Chapter Text
The fromagerie on Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare had been passed down to Jacques by his father. Despite all the protests he had made in his youth, once he had fulfilled his dream of travelling across Europe and finally returned to Paris to settle down, he had taken over the shop with a pride and affection he could never have imagined back then. Now, while his father enjoyed the quiet of his days in Normandy, Jacques ran the perpetually bustling little fromagerie with the same deep fondness that had always drawn him back to it, a place forever crowded with both tourists and Parisians.
Just as it was today.
Jacques's shop was hardly large enough to begin with, and he and Inès, his young assistant, hurried from one end of the cramped little space to the other, weaving around one another and trying not to step on each other's toes as they struggled to keep up with the group of tourists filling the shop.
When the akuma alert sounded on his phone, Jacques had been preparing to cut a piece of the Bleu d’Achel for the tourists, who were eyeing the cheese with worried expressions, reassuring them that they needn’t be frightened by its appearance and that its mild saltiness and creamy texture were well worth a taste. He hardly needed to look at the warning flashing across his screen. The sounds rising from the far end of the street—the screams, the hurried footsteps, the people fleeing past the shop outside—told him everything he needed to know.
The akuma attack was dangerously close. Jacques and Inès exchanged a quick glance. Then they both nodded.
While Inès explained what was happening in her careful, fluent English, her gentle voice urging the tourists to remain calm, Jacques cleared a space behind the counter and ushered them there one by one, keeping them away from the windows and the glass storefront.
“Don’t worry,” Inès assured them. “Ladybug will take care of this very soon, and everything will be all right. There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Despite Jacques’s instructions to keep their heads down, one of the young women among the tourists lifted her eyes just high enough above the counter to peer curiously toward the glass door. A young man had buried his face against his knees, trembling as he struggled to steady his breathing. Inès placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“I thought I could handle this,” he admitted in English. “God, it never looked this terrifying in the videos.”
Jacques glanced down at his phone, scrolling through the notifications on the Ladyblog. A few followers had already begun posting blurry photographs to the akuma-sighting page, and the latest one had unmistakably been taken at the four-way intersection beneath the traffic lights at the end of their street. Reading the caption, Jacques lifted his phone for the younger tourists to see, hoping to give them something to hold on to.
“Ladybug and Chat Noir are on the scene. They’re dealing with the akuma. Everything will be back to normal soon, so don’t be afraid.”
“All we have to do is stay calm, keep out of sight, and stay away from the windows,” Inès said, nodding in agreement with Jacques.
Although the occasional sound of shattering glass, screams, and violent collisions still echoed from outside, ten minutes passed without anything crashing through their windows or bursting into the shop. Little by little, the tourists began to settle, their frightened breaths gradually giving way to deeper, steadier ones.
Jacques was still checking the latest updates on his phone, so at first, he didn’t understand what had happened.
A tremendous crash jolted everyone crouched behind the glass counter. The red-haired girl let out a small scream and clapped her hands over her ears, while the others ducked their heads as low as they could. For a moment, no one dared to move.
Then, realizing that their doors had not shattered and that they were not under attack, Jacques gestured for everyone to remain still before cautiously lifting his head to see what had happened.
Raising himself just high enough to peer over the counter, he saw through the glass of the door and the display window that the asphalt just beyond the pavement in front of the shop had been torn apart, thin trails of smoke still curling from the wreckage.
“What on earth was that?” asked the young woman who appeared to be the calmest of the tourists, she was a girl in her early twenties with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“I don’t know,” Jacques murmured, and some inexplicable instinct stirred within him, urging him to rise to his feet.
“Mr. Rousseau, what are you doing?” Inès asked from where she remained crouched, but Jacques kept his eyes fixed on the door as he began making his way toward it in cautious, measured steps. He wasn't entirely sure himself why he was doing it. He knew he should stay where he was, out of sight, and ignore whatever was happening outside. He should keep his head down, concentrate on his breathing, and wait for Ladybug’s magic to restore the city once the danger had passed. And yet, some quiet instinct was pulling him toward the door. Unwilling to let him go alone, Inès sprang to her feet and hurried after him. Jacques gestured for her to stay back, then bent toward the display window and carefully peered outside.
