A/N: I added a lot of adverbs and I'm not sorry. I re-read my favorite Beauty & the Beast retelling by K.M. Shea, who has a very simplistic style with many 'ly' adverbs and too many similes but I love it so I emulated her a bit.
Storywise, I'm a pouty baby who isn't happy. My marinette isn't clicking for me, which is a bit frustrating, but again JOURNEY JOURNEY JOURNEY. I'm learning more when I say 'leave it alone and go forth' instead of 'stew this over for several months then toss it when you're frustrated'.
I always write to improve, so comments and critiques are welcome! Please rip this to bits! Thank you!
Marinette staggers through the revolving doors of her apartment building around eight PM. The stale winter air of the streets melting away into a warm citrus. She grunts from relief but straightens out when she makes eye contact with the doormen, Barry and Bruce.
Barry is a baby face of innocence, kind and memorizes everyones birthday, while Bruce sits in the shadows and enforces the rules of the building with inhuman efficiency. She's known them for her year as a tenant and likes to talk with them when she has the time.
Marinette sways by the elevator and pushes the button to get to her floor, then her stomach rumbles. She considers if she has any food in her home, then quickly curses Alya with the obvious answer.
"Hey Bruce, I might end up buying out." Marinette forces out before mumbling under her breath. "Again."
"Why not ask any of us to go shopping for you? We won't mind." Barry is the one to reply. His sweet blue eyes shining in sympathy. A seventeen year old is giving Marinette pity. That feels great.
"I don't want you to treat me differently. You don't do it for other tenants, so you shouldn't do it for me. Besides its just a phase." Marinette assures.
"It's been six months." Bruce mutters, leafing through a newspaper at the front desk.
Marinette's jaw tenses and she smiles sardonically. "You have a true knack for comfort, Bruce."
"No problem." He responds neutrally. Marinette sends a glare his way until the ding of the elevator prompts her to turn.
She hops inside the elevator, her sling bag bouncing on her hip, and jams in her floor number. Before the door closes, a hand reaches out and yanks at it.
"Sorry! Don't want to wait. In a rush." A male voice blurts out. Its a nice voice, like a warm breeze on an ice lake.
"Oh, no problem. The doormen can usually get it though. Elevators aren't friendly on the hands." Marinette blurts whatever comes to mind. Random pleasantries.
The male looks up and she first notices his shining blond hair. She means Shining-like his hair went under intensive military training to look perfectly flowing and touchable. She almost feels offended.
"I don't mind lending a hand if it gets a beautiful girl's attention." The man responds without a beat.
Marinette unexpectedly snickers. "That's sweet, if not extreme. I'll say no more."
The man chuckles in return and stares in her direction for, perhaps, a few seconds too long. She knows she is not imagining it because she is not a nervous person by nature. Well, not anymore. She is surrounded by beautiful models and professionals that work long and bizarre hours that tend to result in snappy and strong personalities. She isn't phased by strangers on a regular basis.
Marinette tilts her head to glance at the male. He is unapologetically staring back, large green eyes dancing like he wants to ask a question. Marinette raises her eyebrows ready to tell him off for making her uncomfortable in a small space, but the door dings so she just nods and walks to her apartment.
When she hears the elevator doors close behind her, she breathes more easily, the weight of her feet smooshing into the carpet hallway. She dangles her keys out of her sling bag before unlocking her door and kicking off her worn flats.
Her kitchen is to the left, beyond the entryway, so she's peeling off her winter clothes when her cell rings.
"Hey girl! Guess who finally hunted down the best Thai restaurant in Paris," Alya starts. A smack of lips and a click of chopsticks follow her words. "The greatest unoffical-foodie journalist. That's who." Her mouth is so full of food every syllable is rounded by garble of 'rawrs'.
"How do you run that foodie blog with your job again? I barely have time to cook meals at home with my one job." Marinette asks. She walks to her fridge and cabinets to double check if she can make a meal out of crackers and ketchup or something. It's better then broadcasting her failure of a home life to her doormen.
"Well, I'm not mooning over a black cat siren. That's probably where all your time is going."
"Alya!" Marinette shuts her cabinet a bit too hard and gestures at it in apology. "It's not like I'm on my balcony for hours each night waiting for him. That would be weird."
