Chapter Three: Scarf (Part One)
Terrified that Adrien will find out that his birthday gift wasn't from his father, Nathalie decides to get rid of the evidence. When a blue scarf is discovered in a bag of clothes about to be donated to the needy, Chat Noir isn't impressed - and neither is Ladybug!
Winter was coming, and Nathalie was starting to panic.
She prided herself on the prestigious position she held - she well knew that hordes of hundreds would kill to have her job. As befitted such a role, she had gained a reputation as the 'unsmiling assassin' at Gabriel Agreste's side. Entrusted by him to run his business operations when he was otherwise detained (which was increasingly often), she was tasked with wielding his immense influence with a ruthless grip, keeping his fashion empire ticking over in twelve different countries. It was a tough gig, but she managed to excel at it - at some small cost. Where she would likely have described herself 'professional', others would have called her 'brutal'.
That brutality was about to come back and bite her.
Being personal aid to the most renowned designer in all of France was by no means an easy feat. Mr Agreste was the very definition of demanding; Nathalie was constantly aware that if she made even one small slip-up, she would be out of a job.
She was well used to living in constant fear of the elder Mr Agreste. She was not accustomed to being afraid of the younger one.
She had spent a considerable amount of time with her employer's son. Besides her duties as an on-call PA, she had been tasked with tutoring Adrien from the time he was ten up until he entered public school as a teen. Many ambitious career-women would have resented being made mere 'governess' to some entitled bourgeoisie brat; Nathalie certainly would have, if her charge had been an egotistical horror anything like the mayor's girl. However, Adrien was completely unlike that - in fact, he was unlike anyone else within the greater Agreste orbit. During their lessons together, he had diligently listened to Nathalie's questions, answered her politely, followed her instructions willingly, never seemed to resent it when she corrected him (which wasn't very often). Even after he had graduated from her tuition, he always spoke to her cordially; his un-accusing frown was the only form of protest he raised when she handed him his schedule each morning. Compared to the rest of her duties, dealing with Agreste fils was a breeze.
Or had been, until recently.
Career security made people do unscrupulous things. Nathalie had long ago vanquished her own emotional vulnerabilities, and her work prospects had reaped the benefits. However, this did not mean she was completely without principles.
She knew full well that she was doing something wrong when she removed a label from a blue-and-pink present, crumpled it into the bin, and handed the gift to Adrien, claiming it was a personal gift from his father.
It wasn't like she'd had any other choice. Mr Agreste was a busy man; it was understandable that he might forget to inform her that he wished for her to purchase Adrien's gift on his behalf. Nathalie didn't resent the blame he had placed on her - that was what she was here for. But that had not made her situation any easier; she hadn't had anything resembling a birthday present for a fifteen-year-old boy on hand.
At least, not until a young girl, bumbling through her motions and stumbling over her words, had turned up on the manor doorstep, Nathalie's salvation clutched in nervous hands.
Nathalie wasn't proud of what she had done - and she was terrified that she would be found out. She hadn't even known what the prettily-wrapped parcel contained; it was only when Adrien emerged from his room the following morning, pointedly re-arranging the folds of a sky-blue scarf around his neck, that she breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that the object inside had been something appropriate. She had only relaxed for a moment; it occurred to her that the girl who had brought it might be a classmate of Adrien's, and would undoubtedly step forward to take the credit. She had spent the entire day on tenterhooks; thankfully, Adrien had returned home with nothing amiss. She had since dismissed the mystery-girl as one random Parisienne fan among hundreds, who would never know how her offering had been misused.
Nathalie was relatively safe, until the cold weather began.
As soon as the first chill came into the air, she knew she was in trouble. Every time Adrien passed her in the corridor or stopped by her office, she had to suppress a shiver, and not from the cold: that same blue scarf was always worn at his throat. Worse still were the video calls between father and son. As she watched Adrien casually fiddle with the drape of the blue fabric, waiting for the bored voice on the other end of the line to make some mention of it, Nathalie held her breath, wondering all the while how she managed to keep from dropping the tablet. When, inevitably, the call ended without any acknowledgement from either party, Adrien would give a sigh of disappointment that seemed to stab right through her.
Contrary to the requirements of her calling, Nathalie wasn't completely heartless.
The strain was starting to tell - she had become anxious and jumpy, quite unlike her usual efficient self. Sooner or later, Adrien would ask his father about the scarf point-blank, and the truth would come out. She knew that if one Agreste didn't fire her, the other one surely would! She had been wracking her astute brain for weeks on end, yet she still had no idea what she should-
"Nathalie...?"
