I honestly swear this isn't supposed to sound like a Marichat romance. I had too much fun here though, so… Just remember: platonic Marichat.
An hour and a half later, the Avengers was still playing along on screen. Marinette hardly paid it any attention—she'd seen it already, after all.
For some reason, she still couldn't muster up the courage to bring up the sidekick thing again. Every time she thought she could, her tongue would get stuck to the roof of her mouth or her breath would hitch or something would happen, and she'd be right back at square one. Her courage would dash away as soon as she'd found it, and not even a surprised squeak would tumble out her mouth.
She knew part of it was uncertainty. She prided herself on knowing Alya like the back of her hand, but to be honest, she didn't really know what her reaction was going to be. She didn't know what Alya would think, do, or say about the whole thing.
On one hand, it was very likely that Alya's eyebrow would raise, and she wouldn't believe a word that Marinette said. After all, saying you knew Chat Noir was pretty brave when you had no proof to back it up, and Alya was already the type to require proof on simpler things. Marinette didn't have any proof, did she? She'd snuck any chance at proof out in Chat's pocket just hours before, and even then, presenting that bracelet would be a stretch. Alya trusted her, and she trusted Alya, but there was still a line where suspicion was stronger than trust.
On the other hand, maybe Alya would believe her. After all, Marinette had never given her any reason to think she was lying, had she?
But, even then…
If Alya believed her, it was hard to say that all that sidekick talk had been serious. Maybe she'd be perfectly happy about it all, maybe she was completely serious about the whole thing, had meant it when she said she'd want to be his partner. But that was a very big maybe. Talking the talk was one thing, but actually thinking about doing it? Saying you'd be happy to be Chat Noir's partner and actually doing it were two completely different things—the whole scenario was the literal definition of 'easier said than done'. Even if Alya was going to believe her, which was unlikely as it stood, there was a very little chance that conversation had been anything more than a vague hypothetical.
Which was exactly what it'd been in Alya's mind, wasn't it. Marinette had literally presented the conversation as a hypothetical, an "if you could, would you?" situation. There hadn't been much else she could do, but… still.
And thus, her dilemma. She'd spent an hour and a half flipping back and forth in her brain over and over and over. She'd plotted all there was to plot, thought through every possible contingency, but she always ended up at square one all over again, wondering what Alya was going to do.
"Marinette," Alya said. The remote was in her hand, the Avengers paused. "Why do keep looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm going to explode or something." She tossed the remote back on the table, casting a suspicious glance at Marinette.
Code red. Code red. Alya knew everything, it was time to just give up and spill the beans. Code red. Code red.
"You didn't plant a bomb on me, did you?" Alya said, smiling.
Okay, so not code red just yet. Code… yellow? Suspicious Alya probably aligned up with yellow, did it not? Marinette smiled, her panic dissipating just like that.
"Maybe just a little one," she said, casting a glance Alya's way.
"How long do I have?"
A wicked smile grew on Marinette's face. "10… 9… 8…"
"Shit. Marinette, why."
"6… 5… 4…"
"Tell my sisters I love them."
"2… 1…"
Alya jumped off the couch and flung her blankets up in the air, making the most dramatic exploding sounds she could make and flopping onto the floor. "I'm dead. Dead, I tell you. I hope you're happy."
Marinette laughed, watching Alya climb back onto the couch and bury herself back under the blankets.
And then the suspicious glance was back. "But… if I'm not really going to explode…"
There's the code red.
"Then what's with the looks?" Alya asked. She tilted her head like a curious little kitten, looking up at Marinette behind those big glasses of hers in a way that just made Marinette want to tell her everything right then and there.
But, yet again, no words came to her lips. Indecision had struck her once again, and she was left just sitting there in silence for a moment, saying nothing.
"Uh…" Marinette said. She trailed off before she could say anything, looking down at her hands then back up at Alya.
An idea struck. It was a bit of an odd excuse, but it'd work.
"Well…" she said, "I was wondering if Nino's birthday is coming up? I saw you looking for gifts on your phone, but I didn't want to ask though, since it might be… kinda weird. I mean, he's your boyfriend. And we're not the closest friends, I guess." She hoped the rambling wasn't too off-putting, however purposeful it happened to be.