"No, you have a telepathic love communication for when you both emerge from your normal lives to elope on the patios. Oh my god, what if he's married? What if he has a girlfriend? What if he's a serenading serial killer?" Alya's voice escalates on each possibility. Marinette chokes on the first one—not that she hadn't considered it.
"Well...even if he is, its none of my business. It's not like he's singing for me."
"He already owns your heart. Thats a form of crime, isn't it?"
"Shut up, Alya." Marinette breathes through a smile.
"Well if you ever find out he's a villain, make sure I get the first interview." Alya jokes. "So you have dinner for tonight?"
Marinette is crouched in front of her fridge, cold air wrapping around her face and eye to eye with a jar of mustard. "Doesn't seem like it." She admits.
"I'll order some takeout for you, cause they make their Pad Thai Shrimp with illegal substances and you have to try them before they're exiled."
Marinette sighs and smiles at her phone. "You're the best. But also the worst."
"I know you secretly love it. Food will be there within the hour. I'll see you tomorrow."
Marinette stands from her crouch and looks at the ceiling. She wonders if Chat Noir knows how to cook. Maybe he cooks for a special girl every night and sings her to sleep when her back is tired from work and reassures her when the doormen mock her time management.
Marinette sighs and shuffles to her room for a unnecessarily hot shower.
When she emerges, dressed and dry, she opens the balcony door, cold air caressing her clothes, and settles on the couch so she can hear the beginning of plucked strings and the phone for food to arrive.
Food is up by nine fifty. She parks against the railing with her thick knit shawl and munches on shrimp Pad Thai. The Paris lights are flickering and sending messages of cheer and love. The people below are laughing and yelling, there is a shrill of joy next door, and the sound of a helicopter passes by.
There is no player the rest of the night.
Marinette's entire head is lopsided. Her tongue is sandy and it feels like she is squinting at everything, like she isn't sure if anything is real. Then again, the lopsided head could be due to her crooked bun of hair that probably weighs half a pound. Her sandy tongue is from a bad cup of coffee since she was too impatient to boil the water right. The squinting is clearly from viewing the too cheerful faces of the people of Paris on her way to work.
"Hey Mari! Ooooh, you have a bedside look today. Sexy night?" Tikki, one of her seamstresses, asks when Marinette walks through the door.
"Oh yeah, I seduced some shrimp dunked in a really delicious asian sauce. But it got too hot and heavy and I fell asleep right after."
"Your nights are quite odd."
"If I'm too obvious, it'll be boring."
"Well, we're nearing completion of the dancers' outfits. They are so gorgeous. Your designs are a gift to this earth."
"And your compliments are like shots of espresso." Marinette sends a tired smile and leans over to kiss the top of Tikki's head. She giggles in return and shoos her off.
Marinette is able to shake off her morning funk throughout the day, vehemently denying any of it on last night's no show, and goes to work. Penny Rolling, the assistant to her client Jagged Stone, compliments her work for a concert project and this boosts her mood another notch.
At the end of the day, her boss, Master Fu, calls her into his office. Her good mood must be obvious because he looks relieved. She wonders if she looked stressed yesterday after just returning from the trip. She frowns at the thought.
"Would you mind assisting Gabriel next week with some photoshoots?" He asks.
"What could I do?"
"He tells me his designer for this line is out of the country and he would like someone reliable to help photographers really show off the product. It seems he really respects your input." His eyes shine at the compliment and Marinette suppresses the urge to jump up and down.
"I'm flattered. And I'll do it." She beams.
"He also mentioned his son is one of the models. He hasn't done the job in a while so Gabriel hopes you can guide him if his heart isn't in it." Master Fu adds.
Marinette easily agrees and bounces out of her bosses office. Gabriel Agreste, the biggest name in the fashion scene, asked for her name. Its like she was dipped in radioactive fluid and gained superpowers. She could take on fifty more designs this week. Maybe a hundred with a big enough sewing army. Marinette is so excited she makes a promise to get her act together.
She's going shopping. She decides a menu on the fly: chicken fried rice, dumplings, and chocolate mousse. Yes, she can do this. She's going to have a fantastic night. Chat Noir is not going to pass her mind. In fact, he didn't show up yesterday, she's not showing up today. Who needs him, right?