She gave a start, jolting upright in her chair. Adrien was standing opposite her desk, smiling politely at her. His only reaction to having caught her unawares was a single raised eyebrow; perhaps he found it reassuring that even an automaton like herself sometimes had moments of human distraction. She hastily pulled herself together.
"Yes, Adrien? What can I do for you?"
He gestured at the black duffel bag he wore over his shoulder; its open zipper showed her a profusion of assorted fabrics. "I'm looking for clothes that can be donated to some unfortunate Parisians - people who need warm things to wear in this cold weather. I've thrown in a few things of my own - mostly non-label, some of the old things I wore to basketball practice and some stuff from three seasons ago that I was holding onto - but I was wondering if the staff has anything else I can take? I checked with housekeeping, they said there might be some old raincoats in the hall closet, but to check with you before taking them."
"G-go right ahead," Nathalie assented, somewhat taken aback by the request - even knowing Adrien as well as she did, she would not have expected this from the son of a fashion mogul! Her keen analytical mind was already working; she sensed an opportunity here, if she could only work it in her favour. "I think there might be a few things in the staff breakroom. I remember seeing the chauffeur in an unsightly bobble-hat that should not meet Mr Agreste's eye; if you could make it disappear..."
Adrien grinned conspiratorially at her. For a moment, he didn't look remotely like a celebrity supermodel - more like a typical boy his age, happy to be in on a private joke. "Right, I'll take care of it. Thanks for the tip!" He winked at her, trotting purposefully away down the hall.
Nathalie didn't waste any time. Trying not to let her heels click too loudly on the marble floor, she strode towards Adrien's room, moving at an urgent pace. She wouldn't have very long before he came back, and she might have to search for-
As it turned out, she didn't have to look very hard at all: the scarf was lying neatly-coiled on the bedspread. Hardly believing what she dared, Nathalie snatched it up. Something black tumbled out of it - a stray glove, perhaps? - but she paid it no heed; she turned and hurried back to her office, her ears straining to catch any sounds of Adrien's return.
She held the scarf over the wastepaper basket and stood, poised, for several long seconds.
During her tenure with the Agrestes, Nathalie had done many questionable things - rejected aspiring interns, rebuffed minor celebrities, snubbed major CEO's - and never felt even a speck of remorse. And yet, she somehow couldn't quite bring herself to throw the scarf in the trash. She could feel the soft weave of the fabric between her fingers. It was hand-stitched and meticulously-finished, obviously crafted with a lot of care. She couldn't remember what the girl who brought it had looked like: she had vague recollections of stuttering speech, apologetic mannerisms, a signature with an 'i' dotted by a heart. But it wasn't that which stopped her hand from unclenching: it was the memory of Adrien, his eyes lit up, wearing an actual genuine smile, as he clutched the wrapping paper with an air of eager expectancy.
The image tugged on whatever heartstrings she had left, which hadn't yet been cut by the cruel corporate world.
Momentarily defeated, she glanced around, weighing her options. A black shape on the ground caught her eye: Adrien had left his duffel bag lying on the tiles. Moving quickly, she darted over to it, thrust the scarf inside, then stuffed her own jacket on top of it to conceal it completely, just in case (she could always get a new one).
A minute later, Adrien wandered back in, his arms piled high with thick tweed coats and slick mackintoshes. A hideous knitted beanie, royal-blue with a pattern of yellow snowflakes and green pom-poms, was balanced on top of his load. He snickered as he drew level with Nathalie, who was sitting composedly at her desk, just as he had left her.
"Apparently the gardener bought it for him as a joke," he said. Nathalie grimaced, for reasons not wholly attributed to the offending chapeau.
Adrien stuffed his collection into his duffel bag, patted it down, and closed the zip with an effort. As he shouldered it and returned to his room, he didn't notice that Nathalie watched his retreating back with an expression that almost looked like remorse.
Adrien huffed in exasperation. He had looked everywhere: on the bed, under the bed, in his wardrobe, beneath the cabinets, behind the couch - even at the crevices in his rock-climbing wall, to no avail. He couldn't find his favourite scarf anywhere.
From his place curled up on a pillow, Plagg opened one eye. "If you're going to search frantically, please don't knock me off the bed again."
"I never knocked you off the bed," Adrien answered distractedly, grunting as he got up off the floor, having peered underneath his entertainment unit yet again. He still hadn't caught a glimpse of familiar blue anywhere.
