Chapter Text
“So you see,” the mortal girl in front of Chat Blanc – Marinette, was it? - fidgeted in place, tugging on her pigtails and rocking back and forth like she’d had a pebble in her shoes, “she’s so important to me that I, uh, came down here, to your palace, and, um…”
She glanced nervously around the god of the underworld’s golden throne room, in clear disrepair and neglect. Chat Blanc tapped his cheek with a clawed finger, considering her request for him to release the soul of her friend and attendant from the river Styx.
Up until now, no one had dared come into his presence for millennia, not even other gods. His attendants had fled and gone – even Nino, his orchardist and friend – and had left Chat Blanc to do the drudge work of judging the dead. Hence the disastrous downward spiral of his living situation.
How did she get here? he wondered, realizing that to survive a trip from the mortal coil to his realm, she must have some sort of divine blood to her.
Which was… Chat Blanc couldn't describe what it was. He'd been bored for so long, going through the motions of his un-life, that something stirring his interest was strange and almost awful.
He didn't know whether to grant Marinette's request to release her friend, Alya, back to the world of the living, or toss the girl out on her pert little rear.
Gripping his golden scepter, Chat's gaze stayed riveted to the offering of mint she'd brought, the green leaves trembling in the pot she held in her shaking hand.
At least she knew her history, though the color of the plant was what captured his attention. Chat's whole world was a muted series of grays; with black mold covering the palace walls, everything smelled of rot and looked even worse.
So to see such brilliant green color and to smell the sweet, pungent fragrance of the mint cutting through the putrid odor of decay was overwhelming.
Equally overwhelming was the acrid scent of her fear, masking a star-bright fragrance of… honeysuckle? Or something. Chat Blanc was out of the habit of smelling plants; except for mold, they all died at his touch. Everything living did.
Marinette continued twitching like a Fury blissed out on ambrosia. A migraine began to bloom at the base of Chat's neck. This girl's discomfort would be the death of him.
Ha.
"Stop that," Chat barked, his voice rusty with disuse. He hadn't intended to snarl at her, but he was used to snapping out commands with his ever-present boiling anger.
Chat being unable to rein in his temper was why Nino had finally left, but Chat tried not to think about that.
The way the mortal girl's spine shot up ramrod straight and the way her eyes lit up with fear showed him that he was still as terrible as ever. Her lips were a pale slash in a paler face, so he didn't expect her to part them in a question.
"Stop what?"
Chat blinked. Why didn't she flee? She’d obviously heard the stories about his touch that turned everyone he touched to ash, including his mother when he was but a young boy.
He waved those fingers now, making a circular gesture as if to take in all of her. “The… thing you’re doing with your pigtails. The fidgeting.”
Her mouth widened into an ‘o’ shape, and while her gaze flicked to the mint as if she were ready to drop the pot and run, it settled on him with understanding and… sympathy?
She was impossible to read.
He didn’t need her sympathy anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, setting the pot down on the floor. When she straightened, “I didn’t know I was bothering you.”
“You stink of fear.” Chat set his scepter down in his lap and rubbed his nose with his palm, grinding it against the bright white mask he always wore. The mask could grant invisibility, but he didn’t think he’d needed that until he heard this human wandering around his palace and calling out for him.
He’d been laying down in one of the guest beds – his own had long since collapsed due to disrepair and his wild thrashing at night from nightmares – trying to sleep. He didn’t need sleep, and it was never peaceful, but it killed time when he had nothing to do.
He was so, so bored.
Maybe engaging with this girl would bring something interesting into his life – or at least break up the crushing feeling of having nothing to do but judge the dead. He tried to pitch his voice to a gentle temper, but it came out as a low growl despite his best efforts.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
Oh, that sounded weak. To what kind of level did he stoop to lie to humans?
Marinette’s bluebell eyes lit up with defiance. She placed her hands on her hips, tutting at him like a mother hen. “How could I not be? You snarled at me!”
“Wait, what?” Chat Blanc’s jaw dropped. This girl – this mortal who stank of fear and death as all mortals did in his presence – had confronted him?
She may as well be shaking her finger at me at this point, Chat thought, a spark of amusement blooming with heat in his chest.
No. No. He could not afford to be amused. He’d chase her off–
And then what? Putter around a house ready to fall down around him, directing the dead to eternal torment for perpetuity? The sound that came out of him surprised him, and for a moment, he couldn’t identify what it was.
Marinette, however, did the hard work for him.