He was just about to say that there was nothing out there when something black suddenly slammed against the glass of the shop door. The red-haired girl screamed from behind the counter, while Inès recoiled, instinctively reaching out with her right hand as if to pull Jacques back. Jacques, however, stood frozen. Only when the alarm bells blaring inside his mind finally began to quiet did he realize what the black shape was.
A gloved hand.
The glove was made of some strange material, its fingers ending in long, claw-like tips.
“That’s Chat Noir,” Jacques said, utterly bewildered. Inès whipped her head toward him so quickly that loose strands escaped from her hastily gathered hair and drifted through the air.
“What?”
“Chat Noir,” Jacques repeated, and somehow, the recognition seemed to bring his entire mind back into focus. He reached for the shop door and yanked it open. With the hand that had been braced against the glass suddenly losing its support, the black-clad figure kneeling just outside lost his balance and pitched forward, collapsing at Jacques’s feet.
“Chat Noir, oh my God, are you all right?”
At the sound of Inès’s worried voice, Jacques immediately crouched down and slipped his arms beneath the young blond’s, helping him to his feet. Chat Noir could barely remain upright without support; his steel-tipped boots buckled sideways beneath him, his feet slipping out from under him with every unsteady movement. His tousled blond hair was even more disheveled than usual, and soot, dirt, and shallow scratches marred his face. He looked utterly wrecked, hurt, exhausted, drained of whatever strength he had left.
And so very small. Almost impossibly small in the arms of Jacques’s broad frame.
“Cheese,” he whimpered, the word barely more than a breath; soft, faint, and hoarse. Inès and Jacques exchanged a bewildered glance.
“Yes,” Jacques answered, instinctively slipping into the gentlest, most grounding dad voice he could muster. “This is a cheese shop.”
“Good.” Chat Noir let out a deep breath that sounded almost pained. “I need cheese.”
“I don’t think he’s quite himself,” Inès whispered to Jacques as she moved around to their other side, bending slightly to get a better look at Chat Noir. “Do you need cheese in the middle of an akuma attack?”
The tourists hiding behind the counter began to raise their heads, reassured by the almost absurd normalcy of the conversation that they were not, in fact, in immediate danger. One by one, curious eyes appeared above the counter, fixed upon a figure they had previously seen only from a distance in videos and news reports. But the guy standing inside the little fromagerie looked nothing like the hero they knew from their screens—the agile, fearless Chat Noir who bounded from rooftop to rooftop at astonishing speed, always wearing that confident, almost challenging grin.
This Chat Noir looked very different. Very hurt, and very fragile.
“Is that really him?” the young man who had been on the verge of tears only moments ago asked, his voice carrying an almost judgmental note of disbelief. Jacques paid him no mind, continuing to keep Chat Noir upright as best he could.
“Maybe we should lay him down,” Inès suggested, and Jacques nodded.
“Cheese,” Chat Noir whimpered again as they laid him down.
“God, he must have hit his head pretty badly,” Inès murmured.
“Everything is going to be all right, Chat Noir. Don’t worry,” Jacques said, doing his best to keep his voice calm. For a moment, his eyes drifted toward the phone lying on the counter. How was Ladybug doing on her own? If her partner was in this condition… God. Did she even know what had happened to him?
A sudden, startling strength in Chat Noir’s grip tore Jacques from his thoughts. He flinched and looked down at the hand clutched around his arm. The claws of the glove were digging into his shirt, yet Chat Noir seemed utterly unaware of it. When Jacques looked back at his face, he froze. He had expected to find some haze in those unnaturally vivid green eyes, some dullness brought on by a head injury. Instead, they were bright, burning with an almost feverish intensity. And the look in them stopped Jacques cold. It was raw. Desperate. Almost wild.