"Yes you did," Plagg argued back, tail twitching in annoyance. "I was fast asleep on something soft, wrapped up toasty warm, when suddenly I went flying - I woke up in the dust beneath your nightstand!"
Preoccupied though he was, Adrien chuckled. "Are you sure you weren't chasing wheels of cheese in your sleep? Maybe one of them fought you off!"
"Ha, ha," Plagg muttered, rolling his eyes. "You should be nice to me; I'm doing you a favour this evening."
"True." He knew that Plagg didn't like him to transform for anything less than an akuma attack (Adrien personally thought it was just because his kwami was so lazy). But tonight, he was allowing Chat Noir to meet Ladybug for a very special reason - and had insisted on being paid for his efforts with some very special cheeses.
Adrien sighed vexedly, finally giving up. He had no idea where his favourite scarf was - he could've sworn he'd left it laid it out on the bed - but he'd have to finish searching for it later. He couldn't let a sartorial crisis make him late for this event; he and his Lady had put too much planning into it.
Pulling a jet-black scarf from a dresser drawer and tossing it beside his duffel bag, he said: "Plagg, transform me!"
Once the flash of green light had subsided, Chat Noir knotted the black scarf over the collar of his suit, taking care to adjust it over his bell. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and leapt out the open window.
It was a dreary winter's day in Paris.
Despite the recent cold snap, it hadn't yet snowed; the buildings looked rather drab without a decorative layer of white. The park lacked its usual greenery, trees stretching bare branches towards a grey sky. The only splash of autumnal colour was in the red of the banner that was set up just beside the statue of the city's heroes. White cloth was sewn with black-polka-dot letters, which read:
HOT PASTRIES
+ WARM CLOTHES
Chat Noir perched atop the roof of a nearby house, admiring the view. A trestle table had been set up, and a good-sized queue was patiently snaking its way towards it. The misted breath of waiting people drifted on the air, mingling with the steam that rose from a huge platter of croissants. Behind the table, a graceful figure was handing out pastries, dexterously wielding a pair of tongs in a red-gloved hand. As Chat Noir watched, a young man in a patched overcoat, his nose already pink with cold, flushed to the tips of his ears at something Ladybug had said to him; she flashed him a smile that could melt icicles.
Chat grinned, then leaped down to join the scene. He had his own job to do, and since his Lady already had a head-start, he'd best get on with it; the sign did say 'pastries and clothes'.
"That's quite a big paw-tion you've got there," he said, landing lightly at the foot of the statue; his pose perfectly mirrored that of his counterpart. The crowd momentarily forgot about the croissants on offer, jostling and chattering as they caught sight of their second-favourite superhero. "More than a few meow-thfuls, that's for sure! Is someone around here hungry?"
Ladybug looked up, giving her partner a tolerant smile. "Yes, they're hungry, and cold too. Though you look pretty warm - is that an Agreste scarf you've got on?"
Chat Noir glanced down; sure enough, the familiar logo was embroidered on the velvety fabric in grey thread.
Whoops, maybe it was a sartorial mishaps after all. Even if plenty of people owned a piece of Agreste wear, it was careless of him to wear his family's own apparel - talk about being a walking signpost for his secret identity! Still, he was pleased with the compliment - if that was what it was.
"I look warm, do I? Why not go a step further and say I look hot?"
Several young women near the front of the line giggled behind chapped hands; Ladybug only rolled her eyes. "I guess black even suits alley-cats."
"It suits bugs even better," Chat replied amiably. He nodded toward the scarf round her neck, a vibrant red patterned with her trademark spots; matching black pom-poms dangled from each end. "That's quite a fancy bit of couture you've got there yourself."
She smiled a genuine smile at his remark; he resisted the urge to turn pink himself. "This one wasn't off the rack - for someone as unique as myself, an original was a must!"
"Can't argue with that," he demurred, not taking the slightest offence to the backhanded insult - after all, it was true.
"Speaking of fashion, Chat Noir, I trust you actually did your part for today?"
"Of course - how could you doubt me, my Lady?" He held up his bag for her to see. "And I personally sourced it all myself. What about you, my Lady? Did you make all those pastries with your own hands?"
She laughed humourlessly. "Not likely - though I trust they only taste better for it! Since there are so many, here's one I can spare for you, Chaton." Seizing a croissant with her tongs, she tossed it in his direction; he caught it with ease.
"Not bad - you might have another choice of weapon if you ever decide to retire the yoyo."