It was an unexpected reason, by the look on Alya's face. Far from the weirdest Marinette had ever come up with, but hey, at least it was based in truth. She really had seen Alya looking through headphones on Amazon earlier.
"Nah girl, Nino doesn't care who gets him a present, close friend or not. More stuff he doesn't have to pay for," Alya said, smiling wide again. "His birthday's next Wednesday."
Marinette nodded. Now she had to get Nino a birthday present. Not that she minded very much, it wouldn't be hard to take a little elbow grease and some fabric and make him a present. He seemed to like beanies, so maybe she could do that and get a little knitting practice in. Yeah. Win-win, nobody loses.
Again, it was far from the worst excuse she'd ever made.
With the movie stopped, Alya reasoned it was time for more popcorn, mumbling something about Nino on her way to the kitchen.
Marinette realized that she'd just blown a perfectly good chance. She'd had it, and she'd let it go. Her brain had just gone code red and blared off a couple sirens in her head for her. No progress whatsoever.
She sighed and slumped into the back of the couch.
She'd ask another time. She had time.
Two days passed, and Marinette had not made any progress towards bringing up the sidekick thing again. There was a dam in the back of her brain, holding her tongue back every time she tried to say something. She'd just end up squeaking, then she'd just have to make another excuse.
Chat was sitting in front of her TV, completely enraptured by an old episode of Looney Tunes. Roadrunner and Coyote ran across the screen time and time again. She knitted and watched along.
"Hey Marinette?" he said. He paused the TV, looking back at her.
"Hmm?" she asked.
"I come here a lot, yeah?" he said.
"If you're asking if I mind, I don't."
"No, it's not that." A small smile grew on his face. "If you minded, you'd be trying to shove me out the door."
She smiled. That was probably not true, but she didn't blame him for thinking so. She didn't think she could get rid of him if she wanted to—he seemed about as stubborn about things as her sometimes. She nodded along anyways.
"I was just wondering… if you'd wanna go outside?" he asked, looking up at her for an answer.
"Right now?"
"We don't have to if you don't want to," he said, shrugging. "But I think Paris is paw-sitively gorgeous this time of night."
It sounded like it would be amazing. Beautiful. Like living through those pictures you could find if you typed 'Paris' in the search bar. The moon, the stars, the breeze—all there.
But still, she hesitated. It certainly seemed like it'd be more fun than knitting Nino a hat—as much as she loved gifting things, seeing Paris as Chat Noir saw it sounded like something much more… exciting. Thrilling. It sounded like climbing fire escapes and running through the streets and hopping the gaps between the rooftops.
The only problem was… her face. If anybody at all saw them, she'd be plastered all over newspapers and gossip magazines, pulled in for questioning by the police, her whole life would go down the toilet. She didn't have a mask like he did.
"Will anybody see us?" she asked softly.
"Does anybody ever see me?"
She shook her head.
"I brought you a mask, purr-incess, don't worry," he said, winking. And out from his pocket came a folded up, black little mask with a strap around the back of it. "Just wear something dark, and nobody will look twice."
And that was how, a few minutes and a quick duck in her closet later, Marinette found herself opening the balcony doors and following him out. She had her own dark hoodie on, a pair of leggings to match, and simple sneakers—plain, dark, and unnoticeable, just like he'd said to be. The hood was pulled over her face, the mask over her eyes.
She climbed up onto the railing, trying not to look over the edge with all her might. She couldn't believe she was doing this, couldn't believe she was doing this. What was she thinking? She eyed the gap between her railing and the fire escape, where Chat stood by himself waiting for her.
"I won't let you fall," he said, holding out a hand.
Through the window, the TV played—Alya and Nino were curled up together, watching Thor 2. It seemed Alya was intent on catching up; the night before, Marinette had been forced through Iron Man 3, and the Avengers before that.
This seemed like it was so much better than any Marvel movie.
She cast a glance at Chat, then down at the railing in front of her. It had to only be a metre or so, maybe a little more. She'd jumped further before, had she not? She took his hand, stretching herself over the gap to land beside him on the fire escape.
