Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s hard to tell which darkness is up and which darkness is down. Amidst the silent, black foliage of the rest of the Jardin, the street lamps almost look like stars; amidst the low, ashy clouds, the curve of the earth almost looks like a gazebo.

Also she's really drunk.

She keeps glancing down at Chat Noir and laughing, the kind of laughing that makes you feel stupid because there's nothing really that funny, which just makes you laugh even more. He’s being boring and responsible and walking towards the music pavillion instead of taking his baton, and she’d almost think he was sober if it wasn't for the wavering stumble in his step, clutching his cute little bottle of rosé for dear life.

Wait, where's her Hennessy?

Oh. Right. In her hand.

Ladybug laughs again.

She skitters to a halt just outside the gazebo, her sudden landing making Chat Noir crash right into her back. They both wobble for a moment, staggering comically towards then away from the edge of the pavillion, before he wraps his arms around her and holds the two of them steady.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” she says.

He lets go. She immediately trips over the gazebo.

Their laughter joins together loud enough to rival any akuma attack.

Once under the gazebo she helps him up, and they hold hands for extra security as they find their seating on the benches. Ladybug takes a burning sip of Hennessy, shivering at the rawness in her throat.

Next to her, Chat Noir plays with the jagged foil peeling back on his rosé.

“Something on your mind, chaton?” she asks. The syllables jump around in her mouth, like cognac-filled grasshoppers. 

He lifts his head a little, enough for a white diamond of moonlight to stamp itself across his cheek. “I want to tell you who I am.”

A hard weight drops in her belly, like the alcohol had suddenly solidified on its way down. “You… what?”

The sudden silence makes her ears ring. She’s not even sure if she feels drunk anymore, the way the sharpness turns all the way up on her senses making her feel woozy from the force of it.

“I know we haven’t talked about it since we were kids,” he says. “But I’ve thought about it. Every single day. Every time I thought that the battle we were fighting might’ve been the last. And, well, now it finally was, we’re finally done …” He trails off, like the last part of his sentence drifted away before he could hold onto it. “Sorry. Maybe I’m still on that victory high. I just… really, really don’t want us to drift away.”

She bites her bottom lip, tasting the drink in her own breath. She knew this was coming since the final battle last week, since Hawk Moth had renounced his own Miraculous to them, since he disappeared into anonymity with the promise that they’d never hear from him again. Wasn’t that what they’d been waiting for for five years now? Wasn’t that what everyone in the Miracle Team had been waiting for? Maybe bringing peace back to Paris was their superhero priority, but surely that wasn’t the only thing keeping them going. It’s only natural that their victory would lead to their reveal, and, well, Chat Noir knows her better than anyone. It was just a matter of time before he picked up on her evasiveness.

“Chat… listen.” She presses her fingers into the neck of the bottle, watching the moonlight play in the foil. “I want to tell you who I am, too — I do . It’s just… I mean, it’s just such a big change, and…”

“Oh. No, I understand.”

“Chat, come on.”

“I’m not mad.” He smiles at her, and it looks genuine, so genuine, his smiles always look genuine when he smiles at her. “Really. You need time, and that’s okay.”

Her stomach prickles. This can’t be the end of the conversation. Not when she knows how much he wants this — God, not when she knows how much she wants this, too — when they’ve already spent almost half their lives with that tight coil of indefiniteness, of never knowing whether they’ll ever know each other, buried inside their friendship.

“What if we do it tomorrow?” she says.

“Tomorrow?” he asks.

A thrill goes through her. “Y-Yeah.” Could this actually be happening?  “Yeah. Tomorrow. We can go somewhere nice, put our best clothes on under our costumes, make a whole event out of it. We… we deserve to make it something special, don’t we?”

Not even the haze of alcohol could hide the softness in his eyes. “We do,” he says. “Yeah. We’ll make it really special.”

The prospect of revealing still impales her with anxiety, but this helps, somehow, knowing that they’ll have time to prepare. She hadn’t realised what a relief it could be not to worry about mid-battle reveals anymore. Not just because of the danger it posed to their duties, but also because, well, she didn’t want something like that to be there and gone like it was nothing. She wants the moment they reveal their identities to be one that stays imprinted in her mind forever, that feels like a justification for every close call, every misunderstanding, every argument that they’ve ever had, and the trust that got them through all of it, a moment that feels like the real victory, more than taking a silly little jewel from some guy.

She also would like to not be drunk enough to be calling the literal Miraculous of Transmission ‘some jewel’.

They’re going to do this. They’re really going to do this. The thrills don’t stop, like waves of her Miraculous Ladybugs skating through her bloodstream, and she’s suddenly so excited that she takes another swig from her Hennessy. They’re celebrating two things tonight — the end of Hawk Moth, and the start of their new beginning.

“You know the first thing I want us to do after we reveal?” he says. 

“What?”

“Go drinking with you. I’m so sure that all your tolerance comes from your costume.”

She barks a laugh, one she knows she finds embarrassing when she’s sober. “Excuse me, I’m a professional at holding my alcohol. I’ve been outdrinking my father since I was eighteen.”

“You drink with your father?”

“He taught me all there is to know.”

“You’re insane.”

“I think I’m extremely sexy actually.”

“...Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

She looks at him. He takes a nonchalant sip of his rosé.

Considering how much of his bottle he’s finished, he’s been surprisingly lucid all night. She assumed that maybe wine just doesn’t do it for him, but she’s beginning to wonder if he’s a little further gone than she thought. 

A rule she instated after starting uni was just to not get drunk with other people. She loved her friends, truly, and she would gladly hang out with her first-year flatmates into the early hours of the morning with zero qualms, but, Jesus Christ, did they get annoying when they drank. They were loud and stupid and always insisted on arguing with bouncers, which meant her angry face is on the no-entry list for so many clubs she’s just given up on nightlife.

She’d waived that rule for tonight, because, well, it’s a special occasion, and she figured she could handle Chat Noir being a little sillier than usual after years of him having to hold it back for the sake of battles. But… It seems like the silliness seems to take a backseat when he’s drunk. 

She thinks of the way he held her before she fell, the way he only let go once she said she was ready.

In fact, if he’s more of anything, he’s… sweeter. 

She, unfortunately, is not.

“ Chattttt .” She leans her head against his shoulder. “I love you so much.”

Bottle still up to his lips, he laughs. He curls up an arm and pats her head. “Love you, too, my Buginette.”

“No, really.” She tilts her head up to look at him. The motion momentarily makes her vision swim. “I really love you so much. One day you’re going to get a girlfriend and I’m going to have to fight her because she needs to know that I’m the only one who’s allowed to love you the most.”

“A girlfriend?” He snorts. “Who said I’m gonna get a girlfriend?”

“...Or a boyfriend?” When he makes a face, she rolls her eyes. “You’re gonna end up with someone . You seriously want me to believe the first thing you wanted to do after kicking Hawk Moth’s ass wasn’t running off and getting married? Popping out a few mini Chat Noirs?”

He pokes out his lip in thought, swirling his pink wine. “I used to want that,” he says. “But… I don't know. After a certain point things like getting married and having a family didn't feel that realistic anymore.”

“What? Why wouldn't it be realistic?” she says.

“Well… the only person I imagined that with was you.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I don’t mean that it's a big deal. I mean, we were young, you were my closest friend, and I had a huge crush on you. I guess I just heaped a lot of my hopes for the future onto us.”

Her face feels hot in a way that’s separate from the alcohol. It hasn't even been that long since the fusillade of roses and love confessions and sneakily planned cinema dates stopped — two years, three years, max? Obviously she knows he's over her, but remembering the time still makes her heart twist. Of course she gets it. Maybe if it hadn't been for their identities, she could've even been on the same page. Really, what were her feelings for Adrien if not her own attempt at grasping for some certainty? Wouldn't it have been just as easy for those feelings to have been for Chat, given that superheroing didn't ruin it with that big fat question mark?

It's a route she never let herself go down before, the possibilities of what could've been had they been allowed to know who they were. Would he have still fallen in love with her? Would she still have pushed him away in the name of duty? She can't confidently say yes to that, and maybe that's why she stayed steadfastly clear from this territory of thinking, when she’s sober enough to stay steadfastly clear of anything, at least. Not because falling for Chat Noir is scary — she can't imagine there being anyone safer to fall in love with. But because the stitching of their friendship was decided so fast, so early on, that this far down the line of their partnership, how can something so drastic shift between them without having to pick out every single seam?

Nausea ripples through her. Instinctively, she grabs onto Chat Noir’s arm to steady herself.

