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The first time the music strikes them, they’re walking on sunshine.
Patrols can only be done in the middle of the night so many times before exhaustion sets in; they do still have day lives to live, after all. So despite the increased risk of exposure, Ladybug and Chat Noir occasionally do patrols first thing in the morning, or in the late afternoon.
It’s on one such occasion when, while traversing the rooftops of Paris, they hear the lyrics wafting in from a dance hall down below.
I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I’m sure…
Ladybug laughs at the song; it’s an old favorite of her parents’.
“What?” Chat Noir asks, a curious tilt to his head.
She waves him off. “I love this song,” she says, perhaps a bit bashfully.
“Well then, my Lady,” he says, a playful glint in his eye, “may I have this dance?”
The following morning, the headline on the Ladyblog is a video of them swing dancing (poorly) and a long and rambling article about what this might mean for Paris’ heroes.
Marinette groans into her cereal after Alya’s third use of the word ‘tryst’.
The second time the urge to dance fills their souls, they’re caught in the rain outside a discotheque when “Love Shack” bursts forth from the open windows.
Ladybug doesn’t even get to ask before Chat Noir is already nodding furiously, beginning their new tradition.
At some point during the song, in between laughing hysterically and dancing terribly, they begin to pick up the lyrics and sing along.
The following day, Marinette’s screechy wail of “TIIIIIIINNNNN ROOOF….” graces the front page of the Ladyblog.
She can’t even bring herself to stop smiling. Maybe Alya’s right.
The third time they hear the beat, it’s above a party in a residential neighborhood, blaring Michael Jackson through the thin walls. They don’t even need to speak. The thumping bass line and the muffled wails of “Billie Jean is not my lover…” are enough to motivate them.
And hey, they’re getting better, too.
Marinette almost doesn’t blush when she sees the video the next morning. Or, at least, she blushes quite a bit, but it’s not for the same reason she used to.
The fourth time the mood strikes them, it’s a late night patrol, and they hear the music live- no recording necessary.
There’s a piano in the apartment below them, and through the open window they can hear the beautiful voice of an old crooner lighting upon the soft tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
There’s more than a bit of hesitance in Chat Noir’s gaze as he holds his hand out to her, but she trusts him completely. She holds him close and sways slowly, lets herself get lost in his warmth, and in the words.
“Stars shining right above you, night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’…”
Marinette doesn’t check the Ladyblog the next morning. She doesn’t need to see the video to recognize the look she had on her face. She sees it in Chat Noir’s every time he looks at her.
Of course, the fifth time is the best one.
This time, there’s no piano, no recording, not even strangers.
Marinette holds Adrien to her heart, listens to him sing the words, “but I can’t help falling in love with you…” and closes her eyes. From the desk, Tikki and Plagg watch curiously as their charges let the world fall away from them. Outside, the warm spring rain pounds on the windows.
This one doesn’t end up on the blog.
(Alya freaks out anyway.)