Chapter Text
There was a heavy uneasiness weaving through the streets of Paris. It wasn’t caused by the summer heat or the chatter of the markets. Rather, it was the whispers and unrest between the people in light of a new discovery--soldiers were gathering in the city and nobody knew why. They could guess, of course. Revolution was a topic on everyone’s mind. It was hard to escape it, which was why Marinette and Alya were taking it head on. They had a plan, but it certainly took a toll as they walked down the street, wilting from the July heat.
“Lord, the summer sun truly has no mercy,” Alya sighed, fanning herself with her free hand. The two walked arm in arm, avoiding carriages and crates as they strolled. It was late afternoon, and the sun had yet to release the city from its heatwave.
“At least you color rather than burn,” Marinette chuckled, sweeping the strands too short for her updo off of her neck.
“True, mademoiselle freckle and blush.” Alya laughed and bumped her hip into Marinette's, which almost sent them sprawling when Marinette tripped over her skirt. They giggled and swung over closer to the residences as they headed down a side street.
"So what gossip do you think we will discover today?" Marinette mused. "The soldiers are new. I wonder if much word has spread about them."
They veered to the right, their destination only a few houses down. Alya hummed in response, idly patting her arm. "If anyone will know anything it's her. We'll find out soon enough."
Stepping up together, they paused on the stoop of Madame Chamack's house to knock. A maid answered moments later, and welcomed them into the house with familiarity. They were a frequent visitor of the madame, could practically lead themselves to the parlour, but the ladies let the maid lead.
“Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng and Mademoiselle Cesaire have arrived, madame.”
Nadine Chamack, skin freshly powdered and hair elegantly curled in a stylish updo, had on a deep blue frock that day, and Marinette itched with questions on who had done the embroidery. She refrained from her curiosity in order to focus on their true goal in their visit.
“Ladies,” Madame Chamack said cheerfully, “I have so much gossip to share you will be positively glued to your seats. Sit down, please.”
They thanked the maid and took their seats, reaching for their beverages out of pure habit. The room lifted their teacups to take a sip as they watched the maid leave. Privacy was key in their exchange, and Madame Chamack motioned for Marinette to lock the door.
“This old house and its stuck doors,” the madame joked. “So indulge me first, ladies. How has the publication been?”
Marinette and Alya exchanged matching grins, eager to freely share their secret lives. Around eight months ago they had realized the talent they had at inspiring the people of France through writing and art. Alya could write a rousing pamphlet filled with sharp analysis and witty retorts, and Marinette’s comics were hilariously charming and dead-on in their satire. The two became a fearsome publishing duo that fought for revolution, and they invented fake names for themselves to hide from the king. Marinette had chosen Ladybug after a childhood nickname--it had been given to her by a loyal customer of the bakery so long ago she could not remember the day it was created. All she remembered was the lady’s golden hair and warm hugs as she called Marinette her good luck charm. Alya, the better scholar of the two, had once read of a goddess of creation and was fascinated by the story. She could not remember the exact name of the goddess, and came up with what she could: Tikki. And thus the revolutionary duo took flight after they dressed as young men and gave all of their savings to a publisher willing to print their pamphlets, Common Justice .
They had even earned a benefactor, a mysterious person called Chat Noir, after their first publication. His messenger would deliver the man a note with their intended amount of prints and then send back a letter with money. Every pamphlet since had been paid for from that person’s wallet. But lately things had been quieter in the country, and they were lacking content to publish. Thus, a visit to the local gossip--a spy who knew all--was due.
“It has been truly satisfying,” Alya shared. “We have received hundreds of positive responses in the last month alone. Common Justice is a constant topic in the coffee shops.”
Marinette hummed in agreement, taking a sip of her tea. “It has been slow in news for the past week. We are lacking inspiration and hoping you have some information of interest to the public.”
“Well, you two certainly do have luck in timing.” The madame grinned over the rim of her cup, but did not seem overly excited to share.
“Oh?” Alya asked as the duo exchanged worried glances. “What have you heard?”
Madame Chamack set her teacup down softly and sighed. “Jacques Necker was dismissed yesterday.”
