shot through his chest at the traitorous thought. He didn’t want to believe his mother had anything to do with such darkness. 

He tried not to think about it.

Chat Noir stopped in his father’s atelier, staring up at the golden portrait of his mother in her prime. With hesitant fingers, he swung the painting outward on its secret hinges. He didn’t want to be Adrien right now, but he didn’t know the combination to the lock, and his kwami was the only way into the safe.

“Claws in.” The green rush of magic swept his body, and he told Plagg, “Open it for me.”

“But. . . your father. Adrien. You’re in shock,” his kwami warned. “Are you sure—”

“Open it.”

Plagg blinked twice, his furry snout drooping into a suspicious frown. He phased through the metal and unlocked the mechanism from the inside.

Nothing. Nothing except for souvenirs. Hotel guides from Tibet. A picture of Emelie Agreste, lips curved in a mild-mannered smile. A photo album of Adrien’s infancy, which sent revulsion stampeding through his otherwise numb body.

Adrien braced his palm on the cold metal and couldn’t even feel the coolness on his skin. His fingertips were buzzing. Hunting deeper into the safe, he pulled out an ancient chronicle.

Plagg floated out of the safe as the book slid past him, sniffing the dense pages deeply. “Oh. . .” he sighed, face shuttering with realisation. “Oh.”

Adrien tried to decipher the text within it but couldn’t. It looked ancient, but more than that, it felt ancient. Heavy with knowledge and cold with history. He had seen it before, stupidly dismissing it as a piece of superhero merchandise, but it had to be legitimate information about the Miraculous. The shame hit him like an ice pick to the skull, a piece of the sky weighing down his chest.

He had been so fucking blind . No more. 

Adrien kept to the shadows as he searched every inch of the house. Downstairs, he heard clamouring voices and footsteps as the housekeeping staff were unexpectedly dismissed for the day. The news was breaking on every channel, every social media app, every phone. 

When his cell phone started ringing, transformed by magic and just connected back to the WiFi network, Adrien shut it off without even glancing at the screen.

He moved to his bedroom. No sign of the Peacock Miraculous anywhere, even as he upturned every item he laid his hands on. That was when the police sirens started blaring outside. From his window, Adrien saw red and blue lights flashing outside the gate. Some primal, protective instinct punched at his gut and told him to run. Even if he wanted to stay. Even if he could help them.

Run. 

So he did.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette sat sandwiched between her parents on the couch.

Tom Dupain and Sabine Cheng had been glued to the TV set all night as the news swept through Paris, France, the world. They had wrapped her in blankets and yet she still felt cold, this iciness deep within her bones.

They thought Marinette was fragile.

A lovestruck daughter with clumsy tendencies. It was endearing, of course, how supportive her parents were during her supposed time of need. But she didn’t need endless mugs of hot chocolate or group cuddles. She didn’t need protection. She needed to be out there, in the streets, helping the authorities look for Adrien.

Marinette would give it five more minutes. Then she would feign tiredness and get the hell out of here.

“Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news. Nadja Chamack here.” The reporter filled one half of the TV screen, reciting a grim series of updates. “Gabriel Agreste has been detained after his shock unmasking as the supervillain Hawk Moth.”

Sabine squeezed her arm tighter around Marinette’s shoulders. She zoned out as the newsreel recap played. After all, she had a first-person account of the evening, and a supercut played in her memory.

After Hawk Moth was defeated, the Special Operations Command had moved in to detain him. The urban warfare unit had escorted Gabriel Agreste into the back of a van that took him straight to prison. It was expected that no-one would attempt to interrogate him until the danger level was assessed. Throughout, Clara Contard had reported on the scene, just as armed as the federal employees, except with relentless questions. 

The Parisian police had been dispatched to locate Nathalie Sancoeur and Adrien Agreste for questioning. Unsuccessfully, it turned out, as the woman and boy— man, actually, since he was eighteen now, God—were now declared missing individuals. 

Chat Noir had slipped away in the aftermath. The media had shoved cameras and microphones into Ladybug’s face, to which she rattled off a generic, uplifting message about staying strong and staying together in times of distress. The civilian spectators who lived along the Rue immediately went to social media with grainy but unmistakable footage. Instant virality.

At the side of Marinette’s thigh, against the suede couch cushion, her cell phone vibrated on repeat. Sabine’s dark eyes flitted to the phone. “Do you need to check that, sweetie?”

Marinette nodded and walked the few paces to the kitchen for privacy. 

It was insane how desperately human beings reached out to other human beings in times of uncertainty. All her social media apps were abuzz, especially Twitter and the news platforms. Over one hundred notifications were from the Francois Dupont class group chat, but the app stopped counting at ninety-nine.

Several more pings came from her best friend.

Had she not been occupied, Alya would have been scouring Paris with Marinette right now. As it was, Nino had gone to the Cesairé apartment distraught about something he’d told Adrien—but wouldn’t say what—and in need of support. Alya wouldn’t leave him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t conducting her own search from her home.

The amount of information online about the defeat of Hawk Moth was massive. Alya expertly filtered it for specific leads on where Adrien might be—considering he hadn’t answered anyone’s texts or calls, hence Nino’s distress—and texted it to Marinette.

Alya: gabriel reported to be guarded by at least 5 armed guards at any one time. location hasnt been publicised, but contard said stripped of personal belongings and comm. devices, so idk if adrien has been in touch. personally i dont think so

Alya: stay hopeful!!! hes probably safe but v conflicted right now. u know how he ran away that xmas back in collège? when hes worked through his emotions, he’ll go home. 

Alya: trust. ily girl.

Marinette chewed on the skin at the end of her thumb, her stomach twisted into knots. 

She couldn’t just wait for Adrien to show up at the mansion.

The news was international by now. She remembered the time, months ago, that the pair hid from Adrien’s crazed fans to watch a movie. The resigned panic in his eyes. He hated being a spectacle. He liked to play the piano. He was so kind. 

Hawk Moth fathered the kindest boy known to Paris. She shivered at the unnatural thought, which was a mistake, because her parents had been watching closely, with wide, concerned eyes, bodies twisted around on the couch. 

“Wait right there, sweetheart,” Tom said, leaping with surprising agility to his feet. “I’ll come fix you another mug of hot chocolate. Nothing better than something sweet.”

From the kitchen, Marinette mustered a weak smile as her mountain of a father crowded into the kitchen. Her teeth were going to fall out at this rate.

“Thanks, Dad.” She hugged her phone to her chest and slipped back to the couch, where her mother draped the blanket across her shoulders again. “Thanks, Mom.”

The right half of the TV screen switched to a live video feed of the Agreste mansion. Police swarmed the exterior. A ring of barricades kept any curious civilians far away from the perimeter.

“The Agreste mansion has been seized by authorities in the ongoing investigation into Gabriel’s crimes against Paris. Police arrived on the scene five minutes ago and will question the household staff in the coming weeks. All onsite staff members are cooperating,” Chamack said.

Her mother squeezed her tighter as Nadja relayed the developments regarding the search for Nathalie Sancoeur and Adrien. 

“As the two closest people in his life, detectives believe any useful information that could help convict Agreste will come from them. However, with Mayura unidentified, the Peacock Miraculous unrecovered, and both individuals still missing, they are now persons of interest.”

Marinette wanted to scream. Adrien was innocent! How could he know anything about who his father really was? He was too pure for anything like that. When Nadja handed over to Clara Contard, live on the scene, who started describing the destruction of property in Adrien’s bedroom, she rose from the couch.

“I’m going to go to bed,” she whispered. “I think everything will seem clearer after some sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sabine encouraged. “Do you want Dad to bring that hot chocolate up to you when it’s done?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough hot chocolate. You can drink it, Dad!” Marinette walked behind the couch to hug her mother, and to the kitchen to kiss her father on the cheek. 

“Good night, everyone. I love you.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Plagg heard the Black Cat’s Miraculous emitting rapid beeps.

The beeps blurred into a chime, at which point the world started becoming clearer, and then he was back in it as himself, light as a feather. Adrien cupped Plagg in one hand and fed him delicious old Camembert with the other. He flexed his fingers, turning his hand over to stare at his Miraculous. 

Adrien was going on a rampage.

After upturning every object in his childhood home looking for the Peacock Miraculous, Adrien had conceded defeat as the authorities arrived. Every type of professional team (forensic, weapons squad, biohazard) started moving in and putting tape everywhere—to cordon the property, but also to mark walkways and grid the floor plan into subsections to analyse. 

Chat Noir had used four Cataclysms already, each time stopping to feed Plagg some exquisite morsels he couldn’t turn down. This time, he had darted into the smelly alleyway behind a laundromat, leaning against the brick wall. The entire city was looking for him.

Clearly he didn’t want to be found.

“Thank you,” Plagg croaked, exhausted. 

He usually approved of a healthy rampage. One had to toe the limits of their power to know them, to push past them. But he watched Adrien, who had become terrifyingly emotionless, and cleared his throat. 

“Do you… uh—” What would Sugarcube do? “ —want to talk about it?”

Adrien had run so far, jumped so high, destroyed things, and yet his limbs did not ache. Plagg sensed the frustration in him; his wielder felt dirty on the inside. He wanted the burn in his heart to transfer to his muscles, but unfortunately, the suit prevented physical injury.

Now that the battle was over, Ladybug wouldn’t be able to fix this damage. Not that it was particularly catastrophic; Adrien had been targeting his own billboards, the stores of Gabriel, the brand, and other locations stained with the memory of his father. Paris would consider it deserved vandalism and no-one would look that hard into finding the culprit.

“Are you feeling better?” Adrien asked, unblinking. His eyes were fixed at a point far beyond Plagg.

Plagg gulped. He had never been the sentimental type of kwami. If the universe was a three-course meal, the entrée was PlayStation, the main course was eating and the dessert was napping. Everything in between the humans somehow called life, while Plagg called it boring. 

But Adrien was only eighteen. Modern humans considered that the ripening age, but it was still so young, compared to how long kwami and wielder were supposed to be together. They hadn’t even started to develop the Black Cat’s power into its most mature form.

“Yes,” the kwami said. Energy coursed through his body from the Camembert. He perked up on Adrien’s warm palm and crossed his legs. “But, Adrien—”

“Then claws out,” the boy gritted.

Plagg could not say anything more before he was sucked back into the ring.

Chapter Text

UPSTAIRS IN HER BEDROOM, Marinette discovered a massive, neon roadblock in her plans to look for Adrien.

Tikki was still inside the Miracle Box.

When Marinette had returned from battling Hawk Moth, not a single kwami had been inside the Box. She wasn’t surprised. The Miracle Box was their interdimensional home, yes, but who wanted to be cooped up in their own house all day? Ever since falling into her Guardianship, the kwamis had been more fascinated with the furnishings and clothing in her bedroom.

They had emerged from behind pillows and out of her drawers and within pencil cases, crowding around her and Tikki with wide-eyed urgency. That urgency turned to elation when they realised that Nooroo had been recovered. Hyperactive at first, morphing into sombre determination when his condition became apparent.

Battered, bruised, and so vulnerable. All the kwamis—except Plagg, the most independent—were currently hours into their delivery of copious TLC, floating in that cosmic realm that birthed them. Marinette debated opening the Box to retrieve Tikki and start her search.

Would it be selfish? Gabriel as Hawk Moth was a shitty situation for Adrien, so it was a shitty situation for her. Ladybug would deal with the fallout in Paris and Marinette would deal with the fallout at school. 

But the kwamis didn’t feel the significance of Gabriel’s downfall as anything but inevitable justice. Hawk Moth had to have been someone, and Gabriel was certainly someone. Retrieving the Butterfly Miraculous was merely the righting of a centuries-old wrong. 

To the kwamis, this was a Good Day, even if to Marinette, she’d been picturing Gabriel as her future father-in-law and dreaming of ways to get him to warm up to her before the big wedding.

She didn’t touch the Miracle Box. 

Tikki would emerge when she was ready.

Till then. . . Marinette fell face-first onto her bed and screamed into her duvet. Gabriel Agreste. Hawk Moth. Paris was afire. Gabriel Agreste. Hawk Moth. She rolled onto her back and placed her pillow over her face. 

Even as she turned the two names in her head, the two men, and tried to merge them into one cohesive figure, her body and mind and soul rebelled. 

How could Hawk Moth be Gabriel Agreste? Barely anyone saw the man in public. Whenever he appeared at functions or premiers, he rubbed shoulders with Paris’ elite and no-one else. The man wore a white silk blazer. The man had manicured fingernails. He was reclusive—a bit strange, to be sure—and cultured. 

The image Marinette had formed in her head of Gabriel Agreste was so at odds with manual labour and sunlight, let alone the type of violence she’d been combatting since her first year of high school.

Marinette felt a tug at the corner of the pillow. She removed it to see Tikki, and only Tikki, floating in the moonlight streaming in through the skylight. She hadn’t thought to turn her lamp on, never anticipating to remain in her bedroom for long. Now it just seemed sad, lying on her bed in the dark.

“Tikki! How is Nooroo?” She pushed herself upright. She scratched Tikki’s fuzzy head with her forefinger, tracing the big black spot on top.

Tikki smiled softly. “We kwamis are a resilient bunch. Nooroo will recover from this experience with time—and as an immortal creature, he has plenty of it.”

Marinette felt a measure of her anxiety melt away. “That’s so good to hear.”

“How are you, Marinette?”

“I’m fine,” she said on autopilot. She was already pulling off her inside slippers and pulling on her ballet flats.

“Do you want to talk about it? I know a lot happened today.” Understatement. “It’s okay not to be okay,” Tikki said soothingly. “This is a lot to process.”

“I’m fine, Tikki.” Was she? Who knew? But Marinette needed to leave, feel the cold wind on her cheeks, or she would combust. “I just need to get out there. I need to help Adrien.”

Poor Adrien. There was no-one who knew him better than her, because she caught and treasured information about him like dewdrops in the desert. Adrien was warm, so forgiving and easy-going that he would give up his own money, passions and time for anyone else he thought needed it. Or wanted it. Not even thinking to consider if they deserved it.

That’s just who Adrien was, who the boy Marinette loved was, sun-filled, soft. 

She’d done this to him. She’d cast a cloud on his life. Now she desperately wanted to be there for Adrien. Be a lifeline before he slipped somewhere dark and unreachable. 

She rose to her feet groggily, tamping down the migraine that pummelled her temples. 

“Tikki,” Marinette murmured, keeping her voice quiet. “Spots on.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was three in the morning when Alya stepped outside.

Growing up, she’d been acutely grateful for her family’s apartment. Particularly the location and the balcony. It overlooked, in her opinion, the most charismatic street in Paris. Full of street performers, couples in love and artisanal vendors. She’d learned to peoplewatch by observing anyone who walked by.

At nighttime, it felt hollow. Ladybug balanced on the rail of the balcony, inhumanly stable on two inches of steel, looking down at the same cobbles that Alya had known her whole life.

“Ladybug,” she whispered, features softening with relief. A cold gust of wind blew past, and Alya wrapped the cardigan tighter around herself.

She hadn’t expected to get emotional right now, but it was just so good to see Marinette. Tonight had been such a shitshow. 

Nino came over as soon as the first grainy video of Hawk Moth transforming back into Gabriel Agreste hit Twitter, in a flurry of emotion that Alya had never seen before. From his sobbing and then pacing and then frantic muttering, she thought it was either guilt, anger or shock. It was incredibly difficult to tell. 

If she was honest, Nino had the habit of being dramatic when he was in his feelings. One of his many endearing qualities, of course, and nothing that a long nap with her Super Penguino plushie couldn’t fix. He kept trying to steal it—even though he could easily buy his own, it wouldn’t smell like Alya—and she always refused. 

But for tonight, she had generously donated it as a pillow on which her sweet, emotional boyfriend could rest his head.

“Alya,” Ladybug said, a tired smile on her face. “Thank you so much for all your help and information tonight. I know it’s really late.”

Alya waved a dismissive hand, glancing back into the apartment. She checked that they were truly alone. Through the sliding doors, the living room was dark. Dark enough that she saw Ladybug and herself in the reflection.

Ever since she found out that Marinette was Ladybug, the quantum mask no longer worked on her. The technology was so obscure that research on it took Alya deeper and deeper onto the web, until the document URLs she was accessing started ending in .govt —military grade shit. 

From her basic knowledge of quantum mechanics, she hypothesised it was so named after the discipline’s greatest paradox: attempting to see beyond the mask would destroy any reliable sensory information. Perception destroys the truth.

A Miraculous quantum mask could change every phenotype, every mannerism. It was why, even with years of unfailing dedication, she had never even been close to suspecting Marinette. Before she knew, Alya had seen a Ladybug with a wide brow and sunken cheeks and a red undertone. Beautiful, but absolutely not Marinette.

Now, of course, she heard Marinette’s voice and saw Marinette’s eyes and noticed Marinette’s anxious mannerisms as she paced the tile, swinging her yo-yo in a small, nervous circle. Ladybug was so Marinette. At first it had been unnerving, and now it felt like the rightest thing in the world.

“I’ve checked every place I could think of,” Ladybug muttered. “The mansion is overrun with police. The school is empty, and Max couldn’t even pick up any signal from Adrien’s cell phone. I saw a few of Gabriel’s stores vandalised by civilians. Do you think they hate Adrien by association? What if he’s been hurt?”

“It’s okay. It’s not even been that long. Adrien can totally take care of himself for a few hours. I think you need to go to bed now, and get some sleep.”

“I’m just so worried about him. Have you ever been this worried? I feel like my stomach is trying to escape through my mouth.”

“Yeah,” Alya chuckled sadly. She folded Ladybug into a soft, fuzzy hug. “I have felt that. Love totally sucks sometimes.”

Ladybug pressed her nose into the soft wool of Alya’s cardigan. “Totally. Sometimes.”

Over her best friend’s shoulder, Alya glanced at the darkened buildings along the skyline. Not a pigeon flew, not a silhouette moved. The bright light of the full moon illuminated the balcony and streets below in grayscale. It would be sunrise in shockingly little time, which reminded her of something. 

“Are you going to school tomorrow?” she whispered. She stepped backwards out of the hug and placed both hands on Ladybug’s shoulders.

“Ugh. I don’t know if that’s the only place I want to be or the last place I want to be.” 

Ladybug turned to the horizon, and Alya saw the sheer exhaustion hidden in her strong, confident hero posture. Her shoulders slumped, and every limb looked to be held to their sockets by cotton thread, about to snap.

“I’m going. So is Nino. This is going to rock the school. You’re student body president, and I’m vice. They need us.”

Her best friend nodded, one weary expression flitting across her face before those Marinette nerves of steel set in. No, actually. Not nerves of steel. Nerves of spider silk; flexible, soft, and sometimes invisible, but in many ways stronger than steel. Even when carrying the weight of her friends and family, city and school, Marinette would never give up.

She was one of the strongest people Alya knew.

“Okay. I’ll go. Let’s do this,” Ladybug resolved, checking her Bug Phone and grimacing at the time. “Can’t promise not to fall asleep in all our classes though.”

Alya barked a laugh, stifling the noise with a hand on her mouth. “Neither can I. Please wake me if I snore.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In a historic first, Plagg didn’t want any more cheese.

Adrien gently shoved a chunk of Camembert under Plagg’s nose. Nope. Then his wielder tried prying open his mouth with the soft, pointy end of it. Nope.

“Come on. Eat it, Plagg.” 

Plagg stuck his tongue out at Adrien and collapsed on his warm palm. “No.” 

Mm. This was a nice place to sleep. See, the kwami refused to eat if Adrien was just going to turn back into Chat Noir again. He’d destroyed enough.

If he was ever to grow into his adult powers, he needed to learn the lesson of self-restraint, just like Plagg had. Sure, mistakes were always made along the way—sorry, dinosaurs—so it would be hypocritical not to give Adrien a few hours to vent his emotions in (relative) safety.

But he’d had a few hours, several, actually, and now Plagg was pulling out his trump card.

He fainted.

Adrien would be unwilling to risk his health. As the warm darkness swirled around him, plugging his head with cheese, Plagg could faintly hear his wielder swearing colourfully. But it worked. He was cradled close to a warm heartbeat as Adrien walked somewhere instead of shattering more glass windows and obliterating street signage. A tiny morsel of Camembert hit his tongue, prodded into his maw by a gentle finger.

Plagg blinked his eyes open as a dose of vitality in his stomach.

He stared up at the clouds. The world spun around him. Oof. He was so dizzy. And tired. The sun was starting to creep above the horizon, the sky a milky pink that reminded him of Adrien’s bloodshot eyes. Just as they rounded the corner to the Agreste mansion, Plagg suddenly tumbled into a breast pocket. 

No warning. Rude. “Hey—”

“Shh,” Adrien hushed. “Shit. Fucking shit.”

Plagg had to listen to a familiar voice as it approached. . . who was that? Low and scratchy, male. He did not care enough about the miscellaneous humans in Adrien’s life to remember exactly, but some faint memory told him red hair. 

This unnamed man audibly spotted Adrien Agreste, alerted his colleagues with a series of yells, and then arrested his wielder. 

Arrested! This was such a mess. Plagg hated messes that were not his own.

Why couldn’t they have just played PlayStation tonight?

Chapter Text

MARINETTE HAD NOT YET DECIDED if she even wanted to return to school, and her indecision lasted right up until the moment that she rounded the street corner and laid eyes on Francois Dupont High School.

Then it was startling clear, of course, hitting her like an ice cold droplet of fear trickling down her spine. She did not want to be here. She wanted to walk straight on by, adjusting her purse and pretending like she was an average Parisian fashionista on her way to do fashionista things.

Alas, she was still seventeen, and there were annoyingly many months left in her senior year, and she was the president of the Francois Dupont student body.

Next to her was Alya, and next to Alya—laying a casual, protective arm around her shoulders—was Nino. They had agreed to meet at the Cesairés’ apartment and face the day together, united. So Marinette had taken the long way to school this morning, letting the bright but cold sunlight and the walk from the bakery thaw her exhaustion. She was running on, like, two hours of sleep.

There were four vans parked along the kerb opposite to the school. Two white, two black. About sixty adults crowded onto the left and right sides of the entrance stairs, some hefting cameras on their shoulders, some holding microphones with a square mount announcing the platforms they represented. Others seemed less official but still equally hungry for interviews, armed with cell phones that they tipped towards their mouth, rapid muttering words that were drowned in the overall roar of the crowd of the media.

None of them had sighted the trio. Yet.

I do not want to be here.

As soon as Marinette, Alya and Nino approached the stairs, the crowd descended on them.

“Monsieur Lahiffe!” a young woman with leopard print glasses called. “Monsieur Lahiffe! As Adrien’s best friend, do you think Adrien knew about his father’s secret identity?”

Another reporter targeted Marinette, stepping into her path as she battled her way up the stairs. The balding man shoved a microphone in her face and walked backwards, tracking her every step. “Miss Dupain-Cheng. You’re Adrien’s classmate. How do you feel about his disappearance last night?”

“Is destruction of property uncharacteristic of Adrien?” someone asked Alya. She shouldered past with fierce determination, then ran into yet another tabloid reporter.

“Does he have a dark side the public doesn’t know about?”

God.

Enough was enough.

Marinette glared at the man in front of her. She turned around and exclaimed, to no-one in particular, “Adrien’s the best person I’ve ever known, and that’s all I have for the record.”

In the temporary silence that followed, those insatiable scavengers falling quiet so as not to miss anything further Marinette might say, she grabbed Alya’s arm and Nino’s t-shirt. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

Tugging her friends with her, Marinette charged through the swarm of bodies. As soon as they were past the threshold—safety provided by the fear of trespassing charges—Nino heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“I miss Adrien.”

“Don’t we all,” Marinette answered.

He still hadn’t replied to her texts. Nor Nino’s, nor anyone’s. It would have driven her crazy with worry—was he alright, was he safe?—if he hadn’t been taken into police custody in the early hours of the morning. The breakfast news was flooded with updates on the Agreste scandal and nothing but. Nadja Chamack had presented, which must have been a lucky break for the aspiring correspondent. The biggest story to sweep Paris since ever.

Marinette had tried to absorb every bit of information about Adrien. Admittedly, that meant absorbing the other details, too, and now they overpowered anything positive that she might have gleaned. Like how a formal criminal investigation would be opened into Gabriel Agreste and his activities in several continents over the last eighteen years.

America, Asia, Europe, all terrorised at some point by Hawk Moth. Over her cereal, Marinette had recounted her trip to Shanghai and to New York. Hawk Moth had shown up in both locations, and so had Adrien. At the time, she considered it a wry twist of fate. Now, the revulsion settled over her shoulders like an iron chain, cold, damp, dragging.

This was the man responsible for Adrien’s safety. He could have hurt him, so easily.

Maybe Gabriel already had, in a way that didn’t leave visible scars.

The few bites of bran flakes Marinette had managed to swallow tossed uneasily in her stomach, buoyed on waves of manic overthinking. When they walked into homeroom class and saw Principal Damocles standing beside Miss Bustier, the sensation only got worse.

God, Marinette really hoped she wouldn’t throw up.

“I’m sure we’ve all seen the news by now,” Miss Bustier said, smiling sadly around the class.

Marinette took a mental attendance of her classmates as she sat down in her usual seat. About a third of the students were missing: Chloé Bourgeois, and therefore Sabrina Raincomprix, Alix Kubel, Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Lila Rossi. And. . . well.

It was impossible to not notice the empty spot next to Nino. How could a void take up so much space?

“I won’t lie to you, this is a huge shock,” Miss Bustier continued. Her eyes—always so warm and loving—were pinched with emotion. “We’re all about one degree separated from one of the world’s worst supervillains. You’re probably questioning a lot of your memories, experiences, what you thought you knew. I know I am.”

A shiver went down Marinette’s back. She glanced at Alya to find the same uncertainty reflected back at herself.

“But Adrien is still my student. He’s still your classmate and friend. We know who he really is and all the things he’s done for us,” their teacher said, hands spread wide in a gesture of unity.

Principal Damocles nodded. “The news coverage and paparazzi situation is not going to get easier from here, it’s only going to get harder. We’ve arranged with the police for security reinforcements around the school, but there’s nothing to stop them from talking to you.

“That’s right. Please do not feel pressured to give them any information. You are here to learn, not to be questioned,” she said firmly. “Try to ignore them as you’re arriving.”

The next five minutes were filled with updates on Francois Dupont’s response to the Agreste scandal—how they would protect their students, and in turn what they expected from students who represented the school.

Miss Bustier ended with, “The staff all want to be here for you. Reach out if you need help, and as always, please look out for each other.”

Marinette glanced around at her classmates and met more than one searching eye. They saw her and softened in sympathy or intrigue or just plain sadness. Yeah, she thought, me, too.

She really had her work cut out for her this year.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was not a productive week for Nino.

He was generally not productive at school anyway, but before this international clusterfuck, at least he was making beats, working on the school radio channel, and researching potential university majors. (He was currently thinking about doing both Business Management and Music Production, in case his childhood dream of being a producer didn’t pan out.)

Now, he went to school and just watched people. Generally, he watched Alya and Marinette fight and-or set straight and-or comfort the people who approached them about Adrien.

The fighting happened when some irrelevant schoolmates who didn’t even know Adrien were being assholes and trying to paint him as a bad guy, instead of a kid who couldn’t choose his parents.

The second case happened when students had read too much of the tabloid websites—as full of misinformation as the ocean was of water—and tripped themselves into believing Adrien was dead or something.

The comforting happened the most often. Because most often, everyone knew what an upstanding person Adrien was. Therefore, everyone was big sad about his father being Hawk Moth. Nino included.

He slumped forward on his Algebra textbook, watching but not listening to Ms. Mendeleiev’s lesson on vector subspaces.

It was Wednesday now, and Adrien was not back at school and he was not picking up his calls and what the fuck? Was there a chasm between them now? He really shouldn’t have told Adrien that he was Carapace. He’d cemented himself as an Enemy of Gabriel, and now maybe Adrien felt like he couldn’t reach out to him.

And in that case, who else did he have? He was a private guy in all senses of the word; with his availability, yes, but also with his emotions. He must be having such a rough time, and Nino just wanted to be there for Adrien—

Ms. Mendeleiev abruptly stopped mid-sentence, casting a glare in Nino’s direction.

He jolted upright immediately, preparing himself for a question to which he would absolutely not know the answer, but would attempt anyway. But his teacher’s thin lips tugged downwards in a frown and then parted around another name: “Alya.”

Nino glanced at his girlfriend beside him.

Alya was truly his saving grace. Marinette—blazing her way to design school—had not taken the Economics pathway. She was in the Literature stream, filling her head with boring things that dead people once said, while Nino was here, letting his amazing, multi-talented girlfriend haul his ass over the passing line of anything math-related.

Except. . . Alya had also not had a productive week.

Nino peered lower, discovering that Alya had nestled her smartphone into her lap. She had been discovered staring at it, and everyone knew Ms. Mendeleiev was a hardass about any technology in her classroom that was not for experimental purposes.

“Phones away. You know that,” Ms. Mendeleiev snapped.

She dipped her head and apologised sincerely, “Sorry, Ms. Mendeleiev.”

Their teacher nodded, sniffing with indignation, and returned to the smartboard.

Alya propped her textbook up, hid her phone behind its pages, and went right back to trawling the news updates on Gabriel Agreste. Nino debated stopping her, but in the end said nothing. It wasn’t like he was the paragon of healthy coping habits at present—Alya’s Super Penguino plushie was now on loan in his bedroom, one of the only things that could help him sleep easy.

The only thing that put a spark in Alya’s eyes these days was the news. He could see it—the glistening feeling of agency, of control—reflecting in her glasses as she read her ‘textbook’.

Before Alya had obscured her phone, Nino had caught a glimpse of a chart of some type, with Gabriel’s face in the right-hand corner of the screen. A fluctuating red line high on the Y-axis, and then the line absolutely tanking itself at the very end.

In their calls, Alya gushed about each development in the Agreste scandal and hypothesised about its impact on Adrien and made various explanations for why he wasn’t allowed to contact them. She never seemed to arrive at the possibility, as Nino anxiously had, that maybe Adrien simply didn’t want to.

Because of Alya and only Alya, Nino now knew a great deal about the economic, political and social fallout of Hawk Moth’s unmasking; Adrien’s inheritance from his mother’s side of the family and his modelling earnings were protected in a separate fund. The rest of the Agrestes’ assets were seized for evidence, investigation, or reparation.

Gabriel, the brand, was crumbling like a sandcastle underneath a toddler’s trampling feet. All stakeholders were jumping ship in an attempt to distance themselves from, in Nino’s perspective, the very manifestation of capitalist evil. That chart on Alya’s phone was probably stock market value against time or something similar.

Yesterday, the Graham de Vanily’s had publicly renounced any type of familial or professional connection to the Agrestes. They claimed Emilie had never and would never be complicit in anything like Gabriel’s crimes, and that they did not consider Adrien their legal or personal responsibility. Amelie’s statement had been poised and elegant and downright cold.

Nino couldn’t imagine his aunt being like that.

On Thursday morning, Nino, Alya and Marinette braced for the fourth morning of confronting the media.

Though the police were onsite, the paparazzi still leaned over the barricades, still yelled their questions at passing students, still aimed their cameras at them. Nino prepared to shield Alya from their unforgiving lenses and deflect their invasive questions about Adrien’s personal life.

He didn’t have to.

Halfway up the stairs, positioned for maximum publicity, a young woman with a yellow jacket was screeching at the ballsy reporter that dared meet her gaze of stone. “—and no amount of shitty tabloid work is going to save your dying reporting career.”

Chloé strutted closer to the woman from Channel One, stabbing a perfectly manicured fingertip. “All of you are washed up vultures preying on the lives of minors—minors, you assholes—could you get any more pathetic?”

Marinette started up the stairs, Alya followed, and Nino stumbled in bewilderment after his girlfriend.

“What are you gawking at, Dupain-Cheng?” Chloé tossed her ponytail and located another lens shoved into her face, speaking with perfect diction and unmistakable venom. “If I see any of you around this school with your cameras out ever again, I’ll get my daddy to charge you all with stalking offences! Your careers will be deader than this lady’s split ends!”

Chloé pointed at Clara Contard, and Nino—holding Alya against his side—felt more than heard his girlfriend’s scandalised, amused bark of laughter.

“She did not,” Alya whispered. Oh, but she did.

“Do you hear me?!”

Every microphone and camera lowered. Chloé didn’t wait and watch the crowd of reporters and paparazzi file into their vehicles and leave the premises—she simply joined Sabrina at the top of the stairs, who promptly latched onto her arm and heaped verbal praise at her feet, and disappeared past the grand wooden doors—but Nino did. In fact, he relished the sight of the empty streets and bare pavement.

“Chloé’s back.” Marinette sighed, an almost fond half-smile tugging at her lip. “Yay?”

“Yay,” Alya chuckled, squeezing Nino where her arm curled around his waist. “I never thought I’d be grateful for the day.”

He squeezed Alya back, already piecing together the story he’d tell Adrien. You won’t believe the telling off Chloé gave to a crowd of fully-grown professionals. Nino would tell Adrien. He’d tell him this story, and how sorry he was, and that he would be there for Adrien without conditions or judgement even if he and his father were diametrically opposed entities.

He’d tell Adrien.

Whenever his best friend reached out to him again.

Chapter Text

THE NIGHT THAT ALL OF Paris searched for Adrien Agreste ended in a jail cell.

Actually, since it was a tiny room in the police station’s holding facilities, it was technically not jail. Still, this type of confinement was a new low for Adrien.

Detective Raincomprix had been the one who processed Adrien into the system. He took Adrien’s fingerprints and swabbed the inside of his cheek with a cotton tip. He gave Adrien a written copy of his rights, reciting them from memory.

And all Adrien could think about was the day he came to their high school for Careers Day. The man was still known inside Adrien’s head as Officer Roger, Sabrina’s dad, from adolescent memories with deep imprints. Officer then, detective now. He’d gotten a promotion, it seemed.

Good for him.

Halfway through the pamphlet, Roger said, “You have the right to inform someone about your remand into police custody—” And the stocky man had cut himself short, coughing awkwardly. “Do you have anyone you’d like to call?”

Adrien held himself still. Who did he have to notify? His mother was gone, and the last place he saw his father had been in the back of an armoured vehicle.

“Never mind,” Roger mumbled, after three fraught seconds, continuing down the list. “You have the right to be examined by a doctor and receive medical care as needed. You have the right to legal representation. If you do not have a lawyer, one can be provided for you at any time upon your request. You have the right to. . .”

Roger asked questions about Adrien’s whereabouts, his well-being, his last communication with Gabriel, and whether he’d had any previous indication of his father’s crimes. Satisfied with Adrien’s answers, he had guided Adrien to the cell and vanished, with a promise to return. That was half an hour ago, and Adrien didn’t care where Roger had gone.

In the cell, Adrien kept bouncing his thumb off of his fingers, feeling the residual ink stick. Everything was bolted down. Half the room was occupied by a bed, which was a solid wooden block fixed to the concrete floor with a mattress and threadbare bedding on top. There was a toilet on the wall at the foot of the bed which stank like hell. A rust-covered basin jutted out next to the toilet. No power outlets. No windows.

Using the water from the rusty faucet, Adrien did his best to wash his hands clean. He sat down on the rock-solid bed and faced away from the door. It had one large glass window and a security camera above the frame—which was concealed in the concrete, yet blindingly obvious to his keen eye.

Instead he huddled against the wall and gently retrieved Plagg from his pocket.

“Hey, Plagg,” he whispered, withdrawing the slice of Camembert he’d kept wrapped in the left pocket of his jeans. “I’m sorry for being a dick. Here you go.”

His kwami swallowed the Camembert whole and belched. “Hmph. That you are. But I’ll allow it.” Plagg’s ear twitched, swivelling in the door’s direction, and then his tiny round head followed. “Ginger is coming back.”

“Ginger?” Adrien mumbled, scratching his kwami underneath his chin. Plagg slipped into his pocket again. “Roger?”

The detective shoved a key into the door. Adrien heard the tumblers rise and fall within the lock—gosh, had his hearing gotten more sensitive?—and then Roger stepped into the cell.

“Oh, good, you weren’t sleeping. We’ll have questions for you tomorrow, but I think it’s better if you have a lawyer present, and so I thought— uh. . . food.”

In a pudgy fist, Roger held up a paper bag, plump with a growing grease stain on the bottom. The smell of low-quality hamburgers and fries hit Adrien, and his stomach grumbled audibly.

“I figured you wouldn’t have eaten for a while.”

Adrien hadn’t. Even at his birthday party, he hadn’t eaten. He had been too busy preparing for his piano performance to hit the hors d'oeuvres platters. Not that they would have been very filling, anyway.

“You will probably have a very busy day tomorrow. But for now, just eat.” The gesture was strangely gentle, familial, and suddenly he wanted to cry. “Get some sleep. You’re safe here, Adrien.”

Roger set the fast food bag in Adrien’s lap, yawned wide, and left the cell. No-one had any reason to be awake this early, and guilt crawled up Adrien’s spine when realised how many people had been looking for him tonight.

The tears came hot and heavy as he ate, trying to shove down the splintering, breaking, burning feeling in his gut by shoving food down his throat. His father would never have allowed a diet like this. His father. His father. His father—

Adrien finished the meal, squeezing his eyes shut for most of it. Wet the napkin with water and wiped his face. Packed all the rubbish into the original paper bag and left it by the door. Washed the grease from his hands. Stared at the wall.

Plagg grabbed the collar of his white button-up and tugged as hard as he could, trying to get Adrien to lay down on the bed. “You have to get some rest, Adrien.”

Wordlessly, Adrien followed. He lay on what felt like unadorned concrete and stared at the mouldy ceiling. Plagg growled—the sound high-pitched and feline—and landed on his forehead. “Please sleep.”

Adrien’s eyeballs felt bone dry, stinging. My father. A second later the tears started, sliding warm down his temples and into his hair. He did not blink. “Why?”

Why, why, why, why. Why did this happen?

Plagg hovered over his skin and with gentle paws, pushed his eyelids down, one at a time.

His kwami grizzled, “Because I said so, damn you.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Everything passed in a numb blur.

It felt like wearing a VR headset; Adrien could see and hear stimuli, but none of it felt real. Or it felt like when Adrien woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and quickly fell back asleep. He remembered, of course, but he remembered faintly, every word muffled and every scene dark at the edges.

Nothing touched him, even though so many different rotating faces tried to reach out to him. He was swimming in something icy, something deep, and even with his eyes open sometimes his vision was pure black.

Roger was the one to drive Adrien—in his personal car, having clocked off his shift—to Le Grand Paris on Monday evening. It was bizarre: in the police interview room—lit by two bars of harsh fluorescent lighting on the ceiling—one hour felt like eight, but now it had been eight hours of questioning and Adrien didn’t even register time ticking by.

“We have made arrangements with the mayor for you to stay here under police protection. Just temporarily,” he explained. Roger caught himself, glancing sideways at Adrien in the passenger seat. “Unless you have somewhere you’d like to go?”

Much like the question of who to notify—even when all of Paris was surely watching his every step now—Adrien had even less of an idea of where to go at the end of every day if it wasn’t back to the mansion. Which was closed to all civilians for the foreseeable future, an investigation not yet begun but building. Pressing. Clamouring.

So he needed a new home. Fucking joy.

Roger’s heavy palm landed on Adrien’s shoulder and steered him into the lobby, as if he might run at any moment. “This is only temporary, but the mayor is willing to house you for however long the investigation takes. I know you have extended family in London, but we’re going to need you to stay in Paris to help with everything. At the very least, let the police department know if you’re planning to leave the city. Can you do that for us, Adrien?”

“Yes,” Adrien murmured on auto-pilot. Familiar burgundy upholstery, cream wallpaper and golden chandeliers came into view.

Roger received a key card from reception and escorted Adrien to his suite. “We may have a lot more questions, but that comes later. I will be in touch tomorrow, okay?”

He did get in touch the next day, and the next, and the next, each time looking for a different piece of knowledge and with a new person for Adrien to meet.

Doctor. Grief counsellor. Family lawyer. Tax attorneys. Various judicial police officers each specialising in different fields—technology, forensics, organised crime—one with a court order to search the data on his phone. In return, they gave Adrien the newest iPhone with a prepaid SIM card.

“We wouldn’t leave you unable to contact your loved ones,” the tech policeman said, and Adrien smiled back that perfect yes-Father smile that he’d worn his whole life. The one with more obedience and goodness than people knew what to do with.

The juge d’instruction—Heloise Hessenpy—assigned to his father’s investigation was an intense sort of woman, sharp and concentrated like a freshly-sharpened pencil. Heloise told Adrien that the mansion would without a doubt become one of the primary locations of interest in his father’s trial, and, boy, would there be a trial. Lengthy, painful, public.

She asked him for an address that he would always be reachable at, and without thinking, Adrien said Le Grand Paris. So it seemed a new home had been chosen for him.

Things could have been worse. Things could always be worse. At least Adrien’s suite was one of the best in the hotel. It was on the second highest floor, far above the heads of any prying paparazzi who might try to snap a shot of the angel who had fallen into hell. Not that his location was accessible to the public.

Plagg very much approved of the suite. On the day they moved in, he went exploring. Upon discovering the safe in the closet, the kwami had dragged him over with an insistent paw and a whipping tail. “Look! They even have a dark chamber to age cheese. With the protective measures it deserves.”

“That’s great, Plagg. I will get the kitchen to send some Camembert up.”

The furnishings all borrowed from the signature Le Grand cream and burgundy palette, with gold accents and a claw-footed couch and reflective sconces and gilded photo frames that sparkled in the light of the crystal chandelier. The room even had a grand piano—so polished Adrien could use the black wood as a mirror—positioned by the window.

Too large, too perfect. It reminded him of how empty the mansion felt with no loved ones around to fill the space. There was even a bodyguard outside—not his own. An armed judicial police officer standing guard over their prized witness. Adrien hated being in the suite, but he wouldn’t spit in the face of Mayor Bourgeois’ hospitality. Letting the son of Hawk Moth stay in his hotel was a large ask.

Before Adrien even knew it, a week had passed. And he’d never turned the new iPhone on. Never set it up or even tried to contact his friends via internet apps.

Adrien had lived under the spotlight his whole life. First as the celebrity child of an acclaimed actress and an award-winning designer, then as a famous model and internet personality in his own right. He could sense a headline like the smell of rain in the air. He knew the very same night that Hawk Moth was unmasked that a media storm was about to descend, and he would be the world’s favourite lightning pylon.

Struck over and over and over again.

Every single childhood memory had been a lie. Did his mother know? Did Nathalie? How had his father targeted so many people he loved?

He thought about Ladybug and felt something splintering in his ribcage. Even now, Adrien couldn’t name this pain when he thought of his Lady, like rope burn on his heart.

He thought about the friends who would never feel safe around him and cried.

Marinette, who was caring and funny and bright. Adrien had met her on his day of school, and over the years he’d watch her grow in confidence and kindness. She was one of the best leaders he’d ever known, and even as Chat Noir, he still took lessons from his everyday superhero. She seldom said no to people—but would he be the first? Would he be the first thing that proved too heavy for Marinette to carry?

Alya. Rena Rouge who had been cruelly unmasked by Hawk Moth, and Nino, who—

Nino. Carapace. Carapace, whom his father had tried to destroy again and again. Carapace who fought against Hawk Moth with hard determination, who might never look at Adrien the same way again. Carapace who hated Chat Noir, who thought he was obnoxious and womanising and conniving.

So, perhaps, screw the media. Perhaps the reason Adrien was so afraid of using his phone was not what the media would say. It was not even thinking of what to say to his friends. It was what they might say to him.

Don’t! his body screamed. It was the same primal reflex that told Adrien to fucking run on the night of his arrest. Biology stopped him from cutting off his own finger, and likewise no amount of willpower or longing or affection could compel him to walk a path that only led to his friends turning their backs on him.

It was much better to stay inside the hotel room, mind, body and soul. If he was on the surface of his emotions, he was slammed by waves and shredded by riptides. The way to survive was to sink underneath.

There was a perfectly suitable couch behind him, laden with richly coloured cushions, but Adrien had somehow drooped his way onto the carpet. He propped himself against the front of the couch and splayed his legs wide underneath the coffee table.

Adrien brought the bottle of vodka to his lips. He took a gulp that was more appropriately sized for water after a workout. The spirit laid its foul aftertaste on his tongue, and burned like fire down his throat. His stomach grew white-hot while his face went cold.

Dimly, in the back of his mind, Adrien registered a tugging at his hand. Plagg was attempting to pry the bottle from him, but his tiny kwami limbs couldn’t even wrap around the circumference.

“Please, Adrien,” Plagg hissed. “This is not good for you.”

Pfft. He was eighteen now. Everything was fine and dandy and legal. Not like his father, who was not fine and not dandy and doing extremely illegal things on the regular and now he was in prison for his crimes and Adrien, even if he might see Gabriel again, would never see Gabriel the same. In a way his father was dead.

He took another big gulp. Yes. Hotel room good. Mini-fridge good. Vodka good. He didn’t have to feel any pain this way.

“How about some exercise? Or playing some piano? Chat Noir could go for a run around the city,” Plagg suggested, miming a leap in mid-air and spinning around Adrien’s head.

Adrien touched his face, which had gone entirely numb. Where his hand made contact, the skin tingled, but he didn’t know if the buzzing came from his fingertips or his cheek. “I thought you didn’t like me running around the city.”

“That was when you were destroying things.” Adrien grunted and nodded and said nothing else. On the coffee table, Plagg saw the menu for room service and made a lunge for it. “Or we could order some room service for dinner! Look. I think they make a charcuterie platter with six different types of cheeses!”

“Not hungry.” Adrien shrugged and screwed the top back onto the vodka bottle.

“Adrien.”

“I know my limits,” he said quietly, even though he was certain he did not. “I’m just. . .” A wave of squeezy discomfort rose up in his stomach, but he swallowed it down. “Doing what I have to in order to sleep.”

As if to prove his statement, Adrien got up with a hand braced on both ends of the coffee table. He stamped his toes on the back of each shoe, shunting them off. He stripped and used the bathroom and fell into the king-size bed in a drunken haze of nothingness.

Nothingness was fantastic.

When he was sober, everything hurt. Don’t think, Adrien told himself, repeating the words that had held him together this last week. Don’t feel.

His face and fingertips tingled right until unconsciousness took him away.

Chapter Text

THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING people needed to hear to understand Alya’s perspective on life: savoir, c’est pouvoir.

Knowledge is power.

Knowledge was what saved lives, converted bigots and protected the oppressed. As a journalist, Alya didn’t know if she would like most to write fluff pieces—heartwarming accounts of old couples and their colourful lives—or cover hard-hitting stories like the Agreste scandal in real time. But she knew what her dream was: spreading awareness and using knowledge to change the world for the better.

It sounded fantastic on paper, but between Alya and her dream were years of studying and years of hustling.

She had to start early, learning the rhythms of the news cycle and how Paris’ foremost journalists researched and wrote their pieces. So she found herself, along with Marinette, voraciously consuming the bulletins on Gabriel, Nathalie and Adrien. All day, every day.

Her classmates picked up on their routine soon enough. Now, Miss Bustier’s class knew to gather around their usual table in the school cafeteria and watch the daily lunchtime livestream with Alya.

On the Monday of the second week of the investigation, Nathalie was found.

“Holy shit,” Alix exclaimed, munching into her banana, “I thought Gabriel killed her.”

“That’s preposterous,” Max said. “It’s highly likely that Nathalie is Mayura, and she was—”

“Guys,” Alya snapped, glancing over her shoulder to frown at the boys. “Shh. No talking during the livestream.”

Marinette adjusted Alya’s phone so it rested horizontally on the cafeteria table, resting against a napkin dispenser. Alix and Max settled down, the former chuckling to herself, leaning into the small crowd that gathered around Alya.

Their attention narrowed in on the video once more, featuring Nadja Chamack with a rolling series of videos and graphics.

“—Sancoeur has been detained by police after evading authorities for a week. The personal assistant to Gabriel Agreste, Sancoeur had attempted to procure a false passport and plane tickets to the Ukraine after her longtime employer was outed as the supervillain Hawk Moth.”

Nathalie’s mugshot appeared on the screen. Despite her pristine low bun and creaseless uniform, her pale skin was deathly, eyes hollow and devoid of life. The footage of Nathalie being escorted to the police station in handcuffs burned into her mind like a brand. Alya felt a tremor in her gut. She knew Nathalie was Mayura.

She absolutely knew it. She just had to prove it.

“After growing suspicious, the middleman hired by Sancoeur phoned in an anonymous tip to Paris police about the woman’s whereabouts. It is strongly suspected that Mayura is her secret identity, though no evidence has been found. Police are currently detaining Sancoeur at—”

A large, tanned hand gripped the phone and turned it off.

Who dared interfere with the lunchtime livestream?

“What the fuck?” Alya cursed, whirling around in her seat to face her boyfriend. “Babe! We were watching that.”

Nino greeted Ivan, Max and Kim with that claspy, loud bro-handshake he used for anyone of the same gender. He dropped a kiss on Alya’s temple. “Hello, my beloved. It’s good to see you, too. Yes, the radio update went swimmingly. Sorry, guys, can I be the party pooper for once and steal my girlfriend away?”

Half of the class threw an understanding smile in Nino’s direction. Their friends drifted back to their own cafeteria tables, speculating subduedly between themselves about the newest development in the Agreste investigation.

Alya pouted, reaching for her phone. “There’s time for chit chat after the lunchtime livestream.”

“I know,” Nino smiled, slipping into the empty seat Alya had saved for him. A plastic tray slid onto the table, carrying salad nicoise, an apple, two bread rolls and a muesli bar.

Even though Nathalie’s detainment was technically good news, Alya noted the pinched lips and furrowed brows on her friends’ faces. Adrien had yet to return to school. News reports assured the public that Adrien was safe and in cooperation with authorities, but he still hadn’t contacted anyone.

Maybe that was why everyone invested so much time into the lunchtime reports. Maybe it wasn’t just Alya that craved information. Maybe everyone else did, too. Her classmates just wanted to know that Adrien was okay.

“—you know what there’s no time for after the lunchtime livestream?”

“What?”

“Lunch.” Nino glanced around at the table, seeing no trays in front of the girls. “Have you two eaten?”

Alya made a desperate lunge for her phone, but Nino pulled his waistband out from his hips and dropped her phone down his jeans.

“Don’t think I won’t go there,” she warned.

“I do not consent.” Nino drew his spine straight, adopting a posture reminiscent of Carapace’s laid-back confidence. “After school, though, be my guest.” Then he winked.

Marinette noticed nothing, her eyes repeatedly sliding to the purse at her hip. Alya levelled a flat stare at Nino. He is so infuriating.

Yes, Alya loved this boy more than life itself. She loved him because he could never keep a secret if he tried. She loved him because he was a drama queen. Nino was sensitive, and emotions often swept him away like a kite in the wind—as evidenced by his Rocketeer meltdown and his reaction to Gabriel Agreste’s unmasking. Alya would be his anchor to the ground, to all things solid.

She loved him because underneath his melodrama, there was something true and bright and unwavering. The core of Nino would do anything to protect his loved ones, even in a crisis, especially in a crisis. He sometimes doubted himself, but she never did. A week on, he was closer to his assured, protective self than ever.

He was the most perfect Carapace.

But, fuck, he infuriated her.

When Marinette attempted to draw her phone from her purse, Nino warned lightly, “Your phone will meet the same fate, Marinette. Seriously. Have either of you eaten?”

Marinette froze, eyes wide, and the round shape of them made Alya hone in on the dark bags underneath.

“. . . Not yet,” she chuckled weakly.

“Were you going to?”

Marinette coughed, and Alya averted her gaze. It was fine. They both had nutritious breakfasts and hearty dinners—who cared if, over a temporary period in their otherwise healthy lives, lunch suffered while they conducted reconnaissance? For Paris. For Adrien.

Nino huffed. He gave one bread roll and muesli bar to Marinette, and the other roll with the apple to Alya. “From now on, you are only allowed to speak if you’re chewing.”

They ate and did not speak. Nino dug into his food with a pleased grin, and Alya couldn’t help herself from feeling that bit grateful he was looking out for them.

After the bell rang for fourth period, Nino slid his chair back and extended his tray in front of them. “Rubbish run.”

As she placed her apple core on the tray, Alya made a suggestive glance at Nino’s jeans, eyebrows jumping. He sighed and returned her phone.

“Thanks, babe,” Alya chirped. She stopped Nino with a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. “For everything.”

Nino flushed and tipped his head coyly, departing for the tray depository.

When he was out of earshot, Alya turned to Marinette. “I know Nathalie’s Mayura. I just know it. She was Hawk Moth’s closest ally, and in real life Nathalie is Gabriel’s closest ally. The fact that the Peacock Miraculous was passing between their hands means Gabriel probably knew her identity—and we all know his social life wasn’t exactly thriving.” She clicked her phone on and navigated back to her web browser, diving back into the live article. “Therefore, Mayura has to be someone close to him. It’s Nathalie. Totally. Right?”

Marinette was chewing on the inside of her cheeks. Alya had thought that she was mulling over this new information, but too many seconds of silence had passed and her bluebell eyes were too unfocused, staring at the chair Adrien sometimes sat in. She was drifting again.

“Right, Marinette?”

“Hmm?” her best friend murmured. “Oh. Yes. Sure.”

Alya deflated a little in her seat. Marinette clearly hadn’t slept much last night. It was becoming frighteningly common. Perhaps Nino was right. Perhaps they had been blinded by the internet and the investigation while everything else—the important things—had faded from view.

“Never mind. Do you want to stop by André’s after school—”

A notification slid down from the top of her screen, her phone jumping once as it vibrated. Alya had set all her browsers and news apps to ping her if any breaking news about Ladybug, the Miraculous, or the Agreste investigation was updated.

“Oh, my God,” she murmured, eyes trailing down the web page.

“What is it?”

“The judge’s office.” She faced the screen to Marinette and pointed at the most important line. “A public announcement. They want to see Ladybug.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In red and black, stifling a yawn, Ladybug glanced around the office of Heloise Hessenpy.

The juge d’instruction sat in a plush chair behind a grand mahogany desk. As she reached for a laptop and powered it on, the rings on her middle and ring finger glinted in the sunlight from the bow window.

“Thanks for coming today.”

Ladybug crossed one leg over the other, seated on an equally luxurious armchair, and thanked the heavens that her mask would hide her raging dark undereyes. “It’s no problem. How can I be of service?”

Heloise was a direct type of woman. In twenty minutes, Ladybug was briefed on the procedure for prosecuting felonies, the current state of the Agreste investigation and the potholes that were starting to yawn open on the long road to justice.

Before they could put the bad guys in prison, they needed to be sentenced. Which meant they needed to be tried in the cour d’assises. Which meant they needed to be charged with a crime. Which meant Heloise’s team needed to know the exact extent of all Hawk Moth’s wrongdoing.

That last step was also colourfully known as the biggest damn pothole of Ms. Hessenpy’s entire thirty-year career. Her words, not Ladybug’s.

Heloise sighed and lowered her head, two fingers of each hand pressing into her temples. “Paris has never had to convict a supervillain before. It could take years to even build Gabriel’s dossier, not to mention taking him to court. I’ll be old and grey at the end if my office only relies on our usual resources.”

Though Hawk Moth and their strongest suspect for Mayura were detained, they both exercised their right to silence. Searches of the Agreste mansion were slow to reveal leads because it was just so damn massive. They found a hidden safe, but nothing incriminating lay inside it, and several rooms had been upturned. The verdict was still out on who had done it—and authorities didn’t seem to care when there were more pressing things to investigate.

“It’s even more difficult because other countries want to prosecute Hawk Moth in their own legal systems. We’re trying to bring a terrorism charge against Hawk Moth for what he did in New York and Shanghai,” Heloise explained. “Chinese police also unearthed a money-laundering scheme among corrupt pawnbrokers that has been linked to Gabriel.”

“I remember. I gave you testimony when I returned to Paris.”

“You did. We have a lot of testimonies already.” Heloise slid the laptop across her desk, rotating the screen to face Ladybug. “The judiciary police department has been anticipating the day we would finally be able to move on this investigation. After each akumatisation event, we’ve tried to get as much information as possible. Have a look.”

With hesitant fingers, Ladybug touched the trackpad and scrolled through the dozens of files in this folder. They were systematically titled with a date and a name, and Ladybug realised she had the city’s database of akumatisations in the palm of her hand.

2016_09_06_Lahiffe_Nino.zip

2018_04_24_Cesaire_Alya.zip

2019_07_29_Dupain_Tom.zip

2021_01_30_Cheng_Sabine.zip

Those files jumped out at her, and the rest blurred into white and light-blue foreboding. So many years. Out of curiosity, Ladybug clicked into a random ZIP file—Penny Rolling.

There were Penny’s video interviews with the police department and transciptions in word documents. Clips from the news and PDFs of internet articles about her akumatisation. Damage reports from the city council, and forms from the Paris police about her time at the station. Every file, every person, had about as much information stored away.

Heloise handed over a thick ring binder—black with red spots—with Ladybug’s name on it. “Here.”

The first page was full of contact details for anyone working the Gabriel Agreste case—Heloise herself, various judicial police detectives, the head of the ballistics team analysing the security system of the Agreste mansion, the captain of the forensics team searching each room.

That much she glimpsed from a quick rifle through the pages. There were many, many more people and many, many more procedures and timelines inside. Different sections were neatly marked with coloured tabs, protruding from the ream in a wash of rainbow.

“When you defeated Hawk Moth, did you find the Peacock Miraculous on his person?”

Ladybug sighed and placed the binder back on the desk, to the left of the laptop. “No. I didn’t.”

One afternoon, after Nooroo had settled into his new home in Marinette’s bedroom, Ladybug had asked the kwami about Gabriel. Even free of him, Nooroo couldn’t muster anger for his captor. Just resentment and an overwhelming sympathy. Apparently, the man lived in constant anguish.

“Did you ever meet the wielder of the Peacock Miraculous?” Marinette had asked. “Do you know who Mayura is?”

“I couldn’t travel freely in my Master’s house. I was never allowed more than a few feet away from him,” Nooroo had crooned softly, his gossamer wings trembling.

Even now, Ladybug was revolted that someone would demand a kwami call them Master.

The relationship between kwami and wielder was precious, something to be respected. If Gabriel had no qualms forcing a primordial being under his will, Ladybug knew he wouldn’t think twice about asking the same of his personal assistant. That woman was Ladybug’s strongest lead to finding the Peacock Miraculous and getting Duusu back home.

And Nathalie had just been taken into police custody.

“As the investigating judge, I have a lot of power,” Heloise admitted, staring at the documents in front of her. “I can issue warrants, bring suspects to interrogation and call civilians as witnesses. Any place you’d like to visit, any person you’d like to question in your search for the Peacock Miraculous, I can make it accessible to you. Anything you need.”

Of course, Ladybug wanted to say yes. She was going insane with worry about Adrien. The quicker this trial was over, the better off everyone would be. Ladybug would do just about anything to prevent Adrien’s torment from dragging out in the public eye.

But Heloise wanted something in return.

Ladybug would not usurp the powers of the Miraculous if these motives weren’t completely pure. If there was an inch of self-service, of professional ambition, of vengeful hunger in Heloise, she wasn’t sure she should augment the judge’s powers with her own.

“And what would you like in return?” Ladybug asked shrewdly.

The judge leaned her head back against the chair, her dark curls shifting under the pressure. “Savoir, c’est pouvoir. You have an incredibly gifted team, and I don’t know if you realise how much of a treasure that is.”

“I do know,” Ladybug said instantly, voice soft but a touch too quick.

Heloise smiled, somehow pleased. “So imagine how much time we could save if Pegasus was there to help transport evidence or witnesses between countries.”

In her periphery, Ladybug saw Heloise’s eyes watching intently while she checked out more akumatisation files. Sometimes the interviews were as quick as a bodycam conversation with Officer Roger on the street, and other times they cared enough to come into the police station, reciting their emotional trauma with heartbreaking clarity.

“Imagine if Ryuko could search an entire building within seconds in her Wind Dragon form,” she continued. “Imagine if Second Chance could be used to speed up our interrogations of Nathalie or Gabriel or Adrien. Imagine the strength of several superhero testimonies in the cour d’assises.”

“My team would gladly provide testimonies. But their powers are not to be taken lightly. They can only be used once before the wielder has to transform back.”

Ladybug gently shut the laptop and slid it across the polished wood. Heloise didn’t even look at it.

“I know this. I do not want to offload the work of judiciary police to you, nor do I want to abuse the powers of the Miraculous. Your responsibility is to your wielders, and mine is to the law of this city. We would have a parallel partnership. If there comes a circumstance in which our abilities could best serve Paris jointly rather than separately, I would simply like us to be able to call on each other.”

Ladybug herself would have willingly performed those duties—transporting and searching and interrogating—if that was within her skillset. As such, she couldn’t open portals or become incorporeal or even pretend to the type of violence that would get Hawk Moth to ‘fess up. He would never, ever speak to Ladybug.

If she couldn't do it, how could she ask for those efforts from her wielders, who were still just school students, who were her friends?

“It could take years to build our case because of the sheer volume of evidence to sort through. And for all the citizens who have been hurt by Hawk Moth, I would rather that this not be prolonged,” Heloise said gently. “I’m sure you feel the same.”

Ladybug did. She wanted this to be over, for Adrien. She wanted to close this wound and start his healing.

God knew where he was or what he was doing, but he was safe. The police, the judge’s office, and the news all reported so. Except safe was not the same as okay. Ladybug could count on one hand the moments that Adrien had been anything less than radiant. He was always so kind and upbeat, cheering on his classmates and consoling Marinette when she made a fool of herself without letting on that he ever once thought her foolish.

Now he was hurting. She couldn’t be there for him. He wouldn’t let anyone get close. But maybe she could help in another way.

She leaned back and looked—really looked—at the judge.

For an older woman—old enough to have fully grown children in the fire brigade—Ladybug saw signs of youth and fire in Heloise. The vivid lipstick and tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of her blazer. The feminist metal pins and a badge with a monochrome closed fist on her Chanel handbag.

Ladybug decided she liked this woman. “How can I help?”

Heloise leaned back in her chair, a genuine smile of relief on her face. The wrinkles around her mouth deepened. “I have a special assignment in mind. Each time that you used your magical ladybugs to repair the aftermath of an akuma, everyone affected by Hawk Moth’s magic forgot the event. But you never do. You are our largest wealth of information because you always remember.”

I always remember. White claws and ice-blue eyes flashed across the back of her eyelids. Ladybug shook the memory away. She forced herself away from glaciers and carnage and a single frozen tear—back into the judge’s stylish, well-lit office. Her breath leaked slowly out of her, chest slightly tight.

“Gabriel and Nathalie are not responding to any interrogation tactics, which is expected of people who could only self-incriminate. So aside from them and you, the next greatest pool of information about Hawk Moth’s actions lies with our primary witness. I need your help questioning him and cross-referencing the things he says.”

Heloise reached an arm across her desk. She located a yellow tab on the ring binder and flipped it open to a page Ladybug hadn’t seen when she thumbed through it before. Their primary witness.

“Meet Adrien Agreste.”

Chapter Text

ADRIEN HAD BEEN IN LE Grand Paris hotel this whole time.

Ladybug could hardly imagine it. While she did her weekly patrols of the city—weekly instead of nightly now that everything seemed calm on the supervillain front, and each time with a different wielder of the Miraculous to keep them practising their skills—Adrien had been in there.

While Gabriel, the brand, crumbled and while the city’s law enforcement mobilised their resources and while the Graham de Vanily’s had been constructing their public narrative, he’d been in there.

Some nights Ladybug had walked along Le Grand’s rooftop or used one of its balcony railings as the anchor point for her yo-yo. A strange sensation washed through her when she considered how close she’d been to Adrien and never even known it, some invisible string tying them together that she’d finally tripped over.

Before Ladybug left Heloise Hessenpy’s office, the investigating judge clarified the exact procedures and responsibilities, handily set forth in the Agreste case ring binder. Adrien Agreste was a legal anomaly—both witness and suspect, a grey smudge between Hawk Moth’s darkness and the city of light.

“Currently, there is no evidence to suggest that he was complicit in his father’s crimes,” Heloise said, tone heavy and cautious with the awareness that time might change her stance. “There is actually a file in here,” she flicked through the pages of the binder, “that touches on potential emotional abuse within the family.”

Abuse? Ladybug flinched, the reaction uncontrollable like yanking her burned fingers away from a hot oven tray. Heloise didn’t notice. The quantum mask saved her, for she knew without it, her feelings would show clear on her face.

“So it’s too early to tell whether to treat him as a suspect or a victim. But he has been completely cooperative, so that’s why he’s earned hotel privileges. Full police protection, and I have a direct line to reception and the mayor.” The judge nodded at the landline phone at the corner of her desk. “If anything comes to light in this investigation, I know exactly where to find him.”

“And do you think anything will?” Ladybug had murmured, throat tight and chest bursting. “Come to light about Adrien?”

As Heloise spoke—detailing the existing databases of information about Adrien and the areas where they needed illumination, highlighting Ladybug’s liaisons in the police force, forensics unit, and corporate law sector—Ladybug realised Adrien was under more intense investigation than his father.

His father was answered, signed and stamped, full-stopped. Bad. Guilty. There was an avalanche of evidence ready to bury him in court.

Adrien was a question mark. Bad? Guilty? Where was the evidence, either way?

“He has been having frequent meetings with my office and law enforcement,” Heloise said, sliding a USB over the table. “Those are transcripts and recordings of the interviews he’s had with police so far. Polite and charming, but I get the sense that he is hiding something.”

“And you want me to find out what it is.”

While she had long learned not to let her personal life interfere with her superhero life, in this case, she couldn’t be impartial. Adrien was innocent. She knew it. She would make all of Paris, all of the world, know it, too.

The judge’s eyes twinkled as they narrowed in a smile. “I have faith you will, Lady Luck.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Two days later, she was on his balcony.

She, Ladybug, was on Adrien Agreste’s balcony, in some Shakespearean parody of her life—complete with fake personas and masked identities and probably a court fool making an ass of themselves. She would be the fool.

She tucked her yo-yo at her hip before raising a hand to knock on the glass. “Adrien?”

No response.

A shaky breath leaked out of her, all self-confidence fleeing in that sigh. Ladybug’s stomach squeezed with apprehension, curiosity, drive. Why did she feel so weak in the knees?

She had accepted Heloise’s deal because she wanted to help Paris. She would do anything within her powers to help Paris. The last couple of days had been full of progress, Ladybug working quickly to meet with and assign investigatory roles to the Miraculous wielders. She was efficient, articulate, a leader. But every time that Adrien got involved in her duties as Guardian, it was like being unmasked as an imposter.

Suddenly Ladybug forgot that she was a successful student body president and superhero and friend. Suddenly she was a babbling, starstruck teenager in a skin-tight suit.

Take, for example, the disturbing amounts of time spent crafting the perfect messages to him. Short, sweet, and comforting without being overbearingly so. But the length and frequency and content of her texts made her worry that she was coming across clingy, and the fact that Adrien still hadn’t replied to her—granted, to anyone, but still, not to Marinette—only compounded it.

Now she was on his balcony.

This reaction would have been warranted if she was putting herself out there and finally asking Adrien on a date. Except she wasn’t. This current circumstance was the furthest thing from romantic. So, just—

Get it together.

She got herself together.

“Adrien,” she called, knocking again. “It’s Ladybug.”

Under the pressure of her knuckles, the window gave an inch and rebounded slightly on its hinges. It had been unlatched this whole time. Ladybug tried to peer inside, past the gauzy net curtains, but all she saw was her own uncertain reflection in the glass, red and black and clear blue sky behind her.

She opened the window wider and slipped inside.

The plush carpet met her tentative, searching foot. Ladybug dropped her weight and stepped deeper into the hotel room, finding herself in a stylish lounge room. The only source of light was a lamp on the side table by the couch. The lampshade had a pattern that matched the back of the couch, purple fleur de lis on an indigo wash.

What was that smell? Ladybug scrunched her nose when that scent wormed deeper, clean until it became chemical, foul but familiar. Was it alcohol?

In the dim lighting, she walked away from the window and around the couch. And, there, sleeping on the couch, was the boy at the heart of this maelstrom. She let out a shocked yelp before she could stifle it, unable to tear her eyes from Adrien’s mussed hair and chapped-but-still-so-kissable lips and wrinkled clothing.

“Adrien?” she whispered. Ladybug reached out and gently tapped his shoulder. When that didn’t stir him, she shook him lightly.

He groaned, a chorus, a symphony of that deep, rustling voice and the huskiness of sleep. One eye cranked itself open. Ladybug saw that familiar green that she’d been missing, and her heart stopped.

Oh, God.

How was she to do this?

Adrien blinked again, and then he saw her, and he jolted upright on the couch. “Fuck.”

Before Ladybug even knew what was happening, he was on his feet. This boy was ridiculously agile for someone who’d been napping—

Then he reached for the empty bottles of vodka on the coffee table, shoving them underneath the wood, out of sight, and Ladybug realised he probably hadn’t been simply napping. “Sorry,” Adrien kept muttering, grabbing and hiding anything glass, “sorry, sorry.”

An empty vodka bottle dropped out of his trembling hands, and Ladybug’s reflexes dragged her hand there in a split second. But Adrien was quicker. Her palm landed over his around the vessel, wam and strong and sure despite his condition, and Ladybug snatched her hand back.

She chuckled weakly, while Adrien’s breath hitched and his expression became oddly still. He tucked the bottle underneath the okay coffee table, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Please tell me this is a dream,” he murmured. Was she supposed to hear that?

“Uh. . .” she drawled, her brain sparking but not making any successful connections. “It’s not a dream. I’m here. Hello.”

Adrien sat back down on the couch, slowly, leaning back into the cushions with a world-weary exhale.

“Hello,” Ladybug said again, like the lovestruck idiot she was, ““I— I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I thought you might have been expressing— expecting me.” Heloise had called Le Grand Paris reception and told them to tell Adrien the date and time of her visit. Had there been a mix-up?

“Uh, no,” Adrien said softly. “I really wasn’t expecting this. But it’s okay.”

He looked at her, those inquisitive eyes too lethal to be wielded by a civilian. Ladybug shifted on the balls of her feet, some weird, embarrassed reflex telling to run to the window and dive out of this room, the site of her latest mortification.

And then Adrien pinched himself. “Fuck,” he swore, fingertips tracing his reddening arm. He shrugged at Ladybug’s widened eyes. “Had to check.”

His gaze drifted to the coffee table, unfocused just enough that Ladybug knew he was envisioning the stash of empty bottles underneath.

“That’s okay. I’m working with Heloise’s office,”she informed him, voice breathy. “Heloise Hessenpy?” Adrien’s tense shoulders but flat eyes told her that he knew what she was talking about. “I’ll be helping with the investigation into Hawk Father— I mean, your father.”

Adrien nodded once, eyes still down cast. Good going. Ladybug could do nothing but smile and hope she didn’t look in pain. Which she was, emotionally.

She lowered herself onto the couch, putting a healthy distance between them. When she tried to speak again, she put word after word like a toddler concertedly trying to walk. “I’m sorry. I bet things have been really hard for you lately.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s his. Consequences, you know. He earned this.”

Adrien let his head lull back against the couch, and he slung an arm across his eyes. Ladybug thought he might have been shielding tears, or hiding from the lamp light. Then he swallowed and she was momentarily distracted by the movement of his throat when it flexed.

God. She couldn’t do this. Not today.

She couldn’t think of an effective way to segue from this fumbled meeting into an interrogation. Someone braver and wiser—like Alya, who was tactful until it became a hindrance—could have figured this out, but she was Ladybug and she was so in love and all she wanted to do was be there for him when he was hurting. Drinking himself into stupors. Embarrassed about it. Grieving the father he thought he knew.

“Are you okay, Adrien?”

“I’m fine,” he said, eyes still hidden under his forearm. “Just a headache. Hangover. I’m still listening,” he promised, voice thick and indecipherable. “You can say what you came to say.”

Tell me everything.

Yeah. No. She couldn’t.

Ladybug picked herself up from the couch. “I’m, uh, actually going to come back another time. See, I don’t know how long our conversation might take, and you’re drunk— Hungover,” she amended, wanting to facepalm. “I mean, you probably need to take it easy right now.”

She glanced around the room for a glass of water, or perhaps a pack of pain medication, but there was only the newest model of iPhone on the side table. Underneath the lamp light, the obsidian screen was illuminated, and not a streak or fingerprint was on it.

“I’ll, um, just. . .” She gestured to the phone, hesitating to touch without permission. “May I?”

Adrien inched his arm away, glancing sidelong at her. “Of course.”

Ladybug found that she had to set the device up herself. It had never been turned on. “Brand-new,” she said awkwardly, trying for wit.

“Yup,” Adrien slurred. Well. That explained a lot about his internet hiatus.

After Adrien’s cloud account had been connected to the phone, Ladybug punched in a string of digits. “Here’s my number. Let me know a time that works for you.”

Did she just give Adrien Agreste her number? Granted, it was to the Bug Phone, but still. Squee.

Adrien took the phone into his hands and stared at the screen for an inordinate amount of time. The harsh light bounced off of his eyes, always so beautiful but never expressive. Ladybug could never tell what he was thinking.

“Will do, Ladybug,” he eventually said. “Thank you.”

The phone went face down on the couch.

“One more thing.” Ladybug nodded her chin at the iPhone. “I don’t want to pry, but there’s probably a whole lot of people that love you and care about how you’re doing.”

Adrien scoffed coldly. “Less now that everyone knows who my father is. What he did to Paris. What he tried to do to you.”

She shook her head. “More. More now that everyone knows. I bet your loved ones have been going mad wondering where you are and what’s been happening on your side. You should let them in, Adrien.”

For a moment, his lips were parted and his brow furrowed, and Ladybug thought he would argue. Adrien truly didn’t know how beloved he was, both from afar by his fans, and up close by his friends. There was nothing ugly or uncomfortable enough to deter their classmates from supporting him.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

And she left.

It was an appalling effort in terms of what Heloise wanted. She was supposed to talk about Adrien’s trip itineraries in Shanghai and New York, Gabriel’s parenting habits, the exact authorities and responsibilities of Nathalie Sancouer within their household. She was supposed to rip him open and tear out his secrets.

But Adrien was a tender soul. It would take time. He wasn’t coping well on his own. With the pressures of the student body council, preparing for university, searching for the Peacock Miraculous and investigating Adrien without accidentally breaking him further, Ladybug needed help. Someone she trusted.

She paused on the rooftop on Le Grand Paris, yo-yo magically transforming into her Bug Phone. She truly hoped Chat Noir had enjoyed his little break. With all the new Miraculous wielders to delegate tasks to, Ladybug hadn’t yet called on her kitty for help. It felt like an overreaction to ask him, with all his experience and strength, to run through CCTV footage or transcribe interviews, so she hadn’t reached out. Till now. Till Adrien.

Her call went to voicemail, but it was no bother. He would hear it eventually. 

“Hey, kitty.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Later that night, Adrien came online to thank everyone who’d reached out to him. Personally, and in the class group chat. Marinette slept easily for the first time in two weeks. He’s back.

She wouldn’t let him go again.

Chapter Text

ADRIEN STARTED STUDYING ON THE balcony.

School stopped for no man, not even Hawk Moth. This morning he set his science textbooks and digital devices on the small bistro table outside, the grand piano just visible inside the window. A light breeze stirred fallen leaves and at his books, but the weight of the hundreds of pages won out. Behind an even layer of clouds, the sun painted the world white.

Adrien could claim this arrangement was better than his stuffy bedroom for mood or for focus—natural lighting, fresh air, feng shui, whatever—but it was because of Ladybug, as always. She had a grip on his mind like no other.

If she happened to swing by again, she would see a perfectly functional, perfectly organised young man keeping up with his studies. Not the drunken, pathetic mess she’d found on Sunday. Adrien cringed and laid a palm on his forehead, the cold shock of seeing her ghosting down his spine. The embarrassment of how low he’d fallen. His inability to pick himself back up.

It was the most humiliating moment of his life—and he’d been through lots of humiliation in the last two weeks.

After a few hours of lecture revision and assignment work, Adrien walked past the scene of the crime on his way to the kitchenette—the couch where he’d woken to that magnificent, heartbreaking woman backlit by sunlight from the window, disorientedly thinking she had to have been a dream—for a study break. Coffee.

