Hey! This is a new idea I'm experimenting with…VERY ALTERNATE AU

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It was a sunny, inconspicuous Tuesday when Marinette's entire life changed. The birth of the dawn light, rosy golden fingers stretching in rays that dispersed the stars into the blue, was the very beginning. She did not wake up in a pleasant haze of post-slumber, lazily stretching her arms before slipping off her nightgown in favor of a pair of baggy brown pants and shirt to run off to work (she was always late for work.) No, this very unpleasantly fateful day had her waking call changed from the calm of birds chirping to the scream of a young woman. It was a sound that cut through the air like a dagger and Marinette could hardly blink away the early-morning water in her eyes before she sat up. She pressed the back of her wrists against the sockets and stood, snatching her woolen coat and storming through the halls of her house. She was running purely on curiosity and that insensible brain of someone who'd just been jostled awake.

Her heavy door was swung open as she stepped out into the chill of a frosty October morning. The cold hit her before the visuals did. She jumped and quickly shoved both of her arms into her coat, which had previously been tightly clutched in her hand. Marinette found herself walking quicker than she should be possible to in this cold down the street before she had time to think herself fully through. It was instinct – probably genes from her late parents. She could catch the sound of a violin flowing through the alley beside her in a sluggish way due to the tension in the air.

She fished greedily in her mind for inferences of what could be happening only behind the next corner, around a tall building made of only rotting wood. She broke out into a brisk jog, turning the corner and setting her eyes upon the visual of what she'd heard before. The person who had screamed was short and had hair cut to her shoulders. Marinette could see right over her. Although she was also rather short, this woman was even shorter. Above her head, Marinette could see the view of a man with slouching shoulders and bags under his eyes so dark they looked like bruises. His hair was shaggy and his clothes were ripped. He was perfect example of a rebel. Marinette had always imagined rebels to look like him, dark and foreboding, weak looking and snapping with a bite that could take off your finger. They were deadly when they wanted to be.

The man held a gun.

This was something that made Marinette stop in her tracks. The rebel man turned to look at her, yellow teeth bared above chapped lips so bad they were bleeding. He aimed the gun at her abdomen and his bared teeth turned to a grin, a maniacal type of grin that sent a chill down her spine, also bringing with it the beating of her heart to her ears.

Marinette had only seen a few guns in her life. They were either from her father and mother or from the castle guard who came to their bakery while journeying somewhere far away. How did this man, this man who she assumed must have been a rebel, get his hands on a handgun? When she looked down, Marinette could see her quick, billowing breath visible like little clouds of fog in the icy breeze.

It wasn't short after that the people near the man, watching with worry in their eyes, started to turn their anxious gazes to where she stood, at the target of the man's aim. And then everything happened too fast for Marinette to even process her jumbled thoughts. It began with a flash of black from a stout rooftop, the thump of someone landing interesting and taking every single person's wondering gaze – even the rebel.

His grin fell as he turned to look at the stunt-daring newcomer. Marinette gave him a quick once-over, as intimidating as possible as her parents had taught her. The person who had jumped was a young male. The first thing she noticed was his hair, in contrast with his black outfit: it was a messy bunch of blonde perched atop his head, strewn in not much of a rebel way. It was more in a disheveled and dangerous type of thing that she could recognize. The next thing that she noticed about him were his eyes. They were the color of the leaves on an apple, but more striking. The green bore into the rebel man with ferocity and confidence that Marinette had never been able to muster. At first glance, she concluded that he was over-prideful in himself.

This man – should she call him a boy instead? – did not look like he could face off with someone with a gun. His stature told her that was what he was planning on doing, anyway. Despite his smirk, she knew that the staff on his back would be no match for a gun. Guns were fast and deadly. A staff could maybe give someone a nice bump on their head if you hit hard enough. Throughout her examination of this newcomer, Marinette forgot to notice one thing: he wore a mask. It was a small mask, small enough to only go over his nose and around his eyes, and it was a couple shades darker than the rest of his dark, dusty midnight attire. Hidden identity, perhaps?

"Who're you, kid?" the rebel man spoke.

Marinette almost flinched. His voice was gravelly and deep, like he had been smoking cigarettes every single hour of his life and swallowing cobblestone chunks for a living. He sounded like someone who would take you into an alley to kill you slowly and surely, enjoying every single second. The man-boy did not flinch at all. He stood maybe even taller and looked the rebel right in his purple-adorned darkening eyes. The rebel raised his gun and pursed his lips. Marinette stood staring at this situation unfold, wondering if she should do anything, bare feet numbing on the cold stone below her. The boy was to her left, the moldy wooden building on her right, and the rebel right in the middle of the street.

"In the suit," the boy paused to gesture down at his clothing, "I'm known as Chat Noir. And you are?"

