EDITED 1/6/20

Chapter 7: Whack

...

Chat leaned over and vomited in the trash can.

It hurt. His throat burned painfully, as if he were retching lava instead of puke. Chat's knees buckled beneath him and he had to grip the sides of the bin to keep himself upright. When he finally stopped coughing, he collapsed against the wall, his breathing fast and heavy. He tiredly wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand and rested his aching head against the building, trying and failing to ignore the tears leaking down his face.

There was so much that he hadn't gotten to tell him to his face. So much that he hadn't gotten out, that he might now never get to say. He'd said a lot, but the biting words he'd managed to fire, while stuck in his shocked and terrified horror nonetheless, weren't even a fraction of the thoughts that continued to be held captive in his mind. Now, the words scraped and clawed at the bars of their prison, begging to be set free, and Chat was jaggedly divided between letting them go or holding them back.

If Hawk Moth's identity were to be released, it could cause a whole other slew of issues (nevertheless at a time where it was less than ideal for pressing issues to be accumulating), but that wasn't the problem. He feared, logically so, that no matter what he did, no matter how much he cursed or cried or thrashed or screamed, it would never be enough. Not after this, not after everything his—that man had done. Once the cage emptied, it would just fill right up again, and he didn't know how long it would take for the cycle to stop, if it ever stopped at all. In the end, he figured he should keep it locked, at least for now, just so he could at least try to salvage what little of his sanity was still intact.

Chat tiredly took in his surroundings. He appeared to be on some shopping corner that felt oddly familiar, which was fairly close to the Eiffel Tower. When he looked across the street, he was startled to see that he was facing Collège Françoise Dupont. The sight of the school sparked his memory through his muddled thoughts, and suddenly he remembered Alya's request to meet with him. As much as he wasn't in the mood to interact with anyone right now, he figured hearing some good news might do good for his mental health.

Without getting up, Chat pulled his staff out of his belt and opened it to check the time. When he saw there was still fifteen minutes until 15:00, he contemplated whether he should stay here or wait near the bushes so he didn't accidentally miss her. On the other hand, if he stayed here, he could detransform and talk to Plagg, and maybe if he was lucky enough the kwami would have some helpful advice to spare again.

However, before he had the chance to think anymore into it, a startled gasp above his head stole his attention.

When he looked up, he found himself staring back at the awed face of Sabine Cheng.

The woman looked very similar to how he remembered her—gray, kind eyes, smooth short hair, and she was still wearing one of her traditional cheongsams. Only, this time, her eyes were red and bloodshot, her hair was slightly disheveled, and she was wearing a shawl over her shoulders to cover her arms. She looked more drained, more frail than the strong, lively woman he remembered from their limited interactions, and he had to swallow the lump rising in his throat.

For a moment, all he could seem to do was gape at her. She stared at him speechlessly, as if trying to process what on Earth a dirty superhero was doing sitting in her alley. He figured he should try to say something, but his brain couldn't formulate an appropriate greeting. His eyes fell on the small trash bag in her hand, and he realized that this must've been the alley behind the bakery.

It was only then that he remembered how the Dupain-Cheng Bakery was . . . directly across from the school. He could hear the sound of an imaginary Plagg snickering at his forgetfulness in the back of his head.

Once she finally regained the ability to speak, Sabine became the first one to talk. Her voice was choked. "Ch-Chat Noir."

Chat forced himself to sit up, ignoring how the sudden rush of blood through his head made him dizzy. The sound of her voice snapped him into action. "O-oh—um—Mrs. Cheng, I'm—"

"What are you doing all alone out here?" she asked softly, stepping forward. Her voice was dripping with worry, and it took Chat half a second to realize that he was still crying. He quickly wiped both his eyes, but the damage was already done. She dropped the bag off to the side before lowering herself down to his level and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He didn't have the strength or heart to push her away. All he could do was refrain from leaning into her touch. "I'm sorry for intruding," he apologized, "I didn't know this was your—"

"It's not a problem," she claimed. Her worry didn't waver. "Are . . . are you okay, honey?"

Chat swallowed thickly. His throat was closing up and he didn't trust his voice to remain steady, so all he could do was lie and nod his head.

