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Chapter Text

The building wailed as its metal structure collapsed, bricks loosening and crumbling as if they had aged decades in mere seconds. The sound could be heard from miles away, ricocheting through the quiet Parisian streets like thunder. Fine dust filled the panic thickened air as the last bricks fell.

Those in the vicinity scattered, tourists screaming of earthquakes, locals aware of things much worse.

Chat Noir flicked one silky black ear, stretching his slim fingers as he admired his handiwork. Adrenalin soared through his body as another, closer scream sounded.

The woman was the first to spot him, a tourist, judging by the lanyard hanging from her neck. She stood frozen, her pale hair tangling in the wind as she stared. Young, pretty, possibly an exchange student.

They should have warned her.

He sauntered over.

“Darling,” he purred, leaning forward to whisper the word against the shell of her ear. He reached a hand up and ran a gloved nail along the fabric of the lanyard, slicing through the thread easily and glancing towards it as it fluttered down to the ground between them. “I suggest that you run.”

His teeth glinted white as bone as the girl hastily stepped away, stumbling over a stray piece of debris and tumbling backwards

She reached her hands out as she fell and whimpered as the delicate skin of her fingers met the glass-scattered street. She stared at her lost lanyard before raising one hand to her newly bare neck. Blood ran down her fingers and stained the white collar of her shirt red.

He watched her take in his appearance. Savoured the fear in her eyes at the leather and the tail and the claws. Even without a warning, she’d clearly heard enough about the guardian of Paris to recognise he wasn’t the saviour she needed.

Her body twitched as she sucked in a harsh breath, her teeth biting down hard enough to split one pink-stained lip as she scrambled to get back onto her feet.

She was smart enough to keep her eyes on him as she stepped back, but the move cost her as the heel of her shoe lodged itself in a broken brick and threw her off balance again. Her delicate ankle let out a crack as she collapsed.

Her scream echoed through the empty street. Bloody hands grabbed the injured joint before recoiling. Her eyes, wide and honey-brown and terrified, flickered back up to meet his.

“Please,” she mumbled in broken French. “Please.”

Her voice was soft, musical. Irish or British or Australian.

His grin hardened, eyes flashing dangerously as he slowly reached behind him and wrapped his fingers around his baton. The girl flinched at his movements, but he merely placed one end against the ground and, with a wink, propelled himself into the air and onto the roof of a nearby building.

His gaze lazily moved to stare past her.

A single man stood amongst the wreckage, his hair and suit a brilliant blue. A single drop of water soared through the air and splattered against his nose. The man grinned and suddenly more and more water sought him out, water climbing up from the drains and running down building walls and flying wildly through the air, as a wall of water grew beneath him.

Chat leaned against his baton, his gaze torn between the water and the tourist as she struggled to stand. She fell, her ankle collapsing under her weight, and glanced back towards the tsunami, now almost as high as the building he stood upon and began dragging herself towards the nearest building.

It would offer her little protection even if she were to reach it, but Chat admired her survival instincts all the same.

“I am Pompe Hydraulique.”

The water was a rush of noise as it rushed down into the street. The girl finally let out a sob as she watched the wall of water descend upon her, her tears flying to join the water.

A thin red string wrapped its way around the blonde, latching itself around her waist before she was unceremoniously wrenched into the air and onto the roof adjacent from him. She screamed as she landed on her injured leg but reached out with shaking hands to clutch at the spandex covered leg of her saviour.

Chat scowled as he watched the polka-dotted heroine gently straighten the woman’s leg.

Across from him, the heroine turned to face him, eyes pure blue fire. She stood and swung her yoyo, letting it fasten around one of the industrial poles jutting out from the top of the building he was on. Swinging across, she landed softly at the edge of the building.

“Chat Noir.”

“My lady,” he replied.

“I thought that cats were supposed to be scared of water.”

“Not all of them.”

As he stepped forward, her eyes flickered back towards the opposite roof. Her back was tense as she moved her feet, mirroring him as they began their usual game of cat and mouse.

“I thought I would stay for the show,” he grinned.

She glanced back towards the building again, fingers twitching as another wave of water began to form. “You’re sick,” she muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think there’s a particular beauty in vulnerability. Don’t you, Bugaboo?” His eyes trailed past her and locked onto the pale figure crouched across the street.

Her eyes widened at the implication. Her shoulders straightened and her feet slid apart. She only showed her intentions a split second before moving but he’d had two years of practice when it came to her.

He’d had her memorised in one.

He was ready, his own stance balanced, as she lunged at him. She swung her yoyo inventively, furiously, only for him to slide out of her path. Using his baton he thrust his body up into the air and landed crouched atop one of the many metal poles that poked out from the roof of the building. She twisted below him, turning her body to face him, simply to have him leap towards the next pole. He had chosen the building for that exact reason; she would have trouble swinging between the close-knit poles, whilst he would have no problem leaping atop them.

Her yoyo shot out, her mouth twitching into a smug grin as it ensnared his hand.

He grinned.

.

She was screwed, utterly and completely screwed. She had known it the second she caught the delighted glint in his eye.

She had done the exact thing he had hoped she would. He sat there, crouched back on his heels atop the pole with her string tangled around his hand, and grinned.

His smiles meant trouble, a hint of white teeth and dark eyes and danger. His smiles meant pain and cruel laughter and cunning plans.

This time that plan included twisting and turning and leaping between poles with a flexible elegance that she would never be able to accomplish in her wildest dreams. Her yoyo was left spider-webbed around her, tangled around poles and threaded through itself and knotted hopelessly. She should have known better.

He stood, that dammed smirk still stuck to his face, and she steadied herself. This time she would be ready.

He jumped, baton extended towards her, and she twirled to the side at the last possible second. He landed in a crouch and, before she could even acknowledge the fact that he hadn’t tried to hit her, swung the metal rod into her exposed ribcage.

Fire soared through her body, her breath departing in desperate, pained gasps as she fell forward and grabbed her side. He had cracked a rib, or two; she was lucky she didn’t have a pierced lung.

Stepping forward he placed the end of the baton below her chin, lifting her head with mocking tenderness. Her eyes narrowed into a glare but he merely watched her, eyes glittering, as a laugh bubbled up from his throat.

His laughter was murder made into melody. Cruelty incarnate.

“Aww, Bug, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” He moved the baton, letting her head drop back down, before roughly running it along her injured side.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

He pulled back, and she took the chance to roll out of reach as he went to swing again. Her teeth clashed together as she put pressure on her side but she stood.

He watched her with predatory eyes as she desperately tugged at her yoyo string. Her weapon, being specifically created for her use and her use only, had been slowly retracting back into its original form as she caught her breath. Finally wrenching her weapon of choice free she turned back to him, only for him to press his foot against her chest and shove her over the edge of the tower.

She swung her yoyo around desperately, wincing as she was pulled to an abrupt stop only meters from the ground. The trembling ground. She looked up and watched wide-eyed as the, once again, towering wall of water began to collapse.

“Lucky Charm,” she summoned. A polka-dotted crowbar landed heavily in her hands and she quickly scanned the street for useful objects.

Darting over to a storm drain she used the crowbar to pry open the drain entrance and, without thinking twice, flung the dense metal circle towards the Akuma victim. The object sliced through the water wall and, with a sickening crunch, made contact with the man’s face. A piece of paper was knocked out of his grasp. Not giving him a chance to recover she dove through the water, landing in a roll – much to her discomfort – and snatched up the paper.

A notice of discharge, of course.

She tore the paper down the middle, watching as the butterfly fluttered up from the split. Its wings glinted a dark purple in the sunlight as it began moving back towards the man. Swinging her yoyo she proceeded to capture and cleanse the delicate creature. Stepping back she lifted the crowbar carefully and threw it into the air, allowing her magic to fix what it could.

The man in front of her faded back into his blue and black buttoned uniform in a pink flash, although his nose appeared to be broken and blood slowly dripped from a nostril.

The water covering the street hastily began to retreat, the few drops still clinging to her suit flying off in various directions. Her ribs throbbed as the magic repaired her suit, thickening the loosened stitches.

Tikki had once told her that, had things been different, her magic would have been able to heal anything. The ruined building behind her, her ribs, even death could have been remedied. As it were, she sent an apologetic smile towards the man in front of her, helped the injured girl back onto the ground and made her way home to assess the damage to her own body.

.

A single white butterfly landed on Chat’s outstretched arm as he watched Ladybug swing out of sight. She was his to weaken, to mock and provoke and exhaust. She was not his to destroy. Not that he could have if he wanted to, they were too evenly matched for either of them to cause any real damage to the other.

But his plans had never involved killing her. That was the one condition to the deal he had made two years ago; the miraculous was always the goal, but Ladybug was off limits.

Hawkmoth had made it abundantly clear that he planned to destroy her personally, whether those shiny pokadotted jewels remained in her ears or not. Chat was sure there would be a sense of accomplishment, though, if he managed to rip the earring out of her ears and then let Hawkmoth rip the rest of her apart. Like falling down and having the ground crumble beneath you just as you were sure the falling was at an end.

.

“Girl, I’m telling you, this is going to be huge.”

“I know, that’s what I’m worried about,” Marinette replied. She ran her fingers through her hair, yanking out her hair tie and gathering her hair to re-do her ponytail. “How much of the grey do you think I should get?”

Alya snorted. “You’re the one making the dress, how am I supposed to know? Don’t change the subject.”

Marinette ran her fingers over the fabric, reaching back behind the counter to grab the scissors before measuring out what she needed, plus extra, and carefully beginning to cut. “Look, I just think that maybe aggravating a supervillian isn’t the best way to get your name out there. Besides, it’s not like it’s really news to anyone at this point.”

Happy with her selection she began folding the material before setting it aside, making a mental note to remember to take it home with her at the end of her shift.

“It is news if nobody has actually reported it yet,’ Alya replied. “Sixty-five deaths, Mari, sixty-five people are dead and nobody is talking about it. And that’s not even including people who have died in attacks.”

Marinette frowned. “I know, but–”

“Don’t you even care?”

“Of course, I care, Alya,” she snapped, “I’m just saying that I’d prefer it if you didn’t end up being number sixty-six.”

Alya leaned across the counter to wrap her arm around Marinette; she squeezed her side gently before pulling away. Marinette gritted her teeth at the sharp throb of pain from her ribs.

“Is your side still hurting? I thought it would be better by now. You didn’t bump into your desk again, did you?”

Marinette blushed. “No, I, it was better but I tripped over one of the fabric rolls out back a few minutes before you came in. I must have landed on it funny.”

“You know, I distinctly recall you telling me about the dangers of interning at the news station a few months back. All that ‘painting a target on my back’ shit you droned on about. Who would have guessed that the real danger was hidden in the back room of a fabric store?” Alya teased, eyes looking around at the stray fabric rolls pointedly. “I mean if this is what it looks like from the front, then I’m not sure I even want to know how chaotic it is back there.”

Marinette laughed, rubbing at her side subtly. “You really don’t. I’ve actually gotten lost a few times.”

“Oh, you are hopeless.” Alya grinned.

They looked up at the sound of the bell jingling. A small group of twenty-something’s stepped inside curiously. Each of them cradled their round stomachs lovingly. Marinette gestured towards the ‘baby’s first’ section of the store and watched as the to-be mothers flicked through the booklets. Alya stepped to the side and scrolled through her phone as Marinette served them.

Alya glanced over at the women, her eyes jealous as she regarded their growing bellies. With tense shoulders she pointedly focused back on her screen, her eyes glazing over when she thought Marinette wasn’t looking.

Alya and Nino had gotten pregnant a year ago, it had been ill timed, they had only been eighteen at the time, but Alya had never looked happier. She would sit around reading parenting books and drinking vitamin drinks and thinking of names.

And then one night Marinette had received a call from Alya. She had rushed over and driven her distraught friend to the hospital even though the amount of blood could only have meant one thing. They had been right of course, and a month later Marinette had thought that Alya might have even been ready to continue – not move on but accept it, maybe – until the results had come in.

Alya couldn’t have children. Her body wasn’t able to carry a foetus past the first few weeks. When they told her she had shrugged, laughed it off by saying that Nino would just have to deliver the baby instead. She had spoke about the alternatives with her doctor.

And then Marinette had taken her home and stayed the night. Alya had cried herself to sleep in her best friend’s arms. Loud, hopeless sobs over what she had lost.

They hadn’t spoken about it since.

The women left and Alya turned to Marinette with a grin that was almost convincing.

“What time do you get off?” She asked. “Nino’s DJing at the club, wanna come get drunk?”

Marinette frowned. “I can’t, I have class in the morning.”

“You always say that, it’s been months,” Alya protested.

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Marinette shrugged. “Be careful though, I know that you’re pretty familiar with the whole club scene but still, it gets rough sometimes and I worry.”

“Will do.”

.

“You’re late.” Chat startled at the voice, having just slipped through the open window. “I instructed you to return home by twelve.”

Gabriel Agreste sat with his hands clasped together behind his back, every inch the disapproving parent he was.

Chat longed to reach for the pale green handtowel on his dresser, acutely aware of the blood congealing underneath his fingernails. Instead he carefully folded his hands together behind his back.

“I apologise. I was unaware of the time,” he said quietly.

“You are no longer outside playing dress-up and collecting all of Paris’ filth.”

Gabriel’s eyes scanned Chat’s outfit, seeming to catch on the gleam of blood and dirt on the leather.

Chat took the statement as the command that it was and released his transformation.

Both men watched as Plagg whizzed out from the ring and lazily made his way towards the cupboard filled with foul-smelling cheese.

“Was there something you needed, Father?” Adrien asked.

“Be home by twelve next time,” Gabriel ordered. “I trust you didn’t make a scene again.”

“Adrien Agreste attended his business classes and retired to his home hours ago.”

Despite the clear desire to berate him further, Gabriel nodded his satisfaction.

“You behaved well with Pompe Hydraulique today. Not that it made all that much of a difference to our spotted friend.”

“If you’d let me use my powers for more than just annoying her… I’m sure that cataclysm wouldn’t damage her miraculous.”

“No, Adrien,” Gabriel cut him off. “Ladybug is not yours to kill. You will acquire her Miraculous, but that is all.”

“But–”

“I allow you your freedom, I don’t question what you do when you’re out all night as Chat. All I ask in return is that you Leave Ladybug to me. It that truly so much of me to ask?”

Adrien resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Of course, Father. You are very generous.”

Gabriel stood and sent a calculated look towards his son before gesturing to his own cheek. “You missed a spot.”

Adrien reached up and wiped his fingers across his skin as his father left. His fingertips came away red.

.

Alya was hung-over. Marinette watched as her friend stepped out of Nino’s car and buried her face in his chest. He caught Marinette’s eyes and gave a guilt-ridden shrug before Alya half-heartedly slapped his arm.

Marinette walked over and placed the hangover hat atop Alya’s head. Large, black and wide-rimmed, Marinette had made it after experiencing her first and only hangover. The dark material flopped forward to effectively block out the sun, a pattern of lace flowers trailed up one side.

Alya grunted thankfully and pulled the hat more securely down on her head.

Marinette watched her curiously. “How many coffees is she running on?”

“I managed to get her through three but I was worried the fourth might have ended up coming right back up, so that’s up to you,” Nino replied.

Alya leaned against his chest, curling away from the mid-morning sunshine and groaning at the sound of their hushed words. Nino ran a hand along her back gently before nodding at Marinette.

“I know, usually that would have her less,” he made a vague gesture towards his girlfriend before continuing, “but last night, I don’t know, something must have set her off.”

Marinette frowned. “It’s fine, she’s next to the design studios today. I’ll take care of her.”

“Thanks, I gotta go though. It’s my week in the recording studio and if I’m not there on time they’ll skip me.”

Nino leant down, carefully lifting the brim of Alya’s new hat and softly pressing his lips to her forehead, “Feel better,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“Love you,” Alya mumbled, eyes closed with a content smile on her lips.