While the machine frothed out a cappuccino, Adrien drew his iPhone from his pocket. He punched in the private number for his Cat Phone and then the encrypted PIN, the bypass for checking his superhero voicemails with his civilian cell service provider. Not that he needed to check. There was only one message, and he’d replayed this voicemail so many times that he could probably recite it from memory.

“Hey, kitty. I have something important to discuss with you, and it’s probably easier to talk in person. I’ll be at our usual spot,” Ladybug said, stating a date and time. “See you there. Bug out.”

He’d immortalised the lull between there and bug as if his Lady might have wanted to say something else but decided at the last minute to hold her tongue. He’d branded into his head the way kitty rolled so naturally off her tongue, the results of years of partnership and camaraderie.

Plagg was getting annoyed at him, frankly, because he listened so much and never did anything about it.

“You ever think of, you know, replying?” he asked, eyes fixed to the TV screen.

The wiry strands of the kwami’s whiskers shook wildly as he jumped across the buttons of the PlayStation console. (Adrien had initially told Mayor Bourgeois that he didn’t need any of his personal items delivered, until Plagg indignantly corrected him.)

“I’ve thought of it,” Adrien answered, the emphasis putting a frown on Plagg’s face.

“Even just a text, Adrien?”

Adrien placed the iPhone and cappuccino on the coffee table as he sat down and watched Plagg’s current round of Ultimate Mecha Strike III. “I don’t have the energy to be her sidekick right now, and Chat Noir has nothing to say to her.”

Plagg paused his video game. “What do you mean? You’re her partner, not her sidekick.”

“Really, Plagg? She’s the Guardian.” Distributing Miraculouses, collecting identities like passport stamps—entrusting him with little of them—and sending civilians into the front lines of law enforcement. “Ladybug has a whole team of assorted superheroes now, and she hasn’t needed or wanted my help for the last two weeks.”

Ever since she thrust that iPhone into his hands again, pieces of the outside world had lodged in the chinks of his armour. News reports and Ladyblog updates that he couldn’t escape—couldn’t resist checking just to see her face, even if it wrecked him. Rena Rouge and Carapace were poring through the police’s akumatisation databases to consolidate evidence, together, of course.

Viperion and his retrograde powers were being used to expedite interrogating his father, with Purple Tigress as a bodyguard and Pigella as subtly-wielded emotional blackmail. Pegasus had already written an image recognition algorithm for searching through the city’s CCTV records and spitting out sightings of Hawk Moth or Mayura. Ryuko had been based at the Agreste mansion for the last few days, searching through the building as swiftly as the wind. Polymouse could visit and collect testimonies from hundreds of witnesses in a single hour.

So Adrien understood why Ladybug didn’t need Chat Noir. But it would have still been nice to be asked first. Now she was probably divvying out the pity jobs, and here he was, last on her list.

“Well, maybe she has a job for you now.”

“That’s just it,” Adrien exclaimed, his coffee untouched. “I’m just a job to her, not a person that she cares about or even likes that much.”

How had Carapace put it? Oh, yes. Ladybug thought Chat Noir was an obnoxious jerk.

And he didn’t blame her. Even without his friend’s reality check, Adrien had to admit to himself that he’d known, deep inside. There was a chasm between them, and it had been his own doing. Making advances that Ladybug never asked for, throwing himself between her and danger, pushing too hard to know her underneath the mask.

She was obviously tired of Chat Noir, demoting him from long-time partner to just another one of her doting freelancers. An afterthought. And it was his fault.

But as Adrien. . .

Ladybug didn’t hate Adrien Agreste, even despite what his father had done, even despite the steaming pile of malfunction he’d been on Sunday. Ladybug was kind and patient and understanding. She had delivered reassurance that he hadn’t even known he needed, and he was reconnecting with his friends because of it.

Since that afternoon encounter, he was slowly sinking back into the group chat and exchanging study notes with his classmates and taking video calls with Nino, Alya and Marinette. Adrien Agreste still had a chance.

Chat Noir never had.

“You’re still a team,” Plagg protested. “The original team. Of course you want to see Ladybug.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. I’m giving up, Plagg.”

Plagg was not budging on this, whiskers taut and tail whipping. “Why?”

Adrien picked up the coffee and drank in dainty sips, giving himself an excuse to reply slower.

“Because it hurts too much.”

Plagg’s ears flattened and he floated closer to Adrien.

Before the world knew who Hawk Moth was, all Adrien wanted was to share his identity and have it reciprocated. Now he would die before he let that happen. If he met Ladybug, he would have to be flawless lest she connected the dots and recognised him. He couldn’t allow that. She’d take his Miraculous back, whether out of pity or fear.

Or she would never say kitty as easily, without thinking, like she did now.

Or she would only see damaged goods.

Adrien sighed, meeting Plagg’s concerned eyes with his own flat stare.

“It hurts to see her using other Miraculous wielders to avoid me. It hurts knowing I’ll have to fake all of our interactions so that she doesn’t figure out that her partner is the son of her nemesis. It hurts because I’ll never be the partner she wants.”

Ladybug was Creation to his Destruction. Brain to his brawn. Head to his heart. Yin to his yang. He loved her so fucking much and he had been the one to ruin his own chances. No take-backsies. Why would he want another reminder of it?

“As long as I am who I am and I feel what I feel, that hurt is never going to change.”

His kwami frowned, and said nothing.

Adrien made a huffing sound low in his throat. Plagg said nothing because he knew Adrien was right.

Ladybug wanted unfeeling perfection from her partner and he was a bleeding disaster. He loved too much and he hurt too deeply and he pushed boundaries and he destroyed things.

“I’m never going to be the Chat Noir she wants,” Adrien whispered, the corners of his eyes stinging. Fuck. Stop it. He scrubbed at his face with his palm and tried not to glance at the mini-fridge, where sweet salvation lay.

This coffee was really too hot for his tongue—he wanted something ice-cold—but he kept drinking anyway.

“But Ladybug is still expecting to see Chat Noir,” Plagg argued. “Are you just going to stand her up?”

Adrien pushed his chair out and strode across the carpet to the mini-fridge. “I guess so.”

A shame that he wouldn’t be able to study more today, but a necessary sacrifice. Plagg hissed with displeasure. “Wait, wait, wait,” his kwami said, darting forward to clutch onto Adrien’s ring and drag him back.

“Let’s not be hasty. I have a plan.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug sensed something was off.

Around her Paris slept, a dark curtain of midnight draped over the city—stars hidden by the light pollution. She was due to meet Chat Noir in two minutes, and for some reason, she felt herself preparing to be stood up. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her kitty nor that there was a precedent of being stood up.

He just hadn’t replied to her voicemail. Usually he would call back, or send a horrible pun, or even a smooth pick-up line knowing it would get shot down. This time, there was no indication he had even received her message.

But then midnight struck, and she saw a dark silhouette leaping through the air, tail whipping behind on invisible wind currents. He landed on the rooftop at their special spot, and relief coursed over her skin like cool water on a summer’s day.

“Hey, kitty,” she began, standing to meet Chat Noir.

But the man who stepped out from the shadows and into the moonlight was completely unfamiliar. The cool relief swiftly turned to ice in her veins.

She halted in her tracks, immediately spinning her yo-yo in a defensive stance. “Who are you?”

He was tall, about as tall as her kitty—if not taller. His sage green hair was brushed into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, the colour somehow coordinating perfectly with the black and grey in his costume. The clothing hugged a lean body and fair skin, with pops of gold hitting Ladybug’s eyes in the form of buttons and trim and paw-shaped accents on his chest.

“Good evening, Ladybug,” the man said, bowing low at the waist. “I’m Cat Walker.”

“What?”

“Cat Walker,” the man repeated, tipping his head again. When he looked up, his face was calm and friendly. He took a step backward, one hand rising politely. “I understand that this is a shock. Let me explain.”

“You’d better,” Ladybug muttered, glancing around the surrounding buildings to check for an ambush. She had the Butterfly Miraculous back, but there was no telling if Nathalie still had the Peacock Miraculous, or if it had fallen into even darker hands.

Where was Chat Noir? Was he okay?

“Chat Noir is briefly out of town,” Cat Walker said. “I am his replacement in case danger befalls Paris and the powers of Destruction are needed.”

Ladybug didn’t believe that. Surely her kitty would warn her if anything like that happened.

“What? Where has he gone?” she said, tone flinty and shamelessly suspicious. “How do you two know each other?”

She caught her yo-yo in her palm. If anything had happened to Chat Noir, she wouldn’t even need it to take this imposter down. She would get the truth out of him with her bare hands if she had to.

“I am unable to answer that, seeing as it would compromise both our secret identities. I assume that was a test to determine whether the old Black Cat—”

The old Black Cat? Ladybug bristled, mouth ready to shoot off, but she caught herself. A deep inhale helped to clear half of her shock and her outrage, but the other half settled weirdly in her gut, bubbling away like a vat of melted sugar.

“—and Plagg trained me correctly, which I assure you, they did.” Cat Walker dipped his head again, a stray lock of hair hanging low over his eyes. “I will do nothing to compromise Chat Noir’s privacy.”

Goddamnit. This guy was. . . good. Which fucking sucked.

“Chat Noir asked me to deliver this,” he continued, posture confident but not imposing.

He truly didn’t look malicious, but Ladybug still had her guard up. Where the hell was Chat Noir? Why had he not warned her himself? From behind his back, Cat Walker pulled a rectangular parcel, wrapped in thick linen.

“He would like you to know that he has been looking for the Peacock Miraculous in his spare time. During one search of the Agreste mansion, he recovered this ancient tome and would like to rightfully return it to the Guardian of the Miraculous.”

Was this a trap?

“You can verify the contents of the parcel, if you like,” Cat Walker offered.

Ladybug took the package. The weight and dimensions were familiar. She unwrapped the linen. The grimoire did look exactly like the one that she had returned to Gabriel Agreste. She had a digital copy of the spell book, but her tablet was nothing compared to the real thing.

Before Master Fu had his memories wiped, he had taught her invaluable lessons. Fu taught her that there was no such thing as a rule book when it came to the Miraculous. Fu taught her that everything was fleeting and fragile, even memory—so she documented every single day in her diary.

Most importantly, it was better to write history than to inherit it.

With the grimoire back in her possession, Ladybug felt like a part of her chaotic world’s shifting tectonic plates had clicked together. Solid, stable.

The strangest feeling washed over her. She wanted to cry, weirdly. It felt like something beloved and lost returning home. The relief was sweet and sharp. Cat Walker didn’t move, waiting with hands folded behind his back and a patient little smile on his handsome face.

“Is everything okay, Ladybug? I am at your service.”

“No— um, yes,” she said tersely. “Everything is okay.”

As much as she was startled by the strange appearance of Cat Walker, no-one else knew about their special spot. No civilians would know as much about Plagg and the Miraculous and the grimoire. Maybe he had truly been sent by Chat Noir?

Why, then, did she still feel so irritated toward this ponytailed mirage in front of her?

How could she take Cat Walker’s words as truth?

What if Chat Noir was forever gone—leaving her behind, without an explanation or a way to contact him?

Her throat started closing up, the ache bittersweet. God. This was how Chat Noir felt when she sent Scarabella in her place.

Ladybug understood it now. Having no reason to panic because there was no sign of trouble—no SOS messages, no cry for help from Plagg, no monsters terrorising the city, no sign of kwami magic running wild—and yet panicking still. Panicking because if her partner wasn’t at her side, then her entire body felt cold. Exposed.

Not. Right.

Ladybug tucked the grimoire against her chest and sighed, leaning her chin down on the fluffy edges of the pages.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t known what a shitty move Scarabella had been. She had to make it up to Chat Noir. Her kitty had earned some patience and understanding from her. Trust him, and hope for his safe return when he was ready. That was all she could do.

“Thank you for getting this to me,” she forced herself to say. “But I’m not in the market for a new partner.”

“I understand, Ladybug,” Cat Walker replied, his tone still not shifting from that placid, friendly lilt. “What would you like to tell Chat Noir?”

“What?”

“Chat Noir informed me that you had a message to deliver to him tonight. What was it?”

“Oh. Nothing urgent.”

Lies. It was urgent. She was distributing and recollecting the Miraculous on the daily now, so sleep was unheard of. She needed to determine the innocence of a struggling Adrien Agreste before Hawk Moth’s first court hearing arrived, find the Peacock Miraculous with the wealth of resources now available to them—Pegasus’ curated CCTV records, the police force, access to Gabriel and Nathalie—and keep her civilian life from falling apart.

In the absence of Adrien, the deprived press had targeted his friends. Alya’s Ladyblog had become the site of countless comment wars. Faceless internet cowards calling Adrien a villain or painting him as just a sentimonster, helpless to do his father’s bidding. She was constantly moderating the threads now. Nino’s DJing Instagram account was flooded with message requests from the paparazzi and reporters asking for an interview, and he responded by going private and muting anyone he didn’t follow.

Reporters would come for a pastry at the bakery and leave their phone on the counter, obviously recording, while they probed for information about her relationship with Adrien. Tom and Sabine had relieved her from all public-facing shifts, which was a blessing—to regain some privacy—and a curse—because she kept burning and breaking things in the back of house.

Most of Miss Bustier’s class reported a similar trend, frustratedly, except for Lila—who loved giving interviews about how Hawk Moth had dashed their chances for a budding romance, a romance that she hoped to rekindle once Adrien returned to school. Ladybug didn’t even have the energy to get mad about Lila’s lies anymore.

She was tired.

Shrugging in a very purposeful gesture of noncommitment, Ladybug smiled at Cat Walker. “I can just tell him when he gets back. When do you think that will happen?”

Cat Walker stiffened and raised a finger.

“Right,” she huffed. “Secret identities.”

Sometimes Ladybug hated how strict she forced herself to be. She would never take any information about Chat Noir and attempt to track down his real persona with it, and she placed the same implicit trust in him. Neither of them would ever try to uncover each other.

But she had to be so painfully careful because they could be uncovered without trying.

The most innocuous of clues could bring everything crashing down—a gift card, a signature. . . any question that accidentally probed too deeply.

“Is there any other way I can aid you?” Cat Walker asked. “You are the Guardian. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

She shook her head. And that was all it took.

“Okay.” Cat Walker didn’t try to make himself useful. He just nodded and placed a foot on the ledge, ready to leap away. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need any help, Ladybug.”

“Hold up.”

He paused in the midst of an excellent twirl of his staff, grace and power and expertise condensed into one clawed hand. The moonlight glinted off the metal, and Cat Walker cocked his head. “Yes, Ladybug?”

“If you are in touch with Chat Noir, tell him,” she chuckled, “I hope he’s feline happy.”

Cat Walker nodded and punched her exact words into his phone. “Message received, Ladybug. Good night.” His face was completely flat.

Ladybug scoffed. Seriously? Nice to know Cat Walker had a sense of humour.

Ladybug watched Chat Noir’s replacement spring off into the night, his staff propelling him across entire blocks of the street. He was outwardly perfect: respectful, intelligent, accommodating—almost like Chat Noir had told him exactly how to behave.

She could imagine her kitty’s quick tongue and flirty gestures as he demonstrated his idea of her perfect partner—which, oddly enough, wasn’t Cat Walker—but her imagination crashed into a brick wall when all that existed of Chat Noir’s civilian face was a smudge of skin. She didn’t even know what he looked like. Or his name.

Who knew how long he’d be away for?

Kitty, she sighed, beholding the moon behind the Eiffel Tower, where are you?

Chapter Text

“YOU CAN DO THIS, MARINETTE,” Tikki said. “I believe in you.”

Marinette was sweating, and it wasn’t even warm. The back of her hand came away sheening after she ran it across her forehead. She knelt atop the duvets on her bed, sitting on her haunches and leaning back against the pink wallpaper.

“Tell me again how to do it.”

“I don’t know exactly,” Tikki answered. Kwamis couldn’t read the encrypted codes of the grimoire—which was back in the Guardian’s rightful possession—but after knowing hundreds of wielders, Tikki had a trove of wisdom about the fully matured powers of the Ladybug Miraculous.

“Your adult powers will let you use your Lucky Charm as many times as you like, without de-transforming in between. When you feel that pull back into your civilian self, try to ground yourself.”

Past wielders had told Tikki that it was like discovering a muscle that they had never used before—and flexing it the first few times was painful and exhausting, until they built strength and control became second nature. Since kwamis had no control over the transformation process, if Marinette wanted to master her full powers, she would have to find that technique herself.

Tikki placed a comforting hand on Marinette’s knee. “It’s all about self-control and inner strength, Marinette. Remember, there are no limits to the Miraculous other than what you place on it.”

Marinette nodded but said nothing, panting throughher mouth. She had so many commitments vying for her time—overseeing the team of Miraculous investigators, running the student body council and juggling shifts at her parents’ bakery. Still, for the last week, they’d set aside small chunks of time to practice.

Tikki was equally proud of her strength and worried about her well-being.

At length, Marinette picked herself up from the wall and whispered, “Tikki, spots on.”

An invisible current of magic swept Tikki into the ruby earrings, the familiar shadowy, comfortable realm of her Miraculous welcoming her with open arms. Ladybug called her Lucky Charm. She had nothing to do but wait out the five minutes. And the first thought that came was the usual one this week: curse Plagg.

Curse him all the way to the home dimension.

She hadn’t wanted to watch Marinette—one of the kindest and most innovative wielders she ever had—grow up so soon. Even when her wielder was carrying the weight of the city, there was ample room in her heart for laughter and love and fantasies. Tikki had seen previous wielders become neurotic and inconsolable and isolated under the pressure of the Ladybug Miraculous. She never planned to teach Marinette new abilities, never planned to load another burden—the heaviest of them all—onto her wielder’s shoulders. It wasn’t the right time.

Then Plagg happened.

There she had been, sharing her kwami powers with Ladybug on a moonlit rooftop, when she saw a new wielder of the Black Cat’s Miraculous. And then he spoke. And then he spun his staff with that practised familiarity. And then Ladybug had made a terrible pun and there had been an imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips.

Tikki saw all these things through a blended consciousness with Marinette. Because she was a kwami, and one of the most powerful, the Miraculous quantum masking worked less on her experienced eyes. The absurd conclusion: Cat Walker was really Adrien Agreste.

Considering Tikki had known that living embodiment of a stinky sock for as long as she’d known herself, Plagg had gone and pulled the dumbest Miraculous stunt since his disaster with the dinosaurs. (Maybe that was an exaggeration. She didn’t know how to gauge the stupidity of Plagg’s actions. She had been too upset.)

Poor Adrien.

Marinette had come from her intended rendezvous with Chat Noir carrying the grimoire and a grudge—ranting about this new wielder and his stupid hair and his awful sense of humour. Now that she believed Chat Noir was AWOL, safe but unavailable, she thought she needed to be a one-woman army. She’d asked Tikki to help her learn. To become stronger.

Because of what Plagg did to Adrien, Tikki had to lie. She told Marinette about how the quantum mask became more effective with time. She told Marinette that she could use her Lucky Charm without transforming back. And that was where she had to stop.

She couldn’t tell Marinette that she would no longer need an elemental potion to change the capabilities of her suit and body—she would simply have to concentrate harder, envisioning the environment she needed to combat.

That would require explaining that a Miraculous wielder could mentally manipulate their suits, and that was too close to the truth about Cat Walker. Adrien Agreste really was talented to have learned such a skill so quickly.

Still. Marinette over-exerting herself and Tikki having to lie to her beloved wielder. This was Plagg’s fault.

After five minutes had elapsed, Tikki felt like the outside world was zooming in towards her, sharpening in focus at every step.

The invisible current pulled her toward the world, but it was slowing down, stretching out, becoming sluggish rather than ferocious. This was Marinette holding on, trying to immobilise every thread of fading magic with her willpower.

Then, almost like a snapping rubber band, the magical wind returned in full force and yanked Tikki back into the delicately scented air of Marinette’s bedroom. She picked up another cookie from the floral-rimmed plate on the blanket, rejuvenated by the sugary sweetness.

Marinette collapsed on the mattress and placed both palms to her eyes. “Ugh! Why is this so hard?”

She really had done much better than the last attempt, but she didn’t seem to agree when Tikki congratulated her.

“You are doing really well. Don’t strain yourself,” Tikki said comfortingly, after chewing and swallowing. “We don’t have to keep practising if you’re tired.”

She would really rather Marinette have a full night’s sleep than keep draining herself.

“I’m not tired.” Tikki widened her stare suggestively. Marinette raised one hand from her face to peer upward with a single stubborn eye. “Okay. Even if I was tired—which I’m not—I still need to master my adult powers.”

Tikki attempted a calm smile, but it might have looked pained. Curse Plagg.

“Who knows how long Chat Noir is going to be away for, or if the Peacock Miraculous has fallen into the wrong hands? Or if Gabriel or Nathalie still pose a threat? Whatever happens, I need to be ready,” she insisted, pushing herself to sit up.

“Okay, Marinette. Let’s try again.”

It was decided.

She was going to eat her weight’s worth in macaroons after Marinette went to bed tonight.

Tikki could already envision it, almost smell the sugary goodness and feel crumbs sticking on her face. She knew about the emergency stash in the bottom drawer of the desk. Sass would scold her for the illicit stress-eating—again—but he would still take a bite of his own. She would sleep with a full stomach and a heavy heart, having shamefully succumbed to her appetite once more.

You know what? So be it.

Did Plagg not care about his wielder’s wellbeing?

Did he not care about the damage he could cause if Adrien couldn’t handle his full powers?

He was Hawk Moth’s son. Being a supervillain’s son and being a superhero would be two very difficult identities to reconcile. She completely understood why Chat Noir had gone on ‘vacation’. But to shove the very same boy into a new costume?

Recklessness. Cruelty. Idiocy.

This was always Plagg’s problem.

He called himself the most free-spirited kwami, but he could be so hard-headed about retaining his independence, never admitting mistakes, never asking for help, never accepting that there were some things a being couldn’t do alone. Tikki tried to stay white-hot angry about it, but Marinette had the same problem sometimes.

And it couldn’t have been easy looking after Adrien. Tikki’s irritation melted and leaked down in drips, settling into her belly as persistent concern. The sensation worsened when she noticed the dark circles under Marinette’s eyes, fire burning within them.

Her wielder took a long drink from her water bottle and squared her shoulders. “Tikki,” she stated, voice determined. “Spots on.”

This was going to be a long night.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Even the growing autumn cold couldn’t drive Adrien from studying on the balcony.

Heloise’s office gave him the impression of freedom—someone to fetch him groceries or expensive consumer goods or school supplies—but he knew he was a prisoner in the hotel. Until the court hearing where he would either be charged with a crime or definitively cleared of suspicion, he was playing golden boy.

He could not invite guests over or have packages delivered to the premises. When he had to leave to consult with people—either investigation staff, or the auditors of Gabriel, the brand, or accountants trying to establish his very first bank account separate from his father—he was patted down, disguised, and shuffled out of the back door of Le Grand by armed police officers.

Adrien was not even allowed to publicise his location with his friends.

The place was suffocating him. High ceilings and glorious views, but whenever he was inside those opulent walls for too long, the nape of his neck would tingle like the ceiling was inches from slamming into it.

So he continued to work outside, weighing down his papers and layering on sweaters and scarves. The classes at Francois Dupont had always been recorded—for the correspondence students, and for general posterity—so it was no trouble to log into the student portal to watch them. After a week, Adrien got sick of it. Before he even blinked, he’d gotten his first C on an essay. The teacher offered to let him resubmit, but Adrien declined.

He had started the semester with an A+ in most classes, but did it really matter if he had passed?

Who fucking cared?

On another day of studying in particularly windy weather, a silhouette landed across the bistro table. Adrien glanced up at Ladybug, balanced neatly on the railing.

“I hope I’m not distracting too much from your studying,” she said by way of greeting. She was, but he wouldn’t say it.

This would be their second interview. Even though the encounters were a short fraction of his week, Adrien spent so much time obsessing over her impending visits that they lived much longer in his mind than his lectures or his meetings, like a pressed bruise that lingered in colour.

They moved inside. He was sober this time—thank fuck—freshly showered and spritzed with his own cologne. (Personally, he didn’t like Adrien, the fragrance, as much as other products on the market, but asking the hotel shopper to buy another option felt disturbingly dystopian. With a father in prison, limited freedoms and the city’s eye on him, his primary concern was smelling nice?)

Ladybug perched gracefully on an ottoman, separated by the full breadth of the coffee table. “I’ve had a look at the schedule you sent me. Did the times I suggested work for you?”

Adrien nodded, ankle crossed over knee. “They do.”

He’d somehow become less busy now that he was at the centre of a criminal investigation. No more Chinese lessons on Monday, basketball practice on Wednesday and fencing on Friday. No more photoshoots and press releases. No more TV appearances—not for lack of offers—or soirees.

Instead, he was with the one person who inexplicably made the claustrophobic room feel more spacious while sucking all the oxygen out of it.

Ladybug sounded exactly like Roger did as she notified Adrien of the video recording, positioning her Bug Phone so that the back lens faced him. “Alright. Interview commenced,” Ladybug said, rattling off a date and timestamp.

She was the picture of professionalism, and he suspected she went easy on him.

Ladybug had the most mundane questions on her list. Could he describe his weekly schedule and the things Gabriel asked him to do? She provided a blueprint of the Agreste mansion and asked Adrien to confirm its veracity. Was there anything on this plan that the authorities had missed?

He’d never seen the layout of the mansion from above. At this dimension, squeezed onto paper, it almost looked small. Extravagant, for sure, but in the way of dollhouses. It didn’t feel real, talking about his childhood home, his life, his family, in such disconnected terms. The rooms were not houses for memories, but crime scenes. The furniture was not relics of stubbed toes and paint spills, but potential weaponry.

With a stabbing realisation, Adrien’s eyes caught on the room plan for his father’s atelier. “Did you find the safe?” he asked quietly. “He concealed it behind the painting. Of my mom.”

Ladybug said, equally softly, they had. She then drew out an exhaustive list—two lists, actually: one of the regular household staff, another for those hired on his birthday—and had Adrien confirm their identities and interactions with Gabriel. Did he think they were accomplices?

“I swear,” halfway through, Adrien chuckled, a stinging warmth in his throat, glancing fondly at his bodyguard. “Harmless. Never hurt a fly. He looks like a brute, I know, but he’s a sweetheart. He doesn’t speak much, but I know he has a way without words.”

Ladybug typed shorthand into her laptop, eye blue eyes skimming leftward over the text.

“What. . . what happened to him?” he wondered.

She placed the laptop on the coffee table. “Nothing, and nothing will.” She attempted a smile. “No evidence of complicity. The staff have been asked to seek new enjoyment— employment, gosh, sorry, but they are being subsidised while they apply for roles.”

Oh.

More files landed in front of Adrien. “Next question. These are the itineraries of your past trips to Shanghai and New York. The travel agency provided them to us: can you confirm your and your father’s movement patterns?”

The whole interview was weird.

He knew her like no-one else did. Maybe he didn’t know her name or true appearance, and maybe there were people in her life who would win the Ladybug trivia quiz with dates and weights and numbers. But they didn’t know how much the burden of the city weighed on her sometimes. They hadn’t been there every time she’d thrown herself into danger. They had no idea how little she had believed in herself at the beginning, how quick she was to believe in others now, even if he didn’t want to share her.

Left alone with his thoughts most days, Adrien kept oscillating. It was always one or the other: I hate that I love her, or I love that I love her. But he always loved Ladybug. Meeting her as Adrien instead of Chat Noir, he didn’t quite know how to act. He tried to focus enough to mirror Ladybug’s demeanour, but he couldn’t quite figure that out, either.

She was off, somehow.

Speaking gently, listening attentively and nodding along. Respectful, but nothing like the fiery, brash and playful woman he’d known for four years. Sometimes she refused to meet his eyes, no matter how long he stared. Sometimes she would cough and fidget when he moved too suddenly—like shifting his legs on the couch or fixing a lock of hair that fell into his eyes.

Was she uncomfortable in the hotel room with him? Did she think he was complicit in his father’s crimes? Had his bad first impression stained all their future ones with awkwardness? Adrien thought her efforts to remain neutral were valiant, even if he couldn’t not catch those imperceptible tells.

He knew what his Lady looked like when she was at ease—and she wasn’t.

“Thank you for your time,” Ladybug choked out at the end.

They shook hands, and she snatched hers back a touch too quickly. She climbed out of the window, onto the balcony, and zipped away in a blur of red. Adrien huffed a sigh and shed his outer button-up shirt. He was sweating so badly.

Had he fucked up their second encounter, too?

Plagg phased into sight from inside a couch cushion. “I think that went well.”

“Did it? I wanted to show her that I’m coping. . . with all of this. I’m not like what she saw last time.” Even though he was. At night times. Plagg chose not to comment. “I want to help. I’m good.”

“Ladybug thinks you’re innocent,” Plagg said, after a big yawn. “She is just trying to prove it to the judge lady and the police people.”

“Really? You think so?”

“Of course. Remember when she was ready to give you the Snake Miraculous? She believes in you.” Plagg floated over to the TV remote and pushed the on button. “But, boy, her interview skills could use work. That was the most boring thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I saw all your piano recitals. Snoozefest.”

Adrien lightly flicked his kwami behind the ear.

“Hey,” Plagg whined, scrubbing with his paw. “You know it’s true.”

Chapter Text

THE PAPARAZZI GOT THEIR HANDS on a photograph of Adrien.

“I mean, at least you looked good in the picture,” Nino consoled on their group call.

Marinette couldn’t help but agree.

Adrien was the pinnacle of Parisian style on a balcony of Le Grand Paris. Someone had snapped the photograph from across the street, capturing a flash of blonde hair and white button-up. Even the hazy resolution was not enough to hide the artful drapery of the blue scarf around his neck and the elegant slope of his nose, angled down to the textbooks on the bistro table.

Within a day of the photo hitting social media, it had appeared on as many news sites as Hot Boys of Paris thirst pages. (Usually Marinette would have printed out and pinned to her wall any picture as heart-stopping as this one, but this time the picture was nothing but bad news.)

It was unfair that Adrien looked that beautiful candidly—just like he did now, nestled on the same couch that she’d seen him passed out, the same couch that bore witness to their first interview yesterday. Marinette adjusted the cushion on her chaise longue and shuffled up to lean against the back, balancing her phone between her knees.

“Thanks, Nino,” Adrien said, rolling his eyes bashfully.

His voice came a nanosecond after his lips moved on her phone screen, occupying the upper left rectangular cell. Nino’s face—cast at a very low angle with two chins, since he was lying in bed—was next to Adrien’s, while Alya and herself hovered below.

Since Adrien was barred from returning to school until at least the pretrial hearing, these group video calls had become Marinette’s desperate attempts to keep him close, to keep him from drifting into vodka and other bad habits. They were lifelines that she flung out with ceaseless fervour and false positivity, trying to buoy Adrien above the waves.

If only he would grab on instead of insisting he didn’t need help.

“Are you doing okay?” Nino asked, referencing what had happened after the balcony photo reached the paparazzi and media.

“Yes, of course,” Adrien assured, a serene smile on his face. The smile was meant to soothe his friends, but Marinette didn’t buy it. How could he act so carefree now, especially considering what was taking place right outside the hotel?

“You look rough,” Nino said.

Adrien waved a dismissive hand. “The chanting woke me up early, that’s all. But they’ll go home, eventually.”

Within a few hours of the photo going live, the press swarmed the hotel.

The world finally knew where Adrien Agreste was hiding in custody, and it became hungry.

Any French publication or news channel that claimed a shred of legitimacy was covering the Agreste trial. It was such a scandal, the intersection of old money, power and Paris’ elite. Right on the tail of the extremely topical Paris Fashion Week, too—which had suffered mass boycotts by sponsors, designers and models alike in response to Gabriel’s crimes.

The Agreste complex appeared in the headlines of a concerning amount of webpages, whatever that meant, even though Hawk Moth was no longer a hot topic. Gabriel Agreste was not controversial because everyone unanimously knew he was evil.

But Adrien Agreste. . .

Paris was driving herself crazy, trying to figure out the now-mysterious teenager. Tabloids wanted pictures and the news crews wanted interviews, both armed with cameras and vans along the kerbside of Le Grand. How much of his golden child image was a ruse?

“Didn’t they learn their lesson about stalking you?” Nino went on. “Especially at Le Grand. Chloé is going to pin their testicles to the wall.”

“Chloé doesn’t have to,” Alya remarked soberly. “Adrien has more than enough people looking out for him.”

Marinette made a grunt of agreement and concern. That was the problem.

Adrien had a core legion of supporters that would remain dedicated until the day they died, no matter the online scrutiny of his life. Around lunchtime today, the fans had received wind of the media stakeout. The comment sections of the newsreels and tabloid articles and social media posts had turned into a warzone within hours. Reporters fought for transparency, while fans fought back for Adrien’s privacy and the presumption of innocence.

Hostile language, swearing, and even threats flew from all sides.

He had to have known, or at least suspected.

Of course, he gets a hotel for being a criminal suspect.

Whole class but him gets akumatised?

Who didn’t see it coming?

Fuck off, you don’t know even him.

Someone made the mistake of calling the fans keyboard cowards. A flame on gasoline, a stupid provocation.

When the press started pressing in—yelling up at the room where they wagered Adrien was, hoping to catch him on his way in or out—the slighted fans showed up in droves to form a human barricade outside the premises. It was civil until it wasn’t, claims of slurs and cracked camera lenses turning into spitting, turning into intentional pushing, turning into fist fights.

The police were getting involved now.

Adrien said, for what seemed the twentieth time, “I’m fine.”

How much of you is a ruse? Marinette wondered.

How many nights did he spend tossing and turning, as opposed to drunkenly wasting the hours away? Were his answers in the interview airbrushed half-truths or bitter memories? He was clever and kind, but was Adrien cleverer than he was kind, or the other way around?

The answers wouldn’t change how she felt about him; that was impossible. But they would inform how Ladybug treated him when she saw him next. Did he need a gentle touch or did he need someone to slice through all the lies he’d wrapped himself in?

“Are you sure you’re fine, Adrien?” she asked gently. Whenever she shut her eyes, she could almost picture him crashing on his couch, the air stale, the light dim and sultry.

“Absolutely.” He nodded, blonde waves shaking. Marinette’s face grew hotter. “I only feel bad for all of you guys. The class. The school. You never asked for all this attention.”

“Neither did you,” Alya pointed out. She sat at her desk, occasionally funnelling a handful of crisps into her mouth. “You didn’t ask for any of this scrutiny either, Adrien.”

If Adrien heard, he didn’t respond, though there could have been the tiniest pinch between his brows. The pixels couldn’t capture such a fleeting thing, so Marinette wasn’t sure.

She liked group calls way better than interviews. While looking at the screen, she could stare at Adrien’s expression as much as she wanted—his soulful green eyes and lush mouth, picking apart his gestures and words—without him feeling the weight of her gaze.

It was better than being in private with him, where she was the sole focus of his attention. Under that intimate attention, Ladybug could do nothing but squirm and flounder and try to hold the pieces of her composure together. Yesterday, she had wanted to simultaneously hug him and cry for him and tell a dumb joke to cheer him up and rage about Hawk Moth on his behalf, and none of that was professional.

“The media have been leaving you guys alone, yes?” Adrien continued, a sliver of protectiveness limning the question. “Tell me if anyone bothers you.”

“Ah, worry not,” Nino snorted, exuberantly reminding everyone of the day Chloé told off a crowd of adult professionals.

He assured Adrien that they’d all doubled down on their internet security and would never, ever consider selling his secrets out to the press. When Adrien asked about how school was going, Nino relayed how some British exchange student had joined the fencing team, claiming to be the best fencer in his age bracket, so he’d really better get his ass back to school and show him what’s up.

“Benjamin Webber,” Nino scoffed. “How do the Brits say it?” He adopted an accent. “Twat?”

Alya asked, “Is his name one B or two?”

“What— one, babe,” Nino blinked. “Benjamin.”

Alya was actually inquiring about the surname. Marinette knew her best friend too well: she probably wanted Benjamin’s full name to sic her investigative skills on that boy’s entire digital history.

But Nino didn’t realise, and Adrien slid into the conversation with humour twinkling in his eye. “B-Ben,” he deadpanned.

“B-Ben,” Alya snorted, a soft rustle in Marinette’s ears. Then she cracked up, wheezing, “B-Ben!” louder and louder on her side of the line. Her quarter of the screen started shaking as she laughed. When she tipped her head back, cackling loudly, the Mrs. Potato Head filter fell off. “I don’t— know— why— that was funny.”

“Well, clearly anything Adrien says is comedic gold,” Marinette said. She hadn’t been joking, but Adrien thought she was. Suddenly he was laughing, too, from his belly, warm and open-mouthed and full.

“Hey, N-Nino,” Alya chortled. “How’s your evening going?”

“Hey, N-Nino,” Adrien piled on, “I miss you, bro.”

“Har-har. Come back to school, man,” Nino pouted, after his girlfriend and best friend finished making fun of him, “and say that to my face.”

Adrien’s smile froze on his face. Alya cleared her throat, and Marinette held a breath in her spasming chest.

It was impossible. They all knew that.

Adrien couldn’t come back to Francois Dupont until the judiciary of Paris permitted him to. Nor could his friends visit the hotel—in case, somehow, he used them to smuggle the Peacock Miraculous in or out of the building. This paranoid protocol was something Marinette had to enforce herself.

Until she recovered the Peacock Miraculous, Adrien Agreste was still a person of interest in the Agreste vs. Paris trial. He would need clearance from every type of authority to go back to school. His movements and transactions were all traced. It was only because of a present lack of evidence, means, or motive that his iPhone remained unmonitored.

“As soon as possible,” Adrien promised, “and then I’ll take my crown back.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

As soon as the four of them hung up on the group call, Nino and Alya jumped into a private call of their own.

His girlfriend was following a live announcement from Chinese authorities. It was late at night, but the time difference meant Alya was often most active at midnight. The police captain’s statement was about the money laundering scheme, the plot that stretched between several pawn shops, gang connections and the Shanghai underbelly.

Alya was far too good at multitasking to justify asking her to stop, whether it was the dead of night or the middle of the school day. She and Marinette would eat lunch in the cafeteria, transfixed by the daily news, shovelling food into their mouths without glancing at it. Alya would go for jogs with the upbeat soundtrack of radio updates on the Agreste investigation in her ears. While they had their nighttime phone calls, just like this, she would scroll through online articles about Adrien and his father.

And it was fully okay, because she was Rena Rouge and Adrien’s friend. This—helping the investigation—was the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t easy.

Even if Nino wanted to take everyone he loved into a padded cave with endless snacks and video games and never emerge back into this cruel world.

He told Alya nearly everything on his mind. Was Adrien truly fine? Sure, he was active online and responding way quicker than he used to. But his messages were always vague and cookie-cutter. His answers to Nino’s questions about the hotel riot bullshit all read like:

i’m fine

Doing as well as expected

Can’t wait to see everyone again. :)

Just generally tired dw

Marinette seemed to think—and Alya agreed—Adrien wasn’t doing as well as he seemed, implying in her usual emotive, scattered fashion that he was masking deep, overwhelming pain. Was she right?

“If he is struggling,” Alya reasoned, the light of her phone screen glinting off her glasses, “we can’t force him to open up. Adrien knows that we’re always here for him. We just have to wait for when he actually wants to take us up on it.”

If Adrien didn’t want to talk about his feelings, there was no amount of encouragement that would change his mind. “But I hate waiting,” Nino pouted.

“I know, babe,” she cooed, sending a soft look of comfort through the video. His pulse slowed, settling into something closer to peace, but his thoughts raced onwards.

Nino told her nearly everything on his mind, except the cold anxiety that he couldn’t even articulate, let alone speak aloud.

Was Nino the only one mentally unable to do his homework or work productively on the investigation? Was he the only one drowning himself in Super Penguino play-throughs, Jagged Stone tour bloopers, and the greatest hits of Harry Clown, to keep his mind from sinking?

Sure, there were some idiots at school spreading stupid rumours. Sure, the doom-scrolling sucked. But it wasn’t like his father went to prison or like he was stuck in paparazzi-infested waters.

How did Alya stay so immersed in the news without getting overwhelmingly sad at how crap everything was? She was a superhero, and Marinette was the manifestation of unconditional support. Nino didn’t even know what he was feeling, let alone how to explain it to someone else.

The thing was, he and Adrien had never talked about their feelings much.

Before Gabriel’s shitty parenting became global news, he’d never asked about their relationship. Until the Graham de Vanily’s released their publicity statements, he’d never asked about Adrien’s mother. These last four weeks he hadn’t even known where exactly his best friend had been staying until the press fucking leaked it.

There had always been a wall between them, something to do with Adrien’s busy schedule but also the don’t-ask-don’t-tell instinct that Nino grew up with. A strong man was a silent man. A silent man was a strong man.

When it came to emotional support, he felt really weak.

Buck up, he shook himself.

Ladybug had presented him with an unbeatable opportunity to help Adrien. She partnered Alya and Nino on the same investigation task, trusting them to build a coherent dossier about Hawk Moth’s crimes from an existing police database.

If Nino couldn’t be a research machine like Alya or the champion of encouragement like Marinette, then he could damn well be a good friend in another way. He was going to bust his ass for this case. The sooner he completed his job, the sooner the trial would be over, and the sooner Adrien could attempt to move on.

“Babe,” he murmured, a second wind of energy pulling his head up from his pillow.

“Yeah?” Alya whispered, ever conscious of her family members, who all slept at reasonable times. Alya was the only one who scurried around the house past midnight.

“Research date tomorrow?”

Her eyes lit up. “I thought you’d never ask."

Chapter Text

ANOTHER WEEK, YET ANOTHER PATROL.

Paris sprawled out before Ladybug like a carpet of tan and ivory, taller buildings closer to the city centre casting dark silhouettes against the night sky. The first Friday after Adrien’s disaster birthday party, she’d taken Vesperia with her.

The second Friday, days after she met with Heloise and started recruiting Miraculous investigators, her patrol partner was King Monkey.

Last Friday, it was thankfully Rena Rouge, to whom Ladybug could vent her confusion and frustration about Chat Noir going away and sending a buttoned-up pretty boy in his stead.

This Friday should have been him. It should have been the first time they saw each other since they turned Hawk Moth over to the authorities together.

A month.

Nearly a month since anyone had heard from Chat Noir. Ladybug had resorted to asking Alya whether anyone had turned any footage or reports into the Ladyblog. Was this what their communication had come to? She had to consult a civilian blog for updates on her partner?

But the bulk of the content was now dedicated to the trial of Hawk Moth and ostensibly Mayura, which was considered the greatest victory of the superheroes of Paris. Ladybug was certain the city could not handle their beloved chaton’s absence well, considering the state of everything else—the protracted investigation, and the worsening protests at Le Grand Paris.

Now more than ever, the superheroes needed to present a united front.

To cover up Chat Noir’s disappearance, she’d been waxing inspirational to the media, emphasising the importance of specialised and diversified teams.

Reporters were desperate to have the inside word on the Agreste case, and Alya also helped to propagate Ladybug’s messages—which planted the implicit idea that Chat Noir might have a special investigatory role that sucked up all his spare time. The public might not see him for a while, not on patrols nor on social media, and that was completely fine.

He was fine.

Tonight, Ladybug could either call on Cat Walker—which was the last thing she wanted to do—or skip down the roster to the next person in line.

Viperion.

Luka Couffaine was one of the most competent and dedicated superheroes on the team. He never failed a job—or maybe Ladybug only believed that because he’d never let himself fail at a job. Either way, in the intuitive way that people couldn’t teach, the boy was smart. Probably too smart for her own good.

Case in point: the probing edge in his voice four seconds after they set out.

“Haven’t seen Chat Noir for a while. What about you?” His sea-foam eyes held the tiniest hint of scrutiny.

“Oh,” she huffed lightly, carefree. “Chat Noir’s crazy busy. I gave him one of the hardest jobs in the investigation, so he’s going light on the patrols and media appearances.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Ladybug,” Viperion murmured, voice soft and low. See? Intuitive.

Damn it.

She turned her head as they jogged atop a line of connected apartment buildings. Inquisitive eyes made her shrink with discomfort. “What? I’m not lying. Chat Noir is fine.”

The row of apartments ended well before the wide pavement at the upcoming intersection in the street, and Ladybug sought out a street lamp with which to anchor her yo-yo. Under the guise of building momentum for her leap, she averted her eyes and sprinted in front of Viperion.

The boy was silent behind her for a few beats too long. When she looked back, he shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.”

Clearing the intersection, chilly night air slipping past their superhero suits, Ladybug resumed the conversation. “Of course he’s fine. Why wouldn’t he be?”

The bite to her voice must have made Viperion retreat. The next moment he was all softness and acquiescence. “No reason. I’m sure that he’s working really hard at the job you gave him.”

God. Even to her, it sounded phoney.

After that night’s patrol ended and Luka returned his Miraculous to her, Ladybug stayed behind. She had held off on leaving voice messages, in case Cat Walker still had the Black Cat Miraculous. Sure, he was perfect on paper, but he wasn’t allowed to hear what was meant for her kitty’s ears only.

Curiosity was stronger than privacy now.

Her willpower was steadily crumbling with each day with no Chat Noir sightings and each patrol that was with someone that wasn’t him. She paced nervously on the rooftop of her and Chat Noir’s rendezvous point, Bug Phone pressed to her ear.

“Has the cat got your tongue? Leave a message.”

“This is a message for Chat Noir,” she began, lest Cat Walker was at the other end of the line. “When are you returning to work? As you know, the superheroes of Paris have important tasks to carry out in the Agreste investigation.”

She spoke quietly, cautious as ever of being overheard. “I was hoping to include you, but that can’t happen until you come back. Whenever you’re ready, you know where to find me. Friday patrols, the usual spot. Bug out.”

Ladybug snapped her Bug Phone closed and swung away.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Fame was a beautiful monster.

Adrien knew it well. Ever since his first runways and red carpets, fame had latched on and started leeching. The times he’d tried to escape—declining interviews, deactivating his social media, running from his fans—the teeth came out. Why did he run from the cameras? Why was he so ungrateful? Did he not expect this as part of his responsibilities?

Fame is so beautiful, why do you shun it, spoilt boy?

This monster was what he had signed up for, apparently, at an age when he didn’t even have a signature.

“Do not engage with them, Adrien,” Roger told him through the phone.

The man had graduated from his field work days, but he was calling Adrien in a weird supervisory capacity. It felt like being checked up on, especially since he had no obligations to: he was working with the corporate crime division, and he wasn’t even one of the officers stationed outside Le Grand.

Roger tried to keep his voice nonchalant, but the fact he was calling in the first place revealed the truth. Things were getting bad.

Adrien’s fans were still down there—had been for the entire weekend.

Fans that claimed to love him and support him, fans that then tried to hack into his private documents, fans that spouted false rumours about him as gossip and proclaimed how well they knew Adrien and how much they loved what they ‘knew’.

If they knew the real him, would they love him as much?

The situation was worsening. At first the protests had just been clashes between tabloids and his fans, but now other factions with other agendas had turned the sprawling avenue into a hotbed of turmoil. The reporters had turned into spectators again, funnelling the developing events straight to Adrien’s newsfeed.

Adrien tried not to read about himself on the internet.

He’d long learnt to ignore the fame, following him like his own shadow, otherwise the darkness would be all he ever concentrated on. But this time, he had to pay attention. It was his fans down there. He felt responsible.

“The institutionalists will settle, eventually,” Roger continued. “The legalists have been complaining about inequalities in the court system for months now. You are just a catalyst.”

The institutionalists were people that were convinced that Adrien was at least—if not wholly guilty of aiding his father—a suspect in the investigation, and therefore should be in prison like the two others. With Adrien’s blatant lack of alibis, the Peacock Miraculous still missing, and finally a face to Hawk Moth, the institutionalists thought the risk was too great.

The legalists were neither here nor there on Adrien’s innocence, but despised the fact a person of interest got a five-star hotel suite instead of public housing—while other suspects got remanded without bail. It was such a white, blond, heterosexual thing to do. It reeked of privilege, and so they protested the system, not the person.

Another glass bottle smashed against the stone brickwork of Le Grand.

The sudden crunch drifted into his suite on a breeze from the window. Over the last few days, chased inside from his study spot, Adrien had learned to keep it open for fresh air but draw the netted curtains. No-one could see inside, so the mob of people on the street didn’t know which room specifically he lived in.

But they knew he was here, somewhere. The voices below all clamoured to be heard until they mixed together. He caught rising snippets like dandelion seeds.

“Lock him up!”

“No prejudice!”

“Adrien is innocent!”

No-one wanted him at the hotel. His fans called for his privacy in the same breath that they stole it. The institutionalists didn’t trust him so close to the city centre. The legalists didn’t think he deserved velvet cushions and a mini-fridge.

“Wouldn’t it solve everything if I just moved?” Adrien wondered, cheek sticking to his iPhone screen. “Can’t you put me in a quieter neighbourhood?”

“What are you talking about, kid?” Roger scoffed. “It’s already a hassle to escort you to and from meetings. You’re about as close to Heloise and the other departments as you can get. We don't want you to move further away. Plus, if anything ever happened, Le Grand is one of the safest places to be.”

It was hard not to think of the broken glass and wet splotch on the concrete somewhere outside his room. They were closer than it seemed.

“What about you? Do you think anything will happen to me?”

If the protestors tried to storm the hotel or remove Adrien by force—not that the police barricade would allow them—he could handle himself.

He was more worried about the civilians, all of them passionate for different reasons, hurting each other in the search for their version of justice. Far outside the limits of the protest, waiting to treat bruises and scrapes, the ambulance service had set up a small camp for the week.

“Not if they aren’t stupid. Don’t go down there. Don’t even think about it. I don’t want you mauled by zealots or filmed saying anything that could be misconstrued.” Roger leaned away from his phone to bark at someone, “I said print double-sided— and the officers will not suppress the protestors. I know this city. Hawk Moth terrorised us for four years and no-one has been able to heal, to vent, to claim justice. Now that your dad is powerless and in prison, people are looking for targets.”

“And I’m the closest target.”

“Well . . . kinda. People are angry. People are afraid. They’re in pain. They just need to feel heard in that regard, and then they will go home. Cracking down would not sit well. The public would view it as brutality.”

“So be quiet and look pretty?” Adrien had so much experience doing that. “Got it.”

“Make sure the printer doesn’t flip it weirdly! Thanks, Adrien,” Roger said, sounding scattered. “I’m sure this will all blow over within the week.”

Adrien knew better than anyone how deeply Hawk Moth had hurt the city. That type of grief and injustice could simmer for years.

So he couldn’t help the quiet remark that followed Roger’s well-intended consolation: “That makes one of us.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The investigation was wearing on Ladybug’s nerves.

No. Correction. If her nerves were twine, the investigation was the load, but Chat Noir was the one fraying them at lightning speed.

She was the Guardian, the person monitoring all the other superheroes in Paris, thus everything they were monitoring—which spanned from international crime syndicates to urban terrorism to the minutiae of Nathalie Sancoeur’s employment history. In short, a shit ton.

The next Friday, Ladybug patrolled with Pegasus, who was full of updates about his work for the investigation.

She knew him outside the mask—Max Kanté, a programming prodigy who loved computers more than people. Pegasus had written an algorithm for searching the CCTV footage records. It used image recognition and a convolutional neural network—whatever the hell that was—to recognise public sightings of Hawk Moth and Mayura and classify them in a user-friendly database.

Sifting through the records was supposed to take at least another month, but Pegasus had run his code and the database was waiting for Ladybug to peruse.

So many websites had shed harsh light on the fact that Adrien was seldom at the site of any akumatisations. For a boy with such proximity to some of the most frequent akuma victims, it was admittedly suspicious that he was missing from video footage and oral reports.

But when she saw the idiotic reasons people wanted Adrien in jail, she got a headache.

Gabriel and Nathalie were in prison for verified crimes. Authorities had enough evidence, despite the silent game they played to prevent making more evidence (either barred from speaking to interrogators by their lawyers, or just smart enough to know that nothing they said would look good).

One had the Butterfly Miraculous personally ripped off of him by Ladybug—even the milder defendant, Nathalie, was racking up tax fraud and money laundering schemes, identity fraud with the passport scandal that outed her, as well as evasion of justice when she tried to flee the country.

The next step was to get a Mayura confession out of Nathalie. With no footage or eye-witness accounts, the prosecution couldn’t prove that these two women were the same—even if the entire city thought the same thing. Ladybug was an investigator. She had to be a paragon of justice and fair trial. No verdict without evidence.

The same principle went for Nathalie Sancoeur as for Adrien Agreste, but the conclusions were not the same. How could the protestors take such an unfounded leap?

Heloise’s office couldn’t give input either way—supposedly being neutral, remaining above the fickle tides of public gossip—until the pretrial hearing, but Ladybug had used Alya’s interview logs and Pegasus’ database of footage to verify it for herself. The clips of Adrien were so infrequent. Most of them showed him running out of sight, to God knew where.

Her nape prickled whenever she considered that the protestors might be right. Was Adrien an accomplice?

He has no alibi.

She would have to ask him about him in the next interview.

“—and then I got bored,” Pegasus was saying, talking as fast as they were speeding around the city. “I started thinking about how much you have to configure when you talk to all of us. Currently, you rely on word of mouth and blind faith that we’ll wait at the specified meeting points.”

“Yup. Good ol’ blind faith.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you could contact our civilian phones without comprising our identities?”

So then he explained—in great detail and with an enthusiasm that Ladybug couldn’t, wouldn’t squash—about the Miraculous chat app he was designing. She nodded and oohed and aahed.

He’d feed all the heroes’ IP addresses to a remote server, and messages would be encrypted. Only the intended Miraculous wielder could understand the text with a login and decryption key that Ladybug would hand-deliver to them.

So long as each wielder took care to use the app in private, Pegasus couldn’t know who was using the app, and neither would anyone else.

“What should I call it?” he wondered. This seemed to be his most pressing concern, all code-related issues negligible. “Miraculous Messages? Mira-Message? MM, for short.”

Pegasus was so talkative that he didn’t ask about Chat Noir at all, not once, unlike Viperion had, which made Ladybug feel terrible because that stupid kitty was the only thought she could hold the entire time. No offence to Pegasus, and his magnificent brain.

It was just, this hiatus was so unlike Chat Noir.

Yes, everyone was shocked at Gabriel Agreste’s machinations. Yes, patrols had quietened considerably since Hawk Moth was taken prisoner. But the heroes’ work was far from done just because they’d beaten the villain.

The Agreste investigation was a colossal project on its own. Brainwashing, assault, theft, money laundering, destruction of property, conspiracy, terrorism—the sheer amount of resources needed just to convict one of those charges. . .

She had hoped that these nightly patrols with Chat Noir would be a time that she didn’t have to work—they could talk and banter and make silly little games up between themselves—but the universe had to shit on this parade, too.

He had never replied to her first voicemail.

He usually communicated better than this.

“Hi, Chat Noir. I hope you are safe and doing well,” Ladybug said, pacing back and forth at their special spot. “Maybe you’re on a deserted island with no internet and no postage and no birds that you could train to carry messages, and therefore that is why there’s been no communication. In that case, it sounds like a great alpine vacation.”

She stopped trying to be delicate in her language. Cat Walker could hear it and have his sensibilities offended, if he was so inclined. Whatever.

“Please have fun, get some fresh air, and don’t feel any rush to return to Paris,” she continued, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Or me, or the team. Ya know. The ones who are trying to bring justice to the world’s worst supervillain? See you soon. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Chapter Text

LADYBUG TURNED HER LAPTOP AROUND to display a picture of the grimoire, laid on a metal table with an evidence tag below.

“This was in his safe, wasn’t it? Have you seen this before?”

Adrien shifted in his seat, a knot forming in his stomach. He had been the one to hand Ladybug this spellbook, disguised as Cat Walker. He’d been the one to whisk it away from the mansion the night of Hawk Moth’s arrest.

And years ago, he had discovered it in his father’s possession. Ladybug herself had posited that Hawk Moth was Gabriel Agreste, but he’d looked for the first opportunity to dismiss the theory. He’d buried his head in the sand like a coward.

“I’ve seen it before. First time, I was fourteen. My dad said he found it on a trip to Asia with my mother. He said it was for artistic inspiration.”

“Do you know where in Asia?”

“Tibet. The mountains. They went on a trek.”

Ladybug nodded, folding her hands across her lap. At the last minute, she untangled her fingers and pressed them into the upholstered sides of the ottoman. “You know, around that time, I had a theory about who Hawk Moth was and it turned out to be right,” she said. In a lower voice, “I still kick myself for not asking the hard questions that I should have.”

Her expression was indecipherable.

Ladybug’s features were relaxed in the manner of someone awaiting an answer they were owed—someone with enough time and power and security to feel safe. Adrien had no such luxuries. In her eyes was curiosity, suspicion that she tried to hide, and the same guilt that slowly squeezed his breath out of his lungs.

They had both been so close to outing Gabriel years ago. Both of them had failed.

She would not let herself fail again.

Adrien shrugged in a calculated show of nonchalance—innocent people did not fidget—and spread his hands. “Ask me. I know you want to.” His palms landed on each knee, and he forced them to keep still.

Ladybug’s eyebrows darted up. “You know what the protesters are saying about you. You’re hiding the Peacock Miraculous or you’re in cahoots with your father. But this will all go away if you have an alibi. Where do you go?” She cleared her throat. “Where do you go when you disappear from the camera records?”

He had to lie. Pre-shitstorm, Adrien had wanted desperately to spend time with Ladybug, to earn her trust, to eventually reveal their identities. Now, he wanted to take his identity to his grave.

Even if he could have bridged the growing distance in their relationship, Adrien couldn’t change who his father was. Ladybug was an investigator. She was a harder woman because of all that she had seen, radiating a type of unwavering determination that told Adrien if he so much as appeared to have any secrets, she would come for them with a pickaxe and an apology.

If she found out, the conflict of interest alone would rip his Miraculous, and Plagg, away from him.

Hawk Moth stood between them before, and now it seemed he would always stand between them.

So, the only way forward was to lie. Pretend he had no secrets. Be vacuous and open and charming, showing Ladybug into the attics and basements of his life while hiding the trapdoors and vaults.

“Just, places. I guess. Whenever there’s danger, I can’t sit still. It doesn’t feel right to let bad things happen and not try to stop them. Sometimes I go to call for help, or bring others to safety, or try to find a way to stop the trouble.”

“And, coincidentally, you are never caught on camera doing any of these acts?”

“Coincidentally,” he chuckled. Ladybug didn’t react.

“Adrien, I think you know more than you’re telling me.” He stiffened on the couch before his restraint could stop it. “If you have anything you want to say, you can tell me. Don’t be afraid. You won’t be punished for being honest, and the courts always view honesty positively.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I mean. . . I can understand if you wanted to protect your father.” The way she peered at him with those wide, midnight blue eyes—it was dangerous. “It’s natural to want to love a good person. Even if it means telling yourself the person you love is good.”

The soft-hearted always wanted to fall at her feet, and keeping his secrets felt like walking a tightrope with weights tied to his ankles. Ladybug didn’t have a manipulative bone in her body, which is what made her such a weapon.

But Adrien knew she was pretending as much as he was. The way she spoke to Chat Noir in her voicemails was entirely different. “When are you returning to work?” said impatiently. “Don’t feel any rush to return to Paris. Or me, or the team,” as a scathing quip.

Knowing her barbed side made things easier. The messages Ladybug left for Chat Noir were the stinging antidote to whatever she said to Adrien Agreste—all honey and buttering-up, a sweeter, more insidious form of interrogating. But an interrogation all the same.

His eyes darted to the Bug Phone on the coffee table, propped in an L-shape to film his face and posture and record his every word simultaneously. Be careful.

“I know that,” Adrien answered firmly. He leaked some of his genuine pain into his voice. “Maybe on a subconscious level, I overlooked all the clues. You won’t blame me for wanting my father to be a heroic figure. Every little boy does.”

Adrien intended this as a statement, but still fell silent until Ladybug nodded, graceful features pinched with encouragement.

“But consciously, I didn’t know,” he finished. “I wasn’t sneaking off to help my father, or sabotage you and Chat Noir, or pinpoint his next victims for him.”

“You never had a suspicion? None at all?”

“No.”

“And you maintain that you are only trying to help others when you disappear from the CCTV records? Every time?”

He shrugged, trying not to fidget under her blazing stare. “Yep.”

“If more evidence comes to light later that you are lying, Adrien, it’s going to reflect poorly on you. I don’t want that.”

“I know.”

“My hands will be tied if you’re found to have lied to the authorities,” she warned.

He stayed quiet. His hands were tied tighter than hers could ever be.

Ladybug sighed deeply, shoulders sinking down. “Alright. Thank you, Adrien. Interview completed.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Adrien took another sip of vodka from his mug, sinking lower against the couch cushions.

The bottle from last night still had a third of its contents. There was a growing stack of empty bottles under the coffee table, and he hardly believed all that alcohol had entered his body in the last handful of weeks.

On the wall-mounted TV screen, interspersed with footage of the protests and sport and weather, today’s news recap played.

“Where’s Chat Noir?” Clara Contard asked, outside the men’s prison where his father was in pretrial detention.

The reporter was on the heels of a recent interrogation effort by Viperion and Purple Tigress, but Gabriel had remained silent till the end. Ladybug was here to collect their Miraculous.

“You’ve sent quite a few of your Miraculous team to help with different parts of the investigative process recently. Are you two at odds with each other?”

“Of course not!” Ladybug released a breathy laugh, facing the cameraperson. “It’s just that, um, he’s a partner like any other. The most important thing is to pick the best superheroes for each mission, with or without Chat Noir. No matter what, we’ll always be here to protect Paris.”

Adrien sighed, turned off the TV, and replaced the screen with another. His phone.

His kwami hovered by his shoulder. “Have you called her back?”

Adrien’s silence was answer aplenty.

Plagg’s tiny nose wrinkled up. Something about the alcohol offending his feline senses. He’d said once it smelled like poison. Adrien had replied that medicine wasn’t supposed to taste or smell good.

There was nothing to do in this hotel room. His days were punctuated by the three meals that were delivered to his door, filled with contrived conversations with friends and pre-recorded lectures, and then capped by the yawning abyss of a sleepless night.

He didn’t like vodka, either, he wanted to tell Plagg.

But it was his riverboat across the Styx, back to the land of the living, for another dawn.

“You need to reply to her messages. You’re not being a good partner right now.”

“Agree to disagree,” he mumbled, stomach tossing hot waves against his lungs. “I haven’t flaked on my responsibilities as Chat Noir. I searched the mansion for the Peacock Miraculous, and I even re—” he hiccuped, “—returned the grimoire to her, remember? Cat Walker. Good ol’ him. Job well done, all things considered.”

Then he realised. His stare focused on the iPhone. He’d instinctually opened his Ladybug photo album and her smile leapt for his throat.

A selfie of them at the pinnacle of the Eiffel Tower, snapped as she hung upside down from her yo-yo. Her eyes glinted with mischief and happiness, revealing that playful side of her which only emerged when it was safe. The software that threw anniversarial memories at his face told him that the picture was exactly three years ago.

In the first few months that they worked together, back when Adrien was fourteen, Ladybug had been overly self-conscious and hard-working, thinking herself undeserving of the Ladybug Miraculous. She never let herself be. He had worked very hard to be able to joke and play with his Lady. He showed her how to have fun while staying accountable.

Adrien stopped on another picture of them at their spot. He’d been such a poser back then, such a model, propping the phone up against the stone ledge, setting the timer, demanding they retake the photograph when it returned out of focus.

Ladybug had laughed, surprised at his superficial perfectionism, and that sound—her laugh—was his favourite in the world, and Chat Noir had been happy. In the end, despite all his do-overs, the blurry images of her laughing had become his favourites.

But that was years ago. Maybe there had been a time that Ladybug did consider Chat Noir more than a partner, but it was obviously not the case anymore.

A partner like any other.

If Chat Noir had the words and the understanding to explain what had happened to him—enough to answer Ladybug’s questions, not enough to give him away—he would have called her back or replied.

But his face was on prime-time news every night. It was his family and his childhood being splayed out for everyone’s viewing pleasure. It was Ladybug collecting his secrets like antique coins, for spending instead of preserving. Given how close she was already, could she figure Chat Noir out with a simple slip of the tongue?

Whoever she was, was she paying attention?

Would explaining anything ruin him?

Why did he have to explain, anyway?

She never called out of care for him. Adrien was foolish for thinking her first response might be concern instead of professional disappointment.

Plagg yowled and swatted Adrien’s ear with his claw. “How long is this going to last?”

Fuck knows.

If his father had taught him anything—and he didn’t like to admit that Gabriel had left fingerprints on his soul and words in his head, but he had—it was that people could put a mask on and become something completely different. Love was nothing in the face of brutal reality, and the brutal reality was: this would never work.

Him and his Lady. Chat Noir and Ladybug.

He didn’t want to keep getting rejected. He couldn’t fake things around Ladybug, the person with whom he used to share his soul and not his face—now she had his face and cared for none of his soul. She would take his Miraculous if she knew. If he couldn't control his emotions, he would be discovered, and he wouldn’t take the bet that he could.

Chat Noir would be a book splayed open to the messiest part of the story, and Ladybug would be a blank page. She would be impenetrable, and he didn’t have it in him to go crawling after another person’s love when they didn’t want to give it, on bleeding hands and bruised knees. Again.

Just like he did for Gabriel.

It was pathetic to beg. It was pathetic to drown his pain in alcohol and stay in the hotel like a well-trained hamster with its water canister. It was pathetic to avoid a woman who had never asked to be fallen in love with. His feelings, his fantasies, were never her burden to carry. They never had been.

And then he decided.

It should have been the decision that destroyed him, the one he never thought he’d choose, the one that shook his brain so hard he saw stars. Instead, it clicked into place like the last piece of rubble from a demolished building. There was nothing more painful than what had already happened to him, so this was a mere puff of dust, a quiet final thud.

Adrien felt deep conviction. It was time to get over Ladybug.

“I’ve been acting so pathetic.”

“That is what I’ve been saying!” Plagg growled, angrily batting the vodka bottle from his hands. Adrien would have worried about wetting the rug, had he not poured the rest of it into his mug seconds ago. It fell onto the carpet, didn’t smash, and rolled forlornly underneath the couch. “You can do better than this!”

“Really? What can I do?” he challenged. “I can’t leave. I can’t even open the curtains without risking the paparazzi’s attention. Can’t be around Ladybug without giving myself away. Can’t tell my friends that I have to pick and choose every single word I say, to everyone, otherwise the prosecution will tear me apart.” Out of nowhere, Adrien barked a crazed laugh. “I can’t even drive!”

He couldn’t even drive. This was supposed to be the year he learned. He had refused a private instructor. He had wanted Gabriel to teach him, like a father-son rite of passage that he saw in all the movies.

“You are so wrong, it astounds me.” Plagg laughed triumphantly. “You can do anything you want! You’re Chat Noir, with the best, brightest and handsomest kwami!”

Adrien turned the ring on his finger around, tracing the smooth band with his thumb. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean it,” Plagg nodded, once, twice, growing excited now, tugging at Adrien’s collar and hand and pulling him to his feet. “I will teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

His kwami winked. “Exactly what you are capable of.”

He let Plagg pull him to his feet.

Though he rarely voiced it, Adrien was deeply grateful.

In five years of partnership, his kwami had never been overly friendly. Some personalities were like sea urchins, prickly on the outside and soft-hearted inside. Plagg was a sea urchin. He had the talent of nuzzling close on his shoulder and looking like he hated it. He always complained when Adrien tried to drink or had to cry.

“Um,” Plagg would invariably say first, laying a tiny paw on his hair. Then: “There, there, Adrien. Don’t cry. You look ugly.” Or one time: “You’re just cheese being aged. The stinkier life is, the better you will emerge.” And, of course, a beloved favourite: “PlayStation?”

The intention itself was usually enough to get him through his loneliest nights, even if the delivery was off. Plus, with his dependably antisocial kwami came the gravitas—Plagg was as old as the universe—the sense that empires had risen and fallen (some probably explicitly because of the kwami of Destruction), and people had met, loved, and died.

Now Plagg was with Adrien, and Adrien was with Plagg. People would continue to meet and love and die, and sometimes they would live. So everything would be fine. So many people had told Adrien this—everything will be fine, you’ll see—yet it was his unsentimental, greedy, ancient best friend that really pressed it home with his usual grizzling.

Plagg reminded Adrien that, in a grander scheme, not much had changed.

“Okay,” Adrien sighed, mustering a weak smile. “Show me what you got.”

His kwami yelped with excitement and zipped away to retrieve a notebook and pencil. After they chipped the night away into black dust and glass shards, Adrien collapsed in bed. This time it was exhaustion instead of intoxication that swept him to sleep, so he felt slightly less pathetic. Momentary bliss that might last till sunrise.

Unsurprisingly, when he checked his Cat Phone voicemail, there was yet another message from Ladybug. She always, only, called on Fridays, probably to chastise him about another patrol that he’d missed.

Get over it. Get over her.

Without listening, Adrien deleted the message and turned the bedside lamp off.

Chapter Text

LADYBUG’S PATROL WITH PIGELLA MARKED six weeks without Chat Noir.

Pigella had asked about him, not in the way Viperion had, but as part of the good-natured conversation she always made while they did their round of Paris. How is Chat Noir doing? and, I bet he can relax now that Hawk Moth is gone and, boy, it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. Well-meaning, oblivious, that sort of thing.

Tikki often told Marinette that the Miraculous was not to be used for her personal motivations. When she was fourteen and trying to win Adrien’s affection in the grandest, most convoluted ways, she’d hated that restriction. But over the years, growing up and calming down, Ladybug now appreciated the boundary as what it was: a safeguard.

It kept the lines between personal and professional clear. It told her when she had to think of the city before all else, and when she could think of herself. Lately, it was strange: she would lie awake on a non-patrol night, bone-tired and somehow unable to sleep, and she wanted to use her Bug Phone to call Chat Noir.

She wanted to say that the work wasn’t done when the baddie was defeated, turns out. That there was a lot of pressure on her and the superhero team right now with the Peacock Miraculous still out there. That she needed him.

Lately, it was strange: that desire was purely professional—right?—and yet she admonished and convinced herself out of it the same way Tikki had when she wanted to yo-yo across Adrien’s mansion’s gate. Leave the voicemails for patrol nights, she decided.

The next week, it was Polymouse.

After she transformed back into Mylène Haprèle and scurried from the alleyway towards her house, Ladybug pulled her Bug Phone out immediately. She would call on her way home and try to make it back before Friday poured over into Saturday.

There was an early morning bakery shift waiting for her in seven hours’ time.

“By the way,” she launched into the voicemails now without a preamble. If Cat Walker had been at the other side, by now she would have gotten a polite notice that most unfortunately, Chat Noir was still away, but he would pass on her message. The void meant her kitty was out there, somewhere, listening to her. “That Cat Walker guy? What a character. You have very interesting fur-ends.”

Silence, where there should have been a groaning laugh.

“That was a claw-ful pun,” she continued. Crickets chirped. Not literally, seeing as the only wildlife in the heart of Paris were rats and pigeons, but still, Ladybug heard them inside her head. Was she going mad?

She was going mad.

She ended the call.

She’d boarded the same circular train of thought that had plagued her for as long as she cared to remember.

Ladybug was hesitant to describe her kitten as lazy or irresponsible. Forgetful was the most common excuse these days, because Chat Noir had once told her that the most fun he ever had was with her, on these patrols, fighting baddies. But the longer he stayed away, with no apology or explanation, the more Ladybug was concerned something was keeping him away.

Four years of working together, it still sometimes hit Ladybug how strange their relationship was.

She’d call them partners, but that word didn’t encompass how her mind had been (tragically) rewired to preempt the cat puns that Chat Noir would make a split second later, and how she could easily recognise his laugh in a noisy crowd of hundreds. She would recognise the sound anywhere, and yet she didn’t even know his name. Or his age. If he was a student, or if he worked, or where he lived.

Sometimes, back when he was around, she would stare and stare and try to figure out what parts of his face were real and which were fabrications of the quantum mask. These observations only ever inhabited a split second—like that moment they shared after Scarabella left and Ladybug returned, or before she left for New York—before she remembered herself, her responsibilities, the secrets she needed to resist chasing.

Ladybug would forcibly think, stop looking and then stop looking. The secrets were a good thing.

Now they had left her deducing why Chat Noir had vanished.

Deducing that Plagg would have found Marinette if Chat Noir had been injured, or worse. Unless Plagg had fallen into the wrong hands, like Nooroo and Duusu. And yet no supervillain had appeared. Was Chat Noir safe? What was he doing?

She kept fearing the day that she woke up to Plagg, holding the ring, needing to find a new wielder. Whenever she eased open the door to that line of thinking, a bolt of white terror would strike her square in the throat. She always slammed it shut and retreated.

A forceful tide of anger rose up in her chest.

Before Ladybug could reason with herself, she was double-calling. A light sprinkle of rain started, heralding what would probably be the fourth bout of rain this week. Her suit kept her warm, but not dry, and she walked quickly in order to make it home before the downpour.

Her voice emerged pissed off and sad. “Oh, my God. Forget the puns in my last message. I’ve started having one-person conversations to fill in your side of the dialogue.”

She put a palm to her forehead. “As you can see, Chat Noir, it’s dire. Your comedic skills have left a hole in the superhero team that I really didn’t expect to exist. Hopefully, it will be filled when you return. Bug out.”

Please. Please, please, please.

Come back.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“You said what?” Alya hissed.

“Claw-ful.”

Alya’s brow furrowed. “Girl.”

“I know.” Marinette rolled over on her chaise longue and covered her reddening face with her hands. “I know. It was as bad as it sounds.” A weak moment, a low in her impulse control.

She never fumbled over her words with Chat Noir. In the past, talking to him had been like talking to a best friend—but now, at the dial tone, she was simultaneously unthinking yet overanalysing her tone and her humour and her word choices. Why was it terrifying to leave a simple voicemail?

“Maybe he will find it endearing?” Alya chuckled, only half joking.

Her best friend sat at the desk, one foot tucked up and the other spinning the wheelie chair in half-revolutions. Files of akumatisation victims filled Alya’s laptop screen before she clicked into the next person on her spreadsheet.

While Alya was steadily helping to thicken Heloise Hessenpy’s evidence dossier, Marinette was spinning out. Helpful, totally. Since school let out for La Toussaint, she came over nearly every afternoon. Marinette’s parents merely thought the girls were taking their last year of high school extremely seriously—which was true, if the course content was everything in the Agreste case ring binder and the final exam was a Cour d’Appel hearing.

Marinette was much less productive than Alya. Her attention was diverted—stupid kitty—and with no reason to appear in public till school started again, she was aware her personal upkeep had suffered. She woke this morning with unkempt hair, raging dark under-eyes and a deathly pallor to her face, almost scaring herself in the mirror.

“I don’t want to be endearing, I want to be terrifying. I want him to rue the day he walked out on me, and I want him to come back. Rue, do you hear me?”

Alya shook her head, as if the solution were the most obvious thing in the world. “So stop the passive aggression or weird deflections or bad puns. Just say I miss you, come back. Easy.”

The thought had something twisting, hard, in Marinette’s stomach. No, no, no. I miss you. She didn’t want to say that out loud. It felt like falling on her own sword. She would much rather keep reminding Chat Noir of his professional responsibilities to Paris and the team and her.

“Who is it this Friday?” Alya continued.

“Ryuko, but she has already given me notice that she can’t make it.”

Kagami Tsurugi had a fencing tournament in Brussels over the weekend, and she would depart on Thursday. The organised woman she was, she had provided Ladybug a detailed schedule of her academic and extracurricular life the day she signed onto the forensic department.

“Maybe go alone instead of bumping the next person up,” Alya suggested. “Clear your head, and this time, be completely sincere when you call him. No puns.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug tried to take Alya’s advice.

When the end of the week rolled around, she set out into the darkness, alone.

She started from the rooftop of Le Grand Paris, imagining Adrien milling about his lonely nights inside. It hurt to think of him. It hurt to hurt him.

Before Hawk Moth was unmasked, Ladybug had considered herself an expert at compartmentalising her personal and professional life. With her mask on, she became focused, decisive, and in control. The only times those qualities faltered were whenever Adrien Agreste came into the picture.

Every time Ladybug saw those grass green eyes, she transformed back into the clumsy, babbling schoolgirl she’d tried to outgrow. She was Marinette once more, getting to interview her longtime crush, and it was torture whenever she caught a whiff of him or noticed the veins in his forearms.

During their first few interviews, she hadn’t known how to interrogate properly, but she was learning.