Alya choked on her tea while Marinette blanched.
“Surely you’re joking,” Marinette finally managed to voice. “He was scheduled to appeal to the court for more Third Estate delegates to represent the common class…”
“Which means speaking for the people cost him his job,” Alya finished. “The king has gone too far.”
Her words settled over the room like a fog, forcing them to still, until Madame Chamack finally stood up to fetch the tea kettle. She refilled their cups as she spoke. “The news has already spread, but it has yet to reach the whole city. I wouldn’t be surprised if this serves as the final call to action.”
Marinette pinched the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, rubbing it as she thought. The image of King Louis XVI, head dramatically enlarged with false privilege and greed, threatening a justified, common man sketched itself in her mind. “Which means we should publish a response as soon as possible.”
Alya hummed in agreement. Her face was tilted towards the window, staring out at the people walking the streets. “Our readers would expect no less from Ladybug and Tikki.”
“The young never take a break do they?” The woman smiled at them as she settled back into her chair, drawing her arm across her eyes. “Just looking at you two exhausts me.”
“Youth can only be enjoyed once, madame. We should take advantage while we can,” Marinette joked.
“But time is precious, and I believe we should start discussing our next edition as soon as possible,” Alya said before she downed her tea in one gulp. “I apologize for our brief visit, but duty calls.”
“I understand completely.” Madame Chamack rose with them and walked over to the door, unlocking it and peering out. She then stood aside to let them through. “I wish you luck in all of your endeavours, ladies. Please don’t hesitate to call again if you need help.”
Marinette grasped her hand before moving away, and inclined her head. “We’re in your debt, Madame Chamack. Thank you for everything.”
The woman waved them off with a smile as Alya quickly pecked her on the cheek. They hurried from the residence, and walked out into the street at a brisk pace.
“We’ll stop by my home for the food and then use our picnic for planning,” Marinette plotted. “Changing our plans suddenly could be suspicious.”
“Agreed.”
Soon enough they were crashing through the back door of the Dupain-Cheng home into an abandoned kitchen that was sometimes used for the larger commissions for their tailor shop. Baking did not hold much value in their current economy, so the family had been forced to switch shop. A basket sat on the table ready for them, but Marinette’s parents must have been upstairs beginning their own dinner.
“Mama! Papa!” Marinette yelled. “We’re early and leaving for the park now.”
Her mother’s voice drifted down, still calm and pleasant even as a shout. “Enjoy yourself, girls. Find some shelter from the sun.”
Marinette yelled up a quick goodbye as Alya grabbed the basket and hustled them out the door. The park was a block away, and it was early enough in the evening that only a small amount of people were lounging around, which was perfect for the two. They needed a lot of time to scheme their response to this new development.
“Lord, how I have missed your father’s bread,” Alya breathed, and she pushed aside the cheese in favor of the loaf.
“Happy to help,” Marinette giggled. “Now to help me--what horrid animal should I compare the king to this time?”
Alya nodded enthusiastically, but struggled to speak around the hunk of bread she had devoured. “Excellent question.” She took a few seconds to chew more. “And I believe a devious spider would be especially grotesque.”
Marinette wrinkled her nose at the image forming in her head, almost dreading the details it would need. “Grotesque indeed.”
That sent Alya off into a tangent about how a spider had assaulted her just last week, and Marinette nodded while letting her mind wander. Alya apparently did not remember she had already told her the story. So she took a moment to survey the park, one of her favorite spots in all of Paris. It was especially colorful this time of year as the blooms had yet to wilt and dry in the summer sun. When was the last time Marinette had sat in the park and admired the flowers? Being a high risk revolutionary was enjoyable and exciting, but sometimes Marinette wondered what her life would have been if they lived in peaceful times.
Maybe if revolution and war weren’t taking over the economy, there would be more room for art; for bold, new fashion and inspired paintings. Perhaps they had missed the emergence of a great artist in favor of a raising a soldier. Marinette liked to think sometimes that could be her in another life. Her comics required some talent and artistic style, but it was not her true passion in the arts. The common did not require the grand fashion she dreamed of creating.