Mrs. Cheng clearly wasn't convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I—it's been a long day," he explained, and truer words had never been spoken. He struggled to speak statically. "I've been . . . I haven't gotten much of a break."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, quiet but sincere. As if it were second nature to her, she rubbed her hand consolingly down his shoulder, unintentionally digging up memories of his mother caressing him in the same manner. The recollection hit him like a slap in the face, and he struggled to prevent himself from crying again.

Chat reluctantly pulled himself from her touch. He hauled himself to his feet and willed himself to meet her gaze. "Thank you, madame, but I really need to—"

"No, no, stay," she protested, standing up as well. She curled her lips. "I mean, I know you don't know me very well, but . . ." She smiled tiredly, but it was still heartfelt. "I swear I don't bite."

He gripped his staff. "I—I don't think—"

"You need to sit down in a real chair," she advised. "Also, you should let me look at that cut." She stared pointedly at his forehead, and it was only then that Chat remembered how he'd neglected to bandage the gash.

Still, he declined. "I have somewhere I need to be . . ."

She gently grabbed his hand. "Please. I insist."

Chat fought to keep his position, but one look into her pleading eyes and he felt himself cave. ". . . If you insist . . ."

Sabine didn't waste a second leading him to the bakery door. As they passed the front, he noticed police blockers and a police car sitting outside the front, preventing any nosy spectators from crowding their property. He briefly caught sight of the 'closed' sign on the door before she opened it and ushered him inside.

He sheepishly let her direct him up the stairs and into the quiet apartment. She briefly mentioned something about her husband being up all night, talking to the police and watching the news, and how they should keep their voices down because she had only recently convinced him to take a nap in their bedroom. Not like Chat planned on talking his mouth off in the first place, but he nodded, if only to satiate her.

In just a few minutes, Chat found himself sitting at her kitchen table with a mug of steaming tea in his hands. Sabine walked back into the room with a small first aid kit, which she placed on the table before pulling out a disinfectant wipe. Chat sighed to himself before he once again endured the irritating sting of his wound getting cleansed. Once she was done, Sabine placed the band-aid on his head, finally concealing the ghastly cut.

After putting the kit back in its place, Sabine settled herself in the seat across from him, with her own mug in her hold. She placed it on the table and folded her hands. "Does that feel better?" she asked.

He lowered his mug from his face and nodded. "Much, thank you."

"You're welcome," she hummed, taking the first sip of her tea.

Chat bit his lip and looked down at his drink. He needed to say something to her. He couldn't just sit with her, sharing a cup of tea in the comfort of her home when her daughter—he needed to address—

"I'm so sorry," he blurted out. After a beat, he realized what he'd done, and he shrunk in his seat. "I mean, I . . ." He reluctantly looked up at her. "I'm sorry, about Marinette."

Sabine's went still.

Chat really should've stopped talking, but everything was gushing out again, jumbled and shaking and far too rushed. "I'm sorry, I-I tried to stop her, but I couldn't—she was too—I tried to find her but I—I swear I didn't—I d-didn't know she—I'm so sorry—"

"Oh no, shh, shh," she soothed. Her eyes were wide in alarm, and Chat wanted to melt into his chair. The tears unwillingly welling in his eyes did nothing to make him feel any better. Then Sabine reached across the table and gripped his hand again. "I don't blame you for anything that happened. None of it is your fault."

"I could have stopped her," he mumbled, pulling his hand away. "I could have done more—"

"You're doing everything you can," she insisted. "And you've already done more than enough." She smiled thankfully. "They were broadcasting you on the news all night long. Everyone saw you looking for her, and it inspired many others to go out as well."

He stayed silent.

Sabine sat back. She stared down at the liquid in her mug pensively, her fingers quietly tapping against the porcelain. "This past day has been a bit . . . of a shock, for Tom and I," she informed him, her voice softer. The grip on her mug tightened. "Marinette . . . she had been acting stranger these past few months, but I never thought . . . I never expected . . ." Sabine met his eyes morosely. "Does it make me a bad parent? That I didn't notice that my own daughter—" Her voice cut off.

"No, it doesn't," he said firmly. "Nobody is supposed to know who we are. It's dangerous." He shook his head. "I didn't even know her identity until . . . well. Everyone did."

