A/N:This fic functions under the premise that Hawk Moth is a notoriously hard villain to catch (hence the ongoing existence of Akumatized villains), Marinette and Adrien both have reached their seventeenth birthdays, Ladybug and Chat Noir had had two years worth of each other's antics, and both are still dense enough to not recognise each other's identities even after that long. Also, everything that is about to happen is season 2 and 3 didn't happen.

I suppose it might get angsty...?

They're both seventeen when she finally notices the funny feelings she gets around Chat Noir.

Of the boy himself, very little has changed. The golden mane remains as gold as ever, threaded silver every once in the while when the sun slants just right and the moon touches on shadowed nooks. Though, in the interest of archiving, she figures it is of significant note that it is shorter as compared to before, a little less wild. He's still in habit of raking his hands through his feathery locks however, through the tangles of gold and silver and occasional copper, smiling his cheesy grin.

It is during one of these moments that she starts noticing exactly how attractive the boy is.

There has never really been any question as to how good-looking Chat Noir is (she'd take this secret to the grave, but certainly any boy with eyes that brilliant had to have some measure of attractiveness in his civilian facade), but it was never dwelled on. Of course, sometimes he likes to flaunt it, like in the fiasco with the Evillustrator wherein she had enlist his aid in the form of Marinette and not as her spotted alter ego (though the experience turned out to be far more enjoyable than she expected it be) and he had showed up on her doorstep from the rooftops of Paris, smug and smirking.

But at fifteen, it was childish play; at fifteen her heart was too new in its love for Adrien Agreste to accommodate the idea of making room for any form of competition, which she thought would be an appalling betrayal to the love of her life.

Now, carefully treading on seventeen years of age, two years into her love for the same boy, that heart has also grown to accommodate others, to not selfishly isolate.

And with that she discovers how easy it is to find a fondness for the little black cat, the boy in the mask with the easy smile and the silly puns, loyal to a fault and with a heart of gold underneath the cloak of black leather. He's also in possession of a pair of expressive emerald eyes, pure as though hewn from the jewel itself.

As of now, as though fate meant to prove the point, he's laughing, head thrown back to the skies.

Baton in hand, slick black leather a void in the landscape of colour, he is the paragon of freedom, of life joyfully lived. Soft over the gold and silver, black cat ears perch, twitching ever so slightly in the wind.

Straying towards her, the emerald orbs lock and stay. He raises a gloved fist, familiar smirk already making camp on his lips, and asks,

"Pound it?"

It's a tradition they'd initiated long ago, purely by accident really, when they had forged their first connection. He was smiling back then too, leather gloves curled to hide a cat's tapered claws.

She makes a fist of her own delicate hand, smiles through the sun too bright in her eyes, and meets his knuckle. "Pound it."

When they were younger, he would've taken the proffered hand, slipped his fingers through, brushed his lips against the back in a gentle kiss, eyes gleaming in mischief all the while. Now, it is he who pulls back first, smile as warm as ever.

"I'd say this is the most refreshing victory in quite a while, my Lady. It makes me feel so warm."

"Well, he did freeze half of Paris," she remarks, practiced in the art of wry response to Chat Noir's idea of humour. "So that might be your answer right there."

"Good thing we stopped him. This Chat was starting to get cold feet."

"You never grow up, do you?" She rolls her eyes at him; again, another practiced gesture.

"But you did, and somehow, my puns grew on you along the way." His lips spread into a grin, nice and smooth as cream. "You're laughing, Ladybug."

So she is. She pushes her lips together, forces a smile of pressed lips instead of white teeth. She had gotten used to his puns, found them funny even, but she hadn't yet accustomed herself to the idea.

They hear a beep. Two. She watches Chat's ring while his gaze lingers on her ear.

They look at each other, smile, used to the restriction of power, the limit of time.

Chat bows, elegant as ever, a hand to his heart and a clawed glove swept onto the empty space by his side.

"Till we meet again, lovely Lady," he says, low and dulcet, and not long after, he's gone from her side, leaping rooftops, a figure receding.

Another frantic beep.

She pulls out her yoyo, flings it far, watches it loop around a chimney. When she's sure that the little string will hold, she swings off. Opposite from whence she came. From where Chat took off.

Till we meet again, and they will, knowing Paris's susceptibility to trouble.

Hopefully, because secretly her traitorous heart wishes so.

"Hey girl. Guess who's on the cover. Again."

With a playful roll of her eyes, Alya deposits a magazine onto Marinette's lap. It's glossy front faces up; Adrien's gorgeous smile and smoky gaze take up every inch.

Smiling to herself, she picks up the magazine to inspect the masterpiece of a front cover. It had clearly been one of the more lighthearted of his photoshoots; the carefree smile must have been fished out with a joke, she thinks, a pun maybe. Fondly, she remembers Chat Noir; be it on rooftops or in battle, he always had words to twist, a bad joke to tell.

"Ooh, look at that smile." Grinning, Alya pinches her lightly on the cheek. "Let me be the first person to mourn over the sad fact that you and Adrien are still not a couple."

