"My lady." He nods, hesitating for a second before taking hold of her hand and pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I knew you'd come back to me eventually."
She lets out a huff of a laugh, slipping her hand free. "You haven't changed, I see. It's good to see you again."
"You haven't aged a day," he says with a wink.
"Can't say the same about you, though." She glances up at him quickly, not recalling him towering over her as he does now. He looks rougher, but thinner somehow, a line of stubble against the pallor of his skin. She thinks if she pushed him, he might shatter before he fell, armored or not.
He gasps in mock protest. "The life of a tomcat is not an easy one," he replies. She notices beneath his grin, he's slightly out of breath. She can't tell if it's from being out of practice or something more. "Some say I'm more rugged now."
She raises an eyebrow. She reaches for his arm, frowning when her hand wraps easily around his wrist. "That's not how I'd describe it," she says, the humor slipping from her voice.
His cheeks flush as he yanks his arm free. "We've got a job to do, I hear."
"That we do." She peers past him, across the line of rooftops and buildings beneath them. Everything looks still, slowed in the bask of nighttime, except for a shadowy patch at the smallest stretch of her vision. "What's that?"
Chat squints as he follows her gaze. He shakes his head when he can't seem to make it out either. "It shouldn't be that dark."
"It's not dark, exactly, but…" She trails off, leaning forward slightly. Her foot slips on the edge and she finds herself shooting forward, hands flailing and her yo-yo quickly unwinding before she can grab some of its slack.
Chat shouts and launches himself after her. She feels his ribs crash against hers, the metal of his staff pressing between them as he pushes against it. He stumbles as he lands back on the edge, his arm gripped tightly across her waist. His breath fans across her face, hot and uneven. He looks as if he'll be the next to topple off the edge.
"Nice save," she says, frowning up at him. "You okay?"
"I think I'm too old for this," he wheezes. His grip loosens and he leans against her instead, shaking feeling back into his legs.
"I think we're just out of practice." She presses a palm to his forehead, frowning more when she finds it burning up. "And you're definitely not in the right shape for this."
"I'm fine." He grabs hold of her hand and squeezes it gently. "Getting over a nasty virus. Overworked. Stressed. I'll be good as new tomorrow."
"Well, that doesn't help me tonight," she says, squeezing his hand in return.
He presses another quick kiss to her knuckles. "Ah, your concern humbles me, my lady. But I think we have more pressing matters right meow."
She yanks her hand free. "You'd think after thirteen years, you'd at least have better puns."
"What are you saying?" He raises in eyebrow in mock disbelief. "My puns are ameowzing."
"Even worse, actually."
"I'm out of practice," he reminds her and leans against his staff. "So, what do you think that shadowy area is?"
"I don't know." Her gaze flicks back towards the dark patch in the horizon. "It looks foggy, misshapen almost. Definitely strange."
"So, let's investigate." He's already leaping past her, tail flying behind him, before she can register he's left.
"A warning would have been nice," she mutters. She flings her yo-yo at the building below, swinging after him.
The shadows don't clear as they near closer. Their shape is just as distorted when they're up close, dark patches weaving in and out of focus.
"I've seen this before," she says slowly. She thinks of the shadows that edge her dreams sometimes, vaguely-shaped, always reaching.
Chat pokes at the shadow with his staff. It passes straight through, even though the shadow isn't transparent. "It's all over this building," he observes. "This whole row of buildings, actually. What did this used to be, an old business area?"
"I can't remember," she replies. "It's been a while since I've been home. I was too busy trying to keep afloat in New York."
"New York?" He seems surprised, chuckling as he retracts his staff and returns it to his side. "What kind of heathen did they turn you into?"
She scoffs, flicking her yo-yo in his direction as she paces around the shadow surrounding them. "Certainly more refined than you turned out. You're barely more than skin and bones, you scrawny cat."
His smile fades. "I've been doing some traveling of my own. It didn't turn out as well as yours."
"I can see that." She doesn't meet his gaze when he continues to stare down at her, the humor stripped from their banter, the shadows like dark clouds smothering their feet. They remind her entirely too much of her dream. "We can go through it, I think. It doesn't seem harmful."
His hand stills her before she can test her theory. "You don't know that. Not all wounds are visible."
"You have any other ideas?"
"Not at the—Ladybug, wait!"
But she's already passed through, the air stale and heavy around her. Chat's voice is muffled behind her, as if there's a slate of glass between them. The building around her looks considerably more rotted than the outside's implied. The second floor is crumbling away, wooden support beams eroded and broken above her. There are streaks like burn marks across the walls. Chunks of floor missing, dirt and rubble poking through. And the shadows hover like low-laying fog at her feet.
"Not impressed," Chat says from behind her. He waves at the fog behind him, which seems to have risen to block out the city around them.
"Sorry for disappointing." She bends over to inspect a black streak winding down the decaying staircase.
"You said you've seen this before," he points out. His steps are slow behind her.
"No." She runs a gloved finger across the blackened mark. She'd expected soot to come free, but the blackness parts away from the stairs, drifting like smoke before dissipating. "I mean, not exactly."
