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Adrien pretends that he can't hear the typists whispering about him as he follows Crawford down the hall and away from their room. This is his first day at Crawford & Framingham as their newest advertisement writer, and so far, it's exactly what he expected.
This is nothing new to him.
Isn't that –
Shh, he might hear you!
He's got some nerve pretending to be respectable when we all know what his father did.
Adrien's smile tightens. At least they're polite to his face.
"You'll be in there," Crawford says, tipping his head at a door as they pass; Adrien sticks his head in and takes in the rather battered desk, chair, and full bookcase in a blink. "It's stood empty for a few months. Don't be afraid to yell if something tries to bite. Wash-room is down those stairs, and here's my office if you need anything."
The tone of voice tells Adrien that he had better not need anything.
"And across the way – " They go through a thin passageway that must join the two buildings that make up Crawford & Framingham. "You'll find Photography on your left and the artist's studio on the right."
Crawford turns into the photography studio, but Adrien glances into the artist's studio before he follows. He stops dead in his tracks with a feeling like he's been hit in the solar plexus. Bent over a desk in the corner, drenched in morning light from the nearby window, is a head of shockingly black hair and a pure, sweet profile that he's sure he recognizes.
He takes two quick steps into the room. "Marinette? Is that you?"
Her head comes up at once, turning toward him, her rosy lips parted in pure surprise. "Adrien?"
It is her. Marinette is possibly the last person he expected to find here in England – and she is also possibly the most welcome. He is drawn to her side, like he simply can't keep away. "My God, Marinette," he says, dropping instinctively into their native French. "I had no idea you had left Paris!"
She smiles, shy and utterly enchanting, the lightest of blushes touching her cheeks. "I only told Alya," she says, shrugging. "After the war ended – I needed to get away."
His smile is bittersweet. "I think I can understand that."
Marinette smiles sympathetically at him, her little hand reaching out to touch his, though she then snatches it back with a glance behind him. Crawford must be there, waiting for him. Oh Lord, this is his company, and he's already disinclined to extend Adrien any sort of grace whatsoever – Adrien should leave Marinette well enough alone. He should. He knows that.
But he'd always regretted not keeping in touch with her.
Adrien takes a steadying breath, and then he smiles at her. "I don't suppose you know anywhere we could get a decent meal tonight?"
She stares at him, her eyes wide. "You want to have dinner? With me?"
"I don't see anyone else here," he says in the most gentle of teases.
Marinette bites her lower lip to hide the laughter that's swimming in her eyes. "Half seven, Claridge's?"
"Perfect." Adrien winks at her and turns away, smoothing his face to the neutral expression he's been holding to the whole morning.
Crawford is waiting for him at the door more-or-less patiently, his hands in the pockets of his tailored suit. "Friend of yours?" he asks Adrien, narrowing his eyes.
"We went to school together," Adrien says, allowing himself a nostalgic little smile that shouldn't give away too much. He really doesn't want to cause Marinette difficulties at her place of work.
It doesn't quite feel like his yet.
"Hmph," Crawford says, eyeing him. "Watch yourself, Agreste. Proust! I've got a new writer to introduce to you," he says, pushing open the door to the photography studio and striding into the room. Adrien sighs and follows, though there's a little smile on his face he can't quite get rid of...
———
Adrien makes damned sure he's five minutes early by getting there ten minutes early, but he needn't have bothered – Marinette is always five minutes late to everything, just as he remembered. He presses his lips tightly together to hide his smile as she races toward him.
"It's good to see that some things never change," Adrien says, offering her his arm. "I don't know that I would have recognized a Marinette who was on time."
"Apparently you recognized the back of my head earlier," Marinette retorts, though she slides her hand into the crook of his elbow with another of her very charming blushes. Her hand is small, her fingers well-shaped, and Adrien would swear that he can feel their warmth through dinner jacket and shirt.
Adrien laughs. "After the number of times I quite literally pulled your pigtails, I should hope that I would."
He ushers her into the dining room and claims their reservation, which is a small, intimate table against the wall. He tucks Marinette into her chair before taking his own. "I was shocked when I looked over and saw you this morning," Adrien says, smiling fondly at her. "I asked Nino if he knew where you'd wandered off to, and he said he had no idea."
Marinette laughs, her face glowing in the candlelight. "Nino knew," she says, smirking at him. "Our parents are dear friends. They talk about us over consommé and sweetbreads."
"Betrayal!" Adrien pantomimes being stabbed in the chest to watch the rich amusement shine in her eyes, those eyes he'd never forgotten. He would do worse things than act the fool to watch her smile at him like this.
"But what brought you to England?" she asks, leaning forward on her elbows. "Your father – "
"That's just it. Everyone knows what he did. I thought maybe it would be better here, but – " Adrien laughs, an unfortunately bitter note to it that he regrets the second it leaves his mouth. "Even here, the Agreste name follows me."
"That's not fair!" Marinette protests. "You're a decorated ace. You were shot down over the Aisne, for God's sake. What more could they want from you?"
Adrien raises his eyebrows. He hadn't expected her to know any of that.
"What?" she grumbles. "I keep up with the papers."
"The ones about me?" he teases, but it backfires on him when she flushes an instant and overwhelming shade of scarlet all over. She averts her eyes, but it's too late. He's seen her.
What?
Adrien reaches over the table and lays his hand on hers, very gently. She's trembling. "Marinette?" he asks, his voice a croak.
He doesn't even know what he's asking for.
Marinette sighs with a wry little twist of her mouth. When it comes, her voice is thin, but solid. "What would you like me to say?"
"The truth. Please." Adrien says at once. "Could you ever... " He trails off, because he doesn't know how to ask the next question. He's afraid to ask it. He knows what he wants the answer to be, and if she denies him or laughs it off, it will crush him.
But he has to ask. He has to know.
"Could you ever think of me as more than a friend?"
Marinette's eyes snap back to his, and thank the good Lord for small favors, but something in his face must convey the depths of his need, because very, very slowly, she starts to smile. "I think of you in every way. I always have. Even when we were small and you kept pulling my pigtails."
She's still red as a beet, but her hand is lying quiet and soft under his, no longer trembling at all – and then she turns her hand over and curls her fingers around his, holding him so lightly that she feels like a dream.
"I'm an idiot," Adrien breathes, staring at her.
Marinette laughs. "I would argue that, but I think everyone knew except you. I was not subtle."
"Does that mean you'll have a drink with me after dinner?" Adrien gives her his best smile, winsome and pleading, complete with round kitten eyes.
"Only if you put those away," Marinette says, pretending to ward him away, but she's laughing.
He'll take it.