Ladybug's only answer was a resigned shake of her head. She turned her attention to an old man who was next in line; he accepted a croissant from her gratefully, cupping it in his hands as if to warm them.
Nibbling his pastry, Chat Noir found that it was very good - freshly-made, judging by how hot and crisp it still was. It occurred to him that the platter might be from the Dupain-Cheng bakery, which was just across the park from where they were. He had never tried the croissants there - but if their salmon quiche was anything to go by, he wouldn't be surprised if they were this good! He wondered if Marinette had had a hand in baking them; the thought made him smile. He was sure she would approve if she knew who the pastries were going to. The people currently standing in line hadn't tasted something as luxurious as this in a long while.
Some time ago, he had started noticing numerous people roaming the streets during his patrols; he had glimpsed them out of the corner of his eye, huddled in door stoops or shuffling down deserted alleys. When an akuma was loose in the city, they naturally slipped to the back of his mind; but he didn't forgotten about them - especially when it began to turn cold. Seeing them as Adrien - gazing out at them the interior of a climate-controlled sedan, while wearing clothes with a price tag that could likely feed a family of four - only made him feel even worse for them.
He had long had the idea of doing something for them. After all, he was supposed to be a protector of Paris; and it wasn't just super-villains that threatened the city's civilians on a day-to-day basis. When he outlined his rough plans to Ladybug, she had mentioned a bakery she knew of that sometimes gave out batches of baked goods to hungry vagrants. Between the two of them, they had come up with a special aid-distribution scheme - hopefully the first of many to come. There was already a fair-sized turn-out this time, which he was very happy to see; he wanted to reach as many people as he could.
He was surprised by how excited he was about it all - the rush of elation he felt at seeing the result of their efforts was wholly unexpected. It was definitely a thrill to see himself on the news when he and Ladybug had thwarted another akuma; but there were people out there who didn't even own tv sets, let alone coats for their backs or food for their bellies. Being able to do something about it made him feel like he was making a difference where it really mattered.
A crowd had started to gather around him, buzzing eagerly as word of his bulging duffel bag got round. Hastily cramming the rest of his pastry in his mouth, he undid the zip with a flourish, proudly showing off his wares. He adopted the manner of a hustling salesman, to the wry amusement of everyone in earshot.
"Step right up! Come one and all, to Chat Noir's pop-up fashion boutique! And don't let the name fool you - not everything we have is black!"
Unseen by him, Ladybug rolled her eyes long-sufferingly at the next person in line to receive a croissant; but she bit back a tiny sliver of a smile.
Adrien had sold a lot of clothes in his time, but had never gotten any real satisfaction from it. When he passed someone in the street wearing a piece from his latest ad campaign, he merely shrugged and chalked it up on his mental tally, making a game of seeing how many new-season shirts he could spot on the Champs Elysees. What he did now certainly wasn't a game - but he didn't think he had ever gotten as much enjoyment from anything as he was getting from this. As the evening wore on and the throng of people around him steadily grew, he only found more things to like about his newly-acquired role as a humble haberdasher. He handed out jumpers to gentlemen with their elbows poking through holes in worn-out sweaters; helped shivering ladies without proper jackets slide into sturdy coats; put more hats on heads and gloves on hands than he could bother to count.
Even in his father's flagship store, where the average price of a garment often went into triple digits, he had never seen people smile so broadly as they were doing now, as they gratefully donned his bag of second-hand cast-offs. When he dropped a three-seasons-old poncho over the head of a girl about his age, she instantly hugged the folds to her slim frame; he felt as if he'd just been hugged himself. His chauffeur's ugly bobble-hat ended up on a girl with blonde plaits who somehow made it look adorable. She looked shyly up at him from beneath it, then moved towards him in a rush, giving him a real hug as thanks.
Yep, if anyone asked, this was his new favourite past time - not that he could admit as much outside the costume! He'd have to think of another hobby next time a teen magazine decided to profile Adrien; he was already studiously avoiding all mention of his superhero sideline in his interviews.
"Next! Come forward now, don't be shy!" he called, feeling slightly heady with enthusiasm.
A small boy stumbled from the crowd, mouth slightly agape at suddenly seeing his hero up close. Chat Noir bent down so he could look at the child on his level, keeping his hands low in case his claws were too scary for him.
"What can I do for you, young man? Surely I must have something for you here in my portable claw-set." The boy beamed; Chat wished that all his jokes could go down so well! He eyed the child before him, his mood a touch more subdued. The boy wore a thin jacket over a threadbare jumper; if he hadn't been so distracted by the presence of celebrity, he would likely have been shivering. His neck, left exposed by the low collar of an inadequate shirt, looked far too thin.