“Please.” Chat Noir’s voice was barely more than a breath. “I need cheese.”
In the silence that followed, born from Jacques’s stunned stillness, the tourists held their breath as they watched. Inès looked to Jacques, waiting for him to tell them what they were supposed to do. Then, in the midst of that silence, a sharp beep sounded.
Everyone flinched— everyone except Chat Noir.
He let out a frustrated little sound and tried to push himself upright, but Jacques placed a hand on his shoulder, gently attempting to ease him back down.
“Chat Noir, you’re in no condition—”
“Please, I…” Chat’s voice turned almost plaintive as he looked up at Jacques with pleading eyes. “I’m about to lose my transformation,” he finally whispered.
Inès was the only one close enough to hear him. The moment she did, a startled gasp escaped her lips. The moment the words sank in, something in Jacques’s expression changed. Determination settled across his features, and he gave a firm nod. He placed his hand over Chat Noir’s where it still clutched his arm.
“What do you need? Is there a particular kind of cheese?”
“I…” Chat Noir blinked, seeming faintly reassured by Jacques’s response. “Camembert would be good. The better the quality, the better.” Then he lifted his head to look at Jacques. “I swear I’ll pay you—”
“Shh.” Jacques gently silenced him, then glanced over his shoulder at Inès and nodded toward the shelves. “Bring me some Moulin de Carel.”
“Just a small piece is enough,” Chat murmured, his head falling wearily back. “And… and something to cover my face, please.”
“And bring the blanket from the back,” he called to Inès. “The one we keep for Cécile.”
“Got it,” Inès replied with determination, immediately setting herself to the task. Satisfied, as far as he could be in his present state, with the response he'd received, Chat Noir let his head loll to the side, strands of blond hair brushing against Jacques's knees.
“Don’t close your eyes, Chat Noir,” Jacques said gently, brushing a hand against the blond’s cheek. “Inès is bringing your cheese. You’re going to eat it, so you need to stay awake.”
“Not for me,” Chat murmured. Jacques didn’t understand what he meant, but before he could ask, Inès appeared at his side. She had Cécile’s blanket tucked under one arm and, in the other hand, a thick, creamy piece of Camembert resting on a napkin.
“What do we do?” Inès asked. Jacques looked down at Chat Noir, waiting for an answer, but the young hero looked as though he was slipping away from consciousness. Another sharp beep sounded. Jacques couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from, but he could hear the urgency in it.
“Give me the blanket.” He took it from Inès and quickly spread it over Chat Noir, covering him from the waist up and completely concealing his face. At that very moment, a flash of green light erupted, flooding the entire shop and momentarily blinding them all.
For one suspended moment, the shop fell into a deathly silence, everyone frozen in place.
At last, Jacques slowly lowered his gaze to the figure lying on the floor beneath the blanket. At first, nothing seemed to have changed. The entire upper half of the body was concealed, not even a single strand of Chat Noir’s hair visible beneath the fabric. But then his eyes drifted lower. His breath caught. Jeans. Chat Noir was wearing jeans. And on his feet was an expensive pair of sneakers, the kind Jacques saw on teenagers around this part of Paris all the time.
“This is a child.” Jacques and Inès had been so absorbed in what lay before them that they had forgotten they had an audience. They both startled and turned toward the counter. The brown-haired tourist with the ponytail was peering over it at them, now standing with both hands braced against the counter as she leaned forward, curiosity written plainly across her face. When she caught Jacques and Inès looking at her, she raised her eyebrows. “I’m not imagining this, am I? That’s a kid. He has to be in high school.”
Jacques’s expression hardened. He straightened his shoulders protectively and fixed the tourist with a cold, unwavering stare.
“That is Chat Noir, the superhero of Paris. And what happened in this shop today stays in this shop,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to hear about it on the news.”
The young woman flinched, instinctively drawing back, but nodded. A groan from beneath the blanket drew Jacques’s attention back down.
