She misses it sometimes—the adrenaline like a spool of twine quickly unwinding, her yo-yo flashing from her palm. She misses the air billowing beneath her as she leapt off rooftops, the rush of magic cleansing the city, her city. New York doesn't feel like hers, not in the few years she's been here.
And she hasn't been Ladybug in years.
Her own rooftop, several floors above her apartment, feels higher than she could ever climb. She doesn't think she's ever seen anyone perched atop it. The rooftops here are quiet, where only ghosts feel at home. She can see their stories in the graffiti left behind and painted over, tiles re-shingled, spots bleached by the sun.
She often runs her fingers across the space where her earrings had been. She hasn't been able to wear anything else since. It feels too much like playing dress-up, the wrong pair of shoes too big and too out of place on her feet. The first dress she'd made as an intern hangs in her closet—a red piece, stretchy and form-fitting. The first time she'd worn it, she felt the rush of adrenaline pouring in. She hasn't worn that again either.
There are nights where she still dreams of it—being Ladybug. For one millisecond, she'll be suspended in air before the floor wakes her up. Then, she's left peering upwards at a ceiling that's barely familiar.
Sometimes, she still dreams of a figure clad in black, tail winking behind him as he trades quips for eye rolls. The years will fade as if it's yesterday. She feels her name at the tip of her tongue. She feels her fingers against her mask, a shrill beep surrounding them. She feels it melt away the second his does, green eyes more familiar than they should be.
"Adrien."
The name tumbles free as she stares up at the dark ceiling. She lets out a laugh, then a groan, and pulls herself back into bed. It's been years since she's seen either of them and two a.m. is far too late to reminisce over teenage memories.
It doesn't mean she'll fall back asleep. She watches the red numbers on her clock slowly tick past—two thirty, three o'clock—before groaning again. She snatches the blanket from her bed and wraps it around herself as she pads into the kitchen.
She fumbles to turn on the coffee machine, the room illuminated only by the small light above the sink. She collapses onto a chair as the coffee maker hisses to life.
It isn't the first time the two have merged in her dreams—her ex-boyfriend, her ex-partner. There were times where she felt torn between the two, trying to divide the line where her priorities lay.
You have to save Paris, she'd often chastised herself.
But you can't forget your civilian life, she'd offer as rebuttal. There's more to you than Ladybug.
There were times when she'd caught Chat's gaze and seen Adrien there, or Chat's smile across Adrien's lips. She wasn't sure what that said about her psyche, but it unsettled her.
She'd never told either of her identity, but she couldn't count the times she'd wanted to. Her secret was always a breath from spilling free.
She remembers the first time she'd kissed Adrien, fireworks in her eyes. She'd pressed her forehead against his, catching her breath, catching his stutter this time as he tried to say something besides Okay, wow.
She remembers the first time he'd told her he loved her, with his fingers pressed close to her sides.
I love everything about you.
Her name had been on the tip of her tongue then, split into two words. Marinette. Ladybug. She'd thought she had time to combine the two in her mind.
But she's read the stories. She's seen the movies. She knows the weight of such secrets in the hands of the wrong person.
She'd thought she had time.
She remembers the last time she'd seen him—graduation, a meter of space between them, weeks after his father had passed.
So, this is it. You'll do great. I know you will. He'd held out his hand, formal, distant. It distracted her from the expression on his face, which she'd seen for weeks, no matter how much she tried to ease softness back into it. She hadn't seen him smile since his dad had passed away. He was barely there those last few weeks, ghosting in and out of presence. He pushed aside anyone who asked about him. It was as if he was punishing himself.
She'd wanted to tell him that, but everything she told him slid right past. He was there beside her physically, and that was all. Then, that was gone, too.
You will, too. She took his palm into hers, warm against hers for one second before he nodded and pulled away.
She sighs as she pulls herself from the chair, as she fills her mug with coffee. She remembers the conversation she'd had with Chat, after that last day of school—sitting on a rooftop, feet dangling beneath them. They were supposed to be congratulating each other, but neither could work up more than a grim smile.
It sucks. Her yo-yo had flashed from her palm, spooling downwards before being yanked back up.
Yeah, he finally said. His eyes followed the lazy pull of her yo-yo. I know the feeling.
You, too?
Something like that. He'd sighed, leaning back onto his arms. She was too good for me, anyway.
I doubt that, chaton, she said as she pocketed her yo-yo.
He flashed her a slight smile. I bet you were too good for him, buginette.
I doubt that, too.
You're not too good for me. It was more of an afterthought than a joke. It made her own smile feel pained. Ten years from now, you think we'll still be doing this?
Maybe, she replied. Think you can still vault over a rooftop in ten years?
I'll do anything if it keeps me moving, he muttered under his breath. He paused, his eyes finding hers, and she was frightened of what she saw. She'd seen it before, pooling in Adrien's eyes before he'd blinked and turned away from her.