"According to my expert opinion, you could use a scarf!" Chat declared; the boy nodded obediently, gazing back at him with evident hope in his star-struck eyes.
"Just a moment, while your own personal stylist gets to work! I'm certain I saw just the thing..." Chat Noir rummaged in the duffel bag, pushing aside several anoraks and an oversized hoodie. Huh, that jacket looked a lot like Nathalie's; maybe she had put it in there while he was-
A flash of blue caught his eye; he instinctively latched onto it, pulling it carefully from the bag.
It was a scarf, alright: Adrien Agreste's favourite sky-blue scarf.
He knelt with it in his hand, staring at it in utter bewilderment. He remained motionless for so long, people began to murmur among themselves. The boy hovered uncertainly, watching him with an expectant gaze. He managed to recover himself, quickly putting on a smile for the benefit of the crowd.
"Huh, this one is alright, I guess - but not quite good enough. I think we can do far better than that!"
So saying, he tucked the blue scarf into his belt, unwound the black one from his neck, and draped it round the boy's shoulders, earning himself an unbelieving gasp and an ecstatic grin. The people round them, seeing the hero give his own scarf away to the little boy, began to clap and cheer. A young woman, presumably the boy's mother, came forward and clung to his hand, uttering a rapid stream of thanks.
"All in a day's work for a superhero," he said, lightly ruffling the boy's hair. "I must say, it furr-oughly suits you! Don't you think so, my La-"
He had meant to cover his own distraction by calling on her, but when he glanced at her, he involuntarily stopped mid-sentence. He had figured that the noise would have attracted her notice, but to his amazement, she was staring full at them. Her tongs were poised with a croissant still clutched in them; an elderly lady waited patiently with her hand outstretched, wondering why she wasn't letting go of it. It took Chat Noir a moment to realize that Ladybug was staring not at the boy, but at him. Her slack expression and wide eyes looked like the exact mirror of what he had just felt, when he had reached into the bag and pulled out his own scarf.
Was there something on his face? Was Papillion standing behind him? Why was she-
She came back to herself with a start, hastily offering the pastry to its recipient with a murmured apology. "Looks good to me, Chaton," she said, in her usual breezy manner; for a moment, he thought he'd only imagined the shocked look on her face. "Much better than on you, with your mange half-hiding it!"
"Meow-ch!" he uttered in mock-pain, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. When he became Chat, his locks completely defied their usual order, sticking up at all sort of angles - but he wouldn't exactly call it mangy! She smirked back at him, but something about her still seemed... off. Her gaze kept sweeping over him, then darting away again, something he'd never seen from her before - though it did seem strangely familiar...
"Well," he said, turning his attention back to the boy, "just in case it does come with its own mange, we'd better find you a hat to match! If we're going for the full effect you should really have a beanie with cat-ears, but I'm afraid I don't have any - besides my own, and they're very much attached! If I could knit or sew, I'd whip you up something right-"
Clang!
Ladybug had dropped her tongs on the tray with a loud clamour, startling everyone around her - including Chat Noir. Face colouring slightly beneath her mask, she hastily snatched them back up again. "Whoops, sorry - the metal is getting too cold to grasp properly!"
She turned away, passing a pastry to the next person in line as if her life depended on it. As he dug through his bag for a suitable hat, Chat Noir squinted at her from beneath his 'mange'. Something seemed to have upset her, and he had no idea what.
He would have to wait until they had both done their jobs before he could have any hope of finding out.
Half an hour later, the last stragglers had finally dispersed. Chat Noir waved to them as he watched them go; they cheerily waved back at him, before disappearing around distant street-corners.
He was satisfied with what they had accomplished that afternoon; and yet, he still wished that they could do more. He hoped that all those people had someone to go for the night. The thought of them all huddling somewhere on cold cobbles worried him. If he could, he would set up a hostel for them right here in the park. Such a thing was impossible, even for them - Ladybug might manage it with her Lucky Charm, but it would only last them all of five minutes!
He zipped his duffel bag closed; it sagged emptily beneath his hand. All it had left inside it were a few odd mittens, and a jacket given to him by his gardener that was really too shabby for anything (except perhaps as fertiliser). Ladybug had done even better than him: her tray was bare but for a few crumbs, which she tipped onto the ground for the birds to peck at. He chuckled at the sight.