“You… you don't need to apologise for that,” she says. She plays it off by sliding her hand through his elbow. “Don’t worry, chaton. If push comes to shove, I’ll put a few cute little babies in you myself.”

He lets out a surprised yet amused snort. “I would really rather you didn't. But thanks.” Taking his elbow away, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer on the bench. The gazebo beams splay out like a star above them.

She's not sure why she does it when she does. Maybe it's the way the cognac recedes in her bloodstream, going from a scalding burn to a pulsing, liquid warmth. Maybe it’s how paradoxically safe she feels right now with him, outside in the middle of the night in a gazebo, that same sensation of affection at trusting someone so much that she gets when she and Alya walk home alone together at three o’clock in the morning. Maybe it's the realisation that finally, finally they can be normal friends, that after tonight there will be no more running off before transformations run out, or only knowing each other’s friends by epithets, or having to celebrate outside in a sleeping city, because they didn't know each other’s addresses to spend it at home.

Either way, when she leans up and pecks his lips, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He pulls back, blinking, like a cat that just dipped its nose in water. “Why’d you do that?” he asks.

“Dunno. ‘Cus I wanted to.”

He snickers, his lips pinching cutely, revealing a sliver of teeth in his smile. “We don't kiss, though.”

“Okay? We also don't get drunk together in the middle of the night. I don't see your point.”

He laughs, shaking his head. His gaze skitters down to her mouth. “Can I try?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

He leans in, and brushes his lips over hers. It's so quick she doesn't even close her eyes.

He looks down at her excitedly.

“Happy?” she asks.

He nods. 

“You can do it again, if you want.”

“Really?” he beams. “I’ve never kissed one of my friends before.”

“Seriously? That's so lame.”

Instead of replying, he dips his head and kisses her again. He's in no rush, this time. A sweet, spicy melange alchemises between their mouths, his rosé mixing with her Hennessy.

She pulls back first. She rubs her bottom lip of any wetness before he notices.

He snickers. “You should see your face.”

She furrows her brow. “My face is fine.”

“You look like this.” He pulls his eyes open wide, looking down at her like a scandalised maiden from some period drama. 

“Shut up!”

“I bet you've never kissed anyone. That's the real reason you wanted to keep our identities a secret. You didn't want me to know you’re twenty and unkissed.”

“I’m so not unkissed! You're unkissed!”

“How? I literally just kissed you.”

Scrunching up her face, she grabs him, yanks him down, and kisses him hard.

She wonders, briefly, what she'll think of this tomorrow, sober and presumably revealed. Sure, she’s shared a few tipsy pecks with Alya and Alix and Kagami, but this is definitely a line she's never crossed. But, still, if it was going to be weird, wouldn't it have felt weird? This doesn't feel weird. Maybe it's different with someone who's saved your life a gazillion times.

Plus she's not just gonna let him call her unkissed . That's such a lame label.

She pulls back, making sure the last kiss is extra hard. Her lips tingle, like the cognac in her blood reached her gums.

The smell of fermented berry comes off his breath. He's oddly silent, looking at her, chewing on his flushed lips and fidgeting with his bottle.

“Oh, no way,” she says. “Don't tell me that turned you on.”

“What! No!” His hands pull the bottle tighter in his lap.

“It did!” She guffaws, maybe a little inappropriately. She grabs onto his arm again, trying not to fall backwards. “Oh my God. No way. Wait, hang on.” She puts her Hennessy down next to her and in an awkward maneuever, clambers over to straddle his hips. “Alright, here. Let me repay my debt.” Leaning in, she tries to kiss him again.

“Wait— Ladybug.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and holds her back. “Is this… I mean, is this a great idea? Won't it be awkward when we want to reveal tomorrow?”

“Trust me.” She grins at him. “Shouldn’t our identities go out with a bang?”

With the way his expression melts, she realises that, yes, Chat is definitely, definitely as drunk as she is.

“Well, if you insist …” 

He grabs her thighs and flips her onto her back on the bench. She laughs loudly. The curve of the gazebo almost looks like the earth.

Chapter Text

“How many times have I told you to stay away from Hennessy?” 

Marinette groans, burrowing further into Alya’s lap. “But it's so fun,” she mumbles.

She sighs, gently untangling a knot in her hair. “You’re so stupid.”

Hennessy wasn't the only stupid thing she did last night.

She shuffles uncomfortably, glad that the duvet is covering her face.

Why. Why why why why why is she like this.

She’s never been the type to black out after a night, but now she kind of wishes she was, because she’s never remembered anything with such vivid clarity. The raspberry of his lips, the tang of his neck, pulling on his hair, pushing herself up against him like some animal in heat. It would’ve been one thing if the ferocity was shared, if she could just blame it on getting lost in the moment. But, as always, Chat Noir was a perfect gentleman, because of-freaking-course he was. Hands politely on her waist, never being the first to kiss with tongue, kindly, obligingly, generously leaning back and letting her rabid hands feel him up while he laughed at her antics.

She’s always thought life as a nun might be nice. Disciplined. Peaceful. Maybe now is a good time to pursue that.

When Alya fluffs the pillow behind her and pulls her up on the bed, she lets her. If she's going to die of shame, she may as well be comfortable.

“Well, at least you enjoyed,” she says, going back to stroking her hair. “God knows you both deserved it.”

Marinette sighs, throwing the duvet off her head so she can get some air. “I also deserve not to feel like my brain’s been put in a blender.”

“No, girl, that's all on you.”

Despite herself, she laughs. A groan quickly follows as her head throbs.

“Doesn’t it kinda suck that you guys had to celebrate alone?” Alya asks.

She opens an eye. “I mean, I guess,” she says. “But it's not like we could've just brought out the whole Miracle Team just to get drunk. It'd be way too dangerous for everyone to get home. I barely would've made it if you hadn't been there to pick me up.”

“This is why people don't get drunk in Jardin du Luxembourg at fuck-off o’clock at night.”

“ You fuck off.”

“If I did you'd be passed out in a bush.”

“You're right. I love you.” She kisses the back of Alya’s hand then puts it back on her hair. “But… yeah. It did feel a little sad not to be with the rest of you guys. I mean, sure, maybe we haven’t worked as a real team for a few years now, but Hawk Moth was part of your guys’ life as much as ours.”

Alya hums thoughtfully. “We could do something today, if you like? I mean, Nino might be busy with his gig, and, well, Kagami has that tournament…”

Memories from last night rush back anew. Marinette sighs, rubbing her temples. “I can’t. I promised Chat Noir we’d meet later.”

“Oh? More drinks?”

“God, no. It’s…” She cuts herself off. How had she forgotten already? Quickly, she rummages around Alya’s giant ladybug plush until she finds her phone, and checks the time. “Crap.” She sits up. “I need to get ready.”

“What?” Alya watches as she shoots out of bed and searches for her blouse. “You’re still hung over.”

“Yeah, but I promised Chat we’d meet in…” She takes a whiff of her blouse and winces. It reeks of cognac. “...Half an hour.” She finds some deodorant in her designated drawer and drenches her blouse in it before shrugging it on, pulling Alya’s oversized shirt off her head in a skilled simultaneous maneuver.

“...Well, good luck,” she says. “Maybe bring a sick bucket with you just in case.”

Marinette sticks her tongue out at her. But, honestly, she’s considering taking that advice. Who knows how else she might embarrass herself in front of Chat Noir today? 

As the high roofs of Alya’s apartment block recede behind her, Ladybug takes a few gulps of cold air. Today’s going to be fine. Chat Noir probably doesn’t even remember last night, and if he does, he’s definitely mature enough to put it behind them. They were drunk, they were celebrating, and things just got out of hand. Once they drop their transformations there’ll be more important things to focus on than some alcohol-flavoured kissing fifteen hours ago.

She lands in a quiet corner of Montmartre, looking across the rolling rooftops with amber sunlight shining off the patina. She catches a figure leaning up against a chimney some leaps away, and swings towards it.

“My Lady!” Chat Noir says, straightening up. “Hi! You’re here!”

Her gaze zips towards his neck. Hickeys crawl in a billow of angry purple clouds towards his jaw.

She swallows hard and looks back up at him. Of course he still looks perfect. “Hi!”

He hugs her. She’s not sure if she’s imagining it, but she thinks she can smell her own perfume on him.

He set up a picnic blanket facing Sacré-Cœur in the distance, the basilica looking like a fortress at the top of the steps. She sits down, letting out a sigh of relief when she sees his drink selection. Clearly he’s had enough alcohol since last night, too.

“So,” he says. “Maybe we should talk?”

Pouring out some Coke, she freezes. “Talk about what?”

“Well, you know.” He gestures towards his neck. 

