Sabine knocks on the trapdoor and lifts it slowly, two mugs of hot chocolate held carefully in her other hand. "Thought you might want this. Look at you doing work even when you're on vacation. You never stop for a moment, do you?"
"Only when I sleep," Marinette promises. She pulls a pin free and places it in the cat pin cushion next to her.
Sabine sets one of the mugs on the table beside her before heading back towards the ladder.
"Did you know that Miss Bustier had passed? A few years ago?" Marinette asks. She hadn't meant to blurt out the question, but it had been spinning around in her head for hours now.
Sabine looks confused. She squints as she tries to recall the memory. "I think so. It was on the news, I believe. A car accident. You didn't know?" She eases into the chaise nearby. It's the only thing in Marinette's room that hasn't changed.
"I don't think I did. A friend told me earlier."
"She seemed like a wonderful lady." Her mother looks thoughtful as she sips from her mug.
"She was so young," Marinette replies. "I mean, too young for…you know."
The concerned smile is back on her mother's lips. "You know, I wish it worked that way. That there was an exemption process. I'm sure she would have made it."
Marinette looks up with a tight smile of her own and stabs her thumb on a pin.
"Hearing you whirring away over there reminds me of when you were younger," Sabine muses.
Marinette laughs. "I'm far from old, Maman."
"Sometimes, it feels like you've just left. Sometimes, I feel pretty old, myself." Marinette can practically see her mentally backtracking. "Don't you worry, though. I won't be crossing paths with any cars any time soon. I've got luck on my side." She tosses a wink in her direction.
"That's not what I'm worried about." Marinette pricks herself again and shakes out her hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," her mother promises. She scoops up her mug and rises to her feet.
"Except to bed." She presses a kiss to the top of her head and heads back towards the ladder again. "There'll be plenty of talk tomorrow. How long are you here for, anyway?"
"A week," Marinette replies. She fights back the panic of approaching deadlines, the possibility that whatever is lurking in the shadows might take longer than she has the time for.
I'll cross that later, she thinks, pricking herself yet again.
When the trapdoor closes behind her, Marinette drops her foot from the pedal of the sewing machine. She rubs her eyes, wishing she could ground more sense than the heels of her hands offer. She won't be overnighting anything tomorrow.
When she tumbles to the floor this time, the ceiling above her is a different kind of unfamiliar. Home that isn't quite home. The clock beside her flashes two a.m. She sighs as she untangles herself from the sheets. Ghosts chase at the back of her mind.
She remembers her first few times as Ladybug, the nightmares she'd been swept into—endless akuma battles, defeat as her knees hit the pavement, a line of dead civilians. A dead Chat. A dead Ladybug. She supposes, like the rest of her, her brain's recoiling from the loss of practice.
"Marinette?" Tikki's voice squeaks from beside her pillow.
"I'm okay," Marinette says, climbing back into bed, though she's wide awake.
"You've barely spoken since you came back," Tikki says when she turns to face her.
Marinette blinks at the darkness. There's something both too real and too fantastical about the ghost of Miss Bustier standing before her. That she's expected to fight it, vanquished like any villain. But with no akuma, no Hawkmoth, nothing but smoke and a mountain of questions, she doesn't know where to begin.
"I don't know how to describe it," she replies. "Is it really a ghost?"
"We don't know," Tikki says. She closes her eyes and Marinette thinks she might have fallen asleep, until she speaks again. "I've never seen anything like it. Not once."
The odd, jarring sensation cracks itself even wider. All the time and places that Tikki has experienced, that something like this is left unexplained makes Marinette worry. There is most definitely something wrong and she might not be equipped for this job. This might be the thing that defeats her.
She draws the sheets over herself. "How did you fight it last time? When Ladybug and Chat Noir disappeared?" It feels strange to mention them and not mean herself, like she's stepping into a pair of shoes she's already passed on. Nothing quite fits. The crack digs deeper.
