What the Cat Dragged In

by Kryal

Tony's pretty sure it's written into cosmic law somewhere: superheroes are not supposed be cute. Apparently, no one's told these two. ...He's okay with that.

2. Chapter 2

AN: Wow. Lessons learned from this chapter:

While I like writing fight scenes (I'm a kinetic thinker, I love writing about motion), I need to learn to scale back on the detail, because when I go blow-by-blow… well. This chapter is three times as long as the last one. Argh.

Part of the reason for that, however, is the difficulty of juggling four characters (eventually six) in a very enclosed space. Normally Miraculous Ladybug sets fights in wide-open spaces, and I can see why! A smaller space means I can't afford to gloss over events, or let characters space things out with running and dodging.

The other part was that, because I was using the fight to introduce the Ladybug characters, I needed to keep a careful eye on the pacing: I had to make sure that the Avengers got due credit as competent themselves (just unsuited for nonlethal combat situations), while still leaving good openings to let Ladybug and Chat Noir shine in their natural environment, and factor in how much time was needed for offscreen events.

On top of that, because I'm writing Tony's point of view, I couldn't gloss over the sorts of things that I would from a Miraculous Ladybug PoV. A Miraculous Ladybug character would know what to expect from an akuma, or from the superheroes. Tony doesn't – and that means I need to describe them, because that's where his attention would go.

That was hard. (But really, really fun once I got going. There's a reason I like using an outsider's PoV sometimes!)

(The last line? Heh. That was basically half the reason I gave in and decided to write this fic.)

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What the Cat Dragged In

Chapter Two

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For one wild, chaotic moment, Tony couldn't make out what was going on. Just the screaming as the mass of convo guests rushed in a mob for the exits, and that hair-raising laughter.

Then someone or something crashed into one of the movable panels that had been set up to divide the hotel ballroom into aisles for the Exposé. It toppled to the floor, crashing down on a set of display racks and sending pieces of suits and mannequins everywhere, and finally, Tony was able to get a good look at the source of the chaos.

He blinked. "…Please tell me you're kidding."

A – woman? Maybe? – hovered in the air above the panicking guests, cold laughter playing across her lips. She was wrapped in a dark dress that seemed to shimmer eerily as the long draping skirt and sleeves drifted lightly in the air, blending in with the long tendrils of ribbon-like dark hair. Above the high collar, her skin was an inhuman dark grey – except for her bone-white hands, stretched out before her with thread spooling out from the fingertips to catch and wind like spidersilk on everything around her.

Tony liked to think he'd become something of an expert on weird since he'd blasted his way into the superhero business with an awesome suit of high-tech armor and an even more awesome attitude. But this was so over the top that he found himself looking for the camera crew.

The crowd churning their hasty way through the doors to the stairs did not seem to agree.

"Oh my God!"

"It's a supervillain!"

"Run!"

The dark woman ignored the screaming crowds, sweeping forward in a flow of dark fabric before dropping down with predatory grace onto the fallen panel – and then raising her face to fix blazing wine-red eyes on Chloé, who was still standing frozen near Tony.

"Hello," she purred, lips curving up in a dark smile. "I am the Seamstress. And I have business with you, little girl."

Eyes darting back and forth, Chloé backed up. "I'll have you know, my father is the Mayor!" she blustered – even as her face paled and her hands shook. "If you do anything to me, he'll…"

The Seamstress laughed, deep and malicious. "Poor little girl, all dolled up in your little castle," she said, and straightened, as long threads began to twine through the air around her. "I wonder, will you be so proud when you're coming apart at the seams?!"

The last words were a piercing banshee scream, as the threads whirled like living things, gathering together into a spinning spike before shooting at Chloé.

Not a complete idiot, the blonde girl shrieked and fled.

Timing the move carefully, Tony stepped in and swept his arm up just as the point of the thread-spike passed him, knocking the strike off-target long enough for Chloé to bolt for the stairs. "Y'know, while I can't blame you for not liking her, last I checked brattiness was not an executable offense," he snarked. "If it were, I'd've been on the chopping block years ago-"

Rather than deflecting, the threads tangled, wrapping around his arm in a snarl of fiber.

Off to the side, he heard Natasha growl something in Russian that probably involved unflattering suppositions about Tony's ancestry and the intelligence thereof. "Stark, get out of there!"

Tony rolled his eyes a little. "She's attacking us with granny's knitting, how bad can it be?" he asked, pulling his arm free.

Trying, rather.

He tugged. Tugged again.

And then his brain belatedly tapped him on the mental shoulder as it pulled up the files on things like tensile strength and distributed tension and all the unexpected things that twisted fibers could do when they all pulled together.

And that was a lot of thread.

"…So I may have spoken a little too soon," he admitted, as the Seamstress's look of rage shifted into a hair-raising smile.

"So. You want to interfere with my vengeance, little Avenger?" she asked, raising a hand. "Very well."

She raised a hand – and Tony jolted forward, dragged by his captured arm, dress shoes slipping uselessly on the polished floor as he scrabbled for some kind of purchase to fight the pull.

An arm snapped around his waist, blasting the breath out of Tony's lungs as Clint anchored him. Red and black and flashing steel stepped in front of him, as Natasha grabbed the mass of thread and brought a knife down, furiously slicing away at the threads.

"You dare!"

Threads whipped around and Natasha lost the knife as she threw herself out of the way – but she'd cut just enough. Gritting his teeth, Tony leaned into Clint's anchor and yanked, the last threads snapping now that there were less of them to distribute the force. With the sudden loss of resistance, he and Clint both crashed backwards into a tangle on the floor. Before Tony could react, Clint grabbed his shoulders and kicked into a roll, sending them both into the cover of an overturned table.

"Gotta hear it for stock villain dialogue," Tony muttered, clawing the winding threads off him. Luckily, now that they'd been cut off from the Seamstress they seemed more or less like normal thread, and he was able to get his hand free fairly quickly-

As the mass of thread fell away, the Colantotte bracelet Tony always wore dropped to the floor.

In pieces.

…It's not broken, Tony noted blankly, as his eyes traced the metal shapes scattered on the polished wood. It didn't break, it didn't shatter, nothing actually hit it, it just…

…came apart at the seams. So to speak.

For half a moment, he simply stared. Normally, he didn't even notice the arc reactor in his chest these days; it was just part of the daily grind of his life, like some sort of very bizarre chest piercing to go with that nose ring he'd been tempted to get when he was fifteen and mad at the world, and just sort of mad in general.

Right now, he was very, very aware of it indeed.

"…Well, that's not good," Clint observed mildly.

Dark fabric fluttered in the air as the Seamstress dropped down to the floor in the neat sort of three-point landing that Tony normally only saw in martial arts flicks and when Black Widow got acrobatic.

"Neither is that," Tony muttered, trying not to feel dangerously vulnerable at the moment. The case with his armor was back in his hotel room – not far, really. But without the bracelets to home in on, the automated arming sequences wouldn't engage properly, and it might as well have been in storage back on the other side of the Atlantic.

Damn it, damn it, where is…

Just as Tony's eye landed on the dull gleam of polished leather beside the Gabriel display, the Seamstress straightened. Rather than turning, however, she began to pace towards the emergency stairs where Chloé had vanished, completely ignoring the Avengers behind her.

Two small, white, flat objects skittered across the floor to land at the woman's feet, and electricity arced.

The Seamstress shrieked – but to Tony's dismay, the sound was more outrage than pain. With a sharp jerk of the woman's hand, threads gathered around the electrodes and yanked them apart, breaking the current.

The Seamstress turned, eyes almost glowing with pure fury.

"Stay out of my way!" she screamed.

"That's not what I'm paid for," Natasha said dryly – and then had to leap out of her hiding place as the Seamstress pointed a furious hand, and five strands of thread whipped out, catching on light fixtures, debris, stands, anything that could be an anchor, forming a multicolored web of string. Natasha barely managed to tuck and tumble through a gap in the web as the threads tried to loop around her as well, escaping a bare breath of a moment before they pulled tight.

Then the web sagged, as Clint cut through several of the strands. The archer didn't have his bow with him – and from the grim set of his face and the tight grip he had on the combat knife he'd pulled out, he was very much regretting that fact at the moment.

Something hissed through the air, and Clint flinched reflexively.

A thin line of blood sprang up along one cheekbone.

Tony had to fight the urge to wince as he saw the thread arc around and return to the seamstress, the silvery glitter of a needle at one end.

Getting hit by that would be very, very bad, he thought grimly, staying low and working his way around to the fallen briefcase. He wanted to dive for it, but this would take a moment's set-up and the last thing he needed was to draw the Seamstress's attention before he was armed.

He'd gotten enough stitches to be gut-wrenchingly familiar with the feeling of thread being pulled through flesh. He didn't want to imagine what that would feel like when the threads were being pulled by an enemy who wanted to rip you apart rather than piece you back together.

I'm never going to think about granny's knitting the same way again, he thought, with a humorless smile.

Luckily, he didn't need armor to keep a few tricks up his sleeve.

Literally, as it were. Tony smirked as he opened the bag one-handed, his other hand palming the wire he'd threaded up under his shirt when he'd dressed for the Exposé. His hand slipped into the cool band of metal and wires in its hidden pocket of his briefcase, and Tony grinned as he felt the magnetized locks click closed.

Most people carried pepper spray. Tony preferred his pepper-related defenses in a more human form, and went for shinier forms of people-repellent.

The wire clicked into its socket, and Tony's smirk widened as white light began emanating from the emitter in his palm, charging from the excess energy generated by the arc reactor. "Let's see you sew this up," he murmured, pointing the portable repulsor at the dark figure of the Seamstress-

"Wait!" A smaller hand grabbed his wrist – of his free hand, not the repulsor, at least. "Don't hurt her – that's Blanche!"

Tony jolted, snapping his head around. "Kid. What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. "Get out of here!"