She blushes deeply. “Right.” She struggles with the cap on the bottle a few times before screwing it back on. “...Yeah. Sorry. I was… super out of it.”

Flashes of her own polka-dotted hands grabbing at the firm muscles of his chest enter her mind. She fights the urge to smack herself in the face.

He smiles a little, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So… I guess it did end up making things awkward, huh?”

“Come on, Chat.” She tries to inject some levity into her tone. “You should know better than to trust someone whose poison of choice is Hennessy.”

He looks  out towards the basilica. A weekday at 16h00, there aren’t many people around.

“Maybe we should skip the reveal today,” he says.

“What?” she says. “No. Why? We were looking forward to this.”

“Well, yeah.” He faces her again, the smile rising to his lips as soon as he realises she’s looking. She remembers yesterday, the familiar, reassuring weight of his arm around her shoulders, how, somehow, he can make even a gazebo feel safe. “And… of course I really, really want it. But… like you said last night, it’s a big change. We shouldn’t walk into it when we’re feeling weird around each other.”

A reactionary protest jumps to her mouth. But she can’t really deny it, can she, not when she’s currently avoiding his neck like her hickeys might come to life and laugh at her. She’d been so focused on ignoring last night that she forgot what it might turn into after the reveal. God, she should’ve listened to Alya. Hennessy does always make her act stupid.

“...Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” A tightness in her chest unfurls. Maybe she wasn’t ready to reveal today at all. What a relief that she has the kind of partner to pick up on things like this. “So… what do you want to do?”

He’s quiet for a second. “We could take some space?” he suggests. “I mean, unless you want to talk about it…?”

She wants to say yes. She wills herself to say yes. But the technicolour movie reel of that gazebo playing in her head feels beyond her capacity of articulation.

He lets out a little exhale, the corner of his lips turning up. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Her face and neck turn hot. “You said I was unkissed .”

He raises his hands in mock defence. “Okay, well, clearly you're not!”

They look at each other for a moment, then laugh. Her Coke grows lukewarm in her hand.

“Why don’t we finish our food then head back home?” he says. “We can take a few days to get our heads straight, then see how we feel about identities.”

“Yeah.” A long, relieved breath leaves her, one she didn’t know she was holding. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══

Rena Rouge: SOS SOS SOS

Rena Rouge: EMERGENCYYYYYYY

Rena Rouge: EVERYONE MEET AT THE PANTHÉON RIGHT NOW

Marinette sits up in bed.

Sent at 06h31 .

Her phone reads the current time back to her as 07h45.

She bursts through her skylight, stumbling through her transformation and almost cutting her fingers on her yo-yo string with how fast she swings it.

Her breathing is almost as fast as her thoughts. The Miracle Team group chat has been defunct for almost a year now, and even then it’d only been for a sporadic meme or two from Carapace. Has Hawk Moth somehow resurfaced? Or maybe something even worse, even more dangerous? The wind lashes the sleep out of her eyes, making them water.

She slows as the colonnades puncture through the sea of rooftops. A cluster of people sit around on the otherwise empty sunrise-tinted pavement.

Pigella stands up and points. “Ladybug!” 

She looks at her Colombina mask, startled. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Everyone turns around. A medley of domino masks, masquerade masks, N95 masks, and even a full-on balaclava over Ryuko’s head, look back at her.

She's not even on the ground for two seconds before she's being tackle-hugged by all of them.

Her gaze finds Rena Rouge’s across their heads, wearing an extremely creepy Ladybug mask with the eyes cut out. She shoots her a thumbs up.

Oh. There was no emergency.

Her heart warms at her weird little team. She hugs them back. “I missed you guys so much.”

It's not like she hasn't met with them as civilians. She still goes to all of Kagami’s tournaments, and still plants trees with Mylène, and, heck, she's still Kitty Section’s unofficial creative director. But it's different when they're together like this, as heroes, joined together by the layers of their masks. Especially after the final battle. Especially when they’ve finally won.

Her eyes scan over the huddle around her. Her heart slips a little lower behind her ribs

“Where's Chat Noir?” she asks.

“Right here.”

Her huddle detaches from her so she can turn around. Chat Noir is there, fully transformed, holding a cardboard cup out towards her. He smiles softly, green eyes gleaming yellow in the morning light.

“I saw you on your way on your GPS so I got you some coffee,” he says. “I, uh. Hope I added the right amount of sugar.”

He left the lid open the way she likes it, steam still rising from the creamy cappuccino froth. 

She takes it from him gratefully, and takes a sweet, milky sip. “Mm.” She licks her lips. “Thank you.”

He lifts his arm in what she thinks is about to be a hug, but rubs the back of his neck instead. At her aborted step forward, his eyes widen a centimetre, then he reaches out anew. This time, she steps back. 

Okay. She hadn't exactly prepared for this .

Why is it still weird between them? Anxiety looms over her, but she hurriedly shoves it back. It's been, what, just over sixty hours? She’s not sure that exactly constitutes a few days , at least not in the context of what those few days are supposed to be for. They're fine. They will be fine. She’s probably just still reeling from the adrenaline of Rena’s message.

Behind their mishmash of hasty masks, the team’s eyes flick between her and Chat Noir.

“...Are you dudes okay?” Carapace says, voice tinny behind his plastic, full-face Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles mask. 

Rose gasps, clutching her cheeks. “Oh my God , did you finally reveal ?”

“Does that mean we can reveal?” Bunnix chimes in.

Ladybug nearly drops her coffee. Out of her periphery, she sees Chat Noir’s eyes widen.

Quickly, Rena swoops forward, parting the team before they can break into commotion.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir will tell us in their own time.” She shoots them a surreptitious wink. “There was a real reason I brought you guys out here.”

In the most dramatic, Alya-esque fashion, she turns her phone around to face them.

They all lean closer and squint. An AirBnb site comes into focus, a photo carousel of what looks like seven bedrooms rotating on the screen.

“We're going to London!” she says.

This time, she actually does drop her coffee. Chat Noir grabs her hand before it can go down. The heat of his palm seeps through the knuckles of her suit. It's there for a split second before he snatches it away, going back to rubbing his neck.

“London?” Chat Noir says. “How did you— when are we—?”

“We're leaving tomorrow morning,” she says with a grin. “My mum catered for some VIPs on the Eurostar and got a bunch of credit. Enough for all of us to have a round trip!”

“But, babe— I mean, dude, we can't just turn up at Gare du Nord like this . I mean, we kinda look like serial killers.” Pointedly, Carapace glances at Ryuko.

She folds her arms, her balaclava wrinkling as she furrows her brow. “My usual choice of covering was not with me. This was an efficient alternative.”

“Well, maybe if we revealed our identities, we could look like actual normal people,” Bunnix says. “I mean, I was in the future. I can literally just tell you all who you are—”

“ No !” she and Chat Noir yell in unison.

Their voices echo around the empty square. She's incredibly glad that the Panthéon doesn't open for another few hours.

“Um,” Chat Noir says, fiddling with one of his pockets. “It’s just— well— I mean, some of us might not be ready to reveal yet?” 

“Yeah.” Ladybug nods hard, trying not to glance at him. “And, well, I mean, Rena, a trip sounds really, really nice, but, you know, everyone's probably super busy, and this is so last minute—”

“Oh, I’m not doing anything,” Ryuko says.

“Yeah, me neither.” Bunnix.

“Yeah, dudes, it's summer. All our exams finished a couple of weeks ago.”

“...Right.” Chat Noir says. He looks at her, but she doesn't look back.

“...Guys.” Rena steps forward, her back to the rest of the team. She lifts the mask over her head to face them properly. “If you're not okay with it, we don't have to go. I’m not sure if anything happened between you two, but…” Her eyes flick between them, leaving her sentence hanging.

She opens her mouth, then pauses. Telling Alya wouldn't be an issue. She would understand, surely, maybe tease her for the Hennessy again. But how is she meant to say it in front of everyone else? How is she meant to say it in front of Chat Noir, give that night a tangibility she's been trying to get over the past sixty hours?

His raspberry lips. The heat of his tongue. She knows the exact pattern of the muscles under his costume and she's not sure how she can admit to that without never being able to be normal around him again.

“No, no, I— I’m cool with it,” Ladybug says. Pulse hammering in her throat, she looks at him. “I mean, as long as you are?”

The pause is short but heavy. He searches her face, the look in his eyes within the venn diagram of the way he looked at her before he flipped her over in the gazebo. He must realise it at the same time she does, because he turns away.

“Uh— I’m fine with it, too,” he finally says. “And, uh, we could just redistribute the Miraculous and go transformed? I’m sure no one’s gonna say anything if we want to take a break out of the city.”