He straightened, grinning at Marinette. “You’re the best, Mari.” He cast one last tender glance towards his girlfriend before he rushed off towards the recording studio on the opposite side of campus.

Marinette turned to her best friend. “You’re a mess.”

“What do I have on today?”

“Who do I look like, Sabrina?” Marinette asked.

Alya peered down at her from behind the folds of her hat, eyes big and pleading.

Marinette sighed, “Communication Studies, building 19.101.”

Alya grinned. “Thank you. But you can’t be Sabrina because, one: that would make me Chloé, and two: Sabrina moved to London and you’re going to be trapped by my side forever.”

Marinette laughed and wrapped an arm around the other girl’s waist, pulling her towards the University coffee shop. She ordered their usual coffees, with a shot of hazelnut for herself and an extra shot of coffee for Alya.

Alya flopped onto a chair, tugged at the brim of her hat and fumbled around with her phone, hastily dimming the screen.

“It is ten o’clock in the morning,” she groaned when Marinette sat down across from her with their drinks. “How are so many people awake?”

“Hey, you can’t complain. I’ve been here since–”

“Since eight, I know. You inhuman beast.” Marinette shrugged away the comment, having long since grown accustomed to Alya’s aversion to morning people.

Marinette passed the cup of steaming coffee across the table to Alya, who wrapped her hands around it and inhaled greedily. Alya wiped a finger along the rim of the cup, picking up a froth of sweet foam, and stuck her finger in her mouth.

“So,” she asked as she wiped her wet finger against her jacket, “what’s up with you, anything new?”

“Since last night?” Marinette asked.

Alya shrugged. “A lot can happen in one night.”

“Sure, if you count sitting around re-watching old design shows and stabbing myself with pins, as a lot.”

Alya rolled her eyes. “You need a life, girl,” she said as she sipped her drink.

“I have a life,” Marinette retorted, pulling her coffee closer to absorb its warmth.

“Right, let me rephrase that: you need a boyfriend.”

Marinette snorted. “Doesn’t that go against our proud feminist beliefs? Needing a man to have fun?”

“I’m not saying that you need a man to have fun.” Alya grinned. “I’m just saying that having a man is fun.”

A sharp laugh cut through the air and interrupted Marinette’s next words. “As if she could ever find a guy. I mean, seriously. Look at her.”

The two friends turned around in their seats.

“And how’s your boyfriend going, Chloé?” Alya grinned.

Chloé bristled, her eyes narrowed at the red-haired woman. “I am single by choice. Unlike some of us.”

“Yeah, by the choice of every man who you have asked,” Marinette muttered.

“What was that?” Chloé demanded.

“I said,” Marinette stood and grabbed Alya’s arm, “that we were just leaving.”

Marinette yanked Alya’s arm as the taller girl stubbornly remained seated and reluctantly she stood.

Chloé huffed, arms crossed in front of her chest, as her eyes followed their movements.

Marinette grabbed her cup, gulping down the rest of her coffee as she made her way to the bin before pulling Alya away from the Coffee shop.

Once they were out of sight Marinette groaned. “All of the universities in Paris on offer and she just has to choose to study fashion at this one.”

Alya nodded her support, eyes glued to the screen of her phone as she scrolled through her email. She lifted her coffee up to her lips and made a startled sound against the rim of her cup.

“What?” Marinette asked.

“Sixty-seven.”

“Oh.” Marinette frowned. “Who?”

“More low lives, one of my sources said that they were found early this morning.” Alya threw away her half-empty coffee as they passed a bin. “The cops aren’t doing anything, as usual.”

“And you’re sure it was him?” Marinette questioned.

“Know anyone else with claws sharp enough to rip out a man’s throat?” Marinette’s face fell and Alya sent her a pointed look. “That’s what I thought.”

.

Marinette had lost Alya somewhere in the chaos of the crowd. They had assumed that it was safe to go out after the Akuma attack four days earlier. There was never more than one attack per week. Usually. They had been shopping when it happened; one of the buildings surrounding the shopping complex had collapsed out of the blue and the Parisians had panicked.

Chat Noir, who was rumoured to have the power of destruction, was capable of obliterating an entire building in seconds. It had become his calling card almost, and where Chat Noir was, an Akuma typically followed.

So Marinette immediately turned to grab Alya, only to find her best friend had been swept away with the crowd. Marinette looked around at the people rushing by, desperately trying to spot the red-haired girl amongst the sea of strangers.

A scream cut through the air as a woman was yanked into the air. The woman let out a shriek as her arms, seemingly by no intention of her own, suddenly shot out in front of her, forearms hanging limply from her elbows. A needle and thread appeared in the woman’s hand and the woman reached up and began sewing her mouth shut.

Marinette ducked behind an oversized fake plant as two more women were pulled into the air. Slowly, the newer two began the painful process of sewing their lips together.

“Brilliant,” a voice exclaimed. An older man stood in the middle of the abandoned courtyard. His white face paint was cracked and had begun to peel away from his skin, giving the impression of fractured porcelain. Thin white strings dangled from his wrists and elbows as he lifted his hands in glee.

He gestured with one arm and the three women above his head began to dance in harsh, jerked movements.

“Marvellous, truly marvellous.”

The man continued to orchestrate the women, Marinette watched as he forced them into twists and turns and dips and dives. Hidden behind one of the felt leaves, she leaned forward to properly assess the Akuma victim. So far the source of his power was still anyone’s guess.

“Hiding, are we?” A soft voice whispered, breath warm against her ear.

As Marinette spun around, startled, her hands moved instinctually to protect her face, but powerful fingers captured her wrists.

Chat Noir grinned at her, his smile wide and predatory, as he dragged her out from her hiding spot.

“Maître de la Marionnette, I found another for you.” Chat held Marinette out to the man proudly.

Maître de la Marionnette lit up. “Look at that face, such pale skin, such vibrant hair. Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”

Chat transferred one of Marinette’s wrists to his other hand. Using his newly freed hand he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and grinned.

“She’s quite pretty, I’ll admit.” He traced a claw along her bottom lip and looked her in the eyes as he spoke. “Perhaps too pretty to become one of your dolls.”

She met his gaze and glared. “Fuck you.”

He blinked, eyes widening in shock for the slightest moment. His gaze drifted down her body before green eyes locked back on blue.

“Maybe later.” He smirked.

Marinette recoiled, her lip curling in disgust. Chat chuckled at her reaction before one black ear twitched, seconds later a crash was heard from the opposing roof.

“Ladybug,” Chat hissed, cocking his head away from Marinette.

Maître de la Marionnette copied him, the floating women turning as he did. Marinette took the opportunity to twist out of Chat’s hold. She yanked her wrists back towards her chest and ran through the shopping complex.

“Let her go,” Chat snapped from behind her. “We have bigger problems.”

Marinette ducked into a store, leaving the door cracked open behind her. She sighed in relief as Tikki rushed through the door moments later.

“That was stupid,” Marinette declared. “I owe you one.”

Tikki smiled up at her charge and allowed herself to be swept away by the magic of the Miraculous at Marinette’s next words.

“Spot’s on!”

Chapter Text

Notes: Okay so, first things first, some people have been wondering where this fits in with the canon storyline. The answer: It doesn’t. In this story Chat Noir and Ladybug have never been partners, they received their Miraculous at seventeen rather than fourteen and it’s been two years since that point. This will all be explained in the story but I just wanted to let you know, to clear up any confusion.

Also, because some people have asked, this will be Marichat. I doubt that the other ships will make much of an appearance, romantically at least.

Thank you for all of the feedback I have received. Keep it coming!

I love you all.

Also, because I forgot to include this in the first chapter:

Disclaimer: I do not own Miraculous Ladybug and make no profit from this.

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ameliaadriannawritesfanfiction

This story will have darker themes. This chapter contains death and discussion of rape.

.

Marinette’s fingers were steady as the needle pierced her skin. Stitching was not much different from sewing, if she didn’t think about it too much. She laced the thread through lightly calloused fingers as she worked, keeping it from tangling. The pale thread pinkened with each new stitch. She bit into the inside of her cheek and willed the sensation to ground her. With careful fingers she cut and tied the thread, before picking up a sterilized cloth and wiping the needle clean.

In the mirror, her reflection’s face was grotesque. Her bloodshot eyes carried dark circles beneath them and the stitches on her cheek were sewn roughly, stretching the surrounding skin taut.

As she watched, her cheek glimmered pink – thread dissolving as torn skin knit back together. Setting the needle down, Marinette ran her fingers along her cheek. The skin was smooth, unmarred, not a single freckle out of place. Across her nose, a smear of blood remained – it looked savage against her milky skin, reminiscent of a wilder time.

Turning to the side, she reached back and tucked her shirt into the band of her bra. Marinette examined the smooth, freckled skin of her side, noting the slight swell of internal bruising. Not for the first time, she wished that internal wounds healed as easily as external ones. It would be at least another few days before her broken ribs healed completely.

Tikki flew to face her as Marinette reached back and tugged her shirt down, letting the fabric fall into place.

Marinette sighed, letting herself drop back onto her couch, and closed her eyes before laying her arm across her face.

“I hate him,” Marinette muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Tikki replied steadily.

She did. She had hated him, almost immediately, from the moment she had seen him, two years earlier. Tikki had spent their first week together telling her newest charge about him, the mysterious partner that she would have to learn to work with.

Tikki had been recounting a story about the previous Chat Noir, Ladybug’s fearless partner, when she had seen him. Her TV had been left on and luminescent green eyes and messy blonde hair had captured her attention. For a moment, watching from the corner of her eye, she had thought that it was Adrien Agreste. But then the camera had zoomed out and she’d registered the tight leather and the claws and she had known.

He was everything she had been imagining, tall with a Cheshire cat grin that spread across his face, and for a moment Marinette had been too swept away – by his appearance, by his realness, by the fact that this boy was supposed to be hers – to notice the screams.

But then her eyes had drifted to the bottom of the screen, had absorbed the words captioning his image. And shit, he had destroyed a building? Suddenly his grin, stretched so wide his cheeks must have hurt, had a completely new meaning.

Because this was Chat Noir, who had just destroyed somebody’s home, and he was laughing like he had never had so much fun in his life.

When she’d turned to Tikki, eyes wide in disbelief and desperate for answers, the Kwami had merely sighed, as if the whole situation was some unfortunate misunderstanding, as if Marinette’s superhero career – as if Marinette’s future –hadn’t just changed drastically for the worse.

“Plagg is easily swayed,” Tikki had said, as if that should have explained everything.

It hadn’t.

Opening her eyes, Marinette watched as Tikki dug a chocolate chip cookie out of her bag. She had the thought to offer to get a fresher treat from downstairs but brushed it away; Tikki wasn’t picky.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” Tikki blinked slowly at her chosen one, not comprehending the question. “Fighting him, the other Kwami – Plagg. Being on opposing sides.”

Tikki swallowed a chocolate chip before answering. “No.”

“But why doesn’t it bother you?” Marinette urged, “You always say that he’s your other half. It should bother you.”

“Plagg and I have been together far longer than you can imagine, Marinette. We don’t see things from a mortal’s perspective. Chaos contained is a dangerous thing, one human lifetime every few hundred years spent opposing one another is tolerable if that’s what Plagg needs.”

“But–”

“Besides,” Tikki continued, “he’ll be back by my side next time round.”

Of course, it wasn’t news to Marinette – Plagg would return to Tikki and the next Ladybug and Chat Noir would stand side–by–side, them against the world.

Marinette liked to tell herself that she wasn’t jealous of these people, who likely didn’t even exist yet but already had more than Marinette ever would. But on days like that, her body still worn-out and battered by Chat Noir’s doing, she found the lie hard to swallow.

“I’m going to try to squeeze in a nap before dinner but wake me if anything happens.” Tikki nodded at her chosen’s words, diving back into Marinette’s bag to search out any crumbs.

Marinette pulled her phone from her pocket and set an alarm, not trusting that Tikki would keep track of the time for her, however pointless that alarm may be.

Nowadays, few of Paris’s residents had escaped insomnia ¬– Marinette did not have the luxury of being one of them.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her nose against the soft pink fabric of the couch, closed her eyes and blocked out the world. Sleep would not come, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying.

.

“That is a terrible idea.”

Plagg scowled. “It is not.”

“You want me to go out, as Chat Noir, and rob a cheese store at,” Adrien grabbed his phone to check the time, “almost nine o’clock at night. And don’t tell me that stolen cheese tastes better.”

Plagg huffed, crossing his arms across his chest, and watched as Adrien slid his arms through his coat sleeves. “You’re going out anyway, it wouldn’t be that much trouble.”

“I’m going out with Nino, what am I supposed to say? ‘Oh, hold on a second. I need to go and transform into my cat–suit so I can steal some cheese for my pain–in–the–ass Kwami’?” Adrien sent a pointed look towards said Kwami.

“Fine.” Plagg relented. “But at least take me with you. What if you get into trouble?”

Adrien’s scoff echoed across his spacious room. “I am trouble, more often than not. Don’t worry about me, stay home and eat your cheese, Plagg.”

Plagg frowned, as if he wanted to argue the point further, but was interrupted as the sound of the doorbell reverberated through the house. A knock on Adrien’s door quickly followed.

Opening it, Adrien found Nathalie standing on the other side. She stood almost impossibly straight–backed, with her fingers curled around the edge of her daily planner tight enough to drain the blood from her fingers.

“I do believe that your companion has arrived,” she stated.

“Thank you, Nathalie. I trust you’ll let my father know that I won’t be available tonight.”

“Certainly, Adrien.” Ignoring the edge of sarcasm that lined Adrien’s words, Nathalie glanced anxiously towards Plagg. “And will your . . . other companion be joining you tonight?”

Adrien glanced back at Plagg, sending the Kwami a fierce glare. A warning. “Plagg will be staying here during my absence. He can manage on his own, feel free to dedicate yourself to other tasks tonight, Nathalie.”

Adrien stepped into the hallway, closing the door to his bedroom behind him. He pretended not to notice the way Nathalie’s spine relaxed as he stepped away from her and made his way to the front door. Nino was leaning against the garden wall, his eyes focused on the screen of his phone. He looked up as Adrien shut the front door behind him and the thud travelled through the yard.

“Adrien, my man,” Nino greeted, his smile wide.

Adrien could feel a grin creeping across his own face as his stiff posture loosened. “Nino. Excited for tonight?”

“Got a new set to try out, it’s gonna be massive.”

Adrien nodded along to what Nino was saying about layering tracks as they walked towards Nino’s car. The cold air burned through his lungs but it was a nice change from the stale, artificial air circulating through his bedroom.

In Adrien’s neighbourhood, Nino’s car stood out like a weed amongst roses. It was a startling thing: the paint was peeling away in vibrant red flakes, the small body was riddled with dents, and duct tape held both side view mirrors in place. The first time he had seen it he had almost offered to buy his friend a nicer, newer car – but the look of pride on Nino’s face had stopped him.

The satisfaction of finally saving up enough money to buy something you wanted was unfamiliar to Adrien, but he knew that the beat–up old car made his friend happy and that was good enough for him.

Now, it felt more like home than any of the sports cars in Adrien’s garage.

Adrien went to open the passenger’s door but was stopped by the sight of tangled red hair. Alya was curled up on the seat, her head leaning against the window and her feet tucked beneath her. As he watched, she exhaled and a small section of the window turned opaque.

Her closed eyelids fluttered as she slept.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry man. Come around my side and get in the back.”

Adrien did as Nino instructed, sliding into the back seat when Nino tilted the driver’s seat forward. “Pre–drinking?” he asked.

Nino laughed, softly. “Something like that. It’s been hard on her, since…”

“I’m sorry.” Adrien frowned, glancing towards the sleeping girl. “How about you?”

Nino shrugged, but the move looked forced and stiff as he fixed his chair and sat down, pulling his seatbelt on and starting the car. “Nothing I can do about it, right?”

Adrien pulled his own seatbelt across his body and buckled it. “I guess.”

