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Chapter Text

Marinette knows she could have it so much better, but that doesn’t seem all that much of a problem when she has a smile on her face, a charm in her pocket, and a seemingly undefeatable sense of optimism.

Adrien knows he could have it so much worse, but that doesn’t seem all that much of a consolation when he hears his mother’s sickly cough in the secluded rooms, and his father’s harsh voice at the council meetings he is forced to attend.

***

She loves her city, maybe more than anything. Marinette is in love with the smell of baking bread and strange perfumes from the street markets that spring up overnight, and she is in love with the twinkling of the streetlamps all across the skyline when the sun hides her face under the horizon, and she is in love with the mood of enchantment and delight that wafts through the air whenever she is allowed out.

Usually, this is to help with Chloè’s shopping. She likes to take the carriage out once every few weeks, Marinette trailing after her and carrying the majority of the hat boxes, bags of clothing, and other miscellaneous items.

But any opportunity to get into the streets? To see the sights, smell the scents, drink it all in with starving senses? Marinette will snatch it with both hands.

However, such a day has only just passed, a few days ago. She knows she won’t get a chance for another week, at least.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marinette tells the spider spinning a web in the corner of her cracked windowsill. “You’ll be able to see me, once I go out. I’ll wave to you. Chloè has a carriage, but I ride out with the coachman if I can.”

The spider doesn’t answer. Marinette watches it amusedly, just grateful for a few moments to rest her aching legs. She’s been up since five, since the cook of the Bourgeois household quit a few days ago, and Marinette’s taken on her jobs as well as the household tasks she has to complete. It won’t be for too long. It’ll be just until Mayor Bourgeois has time in his busy socialite schedule to pencil in interviews for the cook. (Or maybe, says the tiny pessimist on her shoulder, Maybe you’ll just have to do it forever. Would that really be so astonishing?)

Unconsciously, Marinette’s slender fingers rise to her cheek, trimmed nails prodding at the red, ring-shaped welt there.

Mayor Bourgeois has a habit of wearing heavy jewellery on his fingers, signet rings and gifts from wealthy associates, and Marinette often doesn’t see them coming until it’s too late to duck.

Would it be shocking, Marinette, that Mayor Bourgeois and that daughter of his, would ever do anything cruel for the sake of being cruel? Would it really?

She has chores to do. Better do those, then, before the Mayor or Chloè or someone becomes too angry and begins throwing things. (Marinette’s been there, done that, got the novelty glass-vase-shaped cuts on the pads of her fingers. That had made Chloè’s breakfast pretty hard to prepare, for a while.)

“Bye,” she tells the spider.

It continues to spin, content, totally unaware of its companion’s owes.

Marinette smiles at it anyway, and smooths over the blanket on the mattress, lying on the floor next to the window in the tiny attic room. Slovenliness leads to worse sins, Mayor Bourgeois is fond of saying, and Marinette can’t risk a surprise inspection of her living quarters.

Yet -

Hah! The Mayor should see his daughter’s room, sometimes, if that’s the case.

But no, that’s unfair. Is it? Yes.

Marinette pushes uncharitable thoughts out of her head. It’s not fair to Chloè that her father can sometimes be unreasonable, right? Just as it’s not fair to judge Mayor Bourgeois based on his opinions about tidy rooms. He's obviously the Mayor for a reason, after all, and the way he runs his household is his business and nobody else's.

The Marinette in her head makes a disgusted little tutting sound and turns her back.

Marinette ignores her.

Watch the Bourgeois household wake from sleep.

First to rise was Marinette, almost three hours ago, and she’s got the hot breakfast pastries cooling on a rack on the kitchen table, ready for Chloè to call for them. Flour covers her face and hands, making her pale, sun-starved skin even whiter. She wipes her hands on her apron pocket, then smooths out her dull brown dress. It’s one of her most prized possessions, save the two earrings saved from the fire that killed both her parents. She yawns, covering her mouth with her hand, then tugs tighter on two red ribbons, frayed and tatty after years of constant use. They hold her black hair, so black it’s almost blue, into two neat ponytails.

Second to rise are the other servants, although the Bourgeois house is so notorious, only the stuffy housekeeper and the tiny, scurrying pot-maid remain. Both of them are terrified of each other and the family of the house.

They don’t pay Marinette any attention.

Nobody does unless they need a scapegoat, and then Marinette is the first they turn to.

She knocks on Chloè’s door, then hurriedly slides to one side as the white handle turns and a sharp-heeled shoe comes flying out. Marinette’s often been at the receiving end of Chloè’s early morning temper tantrums.

“Chloè? I brought you breakfast,” Marinette calls into the room, still staying away from the door until she gets the all-clear.

The pair of the shoe is thrown, too. Marinette thanks her lucky stars she’s still behind the door. “Come on in, then, so long as the croissants are almond,” calls Chloè from inside the room.

Marinette hopes wildly that there are no more shoes to hand, coming in with the breakfast tray held in prominent view as a peace treaty. “Good morning, Chloè. Sleep well?” She asks, unfolding the stilts and slipping the tray on Chloè’s lap. The blonde girl glares at her, her stare piercing daggers into Marinette.

She doesn’t answer, just begins ripping at the croissant.

Marinette takes this as a sign to back out, and does so with great relief. Nothing’s gone wrong and she’s survived the morning without much physical injury at all, save a few burns from the oven when she was taking out the jam puffs.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” she says in parting shot, and escapes just in time to hear another sharp-heeled stiletto thud against the wooden door.

The last person to wake is Mayor Bourgeois, who often isn’t home. If he isn't out at official meetings, he's at functions and balls - Marinette has been adopted by one of the most wealthy, influential men in Paris, as the Mayor and a prolific charity figure - the master of the house spends the nights at other houses if he thinks money or power will come of the evening.

No. Marinette’s being perfectly unfair again.

It’s always nicer on the days Mayor Bourgeois isn’t home. The air is less tense. Marinette can sometimes get a break. On rare, rare, days, the Mayor takes Chloè with him, and then Marinette can sneak into the daughter’s room and sneak a slip of chocolate or a sip of rich cordial drink.

But, unfortunately, both are in today.

Marinette doesn’t put together a tray. Mayor Bourgeois likes sweet liqueur for breakfast, a bite of a sandwich for lunch, and then goes out to drink bubbling champagne and finger food for dinner. In fact, when she was younger, Marinette half-thought that her adoptive father - her carer - was some sort of magic man, to be able to live on such rich food and air.

Even then, the ugly truth was exposed. Young Marinette was just too naive to see it.

She retrieves the coal bucket from the closet and knocks tentatively on the door. Mayor Bourgeois can’t stand to be too cold - doctor's orders to deal with hia congestion - and the consequences for not keeping the fire are… too harsh to not see that the coal is piled on and the flames crackle merrily.

“Who is that?”

“Mar-Marinette,” Marinette calls, ashamed of the way her voice trips. Over her own name. She takes a deep breath, knuckles white on the handle of the coal bucket, and twists the doorknob.

Mayor Bourgeois is in his burgundy dressing gown, his moustache freshly waxed, ready for tonight’s hob-nobbing with the finest society France has to offer. His fat fingers encircle a square of chocolate, swallowing it in two neat bites. His blue eyes appraise Marinette - he is every inch her daughter’s father.

“Good morning, Marinette.”

“Morning,” Marinette says, too quick and too blunt, already kneeling on the hard marble and picking up lumps of coal in trembling fingers. Mayor Bourgeois scares her like no-one should be able to, and that fact alone keeps the pessimistic Mari in her head alive and well.

“Oh, Marinette,” drawls the Mayor, sarcastic and disappointed and so very superior, “What did we say about full sentences? You’ll never join my office if you don’t make an effort.”

“Sorry. Good morning, Mayor Bourgeois,” Marinette corrects herself. She hates how the Mayor dangles the opportunity of high society in front of her nose, a carrot to a starved donkey. In truth, all Marinette wants to do is wear the dresses she draws in chalk on the floorboards of her attic room, and twirl around the dancefloor to feel like a princess for half an hour. But she knows that’s too much to ask.

“And how was your night?”

“Pleasant, thank you,” Marinette says. She lets the silence linger too long before saying, “And yours, sir?”

“I feel it will be advantageous to my re-election this year, yes,” Mayor Bourgeois says loftily. Marinette doesn’t have to turn around to know that he'll be stroking his wobbling chins with one hand in a parody of thoughtfulness, the other hand scrabbling for more chocolates.

They speak no more.

Marinette works in silence, interrupted only by the sounds of the chocolates rustling in the wrapping paper. Mayor Bourgeois is in a good mood today - that’s good. That’s… better. Better than yesterday was.

Everyday will be better. It will.

That thought keeps Marinette growing and going as her fingers tremble in exhaustion over the last lump of coal, as her eyes burn when the dust stings them. But the fire is built, here it is, and Mayor Bourgeois hasn’t said anything negative. Maybe he met someone particularly well connected last night.

Maybe.

“I’ll return in a few hours to rebuild,” Marinette promises, dusting her hands on her faded apron front and lifting the considerably lighter coal bucket with both hands. Relief in a job well done raises her head, lifts her lips in the tiniest of smiles, ceases the tremble in her hands just a little.

She’s passing the bed when, quick as a flash, Mayor Bourgeois whips his hand from out of the chocolate box and clamps his fingers around Marinette’s wrist. The girl winces and jumps, the coal bucket falling from her hands and spilling all over the marble floor of the Mayor's bedroom. Mayor Bourgeois shakes his head a little, and tightens his grip; his nails are surprisingly sharp. They press into Marinette’s skin, hard enough that five thin crescent moons of blood stand starkly against Marinette’s pale skin. “That was clumsy,” the Mayor says in the voice of a God talking to a mouse.

“Sorry!” Marinette squeaks. “I’ll go get the mop!”

“You had better.” Mayor Bourgeois stands up and brushes the coal dust off his dressing gown. “I only stopped you to tell you that you could come with Chloè and I to the ball tonight at the Baux’s summer mansion, but with all this extra work… I doubt you’ll have the time."

How can someone so powerful be like this?

“I’m sorry. I’ll get it cleaned up,” Marinette says. She wants to wipe her wrist, feeling a little rivulet of blood running down her skin and into her palm.

“Thank you, Marinette,” Mayor Bourgeois says unconcernedly and loosening his grip just a slight amount.

Marinette flushes hotly and snatches her wrist back from the Mayor as soon as she can. This is no more than manipulation; of course Mayor Bourgeois would never let her go. It’s just to be cruel.

Is it really? What if this was your chance?

Biting her lip furiously, Marinette tells herself to shut up and goes to find the mop and a bucket of soapy water.

***

He loves his city, perhaps more than anything except his mother. Adrien could spend hours in his carriage with the windows spread open to take in the sights and smells and noises, or up on his balcony balanced on the railing to watch the oil lamps twinkle under the soft glow of the moon.

Paris is beautiful at night.

Sometimes, on nights when the moon is full and his mind is too treacherous for him to dare to fall asleep, Adrien will lie against the cool wall of the balcony, his legs dangling over the railing, watching the high society travelling to and from their balls and functions, and wish he could be as lithe and stealthy as the alley cats that perch on the roofs, so he could drop down onto the carriages and just get outside this stuffy court for once.

“Stay still, come on,” Nino grunts irritably at him, jabbing Adrien’s side with a tailor pin.

“Sorry, sorry,” Adrien says, keeping his arms wide while his friend, the tailor’s apprentice, pokes and prods at his body.

He needs a new suit befitting of a prince for the royal ball later on in the month, the one that will decide his whole future, and apparently the decision to make a new suit has sent the tailoring community into uproar. All of them bowed and pulled except Nino and Alya, two travelling tailors working mostly for the working classes, and Adrien experienced a thrill of rebellion when he accepted those two over the most aristocratic of tailors.

“Alya’s working the stall, today,” Nino continues in a conversational tone of voice. “She keeps hanging around, waiting for some girl she wants to befriend.”

Adrien chuckles. Alya’s conquests of friendship are the most entertaining moments of his week, when the dark girl will come in and chat to them both about an adorable girl or the cutest boy and her attempts to befriend them, whether they like it or not. “And who is it this week?”

Nino rolls his eyes. “Hold still! It’s some girl that trails around after Chloè Bourgeois whenever she comes into town. Alya’s taken her on as a new case, although I think it’s mostly because she’s dying to get back at Chloè. That girl…” Nino trails off, shaking his head as he wraps a tape around Adrien’s wrist.

Adrien tries not to move.

“Chloè Bourgeois? Isn’t she the daughter of Mayor Bourgeois?” Adrien tries. He remembers Chloè - every time he meets with the Mayor, the old man tries to set Adrien up with his daughter. Gross. He doesn't much like the Mayor.

Nino’s pins tickle, and he resists the urge to scratch.

“You got it in one. He lives in… uh, what’s-his-face's house, Tom Dupain-Cheng. You know, the palace baker? I was friends with their kid, Marinette, for a while, way back. We were, what, five? Yeah, it was eleven years ago. But then the bakery was in a fire, and - yeah-” Nino rubs his eyes. “Yeah, Marinette and her parents, didn’t make it and the Mayor needed a new house to move into. So now his daughter lives in the middle of the town and terrorizes everyone. I feel sorry for whatever girl has to trail after her all day - it’s a real sob story, man. Baker. Freak fire.”

Adrien doesn’t know how to respond. “That’s… that’s harsh.”

“Tell me about it. Bourgeois got the bakery, but he turned it into a huge mansion. It’s a disaster, if you ask me, although don't tell him I said that. I loved the Dupain-Cheng's strawberry puffs.” Nino starts patting around for a pencil to write down Adrien’s measurements. “And that’s the long and short of it. Alya’s seen Chloè pulling around some poor servant, and now she thinks she’s going to whisk the poor girl off her feet and into the glamourous world of tailoring.”

“Oh.”

Adrien’s always reminded of how split away from society he is when he speaks to Nino. He’s not allowed to any balls, parties, dances, anything; Nino can go to whatever he likes. Adrien’s spent his whole life groomed for Kingship - Nino actually lives with the people of Paris, as opposed to ruling over them.

And Adrien’s learned a lot in the few months since he hired the dynamic duo. What was once a mere fantasy, of going outside and mingling, has turned into a deep longing. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stave it off for before he does something drastic that his father won’t approve of.

“All done for today,” Nino declares. “Run along, my Prince.”

Adrien laughs, rolls his eyes, and jumps down from the stool. “Got to go. Royal duties, and all that stuff.”

“I get it. No time for lowly Nino, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Nino claps him on the back as Adrien slides through the door of the guest suite the two tailors have set up.

In reality, Adrien has very little to do. He uses the appointment with Nino to get out of the council meeting, he doesn’t have any social balls to prepare for, and he has no documents to sign or write. He has the whole day free.

And his feet take him on the well-worn path to his mother’s quarters.

The Queen has been ill since before Adrien can remember. From what he’s picked up from the hushed conversations heard behind closed doors, she fell ill after complications during her pregnancy with him; the more daring courtiers whisper to each other that this is probably why the King can’t stand his son, and Adrien, hiding behind the wall, swallows down a lump of ill-placed guilt. His mother is always pleased to see him; King Gabriel so rarely makes the trip to the secluded bedrooms where his wife lies. Only Adrien and the royal physician ever seem to visit.

And every time he sees her he chokes on apologies he doesn’t need to say and love that he’s never been shown how to express.

“Adrien? Is that you?” Comes her worn, wan voice from behind the half-open door.

Adrien pushes it open and slips inside the darkened room. “Good afternoon, mother. Feeling any better?” The chair beside her bed is in the same askew position he left it this morning; the physician must be a little late. He falls into it and searches for her hand, lying above the sheets ready for the warmth of his palm.

“A little. When Doctor Martell visits, I’m sure he’ll fix me up. But I’m not so exciting - how was your day, darling? Did your new friend come and visit?”

“Nino. Yes - he’s my new tailor.” Adrien rubs his thumb on the back of his mother’s cold wisp of a hand. The Queen’s chambers are always in darkness; her curtains haven’t been pulled in sixteen years, since young Prince Adrien was born. He wishes he could just show her the sunlight, bring her up to the balcony outside his own bedroom, show her how beautiful her city is. He hasn’t seen her face properly since his birth.

He wishes she would get better.

He knows she won’t.

The Queen rests her head on the pillow. Her breathing is shallow and soft and her eyes have fluttered shut. “That’s good. Good for you to have friends of your own age, my son.”

So little conversation exhausts her. Adrien is willing to sit with her until she falls asleep, just waiting for her to drift off, for her grip to loosen on his hands and her breathing to even out once more. He wishes, oh how he wishes, palace life were different. If his mother was alive, it most certainly would be.

That’s another thing he’s heard from behind doors and around corners.

Before Prince Adrien arrived, whisper the courtiers, King Gabriel and his lady wife were out almost every day to mingle with their citizens.

Before Adrien was born, his father wasn’t holed up in the palace council rooms. King Gabriel smiled all day long, holding huge balls and parties where anyone could come and feast themselves. His beautiful Queen took flowers from the little girls, graceful and sweet, and slipped the little pansies and daisies behind the ears of the blushing babies. They danced. They dined. They helped the workers, paid for bread for the poor, helped the people that everyone had thought were doomed to die.

And then Adrien came along.

And everything changed.

He knows that, no matter if he intended to be born or not, his own birth had ruined the happiness the Royal family had created in Paris. Maybe his birth has prematurely killed the homeless, the helpless, the starving.

Adrien kisses his mother’s forehead, feather-light. “Sleep well.” He doesn’t like to run into the physician while he’s there; it feels too much like rubbing salt into the wounds of those old enough to remember what the Queen used to be like.

And so he goes.

His feet take him from his mother’s chambers on a directionless wander through the labyrinth of passages in the palace. Past the council chambers, where he hears his father’s voice over the controlled council member's protests. Past Doctor Martell coming through the door, although Adrien hides behind a decorative plant for that one.

Past the guest suite Nino has probably long abandoned.

Adrien wishes there were someone else. He doesn’t want to return to his chambers, read the books he’s read time and time again, and look out his window at all the people he could have been.

Sure, he has Nino and Alya, but they’re only ever here for a few hours at a time and anyway, they’re paid to be friendly to him.

Adrien knows he’s being ridiculous.

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t move on from the guest suite, though. Anything but his stifling room. He can go in and talk to Nino, in the slim chance that he’s still there, or Alya if she’s arrived to help Nino lug all the equipment home.

He raps his knuckles on the door. “Anyone in there?”

“Hold up, man, I’ll be right out! Jeez! You don’t have to kick us out just ‘cause Prince Adrien left. Like, he hired us. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mind if we stay for a couple minutes.”

Adrien grins in relief. “Just me, Nino. Although, good argument. Keep that one in mind.” He pushes on through; Nino stands in the centre of the room, his bag on his shoulder next to him, his pencil shoved awkwardly behind his ear.

“Man. I thought you were that annoying butler back to kick me out. I swear, he just can’t get that I’m actually allowed to be here. Me! Here! Allowed!” Nino laughs. “So, what did you want me for?”

Adrien shrugs. “Nothing, really. The Queen’s been tired recently. I got nothing else to do. So, you in a rush?”

“Anything that gets me away from work for a little longer, my friend, I am willing to do,” Nino grins, slipping his bag off his shoulder. “More fittings, or just talking? Because I don’t know about you, but I am stuck full of pinholes.”

“So am I,” Adrien says, joining Nino on the floor. “I don’t know, I just didn’t want to waste the rest of the day in my room. I’ve read all my books and stuff, and I hate asking for more.”

Nino’s face darkens for half a second. Unexplainable anger, but not aimed at Adrien. However, he waves his hand in the air, and it’s as if the momentary blip never happened. “No problem, my friend. I got a great tale to tell about what Alya did last week, although she’ll kill me if she ever finds out I told you anything.”

Adrien mimes sealing his lips. “I won’t spill a word.”

“Oh, man, this cracks me up just thinking about it,” Nino wipes a phantom tear from his eye. “Okay, so, you know that little kid Alya was talking about? The one that gave her half of his bread so she’d make a little coat for his toy horse?”

“Of course,” Adrien nods. He feels warm just from the memory, one of the first times Alya actually admitted that he might be someone worth hanging out with.

“Well, this kid - I can’t believe I didn’t tell you - this kid, he goes up to Alya…”

***

It’s late, far later than it should be, when Nino finally stands and checks the watch in his pocket, gasping in alarm. “It’s seven! I’ll be late!”

“For what?” Adrien can’t help but ask.

Nino frowns apologetically. “The Baux house - they’re, uh, holding a public ball tonight. Nothing big, but it’ll be free food, and me and Alya want to save up so we can buy our own shop. I made myself a suit and everything. Sorry, man, I just didn’t think.”

Adrien swallows down his disappointment. “No, it’s okay, just because I’m not going to go doesn’t mean you have to stay. Go have fun, you deserve it after all the work you’re doing here, right?”

Nino frowns again. “I’m sorry. Maybe the next one, huh?”

“Yeah, totally,” says Adrien, although they both know that the next ball will see Adrien in the palace watching the carriages go by below him, and the next one, and the next one, and the next… But it’s fine. He’s needed here, if only as a reminder to the city that Prince Adrien is the one that ruined their brief period of serenity.

He watches Nino leave, and tries not to feel too jealous.

There’s no point in even asking the King anymore. Gabriel will look at him as though Adrien has gone insane, and then he’ll laugh and wave off his son’s request with one gloved hand. Move on to more important matters.

Maybe the Mayor would stick up for him, but only because he has dreams of Chloè on the throne.

Annoyed and dejected, Adrien slinks along the corridors and up to his bedroom. He slams the door, just because he can and because nobody can hear him anyway, and pulls off his stupid, fancy dinner jacket, throwing it in the corner of the room with all the force he can muster.

Then he curls up on his balcony to look at the Bauz Mansion, up on the hill, all lights on and carriages rolling up to the gates. He reckons he can see Nino in the distance - of course, he can't, he's just fantasizing - but those two heads bobbing together, one red, one black - those could be Nino and Alya out for a good time.  

And Adrien, here, wilting like a princess in a tower.

Ugh.  

He sighs and rests his head on the cold stone pillar behind his back. His foot jumps in the air underneath him, and not for the first time, Adrien wonders idly what would happen if the railing was slippery, or his balance was off, and he tumbled to his death.

Maybe King Gabriel would feel revenge had been exacted, and stop punishing the city for Adrien’s birth.

However these thoughts are never any more than fantasy. It’s not like Adrien would ever throw himself from the balcony of the palace. Some poor peasant will have to mop up all the blood, right, and Adrien would hate for his lasting effect on the world to be a sad little bloodstain on the cobbles.

Hmph. Maybe just to be safe, he’ll slide off the railing. He doesn’t want to slip.

He doesn’t move.

It’s not much to ask, is it, really? Just one night at a ball.

Adrien buries his face in his hands, pressing the balls of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. The pain is refreshing. He just wants to be anywhere but here.

“Hey!”

Out of all the people in Paris, of course Adrien had to be born the Prince, had to be born to a father incapable of love and a mother whose health deteriorated as quickly as the rift between the King and his son grew.

“Hey, kid, I can just float here forever, y’know. Got any food lying around? Say, cheese? Anything?”

Of course, he can’t -

Wait, what?

“Who’s there?” Adrien calls, eyes still closed. “Is that you, Cartelli?”

“Nah, kid, it’s me. Your… uh, fairy catmother. Catbrother. Your good friend that you haven’t met yet. Call me any of that, right? I’m here to make your dreams come true, provided you give me cheese. Camembert, preferrably, although I am partial to a little bit of Belgian Blue-”

Adrien’s eyes fly open to see the tiny, black demon floating in front of his eyes, tiny paws clasped together as it begins drifting off into a lovesick rant about food.

“What are you?”

The tiny demon, which to Adrien’s astonished eyes, looks quite like a kitten, adopts a pose of intense annoyance. “I’ll forgive you that momentary blip in conventional politeness, seeing as I can be quite surprising at first, but my name’s Plagg, kid, and I’m… well, call me a kwami. Plagg the kwami. High five!” The demon - the kwami - Plagg - holds out his tiny paw, and, bewildered, Adrien taps it with the tip of his index finger.

“Have I fallen asleep on the balcony?” Adrien asks, surprisingly calm.

Plagg shakes his (?) head. Hiis large, green eyes twinkle with anticipation. “Nah. I’ve been sent by the Powers That Be.”

“Powers That Be?” Adrien asks, nonplussed. Why has a tiny black demon (okay, kwami) arrived for him, the most privileged boy in all of Paris? All of France? What does Adrien possibly lack that other people don’t need more?

“Yeah, kid, Powers.” Plagg pokes Adrien’s cheek, then abruptly changes course. “What’s that on your hand?”

Adrien lifts his left hand, stretching out his fingers. His signet ring, proof of his birthright, is a slim silver band glimmering on his ring finger. “It’s just… I don’t know. Proof that I’m next to inherit the throne, I guess?”

“Boring,” Plagg whines. His green eyes twinkle, and Adrien may have known him for five seconds, but that look can’t lead to anything but trouble. “Hey, kid, you want to go to the ball?”

“Yeah?”

Before Adrien can stop him, Plagg flies at the ring at full speed, and Adrien hears a voice inside his head.

Well, now you can, kid!

***

It’s very late when Marinette finishes most of the housework. Secretly, even though her hopes have been crushed countless times before, she hopes Mayor Bourgeois and Chloè will allow her to come with them to the ball at the Baux Mansion. Maybe this time will be different?

Hah. As if.

With a heavy heart and the heavy weight of responsibility on her shoulders, she heaves the coal scuttle into her arms, ready to rebuild the fire in the the Mayor’s room, so that on his return there’ll be less for him to criticise.

Then, Marinette will make the pastry dough for tomorrow morning’s tea meeting with Mayor Bourgeois and another potential supporter for the re-election. Chloè will need her jam tartlets.

Then, she’ll dust around the drawing room, make sure the Bourgeois household will be perfect.

Then, finally then, she’ll go up to the attic room and watch the coaches rolling up the hill on the other side of the city, faint twinkling lights showing her the way to the Baux mansion, showing her where she could have been if only the fates had allowed.

It’s not much, but the thought of just sitting down and resting her legs gives her the extra strength she needs to store away the coal scuttle and begin the pastry.

It’s usually a task that she can finish quickly, but her mind keeps flickering to the sound of Chloè and Mayor Bourgeois rustling down the stairs and bustling into the carriage. She hears the horses breathing heavily, their silver jingling, the sound of the coachmen talking to each other. Marinette just wishes, she wishes she could go with them. She has an outfit. It would only be - she would only want an hour of spinning around the dancefloor, looking into the eyes of a tall, handsome stranger, nothing on her mind but the movement of her feet and the swing of her handmade dress.

After she’s finished dusting, her tired feet take her up the four staircases to the attic. She has to duck her head just to get through the door.

The spiderweb is gone; she left the window open earlier this morning, and with the wind the spider must have tumbled. Marinette frowns.

She wants to be anywhere but here.

On nights like these Marinette will pull out her special project from underneath the deflated mattress she sleeps on, and work until her eyes forcibly close and she falls with her head bowed into deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.

It’s a dress.

Even whenever her parents owned this house, and whenever it was the Royal bakery, Marinette had loved to sew. She made scarves and gloves and hats for everyone, for the little boy that came to visit sometimes, for her parents and the couriers that collected the baked goods.

And so she’d made herself a dress, beginning with the bodice, made from sewn-together pieces of dresses Chloè became bored with, stealing the beautiful fabrics from out of the rubbish piles. She made the skirt, the beautiful ruffled skirt, of the same sorts of things. The result was an oddly beautiful Frankenstein of a dress, red and black and a thousand colours in between.

She was finished. The lace stitching around the waist was just a little decoration she didn’t need, really.

She could dance the night away, wearing this, another’s hands on her waist as she spins around and around and around.

But she won’t.

She’ll never get the chance to.

She had her opportunity. It’s her fault, isn’t it, that the fire was set? That’s what Mayor Bourgeois has said her whole life, in quietly remorseful tones that nevertheless say it's true, and Marinette knows it’s true. It’s her first real memory, of running around the house yelling for her mother because the bread little Marinette tried to cook was in too long. It caught fire. And in the kitchen, where there was an open container of flour.

Flour, which is so very. very flammable.

Marinette watches the coaches through the streets, buries her head in the soft folds of her dress, and chokes on a painful sob.

“Oh, no, please don’t cry! I’m here, it’s me, oh, I can’t stand unhappiness.”

Marinette feels something feather-light brush against the corner of her eye, where water threatens to spill over, and jumps from the cushion in the windowsill to fall with a thud to the floorboards. She yelps, partly in pain, partly in shock.

“Hi there!” Waves the tiny, red-and-black thing in front of her eyes. “My name’s Tikki. Are you okay?”

“This is it,” Marinette says to her knees. “This is the end. I’ve finally fallen and hit my head too hard. Why did my brain come up with you, though? Are you a character from a book, or something?”

“I’m a kwami. I’m…” The little - what, kwami? - pulls on the two springing feelers protruding from her head, trying to think. “I’m sort of like your fairy godmother, but tiny and pink and I do magic far better than those silly, floaty creatures.”

“You do magic?” Marinette asks disbelievingly. She pushes the dress away from her to allow the little bug a place to rest.

Tikki lands on Marinette’s knees. “Do you want to go to the ball, Marinette?”

Marinette’s gaze travels from Tikki to the window. The Baux Mansion, one of hundreds like it, aglow in the darkness of the night, where Chloè and Madame Bourgeois will be dancing and socialising and having fun. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Tikki says sincerely.

“More than anything,” says Marinette, words getting stuck in her throat. Why would this little bug arrive to her, as opposed to any of the other thousands of people in far worse situations than Marinette?

For some reason Tikki is looking at her with sorrow in her big, blue eyes. “I can help, if you let me.”

“Oh.” Again, the word comes out as more of a gasp, hope that Marinette has kept strangled for so long.

Tikki points to Marinette’s ear. “Those are lovely, darling.”

“They were my mother’s,” whispers Marinette hoarsely.

“I can make them better, if you’ll let me,” Tikki replies in the same hushed tone, like gossipers in a church.

“I just want to go to the ball,” says Marinette. She’s ashamed of how desperate she sounds.

The words have barely left Marinette’s mouth before Tikki is flying at the earrings at top speed and everything vanishes in a flash of pink and red and black.

And so you shall, darling!

Chapter Text

Adrien closes his eyes right before impact, bracing himself for a bruise or two when Plagg’s tiny body hits his own. He’s still holding his hand up, the one with the signet ring, and he wonders if Plagg will knock him into the balcony. With the speed the tiny kwami is going at, anything’s possible.

He flinches as something hits his hand, although, oddly, it’s not as hard as he thought it might be. Maybe his hand has gone dead. That happens, right?

And then he hears it.

A voice. Inside his head.

Amused.

You can open your eyes, kiddo, it’s not like I’m the scariest bug in the world.

Adrien cracks open an eye. Something feels different, but he doesn’t know what it is - he’s too preoccupied with the voice in his head that is very definitely the magical hallucination he’s having. Maybe he’s finally cracked after a life behind the walls of the palace, and this is his final push for true companionship. “Is that… Plagg? In my head?”

Well, hey, you catch on fast. Anything different?

Adrien opens both eyes, once more filling his vision with Paris at night, calming his confused, anxious mind. “Yeah! You’re in my head!”

Nah, you’ll get used to lil’ ol’ me. Do I have to spell it out for you?

Adrien scowls at the moon, imagining the large green eyes tattooed onto the silvery crescent. He looks down at his hand, where he supposes Plagg should be, but -

“My ring! My clothes - what did you do?” He clasps his hand to his chest, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, eyes wide in fear. His ring flushes before his very eyes, turning from silver set with one large emerald to a deep, deep black. The emerald cracks into five pieces, floating through the ring as though the metal is nothing more than oil, and the chunks of stone form a pawprint shape. In the dark, lit by the moon and the dim lamplight coming from Adrien’s chambers, the stone seems to almost glow. “What did you do?!”

That ain’t all, kid. Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll give you the night of your life. Go look in the mirror, would you?

“I…” Adrien trails off, breathing quickly, lifting his hand for inspection. Is it the light, or has the sleeve of his jacket darkened? It must be the light.

Go on, kid, I haven’t got all night. I got some things to tell you, too, so get the shock over with in one bite and then you’ll be able to listen. Plagg sounds amused.

Adrien sprints from the balcony into his room, to his wardrobe, where a full-length mirror hangs on the door. At first he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, cruel, cruel tricks, but - no. No. This is real. His hands feel for his collar, and something blocks his throat.

Not bad, hey, kid?

“Woah,” Adrien breathes.

He wears a perfectly tailored linen shirt, crisply buttoned up to his throat, tied with a green emerald choker, a tiny golden bell hanging from the choker. Over the shirt is buttoned a waistcoat as black as sin, and over that is an unbuttoned coat, cut away at the front, tails hanging low. It’s as black as the night. His trousers are pressed neatly, the same shade of black. In this dark costume, the green at his finger and his throat glints with a light of its own.

But what really draws his attention is his face. His hands reach up to touch the soft fabric.

The mask stretches across the top half of his face, leaving his green eyes glimmering as brightly as the choker. It hooks smoothly across his ears, the thin string hidden by the hat that tops his disheveled hair.

“Does this have cat ears on it?!”

Yeah, it does. Pretty cool, hey?

The hat fits snugly over his hair, easy enough for Adrien to sweep off, but sewn on the brim are two protruding black cat ears.

You like it, huh, kid? Plagg sounds almost anxious for approval.

Adrien feels… strange. Unbalanced.

Set free.

All his life he’s been dressed and told what to do and pampered and primed for the throne he’s never wanted. He’s never gotten the chance to have friends before, aside from this new sliver of freedom in Nino and Alya. He’s never been given the opportunity to make himself totally new, to make himself the way he’d like to.

“I don’t -” Adrien tugs on the choker. “I-”

I get it, kid. But if you want to go to the Baux ball, you better hurry. See that ring? Each paw is worth an hour, and you got about four left. The guards won’t notice you, kid, and there’s a carriage waiting outside.

“I can’t thank you-”

Thank me by having fun for once in your life, you idiot! Plagg yells inside his head, and it’s like flipping a switch in Adrien’s mind from astonished to charged with manic energy, pure joy.

He trusts Plagg, but there’s one more thing that he really needs to complete his outfit. He opens his wardrobe, wrenching at the knob so hard it squeaks, and snatches the black cane from within.

Oh, you idiot.

“I’m a debonair chat, Plagg,” Adrien grins at his reflection and sends himself a wink. “Now, there was a carriage, wasn’t there? I’ll be off. Just going to find it.”

He charges out of the room as though he’s on fire. His mind certainly is - sure, this is just one ball, and after this ball it’ll be back to the gilded cage, but for these precious hours he is completely free to be Adrien Agreste. To be whoever he wants to be. A debonair stranger, the handsome dancer, the black cat.

Le Chat Noir.

“Good, huh, Plagg?” He asks, taking the last corner before the side exit. He hasn’t yet met a single other person - luck must be on his side tonight, or something a little more concrete.

That’s a terrible alias.

“Le Chat Noir,” Adrien repeats. He tumbles through the door, barely moving the door handle with the crook of his elbow and toppling into the side of a pitch-black coach, knocking his head against the wood and catching the three steps on the slight heels of his unfamiliar shoes.

“Ow.”

That’s what you get, Mister Noir. Get in the coach, you idiot, your time’s ticking. And there won’t be another ball for a week or two, so make the most of tonight!

Adrien executes another controlled fall into the carriage. He can vaguely see two coachmen, also dressed in black, and he hears the snorting of two horses itching to carry him to the night he’s been dreaming of for years. But a phrase has caught his ear - “What do you mean, another week or two? ”

I mean this town won’t have another big ball for a week or so. Why?

Adrien sinks into the soft leather of the seats as the coach begins to rattle to a start. His heart, only just slowed, begins to thud again. “You mean you’ll be back?”

Kid, I’m only sent out from - uh, I’m only sent whenever there’s some bigger scheme at work here. Until something happens, you’re stuck with me.

Adrien wonders if it’s too late to cry.

And why, why did this Plagg arrive to him? The most privileged boy in all of Paris, perhaps all of France?

Because, kid, you looked like you deserved a pick-me-up.

Adrien descends into a shell shocked sort of delight. His leg can’t seem to stop bouncing against the floor of the coach as the black horses join the line of other people heading to the Baux mansion. The lines of carriages are moving quickly, but that does little to still Adrien’s excitement. His anticipation.

The tiny fear that this is all some huge scheme. That any moment now his mask will be whipped from his face, that he’ll be returned to the palace in shame.

This is too good to be true.

This rings of his dreams, his fantasies when he drifts off during one of his tutor’s long, rambling rants. He imagines himself hidden under dim lights, perhaps, or just with some other face that isn’t the Prince’s, and his arms are on the waist of a girl whose face he can’t seem to pinpoint. He spins around the floor to the beat of the beautiful music, and he’s walking in the gardens and he’s talking and laughing just as he would were he not the Prince.

That this could become reality is just too good.

Too exciting for him to handle.

Cool it, kid. This is real, I swear on Camembert cheese and its good name. Now go have fun at the ball, I’ll be out of the way. Don’t worry about me.

Adrien realises that the black coach, the black horses, and his disguised self has stopped at the gateway of the Baux mansion. Two suited men are collecting invitations, which Adrien realises he doesn’t have.

Of course.

His hopes sink. Of course, here’s the catch -

Dear Lord, kid, do I have to tell you everything? They’ll let you in if you say your name.

“My real name?!” Adrien says in horrified whisper, his boot halfway out the carriage door. He hears the grumble of the coachmen in the carriage behind, and knows that he’s keeping many other people from the festivities.

No! That stupid ‘Mister Noir’ of yours. You better be able to handle it from here, kid, because I’m leaving. Man, this is far more tiring than I remember.

Adrien swallows, hisses thanks to a Plagg that he doubts can hear him. Grabbing the cane from the seat opposite him, he yells out a word of gratefulness to the two coachmen, who whip the black horses into a slow trot away from the gate.

It’s done.

He’s here, and he won’t leave until the last emerald on his once-silver ring blinks out of existence. He’s here, and he won’t be going anywhere.

He’s here.

And he still doesn’t believe it.

Be confident, Adrien! And it’s not Plagg saying it, but some other version of him deep within himself, encouraging, prodding his stiff body into moving forward. Adrien - you can be anyone! Stop being the Prince, and be Le Chat Noir!

The change is visible. Adrien feels it, and he knows that anyone watching would see it too.

He stops walking stiffly towards the door and begins to saunter, swinging the cane from side to side, contemplating doffing his hat to the two doorkeepers and their piles of invitations.

“Sir? May I see your invitation card?”

Adrien puts on his most winning smile and imagines himself. He has nothing to lose. “That won’t be necessary, dear sir. I’m Chat Noir, you know, and I hardly think we need invites when it’s me, yes?”

The doorkeeper’s eyes glaze over for a millisecond. “Y-yes, sir, of course sir, go right on in, sir,” he stammers.

Adrien feels a little misplaced guilt for the momentary confusion.

Chat Noir doesn’t. Chat Noir knows that it’s not his fault.

Chat Noir swings through the gates and joins the crowd of aristocrats and the wealthier commoners, all streaming from the iron gates into the two open front doors. Music, lights, and laughter come floating on the gentle night wind towards him, as tantalising as life itself dangled in front of him.

Chat Noir. That is who he is for these precious few hours.

“I am Chat Noir,” he says to himself, clenching his fists around his cane, holding back a ridiculous grin that he knows will spread across his face if he allows it to. He’s free! He’s here, it’s happened, he’s free and it’s finally happened and it can’t be happening and yet it is -

And then he sees her, standing just by the door, looking as alien as a beautiful butterfly in a crowd of brown moths, as wonderful as he’s ever seen anyone, staring as though frozen at someone in the crowd.

And Chat Noir and Adrien Agreste both realise that he’s already in deeper than he intended to be, and he’s not even through the door yet.

Well, great.

***

As Tikki flies towards her, Marinette instinctively throws up her hands to cover her face, cringing backwards. She feels Tikki slow, sigh sympathetically, brush away the still-fresh tears drying on Marinette’s face.

“I won’t hurt you,” says the kwami gently.

“I know that,” Marinette says. She’s frustrated with herself; flinching like some sort of beaten dog, like a complete idiot. Pathetic. Pathetic. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what-”

“I may have been a little dramatic,” Tikki speaks over Marinette, floating from the girl’s wide blue eyes over to her ear. Marinette feels the brush of a tiny paw against her earring, and it takes all of her control to stop from jumping. “I can do it without flying at you, probably - it’s just a failsafe. Velocities. All that stuff.”

It’s clear Tikki hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s saying, and Marinette snorts with accidental laughter. “All that stuff, hey?”

Tikki giggles too, then quietens. “Marinette, can I?” She asks carefully, as though Marinette is a toy in danger of being broken at any time.

In response, Marinette pulls one blue-black bunch of hair out of the way, exposing her left earring. It’s black, probably no more than cheap glass, but it’s the only thing she was able to grab as the bakery burst into flames around her quivering body. The earrings and her dress and the memories of her parents are all she holds dear anymore. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Tikki says sincerely, and flips over on her head.

Marinette shuts her eyes tight, but not before she sees the blinding flash of pink light that surrounds her, hiding her bleak surroundings.

Warmth tingles through her bones. She shivers as the heat encloses her whole body, hot water cleansing the grime from her face, her limbs, the grubbiness of her life, and Marinette feels a wave of pure euphoria knock into her from behind and sweep her into a sea of glorious happiness.

Marinette!

Her arms fling wide, although she’s sure she wasn’t the one to move them. Cracking open her eye, she sees the beams of pink spreading down from her shoulder to her arm, doing something - she can’t tell what - and spreading the wonderful warmness of the kwami’s power.

She can tell when it’s over. Her eyes stop burning, the warm heat stops pressing down at her, although she can still feel it coming from her skin.

Without warning her knees buckle. She feels like her entire body has been turned to jelly in the few seconds it took to do whatever it is Tikki has come here to do. She feels as though something new has sprung in her heart, something warm and new and entirely hers.

Are you alright, Marinette?

“Tikki?!”

I’m inside your earrings, Mari. Are you alright? Was that too much?

Marinette laughs happily (okay, a little hysterically), nodding. “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. I’m more than fine. I’m perfect.”

She feels Tikki smiling in her head, the oddest sensation so far. And you haven’t even been to the ball yet. You’re easy to please. Much nicer than the la- Much nicer than someone else I used to know. How wonderful!

“I get to go the ball, too? At the Baux Mansion?” Marinette’s mouth drops open, staring at the silvery moon in lieu of Tikki’s face.

Of course you do. How about you look at your dress, see if it’s fit for a beautiful maiden to steal the show? And then I have to tell you a few things, but give yourself a twirl. Be a Princess.

Mariette squints down at herself, but her attic bedroom is too dark to see anything much, and she has no lamps to brighten it up a little. The Mayor’s room has candles, though, and a roaring fire, and lamps aplenty. And there’s no chance of he or his daughter coming back and catching her. So she runs down the stairs two at a time, Tikki’s tinkling laugh echoing in her mind, catching the banister to turn herself around and direct her body towards the open door of the Mayor’s bedroom.

She skids across the floor, only stopped by his bed. “Whoops.”

Oh, Marinette. The mirror’s on the wall, Tikki laughs.

“I know where the mirror is,” Marinette retorts, spinning around, feeling skirts lift around her before coming to a halt and peering at her reflection.

And sucking in a gasp of astonishment.

For a moment, she feels lightheaded.

Her dress is sleeveless, the collar dipping down in a smooth curve lined with black lace. Black gloves stretch from above her elbow to the tips of her fingers, and her earrings are now red, spotted with four black dots.

The dress, the whole body, is everything she’s ever dreamed of. The waist is high, accentuating her slim frame and managing to add extra curves to her rather flat chest. It’s red, spotted with the same pattern as her earrings. And then the skirt - oh, the skirt! - the skirt flows down from her high waist, cascading down to the ground, the tips of her black flat shoes just poking out from the black lace hem. The red ribbons are gone from her hair, which is untied and loose, just reaching her shoulders.

But her mask -

A mask, red and black spotted, covers her eyes, forehead, and part of her nose. It only serves to widen her blue eyes and conceal her face - “No one will see me!”

Exactly! Do you like it?

“I love it, Tikki,” she says sincerely, turning away from the mirror when she sees her eyes filling with tears for the second time that day. She can’t cry. She can’t be the one that cries, although these tears are more of joy than of sadness. “I love it.”

Wonderful! Marinette feels Tikki’s relief, and realises that the dress was as much a stab in the dark for the kwami as it was for Marinette. Would you like to go to the ball?

“Would I ever?!”

Tikki smiles, and Marinette hears it. Oh, great. I’ve fixed up a carriage for you, although it’s not much considering what a lovely lady it’ll be carrying to the ball. It’s red, you’ll see, with a black coat-of-arms. Waiting outside, and the coachmen only have one customer on their minds tonight!

Mind spinning with glee, Marinette blows a kiss to her reflection in the mirror, swirling around and watching her skirts settle around her ankles before she practically skips out the door. Her heart is lighter than it’s been in years.

She contemplates sliding down the banisters, only stopping herself in case the lace hem rips under her toes.

I’m glad you’re happy, Marinette, Tikki is plainly as excited as she. Marinette can picture the little red kwami doing cartwheels in some other place, eyes glimmering joyously. But hurry! You only have four hours until my power runs out! Your earrings will ring whenever your time is up. Hurry!

“I only - four-”

Marinette takes the rest of the stairs two at a time, and falls out of the door into a coachman.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she apologises, offering her gloved hand to help him up. He stares at the hand as though it’s alien to him, his strangely pale, bulging eyes wide and his wobbling face expressionless.

He’s the fish from the pond. He doesn’t really respond to anything much, I’m afraid, but he’ll get you to the Baux Mansion in time. Hurry now, the time is ticking!

Marinette jumps up from the cobbles to the edge of the high carriage, leaving the fish-coachman to pick up himself. She’s surprised at how nonchalantly she takes the news that she’s to be driven to her ball by a fish-turned-man, and decides privately that since tonight has already been more than a dream, it might as well continue in the Wonderland fashion it’s begun in.

That’s the spirit!

As the carriage rattles into the cobbled road, Marinette sinks into the soft seats, facing the front, where the curtains are drawn back to show her the road ahead. The dappled tawny horses bow and lift their heads with the pace of their even walk, and the shining moon turns the silver in the buckles and straps into molten mercury.

She only becomes aware of the dreamy smile on her face when she catches sight of herself faintly reflected in the glass.

The building that used to be the palace bakery, now home to Mayor Bourgeois and Chloè (and Marinette), is in the centre of the town, close to the hill where most of the city’s rich and powerful live. As a result the carriage ride isn’t as long, nor as painful, as Marinette had thought it would be when she slid into the seat - it’s over soon, and she’s just one in a crowd of similarly dressed people intent on hob-nobbing and filling up on tasty pastries and finger foods.

And then it hits her.

“Tikki, I don’t have an invite!”

I’ve put a glamour on those two. Just your name should be enough.

“Me? But-”

“Tonight, you can be anyone you want to be. And here’s where my involvement ends, darling, because two minds sharing one is confusing at the best of times.”

Marinette doesn’t think she’ll feel it whenever Tikki leaves her conscious, but she does, like a little part of the warmth has moved from inside her to over wherever Tikki is - Marinette isn’t cold, not by any means, but she feels the loss. An involuntary shiver passes through her body, and she hopes Tikki can hear Marinette telling her that the brief unpleasantness doesn’t mean she has to return.

She reaches one of the door guards. They’re both in blue and red, gold brocade decorating their uniforms, the colours of the Baux household.

One holds out his white-gloved hand. “Pardon me, m’Lady, but I’m going to need to see your invitation.”

Marinette summons the spirit of every posh bureaucrat and aristocratic socialite she’s ever had to wait on, and gives him her most winning smile. She attributes his open-jawed astonishment to the glamour that Tikki promised her. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that will be necessary in my case. You see, I am…” desperately, she searches her mind for a suitable alias, and comes up blank. “I am La Coccinelle. I was told to just speak my name.”

The gatekeeper looks remarkably like her fish-coachmen, his eyes glassy and his mouth agape. “Yes. Mademoiselle Ladybug. Oui, your name was brought forward. I apologise greatly for the delay.”

As she sweeps through the gates, his companion bows low.

Marinette turns one last time as soon as the gates are behind her. She’s through now, and nobody can stop her from having the time of her life until her earrings have ran out of power.

She turns to join the stream of people going to the door just in time to catch sight of a black carriage, pulled by black horses, pulling up to the gate. Some people have clearly taken their sense of the dramatic a slight too far tonight, she thinks to herself with a small grin.

The wide doors are open, and Marinette is swept through them with the current of the crowd.

At once, the sights, sounds, and smells assault her senses.

Everywhere there are women in gorgeous, lavish dresses, men in perfectly tailored suits, that she would die to have designed. They all look far more at home than Marinette feels -  apart from two people standing by the buffet - and she looks down at her black flats, any excuse to part her gaze from the crowd she is sure are looking down their long noses at her.

But she could dismiss that part for the music.

The ball in proper hasn’t yet started, and only a few couples are idly twirling around the edges of the polished wood dance floor. All the guests are gathered around the small tables, or the long buffet table groaning under the weight of the food. The pavilion doors are open, and Marinette can see out to where couples sit under the stars or walk around the gardens lit by the light of the moon.

She looks across the crowd of guests, looking for someone - anyone - she knows. That’s when she sees them.

The Mayor and, near him, Chloè Bourgeois.

Mariette freezes. Her heart leaps into her throat - what if she’s seen? What will they do then? She’ll face the true wrath of the combined forces, father and daughter, as she’s never done before.

“Ah, Mademoiselle. It doesn’t fit such a beautiful face as yours to look so worried.”

Mariette almost jumps out of her skin. “Ah!”

“I’m sorry!” The newcomer, an eccentrically-dressed young man - boy, really - looks as alarmed as Marinette. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no. I’m just a little jumpy,” she smiles apologetically at him, eyes raking his appearance just as his do to her.

His suit is black from head to toe, cut close and neat, drawing attention to his broad shoulders and chest. The glimmering green stones at his neck and chips of emerald on his finger are the only colour she can see in his dress, starkly contrasted against the tan of his skin and the white of his shirt. His top hat makes laughter bubble inside her - two cat ears stick out perk from the brim. But the mask is what really intrigues her; he disguises himself just as she does, concealing the top half of his face, making his green eyes pop.

His mouth curves into a smile. “Mademoiselle.”

“And to whom do I owe the pleasure?” She asks, bobbing into a slight curtsey and smiling a little self-consciously. Does he have to stare as though he’s piercing her soul?

“How rude of me!” He exclaims melodramatically. “My nom-de-plume , as it were, is the great Chat Noir. I’m afraid there’s a few things that would get rather complicated if I told you the real part, although I’m sure you understand.”

“More than you think,” Marinette says, eyes twinkling in amusement. “My own alias is a little flat compared to the great Chat Noir. I am La Coccinelle, for the moment, at least.”

“A fellow conspirator! Mon dieu,” Chat Noir says, spreading his arms wide. The hand holding a black cane hits a lady on the back, and she turns around to shoot them both a glare. “Whoops, sorry, sorry,” apologises the great Chat Noir, and Marinette can’t hold in a splutter of very unladylike laughter.