They usually met once per week. They dissected his work for Gabriel, the brand, Hawk Moth’s appearance in Shanghai, and how his father chose all his hobbies and commitments for him. Gabriel kept Adrien locked up in that mansion-prison, dictating when he left and when he returned.

None of Adrien’s perfect life had been voluntary. That was one of the coldest existences she could imagine. She had known this boy since she was fourteen, and every day since their meeting had only convinced her more that he was the love of her life. It wasn’t a schoolgirl he needed right now.

He needed someone like Ladybug. To prove him innocent. To save him.

The things Heloise wanted to know about Adrien were only getting worse—better for the trial, but worse—and Ladybug kept thinking one day Adrien would decline to answer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it,” he should say, gentle but firm, and ask Ladybug to come back another time.

Except he never did. He always unfurled his head for Ladybug, letting her in with a scalpel and a camera, even as she could see the light in his grass green eyes freezing over. Emotional anaesthetic. She hated this part of the job.

Ladybug leapt down from the roof and landed on a ledge that wrapped around the second highest floor. She hoped his drinking didn’t become a habit. On her patrols around the city, she yearned to knock on the window, check on him, and continue their conversations into the night, but…

Well. Her powers were not to be used for personal gain.

In the next arrondissement, Ladybug crouched atop a billboard and watched the lamp-lit streets of Paris.

A love struck couple was dancing underneath the moonlit clouds, visibly intoxicated, but walking straight and in good company. Aside from that, nothing. She waited until they slipped inside an apartment building to stretch her legs.

This district was clear. Ladybug’s yo-yo wrapped around the chimney of a nearby building and she let the tension drag her through the air. A blur of darkness streaked across the sky. Ladybug’s head whipped to face it, expecting to see Chat Noir leaping between rooftops, making his way to her. But it was just a pigeon.

Back at the rendezvous point, the Eiffel Tower was an ornate silhouette against the night sky. She smiled, nostalgia washing over her.

Her kitty loved heights. There was a time in the ripe middle of their partnership when they’d tried to finish patrols thoroughly but quickly, so they could test the limits of their powers—which was a code for playtime. Ladybug remembered how they used to compete.

Who could scale the Eiffel Tower the quickest? Who had the best precision launching themselves through the cavities in its metal frame? Who could land the furthest away if they jumped from the top? (Her, her, him.)

That ripe middle. After the lime green beginning when Ladybug felt like an imposter and refused to let her guard down for something as juvenile as playing with their powers. But before . . . this. Whatever this was. Whatever they had become. She shouldn’t be feeling nostalgic about Chat Noir! He should be here, with her, on patrol.

He shouldn’t even be giving her enough time and space to miss him.

This time, be completely sincere when you call him.

She called. His voicemail recited its speech. The tone beeped.

And Ladybug said: “Chat Noir, I really fucking miss you. I hope you’re doing okay, wherever you are. Please come back to me soon. Bug out.”

Chapter Text

TIME WAS SLIPPING AWAY FROM her.

Ladybug could hardly believe it had been two months since that world-flipping battle against Hawk Moth, but when she did her scheduling for the week ahead, that was what the Bug Phone calendar told her.

Mira-Message—Pegasus' ingenious app—was a logistical weight off her shoulders. There was a spreadsheet listing out the Friday patrol roster, finally available for the heroes to check at any time. The encrypted messages made it significantly easier to arrange rendezvous and exchanges of the Miraculous with their corresponding wielders. Easier, but by no means easy.

Heloise was supplying her with more avenues of interest as quickly as they arose, so that each time she went back to Le Grand, she had even more information to dig out of Adrien. Not that he was opaque about it. It was terribly easy to interview him. Why did he have to be so perfect?

A chilly breeze bit at the exposed skin on her nape and cheeks. Ladybug launched her yo-yo, the tension of the string dragging her around the corner. The Rue where Le Grand Paris lay yawned open in front of her eyes—and for the first time in a while, she wasn't here to pay a visit to Adrien.

The protests were vicious today.

The noise and smoke travelled to her nose already, still far away. Vesperia and King Monkey had been called in to help manage the crowds. Vesperia could immobilise anyone who became dangerous, and King Monkey's power had proven to be effective on humans—like inducing a dizzy spell, or a leg cramp, that could make detaining the belligerent civilians easier. Neither had needed to use it yet.

The heroes were coordinating with the police when Ladybug landed beside them.

"Our approach was to let them say their piece," the police captain told her after a quick greeting, "but it's been weeks now and they're not showing signs of settling down. We're trying to clear them out peacefully. We don't want to resort to force."

At that, Ladybug let her gaze drift over the armed riot police at the border of the street. Under the cover of dark afternoon clouds, there was a line of them between the crowd and Le Grand's front entrance, faces obscured by dark visors.

She didn't want it to come to rubber pellets and tear gas, but she also knew why it was getting worse. People were growing more suspicious of Adrien. They thought it dangerous to have him living indefinitely among civilians and families and children.

"There's something odd about his transcripts," Heloise had said when they last caught up. "I think he's using transparency very cleverly. Discussing this while hiding that. Adrien has a secret, and I want you to find it. Quickly."

God, Ladybug really didn't look forward to the next interview.

She looped her yo-yo around a lamppost and hoisted herself up to stand above the crowd.

Someone spotted her immediately, pointing and exclaiming, "Ladybug!"

A ripple of relief went through the mass of people, institutionalists and legalists and supporters of Adrien, police and reporters, innocents trying to get by.

Prior violence had always been contained between the protestors. The police hadn't had to intervene other than holding the defensive line, but as people pressed close to Le Grand and started damaging property, the distinct scent of warning had gone into the air.

Those there to defend Adrien realised that they were in danger.

Those there for danger had become restless, like sharks that smelled blood.

"People of Paris." Ladybug tried to look at every face that had turned to her. "I am asking you to trust your heroes and your authorities." Balanced on top of the lamppost, she nodded at the police captain. "No evidence has been found linking Adrien to the crimes of his father. Let us do our jobs. Please do not jump to conclusions."

"We didn't have evidence about Gabriel, and look how that turned out!"

"Is the video footage not evidence enough?"

"Lack of footage, you mean," another voice snapped. Around it, the crowd roared and agreed.

"Ladybug, you need to detain Adrien Agreste," a woman pleaded. She had a bandana wrapped around her wrist, underneath a hand that pointed up to the higher windows of Le Grand. "What if he has the Peacock Miraculous and is just waiting for the right time to use it?"

"What if he doesn't? He's lost his father and home. He's unable to go to school," Ladybug reasoned, trying to infuse her tone with magnanimity. "I don't even know if he can sleep with all this noise constantly outside."

"Well, what about us?" someone roared. "I can't sleep worrying about my family!"

"I can't sleep without nightmares from when I got akumatized!"

"What if we get hurt again by another monster?"

Shouts of accord burst around her like fireworks. The voices were the boom; the shuffling of feet, the clattering of the police weaponry, and the thump of bodies against each other were the cascading smatter of sparks on a rooftop. Still the crowd kept shifting, not particularly rushing the hotel, nor her, nor the police at the front and sides—it hadn't decided as one where to go, but everyone wanted movement. They wanted change.

"It's been years, Ladybug!" she managed to hear. A window shattered somewhere.

More fury mounted around her, and she heard the bright chime of Zoé's voice as Vesperia used her powers to stun someone. "Venom!"

"You should have ended this by now!"

Something came racing at Ladybug's head. With her heightened reflexes, she caught it, of course.

But she shouldn't have.

The object was small, but surprisingly heavy. Its momentum transferred into her torso, and she tipped just far enough from her centre of gravity that it was too late to stay on the lamppost.

Her vision wasn't quick enough to analyse everything—the number of people below, how long until she hit the ground, the violence around her—because at that moment the object in her hands sharpened into focus.

A glass bottle, filled with something murky, the neck stuffed with linen cloth that had been set on fire.

Molotov, she registered faintly.

Ladybug took a sharp inhale, time dragging out like honey, and watched the contents of the bottle set alight. In the nanosecond before it exploded outward with glass shards and fire, before she burned alongside the petrol, it looked rather beautiful. The fuel turned gaseous, purple and orange and red dancing and undulating and she braced—

A strong arm wrapped around her waist.

"Cataclysm."

She was tugged into a familiar body, a body that took all of the impact of the fall, angled between herself and the concrete. The other arm had found the homemade bomb, which had disintegrated into black dust. As the remains of the Molotov cocktail blew away in the wind, the only trace of the averted disaster was a hint of diesel.

Chat Noir's green eyes softened as Ladybug's breath dislodged itself from the back of her throat and gusted out.

Him.

"Sorry I'm late, my Lady."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He took her to their spot.

After a protestor threw a bomb at the Guardian of Paris, that was enough cause for the police to move in, bad publicity be damned.

Some people had run, trying to avoid further violence or arrest, and some righteous idiots had stayed.

Watching from a sliver between his drawn curtains, Chat Noir's only instinct had been to remove Ladybug from danger. He hadn't realised he defaulted to their rendezvous point until she pushed at his chest and demanded to be set down on solid ground.

It was cold. The shadowy blanket of clouds made it feel like much later than it was. Or, perhaps he'd been confined in a hotel room for so long that he hadn't realised how close to winter it was. Time had crept up on him.

Ladybug still hadn't turned around. She was looking at the same clouds as Chat Noir, her silhouette completely motionless in front of the cityscape.

When she faced him, her head was shaking, fists balled. "You're okay."

"I'm okay," he repeated, tilting his head in a replication of his usual mannerisms.

It was no longer natural, the feline coyness of before. He was a different person than the one who'd fought alongside Ladybug months ago. He felt hollowed out and filled with ice.

In a bid to stop him from drinking, Plagg made him a deal: one night sober was one night of practice.

He was teaching Chat Noir so much about the extent of his adult powers.

Adrien knew from his brief stint as Cat Walker how to change his appearance.

He knew how to alter his suit for the elements without feeding his kwami the magic potion—so now, thankfully, he wouldn't need to see Ladybug just to stock up.

He knew how to stop his transformation back into Adrien Agreste, though it still dragged on his muscles and willpower like swimming upstream in a river.

"You're okay," she whispered again, sapphire eyes shining. Chat Noir swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded. Ladybug took a step forward and promptly changed her mind, halting on the spot. "Have you always been okay? Did something happen to you?"

Something.

Mentioning the specifics of his life to someone as clever and as close as Ladybug was dangerous. He knew why today's protest had started. The city thought he was an accomplice.

If Ladybug found out who he was—a suspect in an ongoing, international criminal investigation, tasked with protecting the same people who hated him, the same city that had called him to court—she would remove the conflict of interest immediately.

"I'm fine."

Ladybug flinched for a tense beat of silence. A sharp laugh burst from her lips. "Oh. Great. Great. I left you so many voicemails. Great. I guess you heard them?"

"I was—"

"Yes or no? Did you get them?" she interrupted, holding a palm in the air. "Fucking hell, answer me."

He'd heard some of them. The first two, before he opted out of the verbal lashings.

At any rate, he listened to enough to get the gist of what she had to say. Ladybug had important investigation tasks to delegate to him, and he'd flaked. Paris had been waiting here all this time for him, and she was rightly furious that he'd let other people pick up his slack.

Chat Noir hung his head. He sighed heavily. "Yes. I heard them."

"I can't believe you."

The awed relief when Ladybug first saw him in the square was steadily giving way to anger. He was ready for it. He deserved it.

Her mouth twisted into a pout, eyes flashing like lightning. "You can't just give your buddy a manicure and a ponytail, send him to tell me that you're gone, and go off the grid for two months! Where the fuck were you? Plagg never came to find me, so I assumed things weren't dire, but if things weren't dire, why weren't you reaching out?"

"Because—"

"Shut up," Ladybug snapped, eyes darkening to midnight. Chat Noir closed his mouth. He realised her questions were rhetorical. She didn't need answers right now. She needed to rage.

"I thought, if you weren't replying and Plagg hadn't appeared, then something truly terrible would have happened," she continued, hands sliding into her hair and tugging her pigtails. "I was terrified that someone had gotten a hold of your Miraculous. Or worse. . ."

Ladybug's voice trailed off.

"What?"

"Goddamnit." She put her fists to her eyes, knuckles pressing hard into her brow bone. "I thought. . ."

Thought what?

She sniffed and looked up, eyes glistening. "I thought maybe you'd gotten hurt. Or you were gone. For good."

The notion was so shocking that every other thought vanished. The guilt landed on his chest like an anvil.

Chat Noir inhaled deeply. "Ladybug."

"A dead partner," she chuckled frantically, "and I'd never know what happened to you."

"I—"

Ladybug walked straight up to Chat Noir and stabbed a finger into his pectoral. "Imagine that. That I'd have to look after Paris alone, and I'd—" another stab "—never even get to know why. Partner. My so-called partner—"

Chat Noir caught her hand when it came at him again, this time balled into a fist, and pulled it toward him.

He slotted their bodies together, chest to chest, and his chin over her head. He thought Ladybug would opt for more kicking and punching—deserved—but she almost crumpled into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his ribs and squeezing.

Ladybug buried her head in his neck, hands clinging to his shoulders like he would phase out of existence if she let go. Her silky hair brushed his cheek. The way her body pressed into his, the way she smelt. . . it took everything in him not to purr, low in his chest.

But she was trembling. He'd made his Lady cry. He was the worst.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice breaking.

"You fucking suck, Chat Noir. So much." She hugged him tighter. Another half-hearted punch at his spine.

"I know."

"Don't you dare do that to me again," she gritted out.

"I won't," Chat Noir said hoarsely.

This whole time, he had thought Ladybug was conducting business as usual.

Those voicemails left on Fridays, she only spoke of patrols and the investigation. When she interviewed Adrien Agreste, her emotions were calm, like a safe harbour. When she appeared on TV or the Ladyblog, she radiated confidence in the judiciary and superhero team.

Composed and effortless, with plans from A through to Z to deal with every circumstance. Ladybug had everything under control.

But he'd done this to her. She had missed him to the point of tears. Shameful pride curled around his gut, at having his absence noticed and despised.

Ladybug pulled her head upright, searching his face. The blue in her irises was like falling face-first into the ocean. The impact was cruel, too beautiful.

"Where were you?"

"There was an emergency."

The answer did not satisfy her. She stepped back until their arms fell to their sides once more. "Is that all I get?"

He chuckled bitterly. "How much more detail do you want?"

Ladybug's features wilted when she realised the truth of his reasoning—not about the phone calls, which he could have and should have replied to. But now that they were having it out, she really couldn't ask for an explanation. It was too dangerous. She'd been the one to draw the line in the sand, and now Chat Noir was respecting the divide.

They were strangers, trying to keep it that way.

"Well, why didn't you at least tell me you were alright?" she murmured.

"Honestly? I didn't think I could talk to you about anything without talking to you about everything. Identities and all. I never knew how to do things in moderation, my Lady, but now I'm trying."

Ladybug's eyes widened. "Some emergency."

"Quite."

At that, a brief flicker of amusement darted through her teary eyes. "So, what? Did you think Cat Walker would be the perfect replacement?"

Reminding himself of how he used to be, how he used to feel in the suit, Chat Noir extended his staff to chest height and leaned a casual arm on it.

"I believe Cat Walker ticked every box of yours," he purred smoothly.

"Hmm. I suppose he was a perfect stand-in," Ladybug admitted, "in that stand-ins eventually leave."

Chat Noir scoffed, placing his palm to a wounded chest. "Excusez-moi. I took great lengths to train him."

Ladybug's eyes drifted to his raised hand, zeroing in on his ring.

Her dry smile dropped flat when something occurred to her. "You used your Cataclysm. At Le Grand. How long has it been?"

"Oh." Chat Noir glanced at his claw, the phantom thrill of power running down his arm. The paw insignia on his ring was still glowing green, nothing dimming, not even blinking. "I've been training. I won't transform back."

Ladybug nodded, not confused or surprised. Was her kwami teaching her, too?

"So you had time to learn new powers," she sniped, "but no time to call me back."

"Ladybug, I am sorry. This is probably the biggest fuck-up I've ever made in my life," he apologised sincerely. "But now that I'm back," and now that I realised I've been hurting you, "I am going to do everything to make it up to you."

"Really?" she asked, eyebrows raised and arms crossed.

"Yep. As many patrols as you need. Give me any job to help with the investigation. I will do anything you want. Anything."

Ladybug tipped her chin upwards, atlantic eyes framed by lowered lashes. He towered over her, but she could still make him feel small.

Over the years, Chat Noir had grown in height and breadth, shooting well above their initial three-inch difference. When they were sixteen, she had started looking up at him with a squared jaw and teasing, narrowed eyes to level the playing field.

"Really?" Her gaze slid to the side, back toward Le Grand Paris. The clouds on the horizon made it seem like a foreboding location, but maybe that was his pre-existing associations with the hotel.

"Anything. Please accept my apology."

"Alright, kitty. Apology accepted, but only because I have an important job for you."

Chapter Text

LADYBUG WANTED TO STAY ANGRY at him.

She wanted to rage a bit longer, be emotional and irrational and red-hot. Didn’t she deserve that? She’d been preparing herself for the worst, telling herself Chat Noir was in mortal trouble during his time away. It was easier on her pride to think he’d been incapacitated, injured even, but he’d just been swept away by some non-threatening emergency, and chose simply not to tell her. He left her, so easily, too easily, and didn’t come back for two months.

So all of her pain was for nothing.

Didn’t she deserve to pass some of it back to him?

Chat Noir took a seat on the stone ledge, smoothly swinging his legs over into empty air. He cut such a lonely silhouette, Ladybug was reminded of another time when she thought she’d lost him forever. Eyes of pale blue that swallowed the entire sclera, a tear like an icicle—

“Chat Noir reporting for duty,” he said, turning back towards Ladybug. Her kitty jerked his head to tell her to get over there, a coy half-smile curving his lips.

Fuck.

She couldn’t stay angry at him.

He was here, and safe, and the second she’d found herself in peril, he’d come back to protect her.

Ladybug lowered herself onto the stone, a few inches away from Chat Noir. The number of conversations they’d had here, side by side, watching the same skyline morph under new colours and seasons. Her throat closed up.

“What have I missed, Ladybug?”

She sighed, straightening her spine and inhaling deeply.

A lot, she wanted to say, a bit snappish, but kept calm. He was back. That was all that mattered. Now they needed to focus on the truly important priorities.

“I don’t know how much attention you paid to the Agreste vs. Paris case in your time away,” she began. By his utterly blank expression, she guessed none. “Basically, the honourable Heloise Hessenpy—you’ll meet her eventually—is the one in charge of the investigation. I have jurisdiction over when and where to use our team, and I liaise with her. She’s nice, though. I think so, anyway.”

Chat Noir nodded, eyes earnestly watching her face.

“When Heloise decides we have enough information to accurately clear or charge the suspects and defendants, she’ll call the pretrial hearing at the Cour d’Appel. Till then, we are all working on reconnaissance to build the evidence dossier.”

Ladybug launched into a brief explanation of the general responsibilities that the superhero team had. Interrogation lay with the Couffaine twins. Protest management lay with Vesperia and King Monkey. Ryuko covered the forensics of the Agreste mansion. Rena Rouge and Carapace were the akumatisation experts now. Polymouse was the public-facing liaison, having spoken to hundreds of civilians in the last two months. Pegasus was the resident IT guy.

Throughout, she did her best to ignore the way Chat Noir looked like a painting come to life, leaning back on both palms. He nodded at the end of every sentence, jaw set sternly under the deluge of information. He looked . . . unhappy, perhaps, or intensely thoughtful. The wind stirred his blonde locks, and his focused expression cut a strong profile against the rest of the city.

When she was done detailing the inner workings of their Miraculous investigatory team, Chat Noir pursed his lips and let out a low whistle. “Seems all the bases are covered.”

“They are,” she agreed. The special job she had in line for him wouldn’t be immediately apparent. “But the protests have made me realise something. I’ve skewed too hard toward criminal justice, and not enough toward finding the Peacock Miraculous.”

Everyone was coming for Adrien’s throat because of the uncertainty. So many people had done their own digging, scrawling through the publicly available footage of akumatisation and amokisation incidents. They thought Adrien was involved with Hawk Moth and Mayura’s terrorism. Wasn’t the Peacock Miraculous the last piece of the puzzle? Wouldn’t its reappearance cast the light on the full story, so they might end this dark chapter?

If they could find the Peacock Miraculous—preferably in a location already associated with the two primary defendants, and not Adrien—it would prove that he truly had nothing to do with it.

Chat Noir cast his eyes down to the pavement below, moving dots walking back and forth. “Why the urgency? It’s been missing for years.”

“We don’t know who might have it, or if it could fall into the wrong hands.”

“We dealt with the Butterfly Miraculous in the wrong hands before. You never wanted to go Miraculous hunting back then.”

She could sense Chat Noir’s hesitance, his questions: why didn’t she want to dedicate their full resources to the trial? How was dividing their focus a good idea?

Obviously, this had nothing to do with her feelings for Adrien. Obviously.

Nothing to do with his sad, infinitely deep green eyes, or the tender, sensitive soul underneath the perfect, obedient veneer the rest of the world saw. Nothing to do with his imprisonment in the hotel, all alone, unable to leave, with dangerous temptations for company.

Finding the Peacock Miraculous was for the good of Paris. If it also mollified the protestors, alleviated the scrutiny on Adrien and gave him room to breathe . . . who was she to say no?

“But if we find it, wherever it is, we will know once and for all whether Adrien deserves to be a suspect.” Then, as a justification for the superhero team, “Hopefully, the public can calm down, the heroes on protest management can take a break, and everyone’s job becomes much easier.”

Chat Noir cocked his head, a curious glint in his eye. “Assuming the Miraculous is not with him. Assuming he is innocent.”

Ladybug fought to keep her expression neutral.

She believed in Adrien with every cell in her body. But Chat Noir didn’t know him as well as she did. Did he see all the blasphemous media coverage—tall tales about a spoiled brat continuing his father’s oppressive legacy—and buy into it?

“Do you think he is innocent?” she murmured.

Chat Noir blinked lazily. “Do you?”

“Well, as investigators, we are not supposed to decide.” Their job was to collect and present all relevant information. The prosecution and examining judge were the ones who determined guilt. “Side note, don’t share your research with the press. You can give vague statements about your work, but save the details for the dossier.”

“Noted. But answer my question.”

“Alright.” Ladybug leaned closer to him. “Between us, I believe Adrien is just as good as you or me.”

He paused for a moment. “Really?”

“Really.”

The grin that spread across Chat Noir’s face could have chased away the clouds. “Then that is what I also believe. You know more about the investigation than me, after all.”

“Thanks, Chat Noir.” She unfolded her yo-yo. The bottom panel glowed pink, a dimensionless portal to the Miracle Box. From inside, she drew a plain black USB—Chat Noir’s login and decryption key for Mira-Message.

After explaining the resources at his disposal, where to get them, and how to anonymously contact the rest of the team, Ladybug gave him a warning. “Finding the Miraculous is going to be difficult with no traces since Mayura’s last sighting. We are working blind here, so let me know if it’s too much—”

Chat Noir looked up from the piece of paper. “Hey, remember what I just promised you?”

She shook her head.

“Anything you want. I’ll get the Miraculous for you, my Lady.”

“Oh.” Ladybug picked up the thread of her thoughts. “Okay, well, you can sure try, but realistically—”

“Realistically, I’ll find the Peacock Miraculous with my razor-sharp wit, daring bravery and winning good looks, save the poor Agreste boy, and deliver the city its long-awaited justice? Yes, I thought so, too.” Chat Noir yawned and craned his neck until a vertebra clicked.

Ladybug saw the tendon along his throat flex and glanced away, scoffing. “So your vacation didn’t harm your ego at all.”

Her kitty forcefully laughed aloud and winked. “It did not.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Plagg flopped onto the cushion on the couch. He dragged with him a slice of cheese.

“I thought you were trying to get over Ladybug.”

“I was. I am.”

“Uh-huh,” the kwami nodded, sounding less than interested. “One more time with feeling.” Plagg threw a slice of Roquefort into the air, yawned his mouth open wide, and swallowed it with an audible gulp.

Adrien looked around the door of the kitchenette cupboard, where he was storing the macaroons. “I am getting over her.”

There. That sounded better.

Never mind that she was so much more amazing and understanding toward Adrien Agreste than he had expected. Never mind that with a single sentence—I believe Adrien is just as good as you or me—he was this close to undoing his progress and falling for her goodness all over again.

Being Chat Noir felt like finding a beloved sweater at the back of the wardrobe. It was once the garment he could have worn all day and gone to bed in, feeling as natural as a second skin, and now it was two sizes too small, scratchy and moth-worn.

But he had loved it once.

He just needed to tailor his persona for his new circumstances. Chat Noir would be similar but not the same, the differences ideally imperceptible, with two months of absence to justify them. Cut out the lovestruck adoration that Ladybug hated. Replace the sly confidence that repulsed Carapace with something softer. Stitch in a few sparkly witticisms and feline puns that were a far cry from plain, docile Adrien Agreste to avoid discovery.

He would be laid-back, trustworthy, and friendly—but only friendly. Then Ladybug would enjoy working with her partner, Carapace wouldn’t despise his teammate, and no-one would notice any disturbing similarities between Chat Noir and Adrien Agreste.

Plagg abruptly perked up, smacking his tongue. “Is this Camembert fresh?”

“Yes.”

“Gross,” his kwami mock-retched. “I told you, Adrien. When you stock up my cheese supply, please put the new additions to the bottom of the pile. That way every piece gets enough moulding time.”

He shook his head fondly. Of course. Did he expect anything different? Love troubles were to Plagg what stinky Camembert was to Adrien. Totally equal importance.

“Sorry. I will remember next time.”

“Good.” Plagg zipped through a wall, heading for the closet safe, to retrieve a satisfactory wedge of cheese.

Adrien went back to his thoughts and wandered the room, finally sitting down on the piano bench. Fuck, he’d missed his Lady. It was at once glorious and painful to be back. He was guarding everything he said, everything he let show on his face. Getting over her was slow work. Very slow.

He had yet to master being in Ladybug’s presence without defaulting to impossible daydreams—which wasn’t what a true professional should do. He was an investigator now, which meant ignoring how easily their bodies fit together and the banter they shared and the warmth she could conjure up even in his coldest moments.

Which meant remembering why he needed to move on.

She would never return his feelings. Her kindness to Adrien and comfort around Chat Noir only existed because they were separate. There would be an irresolvable conflict of interest if she found out. So she couldn’t find out. So he could never be fully honest with her. Any relationship he fantasised about would never survive.

And, for once, he deserved an honest love. A safe place to remove all the masks. To never worry that the person he trusted would blindside him. Right?

God, he wanted a drink.

No.

He had worked so hard.

He considered asking Plagg to help him practise his new powers, but a glance toward the dining table answered for him. His kwami was supine on the wood, belly bulging so much that it obscured his face. A happy, sleepy whine emerged from him.

Instead, Adrien slid his thighs over the piano bench until he was facing the keys. The last time he played—

I trust that you will be ready for your party. Many of my industry connections are looking forward to hearing you play live for the first time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to picture the day everything had gone wrong.

When he opened them, blurry motes slid across his vision, just in front of the ivories.

Piano was something he always associated with his father. He had only started hating the piano when he was forced to play. But, in moving on, shouldn’t he unlearn all the associations?

If he avoided everything his father had ever touched, he could never enjoy music or sports or museums again. He could never find peace in this city, painted with the artistic legacies of Gabriel Agreste. He would never like himself.

He was Adrien before he was an Agreste. He was more than just his father’s son.

Adrien poised his fingers and started to play.

Chapter Text

CHAT NOIR HAD BEEN OUT of Paris.

Ladybug knew she shouldn’t hunt for clues about where her kitty had gone. Conversation was dangerous. Any accidental details could trigger an avalanche of knowledge that crushed them in the end. But that tidbit stuck.

She had been waiting at their rendezvous to start the patrol when he dropped onto the tiled roof, boots scuffing, and stretched to his full height behind her. There was a double-scoop of ice cream in each hand.

“I saw André Glacier packing his cart up for the night on my way here,” he smiled bashfully. “I’ve missed his ice cream so much.”

That’s how she knew he’d been out of the city. Somewhere far enough that he couldn’t visit Paris’ beloved artisanal ice cream vendor at all.

Ladybug glanced at the cones in front of her. “Which one is mine?”

“Either.”

She snorted. “Do you want André to have a heart attack?”

Everyone knew how particular André was about his creations. If he was making an order for Ladybug and Chat Noir, he was making an order for Ladybug and an order for Chat Noir. The flavour combinations and ingredient choices were specific and gospel. Some childish tradition inside her half-believed that if they violated this rule—even in private—somehow he would find out and karma would bite them in the ass.

“Right,” Chat Noir chuckled. He put forward his left hand. “He said mint chocolate chip, and cookies and cream for the lady.”

She took the waffle cone, a disposable wooden spoon wedged into the ice cream, and sat down. Chat Noir mirrored her position, legs crossed and shoulders relaxed, digging in. It was one of those rare November nights that wasn’t raining. The indigo sky boasted sequin planets and diamante stars and no clouds.

They talked. About Chat Noir settling into the investigation team—no IT problems with accessing MM or the CCTV database or the akumatisation logs? Could he contact Heloise Hessenpy or the judicial police or the forensics team if he so wished? Yes, yes, stop stressing, my Lady, yes. Going by his answers, he was way more savvy than Ladybug had been at the start of this entire ordeal.

“Do you know what we need?” he said, working down his ice-cream cone.

Ladybug smirked. She could never tell with that cheery tone of his, if he was asking genuine questions or setting up a punchline. “What?”

“An office.”

Ladybug snorted. “Naturally.”

“Hey, think about it. You need processing power for Pegasus’ software. So, computers, which will need their own network and servers for security,” he reasoned. “You need somewhere to store all the files and notes that Carapace and Rena Rouge make, and if I’m joining the team, I really need a designated research space to maintain focus. With a cat calendar, preferably.”

“First week back and you’re already making demands.”

Her partner glanced at his boots and shook his head, blonde waves swaying. “You don’t get what you don’t ask for.” To prove his point, he dug his wooden spoon into Ladybug’s portion of cookies and cream. “Delicious,” he mumbled, mouth full.

Ladybug shoved him sideways, slightly startled when he didn’t budge as far as she expected. There was more weight to his frame than the lanky kid he’d once been. Since they’d grown up together, she only really noticed in the moments when old habits didn’t fit with new realities.

“You are insufferable, Chat Noir.” He grinned and offered his cone out to her, from which she scooped some raspberry cheesecake ice cream. His other flavour was blueberry. “Less insufferable.”

(This was not insufferable at all.)

Ladybug hadn’t realised that she’d started viewing patrols as a chore. She would eat dinner, clear the dishes for her parents, study a while, pretend to sleep, and then sneak out to collect her partner for the night. If it wasn’t Chat Noir or Rena Rouge, she expected forced pleasantries and an uneventful tour of the city. She spent the whole half-hour with a crease between her brows.

Sure, Chat Noir had been responsible for the pure anxiety in the most recent patrols. But even before, for months and months, when they were both more taciturn and cordial, she’d started looking at the concrete blurring under her feet than at the stars above.

But this was a beautiful city and a precious responsibility and she’d forgotten. Her kitty had brought it back. He’d given Ladybug what she never thought to give herself—something far deeper than ice-cream and a break, but also just ice-cream and a break.

They popped the tiny ends of their waffle cones into their mouths. Before they set out, Chat Noir leapt to his feet and pulled Ladybug up.

It was so good to have him back.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Chat Blanc stood at the top of the world, or what seemed like it.

A wrought iron mess of beams and pillars, rising up out of an iceberg-studded ocean. Ladybug searched around for any sign of life, of support, but there was none. She held her breath and drew closer, her feet tentatively shuffling forward on the thin metal.

“Just let me help you,” she pleaded, searching those glacial eyes for a sign of teasing, or warmth, or love. But they were just empty.

When she neared her kitty, Ladybug reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. It was cold to the touch, almost deathlike. Goosebumps raced from her nape down her arms. He angled his jaw up and away, slowly throwing off her touch.

“Help me?” Chat Blanc smiled bitterly. More a sneer than a smile. “You’re hurting me. You’re breaking my heart, Marinette.”

What?

Hearing her name on his lips was earth-shattering. Shivers, tremors, butterflies. It was like the beam gave way underneath her feet, except nothing had moved.

Ladybug’s hand fell to her side, her eyes circular. “What. . . did you say?”

“Marinette,” he repeated, poising his hand between them. He made a ring with his finger and thumb, ready to flick that growing ball of devastation in her direction. “You don’t love me anymore, so I might as well end everything.”

But instead of aiming at Ladybug, Chat Blanc turned his powers on himself.

Ladybug felt her breath lodge in her throat, a grain of wasted time that might have been her complete undoing. Please, kitty, don’t.

“No—”

Marinette startled awake.

There were sticky tears on her face.

She must have started crying at some point during the nightmare, wetting one round spot on her pink pillowcase. She truly hated this nightmare. It had been recurring more and more frequently now that she was more stressed than usual.

Beside her, Tikki didn’t stir, so she swallowed, laid down and tried to regulate her breathing.

Pale moonlight streaked in through her skylight. Marinette stared beyond the glass at the inky night sky as she waited for sleep to take her again. Calm thoughts. Peaceful. Clear the mind. She’d downloaded a mindfulness app in the last month to help her process—

Well, everything.

It didn’t work.

Chat Noir coming back was unequivocally a good thing. Yes. It was. Except. . . Well, they even had a saying about this circumstance: too much of a good thing was never good for long. He was her partner, a confidante, a friend—except he could be none of these things, really, not in the uninhibited, unconditional manner that he wanted.

Marinette couldn’t let him. If they ever got too close, it would jeopardise everything. Their safety. Their city. She must have spent an hour tossing and turning before she finally fell asleep.

Calm thoughts.

Peaceful.

Clear the mind.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

As soon as Marinette’s breathing evened out, Tikki opened her eyes.

She had been planning on seeing Plagg tonight, anyway, to discuss the increasingly complicated situation between Ladybug and Adrien Agreste—but this nightmare had hardened her convictions. Marinette was not coping as well as she insisted.

Tikki flitted across a sleeping Paris and towards Le Grand Paris. She phased into the suite where Ladybug came so often for her interviews. In the bedroom, the air was dark and musty, kept artificially warm by central heating. Her hunt for Plagg ended on the pillow right next to Adrien’s serene face.

Strange, the kwami thought, how carefree he looks in his sleep.

Plagg woke with a yelp after Tikki pulled on his tail, but she preempted the sound and clamped her paw over his mouth. “This is insane,” he hissed, after they shifted to the living room.

“I agree! This is insane,” she said, “What are we going to do about these two?”

“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” he said, yawning wide, displaying his pointy canines.

Tikki baulked. “When, Plagg? When have we seen this before?” They’d both had countless Chat Noir’s and Ladybugs. She couldn’t think of a single instance when their relationship to each other—sometimes non-existent, other times platonic, a few times romantic—had been this tangled, this stifling, this detrimental.

“I think we should intervene. Chat Noir loves Ladybug and is insistent on lying to her,” she reminded Plagg. “My wielder is driving herself crazy trying to balance her duty to Paris and her feelings for your wielder. Do you know what a mess she was when Chat Noir was away?”

Marinette had stopped sleeping right, eating right, caught between her reality and her frantic, paranoid daydreams of what had happened to her partner. Tikki refused to let anything like that happen again.

Plagg whipped his tail in the direction of the coffee table, where the smell of poison hung like a cloud. “About as much of a mess as he currently is?” The black kwami drew closer to Tikki, arms crossed. “Even if we wanted to step in, we can’t reveal our wielders’ identities, remember?”

Curses. He was correct. The enchantment on them went deeper than not being able to say Adrien and Marinette’s names. If they tried to drop locations and dates and facts, they would find themselves tongue-tied, disoriented and drained of all energy.

“So other than trying to keep them both alive and relatively in line,” Plagg was saying, “what else do you recommend?” He cocked his head and waited in silence.

Tikki narrowed her eyes and glowered. “I do not like you.”

Plagg grinned. “I know, Sugarcube.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“Claws in.”

As soon as the Miraculous flung Plagg back into the hotel room, he propped both paws on his waist and asked, “Do you know what the problem is?”

“I know,” Adrien gasped, staring at his flexed hand in front of him.

The contrast was stark between his soft, pale skin and the fierce obsidian claws that had been there seconds earlier. One hinted at a manicured, regimented life, and the other represented chaos, freedom, agency.

Each day, when housekeeping came to turn down the bedding and remove rubbish, Adrien took great care to hide the empty bottles of vodka. They went into the kitchenette cabinets and his bedroom closet and the cupboard underneath the bathroom sink. He’d meant for no-one to find about his shameful vice, a temptingly numb grip from which he was trying to escape.

He’d never felt humiliation as paralysing as that day Ladybug first came by the suite. How could he make the hotel staff deal with the leftovers of his own problems?

Now, Plagg had found a use for them. Miraculous practice dummies. Objects to be disintegrated—one by one—by the new Cataclysms Adrien would learn to call, at will, ad infinitum.

If only he could.

“My second Cataclysm is so weak,” he groaned, rolling over to lie on his back. The carpet was plush beneath his back, the chandelier on the lounge room ceiling raining splinters of golden light on him. “I can’t figure it out.”

“That’s the symptom.” Plagg shook his head, his whiskers trembling in time. “Do you know what the problem is?”

“I. . . no. Help.”

Plagg floated up to Adrien’s face, interrupting the chandelier light as a shadowy blob. “You are still drawing from your own energy reserves. You still think of the Miraculous like a separate entity. When you staved off your transformation, you were fighting against it, trying to bend it to your will.”

Adrien let his mind drop like a pebble into a river—the river of cosmic energy that seemed to drag his body into and out of the Black Cat suit. Learning to combat that pull was like becoming the modern Sisyphus, pushing an impossible rock, countering an impossible current.

It hurt, until he prevailed, and now the tension at the base of his skull and the burn in his heart had become testaments to his strength.

“Because you said that I needed to learn restraint.”

“I did, and you did learn,” Plagg agreed. “But everything in this universe has two sides. You needed willpower, and now you need surrender. No human is powerful enough to generate their own Cataclysm.”

Now that he could exhaust one Cataclysm without transforming back, the next logical step was to learn to conjure a second, a third, more, more. Adrien had been trying the whole afternoon—a stack of properly aged Camembert wedges lying on a nearby plate—but his second Cataclysm was always milky dark instead of blisteringly black. It felt weaker. When he applied it to a glass bottle, the product was a chunky sand-like mixture of shards instead of pure dust, pure atoms, then nothing.

“You need the Miraculous for that. Open yourself to the full powers of Destruction.”

Adrien sighed and covered his eyes with his forearm. As Chat Noir, he’d been learning to discipline everything. Face, mannerisms, even his powers. He was bending Destruction to his will, holding it back behind a steel door. Plagg was telling him that if he ever wanted to unleash his abilities, he needed to just lift the door. Let the river flood out and trust it not to drown him.

But. . .

There was something within Adrien that he showed no one.

Not the media, not his classmates, not Ladybug—not even Plagg, but sometimes his kwami had borne witness to it. The first Christmas without his mother. The day Paris dissected his heart on its countless billboards. The night Ladybug and Chat Noir defeated Hawk Moth, and he had the urge to Cataclysm the entire city.

This thing within him hadn’t simply come along when Fu gave him the Miraculous. It had always been there, some abyss in a forgotten corner of Adrien’s soul.

Pure Destruction.

And he was ashamed of it; the desire to damage coursing through him like lightning through a tree, burning and white-hot. Ashamed, but he couldn’t slice it out, no matter how he tried. Not when it made him feel more alive than nearly everything else.

In his darkest moments, there was always the power at the end of his fingertips when nothing else could be trusted. Destruction required no finesse. It was finding a neck to squeeze, a flame to roll between his fingers. It was temporary, euphoric bliss.

But Adrien remembered all the things he’d obliterated with this power—billboards, chimneys, buildings—and how his negative emotion always rushed right back in while the dust settled.

““I— I don’t like who I become when I let go, Plagg,” he confessed. “I hate destroying things.”

Even when he didn’t. He hated that he liked destroying things. There was no place for that instinct in his new life—a perfect partner for Ladybug, a perfect friend to his class, a perfect witness for the city.

Plagg scoffed and whacked Adrien’s nose with his tail. “You don’t become anyone. You are Adrien no matter what you do or think or feel.” At his confused, furrowed brow, the kwami lowered his voice into a clandestine purr, “Like I said, everything in this universe has two sides—even the best things.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. All your facets make you a better person, Adrien, not worse. And Destruction is not innately a bad thing. It’s volcanic, turning over new soil. It lets the right seeds take root in your life. Everyone needs it. Old bonds, smothering relationships, wastes of energy. Everyone needs to burn bridges in their life—sometimes literally.” Plagg released a mournful sigh. “Often not, unfortunately.”

Old bonds. Smothering relationships. Burning bridges.

Adrien rolled over onto his elbows, peering desperately into Plagg’s peridot eyes. “Are you saying it’s a good thing that I’m trying to get over Ladybug?”

Plagg blinked, startled at the new direction of the conversation, and grizzled. His fur stood on end. “Are you kidding me? I try to relay philosophies that will extend your powers beyond anything you’ve known and teach you lessons that are as old as humanity—which is exactly as boring for me as it sounds—and all you can think about is your unrequited love?”

“Kinda. Yes.”

“Humans,” he sniffed, his tiny snout turned upward. “Well. I have no interest in love, so I can’t even pretend to have an opinion. However: when to hold on and when to let go. It’s a universal lesson. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll find that it applies everywhere.”

Adrien’s brows shot up as a small smile ghosted across his lips. Would you look at that? There was actually a lot of wisdom buried in that little black fuzzball, under all the gluttony.

He shook out the tension in his shoulders, and placed two vodka bottles on the coffee table. “Plagg, claws out.”

Chat Noir called a Cataclysm and used it, the resulting particles of glass too fine to even require sweeping up.

Volcanic, turning over new soil. Everyone needs it.

He cast his thoughts into himself, finding the steel vault within. He opened it a sliver, and crackling energy sizzled down his arms and legs.

“Cataclysm.” Roiling black magic clustered into his palm, potent as the first. The next bottle evaporated, quick, clean.

Chat Noir understood it better now. Destruction was inside him, as it was inside everyone and everything. Decay didn’t have to cause damage. That violent frothing river didn’t have to drown him; it could wash him clean and leave untouched everything that needed to be preserved.

His power felt limitless, tied to something deeper and older than the molecules that made up Adrien Agreste.

“Cataclysm,” he whispered again, and Destruction roared to life in his hand.

Chapter Text

LADYBUG DID GET HIM AN office.

Well, she secured a workspace for all the Miraculous investigators collectively. It was in the Palais de Justice, the same building as Heloise Hessenpy’s office, the hub of Paris’ judicial power.

The gold-gilded stone buildings housed the high courts of the city. They had been prisons and war rooms and high councils for kings and queens. Every room in the judicial complex felt old but treasured. The degree of age changed because the place had grown over time—marble columns and stone arches had seen emperors, carved wooden balustrades and chandeliers had seen kings, and creaking iron cells had seen war generals.

The Agreste vs. Paris pretrial hearing would happen in the Cour d’Appel. This is where I’ll come, Chat Noir realised, head tilted back at the grand ceilings as he strolled deeper into the complex. His boots struck the steps loudly as he nimbly descended, taking a left, then a right, following his Lady’s directions.

In a stuffy back room, Ladybug had indeed tacked a cat calendar on the wall.

Chat Noir chuckled noiselessly, letting his claws glide along the doorframe. In the superhero office, which was far away from the part of the Palais that had become a heritage site—ahem, a tourist trap—everything was wooden.

A workbench with office stationary stretched along the back wall, underneath the Palladian windows that ushered in the afternoon sun. The eastern wall supported a standing desk with two computers, their private hard drives, and a printer. Metal frame shelving spanned the western side, half-full with cardboard archival boxes.

Chat Noir pulled one box forward—labelled 2017 Akumatizations—and rummaged through. Then another—labelled 2018 Gabriel™ Fiscal Records—and one more—Shanghai Press Coverage.

From the contents, it seemed Rena Rouge had already come through and deposited all her transcripts of the akumatization interviews, the auditor’s reports and financial crime division’s findings on Gabriel, the brand, and foreign media coverage of the terrorism in Shanghai.

Go Alya.

A tingle zipped down Chat Noir’s spine, ears pricked up, tuning into footsteps along the stone hallway outside. He could hear people, smell them, before he saw them. The weight and pacing became suddenly, achingly familiar.

Once, with his father, he’d attended the opening night of a touring portraiture exhibition at the Louvre. The artist painted a massive canvas with a grid of distorted whorls and shapes, and a prepubescent Adrien thought it boring, until he walked halfway across the gallery and looked back to see a face in the distance.

It was the same now. The dense mental fog of the quantum masking lifted, revealing a smiling, bespectacled face. Carapace swung the door open and froze.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Didn’t know you were coming in today.”

If I could, I’d sew his sweet-talking mouth shut with his own whiskers. Chat Noir tried for a friendly grin. “Yeah, I just got worked into the roster.”

“Cool.” Carapace’s features scrunched into a placid, short-lived smile. He breezed right past in favour of the computer desk, seeming familiar in the office despite how recently Heloise had assigned it to Ladybug.

Chat Noir was acutely aware of his time away, like a gaping hole in the middle of the floor. While he’d been licking his wounds in a hotel room, Carapace and the others had been working for the judiciary.

The hero in question wove his fingers together and flexed his palms until the knuckles cracked. Then he wagged the computer mouse on its pad to wake the screen, logging leisurely into the heroes’ private network.

Chat Noir pretended like he had a plan. He pretended he knew what he was doing and drifted silently to the desk, logging into the computer beside Carapace. Where his best friend’s fingers had flown without thinking, he had to type, stunted, with concerted effort, drawing the unfamiliar password from fledgling memory.

“How’s it going?” he asked good-naturedly. Chat Noir was watching too closely to miss the frustrated tick in Carapace’s temple.

“My work or my day?”

How had Chat Noir never seen what was right under his nose?

Nino was deeply protective of his friends, soft-hearted and refusing to numb himself to everything that the world could throw his way. Alya knew exactly how influential illusions were, caught in a lifelong love affair with the nature of truth and knowledge. It explained why he’d taken an immediate liking to the Lean Green Machine, and why joking around with Rena Rouge came so easily.

But that slick persona had made him a rival in Carapace’s eyes—and he just wanted his best friend back.

“Work. Both,” he offered, smiling brightly in case Carapace deigned to glance sideways. As it was, Carapace cared only about an email thread between himself and an akumatization victim that wanted to provide testimony remotely. “Whatever you like.”

“It’s fine.” No reciprocation.

Chat Noir let his disappointed sigh escape silently. He glanced at his empty, waiting screen, uncertain what to do.

On the USB that Ladybug had given him was a software installer, the login to Mira-Message—the online workspace that Pegasus had programmed for the team—and his decryption key. That way, he could receive private communications on his usual civilian iPhone without worrying about others stumbling upon them.

He browsed through the MM drive. The schedule for shared use of the Palais office. The procedures and liaisons for ordering wire-tapping, ID checks, search warrants, or meetings with the forensic teams. Pegasus’—Max Kanté, his classmate—database that stored the AI-processed CCTV footage.

There was too much to absorb all at once, and he’d spent every waking second this week reading up on legal procedure and Pegasus’ code. Ladybug didn’t expect him to find the Peacock Miraculous on his own, and Carapace was not even attempting to hide his dislike.

“Look, Carapace, if I’ve done something that didn’t sit right with you, just let me know—”

Carapace sliced through the sentence, tilting his stony expression in Chat Noir’s direction. “You haven’t done anything. That’s the point.”

“Huh?”

“This investigation is important to Paris. It’s important to me—”

Of course it is.

Carapace cared deeply about Adrien Agreste, but not Chat Noir.

He wanted to slam his head into the keyboard. Things would be so much easier if this was just an argument between two high schoolers, face to face.

“—so I’m trying to work without distractions. It’s not personal.”

“Right. Got it,” Chat Noir assured, hands up in surrender. “I understand completely.”

He did understand.

He understood what a clusterfuck this was. The wires were so crossed that none of his words would—should—get through, and reaching into the mess guaranteed death by information overload. He couldn’t tell Nino, who would tell Ladybug, and then it would be death by lightning instead.

For the next half an hour, Chat Noir wandered through the different directories and folders on the Mira-Message drive. He knew that it looked exactly how it was: he was lost. He had a map and a compass—the resources provided by Ladybug and the months-long efforts of the team—but he had no starting point.

Carapace succeeded in keeping his frustration merely twitching on his face instead of brimming into existence, but after Chat Noir started idly watching his tenth CCTV video, the green-clad hero spoke up.

“Look, Ladybug has personally looked through every clip that has Hawk Moth, Mayura or Adrien Agreste over the last year.” Chat Noir paused the clip. “It was a fuck-ton of work, and she found nothing we didn’t already know.”

So stop wasting time, Carapace didn’t have to add.

“This is just the database of files that Pegasus filtered from the main CCTV feed, right?”

“Correct. He also put a whole lot of effort into writing the code that streamlined our search.”

I get it, Nino, Chat Noir simmered, everyone was available and useful except for me.

If only Carapace knew.

With an earnest expression, Chat Noir placed a palm to his chest. “And I’m grateful to him, and to Ladybug, and to you.” Hopefully the heartstring-tugging would work to warm the air between them. “We’re a team, dude.”

The part-time superhero never had a problem with Chat Noir until his girlfriend entered the picture, so perhaps Chat Noir would have to clarify that he was a solo agent. If that didn’t work, he would have to make sure that both their MM schedules coincided until he won Carapace over. He could do it eventually. He knew how to carve and stitch a facet of him that would charm any person.

The sunlight that fell through the north-facing window warmed Chat Noir’s back as he worked. Carapace finished documenting the written testimony from his correspondent, printed it off and slipped it into the rightful archival box across the room. When he came back, he halted and wrenched Chat Noir’s hands off the keyboard.

“What are you doing? Don’t fuck with Pegasus’ code.”

Chat Noir easily twisted out of the tight grip and pointed to the window header. “I made a copy. Don’t worry.”

“What are you doing?” Carapace repeated sternly.

“The code is a neural net. I’m widening the net.”

“What the fuck do you know about programming?”

Enough.

In lycée, Chat Noir had chosen the Science séries. While Marinette, Nino and Alya had chosen their specialisations as stepping stones to an ideal life, he had possessed no inclinations to any career. He had only wanted to please his father. Even when Gabriel had been a strict but redeemable figure, he could never picture his life after high school. It had been a grey smudge.

“Choose Science, Adrien,” his father had advised over a year ago. “The world is a technocracy now. It is survival of the most adaptable.” So he did.

He’d nearly topped Computer Science last year, second only to Max Kanté—Pegasus himself. Carapace didn’t know this connection existed, of course, but after a year of studying alongside him, Chat Noir knew Pegasus’ coding habits closely enough to tinker without breaking. Pegasus commented meticulously, guiding any fellow programmer with a gentle hand. There were parts of this code that came directly from one of the machine learning assignments they’d completed together.

“If my lacklustre efforts in the last week have taught me anything, the whole programme is simply a chain of successively tighter tests that disregard the parts of footage that don’t match the training images.” Chat Noir dragged his cursor up a block of code to highlight his point: “If, say, this feed of pedestrian footage doesn’t exceed 60% likeness for Hawk Moth, it doesn’t make it to the final Hawk Moth database.”

Chat Noir scoured through the script and lowered the thresholds on all the filters.

The way Max had done it, an investigator was supposed to use one of the Adrien Agreste, Hawk Moth, Gabriel Agreste, Mayura, or Nathalie Sancoeur filters with a high likeness threshold. The code would lift all the clips that satisfied those conditions and funnel them into a handy grid viewing format.

But that only resulted in the most distinct sightings making it to the last batch. The ones that were old news already. Even civilians had filmed most of those incidents. Some lived on the Ladyblog. Carapace noticeably flinched when Chat Noir selected a large block of code and deleted it.

“We have all the original footage already, remember?” he said softly.

Carapace scoffed, but leaned in. “What are you looking for?”

“We have confirmed Sancoeur sightings, and we have confirmed Mayura sightings,” Chat Noir explained. “What about confirmed Sancoeur and Mayura sightings?”

“The prosecution is dead-certain Nathalie is Mayura, for fuck’s sake.” Carapace inched closer, probably about to forcibly remove Chat Noir’s hands off of the keyboard. “They won’t be on screen at the same time. Catch up.”

That’s what I’m trying to do.

“I’m doing my best,” Chat Noir gritted. He toggled on both the Mayura and Nathalie filters, this time asking only a moderate match in the footage. Noise, blur, movement, and shadowy clips would get included rather than discarded.

Carapace inhaled to say something, but as Chat Noir executed the code, his mouth clicked shut. A singular unfamiliar video thumbnail appeared. They practically shared oxygen as they leaned toward the screen, and Chat Noir pointed his claw to the upper right cluster of pixels.

“There.”

The camera was an entire courtyard away from the sighting. It seemed like Mayura had come dashing around a corner, thinking herself obscured from view, half-transformed already into her civilian form. Just before she sprinted into an alleyway, a rush of blue sparks swept away her indigo dress and left simply the cuff of some charcoal trousers.

Chat dragged the playhead to the left again, rewinding a split second. “Mayura.” To the right. “Nathalie.” Left. “Mayura.” Right. “Nathalie.”

“Holy shit.” Carapace clutched both sides of his head, the action so Nino when he could see through the magical masking. His jaw was slack with awe, excitement. “The interrogators. . .”

—Had been working for months to get a confession out of Nathalie. She was in prison on fraud and accomplice charges, but nothing yet on the level of Hawk Moth. Mayura was the bigger fish to fry, but they had to catch it first. Authorities had video evidence that Hawk Moth was Gabriel, but none for Nathalie.

Till now.

Carapace opened a new blank document on the computer and took down the timestamp and location of the footage reel. CCTV dated the event far before this September—one of their older attempts to steal the Miraculous of Creation and Destruction. She had probably been escaping the heroes.

A manual search of other cameras in the spatial and temporal vicinity of this sighting returned nothing.

“Do you think she went inside one of those buildings along the alleyway?” Carapace wondered.

Chat Noir plugged the location into an online mapper. “These are all apartment buildings. Nathalie lived in the Agreste mansion.”

“Except,” Carapace reminded him, “between Adrien Agreste’s birthday party and the day the police found her, she was in hiding. She wasn’t at the mansion, so where could she have gone? Maybe she always had a hideout apartment in case things went awry.”

Chat Noir nodded, then shook his head with a furrow in his brow. “The first night, the police tried to trace all of Gabriel's and Nathalie’s bank transactions. If they didn’t find some undeclared apartment back then—”

“If she wasn’t found, she would have used a fake identity and cash to lease it,” Carapace reasoned.

True. But how were they going to find which building and which apartment, the one that could be housing the Peacock Miraculous as they spoke, if Nathalie hadn’t leased it under any real name or with any real credentials? They could be chasing a ghost,

“I don’t have fancy tech powers,” Carapace drawled, “but we do have the old-fashioned way of getting information: asking around.”

He pressed the cuff on one of his green sleeves, activating his Turtle Phone. One gloved finger pointed to Chat Noir’s screen, where he’d searched the apartment building complex, and hovered above the phone number.

Chat Noir spun his baton in a rapid blur. It came to a stop in his palm, sliding open to reveal the dial pad. “You’re right. Let’s make some calls.”

They phoned all the apartment buildings on either side of the alleyway that Mayura had darted into. They described Nathalie’s physical appearance and dropped the notion that she would have paid in large sums of cash, perhaps sent by mail, rather than transfer funds via internet banking.

Nothing, until there was. 5J/38 Rue de la Moyenne Ronde.

Carapace summarised the address, the amendments to the code, their entire session of work, into his word document and uploaded it. As they strolled out of the office, up the creaking metal stairs and into the glistening foyer, Chat Noir found himself on the receiving end of a fist. He almost flinched.

But Carapace waited until Chat Noir tentatively bumped their knuckles together. Then he grinned.

A Nino grin.

“Good work, dude. Welcome back.”

Chapter Text

THE STUDENT COUNCIL MEETING ENDED just as a bout of rain stopped.

Alya and Marinette skipped down the front stairs of Francois Dupont. Aside from other students doing extracurricular activities, the school was empty. The student council meeting had been draining and unproductive—Principal Damocles had again commandeered the discussion—so Alya needed caffeine if she was to have any hope of doing homework tonight.

A notification chimed on Marinette’s phone, and she checked her screen while walking. That she halted and turned her torso towards the nearest stone wall told Alya that the notification was superhero-related. There was no need to hide civilian messages.

“Clever, clever kitty.”

“Pardon?”

“Look what Chat Noir found,” she whispered, beckoning Alya to glance at the obscured phone. She pressed her side into Marinette's, effectively surrounding the screen within two bodies and a wall.

Chat Noir:  5J/38 Rue de la Moyenne Ronde. Nathalie’s hideout.

“Oh, my God,” Alya gasped, gleeful. “Why has he not been working recon all this time?”

Marinette stiffened and Alya sheepishly touched her fingers to her mouth.

How could she forget the two months that nearly sent Marinette off the rails? Scratch that, she did go off the rails, just a tad. Pinned photographs and post-its connected with red strings on her pull-down screen, anxious brain tangents and never-ending paranoia.

“Stupid question,” Alya chuckled tightly, too high-pitched. “Ignore me.”

Thankfully, Marinette was too excited by the recent development to be dragged down by painful memories.

“This is fantastic. I’ll check it out ASAP,” she whispered, slipping her phone back into the purse at her hip. “If we find the Peacock Miraculous there, that proves Nathalie’s guilt and absolves Adrien.”

Though the wind was cold and biting, forcing Alya to wind her scarf over her mouth and nose, the rain stayed away. Water dripped from awnings and street lamps as they walked to their favourite café. The bistro tables that usually sat outside had been in storage for weeks now, making rare appearances on sunny-enough days. The waitress at the register knew their orders by memory, and ten minutes later, they were walking out.

Alya cast her eyes around the quiet streets. Most people were rightly staying inside, the working day nearly over. It was okay to talk.

“Is it still weird being around Adrien?” she wondered, pressed both palms into the burning sides of the takeaway cup. “In those interviews?” Yesterday was their seventh, marking seven weeks of mental fracturing on Marinette’s part. Of all the people fifteen-year-old Alya would have picked to be a good liar, Marinette was one of the last. She was too good a person to lie.

But lying wasn’t about morality, Alya had since realised. It was about conviction. Marinette knew her purpose as deeply as her own name. Her convictions ran deep.

“Not as much as the beginning. I couldn’t figure out how to switch off my Marinette-brain and switch on my Ladybug-brain. But now that we’ve met so many times, I know how to fumble through without making an idiot of myself.” Marinette heaved a soft, self-deprecating laugh onto herself, shoulders rising, and took a sip of her latte.

“And, after this, you’ll just switch your Marinette-brain back on?” Alya questioned.

“Yes. No. I mean, not immediately.”

“Mm.”

Marinette hadn’t been able to switch her Ladybug-brain off while her partner was gone.

Chat Noir’s absence had left Alya with painful memories, too, but they were of what her best friend went through. She didn’t know Chat Noir well, didn’t know about his personal life and civilian commitments—plus he’d generously helped her overcome issues in her relationship—so she would reserve her anger for the circumstances instead of the individual.

But, make no mistake, there was anger. And concern.

Much as Marinette talked about the importance of boundaries and compartmentalising, there weren’t two hearts underneath the Ladybug mask. There was one Marinette, one heart, and it bled deeply and it bled over all aspects of her life equally.

Marinette held her coffee in one hand while the other pointed an assertive finger. “The plan is to find the Peacock Miraculous, prove Adrien innocent, and get him through the trial, after which point I will no longer be working for Heloise. There won’t be any conflicts of interest in dating, marrying, and adopting a hamster with my witness, because he won’t be a witness anymore! Simple.”

“Uh-huh.”

Simple. Sure.

Alya knew that Marinette’s convoluted plans were one of her defence mechanisms, avoiding both the pain of failure and the responsibility of success, hanging in a limbo where she didn’t have to decide anything because she hadn’t made any moves.

“And before the dating, marrying, and adopting of hamsters, you will tell Adrien that you love him, right?” she wondered, casually sipping her cappuccino and looking ahead.

“Of course, I’ll tell him,” Marinette chirped. “Unless there’s another threat to Paris where I need to keep my identity a secret.”

An icy gale tore at them. It chilled Alya’s legs, clad in denim but somehow the most exposed part of her wool and fleece-wrapped body. “Marinette.”

“Or another villain. Or what if another Miraculous goes missing?”

Everyone thought of Marinette as the girl with her feet on the ground and her head in the clouds, but Alya knew she was purposefully romantic and fantastical. Her own reality—having to lie to parents and friends and boyfriends, taking responsibility for the city’s safety and peace—was lonely, in the way of Guardians, and Alya couldn’t blame her for wanting daydreams to sweep her away.

But if she was always living in her daydreams, she might let real magic pass her by. “Marinette.”

Marinette clapped her palm to her rosy, flushed cheeks. “Oh, my God, what if I lost another Miraculous?”

Alya stopped walking and placed a palm on Marinette’s shoulder. “Marinette.”

“What?”

A tentative sigh leaked from Alya’s mouth, carrying the taste of coffee past her teeth. “In these student council meetings, do you ever look around at everyone’s faces and think, wow? This is my last year of high school.”

The hallways where Alix and Kim were constantly holding competitions and hurting themselves. The locker rooms where everyone lingered to gossip instead of going to class. Teachers and memories and the it’s-all-ending feeling that followed her every step.

“Everyone is going to head on different paths from here on out,” Alya continued, some bittersweet nostalgia pressing on her lungs. At some point of declaring herself neutral to school, she’d come to both hate it and love it. “You’ll see some on TV and some only every few summers and some every weekend for coffee, but you’ll miss them all. Except for Principal Damocles.”

Marinette barked a laugh at the last comment. “Not. . . really.” Her bright blue eyes angled down to the ground as they started walking once more, mouth quivering into a half-smile. “To be honest, I’ve been zoning out in a lot of the meetings.”

“Yeah, because Damocles is as interesting as concrete and he won’t shut up. As I was saying— actually, I wasn’t saying this, but I’ve been thinking this. Thinking about our future after high school. All of us, but Adrien, too.”

Which university would take the son of an international terrorist? Which job would hire him? The way things went with the protests, though they were dying down now, it was almost a good thing Adrien was locked in that hotel because at least there he had protection. Out in the world…

“What if all the negative attention drives Adrien out of Paris?”

Her best friend had been loving Adrien from afar since the first day they met. It would suck if Marinette never made her feelings known or had her affections acknowledged, reciprocated. She was so kind and strong and determined. She was, in eloquent terms, the fucking best.

Marinette deserved love more than anyone Alya knew. If she had a Marinette-Barbie and Adrien-Ken doll, she would have smashed them together while saying ‘now kith’ a hundred times by now.

“That wouldn’t stop us from being his friends.”

“Of course it wouldn’t.” Alya sighed. “But this might be one secret that you should set free before graduation. Don’t you deserve your chance at love?”

A forlorn frown carved lines at the corners of Marinette’s mouth, calm rather than stormy. “What chance? I tried dating before with Luka, and it just proved how all my relationships are doomed if I can’t be honest with them.”

“But maybe, with all the Miraculous back, you could be honest with Adrien. We trust him, yes?”

Marinette’s expression wavered uncertainly, and then darkened. She clenched her jaw and shuttered her eyes. Alya knew she’d made her mind up. It’d been the same for years.

“I can’t tell anyone except you. It’s too much of a risk.”

“Okay. Okay, then,” she relented, stamping down the disappointment. Even as Rena Rouge with a Miraculous constantly on her, she had no idea what it was like being the Guardian. Marinette didn’t have the same freedoms as her. “Sorry for being so pessimistic.”

“You’re looking out for me,” Marinette said, pausing at a busy intersection. She pulled Alya into a tight hug, all their knitwear surrounding them like blankets.

“You’re still not going to tell Adrien,” Alya mumbled, burying her wind-stung nose into Marinette’s scarf.

“Alas, we all have our flaws.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug sprinted across the rooftops until the GPS on her Bug Phone confirmed she’d reached the address Chat Noir sent through.

She dropped into the alleyway between two apartment buildings and effortlessly righted herself.

Two superheros waited in the alley. One in black leather with a gleaming staff, the other in red and black with a rapier sword. And the position they were in . . . for a moment Ladybug wondered if she had been given the right time and place, or if she’d stumbled into an alternate universe where Chat Noir was flirting with Ryuko.

“Clawsome to see you again, my dragoness,” he greeted, a feline smirk painted on his lips. He clasped Ryuko’s free hand and dropped a polite kiss to her black glove.

Ryuko’s expression was entirely unimpressed, eyes rolling up in her head. She wasn’t angry or flustered. It was as if enduring Chat Noir’s theatrics was merely a chore on her list, which she ticked off by sighing and withdrawing her hand.

“Welcome back,” she intoned.

“It’s good to be back.” He winked. “Hi, Ladybug,” Chat Noir said, glancing over his shoulder and waving. “Are we all ready?”

She cleared her throat and shook her head, trying to unwind the twisted knot in her gut. So what if he was flirting with other women? Ladybug had been telling Chat Noir to move on for years. Was he finally taking her advice?

Good for him. Great.

“Yes,” she said, striding forward between them. “Let’s go.”

Once Chat Noir produced the search warrant, the property manager escorted the trio up to the apartment that Nathalie had leased. There was not much inside, and the manager left them to scour as they wished.

It was as if the rain had washed the sky clean ready for a stunning sunset. The brilliant golds and oranges illuminated every bare surface of the apartment, easily streaming in through the fifth-storey windows. Empty walls—their true shade imperceptible in the dusk—and minimal furniture. The hardwood floor all the way through the rooms was devoid of carpet or rugs.

Chat Noir walked deeper into the apartment as if puppeted by invisible strings. He surveyed all the rooms, checking for traps with his staff poised in front of him, almost like he expected something to spring out at him.

“So, Ryuko,” he called over his shoulder. His voice was suddenly devoid of all the sugar and charm of before. Chat Noir sounded cold as ice. “How does this usually work?”

Ryuko’s only answer was: “Wind Dragon,” and promptly disappearing into the air vents. When she resurfaced seconds later, she said, “There’s nothing of interest here.”

“What?” Ladybug and Chat Noir said.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Check again,” he insisted, collapsing his staff and fastening it to his belt. He peered into the corners of the living room ceiling like he expected there to be cameras, watching them, waiting.

“I don’t need to,” Ryuko said, crossing her arms firmly. She was a professional in her element. “I’ve done countless searches of countless rooms.”

She gestured vaguely to the living room, with the dusk-washed wallpaper and occasional spackle mark. “If there were hidden compartments or secret safes like in the Agreste mansion, they would displace the ventilation system around this apartment to make space. That hasn’t happened here—it’s just the usual vents and spaces between walls.”

The place seemed like a sparsely-decorated, seldom-occupied apartment. Was it just that?

“It also wouldn’t make sense for Nathalie to start extensive construction projects that could have drawn suspicion to this place,” Chat Noir added, eyes rapidly darting around. “How discreetly can a secret safe be installed?”

Ladybug sighed, her chest deflating with the heavy breath. “Alright. So if there is anything hidden here,” she cast her eye to the kitchen cupboards, to the bedroom where there were closets and nightstands, to the ajar bathroom door that framed a medicine cabinet, “we’re going to have to find it by hand.”

Ryuko nodded, her fingertip tapping on the hilt of her sword. “What else do you need my help with?”

“Uh. . .” Ladybug hummed. Kagami Tsurugi was a busy lady, one with a tight grip on her commitments. “Nothing, I guess. Chat Noir, Ryuko will head off now. She has been one of the busier heroes these last two months, and I did call her away from something important to do this. I’ll escort her back.”

She cast a glance at her kitty, but he was still surveying the apartment with a deeply furrowed brow. “Feel free to start searching while I’m gone.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In the bedroom closet hung a few of Nathalie’s clothes.

Chat Noir had expected them to be turtlenecks and sleek blazers, but they were plain t-shirts and woollen trousers, perfectly average. Sliding the hangers forward one by one, he rifled through the pockets and felt along the seams. He didn’t really expect the Peacock Miraculous to be hidden in Nathalie’s getaway clothing. But for some reason, given the guarded vault that was its previous home, he expected something more prominent.

Leaving the lacklustre closet, he crouched in front of the nightstand, ready to pull open its drawers when something stopped him.

Atop the nightstand was a single photo frame—a rare piece of decoration, sentimentality, in an apartment that otherwise could have belonged to any random stranger in Paris.

The photo was taken on the day Adrien Agreste graduated from collège, one summer before his first year in lycée. His old bodyguard was the one who snapped the shot, Adrien front and centre with his two caretakers hovering over each shoulder, everyone smiling.

Chat Noir recognised Gabriel’s ceremonial cufflinks in the image. His father’s white silk blazer, Nathalie’s indigo summer dress. It was one of those rare events she attended not as an employee but someone who cared about Adrien, and someone whom Adrien cared about, because he had been named valedictorian.

He didn’t think he ever saw his father prouder.

The memory struck too close to home. All this time, his father and Nathalie had kept him in the dark, kept him confined and performing like a bird in a cage, while they terrorised this city. They ferried him out to basketball practices and photoshoots and foreign language lessons to clear time for their crimes. He had been working so hard to their vision of success, and they never really cared at all what he was doing—only that he was out of their way.

And for what? Between the two of them, Gabriel and Nathalie were wealthy, skilled, well-connected—loved and respected by people both near to and far from them. Why wasn’t that enough? Why did they have to do this?

In a flash of unbridled anger, Chat Noir picked up the frame and launched it at the nearest wall. The glass shattered on impact, and he could hardly hear the wooden clattering over the roar of blood in his ears.

Through the rush of his pulse, he heard it.

“Chat Noir,” Ladybug called firmly, in such a tone that he knew this wasn’t the first time she had said his name. 

He didn’t look behind him. Her voice sounded thick with emotion, but without seeing her face he had no idea which one. Could have been concern. Fear. Anger.

“What are you doing?”

Chapter Text

CHAT NOIR STRAIGHTENED HIS LEGS, rising from his hunch with effortless grace.

The small pile of glass fragments and the broken photo frame still sat right where Chat Noir had thrown it. Ladybug tore her eyes from the far wall and to the boy in front of her. With his head bent, his shaggy blonde locks hung low over his eyes, obscuring his expression. Why had he done that?

What was he thinking?

Before Chat Noir could breeze by and continue searching the other rooms, Ladybug caught his wrist and tugged him to a stop. He took one look at her expectant, accusatory expression and released a soft, bitter chuckle.

“Such a farce,” he mumbled, glancing back over his shoulder. “I hate families like that. Presenting wealth and prestige to the public, when behind closed curtains, they’re more corrupt than everyone else.”

Ladybug felt a tug in her chest, pulling her to defend Adrien Agreste. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t his lineage.

But that wasn’t the topic at hand—it was Chat Noir’s behaviour while they were supposed to be on the job. Professionals. Her partner’s eyes glowed, bouncing back the fading light with radiant peridot green. The bell at his collar could have been burnished gold, and it felt like the sun dipped ten degrees lower along the horizon in this one second, but of course that couldn’t be the case.

“Even if you feel that way,” she made her voice accommodating, “you can’t go around destroying private property.” He was unused to the protocols required of investigators. Once he understood the mistake he’d made—

Chat Noir narrowed his eyes, one brow raising. “It’s only a picture.”

“Still,” she said gently, poorly masking her irritation. Why was he so standoffish all of a sudden? Hadn’t it been half an hour ago that he was dropping kisses on Ryuko’s hand and calling her his dragoness?

“The police haven’t checked this place out yet. They might want to take it as evidence or something.”

“Evidence of what? How fucked up the Agrestes are?”

Ladybug blinked, unsure why her kitty was behaving so coldly. Did his dislike for the Agrestes truly run that deep? Maybe that was who Chat Noir was, underneath the mask. Maybe he questioned the powerful and rich and elite by his very nature. In that case, she had to make him understand the obligations they had. He was two months behind in terms of experience on the job.

She took a step closer and gestured patiently with one hand. “I know this investigation is new to you. But there are rules governing everything we do.” Chat Noir’s jaw stiffened. “How we speak, how we treat our surroundings.”

“Don’t patronise me,” he gritted out, leaning his face closer.

“Don’t make me patronise you.”

He was so stubborn. It was perfectly fine—expected, even—that Chat Noir would make mistakes when he first returned to work. If only he could take the criticisms without getting offended. They were supposed to be a team. “We need to leave everything the way we found it.”

They were so close that she could feel the breath that he expelled through his nostrils, one sharp sound of derision. She pressed onwards, tilting her head sideways. “Yes?”

It was a battle of will, of pride. Ladybug was simultaneously terrified that this bickering would devolve into a worse, messier situation, and somehow bracing for such a thing to happen. But Chat Noir stepped off, putting space between them with a breezy smile.

He nodded curtly and said, “Yes, my Lady,” strolling past her back into the living room.

In the wake of his subtle, smoky scent, Ladybug was a bit dazed. She cleared her throat and strode after him. “Good,” she called confidently. “Let’s search the rest of this place. If we find nothing, I’ll try to get more information from Adrien Agreste.”

Chat Noir had pulled open all the kitchen cupboards, the fridge, the oven. “Adrien Agreste knows nothing,” he grumbled, casting his expert eye over the scene.

Ladybug wanted to say that Adrien was not nearly as bad as Chat Noir seemed to think. To the world, he was the pampered child of a supervillain. She saw the real him—the dutiful son who would do anything to please the people he cared about. It wasn’t Adrien’s fault that his father abused that trust and his generosity.

Ladybug huffed. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything new, okay?”

Chat Noir huffed back—was he mimicking her?—slamming the cupboard doors closed when they produced nothing useful at all.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

How could he know so deeply that this girl was bad news for him and still want her?

Whenever he was around Ladybug, everything hurt. His heart hurt from beating so hard, his lungs ached with shallow breaths. His mind hurt from working overtime to keep up the act; innocent Adrien had to be mild-mannered and calm, while Chat Noir, who was Officially Moving On, had eyes for other girls and stood up to Ladybug when she tried to talk down to him, which he used to permit freely. Not anymore.

Maybe he’d chosen the wrong script to read back in Nathalie’s safe house. Righteous anger, universal; he could be any disgruntled working-class person. Adrien remembered that flash of blind panic, that she would see his personal aversion to the Agreste photograph and piece together his identity, but Ladybug hadn’t even considered the link.

She was only concerned about professional propriety.

Now she was as beautiful as ever, sitting in his hotel suite. A walking heartache in black and red, spearheaded with those sharp blue eyes. He hardly heard her words, just fixed on her mouth moving, as she explained the discovery and subsequent search of Nathalie’s secret apartment.

Ladybug asked him for any other such locations that he might have visited or heard about in passing conversation. Even if Adrien wanted to, he had nothing new to add.

“Wherever I went, it was always private transport and five-star accommodation,” he said, fingers anxiously fiddling with the stitching on the couch cushion. Get over it. Get over her. “You can refer to the trip itineraries I already gave you.”

Ladybug hummed in acknowledgement, staring at the laptop balanced on her knees. As always, on the coffee table, her Bug Phone was poised to record everything. If he was the old Adrien, he would have started daydreaming about her snapping the phone closed and walking over to kiss him—

I am not the old Adrien.

“—sorry for rehashing things,” Ladybug was saying. “A large part of this case hinges on whether we find the Peacock Miraculous or not,” she explained. “I don’t want you getting charged with anything, even misdemeanours.”

Of course not. The angelic facade he wore was working—Ladybug believed in him and his innocence, and she would do her best to prove it.

“I don’t know if your lawyers have updated you; recently we uncovered video proof that Nathalie was moonlighting as Mayura.” I was the one who uncovered it. “Now Nathalie’s defence is trying to avoid extra felony charges by claiming that Gabriel emotionally manipulated her.”

His lawyers had informed him. He met less with his lawyers than he did with Ladybug, but his lawyers called him on the phone much more. They had constant developments and procedures to clarify with him, but everyone was too busy to leave their cushy corner offices in the 8th arrondissement to come to Le Grand.

“Would you say that Nathalie spent more time with your father, her employer, than with her relatives and friends?”

Adrien cleared his throat. He promised himself that he would get to the end of this interview without fantasising or becoming distracted. “Yes. She was like a full-time guardian to me.”