Her heart was already thudding away in her chest, nervousness and excitement dancing around in her head. She gave him a nod. He nodded back.
And then, before she had a chance to process what was happening, he was leading her down the fire escape. He tugged her along with an eager smile on his face and a bounce in his step, his sneakers still somehow noiseless against the metal steps.
Soon, they were standing in the alley between her building and the next. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, casting the whole alley in shadows.
"Where to?" she asked, looking around. There wasn't much there that she could see, but then again, she didn't know Paris like he seemed to. There could be a secret passageway a couple metres away, and she'd have no idea it was there, would she? She felt like a tourist in her own hometown.
He smiled wickedly. "That's a sur-purr-ise."
Oh, so he had plans, did he? And no small ones, going by the look on his face. She smiled back at him, "Now I'm worried."
"Don't be," he said, tugging her closer. "Trust in your loyal knight, and no harm will come to you, milady."
"I trust you."
He opened his mouth, paused, and looked her right in the eyes. Surprise. He was surprised to hear her say she trusted him.
He stood there for a second before he seemed to remember what was going on, that he was supposed to be saying something. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a half-step back. "Right, well… that's good. This may or may not require a piggy-back ride."
"Are you sure?" She wasn't exactly the heaviest person on the planet, but carrying someone and running around sounded difficult at the very least.
He nodded. "I work out a lot, don't worry," he said, and for emphasis, he flexed his arm up in the air, smirking at her again.
She rolled her eyes.
"Now, c'mon," he said. He took her wrist and tugged her down the alleyway, deeper into the darkness and into the corners where the streetlamp couldn't touch. He stopped, looking up at a different fire escape, one with the ladder already pulled down—he'd pulled it down. "Now, we're going to climb this to the top, then you're going to have to get on my back. It doesn't go up to the roof," he said, pointing up at it.
She nodded.
They walked up the fire escape as quietly as they could manage. He went up onto the roof first, changing his mind just then about the piggyback thing. Instead, he just pulled her up, and she scrambled onto the roof.
And then, all of a sudden, there was the Paris she'd been thinking about. The bright lights and the sounds and the things that just made Paris so… Paris. The apartment building was far from the tallest building in the city, but there weren't many tall buildings in Paris—she could still see everything sprawling like a blanket out before her.
"Wow," she said, turning away from the edge.
"This is nothing," he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. It was the kind of twinkle that she was supposed to be afraid of, that she would've been afraid of a week ago, but she knew he wasn't going to do anything stupid. "Just wait till we get to the good part."
"It's better than this?" she asked.
"Doesn't even compare."
They lingered there on top of the apartment building for a moment. She looked out over the city, taking it all in, and he stood there in silence with that same twinkle in his eyes.
She turned away from the city one last time, burning the memory of it in her head. She never wanted to forget it, even if she forgot everything else. "Alright, let's go," she said.
And with that, she was hoisted onto his back. He ran along the rooftops, hopping along wherever he could, taking leaps that made her screw up her eyes in worry. He laughed at her when he landed, mocking her worried "oh god"s and asking her time and time again if it was okay. She kept saying yes.
It was unnerving, being up so high. He could laugh all she wanted, at least she wasn't screaming like an idiot on a roller coaster or sinking her nails into his neck. She told him so much, and he just laughed again, calling her a "purr-ety funny purr-incess" and earning another eye roll.
Over the rooftops, he carried her. Paris glittered like a moonstone far below, the streets silent when they went through a neighbourhood, louder when they passed by busier areas. He laughed when she let out a whoop over the noise of the cars, whooping along with her. A smile stayed on her face like a tattoo, never leaving even when her cheeks got tired.
She filed away the images of Paris in her head, trying so very hard to make sure they never left her. If she forgot… then she wouldn't try to get it back. Paris wasn't what really mattered, it was the moment of seeing it for the first time again, looking at it like she knew people were supposed to do before they died. If she lost the picture, it would stay lost, but she'd try to hold onto it as long as she could.
He stopped along the edge of a rooftop, setting her down gently. "Now, we've just gotta go down this fire escape, then down the street a little way," he said, pointing off in the distance.
