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“I wonder what’s taking Papillon so long,” Ladybug said, breaking the silence.
Chat Noir angled his head toward her, stealing a sideways glance. Her legs dangled over the rooftop where they sat, the night breeze lifting inky strands of hair back from her face.
All of Paris was lit up before them, but at that moment, it couldn’t compare to her.
“What do you mean?” Chat Noir asked, affixing his gaze on the skyline again, pretending he hadn’t stared.
He felt her shift beside him, leaning back on her palms and pulling her feet off the ledge. “It’s been too quiet these past few days,” she said softly. “I’m sure he’s planning something.”
The same line of thought had crossed his mind more than once. With virtually every miraculous in his possession, and his grand spectacle of a terrorist threat several nights earlier, it was only a matter of time before Papillon made his play. This waiting game was killing them—but that was probably part of his plan.
“Relax, my lady,” Chat said, nudging her with his shoulder. “Enjoy the break. Maybe he figured we needed some time off.”
She was right and they both knew it, but that didn’t mean they had to dwell on it. Especially knowing the extent to which the loss had affected her—which he wasn’t supposed to know about at all. Chat Noir’s heart lifted in his chest as she giggled, then gave his shoulder a gentle push.
“A villain on vacation,” she mused. “Must be nice.”
“I’ll take you on vacation,” Chat Noir said, turning to her. Ladybug raised an eyebrow, turning slowly toward him, crossing her legs and leaning her elbows on her knees. He found it suddenly hard to focus under the scrutiny of her blue eyes. “Once this is all over, I mean.”
“You and what money?”
“I have money.”
“You’re seventeen, chaton. You don’t have vacation money.”
“You don’t believe me?” He grinned at her, and she shook her head, her own smile breaking over her features like the dawn. “Well then, my lady—I can’t wait to see your face when I prove you wrong.”
Ladybug laughed, the sound a welcome song spreading through his chest. It struck him, then, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made her laugh. He wanted to capture the sound, bottle it, save it for when she needed it again.
“All right,” she said, scooting closer. His heart gave an embarrassing stutter, but he leaned forward, letting his arm drape casually over his knee. “Supposing you’re some kind of ridiculously wealthy rich boy, where would we go?”
“My parents have a place on La Réunion.”
“Wow,” she said, her lips quirking with half-amusement, half-skepticism. “An island getaway. I like it. Waterfront, I presume?”
“Private beach,” Chat corrected.
“Oh, of course.”
“We can take the boat out whenever we feel like it,” he continued, drawing on a particularly perfect family vacation he’d taken with his parents when he was ten. “I’ll stock it with wine and cheese—actually no, I can’t stand cheese. Plagg can stay behind, but Tikki’s welcome to come out sailing with us.”
“That sounds nice,” Ladybug said, her eyes sparkling as she smoothed her fingertips over the ridges of her cheekbones. “She can sunbathe while I even out my mask tan.”
“You can keep the mask on, you know.” She looked up quickly, and Chat Noir leaned closer, dropping the lightness of his tone. It was important that she knew, that she understood how much he’d changed. He knew what mattered to her now, and he wouldn’t be crossing any more lines. “After all of this is over…if you still want to—”
“I don’t.”
He blinked at her, dumbstruck, and she turned slightly pink.
“I don’t want to,” Ladybug repeated, rubbing her arm and looking away. “What I want is…everything you just said, chaton. Every part. Without masks in the way.”
Hearing those words from her had always been a distant dream. He’d imagined the possibility so many times; Ladybug wanting to know who he was, asking to trade identities. To share faces and names and days where they didn’t have to call each other Chat Noir and Ladybug.
“Well,” he said, blank-faced. “I’ve decided to keep my identity a secret. I actually don’t want anyone knowing I’m Chat Noir.”
Her gaze snapped up to his, eyes widening beneath the mask.
He couldn’t resist a grin. “Kidding.”
“Don’t even joke like that!” she cried, rolling forward on her knees to swat at him. He sprang back, laughing, and she followed, tossing her yo-yo after him. “I thought you were serious!”
Chat dodged another hit, using his baton to push himself onto a brick smokestack. Ladybug scowled up at him from the shingled roof, her arm pulled back as she aimed to strike again.