“Uncultured middle classes,” the offended madame says in a sniffy voice to her husband.

Marinette covers her mouth with her hand in a futile attempt to stifle the giggles. “You were trying so hard to be cultured-”

“Yes, yes, and it backfired, aren’t I a wonderful cat,” says Chat Noir, smiling too as he gazes at Marinette. “Aren’t we such uncultured middle classes?”

“Oh, yes,” says Ladybug, even though she is anything but.

***

“Aren’t we such uncultured middle classes?” Says Chat Noir, even though he is anything but.

“Oh, yes,” replies the beautiful girl in front of him, beaming with unbridled happiness. “Would the uncultured middle class cat like to accompany me to get some food? I’m famished.” She waves a black-gloved hand at the trestle tables, and Adrien has to admit, the food looks delicious.

“Didn’t you get a bite before coming?” He asks idly as they dart between people to get to the other side of the room.

Her face draws shut for a brief moment. “Oh. No, no, I forgot, and then it was too late. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, pretty much,” he shrugs, trying to keep his eyes away from her. He doesn’t want to look completely creepy, although the allure in her sparkling eyes, in the blush dusting across her pale cheeks, her bowed lips, is too much for him not to sneak peeks every now and then. Maybe, in hopeful future excursions as Chat Noir, he’ll meet her again. Le Coccinelle. Ladybug.

She smiles at him. “I’m glad you bumped into me. I’d have been lost here. Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Oh, a little, in the past,” he waves his hand airily. In the past. Read: back when the Queen was well. But Ladybug won’t know that, will she?

They reach the buffet table. Adrien plucks a jam tartlet from a stand, where Ladybug steals a pink macaron from the abstract shape the little pastries seem to be making. He’s still astonished at the success of the evening - he’s at a ball! He’s met a beautiful girl!

“The music is wonderful,” says Ladybug by his shoulder, her hips swaying a little to the beat. She looks rather wistfully at the string quartet, playing passionately.

Adrien nods along too. He notices the increase in volume, the slow exodus of people from the sidelines. “I think it’s time for the dancing proper, my Lady. Oh, but wherever shall I find myself a partner in the dizzying crowd?!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Ladybug says, fondness in her tone. She offers her gloved hand. “May I have the honour of the great Chat Noir’s hand for this dance?”

“You’re the purr-fect candidate for my dance,” he says, winking.

She groans at the pun. “Mon dieu.”

“That’s me, Princess,” Adrien grins, taking her hand and slipping the remainder of the tartlet into his mouth. The macaron has vanished - Ladybug must have really been hungry - and they’re one of the first couples to spin their way onto the dance floor.

“We’re gathering quite a lot of attention,” Ladybug says to him in undertones. “I’m afraid I’m not that good at dancing, myself. This might be slightly disastrous.”

“It’s all in the lead, my Lady. And I, the greatest of all cats, am a wonderful lead,” Adrien says with more confidence than he actually has. His last dancing lesson was last month, before the Venetian tutor left to return to Italy. If he had been Prince Adrien, he might have stumbled - but he’s not, and his steps are sure and confident as he turns them in tandem around the floor.

And she’s right. They are gathering attention - he sees Nino and Alya, looking stiff, wearing clothing they designed themselves, stopping their dance to shuffle backwards and watch them. He even sees the sniffy woman from earlier, partnered with Mayor Bourgeois, the two of them hardly dancing at all as they watch the cat and the ladybug.

“Even the Mayor likes our dancing,” he says, looking down at the masked face of his partner. (She really isn’t that bad at dancing - she naturally moves with him, picking up the rhythm on nimble feet.

“The Mayor?” The blush on her cheeks fades. Her eyes widen. “Where?!”

“Uh… behind us, although I think he’s left.” Adrien spins them both once more. His hands are on her waist. He wishes he had more time than the hour left to him - one emerald left on the ring - to talk to her.

She relaxes, visibly. “Oh - that’s fine. That’s fine, then. I just - yes, that’s fine.”

It’s silent for a while as Adrien watches the Brownian motion of the rest of the dancers off the floor. “You’re astonishing to watch. I’m not surprised they want to see you dance,” he murmurs, so as not to be heard over the sudden stillness in the music.

Her skirts swish. Her heels tap against the floor. Her lips are slightly parted. “The great Chat Noir is far better at this than I am.”

“Modesty suits you just as well as worry does, Mademoiselle. You look radiant, and you dance as though you’ve done this all your life.”

Marinette suspects this is more to do with the hours spent waltzing with her shadow in the attic room than any apparent skill shown, but she can’t deny that the floor has cleared since Chat led her into the whirling fray. His own ability is far better than hers, however - the ease at which his feet find the steps, the warmth of his hand in hers, the delight in his eyes. It’s plain that he loves to dance. “You dance far better, and that’s no lie. Spit your words back at yourself, Monsieur Noir.”

He smiles. Just a smile. “I’m dancing as well as I ever have with any partner, Princess.”

She takes him into the next spin and he laughs.

Over his shoulder, Marinette sees Chloè being accosted by the two people that had looked uncomfortable next to the buffet; the girl pulling the boy behind her. She recognises them as market tailors, the ones that she stares at enviously whenever Chloè drags her into town.

Around the back, couples have started to walk into the gardens for a little more privacy.

People have started to return to the finger food, the pastries and desserts.

But the crowd is still watching the two of them spin and dance, joined by only a few of the more adventurous couples.

“Are we really that good?” She says wonderingly. Even the Mayor is watching them, and he looks like he’s enjoying himself. Odd.

Chat Noir is grinning, and the music is going faster, and the rush is dizzying to say the least. “Oh, no, my Lady - you are really that good. Did you know how beautiful your eyes look in the light?”

“Silly cat,” she says.

(Is she really here?)

(Is she at a ball where a mysterious boy is telling her how beautiful she is?)

(She can’t be.)

(But she is.)

And then, just as the violinist finishes on a flourish, a ringing sound starts in her ears.

Her time is up!

Marinette!

“I - uh -”

Chat Noir sweeps them both off the dancefloor and into the obscurity of the pavilion doors. She notices that he, too, looks anxiously at his hands. At the black ring set with chunks of emerald - no, less of the stones than she thought earlier. There are only two, one small and one big.

Marinette, you must leave, or the Mayor and Chloè will see you! Everyone will!

“I’ve got to run,” she says, immediately after Chat gabbles something along the same lines.

Marinette begins moving towards the side of the garden. If she jumps over the wall, she can run down and be out the gates, into her red carriage, in just a few seconds without going through the huge ballroom full of people. The night has been wonderful, but it’s time to return to the bitter reality of her normal life.

She begins to run.

“Wait!”

His hand catches her wrist and she stumbles, almost falling, caught by Chat. He looks horrified. “I’m so sorry-”

“Chat, I really have to go-”

“Will I see you anywhere again?” The urgency in his voice catches her off-guard.

“I - I don’t know. I hope so-”

“Then farewell, ma chérie, and I hope we meet again.” He brushes a feather-light kiss against her knuckles and helps her upright, panic making his green eyes wide and frightened.

She wonders for a second just how similar their situations are, really, but promptly forgets again when her earring squeaks shrilly in her ear.

“I’ve got to leave,” she exclaims, and bolts across the gardens.

Adrien watches her vanish, watches her leap the wall with assurance, and waits until he sees the red dot running towards the carriages.

Go, kid, go! You’ve got to get to your coach before it’s too late!

He waits another few seconds, gives her time to get away, before he, too, takes the garden route.

And he can’t help but think.

What did I do? And with who?

And why was it the best time of my life?

Little does he know of Marinette, sitting with a small kwami in her lap, asking Tikki the exact same questions with the ghost of his lips on her knuckles.

Chapter Text

“It’s all the rage,” yaps Chloè to a yawning Marinette. “She was absolutely stunning, although she could have used a little more lacing around the sleeves - next gala, I’ll tell her that, I’m sure she’d appreciate my advice - and her dancing was exquisite. And all of the girls are getting their spotted dresses, she’s brought them in rather quickly, so I need you to come into town. The new Royal Tailors have a stall by the marketplace, so they’ve got to be cheap. Even though they make Prince Adrien’s clothes. Weird, right? Stand straighter, you’ll embarrass me going out with that drooping face on you.”

Obediently Marinette straightens, although it takes a few seconds and a huge effort.

She’s exhausted. It shows. She hasn’t got eight hours of consecutive sleep in the two days since the ball.

“Hmph!” Chloè scrutinizes Marinette’s face, hands on the hips of her yellow dress, which is from the last time spots were in fashion, and is far too small. “You don’t look that great. I’ll put a hat on you, then we won’t have to see your face when I’m in the town.”

“Of course, Chloè,” Marinette says mechanically, not really listening. She stifles another yawn.

It’s been two days since the ball at the Baux Mansion, two days since Chloè got the news that spots were as in fashion as mysterious masked ladies. Two days since Marinette’s world has totally changed. Two days.

Amazing how much of a difference those few hours can make, right?

For one, it’s far less lonely - but she is getting a lot less sleep than she usually does. Tikki talks to her when Marinette begins the conversation, of course she does, but mostly Marinette is kept up by knowledge that there is something better out there. She’s been given a taste of how much more her life could be, and now she craves more. Not for the first time since the ball, Marinette privately wonders whether Tikki’s arrival is a blessing or a curse, tormenting her with tiny tastes of the life she wants without actually giving her the true experience.

She’s also spent a ridiculous amount of time reliving her dance with Chat Noir, although she can’t imagine ever having romantic feelings for someone like him. Romance might ruin whatever groundwork they’ve built in those four hours they’ve known each other.

Maybe more, if the fates provide.

As Chloè swans out the door, Marinette sighs in relief, and Tikki floats out of the pocket of Marinette’s dress.

“Chloè won’t need you for another half an hour,” squeaks the kwami, eyes drawn in worry for her charge. “Please try and get some sleep.”

“I would, but the Mayor wanted me to try and tidy the office. A potential backer is coming in later on today, and he thinks that having a neat office will sell his ideas far better,” Marinette explains with a wince as she forces herself to stand up straight.

“You’re exhausted.” Tikki folds her arms and widens her blue eyes as though trying to menace Marinette into napping.

But Marinette can’t. Mayor Bourgois would be annoyed if his office wasn’t tidy, and she can’t. She can’t. “I’ll sleep at night. That’s when I’m meant to do all that stuff.”

Tikki sighs, but with a bow of her overlarge head concedes that Marinette has won. She sinks in the air, letting her tiny body fall into the pocket Marinette has stitched into her dress for that very reason.

Marinette allows herself half a minute, eyes closed, slumped against the doorframe, before she drags herself up the set of stairs to the large office that Mayor Bourgeois has taken command of. It used to be the room where Marinette’s mother (her father was hopeless at maths) would calculate the bakery’s expenses of the month, little baby Marinette drawing crude doodles on the back of last month’s receipts and bills. Back then, it had seemed so homely, smelling of sage and cocoa - of her mother - and Marinette would spend all her time in it.

Now, it smells sterile and harsh. Her mother’s flower arrangements, replaced every week by the friendly florist, are gone. The wall hangings are burnt up, ashes lost to the wind long ago. Mayor Bourgeois has a desk, and papers everywhere, and a picture of Chloè taking pride of place.

Marinette hates going in there.

As she’s trooping in, yawning stealthily into the back of her hand, Mayor Bourgeois is walking out. Marinette doesn’t see him - her eyes are closed.

His shoulder hits hers, and Marinette, dustpan, brush, and the sheaf of papers in his hands all go flying down the hallway. A few forlorn papers, ink still drying on some of them, flutter through the gaps in the banisters and float with dreadful laziness down to the tiled foyer.

Marinette’s heart stops. All she hears is Tikki’s squeak of horror and her own blood rushing in her ears.

“Marinette!”

“Sorry, I-”

“This won’t do,” the Mayor fixes her with a cold stare, his smile bare and totally devoid of warmth. “Your constant clumsiness - what does it say about my household? As a busy man running for re-election, I need all the image I can muster. What if, say, I managed to procure Royal backing? What if the Prince and King Gabriel were to come here? What would they say at some ragged little peasant girl scattering the papers that are going to defend Parisians in Bayeux with these farmer’s revolts?”

“I’ll pick them up,” Marinette says desperately. She hopes he can’t see her tremble.

“Pick them up you will. You are this close to losing my patience,” the Mayor says, still with that dreadful calm. His ungloved hands pull her up by her forearm, thumb and forefinger pinching skin between them.

Marinette hisses in pain. “Sorry.”

“Remember that you live off my charity, and remember how grateful you are,” Mayor Bourgeois holds her arm for three more long, painful seconds, holding her eyes in his. Marinette is shaking like a leaf, reminded of the welt on her cheek as clearly as though it had happened only a few seconds ago.

As soon as she can, she takes the stairs two at a time to retrieve the three scattered pages. Mayor Bourgeois’ stare weighs on her back like a two-ton brick, and she hardly hears Tikki whispering frantically, calmingly, over the sound of her own panicked heartbeats.

“Here,” she says in a rush, shoving them at him.

He takes them. “And be more careful, next time, or I mightn’t find it in my heart to be so kind. ”

She watches his retreat down the stairs.

She feels Tikki watching her.

And Mayor Bourgeois slams the door behind him.

And runs into the office like a dervish, practically diving in and kicking the door shut behind her. As always, an encounter with the Mayor has left her shaken - she holds her hand up to her eye, watches it tremble like a leaf in a gale.

She breathes out, then leans her head against the shut door and draws her knees up close to her chest.

“Are you alright, Marinette?” Tikki asks softly, floating out of Marinette’s pocket. “I can help you tidy the room, if you like. Please, take a nap. You deserve it.” Her pink feelers rub the flowering bruises, five fingerprints, blooming against Marinette’s pale skin.

“No,” Marinette says, harsher than she means to. Her arm aches with dull numbness. “I’ll do it.”

Marinette knows she should be grateful for all she’s got in life. She always was - she always used to be, anyway. She knew that Mayor Bourgeois was kinder than he had any right to be, taking in an orphan responsible for the deaths of her own parents and the destruction of the palace bakery. Marinette has nothing to complain about, right? The Mayor gives her bed and board free of charge, and she’s kept away from the authorities - they would charge her with murder, wouldn’t they? Would they?

But Marinette has had a taste of what she could have had, and she’s realised how thirsty she is for another sip of the high life.

Of enjoyment.

Of talking to Chat Noir, dreadful flirt that he is.

“Marinette!” Chloè yells from the foyer, and Marinette almost falls from the ladder she’s been balancing on to dust the top of the shelf. “Hey, Marinette! It’s time to go into town! Don’t make me bring the pot-maid, filthy girl that she is. Hurry up!”

“Take heart,” Tikki whispers, buzzing up to Marinette’s cheek and nuzzling it softly.

Marinette smiles at nothing. “Heart,” she mutters, and, packing the dustpan and brush in the cupboard at the end of the hall, rushes downstairs to where Chloè is tapping her foot, a scowl twisting her thin lips even more unpleasantly than usual.

“We’re going to these tailors first,” Chloè tells her, pushing Marinette in front of her and into the waiting carriage. “You’re too dirty to ride up front, you’d shame my father’s name.”

“Indeed,” Marinette says. In truth, she’s grateful; the day is chilly and inside with Chloè is better than freezing to death with the chatty coachmen.

Chloè is busy instructing the two harassed coachmen in how to arrange her hat-boxes and clothes on the back of the carriage, and doesn’t notice Marinette drifting off into a brief respite from the madness, her hair stroked fondly away from her face by a small, pink kwami with suppressed righteous fury in her eyes and Frere Jacques on her lips.

***

Neither Nino nor Alya are due in for a fitting today, and Adrien has started being excluded more and more from council meetings since his mother’s health started to really deteriorate.

He struggles not to moon about the palace, but it’s hard.

For once in his life, he’s truly dissatisfied with where he is.

“You got to stop moping,” Plagg tells him from his vantage point in Adrien’s unbrushed hair. “Sure, you got to meet Ladybug. She was gorgeous. You danced a bit. There’s a gala at the Aumont place in three days time, so no fear of missing anything there. What’s eating you?”

Adrien slides down the wall, resting with his forehead on his knees. “Something’s going on, and I’m not talking about Chat Noir. Or Ladybug. Something else.”

“What gives you that idea, my paranoid friend?” Plagg hangs down, suspended from Adrien’s bangs with his long tail, blinking lazily. Green eyes into green.

Adrien bats him away. “You mean you don’t feel it? Something strange is going on in the palace, I know it, and they all know that I know it. They’re hiding something from me.”

“Who are they, kid? Some sort of militia? Watching you from the bushes style of thing? Listen to yourself,” says Plagg, but he doesn’t look convinced. He looks shifty. Like…

Like Adrien’s working things out before he’s meant to. Like Adrien’s spoiling the surprise. Like Adrien isn’t following the script.

“ You’re doing it too!”

“Kid,” Plagg begins, and he looks uncomfortable, “I was sent here because there was a soul in need. And hey, whaddaya know, that was you. And maybe I was also sent because your soul is important, and something big is happening. I don’t know what any more than you do, or I’d tell you, ‘cause I like you, kid. I really do. But I don’t. I don’t know a thing.”

Adrien dips his head, pressing his eyes into the fabric of his trousers until he sees stars. “Plagg, I need help.”

“Do what I do,” suggests the kwami. “Be aggressively loud until people tell you things out of self-defense.”

Adrien lifts his head to glare. “You’re not helping.”

“Okay then,” says Plagg, placatingly. “I reckon… I reckon you should go visit your mother.”

“My mother?”

But Adrien is too tired, too worn out from the constant lying and the secrets that he senses, to disagree. He picks himself up, aching all over from the fencing practices he was forced to do yesterday. Fencing! Like he needs fencing! He’s a socialite now, and he’s in line to the throne should his mother…

Pass on.

His eyes darken.

His mother’s rooms are so secluded, and it’s not the first time Adrien has wondered just when his father finds the time to visit his beloved wife. The Queen is the one with the Royal blood - King Gabriel was just a commoner she met at a ball when she married him. Surely, surely, King Gabriel would visit her? He loved her, didn’t he?

But down that route, the route of mad conspiracies and panicked lies, lay madness.

Adrien just keeps walking. The curtains in the Queen’s suite are always drawn, casting shadows in the same shade of lilac as the floral patterns on the curtains, the carpet, and the paintings. His mother loves flowers. She always says she’d be a florist if she wasn’t the queen.

Doctor Martell is due soon.

Maybe Adrien will stop him and ask him what’s going on, ask the Doctor what hopes he has of his mother getting any better.

Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

“Don’t fantasize, kid,” Plagg warns, drooping over Adrien’s head. “I can tell. You’re fantasizing. You can see it in the eyes, yeah, your buggy-starey-longey eyes. Fantasizing only leads to heartbreak and sadness.”

“What would you know about it?” Adrien asks, a little more callous than he usually is. His mother’s condition usually brings out the worst in him - he’s never had a conversation with the Doctor where he hasn’t snapped.

Plagg groans. “Don’t get all angsty on me, kid. I know a lot more about it than you do, okay, and you better hope you never know as much as me.”

“Hmm.” Adrien just lets Plagg vanish into the inner pocket of his coat as his mother’s room draws nearer. The door is, as it always is, closed shut against the bustle of the palace life. (Although the bustle has, recently, faded to a sort of stagnant whispering behind closed doors.)

Plagg hits Adrien’s arm gently, as though to remind the Prince that the kwami is still here.

“Thank you,” Adrien whispers, although to what he isn’t sure. His hand in his jacket, stroking his thumb over Plagg’s head, he enters his mother’s chambers.

The Queen is sleeping. She often is. Doctor Martell puts a draught in all of her medicine, to stop the terrors from plaguing her nights. Doctor Martell puts so many different draughts in all that the Queen drinks that Adrien’s mother isn’t so much eating as drinking her breakfast, her lunch, her dinner, her supper.

All the same, Adrien takes his seat. It’s where he left it yesterday, slightly askew from the bed.

“Good morning, mother,” he says conversationally. “Doctor Martell’s coming soon. How are you feeling?”

Her skin is paler, more translucent. If Adrien didn’t hope for the better, against all odds, he would say his mother is deteriorating fast - but she isn’t. Adrien refuses to believe it. He can’t. If his mother - if she goes, then Adrien will be stuck here with King Gabriel and the succession. And if his mother dies, then Adrien will inherit the throne.

Fantastic.

He just wants to go to the gala at the Aumont House, see his mysterious Ladybug again, and dance with her to the beat of their hearts.

He thinks he might be a little bit in love with her big blue eyes. Her smile. Her hair under the darkness. Her modesty, her confidence, two contradicting parts of a beautiful whole. “I met somebody a few days ago, mother. She’s as beautiful as you are.”

“That just sounds weird, kid,” Plagg mumbles within Adrien’s pocket.

Adrien ignores him. “How are you feeling today, then? Any better? Doctor Martell’s coming soon, and it’d be great if you were able to wake up for a few moments.”

She remains emotionless, still, and silent. Her breathing is deep and laborious, and every so often her eyes twitch in some phantom pain. Adrien will sit, as he does every day, until she either awakes or he is thrown out by Doctor Martell (or his mother’s handmaids). He’s bored by it, of course he is, but if he doesn’t visit, who will?

“Kid,” Plagg begins, but says no more.

Adrien picks up his mother’s hand, feels the frail brittleness of her fingers.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Is that you, Doctor?” Adrien calls. He’s annoyed with himself - if he hadn’t spent so much time moping in the corridor earlier about plots and conspiracies, he would have longer with his mother. As it stands, he’s got less time than usual, and Doctor Martell always forbids Adrien from visiting her after his appointments.

“Ah, Prince Adrien. May I come in?” Doctor Martell says this as he’s bustling in anyway, fussing with the brass clasp of his worn leather bag.

Doctor Thierry Martell and the Martell family have been the physicians of the Royal family since before Adrien’s grandmother passed away. This version of Doctor Martell has been the current physician for sixteen years - his first real job was to help bring little Prince Adrien into the world. His short, tubby stature does nothing to diminish the sense of importance, of intelligence, radiating from him like light from the sun; the Martell family have all been great scholars.

Adrien moves towards the door, but Doctor Martell waves him back impatiently. “Don’t move, now, boy. I think it’s high time you knew what was going on.”

Adrien thinks he hears the Doctor mumbling something about King Gabriel and negligence, but he can’t be sure. Bemused, he backs towards the chair and sits on the edge, primed to leave at any second.

Doctor Martell picks up the Queen’s wrist, feeling for the throb of blood. He shakes his head, scribbling something down on a well-used notepad, squinting at his own handwriting through his tiny gold spectacles, clipped onto the bridge of his nose.

Adrien wishes he would say something. There’s tension, thick as congealed blood, and he’s not the one willing to break it.

Plagg is shivering next to his arm.

“Adrien,” Martell says, letting the Queen’s arm fall to the bedsheets. “I have some rather bad news.”

In hindsight, Adrien has never hated the man more.

“Yes?” His voice scrapes against the muted terror that has suddenly sprung into his throat.

“Adrien… I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can for your mother, but she has a degenerative disorder. She will only get worse from here on. I think you realise this already, but I want you to know so anything… anything that happens won’t come as a shock.”

And with dreadful calmness, Adrien realises he’s known it all along.

“Your mother may not make it past the year.”

***

Marinette troops glumly after Chloè, yawning even more frequently than before her nap. It shouldn’t be possible, but she actually feels more tired than she did before sleeping the whole of the carriage ride into the markets of Paris (how come Chloè didn’t wake her? Marinette is still surprised) and now, with two or more hours of mindless shopping, the urge to collapse here and now is becoming overpowering.

“We’ll go to the tailor’s first,” Chloè announces grandly. “They’ll be falling over themselves to serve someone like me.”

“Of course they will,” Marinette mumbles. Chloè doesn’t hear the sarcasm in the other girl’s voice, but Marinette is rewarded by a tiny giggle from the kwami hidden in her pocket.

The market square is full of people. People like Chloè who think they’re being ‘ethnic’ or something for shopping on the street, when in reality all the stall-owners are as rich as she shoppers. People like Marinette who follow after people like Chloè with long-suffering expressions and arms full of boxes and bags and purchased items that the people like Chloè will probably never look at again.

“The tailoring people are down there,” Marinette points. She sees a line of mannequins in spotted and black clothing (have she and her erstwhile dancing partner really made such an impact?) and guesses that the tailors will just be more mindless Chloè-types.

Chloè squeals with shallow glee. “Oh, I see a dress - capped sleeves, although it could be improved a little. I’ll be sure to give them my advice.”

“And won’t they appreciate it,” Marinette says, again under her breath. With another heavy sigh she traipses after the blonde girl in the too-small spotty dress.

There are two tailors working at the stall, a boy and a girl that look to be around Marinette’s age. Is it her imagination, or does the boy look vaguely familiar? The girl is spinning around in a checkered shirt and skirt, her red hair floating like a frizzy halo around her head as she fixes mannequins and shoots out pointed remarks at the boy, who’s looking around the market with keen eyes, searching for something Marinette can’t see.

Chloè taps her foot. “Distracted! I call that unprofessional. How did they ever land the job with Prince Adrien?”

“Their clothing looks delightful,” says Marinette wistfully. In her head, she’s thinking about how to adapt the lace ruffling to her own patchwork dress - or maybe she could ask Tikki to add them into the dress that she intends to wear (as Ladybug) to the Aumont gala in three days?

Chloè sniffs. “It could be better, really.”

Marinette holds her tongue - arguing with Chloè is pointless, and it only ever offers worse outcomes than just staying silent.

The girl, at this point, notices them, and a smile overtakes her whole face. “Hello, there! Hello! Hi! Nino, look, customers!”

The boy turns around from the crowd-gazing, focuses in on Marinette, and falls backwards into a mannequin.

Chloè sniffs. “You know, Marinette, I think I’ll take a look around the other tailors first. You stay here. These peasants are rather more your style.” With a toss of her blonde hair and a flick of her yellow skirts, Chloè Bourgeois flounces off to look at the other stalls, giving a pointed glance back every so often at the two Royal tailors.

Marinette sticks out her hand to help the boy - Nino - up to his feet. “Sorry about her, she’s a little… elitist. And tends to judge people on whether or not they love her on sight,” she apologises.

“Not a problem, Marinette,” the boy’s smile spreads into a genuinely friendly one. He dusts the debris of the street of the seat of his trousers. “And what are two beautiful ladies doing out and about?”

“Nino, customers! And it’s her - uh, her, that is to say, her. Her. I mean, her, her being the blonde one. Her.” The girl flaps her hands up and down.

Nino? Wait… Nino, the small boy that Marinette used to play with, before the fire? The son of the local tailor’s shop? The one that liked to stand in the street and listen to the musicians until his parents had to drag him away?

Marinette begins to stare, eyes narrowed. It’s been years - he’ll have changed - but is that him?

Nino rubs the back of his neck. His cheeks are coloured with an embarrassed blush. “Alya, calm down.”

“Hi! I’m Alya! I like your hair!” Beams Alya, the girl, shoving her hand out for Marinette to shake. Just as a bemused Marinette is about to shake it, Alya recoils as though hit and winces. “Man, that was terrible!”

“Uh… are you alright?” Marinette asks. Behind her she feels Chloè’s stare on the back of her neck, appraising the two tailors, and her shoulders rise in a defensive hunch.

“Sorry. Sorry. I just… I’ve seen you around, and you look really pretty, and-”

“And Alya has nothing better to do,” finishes Nino hurriedly. “Was there something you wanted, Marinette?”

“I do know you!”

His face wavers for a moment. “I’m sorry? I don’t think I remember meeting you. And I would have done, if I had - that is to say, uh… you’re quite striking. Not in a bad way! You just…”

“Nino, the tailor’s son, you lived two houses away from me and you really like strawberry puffs!” Marinette exclaims, pointing at him. Chloè’s stare burns her neck, although out of the corner of her eye she sees Alya apparently engaging Chloè in a stare-off, so as to draw less attention than Marinette’s outburst already has.

“ Marinette?” Nino’s eyes bulge comically. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng? But - mon dieu, I thought - all of us thought you had died in the fire!”

“I should really be writing all this down,” Alya says excitedly, “And sell it to a magazine or some such. This is some top-quality action happening right in front of my eyes!” They both ignore her.

“I didn’t,” is all Marinette can say lamely. And then, even stupider, “I like your designs.”

Somewhere in her pocket, Tikki is groaning and slapping her forehead with her paw.

***

As it turns out, Alya has been watching Chloè and Marinette in the market for a few weeks. She calls Marinette a ‘conquest of friendship’ several times, buys all three of them warm wine from a neighbouring stall, and insists on giving Marinette a swathe of polka-dotted fabric when Chloè isn’t looking. (Chloè has gone off in a fully blown temper tantrum into a tailor’s shop down the street, telling Marinette that she better be in the square when Chloè returns or there’ll be consequences.)

(Consequences.)

(Marinette hates consequences.)

It also turns out that Alya is the more level-headed of the two aspiring designers.

“Chloè seems like a piece of work,” she says, half an hour into Nino’s babbling mess about how he thought Marinette was dead - no, really, honestly, you were dead! - and so on.

“Oh, she’s not so bad,” Marinette lies. She smiles at Nino, ashamed to be glad that he’s shut up. But really, once he’s got over the inital astonishment, how long can you spin the story? Apparently, forever.

Alya frowns. “Hm. I wonder…” She doesn’t expand, just sighs. “How long will Chloè spend in that shop?”

“Oh, hours, easily,” Marinette says. “Once, she told her father that she would be out for half an hour before lunch to buy a parasol, and she came home at eight o’clock that night with three parasols and a new sunhat. Chloè… she takes her shopping very seriously.”

“Don’t we all,” Nino chips in, folding a cravat. “Here you go, sir. Marinette, can you pass me the duck-egg one? No, the pale one. Yes, in that box there.”

Marinette passes over the cravat, pausing before handing it to Nino. “You might sell more if you displayed them. Do you have any shoulders-up dolls?”

“Uh… Do we?” Nino rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re showing me up here.”

“We do, you dolt,” Alya says, bending over to dig around underneath the display table the three of them are sitting behind. Marinette smiles uncomfortably, wondering if she’s genuinely annoyed Nino or not - she just wants to help a little. “Here.”

“See?” Marinette’s fingers deftly tie the cravat, tucking the spare material into the back. “And now people can see it a little better. They’re really well made.” Well, there’s a little too much material at the end, but I think these people wouldn’t appreciate a servant telling them what they’re doing wrong.

“I love you. This looks wonderful,” Alya says reverently, placing the model head on the table and swiveling the cravat around. “Would putting a hat on it be too much?”

“Take a risk,” Nino shrugs, winking at Marinette and throwing a black top hat at his partner.

Marinette blinks. For a second, she could swear there are black cat ears sticking up from the brim, a slim green ribbon shining as though luminous. But then Alya catches it, and it turns out to be just a plain old hat, wonderfully made, but plain.

She’s got Chat Noir on the mind.

She hopes he turns up at the Aumont Gala.

“That looks nice,” Nino tips his head in a critical view of the mannequin. “Don’t you think, Marinette?”

“Uh… do you mind if I do something?” She asks, slightly timidly, although in the half an hour she’s known the two tailors, they’ve been nicer to her than Chloè and the Mayor have in her entire life.

Alya nods fervently. “You have the best eye for clothes I’ve seen. Ever. Go ahead.”

“Well, we could add colour. I - I mean, you could. Add colour. And then sell the cravat and the hat as a matching set. They’re very desirable among Chloè’s sort of people.”

Nino’s eyes widen. “I want to kidnap you,” he breathes. “Genius!”

Marinette flushes and looks down. The cravat is the bright green of the jewel that glimmered on Chat Noir’s hand, and she sees the same colour in a box of scrap fabrics and ribbons. A long, green ribbon. She plucks it out and loops it around the hat, tying it and leaving the ends trailing over the edge. It will look wonderful on some tall man twirling his lady around, the green ribbons spinning with him, drawing all the attention his way.

She realises that she’s thinking about Chat Noir, and stops.

“That looks great,” Alya says appreciatively.

They sell the cravat and hat as a set within fifteen minutes, to a nervous young man with green, green eyes.

“It will make your eyes stand out,” Marinette promises, handing it to him. “They’re very stunning - something like that shouldn’t be hidden by some other hat-brim. And this cravat - do you have a green signet ring?”

“I’ll look like Chat Noir,” the young man breathes with reverence.

Marinette hides a grin of delight. “You will.”

“He looked amazing at the Baux ball,” says the young man as though confiding a great secret. “In fact, the only person that could even match how elegant he looked was his partner. I wished I could have asked her to dance, but I got scared at the last moment. Do you think… at the Aumont Gala… she might accept a dance or two?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it!” Marinette exclaims. She makes a mental note to seek him out - if she can go - and compliment his hat and cravat. He’ll be sure to return to Nino and Alya.

He beams. “Thank you, Miss!”

Alya swishes the hat into a hatbox and folds the cravat in as well. She turns to Marinette as the young man is hurrying off, purchases clasped close to his chest, fantasizing about dancing with the mysterious masked beauty. “That was masterful, Marinette.”

“You just need to know what people need to hear,” Marinette shrugs.

She doesn’t catch the measuring look that Nino and Alya exchange over her shoulder.

“Marinette…” Alya says slowly, “How would you like to come with us next time we visit the palace? Could we convince Chloè somehow?”

Marinette falls off her stool with a squeak, and lands in the box of scrap materials.

But by the time Chloè emerges from the tailor’s, the three of them have a plan. A Plan. Marinette hasn’t been much use for the actual plan, too surprised and then astonished and then bewilderingly pleased to contribute, but she tells them all they’ll need to manipulate Chloè.

What’s happening?

Surely, surely, these two almost-strangers can’t want to do this much just to get some random servant into the palace to give Prince Adrien fashion advice. Marinette, like most other Parisian girls, has always entertained a tiny fantasy in her mind where the Prince comes to visit the Mayor and sweeps her off her feet. She’s only seen him in paintings that the Mayor features in, but that’s enough to tell her that he’s quite attractive.

Around her age, too. Is she going to the palace?

What’s happening to her?

“I reckon you can redeem us,” Nino says, fiddling with the bare mannequin again. This time the cravat is dark blue and the hat has a blue ribbon, tied in the shape of a flower, around the brim.

Marinette raises an eyebrow. Her heart is beating faster. She sees the blonde head near the door of the tailor’s shop. “Redeem you?”

“If we don’t astonish him come his coming-of-age day, king Gabriel will tell all of Paris that we’re terrible tailors and we’ll never work another day again,” Alya explains.

Chloè is coming out the door. Her dress is red, and spotted. Almost exactly like the one Mariette wore at the Baux Mansion - through the anxiety, she feels a pang of irritation. How dare Chloè steal the one thing Marinette really owned?

Everyone’s doing it. It’s all right. She’s not done anything in particular.

“She’s coming!” Nino hisses suddenly.

Marinette feels the blood run from her face. In the next five minutes, she could be given freedom, or denied it completely. Chloè has all the power, to do with what she will.

“Plan, plan, plan,” Alya flaps her hands at Marinette. “Nobody freak out. Nobody panic.”

Marinette decides not to point out that Alya’s the only one out of the three of them that’s really worked herself into a visible panic. She just breathes out. “Really. It’s fine. And if it doesn’t work - well, you guys don’t know me that well. It might be all for the best.”

“Hmph.” Alya kicks the box of scraps. “Well, that’s just stupid - she’s coming!”

“Mademoiselle Bourgeois!” Nino exclaims in a sort of high-pitched scream. “May! I compliment! You! On! Your! Dress!”

Chloè tosses her hair. “You sound ridiculous, boy.”

Boy? Nino is older than her!

“Hello, Chloè,” Marinette waves timidly, fingers of her other hand crossed underneath the desk. “How are you?”

“I’ll be better once you take this hatbox off me,” Chloè sniffs. “It weighs a ton.” She drops it on the trestle table, which shakes. A pair of needlework scissors bounce and fall onto the cobbled streets - Alya squeaks in barely-contained annoyance.

“Of course,” Marinette gabbles, snatching the box into her arms, which immediately voice their displeasure, shooting waves of pain up her forearms.

“Say, Mademoiselle!” Nino barks.

Marinette stealthily kicks him under the table. “Hush, let us handle it,” she hisses.

“Mademoiselle Bourgeois, do you know the Prince?” Alya says, suddenly as slippery as a snake. She flutters her eyes.

“Oh, Adrien? Oui, oui, we’ve been friends since childhood,” Chloè says impatiently. “And you’re not getting an autograph.”

Marinette shakes her head at Alya - it’s a lie. She’s infatuated with him every time the Mayor goes to the palace, though.

Alya nods at her, then continues, “Marinette here has been most helpful. We’d like the loan of her to the Palace to help fit the Prince.”

“No!” Chloè screeches so loudly that people at other stalls look around in alarm.

Marinette grasps the box tightly, feeling the tips of her fingers numb under the pressure. Come on, Chloè, be as manipulative as you usually are...

“Ah, Mademoiselle, hold on,” Alya holds up a finger. “Of course when asked for who contributed, we will say Chloè Bourgeois - you employ Marion-” (getting her name wrong to further convince Chloè had been Nino’s idea) “-And of course, the Prince will want to see you personally. You can also tell Marion all you want the Prince to wear and we’ll try to put it into his costume - I’m sure your design ideas will be wonderful, as your fashion sense clearly is.”

Chloè beams. “Thank you. Maybe I will. Are you paid?”

“The money will be shared in thirds equally between me, Nino, and Mari - and you, Mademoiselle,” Alya says, flashing an annoyed look in Nino’s direction. Nino, bright purple from holding his breath, says nothing.

“Then yes,” Chloè announces. “Marinette, don’t be as much of an idiot as you are at home. I need Prince Adrien to like me, and then we’ll get married and have four babies and a cat!”

“Wonderful,” Alya says.

Under the table, Nino high-fives the back of Marinette’s hand.

Marinette grins.

***

Chapter Text

Adrien is late for the Aumont Gala.

Well, he’s not disastrously late. The Gala starts at seven, and it’s five minutes past, and Plagg is being weird about something. It’s not like Adrien needs cradling. He’s not some precious baby bird that’s broken his wing - he’s almost a man, and he’s been told something that he’s known for years anyway, and he just wants to get out.

“She would understand,” Plagg says sympathetically. “Your beautiful belle would hardly throw a fit.”

“Plagg, I want to go to the Gala,” Adrien responds, a little less patiently than he should. Plagg and he have been going around in these useless circles for over twenty minutes, and Adrien doesn’t get why the kwami can’t understand. “i want to go.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I know! I know! I know I don’t have to, and I know this is all ridiculous, and I know it’s not fair that I can have fun while she’s dyi- while she’s ill, and I know and I know and I don’t care! Just…” Adrien falls back onto his bed, his momentary burst of frustration-fueled anger gone. “Please, Plagg. You don’t have to do anything once I’m transformed. Just come here. Please.”

Plagg hovers, uncertain.

Adrien has had enough.

In the three days since Doctor Martell delivered the shocking blow, Adrien’s been teetering between feeling completely blank, emptied out of all emotion, and constantly wanting to break something or yell. He’s confined himself to yelling at Plagg, who, at least, seems to find him amusing in some strange, twisted way.

But if he doesn’t go… If he doesn’t get out of this stagnant palace, full of whispers in the dark and the rise and fall of her chest, too slow, too shallow… if he doesn’t go tonight, he’ll go mad.

“I just don’t think-”

“Plagg, just trust me here. I think I know me better than you do, right now.”

Plagg is silent for far longer than Adrien would like, and the prince begins to think that maybe the kwami just won’t do it. He’ll decide what’s best for Adrien, just like everyone else does. Doctor Martell. The council. His own damn father. He just wants to go out and enjoy himself for once, and he doesn’t care how selfish it sounds, because it’s the truth, and why can’t Plagg see? What is it -

Adrien doesn’t see the green light. His eyes are closed.

But he feels the warmth of another presence tingling through him from the tips of his fingers to his toes. And this time, even though Plagg’s kindness is unexpected, Adrien is ready for the feel of the cool cotton shirt replacing the slippery silk, for the tickling feeling of a mask settling in around his eyes, for the sudden weight of the top hat against his head.

“Plagg!”

Hey, kid, I couldn’t be the one to keep you all mopey like a princess in a tower, Plagg says with genuine fondness in his voice. Adrien, more used to this, stares down at his arms in delight. The jacket has a little golden-green brocade stitched onto the tips of the sleeves, now, forming two little cat’s-eyes in the childlike stitching.

He feels Plagg poking around in his mind. “Hey, stop that.”

I just want to check. I don’t… kid, just because I can’t tell you some things, that doesn’t mean I want you going off doing something stupid. I like you, ‘else I wouldn’t have chosen you, and all that guff.

“Well, you could just ask,” Adrien grumbles lightheartedly, admiring himself in the mirror, posing with the cane. “Is the carriage outside?”

You know it, your majesty. I’ll be in your subconscious, so I won’t get in the way.

Adrien feels it when Plagg retreats. Some of the delightfully reassuring warmth slips back - doesn’t leave entirely - just removes itself a little, dulls the euphoria of the moment. As he’s taking the back stairs three at a time, he entertains the thought - what if Plagg didn’t retreat? Would Chat Noir become the flirtiest, loudest, most amplified personality he could?

Maybe this kwami-spirit is known as ‘too much of a good thing’.

“Hello, sir,” says the coachman, opening the door for Adrien to fall into once more. “The Aumont Gala, I presume?”

“Of course,” Adrien says, a little breathlessly. His internal clock tells him he’s twenty minutes late; his ring tells him he has just under four hours before Plagg becomes to exhausted.

He slumps back against the seat, reclining lazily across the whole carriage, and allows himself to properly think. Think for the first time since Plagg has begun following him around the palace with an overly-watchful green eye constantly focused on Adrien.

Adrien’s done his fair share of snooping, but he can’t get anything out of anyone, or so it seems. There are almost constant meetings, and he’s only seen his father once, briefly, while on his way to an elocution lesson with his overbearing tutor. There’s something about the royal succession and steps which have to be taken and people saying things in regretful voices that, nevertheless, still manage to sound like they don’t care very much at all.

It sounds ominous.

Adrien doesn’t like ominous.

And with his mother dyi- with his mother, ill, Adrien is - technically - the only member of the Royal bloodline still active in the palace.

The thought, as it always does, floods the emptiness in his mind with a sea of overflowing dread.

He tries not to think about it. It won’t come to that. It will never come to something so drastic. In fact, Adrien’s just being paranoid about it all, and there’s nothing he really needs to worry about except for how late he’s going to be for the Gala.

Arriving in style. That’s what he’ll say.

And he’ll see her again, the girl with the oceans in her eyes and the sun in her smile and roses in her hair, and he’ll try not to make too much of a fool of himself.

“Aumont Mansion,” announces the coachman grandly from outside.

Adrien - Chat Noir - yells a quick word of thanks, glancing out the window. To his dismay there aren’t any more stragglers walking up the steps; he really will be the only one through those doors, and if there are butlers announcing names, he’ll draw all the eyes his way. He doesn’t want to interrupt the dancing, not at all, and he doesn’t want to drown under a deluge of young, aristocratic girls, either.

Even the doorkeepers have gone inside.

It doesn’t matter, though, does it? Because Adrien is Chat Noir, and Chat Noir doesn’t care.

He saunters up the front steps of the Mansion with his cane tapping the ground, looking as debonair as an opera-goer and feeling as foolish as a clown.

“Sir!”

Right. Of course, they’ll have someone stationed at the door to wait out for anyone disastrously late.

“Good evening,” Chat touches the brim of his hat and nods courteously at the rather pudgy butler. “I’m sorry, I’m dreadfully late, but do you mind if I go on in? My name is Le Chat Noir, I should be on the guest list.”

Even though the butler’s hands are empty, the fat man looks down as though holding a piece of paper. “So you are, sir. No need to apologise - go right ahead in.”

Chat bows once more, low and far more expressive than it needs to be, and with a cocky grin quickly pasted on his face, waltzes in through the double doors and onto the balcony overlooking the main hall, where dancers have already taken their places and are spinning slowly in time to the meandering tune of a miniature orchestra.

His entry goes largely unnoticed - Mayor Bourgeois and another man see him, he’s sure, and a few dancers look up, but mostly people are transfixed by the couple twirling in the very centre of the dancefloor.

When Adrien sees them, he’s jolted from his seat by a wave of surprise.

That’s the Ladybug there, he’s sure of it, although the sleeves on her red dress look different, and her hair is slightly curlier. She’s spinning with assured confidence with a boy in a black suit, a green cravat, and a green-ribboned top hat, who’s one step away from proposing on the spot. Adrien wonders if that’s him talking, if he’s biased, or if everyone else can see it, too.

He grits his teeth. Ladybug - he has no right to her, he barely knows her, he’s shared a few dances and flirted a little and had that moment in the garden, but…

That boy is dressed in obvious homage to him, Chat, and it irritates like salt on a half-healed wound.

Adrien stands in stiff silence until, with a flourishing cadence, the cello finishes its drawn out conclusion to the already too-long piece of music. He watches the boy bow to her, watches her dip into a curtsey, and knows that if she takes his hand again, he won’t kick up a fuss. He doesn’t know her, not really. It’s stupid to think he would have as big an impact on her as she had on him.

He’s about to turn away, bitter in his throat, when he sees the red-masked face look up at the balcony, big blue eyes scanning. Searching.

He hopes it’s for him.

And decides he doesn’t care if it isn’t. The time in between their meetings has been terrible enough, and he deserves to be selfish for these three and a half hours remaining to him. Just for tonight, he can let go of the guilt hanging over his mother’s dark chambers, and the frustration of yet another locked door.

She meets him at the bottom of the stairs just as he bounds to the last step. Her eyes are shining.

“I thought you were otherwise engaged, and had resigned myself to a thoroughly boring evening,” she says with a grin. Her gloves are shorter tonight, Adrien notices, only reaching to her elbow. Her arm is pale as the rest of her, almost too pale, dusted with freckles.

Chat Noir bows, flourishes his cane, and almost hits into a pair of giggling children up past their bedtime. “For you, my Lady, I could never be otherwise engaged,” he says solemnly.

She snorts a little in unladylike laughter, and that dissolves any of the rest of the tension that could possibly have been hovering around them after their unconventional party at the Baux ball. Suddenly she is transformed from an object for Adrien to dream about, to place high on a pedestal, to someone that finds his jokes at least a little funny and that dances with him and actually laughs instead of that self-contained little giggle Adrien so loathes in aristocratic girls.

“That was very uncultured and middle-class of you, Princess,” he adds, winking. Maybe that crotchety old dear is here tonight? Wouldn’t that be hilarious?

“Oh, I’m  so glad you’re here,” she exclaims, reminded of something. Her eyes widen and she tugs on his sleeve. “Without you, I couldn’t go over to the buffet table. I would have looked like such an idiot stuffing macaroons into my mouth. But now you’re here, and I can do it without looking like an idiot on my own.”

“Always pleased to be of use,” Chat grins, offering his arm for her to hook into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we dance, work up an appetite, or are the macaroons calling to you like strawberry beacons?”

“Hmm.” Ladybug slips her hand around his arm, nudging his hip with hers in a gesture so intimately friendly that Adrien’s mind temporarily stops.

She looks at the table, then at the orchestra, who have just begun to play a lively, catchy polka-step. “I think we should dance, and then the macaroons will be able to truly appreciate what I put myself through for them.”

“A wise decision, my Lady,” Adrien nods, and twirls them both into the whirl of the polka. Quick-quick, slow-slow…

***

Marinette is leading the boy through a simple waltz (that Chat Noir danced with her at the Baux ball) when she thinks sees the masked man himself at the top of the stairs, looking left and right with frantic urgency.

It’s only politeness that keeps her from leaving. (What if it isn’t him?)

“I love your cravat,” she says instead, itching for the dance to end.

The boy that wanted to be just like Chat Noir flushes as red as Marinette’s dress. “I - It was recommended to me by a group of talented tailors. I believe they dress for the Prince as well, and it was only good fortune that led me to this set. The hat and cravat match, you see?”

“Delightful,” Marinette compliments warmly. Then, the business her newfound conspirators in mind, she says, “I expect they’re in great demand, non? ”

“No, they’re quite exclusive. I intend to give their address to my friends, who want to attend more of these affairs - wonderful suits and dresses for the most amazing prices, in my opinion.” He beams with good-natured ignorance of Marinette’s manipulation, just happy that out of all her admirers, the Lady selected him specially to dance with in lieu of her debonair partner.

Ladybug. Chat Noir.

After just one ball, one masked appearance, one fantastic, captivating dance, they appear to have excited the minds of the idle Parisians who make it their business to know the gossip almost before it happens.  

“I’ll have to excuse myself after this dance,” Marinette says. The natural flow of the dancers is carrying them to the edge of the dancefloor anyway, where there are less people for her to battle through to get to Chat Noir.

“Of course,” the boy bows low, and they both wait in awkward silence as the cellist plays a long, drawn out note, enjoying his moment of attention.

Ladybug dips into the quickest of curtseys she can manage without being actually rude, and backs away from the boy to look up at the balcony. She’s got a horrible feeling, like Chat Noir isn’t going to show up, like she won’t have another chance to see him and duel in the strangely entertaining, flirtatious back-and-forth they held last time.

Where is he?

Is he even here? Was the man earlier simply someone she conjured from somewhere inside her head?

Marinette’s searching blue eyes meet the shining green irises of a masked man, scanning the crowd as frantically as she is. His eyes widen as he sees her, and as she feels her smile growing too wide for her face, his own grin spreads like a Cheshire cat.

He begins to bound down the stairs.

Marinette hurries around chatting conversationalists and startled ladies to reach the stairs before he does, and almost overbalances, caught - again - by Chat Noir himself. It’s a startling throwback to the Baux gardens just a few nights ago.

She catches her breath. I’m so happy you’re here. How does she say that without sounding like Chat Noir, this unnamed, faceless man, is the closest friend she’s had in years? “I thought you were otherwise engaged, and had resigned myself to a thoroughly boring evening,” Marinette says with a grin instead of anything overly soppy. She stands herself upright, and can’t seem to halt the spread of her ridiculous smile.

Chat Noir sweeps into a bow, waving his cane around wildly and just missing two little girls. “For you, my Lady, I could never be otherwise engaged.” His eyes glitter with glee.

Marinette covers her mouth as she laughs, accidentally snorting with laughter, and just like that - just like that - anything between them that could have been ruined is set right. Chat Noir isn’t some strange man that she could have offended, and he isn’t some sort of flirtatious gentleman. He’s just someone… someone strange, yes, someone like her, maybe, someone with as much knowledge as her of how to behave in galas and balls.

What a partnership they make, right?

Chat Noir winks at her. “That was very uncultured and middle-class of you, Princess.”

Another reminder of the last ball, another pleasant memory to polish and cherish in the back of her mind. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, more heartfelt than she means. Marinette’s eyes widen as she realises what she’s said; is that ambiguous? Is it suggestive? “I’m so glad - without you, I couldn’t go over to the buffet table. I would have looked like such an idiot stuffing macaroons into my mouth. But now you’re here, and I can do it without looking like an idiot on my own.”