"Ladybug tried to trap it."
"Would that work?" Marinette's fingers wind through the sheets. "If it's just made of smoke?"
"It isn't smoke, whatever it is," Tikki informs.
Marinette falls silent, lost in thought. She traces the line of dreams she'd had before, the ghostly akumas, Hawkmoth with a distorted face. "It couldn't be Hawkmoth," she reasons. "He's been gone for years."
"Gone," Tikki emphasizes. "Not dead. I've been thinking about it," she hesitates, "but maybe wherever Ladybug and Chat Noir have disappeared is where he has as well."
The sheets fall slack between Marinette's grasp. "Do you think that's possible?"
Tikki's silence is more than enough answer.
"We have to find them." She works the sheets between her fingers again, clenching them. "Where do the shadows go?"
"We don't know. But they're there almost every night. The same place."
Marinette nods and silence falls between them.
"You should get some sleep, Marinette. Worrying this late won't help anything."
"I can't sleep," she replies. "Want to go out for a bit?"
"The shadows won't be there. Not if they left earlier. Not till tomorrow."
"I just need to run off some steam." She kicks the sheets away as Tikki nods. Then, with a quick, "Spots on," she's out the skylight and into the night.
She's lost count of the rooftops she's passed; they blur like tiles beneath her. It's only when she sees the manor across from her that she pauses, feet poised at the ledge, too much space to jump.
It's muscle memory, she reasons, the comfort of being home, memories rushing past too easily. Eighteen-year-old Marinette would find herself in the same predicament.
How is he? she'd asked Alya, during her first week at university. She hadn't spoken to Adrien in months. No one had, really. But it didn't stop Nino from checking in on him from time to time, even if it was only for Adrien to brush him aside and insist he was fine.
Well, Alya had paused, drawing out the silence for as long as she could. I don't know. He left.
Left?
She could hear the static on the line building.
A couple of weeks ago, I think. That's what Nino says. He dropped by to check on him and he wasn't there. Girl, the place is cleaned out.
You mean, like, broken into? Marinette had squeaked.
No, Alya replied, like he sold everything.
The static was practically screaming in her ear. Oh, was all she could manage to say.
Maybe he needs this, Alya rushed on. You know, he's not…all there right now. Maybe this is what he needs.
I'm just worried, Marinette said. It was more than that she missed him, though that was true, too. But she didn't like the way the light had went out of his eyes, replaced by something much more feverish. That, instead of picking up the pieces and putting himself together, he'd put together something else entirely.
I know. We all are. But, you know, you've gotta worry about you, too.
Yeah, she'd said, eyeing the pile of books near her bed. I know that, too.
She lets out a laugh that sounds too loud in the still of the night and turns, ready to leap back.
"Going for a little late night stroll?" a voice calls out from beneath her. She sees the movement of his staff before she sees him, a streak of gray before he lands. He drops heavily to his haunches, eyes guarded above an easy smile that doesn't quite match.
"I suppose you're doing the same," she replies. She hesitates before dropping to sit next to him.
"Out here, though? Not a lot of rooftops to swing past."
She watches her legs sway beneath her. "A friend lived here."
"Not anymore." He juts his chin towards the dark manor. Ivy climbs the walls and grass overtakes the paths leading towards the front door. "Nothing lives there except weeds." He stretches his legs out, letting them swing beside hers. "Friend, huh?"
His eyes flick towards her, darting to catch the freckles across her cheeks, the shape of her nose, the quirk of her mouth. It's as if he's studying her, trying to draw her civilian self onto her mask. It makes her feel as if she's on display. She shifts under his gaze, willing him to look away.
"He didn't deserve any friends," he mutters when he finally does.
The jarring is back again, like something sliding loose, something else sliding into place. She stares at the side of his face, trying not to line up the faces she'd known with the one beside her now. There's a whole line of people that could know Adrien, but not many fans knew his childhood home. And as Chat had revealed they'd attended the same school, he must have at least made his acquaintance. But it didn't speak for the contempt in his tone. She didn't know too many people who disliked Adrien, even in his less than finer days.
