Chapter Text
A thousand years old.
That’s what she was, now — an endless supply of luck at her disposal? Even the miraculous thought so. How else could one explain a fourteen-year-old adult?
One who could sit with the boy she loved on the couch, bathed in the glow of the TV and nothing else, arms around each other; they could walk down the street, hand in hand; they could eat in the park and watch a movie at the theatre. They could go anywhere they wanted
.
But, in death, so could a 'hero' of Paris.
The ice cream box — from the convenience store they’d just walked out of, having taken delight in what little comforts they could get — crunched to the ground. It was the only sound in the night, aside from the breath leaving her throat.
Turning her head, Marinette watched the life in Adrien’s face go eerily still. It was dark enough, and she was close enough, to watch the billboard lights flash in his eyes: Gabriel Agreste. Granted — most of it was the actor that they’d already found to play him, for in life, he’d been hard pressed to make public appearances at all, preferring to communicate through a screen.
But in death, screens continued to convey him wherever he liked.
‘Success and Sacrifice: Tailored for Glory. Out now. Featuring exclusive interview from Adrien Agreste.’
Adrien looked away, pressing his lips together. Marinette fought the burning wave of indignation rising in her throat. Not at him — but for him.
‘Let’s go,’ was all she said, squeezing his hand; rings pressed into her fingers.
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking down at them.
‘My Mum and Dad will be worried,’ she said. ‘So would Nathalie.’
‘Yeah,’ he said again.
She loves you more than he ever did, she swallowed, then shivered in revulsion — could she even think that?
No, shut up. He doesn’t get to tell you your thoughts, too.
Marinette’s free hand twitched, aching to follow the path they so often took to Adrien’s face. You can do that now, you know. Instead, she tucked away a strand of her own hair, fingering it in the street light.
Her shoulder dipped, and she nearly stumbled — the weight of their folded hands, and then his head, falling there; his hair, soft as anything, for her fingers had combed it automatically. His face turned into her shoulder; tingles melted through her, emptying her head into something like sunshine and honey; it was just Adrien. She felt his breathing even out, but still, hers couldn’t quite match.
Her stomach twisted.
She tried to squash down the memories of soon after they’d announced that silly movie — round about the time they’d unveiled that statue. It had been her first time transforming in Paris, following Monarch’s demise, only to immediately be chased down by reporters.
Which was, inexplicably, barely a breath after they’d got home from London.
Adrien lifted his head, and she thought he might fall — but he only crouched to pick up the ice cream, straightening his back with a crick. The bag swayed as they walked.
‘Oops,’ Marinette giggled, minutes too late. ‘I’m so — ugh! Can’t seem to keep anything in my hands.’
She went on about this for seemingly the next five minutes, but he never told her to stop. Only the lifting of a lock of hair — the same one she’d fixed — caused the breath to curl in her throat, to mist up somewhere above.
Kiss me, she thought, her mind becoming empty again. It was just the street-light in his eyes, flooded luminous green; the breath hung between them in clouds.
‘Marinette,’ he whispered sleepily, lips creasing up at the corners; her heart pounded, making her dizzy. She was sure all of Paris could hear it. For there wasn’t a sound, barely even the rustling of leaves; not a sleepy bird, not a car, not a passer-by: the world slowed for this moment —
There was a clanking sound, and she jumped a mile.
‘Ah—!’ she squeaked, and Adrien gave a silent chortle. Oh — they were back at his place, already! She could curse these gates.
But long afterwards, on Adrien stared up at them, running his free hand through his hair; rings glinted.
Don’t go, Marinette begged. You don’t have to.
He looked down at their hands.
‘The Gorilla will drive you home,’ he said at last.
Marinette’s gut twisted. ‘Oh,’ she said, flexing her fingers, making his hand fall away.
Serves me right.
‘Marinette,’ he whispered again, his brow creasing.
‘Adrien,’ she said; she barely saw or heard the vehicle quietly rolling up behind them.