That caught her by surprise. "Really?"

He nodded. "I mean, not for lack of trying on my part, but she always insisted we would be putting ourselves in jeopardy." His shoulders slumped. "I've wanted to know who Ladybug is for the longest time, but not . . ." Chat's throat closed. "Not like this."

Sabine's expression overflowed with sympathy. "Of course not."

"I just can't shake the feeling that I did something wrong," he said. "That something is my fault. And if I can't—" He clenched his hands into fists. "Shouldn't that mean there really is something to blame me for?"

Sabine lowered her mug and set it aside. Her voice wasn't patronizing, but gentle. Teaching. "Well, Chat Noir, I don't have a time machine," she said. "I can't look back in time and tell you what actions would have what consequences. Or what sequence of events could be changed to prevent us from being where we are right now." The corners of her mouth raised into a faint smile. "You didn't wish this upon Marinette. You didn't do this to Marinette. It's the people who take intentional actions against others that are the ones to blame." The smile transformed into something much darker. "And we both know who that is."

'My father.'

Chat stared at her for a moment. The words in his head were clawing at their cage harder and faster than ever, and he suddenly felt the urge to puke again.

Should he . . . should he tell her? Should he tell her Hawk Moth's identity?

He contemplated it. He owed his father nothing at this point, especially not his discretion, but he owed Marinette's parents everything. Their daughter was missing, and whether it was true or not, he considered himself partially responsible. Perhaps, if they knew, it might bring them a sense of temporary closure. Just enough to fill the daughter-shaped hole in their lives until their actual daughter was there to fill it.

But when he looked at her again, and he saw the tired, distressed mother wrapping her shawl around herself more tightly, he saw a breaking woman trying to keep herself together. And he didn't know . . . he didn't know how she would take it. He didn't know if it would make her stronger or tear her apart.

For now, he would keep this to himself.

He forced himself to smile. "I . . . thank you," was all he could think of to say.

She smiled again. "I'm glad I could help," she said. Her eyes softened with an emotion that Chat could only think to describe as motherly. "And please know, our door is always open to you."

Chat could feel his heart warming in his chest. "That's . . . that's very kind of you."

"A friend of Marinette's is a friend of ours," she insisted. Her smile turned melancholy. "And you must be very close to her."

His mouth was dry. "More than you know."

A clap of thunder erupted outside the window. Chat was suddenly struck with the realization of how much time had passed. He tugged out his staff and was horrified to see that he was already ten minutes late for his rendezvous with Alya. With the recollection of how angry his red-haired friend could get, he placed his half finished drink on the table and stood up.

Finally, he looked at Sabine, suddenly feeling upset to leave her here all by herself. "I . . . I have to go."

Sabine's mouth twisted. She seemed hesitant to let him go. But instead of protesting, she gave him a tight nod. ". . . Okay."

Chat gave her a thankful smile. "Thank you, again."

"My pleasure."

He began to turn towards the door, when she said one last thing. "Chat Noir?"

He glanced back.

Fearful tears glistened in her eyes. "Please be careful."

Chat grasped his staff. He gulped. "I'll try," he whispered.

He hurried towards the door and wrapped his hand around the knob. Before pushing it open, he looked back one last time.

"I'll bring her back," he promised.

Before she could reply, he darted down the stairs, and out the door.

...

Conveniently enough, it didn't take Chat very long to spot Alya—she was sitting against the wall of the staircase, next to the bushes, her knees drawn to her chest and her head ducked to look at her phone screen. Even from his position on the bakery steps, he could spot the rigidness of her posture. Chat crept his way across the street and towards the school, trying to stay out of sight, even though there weren't that many people still hanging around on the school grounds. Still, he didn't want to get tangled up with other people and delay this meeting any further. He had a job to do.

Chat came to a stop in front of Alya, careful to keep his body shielded by the wall to omit from the school's view. His shadow fell over her huddled form, and the sudden change in light caused her to look up. However, when her eyes met his, he had to suppress the concern that erupted in his chest. It had only been a day since he'd seen her last, but the bags under her tired hazel eyes, the frown tugging her lips to the ground, the way her usually exuberant aura was replaced by one of painful sadness—she looked as if she'd aged by years instead of hours.