She scoffs, bouncing her leg against the ledge as she swings it. "Seems like you didn't know him too well, then."
"I guess not," he says slowly and glances towards her again. The silence that enfolds feels as if there's more than one rooftop between them. "I never thought I'd be here again. I never thought I'd want to be here again."
She turns towards him. "You were reluctant to give it up the first time," she reminded him. She can still see him, all those years ago, turned away from her, his back hunched as he sighed.
You're right. It's too much now, he'd said. Even then, he hadn't wanted to admit it.
"A lot's happened since then," he says.
"Of course," she says quietly. It would be ridiculous to think he'd still be the same at twenty-eight. It still startles her though, as if the man before her is a stranger wearing Chat's face, Chat's suit. "You know, I didn't think we'd be doing this again either. I don't think I've fully accepted it. Like this is dream I'll be waking up from any second."
"Ah, I knew I was still the star of your dreams." The smile on his face looks too forced, too artificial. His toe finds hers, nudging it lightly. "Remember the last time we sat rooftop bound?"
"When you declared you'd stand in for the man of my dreams?" She feels as if she's smiling for them both. "Or did you change your mind?"
"I figure ten years is more than enough time for you to realize my potential." The easiness is back in his tone. He braces himself when she leans over to shove him gently.
"I have my dreams set on other things," she informs him. "Taking over the fashion world, for one."
He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. "Come on, buginette. You're made for more than that."
His response catches her off guard and she pauses in her attempt to shove him again. "You don't know that."
"The fashion world isn't all it's cracked up to be. I don't want to see you stress your body for the sake of art."
"No," she says, drawing out the word. She can feel his eyes digging into her again and she focuses on the manor in front of her. "I want to be behind the scenes. The medium, not the canvas."
"Oh," he says after a beat and nods. He looks away again. "Still a tough business to break into."
"It is," she agrees. "But I think I've got a good handle on it."
"Good." His arms are tense beside him and he stretches again, rolling his shoulders back. "At least one of us does."
She lets out a snort and this time, she succeeds in pushing him. "I know that's not true. I can't see you failing at anything."
"Rose-colored glasses," he informs her and flicks her forehead, right where her mask ends. "Or, mask, rather. You can't see the person beneath. Trust me, I'm falling apart at the seams."
She grabs hold of one of his arms, lifting it up and tugging lightly. "You seem pretty well together to me."
"Years of practice," he replies. "Years of hiding it."
"Good thing I'm a seamstress, then."
He laughs, pulling his arm free. "You remind me of someone," he muses. "Which is really bizarre, all things considered." He shakes his head, the smile catching onto his lips more wistful than anything. "Being home again is making me nostalgic, I guess."
"I can understand that." Her eyes flick towards the manor again. Her miraculous beeps and she rises slowly to her feet. "Well, Paris seems safe tonight. I should probably head back."
"Tomorrow?" he asks as he rises to his feet as well.
"Wherever the shadows lead."
He pulls his staff free and extends it with a flourish and a bow. "Till then, my lady." He launches himself away, considerably more graceful than he'd arrived.
Marinette is scrolling through her email on her phone when Alya's text comes through.
You're lucky I love you. I wouldn't let anyone else force me into breakfast when I could be sleeping.
She smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. She'd texted her as soon as she'd woken up and her parents had forced enough breakfast upon her to feed half the street. But she knew if she'd mentioned food, Alya would arrive a lot sooner. So, she'd picked a café down the street, away from her parents' well-intentioned eavesdropping.
Her cup is half empty when a plate is slammed onto her table. Two hands grab hold of her shoulders and pull her into a tight embrace.
"Girl, I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination," Alya whispers furiously into her neck. "You're horrible at staying in touch."