Instead her life was one of justice and paranoia. Marinette knew it was for the right cause, and it did inspire passion in her work, but sometimes she grew tired of it all. And she feared she was the only one who felt that way. She tuned back in to Alya who had already moved on from spiders to muttering about her column ideas.
“We, the people,” she murmered, picking apart her bread, “have been robbed of the rights one brave man would have fought to grant. Jacques Necker stood in our place before King Louis XVI…”
“Hey, Alya?” Marinette interjected.
Alya popped some food into her mouth and cocked her head, still staring down at the grass. “Hm?”
“Have you ever wondered...well, wondered if we--” Marinette cut off as a shout echoed around the area, and the girls jumped in response. They both looked towards the source, a man running into the park who seemed vaguely familiar.
The girls saw Nino, the mysterious messenger of Chat Noir, about once a month. They suspected he spied on the house because he only knocked when Alya and Marinette were both planning in the back room of the Dupain-Cheng residence. The exchange was always the same. Nino would greet them, hand the letter to Alya with a flourish, smile at Marinette, and leave with a, “See you ladies next month.”
To witness him running towards them, no package in hand, was certainly a strange sight. The large man beside him who looked almost scarily grim did nothing to help her nerves. They came to a rather abrupt, frighteningly close halt next to their blanket, and Nino doubled over immediately.
“Mademoiselle Cesaire… Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng… you need to come with me,” he gasped, one hand patting his chest as he coughed. His companion, stoic and glaring, looked between the two girls.
“Bonjour, Ladybug. Tikki.”
There was no escaping or doubting that they had misheard him as he looked them each in the eye after acknowledging their respective pseudonyms. Marinette gripped her skirts in alarm, her arms suddenly chilled and dotted with goosebumps. Where could they run? Could they even outrun the two men? Her eyes shifted over at the threat of movement as Alya slowly reached for their basket. A diversion--perfect.
“Ivan, could you be a little less intimidating?” Long, dark fingers closed over Alya’s on the basket handle. “Please, let us explain. We’re here to help.”
“Help?” Alya hissed, tugging her hand free. “How does revealing our identities help us in any form?”
“Because I’m not the only one who will know soon. Your publisher ratted you out for money,” Ivan remarked. “Warrants for your arrest will be spread by the end of the afternoon.”
He said it so calmly, as if this wasn’t their worst nightmare coming to life. Anything other than those words coming from some stranger's mouth would be better. Marinette would have even taken an announcement of the king appointing a jester as his successor. Words that didn’t involve her or her double life were all she wanted right now because without a doubt this meant death for the both of them. It had always been a risk, but it was always so far away from their reach. Now fate was advancing and all Marinette had to defend herself with was a croissant.
Marinette blindly searched for Alya's hand as she stared at the blanket. They found each other, and Alya held tight.
"We… family in the country. They could hide us until we figure something out…" Alya mumbled.
Dark trousers filled the corner of her vision, and she looked up to see Nino kneeling, his smile saddened by his brows. "We have a safe house ready for each of you if you are willing."
"Each?" Marinette said, managing to catch that even through her shock. "Not both?"
"It's safer if we split you up," Ivan said, his stance looking stiffer as he surveyed the area. "If one of you gets found we can only hope the other gets away."
As much as she hated it, it made sense. Hiding one girl was easier than hiding two, and one mistake would bring only half of the duo down. Marinette may have been known for her luck, but for once she wished it on Alya. France could survive with one less artist--but Alya's passion and prose could never be recreated.
"No."
Marinette jerked to the side as Alya yanked her hand, bringing her into her embrace. With nowhere to go, Marinette rested her head on Alya’s shoulder.
"We need to stay together," Alya demanded. "What if a soldier catches Marinette? Who will be there to defend her? We cannot depend on some strangers who--"
"Pardon, mademoiselle," Nino interrupted, "but you do know the man who arranged your safe houses."
"We… do?" Alya and Marinette exchanged confused glances. What man knew of their work other than their bastard publisher? ...A man who they paid through a benefactor.