For a moment, Alya just stared at him with an indecipherable expression. As the seconds ticked by, he began to grow more and more anxious, and ultimately he decided he should be the one to break the ice. He cleared his throat before dumbly asking, "You're, uh, Alya, right?"

At first, all Alya did was blink at him. Then she squinted at him accusingly, and he suddenly worried that he'd done something wrong. She rose to her feet, pocketed her phone, and crossed her arms. "You're late," she snipped.

He had to stifle a laugh, partially because he wasn't expecting that response, but also partially because of course that's the first thing she would say to his face. He tried to formulate a reply. "Sorry, I was, um—" He wasn't sure if he should tell her the truth about why he was late, but he wasn't sure how passively she would react to him visiting Marinette's mom. "I got . . . held up."

Her posture lost some of its tension. She shifted on her feet. "I was worried you weren't going to show up," she admitted quietly.

Oh. "I'm sorry for worrying you, then," he apologized, his voice a little softer.

Alya's expression warmed up a little bit. "It's okay," she said. "What matters now is that you're here." Then the warmness melted from her face, replaced by stone-cold seriousness. "We need your help."

"'We?'"

"Oh, uh, Nino's a part of this. He's my boyfriend," she explained. "He went back to my apartment to take care of . . . things." He could see her hands begin to fidget out of the corner of his eye, and he wondered with mild concern what was making her so restless. "We thought it would be better to discuss this in private," she continued, her voice lower.

Chat stared at her, his stomach beginning to sink. He was getting the vibes that this 'news' Alya had to tell him was likely not of the positive nature, and bad news was definitely the last thing he needed to hear at the moment. But if she needed to tell him in private, it sure as hell was going to be important. Part of him just wanted her to lay it out to him now, rip off the band-aid and let the sting burn his skin so he could move on to the planning stage as quickly as possible, but he knew he could stand to wait for it until they were in her home. 'Breathe. Breathe. Be patient.'

Chat pulled out his staff, and he extended it a few feet. He hopped on top and turned back to Alya. He gave her the most charming smile he could muster. "Do you want a ride?"

Alya's expression flattened. "No."

His ears lowered against his head. "Oh, c'mon."

"You don't even know where I live," she pointed out.

"That's why you're going to direct me."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not riding your stupid magic pole all the way to my house."

Chat frowned. "It's not stupid," he mumbled.

Alya glared. "Let's just walk. Or is that form of transportation too mundane for you, cat boy?"

"Cat boy," he mumbled, before arguing, "We'll get stuck in the rain if we walk. This is much faster—"

"No—"

"It's not that bad," he swore, raising his hand. "And I promise I won't let you fall. Cat's honor."

Alya squinted at him again, and he stared back at her pointedly. After a few beats of contemplating, she scowled and stepped forward. "What do I do?"

Lighting up, Chat swept Alya off her feet without warning, ignoring her yelp of surprise, and readjusted their combined weight on the staff. He gave her a small grin. "Just hang on."

Her eyes widened for a split second before they shot off.

...

"That wasn't that bad," Alya decided.

"Told you."

Alya paused in front of her apartment door. "I mean, at first I was angry beyond belief, but then I got used to it." She pulled her keys out of her bag and wagged a finger in his face. "But if you scare me like that again, I'll decapitate you."

He watched her unlock and open the door, grin on his face. "Duly noted."

She stepped inside the apartment, and Chat stepped in after her. Alya quickly closed the door, locked it, and stuffed her keys into her bag again. She looked up at him. "My family won't be home for another hour, but hopefully we'll have a plan by then."

"Plan . . ." he repeated.

Alya didn't clarify. She tore her gaze from his and motioned for him to follow her. They walked down the hall and stopped in front of what he recalled to be Alya's bedroom door. He could hear Nino's muffled voice coming from the other side. It sounded like he was talking to someone.

Alya looked inexplicably anxious. She glanced at him. "We found the box during lunch. I, uh, kept her here during class, so she could have a peaceful rest. Nino's in there with her now."

"Wait, I'm confused," he interrupted. "Alya, who is—"

She groaned. "Shit, sorry, I'm stalling," she confessed. "This has . . . been a lot to take in." She sighed and placed her hand on the doorknob. "It would be easier to just show you."