Nino began driving as silence spread across the car. The streetlights cast shadows on Adrien’s hands and for a second he wished he had brought Plagg, if only because the Kwami might have had some advice for him to pass along to Nino. As much as he hated to admit it, Adrien had been avoiding Nino and Alya since the miscarriage the year before. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help his friends, it was just that he didn’t know how to.

“My mum said it was God’s will.” Nino voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but for a second it sounded deafening as it broke the thick silence. “That everything happens for a reason. You know, the cliché shit people always say when something bad happens.”

Adrien’s eyes locked with Nino’s in the rear¬–view mirror. He stayed silent, hoping Nino would continue, but Nino continued to wait and Adrien cleared his throat. “I don’t believe in God. Or in pre-determined destinies.”

“Yeah,” Nino said, focusing back on the road. “Me neither.”

.

It took close to fifteen minutes, not that either man would admit it, to wake Alya enough to get her inside. As they entered the club, the music’s steady beat rattled Adrien’s skull and caused pain to seep into the crevasse behind his eyes. Alya, however, perked up at the deafening sound. She reached up on her toes to kiss Nino on the cheek and mumble her good luck before disappearing in the direction of the bar.

Nino sighed, his back stiff as he watched her leave. Adrien set his hand down on Nino’s shoulder and gave his friend a smile.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrien promised.

“Thanks man, I’ll owe you one.”

Adrien scoffed. “Shut up. You’re family, you don’t owe me anything.”

Nino grinned and Adrien squeezed his shoulder once before letting go and watching as Nino walked over and was let in backstage.

.

Adrien’s senses were dulled without the power of his miraculous surging through his veins, but they still sat leagues above an average person’s. This meant that, despite being heavily focused on Nino’s performance, his neck goosebumped and a cold chill swept through his body at the first sign of trouble.

Turning, he could make out four men towering around Alya, their hungry eyes widened with animalistic instinct. On the back of each of their jackets a complex combination of circles was depicted. Adrien could smell the mixture of sweat, leather and nicotine from across the room. The tallest snaked his arm around Alya’s waist and pulled her closer, waving the bartender over with his other arm.

“Another. And something strong for the lady, yeah?” His voice boomed out from his throat. Behind him, one of his companions grinned and ran his hand through his grease–soaked hair.

Alya didn’t seem to notice the company. Despite the cool weather, her forehead was shiny with sweat. As soon as her glass was set down she reached forward and grabbed it, draining the dark liquor in a single mouthful – and then continued on to do the same to his drink. With a sigh, she pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the bar.

The hand that wasn’t resting against Alya’s side reached into the man’s pocket and grabbed a metal object. It glinted silver in the chaotic lights, and the same symbol that was printed on the men’s jackets flashed. A lighter. Absently he flicked the cap open and closed as his eyes darted to Alya’s cleavage.

One of the three men behind Alya, the one who had grinned, hissed out something under his breath and elbowed the other two. Adrien heard the words as clearly as if the man had been speaking to him.

“I get first dibs, after Ringer of course,” the man whispered.

“You got first last time. I should get first, by the time I get a turn there’s hardly any fight left in her,” the second replied, reaching up to fidget with the chain around his neck.

The third man was shorter but broader than the other two; his reply cut the first man off when he tried to speak. “Last time I went last, I should get to go before both of you.”

“We’ll let Ringer decide, okay? We haven’t even got her yet.” The first man reasoned.

The shortest laughed. “Do you see her? She’s gone, absolutely off her face. We have her, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Adrien’s hands clenched as he moved to sit beside Alya. The leader, Ringer, glanced towards him and hesitated, the arm around Alya’s waist tightening. Alya lifted her head up from the bar and leaned over to rest her head on Adrien’s shoulder. She slurred out an unintelligible sentence involving what sounded, vaguely, like his name.

Ringer sent a glare towards the blonde, but Adrien stared back resolutely. Retracting his arm, the gang leader retreated from the scene.

.

“Hey, got a light?” The group startled as Adrien stepped away from the shadow-peppered wall.

Ringer toyed with his lighter as he scrutinized Adrien, assessing the threat. His muscles relaxed as his eyes moved over Adrien’s neatly styled hair and designer clothes. His face showed no recognition of their earlier encounter. Up close it was evident that the men were only a few years older than Adrien. Ringer pulled the metallic lighter from his pocket and tossed it towards Adrien, who placed a borrowed cigarette between his lips and flicked the ignition.

The men stumbled as they made their way to their car. Ringer hesitated as the others climbed into the car, pulling the doors closed behind them. Adrien watched as the men scrunched up their noses but remained silent, not willing to step out of line in front of their leader.

It was only when Ringer stepped inside and pulled the door shut that the group realised what was wrong.

“Who the fuck spilt their drink all over the seats?” Ringer shouted, twisting around to look at the back passengers.

Adrien stepped next to the car, grinning as he peered through the open window. “That’d be me fellas.”

Ringer turned to him, mouth twisted into a snarl, only to cry out in horror as Adrien nonchalantly flicked the lit cigarette through the window.

The alcohol soaked seats, and their passengers, went up in flames.

.

Marinette groaned as the small bell above the door chimed and yet another customer entered the bakery. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the customers; it was just that it was ten-thirty on a Saturday night and she was supposed to be with Alya for once.

But her parents had begged her to cover the evening shift so that they could have dinner together and Marinette had never really been good at saying no. Considering they hadn’t pushed for her to move out when she started college or made her pay rent she really did owe them.

The customer, a plump cheerful woman, approached the counter and picked out an assortment of danishes. When she exited, Marinette rushed over and turned the sign from open to closed. Twisting the lock into place and putting her back against the cold glass of the door she shut her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out.

“Marinette.”

Marinette opened her eyes and blinked at the red spotted creature floating centimetres away from her face. “I’m fine, Tikki.”

“When’s the last time you actually slept?” Tikki moved closer, examining the bags under her chosen’s eyes.

“I’m fine.” Marinette frowned, gently pushing her Kwami away.

She stepped away from the door and began the task of dealing with the baked goods, pulling each mostly empty tray out of the display case and piling the food together to be put in the fridge. Tikki hovered over her shoulder as she worked, letting out soft sounds of concern.

“Tikki,” Marinette snapped as she closed the fridge door. “Could you just drop it, please?”

The Kwami sighed, but let the subject go. Tikki gently sat on Marinette’s shoulder and curled into the side of her neck. Marinette was careful as she walked upstairs and sat down at her desk. She pulled out her sketchbook and allowed herself to absently-mindedly move a pencil along the rough paper.

Eventually Tikki flew over and settled into her hidden nook to sleep.

Marinette closed her eyes, trusting her hands as they slid along the page. Without her guidance, her hands created ruffles and lace, intricate patterns of floral coats and polished buttons. Feathered hats, layered skirts and glittering gowns.

For Marinette, this was the closest she got to sleep.

.

Adrien watched as Hawkmoth’s forehead wrinkled. The elder man opened his eyes and glared towards him, a gesture that would have been menacing had it not been for the multitude of butterflies surrounding them both. Adrien’s eyes tracked one of the delicate white creatures as it fluttered down to land on Hawkmoth’s shoulder.

The room was silent aside from the soft sound of wings – and the artificial click Adrien’s phone produced as he typed.

“You are aware that I require a certain degree of silence in order to concentrate, are you not?” Hawkmoth inquired.

“Sorry,” Adrien replied, eyes flicking back to his phone as he sent another message.

Hawkmoth closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to ignore him, before snapping his head back towards the younger man as Adrien’s phone vibrated softly in the silence. Adrien sat, his back against the wall with his legs sprawled out lazily in front of him, in the corner of Hawkmoth’s sanctuary.

“Adrien,” Hawkmoth snapped.

Adrien sighed and exchanged a look with Plagg, who was lying on his shoulder, before switching his phone off and setting it face down on the ground beside him.

He’d text back later, Nino would understand.

Adrien watched his father impatiently. They’d been waiting in the sanctuary for hours and while Hawkmoth didn’t have the same time restrictions as he did as Chat Noir, he was sure that NooRoo was getting tired.

Hawkmoth sent him a withering glare but otherwise ignored him as he sought out a new host to akumatise. One of the pale butterflies fluttered over to hover in front of Adrien, who watched it for a moment before he held out his hand palm up. The delicate creature felt weightless when it landed on his outstretched hand.

I could crush it.

Adrien’s fingers twitched. He could feel Plagg watching him as he observed the butterfly. Up close it was evident that it wasn’t pure white, pale purple lines decorated the shimmering wings. It fluttered against his palm, soft as a flower petal. Slowly he closed his fingers.

Plagg’s ears twitched at the sound of Hawkmoth’s voice. Turning, Adrien watched as his father coaxed a young man into a creature reminiscent of a prehistoric beast.

“Rise, Monstruosité,” Hawkmoth yelled. “Rise.”

Across the city the creature bellowed.

The butterfly dropped from Adrien’s palm and lay still.

.

“Hurry! Head through the backstreets, get somewhere safe. Do you understand? Safe.” The voice was feminine – gentle, comforting. But sharp enough that Chat picked up on the whispered instructions despite the almost deafening sound of the Akuma. Her words were repeated in English a few times.

Slinking around the building Chat crouched on the rooftop and caught sight of a group of people. Tourists mostly, they stood packed together like frightened sheep. Their eyes were all locked on one person.

A girl.

She stood in front of the group, gesturing across the street at an alleyway and encouraging them in French and broken English. As he watched, a group of three ran across at the girl’s instructions and a second group stepped into the newly vacant position. Chat hadn’t realised at first but now he saw that the tourists were clustered into groups of three, leaving only the French girl free. At her command the remaining trios made their way across one by one.

Somewhere further down the street, Monstruosité screamed. Chat watched, distracted, as a car flew past him as a result. The windows were missing; the soundwave had left only sharp slivers of glass. Inside the car someone screamed.

His eyes flickered back to the girl, who had turned around at the sound of the scream. Shockingly, he found that he recognized her. The last time they met her dark hair had been bound up on top of her head rather than free-flowing but it was definitely the same girl – woman.

Just as she took a step towards the now grounded car, Chat stepped off the roof and landed directly in front of the woman. She looked up at him and a distant part of his mind noted that her eyes were even more shockingly blue than he remembered. The more dominant section of his mind acknowledged the steady beat of her heart, the unwavering stance of her body. Without conscious thought he inhaled and absorbed her scent: floral, sweet – and untainted by fear.

She met his eyes unflinchingly. Behind him he heard Monstruosité take a step in their direction.

Impulsively he said, “Get out of here.”

Her blue eyes blinked, once, twice, before she opened her mouth and gaped at him. On the other side of the building shockwaves thundered from Monstruosité’s throat and she darted a glance over his shoulder as the window above them shattered.

“Go,” he snarled when her attention returned.

The ferocity of his voice seemed to snap her out of her thoughts. She stepped back, checking her surroundings before sprinting across the street. As she reached the alleyway she turned her head, glancing back at Chat with a look that he couldn’t place, then she was gone.

Chat’s eyes lingered on the spot for a long while.

Chapter Text

So… I know that this has taken forever to be updated but I had a lot of trouble trying to write this chapter. I wish I could just skip forward past the awkward ‘getting to know each other’ stage, but alas here we are.

I wanted to reaffirm that I will be continuing this story, and all of my other stories, and that will not change. If, for some unlikely reason, that does change I will absolutely let you know. It takes me a long time to update usually, but I try to put out long chapters and I have the whole story planned out so don’t worry, my loves.

Enjoy! xx

The night air caressed Chat’s skin, cool against his warm cheeks, and brought along with it the lingering scent of perfume. The smell was soft – floral but not overpowering.

It was a scent Chat Noir had smelt before.

Chat followed the scent, moving swiftly across the rooftops. It wasn’t long before the sweet smell was overwhelmed by the thick, sickly scents of alcohol, tobacco and sweat.

Below him a delicate figure slipped around the corner, their pace steady if not the slightest bit fast. Blue hair hung down the woman’s back in gentle waves, Chat crouched and watched as she tucked a strand behind her ear and turned her head just enough to subtly peek behind her.

It was only a few more steps before three men stepped around the corner. Their shadows were comically large next to her slim frame. They stayed a few metres behind her but their bodies were tense, ready for a fight. The largest of the trio pulled a strip of fabric from his pocket, a gag, and let out a dark laugh that echoed through the quiet street. Ahead of them the woman stiffened but her pace remained steady.

Chat stood and determinedly kept his gaze on the brickwork across from him, only to falter when the woman crossed under a streetlight. Under the pale light her hair shone the same blue as her eyes.

Chat swore, partially for knowing the exact colour of her eyes, partially for following the scent of her Goddamn perfume in the first place, and partially for what he was going to do next.

Marinette could feel their gaze, it raised the hair at the nape of her neck and sent goosebumps down her arms. They weren’t hiding their presence, their footsteps were loud behind her and their laughter echoed through the street. They wanted her to know what they were going to do, wanted her to be afraid. As much as they lusted her body, the fear in her eyes was what would truly intoxicate them.

But these streets belonged to her just as much as they belonged to the men on her tail. She’d be damned if she didn’t give them a run for their money.

Marinette relaxed her muscles and shifted into a sturdier stance as she continued walking. In two blocks there was a side street, she could lose them in the dark backstreets. They were stronger but she was swifter and, even without the transformation, Tikki’s magic ran through her veins.

She barely managed to contain the scream that bubbled up her throat as she stepped around the next corner only for a black-clad figure to drop down beside her.

A smile crept across Chat Noir’s face – a twisted mockery of kindness. “You’re being followed,” he announced.

Marinette blinked up at him, his eyes were so green that they cast light across the rest of his face. Bioluminescent, she realised.

“I’m aware.” She narrowed her eyes at Chat. “Why are you here?”

Chat leant against the wall beside them. “I’m doing my good deed for the day and saving a Princess from distress,” he said, reaching a hand out towards a strand of her hair that had come untucked from behind her ear.

Marinette stepped out of reach. “You’re not a Prince.”

“A knight, then.”

The footsteps grew louder and they both turned towards the sound. Three men stepped around the corner, each heavily tattooed and wild eyed. A strip of dark cloth hung from the largest man’s fingers, Marinette didn’t want to think about what he had planned to use it for. Their eyes locked onto her and lingered in ways that made Marinette want to tear their eyes from their sockets and then peel the skin from her body and set it ablaze.

The seconds it took the men to realise that she wasn’t alone, seconds with their eyes on her body, felt like an eternity. It wasn’t the man in front – dark fabric still clenched in his hand – that noticed Chat Noir first, but the smallest of the three. The man let out a whine, high-pitched and piercing like an animal’s, that quickly gained the other men’s attention.

With all eyes on him, Chat Noir’s easy smile twisted into a snarl. Through the harsh cut of his mouth Marinette could just barely make out the sharp tips of his canines. In the dark, illuminated only by the glow of his eyes, Chat Noir appeared more animal than human.

The cloth fluttered to the ground as the three men scrambled back around the corner. The hoarse syllables of profanity could barely be heard over the thud of their feet against the pavement as they fled.

Chat Noir turned to her, his face softened into a grin but the cruel glint of his eyes remained. “You’re welcome,” he said.

A scoff escaped Marinette’s throat. “I could’ve handled that myself.”

Chat’s eyes flicked to the corner before returning to her. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t need protection, especially not from you.”

“Oh, really?” Chat’s voice was laced with scepticism.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been followed home, it won’t be the last. Your late night escapades haven’t exactly helped turn this city into a safe space.”

Chat’s gaze narrowed. His eyes lingered on her and Marinette supressed a shiver, his gaze was unlike that of the men a few moments ago. This gaze was calculated – ruthless – like he already knew how to take her down and was deciding whether or not it was worth his time.

“I’ll walk you home.” Chat said after a long moment. A smirk crept across his face. “Come on, Princess. Lead the way.”