"It's like a dream," he says and the words startle her.
She turns towards him, the grim line of his frown pulling at something familiar, something she can't quite pinpoint. "You've dreamt this?"
He lets out a low laugh and kicks at a piece of broken tile. "Since I was eighteen. Same recurring dream, every night."
"Every night?"
"Every night," he confirms. "It's part of the reason why I was traveling. Trying to find answers."
"Did you see—"
"A ghost?" he interrupts, standing stock-still as his eyes fix on something past her.
"Yes, exactly," she says. She feels her heart speed up, her blood both too warm and too cold in her fingers.
"No," he whispers, nodding slightly to what his gaze is fixed on. "Turn slowly and back up towards me."
A shiver runs through her as she turns. His hand finds her, pulling her behind him, as she eyes the figure standing on the stairs. It's a woman, clad in a white pantsuit, her hair swept up neatly at the nape of her neck. But she's entirely transparent, made of nothing but white smoke that stands out starkly from the dark shadows surrounding her.
"How do we fight ghosts?" he asks quietly, his staff held before him.
"No idea," she replies, recalling Tikki's words from earlier. Her fingers edge towards her yo-yo, ready to use her lucky charm.
Then, the woman screams, gray smoke pouring from her mouth as she dissolves before them, leaving the staircase bare again.
Both Chat and Ladybug jump back, shouting, but the shadows are already reeling away, fading into the walls.
There's something entirely too familiar about the woman, whose lectures Marinette hadn't attended for many years.
"Was that…I mean, did you recognize her?" she asks.
There's a beat of silence and she turns to look back at Chat, who's swallowing visibly. "I did," he finally says. His hand is still around her wrist and he lets go slowly. There's something both jarring and relieving to hear him confirming her fear.
"So, is this something that mimics people? Imitates their shape, maybe? Should we be hunting down who they're targeting? To ensure their safety?"
"It could be," he says slowly, "but Miss Bustier passed away a few years ago."
She feels her blood run cold again. "No, that can't be." But she was younger than my mother. She reels back in her mind, trying to remember if someone had mentioned it to her. Her parents. Alya. Maybe they'd thought she'd been too busy, maybe they'd thought they'd told her in passing—a Skype or phone call before she'd run off to chase after deadlines. Maybe they had and she'd buried it in the trenches of her memory, something to deal with later.
"I had her one year." The words slide free, like an afterthought. It takes a moment for them to catch up to her and when they do, her eyes widen in panic. She clears her throat. "I mean I—"
"I did, too," he replies.
She glances up at him, but he's still staring at the staircase, lost in thought. He hasn't moved since the ghostly figure had disappeared.
"We went to the same school," she says. The jarring sense tugs at her tighter.
His head jerks toward her, eyes wide as he lets out a low chuckle. "We really are out of practice, letting things like that slip."
She watches him run a hand through his hair, sending it tumbling past his eyes. She tries to recall someone tousling his hair similarly, but stops herself before she can fully dissect it. She'd gone thirteen years without knowing his identity. She doesn't need to know now, not when there are more important matters.
"How do we fight ghosts?" she repeats his earlier question.
"I don't know, but I have a feeling that wherever it's gone, it'll lead to the other Ladybug and Chat Noir."
"Practically a given," she agrees. "The question is where."
A shrill beep sounds between them, startling more space between them.
"Time's running out," he says. "Should we come back?"
She eyes the fog, almost entirely dissipated now. The decrepit building seems emptier around them now, as if whatever eeriness it held retreated with the shadows. It's nothing but forgotten debris now. "I don't think we'll find any answers tonight."
Her miraculous beeps a second time.
"No, probably not." His eyes flick towards her, a smile at the edge of his lips. It has none of the fervor of his previous smiles. "Tomorrow?"
"Unless you see something before then."
He bows, and the way his body seems to fold on itself makes the jarring even worse.
"Take care of yourself," she murmurs, barely catching the furrow of his brow as she tosses her yo-yo and takes flight again.
Does your boyfriend know you've got a handsome partner fighting crime with you? Chat had said, collapsing his staff and returning it to his side. He cocked a grin in her direction.
She'd immediately rolled her eyes. I don't think he has any competition.
Me-ouch. He leaned against the wall, grin never faltering.
Do you think your girlfriend would appreciate you flirting with another girl? she'd tossed back.
This time, his grin did waver. It's just banter. You know I'm not serious, right?
She'd paused, arms folded across her chest as she took in his frown. His quips had come in less succession those days, less admiring, more vague.
If it's bothering you, I'll stop, he'd continued. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable.
It was strange, she thought, how the dynamic had changed between them, subtle only until they drew attention to it. How everything had to be drawn into boundaries, painted over in red lines. She'd always had to ask herself would Adrien be okay with this? With this? as if she could conjure him beside her and have him tell her how to act around Chat. And then, she'd wonder why she would have to examine it at all.
Don't worry about it, she'd said, wishing more than anything her miraculous would call the night to an end. The way he looked at her made her feel anything but comfortable.