"Mr. Ramier would be proud of you," he said, going over to lean against her table - if he needed an excuse for moving closer to her, he could say he was getting away from the feathers. "If we learnt anything from Mr. Pigeon, it's that even the birds deserve some charity! I think we helped more than just birds today. It went pretty well - right, my Lady?"
"Yeah."
He had been watching a particularly greedy pigeon make off with an overly-large crumb; when she spoke, he looked round at her sharply. Her short reply to his extended attempts at conversation was very unlike her. Noticing his gaze on her, she looked at him once, then glanced away again. He frowned; he had almost forgotten her reaction from earlier, but now the memory came rushing back. He certainly hadn't been imagining things.
Just what was bothering her? If he had done something wrong-
"Chat, where did you get that scarf?"
He gave a violent start. Oh no - had he given himself away? He had thought it was safe to wear an Agreste scarf, since so many other people must own one; but maybe that particular style was too exclusive? Was it too expensive? He could take his pick from his father's entire collection any time he wanted, so he had no idea about the price of certain garments. Was it unbelievable that someone his age could afford such a piece?
"Y-you said it yourself, my Lady," he said, stumbling over his answer; he made a concerted effort to sound as casual as he could. "It's an Agreste creation - and a pretty sophisticated one at that, you must admit. Not bad for a stray cat, eh? I was quite impressed that you recognized it. I always knew you were a fashionable bug - just look at how you carry off that suit! - but you must also be a-"
"No, not that one," she said, cutting through his garbled response. "I mean that one."
She pointed at his waist; he glanced down at the blue scarf, which was still stashed securely in his belt. Geez, that was even worse than the black one - no way could be explain to her why he had a custom-made creation, crafted by none other than Gabriel Agreste himself!
"You did say you personally sourced the clothes yourself," she added, as he hesitated far longer than he should. "Where did you get all of it?"
"Oh, well..." He cast around quickly for an answer that wouldn't give him away. "I-it's like that bakery you know of, the one that gave you croissants for today. I have a, uh, a friend who supplied me with everything. He left a bag out for me, and I trust his-"
"Did the Agrestes give you that bag?"
He was brought up short by the bluntness of her question. So she really did know her fashion! "Y-yeah, they did! So you recognized-"
Clatter!
For the second time that day, the tongs dropped out of her hand. At first, he wondered if she had just spotted a sudden akuma; she looked almost panicked, something he only ever associated with their battles, and then only in the worst of them.
"I... I just... I've got to go-" Without further explanation, she launched her yoyo at a nearby chimney and soared away over the rooftops, leaving him standing stunned in her wake.
"My... Lady...?" he said, addressing a red blip in the distance. She was already far out of earshot.
His first reaction was to go after her, but he stopped after a few steps in the direction she had taken. Whatever it was that had called her away, it must be her own private business; besides, he had no idea where she'd gone, and he had no hope of catching up to her now. Maybe she just had something she had to do? That was the logical explanation; but somehow, he didn't quite believe it. Her words stuck with him, and everything about them seemed odd - including her sudden departure.
He didn't know what to do with the table and banner she had left behind - he didn't even know if they were hers or borrowed from somewhere - so he carried them across the square, leaning them against the wall of the bakery. He didn't think the Dupain-Chengs would mind, and she should be able to find them there if she came back for them later. He was tempted to wait and see if she did return, but quickly gave up on the idea. Instead, he launched himself onto the nearest roof and ran along its ridge with sure-footed assurance, heading towards home.
He definitely had something he needed to do.
Author's note: I knew this would happen sooner or later! A couple of short one-shots, quick and easy to write? Yeah, sure! I thought this story would be reasonably straight-forward, but it's already turned out so long! Rather than give people a humongous wall of text to wade through, I'm dividing it into Parts One and Two. I hope nobody minds - at least you all get some of it a bit sooner this way!
I'd really like to see a scene like this in canon some day. For some reason, I can imagine Adrien wanting to do something like this - don't get me wrong, I'm sure Marinette would to, but she might decide it wasn't her place to do it as Ladybug. I reckon Chat would seize the opportunity, while Ladybug would back him up and come up with the practical side of things. Given how generous Tom and Sabine are with their pastries, I'm sure they'd be happy to be in on it too!
I realized halfway through writing this chapter that the previous one had phones in it, while this one features croissants. Perhaps the item from the preceding chapter will always have a cameo in the one following it, meaning the next will feature the scarf in it somewhere? (okay, so the next one will be part two of the same story, which is totally cheating - we'll just have to see what Chapter 5 brings!) ~ W.J.