“Seriously hilarious,” he teased. “You know I’d never pass up the chance to show my pretty face around you.”
“Good,” she snapped. “Because if you did, I’d kill you.”
“Ooh,” he laughed, lowering into a crouch. “I’m so scared!”
She took a running leap, hurtling straight for him, and Chat Noir launched off the roof to safety.
* * *
Papillon seemed to be taking his time with the new miraculous, which left Chat Noir and Ladybug to deal with other crises of non-magical nature.
In the first week, a woman held up the La Courneuve metro station for an hour, claiming her child had been taken. Ladybug stayed with the woman, working with the local police to coordinate a rapid search of the underground. Chat Noir eventually found the purse the woman described, and within it, a tiny, shaking chihuahua. He returned both to the woman without delay.
“Bien joué? ” said Ladybug, holding her closed fist out and clearly trying not to laugh.
It wasn’t the worst first catastrophe they could have faced post-Papillon’s victory. He had been dreading the news of some terrifying new miraculous wielder, dreading Ladybug’s reaction, dreading seeing her doubled over with panic once more.
It was coming—he knew that. They both did. In the meantime, he got to show her she wasn’t alone.
Chat Noir bumped his knuckles to hers, meeting her eyes seriously. “That wasn’t as ruff as I thought it’d be.”
Ladybug groaned, turning and starting up the steps toward the street. “I should have seen that coming.”
“I agree,” Chat told her, following suit. “You know I won’t stop hounding you until you admit I’m funny.”
He caught a glimpse of her smile before she buried it under a flat expression. “Not until you get me howling with laughter.”
It occurred to him, as they walked side-by-side through the station entrance, that she didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.
The city stayed quiet, the lack of Akuma attacks or sentimonster sightings or anything miraculous-related giving Chat Noir and Ladybug less reason to keep up their patrols. Or, so he thought. According to Ladybug, they had to be more vigilant than ever.
“You never know when we’ll need to intervene with civilian disasters,” she told him, holding onto his tail one cloudy afternoon, preventing Chat from taking his leave.
He opened his mouth, about to give the double-life excuse (Adrien Agreste had a meet-and-greet to get to), when the screech of tires and the crunch of metal sounded from below.
They looked over the edge of the Arc de Triomphe, a several-car pileup now blocking half the roundabout. As smoke began to rise, joined with the sound of honks and shouting voices as people clamored out of their cars, Ladybug turned to Chat Noir and said, “See?!”
“All right, all right,” he said, gripping her wrist and gently prying his tail from her grip. “My lady, if you wanted to spend more time together, there was no need to cause such a commotion.”
She glared at him, flushing, but didn’t pull away. “That was not my fault!”
“Whatever you say, bugaboo.”
The grin was wiped off his face as she grabbed his tail again, yanking him hard over the edge as they swung down.
They pulled passengers from the wreckage, sat children down in the shade, and helped police reroute traffic. Ladybug summoned a Lucky Charm—a traffic cone—with which she then tried to undo the damage to no avail.
“I mean, I knew it didn’t work on non-miraculous disasters,” she sighed later that night, seated beside him on a bench in the Jardins de l’Avenue Foch (Adrien Agreste had missed his meet-and-greet). “But I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”
She looked like a painting, with her head in her hands and lamplight in her hair—or a girl to write a song about. Chat Noir would have done both if he was capable. “You’re still a hero to them, my lady,” he told her, taking a second bite of the crêpe he’d purchased at a cart by the street. “Miracle cure or no.”
“I’d feel like more of a hero if we could just find Papillon!” She sat back, crossing her arms, her crêpe untouched in her lap. “If we could just do something besides wait around.”
“There’s no one I’d rather wait around with,” he said.
Their gazes met; he was the first to look away, something warm and solid settling into his chest. When he felt her still looking, he glanced around, meeting her eyes with a questioning look and ignoring the thrill that tingled through his veins.
“What is it, my lady?”
“You…” She inhaled a short breath, shifting slightly to face him. “You need to be more careful now, chaton. I can undo your Cataclysm if you use it on something, but…I can’t undo anything else.”