Marinette stiffened. “My name is not Princess,” she snapped, adrenaline racing through her body – not from fear but from anger. “And you’re crazier than I thought if you think I’m letting you know where I live.”

Chat’s eyes lightened with something that, on anyone else, would have been called amusement. “Not many people around here would have the guts to call me crazy, especially not to my face.”

“I’m not as weak as I look, you mangy stray.”

To Marinette’s surprise, Chat laughed. It was a genuine laugh, loud and chest heavy as it ricocheted through the empty street. His eyes were bright as they locked back onto her. Chat watched her with an unreadable expression, the only sound the dying echo of his laughter.

“No,” he said, finally. “I don’t think you are.” He stepped forward and Marinette moved out of his path, but he bypassed her entirely and began to make his way down the street. He glanced back at her and grinned, all teeth and predatory focus. “Come on, I’ll find out one way or another. I suggest taking the easier route, unless you would rather spill blood.”

Marinette watched his back as he sauntered away. She took a moment to breathe before stepping away from the wall and slowly following him. His pace was slow, relaxed, and despite her hesitant footsteps she caught up to him quickly. Marinette eyed the black clad villain as she stepped up beside him, only for his eyes to flicker over to meet hers. She averted her eyes, but not before she caught the grin that his mouth curved into. He had caught her staring.

“What are you doing?” Marinette asked.

“Walking you home, obviously.”

“You know what I mean. Why are you here?” Marinette stopped walking and faced him, crossing her arms across her chest.

Chat’s eyes flashed as he glanced at her. “Can’t a man walk a pretty girl home without being interrogated?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“A smart girl would know better than to demand answers from the man with claws.” He sent her a heated look and continued walking. After a moment she followed behind him. She made sure to leave space between the two of them but she knew that if he were to change his mind, there was nothing she could do.

Even as Ladybug he overpowered her, if he choose to use his full strength against her she would be powerless to stop him.

Her body relaxed once they’d walked a few blocks and she stepped closer to him. Despite everything he had done, this was the man that would have been by her side, had fate been kind. Curiosity was inevitable.

As they walked, she couldn’t help but glance over at him. From her viewpoint she could make out thick eyelashes that curled up to brush against his eyebrows, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the strength of his jawline. Would he have been as beautiful had they become partners, or was it violence that made his skin glow.

She stopped when they reached the end of her street. A light shone through the upstairs curtain of the bakery. Her mother, waiting up to make sure she made her way home safely.

She turned to Chat, who was examining the bakery with cunning eyes. “We don’t have much money.”

Chat’s mouth pulled into a grin. “I don’t kill for money.”

Marinette knew that, everyone did. Chat Noir didn’t kill for anything save the thrill of watching the life fade from a person’s eyes. In her peripheral vision the curtain shifted and she turned automatically. They were masked by shadows, her mother wouldn’t be able to see them, but she could just make out the elder woman’s face.

Chat was watching her when she turned back to him. After a moment of heavy silence his mouth curled into a smile.

“Farewell, Princess.” He stepped back, where the darkest of the street’s shadows clustered, and then he was gone.

Marinette stood watching the darkness for a long while before going inside to soothe her mother’s nerves and send the older woman to bed.

Her mother was cradling a cup of coffee when Marinette dragged herself downstairs. Before Marinette could trudge over to the coffee maker, her mother slid her own cup towards her.

“Take it,” Sabine said. “It’s my third, if I have any more caffeine I may never sleep again. Besides, you look like you need it more than I do.”

Marinette sat beside her mother and took a sip of the drink. It was scalding and slightly sweeter than she preferred, but after a minute she felt more alert.

“Thanks mama.”

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Marinette looked terrible, and she knew it. Sleep deprivation wasn’t unusual for her, but her thoughts had twisted and tormented her for hours. When she’d finally drifted off, green eyes haunted her dreams.

She pulled her hair back and messily tied it with the band on her wrist. “Just… a lot of homework. Everything’s fine.”

“And last night, you were okay? You got home later than usual.”

“I was held back by a customer,” she lied.

Sabine frowned, her forehead wrinkling with worry lines. “I worry about you, it’s not safe out there at night.”

“I’m careful, mama. You don’t need to worry.” Marinette wasn’t sure how much being careful mattered. It hadn’t helped her the night before. She refused to think about who had helped her. “Do you need me to help out this weekend?”

Sabine’s face softened. “That would be helpful. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Marinette lifted her mug and drank the last of the coffee. She began to stand, only for Sabine to grab the mug. She waved off Marinette’s protests and walked to the sink to wash it.

Marinette’s eyes were drawn to the tired slump of her mother’s shoulders. She didn’t like to acknowledge it, but the events of Paris had weighed on her mother. Sometimes Marinette wished she could tell her mother who she was, but she knew the information would only worry the older woman further.

Downstairs, her father’s cheerful voice boomed and her mother’s shoulders straightened. Sabine smiled and began to hum under her breath. Not for the first time, Marinette was grateful that, were something to happen to her, her parents would be there for each other.

Adrien ran a hand through his hair, freeing the strands from the neatly parted style his father required him to wear for appearance’s sake. A messy strand of hair fell across his forehead and he grinned, his teeth gleaming in the harsh bathroom lighting. But, even with the newly ragged appearance, there was something too civilized in his face.

When he received his miraculous, his first demand was for Plagg to change him, physically, to remove him from Adrien’s public persona. He didn’t ask because he worried that he would be recognised, he asked because he wanted to be able to recognise himself. The boy in the mirror, with the styled hair and flawless smile, was a boy Adrien had never known.

The first time he had transformed, with the changes to his body in place, he had looked into the mirror and he had been able to see his own eyes staring back at him.

The changes were nothing major – hair that curled beneath his ears and refused to lay flat, eyes that cut through shadows and, his favourite of the changes, canines that were just the slightest bit longer and sharper than they should be. They turned his smile, his father’s most valuable tool, into a weapon.

No one would ever look at Chat Noir and think the words ‘gentle’ or ‘weak.’

Adrien shook his hair once more, making sure that no part of it remained held down by the mild dusting of hairspray he was subjected to each morning. When he was happy with it, he wandered over to Plagg. The Kwami was resting on his lounge, a clunk of Camembert larger than his head in one hand.

“Let’s go out,” Adrien suggested.

Plagg swallowed before answering. “What were you thinking? There were those guys who were edging a bit too close to our territory, we could use them to send a message. Just don’t–”

“–get blood on the suit, I know.” Adrien crossed his arms and let his gaze fall on the window; the sun had set over an hour ago. “That sounds good, I was thinking we could make a stop first, though.”

“The girl,” Plagg responded.

Adrien kept his face passive as he turned to face his Kwami. “What girl?” he questioned.

Plagg rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. Somehow he managed to fit what was left of his cheese in his mouth, which he swallowed after only a few chews.

A moment later, Chat Noir stretched his arms above his head and grinned, extended canines flashing in the moonlight.

“Are you going to kill me?” The girl asked, not breaking her stride as Chat dropped down beside her.

“Not yet.”

His words shouldn’t have reassured her, he was just as much a liar as he was a killer, but her body relaxed as the words washed over her. Were it anyone else, he would have been able to smell the fear radiating from their skin, hear the jumps in their heart, but her pulse remained steady as they made their way down the darkened streets.

He should have said yes, but something inside him knew that he didn’t want to hurt the blue haired girl. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he had found himself lingering by the same street as the night before, hoping to find her again. He was attracted to her, sure, but even though Chat didn’t have girls throwing themselves at him, Adrien certainly did.

“What’s your name?” The question had been bouncing around his mind since he’d left her the night before.

“I’m not in the habit of giving personal information out to supervillians.”

The look she sent him felt like a challenge. It wouldn’t be hard to find out, he already had her address and knew that her family owned the bakery.

“So,” he began, “How was work? It is your job that’s been keeping you out so late, isn’t it?”

She eyed him from his side, her face filled with uncertainty. “Work was fine. How was your day, killed anyone yet?”

“Not yet, but the night’s still young.” He grinned at her look of disgust.

“Is this what we’re doing now, small talk?” she questioned.

“Well,” he replied, “It’s been established that neither of us enjoys exchanging important information. Feel free to suggest an alternative.”

“You could leave me alone.” Despite her words, another moment in the unforgiving silence had her giving in. “How do you not overheat in that suit during summer?”

Chat smirked. “Would you rather I take it off?”

“No,” she insisted. Her face coloured bright red and she avoided his eyes as he laughed.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Magic probably.”

She seemed to take it as answer enough.

“What do you do?” She sent him a confused look. “At your job,” he clarified.

“Oh.” She didn’t reply immediately, likely taking her time to assure that she didn’t give more information than she wanted. “I work in a fabric store.”

Chat nodded, he had suspected that she had something to do with fashion. Even if he never wanted anything to do with fashion again, he recognized handmade clothing when he saw it. Good handmade clothing, the part of him that he would rather forget whispered.

They made their way towards her house, exchanging insignificant information to ward off the crushing weight of silence. They spoke of the weather, mostly – a surprisingly cold snap had descended upon Paris. He steered the topic away from the events of night before and she made no move to bring it up.

Instead, as they ran out of conversation, he let the silence between them spread. He had expected the quiet to weigh on her, but she seemed to welcome it. Despite her calm exterior, there were little things that told Chat that she wasn’t as relaxed as her heartbeat implied, the shift of her feet as they walked and the constant darting of her eyes. She was nervous, but not afraid.

Chat didn’t know what to make of the information.

Despite his better judgement, his eyes found their way to her face. She was pretty, but not in the way that Chat was used to. As a model, he had been raised around beautiful girls ¬– girls with the confidence that came with knowing they were beautiful.

The girl beside him was nothing like them. She huddled into the large jacket around her shoulders, her hair was pulled back in a messy braid and, aside from mascara and a delicate flick of eyeliner, her face was clear of makeup.

Her eyes flickered over to meet his, and he let a savage smile spread across his face. She held his gaze for a second longer than most people dared to. His chest tightened with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. He was so used to people falling over themselves to avoid irritating him, he had grown unaccustomed to looking at someone and having them look back.

They arrived at her street faster than he had expected. He paused, waiting for the thrill of fear to race through the body beside him, but when she looked up at him her blue eyes were clear of distress.

“You’re not going to kill me,” she confirmed.

Chat was silent, caught in his own chaotic thoughts. His body yearned for a fight; the bloodlust had long since become a part of him. After a long moment, his eyes never leaving hers, he spoke. “Not tonight.”

Plagg’s small face was filled with the type of exuberance that was known to make his fellow Kwami uncomfortable. Across from him, NooRoo’s eyes were wary. Plagg couldn’t remain still, flying around the room.

“Plagg, please, this waiting is making me anxious,” NooRoo pleaded.

Plagg settled in the air in front of the butterfly Kwami, his smile chaotic. “He found her,” he announced.

“Whom?”

“Tikki’s girl.” Plagg rolled his eyes at his companion’s less than thrilled expression. He returned to his mindless movements, flying across the room in pattern-less cycles.

“It that not expected? They’ve faced off a multitude of times already,” NooRoo said.

Plagg groaned. “No, not Ladybug. He found Tikki’s girl in her natural form.”

NooRoo’s eyes lit up at the information. “Oh! That is exciting. Does he know it’s her?”

“That’s the best part,” Plagg remarked, his eyes glinting with mischief, “He has no clue.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

The lock clicked into place as Marinette turned the key. She opened her bag and placed the keys in an inside pocket. Tikki was tucked into a corner – curled around Marinette’s phone for warmth – her chest rose and fell softly as she slept.

Behind her, the air shifted. It was a subtle, almost unnoticeable, change but Marinette’s heightened senses could feel the difference.

“Is this going to become a habit?” she asked, turning around. “Stalking me? This is the third time this week. Not to mention all of last week.”

Chat’s grin was wicked. “It’s not stalking. I’m just doing my duty and making sure you arrive home safely.”

“Because you’re the king of random acts of kindness.” Marinette stepped away from the entrance of the fabric store and Chat fell into place by her side.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me, Marinette,” he stated, reaching up and gently twisting a finger around the end of her ponytail.

She remembered the third time he had shown up to walk her home. His voice had been rough as it shaped her name. Alya would have called it sexy, had it been anyone else. She hadn’t questioned how he found out – he was the type of man who got what he wanted, one way or another. It was that third visit that had begun the tentative acquaintance between the two of them. She should have run, but she’d rolled her eyes. He should have killed her, but he’d grinned.

She twisted her head so that the long strands of her hair flicked his arm away. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Someone else to terrorize?”

“Nope. Tonight I’m all yours.” Chat stretched his arms above his head. “Someone’s stressed.”

Marinette tore her eyes away from his chest. “I wonder why.”

Despite the streetlights, shadows swallowed the footpath and she shuffled closer to the man beside her. His eyes were luminescent in the darkness. They bathed his face in sickly green light as he glanced across at her.

The sight didn’t send a jolt of fear through her veins. Instead her body relaxed as her instincts worked against her better judgement and deemed the murderer at her side to be safe. After the day she’d had, his presence was almost a relief.

“Did you see the akuma yesterday?” Chat grinned. If he was unnerved by the easy familiarity they had slipped into, he didn’t show it.

They walked around the corner and Marinette stiffened. She recognised the group of men standing on the side of the road, they’d attempted to follow her home on more than one occasion. Chat walked forward without her for a moment before glancing back at her. Taking in her tense posture his eyes flickered between her and the men ahead of them before hardening.

Walking back to her, Chat draped an arm across her shoulders. “Scared?” he smirked.

Marinette’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not, you mangy stray.”

They stepped forward together and the men startled at the sight of them. A few curious eyes lingered on Marinette’s body before darting back to Chat’s arm across her shoulders. The two of them walked by the group without any trouble.

Marinette shrugged Chat’s arm off of her shoulder once they were out of sight. “I can handle things myself.”

“So you’ve said.” Chat chuckled.

Marinette felt his gaze but kept her eyes on the path ahead of them. They walked another block before he let the subject drop.

“The Akuma was awful – terrible aim. It took me hours to get the slime out of my hair. This,” he gestured to his face, “takes time, you know.”

Marinette’s eyes lingered on the graceful slope of his cheekbones, the vibrant green eyes surrounded by thick, dark eyelashes, his artfully tussled golden hair. “It looks like you could use a few more hours,” Marinette lied.

Chat scoffed, “I won’t hesitate to slice your throat open. We’ll see how chatty you are then.”

Why haven’t you? Marinette wondered. It was a question that had crossed her mind more than once in the days since her first civilian run in with the feline. He could kill her, easily, he had killed before, so what was stopping him? More so, what was stopping her from running away and not looking back?

Chat doubled over in an exaggerated bow when they reached the edge of her street. He caught her hand and pressed his lips against the back of it. “Until tomorrow.”

Marinette pulled her hand from his and stepped towards the bakery. She set one hand on the doorknob but hesitated, she could feel his presence behind her and without thinking it through she looked back and spoke. “I’m not working tomorrow.”

Chat’s grin didn’t falter. “The next day then?”

“Yeah.”

Marinette drooped back onto her lounge, laying an arm across her face and groaning into her elbow. “What is wrong with me?”

“It’s not your fault Marinette, Plagg and I are two halves of one whole. It’s only natural that you and Chat Noir would be drawn to one another.”

Marinette frowned, sitting up she watched Tikki flutter around her room. “Because we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Precisely.”

“But we aren’t partners. He went rouge, or whatever you called it.” Marinette scowled.

“Plagg is a fickle creature. It’s not the first time this has happened.” Tikki waved off the statement as if it were irrelevant and Marinette was overcome by an irrational desire to defend Chat, because he was supposed to be hers and he wasn’t and that was not something to be taken lightly. “Being on opposing sides,” Tikki continued, “doesn’t mean that your bond is any less present.”

“But why do we have to be on opposing sides? What does he have to gain from the distance?” Marinette questioned, careful to keep her voice down as to not disturb her parents sleeping downstairs.