“We have a copy of Nathalie’s employment contract,” Ladybug continued. She spun the laptop around briefly to flash the contract, but verbally summarised the official responsibilities and obligations Nathalie had. “Do you think Gabriel asked Nathalie to do anything that overstepped these professional boundaries?”

Adrien paused, knowing by now that Ladybug didn’t mind however long it took him to form an answer. They had settled into this strange situation, both offering as much softness as possible—though for entirely different reasons.

Thinking of Nathalie stung his throat. It was nothing new—all of Ladybug’s questions were pointed and personal, intended to plunge deep and drag his family to the surface, like a harpoon spearing through flesh. These interviews were almost enough to make him rejoice the moments Ladybug left, if not for the part of him that wouldn’t die, the part that loved being around his Lady. It would start waning soon. Surely.

“I think the nature of her work was already more intense than most jobs, and she always seemed to do it willingly. She never complained about the workload,” Adrien said.

She was there when he went down to breakfast and there when he went to his bedroom for the last time each day. With Nathalie around, Adrien felt like he didn’t have to worry about his future—that gigantic, terrifying fog—because she knew whichever commitment was coming next, and she would handle everything. On the long pathway to pleasing his father, Nathalie held Adrien’s hand and all he had to do was take the next uphill step.

But did she go to his father at the end of every day and say, “He’s finally asleep,” before they transformed?

Was she a willing accomplice intent on chaos? Or had Gabriel kept Nathalie under his thumb with his money, his evil powers, the threat of destroying her?

He didn’t realise he’d squeezed his eyes shut. Ladybug’s sympathy was clear on her face when he opened them. “I don’t know what other…demands my father made of her when I wasn’t around,” Adrien said quietly.

Ladybug read the next line of text on her screen and hesitated. In a thick voice, she asked, “To the best of your knowledge, was there ever a romantic or sexual relationship between Nathalie and your father?”

Adrien had already considered the idea of a relationship between Nathalie and his father.

But this was when he was much younger, much more naive. He didn’t yet recognise the power imbalance between a rich, famous man and the younger woman employed in his household. He saw Nathalie’s unwavering care and constant proximity, and thought that was the seed of love.

Of course, when he raised it once to his father, Gabriel had been merciless in his rejection. He shut that idea down with an iron fist, holding fast to his love for Emilie Agreste, and Adrien never brought it up again. Maybe the reason his father had reacted like that was because it was already happening.

The best he could say was: “I don’t know.”

“What do you think Mayura’s motivations were? Devotion to your father? Money? Or something else?”

Adrien wanted to laugh. He had never felt so stupid.

Years of knowing Nathalie Sancoeur and he found he didn’t really know her at all. He couldn’t say if she ever really cared for him, or if he was a nuisance to be handled; if she loved his father or was afraid of him. He couldn’t say why she followed Gabriel into the dark. He couldn’t even say why his father had first walked into the dark, or when, or how.

What was the wish he so desperately wanted to make with the Black Cat and Ladybug Miraculous?

Didn’t he already have everything in the world?

Adrien was valedictorian at fifteen and ignorant to everything in front of his face at eighteen. Chat Noir hadn’t been lying when he told Ladybug that Adrien Agreste knew nothing. For all he knew, she could probably find better, truer information researching on her own than from asking him.

“I don’t know,” he near-whispered. Let this be over.

Ladybug smiled forgivingly, lips parting to speak. Her Bug Phone started ringing. “Sorry,” she said, leaning over the coffee table to glance at the screen. “It’s Heloise,” she told him. For the recording: “Let’s end this interview here.”

Adrien sat dumbly and watched her take the call.

“Hello,” she greeted. “I am.” For the next two minutes, Ladybug didn’t speak once, except thirty seconds in: “Fuck.” Then she fell silent and listened.

It was the first time she’d sworn around Adrien, and he pretended to be surprised, but she wasn’t even watching him. She rose and walked to the kitchenette, hiding her face from view. She started pacing. She stopped pacing and put her hand to her mouth, shocked.

She started pacing again.

“Okay,” she told Heloise softly. “I’ll go there now.”

At the end of the call, she strode back to collect her laptop. “Sorry for the rush.” Her skin had completely drained of colour. “I’ll see you next week, Adrien.”

And then she was out the window.

He rose from the couch and shielded himself from view behind the curtains. Adrien had no idea what was going on. As usual. His kwami slipped out from his breast pocket, furry face pinched with confusion, mirroring his emotion.

“Plagg, claws out,” he said.

When Chat Noir was certain there was enough distance between himself and Ladybug, he sprung off from the balcony and started his pursuit.

Chapter Text

IT WAS SOMETHING OUT OF a horror movie.

Man hides body of missing wife in a cavern beneath his mansion.

That was the stuff of fiction, not of reality. Heloise had called Ladybug in the middle of an interview with Adrien Agreste. That itself was strange: Heloise knew their interview schedule and usually refrained from interrupting. But after hearing the update—the reconnaissance team had discovered a secret passageway hidden in Gabriel’s atelier and followed it down—getting to the mansion took precedence.

But she didn’t want to leave Adrien behind.

He wouldn’t know until Heloise declassified the finding. He would struggle with all he had going on already when this news hit him like an avalanche. If Ladybug could act on her instincts, she would turn around and go back to him, wrap him up, stay with him, protect him from the world.

But couldn’t act on such feelings. She was an investigator, Guardian, Ladybug.

Anchored around a rusted chimney, her yo-yo swung her around the street corner. The Agreste mansion came into view at the end of the sprawling avenue. Countless cars parked alongside the curb already, and dozens of professionals milled about the entrance.

The usual cordoning remained in front of the wrought-iron gates, but today no civilian would have dared sneaking in with so many arms of the law around: police officers, investigators, the forensic team.

They parted for Ladybug when she strolled up the stairs. If they were not on their phones, speaking rapidfire, they crowded together, peering at blueprints, drawing up diagrams, arguing in urgent, distressed tones.

The polished floor and glacial decor was as familiar and intimidating as ever. Now, knowing what she knew, this house felt more sinister. Like the white columns and black marble panels were masks, foundation and lipstick painted on to a dead body.

Forcing down the queasiness in her stomach, Ladybug found the new police captain and greeted him.

He told Ladybug that they’d swept the newfound cavern for weapons and explosives already. It had only been twenty minutes since they first discovered the buttons inlaid in the golden portrait of Emelie Agreste. Everyone was working as fast as they could.

“The most pressing issue is how to move her,” the police captain said. “Whether we should even try.”

At Ladybug’s perplexed expression, he explained that there was a possibility that Adrien’s mother was still alive. Wow.

There was a bio-technician and a doctor down in the cavern right now, trying to determine the state of the unconscious woman without disturbing the state-of-the-art incubator that housed her.

“We can’t tell if Emelie is only comatose or…” Or worse. Ladybug offered a comforting smile and let the police captain continue: “We’re waiting on the fire brigade to arrive. If she is alive, and if the medics decide that she cannot be removed from the incubator without endangering her, we’ll need their help to bring the whole vessel up.”

Ladybug nodded. “Do you need my Lucky Charm? Or better yet, Pegasus.” She had no idea what Max was up to right now, but there was no harm in seeing if he was available. “I can call him down to the mansion.”

“Not yet. Wait for the medics’ call,” he advised. “We have no idea what we’re dealing with down there.”

Ladybug nodded, her jaw as stiff as concrete. She realised she’d been clenching her teeth together, and forcibly relaxed her face. Her fingers were shaking. It felt like, if she let herself idle for one second, the shivers would spread from her fingers to every other part of her body.

She would be reduced to a trembling pile on the floor, unable to stand, unable to fight, unable to think of anything but how devastating this would be for Adrien.

In her search for a piece of solid ground to stand on, Ladybug told the police captain: “I’ll call Chat Noir to come help.”

His brow furrowed. “He’s already here.”

Huh?

“Is he?”

“Saw him darting into the lobby a few minutes ago.” The man tossed his chin to the wing on the opposite side of the grand staircase. The two of them had been discussing the details of Emelie’s discovery, standing out of the pathways of the various busy teams, for several minutes already.

“I assumed you came together.”

Ladybug shook her head. Perhaps Heloise had also called him to the scene. Perhaps he was just that alert, noticing the migration of so many law enforcement vehicles out to this corner of the city.

“Thanks. I’ll go touch base with him now.”

The police captain tipped his hat in farewell and slid away.

When Ladybug approached Gabriel’s atelier, her heart started pounding against her ribcage, fists beating hard against her bones from the inside.

Inside the room, she saw a team of people huddled together. They sat on the cushioned seats sunken into the monochrome tiled floor, peering at photographs of the underground cavern on two iPads.

“Ladybug,” one of them greeted her with a solemn nod. “We’re trying to make a plan for Emelie’s safe removal. Chat Noir is scoping out the cavern now.”

Given that the public had been prohibited from the entire mansion for two months, very little cordoning or safety measures were used inside the premises. Ladybug was completely free to approach the hole in the floor at the end of the room.

The mouth of the chute yawned open, barred from closing by rigid steel scaffolding. It was so dark inside Ladybug couldn’t see the bottom—just the metallic glint of the curved sides, covered by an interior tube of glass, fading into black.

Before she jumped, she took a breath and glanced upward.

The portrait of Emelie Agreste still hung on its hinges, hiding the safe and Hawk Moth's lair and who knew what else. Adrien’s mother, immortalised in oil and golden embellishment. She met Emelie’s pale green eyes and wondered if she had any more secrets behind that beauty.

Ladybug wrapped her yo-yo around one of the steel bars and fell.

It had been years since she felt motion sickness, years since she was afraid of heights. But a sickening sensation like vertigo gripped her stomach as she abseiled lower and lower—emotional vertigo. Then she saw light beneath her. The cavern came into view.

She tightened her grip on the string, slowing her descent to take in the view.

It was oddly magical. There was water at the bottom of the room, so clear that she could see the exposed piping threading around like snakes. Industrial metal walkways spanned the length and breadth of the space, the primary one leading straight from the chute—which was really a sort of elevator—to a platform covered with lush grass and healthy green foliage.

Through a circular cathedral window high on the back wall, bright daylight illuminated the water, the plantlife, and the stark white incubator at the centre of it all. Through the incubator’s transparent front pane, the unconscious body of Emelie Agreste was hazily visible, dressed in a fashionable ivory blazer set. She looked like Snow White in her glass coffin.

And in front of that coffin stood Chat Noir, utterly motionless.

Ladybug had slowed so much that by the time her toe reached the ground, she didn’t even have to bend her knees to absorb any impact. Her yo-yo magically detached and fell toward her hand, coiling its string up as it returned to its wielder.

She walked silently, but the pricking of one of Chat Noir’s ears showed that he sensed her.

“Chat Noir.”

No answer.

“I know this is heavy stuff,” Ladybug continued, closing the distance between them.

She knew he was already bitter enough at the Agreste family. Wealth and glamour covering up corruption. This was probably proving his point.

Deeper than that, older than that, Ladybug knew her kitty was sensitive. When they first met, she didn’t think he felt anything other than mischief and good humour—but his undying efforts to win her over had quickly proved that assumption wrong.

He felt his emotions deeply, and he noticed subtle things about other people. Hearts that big would always take a pummelling in a line of work like theirs. She could speak from experience. So, no, she didn’t expect Chat Noir to take Emelie Agreste’s discovery well.

Which compassionate human being would?

When she drew near enough, Ladybug noticed something that almost stopped her in her tracks. He was shaking. His claws were squeezed into tight fists. Around both hands—both hands?—obsidian clouds of destructive magic were roiling and dancing, girding his wrists and climbing up his lean arms like flames climbing a wooden pillar.

She’d never seen him call more than one Cataclysm at a time.

In his time away, he’d hinted that he had been training, but it was only now that she realised how powerful he’d become.

Behind Chat Noir, Ladybug reached her hand out. Her palm rested on his shoulder blade, his skin warm through two layers of fabric.

“You don’t need to be here,” she breathed. “I’m going to call Pegasus. No-one’s expecting you to handle everything in this investigation at once.”

He hung his head. Ladybug let her hand trace across his shoulder, following the line of muscle down his right arm. Her fingers grew closer to the Cataclysm licking up his wrist, hovering just below his elbow.

“Chat Noir?”

“What?” he said. She watched the magic fade and disappear from his hands.

Her eyes widened. Now he could revoke a Cataclysm?

He had the full powers of the Black Cat Miraculous at his beck and call, and that awareness sent a dark thrill racing up her spine.

Safe to do so, she almost went to reach for his hand, but Chat Noir turned around and tipped his chin down. “I have to go.” His voice was emotionless, polished blank like the glass that protected Emelie from open air.

“Wait—”

But he had already extended his staff, propelled in the blink of an eye back to the elevator’s opening.

Every cell in her body told Ladybug to follow, to draw her kitty back to her, but she had to stay. She’d promised the fire brigade and policemen and medics her Lucky Charm, Pegasus’ teleporting powers—they needed her here.

That didn’t stop her stomach sinking when Chat Noir leapt up the chute, disappearing from view.

“Goddamn it, chaton.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He wanted to be alone.

While he was Chat Noir he couldn’t go back to the hotel, and he wanted to stay transformed so Plagg couldn’t speak to him. His kwami would attempt to make him feel better, and though his rough-around-the-edges comments usually helped, Chat Noir knew this time any sort of sympathy would make him crumble.

Nor could he go to the rendezvous point in case Ladybug looked for him there. He didn’t know how he felt about her these days. She cared about Chat Noir; that much was obvious ever since his return. She’d left those voicemails he never heard. She’d set up the Palais office after he asked. Even mere moments ago, she was ready to relieve him of duty if this discovery was too burdensome.

Maybe these gestures were to ease his transition into the investigation, but a part of him believed—or hoped—her feelings went deeper than professional obligation.

Yeah, he was not really moving on at all. He loved her still and resented her for it, or at the very least avoided her, so he didn’t have to confront his feelings.

Whenever Chat Noir was around his Lady, whenever she came close, he had the urge to unlock his soul and flood her with the truth of himself. Despite all his careful efforts to play his roles perfectly, she made him falter in a way no other person did, not his father, not Nathalie, not even his mother.

It was nearly impossible to stay in control of himself with Ladybug, but letting her in would ruin everything.

Somewhere utterly peaceful. Somewhere that had never hurt him. That was what Chat Noir sought.

Which is how he found himself on the rooftop of the Dupain-Cheng bakery, tiptoeing quietly so as not to disturb Marinette in case she was inside her bedroom. Even though she was one of his best friends, he wouldn’t be able to speak to civilians about investigation matters.

Chat Noir stretched himself on the tiles, staring upwards at the cloudy wintry sky. When he spoke with the medics, they didn’t know it was Adrien, the comatose woman’s son, inside the black leather. This was Chat Noir they were speaking with, an extension of Paris’ judiciary, so they told him the bare, blunt truth. No apologies or pity.

It was a fucking blessing, knowing they weren’t sugar-coating anything, made sweeter when they said there was a possibility they could revive Emelie.

Nearly six years since he last saw his mother.

Everyone thought she disappeared in a snowstorm in Tibet. His parents had visited Asia for their wedding anniversary. Gabriel had returned alone and heartbroken. Attempts to find her body never succeeded. Paris at large mourned, and the funeral had been huge and glitzy.

Chat Noir thought he’d made his peace with the loss. He used to fantasise about her finding her way home, unscathed and brimming with an adventurous story of her survival against all odds. He used to wish that his family would be whole again; a little broken, a little weird, but whole.

And now that scene would never happen, even if his mother woke up, even if his father would allow such a reunion. Their family would never be whole.

And the odds of getting his mother back… he’d been so resigned to spend the rest of his adult life without a mother that he didn’t even want to get his hopes up.

All this time, underneath his feet, buried in the mansion. Instead of seeking professional help for her, instead of telling the truth to the police when they investigated her disappearance years ago—Gabriel had faked her death and kept her hidden from the world.

It sickened him. Yet Chat Noir reasoned he shouldn’t have been surprised. Did a supervillain really have limits to the horrors he would commit?

Emelie could not answer his questions. All this discovery brought was grief and confusion and not enough hope to counter that. Fuck. Each time Chat Noir thought he knew things about his own life, he was proven laughably wrong.

You are so ignorant to the world, Adrien.

No more. He would find the answers he needed, with force if necessary. Buoyed by a growing fury, Chat Noir rolled to his feet, delving into his Cat Phone.

There was one piece of information he needed from the MM database: the prison where Gabriel Agreste was detained.

It was time to pay his father a visit.

Chapter Text

GUARDS ROAMED ALL OVER LA Santé Prison.

Chat Noir stalked through the alleyway like a phantom—silent, invisible, and feeling half-dead. “Claws in.”

As soon as the magic of the Miraculous returned Plagg into the world, his kwami started pleading rapid-fire. “Adrien, I’m so sorry. Please, let’s just go back to the hotel—”

Adrien shoved a chunk of Camembert into Plagg’s open jaw, mid-sentence, ignoring the way his hand trembled as it reached out.

“Let me do this. You don’t know love,” he whispered.

Plagg had never met Emelie. He didn’t know what this meant, couldn’t feel how much it hurt. Their kind were not raised in a family, then thrust into the world to experience its cruelties. Everything nature intended for them, they were born knowing.

It was dangerous and unwise, the thing Adrien was about to do, but he had to.

“So you will never know heartbreak.”

“Hey—”

“Plagg, claws out.”

Adrien remembered the training Plagg had given him before his brief stint as Cat Walker. How the quantum masking of the Miraculous could be manipulated by personality and emotion. If you focus hard, you can be a completely different Chat Noir.

This time it was that acidic feeling—heartbreak—that Adrien concentrated on, locating it in his heart like a star’s iron core and letting it supernova through his arms and legs, ripple across his face, tingle in the length of his spine.

When the green whirls of magic faded, his enhanced physicality felt the same way it always did. But, in the front camera of his Cat Phone—which was now shiny obsidian instead of silver—he did not look the same.

His hair was black, and shaggy, falling in tousled strands over glowing emerald eyes. His pupils were heavily slitted, no matter which way he turned to the light.

The black cat tucked his staff away and glanced down at his body.

Instead of a golden bell at his collar, there was a belt that snaked down his leather-clad torso, splitting at the sternum and curling around his ribs. The largest difference were the spiked cuffs around his wrists, echoing the gleaming line of metal that punctured through the back of his combat boots.

With his staff, he launched himself over the high stone wall and strode up to the administrative block. The guards were stunned at his appearance. The warden was called, and unsurprisingly, she stopped him and asked for his business before he could even enter the building.

“Hessenpy sent me. I work with Ladybug and serve the city of Paris. I need to speak with Gabriel Agreste.”

“Hessenpy usually warns me in advance if she’s sending an investigator,” the warden frowned, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening. “I didn’t know Chat Noir needed a replacement, either.”

Chat Noir was cheeky and aloof; Cat Walker was poised and repressed; this version of him could be anything he wanted. And what he wanted right now was an audience with his father, no matter what it took.

He squared his jaw and met her cautious gaze with confidence and slight impatience. The smile he offered was tight.

“Something unexpected came up today.” He spun his staff and caught it smoothly. The outermost panel curved away to reveal the dial pad. “Classified information, but this interrogation could provide urgent information. I can call Hessenpy or Ladybug to verify the case if you like, though they are both currently busy dealing with—”

“That’s okay,” the warden said quickly, waving her hand to the guard working reception.

He punched a few lines into his computer, avoiding eye contact. I guess this version of me is intimidating. The guard paused and glanced at his superior, who directed an apologetic, expectant expression to the silent visitor.

“Your name, sir? For the visitation log.”

He hadn’t thought of a name. He opened his mouth, unwilling to dally and raise suspicion, and what came out was—

“The Familiar.”

And so he was given an audience with Paris’ most high-profile inmate.

The interrogation room was dilapidated and freezing, a hollow hunk of concrete bricks with a table, two chairs and thankfully, no camera. White daylight fell in slants from the barred, thin window.

“Wait here,” the warden said. “Mr. Agreste will be escorted in. He will be patted down before leaving his cell, so it might take a while. There will be two guards with him at all times, you understand.”

“Of course,” the Familiar said suavely. He took a seat in one rigid wooden chair. “Merci.”

Left to pass the time, he tried to piece together a game plan for when he finally saw his father again.

It had been months since the last time they met face-to-face. In TV newsreels and articles, he’d heard about how Gabriel and Nathalie were resistant to all negotiations and interrogation attempts. He’d read that both their cells had live CCTV surveillance to ensure they weren’t still hiding and using the Peacock Miraculous. Everything that entered and exited their cells—them included—was rigorously screened for secret communications, biohazards, contraband; under UV light; through metal detectors; the works.

Still, the Familiar couldn’t dispel the notion that his wily father had somehow kept a handle on the Peacock Miraculous. Today, he would find out everything once and for all.

The steel-reinforced door opened.

Two burly prison guards ushered Gabriel Agreste inside. They steered him to his seat and pushed him down, each placing a hand on his shoulder.

A burst of pain lashed across the Familiar lungs, unbidden and stinging.

Gabriel’s wrists and ankles were bound in heavy handcuffs. He wore a grey jumpsuit, his glasses, and he had attempted to style his hair as best as possible into his usual slicked-back pompadour. But even his ramrod spine could not hide the greasiness of his hair, the thinness of his body, the pallid skin, those hollow, resigned eyes.

He hated seeing his father like this.

Fallen so far from the pedestal he had placed him on as a child. His father once had been the beginning and end of his world—his safe harbour, all things familiar.

If Emelie Agreste had been a supervillain—was she?—at least Adrien could rightly say no-one had seen it coming. She was gentle.

But he had seen his father’s disdain for others, his tight grip over his son, his disconnection from society and dismissed it all as love and grief. He even had once stolen the grimoire and ignored the implications of his father possessing it.

He had been desperate and blindly hopeful, wishing for a reality that would never come. If he had been watching more closely, could he have prevented everything from spilling out like this?

The Familiar leaned back in his chair, tamping down on the fury in his stomach.

If Gabriel was confused by the new wielder of the Black Cat Miraculous, he didn’t show it or say anything. To want knowledge was to be at a disadvantage in an interrogation—that’s why he’d transformed into someone other than Chat Noir, who Gabriel was already used to dealing with.

The Familiar sank into this newest mask: the bored kitten, with sharp claws. When his first words hit the air, they were buttery and lined with confidence. “How are you, Mr. Agreste?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Every person wore a mask. Masks provided protection and utility; some outward facing identity that took people into their ideal social circles, closer to their chosen careers, or where they wanted to be in life.

The Familiar wasn’t talking about superheroes and supervillains. Adrien Agreste’s mask was the image of a prodigious son with a soft heart. He smiled for the cameras and said, Yes, Father, and appeared at elite functions as requested.

No-one expected darkness from the poor fallen angel. No-one expected him to have a violent bone in his body, to experience his emotions so deeply and permanently that sometimes toppling a building was his only relief.

“So talkative today.” The silence ticked on.

Gabriel Agreste’s mask used to look like a mourning father trying to do right by his son in uncertain waters. Now he’d swapped it for an unapologetic mastermind. He was itching to shatter this mask and illuminate whatever truth lay within.

Who are you, Father?

Underneath the table, his claws dug into his palms from squeezing his fists so tightly. He forcibly released his grip and sighed. “Your wife. Emelie. We found her today, underneath the mansion.”

That snapped Gabriel’s silence like a neck.

“Do not touch her. You do not know what you’re dealing with.”

Don’t I? he seethed internally.

He wanted to grab his father by the collar and throw him into the wall. That destructive part of him reared its head, urging him to smash and crush and tear everything into shreds. If that included the person in front of him…so be it.

He leaned forward, breathing thinly. “So tell me.” You bastard. “Tell me what you did to her.”

Two deathly blue irises drilled into his green, vehemence running through them. “Never.”

The Familiar rose from his chair and walked to the guards. “Leave us.”

“No can do,” the taller guard said. “Our protocol is that outside of his cell, Mr. Agreste is to be supervised by corrections staff at all times.”

“I am a civil servant,” he said genuinely, placing a palm to his heart. “Surely I count. I will only need five minutes and—” His staff extended in the blink of an eye, nearly slamming the guard in his chin. The metal whispered a hair’s breadth away from their faces, and Chat Noir knew they felt the gust of its speed. “—I can handle myself.”

They exchanged deliberative glances, all while Chat Noir’s staff rested between their faces. “Okay,” the short one agreed. “Five minutes sharp.”

“I’ll count the seconds,” the superhero quipped easily.

When the concrete door slammed behind the exiting guards, his good humour dripped off his features and posture like acid. The staff went back to his leather belt, now set to record audio. He didn’t trust himself, in all his instability, to remember everything accurately once he left.

“You’ll tell me everything,” he snarled, leaning down to Gabriel’s ear. “What happened to Emelie? How much did she know? What did the Miraculous have to do with you two?”

Gabriel snorted haughtily, his voice a low rumble. “More civil servants than you have tried and failed to get those answers.”

“I am not like the rest,” the Familiar whispered. He was nearly sweating against the urge to choke something to death. “I don’t bend to the juge d’instruction or to Ladybug. You’ll find our ends are the same and our means are different.”

He called a Cataclysm to his left palm, not even needing to invoke it verbally.

Each day, with more practice with Plagg, it felt like his powers grew and grew, lifting him like wind under wings, dragging him down like a whirlpool in the ocean. None of it scared him—not at this moment.

Now, he relished this feeling. His claw snuck forward enough that Gabriel could see its hissing, hungry destruction.

Gabriel attempted to remain stoic, but his eyes widened when the dark magic neared an inch from his cheek, instinctively craning away. “You wouldn’t. You would never be Paris’ hero again if you hurt me,” he said factually, tensely, speeding up each sentence. “The guards outside would know. They would tell.”

Chat Noir responded with a grating laugh.

“I only need to wait you out. Five minutes before you transform back.”

“Oh?” He clenched his fist and snuffed the Cataclysm, as easy as letting go of a rope.

Gabriel watched the magic wink out in his hands and the Black Cat watched his prey: the slack-jawed, fearful realisation that, yes, he could revoke a Cataclysm. Whatever he expected from Chat Noir, the Familiar exceeded everything. His power was not bound by transformation or singularity or time limits anymore.

I am not the old me.

Still, he was losing ground. The more Gabriel successfully stalled each time detectives or lawyers dragged him out for an interrogation, the more his father hardened to his situation. But he had to have some weakness.

Whatever it took, he would get the answers he sought. No more secrets,

Chat Noir straightened and walked around the table to his vacant chair. “Your son is all alone in Le Grand.”

Seeing his father flinch—why did he flinch?—brought him a small measure of pride, underneath the choking weight of everything else.

“Don’t you fucking touch him.”

Oh. Chat Noir saw his panic and desperation. The ever-present possibility of a loved one being hurt, no matter how small.

This was not the avenue he envisioned taking, but it seemed the only one available to him.

The Familiar smirked. “I think that depends entirely on you.”

Gabriel brought his hands above the table as if to lunge at him, but the rattling of the heavy chains reminded them both who held control. “You’re bluffing,” he said instead. “You would not hurt a civilian.”

The Familiar rose from the chair, movements seamless and unhurried. He leaned his palms on the table, lowering his chin with a vengeful stare.

“Am I bluffing?” he whispered.

He dropped the proverbial mask from his expression, letting his father, and only his father, peer into the roaring storm of anguish and hatred gusting in his soul. It all had to go somewhere—and he knew Gabriel recognised it.

“Do you know what has happened in your absence? Things have changed. Powers have changed. If I decide Adrien is my target, I’ll get the job done.”

Gabriel’s upper lip curled into a snarl, trembling with unrestrained rage. “Don’t you dare!”

The words stung like a slap.

He hadn’t been expecting this reaction: the fact that his father still loved him.

The fact that he would lay down any information to protect Adrien.

That the Familiar had, somewhere deep in his heart, known this to be true and instinctively capitalised on it—otherwise, his threat would never have worked. “Five minutes and counting, remember? Start fucking talking.”

And the threat did work, because Gabriel caved. How bittersweet that he considered himself the only one allowed to hurt his son.

Guided by endless questions, Gabriel revealed that he and his wife found the Peacock Miraculous already broken. They were in Tibet for their wedding anniversary. When Emelie discovered the power of Emotion, she felt compelled to use it.

The village that hosted them was suffering from poverty and illness. Emelie wanted to help. For starving families, she created senti-livestock, and for dying people she recreated them anew, imparting their own amoks so they could be autonomous beings.

The Familiar initially baulked at the subversion of the rules of nature. “How? How could she do that?”

“How could she tolerate watching babies die?” Gabriel scoffed. “How could she not act when she had the power to prevent tragedy? You did not know my wife.” I knew her as well as you.

“She would give up her own life for that of others? Leave her husband and her son behind?”

“We did not know using the Peacock Miraculous would harm her until the damage was already done. By that point, she regretted nothing. She wanted to continue her work.”

The Familiar hung his head, blinking against the pinpricks in the corner of his eyes. Sounds like Mom.

Emelie Agreste continued helping others until she fell into her coma, at which point Gabriel reported her missing to the Tibetan authorities. Then he brought her body back to Paris and kept vigil over her in his repository.

“Once word spread of her methods, people travelled from far and wide to beg for help. From one town came a shaman who simply wanted to see her power at work, and he told me of another powerful talisman that had similar powers of Creation. When combined with its destructive counterpart, it could grant any wish to its wielder.”

The Miraculous. So that was why Gabriel had hunted them tirelessly: to wish for his wife back.

“I only wanted my family reunited.”

Chat Noir clenched his jaw so hard his bone clicked.

He finally understood. Hawk Moth had brainwashed children and attempted murder out of undying love for his wife. The loss had warped him so much that he would rather resurrect the past than endure any future without Emelie.

How was he supposed to feel about that? Was he supposed to pretend like he himself had never wished to reverse time and bring his mother back? If given an opportunity to actualise that…he could understand the temptation, though he would never have hurt anyone to get it.

Except, what was he doing now, in this prison?

God. His father suddenly seemed smaller, sitting in front of him. He was still, maybe foolishly, not a monster in Adrien’s head. He was just a weak, broken man; it unfair that a person could be a villain and human at once. The notion fit all wrong, too many complex moving parts with edges like jagged shards of glass.

Why could he not simply love the good guys and hate the bad guys? Every conflicting emotion bled into the next until it all ran black, dousing the Familiar’s anger in a nanosecond. It left him feeling utterly empty.

This always happened—after the rush of destruction, he felt worse than ever.

“Where is the Peacock Miraculous now?”

“I don’t know.” When the Familiar flexed his hand on the table, Gabriel rushed to say, “I truly don’t. Nathalie was instructed to stow it in her safe house, but my lawyers informed me that the apartment was recently discovered by Ladybug and searched thoroughly.” That was true: they had upturned the place—well, he had—peered into every corner and container and found nothing at all. “If the Miraculous was not recovered inside the closet safe, then neither Nathalie nor I know what happened to it.”

“So it was there when Ms. Sancoeur was evading the police? And after her capture, with both of you detained, the Miraculous somehow vanished?”

“Yes.”

The Familiar scoffed and drew up a flicker of darkness to his hands, rolling it through his fingers like a ball of inky fire. Gabriel swallowed and stared, transfixed by the new mastery over his Miraculous he’d unlocked.

“I promise I am not lying. I swear.” His father shook his head desperately. “On my son’s life.”

By the time the guards were let back into the room, the Familiar had slipped back into his civil service mask. He was all jokes and smiles, leaning rakishly against the threshold of the door.

“Welcome back, messieurs. With a few seconds to spare, too.” He mimed checking an invisible watch on his wrist, and the guards chuckled under their breath—loud enough for his feline hearing to detect it.

Gabriel was sitting as primly in his chair as he had been when they brought him in. They verified that both men were unharmed, and everything was in its rightful place.

Throughout, the Familiar stayed propped against the wall, whistling innocently. He held himself together as he walked back through the damp hallways, out of the administration block, vaulted over a metal railing and gracefully fell five metres to the ground in the street.

Then, in an alleyway, out of sight, he punched the wall until he overcame the protective magic stitched into his quantum suit, until his wrists ached, his knuckles stung and he felt the telltale squelch of blood beneath the fabric. Pain zipped from his hand to his teeth.

Had he not had these months of lessons in restraint, he would have Cataclysmed an entire city block instead of striking mere bricks. But that would have landed him in such shit with Ladybug.

Shit. Ladybug. The Familiar ran his hand over his face, ignoring the pulsing ache in his knuckles, and groaned heavily. Ladybug.

She was going to fucking explode when she found out about this.

Chapter Text

PLAGG ZIPPED PURPOSEFULLY ACROSS PARIS, heading straight for the Dupain-Cheng bakery.

When he phased into the bedroom, he found Marinette typing out a scholarship application on her laptop, the morning sunlight falling in puddles on her pink carpet.

He was unapologetic when he yowled, “Marinette!” and startled all the kwamis playing around her.

So far, he didn’t think Ladybug knew about what Adrien had done—transforming into the Familiar to interrogate his father—but when she did, it would be hard to explain away. Adrien had fallen asleep instantly after returning to the hotel, exhausted from the emotional burden and the magical expenditure of the day. He was still fast asleep when Plagg left that morning.

Plagg hadn’t been able to stop thinking about those words—you don’t know love, so you will never know heartbreak—and getting riled up. How dare Adrien say that? Sure, he wasn’t thinking clearly after the shock discovery of his mother, and maybe romance was mysterious territory to Plagg, but he knew what family was. All his kwami brethren.

The years without Nooroo and Duusu. The months tending to Adrien while he braved everything alone. Was that pain not heartbreak?

Was this, his being here right now, not what humans called love?

“I’ll come straight out and say it,” Plagg babbled. As he landed on Marinette’s open, waiting palm, he noticed her brows pinching closer and closer together, increasingly worried and confused. “Chat Noir did something that may make you mad and when you find out, I need you to forgive him.”

“What? What happened? Where did he go after the Agreste mansion yesterday?” Marinette asked.

Tikki hovered just behind her wielder’s shoulder, sapphire eyes wide with warning. “Plagg,” she said softly, as if encouraging him to speak up. Be careful, she was really saying. He had to be mindful not to reveal his wielder’s identity.

“Um.”

Marinette raised her hand closer to her face, peering intently at the inky furball in her palm. “Plagg.”

“Look, Chat Noir is going through a rough time right now.”

“Aren’t we all?” Marinette said, depositing Plagg on her desk. He landed on a stack of prospectus brochures from various universities and design schools around the city, Post-Its and coloured tabs sticking out from the pages. “We’re all busy, and we’re all struggling. I told Chat Noir, if he wasn’t ready to come back to work—”

“—that’s why I’ve come to tell you to go easy on him—”

“—when I find out this thing that may or may not make me mad, which he didn’t bother informing me of, and which you won’t tell me about in advance?”

“Exactly!” the kwami said again, nodding enthusiastically.

Marinette sighed, an amused but tired smile flitting across her face. “Is he alright at least?”

Plagg considered. For all the things he could have done in Gabriel’s presence, Adrien had stayed surprisingly in control. He was way stronger than everyone gave him credit for.

“Yes. I think he will be.”

Marinette’s cell phone rang then. Plagg peered at the screen, seeing Heloise Hessenpy’s caller ID through the Mira-Message app. The judge was calling Ladybug. The fact that she could reach Marinette in live-time without discovering her identity was a marvel; Pegasus’ wielder had done a good job.

“Bonjour, Heloise,” the girl answered, her voice expanding with authority instantly. “I have not. He did what?” Three beats of silence, growing heavier. “When? How?” Another pause, then an angry outburst: “What?”

He heard an older woman’s voice talk at length on the other end of the line.

Marinette kept nodding absently as the interrogation was explained to her, swivelling to pin an accusatory stare on Plagg. Having said his piece, he drifted toward the sunroof, but a gentle pinch on his tail kept him at the desk.

You. Stay, Marinette mouthed.

He chuckled weakly and tapped his paws together. Forgive him? he mouthed back, pouting as adorably as he could muster.

With the phone still pressed to her ear, Ladybug could do nothing but shut her eyes in frustration and groan under her breath.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

What would have happened if she could have followed Chat Noir that afternoon?

She was needed at the Agreste mansion the day—the whole day—Emelie was discovered. She had to deliver the Horse Miraculous to Max, accompany the medics and fire brigade as they magically transported her body to the hospital, and then take Max safely back home. That night, while her parents cooked together and they all crowded into the living room after dinner to watch their favourite quiz show, Marinette wondered where Chat Noir had gone, she worried about Emelie, she thought about Adrien.

Despite all their preparations, no-one knew what would happen in the few seconds between when Emelie’s incubator was disconnected from the mansion’s power source and when the ICU doctors hooked her up. The transfer, which Ladybug had to stay and plan for, had happened in the blink of an eye.

And Emelie remained stable.

So that’s what she’d been doing yesterday. As for Chat Noir?

He ran off. He palmed his Miraculous off to some stranger who showed up at La Santé prison. Said stranger flouted all the procedures of the investigation—no appointment with the prison warden, getting Gabriel’s accompanying guards to leave the interrogation room, and not submitting an audio recording of the following exchange—but somehow managed to get more information than anyone else, ever.

From his friend, Chat Noir was the one who provided the complete explanation of Hawk Moth’s actions over the last five years. Gabriel’s motives, Emelie and Adrien’s apparent lack of involvement, the disappearance of the Peacock Miraculous from the safe house. It was all typed up and uploaded in a document to the MM drive.

The Agreste v. Paris case had leapt forward months in progress from that document alone. Because of some stranger, who had apparently discovered an interrogation tactic that no other professional had. Because of Chat Noir.

Heloise had informed Marinette that she’d already spoken to Chat Noir about his unconventional methods—but somehow, the judge was not as mad. Why was she not angrier? Was she just grateful enough for the new information?

Marinette couldn’t believe it. She was confused, concerned, livid—as Plagg knew she would be. There was no way to verify Gabriel’s statements with no audio recording and no footage from the outdated, low-tech interrogation room.

When Marinette requested the footage from the external cameras, she caught a glimpse of the stranger—the Familiar—strolling up to the prison’s administration building. He was about as tall as Chat Noir, if not taller, with inky black locks and piercing, intimidating eyes.

He looked like a walking omen. A shiver had rolled down her spine, even though at the time she’d been watching, far removed from the event, on her laptop, in her bedroom.

What was Chat Noir doing entrusting his Miraculous to someone else? What was he doing keeping her in the dark about everything?

Forgive him? Plagg had asked.

Ugh. Curse that kwami’s cute little face. His eyes looked exactly like Chat Noir’s.

And despite all her partner’s erratic behaviour lately, Marinette knew his priorities were the same as hers: the people of Paris.

So instead of ringing him immediately after hanging up with Heloise, Marinette instead decided to give him time. If he was indeed experiencing some personal problems like Plagg said, then he could tell her face to face at their next patrol.

But make no mistake—the patience that Plagg earned for him was not the same as forgiveness.

She had questions for him, and Chat Noir had better fucking answer.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug’s yo-yo anchored itself around a street lamp and she jumped from the rooftops.

Her momentum carried her in a low arc along the cobbled street, then up into a somersault in the air. She landed neatly on the rooftop of their usual building.

To her surprise, Chat Noir was already waiting at their rendezvous point when she arrived. Paris glistened quietly before him, casting his lonely silhouette against the golden beams of the Eiffel Tower. She always thought views such as these, poignant and poetic, should have been painted or documented. People other than her deserved to see the city like this.

A fucking shame that she was too outraged to enjoy it.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, landing silently behind him.

Chat Noir shot to his feet and tipped his head to the side. Usually she’d find it cute, but now it was unnerving. There was so much she didn’t know about him. So much she wanted to know.

“Please clarify, my Lady.”

“The Familiar?”

“Oh.” Some emotion flickered across his face, then it was gone, replaced by a calm smile. “He has a way with words, yes? After discovering Emelie, I thought it wise to get Gabriel’s statement and clarify the situation—he was the best for the job. Do you not agree?”

“I agree with clarifying the situation, but you went about it so damn wrong! Do you know how many rules you broke?”

“I did what I had to.” He rested his staff across his shoulders and hung each wrist from it. It was such an attractive pose, she knew immediately it was intentional.

“Then at the very least tell me your plan. I could have given you advice, or helped you, or—”

“Or what? How would you have helped me other than stopping me?” Now she could hear it; the hard edge creeping into his tone.

Ladybug forged ahead, refusing to be swayed. “Fine. I wouldn’t have let you stupidly give your Miraculous away and send a civilian unprepared into a fucking prison, to interrogate Hawk Moth. Sue me.”

“How is that any different from what you do?” he shot back, shoulders stiffening. “You gave your Miraculous to Scarabella. You dole out the Miraculous to civilians all the time—is my case different because I made the call for once?”

“That’s not what I said,” Ladybug scoffed, keeping her eyes on his increasingly frustrated face.

“That’s what it sounds like,” Chat Noir replied, walking closer, almost crowding her. “Your judgement is good, and mine is bad.”

Ladybug huffed, crossing her arms, tipping her face up to stare him down. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Alright,” he said lightly. “Let’s look at the facts. They just pulled a comatose woman from underneath the mansion. Adrien has been locked in his hotel room for three months. You yourself charged me with finding the Peacock Miraculous as quickly as possible, and there are hundreds of victims and families waiting on a charge being laid, and then a trial and then a sentencing. Maybe, just once, your rules aren’t the most pressing matter at hand.”

Her eyebrows jumped up at the accusation, fury coursing hot in her veins.

Did he think she didn’t know how dire things were?

She’d been working this investigation way longer than he had—but they weren’t solo agents. Heloise needed a clear channel of communication with her. Her superhero team depended on strict schedules to operate. The rules were in place for a reason.

And Chat Noir was a fucking wild card ever since he returned.

“My point is: you could have at least told me,” Ladybug snapped. “Instead of just running off.”

“Why? Because you’re the Guardian and all my steps must be approved by you beforehand?” Chat Noir released one hand from his staff, the imbalance weight rolling the weapon around his shoulders and to his right side, where he caught it and contracted it.

He took a step closer and gasped. “Oh—oh, why,” another step, “look at this. Do I have your consent to step here?”

Ladybug glared openly, uncrossed her arms and pointed her forefinger into his chest. “Stop with the snark.”

“Stop treating me like a second-rate hero or like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not!” she yelled. Her pulse was running haywire, blood hot through her limbs, throbbing in her throat, heating the back of her neck even against the freezing night air.

Chat Noir raised his hackles at the finger pointed on him and swept it away, leaning down to tell her: “I pinned Mayura. My decision got the most exhaustive statement anyone’s been able to get from Gabriel. Yeah, I make tough calls but I’m still your fucking partner. Your equal. I have been for years.”

Partner? Partner?

Ladybug exploded. “Two months! My so-called partner ditched me for two months without even calling once. And you don’t think maybe I wanted to know where you went, where you go, what you do, who you talk to and why because—”

Her voice broke. No.

Why was she getting emotional?

Already she could feel the tears welling up at the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t really processed those agonising days when Chat Noir abandoned her. She’d used studying, the student council, the investigation, socialising with her friends and working at the bakery to take her mind off of it all.

Now even talking about it—the paranoia, the weakness he made her feel—just made her want to cry out of rage and grief. Punch something and then roll up into a ball. Goddamn him.

“Because what?” he asked slowly, having gone very still.

“Because I’m worried about you. Because I don’t want you going AWOL on me again,” she seethed, dropping her gaze to the small spot of concrete between their feet. She hated to admit it. She was supposed to be stronger than this. “Because every time you leave me, there’s a small, irrational part of me that thinks that was the last time I’ll ever see him.”

“Ladybug—”

“No! Shut up! You did this to me. I was never terrified of losing you until I actually did. And I’m not fucking over it, okay?”

Why did he make her so vulnerable?

Why had he changed? Ever since he came back, he’d lost his playfulness, his softness. With Plagg’s help, Ladybug realised he’d been hiding it well, bringing her ice-cream and cracking the right jokes during their patrols.

Now there was an edge to his voice and posture. They were arguing more than ever. Maybe that was a natural consequence of the stress they were under. Except…they’d never had to clarify if they were on the same page before.

They just were. Working together used to be as easy as breathing. Whatever Ladybug threw, Chat Noir was there to catch. Whatever she thought, he already instinctively knew. If she had a plan, he would follow.

When had they ever clashed like this, so often?

What was happening to them?

She pushed her palms against her eyes, almost like she could physically block any tears from leaking out. Then she sniffed hard, reigning all her emotions tight to her chest. Her vision was clear, trained on the minute distance between their toes, and she fought to get her heart under control.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to start crying.”

She raised her head and fell straight into those eyes. His peridot eyes glowed at her, the slits widened into nearly full-moon shapes. Ladybug watched his chest rising and falling alongside his heavy breathing, and then traced the tendon in his neck, glancing over his sharp jawline—his mouth.

They were so close.

“Don’t apologise. It’s my fault,” Chat Noir whispered. His breath fanned across her. “If I could rewind and go back to those months, I would kick my own ass and tell him to answer your voicemails.”

Ladybug snorted, her voice choked with leftover tears. “Don’t do that.”

“I will do that.”

“Don’t,” she chuckled, winding an arm around his waist.

Chat Noir looped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest, his body shielding her from the cold wind. “What sort of things did you say?”

“Uh,” Ladybug groaned, pressing her face into his collarbone with embarrassment. “I started out professional, trying to guilt you into coming back. Hope you’re okay, but this vacation is unauthorised.” Chat Noir laughed out loud, his chest rumbling deliciously with the sound. “I made one awful pun and decided wordplay is not for me. And then, in the last one, I think I just said how much I fucking missed you.”

“I’m sorry for keeping you out,” he murmured, his chin resting on top of her head. As his jaw moved, she could feel the wavering pressure against her hair. “I hate hurting you. If I hurt you, I hurt myself more—you know that, right?”

“I think I’m learning,” Ladybug said. “I’m sorry if it seems like I don’t trust your judgement or your abilities. I do. More than anyone else I know.”

“I think I’m learning,” he echoed, turning his head softly, his nose tracing across hers as he did so. “You won’t lose me, my Lady. Ever.”

She was so near him now that she couldn’t look at both his eyes at once. Her gaze flickered, searching his expression for the warmth that used to define her kitty. She found it—buried—and caressed Chat Noir's face, heart thumping hard. Her hand slid along his cheek, cupping his curious, but restrained, face.

“Prove it to me, chaton.”

Then Ladybug rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him.

Chapter Text

LADYBUG DIDN’T THINK ABOUT IT.

Her mind was blank for the first time in maybe half a year, no anxiety, no nightmares, just a pink fog. Chat Noir’s arms were already around her, pulling her up and into his body. His grip was tight, but his hands were soft, caressing the sides of her waist.

Teetering on tiptoe, Ladybug’s arms coiled around his neck and shoulders, pulling close, closer to his mouth. Compared to the biting cold around them, his lips were hot against hers, like the rim of a scalding cup of coffee. She drew his bottom lip into her mouth and sucked on it, and his claws dug into her hips—ten torturous, irresistible pinpricks. His silent purr rumbled through her, pleasure set in motion.

When Chat Noir leaned more forcefully into her, tongue sweeping in, her head went so woozy that she probably wouldn’t have been able to point upwards if asked. His muscle and bone sat firm under Ladybug’s touch, and not for the first time, it struck her how far they'd come from being scrawny, amateur kids.

Then he tore away. “Ladybug.” Chat Noir hovered, stayed close, holding her stable while her knees felt like buckling.

Where their chests pressed together, Ladybug felt an intense heat emanating into each finger and each toe.

“What?” she stammered back, blinking rapidly.

“What was that?” Chat Noir asked again. His green eyes—his gorgeous eyes—widened as their mutual realisation sank in. Watching her reaction.

Watching her sinking regret.

Adrien.

His arms loosened from around her, and then she felt the season again. She awkwardly rubbed her forearm before shifting that hand to her shoulder, shielding her torso from the wind. “S-sorry, Chat Noir. That was—”

How could she do this? Adrien was going through the worst time in his life, and when he found out about Emelie Agreste, things would get even worse. She should be focusing on pushing the investigation through the court system and supporting him emotionally—not kissing Chat Noir!

“—a mistake,” he finished, taking a blunt step backwards. “You were going to say that this was a mistake, that things have been stressful lately, and we got carried away, right?”

“I—” I don’t know.

Ladybug couldn’t read the odd emotion dancing across his face, nor the slightly restrained quality to his voice.

But she knew she was being selfish. Hadn’t she been asking for Chat Noir to move on ever since they met? No poetry, no flowers, no impromptu dinners or movie screenings, no throwing himself in danger’s way for her. Just professional.

She couldn’t just reverse years of setting that precedent, especially when she loved another. This wasn’t fair to him.

“I love you, Ladybug,” Chat Noir continued.

Somehow when he said I love you it didn’t feel like all the other times—plaintive, adoring, begging for a chance. This time, he seemed almost tired of it. Of her.

“I loved you the first day we met, and it’s never gone away.” She knew all this and shouldn’t have kissed him. Chat Noir paused to exhale sharply, the air cradling a lock of golden hair upwards. “But I have a lot going on right now. It’s made me reconsider everything—my life, my relationships. You.”

Ladybug startled, the arm that she wrapped around herself tightening. “Me?”

“I want to get over you. I want to move on.”

This wasn’t a shock—it shouldn’t have been a shock. And yet hearing these words come from her kitty’s mouth felt like someone had dropped an ice cube down her back, a frigid discomfort sliding all down her spine.

“Good for you,” she stammered, though there was a part of her that didn’t like the sound of that at all. That part was selfish. She couldn’t be selfish.

Even if Chat Noir was her living nightmare, a waking dream, and her self-control was at an all-time low, it wouldn’t be fair to him. He deserved someone who wouldn’t hide half of her life from him.

It wouldn’t be fair to Adrien, who deserved her undivided attention.

Chat Noir scoffed, rolling his eyes and looking away. “Good for me?”

“You just said I’d never lose you.”

“This is not you losing me. This is the one way I can keep being in your life and not drive myself insane with everything else going on.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” Ladybug said. What else is going on? “Truly. You know, I do care about you—”

“I know,” Chat Noir interrupted, hanging his head. “You’ll kiss me, but will you trust me? Will you share your secrets? Will you commit? Or will you just kiss me?”

The tension hung heavy between both of them, as did the answer to all his questions.

She’d known this for years.

If Ladybug was fully honest with herself, there had always been a chord to their friendship that, when plucked, made her wonder what would have changed if she’d met Chat Noir before she met Adrien.

She could have loved him in all the ways a girl could love a boy.

But at the end of the day, the dissonance between love and heroism was too large. Lying. Carrying her burdens alone. Putting up emotional walls. Constantly flaking on events and commitments. Having a sliver more power than anyone else.

Those were necessary responses to her work, and none of those were compatible with healthy relationships. As with Luka, as with Adrien, as with anyone, she could never truly fall in love—and be caught—while she was Ladybug.

It was never as simple as love, as Adrien standing between them, owning her heart. Things were more complicated than that.

“You care about me as your partner and you don’t want to jeopardise this dynamic.” Ladybug started to feel like he was shoving her previous words into her mouth. Even though she agreed still. Even if this was true. Something about this conversation made her itchy underneath her skin. “Trust me, I don’t want to damage our relationship any more than I already have,” he continued, frowning slightly at the memory of those two months away, haunting them both. “So let’s stay partners. Friends?”

She knew what Chat Noir was saying. Kisses aren’t enough. Not anymore. He either wanted all of love, the blind trust and the promises and the bare faces, or he wanted none of it.

“Absolutely,” Ladybug nodded, still feeling some strange bitterness in her throat. “Friends. We can set this aside and focus on the investigation.”

There wasn’t even a choice to be made. She simply couldn’t offer what Chat Noir wanted, and they both knew it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

As soon as Adrien reached his suite at Le Grand Paris, he collapsed on the ground.

Right there, by the window, not even bothering to make it to the couch.

The patrol was exhausting. To dispel the awkward tension, they’d both scanned through all the arrondissements at breakneck speed. No time, no space, for the silence to grow unbearable. It’d been ten minutes in total—a record time.

Ten minutes since they kissed.

Since Ladybug had kissed him.

Ladybug had kissed him.

Adrien stared up at the ceiling, tracing his lips with a finger. The floor felt wonderfully solid against Adrien’s back, and he let his legs splay outward. Plagg grabbed a handful of the curtains and dragged them closed, with much effort, to give them some privacy, before drifting away toward the closet with the safe where they aged his Camembert wedges. If he had any thoughts about the kiss—which he probably didn’t—he deigned not to share them.

Falling out of love with someone was difficult enough without kissing them, smelling their hair, holding their waist so perfectly against his body. It made his head whirl. He was so confused, so euphoric, so lonely. There were so many songs he had written about Ladybug, minor notes, pulsing chords—a heartbeat—underneath a twinkling melody—the rushing words he wished he could say without having a reproachful finger land on his lips. So many daydreams where he could take off his mask, kiss her in public, hold her in private.

Adrien wanted a love like safe harbour. Ladybug would kiss him but would she let them reveal their identities to each other? She would kiss him but would she baulk and run the other way when she realised who he was? She would kiss him but could she handle his jagged edges, his fits of temper, his destructive moods?

Ladybug wanted to be there for Chat Noir—her wise-cracking, flirtatious partner—but would she ever want to want him? Similarly, though his friends would be there for Adrien—the kind, resilient superstar—they would never understand the part of him that was dark and violent.

He was all alone inside his head.

All these facets he showed the world, but no-one would ever see him in his entirety. Least of all the love of his life, who had time and time again refused to know him underneath his mask.

Love running rampant was such a dangerous thing. He knew that now. Love had warped his father into a monstrous man because he refused to move on. He would have hurt millions of people before letting go of his wife.

Adrien had a similar problem. All his life, he had moulded himself into perfection so others would approve of him. His father’s affection had always been conditional on Adrien behaving, Adrien obeying, Adrien excelling. Adrien would have let any abuse befall him before letting go of the people he put on pedestals.

Walking away was not in his genetics—his mother had jumped into death’s arms because of her love for humanity, Gabriel Agreste would rather bend space, time and nature than let his heart bend and soften and move on—but he had to keep walking away this time.

No more begging for love from people who didn’t want to give it. He wouldn’t end up delusional and obsessive like his father. He wanted to be more than a stray kiss, a thoughtless mistake to someone. Adrien decided: no, it’s all or nothing.

And he was proud of himself for that.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette’s fingers were trembling, pressed to her mouth.

She’d been shaking from head to toe ever since she arrived home. She thought that going through her usual post-patrol motions—changing into pyjamas, washing her face, brushing her teeth, slipping under her duvets—would calm her, but now she had her blanket pulled over her head and sleep seemed years away.

Where her shoulder met the mattress, Tikki watched her with big, cautious eyes. Her kwami understood that a momentous thing had happened tonight.

“That was bad, Tikki. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Please don’t be hard on yourself, Marinette,” she said.

“But I love Adrien,” Marinette said. “I don’t want to be unfair to him.”

Her kwami was silent for a long time. Briefly, she considered the possibility that all this talk of love and romance and kissing was endlessly unfamiliar—then a small voice reassured her, “You haven’t given Adrien the chance to know your feelings. Don’t punish yourself for the idea of commitment.”

Marinette snorted. “That sounds exactly what Alya would say.”

“I think Alya is a very wise friend, Marinette. It’s okay to love many people at once.”

Instantly, there was that spike of denial. “Love? What? I don’t love Chat Noir.”

Her pride wrestled its hands around her throat, blocking any answer in the affirmative. No, of course not. I would never do such a thing. Having feelings for Chat Noir seemed more embarrassing, more of a vulnerability, more dangerous than crushing on Adrien.

Maybe because it was objectively more of a risk.

She didn’t even know Chat Noir, not really. What were his aspirations? His most important relationships? What were his bad habits? Underneath the mask could be anyone.

It was hard enough holding a half-mystery in her heart, contenting herself with the pieces of him she could claim, like his laugh and his tenacity and his appreciation of small beauties—ice-creams and two pigeons walking together and the Seine after snow—but it was even harder letting a half-mystery break her heart.

Whereas she knew Adrien—more so in these two months than in the last five years. She’d seen the fingerprints of Gabriel’s abuse; the dreams and observations he kept hidden from the world; his control of his emotions and reactions. He wouldn’t break her heart, not on purpose.

Yet she’d gone and kissed Chat Noir. Was it possible to love two people, romantically, equally, at once? Marinette didn’t think so. One was her ideal—golden, beloved, unattainable—and the other was real—loyal, wild, unbreakable.

Tikki tipped her head to the side, puzzled. “Why else would you kiss Chat Noir?”

“Because…”

Because perhaps she could feel Chat Noir slipping away from her and wanted to pull him back. Because she dragged up all the feelings from his absence and needed to make herself feel closer to him. Because she was foolish and rash and selfish. He’d implied as much.

Chat Noir was trying to move on from Ladybug. The reason he’d been so weird since his return. He was adamant that the kiss wouldn’t be repeated again. She’d made a fool of herself. Marinette forcibly unclenched her teeth. She wasn’t cold; the hot water bottle a few inches from her knees warmed the entire bed. She was simply losing her mind because—

“Because nothing. He wants me to do nothing,” she blathered. “So, I was dumb, and it’d be better not to feel this way. To feel anything. There’s no point.”

“I thought humans say that love is not supposed to have a point,” Tikki hummed. “Then it becomes ulterior—does it not?”

“I suppose so.”

“I’ve been watching you, Marinette.” Her kwami placed a comforting paw on Marinette’s free hand. “Chat Noir left and life became very difficult for you. You were sleepless, stressed, and plagued by nightmares. Nothing, not the bakery nor school nor designing, could cheer you up.”

Marinette thought she’d always just been a scattered ball of commitments and plans. She didn’t realise her deterioration had been that obvious, that bad. While Chat Noir was gone, he lived underneath each sentence and in her nightmares. When the bell on the bakery’s front door chimed, Marinette would look so sharply in that direction that her parents joked she was born for customer service.

When she lay in bed, she would stare at the sunroof—remembering the singular time that Chat Noir had visited. It was an impossible thing that he had abandoned Ladybug, so maybe the impossibility of him turning up on Marinette’s balcony could happen.

Then he came back, and a weight rolled off of her shoulders.

“Then he came back,” Tikki finished. “There is no shame in love, ever. I promise you that.”

“I mean,” Marinette squirmed, turning over in her bed, full of nervous energy.

It was too large a question—made up of smaller questions: Do I find him attractive? Yes. Do I find him infuriating? Also yes. Any day before this one, she would have rebuffed these speculations of love: can’t Chat Noir just be a partner who is attractive and infuriating?

But today, she had kissed him, and thoroughly lost herself in it. While she wasn’t thinking about the implications and the consequences, it had been the most natural feeling to be held in his arms. Her and him. Him and her, against the world.

She couldn’t run from it now. At some point, Chat Noir had stopped being just her partner. Maybe he’d always been something more, and she refused to acknowledge it until his hiatus ripped the truth to the fore.

“Maybe,” she whispered. Hard grip, soft hands, hot mouth. His scent, like cedar and citrus, with a hint of leather. Marinette remembered so many details, but their edges were fuzzy with the electricity of the moment in which they’d been recorded. “I don’t know.”

“In my experience,” Tikki murmured, settling down to sleep on the pillow. “Most people never know. Until, one day, they do.”

Chapter Text

EMELIE HADN’T AGED A DAY from his memories.

Her skin was still porcelain smooth and without blemishes or scars, her hair still glossy gold and perfectly curled, the wedding band on her ring finger glistening as bright as Adrien could remember. He sat in the oval-backed chair beside his mother’s hospital bed. Her hand was faintly warm in his, and he marvelled at the fact that his palm now outsized hers.

One of his earliest memories—he must have been about four years old—was Gabriel and Emelie cooking together in the mansion’s industrial kitchen. Tucked behind the grand staircase, the kitchen was large enough for hosting massive soirees and events, but soirees and events only happened once in a blue moon. Most of the time, the family of three used the smallest cooktop for the simplest recipes. Back then, even in such a spacious mansion, the house felt utterly full.

Emelie would hum and sing as she worked, swaying in time with her own melody, and Gabriel would drape his arms around her and smile into the bend of her neck, swaying side to side exactly in sync. “Too much sugar, Emelie,” he’d chastised one time. They were making crepes, Emelie ladling the batter into the pan and Gabriel shaping the pastry with a wooden spreader.

She’d laughed, bright and airy. “I want mon ange growing up fat and sweet as honey, rather than thin and sour.”

She was not very French that way. It was her countryside (albeit wealthy) upbringing showing through, all meaty soups and plump roast poultry. Adrien remembered the scene so clearly. It must have been a spectacular display of love to pass into a toddler’s long-term memory. Or maybe it hadn’t been spectacular, and what he was remembering was actually the superposition of countless sunny weekends, innumerable family breakfasts, all his parents’ tiny displays of love summed up into one crystalline, perfect memory.

He’d been twelve when Emelie disappeared, and now he was—legally, at least—a man.

Adrien’s thumb kept stroking, stroking, stroking, the back of Emelie’s hand.

The chemical odour inside her private room still tickled his nose, but Adrien figured it would grow on him the more he visited. Heloise had been the one to officially, on paper, inform him of his mother’s discovery, and he’d remembered at the last minute to act the clueless, broken angel. Really, he’d been a second away from sighing and saying over the phone, “I know.”

So now, besides meeting the detectives and lawyers, and attending counselling, the hospital was one of the few places Adrien was allowed to visit. Outside the doors, invisible through the thin rectangular window, he knew his two police escorts were waiting to deliver him back to Le Grand Paris.

The life support machinery whirred and beeped rhythmically, backgrounding the maelstrom of thoughts in his head. He’d told his counsellor that he didn’t want to get his hopes up, in case Emelie couldn’t be revived. But what was he doing now, holding vigil by his mother’s side, for what felt like hours on end?

He could say that he was taking things slow, but as soon as he’d been allowed, he’d rushed here. Maybe there were some types of love that couldn’t be moderated.

A gentle double-knock at the door. That would be his police escort, gently prompting Adrien to wrap things up.

“Bye, Mom,” he whispered, rising from the chair and replacing it by the window.

“Sorry for the wait,” he said remorsefully. The slimmer one, always brusque and taciturn, coughed.

Adrien was aware that for men and women of the law, ferrying him around the city to his appointments and standing upright outside his hotel room was particularly mind-numbing work. He didn’t want the constant baby-sitting, and he doubted they did, either. This was just an unpleasant result of the terms of his house arrest before the trial.

The stockier man gave Adrien a confidential smile. “That’s alright. I don’t mind the downtime.”

“Thank you,” Adrien said, anyway. “You’re very understanding.”

The same man opened the back door to the inky black SUV—one of Le Grand’s fleet—and ushered Adrien in. They weren’t the only two assigned to him; in fact, over the months, he’d started memorising the names and faces of the about fifteen different officers that guarded him.

“All ready?” the slimmer one asked, sliding her sunglasses on in the driver’s seat.

“Yes.”

Just before the other police officer shut the door and slid into the passenger seat, a tiny flash of cobalt blue caught Adrien’s eye. It was a blur in his periphery, gone when he turned his head to stare out the window. As the SUV pulled away from the curb, Adrien craned his head back to verify if his mind was playing tricks on him.

Nothing.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette was starting to hate the press.

For privacy’s sake, the authorities had managed to keep a wrap on Emelie’s discovery for about a week. But now, of course, with increasing numbers of hospital staff caring for Adrien’s mother, word quickly got out, and unsurprisingly the Agreste family, the biggest media buzzword of the year, was making global headlines again.

“Gabriel Agreste’s wife was reported missing five years ago in Tibet, and pronounced deceased one month later,” Nadja Chamack had reported from the studio. Her face had been pale and pinched as she recited the sobering news. “The beloved screen actress was found unconscious underneath the foundations of the Agreste mansion and has since been taken to the hospital. She is stable, but still unconscious.”

When would Adrien get a reprieve?

Adrien joined their weekly group video call on his laptop, the camera positioned at a low angle. On Marinette, such a low angle would make her self-conscious of her nostrils and her double chin, but somehow Adrien looked as chiselled and gorgeous as ever, his grass green eyes luminous in the soft lamplight at the hotel writing desk.

“I’ve turned my phone off,” he told his three friends, following the inquiries about the paparazzi. “There are so many people asking for comments or exclusive interviews—not that they ever really stopped—that I thought it would be easier. I’m still checking my messages from you guys on my laptop, though.”

Alya hummed her approval from her quadrant of the screen. She wore orange plaid pyjamas and had halved her usual voluptuous ponytail into two loose braids. “That’s a good move,” she told Adrien. “Usually I support granting access to knowledge, but these gossip vultures are pissing me off.”

The mainstream news was fine. It was those tabloids pulling the same harassment tactics as when they showed up outside Francois Dupont High School, shoving cameras into the faces of schoolchildren and trespassing on private property, that were now accosting health workers and taking up already scarce streetside parking to camp outside the hospital, lying in weight for a juicy scoop.

At school this last week, Marinette and Alya spent one lunchtime lambasting the press behaviour during the Agreste investigation. There was no ethical practice, no discretion. Marinette watched with equal amounts of pride and awe as Alya ranted and ranted, eventually distilling their conversation into an incisive Ladyblog post about the intersection of free speech with rights to privacy in 21st-century internet landscape, the rights and responsibilities of the news to the public, the rights and responsibilities of the public to the news they consumed.

Journalism school wouldn’t know what hit them.

Marinette smiled softly at the boy in the upper right corner of her laptop. The fading afternoon light fell through her sunroof, today’s sunset milky pink. “Has it been hard to study, Adrien?”

She’d truly let herself get carried away lately. The investigation was hectic, with Emelie and the Familiar and Gabriel’s statement, then there was Chat Noir and… the kiss… and she’d shamefully forgotten her main priority: getting Adrien through this trial.

Already, she was thinking of ways to cheer him up. She wanted to rally the class around him in this troubling time. They could send a parcel, but it would certainly be ripped apart by his security detail before being delivered—which almost ruined the special mystery of being gifted something—or they could write a letter, but they couldn’t be there with him.

Marinette would keep thinking on it.

“There have been a lot of distractions,” Adrien admitted, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his lips. “My grades aren’t as good as last year. I think I’m saying goodbye to being valedictorian.”

Nino, his headphones sitting like bubbles on either ear, groaned dramatically. “And saying hello to a tragic A-minus average. Heartbreaking.”

Adrien barked a laugh, falling just as quickly into his usual pensive mood. “I know. Golden tears, right?”

Pensive. Neutral, present, witty when he needed to be. That’s how he seemed—not distressed, or hopeless, or, God forbid, intoxicated—and Marinette didn’t know what to make of it. Either he was a better actor than she gave him credit for, or he was far stronger than she gave him credit for. In both situations, there was something deeply impressive about this boy.

“Seriously, though, man,” Nino went on. “I wish we could visit you. Are you feeling lonely? Stir-crazy?”

“You know, I get more fresh air than you’d think,” Adrien informed them, scratching at the back of his neck, the veins in his bare arm flexing. “I just can’t wait for the investigation to be over. Then we can hang out.”

“Same,” Marinette blurted, dragging her eyes back to the camera. “What shall we do when you’re a free man again? Shall we get tickets to Jagged Stone? He’s in Paris in June. Or hit the Louvre again!”

“Those are great ideas, Marinette,” Adrien said. “But I honestly don’t need anything exciting or exclusive.”

“I mean, it should be a little exclusive, because I think you’d get swarmed if this get-together happened in public,” Alya pointed out.

“Probably,” Adrien agreed with a sad chuckle. “Brunch at the bakery, Marinette? Would that be okay?”

She should bake him more treats and deliver them via Ladybug! There was more than enough time before their next scheduled interview. Still, something different, bigger, better, that let Adrien know how invaluable he was to so many people.

“More than okay! We could even use our living room for added privacy. My mom’s been trying out a new layering technique for her chocolate-lined croissants—”

A loud droning sound interrupted the call. Alya blinked. Nino’s face crumpled into a bashful grin as his stomach rumbled again. “Look what you’ve done, Marinette. Now I’m hungry.”

Marinette laughed joyously. “Well, I’ll tell Mom that her recipe is a hit already. Let’s calendar this brunch for some happy day in the future, yes? I hope everyone’s free.”

Alya glanced down and mimed checking an invisible diary. “Some Happy Day in the Future. Yep. I’m available.”

“Great,” Adrien said softly, his smile radiating through the screen like a heavenly sunbeam. “See you guys, then.”

After they bid farewell and ended the call, Marinette covered her eyes with the palms of her hand. She watched the fractal shapes drift across the back of her eyelids, unsure when she imagined green eyes and an irresistible smile who, exactly, she was thinking of.

Chapter Text

MOST PARISIANS ENJOYED THIS PARTICULAR Friday evening indoors while the strong winds—the tail end of a thunderstorm—cleaned out the streets of the city. Rena Rouge fell in an arc through the air, dropping silently onto the rendezvous point rooftop and straightening with a flourish.

“Ladybug,” she called.

The woman in polka-dotted red whirled around and rushed closer, throwing her arms around her friend. “Rena Rouge. It’s good to see you.”

“It has been a while,” Rena quipped, not needing to remind her best friend that they’d walked out of school together not eight hours ago. “Why is Chat Noir not here with you?”

“Mm,” Ladybug hummed absentmindedly as they set out on their familiar route around the arrondissements. “He’s busy.”

Sure.

It had been a busy week for all the investigators. Ladybug had cancelled Adrien Agreste’s upcoming interview in view of Emelie’s discovery, allowing him some time to adjust to the shock. Meanwhile, Rena’s area of expertise—Gabriel’s international dealings in the USA and China—was demanding less and less of her time, now that she only had loose ends to chase up.

Still, Emelie. It—she—was on everyone’s minds.

Rena Rouge found out about the whole mansion fiasco sometime between Ladybug and Chat Noir, who were first on the scene, and the general public. When the report from the Familiar’s interrogation of Gabriel Agreste hit the MM drive, she’d called up Nino immediately.

Rena Rouge had never known Emelie. Adrien’s mother was simply an idea, an image of silver screen stardom before a tragic end. To have that distant fantasy turned into a grim reality—who the fuck kept the body of their missing wife beneath their house? Hawk Moth, that’s who—chilled her to the bone.

Then, an out-of-the-blue text (from Ladybug’s encrypted chat box to hers) had asked if she was available to cover Chat Noir’s usual shift this Friday. Something was afoot, something larger than the investigation. She could tell just by looking at her best friend, and her carefully averted eyes.

Rena Rouge let herself fall behind, jogging just behind Ladybug. The air was biting cold and whipping roughly around them. Quick as lightning, she reached her fingers out and tickled Ladybug’s waist.

The girl in front writhed and croaked out a laugh. “Stop, Rena!”

“You’re not telling me the whole story.” Rena gave a sly smile, shaking her head as if Ladybug should know better. “Where is Chat Noir, really? The minou has been your de-facto patrol partner ever since he returned, and Carapace hasn’t said anything about Chat Noir being busy. I bet I could get the truth from him. You know that they work together, yes? In the Palais office—”

“Alright,” Ladybug relented. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled in a rush, “I gave Chat Noir leave because I don’t want to see him. I’m not ready to see him, not so soon, not after… we kissed.”

Rena Rouge nearly tripped. “What?” Oh-ho-ho. This was a shocking development. “When? Tell me everything.”

Unable to back out now, Ladybug sighed and placed a palm to her forehead. “We had an argument before the last patrol. Since Chat Noir came back from his hiatus, we’ve been arguing a lot more. He’s more distant somehow—and I thought maybe it was the investigation putting pressure on us both.” She waved her hand vaguely in the air. “It just dragged up all the emotions I felt when he was gone.”

So they went from arguing to kissing?

There was a flicker of irritation at Marinette having kept this a secret for a week, but flashes of Emelie and the tabloids crowded around the hospital and Adrien’s weary smile on a phone screen smoothed it all down. Her best friend was doing her absolute best during the absolute worst.

Rena Rouge’s lips curved into a hungry, tight-lipped smile. “Which emotions are those?” she asked, eyes narrowing shrewdly. Love?

The two girls leapt over a gap between two buildings, each landing neatly on one foot without breaking their stride. Around them, the air blustered and carried the distant sounds of vehicles closer.

“Chat Noir’s feelings for me have changed,” Ladybug reasoned evasively. “He doesn’t want me, so it’s useless to consider my feelings about it now.”

“Ladybug.”

“I mean— I care about him, clearly,” she said with great difficulty. “Platonically.” Rena Rouge fought off another grin.

She was growing more and more convinced by the day that instead of Adrien, it was Chat Noir that was Ladybug’s current greatest source of romantic frustration. She saw firsthand what happened when Marinette was without her kitty. It was scary.

“And we talked things through, don’t worry. We both agree that a relationship or even repeat incidents are not on the table, but things were still awkward. So awkward. I still couldn’t face him this week.”

Ah. After their passionate tryst, Ladybug was not ready to face up to her kitty yet. “Enter moi.”

“Thank you for coming tonight,” she said gratefully. “I know how busy you’ve been.”

“No busier than you,” Rena scoffed.

Rena Rouge took a running leap over to the other side of the street, while Ladybug opted to sling herself across with her yo-yo. As the gales slid over her skin, she could hear the faint sound of wind rushing in and out of her flute. A light speckle of rain stung her cheeks.

Her best friend ran like a clockwork girl. Breakfast, school, bakery, investigation, patrol, sleep. Student council meetings. Putting together applications for fashion design courses. Interviewing Adrien. Marinette was a clockwork girl, and anyone who looked at her would say that she was one of the more successful, disciplined pupils at Francois Dupont, but only because clockwork girls felt nothing.

Rena loved that she called on her tonight, that she confided in her about the kiss. She loved being invited over on weekends and holidays to work on the investigation together. She loved scoping out different university campuses around the city.

She loved when her best friend reached out because Ladybug had a tendency to withdraw, enduring something that rocked her world without letting anyone know about it. Denying that she needed support.

One thing that made Rena proud was that Ladybug didn’t seem to be torturing herself with her concurrent feelings for Adrien. Her best friend had the tendency, along with extreme independence, to punish herself. Rena’d always been a firm advocate for honesty, for telling Adrien how Marinette felt, but in the absence of that bravery, there was no point in self-flagellating. She had betrayed no-one.

Ladybug cast a plaintive glimpse at her friend beside her, pouting at her still-smug expression. “Ugh! How did you land a boyfriend in one afternoon?”

Rena laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Carapace and I think the same way about a lot of things. After the first hour stuck in that cage, we got so bored that the conversation really started flowing.”

They took a pause at the top of the Eiffel Tower, both hanging off opposite sides and scanning the cityscape.

“But that can’t happen with us. I can’t really ask Chat Noir about his personal life,” Ladybug remarked, voice raised slightly over the wind and distance.

“Why not?” Rena Rouge asked. “Concrete details, obviously not. But philosophy? Thoughts on life, love, nature? I doubt you could pin his identity down with those tidbits when most people don’t even share those with the closest people in their life.”

“We hardly have the time to philosophise while working on the investigation,”

“Make time. It feels indulgent when you’re unused to prioritising yourself—” a rough, accusatory cough “—but if you work at it, you’ll realise it’s not so impossible to be a hero and to date.”

At the word date, Ladybug made a strangled noise. “I don’t—”

“That is, if you want to get to know Chat Noir better,” Rena rephrased. “Otherwise, you can keep being avoidant and awkward as long as you like. Stay strangers, if that’s truly easier for you.”

“Ouch.”

“I say that affectionately, with all my love,” Rena said sweetly, her lips pressed into a cheeky smile. “You know that I never sugarcoat things.” Wait. “Gosh. I haven’t even asked the most important question. How was the kiss?”

Ladybug tensed up. Rena giggled.

Ah, this was so refreshing: seeing her best friend like this. There was no small joy in knowing that even when Ladybug wanted control over everything in her life, Chat Noir was always around to cause chaos (in the best way). Make no mistake, she loved Adrien, too. They were close friends, and he was an incredible person going through overwhelming circumstances. Either of these boys would do marvels for Marinette. In fact, if Rena was to pick one for her best friend, she would probably end up equally confused as Ladybug appeared to be right now.

Thank goodness she’d made all her important choices. Nino was an immovable pillar, guiding her back to her true priorities when she relapsed into prizing knowledge and information over everything else, even school, even her health. He was the one who made sure she slept and ate and kept up with her studies and did some exercise.