Adrien smiled tightly, the look a mixture of apologetic and determined. "I tried," he admitted. "But when she went after Chloé, I got a little tangled up. And now…" He glanced out of his hiding spot, tucked into the V of the Gabriel stand's desk and a half-toppled panel, and partially shielded from sight by a rack of suits.

Tony winced. Damn. She got between us and the exits…

Wait a minute.

"Blanche?" he echoed sharply, trying to keep an eye on both Adrien's face and the fight. Although for now it wasn't much of one; Natasha and Clint were holding their own for now, but they were forced to spend as much time dodging tangling thread and stabbing needles as they were actually trying to get close to the Seamstress.

Pray she doesn't go for pins as well as needles.

He needed to get out there-

But from the sound of it, Adrien actually had some idea what the hell was going on. "As in that Bissette girl?" he pressed.

Adrien's lips thinned. "I'm guessing no one warned you about the akuma."

Akuma? That wasn't a French word. "Assume they haven't," Tony said flatly.

The model sighed heavily. "Of course not," he muttered, and then winced when their shelter shuddered – Clint had missed a step, and the threads had snared him and flung him into the nearby panel before Natasha had managed to cut him loose.

Adrien drew in a deep breath. "All right. Five second version," he said in a rush, eyes intent. "Bissette's been possessed, by something that… that twists people, makes them evil, and then gives them powers and sets them loose." His eyes darted to the fight for a moment, before fixing with an earnest ferocity on Tony's again. "There are people who know how to get the akuma out and undo the damage, they'll be here soon – but I don't know what will happen if you hurt her before they get here!"

Tony kept his repulsor hand stable – but he didn't fire, either. "Right. Any suggestions for what we can do in the interim?" he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm… well, mostly in check. "Other than not dying?"

"Stall her. They'll get here soon to back you up, I'm certain." Adrien hesitated. "And… keep your eyes open. She'll be carrying something. A personal item, something that seems a little out of place. That's what the akuma possessing her is using – get it off her if you can, she'll lose a lot of her power. But don't break it, not before Ladybug gets here!"

Ladybug? Not even coccinelle, but Ladybug, in English? Seriously? Tony opened his mouth-

And what he was about to say got lost in a startled curse as Adrien unexpectedly stood up.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Tony demanded, half-starting up out of his crouch himself.

Adrien flashed a brief, professionally confident smile, gold-green eyes hard and bright and determined. "Getting out from underfoot," he said.

And flinched slightly as loops of thread wrapped around his arms.

"More interference?" the Seamstress raged, turning burning eyes on the boy.

Adrien met her gaze with a calm smile. "Actually, ma'am," he said politely, actually stepping towards the madwoman, "I'm trying to avoid interfering."

The Seamstress blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Easing himself up to his feet, but staying out of the direct line of sight for now, Tony took the opportunity for a lightning-quick glance around the room, trying to get a feel for where things stood.

Everywhere he looked, thread stretched between walls, panels, racks, desks, lights – anything that could anchor it, turning the ballroom into a complex, multi-colored, three-dimensional net. Most of the tangle was around Natasha and Clint, who were using the Seamstress's distraction to work their way out to more open space where they could move. Clint had ditched his jacket somewhere along the way, and Natasha's was askew.

From the look of things, they weren't hurt – nothing more than a new scratch or two; a long line of red thread trailing from Clint's shirt where a needle had managed to tag the fabric but not him. A welt showing on Natasha's hand, where she'd gotten snagged before snapping the thread by brute force.

So, intact – but they hadn't gotten anywhere against the Seamstress yet. Hadn't even gotten close to her…

Tony's eyes narrowed. Huh.

The half-formed suspicion was interrupted as Adrien took another, catwalk-casual step forward – and now, Tony thought he saw the kid's plan, nervy as it was. Off-balance and watching the kid with a hint of confusion, as though not quite sure what to do with a bystander deviating from the accepted supervillain script, the Seamstress hadn't maintained the tension, and the string that had wrapped around the boy had gone slack as he moved closer to the source. As Tony watched, Adrien casually brushed it down and off himself, looking like he'd done nothing more than shake the dust off-

The kid's hand brushed over the surface of a nearby desk, fingers curling as though he'd palmed something even as he took another step forward.

"I'm not trying to interfere," Adrien said without his eyes ever shifting from the Seamstress. "It's not exactly like I can stop you anyway, right? I just want to get out of the way." Adrien took another step forward, out of the loop of loosened thread he'd brushed off, to stand next to a mannequin that had somehow managed to stay upright through the chaos. "That's pretty much what you want, too, right?"

Okay, fine, Tony was impressed – because that had to take guts, walking up to a supervillain to politely ask them to please let you go. Darn it – at this rate, hewas going to have to admit that he was getting to like the kid.

It might even work. The Seamstress hadn't really targeted anyone except Chloé (and Tony would be lying if he didn't half-agree that the brat deserved a good scare or ten, even if his mind cringed at the thought of what that take apart at the seams trick would do to a living human). She'd had plenty of opportunity to wreak havoc among the attendees while they'd been swarming like panicked sheep and mobbing up at the exits, and other than scaring the living daylights out of them, she hadn't actually done anything. She hadn't even gone after the Avengers, not until Tony had deliberately gotten between her and her target…

For just a moment, the Seamstress wavered.

Purple light flared, and Adrien's shoulders suddenly tensed.

For just a moment, Tony glimpsed a strange shape outlined in pale purple-pink light hovering over the Seamstress's face, like some kind of butterfly mask. Then it vanished – and the Seamstress's hesitant expression had twisted into a snarl.

"I don't think so," she said, with a nasty smile. "I have uses for you!"

She swept her hand in, the fallen loops of thread whipping up to ensnare – and Adrien threw himself sideways, hitting the floor in a tumbler's roll to fetch up against the wall, leaving the threads to wrap around the mannequin he'd so carefully positioned himself next to.

"Sorry, schedule's full!" the kid shouted back – and pegged the paperweight he'd grabbed at her head.

The Seamstress shrieked in fury as the heavy glass weight shot past her ear. "You will pay for that!" she thundered as the glass ball hit the far wall with a crack.

Ding!

Tony's jaw dropped. He wasn't aiming at her at all. He was aiming for the elevator buttons.

Teeth bared in a fierce grin, Adrien launched himself into a flat dive across the polished, slippery dance floor.

The Seamstress swept her hands apart and down, threads lifting her up into the air and out of the boy's path even as two more whipped in to intercept-

Tony's repulsor blast hit first.

Not a solid hit, not at this angle. But enough. The Seamstress half-yelped, half-grunted, suddenly breathless as suspending threads went boing from the force of the blast-

But not the web-threads, Tony noted with a frustrated mental finger-snap. Too much tension, not enough surface area. So much for that idea…

-and spinning with the momentum. Her arms flailed in a momentary attempt to catch herself – and the snaring threads behind Adrien tangled with each other, falling just short of the kid as his momentum carried his slide straight under the Seamstress.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony had to blink.

…did he seriously just close his eyes so he wouldn't look up her skirt?

Someone call the cosmic police, it had to be against the laws of the universe for a teenage boy to be that polite.

Although, really, not looking up supervillainesses' skirts was probably less about good manners, and more along the lines of good life decisions…

Then Adrien was past her and rolling with the last of his momentum, coming up in a desperate dash. One step, two, ducking a thread at chest-height even as he twisted into a dive over another at knee level-

And the kid tumbled into the safety of the elevator car, just ahead of the closing doors.

"Nat?" Tony heard Clint say lightly, from somewhere nearby. "I've made up my mind. I totally endorse that suit. When can I get one?"

Tony dodged towards the archer's voice; Clint and Natasha met him half-way, grabbing him and pulling him under cover before the Seamstress could recover enough to turn and spot them.

Tony shook out his arm gingerly. The portable repulsor wasn't as strong as his armor's gauntlets – couldn't be, not with nothing but Tony's skeleton to brace it – but it still packed enough pow to send a large man flying when used at fairly close range. Which made for one heck of a kick. His shoulder was going to be feeling that, come tomorrow. "That why you ditched the jacket?" he asked. "Or did you decide you didn't like the color? Seriously, Clint, I could have told you it just wasn't you. Give in and embrace the purple."

Clint's grimace… didn't look like it was in response to the mental image. "More like it… unraveled."

Tony thought about that, and the wreckage left of his bracelet, and looked at Natasha. "Don't you get hit by that thing. I'm sure you'd rock the Xena Warrior Princess look, but the world simply is not prepared."

She huffed slightly, flipping a knife in her hand and frowning; apparently hacking through so much thread had blunted the edge. "Same to you. The world's already seen far more than it ever wanted."

Tony bared his teeth in a grin. "I'll have you know, that tabloid was a complete Photoshop job, start to finish," he said, twisting slightly in their hiding place to try to get a look around.

Clint made a mock-intrigued noise. "Which one?"

A lilting sing-song call cut through the banter. "Come out, come out, little sheep…"

They all tensed at the Seamstress's voice. A moment later, Tony heard the sharp click of high heels on a dance floor; she'd come down from the web, likely to avoid getting blasted again.

Not going to get another free shot, probably, he thought grimly. Next one had better count. "Got some intel off the kid before he got out," he said, keeping his voice as low as possible.

Hawkeye and Black Widow both looked at him sharply.

"What have you got?" Natasha asked, her own voice so low that Tony's breathing was probably louder. And he hadn't been the one dodging threads.

"It's some sort of possession, mind-control thing," Tony answered – and watched their reactions.

Clint's lips thinned. Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Lovely," Clint said flatly, his face twitching as though he'd like to curl his lip in disgust. "So how do we break it? We're not having much luck with cognitive recalibration so far."

Yeah, Tony had kind of expected that reaction. Hawkeye had opinions about mind-manipulation stuff.

High heels clicked nearby, and Tony froze – but they were moving away, not towards their little bolthole, along the other side of the now half-toppled divider.