The rebel huffed, and raised his gun a little higher. His finger was poised on the trigger. After a moment he seemed a little miffed that this 'Chat Noir' was not intimidated whatsoever by his gun. Instead of a polite introduction, the rebel snarled.

"Ah. I see," Chat Noir hummed, tapping his pink bottom lip with his index finger absentmindedly. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Go to hell."

"I think that you should probably just tell these innocent people that your gun isn't loaded," Chat Noir told him. Marinette's brows rose. Oddly enough, a bout of relief washed through her after he said it even though he could be mistaken. She could be staring at a boy who would be dead in a few more seconds.

Fortunately, instead of dying, Chat Noir just smiled. The rebel's sunken eyes widened and he gaped at him for a moment before toughening up again. "How do you know that, Betsy?"

"Ahem, I thought I made this clear," Chat Noir said, "it's Chat Noir. Ch-at N-oi-r." He spoke each syllable as if he was talking to a five year old. "And, on the other thing…"

Chat Noir sauntered forward and Marinette she thought she saw the rebel's hand waver just a little bit. She watched in absolute awe as he drew his staff and knocked the gun out of the rebel's hands, backing up and catching it in his own in the span of one second. How does a person move so quickly, so gracefully, in such a small amount of set time?

The rebel made an outraged little shout, looking at his still outreached empty hand with gritted teeth.

"See…" Chat Noir raised the gun so its barrel pressed against the side of his head. Marinette's heart started to race again, but shock made it so she couldn't say anything. "I can prove it to you." His gaze swept around the small crowd of people that had gathered warily around the threat and what could possibly be their hero or a casualty before they were all injured or dead.

Her eyes widened as she watched, unable to look away.

Click.

A small scream escaped her throat before she could stop it, stumbling forward a few steps. She heard gasps and scuffling and stared with shuddering breaths at the very much still alive Chat Noir standing with a now known as empty gun pressed to his head. "See?" he said again, eyes settling on Marinette with brows drawn after she screamed, "not a single bullet."

The semi-circular people all stared. Every single one of them had their eyes on the center of that street, at Chat Noir and a weaponless rebel tripping a step backwards, right into a plump woman who'd walked forward. She squeaked and he stumbled then back into the center, looking rather terrified now. Guards then came on horseback, as they always did when there was commotion. The trot of the steeds on broken stone created a series of clicks and the rebel stared at them in a daze.

"Here you are, kind sirs," Chat Noir gave all three of the guards a smile, walking forward to grab the rebel's shoulders and push him forward as one of the men dismounted.

"Who are you?"

"Your partner in law enforcement," Chat Noir said, as if it was obvious.

"What?"

"I'm helping. That's all you really need to know. Now, take this criminal who was attempting to rob helpless citizens into custody for trial. You're welcome."

At that, he handed the officer the gun and left the rebel to be gripped by him. Marinette turned to watch as he began to leave, black clothing standing out among the pastels and browns of their town. She ran forward without thinking, as he was just about to disappear into an alley. She grabbed his arm. Marinette didn't know why she did it, but it felt like it needed to be done. She wasn't sure what she had been planning to say to him once he was caught, but she'd gotten this far.

Chat Noir turned to her, tilting his head. "Miss?"

"W-what?" she asked breathily, shivering in the cold.

Chat caught on to this quickly. "Oh! You're cold, take this!"

He took off his black coat, exposing a short-sleeved shirt that left his arms bare. "What?" Marinette hadn't realized that she let go of his arm when he'd taken off his coat. He was holding it out to her now, the light of dawn brightening his eyes and his hair. "Oh, no no, I can't take your coat!"

"Pfft," he scoffed. "You need it. I can deal with a little cold."

"R-really?"

"Of course. You're wearing what…silk pajamas?"

Marinette looked down at her outfit and suddenly remembered that she had actually left her house in her favorite lilac silk nightgown. It ended at her knees and left her legs and feet to fend for themselves in the cold. She reached forward and let her hand clutch around the jacket, discovering that it was leather. She automatically wondered how he had acquired such an expensive material. Marinette looked up at those green eyes and took the jacket, draping it across her shoulders and hugging it across her breasts. It smelled like him, two distinct scents combining into one: caramel and pine. They were odd together. Marinette liked it.

"Y-yeah," her teeth chattered. He turned to leave again before she called out, "will you need your jacket back?"

"It's all yours, Princess," he replied, amused.

As she was about to pivot and walk back home, she caught one last gesture. Chat Noir turned back towards her, their eyes meeting, and her head tilted. He let a sweet, almost caring smile come across his face and then finished it off with a swift wink and a two-fingered salute. He raced away then, the elegance of his movements reminding Marinette of her mother, a dancer turned vigilante. She was left to stare after him. She was still in awe and a rush of appreciation and stinging in her toes combining to give her a weird sense of freedom. She walked back home with her nose buried in the impossibly warm leather of Chat Noir's jacket.