“And now you’re laughing at me!”
Had he laughed? The sensation was strange. He did it again, though the dark chuckle that came out this time seemed forced.
“I am,” he said, sounding befuddled even to his own ears. “I am laughing at you.”
“I don’t think that’s fair.” Marinette was a grump, Chat concluded, which tore another laugh straight from his chest. She folded her arms and tapped her slipper-clad foot – slippers that had seen better days, based on how much terrain she must have crossed to get there. “First you tell me there’s nothing to be afraid of – an out-and-out lie, I might add – and now you giggle like a loon up there on your moldy throne?”
“Now wait just a minute–”
“I hate liars.” Marinette tossed her head, looking for all the world like a goddess herself. One of the annoying ones, like Chloé, the goddess of love. “And I had thought – mistakenly, I might add! – that the Lord of the Dead would be above lying to humans.”
Chat Blanc’s heart slammed against his sternum with conflicting feelings. A rush of cold anger left his vision red; warm amusement flooded his mouth, making him smile; and lukewarm bewilderment ruled over them all.
The rush of emotion – something he hadn’t felt in so long – exacerbated the budding headache, which chose then to reassert itself viciously. Chat gripped his head, hissing through clenched teeth.
Much to his displeasure, Marinette leaped back, her honeysuckle aroma once again subsumed by the odor of urine. She’d kicked over the pot, and that, more than anything, annoyed Chat; he’d planned to keep that mint with him as long as he could before it inevitably died, and he couldn’t do that if she spilled all the soil.
A fluttering rushed in his ears, and it was a confusing few moments before he realized he could hear Marinette’s heart pounding. It was going as fast as a jackrabbit’s, one of which he’d caught and torn into with his teeth for his last dinner before giving up eating entirely centuries ago.
The taste of blood and rotten meat soaked in urine filled his mouth; she was absolutely terrified.
Chat found with surprise that he’d actually enjoyed trading barbs – though it was less a trade on his part and more being slapped upside the head – with this girl. She’d come all this way to see him and beg for her friend’s life and had brought a bright, shining moment of pleasure to his day.
Pleasure he thought he was incapable of feeling.
“I will grant your request.” Chat held up a white finger, one which itched to bubble with a Cataclysm that would wipe her off the face of his throne room. He had no idea why he had that urge; his mind was a strange world of its own. “On one condition.”
Marinette licked her lips, which had regained some of their proper coloring. She really is beautiful, he thought. For a mortal.
“What’s the condition?”
Chat hadn’t thought that far ahead. He blurted out the first thing that crawled up his throat, a desperate plea that he hadn’t realized he’d wanted.
“Stay?”
Marinette clenched and unclenched her fists. Based on her flickering expressions, she was having a conversation with herself and did not like the result.
“If it’s a soul for a soul you want,” she began, her voice thready and high-pitched, but oh, so convicted, “I’ll stay.”
“Certainly not.” Chat backtracked like a man falling off a cliff. He hadn’t meant to consign her to a life of boredom with him. He’d just wanted… “Stay until you can grow something in my garden.”
Marinette blinked, squinting at him as if he’d grown a second head.
Which he could do for her. If he wanted.
“Your dead, neglected garden?” Much to Chat’s relief, her question was filled with the fire she’d shown him before. But before he could protest on behalf of his living situation, she acquiesced to his request. “All right.”
She picked up the pot of mint and strode over to him, holding it out. “I’m assuming I can’t grow mint, but this is for you.”
Chat reached out with strangely trembling hands, wanting to take the pot more than anything but unwilling to destroy someone so precious with an accidental brush of his fingers.
Apparently sensing his hesitation, Marinette moved his golden scepter to the arm of his throne and set the pot in his lap. Chat cupped his hands around the dried clay, sucking up the lingering warmth from her fingers like a starved man.
He inhaled the scent of the mint in a huge whiff, catching the aroma of her skin beneath, as she was so close.
So close, he could taste her.
She was looking at him curiously as if she couldn’t quite figure him out. Which was fair; most of the time he couldn’t figure himself out either. But that someone wanted to put forth the effort into analyzing him warmed his heart.
No. No! I can’t get close to her! Chat Blanc stood abruptly, watching her dart back out of his way as he pushed past her. He cradled the pot protectively against his chest, lest she wanted to take the gift back. It was his. It was his!
She’ll leave me like everyone else. Chat bolted down the hall, uncaring that she’d called out after him. Alone.