She nodded.
In silence, they made their way down to the street. The ladder for the fire escape was already pulled down. He really had planned this out, had spent a good deal of time on it. Then, he was tugging her down the street, pulling his hood higher over his head and ducking it down. She copied him, and then they were making their way down the mostly-deserted street, ducking into alcoves and into alleyways for half a block. Eventually, he stopped next to a door.
"Now, this should be open…" He twisted the doorknob, and the door popped right on open. "There we go."
She looked between him and the door. "Chat, are we breaking in?" she asked, unsure. He wasn't exactly on the side of the law, and he seemed like the door was supposed to be unlocked, but still, she had to make sure. Graffiti was one thing, breaking in was another.
He shook his head. "You'll be surprised what you can do if you grease the right hands," he said, throwing in another wink.
She let herself be concerned for about half a second. It wasn't hurting anybody, was it? No, it wasn't. She pushed any worry out of her head and let herself be tugged in through the door.
He walked in a little while, muttering something about "night vision" before flicking a switch and pulling her inside. They kept walking, until she was standing on a dark stage, barely visible with the stage lights off. He disappeared, turned on the lights, and came back.
A piano stood on the stage, empty red seats sitting in the audience.
"Welcome to the Olympia!" he said, throwing out his arms. He let out a laugh, like a little kid, when his voice echoed around the hall. Add in the Looney Tunes, and she was taking off years in her head—he acted like a twelve-year-old, could you blame her?
"Chat, what're we doing here?"
"I thought I'd serenade my princess," he said, approaching the piano.
"You know how to play piano?" she asked, as if he was going to whip out a flute and start dancing around the stage with it just for the fun of it. Stupid question.
He smiled anyway. "I'll have you know, sweet princess, that I've been playing most of my life. This kitty is a bit posher than you think."
She laughed. "And classy too, I suppose."
"Are you implying that you thought I wasn't classy?"
"I'm saying you're very classy, kitty. You're a classy, posh kitty that knows piano," she said, sticking her chin up in the air.
He smiled wider, sitting down on the bench. "Do you know how to play?" he asked, looking back at her. He patted the seat next to him, on the lower half of the bench. "I know a couple duets."
"Oh no, I can't play," she said. "Practically tone deaf." That was, if you asked Nino's opinion on it. She didn't consider herself actually tone deaf. That said, she had no musical talent, nor could she play the piano beyond a simple C scale.
Chat just shrugged, seeming perfectly okay with that. "I'll play for both of us then," he said, smiling wider.
A bit reluctantly, she sat down next to him on the bench, making sure to take up the smallest amount of room possible. If he was going to be playing, then she didn't want to be taking up all the room on the bass end, invited to sit or not.
He put his hands on the keys, looking at her. "You ready?"
"Play for me, Maestro Noir," she said, nudging his shoulder.
"I like it. Maestro Noir," he said, looking down to the keys. "I might use that."
She laughed.
He waited for a second, focus coming over his face, fingers ghosting over the right keys for just a second. She held her breath.
And then he began to play. (song: La Valse D'Amelie)
It started off slow and soothing, nothing more than a soft melody and a bass line. His hands moved like silk along the keys, sliding along the keys up and down and up and down like it was nothing. Something in it sounded mournful and sad, something in the chords and the way his hands barely seemed to press the keys.
A moment passed, and then the song picked up, the lower hand moving while the top kept playing the same soothing melody over it, his hands moving faster and faster, until she was just sitting there memorized. He kept playing, focus on his face, the piano singing with each key he pressed.
Something about the song was so… melancholy. It felt like warm hot chocolate on a cold winter's night, like she was being bundled up in her parent's arms and hugged as the song went along and along. But it was different. It was like the fading memory of those moments, like the feeling when you only remember the vaguest part of them, only the fun you had and the moment you shared. It was when you tried to remember, only to find that you only remembered the memory of the moment, not the moment itself. It was sad in all the right ways, happy in the same sense, soft even as his hands sped up and the sound crescendoed. He kept playing and playing, the sound echoing around the room as his hands seemed to bang against the keys, he was playing so loud.
