It's not a day, or even two days, that Marinette waits. It's nearly a week.
Truthfully, to say that she waits would be an insult of character, because she's more than grudging over her newfound interest in her window.
It's with a sly glance at the sill that she watches, and a turned ear that she listens. It's with a heavy sigh and feigned disinterest that she glances toward the loft.
Five days since that night in Paris, roaming the darkened streets, perusing a locked building and hiding in shrubbery. Five days since she broke the promises she'd made to herself, and crossed another line with Chat Noir. And five days since he'd told her he'd be back.
She sits on the chaise in her bedroom, long after she's supposed to be asleep, staring at the half-finished scarf in her lap. Her fingertips follow the familiar loops and knots, the crocheting needle absently dipping through the fabric. In and out, in and out.
"…I'll come back later. We'll talk more about it this upcoming week; you're too tired to make any plans right now."
Empty words, she tells herself.
But he was right; she was tired. She was tired of his whims and his newfound interest in her. She was painfully tired of thinking about it. About what he meant when he said things, and why in the bloody hell he kept coming back.
A cat will take affection where he can find it, she reasons.
She leaves the window unlocked; she doesn't close the latch, and she doesn't pull the curtains.
So he doesn't bang on the glass and wake me up like before, Marinette clarifies to herself.
That's assuming he returns at all, and assuming is the last thing she wants to do. She doesn't want to wait, to watch, to hope…
She should focus on school. On Alya, on the upcoming class project, on the designs that are left unfinished and neglected in her notebooks.
On Adrien.
She shouldn't be here, like this, staring at a frosted windowpane and thinking of things that are best left untouched.
The room is too quiet – the sort of stillness cast by shallow breaths and cold nights. It's heavy, and it closes over Marinette like a vice.
She grows exasperated with the scarf, throwing it down abruptly. The lack of noise or impact leaves her frustrated, and she twists around, tossing the crocheting needle at the window for a more satisfying result.
It smacks the pane, clattering to the floor noisily. On the other side of the glass a shadow ducks, and her stomach swoops at the movement, tightening painfully in expectation.
Or, it could be rasp of gloved knuckles at the window.
The same window she's battled an alternating disposition toward for the past several days. The same shadow she's hoped and dreaded to see.
But her feet follow the same path across the floor. Her hands still find the latch, and she still swings it open.
And he's waiting there, looking exactly as she expected him to. Mussed hair and flushed face – eyes bright as hot, fast breaths steam from his lips.
Chat smiles at her, and it's just as heartbreakingly lopsided as it was so many days ago. It's nearly enough to forget her irritation.
Nearly.
"You're late," she says shortly.
Chat's bright, cheeky temperament dampens momentarily. It's a slight shift in his demeanor – in the flick of his gaze from her pressed lips to the darkened room behind her.
"Were you waiting?"
Marinette bristles, indignant.
"Of course not."
He considers her quietly as she folds her arms across her chest.
There's a closed hesitation that passes over his expression, and she can see her uncertainty mirrored there. As though this visit has been a halting decision for him – and considering how long it's taken him, perhaps it has.
He shivers visibly, and it draws her attention away from her own distraction. The snow has mostly melted, but Paris' winter nights are still bitter and unforgiving. Beautiful, yes – but undeniably cold.
A part of her wants to leave him out here, mewling and trembling on her windowsill like the stray he is. Truth be told, she ought to. He's brought nothing but trouble and confusion to her life during the past month.
But there's another side of her that harbors weak judgement and compassion, and it pities him.
She sighs, "Come inside, then."
Marinette steps aside, and his face melts into a grateful smile.
Her eyes follow him. They trace the familiar cut of his suit as he drops to her floor – the lithe muscles in his slender frame working as he shakes off the cold.
She plucks the crocheting needle off the floor and shuts the window, busying herself. When she crosses back to the chaise, her eyes find the loft where Tikki is nestled among her blankets. If the kwami wakes, she'll hopefully take notice of the cat immediately and stay out of sight.
"Still a fan, I see."
Said boy straightens, gesturing to a wall that's still spattered with posters and cut-outs. Marinette scoops up the yarn from the floor, carefully focusing on the material between her hands in an effort of nonchalance.
"And you're still nosy," she says pointedly.
She can feel his eyes on her. He must find interest in what she's doing, because within seconds he's filling the space beside her, crossing his legs and hovering just by her shoulder.
"What's this?"
Marinette turns tensely, obscuring it from his view. It's abrupt and curt, and Chat's gaze moves from her hands to her face, his brows winging up with curiosity.
"None of your business," she blurts.
She realizes a second too late that being rash will only make him more inquisitive – and she's not wrong.
His eyes gleam, "Is it a secret?"