Rena gracefully scaffolded around the metalwork until she was close enough to see the faint pink flush on her friend’s cheeks, spreading out underneath her mask. Ladybug, bound to the Tower by a single hand holding the thread of her yo-yo, cleared her throat, bluebell eyes shining and swivelling around the horizon.

“Nice,” Ladybug whispered, at length. The fingers of her free hand absentmindedly brushed her mouth. “Really nice.”

Rena nodded, “Good,” turned her head and grinned massively into the darkness.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Chat Noir?

Mm. He was okay.

If pressed, Carapace would perhaps throw out adjectives like capable, considerate, patient, respectable, upstanding—maybe, if there was a gun held to his head—but only if pressed. Their shift hours in the gilded Palais de Justice were starting to whizz past whenever they partnered up.

When he was here with more colourful characters like King Monkey, it was easy to feel cramped in the small space. But he and Chat Noir had a rhythm. They didn’t need to make small talk; they swerved and lilted around each other almost like dancers, a floor pattern between the workbench, computers, archive wall invisibly drawn. Unspoken but well-established; they asked each other for advice (Chat Noir with procedure and law, because he was woefully bad with the rules, Carapace with technology or Miraculous lore) without male ego or score-keeping.

Sometimes Chat Noir would walk in with two ice-cream cones to begin their session on a high note, and, determined not to fall behind in courtesy, Carapace started bringing coffee or pastries. Now he’d lost count of how many times either of them had proffered treats. (Turns out, they both had major sweet tooths.)

Were they friends?

Meehhh—

The door to the Miraculous team office in the Palais’ basement swung open. Ladybug stepped into the space with a stack of papers in her hands, hole-punched and bound together with a metal clip.

“Ladybug!” Carapace greeted cheerfully. “My favourite spotted heroine.”

At the workstation, underneath the Palladian windows, there were boxes and documents spread all along the wooden bench. Chat Noir had frozen up and turned his head over his shoulder, nodding once. “Ladybug,” he said courteously, no ounce of his usual feline playfulness to be seen.

Strange.

“Chat Noir,” Ladybug returned, equally stiffly. Stranger still. “Carapace. I— uh, this is the transcription of Adrien Agreste’s most recent interview. I fell behind typing it up because of last week’s development with Emelie Agreste.”

Carapace nodded, jerking his head to the shelving unit on the far wall. “Middle shelf, I think.”

“Okay, thanks,” Ladybug said quickly, strolling to the shelves. Chat Noir had returned to staring at the wall. If he was currently completing a pressing task, Carapace couldn’t tell. The pages in front of him sat unread and unedited. “It’s not here,” her voice called.

Carapace glanced over. There were a few gaps on the middle shelf that would have been filled with archive boxes, but he hadn’t—

“Oh, shit,” Chat Noir cursed, grabbing one box in his midnight claws and pivoting towards Ladybug. He crossed the corner in the blink of an eye. “Here—”

Ladybug turned around, bumping into the outstretched archive box that was, quite literally, an inch from her hand. The box toppled out of Chat Noir’s hands and the contents fanned out all along the ground.

Ladybug covered her mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding Adrien’s transcribed interview. “Sorry—”

“No, that’s my bad,” Chat Noir insisted, stooping to the ground to pick up the spilled papers.

Carapace walked slowly to the sea of paper, intent on helping, but more intent on figuring what the fuck had happened between Paris’ two premier heroes. Ladybug followed suit, placing her document on an empty portion of the middle shelf. Her hands seemed frantic and directionless as she surveyed the mess of paper in front of her.

She glanced up at Chat Noir, eyes unable to remain on his face for more than a second.

“They have to be in chronological order,” Chat Noir blurted, voice a low, tense burr.

“Of course,” Ladybug stammered. She picked up an older transcription and read the date, setting it aside on a separate, clear portion of the floor. “Let me just…”

“I can sort them,” Chat Noir interjected, frustrated. No. Flustered? “It’s okay.”

Carapace glanced between them, head swivelling, brows knitted tightly together.

“I bumped into you. I should sort them,” Ladybug was saying, reaching for another document.

Chat Noir gently swatted her hands away. “Really, I’m here for the rest of the afternoon—”

A trickle of awareness slid down Carapace’s spine. Then it clicked, and he nearly burst out laughing. He took Ladybug’s hands in his and stretched to his usual height, drawing her up from the floor with him. “Ladybug,” he asked pleasantly. “Are you tired?”

“What?” she asked, perplexed.

Carapace walked with her to the far side of the workbench, the end nearest to the computers, where a carton of danishes was basking in the afternoon sun. He did not miss Chat Noir’s suspicious gaze locked onto their joined hands, but he chose to ignore it.

He continued, “I mean, this investigation is sometimes draining for me. I can’t imagine how you feel. And—do I see some darkness under your eyes?”

Ladybug shot him a flat look. “You mean my mask?”

“I think you should have a snack and take a siesta. Afternoon naps do wonders, really.” Carapace picked up a danish and handed it to Ladybug. “Here.” With a gentle touch at her elbow, he guided her to the door of the office and swept her out. “Off you go. Thanks so much for all your hard work!” He grinned at Ladybug when she glanced back, shaking her head helplessly. “You set a glowing example for the rest of us!”

Then he slammed the door closed and dropped the deadbolt.

Still on his knees by the shelves, Chat Noir limply held a paper in each hand. His shell-shocked expression met Carapace’s knowing smirk, and then melted into bashfulness, relief, then mirth as both boys burst into laughter.

Chat Noir slumped onto his behind, leaning back against the leg of the workbench. He put his head into his hands, sharp claws covering his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he groaned. “What was I doing?”

“We’ve all been there, man,” Carapace chuckled, coming to sit behind him. “Danish?”

Chat Noir took a blueberry-flavoured one and started nibbling, getting his canine teeth at it first. “Christ,” he mumbled, a rosy blush on his cheeks. “She walked in and my brain just…”

Carapace performed an excellent rendition of a spluttering, creaking, choking, dying engine.

“Yes. That.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think her brain was doing something similar,” he comforted. That was probably the highlight of his week. Maybe his month, with all the horrible news about Emelie coming out. “So,” he began confidentially, waving a hand at the door, “what’s going on there?”

“Nothing. Nothing is going on. We’ve both agreed we’re not in the headspace for anything to happen.”

Carapace laughed. “Headspace, shmeadspace. What’s the tea?”

Chat Noir shook his head, sighing. He pretended to be occupied eating the danish, but a pastry could only last so long, and Carapace’s patience was infinitely unknown to him. The boys sat in silence, one peering intently with smug brown eyes, the other fascinated with a blueberry embedded inside the pastry.

“Fine,” Chat Noir broke. “The last time we saw each other, we kissed, and then I told her that nothing could happen. She agrees, I mean, of course she does. She’s been saying the same things for years. I just finally caught on. But, yeah. That’s all. I told you it was nothing.”

Carapace disagreed. “A dynamic has shifted.”

Chat Noir a sound that seemed to communicate, you think? Then his head snapped upright, green eyes wide and apologetic. “Anyway, we’re all teammates. Sorry for putting this on you, man.”

Carapace was having a surprisingly fun time. The sun was warm on his back, falling through the large windows, he was eating a delicious morsel of baking, and Chat Noir was— well, he was showing him a side that Carapace didn’t know existed.

“It’s not weird,” he reassured. “A little post-kiss awkwardness is the most universal thing in the world.”

“Well,” Chat Noir deadpanned, “that makes me feel a little better.” At length: “Can I ask you something?”

“Course.”

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Carapace had not been expecting that question. Chat Noir noticed his startled expression and recoiled. “Sorry. I know you and Rena are…”

Carapace interrupted, “Good question. I don’t, actually. She definitely doesn’t. She’s one of those rational types.”

Rena was the type of girl to look at the needle going in when she got her flu vaccinations. The first time Carapace heard that—strolling on the banks of the Seine when they first started dating—he couldn’t fathom it, but that was her way of responding to conflicts. She would rather hunt her fears than wait for them to ambush her.

Carapace himself preferred no fear at all. Impossible as it was. Slow-paced, stable work, such as administration and data processing in this office, really suited him. He liked being in here, contributing in a consistent and valuable way.

Whereas he could only take a few minutes of scrolling through the news before his mental health plummeted, Rena kept tirelessly charging head-on into the pawnbroking scheme, terrorism charges and post-traumatic testimonies. Her mind was constantly in motion, mapping out future pathways and hypotheses from an ever-growing database. Carapace tried to fill his spare time with Super Penguino and Harry Clown and Jagged Stone, but she remained relentless in her research, absorbing and filing away information about the Agreste case, as if it wasn’t their best friend at the centre of it all.

I really miss hanging out with Adrien.

Chat Noir’s ears were pitiably droopy, and Carapace felt compelled to inquire: “Why do you ask?”

“Well, if I tell myself that nothing can happen with Ladybug, I’m kind of fucked if she’s my soulmate, right?” His eyes were wry, but there was real uncertainty inside them.

“Ah.” Carapace admitted, “I actually think soulmates are a cop-out.”

Chat Noir blinked, taken aback. “Really?”

“Yeah. That’s like saying I’m so glad the universe put us together. You are perfect for me, and I am perfect for you, and we’ll never have to question whether we belong together. The decision was made the day we met. But what Rena and I have, I mean, I’ve questioned it,” Carapace explained.

He avoided giving more details that would narrow the experience down to Nino questioning Chat Noir’s relationship with Alya Cesairé, which got him akumatized, seeing as it was long resolved. Old news. He could hardly believe he’d gone from hating Chat Noir to having a deep and meaningful conversation with him.

“Wrongly questioned, but still,” he smiled secretively. “I think it’s more romantic to meet someone and work through all the questions and decisions together. You learn each other, you build a life, and then you get to a point where you say there’s nothing or no-one the universe could introduce me to that would make me change my mind about you. I’m choosing her for me, not some cosmic entity, right? I don’t if that makes sense. I just like the agency in the way Rena and I approach our relationship.”

“No, that makes a lot of sense.” Chat Noir stuffed the last of his pastry in his mouth and smiled. “I love that.”

“I’m glad. Don’t worry,” Carapace said, feeling the sudden need to put a comforting hand on Chat Noir’s shoulder. He just looked like a kicked kitten. So poorly. “You get to decide if you want Ladybug and all that she comes with, or if you want something else.”

“Yeah,” Chat Noir agreed quietly, a bolstered smile rising on his face. He directed the smile in Carapace’s direction. “Thanks, Carapace.”

“No problem, bro.”

The boys dusted their hands as they rose from the floor. All the crumbs and grease magically fell away from the quantum suits, leaving all the transcriptions spotlessly clean as they sorted them back into their correct order.

As they worked, Carapace kept thinking about the box clattering to the floor, the wide-eyed tension between Ladybug and Chat Noir, and snickering. This made Chat Noir chuckle self-deprecatingly in return, which just gave him the licence to laugh even louder.

He couldn’t wait to tell Alya about this.

Chapter Text

ADRIEN, MOST DAYS, HAD ENVIABLE powers of focus.

People had told him—his teachers throughout collège and lycée, photographers, makeup artists, piano instructors, fencing coaches, foreign language tutors—over and over what exceptional drive he had. He could dedicate himself utterly to a task ("You don't require a break? Or water? Really?"), even if it excited him none, and see it through to its end.

That was why, when people complimented his various talents, he shut up and graciously accepted the compliment—he was talented, but not in athletics, or academia, or foreign languages. His one talent was this strange, unending, unbothered, consistent work ethic, which he could apply to anything he needed.

That was the root, and all the other talents branched from this.

"What's wrong with you?" Plagg wondered, lying on the suite's work desk and lazily pawing at a shred of tissue. After each swipe, the tissue would float up in the air and drift back down to be swatted again. "You've done nothing today. It's been three hours since you turned the page."

Adrien pointedly turned over the page in his Calculus workbook, even though the last set of integrals had been left unfinished—unattempted, even.

Plagg raised one fuzzy brow smugly, then rolled over and sunk his claws into the lavender-scented scrap of three-ply.

But his kwami was right. He was horribly unfocused today, yesterday, all the days ever since he kissed Ladybug. It wouldn't happen again, he was sure of that, but that didn't stop his mind from dragging up the kiss and violently blasting it on the panoramic, surround-sound, 4D viewing theatre that was his imagination. Instead of integration by parts, he was memorising was her smell, blueberries and fresh-baked bread, the softness to her body, underneath the fitness of her battle-worn muscle, the little gasp-y sound she made at the back of her throat—

Adrien's hand itched towards his phone, before he realised that he'd shoved it between the couch cushions, across the room, for this very reason.

He squeezed his hands into fists, trying to make the words on the page sink into his head.

His phone hadn't been turned on since the first Emelie-related media appearance requests started rolling into his email and text inboxes, from a wide range of news sites, fashion magazines, and film industry barons. A documentary, one offered, wouldn't that be such a fitting tribute? (No. It wouldn't.)

There was absolutely no downside to the phone vacation, given that he could submit schoolwork and communicate with his friends on his laptop. No downside, except if Ladybug reached out to Adrien, or to Chat Noir through the Mira-Message bypass. He was itching to hear her voice, message her. How could he face her again? How would he face her again?

A pair of fortunate twists had kept them from interacting since the kiss: Ladybug had cancelled last week's interview to give Adrien some time to process the news of his mother's discovery, and she'd relieved Chat Noir from patrol duty last Friday, but on Sunday the Palais Office Disaster happened.

They couldn't get back to usual unless he could successfully put the kiss out of his mind. The mini-fridge underneath the Impressionist painting of ballet dancers looked awfully tempting, all those crystalline vodka bottles inside...

No. He'd come so far, built up so much strength of his own. He didn't need the numbness.

Still, Ladybug would be here soon for their interview, and his knee wouldn't stop bouncing, bouncing, underneath the table like a rapidly vibrating sound speaker—

A knock at the window.

Damn it. Damn her.

Adrien placed his pencil between the pages of his Calculus textbook and shut it, as if there was anything worth bookmarking on the page. Brushing aside the curtain, he swung the window outwards, the frigid wind refreshing on his overheated face. For some stupid reason, he offered his hand to Ladybug to help her dismount from the windowsill as she slipped in, as if she hadn't traversed this threshold dozens of times before, as if her Miraculous-enhanced balance would ever let her slip.

Adrien shoved his hand into his pocket before she noticed. "Ladybug," he greeted casually, painting a hopefully natural smile onto his lips.

It wasn't natural, if her instant perusing expression proved anything. "Adrien," Ladybug whispered, a deeply concerned expression on her face. "It's good to see you again. How are you? How are you holding up?"

Oh. He'd forgotten: from Ladybug's perspective, she hadn't seen Adrien Agreste for weeks, since before Emelie Agreste was located. Everything that happened since—his interrogation of Gabriel, their ensuing fight, the kiss, the run-in in the Palais de Justice—had happened to Chat Noir.

Adrien struggled to piece together a full sentence. "Uh. I'm..."

"It's a difficult time for the entire city," Ladybug interjected hastily for him, wincing slightly. "Your mother is very dear to Paris."

"Yes," he agreed dumbly, dropping his gaze. He noticed a pastel pink box clutched beside her thigh. "What's this?"

"Oh, a gift." Ladybug pressed the box, slightly warm, into his hands. Were her fingers trembling? "Fresh-baked mille-feuille. I thought it would be nice to get some variation from the hotel cuisine, splendid as it is."

Adrien blinked, pleasantly warmed by the small token of generosity. "Thank you, Ladybug." He turned the box the right way around and noticed the fashionable sticker on the lid. "The Dupain-Cheng bakery."

"Do you like the place?" Ladybug wondered.

"Yes," Adrien said. Electing for small talk—he was fantastic at small talk, having been trained since the age of seven to show face—he continued, "Actually, I love it. It's one of the first places I'll visit when I'm not under house arrest anymore."

Ladybug blinked, tucking a loose strand of midnight black hair behind her ear. A soft smile played across her mouth. "That's certainly something to look forward to." She glanced over to the couch and ottoman, their usual environ. "Shall we?"

Just as she breezed past, Adrien smelled blueberries and fresh-baked bread and shut his eyes, face pinched with concentration, forcibly exhaling. She is just an investigator. The Guardian of Paris. You do not remember what she tastes like—

Ladybug whirled around, misread the gesture, and melted into an earnest, sympathetic frown.

"Oh, wait. Is it still too soon to talk about your parents?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably on her toes.

If she ever knew how much talking to his parents he'd actually done...or if she knew about the multiple conflicts of interest in holding an investigatory role while interrogating his own father, reading and compiling his own interview transcripts, befriending and even kissing the people supposed to deliver an impartial evidence dossier to Heloise Hessenpy for the Agreste v. Paris trial.

Ladybug would ask for the Black Cat Miraculous back just for his own good, and the entire process would have to start from square one.

"—I completely understand if you'd like to meet next week instead."

Adrien felt cowardly for taking the out, for using his external circumstance to fix his internal circumstance, but he simply couldn't be this close to her and concentrate properly on providing factual, helpful answers. He coughed, painting an apology across his expression. "Are you sure? I don't want to delay your work."

"Have the lawyers reached out?"

"Briefly. I'm not checking my phone much at the moment."

"Well, I only really need to ask you a few more questions pertaining to parole," Ladybug explained, "and then that will be it. The audit of Gabriel, the brand, is far more behind than we are, so don't worry about our timeline," she quipped, throwing a light humorous smile at him. "Just focus on yourself. Oui?"

Adrien nodded rapidly, turning to the grand piano and leaning casually against it as Ladybug walked to the window. "I'll see you next week, then."

Her face was once again sympathetic, those sapphire eyes swimming with pity and compassion. "Please take care of yourself till then, Adrien," and she was gone, slinging herself through the streets below.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette didn't consider herself very talented, but, by God, did she have willpower.

In her bedroom, she spent five minutes practising somersaults, another five walking exclusively on her hands, another five yo-yo manoeuvrability, another five fiddling with the Lucky Charm fidget spinner, and then, when the post-Lucky Charm Ladybug suit was straining on her limbs like bags of flour, she simply slumped against a wall and chatted dazedly to the kwamis until her willpower snapped.

The Miraculous magic left her body and whirled Tikki back in front of her eyes.

"Marinette," her kwami said disapprovingly.

"Please, don't," she interrupted, offering a madeleine to eat. Tikki took it in her tiny paws and swallowed it whole. How can she fit so much inside such a small body? "I know I can do this."

"Of course you can do this. You are doing it," Tikki agreed diplomatically.

After calling her Lucky Charm, Marinette had spent nearly half an hour without transforming back into her civilian self. That was impressive! That was an improvement! Did it really matter if every moment after the first five minutes felt like walking up a steeper and steeper hill—lasting ten minutes was relatively easy now, hence the acrobatics—until she was hanging on by the very fingertips, pushing down the twinging and exhaustion that threatened her mind, body, and soul?

Yes, Tikki seemed to believe, it mattered very much.

The Ladybug kwami swept a consolatory paw across Marinette's sweaty brow. "Maybe it's time you tried a different approach. Something less draining."

"I'm not drained," Marinette insisted, letting her wall take the weight of her head. "Besides, if Chat Noir can do it...so can I."

That kitty was dangerously distracting. When he was in front of her, all her priorities slipped. She should be focusing on Adrien and the Agreste trial, not the way Chat Noir's purring had thrummed through her ribcage and into all her fingertips.

In a roundabout way, Chat Noir had even ruined today's encounter with Adrien. The whole time in Le Grand, Ladybug was unable to stop berating herself for kissing Chat Noir while she had a person like Adrien in her life. Of course, that berating just meant she was unable to stop thinking about kissing Chat Noir in the first place.

And then there were his new powers. The day he returned from hiatus, Chat Noir had used his Cataclysm on a homemade bottle bomb and simply, seemingly, walked away from his transformation. Underneath the Agreste mansion, in that cavern, she'd seen Chat Noir called multiple cataclysms—one in each hand—and revoke them like it was nothing.

The rules of the Miraculous meant nothing to him.

Why, hello, Cat Walker, the Familiar, why, yes, of course you may have my Miraculous.

Damn him, his rebelliousness, his stupid face, that annoying mouth.

If he had access to the full range of his adult powers, why didn't Marinette?

Granted, she was seventeen until July, and— wait, how old was Chat Noir anyway? A pointless question, one that she shouldn't try to answer.

"This isn't a competition," Tikki frowned, crossing her arms. "In fact, if you are fuelled by trivial thoughts like this, how are you supposed to truly focus on connecting to the Ladybug Miraculous? To learn its full powers, you need to listen to it, to yourself, and not to all the external noise in your life."

Marinette felt like shooting back, "what external noise?" but that would have been a lost cause. She needed to dig deep and consider many mystical things about the nature of Creation and her relationship to it, before its full powers truly became second nature. She knew that, but her existence felt like nothing but noise these days.

Noise woke her up (her alarm), and noise stalked her through school and student council meetings. She grappled with noisy thoughts of Chat Noir and the rest of her team and Heloise Hessenpy. She felt guilty for letting herself get so sidetracked from Adrien, and re-dedicated herself to making it up to him: endless pastries, cheerful video calls with Marinette, limitless patience and compassion when Ladybug interviewed him, and the best fucking Christmas present she could think up.

Their homeroom class would all get involved, of that there was no doubt, because the way things were going, he would spend another Christmas alone. Marinette knew Adrien hated being alone during the holidays, but now he was on house arrest and his parents were both... incapacitated in some manner. This year, the more people rallying around him, the better. She would stop at nothing to bring all the Yuletide festivities right to his hotel suite, despite the house arrest. If she was judicious about it, Ladybug might be able to help out once. Any more than that would start to cross some boundaries, both in using the Miraculous for personal gain and by drawing Adrien's attention to the connection between Ladybug and their high school.

In fact, why wait till Christmas? It was time to pick up the slack. Adrien deserved more joy and laughter in his routine, starting as soon as possible. Marinette resolved to find some way to see him—

Tikki cleared her throat and widened her bluebell eyes pointedly. "How is concentrating working out for you?"

Marinette released a frustrated groan. "Alright. Point taken."

She was further than ever from discovering the true nature of Creation or whatever secrets Tikki knew but couldn't exactly describe.

"Why are you in a rush to achieve this? Do you know that eighteen years of age is just this culture's arbitrary marker of adulthood? What is a year, even?" Tikki pointed out, now crossing her arms and legs in a sagacious levitating pose. Marinette thought she looked alarmingly similar to Wayzz at this moment. "I've had wielders unlock their adult powers at all stages of human development. You are not behind, Marinette."

"I know I'm not behind," she said quietly, sucking on her water bottle. I'm behind Chat Noir, though, but she knew better than to voice this. "You're right," she conceded amicably. "It's not like I need absolute access to my adult powers. It's useful enough just to stave off a detransformation for half an hour."

"So you'll rest now?" Tikki asked hopefully.

"Yes," Marinette said, smiling tightly. To appease her kwami, she washed up, slid into bed, and slept.

(Under the covers, she sent a message to the class group chat: guys, I have an idea.)

Chapter Text

THE CHRISTMAS PLAN HAD THREE components: the Gift, the Party, and the Guest.

Marinette was in charge of the Gift. 

She sent all her ideas to and fielded their homeroom class’ questions in a brand-new group chat sans Adrien (sad but necessary). She was the one to emphasise that their group present for Adrien should be finished and packaged by the twenty-second, and the go-to-girl for design help and gift-making advice.

From this evening, everyone had two weeks to deliver their individual contributions to Marinette to be stitch together. (Some people were more anxious than others, namely Nino and Kim, who did not consider themselves artistically gifted in the slightest. Alya herself was out of her depth but up for a challenge.)

“You realise Adrien wouldn’t care if it was a scrap of cotton with From Nino written on it, right?” Alya had pointed out, stifling a smirk on account of her boyfriend’s rather surprising distress. “It’s the gesture, babe. The gesture.”

Nino was in charge of the Party.

He was the resident DJ and location co-ordinator. It would be hard for some people to get permission to spend the night away from their families, but stealing away on Christmas Eve or Day would be even harder. Thus, Nino set the date for the twenty-third of December. Holding the party any earlier would bite into the time Marinette had to assemble the group gift, and after the holiday passed, a significant fraction class would be travelling for the winter.

They needed a private location, ideally with parents that were relaxed enough to overlook the possibly illegal breaking of Adrien’s house arrest, or at least were able to be removed from said location on the night of the party.

Nino told Alya that he figured the Couffaine twins’ houseboat was the obvious choice: once all the guests were on board, it could be sailed to any shadowy corner of the Seine they pleased. Besides, Anarka Couffaine had always been a little anarchic, vehemently opposing Adrien’s detention before a trial had been held.

(“It’s unjust, that is,” Juleka imitated her mother, “he hasn’t been proven anything but innocent. Do you think that cherub could hurt anyone with those manicured hands? Do ya?!”

“Um,” Nino and Alya said, having approached her in the cafeteria the day after, to ask about renting the boat.

“That is to say, yes,” Juleka explained, her perpetual deadpan making it extremely difficult to read her emotions. “Yes, she’ll totally go for it.”)

Now, Alya watched as Nino strode right up to Sabrina in homeroom class and planted a palm on her desk. Thank God Chloé wasn’t here yet, or he may have lost that hand. By the time she slid out of her seat and headed over, she only could hear the tail end of their exchange.

Sabrina’s eyes had boggled, affronted, behind her wide-framed glasses. “—how to keep a secret from my dad, Lahiffe!”

Miss Bustier looked up from her laptop at the front of the room.

“Babe?” Alya smiled, clamping her hand around his forearm and guiding him to his usual seat.

“Look, I know everyone said they were one hundred-percent in on,” Nino explained in a rapid, urgent tone, “the plan. but Sabrina’s father is a man of the law. Chloé, too. If they let something slip and their daddies get wind that we’re planning to break Adrien out—”

Alya interrupted with a chuckle. “Okay, honey, the girls can handle this. Besides, I wouldn’t call you marching in here and interrogating Sabrina discreet either.” Her eyes darted over to the teacher's desk and back.

Nino flushed. Cleared his throat. “Alright. Point taken.”

“What’s going on?” Marinette asked, leaning over from her seat to peer curiously at Nino.

“Nino so badly doesn’t want the plan to derail that he nearly derailed it himself,” Alya said, gesturing to Miss Bustier now shuffling papers, quite close to Sabrina and Chloé’s seats, at the front of the room.

“Hey, I miss my man,” he defended, “and I am not gonna apologise for it. Are you sure Ladybug is going to come through?” This he directed to Alya, who was in charge of the third part of the plan.

Delivering the Guest.

How would Adrien get from Le Grand to the Couffaines’ boat, escaping the police or the paparazzi? Why, Ladybug would take him in disguise. How would they ever get Ladybug to agree to help them (from the perspective of everyone but Marinette and Alya)? Why, the Ladyblog, ergo, Alya.

This was Day One of a very public Ladyblog campaign for Ladybug’s attention. Alya’s social media mission would continue for a week or so, for believability, at which point it would be announced to the Adrienless group chat that they had ‘finally’ secured transportation for their guest of honour.

Obviously, behind the scenes, Marinette already knew the route she would take from the hotel to the boarding point.

"Do you think it's better if it's not a surprise?" Marinette asked Alya. "Adrien has experienced so much upheaval already, having Ladybug show up a couple days before Christmas, wanting to whisk him to an unknown location... it might be less disorienting to have him be in on the plan."

Nino leaned over. "The Plan."

"That's what I said."

"You need to whisper."

So, in their usual four-person group call later that week, they told Adrien the plan and his goody-two-shoes tendencies leapt right out.

“I don’t know about this. It sounds like a lot of moving parts. What’s the disguise?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Alya said.

“How will you get it to me?”

“Maybe Chloé can sneak it to your suite somehow. She knows the hotel staff.”

Adrien’s brow furrowed, his lips parting on screen and his lagging voice following a half-second behind. “Except I have two police officers outside the room at all times. They will screen everything, even food trolleys and cleaning equipment. Anything that goes in and out.”

“Maybe Ladybug will see the campaign in time for your next interview and bring the disguise then. Or even the night-of. Things will work out, Adrien.”

“But, if Ladybug is busy, then what? And if I’m caught breaking my house arrest, it won’t look good for me in court—”

Goodness, he was sceptical.

“Those are good reasons to be concerned,” Alya acquiesced, slicing his rant in half before he really got on a roll. Poor boy. All his life spent under his father’s thumb and here he was, still so averse to breaking the rules. “But you have to trust us to handle them. We’re smart cookies, Adrien.”

“Trust you.”

“Trust me,” she repeated, grinning with the confidence only she and Ladybug could have: the confidence that this would happen, and nothing would implode. For Adrien, it had to. “When you put Nino’s enthusiasm, my over-analysing and Marinette’s talent together, nothing can stop us. All we need is Adrien’s yes.”

The boy was silent for a long time. Long enough for Marinette to chime in, “If Ladybug sees Alya’s call-outs, hears us out, and agrees to help, doesn’t that mean, even with all her involvement in the investigation, she thinks you deserve this?”

“Yeah,” Nino piled on, “If Ladybug herself endorses a little Yuletide festivity, who are you to say no?”

“Adrien?” Alya asked hopefully.

Adrien scratched the back of his head, his nervous tic. The lines in his brow smoothed themselves out. “Okay. Yes. Only if Ladybug agrees.”

“You should see the disguise,” Nino lied (because they hadn’t found a disguise yet), “the stilettos are to die for.”

Adrien blinked. “I changed my mind. No. Nope.”

“Nino!” Marinette seethed in the top right corner of Alya’s phone screen, upset as anything that mere banter between bros might jeopardise her perfect night.

Honestly, to Alya, it was evident that this party was for her as much as it was for Adrien. In fact, it was for all of their class, who had trudged on with their usual routines all these months with this boy-shaped void in their lives.

“He’s joking, Adrien,” Marinette reassured.

“I’m joking, man.”

“There are no heels. Please still come.”

Adrien propped a hand on his cheek, sighed mournfully, then broke out into a technicolour grin. "Alright. Yes."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Adrien was confused when Lila walked in.

He was alone in the private ward where Emelie Agreste lay in her coma, until, one snowy afternoon, he wasn’t anymore. The door clicked open, and he stiffened at the sight of his visitor.

“Lila,” Adrien stammered, surprised once more. “Hi.”

He didn't know how she, of all people, convinced highly trained law enforcement to make an exception to his house arrest conditions, but it wasn't hard to picture. With a beautiful face, melodic voice and a cunning wit, Lila Rossi could wrap most people around her finger. 

Most people.

“Adrien,” she squealed, running to throw her arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Over Lila’s shoulder, where a swathe of her auburn hair slid against his cheek, Adrien glanced back towards the thin rectangular window in the ward door, checking that they were out of sight of the police escorts.

“Thanks, Lila. Me, too,” he said, patting her shoulder until she released him. “How are you here?”

“I’m here to visit my grandmother. She’s having hip surgery. After hearing how close we are and how much we’ve missed each other, the officers outside were so kind to let me in for a short visit.”

She was eager and touchy and very, very perfumed. She scooted a chair right up to Adrien’s, her thigh nearly pressing along his. Her smile softened into pensiveness staring at Emelie. “She really is beautiful.”

“She is,” Adrien agreed quietly.

“Here,” Lila said, pulling a dense, small parcel from inside her shoulder bag.

“What is this?”

“Wig,” she whispered, “and rain jacket. Your disguise for the Christmas party. The girls have agreed that you should wear anything black or dark. It goes directly against your brand image, so it’s less likely you’ll be recognised.”

“Okay,” Adrien said gratefully, taking the package and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. Hopefully his baggy grey hoodie would hide the conspicuous lump.

The plan to get him to the class Christmas party was so convoluted. His classmates were insane for attempting something as detailed and illegal as this. Insane. Plus, he’d seen the inside job from the beginning. 

Adrien: You or Alya wouldn't have anything to do with Ladybug's participation would you ??

Nino: I don't know what ur talking about 

Nino: ;DD

These two were working behind the curtain to pull this off. All he had to do wait for was Ladybug’s answer to Alya’s callout—Rena Rouge’s callout. Nino, too, Carapace, would have to help convince Ladybug to bust out her prime witness just so he wouldn’t be lonely on Christmas. Would they call in such a favour just for him? Would Ladybug grant it? Was she that fond of his best friends?

Who was she?

Adrien guiltily zoned back into Lila when she touched his knee. He cleared his throat, shook his head. “Thank you. For the disguise.”

Lila alternated between asking him rapid-fire questions, and upon receiving any pitiable answer, launching into a long passage of sympathy. “I couldn’t imagine being where you are now. You are so strong for going through all of this. Oh, and alone. I wish I could keep you company in that hotel room—” she walked her fingers lightly down his forearm “—but I guess patience is the test of us all.”

When one of the police officers rapped their knuckles on the door to signal time’s up, Adrien sighed with relief. At Lila’s sharp look, he morphed it into a sigh of deep woe at being made to part. Too soon, too soon.

“I’ll speak to you soon, Adrien,” Lila said, rocking onto her tiptoes to place a glossy kiss on his cheek.

Out of consideration to Lila’s curated image (which he knew was important to her), Adrien waited until he and his police escorts took the elevator to the ground floor, crowded into the police fleet SUV and pulled into the mid-afternoon traffic before discreetly scrubbing the lip gloss residue from his face.

Chapter Text

LIPS COLD AS ICE, SOFT  as silk.

Ladybug shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have given into his soulful blue eyes and glassy tears, but this was her kitty, and he was hurting, and she loved him. She really, really, really loved him.

In Chat Blanc's arms she felt entirely safe, the world whirling on its axis while he kept her grounded, palms running down her back. The wind was whirling— no, rushing by— no, racing.

Ladybug cracked open her eyes to see the dark glacial water an inch from her face before she crashed through the surface, cheeks stinging and limbs whiplashed. In her bleary vision, she could no longer see him. Or the sunlight. Or the surface.

It was just dark, the numbing sensation of utter nothingness flooding into her lungs—

Marinette jerked upright in her bed, a migraine pounding at the base of her neck, which felt like it would snap if her head were any heavier. She curled up into a ball against the wall, willing herself to stay quiet, lest she wake all the kwamis. At the very least, Tikki—

—was not on her pillow.

Marinette blinked her tears away, confused. Her kwami had probably gone to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Tikki either did not know that Marinette knew about her prolific appetite and indulgent habits, or she knew and chose not to address her greatest point of shame.

Good that she hadn't noisily woken Tikki from her sleep.

Bad that, when Marinette really would have liked someone to tell her that her irrational fears were not real, that everyone she loved would always be safe, that she could just let herself be careless for once, Tikki wasn't there.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Tikki roused him with a morsel of Camembert.

Plagg was deep in slumber when she arrived at Le Grand Paris and melted through the wall of Adrien's bedroom. The Black Cat kwami's whiskers twitched and his mouth sagged open, searching, each time she brought the cheese near. But he did not wake, so it took a few waves before Plagg craned his head high enough to snap himself back to consciousness.

"Camembert," he mumbled drowsily.

"Shh," Tikki whispered, guiding him by his sense of smell into the living room, where she finally let him consume the odious chunk of dairy. "We need to talk."

"Do we? I think I need to sleep, is what I need." The kwami dropped to the couch and rolled over, laying his tail across his eyes.

"Plagg."

"Plagg."

"Plagg." Tikki sighed, placing a paw on her big, round forehead. "It's about our wielders."

Plagg miserably rolled back to face Tikki and pushed himself to lean against the oversized cushion. His grassy green eyes glowed in the dark, unimpressed but alert. "Alright. Fine. Speak."

"I don't know if Chat Noir has spoken with you about this, but mine and several other Miraculous wielders are planning a party for an upcoming human religious holiday."

"And this is relevant to me, how?"

"The celebration is entirely for your wielder," Tikki informed. "I've given Ladybug permission on this occasion, but I don't like the Miraculous being used for personal gain. I don't want this to become a habit, so if they are so determined to care for each other, which they obviously do, why can't they do it as civilians?"

"Chat Noir thinks that if Ladybug knows his identity, the conflict of interest will strip away his responsibilities." Plagg perked up then, narrowing his eyes inquisitively. "Do you think she would? Would she take me away from him?"

"I can tell there's more going on in Ladybug's heart and mind than she ever voices aloud, or even to herself. If Chat Noir revealed himself, she would act on her compassion first, instead of technicalities. She loves him, despite what she tells herself."

"What if her love tells him to stop working for the sake of his well-being? He would hate that."

"If Chat Noir asked, Ladybug would consider his wants alongside his needs."

"Hmm." Plagg crossed his arms. "Alright. If Chat Noir can keep being Chat Noir, I will consider advising him to reveal himself. But what about Ladybug? If I remember correctly, she's the one who doesn't want to show herself."

Tikki had no answer to that. Marinette had so many nightmares these days. Sometimes she would wake and remember them, other times Tikki had to watch her unconscious suffering. Those dreams she always forgot. "She's afraid. Very afraid."

"Then why are we discussing this if Ladybug herself won't agree?"

Tikki unclasped her paws and placed them on the embroidered fabric of the cushion, swallowing her pride. In all her years (and they were many) she'd never encountered a situation as twisted as this, so now she didn't know what to do. She always knew what to do.

This was an unpleasant feeling, but Tikki was the kwami of Creation. Discomfort was an opportunity for growth. Which was why she had remained flexible, open-minded, and sought help from this smelly sock of a celestial being, despite every predisposition and prior experience that told her not to.

She was nothing if not innovative.

Plagg blinked, slumping in posture until his stomach looked like a little round hill rising from the ground. He seemed to recognise Tikki's silent appeal and yawned, throwing her a bone. "What, exactly, is your wielder afraid of? Mine has very tangible concerns about his responsibilities to Paris and his father's transgressions. But Ladybug has the entire city at her back."

"She is afraid of loss." Marinette was lucky to never have lost much in her life, but Tikki supposed that was why it was so terrifying to her. Humans are most afraid of the unknown. "She'd rather bury any emotional vulnerabilities than admit she has them and have them go unsoothed. Chat Noir's absence did not help."

"Excuse me? He's carrying the burdens of ten average people right now."

And Marinette is not? 

Tikki exhaled. "He decided to unload one of these burdens on Ladybug by disappearing for two months."

Plagg bristled defensively. "I tried to get him to return to active duty."

All kwamis were under a spell, old as the first Miraculous and just as powerful. They would never be able to speak their weilder's name aloud in the earshot of others, or hint at their identity in public, or even draw a banner and voicelessly dangle it over a person's head. If they tried anything, their tongues would twist and their limbs would flop and they would find themselves, though unharmed, unable to execute any revealing actions correctly. The spell was intended as protective magic, at its origin, but now it felt like a roadblock.

"I'm not blaming you for your wielder's absence," Tikki clarified. A beat passed, and she sniffed. "I do hold you responsible for what you did when he returned."

"What?" Plagg baulked, nearly levitating off the cushion before he decided he didn't have the energy. Or care.

"Nevermind that I don't think Adrien is anywhere near mentally ready to stretch to fill his adult powers—"

"He's the most talented wielder I've ever had."

"—talent is not the same as readiness." The trial would end before the winter did; what if the verdict was even more difficult for Marinette and Adrien to stomach, without relying on each other? Stupid Plagg. "Nevermind that, because you taught him some of the most sacred powers of the Miraculous only for him to use them to lie to Ladybug. Catwalker? The Familiar?"

"You knew who the new weilders were?"

Tikki rolled her eyes. She had a keen eye for detail, something that the kwami of Destruction would understand nothing of. The quantum masking was not nearly as effective on the being who'd created quantum mechanics, and of course, Adrien's mannerisms in a new suit were still Adrien's mannerisms. "Of course I knew. You're not as slick as you think you are."

"Well, I had to distract him somehow," Plagg muttered. Briefly he flicked his tail in the direction of the curtained window, where the rest of the city slept. "You ever consider that it's not easy for me being cooped up here either, while you get to be with the rest of our family in Ladybug's home?"

"You always said you loved your independence. Decay and a plaything," Tikki rebuffed, pointing her chin toward the flatscreen TV, its associated PlayStation rigging, the ceramic trays of old charcuterie selections. "That's all you need."

"Well, everything in moderation," Plagg drawled, smirking, "right, munchkin?"

Tikki's jaw fell open. Her appetite was a perpetual sore spot—how dare he leverage that against her! "I haven't binged for two years now!"

And then, before she could hear her volume and adjust, Adrien's bedroom door opened.

Startled by the movement and acting on instinct, she shot straight down into the couch cushion with a frantic squeak. All around her there was cotton stuffing, though Adrien's voice still drifted into her ears. "Tikki?"

Oh no. Their squabbling must have woken him.

"Tikki, please come out," he was saying. Suddenly, Plagg materialised beside her in the fluff, smug and haughty. Nice going, she could practically hear him gloating.

"—has something happened to Ladybug? She would never send you here when she doesn't know my civilian identity."

Should she reveal herself? She could always sink right down to the concrete flooring, in shame, and then zip sideways back into the open air. She'd spoken to Adrien in the past. Once they even worked together to combat an akumatized civilian and her sentimonster. Furthermore, Marinette was always raving about how kind and patient and gentle he was.

Still... she came here to unravel the knotted situation that was Marinette's life, not make it more complicated.

"—please, tell me what's going on."

"He won't give up," Plagg remarked breezily, "now that you've gotten him worried. This is his Lady we're talking about. Soon, he might even ask Ladybug on that messaging platform Pegasus made to verify her safety himself. I dare presume you're here without her knowledge."

Tikki sighed and followed her fellow kwami up, sticking her head through the lining of the couch cushion.

Adrien was sitting on the other end, nervously draping a blanket over himself. Tikki levitated closer to him, comforting and calm. "Nothing's going on. I came to ask Plagg's advice about something."

"Is it something I can help with?" he asked, his plaintive green eyes impossibly wide. Puppy-like, despite the cat affiliations.

"You can help by letting Ladybug know that she would never lose you. That you're still her partner. Stay close to her no matter what happens at the end of this trial."

Adrien blinked, startled at the turn. "Of course she wouldn't. Of course I am. Of course I will."

"Really?" Tikki told him. "You're detached when you two spend time together, and you've been deceptive about your motives in the investigation. Your actions cause her distress."

"I'm sorry," the young man said, and he was genuine. "But you understand why it has to be that way, don't you? My father left me a difficult legacy to unravel."

"Yes." Then, deciding not to add more lies to the situation, "No. No, I don't understand. Why can't you tell her your identity?"

"Because Ladybug doesn't want me to do that. She never has," and upon seeing Tikki inhale, ready to argue, Adrien added, "even if one day she did, I couldn't reciprocate. My father hurt Ladybug. He hurt this city. I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to Paris, but that will only work if no-one knows who Chat Noir is. Not even Ladybug."

"Ladybug wouldn't let your civilian identity stop you from being Chat Noir. You can't really believe she would throw away five years of partnership just to appease the rules of the judiciary. If you actually opened up to her, you would be surprised by her feelings," Tikki said, sure as anything.

"Feelings," Adrien repeated, under his breath, tugging the blanket around him slightly tighter. Poor boy. He was just as afraid as Marinette, she realised, afraid that letting anyone in would turn them away. Afraid of loss, in a way different to Marinette, because he'd already known so much.

Tikki thanked Adrien and bid him a farewell. She phased through the stone wall of the hotel suite, turning when she sensed Plagg trailing after her.

"That boy is just as lost as Ladybug," she announced on the balcony, frigid night air wending through her fur, "which means you're doing just as bad a job as me."

Plagg startled at the uncharacteristic rudeness. "I never said you were doing a bad job." Then it clicked. Her projecting, her defences. His eyes softened, and he stretched out a fuzzy paw for her to hold. "You're not doing a bad job, Tikki."

Tikki wrapped her arms around Plagg and squeezed tight, his curling clockwise around her. "You're doing great," he kept saying, and Tikki felt soothed just to hear those words from a voice other than her own.

Duusu, the kwami of Emotion, was the best at comforting others. This was the thing about Plagg. Despite their vicious bickering, their competing magical philosophies, and their opposite lifestyles, he was, at the end of all the days, her oldest friend in the entire universe. It had just been them at the beginning. They could read each other's minds like no other, so it did not surprise her when he echoed the tangent her brain had taken.

"I miss Duusu, too."

Chapter Text

CHAT NOIR HAD DRAWN A line in the sand.

It had been two weeks since Ladybug kissed him, since he kissed her back; two weeks since he made the conscious choice to remain partners and friends with her, and nothing more. An older him would have rejoiced to know his past feelings were finally reciprocated, even unwittingly. But this version of him—rebuffed countlessly by his Lady, betrayed deeply by someone he loved, and torn in different directions by the fallout—could see their usual stability and camaraderie as something worth protecting in itself.

He made his way to the patrol rendezvous point with his heart in his throat, excited and nervous to see her again.

A rare clear and calm night for winter, this night was a special type of darkness, so cloudless that Chat Noir could imagine the sky bending into circles around every light source: street lamps and illuminated windows, glistening lights on the skyscrapers in the business district, not to mention the golden Eiffel Tower. The colour palette of the month was red, green and gold. Every bus-stop advertisement and billboard and storefront was dressed for the Yuletide, wreaths adorning lampposts and front doors.

She was sitting cross-legged on the ledge, strands of hair floating across her cheek on the soft wind.

When Ladybug noticed his approach, she rose to her feet. “Hi, Chat Noir. How are you?”

He shrugged lazily. “Can’t complain, my Lady. Anything new to report?”

There wasn’t—“Nope, do you?”—and he didn’t—“Nothing”—and so they departed for their patrol.

Ladybug seemed to exercise concerted effort in asking him questions, keeping the conversation flowing. A light awkwardness had settled on them—similar to how it felt running into her in the Palais office, but the longer they kept talking and joking, the easier it was to shake off the recent and get back to the old.

Their old rhythms, their old inside jokes, their old scripts.

Now, Chat Noir knew better.

Your actions cause her distress.

Last week, Adrien had awoken in the middle of the night to what he thought was a lucid dream. High-pitched quarrelling in the suite’s living room, which turned out to be between his kwami and Ladybug’s—who vanished into the couch upon being discovered, startled by his noise like a mouse.

Tikki said that his erratic behavior since returning—his avoidance, ‘handing out’ his Miraculous not once but twice, chasing leads, interrogating Gabriel, all behind Ladybug’s back—had nurtured anxieties about their partnership.

Chat Noir supposed he had also already been told, point-blank, to his face. Even the argument that lead to their kiss was about his two-month hiatus: the lonely, uncertain days that had sown Ladybug’s anxieties to begin with. He’d promised to communicate better, to stop keeping her out, to share the things that impacted their working relationship.

He’d just never known, wouldn’t even know, looking at her springing across the rooftops, that she cared that much. He’d never gleaned anything out of the ordinary under her mask. He’d been too consumed by his own troubles lately, never stopped to think someone else might be hurting simply because he was hurting—someone could sense his changes and his defenses, no matter how hard he tried to pretend everything was normal.

No, you’re not pulling this off as well as you think, was what Tikki made him realize, this is hurting the people around you.

Such closeness was a marvel. One he’d never known in his entire young adult life. One that became impossible after his mother disappeared and his father withdrew.

A shaky breath. “I think I should explai—”

Ladybug chose to speak at the same time. “The last time we—”

They both gave a breathy laugh.

Chat Noir tilted his head. “You first.”

“The last time we were on patrol,” Ladybug said, skirting neatly around mentioning their kiss, “you said you had a lot still going on behind the scenes, even after your time off. Which, you know, I understand in a vague sense. I suppose…”

Chat Noir went eerily still.

The idea of letting her in terrified him.

Every time the prospect of opening up about his innermost thoughts—his father, his mother, his grief, his guilt—came up, it was like an iron sphere pushing up his windpipe. Admitting to Ladybug what he’d been feeling these last several months worked against every single protective instinct of his. He wanted to sedate himself against pain like he used to with alcohol, bury it deep.

Now in the business district, Chat Noir slowed his pace along the thin metal parapet at the top of a skyscraper. His metal staff retracted with a slink of metal. He jumped down to the rooftop and leaned back against the railing.

“I suppose you loved me for years and now, suddenly, your feelings have changed.” Where Chat Noir rested backward, Ladybug slung her forearms over the railing and looked out to the cityscape, brow furrowed and blue eyes glittering. She sighed. “I just— why? I’m curious.”

“You know what they say about cats and curiosity,” Chat Noir said slowly, turning his head when her eyes darted sideways to him, amusement and frustration mixed in her expression.

“Secret identities, dangerous to know too much,” Ladybug said. “I get it. I wrote the book on professional boundaries. But maybe some things are too important to keep secret.”

Chat Noir steeled himself, exhaling through his nose. “I know. Actually, that was what I started saying before. I owe you an explanation, or as much of one as I can give.”

“You don’t have to,” she rushed to say.

“I think I do.” Chat Noir shut his eyes. Being vulnerable is hard. Then his shoulders sagged, and he whispered, “In September, I lost someone important to me.” Lost was ambiguous; break-ups, death, travel, incarceration, age, illness, changes of heart—all different routes out of a person’s life.

Father unmasked as supervillain?

Unlikely to be guessed, he hoped.

“I won’t specify how, but the person I loved is gone, and it— it broke my heart. Really bad. I went into a really dark place in the aftermath. I couldn’t even make it through a day without wanting to collapse, and I didn’t have it in me to be a hero. I still don’t have it in me to be with anyone.”

“Even me,” Ladybug finished, finally understanding.

“Especially you,” he admitted in a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head, wrestling with the words, scuffing one of his black combat boots against the concrete roof. “There’s this feeling in me now. A darkness, or a fear, maybe, of being blindsided, of not knowing, of playing the fool, of giving more than I get. My brain says ‘maybe I can avoid this pain if I remove some liabilities.’”

Ladybug swallowed, and before she could school her features, Chat Noir saw the strike of hurt on her face and wanted to kick himself. She said quietly, “And I’m a liability?”

“I never want to hurt you, Ladybug.” Guilt sat heavy in his stomach like an iron ball. “I don’t want you to think I just threw away our partnership. I still care about you, and you’re still one of my best friends.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“But if I love you, I could lose you—or, worse, I could lose myself. I feel like I poured myself out for this person, trying to earn their love,” he said, his voice frantic and hoarse, “and right now, I really need to preserve whatever is left.”

Ladybug nodded, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder. Then she made a plaintive sort of noise and ran her thumb across his cheek. Chat Noir didn’t even register that he’d teared up, that the tears had spilled over, until the wind blew across the stripe of wet skin that Ladybug had touched.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t let you know before I disappeared, but I couldn’t do more. I couldn’t call you or return your voicemails,” he stammered, “because you make—made me— and I just… couldn’t.”

Ladybug closed the distance between them in two steps and hugged him tight, an unromantic hug, hopefully, hands locked together around his waist, cheek squished against his heartbeat. His arm curled lightly around her shoulders.

“If you’d told me,” she mumbled, “I would have let you stay away as long as you needed. You should have taken your time.”

“Time.” Chat Noir laughed bitterly, the other arm folding itself around Ladybug’s upper back. “I could either grieve alone or grieve with some sort of distraction.”

She pulled her head up to search his face. When he looked down, a lock of his blonde hair fell into hiss eyes. “What does that mean, alone? Does no-one else know what happened to you?”

Chat Noir flinched. Shit. He was certainly alone in detainment, but essentially the whole world knew what had happened to him. Still, better if Ladybug boarded a completely different train of thought.

“Yeah,” he lied, skirting the line they were treading. One day, when everything settled down and he was free from all this scrutiny, he might be able to tell her more. “Something like that.”

Ladybug promptly stopped asking questions. “Thanks for telling me this, chaton,” she whispered, then stayed silent in his embrace.

Being honest with her, knowing their love still persisted through whatever dynamic, like water poured into vessels of different shapes, but still just as pure… it was nice.

More than nice, but he couldn’t think of one word, more like a sensation: someone blowing cool air on a stinging wound. Walking into a warm, dry house out of a storm. Finally sitting down after being on one’s feet for the whole day. Ladybug was a cold wind of grace. She didn’t heal his injuries, but she was a welcome relief.

Chat Noir cast a cursory look at the skyline, dark as an inkwell.

“Should we finish the patrol?” he asked, his pulse thrumming steadily faster from being held by her. Ladybug’s embrace tightened reflexively.

“Okay, sure,” she agreed solemnly.

But neither of them parted for a long, long time.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

What does one even do with romantic feelings for Chat Noir?

“Seriously,” Marinette ranted on the phone, “isn’t it so typical of me that I spend years sabotaging myself with Adrien and then the moment Chat Noir becomes emotionally unavailable, I develop feelings for him, too? Am I just attracted to people I can never have?”

“No,” Alya’s voice rustled on the other end of the line, “but you probably tell yourself you can never have them as a way to avoid putting yourself out there.”

Marinette glossed over the jarringly accurate assessment and continued, “You should have heard him. I’ve never seen Chat Noir so sad.” It was Sunday evening, and Marinette was dreading school the next morning. Alya was, as always, providing a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. “He seems lonely, and I’m pretty sure when he was gone, he was out of Paris—out of the country, maybe. When he came back, he was so willing stretch his legs, to see the city again and he said he missed having André Glacier’s ice cream.”

“Are you trying to uncover his identity?”

Marinette stopped short, head on her pillows, staring at the moonlit clouds beyond her skylight. “What? No.” A beat of silence. “Well, would it be so terrible?”

Alya chuckled warmly. “Of course it wouldn’t be terrible, if it was a decision you two made together. If he’s in as vulnerable a place as you said, anonymity can be a way to leave some of his civilian stress behind. Believe me—being Rena makes me feel a lot more competent and in control of my life.”

Well, Marinette wouldn’t rob Chat Noir of his distractions and his escapes. She also didn’t truly want to intrude into his life, and she couldn’t even being to predict how their dynamic would change if she knew his civilian identity, or vice versa, or if they both knew—was an unmasking what she really wanted, or did she want to be free from feeling helpless all the time?

“I just can’t help wondering about Chat Noir,” she admitted. “I want him to be okay again.”

She remembered their most recent patrol with painful clarity.

The way she’d been rehearsing casual talking points before his arrival, her forced ease in his proximity, the awareness she was such a phony pretending everything was back to normal when she’d been the one to pull their mouths together, to entwine their limbs so close that their feet shared the same spot to stand on.

She’d wondered if Chat Noir could see her shameless pretense for normality hanging in the fucking air like the moon. Was she totally transparent now that they’d kissed, now that he knew there was a part of her that wanted him, too?

And if she was transparent, what did he see in her?

Did he still love her, and in what way? Was his (completely valid) step away from romance enforced in principle and in practice? Had he ever kissed anyone else? Was there someone else? Did he like kissing Ladybug? Would he let her do it again?

Such trivial concerns, but they were hers.

Then—when they were hugging in silence on the top of a skyscraper, trailing her eyes over his carefully blank face, the goddamn mask, his peridot eyes twinkling in the city lights—a terrible truth rocketed into her: he didn’t call her bugaboo anymore. Marinette couldn’t even remember the last time Chat Noir had used the nickname, even though she really hated it. Or she had, once.

Bugaboo was part of his mischief, his lightheartedness, him. Chat Noir knew when to push her, when to force her to take a break, and when she just needed to snap out of her overthinking habits. He’d been a lifeline in so many different ways; he deserved that sort of support in return.

Ladybug was furious—unsure at whom—that he’d gone so long without it.

I poured myself out for this person, and right now, I need to preserve whatever is left.

It sounded like he’d had a bad break-up and left the city. She wanted her playful, carefree, unburdened, bugaboo-calling Chat Noir back. She missed him so much.

“There’s nothing you can do to make Chat Noir be okay,” Alya reminded gently. But wasn’t that so unfair, so cruel? How could life just hurt people so casually and go on unhindered? “You just need to be there for him.”

Marinette knew that. Whatever version of Chat Noir was before her, she would gladly support, in whatever way, for however long he wanted. If she had to pick one, his love or his happiness, she knew which one was worth more to her. What Chat Noir and she had, the rest of the world didn’t understand. (Perhaps neither of them truly understood it either.)

Paris saw their closeness and thought it must be romance, but it went deeper than that. Romance was too frivolous a word to describe it. How could it be just romance when Ladybug would rather drips of his company for the rest of her life than a flood of it that ruined them both?

She put the back of her hand over her eyes and quickly requested, “Alya, distract me before I cry or something.”

“Adrien’s Christmas party,” Alya segued without missing a beat. “The happiest event of the year.” Marinette nodded, already feeling her pulse slow down in her chest. Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. “Nino’s received confirmation from the Couffaine twins about where the boarding point will be.”

“Did he put it into the group chat?”

Marinette attempted to discreetly blow her nose and utterly failed, but Alya didn’t mention it, barreling on: “Yep, and everyone knows to be there before we raise anchor. The Ladyblog callout has got enough attention, I think. People have been tagging you every day.”

“Great, then it makes sense Ladybug will have seen it by now,” Marinette said, “and offered her help to her number one fan. A gesture of festive goodwill.”

All she had to do was think of Adrien, his resilience and warmth in the face of adversity, and her heart settled.

Breaking Adrien’s confinement for a Christmas party was probably a huge risk—no, it was a huge risk—but she considered the gamble worth it. Audits, interviews, Heloise, student council, tax returns, Shanghai. What was the investigation for, if not people being able to celebrate with their loved ones in safety and in a warm home?

Why would Adrien put himself through this trial if not for the people of Paris, his unshakeable sense of right and wrong? If she had to break him out of the hotel to give him something in return for his months of sacrifice, it was worth it.

“—so can you drop Adrien’s costume to him at the next interview you guys have?”

“Should be a breeze,” Marinette answered, “and his gift is coming along great. I love how everyone’s personality shines through in each individual part.”

The length of fabric sat at her sewing desk, a dark crumpled heap in the shadows of her bedroom. This upcoming week at school, Marinette would collect the rest of the homeroom class’ contributions and stitch them to the main work.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it,” Alya squealed. “You’re such a talent.”

“And you truly are my rock. Thanks, Alya.”

“You’re welcome, girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

LADYBUG TUCKED HER LAPTOP INTO a plain burgundy messenger bag and picked up her yo-yo from the coffee table, absently giving it a whirl.

“What are you doing on the twenty-third of December?” Ladybug asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“Apparently being busted out for a party,” Adrien quipped, returning her smile. The Christmas party would be held at the Couffaine twins’ houseboat, which meant the night would inevitably end with a concert, planned or not. The family was too musical for their celebrations to go any other way.

It seemed Rena Rouge and Carapace had been successful in gaining Ladybug’s help. Adrien wanted to ask Ladybug about her relationship to these two teammates in particular—where did you meet Alya and Nino? How did you choose them to be holders? Have I met you before?—but that was too large a conversational pivot to make just as they were wrapping up.

Too large a pivot to make at any time. Plus, why was he trying to dig into her other relationships in the first place? He’d drawn the line in the sand. Friends, partners, nothing more.

From the messenger bag, Ladybug withdrew a dark tangle of hair and a vacuum-packed black parcel. “Good, you’ve been briefed. This handsome attire is what you’ll be wearing in transit,” she gave a mournful chuckle at the wig, “I mean, it’s less fashionable than what you’re used to, I imagine, but—”

“I already have my disguise.” It was sitting in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, opened once and meticulously repacked.

“Oh.” Ladybug’s eyes slid to his. “Really?”

“One of my classmates delivered it to me.”

“Who?”

“Lila Rossi. I think my whole homeroom class is in on the plan to break me out.”

“Heh,” she chuckled weakly. “That’s what I heard. Whe— where did Lila meet you? I thought you weren’t supposed to receive visitors here.”

“Oh, she didn’t do anything illegal. We briefly met in passing at the hospital where my mother is, that’s all.”

Ladybug’s shoulders relaxed, slightly. “Right. Well, I’m glad you have so many supportive friends around you.”

Adrien, hesitating, took her hand and Ladybug’s mouth snapped shut. “I don’t think I’ve told you that I appreciate what you’re doing. I’m not the only one carrying the burdens of this investigation,” he added quietly, giving Ladybug’s hand a soft squeeze and stepping back. “Thank you.”

He was remembering their last patrol on Friday, the warmth and softness of her body, the utter tranquility and acceptance he’d felt in her arms. Ladybug’s face had gone slack, a blush creeping out from underneath her mask. “W-wow. That’s really nice to hear, Adrien. But, well, it’s not just me. My teammates, my partner, Chat Noir, we’re all here for you.”

“I know. Your work is really saving me.”

Come December twenty-third, five minutes before seven o’clock, Adrien was already waiting on the balcony of his hotel suite.

The wig was a synthetic monstrosity of black plastic fibres, though it didn’t matter much when he donned the full-length black rain jacket and tightened its hood over his head. He looked like a tacky Halloween costume, but nothing could dull his spirits. It’d been so long since he’d seen his friends in person. He was trembling with excitement.

When Ladybug appeared in the distance, slinging herself from building to building, Adrien thought she would land on the balcony before they set off. But she grew closer and clearer, still speeding like a bullet. Blustering past the railing, she fastened one arm around his ribs, strong as cement, and plucked him right into the air with her.

When Adrien’s surprised yell faded, he could make out her laughter over the rush of the wind. “Sorry! I thought you were ready!”

“I was ready! I just wasn’t expecting such a rapid turnover,” he defended himself.

“Hold tight, okay?” Ladybug said, as if his arms weren’t already locked tightly around her shoulders.

The view was so familiar—after all, he’d seen this carpet of blinking lights and faded buildings from the sky hundreds of times—but the cold wasn’t. Without his Miraculous quantum suit, he was freezing. The rain jacket helped marginally to keep out the icy breeze, but his face was stung red and his nose drippy by the time Ladybug reached the shadowy port.

The tension in the string of her yo-yo increased, and they lowered to the ground with tremendous care.

“You should stay,” Adrien found himself saying, arms still around her. “My friends would love for you to join.”

“I can’t,” she said without blinking. Would it be so unappealing when she already worked with Alya and Nino? Or was that why she wouldn’t cross the line? “I have my own celebrations to attend.”

“Right. Of course,” Adrien blushed. “Sorry, I should have guessed.”

“Adrien!” a deep voice blared, like a foghorn across the still water.

Jesus fucking Christ, was this not supposed to be a covert breakout?

Kim leaned far over Liberty’s railing and waved enthusiastically. “Get your pale ass on this boat!”

Ladybug burst into laughter, the sound like wind chimes, birdsong, a swelling tide. “Well, you heard the man.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll see you after the holidays,” Adrien chuckled, reaching to scratch the nape of his neck before he remembered it was obscured under polyester and what felt like a mile of synthetic hair.

“Joyeux Noël, Adrien,” Ladybug said.

Adrien touched his fingertips to her forearm, leaning in.

Ladybug’s eyes went wide before her awareness caught up to her, and she reciprocated la bise with a split second delay. She kissed one cheek, and then the other, and smiled breathlessly at Adrien when he stepped back.

“Joyeux Noël, Ladybug.”

“—do I have to swim over there and get you?” Now a crowd of Adrien’s friends had gathered around Kim, all beckoning and whisper-shouting their well wishes to Adrien.

“Adrien! You look good!”

“We missed you!”

Adrien cupped his hands around his mouth. “I’m coming, everyone.”

Smiling again, Ladybug secured her yo-yo around the beam of a nearby underpass, and was gone.

Adrien raced onto the boarding ramp and practically dove into the sea of hugs and kisses. Nino and Alya were in the centre of the crowd, wrapping him into their joint embrace. “Welcome back, Adrien!”

Nino wore a rich hunter green sweater, a brown blazer on top, an elegant golden chain around his neck. Alya had a two-piece jumpsuit in dark ochre, accentuating her natural tan and fiery hair.

Next were all the girls, dressed in their party finery. “We’ve missed you so much!”

“Merry Christmas!”

The boys: “It’s so good to see you!”

“Adrikins! Give me a squeeze!”

“Joyeux Noël!”

Kim wore suspenders and a smart-looking bowtie. Cheeks flushed like a tomato, he placed both hands—warm and meaty—on Adrien’s cheeks and stared deep into his eyes. “Adrien, man, I want you to know that our love for you runs deep and unstoppable as an underground river.”

Adrien laughed, putting his left hand over Kim’s. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Extremely.”

“Wait,” Adrien paused, overjoyed but alert to someone’s absence. “Where’s Marinette?”

Ivan, using his height, peered over everyone’s heads around the deck. “I can’t spot her. But she’s here, setting out the pastries.” Everyone had brought a plate to share tonight; Adrien felt bad he couldn’t contribute.

“I think she’s still inside,” Alya interjected casually, pointing to the hub of the houseboat. “Shall we all go in? It’s cold as balls out here.”

The students funnelled inside and downstairs, to the living room of the Liberty. Lila wove through the bodies and looped an arm around Adrien’s. Not too soon after, Chloé did the same. “Look at the decorations, Adrikins—don’t they just transform the space?”

Satin streamers in jewel tones—gold, ruby, sapphire, emerald—wound around the upper walls, pinned in place by bunches of golden balloons. Fairy lights encircled the ceiling, and at Max’s press of a remote, and Adrien realised they were fairy lights but strobe lighting (previously set to a warm yellow glow, now blinkering through the shades of neon.) At the far wall, a table offered finger food, snacks and desserts a plenty, while a cooler bin full of cheap bottles of wine and cans of ale sat on the floor adjacent.

Where was Marinette?

“—I chose the theme,” Lila said proudly, gift-wrapped in silver sequins.

“Wow,” Adrien said. “Everything looks fantastic.”

Chloé harrumphed, wearing a golden cocktail dress that hugged her to the knees. “Well, I actually picked out the individual decorations.”

“Yeah?” Lila smiled sweetly. “And Sabrina bought them, so—”

The door to the top deck opened and Marinette barrelled in, brushing her fringe back with a bashful smile.

She wore a thick winter coat, under which a pale pink dress peeked out. Some type of metallic thread had been woven so finely through the fabric, which itself was layered in artful slivers and drapes, so that when she moved, the whole rainbow rippled up her body. She held a tray of profiteroles and wore an apologetic smile, eyes teary with wind but glittering bright.

Had she been on the deck this whole time?

“Marinette!” Alya cheered. “With dessert! Woo!” (Alya had been drinking, too, a glass of wine clutched elegantly but extremely loosely between her fingers.)

“Sorry, everyone! I was looking for a bin to put all the packaging in,” Marinette explained.

Adrien smoothly slid his arms from the grasps of the ladies beside him. Marinette, stabilising the tray beneath a cake stand and beside the cheese board, yelped when she turned around and saw him so near.

Then she squealed and threw her arms around him, saying, “Oh, my God, I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Adrien grinned, locking his hands around her waist.

“Are you taller or have I just been deprived of seeing you in person?” Marinette blurted. “Wait, that was a weird question. Do not answer.”

“Alright,” Adrien snorted, unable to stop smiling. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Whaaat?” Marinette laughed nervously, fidgeting with the dainty silver rings on her finger. “N— no, I didn’t do this. It was a total team effort.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “The team is competing with each other about who contributed what, when, where to the party and-or halfway to being hammered. So thank you for wrangling that, at least.”

Adrien took a profiterole and popped it into his mouth. The Dupain-Chengs’ baking was as sublime as ever.

Nino suddenly draped himself over Adrien’s shoulders, smelling of sweet ale and cologne. “Speaking of halfway to being hammered—are you joining me?” Nino wafted a beer bottle underneath Adrien’s nose.

“I better not risk it,” Adrien declined. His relationship with alcohol was rocky, and he also didn’t want to be sneaking back into the hotel wasted. “By all means, drink enough for the both of us.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Marinette warned, too late, because Nino had formed a vortex in the bottle and was sucking the contents out.

“The only two people allowed to stay sober are you and Captain Luka.” From a pocket in her coat, Marinette withdrew a handheld radio and spoke into it. “Ready to depart!”

Luka’s voice chimed in with a crackle. Marinette held the radio high above her head, just in time: “Alright, everyone, we’re setting sail! If you can’t handle your alcohol and-or nautical travel, please direct your complaints far off the top deck railing!”

The Liberty’s engine roared to life. The room erupted into laughter and cheers as the lights of the riverbank started drifting by. This was truly Marinette’s element. She could create moments of pure beauty from the darkest of situations, shining like a star.

“Hold up,” Adrien said, his lips curving into the closest he’d ever been to a smirk. “If Luka and I are the only two sober, does that mean—”

Marinette inverted the left panel of her coat, flashing Adrien a glimpse of the bottle of wine nestled in her interior pocket.

She giggled. “Trust me—” The boat lurched, sending her stumbling on her feet. Adrien tried to steady her with a jocular warning look. “Don’t look at me like that! That was the boat. I’m not drunk.”

“But you will be.”

“Damn right I will.” She winked, took his hand, and walked straight into the crowd to dance with Alya.

For the first Christmas in years, Adrien felt like everything was right with the world.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

After midnight, it was officially Christmas Eve, and everyone—emerging from the bottom of their bottles, now pleasantly buzzed—swept Adrien onto one of the couches to be presented with his gift.

The entire homeroom class clustered around him, plus Luka. Once Liberty had travelled far enough away from the heart of the city to avoid being spied on, Luka had dropped anchor and joined the festivities. There had indeed been a concert, and Adrien had even consumed a few glasses of wine and two bottles of beer. These drinks were nothing like vodka, or the total time-wipe that he’d seen seeking in its burning aftertaste. Adrien stayed aware and in control; he was simply buoyed by this energy in his limbs and this sense of what can go wrong? He danced, he sang, he played the keyboard.

Now, numerous hands stretched taut a quilted blanket for him. It comprised a couple dozen square tiles, four by six, all decorated in a different manner, stitched together into one larger rectangular garment. He blinked rapidly, emotion welling up in his throat.

Nino had wrapped himself around Adrien before he could even part his lips to thank anyone. “We made you something, bro.” Adrien clasped his hand around Nino’s wrist, holding his best friend tightly. “Considering that fancy hotel is probably lacking domestic touches—”

Chloé bristled. “Le Grand Paris lacks nothing, excuse you—”

“ —it’ll remind you of us. It was all Marinette’s idea! She stitched everyone’s tiles together.”

The black-haired girl jumped, hands immediately waving dismissively. “Oh, no, really, the team took a lot of effort—” She paused to hiccup, her cheeks flushed rose. “I mean, it was a team effort. Everyone participated.”

Marinette, who always made the most thoughtful gifts, who’d messaged him something short and sweet and uplifting every week for the last four months. Marinette, and Nino, and Alya, and even Chloé, who’d participated in her own way.

His eyes roamed over the blanket, which was exactly the personalised and quirky piece of bedding that would have been ridiculed in his childhood home. Behind the blanket, his classmates all helped to spread it horizontally, so that each tile was proudly displayed.

All their smiling faces, not an inch of resentment or suspicion. In his gut some dark ball of fear untangled itself and vanished, replaced by a soothing warmth. They didn’t doubt him, fear him. They’d waited for his return. Celebrated it, even.

“Thank you, everyone. This is perfect.” Adrien inched closer to the blanket and reached out. The first tile he touched was crocheted from pink wool.

“Rose made that,” Nino announced, crouching down so that their faces were inches from the wool. “Smell it. She scented the whole thing with perfume. It’s so good.”

“It’s rosehip and lavender,” Rose Lavillant explained, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Short of sunshine and rainbows, it’ll bring you peace and comfort.”

“This one is Ivan and Mylene’s joint effort.” Nino pointed to a white tile with words stitched into it. “Ivan wrote the poem and Mylene embroidered it.” Adrien vowed to read and digest the tribute later.

Nino pointed to the upper left corner. Nathaniel Kurtzberg had painted his fabric square, displaying a familiar scene that Adrien had stored in his photos folder: their class picture taken in the Places Des Vosges. Juleka Couffaine had used iron-on transfer paper to reproduce the logo of Kitty Section. Le Chein Kim had—

“No!” Adrien baulked, eyes widening at the familiar athletic brand stamped across his red square of fabric. “Your favourite shirt?”

He’d cut it up.

“It’s lucky, man, I swear,” Kim boasted. “You’re gonna need it for the trial.”

Several feminine voices scolded him. “Kim!”

“What?” The athlete’s expression was innocently confused. “I thought we don’t treat anyone differently just ‘cause their life sucks. Which, I’m sorry, Adrien, yours totally does.”

Adrien laughed through his teeth, his throat clenching with relief and gratitude. Seeing his amusement, the girls relaxed and unfixed their glares from Kim.

“I hunted down the most elusive textile maker in Paris. All handwoven silk, look, Adrikins.” Chloe pointed to her tile, an unadorned square of pristine white silk that shone with gold thread.

Not to be outdone, Lila pointed to a similar white tile with gold thread and a red lipstick print. “Well, this fabric is organic taffeta—it’s been out of production for years. My mother had a bolt leftover from before I was born, when she was stationed in Achu. It’s priceless nowadays.”

“Wow,” Adrien widened his eyes at the taffeta, which was… honestly, indistinguishable from Chloe’s fabric. Lila had a sense of grandeur that needed to be stroked, so he humoured her even if he didn’t believe a word. “This is so amazing, Lila.”

Nino, lacking crafty talent but making up for it with enthusiasm, had hijacked some of Juleka’s transfer paper and printed a QR code onto his square of cotton. (Later, when Adrien scanned it, it would take him to a curated playlist called happy tunes for sad boi hours.)

Adrien perused all the tiles, his eyes stinging with tears, until his eyes landed on a sight that made his heartbeat stop dead. Slivers of fabric had been sewn together into an image: a red heart on a black background. In different shades, the mosaic effect was like looking at a heart cut from a ruby, with pink and white and red fabric scraps casting the illusion of the facets of a gemstone.

“Is this yours, Marinette?” Adrien whispered.

“Yeah,” Marinette murmured, shifting her weight between her toes. “The stitching needs some work around the smaller fragments, but—”

“What do you mean? I love it!” Adrien grinned, every inch of him flooding with some warm type of gratitude. It felt good to have people care about him—not because they wanted a photograph or autograph from him, but because they wanted him to be happy.

Alya and Alix Kubdel expertly folded the blanket together, arms reaching end over end, and deposited the bundle of pure love in Adrien’s arms.

“Thank you so much,” he said for the umpteenth time.

Adrien ambled about and spoke with everyone, trying to press their faces and laughs into his memory, to tide him over until the next time they could all meet in person.

The night grew darker and colder. More dancing with Marinette. “One more drink,” with Alya, “come on, just one more. I know you can handle liquor better than me.” Letting Chloé embarrass him with pictures and stories from their childhood (to everyone else, Chloé looked like she had a crush, but Adrien knew she was just possessive about him).

Rubbing soothing circles on Kim’s back when he projectile-vomited off the side of the boat.

Climbing onto Liberty’s uppermost patio and talking with Nino about all their plans together after graduation, each wrapping a corner of the latter’s new quilt around their shoulders, leaning against the wall of the captain’s cabin to shelter from the wind. They talked about university applications and majors and Nino’s intention to join a campus radio network and gig as a DJ for income.

Adrien held off making such grand plans—who knew what his life would look like nest year, when so much remained uncertain now?—and Nino, sensing it, didn’t press him.

The engine revved. The Liberty started its journey back to the port.

“Thanks for sticking by me, man,” Adrien said. As Nino, as Carapace, you have done so much for me. “I can’t wait until everything goes back to normal.”

Nino manoeuvred his hand out of the blanket to clap it down on Adrien’s shoulder. “No sappy. Only happy. I’m going inside to drink more. Are you coming with me?”

Adrien chuckled, nodding. “I’ll be in soon. I want to take in the view a bit more.”

“Don’t freeze out here.”

Nino climbed down from the top deck and slipped through the door on the main deck. Adjusting his wig and disguise, Adrien stood at the railing. The golden streetlights, black water, rippling slivers of light, illuminated bridges across the Seine.

With the quilt, his surprisingly insulating rain jacket, Adrien couldn’t even feel the cold. The boat rocked lightly on its smooth path back to the boarding point. He almost didn’t notice the flash of colour to his side.

At eye height hovered a feather, about as long as his pinky finger and brilliant cobalt blue. An amok. A token from the kwami of Emotion, which could manifest sentient creatures from a person’s strongest feelings.

“Plagg,” Adrien murmured, shrugging the blanket against the wall and back slowly away. “Plagg. Come out.”

Plagg nudged his head out of Adrien’s clothing, magically traversing solid fabric, and said a very bad word. “So Duusu has a wielder. We have to tell Tikki.”

Duusu had a holder. Why hadn’t the holder reported the lost Miraculous to the investigation team? Why had they not reported it to Ladybug herself?

Adrien suspected on this dishonesty alone that the wielder’s intentions weren’t honourable.