But then, as soon as it'd sped up, it slowed down. The same soft, slow melody played over the bass line, the rush gone, the same feeling of stillness and calm back once again. He slowed down more, until he was barely playing a song at all, nothing more than a handful of notes slowed down too much to be recognizable.
When he hit the last note, it rang around the hall, echoing back and back again, ringing in her ears like some mournful memory she didn't think she'd ever get rid of. It was sad, it was happy, and she never wanted to let it go.
"Chat…" she breathed. No words came to her tongue, nothing but a smile to her face. She didn't even know anybody could play like that, let alone something so soft and happy yet so sad.
"You liked it?" he asked, turning to her.
"Liked it? I… I…" She stopped, trying to find the right words. "That was beautiful."
"Beautiful?"
She nodded. "Beautiful."
They sat there in silence, but all Marinette could hear was that song, playing over and over in her brain like a sad echo bouncing around her head. She couldn't put it into words, nor could she even think to remember what the tune had really sounded like. It was morphed, had become something completely different and anew in her brain, had become its own memory. She never wanted to forget it.
She decided not to ask him what it was called. It could stay like it was, she didn't need to hear anybody else play it again. There was no need. "You were right. A view of Paris is nothing compared to that," she said, her voice low.
He smiled a goofy smile. "I'm glad you liked it, Princess."
Marinette saw Paris like it was brand new when he carried her home. The lights were brighter, the cars quieter, the sky deeper—it was like a new set of lens had been slipped over her eyes, and at last she could see what was really there. Paris, as it was supposed to be.
A song shouldn't affect her that much. It was just a song. It was notes and chords, nothing more than sounds made by hands pushing keys.
But the way he'd played it, the way everything just seemed to smooth and sound and oh it was literally music to her ears, beautiful, bittersweet music to her ears. She'd wanted to ask him to play it again and again, just so she could listen to it over and over, but she didn't.
They climbed back up her fire escape, clearing the gap between the railing and the balcony faster than they had the first time. The song still played in her head all the way. But not in an annoying way, not like getting that same old Taylor Swift song stuck in your head; no, it was as far as you could get from that. It was different.
She stepped back into her bedroom. The lenses on her eyes were still there, made everything seem and feel different than it had when she'd left. She turned to look at him. "Thank you, Chat," she said. "That was… amazing."
He lingered on the railing, perched there just as he had every other time. A slight smile, a shy one, if you wanted to call it that, came to his face. "You're welcome, princess. It was my pleasure."
They exchanged quiet goodbyes, and he was gone. Looney Tunes was still paused on the TV.
Marinette stood there, staring at the TV. Wile E. Coyote stood there, frozen in the middle of his scheming just as he had been when she'd left.
Her thoughts drifted. To Chat. To that song. To the way the music had filled up inside of her and left her head bursting with old memories trying to make their way out. She wondered how it was even possible for a song to do that, how it could make her look at a city she'd seen her whole life with fresh eyes.
She still had that mask on, she realized.
She pulled it off. Stared at it.
And she realized:
She wanted to do all of that again.
No, that was wrong—she wanted to do it a thousand more times. She wanted to run along Paris' rooftops and see the lights and hear that song and do all those wonderful things all over again and again.
She wanted to put that mask on again. She wanted to be by Chat's side.
She wanted to be by his side.
She wanted to run along Paris' rooftops with him, by his side instead of on his back, and she wanted to talk and banter and do whatever it was he did when he went out. She wanted to learn how to paint with spray paint. There was just… something about it—about being up there, outside, feeling alive and dashing about—that made her just want to be the one. She wanted to be the one to watch his back and be there, both as his partner and as Marinette, and she didn't…
She didn't want it to be Alya. She wanted it to be her.
Having Alya be there would be phenomenal. Amazing. But there was just something Marinette couldn't explain, something telling her that she had to do it, that it was her job and she was the only one. It couldn't be Alya. She was supposed to be Chat's partner.
Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the sights. She didn't really know what it was, but there was something, something she felt staring at that mask in her hand, that told her.
She was supposed to be his partner.