Tell me anything, she thought. Please. Anything. Don’t leave me yet.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, and gave her a quick peck — she barely had time to register it before she tilted up for more; it felt like he may as well have pushed her into the Siene. But of course, that’s not what he’d intended, he’d never do that. Not him.
She kind of wished he would.
What are you doing with me?
She’d ask, What’s wrong? But of course she already knew the answer, even when she said it: even then, it still echoed Gabriel's wish. It was like asking someone with a bone sticking out of their arm, and could she put it back? Of course not. But he could take as much time as he needed, sure...
Filling in these answers robbed her of hearing anything she mightn't prepare for.
It was funny; when she parted with her boyfriend, Marinette should be able to finally breathe, should be able to curl up in a corner and hyperventilate with as many as she’d held back. But she wouldn’t. She would go home tonight, and she’d collapse like the puppet she still was, cut strings and all.
Marinette tilted towards the limo, but her arm jerked — for a dizzying moment, it was Adrien! Pulling her back and sweeping her off her feet...
But it was a lamp post, catching on and ripping the ice cream bag, because she was now holding it, apparently.
And Adrien was already gone.
-
Marinette flopped on her bed. Marinette, the marionette. In the daytime, the tailor’s fingers danced her along; now huddled in the darkness, with no one to tell her how to behave, she stared at the ceiling.
Eat in a park, watch a movie, stare at the stars… she could do that. She could do it enough, and she would barely see the cat-like shadow that had gone before. Her head against a warm black shoulder, the tang of rain and tears in the air... claws in her hair… he'd grown so much, she could even tell where he'd filled out a little, even in one year.
Once upon a time, he’d never spared a single moment to steal a kiss — or let her believe that he’d miss it... When she was in spots. So many times; bestowed upon her hand, her cheek, even the air around her; she’d always stopped him, most often before he’d even got too many words out. What would it have been like...?
Marinette scrunched her eyes shut, a quiet breeze ruffling a red rose in her hair... You do know what it’s like.
And now there was a reason she preferred boxed ice cream.
Green eyes gazed down at her from the street light, again. And he needs you, she sighed, allowing the muscle memory of his name to transform her thoughts — that, she didn't have to force. Surely.
But she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, and still the cat danced across her vision.
Would Adrien still want to talk? Why should he talk to her? After that billboard stopped them in their tracks, they’d barely said anything tonight. She'd yabbered on like she always did.
Of course he'd talk to you, you’re his girlfriend. If anyone has a right, it’s you.
‘No, you don’t,’ she mumbled, pulling out her phone and gripping tightly. Through her round window, a coin of street light beamed on her ceiling; she stared at it until it blurred, until hot tears traced her cheeks.
She whacked her forehead with it. ‘You don’t deserve anyone.’
‘Don’t do that, Marinette,’ squeaked the high voice from her pillow; something small hugged her neck. ‘You’ve done so much.’
But the voice floated somewhere above her consciousness; it was always Tikki's job to make her feel better. She mumbled without further thought, and in a flash — she lay in her spots.
No less Marinette, but no less pathetic. And with one less voice of reason.
Chat Noir would always talk — when he could. But it was weird that they still needed to transform, just to contact each other; now that she thought about it... why wasn’t there a more covert notification system? And was he the kind of guy, obvious-but-not-too-obvious, to have cat stickers on his human phone? Around his room? Did he have a cat?
Whatever.
‘Adrien,’ she mumbled, tossing her yoyo and catching it like a pebble. The name rolled off her tongue like music. It couldn’t hurt to tell him what he already knew. There was something she could do.
And he can’t see you, so what does it matter?
The yoyo fell back to her bed, knocked her phone, and they both thumped down the side.
'Ow!' not that it hurt. But — ugh!
She grunted in resignation, flopping back, but smacked herself again — if she told Alya this was how she made decisions, weaponising her clumsiness, she’d be rightfully mocked. Best not provide more fodder for pathetic Marinette.
'Adrien,' she slurred, smiling. She rolled over and groped around; and, sighing through watery, blurry vision, fumbled through the letters, then fell asleep.
-
And on a roof, some metres above, the paw print on the staff in Chat Noir’s hands flashed green.