There's something about coffee that pulls together a routine, even when there is none. When Marinette is throwing clothes into her luggage bag, doubling back for the shoes she'd left behind, it's the sound of the coffee machine that keeps her moving.
She can't open the box. She can't wear the earrings. Not until she's seen the damage. But she did buy a ticket to the earliest morning flight to Paris, wincing as her bank account took a massive hit.
One more minute, she thinks, fingers fumbling as she tries to zip the bag. One more minute till the coffee is done. She stuffs her laptop into another bag while she calls her mother, hoping her voice only registers surprise.
She shouldn't have the miraculous again. There isn't a reason it should end up in her bed, thousands of kilometers from home.
There's something wrong.
One more minute.
Her phone charger is missing. It's only when she tugs her pillow forward to find it that she remembers the box she'd left the night before. Still, unmoving. To anyone else, it's only a box, and beneath her pillow, it feels as if she's left hope for a tooth fairy. A giggle escapes her and she can't stop it.
One more minute.
She's rushing to catch a cab and it's only when she's at the airport, gulping the coffee that's now cold in her hand, that she feels like breathing again.
She shouldn't have the miraculous again.
The airport is crowded that morning and she sandwiches between an arguing couple.
"How much vacation time do I have?" Marinette asks, balancing her phone between her ear and her shoulder. She blocks out the shouts on her other side, turning away. She debates abandoning her seat for the floor instead, but she doesn't entirely trust her legs. She wrestles her laptop from her bag, trying not to drop it onto floor in the process.
Her boss hums on the other line. Marinette counts the seconds before she finally answers. "A week. Why? What's going on? Don't tell me you're sick." Her voice climbs an octave higher in panic.
Marinette shakes her head. It nearly sends her phone flying from her shoulder. "No, nothing like that. Just a family emergency. I'm actually at the airport right now. But I've got my laptop. I'll send over what I worked on last night." It's not entirely a lie. She has several designs her boss hasn't seen yet. Any of them would suffice.
She'd managed an hour of sleep. She spent the rest of the night pacing her bedroom, then the kitchen, where she'd burned through a whole pot of coffee before sending it crashing to the floor. And then she'd collapsed beside it, laughter bubbling in her throat as she gathered the broken pieces to throw away. At least, she'd still had her old coffee maker.
"Tell me you can ship me something tomorrow," her boss says over the phone. Her voice climbs even higher. "I hate to do this to you right now, but you know we have a deadline Friday. If I lose any more clients, it'll be like a cascade of dominoes, I just know it."
"There's a sewing machine at my mom's place," Marinette says absently. She fishes her flash drive from her pocket and tries plugging it into her laptop. It clatters to the floor. She bumps her head onto her laptop as she bends to retrieve it. "I can overnight you something by tomorrow, at the latest," she adds, rubbing her head. Her hands are trembling too much to do anything besides rattle the keys in front of her.
"Please do," her boss encourages and sighs over the line. "Tell your family I wish them well. Call me." And the line disconnects, leaving Marinette staring at a folder of designs she needs to email. And then at the box she has packed into her carry-on bag, practically burning a hole through it. Her hand itches to fish it out, to open it again, to feel the stones against her fingers, her ears. Part of her is sure it's a trick of her mind, a delusion from too much work and not enough sleep. Part of her is worried if it takes such a delusion to make her drop everything and return home.
She sighs and draws her attention back to her laptop, adding the files to the email and hitting send before she can forget.
The bakery stands as it always has. The cake display in the window is the only sign that time has passed. There is no smoke drifting from fires, no chunks of street ripped from the ground, no screams of distress. Paris is locked in its usual bustle.
Marinette pauses before she opens the door, reaching for the box in the bag she's carrying. She can feel its weight against her hand, but it doesn't offer any answers.
She shuffles past the tables, hearing clanging upstairs as her father drops her bags. Her mother is upon her before she's even made it past the counter.
"Maman," Marinette greets, engulfed in Sabine's embrace.
"Such a sudden visit. Nothing's wrong, is it?" Her mother pulls away to examine her face, frowning at whatever she finds there. "You sounded terrified on the phone."
"I just needed a quick getaway," Marinette says lamely. "I had vacation time and it's been a few months since I've been home, so I thought, 'why not?'"
"Why not?" Sabine echoes, a concerned smile at her lips. She's never been one to pry, though, so she leaves it at that. "Did you sleep on the plane?"
"No," Marinette says, "I was trying to catch up before officially tucking my laptop away." Which, of course, would probably not happen, she thinks with a silent laugh. And who sleeps these days? I'm a modern-age vampire.
She eyes the concern still on her mother's smile. "I'm just a little stressed," she admits.
"Well, of course you are. You have a fashion empire to run." Sabine winks. She leads her past the bakery, gesturing to the stairs leading to her room. "Your room's waiting for you." She leans against the banister. "You know, you're always free to stay here. If things aren't working out. You're never too old to come back home."
Marinette pauses at the foot of the stairs, a twinge of guilt in her chest. "I know, Maman," she says softly. "Things are good, I promise. I just needed a break."