She will make dinner, dessert, and crash after destroying some kids on Ultimate Mecha Strike V. A perfect Friday night.
Her trip doesn't take long, luckily she leaves one grocery backpack at work to carry on the way home. The doorman, she's pretty sure his name is Plagg, takes half her bags and they wait at the elevator.
There's a shout from the revolving doors, "Plagg! Thank god. I don't think you got—"
"Adr—ah, Mr. Agreste." Plagg jittered the bags. "Whatever it is you need, I'm sure it can wait."
"Agreste?" Marinette perks and turns.
When Marinette looks directly at the male, she realizes its the super blond from yesterday. He's still staring at her with those sparkling green eyes, but his brows are raised like he was just hit with a brick.
His shoulders jerk up and a pink shade dots his cheeks, a guilty sign she caught him ogling. "A-Adrien Agreste, at your service."
A spark flares in her mind from the name. "Adrien… you're that model from middle school! Well, that was popular when I was in middle school. Gabriel's son. The girls had posters and screen savers of you everywhere," Marinette laughs. "No wonder your hair is perfect,"
Adrien responds with a surprised smile and crinkled eyes, which causes Marinette to reconsider her sentence.
"Which is a compliment to your profession, nothing personal. Not that it shouldn't be a compliment, but it shouldn't be taken too personally, like flirting or…something." She flounders and darts her eyes to the walls.
"Thank you," He responds sincerely. "I won't brag about it being effortless, women don't tend to like that."
Marinette feels that messy weight of hair on her head and sends a small smile. "Not usually, no. Smart guy."
"I try," The sharp ding of the elevator breaks their conversation and Plagg rushes ahead and accidentally clips Marinette's bundle.
The exercise of walking a few blocks with paper bags bags, along with her sling and extra backpack, apparently made her relationship with gravity a thin one. She teeters forward and her flats twist awkwardly until her face is about to meet with carpet.
A sharp tug around her waist stops the momentum and she breathes a sigh.
"That could have ended badly. Are you okay?" Adrien asks at the side of her head.
"Just a long day I think. Thank you for having fast reflexes." She gratefully responds. A weight is taken from her hands and she looks to the side and Adrien is carrying the rest of her bags.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. It's my pleasure." He sends a winning smile and Marinette's brain can't keep up. Then again she's not usually in the situation of random kindness. She's just overthinking.
She mumbles her gratitude as they board the elevator, the silence doesn't last long.
"What was your name, again? I think I missed it." Adrien asks. Marinette doesn't think she ever told him.
"Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng." She responds. She looks towards Plagg, smooshed to the side of the escalator and looking despairingly at Adrien. She wonders if they're close.
"Marinette," Adrien says it like a taste of fine wine. It sends a shiver down her arm— or the blood is finally flowing back after losing the bags. "It sounds familiar. Are you a model?"
Marinette is tempted to laugh in his face but he says it with bald faced sincerity that she raises her brow instead. Plagg is rolling his eyes. "I'm a designer. I know your father, actually."
Adrien's sparkling eyes are on her again. She's still not used to it and turn to the numbers on the elevator. It dings and the doors open, but since he has her bags she can't escape this time.
"I remember now! My father loves your work. He wishes he snatched you up when he had the chance." Adrien points out.
They walk the short distance to her door and she unlocks it before gesturing for her bags. "I'm only good because of where I work now, though if he wanted to hire me I could never say no to Gabriel Agreste,"
When she looks at him again, Adrien is studying Marinette's door with excited interest— like he suspects buried treasure beyond the walls. The only noteworthy thing on her door is the gold number plate and you can't see much in her entryway. Again, she is reminded on how confusing this man is.
"Right," She drags out. "I'll see you around?" Marinette addresses him while Plagg drops off her bags. Plagg tugs Adrien's shoulder which jostles him out of his reverie. He looks confused at Plagg before his face clears, like a memory hitting him, and he begins walking away.
"Yes, I don't want to delay you. Until next time!" Adrien beams at her before leaning into an intense conversation with Plagg. Yes, Marinette did not understand him.
The rest of the night, she makes a fabulous dinner, destroys a good dozen kids online, and doesn't open her balcony door.