"Chat Noir," Marinette breathed, looking up at Nino. He nodded. "How do we know we can trust him?"
Nino snorted. "Money and loyalty, for two reasons. Chat Noir could have paid the publisher directly yet he chose to give you the money. It was a test of sorts. You passed, thus he continues to sponsor your work solely. Plus, we did not sell you ladies out for coins like your darling publisher." He shrugged. "In simple terms, we are your only chance of escaping alive."
"You're a confident bastard," Alya grumbled.
He grinned and stood to bow with an exaggerated hand flourish, his trademark for the two. Or, well, Alya mostly, Marinette thought smugly. He never searched for one last gaze at Marinette’s face when he was leaving.
"Pleased to be of service. And now, ladies, we need to begin our escape."
"Soldiers are stationed down the block," Ivan said from behind her. Marinette flinched in surprise. How had such a large man moved without her noticing? "Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, follow me."
He helped her to her feet as Nino did the same for Alya. The two girls clutched at each other before they could be torn apart, and Alya stroked her hair.
"We will be together soon. Be strong."
Marinette nodded, swallowing back her sadness, and kissed her cheek. "Be careful."
They separated, and Ivan instantly warned her that their journey would be short but risky with the guards everywhere. They moved through small alleys and hid behind carts at almost every turn. Once again Marinette wondered at the increase of security--surely this could not all be in response to Necker’s dismissal. Or did the king truly fear the power of the people, especially after one of their key allies had been pushed aside? Marinette was deep in thought, musing over the actions of the king, and finally looked up as they rounded upon a large estate. Instinct was to dive aside and hide since these were the rich, the people loyal to the king, but Ivan walked straight towards it.
It was impossible--why was Ivan taking her to a mansion? The rich supported the king and spit on people like her. But then again, how could Chat Noir afford to support their work? She supposed it was possible for one of the bourgeoisie to be sympathetic… but it still made her anxious.
"Ivan," she hissed. "You are positive this is my safe house?"
His lips pulled up into a surprising smile for the grim young man. "Positive, Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng." He knocked on the back door, three rapid taps. It swung open to reveal a blonde, polished young man who locked onto her immediately. His burning, emerald eyes swept up and down her body, lingering at her eyes as she stared back. Whatever he was looking for must have satisfied him as he shifted to look at Ivan.
"Any trouble?" he asked, shoulders slumping as he exhaled deeply.
The two conversed as Marinette stared, eyes locked onto a face that was much too aged and thin. She remembered rosy skin and round cheeks, hair constantly brushed to the side by the delicate, loving fingers of his mother.
"Adrien Agreste," she said. He stopped mid-sentence, and his wide eyes shifted to her. Marinette took a step forward and lifted her hands to cup his cheeks, thumbs tracing the dark circles under his eyes. "Have you been reading late again?"
His cheeks puckered under her hands as he smiled. "Hello, Marinette."
She mirrored his smile and moved her hands to his shoulders, bringing him to her. "Hello, Adrien."
Adrien had barely moved his arms to hug her back before Ivan was pushing them through the doorway.
“Less hugs, more hiding. It was a pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng. Stay safe.”
“Wait, I need to--”
Marinette turned with just enough time to catch his wink before he turned and hurried back down the alley.
“...Thank you.” She sighed. Another reminder of how her life was changing too quickly for her to even manage a voice in it all. Alya was most likely itching to take control of their situation in any way she could. Marinette, however, had no idea what to do at this point--especially with a new twist thrown into the disaster.
“Marinette?” There was a tentative brush against her palm, but it hastily retreated. She looked back and caught his hand in hers just like they had done as children. There was no time for her to care about etiquette. All she could do was inhale, exhale, and tighten her hold on one of the only things holding her to reality.
Adrien was watching her, lips thin as they pressed together, so she gave him a lackluster smile. The best she could manage in that moment. “Where am I to stay?”
“Oh,” he breathed. “Of course. Right this way.”
