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He was perfect.
She'd never really noticed it before, but there was a certain angelic quality to her Chaton's face, the likes of which belonged on cherubs in churches and not on superheroes cursed with bad luck and a worse sense of humour.
The keen angles of his mask had always made his cheekbones look sharper than they were, but on closer inspection his face was rounded and soft, still retaining that boyish charm with promises of a bold profile as he grew into it. The very back of his jaw had a strong definition but the lines that carried round to his chin were elegant and light, complimenting his heart-shaped face. Where a lot of the guys their age had developed into rougher, squarer jaws, his had always been curved - not as much as when they first started working together, of course, but a part of her had hoped that it would never change.
His complexion was flawless, not a mole or blemish in sight, although for all she knew he could be peppered with freckles underneath that mask. On more than one occasion she had had to keep a hold on her jealousy at his small pores, his (usually) clear skin, even if he did suffer with teenage acne on the odd day. His skin was pale with golden undertones, promising a healthy bronze if he spent too much time in the sun, and when he was embarrassed the edges of a blush could be seen diffusing over his soft and adorably chubby cheeks.
His mouth was deceptively wide when he smiled broadly, a flash of brilliant white teeth that always seemed too white to be true. She'd remarked once that they were surprisingly straight, which he told her were all thanks to braces for most of his childhood and the odd bit of dental surgery as he'd gotten older, although sometimes when he was chewing his cheek in thought she caught a glimpse of his canine poking through, not quite a snaggle tooth but enough to catch her eye. He'd made a comment once about having teething issues as a wee Chaton, and she couldn't help but wonder if the sharpened canines were another physical change he'd gone through, like his apparently sentient tail and ears.
“ My Lady, please don't call them canines. It upsets my inner kitty.”
His nose, like the rest of his face, was rounder than originally expected. The tip of his mask met in a sharp point that curled up, leaving a gap between the material and his skin, and once more she realised that it was all angles and optical illusions that made his nose seem so noble. On closer inspection it became clear that he was blessed with a little button nose, much like herself, and she tried to imagine the boy behind the mask. Did it make him look youthful? Baby-faced? Was he going to be one of those poor souls that never looked a day over thirteen or would he have grown into something more alluring?
She reached up and softly carded her fingers through his hair, surprised at how soft it was. It always fell into natural clumps, flicking out rebelliously while curving round his face to soften his features even more, somehow always managing to keep his real ears hidden from sight even when they were running at full speed. The strands covered most of his forehead and some of his brow, hiding what parts of his upper half of his face that were not covered by his mask in shadow, giving him a permanently mischievous and impish look about him.
Lightly moving her fingers up she found his cat ears, such unassuming adornments but functional too, which she still struggled to understand, even as she ran her finger under the rim. She couldn't work it out without invading his space too much, but it seemed that they were at least attached to his head in part, and she really wished to know how they must feel for him. Sometimes when she'd pull his tail he would yowl, and other times he would barely notice. Did he feel them as extensions of his body or not? Was it only when he was consciously using them that he became aware of them?
She frowned as she reached up and trailed her finger around the edge, imagining how soft they would be if they were furry. Just a thin layer, tiny, short-piled fluff, enough that she could stroke and watch his ears twitch in both irritation and amusement, a little purr coming from his throat at the gesture.
Her hand slowly dropped from his hair, a light finger touching the bell at his throat. So shiny, always so shiny, and she was sure that the inside had to have been modified. It didn't jingle as he ran, but it made a noise when flicked. She didn't know enough about bells and didn't care enough either to work out how it functioned, but she was surprised at how it never seemed to dent. She'd seen him smashed into buildings and fall flat on his face and it barely sported a single scratch.
These hero suits really were something else.
Taking a step back she ran an appreciative eye over his body, noting the lean run of his muscles hugged in the skin-tight leather. His waist was slender, broadening out into a wide chest and shoulders, but still slim, barely an ounce of fat on him. She knew the job was taxing on the both of them, both physically and mentally, and she supposed one of the perks was a well-maintained physique. He was just starting to fill out as they grew older, their adult years approaching, and wondered vaguely if he had any more height left to grow. He already stood some few inches taller than her, she wasn't sure she wanted him to be any bigger.
For one thing, they were so used to working together with their bodies the shapes and sizes they were that she was sure any change would throw them right out. Also, as it was, he was just the right height for snuggling.
She'd finally caved in to his advances and her own growing affection some short few weeks ago, and each night they could they'd sat together under the moon, watching Paris and its citizens. She fit so comfortably in his lap, his legs wrapped around hers and his arms holding her waist, pulling her close to him so he could nuzzle her when she'd allow it. She always knew not to give a cat everything it wanted, but he could be very demanding. He sometimes acted starved of affection, for lack of a better term, like each little moment of warm contact was a shot of a drug he couldn't get enough of. Seeing how happy it made him, though, she just couldn't bring herself to stop. Just a comforting rub up and along his arm was enough to bring that steady thrum to his throat, reverberating down her back and making her feel warm and loved inside in turn.
She'd even come to appreciate his puns, when done tastefully. When he stopped trying to woo her every few seconds, she'd come to know him more as him. He was an intellectual, much like herself. He preferred physics to biology. He played piano in his spare time, though he had originally wanted to play the oboe. He'd taken up fencing even before coming Chat Noir, which was why he found fighting with his baton to be so natural. He had no brothers or sisters, and no pets, but he had a stray alley cat (go figures) that lived near his house that he would fuss over on his way back home.
He preferred rom-coms to action movies, he enjoyed Asian culture over western, he had little idea of what he wanted to do with his future because it was “already set in stone”, although he would never elaborate on that. He hated FPS games and preferred RPGs, which was something they'd managed to bond over, although they both knew their love for fighter games from that one Akuma attack in particular.
One thing she regretted never noticing before was the light in his eyes. They seemed to be sclera (and she had asked him once or twice if he wore lenses, to which he had scoffed), but it just made them appear even brighter and bigger. The slit-pupil that she was so used to seeing in cats had unsettled her at first, but when she had realised that he locked all of his emotions in his eyes, she'd started to learn to read them. He was an expert at hiding his thoughts from his facial expressions, a cocky smirk or an arrogant smile always present on his face to ward off any questions that got too close to his guarded heart.
When they were alone and enjoying each other's company, however, she'd see his eyes burning with some intense emotion, and he would say nothing, just watch her, as if committing her face to memory. The edges would soften when he relaxed, she'd seen them shimmer with unshed tears, and she'd seen them darken with unbridled fury.
These eyes weren't like that. Resin had no emotion.
“Ladybug, are you ready?”
She broke away from her staring to see the Mayor Bourgeois and Theo stood behind her, all kind smiles and patient expressions. She forced one onto her own face, turning her back on her partner before lightly clasping her hands behind her back. She could see the journalists stood waiting, surprisingly patient compared to usual, and it made her tremble just a little. She stepped to the left, next to Theo, as the Mayor took to the other side, and they stood to attention as the cameras clicked and photos were taken.
“You did a wonderful job,” she said to Theo, not moving her gaze from a fixed spot at the far end of the room. The likeness to her partner was incredible, almost down to the last detail. It was a near perfect replica of him, all carved from wax, and from a distance even she'd be hard pressed to tell the difference. A lot of time and effort had gone into this piece of work, she could tell, and she could feel her lip start to wobble as she clenched her mouth shut tighter, trying to hold it together for a few moments more as the publicity shots were taken of the four of them.
The mayor, the artist, the hero, the lost.
A veritable copy of her cat, even down to the absence of his beating heart.