She feels like she’s nodding way too much. “Yeah,” Ladybug says. “We could do that.”

With the mask pushed up, Alya’s questioning eyes are all the more probing. Ladybug wants to squeeze Chat Noir’s hand. She doesn’t.

Alya pulls her mask back down and faces the team. “So, guys?” she says. “London tomorrow?”

A cheer erupts into the morning.

“We’re gonna get gazeboed ,” Carapace says, nudging Bunnix while she rolls her eyes. “That’s what they call getting drunk in England.”

Suddenly, the colonnades are very, very interesting.

Chapter Text

She and Alya leave the Césaire apartment when the blue of the night still hasn’t washed out of the sky. By the time they arrive at Gare du Nord with their luggage and the Miraculouses, it’s almost passably morning.

Although Daylight Saving never really does make Ladybug feel any less tired at 5AM.

Every now and then, a habitual contraction of nerves spreads through her whole body. What about Hawk Moth? What about akuma attacks? What about all the million things that could go wrong while they’re not in Paris? But then she’ll watch King Monkey and Bunnix fighting over who can put away everyone’s luggage the fastest and oh . Right. She doesn’t need to think about that anymore.

“Hey.”

She tears her eyes off the platform outside the window. Rena’s standing in the aisle, leaning against the table. Ladybug had been hesitant to get a table seat — they’ve always been her favourite, but she felt weird sitting at one all on her own. But since they’ve managed to book out the whole carriage for themselves, she supposes it’s fine.

“Are you sure you and Chat Noir are okay?” she asks.

The contraction of nerves returns for an entirely different reason. “Alya,” she says, in an attempt at nonchalance. “I told you a million times already. We’re fine.”

Her eyes are trained on her, clearer through her transformation mask than the creepy Ladybug one. “There was just such a weird vibe yesterday, you know? I don’t want this trip to be hard for you. The whole point of it was so you could have fun. With all of us.”

Her tension melts away. “No, Al. You did everything perfectly.” She reaches across the laminate and squeezes her hand. “Thank you.”

She smiles. She straightens, hoisting her bag back up her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Ladybug asks. “Aren’t you gonna sit down?”

“Oh, no, I am. But, uh. My seat isn’t with you.” 

“What? I’m sitting all alone?”

She gives her a sheepish half-smile. “Not exactly?”

For an awful moment she thinks: oh my God, Chloé is on this train . And then common sense kicks in, and she looks down the aisle, and sees Chat Noir hauling his rucksack into the carriage, checking his ticket, and setting his eyes on her exact row.

“Ah.” She just about keeps her voice steady. “No, that’s— that’s great! Thank you! I love hanging out with Chat Noir!”

Rena offers her a smile, apologetic but trying not to be, and heads down the aisle behind her. Ladybug pretends to watch her as she goes all the way to the back and takes a seat next to Carapace.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me for two hours, My Lady.”

Ladybug turns around. “Chat Noir!” she says. “Wait, you’re sitting with me? That’s so nice!”

He blinks at her. “...Didn’t Alya just tell you that right now?” 

She stops herself from spluttering at the very  last minute. “Um. Um. No.”

“Really?” Amusement twitches his lips. “So why did you yell my name so loud I heard it from the door?”

She winces. Her mum is right. She does need to work on her indoor voice.

“We were talking about something else,” she quickly says. “Um. About. Uh…”

Something flickers across his expression. The realisation hits her at the same time, a bullet of fire shooting up to her face.

About a particular night where they ‘got gazeboed’?

“Um. No, yeah, you were right, she was telling me. Guess I’m just a little sleepy, haha.” Do the windows open wide enough to let her  throw herself onto the train tracks? Probably not. She’s pretty sure that’s the kind of thing train manufacturers try to prevent. 

He smiles again, looking like Alya’s almost-apology of one. He shoulders off his bag and shoves it into the compartment over their heads. He considers the four seats for a moment, before sitting in the one right next to her.

She sucks in a breath. Please let him get his headphones out. Please let him get his headphones out. 

She feels bad for thinking it. Chat Noir’s her friend — she should be happy to sit with him for two hours. Just because they’re still probably technically still ‘getting their heads straight’ doesn’t mean they can’t be normal with each other. Yesterday was just awkward timing. It doesn’t mean anything’s actually wrong . It’s a good thing, if anything, that they can sit together. Go back to just hanging out like friends and partners like they always have.

“Great job figuring out how to transform with just our masks, by the way,” he says. He stretches his hands out over the laminate, ten smooth, perfectly manicured fingers. “It feels weird seeing myself as a civilian while everyone calls me Chat Noir.”

She notices he's wearing a hoodie, zipped up to his neck. She looks down at her own Sailor Moon T-Shirt and jeans too loose to be fashionable. The lightest, comfiest outfit she could find for the June heat and she’s still sweating.

“Aren’t you hot?” she asks. “Why don't you take that off?”

“Um. Well.” He folds and unfolds his hands on the table. “...The marks still haven't really faded yet.”

He may as well have just tased her. She closes her eyes, fighting the urge to slam her head on the table.

“Right,” she says. “Yes. That makes a lot of sense.”

A horrible thought enters her mind. She’s… kind of curious about how they look. What if she asks to see them? Would that be inappropriate?

Yes. Yes. Very decidedly yes. What the hell .

She considers the travel pillow which she very stupidly left clipped to her rucksack. The rucksack currently in the compartment above their heads. You know what, she'll survive the sore neck. Clearly, she just needs to get some sleep. She rests her head against the cold window and closes her eyes. She's sure by the time they get to London she'll be good as new and definitely not curious about how much of her mouth is leftover on his neck.

Yeah. Okay. Maybe she's not that tired anymore.

She sits up in her seat and lets out a deep breath. She is an adult woman. She is not going to be embarrassed for exercising her right to leave hickeys on her superhero partner. Or at least she can pretend not to be. 

A small hand in a fingerless glove squeezes through the gap between their seats. “Psst,” Bunnix says. “King Monkey brought Hennessy. Want some?”

Chat Noir’s mouth drops. “It is seven o’clock in the morning.”

The singular blue  eye visible through the gap looks unimpressed. “So?”

Ladybug looks from Bunnix to Chat Noir. Hennessy? That's, like, the perfect opening for a joke. Isn't he going to comment on that? 

“I’ll pass, Bunnix,” she says, then looks back at him. “I think 07h00 is too early for the Ladybug Hennessy Experience. Right, Chat Noir?”

His eyes blow open. “I… what?”

A very, very long silence.

Marinette, would you like to explain what the Ladybug Hennessy Experience is?

Yes, Ladybug, it's when I climb Chat Noir like a tree and want to smash my head into a wall afterwards.

Maybe not every opportunity for a joke should be taken.

She clears her throat, and rests her head back against the window. “I’m going to sleep.”

They don't talk for the rest of the journey.

══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══

A hand on her shoulder wakes her up. “Ladybug?” A gentle, gentle shake. “My Lady? We're here.”

She lifts her head and groans. Her neck feels like a metal bar forged into place.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Ladybug opens her eyes mid-stretch.

Caprikid and Rooster Bold are grinning across the table from them. They've taken off their hoodie and jacket, looking incredibly bright in just their T-Shirts.

“The AC wasn't working where they were sitting,” Chat explains.

She glances at his neck. Sweat rolls down the collar of his hoodie, darkening a wet line across a patch of red skin.

“Look,” Rooster Bold says. “Free art.”

Caprikid flips his tablet around. On a Clip Studio canvas is a black and white sketch, unmistakeably Ladybug asleep.

On Chat Noir’s shoulder.

Before she can act casual about it, he catches the look on her face.

“You were trying to get comfy,” he says. He plays with his hoodie sleeve. “I wanted to get you your travel pillow but I was afraid I’d wake you.”

“Oh,” she says. 

She looks back at the drawing. Her face looks so… serene. And, while she wouldn't put it past Caprikid to take creative liberties, it looks like Chat Noir was even leaning over so she could rest there properly.

Neither the stickiness of a two-hour nap nor the dire state of her neck have done anything to distract her from her earlier embarrassment. And if it's still so palpable in her head, it must still be lingering for him, too.

And yet he's still doing the same thing he has always done: be there for her. Make sure she's okay.

“It’s a pretty drawing,” she says. Caprikid and Rooster Bold share a look and laugh. She feigns interest in the red brick of St Pancras before her expression gives her away.