We've got a bit of time. Not much. Keep it quick.

"Adrien said to look for some sort of talisman," Tony said. "Something personal-looking or out of place. Apparently the real bad guy will be hitching a ride there. Get it off her, and this should get a lot easier."

Clint and Natasha looked at each other.

"Sewing kit," Clint said. "Her left hip. She's carrying it like a weapons pouch."

Tony suppressed the urge to wince. Well, that as good as confirmed Adrien's claim that somewhere under the horror house costume and mad laughter, they were dealing with Bissette. Which pretty much confirmed the mind-control thing, too, because there was no way the hopeful embroiderer would have gone on a rampage like this, stained dress or no, on her own.

To say nothing of the flying threads and needles, he reminded himself. Or the creepy makeover.

And Adrien had known what was going on. Hadn't even seemed surprised.

Heck. Going by the kid's reaction when the laughing had started, he'd seen it coming.

I want answers. And I want them now.

Yeah, well, wishes, fishes, and elbow room in the ocean. They had a problem to deal with first.

"Any ideas for how to get close?" he asked, raising the hand with his repulsor slightly. "I've got plenty of juice for this thing, but not much range." It was still a prototype. And he hadn't exactly designed it with sniping and supervillains in mind. Hell, he'd gone out of his way to make it not much of a weapon. He was out of that business. It was meant to be something more along the lines of an emphatic personal space enforcer.

He could see calculations running through Natasha's eyes as she glanced up at the multicolored strands crisscrossing the room around them. "She only has ten threads. Only two of them have the needles – watch out for the red threads."

"She needs all of them to do that seams trick," Clint added, glancing down at the shirt that had been covered by a basic suit jacket when they'd walked into the hotel. "So if you see them bundle up, get out of the way. Apparently it only works on things that actually have seams, though."

That… was a relief. Though if he'd known that, Tony would have reconsidered taking the hit for Chloé. A little public embarrassment might do that girl some good. Not to mention that Pepper would kill him for that Colantotte bracelet. They were expensive. Not that he couldn't afford to replace it, but, well, it was the principle of the thing. He thought.

Focus. "She needs her arms to control the thread," he offered. "If we can get close…"

The air hissed. Tony flinched back in surprise.

And felt his eyes cross as they tried to focus – on the red-threaded needle that had just buried itself in the underside of the overturned table they'd been hiding behind.

Clint's hand slammed into Tony's shoulder, sending him tumbling backward. "Scatter!"

Tony hit the ground with his shoulder – the sore one, ow – and rolled. Something caught on his ankle, almost pulling him up short before weight and momentum snapped him free.

Ambush. She knew where we were the whole time, she circled us!

Boxing with Happy was never going to get him numbered among the heavy hitters of fisticuffs – definitely not in Natasha's league, not with the badassery-to-mass conversion ratio she had going for her. But Tony had picked up a few useful skills, even so. He came out of the roll into a tensed crouch, absorbing the last of his momentum with his feet as he snapped his head up to take in the situation.

Clint and Nat had both gotten clear – but the table they'd been hiding behind was wound around with several layers of threads, blue and black and white and a vivid purple. Natasha had rolled the opposite direction, stopping just barely clear of a thick tangle of threads that would have tangled her up as thoroughly as any real spider's web. And Clint had apparently gone up, and was balanced precariously on the upper edge of the overturned table, only upright due to inertia and the counter-force of the threads.

Then the archer smirked – and rocked back. The table teetered on its edge a moment longer, then toppled, flipping completely to land upside down, top flat on the floor and legs poking up towards the ceiling. The Seamstress made a surprised grunt, stumbling forward a step as her threads jerked at her hands-

And Clint, who'd easily ridden the fall out, darted a hand into the thick of the thread-tangle to grab the single lone line of red still attached to that embedded needle.

New loops of thread whirred in to snare, and Clint jumped aside – but he kept his grip on the red thread, and as he came up to his feet, his other hand came up with a knife gleaming in his grip to slice through the thread.

Carefully circling to get a better angle on the Seamstress, Tony allowed himself a moment's relief. He'd much rather tangle with string than deal with flying needles, a guy could get an eye poked out that way-

"Do you think that is enough to stop me?" A flick of the Seamstress's hand pulled the loose end of the red thread out of Clint's grip to wind its way back to her, as her other hand dropped to the sewing kit by her side.

Backups. Of course she has backups. I shouldn't even be surprised.

But in that moment, her attention was divided, one hand busy.

Natasha and Clint moved.

Clint went high, taking the short open space he had to launch himself upwards from a running start. His hands closed around a set of threads that crisscrossed above their heads and he used the hold to flip himself around them and slingshot himself down at the Seamstress, forcing her hands away from the sewing kit as she twisted herself out of his path-

And straight into Natasha's as the Black Widow came in low and hard and fast, using the same trick Adrien had used to escape by throwing herself into a slide across polished wood that carried her under the web of threads, flipping onto her hands as her legs whipped around to knock the Seamstress's feet out from under her. The possessed woman grunted as she hit the floor and Natasha finished the sweep of her feet to bring them back under her, lunging to grab the small bag hanging at the woman's side.

Fingers still streaming thread clamped onto her arm as the Seamstress snarled, pulling Natasha with her as she rolled backwards and threw with a strength that was flat-out not human.

Tony glimpsed just a flash of Natasha's face, wide-eyed in rare shock as she flew through the air to slam into Clint with enough force to send both of them flying off their feet – straight into the webwork of threads. The string tangled around them both, the added tension pulling the web higher, lifting them off the ground to hang suspended out of reach of anything they could use as leverage to work loose.

Not good! Bracing his hand, he triggered the repulsor-

And swore viciously and vigorously as loops of thread whipped in, whirring in the air as they wrapped around his arm and yanked him upright, and the repulsor blast hit the ceiling instead, cracking tiles and actually dropping a chandelier, the net of threads around it sagging as their anchor fell – and then Tony went up, hauled off his feet by his captured arm.

Ow, ow, ow!

Below, the Seamstress flipped herself up and onto her feet with insulting ease. Too much ease; Tony had been on the receiving end of Natasha's take-downs in sparring, and even that left bruises. In combat, she'd been known to break ankles right through army boots. The woman spared a single, pleased glance at the Avengers caught in her web of thread, and started to turn away-

And then paused, as those strange purple-light lines flared across her face again.

Tony mentally swore, grabbing at the threads holding his arm in a vain attempt to get some leverage, or at least take enough of his body's weight off his repulsor arm to get a little slack. He didn't like the look of this at all. Especially not that slow, malicious smile that was spreading across grey lips.

"Yes, Papillion," she murmured, slowly turning to regard her three captives again as the strange light-mask faded from her face. "After all, one should practice before trying a new design."

She reached for the bag by her side again.

Gritting his teeth, Tony hauled himself up higher. No time to free his arm, and no good angle on the threads holding him. Instead, he twisted in the air, fighting to work his captive arm around to aim at the fixtures anchoring the threads holding Clint and Natasha up in that web.

Only going to get one shot at this. Hanging in the air like this, there was nothing to help him brace against the recoil – and with his arm tangled up, it wasn't going to be a simple matter of getting knocked off his feet. If he made it out of this with a dislocated shoulder, he should probably count himself lucky. Note to self, build in more power control next time, don't care if it makes the thing a bit bigger. And better targeting, I can't get a good angle from here, dammit!

Didn't matter. He did not like the look of sharp and pointy metal glinting between the Seamstress's fingers as she pulled her hand out of the bag-

Somewhere behind Tony, glass shattered, and the Seamstress whirled about.

"Don't tell me someone started a game of cat's cradle and didn't even invite me? I'm hurt. Really."

The Seamstress's eyes widened for a moment – and then narrowed as that creepy mask flashed again, for just the barest moment. "Oh no, Chat Noir. You are very welcome."

The newcomer snorted. From this angle, Tony couldn't actually see the guy properly; he couldn't get enough purchase to twist around for more than a glimpse of a slender shape crouched on the windowsill, the light coming in from outside bright enough to make any features hard to distinguish. But his voice was light and playful. "Said the spider to the fly…" he sing-songed.

The Seamstress's lips curved as her eyes flashed dangerously. "If you want to play so much," she said, raising the hand that wasn't carrying lots of sharp and pointy things between the fingers like some kind of ninja senbon in a gesture that looked like it might be a dismissive wave, "then by all means…"

"Watch her threads!" Natasha shouted.

"…come and play with me!"

The air whirred as enchanted thread cut through it-

And a dark-clad figure tumbled between the gaps of the threads and into view, bouncing up to his feet with easy nonchalance. "I have the feline," he said lightly, "that the offer has some strings attached."

Twisting about to get a better look at the newcomer, Tony gaped.

"…are you seriously wearing a leather catsuit?" he blurted. Which was maybe not exactly the most relevant thing to be thinking about at the moment, but come on. Belt for a tail, fake ears on honey-blond hair – the guy even had a black domino mask.

Yeah, sure, fine – Chat Noir, Black Cat, Tony got it. There was such a thing as taking a call sign too far!

Green eyes flicked over to meet his, and Tony's brain blanked.

Those are not human eyes.

They were cat eyes. From the bright, almost glowing green that reached from corner to corner without a hint of whites, to the vertically-slitted pupil, currently contracted into narrow lines against the afternoon sunlight pouring in from the window and the lights of the half-wrecked ballroom.

That's not an effect you can get from lenses.

And then the guy grinned broadly, resting his hands on his hips in mock-offense. "Talk to my costume designer," he said. "I wanted ruffles and lace."

Tony almost lost the grip his free hand had on the threads when he burst out cackling.

Sass, sarcasm, and bad puns. I think I like this guy-

Chat Noir's eyes widened – and then he dropped and rolled, as pins hissed through the air where he'd been and embedded themselves in the wall and floor with the force of really thin, really pointy bullets.

"Do not think you can stop me!" the Seamstress hissed. "Not on your own, Chat Noir!"