Sabine nods, dropping her hands to the pocket of her apron. Her hair is grayer than Marinette remembers and there are more lines winding across the knuckles of her hands. "Feel free to come down whenever. Take your time," she says before heading back towards the bakery. "Tom," she calls behind her, "I'm going to need your help with this order."
"Coming," he bellows, squeezing his way downstairs and placing a quick kiss atop Marinette's head.
Marinette watches after them, suddenly feeling too tall in the staircase surrounding her. The stairs creak more than she remembers. Her room feels smaller as well—the pink walls painted over, the posters long gone. It's a spare bedroom now, wiped clean of her adolescence. Her bags sit by the foot of a bed she's slept in maybe twice since moving to New York. The white comforter is turned down, baring pillows that look untouched. She feels like a guest at a hotel.
She unzips the box from the bag closest to her. She weighs it in her palms, staring down at it until the stinging of her eyes reminds her to blink. She opens it slowly, the stones catching the light overhead. "Tikki?" she murmurs. The box stays empty beside the earrings.
"I'm here," a small voice finally says from behind her.
Marinette yelps and drops the box, sending it tumbling onto the rug below.
"I didn't know how you'd react, so I stayed out of sight," Tikki adds and smiles faintly.
Marinette feels disconnected from herself, her fifteen-year-old mind inside her twenty-eight-year-old body, and between them a tiny red god floats, as if time has never ticked past.
"I'm fine." Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. She bends down to retrieve the box, closing it gently. "This is…I'm absolutely fine."
"Is that what you're calling it?" Wide eyes blink down at her with a trace of mischief. "It's not as if you have a good track record when it comes to these kinds of things."
"Give me a minute. I'm working up to it," Marinette replies. She collapses onto her bed and rubs at her eyes. She catches the worry lined in her kwami's expression and the panic inside her shrieks like a fire alarm. "I wanted to see it first. Whatever's wrong. Because something's wrong, isn't it?"
"You need to see it," Tikki says above her. Her face has fallen serious again.
"See what?" Marinette braces herself for disaster, whichever form it will embody.
"I can't explain it, Marinette. Darkness. Shadows. But it's not normal. It's not an akuma."
"It can't be akuma," Marinette reassures her. "Hawkmoth's gone."
"Yes." Tikki seems to hesitate. "We believe he is, anyway. And this…this is different."
"But there's a new Ladybug in charge." Marinette shakes her head. "Isn't there? I don't understand."
"She's missing," Tikki says softly. "Chat Noir, too. We don't know what happened. One minute, we're fighting some kind of ghost, the next Plagg and I are on the ground, the miraculous beside us."
"Ghost?" Marinette whispers. Dreams of a graveyard come to mind, ghosts that walk past, always changing.
"We don't know what they are," Tikki admits. "And then…well, you need to see it. I can't explain it." She blinks slowly at Marinette, her tiny mouth grim. "We don't have time to train someone new. You're our best hope."
"Tikki," Marinette breathes, closing her eyes tightly. When she opens them, her kwami is still floating in front of her, her miraculous still in her palm. "It's been years. I don't know how to be Ladybug anymore. I'm not sure I can lasso myself to a building without ending up splattered onto the street."
"The miraculous doesn't forget," Tikki responds. "You won't either. Please, Marinette. We need you."
Marinette sighs, already feeling the tug of her yo-yo in hand, the need to jump at the call for help. "If you say I can," she begins, glancing down at the box in her hand, "who am I to disagree?"
A flicker of a smile graces Tikki's face. "You'll need to head to the Eiffel Tower. You can see it from there."
"Okay." Marinette sighs. She lifts the stones from the box, sliding them into her ears with trembling hands. They feel cold and heavy against her skin and a shiver runs through her. She lets out another slow breath. "Okay. Spots on." A flash of pink light, adrenaline like fire lapping at her muscles. She feels tension at the balls of her feet, as if her body's ready to sprint off before her mind has caught up.
She catches her reflection in the mirror across from her, a stranger in her second skin. "Okay," she says again. Her voice is barely hinging on sane. She reaches for the yo-yo on her side, giving it a few flicks to test herself. She feels the magic hum through the string, in her fingers, coursing through her blood. And she climbs through the skylight, yo-yo catching onto the nearest balcony to swing her past.
It's not perfect. She stumbles on the landings, her yo-yo slips its grasp a few times, but she quickly finds her pace again. She's missed it—the wind cupped beneath her, her body nearly weightless beneath the pull of her yo-yo. She's missed it so much, it isn't until she's landed at the Eiffel Tower that she feels her breath leave in a whine. She's gone nearly ten years with the ground thoroughly beneath her feet, a body grown accustomed to the mundane. And now she's balanced near the top of the Eiffel Tower, ten years like ten seconds and ten decades all at once.
She hears a dull thud from beside her. Her eyes flick towards the movement. A tousle of blond hair and green eyes greet her, a grin splitting the mouth beneath it wide.