Before Chat could say anything, she pushed the door open.

Nino was splayed out over Alya's bed, lying on his stomach and propped up by his elbows. There were boxes of various types of cookies scattered on the desk and around the bed's perimeter, each of them open but still mostly full. Nino was smiling down at Alya's pillow, where a small, pink creature with enlarged eyes sat. There was a large, black dot on their forehead, and under closer inspection Chat realized that it looked alarmingly similar to—

"A kwami," Chat breathed.

At the sound of his voice, Nino quickly looked up from the pillow, and the kwami shot up in surprise. "Oh. Hi," Nino squeaked.

Chat didn't reply. His focus was glued to the kwami. The ladybug kwami.

There were so many questions whirling through his head at once that he was positive he was going to black out. A part of him begged himself to, if only to shut his brain off before it crashed and burned.

Alya, sensing his sudden distress, cleared her throat and gestured to her desk. "Do you want to, uh, sit down, maybe?"

Without looking where he was going, Chat wordlessly lowered himself into Alya's desk chair, willing himself to remain steady. Alya sat down next to Nino on the bed, the two of them sharing a brief look before turning back to the hero. He kept staring at the kwami, speechless.

The kwami rose from the pillow and slowly approached him. She spoke kindly. "Chat Noir, my name is Tikki."

Chat blinked numbly. "I'm Chat Noir."

". . . Right," she said. She stared at him worriedly. "Are you all ri—?"

"Why are you here?" he choked. His claws were digging into the palms of his hands, but they couldn't quite break through the material of his suit to scathe him. "W-where's Marinette?"

Tikki wilted, and Chat's heart plummeted at the expression on her face.

"Marinette placed her miraculous on my windowsill last night," Alya explained, her voice admirably stable. "She wanted—" Alya caught herself. "She wants me to be the new Ladybug."

Chat looked back at Tikki. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know," she confessed quietly. "But I can tell you what I do know, if you want."

"I—" He closed his eyes, but nodded. "Okay." He needed to hear the whole story.

Tikki recited the account the same way she told Alya and Nino. Chat stayed silent while she spoke, mutely digesting every quote and description, and he refused to show any reactions to her words. However, when she finished, and the pile of new information weighed down on his head, he couldn't stop himself from keeling forward and cradling his head in his hands.

"I should have stopped her," Tikki whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself. "I should've said something different, something to convince her—"

"It's not your fault, Tikki," Alya insisted. She stared at her sadly. "Marinette is stubborn. And right now, she's terrified and not thinking clearly. It would be very hard to get through to her."

Chat slowly raised his head. He looked at the three of them. "So that's it? She's gone, and all we have is her miraculous to show for it?"

"That's not all, exactly," Nino lamented. "From what Tikki described, with Marinette in such a vulnerable state . . ."

". . . We might have a potential akuma to worry about," Alya finished.

His heart shuddered in his chest. Just the thought of Marinette becoming an akuma was enough for Chat's entire body to freeze over with fear, for his thoughts to halt and his breathing to still. His fists were getting tighter, and he had to force himself to unfold his hands and smooth them over his knees before he accidentally broke his fingers.

Chat looked at the three of them again. He willed his voice to sound strong, but instead it came out desperate. "We need to find her."

"That's why we brought you here," Alya said. Beneath the exhaustion in her eyes, he could spot a familiar sense of determination. "We need a plan. Something to bring her home as quickly as possible."

"We need to get her before Hawk Moth does," Nino concluded, his voice bitter.

As soon as he spoke, there was a booming clap of thunder outside, much louder than the ones that had preceded it. A few seconds later, they could hear the sound of rain splattering against the window. Chat stared at the downpour, his fingers idly digging into his knees.

He could picture it. A masked man, his father, towering over a frightened Marinette. He watched as she fought to escape from his clutches, clawing at the ground and screaming into the sky, and Chat was crying her name, running after her as if his life depended on it, but Hawk Moth continued to drag her into the dark with a twisted grin, away from him, too far from his reach, too far away—

Tikki's fretful voice pulled him out of his head. "Chat Noir? Are you okay?"