He came up in a low crouch, still smiling brightly. But there was an edge to the smile now, hidden in slightly narrowed eyes. "Then it's a good thing I'm not on my own, isn't it?" he said – and his free hand darted behind his back and then up and out, and something about a foot long and metallic spun end-over-end through the air, parting threads like stray strands of spiderweb as it whirred through them. Natasha and Clint both dropped to the ground as half of the threads holding them up suddenly snapped, and Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

And then nearly swore when, in complete defiance of all laws of physics, the weapon ricocheted off the wall and came shooting back, still spinning, straight at him.

It passed so close Tony actually felt the breeze as it shot through the threads holding his repulsor arm captive – and then he was falling.

Without thinking, Tony tightened the grip his other hand had on the threads, his newly freed hand twisting around to support, so that he didn't fall straight down. Instead, he Tarzan'd his way down to the floor, grunting slightly as his feet hit the wall to absorb the last of his impact.

A soft thump, and Chat Noir skidded to a stop next to him. He'd caught his weapon on the return swing, somehow, and now Tony could see that it was a short rod made of some sort of alloy Tony couldn't quite identify, a small, dimly glowing green cat's paw in the center the only decoration, nicely matching the identical symbol adorning a flat-faced black ring on the guy's right hand.

Not steel, doesn't look like titanium. It doesn't even have any sharp edges, how on earth did he cut the threads…

Dear God. He's tiny.

Tony knew perfectly well that he wasn't exactly a towering bastion of manly altitude, he left that sort of thing to Steve, or Thor if he was in town – or better yet, to the Big Guy. But even so, he'd be shocked if he didn't have at least six inches on this guy. Chat Noir wasn't even built big to make up with it, he was at least as slender as Natasha-

Which could be a clue right there. Don't complain about local help, Tony.

Impossible cat-eyes flicked to the side to meet Tony's gaze. This close, Tony realized that they weren't actually a flat green from corner to corner. The area that would be white on a human's eyes was a bright, new-leaf green, but the dark-edged irises had a golden shine to the green that made them stand out, just a touch.

"I met Adrien on the roof," Chat Noir explained, voice low and quick and intent. "He explained the situation."

Good. Debriefing in the middle of a combat situation tended not to go so well. Stuff tended to get lost in the chaos. Like important details. And sometimes important body parts. "He made it out okay?" Tony asked, shaking out his stinging hand. He hadn't actually cut himself on the threads, but he'd at least gotten a rope toast if not an actual burn.

"He's fine," Chat Noir replied, with a quick nod. "The talisman? He said he'd told you…"

"We think it's her sewing kit," Tony answered quickly as he pulled the threads off his other arm. He was tempted to ignore them, they weren't in the way, but… well, they hadn't seen the Seamstress manipulate any threads other than the ones attached to her yet. That didn't mean she couldn't. "Pouch on her belt."

Chat Noir grinned. "Purrfect," he said lightly. "Then it's practically in the bag…"

"Look out!"

Tony threw himself back as a deadly barrage of pins shot through the air where the two of them had crouched a half-second earlier. And swore as he immediately got tangled in another part of the web of threads. Chat Noir fared better; rather than coming up to his feet, he'd darted away in an impossible four-legged cat-sprint that kept him below the level of the worst of the thread-web.

How the hell does he not break his fingers doing that?

Tony shoved the thought aside – he'd already guessed the guy wasn't standard-issue human, next please – and quickly scanned the room as he worked his way loose. Clint and Natasha were trying to close with the Seamstress, but between the constantly thickening web of threads crisscrossing the room and the pins, they weren't having much luck. The Seamstress had already repaired most of the damage that Chat Noir had done to the web, and now the new strands were starting to weave around the ones already in place.

If we don't do something about that soon, she's going to have us wrapped up with a bow.

Natasha ducked under a twisted braid of red and blue and purple as it whistled past close enough to ruffle her hair, then grabbed it and brought her knife down viciously, parting the threads and hopefully depriving the Seamstress of another needle before a new barrage of pins forced her to jump, flipping in the air to pass through an opening in the web. Landing in a crouch, her eyes darted over to Tony's, and she jerked her chin at one of the fallen panels that had managed to land on its side, rather than face-down.

Tony nodded quickly, and scrambled across the aisle to the far side of the panel – which proved to be held up by a heavy desk it was leaning against. The combination gave a bit of a clear space from the threads for now, though Tony wouldn't take bets on that lasting for very long once the Seamstress came around to hit at them again. Clint and Natasha came over the panel a moment later. Tony hadn't seen them signal Chat Noir, but either they had and he'd missed it, or the guy had been keeping tabs on them – on the other side of the room, Chat Noir toppled several more furnishings, making the web sag and strain and forcing the Seamstress to hastily repair her work. In the lull, the catboy made another of those tumbling scampers behind some cover and around to join them.

"We need to do something about those threads. We don't have enough room to move," Natasha said flatly the moment Chat Noir skidded to a stop next to them, clearly determined not to waste the few seconds it would take for the Seamstress to thread a new needle, repair the web, and resume her attack. "Cutting a few at a time isn't enough. We need to take them all out."

"I'm guessing you have an idea," Clint said.

Natasha raised her left hand to show them a small green lighter, and arched a red eyebrow.

Chat Noir grinned, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's one way to heat things up, I suppose," he said – although his gaze darted to the threads all around them, clearly worried.

Tony didn't blame him. Things could get a little too hot, very fast. And there were a lot of flammables in here.

On the other hand, thread's too thin for fire to stay in one place long enough to ignite anything bigger… "We need a clear place to stand," he said, flexing his hand around the repulsor as his mind raced. "But that's going to leave us open to becoming pincushions…"

Chat Noir's thumb flicked the symbol on his baton – and just like that, the little rod became the length of a quarterstaff. "I can cover that," he said, still smiling. "Purrvided I have a bit of room."

When this is over, I'm so stealing that toy of his, Tony thought – and forgot just as quickly as he traded a quick glance with Clint. The archer nodded quickly, eyes flicking to the panel sheltering them, then down to the repulsor on Tony's hand in obvious understanding-

"Enough hiding!"

Threads whipped in from all sides, wrapping around panel and desk and closing their little quartet in a box of string. And they moved.

Bracing himself, Tony fired the repulsor at the panel. Hit broadside and at point-blank range, it shuddered and shifted fully upright – and then toppled outright as all four of them lunged against it, throwing their full weight and momentum into it. The panel slammed to the floor, strings twisting and snapping and sliding everywhere as every thread of the web anchored to it or to threads that had been connected to it bowed and flexed, some stretched past their strength, others gone slack as the resistance holding them gave way.

Practically as one synchronized entity, Natasha and Clint rolled over the panel as it crashed to the ground. Clint grabbed up a colorful handful of the slackened thread dangling down from the web and pulled it taut, as a flame clicked into life over Natasha's lighter.

"Don't you dare!" The Seamstress whipped her hand around, launching pins that hummed like hornets as they sliced the air-

And pattered to the ground, knocked aside as Chat Noir placed himself between the supervillainess and the rest of the team, spinning his staff into a blurred circle of translucent silver.

"Ever thought of doing a little cheerleading in your off time?" Tony quipped as he moved farther into the protection of that improvised shield, repulsor hand up and ready as he watched for any sneak attacks from behind. And idly trying to calculate just how fast Chat Noir had to be spinning that thing, for that trick to actually work. And how fast his hands had to be moving to pull that off.

It obviously took a fair bit of concentration – but Chat Noir managed to toss a wink over his shoulder. "The fans love me," he said – trying for light, but with tension creeping into his voice.

"Got it!"

Light flickered in the corner of Tony's vision – flames, shooting up and across the threads and into the web of string filling the room. Wherever two threads crossed, the fire split and diverged, spreading faster and faster as it went.

Really hope we don't end up regretting this…

The Seamstress's shriek this time had an edge of real fear to it, as more and more of her web came down. Twisting about, Tony saw that the fire had spread to one of the threads coming from her fingers, and was quickly eating its way towards her hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chat Noir flinch slightly, the spinning staff coming to a stop-

The Seamstress snapped her other hand out, and the threads on it twisted together as they lashed – not at the Avengers and their ally, but at the ceiling. Why…

Oh sh…

Tony had just enough time to realize what was happening before the destructive threads ripped through the fire suppression system – and sprinklers went off all around the room.

"You thought that would stop me?" the Seamstress cried, as Natasha spat something vicious-sounding in Russian and Chat Noir bit back a yelp as he shielded his eyes against the spray. "You'll pay. You'll pay. You'll pay, you'll pay, you'll pay…"

Tony's mouth felt dry, even as he spat out a bit of the metallic-tasting water he'd accidentally almost swallowed. Oh, that doesn't sound good. Not that she'd sounded sane through any of this, but he had the bad feeling something had just gone snap, and it wasn't string this time.

The Seamstress raised her hands, pins gleaming brightly. Chat Noir quickly regained his stance, staff held in a ready position as the woman snapped her hands down to launch her weapons-

Not at them, but around the room.

"A good design needs fitting," she said, straightening. Her fingers flexed as she smiled at Chat Noir. "You'll make a fine mannequin for me!"

And all around them, empty suits and dresses that had been lying fallen and scattered on the floor… stood up.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Tony breathed, as the army of empty clothes began to advance and their little foursome reflexively drew together to stand back-to-back. The web of threads that had been giving them so much trouble, sagging with water now and snarled and scorched in places, didn't even slow the clothes down; they just folded up to get through any tight spots.

Literally.

Tony huffed. "You know," he said dryly, "I get not being a fan of stuffed shirts. But I think this is taking things a little far."