The red Kwami blinked at Marinette, rubbing her small hands together nervously and then, surprisingly, Tikki answered.

“Where my magic is light and healing, Plagg’s is darkness and destruction. Plagg is chaos in its purest form, and chaos can only be contained for so long.” Tikki flew over and settled down in the palm of Marinette’s hand. “I neutralise his power somewhat when we work as a team, even now my presence is actively working to dull his true potential. If I were to disappear his power would be able to wipe entire continents from the Earth.”

“And that’s why he can stay transformed for longer than I can, even after using his power,” Marinette clarified.

Tikki nodded, her mouth pulled into a frown. “His magic is wild, and when used as it was originally intended to be used – as a weapon – he has the advantage.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he keeps following me.”

Tikki sent Marinette a disbelieving look. “He’s following you because he likes you.”

“He does not. Most of the time he’s actively trying to kill me.”

“Well, yes, but only when you’re fighting. He’s a warrior, when you’re fighting you aren’t Ladybug or Marinette, you’re the enemy.”

Marinette groaned, closing her eyes and dragging the fingers of her spare hand over her eyelids. “And Plagg didn’t think to tell him about me? I thought that you were friends.”

“Plagg and I are two halves of one whole,” Tikki repeated, like that should have been answer enough. It wasn’t, but Marinette had long since given up trying to understand the inner workings of Tikki’s mind.

“I’ve asked you about Plagg, about Chat Noir, hundreds of times. Why tell me this now?” Marinette asked.

Tikki flew from Marinette’s palm to the edge of the lounge and sat, her eyes wide and focused on Marinette. Tikki’s hands were still where they rested by her sides, the way they were only when she had something important to say.

“Chat Noir isn’t a bad person.” Tikki sent Marinette a sharp look when the girl tried to cut in. “He’s killed people, I know, but there is good in him. Plagg wouldn’t have matched with him if he were all bad, just as I wouldn’t have matched with you had you been all good. There has to be a balance, has to be a speck of light within him and a speck of dark within you. But Marinette, you need to understand that Chat Noir is dangerous. You can’t help but gravitate towards him, but please keep in mind that he isn’t someone for you to save. If you let your guard down around him the consequences could be disastrous.”

Marinette was quiet, the skin between her eyes wrinkled as her eyes evaded Tikki’s and locked onto the pink fabric of the lounge. Her mind raced at the implications behind Tikki’s words. The silence weighed heavy between the two of them until, finally, Marinette spoke.

“I’ll stay away.” The words felt hollow as they left her mouth.

Chapter Text

The creak of Marinette’s window cut through the silence of the room. She startled, dropping her pencil and twisting in her seat to face the commotion. Chat’s silhouette lounged on the frame of the window, one leg propped up on the still, the other left to hang towards the floorboards of Marinette’s room. His hair shone silver, highlighted by moonlight. The leather of his suit was illuminated by the light emitting from the candle beside her, casting him in a softer light.

Until he grinned, and all the muted edges sharpened again.

His teeth were a stark contrast to the meters of dark fabric of his outfit. The canines too fierce to be human, the white of his teeth too washed out – like bones, licked clean.

He dropped forward, easily sliding into a crouch to take the impact of the slight fall. Behind his head, Tikki dove into a pile of material, carefully covering herself with a stretch of red fabric.

She stood, closing her sketchbook and crossing her arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Marinette,” he purred, ignoring her question. “You weren’t at work today.”

The image of Chat Noir, Paris’ most ruthless killer, waiting at the door of the little fabric shop only to realise that he was being stood up flickered behind her eyes. She should have been scared; he’d killed people for less.

“You can’t just come to my house, Chat.”

“Sure I can. I just did.” He grinned, walking over to sit in her recently vacated seat. “You have a terrible security system.”

She could feel Tikki’s eyes on her, urging her to tell him to leave but when she went to speak he cut her off.

“Why weren’t you there?” His eyes roamed over her closed sketchbook as he grabbed her pencil, twirling it between his fingers like a magician.

“I swapped shifts. My mum needed extra help in the bakery today because my dad had a delivery to make.” She blinked, surprised by her honest answer.

Chat’s eyes crinkled, softening for no more than a second. She almost blamed it on the flickering candlelight and the shadows it cast across the room, but her eyes hadn’t left his face since he arrived and she caught the moment of tenderness. His eyed darted to meet hers and widened marginally, before they sharped once more.

“How sweet,” he sneered, the force behind his words missing.

“I didn’t expect someone like you to understand,” Marinette snarled back.

At her words his lips curled and a laugh escaped his lungs.

“They never do.” His grin was manic, but before she could question it he spoke again. “You better be there next time, who knows what could happen to a girl like you on her own.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Marinette glared.

“No. Just a friendly reminder.”

“You can take your friendly reminders and–”

“Careful now. Rumour is I’m crazy.” Chat’s eyes were light with humour in a way that surprised Marinette into silence.

“We both know that’s a lie,” she declared, scrambling to gain back the ground she had lost. Surprisingly, she found that she believed the words she’d said. Chat Noir was ruthless and it was challenging to understand where his though process would leap to next – but in the short time she’d spent around him she’d seen the fierce clarity behind his eyes.

Chat stood up and walked to the window. She could see his reflection in the glass, how his eyes darted between the street and her mirrored image. When he turned to look at her it was with intense, bright eyes. Standing in the moonlight, Chat Noir looked like a nightmare made flesh.

“What?” Marinette snapped, after a weighted minute.

“Nothing,” Chat replied, his voice strangely strained.

Without a backwards glance he turned and left.

The feel of his eyes on her skin stuck around long after he climbed out the window and dropped down to the street.

Marinette stirred her coffee, watching as the sugar fell below the surface. Beside her, Alya was talking, saying something about new killings. She imagined the warm brown of her coffee darkening into blood.

Alya frowned at Marinette’s blank gaze. “Mari?”

“Sorry.” She blinked and shook her head, sending an apologetic smile towards her friend. “Late night. What killings?”

The look Alya sent her was part disbelief, part fondness. “Chat Noir’s, obviously. Seriously girl, you need to take a break from your midnight designing. A good night’s sleep isn’t going to kill you.”

She felt her cheeks overheat. She wiped the mixing stick on the rim of her cup before dropping it into the first bin they walked past. Keeping her eyes from meeting Alya’s she carefully sealed the lid of her coffee and took a sip. She wanted to remind Alya that neither of them had gotten a good night’s sleep in a long while but forced a laugh instead.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, a smile tight on her lips.

“Anyway,” Alya continued. “The death count is up to seventy now. Three more lowlifes were found on Mary Street late last night.”

Marinette fumbled with her coffee, only just avoiding spilling it on herself. Mary Street was only a few blocks from the fabric shop she worked at. It was where the men who had tried to follow her home a week and a half ago had been waiting. Where Chat Noir, annoyed at her for leaving him alone, would have had to pass through on the way to her house. It could have been a coincidence, but she had found that most things weren’t.

“It was worse than usual, this time.” Alya said, not noticing the way the blood left Marinette’s face. “It would have taken a while for them to die. I guess it’s true what they say about cats and their food.” Alya glanced at her, wincing at Marinette’s expression. “Sorry, I know this stuff makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” she replied, forcing her face to soften.

She was grateful when Alya let the topic drop. In her mind she replayed Chat’s face as the men rounded the corner, more animal than human. She imagined his claws, slick with blood as they cut into flesh.

They entered one of the lounges in the University. Couches lined the walls, tucked into the window alcoves. Beanbags were dispersed throughout the room, most already taken. Alya dropped her bag on the floor beside one of the couches with a thud that echoed across the room. On the other side of the study lounge a man sent a disapproving look their way and Alya raised her middle finger in his direction as she sat. She pulled out a textbook and a pair of earphones but placed them on the floor, using the heavy book as a coaster for her coffee rather than putting up the pretence of study.

Marinette sat and pulled out her design textbook, beginning to flip through the pages to the correct chapter. After a moment of fidgeting, Alya stretched her legs out across Marinette’s lap, who merely lifted her book and continued to read.

“When do you get off tomorrow night?” Alya questioned, eyes on the screen of her phone.

Marinette glanced towards her friend. “Nine, why?”

“I was thinking of stopping by. We need new curtains and last time mum brought home that green-brown fabric.” Both girls’ noses wrinkled at the memory. “Plus, we could walk back to your place together and I could steal the leftover pastries.”

“No,” Marinette blurted out.

Alya blinked, setting her phone down and turning to face Marinette properly. “No?”

She felt the blush spread across her cheeks. “Sorry. I just, I mean, uh… there are new fabrics being delivered on the weekend so that would be better if you’re looking for material. That’s all.”

Alya eyed Marinette for a moment before shrugging. “Okay. Saturday then.”

As Alya turned back to her phone Marinette lifted her book to eye level. Her eyes scanned the page but she failed to absorb the words. She should have put a stop to Chat a fortnight ago. It wasn’t right, he was a criminal and she’d promised Tikki.

Tomorrow night, she swore to herself. Tomorrow night she would tell him to stop.

She didn’t have to wait for tomorrow night.

She stumbled up the steps to her room, struggling to hold a clothing bag and her textbook as well as open the latch on the ceiling. She repositioned the bag into her left hand, wincing as her fingers strained, and opened the hatch to her room. Dumping her textbook on her desk and carefully hanging up her current work, she flicked on the light switch.

And shrieked.

Her mother called up and Marinette made a flimsy excuse of seeing a spider, her eyes never leaving her small pink couch. Chat Noir smiled lazily at her, flicking through a sketchbook with his legs draped along the length of the couch.

“Not bad, Princess,” he remarked.

“What are you doing here?” Marinette hissed.

She closed the door to her room and walked over to him, snatching the book from his hands. He huffed, narrowing his eyes up at her.

“I was complimenting you.”

“Trespassing is what you were doing. Are still doing, in fact,” she snapped.

Chat chuckled, his eyes trailing after the sketchbook. “But what would you do without me, your only friend, to entertain you?”

“I have other friends, proper friends who aren’t stalkers and murderers.” She glared.

“Ahh, yes.” Chat’s grin turned sinister in an instant and his concentration refocused solely on her. “Your reporter friend. Alya, wasn’t it?”

Her mouth went dry. “Leave Alya alone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” At her horrified expression he sighed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t hurt people unless they give me a reason to.”

“You killed those men last night.”

Chat’s eyes narrowed. “They gave me a reason.”

Marinette refused to think about what that reason could be – who it could be.

“Do you even know how many people you’ve killed?” She snapped.

“Not enough to satisfy me.” His words fell flat as he stood and walked over to her desk, dropping into her chair and flicking through the pages of another sketchbook.

She recognised that he was baiting her, waiting for her reaction, so she refused to give him one.

“How long have you been waiting here?”

“Not long enough to go snooping through your drawers, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The grin he flashed her was sharp, but his eyes were light as they moved across her body.

Marinette blamed her blush on the way Chat’s eyes lingered on the pages of her sketchbook, rather than the way they lingered on her body. She stepped forward and gripped the edge of the book, tugging it towards her. Chat held on with one hand, easily keeping it from her grasp.

“You know,” Chat’s eyes flickered up from the sketchbook to meet her own, his smile wicked, “if you ever need a nude model…”

She snatched the sketchbook from his hands and shoved it onto the shelf of her desk. Her desk chair spun as he turned to watch her.

“Egotistical much?” She muttered, crossing her arms.

Chat clicked his tongue. “Watch it, Princess. I could slice through your pretty little skin as easily as melted butter.”

“Why do you do that?” She wondered, pinning him with her gaze.

The chair stilled as Chat blinked at her, barely disguising his confusion. “Do what?”

“Why do you turn everything into a threat? It’s been made pretty clear you’re not going to turn around and kill me. Why keep up the pretence?”

“Maybe I just haven’t decided whether to kill you or not.” His eyes stared blankly towards her empty desktop, his spine tense.

“Maybe,” Marinette agreed. It sounded weak, even to her own ears.

After a long moment he stood and, without meeting her eyes, repositioned himself onto her lounge. She watched him, waiting for him to threaten her again or say something but he merely reached for another of her endless supply of sketchbooks and flicked open the front cover.

This time, she let him.

Officially Chat had left her house an hour ago.

The clock on her desk ticked past one o’clock in the morning, the only noise in the room other than the irregular pattern of Marinette’s breathing. She slept restlessly, shifting from her back to her side over and over again. He wasn’t surprised by the discovery; despite her cheerful smile she had bags under her eyes. He understood the extra effort she put in everyday to appear happy, if only to avoid worrying her friends. A part of him hated that he found her more attractive for it.

Not for the first time, he tried to tear his eyes from her figure – half hidden beneath thick, patchwork blankets he assumed she had made herself.

Chat had done something extraordinarily stupid.

The first time he had shown up at her window he hadn’t been thinking, his mind had raced with thoughts of Marinette and the thousands of terrible reasons she hadn’t been there at the end of her shift. He hadn’t even really meant to kill the men he’d run into. One moment he was rushing across the rooftops towards her house and then he had heard their familiar sadistic laughter. He was standing on the street watching the blood drip between his fingers before his mind caught up to his actions.

He remembered adrenaline coursing through his veins as he hastily cleaned his hands and climbed up to her room. He must have looked feral crawling into her window, but she hadn’t flinched. She’d glared at him. No one had dared to look at him with anything but disgust and apprehension and terror since he’d put the mask on. To have someone challenge him, to have someone see past the cruel glint of his smile, was exhilarating. So exhilarating that the very thought of leaving, of returning to his empty, cavernous house, had made him pause.

He could be excused for showing up that night.

The stupid thing he’d done was come back.

No matter what he told himself when he suited up, he ended up by her side by the end of the night.

He’d lied that night, when he spoke of killing her. He knew it – Marinette knew that he knew it. That was the moment he should have run, one of many moments that he’d failed to use to escape the situation. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to stay, but he’d settled on her lounge and watched her from the corner of his vision until her posture relaxed.

He couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

Tikki couldn’t remain still. She’d spent the night hidden behind one of the rolls of fabric that decorated her girl’s room, watching Plagg’s boy linger by the window. He couldn’t know who Marinette was – Plagg was too easily amused by the struggle of watching their chosens figure it out for themselves – and yet there he had stood, watching for hours.

Despite her earlier warning, Marinette had hesitated to tell him to leave. Was still hesitating, much to Tikki’s frustration.

Tikki felt the air change as Marinette retreated to her room, a subtle shift unnoticeable to her human companion. As soon as the clasp was released, she flew into the air and turned to Marinette.

“You have to tell him to leave, before this goes on for any longer,” Tikki pleaded.

The blush that coated Marinette’s cheeks rivalled the bright shade of Tikki’s skin. “I’m trying!”

“You’re stalling. You have been for a fortnight.” Tikki sighed, rubbing her face and turning sympathetic eyes on her chosen. “I understand why you want to see the best in him, Marinette, but I’m trying to protect you.”

Marinette’s eyes dodged her own. “I know,” she whispered.

Tikki hated seeing her girl upset, but she would rather hurt Marinette now than see her destroyed later.

Marinette didn’t need to turn around to know he was there.

“You can’t keep coming here,” Marinette declared, sending a subtle look towards the fabric pile Tikki was hiding in.

“I don’t see what’s stopping me.”

“Maybe I don’t want you here.” Marinette spun around to face him, only to step back as she realised how close he had stepped.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them. His voice came out like a caress. “Really?”

His eyes were so green. Marinette blinked, ripping her gaze away. “Really.”

“And what if I don’t want to go?”

“Why do you even care?” She snapped. “Go annoy some other girl. Go follow her home and hang around like some mangy stray. Why me?” The wall at her back was a solid comfort.

As Chat stepped forward, his eyes flashed.

It wasn’t fair, Marinette thought, that he could stand there and look like that.

“Why me?” Marinette’s voice broke as she lifted her arms, hands in loose fists, and tried to push him away.