“Always pleased to be of use,” Chat offers his arm, perhaps seeing how dizzy she’s become from so recently spinning in circles for several minutes. “Shall we dance, work up an appetite, or are the macaroons calling to you like strawberry beacons?”

“Hmm.” Marinette decides to throw caution to the winds - how can it hurt? He’s trustworthy in a way she can’t define, but knows to be true. She bumps his hip with hers, just a little tap, something her mother would do to little Mari when they shared a joke. For some reason, he stiffens momentarily, and she hears his breath catch.

Marinette pretends not to have noticed. She’s desperate for this to work, somehow, to form a mysterious friendship with someone, no ties or cuts or outward knowledge needed. And the new tune springing from the miniature orchestra catches her ear, makes her feet tap to the beat. “I think we should dance, and then the macaroons will be able to truly appreciate what I put myself through for them.”

Chat seems to have recovered, smiling. “A wise decision, my Lady.”

Marinette doesn’t have to mention her complete ignorance of dances like whatever this is. Chat Noir guides her to stand in front of him, hands clasped, as the strings merrily stab at the notes with ringing brilliance.

“This dance is just… it’s skipping, but with a little more grandeur,” he mumbles in her ear. “Think of Viennese dancers, if you’ve ever seen anything like that. Have you?”

Marinette shakes her head regretfully. “I’m afraid not. I’m sure I won’t show you up too much. Hopefully.” A quick glance at the balcony shows her Mayor Bourgeois watching the masked couple with interest, Chloè resplendent in a yellow spotted dress, her eyes focused on Marinette with unbridled enthusiasm. “We’ve got a little attention.”

“ Hop-step-hop-step… Yes, we have, haven’t we? Our dancing last time impressed them,” says Chat, steering her hands above her head. “ And twirl…”

“You’re a wonderful dancer,” Marinette manages to say, her feet barely keeping up with Chat. How has he learned every step to every dance? His hands grasp her waist to twirl her around, perfectly in time with the other couples smiling and talking as they move.

“Hop-step-hop-step… and change! Oh, I manage. I’m nothing compared to some of the people I know, really, you should see them in action. Turn-” Chat pulls them both into a line of couples that have begun to hop and step around the room, one pair of hands in front, the other behind.

Marinette thinks she might be getting the hang of this. “All the same, Chat, you’re really good.”

He just hums. “And now we turn-” He lets go of her hand, Marinette spinning underneath his arm, ending up in the traditional pose, facing each other. “And move like this-”

Marinette looks at his face while Chat looks at their feet. His smile is brittle, somehow, like a porcelain glass about to break, but only when he thinks she isn’t looking. And his eyes are happy, yes, but they’re the sort of happy that Marinette knows from the mirror in the mornings. The forced happiness of counting your blessings under your breath every day to ignore whatever goes on around you.

The polka morphs seamlessly into something a little smoother, a little less choreographed, something to just turn to the beat.

“That was amazing, for your first polka!” Chat looks up and beams at her, then frowns when he sees her face. “Hm. What?”

Marinette begins to step backwards - three steps back, twist, three steps - “Nothing, nothing. Just thinking. Would you like to go fill up on desserts, or dance awhile more?”

“I seem to recall an unfulfilled promise for a walk in the garden, if the offer still hangs,” Chat Noir wriggles his eyebrows, trying to be suggestive and instead ending up somewhere between constipated and confused.

Ladybug giggles and pulls her partner, for the second time that night, seamlessly out of the dance, on the other side of the room. “And a walk in the garden will make the macaroons call all the louder.”

“I like your train of thought, Princess.” Chat tips his hat to a couple coming in from the gardens, the taller girl with her arms wrapped around her shorter companion. “Seems cold.”

“I’m sure it’ll be delightful,” says Marinette absently. She’ll wait until they’re outside and then she’ll ask what’s wrong, just in case she’s overreacting, or she’s seen it wrong, or it’s genuinely something worrying.

Either way.

The heat from inside the ballroom warms them both as they stroll along the rows of flung-open french windows. Her earrings beep in her ears, telling her half her time is up. Two hours left, sunshine! Two hours. She can do a lot in two hours. “Did you sleep much after the last time?”

What was that? What do you call that? Why did you start with that? Marinette, you idiot -

“Not really. I was too excited, and then I woke up with only three hours behind my belt and in a meeting that morning, I fell asleep. What a cat- astrophe!” Chat beams cheesily, clicking his fingers.

Marinette hides a shiver. Maybe it is cooler than she thought. “At least you weren’t stopped from coming here as punishment, then,” she says, almost running on autopilot as her hands, rubbing her forearms to keep them warm, press down on the bruises the Mayor left on her bicep. Great. Tikki, why did you make the gloves shorter? This isn’t good. At all.

“Ah… I… they don’t actually know I’m here,” Chat says. He blushes sheepishly. “That’s the reason for the mask, I guess.”

“Actually, I’m in much the same situation,” Ladybug smiles. A sudden, short blast of wind brushes her bare skin and she shivers violently.

Quick as a winking Chat Noir has shrugged off his jacket. “You’re cold!”

“And now you’re cold, you silly cat. Put your jacket back on,” Marinette says, ducking away when he tries to swing the overlarge coat over her shoulders. She feels goosepimples under her skin, but the gardens are so refreshingly cool compared to the rather stuffy interior.

“Princess, I’ve got this wonderful waistcoat, and you’ve got some gloves. Which of us is the colder, here?” Chat Noir teases. “Come on, put it on, you’ll thank me la-”

And here we go. Here it comes. How good are you at lying, Marinette? Really, how good, because we’re about to find out and it might not be funny -

“Jacket,” she snaps, shrugging into it and concealing her arm from sight. Anything to get the accusing green stare away. “Are you feeling alright, Chat? You looked a little… down, in the dance, but I didn’t want to say.”

“Ladybug-”

“Oh, mon dieu, those things on my arm?” Marinette knows she’s speaking too fast and too light and waving her hands with a frantic passion, but she’s under pressure. “They do look bad. I got into an argument with my sister over a hair ribbon, you see, and it’s not just you men that get a little violent when there’s something you truly want.”

“Ah.” His face eases a little. Did she really pass it off? “I would hate to have to come chasing after whoever hurts my Lady.”

“Which brings me around to my question - are you feeling alright?” Marinette peers up at him, wrapping her hands around herself once more to pull the heat of his jacket closer to her. In the garden, his tailored waistcoat and exquisite shirt outlining his figure, he looks like the ghost of some long-forgotten prince.

Chat Noir sighs. “I did get some news, yes. Am I that easy to read?”

“If it weren’t that I’d only met you once before, I’d say it was only because I knew you so well,” says Marinette, bumping his hip again. He smiles down at her, a little less forced, his eyes brighter. Lighter. More free. “But can I help?”

“I doubt you can, not with this. But thank you. Are you this astute with every stranger you meet at a ball?” And there’s the tease that’s been so absent from his voice.

Marinette smirks. Job… not done, but momentarily suspended. “Would you believe me if I said you were the only stranger I’ve met at a ball?”

“I’d be glad that our relationship is, at the very least, exclusive. I’m a selfish cat - I’d hate to share such a beautiful smile with anyone else, don’t you know.”

“ You.” She swats his arm with the too-long sleeve of his jacket. “But promise, when the next gala comes around, that you’ll tell me if there’s something the matter. I’m attached to you, too, kitty-cat. I’d hate to see you mope. You’d look like a drowned rat.”

“And I’d carry the look off, would I not?” Chat Noir grins, fully recovered from that brief moment almost approaching sentimentality.

“Oh, you definitely would.”

Chat winks, then offers his arm. “Now, let’s continue this fascinating conversation inside, if you want to. I hear there’s a strawberry macaroon glowing like a beacon with your name on it.”

***

Adrien sleeps, and he dreams of a ballroom. Nino and Alya are there, resplendent in gorgeous outfits tailored themselves. His mother and father sit in the Royal Box above the dancers, waving, looking serene and healthy and happy.

In his dream, there is colour to his mother’s cheeks that he’s only ever seen in paintings of her from before his birth. His father’s eyes are warmer than he’s ever seen them.

And in Adrien’s arms is a girl in a mask, looking up at him, matching his every step. She’s the perfect dancing partner, his dream-self thinks, and she’s just standing up to brush her lips against his when there comes a sharp, loud, rap on his bedroom door.

No!

“Whazzfusit,” Adrien mumbles, burrowing under the nest of heavy blankets he’s accumulated over the years and added to his bedspread. He wants to go back to that ball, back to her in his arms, back to the good times that could have been. “Nogowaynow’msleepin.”

“Adrien, mon dieu, I know you’re a Prince, but this is ridiculous,” calls a familiar voice cheerfully.

“Go’way.”

“Adrien, it’s twelve o’clock. Remember? The tailors? Your humble companions?”

It’s twelve o’clock?!

Doctor Martell comes at twelve… Adrien is late to visit his mother - he’s never been late, not once, not ever-

“Ittw’lv’clock?”

“Okay, Nino is entering the room, you better not be naked.”

Adrien has just enough wits about him to throw a blanket over Plagg, who’s still sleeping on the pillow beside him, before the door clicks and what seems like a whole horde of people topple into the room. (At least to Adrien’s tired mind. He toppled into bed at six in the morning, and maybe the butler picked up on that and let him sleep. At least he’s got those six hours under his belt - it could be worse.)

“You need to sort out your life. I’ve been up since seven,” Nino says from underneath Alya. “And look where I am in life now. Wouldn’t you rather have a beautiful girl sitting on you-”

The rest of his sentence is muffled as Alya shoves her hand over his mouth, looking backwards, mortified, at the third person. A new person.

Adrien suddenly feels far more defensive. Nino and Alya he will allow; they’re friends. They’re trustworthy.

This new element could be anyone.

“Mari, your foot’s in my hair,” Alya complains.

The new one, Mari, squeaks.

***

Marinette doesn’t get any sleep at all. She manages to nod off in the red carriage on the way home, exhaustion overcoming the residual excitement from the ball and the food and the walking and the feeling of friendship passing from her masked companion to her, outpouring like water from a fountain.

Tikki is worried about her, Marinette knows.

“I’ll be fine,” Marinette huffs. She’s back to her old clothes - plain dress, white apron, hair bunched into two neat ponytails. She rubs the plate she’s polishing until it’s reflective and then checks her face in the mirror. Her eyes appear to sink into her skull, so deep are the bags underneath them, and she winces when she sees how drained of colour her face is.

She has to be content with just pinching her cheeks hard to try to flush them. She’s back in the Bourgeois house long before Chloè and the Mayor, who will probably sleep until past noon - the one good thing here.

Maybe, if she does the silver quickly, she’ll be able to grab a few hours of light sleep before Nino and Alya come to collect her. (With permission from Mayor Bourgeois, who seems to think he’ll have Royal support come re-election day if she goes.)

(Marinette’s not complaining.)

Interrupted by frequent yawns and even more frequent bouts of light-headedness brought on by exhaustion, Marinette manages to clean the whole silver set by seven in the morning. Apparently, the Mayor has another guest visiting today - while Marinette will be out - and this guest is so special he deserves the very finest silver.

Tikki helps with the fiddly bits in the handles of the intricate teacups, using her feelers as tiny dusters. Marinette couldn’t be more grateful.

In the end, Alya and Nino come to the door at nine o’clock.

Marinette has slept for two hours, although it’s light and uneasy and her dreams feature dancing with someone with Chloè’s face on Chat Noir’s body, which morphs into the Mayor’s face, which turns into a face with no features but long, straggly blonde hair.

It’s almost a relief to wake up with the doorbell.

“Didn’t you sleep?” Nino asks, shoving out a hand to help Marinette up into their carriage - shabby, with the paint peeling, and trunks of clothing tied to the roof - and wave on the coachmen. “You look awful, if you’ll pardon me.”

“It’s no pardon when it’s true, Nino,” Marinette sighs. The seats in the tailor’s carriage are far less comfortable than Ladybug’s; these are hard leather, filled with some sort of equally hard padding. Ladybug has soft velvet cushions stuffed with goosefeather.

Alya frowns concernedly. She has a sketchpad of designs spread across her knees. “If you like, you can sleep here. We have to stop to pick up a few fabrics, and we’re not expected at the palace until eleven anyway.”

“I don’t think I can, now,” Marinette shrugs, mostly in irritation at herself. “Once I’m up, I’m up.”

Nino nods in sympathy, and Marinette leans her forehead against the cool glass panes of the window, eyes closed.

She blames the two hours of sleep on her stuttering, jumpy persona when confronted with a sleepy Prince Adrien dressed for bed and glaring at the three of them through sleep-stuck eyes.

“Mari, your foot’s in my hair,” Alya whines from somewhere below her. Marinette squeaks and jumps a foot into the air, realising that her weight is what’s keeping Nino and Alya pinned to the floor.

Prince Adrien is out of bed, now, at least. Marinette is envious - she’d love to have the luxury of sleeping until noon. She doesn’t think she’s ever done that, unless as a baby, but she’d love to have it there. He’s lucky.

For a prince, Prince Adrien looks quite normal. His blonde hair looks like anyone’s does after sleeping on it, and the pattern of his quilt is imprinted on his cheek, and his green eyes dart to and fro in the same way anyone’s does whenever they’ve forgotten something important. “I’m sorry, I really am, but can you set up and wait for me for a few minutes? I slept in. I haven’t visited my mother yet, and-”

“Yes, yes, you love us, I understand,” Alya waves her hand impatiently, then, catching Mariette unawares, snatches the dark-haired girl and pulls her forward. “Adrien, Marinette. Marinette, Adrien.”

He flashes her a distracted smile. “Yes, hello. Nino, throw me that jacket, will you? No one will look too closely, they won’t see my nightshirt.”

Wordlessly, Marinette hands Nino the jacket - blue, with gold and green brocade positively dripping off the shoulders and down to the hems of the sleeves. Very ostentatious. Very royal. It doesn’t really suit the Prince - he fits darker colours, her analytical mind sees immediately, musky reds and dark, deep violets.

“Thanks. Be right back!”

The door slams behind him.

“I love him, but he really needs to get someone to wake him,” Nino wrinkles his nose.

Marinette is too awed by the grandeur of the palace to ask why. Even the roof of the prince’s room has carved cherubs and mystical creatures, and she’s seen at least three solid gold chandeliers on her way up. The careless way the Royal family seem to toss away their money is almost admirable in its carelessness.

Alya groans. “I guess he’ll want to go the room. He won’t be too long. You want to carry the sampler, Mari? You’re the genius here, remember. What do you think?”

Marinette takes the sampler fabric book from Alya; it weighs a ton and she almost falls over backwards, barely managing to trail after Nino and out of the prince’s bedroom again. “I’m not sure. I think… dark reds, purples, those sorts of colours. Green, as well. Maybe something really dark, with inserts of green?”

“We were working on a black example,” Nino explains. “I have many skills, but colour isn’t one of them. I thought violet was pink for about eleven years.”

“He’s an idiot,” Alya calls from behind them both.

Marinette giggles. “Okay. Well, don’t take my word as gospel. I’m not great at colours.”

Nino waits until he’s huffed the trunk of clothing into the room, presumably the fitting room, before he spreads his arms wide and looks up at the ceiling as if in consolation. “Oh, not great at colours, she says. Don’t take her word. she says. Did you know we’ve had four people come to us wanting that hat and cravat combination? Apparently your not-so-great-at-colours was admired by Ladybug herself, and that’s all the exposure we need.”

Unknown to Nino, it’s hardly the great compliment he thinks it is - it doesn’t count if Marinette complimented Marinette on her choice of colours.

Alya throws a pincushion at Nino. “Come on, I want to get the torso done today.”

“Isn’t it usually only one fitting needed for something like this?” Marinette asks, sitting on the stool pulled out from the desk in the corner. “How long have you been doing this?”

“As long as we can spin it out. Adrien’s an amazing friend, but unless we ‘work’ for him-” Alya knocks the inverted commas into place - “We can’t see him. Which wouldn’t be all that great, so we pretend to keep having fittings. So far, it works.”

“So it does,” Prince Adrien says, strolling into the room. He looks drawn and weary, far worse than he did when he ran out of his bedroom barely fifteen minutes ago. He looks as though he’s aged fifty years.

Nino picks the pincushion up from the ground, sticks his tongue out childishly at Alya, and throws it at Adrien. “We got noticed!”

“Amazing!” Prince Adrien arranges himself cross-legged on the floor, and Marinette’s stare is drawn to his winning smile and fashionably tousled hair. “Who noticed you?”

“Well, Marinette-” Marinette jumps as the other three look at her, Adrien smiling in friendly acknowledgement, “Marinette picked a colour scheme for a Chat Noir themed hat. You know, one of these two masked ballgoers?”

Marinette is so busy avoiding eye contact with the other three that she doesn’t see Adrien do the same thing. Her face flushes a little.

“I’ve heard of them,” Adrien says blankly. (Too blankly. Hm.)

“Well, Ladybug herself danced with someone that bought the hat and cravat, and we’ve sold three Chat Noir hats and four Ladybug ones. I think those two bring us good luck,” Alya finishes in satisfaction.

Marinette is as red as a tomato.

Adrien, too, is feeling a little flushed.

Nino looks from face to face, then reaches backwards to lift a stick that’s not yet burning from the fire sparkling in the grate behind him. “Yes, it is rather hot in here, isn’t it?”

Alya giggles.

To her surprise, the Prince doesn’t turn out to be the Chloè she’d thought he’d be. He’s not agressively aristocratic, not jovially ‘down-to-earth’; he’s just quite quiet, very handsome, and prone to witty remarks that leave her in stitches as he delivers them one after the other thoughtlessly.

He also seems to know exactly why Nino and Alya are here for so long.

“Oh, no, it appears that I dislike my hat,” Adrien sighs melodramatically. “Whatever shall I do?”

In any other person, Marinette would despise them for having enough money to pay for such luxuries as regular friends, but when it comes to the Prince, she feels a little pull of sadness at the thought. The idea of someone like him having to dole out fees to allow his friends to visit - because Marinette knows the other two would visit, regardless - simply fills her with empathy. Even royalty has its suffocating restrictions, apparently.

“Alya, c’mon, I think I left the hat alternatives in Adrien’s room,” says Nino, standing and brushing carpet dust from his legs. “You two okay on your own?”

Adrien smiles at Marinette, who wishes she could stop blushing. “We’ll be fine,” he answers for them both.

Marinette feels like sinking into the ground. Does the Prince know? Oh, but he must know that his eyes, eyes as green as emeralds, twinkle in such a way as to make her face as red as her alternate persona.

“Be right back,” Alya chirps, and the two tailors zip out of the door, Nino pausing to fire a quick salute Mari’s way.

They’re gone. Adrien faces Marinette, smiling comfortably. “So, what would you like to do?”

And that’s how they find themselves, ten minutes later, listening to something they most definitely should not be, Marinette’s heart like ice in her chest, those green, green eyes still and frozen.

“The Queen will be dead within the month, I estimate.”

“And then, the throne will be ours.”

Chapter Text

“So, what would you like to do?”

Adrien considers himself pretty sociable, in his own way, but he’s not sure how to approach this shy, stuttering girl that the tailors have brought. Marinette, her name is, and apart from a few laughs and a couple of stammered remarks, she’s been silent this whole time.

He doesn’t really know if she likes him. What if she doesn’t? Lots of people don't.

Marinette shrugs. “I don’t - I guess - I mean, it’s up to you, really.”

Well, fantastic. Because that gives Adrien so many options. He wishes he were more personable, or even that one of the tailors had stayed, just to lessen the painful silences that stretch between their words. “Do you want to have a look around? I know Nino practically dragged me around everywhere, wanting a tour…” Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “Alya tried to climb up a chimney. She thought it was a dumb waiter or something - hilarious.”

Marinette smiles a little, although it looks forced.

And that’s around the time Adrien decides that, niceties be damned, he’s taking her on a tour. He doesn’t care if she doesn’t like him.

(What if she’s a Revolutionary? They’re popular among the working classes.)

(Adrien can’t quite believe he just had that thought.)

(She doesn't look like a Revolutionary. They're dirtier, aren't they, and they usually introduce themselves as revolting peasants as soon as they see him.)

He offers his arm.

“Come on, I’ll show you around. I think you’ll like the cherubs on the ceiling of the council chamber, if you like art in any way. Even some of the old fashioned clothes on the walls - they’re quite amazing, really.” Adrien stands as Nino did, offering his hand again to a still-sitting Marinette.

She stares at it with wide, unseeing eyes for a moment, then takes it hesitantly. Adrien heaves her up onto her feet - she’s as light as a feather, and he pulls too harshly, sending her body flying into his. He’s reminded of another girl, another time, another place, another him, and longing for that friendship again tugs painfully at something inside him. She read him like an open book. And she lied to him about the bruises, he’s certain, but he’ll respect her privacy for as long as she’ll let him.

Marinette’s hurried apologies bring him back to the here and the now.

A different girl. A different place. A different situation.

“My fault entirely,” Adrien says, pulling away and letting her dust her hands on the front of her apron. At least there’s no awkward silence, although sorries and worries don’t seem too much better.

She smiles up at him. “Well, b-behind us now. I mean. That’s behind us. Now. Uh… you, uh, said something about a tour?”

“Lead on,” Adrien bows theatrically, only wishing he had his top hat on to doff. His hand twists the door, his other arm sweeping under his body, and he’s rewarded with a tiny, nervous chuckle from Marinette as she hops through the open doorway and into the carpeted corridor.

Adrien follows after, closing the door with the arch of his foot and looking left and right. Alya and Nino will definitely get distracted, he knows they will, so he and Marinette have at least another twenty minutes.

“Your castle… it’s… gorgeous,” Marinette says reverently, as though she’s in a church. In the carpet, in her thin-soled boots, she sinks almost up to the ankle.

Adrien thinks it would probably be rude to wave his hand, say an airy, ‘oh, it’s nothing’. He has a feeling she’d be offended, somehow, and he thinks it’s the sort of cowardly thing an airhead host at a ball would say. “It’s a little opulent. Do you… I mean, do you want to go see the council chambers, or just go for a wander around? Anything’s fine.”

“A-anything’s fine, too. With me. I mean, either. Or.” Marinette shrugs helplessly, giving up on actual words and just waving her hands around.

Adrien smiles. “We’ll take a wander, then, and I’ll show you… well, anything we come across. This corridor isn’t used much, you know, so some of the storage rooms are pretty interesting.”

“Anything you find,” she manages to say, smiling prettily as Adrien begins to walk. Another time, another place, someone else’s face looking up at his…

They stroll in silence. It’s not painfully stiff, not by any means, but all the same Adrien’s grateful when he hears the susurrus of whispered voices behind a closed door.

“Shush,” he says, pulling Marinette to one side by her arm - she winces, oddly, and he drops his hand - “That’s probably the butler. He’s been stepping out with the housekeeper, and I do so want some more gossip to tell to Pla - to Peter. My friend. Peter. He’s… the cheeseboy.”

“How dramatic,” Marinette murmurs back, and Adrien’s glad she hasn’t decided this is too stupid for her to care about.

Adrien puts his finger to his lips. “And now to the keyhole…”

At first, the voices are too hushed to hear properly.

Marinette doesn’t really think the Prince will stick at this for long, this waiting, listening like they’re underwater and the voices have been distorted. Certainly Adrien has surprised her in every other way, and it might be that he’s so bored, he’ll actually seek out the butler’s gossip to tell to his cheeseboy. (What is a cheeseboy, and how does one get one?)

“They’re coming closer to the door,” Adrien suddenly says, and Marinette hears the voices with dreadful clarity.

She wishes it were the butler and the housekeeper.

“What do we think?”

And it is anything but.

“The Queen will be dead within the month, I estimate.”

“And then, the throne will be ours.”

Marinette thinks at first that it’s two people just playing about, two servant’s children playing at Knights and Invaders like she used to do with all the sons and daughters up and down the street. There’s no way that there can be actual plotters, and an actual conspiracy -

But the voices are deep and old and assured, not giggling and childish. The voices of people used to being heard.

The voices of people in power.

With that thought, Marinette feels the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Prince Adrien looks glassy-eyed and expressionless on the other side of the door.

“How can we be sure of it?”

“He’s told me. That fool of a doctor has no idea - he says she’s going down the route of her mother, and she’ll have a year on the outside.”

“A year? We can’t wait that long!”

Marinette looks over at the Prince once more; she cannot believe this is happening. Maybe it’s not. Maybe this is some great joke that Mayor Bourgeois or worse, Chloè and her friends, are playing on her. Maybe, maybe, maybe… But here they are, and here the Prince is, and no one can fake such an expression of anguish, the look of someone who’s struggling to make sense of something so out of their world view that they hadn’t even considered it.

“No, no, you fool, not a year. That doctor doesn’t know anything. I give her a month, if she persists, and even then only if she really wants to live.”

“Hah! Fat chance! She hasn’t wanted anything but death in a long time.”

“True, true.”

Prince Adrien makes a soft sort of gasping noise, like something’s constricting his throat, and recoils. Marinette wants nothing more than to burst through the door and demand that these two stop whatever horrific game they’re playing.

“So what’s our next plan?”

“I suppose… the King…”

“And then we’ll have it.”

“The throne. Yes. Because with this young Prince…”

“Ah, yes. I think that will be… sufficient.”

Marinette has stopped breathing altogether. Across from her, Prince Adrien has begun to shake, his hands steadying himself on the knob of the door, his eyes wide with astonishment. With disbelief.

And then she hears the footsteps.

“They’re coming!” Marinette hisses, because she thinks she might have a few more wits about her than Adrien currently does, and as the clicking of smart shoes gets louder and closer and closer and louder, the tolling of their funeral bell, she dives from one side of the closed door to the other and knocks herself and the Prince backwards and around the corner. She lands on top of him, lying flat on his chest. Please let them walk the other way. Please. Please.

The two clicking steps come out of the door.

“We’ll meet in his room.”

“When?”

“I’ll send for you.”

And then they go, sinking into the carpet so Marinette can’t hear which way they turn. Her heart has stopped long ago - going so fast that it’s plunged itself off the nearest cliff. Adrien stills underneath her, and she realises she’s flung her entire bodyweight over his chest to stop him from doing something he’ll regret. In her - limited - experience of royal conspiracies, the people in the way generally don’t have very long left to live.

(Her experience being those games with the kids on the street.)

(This is so much scarier.)

The voices dim.

To anyone else, maybe it would be just two courtiers talking. Maybe they’ll bump into a servant, maybe they’ll cause a momentary ripple in the servant’s day - but to Adrien, to Marinette, the few overheard lines have thrown everything off course.

Marinette can’t even feel him breathe.

Maybe he isn’t.

She knows that she wouldn’t, in his situation.

She isn’t, either.

The Queen will be dead within the month.

She hasn’t wanted anything but death in a long time.

With this young Prince…

Marinette doesn’t look down at Adrien.

And then she hears more hushed voices coming the other way, and doesn’t have time to react -

“What are you two doing?!” Nino exclaims in astonishment, and Alya drops a large book (presumably full of drawings of hats) right on top of Marinette’s hand.

She screams, but it’s not in pain, and below her Adrien has begun to shiver uncontrollably.

***

Ladybug attends the ball the following night, feeling like hell.

She knows that nothing is her fault, and she knows that Prince Adrien has hardly thought of dull little Marinette since that day, but she’s found it impossible to sleep these past two nights, kept up by the thought of Prince Adrien. Alone. In that prison of a palace, he’ll be the only one there with the knowledge that his mother will be dead within the month.

The Queen.

And if the Queen is dead, as Marinette knows well, King Gabriel won’t be allowed to rule. He’s not born of royal blood. It’ll be Adrien, young as he is, shoved onto the throne. (Unless he’s married off, or killed, or disgraced or something.)

(Quick, think of something else.)

(Think of Chat Noir.)

Where is he?

Both balls they’ve attended, she’s been the first one here. But Ladybug has been shoved from social circle to social circle, steering clear of Chloè and the Mayor whenever she can, and she’s been at the ball for almost an hour with no sign of her masked companion. Maybe he’s out. Maybe he’s ill.

Maybe he just didn’t want to come.

But, no. Ladybug knows him, or she feels as though she does, and he seems the type of person desperate for anything of the sort. She’s sure he’d show up, if only to see a few people and dance around the room for a couple of songs. He's in the same situation as she is. He just wants to get away.

So why isn’t he here? Where has he gone?

Ladybug finally accepts a dance from a courteous old war veteran, but keeps one anxious blue eye on the closed doors.

She’s totally unaware of the masked boy in the suit, holding a glass of wine, being talked at by Mayor Bourgeois, although the boy is more than aware of her.

***

Chat Noir is at his wit’s end.

Really, he only came out here tonight to see Ladybug, to remind himself that there’s more to life than the walls of the palace and the paranoia that comes with every shadow and shade. He wants to forget, just for an hour, and maybe even tire himself out enough to get some sleep; he’s tired of Plagg’s constant, nagging anxiety, and he’s tired of sitting by his mother’s bed night after day after night.

And he can see her, so close, but so far - Mayor Bourgois is quite an expansive man, and he’s totally trapped Adrien in a corner to yammer on about the re-election days and how much they mean to him.

Adrien doesn’t care.

“... And that’s why I’d be grateful for you to come around to my town house some day. I’d love your support for my re-election.”

“Mmhm,” Adrien says absently. She’s taking the hand of someone else now, but he sees her eyes scouring the crowd. Looking for someone. For him. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I really need to go…”

“Ah, yes. Young love.” The Mayor clasps his hands together, perhaps trying to look emotional, but instead just looking slightly confused. “Well, can I rely on you to be at my home tomorrow at around two in the afternoon? I’ll be serving luncheon with several other dignitaries.”

“Oh, of course,” Adrien will agree to anything. He doesn’t even hear the Mayor - he finds the man slightly slimy and very repulsive, and he just wants to get away.

This is too much like the duties of Prince Adrien. He’s Chat Noir now, and that means dancing and laughing and Ladybug.

He escapes as soon as he can, as soon as the dance ends and the lady in red is curtseying to the old man she’d been dancing with. Whenever the man backs away, Ladybug turns, her skirts settling around her ankles, and catches sight of him.

His heart feels warm when he sees her boredom, her apathy, change to a look of complete happiness. Her lips spread into a sweet smile, and she runs towards him.

“My Lady!” He laughs as she hugs him. The unexpected force of it all knocks him backwards a few steps. “I didn’t know you had missed me so. It’s only been three days.”

“A lot has happened,” she says, muffled by the lapels of his suit. “It’s baffling.”

And here, he is wanted. He is wanted for himself, not as some sort of prize to be won, some rare toy to be bartered with. He hugs her back, swiftly, and when she parts he drops his arms willingly.

“Thank you. I’m sorry… I needed that,” she says a little guiltily, looking around. “I think we’ve got a lot of attention.”

As if Adrien cares. He’s got a mask on, he’s not himself, and so let them gossip! Chat Noir is as real as mist in the mid-morning, and they know it - there’s nothing at stake. Nothing to be lost. He grins. “We give them a lot to look at - two handsome, beautiful strangers, non?”

“I am glad you’re here,” she says softly, with a little laugh at his half-joke.

Adrien knows now with certainty that this is where he’s meant to be. “Let’s dance, and we’ll talk. Less attention. Less ears.” This is said with a pointed look at two children hiding under the table, looking up at them with curious eyes.

Ladybug laughs again. It sounds more sincere this time, less hollow, less faked. Adrien offers his hand; it’s the middle of a dance now, but this ball, held at a smaller town house owned by the Baron family, is less formal. The dances here are just slow tunes to turn to, something he’s quite good at.

The crowds part easily to let them spin through, and Adrien studies her closely when he thinks she’s not looking.

Her eyes look tired. He can’t see much - the mask covers all underneath - but they’re a little bloodshot and dark purple underneath, signs he knows he shares as well. Her gloves are longer again tonight - perhaps because he saw the marks - and her outfit is different. More stitching. More detailed. More exquisite. It compliments her frame, gives her a swing to her step, a swish to her spin. But her smile is stretched too tight, the smile of someone with too much to give and too little to get.

Well. Now there’s a thing.

“I missed you too, you know,” he says down to her. She’s still holding very tight to the fabric of his jacket, her fist bunched in the spare cloth like holding on to a lifeline.

He becomes aware of his own tight grip on her waist.

“There was something… something happened. And I think it might be quite serious,” she loosens her grip a little, leading the dance.

Chat Noir smiles down at her. “And how? What happened? Can you tell me?”

“A friend got some very bad news, and now I'm tangled up in it all. I think something awful is just around the corner.” She's being purposefully vague and he knows it; he respects that. Although he wants to know who she is underneath the mask, she clearly wants to keep her two lives seperate. It's fine. He won't pry, even if he dearly wants to.

“I can relate, a little,” he mumbles. “I overheard… something, something quite bad, and I don't think I can fix it at all.”

The dance is mournful. Sad. Slow. As the weeping violin takes centre stage, accompanied by a mournful flute, couples begin to abandon the dance floor. The violin sings. Ladybug and Chat Noir dance in silence, each consumed with their own thoughts. Chat wonders if he told her, how she would react.

Her eyes look full of her own problems, though.

He doesn't want to impose.

The last couple drifts away, driven off by the direful dirge of the strings. Chat is reminded of the first night they met, everyone leaving in awe.

This is like a teasing mockery of that night, warped to fit the dark mood of the two masked dancers.

“This is quite fitting,” Ladybug murmurs. “Sad. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong, Chat.”

“And I, you, my Lady. But we don't all get what we wish for, do we?” It comes out far more bitter than he means it to, and even though she keeps hold of his hand and hip, she moves a little further away.

He frowns. “My Lady, I didn't mean… you know I didn't. Circumstance dictates…”

“Secrecy for mutual benefit. How clinical,” she fills in for him. “I'm tired, Chat, that's all. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry. It's been… there's… I just… I don't know. Bad things have been happening. It's nothing to do with you at all, I'm just an idiot.” He smiles hopelessly, wishing this mournful tune would just stop. Be a polka. Turn them into happy, carefree dancers again. This is too serious.

She’s silent for another while. It’s strange; Adrien’s aware of the people watching, or just milling around the edges of the small ballroom, but he feels separate, like they’re watching him (and Ladybug) through a mist of misunderstanding.

He wishes they could stop dancing.

He thinks that she does, too.

But he can’t stop now - it’s been forever, and surely the dance will end, and then they can come out of whatever horrific limbo they’ve landed themselves in and return to their right minds.

When the flute trills one last, high note, it’s a relief to bow to his partner and follow her off the dancefloor.

“That was strange,” says Ladybug. She’s leaning on his arm for support - she really must be exhausted. “Let’s just not do that again.”

“Agreed,” Adrien nods, reaching up to fix his mask and catching a glimpse of his ring. One hour left, if even that - whatever he has to say, it’s got to be quick. “Are you all right, Princess?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” She lifts her weight off his shoulder and straightens, her blue eyes staring at him. “And you have some nerve to expect an answer, you and all your ducking and weaving. You’re allowed to be not-alright, sometimes, you know. And you’re allowed to tell people about it. If you don’t, you end up… bottled. Up. All pressured, until one day..” She brings her fists together and pulls them apart, fingers waving. “Boom.”

“I’m not going to explode.” He’s unsettled; how has she managed to turn a question about her own situation into something about him?

Ladybug hums doubtfully. “I’m not so sure. Even if you don’t tell me, please tell someone else.”

Adrien doesn’t tell her that there is no-one else. He just shrugs. “Okay, we’ll do a swap. You tell me why you look as though you’re about to collapse, and I’ll tell you why I’m not going to explode. Fair deal. I promise.”

“My time’s running out, Chat. I don’t… I have less than an hour left before I have to go, I really-”

“Right. Right, of course. Sorry, that was presumptuous of me,” Adrien backtracked quickly, feeling foolish and blushing under the yellow-tinted light of the chandelier. He wishes that, just for once, something would go the way he wants it to.

“No! No, it’s my fault for coming so early and running out of time,” Ladybug says ruefully. From the look in her eyes, she’s feeling much the same way.

It’s hardly any consolation.

“If you want to go, my Lady, please feel free. Don’t let me hold you back or anything,” Adrien hears the eclectic ensemble of instruments kick into a new, lively tine. “Would you join me for one last dance? The next ball won’t be for another five days.”

“I’d love to.” Ladybug takes his hand again, and he feels her weight falling into his again. She’s as light as a feather - oddly, it reminds him of that sweet, shy girl Alya and Nino brought along earlier. The girl that heard everything. Marinette.

He wonders what she’s doing now. Has she told sosmeone about the plot? Has she kept it to herself?

“You look unusually thoughtful,” Ladybug teases, pulling at him. “Come on, let’s dance before it’s all over and we have to wake up.”

“To sleep, perchance to dream, hm?” Chat says to himself, but he does as she says and, one hand on her waist, the other holding her hand, he spins them both into the world where nothing matters but the feel of the other and the footsteps of the beat.

***

“Adrien?”

“Plagg, go away, I’m tired. Lemme sleep.” Adrien hasn’t been doing enough of that recently; he’s just staggered into his room from his mother’s chambers, where he’s spent the past four hours sitting with her sleeping form, having gone straight to her side from the ball.

Sleep sounds nice.

“I’ll let you sleep, swear I will, I just gotta tell you one thing.”

“Plagg, go’way.”

“You have to be up before two, kiddo.”

“No’don’t. M’gon’sleep.”

“Adrien, seriously.” Adrien feels the little black menace land on his hair and pull. “Adrien, Adrien, Adrien, Adrien-”

“Plagg, sh’t up.”

“Are you listening?”

Adrien rolls over and gives the kwami a bleary-eyed glare. “Well, I am now, you prat. What do you want? Let me sleep!”

“So long as you wake up in time to skiddadle over, in your Chat Noir suit, to the Mayor’s house,” Plagg gives him an evil sort of grin. “Remember?”

Adrien’s stomach begins to sink. “No?”

“You’re the fool that promised the Mayor you’d attend his little dinner party at two tomorrow, aren’t you? And guess who can’t back out of his promises?”

Adrien rolls over again onto his face, groaning loudly into the pillow, and - not for the first time - wonders if he could just run away to the sun somewhere nice and forget this whole business. Chat Noir was meant to be about leaving this life, not merging it!

“Good luck, kid.”

Adrien swats at the unseen kwami, and is satisfied with Plagg’s yelp of surprise.

Tomorrow can wait forever.

Chapter Text

Marinette is tired.

She’s been exhausted before, or she thought she was, driven to the point where her eyes ache and every joint and muscle complains at her. She thought that was the worst it would ever get, but now she knows that those times were just the tip of the iceberg.

She last slept - properly, not stolen catnaps in between chores - a week and a half ago, by her own reckoning, although the days are blending together into one unending nightmare. Only the balls and the chances to be someone other are the relief in the hellish days, and there won’t be another for days - and Chat Noir has been off at the last one, strange, unresponsive.

She hurts all over.

“Marinette, please go to sleep,” squeaks Tikki concernedly. “Please.”

“I’ve got to… do this bit,” Marinette waves the duster at a set of shelves, but even she can’t muster the energy to stand on her tiptoes to try and reach the top row of books. “The Mayor. He has a whole bunch of people coming for afternoon tea or something, didn’t you hear?”

“Sleep, Mari, I’ll do the dusting.”

“But-”

“Marinette.”

Marinette wants to protest, she really does, but her eyes are too heavy and her lips aren't moving to stop Tikki.

So she slips down the wall, all but collapsing onto the chaise longue behind her, unaware of the little kwami sprinkling a few pinches of pink magic over the as-yet undusted shelves.

The baker’s daughter sleeps. And she dreams.

Chat Noir bows low to her. “My Lady, can’t I see beneath the mask?” He asks, a purr of desire in his voice that she’s never heard before. It makes him sound far more sinister, scary, unknown.

“You can’t,” Marinette tells him. She tries to sound firm. She fails. And his arms are around her waist, firm, unyielding, although she tries to duck away and run. (She ran the first night.) (He ran, too.) “Chat, stop, let go!”

“Come on, Princess, you’ve seen beneath me and now it’s my turn,” Chat growls. He lifts his head to look her in the eyes - where his face should be, there’s just a blank expanse of tanned skin, no hint of nose or mouth or eyes.

Marinette recoils even as this parody of a Chat pulls her closer.

“It's cheating to hide your face from me,” says Chat. Marinette doesn't remember the tips of his gloves ending in claws, but here they are reaching for her face. She's wearing her mask. “Let me see, my Lady, let me see those eyes framed in your face…” His clawed nails hook at the edge of her mask and pull, and Marinette shrieks.

And falls to the ground.

Chloé is here now, in her too-small spotted dress, hands on her hips. Chat Noid has dropped Marinette, the hunger in his green eyes transferred from her to Chloé.

“Mademoiselle,” Chat Noir bows low to Chloé, hands sweeping underneath him. “A much more satisfactory prize.”

Chloé giggles. “I should very well think so. Why would you settle for someone like that when you could have someone like me?”

Marinette recoils, lost, confused, because Chat Noir’s face is no longer his own - it's the face of Prince Adrien, green eyes sparkling in a face twisted into a scowl so unused to being there. “Marinette, the baker’s daughter. Marinette, the murderer. Marinette, the selfish girl that gallivants to balls instead of paying the price for her parents’ deaths. Marinette-”

“Stop! Stop!” Marinette screams at him, although she knows it won't do any good. The body of her friend with the face of her Prince keeps listing, and red, red tears are splashing from her cheeks to the murky ground.

“You want me to stop?” Adrien asks.

Before Marinette can respond, the tips of his fingers are bleeding away, creating a liquid that pools at her feet as more and more of his body liquefies. His eyes are the last to go. They stare at Marinette, too searching, too deep, before puddling at her ankles-

“Nino! Nino, this isn't fair!” A small girl’s voice calls happily.

Marinette shakes her head. “No, no, don't show me this-”

A tiny girl runs past her. The girl’s hair is deep and so black it's almost blue, trailing in two long braids down to her waist. Her blue eyes are alight with laughter. In one pudgy hand she carries a crudely sewn doll, the stitching wide and wobbly, a huge ‘M’ sewn where the heart should be. And here she is, in a bakery attic, and Marinette watches with a heart of lead.

“Nino!”

The girl stops in front of Marinette, searching for her hidden friend. Marinette reaches out - it's her, her, her - but the child doesn't see her. “Nino,” she calls as she turns away, “This isn't how hide and go seek is meant to work! You're meant to stay on the second floor!”

Marinette’s hand, still outstretched, clenches into a fist.

Marinette the Younger wanders over to the bags of flour, distracted by something purple glittering on the bag. “Papillion?” She says wonderingly.

The purple butterfly. Marinette remembers it well, even after years and years. Nino, the game, the distracting purple wings, the cracks in the floorboards to let the flour pour into the room below, the lit match setting the very air on fire.

“Butterfly! Pretty! Come here, little butterfly, let me see your wings,” cries the little girl in childish excitement.

The doll slips from between her fingers, forgotten in lieu of this new toy. Marinette chases the butterfly, laughing delightedly, but the little bug escapes her grasp and lands once more on the bag of flour. Marinette stamps her small foot on the floor. “Butterfly!” And dives for it, landing awkwardly on the bag and spilling flour over the floor, through the cracks -

Marinette as she is now, older and wiser and full of painful memories, watches the little purple butterfly flutter out the open window. She blocks her ears to the sound of the yelling of pain in the kitchen, and wakes up with tears drying on her cheeks.

“Marinette!”

“Ah!” She sits bolt upright. Her face is damp, and, if anything, she feels more exhausted than she was before her brief nap. “How long was I asleep?”

Tikki hovers, sympathetic. “An hour and a half, as long as I could give you,” she says apologetically. “The Mayor is calling you.”

Marinette groans. The image is fresh in her mind; the picture of herself, of the purple butterfly, of the flames licking at the floor beneath her feet as she curled up in the basement, terrified. She thinks she’d rather do just about anything than go back to there.

“Bad dream?” Tikki floats after her as Marinette troops out of the room, shoulders hunched.

Marinette wipes under her eyes one last time. “I guess. I… yeah, bad dream. Real bad.”

And then she shoves Tikki in her pocket, because Mayor Bourgeois is advancing, hands in his pockets, looking deceptively at ease. “Good morning, Marinette. Did you sleep well?”

He must know she hasn’t been. There’s no hiding the signs of her exhaustion. She fixes him with a mute glare, holding onto Tikki tightly for some sort of support. The kwami hugs her finger reassuringly. “I slept fine, thank-you. What time are w-we expecting the guests?” Dammit. She almost did it, there.

Almost.

“Two, maybe a little after,” Mayor Bourgeois waves a hand. “Quite important people. I’m sure you won’t disappoint, will you, Marinette?”

She takes a tiny step backwards. “Uh. Uh, no, no, of course not. I-”

“Good,” he says brusquely, stepping forwards and crowding in. His hand lifts, as though to grab her shoulders, but stops at the last moment.

Marinette breathes out in relief. “I’ll… I’ll go get the… I’ll go get the things prepared.” She turns tail and scurries down the kitchen stairs, feeling the heavy stare of the Mayor on her back. So long as Chloè doesn’t decide to mess around, she could just pop a few pre-made tartlets in the warming oven, and then she’ll have until one or two to sleep in the kitchen. Tikki can keep watch.

Marinette nods to herself. That’s what she’ll do.

“You shouldn't let him bully you about so,” Tikki says, flying out from Marinette’s pocket to perch on her shoulder as Marinette closes the door, blocking the Mayor’s view from the empty, desolate kitchen beyond. The cook quit the day after the first ball; Marinette’s been run even more ragged than ever since.  

Marinette takes the freshly-made pastry dough out of the cold cellar, where she’s placed it on a shelf. She sighs. “And who would you have him take it out on instead, hm? Some poor child running through the streets? I’m fine, but the child might not be.”

Tikki harrumphs, but says nothing more. Maybe she can sense Marinette’s increasing irritability. Maybe she, like Marinette, can feel the storm rumbling over the horizon.

Marinette thumps the pastry on the table to the rhythm of the tune in her head, the mournful swan-song from last night. It’s cold. (The pastry, not the song.) And somehow, lost. (The song, not the pastry.)

What is Prince Adrien doing right now?

How can he cope, alone in that cage of a palace, knowing that somewhere, faceless men plot to murder his mother?

Thud, goes the pastry on the table. Marinette learned this at her own mother’s knee; beat out the pastry to get the air through it, make it pliable, like soft gingerbread dough, and then the pastries will be perfect. Crisp and light and full of air. Thud. Her mother had been making pies when the purple butterfly came. She bent down to Marinette and Nino - Marinette with eyes squeezed shut, counting loudly to twenty - and promised them both a meat pie after their game.

Thud.

Prince Adrien will be destroyed if his mother is killed.

Everyone is, when they lose someone they love.

Tikki curls up in the crook of Marinette’s neck. “I trust you to make the right decisions,” the kwami purrs comfortingly, tiny, soft paws brushing Marinette’s cheeks once more. Once more, her eyes are brimming over. Thud.

She’s always been emotional when she’s tired.

And, hey, maybe Prince Adrien has called the guards and made secret arrests. How would Marinette know about it when she's only ever seen him once? When she's probably a ghost of a memory in his mind? He won't even remember her name, she's sure of it.

Thud. The pastry is starting to smoothen out a little, at least.

Marinette blinks sleep resolutely out of her eyes and begins again.

***

Chat Noir wants to be anywhere but his carriage, with his ring telling him that he has a full four hours of mind-numbing boredom and political chatter before he can use his detransformation as an excuse. A part of him really wants to just skip off on the Mayor; another part, the bored part, tells him he’ll have more fun attending as the Chat than as Prince Adrien. He can say what he thinks.

(Not too loudly.)

Kid, just get in the damn carriage, sighs Plagg inside his head.

Adrien complies. He thinks he might have annoyed the little kwami, insisting Plagg come with him to visit his mother, which took all day and was sort of boring for Plagg (and Adrien, if he’s being totally honest.) But Plagg’s the one that insisted Adrien keep his promise.

Really, this is Plagg’s fault.

Kid, I heard that, and I disagree completely.

Adrien rolls his eyes. Outside the palace the usual magic has worked; the guards don’t look around, pay him no attention as the black carriage pulls away from the wrought-iron gates. He lays his head against the seat. He’s more awake than he thought he’d be, getting a fair few hours of sleep under his belt before waking and visiting his mother. It’s almost as though the ball last night never happened.

(A part of him wishes it hadn’t.) Don’t think that. (Try to stop me.)

Plagg, in his head, turns and huffs.

But it’s the truth. The strange dance he shared with Ladybug, still reeling from the overheard whispers, followed by a night of paranoid sleep. Dreams where faceless men chased him along corridors, where his mother as she was before the sickness followed him around, eyes purple and pupil-less. Last night was anything but restful, even if he did get to sleep.

It’ll all work out in the end, Plagg assures Adrien as the carriage stops outside the curved corner door of the Mayor’s town house. The carriage shakes slightly as the footman steps down to open the door.

“I hope you’re right - thank you,” Adrien cuts himself off and tips his hat at the footman, a young man with bright red hair. At the eye contact, the footman’s face turns as red as his tomato-coloured hair and he practically leaps into the front again. “Goodbye!”

“See you in four hours,” mumbles the blushing footman into his folded arms.

Adrien nods. He faces the house, ignoring the footman squeaking. The door is shut forbiddingly, although it still manages to look like the friendly bakery it once was. “Do I just… open it?”

Plagg sighs in his head. Ring the doorbell, you idiot, and then I can retreat in peace.

“Oh.” Adrien, feeling like an idiot, leaps up the steps and pulls hard on the long rope hanging by the door. The distant sound of a bell is heard, somewhere within the house.

The sound of feet running.

He rubs his arm uncomfortably, taps his cane against the cobbles, hears the running get closer. “ Pot-maid! Where is she? Get the door, girl!” Someone yells inside the house. The voice grates on Adrien’s ears unpleasantly, and he frowns.

The door creaks open, revealing a timidly smiling girl, off-blonde hair tied up secure under a pink maid’s cap. She curtsies. “M’lord. You’re the last of our guests to arrive, begging your pardon, and so we can start immediately on the tea. Does that suit m’lord?”

“Call me Chat,” Adrien bows low, a little of his old glamour returning to him along with the memory of that first ball. The tingle of disguise. “And what can I call you?”

“Um…” the maid looks startled as Chat dances in the doorstep. “Um, Mylene, m’l… Chat. Um.”

“Thanks,” he smiles down at her. He hears the murmur of quiet, controlled voices behind the door of the room to the left of him - not those sorts of whispers, not this sort of place - and points. “Do I head in there, then?”

Mylene looks relieved. “Um. Yes. Yes, m’... Chat, the others are in there. Just a few. The Mayor wanted to keep it a quiet affair. Um.”

Chat backs towards the door, keeping an eye on the maid as she scurries down the kitchen steps squeaking someone’s name. What’s got her so scared? General timorousness or something else?

He nudges the door open with his toe. “Hello, everyone!”

Ah, fantastic.

The blonde one in a pink spotted dress he recognises as Chloé Bourgeois, the Mayor’s daughter. He outfit is in obvious homage to Ladybug, her lips curled into a cruel grin around the rim of her delicate cup. She smiles at him as he walks in, patting the empty seat beside her.