The girl blanches, inwardly fumbling for a scapegoat. Her hesitation fuels his speculations, and his lips curve into a devilish grin.
"Is it a surprise for someone? A gift?"
Marinette flushes darkly, though for what reason is uncertain. It had been intended for him to begin with – for the both of them, really. She'd been planning on making a matching scarf for her Ladybug persona, for the nights when the patrols were exceptionally cold and grueling.
"Is it for me?" he asks, a new sense of revelation lighting his expression.
It could be his growing excitement, or the pressing invasion on her personal space, that vexes her. But he's too close, and his suggestion that she would painstakingly hide a gift for him – that he would spring to the conclusion that she would knit something specifically with him in mind – grates on her nerves more than it should. It embarrasses and frustrates her.
Because he's not wrong.
"No!" she says a little too loudly.
There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes. It twists in her stomach, unfamiliar and regretful.
He eases away, just an inch or two, but it's enough. She pulls in a breath.
"Who is it for, then?"
She inspects his expression, but she can't discern anything from it. It's disconcerting.
"Someone," she mumbles lamely.
He's looking at her intently, and it's only the span of seconds, but she feels something heavy and tangible linger there. She's struck with the curiosity of what might be on his mind during those thick seconds, when he snatches up a thought and voices it.
"Is it for your prince?"
The reality of his question doesn't occur to her at first. She's fleetingly grateful for the opportunity to escape the topic, clasping onto the nearest out – which, in this moment, is whomever Chat just mentioned.
"Yes!"
She says it firmly, and the reckless confirmation stirs something behind the eyeholes of his mask.
"Yes?" he echoes.
Marinette's mouth grows dry. She stares at him openly, desperately attempting to school her features into (what she hopes is) nonchalance.
"It gets cold outside," she blunders, "And I thought he might, ah- appreciate…the gesture?"
She swallows hard, glancing down at the scarf in her lap. As though the wretched thing might provide answers – or a substantial shelter for her pride, seeing as things are going downhill rather quickly.
"I'm sure he would."
Marinette lifts her head, catching the hint of a smile as he looks away. Guarding his expression – hiding a teasing grin, no doubt. Her hackles rise visibly.
"What?"
Chat shakes his head, and it wedges under her skin. It shouldn't bother her this much – his reactions, his opinions on what she does. For now, it's enough to justify it to herself, that this was originally intended for him.
She elbows him sharply, "What?"
Chat barks out a laugh, ducking out of reach as she swipes at him a second time. It flusters her, and that alone seems to amuse him more than whatever he'd been thinking a moment before.
"Nothing!"
He lifts his hands to ward off her accusing stare, grinning widely.
"Really," he insists, "It's just…"
Silly? Juvenile?
"Considerate."
A joke, a jab – teasing. Sincerity is unaccounted for, and she's not sure how to swallow it. It strips her of retaliation for a moment, and she blanches.
He lowers his hands, gaze flicking from her astonished expression to the fabric in her lap. The smile is different somehow – softer. Distracting.
"Can I touch it?"
She manages a slow nod, despite her previous trepidation. It's disarming, how easily Chat can sway her temperament. From one second to another, she falls into step behind him. It's a striking contrast to their partnership together beneath the masks and facades – where Ladybug is always a toe ahead.
"Be careful with it," she says quietly.
He's mindful of the thread that's unraveled at the unfinished edge, fingering it with gentle admiration. Chat loops it awkwardly around his neck, and it doesn't fall quite right over his bell. He beams nonetheless, seemingly satisfied with his attempt.
Chat's eyes pinch with delight, a warm severity in the vulnerable grin on his face. Marinette's chest squeezes at his expression, and it temporarily seizes her.
She reaches out, already adjusting it at his throat before she's aware of the unconscious movement. Chat grows very still under her hands, and she pauses.
"It'll get caught," she utters, "On your bell."
Justifications.
"I see," he murmurs.
Excuses.
She tugs at the material gently, seamstress' fingers moving of their own volition. It fluffs around his neck as she'd visualized before. Dark wool grazing the line of his jaw, settling on the slope of his shoulders naturally.
Perfectly.
It should be sinful, that he can wear a scarf so fashionably over a sleek, collared suit.
She's keenly aware of the soft, fuzzy yarn under her fingers – a thin layer between her palms and his skin. The familiar scent of his cologne, undoubtedly beginning to cling to the fabric roped at his throat. Her eyes are drawn to the bob of his Adam's apple, and Marinette snatches back her hands fluidly, glancing down.
"It's nice," he says, his voice hushed.
She swallows, "It looks like it."
When he doesn't respond, she clears her throat, fumbling to clarify.
"I mean, it helps to see how it fits before I give it to him."
He hums, and the sound travels through the quiet space between them. There's a shift of weight on the chaise, and Marinette involuntarily tenses, holding her breath.