King Monkey rushes through the carriage and unloads everyone’s luggage before Bunnix can beat him. They empty out onto the platform. Ladybug looks around. The echo of English-sounding announcements beneath a general train-station hum. Suitcases rolling across smooth concrete. She lifts her head to the glass rooftop, like a giant transparent net holding the station together. She remembers seeing a picture, once, comparing the size of Paris and London, their tiny, mouse-shaped city floating on top of London Bridge. It doesn’t feel that scary in real life. Gare du Nord, Charles de Gaulle — those are mammoths to tackle. But with everything so neatly labelled, arrows pointing everywhere? She wishes everything in her life was this navigable.

She quickly changes her mind when they go down the escalators, and those neat labels open out into a never ending tunnel of shops.

“Um,” Rena Rouge says. “Does anyone know how the underground works?”

All eyes turn to Ladybug.

She makes a face. “Why are you all looking at me?”

“You’re Ladybug,” Minotaurux says.

“There’s a seventy-three point two percent chance that you know how the underground works better than any of us,” Pegasus pipes in.

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll go check out a map.”

With faux confidence, she crosses through the arcade, glancing around for the familiar métro map that, even after six years of travelling around on her own, still makes her feel sweaty. It's like they think she's still their team captain, still Ladybug, the person who has all the solutions.

It's kind of sweet, at the same time. That they trust her even when they don't need to.

She finds a map spread out beneath some glass and stands in front of it. Her own reflection looks back at her through the multicoloured zigzags. Hmmm. Hmmm . What's the best way to not seem like she has no idea what she's looking at?

“We have to take the Metropolitan,” he says behind her. A perfectly manicured finger traces a purple line, until it lands on a station. Baker Street . “Then we have to change lines. That's what Google maps says.”

Ladybug turns to look at Chat. “When did you check?”

“Before we left,” he says. “I’ve been here loads. And I had a feeling they were gonna ask you.”

“Oh.” She doesn't comment on the fact he must've also had a feeling she wouldn’t know what to do. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. He doesn't make a move to return to the group.

She glances down the arcade, where the rest of the team seem to be very amused by a three-point plug socket. People walk by them like they, a group of French twenty-year-olds in eye masks, are nothing out of the ordinary. She supposes it's true what they say about Londoners and eye contact. She turns back to Chat Noir. 

“Thank you for dealing with me today,” she says. “I know I’ve been acting super weird.”

He laughs. “It's okay. You’re always weird. It's nothing new.”

She lifts her hand to punch his arm. He jumps back, still laughing.

“Kidding, kidding,” he says. “But really, it's fine. I get that we didn't really have the time to get some space like we planned.”

She pauses, eyes drifting back to the team. “It’s nice though, isn't it?” she says. “Everyone together?*

“Yeah.” A smile enters his voice. “It feels like a real victory. You know?”

The easy look on his face releases something tough inside her. At the end of the day, they're still partners. They always have been.

“A victory where we could maybe even reveal,” she says. She smiles, too. “Maybe while we're here?”

“...Would you want that?”

It's her turn to shrug. She hopes he reads it the way she wants him to. As a yes, I really would .

“Okay, yeah.” He fights off a grin very unsuccessfully. “That sounds nice.”

Reconvening in the arcade, they see Purple Tigress and Viperion on the floor, trying to see if they can somehow fit their phone chargers into the socket. Pegasus shakes his head next to them.

“So?” Rena asks her. “What’s the plan, LB?”

“Oh! Well, uh…” She thinks back to the map, the lines more confusing than her sewing box after a big project. What was it again? The purple line to… something-bakery? 

“Metropolitan line,” Chat Noir chimes in from beside her. He’s somehow gotten hold of some of the smaller maps, and holds them out for everyone to take. “To Baker Street. Then we have to switch to the Jubilee line. Right, Ladybug?”

She shoots him a questioning look. He shoots it right back. Like letting her take the lead, even now, makes complete sense.

The way he had when she'd been kissing him.

Fighting off a blush, she looks back at them. “...Right,” she says. “Metropolitan line to Baker Street.”

“Great!” Rena says. “That means you'll show us how to get to the Tube, right?”

Ladybug looks at Chat Noir. Chat Noir looks back, amused.

“...Yes. Obviously,” she says. She turns on her heel, and starts walking towards the first blue sign hanging off the ceiling. “It's this way.” When she's sure no one’s looking, she hisses to Chat, “what do I do?”

He laughs, throwing his head back. His neck stretches, the skin lifting from the cocoon of his hoodie. A rosebush of  love bites flash across his throat. Ladybug’s heart stops .

“Don't worry, My Lady.” He puts an arm around her shoulder, guiding her in front of him. “I’ve got your back.”

That paradoxical safety. Warmth fills her. She looks up at him, smiles, and lets him walk her through the station.

Chapter Text

“Wow!” Polymouse’s footsteps patter down the staircase. “Rena, this is incredible! This place is huge!”

Ladybug opens one eye. From her place on the couch, or, more accurately, Rena Rouge’s lap, all she sees is the spruce coffee table and the note the AirBnb host left tucked under some daffodils. It’s one of those deceptively modest townhouses London seems to have a lot of. Part of her can't believe it’s supposed to have eight whole bedrooms, but she can hear the whole team’s footsteps creaking both above and below her, in this millefeuille of a home.

“I made sure we’d have somewhere nice so those two can finally get some good sleep,” Rena says, stroking her hair.

The way she says those two makes it clear who she means. Ladybug smiles and, habitually, kisses her hand. She closes her eyes again.

Then, Rena gets up, gently shifting her over to an expensively plush cushion. “Alright. Let's go. Those groceries aren't gonna buy themselves.” She points sternly towards the couch. “Chat Noir, make sure she gets some rest.”

Chat Noir looks up. He's standing by the baby grand piano in Ladybug’s periphery, tapping quietly at some notes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ladybug tries to stay lucid enough to say goodbye to everyone as they mill out the door, but, God , this cushion is comfy. It makes her so fuzzy inside, knowing that Alya got all this ready to make her happy. She's already more relaxed than she ever remembers being, piano notes drifting over her brain like water, that relief of finally lying down after a long day.

A pause in the music. She looks up, and finds Chat Noir shrugging off his hoodie. 

He drapes it over the piano stool, glancing sheepishly at Ladybug. “I’ve been waiting all day to take that thing off.”

She sees the marks on his neck, lilac in the glowy light of the living room. “...I’m really sorry about that.”

His hand stops midway to the piano. “...About what?”

“Y’know.” She gestures to her own neck. As if there's anything there. As if he’d been as out of control that night as she had. “Being so… over the top.”

To her surprise, he snickers. “Over the top?”

“With the… you know…”

“Ravaging me? Stealing my innocence?”

She grabs the cushion and stuffs it into her face. It smells like air freshener, and that distinct English smell she first got when she stepped out of the station.

He laughs loudly. “Ladybug, I’m kidding. It's fine. We were drunk.”

“Yeah. We ,” she says, flipping the cushion off her in dismay. “But I don't see any hickeys on my neck.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You're upset because you don't have any hickeys?”

“ Chat .” He's being deliberately frustrating. She's sure he knows it, too. “I’m upset because I totally made a fool of myself in front of you and now you have to wear this huge hoodie in the middle of summer because of it.”

His fingers rest on the piano for a moment, like he's thinking of what to play next. “...I didn't think you were making a fool of yourself,” he says. “I thought…” He sucks on his bottom lip, then shakes his head. “No, never mind.”

“What?” She sits up on the couch. “What did you think?”

“Well— I mean—” He sighs. He considers the keys, then, gently, lowers the fall board over them. “I know that, like, obviously it wasn't meant to mean anything in the long-run. But I guess I’d just hoped that, at least, you wouldn't regret it, you know?” He turns around, not quite looking at her. “That, well. You’d think it was fun. Like, we're two adults attracted to each other who are close enough to do that sort of thing.”

Fire licks through her face. “...You’re attracted to me?”

“I mean .” He laughs, but it sounds like a filler, like the way he’d been toying with those piano keys to fill the silence. “I thought that was kind of obvious?”

How was that meant to be obvious? Her memories of Chat Noir being attracted to her meant coming to patrol prepared with a firm-but-kind rejection for whatever silly idea he had to romance her. It's been years . Why would he still be attracted to his superhero partner, of all people? Even that first kiss they shared tasted like nothing more than curiosity.

“Then why did you just sit there?” she says. “While I was— well— you know, doing what I was doing, all you did was just— just laugh and take it?” Okay, maybe she is a bit mad she has no hickeys. Like he wasn't feeling it enough for the effort, but had no problem with her diving in.

He grows very, very quiet. He looks down at his feet, his trainers, laced up neatly, the white reflecting off the polished floorboards.