Chat Noir raised a brow, taking another bite to stall.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told him, her features twitching with irritation. “Acting like we both don’t know how reckless you are. Don’t you remember Shanghai? Because I do.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, avoiding her gaze now. He finished his crêpe, reaching for Ladybug’s next only to have his hand swatted away. “That was one time.”
“It definitely wasn’t.”
“Listen,” he said, still unable to look at her. “I promised you I’d help you find the miraculous, defeat Papillon, and then take you on an island getaway vacation. And I always keep my promises, don’t I?”
She huffed, finally picking up her crêpe. “For the most part.”
“You mean for the entire part.”
“I know what I said.”
He watched her angrily bite on her crêpe, rosy fondness creeping over him. There were some things he couldn’t promise, some promises he couldn’t fulfill, but it would be a cold day in hell before he ever let her down again.
He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she started, nearly dropping her plate.
“Planning for the future makes you feel better about things, right?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. Out of all his friends, Ladybug was the most like Marinette, who probably wouldn’t last a day without planning something for tomorrow. “Let’s plan. I’ll share a spreadsheet with you and we can write out all the power combinations Papillon might use against us.”
She stared at him, her lips parting in surprise, her blue eyes wide. “Really?”
“Yeah. And I’ll call it “Science Project” so no one gets suspicious.”
Her lips curved and she faced forward again, her back straight against the bench as she took another bite of her crêpe—this time with less malice.
“You’re a good kitty,” she told him. “But I already made one.”
“What!” he said, indignant. “Share it with me!”
She sent the link to his baton that evening; an invitation to edit a spreadsheet titled “lab partner assignment.” Adrien didn’t hear a word Plagg said for the next two hours.
He saw her again a few nights later, illuminated by the flames consuming an apartment building. By the looks of it, she’d just gotten there as well, and was pulling up a blueprint of the interior structure on her yo-yo.
“There are still people inside,” she said grimly, her voice barely audible over the cries of the gathered crowd. “I checked the police scanners and the fire department are on their way, but we should act fast.”
His baton beeped with her incoming message, the same blueprints appearing on his screen. Chat held his staff out to scan the immeuble, his heart sinking as infrared signatures shimmered into being; there were several people trapped on the top floors, and the structure was crumbling fast.
“We should split up,” he said, extending his baton and gearing to jump. “I’ll take the eleventh floor, you take the twelfth.”
“No!” She grabbed his tail, pulling him back before he could jump. “We’re not splitting up, chaton. We’ll start on the eleventh, then work our way up.”
“But we’ll get them out faster—”
“I said no.”
He raised an eyebrow at her; she glared back, her jaw set and her features hard with resolve. He thought of that day in his room; the moment he’d seen her break. He’d be damned if he ever caused it to happen again.
“All right, my lady,” Chat Noir said softly. “After you.”
They swung through one of the shattered windows on the eleventh floor where an arm had previously been waving. Great billows of smoke and curls of ash wrapped around them, flames licking the ceiling beams and peeling away the paint. Chat pressed his baton to his mouth like a respirator, inhaling clean air, and through the smoke he could see Ladybug doing the same with her yo-yo.
The suits could protect them from the worst of the damage, but the same couldn’t be said for the people huddled in the corner of the room, some gasping for breath, others already unconscious. He exchanged a look with Ladybug, and she nodded, an unspoken communication passing between them; they would get the occupants of one room at a time to safety.
“Come on,” he said to the family standing closest to him. He extended a hand, gesturing for the children smushed in their parents’ grip. “Kids first.”
It was the smell of gas-fueled flames, the taste of rubble permeating his senses. It was flickering firelight throwing shadows over the victims’ terrified faces as he guided them out, and the indistinct shout of Ladybug’s voice making him glance back every so often to make sure she was still there. It was kicking down walls to find people passed out in their closets, and holding squirming pets as he ordered people to run for the window, where the firemen had positioned their ladder.
It was something he wouldn’t rather do again, he thought, as he carried a coughing baby to her crying mother. Battling threats of magic was one thing, when he knew what Papillon wanted. The fire only wanted to consume.
