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She readjusts the red and black spotted bandana covering the lower half of her face, making sure it’s secure. If it slips, revealing her identity, that’s a problem.
Her jacket is fully zipped up, the spots she had painted on it making her ladybug motif more evident. The yo-yo hooked onto her belt is spotted as well. She feels she’s really earned the name Ladybug with how much she incorporated it into her suit.
In all technicality, she is a vigilante. No powers, no authorization to be fighting the superpowered terrorists that plague the city of Paris. But it didn’t sit right with her to just stand by and let them keep attacking. So it’s just her and Chat Noir.
Chat Noir is also a vigilante, and as far as she’s aware, he doesn’t have any powers. He also leans into the animal motif, with the cat ear hood he has pulled low and the black mask with neon green whiskers that obscured the lower half of his face. He’s also her partner, the only one who really gets what it’s like to be a vigilante without any real support.
They have the support of the citizens of Paris, obviously, but any authority figure is always careful to mince words, never saying anything to encourage them.
There’s still numerous press conferences saying they’re dangerous menaces though.
She kicks her feet, her boots hitting the edge of the building with a satisfying thunk each time. It’s odd to sit on the tops of roofs, but the fire escapes make it fairly easy to get up and avoid any people who’d want to catch her. Her gloved hands prevent the heat of the concrete roof from being too difficult to lounge on.
“What a surprise to see you here my lady.” Chat Noir’s head peaks up from the ladder, his eyes glinting. He was clearly smiling, though she couldn’t see it.
“You say that like we don’t always meet here after a fight.” She walks over, lacing their fingers together. Her partner walks with a slight limp from when he’d gotten hit during the battle, and she can see a cut on his forehead.
They sit and she pulls out the first aid kit she had stashed behind the chimney. Chat Noir pulls his hood back from his face, and she starts cleaning out the cut.
“Don’t think I didn’t see you get hit too. I’m helping you next.” He tells her as she finishes wiping away the blood. She sticks her tongue out in concentration as she plasters a bandage on his forehead.
“Once I finish helping you,” She tugs his hood back on. “Would be nice if we had magic powers that didn’t make our injuries last.”
“Guess you could say that would make this less of a cat-trastrophe.” He mumbles as she moves onto his ankle.
“That was worse than your normal jokes.” She laughs, placing an ice pack down. Chat Noir holds it in place with one hand and grabs for her wrist with the other.
“Your turn.” He brushes her bangs out of her face, examining the small slice above her eyebrow. She watches him grab for one of the alcohol wipes, which stings a bit as he cleans out the cut.
“I don’t know how you always end up with more injuries than me.” She sighs, dutifully holding out her arm after rolling up her sleeve.
“You're just ladybug lucky,” He responds, turning his attention to the bruise on her arm. “And I think you’re good now.”
He leans down, and feels the soft fabric of his mask against her arm.
“Kissing it better?” She asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“As always.” The grin in his voice is evident.
“Are you going to be alright getting home?” She asks, changing the subject, realizing he’s still holding the ice pack against his ankle.
“I’ll be alright. I think it’s just bruised.” He moves to hand the ice pack back to her, but she scrambles forward, placing it back where it had been positioned before.
“We still have more time, and I don’t want you to leave injured.” She holds it in place now, making eye contact with him.
“I’ll be alright Buginette.” He reaches up, cupping her cheek. She swears she can feel the warmth of his hand through her bandana and his glove.
“Can we just stay here a little longer?” She asks, covering his hand with her own. He closes his eyes, like he’s surprised she grabbed his hand. She tugs the hood off, studying his face. His eyes open, and he just looks back at her.
“Ladybug can I…” He trails off, and she makes a decision.
She tugs her bandana lower, trusting him. He blinks at her, but is pulling his own mask free. And she surges forward, smashing her lips against his. Her eyes are closed, so she hasn’t discovered his identity, but she’s still kissing him. He’s warm, and one of his hands has shifted to wrap around her. She moves with him, careful to be cautious with his injuries. However, she moves her hand to cup his cheek, which is just as warm as the rest of him.
When she finally pulls back, she keeps her eyes closed.
“I’m going to pull my bandana back up.” She tells him. His face is pressed into her shoulder, so it’s not like he can see her face either.
When it’s back in place, Chat Noir moves.
“My mask is back on.” He tells her, and she opens her eyes. His face is more flushed than normal, and his eyes seem to be sparkling.
She leans forward, bumping her forehead against his, letting out a content sigh.
“Patrol?” She asks. He laughs, pulling her against him. His chest is rumbling from the laughter, and it’s oddly soothing. She positions herself to look up at him.
“Same time as usual?” He starts playing with her pigtails.
“Mmmm, if we leave by then.” She leans back, closing her eyes. “Wake me up if you need help, or if we have to run.”
“I will. And I’ll keep icing my leg.” She feels him lean forward, and his lips press against her forehead.
“There’s advil in the first aid kit.” She mumbles, feeling him nod.
And so Paris’s vigilantes fall asleep on the rooftop, not worried about anything else.