Chat Noir chuckled. "Whatever suits her, I suppose," he said. He'd stayed on the side facing the Seamstress, slightly apart from the rest of them – probably smart, if she threw another barrage of pins into the middle of this, things were going to get tricky…

A flash of motion caught Tony's eye, as Clint grabbed his combat knife. "Source of power is in her bag, right?" he asked flatly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Chat Noir shift his head slightly to look at the archer. "Yes-"

Clint flipped the knife around to hold it by the blade. "So let's cut the problem off at the source."

Chat Noir's eyes went huge, even as his pupils narrowed to slits with alarm. "Wait, don't-!"

Clint threw.

The silver staff whirled, knocked the knife out of the air. "You can't," Chat Noir said urgently, voice tight. The part of his face visible below the black mask had gone pale under a golden tan. "If we destroy it now, the akuma will just fly away, and that…" He cut himself off, drew in a deep breath. "That would not be good."

That sounded like the voice of experience. "You're the local. Got any other ideas?" Tony asked over his shoulder, firing his repulsor at the first suit to get through the tangle and close enough to engage. It – heh – folded, flopping back into the web of threads, one of the sleeves actually half-wrapped around the loose string.

Nice. Whole new meaning to clotheslining-

Tony bit back a groan in the next moment, as the suit began to unwrap itself. So much for that. "Because I don't know if you noticed, but we're getting a little strung out here!"

Chat Noir growled for a moment – actually, literally growled, like a cat, the sound rumbling in his chest. "This is more my partner's depawtment than mine," he said, with a levity that almost made Tony think he'd imagined the sound, except for the fact that Tony knew all about hiding frustration with levity. "I'm more the mouse-al…"

Trailing off, he tilted his head slightly.

If more than half his attention wasn't on keeping the suits off them, Tony would have stared.

The cat ears perched in messy, honey-blond hair were fake. Leather, or something that looked a lot like it. Tony could even see metal rivets on the corners-

And they'd swiveled on the guy's head, flicking back and forth independently of each other, like a cat listening for prey creeping through the grass.

Then Chat Noir bounced a little, up onto his toes.

His smile was all teeth. "Purrfect," he murmured, and Tony didn't know why he bothered with the pun when the word itself was a purr. "The floor below us is clear."

Natasha grabbed an evening dress that had gotten a little too close, fingers ripping through thin fabric and coming away with a long pin capped by a white ball. The rest of the dress simply dropped, the Seamstress's control apparently lost with the pin. "You have a plan?" she asked.

"Getting out of the Gordian knot," Chat Noir replied, and suddenly extended his right arm, the green cat's paw flaring brightly against the black of his ring. "Cataclysm!"

Darkness swirled from every corner of the room, gathering in a pulsing orb in the palm of Chat Noir's hand – and then bursting apart as black-gloved fingers closed on it, the fragments limning Chat Noir's hand with a dark aura that set the hairs on the back of Tony's neck standing straight up.

"Brace yourselves," Chat Noir said – and twisted, dropping to one knee to slam his hand onto the floor.

With a strange, dry, crumbling sound, wood burnished to a golden shine turned dull and dark. Boards warped with the crackle of over-aged wood, dust and mold puffing up through suddenly splintery spaces between them. Below the floor, Tony heard the nerve-wracking sound of corroded metal snapping under stress, the distinctive hiss-pop of electrical circuits failing.

"What the-!" Clint yelped, as the darkness spread like a stain across the floor, impossibly fast.

Chat Noir just grinned, green-on-green eyes gleeful. "Going down!"

The floor disintegrated out from under their feet.

A clawed hand latched onto Tony's flailing arm as they fell – then somehow Chat Noir managed to twist in the air, so that they hit the carpeted floor below in a neat roll that brought them up and onto their feet as smoothly as though they'd just hopped off a curb, rather than falling a good fifteen feet or more.

Open space, Tony thought, coughing on dust as Clint and Natasha hit the ground a half-heartbeat behind them. Still part of the meeting areas, then. But not a vendor room, too open – good, less places for her to anchor the thread-

"Scatter, before she comes down!" Chat Noir said, already darting out of the dust cloud even as the last particles of what had been a perfectly serviceable floor and ceiling pattered down around them.

"I thought we were trying to stall her!" Tony shot back. Clint and Natasha had already made their way closer to the elevators, on the interior side of the room. He made for one of the wall corners, mirroring Chat Noir's position. "Why did you leave her up there?"

"She'll follow. I have something Papillon wants."

Papillon. Seamstress said that, earlier. Seriously, what kind of name is Butterfly…

Remembering that strange, mask-like glow that had flashed over Seamstress's face, Tony bit back a grimace.

Good enough for one really nasty bad guy, apparently.

"Just hope my partner gets here before we take all the fun." Chat Noir smiled cheerily, and Tony had to give points to the guy even as his heart sank. If Tony hadn't spent his whole life playing to cameras and acting the confident hero when all logic was screaming we're gonna die, he'd never have seen past that practiced grin. Chat Noir was good.

But something had put an edge of tension in the guy's stance that hadn't been there a minute ago, even though tactically, their situation had improved substantially…

That Cataclysm thing. Bets that it takes a lot out of him?

Cackling laughter snapped his attention back to the hole in the ceiling as the Seamstress descended, suspended on long threads. "She won't be here," the woman said smugly, and Tony bit back a shudder. She'd apparently shaken off the breakdown from earlier, but he was not convinced this was an improvement. Not with the vicious light gleaming in her eyes as she locked them on Chat Noir, completely ignoring the rest of them. "Not in time to save you. Now give me the Miraculous."

Aaaaaaand now we have yet more random English. I feel like I'm in some kind of French anime, here.

Chat Noir just grinned – and, to Tony's shock, actually moved out of his fighting stance, planting his staff at his side and leaning his weight on it nonchalantly, as though he hadn't a care in the world. "You must not know cats very well," he said lightly, blinking up at the woman – not a flirtatious batting of eyelashes, but the slow double-eyed blink of a lazy feline who knew the mouse wasn't going anywhere. "I'm not really inclined to take orders."

The Seamstress's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she flicked her fingers.

Fabric tumbled down through the hole in the ceiling, empty clothes dropping to the floor and standing up like Invisible Man ninjas.

"You need to be collared," she said.

Chat Noir laughed, still lounging against his staff. Tony had to admire his panache, if not his planning; with his balance so off-center, there was no way the guy could recover in time to move quickly if things got tricky-

Subtle movement behind the Seamstress in the corner of his eye caught his attention. With her focus on Chat Noir, the Seamstress had overlooked Clint and Natasha, who'd positioned themselves behind her. They were carefully making their way closer, using Chat Noir's distraction to get into position. Although getting to the Seamstress would be tricky; her threads held her suspended near the ceiling, and this was a fancy conference room, with substantially more headspace to make up for the claustrophobia of lots of people crowded together. It would take some work to get her down.

Narrowing his eyes slightly when he saw the glint of metal in their hands, Tony began powering up the repulsor again.

Chat Noir had to be aware of what was going on. His eyes never strayed from the Seamstress – but those fake-yet-not ears on his head were twitching ever so slightly, and the tip of his tail – which was a belt, Tony could even see the metal cap at the tip – was flicking slowly with anticipation. But save for those subtle tells, you never would have known from his face or tone as he smiled sunnily up at the woman. "Sorry, miss. But only one Lady gets to pull my strings. And you're definitely not her."

The Seamstress… smiled.

"We shall see," she said, and waved her hand.

Pins whistled through the air at Chat Noir – and then through the air where he'd been. Rather than trying to recover his balance to dodge, he'd simply retracted his staff to a short baton again and fallen, tipping sideways into a tumbling roll that carried him neatly out of the pins' path-

And straight into the path of the suits.

Tony bit back a curse as empty clothing suddenly swarmed around the catboy, fluttering like a flock of ill-omened birds. He brought his repulsor around to bear on them, and then nearly swore again as he realized he couldn't fire, not with an ally in the middle of that mess.

Note to self, precision aiming, definitely need to add that feature to the next prototype-

With a sound somewhere between a yelp and a snarl, Chat Noir rolled up to that four-legged posture again and pounced, directly into one of the fancy button-up dress shirts swooping down on him. Latching on, he took it with him into a somersault that carried him out from under the swarm, and came up to his feet shaking scraps of ridiculous-thread-count white silk off of clawed fingers.

Tony had heard once that cats were some of the most heavily armed predators out there, pound for pound. Seeing what cute little kitten claws looked like when sized up to a human scale, he was suddenly inclined to take that assessment a lot more seriously.

Then a trench coat separated from the swarm, swooping in on Chat Noir like a net before he could react.

"You're mine!" the Seamstress shouted gleefully-

Vzzzz!

Tony barely had the time to register the strange sound before something small and red shot past him, trailing black cord – and then suddenly Chat Noir was flying backward, green eyes wide in startled surprise as he was jerked off his feet, the trench coat collapsing onto floor where he'd been standing in a rumpled mess.

"It's not nice to mess with another girl's things, you know," a female voice said tartly from the open window.

"As I said, Miss Seamstress," Chat Noir said cheerfully from where he was sprawled on the floor, before turning his attention upwards with a grin. "A clawsome entrance as usual, my Lady."

The newcomer huffed slightly as she disengaged the wire from around his waist. Snapping the spinning weight up into her hand, she dropped down to the floor and extended a red-gloved hand to Chat Noir. He accepted it without any hesitation, letting her pull him back up to his feet.

"Ladybug, I presume," Tony said. Because, really, who else could she be, what with that crimson red suit covered with black spots the size of her palm?

To which Tony had to say, damn. That was a woman with some serious body-confidence. Even Natasha would think twice before putting on an absolutely seamless, skin-tight suit like that – never mind the color. Not that the woman had any reason to be shy – sure, she might be on the small and slim side, but if she ran around half so much as Chat Noir… better small and slim than lower back problems from Hell, and she carried the sleek athlete look with style.

Although oddly, she didn't have any of the vividly nonhuman features that Chat Noir sported, spots or no spots. No antennae poking out of hair so black it verged on blue, pulled back into two short pigtails, and the eyes behind the red and black mask – rounded rather than the dark angles of Chat Noir's, narrowing in the center to show a cute little button nose and a clear brow – were a very human blue-grey.