“...Because I liked it,” he says. “I liked you taking control. I liked that you were using me to make yourself feel good.” He swallows so hard his Adam’s apple leaps. “It was… really, really hot.”

It rings through her, dizzying like a concussion, this sideways view from her place on the couch suddenly making her vision spin. 

“I—” She forgets how to make her voice work for a second. “But— those marks—”

“...I wanted you to leave more.”

Why is she breathing so hard? God, God, God, this is so embarrassing, he's definitely noticed that she's breathing like this, why would she be breathing like this from just a conversation? She has to reel it in. They’re going to be stuck in this AirBnb with their whole team, they can't afford to deal with any more weirdness now.

Suddenly, lying down feels too inappropriate. She sits up, so unusually aware of the way her own clothes feel against her skin.

“...Can I be honest with you?” she says.

“Always.”

“...I don't think I’m gonna be able to be normal after this.” She stares at the cushion, at the plastic zip catching the light. “I don't think… after knowing that you…” She closes her eyes.

The silence feels heavy, drooping, like a water balloon. “...Sorry.”

She swallows, and looks up at him. “Do you want to do it again?”

He pauses. Then exhales a laugh. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about, My Lady.”

She wouldn't have guessed. Absolutely never. Not with how polite he's been. How sweet he's been. It’s okay s and it’s fine s and we could take some space s. 

For some reason, it's that that sends heat rushing through her. The same burn as cognac.

He comes to the couch without her asking, the way he used to know whenever she wanted to regroup during battle, the way he knew where she needed him to send his Cataclysm. He dips his head, the fresh scent of his hair assailing her. This is so different from the gazebo. If that was high definition, this is having the image shot right into your veins.

She puts her hands on his shoulders. Her heart is shaking. He looks at her like he can feel it.

“We don't have to,” he says, rushing to get it out. “I— I didn't mean to pressure you. Saying I was thinking about it. I just—”

She grabs his face in her hands and pulls his lips down to hers.

He kisses maddeningly slow. She can't get enough oxygen in with how hard she's holding her breath, how her whole body buzzes for him to do something more. She pulls away from him with a shaking inhale, a jolt going through her as their noses brush.

She slides her fingers over the softness of his neck. “I want some, too.”

With how close they are, she can feel the increment in his pulse. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She lies back on the couch. Without him asking.

══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══

She traces the mark with her fingertip. It's red. Damp. The perfect shape of his lips. She remembers his tongue, Chat Noir’s tongue, her partner’s tongue, and blushes so hard she thinks she's going to pass out. She swats at his hand, and he chuckles, closing her compact mirror.

“Happy now?” he asks. 

It reminds her of when she let him try kissing her in the gazebo. “I guess it'll do.”

He smiles down at her. The couch is big enough that they can lie next to each other without touching. Like how she always sits a few inches away from the guys at her uni so they don't get the wrong idea. As if she and Chat hadn't done exactly what those wrong ideas entail.

It's kind of nice, though, that cellophane of platonicness, of their usual friendship, still intact.

His gaze presses against her, the way it did when the topic of their identities first came up. “Do you feel weird?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Do you?”

“No.”

She smiles. So does he. 

“So what now?” she asks.

“‘What now’?”

His rosé-soaked voice echoes in her words. “I want to tell you who I am,” she says.

A tense silence follows. “...Now?”

Just one syllable, but it packs one hell of a punch when it hits her.  ‘Now’?  When he asked about feeling weird, she didn't think this was the standard of not-weird. Had something changed? Drastic enough to have second thoughts about a reveal?

He must see the look on her face, because his eyes widen. “Wait— I mean, that came out wrong.”

She waves a hand dismissively, like she can use it to sweep the pain out of her. “No, no, it's fine. I just, uh. Meant in general.” Some of her hair is caught in his shirt, a shiny black strand in the cotton. 

She's so adamant to avoid his gaze that when he cups her face and turns it up she needs a moment to gather her bearings.

He looks at her, expression like a spilled jar, breathtakingly open. “Don’t think for a second I don't want this,” he says.

Her voice curls up in her throat and dies. Mutely, she nods.

Then, he sighs, and lets go of her face. With one hand, he strokes her cheek, uncertainly, like he's not quite sure what to do with this new blurring between them.

“...I was looking forward to our big, special reveal,” he says. “Sorry. I know it's silly. We've been partners for years, it shouldn't even matter that much, but when you said it that night—”

She laughs. She doesn't mean to, but the wave of relief makes her almost lightheaded. “Oh my God , Chat.”

“Okay— okay, okay, I get it. I get it. Plagg, claws—”

“No!” She claps a hand over his mouth. A tingle goes through her. He was about to do it . She shakes the thought out of her head. “No, Chat. You're right. I want that big special reveal, too.”

“...Really?’ he asks. “Then… when you said…?”

She blushes, and gives into a grin that feels like she absorbed from him. “Maybe just the hormones talking?”

He gives her a look. She laughs again.

She doesn't remember how, but those inches between them seem to have disappeared. They need to talk about this, about what they're doing, about what this means. But the questions don't seem to want to come out of her. She knows they're okay. 

She leans in and softly, tenderly, kisses his lips. He sighs in a way that sounds almost like a moan, and she has to dig her nails into the couch.

The heavy, reverberating sound of the old-fashioned lock rings through the foyer. Voices fresh from outside enter the house.

They scramble off the couch, Chat Noir yanking his hoodie over his head, Ladybug pulling out a turtleneck vest from her bag and shimmying it on top of her T-Shirt.

Vesperia enters the living room first, and stops in the doorway. She glances between Ladybug and Chat Noir, several baby pianos’ distance away from each other, a brimming orange eco bag wrapped around her wrist.

“...Are you both okay?” she asks.

She doesn’t look at him, and she's very glad he doesn't look at her.

“We're great!” he says. He leans against the piano, which he must have opened at some point in a display of nonchalance. A discordant series of notes bursts forth, and, just as quickly, he closes the fall board.

The rest of the team mill in, too, carrying in crisp packets the colour of Crayolas, cylinders of biscuits, and store-branded pains aux chocolat in transparent brown packaging.

And alcohol. 

Rena sighs, watching Carapace rip open the box of pink Gordon’s. “I must be the only girlfriend that drinks because my Muslim boyfriend thinks the cans are pretty.” She takes the can he hands her and takes a sip.

Maybe she's just been too tired the past two days to have realised it before, but with the explosion of conversation and laughter and the hiss of cans being opened, it suddenly feels like being fourteen again. Like feeling the sun on her face during a sixteen-person fistbump, and the smell of Place des Vosges as she runs back over to the class picnic that they all had fled from, all of them but her none the wiser about why everyone was so out of breath. 

It's weird to think that that's all over now. No more rushing to everyone's house to drop off their Miraculouses. No more leaping up onto a rooftop and seeing a gaggle of her silly little team surrounding her periphery.

“Ladybug,” Bunnix sing-songs. She’s holding a suspiciously burgundy bottle in her arms. “Guess what IIIII have.”

Rena Rouge shoots her a look, in the middle of reclining against Carapace’s arm with her laptop in her lap. “What did I just tell you about giving her Hennessy.”

Bunnix snickers. She pops open the bottle and swigs it neat.

Nobody questions her strange outfit alteration, nor why the cushion is on the floor. They all come over and sit on the carpet, forming a makeshift oval, odd socks stretched out across each other, phones in hand, talking over stupid Instagram videos, like when Ms Bustier took the class to the park when it was summer.

“Here.” Rena hands her a Gordon’s. 

“Oh, uh…” She considers her track record. “I’ll just take a Sprite.”

“A Sprite?” Carapace says, and looks up. “Man, I only bought two.” He looks down at his can forlornly. He hands it to Ladybug. “Here you go, dudette. For saving the world a million times.”

“What? No.” She pushes it back towards him. “I’m not gonna take your drink just because of that. We're all heroes here.”

“I have a nice, big bottle right here.” Bunnix pats the Hennessy. She wonders just how much she's seen while in the Burrow, based on the fixation.

“What about the second can?” Rena asks. 

Chat Noir raises a hand. “...It's mine." There's some amusement in his eyes when he says it. And she realises, then, that no one else knows why they'd be staying away from drinking today. 

He's still near the piano, sitting on the floor there, far enough away from her that she can't even see the shadows on his neck anymore. It's like looking at a different Chat Noir, a Chat Noir from a few years ago, smiling at her across their team mates, catching her eye in the midst of everything just to let her know he's there.

“I can live with water,” she says.

“Don't be silly.” Vesperia rummages around her bag. “Do you like Fanta?”

Ladybug wrinkles her nose. “Water is fine.”