"I know, I'm sorry," Marinette says, squeezing her in return. "The only friends I have these days are my laptop and my sewing machine. I think they're even starting to rebel against me."
Alya sighs and collapses into the chair across from her. "I don't care if you just text 'hi,' just give me something, please. I feel like your mom thinks I'm stalking you or something."
"It's not like she's faring any better," Marinette says with a sigh. "She's probably just as starved for information."
"Well, what do you expect when you live halfway cross the planet? I'm surprised she hasn't flown down there to make sure you're still alive."
"Not her style. She just reminds me to call her when she doesn't catch me." Marinette reaches for the coffee beside her. "Well, how are you, at least? I didn't see a wedding invite in the mail lately. I thought you guys had a date picked out."
"Uh," Alya says, her own hand frozen above her coffee, "about that…"
"No!" Marinette's coffee slips from her grasp and she hurries to right it before it can spill. "Don't tell me you guys broke up."
"No, no. Nothing like that," Alya hurries to add. "I just…don't want to be married yet. I'm good with how we are."
"And Nino…"
"Is completely okay with that," Alya finishes. "Look, the wedding was my mom's idea. She's got this crazy notion that she's running out of time. I'm kind of afraid she's going to be planning her funeral next. But I'm not ready for it."
"The funeral?" Marinette dares to take a sip of her coffee.
"No, getting married. Though, god, I'm not ready for that either." Alya's laugh fades into a groan. "How about you, though? Any handsome clients demanding the latest Dupain-Cheng design? Or dashing customers begging you to take their measurements? Come on, give me the gossip. New York's got to be exciting."
Marinette snorts. "Absolutely not. I'm afraid my love life is completely nonexistent." There had been a few people, but nothing that lasted more than a couple of months. She'd spent more time at the boutique or in her office than on dates or phone calls and their patience didn't outweigh her ambition.
Alya's eyebrow raises dangerously high. "I find that hard to believe."
"Well, believe whatever you want. It won't change the truth."
"Hmm." Alya peers down at her, her glasses slipping down her nose as she studies her. "Maybe that will change. How long are you in town? Nino's got this gig tonight at a club downtown. We should go check it out."
"I've got a deadline to finish," Marinette apologizes. She fears the wrath her email is currently enduring. She isn't sure how many more excuses she can send before her boss begins spamming her with panicked calls.
"Right." Alya's brow softens. Her own email is probably flooded with assignments and deadlines. A freelance journalist's job is never done, she'd told Marinette on numerous occasions. "Well, how about tomorrow? We could just go out for some girl time or—" She frowns and glances down at her phone which is buzzing with a series of texts. "Hang on," she mutters, swiping through the notifications. "It's Nino." Her eyes grow wide as she reads her screen, then her fingers are rushing to reply.
"What?" Marinette asks. She leans forward, trying to read the texts flying past.
"You're not going to believe this," Alya begins. She waves her phone between them. "Guess who Nino just ran into?"
"Um." Marinette racks her mind, trying to filter through the list of people she knows that are still nearby. She realizes, with a start, that the list is impossibly vague. "No idea, who?"
"Wait for it," she says, glancing towards the door. "They're on the way now."
"I told you, I'm fine," a voice grumbles from outside the café door. "This is completely unnecessary. I'm perfectly capable of making my own breakfast and eating it, Nino."
"Yeah, yeah, just humor me, alright?" Nino pushes the door open, grinning widely as he catches sight of Alya and Marinette.
The person dragging himself behind him grumbles underneath a chaos of blond hair. "Waste of money," he grunts as Nino rolls his eyes.
"Like you've ever had a problem with that." Nino nods towards the girls. "Marinette, you're as stunning as ever."
Alya scoffs, but is grinning herself as she jabs her elbow sharply into Marinette's ribs.
"Ow, what are you—" Marinette cuts herself off when the blond man looks up, eyes locking immediately onto hers. "Adrien."