"Do you have a mirror?" he asks.
He's too close.
The breath aches in her chest, straining, tipping on the rationalization forming at the back of her mind. Proximity that should hold no weight, no meaning. But it stretches in her stomach, fattening her nerves.
"Over there," she manages, gesturing.
She watches him briefly – standing up with the yarn in hand, moving across the room. A shadow ghosting past pink furniture and distinctly feminine décor. Out of place, but familiar.
"I believe I've complimented your skill before," he says, "But this is well-made."
"Fashion praise from a man in a cat suit," she laughs shortly.
He chuckles, but the sound is misplaced, distracted. It draws her eyes to the line of his shoulders, where his head hangs forward. Looking down, instead of at his reflection.
"Is there something wrong?"
He startles, turning, and she can see his hands bunched at his throat. Stroking the material absently, thoughtfully.
"No," he shakes his head, "No, I just…"
Marinette folds her legs, gaze flitting from his pensive expression to the yarn in his hand.
"Scarves aren't exactly my area of expertise; I've only seriously made one once before," she glances at her hands, embarrassed, "It didn't have much feedback, so I'm relying on references."
He stares at her hard, and it prickles along her neck.
"Who was it for?" he asks quietly, casually.
Hesitation settles low in her gut, though she's uncertain of the source of it. It might be the dark, thick space between them – the glint of his feline gaze slanting at her from across the room. It's pressing and heavy with an emotion she can't pinpoint.
"The same person," she whispers.
The words slip lightly from her lips, but they're leaden for Chat. His expression shifts, something passing over his features that snuffs her curiosity.
It's quiet and daunting, and it arrests her.
The way he looks down, breath hitching, hands growing still. His reaction cuts bewilderment over Marinette's thoughts.
"Is that odd?" she ventures.
Chat's head snaps up, disoriented.
"No," he says quickly, "No, it's not."
His eyes linger on her for a beat longer, and then he ducks his head, turning completely away from the mirror. When he sinks into her desk chair, swiveling to face her, Marinette feels the unease slip fractionally.
An array of emotions glimpse behind his mask as he slips the scarf from his neck, passing it back to her.
"He'll like it," he says softly.
She takes it, palm to gloved fingertips, claws grazing cool skin.
"I hope so," she breathes.
There's a gentle affirmation in his eyes that tugs at her. Marinette swallows, tucking the handful of yarn back into her sewing bag, shoving it under the chaise lounge. Out of sight, along with her thoughts.
"Speaking of princes," Chat says, "That's why I'm here."
She glances at him, brows rising.
"I told you that night, before I left. Unless you don't remember?"
He smiles teasingly, and Marinette casts him a deadpanned look.
"You brought me home half-asleep, and you expect me to remember everything that was said?"
But she does remember – very well.
"Let the cards fall where they may…" he prompts.
She nods slowly, feigning careful consideration.
"Quid pro quo."
It was meant as a confirmation, but the words invoke an entirely different recollection. She holds his gaze for a brief moment before glancing away.
"So, what are you suggesting?" she asks.
Chat leans forward, arms folding over the back of her chair, chin resting on them.
"Why don't you approach him?"
The question is abrupt, and Marinette starts, eyes darting to his face.
"Who?"
Vibrant, green eyes flick to the poster just behind her head.
"The little prince."
She bristles momentarily, "What makes you think I don't talk to him?"
He watches her, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, have you?"
"No," she admits irritably.
Chat orchestrates her emotions like a conductor, drawing her from one disposition to another. She's unaware of it until the thoughts are rolling into place, her reactions sliding seamlessly behind his quips. It's incredibly frustrating.
"Why not?" he presses.
She purses her lips.
"Because it's difficult to talk to people that you inwardly place above the rest of the world."
An exposed astonishment passes over his features.
"You think so highly of him?"
Heat crawls up her skin, and she averts her attention to her pajama bottoms. She can feel Chat watching her face, waiting with pinched interest for her response.
"He's important to me."
Marinette hears his intake of breath, "Why?"
An image surfaces to the forefront of her mind. The slap of feet on wet concrete, an outstretched umbrella, and the severity of pressing, green eyes. Tikki's tinkling laugh, distant and hushed beneath her uneven pulse.
Adrien.
Adrien with his endearing uncertainty and heart-wrenching smile. Adrien with his embarrassment over the gum misunderstanding. Adrien twisting her thoughts in looping knots until she can't function properly.
And when she opens her mouth, the words have already tumbled past her lips before she's mulled over them. They've escaped her, and she hasn't realized them until they're already filling the space in her mouth.