“What if we just shared the Sprite?” Rena says, exasperated. “You know, like adults who know how to share?”

Nino looks down at her with pain in his eyes.

“Me and Ladybug will share. We've been drinking from the same takeout cups since we were kids.” Chat Noir gets to his feet. He crosses the living room and sits next to Ladybug, cracking open his drink. “See? Problem solved.”

She looks at him. His warm, comforting heat next to her, the spray of the fizz against the back of her hand. 

It shocks her how badly she wants to kiss him again  How she wishes that maybe he didn't want that special reveal, and that they could be sitting together with all their friends and be the only two people who know something special is between them. That even after they win, they still have something holding them together.

“Thanks,” she says. She takes a sip from the can.

He takes it from her. Holding her gaze, he puts his lips over the semi-circle of her lip balm and takes a sip, too.

Vesperia watches the exchange. “You know, you both are really weird.”

Chapter Text

"Did she fall asleep again?” 

“Looks like it.”

Her head shoots up from Chat Noir’s shoulder, the words startling her up like an alarm clock. “No, no, I’m awake! See?” Casually, she returns her head, demonstrating how she can both have it there and not be asleep at the same time. “I’m just resting my eyes. I swear.”

Rena exchanges a glance with Carapace, amused. Everyone else went off to their shared rooms to nap for the rest of the afternoon, the four of them were still lingering in the living room, like the last few hours of a sleepover where no one wants to admit they want to go to bed. The hot sunlight streaming through the windows is the only thing that says differently.

“Just go take a nap, Ladybug,” Rena Rouge says. She's switched from her can of Gordon’s to a glass of water. “We'll wake you up before we order dinner.”

“You, too, dude.” Carapace nods at Chat. “Don't think we didn't catch you drifting off, too.”

She has to blink a few times to make space for the light, but when she tilts her head up to look at him, she sees exactly what they’re talking about. His face is fuzzy like midnight patrols, 07h00 akuma attacks. It hits her that she’s been treating him like a body pillow for the last hour or so, effectively preventing any opportunity for him to go up to his room himself. 

She sits up quickly, smoothing down her hair. “Which room is ours?”

Rena lowers her phone to look at her. A tangible silence fills the room.

“Well, your separate rooms are at the end of the corridor upstairs,” she says. “You don’t seriously think I would’ve made the two people who’ve been carrying Paris on their backs since they were fourteen bunk-bed with us, right?”

“...Oh.” With sixteen people and eight rooms, she’d figured that they’d just go for an even split. 

The disappointment must bleed into her face before she can stop it, because Rena smirks. “I mean, if you want to share a bedroom—” 

“ No ,” she says, more squeak than speech. “No. I was just asking,” She gets to her feet before she can embarrass herself further. “Come on, Chat, let’s go get some rest.”

They head up the spiral staircase together, the delicate chandelier hanging above them like a cluster of stars. All the doors are ajar — an office space with a bookshelf, what looks like a second sitting room, and, lastly, the two master bedrooms, both big enough to be sitting rooms themselves. Are their rooms the only ones on this floor? Involuntarily, blood rushes to her face.

Chat Noir slows to a stop. Walking behind him, Ladybug does, too. 

“Um, so…” Nervously, he tugs at the strap of his bag. “Do you have a preference?”

Ladybug bites her lip. With her backpack hanging off one shoulder, she steps forward, puts a hand on the side of his face, and kisses him. Immediately, he relaxes, hands coming around her back to pull her closer.

They part with a soft smack, the sound so deliciously unfamiliar between them that her insides ripple. “Whichever room you want.”

“Oh.” In the small space between them, the hitch of his breath is loud. “Okay.”

There's something about kissing Chat Noir with the rest of the team in the same building that makes her insides feel like pop rocks. It might be anxiety, if she's being honest, because, really, all it would take was for Polymouse to come up the stairs to check out all the rooms again for them to have to face a whole lot of questions she's not sure either of them have answers to right now, but at the same time, maybe it's the sheer fact that they are doing this. That after years and years of rules and secrets and keeping an identity-preserving distance, they can kiss each other while burying their hands into each other’s civilian clothes and no superhero duties can make them feel guilty about that. 

Somehow, they end up in one of the master bedrooms, bodies pressed against the door in a bubble of heavy breath. 

There are a lot of things they could do right now, actually. Like a bottle of aged wine finally uncorked.

Suddenly, he breaks away and, ever so gently, holds her face. The intimacy makes her breath feel shallow, like her lungs aren’t equipped for oxygen anymore. Hesitantly, she reaches around and rests her hands in the dip of his spine, palms pressed to unfamiliar shapes.

“You know, like, when we first turned eighteen, and we went to that gala Mayor Bourgeois threw?” he asks. “And how it felt like we were doing something sneaky whenever we had a glass of champagne even though we were legal?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s kinda how this feels,” he says. “Like, I’m looking at you and I want to kiss you again but I still kind of feel like you’ll hit me.”

“ Chat .”

“What! It’s what you’ve been doing for literally five years!”

She rolls her eyes. Shoving him lightly, she crosses the bedroom and flops onto the mattress, peeling off the stupid turtleneck on the way there. “We kinda had other priorities, chaton.”

“Yeah?” The mattress dips when he sits next to her. He reaches behind himself and grips her ankle loosely, the same way she's seen Nino do with Alya before. She gets the same feeling as trying on her mum’s lipstick for the first time, or when she bought her first dress from the women’s section instead of the kids’. “So will things change between us again if our priorities change?”

Her eyes refocus. She glances away from the ceiling light to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t know.” He strokes her leg, tracing her calf underneath the loose end of her jeans. “Like, for example, when uni starts up again. Will you still let me kiss you even if you have exams?”

She can’t help it — she laughs. “Maybe I’ll make you kiss me extra when I have exams.” She pulls the arm closest to her out of his lap and intertwines their fingers, also like how she's seen Alya do with Nino. “Stress relief for all the stress you’ve given me since we were kids.”

He smiles. “And what about when we get jobs? Start doing forty-hour weeks?”

“There are still, like, a hundred hours left after that.”

“What about…” His fingers still on her leg. “What about when you get a boyfriend?”

The word itself takes a moment to process. “...A boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

She opens her mouth, but quickly realises she doesn't know what to say. She's always wanted a boyfriend, ever since she was fourteen and doodling Adrien Agreste with a multicoloured pen at the back of her maths book. And obviously you can't be kissing your superhero partner when you have a boyfriend. Actually, she probably wouldn't be able to do a lot of things with her superhero partner when she has a boyfriend, considering they wouldn't really have the excuse of being superheroes anymore, once they know each other's identities.

 She casts the net of her mind as far forward as she can. There's something she keeps running up against, like she's being weighed down to this moment, a moment that feels like a wonky puzzle piece being punched into the gap left open by everything that happens after this.

He's still looking at her. Not with any urgency or expectancy. Just looking.

She lets out a soft breath. Lets go of that other puzzle piece, sits with the one she has.

“Maybe if I ask him nicely he'll let me,” she says. “I’m sure he'll understand.”

He smiles. He leans across the mattress, hair tickling her face, and pecks her on the lips. 

══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══

She wakes up rolled onto her side, facing the window. The sky is black, she's still wearing her jeans, and the overhead light is still switched on. Chat Noir’s arm is wrapped around her, his body curled into her back like another pillow. 

She touches his face behind her. “Chaton.”

“ Nnnghf .”

“Chat.” A squeeze to his cheek.

He buries his face deeper into her neck and pulls her closer, like she's just a solid, human-sized duvet to hide under. “I was having such a nice dream.”

“I’m hungry,”  she says. “You can continue your dream later.”

“Mm.” His lips root around, pressing kisses to her ear and jaw that definitely makes her feel a bit more than a duvet. “Promise?”

She pushes him onto his back and pins his hands above his head while he laughs because, well, she has a feeling that the dream sh e had wasn't that much different to his.

They drift in and out of sleep for a few minutes before finally pulling on their hickey-camouflages and  heading downstairs, matching tangles in their hair. He looks so cute she has to clamp down on her bottom lip, and, just before reaching the end of the stairs, quickly pushes him against the wall and kisses him again. She’s going to bake Alya so many macarons when they get back to Paris. A whole freaking Airbnb’s worth of macarons.

She reconsiders this when they enter the living room, only to find the rest of the team sitting, laughing, drinking, completely de-transformed.

Nino notices them first. “Rise and shine, dudes!” Stuffing a string of margherita back into his mouth, he holds up a pizza slice. “Help yourselves!”

The rest of the team turn around to look, a crowd of unmasked, civilian faces. Kagami, Rose, Juleka, Mylene—

Her eyes immediately shoot to Alya.