Adrien smiles awkwardly in return and slips into the chair right beside the door, surveying the rest of the company.

There’s a girl with straight, carrot-orange hair in a much less flamboyant spotted dress. Behind her glasses, her magnified eyes keep flicking to Chloé and back again, presumably seeking praise, confirmation. Adrien’s seen her at a couple of occasions. Some small fry sent along to spy for her family or something, no doubt, supplies his cynical side.

The man on the right of Adrien is long and thin, in a grey suit and dapper red cravat. He looks like a pigeon, Plagg emerges for just a moment to observe with a giggle.

Adrien rolls his eyes.

The final guest, the one to Adrien’s left, is a tall woman with short, red hair, looking very uncomfortable in as suit-like a dress as she can manage. Chat Noir gives her a smile. She smiles back, although her eyes tell a different story.

Aren’t they a happy party?

Chloé waves at him again. “Good to see you, Chat Noir! I wonder… your mask, it is hardly necessary among company such as us, non? And, aha, you’ll be the first cat to be in this house since forever! ”

Adrien frowns. Was that a joke? It wasn’t very good. “Sorry, Mademoiselle Bourgeois, but I’d feel comfortable with it on. A little downside to the secrecy, you might say.”

“Of course,” Chloé says stiffly. It’s clear he’s annoyed her.

Adrien settles in for a very long, very uncomfortable few hours. And then a quiet voice interrupts them from the door: “I’ve brought the tea. And some lemon and raspberry tartlets, if you’d care to try them.”

Around him, the guests make appreciative noises - well, Chloé just glares - but Adrien’s shocked gaze follows the figure in mended grey dress and painstakingly cleaned apron as she winds past his seat with a tray, balancing it down on the glass table in the centre of the room. Her hair is bunched in two plaits, like it was on that day.

Marinette? She lives here? And as a servant?

“Where’s father, you?” Chloé doesn’t even look at Marinette, just snatching a tartlet from the other girl’s hands.

Marinette jumps. “Oh. The Mayor will be down in just a few minutes. He has some papers he’d like you to see. Good afternoon, Sabrina.” She smiles kindly at the carrot-haired girl, Sabrina, who beams back up at her, just glad to be noticed.

That’s her!

I know that, Plagg, now go away and stop bugging me.

“And Monsieur Noir. An honour to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Marinette ducks into a curtsey, so tethered, so strict, so different to how she acted around Nino and Alya. There, she was free. Here…

“The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle…?” Keep up appearances.

A blush sprinkles her cheeks a rosy red. “Marinette. Marinette Cheng. I’ll just fetch the M-mayor, then.”

“Quickly, now, or else,” Chloé says, already turning to the tall man. “So, Xavier, about your pigeons… well, if you were to put a word in at the palace about my suitability, I’ sure I could pull a few strings…”

Adrien’s gaze follows the fleeing girl out the doorway. “Excuse me,” he announces, standing, “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” He winks at Chloé, although his skin crawls to do so, and she simpers back at him disgustingly.

Ugh.

He’s out the door just in time to see Marinette at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the banister with her eyes squeezed shut. “Aha! Hello, there.”

It’s as if she’s been given an electric shock. Her eyes fly open and widen, and she falls backwards, only stopped when Adrien runs forward and catches her in a tight grip. (He has got to stop meeting people like this. It’s embarrassing.) “Sorry! Sorry…”

“My fault entirely, m’lady.” Adrien bows. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what he can do to keep her. “Um…”

“If you’re looking for something else, I can make it for you,” she offers.

“Oh, no! Just wanted to talk. You look a tad more interesting than all of the other people in the room,” he winks. Improvise. Improvise your little cat ears off, Adrien.

“Talk? To me? Oh. Um. That’s new.” Marinette smiles a little awkwardly. “I’m afraid there’s not much to say, Monsieur Noir. Perhaps you’d be best suited talking to Sabrina in there, the one with the hair. Her father is Captain of the City Guard, you know.”

“But City Guards do not a conversationalist make, you know,” Adrien says, leaning against the banister beside her. “But am I holding you back?”

Marinette frowns. “And you know it, don’t you, you silly kitty. Go back and socialize. I’ll bring the Mayor. She grabs Adrien’s shoulders, spins him around, and shoves him towards the drawing room. Chat stumbles on the carpet, and Marinette grabs his arm again. “My turn to dip someone,” she mutters with a grin, although he thinks it’s more for her benefit than for his. “Go, kitty.”

Adrien is shoved through the door and almost into the seat of Xavier Whatever-his-name, the one that looks like a pigeon. “Dreadfully sorry-”

“I’ll go get that stupid girl,” Chloé announces almost before Adrien has sat down. “She needs to be told sense before she does anything, apparently.”

Adrien frowns as she walks off.

That sounds ominous.

“So, Monsieur Noir, what brings you here?” Asks Sabrina politely.

Chat answers as best as he can, but his eyes keep flickering to look at the door that separates them from Marinette and Chloé. What’s Chloé going to do - what does being told sense mean?

***

“Why haven’t you gone to get father yet?” Chloé hisses, advancing.

Marinette leaps up, eyes opening. “I-”

“You fell asleep on the stairs!”

“Your father told me to fetch him after several minutes, and it’s only been a few since Chat Noir arrived. I was allowing time for a dramatic entry,” Marinette says hurriedly. She jumps up the first few steps of the staircase, but Chloé follows, grabbing her wrist.

“Hey!”

“You better not show us all up in there, you,” Chloé hisses menacingly. Her fingers tighten around Marinette’s wrist, sharpened nails digging into skin and pulling down along her forearm.

Marinette hisses. “Quit it!”

“Make me, you.” Chloé pulls her nails to Marinette’s elbow before letting go - as Marinette looks down, she sees beads of blood swelling along the lines of broken skin. It stings like only Chloé’s nails can. “Go get father.”

Marinette just gives her a bleary-eyed glare, but begins the stairs anyway. She wipes her hand on the inside of her apron - more washing to do, less sleep - and watches as Chloé retreats back into the room. She can hear the girl trilling something useless at the guests.

Great. And why is Chat Noir here? It takes a tremendous amount of effort not to just fall into the Ladybug way of speaking, but she can’t.

If he found out that this is what she is…

He’d never dance with her again.

***

He’ll be down soon,” Chloé says brightly, swirling back into her seat in a wave of garish yellow. “Chat, more tea?”

Adrien, drinking milk with absolutely no tea in it at all, shakes his head quickly. “No, thanks. This is perfectly fine. Uh. Fine. So… where’s Mari- the servant? Will she be joining us?”

“Oh, Marinette.” Chloé makes a face. “No. She’s not very civilised, I’m afraid. I’ve rather taken her under my wing - she hero worships me, you know, as a sort of role model. I’m doing my best with her, but I fear she might be a lost cause.”

Chat Noir’s grip tightens on the handle of the cup. Marinette, sweet, kind, Marinette, lives with this? “Oh, I’m sure she’s wonderful.”

“Hah!” Chloé laughs in a way that’s probably meant to sound like she’s an old veteran of elocution lessons with Marinette. She just sounds like a dog. Sabrina beside her stifles a little giggle, and Adrien winks at the other girl discreetly while Chloé buries her face in a cup of tea. (Almost as milky as Chat’s, he notes with amusement.)

“I quite like Marinette,” Xavier says. “She made a special blueberry tartlet for me, you see?” He displays a half-eaten tartlet on his china plate. “She knows I only like blueberries, really.”

“Preferential treatment should be discouraged among the lower classes,” Chloé sniffs in irritation. “I’ll be having words with her later. Honestly! It’s a full-time job, this servant business.”

Adrien only stops squeezing the cup when it becomes clear that he might actually break something. Kid, it’s fine. (Plagg, get back in the back of my head. Go away.)

“Bonjour!” Booms a loud voice from the door. “Ah, Chat Noir! So happy you could make it. I hope you won’t regret coming here today!” It’s Mayor Bourgeois and, behind him, Marinette, glaring balefully at the Mayor’s back, shadowed by his enormous girth.

“Happy to be here,” Chat says.

Marinette slips out the door.

The Mayor settles into the seat beside his daughter. “Dreadfully sorry about being late. That idiotic servant didn’t come to fetch me in time, can you believe? Honestly, as a pity case, she’s not much use. But now… about the election day…”

Chat keeps staring at the door.

***

“Is your arm alright?” Tikki squeaks in alarm, flying out of Marinette’s pocket to perch on her shoulder and stare down.

“It’s fine,” Marinette says.

It looks worse than it feels. After all, it’s just Chloé’s nails and then a little rough housing from the Mayor, which is all to be expected - the nails have scratched the skin to that awful place where blood seems to practically spurt from the torn lines, although the pain - mild at best - has dulled to a throbbing numbness. Mayor Bourgeois is the cause of the four red lines around her wrist, though, just a grip that was a little too tight. Normally it wouldn’t even bother Marinette, but she’s so tired…

“There’s a little iodine bottle in the cooling cupboard,” Tikki suggests.

Marinette shakes her head mutely and draws her knees up to her chest. She’s never felt so pathetic. It’s just that dream this morning, and then Chat Noir, and then Chloé’s unnecessary violence, and add them all together, shake with a healthy portion of exhaustion, and you have the perfect recipe for the type of damsel in distress that Marinette has always sworn she would never be.

Tikki, too, falls into silence. Her warm body lies just above Marinette’s collarbone, a silent comfort.

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” Marinette says, feeling the urge for an excuse. “It’s just the tiredness. I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Tikki mumbles into her feelers, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Marinette leans her head against the staircase. Folded into herself, sitting in the corner of the room, she knows - hopes - nobody will see her. And who would? Mylene, the pot-maid, will either be blushing about Chloé’s coachman Ivan, or shaking with terror in the kitchen.

Nobody else in the house will come out of that room for another few hours. Marinette can allow herself this much, can’t she?

Yes. Yes, she can. And if she doesn’t, she’ll go quietly mad in the attic in the dark in the house.

She wipes another blossoming droplet off on her knee. Her dress is spattered with her own blood, now. And isn’t it normal for blood to stop flowing after a few minutes? It should be clotting now, not just oozing a little slower. Is something wrong with her?

“That looks nasty. What happened?”

Marinette almost jumps out of her skin. “What are you doing here?!” She yelps, scrambling to her feet on legs that shouldn’t really be this shaky. “ Again! You’ll get me in trouble if nothing else, you stupid kitty.”

Chat Noir rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet, the eyes beneath the mask twinkling, concerned, all-too familiar. She hopes he won’t recognise her. He can’t. He mustn't. “I won’t. I’ll sacrifice my honour for you, my Lady.”

“Heaven forbid.” She rolls her eyes. It’s worrying, how easy it is to fall back into the quick comebacks and sharp witticisms she and Chat share as dancing partners. But he won’t draw the connection - who could ever suspect quiet, plain Marinette Dupain-Cheng of being the glamourous Ladybug?

Chat comes closer, eyes looking once more at her arm. Thank the heavens the blood has started to clot, even a little; anything to help tone down the gory sight of her arm dripping on the carpet. “My Lady, what did happen? That looks awful.”

“Chloé’s cat scratched me, you,” Marinette says hurriedly. “Now, go back to the room. How did you get away?”

Chat Noir rubs the back of his neck, eyeing her suspiciously. “Told them I had to talk to my footmen,” he mutters.

***

“Chloé’s cat scratched me, you,” Marinette says. “Now, go back to the room. How did you get away?” Nothing particularly worrying, there -

Hold on -

“Good to see you, Chat Noir! I wonder… your mask, it is hardly necessary among company such as us, non? And, aha, you’ll be the first cat to be in this house since forever!” Chloé’s joke, the weird one that just seemed to try and make Adrien more at home. They don’t own a cat.

“Told them I had to talk to my footmen,” he mutters, still staring at her. Her arm has five scratches, he notices. Cats only have four claws - as a rule - and one accessory, which is more for decoration than anything. And the cuts are far too wide to be a cat’s.

His eyes zero in on her wrist.

He’s pretty sure cats don’t have hand-shaped paws, either. “What happened to your wrist, then?” He asks.

Marinette glares. “Just… shut up! Go back! Go away! Go talk to your damned footmen, you meddling cat, and leave me alone before something happens! Go away, go away, go away…” She covers her face with her hands, slumping back into the corner he found her in.

The first spark of real worry pierces Adrien’s mind. “Marinette…”

“Leave me alone,” she says, pulling her hands away and glaring at him. Her eyes are sunken and heavy with black bags. Her whole figure screams exhaustion at him.

“Marinette…”

“I’m not being some pity case for a stuck-up little boy playing masquerade, and you’re not being the benefactor that sets me free or anything you’ve read in the serial magazines. You are going to go back and flirt your tail off with Chloé, and I am going to go and… and get more tartlets. One blueberry for Xavier. So leave. Me. Alone!”

“Marinette-”

“Go away,” she finishes, opening the door to the kitchens and slamming it behind her.

Chat Noir stands still, shocked, for only a few seconds before making a decision. He’s going to go after, of course he is - but this is the girl that Nino and Alya befriended, this is the girl that smiled reassuringly at him when he looked close to a breakdown after the overheard whispers. And she lives here? And this is what she does?

He opens the door and slinks after her, hiding behind the wall in the shadows whenever he gets in sight of the kitchens.

Marinette is sitting on the kitchen table, dabbing iodine onto her right arm with her left, clumsy fingers spilling more than they apply. She looks exhausted. And tearful. And definitely wouldn’t appreciate Chat Noir emerging - again - and offering to help.

“Need any help?” He asks, stepping forward from the shadows.

Marinette jumps in shock, knocking the bottle of iodine over with her elbow. Adrien leaps forward, snatching it out of the air just before it hits the ground, and grins up at her. “I repeat. Need any help with that?”

“Go away,” she repeats, but hands him the brush. “Leave me alone.”

Adrien dips it into the bottle and begins at the cut just below her elbow. These are quite deep, he observes, and have only just stopped bleeding. “So, you don’t actually have a cat.”

“I don’t,” she says with a sigh. “Although there’s this very annoying kitty that follows me around wherever I go and doesn’t seem to understand when I tell him to leave me alone.” She winces as the iodine touches her skin.

“Sorry, Princess. Has to be done. So, if you don’t have a cat, how did you scratch yourself?” He knows, or he has an inkling, but he’d prefer Marinette tell him.

And she does look so pretty when she’s blushing.

“You know, kitty, and I’m not giving you the satisfaction of hearing me say it,” she tells him, looking down.

He holds her wrist in a feather-light grip. Her arm is thin; he can feel every bone. And delicate, oh so delicate, like a fragile vase he’s in danger of breaking if he holds it too tight. She allows him, to, which he senses is some achievement; apart from flinching at the sting of the chemical, she’s perfectly still.

“I don’t know.”

“Chloé Bourgeois, then, are you satisfied? And she hardly ever washes her hands, and I can’t risk getting sick - hence, the iodine. Watch it!”

Adrien grits his teeth. “And that?”

“The Mayor was annoyed, all right, it’s hardly anything to get worked up about.” She doesn’t pull away, though, so Adrien figures it’s safe enough to continue. And you, don’t you dare go and do anything rash. You’ll regret it, I swear.”

“Hah!” He’s more than annoyed. He’s incensed. “And what about this?” He gestures to her face.

Marinette frowns. “Me? Well, I’m me, I’m - what?”

“You look as though you’re about to collapse, and you know it,” he says, hiding his anger below a calm exterior. He caps the iodine bottle. “There.”

“Just tired, these past few nights,” she says, although he catches the nervous look she gives him. He can’t very well act like he knows her more than Chat does, just in case she guesses that Chat Noir is Prince Adrien, but he can act like a concerned citizen. A friend.

He gives her a sceptical look.

“It’s true!” She exclaims. “And why do you care, anyway?”

Adrien can’t answer her without giving away who he is, so he just shrugs. “A pretty girl shouldn’t be stuck in a place like this,” he says lamely.

“Thank goodness she isn’t, then, and it’s just me,” Marinette fires back.

But Adrien can see the rest, the comfort in the conversation, starting to lull her into drowsiness. “Where are the tartlets, Princess?” He asks gently.

“Cooling cupboard,” she mumbles. “Why?”

“Because-” he cuts off to slip an arm around her shoulders and one under her legs - “After I bring you to get some sleep, I’m going to get the tartlets for the rest of them. Where’s your room?”

“Don’t do that - attic - don’t be too nice,” she mutters sleepily into his shoulder. Again Adrien is struck by how light she is. A wind could carry her away. As light, as delicate, as another girl in the city he’s fallen for. He wonders what Ladybug is doing now.

“Attic?” He confirms. Her hands grip the soft fabric of his jacket, her head against his collarbone.

The attic is dimly lit, but so Marinette that he has to grin. A folded dress in the corner looks like the sort of beautiful design someone like her would create, but as he looks around, he doesn’t see the bed. “Where do I put you?”

“In the corner. Silly kitty. On the mattress,” she mumbles.

Adrien frowns again, but complies. He pulls the thin blankets up around her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Princess,” he says, and bows himself out of the door.

***

Adrien, just the Prince now, paces around the palace with his hands behind his back and his brow furrowed in thought. Nino and Alya are coming tomorrow, and they’ll bring Marinette, and he’ll see her again.

Make sure she’s fine.

“You did a good thing, kid,” Plagg says fondly, watching Adrien walk up and down the corridor. “She’ll be the better for it.”

Adrien just hums and opens the first door he sees, looking for some distraction from Marinette and the Mayor and Chloé Bourgeois and the lot of them. (And the most boring conversation he’s ever had with anyone about making pigeons an endangered species. Xavier. What a strange man.)

“Kid-”

Adrien stops. “Isn’t this the room-”

“Mhmm.” Plagg stops. “C’mon.”

The room where he and Marinette heard the men for the first time. Funny, that he never thought to go in there after the overheard conversation.

It’s mostly bare. It’s just a storage room, with stacks of chairs and a chaise longue covered in white sheets. But on the floor, standing out against the cream carpets, is a purple ribbon, of the sort that noblemen use for bookmarks and tokens of love.

There’s a black butterfly embroidered on the end of it.

And along the ribbon, in white stitching, is a word.

Le Papillon.

Chapter Text

“I need to talk to you,” says Chat Noir urgently, approaching her.

Marinette almost jumps out of her skin.

Since that day, just last week, when Chat visited the house - when he was gentle and soft and altogether too kind for words, Chloé’s been taking more and more opportunities to make fun of her, to poke, to prod, to bruise. She’s getting jumpy. Any noise at all could be a projectile, any presence at all could be Chloé or the Mayor.

But she’s at a ball.

But it’s Chat Noir.

And Chat Noir is Chat Noir, and he’d never do anything untoward.

She turns towards him in a swirl of red and black. Her mask secures her face from the world. “Most people say hello, you silly cat.”

His smile is short and anxious. “Uh… my Lady. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”

It’s clear his heart isn’t in the meaningless flirtation tonight, and she puts a hand on his elbow, sighing. It’s going to be another night like the last one. “Come on, then. Let’s go to the corner before someone hears us, if it’s really that serious.”

“Much appreciated,” he says feverently. “I don’t know what to do, and I trust you.”

Marinette allows herself a second of smug happiness - Chat Noir trusts her! - before leading the way through the ballroom. She is, at least, a little better rested, having fallen asleep when Nino and Alya took her to the palace on Saturday. (She didn’t even see Prince Adrien, which she’s annoyed about, because she may be a tiny bit in love with Prince Adrien. Hah. A little. Maybe.) But Chloé and the Mayor are here, at the ball, and that turns her happiness into silver-tinted fear any time the blonde or her father look her way.

Tonight, Marinette’s dress covers her shoulders, down to her wrists, where they mould to a pair of black gloves. A ruffled collar hides the rest. The skirt brushes the floor.

She feels like a fashionable Egyptian mummy, but at least all her skin is hidden. She’s already explained some of the marks to Chat, and explaining them again would give the game away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Chat mumbles at her as she winds her way through the people. “I think I’m starting to go a little crazy.”

And that doesn’t sound ominous at all, now, does it?

“I’m going to hope your being exaggerative,” she mutters under her breath, finally reaching a relatively secluded corner. She pulls him around to face her, and sighs again.

Chat Noir is a mess.

His eyes are wild and frantic, and his cheeks are far too pale than they should be save for two pinpricks of pink high on his cheekbones. His hair is messy, not the mess of someone trying to look windswept and debonair, but someone who just hasn’t looked at themselves in several days. He looks, in fact, like she did last week right before she collapsed on top of him.

“I need to- I mean, that is, I don’t think - I need to -”

“You need to calm down and talk to me,” she says, hands gripping his forearm, compelling his eyes to hers. “Chat. Chaton. Calm down.”

Slowly, inch by painful inch, his breathing slows. His eyes lose some of their paranoid panic. He looks a little bit more like his old self, just more unkempt. “Right. I’m calm. Sorry, I just - all week - I talked to someone, I talked to them, and I don’t want him to get hurt. And I think he might. Get hurt, that is. And I don’t - there’s nobody -”

“Neutral?” She suggests. Inside, Marinette’s tiny, selfish hopes of a night free of worry and pain die and wither. “I’m neutral.”

“Right. Yes. God, I’m sorry.” He gives her a sad little smile, rubbing his eyes through the mask, which hardly shifts position on his face. “Right. I’m sure you know of Prince Adrien, my Lady, a fascinating young woman such as yourself.”

“Where do you think I’ve lived these past years, chaton? Of course I’ve heard of the Prince.” Marinette thinks she knows where this conversation is going, and, although the two events are hardly related, she thinks of flour pouring between floorboards and a purple-and-black butterfly fluttering off through the open window.

Chat Noir smiles. His voice is even, now, his hands pulling away from her grasp on his arms to interlock his fingers with her. “Adrien. Well, I’m… I was visiting Mayor Bourgeois the other day - are you all right?”

At the mention of the Mayor, hating herself for it, Marinette had shuddered. She smiles apologetically, cheeks on fire. “Sorry. Felt a chill. Continue, please.”

“Yes. Right. The Mayor. Well, when I finished some… other business in the house, just as I was leaving, he suggested to me that I accompany him to the palace the next day.”

Hold on, that’s not right. Marinette casts her memory back, and remembers; the day after the little lunch party, Mayor Bourgeois had been home all day. But maybe Chat Noir is warping a few of the facts to hide his identity, or something similar - it’s what Marinette would do, just in case. Probably. It’s nothing.

“And Adrien - the Prince - told me about some people plotting to kill the Queen, and - and I wonder, do you know anything about purple and black butterflies, or le Papillon?” Chat shrugs helplessly.

Marinette recoils again. The smell of burning, everything burning, and the sight of wisps of smoke curling between her toes… the mocking little insect, flapping away in the still summer air, while beneath it a child had just killed a bakery full of people. “I… I don’t know. I’ll… investigate it,” she says lamely.

(Her breath tastes stolen in her mouth.)

(Why can’t she think of anything else but the pain she caused her own family, all those years ago?)

“Let’s dance,” Chat says loudly. Catching her surprised look, which Marinette mustn’t have concealed as well as she thought, he leans down to whisper in her ear: “We’re catching some strange glances. Better to do what’s expected of us, and hide in plain sight, non?”

“Of course, chaton, ” she says aloud, adding a secret little nod. He offers his arm.

She takes it, and they merge into the next dance seamlessly, a slow waltz that all the young couples are taking advantage of to stare into each other’s eyes.

“Adrien also gave me this, for safekeeping. He doesn’t trust the palace. But I - I can’t be trusted to hold it, either, so I give it to you,” Chat swallows. His hold is tight on her waist again, and Marinette recognises it for what it is - a reassurance, a protection, a constant. His other hand leaves her shoulder for a moment, digs into his inner pocket, and returns holding a slim purple ribbon, frayed at one end.

She takes it in one gloved hand, not taking the time to study it. “I will guard it with my very life,” she promises. “Now, kitty-cat, would you like to dance with me?”

Puzzlement dances over his features. “We are already, Princess.”

“Dance like we used to,” she stresses. It saddens Marinette that there’s a used to, now, a time before the lamentation of the slow dance and before the panic of the Chat and before both sides of her life were irreversibly tangled with his.

Understanding dawns. “Like we used to then, my Lady,” he says, and places his hand on her shoulder. “And in the hope of returning one more to those times. I hope nothing comes of this.”

“You don’t know how much I hope for the same,” she says feverently, and for the next four hours she lets the dance swallow her emotion and carry her to a place where she doesn’t need to think. She just needs to go where her feet take her.

***

“You know more than you’re saying,” Marinette says accusingly to Tikki.

The little red kwami winces, flying away from Marinette for the first time since they’ve returned from the ball. “I-”

Marinette draws her knees up to her chest. “You’re magical. You can see the future and things, probably, or something, and you just picked me as a… as a sort of distraction. The balls and the being-happy part are just the perks of the job, aren’t they? They’re not why you’re here. That’s not why I met Chat Noir. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Tikki sighs. “Marinette, I-”

“Truthfully,” Marinette says. Between her fingers she pulls a purple ribbon. Le Papillon. Black butterflies.

“It’s true that I chose you for something other than your own happiness,” Tikki admits, flying back to Marinette and rubbing her soft face against Marinette’s cold cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love every second that you spend happy.”

Marinette makes a small, strangled noise of skepticism.

“And yes, Chat Noir is like you. And his kwami is like me. But we… we don’t know what’s going on, Marinette, I promise to you. We’re sent to young people in Paris when it seems in danger, and although we give them what they want, we also work to save Paris.”

“And how is a servant going to save Paris?” Marinette asks. Her face is buried in her knees. Her voice is thick and wet.

Her posture, of utter dejection, sends a spike of sadness through Tikki’s heart.

“Don’t you think you already have?” She says. She wants nothing more than to pull that ribbon from between Marinette’s fingers and throw it out the window, wants to curse Plagg and his Chat for advancing the plot so soon, but she can’t. She can’t go back.

“I haven’t,” Marinette argues. “I’ve just danced at some stupid balls.”

“And you met Chat Noir.”

“Chat Noir. Oh, how I’ve saved Paris. Yes, yes, I’m mistaken, of course,” Marinette says sarcastically, still into her knees.

“Chat Noir is more like you than you realise, Marinette,” Tikki perches in her usual spot on Marinette’s shoulder. “And do you think you would have lasted much longer without him? Without knowing him? And don’t you think you’ve done for him what he’s done for you?”

“Chat Noir…”

“So what are you going to do about the Papillon and the Prince?” It hurts Tikki to lie. It really does. But she has to, she has to, or the fates of both Ladybug and Chat Noir will be tossed to the wind.

Marinette raises her head. “About Papillon… the Prince…”

“There’s something bigger at work here, you heard him yourself,” Tikki reminds her gently. “I suggest you get some sleep. You’re going to need it for tomorrow.”

“I can’t leave the house,” Marinette reminds her.

Both their gazes drop as though magnetized to the healing scabs down Marinette’s arm, to the little pinprick bruises caused by the nipping of Chloé’s fingernails, to the fingerprints courtesy of the Mayor. Tikki can’t deny that it makes her sick, knowing that she is - in part - responsible for injuring Marinette, kind Marinette.

“But with Nino and Alya you can.”

“But Nino and Alya aren’t going to the Palace until Saturday,” Marinette says, confused. Tikki’s going to blame the ball and the emotions of the last few hours for Marinette being oddly slow to catch on. “I can’t-”

“Tell Chloé that you’re meeting them on the street corner, you,” Tikki pulls a ponytail affectionately.

Marinette shakes her head. “A-adrien doesn’t talk to me when I’m Marinette. I don’t think he likes me.”

Oh, you’re in for it, Tikki thinks. Aloud, she says: “Yes, he does. But maybe… maybe it’s best if your name isn’t tied up with this whole investigation, you know? Maybe…”

“I visit the Palace as Ladybug? Do you really think that would work?” Hope springs to the fore in Marinette’s voice - brittle hope, frail hope, but hope nonetheless. “And then I could tell Chat about it later. He’s not the only one that gets to go around befriending random citizens.”

Tikki just chuckles and curls into a ball on Marinette’s shoulder.

But throughout the night, although they both try to get to sleep, their eyes - both blue, both tired, both rimmed with water - are drawn towards the purple ribbon lying on the floor next to Marinette’s mattress.

Papillon.

Marinette falls asleep and dreams of black butterflies and fire licking her feet while she dances, costumed, masked, with a Chat Noir in an all-white suit. His eyes are purple as the butterflies that surround him. His grip is iron. And as she looks down at herself she sees black, she sees purple, and she sees the fire threatening to kill them all.

She muffles a scream.

***

Adrien paces up and down his bedroom, where he’s barricaded himself in. The tallest-backed chair in the room is propped against the doorknob, the key is hanging around his neck, and he’s scrawled a note telling whoever is interested that he’s ill and not fit for company, so could they please leave him be.

The ball is in Ladybug’s court, and he’s never been so anxious in his life.

“She’ll do with it what she does with it,” Plagg shrugs, lounging on Adrien’s bed with a cheeseboard and a swollen belly. “You’ve got to cool off.”

“But I never expected this! I never expected that… all those council meetings with my father... “ Whom I haven’t seen in months… “All those little meetings I passed by…” Adrien runs his hands through his hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging angrily. “It was all about this! My father is in trouble!”

“And? That guy doesn’t care about anything,” Plagg says. It isn’t intended harshly, but all the same Adrien winces. “Sorry, kiddo, but you know it’s true.”

“Father’s just busy. I’ll go see him tonight. I’m sure he’ll understand,” Adrien retorts. He’s not in the mood for any sarcastic little kwami nonsense, especially when it’s sort-of-at-a-stretch Plagg’s fault he’s here.

Kind of.

In this situation.

“You worry too much.” Plagg burps, and the air fills with the smell of cheese. “Ladybug has control, and you trust her, right?”

The kwami hurts to see Adrien so conflicted, but he can’t very well tell the Prince that the cute little servant he’s been slightly too obsessed with is the same beautiful belle that he’s fallen head over heels for. Although Plagg can’t wait for the day when the truth comes out - he’s missed Tikki.

Missed her too much. “Kid. Adrien. Come on, over here, look at me.”

Adrien turns from his pacing to look at Plagg. “Are you going to tell me I’m being ridiculous?”

“I’m going to tell you you’re being overly paranoid, but not ridiculous. I chose you for a reason, and it wasn’t you freaking out. It wasn’t you being a scaredy-cat. It was you being you, like you are, like you are with me and Ladybug and, hell, even that girl. What’s her name?” Plagg knows very well what her name is, but like hell he’s going to tell Adrien.

“Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Adrien looks up at Plagg. “You chose me. Chat Noir… me dancing, at all those balls, you have an ulterior motive for it all, don’t you?”

Plagg swallows his cheese before answering. It hurts. So does this conversation, every time he has it. Every time he says it, he feels cheated. He wonders if Tikki does, too. “I have other reasons. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see your happiness!” He adds hastily when Adrien’s worried face melts into one of anger.

“So all that you shall go to the ball stuff… you were just using me?”

“You sound like you’re in one of those Grimm stories,” Plagg tries to joke. “It’s not that serious. I just - Chat Noir can save Paris.”

“Chat Noir can’t even save his own mother,” Adrien says bitterly. His hands tug at his hair again, and that doesn’t look painless.

Plagg sighs. “Chat Noir can save Paris.”

“How? Am I going to dance whoever I meet to death? What does Paris need saving from, anyway? We’re in a period of peace. There’s no war anywhere.” Adrien turns to face Plagg, sitting down on the chair that blocks his door.

“You know what Paris needs saving from.” Plagg swallows a lump of blue cheese. “And it’s Ladybug’s move, anyway. But when the time comes, Chat Noir is going to save Paris.”

“He can’t save anyone,” Adrien says quietly.

Plagg wishes he could just, just once, be brought forward in a time of peace and plenty, as opposed to constant revolutions and pain and war. He flies forward, curling up on Adrien’s knee. “He’s already saved Ladybug.”

Adrien snorts. “Ladybug doesn’t need saving.”

“If you truly believe that, then you’re more of an idiot than I took you for, and you know it’s not true. Every time you see her, you’re doing something. You and Ladybug aren’t so different as you think.”

“Hah!”

“It’s true.” Plagg knocks Adrien’s knee. “Ladybug… she’s chosen, just like you.” This is farther than he’s gone with any of the Chat Noir hosts he’s ever been, but something about Adrien’s trembling hands prompts the kwami to continue. “Ladybug has a kwami, just like you, and behind that mask is someone just like you. And someone who’s perfectly content and happy with their lot in life? Someone like that doesn’t call to us. We feel you, feel you calling, and we come down to help those in need. Ladybug. Chat Noir is saving Paris even if he doesn’t realise it.”

Adrien begins to stroke his thumb down Plagg’s head. “Ladybug’s saved me more than I’ve saved her. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Plagg.”

Plagg can’t help but curl into the touch, purring. He is a part cat, after all. He grins with glee. “And that’s the best thing!”

“How?” Adrien raises an eyebrow, just daring Plagg to say something soft and sappy.

Plagg beams. “Well, that’s what she thinks, too!”

And then there’s a soft knock to the door, and a familiar voice calling his name.

Adrien squeaks.

And Plagg flies under the bed to hide, in all the satisfaction of a job well done.

***

Marinette pauses after the first knock to pull her gloves up a little more. This dress is even more conservative than the one from the ball last night, after Chloé once again threw a shoe at her - that morning, just before she slipped out - and Marinette hadn’t ducked in time.

She feels slightly idiotic.

“He’s not in.”

He’s in there, Ladybug! Go get him, and stop worrying. You have the ribbon? Then what’s wrong? Tikki cheers inside Marinette’s head, a tiny ball of pure optimism lending a smile to Marinette’s downturned lips. (Bitten and chewed from the anxiety of the recent events.)

“Hello?” She tries again, rapping on the door a little more firmly. “Prince Adrien? A-are you in there?”

“Who’s that?” Comes an all-too-familiar voice through the door.

Marinette thinks that, were it not for the mask Ladybug gives her, she’d be a little mess on the floor by now. Adrien! Prince Adrien! “You might not have heard of me, but I’m called Ladybug,” she says as quietly as possible, aiming for the gap in the keyhole. “Is it fine if I come in?”

There’s the sound of something shuffling behind the door. A thud. Someone grunts. Silence. Then: “Come on in, Ladybug!”

Marinette takes a deep breath, reminds herself that she’s Ladybug, and swirls through the door.

Prince Adrien Agreste looks at her with pleasant surprise, his lip red from where he’s worried at it, his room in disarray with upturned chairs and cushions lying everywhere. He looks worlds away from the Adrien that Marinette usually sees, the Adrien he presents himself as to Nino and Alya.

But his green eyes alight with relief to see her.

She wonders if he’s ever been at a ball that she’s attended. Has he ever seen her twirling with Chat Noir? (Has he been jealous?) (Now is not the time.) (But has he?) (Not important.) (She hopes.)

“Ladybug - I’ve heard my friends talk about you. The masked girl from the ball dances.” He smiles in delight. “But how did you get here? It’s… it’s just past lunch, shouldn’t you be… doing what you do?”

Marinette shrugs. Keep a cool head. “I just left. It’s not like I’m a servant or anything!”

“Of course not,” Adrien laughs nervously.

Is she really that intimidating? Maybe… maybe he wants rid of her. Maybe. But Chat gave her the ribbon, Chat gave her the power to make the next move, and she can’t do that as Marinette. She has to be Ladybug.

“Your guards didn’t seem to notice me, and I think you know why I’m here.” She smiles wanly at him. “You spoke to Chat Noir, oui?”

For some reason Adrien is bright red and stuttery, nodding quickly. “I - yes, he - we met - just last week, I - yes.”

“Papillon,” she says. The words fall into place like the lid of a coffin slamming shut.

“The ribbon.” He rubs his forearm, shoulders hunched, hardly meeting her eyes. “I think some people want to kill my mother, and I think - I think my father is in trouble, too. King Gabriel. He’s… I think they want to seize control of the throne.”

“But if the Queen - I’m so sorry - if the Queen dies-” Marinette hates his flinch- “The Queen. Would the throne not be passed on to King Gabriel?”

Adrien shakes his head. Discussing the succession, at least, he seems comfortable with. “No. It would pass to me, because my father isn’t of Royal blood, unless I’m disgraced or a bastard-child or something along those lines. But unless my father is dead, I can’t have the throne until I’m of age, in two years time. He’ll become Regent, but I’ll still have the most power.” Marinette notes how calmly he talks about his father’s supposed death, as opposed to his mother’s. “But if he’s Regent, and he’s - he’s dead, and I’m still not of age, then the right to rule passes to a voted member of the Council. And it’s them that I’m scared of. If that happens, the Royal line will pass to one of them.”

What a situation, Tikki says in Marinette’s mind, sympathetic and sad.

Marinette agrees. She takes Adrien’s hand, more a reassurance than a romantic gesture - although she can’t help her blush - and nods in determination. “I promise that Chat Noir and I will help you. I’ve been told by a… a close friend, that I’m to save Paris. And it looks like this is what I’m meant to do.”

“You’ll help?” The relief, the shock, the sudden weight lifted from his shoulders, takes her by surprise. “You really will?”

“I promise,” she smiles. “Now, I’m free for the day. Where shall we start?” And she pulls the ribbon out from her pocket.

Adrien grins at her, although the blood in his cheeks still adds a pink blush to his face. He looks infinitely lighter. “I suppose… should we start where I first heard them? I was with this girl called Marinette Cheng, do you know her?”

Marinette shakes her head stiffly. She’s an awful liar. “Don’t know her.”

“She’s great,” Adrien says with conviction. Marinette stifles a squeak. “But we were here, and we heard two voices talking about planning to bring down the throne or something, and I figure - well, if you’re here, we could go there. That’s where I found the ribbon, too.”

“Sounds like a plan, Prince,” Marinette grins and doesn't realise she’s using Chat Noir’s line until Adrien blushes an even deeper red. “I- I mean, sounds like a plan.” She’s about to sweep out of the door and head to the room where she was, until she remembers - Ladybug isn’t Marinette. “Uh… where is this room, then?”

“Oh! Oh, it’s… come with me,” Adrien flies past her, hands clapped to his cheeks in embarrassment. Marinette isn’t even sure how the Adrien she knows as Marinette and this new Adrien, quiet and blushing and bashful, are the same person. Does he have any other personas hidden in there?

She shakes her head. Stay cool. He’s just a boy. An adorable, very attractive boy. Stay cool, already! With another headshake and a pinch to her wrist, she follows him down the corridor, pushing her slipping mask back, securely tucked onto her face.

***

When Ladybug turns her back for a second, Adrien feels the tiny body of Plagg worm his way into the pocket of his tunic.

“Glad you could make it,” he whispers.

“Wouldn’t miss this fiasco for the world, kiddo,” Plagg responds in a hushed, smug little voice. “I reckon you’ll last half an hour before confessing your everlasting love.”

Adrien wishes he could go five minutes without blushing. He glares at the lump in his pocket. “I’m not in love with Ladybug!”

“Oh, yeah, kid. Real convincing.”

“What’s that?” Ladybug turns around, a smile on her face, her big blue eyes wide and trusting. They’re just around the corner from the disused room. Just around the corner from the place where Adrien’s life seems to revolve around.

He blushes. Again. “Oh, it was - uh, nothing.”

“Then let’s - oh, is it this room?” Her gloved hand gestures to the door, the other hand around the doorknob.

He nods mutely and watches her as she swishes in, her head turning left and right, looking for somewhere for them to hide.

He doesn’t know why he can’t be cool and calm around her, like Chat Noir is, only that without the protection of his mask and his anonymity he’s just another tongue-tied admirer. But he’s damned if she isn’t something worth admiring.

Her freckled cheeks are dusted with pink, contrasting with her pale skin. Her hair is tied up in two pigtails, although she’s showing rather less skin than usual. Even her neck is covered, a red scarf tied snugly around it, brushing down her collarbones to waft around her waist. Her dress tucks in high on her body, falling gracefully to kiss the floor. Her sleeves are short, but her gloves stretch almost up to her shoulders. On her ears sparkle those red-and-black earrings.

She’s stunning.

And she’s speaking.

He jumps. “Sorry? I didn’t - uh, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, should we hide here?” She smiles, waving her hand at the shape of a chaise-longue covered in a white sheet. “Someone could be along any moment.”

In response, he just nods, winding around the sheet-covered furniture to crouch behind it.

Ladybug giggles to herself, slightly self-consciously, and hops from the seat of the chaise to grip the back with both hands and tumble into a heap beside Adrien. “Oops!”

She’s stunning.

“Are you alright?” He asks, watching her dust off the skirt of her dress.

She waves dismissively. “Oh, I’m fine. I thought I’d look dramatic. I’m a little clumsier than the people from the spy magazines, though!” Her laugh is tinkling, pure, like a glass bell ringing in the dawn.

He smiles beatifically. Plagg is going to make fun of him so much when they’re alone, later.

She rests her head against the wall. Her eyes flutter shut, and for the first time Adrien notices the ghost of exhaustion haunt her features. “ Mon dieu, but I am tired,” she sighs. “A ball last night. Did you get to go?”

Adrien shakes his head regretfully. Not as the Prince. I went as me. “I’m not really allowed to leave the Palace much these days. Not for a ball. But I heard about your dancing. And your partner.” And maybe he’s fishing for her opinion of him, of Chat, but like hell he’ll admit it to himself.

“ Le Chat Noir,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. Her eyes are still closed. “He’s a wonderful dancer. I - oh, but I shouldn’t talk about it. I hate the feeling when people talk about the things they’ve been to that I haven’t.”

“I don’t mind!” He assures her quickly. Eagerly. Plagg pinches his side, and Adrien feels the kwami shaking with silent laughter.

He’s going to kill Plagg later tonight.

“Well, it’s nice. I suppose I don’t - I can’t talk about him.” She opens her eyes, the brilliance of her stare taking him aback. “He’s wonderful. Always knows what to say to make the day better. And he’s kind, too, even though he doesn’t want to admit it. I heard from a servant in the Bourgeois home, Mylene, that he helped her friend. He’s…” she laughs, a little embarrassed. “He’s actually my closest friend. Isn’t that sad?”

Adrien is dumbstruck, but he manages a tiny shake of his head. “I don’t think so.” She heard about the Marinette thing? But that was just being a good citizen to someone who didn’t deserve their lot in life, right?

Right?

He’s about to open his mouth and protest when they both hear the door click.

Instantly Ladybug’s hand flies to grab his wrist, her gloved finger flying to her lips. They both, as one person, shrink lower down, ensuring that nobody will be able to see even the tips of their heads.  

Adrien’s heart is in his mouth. He feels every beat, blood rushing in his ears. Looking at Ladybug, it’s clear she feels at least a little of the same sort of panic.

“I wish we could just hurry up and organize a real meeting,” says a voice, complaining and drawling. The chaise shifts and Adrien’s breath stops - the voice has thrown themselves down on it. Adrien sees the feet tapping on the floor.

“You know that’s far too dangerous, right? ” The second voice, a woman, sounds dismissive, superior. “And anyway, he can’t hold it off forever. I expect we’ll be meeting soon to discuss the Regency.”

“Ah, yes,” says Number One. “Getting rid of the Regent?” He sniggers unpleasantly.

Number Two sniffs. “I wish you weren’t so coarse. Yes, getting rid of him. But I don’t understand how we’re going to meet. Where do we pick up the ribbons this time around?”

“We got our last ones from that kitchen-maid,” One says contemplatively. “Maybe she’ll be a little more giving this time, too. I got an eyeful, but she’s surprisingly quick on her feet for someone so rotund.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Beside Adrien, Ladybug is glaring daggers into the back of the chaise. He's surprised that the first voice isn't wincing from the heat of her glare, and, although he's feeling particularly useless, he twists his hand around to squeeze her fingers reassuringly.

Ladybug interlocks her fingers with his and smiles.

Adrien just wishes he felt as brave as she seems to be.

“I don't think we'll be meeting much inside the palace anymore,” Two says knowledgeably. Under the chaise-longue Adrien sees two button boots, dark navy, slim and long, pacing up and down. The blue lace trim of Two’s dress trails after her, always threatening to catch her heel, always missing by a breath.

One hums in agreement. “I reckon, just my personal opinion, that the last one was stretching it a bit too far. That kitchen girl - you know, with the…” Adrien can’t see, but he assumes One is making some sort of crude gesture. “Yes, her. She’s blabbed, I think.”

“You think everyone blabs,” Two says archly. “No-one ever does. But I have news for you I think you’ll like.”

Ladybug’s fingers tighten on Adrien’s; her face is still and set and silent.

He wishes he were like her.

The hand that isn’t holding hers is shaking violently - he shoves it into the pocket of his coat, feels Plagg’s reassuring heat against his palm, and tries to pay attention. This isn’t about him. This is about saving his mother and father, and Adrien will do anything, anything, to get his mother back to health. To get his father to say his name.

“Oh?” One sounds intrigued.

Adrien holds his breath.

Two’s button boots come towards the chaise. The lace trim follows. For the life of him, Adrien can’t seem to remember who wears blue - or even if he knows anyone around the palace that sounds like either of them. Maybe they’re putting on a voice? Maybe they, like he and Ladybug, wear masks?

Now there’s a thought.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you about the next meeting,” says Two smugly. “As one of the first to join his cause-”

“We’re all equal akuma in his eyes,” One interrupts, sounding more like a sulky child than a conspiring man in a darkened room.

Akuma? Plagg, inside Adrien’s pocket, squeezes his finger, and the meaning couldn’t be more clear. Keep an eye on that word. Keep a look-out. You’ll need to know about it sooner or later.

“But I was the first.” Two seems altogether far too pleased about this. “And the next meeting… forgive me if I insist we come separately, but I think trust in this situation could be the price of both of our lives.”

One hums again, but this time in anticipation. “Spit it out, girl, tell me where the next one is?”

“The next ballroom night is going to be hosted by the Cesaire family, on the hill,” says Two. She sits on the chaise - Adrien is surprised to see her boots hanging off the bottom, not touching the ground. Is Two a child?

One grunts. “I don’t have time for balls.”

“At least tell me you’ve heard of these new masked dancers. According to the Hawkmoth, they could be a real problem.” Two sounds delighted to know something that One doesn’t.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir. My daughter talks about them.”

So One has at least one child. Interesting. Adrien knows it won’t get him any closer to finding out who One is behind the mask, but it’s something.

“Beside the point. At the Cesaire dance, you’ll be contacted. Probably by me, although one of the others might come to get you.”

“And the new dancers? A couple of kids in masks can’t be that dangerous.”

You’d be surprised, Adrien thinks venomously, and feels Ladybug once more twitch at his fingers.

“We should go. Just be there, and be on time.”

“Of course I will.”

“To the Regency.”

“To the Recency!”

They both laugh, a tittering, ugly sort of laugh, and Two leads the way out of the door. Her little boots tap-tap-tap against the floor, just as they did last week, although Adrien isn’t crouched behind a wall with Marinette Dupain-Cheng holding his hand.

He’s crouched behind a chaise-longue with Ladybug, instead.

And Ladybug looks worried.

“My transformation is running out,” she tells him, looking anxiously into his eyes. “Please, Prince, promise me you’ll leave this to Chat Noir and I. We’re… well, I don’t know how we’re going to handle this, I really don’t, but if this Papillon thinks we’re a threat then I guess we are. Please. Stay out of it.”

Adrien nods mutely in promise. A promise that he can’t hope to keep.

“Thank you.” Ladybug says sincerely, and kisses his cheek as light as a feather, as sudden as the sun between clouds. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Alya dances into Marinette’s kitchen early the next morning, whistling merrily.

“What are you doing here?” Marinette asks teasingly, waving her hands at her friend and watching Alya duck away from the cloud of flour. She dusts the rest of the flour onto the sides of her long-sleeved woolen cardigan, and smiles.

Even seeing Alya - for the first time in a week - reminds her that the world isn't all shadows and whispers and darkness.

“Girl, we are breaking you out! ” Alya sings cheerily, not even noticing the white dust settling in her auburn hair. “Well. Momentarily. Missed talking to you, Mari, and Adrien’s called us in for an emergency fitting.” Inverted commas clank their way around Alya’s words. “He wants to talk to us for a while. Must be lonely for him, up there, and get this - he asked if you were coming!”

Marinette squeaks incoherently. “ Really?”

“So obviously I told him yes, and as we speak, Nino’s talking to the Blonde Dragon upstairs. Ooh, is this blueberry?” Alya sweeps her finger through the pot of jam Marinette had been making and grins. “Man, you're delightful.”

“Always pleased to be of assistance,” says Marinette archly. “I'll bring you blueberry tarts sometime.”

Alya pushes her towards the door. “And on that day, girl, I will die and go to heaven.”

Miraculously, Nino is standing unscathed and grinning at the front door, bouncing on his heels. “You can come!” He punches the air.

“Of course I can. Chloé would never miss a chance to get Adrien to notice her,” Marinette jokes. Nino chuckles along, holding open the front door for Marinette and Alya to walk through - the first with uncertainty, the second with a sauntering tilt to her hips.

Nino and Alya’s rented carriage is just as shabby as ever, but Marinette still smiles at the comfortable familiarity. She’d love to just sit here, curled up and sleeping, forever.

But sooner or later, they stop at the Palace.

Marinette can’t tell when the Palace made the transition, in her mind, from safe haven to ominous, looming tower, but it has. The gables, dripping with gold, don’t excite her anymore. They just look opulent, vaguely offensive, like King Gabriel wants the world to know about his riches. If she looks up, she can see the balcony. Adrien’s bedroom. She wonders if he’s barricaded the doors again.

She wouldn’t, if she were him. She’d show them she didn’t care.

And that’s why she’s not the one living in the palace, right?

“You’re always thinking.” Alya kicks Marinette’s shin lightly, jerking her out of her daydream. “Stop it. It makes my head sore to watch you do it.”

“Only because you’re jealous. You’ll never have that skill,” Nino ribs, and the ensuing conversation carries the three of them through the Palace gates, past the guards, and up the stairs to the spare room.

Just down the corridor from here, she hid behind a dust-covered chair and held hands with a Prince and listened to two people plot a murder.

Just a floor up from here, a Prince is taking the chair away from his doorhandle and trying to smooth out his expression.

Marinette has the Papillon ribbon in her pocket, and she doesn’t know why.

She thinks she might be going a little crazy.

“Adrien should be down in a moment.” Nino throws himself on to the pile of cushions they sat on the last time, reclining and sighing happily. “Man, this is the life, am I right, Marinette?”

She grins at him. “Of course.” And, pulling her cardigan up from where it slips off her shoulders, she jumps beside him. “I would complain about my feet, but then I’d sound even older than I already do, so I’m not going to.”

“Who’s complaining? Sorry I’m late, I was with mother!” Comes a familiar voice from the doorway.

Nino pulls his arm up, hand flopping limply from his wrist. “Adrien! I think the plan for today is to lie down and complain like old women. Care to join us?”

Marinette can’t help but look Adrien up and down, discreetly. (A little bit of it is the crush, yes, but a lot of it is last night.) Adrien looks ill-rested, stressed, but he hides it well with a crisp-collared white shirt and black trousers, the neat clothing disguising how undone the rest of him is. It’s amazing, what a little hot iron can do for a person.

Oddly enough, Adrien seems to be doing the same to her.

Strange.

“So, join us?” Alya on Marinette’s other side kicks forward a cushion for Adrien to collapse onto, which he does with a grin.