Chat caught her wrists in his hands and pinned them to the wall above her head. His gloved fingers were soft against her skin. His eyes flickered over her features.

“Why me?” Marinette breathed out.

His eyes locked onto hers. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know why.”

He was close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips. He could kiss her right then and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. But, despite his advantage, every muscle in his body was tense, hesitant.

He would pull away, she realized. If she struggled against him, he would let her go. He would leave her alone.

Slowly, deliberately, Marinette leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his.

His mouth was chaotic as it met hers. He kissed her like it was the last thing he would ever do. Clashing teeth and bruising lips and desperation – his kiss was pure instinct. Closing her eyes, she kissed back with equal enthusiasm.

When she strained forward, he pressed her against the wall and tightened his grip on her wrists. She wasn’t sure whether she would have punched him or pulled him closer, given the chance. She wondered how long he had wanted to kiss her, wondered how long she had wanted to kiss him.

He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. And then, abruptly, cold air assaulted Marinette as the warmth of his body disappeared.

Just as she hadn’t needed to see him to know he had arrived, she didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was gone.

Chat could hear her ragged breathing. The side of the house was freezing. The cold seeped through the leather of his suit and chilled his heated skin. He couldn’t dislodge the image of Marinette – lips bruised, eyelashes casting shadows across her flushed cheeks – from his mind. He heard her slide down to the floor. He could imagine her eyes, her blue blue eyes, wide as she pressed her fingers against her swollen lips.

He needed to leave. Before she got up to close the window. Before she found him there, only meters away as he caught his breath. Before he did something stupid.

Before he kissed her again.

Chapter Text

Chat heard the gentle trill of the chime above the door from across the street and peered over the ledge of the roof to watch as she pulled the door shut. With her back to him, he saw the way her spine tensed. She glanced over and for a split second their eyes met before he ducked down and ran his fingers across the bridge of his nose. The leather of his gloves chafed against the leather of his mask.

Careful not to disturb the still night, he crept over the rooftops, keeping her in his peripheral vision. Across the street he could see her doing the same, one hand on the strap of her bag. He couldn’t help but admire the silhouette she cast. He knew that despite her slim frame she could handle herself. He’d felt the gentle muscles of her arms, the quiet strength of her back.

When, at the next corner, a group of men stepped out of the shadows, she stiffened and he crept closer. Their voices drifted across the street, their words dulled into drunken slurs. The moment they sighted her, their voices grew taunting and amused. They turned and made their way down the same street as her.

Marinette’s eyes darted up to meet his and he crossed the street, dropping down beside her as she turned the next corner. Beside him, he could hear the tense pulse of her heart and see the nervous way her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her purse.

The sounds of the men drifted around the corner as they approached, and he turned, sending them the same predatory grin they were aiming at her. The men stopped walking. As he turned back around, Chat heard a beer bottle smash against the pavement.

The further they walked from the almost-confrontation, the further Marinette’s body language shifted. Instead of relaxing, it morphed into a different type of anxious. A streetlight lit up her face and revealed her blush. She seemed to be putting all of her focus into not looking in his direction. He should have been doing the same, but his eyes wandered back to the smooth outline of her face in the dark.

She had to know he was staring but she didn’t move away, didn’t tell him to leave. When they reached the edge of her street she turned to face him, the dark made her blue hair shine violet.

“It can’t happen again.” The fingers of her right hand had drifted up to press against her bottom lip. She blinked and pulled them away. “It’s not right. We shouldn’t even be talking to one another much less… It can’t happen again.”

“Okay.” He forced his eyes to remain on hers. “You’re working tomorrow, can I…?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. Then, “Yes.”

.

Marinette settled the mass of purple silk at the base of the table, carefully spreading out a few meters over the design room tabletop. Even with her staff discount she had barely been able to afford enough fabric to cover her latest design. She was hesitant to cut into it, pinning and re-pinning the pattern she’d made, making sure to use as much of the material as she could.

She knew she only had one shot to get the outfit perfect and there was a voice inside her mind over-analysing every step it would take to get there.

For the dozenth time, Marinette readjusted the fabric, making sure the centre-fold was exactly where it should be. Gently she pinned it in place and began to assemble her pattern pieces.

If not for the increased senses granted by her miraculous, Marinette wouldn’t have noticed Chloé’s smug laugh from across the room. She was on guard as the blonde walked over, a tub in her hands. She watched, aware but too late to prevent it as Chloé stumbled, her hands shooting up and releasing the container of fabric dye with a dramatic gasp.

The molten darkness rushed to cover the delicate purple fabric. Marinette desperately lifted her material, black already seeping into the lines of her palms and staining her skin.

Across the room, her classmates stood, their expressions torn between the horror of the act and the amusement of seeing it happen to someone else’s project.

“Oh my God,” Chloé exclaimed, “I am so sorry, Marinette. How clumsy of me.”

Marinette held the fabric to her chest, uncaring of the inky stain spreading to her own clothing. “You did that on purpose.”

“Huh.” Chloé tilted her head with a smug smile. “I actually think it looks better like that. Maybe I’m not sorry.”

In her purse she could feel Tikki’s anxious fluttering, a constant comfort. She took a breath, letting the oxygen linger in her lungs for a moment before releasing it.

“You know what, Chloé?” Marinette smoothed the material out, ink bleeding between her fingers. “You might be right, it does look better like this. Thank you for your help.”

Chloé scoffed, her face crumbling into a frown before picking back up into a glare. With a flick of her ponytail she turned and stalked back to her own table.

Marinette sighed, sitting down and beginning to think of ideas to fix her ruined project. She wanted to rant and scream and complain to someone about the unfairness of it all, wanted to call her best friend and forget Chloé existed for a few hours.

But the person in her mind who understood wasn’t Alya.

.

“You’re allowed to be attracted to him as well, Marinette.” Tikki hovered by the window, just out of sight to the rest of the world as she watched her chosen overthink.

“I’m not,” Marinette insisted, glaring at the faded pink of her bedroom wall.

“Not attracted to him, or not allowed to be?” Tikki asked.

“Both.”

“Marinette–”

“You were the one who told me to stay away.”

“I did say that. But… It’s always difficult to measure how much hatred within a dark Chat Noir is a result of Plagg’s influence, and how much was there to begin with.” Tikki’s hands fluttered around as she struggled to explain.” I was worried that he was one of the angry ones, the ones you can only hurt yourself trying to save, but I don’t believe he is.”

Marinette let out a groan, pitched high enough for Tikki to flinch at the sound, and pulled at her hair. “It doesn’t even matter because nothing’s happening, okay?”

Tikki didn’t need to draw on her magic to taste the lie in the air. A long moment passed in silence before Marinette’s face flushed red.

Burying her face in the couch she mumbled out, “He is my type, though. Hypothetically.”

Marinette breathed out a sigh, but Tikki could see her smiling against the fabric of the lounge. Tikki landed on Marinette’s hair, as gentle as a butterfly, and giggled.

“So… hypothetically?”

Marinette groaned into the couch but sat up and held out her hands for Tikki to sit and face her. Despite her grinding teeth, Marinette’s blue eyes were bright. Tikki had spent a lifetime learning how to read her chosens, understanding them inside and out. She was the Goddess of Creation and Luck, it was impossible to hide happiness from her keen eyes.

A blush spread across Marinette’s cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “Hypothetically, he’s attractive. And funny, in his own misguided way. And a great kisser. And blonde and– and bad. This is ridiculous, he’s bad, like Supervillain level bad. I’m not allowed to want this, you aren’t allowed to encourage this.”

“Aren’t allowed to encourage what?”

Tikki ducked into the pile of fabric that was steadily becoming her second home. Against the dark sky he wasn’t even a silhouette, just a pair of startling green eyes. Breath entered Marinette’s body in an audible gasp and Tikki watched as her chosen’s eyes caught on Chat Noir’s features, his bright eyes and sharp cheekbones and ruthless grin, before drifting across his leather covered chest.

She watched Marinette take in the man before her and knew that this wasn’t one of the times that she was going to be able to stop it.

.

Warm hands and soft lips and silken hair and hungry eyes.

Marinette shook off the memories. “What are you doing here? I told you–”

“Not to come here,” Chat finished. “And yet here I am, again.”

“Why are you here?”

Chat scrolled across her room, idly picking up and putting down magazines and knickknacks. He paused, seeming to study her pink lounge for a moment, before draping his long limbs across the fabric. Marinette waited, preparing for whatever he was planning, but he merely picked up an empty pin cushion and threw it up in the air above him, catching it as it fell back down.

After he’d repeated the action a few times, Marinette sat down at her desk, sending a look in Tikki’s direction before beginning to re-sketch the project Chloé had destroyed. She focused on the scratch of lead against paper, content to ignore the man on the other side of her room.

“So,” Chat’s voice broke the quiet, making her pencil skid across the paper, “why fashion?’

She looked up, but his attention remained on the pin cushion as he threw it up again. “Excuse me?”

“Fashion, designing, why’d you decide to enter into the most competitive market in the world?” One of Chat’s ears twitched to face her, the only sign he was paying attention, waiting for her answer.

“Why’d you decide to become a mass murderer? Less competition?” She retorted.

His ear flicked in annoyance. He tossed the cushion high enough that it bounced off the ceiling and landed back in his hands more forcefully.

Marinette removed the line she had made, gently brushing the eraser shavings to the side to throw away later. “When I was a child I used to decorate the cupcakes downstairs. But it wasn’t enough, so one day I went into my mother’s closet and cut up her favourite dress. It was a mess. I didn’t know how to use a needle, so I used tape, but it didn’t matter. She loved it anyway. She still has it, my first design.”

“How old were you?” Chat’s voice was bored, but his ear remained perked in her direction.

Marinette smiled. “Seven. She bought me a sewing machine the next day and my father taught me how to use it. She told me that one day I was going to be great.”

Chat was quiet for a long time, his face hidden by the back of the lounge. Marinette was half sure he had fallen asleep when he spoke again.

“Your mother was right.”

Marinette waited, expecting him to continue and, when he didn’t, turned back to her design with a smile at the corner of her mouth.

.

Marinette tapped the page, gently tracing the photo with her fingertip. She sat in the back corner of the classroom, facing the door, surrounded by her classmates. The other women in her design class pressed closer to her, attempting in vain to touch the magazine in her hands. Their laughter and murmured comments drifted out the open doorway, clearly audible from outside.

She had positioned herself in the perfect seat to watch as Chloé walked through the door and zeroed in on the group of gossipers. The Blonde’s body stiffened as she met Marinette’s eyes and the realisation of who was receiving such attention dawned on her.

“What are you losers looking at?” Chloé’s shrill voice cut through the crowd of girls surrounding Marinette. The women moved without needing to be touched or told; in the classroom, much like in the larger world, Chloé reigned.

“Just one of your designs, Chloé,” Marinette explained, challenging Chloé’s gaze as she remained seated.

After a moment, Chloé blinked, glancing between Marinette and their classmates. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” Marinette gasped, exaggeratedly pressing her palm against her heart “You don’t know?”

Chloé’s eyes were wide, eager pools of curiosity as they caught on the paper in Marinette’s hands. “One of my designs? Show me.”

Marinette held onto the magazine with both hands, letting Chloé tug at it for a moment before releasing her grip. The blonde stumbled back, clutching the magazine to her chest in victory.

“I told you my designs were better than yours, Marinette.” Chloé sneered, flicking through the glossy paper.

When Chloé’s face paled and her hands stilled, Marinette grinned. “What’s wrong, Chloé? Don’t you want to show everyone your amazing, magazine worthy design?”

Chloé’s fingers dug into the paper, her acrylic nails leaving indents in the page. Her eyes were wide as they darted from person to person, looking for an exit, for an excuse. The women in their class, so quick to pick the winning side, laughed at her frantic movements.

Chloé’s blue eyes were streaked with fear. “I… how did you–”

Marinette stepped forward and grabbed onto the magazine.

“Everything in your life comes with a price tag, Chloé. Bad things happen when you lose the receipt.” Marinette’s fingers tightened on the magazine, pulling Chloé off balance with the force of her hold. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll be here, digging through the trash to find them.”

Marinette abruptly let go and stepped back. Chloé stumbled, clutching the magazine like a lifeline as she fell. Instead of hitting the floor, she knocked into their design professor, Madame Delia. The older woman was quick to stabilise Chloé, and quicker to spot the magazine in her hands, open to the exact page of the stolen design.

Chloé eyes glared daggers in Marinette’s direction as Madame Delia wrote up the plagiarism paperwork.

.

She saw Chat hear it first, his body stiffening and ears flicking, but she wasn’t far behind. The bell of the bakery, an ordinary sound if not for the late hour, was followed by the quick pace of footsteps against the stairs.

The gait was familiar to Marinette, the unbalanced tilt of an alcohol fuelled body and the strong click of heeled shoes.

Alya.

“Mari–”

“You need to go,” Marinette insisted, cutting Chat’s sentence off. “Now.”

Chat moved with certainty, gathering the sketchbooks he had been browsing, piling them onto the table where he’d found them and moving to the window. There, he paused, his gaze lingering on Marinette as hers lingered back. He was the first to break, sending her a grin he stepped back and disappeared into the dark.

Marinette didn’t have time to reflect on the meaning of the moment. The door leading to her bedroom loft was groaning with the effort placed upon it.

“Mari! Come on, unlock the door, I don’t wanna wake up your parents,” Alya called out, barely quiet enough to count as anything other than shouting.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she reassured, rushing over to the door to unlock it.

When Alya pulled herself into the room, she stumbled, the first sign that it was one of her bad nights. Marinette steadied her, ignoring the rich scent of liquor wafting from Alya’s breath and leading her to the lounge.

Before she could sit her down, Alya twisted out of her grip and staggered across the room, pacing unsteadily. The sound of her heels against the floorboards and the harsh cut of her breathing loud against the quiet room.

“Alya?” Marinette asked.

“I didn’t even like alcohol before all this, you know that, right? You believe me, don’t you?” Alya prompted turning to Marinette, eyes wild, breath stale.

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“I wasn’t like this before, I promise.” Alya reached out and dug her fingers into Marinette’s shoulders, her hands shaking. “You know I wasn’t like this, right Marinette?”

Marinette gently peeled her friend’s fingers away, holding them tightly. “I know you weren’t, Alya. I believe you. I trust you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Nervous laughter bubbled up from Alya’s throat. “You haven’t seen it. You don’t know. You must be the only person in Paris not following her.”

Marinette’s breath caught in her lungs and she let go of Alya’s hands, moving to her computer and pulling up Chloé Bourgeois’ social media pages. And there, right at the top, surrounded by hazy bar lights and ravenous men and empty bottles of cheap beer was Alya. Her eyes fuzzy with intoxication, her belly just barely swollen from pregnancy.

Behind her, Alya choked out a laugh, wet enough that Marinette could already hear the sob that would follow. “It’s not true, Mari, I promise. I would never–”

“I know. I believe you.” Marinette was quick to reassure. “I know how much you wanted that baby, how much you loved them.”

But as Marinette’s eyes scanned the image looking for inconsistencies, her came to an impasse. If it were photoshop, it was very very good. Instantly her mind flooded with regret. She knew Alya, she knew Chloé – even if it was difficult to spot, she shouldn’t have any doubts about its unauthenticity. Below the photo, the caption caught her attention and erased her suspicions.

‘I suppose it was for the best. We don’t need any more drunken reporters wandering around and, as they say, like mother like child.’

“What if she’s right? I can’t even look after myself, Mari, how badly would I have screwed up a kid, a baby?”

“Shut up,” Marinette snapped. “No, don’t. Let me speak. You would have, you will be the best mother. Your little sisters adore you and we both know how much time you put into helping raise them. Are they screwed up?”

Alya frowned and, under Marinette’s prompting, admitted, “No.”

“No.” Marinette confirmed. “Because you are the most committed, brave, determined woman I have ever known. You are fearless and daring and confident, in your reporting and in the rest of your life. It scares the shit out of me sometimes, but when you decide to pursue something you don’t stop until you have it in your grasp. Motherhood isn’t going to be any different, I promise.”

