Corus is an always kind of place. When pressed to describe it, always is the only word that comes to her mind; it's always there, it's always humming, it's always moving. Always alive. As the night wind plays with the edges of her muted-brown hair, The Protector allows herself to take in the throbbing pulse of the city's heart. Even now cars are still out, buses spew exhaust fumes, apartment windows are illuminated by lights and televisions – all of it underscored by a tuneless whine of electricity and cityness that defies further description.
Slowly, as if submerging herself in intemperate liquid, The Protector begins to filter out the background sounds of Corus. They are as familiar as anything, despite any time spent away, and so dearly held that she can listen to then file away background noise with exponential speed once she reaches a deeper place of meditation.
I am a clear lake, she thinks, and the roar of engines sinks through her and washes away.
I am the wind around me, and the inconsequential lights twinkle into nonexistence – illuminating only private lives.
I am the trees that bend, and the cries of birds and shuffles of rodents dim one by one, becoming all one unheard thrum.
I am stone. And all that is left are anomalies.
Or there would be, if there were any anomalies that night.
She tries not to dwell on the unwanted thrill of disappointment that stirs in the pit of her stomach. The routine of meditating soothes every nerve that has ruffled during the day, and the absence of anything wicked is a good thing. Every job (moonlit or otherwise) comes with downtime. It's necessary. It's probably even deserved. And no, the Chamber did not intend her to take Its words literally – there will always be work for you. She's got enough acumen to discern metaphors from details.
So she tries to ignore the energy that's practically crackling underneath her skin.
"Why do you look like someone's just stolen the last slice of cake from you?"
The Protector is intimately acquainted with the voice of Chevalier. She has to be after working with him for over half a year, and even if she wasn't she'd been (as he likes to say) in the zone. It's no effort at all to parse out the footfalls of allies when you're concentrating on compartmentalizing the world into Enemies and Friends.
"I don't like cake," she replies evenly as he drops down beside her, landing on his feet after launching himself from the balcony two floors above. She valiantly does not shudder, but she also doesn't look at him until he's sitting beside her.
"Of course you don't. That literally does not surprise me in any way, shape, or form."
When she finally does take in his face, half illuminated by the city lights not so far below them, his jewel-colored bright blue eyes are glimmering with familiar, expected mirth. His mouth is quirked to one side beneath the dark emerald mask, and the semi darkness of the night has turned his customarily pale blonde hair into a noncolor that's mostly just light.
He is as known as the meditation ritual, and the tendrils of disappointment that had ensnared her fade into nothingness.
"There's nothing wrong with being sensible," she says. "It might do you some good, you know."
"Oh no." Chevalier groans, throwing gloved hands in the air and betraying his Knight-looking costume with a comically exaggerated expression of pure upset. "Don't you dare say that word. It reminds me far too much – "
The sentence dies when he cuts himself off violently enough for The Protector to hear his teeth clicking together. She winces for only a moment, more in sympathy than anything else. For a moment, she wonders if he's going to give into panic. But Chevalier's not so bad at controlling himself; though he does look worried for a second, it passes. His lips twist down, but his voice is nearly back at its usual glittering timbre: a mix of nonchalance and something deep and solid and unfailing.
" – It wouldn't kill you to lighten up once in a while."
Secretly, The Protector is glad that he does not dwell on the near miss. It's not as much in his nature as some she knows, but he does tend towards the mercurial at times, allowing himself to be caught up in tides of worry and concern that she thinks exceeds what's strictly necessary. And it's not like she's ever been adamant about the whole secret identity thing. She likes their only rule well enough; it's always served to keep them focused and largely professional if they don't know each other outside the masks. But Chevalier was the one who'd brought it up in the first place early into their partnership and carped her into silence on the rare occasions she erred.
"Ah, but why would I want to test that hypothesis when I'm already immersed in danger nigh constantly?" She replies, more than a whisper of humor in her voice. There's something – freeing about the personal limits she can push against when her identity is shielded. The girl she's always been would never be so inclined, but the Hero of Corus and near permanent fixture in every journalistic (emphasis on istic) publication needs a little more flexibility on her side. Trees that don't bend under pressure will snap, after all, and the show of confidence and gentle, wry humor is sometimes enough to comfort civilians and throw off her foes long enough to open up advantages and opportunities.
Chevalier snorts a laugh, somehow maintaining an impossible air of dignity despite his less than refined chuckle. "Gods, only you would talk like that, Birdie."