Plagg was zipping towards river bank, nearly out of reach, when Adrien deftly caught his fuzzy tail between his forefinger and thumb. “I will tell Ladybug after the holidays are over.”

“But Duusu—”

“She’s done so much for me, Plagg.” Following countless rules to bring the city justice, breaking countless more to bring Adrien some joy. I have my own celebrations to attend, she’d said. “I want her to be able to enjoy her holidays, too.”

Adrien watched the amok drift closer to the wooden planks, and debated finding a bottle or mug to trap it like an insect. But would that amokize the object, did they count as his objects? He really needed to brush up on his Miraculous lore.

“And right now, we don’t know anything about the new wielder or what their motives are. It could be someone we know—” Despite his father’s and Nathalie’s convincing testimonies, Adrien would be foolish to believe they weren’t just lying through their teeth when they said they’d lost the Peacock Miraculous. “—or it would be a complete stranger. If we tell Ladybug, it’ll be another useless weight on her shoulders,” Adrien said, cautiously taking step closer.

There had to be a better strategy this time around. It was his job to find the Peacock Miraculous; that was the role Ladybug assigned Chat Noir when he returned from hiatus.

He raised his foot and, quick as lightning, trapped the feather between his shoe and the deck. Plagg drifted down, tail whipping, nose sniffing cautiously.

Adrien felt a prickle of unease. He waited for a shoe-shaped sentimonster to burst into existence, a telepathic voice to enter his mind. From what he recalled, sentimonsters needed powerful emotion and the consent of the host to manifest. Today, he was cheerful and far from agreeing to be amokised. Calm down. Think logically.

What was going on?

Was someone targeting him, or was this truly a coincidence?

“Nothing’s happening,” Plagg whispered, flying up to Adrien’s breast pocket and nestling back in. His small body was a comforting weight against Adrien’s frantic pulse, the cold that he suddenly could feel now.

Adrien stepped off the feather.

The feather had turned white.

Whatever magic it had possessed, the feather was now so limp that the gusts from the boat’s movement nearly swept it sideways into the air, before Plagg pounced and took great pleasure in tearing it to shreds.

Chapter Text

ON CHRISTMAS DAY, ADRIEN CALLED the landline number of the Graham de Vanily house.

He had to assume that they were spending their vacances de Noël in London, because when he texted Felix to ask about travel plans, he'd received no answer.

Amelie seemed to be feeling warmer towards Adrien the closer they moved to trial. Adrien realised—even as Amelie's nephew, the spitting image of her own son—that it had been difficult for her ever since his father was taken into custody, and his mother had been discovered beneath the mansion. Maybe, whatever he looked like, his aunt could only see the man that had devastated her family when she saw Adrien.

So their exchange was civil, awkward, but there seemed to be hope for the future. Meanwhile, Felix was blunt as ever, no awkwardness, but also no civility—his odd, clipped accent that was an amalgam of London and New York, and flowery language aside. He seemed to judge Adrien harshly for being 'so oblivious' to who his father was and for being so acquiescent to the criminal justice system.

"You're still in the hotel? So you've just let them coddle you back into a plush bedroom, ready to go where they want you to go and say what they want you to say?" Felix questioned archly on the other end of the line. His cousin had no sympathy for Adrien's situation, he never had.

Adrien recalled his arrest and subsequent detainment back in September. He was a suspect at the very beginning of the investigation, with a suspicious lack of alibis during several akumatizations. But his honesty and cooperation was unerring. Ladybug, Carapace and Rena unearthed more granular evidence to absolve him. He'd given answers to all the questions the judiciary could think of.

Thus Le Grand Paris had transformed from the site of his home detention into the site of a unique type of witness protection, for the son of an internationally-despised supervillain, ripe for acts of revenge, with no next-of-kin in the country to take him in, a fanbase willing to start violent protests in his honour, and a city that had for years been hungry, to the point of gluttony, for his face.

He didn't see it the way Felix did. In the hotel, Adrien had protection and privacy. Here he was safe from the ravenous paparazzi, overbearing fans, and random acts of retribution against his father. Someone else did the cooking, cleaning and shopping. Escorts took him to legal meetings and counseling appointments and hospital visits. Ladybug often visited; she'd bring pastries and he'd make two cups of coffees for their interviews.

"Cooperating is the right thing to do," Adrien said quietly. "The whole city wants this nightmare to be over, and I'm doing my part to help the trial progress as quickly as possible."

"Might as well have never left the mansion if you need to live under someone's thumb. First Gabriel, now Ladybug. You just like being someone's pet."

Adrien gritted his teeth. "Merry Christmas, Felix. I hope you're looking after Aunt Amelie."

"Will do, dear cousin."

After seeing an amok at the Christmas party, Adrien had made a promise to himself. He was going to find the Peacock Miraculous. It was his father, his family at the crux of the investigation and impending trial, and as Chat Noir it was his responsibility to right those wrongs.

He'd made a research hub out of the living room writing desk and the corner it sat in. His laptop occupied one half of the desk, documents scattered beside it. Adrien had located a roll of tape in the suite's stationery set and kept joining ends of tape together, making adhesive squares with which to tack pages of interest to the wall.

In the Palais office archives—which he'd raided yesterday (Christmas Eve, just before offices closed)—were boxes and boxes of witness testimonies and interview transcriptions. Most of Hawk Moth and Mayura's victims had been akumatisation—as opposed to amokisation—victims, which made researching more difficult. There were printouts of the Ladybog, reels of CCTV footage, and the digital scan of the Miraculous grimoire Ladybug had sent him (and only him), all available in different tiers of access on the remote drive.

The Peacock Miraculous manifests a corporeal, sentient being from a host's sheer Emotion alone, with the host's consent.

As long as the host didn't consent, no sentimonster would form despite the strength and shade of their emotion. A sentimonster would only obey whomever possessed its amok, contained in an item of the Miraculous wielder's choice.

Between Peacock Miraculous wielder and host is a telepathic link, identical to that of the Butterfly Miraculous.

Adrien's other line of questioning was the physical timeline of the Peacock Miraculous' (second) disappearance. He imagined the magical item traveling through the world, this city, leaving a cobalt blue trail of ether—a trail he wanted to follow until its end.

The Miraculous first disappeared in Tibet around two hundred years ago, and was discovered by his parents. According to Gabriel's statement, Emelie wielded the broken talisman to help other people until her health gave out. Then out of strange mixture of love and obligation, Nathalie became the primary wielder until Gabriel was unmasked as the city's greatest supervillain.

Adrien scooted his chair in closer, his laptop open on the folder of police reports submitted to the investigation database. He clicked on a nested file titled CULPRIT: Nathalie Sancoeur A.K.A. 'Mayura' and started to read, to remember.

The day of his eighteenth birthday—which felt so long ago, though it had only been a handful of months—Nathalie disappeared, (arguably smartly) going into hiding and planning to flee the country. With Gabriel in prison and Adrien in the city's custody, she was intelligent enough to know nothing remained for her in France.

When authorities found Nathalie a week later, tipped off by a middleman forging her travel documents, the Peacock Miraculous was not with her. Two months later, when he returned to active duty, Chat Noir's manipulation of CCTV-tracking software had located what had evaded the police: Nathalie's hideout. His, Ryuko, and Ladybug's search of that apartment had not unearthed Duusu either.

So where was the Peacock Miraculous? When had it fallen from Nathalie's clutches—if it indeed had? Who held it now?

One hour later, Adrien's Mira-Message alerted him to an incoming call from Ladybug. Head as full of criminal reports and Miraculous lore as it was, Adrien immediately braced for news of a sentimonster attacking Paris and barked, "What's happened? Is there an emergency?"

"Wow," Ladybug laughed. She sounded safe, cheerful, and Adrien relaxed a little at the sound, exhaling slowly. "I can't even call to wish you happy non-denominational holidays with you assuming a cat-astrophe?"

"Oh," he chuckled, rubbing furiously at his bleary eyes. "Wait. Ladybug making puns? There's the catastrophe."

Adrien could almost hear the rolling of her eyes as she softly said, "Merry Christmas, Chat Noir. I hope you're enjoying the holiday."

A half-smile ran across his face. "Merry Christmas, my Lady. Will I see you at patrol this Friday?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss it."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The holidays could be very unhappy for some.

A confronting truth, the Friday following Christmas, and then the Friday following New Year's Day. On their patrols, Ladybug and Chat Noir faced less petty crime and lost belongings and more homeless people, people without families, people on ledges, or wandering the streets and trying not to freeze. They spent hours talking with solitary souls, buying them clothes and warm meals, trying to get them to a shelter that could provide them with more sustainable, structural support.

To Chat Noir the most heart-breaking thing was seeing that some people didn't want to get help; or if they did, they didn't trust the system to provide it to them. It was sobering work, worthwhile work, and afterwards they trudged to the nearest twenty-four-hour fast food restaurant in which to buy hot chocolate and decompress.

The pimpled teenager manning the register nearly fainted when the two heroes walked in past midnight. Inside, the air was warm like a fireplace on his wind-numbed cheeks. Chat Noir held up two fingers for a selfie, and out of adoration the teenager waived the costs of their order. Ladybug took the two hot chocolates and two cardboard packages of hot apple pie to a booth in the back.

The place was deserted, lit fluorescently in a shade too blue to feel homely, and Chat Noir swept the white paper sleeve of a straw from the surface of the table. The drink burned the roof of his mouth, so he popped off the dark plastic lid and let the steam waft out of the paper cup.

Ladybug started talking about the upcoming pretrial, the tentative dates set by Heloise once the paperwork ticked over when offices reopened. "You don't have to come if you don't have the time or energy," she reassured casually. "The pretrial is always full of paperwork and boring legal technicalities."

(She looked at him as if expecting an answer.)

He cleared his throat. "I don't think wig powder and stiff wooden benches agree with me."

The proceedings for the Agreste trial were lengthier behind the curtain than in front.

In the pretrial hearings, the charges would be laid by the prosecution, and the pleadings of the defendants would be read. In the written hearings, the evidence dossier would be presented to the judges and if the case was deemed ripe for trying, a court date would be set. These preliminary stages took place in closed court, and witnesses were seldom called to testify, meaning Adrien didn't need to be there.

So, technically, Chat Noir could attend the pretrial, and Adrien could attend the actual trial, but it seemed too risky to commit to his hero responsibilities. "I don't know if I can make it."

"That's fine. You have stuff going on." Ladybug took a dainty sip from her cup, their eyes meeting over the rim in a shared meaningful look. He knew she was thinking of his civilian crisis.

"Not that," Chat Noir wanted to say, though it was very much that. "Only because I'm going to intensify the search for the Peacock Miraculous after the holiday."

"Why now?"

"It's a loose end in the investigation. It's part of their crimes—how can the case close unless we find it again?"

"From the legal perspective, the theft of the Peacock Miraculous is already factored in as a charge against the defendants. The judgment for that crime would be the same whether the Miraculous was returned to us or not," Ladybug reasoned. "The court judges people, not objects."

"And if it's someone else holding it?" Chat Noir proposed, his voice on edge. The most frustrating thing about the search was how few leads he had. "A new person to judge?"

"If it's a new person, then that would be a completely separate trial, unrelated to this one." Ladybug placed her cup down on the table and leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Where are you going with this?"

Should I tell her? Give her another burden of mine to carry?

After wrestling with himself, Chat Noir sighed. She asked me to be open with her.

"I saw an amok earlier this week."

For a moment, Ladybug's words spiked in anxiety and in volume, "What?" before she reigned herself in and caged her temples with one hand. "What happened?"

"It was harmless—I saw it revoked before my very eyes, and no-one was amokized," he explained. Or, at least, no-one reported amokization.

"But the fact that someone is using the Miraculous—"

"—without turning it in or notifying any authorities, is a really bad sign, I know. I know that."

She must have understood his worries now. What happened if a sentimonster attacked again, when the city was so close to justice? What if Gabriel and Nathalie actually did know where the Peacock Miraculous was, or they know who had it, or they knew something? But if they were already sentenced and locked up, no-one would be able to question or try them again.

"I've been looking for leads and making plans ever since the sighting."

"I should be helping you."

Chat Noir shook his head. "You're needed in court, my Lady. Besides, this is exactly what you tasked me with. Leave the legal gymnastics to you, and leave the chase to me. I love a good hunt."

For five beats, Ladybug debated with herself. Chat Noir could see her helplessless—another uncertainty loomed over them, another problem to solve—and this was exactly the reason he hadn't want to tell her. She would just think in circles, and it would do no-one any good.

Eventually, Ladybug groaned and picked up her apple pie, tearing open the packaging roughly. "Okay. Fine. I trust you," she said miserably.

To change the topic, Chat Noir said, "Do you speak much with the lawyers? Do you know what the charges are looking like?"

"I mainly talk to Heloise—just like you," she answered. She fell silent when the cashier from before walked past with a broom and dustpan and started sweeping in a corner of the restaurant. She resumed, "But I've noticed things, of course. I pay attention to what goes into the archives. Sometimes I Google which crimes the evidence supports, what the sentences are."

"Same." The indictments that were likely to be laid at the pretrial were numerous and heavy. Chat Noir was no fool. After this trial, his father and Nathalie would go to prison for a very long time.

He listed all the felonies he thought Gabriel and Nathalie might get done for, a familiar ache gnawing at his gut. Aggravated assault, arson, tax evasion, cybercrime, vandalism of federal property, blackmail, treason, child abuse—and that was just the felonies.

Over their sweet treats, Ladybug clarified and added on his speculations. She was essentially the only person with whom he could obsess about the trial. Whenever Adrien talked about these details, his school friends and counsellor didn't really know how to handle it. The former wanted to draw his attention to more positive things, the latter wanted to draw his attention to more introspective things, and both skirted around just straight answering the question: "Do you think I'll ever get to see my father outside of bars again?"

He understood the aversion, for sure. It was morbid shit.

But although Chat Noir was gratitude for his support network was deep and unending, Adrien Agreste was not as fragile as they all seemed to think. At least with Ladybug, he didn't need to choose his words so carefully.

Chat Noir put his palms around his hot chocolate cup and let the warmth seep into him. "What about the likely sentences?"

"Heloise thinks Gabriel might get forty years, which might just be the rest of his life. Nathalie, maximum twenty. They've both done committed much the same crimes, but Gabriel has way more counts of them." The gnawing in his stomach sharpened, but Chat Noir relief when she continued, "But the possibility of parole is still up in the air."

Parole meant they could be free, one day, behavior permitting. "Why is it still up in the air?"

"Neither of them are very talkative, if you've noticed," she said, a wry quirk of her eyebrow. "We might have to wait until the trial to determine if there is something to be redeemed in either of them."

Chat Noir knew this already from meeting with his lawyers, knew the power he had over his father. How would redemption be determined? Proof of remorse, if Gabriel was willing to prostrate himself before the city; witness testimony, if Adrien was feeling generous. The tables had turned. He could change Gabriel's life with his words, in the same manner his father's words had once been shackles and chains for him.

"Where Adrien will give his testimony," Chat Noir concluded.

If his father was sent to prison for life without parole... could Chat Noir bear knowing he put him there? And if his father was given parole, only to get free and resume his villainy, could Chat Noir live with himself? Did he even want his father in his life?

Sometimes, when Chat Noir thought about his parents and how they both had come to leave his life in one way or another, he guiltily thought that he'd rather have stayed ignorant to it all. Just to keep them around. Just to have someone to hug goodnight, and wake him up in the morning. Even if that someone is a monster.

But that was not what a hero should think. A hero put justice and public safety first, regardless of their personal attachments. When his lies to Ladybug were twisted and encompassing like the overlapping leaves of a tree canopy, or when his investigatory methods had been arguably suspect up till this point, probably even beyond this point, locating the heroic path was harder than ever.

"Adrien's probably tired of being the linchpin in everything," Ladybug sighed, looking world-weary. She took another bite of apple pie and chewed emphatically. "Holy shit, this is hitting the spot."

Chat Noir scrunched his nose in amusement. Then, with practiced nonchalance: "What's going to happen to him after the trial is over?"

Gabriel, the brand, was fast liquidating, some merger with another fashion house underway but protracted. After the hearings, he'd be alone in the world, supported by a cushy trust fund and nothing more. He was eighteen and owed nothing by anyone. Also, still unable to drive, or cook, or mend a hole in his trousers. Would he return to the mansion with all its ghosts? What would his pampered lifestyle even look like without his father? Who was he without the people who'd raised him?

He'd never admit it, but he wasn't ready to be thrown into adulthood. Maybe Felix was right. He wanted someone to keep him, just a while longer.

"After the trial, I hope he finally gets to live the life he deserves. I'll help him," Ladybug decided. "I want to help him."

Chat Noir breathed shallowly until the knot in his chest unwound, but his breath still came thinly. "Ladybug."

"What's the matter?" she asked, meeting his stare.

Keep me.

He slid to his feet and absently checked whether his staff was still clipped to his belt. "Important question. Should I get another apple pie for the road?"

"Oh," Ladybug said very seriously, stroking her chin sagely, "you must, chaton. Treat yourself."

Chapter Text

THE ASSIZES COURT WAS ON the south side of the Île de la Cité, housed within the gilded gates and stone walls of the Palais de Justice.

It was only a handful of days after New Year’s Day, and as soon as the judiciary returned from their holidays, the trial resumed at full speed.

Ladybug stood in the corner of the gallery, behind the last of the wooden benches as the rest of the judiciary slowly filtered in. The President of the Court came first and took his seat in the centre of the judge’s bench. Then his two chosen assessors, the Attorney General, the Advocate General. At the prosecutor and defendant tables respectively sat Adrien’s lawyers sans Adrien, Gabriel and Nathalie’s lawyers sans their defendants, plus a slew of other legal staff and law enforcement officers in the courtroom gallery.

Ladybug didn’t know all of these people by name and title, of course; it was Heloise narrating the familiar players in the legal game in her ear.

“We can sit now,” the investigating judge said, and guided Ladybug to sit along one of the wooden benches.

She squished up against Roger Raincomprix, now a detective, who smiled. “Hi, Ladybug.”

The pretrial hearing began with a stale introduction read straight from the thick pile of papers in front of the President. Ladybug glanced around the rest of the room while the elderly man droned on, his voice rustling like he needed a hearty cough to clear it up.

The high ceiling was inlaid with gold, chandeliers hanging at even intervals to cast bright yellow light on the wooden benches and chairs below. The juror box hugged the left wall, right in front of where Ladybug sat, just across the guard rail.

On the top half of the left wall, a row of thin rectangular windows let in natural daylight, their wooden shutters folded open. On the top half of the right wall hung an ornate tapestry of a trial from the Middle Ages, all the attendants bar one clad in red robes. A woman, the focus of the scene, wore a voluminous gold dress and rich royal blue cloak. Both walls had doors leading into holding rooms and hallways on the bottom.

“We are here today to consider the Agreste vs. Paris case,” the President recited, “hear the charges laid against Gabriel Agreste, accused of being Hawk Moth, and Nathalie Sancoeur, accused of being Mayura.”

“Accused?” Ladybug muttered darkly.

“They have to presume innocence until the final judgment,” Heloise whispered back. “He doesn’t look happy, does he? But Gerard is a professional.”

Indeed, Gerard the President looked downright miserable at the judge’s bench. The court reporter was clacking away on her stenograph, recording every word of the pretrial.

In the written phase, all documented evidence would be brought up from the Palais office archives and considered by the counsel. Numerous organisational hearings might be called to exchange evidence and clarify arguments—Ladybug had no way to tell right now how long this process would be. When the evidence was deemed to be comprehensive and the case ripe for judging, the real trial would begin.

One of the first moves today would be to request a closed court for the hearings—when Adrien, Gabriel and Nathalie would appear and be questioned before the court. Usually such a right was only granted to sexual assault victims if and only if they requested that level of privacy. But in the case that publicity would endanger the order of the trial, the argument could be made to close the doors to civilians.

Ladybug had called in sick to school this morning to be here. Alya wanted to do the same, but Ladybug reminded her that she would definitely be called on in a later hearing to present the facts and findings of her domain of investigation. It would be concerning if the two girls were sick so often, at the same time.

She could taste the end like expensive liquor, heady and warming. Trials like this could take years, but the speed of the investigation reflected the huge amount of time, money and resources the combined forces of the city’s law enforcement, judiciary and superheroes had invested. After the trial, a period of deliberation, then the sentences would be read in open court, and then Adrien would be free.

Ladybug had started thinking about her life post-trial. She realised she would need to lay her crush to rest. There won’t be any conflicts of interest in dating, marrying, and adopting a hamster with my witness, because he won’t be a witness anymore! Simple. That was what she’d told Alya in November, strolling after school with coffees in hand, scarves wrapped around her wind-bitten noses.

What an idiot she’d been.

This trial had changed her—not just her romantic feelings—her priorities and her limits and her beliefs, down to the very core, the marrow of her bones. It was a lovely thing to have a schoolgirl crush, when words wouldn’t come easily and daydreams would come way too frequently.

With a schoolgirl crush, she would never be truly heartbroken, and she would never have to break Adrien’s heart, if the demands of heroism became too much—because their relationship only lived in her head. All her avoidance, her extravagant plans, had been defense mechanisms. It felt like saying goodbye to a part of herself, a younger version, the fantastic dreamer, the one lighter than air. Difficult as it was, this was the only right choice.

First and foremost, she was Ladybug, the woman who interviewed Adrien, who steered him through the investigation, who would have used any and all the Miraculous for personal gain just so he wouldn’t spend Christmas alone, who knew things he’d told only her under the pretext of justice. He’d confided in her the way he would an authority figure.

A power imbalance like this couldn’t easily be smoothed over, if ever.

“—call to the stand the honourable Heloise Hessenpy, juge d’instruction,” Gerard droned, snapping Ladybug’s reverie in half like brittle dark chocolate, “to give her remarks on the investigation.”

Heloise tapped Ladybug’s knee twice in a maternal gesture, then rose and walked into the witness box. “Showtime.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The second time Chat Noir approached La Santé prison, he didn’t have to change his appearance and lie his way in.

The warden greeted him at the entrance with near-open arms, a charmed smile already working its way onto her face before he’d even said bonjour. The Familiar had been unfamiliar to her, drawing her suspicion, but she was clearly a fan of Chat Noir.

Chat Noir noted the oddly geometric design painted on the floor, a six-pointed star in the center of the room, which was circumscribed by a hexagon of metal grates that let people see directly into the floor below, before the floor took over again in radial triangles of tropical blue. Strangely cheerful, for a prison.

A male security guard patted him down, inspected his staff and nearly took his own ear off with it when it extended in a nanosecond, then waved Chat Noir through the checkpoint and into a stairwell. What wonders calling ahead did.

“I hope this isn’t an inconvenience,” he said, glancing around at the closed office doors on the upper floor. “It’s practically still the holidays. Happy New Year, by the way.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” the warden said, smiling.

Chat Noir was here to confirm a theory. He had wielded his status as an investigator in the city’s most high-profile trial to get access to the security footage of the prison, issuing a surveillance request to both their prisons for the night of the twenty-third of December. The Christmas party, the sighting of the amok.

The warden scanned into a room with two long benches on either wall (the third wall being a barred window) that supported countless computers. Security officers monitored camera feeds over cups of dark coffee, the foam long since dissolved.

“Louis,” the warden called. “Do you have the footage ready?”

With his feline vision, Chat Noir saw a man close a window of Solitaire before rapidly bringing up a video of his father, taken from the upper corner of a prison cell. “Yes, ma’am. Right here,” he coughed.

Gabriel was sleeping. Still, Chat Noir scanned that footage backwards and forwards (with ample time buffers) with a close eye. On that date, at these moments, was when he saw the amok appear on the top deck of the Liberty. But all his father did was sleep. He wasn’t even transformed.

The correctional department had not allowed anyone to visit Gabriel unless they were authorised investigators or lawyers. But even if Adrien had been able to see his father, he didn’t think he’d be willing. When the Familiar interrogated Gabriel, the outcome was a comprehensive explanation of his actions over the past five years. Not an apology.

In fact, Gabriel was still vindicated, still justified to himself. In terrorising the world and abusing his son, he had been acting from a place of love. He wanted his wife back. He wanted his family united again. This might have been supremely valuable to the various departments working the trial, but to Adrien, a son, a lost boy without his parents—fucking worthless.

Gabriel was willing to go to prison for the chance to have Emelie again, but unwilling to do the internal work to heal himself. Was being a good father not the priority? Was a life imprisoned, away from Adrien—who still loved Gabriel, foolishly—preferable to simply moving on? Why was he not enough?

He remembered watching Titanic with his mother, at a questionably young age, and thinking it was the height of romantic to love someone so much you’d die for them. But now, older and wiser, he knew the more impressive thing was loving so much that you’d live for them, every day refusing to give into pain and violence, every day trying to be a good, whole person.

“Okay,” Chat Noir finally resigned himself. “That’s all I wanted to see. Thanks for your help.” He turned around and strode for the door. “Can I get out by myself or do you have to escort me?”

“Where are you going?” the warden asked.

“The women’s prison.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Nothing.

He’d searched nearly half an hour, both upstream and downstream in time, through the CCTV footage of two different prisons. Not only had Gabriel and Nathalie both been in their civilian forms, they had also been asleep during the period of interest. They were just sallow and sad; Gabriel had been sketching in a pad of paper before he fell asleep, and Nathalie had been reading a novel. They looked so normal, so humane on camera—

Chat Noir dug his claws into his palm until the sting took his mind away from Gabriel and Nathalie. He didn’t want to feel anything.

So. It was someone else wielding the Peacock Miraculous on the night of the Christmas party. There had to be at least a third person involved. One fact established. Now, were they in cahoots? Or was this third person a rogue?

If they were in cahoots, the current holder might communicate with Gabriel and Nathalie by amokising them—that was why Adrien had told both security forces to notify Chat Noir if they ever saw an amok in Gabriel or Nathalie’s prison cells.

It was worse if they were a rogue. Because then Adrien was truly back to square one; back to fighting a specter, a person behind a mask.

Back in his hotel suite, Adrien considered mining Plagg for information about Duusu. He sat down next to Plagg on the couch. The kwami was playing a role-play soccer game on the PlayStation. “What is the Peacock kwami like?”

Plagg responded without batting his tail. “Duusu is emotional.”

“How so?” Adrien asked. Plagg did not answer, jumping across the video game controller like a tiny tap-dancer. “Plagg, this is serious.”

When kwamis had judicious wielders like Ladybug and Adrien, they lived a life of comfort and freedom. Tikki herself had even shown up at Adrien’s hotel room without Ladybug’s knowledge or permission, which implied that she had the liberty to travel as she liked. When the Butterfly and Peacock Miraculous were with his father, their kwamis were trapped. Held hostage.

A similar sort of—if not the exact same—personality was now commanding the Peacock Miraculous, otherwise Duusu would have made his way back to the Guardian and his family.

Gabriel’s goal had been to use the akumatized civilians and sentimonsters to draw out Ladybug and Chat Noir. He wanted their combined Miraculous to wish for his wife back. But there still had been no supervillain, no sentimonster to battle, no ultimatum about receiving the Miraculous of Creation and Destruction. Why? What was their end?

“Someone is misusing him, keeping him from his family.”

Plagg scored a goal just as Adrien rose and flicked the TV off. His kwami hissed with displeasure.

“I know that. What exactly do you want to know?” he said in his high-pitched, scratchy voice. “What is Duusu like? Blue and emotional. Sass is turquoise and likes to meditate, Tikki is pink and a stick-up-the—”

Adrien folded his arms, adopting the firm tone that only came out when it was serious, serious business. “Plagg.”

Plagg scrubbed viciously behind his ear with his paw and shook himself to clear his head. “Fine. What I mean to say is that kwamis only have a few constants. It’s hard to rifle through billions of years of memories unless you ask a more specific question.”

Sitting back on the couch, Adrien held out his palm. Plagg settled down and curled up into a tight ball, shutting his eyes.

“What are Duusu’s constants? Outside of being blue and emotional.” When his kwami blinked open one puzzled eye, Adrien clarified: “You know how, when you were training me to use my adult powers, you spoke a lot about the philosophy behind Destruction? Destruction can be a force for good. It can lighten burdens and heal people, but it can also ruin someone’s life. The lessons I had to learn were rooted in restraint, control, and moderation.”

Plagg said, “I vaguely recall,” as if those countless lessons were chores. Perhaps they were. Adrien couldn’t see his kwami voluntarily teaching anyone anything.

“Is that philosophy the same for all Miraculous wielders to learn? Or does each Miraculous have something different to impart?” When Tikki visited Adrien’s hotel suite, what had woken him was her arguing with Plagg. That meant that kwamis disagreed, and therefore they didn’t have the same approaches to things. Logically, it seemed like each wielder had to learn something different from their kwami. He asked again, “What’s Duusu like?”

“You know, Adrien, I don’t even like thinking about my own philosophy let alone the rest of my brethren’s. It’s like asking you to describe the minutiae of how you breathe. Who does that? No-one. You just breathe. So I expect caloric compensation for all the thinking I’m about to do.”

Adrien chuckled. “We can look at the room service menu after.”

Satisfied, Plagg uncurled his tail and sat up on Adrien’s hand. “I should clarify, what I tell you might not be correct. One thing a kwami can never change is the sentiment they embody. I am Destruction, and I can’t see the universe in any other terms. It’s a blessing, but it also means I will never understand why some of my brothers and sisters think the way they think.” Plagg’s stomach growled furiously. The kwami’s big green eyes dropped to his tummy and he pouted tearfully. “Oh, can we take a snack break?”

“Come on, Plagg. Please,” Adrien pleaded, scratching Plagg underneath the chin to coax him to stay sitting up. “I want to bring Duusu back to his family. To you and Tikki.”

In negotiation, Adrien leaned down to the lower panel of the coffee table and put the room service menu on the top. He hated ordering room service when he had three regular meals already scheduled for delivery, but Plagg regarded it as a precious treat.

His kwami sighted the menu and scrunched up his face in thought.

Eventually: “Duusu is the kwami of Emotion. He’s attracted to depth of feeling. Where Destruction has to balance between gluttony and moderation, Duusu does not see any value in restraint. He loves unshakability, earnestness, and adamance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“About four thousand years ago, Duusu’s wielder strangled his wife to death,” Plagg said, neutral as water.

“Oh,” Adrien exclaimed, covering his mouth with his other hand.

“Every Miraculous can be used for evil.” Plagg continued, “The Black Cat at the time arrived to repossess the Peacock Miraculous and return it to the Guardian to redistribute. Duusu spoke to me for a short time that day. He said, ‘I know his emotions are dark, but they are so beautiful.’ From that, I assumed that Duusu sees the various emotions like colours. Some darker, some lighter, and they must work together to paint a three-dimensional individual.”

Adrien nodded; that made sense to him. Of course, he was operating as a human being with a trillionth of the understanding that Duusu had.

“Personally, I hate murders like the one Duusu’s wielder committed. It is the ultimate loss of willpower. A sign of brainless animal instinct,” Plagg said, snout wrinkling with disgust. “Tikki hates murder because she is the kwami of Creation, and to her, all life has innate worth. That’s why she’s vegetarian. But I think the way to control Emotion is to desaturate those colours, remove the origins of his holder’s powers.”

Interesting. The analogy, and the recommendation. Adrien would think more on the idea of desaturating as he searched. “Thank you, Plagg. This was really helpful.”

He tucked Plagg into his breast pocket and unfolded the room service menu for his kwami to peruse.

Chapter Text

BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN: SENTIMONSTER ATTACKS Le Grand Paris!

Chat Noir was in the Agreste mansion when his Cat Phone buzzed with the notification. After the city authorities had packed up their crimes scenes and investigation units, the gates had been locked and the grounds closed to the public. He’d vaulted over the back wall with ease and taken the secret elevator down to the underground cavern.

His purpose was to search for any missed hints about the Peacock Miraculous, but he wasn’t optimistic. This lair had been scoured by multiple teams of professionals. The water still lay clean and blue over the exposed piping below, the metal walkways still glinted in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the mosaic window, and the grassy platform still teemed with inexplicable life, summer in the middle of winter.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, thumb scrolling down his phone screen.

From the news report, Chat Noir gathered that everyone was stunned (except himself, because he’d been suspecting an attack ever since seeing the amok). The city had let its guard down since the last sentimonster attack, and at least back then Hawk Moth and Mayura were household names. Now, there was no-one to pin this on. He and Ladybug were chasing phantoms.

Chat Noir sent the news bulletin into the MM chat and raced to the scene, sprinting and vaulting across rooftops. The closer he got, the more the screams cut through the air. People sprinted from the hotel like ants from fire. There was fresh panic in their eyes, distant yet visible like lighthouse flares.

This attack affirmed his suspicious that the current wielder of the Peacock Miraculous was truly villainous. And one thing further. They wanted a spectacle.

When he cleared the corner to the hotel, he saw an oversize spider crawling up the side of the building. Its black body was bulbous and shiny, legs spindly and light furred. Out of its razor-toothed mouth it spat a clear slime onto the window pane.

The glass started smoking and melting, and before long it had dissolved into a simmering pile on the balcony. The spider squeezed its body inside. When it emerged, it was dragging a round white cocoon of silky webbing. A writhing cocoon, with a person inside.

To the top of Le Grand his eyes drifted, where a nest of similarly-sized human eggs had been deposited on the rooftop. His stomach flipped twice over. The civilian footage on the news bulletin had not done justice to this monster.

From out of one of the broken windows came Ladybug and Vesperia, acrobatically climbing their way up to the sentispider. He joined them on the thin railing of a balcony, and Ladybug unexpectedly threw her arms around him. “Chat Noir, thank God.”

He tamped down the heat in his stomach and spun his staff in a theatrical circle. “What’s the plan, ladies?”

Vesperia pulled her stinger from her belt. “I immobilize the creature to stop its acid attacks, and that will give us time to find where the amokized object is.”

“Okay,” Chat Noir said, “We’ll draw its attention.”

With seamless coordination, he and Ladybug darted into the sentispider’s path as Vesperia crept behind. He saw the opalescent compound eyes and the gnashing mandibles and a shiver ran down his spine. When the sentispider spewed up another round of acid, Chat Noir leaped backwards onto another balcony and Ladybug jumped into open air, swinging herself down a level with her yo-yo.

But, surprisingly, once unobstructed the sentispider only blinked lazily and scuttled forward, dissolving another glass window. “Venom!”

Vesperia launched herself forward and pressed her stinger into the body of the arachnid. Her Venom took effect instantly, and the spider halted halfway through the window frame, its weight sagging onto the sill. Chat Noir and Ladybug both made their way back to the arachnid.

Strange.

“I thought so, too,” Ladybug muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry,” she apologised, tapping her ear. “Rena’s on the line. We were just saying that it seems like the spider wasn’t interested in us. Like, does it not want our Miraculous?”

“Evidently not,” Chat Noir said. He tipped his head up to the rooftop. “Maybe it wants civilians.” And then, thinking of his own suite on the other side of the building, a bolt of dread slammed into him. Perhaps one hotel resident in particular.

“I’ll go free the people in the spider’s nest,” Vesperia offered, her blonde braid whipping after her as she climbed. “And then I’ll meet you at our rendezvous point, Ladybug.”

“Good. Chat Noir and I will look for the amokised object.”

“Actually…” Chat Noir glanced down at the ground, where the hotel was undergoing a mass evacuation. Hotel security in pressed black shirts were positioned in the roads, stopping cars from drawing any nearer. Some were speaking into radio walkie-talkies, their lips moving rapidly and inaudibly. “I need to go check on something. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He extended his staff and leaped clear over the roof, angling his body against the wind to drop right onto his own balcony. Thankfully, the window hadn’t been broken in. He eased it open and slipped inside just as his door was unlocked from the outside.

“Oh, Chat Noir?” The security guard blinked at him, scratched behind his ear. “Uh, I was here to escort Adrien to the meeting point. We’re doing head counts of all the guests.”

“Great minds,” Chat Noir winked, aloof as ever. “Consider Adrien counted. I’ll return him here after it’s safe to do so.” The guard nodded and turn on his heel, barking an update into his radio. Phew.

Chat Noir allowed himself one glance around his living room before slipping back out of the window. By the time he rejoined Ladybug, she had already called her Lucky Charm.

“How are we going to find the amok?” he prompted. “It could be anywhere, and Vesperia’s Venom won’t work after she detransforms.”

Ladybug held a mere postcard, and from the uneasy expression on her face, he knew she didn’t have a plan. Below, at the checkpoint for the staff and guests of Le Grand, Chloé was rabidly fighting the beefy arms of the security guard controlling the crowd, trying to get closer to the action.

“I don’t know,” Ladybug whispered. “I don’t know.” With one hand, she pushed her fingers into her fringe, eyes downcast and unfocused. “What do you think, Rena?”

Chat Noir took the postcard and examined it.

The photograph was of a typical street in a typical residential area, pastel storefronts hemmed in by apartment buildings. It looked familiar, and after digging through his memory he suspected the road was a section of Rue de la Moyenne Ronde. The road where Nathalie’s hideout apartment was—but like the mansion, that had also been thoroughly searched, no? What would await them there?

“I know where we need to go,” Chat Noir said.

The frozen sentispider disappeared into the vapors of a cobalt ether. Chat Noir instinctively flung an arm to the side, toward Ladybug, but when the blue haze cleared the creature and its webs had gone with it.

“I think the postcard was leading us to Nathalie’s apartment,” he posited. “Maybe we missed something—maybe there’s something worth investigating there.”

“But I need to stay here and use the Lucky Charm to fix the damage,” Ladybug reminded him, gently kicking a shard of broken glass across the stone with her toe, “and get the Bee Miraculous from Vesperia. Plus, the media will be showing up and the staff will probably be shaken, so I should stick around to answer their questions and help guide the guests inside.”

Chat Noir glanced at the huddle of hotel staff and guests across the road, watching with fearful upturned faces. When the security detail started herding them back into their rooms, they would be expecting Adrien Agreste to turn up. Shit.

And just to lighten their workload, at once both their cell phones vibrated with a text. Shit, shit.

“Heloise?” he wondered, skimming the contents of the message. The investigating judge had called an emergency meeting at her office in one hour’s time.

“Heloise,” Ladybug confirmed. She heaved a quick sigh, one that lifted the ends of her fringe. “Okay. I stay here to tie up loose ends—”

“I follow the Lucky Charm,” he added, after Adrien shows his face, “and we both meet at the Palais in an hour.” He bent to spring off the balcony, but Ladybug stopped him with a calm whisper of his name.

“Yes, my Lady?”

Ladybug gave him a resigned smile before taking the postcard back. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” The action and instinct smothering any flickers of doubt, a smooth wipe of adrenaline to take away the anxiety.

It did feel like old times, and yet so much had changed.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug’s eventful day had actually started long before the sentimonster attack.

Each academic year, the student body council was required to plan the graduation formal for the terminale students. Demonstrating near-comical duality, lately she (the student body president) had to attend pretrial hearings and deliver evidence to the highest felony court in the country, while refereeing contentious discussions on where the formal venue should be and how to settle the theme poll that returned three equally-favoured options (Masquerade, Starry Night, and Under the Sea) and if there indeed should be a print photobooth at the expense of cheaper tickets.

After one such infuriating student body council meeting, Alya and Marinette had gone back to the bakery to prepare for the next pretrial hearing. Rena Rouge would be attending to summarize Hawk Moth’s activities in Shanghai. Sifting through all the evidence was a protracted process, but it was necessary for Gerard, the President of the Court, to determine whether there was evidence of the right quality and quantity to convict the defendants, and how best to arrange the schedule of his questionings. There could be no mishandling of a trial like this.

Then Chat Noir’s alert came through Mira-Message. A sentimonster attack. The first of a new year.

Ladybug had raced with Alya to the hotel; recruited Zoe Lee to help; had a brief freak-out about the giant wrench this new villain threw into her plans; returned her Lucky Charm to patch over the physical damage; and finally patched over everyone’s unsettled nerves, hers included. It hadn’t taken the whole hour.

On the ground floor of Le Grand Paris, Ladybug wandered into the restaurant (ghost-town empty after the afternoon’s calamity) and found the women’s bathrooms. They had fancy circular backlit mirrors on the walls, marble counters with minimalist black faucets, reed sticks sitting in amber pots of incense.

Choosing and locking a stall, she lowered the toilet lid and sat down exhaustedly. All the late-night practice she’d been putting in had helped tremendously today. Where she once only had five minutes after calling her Lucky Charm, Ladybug had been able to stretch her limits to over half an hour in the field. Although, her adult powers weren’t yet second nature, unthinking and seamless, as Chat Noir had mentioned his were. She felt drained by her magic as much as she felt empowered by it.

“Tikki, spots off.” Pink sparks swept her body, leaving her limbs feeling even more fatigued, her human weight even more burdensome. Marinette chose a vanilla macaroon from the cardboard box in her purse and offered it to her kwami. “Here, eat up.”

Tikki gratefully swallowed the dessert and then asked, “Are you okay, Marinette?”

She should be the one asking her kwami that question. It must be upsetting to know for sure that Duusu was being misused again.

Marinette cleared her throat, preparing to speak, but as the adrenaline of battle receded, anguish washed into her lungs like saltwater. Instead she could only release a weak, discomfited whimper. “Sorry, Tikki. Just give me a moment.”

Her heartbeat galloped, her breathing was simultaneously too shallow and too deep. I can’t do another year of this. Each time she inhaled quicker and quicker, yet the air felt thinner and thinner. They had been so close. The Agreste case was so close to being heard in court, and the judiciary had already commenced the preparatory hearings. All the efforts of the Miraculous team, all the sacrifices of Adrien, all the months of sleeping poorly and walking tightropes.

So close.

And now, so far.

Even if Gerard decided to move ahead with the trial, she wouldn’t be free. With a verdict, all the victims and witnesses (Adrien included) might finally be able to move on with their lives. But without the Peacock Miraculous, without knowing the capacity of the villain on the other end of the chessboard, Marinette would be stuck where she had been for the last five years: Guardian, defender, alone.

Well, not alone. She had friends and family in abundance and she loved every single one. But she would never fall in love. Who could she even fall in love with, truly, deeply, unreservedly? She and Adrien would never be true equals, not after everything. Chat Noir was her equal in every way, but he wanted the one thing she couldn’t give right him now: honesty.

Feels like old times, doesn’t it?

She’d been lying. This didn’t feel like old times to Marinette at all. In the old times, she’d been younger, blinder, hoping that things would get better. In the old times, they knew how to handle familiar threats Hawk Moth and Mayura. In the old times, her chaton had been in love with her.

Now that his feelings had changed, she felt jealous and lonely. Abundant friends and family be damned, she was lonely and she wanted him. Since their kiss, she’d become more invested in his personal life than ever before. She thought about him at school and at home, with school friends and with Tom and Sabine. Who was the person he lost? What sort of abode did he return to every night? Did he have siblings? For some reason she could picture him so vividly as an older brother. Every sliver of information Chat Noir had already given her was precious, and still it wasn’t enough.

All the other sweethearts Marinette knew were living inside a picturesque snow globe, rosy cheeks and winter mittens in perfect tableaux, and she was the outsider peering in, larger-than-life, hideously distorted by the curvature of the glass. She wondered what the world felt like with a lover by her side.

Well. She would never know while she was Ladybug.

Usually she pushed that resentment away, this wall separating her experiences from the rest of the human experience, being incredibly grateful for Tikki and the ways she could serve her city—but now, in a moment of weakness, she cried about it. Now that Paris had a new supervillain, one that made weapons from strong emotions, all it would take was an untimely heartbreak or the amokization of a person who knew too much—telepathic access to head and to heart—and it would be game over.

Marinette put her elbows on her knees and touched her forehead, only for her hands to come away wet with cold sweat. Her breathing still hadn’t settled. Tikki was trying to coach her through but she couldn’t even hear her kwami’s voice over the ringing in her ears, the angry thump of her pulse.

“Don’t worry, Tikki,” she said faintly. “I’m just going to…”

Marinette slid from the toilet seat and onto the floor. She put her head between hers knees and tried to reign her breathing in. Perhaps this position would get more blood to her head—or was the problem too much blood?

“Should you call for help?” Tikki said. “You don’t look good, Marinette. All the colour is gone from your face.”

“I’ll be fine,” Marinette wheezed. Her fingers scrabbled for something to squeeze, and she ended up with the toilet paper roll gripped in her hand. Counting breaths. In. “I’m.” Out. “Fine.”

In. Out.

She’d make it to the meeting with Heloise and Chat Noir on time. She was fine.

In. Out.

She always had been.

Always had to be.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug placed the grimoire, which had been requested by Heloise, down on the stained oak side table.

“I’m sorry, Heloise. We can’t access Duusu, at least not with anything I’ve read,” she informed. “On a kwami’s Cycle Day, the other kwamis can communicate with them through the Miracle Box—but kwami Cycles are different from human years.” This form of communication had been Ladybug’s first idea, months ago, to recover the kwami of Emotion, but Tikki had told her all the reasons it wouldn’t work. Namely: “Duusu’s next Cycle Day is in seventy-three years.”

Heloise sighed. “I understand.”

Across from the judge, legs daintily crossed and wearing her usual red and black, Ladybug looked pristine as ever. Her hair was slick and bouncy, magically prevented from ever flying into her eyes or mouth, and her skin had a healthy, rosy glow. (She knew because she’d checked the Bug Mirror before walking into the Palais.)

No-one would ever think this superhero could be capable of nearly breaking down in a women’s bathroom.

When she had arrived outside Heloise Hessenpy’s office, Chat Noir had already been waiting in the lobby. He’d been watching reporter footage from the sentispider’s—now dubbed Arachne—attack on his Cat Phone, slumped in an arm chair, long legs stretched out on the thick woven carpet. He’d liberated one of the investigation binders from its storage location in the Palais office, in the basement of this same building.

Since Chat Noir was in charge of recovering the Peacock Miraculous, she and Heloise both deferred to him. Ladybug was relieved to not do most of the talking. “So what do we know about this new villain?” Heloise said.

Chat Noir answered, “It’s not Gabriel or Nathalie directly responsible.”

“Directly?” both women asked.

“I’ve had both prisons’ security upgraded,” he answered. “At the time of a previous amok sighting, Gabriel and Nathalie were in their civilian forms. I’ve also requested contemporaneous footage of today’s attack. Same thing. The Miraculous can’t be with them.”

“But you’re not ruling out their involvement,” Ladybug added.

“Only because I can’t trace exactly how the Peacock Miraculous disappeared. The defendants have been interviewed so many times, but never without their lawyers. Nathalie maintains when she tried to flee the country, she left behind the Miraculous in her hideout apartment.”

Chat Noir flipped through the pages of his binder, pointing with his claw to an image of a five-storey apartment building.

“But her apartment has been turned inside out, multiple times over. By police, which didn’t produce any leads, nor any evidence that anyone else but Nathalie had been in the apartment. No prints, no foreign DNA. By Ryuko, who couldn’t see any hidden safes marked by displaced ventilation, piping, and insulation systems like the one in the Agreste mansion. By me—and again just half an hour ago, in fact—and I genuinely don’t think the Miraculous is there.”

“But today my Lucky Charm gave us a photo postcard,” Ladybug pointed out. “It showed the exact road this building is on.”

“Not the building itself?” Heloise wondered.

“No,” she admitted, “It was another building, on the same road. But the Lucky Charm works in mysterious ways. Why would it even point us in that vicinity, if it truly is a dead end?”

Heloise had been listening with a deep furrow between her brows, knuckles pressed to her mouth. The woman usually wore makeup with heavy lipstick; this evening, she came in bare-faced. “Maybe Nathalie or Gabriel arranged for it to disappear?”

“Maybe.” Chat Noir shrugged. “One of my earlier theories was that they were sitting on the Miraculous to use at an opportune moment. Gabriel could want to revive his wife, Nathalie could want to escape. Suppose those are the two motives,” he said, placing each of his hands far apart on the desk. He tapped one, making an audible thud on the mahogany. “In the first case, I expected Gabriel to use some kind of leverage to get our Miraculous and unify them for his grand wish—as usual. But Ladybug and I threw ourselves into the sentimonster’s path and it could have cared less about our Miraculous.”

Chat Noir inclined his head to meet Ladybug’s eyes. His eyes were alert, alive, green like a summer meadow. She simply stared back until he blinked, tilting his head slightly, and she realized he’d been prompting her support. Get a grip.

Ladybug blurted, “That’s true. There was no supervillain or a proxy making any sort of demands, which was Gabriel’s calling card, every single time.”

“So the second motive: escape. Maybe they wanted to cause enough chaos to distract the prison guards. But from when I called the prisons, no escape was attempted today. Stupid to lose the element of surprise and not even capitalise on it, oui? In fact, there’s no indication that Gabriel and Nathalie are aware of today’s attack yet.”

“They could be good actors.” Heloise leaned forward on her desk. “Interesting that it happened at the hotel where Adrien is staying.”

Before Ladybug even registered, she’d interjected, “Adrien is innocent. There’s no way he knows anything about this.”

Meanwhile, Chat Noir had noted, “I was the one to evacuate Adrien Agreste from his hotel suite during the attack. He was not transformed into some Peacock villain. It couldn’t have been him using the Miraculous.”

“I’m not suspecting him,” Heloise clarified. “Just that Arachne only makes sense if Adrien is a link—otherwise, an unprovoked attack, on a random location, with no ultimatums or escape attempts? If whoever has the Miraculous is trying to gain access to him, then at least we have a motive. Logically speaking.”

Ladybug and Chat Noir glanced at each other. She shook her head imperceptibly. I don’t know. Chat Noir sighed, scrubbed his hand down his face. He seemed tired of talking about Adrien Agreste, tired of the investigation, so tired he might vanish for a year just to sleep. If finishing the trial sated his sense of duty, would he finally take the recovery time away she’d been recommending?

Which is a good thing, she reminded herself, soothing the sting in her throat.

Ladybug tried to picture continuing her Guardian duties without Chat Noir and in panic couldn’t imagine herself as a hero at all. The best part of saving this city was the person sitting next to her.

Her fingers slid down to the side of his chair. Her knuckles brushed against Chat Noir’s knee, and a moment later he took her hand and squeezed it softly, his thumb drawing whirls and loops on her wrist. All obscured by the mahogany desk before them, all without Heloise noticing.

The judge kept rolling through logistics—the security around Adrien Agreste in advance of the trial, the costs and benefits of relocating him so suddenly, and then to the trial itself, whether Gerard should and would postpone it—but finally, finally, in this absolute clusterfuck of a day, with his hand in hers, relief finally found Ladybug.

Chapter Text

"TIKKI, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND," MARINETTE huffed, a sleep mask over her eyes, ear muffs over her ears, and sipping at a bottle of water. “Now that someone is creating sentimonsters to attack the city, I need my full powers more than ever.”

“You need to pace yourself,” Tikki retorted, her stomach full of macaroons.”Your current powers have been more than enough to keep this city and yourself safe. You defeated Hawk Moth and Mayura with your current powers, and you can take on this new wielder just fine.”

Marinette slid the sleep mask off.

The intention had been to blindfold herself, to block out any light and any visual stimulation. Tikki had mentioned that her greatest Creation had been the first one, the one at the very beginning, when she materialised into existence with nothing around her, no sound, no light, not even a corporeal conduit such as her little pink body.

And then, boom, she made the Big Bang. Simple.

The best Marinette could do was try to replicate the sightless, soundless conditions of Tikki’s supposedly most fruitful environment, to no avail.

Her personal best time was up to forty-five minutes post-Lucky Charm, but it was not natural and mindless the way it was for Chat Noir. Meanwhile, sometimes, even around half an hour, if Ladybug wasn’t dedicating all her mental resources and willpower to tethering her dwindling magic down, it would slip and she would be Marinette again.

Tikki kept hinting at some mystical understanding of the nature of Creation, but her explanations were vague and unhelpful. Instead of telling Marinette to do something concrete, like balance on one finger for a minute, or execute twenty star jumps, Tikki said things like, “Creation thrives in the darkness,” and “in setting yourself a destination, you are fixing the journey,” which apparently meant that in trying to access her adult powers, she would never access her adult powers.

“Not that,” Tikki clarified. “Creation is all about broadening and expanding your physical and mental horizons. What you are doing, hoping for your adult powers so that you are more equipped to face the sentimonsters, is extremely narrow. One motive, and one means.”

“It’s a bit difficult to have any other motives or means at the moment.” In light of yesterday’s sentimonster attack, the next preparatory hearing had been moved up to tomorrow. Heloise, Ladybug, in agreement with Chat Noir, Carapace and Rena Rouge, would be arguing to not stall the trial.

“Oh, you could have no motive or means!” Tikki suggested, her bluebell eyes bright with a new idea. “One of my past wielders was someone who believed the universe was inherently purposeless and chaotic and it worked like a charm for him.”

Marinette’s expression halted in what was sure to look like a baffled grimace, eyebrows arched so high they hurt.

“Not helpful?” Tikki blinked, folding her hands together apologetically.

“Not helpful,” she said. Just like herself. Unhelpful, useless, too weak to access her strongest powers, lost for leads about the Peacock Miraculous, and unable to protect this city and its people. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t. She hadn’t cried for months, wouldn’t start now, not when Adrien needed her to perform.

Marinette took another gulp from her water bottle, wiped the sweat from her brow and decided to keep pushing.

Something had to give eventually.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Carapace and Rena Rouge took their seats in the Assizes Court.

His hooded head swivelled ninety degrees in each direction, absorbing the historic opulence of the room. On the right a lush tapestry, on the left tall windows admitting bright sunlight, and above multiple pairs of newer-model chandeliers. Wooden everything, benches and railings and juror box.

This hearing convened just past lunchtime, and it was Friday. Conveniently enough, Marinette had been off of school since Wednesday with stomach flu. It was easy enough for Alya, who went over for a sleepover on the weekend, to say she caught it, and for Nino, who very much liked kissing Alya, to go down with her.

Now they were here, heroes sitting in a row with Ladybug and Chat Noir, ready to fight for Adrien. If this trial went on hold, who knew how long Adrien would have to remain sequestered away? Already the media was going crazy about him again—like they’d ever stopped. Even in the months when Adrien was off from school, idiotic articles circled his name like flies.

His character is suspect but his abs aren’t! Winter fitspo from Adrien Agreste.

Counting down to the trial? Counting Down Adrien Agreste’s Top 10 Runway Looks.

A “pampered … angel on set.” Ex-Agreste employee spills all about Adrien’s true personality! (A makeup artist had simply said: “I think he was used to being pampered, right? He’s actually been in the modelling industry for longer than most thirty-year-olds, but it hasn’t gone to his head. Adrien is an angel on set.”

A sentimonster breaks into Adrien’s hotel and y’all are still defending him? He was clearly trying to escape.

Why would he cooperate for so long only to sabotage his own trial just as it begins? Fucking brainless trolls.

Should they stop the trial? Have they really investigated thoroughly if they don’t even know who the knew villain is?

And there was a growing underground community that had started doubting Ladybug. They called her a power-hungry dictator who was secretly creating new supervillains so that she would have a reason to stay relevant and enjoy the adoration of the masses. Heroes need villains, I bet when this new holder is brought to justice another magically pops up. And Ladybug is the ‘only’ one who can save us. How convenient. The conspiracy theories were utterly wack, and Carapace didn’t know how he could stop them—couldn’t accept that they were unstoppable.

Sitting beside Carapace, Rena must have noticed that his hands were clenched into fists. She dug her fingers at the tips of his own until he relaxed a bit, and gratefully grabbed her hand, hiding their touch between their sides. The court was bade to rise. Carapace stood up, watching the various lauded figures of the city’s judiciary filing into the room, discomfort rumbling through his gut.

“This is just as bad as the tabloids, though,” he realized, leaning to whisper in Rena’s ear. “Everyone gathered in this room to talk about Adrien behind his back.”

Rena gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “It’s not behind his back if he knows this hearing is taking place, right? This is the system. There’s a process to follow.”

“I hate the process,” he whispered, “I wanna bust him out and shack up on a yacht somewhere, with you and Mari, away from all this bullshit.”

“I know, babe.”

Two bodies down—Rena, then Ladybug—Chat Noir’s ears pricked. He glanced at where the President of the Court was fluffing his robes and sitting down, then to Carapace and gave him a firm nod. It was very bro code, no words and only fleeting eye contact, but he understood. Shit sucks, man, Chat Noir seemed to communicate in that one second, but we buckle down.

Carapace, over the heads of the girls between them, nodded back. Then both young men looked to the front.

Gerard, the President of the Court, bade them to sit down. He initially started to read a lengthy, stale opening from the folder in front of him, but after five seconds gave a juddering cough and shut the volume. “Let’s just get straight to it. We are here today to judge whether the Agreste trial should move forward or be placed on hold in the light of this new supervillain. Safety, of this city and this court, is paramount. It should be our primary consideration, alongside the merits of the case and gathered evidence.”

Basically, the question was: was there a scheme of Gabriel and Nathalie’s that everyone missed, or was the Agreste case indeed ripe enough to judge in court? An appeal was a nightmare. A mistrial was even worse.

“Today we’ll hear from Paris’ heroes, the leaders of the investigation, the Attorney and Advocate General, and representatives of law enforcement,” Gerard announced. “First, I call to the stand Chat Noir, defender of Paris, to give his remarks on the new holder of the Peacock Miraculous.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Up on the witness stand Adrien, suited in Chat Noir’s black attire, had arrived at an epiphany.

He’d been describing to the audience the current knowledge of the Peacock Miraculous recovery efforts; why it likely wasn’t Gabriel and Nathalie responsible; Heloise then assessed that the new villain could be reasonable treated as separate by the law; thus that the preparations for the Agreste trial should proceed.

“Besides,” Heloise made an impassioned appeal, “in the time of Hawk Moth, the judiciary continued our work unhindered. We can’t let this new villain upturn Paris and its rhythms. Life has to go on.”

In the midst of all this legal deliberation, his epiphany came in the form of a plan.

One he couldn’t tell Ladybug, because it had to be Adrien Agreste enacting it. She was once the brain, and he was the brawn—the executor of her convoluted visions, her sword and shield. Not this time.

There was too much at stake. He would be the first person to sing her praises, but Ladybug’s thinking was too rigid, her time too in-demand, and her morality too inflexible for her to think of any other strategy except the head-on one, the upright and honest one. Five years they’d chased their own tails, only to discover Hawk Moth in his own backyard. They’d never tried to set a trap. They’d never gone hunting for him.

Adrien couldn’t see the logic in adopting the same approach again. They had no leads this time. The longer this trial remained unresolved, the longer he’d have to lie, to stay heavily supervised, to risk detection while juggling his superhero responsibilities. Their old approach of going about their daily lives and simply waiting for monsters to defeat was dead in the ground.

Back in the hotel suite (there had been talks about moving him to new accommodation, but it was decided that in the event of another emergency, instructing Adrien to call security and evacuate himself was safety precaution enough) he checked that Plagg was occupied with his dinner in the living room, then slipped into the bedroom and locked the door.

Plagg could not see Adrien enacting his new strategy. Just as Tikki knew Adrien’s identity, Plagg knew Ladybug’s, and there was no telling what he might tell her if Adrien gave him cause to worry; and what he was about to do was definitely cause to worry.

If Adrien searched his memory, he found a flash of blue during one of his previous visits to the hospital. Then there was the amok he saw around Christmas, then Arachne searching all the rooms of Le Grand Paris, and Heloise’s theory that the Peacock Miraculous holder wanted access to him specifically.

You want me, he thought bitterly, taking a seat on the floor and leaning back against the door, come and get me.

From what Plagg had told him about Duusu, the holder of the Peacock Miraculous tapped into strong emotions. He drew up as many emotions as he could think of, holding them all in the forefront of his mind until it hurt. He hated his father. He loved his father. He missed his mother. He missed his friends. He wanted this nightmare to be over, but he also didn’t—because he didn’t want to face the nothingness he suspected would come after.

Come and get me.

These thoughts strobed around his consciousness like a lighthouse beacon, and then it happened. Another amok appeared to him, phasing through his bedroom window and floating toward him as if magnetised.

Adrien had been researching endlessly. He acknowledged the risks in letting himself be amokised. As soon as the wielder got into his head, they might get in entirely, deeply, flicking through memories and even secret identities like library books on a shelf. But from re-reading the interview transcripts of the amokisation victims, it seemed that the Peacock Miraculous operated on consent. Consent to hear specific thoughts, consent to appropriate emotions for creating a sentimonster.

Still, he planned to bury all his memories of Chat Noir and Ladybug by focusing on his civilian life. Adrien Agreste’s thoughts and feelings only.

He grabbed the pencil he’d brought with him and touched it to the brilliant blue feather. The amok sunk into the wood, tinging the lead, and even the eraser, a deep cobalt. The ambient noises of the bedroom—the traffic outside, the pitter-patter of raindrops on the textured glass window, his own rhythmic breathing—dropped sharply in volume.

It was as if he’d plugged his own ears, though his hands remained by his sides, and like a resurfacing memory, a voice rippled from the back of his head to the very, very front.

Hello, Adrien.

He hesitation, priming himself for a sudden ambush, the sudden reveal of his identity to the world, if this shadow could reach around his mind like that. The interview reports said otherwise, but…

The voice came again. Hello?

Adrien relaxed a fraction. He had telepathic control similar to speech. What do you want with me?

He wanted to say something more scathing, more resolute—I have no need for you or your sentimonsters, fuck off—but that was counterproductive. He wanted this villain to keep talking with him for as long as possible. To drop clues that could help his search.

For now, I simply want to understand you. Your emotional fingerprint is incredibly distinct. You are full of just about every emotion I can name. Grief, fury, sadness. But love, hope and courage, too. I am impressed, and intrigued.

My position is not intriguing, Adrien answered coolly. I have nothing to hide from the world.

That doesn’t feel true.

Just consult the Internet and try to fathom why I might be feeling the way I feel. My father. My mother. The sensation of having a conversation with none of his five senses to corroborate it was disorienting. No sights, sounds or smells other than what had always been inside the room.

You are full of apprehension. That is natural. But I don’t want to hurt you or lie to you.

They could feel his agitation. Adrien took a deep breath and physically tried to smooth out his emotions, rubbing steady hands down his thighs. Prove it.

Three questions, the voice said, I will answer as a token of goodwill.

Adrien tipped his head back against the door and breathed shallowly. This was the most unsettled he’d ever felt, and nothing was even happening. Just the knowledge that something else, someone else, was in his mind—his most private space—watching everything, observing him. He couldn’t throw masks up here like he usually could.

After careful consideration, choosing potent questions, he asked, How did you steal the Peacock Miraculous from Nathalie Sancoeur’s apartment?

Ha, the voice hiccuped with amusement, aren’t you shrewd? I was responsible for Nathalie’s capture. I’d been watching her. I knew the Miraculous was in her apartment, but not where exactly, so I needed her detained in order to hunt. After her arrest, I broke in and stole it.

Adrien picked up his phone and wrote the explanation down, word for word. It was like writing down thoughts in his own head. Next: What are all the purposes for which you want to use the Peacock Miraculous?

Like I said, I would like to understand you.

I said all the purposes.

A sportive ripple went up Adrien’s spine, like imagining laughter. Oh, you’re fun. Very well. I would like to understand you, next I would like to know you better than anyone else in the world, and in exchange I would liberate you from this prison.

Adrien’s chest tightened with fear. This villain was not what he expected. He documented their answers on his notes app. He wanted to pursue those creepy declarations further, but he only had one question left and he knew what any rational person had to ask.

What is your civilian identity?

You’re stretching the limits of my goodwill, the voice said. I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Adrien. But you may call me Pavona.

PAVONA, he typed on his screen. Pavona, Pavona. It was entirely unfamiliar.

This was already more information than he and Ladybug had found by any other methods, over all these months. Finally, Adrien had tucked away an important technique from his research: casting out an amok or akuma by sheer willpower alone. Alya had done it. Chloé had done it. He could do it.

He took a deep breath and focused on the voice in the back of his head, pictured scooping it out like plucking a pearl from an oyster. It was harder than he thought; in Alya and Chloé’s testimonies, they said that the urge to damage was powerful and encompassing. Rage, jealousy, spite, or violence. But even if it was powerful, it was so clearly not their own doing, and therefore the girls could locate it with ease and expel the akuma.

But there was nothing in Adrien that seemed other. All he felt was himself. It took a minute more of concentration, during which a shaky voice said: do not be afraid. We will speak again.

I know we will, he answered.

Then he was free, an amok lilting in the air. The magic slowly drained out, turning the feather back into a white fluff. Adrien sank against the wood, exhausted, as the token of the Peacock likewise sank to the floor.

He expected Plagg to know, to sense the token of another kwami in his presence, and come racing into the bedroom full of disapproval. But when Adrien walked into the living room and curled up with his kwami among the cushions, Plagg didn’t sense anything amiss.

Chapter Text

EVERYTHING WAS SLIDING DOWNHILL, ALL events happening under their own momentum.

That was what Adrien felt as the trial raced through its preparatory stages, as Ladybug travelled the legal pathway and he the not-so-legal pathway, courting the mysterious Pavona’s attention. Downhill, and he couldn’t stop now that he’d started. Wouldn’t, even if given the chance.

Adrien reread the notes he’d taken from their first encounter, copied meticulously from his notes app to a paper pad, branded in the corner with the Le Grand Paris logo. His iPhone was pressed between cheek and ear. When the call connected—Mira-Message to Paris’ police department, probably encrypted on both ends—and Roger’s burly voice sounded on the other end of the line, he said, “Morning, Detective. It’s Chat Noir.”

“Oh, hello, Chat Noir. How can I help you?”

I was responsible for Nathalie’s capture. “Who was the person who reported Nathalie Sancoeur?”

“Pardon?”

“The police reports say it came through as an anonymous tip,” Adrien added.

“Hold up. Let me pull up the record.” Adrien waited patiently at his writing desk as Roger audibly typed on a keyboard. “See, here. September sixteenth we received a call that Nathalie was planning to flee the country. The caller said they were hired to procure and deliver a fake passport to Quai de Bercy.” Made sense, because at the time Nathalie Sancoeur was a wanted woman and couldn’t show her face anywhere. “But when they realized who had solicited their services, their conscience got the better of them and they phoned in. If you can believe the conscience part. Personally, I think they realised aiding and abetting a felon would get them done for worse than fraud.”

Adrien asked, “How did you verify their identity?”

“We didn’t. That’s the point of an anonymous call,” Roger said, matter-of-factly. “Whether we trust the report is based on honour and gut feelings—but who else but a middleman would have known where Nathalie would be ready to collect the passport?”

I’d been watching her. “Is there a way to trace the call?” Adrien wondered.

“Yep, and we already thought to do it, but it bounced.” Roger cleared his throat. “Why are you asking?”

Adrien sighed and tapped the nib of his pen against the paper pad. He’d been expecting to take more notes, to find a useful lead, but there was nothing revealed here that he already didn’t know. “Just trying to tie up loose ends before the trial. Thanks for your help.”

Later that week he went to visit his mother. Until he found Pavona, Adrien had to keep his emotions under strict control. When they spoke, he had to communicate the right things, in the right way, keep them onside.

Pavona sounded obsessive. Knowing him better than anyone else in the world, wanting to free him from the hotel. Arachne had been an attempt to ‘liberate’ him. So was it a fan, enacting their version of vigilante justice? Was it someone closer to home?

Emelie’s doctor was in the private ward when Adrien stepped in. One of the hotel security guards had driven him here and accompanied him to this floor, but he had politely lingered outside in the corridor while Adrien visited his mother. “How is she?”

“Emelie’s brain activity is still very low.” Probably meant to comfort, she added, “But she’s stable.”

“The longer she’s unresponsive, isn’t it less likely she’ll wake up?” Emelie was in a permanent vegetative state. The treatment was nearly no treatment: nurses cleaned her, fed her, turned her this way and that to preserve her skin dexterity, and occasionally administered intravenous courses of antibiotics to stave off infections.

“Statistically, yes, but people can always surprise us.”

Adrien inhaled, the scent of disinfectant tingling underneath the pleasant florals of the gerberas and hyacinths he always brought. Exhaling, he said, “Is there anything else you can try?”

“There’s a technology where we run ultrasonic waves through the brain. The waves target the thalamus, which plays an important part in consciousness, and might rouse her.” Adrien looked away from his mother, skin pale against the light blue duvet, and raised his eyebrows. The doctor shook her head. “It’s developing, though. The few clinical success stories from the States weren’t part of controlled trials, so they could have all been coincidental recoveries.”

But this was his mother, so beautiful, so still, and he had to try everything. “Will it harm her?”

“No. It’s a short procedure, and we use ultrasound for all types of imaging already.”

“Can we try?”

“Well, we’d need Emelie’s next of kin to sign an authorisation form, and then it might take a while for the lab to process the documentation and fit her into the next clinical run—assuming they’re running one this year.”

“I’ll sign it, and I don’t mind waiting.”

The doctor deliberated. In the silence Adrien heard machinery beeping, the footsteps and chatter of medical staff beyond the door. “I’ll bring up the form then.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor left the ward, shutting the door softly behind herself.

Adrien still felt watched.

The sensation had settled into his bones.

When he showered, envisioning some invisible entity in the corner of the bathroom. When he was falling asleep, jerking awake from the idea of someone leaning close over his body and breathing softly on his cheek. In public, it was even worse, because it became logical instead of paranoid to assume he was being watched, perceived, laid out and judged.

The glass of the window clicked—the way panes did when they were cooling or warming in their frames—and Adrien nearly jumped out of his chair, coiled tight with anticipation. He looked over his shoulder, scanned the room, and forced himself to relax.

Over New Year’s, he’d called Aunt Amelie again. There were talks about how long Emelie’s coma would last, and at what point they should let go. The doctors were mindful of the trial and maintained that there was no rush to make any decisions; they should take time to consider what Emelie would have wanted in a situation like this.

Adrien didn’t need any time. He could imagine her determination, the resolute expression that would settle on her fine features when she realised the damage the Miraculous was doing to her health.

She would give up her own life for that of others? he had asked Gabriel, disguised as the Familiar. Leave her husband and her son behind?

By that point, she regretted nothing.

If Emelie were here, to see the wreckage left in her wake, the violence of her husband and the grief of her son and the city suffering for it, Adrien knew instantly what she would want. She would want to be let go. For the good of the people, for healing and for peace and for the future.

He was unsurprised when the amok found him. He knew it would come again. It was actually a relief to be free of the suspense. The expectation of a slap to the face was almost worse than the sting.

Adrien pulled out a flower from the vase on Emelie’s nightstand. Whoever was on the other end of the line had taken a strong interest in him, and so long he kept up this new act that didn’t quite feel like acting, Pavona would keep coming back, trying to ply him.

The amok reached the petals, and the transmission opened between him and Pavona just like the last time. He shut his eyes and leaned back against his chair. Hello again, he said immediately, more confident now. Pavona.

I feel your loneliness, Adrien. You spent years imprisoned in your family’s mansion, and now you’re imprisoned in a different way. You don’t deserve to be denied your freedoms while the civil servants of this city chase dead ends and attempt to cobble a trial together.

It was similar to what Felix had said when they called over Christmas: might as well have never left the mansion if you need to live under someone’s thumb.

How would you free me? If I left, I would be someone who ran away before he was set to testify in court—that doesn’t look good.

Let me harness your emotion. I will create a sentimonster powerful enough to transport you anywhere, strong enough to protect you from the Miraculous holders that would try to trap you and bring you back. You could leave this city and its mess behind.

What would I have to do in return? Adrien wondered sceptically. Bring you Chat Noir and Ladybug’s Miraculous?

No. Nothing so severe, Pavona crooned. After I free you, you will come to me. One visit. That’s all.

This is my city, my mess. I don’t want to leave it, especially if it means hurting or scaring other people.

Necessary measures.

This isn’t necessary, Adrien thought back, what you attempted with the sentispider at the hotel. None of those people had to be endangered like that.

They condemned you for your father’s wrongdoings and locked you up there to rot, Pavona hissed. They see nothing wrong in confining you just so they can feel safe.

Adrien didn’t feel imprisoned—or was that Felix and Pavona’s point? He didn’t, but he should? I elect to be there, every day.

Pavona snorted, somehow, Adrien could feel the derision flick through his brain. Yes, you would. You are too kind for this city. I am not.

So, you are avenging me by prolonging my captivity? Your sentimonsters are delaying the trial that would free me.

You think the trial would free you? Once the trial is over, you will go back to being a celebrity, hounded by people who love and people who hate you alike. You will never see a moment’s peace again, Adrien. If you think otherwise, you are a fool. Your freedom lies with me only.

He allowed a moment to check Pavona’s rant was complete.

In a softer tone, he asked, Why do you care? Why devote yourself to my cause?

It took work not to ‘sound’ repulsed. The things this person had done already were deplorable, but if he let these sentiments show, Pavona might not be as willing to share their motives and plans. He needed to seem winnable.

Because I love you, Adrien. I will do whatever it takes.

The ward door opened. Adrien’s head snapped in its direction sharply, and the doctor noticed his unease.

“Sorry, I probably should have knocked. I have the forms here to get Emelie into the next ultrasonic therapy trial,” the doctor explained, waving the papers in her hand. “Are you ready to go through them with me now?”

Adrien swallowed and nodded. He couldn’t reject the amok here, not now with a witness who might tell the authorities, who then might wonder why Adrien didn’t think to report an amok sighting himself. With the suspicious timing of a newly active villain, he’d probably be made a suspect again. His composure was shot to bits. He probably couldn’t even break the connection with Pavona even if he tried.

“Yes, of course,” he answered. The doctor pulled up the other chair from Emelie’s other side and sat down beside him. She gave the blue flower in his hand a brief look, and he innocently slipped it back into the vase.

While the doctor ran Adrien through the details, logistics, and schedule of the trial, Pavona purred sweet, dangerous nothings into his ear. Run away with me, abandon this pain.

I will make you forget everything that ever hurt you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

On Saturday afternoon, Alya packed a duffel bag and walked from her apartment to Marinette’s house for a sleepover.

The girls helped prep the bakery for the next day in the evening, then ate a scrumptious dinner in the Dupain-Chengs’ dining room, and finally ascended into Marinette’s bedroom for ‘girl talk’ which actually meant All Things Trial.

The girls changed into their pajamas and group-called Nino and Adrien, catching the latter up on school gossip.

The outrageous things Chloé continued to do and get away with, the subtle and sad manipulations of Lila. Nino’s tour around several Parisian university campuses to check out the state of their student radio stations, poke his head into the libraries and dining halls. Marinette’s utter frustration with the graduation formal planning committee, their sudden comprehensive lack of favourite music, colours or flavours for her to plan an event around.

Alya’s application to a slew of American Ivies and for the Chalmers scholarship (an all-expenses grant for international intending Journalism majors) and whether she was truly prepared to live in the violent oligarchy the USA had become. Most people weren’t looking to go abroad; those that were did not go further than two countries in any cardinal direction, sea borders included, but Alya found herself spotlighted because she was an anomaly.

They talked about the war on women, the cost of tuition for international students, the racism and degrading pillars of democracy. Alya had fielded the same questions from her parents and sisters (Nora was concerned; Ella and Etta were only giddy with the prospect of meeting celebrities) in the months leading up to her application—which had been submitted quite recently, in that stomach-stuffed, eggnog-warmed purgatory between Christmas Day and New Year’s.

She was glad to have that paperwork out of the way before this extra headache exploded. “Alya’s applied for lots of scholarships,” Nino said. “I have full confidence that she’ll get them, too.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Alya sighed, “but the chaos is part of the reason I’m so attracted to studying journalism there. The relationship between media, civil society and the government is so under-the-microscope there, you know? It feels like learning in the heat of things.”

“Alya’s not afraid of trial by fire,” Nino remarked, “even if I’ll miss you a lot.” Adrien and Marinette made cutesy fawning sounds.

Leaving Nino would be the hardest thing she’d ever had to do—if she had to leave the country. She knew France only as a safe harbour, with its own shaky politics, but it was her home. There was a restlessness in her, an urge to see what else was out there. She wanted to feel like a kid again, wide-eyed and hopeful. This city felt so hollow and so depressing after Hawk Moth, after seeing Adrien go through this trial.

The streets and buildings were starting to press on her, an old sweater too small, a beloved childhood bed too short. Was this how it felt to outgrow a hometown? She couldn’t stay here forever. She couldn’t stay here now. While Alya was well-aware that travelling abroad might not be the solution to making her feel less… jaded, she had to try.

Alya shook her head slightly and refocused on Marinette’s phone. Besides. Her applications hadn’t even been ‘accepted’ on the other side of several online student portals, let alone seen by a real human admissions officer. No point jumping the gun.