It’s stretched on his face. Marinette wonders how late he stayed up last night, thinking about Ladybug and Papillon and the Cesaire ball and the meetings and his father. He’s good at hiding it, though - if Marinette hadn’t known already about it, she wouldn’t have guessed.

Adrien’s looking at her again.

It’s weird. She wishes he’d stop. Tikki, in her cardigan pocket, nudges her side as though reading her mind. Calm down. Maybe Tikki is - Marinette wouldn’t put it past the little kwami.

Why won’t Adrien stop looking at her? That’s a knowledgeable look.

Adrien wants to see if Marinette is better, but he can’t without being strange. She’s got long sleeves on, a thin knit cardigan, but that could be because of the cold as opposed to anything on her arms. (They should be silvery scabs by now, if he reckons right.)

“Warm in here,” he says, rubbing his arms. “I’m dying.” He shrugs off his jacket, and in his white shirt he’s actually far more comfortable. Alya and Nino have done their jobs well.

“Same,” Nino says. “Hey, catch-” He throws his own jacket at Adrien, who barely throws out his arm in time to grab it. “Think fast!”

Adrien raises an eyebrow, and Nino bursts out laughing.

“So ‘m I,” Alya comments. “Girl, join in with the rest of us, strip!” With a wink and a giggle that sends Marinette into a fit of blushing stammers, Alya pulls at the two shoulders of the cardigan and whips it off Marinette, throwing it at Adrien as well.

“Come on, Alya,” Marinette mumbles. “I hate you.”

The scratches from Chloé’s nails are faded, but there are bruises all over her arms and shoulders, which isn’t reassuring at all, and she’s glaring at Alya like Marinette would quite like to kill them all, right now. Immediately.

“What happened to you?!” Alya exclaims.

Adrien and Nino exchange a look.

“A cat scratched me,” Marinette snaps, and snatches her cardigan back from Adrien’s grasp. “A great, big, meddling black cat.”

Well, she didn’t have to say that about Chat Noir, did she?

***

You’re being an idiot, Adrien, Plegg says inside his head. You won’t have time to go to the Cesaire ball.

“I’ll get you cheese after this and before the ball, okay?”

Now that’s a plan. Okay, go ahead, woo whichever girl takes your fancy. I’m going to be in your head. Your childhood memories are all very nostalgic, you know that?

“Stay out of those!” Adrien, perched on a roof - he’s still not sure how he got up here without dying - looks around for the bakery. For the Mayor’s house. He thought he could remember, but his city in the dark is so different to his city in the bright light of the sun.

He sees a light on in a top-floor window, and just heads for that.

Hopefully it’s Marinette. He wants it to be her, just so he can talk to her, make sure she’s fine. Earlier today it had been Nino and Alya carrying most of the conversation; Marinette had been sulking about the cardigan incident (which was mean, Adrien will admit) and Adrien had been too busy trying to wake himself up to contribute much.

The light isn’t Marinette, but by this time Adrien can see where his is in the world. The bakery is two streets away.

Don’t worry, kid, I’m magic, remember.

“I hate you, Plagg,” Adrien mumbles.

Just leap.

“I really, really hate you.”

Adrien aims himself for the roof of the original house, seeing Marinette’s bakery just across the way, and throws himself into the space between streets. Already, carriages are heading to the Cesaire house - is he going to become just another splat on the floor - he can’t die like this, this is ridiculous -

Told you, kid.

Adrien stands, rocking precariously, on the edge of the roof. Marinette’s is only another jump away.

“I really, really hate you,” he mutters again, and takes another flying leap. His heart flies to his mouth. “Aim at the window-” The rest of the sentence trails off into a yelp as Plagg turns his body in mid-air. Lift your hand, kid! Black gloves snag the edge of the window. The rest of Adrien’s body hits the wall, hard.

“Who’s there?”

Adrien groans. That’s going to hurt in the morning. Great. “It’s me, Princess,” he calls. “You know. Chat-Noir-idiot.”

“Oh! Just a moment, I’ll get you - what are you doing on my window?”

“Long story,” he huffs as the window latch opens. “Long, long story.”

“Well, can this long story take place inside?” She offers her hand and he snatches it, expecting her to topple over - how can someone as light as her possibly hope to pull his weight up from her window? - but she heaves, muscles in her arms straining, and to his shock he finds himself being heaved up and up and through her window.

He drops unceremoniously onto the windowseat she’s made, among home-stitched cushions and blankets.

“Chat Noir! What a surprise… and only an hour before the Cesaire dance, too,” Marinette says sarcastically. She leans over his head and closes the window.

An hour? He has less time than he thought. “Well, I have an hour to spare…”

“And you decided to come and bug me? Kitty, I’m impressed.” Marinette almost overbalances on top of him, recovering before he can grab her to support. He wonders why he feels like he’s missing out on something there.

Chat Noir sits up. Marinette raises an eyebrow. “Seriously, are you alright?”

“Are you?” He fires back. “After that particularly nasty cat scratch the other day?”

Marinette huffs. “Why is everyone so interested in that recently? I’m fine. I’m always fine, so you can all chill out and stop worrying before I snap and go completely insane. Come on.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, because Marinette genuinely does look irritated. He supposes he would be, too. “There are just people who care about you, Princess.”

“Well, care about me in some way that doesn’t involve almost falling from my window,” she grumbles, but looks a little calmer. “I mean, seriously? You could have been hurt!”

“I wanted to check on you.”

It sounds lamer out loud than it did in his head. He winces.

“Someday, I’ll come to your door just to see if you’re doing fine,” she says, but teasingly. So he made the right decision, then. Adrien exhales, then sits up, missing the warmth of the cushions immediately. “Chat, is there any… other reason you came?”

Why does she look like she knows more than she can?

Adrien’s brain, having just thought that sentence, decides to give up on life.

“No other reason, Princess, except to see your wonderful face,” he says with a wink.

What’s she hiding in her pockets? Her hands are bunched up by her sides, like she’s holding something.

And Adrien officially needs to retire his mind. As if Marinette, Marinette, would hide anything. She’s kind and sweet and beautiful, and kind, sweet, beautiful people don’t get involved with plans to murder the Royal family.

So?

You need to get some sleep, kiddo, says Plagg, apparently having emerged from Adrien’s memories.

As though reading Plagg’s mind, Marinette squints at Adrien. “You look tired. Chat, are you sure you’re fine? You can get some sleep here, you know. If there’s something stopping you at home.”

Of course she’d offer that.

“Princess, I just think I might,” he says only half-jokingly. The cushions on her window-seat really are comfortable.

“Hmph.” Marinette turns around, looking for something in the curled up blanket on her mattress. “Don’t stay too long, then. I’m sure you’ve got a ball to be at in an hour, right?”

“For more reasons than one,” he mumbles.

And then he’s asleep.

Weird.

***

Marinette rips a page from the little scrapbook under her mattress. “Pen, Tikki?” She asks in a hushed whisper, knowing that if Chat Noir wakes up now, everything will be ruined.

Check your pocket, the kwami advises helpfully.

Marinette pats the sides of her dress, finding the ink-filled fountain pen with a full cartridge. “Thanks.” She scribbles out a note to Chat:

Had to go to the Mayor. You have a ball to go to, kitty. See yourself out. Marinette x

“That should be fine, right?” She asks Tikki, slipping the pen back into her pocket. “He won’t come looking for me or anything?”

“Not if he wants to find out about this Hawkmoth character he won’t, Tikki says. It’s a good plan, Marinette. Now, go on, the carriage is waiting outside. I think one of the coachmen has a tiny little notion of you, to be honest.

Marinette blushes under her mask. “Shut up. No he doesn’t.”

(Who is it? The shy one with hair as red as a tomato?)

(Not relevant, Mari. Stay on task.)

She clatters down the stairs in red flats, glad that Tikki’s thinking sensibly about her costume. She doubts that either of them, Chat Noir and the Ladybug, will get any dancing done tonight - thinking of this, Tikki has taken the heels from her shoes, tied her hair away from her face in true Marinette fashion, and taken away all the floating ribbons and scarves. (This means that the red mark from Chloé’s heel is still on full display, but Marinette can’t bring herself to care.)

She flies out the door.

“Ladybug!” Squeaks the tomato-boy. (So it is him.)

“Evening,” she smiles, and, feeling daring, pecks his cheek. “Thanks for being so prompt.”

I think you killed him, Tikki remarks with amusement. Oh, Marinette. Has anyone ever told you about a little confidence hiding deep within? Brought out by red and black and a little mask?

“Don’t analyse me too much, you,” Marinette says as the coachman closes the door behind her. She sinks into the seats. “Ah. I think I want to live in here forever, to be honest.”

Good plan, Tikki sounds amused. But we do have a conspiracy to destroy.

“Point taken. I’ll be the best destructor you’ve seen, just you wait.” Marinette stares down at her dress, which - “Tikki!”

Yes, Marinette? The smug little kwami-

“My dress!”

It’s short. Practical.

It ruffles out to just below her knee, and Marinette knows that the new fashion of her generation still isn’t widely accepted at balls like the Cesaire’s will surely have. “I hate you.”

You might be doing some running tonight. I just want to keep you safe, is that too much to ask? Tikki slips on her serious voice. She sighs. It vibrates inside Marinette’s head, making her vision blur momentarily. Fashion be damned when your safety is at stake.

“So you do care.” Marinette looks out the window at Paris, feeling an overwhelming love for her city once more. “I guess I can wear the dress.”

And survive in it.

“And that, too.”

Secretly, she thinks that Tikki might be overreacting just a little bit. Surely these Hawkmoth people, these akuma, the purple Papillon, surely they won’t be violent or anything? This is the Parisian aristocracy, not some gutter boys playing at wars in the gutter.

The carriage stops.

“Thank you…?” Marinette smiles at the red-haired boy as he opens the door of the carriage.

“Nathanael,” he stammers.

She winks at him through the mask, swishing down the collapsible steps, hand on his arm to steady herself on the wobbling stairs. “Good to see you, Nathanael. Don’t wait up.”

You’re torturing the poor boy, Tikki laughs inside Marinette’s mind.

Marinette waves a gloved hand at him, glad to see that although Tikki’s modified almost all of her usual dress, she’s kept the gloves long and stretching up to almost her shoulders. Good. Marinette wouldn’t want Chat joining the dots, would she?

The Cesaire Mansion is almost as big as the palace. It’s seated at the very top of the hill, front gates supported by marble pillars, gothic carvings positively dripping from the roof, the two wings of the house long and wide and - Marinette’s eyes count the windows - five or six floors high, counting the attic and the servant’s floor.

For the first time she really realises why she’s here.

She’s going to find some would-be murderers, dressed in a ballgown and a mask and a fake name, along with another young man - boy, really - also in evening wear, a mask, and an equally ridiculous name.

How can they hope to get away?

Trust me, Tikki whispers. How do you think Chat Noir got to your windowsill?

Marinette pauses before the doormen, who obediently ignore her. “I think he got there by brute stupidity, to be perfectly honest,” she only half-jokes.

Chat has a kwami, or did you forget? We’re good for a little more than just making you look like the belles of the ball.

“I trust you, Tikki,” Marinette sweeps past the doormen as she does every night. “But I’m scared.”

Don’t be.

“It’s not that easy.”

She decides to wait by the pillars beside the front door for her partner. Chat Noir. She has the purple ribbon in her pocket, next to the fountain pen. Will it get them into the meeting, wherever that may be?

“You look like you have a lot on your mind, Princess.” Chat Noir.

Marinette hugs him, to the surprise of both of them. “I hate waiting. You look well-rested.”

He does, too, springy and boyish again like he was the first night they met. “Well, I had a sleep. A good one. Isn’t it strange, you sleep better on the floor with someone you trust as opposed to in a warm bed in the same building where someone who hates you?”

“Strange,” Marinette repeats. Knowing that it’s her that he trusts fills her with some unidentifiable emotion - trust, perhaps. Love?

Now isn’t the time to mess around with your emotions, Marinette.

“Adrien filled me in on everything,” Chat Noir tells her, offering his arm. “Let’s go and pretend to be lighthearted lovers, shall we, my Lady?”

“Lighthearted, certainly,” she shoots back. She’s glad they’re standing in the shadow of the doors, just so he can’t see her blush. She slips her hand around his crooked elbow, and smiles back at his quirked lips. “Let’s go, chaton.”

He walks her into the room, their eyes trailing discreetly around the crowd for anything, anything, any sign of a secret meeting at all.

The band plays a happy tune.

Marinette despises it instantly.

“Should we wave the ribbon around or something? Say Papillon very loudly? Pap-”

“Shut up!” Marinette hisses, slapping her hand over Chat’s mouth. “We don’t want to be idiots! What if we get captured, or, or... or killed, or-”

“We won’t-”

“We might! You weren’t there yesterday, Chat, when I was with Prince Adrien. They were plotting to kill, to kill his father, and you don’t think they’re going to kill anyone that might try to get in their way? I mean, not to be melodramatic, but-”

“You’ve read too many penny dreadfuls,” Chat interrupts, pushing her hand away gently. He unlocks their arms to lace their fingers together. “Nobody is going to be killing anybody. And remember… we both have kwami, right?”

Marinette remembers Tikki’s reassurances. “I guess…”

“So let’s go crack the case, old chum,” Chat puts on a dreadful English accent. “Wave the ribbon around. Yell Papillon.” His voice rises at the last word, basically shouting it into the ear of an old and doddering man in a green velvet suit.

Marinette rolls her eyes, but says nothing.

Maybe Chat has a point-

“Up there!” He yells, and points to the balcony floor.

Her head cracks around like a whip to stare at where his finger points, where they see the end of a lilac skirt disappearing around the corner of the second floor, into the bowels of the Cesaire mansion. Feet, in navy button boots, tap at the wooden floor.

And -

Fluttering down from between the floorboards, flour on a warm summer’s day, is a purple ribbon.

“Papillon!” Chat Noir yells again.

Marinette squeaks, grabs his other hand, tugs him through the whirl of the dance and up the carpeted stairs. The Ladybug magic still works on the guards, who ignore them for the most part, and Ladybug and Chat Noir run hand in hand after the ghost of a purple butterfly.

***

“There they are,” Ladybug nudges him again. “Come on, come on, come on, we can hide in a closet or something, we need to listen to this.”

Adrien sees them. He sees them all right. Two masked people. He feels slightly sick, and grips her hand tighter. “Let’s go.”

Ladybug points out a closet in the corner of the room, which is huge and dark and probably some sort of tapestry room in the light of day, but at night with the haunting ballroom melody drifting through the air, it becomes the setting for a horror story. The two people, one girl and one man, walk on unaware of Ladybug and Adrien sneaking into the wardrobe and shutting the door.

Adrien knows that Plagg has something to do with that.

“That was the one with the shoes, from the other night,” Ladybug hisses at him. “Go on, look through the keyhole.”

It takes a bit of rearranging, Adrien ever-aware of Ladybug flush against him, of the heat of her skin and bare calves and arms and everything everywhere, but he puts his eye to the keyhole with minimal awkwardness. His eared top-hat and cane complicate everything further, but he doesn’t want to let them go.

He thinks he’ll need them, and he doesn’t know why.

“There she is,” Ladybug whispers, her own eye pressed to the crack at the hinges.

Adrien sees a girl in a navy dress, the same short length as Ladybug’s is tonight, tapping a blue umbrella against the ground and humming tunelessly as she pulls a chair from the side to the centre, over to a figure hidden in the shadows. Her hair is a strange shade of lilac, and as she turns he shudders involuntarily - she’s wearing a mask.

But that’s his thing. Ladybug’s thing. Their way of hiding themselves.

How dare she?

“Who comes?” Asks the voice from the shadows. Ominous. Low. Vaguely familiar to Adrien, although he can’t seem to place it, a voice he’s heard ages ago but never recently…

The purple girl curtseys. Her hair bounces; her umbrella taps against the floor. “Stormy Weather, Papillon. And Dark Cupid comes soon. Shall we begin?”

“Only you have arrived, dear. You were the first I contacted, naturally,” says the dark figure - says Hawkmoth - and turns around.

Adrien hisses.

Ladybug’s hand finds his again, and squeezes tight.

Hawkmoth wears a mask that covers his whole face and head as though painted on. He, too, holds a cane, although Chat’s is topped with a golden kitten - Hawkmoth’s has a purple butterfly carved from what seems like Amethyst. His dinner jacket, deep purple, seems to glitter in the light of the candles that Stormy Weather is lighting.

Oh, what has Adrien gotten himself into?

They both hear the doors beside them creak, and jump. But it’s just the first in what seems like a never-ending procession of people, but is in actual fact only six or seven. One of them is dressed almost identically to Adrien, to his irritation, save the hair and the little strip of wood, a matchstick or a splint, hanging from his lips.

“Akuma.” Hawkmoth bows, movements parodic and sarcastic. “Welcome.”

“Papillon,” the assembled crowd murmur as one.

“Please, sit down. Don’t let me keep you on your feet,” says Hawkmoth with a crooked smile.

Still moving as though sharing a mind, the people with chairs to spare promptly drop into them. One or two without just drop to the ground, legs crossed, looking up at Hawkmoth with rapt expressions.

Adrien feels uncomfortable with this.

Very much so.

And not just because he’s holding hands with the girl he might be in love with, her other arm tucked behind his back for room, his other arm on her waist, their legs tangled together. That’s not why he’s uncomfortable.

This is a cult. They’ve walked into a cult. What are they going to do?

“This is a cult,” he mumbles to Ladybug.

She hits his hat with her chin. “Shush, you.”

“Sorry.”

“Shush!”

“We all know why we’re here,” says Hawkmoth. Adrien relaxes - they aren’t being too loud yet. Hopefully they’ll get out of this unscathed. “Now, if all goes to plan, the Queen will be gone within the week.”

And Adrien freezes.

“And then we can proceed with the second part… details will be given out by Stormy Weather to each of you individually,” Hawkmoth continues, as though he hasn’t just destroyed everything Adrien has hoped would never happen.

Chat Noir begins to tremble violently. Ladybug’s hand on his shoulder isn’t enough to ground him this time. His boot knocks against the wooden door, just loud enough for the Chat Noir copycat at the back to turn around and look suspicious.

“Chat! Be quiet!” Ladybug hisses.

Adrien knows he has to.

The Queen will be gone within a week.

“Chat!”

“And within the week, I will personally ensure that nothing stands in the way of our rise to power. Akuma-”

“Hawkmoth. Papillon. Sir.” The Copy-chat raises his gloved hand, tips his hat in respect, and the purple-suited Hawkmoth glares down.

“This better be important, Copycat.” A mumble of annoyance runs through the crowd, parallel to the ice-cold terror running through Adrien’s veins.

“Sir, there’s something in the closet back there. I heard it.” Copycat raises his head, unafraid, and his double in the closet has never held on to anything as tightly as Ladybug’s hand. He’s never been more afraid.

“Chat,” Ladybug repeats, her voice a squeak of thinly-veiled terror. “Chat, what do we do?”

“Go on, then,” Hawkmoth waves his hand. “And there better be something to show for this.”

Copycat bows obediently and leaps the back of his chair, coat-tails flying. He advances towards the closet - Adrien sees his green eyes glinting through the mask - and he swallows, deep. “What can we do? How do we distract them?”

But Ladybug is muttering to herself.

“Read too many penny dreadfuls, have I? Too many melodramas?”

“Ladybug-!”

“Papillon!” Copycat reaches for the doorhandle. His grin glows in the candlelight.

“What do we do?”

“What all the plucky young heroes do in the serials,” Ladybug mumbles. “They pretend they were otherwise engaged. How good are you at acting?”

“I-”

He doesn’t get any farther before the closet door opens, light shining in, Hawkmoth’s enraged scream in his ears, Copycat’s triumphant cheer.

He doesn’t get any farther before Ladybug’s trembling hand tightens again, and her fearful eyes come closer and closer.

He doesn’t get any farther before her lips touch his in a terror-fueled kiss, and he’s thrown into the main role of the worst penny dreadful he’s ever heard muttered by a masked girl in a wardrobe.

Chapter Text

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

Marinette is supposed to kiss him and then forget the world, falling hopelessly in love with her masked companion. Copycat and Hawkmoth and the rest of them will gape, then dismiss them as children, just two ballgoers getting into high spirits, and Chat and Ladybug will get off scot-free. They’ll go to the King, who’ll pass a fair, yet harsh judgement on the criminals, and then… and then there’ll be the happily ever after.  

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

The bad people aren’t meant to have the upper hand.

Marinette’s lips brush Chat’s, his mouth open slightly in astonishment, his hand coming up from her waist to the back of her head. The warmth on her bare skin, her eyes fluttering shut in the second of whatamIdoing, the feeling of Chat’s lips moving against hers. Everything is frozen in one moment -

“ Here they are!” Copycat yells triumphantly, and pulls Chat Noir by his collar, dragging Marinette with him onto the floor. Chat yelps, falling hard on his back, grabbing Marinette as he lands. She lands roughly all the same, palms slamming into the carpeted floor and burning her hands.

She winces.   

Hawkmoth, to Marinette’s shock - and increasing terror - begins to laugh. As though they’re nothing! “And I thought they’d be hard to find! Hah!” He claps his grey-gloved hands together, then snatches up the butterfly cane from the chair next to him. Something, a brooch, glimmers as it catches the candlelight. “Well. Nice to finally meet you, Ladybug. Chat Noir.”

Marinette doesn’t have time to process anything - her brain has shut down. She stands up, offers a hand to Chat, glares at Chat’s double when Copycat moves towards them. Startled, the copy backs away - for a moment, at least.

Right.

Marinette can work with a moment.

“Heavens above!” She exclaims, ignoring the groan from Chat beside her. “You caught us in the midst of a most improper deed?”

“Shut up now,” Chat hisses in her ear. “I don’t think they’ll take kindly to that sort of stuff.”

She’s worked the wrong way.

Life isn’t a book! Haven’t you realised that yet? And that voice isn’t Tikki, although the criticising tone is far more familiar than the kwami’s is inside Marinette’s mind.

“Well, do you have any bright plan?” Marinette snaps in return, ignoring her own thoughts. What’s done is done. Copycat starts advancing again, and Chat leans around Marinette’s back to snatch something from the floor.

He straightens up. “My plan’s a damn sight better than that one. Hey, Hawkmoth!”

Hawkmoth rolls his eyes, blue and crystalline like ice chips. “I was warned you’d be infuriating, but I wasn’t warned how far it would go. Stormy Weather - Copycat - please, get rid of them. I have more important things to spend my time discussing. But - oh, please, bring them back once you’ve stopped them.”

The cold, detached tone sends a shiver down Marinette’s back.  

“Sir,” Stormy Weather, the lilac-haired girl, nods in vicious satisfaction as her eyes centre in on Marinette. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Always happy to purr-lease,” Copycat salutes.

Marinette looks to Chat Noir. expecting to share a look of panic and fear, only to see him change. Copycat lunges for her, for Ladybug, and Chat Noir swings the cane from behind his back. It connects with Copycat’s side, sending the suited boy flying backwards, all the wind knocked from his body.

“Mon dieu,” Marinette breathes, and then Stormy Weather leaps for Chat and she doesn’t think. She kicks out with her foot - thank God Tikki changed the heels to flats - and knocks the girl to the ground.

Chat Noir and Ladybug exchange looks of mutual surprise at the other’s actions.

Adrien doesn’t think he’ll ever forget this moment.

He tastes her on his lips still, strawberries and cream, and he feels her against his side as their hands fumble for each other in the gloom of the candlelit room. Hawkmoth looks at them with amused superiority, as though he’s too important to even deign to attack them, and on the floor is the girl that would have…

Could have done something bad.

Almost certainly.

And on the floor is the boy that would have, that was going to -

She would have been attacked.

Ladybug looks beautiful in the gloom, her face glowing pink. She bunches gloved hands into fists and stands on tip-toe to brush her lips against his cheek. “You run, I’ll distract them.”

“But-”

He can’t let her do that! Not Ladybug, his Ladybug, the girl that’s saved his monotonous life!

The smile that she gives him breaks his heart. “I guarantee you, more people will miss you from your life than they will me,” she says, and then - with a kick to Copycat’s shin - sticks her tongue out at Hawkmoth and sprints off.

That sticks in his mind the most.

She’s still - he’s still - no more than sixteen, a child until their next birthday.

Hawkmoth cradles his head in his hands. A few masked people get up, look at the door.

Adrien checks his ring. Two hours left. He raises his cane, black cat glimmering golden, and with it, his voice. It cracks embarrassingly: “If you go after her, you’re going to have to go after me, too!”

“How dramatic,” Hawkmoth drawls sarcastically. “Copycat, Stormy Weather, Pharaoh, get up. Perhaps… Hm. Perhaps we can still save your Ladybug, Monsieur Noir. Get the ring. Get her earrings.”

Adrien grips tightly to his cane. He’s so out of his depth it’s laughable. “What do you mean? My ring - it's...” He trails off, hoping he sounds gruff and demanding and not completely, terrifyingly out of his wits and out of his luck and without Ladybug.

Without Ladybug.

He squeaks as the realisation hits him, and bolts for the door, still swinging from Ladybug’s exit.

Ladybug.

Marinette.

You abandoned him! A voice inside her head accuses, and it’s not Tikki this time. Now isn’t the time for her inner self to turn on her.

Stop it!

Marinette tries to rationalise it in her head. Surely, surely, they’ll have gone after her. They always run after the first one to move, they always do, and that’ll give Chat the opportunity to get away scott free. He’ll go home. She’s willing to bet anything that more people will miss Chat Noir’s unmasked self than they will hers.

So why does she feel as though she’s done the wrong thing?

Because you abandoned him!

Marinette curses through her teeth, and turns around the way she came.

Chat and Ladybug meet at the turn of the corridor, and scream as one, in both frustration (at themselves), relief (at the others), and fear (at the advancing trio of angry, masked conspirateurs).

“You came back,” says Chat.

“You came after,” says Ladybug.

She grabs his hand - he grabs hers - and, the sounds of happy ballroom dancers mocking their every step, they sprint past the closed doors, heading for the main staircase. There’s safety in numbers, right? Surely the three people in hot pursuit won’t dare do anything while they’re in the middle of a dance? After all, the whole point of secrecy is that the meetings remain secret…

Right?

“I see them!” Copycat yells. He's too close behind them, Adrien thinks wildly, the double of Chat Noir almost close enough to reach out and grab Adrien’s coat-tails. He can't be caught. Who'll visit his mother if he's dead? Who’ll be Chat Noir if he's dead?

“Chat, hurry, go that way,” Ladybug says hurriedly. She pushes him forward. “I'll go left, we'll split them up. Divide and conquer, right?”

Adrien keeps running. Stormy Weather is too close. “That didn't work the last time!”

“Please, Chat, please, just trust me,” Ladybug pleads. Blue eyes - warm like the sky, the river - look into his own. The same heartbreaking conclusion. Just who is she, beyond the mask?

He hugs her tight, and then watches Ladybug turn, shriek, wave her arms. “Come and get me! Come on!”

Adrien hopes they won't. That they'll see him and run after.

But in his black suit he blends into the background, and Ladybug in her red dress attracts far more attention. Chat gets no more than an askance look from Pharaoh, a dark-skinned boy with a golden mask, before he too sprints after his companions.

Adrien continues down the main stairs and down to the buffet, slipping underneath the staircase where nobody will see, propelled by surprise and his own momentum.

Kid! What the hell are you doing? Plagg spits, sounding angry. (Of course he is. Ladybug has a Plagg too, or someone like him - surely Plagg is concerned for them. Adrien’s not only messed this up for himself, but for Plagg, too.)

Even in his head, Adrien flinches. “Sorry, sorry…” But Ladybug had told him to go, and in the heat of the moment with Copycat breathing down his neck, he simply obeyed the authority in her voice.

Plagg sighs. Then, gentler: Kid, we can go over this later. We can listen to you whine and complain about what you could have done later. For now, what do you want to do? You, and not some madame in a spotty dress and a mask."

“I’m not going to be any help if I run in there like some sort of… like some headless chicken,” Adrien whispers, slipping down the wall and sitting with his eyes half-shut. He recalls vividly the palace butcher, beheading a squawking bird. Bereft of the brains of the operation - hah, literally - the body ran around for a few moments anyway, kicking and flapping wildly, before the logic of the situation forced the rest of the body to join the head in still death.

Adrien feels like that.

Ladybug is the one with the ideas, after all. She was the one to take fate into her own hands, visit Adrien as the Prince in the Palace. She’s always started the conversation.

He can’t be useless without her. He has to do something.

That’s the idea, kid. Does Plagg sound proud, or is that Adrien’s imagination?

He pulls himself up by the corner of the buffet table, still unseen by most of the guests, who dance and laugh and drink. He sees the wheels of cheese, small cubes stuck with wooden splints to allow for ease of eating. Cheese! He begins to stuff the pockets of his jacket with the stuff, the smelliest cheese available.

He’s not going to be useless. He can lead without Ladybug - he’s led their dances (or some of them) and can’t he think for himself?

Sure you can, kid! Go for it!

“Plagg? Can you do something for me?” He murmurs.

For some of that cheese, I’ll do anything you want, Plagg says with hunger in his voice. Name it, I’ll provide.

Adrien checks his ring. One little gem left. Not long until the magic of Chat Noir is gone, then.

“You know how you got me up to Marinette’s window tonight?”

Yes? What about it? Suddenly the wariness in Plagg’s voice pulls forward, even as Adrien walks with newfound confidence through the dancers. Whispers follow him - is that Chat Noir? The masked boy with Ladybug? - and he walks through the wide bay doors to the pavilion with no difficulty. They’re on the second floor. The second floor. What about it, Adrien?

“You think you could do that again, any chance?”

And Plagg bursts out laughing. With a plan as stupid as that, boy, you got yourself a deal. I’ll do whatever you need me to. What’s the cheese for?

Adrien laughs despite himself. “Motivation.”

***

Marinette is running.

Ladybug is running.

You won’t keep him away for long.

“I can keep him away long enough to stop him getting involved,” Ladybug pants - because she’s Ladybug, now, and there’s no room for Marinette, small, frightened Marinette, in the determination of the mask and the dress and the fire in her eyes. “I can keep him away - they mean business, Tikki, they mean to kill the Queen!”

So have many people through the years, but so far, no-one has succeeded.

Ladybug turns a corner. She’s keeping even pace with the three in pursuit, never getting far enough away to be comfortable, never getting too close to feel the phantom fingers grasp her shoulders… “I don’t want him to be messed up in this!”

By messing it up, you’ve involved yourself. And let me tell you - there’s something else at work, here, something a lot more than a man in a mask and a bottle of something nasty in the Queen’s morning tea.

“I can do it on my own!”

You cannot! The sudden scream in her head brings Marinette - not Ladybug, not Ladybug when the fear creeps around the corners - Marinette to a halt for a second, a second enough for her to hear the hiss of delight in Stormy Weather’s voice.

She doubles her pace. Her face feels damp, sweat from the heat of the closet and then the run mingling with the taste of fear, burning her tongue. “I can!”

You cannot! There has never been a Ladybug without a Chat Noir! There has never been a sun without a moon to follow!

Marinette turns another corner. The sound of the ball is faded now, just a ghost in her ears, a tantalising reminder of what could have been if she hadn’t interfered. (Something a lot more than a man in a mask.)

(A lot more.)

“I - can… I can do it,” she breathes. As she gets slower, the three seem to get faster, although never enough to quite close the gap. Is it just Marinette’s fear, or is this another kwami thing?

There has never been spring without autumn dancing at her heels! There has never been a white without a black to balance! There has never been lightning without thunder!

“This is very poetic… but… not that helpful…” The corridors are darkening now. Of course there’ll be no servants around, not when there’s a ball going on and merriment to be had. Not when Marinette, Marinette - dressed in a costume, but still Marinette - is leading them into the bowels of the castle.

You will listen to me! There has never been dawn without the dusk! There has never been summer without her winter!

Tikki’s voice is thunderous. Marinette begins to stumble - here, in the darkest corridors, where the only sound is her own breathing and the three chasing her, the carpet is worn and full of holes where clumsy girls can trip in.

Ladybug isn’t clumsy.

But Marinette isn’t Ladybug.

Tikki, mild, sweet Tikki, shouts as though the world is ending.

There has never been sadness without joy! There has never been good luck without the bad luck to balance! And there has never been a Ladybug without Chat Noir!

From somewhere in front of her there comes a knocking. Marinette keeps looking at her feet - left, right, left, right, running and running and running. Running herself dry.

Never! There has never… never been a Ladybug without Chat! There has never been a Chat Noir without a Ladybug to balance him out!

Marinette looks up. There’s a corner coming up, leading to a set of stairs. Presumably the kitchens. At the corner is a long row of bay windows, closed up here to keep out the drafts, All the same, the lilac curtains flutter away from the window ledges, letting the four running teenagers see into the outside world.

Never been a Ladybug without her Chat Noir!

There, grinning without a care in the world, clings Chat Noir by the tips of his fingernails.

“Chat!” Marinette exclaims. Distracted for one moment, green eyes meeting blue, lips turning up in one precious second of pure joy at the sight of the other.

Distracted from looking at the floor, at this treacherous terrain of shagged carpet, where a heel can catch at any moment. Even in flats, even for Marinette - Marinette, not Ladybug - the chance of tripping is too high.

She falls.

It seems to take forever.

She sees Chat Noir scrabbling at the latch of the window, sees Stormy Weather’s face up close, and then Copycat lands on top of her with the breath knocked out of him. Her head slams against the floor, and even with this damned carpet in the way, she sees stars.

What she sees after the stars is no better.

The fear solidifies in her stomach. She hears claws scraping down the window. Marking the glass.

“Get the earrings, he said,” Stormy Weather instructs. She leans against the gap between two windows, taunting Chat Noir. “Go on, get them.”

Copycat kneels on Marinette’s stomach. His knees dig into her sides, his hands pin her shoulders to the floor. His eyes are green, too - just like Chat, and it’s strange, because how can he look so alike yet so different? - and they stare at the earrings. “What? But-”

“He told us. He said,” Stormy Weather whines petulantly. “Come on, I’m tired, just get them.”

“Hurry up,” Pharaoh says, bored.

Copycat shrugs. “Sure.” He reaches down -

“Do it for the cheese!” Comes a far more familiar voice, accompanied by the tinkling sound of glass falling like rain onto Copycat and Marinette underneath the window. The shards of glass cut at her face and the gap of skin between the top of her gloves and her sleeve, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She's left herself. She doesn't even feel fear, or sadness, or pain - she just feels the numbness of shock permeate her entire body. 

But Copycat covers his face instinctively, and Marinette knows a chance when she sees one.

Heart in her throat, she wriggles free, knee shooting up and catching Copycat underneath the jaw. His head flies back, a cry of surprise and pain tearing free.

“How are things with you, Mademoiselle?” Chat Noir bows. There’s worry there, yes, but there’s pride. Stormy Weather has cuts all over her face and bare arms. The Pharaoh just staggers back, wide-eyed.

“Could be better, Chat Noir,” says Ladybug with a grin. “What say you we leave?”

“I say that plan sounds good.” He leans down to whisper into her ear: “And I have fifteen minutes left, give or take. You want to hurry it along?”

In response, she catches his hand and gives another kick to Copycat for good measure. The fake Chat curls up on the floor, moaning curses at her. She can’t care. Not now. “I’d love to.”

***

She can hear his ring begin to make a ringing sound, a short beep once every few seconds as they run down the kitchen stairs to the side. A cook, on her way up with a plate full of traybakes, screams in fright and throws the baked goods in the air at the sight of them - Marinette assumes it must be scary, two masked ballgoers, one covered in tiny flecks of blood, the other covered in mud and beeping, running past you in the gloom.

A maid shrieks as they run through the kitchen. It, at least, is bright, reminding Marinette that light still exists. After an hour of the dark and the fear and the confusion and the lost detachment, a small part of her had feared there wouldn’t be anything left.

In her head, Tikki still sulks.

Marinette, in contrast, is overjoyed. She escaped! She outran three akuma, three followers of the Papillon, and she found Chat Noir and she got away.

And she kicked Copycat in the face.

(That had felt good.)

“Sorry! Sorry!” She exclaims, Chat taking the lead and barging out of the door. “Sorry! Sorry - oops, sorry!”

The plate of fruit cocktails she’s knocked over lies forlornly on the floor. Nobody seems to notice, of the three kitchen maids that pulled the short straw to work tonight.

Marinette wants to stay, but she’s pretty sure Chat would kill her. So with one last, chirped “Sorry!”, she bolts away after Chat Noir and into the darkness of the back of the Cesaire Mansion.

Chat leans against the wall, just inside the pool of light given to them by the kitchen window. He’s doubled over, but whether he’s laughing or just breathing heavily, Marinette can’t tell, until he raises her head and grins wildly.

Unwillingly, she feels a (slightly hysterical) laugh bubble past her own lips.

Did they really do that? Did they honestly hide in a closet, kiss - oh God, they kissed - get discovered by an evil madman, get chased by said madman’s hench-people, kick one of them - several times - and then escape successfully?

There has never been a Ladybug without a Chat Noir, Tikki pipes suddenly, although she sounds more smug than annoyed this time.

I’m sorry, Marinette replies in her head, even as she sinks beside Chat with a burst of laughter. I wasn’t thinking.

That’s why you have me, says the kwami. Perhaps Tikki senses something that Marinette doesn’t, because she immediately retreats again. Why would she leave? Does Tikki know something that Marinette doesn’t?

Chat pulls her around the corner. “Don’t want to scare the petticoats off some poor serving girl,” he explains breathlessly.

“Too late for that,” Marinette giggles in return. She feels weightless. She feels as though she could stand up to even Mayor Bourgeois, with Chat Noir by her side.

In the dark - no kitchen light to guide them - she can see nothing. She can feel Chat beside her, though, his fingers lacing with hers as they face each other, leaning against the wall. No sound but Chat’s ring.

“You’re going to run out of time,” Marinette points out.

“I am,” he says.

She frowns. “Aren’t you worried I’m going to see?”

“See? In this light? My Lady, although I’m not… although I hope the day will come that I’ll know your beautiful face both with your mask and without, I don’t think that day will be today. Don’t want to seem too early on our first evening out.”

Marinette can see nothing, but she knows he’s winking.

Since when has she known Chat Noir so well?

Since he first said hello, of course.

***

“Nino.”

“Nino.”

“Nino.”

“Nino.”

“What?!” Nino exclaims, looking up from the jacket he’s stitching for Lord Pontifaire. “Jeez, Alya, can’t it wait?”

“Nino,” Alya says once more, teasingly, just to watch his face turn red. He throws the spare spool of thread at her, although she ducks it easily.

Nino sits on his heels, facing her, jacket forgotten in the gloom of the half-lit tailor’s shop. “Well, you can’t very well bug me like that for a good few minutes and then just stop. What do you want?”

Alya frowns. “I’m thinking about Marinette.” She is, too, or has been ever since she saw the girl trailing after that horrible Bourgeois child in the market square a few months ago. Marinette. Marinette, a mystery wrapped in an old dress and a set of big blue eyes, all wrapped up and neatly presented to Alya.

And if there’s one thing Alya can’t resist, it’s investigating the mysteries surrounding Paris. All the old gossip in the families that people tell her while she measures the width of their shoulders. All the dusty old family trees. All the dirty little secrets, brushed into corners, forgotten…

“Marinette? What about her?” Nino asks. He even sets the thread and spool down, slotting the former neatly into the needlebook at his knees.

Alya frowns, tapping the fountain pen against her lip. “I just… what happened back when you were kids? Why didn’t you know her?”

NIno sighs, then stands, dusting his trouser legs. “I knew you’d ask. Great. Well, we lived on the same street. You know, the one with the bakery - the Mayor’s house - on the corner? I lived three houses down until about five years ago. Moved. You know all that.”

“Get to the point, don’t babble,” Alya says playfully, although the real curiosity in her voice is hard to squash. So she’s a little bit fixated on Marinette, so what?

“Right. Well, we used to play together, all of us children, because most of our parents supplied the Royal Family with things. This was before the Queen got ill, you know, and the King and the Queen and Adrien all came out on Royal visits and everything was happy as could be and birds were singing and all that stuff.” Nino sits on the desk, shoving the book aside.

Alya shuffles back. “And?”

He shrugs. “And one day, we were playing hide and seek in the bakery and the perfumer's, the shop opposite. Marinette was meant to find. She’d found them all except me, and I was hiding in Jukela’s room - the perfumer’s. I’d been there for a while, and when I wandered out to see where Marinette had gone, there was smoke rising from the bakery and Rose - this tiny little girl, always had a thing for Jukela - was tugging on my sleeve, crying, it was awful, and saying that Marinette was in the bakery and the bakery was burning.”

Alya’s mouth drops open.

Nino continues, his eyes a million miles away, his voice faint, remembering. “There were people screaming. The bakery had a lot of staff, back in the day, to deal with all the orders, you see. And then the floors began to collapse - dry wood, old wood - and then we heard this awful crack, and the top floor sort of folded in on itself. The attic. Apparently all the clothes and flour and stuff got knocked over, and the four in the air caught fire. And when we went looking for Marinette the next day, these… I suppose they were the Palace Guard, they would have been… they told us that the owners of the bakery had been killed, and their little girl was missing, presumed dead.”

He clears his throat.

“A month after that, Mayor Bourgeois started rebuilding and washing it out, and a month after that, the Queen got sick. I guess it was fate or something.”

“How did Marinette survive?” Alya wonders aloud. She feels guilty for a moment when she sees Nino swipe his eyes with the back of her hand, but the meddling curiosity at the core of her being forces that away. “Do you know?”

“I suppose…” Nino shrugs. “I'll put on the kettle.”

As she watches him move towards the small little oil stove at the back of the shop, Alya worries that she's finally pushed it too far. She didn't expect Nino to be so involved, that's all, and…

“The basement.”

She jumps. “Hm?”

Nino turns with the kettle in his hands. “Marinette must have hidden in the basement.”

“Basement?” Alya asks, watching him fill the kettle from the pitcher on the side bench with perfectly steady hands. Tailor’s hands.

“Basement,” Nino repeats. “The kitchen is on the first floor, the steps lead up to the second floor, and the only thing in the whole house that isn't wood and… stuff that can be burned, the only thing is the stone basement. A bunch of people from the kitchens, the sub cooks and couriers and people, ran down to the basement to wait the fire out. Only… only Tom and Sabine, Marinette’s parents, died. They were looking for Marinette. They didn’t - um, they didn’t make it to the basement in time.”

Alya breathes in sharp. No wonder Marinette doesn't ever want to talk about it.

Of course someone like Marinette would blame herself completely for the accident. It’s the sort of thing she’d do, taking all the responsibility for herself.

“And I suppose when a kid’s left without parents… I suppose the Mayor took her in and did that to her for the next eleven years,” says Nino.

That.

A cat! Hah! When pigs fly. As far as Alya can remember, cats don’t leave fingerprint bruises and scars and scratches like fingernails. Sharp fingernails. That Bourgeois girl looks like the type of petty person that would sharpen her nails, doesn’t she?

“We have to do something about it,” Alya announces. She lifts a pincushion, throwing and catching it in the air.

Nino nods. “Absolutely.”

Silence.

“While you think of a plan, want some tea?”

***

“You don’t have long left, either,” says Chat’s voice into the dark. “Aren’t you worried I’ll see?”

“Not on your life, I’m not,” Marinette responds. In the cold, bereft of the heat of running, she finds herself moving forward to Chat. He burns hot as a furnace, his hands in hers radiating warmth.

He grins. She knows he does. She can just imagine him, the smug little smile when he feels her moving towards him. “Eager to purr-lease, perhaps, my Lady?” The laugh in his voice turns to concern when Marinette shivers violently. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” she manages. In truth, her arms are covered with goosebumps - her gloves are thin, despite their length, and her calves are bare, and it is October. At night the chill of the oncoming winter sets into them.

He hugs her close, unexpectedly. “You get cold awfully easy.”

“I suppose I do.” She wraps her arms around his waist in return, thankful for the heat. Is he remembering, as she is, that night? Was it the second ball, the second time they met, or the third? It’s hard to believe how little time they’ve really spent together.

A few balls.

A kiss.

A kiss.

“Cold hands, warm heart, my mother used to - my mother says,” Chat mumbles.

The beeping on his ring gets louder. “I guess I should go.”

“I guess you should.”

Neither of them make a move. As if Marinette would - as if she could.

“Are you thinking?”

“I guess I am.”

Chat Noir takes his hands from her shoulders, moving to her waist. Marinette tries not to lean in, but she can’t help it. (She tells herself she’s cold. She tells herself she’s not seeing the undertones here. She tells herself, and she lies.)

“It would be ungentlemanly of me to sweep you off your feet,” Chat says reflectively.

Marinette giggles girlishly, in a way that will - later - make her cringe into her hands and whine to Tikki about how immature she was, about how ridiculous she was, about how he must have thought she was such an idiot. “It would be indeed, chaton. Very ungentlemanly.”

“Then I won’t,” Chat grins again at her in the pitch dark. “I wouldn’t want you to think any lower of me.”

His first kiss is light, uncertain, as though he isn’t quite sure if she’s been joking until now. (But then, so is Marinette.) She feels him smiling against her mouth, relief and happiness and a dozen other things, and she just knows that a joke is on the tip of his tongue.

“If you make a pun now, chaton, I will kill you,” she tells him, and kisses him back.

Marinette has never thought about how she detransforms. How she slips from Ladybug to Marinette. But as her hands grasp the back of Chat’s jacket, as his hands tangle in her hair, as her eyes flutter shut just in time, she feels sparks fly at the ends of her fingers. A green flash from behind her eyelids. The absence of the beeping of that infernal ring.

Chat is breathless.

Marinette is, too.

She thinks she might be floating on a cloud, somewhere high in the sky with a Chat Noir and an Alya and a Nino and an Adrien and a bakery, all on her own, dancing with Chat until the sun rises.

Somewhere other than here, anyway.

He kisses her once more, chaste, lightly on the cheek. “I’ve got to go,” he says with a smirk - she can’t see, but that voice can smirk as well as the next masked mystery - and he runs, bolts, leaving her silently rejoicing in the cold and the dark and the lingering warmth of his arms around her.

Chapter Text

A few seconds pass after the butterfly escapes through the window. A few seconds during which the little girl, little Marinette, stares at the flour pouring through the floorboards.

Like all children running around in a bakery, Marinette has been taught three simple things.

Fire is hot, so don’t touch it. Bread won’t rise unless you leave it for a few hours. And never, ever light a fire in a room with dust in the air - the dust will catch fire and there won’t be a bakery anymore. There might not be a baker.

Flour is dust, isn’t it? Technically speaking. And Marinette thinks that fire doesn’t really listen to technicalities anyway. Fire, she’s always been taught, is something that her father has bent to his will, but not tamed. Fire will lick at the bread, he explains, but fire won’t hesitate to ruin it. And fire won’t hesitate to ruin us if we give it the chance.

Marinette sees in her mind’s eye the fire of the stove. The poker, the fire, brushing against it, willing to burn if only the metal would alight.

She feels tears burn - burn like fire - at the back of her eyes, and rubs them furiously. She won’t cry. She can’t cry. Crying is silly, because what will crying do, really? All she has to do is find Nino, and tell everyone not to take out the fire or light any splints or candles or anything -

“ Mon dieu!” Someone screams in the room below. “Fire! Fire!”

Marinette can’t help herself. She screams, short and sharp and high.

“Fire! Fire!”

“There’s a fire!” She yells, running for the door of the attic without looking back. Nino isn’t up here. Nino probably isn’t even in the bakery, is he? But that doesn’t matter now… “Fire, fire! Fire!” She slams the door behind her, shuddering the doorframe, tripping on the hem of her skirt. She and Jukela had been playing dress up with her mother’s clothes…

What is it that papa has always told her?

Marinette sees her father’s face in front of her, clear as day. When there’s a fire, or whenever there might be one, promise me you’ll run for the cellar, Papa says sincerely. The fire won’t burn you down there, mon chou, and then you wait tight until Maman and I come to get you.

“Oui,” Marinette mumbles to herself. She begins to leap down the stairs three at a time. She ignores the acrid smell that burns her nose. “The cellar! Fire, fire! Go to the cellar!”

The bakery only employs twenty people, which isn’t much compared to the Royal boucherie or the patisserie down the street. All the same, twenty bodies all running and yelling in frantic panic, smoke already twisting up from the baking floor to meet their mouths, becomes hectic fast.

“Maman!” Marinette screams. Her throat is raw as she wriggles through legs and running feet. “Maman! Papa!”

You wait tight until Maman and I come to get you.

She should do what her father says, shouldn’t she?

“Marinette!” Rosaline, the newest young woman to come to help make pastries, grabs the little girl by the shoulders. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

Marinette squirms violently, trying to wriggle free. “Let me go! I need to find Maman, I need to… there’s a fire, there’s a fire, there’s a fire!”

When someone else, someone Marinette doesn’t recognise, grabs her by the sides and heaves her into their arms, she begins to sob. Carried like a sack of potatoes to the basement - as if that will help her parents when they’re somewhere in the house, somewhere she can’t reach. “Let me go!” She wails, tiny fists hammering a vicious tattoo on the back of the person carrying her. “Let me go!”

“Marinette,” Rosaline scurries behind, looking anxious, “It’s not safe.”

Marinette cries all the more. How can Rosaline be so stupid? If it’s not safe for Marinette, if it’s not safe for the bakery workers, then how can it be safe for Maman and Papa?

“Here you are, Mari,” says her carrier gruffly, swinging her down when the hurried crowd reach the cellar.

She doesn’t look up at who took her. All she does is try to squirm through their legs, through the cellar door, up to find her parents, but a strong arm shoots out and grabs her shoulder, stopping her short. “Oh, no you don’t. Your father would kill me if I didn’t keep you safe.”

“I want Papa!” Marinette screams in response. Smoke burns her throat raw but she yells all the same, because what is a little bit of a hoarse voice when she can’t see her family? “I want Maman!”

“They’re coming, Marinette. Everything will be fine,” Rosaline says.

She says it in that voice all adults have, the lying voice, the one they use when nothing will be fine but they don’t want to scare the children. Marinette could scream again in pure frustration. “I want Maman!” Because if she doesn’t find her mother, then Marinette is to blame. Marinette chased the butterfly. Marinette knocked over the flour. Marinette broke the third rule of bakeries.

Marinette, Marinette, Marinette.

“I want my Maman!” She shrieks, banshee-like in volume, and the worried cellar falls silent in the face of her rage.

She has to be angry. She has to be angry so there’s no room for the fear and the sadness and the guilt.

“But -” Cara, the head chef, looks panicked. “But I saw Tom and Sabine looking for you, sweetie! Oh, God, someone run out and tell them - tell them to come, tell them -”

“I’ll go,” Gerald, the dough-chef, volunteers, pulling Marinette aside with gentle hands and trying the handle on the door. His hand flies back and he winces in pain - the bronze metal is burning hot. Even when he wraps his shirt around his hand and tries the door, it’s wedged shut - a piece of the falling floors above has locked them in.

Marinette tells herself that it’s not happening.

Beside her, Rosaline begins to cry.

Ugly tears.

Marinette has nobody to cry on. She can’t cry on Rosaline. She can’t cry on anyone else, either.