"Glad to be of service to lift your spirits," she says, smiling faintly at the nickname that feels as comfortable as a second skin when it falls from his lips. Something equally comfortable falls into place when the last vestiges of concern dwindle away, his brow smoothing out as it unfurrows.
"Oh, I count on your spreading sunshine. It's the highlight of my day, Lady."
"Ah yes, along with the patrols and bad-guy face punching that happens whenever you see me. Sounds like a fantastic time."
"It always is. Alright, c'mon. Corus isn't going to save itself." Chevalier lifts himself to his feet, brushing off any errant dirt or dust from the only slightly outdated costume that has been the hallmark of his transformation. She's more glad that the breeches and body armor top are as of use to him functionally as they are thematically. It's true that the designs and epaulets lend a decidedly knight-ish look to support the name of the Miraculous that had chosen him, but he's just slightly too tall for his own good and occasionally succumbs to clumsiness. So it's a stroke of good fortune that, apparently, most of his clothes are steel-sword proof.
Hopefully, neither of them will have to test their transformations against something more up-to-date. Like bullets.
"Want to race? Corus is gorgeous at night from the roofs, and I've been dying to try out some of my more impressive parkour moves."
The Protector carefully suppresses any hint of discomfort at the suggestion, offering an eyeroll without missing a beat. "As much as I love risking my neck unnecessarily, I'd hate to give any akuma a foothold by putting myself in traction."
It seems to satisfy Chevalier. He laughs again, the sound mixing with a playful whine. "You are so frustratingly undramatic, you know? You're allowed to show off those Miraculous powers, Birdie. I promise, I won't be jealous when I see you flying around with the wings I know you have."
"I'm only thinking of you and your delicate ego, Gershom." Though its been months since he's come to accept and appreciate her own nickname for him, The Protector is still glad to see that Chevalier only smiles at the reference to Corus' famous, ancient knight.
"The kindest Lady I've ever encountered," he replies in mock solemnity. "But one day, Birdie, I know you're going to fly and I'm telling you, I'll be nothing but proud. And right by your side, though you should know that by now." With a wink and another flash of his brilliant blue eyes, Chevalier drops from the balcony. The drop of his fall and her stop is short and sharp and ends in a shock of anticlimactic nothing. She doesn't even have to lean over to see that he's cleared the one-story dive on his feet, and she doesn't wait because she knows that he's already reaching out to take her hand and help her down.
("You don't need to do that," she'd told him the first time he'd reached up to help her off her, admittedly low, perch. He'd smiled, rolled his eyes, and kept his hand in place.
"I never do anything I don't want or have to do," he'd replied.)
When they are on the ground of level of Corus, they stick to the shadowed corners and long, loping alleys. The city opens up to them, conveniently placing mouths to alleyways and deserted side streets whenever the need arises. The Protector sometimes wonders whether or not the magic that lives in her coin also lives in the paved, weathered roads of her home. The pair of them have been miraculously lucky, if the pun can be pardoned, in the past seven months; it would have been wise to keep to rooftops and balconies (seeing as they both had the skills to hop and jump and leap and still maintain their balance). But outside a few largely comical and non-detrimental mishaps, they've never encountered too severe a problem with civilians or press.
Thank the Gods for small things.
"Did you see anything earlier?" Chevalier asks, falling into place beside her as they nimbly step up on a dumpster in order to clear a low fence behind one of the more industrial apartment complexes.
"Not a thing."
He considers that for a moment, and she is ready to shut down her swell of disappointment once more until she realizes that his silence is not the contented one. This is the energy she feels when he's thinking just a little too hard: mulling over too few pieces to form a complete picture. It's not entirely frustration, but it's nearing dangerously vexing territory for him.
"What?" She asks, lending him a hand so they can pause on their favored balcony, the one in the park overlooking the bridge and the harbor.
"It's just – I don't want to be that cliched, old movie kind of guy, but don't things feel too quiet to you?"
She knows that he's trying to sound as unfazed as he can. There are edges at the end of his tone she picks up, a little frayed but tied together through sheer stubbornness. Her first instinct, as always, is to allay any concerns. Haven't they earned a few nights off? It's not like Corus' evils (of both the regular and paranormal varieties) have an unlimited store of energy. Who just sits around every second of the day, forming papillion noir out of their store of Chaos energy? This isn't some spit shined, squeaky clean cartoon, after all.