In time, Adrien caught them up on his most recent meeting with his lawyers, ferried to their offices in the same arrondissement as the Palais de Justice, the Assizes Court. The offices were all glass and steel, rising across the Seine like the modern sibling to the Palais’s beige stone and oxidised copper detailing.

Alya remembered her last day in court. It took hours, and her ass completely fell asleep on the hard wooden benches. After testimonies by Detective Raincomprix, investigators, the Attorney General, and the President himself, it was determined that the trial would proceed. Gerard deemed the evidence dossier comprehensive, the investigation duly conducted, and then set a schedule of dates for the oral hearings. Gabriel, Nathalie, Adrien, and a slew of other relevant experts and witnesses all now had appearances in court.

Given his absence from pretrial, Adrien’s lawyers informed him that due to the notoriety of the case and the danger of the unknown Peacock Miraculous holder, all hearings would be closed to the public—which, unfortunately, meant that if his classmates were not called as witnesses (which many wouldn’t be, having given exhaustive interviews that could be read on their behalf) they wouldn’t be able to support him in person.

“I’m sorry Marinette and I can’t be there to cheer you on,” Alya apologised. The girls were lying on their stomachs on Marinette’s bed, her phone propped vertically against her pillows. “I wish we could.” Marinette gave her a subtle look. Ladybug and Rena Rouge would be on duty, requested as special security in case of a sentimonster attack.

“That’s okay. I know you guys will be there in spirit.”

“Totally,” Marinette grinned. “Just imagine us standing at the back of the courtroom waving an ADRIEN 4EVA!!! banner. Three exclamation marks.”

“Well, if that banner is anything like my new favourite quilt, it’ll be the most impressive thing in the room.”

Love was a funny thing. There used to be a time when a call from Adrien Agreste would send Marinette into a stammering, self-conscious spiral. Now, pink-cheeked and casually reclined, she was joking without melting down, and even slightly… distracted? Perhaps Ladybug spending all that time in close quarters with Adrien had done some good, aside from the very obvious public good for the entire city.

“Don’t you know?” Marinette quipped, “I’m the leading designer of imaginary demonstrative tapestries and wall-hangings.”

Adrien repeated, “Wall-hangings?” in a dubious tone and propped his chin on his hand.

They talked for ten more minutes, but Marinette kept drifting in and out of the conversation. She would appear to be staring at the screen, and a sideways glance would reveal that her eyes were ever-so unfocused, glazed over and pinned on the middle distance. After the boys hung up, Alya sighed contentedly and rested her chin on her folded arms. “Adrien seems well-prepared. Getting mock trials from his lawyers and everything.”

“Yeah,” Marinette agreed absently.

“But that boy has never found anything he couldn’t do, so kind of makes sense he’d ace the criminal justice system, too,” Alya added on. Marinette didn’t answer this time. “What’s wrong?”

Marinette sighed, rolled over onto her back and slung her elbow over her eyes. “I think I’m letting go of my feelings for Adrien.”

Alya shot up on the mattress, eyes urgent. “What? But you’ve loved him since, like, day one.”

“I know. And since day one I never told him, because I knew in my heart it would end badly. Now this trial has complicated our dynamic, and I just— I wouldn’t feel right dating him or even confessing.”

“Marinette, how could you?”

“I’ve thought this through, Alya. I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t want to fight about this right now,” she said tiredly.

“There’s no fight. Sorry.” Sympathetically, Alya inched closer and laid on her back. “I was just… surprised.”

Alya gazed around Marinette’s room, her photo wall of friends and family, the Miracle Box in the corner, the kwamis dozing and playing around them. Then her eyes wandered over to her sewing machine. This academic year, Marinette had not really touched it, not designed or made anything before or since Adrien’s Christmas gift. There was actually a thin layer of dust, dust, covering the top panel and the bobbin of black thread sitting on the spool pin.

She though of her own plans to leave the country and understood better. Maybe the way she felt about Paris—she would always love it, but it didn’t fit her anymore, so she had to leave it behind—was similar to Marinette’s feelings about Adrien. There was bittersweetness; she’d always yearned to see how happy Marinette and Adrien could make each other, but this was okay, too. At least they would always be friends, and love each other that way.

Perhaps it was impossible to experience something like this trial and emerge the same as before.

They were all growing up. Whether they wanted to, or not.

Chapter Text

CHAT NOIR KNOCKED ON THE heavy oak door, eyed the polished golden handles in the growing silence, and had just pressed his clawed fingers down on the metal when a voice called out.

"If it's Chat Noir, come in," Heloise said. "If it's someone else, I'm busy."

He strolled into her office and took a seat at her mahogany desk.

The investigating judge, smiling tiredly, every minute of her working day precious as the trial approached, started speaking without preamble. "Final court orders have been released, if you haven't already seen the dates and times. My department is compacting evidence to bring to court already, so don't be surprised if boxes and documents go missing from your office. Why haven't you confirmed your attendance?"

Adrien Agreste had to be at all the trial hearings. Therefore, Chat Noir would not be at any, and decided to play dumb. "My...what?"

"Ladybug has confirmed. As Paris' premier heroes, your attendance would boost morale, not to mention bulk up the courtroom security."

Chat Noir crossed his arms. "Unfortunately, I can't. Besides, I really only joined the investigation halfway through. It was already two months' done by the time I returned. Ladybug can read my statements."

Heloise was deeply confused. The corners of her mouth pulled down, and her frown lines multiplied by four. "And yet your friend, the Familiar, interrogated Gabriel. Transgressing our protocols, might I add, which I forgave on account of your long-standing dedication to this city. You've been one of the most consistent and successful people working this case, and now you're telling me you don't want to see it across the finish line?"

"I'm involved only to find the missing Miraculous. That's my primary aim right now and, of course, it overlaps with anything Hawk Moth related. But, as I said, I still have a lot of work to do."

"Does Ladybug know?" Heloise wondered, "that you won't be attending the trial at all?"

Ladybug did know. She'd been disappointed but understanding when he told her; all he had to do was make any sort of reference to his undefined personal problems, and she gave him anything he asked for.

But Chat Noir did not like the implication in Heloise's tone, her suggestively wide eyes. "Ladybug and I are partners in the truest sense. She doesn't answer to me," he explained, rising from his seat, "and I don't answer to her. Good luck with the trial, Heloise."

Meeting concluded abruptly, Chat Noir planned to walk the multiple flights of stairs down to the basement office but he was accosted on the ground floor by a mob of reporters.

"Chat Noir!" one asked, shoving a microphone into his face. "Why do you think you have enough information to go to trial, given that the Peacock Miraculous has not yet been found?"

"Is there evidence that Gabriel's wife was complicit in his crimes? How do you plan to convict an unconscious woman?"

Light flashes from cameras burst in his vision. He nimbly sidestepped and made for the stairwell, but they encircled him. "Do the heroes have a plan to find the Peacock Miraculous wielder?"

"What is your response to the allegations that Ladybug has orchestrated a new villain in order to keep her job and stay relevant?"

Utter bullshit, that's what. Chat Noir gritted his teeth and smiled easily. "No comment, thank you," he kept saying. "No comment, thank you." If he even deigned to answer one obvious question, they would all want answers.

But they would not take a hint, bunching tighter and tighter around him until he was forced to use his staff to vault out of the crowd. Looked like he wouldn't be doing any research today—namely, continuing his fruitless search through the CCTV on Nathalie's apartment around mid-September to see if he could identify Pavona breaking in.

Chat Noir didn't know what he was expecting (balaclava and baseball bat and getaway car?) but he initially felt certain he'd know Pavona if he saw them. Instead, he was watching day after day of civilians, families, contractors, delivery men and Uber drivers pulling up to the apartment building and leaving, mundane and unassuming, just as they arrived.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

He lowered himself down and set himself down on top of the Palais, crouching on the central dome of the slate-blue tiled roof. A blanket of clouds hung low on the horizon. Paris, his city, sprawled out in a dusty stretch of buildings. Residences and storefronts touching shoulders, crammed together like people in a crowd on a sunny day.

He didn't want to go back to the hotel.

That was one of the locations Pavona could reliably access Adrien Agreste. They knew to find him there, and talking to Pavona was a unique type of exhaustion. Walking a tightrope, blindfolded, carrying mental weights. They liked whispering at the back of his head, running intangible caresses down his consciousness.

Even when Chat Noir could focus and push the amok out of any item of his belongings, mentally severing the connection with Pavona, their voice lived constantly at the back of his mind. Not magically, but in memory. The things they'd said to him were scarring and permanent; he would never be the same again.

Pavona was a perceptive and silver-tongued villain, reading Chat Noir with a bored confidence that cut deep. Even his grief counselor, and the therapist said counselor subsequently referred him onto, had never come as close. Not his friends or family.

It was Pavona who knew him better than anyone else in the world, just as they predicted the first time they communicated.

I know the secret you're keeping from your friends, Pavona had said last night.

Adrien had experienced panic so blinding he physically couldn't see. Eyes open, black spots across his vision. Did they know his secret identity?

Instead, they'd said, You secretly would be relieved if the trial was delayed. If some freak accident prevented the course of justice, if you had to stay in this hotel and keep enjoying Ladybug's little visits.

When they'd said Ladybug's name, he'd detected a hint of venom.

You can't tell your little school friends because they couldn't wrap their feeble brains around emotions this complex, this wrong, Pavona had continued, as Adrien lay paralysed in his bed, Plagg snoozing mere inches from his head. How can Adrien not want to have his life and agency back? How can he not want to move on?

You don't know what you're talking about. I do want to move on.

You do, Pavona had agreed, but you want other things more. I know you better than anyone. I've heard thoughts that you are too afraid to articulate to yourself. You were a canvas for other people to paint on, a mannequin for other people to dress. You grew up wanting to appease your parents in any way it took.

I love them, Adrien had meekly defended. Of course I took their opinions and wishes into account.

But it goes deeper than that, doesn't it? Vapour that takes the shape of its vessel, and without confinement you will just diffuse into nothing. As much as you resented being your father's canvas, you fear what you'd be without him, without the pathway he steered you on, or without your friends and their pretty hopes for you.

He had wanted to say that Pavona was wrong, so wrong and misguided, but as they spoke he'd agreed wholeheartedly, despite himself. Pavona had been inside his mind. It had simply felt like his darkest truths bubbling up from the depths.

Adrien had fought to draw breath. What would I be?

Why, nothing. A blank canvas. A naked mannequin. Vapour molecules. A wordless script. You don't know how to exist on your own, Adrien. That's why you spent years bowing to your father's desires, spent months obeying authorities.

Here was where Adrien had allowed himself a stroke of relief. Pavona's misstep about his mindless obedience had indicated she didn't know his alter ego, the side of him that could disobey, destroy and rebel. But by and large, they were right. He could exist on his own, but he really didn't want to. It was much easier to be told what to want and how to act, like a child.

Modelling? Okay. Basketball, fencing? Chinese lessons, horse-riding, piano playing? Okay, okay.

Be less extravagant, less flirty—be someone like Cat Walker? Okay.

Get answers, take revenge—be someone like the Familiar? Okay.

Find the Peacock Miraculous, save the city—be Chat Noir? Okay.

If this trial ends, you'll fear going out into the world and losing yourself in the gaps between other people and yet that's the only way you know how to live. So you'd rather not find out. And I'm the only one who's ever looked close enough, cared enough, to notice this, Adrien. That's why we are so compatible. Aren't these conversations cathartic? Don't you feel seen?

He had felt seen. He had been photographed and filmed and stalked, he'd spoken to reporters and testified in court, yet he'd never been seen like this.

Completely bare, like climbing to the rim of an impact crater and turning around slowly, beholding the desolation that lay for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was lunchtime at Francois Dupont when the weather alerts went off on everyone's phones.

Extreme fog, rolling in quicker than any meteorological service could have predicted, highways being closed and people being discouraged from driving—apparently it was that severe. Nino, Marinette and Alya abandoned their meal trays at their tables and crowded up against the windows with the rest of their schoolmates.

They ended up next to Juleka and Rose, who stood close to the glass to peer through at the streets beyond. Alya couldn't see the streets beyond. Everything had gone... grey? When she came close enough, she realised it must have been a bank of fog or mist that had rolled in within a matter of... minutes? The sky had been blue, granted splattered with clouds, but blue nevertheless, the last time she looked in this direction.

Marinette was nearly pressing her nose against the glass, squinting through the cloudy blur. "Something's wrong,"she commented, raising a finger to gesture to her classmates. "Look at those people."

Alya glanced where her best friend indicated. There were silhouettes on the streets, people getting out of their cars and strolling around. They looked aimless as they walked; instead of lingering around their vehicles, they trailed further and further in no particular direction, not stopping to even talk to each other.

Marinette stepped back from the window and threw a thumb to the cafeteria door. She affected a queasy expression, and Alya read her friend's thoughts perfectly. It was time to suit up. "You know, my stomach is feeling a little upset. I'm going to the bathroom."

She made eye contact with Alya, who nodded and touched Nino's arm. "I'm going to go with Mari, babe. Just in case she needs help. Stay here," lowering her voice, "in case you need to protect people."

Nino nodded, chest puffing up with purpose. "Got it. Feel better soon, Marinette."

"Thank you."

Something about the fog wasn't sitting right in her gut. She and Marinette found empty stalls in the second-floor bathrooms and transformed. Rena Rouge stepped out with her weapon of choice—a charmed flute—wieldy, discreet, and extremely flexible. "I'm going to send out my sensors."

"Good idea," Ladybug said. "You stay here in case you need to evacuate the school, and I'll see what's going on in the street."

Rena Rouge set down the lid of the toilet and stepped on top, pushing open the hinged window. She broke her flute into a dozen smaller components and threw them out the window, shutting it just as quickly.

Each piece was its own self-sustained drone, which would be taking flight, climbing high, and spreading throughout the city as she settled on the top of the toilet. They were equipped with cameras, UV emitters, infrared sensors, and on-board barometric equipment.

Their feeds contributed to an aggregate broadcast that Rena viewed on the screen of her Fox Phone, switching between visual, infrared, and other spectroscopic metrics—like those that would distinguish between a large vapour cloud and surrounding solid buildings. The thirteenth drone held two earpieces, one which she kept, and the other which she gave to Ladybug.

"Stay safe, Ladybug."

Two minutes later, Rena had established an audio connection with Ladybug. She kept one ear trained on the girls' bathroom, listening for schoolmates walking in. The first question she asked: "Is this a sentimonster?"

On the Fox Phone, the visual feed was useless: the fog obscured everything. The infrared feed heat-mapped the city from above. Rena could see Ladybug's every movement as a red-yellow female figure walking around on a screen of blue-green. The spectroscopic feed revealed a gaseous mass enveloping the school's arrondissement, largely composed of a complex gas mixture.

Ladybug's voice came through, crisp and determined. "They usually take the form of a creature, but there's nothing stopping them from being... fog? Mist?" Rena heard her stop a civilian and ask him some establishing questions. "Excuse me, sir, have you seen anyone behaving suspiciously in this area?"

"No, no," he answered, sounding...detached. Dazed? "Who are you?"

"Ladybug," Ladybug said.

"Who's that?" He didn't know Ladybug? Everyone knew Ladybug.

Back in the bathroom, Rena blinked. Switched to the infrared feed and honed in on Ladybug's location, transmitted by the earpiece, where she could see two bodies close together, talking. Something felt off. She was tugged by the same gut instinct she had when she saw the masses of people wandering in the fog.

"Ah," Ladybug was saying, "I'm the Guardian of Paris. Are you a local? Or tourist?" Being a tourist might absolve him from the mental slip, especially if he was older and from a remote part of France.

"I'm a local," he said instead, chuckling with pride, mixed with offence, "I've lived here for... for a long time... How long have I lived here?"

The red-orange figure walked away from the red-yellow figure, who turned around and started searching for another civilian to interview. Rena opened her web browser in another tab on her Fox Phone and searched the chemical properties for the gas mixture, symptoms if inhaled.

The webpage results loaded. A simple asphyxiate, used in memory therapies and as anaesthetic. Prolonged exposure leads to dizziness, nausea, vomiting, loss of consciousness, and death.

"Ladybug," she said, a warning edge in her voice.

"Alya!" Ladybug whooped. No. Not Alya. Rena. She should be calling her Rena. "What are you doing? Why are you calling me Ladybug?"

"It's Rena," Rena Rouge said. How could Ladybug forget protocol like this? "And you are Ladybug. Don't use any other names."

"Oh. Gotcha. Well, I was talking to a gentleman to...to find out... Hm. What was I speaking with him about?"

Crap. The fog was making people forget things. Everything, it seemed, if the man Ladybug had spoken to couldn't even remember how long he'd lived in Paris.

"Call your Lucky Charm now," Rena commanded, routing a virtual map through the fog, "and follow my instructions. I'm getting you out of there."

Chapter Text

LADYBUG WAS VERY CONFUSED, AND very disoriented.

Following Alya's instructions, she called her Lucky Charm—it gave her a gas mask—and pulled it on. She didn't remember how she came to be in the middle of the street, surrounded by fog so thick that she couldn't see her own hand in front of her face.

She wanted Alya to tell her that Chat Noir was on his way, that Hawk Moth had created a villain that stole people's memories, and that she just had to find the poor akumatised person and de-evilise their akuma. Just like normal.

Instead she said, "I don't know where Chat Noir is. I don't know if he's coming. At the end of this block, get under the manhole and into the sewers. I'm watching you on my sensor network; I'm trying to get you out of the fog."

"Okay." Just as Alya said, there was a circular metal grate on the pathway at an intersection.

Squinting through the haze, Ladybug had to swerve around cars left empty and running in the streets, apologise for bumping into people aimlessly walking around. Ladybug lifted the manhole cover and stepped down the ladder, sliding it back over her head.

Alya sent information and clips of her footage to the news stations, to the disaster response units, to the police. The message would be out there within minutes, transcending breaking news level. This was a public health emergency.

"Where is Nino? Where are you?" Ladybug wondered, taking corners through the dimly lit underground as Rena directed. The gas mask rasped as she breathed. It was truly impossible to see anything. "Where's Adrien?"

"Nino's in the cafeteria, keeping a watch over our classmates. I'm in the girls' bathroom. Adrien is in Le Grand Paris." Apparently, Alya was consulting a spectroscopic feed—whatever that was, however she had access to that—to see the extent of the fog, which was seeping into the streets of the city like something spreading its fingers, and calculated an exit route.

"What? Why is he in the hotel?"

"We don't have the time to talk about that," Alya said, threads of her composure snapping under the blade of extreme concern. "I'm sorry, I know you don't remember. Take a left here."

Ladybug launched her yo-yo and swung across the water, landing on the far walkway. "Okay. Just tell me how to defeat Hawk Moth and I'll do it. Has a villain shown up?"

Alya spoke with an uncomfortable, hesitant tone. "Hawk Moth is out of action. This is the Peacock Miraculous holder—I think this fog is a type of sentimonster."

"Alright. Then how do I find Mayura?"

"It's not Mayura," Alya admitted. "I don't know who. No-one knows."

"So..." Ladybug spluttered. "What do I do?"

Give her a distressed civilian to comfort. Give her a supervillain to confront. Give her an object to break, a token to purify, a city to save. Don't say I don't know.

"I'm just trying to get you to safety. And then we can regroup and figure out what to do. There are other people in the fog, all losing their memories. I don't want it to get so bad that they start endangering themselves. Or forgetting how to breathe."

"Can humans forget how to breathe?" Ladybug said, her blood running cold.

"Let's not find out."

"B— but what am I supposed to do? We don't know who is responsible, or which object we need to find. And I can't remember anything before... what month is it?"

"January."

"What?" Before Ladybug could freak out at the lost time—it was September, school just started, right?—she leaned back against the smooth concrete wall and slid into a sitting position. "Okay. If I used my Lucky Charm on this mask, I need to de-transform and feed Tikki."

"You don't," Alya said. "You've been able to sustain your superhero form for over half an hour, post-Lucky Charm, for months now."

Ladybug put a hand over her mouth, trying to stay calm. "Okay. Well, I don't know if I remember how to do that. So I'm going to feed Tikki and ask for her help. I'll keep you on the line." She withdrew the earpiece, took off her gas mask, called, "Spots off," and put both items back on her body.

Alya said, "Adrien is safe. He just replied, and he said the hotel staff have really polished their emergency response procedures after the last sentimonster attack—

"—the last what?"

"—and he's currently entertaining a pair of security guards, who are sealing his doors and windows with tape and towels and shit and looking after him." Alya took a breath, and made a surprised sound. "Oh, and Chat Noir just texted the MM group chat. He can't make it. He feels really bad."

"Wow," Marinette huffed. She pulled a macaroon from her purse and fed it to Tikki, who was rubbing her temples, face crumpled into a frown. "So we're on our own."

"My head really hurts, Marinette," she whimpered. "I think the fog is affecting me, too."

"We'll fix this soon. We have to," Marinette said, even though she had no belief that they would. She felt like a failure. "Tikki, how can I find the amokised object? Every sentimonster has to have one, right? Even if they don't look like typical sentimonsters?"

"Correct. But I don't know how to find it."

She checked her cell phone. The news studios must have decided that a birds-eye view of the ninth arrondissement blanketed in uniform grey smoke was no longer interesting, because the live broadcast from the helicopters panned into a small box in the upper right hand corner of the TV screen. Nadia Chamack commanded attention once more, repeating the health authorities' advice. Stay inside. Wear masks or scarves. Close windows. Seal doors and vents.

Marinette let out a cry of frustration and put her eyes onto her knees. She hated that everyone in the city was just losing their memories and she was hiding down here, clueless as to rescue them. She hated that Chat Noir wasn't here to help her. Tikki tugged at her pigtail until she raised her miserable face.

"It's okay to not know what to do," Tikki said, floating lower until she could graze lovingly against Marinette's cheek. "In absolute uncertainty is when the powers of Creation excel. I knew nothing when I was born, and because I knew nothing, everything was possible. There's always a solution."

Solutions, solutions.

A year ago, she had a concrete solution for her entire life: she needed to pass her final exams and gain entrance to her dream fashion design course at ESMOD. She then wanted to become a renowned fashion designer and make enough money to support her parents in old age. She wanted to stay friends with Alya forever, and she wanted to marry Adrien, get a house, have kids, and adopt the hamster.

Now?

Now that existence felt a little quiet, a little tight-fitting to Marinette. Worse still, it was starting to feel like a daydream. The world and its people were so much bigger, more dangerous, than she had anticipated when she was sixteen. According to Alya, a lot had changed in five months. Everything about her adolescent future fantasy was still attractive, undoubtedly, the calm and the stability and the warmth—but... did she really need what she thought she needed? Did she really want what she thought she wanted?

What if there was some alternative pathway out there, some completely uncharted possibilities where she let herself be simultaneously stronger and weaker than she ever had? Be brave, surrender, hold firm, fling everything to the wind.

"Tikki, spots on."

Glistening points of pink light and sparkling waves of magic swept down her body.

When the Ladybug suit returned to her, it felt different. She felt every fibre and panel more finely. Like she could imagine the threads, the polymers in the threads, the atoms in the polymers, the energy stored in the bonds of the atoms. Like she could pluck at these building blocks and make materials of a different persuasion, make whatever she wanted.

Something to find this villain. Give me something find them.

"Lucky Charm," Ladybug called. A compass fell into her hands, needle spinning slowly on a well-greased axis. "Alya— Rena," she corrected herself. "Where is north from here? Relative to this tunnel."

"Perpendicular. North is your nine o'clock."

So, this compass was either totally broken, or exactly what Ladybug needed.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ladybug emerged from the sewers on Rue de la Moyenne Ronde.

She clipped the compass to her new utility belt. Her eyes had to accustom to leaving the dimly-lit but visible environment of the underground, stepping back into a ghostly Asphodel. As she'd been travelling through the tunnel networks, Rena Rouge had been updating her memories. Hawk Moth was Gabriel, Nathalie was Mayura. Adrien was in the hotel awaiting the trial, and there was a new Peacock Miraculous holder that no-one had any leads on.

As the minutes ticked on, Ladybug kept touching her earrings, feeling for the gentle piezoelectric pulses that matched the blinking lights. If she was truly on a countdown until she turned back into her civilian form, there would have been some indication from her Miraculous. But they were still, silent, and she felt more connected to herself and her surroundings than ever. She felt like she could reach for the fog and turn it solid in her palm.

She was Creation incarnate. She could do anything.

"Wait," Rena Rouge said through the earpiece. "This is where Nathalie's hideout apartment was, and where Chat Noir was directed by a previous Lucky Charm of yours."

"So we're on their tail," she whispered. A flash of shadow came from above, and Ladybug looked through the lenses of gas mask at the rooftops across the street. Very faintly visible through the haze, a figure moved—just a patch of slightly darker grey on a canvas of lighter grey—and Ladybug acted.

She threw her yo-yo from the ground, smirking in triumph when it connected with a body and coiled tight, around and around. She pulled with all her might.

Rena gasped over the line. "Are they going to get hurt?"

"No," Ladybug answered. "Just incapacitated."

The figure, the new holder of the Miraculous, rolled off the gutter and fell towards the concrete, the thread of the yo-yo falling taut over a brass ornament welded to a balcony railing. Preparing to slow the fall of the masked villain, Ladybug's weight shifted, heels dug in.

The villain expanded a blue fan in their hands, which loosened the yo-yo thread enough for their body to start writhing, hands clawing away the metallic string. "Don't," Alya exclaimed, "don't let them get away!"

Ladybug was already running toward the point where the villain's feet would touch the ground, noting the dramatic tail of their cobalt blue blazer, the clicking of deep blue boots, gloved hands. She didn't reach the pavement in time. The Peacock Miraculous holder shook free of the yo-yo, but didn't notice a small object dropping from their coat.

Ladybug chased when they started sprinting, quickly picking up the dropped key and tailing their movements. They leaped with superhuman strength onto a lamppost, then onto a rooftop, and then away. She wanted to follow, but the fog was too dense, she couldn't see clearly. Once the pursuit led onto a new street with more people—now sitting on the ground, either unable to walk or unable to remember a motivation for walking—Ladybug lost the bastard.

On the rooftops, she uselessly scanned the horizon for the villain. No luck. She looked at the indigo key in her hand and threw it to the tile.

It cracked in half, and out came a blue feather. The fog started lifting, in a flat layer, floating off the ground and above the city and to the clouds above. The blue sky returned.

"Time to de-evilise!" Ladybug announced, enclosing the feather in her magic yo-yo. God. Was it her lost memories, or had she not done this for a long time?

When the feather emerged clean and white, Ladybug took the gas mask and the compass—two Lucky Charms at once, and no transformation time limits? That was new—and threw them upwards. They winked out of existence with a pink sparkle, and then flurries of magical ladybugs swept through the city. They picked up fallen elderly, reunited separated families, realigned the disorderly vehicles on the roads. Restored the people's memories.

Ladybug remembered everything. She was spearheading an investigation that had captivated the world; she was managing a team of some of the most powerful individuals in history; she was learning and losing and adjusting.

She'd applied for fashion design schools, but her consciousness suddenly swerved to the possibility of her travelling during the year after high school, going alone to China and visiting all of her mother's extended family. She could finally learn more Shanghainese and explore the city, on her own, as an adult.

Or she could do the exact opposite, and simply spend the whole year in Paris, working full-time in the bakery. She and her father could hold things down and send Sabine back to Shanghai, so she could finally return to the place that raised her. Ladybug knew how deeply her mother missed China, how much she had sacrificed for this peaceful, loving family of theirs.

She understood now, what Tikki had been trying to teach her. The randomness of it all, the multiplicity of all the Creations that existed in the universe, the rare gift she had of being able to navigate those.

Alya would excel in journalism school, attract internships and graduate roles en masse. Her talent and courage would carry her into foreign wars, or the American presidential campaign trail, or lush jungles and undiscovered waterfalls, documenting everything for the less intrepid viewers at home. Always travelling, never with a consistent WiFi connection.

Adrien would marry a gorgeous British movie starlet and pop out ridiculously attractive triplets. Marinette would always stay fond of her first love. Perhaps in her future family's living room, she would laugh gleefully, pointing at the TV screen when Adrien Agreste appeared, and tell her own beloved children that, many years ago, they'd been very dear school friends.

Maybe, at the end of all these years, Chat Noir was the one waiting for Ladybug, all playful eyes and a mouth that'd become so stern as of late, a mouth she'd kiss until the frown lines disappeared into laughter. If she could find the courage to lift her mask, they could be together.

She might finally be able to love, slowly and surely and vulnerably.

Could she do that? Could she confess like that? Ladybug took a step back from the edge of the rooftop and put her hand over her mouth. There were tears swelling in her eyes from daring to imagine the things that she once thought would devastate her, the impossibilities she had told herself were true.

She pressed her face into her palms and laughed, wept, screamed. Anything was possible. Anything was possible.

Below, the city was starting to roll back into usual rhythms. The news helicopter left the skies, heading back towards the CBD. As the helicopter passed Ladybug, it blinked its spotlight once in thanks. Raising her hand, she waved jubilantly.

Ladybug glanced down at her hands and the magic yo-yo. Of course, she ruminated, shaking her head with a light chuckle. Her body still felt ready to climb mountains, none of her own energy going into maintaining the power of the Miraculous, which seemed to hum within her skin like a gentle sun.

Of course I could do this.

How had she not grasped it earlier?

Creation could do anything, this and this and that, and more—so much more.

Chapter Text

THE FIRST DAY OF THE trial went off without a hitch.

Gerard, the President of the Court, started the day by reading his introductory report. It contained the allegations against the defendants, the motivations of hearing these allegations in the Assizes Court, and the inculpatory and exculpatory evidence gathered by the investigators.

"The timeline of the trial is as follows," Gerard said. "Today we will hear from the investigators, coordinated by juge d'instruction Heloise Hessenpy, and experts in the case. Tomorrow we will hear from the alleged witnesses and victims of the accused. On the third day, we will hear from the accused and the last of the witnesses, Adrien Agreste."

Which essentially meant, for the first day, Adrien just had to sit and look pretty in court. There were court reporters trying to be discreet as they trained their cameras on him, but failed every time. He heard nothing new. Heloise indeed took the stand for a significant amount of time, calling in police, forensic scientists, doctors and civil servants to make her case.

Ladybug took the stand and was put under oath, swearing that she was telling everyone the whole truth and nothing but. Adrien watched her without blinking, palms growing sweaty on his fancy charcoal slacks.

"There were moments that I thought the reign of Hawk Moth would never end," she said in her testimony. "To have made it to this day is bittersweet to the extreme."

Ladybug described what the last five years were like for the heroes of Paris, the personal and professional sacrifices everyone had made, the lingering aftermath even now. She read Chat Noir's statement in lieu of the Black Cat in flesh, and Adrien had the distinct feeling the court wanted to applaud when she left the witness box. Such was the warm tension, the bodies and faces craning in her direction wherever she walked, like flowers arching for sun.

He understood the feeling, but he stamped it down. When Ladybug walked past, turning her head to smile at him—an unsung hero—he dropped his chin and averted eye contact. There were good and bad types of love. Good love, like what he felt for his friends Marinette, Nino and Alya; bad love, like what Gabriel's devotion to Emelie had warped into; bad love like Pavona's.

And his love for Ladybug... he was unsure of its quality, its potential, but still it lingered in his soul. He loved her like a friend, like a safe haven, but he'd still kiss her if she kissed him. How long would it take to be rid of this? Adrien would rather never love again, than be destroyed by a weakness so raw. Ice every errant heartbeat and hitched breath. Ice everything out.

The goal of the trial was not just to get Gabriel and Nathalie done for the appropriate amount of the time; it was to paint a complete portrait of the crime. Psychology, personal and professional attitudes, his family and his schooling and his character.

Sometimes Gerard would shine the spotlight on Gabriel or Nathalie, asking them to respond to the facts presented before the court. They both would answer in the same, clipped manner—clearly unable to say much without self-incriminating. It was painful seeing them again, thinner and older and greyer somehow. They'd entered in stylish, wrinkle-free suits and polished shoes. If it weren't for the ensemble of bailiffs that had escorted them in and were watching their every move, Adrien could almost believe they were still the king and queen of Paris' fashion industry.

In moments of high drama, when it was likely less people were watching, Nathalie gave him outright apologetic smiles, ones that he found himself returning before he could even think it through, ones that felt natural because he knew what a maelstrom his father had been, how easy it was to bend to his will, smiles that his lawyers clicked their teeth and shook their heads at. It wasn't a good look.

Across the room, Gabriel refused to meet Adrien's eyes at all, probably out of shame.

Since he hadn't taken the stand, he was never asked anything. He sat in a row with the mayor and with Chloé, who wasn't supposed to be talking to him. Mayor Bourgeois was up for re-election in the upcoming electoral cycle. Considering his daughter's already-controversial personality, he'd forbidden Chloé from fraternising with Adrien and causing any more scandal.

But once she put her hand over his and gave it a comforting squeeze. Admittedly, with her other hand she had been taking a selfie before Gerard gave her a scathing look of disapproval, but it was the gesture that counted.

In the intermission, he saw that Ladybug had texted Chat Noir one hour ago through Mira-Message. When not giving testimony, she stood guard on the prosecution side of the room. Rena Rouge guarded the defence, and Carapace leaned against the large oak door everyone had entered through at the back of the room.

Ladybug: hey kitty

Ladybug: I know you're not available for the next three days, but I was wondering if you had any spare time to talk

Ladybug: it's not urgent though. We could meet when you are free again

Ladybug: take care till then

Ladybug: wait that sounds so corporate

Ladybug: bug out, I meant

Adrien furrowed his eyebrows at his screen.

This was the most cryptic thing she'd ever said to him. A non-emergency, supposedly, yet she sounded a bit frantic. In the atrium, he saw Ladybug pour a cup of coffee from the refreshments table, talking with Rena Rouge and Carapace. Smooth as ever.

What did she want with Chat Noir? Maybe she was trying to get him to change his mind about missing the trial. He did feel guilty about his absence, especially when even Alya and Nino were in attendance as heroes.

Adrien pocketed his phone. He couldn't even respond for fear of someone—anyone, hero or witness or judiciary—seeing something they shouldn't. He resolved to call Ladybug at the first opportunity, though that opportunity didn't come until after sundown, when he was delivered back to the hotel. He ate dinner, and housekeeping came through his suite, then finally dialled her MM number.

She picked up after two rings. "Chat Noir, hey."

"Hi, Ladybug. What did you want to talk about?"

"Do you remember the day of the Forgotten Fog?"

Adrien pressed the speakerphone button and set his cell on the kitchenette counter. "Yes, I do. I'm sorry I couldn't come and help you."

"That's okay."

The hotel security had already been feeling mediocre from the first sentimonster attack. That Chat Noir had to evacuate and protect the city's star witness had apparently highlighted the hotel's procedural shortcomings. Thus, Adrien's silver tongue had come back to bite him in the ass because the next time a sentimonster attacked, security was even more vigilant.

Unlike with Arachne, with the Fog evacuation was not recommended. The public safety announcements had hit every possible form of communication: TV, radio, cell phones via a blaring presidential alert notification, all saying the same things. Stay indoors, seal all airways, wear face masks or scarves.

And then the two security guards had appeared in his suite to check his windows, doors and vents. Their job had been to keep him safe and accounted for; Adrien couldn't have slipped away. He ended up planted on the couch, utterly useless, squished between the two burly men, watching the live news bulletin that interrupted the regularly scheduled daytime soap opera.

One of the officers glanced at the living room curtains, drawn against the windows, and sighed a curse. "Are we sure this is a sentimonster? I know they come in all shapes and sizes, but it still could be freak weather we're having," he had said, a man whose belly was swelling over his belt. "I swear it's global warming."

His partner, a short, stocky young man with long sideburns, had glanced at Adrien's restlessly bouncing knee. "Chill, kid," he advised. "Ladybug has this in control. Have you ever known her not to get the job done?"

No. He hadn't.

And in the end, she had fared perfectly fine without him. She had managed to snare Pavona for a few seconds, enough time for the villain to drop the amokised key and not notice. Ladybug had purified the amok, restored Paris, Lucky Charm, Miraculous Ladybug, pound it!, blah blah blah—all without Chat Noir. Thanks to her, they had one more lead.

"Did forensics get back to you about the key, by the way?" he spoke aloud. He filled the electronic kettle with water from the tap and set it on its cradle, flicking down the heating switch.

"They did." She had taken the key to the police. Maybe with a fingerprint match, or with manufacturer information, they would find the owner. "They lifted fingerprints but which didn't match any of the ones in the police database."

"What about the code?"

"Just bitting numbers for how deep each cut on the blade is; couldn't identify any manufacturer information from it. It's probably a duplicate of some residential key, but that street has dozens of apartment buildings with thousands of apartments. The police said it'll take a long while to get through them all. We probably won't be able to find its lock, so they're keeping the key itself on file as evidence," Ladybug explained. "If you need access to it, just call Roger."

"Okay, that's good news." As the kettle started whirring softly, he coughed. "So... what did you want to tell me?"

"Well, I was— I just... realised something that day," Ladybug said slowly. "Chat Noir, these past few months—" Her voice was interrupted by a loud ringtone.

Nino's face popped up on Adrien's screen. "Sorry. I'm getting another call." Adrien wasn't surprised. In advance of the trial, he'd been getting encouraging texts and phone calls from all of his classmates all week. The public was barred from court; and those students who were witnesses were only called to appear in specific sessions. In lieu of their attendance, they were all giving him their well-wishes digitally.

"Hold on." Adrien rejected Nino's call. He texted his friend busy rn. I'll call you later bro and then switched back to Ladybug's call. "As you were saying?"

The other end of the line was quiet enough that Adrien was worried she'd left, but then she laughed once, airily. "You know what, you're busy and here I am bugging you—pun not intended." Adrien's cheek twitched with amusement. "I'll let you get some rest."

"Are you sure?"

Adrien didn't feel like rehashing the minutiae of today's hearing for all his friends. Ladybug wouldn't ask, didn't know enough to ask. Her voice was soothing, her mannerisms familiar—how she could be both petal and thorn, that angry little pout whenever he acted recklessly—like the view of the skyline from their spot. In his bones. Still. Unwittingly.

"I have time," he said quietly. The kettle grew louder. Adrien switched the call off speakerphone and pinned his phone between his cheek and his shoulder.

"I have time, too, I can wait you out, chaton. You just come find me when this current personal business is handled, okay?"

"Okay. Bye, my Lady."

Ladybug hung up, and when the water boiled and the kettle switch clicked, he felt it like a singular disappointed throb in his chest.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Gabriel and Nathalie were sentenced to life in prison without parole.

For the first two years after the sentencing, both of them fought the judgments with all their financial and social might. High-end lawyers filed appeal after appeal while they started serving their jail time, and Adrien realised once all the legal avenues were exhausted his father had truly given up.

Nathalie went first, somehow having smuggled in lethal amounts of an illegal opiate. They found her, as if sleeping, cold in her bed with blue fingers and cheeks and lips and dried saliva around her mouth. Then Gabriel, one end of a rope around the bar of his window and the other end around his neck, face swollen with cold blood.

"You know Gabriel didn't mean it. He was mad with grief," Emelie said of all his father's crimes. Ever since she awoke from her coma, as the only person who had seen how loving and gracious he could be, Emelie had difficulty reconciling the man she married with the man who went to prison. She and Adrien were living the mansion while he studied in the city. A lonely son, and a mourning parent. Again. "He just wanted us to be a family again."

He and Emelie didn't talk much. She often said that she awoke to a stranger for a son. When she disappeared, he was twelve. Now he was twenty, halfway through an undergraduate law degree, and there was no mothering left to do, no little boy to raise. Just Adrien Agreste, a beautiful mirrorball of broken glass pieces. Everyone was too busy enjoying the light he scattered around to look closely, to look inside.

After the funerals, Emelie grew more regretful—not bitter. Not yet. "You could have visited more," she'd tell her son at the dinner table. "He might have kept hope if you visited more, Adrien."

Emelie's connections in the film industry sprung back to life as if she'd never been gone. Now, Adrien was fielding calls and emails from various talent agencies; the worst was when his mother's old film friends would come over for dinner and somehow steer the conversation to the upcoming semi-biographical film about his family and the scandal and the trial.

Not in cinemas anytime soon because the manuscript for Agreste (with the ridiculously on-the-nose tagline: 'Evil thrives in the shadows') was currently locked in a five-way bidding war between various production houses.

"You ever thought about acting?" the friends would ask, to which he would say no, to which they would say, "You should think about it. I could help you learn the ropes," and slide their business cards across the polished tabletop.

That night he sneaked out to see Ladybug. There were no supervillains now. Hawk Moth and Mayura dead, Pavona apprehended and in prison. The heroes stopped car chases, located fugitives, and aided the emergency services.

André had set up his ice-cream cart on a bridge on the Seine."Ah, the lovebirds," he said when Ladybug and Chat Noir approached. The sunset was rosy orange, a low blanket of clouds acting as the perfect canvas for all the splashes of colours. "Will it be the usual flavours this evening?"

Chat Noir noticed that Ladybug collected her ice-cream with her right hand, tucking her left discreetly by her side. Once out of earshot: "Is André going to ship us for life?"

Patrolling with Ladybug was a relief, usually.

Now that she was engaged, it was bizarre. One day she'd just shown up and on her ring finger had been a black titanium band with a ruby stud, a magical representation of an ostensible real-life engagement ring.

"You're getting married?" Chat Noir had asked.

"Oh," Ladybug had said, grinning and giddy. He had never hated her smile before then. "Yeah. In summer."

Chat Noir had been offended that she never told him she was in love or dating seriously, but he had no right. He'd crushed his own chances. She'd really made an effort during the Agreste trial, holding him and kissing him (only once, but it was great) and reminding him to look after himself first.

"I think so. It gives André joy," he chuckled, forcing a mirthful smile.

Chat Noir was the one who very explicitly said he was not ready for a relationship, that he was moving on from Ladybug, that he wanted to only be partners and friends. He got exactly what he said he wanted. Their partnership was professional, rock-solid as ever, and their friendship was back to the easy-going banter he enjoyed when he was a teenager.

And forever he would hold his peace.

Ladybug took a big lick of her ice-cream cone. "Thank God he never found out about the time we kissed, he'd take it as a prophecy rather than the mistake it was."

"Mistake," Chat Noir repeated, still smiling fakely.

"Yeah, during the Agreste trial, how stressed and crazy had I become to believe I had feelings for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it was ridiculous. You're not the sort of person that people stay with, so why did I think I could be an exception?" she explained, throwing one hand—the ring hand—into the air. "I don't even know you. If I liked you, if anyone liked you, it was only because we liked the person you are constantly pretending to be."

"So true, Ladybug." He couldn't stop smiling. He was physically unable to stop. "You're so insightful."

At the end of the patrol, Chat Noir detransformed in an alleyway and walked the short distance back to the mansion.

Adrien had classes tomorrow.

He didn't care about the law. How did he end up studying it?

After his father's sentencing, the media had made such a hubbub about how Adrien was going to live a rewarding, meaningful life despite these early hurdles, and someone somewhere had suggested law, and he had been aimless enough to latch onto any semblance of a path. He had the grades for it, the willpower to read pages and pages of mind-numbing case studies.

All of his high school friends studied at different schools. He had no friends at university, not for lack of volunteers. In his cohort, everyone was either very rich (and lazy because of it), or slightly poor (and cutthroat because of it).

Adrien had very quickly learned to keep his good grades a secret; it made him a target. Target of beady-eyed jealously, sure, but also a target of sugar-tongued snakes who very, very, much wanted to become his friend. Never could he tell who was genuine and who only wanted him for his fame, or his money, or his looks, or his lecture notes.

Before Adrien knew it, his suspicion had isolated him. Too afraid to date, too afraid to trust, never confiding in anyone but Plagg, in case the things he said in confidence made the front-page news the next day. He missed the ease of his life before age eighteen. He missed Nino (who had his own awesome friend group at another university and struggled to keep Adrien in the loop), Alya (who was abroad and separated by several timezones), and Marinette (who was popular and talented and constantly interning at fashion houses and never had any availability).

Sometimes, Adrien would lie awake in his childhood bedroom and wish for an amok to appear, despite Ladybug now possessing the Peacock Miraculous.

He understood now, the treasure Pavona was offering him. Freedom from other people and their inherent dangers, the promise of one person's love and company for the rest of his life. What had Pavona said, two years ago?

Once the trial is over, you will go back to being a celebrity, hounded by people who love and people who hate you alike. You will never see a moment's peace again, Adrien. If you think otherwise, you are a fool. Your freedom lies with me only.

Well. Hindsight was twenty-twenty.

In a blink, it was the holiday season again. He thought, if Emelie came back, he would enjoy Christmastime again. Not so. His mother was always fighting with Amelie about Gabriel, so the Graham de Vanilys hadn't visited in a while, and Gabriel and Nathalie were gone, and the grandparents were gone, and it was always just the two of them in a mansion far too echo-y.

Chat Noir joined Ladybug for their usual patrol of the wintry streets of Paris. Oddly enough, his boots and suit and belt were white instead of black. They passed a skyscraper with tinted glass panes for walls, and his reflection had white hair and glacial blue eyes. They found a man wanting to jump from a tower, and Chat Noir sat down with him, staff ready to pin his body if he had to.

"You know the disappointed feeling you got when you found out Santa Claus wasn't real? Especially if you'd been suspecting it for a while, like all the magic was slowly leaving the world? I have that with my entire life. I thought I would get a house and car and job and feel happy," the man said. "But I have all those things, and I feel nothing. I'm just numb."

"Same," Chat Noir found himself admitting. He cast an eye over his shoulder to glean Ladybug's reaction, but she was standing a ways away, twirling her wedding ring around her finger with a lovesick smile. "I don't want to hurt myself, but I kinda want to sleep forever. Or get amnesia and just start again. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yes. I do know," the man said, who morphed in Gabriel.

Gabriel when he was still Adrien's father, crisp white blazers with red accents, stark hair, nimble designer's hands, a tan face. Not the thin, sallow, grey corpse they cut from the prison ceiling.

"For me, prison felt like I was alone on an island with the bare minimum needed to survive. No passion. No colour. I saw people pass by on their boats, but they couldn't dock here, and when they passed, they told me this is already more than I deserve," Gabriel said. "So complaining felt ungrateful. Every day was the exact same, not worse and not better, which means it felt worse and worse. And every day, someone sailed by to remind me that this is more than I deserve. How much longer before I just walked into the ocean?"

"Could I have saved you?" Chat Noir asked. "Is this my fault?"

Gabriel shrugged. His bespectacled eyes scanned the Paris skyline, thousands of golden lights and couples lazily strolling through the streets, one last time.

Then he pushed himself from the rooftop.

Adrien woke up in a burst of terror, shoving his palm against his mouth to stop from screaming and waking Plagg. His pulse was thundering, palpable in his throat and temples and chest. All his emotions were running haywire, a tangled mess too dangerous to even attempt to unravel. Like every negative sentiment from his whole life had been distilled into one crushing nightmare.

There were eyes glowing in the dark.

Pink avian eyes, a little blue body with trailing tail feathers. Lowering his hand, Adrien heaved a shocked breath through his lungs. "Duusu?"

"I'm sorry," the kwami said.

Then Duusu put a hand on Adrien's chest and plunged inside.

Chapter Text

A HAND LANDED ROUGHLY OVER Plagg's body.

He awoke with an indignant yell, but the noise shrivelled in his mouth when he saw Adrien in the bed, curled into a ball. His holder had beads of cold sweat on his brow, and his eyes were struggling to focus themselves.

"Plagg," he said in a weak voice, "help."

"Adrien. What's happened? What's happening?"

"Duusu," Adrien gasped, pushing his knuckles against his temple. He curled into a ball on the mattress, trembling. "He's inside my head. I can't— Ladybug. Go tell Ladybug."

In the corner of the room, a blue haze of ether materialised. Plagg looked at the forming sentimonster and thought he saw a white claw, a lock of pale hair. Usually wielders of the Peacock Miraculous needed agreement to form a sentimonster, but Duusu was the kwami of Emotion. It was wildly impressive that Adrien had suppressed the manifestation this long, but it wouldn't last. He couldn't fight a force as strong as Duusu.

But if Plagg went to get Ladybug's help, and she saw Adrien like this...

"She'll figure out your secret identity," Plagg whispered.

"I know but— ow," he seethed in pain, eyebrows furrowing sharply. "Go!"

Plagg didn't need telling twice. In the dead of morning, he zipped across Paris to the Dupain-Cheng bakery faster than he had ever travelled. He found Marinette and the kwamis sleeping and started pulling at Marinette's hair. "Wake up, wake up. Ladybug, my holder needs your help."

"What?" she mumbled, pushing herself to sit up. The electronic clock on her headboard shelf read 12:13AM. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes while yawning, "Is Chat Noir okay?"

"No," Plagg said bluntly, "he's not. You need to come quickly. He needs you."

That did it. Ladybug was awake and transformed in the blink of an eye.

She followed Plagg out of her skylight and across Paris, slinging her yo-yo expertly around lamp posts and balconies—

"Oh," she gasped. Ladybug made a faint whining sound and stumbled to a stop on a rooftop. Her legs gave out beneath her and she put a hand to her chest, breathing laboured. "I'm sorry, Plagg."

"No, no, no." Plagg grabbed one pigtail with his paws and tugged with all his might. She didn't budge.

"I feel— I feel so exhausted," she admitted. "I want to rest."

"That's not you! It's because Duusu has used his powers without a holder!" Plagg remembered the dinosaurs and his own adolescent mistake and winced. "Now you're feeling the effects. I don't know what the emotional aftermath will feel like for everyone, but you need to push through it."

"Haven't I done enough?" Ladybug said. Her face was blank like a statue, but tears started to flow. "I gave up years, dreams, people. I've done everything for this city. I let go of Adrien to prioritise the investigation," she admitted, the first splinter of pain cleaving her face in half. "I'll have to let go of Chat Noir to put our jobs first." She looked mournfully up at Plagg. "What more do I have to do?"

"Chat Noir needs you," Plagg said. "Please."

Ladybug shut her eyes, forcing another bout of tears down her masked cheeks. She nodded her head exhaustedly, pushing herself to stand. "Fine. Lead."

They arrived at Le Grand Paris. On the rooftop sat the sentimonster, a version of Chat Noir clad entirely in white. He hadn't seen them arrive; he was sitting with his back turned, feet dangling off the ledge, tail curled on the stone behind him.

Ladybug halted at the sight of him, expression slackening with fear. "Chat Blanc."

"Can you fix him?" Plagg asked.

"I don't— understand—" Ladybug breathed. In a panic, she opened her yo-yo and dipped her hand through. A magical portal must have linked the interior to the interior of the Miracle Box, because she drew out the Butterfly Miraculous clutched tightly in her fingers, lilac metal glinting. "But... what..."

"He's a sentimonster," Plagg explained. He drifted to Adrien's balcony and pointed his paw at the window. "My holder is in here."

Ladybug dropped the Butterfly Miraculous into the Miracle Box and shut her yo-yo. She glanced at the rooftop and dropped two floors lower to land on Adrien's balcony. As she registered Plagg's words, saw the direction he was pointing, understanding dawned on her face. "If Chat Blanc is a sentimonster manifested from someone's emotions... and if... is your holder Adrien Agreste?"

Plagg nodded.

Ladybug's eyes widened. She shook her head. "He can't be."

"He needs you, Ladybug."

She put her fingers over her mouth.

Plagg watched as Ladybug inhaled deeply. Her eyes cleared, her shoulders settled and squared themselves. It was the hero in her coming to the fore, taking the reins and shoving all the emotional hurdles to the side. She used the yo-yo once more to retrieve another Miraculous: this time, the Turtle.

Ladybug rattled off an address across the Seine. "Go find Alya Cesairé. Talk only to her. Tell her there's a new sentimonster in the city, and they are extremely dangerous. She needs to give Carapace his Miraculous. I need Carapace to protect people, and I need Rena Rouge's Mirage to stop anyone from seeing this sentimonster and they damage they do. Do you understand?"

He took the string of the bracelet in his paws and felt the hexagonal jade pendant's weight transfer to him, pulling him down slightly. Plagg nodded, fur bristling with the responsibility of these new tasks. "I understand."

For Adrien, he would do anything.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Fine strands of golden hair sweeping across a pale, elegant brow.

Green eyes. Innocently large pupils, morphing into dark feline slits.

She saw a kind smile. Then a dangerous smirk flashed in her brain, superimposing itself.

Ladybug pictured soft hands, unmarred by a single day's hard labour.

No, black talons clothed in leather and metal.

Those green eyes.

Adrien. Chat Noir. Adrien is Chat Noir.

On a mid-level balcony, Ladybug shook her hands out, willing the surging panic to leave her body. She didn't have time to crumble right now, no matter the shock to her system. Adrien—Chat Noir! Holy shit! What the fuck!—needed her.

What even happens when the kwami of Emotion amokizes a human being?

There were always catastrophic consequences whenever a kwami used their powers with a holder, without a magical conduit to channel their raw energy. She still felt the lingering emotional burdens that Duusu's powers put on her shoulders, like an invisible hand had reached into her soul and dragged up all her worst feelings. Was everyone else in Paris feeling something similar? What about Alya and Nino, who still hadn't arrived?

Her yo-yo pulled her onto the rooftop of Le Grand Paris. The open-air pool was covered in January, there being near-zero interest in outdoor swimming in winter. The poolside chairs, recliners and tables had been folded up and leaned against each other. On the adjoining ledge, Chat Blanc (a sentimonster, Ladybug reminded herself, just a sentimonster—this was no fault of hers, no fault of Adrien's) sat swinging his legs and singing a mournful little tune.

"...little kitty on the roof, all alone without his Lady..."

"Chat Blanc," she said, breaking the silence. He didn't flinch, which suggested he'd always been aware of her presence. But he also didn't answer, or turn around. "What do you want? Do you want my Miraculous?"

Chat Blanc swung his legs back onto the rooftop and lithely unfolded himself to stand. "No."

Without a conventional amokised object, would Chat Blanc be under Adrien's control? Would he be under Duusu's? Would he try to hurt Ladybug? How would they even get Duusu to leave Adrien's body? Ladybug couldn't remember reading anything on the matter in the grimoire, and she'd decoded and digested nearly every line in that old tome.

"Then what? Let me help you." Those dead glacial eyes haunted her nightmares. Now they were made real, and it took everything not to sink back into fear and confusion. Adrien was Chat Noir. So many seemingly disparate pieces clicked into place.

Information that Ladybug knew but had never linked.

Adrien's eighteenth birthday, when Hawk Moth was unmasked, and then Chat Noir's unexplained two month absence immediately following, when she'd needed him most. I'm sorry that I didn't let you know before I disappeared, but I couldn't do more, Chat Noir had said. I couldn't call you or return your voicemails.

"I don't need help, my Lady," Chat Blanc said. "I need to rest."

He glanced over his shoulder, jawline angling to a cutting point in profile, before falling backward off the rooftop, no resistance at all in his body. "What are you doing? Stop!"

Ladybug made it to edge in time to see his slack arm grab a lamppost in the nick of time, redirecting his momentum into an upward path. Chat Blanc landed four buildings away, across the road, and she gave chase.

"Aren't you tired, Ladybug?" Chat Blanc purred over his shoulder, too fast to catch. At least he hadn't used those casually cataclysmic powers of his, assuming he had them in this timeline. "Aren't you spread thin all over the streets of this city? I feel like I've worn so many masks that the real me doesn't exist anymore, and I'd like to stop."

Masks? Which masks? Oh— Cat Walker? He'd said Chat Noir was out of town, and so on his behalf delivered the grimoire from the Agreste mansion to Ladybug. The Familiar, apparently another 'friend'—it was all Adrien, Ladybug realised breathlessly—who inexplicably knew what to say to get Gabriel to give a statement.

Gabriel. Hawk Moth. His father.

Oh, God, the investigation. His bitterness since returning, his rough edges and refusal to stay within the lines, even the 'personal business' that currently kept him from coming to the trial. Of course they couldn't be in the same place at the same time. She'd had Chat Noir running around digging at his own monsters. How had he kept it up for so long? Better yet, why? Why would he put himself through such bullshit if he didn't have to? He could have taken a break, could have left this mess behind instead of wading deep into it.

They reached the Eiffel Tower. The dark row of trees in the garden of the Eiffel Tower swayed in the distance. The moon was ripe like a peach tonight. With effortless agility, Chat Blanc slipped between the archwork and ornate frame of the tower, ascending higher and higher. The Champs was lit with lamps from the ground, and as Ladybug pursued fiercely, their long, silky shadows flickered all over the oxidised metal. It was past midnight, so hopefully no-one would see Ladybug and the wrong Chat Noir fighting. If it came to fighting.

Reaching the uppermost platform, Chat Blanc walked up to the railing, facing a dense cluster of buildings across the park. He put his fingers to his white mask and started to lift it off his face—

"I understand," Ladybug said frantically, tackling the sentimonster to the ground. Still, he hadn't tried to destroy anything. He hadn't cried, or smiled. He felt nothing at all. "But revealing our identities to the whole of Paris isn't going to help."

Was Alya on her way? Had she used her Mirage to wipe this encounter from anyone else's perception?

Chat Blanc writhed out of Ladybug's hold and leaped onto the roof of the watchtower, crouching down low so all ten fingers daintily touched the metal. "Why not?"

Ladybug looked up; it was a cloudless night. Pitch-black and millions of stars, faint given the light pollution. "It wouldn't be safe or productive. We'd have no privacy, no space or time to just be ourselves. "

"I never had those things to begin with," he said neutrally, and another spike of guilt drove into her heart. Adrien had never had those things to begin with.

She was desperate. "You're right, but if you let me help—we can make things— better together." But she didn't even know what she was asking for. She just needed to ascertain the sentimonster situation was stable before she returned to Adrien. Chat Blanc was a pretty distraction, but he was only a symptom, not the cause of the problem.

"That's what the last one said," Chat Blanc observed. "Pavona." Who? Who was Pavona? The new Peacock Miraculous holder? "It seems like I was mistaken. You can't help me," he decided. "No-one can."

He held his middle finger and thumb together, as if to flick away a speck of dirt, and a pinpoint of white light starting crackling, glowing bright. No. Ladybug knew the destruction he could do with his powers. If not to the world, then to himself.

Chat Blanc put the white spark of magic to his neck—

—and a green orb of magic encased his hand before the Cataclysm could grow larger, smothering the charge like a fire deprived of oxygen.

Ladybug glanced backwards over the railing, where Carapace was slowly but steadily climbing up the metal frame. "Sorry we're late!" he called. "We both had really weird emotional meltdowns, like, half an hour ago, nearly broke up, but everything's chill now. Everything is fine."

Ladybug had never been so glad to see her friends. "Lucky Charm!"

It was a spray bottle labelled SLEEP. The meaning was clear. Thank goodness it didn't require a convoluted plan this time.

Chat Blanc, intrigued by the new player, crept closer to search for Carapace further below. His white hair ruffled on the breeze. He didn't notice Rena Rouge behind him somersaulting—voluminous hair whipping like a flag, landing with impressively inaudible footsteps—onto the watchtower rooftop, until she wrapped her arms around his torso and wrestled him onto the balcony with a crash of bodies and limbs.

Ladybug approached Chat Blanc, thrashing in Rena's unbreakable hold, and spritzed his face. He fought the elixir for a moment or two, before his eyelids drooped, head lolled, and he finally drifted off.

"Thanks so much guys," Ladybug said, throwing her hands around Rena. "It's not Chat Noir's fault. He doesn't mean any of this."

When Carapace reached the balcony and hauled himself over it with a grunt, his brown eyes were wide and alert behind the lenses of his goggles. "We know. We'll look after the sentimonster while you go help him. Tell him I hope he's okay."

Oh. Nino and Adrien. Carapace and Chat Noir, all those hours spent researching and investigating in each other's company. Best friends in everything.

Her arms underneath his armpits, Rena positioned Chat Blanc to lean against the wall of the watchtower. Ladybug briefly moved a lock of white hair off of his forehead, smiling sadly to herself. His skin was ice cold to the touch. Chat Blanc wasn't as scary as her nightmares had been. Not now, when she understood him. This whole time, he had just wanted relief. Hopefully she could finally give it to him, to this cold, lost kitty. Her kitty.

"I'll be back soon," she said gratefully. "I'll fix everything."

"We know," both her friends said.

Chapter Text

PLAGG WAS IN THE BATHROOM with Adrien when Ladybug returned to Le Grand Paris.

If there was any lingering doubt, seeing Plagg mewling encouraging words to Adrien, who was dry-heaving over the sink, cemented it. Chat Noir. Adrien. Chat Noir. The two boys she loved were one and the same, and instead of any measure of relief, she was devastated for all the things he'd had to endure alone.

"Adrien," she said. The faucet was running, and he looked up into the mirror when she stepped into the cramped space. His green eyes were bloodshot, cheeks ashen, the ends of his golden hair flattened and dripping.

Instantly his expression crumpled into anguish. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "There's— a sentimonster— on the loose. Me, Chat Noir, but different."

"Rena Rouge and Carapace have the situation sorted." Oh my God. It was really just the four of them—Adrien, Nino, Alya, and Marinette—running around trying to hold the city together. What an impossible, crazy fate; not the ones she chose herself, but the first teammate she ever had, the first boy she ever loved. The boy I love.

Adrien coughed once, his fingers gripping the edges of the sink tightly. "I thought I could fix this on my own."

She walked to his side, placing a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. "You still can. But not on your own."

Adrien's right hand scooped a palm of water into his mouth, which he prompted swirled and spat out. By the time he turned the faucet off, Plagg had helpfully brought a flannel for him to wipe his face with. He kept his face hidden in the cloth for such a long time that Ladybug finally noticed the soft trembling of his shoulders, his imperceptible hitching breaths, and forced his hands down with a gentle touch.

Adrien wouldn't meet her eyes. He stared at his shoes, silent tears dripping onto the tile, while she held onto his wrist. "My life can't be fixed. My dad is going to rot for the rest of his miserable life—however long that lasts—and you're going to get married to some fucker with horrible taste in jewelry," what? "and after the trial nothing will ever be the same with my friends again."

The corners of her eyes stung. Seeing him cry made her want to cry. Since the very start of the trial, she'd ached thinking about Adrien's burdens with his father, and later she came to ache thinking about Chat Noir and the unnamed person he lost. Now the two threads had twisted together, and her pain had likewise doubled. She hated not being able to fix everything.

"Yes, things will be different, and we'll be different," she sniffed, "but different can be good. Better."

With shaking fingers, she pushed Adrien's wet hair off his forehead. He let her, and at her touch his eyes fluttered closed. "Plagg said the same thing about Destruction. Things getting worse before they get better. Sometimes loss is necessary. I know," he said, Plagg hovering over his shoulder, saucer-like eyes filled with worry. In a voice composed merely of breath, "I'm just— it hurts."

"You've done far more than I could have—far more than you should have," Ladybug croaked out, fully crying now. Duusu was still inside him, likely under the command of this Pavona person, and Ladybug had no idea how to get the kwami out. She looked to Plagg. "How? How do we fix this?"

"I don't know," Plagg said miserably. "I don't know the extent of another kwami's powers. He needs to figure it out on his own."

Adrien opened his eyes, searching her expression. They were close enough that they could both just mouth words, and the other would decipher things perfectly. Ladybug ran the heel of her hands under her eyes and tried to shake some spare slivers composure out of her body. "Okay. It's okay. You don't have to do anything more. Just breathe."

"Just breathe?"

"Yeah," she whispered. Adrien's forehead came to lean against hers, shoulders slightly slumped to compensate for his height. "There's no rush. Whatever happens, I'm going to make sure you're safe."

"I trust you, my Lady."

She smiled, which shifted the features of her face just enough that the tips of their noses brushed. Being so close to him felt like an elixir of her own making, something magical that was soothing all the panic and guilt that clamored, constantly, in the back of her mind. Chat Noir calming her mania down, as ever. For everything that changed, there were some things that never would.

"I feel something," Adrien said, at length. He lifted his head. To Plagg: "Remember when you told me the story of the murder and the colours?" Again. What?

"Yes," Plagg said.

"I feel like there's a colour in me that shouldn't be there," Adrien informed.

Ladybug felt a flicker of hope. Plagg smiled, pressing both his front paws together. "Good! Try to isolate it, and draw it out of you. Have you ever rejected an akuma before?"

"No, but— uh... I've done a bit of it with amoks," Adrien confessed. Ladybug's eyebrows darted up her forehead. Later, she told herself. All questions answered in time.

Adrien shut his eyes and breathed deeply, in and out, chest rising and falling. His left hand shot out blindly and latched onto the marble counter for stability. The furrow between his eyebrows grew and grew, mouth twisting in a pained grimace, until finally—

"Duusu!" Plagg exclaimed happily, rocketing through the air to hug his fellow kwami. A blur of black and blue as Plagg twirled Duusu around and around in the air. Pulling away, he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Duusu," Ladybug repeated with relief. The kwami of Emotion put a tiny hand to his forehead and winced. "I'm so happy to see you. Who has your Miraculous?" He opened his mouth but said nothing. Damn it. Kwamis couldn't reveal the explicit identity of their owners. "How can we find your Miraculous?"

"Pavona," he whined, voice high-pitched and helpless. "Pavona's calling me."

"Fight it," Adrien encouraged, cupping his palm underneath the kwami. "Can you help us? Please, any information at all?"

"Pavona..." Duusu said, screwing his eyes shut as the pain in his head seemed to grow immense. "She'll be at the trial today— oh!" She.

In a flash of cobalt, he was sucked sideways, straight through the wall, into the early morning darkness, presumably careening for miles and miles until he landed back with the woman who was cruelly keeping him captive.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

"Chat Blanc just vanished," Alya confirmed, waiting in the alleyway where Ladybug usually rendezvoused with her. "Disappeared in a puff of blue smoke, at the time you said you broke Chat Noir's amokised object. I assume you've fixed everything?"

After Duusu was wrenched from their company, Adrien's energy had started fading quickly. She'd helped him into his bed and told Plagg to watch over him diligently. He'd covered his duvets with the quilt they made him for Christmas, and seeing everyone's designs again had been a sorely-needed reminder of all the happiness that still existed in their lives. There were people to keep fighting for, tomorrows that made all the dark nights worth it.

Now, hopefully, he was still sleeping. It was a few minutes past one o'clock, and court convened at nine in the morning. Ladybug wanted Adrien to get as much rest as possible before then.

Ladybug had only seen him close to unconsciousness once before, early in the investigation, when he was adrift on a sea of alcohol. This time, there was a youth and cleanness and peace about Adrien's face and demeanour, like a sky after a thunderstorm, with the lingering smell of the torrential rain that had washed the earth anew.

"Nearly everything," she said to Alya and Nino.

Alya drew the bottle of sleep elixir from her coat pocket and returned it to Ladybug. She stared at the glass for a long time, thinking of Chat Blanc and his numbness, all the alarming things that must have been dredged up from Adrien's true emotions.

Noticing, misconstruing, Alya said, "He wasn't awake. It was peaceful."

"Yeah," Ladybug nodded, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. "That's good. He deserves peace."

She threw the Lucky Charm to the sky, and this time no flurry of magic ladybugs came to sweep the streets and mend all damage. There was none; nothing physical, anyway.

Loosening his hold on Alya's waist, Nino stepped forward to return the Turtle Miraculous. Ladybug again stared at the item in her hand for a long time, but this time she came to a decision.

She looked up, mustering the energy to smile. "Nino Lahiffe, this is the Miraculous of the Turtle, which grants the power of Protection. You'll use it for the greater good," she passed the bracelet back into his waiting hands, "indefinitely."

Alya gasped and beamed, wrapping both arms around her boyfriend and squeezing tight. "Babe, congratulations!"

Nino brought the Miraculous close to his face, as if he was looking at it with fresh eyes, then emotionally met Ladybug's gaze. "Oh, my God. Is this really happening? Wait. Don't answer that, no take-backs." He slipped the bracelet back onto his wrist and tightened the band, then put the same hand over his heart. "I won't let you down, Ladybug. Oh, my God."

"It's very well-deserved, Nino," Ladybug said. "I need you two to listen closely for a few minutes more. I have a new plan, and it goes into action at today's hearing."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When Ladybug left to settle things with Carapace and Rena Rouge, who'd been called to help clean up his catastrophic mess, Adrien had wanted to stay up for her. Learning his identity must have been a shock. He wanted to be waiting for her when she returned, but after being rushed back into his bed, he fell dead asleep.

Adrien woke up next around dawn, throat hoarse and head pounding. A rectangle of faint light fringed his curtains, waiting for the sun to fully rise. He left the curtains drawn shut as he rose, shrugging a sweater over his sleepwear. The memories of last night trickled back like faucet drips, each a painful embarrassing reminder.

Where Pavona had always spoken in his head, Duusu had been completely silent. The kwami was so powerful he didn't need to speak. He just reached in and stirred up all the negative emotions Adrien had been trying to repress for the last handful of months, manifesting them into a cold sentimonster who crawled out of the window as soon as he'd formed. He'd been stupid to entice Pavona this way, stupid to bottle everything and pretend it was all under his control. While Plagg was gone seeking help, there was nothing to do but try his best to calm down.

It hadn't worked until Ladybug was by his side.

Nothing ever worked, or felt right, unless she was by his side.

The living room was equally as dark as his bedroom. By muscle memory he could make out the shapes of furniture and the piano. Adrien turned on the lamp beside the couch, and his heart squeezed in his chest. Ladybug had come back, and she'd curled up to sleep, tugging a throw blanket over herself and trying to spread the thin fabric over her body. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, exhales longer than her inhales. Her eyes were shut underneath her mask, obsidian hair fanning out on a throw cushion.

Adrien swallowed. He loved her. He loved the way he used to (fifteen-years-old with the wind in his hair and his city twinkling below; red roses with thorns; blue eyes in the moonlight) but also in new ways (eighteen-years-old and battling his demons to stay by her side; holding her face in his mind when the nightmares came; leaning on her more heavily than he liked, his partner and confidante and friend).

These last months, he'd been running away as much as he'd been moving on. All or nothing, he'd said, but that was unfair. That was a scared child talking, wanting either a love he could predict and control or no love at all. His old demands (full honesty, unmaskings, no secrets) were defenses, and finally in the darkened room, he was seeing clearly. He could build a dam but not stop the river. Eventually he would need to learn to swim, to just navigate life's choppy currents. He could trust Ladybug not to hurt him—like the other people he'd loved. More importantly, if she did somehow hurt him, he could trust himself to survive it—like the other people he'd loved.

For the first time in his life, Adrien had looked into a mirror and knew exactly who was staring back.

Walking back into his bedroom, he took Marinette's Christmas-gift quilt and attempted to cover Ladybug. The hotel had central heating, and probably so did a quantum suit, but it was still winter, and the throw blanket was threadbare. But Ladybug murmured a groggy word, "wait," and rolled over, opening her eyes, sky blue in the golden light from the lamp.

Adrien could do nothing but stare.

She blinked, glanced around the darkened room, and in a ruinous cascade all the memories of the night before flooded back in. Adrien could see the events of the early morning playing out on her face, even through the mask. The shock of who Chat Noir was, his family secrets, his darkness, his corruption. Her features seemed so familiar, like a dream he'd been having from birth. Who was she?

Then she started crying.

"Sorry," she sniffled, covering her face, "I think everything's catching up to me."

Ladybug pushed herself to sit upright, tucking her feet and legs beneath the quilt.

He sat at the end of the couch. "Don't apologise, my Lady."

"Adrien—" Her words dissolved as she sucked in a breath, muffling her sobs into her palms. It was a complete reversal of his breakdown in the bathroom, a release that could probably only come when she wasn't on the job, when there wasn't a crisis to manage. How had he ignored how ragged she was running herself? "Chat Noir. You were here. Alone. Through all this."

Adrien shook his head, his hand reaching for her face. Ladybug allowed him to pull one of her hands away from her damp cheeks, let him lace his fingers through. "I wasn't alone."

A powerful emotion rocketed through her eyes then. He knew what it was, or what it looked like, but after five years of loving her his heart was almost too scared to hope.

Ladybug raised her head, wiped her tears, and took a singular calming breath.

Adrien realised what she intended to do and blurted, "No, you don't have to. Please, don't do this just for me."

"It's for me. Do you know why I've wanted to get a hold of Chat Noir lately? Because I'm in love with you, damn it." He didn't understand the manic sort of laugh that bubbled out of her throat. He didn't understand anything at all. "All this hiding has created more heartache than it's worth. Can I tell you? Please. Eye to eye."

Adrien was stunned. This was the greatest thing that Ladybug could ever give him, and he'd long given up on the idea of it. Some of that old excitement and curiosity unfurled in his stomach, hot like liquor, but he was too ensnared by the other thing she'd said—I'm in love with you, even despite all the mistakes he'd made, all his iciness and reckless behaviour—that he simply said, "Okay."

Ladybug gave him a tremulous smile. Shifting the blankets off her body, she got her feet and stood before Adrien on the carpet. Her hands opened and closed—hard fists, then tensely splayed fingers—like a piston releasing steam. "Okay," she muttered, working up the courage. "Here goes."

Adrien waited, heart in his throat.

"Tikki, spots off." A burst of magic illuminated the room, and when the pink sparkles faded, Adrien was look at Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Marinette.

His Lady.

Marinette, noting Adrien's slack jaw and unblinking eyes, inhaled a nervous breath. "Hi."

"Hi." A slow-spreading wonderstruck smile.

"Adrien, the first time I fell in love with you, it was for everything you showed the world. Your first day of school, you gave me your umbrella because it was pouring rain, and you had me."

He remembered that day. A simple misunderstanding led him to one of the best friends he'd ever had. "Since then, as we got to know each other, I've thought you were the most sweet, sincere, generous person. For an equally long time I've been concocting these elaborate plans to tell you—but it never happened. When the trial started, I resigned myself to being too late. Too indecisive, and now the decision was made for me. I thought if I told you, I would be taking advantage of a vulnerable person."

He'd always known Ladybug had another boy in her heart.

Two years ago, a concrete rooftop, a clear spring sky, he pulls out a red rose for her even as he is mere seconds from transforming back. "I told you already," Ladybug rebuffs him, walking away tiredly. She props her forearms on the railing and leans her weight forward. "I'm in love with someone else."

"I know, my Lady, but if he weren't here, would things be different between us?"

"Well, you know, I can't even begin to imagine him not being here."

But it was himself all along. Heat rose into his cheeks.

"The second time I fell in love with you," Marinette continued, speaking more confidently and fluidly now, "it was for everything you hid from the world. I didn't realise how much I depended on my smooth-talking stray until you vanished, and I missed you. More than I've missed anyone in my entire life. When you came back to me, I saw your many charms and abilities in a new light. But you were hurt, and I didn't know how to help you—except for just being there, as the partner you've always known, and nothing more. I was so close to giving you up, both of you, in order to do justice to this investigation, so before I lose a third chance, I'm telling you now: every person you've been, every person you'll become, I love you."

Another memory bubbled up. It was similar to this moment, him sitting, listening to Marinette confess.

It is the night that the glacier is akumatised for the second time. After the fighting ends, Chat Noir visits Marinette on her balcony, stars twinkling behind her, and she works through the declaration she wants to give to the boy she loves. "There's been something I've been wanting to tell you," she says, expression soft yet strong, vulnerable but resilient. Chat Noir thinks it is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen, all that fire and life in a single person. "But every time I try, it's like my brain suddenly freezes."

Him. She loved him. All along. How had he never known Ladybug was Marinette? Over his lifetime he'd probably spent hours, aggregate, staring at her atlantic eyes and midnight hair, but in his mind they'd been two very different people. A flowery meadow compared to a crashing tide. But his favourite parts of both were exactly the same—Marinette's willingness to help others matched Ladybug's, Ladybug's unerring tenacity and original thinking matched Marinette's.

He couldn't believe it. How was he so lucky? To have not only a guardian angel and a best friend, but to find both in one person? To have that person love him? Joy whistled through him like a summer wind, his heart soaring like a kite. She loved him—all of him—and would be by his side through the days to come; what else was there to ask for?

"Say something." Marinette self-consciously tugged on a pigtail. "I mean, you don't have to, but say something."

Shit. He'd been so swept up in this discovery that he'd forgotten his words completely.

Adrien stood from the couch. Marinette searched his face as he stepped in front of her, smiled when he softly ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek, her bare cheek, no mask covering it, nothing between him and her. His hand made its way to the ridge of her jawbone, and he tilted her face slightly upwards. A shared inhale, a moment of intense awareness, scanning eyes, shifting feet.