Marinette tells herself that it’s not happening, curls up in a ball next to a crate of apples, and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until she sees stars. And then, eventually, she sleeps the dreamless sleep of the shocked.

She hopes that when she wakes up something will have changed.

It hasn't.

“Here she is,” Rosaline says as she shakes Marinette awake. Disgruntled,  Marinette wonders when Rosaline of all people became her guardian. Marinette wants her real Maman.

The best one.

She isn't going to listen to Rosaline anymore, she decides. Rosaline annoys her.

Maybe she wont be given the choice.

“This their daughter, then?” Says the man Rosaline has brought, a man big and burly with a scuff of beard on his chin and a sombre look in his dark eyes. He smells of burnt wood, although right now most everything does. He kneels beside her, dwarfing little Marinette. “Your name Marinette, is it, darling?”

She looks around her. Nobody is in the cellar anymore. Have they found her Mama? Have they found her Papa?

“Marinette?” The man asks again.

Her gaze flickers back unwillingly to him and she nods once. What does he care? Shouldn't he just take her to her family?

The man with the scrubby beard sighs heavily. The tiny beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip droops in an almost comical way. “Marinette. I'm afraid I have some rather bad news for you.”

And then he explains.

While he talks to her, Marinette stares at the wobbling second chin under his jaw. While he explains that she has no more parents and no more bakery and no more anything, she watches that lump of spare fat move from side to side and up and down. While Rosaline tries to console her and flutters up and down like a terrified rabbit, Marinette sees how the scrubby beard fades away to nothing against the man’s Adam’s Apple,  which is almost hidden in the expanse of his neck. When Rosaline starts to cry again, great big drips of water running off her long nose and onto the ground, Marinette just watches and waits.

“Luckily, Rosaline here has volunteered to keep you until we can find someone that knows your family. It’ll only be for a few days,” the man says reassuringly.

“It won’t be so bad,” says Rosaline.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” says the man.

How can they say things like that when the smell of Marinette’s home wafts through the air, burnt and blackened, merely a skeleton of a bakery? When Rosaline takes Marinette’s hand, the little girl doesn’t even get the chance to go back to Nino and Jukela and the others to try to explain why she’s gone. Maybe they think she’s dead.

Maybe she died in the fire. And because she’d been a naughty girl, she’s been sent to hell, and Marinette’s hell is being alive to see what she’s done.

This is all her fault.

Rosaline’s home is at the other end of the city, where Marinette discovers that Rosaline is one out of an unspecified number of interchangeable siblings. Rosaline’s mother resides as matriarch over the whole sprawling mess of them, a giant family owning three of the houses on the street. Marinette arrives on the night of the fire, is introduced to the mother - everyone calls her Mama regardless of relation - and is promptly abandoned by Rosaline at the woman-who-isn’t-Marinette’s-mother’s feet.

“Hello, petal,” says Rosaline’s mother. She smells of violets and powder.

Marinette’s mother smells of bread and sweet perfume.

Marinette has never wanted her mother more in her life. She sits on the floor, three screaming children running around her, and refuses to talk.

Or eat.

Or sleep.

This continues for three days. The man with the scrubby beard comes around on the third day to check on her and to inform Rosaline that so far, the search for Marinette’s family has been fruitless. Rosaline’s mother hops into the conversation smoothly -

“Of course, we wouldn’t mind a new little one running about the house,” she coos, and pats Marinette’s shoulder.

Marinette recognises kindness when it knocks clumsily on her door. When Rosaline’s mother is directing one of the endless siblings to making the soup (the woman herself never leaves her chair) Marinette tugs on the dress of the soup-maker and asks for some as timidly as a mouse.

(If mice could be responsible for killing their own parents.)

After that, she’s given some more jobs around the house.

“I want to go home,” she says once to Rosaline’s mother when she’s kneading out bread to cook as a treat. Marinette’s the best baker of them all. “I want to go say hello to Nino and my friends.”

She only says it once - she learns that Rosaline’s mother will burst into loud, wailing tears of sympathy that will bring the whole family running and will earn her the hateful glares of the haggard people that really can’t waste time consoling the old woman.

So she doesn’t say it aloud.

She quite likes it at Rosaline’s mother’s side, though. It’s nothing compared to her bakery, but it could be worse. Marinette could have been the little match-girl from the stories her Mama used to tell her.

On the thirtieth day, the scrubby man with the beard knocks on the door once more. “Marinette,” he says when she opens it, as though he’s surprised.

“Hello. Good to see you,” she greets politely, although it is anything but. What does he want, and what does he want now?

“Marinette, I’d like to introduce you to Monsieur Bourgeois, who is running for Mayor this term, and his little girl Chloé,” the bearded man smiles, gesturing to the potbellied man with the false smile and the blonde girl by his side.

Marinette smiles at her.

Chloé, the little girl, snarls.

Marinette wakes up, truly wakes up, and finds her cheeks wet and the skirt she was using for a pillow soaked.

And Tikki, pulling her ear, trying to get her to wake. “You had a bad dream, Marinette. That’s all.”

Marinette puts her head in her hands and tries not to wail like Rosaline did, eleven years ago.

***

“All I’m saying is, you might want to hurry it up on the whole contacting Ladybug thing,” Plagg says.

Adrien, perched precariously on his balcony with his feet hanging off the sides, pretends he hasn’t heard the black kwami. His head is spinning from the events of last night - Ladybug, the kiss, the chase, the Queen will be dead within the week, and Ladybug again.

Adrien’s already paced a visible tread in the carpet of his room.

“I want to see Mother,” he decides at last. “Ladybug can wait. According to Papillon… according to him, Mother might not.” His voice cracks at that last word, and Plagg touches the side of his face sympathetically.

“Of course you want to see her, of course. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m just saying that sometimes, sometimes, you might want to pop in and see Ladybug. Say, tonight. I can orchestrate a meet-”

Adrien stands abruptly. His head aches from the constant meeting and worrying and nail-chewing that he seems to do. “You do whatever you want to, Plagg,” he says, sharp and authoritative and so unlike himself. “But I’m going to see my mother.”

His voice seems to shock Plagg into submission. Adrien takes advantage of the sudden silence and strides off into the corridors, intent on his mother’s quarters.

It occurs to him that he still hasn’t told his father any of what’s been going on. He hasn’t even seen King Gabriel in weeks, certainly, maybe a few months - the King has always had more important things to do than to see his own son. Adrien’s always suspected that his father hates him in some way for causing the Queen’s illness, but -

No.

He’s not going to think of that again.

Adrien walks with renewed vigour, as though a marathon through the warren of purple-carpeted palace floors will somehow clear his mind.

He can go see his father when he has to. Adrien hates the little part of himself that still loves the King, even when most of him sees his father for what Gabriel is. A neglectful man, a cold man, a man more capable of running a country than having a family.

At least he rules fairly, honestly, good. Adrien couldn’t handle his father being bad at both at once.

Not relevant, Adrien.

Right.

Plagg hasn’t followed him, Adrien notes as he pushes his way through the door of his mother’s darkened bedroom. So maybe the kwami really is orchestrating some sort of meeting between Chat Noir and Ladybug, which Adrien… wouldn’t exactly be annoyed about. But he doesn’t think he can go through with the inevitable conversation, awkward and stilted, the did you mean to kiss me ’s and the I like you as a friend but I’m sorry ’s that are bound to come up.

“Good morning, Mama,” Adrien says softly as he walks in.

Ladybug can wait. Now isn’t the time for emotional drama.

“Adrien? Oh, Adrien,” comes his mother’s soft and fragile voice. “Is that you?”

His face softens. One hand finds the back of the chair he always sits in, pulls it under himself, the other hand reaching to touch his mother’s arm. She’s cold and wrinkled, like her body has become too big for her skin. Her eyes are sunken into her head. But still, she finds a smile for him, and his heart aches for her to be well. “It’s me, mother. It’s me. How are you feeling?”

She smiles again. “Oh, a little better. There’s been another medicine added to my tea every morning by that nice girl, what’s her name… Aurore. Yes, Aurore.” The Queen pauses to laugh, and Adrien feels a sickening feeling begin to brew in his stomach. “Aurore is such a nice girl… always wears those purple dresses.”

A purple dress… a purple mask… the Queen will be gone within the week…

Adrien swallows. “I don’t think you should take that medicine anymore, Mother.”

“Oh, but that young Aurore is so very insistent, the sweetheart,” the Queen protests mildly. “I don’t like to upset her. It can’t hurt to take it, and it makes her feel better.”

“Mother, really, please don’t take it,” Adrien does all but beg.

The Queen closes her eyes. “Oh, Adrien, let’s not talk about it. I do so hate being ill. I’ll be back to my good old self soon and then they can see that I’m fine. And you’ll see I’m fine. And… oh, goodness, I do so hate it. Humor your mother and tell me what’s been happening in your life, darling, please.”

Adrien does as best he can.

He finds himself lying about almost all of it.

“I met a girl,” he finishes with, glad that there’s one part he can be truthful about.

“Oho!” The Queen tries to nudge his elbow, winking. “Tell me more.”

Adrien blushes. (He shouldn’t blush. He kissed Ladybug, so why has his mind leapt to Marinette?) (Merge the two. His mother need never know.) “She likes to wear red a lot, and at the start she was very mysterious. But she came along with my tailors, Alya and Nino, when they come on fittings, and she’s actually hilarious and pretty and witty, even if she does get a little nervous at times. Honestly, mother, she’s beautiful.”

“You should take her to see me, someday,” the Queen smiles wistfully, eyes misty in remembrance of some day long past. “I’d like to meet such a young woman.”

“I-” Adrien stops. Why shouldn’t he bring Marinette to see his mother? Marinette has the sort of personality that would brighten the room of any invalid, and if Marinette came regularly, maybe she could counteract whatever Stormy Weather - Aurore - has done to his mother.

He smiles. “I’d like that, mother.”

“So would I, son.” She pats his hand, a maternal look of pride on her face. “So would I.”

***

Marinette isn’t in the mood for either Bourgeois to call for her, not after a night like that, but it appears that fate doesn’t give a damn what sort of mood she’s in.

“Marinette!” Chloé wails from her room. “Come here, come quick, bring me breakfast. I’m absolutely starving!”

“So’m I,” Marinette grumbles, arranging an almond croissant and a little pot of jam on a tray table, along with a steaming cup of fresh tea. Far too milky for her taste, but then Chloé takes her milk with tea as opposed to the other way around. Marinette sighs.

Up the stairs is a challenge. She’s tired and she’s thinking too much - she kissed Chat Noir, she almost got killed (okay, captured, whatever) by terrifying masked people, she kissed Chat Noir again - under all these feverish thoughts she really doesn’t need Chloé and the Mayor telling her to do pointless tasks for their own amusement.

Marinette knocks on Chloé’s door.

“Come in, you,” Chloé calls in a voice thick with sleep.

Marinette forgets yet again about the shoe thing and how cranky Chloé can be in the mornings. As such she doesn’t duck out of the way of the heeled boot, which catches her shoulder hard and makes her stagger into the wall. She winces - that hurts - and only Tikki’s unseen support of the tray stops it from tipping.

She could kill Chloé, she really could.

This hurts like hell.

For some reason, which Marinette pins to the late night and the unsettled dream, she finds her eyes filling with angry tears with every surge of pain from her shoulder. Her shoulder, where Copycat slammed her to the floor last night. Her face and neck, still spattered with almost-invisible cuts from the falling glass.

It takes all of her self-control not to just dump Chloé’s glass of milk upside down on the girl’s head as Marinette sets the tray down over Chloé’s lap.

“You didn’t duck,” Chloé says, self-satisfied. “What, you tired?”

“Actually, yes,” Marinette snaps back. She’s not afraid lf Chloé. It’s the Mayor that Marinette worries about. “I’m exhausted, so if you would refrain from throwing your footwear…”

As she turns to leave the room, a boot hits her in the back, throwing her forward, knocking all the breath from her lungs.

“I hate you,” Marinette remarks to the wall. “Just stop it, come on, this is petty.”

She slams the door right before Chloé’s other heeled shoe hits her again, and has to content herself with the sound of the shoe hitting the door and Chloé’s annoyed yell.

“Are you alright, Marinette?” Tikki asks anxiously.

Marinette smiles. In some ways, at least, life hasn’t changed; the Bourgeois pair still think she’s the dirt under their heels. “Oh, I’m just fine, Tikki. Just fine.”

Neither of them forget this morning’s incident, but neither of them bring it up, either.

Next call is back down to the kitchen to grab the salve that Chat Noir managed to dig out of the depths of the cupboards when he was here. (And she was Marinette. And he was Chat.) Marinette knows it won’t do much help, but the shoe that hit her shoulder is aching and throbbing. A tentative exploration of the bruise tells her that it’s swelling already, a lump the size of an egg.

Fantastic.

She rubs as much of the salve on as possible. It numbs her, burns in some way that’s both painful and relieving at the same time. Did she really own this stuff, she wonders, or did Chat Noir pull it from thin air? She could have used something like this a lot more than she did.

Mayor Bourgeois’s breakfast never does get up to him, because as soon as Marinette has arranged everything on a tray and even filled a glass of water to the brim, flavoured with a squeezed orange, the doorbell begins to ring.

And ring. And ring. And ring.

At the start she decides it’s just some pranksters from down the road, but when it’s gone on for a good few minutes, doubts creep into Marinette’s mind.

“Get the damned door!” Chloé yells from her bedroom.

Marinette scowls up through the floor although she knows Chloé can’t see her. It gives her some petty advantage, at least, but doesn’t do anything to stop her from going as slowly as she can to the front door. And these callers must be persistent - are they dangling from the bellpull?

“Marinette, open the door!” Bellows the Mayor down from his half-open office door.

Marinette jumps and twists the knob quickly, looking up to see if the Mayor has come down to rain righteous fury all over her. That wouldn’t be his style, though, to be the cruel and controlling man he is. Not in front of guests. He’ll play the part of kindly benefactor, and then he’ll stop Marinette from leaving her room for a day and a night, or he’ll start throwing shoes like Chloé does.

Marinette’s so busy watching for the Mayor that, when the visitors barrel into her, she squeaks in fright and leaps back.

Apparently this is the wrong reaction, and results in several things.

Firstly, the visitors tumble to the ground one on top of the other, with successive cries of surprise and pain. Secondly, the girl at the bottom of the increasingly-familiar pile begins to apologise profusely. Thirdly, the Mayor shoves his head out of the office door to yell once more, and Chloé storms out of her room with the remains of an almond croissant in her hand and murder in her eyes.

Great. Just great.

Chapter Text

Chat Noir strolls out of the palace gates, confident in the knowledge that the guards won't see him, no matter what he does. He tips his hat to the doorguard, who nods absently in return.

He's going to see the one person - right now - that might make him feel a little lighter. And he has no contact with Ladybug.

He's going to go see Marinette, for her own good as well as his own. The last time Alya and Nino came, Marinette wasn't with them, and the excuse a disbelieving Alya gave was that Marinette was ill.

But they've all seen the tiny bruises Marinette does her best to hide. And, Mayor or not, Bourgeois has a lot to answer for.

So Chat saunters away with deceptive calm, and he doesn't see a purple foot poking out of the bushes.

***

“He's left the palace.” She says.

He steeples his fingers, resting his chin on his arched knuckles, pressing his lips together. If anyone were watching, they would say that his face was purely expressionless - was that relief on those stony features, or irritation. “He’s left.”

“That’s what I said, sir.”

“I heard you the first time.”

Her voice is questioning. His voice is deadpan.

But then, half-hidden by the point of his fingers, he smiles just a fraction. “Then we shall just have to wait for him to return, whoever he is. A servant’s child, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir.”

And he speaks no more.

***

Adrien is dragged by the elbows and deposited in an alleyway mere metres from Marinette’s house, so abruptly that he doesn’t even have time to panic. Or yell out. Or do anything, really, and besides, Papillon would make more of a fuss about it.

“Where are you going?” Demands a very familiar voice, and Adrien relaxes.

He’s perfectly safe.

Adrien picks himself up off the ground, fixing his mask and adjusting his hat. Mud coats the seat of his trousers and he does his best with wiping them off, but he knows that’ll stain. Plagg’ll be annoyed about it when he has to produce new trousers.

“Well?” The girl in front of him folds her arms impressively, the boy at her shoulder adopting a similar pose (although with less outward aggression). “Well?”

“I’m going to pay a visit to a friend,” Adrien says. It’s true - he’s going to see Marinette - and he suspects that’s where Nino and Alya are heading as well. Just in time, he manages to add a - “Who are you two?”

“I’m Alya and he’s Nino.” Alya jabs a thumb in Nino’s direction.

“You’re Chat Noir,” Nino says breezily, touching his forehead in a sarcastic salute. “Where’s this friend live, then, that you’re down here? These are the Royal suppliers, mostly. Tailors and butchers and - and bakeries…” He trails off. Alya treads on his toe.

Adrien wonders what that little exchange is about.

“She lives in the Mayor’s house. You know, the curved one on the corner.” Adrien points, although he knows that the pair of tailors are perfectly aware of where Marinette lives. He has to keep up appearances.

Is this little visit about to become a whole lot messier than it needs to be?

“Please tell me you’re not talking about Chloé Bourgeois,” Alya says, raising hazel eyes to the sky.

Adrien suppresses a grin. Even when he’s not Adrien, even when he’s Chat Noir, a complete stranger, Alya is her usual self. “God, no, When I talk about Chloé Bourgeois as though she’s a close companion, feel free to track me down and kill me.”

“Duly noted,” Nino nods with a wink.

Alya frowns. “So you mean Marinette?”

“That’s her name. She works there… well, she doesn’t work there so much as…”

“Believe me, we know. We were just on our way to see her when I saw you, told her-” Nino hits Alya’s arm “-And she insisted we be all demanding in your face. But if you’re going to see Mari, you can come with us. Terrify the trousers off of the Mayor, take part in our daring rescue mission. I myself play a pivotal role?”

“Rescue mission?” Adrien asks, bewildered. He’d just been intending to give Marinette a reprieve.

(Although a rescue mission does sound a lot more heroic, more Chat Noir, than doing the laundry does.)

“Chloé and her father are evil and we’re going to kidnap Marinette, is the long and the short of the conversation,” says Alya. “And you can help. Marinette’s wonderful, but she can’t stick up for herself worth a damn when she’s in that house.”

Kid, what about keeping a low profile -

Low profile be damned. Adrien’s escaped his own shadow, kissed a girl as beautiful as the stars, and is now roaming Paris dressed as a fashionable kitten. “I’ll help with whatever you need me to do,” he announces loudly.

Nino beams. “Perfect, man. Come on.”

***

His hair is long and pink and his clothes are shaped like burning leather, but that’s not the most noticeable thing about him. The most noticeable thing is the purple-scaled animal by his feet, which is coiled obediently at his feet as he hangs over the balcony.

“He’s talking to some kids. Is this really going to work?”

The lips purse a little more. White patches of pressure appear on the steepled fingers. “Do not presume to question me.”

“Sorry. But I’m just observing. You reckon she’ll come?”

“She will once she knows. And she will know.”

“Right, boss.” The man with pink hair gave his animal a dubious look that he thinks goes unseen by the other man. As the voice vanishes from his head, he gives the scaled creature a scratch on the head. “He’s strange, isn’t he, Fang?”

A low rumble tells him that his pet agrees, and he leans forward once more, satisfied.

He watches Chat Noir and two normal children, as far as he can see, wandering across the road set for the old palace bakery. The (relatively) new home of Mayor Bourgeois.

“Where is he now?”

The man shakes away the feeling of unsettlement. “Uh. He’s going into the Mayor’s house. I’ll tell you when he comes out again.”

The fingers whiten further. The lips tighten to white nothing, although they form a curve of satisfaction. “That you will do.”

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alya asks doubtfully.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Adrien adds. He and Alya exchange glances and then turn to face Nini again.

Nino, who hangs his whole weight on the bell-pull, gives them a look. “How is it a bad idea? We annoy the Mayor and we get Marinette’s attention for sure. I'm not seeing the downside here!” He has to raise his voice as the bells inside the house get louder.

Adrien hears a shout.

He knows this won't end well. “Nino, seriously-”

There's another shout from within and the door clicks - not expecting it, Nino falls in as the door swings back, grabbing Alya as he goes, Alya catching on Chat’s sleeve with a look of grim-faced you won't escape this on her face.

Adrien falls at Marinette’s feet with the glum thought that he will never be able to impress her.

Or look cool in front of her. Ever.

Marinette shrieks as Nino knocks her elbow, leaping backwards with a fear that Adrien’s never seen on her face before. He’s seen defiance, hatred, pain, happiness… never this. This looks like she’s terrified of them.

As they fall with a cry of shock, three things happen at basically the same time.

Chloé Bourgeois steps out of her room on the very top floor, leans over the open balcony, and tosses a white shoe down. Marinette jumps to one side to avoid this, stumbling on the carpet as she backs away from the pile of people, her eyes widening in recognition. And Mayor Bourgeois opens the door of his office - or his bedroom, ire in his eyes, and begins to storm down the staircase to Marinette and the pile of people.

“What are you doing here?” Marinette hisses.

Her hands are shaking by her sides.

Adrien notes that she makes eye contact with him, not the other two, as though he can do anything.

He’s very aware that he’s lying on the floor. “Get up,” Adrien whispers at Nino and Alya, “Get up, come on-”

“Chat Noir. How very good to see you again,” Mayor Bourgeois says when he’s half a staircase away from them. His voice is pleasant and light, as though he’s greeting Chat over afternoon tea, but he keeps his eyes on Marinette, his feet thundering angrily down the stairs, hitting the wood with a deliberate thud on every step.

Marinette grits her teeth. “Yes. Hello, Chat. Alya. Nino.”

Alya pulls herself to her feet, offering a hand to Adrien, her eyes searching his anxiously. Nino on her other side looks fretful, stuck by societal convention to his own position.

“Please, excuse us for a moment,” the Mayor says with all the politeness of a born noble.

For an instant, the Royal Prince inside Adrien is fooled.

But then the Mayor keeps walking and doesn’t break his stride as he grabs Marinette by the forearm, pulling her with him. Marinette squeaks once in horrified surprise, feet struggling to sort themselves, and even from a distance, Adrien can see the little white pressure points on the skin of her bicep, and the faded marks of other times, the same hands.

He sees red.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he snarls, “Let’s go-”

The Mayor gives him one last smile, still treating him like Chat is a dinner guest he has to entertain. He shoves Marinette into the parlour where Chat had tea, smiles yet again, and slams the door.

In the deathly silence, they all hear the click of the lock.

Adrien’s stomach drops to his toes.

***

Mayor Bourgeois is apoplectic with rage. Marinette’s always heard him make vague threats if she messes up in front of guests, but she never thought Alya, Nino, and Chat of all people counted as guests.

Maybe Chat.

“A new contact. A fresh face that could make or break my re-election campaign, Marinette,” the Mayor says angrily. He paces around the small coffee table; Marinette is still frozen in the middle of the room, waiting for the inevitable fallout.

Tikki is in her pocket. A soft touch of Marinette’s thumb to Tikki’s head tells her that the kwami is as frozen as Marinette is. Does Tikki feel Marinette’s emotions in some way? Or is it mere proximity to such violent rage that makes Tikki, a quiet, shy creature, freeze up?

“What don’t you understand, Marinette? He came to tea and you monopolized his attention. And this ridiculous palaver to the Palace with the tailors - I’m not having it!” His pacing takes him to her side of the table, and Marinette flinches when he waves his hands expressively.

She wishes she didn’t.

“This ridiculous behaviour must stop.” As he says it, so does he, coming to a halt far too close to Marinette’s face.

She keeps his eye. She doesn’t know how. “I just-”

***

“I just-”

Adrien, his ear pressed to the keyhole, his hat off his head to better position himself, hears the smack of hand against skin, and then the continuation of Mayor Bourgeois’ little rant as though nothing has happened. Alya grips his elbow hard from where she kneels underneath him, ear at the bottom of the door.

“We’re not going to wait here, are we?” Nino asks plaintively. “We can’t. ”

Adrien feels sick. He shakes his head.

“I don’t understand, I really don’t.” There’s the sound of pacing once more inside the room - with his eye to the keyhole now instead of his ear, Adrien sees Marinette grasp the back of an armchair to support herself, and with her back to him he sees an ugly tear in the back of her dress underneath which a red mark swells. It looks uncomfortable, to say the least.

“I’m going to kill him,” Alya says vehemently. “Is the door still locked?”

Stealthily Adrien turns the handle, unsurprised when it doesn’t open. “Unfortunately so.”

Nino sucks in a breath as the cadence of the Mayor’s voice rises again. “We're not just staying out here.”

“I know.” Adrien grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls, one finger hooking into the keyhole by the clawed extension. “But do you have any idea how we could get in? We need to - I need to-”

“Spare keys. Spare keys are always in the kitchen, right? Or a master key?” Nino says hopefully.

Adrien peels himself away from the door and rolls on the balls of his feet. “I'll go to the kitchen. I'll go. Keep trying the door.”

Nino nods grimly, hand already on the handle and twisting desperately. Adrien thinks Alya is just about ready to batter the door down herself, which - while satisfying - would probably get Marinette into even deeper trouble. “I’ll go get the spare keys.” Adrien twists his hat in his hands anxiously, once, allows a little of the Prince to bleed into the Chat persona.

Lines are being blurred.

He can feel them.

( On the roof, the man with pink hair dangles a scrap of bloody meat in front of his scaled beast.)

(Near the palace, the girl with the purple dress waits patiently.)

(In the dark, he waits, unblinking. A butterfly pin twinkles in the candlelight, affixed to his lapel.)

“Go!” Alya whisper-yells.

Adrien nods stiffly, turns tail, and runs for the door next to the stairs. The last time he was here was the night Marinette had gone, the night he had come to her to sleep. When he found her gone to serve Chloé - or whatever - he had sneaked down, placed the healing salve in her cupboard, and then swung away to the party to meet his Lady.

When he clatters down the stone steps and sees the salve open on the table, his heart sinks even further. “Oh, Marinette…”

He lets his fingers ghost over the lid for a moment. The salve smells strongly, smells of the rough cleanliness that Doctor Martell always carries with him. Adrien pinched the stuff from his bag when the Doctor wasn’t looking.

Keys, Adrien!

Plagg sounds urgent. Of course he would be - a little of the caring Adrien has for Marinette has got to have passed to Plagg, and even if it hasn’t, Marinette isn’t hard to fall a tiny bit in love with.

“Where are the keys?” He mumbles, turning away from the table to face the range, the walls of closed cupboards, the ingredients to a raspberry pie lying beside a clean dish and a whisk.

There’s a sound from the cold cupboard.

He ignores it.

Try a drawer, Plagg suggests hopefully. That’s where I’d put ‘em.

The first drawer Adrien pulls open as fast as he can holds frayed towels. The second rattles with kitchen equipment. The third holds tiny metal cutters, shaped like roses and hearts and flowers and it’s all so very Marinette that a smile crosses his face.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for anywhere here,” someone says, a nasty little tone to their voice. “Will you?”

***

Marinette knows that Alya, Nino, and Chat Noir are listening at the door, and her cheeks blaze with embarrassment. Couldn’t the Mayor do this in a place where her friends can’t actually hear?

Maybe that’s his point. Maybe it’s because her friends - her friends, because she has those now - maybe it’s because they can hear him, and hear him telling her in great detail exactly what’s wrong with her.

But the joke's on him, because Marinette can still hear Alya and Nino trying to open the door, and she heard Chat muttering something about keys to unlock the door with only a few seconds ago. Because Marinette’s friends don’t just leave because she fell over and didn’t answer the door on time and she can sometimes be a bit of a drag to be around and -

“This is why I had doubts about taking you in, in the first place,” Mayor Bourgeois says with a little shake of his head.

Hah!

Marinette’s fingertips dig into the armchair cushion. Bereft of fingernails, which she’s chewed away, the press of her fingers against the stubs of nail burns pain into her hands, but keeps her in the here and now.

She can hear Alya and Nino whispering behind the door.

“I thought you’d be safe with that girl, that Rosaline and her mother,” continues the Mayor, “But when Rosaline finally complained…”

Rosaline never complained! Rosaline never! Rosaline came home after work - the new job at the sewing place - and found Marinette at the stove or playing with a sibling or two, and Rosaline played with Marinette and hugged Marinette and Rosaline would never!

“And when she did, I realised that as upcoming Mayor, of course it was my duty to take you in.”

The Mayor’s circuit takes him closer to Marinette again. Cheek still stinging, she takes several quick steps back even quicker than she had the last time, colliding with the bookshelf on the opposing wall. It rattles alarmingly, and the Mayor stops, blue eyes fixing on hers.

Marinette stops breathing.

He shakes his head and continues. “Really, for such a kind act, I expected a child that would do what they were asked. A child that should be grateful to grow up in the house they were raised, after all. Is that not what you want? Or would you rather run around with twenty squirming grandchildren at the feet of an old lady paralysed by arthritis?”

You put me in the attic! Marinette wants to scream at him. Your daughter sleeps in my room, and she’s painted over the pink flowers with garish yellow, and shoes cover the shelves instead of my fabrics and paint! This isn’t my home! This is a nightmare!

Anyone else and she would have.

But her treacherous terror betrays her. She can do nothing but stare at him, eyes wide open, and hope that Chat finds the keys.

“Just as I thought,” Mayor Bourgeois says in a smug, self-satisfied tone that Marinette despises. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Marinette, when you could be living in the squalor of the streets.”

At this, Tikki actually finds her voice to squeak in irritation.

The Mayor ignores her. Ignores them both. His tone has taken on false sorrow, as though Marinette were a wayward daughter he’s instructing, a sad and lonely child taken off the straight and narrow.

Her cheek really stings. His signet ring must have torn skin, because she feels the hot dribble of copper blood running slowly down her face, stopping when it reaches her chin. She wants to lift her hand to brush it away, but she’s still frozen, and she’s only glad she’s got her back to the door. Alya or Nino will surely have their eyes to the keyhole, and she doesn’t want to -

Want to what?

Be a burden? But does anyone ever wish that for themselves, for their friends - no of course not.

What are you so afraid of?

“Marinette, your parents were killed looking for you. ”

Crying in the skirts of a sad bakery worker, too stressed to take on a child, too kind to say otherwise…

Marinette suddenly wishes she was anywhere but here.

“What are you so afraid of, Marinette? You never speak to me or your sister…”

It’s gotten to the part of the Mayor’s speech, right after the yelling and the slapping and the guilty lines, where he pulls the family speech. Like Marinette is his daughter. Like he treats them both equally. Like Chloé isn’t his only child - as though Marinette has been adopted into the family as opposed to forced into unpaid servanthood for eleven years.

She hates these parts the worst.

Because as a politician, of course the Mayor can act. It’s all he can do, and she sees it in the slump of his shoulders, a kindly man worn down by his second daughter spurning his affection time and time again.

“He’s a liar, Marinette!” Someone thumps on the door.

The Mayor shakes his head solemnly. “And you’ve fallen with such unsavoury friends… I try, Marinette, I truly do, and all I need from you is a little compromise.”

She wavers, as she always does.

The Mayor brushes the drop of blood from her cheek with a touch as tender as a father’s, worried after his child has tripped and fallen. “I do wish you wouldn’t bring things like this upon yourself.”

But she hasn’t!

She doesn’t deserve this, she knows she doesn’t, she knows it she knows it she knows it.

And Mayor Bourgeois, no matter what he says, will never be right.

“Don’t believe that lying bastard, Marinette!”

“Alya!”

“It’s true.”

For a moment, one crucial moment, the Mayor frowns. His expression hardens, cold as ice, and the mask he wears as confidently as Chat Noir does slips a little.

And it gives Marinette just enough time to know that she will never, never listen to him again.

***

It’s Chloé Bourgeois, wearing something spotted and yellow and garish, blonde hair tumbling down past her shoulders and bouncing with unnatural volume. Her blue eyes, so different to Marinette’s, so different to Ladybug’s, smile at him coldly. Appreciatively. Conspiratorially, as though Adrien is on her side.

Around one outstretched finger spins a bunch of keys on a loop of string.

“I need those,” Adrien says as politely as he can manage, trying to launch for them around the table. Chloé moves back.

“You only think you need them,” she says dismissively. “And anyway, there are much nicer girls out there for you than that old thing. She’s too much effort for someone like you, anyway.”

What’s that supposed to mean? “I don’t know if you’re aware, but she’s hurt,” Adrien says, struggling to keep his voice even.

Chloé waves her hand in the air. “It’s all nonsense. I think she plays up to it. Gets more attention that way. She’s absolutely hopeless, I’m afraid… a real struggle to live with. At times I wish I had… well, someone like you, to keep me better company.”

Does she really think that she’ll get anywhere in conversation with him? Now, when he so obviously doesn’t care? The sheer audacity of it takes him aback. “I-”

“You were here a few nights ago,” she says matter-of-factly, pointing at the tube of salve open on the table. “You got that for her, didn’t you? Really romantic. I’m impressed.”

Adrien glowers. “Just give me the keys, Chloé. I need them.”

“Do you really?” Chloé sing-songs, spinning them on her finger. “Do you really? What’s under your mask?”

Is she suggesting he take off his mask? As if he would. Adrien’s only escape has been through Chat Noir, and Chloé Bourgeois isn’t going to be the reason he gets back into the gilded cage he’s only just escaped. No, Adrien can sort this out without that. He scowls. “As if I’d tell you.”

“But I want to know,” she pouts, childish to the extreme. “Come on.”

Adrien, already incensed with rage, sees red. “You want to know? You little-! While you’re sitting here, trying to be prim and prissy and flirt with the mysterious masked boy just because the book says you should, while you’re playing games, your father is hitting her! She’s bleeding! And you, you, have the audacity to dance and steal the keys and smile at me and make fun of her and hate the Ladybug and despise the tailors and-”

Chloé has an ugly look on her face. “You shut it.”

“Give me the keys,” Adrien says threateningly. He should have known that wouldn’t work - didn’t Chloé scratch Marinette a few weeks ago? Like a cat. “Chloé, just give me the damned keys.”

And still she hesitates.

“I don't have time for this!” Adrien snarls, slightly feral even to his own ears. He launches himself at her, paying no attention to the table that separates them even when the corner digs into his stomach and knocks a gasp of breath from his lungs.

Chloé dances back, unafraid. “Can't catch me,” she taunts, rather childishly. “And what do you care about Marinette, anyway? She's well off here. Far better than the children you see on the streets.”

Even in his furious form, Adrien recognises the parroted words for what they are.

“You can't actually think that what you and your father do is alright, do you?”

Chloé changes tack abruptly. “You seem to choose the worst option every time. Is it a curse? You and I would make a wonderful pairing at the balls, not that girl Ladybug. And you and I would make an enviable couple, not you and her.”  

Chat doesn't even know if he and Marinette - if Marinette - sees him in that light, and he doesn't care.

His hands bunch into fists. “Ladybug and Marinette, either one of them, are both four times the girl you are. They're both sweet and kind and loving, and if you don't give the key to me right this instant, I'll-”

He trails off. He hasn't actually thought of a threat, which weakens the effect somewhat, so he just grabs the edge of the table with both hands, swinging his body underneath his stiff arms to land with only a few inches between his face and the face of the suddenly much more worried Bourgeois daughter. “Keys. Now.” He demands in a low growl. Plagg must be doing something to him, making him more catlike or something.

Chloé squeaks.

Adrien unfurls his fist, palm upwards, eyes boring into Chloé’s, hoping he looks scarier than he feels.

Chloé sighs. “You'll regret interfering with my father and I,” she tells him, although it sounds less threatening than it should.

Adrien doesn't care. As soon as he feels the clink of the keys in his palm he turns away, not giving Chloé a second glance as he bolts up the stairs and back towards Marinette, Alya, and Nino.

Unseen by almost anyone, Chloé lets out a small little huff of annoyance.

(“She may prove useful.”)

(The man on the roof stands eagerly, dropping the last part of butcher's meat into the open gullet of his purple animal. He slings a heavy-looking instrument - an axe, or a strange violin? - over his shoulder. “Sir, of course.”)

(Under the grey material, thin lips curve into a smile.)

“Chloé Bourgeois?”

She turns, scowl already fixed on her face. “I'm done fighting, Chat. I-  oh!” Her hand covers her mouth as she realises that the newcomer isn't Chat Noir, but a tall man, pink hair parted down his back, black marks over his eyes shaped like the wings of a black butterfly.

“Chloé Bourgeois,” he repeats. His voice is fascinatingly foreign, a slight twang to his words. “It is nice to finally meet you.”

“Who’re you?” She asks frostily. Her cheeks are hot from her sudden defeat at the hands of Chat Noir of all people, and the last thing she wants is some foreign Englishman or worse showing her up.

He bows low. (It’s gratifying.) “My name is Guitar Villain,” he says, carefully circling the rough words with unfamiliar lips. “But to a pretty lady such as yourself, mademoiselle, I must surely be known as Jagged Stone.”

“Monsieur Stone.”

“Oui, oui.” The pink-haired man, Stone, steps away from the doorway to show Chloé a huge, scaled lizard, purple all over and slavering at the jaws. Its wings extend a little outward from its body, rippling in the soft breeze. “I hear, Mademoiselle, that you have been wronged,” says Stone while Chloé gapes wordlessly at the creature.

“Wronged! I should say so!” At the mention of her humiliation, her cheeks flare again and her eyes narrow. “But what do you know about it, hm? And what do you propose I do?”

“I know somebody that might know how do deal with your situation. It isn’t easy, finding attention taken away from you in favour of someone so obviously inferior,” Stone says casually. One hand strokes down the long nose of the scaled creature, who eats up the affection happily, wings folding back to its sides.

Chloé nods eagerly. “Exactly! It’s not as though that Marinette can do anything that I can’t. And as for that Ladybug… it should be me. I should be dancing. All of Paris should be speaking about me!”

“All of Paris,” Stone agrees. “You know, Chloé, I may know someone that has the solution to your little problem.”

“I highly doubt it. If I can’t fix this situation, I’m sure you’d be hard pressed to find someone that could,” Chloé says haughtily, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“You’d be surprised,” Stone says. His absent eyes stare up at the roof, seeing something else in his mind’s view.

Chloé finds herself intrigued almost against her will. “What do you mean? Who is this person, then?”

Jagged Stone looks at her then, eyes fixated on hers with a sudden hungry excitement that Chloé is too angry to notice. His gaze drops up and down her, summarizing something that Chloé can’t make out, clearly reaching some sort of internal decision. All this happens in a moment; he leans against the strong, muscled neck of the purple thing (is it a dragon?) and smiles. “I can lead you to him, if you’d like. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you, mademoiselle, if you’re as intriguing to him as you are to me.”

“What’s his name?” Almost unconsciously, Chloé takes three or four tottering steps forwards and holds out a tanned hand to the dragon.

After a surreptitious nudge from Stone, the dragon lets her stroke him, rubbing into the touch with enjoyment. “What’s his name?” Stone mutters, as though to himself, although still watching Chloé. He can’t seem to contain his anticipation. “His name, my dear, is Papillon.”

“Butterfly? That’s not very scary,” Chloé snorts. Stone’s eyes, which once seemed brown, now seem to glow purple; she can’t remember wanting to get onto the back of the dragon, but all of a sudden she’s swinging her legs around the strong shoulders of the dragon. “B-butterfly…”

“And a snake is just a motionless stick until it strikes between the eyes,” murmurs Stone, swinging on behind her and placing his hands securely around her waist. “And I think you’ll love Hawkmoth.”

“I’ll love Hawkmoth,” she echoes.

Stone laughs. Even his laugh is foreign, more rounded than the soft flowing of the French giggle. “And he’ll just adore you.”

With a few beats of powerful purple wings the dragon takes to the air, lifting out of the backyard of the Bourgeois house and into the fluffy cloud of the autumn sky.

***

Marinette is dizzy on her feet. She lost track of the Mayor’s rambling guilt-trip until it was interrupted a few moments ago by his yell of rage, and she assumes she’s done something again.

“This is becoming an unfortunate circumstance of our meetings,” says a familiar voice in her ear, gentle and soft. “I hesitate to ask it again, Marinette, but when did you last sleep? Well, I mean, not little catnaps.”

“That was terrible,” she mumbles.

“I know, I know. But when was it? Your sleep schedule is in dire need of fixing, I’m afraid,” says Chat in the same tone, the way Marinette would talk to a scared stray cat or a thin dog that she takes in for a few nights to feed and fatten up. “So? We’ll get you to a bed - ah, hell, your cheek-”

“I slept last night, you,” Marinette says. She blinks up at Chat Noir, who’s inspecting her face with brows drawn anxiously. “Stop looking at me like that.”

In the background she hears Alya yelling.

She hears Nino chipping in too, accompanied by - presumably - Alya’s fist slamming into the wall to punctuate her sentences.

“They’ll do fine for another while,” says Chat Noir to the top of Marinette’s head, hugging her close for a brief moment. His hand presses against her back where Chloé’s shoe hit, and Marinette winces involuntarily - this causes Chat’s eyebrows to shoot up in sudden worry. “Did I hurt you?!”

“No, no,” she tries to reassure him.

She’s tired.

Chat is right - they do need to stop meeting under these strangely specific circumstances. Marinette half-dead with exhaustion, Chat in angry frustration at the Mayor, both of them standing in warm embrace with eyes closed in each other’s company.

“I’m taking you ahead. I’ll tell your friends where you are later on,” Adrien says, heart swelling with a fresh wave of fury at the Mayor when he feels Marinette begin to sway in his arms. Her cheek would be fine, simply bruised, if the Mayor wasn’t wearing so many heavy rings - as it is, there are three long swathes of ripped skin where the sharp stones in the metal have torn her, blood welling at the broken seams and trickling down to her jawline. It looks like something grotesque from a penny drawing, the type where the young maiden is killed to infuriate the handsome young man.

(Adrien smiles a little at that, then remembers where he is and feels terrible.)

“What about him?” Marinette asks in a sort of drowsy whine. Her eyes keep fluttering shut and then opening, jumping with shock every time.

Adrien spares a moment to glare at the Mayor, who is looking disdainfully down at the two yelling tailors. “He’ll be fine, and if he dares to say a word, then I’ll stand up for you. He won’t even get to see you, he’ll be too busy fending me off.”

She chuckles. “Chat?”

“Yes?” He can’t help the softening in his voice, nor the hands that encircle her ever tighter. Protectively.

“‘M tired.”

He reaches his decision, which isn’t all that hard to make in the first place. “I’ll take you home, to the home of a… a friend, and you’ll sleep, you’ve got to do that, and then I’ll sort everything out. Does that sound like an okay plan?”

He looks down at Marinette, who’s fallen asleep with her head resting on his chest, supported by his arms looped around his waist.

With a sad little smile he hopes they don’t see, Adrien lifts Marinette as delicately as a china doll and steps out of the room, the Mayor’s pale blue eyes watching him go with barely-concealed hatred.

***

“Chloé Bourgeois.”

“Yes.”

A smile. “You hate both of those girls, don’t you?”

“With all my heart.” A clenched fist.

“And there, my dear, I believe I can help you.”

Chapter Text

Adrien watches Plagg hop from one knee to the other, humming as he does so some sort of child’s song that they sing while they hopscotch down the street. Any other time, Adrien might find it vaguely annoying, like a muted buzz at the back of the skull - now he appreciates the annoyance, if only because it distracts from watching the rise and fall of the sheets and the occasional flutter of her closed eyelashes.

Logically, Adrien knows he can’t expect Marinette to be awake so soon. It’s only been three hours. In that time he’s only left once.

(Gone to change into Chat Noir and meet Alya and Nino to reassure them that he’d brought Marinette to his home and he was going to take care of her. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep her if she wants to go to somewhere else,” he had added to a glowering Alya.)

And now here he is.

Playing the waiting game.

“Go and get yourself some food,” Plagg says on his way from left knee to right. He pauses in mid-air, his green eyes matching Adrien’s. “Come on. She won’t wake up in the five minutes it takes you to be even a little bit conscious of your own health, kid.”

Adrien sighs. “I will, Plagg, I swear. I just want to stay here another while, make sure she’s okay. I don’t want her to-”

“To wake up on her own?” Plagg rolls his eyes. “Adrien, you have it bad. You have it very bad.”

Adrien tries not to think about kissing Ladybug. He tries not to think about how it would feel to kiss Marinette, whether she would taste the same as Lady does - of cinnamon and sweetbreads and sugar, chaste and sweet and shy in the midst of her leadership. He tries not to think about it, and fails miserably.

“I’m going to the kitchens to get some food. Cheese?” He guesses (correctly) at Plagg. He looks at the sleeping Marinette, tucked into the bed of the spare room next to his own. “I’ll get some bread and butter and cold meat if I can. I don’t think the cook’ll let me take up two hot dishes. If I tell her I’m just really hungry…”

Plagg grins. Is it Adrien’s paranoia speaking, or does the kwami look at him with pity in his eyes? “You’re doing a good job,” Plagg says softly, all but confirming Adrien’s thoughts. “You’re doing a good job.”

“Thanks, Plagg,” Adrien mumbles, and runs out the door.

***

For the first time in a long while, Marinette doesn’t dream.

She’s used to her days being full of yelling and shouting and the occasional angry book or shoe thrown at her, punctuated by the nights where she tosses and turns, her head full of the smell of burning and the Marinette, your parents were killed looking for you and the sight of forests of legs as she scrambles desperately to find her mama and papa.

But now her head is black. Blank. It’s Marinette alone in her mind, listening to the quiet violin drifting through the air - the soundtrack to the first dance she shared with Chat Noir.

Chat Noir.

Her memories of the moments during Mayor Bourgeois’s dressing-down are dim, blurry, as though she was only half-awake for them. As if she were seeing them through another’s eyes. She remembers the pain of her cheek, yes, and remembers Alya and Nino yelling through a door. She remembers Chloé cutting her back, bruising her shoulder.

She isn’t sure if she’s imagining the feeling of Chat Noir’s hands around her waist, his quiet voice strong and reassuring and his body a comforting warmth for her to huddle close to. She has a horrible suspicion that it isn’t a product of her fevered mind.

Point One of this argument is that, although she’s only half in the world of the waking, she’s awake enough to feel the soft sheets against her bare arms. She last slept in soft sheets when Chloé dragged her along to visit a few friends up in Normandy and Marinette got a servant’s room with sheets and a soft mattress.

Point Two of this argument is that she can hear someone whispering quietly just out of earshot. Chloé or the Mayor would never be so thoughtful.

Careful she isn’t spotted - she isn’t quite ready to wake up yet - she creeps her left hand away from her side and down to the pocket of her dress, the pocket where Tikki should be.

When Marinette’s thumb brushes against a warm, furry head, vibrating with soft and squeaky snores, she finally relaxes the whole way. She’s safe here, or as safe as she can hope to be, and even if she isn’t she’ll be fine for the next few hours she can fake sleep.

As it turns out, she doesn’t need to.

She drifts off - but this time, she tumbles right down into another dream.

Chat Noir leans against a wall. Beside him, to Marinette’s surprise, leans Prince Adrien in the same casual pose.

She touches her face with her hand, not even a little surprised to feel the softness of her Ladybug mask. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she says with a curtsey and a wave. Her arms are bare; with a start of fear, she realises that her mask doesn’t cover her cheek.

Maybe Chat won’t recognise her.

Maybe Adrien won’t recognise her.

Maybe it’s a dream and it all doesn’t matter.

But the two boys, equal in height, eyes big and green and worried, leap to their feet.

“My Lady, you’re hurt!” Says Adrien anxiously.

“Ladybug!” Chat Noir exclaims.

Marinette touches her cheek gently and looks down at the rainbow of bruises spotted on her arms. She blushes deeply, although she doesn’t know why it should embarrass her. “Chat - Adrien - I-”

The two boys have never looked so similar. Adrien’s hair, the same shade as Chat Noir’s, is messy from the breeze blowing through the open French windows. Their mouths open in the same expression of anxious worry, their eyes blown wide in fear for her.

It irritates her almost as much as it pleases her.

Marinette has never wanted to be a fainting damsel in distress, but all she ever seems to do is wait around for either Chat or Adrien to come and rescue her. And now, even in her dream - a dream! Everything should be the way she wants it! - even in her dream, she’s playing the role of the helpless maiden.

Soon will be a day that the roles will change, and you will regret you ever wished for the swapping of your fates.

Marinette decides she doesn’t much care what her head has to say about the whole situation, and closes her eyes that little bit tighter. She’s not ready to wake up just yet.

***

Adrien pauses at the turn in the corridor, eyes flickering back and forth. His mother is to the left, and although he visited her yesterday, he’s eager to call in once more and make sure she hasn’t been taking anything that girl Aurore has left her. The kitchen is to the right, where he can get cold meats and tea from the cook, and maybe get Marinette to eat a little more than she does. (Not enough.)

He wavers.

He’s never been one much for listening to sensibilities.

“Hello, Mother,” he calls softly when he pushes open the door to her chambers, hoping against hope - as he does every time - that she’ll be sitting up in bed with a smile on her face, sipping tea and telling him that she feels quite all right again.

It never happens, but that doesn’t mean Adrien doesn’t spend an inordinate amount of time wishing it would.

There’s no sound from the bed. Maybe she’s asleep.

But she never sleeps when she hears his voice. She’s always restful, and even the slightest sound can wake her - she always, always wakes for him. For her son. For the visits they share.

Adrien feels a prickle of ice-cold fear begin somewhere in the region of his stomach and move upwards, creeping slowly towards his heart. He dismisses it with slightly shaking hands. Just because she doesn’t immediately wake up doesn’t mean anything has happened to her, of course.

The Queen will be dead within the week.

The Queen will be dead within the week.

The Queen -

“Mother!” He calls, sitting in the chair by her bedside and looking fretfully at her closed eyes. Just as the fear reaches his heart and squeezes tight, he sees the rise and fall of her chest, small, but there. She’s not - she’s not dead.

She’s not dead yet.

No!

She’ll live, and she and Adrien and Father will be the happy family they were once again.

“Hello, Mother,” Adrien says with a strange thickness in his throat. “I’m glad you’re… well. I rescued Marinette, remember, that girl I was telling you about, from the house where she lives. The Mayor is an awful man, Mother, I don’t understand how he can reach such a position of power. He hit her, Mother, so me and my friends - my friends and I - rescued her. She’s sleeping just along the hall.”

His mother is still.

Adrien clears his throat. “And, um… I suppose you asked me to meet her yesterday. I’d like… I’d like it if you woke up soon, and then so did she, and you could see each other. I think you’d like her. I know I do.”

( Ladybug, says a treacherous voice in his head. Think of Ladybug. Think of her blue eyes staring down at you from the balcony. Think of her voice telling you things you’d never hear from anyone else. Don’t you like Ladybug?)

I love Ladybug, Adrien reasons with himself. Marinette reminds me of her in a way. And Ladybug reminds me of Marinette.

( You try to reason away your treachery.)

It was only a kiss!

Adrien shakes his head like a soaked dog and picks up his mother’s hand, resting on the coverlet. His thumb strokes along the blue veins that curl around his mother’s knuckles, and he wonders just how badly Aurore - Stormy Weather - has poisoned her.

Has tried to murder her.

The Queen will be dead within the week.