Alya takes a sheepish sip from her pink can. “...It was Alix’s idea.”

Alix flips her head around with a grin, throwing up a triumphant peace sign around her Hennessy. “I warned you. Shouldn't have left me alone.” 

“...Well,” Chat says from beside her. “We did leave her alone.”

She turns to Alix and opens her mouth, but then her stomach grasps at the smell of hot pizza, and she decides that maybe there are other things she could be focusing on right now. She comes over and sits on the floor, taking Alya’s pink gin from her hand and taking a sip. Chat Noir follows behind her, procuring two paper plates from the coffee table and serving up some pizza for both of them.

“So, wait,” Kim says, pressing his temples in concentration. “You’re saying that if I wore my blue sweatband instead of my orange sweatband, I would’ve ended up bald ?”

Ladybug, midway through taking the pizza from Chat, pauses. “What is happening.”

“Since we all know each other’s identities now we’re talking about what Alix knows about us from the Burrow,” Zoé says. “Did you know there’s a parallel timeline where Chloe isn’t actually a bitch?”

“It’s not parallel ,” Alix says. “I can’t see parallel realities. The Burrow only shows all the possible realities from a single point in time. Like, for example, if I’d been the one to sit next to Ladybug on the Eurostar, she definitely would’ve crossed the border drunk.”

“Um, should we really be talking about this?” Chat says. “Isn’t it… kinda dangerous to know about the future?”

“Well, for big things, kinda. But the future is made up of so many tiny different things that sometimes it doesn’t make much of a difference.” She shakes her head. “ You , in particular, gave me a fucking headache with that.”

“What!” he says. “How?”

“While everyone has, like, a million possible things they could end up doing, you have ten million.” Emphatically, she points to the couch. “See that? If you’d decided to sit there instead of here, you would’ve accidentally ended up on a train to Berlin tomorrow morning. And Ladybug would’ve been so mad at you.”

Ladybug snorts, nibbling at her pizza. Like a motion sensor, Alix turns her gaze on her.

“Don’t you act smug,” she says. “ I know what could’ve not happened if you’d just decided to share Chat Noir’s rosé that other night.”

She almost drops her slice. Scorching heat tidal waves into her face. “I don’t— that’s—”

Alix takes a sip of her drink, effectively ending that line of inquiry. At everyone’s curious glances, she shrugs. “LB gets bad hangovers,” she says, shooting the two of them a conspiratorial look.

She hates the fact that Alix is the person who was so clearly the best candidate for the Rabbit.

“Why do Ladybug and Chat Noir have so many different realities?” Alya asks. 

“Of course you’d like to know, Ladyblogger,” Rose teases.

“ Hey!”

“No surprise that Rena Rouge is a Ladybug stan.”

Alix ignores them. “Most of us don’t have many stakes in our day-to-day lives,” she says. “But for Ladybug and Chat Noir, they’ve basically spent half their time on earth constantly worried about the end of the world.” She looks at them. “Which, by the way, almost happened a couple hundred times. But you guys are pretty much in the clear now.”

“Hold on,” Ladybug says. “Are all those possibilities still a thing now? Even after we won?”

“Well, yeah, sure. All those old possibilities made new possibilities.” She smirks at them. “Why? You wanna know some of them?”

She looks at Chat Noir before she can stop herself. He looks back at her, eyes filled with reluctance, but softened by the fact she knows he wouldn’t stop her if she tried. Tens of millions of possibilities — possibilities she would’ve never been allowed to know before, back when so much was on the line. Wouldn’t it be nice to know some of them now, to glimpse what could be her future, now that they’ve won?

She turns back to Alix. “Yeah,” she says. “What’s there to know?”

Alix pauses in thought, pursing her lips like she’s writing an exam. “Well, there’s that one reality where you guys get married.”

Alya chokes on her gin.

Chat Noir spits margherita onto his paper plate.

The living room erupts into noise.

“ Married?” Alya says, slamming her can down on the carpet. “ When? How? Who proposes? Who’s the maid of honour?”

Alix lifts a placating hand, looking entirely too pleased by the commotion. “Couple years down the line. They propose at the same time. And, Al, obviously you’re the maid of honour.”

Flames rake up Ladybug’s face. “That doesn’t— that doesn’t make any sense.”

“...Doesn’t it?” Chat says from beside her. 

“I mean—” Not because I wouldn’t marry you, she wants to say, but the words catch midway up her throat. Of course anyone would marry Chat Noir — he’s sweet, and funny, and loyal, and a really, really good kisser. And while it’s been years since she untacked all the pictures of Adrien from her walls, it’s still hard to superimpose Chat Noir’s face on the hazy husband figure she assumed would just get clearer as the time came closer. “I just— I guess I’m just surprised. We work so well as friends.”

“Oh, yeah, you guys definitely aren’t friends later on down the line,” Alix says. “The divorce is a mess . So much crying, all of it from Chat.”

His jaw drops. “The divorce?”

“LB wanted to relocate, you didn’t,” she says. “You both said things you probably shouldn’t have. It was hard to watch. I almost wanted to intervene.”

Instinctively, Ladybug reaches for Chat Noir’s hand, grounding herself with a squeeze. “I don’t think I like this one.”

“Sorry, sorry, let me remember a fun one.” She closes her eyes, then opens them with a laugh. “Oh, there’s the time Chat’s daughter ends up having a crush on Ladybug’s daughter. She begs him to take her to this park all the way across Paris just to see her every weekend. Ladybug and Chat don’t even recognise each other until they start talking!”

“Huh?” Kim says. “Why wouldn’t they recognise each other if they knew each other’s identities?”

“They don’t see each other for ages before they meet again.” Alix says. “After we got back to Paris, they kind of just stopped hanging out.”

It feels like all her insides just shattered , so loud that someone may as well have broken a window. 

“We— we stopped…?” The pain in his voice floats right to the surface, as does the guilt in Ladybug’s bloodstream. She should’ve listened to him. Hearing about the future, no matter how tiny the details, never does any good. “Why did we stop hanging out?”

At this, Alix’s demeanour changes. She takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes drifting across the spots of grease on the pizza box. “Uh. Well. You guys just found it hard to adjust after the reveal.”

Chat Noir’s grip loosens around Ladybug’s hand. She grabs it fast, pressing his palm to hers like her life depends on it, like she can prove that reality wrong based on how hard she can hold onto him.

“But that’s just, like, a possibility ,” Ladybug says, trying to find his gaze. “I’m sure there are, like, nine and a half million others where everything stays exactly the same.”

“No, no, yeah, of course!” Alix says. The energy in the room has shifted, and her voice colours it indicator-red like litmus paper. “I mean, I only picked those out because they were the most interesting ones. All the others are like, well, you’re friends. You live normal, boring lives, like any other civilians.” 

“...Like any other civilians,” Chat Noir repeats. His hand relaxes in hers. “Right. Of course.”

Kim asks if there's a reality where Alix doesn't cheat in every competition. Alix says yeah, this one, what he should really be asking is if there's one where he doesn't suck. Everyone laughs, and they all go back to normal.

While he talks to Nino, Ladybug untangles her fingers from Chat’s, their hands falling apart like taking a paperweight off some paper. She picks at her pizza, brown half-moons of pepperoni littering her paper plate.  Ten million possibilities. Ten million realities. That's an insane amount, the kind of number you can't even begin to visualise. A couple of them not going the way she wants shouldn't bother her. What about the other nine and a half million? What about all the realities where everything is absolutely fine, where they live normal, boring, lives, like any other civilians?  She wants that. She’s always wanted that.

Right?

She looks around the living room, at her unmasked Miracle Team, at Max trying to calculate exactly how many hours Alix had spent in the Burrow and Kim yelling over everyone that he could hold a plank for longer, no one frantically checking for an akuma alert on their phone, no one going silent everytime they hear a weird noise outside. And suddenly, the sprawling, undefined future that had stretched for miles beyond when we're done with Hawk Moth telescopes into where she's sitting now, and it hits her that, after this trip, it'll be like they'd never been heroes. That as time goes forward and these five years grow smaller and smaller, it won't even matter that they've all fought side by side, that they finally won.

And she and Chat Noir, Ladybug and Chat Noir , will thin down to nothing but a memory in their normal, boring, civilian lives. Lives where it won't matter that, once, they used to be partners.

She snaps out of her thoughts as Chat holds a slice of pizza up for her. “Here,” he says. “You’ll get hungry later in the night.” 

She takes a bite gratefully. And, just as easily as their hands fell apart, she slides hers back in with his and squeezes.