Said eyes were darting around the room with the same focused intensity of Natasha plotting out to take down twenty men in ten seconds as she nodded shortly, before fixing on the menacing figure of the Seamstress.

Her lips pursed. "Chloé Bourgeois?" she asked, in the tone of someone who already knew the answer.

Chat Noir sighed faintly as he flipped his staff back into his hands and extended it, before resting it across his shoulders. "Seamingly so, my Lady," he said wryly. "Purrhaps we should simply declaw her an honorary supervillain?"

Ladybug snorted. "Oh, I'd love to declaw her, all right," she muttered – even as those sharp eyes flicked for the barest moment to Clint and Natasha, now making their way carefully across the open room behind the Seamstress, wide open to discovery and attack if the Seamstress turned around. One hand idly flicked the yo-yo down – and then began to spin it, so fast that the red-and-black weight became a glowing red-white circle by her side. "Too bad Chloé-ness isn't as easy to cleanse as evil-"

A strange sharp beeping cut her words off.

Ladybug's eyes widened as her gaze locked on the hole in the ceiling, then darted to Chat Noir's ring – where one of the toe pads of that green-glowing cat's paw had just winked out.

"You've…?"

Chat Noir smiled – but Tony could tell that it was forced. "Three minutes." His eyes narrowed slightly. "The threads obey her. The red ones have needles. She can attack with pins, or use them to control- Watch out!"

He whirled, staff snapping around to intercept a lunging Armani suit. Dark fabric collapsed around the metal, fluttering as though about to lunge, and Chat Noir's eyes narrowed. With a sharp spin, he whipped the cloth around and launched it from the end of the staff, sending it flying through the air to intercept an artfully subtle grey twill Brooks Brothers three-piece. Sleeves and buttons and lapels tangled, buying Chat Noir enough space to carry his spin through to intercept an attacking red dress that, going by the plunging neckline and peek-a-boo-length hemline, had probably been plenty predatory even before being animated by a supervillainess.

Now that is a form of fashion-therapy I could get behind-

Silvery darts hissed through the air – and Chat Noir ducked slightly as Ladybug flipped through the air over his head and came down on one knee, her yo-yo spinning in a circle of red light to shield both herself and her partner from the onslaught of pins. Chat Noir didn't even glance at her – just shifted his stance slightly to ensure that any suit trying to get at his partner's back would have to go through him first.

Behind the shield, blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the Seamstress, and then Clint and Natasha, in position behind the possessed woman but not yet willing to give up the advantage of surprise while the situation was relatively stable and the enemy wasn't in ambush range. A moment later, Ladybug's eyes slid sideways to meet Tony's gaze.

She held the glance for a moment. Shifted her gaze back to the trio in the center of the room. Back to Tony.

He was pretty sure he understood the message. You three handle her. We'll distract.

The last pin landed point-down in the carpet, leaving Ladybug surrounded by her own little personal mini-forest of sharp-and-pointy. With a snap of her wrist, Ladybug brought the yo-yo weight back into her hand – and straightened, pulling herself up to her full height. Which… wasn't even as tall as Chat Noir, dammit, was there some maximum height rule for French superheroes that Tony hadn't heard about?

"Are you sure you really want to be wasting all those pins?" she taunted, smirking. It was a good smirk. Tony gave her at least an eight out of ten. Maybe even as much as a nine. Arch tilt of the head, free hand nonchalantly resting on one cocked hip, upper part of the red-and-black mask rising along with what had to be a hidden eyebrow – she'd gotten her entire body into that smirk. "Because you might want to save a few for yourself. That dress is starting to look a little unraveled."

The Seamstress gritted her teeth, eyes flashing fury. "We'll see who'll come undone!" she shouted, and the two needles flashed as they darted at the woman, trailing red thread in their wake. But Ladybug had been ready; yo-yo spinning into a shield again, she whirled it around herself in a complex figure eight pattern, striking aside first one needle, then the other as she brought it about-

-straight into the tangling snare of dark thread that followed.

Driven by the momentum of its own weight, the yo-yo wrapped itself around the threads until cord and string were knotted together in a hopeless tangle. Eyes wide, Ladybug gave the yo-yo a desperate tug, trying to free it – and then was forced to let go as the threads yanked in unison, pulling the ring of the yo-yo's cord right off her finger as the red-and-black toy flew through the air to land with a smack in the Seamstress's outstretched palm.

"Ha!" Undoing the snarl of her own threads with a flick of her fingers, the Seamstress attached the yo-yo to her belt, next to the sewing kit. Her feet touched down on the floor as the new slack in the thread lowered the web that had held her suspended in the air, and she smirked in the face of Ladybug's cold glare. "Now. Hand over your…"

Tony didn't need to see more than the way Natasha and Clint both tensed. Arm braced, he fired.

The kickback sent a fierce ache slamming through every joint in his already sore arm, from wrist to shoulder – ow, okay, definitely need to build in some kind of recoil absorption on this thing – but the blast knocked the Seamstress off her feet and straight into Clint, as the archer lunged close to grapple and pin. Before he'd even secured his hold, Natasha darted in, snatching both yo-yo and bag off the woman's belt.

"Ladybug! Catch!" Drawing her arm back, Natasha flung the yo-yo across the room with a fastball pitch, followed by the bag-

"No!"

The Seamstress flung Clint aside with flat-out inhuman strength as she stretched out a hand, clawing and grasping. Threads flew, only to slip off the smooth, hard surface of the yo-yo as Ladybug snatched it out of the air.

But before the red-suited girl could reach the bag, its flight abruptly reversed course, the threads plucking it out of the air and reeling it back into the Seamstress's waiting fingers.

Eyes narrowed and focused, Natasha pressed her attack, trying to keep the woman from recovering long enough for Clint to get back into the fight.

The Seamstress was having none of it. For a moment, the two women grappled, the Seamstress's enhanced strength and definitely supernatural skill against Natasha's greater mobility and thin-lipped determination. Then something silvery flashed, and Natasha yelped, staggering back as though she were being dragged by some sort of invisible force.

For a moment, Tony couldn't figure out what he was seeing – Natasha's arms were wrapped close around her body, as though she were hugging herself for some reason – but she was jerking her arms, like the sturdy fabric of her suit jacket had become a straightjacket…

Then he saw the pins glinting in the dark fabric.

Aw no, why did I not see that coming-urk!

Hitting the carpet, Tony rolled, trying to get away from the flock of silvery, sharp and pointy flying through the air at him. And mentally swearing; the empty space on this floor meant the Seamstress hadn't been able to build up her web to block their movement, but at the same time it meant he didn't have any cover to hide behind-

Something hit his arm, and a second later, his collar – and Tony suddenly found his own clothes not listening to him, yanking him up to his feet and pinning his arms. It was a bit like the experience of having Jarvis fly the suit. If Jarvis were a mad mind-controlled villainess with magic powers-

How the hell did she not skewer me, anyway? The pins had been flying straight at him, Tony should be feeling like a substitute pin-cushion – but he could see one of the pins from here, neatly tagging a fold of his sleeve, parallel to his arm.

…the head of the pin was green. And cute. Very cute. Tony couldn't even do himself the dignity of calling it a frog. That was most definitely a froggy.

Which doesn't keep it from being a very stabby froggy if I try to squirm. Ow! Darn it, this was why Tony was a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy, he hated fittings for custom clothes…

Although granted, this was the first time he'd been taken hostage by his own fashion sense.

"You know," he said, going for nonchalant as his shirt dragged him over to the Seamstress. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Clint wasn't doing much better; he'd either gotten tagged when the Seamstress threw him, or when she'd gotten Natasha. Dammit. "Last I checked, the whole pinning down thing is supposed to happen after the clothes come off." Grinning, he gave the Seamstress a saucy wink.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ladybug actually choke, the tips of her ears going as red as her costume. Next to her, Chat Noir had clapped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide a wide grin, shoulders shaking a bit as green-on-green eyes sparkled.

"You…!" the Seamstress spluttered, flushing red and then paling before reddening all over again.

Score one distraction, Tony thought, as his eyes darted around the room, assessing the situation. Behind Ladybug and Chat Noir, he could see a mess of torn, tangled and thoroughly beaten high fashion. From the look of things, that was one set of suits that wouldn't be getting up again in a hurry…

On the other hand, she has us now. Gritting his teeth, Tony yanked at his clothes, ignoring the bite of inconveniently located pins. And now he really, really wished he'd actually gotten doused a little more thoroughly by the sprinkler system. Wet silk was fragile; he might have been able to literally tear himself out of the damn sleeves. As it was, without any good leverage…

Bipbipbipbipbip.

Chat Noir winced subtly, his right hand tightening on his staff as another paw pad winked out on his ring.

Blue eyes narrowing as her lips tightened with determination, Ladybug took a small step back – then wound her arm back, and launched her yo-yo. Straight up.

"Lucky Charm!"

Reaching the end of the cord, the spinning disk hung in the air, blazing red-white light.

Tony braced himself as best he could as the Seamstress snarled. If this is anything like that Cataclysm trick…

Swirling flecks of luminescence flashing in every shade from blood-red to snow-white gathered together in the center of the light, coalesced into a single shape, flared-

Red and covered with large black dots, a cylindrical object dropped into Ladybug's waiting hands.

Tony blinked.

He wasn't the only one. Ladybug gave the heavy bottle a look of flat disbelief. "…champagne?" she muttered incredulously.

Chat Noir grinned. "Well, while I wouldn't mind a celebratory glass, we should purrobably wait until- Look out!"

With a quick half-step, he was between Ladybug and the grasping threads, his staff snapping back and forth as he spun the end of his staff in the air to snag the threads, then quickly turned it parallel to them to let the threads slide off before the Seamstress could steal his weapon-

Then yelped, as the pins that had been hidden in the storm of threads darted in.