“You’d better have brought us to a good fromagerie, kid,” a voice said from beneath the fabric. Jacques and Inès startled and exchanged a look. “Absorbing that much damage isn’t exactly easy.”
They could hear Chat Noir’s faint groan from beneath the blanket, but no reply came from him. Inès was still standing there, the piece of Camembert resting on a napkin in her hand.
“Where’s my cheese?” the new voice demanded. “If you don’t give me a nice slice of Camembert right now, I’ll curse you all for a hundred years… or something like that. You know. God stuff.”
With trembling hands, Inès quickly crouched down, awkward and uncertain, staring at the blanket as though it might suddenly tell her what to do. Was she supposed to lift it? And what would happen if she did?
“And you’d better not look at the kid’s face, or you’ll have my wraith to deal with.”
“They’re good people,” they heard Chat Noir say, his voice softer now than it had been before. “Don’t threaten them.”
“I’m trying to protect your identity, kid,” the other voice replied. “Lift the blanket just a little. And no peeking, remember, or I’ll destroy you. Put the cheese there, then cover him back up.”
“Okay,” Inès replied, her voice a little too loud, betraying her nerves. With a trembling hand, she lifted the blanket just enough to slip the cheese underneath. “Is this good?”
“Good.” That was the only answer she received from the mysterious voice. Inès dropped the blanket back into place so quickly it was as though it had burned her hand.
For a moment, they simply stood there in silence, accompanied only by the faint sounds of chewing coming from beneath the blanket.
Jacques’s eyes remained fixed on those sneakers. Because no matter what he had told the tourist girl, he knew she was right.
Whatever magic gave Chat Noir and Ladybug their powers, it must have woven some kind of illusion around them, something that made their ages impossible to discern. In three years, Jacques had never once stopped to wonder how old either of them actually was. They had simply appeared in Paris one day and, somehow, had become fixtures of the city, as though they had always belonged to its rooftops. Distant, mysterious figures who seemed to exist somewhere above the ordinary lives of everyone below.
The very idea of them having an age felt strange.
But now the magic had receded. The illusion had broken. And what remained beneath it was unmistakably human. A young man.
The girl had been right.
Chat Noir wasn’t even an adult. Not by the looks of him.
God.
If they had been fighting for three years, how old had they been when they first decided to put themselves between this city and its monsters? And how had they managed to endure it for so long? Jacques was a father. He couldn't stop the protective instinct spreading through his chest, warm and fierce and almost painful in its intensity.
It was ridiculous, perhaps. These children had been doing this for three years. They were damn good at it. They were clearly capable, powerful, frighteningly competent. And together, Ladybug and Chat Noir worked like they had been made for one another.
And yet Jacques couldn't shake the terrible urge to keep this boy right where he was—to lock the shop door, keep him safely beneath that blanket, and somehow prevent him from walking back outside to face that akuma.
“I’m good, kid,” the second voice said. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”
Jacques opened his mouth, half-prepared to object, but no words came. He simply sat there, caught between the instinct to stop him and the knowledge that he had no right to.
“I’m ready.” Chat Noir’s voice sounded steadier now, more like himself. “Let’s go help Ladybug. Transform me, Plagg.”
Plagg.
What a strange name. For whatever that thing was.
The same green light that had flooded the shop moments ago engulfed it once more, forcing Jacques to squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them again, spots danced across his vision. He blinked rapidly, waiting for his sight to clear, just in time to see Chat Noir push the blanket aside and sit up.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Inès asked, her voice still threaded with concern.
“Yes,” Chat Noir replied, sounding much more alive now. When Jacques finally looked at him properly, he realized that he did, in fact, seem better. His hair appeared to have settled back into place, and the terrible pain that had twisted his features earlier was gone. Still, when he rose to his feet, it was obvious he was favoring one ankle.
“Thank you for the cheese,” he said gratefully. “I feel much better now that my transformation is stronger again. I owe you one.” Then, with sudden earnestness, he added: “And I will pay for the cheese.”