He briefly entertains the thought of going to his father with all of this, but no sooner has the thought arrived than Adrien dismisses it out of hand. King Gabriel hasn’t seen his son in two months, so sure is he in the knowledge that Adrien will do whatever is asked of him, and although Adrien loves his father - he loves him, he does - it often feels like he’s pouring all the love into an unreachable abyss.

According to Doctor Martell, who gets more hassled and less happy every time he visits, King Gabriel hasn’t been to see his wife in a long, long time.

Maybe since just after she fell ill.

(That illness is the little Prince’s fault, he hears them saying. Before the little Prince was born, the King and the Queen were happy together. Before the little Prince was born we lived in a time of joy and happiness.)

The Queen will be dead within the week.

“So, um… Mother… I was hoping you’d wake up soon and then I could introduce you to Marinette. She’s wonderful, honestly she is, and she’s… well, Ladybug isn’t here, but if she were I’d show her to you too. Have you heard the stories about the new ballroom partnership? The best dancing duo in Paris?” (Adrien’s quoting Alya’s crazed slogans, but who cares?)

The Queen gives no reply.

Adrien decides he’s safe enough.

“You’ve heard of them. Maybe. Well, Chat Noir is the Ladybug’s dancing partner, and I’m… well, I’m him, I suppose. With the mask and the suit and the everything. Plagg, he’s this… like a fairy, but he can’t know I think of him like that. He helps. And so does Ladybug. In fact,” he clears his throat, a little embarrassed to even say it, “In fact, Ladybug’s the first friend I’ve ever had.”

Wow. Doesn’t that sound like the plaintive whine of a child.

But.

The Queen will be dead within the week.

***

Marinette wakes up with the annoyance of someone that knows the good thing they have will soon be snatched away. In her - rather negative - view of the world, they only give her the softest sheets and the comfiest beds when something terrible has happened.

(See the death of her parents. Or maybe the Mayor just being himself.)

She can remember falling asleep with her head on Chat Noir’s shoulder, his arms around her as he carried her out of the Bourgeois house. Out of her bakery. She can remember being carried by someone else, then, although there’s a period of darkness when she guesses she fell asleep. Fainted, maybe. So did Chat leave her with someone he trusts?

Maybe this won’t all be bad.

She makes an experimental sort of hum, flutters her eyes a bit -

“Marinette! You’re awake!”

She’s at the palace?! Unless she’s very much mistaken, that voice is -

“Adrien?” She mumbles, a lot more pathetic than she means it to sound. “Prince Adrien?”

She pulls her eyes open, which takes a lot more effort than she’d like, and sees the worried face of Prince Adrien hovering over her, clearly unsure what to do. “How are you feeling?” He asks, teeth catching his bottom lip anxiously. “Are you all right? I - Chat Noir came to visit me last night, and you were… you were asleep. And hurt.”

Marinette lifts her hand from under the sheets to her cheek, feeling the clotted blood at her jawline. Great. “Chat Noir was here?” She says stupidly, in lieu of all the actual questions she could be asking right now.

Adrien smiles. “He left almost immediately. Something about his time being up? He wondered… he wondered if I’d lend you the room, for the time being. And for as long as you need it. Certainly there’s nobody using it.”

Is this really that simple?

“I…” Marinette allows herself to feel the aches and pains given to her by the Bourgeois family. Her head hurts. Her eyes still burn, complaining about the need for even more sleep.

Is it really that simple?

“I’d love to stay, if you’d let me,” she finishes. By the way Tikki nudges her leg, she knows she’s made the right decision.

(But where else does Marinette have to go? She can’t stay with the Bourgeois family anymore, if her memory of yesterday serves her correctly, and Alya and Nino are struggling to hold the shop based on the tailoring business without Marinette sucking all their supplies up.)

Adrien’s face floods with relief. “I was hoping you would say that. I - you looked - I was worried, when he brought you.”

“You shouldn’t have been,” Marinette says lamely.

Something stiff lingers in the air.

She isn’t sure she wants to analyse it overmuch.

And then Adrien says, quieter than before, so quiet he can’t have meant for her to hear, “But I was.”

***

Chloé Bourgeois rolls her eyes as Stone ties the scrap of fabric around her eyes. “This isn’t really necessary, is it?” She whines. “I mean, you’ve gone this far. Isn’t it safe to assume that I’m too far in to back out at this point?”

“Point taken, kid,” Stone rumbles, but says nothing, and ties the knot securely anyway. “I can’t afford to make any security mistakes.”

“Security mistakes? You’re talking to me, Chloé Bourgeois, the Mayor’s daughter-”

“Not anymore, you aren’t,” Stone says. Is that glee in his voice?

Chloé Bourgeois, Mayor’s daughter, does not get afraid. But if she did, she would at the purr of predatory delight that layers Stone’s voice like silk. Suddenly the warmth of the scaled creature beside her feels like a threat as opposed to a protection, and she wonders if she really should be getting home. It’s late. Her father will worry.

But fear of Stone, perhaps, keeps her lips clamped shut and her eyes skirting blindly from side to side under the scrap of material.

“Walk where I lead you,” he murmurs in her ear. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, but… until you reach the place, we don’t trust you.”

“I am the Mayor’s daughter,” Chloé says, but it doesn’t sound so impressive when her voice trembles with fear.

“You are the Mayor’s daughter,” mocks Stone, and pushes her forwards roughly. Chloé stumbles with her hands forward, feeling in the dark, her only guide the feel of soft carpet against her feet. So she’s not in some seedy hovel; some baron’s mansion, some sort of house.

The domesticity, however slight, is reassuring. Chloé can do anything if she knows she’s in familiar surroundings. “I demand to know where I am.”

“Hold your pigtails for three minutes, madame, and then I’ll take great pleasure in showing you exactly what you’ve signed up for,” Stone replies with a long-suffering voice.

Chloé is annoying him, then.

Well, good. He deserves a little annoyance for what he’s done.

(Even though she’s agreed to all of it.)

(Nobody needs to know that last part.)

“I’m warning you now that the repercussions for your actions will be severe,” she says.

“Shut up,” Stone groans, sounding bored. “Every moment I spend with another one of you new guys is a moment wasted. He always makes me do this part. He hates me, that’s why, that’s why…” His voice trails off into discontented mumbling, and Chloé is left to fend for herself, guided by the occasional prod of a scaled snout against her legs.

“Stop here,” he commands at last.

Chloé feels a doorway in front of her and scowls. “Tell me where I am.”

“I like to call this the Butterfly Conservatory, although I’m sure the irony in this statement is completely wasted on you, Mademoiselle Bourgeois. Please, enter.” The new voice is deep and thick with anticipation, which should warn Chloé off, but she’s becoming increasingly curious as to what the secrecy is about.

“Who are you?” She calls, moving into the room as the door swings open before her. Stone and the lizard move behind her.

“Some call me Hawkmoth,” replies the voice evasively. “Now, Chloé, before I can allow you to see, I must ask you three questions.”

“Hmph!”

“Do you swear to be allegiant to me in return for powers beyond imagination?”

“Hmm.”

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, and Chloé doesn’t run away.

The smile is evident in Hawkmoth’s voice. “Do you promise to help me for as long as I need?”

“Hm.”

“And finally… who do you hate the most in the entire world?”

Chloé’s voice fills with passion. “Ladybug! Ladybug and that damned insolent girl, Marinette!”

Hawmoth begins to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. “Then, Mademoiselle, I think we can come to a very suitable arrangement.”

Chapter Text

It has taken Marinette half an hour to steel up the courage to sneak out of the room she seems to be living in now, however temporarily, and she half-expects Tikki to admonish her when she finally slips out of bed and the kwami flies up into the air, curiously poking around all the drawers and paintings hung on the walls.

Tikki does just the opposite.

“It will do you good to talk to him,” she advises, the glint of adventure in her large blue eyes. “And maybe you’ll be able to make sense out of someone for once. There’s so much secrecy in your life, Marinette. It can’t be healthy.”

“Most of it is to do with you,” Marinette retorts lightly, giggling as Tikki spins in the air, freed from the claustrophobia of the sheets. The thought of Chat Noir, of seeing him for the second night in a row (as Ladybug) sends shivers of anticipation down Marinette’s spine.

Until she realises something.

“Tikki, I’ve got a massive cut on my cheek,” she says slowly, itching dread pooling in her stomach. What if she doesn’t get to see him? He was there yesterday - earlier today - she fainted on him, she probably bled on him -

There’s no way he won’t connect the dots.

“Don’t worry, Marinette, I’ll help,” Tikki says reassuringly, although her small face crinkles with anxiety.

Marinette bites her lip. “You sure?”

In response, Tikki brushes her paw against Marinette’s earring. “Just transform and I’ll show you, darling,” she says lovingly.

Marinette closes her eyes. She trusts Tikki, possibly more than she trusts anyone else, and she trusts the little kwami to do what’s best. So as she feels the customary warmth and fizz through her body, feels the harshness of her dress smooth away into the softness of her dress, feels her hair pull gently out of her pigtails, as she feels the soft flats encase her feet, she trusts Tikki.

And when she opens her eyes and blinks away the pink afterglow, Tikki sounds smug in her head.

Go on, Marinette, take a peek, she says smugly.

Marinette steps around the bed, the red-and-black skirt (longer tonight, thank goodness) swirling around her ankles as light as a cloud. The mirror hangs in the corner of the room, next to the giant wardrobe, obscuring her reflection from her until she tiptoes around to it.

She gasps. “Oh, Tikki!”

The kwami has done her best with the outfit, and it’s beautiful. The scalloped sleeves end at her biceps, but her gloves don’t start until the elbow, leaving a patch of blessedly clear skin. The waist is high and tight, but not uncomfortably so, and the skirt falls seamlessly to her ankles, shaping around her hips and accentuating her slender waist without showing how painfully thin she really is.

And her hair is pulled forward and curled over her face, concealing her cheeks. She brushes her hand over the ends of the curled parts; they’re stiffened with something, and a few experimental spins and jerks of her head tells her that they won’t be moving soon.

“Tikki, I love you.”

Oh, Marinette, Tikki says affectionately. I love you too. Now, come on, let’s see if we can get out without arousing suspicion. How subtle are you?

“Not very,” Marinette groans. “You know I’m not.”

Tikki giggles. Fine. We’ll be careful, then.

She’s in high spirits tonight. Maybe Tikki needs the freedom of the mask just as much as Marinette does, and honestly, Marinette can’t fault her on that. Ladybug seems so much better than Marinette, in some strange way she can’t put her finger on, and when she spins through the waves of people on the dance floor, when she runs through the streets of her city as free as a bird, she is capable of so much more than Marinette.

Maybe that’s why Chat Noir kissed her under the mask.

Don’t be ridiculous, Tikki warns, fondness in her voice.

Marinette smiles at herself. “Fine. I won’t be. Now, let’s go, let’s see how we can do this.”

She sticks her head out of the door to check the coast is clear, although when she thinks about it she hasn’t seen a single other soul in the palace during her stay except Prince Adrien. Maybe he’s placed her on a floor with few reasons for servants to venture up so far; maybe the palace is short on staff. (She doubts it.)

She hopes it's the former. Adrien seems like the type of person to want her to feel as safe as possible.

And as Ladybug, she’s in no danger. (Well, she is, but only a little.) As Ladybug she can say she’s just visiting Adrien on business, or something equally stupid and annoying that will get the servants out of her way.

Maybe she’ll run into a masked courtier.

Maybe it’ll be like the Cesaire Mansion all over again.

(Outside, in the bush, the girl with the purple hair stretches her legs and yawns as her replacement sidles out of the servant’s door. “See anything interesting?” Asks the boy with the Egyptian mask on his head.

“I saw the Prince coming in with a girl,” says the purple-haired one smugly. “Won’t Hawkmoth just go bananas for it?”

“He’ll kill the messenger, literally and figuratively,” says the boy with the mask. You could hear the eyeroll in his voice as he takes her recently-vacated place, crossing his legs, the picture of serenity.

The girl scoffs. “As if! I’m the first, I’m the favourite.”

“But the Prince. A girl. You know how he is with this Ladybug business, never mind adding this to the top of it,” the boy drawls. He looks up at her, the setting sun reflecting in the glass eyes of his mask.

“I need all the powers of destruction and creation and wishing and blah-blah-blah, ” says the girl mockingly, waving her purple umbrella in the air in a passable imitation of their master. “I wish we could go back to the good old days. Whatever happened to killing the Queen and seizing the throne?”

“Ambition,” sighs the boy. “Now, go on, deliver the news. He’s got a new one. That Bourgeois girl.”

“Even more people to see him lose the plot,” she grins, swinging the umbrella up and opening it slightly, lifting off the ground a few inches when it catches a brief gust of wind. “Have fun.”

“See you, Stormy Weather.”

“Likewise, Pharaoh.” She skips off towards the open servant’s door.)

Marinette hears a door slamming down below her and jumps in fright for a second. “It’s only a servant,” she scolds herself, pinching her arm. “It’s only a servant.” She checks that her hair is still settled over her cheek, firm and unmoving, and then carries on.

Down the stairs, dragging her hand along the wooden banisters, Marinette has time to hope that Tikki has worked her usual magic and there’s a coach outside the gate. She isn’t even sure where the gala is to be held tonight, only that there is one, and without the coach she’ll be lost.

It’s there, Tikki says assuringly. Come on, let’s go, time is running short!

Marinette nods, saying nothing out of fear of someone hearing. She’s uncertain in the palace surroundings, every corner promising new traps, every step full of the chance of someone seeing her. Her feet make no sound in the carpet, and, miraculously, she doesn’t see anyone when she finally finds the waiting red carriage.

“Salut, Nathanael!” She exclaims happily when she sees the blushing boy sitting with the reins in his hands. “It’s good to see you, mon ami.”

Nathanael turns as red as a cherry. “Ladybug! It’s good to - it’s good to see you too, Ladybug! I - uh, I… um, are you going to the gala?”

“Please,” she says, brushing his arm in thanks, touching the green tasseling around his red cap. It makes him look like a bizarre sort of tomato, which sends her into the carriage stifling giggles around the back of her hand.

You’re not that far from the truth, Tikki comments in amusement as Marinette snuggles into the familiar seats and Nathanael clicks his tongue to prompt the horses forwards into the setting sun.

Marinette looks out the window at the shrinking palace. “What do you mean?”

I mean that I was short on resources when I was making your carriage. I’m afraid Nathanael is the reason one of the tomatoes you uprooted from the allotment is missing.

Marinette’s mouth drops. “You made a coachman out of a tomato?! And gave him a name?!”

Tikki chuckles. Oh, no, he came up with the name on his own. He’s carrying the torch for you all on his own, too. I must say he’s the most creative tomato I’ve ever known, and I’ve known a few.

Marinette decides to not even ask about the other tomatoes.

She’s missed her carriage. It feels like a lifetime ago since she’s reclined on these seats, when really it’s just been yesterday. Barely twenty-four hours.

But in that time she’s been attacked twice, possibly been kicked out of her house, fainted on her dancing partner, been carried by a Prince, cared for by a Prince, and told Chloé Bourgeois where to shove it. She wonders where Chloé is now; is she going to be at this gala, wherever it is? Will Marinette have to grit her teeth and smile for the sake of it all, while Chloé talks her ear off about how much she hates this insolent servant called Marinette....

No. Chat Noir would never stand for it. And neither will she, Ladybug - after all, she’s seperate to Marinette. She can tell Chloé off of her own accord.

The thought makes Marinette smile contentedly and even wave out the carriage window at some children running to keep up with the trotting horses. She blows a kiss to the littlest girl, who catches it like a mime and holds it to her cheek.

Marinette laughs.

It’s been awhile since she’s done that.

And back in the room she’s so recently vacated, a small black cushion shaped like a tiny cat opens his eyes, covers his mouth with his hands, and squeaks as loudly as he dares.

***

Chloé looks around the room, fascinated.

It’s in darkness, the light of the setting sun not able to penetrate the thick blackout curtains over the window. All the same the flickering candlelight is enough to see vague shadows by, and she hums thoughtfully while this man, this Hawkmoth, talks to Stone in a lowered voice.

The chair in the centre of the room is large and ornate. It looks like those are emeralds and rubies set into the stone at the feet, and over one end is hooked a - is that a crown? From the way the light of the nearest candle pools against the gems set into it, creating little puddles of purple amethyst, Chloé figures it has to be of some value. And it looks like the Royal Crown. Some expensive copy, perhaps?

Where is she?

Just as Chloé is about to make a demanding statement, the doors fly open, banging against the wall and shining light through briefly before the newcomer slams them shut again.

“Stormy Weather!” Snaps Hawkmoth irritably. “This had better be good.”

“It is. I saw your -” Stormy Weather, with her long purple hair and her folded umbrella indoors, breaks off and shoots a look at Chloé. “I saw the Prince. Several hours ago. He walked through the gates with a girl in his arms.”

“A girl?” Hawkmoth murmurs. Anger flashes in his steely eyes.

“What did she look like?” Chloé interrupts, not caring if she’s unwelcome in the conversation. She often is, and when has that stopped her before?

Stormy Weather gives her a scornful look, but at a sharp glance from Hawkmoth she groans. “Ugh. Short hair, dark, bleeding a bit, old clothes, looked like she fainted on him if I’m perfectly honest. You know the strange thing, though? I could have sworn I saw Chat Noir leaving this place this morning, as well. The palace is-”

“Marinette!” Chloé exclaims, barely curbing her anger. Her hands curl into fists. Even here, that wretched baker’s daughter just has to steal the spotlight!

“You know this girl?” Asks Stormy Weather.

Chloé grits her teeth. “Do I? She’s the bane of my life! She’s lived with me and my father for years completely free, eating out of our money and taking the benefits of our lives, and then all of a sudden she gets all dramatic and Chat Noir and those two tailors and - and now she’s gone and she’s with the Prince, the Prince that I was supposed to meet and - and I hate her!”

“Good, good,” murmurs Hawkmoth. “I think, Chloé, it is time that I showed you a little something that you were brought here to see.”

Behind him, Stone chuckles nastily.

“Go ahead, then,” Chloé folds her arms and fixes the pink-haired man with a defiant glare. She’s not afraid of anything. She’s not afraid of whatever Hawkmoth does. If it gives her the opportunity for revenge on Marinette and Ladybug, then she’s more than ready and willing.

Stormy Weather snorts in laughter. She folds her arms in imitation of the blonde girl, purple eyes fixed on Chloé with disquieting attentiveness.

“Come closer, Mademoiselle Bourgeois,” says Hawkmoth quietly. He holds out his hands, palms up, a guesture of trust.

Chloé ignores the Stormy Weather and Stone. They've begun to mutter together, but she couldn't care less. Something about Hawkmoth’s ice eyes draws her closer despite her inhibitions, reassures her, tells her it'll all be fine. Underlying that, Chloé feels the fear. The man isn't to be meddled with. The man is a force as yet unleashed.

Hawkmoth takes one of her hands in his.

A deathly hush has filled the room.

“Through your hatred, through your bitterness, I give you an akuma to do with what you will,” he says in a voice like smooth snow, quiet and unstoppable as the ice-cold oceans in his eyes.

Chloé feels something begin to struggle against the palm of the hand that Hawkmoth has clasped. She gasps, the only sound in the room her intake of breath, and the mouth beneath the mask moves into a twisted caricature of a smile.

“Be free, mon petit akuma,” Hawkmoth says as though they’re discussing nothing more important than the weather. He drops Chloé’s hand and arches his fingers, chin on his knuckles, giving her all his attention.

The room is hushed and sombre. Chloé wishes somebody would make a noise.

And why are they all staring at her?

Or rather, at her closed left fist, in which she can still feel the gentle brush of something fluttering desperately to escape her grasp?

“Release the akuma,” Hawkmoth tells her, “Release your hatred. Wouldn’t it be much better? Out in the open? Wouldn’t you love to be able to act on it?”

(“This is my favourite part,” whispers Stormy Weather.)

Chloé opens her hands and the purple butterfly flies into the air, illuminated by the one beam of sun allowed through by the hole in the black blinds. Its wings catch in the light like a beautiful, warped gemstone, its head turning towards the glow in one last bid for freedom.

Not of her own will but of some other power moving her arm, Chloé’s hand shoots out and snatches the fragile creature by the wings, crumpling them carelessly as she pinches them together between her right forefinger and thumb. “ Mon petit akuma,” she repeats softly, gaze captured by the futile struggle of the butterfly against her crushing grip. “ Mon petit akuma.”

She knows she should be instructed on what to do next, but she doesn’t need to.

She releases the butterfly - the akuma - and watches it flutter unsteadily towards her, aimed at her heart.

“Blacken and touch everything that she is,” Hawkmoth murmurs from his seat on the throne.

Chloé holds out her arms and throws her head back when the first hit of purple energy courses through her veins. She feels it like a tremor, like a tsunami, like a single heartbeat that’s so much more than just a heartbeat but a moment, and she feels it tingle the tips of her fingers and sends chills down her spine in the most wonderfully painful way.

“Welcome to the world, Antibug,” breathes Hawkmoth.

And out of the ashes rises Chloé Bourgeois, spinning as the heavy black skirt speckled with red, the red of blood, falls to her ankles. Raising her arms as black gloves encase them up to the elbow. Stroking the covered fingers along the black mask on her eyes. Kicking her feet to see the heeled black boots, the tips and the heels as red as the dots on her skirt.

“Welcome to the world, Antibug,” he repeats.

Chloé Bourgeois has never felt victorious before.

Never really like she earned it.

“I am Antibug,” she grins at Hawkmoth, with a flash of white teeth.

***

Adrien knows that he’s being a fool, leaving the palace when Marinette is still sleeping in the room and his mother is - is on death’s door. Let’s be frank. But Plagg rushed to his shoulder, saying we can go, we can go to the ball, Marinette is more than fine, and Adrien doesn’t really need much more encouragement than that.

“Why are you so eager?” He asks even as the transformation pulls away the Prince.

I wish I could tell you, kid, but it’s something you have to work out for yourself, Plagg says cryptically from inside Adrien’s head.

Kwami. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand them.

Chat Noir tonight has the gleaming gem at his throat, the ear-topped hat, and the fiery glint of desperation in his eyes. Adrien wishes he looked less like an idiot and more like the Chat Noir he usually is, but something about the alternate personality brings out all his emotions and multiplies them tenfold. In this situation that means his ragged, paranoia is brought to the fore, making Chat look like an eccentric young man.

But he’ll be seeing Ladybug.

She doesn’t care what he looks like. She kissed him when he was in the dark, when he was Adrien, the mask no longer a barrier between them.

Stop thinking sappy thoughts and get down to the coach outside, Plagg says with a hint of exasperation.

“Right, right, on it,” Adrien holds up his hands defensively, pulling his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror and springing out of his room, kicking the door closed behind him. It slams louder than he means it to and he winces for a moment, laughing when nobody appears to check on him. Of course nobody does. Chat Noir - Plagg’s influence - is working its magic as usual, and no servants appear anywhere as Adrien runs down the stairs, swinging on the banisters with one hand, graceful and at ease.

Slow down, kid, Plagg grins inside Adrien’s head. The happiness, the freedom of the costume, is rubbing off on the kwami too. Adrien can hear it.

Feel it.

He is it.

“I don’t care about anything anymore, you know,” he says conversationally as he takes the third floor staircase two steps at a time.

I know. Caring is a good thing sometimes.

Adrien doesn’t reply for a moment, flying down the corridor from one floor to the next, catching his breath. “But sometimes I do it too much and then I run out of caring and all I want to do is talk to someone without having to care.”

Plagg sounds affectionate. Well, you have Ladybug. I guess that’s one of the reasons you two exist in tandem, you know.

“And I’m glad.”

Adrien skids out the palace doors and into the coach in the same whirlwind way he always does. He’s certain that whoever drives him to and from these things must hate the way he rocks the thing back and forth on its black wheels every time he enters it.

Someone’s eager.

Adrien grins as he bounces up and down, hearing the click of the coachman’s tongue against his teeth to get the horses moving. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m going to a ball, I’m going to see Ladybug…” The unspoken words, the darker words - the Palace is far from this house, the Prince is nowhere near me, the creeping poison of a dark conspiracy can’t reach me - but he knows Plagg understands.

Who knows how many people like Adrien Plagg has led through the same sorts of situations?

Don’t think too much, kid. Don’t work your way into the person you don’t need to be for tonight, Plagg says quietly.

“Hmm.” Adrien closes his eyes, good mood evaporating. The last time he saw Ladybug she was covered in glass, eyes wide with shock, and a man in purple was chasing them down, planning to kill his mother. The last time he saw Ladybug he was in the darkness with her, cold and shivering, kissing in the quiet recesses of the outside walls of the Cesaire Mansion.

Don’t.

So Adrien doesn’t.

He thinks of something else as hard as he can, eyes closed. Somethingelse. Somethingelse.

His mind automatically skips to Alya, to Nino, to Marinette.

To Marinette, lying sleeping still in the room just opposite his. Adrien wonders - briefly - if he’s doing the right things, becoming so involved, interfering so much with everything, but the thought of what would happen if he didn’t sends that thought out the window. Alya and Nino would still be impoverished. Marinette would be living there.

No. Adrien’s making a difference in his friends’ situations, a difference for the better. ( His friends.)

That’s the spirit, kid.

“Shut up, Plagg,” Adrien mumbles affectionately.

When the coach rolls up, he sees the red-and-black one just rolling away. Even her coachman has red hair; he wonders if her kwami did that on purpose, just to work in the Ladybug theme. From what Adrien knows of kwami, or his own at least, he wouldn’t put it past any of them.

He leaps out, nodding his thanks to his driver, and looks up the steps. Ladybug has already gone in, then.

Ladybug.

Have fun, then, kid, Plagg says. I’m going. Don’t want to have to hear this lovey-dovey sap all evening.

Adrien usually would retort, he really would, but he doesn’t want to. He feels Plagg vanish, as usual, feels some of the magic evaporate from him, as usual.

Bounces up the stairs with a spring to his step, as usual. The footman waiting at the door doesn’t even ask for an invitation, and Adrien guesses that everyone in town has become used to he and Ladybug joining parties uninvited, or else Plagg’s magic of distraction has grown stronger over the past few weeks.

“Good evening,” he says courteously to someone he vaguely recognises from the past events he’s been to. Or from somewhere else? She simpers, anyway, fluttering long eyelashes at him.

He isn’t interested. “Have you seen Ladybug?” He asks politely, pitching the question wider than just the girl with the carrot-coloured hair. It’s loud enough that people around him turn in mild interest - he’s Chat Noir, after all, and the stifled aristocrats love nothing more than a man of mystery. Or so he’s heard. “Have you seen her?” He repeats.

“Oui, oui, I saw her speaking to someone over on the veranda,” says a portly man, tipping his champagne glass in Adrien’s direction.

He smiles back. “Thank you. Who was it, did you know by any chance?” Adrien doesn’t want to run the risk of meeting someone from last night’s unsavoury turn of events, and he’d rather just spend the evening in Ladybug’s delightful company than with someone like Stormy Weather or the Pharaoh or - heaven forbid - Papillon himself.

“I didn’t,” the portly man says regretfully.

Adrien smiles anyway. “Thanks for the tip, sir. Be seeing you around.”

He brushes two fingers to the brim of his hat, springing away from the conversation as quickly as he can in search of the familiar girl in the red dress and the mask.

The crowd around him presses close, most of them familiar faces by now from other balls. Adrien nods and smiles and waves with distracted haste, green eyes constantly scanning the crowd, coming up with nothing. She’s on the veranda, then, still. But with who? Neither of them, to Chat’s knowledge, know anyone else with the same degree of intimacy as they know each other, and from what he can pick up from her side comments she visits these things unmasked just as often as the Prince does.

Never.

“Ladybug?” He calls, raising his voice to be heard over the soft murmur of the crowd. He still can’t see her.

And then -

He sees something, like Ladybug but somehow not, a swish of a skirt through the window. She’s just outside to clear her head. On the veranda. Where the man said she was, anyway. Nothing at all untoward about anything - she hasn’t been kidnapped or murdered or something equally horrible and quite likely considering the events of last night.

“What do you have that I don’t have more of?”

Just as Adrien is about to jump out and hug Ladybug, he hears a familiar, nasal voice, and shrinks back behind the doorway with his hands curled around the edge of the wall. Who is that? Why are they talking to her?

“I’m a better Ladybug than you, anyway,” says Ladybug’s voice, sounding a little wobblier than usual but no less full of her determination, her her-ness. “Who are you, anyway, just some self-obsessed little girl that wants to play dress up but can’t quite make it?”

Harsh. Who is that, that Ladybug feels justified in saying such things?

“Hah! Me? You’re the one that’s ruined my life. Without you, I wouldn’t have annoying tailors banging on my door and taking away my only servant - my only servant! - and without you, I’d still be the most beautiful girl at the ball-”

Hold up. Adrien’s brow furrows. Has Chloé Bourgeois cornered Ladybug to rant at her? But why would Chloé do that - why would Ladybug allow her?

And why does Ladybug’s dress seem so different?

He pokes his head around the doorframe again, and finally sees what’s really going on. His heart sinks to the bottom of his toes.

There she is, Ladybug, her dress different than usual but no less beautiful, ending at her ankles in a swathe of black lace that puffs elegantly out from high on her waist. Her arms are, once again, covered by gloves save for her shoulders down to her elbows, where the glove begins. Anger flares in her blue eyes, beautiful to behold but terrifyingly powerful, a glacier of steely determination. He smiles even to see her.

(He really does have it bad.) (Does she regret the kiss?) (Not important now.)

The girl facing her, though, she is frightening.

Adrien recognises her - Chloé Bourgeois - but it’s Chloé distorted, her sneer twisted, her eyes burning hateful glares at Ladybug. A mask, black where Ladybug’s is red and red where Ladybug’s is black, covers the top half of her face, but Adrien would recognise that tone of voice (and that anecdote) anywhere. Cascading from tight around her waist falls a black skirt peppered with red spots, and her arms are bare.

“What do you have that I don’t have in better supply?” Taunts Chloé. Taunts Antibug.

Ladybug takes one tiny, telling step backwards. She seems lost for words, and that’s really the part that scares Adrien. “I… I don’t-”

“Exactly,” says Antibug smugly. “I’m prettier. I’m richer. I’m not afraid to let people know who I truly am. And I’ll be the one dancing around, all eyes on me, magic spilling from the tips of my fingers. What do you have that I don’t? What’s your secret?”

Ladybug is nothing without her Chat Noir.

Marinette hears it in her head like an anthem, a desperate chant, but she can’t seem to remember the reply. Running down the stairs in her mind, his hand clasped in hers, breath ragged with fear - Ladybug is nothing without her Chat Noir -

“She has me, and you’ll never have that,” comes a sudden interruption.

Antibug gasps. Marinette twirls around, hands stretching towards him almost involuntarily, and Chat Noir comes sauntering towards them. There’s a lazy grin on his lips that doesn’t match the ire in his green eyes when his gaze meets this other-Ladybug, this pretender, this Antibug. Chloé Bourgeois. Papillon has got to her before Marinette could.

“Chat,” she says. “Chat Noir.”

“That’s my name, Lady. Glad of you to notice.” He walks to stand beside her, hand brushing surreptitiously against her arm. “Another Papillon trick? And here I was thinking that we could dance the night away.”

“We still can, kitty, just as soon as she decides to give up,” Marinette responds. She didn’t think she’d ever be this grateful to hear a mocking laugh in her life.

Chloé’s eyes unfocus. She stares at Marinette, but blankly, as though seeing something else in Marinette’s place, nodding slightly to the words of somebody that neither of Chat nor Marinette can see. “Yes, sir. Of course. Of course.”

“What’s going on with her?” Chat whispers with concern, just as Chloé straightens up, coming back to the present.

Marinette feels dreadful anticipation pooling low in her stomach. Something is about to go very, very wrong, and she can’t stop it. She just knows that it’s coming.

Chloé takes a couple of long, confident strides forward, backing Marinette and Chat into the wall. “I hope you don’t mind,” she purrs, staring at Marinette. “I have some friends coming along just so we can even the game between us. It’s not fair if you have something I don’t, is it?”

“Ladybug?” Chat asks, wavering a little. “What - Antibug - what does that mean?”

She smiles. “You’ll see in about five seconds.”

Just that moment a bell begins to ring, the loud and sombre toll of the bells in the Notre Dame. Marinette counts the beats - twelve - which doesn’t make sense, because it was seven when she left the palace and it can’t be midnight already - but they continue to ring with dreadful finality. Chat Noir’s grip abruptly tightens on her hand, and he sucks in a terrible breath.

Marinette remembers something told to her when she was little and reading a fairytale.

Three people come out of the doors.

Backed against the wall, she has nowhere to go. And Chat squeezes her hand like it’s his last lifeline to the world.

“Maman, come read with me,” she begged, handing the smiling baker a dog-eared book. “Please, Maman.”

“Chat Noir,” Chloé instructs imperiously. She points, as though the three familiar figures don’t recognise which one it is. Stormy Weather. Pharaoh. Copycat, choker gleaming at his throat.

“The tolling of the church bells rang on and on, and the Princess counted past twelve.”

“Past midnight? There isn’t such a thing,” exclaimed Marinette, folding her arms. “This is a silly book, Maman.”

He should struggle. Why doesn’t he move? “Chat, please,” Marinette urges on, but she finds her feet stuck to the ground too, ice crystals creeping up from the earth and knotting the grass around her shoes. “Chat! Chat-”

Her mother continued regardless. “The Princess knew that when a church bell rang past midnight, it meant somebody was dead.”

“Maman!” Marinette covered her mouth with her hand, maneuvering her bear’s hand to its mouth as well.

“Maman…” mumbles Chat. “Maman-”

“Chat!” Marinette practically yells, wrenching her body backwards and forwards to try and pull herself out of the icy patch that has her frozen solid to the ground. She can’t move. And abruptly his grip has loosened, and she’s powerless, she can’t do anything as Stormy Weather takes one elbow in her purple-gloved hands and heaves -

“The Princess covered her face with her hands, magical tears watering her plants.”

Pharaoh takes the weight of Chat’s other arm, dragging the listless dancer away, Copycat sauntering forwards. Chat’s green eyes are glassy, his face blank, but his hand still reaches fruitlessly for Marinette. Too late.

Antibug paces after them.

Chat struggles, now, he does, but between Stormy Weather and Pharaoh and Copycat he is overpowered.

And Marinette is stuck -

“The bells meant that the Princess’s worst hopes were confirmed. Her mother, the invalid Queen, was dead.”

“Chat!”

Too late. With a cruel wink and a salute, Chloé slams the doors behind them, leaving Marinette to try to pull herself free, the knowledge that they have Chat bouncing around her brain, an incessant tattoo that won’t go away.

“And the Princess knew that her world would never have the brightness that her mother brought.”

Chapter Text

Chloé

“Adrien!”

He runs to the sweet sound of his mother’s voice, toddling along in shoes too big for him, stolen from his father’s wardrobe without the King’s knowledge. Her laugh, like the tinkle of a bell, is soft and clear as he buries his face in the gentle velvet of her skirt - purple, a complimenting contrast to her blonde hair - and her arms encircle him, lifting him up to cradle him against her shoulder.

“Hello, Adrien,” she whispers into his hair, pressing her lips in a delicate kiss to the crown of his head.

He rubs his cheek against hers, revelling in the warmth of his mother beside him. For the first time since they parted - since they parted yesterday morning at the King’s request (“Boy needs to grow up, stop his dependency on his mother”) - for the first time since then, Adrien smiles.

And the Queen smiles too. He can feel it against his cheek when she kisses him again, blowing a raspberry against his skin and making him chuckle childishly. “Maman!” He exclaims. “That tickles!”

“Oh does it?” She teases, swinging him around to land in her lap as she sits on the steps up to the dias where the thrones sit, her skirts billowing around her.

“Yes!” He cries. Adrien wriggles away from her softly tickling hands, grabbing some velvet hem in his hands and letting it run through his fingers like a purple waterfall. He loves his mother’s dresses. They’re all soft and delicate and lovely to touch. His toys are all wooden and hard. He doesn’t like any of them as much as he likes the clothes his mother wears.

She lifts the silver circlet from her head and hands it to him, knowing what he wants to do. “It’s sparkling. Look! We can be sparkling together.”

“I’m the Sparkle King. You can be the Sparkle Queen,” Adrien tells her loftily. He fits the circlet over his bouncing curls, where it’s only stopped from becoming a necklet by his ears. “See? Sparkles!” His fingers touch the thin topaz necklace resting between her collarbones. “Put it on your head, maman, and we’ll be kings and queens.”

She laughs as she hooks it around her ears, letting the tiny chip of topaz hang in the centre of her forehead. She looks positively elfen. “You look beautiful, my King.”

“And then we tell the Sparkle people what to do,” Adrien pushes the circlet up and hums a little tune he heard the servants sing last week. He always feels happier when his mother is here.

“I think the Sparkle people should open a shop and sell… what should they sell, my king?” His mother strokes her chin thoughtfully. Her blue eyes dance with youthful happiness.

Adrien throws his arms wide. “Bread! Sweets! Cheese! Elephants!”

“An elephant shop it shall be, then, with glittering trunk decorations and little helmets for the sparkling elephants to wear when they go to war,” nods his mother as if it all makes perfect sense.

Adrien laughs again, clapping his hands together. “Let’s tell papa about it! He can be… he can be our Prince!”

“Oh, darling,” she says, her face abruptly falling before she can catch it and restore it to its laughing position. “Papa is a little busy sorting out a few things for the Palace. But we can call on the butler? He’d love to be a Prince, wouldn’t you?”

Adrien smiles, placated.

“Yes, ma’am,” the elderly butler says, grateful for a chance to rest his legs a little. “I’d love that.”

“Love you, Adrien,” says his mother.

“Maman! Sparkle Kings don’t need their mamas to tell them they love them! I’m going to war!” Adrien wriggles away from the kiss she plants on his cheek.

She smiles. “I love you anyway.”

With every toll of the bell, another nail hammers hard into Adrien’s coffin. He knows he should be kicking and hitting and causing a scuffle, and he knows that Ladybug will be wondering what’s caused his sudden lethargy, but he can’t seem to move.

He wants to.

Does he?

His mother is dead and he isn’t even sitting with her, he isn’t even holding her hand - he knows her husband won’t be - but her son, her last  link in the palace, is off in a mask and a ridiculous hat to hold hands with a girl and forget. Forget! How selfish he is!

“What’s up with him?” Copycat asks as though he hasn’t got his elbow hooked around Adrien’s and isn’t dragging Adrien through a crowd of unaware dancers.

Antibug shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Just hurry up before someone decides to ask questions, can’t you?”

Adrien twitches his arm a little, experimentally. He needs to be able to get away. He needs to go back and get Ladybug and go to the palace and prove to himself that either she’s dead - she can’t be dead she can’t be - or someone’s playing a horrible joke on the whole city.

In the ball, at least, it doesn’t seem to be just him affected. People have stopped dancing to listen to the sombre bell, the string quintet have stopped playing, and everywhere the people have a look of dumbfounded shock on their faces.

How can the Queen be dead?

How can the Queen be dead?

Simple. A girl called Aurore poisoned her.

Adrien kicks out at Stormy Weather’s leg, imagining her free of purple hair and fancy dress, blonde and innocent as she lets a few drops of death fall into his mother’s tea. His foot misses - she snorts a laugh.

A laugh! Laughing like she hasn’t just killed someone!

“You killed the Queen,” Adrien says quietly.

Stormy Weather scoffs. “She was going to die anyway. I just sped it up a little. And why do you care so much?”

Of course he can’t tell her. He glares at her shoulder but stays quiet and mute just like she wants him to as they half-drag, half-lead him through the shellshocked aristocracy. And Ladybug. What’s she going to do?

“Hurry it up,” Copycat says, giving Adrien’s arm a rough and irritated shake. The other Chat’s eyes meet Chloé’s. “What is he, stupid?”

“He’s like this lot when I meet him. All of them are,” she shrugs, casting a wide, disdainful glance around the crowd of people. Already a few of the higher-strung ladies have begun to go into hysterics. Adrien thinks he might join them.

The Queen will be dead within the week, they said. And they were right.

He wants his mother.

There’s a ringing in his ears that he can’t quite place, and his head is aching like he’s fallen down the stairs. Hah! Yes, and right into a nightmare. He wants his mother, he wants his father, he wants his mother, he wants Ladybug - he wants Plagg. Plagg. Plagg. Come on, come out of my memories, please-

Adrien?!

Adrien almost falls to his knees in grateful surprise. Plagg, my - it’s my mother - it’s the queen -

I know. I know. Plagg sounds sorrowful, none of his usual vim and vigour present in his sombre tone. He flies to the forefront of Adrien’s mind, coinciding with Copycat’s hand tightening over Adrien’s arm. He winces.

Strange. Only half an hour ago he was kissing his mother on the forehead, telling her she could meet Marinette - Marinette, who would surely be awake by the sound of the bells - and now she’s - she’s gone. The only family he has left is his father, and what a funny feeling that one will be to get used to. Adrien can’t imagine hugging the King. He can’t imagine soft kisses on the top of his head when he accidentally falls asleep when the King visits him (or the other way around.) He can’t imagine smiling warmly at a shared joke. He can’t imagine laughing and joking and loving and -

No need to imagine. It won’t happen. His mother was the only person in the palace that Adrien saw on a daily basis, was even close to.

He won’t have anyone, now.

You’ll have me and Ladybug and Marinette and Nino and Alya, kid. You have friends, not just people that stick around because they like the sound of the money in their pocket.

Adrien nods.

He nods because that’s the only thing he can think of to do.

He nods because his mother is dead and he’s being led outside and he nods because there’s nothing else for him to do.

***

Marinette rubs her hands over the ice around her feet, hoping that the heat from her palms will speed up the melting a little. She’s going through all the logical steps as though in a dream, just knowing that she has to continue, because to do otherwise would mean having to think, and she doesn’t think she can do that right now.

Chat Noir.

Why did he say it? Maman. Marinette knows the one logical reason, but she refuses to think that might be true. Why didn’t he struggle? Was he in that much shock? Marinette knows the logical reason there as well, that Chat was closer to the Queen than she thought, but she refuses to follow that train of thought as well. They’ve both said they want privacy.

If it weren’t that he were gone. If it weren’t that the treacherous time limit was ticking away. If it weren’t for the burning cold in Marinette’s palms. And if it weren’t for the equally bright burning curiosity kindling in her mind.

Curiosity killed the cat, her treacherous thoughts give her.

Satisfaction brought him back, says another voice in her head. Don’t worry, Marinette. We’ll go find Antibug. We’ll rescue Chat. We’ll sort it out.

“The Queen is dead,” Marinette mumbles.

But you are not.

Marinette glares at her red shoes as though Tikki is there. She’s almost free. “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it - you know it. What do we do?”

Who says we do anything?

“You!” Marinette exclaims, too loudly, standing up and wriggling once more. She feels irrational anger beginning to build, anger at herself and at Chloé and at Hawkmoth but not at Tikki. Tikki just happens to be at the receiving end. “You were the one - ‘no Ladybug without Chat’ - the one that says I have to do something! You’re the one that came to me in the first place, and I don’t know what to do and I don’t - I don’t want to have to rescue Chat, I can’t rescue Chat, I can’t even get myself out of these stupid blocks of ice, and I want to do something and we have to do something and we have to do it now!”

There’s the Marinette we need, Tikki squeaks a little smugly.

Marinette gives one final kick and almost falls over when her foot is actually freed from Stormy Weather’s magic touch.

Go! You still have time to catch up with Chat, you know, Tikki says urgently. Run!

Marinette nods, determination colouring her cheeks. Whoever Chat is, he’s in trouble, and they’ve come this far as Ladybug and Chat Noir that they have to see it out until the end. She runs through the double doors and into the ballroom, where the people are milling around, unsure of what to do next now the country is officially in a state of mourning.

Chat.

Presumably the people have been sent from Hawkmoth. Hawkmoth, who must have some powers of hypnosis or something to be able to control someone like Chloé Bourgeois - from Marinette’s extensive experience, nobody can control Chloé unless something supernatural is going on. But what does Hawkmoth want with them?

He wants the power. All people like him do. They get greedy and selfish and suddenly, whatever they have just isn’t enough. But what if they’ve got the most power they possibly can? Then they turn to us. Tikki says.

Marinette skids out the door. “Us?” Shading her eyes from the light, she thinks she sees a black coach careering away in the distance, and sees her own waiting by the gate, Nathanael - the creative tomato boy - holding the reins.

Us. Kwami. Just as Chat has his, you have me, and Hawkmoth… oh, poor Nooroo.

“Nooroo?” Marinette asks. She leaps into her coach. “Nathanael! Down the street, take the left and follow the black coach!”

“Of course!” Nathanael yells back. The carriage begins to gain speed, Marinette thrown back into her seat by the sudden acceleration.

Nooroo. They’re Hawkmoth’s kwami. I suppose it can’t hurt for you to know their name, after all - they’re good, so good, and it must hurt them so to be used like this. There are powers at work here, Marinette, powers beyond either of our comprehension, but tonight something is happening.

Marinette looks out of the window at the full moon, hears the whinny of her horses, the sparks flying from the cobbles as the horseshoes smash into them. “I can tell.”

I trust you, Marinette, Tikki says affectionately. I trust you to do the right thing. I know you can.

“I want to rescue Chat. And I want to rescue your kwami friend - Nooroo. And I want…” Marinette leaves it unfinished. It sounds a bit pathetic to say you want to sort out your relationship issues, but she does, and she wants -

She doesn’t know what she wants.

She wants for this all to be over. For everything to be sorted. And won’t Prince Adrien come looking for her when he hears the news?

(He will unless he’s-)

She shuts down her mind again. Thinking like that is getting her nowhere.

There’s a knock on the wooden partition between Nathanael and Marinette. “They’re going to the palace, miss!” He yells over the sound of the horseshoes and the rattle of the coach. “Do I follow them through?”

“As far as you can!” Marinette replies loudly.

In response he only yells back something unintelligible, and he must loosen his grip on the reins as the coach speeds up. Marinette holds onto the edge of the seat, bouncing up and down, Tikki tumbling about her mind wildly as though both of them are possessed.

We’ll find him as soon as we get in! Tikki yells. Him and Hawkmoth and the Prince and Nooroo and everybody!

Marinette doesn’t mention her suspicions, the ones just beginning to curl inside her mind and set root. She doesn’t need to. But - “But what about the mourners?” She swallows past a sudden lump of pity for Adrien. “What about all the people parading through the palace because the Queen is dead? We can’t just… can’t just - oof - barge on through them as though they don’t mean anything, can we?”

We can do what we must. Think, Marinette! Why would someone use Nooroo and the power that he gives? What would he gain?

“You mean you don’t know? Ow!” Marinette yells.

“Sorry!” Nathanael cries faintly, voice stolen by the winds of speed.

Tikki shrugs. In her mind, Marinette sees the kwami pacing around, anxious with fear and jumpy with the adrenaline of the moment. In the past, peasants have used Nooroo to help their families. But Hawkmoth, this Hawkmoth… he seems far more than just a peasant.

“Who could he be? And - woah - and what does he want?” Marinette is thrown against the window, where to her relief she sees the palace just ahead.

I think that until we answer that, and Tikki sounds mournful, We’ll get nowhere with trying to defeat Hawkmoth. We have to get after Chat. Rescue our friend. Both of them!

“I know! I know!” As Nathanael pulls the horses to a halt Marinette spills out the door, ready to run. Ready to find Chat Noir. Ready to -

“Wait!”

Marinette turns around. Ladybug turns around. Ladybug, strong and fearless and level-headed. “Nathanael?” She asks, wondering why he’s stepping off the carriage and tying the reins to the railings of the front box.

He bites his lip. “I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening, but let me help. Please. Ladybug, you… you changed my life.”

Quite literally. Wasn’t he a tomato before she met him? “I don’t…” Tikki, help, Marinette hisses. She’s ever aware of the marching clock beating through time, signalling their defeat before they’ve even begun.

I can fix this. Don’t worry. Just agree, and don’t look back until I say. Be strong, Marinette, Tikki says all this very fast, distractedly, and Marinette hardly needs more prompting to nod, beckon Nathanael to follow her, and sprint towards the swinging servants’ entrance door. The coach that Chloé and the others took stands next to her own, unmarked, doors open, ominously empty.

Marinette needs Chat.

Ladybug needs Chat.

And right now, Chat needs Ladybug more than both of them put together.

“Don’t look!” Nathanael warns from a few inches behind her. He keeps pace remarkably well as Marinette careens through the door, bouncing off the opposing wall, shoulder knocking painfully into the hard plaster.

“I won’t,” she promises even as she rights herself and picks a direction at random. “You know I won’t.”

They run in silence for a while. Marinette, who has only been in the palace three times - and one of those times she was unconscious for most of it - loses herself quickly in the labyrinthian mess of dark corridors underneath the main building. It’s still occupied, that much is obvious from quick glances and hurried looks, but abandoned, presumably for whatever official rules are in place for the death of a monarch.

The Queen.

Marinette’s mind can’t seem to leave her, the image of a coffin, of Adrien sitting in his room, only Alya and Nino (and Marinette, now) to disturb him from the oppressive silence.

And Nathanael.

Should she have brought him? Sure, Tikki said it was alright, but Marinette can’t help but feel a little guilty. Nathanael is a tomato, for God’s sake, a literal vegetable (or fruit?) that Marinette was going to make a sauce with! And now he’s running with her to go to God-knows-where on some harebrained scheme -

“Ladybug? I think we missed a turn down there. I heard voices,” Nathanael says timidly.

Marinette almost skids into a wall, turning around to look him up and down. “Are you sure?” She asks, eyes trailing over his mask (lilac) and his costume (elaborate) and the glowing pink quill pen held between his long, elegant fingers. “Wow.”

“ L’artiste, I call myself. If you can have a name, so can I, hm?” Nathanael giggles childishly and waves the quill in the air. Is it Marinette’s imagination, or do thin black strips like shoelaces fall from the spot where he squiggled?

“Lead the way,” she says instead. Tikki, did you do this?

I gave him life, I gave him magic. His pen is just an extension of your own powers, after all, Tikki explains, with the grace to sound embarrassed. I got a little carried away.

“We’ll go find Chat Noir. Here, have a-” Nathanael waves the glowing quill in the air once more, tongue poking out from between his teeth in concentration, and Marinette’s jaw drops as a lit lamp falls from the air. Her quick hands dashing to grab it save it from an early demise.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

Marinette fixes her mask, suddenly feeling quite inadequate. “Don’t be. Shall I lead the way?”

“Please do, Ladybug,” Nathanael bows her forward. “Please do.”

***

Adrien knows he’s in the palace. He knows he’s in the servant’s basements, the little section that’s gone unused due to the damp - Antibug and Copycat and Stormy Weather haven’t bothered covering his eyes, but even if he were deprived of sight, he’d be able to tell where he was. He smells the mould and musty, stale perfumes that the maids like to take from a few of the ladies’ rooms.

And he hears - faint, but still there - the hysterics that some of the more dramatic ladies-in-waiting are no doubt descending into.

And he wonders why he’s still moving.

“We’re soon to come to him,” says Antibug bossily. “Hurry up. He said we were to get one of them before the bells, and they’ve been and gone and we’re not up yet.”

“We all know what he said,” Copycat replies through gritted teeth. Good. Adrien hopes he’s causing a real annoyance to them, dragging his listless body through Paris.