And bounced off his black suit to clatter harmlessly to the ground.

The Seamstress shrieked in rage.

Chat Noir simply smirked at her. "Sorry, Miss Seamstress, but I've already had my shots for the year."

"Why did it not work?"

Still smirking, Chat Noir spread his hands. "The power of seamless teamwork?" he suggested lightly, the tip of that belt-tail flicking playfully. "Or seamless body armor, at least."

His tone was cheerful and confident and nonchalant – but Tony thought he could see a slight trembling in those outstretched hands. Apparently he hadn't actually expected that save.

The Seamstress's hands closed in fists, her threads knotting and winding around each other with her fury. "That doesn't matter," she hissed, "all fabric obeys my pins!"

Chat Noir stuck his tongue out at her. "Sorry. They're meow-gic suits," he shot back, completely unrepentant.

And behind him, Ladybug's eyes were darting around the room, fierce with focus as they jumped from Chat Noir, to the twisting threads, to the bottle in her hands, Tony, the Seamstress herself…

Ladybug smiled, and the hairs stood up on the back of Tony's neck. He never wanted to be the focus of that grin, thank you so very much. It looked like it would be right at home on Natasha's face when she had a bone to pick with someone and a hallway full of stupid guards between her and her target.

"Chat Noir," she said lightly. "Be a good kitty and tie up that string for a minute, will you?"

Chat Noir's innocently taunting grin deepened into a match for that calculating smile. "Knot a problem, my Lady," he purred – and then extended his staff again and stepped forward as he began to spin it in that whirling shield again.

The Seamstress laughed as her threads formed those tangling loops again. "You think that will defend you against me?" she demanded, as they snared the staff-

Chat Noir just smiled, and kept spinning. "Oh, don't worry," he said lightly, taking another, deliberate step forward as the threads looped thicker and thicker around the baton. "I'm just winding you up!"

Three things happened then. The Seamstress yanked her threads back, trying to pull the staff out of Chat Noir's hands. He retracted it to its smaller shape again, leaving the gathered loops caught in his hands like a big ball of really thin yarn. And he lunged into the pull.

What came next, in Tony's humble opinion, was completely YouTube-worthy.

With an honest-to-goodness feline yowl that had no business coming from an apparently human throat, Chat Noir tumbled across the carpet, flailing – not to get away from the threads, but to pull them in towards him, even bouncing up to bat down a few lines that passed closer to the ceiling.

The Seamstress made a startled sound as the threads trailing from her fingers jerked madly, and the woman reflexively yanked back-

Chat Noir's mad tumble came to a stop as he rolled almost right up to her feet, thoroughly tangled and knotted in the snarled strings and grinning like a kitten who'd gotten into the catnip stash, eyes wide and sparkling – even that belt of a tail flicking gleefully, trailing purple and white threads.

"Hello," he said brightly, as if he hadn't just freaking handed himself over to the Seamstress, complete with wrapping.

For a moment, she simply gaped, clearly too stunned to react – then that butterfly mask flared to life over her face for a brief moment.

She burst into disbelieving laughter. "Why, thank you," she said coquettishly, mockingly feigning a flattered look. "So kind of you to simply hand over the Miraculous!" Smirking, she reached forward – and stopped short, a startled look of dismay on her face.

Somewhere in that mad scramble, Chat Noir had managed to wrap his left hand over the fingers of his fisted right – and the very threads keeping him captive had bound them in that position. There was no way the Seamstress would be able to get to his ring without freeing him in the process – and by the frustrated fury that overtook the dismay in her face, Tony was willing to bet that was the Miraculous she kept talking about.

Chat Noir's sunny grin shifted to something darker, taunting. "Yeah. Good luck with that," he purred.

Face twisting in an ugly snarl, the Seamstress shoved a hand into her bag, pulling out a vicious-looking pair of scissors. Her other hand made a sharp gesture, fingers crooked into claws. "Hold him," she snapped.

Tony gritted his teeth and tried to dig his heels in as his own shirt, unfaithful thing, dragged him forward. The pins weren't controlling him, just his clothes – but he wasn't able to keep the sleeves from opening his arms wide like a mockery of some kind of bear hug, and dammit, tiny as Chat Noir was, even Tony could probably hold the guy on his own, particularly with the string keeping him from breaking the hold -

With a pow, a red-and-black cork flew past Tony to slam the Seamstress right in the nose.

And a fountain of foaming, bubbling champagne doused Tony with the force of a garden hose turned full blast, soaking through his hair, his face, his shirt-

…Did she just seriously weaponize a bottle of Clos d'Ambonnay? some little neuron that hadn't been thoroughly pickled out of existence before Tony decided to go dry demanded in disbelief. We are talking Godzilla Threshold here…

The shirt pulled him forward even as he spluttered, he cursed and tried to pull back-

With a tearing sound, the seam of his sleeve parted, as wet silk yielded to the twisting pressure. Tony's eyes widened – and then he moved.

With a fierce jerk and a mental thank-you for fashionably loose cuffs, Tony wrenched his arm back, pulling his hand out of the cuff as his elbow burst through the weakened seam, tearing his way out of the sleeve.

No time to free his other arm. And he didn't have to. Stretching his fingers out, Tony snatched the sewing bag off the Seamstress's belt and twisted to fling it at Ladybug.

"No!" the Seamstress cried, dropping the scissors to whip out her threads – but in the process, she loosened the loops holding Chat Noir, just slightly, and he managed to wrench himself around enough to kick her in the knee, sending her stumbling back. Straight into Natasha, who swept a foot around to trip the Seamstress as Clint twisted himself into her path, bringing the supervillainess down hard for just a moment.

Just long enough for Ladybug to drop the champagne bottle to thump on the carpet and catch the bag. Eyes determined, she grabbed it by the mouth, one hand on either side.

"That's enough out of you, akuma," she said fiercely, and ripped the bag in two as the Seamstress screamed in rage and denial. Spools and pins and needles tumbled to the floor, joined a moment later by the scraps of cloth as Ladybug dropped the remnants of the bag.

Fluttering movement caught Tony's eye as something seemed to peel its way out of the torn fabric – a butterfly maybe the size of his palm, pitch black but for a strange, eerie purple luminescence that seemed more a deeper darkness than a source of light.

Ladybug made a gesture over her yo-yo, and the top of the weight opened like ladybug wings to reveal a shining white light. Quickly, she whirled it into a circle to build momentum, once, twice-

"I free you from evil!"

The yo-yo whipped out, snatching up the black butterfly – the akuma? – just before it managed to flutter out the window, the cover of the yo-yo snapping closed again around it.

Reeling the weapon back, Ladybug smiled. "Gotcha," she said with satisfaction, and tapped the yo-yo with her finger. It opened again, and a shining white butterfly fluttered free. "Bye-bye, little butterfly…"

Suddenly, the shirt on Tony's back went slack, reverting to nothing more than – now thoroughly soaked – fabric. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clint and Natasha picking themselves up, likewise freed. Both of them were keeping a close eye on the Seamstress – but she seemed to be in shock, staring blankly at Ladybug as though suddenly all her momentum had suddenly simply dissipated.

Stumbling a little as the force pulling him vanished, Tony gingerly shook his arms out, ignoring the way his torn sleeve flopped in the process – note to self, make joke about video game characters progressively tearing off bits of their costume to symbolize Taking Levels in Badass, or else Clint's going to get going on Tarzan jokes and I will be obligated to initiate World Prank War III and they'll take my superhero license away again – and breathed a sigh of relief. At his feet, Chat Noir did the same thing – and now the catboy's grin had morphed into something a lot less cocky and substantially more shaken and relieved.

"Hang on a sec there, I'll help you out of that mess," Tony told him, looking around for the scissors the Seamstress had dropped and trying to convince his hands to stop trembling with leftover adrenaline. He did not blame the guy for feeling rattled.

For that matter… hell. How much sheer guts had that taken, for Chat Noir to basically throw himself straight into the Seamstress's hands, not even knowing Ladybug's plan, just trusting that his partner would come through?

Damn. That was a level of teamwork-trust that Tony wasn't used to seeing outside of Hawkeye and Black Widow at the top of their game.

The carpet under his feet squelched a little bit as he stepped on it, and Tony had to shake his head. "Oh man. I don't envy the cleaning staff. Hope that they get paid extra for dealing with this."

A chuckle brought his attention back to Ladybug as she reached down to pick up the now-empty spotted champagne bottle. Her cheeks dimpled in a grin as she winked at him. "Then let's do them a favor," she said – and flung the bottle straight up. "Miraculous Ladybug!"

The bottle spun up, and up – and up, as though the ceiling weren't even there, and for a moment Tony's brain sort of slid sideways, trying to figure out where and when he'd walked into a M. C. Escher universe-

Then it burst apart, dissolving into thousands and thousands of fluttering red-and-black little ladybugs, each one trailing glimmers of delicate pink light as they swirled together and then split apart, swarming everywhere.

A mass of them cascaded up through the hole in the ceiling left by Chat Noir's Cataclysm – and left whole plaster and tile in their wake. Others swished over the fallen clothing and pins, which vanished as though the whole battle had never happened.

Another swarm swirled around Chat Noir, who laughed and flipped up onto his feet, giving himself a full-body shake as he stretched his freed arms. Then the same swarm whirled its way over to Tony.

That was… weird. It was a swarm of bugs. It should have been… creepy, or crawly, or at the very least it should have tickled. Instead, Tony just felt an odd, warm tingling feeling – and then they were gone, and he was blinking at the room again, his shirt and hair completely dry, the torn silk intact and tidy again-

-although, seriously, he was inclined to take it off as soon as he got back to his hotel and never wear it again, treacherous thing-

As he flexed his hands uncertainly, a weight shifted on his wrist. Startled, he pushed the cuff of his sleeve back, and blinked. His Colantotte bracelet gleamed on his arm, innocently intact, as though nothing had ever happened.