“If you did that, Chat Noir,” Jacques said, a gentle, heartfelt, almost fatherly smile softening his face, “how would we ever repay you for everything you’ve done for us these past three years?”
Chat Noir looked genuinely startled by the answer. His eyes widened, and for a moment he simply stared at Jacques without saying a word. Jacques found himself wondering, suddenly, how this boy saw himself.
For three years, while the entire city chanted Ladybug’s name, Chat Noir had remained in her shadow, like the black cat he was, as though it were the natural place for him to stand, quietly accepting all the glory that passed him by, his own name and reputation never quite receiving the same light.
Was he simply not used to being thanked?
The thought broke something inside Jacques. Three years of working for this city, thanklessly. And now that Jacques had some sense of his age, it was as though the illusion had shattered completely. Chat Noir no longer looked like the distant, smug, larger-than-life hero who belonged to Paris’s rooftops.
He looked so young. So small. So unbearably innocent. That fierce urge to keep him here, safe inside the shop, rose in Jacques’s chest once more. He swallowed it down.
At last, Chat Noir smiled and gave them a small nod.
“Thank you again. But I have to go.”
He reached behind him for his staff and turned toward the door, but Inès suddenly stepped forward and caught him by the arm. For a moment, she seemed just as startled by her own action as Chat Noir was. Her eyes dropped to where her hand had closed around his arm before she slowly looked up into his eyes.
“Ah… well… just… please be careful.”
Chat Noir blinked at her, as though he needed a moment to understand what she meant. Then that familiar Chat Noir smile spread across his face. That smug, self-assured grin, the one that seemed almost impossibly different from the exhausted, pained boy who had been lying on their floor only moments ago, and yet was somehow unmistakably the same.
He winked at Inès.
“Of course.”
The moment she released him, he pushed open the door.
“Goodbye,” he called, almost as an afterthought, before leaping away.
And just like that, he was gone—back among the rooftops, back where he belonged—leaving them behind in the quiet little shop.
For a moment, everyone simply stood where they were.
The girl with the ponytail was still leaning against the counter, her friends remaining exactly where they had been sitting. Inès was still beside Jacques as he slowly straightened from the floor.
For another long moment, Jacques simply stared at the door Chat Noir had disappeared through. No one seemed to know what to say. Or what they were supposed to do now. The battle must have moved farther down the street, because the sounds of it had faded until they were barely audible. Then, a few minutes later, the entire street was bathed in a soft pink light.
The asphalt Chat Noir had crashed into moments earlier shimmered, fractured pieces sliding back into place as though time itself were being rewound, until the road was once again perfectly smooth.
Ladybug and Chat Noir did it again, Jacques thought. And for some reason, for the first time, the thought filled his heart with pride.
He finally turned back toward his customers. The ponytailed girl was still staring out through the shop, her mouth hanging open as she watched the street restore itself as though nothing had ever happened.
“Well, then,” Jacques said, clapping his hands together. Everyone startled and finally seemed to remember themselves, turning toward him. Jacques gave them the most polite smile his father had ever taught him. “Are you guys ready to give the Bleu d’Achel a chance?”
The tourists could only nod dumbly.
“Wonderful!” Jacques returned to his place behind the counter as they began to gather themselves. Because he was a cheesemonger. And because Paris, no matter what happened to it, had always known how to find its way back to normal. Two extraordinary superheroes were out there, throwing themselves into danger with everything they had to protect this city. The least the people of Paris could do in return was live.
To carry on. To keep their streets standing, their shops open, their cafés full, their laughter alive, to keep Paris exactly what it had always been: stubbornly, beautifully, vibrantly alive.
Perhaps that was how they could repay their sacrifices.
By making sure there was always a Paris worth saving.
The next morning, hanging in the window of the small, old-fashioned fromagerie on Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare, a white sign bore a message in thick black letters:
“Camembert for Chat Noir, always available!”