"Shh, Alya." She presses a finger onto her best friend's lips. "Not so loud!"

Alya rolls her eyes in good nature. "Honey, save the boy himself, I'm sure the world has some idea of your affections for him."

Marinette's shakes her head, laughs. It's partly true. Though not explicitly mentioned, she's sure Alya had told Nino ages ago. Juleka and Rose might have some idea, Ivan and Myléne a growing hunch; Chloé, whom she battles constantly for Adrien's attention, suspicions, if she had not reached the conclusion yet, and Sabrina, too, by extension of being Chloé's best friend and minion. Add to the list Kim and Alix, whom she suspects made bets regarding her and Adrien as often as they made bets on sports.

"But we still don't have to publicise it," she says, laughing awkwardly. He's not in school yet, but that did little to assuage her embarrassment. For some odd reason, she always felt that Adrien is watching her, listening, even though he is in conversation with someone else most times and couldn't possibly be looking at her.

"It's been years, girl! I'd tell you to do something, but then you'd probably mess it up before you even tried."

"Hey!"

Alya roars in laughter. "Just teasing, Marinette. But you can't deny that you always get cold feet before you confess."

Chat's curling lips flicker through her mind's eye. His voice, soft in the wind, making a pun out of the phrase. Again, she smiles.

"That was years ago," she says as the bell rings loud and clear behind them and students file into the door. She grabs her book bag, makes sure nothing resembling a red Kwami is peeking out of her purse, and trails after Alya. "I haven't done any confessing for ages now."

"If you can call those attempts confessing," Alya teases, but like the best friend she is, she grows serious, somber as she addresses the matter at hand. "But what gives, though? Why did you stop trying? I'm sure you would have been able to one day or another. Why give up?"

"I'm not giving up," says Marinette, smiling softly. "I've never given up on Adrien. I just realised that maybe I shouldn't push matters. Like you said: I mess up everything. So maybe if I didn't try…?" She shakes her head, admitting defeat. "I don't know Alya."

"Maybe it's time you start trying again!" Alya eggs. "You're two years older, and maybe -just maybe -this time you won't trip over your feet. Plus, what if this is the year Adrien gets a girlfriend? You're lucky enough that the boy has been single for the last two years."

She won't lie; the idea of Adrien belonging to someone sends an arrow through her chest. She thinks of his smile, aimed another girl's way; his laugh for a joke that isn't hers.

She shakes the thought away. "Alya, I reallydon't need to think about that."

Alya stops. Marinette finds sympathy in her eyes. "Sorry, Marinette. I didn't mean to go that far." She hugs her friend on the arm, smiling gently at her. "You're right. Let's take it one step at a time."

Marinette nods, shoulders relaxing...

"Hey Marinette! Alya."

...only to have her nerves shoot back up again as she none too wisely whirls on her feet to meet to owner of the voice. It's a little too late that she remembers that although Ladybug is capable at executing everything with grace and flexibility, Marinette has just about the poise of a wooden duck. Rapid movements almost always ended up with tangled feet, and Marinette is helpless but to pitch forwards in a scream, straight into the golden-haired boy's arms, charitably held out to catch her.

"Whoa there." He grins down at her.

With blushing cheeks, she can do nothing but tip her head up and stare. While at fifteen he'd been at a modest height (though still a good half a head taller than her), now he'd reached the measurements of a true model. Towering over everyone at school, it'd be hard pressed to not spot Adrien Agreste, if not by height then the neat, effortlessly styled blond hair that look like frays of gold silk in the light.

"Are we okay?" He helps her to her feet, gentle. His hands hover over her arms, ready to catch should she trip on air again. Close, but not touching. Ever the gentleman.

"Yes, we're not -Uh, I mean no, we are -I mean…" she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, in the most measured tone she can manage. "Yes, I am."

Adrien's eyes flare with the barest mirth. She supposes it's testament to the evolution of their relationship; while in the years previous he would have blinked at her in confusion, now he seems to find amusement in her blunders. There has never been anything particularly malicious in his grin or smile however; it's as though he thought of her mishaps endearing.

"Well, then be careful," he says, retracting his hands. Standing at his shoulder, Nino grins, and discreetly, without the boy next to him noticing, flashes a wink at her.

Distractedly, Adrien glances over her shoulder towards the empty hallway. "I think we better go. We're going to end up late."

Jolted out of her reverie, she whirls to face the hallway, finds him right with some dismay. With nothing short of agitation, she tugs at Alya's arm, drags her over the cold stone floor. The two boys follow too, and the four of them end up bursting into class together like a herd of lost sheep, offering various manners of apology (a vocal one in Alya's case; silent, sheepish grins in that of Marinette's and Adrien's; shuffling feet in Nino's) towards the raised brow of their homeroom teacher.

She finds the magazine in her bag later that night, slightly rumpled and curling at the edges, but fine where Adrien's picture is concerned. Quietly, she laughs.

Alya must have stuffed it into her bag when she wasn't looking.