“But,” Alya whispered, “what if it is? I can’t even… Nino wanted kids, his own kids not…”

“Nino will love your children, biological or not.”

Alya groaned, her eyes looking through Marinette, searching the room. “I need a drink,” she admitted.

Marinette hesitated, her mind warring between her instinct to protect and her fears of hurting Alya’s fragile stability. “There’s this group, they meet twice a week. I’ve been doing some research and I think…”

“You don’t think I’ve tried to stop? Tried to get over this without the smell of alcohol trailing after me everywhere I go like a fucking shadow? It’s just,” Alya ran the pad of her palm over her eyes and exhaled the air from her lungs like a drowning person giving up, “when I stop, everything comes rushing back. And it’s just, so much. I worry that one day it’s going to be too much to handle and I honestly don’t know what I’d do. So, I drink, and it stays far enough away that I don’t need to worry.”

Marinette let the silence thicken the air, her breath caught in her lungs. Because she understood, she knew what it was to have so much going wrong and to worry and worry and worry until it was easier just to stop.

“If this is what you need to do to get through this, then I don’t like it, but I understand.” Marinette gathered her best friend into her arms and held on until Alya slumped against her, tears staining Marinette’s shirt. “I’m here. I’m never going anywhere, okay?”

Alya’s voice was no more than a sniffle against the skin of Marinette’s neck. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

.

“Adrikins!” Chloé’s arms wrapped around his neck with more force than necessary. “It’s so good to see you! We never get to catch up anymore, it’s almost as if you’re avoiding me or something. How silly is that?’

“Chloé–”

“Guinevere is upstairs, you remember Guinevere, my beautician, right?” Chloé snatched one of his hands between her own, eyes narrowing as she studied it. “I’m in the middle of a manicure, you should totally join. Your nails could use a good buffing.”

Adrien noticed that the nails of one of her hands were a slightly lighter shade of pink than the others, not double coated yet. He pulled his hand away from hers.

“Chloé,” he repeated. “You need to delete the post.”

Chloé avoided his eyes, suddenly focused on her own nails. “What post would that be?”

“I’m not messing around, Chloé. The one about Alya, and the miscarriage. That was cruel, even for you.”

She scoffed. “Oh please, that post? That was a joke, obviously. It’s not my fault the girl is so damn sensitive.”

“Nino is my best friend, did you even consider how this would affect him?” He asked.

Chloé’s face fell as she reached out and clutched at his arm. “But Adrikins, I’m your best–”

“Chloé,” Adrien growled out, forcibly removing her grip, “take down the post.”

Chloé startled at his harsh tone and blinked, staring at him with a look he had seen often but never directed at him. Her eyes were calculated. “And if I don’t?”

Adrien let his mouth curve into a grin, not the one he was so well known for, but the one he reserved for the mask and the claws and the leather. “Oh, Chloé,” he purred, letting fury saturate his words, “we both know modelling isn’t the walk in the park that the world thinks it is. Do you really think that I managed to thrive in a world like that for so long without learning how to play dirty?”

.

Even without the mask, Adrien could smell things, hear things, see things that other couldn’t. From across the carpark he could smell the alcohol that stained Alya’s breath. She stumbled as she walked, hanging onto Nino one moment and pushing his hands away the next. He was used to seeing the worst in people rise to the top, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Especially when he could see the way Nino’s hands hovered inches away from Alya’s skin, willing to respect her boundaries but never stepping far enough away to let her fall.

Alya stumbled, pulling away from Nino and falling to her knees at the edge of the garden. Adrien’s noise scrunched at the acidic scent of bile and regurgitated liquor. He knew enough to know that Alya’s usual morning drink consisted of roasted coffee beans rather than the mess she was currently vomiting into the ferns.

Despite his advanced senses, it was Nino who noticed first when Alya’s heaves transitioned into sobs. In a heartbeat, the distraught woman was in his friend’s arms. Nino gathered her to himself with a reverence that Adrien was only just starting to understand.

Once Alya had been carefully settled into the passenger seat of Nino’s car and had drifted into a fitful sleep, Nino walked over and leaned heavily against the wall beside Adrien. Nino let out a sigh that seemed to draw out every last breath of air in his body.

“I’m sorry,” Adrien murmured. “I told her to take it down. She shouldn’t have… I’m sorry, I wish there was something more I could do to help.”

Adrien averted his eyes as Nino wiped at his eyes, dragging the edge of his shirt up to scrub away the moisture on his cheeks.

“Dude,” Nino said, his voice drained of emotion, “this is so fucked up. I know it doesn’t seem like it from the outside, but she was finally getting herself together. After yesterday… I don’t know, man. I’m worried about her. She blames herself. She thinks she took away my future and I’m worried that if she keeps going down this path she won’t be able to come back.”

Adrien turned to his best friend, the only person who had ever looked at him and seen Adrien rather than Adrien Agreste, Supermodel. “Tell me what you need.”

Nino’s eyes were haunted, his gaze trapped on the car a few meters away where Alya lay sleeping off the intoxication of the night before. When he finally faced him, Nino’s entire body went slack.

“Normalcy,” Nino decided. “I need you to order a pizza and beat me in every video game you own. I need to remember who I was before my whole world went to shit.”

“I can do that.”

.

Chat seemed more exhausted than usual when he crept down beside her for their midnight trip from Marinette’s work to her house. She watched him from her peripheral vision, confused by his sudden lack of energy.

“Your reporter friend, Alya, is she okay?”

Marinette’s gaze caught on the man beside her, waiting for his lips to curve up and reveal his insincerity. Instead, as he watched her with carefully genuine eyes, she realised that he was honestly asking about Alya, rather than using it against her. She was surprised by the way her heart jumped at the thought of him caring about her enough to ask about her best friend’s emotional state, surprised by how much she wanted this to be genuine concern and not another cruel trick.

“No,” she said cautiously. “But Chloé took down the post, so that’s a start. I’m not sure why, it isn’t like her to change her mind or retreat when she’s winning. I’m not complaining, but I would have liked the opportunity to punch her in her stupid, smug face. What do you think, could I still get away with it?”

Chat laughed, the sound was startling in its joylessness. “Knowing Chloé, you won’t have to wait very long for another opportunity to arise.”

“That’s probably true,” Marinette’s mouth drew into a frown. “What do you mean ‘knowing Chloé’?”

Chat’s eyes darted towards her, meeting her own for a split second before quickly retreating. It only took that brief second for Marinette to see the fear in his gaze. He rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms in the air above him in a lazy movement.

“Through what you’ve told me, I mean. Plus, Chloé Bourgeois isn’t exactly a nobody. Even I’ve noticed that she can be a bit of a…”

“Bitch.”

Chat sneered, his voice rough. “Yeah, a bitch.”

.

Chat watched as Marinette’s eyes flickered back towards the dark streets behind them. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky, and the closest streetlight sputtered a few hundred metres away. The sharp sound of glass colliding against concrete resounded from the dark streets, followed by drunken laughter. He could hear the alcohol sodden men’s heavy breathing from six blocks away. With a shiver, Marinette wrapped her arms around herself and stepped closer to her doorstep.

“Don’t worry, they know not to mess with what’s mine,” Chat reassured, where he stood between her and the dangers of the streets, as he had during the walk from the fabric store to her home.

Marinette’s body stilled, her attention shifting solely onto him. Her eyes were sharp; he could see the green glow of his own reflecting back at him in her pupils.

“What,” she said tersely, “did you just say?”

Chat stepped back, searching his mind for his fault but coming up blank.

“Would you rather they followed you home?” His cruel tone disguised the confusion lingering beneath. “I doubt you’d last long against them, as determined as you might be.”

Marinette’s scowl darkened, and she clutched the strap of her purse with both hands as if it were the only thing preventing her from lashing out at him. Chat stepped forward, reaching to place a hand on her shoulder. She stepped backwards, out of reach.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t… that wasn’t a threat. I’m not leaving you to deal with them alone. I’m not leaving you, okay?”

“Actually, you are.” At her words, Chat blinked but she continued before he could speak. “Get the fuck away from me. No more walking me home, no more showing up at my house. No more telling people not to mess with me.”

“Marinette–” Chat stepped forward to reach for her again.

She stepped backwards, her body nearly touching her front door. She should have looked vulnerable in that position, but she looked gloriously furious, a warrior Goddess. He didn’t understand what he’d done to earn her wrath.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed through her teeth. “I’m not your fucking pet, Chat Noir”

Chat blinked. “I… what?”

“Leave.”

Chat stepped back, hesitant to leave her alone even so close to her home, but her glare cut through the night, sharp enough to send warnings through his body.

He listened.

Chapter Text

The muted snip of fabric scissors against silk had always reminded Marinette of rain. The consistent, gentle rhythm of the sound comforted her, letting her mind drift away. She finished the cut and gently folded the fabric, setting it beneath the counter for her co-worker to restock the displays the next day. A woman lingered in the wool aisle, running her fingers along the pink and blue strands with the sort of reverence that came only with motherhood. Marinette straightened up when she approached the counter with a ball of pink wool in her hands.

“A girl?” Marinette asked, scanning the tag and bagging the wool. “That’ll be $3.50.”

Red crept across the woman’s face and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she pressed her debit card to the payment machine. “Wishful thinking, I guess. My wife wants it to be a surprise.”

“Well,” Marinette smiled, passing the bag of wool over, “good luck either way.”

She followed the woman to the door, wishing her goodnight before flipping the sign to closed. Marinette sighed and pressed her back against the cool glass of the window. Her mouth ached with the effort of holding a smile for the entire day and her feet had begun hurting hours ago.

Outside, the sun had long since set. She couldn’t help doing the calculations: how long it would take to walk home, how much work she still had to do for class, how many hours of sleep she’d be getting before waking up early for tomorrow’s lecture. Reluctantly, she pulled on her coat and shut off the lights, carefully exiting the store and double checking the locks behind her.

It was a beautiful night. Clouds had drifted to almost completely obscure the moon and if she focused enough she could just make out the glimmer of stars. Her mother used to tell her stories of her youth, of how she’d roam the quiet streets at night when she’d first moved to Paris. It was a world Marinette had never known, the fear of walking alone at night had been a part of her life for so long that it was ingrained in her bones.

Tikki’s constant, reassuring presence helped, but it wasn’t something a woman ever really forgot.

She was alone tonight, no trace of Chat’s presence lingering at the borders of the rooftops or around street corners. She walked quickly, consciously reminding herself that his absence was a positive thing.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, but the way he’d shown up at her window night after night and listened to her talk about fashion, the careful way he’d asked if Alya was alright, had let her believe, just for a moment, that he cared about her. That he was ordinary.

She should have recognised the warning signs. He’d gone against her wishes. He’d threatened her. But he also took the time to walk her home every night, to compliment her designs. Of course, he hadn’t done those things for free. She just hadn’t realised that she was the prize he had rewarded himself.

Mine, he’d said. Like she was a particularly nice china cup on display.

“Marinette? Are you okay?”

She startled, narrowly avoiding stumbling over the uneven sidewalk. At her hip, Tikki’s wide eyes watched her, edged with concern.

She evened her stride and smiled tightly down at the Kwami. “Of course, Tikki. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Tikki frowned. “Are you sure?”

Marinette was rescued from another lie by the vibration of her phone, loud against the quiet night air. Alya’s name blinked on the screen and when she clicked it a video began to play.

Music blared loud enough to echo down the street in the few seconds it took Marinette to force the volume down on her phone. Alya’s voice screamed into the microphone, words barely audible over the thrum of the music. It took her a moment to gather enough syllables to form actual words but she grinned through the struggle.

“Marien-, Mariene-,” Alya slurred, giggling as she butchered the name. “Mariiiii, you need to come down here. I need my, my wing-woman.” She lifted a brightly coloured drink into the frame and took a bit more than just a sip, her lipstick smudging against the glass. “The new bar near the coffee shop with the, uh, the coffee. Free drinks, babe. See you soon.” Alya’s laughter cut off and the silence of the street abruptly flooded back in as the video ended.

“Oh no, Alya doesn’t look very good. You should go help her, Marinette,” Tikki said.

Marinette looked up, catching a glance at the outside light of the bakery a block away. Exhaustion crept through her body, like her skin and muscles and veins were just extra padding for the lead weights that her bones had become. She’d washed her sheets that morning. Her bed would be soft and clean and smell like strawberries and there was nothing she wanted more than to collapse into her pillows and stop thinking.

“Marinette?” Tikki asked, flying up to meet her eyes.

Marinette reached her door and pulled out her keys, slipping inside and pressing her back heavily against the wood. She could feel a headache tugging at the back of her mind as a ghost drumbeat of the bar’s music replayed in her brain. She pulled up her messages and typed out the address of the bar, sending it to Nino with no additional explanation. He would understand.

“Not tonight, Tikki.”

Tikki’s eyes widened almost comically as she crossed her tiny arms across her body. “Marinette, she could get herself into trouble.”

Marinette dragged herself upstairs and changed into her pyjamas with mechanical movements. Tikki was speaking again, about responsibilities and heroism, but she let sleep pull her under the moment her head made contact with her pillow.

.

The sun was barely beginning its ascent as Chat Noir crept through the upper window of the Agreste mansion. He was aware of the ache and pull of every inch of his body as he strode across his bedroom into the adjoining bathroom.

Chat Noir yawned back at him in the mirror, teeth curving into the sharp points of his namesake. His green eyes were bright, cunning things – a vibrant contrast to the black leather of his suit and the silky golden strands of his hair.

Chat Noir was young and beautiful and dangerous.

“Plagg, Claws In.”

Adrien Agreste was a hollowed-out shadow of a man.

The sharp angles of his face – those that once had his likeness gracing every billboard in Paris – were touched by dark spots, like parts of his skull had begun to decay and left only empty caverns behind his skin. His eyes were sunken in, red-rimmed and bloodshot, more grey than green. His eyelashes lay limp and pale against his thin eyelids.

His hair stuck to his forehead in stringy, brittle strands, almost blending into the ashen tone of his skin. Across his nose and cheeks his skin flaked off in dry patches, not even a pimple blessed the pale expanse with a glimpse of colour.

He was like a living corpse, cursed to watch himself decay.

Eyedrops. Mascara. Colour-corrector and concealer. Foundation and highlighter and blush. Lip-balm and stain. Hair gel and curling wands. Powder. Setting spray.

What was left of Adrien Agreste opened his cosmetics cupboard, grabbed a brush and began to bring back a semblance of life, one layer of make-up at a time.

An Agreste much always look his best.

When he exited the bathroom, it was with golden skin and lively eyes and a bone-deep exhaustion. His father was waiting for him in his room, standing beside his bed with his hands folded neatly behind his back. NooRoo was perched just above his shoulder, hovering in the air nervously.

“Plagg, NooRoo, leave us,” Gabriel instructed.

Adrien kept his face impassive, even as Plagg sent him an encouraging look. The Kwami grimaced towards Gabriel’s back as he and his kin left the room.

“Father,” Adrien said after the silence dragged on. He wasn’t sure how to continue as he wasn’t too eager to somehow inadvertently earn his father’s ire.

“You have disappointed me,” his father said. His face remained impassive, something that he had perfected in recent years.

It was, perhaps, the worst thing his father could have said. Disappointing Gabriel Agreste was as good as a death sentence to anyone in the fashion industry’s career. For Adrien, it meant long weeks of silence and isolation. It meant hunger.

He wasn’t sure what it meant for Chat Noir.

“I apologise, Father. Is there anything I can do to improve?”

“You have failed, repeatedly, to gain access to Ladybug’s miraculous and have, more than once, gotten in the way of my Akumas. It is almost as if you don’t want me to succeed.” Gabriel paused, his gaze challenging. “Is that it, Adrien, do you wish to see me fail in my plans. What would your mother think of that, I wonder?”