"From the first moment I met Adrien, I think I had already taken him for face value. There's that part in all of us that harbors an idealistic image of someone. The way we want them to be, rather than how they really are. He was the snobby friend of my enemy, the boy that followed obediently and bowed his head to conflict. The model, the son of a fashion emperor, that yearned for the attention of others. And I hated that. It took time for me to see him as anything else. For me to see his friendship with Chloe as loyalty and kindness, instead of a blind dedication."
"I think that's how we imprint people into our lives. It's not sudden, and it's different from infatuation. It's looking past the scripted smile, and seeing the loneliness. It's being willing to accept them as an imperfect individual, even when they may not accept themselves. It's discovering each new detail about them like small treasures, and storing it away in a place that may never find use."
Marinette pauses, considering.
"Loving someone, and knowing they may never return your feelings, is like watering a dying plant. You don't know if anything is going to come of it, but it doesn't matter. Because it's not for you, it's for them. It's for the potential that it may bring them some happiness, that their world may expand and make room for you, if only briefly."
There's shallow breaths between them, and she shifts uncomfortably under Chat's gaze.
She doesn't look at him at first. The stillness is different somehow, charged with a bated expectancy that she doesn't understand. But when she does meet his eyes, it's like the first night he visited.
It's dilated pupils and palpable tension. It's the flush in his cheeks, the part of his lips as he stares openly at her. And it's maddening.
"You should say that to him," he says lowly.
He lifts his head from his arms, and though the movement is scarce, she feels as though the proximity between them has closed exceptionally.
"How?" she laughs.
The sound is breathy and anxious, and she regrets it the moment it leaves her.
"I can help you," he says slowly, "I know how he might think."
"First you're a fashion expert, and now you can read minds. Is there no end to your super powers?"
He grins, and the self-satisfaction in his expression is devastating.
"I'm told I'm extraordinarily charming, but that's not so much a skill as it is a natural asset."
"I've never heard that term used to describe ego," she says.
Chat's brows lift, "Your immunity wounds me, Princess."
She smothers her amusement.
"Perhaps it's not that I'm immune, but that you've been misinformed."
He lifts a hand to his heart, feigning insult. But there's mirth in his eyes, and the tension between them has grown thin.
"Remind me to never cross you," he says.
"Never cross me, Chat."
Her tone betrays the smile forming on her lips, and his gaze lingers there. His expression sobers, turning thoughtful.
"You should talk to him" he repeats.
There's something firm and intentional in his voice, and it cuts into her, wrenching her attention from their playful banter.
"Why?" she whispers, "How does this benefit you?"
His eyes snap to hers, and she catches the hesitation there. She grasps onto it, a suspicious curiosity biting into her thoughts.
"Quid pro quo," he says, and the words alone fall heavier between them than they might have before.
"If I help you, then you help me. You give me a woman's advice, and I'll help you with your prince."
Marinette furrows her brow, "For Ladybug?"
She doesn't expect the surprise, unguarded and abrupt, that flashes over his face. It perplexes her far more than it should.
There are few things she's been sure of in her life, but one of them indisputably has been Chat Noir's proclamations of love for Ladybug. His consistent flirting, his public displays of affection for her under the weight of the world's eyes – though she's written it as a tiring attribute to her partner's personality, there's never been a moment where he hasn't made it painfully obvious to everyone within earshot that he harbors feelings for her.
And now, distributing an offer for feminine advice, he blanches when she suggests his Lady.
She must look puzzled, because he recovers quickly, nodding with a sheepish grin.
"Right! Right."
Marinette chews her lip as he extends a hand, her heart leaping to her throat at his soft inquiry. Just one word, but it summons rich imagery.
"Accomplices?"
A night, very similar to this one, where they were separated by no more than a few layers of fabric. Secrets shrouded in foliage, unmasked between them with one word.
She stares at his hand for a moment, at the sleek, gloved digits. And she knows how it feels, over her skin and in her hair.
Marinette has always viewed Ladybug as a separate entity – a part of herself that she never fully accepted. Ladybug is the symbol of a legacy, and she only wears the mask.
But here, unveiled and exposed with Chat Noir, she knows that there's a boy somewhere beneath his Miraculous.
And to shake his hand is to agree to a breach in their friendship.
As Ladybug. As Marinette.
I'm only agreeing to help him try, she tells herself.
Alya's words are in her head, salving her inhibitions.
"A feeling cheater? There's no such thing."
"Let the cards fall where they may."
There's a small voice at the back of her head, and it whispers incessantly.
Justifications. Excuses.
When her hand slips into his, she can feel it quiet to a low hum at the back of her head, before dissipating altogether.
"Accomplices."
There were way too many complications involved with posting this chapter (one of them being its length), and I apologize for the delay. But hey! Here we are.Thank you for the reviews, holy cow. I read each one, and they're individually motivational and inspiring. You're all gems!
Feedback is appreciated!