Antibug flicks her ponytail. “I was simply reminding you. Pick up the pace, Chat Noir, you know you won’t get away at this point. And it’s not as though you’re that important without your partner - you’re just the lure. Ladybug will be speeding towards us as I speak, I bet you, full of excitement to rescue her partner. ” The sarcasm lies on her tongue, acid tone cutting across Chat.

Chat, who isn’t really Chat anymore without his bravado.

Stay with the program just a while longer, kid. You’ll be fine, I promise, just as soon as Ladybug turns up. I know… I know, but you just have to keep it together another hour.

Adrien appreciates Plagg, he does, but the kwami isn’t being all that helpful at the moment.

And -

“Come on, almost there,” Antibug snaps.

Copycat and Stormy Weather appear to be pulling Chat towards the double doors at the end of the corridor, which doesn’t make sense, because behind that door is the throne room. And what would a fugitive, an evil escapee, be doing in his father’s throne room?

“Hold on, you can’t go in there,” Chat says.

Stormy Weather rolls her eyes. “It speaks!” She exclaims with cutting sarcasm. “Yes, we can. He’s in there. And he wants you.”

Adrien’s mind immediately rushes to the worst. What if his father’s been kidnapped by Hawkmoth? What if, what if, what if… what if his father is another Antibug, another Copycat, someone possessed by this evil power? Le Papillon…   And the door approaches, the three Papillon followers seeming unfazed by the prospect of running into the King.

Adrien can do nothing as the doors swing open.

And, floors beneath him, Ladybug and a tomato-turned-coachman-turned-magical artist run through the corridors, the latter lighting their way with hastily drawn lamps, the former wondering what it is she can do.

The earrings lose a spot. Two gone. Two to go.

The ring loses a claw. Two gone. Two to go.

Chapter Text

“I don’t truly believe you know what you’re doing,” Nathanael says with a lot less alarm in his voice than there should be.

Marinette leans against the wall, brushing her hair out of her eyes and glaring at her hands. She’s never felt this useless, this ridiculously spare, a floating loose end just waiting to be tied away back to where she came from. “I don’t, honestly,” she tells him, voice cracking embarrassingly at the last word.

“But that’s fine. Neither do I. Neither does this Papillon character. He’s out of his depth as you are, can’t you see? Royal conspiracies don’t come ten a penny.” Nathanael is reassuring, a far cry from the shy coachman - coachtomato - that he was.

“I can’t afford to be stupid now,” she says. She is Ladybug. There is fire in her dance and vengeance in her eyes for those that have ruined her night. (Think about it superficially. They’ve ruined your night. That’s what’s happened. That's all that's happened.)

“Are you alright?” Nathanael asks anxiously, adjusting the beret askew on his hair.

Marinette nods. “I have to be. Come on, let's go. I think it's… this way.” She picks a direction at random and heads down the darkened corridor.

Marinette!

Tikki? Marinette asks in the privacy of her mind. The kwami sounds urgent and Marinette doesn't want to scare Nathanael, who's only had sentience for a few weeks, never mind a vague magical voice in his head and a Royal conspiracy and a murder floating all around him. Tikki, what's wrong? She skids down a hallway, sees a flight of stairs going upwards, and hopes that Chloé has acted like all good storybook villains - heading for the heart of the palace. Up.

Marinette… Tikki’s words are laboured and ragged and concern for Tikki adds itself to the heap of worry in Marinette’s  heart. She can't have more misfortune this night. She can't …

Are you all right? Marinette asks as Nathanael waves his pen in the air and conjures a second lamp for them in the gloom of the basement floors.

Two magical forms are hard to keep up for the amount of time you usually have. I'm so sorry… so sorry… I don't know how long I can give you… Marinette… Tikki says all this with a struggling voice and torn breaths and Marinette’s heart breaks for her kwami.

Tikki… it's fine. It's not. Marinette can't let Tikki know that, though, can't let the kwami know how dependent Marinette is on her.

Tikki groans. The lamp in Marinette’s hand flickers in response to the momentary lapse. Can you be the Ladybug that Paris - that Chat - needs you to be without the mask and the dress and me? Do this… do this, or Papillon could control the throne. It's up to you now. It's…

Marinette’s gloves begin to fade on her fingers. She begins running up another flight of stairs. The bells - the Queen - still toll.

But Tikki holds on. The gloves stay material. Marinette breathes out a sigh of relief. Hold on until this is all over, she prays, even though she knows in her heart of hearts that Tikki isn't inexhaustible. And the poor kwami needs to keep Nathanael safe, but she's tiring herself in doing so.

Marinette just hopes it won't be her own downfall.

“If you had just - had just killed the Queen, where would you take your captive?” Marinette asks Nathanael between snatched breaths as they charge up another flight of stairs. Here there’s more light, at least. Are they finally exiting the labyrinth and coming to the palace for real?

Nathanael hums. His pen flashes in the air, creating a folded fan that he catches, snaps out, and begins to flap next to his face. “I guess… I’d like to crow about my victory. Presumably Papillon is doing this to get the crown?”

“That’s what… Chat and I think…” Marinette says with a nod and a grateful smile as Nathanael creates another flapping fan for her.

“Then I’d go to the throne room,” he nods definitely, “I’d bring the bragging rights, too. You and Chat Noir have annoyed them. The whole conspiracy. Am I right?”

Marinette thinks of the previous night. Ladybug is nothing without her Chat Noir! “I guess you could say that,” she nods.

“Then I’d bring him, and wait for you to show up, and then…” Nathanael shrugs, looking horrifically uncomfortable. “If I were him, I would kill you both. He’s not above killing. He killed the Queen. But Chat Noir is safe as long as you aren’t there - I think. Papillon would want you to see Chat. And him to see you.”

Marinette nods. All perfectly logical, but the choice bites her mind. Does she try to rescue Chat, possibly dooming all three of them? Or does she leave him be, and certainly doom at least Chat and at most, all three of them? “We still have to go after him. We still have to try.”

“I thought you might say that,” Nathanael says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed.

Ladybug is… everything… when Chat Noir is gone… Tikki pants. And she is… nothing… without him… but the thought of becoming everything keeps her from falling to nothing… she is a something… and a something she remains… The kwami falls silent again.

But Marinette understands.

She is nothing without Chat Noir. But when he is endangered, when he is the endgame…

Papillon has made his first and worst mistake.

He has thought that this would demoralize her.

When in fact, this is the one thing that motivates Marinette to continue. This is the driving force behind everything. Chat Noir has always been there at the balls and the galas and the windowsill, his hand in hers, a kiss in the dark, a smile of pride... and she will do anything to get the balance back.

She is, Nathanael thinks privately, terrifying when she’s riled up.

Inside both their heads a small red kwami, exhausted but holding tightly to the transformation, cheers her on.

***

“But this is the throne room,” Chat says, kicking uselessly against Copycat’s leg. Inside the palace and so close to the bell tower… Here and now it is impossible to escape the truth of what's happened.

His mother.

Papillon.

His mother is dead and it is all his fault, and Aurore’s fault, Stormy Weather that has frozen Ladybug to the ground and is now skipping in front of them to open the throne room door as if she hasn't just… murdered his mother. Murdered her monarch. Murdered. And now she's humming happily.

Adrien hates her. Hates them all. And he knows that Ladybug isn't here this time around to hold his hand and tell him everything is going to be all right, and he can't do anything without her. He can't dance. He can't run for his life. He can't even save his mother's life and without Ladybug, Chat Noir is doomed.

With that last thought Adrien feels the nails begin to hammer his coffin lid. Hammer the light away.

“Why so sour, Chat Noir?” Copycat asks with a feral grin, shaking Chat’s arm. “Why so sour?”

Adrien pulls his arm away, or tries to, but already Stormy Weather is pushing open the throne room doors and he can’t do anything. “Sour? Do you ever get tired of quoting Papillon back at him? Do you ever get tired of doing his dirty work?” Calling his mother something so trivial leaves an unpleasant burn in his mouth. “You murdered for him. For what? He wants to take the throne? What have you been promised?”

“Something more than you have,” Copycat sneers, although Adrien thinks he sees a momentary waver in the green eyes that so resemble his own.

Stormy Weather glares at them both. “Stop chattering. Come on. He’s waiting.”

He’s waiting. A chill runs up Adrien’s spine.

Calm down, kid. I’m here. Ladybug is coming for you. Everything is going to be all right. Plagg, who usually calls him kid in the sort of friendly condescension Adrien gets from Nino, sounds reassuring. Loving. Concerned.

Adrien wishes he had Plagg’s physical form in his hand. Heavy and warm and anchoring. Ready with a snarky comment and a little prod of fun teasing. Plagg…

It’s going to be fine. I know Ladybug is coming. I know she is. Plagg’s certainty, stronger than Adrien’s could ever be right now, is enough to get his breathing under control.

Copycat shoots him a confused glance as though wondering how Adrien managed to calm himself down.

“Come in and close the door behind you,” says Antibug, the girl that used to be just another bully. She rolls her cold blue eyes. “He’s waiting.”

Copycat tugs Chat’s arm. “That’s you, Chat Noir.” He says Chat Noir like it’s a slur, a mocking voice, something to be ashamed of.

Stormy Weather just rolls her eyes, but holds the door open. A hand reaches out of the gloom of the throne room, a strangely foreign accent shouting something about Chat Noir and finally and Ladybug. Something growls.

Candles lie all over the room, perched on windowsills that Adrien remembers playing around as a child, even one melted into the top of the King’s throne. He finds the gloom not to be what he’s expected; with the moonlight, with the candles, it’s almost as well-lit as it used to be, but infinitely creepier.

“Chat Noir. We weren’t properly introduced when we met last night,” says a slow, low voice from the King’s throne, which has been pushed off the dias and into the one spot of the room where no light falls.

Adrien glares. He hates ameatur dramatics. “Hello, Papillon.”

Butterfly. Hah! Whoever said butterflies weren’t scary? Butterflies are the scariest thing ever, Adrien thinks.

“Hello! Hah!” Papillon chuckles deeply, as though Adrien’s said something hilarious as opposed to a simple greeting. “Bonjour indeed, Chat Noir. Black cat of Paris, not so free to roam the streets now, hm?”

“It’s just me. You didn’t get her, you know.” Adrien clenches his fist, feeling strangely numb in the face of all that has happened tonight.

“But I will. I will, and isn’t that the joy of it?” Papillon leans forward, casting his masked features into the light. Long nose. Blue eyes. All-knowing smile. Something about it is worryingly familiar, and Adrien knows he should be paying more attention to that.

But he can’t seem to focus.

What does he mean? “You won’t. Your Aurore, your Stormy Weather, froze her to the grounds. Ladybug is trapped. You’ll never be able to get your hands on her, and I hope you realise that and choke on it,” he finishes defiantly despite Copycat’s grip only tightening around his forearm.

Papillon doesn’t look disturbed. If anything he just looks happy, completely settled by the whole deal. He taps his gloved hands on the arm of the throne Adrien’s father should be sitting on - not this impostor - and smiles. “But where will your Ladybug come to when she frees herself? All I’ve done is what I could have. You two are here, or you will be very soon, but instead of together you are apart. And neither of you are anything without the other.”

“We were just dancing partners!” Adrien exclaims, infuriated. “We met at a ball! Neither of us were allowed to go to the balls, so we dressed up, we disguised, and that’s all we were meant to be! I never asked - we never asked to be caught up in all this?”

“It’s fate. We’re connected. A link between you and I and Ladybug, and you can do nothing about it.”

Does nothing annoy this man? What does Adrien have to do to wipe the smirk from his lips and replace it with the sneer of the previous night? But all of Hawkmoth’s minions are in the room, even Antibug and a new, purple-haired man, and what can Adrien do against six people taller, stronger, and older than him?

The answer, much as he would like it to be anything else, is nothing.

He just has to hold on until Ladybug gets here.

He’ll be fine.

***

They meet the processional at the foot of the staircase and Marinette’s heart stops beating. She holds out her hand, catching Nathanael by the wrist, warning him to stay in the shadows with her where it’s safe.

A lump rises suddenly to her throat.

The few servants she’s met when with Nino and Alya are there, as is the rest of the staff. All dressed in black, the black of mourning as opposed to the black of working, their heads are bowed and their hands are clasped behind their backs. They form two lines up and down the staircase and through the long corridor, presumably to a coach to take the Queen… well, wherever monarchs go when they pass on.

It’s astonishingly quiet. A few muffled sobs come from the serving-girls, and the oldest butler is wailing softly into a handkerchief, but the six sombre courtsmen, also in black, are quiet as the grave as they carry something covered in a white sheet through the procession. The bell still rings above them.

Nathanael makes a quiet, strangled noise.

Marinette can’t. She doesn’t think she can break the awful stillness surrounding the place.

But -

But where is Adrien? Where’s the King? Surely… oh, surely Adrien and his father would come out to mourn her? From how Adrien talks about his mother, Marinette gets the impression she’s one of the few people in the palace that pays him much heed. And even then, even if he doesn’t, he should be out anyway. He should be here to pay respect. So should the king.

A funeral…

Nobody should miss their mother’s mourning.

“Marinette!”

Rosaline picks her up, Marinette squirming, uncharacteristically uncooperative. “Please, Marinette. You don’t want to be late, do you?” The young woman asks. In her hands she holds an unfolded black dress, slightly too big for Marinette’s slight frame, but the best thing Rosaline could borrow from her extensive family’s wardrobes.

“Maman wouldn’t like that dress! I don’t like that dress!” Marinettte wails. “Don’t make me go, Rosaline, don’t make me!”

Rosaline glares. It’s out of character for her, and it manages to shut Marinette’s incessant complaining up for a moment. “You are going and that’s final! Put on the dress. You have to go to the funeral,” and here her voice softens, “And you won’t enjoy it, but you have to go. You have to send them off to heaven.”

“Don’t have to,” Marinette says. Her bottom lip wobbles, but she allows Rosaline to slip the dress over her head.

Rosaline sighs. She wipes her own eyes with the back of her hand, brushes the dampness away on her skirt, and fixes on a fake smile. “How would you feel if you went on a train to… to Russia, but your maman and papa didn’t come to the station to wave you off?”

“Bad. I’d feel bad,” Marinette sulks, knowing what Rosaline is trying to say. She allows the woman to button up the back, anyway, even as tears spill down her cheeks.

“And so will your maman and papa. And so will you. It’s important to come, even if you don’t want to. You won’t like any of it, and neither will anyone else, but they’ll go and they’ll cry and then they’ll come home knowing that they waved from the station.”

Marinette nods. “Then I’ll go.”

“And I’ll hold your hand,” Rosaline promises. “You don’t have to go on your own.”

But to Marinette that day, black dress itchy, bows in her hair, Rosaline could have been a million miles away. It wouldn’t make any difference. But she cried, and she came home, and Rosaline’s mother hugged her close, and she felt better.

“Prince Adrien and the King… where are they?” Marinette asks the air in an urgent breath. She’s too afraid of being caught to say anything more.

Nathanael doesn’t reply but she feels him shrugging behind her. Maybe this is some sort of protocol for whenever a Royal dies. Maybe Adrien and the King are somewhere else.

But maybe Papillon has killed them just like he killed the Queen -

No! Don’t think like that, don’t think like that… Marinette clenches her hand into a tight fist.

“Up the stairs. Keep going up. We’re bound to find someone… to find something,” Nathanael whispers, twirling his pen in the air out of sight of the weeping people. “Right?”

Marinette is just about to agree when she sees his pen start to fade, and Tikki in her head makes a broken, gasping exhale. Like someone - like she herself - is squeezing every last drop of energy out of her, and she can’t take any more. Tikki!

I’m… alright… please, Marinette… hurry…

Marinette wipes her eyes hastily with the back of her hand. “Hurry, Nathanael,” she tells the coachman. “Did you hear her too?”

“The little voice. The pink thing. She’s hurt.” Nathanael nods gravely. “We need to hurry, otherwise…”

“I know,” she finishes. She won’t let him complete that sentence.

Things can’t get any worse than they are already. They can’t. Marinette refuses to let this night become even worse than it already is, although it’s becoming like one continuous nightmare that never seems to end, and around every corner there’s more misfortune and greed and mourning. Things can’t get any worse.  

“Come on, let's go,” she says with fresh determination in her voice. Her hand, still on Nathanael’s wrist, pulls him forward slightly.

“What about them?” He hisses, indicating the slow coffin and the lines of servants. “We can't just walk on through. It's too… it's too disrespectful. Even now.”

Marinette has to agree. “I just can't think of any other way-” she begins, and then stops.

Don't they have dumbwaiters in this palace? Little platforms built into the wall for food to be sent up to the rooms and kept warm? “The walls, Nathanael, we'll go through the walls.”

And Nathanael beams. “As you wish, My Lady.”

***

Adrien’s arms hurt from the grips around his forearms, now gone as Papillon instructs Copycat to stop being so masochist, mon petit akuma. He can’t get away.

It irritates like an open wound that Hawkmoth thinks Adrien is helpless, but as he glares at the reclining man in the purple suit, Adrien can’t deny the truth. He has no power here. Plagg seems to be in a state of shock at Adrien’s capture, just repeating it will be fine over and over, and with no sign of Ladybug Adrien isn’t sure whether to be glad she escaped or terrified that she’s abandoned him here with these madmen.

And so Adrien blurts out the first thing on his mind. “How did you get the King out of the throne room? This is where he holds all his counsel.”

Papillon’s face twists up, turning uglier than Adrien thought it could. “The King’s wife is dead, child. I didn’t have to get him out. What monster would he be if he didn’t mourn his wife?”

“As much of a monster as you,” Adrien mumbles under his breath. Some of Chat Noir’s charm is still there, hiding under the surface, cowed by fear.

“No, the King is where he should be. The Prince is where he should be. All the pieces are in position, and well you know it,” Hawkmoth says. As fast as it has appeared, the ugliness fades from his face and his grin is back in position.

But now Adrien has the advantage.

Because he knows that at least one of those pieces is gone.

The Prince can’t be in position, because the Prince is here, and the King can’t be in position because Adrien sees his crown hooked on the back of the throne. His father never goes anywhere public without his crown, without some sign of his status. Even the… the death of his wife wouldn’t stop him from furthering his political stance, and Hawkmoth definitely doesn’t know the King as much as Adrien does.

But what can Adrien do?

Standing here, he’s useless.

He can’t do anything.

And as he looks at the closed door, fantasising about walking through to freedom, he sees the tiniest glimmer of red at the keyhole.

And smiles.

Chapter Text

Tikki?

Tikki?

Plagg! Nooroo?

Tikki knows that Chat Noir has seen her - the boy looking small and frightened in the dark - because his green eyes widen and his mouth opens, presumably to gasp her name. Ladybug’s name. Just in time, the red kwami puts a paw to her lips and closes one blue eye in a conspiratorial wink, begging that he doesn’t let Hawkmoth know, but she can’t do any more in her exhausted state.

She feels those presences in her mind that she misses so dearly every time the cycle repeats and she is scattered to the wind. The playful joker that Plagg is. The quiet sarcasm that Nooroo possesses. The concern they both have when they feel how spent she is. They complete her in a way that she craves, and she smiles to herself even as she slips behind the heavy drapes to conceal herself from Hawkmoth’s evil akuma, sliding down the wall and letting her shaky body rest.

Tikki, Tikki, Tikki! That’s Nooroo. He must be terrified, poor thing.

I’m here, Nooroo, she says. I’m here. Plagg is, too, but you can see him? How are you?

She and Plagg both feel the purple kwami shudder horribly. Sitting in their minds - Plagg and Nooroo a little more uncomfortable than her, since they’re sharing a form - it’s as easy to feel Nooroo’s emotions as it would be whenever they all sit in Master Fu’s room, lying on their backs and laughing together like they used to.

I’m… doing as well as I can, Nooroo says eventually.

He isn’t.

He sounds broken.

We’ll save you, Nooroo, Plagg cheers. He sounds optimistic, which is meant to be Tikki’s role, but in her condition it’s as though the bad luck kwami feels he has to shoulder both of their jobs to let her rest.

Please, Nooroo says. Please do. He’s using too many… too many akuma. All at once. His evil. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

Ladybug is coming. Ladybug is coming soon, and she’ll save us all. Tikki reassures. She rests her head against the cool wall and wishes Marinette could run faster than she already is.

I saw her.

Tikki’s eyes snap wide open again. Plagg? What -

I didn’t mean to, I swear, but he made me keep an eye on her and I saw you, Tikki, Plagg says mechanically, as though confessing to a deadly crime. I know who she is. You couldn’t have picked a better Ladybug, you know.

Tikki quietens to process the new information, but she isn’t angry.

Because that means…

(He made me keep an eye on her)

(He)

What other teenage boy lives in the Palace and cares for Marinette? Who else would be so foolishly protective of a girl he hardly knows?

Because this means that Prince Adrien is Chat Noir, and Tikki lets a chuckle of exhaustion and glee slip through the paws that cover her mouth. How typical is it of Marinette to fall in love with the same boy in two different forms? How typical of her to crisis to her kwami about which one she likes the most, when in reality it’s both of them and one of them at the same time?

Typical, is all Tikki manages to say to the other two. That is just typical.

But she isn’t mad and Plagg knows it, and Nooroo lets them hear his sigh of relief. They aren’t fighting. It’s all fine.

So who are these people? Nooroo asks. Tikki hears the tension in his voice, the restrained quivers of pain he’s resolutely keeping under control.

The best, Tikki and Plagg say simultaneously, and smile.

***

Marinette puts her chin on her knees, stares at the ripe tomato and the black earrings held in both hands, and struggles not to well up in furious tears.

She doesn’t blame Tikki. She could never do that. Tikki has done everything she can, and Marinette knows that, has known that from the start. When the bone-deep exhaustion began to permeate her mind, leaking over from Tikki’s tired form, Marinette knew that it was soon going to be over for Ladybug and Nathanael. L’Artiste.

He had known, too.

“Ladybug!”

“Nathanael?” She turns around slower than she would like to and stumbles against a wall. Tikki apologises sleepily in her head.

He stops. They’ve climbed into a dumbwaiter, out of a dumbwaiter, fallen down a flight of stairs, climbed a flight of stairs, and broken a vase. The vase shards that litter the carpeted corridor look expensive, and Marinette worries that she’ll have destroyed an ancient piece of history or something. But Nathanael doesn’t seem to mind as he treads on them, his hands trying to straighten the dusty mess of his red hair. “Ladybug,” he repeats in a panting breath.

“What is it?” She asks gently. She’s all too aware that, of the three of them, only she has the stamina and the strength to continue. Her other two companions are exhausted.

And it shows.

“I can’t keep up. I can’t… we need to go slower. Please,” he bends over with his hands on his knees.

Marinette remembers that he was only pulled from his existence as a tomato a few weeks ago, and that really, he’s doing incredibly well for a fruit. A vegetable. A whatever. “Of course we can,” she says with as much grace as she can muster.

She’s not thinking of Chat Noir doubled over in some gothic dungeon somewhere, Hawkmoth lit dramatically by the glow of white-hot pokers. That’s not what’s going to happen. It’s going to be like it was yesterday, dark conspiracies and no unnecessary violence.

Glass raining down from above -

“Ladybug? Are you -”

“I’m fine,” she says a little harsher. She pulls Nathanael up by his elbow, not missing the flash of reproach in his eyes that soon vanishes. And then, softer, abashed, “I’m fine. And so are you.”

In her head Tikki tells her Ladybug doesn’t have much more time.

And she doesn’t.

Marinette feels like a fool. The tomato in her hand is her friend, but he’s no use in this shape, and the earrings Rosaline found for her in the wreckage of her mother’s boudoir might as well be projectiles to pelt Hawkmoth with. Marinette is useless like this. With Ladybug, she is confident, she is calm, she is able to run in the darkness and kiss in the rain.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng can’t do any of those things.

And Tikki has gone. She floated away off a few minutes ago to ‘recover’ - Marinette assumes this means her kwami friend will be out of action for the whole night.

This one, pivotal night, which will change everything.

She’s up a few floors now, although she can still hear the faint sobbing and of course the tolling of the damned bell high in the tower. It’s actually louder now, since she’s higher up, and Marinette finds herself reaching up to fix her mask before remembering that she isn’t Ladybug. She isn’t a saviour anymore. She’s not some suave masked lady in a red dress, with a flirtatious smile wrapped around her lips - she’s a servant girl. A servant girl dressed in rags and tatters, hair tied back with string, eyes heavy with exhaustion, half-healed and mottled bruises all over her arms and sides.

She can’t be Ladybug.

She can’t even rely on Tikki this time.

Tikki is gone and her only other friends in the world are either sleeping, kidnapped, or lying in her palm smelling of soil and salad.

But…

“Mama,” Marinette says sleepily one night, her mother lying beside her and humming a soft lullaby. “Do you think I could be a Princess?” Her hand waved grandly in the direction of the book they’d been reading her to sleep with, a fairy story about a kind-hearted Princess that spent her days in disguise, disguise as a serving maid to give gifts to those who were kind.

“Of course,” her mother smiles, humoring her tired child. Her hand strokes down the hair on Marinette’s forehead, her touch gentle.

“But I don’t look like one,” Marinette huffs, sticking her bottom lip out childishly.

“Oh, Marinette,” her mother sighs, but with love in her eyes. “You don’t need to look like a princess to be one, darling. Anyone can be a princess in a long dress and a cape. Anyone can be a princess with servants and gold surrounding them. But it is much harder to be a princess in commoner’s clothes, and you, my child, are a princess no matter what you wear.”

And Marinette falls asleep in her mother’s arms dreaming of being a hidden princess.

So…

Marinette stands up and puts the tomato that used to be Nathanael into her pocket.

She can be Ladybug in the dress and the mask and the ballroom. Hell, anybody could be Ladybug with red silk cascading from their waist, the spotted mask giving them the security of anonymity.

But Tikki didn’t choose anyone.

She chose Marinette, and Marinette is going to be Ladybug in an old dress and worn out shoes and hair tied up with string.

She stands on legs that shake only slightly, and begins to make her way along the corridor again.

Because Marinette can be Ladybug. Because Tikki chose her, and that means Marinette can be Ladybug even if her dress is too long and her shoes don’t fit and there’s no mask of suave confidence hiding her true self.

(Scratch away at the rock, chip it away piece by piece, and there are jewels to be found.)

(If she only looks hard enough.)

Marinette glares the steely stare of someone with hard diamonds in her eyes, and walks on.

***

Adrien can feel Plagg doing something other than keeping Chat Noir as himself, and it worries him more than it should. His head in his hands, his knees drawn close to his chest, he sits against the wall between Antibug and Stormy Weather and tries not to panic.

It’s harder than he’s always been lead to believe.

For one thing, his brain has pushed the death of his mother to the do not think about under any circumstances box, which is… good, yes, good, but also means that his mind is frantically casting about for anything else to think about that might possibly help. It’s settled for listening in to whatever Plagg is doing, although he only gets snatches of conversation, and the cat kwami isn’t as present in his mind as he usually is. Plagg can’t hear Adrien’s questions.

Adrien decides to give up on all that and glare at Papillon instead.

Papillon.

He wonders who he is, underneath that mask. He wonders if his father… no he doesn’t wonder about that he doesn’t at all He wonders if Papillon has a kwami. It seems the most likely, doesn’t it? Otherwise why would the man be fixated on his and Ladybug’s so much?

Something about power. Something about the throne. Something about his mother no nothing about her nothing at all Something about he and Ladybug and Papillon all tied together like a ball of tangled fates.

Something about the silver brooch shining against the purple of Papillon’s chest.

That’s the miraculous. Adrien is willing to bet his Princehood on it.

He just wishes Plagg were in his head to agree or disagree, but Plagg is somewhere else and Ladybug… Ladybug isn’t going to show up. Clearly she doesn’t think Chat Noir is as helpless as he is, or maybe she doesn’t care, or -

Footsteps.

Adrien!

Footsteps coming closer. Soft on the carpet, maybe the others don’t hear them, but Adrien has lived here long enough to recognise how the floor creaks outside from the added pressure. And Plagg is back -

Adrien, I know who Ladybug is! She’s coming, she’s coming, don’t worry, we’ll beat him yet!

We’ll beat him yet.

We’ll beat him yet.

Adrien’s eyes fly to the door, although nobody else in the silent room seems to be even awake, all lost in their own thoughts. The footsteps. Ladybug. She’s coming, she’s coming…

The doorhandle begins to turn, screaming as it does so under metal that has never ever been oiled. Great. Adrien puts his head in his hands - if he thought Papillon and his akuma could just overlook her, all hope of that is gone with the screech of the handle. But all the same…

“To the door!” Stormy Weather snaps. “Cover it!”

And in steps a girl.

Oh.

Oh my God.

Her hair is black, like Ladybug’s. Her eyes are blue, like Ladybug’s. Her expression is determined and loving and fierce, like Ladybug’s.

Oh my God.

“Marinette!” He screeches.

Her eyes meet his and widen, and he’s never loved her more. Marinette is Ladybug, because who else could she be, and who else could he want her to be but the sweet girl from the bakery? “Marinette, Marinette-” his hand flies to the side, grabbing Antibug’s wrist and heaving himself up, pulling the Bourgeois girl down in the process. Nobody is there to stop him when he sprints to her side. Nobody is ready to react when she reaches a hand to touch his cheek, fear underlying the usual Ladybug in her eyes. Nobody can breathe in the room when he brushes his lips lightly against hers, although as they move in slow-motion he sees Papillon take a huge breath of fury and prepare to yell.

Behind the curtain a tiny pink creature claps her paws in delight.

“Hello, Chat Noir,” she says in Ladybug’s voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

He hears all the unsaid speech in her tremulous voice. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I could have. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m sorry I couldn’t run after you. I’m sorry… I’m sorry…

“You’re here now,” he tells her, knuckles brushing hers. It’s fine. It’s fine. I would have done the same. You’re here now.

She grabs his fingers and entwines hers with his. Thank you. Thank you.

Apparently, this is all the time Papillon needs to recover. “I assume that this is the famous Ladybug unmasked,” he says with a derisive curl to his lip that Adrien really, really doesn’t like. It reminds him of something, but for all he wracks his brains to think of what, he can’t remember.

“I am Ladybug, if that’s what you mean,” Marinette says coldly.

Adrien has never loved her more.

“Ladybug without her kwami is not Ladybug, my dear,” Papillon returns. “And right now you don’t appear to have one. Do you have your miraculous stones, by any chance? Then I’ll have both, and all this silly business with the balls and the masks can stop. You can go home.”

“I don’t want to,” Marinette almost yells. Her fingers tighten impulsively around Adrien’s, and he’s so unbelievably happy that of all the girls in Paris, she is the one that he dances with every night.

He wishes he could tell her who he is without Papillon knowing. Another time, maybe, another place.

“Why do you even want the ring? The earrings? What’s in it for you?” Adrien asks. Now it’s his turn to pull at his partner’s hand.

Papillon rolls his eyes. “Obviously. The two of you are like light and darkness. There’s never been a Ladybug without a Chat Noir, but Papillon on his own doesn’t have a partner. If someone were to hold both of your miraculous stones… the power I would wield would be incomparable. And I will be able to take the throne.”

“But why do you want it?” Adrien asks. “Why do you want it enough to kill my - to kill the Queen?”

He scoffs. Papillon has the gall to laugh at Adrien’s mother’s death.

Adrien hates him.

Adrien hates him.

“Why does anyone kill the reigning monarch?”

“You could have killed the King,” Adrien finds himself saying, horrified at himself. (Your mother or your father, Adrien? Who would you rather have? Who would you rather have died tonight? No.)

“I’m afraid I couldn’t for many reasons, Chat Noir,” Papillon says. Adrien sees the akuma begin to close in, and glares while Hawkmoth continues. “One of these reasons is that King Gabriel isn’t actually of royal blood. If I had killed him, the Queen would have continued to reign, but his son would have been the next in line. As it stands now, the Queen is gone and the Prince is not yet of age. That gives me two years until he turns eighteen to install myself as Head of State and choose one of my own relatives to succeed. It’s brilliant.”

“But what about the King?” Adrien repeats. Does the Head of State not pass to his father if his mother… when his mother… now that his mother is dead?

Adrien.

Not now, Plagg.

“What about the King, indeed,” Papillon smirks. “I wonder.”

Adrien!

Plagg, I-

“Chat Noir, we need to get the miraculous from Papillon before he does something ridiculous. My kwami…” Marinette flushes, as though still getting over the deception, “My kwami told me that all these akuma will go back to normal if we get Papillon to transform.”

The akuma.

The steadily advancing akuma.

“How do you propose we do that, then?” Adrien asks in a hissing whisper.

Adrien!

What is it, Plagg?

Adrien, I know who Hawkmoth is -

Plagg cares about every Chat Noir he befriends. The first Chat Noir to the latest… they’re all different, they’re all the same, and he’s loved them and cared for them and watched them break their own hearts on the bad luck they can’t help more times than the kwami thinks he can bear.

But Adrien is young. Adrien is too young.

He’s King Gabriel, Nooroo says urgently to his two old friends. He’s the King and he has no idea who he’s talking to.

Adrien… Prince Adrien is Chat Noir, Plagg yells into the other two’s minds. He feels emptied, broken, as though the scene playing out before him as run a thousand times in the past. Every time he feels the pain of Chat Noir as though it were his own, and every time he is powerless to stop it.

You know who he is? Adrien asks on a different level to the other kwami. Plagg? Plagg, who is he? Plagg!

Tikki, don’t, Plagg says impulsively when he sees the red little bug flying towards Hawkmoth from behind, paws outstretched for the shining brooch pinned to his lapel. Tikki, please -

I wouldn’t if there were any other way, Plagg, I really would, Tikki says regretfully.

Several things happen at once.

Plagg’s heart shatters into a million tiny pieces, for one. Tikki zooms faster than light to Papillon, who lets out a wild screech and leaps back, but not quick enough - the kwami grabs it and pulls and out flies Nooroo, who immediately collapses on the ground beside his erstwhile captor. The people, the poor innocents that have been roped into this, shimmer with lilac light before all, as one person, collapsing like puppets with the strings cut.

And Adrien, Plagg’s Adrien, the boy who has already lost so much tonight, lets out a scream of anguish.

Plagg realises that the tears he feels dripping down his cheeks belong to both of them, and yet again another Chat Noir breaks in his paws.

Chapter Text

Adrien can’t remember his father much, from his childhood.

His mother brought him places. The Queen was an open monarch, a friendly young woman, and everyone said she and the little Prince with their twin smiles, walking hand in hand to a ball or a gala, was a sight for sore eyes.

But King Gabriel never came. Adrien never asked why, and his mother looked drawn and nervous whenever attention was brought to her husband’s absence. Adrien dismissed it in the way young boys do, not giving his father much more thought. He respected the King, of course, but more in the way someone respects a distant relative that’s achieved a lot but isn’t seen much at family meetings. Adrien hugs his father sometimes, and treasures the warm feeling it gives him for days.

But he always knew. He always thought he knew.

Little Prince Adrien was unsure of many things when it came to his father, but he always held on to the fact that King Gabriel loved his son in some abstract sort of way.

Adrien, clings onto Marinette’s arm like a ship desperately trying to harbour in a storm. There he lies, the man that Papillon would be, defeated as anti-climatically as Adrien had always hoped the masked man would be. He used to wish that Hawkmoth would be defeated in the most embarrassing way possible, just to shame the traitor even further than he would be. Now, now, now, with the bodies of fainted (he hopes they’ve just fainted) citizens surrounding them, now with Marinette unmasked and Ladybug gone, now with her kwami cradling the still purple one in her pink paws, Adrien wishes there had been dignity.

There he is.

The King. King Gabriel.

Adrien hasn’t seen his father in a few months, and there’s new frown lines on his forehead, a few more wrinkles on his cheeks, a slump of exhaustion to his shoulders that doesn’t seem to be able to vanish even when the King is out cold.

“It’s… It’s…” Marinette gapes, unable to place the face.

And Adrien realises. Of course. Of course she won’t be able to recognise the King.

After all, she’s just - no, not just, never just - Marinette is a commoner, up until recently an unpaid slave, and neither of his parents make any public appearances anymore. Rid of his crown and jewelry and title in the dark of the night, the pale face of his father is just another man to her.

He tries to laugh, and chokes on a sob.

Marinette turns to him immediately. Her face is the picture of concern, and now neither of them have the pressure of a ticking clock, she can lavish her time and attention on him. (He imagines.) “Chat, what’s wrong? It’s over. It’s over. Tikki got his miraculous. It’s over. We can go back - we can go home - we can dance again-”

“I don’t think I will,” he says thickly through the blockage in his throat. He doesn’t mean to say that. He means to say anything except that, he means to tell her what he is, who he is, since she’s done the same, but his head hurts and his mind aches and he wants to think this is all a dream

And

He can’t lose two parents in one night.

He can’t.

“What do you mean?” She asks, horrified, one arm encircling his shoulders protectively, her hands still clasped in his. Her face is close, now, closer than it was, and Adrien realises she’s pulled him to sit with her on the floor in the ruins of the plot to steal the throne.

He doesn’t think he’ll dance again. He doesn’t think he’ll make this night without being arrested or shipped off to cousins in Nice or something. “I don’t… I don’t mean I don’t like you,” he sniffles into her shoulder.

(How romantic.)

“Hawkmoth isn’t a threat. He can’t kill any more. He can’t enslave any more,” Marinette says, voice quiet and soothing and smooth.

Adrien can’t tell her what’s wrong, he just can’t, but he feels how tired she must be, how tired he is, and he just wants to sleep forever. Sleeping would be fine. Sleeping would be whenever everything makes sense and he doesn’t have to atone for anything his parents have done

(His father is right there)

(His father tried to kill him)

(His father killed his mother)

And Adrien hugs her, and she hugs Adrien, and places a fluttering, feathery kiss of comfort to his brow.

***

Plagg.

Tikki… I…

They cradle Nooroo between them, Tikki with her paws on their butterfly friend’s forehead, Plagg supporting his body to allow her to work. He feels emptied, devoid of all emotion, and knows that it is his fault that another Chat Noir has been broken.

Don't, Tikki says. Just that.

The calm way she says it - no judgement, just sorrow, empathy, love - angers Plagg in a way that it shouldn't. He knows. He's had to do this every cycle. Every single painful cycle this has happened, this hurt, either watching it happen to Tikki or (more often) feeling it happen to himself. The life of a miraculous holder follows a loose pattern, and whether a loved one betrays them or a family member, there will always be the darkness to the light that the miraculous bring.

Plagg chose Adrien because he was unhappy, yes. Plagg also chose Adrien because he felt him, a strong soul shining brightly.

It's the curse of a kwami to feel their chosen souls snuff out like candles in the wind.

There was nothing you could have done, Plagg. He chose you as much as you chose him, and Papillon found Nooroo without any interference from either of us. It wasn't your fault, and Adrien will blame you just as much as I do. Tikki caresses Nooroo’s cheek. Plagg feels the creation magic, the creation of health, flowing from her paws into the slumbering body of Nooroo and from him, into Plagg.

But in choosing them, I did. I always do, and you know it, Plagg answers, incensed by Tikki’s cool tone. In their mindscape time is slow and sluggish, and he has all the time he desires to lose his head before they have to return to the heads of their bearers.

But for now -

Tikki places one warm paw on Plagg’s elbow and he feels a jolt of old electricity from times gone by. Help me.

No more conversation.

I’m the bad luck, Plagg says obstinately even as he shuffles around to face Nooroo’s head. I destroy things. What am I meant to do?

Tikki smiles at him, even though her own eyes are swimming with moisture, and with a guilty jolt Plagg remembers that his opposite had to leave Ladybug out of exhaustion. What you always do, Plagg. Remember, there is -

There is no Ladybug without her Chat Noir, there is no you without me, there is no sun without the moon to follow. I know, I know, Plagg recites their old rhyme like a sacred hymn (which it very well might be for all the aeons ago they thought of it together.) But there is, Tikki. We’re just crippled without each other, not dead.

But I would much rather have you here with me, and that says all that it needs to, Tikki argues back.

Black sparks begin to shoot from between Plagg’s claws. Revival magic is difficult, but he can do it with Tikki beside him, just as she can do it with him at her side. Does it really?

Tikki shrugs. It might not, I suppose, she ponders, But Nooroo wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. We saved his life, Plagg. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again and they will do it, over and over, cycle by cycle.

And there has never been a Chat Noir without his Ladybug, no me without you, no moon without the sun to follow, Plagg quotes. He feels guilty for grinning even as he says it, knowing that Adrien’s father is gone and his mother is dead, but Tikki has always known what to say.

She laughs. It’s a melancholy, broken little giggle, but a giggle nonetheless.

Revival magic is difficult.

It means creating new life, which is impossible to do on one’s own. To create new life, Plagg has to first destroy the old life that clings by a thread to Nooroo’s soul. This is impossible to do on his own without killing Nooroo, and so Tikki and Plagg must work in perfect synchronisation as they have done for millennia, Tikki knitting together a new life and Plagg picking and unravelling the old one.

It should take them a second of real time, but several hours in this mindscape.

Plagg feels Nooroo’s heartbeat under his paws as the cat kwami moves his hands from the head of the butterfly down to his chest, feeling for more life in the body. He must get rid of all of it before Tikki begins to fill Nooroo with new life - if the old is left, then the two will clash, the old life chasing out the new and destroying the body in the process.

And bodies in the mindscape are damaged forever. Fantastic news for Plagg, who can already feel his eyes drooping in tiredness. He hopes Adrien has told the girl by now, because as soon as Nooroo is healed, Plagg is going to be forced out of Adrien’s body, too spent to do anything but sleep.

He hopes.

Despite it all, he hopes.

***

Marinette suspects and wishes she didn’t.

Chat Noir looks destroyed. Like he’s run a marathon to get to somewhere ahead of time, only to have all his opportunities snatched away from him. She wonders, and wishes she didn’t.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he whispers softly to her. Their foreheads pressed together, hands clasped together, sitting half in one another’s laps for the closeness of companionship, it’s as intimate as it always is when it’s Ladybug.

Marinette smiles. She doesn’t look happy. “I’m glad… I’m glad you are. I understand if you don’t want to tell me, but…”

Adrien sighs out. He’s hyper-aware that his father’s fainted body lies on the steps up to the thrones, and that at any moment the King could awake. If Adrien detransformed… if he allowed himself to come to the fore…

Gabriel could wake up.

“I can tell you, but I can’t show you,” he says haltingly. “You’ll… you’ll understand why, you really will, once you know.”

In truth. In truth, he doesn’t know if he’s ready for this on top of everything else.

Marinette reads that in Chat’s eyes. Doubt, uncertainty, fear… deep-set tiredness that can only have been brought on by the events of the past two days. She feels momentarily guilty for forcing this decision onto him, but when he opens his mouth again to speak, curiosity wins over goodwill.

“I can’t,” he sighs. “I can’t now.”

“Oh,” Marinette says blankly. She knows it’s a stupid thing to get worked up over, but in the light of all the monumental madness happening around her, surely it’s only natural for her to fixate on one single point and worry about that instead?

Chat’s eyes immediately widen. “No, no, I don’t mean that I don’t trust you - but you mightn’t-”

“I mightn’t like who you are?” Marinette’s hand tightens momentarily on Chat’s, fingers squeezing desperately, trying to convey so much more than just a touch of care. “Chat, you almost certainly weren’t going to like me, and I still came for you. Because I had to. I won’t force you to, you don’t have to, but I’d like to know. If you can tell me.”

For a moment she thinks she’s pushed too hard.

But Hawkmoth - no, the King - grunts in a small voice, shifts a little, and Chat’s eyes widen. “It’s now or never, my Lady,” he says in a quick breath. “My kwami… Plagg, leave, please.”

And a small black body spills out of his head, his kwami, immediately taking his place next to Tikki and the butterfly kwami with black bubbles trailing from his paws. The tailcoat and mask and top hat all melt off Chat’s body, and he squeezes her fingers so hard Marinette winces involuntarily, although she doesn’t pull away. She would never.

“Hello, Marinette,” Prince Adrien says with closed eyes and lips pressed so tight they’ve gone white.

Marinette’s jaw drops, and she thinks she hears Tikki giggle from where the kwami kneels over her purple friend. “Adrien?”

“The one and only,” he whispers, and his eyes drop to her lips. “Been one hell of a night, hasn’t it, Princess?”

His mother - his father - “It has,” she agrees. She wonders if they should kiss. She wonders if it’s appropriate. She wonders if he even likes her outside of the Ladybug costume. ( He kissed you, didn’t he?)

“I’m glad you’re still you,” he says, and makes the decision for her.

The moment lasts for a moment, as moments do. Marinette wishes the moment lasted longer. A longer moment to forget everything aside from Adrien, soft and gentle as a summer breeze against her lips. But like a moment, it’s gone before they realise, and like a moment, there’ll never be a time quite like it again.

“Adrien? Adrien, is that you?”

“Keep away!” Screams a tiny, high-pitched voice, and Marinette is flung back into the present.

Tikki bares her tiny teeth at the King, the King, who is struggling to stand and open his eyes at the same time. Plagg, Adrien’s kwami, still has his paws on Nooroo’s chest, Tikki with hers on his head.

King Gabriel stands up, leaning heavily on the arm of his throne for support, white-suited now that Hawkmoth has melted away from him. He stares at his son and at Marinette with shock, and she realises: just as Ladybug and Chat Noir are no more than clothes and mindsets and dances, so Hawkmoth is just another mask.

And the King is just another man.

“My son... Adrien, what are you doing with these things?” Asks King Gabriel as though he himself wasn’t wandering around with a kwami mere seconds ago.

Adrien seems shocked into silence, so Marinette takes the reins. “We’re fixing what you did,” she tells him, hoping she’s doing the right thing. “We’re fixing this whole mess before it gets even more out of hand, and you won’t be able to end any more lives like you did to - like you did.”

Gabriel’s jaw drops. “I know you.”

Marinette prepares for all responses but that. “I - no, you don’t. I’ve never met you in my life.”

“Sabine? Sabine Cheng. You’ve just had a little baby daughter… no, that was years ago, was it not? Sabine, how you’ve grown…” the King falls onto his hands and knees, coughing.

“Father!” Adrien reaches out, Marinette’s arms obstructing him. With her heart sinking, she realises - the King’s mind is drifting. He sees her not as the girl he tried to fight, but as the Palace baker from sixteen years ago.

That’s never a good sign.

“Adrien… my child… Sabine, you and my wife have two beautiful children at the same time. Marinette? A beautiful name. Adrien. After… after my great-grandfather. King Adrien. Someday I hope… someday I hope my son will be as good a king as his namesake suggests. A child for us both… Sabine… ah, and an extra loaf of poppyseeded bread. She likes to soak it in milk. Adrien loves it.”

“Father…”

Tikki looks around from her place at the butterfly kwami’s side. Her eyes say all they need to. Soon the guards will come. You don’t have much time left. There’s no hope for the King. But save your Chat Noir.

“Adrien,” Marinette says gently, still holding him tight. “Adrien, we need to go.”

To her surprise, he doesn’t protest. Just looks tired, too tired, so tired Marinette aches to look at him. “I want to go home,” he says. “I want to go home, but it’s not here.”

“Where is it?” Marinette asks. She wants to stand, but she’s afraid Adrien won’t come with her. And his father still lies at the foot of his throne, mumbling to himself incoherently.

Adrien, as it turns out, is the first to stand. He pulls her up, touch feather-light as he threads his fingers through hers. “Home is where you are, Princess.” He ignores his father, still mumbling, still trying to pull himself to his feet. Adrien even ignores the groans and confused mutterings of the fallen akuma, the people responsible for the death of his mother.

Unseen, Tikki wipes a tear away, and Plagg tries very hard to look like he’s not bawling his eyes out. (This is not a romantic film, Plagg, those haven’t been invented yet-)

“That sounds just fine to me,” Marinette whispers back. Now they’re both standing, she pulls their entwined hands down to step closer - pulled near to him by some other force, perhaps.

“This is a wreck,” he says when their faces are millimeters away.

Marinette closes the gap for them both, and her kiss says more than her words can.

“A child for us, Sabine…”

“Where am I?”

“God, is that Marinette?”

“Home is where the heart is, or so they tell me,” Adrien whispers when they part.

She lifts their hands to press his chest. “Home is where you make it.”

And he smiles. Despite everything, despite his father, despite his mother, despite her, Adrien smiles, and Marinette’s heart breaks and is stitched together a thousand new ways when she seems his eyes shine in the dawn through the window.

Marinette doesn’t cry until they make it out of the throne room, followed by their two best friends and a third purple spirit, trailing tiny butterflies as he hovers.

But in the months that follow, in the trial, in the tense aftermath, in the rain of the funeral, in the yells and the screams and the endless fighting, she cries more than she ever has. The only difference is that this time there’s someone to hold her hand, to cry with her, to listen and to be listened to in return.

And for the first time in eleven years, Marinette is truly happy.

***

“Un, deux, trois…”

“Wonderful!”

Sabine claps her chubby hands together, beaming brightly. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…”

“Fantastic!”

“Six, sept, huit, neuf…”

“Terrific!”

“Dix!”

Her younger brother,  too little still to talk, raises his arms as he copies his father, cheering wildly and giggling when his sister falls off the table and back onto the cushions surrounding it just in case - as has happened many times before - she falls headfirst.

Their mother twirls into the room, laughing, a red flush on her cheeks and flour dusted on her hair - a floury handprint, too, on her cheek. “Adrien, Sabine, come and help Mama with the scones. We have a big order for the King for tomorrow!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” her husband salutes with a hand covered in flour, reaching for her waist and kissing her cheek, leaving more handprints on her pink dress.

“The customers will think we’re unprofessional,” she giggles, kissing him back.

Sabine toddles forward. “That’s so ew, Mama. Scones are better!”

“Well, in that case, run and grab me un-deux-trois-quatre ounces of flour for the first batch,” Marinette kneels to kiss her oldest child on the forehead tenderly, hand stretching up to link with Adrien’s. “Get your brother to help, as well.”

“Aye!” Baby Nathanael claps his hands, the only word he can say at the moment. Marinette thinks he’s trying to say oui, but garbling it far too much - all the same, she smiles happily at the retreating backs of their children.

“Nino and Alya want us to come to the Palace for tea,” Adrien tells her, pulling her close for another kiss.

Marinette hums. “And the King wants us as well.”

“He’ll be so happy to have a little namesake running around. Two Nathanaels, can you imagine?” He smiles fondly at her, eyes full of love. “I saw Nathanael - Baby Nathanael - playing with Nooroo yesterday, but he kept trying to wave his arms. I think there’ll be another few Miraculous bearers in the family.”

“Well, I’ve got dibs on little Sabine,” Tikki pipes up from her seat in the sugar bowl.

Plagg, unseen as he’s hidden behind a block of cheese, throws a crumb at her. “No fair!”

“And what happened to us?” Marinette teases them. “It’s high time Ladybug and Chat Noir gatecrashed the Palace ball. That ought to give Nino and Alya their fun.”

And so, that night, Ladybug and Chat Noir leave the Miraculous Patisserie arm in arm, their other hands holding their children tightly, a purple creature perched on Ladybug’s shoulder.

And they have never been happier.

Marinette loves her city, yes, but she loves her family most of all.

There has never been a Ladybug without her Chat Noir.