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The dingy restaurant she’s hiding out in isn’t anything spectacular but that doesn’t mean it’s not without its purpose. For the moment it’s her safe haven, or at least until everything comes crashing down again when the clock strikes twelve. Then she turns into a pumpkin, her pretty glass shoes shatter, and reality rears its ugly head.
She hopes midnight never comes because then she’d have to deal with tomorrow and she’d much rather have her shit together before she has to fix her mess. But for now she still has a little bit of time until all that.
The few people left inside the building—the ones who didn’t go back to their families, the ones who are lost, the ones like her—are crowding the small television propped onto the sticky booth in the corner. Nadja Chamack has stayed on the cracked screen for the past two hours and she’ll continue to do so for the next week.
Against her better judgment (what Alya would want, what Chat would want), Marinette forces herself to view the reruns again. Every single time it’s the same exact story—but still—with every rewatch she can’t help but wish that the story will have a different ending. A happy one. She could use a little happy. They all could.
The monitor fades into black until finally the shaky footage rolls once more from the top. The angle is from below, from where the crowd was, and Marinette knows that she’s never looked so small. In the video she is crying, Ladybug is crying and Hawkmoth’s head is made of butterflies, and he has all the miraculous but two, and she’s failed.
That’s the part that gets her the most. She’s failed, she let herself fail. And she absolutely hates it.
The Chat Noir on the television says something to her that the camera didn’t pick up on, Ladybug realizes she’s in love , she takes his hand, they hug, the Parisians come to support her, and then Hawkmoth’s head disappears a few seconds later.
It’s not easy to watch even if it’s been on a loop since it happened. And that’s exactly why she watches it over and over and over until her eyes are burning and a concerned waitress is asking where her parents are.
“Home,” is all she says. At least it’s the truth.
The waitress smiles softly at her and then leaves to go do something else.
So Marinette checks her phone. Again. Because it’s only a few minutes until midnight and he hasn’t called yet. Not like he said he would.
She shoves her phone into her purse (where a concerned Tikki is pacing back and forth) and glares at the cat toy. It’s a game of waiting now and she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like waiting for it to shake and buzz. It makes her feel alone.
Nevertheless it’s a game and she’s playing to win so she’ll stay in this stupid little diner for as long as it takes. And lucky for her the diner stays open all hours of the day.
But she has to have faith in him. He’s never left her despite all the mistakes and messes. It’s a miracle he hasn’t yet. So she believes in him and his love for her.
Because he loves her. So he'll call at twelve just like he said. (Still it couldn’t hurt to count down the minutes.)
Eleven fifty-nine, her phone reads and she trains her eyes on it for the next agonizing sixty seconds until finally…
Twelve.
And just like clockwork, the cat toy buzzes and Marinette—for the first time since she fled the rooftop a mere two hours ago—smiles.