Adrien flinched. He couldn’t help it, it was an entirely involuntary action. It was an undeclared rule of the Agreste household that any talk of Émile Agreste was strictly off-limits.

“Of course not, Father. I want Mother back just as much as you do, I promise. I will try harder.”

“I truly doubt that your devotion to Émile could match my own. Do better, Adrien, or I will take back your miraculous and give it to someone more deserving. “

She was my mother, Adrien wanted to snap back. Of course, I loved her.

He startled at his own thoughts, realising with a deep, unsettling dread that he’d started referring to his mother in the past tense. She wasn’t dead, he reminded himself. Even if it felt like it sometimes.

Maybe his father was right, maybe he didn’t love her enough.

Gabriel paused on his way out, still facing the doorway. “Do not forget the conditions of our deal, if I so wished it I could have you scheduled for a shoot within the hour.”

“Yes Father.”

When his father closed the door behind him, Adrien fell to the ground. His legs shook so badly that he was unable to get back to his feet, instead he pulled his knees up against his chest and buried his face against them. He felt like a child hiding in the comforting dark of his own lap, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

His body spasmed and his jeans grew wet as tears dripped down his face and splattered across the denim. He would need to redo his make-up before leaving the house, but he had no plans to leave the room while the sun still shone.

Panic had him in its grip and, as always, Adrien had no way to slip through its cold, unwavering fingers.

.

Marinette was curled up in the back corner of her University hall, half asleep as she waited out the hour and a half before her afternoon lecture. She absentmindedly drafted out a dress design, drawing out the lines of the outfit in confident strokes with a faint lead pencil. Music played softly from the earphones she was wearing, and it took her a moment to realise as she finished the scalloped hem of the dress pattern that she’d created a Ladybug inspired dress instead of the 1950’s dress she was intending.

She’d been on edge all week, waiting for Hawkmoth’s next move, anxious to see Chat Noir in person again, even if seeing him as Ladybug would be different to seeing him as Marinette. She hated that a part of her missed him, but it was almost lonely in her room without his constant annoyingly comforting presence.

But no, she was making a point. It was a good point, too. She deserved someone better than Chat Noir, someone decent, someone good even. Not that Chat was anything to her. Just a friend. Not even a friend. An acquaintance. An enemy?

She needed another nap.

She pulled out her phone to check the time when movement across the hall caught her attention. A dozen or so of the other people in the room had turned to look at the entrance and quickly turned back to their own little groups with laughter and badly hidden whispers. In the doorway, Alya adjusted her bag and stalked across the room. Although she must have noticed the stares, she made no move to acknowledge them.

Alya stopped in front of her, reached out and pulled the earphones from Marinette’s ears before the shorter girl had the chance to remove them herself.

“Alya,” she said, startled, “what’s wrong?”

Alya scoffed. “What’s wrong? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you can explain to me why my best friend left me alone to throw up in the middle of a bar last night? It went viral, you know.” At this, she blushed and her eyes darted to the side, where a group of girls around their age quickly hushed. “Where the fuck were you, Marinette?”

Marinette knew for a fact that Nino had picked Alya up from the bar at some point the night before, because there’d been a text message from him letting her know that he got Alya home safe when she woke up that morning. He hadn’t mentioned the public vomiting.

“I’m sorry, Alya. I was too tired after work, I crashed as soon as I got home. Nino picked you up though, right?”

“You’re my best friend, Mari,” Alya snapped. “I asked you to help me, that’s more important than sleep. As my bestie your main job is being there for me when I need it. Come on, girl. You really messed up last night.”

“I said I was sorry. I let Nino know where you were, I didn’t just leave you there.”

Around the hall, people were turning towards the two of them, interest spiking with Alya’s rising voice. Marinette hated the feel of their judgemental eyes on her skin.

“Oh, Nino, right. Thanks for throwing me under the bus with him. There’s a reason I texted you. Honestly, I thought you were smarter than that. If I’d wanted my boyfriend to come yell at me for being embarrassing, I’d have called him.”

Marinette grinded her teeth, resisting the urge to meet Alya’s raised voice with her own. “I did my best.”

“You abandoned me.”

Something snapped. She wasn’t sure if it was the pressure of the situation, with the dozens of eyes watching her every move, or the lack of proper sleep, or the way Alya was looking at her, with something akin to disgust. Marinette stood up to her full height and Alya stepped back at the sudden movement.

“No, actually, I didn’t. You texted me at 11pm after I’d just finished an 8-hour shift telling me that you’d see me at some random bar and expected me to drop everything to come hold your hair back over a toilet bowl. That’s not my job, Alya. It’s not Nino’s either.”

“But…”

“What happened to you was fucked up and if you want to go out every night and get wasted to cope with it, that’s your choice. But that comes with consequences and it’s not my job to protect you from them.”

Alya blinked at her, mouth opening and closing for a moment. “I, Mari–”

“Don’t,” Marinette snapped. She gathered her stuff together and stormed out, leaving Alya gaping behind her. She ditched her afternoon lecture, making a mental note to watch it online later.

It began to rain as she walked home, the hint of lightning crackling in the distance. Her cheeks were wet before the first of the raindrops fell.

.

Marinette’s phone buzzed itself to death. When the screen finally fell blank, she let out a sign of relief and sprawled out on her bed, listening to the drumming of the rain against the roof. It didn’t matter that Alya was probably calling to apologise, not when Marinette knew that it was bound to happen all over again in a few days or weeks. At least with Chloé she knew what to expect, the blonde had never presumed to be anything less than the bitch she presented herself as.

She knew she should get up, charge her phone and text Alya back. Finish her design project and hope Chloé wouldn’t find a way to ruin this one as well. But she was so tired. Of Alya, of Chloé, of somehow keeping up with the crazy standards everyone seemed so willing to heap onto her. A good girl, a helpful girl; sweet, selfless Marinette Dupain-Chang. That was her.

God forbid she ever did anything for herself.

Her window slid closed with an almost silent thud and when she got up to look there was a familiar silhouette in the dark. His hair was wet, stuck to the exposed skin of his forehead in dark blonde strands. Water ran down the sides of his mask in rivets, falling across those ridiculous cheekbones and off his jaw. Behind him, the storm had picked up. Lightning flashed and for a moment his skin was bleached bone-white, leaving him no more than a distortion of black and white, like static against the rest of the world.

But then colour returned, and he was real again. Too real – broken eyes and dangerous fingers and an almost palpable desperation. How was it that he could be chaos personified and still so damn real at the same time?

He turned those eyes on her and whispered her name.

She was so sick of giving and giving and giving and giving.

“Shut up.” Marinette stalked across the room and dug her fingers into his shoulders, almost shaking him with the effort. “Just, shut up. I don’t want to have to think for five fucking seconds.”

His hair was wet when she slid her fingers between the strands, but his lips were warm.

.

Marinette’s fingers burned against his scalp. Not the sharp pain of sewing pins or the numb burn of a hair straightener too close to his ear or forehead, but a sort of senselessly pleasant burn. Like burning your tongue on hot chocolate.

It took him a moment too long to realise that she’d pressed her mouth against his. She wasn’t kissing him exactly, just pressing lips against lips, so utterly still that it felt like he could feel every bone in her body stiffening all at once.

He could feel her heart beating wildly where it pressed against his own chest and was sure that she could feel his matching it beat for beat. Slowly, he reached around and curled his hands across her back, making certain to prevent the razers edge of his claws from digging into the delicate fabric of her shirt. He relaxed, just the smallest shifting of his stance, hunching over slightly to the point of letting his lips drag against hers more easily, and let out a breath. Marinette seemed to absorb the breath right from his lungs.

And then she was kissing him properly.

She kissed him recklessly, as if she were filling him with every sliver of longing she had ever experienced in her life. It was a letting go. Chat recognised it, knew it intimately. He’d seen the way others looked at her, like she was somehow above them in purity and needed to be calm and collected and full of answers.

She dragged him lower, refusing to shift onto her toes. He let her, opening his mouth to her, letting her have as much of him as she wanted. He hoped she wanted all of it.

She kissed like she designed, with everything she had to give. If she minded the rain sticking to his hair and running down the suit, she made no mention of it. She stepped backwards, pulling him along with her and he opened his eyes in surprise.

The storm had cast strange shadows across the room, the almost endless lightning making the artificial lighting of Marinette’s room appear dimmer in comparison. Marinette looked ethereal, like something that was never meant to be touched by mortal hands. He let her lead him to the lounge and press him into the soft cushions.

She settled in his lap with more confidence than he’d ever seen her display, before pausing and looking at him. She studied him for a long moment and he worried that she was going to pull away, but there was an eagerness in her eyes that surprised him. He’d seen that same look when she was creating something new, that hunger for success.

Finally, she leant down to kiss him again and he let his eyes fall closed. Long, drawn out kisses, almost gentle if not for the edge of desperation sharpening her teeth against his tongue. Her fingers never left his hair, twisting the strands around and around, tugging lightly to shift his head into better angles at times.

He kissed her back reverently, exactly how he’d wanted to for weeks. Every night he spent with her he couldn’t help but recall the feeling of her lips against his. It was almost too easy to drop the pretence in his own mind that he was spending time watching Marinette sew and draw and work out of a detached curiosity.

Marinette sighed against his lips, face so close to his own that he could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin.

A loud thud from directly below them sounded, followed by the low murmur of her parents’ voices. Marinette jumped back and was across the room in seconds.

“Mari?” he asked, quietly sitting up.

Her eyes flicked back to him and he watched as the barriers shut back down. Gone was the girl who he’d been kissing for the past ten minutes, in her place was someone who hadn’t forgotten who and what he was. Someone who hadn’t spoken to him in over a week.

“Get out,” she spat, avoiding his gaze. “That never should have… just leave.”

Chat could still taste Marinette on his lips, still feel her fingers in his hair. “I don’t understand. Why do you hate me so much, what did I do?”

“Now, Chat. Get. Out.”

“Marinette, please,” Chat whispered, voice hoarse from her kisses.

Marinette’s gaze flickered up to meet his for a moment. Whatever she found there seemed to convince her of his genuine confusion.

“That night last week, you said that I was yours.”

He rolled her words around his mouth. The idea tasted almost as good as Marinette’s kisses.

His. Mine mine mine.

He hated how much the idea thrilled him.

Marinette’s eyes remained focused firmly on his chest no matter how hard he tried to reach them. “The way you spoke about me, it was like I was a pet or a toy or, or…”

Or a possession.

The world blurred for a moment and air caught somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. His words turned sour on his tongue; It was no longer his own voice whispering them in his mind, but his father’s.

The idea wasn’t thrilling, it was horrifying.

“I didn’t… Marinette, please look at me.”

She closed her eyes for a second before looking up, as if steeling herself up for the confrontation, reminding herself not to flinch away. He knew that feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, the disquiet that settled there like grease. He’d promised himself years ago that he would never cause someone else to feel that way and he’d gone and done it to Marinette. Marinette who saw him. Who used to, at least.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, to physically ground his words, but he’d already crossed too many boundaries with her. He refused to cross any more. Instead, he settled for softening his gaze, letting Adrien seep through.

“You are not any of those things,” Chat promised. “You are no one’s property. Not mine, not anyone’s. I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like that. It was never, ever my intention.”

Marinette hesitated, her eyes flicking to the window and out towards the street for a moment. “You killed those men last week because they tried to follow me home.”

Chat paused just long enough for tendrils of doubt to creep into Marinette’s eyes. She was scared of him, of what he’d done. Of what he would do next. The right thing to do would be to encourage that fear. To push her away.

But it was Marinette.

“You weren’t there that night,” Chat replied.

Marinette stiffened, her cheeks flushing. “Are you saying it’s my fault? Because I stood you up? You don’t get to put that on me, Chat.”

“You weren’t there,” Chat repeated calmly. “So they chose someone else to follow home. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen, a tiny little thing. It was raining and she didn’t have an umbrella. They offered to share theirs with her. When she turned them down… I guess they decided that they weren’t satisfied with her answer.”

Marinette flinched and for a moment she wasn’t standing before him, safe and beautifully dishevelled from his kisses, but in that alley, her clothes soaked through with rain, dirty fingers touching her skin.

“I killed them because they tried to hurt someone. I would do it again.”

Marinette’s eyes were unfocused as she stared through him. Chat’s anxiety flickered to life as she remained unmoving aside from the shadows cast from the rain moving across her face in a mockery of his own mask. Something shifted in her expression, subtle enough that he almost blamed it on the shadows, and her eyes cleared.

Her irises were more black than blue when they met his. “Good.”

“Are you going to let me stay?” Chat asked, falling short of the light tone he’d aimed for and letting some of his desperation slip out with the syllables.

Marinette’s eyes flickered to his lips, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her own kiss-bruised mouth. “Yes.”

She turned her back on his grin and moved across the room to her desk, putting her sewing machine between them and pulling out a piece of fabric and a threaded needle.

Chat let her have her space as she began to hand-sew the project, draping his body over the back of the lounge and watching her work. Her fingers moved in familiar, repetitive movements, precise in every stitch, even as her eyes drifted to focus on him every few seconds.

“What did you not want to think about?” He asked after a moment of companionable silence.

Aside from the faint stiffening of Marinette’s body, she did a good job of acting unaffected by the question. “Hmm?”

“When you kissed me. You said you didn’t want to think anymore, What about?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Chat watched her fingers tremble, messing up a stitch.

Instead of reaching for the seam ripper she laid down the fabric and turned to him. “Why did you come here tonight, Chat? I told you to stay away.”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious and he found the truth leaking out of his mouth without thought. “I had a fight with my father.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. “Why come here, though?”

Chat shrugged, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. “I like it here. It’s warm.”

He didn’t mean physically. Marinette’s house was a place so full of love that sometimes he felt like he could feel it against his skin. He remembered the bakery from his time as her classmate, full of fresh bread and pastries, Marinette’s parents always ready to hand out a few extra for free. He hadn’t been close to her then, too preoccupied with his own problems to give much notice to the girl sitting behind him, but even then she’d been warm.

“Tell me about the fight.”

Marinette had completely abandoned her sewing in favour of focusing her full attention on him. The warmth in her eyes was just shy of suffocating.

“I used to work for my father, I still do I guess. But that other job was different – harder. I didn’t like it very much and he knew that, but I was good at it so for a long time he convinced me to keep doing it.”

“But?” Marinette prompted after a moment of silence.

Chat signed and ran his fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the leather ears on his head. “But he thinks I’m not doing a good enough job with the new work and said that if I don’t improve he’ll force me back into the old job. Which I, I just can’t. I can’t go back to that.”

Chat slid his hands down to cover his eyes, rubbing at them through the mask and wishing he was out of costume so that he could rub them properly. Soft hands brushed against his face and he almost jumped as Marinette took his hands in her own. She’d moved across the room to settle beside him on the lounge. He tried not to read too much into the way her leg pressed against his or the gentle movements her fingers were making on his gloved palms.

“Okay,” she said calmly, “you need to improve in your new job so he doesn’t make you go back to the old one. Let’s brainstorm ways you can do better.”

Her hands were so much smaller than his, almost comical against his palms. She looked at him with a sort of unrestrained belief that he could find a solution – that they could find a solution – that he’d never experienced before.

“I don’t know that I can. I’ve been trying for two years and I haven’t been able to unlock anything new in a long time. He figured out how to do everything in a few months and all I do is brake things.”

“That’s not true,” Marinette insisted. “I’m sure that whatever it is he wants you to do, you’ll find a way.”

Chat laughed, a dark bitter thing. “The only thing he wants is for me to defeat Ladybug and take her miraculous, but my father knows that we’re too evenly matched for that to happen. I’m not sure what he expects me to do.”

Marinette dropped his hands and took a breath that seemed to get caught in her throat. “Your father knows you’re Chat Noir? He knows you’re working with Hawkmoth?”

“Marinette,” Chat said gently, “My father is Hawkmoth.”