He shooed the thoughts from his brain. "It's nothing."

"You look like you're going to be sick," Alya noticed worriedly.

Chat didn't meet their eyes. "I . . ."

He shouldn't tell them. He really shouldn't. It was too much. They weren't emotionally stable enough, he wasn't emotionally stable enough, none of them were ready—

"I know who Hawk Moth is."

(He shouldn't have told them.)

"Wait, what?" Nino asked, standing up.

Chat's voice was small. "I just found out. Today."

"Wh—Chat!" Tikki gasped, staring at him in disbelief. "How—Who?"

Chat implored himself not to say it. He begged himself to stay silent and bite his tongue. The words were beating at their cage, screeching for their release, and he knew better than anyone else just how much he couldn't afford to set them loose.

But he was tired. And weak. And hollow. And hurt. And—

He looked them in the eyes. "Gabriel Agreste."

...

The only sound in the room was that of the rain beating down on the earth.

"I . . ." Alya tapered off.

"No," Nino choked. "No, it can't—"

Tikki was gaping. "A-are you sure? Could it be some misunder—"

"I know," Chat promised. "There's—there's no mis—" He shook his head. "It's him."

"Fucking hell," Alya cursed. "What kind of—how the hell—"

"Adrien wasn't in school today," Nino realized, his voice wobbling. He collapsed back onto the bed, expression transforming from shocked to panicked. "He hasn't texted o-or answered any of my calls since yesterday morning. I haven't even seen him since—oh—oh, shit—"

"Adrien is safe," Chat assured them, but his empty voice made his words sound meaningless. "He's . . . hiding. I got him away from his house before his father could . . . do anything."

Alya's voice was barely above a whisper. "Does he know?" she asked.

"I—yeah," he admitted softly. Chat could feel himself on the edge of panic. It was getting harder for him to breathe. "He . . . he just found out, too."

Nino fumbled for his phone. "I—I need to call him."

Alya was shaking. "I'm gonna be sick."

'So am I,' Chat thought.

Tikki didn't say anything. All she did was stare at Chat, as if attempting to calculate something from his expression. He brushed off her gaze and looked back at the two frightened teenagers before him.

Nino stared menacingly at his phone screen. "He's not picking up."

"Try again," Alya ordered hoarsely. Her legs were pulled up to her chest, and her face was buried in her knees.

Chat watched them helplessly. He wanted to say something, anything, that could possibly take away their fear for the friend that was right beside them. Part of him wished he could just tell them now, tell them that they didn't need to search for someone who was right there, but he had already overwhelmed them enough. One more identity reveal and they might've combusted with insanity, as he felt like he was about to.

'Keep. your. mouth. shut.'

He tried to think of something he could say in alternative to pacify their worries. But whenever he tried to think, the same thought kept coming back, careening him away from his task and devouring his focus whole:

His father was Hawk Moth.

He couldn't take it. It was too painful, too much, too many thoughts at once. He gasped for breath, trying desperately to calm himself down as the words exited their broken cage and threatened to infest the entirety of his mind. His body trembled and he couldn't stop the tears from forming in his eyes. He was coming undone.

Nino and Alya were too preoccupied with attempting to contact Adrien to notice his inner turmoil, but Tikki wasn't.

She flew over to Alya and Nino. "I need to talk to talk to Chat Noir," she said softly. "Privately."

The teenagers looked back at the hero. His eyes were trained on his lap, but they could tell something was very wrong. The two of them silently shared a look again, before nodding to Tikki and exiting the room.

As soon as the door shut, Tikki darted over to Chat. Her voice overflowed with a maternal type of concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"

His claws dug deeper into his knees. He shook his head. "Him. It's him."

"Hawk Moth?" she asked quietly.

"Him," Chat confirmed. Tears escaped from his eyes. "He—" Chat looked up at her, the tears quickly leaking down his face. His voice was broken. "Tikki, he's my father."

Tikki stared at him for half a second, letting his words sink in. Once they did, he saw her eyes snap open wide with recognition. A gasp escaped her lips. She opened her mouth, the name of his civilian identity on the edge of her tongue—

—but her response was cut off.

...

The window exploded into a million pieces, and hundreds of black ladybugs flooded into the building.