He tugged her hand, leading her, and Marinette almost pulled her hand back out of instinct alone--she had been blindly following far too much today. Instead she let her body go numb and relax. If anything, she was truly in a safe place if Adrien was there to aid her. He pulled her through an empty kitchen, up a narrow staircase, and dropped her hand to open a ceiling hatch in a small hallway.
“I’ve made an escape through the attic,” he explained before dragging a bucket closer and using it as a stepping stool. His arm dangled down from the ceiling as he urged her to copy his actions. The bucket was stable but cheap from the looks of it, so Marinette stepped gingerly. Once they were both seated on the rather dusty but spacious floor, Adrien communicated by his hands to follow him. One more hatch removed and Marinette carefully lowered herself onto a gleaming, ivory dresser.
“Heavens,” she breathed as she stepped down onto the marble floor. The room gleamed of ivory and gold and riches that her family could only dream about. Honey colored silk draped from the canopy over the bed, and drew Marinette closer. She gasped at the feel of it between her fingers, smoothing over every callus and scar.
“The dresses I could sew with this…” The fabric stitched itself in her mind as she dreamed, formings skirts and lines of perfect embroidery. A hand on her back brought her back to the room, and she looked over to see Adrien smiling at her.
“It would be my pleasure to buy more,” he said. “For something to work on while you’re in hiding.”
Marinette had known the temptation of wishing for luxury all her life, but never had it been close enough for her to actually touch. Yet still, she would not ask more from her newly reunited friend.
“You were always offering to buy me gifts,” she giggled, and dropped the fabric so she could pat his cheek. “Still as kind as ever.”
Adrien closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, so she let her hand linger. As a noble she knew he was well-fed and well-protected… but she wondered if he was well-loved. The words said about his father had not always been positive.
“Anything for my little bug,” he muttered. Marinette flushed at the old nickname--it was so different coming from an older, mature Adrien. Instinct had her flinching away, but she regretted it as the warmth from his skin quickly seeped out of her fingers.
“Flattery does nothing, Adri,” she returned. Both nicknames had originated from his late mother, and that fact seemed to catch up with their situation all at once. Adrien’s face sagged under the sadness that consumed his disposition as he withdrew to sit over in the room’s parlour area.
Marinette’s parents had not hidden the difficulty of their favorite customer’s sudden and violent illness from her as well as they had thought. They meant well with their secrets and whispers, but they had not been very effective. Madame Agreste had died after a painful bout of pneumonia, and young Marinette had wept for her friend and his mother who had not deserved such a death. If she had ever been subject to such a time of watching her parent die like that… Marinette could not even dream it.
"So… how do you know Chat Noir?" she tried for a subject change.
That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Adrien curled over, covered his face with his hands, and released a long, tired sigh. Then he moved again, fingers massaging his forehead as he continued to stare forward.
"I don't want to lie to you anymore, Marinette."
She recalled the days after the funeral, how he had wandered into her district, unsure where the Dupain-Chengs were without his mother's guidance, just to clutch her hand and promise that he would still visit her. He had never come again, and she had expected as much with his father in charge.
“I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.” The footrest in front of his chair was small but plush, and she did her best to balance as she sat down. Their boundaries had broken the moment she hugged him and he clung back. Marinette felt no embarrassment as she took his hands in hers, drawing them away from his face where his skin reddened from the rubbing. “You’’ll wrinkle your pretty skin,” she joked.
Adrien stared at their hands, seeming too distracted to respond.
“Do you....” he cut off, his eyes flickering up her face for a moment before continuing, “The stuffed animal you made me… do you remember it?”
It had been her first attempt at a sewing project that wasn’t a dress. Marinette had spent weeks gathering feathers to stuff it, and even then the whole doll was barely as big as her head. It had been modeled after a cat, just like the ones that roamed around the bakery, and Adrien had mocked it for resembling a cow.
Marinette giggled at the memory. “Of course I do. You claimed it a cow rather than cat, and then dropped it in the soot. You looked close to tears as you apologized and I just teased you that you were just as unlucky… as a black cat.”
She had been flexing her fingers, watching their hands move together, but squeezed his hand in surprise as it hit her.
“You’re Chat Noir.”