“Chat!” he heard Ladybug cry, and turned to see her running down the long corridor toward him. Shadows played over her face as she threw her yo-yo out milliseconds before the ceiling above them gave a splitting crack.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arm around her as he stretched out his other, calling, “Cataclysm!”
Wood and plaster and flames poured down around them. The debris he’d dusted joined the dance of spiraling ash, and then something hard connected with his skull, sending a bright, blinding pain through his bones.
“Chat Noir!”
He was suddenly on the floor, flames licking at his suit, his vision blurred as he stared through the gaping hole in the ceiling, the twelfth floor opening like the mouth of hell above him. It wasn’t the worst he’d had—nothing compared to being Cataclysmed by his own stolen power—but trying to sit up still hurt.
“Are you okay?” Ladybug breathed, slipping one hand behind his head, the other splaying flat out over his chest. “Chat Noir, answer me!”
He winced, rolling to the side and putting out the small flame at the end of his tail. “Next time,” he managed, tasting ash with every syllable, “we bring…helmets.”
The timer on his ring began to beep, and Ladybug let out a choked laugh. She squeezed his fingers in her shaking hands, then didn’t stop shaking. Too late, Chat Noir recognized what was coming, and when her shortened breaths turned to heaving gasps, he pulled her closer and held her tight.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, nodding over her shoulder as the fire brigade charged onto the floor. He motioned them toward the rooms they still hadn’t covered, then stroked Ladybug’s hair as she continued to tremble. “I’m okay.”
“I told you…to be careful,” she gasped, her arms deadlocked around him. “I t-told you…t-to stay close.”
Chat Noir motioned silently as a couple of firemen approached, signaling they were fine. He could trust them with the rest of the mission; it was time for him and Ladybug to go.
Taking her yo-yo from her hip, he launched it through the gaping hole in the wall, and when the line was secure, they swung over the heads of the bystanders to the sounds of cheers and wails and sirens.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the rush of night wind cooling their skin beneath the suits. The city blurred past, the only remaining trace of smoke a slight sting in his mouth and eyes. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“I can’t lose you,” she said, her fingers digging into his side, the scent of smoke and vanilla in her hair. “Please. I can’t. Not you too.”
“You won’t,” he said, and hoped he wouldn’t have to break that promise too.
* * *
“Hypothetically,” said Chat Noir, “if you had the Wish—no reality rewrites or cosmic consequences involved—what would you wish for?”
Ladybug glanced up from the sketchbook she was scribbling in—a better use of their time, she claimed, than actually patrolling, given how Papillon had all but disappeared. Chat Noir readily agreed; whatever made her happy, he wouldn’t deny. If it was a sketchbook, great. If it was him, as he tried not to hope was the case, even better.
“What?” she said, amused.
He imagined this was what her friends and family saw her like; relaxed and at peace doing something she loved. Albeit, not seated at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe he would get to see her on the ground too, someday. Maybe it would be soon.
“The Wish,” Chat Noir said, watching her closely. “Your earrings, my ring. What would you ask for?”
She furrowed her brow, glancing out over the Trocadéro. Putting her pencil to her mouth, she gave a small sigh. “I don’t think you’ll like the answer, chaton.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You’re so nosy,” she said, extending her arm and tapping the tip of his nose with her pencil. Her smile turned wistful. “I suppose…I’d wish for everything to be normal. To just be a regular girl and go to my regular school and live a regular life. No Akuma attacks, no Papillon, no sentimonsters or Guardianship…” She bit her lip, her expression pained as she looked at him. “That sounds bad, doesn't it?”
It had been quite the life disruption, being chosen as holders at only thirteen. Ladybug must have been happy before that—content without powers and magic, as any healthy person would be. It had been different for him. He’d wanted his life disrupted.
But now, with all that had happened…he couldn’t blame her.
Chat rested his head against one of the iron beams, spinning the ring around his finger. “Not at all, my lady,” he said softly. Then, unexpectedly, “I’d wish for us to meet anyway.”
She chuckled, ducking her head behind the sketchbook. “Silly kitty,” she said quietly, blue eyes watching him over the leather binding.
“You know you love me,” Chat Noir said.
She smiled, and didn’t deny it.