You have to cry, she'd told Adrien. You have to let it out. You can't bury it inside yourself.
The beep of their miraculous startled them. Tell you what, buginette, Chat said, a smile too wide and too strained beneath his mask. Ten years from now, you don't find the one, I'll be happy to fill his place.
You would, she quipped, shaking her head.
There was no mock offense, no comeback. Just a solemn nod, the smile fading as he stared at the night sky ahead of them.
They didn't last ten years. They'd traded their miraculous for college degrees, hanging on for as long as they could before it was all too much. Hawkmoth had disappeared, but his presence had left a trace that worked through the city like a virus. Her last year as Ladybug, there was nothing magical about the villains she'd chased. There was something more jarring about the power-seeking in those eyes, not swayed by the pull of an akuma. It would haunt her for years afterwards.
She dreams of that, too, sometimes—villains attached to ghostly akumas that vanish when she tries to catch them. They're always in a graveyard. She sees Hawkmoth cloaked in darkness, his face bared from his mask. She can never see who it is, though, only a familiar face distorted from the shadows. She sees Adrien walking behind her, as ghostly as the akumas. His eyes see through her, muttering words she can't hear.
Marinette had little doubt the next Ladybug would be spectacular, that the Chat Noir ambling after her would live up to his name. Paris was in safe hands, even as she felt guilty. Ladybug and Chat Noir had been passed down for millennia. It was hardly new. It didn't make her feel any less guilty.
There were times where she'd worried she wouldn't know how to be Marinette after Ladybug was gone.
And at twenty-eight, she still feels guilty, dreaming of rooftops and her cat-eared partner, when she's half-way across the world now. She has work in a couple of hours and all she's accomplished is half a cup of coffee and not nearly enough sleep.
She groans again and drags herself to the shower, hoping it will root herself more firmly in the present.
She's been in New York for a few years now, one Paris internship leading to another here. Now, she's found herself in one of the busiest boutiques downtown. She loves it, in the same sense that she hates it. She loves the way her hands are never still, the way her knuckles crack when she sets down a design or turns off her sewing machine for the night. She loves the way her boss beams at her designs. She loves how her work isn't only displayed in the windows but across the streets as well. She can ride the subway and spot one of her designs, and another and another if she keeps looking.
But she hates how everyone she loves is an ocean across from her—nearly halfway through their day before hers had barely begun. She hates the cramped streets, the way everyone pushes and rushes, how there never seems to be enough hours in the day. The times when she's home before midnight, she barely sleeps anyway. Her head's still reeling with projects that need to be finished, deadlines quickly approaching.
She nods off several times that day, pricking her finger and nearly sewing it to the fabric before her.
"Go home," her boss tells her. She eyes Marinette as she runs her finger under the bathroom faucet.
"I'm fine," Marinette insists. She flashes her red, but still attached, finger.
"You're a liability. I can't handle that right now." She smiles to lessen the blow. "Get some rest. Please. We'll have more work done if you're not sewing body parts to the dresses."
"We'll have more work done if I'm actually doing the work," Marinette mutters. She finds herself being pushed towards the bathroom door, her boss shushing from behind her.
She falls asleep on the subway nearly minutes after sitting down. She can feel the shadows falling from the windows as they pass through tunnels. On the cusp of dreaming, she sees them, darkness stretching and lengthening, vaguely human-shaped.
She jerks awake at each ding that echoes loudly in the compartment. She's not sure if the minutes she'd just tacked together make it worth the brief disembodiment. She's even grumpier by the time she makes it to her apartment.
She fumbles with the lock and pushes the door open, feet dragging as she makes it to her bed. She collapses onto it with a soft grunt. She's barely registered that there's something hard underneath her stomach. She rolls over and pulls a small box free. The familiarity of it sends a full bloom of panic into her head. She stares down at it, wide-eyed. Her mouth struggles to make some sort of sound. It takes her three tries to open it. When she does, the small stones stare up at her, exactly as she remembers them when she first saw them thirteen years ago. She quickly slams it shut again, her shriek muffled against her palm.
She remembers the last time she'd transformed back into Marinette. That last flash of pink that seemed trapped beneath her eyelids for hours, days afterwards. For nights, she'd dream she was fighting an akuma just as her transformation wore off and that the flash of pink surrounding her wouldn't fade.
You were always Ladybug, a reporter would say, voice laced with awe, his camera bright in her face.
You were never Ladybug, someone else would say. Their hands cupped a shadowy akuma between them. Their face was distorted, shadowy just like the object fluttering in their hands. They reached towards her, the akuma hovering from their palms, and she felt the flash around her turn from pink to gray.
She would wake up shaking in sweat, her feet tensed to jump, her hands fumbling in the sheets around her. But she was Marinette, flesh and bone, destructible. She was always Marinette.
She sleeps with the box pressed tightly beneath her pillow and dreams those same dreams again.