…Wow. Maybe Pepper won't kill me. Or at least, only kill me a little bit.

Motion in the corner of his eye and Clint's sudden, startled curse brought his attention sharply back to the Seamstress.

A dark, roiling mass of black… something had enveloped her. But even as they watched, it began to dissipate, peeling away from her feet and then up her body – and then it was Bissette sitting there in her stained dress, blinking in dazed confusion at them.

"What… how… where…?"

Next to Tony, Chat Noir and Ladybug bumped their fists together. "Bien joué!" they chorused, grinning cheerfully.

Then Chat Noir sighed dramatically, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stretched. "Too bad you had to clean it all up. I was having fun."

Ladybug snickered softly and flicked a finger against the bell at his throat. "So sorry to take your new toy away, chaton," she said, grinning.

Chat Noir clutched both hands over his heart, pouting at her even as he batted those cat-eyes. "Truly, you are a cruel one, my Lady, stringing a poor cat along like that!"

Tony raised a hand to hide his own grin as Ladybug gave her partner a mock-stern look, even though he could see her bite her lip to stifle a chuckle. Before she could say anything, however, Chat Noir's ring gave another warning trill, and the last of the toepads flickered out, leaving only the central paw pad glowing dimly on the black face.

Paling, she grabbed Chat Noir's shoulder and pushed him towards the window. "You have less than a minute left, go!"

Tony expected him to make some sort of snarky comment – but instead, Chat Noir ran to the open window, pausing on the sill just long enough to catch Tony's eye. With a quick, apologetic smile, the catboy flicked a casual, two-fingered salute at him – and then jumped.

Startled, Tony jerked a step forward reflexively before he saw the small black shape touch down on the roof of the building across the street – and then uncoil in a springing leap that carried him up, up, up, a dark shape against the bright blue afternoon sky as his jump carried him up out of the view of the window.

Nearby, Ladybug breathed a quiet sigh, shoulders relaxing, before she reached down and plucked up the small sewing bag, intact again, that rested at her feet.

"Madam?" she said politely, walking to Bissette with a smile. "I believe this is yours."

Bissette's eyes had been darting around the room, growing wider and wider as she took in the strange location, the confused Avengers. Now they locked, not on the bag, but on Ladybug's red-and-black skinsuit.

Her lower lip trembled. "Oh no. Oh no. I didn't… I didn't…" Her face crumpled. "…I did, didn't I?"

Ladybug dropped to one knee next to the woman, gently pressing the sewing bag into her hands before resting a gloved hand on her shoulder. "This was not your fault," she said, gently, but with a fierce earnestness. "I want you to remember that. Papillon took advantage of a natural, human reaction and used you. You are innocent." Face softening, she ran a finger lightly along the intricate embroidery sweeping over Bissette's shoulder, one of the few spots that hadn't been stained by the wine. "I'm sorry about your dress," she added quietly. "I wish I'd been able to fix it, too. It must have been absolutely amazing."

Bissette sniffled, tears running over onto her cheeks, but she managed a weak smile.

Ladybug looked up at the Avengers. "Will you look after her?" she asked apologetically. "There should be paramedics arriving downstairs soon, if they're not here already, but I…"

A familiar warbling beep interrupted her, and Ladybug winced slightly.

"I'm guessing that means you need to head out now," Tony said, following the sound to Ladybug's earrings, where one of the five black dots had just flickered out.

Huh. So they both have some sort of timer.

"We can take care of it from here," Natasha said firmly, offering a hand to Bissette. "Thank you, Ladybug."

Ladybug nodded her own thanks, taking out her yo-yo.

"I… I don't remember anything," Bissette said weakly, as she accepted Natasha's assistance and climbed shakily to her feet. "It's… I was in the bathroom, and then…"

"Well, if you really want, I'll see if I can't snag some video off the security cameras," Tony said, offering her one of his best devil-may-care grins before it slipped into a real chuckle. "Heck, I need video of this myself, STAT. Guy in catsuit and a lovely lady giving haute couture the beatdown it deserves? Pepper is going to eat that up, I need to save it for bribery against the next time she goes on the warpath."

Ladybug chuckled as she walked to the window, then paused, suddenly thoughtful. "…Mister Stark? Do you think it would be possible to get a picture of Chat Noir tangled in the string?"

Tony smirked. "I think I can pull that off. Why? Planning on teasing him out of a few lives?"

"Let's just say that it never hurts to keep a little blackmail handy." Ladybug winked as she wound up and threw her yo-yo out the window. After a moment, she tugged at it, as though testing a grappling line. Then, to Tony's amusement, she glanced back at them, and giggled.

"What?"

"Well…" Ladybug grinned ruefully at him. "Welcome to Paris?"

With that, she jumped off the windowsill. Walking over, Tony glimpsed her arcing down, feet nearly brushing the road before the line pulled her up and she swung up, up and above the roofline. By then, she was distant enough that he could only just make out the movement as she gathered the yo-yo back at that moment of freefall where she reached the peak of her arc, and then launched it to some new anchor to continue the swing.

"Someone has got to introduce that girl to Spiderman," he muttered to himself with a smile, shaking his head, and then paused as he turned around. Clint was awkwardly patting the shell-shocked Bissette on the back as they walked over to the elevator – but Natasha had paused, head tilted to the side as she tapped her lower lip thoughtfully.

"What is it?" Tony asked warily. That sort of look from Natasha could mean all sorts of thing. Often involving a great deal of pain to bad guys. Or a lot of embarrassment to irritating teammates, during downtime, if they got on her bad side.

Natasha gave him a sly, sidelong look. "That picture Ladybug asked for? I want a copy."

Tony blinked, and then mock-reeled, clapping both hands to his chest over the arc reactor. "Natasha!" he cried – he couldn't quite pull off rejected suitor the way Chat Noir had, rejection had really never been an issue for him, but he could fake it. "After all we've been through, you'd leave me for a sexy catboy?"

Natasha snorted. "Please. Sexy? Sexy is cheap. I deal with it every day." She smirked at him. "That? That was not sexy. That was weapons-grade cute."

---

AN: Quick note: when Chat Noir tells Ladybug that he has three minutes, he means "three minutes before I have to drop out of the fight" – because disengaging from a fight is not always easy, and once he does that, he'd still have to find a way to get out of sight. So he's padded his time a bit. (…yes, I like puns, too. And Chat Noir may be the Pungeon Master of the team – but just rewatch Stormy Weather/Climatika. Ladybug's not above getting a few punches in herself!)

Fun fact: the mouse/muscle pun? Etymologically, the word muscle actually comes from Latin musculus – literally "little mouse."

And, sorry for leaning on the fourth wall a bit, but Tony just had to get that crack in about French anime.

I once read that the most probable injury resulting from a human trying to run on all fours – which is sort of possible, although our legs are really too long for it and there's no real point when we're designed for bipedal motion – isn't from breaking your arm or falling on your face, but breaking your fingers. Because our fingers are very fragile to pressure pushing them backwards rather than forwards (in fact, that's a classic self-defense move for exactly that reason), and our reflex when going on all fours is to rest our weight on the palms of our hands. So when the body's weight moves forward, the palms come up – but the fingers are splayed on the ground with nowhere to go, so they bend away from the palm and towards the back of the hand, and…

Yeah. Ow.

Given that it's canon that Chat Noir can and does transfer to cat-running, particularly when he needs to maneuver quickly – either his fingers are somehow far more flexible, or he's not actually using his palms, but his knuckles, or even his fingertips. Which is, technically, possible, if you have really strong hands and fingers. Climbers, for example, might be able to pull it off. And, lo and behold, it is indeed canon that Chat Noir has a climbing wall in his room – and that, before ever gaining his Miraculous, he was strong enough to quickly climb at least a good ten, fifteen feet up – including crossing what looks like an overhang – and then launch himself into a headlong dive to catch a small, fast-moving critter in mid-air. And landed safely – suggesting that he may have done stunts like that a lot.

(I can hear Plagg now. "The Cat is strong with this one…")

And yes. Ladybug and Chat Noir are tiny. Compare them to most of the adult characters in the series. Methinks two someones are overdue for growth spurts.

The same episode where the wall comes up also addresses the consequences of what happens if an akuma is freed and not cleansed – and the fact that only Ladybug has the power to cleanse them. (Which irritates the heck out of me – Ladybug gets three different powers, and Chat Noir gets one? – but that's a rant for another time.) Suffice to say that an uncleansed akuma swiftly leads to Nightmare Fuel.

Chat Noir versus suits: yes, my bunnies had so much fun writing that. (And for the record, a brief round of Google-fu suggested Brooks Brothers as a respectable rival to Armani, so I just had to get that in there. The champagne vintage is likewise the result of a few minutes skimming the internet.) For a glorious bit of mental imagery, take a look at the LG Divide & Conquer TWIN Wash commercial "Fighting Laundry" on YouTube.

There are, indeed, pins with Cute Animal characters for heads. I couldn't resist tagging Tony with one. (Look up Misuya-Bari pins.) As for Chat Noir's immunity… yes, it's canon that akuma control-powers can work on them (or at least on him). But the Seamstress's powers are aimed at controlling fabric, not people – and those suits aren't really fabric at all.

…besides. I'm a proud member of the "Stop Possessing Chat Noir Already!" club. Heroes should be more resistant than civilians, at a minimum. Once was a good plot twist. Twice was a little frustrating. Three times? This had darn well better have some interesting character development payoff.

The bit about tearing costume pieces off is a reference to Prince of Persia: Sands of Time.

…and Ladybug absolutely wanted the picture of Chat Noir for future tactical considerations. And helping out the Ladyblog. She most definitely does not think that her partner is cute, and she does not find him ridiculously adorable in full bouncy-kitten-mode and she did not regret that the crisis kept her from enjoying the silly and this is most definitely not a Suspiciously Specific Denial.