But the restless energy under her skin hums louder, demanding to be heard, and The Protector is not fool enough not to listen.
After a long pause she replies, "Yes."
It's as matter of fact as anything she's ever said, but Chevalier still starts anyway in a moment that leaves her confused about his thinking – not a first, but a first in a while. With a little startle of her own, The Protector realizes that while it's been seven months, it's only been seven months. It always seems so much longer to her – as if she's been doing this for years. Her whole life. As if there's nothing else to her partner, her friend, that she can learn.
(Even though, technically speaking, she knows nothing about him at all.)
(But that's not true. Not even slightly.)
"What – really?" He sounds so amazed that she can't help but laugh, and some of her unease quiets.
"Is that such a shock?"
"Hey, you're the idea - slash - leader slash - hero person. I'm just here for backup and arm candy."
The Protector laughs once more, the sound warm and low: a blanket, leaves underfoot in fall, summer rain. "If you say so. But just an FYI, selling yourself short? Not so becoming. What happened to roses and dramatic entrances?"
"Oh no, you misunderstand. I'm not saying what I do isn't cool. Or necessary. I mean, if I'm not here then how will the papers get their fill of weekly city – saving antics? I only mean to imply that I'm more than willing to serve as cavalry. All of the glory, none of the pressure."
His voice is carefully constructed into lightness. The Protector wonders if he's aware of just how transparent he truly is: if he knows how pronounced and omnipresent his quirks are. Probably not. She imagines that she'd be surprised by him far more often if he knew. That's fine; The Protector has never liked surprises.
"No pressure at all," she mock – agrees breezily, waving a hand at him. "Is that why you insist on taking those hits for me? Things getting too dull for you?"
"Ah –..." He stutters to a halt, lips moving for a few moments after he stops speaking. It's not a strictly taboo subject, not like others she can mention, but the words have never seen light before. And, truth be told, she hadn't necessarily planned on calling him to carpet for that quite yet. Not when they're still alive and whole and he hasn't proven to be completely bereft of his better judgement.
"Relax," she offers, gently bumping his shoulder with her own. "I know how much men value their chivalry. It probably goes double for knights, right?"
"You –"
But she's already launched herself forward, springing into a practiced roll before practically skimming across the edge of the park. Chevalier spends a few moments stuttering in her wake before following – sprinting a few steps in order to catch up with her.
"You don't play fair," he whines.
"According to you."
He clears his throat, a noise she knows that's only intended to convey his mounting impatience. "Back to the matter at hand."
"The matter at hand has already been stated. I agree with you. It's been too quiet. Did you have any suggestions to remedy that?"
From the corner of her eye, she watches Chevalier shrug, then struggle to find the right words to phrase whatever it is he wants to say. It takes him the entire length of the park and the back path under the bridge to finally figure out how to give voice to what must be a maelstrom of thoughts rattling around in his head.
"We need... resources."
" – Resources?"
She's ten paces ahead of him before she realizes that he's slowed to a stop and she has to backtrack. The shadow of the bridge cuts a blacker swath into the night, one singular light from the metal framework visible from this angle. It casts a strange, grey looking shadow over the area beside them and lights up only half of Chevalier's face. When the deep emerald leather of his mask reflects a dull shine, something unidentifiably haunting shivers down her spine.
"Resources. We need a way to – listen to the things we can't hear right now."
"... Okay?"
He stares determinedly at the ground, gloved hands uncharacteristically fidgeting – fingers twisting, locking, interlocking, letting go of each other. Impatience stirs for the second time that evening; if he has a solution, he needs to get over this ridiculous lapse in his usual mannerisms and find his words –
– Oh.
"Don't say anything else, okay? And before you get all – how you get, I'm not mad."
At her words he looks up sharp enough that she nearly winces in sympathetic whiplash. It only takes a moment of hesitation before he snaps his jaw shut and nods.
She steadies herself with an even exhale before continuing. "Just nod or shake your head. Do you have a way to find out this intelligence?"
He nods.
"Legally?"
He pauses, then nods more meekly.
"Do you want to keep it a secret how you find out?"
His nod returns with gusto.
The Protector crosses her arms against her chest and mentally assesses the facts laid bare. He has a point – they do need more intel. If the Papillion has found a way to work without outwardly disrupting the usual hum of the city, they need to know before anyone is endangered that they would have been able to save otherwise. And if he can figure this out without breaking his self imposed rule of discretion, then she has no substantive arguments.