Then he kissed her.

Marinette let loose a gleeful exhale, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her body closer. Adrien smoothed his palms down her back, settling in the curve of her waist, and felt some type of wall within his soul collapsing, letting in all the fresh air and sunshine. She tasted like sugar, warm like an open hearth, unspoken words on the tip of her intoxicating tongue.

"Wise words," she quipped. Whatever his expression was, it made her laugh—God, that laugh could save lives—and place another gentle kiss to his lips.

"Marinette," he said, arms still wrapped around her. He buried his face into her neck and breathed her in. "Marinette."

"Yes. 'Tis I."

"God," he snorted, "Marinette. How—"

How did you live two lives for so many years? Stupid question, because she did it the same way he'd done it.

"I can't imagine—" I can't imagine how hard it must have been. Another stupid comment, because he didn't need to imagine anything.

Adrien shook his head and tried again: "You said to me, earlier this morning, I've done far more things than I should have. Well, I think the same applies to you. I had no idea you had such a personal connection to this investigation. And that for it, you would sacrifice so much, so readily. You didn't need to give me up."

"I'm Ladybug," she said matter-of-factly, lowering her hands so they rested on his shoulders. "The city needs Ladybug more than it needs Marinette, so I'm Ladybug first, and Marinette second. I would give anything up."

"You're wrong," Adrien said. "Maybe I would be nothing without Ladybug, but Ladybug would be nothing without Marinette." What made Ladybug so great—her intelligence, her kindness, her commitment—were Marinette's qualities first. They always had been. "You're Marinette first. You're my lucky charm, and I love you for it. So fucking much."

"Still?" she asked, a brief shuttering of her expression. "I thought you needed to move on."

"After my father, I needed to leave some parts of my old life behind," Adrien agreed. Marinette looked away, disappointed. He caught her chin and made her look at him again. "I chose the wrong parts. I took the fear and left the love, but it shouldn't have been that way. I don't want it to be that way anymore. I don't want to be without you. I don't even know how."

His Lady's eyelashes fluttered as she blinked. Her lips, flushed rouge from kissing, split into a radiant grin. "You and me, then."

Adrien echoed her grin. Finally, he believed that everything would turn out okay.

"You and me," he agreed, "against the world."

Chapter Text

BEFORE

EVERYONE LIES.

Lila had the privilege of learning that fact earlier than other children her age. Her mother, a powerful diplomat, often wedged between more powerful men with fat wallets and fatter weapons arsenals, lied constantly to keep the world in peacetime. Trade deals, strategic alliances, diplomacy—all lies that humanity depended on for its safety.

Then there were everyday lies—that dress looks great; I didn’t see that text until now—and lies as a lifestyle—my big break awaits in Los Angeles, just you wait—and lies holding together families—I still love you. On the continuum from total destructive honesty to total destructive dishonesty, life was just a slider. (Thank goodness Lila also had laxer moral limits than other children her age. Her life would have been much less fun without it.)

Growing up, her mother was absent. Either she was in another country entirely, or she was leaving their hotel rooms or embassy suites early every morning to respond to ceaseless diplomatic crises. Through her, Lila met politicians, actors, oil barons, and she quickly learned how to construct the prettiest, most charming lies. She learned etiquette, banter, flirting, warfare—and very quickly, lies lost their taste on the tip of her tongue. After all, words were all tools; what was the difference if she believed one to be true or not? Maybe she believed all of them. Maybe she believed none of them.

In all her wide travels, Lila had never met her equal. No-one who understood her, or even had the capacity to do it. Then she met Adrien Agreste. He was like her. He was raised by a single parent, after the tragic early death of another. He ran in all the same elite circles. He was popular, beautiful, intelligent, and talented like herself. When she peered very closely at him, she felt that he was a liar, too. He laughed at all the right jokes in all the right ways, he spoke of his future plans like he was reading from a script, and he charmed every person he met. Most importantly, no-one else in his life seemed to sense this curated quality about him. They would be the only two in the world to truly see each other.

Finally, an equal in every way that mattered.

Lila fell rapidly in love, and she wanted desperately for him to love her back. After Adrien loved her, then she would crack him open and discover the secrets he kept guarded underneath his porcelain exterior.

A balmy afternoon. She and Adrien, talking in Places Des Vosges. Everything had been perfect. She knew Adrien was fascinated with superheroes, that he had an inner world kept away from the rest of their cohort. Volpina could have been their special space, a fantasy that would bring magic to both their mundane and suffocating lives.

Then Ladybug interferred.

The heroine seemed to literally fall from the sky, landing in front of the park bench in red and black.

“Well, hey, Lila. How’s it going? Long time, no see,” she greeted, a glint of something devious in her blue eyes. “I saw your interview on the Ladyblog. Awesome job.”

Lila tried to defend herself, but she couldn’t say anything with Adrien next to her. Her words, her only weapons, wouldn’t come.

Ladybug planted her foot on the bench, right between Lila and Adrien and leaned her face down with a sneer. “Oh, sure, I remember our instant connection when I saved your life, and we’ve been really good friend ever since. Practically BFFs.” Then she faked confusion and scratched her head. “Actually, when did I save your life again, Lila? I don’t recall. Oh, yes. Of course. Now I remember. Never!”

It felt like someone reached a fist into the young woman’s chest, deftly manoeuvring their fingers into the space between both ribcages, grabbing her windpipe and squeezing. Squeezing hard. Squeezing to kill her.

“And we’re not friends, either.” Ladybug turned to Adrien, smug. “Miss Show-Off here was trying to impress you and everyone around her.”

Shame crawled up the back of her neck, embarrassment like a putrid layer of hot oil. Lila hated feeling stupid. All these years she’d been building her social intelligence increment by increment. She wasn’t born a genius, she was simply born with eyes that watched and ears that listened, a mouth that could strum sweet melodies. Everything else—her manipulations, her position at the top of any given social ladder—was hard-won. She fought for her popularity. She had snatched the love of the people around her.

Who was Ladybug to take it away from her, to topple her?

Adrien turned to Lila, eyes wide, stunned and disappointed. “So, I’m guessing you’re not a descendant of a superhero, either?”

Ladybug snorted. “She’s more like a super-liar.”

Tears poured from Lila’s eyes. She pushed herself from the bench and sprinted away as fast as she could, vision blurred into a swirling palette of colour. She hated making mistakes, miscalculating, being caught in her pretenses.

She just hadn’t counted on Ladybug being near omniscient, spying on every word uttered about her by mere teenagers, like a totalitarian dictator, storming into the Places Des Vosges for retribution like a classical goddess slighted, ego wounded, lightning bolts ready to destroy.

Didn’t Ladybug have better things to do than rectify every harmless little white lie? People to save, villains to hunt down?

I hate her.

I fucking hate her.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

SEPTEMBER

Lila never gave up on winning Adrien back, nor on exacting revenge on Ladybug.

Adrien was personally and strategically valuable. His family was connected to film magnates on his mother’s side, and connected to elite Parisian fashion society through his father. Lila would be served well by such connections and status, if she could insert herself in Adrien’s world.

Now that she was old enough to look after herself, her mother didn’t always take Lila with her on international trips. Lila would stay in Paris, unaccompanied, able to do as she liked. Sometimes she lied to her classmates and said she had gone abroad, uploading a fake background on her video calls to fool the idiots. Sometimes she left her apartment building and walked around the city, finding new people to watch and follow and inspect. Call it homework, for a mastermind.

One day, at sixteen years old, Lila ditched school and from the window of her apartment saw Nathalie Sancoeur leaving a private vehicle on the side of the street. She had grocery bags in her hands. Gabriel, Nathalie and other members of Adrien’s household were her favourite people to stalk. Lila slid into the shadows and watched through the blinds. Nathalie entered an apartment building a few paces down the road. 38 Rue de la Moyenne Ronde. The woman was there only half an hour, and before the time ran out on the roadside parking she came downstairs and the car drove away.

Lila noted down the day of the week and the time, then went to paint her nails a new shade of beige.

Over the next two years, Nathalie would make sporadic trips to the apartment building—besieged by curiosity, Lila followed when she could, slipping into the foyer by following contractors or mailmen. No-one ever suspected a well-manicured teenager girl like herself to be up to anything nefarious. Lila watched the top of the elevator to see the floor Nathalie had gotten out on, then hid in the stairwell of the floor and watched through a crack in the door until the woman exited her secret abode: Nathalie rented 5J, but for what purpose?

Then, at eighteen years old, the news about Hawk Moth and Mayura hit primetime, and Lila understood. Suddenly she respected those two adults on a whole new level. Using their own lies and masks to achieve their goals. It was something she would have done herself.

No-one could find Mayura, she had gone into hiding. But Lila knew. She watched Nathalie’s apartment closely that week, and followed the woman when she exited in disguise. She wore dark sunglasses and a maroon headscarf, while Lila wore no disguise at all. People never suspected the schoolgirl.

Nathalie walked to Quai de Bercy. She found a secluded underpass, litter compacted where the concrete met the ground, boats ambling slowly through the calm waters of the Seine. It was ten at night. Lila had been keeping to the shadows, certain that Nathalie’s discerning eye would recognise her as Adrien’s classmate.

Lila stopped behind a pillar and let Nathalie walk ahead. When she wagered to be out of earshot, she pulled her phone from her handbag. “Paris Police Prefecture,” the answer came, after she had clicked all the appropriate redirecting numbers. “You’ve reached the anonymous hotline, would you like to make a report?”

“I know where Mayura is.”

“Really,” the operator said, her voice immediately sobering up, dubious but eager. In the background Lila heard frantic typing. “Can you tell us more?”

Lila saw Nathalie check her watch, and begin to wait. She must have been meeting an accomplice of some kind. “Yes. I was hired to get her a fake passport, but it doesn’t feel right knowing what she did. All those people she hurt. All those lies she told.”

Nathalie was discovered and arrested that night. The morning after, Lila tied her hair back, donned a hoodie and gloves, took her lock-picking set over, and broke in. She searched the apartment unhurriedly, with light touches, leaving no hair or fingerprints. When she found the Peacock Miraculous, perfect blue metal, glinting gemstones, her heart sang and her eyes gleamed. Finally.

The key to Ladybug’s downfall, and her redemption.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

OCTOBER

As Adrien slowly shifted his life from the mansion to the hotel, Lila watched.

He was in one of those comfy suites, behind one of those full-length windows. Which one? She was among the crowd of fans in the streets, she was present during the protests, and she remained long after everyone lost interest. Whenever her mother travelled, she had free reign over Paris. She knew Ladybug and Chat Noir had joined the investigation. Time for them to taste their own medicine.

It was a chilly, windy day when she slipped into the throng of people screaming and waving hand-painted signed outside Le Grand Paris. Ladybug was swooping high above the heads of the people, attempting to placate their concerns.

“People of Paris,” she said, “I am asking you to trust your heroes and your authorities.”

Eat blindly out of your hand, more like, Lila thought.

Thankfully, not all of the protesters were so easily taken by the woman in red. People started screaming their legitimate concerns at Ladybug, perched on top of a lamp post, who didn’t listen at all. Lila’s fury was stirred and whipped so effectively by the action around her, the knowledge that not everyone believed Ladybug’s lies, that when she saw a man light an oily rag stuffed into the neck of a wine bottle, she snatched the makeshift explosive and launched it herself. Fuck Ladybug. Her penance would come soon enough, as soon as she learned to master the full, adult powers of Emotion.

The explosion was wrapped in sounds of panic and shattering glass, but Lila had already turned around and was slipping through the crowd.

Back at her empty apartment, Lila snatched Duusu by the neck and hissed at him. “Tell me how to make it last. I can’t do anything if I transform back into myself before the real fun begins.”

She’d been turning into Pavona every day, sometimes sending emotive feelers through the city and languishing in her new abilities—other times, instead of concerning herself with people’s feelings, she just revelled in being able to soar, run, leap like Ladybug. She had all the same agility and strength. No longer could Ladybug enjoy her position of supremacy over Paris.

But Amokisation was a useless power if she could only wield it for five minutes at a time.

“I— I can tell you, but you need to truly understand the nature of Emotion before you can wield its full power.”

“Then teach me, Duusu.”

It took two months of forcing Duusu to teach her while the investigation unfolded. The kwami was shivery and meek, so hesitant to say anything that could be used to hurt other people. Lila wanted Ladybug to feel the way she’d felt in Places Des Vosges, humiliated in front the person she cared about. Now Adrien was Ladybug’s star witness, so stealing him away while terrorising the city would demonstrate to the people of Paris what an incompetent failure Ladybug was.

One stone, all the birds.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

NOVEMBER

Emotion needs no justification.

Lila had transcended the narrow, human framework of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ emotions. Is vengeance a bad emotion when applied to systems of oppression? Is compassion a good emotion when it drains the overly-compassionate? Every emotion has its uses. That is the lesson Duusu taught Lila.

People could try to rationalise their emotions into something more palatable. They could feel jealousy and tell themselves I am good enough in my own way and still have those consolations bounce off. They could feel anger and attempt to channel it into sports. They could feel limerence while knowing the object was a complete stranger. But Emotion persists. It refuses to be moderated.

She must persist. She must refuse to be moderated, made palatable, assuaged—because like feelings, the strongest will win out.

Lila understood now.

And when she had unlocked the powers of Emotion, Pavona finally took flight. She wore a form-fitting indigo coat with trailing tails shaped like peacock feathers. Black boots rose to her knee, exposing a slim band of skin covered in shimmery blue pantyhose. A cobalt hand fan limned with white accents and studded with pink diamonds was Pavona’s weapon.

In November, Emelie was dug up from underneath the mansion.

“Gabriel Agreste’s wife was reported missing five years ago in Tibet, and pronounced deceased one month later,” Nadja Chamack said. Lila watched the broadcast on the living room TV screen—alone, as always, but she hardly felt her mother’s absence after so many years. Maybe she did get lonely still. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe her mother loved her. Maybe she didn’t. Lies were just words.

“The beloved screen actress was found unconscious underneath the foundations of the Agreste mansion and has since been taken to the hospital. She is stable, but still unconscious.”

With his mother’s body brought to the surface, Adrien would be distraught, and vulnerable to her sweet offerings. In her bedroom, Lila transformed and cast out telepathic feelers into the city. If she had enjoyed people-watching before, this was a whole new ballpark. She had access to thoughts and feelings people didn’t even recognise in themselves. Jealous wives and domineering bosses. Ungrateful children and resentful teachers.

A mourning boy, wracked with guilt and confusion about his mother’s willing but ultimately final sacrifice. He was in the hospital, surrounded by other mourners.

Pavona opened her eyes and grinned into the dark. Bingo. “Wander, little feather, and find him.”

But the first amok missed Adrien. “Fuck,” she cursed, and detransformed. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Duusu whimpered.

“Find out, and tell me.”

Duusu zipped out of the apartment and returned with a report about Adrien peeling away in an SUV driven by Le Grand staff. A hurdle, admittedly, but surmountable. Lila perhaps needed to position herself closer to the hospital, lessen the distance her amok had to travel during the precious minutes Adrien had his scheduled visits.

“You need his consent to do anything with the amok,” the kwami pointed out. “And Adrien is a good person. Why would he trust you?”

Lila’s gaze snapped to Duusu. She took great pleasure when the blue kwami shivered and pasted an apologetic expression on his face. Gabriel had broken him in so well. “I just meant...”

“It’s okay, Duusu. I appreciate you bring those concerns to my attention,” she purred. “You’re right. Adrien is good. But he is also lonely, getting lonelier every day thanks to Ladybug’s idiotic witness policies.”

And between morality and loneliness, she knew which of those two emotions always won out.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

DECEMBER

A little while after that false start, Miss Bustier’s class started planning a Christmas party for Adrien. Ladybug, that bitch, would help transport him—but he needed a costume, and such a costume needed delivering. While the group kept deliberating like brainless monkeys, Lila went ahead and bought the materials and visited the hospital during a time she new Adrien would be there.

There were escorts outside Emelie’s ward, and they said, “Sorry, miss. Private ward. Only authorised people are allowed to go in.”

“I know Adrien is inside,” Lila said sweetly. “He told me himself. I’m his girlfriend.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?” one asked the other.

“We’re keeping it secret from the media. You must know how intense the coverage of this investigation has been. But we miss each other so much, and I just want to see him for five minutes. Trust me—he’ll be glad I’m here.”

They let her in. Morons.

“Lila,” Adrien stammered, surprised but glad to see her. “Hi.”

“Adrien,” she sighed, walking straight into embrace. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Thanks, Lila. Me, too,” he said, caressing her shoulder. Lila’s chest warmed with triumph. If the officers outside were watching, they would see Adrien holding her and their doubts would be assuaged. “How are you here?”

“I’m here to visit my grandmother. She’s having hip surgery,” Lila lied. “After hearing how close we are and how much we’ve missed each other, the officers outside were so kind to let me in for a short visit.”

The talked for a short while, Lila gave over the Christmas party costume, and began planning how to get the next amok to touch him. On board the Liberty, two days before Christmas, Lila transformed in the bathroom and fished through the waters of Paris’ collective psyche. Mothers burned out by holiday preparations. Children making last-minute behavioural efforts to end up on Santa’s Nice List. Teenagers revelling, drunk and happy.

Someone grateful for their friends and this party, while feeling unseen and misunderstood.

“Wander, little feather,” Pavona whispered victoriously, “and—”

A furious pounding came at the bathroom door. “Hello! Who’s in there? I need to throw up real bad.” Pavona gritted her teeth as Kim kept pleading to be let in.

“Duusu, fall my feathers.” She transformed back into her civilian form and exited the bathroom.

“Lila,” the kwami whined pathetically, probably to beg for release.

“Shut up,” she warned. She held Duusu tight and covered him with the folds of her dress. “All yours, Kim,” she said good-naturedly when she left the bathroom. “Take it easy, okay?”

“Thanks, Lila!”

She was increasingly impatient. She wanted Adrien to love her back. She wanted Ladybug’s investigation to splutter and choke. She wanted the whole city to realise heroes couldn’t protect them. All these things she wanted, and she wanted them now.

An idea. What if she used her own emotions to create a sentimonster? She could take Adrien from the hotel by her force instead of his choice—a monster with eight legs and venom to dissolve anything obstacle. She could invade his mind and rewrite his memories and desires to align with hers—a mist that would make everyone’s minds as vapid and pliant as she liked, like molding child’s plasticine. She could unleash the full expanse of her kwami’s powers on him and bend him to obey his psychology—sending Duusu unchecked into the world.

Hmm. But could she really do that to him while he was already carrying so many other burdens?

Yes, Lila realized, with not an ounce of guilt. The absence of any dilemma surprised and intrigued her, cool and pleasant like bare feet in a clean lake.

Yes, she could, as much as she loved him.

Because she hated Ladybug more.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

JANUARY

Ladybug was proving herself a worthy adversary.

Lila found that a frustrating roadblock. She’d had tried to get access to Adrien through Arachne, the crawling spider at Le Grand Paris, but Vesperia’s Venom had incapacitated the sentimonster. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything else that day; nor would Ladybug and Chat Noir have been able to find her. She left no hints, no trace. Pavona wasn’t stupid enough (like Hawk Moth) to announce her means and motives to the world. Impasse #1.

When Lila sent the Forgotten Fog to remove Adrien’s objections to meeting with her (or at least remove his memories of the objections) Ladybug had gotten close enough to snare Pavona in her yo-yo string, but she’d managed to wriggle away and fall back into hiding. Impasse #2.

Then, just this morning, Pavona had sent Duusu to corrupt Adrien himself. She didn’t have a highly-calibrated plan behind that huge risk, but she had several hopes, many possible threads that would all further her agenda. If Adrien was discovered by Ladybug having generated a sentimonster, he would be cast into a fresh wave of suspicion and further isolated from Ladybug and his friends. If the public found out, even better. If the judiciary suspended the trial to redirect the city’s efforts into finding Pavona, then she would be able to play with Ladybug a bit longer. If Adrien simply was so shaken by Duusu’s possession that he was more receptive to Pavona’s future communications—well, the possibilities were endless.

Alas, Impasse #3. Ladybug had, again, saved the day and removed Adrien from danger. Lila didn’t know how she did it. A kwami’s powers were meant to be unstoppable. When she commanded Duusu back to her and pressed him for answers, he said, “Ladybug spoke to him. She was very kind.”

Very kind. What bullshit.

So on one hand, Ladybug had managed to thwart Pavona’s plans at every turn.

On the other hand, Lila still hadn’t been discovered.

She was sitting in court by nine in the morning, wearing her best dress for the jury, squeezed in between several other witnesses intending to testify today. The President of the Court, some geriatric man who looked about to drop dead from a heart attack, coughed and wheezed his way through his usual opening remarks. Adrien was set to testify on the last day of the trial, along with Gabriel and Nathalie. He looked as handsome as ever in the first row, two rows in front of Lila, with his blond hair sitting picturesquely atop a crisp white collar and black suit.

Witness after witness, victim after victim took to the stand. They swore their oaths of honesty and launched into dramatic sob stories about being akumatised, or having a truck thrown at them, or being obliterated by a cosmic ray or glowing white energy orb or magical gun. Anxiety, nightmares, incessant symptoms of long-lasting PTSD. Boo-hoo-hoo. Lila was certain half of these witnesses were trying to get a larger settlement from the city by playing up their distress, and the other half didn’t recognise the akumatisations for what they were. Opportunities. Abilities beyond their feeble human minds and brains. The power to shape their destinies for themselves.

She eyed Gabriel Agreste at the defendant’s table, wearing another well-tailored suit—coloured deep purple, like those expensive Roman robes that people slaved to make—and thought, your only mistake was getting caught.

Such was the intensity of her derision, her disgust for the people filling the courtroom, her sympathy for Gabriel, her loathing of Ladybug. And, almost like old times, back when Adrien’s father was powerful, her strong emotions were answered by a disembodied voice inside her own mind.

Hello, Lila, it greeted her calmly. I am Ladymoth.

Chapter Text

CARAPACE WAS STILL ON CLOUD nine after being entrusted with the Turtle Miraculous.

He’d hardly been able to sleep since the early morning, when he and Rena came to help Ladybug and Chat Noir. An effervescent mix of glee and anxiety and anticipation sloshed around his stomach. He still didn’t quite understand how Chat Noir’s negative emotions had been used to create a sentimonster, unless Chat Noir agreed to let Pavona do it, which Chat Noir would never do—but Ladybug had assured him that she would explain everything eventually.

Till then, the most important thing was the plan.

Ladybug had one thing—and one thing only—on good authority: Pavona would be at the Agreste v. Paris hearing today. “I don’t know who she is exactly, and I don’t know if she’ll be at any later hearings,” she’d said in the alleyway, after Chat Blanc had been dealt with, “so this is the one shot we have to catch her.”

Then, the steps had been laid out. Rena would use her Mirage to make Ladybug appear as usual, sitting with her fellow heroes on the foremost wooden bench. Carapace would be ready to cage anyone that Ladybug signalled out. Chat Noir was still absent, for personal reasons. And Ladybug herself would be searching for Pavona, using the technique of all her previous nemeses: Hawk Moth, Mayura, Pavona. They’d hunted down emotionally vulnerable people, and now Ladybug would become Ladymoth, huntress. She would use the Butterfly Miraculous to give this final supervillain a taste of her own medicine.

Carapace thought the idea—probing everyone’s emotions while they sat unaware until she found the culprit—was wicked, insane, ever so crafty, toeing the line of right and wrong. It was totally different from the head-on fights, moral ultimatums and high-octane pursuits that Ladybug excelled at. When he commented on it, Ladybug smiled solemnly and said, “I took a page out of his book.”

He knew who she was talking about.

An hour before anyone was allowed to enter the Assizes Court, Ladybug donned the Butterfly Miraculous, took to the chandelier, and had been perching there ever since, made invisible and replaced by Rena’s illusions.

The hearing was proceeding as planned, until a girl suddenly bolted from her chair and sprinted for the door. The general audience was startled, the judiciary was confused, but the heroes were ready. Rena Rouge, pressing her earpiece deeper, confirmed to Carapace: “Ladybug says it’s Lila!”

“Shellter!” A green sphere, tessellated by hexagons, formed around the fleeing girl.

Elegantly curled auburn hair, a modest shift dress with pearls stitched into the collar. She didn’t look anything like a villain, she looked like a schoolgirl. Like a friend. Their friend.

Carapace held the force field solid in his mind, even while it reeled with shock. Lila Rossi. She’d been one of the people sending Adrien well wishes in the group chat. She’d participated in organising the Christmas party in his honour. She’d said good luck two fucking days ago, before this trial went to court.

How could she?

Carapace was livid, devastated, and could only watch Adrien’s expression as he held Lila (who was raging inside the green cage, kicking hopelessly at the boundary) captive. His best friend’s face was pinched but passive, and more than that he couldn’t discern at this distance.

When Rena’s Mirage vanished and Ladymoth glided down from the ceiling, the inhabitants of the room descended into a rumble of chatter. They’d never seen this hero before, with the same blue eyes but two long, silky ponytails. She wore polka-dots on her bust, upper arms, and thighs. The fabric on her calves, forearms and waist was coloured black, and her legs disappeared into flexible, conforming boots that stopped just below her knee. At her hips wound a utility belt with various tools and compartments.

The real fixture were the wings, sealed all along her arms like an extension of her body, that allowed her to soar down from any height like a butterfly. At the sight of her, Adrien leaped to his feet before his attorney restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Order!” Gerard was saying, banging his gavel on the wooden block.

It was a lost cause. Gabriel and Nathalie (who had absolutely nothing to do with any of this, but the court was jumpy when it came to them) were immediately detained and escorted out by the bailiffs. It was a good thing all cell phones had been handed in at the door, video recordings prohibited in court. Carapace dropped the force field. Ladymoth and Lila collided, the latter kicking and clawing. People scrambled to get away, people scrambled to get closer.

“Order in this court!” The clacking wooden strikes only added to the din.

Lila was almost feral in her efforts to get away, screaming, “You don’t get to win!” as Ladymoth trussed her with her yo-yo string.

She searched the captive girl with unbothered hands until she found the final piece of this puzzle, the object that could start to make everything right again. The Peacock Miraculous. Carapace and Rena caught sight of it, brilliant cobalt and safe with Ladymoth. Then it disappeared into the yo-yo—on its way home to the Miracle Box.

“Everyone out!” Gerard had given up on restoring order, but the gavel continued. “We will reconvene after the authorities stabilize the situation.” Now a mass exodus was added to the equation, along with the police officers and Heloise moving against the current, trying to question Ladymoth about what was going on. Lila was writhing on the ground still, unable to get out of her restraints. Adrien refused to be kept from Ladymoth much longer, and his lawyers seemed to know it.

But Carapace had finally found the answers that had eluded him this whole winter. He crossed his arms and sighed in satisfaction. Everything would be alright.

In the midst of all the chaos, he and Rena shared a triumphant smile and bumped their knuckles together. “Pound it.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Court never did reconvene that afternoon.

Once Ladymoth explained the situation to Heloise—Lila Rossi was somehow the person to steal the Peacock Miraculous from Nathalie—the flurry of activity only worsened, derailing the hearing until Gerard called it a day and went to get himself a (ill-advised by his cardiologist) third cup of coffee. Orders were sent to the police department immediately. Lila was to be detained then questioned. CCTV footage was to be searched for her entry into Nathalie’s hideaway apartment. Forensics was dispatched to that safe house. The key that Pavona had dropped was to be compared to the lock of the Rossi apartment, and the fingerprint lifted from the fob was to be compared to Lila’s.

Adrien was certain that all the evidence would come back in support of Ladybug’s conclusion. She had read Lila’s emotions like a book. Lila was driven by obsession—with Ladybug’s downfall, with revenge, with him. He thought of her showing up at the hospital when he was visiting his mother, and the sticky print of her lip gloss on his cheek, and wanted to shed his skin like a layer of clothing.

But he wasn’t totally surprised. Lila may have wrapped the world around her finger, and presented her best face (of many) to Adrien Agreste, but she had never cared much for Chat Noir. And in the hero’s previous dealings with her, he’d seen many times over that she was a liar, and that she hated Ladybug above all else.

Miss Bustier’s class was taking it hard, though. They’d all been given permission to take the rest of the day off of school (if they weren’t in the courtroom as witnesses to begin with) and Marinette took the opportunity to be with Adrien. By sundown, he’d be lying if he said he was thinking much of Lila or the police or his trial. He was only thinking of her, the feeling of her body in his arms, the taste of her lips. Now that all the Miraculous were back with the Guardian of Paris, he was very happy.

Marinette however was less content to spend all of the evening making out on the couch, and kept pulling away to ask him questions, tell him things from her side, clarify all the miscommunication between them which she thought was such a pressing emergency. (But she was content to spend part of the evening making out, because after the talking, she kept coming back to his mouth.)

“The person Chat Noir said he lost,” she whispered, her inky hair dishevelled, “it was your father.” Adrien nodded, smoothing his thumbs up and down her waist. Her face twisted with pity. “Adrien. Why didn’t you tell me who you were as soon as I had the Butterfly Miraculous again? There was no danger of akumatisation anymore.”

He sighed heavily. “Because by the time I came back, you were already knee-deep in the investigation, and I was guilty about leaving you and the team hanging, and I didn’t know what sort of wrench I would throw into everything if I told you who I was.”

Marinette’s brow furrowed in concern. She hadn’t been mad about any of the things he worried she would. All his fears seemed so small now that he was on the other side of things.

“I mean, investigating myself... I know it’s not the right thing to do. It’s patently unethical. But I knew it was the best way that I could help you, as Adrien and as Chat Noir, because I’m so close to everything and I knew how to get information from my father but— I wanted to make things right. Repay the city for everything he did.”

“His crimes are not your debts.”

“I felt like they were,” he said, shaking his head. “I did what I did. We can’t change that. Now we’re here.”

Marinette glanced down, somewhere around his collarbone, and traced the stitching of his t-shirt along the shoulder with her forefinger. “Chat Blanc—”

“—was my fault,” Adrien admitted. “I’d been telepathically speaking to Pavona, to Lila, trying a new way to get leads. When the attacks started again, I couldn’t sit here helplessly just cleaning up the damage like we used to do. I’m sorry. I could have destroyed everything.”

“Actually I was going to ask, if you really felt... I mean, you don’t have to answer. I’m not here as an investigator this time.”

Adrien pressed a kiss to her jawline, let his fingers slip just underneath the hem of her t-shirt and relished the way her eyelids fluttered closed. “Clearly,” he smirked.

Marinette chuckled drily and soldiered on: “Not to get dark, but are you okay? Honestly.”

“I... maybe not.”

She was silent for a beat. “Chat Blanc. I was going to say that I’ve seen your sentimonster before.”

“What? When?”

“I never told you this,” she began, her hands stilling on his shoulders. Adrien watched, more than a little confused. “Last year, on St. Athanase’s Day, Bunnyx came to find me.”

“That was the day you delivered a gift to me,” he recalled. On his last fifth name’s day, in May, he remembered walking into his old bedroom in the Agreste mansion and seeing Ladybug standing by the open full-length windows. “A beret, from my Brazilian fan club because there was a postal strike.”

For some reason, she blushed beet-red. “I lied. It was from myself. I signed the gift as Marinette instead of Ladybug.”

Adrien smothered a smile. The gift was from Marinette. “I didn’t see any signature from Marinette.”

“Because Bunnyx intervened. That signature set off a chain of events that culminated in your future akumatisation by your father.”

Adrien didn’t know how to take this. He’d been akumatised and didn’t even know it? He always thought, falsely just like when he was courting danger with Pavona, that he was a little untouchable, incorruptible. He’d been wrong twice, and twice Ladybug had had to fix everything.

“In the alternative timeline Bunnyx took me to, I met Chat Blanc—your akumatised self. The spitting image of your sentimonster last night.”

Ladybug hated thinking of these memories, he could tell. Her skin bleached of its rosy colour, and her lips flattened into a hard line.

“What happened there?” he prompted, when her silence started crystallising.

“Chat Noir— you,” she corrected, flicking her eyes up and down Adrien’s face with muted disbelief, “and I had apparently fallen in love, and it destroyed the world. You should have seen it. Paris was completely underwater. Everyone was dead, or frozen, there was ice all around, and Chat Blanc was so heartbroken and so casually cruel because he couldn’t feel anything. He knew Ladybug was Marinette.”

Adrien held his breath. What had happened in that alternate timeline? What did it mean that there were emotions in him that could reproduce that being exactly?

Marinette said thickly, “I released your akuma and de-evilised it, of course, erased my civilian name from the gift, but ever since that day I learned to keep my distance from Chat Noir. In case I hurt you, and you hurt everyone else. It would have been my fault. My selfishness.”

The tail of her sentence rose in pitch and she dropped her face into her hands, shoulders trembling. “Marinette,” he whispered.

“It’s not this reality, Bunnyx told me as much,” she spoke from behind her hands, refusing to look up, “but in the back of my head I always was afraid it could be. I still had nightmares about it. So I pushed you away. I’m sorry.”

Adrien hated to see his Lady cry. All the heartbreaks in the world he could—and had—survived but this one he would never know how to tolerate. So he said, “But it was my fourth name’s day in November and you didn’t give me anything.”

She laughed like a wailing cat. He hugged her tighter, breathed in her sugar and vanilla scent. She smelled like the bakery. “And I’ve never received anything on my second or third name’s day, from international fan clubs or otherwise,” he continued, “so I guess my only question is why you hate me so much that only my fifth name’s day gets celebrated.”

“Stop,” Marinette chuckled, one hand wiping her eyes and the other pushing fondly through his curls. Adrien hadn’t had his hair played with since he was a little kid, and it felt so criminally good now to have the girl he loved do it that he might have started purring, if he was Chat Noir.

“If you kiss me,” he said.

And she did.

(When she was of sounder mind, Marinette did pull away once to retort, “If you want me to celebrate your second, third, and fourth name’s day this year, I will.”

Adrien, despite everything that had happened to him, felt lucky, and lighter than air. “Please don’t.”

Marinette chuckled and playfully skimmed his nose with hers. “See? That’s what I thought.”)

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The Agreste v. Paris case did close eventually.

The part that Paris cared about: thirty-five years imprisonment with parole for Gabriel Agreste, twenty years with parole for Nathalie Sancoeur. The part that Marinette cared about: Adrien.

Lila’s unexpected detainment on the second day of the trial meant that all the witnesses meant to testify were pushed to the successive days. It was in the following week that the Assizes Court reconvened to finish trying the case. Since Ladybug and her heroes had delivered their reports, evidence and testimonies before Pavona’s discovery, Marinette was free to attend as her civilian self. Nino and Alya came with her, as well as select others from their homeroom class who had been called as witnesses.

When it was time for Adrien to give his victim impact statement, Marinette watched from the back of the room with her heart in her throat. The distance separating them—rows of wooden benches, worn down over the decades; the guard railing beyond which stood the defendant and plaintiff tables, the semicircular arch for the Attorneys General, and finally the witness stand—seemed to stretch beyond metres into a horizon.

He wore a starched suit with strong shoulders and an olive green tie. Chat Noir colours, on Adrien’s angelic face. Sometimes, in quiet moments, Marinette was still in disbelief that she could call both of those boys hers. Adrien swore his oath, answered all the questions of the judges and lawyers, and recited his statement. Marinette had heard it before; she’d been sneaking out of her bedroom to Le Grand Paris, and she and Adrien would (unwisely but inevitably) stay up all night talking. One of these times, he recited the pre-written, memorised paragraphs to her.

His statement described the loss of his mother, the abuses of his father, and pain of being among the students most targeted by Hawk Moth. He highlighted the efforts he had gone to aid in the investigation and his fervent hope that justice was served, in correct proportions and with swift timeliness.

Pretty, but they weren’t his words.

After Adrien concluded, he did something no-one expected.

He went off-script.

“Father. Do you know what I did after I found out who you were?” he blurted suddenly, after a brief silence that had seemed final at the time. Marinette put her hand over her mouth. Alya gasped, and Nino’s spine rippled into a straight line. The witnesses and jury shifted in their seats. From the back of the room, she watched his lawyers exchange a baffled look. But the judges and attorneys didn’t interfere. “I went on a rampage, trashing everything I could get my hands on, and then in detainment I drank enough hotel mini-fridge vodka to knock myself out. I fucking hated you that night.”

The lawyers were aghast now, terrified of the picture Adrien was painting with the swearing and the drinking and the destruction of property. Heloise, sitting on the foremost row, cleared her throat, and somehow this signalled to them that it was okay. Let him speak. Marinette relaxed and, meeting Alya and Nino’s eyes, listened.

“I hate you now, because I know you could have done better,” Adrien went on. He was speaking directly to Gabriel, who sat with his back to Marinette at the defendant’s table. She wished she could read the expression on Adrien’s father’s face. Was he like stone, remorseless and unflinching? Or was his son’s vulnerability finally enough to thaw him?

“One day you were just my father, and the next you were this cold, controlling, abusive monster masquerading as the person raised me, who— who loved me. I was too young to realise any transformation had happened. I spent my entire adolescence trying to please you. I mastered being the perfect son so entirely that now I don’t know how to be myself.”

Marinette observed Adrien’s face. Whatever Gabriel looked like didn’t seem to sway him. She understood now that it wasn’t about his father anymore: these words for himself. He was himself at last. Pride, pain, warmth swelled in her chest, pressing outwards like a king tide.

“So I hate you for choosing revenge over healing. I hate you for clinging to Mom so hard that you let go of me. I hate that you still won’t apologise for any of it, even despite whatever you say today, pretty words written by your lawyers, because I know in your heart you aren’t remorseful.” At this, Gabriel’s lawyer started to object, but Gerard waved it away. The President of the Court seemed wholly invested in the improvised testimony. As did the whole court. “I hate you because I still love you, and because of what you did I have nowhere to put that love anymore. I can’t give it to you. You don’t deserve it.”

Adrien turned away from Gabriel, his hands—gripping the edges of the stand—falling loose to his sides. “But other people do. My classmates, who kept me connected to all things normal and sane.” He grinned at the row of them, all the way in the back, when they waved. “Alya, who learned this case back-to-front so I didn’t have to.” Alya dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Nino, who constantly steered me towards the light side.” Nino put his fist to his heart.

“Marinette,” he whispered, “whose heart is bigger than any of you will ever know.”

Marinette couldn’t bring herself to do anything. She was already full of emotions, any sudden movements would tip them all out of her in a very unbecoming manner.

“The heroes of Paris, who did in a few months what takes other cities years. And Ladybug, who is off heroing as we speak.” His one and only lie while under oath. “I don’t know who I would be without her.”

His eyes met Marinette’s, and the supposed distance between them shrank in a nanosecond. From a horizon, to a court room, to the length of a wooden bench, to mere inches—like when they were lying in bed together two days ago, passing conversation between themselves like breath; like when they’d been soaring through the sky on patrol one year ago, the wind whipping their hair together; like neck-and-neck racing through the arches of the Eiffel Tower two years ago, their favourite playground; like that golden sunset before all this legal intrigue, when she’d promised to never abandon him in favour of any other partner.

Like too many other moments to count. Ice-cream, red roses, dancing, flying, kissing, crying, fighting evil, fighting each other, the Earth spinning slowly beneath them, the water closing over their heads, the ground returning to their feet.

Magic and miracles.

“Thank you,” Adrien finished, and left the witness stand.

Chapter Text

RENA ROUGE FOLLOWED LADYBUG DOWN the stairs into the basement of the Palais de Justice, and Carapace followed Rena Rouge.

Her feet moved as quickly as her mouth, skipping deftly down each stone step without a glance. “I find it a tad—just a tad—ungrateful that we, Paris’ number one sidekicks, have to clean out the office. I mean, sure, we created these documents, but surely the judiciary has a team of interns or clerks waiting around somewhere to do this. We could be off protecting public safety or something! Kicking evil ass!”

“Just a tad,” Carapace echoed, amused by her outburst. Carapace, bless him, was so pleased with the newfound freedom and sense of peace that had descended on the city after the verdict that he was willing to keep helping out, wherever needed. But Rena had a backlog of Ladyblog posts to write, all insider scoops for her online audience.

It was only because Rena was in the company of trusted friends—boyfriend and best friend—that she was complaining so passionately. She was very ready to tie a bow on this whole trial, but now they were being employed once more not as investigators or superheroes or courtroom security, but paper pushers. Filing, tagging and archiving all the transcripts and dossiers from the Agreste case. As if they hadn’t been volunteering for months.

“Special request from Heloise, I’m afraid,” Ladybug called back, not sounding apologetic at all.

When the trio stepped into the familiar basement office, the door slammed shut and bolted behind them. Rena startled and whirled around at the metallic thud. Chat Noir had a dark claw pressed against the wood, smiling wider than she had ever seen him smile.

“Uh.” What was going on?

The shelves had already been cleared. No boxes or dossiers to trawl through. Nothing to archive. Then she noticed the smell. Pastries? Ladybug whipped a chequered in the air and let it float down onto the workbench in the centre of the room. Chat Noir’s baton extended with a shink through the handles of three wicker baskets in the corner, and he deposited all three in a perfect row just as the tablecloth settled. By now, both Rena and Carapace were itching for answers.

“We have some news to tell you,” Ladybug said. Chat Noir walked to her side and started opening the baskets. The smell of sugar, fruit jam and baked dough grew stronger. Carapace’s eyes drifted distractedly to the food before refocusing on the two heroes.

“What is it?” Rena wondered.

Ladybug opened her mouth. No sound emerged. She tried again, and then chuckled and shook her head. Rena could see a flush underneath her mask. What was the news? Finally, words having failed her, Ladybug tiptoed and placed a kiss on Chat Noir’s cheek. He hadn’t been expecting it, unwrapping a bundle of blueberry danishes (maybe a little too intently), and Rena saw his pointy ears prick right up, his cheeks flushing to match his Lady’s. He gave her a soft smile and still wouldn’t look at Rena or Carapace.

She understood. Ladybug’s indecision, now decided. The many conversations they had about love and letting Adrien go and her anxieties, now settled. She’d chosen to take a leap of faith with Chat Noir, finally.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

She ran into Ladybug’s arms and squeezed tightly. This was fantastic news. Carapace, too, caught on and said, “Wow. Congratulations. What a power couple.”

Chat Noir cleared his throat. “Thanks, Carapace. There’s more. Plagg, claws in.”

Huh?

A rush of green magic curled around Chat Noir’s body, and when the haze cleared, Rena saw—

“Adrien,” Carapace whispered. His mouth hung agape. For a long time, no-one said anything. Ladybug folded her lips inwards and waited, while Adrien nervously from foot to foot. Adrien. Chat Noir.

“Wait,” Carapace said dazedly, “I thought you and Ladybug weren’t supposed to know each other’s— how long have you known?”

“It’s okay. We’re safe now,” Ladybug answered. “I’ve known since the trial.”

Alya’s mind was spiralling. What. How. How perfect. Adrien was Chat Noir, who loved Ladybug, who was Marinette, who loved Adrien, who was right there in front of her. She hadn’t really had to decide between them in the first place. Because he was Chat Noir. Round and round the thought process went, each time landing on a new memory that suddenly meant something totally different. How he kept running off whenever someone was akumatized. Chat Noir’s absence at the start of the trial. The surprising strength and fierceness that Adrien exhibited in his testimony.

She blinked back into the office and realised Carapace had shed his shell. Nino had circled around the table and was clinging to Adrien, arms locked around his shoulders. Adrien laughed, eyes squeezed shut.

“—when I said I hated Chat Noir,” he said rapidfire, “I didn’t mean any of that.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you!” Nino exclaimed, the pieces clearly falling into place for him, too. “You just played the ultimate game of double agent.”

“I know,” Adrien said apologetically.

“Fuck, man. That must have been so difficult. I love you.”

“I know.” Adrien squeezed Nino tighter, clapped him on the shoulder and stepped back. “I love you, too.” When Rena looked at Adrien, there was such familiarity and fondness in his eyes that she knew he was seeing through her mask. He knew she was Alya. This moment was only among friends, so she detransformed.

Nino suddenly chuckled bashfully. “Sorry, Ladybug. Got emotional there.”

“It’s okay, Nino,” she said. “I understand.” Ladybug took a breath. “Tikki, spots off.”

Oh. Was she finally ready to shed her mask?

Alya was waiting by her best friend’s side as the glow faded from her body, and Marinette appeared. This time, Nino seemed to go into shock. A strange but not unhappy blankness settled on his face. Robotically he walked to the computer benches, slid out a stool, and sat on it.

“Nino?” Adrien asked worriedly.

“Yes. I am Nino. You are Adrien.”

“Uh...” Marinette drawled. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Marinette. You are Ladybug.”

Alya fished two danishes from the basket. “This is actually a step above Nino fainting, you guys.” Which she’d also been witness to. He just needed food and a distraction until his mind caught up to all the bombshells that had been dropped. “Danish, babe?”

Nino blinked. He took the pastries and started eating, nodding hypnotically in time with his chewing.

Alya put a hand by her mouth and whispered, “He’ll be fine.”

In fact, now she was confident they all would be.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Marinette sighed and leaned back on her palms, watching the evergreen trees sway gently in the wind.

It was a clear day, but still February, so it was cold despite the mild sunlight dappling the grass. She and Adrien were eating a late lunch in Places Des Vosges because he loved being outside, after spending the autumn and winter cooped in a hotel suite. His scarf was wrapped high around his neck, hiding some of his face from any incidental bystanders. The media frenzy around the trial had largely settled down now that the trial was over and Adrien had left the modelling industry, but a life of fame had made him ever-cautious.

Adrien had finally moved from the hotel back to the Agreste mansion. With Gabriel’s household staff dismissed, and the investigatory team packed out, he had full reign of the place. He despised that fact, having no need for a ballroom or six guest bedrooms or a secret underground lair. But with Gabriel beginning his prison sentence, and as a legal adult, Adrien had come to inherit all the assets of his father.

Thankfully, it wasn’t as lonely as the last time he lived there now that his friends had permission to come over and throw all the parties they liked. Marinette knew he was planning something bigger, something more thoughtful for the Agreste mansion—she could tell the soaring columns and polished excesses didn’t fit right on Adrien—but he wouldn’t say what.

Or maybe he didn’t know himself yet.

In addition to being outside, he loved walking to parks, taking public transportation, going to the cinema, buying his own groceries, and attempting to cook. Sometimes, the cooking attempts went haywire but he took all these challenges in stride.

A few weeks ago, after the judgments of Gabriel and Nathalie were passed down, Adrien had confessed that he was terrified of operating as an individual in the world. Last year he was a child, with supervisors, and now he was an adult all of a sudden. He couldn’t drive, couldn’t cook, didn’t know how to pay his phone bills, had never withdrawn cash from an ATM. All these simple tasks (performed for him by employed labour) made him feel juvenile, incompetent.

“Chat Noir, incompetent?” Marinette had said. “Never. Besides, I can’t drive either. And have you seen me in a kitchen? My clumsiness is an occupational hazard.”

“It baffles me how Ladybug is so co-ordinated and Marinette is so...”

Marinette had arched her brows. “So what? Choose your next words carefully.”

“So wonderful, and inspiring,” Adrien had quipped. “Beautiful, too.”

Reflecting on the new Adrien gave Marinette hours of entertainment. Some of Chat Noir’s traits—traits she would have once utterly precluded as Adrien Agreste’s—had bled through. He had an edge, a cheeky, playful air. He teased her, played pranks. He flirted unabashedly. He did spontaneous things like literally sweeping her off her feet or twirling her around the room.

But he was Adrien, too, thoughtful, sincere and sensitive. When they were in private, he became such an attention-hungry stray. Probably an effect of all those years of isolation. He secretly adored having his hair ruffled to disarray (despite complaining that it was a nightmare to fix), cuddling up with Marinette, and listening to her convoluted, vivid stories. His favourite story was the story of Ladybug and Chat Noir, and how the former fell in the love with the latter. Even though he’d heard her say she loved him so many times by now. Probably especially because he’d heard it all before.

Marinette found old memories and dynamics constantly bubbling up to the surface, where Adrien eagerly fished them up and treasured them. She told him how, when she thought they were separate people, she felt undone, out of control, eaten up by fire with Chat Noir. How with Adrien she was light as air and full of fantasies. How falling for her partner had terrified her. How had this happened? Where was the tipping point? Those two months without him, which for the first time felt like treading water in the open ocean, waiting for rescue? The day he came back, and returned her feet to dry land. His rashness and unfathomable approaches to the investigation, which piqued her interest and heated her blood. The kiss.

But a tipping point implied a buildup. Marinette also produced the little moments before. “I liked our banter. It felt dangerous, almost too-close to flirting, but not quite. Any time you touched me—mostly for professional reasons—my heart would jump and I’d get this weird awareness all over me.”

Then Adrien had smiled a Chat Noir smirk, and she told him so.

“What?” he spluttered amusedly. “What is a Chat Noir smirk?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just... the purr-fect balance of dangerous and safe.”

Marinette’s phone rang. She shifted off her haunches so she could pull it from her pocket. The call was incoming through the MM network, and she glanced around the sparsely populated park before deciding to answer. “Heloise, bonjour.”

Adrien heard the judge’s name and became very intrigued.

“Uh-huh,” Marinette said. “Oh. How soon would Lila’s case go to trial? Right. I understand. I see.”

Marinette glanced at Adrien and saw keen comprehension in his grass green eyes. He was smiling knowingly at her and shaking his head, cutting a hand across his neck. Despite his clear objections, Marinette couldn’t help herself. Her sense of responsibility was undying. “Well, maybe I would be free for a meeting—”

“Sorry, Heloise,” Adrien interrupted, snatching the phone and bringing it to his ear in what seemed like a nanosecond. “Ladybug and I have taken on a new project.” Marinette grasped desperately for her phone back, knowing how unpredictable a combination Adrien’s charm with Chat Noir’s confidence was. He did a smooth roll under her arm and pivoted onto his feet.

“It’s time and labour-intensive, and I expect it to take the rest of the year.” She lunged again and he dodged neatly, feline reflexes sharp as ever. Curse him. “Yes, maybe even longer,” he was saying. “Yes, so sorry. You, too. Have a good day. Bye.”

Then he hung up.

“I cannot believe you.” She was as irritated as she was impressed, and more flustered than anything. “I can speak for myself.”

“I know that.” Adrien tossed the phone in the air and Marinette caught it, fumbling only once (a real win considering her civilian clumsiness). “I also know you would have agreed to a meeting, and then felt weirdly responsible for Lila and her crimes, and then volunteered to spearhead yet another investigation, even though now there are no Miraculous involved.”

“As dangerous as she is, Lila is hurting. You don’t know what I felt when I was using the Butterfly Miraculous.” It was so poisonous. Lila had very old wounds inside, festering and infecting every new relationship or environment she entered. Marinette could so easily envision a life of cages (real or imagined) and darkness if no-one intervened and got her the support she needed. Was it justice to just send her to prison? It didn't feel like it. “I really worry about her.”

True, sometimes she overstepped her obligations. But Marinette couldn’t bring herself to wish away her sense of duty. That was what made her such a good hero. Adrien’s words on the night he was amokized always helped ground her when dilemmas like these arose. Ladybug would be nothing without Marinette, he’d said. And she tried to believe it was true. She tried to invest more into her personal life and take necessary time and space away from carrying the weight of the city, even when it called to her. She was trying.

It truly was one of the hardest battles she’d fought.

“I can imagine. I love your empathy and your desire to help everyone,” Adrien said, tugging her hand into his. “But you can delegate. You deserve a break. We both do.”

“There’s no villains now, though. What am I going to do in the meantime?”

“I don’t know. Be my girlfriend?”

“Adrien.”

“What?” he said innocently.

“It’s so soon after the trial. Everything is still changing, even though it feels like it’s over. Are we ready?”

“I know I’m ready.” Gazing up at his clear, bright eyes, Marinette was ever-thankful she didn’t have to fight this new battle alone. Adrien was so supportive, so clear-sighted about priorities, so unerring when he championed what was best for her. “But I will admit, my Lady, being my lady is a challenging role. Full-time, very competitive, just as high-stakes as being a superhero.”

“I’m sure,” she quipped. “What’s the pay like?”

“It’s also voluntary, unfortunately—”

“—oh, I see how it is—”

“—but the benefits are great.”

Everyone knew what her answer would be. Marinette sighed, took a step closer and tapped her forefinger on his dimple, just resurfaced. “See here.”

“Hm?”

“This is a Chat Noir smirk. Textbook.”

He laughed. She loved making him laugh. (And while Marinette discovered it was rather difficult to kiss and smile at the same time, she gave it her best shot.)

Chapter Text

THREE MONTHS LATER, ADRIEN’S LIFE had completely changed.

He thought back to his eighteenth birthday, what he’d pictured for himself come May, and marvelled that it had turned out so different. Apparently, that was adulting lesson one: nothing went according to plan.

By now, the hospital receptionist knew Adrien by face. She was speaking on the phone and waved at him as he strode past the counter. He smiled in return, taking his sunglasses off (it wasn’t that sunny outside, but it helped hide him from ravenous fans). The flat fluorescent lights above, the smooth linoleum, every turn in the corridors, was familiar. The way to Emelie had imprinted itself in his head over the months.

Half an hour into sitting with her, a doctor walked past the private ward and saw Adrien inside. She poked her head through. “It’s a school day, Adrien.”

“Oh, hello. Class let out early. And I’m still studying,” he said, gesturing to the textbook on the small coffee table.

Sometimes he studied, sometimes he read a book aloud or spoke to Emelie about Marinette. There was always so much to say about Marinette. Adrien tried to visit his mother once a week, but this was his first visit in two weeks. His life was (unfathomably) even busier after the trial. This type of busy was the good kind, rather than the old kind—the flurry of a life full of freedom, love, hope and memories demanding to be made.

“We’re going to start the first round in June,” the doctor was saying. Adrien had elected Emelie for the ultrasound trials with low expectations. It was the medical school of the local university running the trials. Though the method was theoretically sound, in practice no-one had definitively been woken from a coma with the technology. The most achieved thus far was a ‘heightened consciousness’; a few finger twitches corresponding to yes or no, a blip on a neuroscan.

But of course, he had to try. That was what loving someone meant. Never giving up hope, even when the odds were bleak. In some twisted way, his father had taught him that.

Adrien had only spoken to Gabriel once since his imprisonment, and not entirely willingly. Adrien was eligible to assume the Agreste estate while his father was serving his sentence. He had wanted to leave the process to his lawyers and his father’s lawyers to fight about, but in a move that shocked them all, Gabriel agreed to all their terms under one condition: he wanted to speak to Adrien. Just once.

In that meeting at the prison, during visiting hours, Adrien had given curt updates on his life. School, his friends, Marinette, and Emelie. He’d told Gabriel that he was signing off on the trial as Emelie’s next of kin, and that they might have been able to get her medical aid sooner if he hadn’t locked her underground for so many years.

At that, Gabriel had dropped his head. “I still don’t think medicine will be able to help her. Her issue is magical—”

“—if you are trying to justify what you did—”

“I’m not,” his father sighed. “That is not why I wanted to speak with you. I just want to know that you’re happy.”

Adrien swallowed. Some naïve part of him had hoped he would get an apology today, but it was clear that his father’s choices still made sense to his father. Even if he had hurt so many people, including his son. He didn’t know if he ever wanted a real relationship with his father again. Maybe one day it would be possible, but not with this version of Gabriel.

After a beat of silence, he said, “I’m getting there.”

“I will try not to make that process harder for you.”

What fucking irony.

Adrien stifled his scoff, and smiled blithely. “Thank you, father.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The Camembert sat only one metre away. There, on the teacher’s desk.

Teasing him.

Plagg inched his snout out of Adrien’s breast pocket. The pungent, ripe scent grew stronger. More delicious. So delicious. Plagg craned even further, until Adrien’s knowing palm landed on his face and gently pushed him out of sight.

At the end of the week, the senior class of Francois Dupont would graduate. The school year was ending. Classes were letting out earlier, the windows thrown open to golden sunlight and clear blue skies. Adrien’s final exams were all done which—to Plagg—meant that he should be able to walk away from the stiff, boring hellhole that was high school. But no, even with no more homework, no more exams, and no more reasons to be in a classroom, Adrien was determined to come back (taking the bus, now that he wasn’t coddled by a team of carers) whenever possible.

The kwami remembered Adrien’s first day back after the sentencing had been delivered. His holder was modest by nature, so his genuine wish was for everyone to act like everything was normal. No welcome back party, no fanfare, no red carpet. This wish was only partly granted. While there hadn’t been a school-wide celebration, there had been a potluck to commemorate Adrien’s return to classes in person. In the caféteria, dozens of students had come up to greet Adrien.

Plagg supposed it made sense. After all, Adrien had been confined to the hotel, kept from his friends, for many months. What the hotel had in comfort, catered dining, and aged Roquefort on call, it lacked in things Adrien liked. What the classroom had in sentimental value and friends, it lacked in anything Plagg liked. Except the Camembert. His Camembert.

This little session in Miss Bustier’s classroom was a celebratory graduation potluck, much like the previous one. Adrien purloined the Camembert from what Plagg considered his rightful personal stash, without asking first. How rude. Marinette brought pastries from her parents’ bakery. Alya brought a pot of savory stew which paired perfectly with the crispy bread Rose baked. Nino forgot about the potluck and had to order pizza to be delivered to the school.

“...bought flights this morning,” Alya said. “I had to bite the bullet because airfare will only get more expensive the longer I wait.”

“Oh, no!” someone said.

“Don’t leave us,” another pleaded.

“We still have the whole summer!” Alya said. Nino, his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer to kiss her temple.

The class’ reaction to Alya leaving was the same as their reaction to everyone else leaving.

Crying. Laughing. Hugging. More crying.

They’d spent an hour snacking and talking about their high school memories, looking at old photos, videos and memes from the class group chat, reflecting on what a crazy year it had been with Adrien’s trial, and wishing each other well for their lives after graduation.

Only a few people were travelling abroad to study: Alya to New York, Sabrina to Dublin, and Nathaniel to Melbourne. Most were staying in Paris and beginning university in September, like Marinette with her fashion design course, Nino with his Business Management and Music Production double major, Kim with Exercise Science, Juleka with Music Composition, Max with Software Engineering and Mathematics. Adrien, too, would study in Paris (majoring in Physics) but starting in the spring semester. He’d decided that it was the best thing for him to take a personal break after the investigation.

One day after a therapy session, he’d said, “I want to process one big change before signing myself up for another,” or something or blah.

As a result of therapy, that senseless human invention, Adrien was becoming very introspective yet talkative. He was misunderstanding the ‘intro’ part of introspect. He involved Plagg in his innermost thoughts more deeply than Plagg had ever wanted to be involved. Agonising over whether to take an extra semester off or even an extra year or none at all, worrying about being ‘left behind’ on some arbitrary life path that existed only in his imagination, talking about milestones and employable majors and five-year-plans.

All that heartache would pass in the blink of an eye (to an immortal kwami, that is).

Thank Creation Plagg could now delegate Adrien responsibilities to Marinette.

It was strange that his holder was courting Tikki’s holder.

Whenever Adrien was in Marinette’s company, he didn’t bother Plagg too much. He would provide Plagg some nourishment or stimulation and this would be occupation enough for a few hours. The most disruptive parts of the new relationship were:

Having to see the other kwamis much more frequently whenever Adrien visited the bakery. There was a reason Plagg was the lone wolf of the kwamis, opting not to return to the Miracle Box with Marinette. All his counterparts were incredibly annoying. Loud, rambunctious, prone to mood swings, prone to arguing, prone to stealing Plagg’s food stashes, prone to messing with his toys, prone to crying when he swiped at them in warning and tattling to the Guardian.

And:

Adrien and Marinette sometimes removed their Miraculous when in each other’s company. Usually this happened when Marinette visited the mansion, where no other people or kwamis were around. Usually an hour (sometimes longer) later they would put them back on, red-cheeked and smiley. Plagg still had no idea where they went or what they were doing when he was hanging in a timeless, spaceless void. Tikki had her theories, but she also blinked into oblivion when the Miraculous were off. So she couldn’t really observe and say for sure.

Now, Marinette and Adrien were sitting at her desk, looking over the pictures of Adrien she had downloaded from the Internet. Marinette had her head in her hands, inky hair falling loose over her shoulders. Adrien was scrolling through the folder and laughing, kissing her periodically on the cheek even though she tried to hide. Adrien was fond of teasing Marinette about her crush on him, Plagg noticed, in a doting manner.

“I think they are planning a surprise party for us,” was Tikki’s leading guess.

“Huh?”

“That’s why we can’t be around and they take their Miraculous off.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course, Plagg. Look at them.” Plagg glanced at Adrien’s gleeful face and Marinette attempting to wrestle the mouse from his grasp. “That’s why they are so excited.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The cool rush of air on her cheeks.

An elastic force at the end of her fingers.

Then concrete beneath her feet, bent knees gracefully absorbing the impulse of Ladybug’s landing.

She stretched to her full height and glanced around their rendezvous spot. Upon finding it empty, her fist clenched in triumph.

“Four minutes late,” a low voice said. Damn it.

Startled, she spun around and saw Chat Noir slink out from behind the rooftop door. His arms were crossed and he melted from the dark corner like a shadow with piercing green eyes.

“You took a shortcut.”

“I did not.”

“You must have,” Ladybug argued. Otherwise how could he have beaten her?

Chat Noir took the implied corner-cutting personally. “I, an agent of peace and justice, would risk the safety of Paris by not completing my assigned patrol route?”

Ladybug rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

“Look. Proof.” Chat Noir pulled out his Cat Phone. The GPS system had tracked his movements while he was conducting his scouts. His looping route throughout the streets painted his side of the Seine green. All quiet, on all fronts. Ladybug twisted her mouth into a displeased scowl, but there was little more she could say. He’d run the whole course, faster than she did.

“I could swap you the twelfth arrondissement for the sixteenth,” he said, in a magnanimous tone which at once charmed and annoyed her.

“Are you kidding me? No. The twelfth is further east than anything.”

“Then I’ll take the seventeenth and eighth, too,” Chat Noir purred, “but you will still lose. No matter which way we split the city up.” His hand lifted to her cheek. He brushed along her face, moving to her hair, and twisted a loose strand of her ponytail around it.

“You must have hit your head, kitty,” she said, ignoring the tingling hyper-awareness that sprung up whenever he was about to touch her fully, “because your memory seems to be faulty. Remember last week?” She’d dominated all their patrols that week.

He raised his eyebrows. “Remember the week before?”

Ladybug scoffed and let the issue drop.

They could argue the whole night long without either budging an inch. She was secretly glad that, despite becoming her boyfriend, Chat Noir still teased and competed with her the way he had when they had just been partners and friends. Instead of sacrificing one dynamic for another, they’d simply added more dimensions to their relationship. Sometimes she was overcome with the enormity of how much she loved him, and how much he loved her, and all they had survived together, and felt grateful but greedy. Surely one girl was not allowed so much.

Chat Noir touched her upper back, below her shoulder blade, at the very moment she cupped his face. She didn’t know how long they kissed for. His hands moved all over her body, from back to waist to hold her face desperately close to his. All she knew was that when she parted, the stars were spinning slightly. “Fine,” she whispered, breathless. “I will take twelve next time.”

Chat Noir smiled softly and kissed her once more, plush and intentionally cute, on the lips. She rose to kiss him on the cheek, and then they were hugging each other, swaying.

“I can’t believe it’s all over,” Ladybug said. Not just high school. Not just the trial. Everything that had defined their lives until this summer. The routines, the sense of fear and uncertainty; a completely new chapter for themselves and for Paris lay ahead.

“I know.” Chat Noir pulled away to meet her eyes. “Nino is trying to keep it together for Alya, but he doesn’t know what he will do without her around.”

“They can take Space Potions and be together in ten minutes.”

“But it’s not about the physical distance,” Chat Noir said. “Not for Nino, at least. Up till now, her friends have been his friends. He knows everything that happens to her because he’s always there. He’s worried she’ll make new relationships and memories that he’s not a part of anymore.”

“Alya is worried about the same thing, you know. She’s very torn, even though she’s made her decision.” With an F-1 visa and plane tickets, there was steadily less doubt that she would be leaving at the end of the summer. “She doesn’t want to leave her friends and family, but as her best friend I know she is not the sort of person to spend her whole life in one place. She’s always hunted the big stories, as long as I’ve known her.”

Ladybug rested her head in the crook of his neck. Contrary to what her juvenile self had believed before she knew him better, he didn’t wear Adrien, the fragrance, or any other fragrances from his father’s line. Nor was that particular scent modelled on how he smelled, which made her feel foolish for spraying it all around her room when she was fifteen. In fact, he didn’t like most perfumes. He smelled like plain soap, citrus shampoo, a musky aftershave, and skin and sweat and young man. She loved it.

Chat Noir took Ladybug’s hand and led her to the ledge of the rooftop. He hung his boots over the side, kicking them absentmindedly. She tucked one leg underneath herself and let the other dangle in the air. “Do you think you could ever leave this city?”

Ladybug took in the view before her. The twinkling multicoloured lights of buildings and windows. The streets lit up like golden veins. People still strolled them; something about summer just made the nights feel safer, more active. The Eiffel Tower rose like a beacon above the skyline. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a violin drifted into the clouds. Everyone she had ever loved came from this city. The person she was, everything she knew—how to lead, to endure, to take leaps of faith—Paris taught her.

“If I did, I would have to come back,” she answered. “I don’t think I could ever be away from her for long. Paris is my home. But vacations and maybe even a year abroad, perhaps. What about you?”

“Paris is my hometown, and I do love this place, but it’s not my home,” Chat Noir said.

“That’s fair. I know your memories here are different from mine.”

“I meant, you’re my home, bugaboo.” Ladybug turned her head, smiling at the nickname.

Chat Noir put his hand over hers, the size and warmth of it comforting. “Wherever you went, I would simply have to follow.”

Ladybug leaned over to rest her forehead against his cheek. She liked whenever Chat Noir said things like that. There’s no-one else I’d ever want to be with. I want to know you better than anyone else does. Wherever you went, I would simply have to follow. As opposed to merely saying he loved her, these specific declarations of love gave her a sense of hope and security for their future together, new and uncertain as it was.

Chat Noir wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. They sat like that, beholding their chaotic, glistening mess of city, for a few beats of silence.

“And given your slowness,” he added, “I would probably beat you there.”

Chapter Text

SIX MONTHS LATER

At four-thirty, it starts raining so badly that even an umbrella doesn’t keep Marinette dry.

She has come back from university, stepping off of her usual bus and saying her usual thank you and farewell to the driver. Her flimsy collapsible umbrella (which she bought because it fit into her backpack, alongside her binder of fashion designs, laptop, and water bottle) does nothing for sideways precipitation, nor droplets rebounding from the pavement. Her hair is moderately protected. Nothing else is.

She swipes herself into the apartment building, grinding her boots on the doormat in the lobby. She shakes out her collapsed umbrella over the pot plant in the corner, winds the cord around the polyester, and pressed down on the Velcro square. Up three flights of stairs is her and Adrien’s apartment.

“—you’re going to have to learn to share,” he is saying when she enters. He is surrounded by kwamis, his hand raised. Plagg sits on his palm, looking admonished. “Look at how small you are.”

Marinette sets her backpack down by the door, stooping to untie her laces.

“You can’t claim half the couch when it’s TV time.”

Mullo, a flash of pink and grey, crosses her arms. “What if we want to watch the show, too?”

“You weren’t even interested in it until I said I liked it!” Plagg says back.

“Well, now we like it, too,” Xuppu chimes in.

Plagg lifts his head to his holder, touching his paws together in a pleading gesture. “Adrien. Please. We had such a sweet arrangement at the mansion, Adrien.”

Marinette and Adrien started looking for apartments in the middle of fall semester. Over the winter break, they both moved their belongings into this quaint two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment. It’s only been two weeks since then, boxes of random stationery and suitcases of summer clothing still littering the living room. The second bedroom they converted into a design room for Marinette’s sewing table, mannequins and fabric bolts. It’s in a convenient location with a park on the corner. A short public transportation journey away is her university, the Agreste mansion, and her parents’ bakery.

“I don’t want to live in the mansion,” Adrien says.

“Well, how about you live here, and I go live in the mansion. Then whenever you need to transform, you can call me back.”

Plagg starts zipping towards the wall, and Adrien catches his little black tail. “No, you’re staying here, Plagg.”

Needless to say, there have been some adjustment issues. Plagg really values his independence.

Marinette walks up to the scene of the conflict and takes Plagg in her palms. “Plagg, we need you to be here. Your fellow kwamis have missed having you around—it’s been, what, three-hundred years since you saw Nooroo and Duusu? Don’t you want to keep catching up with them after all that they’ve been through?”

Nooroo and Duusu are with Roaar and Stompp at the dining table. Adrien lit a candle earlier in the day, and they are sitting around the holder soaking up the warmth like it’s a hearth. Plagg looks in that direction and scrubs behind his ear. “I suppose so.”

“And aside from the kwamis, Adrien and I need you,” Marinette continues. “You have a lot of knowledge about the Miraculous that we are still learning from the grimoire. You’re smart, and innovative, so we need you around if a new challenge arises that we cannot solve.”

“Well, all this is true.”

The kwami preens for a bit longer, prompting Adrien to say, “I don’t want to do life without you by my side, Plagg.”

“Fine,” he says eventually. “But no-one touches my Camembert without asking.”

Ziggy interjects, “No-one else likes your stinky cheese anyway—”

“Of course,” Adrien cuts in. “It’ll be a new house rule.”

The two humans walk to their bedroom once the issue is resolved, hoping the kwamis won’t burn the apartment down in their absence. With so much magical ability and contrasting personalities under one roof, that probability is never zero. Even though they can morph through doors, they have set another house rule: don’t go into the bedroom when the door is shut.

Marinette starts removing her soaked outer layer of clothing. Adrien watches her, childlike enjoyment on his face, as she strips down to her bra and underwear and starts looking for sweatpants and a t-shirt. The wet clothes go into the laundry hamper in the closet, and the dry clothes feel magnificent on her chilled skin. “I think Plagg is worried he won’t be your favorite kwami anymore.”

“You think so?”

“It’s like when an only child suddenly gets a whole bunch of siblings. He would prefer all of your attention, all of the time.” Sometimes Marinette feels like she and Adrien are playing house together, practicing for the day they have small humans to look after. She finds that she really enjoys it, being part of a team with him.

Adrien chuckles. “Ah, well, even an ageless, immortal kwami has to learn to get along with others at some point.”

They both get on the bed, and Marinette rolls into Adrien’s waiting arms. He’s so warm, he smells so good. It’s the hardest thing to drag herself out of bed in the morning. Marinette tells Adrien about her classes, the rain that took her by surprise on her way home. Adrien tells her about his Physics coursework, though he doesn’t have classes on Mondays.

“What else did you do today?” At this, Adrien mimes zipping his mouth closed, shaking his head. Marinette pouts. “Still?”

A little after fall semester started, Adrien took on a secret project. He still hasn’t told Marinette a thing about it. While she was adjusting to the intense schedule of a first-year university student, he said he should find something to occupy him. After all, without modelling or school, he had a lot of spare time on his hands. The secret project occupied him through fall semester and winter break. Now that he’s started university (and loves it, despite the sheer volume of assignments and laboratory reports), Marinette assumed he would finally confide in her.

“You will know when it’s ready, and it’ll be ready very soon.”

“God. If you tell me you have a third identity, I will faint.”

Adrien laughs and kisses the top of her head. “Trust me, Marinette. This secret is one you’ll like.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

A week later, they are back at the Agreste mansion.

No police tape, and only Adrien has the key.

Marinette narrows her eyes. “This is your secret project?”

“Yes,” he says, and does not explain further. He plans to give her a grand tour and explain everything with tangible examples around them.

As he leads her up the stairs, Marinette says, “it looks the same from the outside, so I can only assume you’ve renovated the inside.”

She is correct, in a way. He first had the trickles of the big idea around his nineteenth birthday. This was back when he lived in the mansion, surrounded by its empty hallways and rooms. This was back when Marinette was dashing off to university every day, and so were all of his other friends in Paris, and he started thinking about what to do with the mansion and his life. Because even then, he knew it didn’t feel like home any longer.

He started first with the kitchen, because not much needed to be changed. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now,” he says now, guiding Marinette through the islands and cooktops, “but superheroing isn’t the same anymore without a supervillain.”

Now that Hawk Moth isn’t tormenting the city, most people don’t need a superhero. They need to know where their next meal is coming from, shelter and a warm bed, and a bit of love. Without these things, people become lonely, and aimless, and dangerous. So when the mansion is opened to the public as a community centre, the kitchen will be a soup kitchen. Fully equipped for volunteers to prepare and serve meals on a large scale.

The bedrooms have been converted into different leisure rooms. One with barres and mirrors for dance classes. Another with specially-lined floors for self-defense classes. Meeting rooms for outreach and addiction clinics to take place. Adrien envisions poetry workshops and literacy workshops in the library. Marinette’s eyes grow wider with wonder and admiration in each successive room of the mansion. “It’ll be free for different volunteer and charity groups to book space in the mansion, so hopefully they can offer their services to the public for cheaper or even for free.”

“Adrien, this is amazing,” Marinette whispers.

“I have one more room to show you.”

He guides her to what was once his father’s atelier, now converted into a plain office. There is a large wooden desk, filing cabinets, and on the walls framed portraits of the Miraculous wielders in action. The painting of Emelie has remained, her warm smile looking protectively over the long room. Adrien presses his fingers into the canvas. A few seamless buttons depress into the painting, and the elevator chute opens up in the middle of the floor.

Marinette and Adrien slip down into the carriage, standing side by side in the narrow cylindrical space. When the lower chamber of the mansion emerges, she gasps. “I don’t even recognize this place.”

Instead of a dark, cold and flooded tomb, they find a well-lit and clean headquarters. Along the walls are open pods, stacked like cells in honeycomb, with different types of working layouts. A computer room, a training room with weights and weapons, a tea room, a room wallpapered pink with a bean bag and cushions. Over the autumn, Adrien had many meetings with the other Miraculous wielders to determine how their specialties could translate into the new headquarters. All these meetings took place when Marinette was busy, so she never suspected a thing.

“Just in case conventional superheroes are needed again,” he says.

At the end of the walkway, where Emelie used to rest, is a control console. Adrien swipes and taps expertly on a few screens and a giant holographic map of Paris appears. There is traffic data, weather data, and they stare for a few seconds before a red hotspot pulses at the intersection of two major roads. “We’re cross-referencing social media reports and police data to get live-time updates on any incidents that might need responding to. Most of the time, it’s traffic accidents and petty crime, which we don’t need to handle.”

Adrien closes the map and opens a list of all the Miraculous wielders. Sliding his fingers down the screen on the console, the projected hologram rifles through profiles of familiar faces and kwamis. “Max and I designed a Miraculous hotline for people to call. Depending on their issue, they might need general superhero skills like speed and speed, or more specialised heroes for digital crime, mental health callouts, search and rescue, what have you. The hotline processes their request and automatically sends the job to either a specialist, or the on call hero. If no-one answers, then we step in.”

Adrien clicks into the profile of Kagami Tsurugi, mere blue light bouncing off dust particles, and points to a subtitle underneath her name. Off-duty. “Inactive means they are retired wielders. Off-duty means they aren’t actively holding their Miraculous. On call means they are holding their Miraculous, and they are available to respond immediately to any distress signals. Once I got your go-ahead, I wanted to survey our current team and see who would volunteer to be on call. I’m thinking one week intervals, so the other holders can get a break.”

He’s always known that Marinette could do anything in the world. She’s a girl with big dreams and wild plans, and he loves that about her. Yes, he’d love the mansion to become a hub for Parisians, but more than that he just wants his Lady to be happy. Set her free of some of her old burdens. Let her prioritise the things she wants, like studying, seeing their friends, and her fashion career. Marinette exhales in wonder and hugs Adrien tightly. “I can’t believe you. Thank you.”

“You’ve focused on this city for so long,” he smiles into her shoulder. “Now you can focus on yourself.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Inside the apartment, Adrien cooks dinner while Marinette works on a fashion design mock-up. Her sewing machine thrums rhythmically until he calls her to eat. Later, they watch a movie on the couch with the kwamis nestled around them. The kwamis nod off one by one, and the heroes gently deliver them back to the Miracle Box.

Adrien and Marinette go to the bathroom together. They wash their faces and brush their teeth. They slip into bed and turn the lights off. Adrien holds her in their usual position, on their sides, with her face tucked into his chest, and hums.

“What?” Marinette says sleepily.

“It’s nothing. I’m just grateful it was you.”

THE END