And besides, she's ninety nine percent sure that he can't be any younger than she is.
" –... You'll be careful?"
He smiles, nods, then defies her instructions to add, "Always."
"I told you to be quiet," she reminds him, trying not to smile back.
"My sincerest, deepest apologies. I will make sure never to disobey a direct order again, cherie. Would you like to take the lead, Protector?"
Her gentle punch to his shoulder is met with a facetious holler of indignation that echoes in their wake as they slip back into Corus' shadows, disappearing into the night.
It's just past 3:45 when The Protector slips through the strategically unlatched window of her apartment's first floor bedroom. A quick glance out into the living room assures her that there is nothing out of place. No frantically placed post it notes line every available service, the phone line is still on the hook, and the lights are off. Her phone lacks any increasingly frantic text messages. Though she can't hear it, she imagines her roommate's quiet breathing coming from the darkness of his bedroom. He hadn't noticed her late-night absence, then. All feels well, and the distracting, nervous energy starts to seep from its place of residence in the very marrow of her bones.
The weight of her concern is only noticeable by how light she feels as her transformation is called back into her Miraculous. There's only the slightest motion from the gold and enamel pendant on the chain around her neck, leaving Keladry Mindelan standing where The Protector had just been.
Now in her regular clothes and without a mask, Kel exhales silently, allowing a faint smile to linger on her lips. No, they did not eradicate any akuma tonight, nor did they make a dent into their search for Papillion. The world is still too quiet, too large, too maddeningly unreadable.
But she is alive. To the best of her knowledge, Chevalier has also remained intact in the half an hour that has passed since they parted ways for the night. The population of Corus sleeps on, unaware of the dangers that have taken root, but still safe for at least one more day.
Sometimes, the small things are all you have.
Kel sinks into her desk chair, elbows propped up in front of her as she pulls the necklace off of herself. Now that the transformation has been taken back, the coin at the end of the change looks remarkably ordinary. She twirls the chain gently between her fingers, and the metallic edges of the coin catch a little of the light coming from the homes and streetlights outside of her window. The colored enamel has faded a little in the eleven years she's had it: black lightening to a deep grey, the reds muted, the navy now a gentler blue.
The coin stills and she stares, trying to see it in everything that makes it special. She tries to find some glimmer of the magic that has turned it from her treasured gift to the thing that turns her into Corus' Protector – the thing that has given her weapons and bolsters her strength and whispers answers into her ear when she skirts the edge of failure in any of her supposedly self-appointed missions.
But, as is the case whenever her fingers find the well worn gold face of the coin, the only thoughts it brings to mind are the memories of Yuki's eyes as Kel pulled away from their embrace on the tarmac as her mother beckoned her onto the plane. Roald's entire countenance lifting, animated with curiosity as she explained its origins, and then went on to talk at length about Yamani when he pressed her for more information. Cleon's compliments about it, Neal's long winded explanation of the traditions associated with gift giving on the Isle and beyond, Lalasa's cooing at its beauty then her own long winded explanation of why Kel was equally beautiful and deserving of all the gold and more and her promises to embroider her a new closetful of clothes featuring the colors of her coin.
She can't quite see the magic of the Miraculous amidst all of her other thoughts, even though she knows just how powerful her token has become.
But the small things have often been enough for her.
It would be a picture perfect moment if her clock's digital numbers hadn't rolled into a blaring 4:00 during her contemplation. Rumination on matters of the heart and mind will have to wait until after her class in five hours. Kel pushes away from her desk, and barely manages to toe off her shoes before falling, full clothed, into bed.
Her final thought of the night is that she hopes she's not the only member of her two person team that has to lose sleep to sustain a double life. It's meant to be playfully vindictive, but she falls asleep smiling, hand wrapped around her coin, and dreams of running through the streets of Corus after nightfall not alone.
a / n: She's back! She's back? Well, - yes, in a way! A year later, and I dump this monstrosity on you guys. Sorry! It's my Nano piece for the year, because I thought that combining two very small fandoms in a confusing, convoluted AU would be a good idea.
Still, I hope you enjoy! A few notes, since I probably won't comment on most chapters. The plan is to have ten or fewer, long chapters. I likely won't have time to explore all the small plot points and minor characters I would like to, unfortunately, so perhaps companion pieces in the future? And especially in this first chapter there's a lot of intentionally withheld and misleading information. If you have questions, they're definitely going to be answered in upcoming installments.
And that's it! Happy reading!