There aren't many instances where Plagg will let loose a thundering purr, but curled on top of a warm, soft heater with a full belly guarantees a rumble from him every time. Every inhale tickles his whiskers with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, a most welcome change from the chemical toxicity of hairspray. His tail whips lazily in the air before curling around him, drawing up more silky black strands to snuggle up against.
Marinette only hums and flips a page of her book, sinking deeper into the beanbag swallowing her up on the floor.
"Traitor," Adrien laughs, like he hadn't given up his heart the moment he met Ladybug, like he doesn't run his fingers through Marinette's hair every chance that he gets.
"You're just jealous," Plagg yawns, rolling so he's belly up on top of Marinette's head.
"Nuh uh," Adrien mutters petulantly. A rearrangement of limbs and a wave of movements later, Adrien sighs contentedly from his spot between Marinette's legs, his head pillowed on her stomach. A low hum rises from his throat as Marinette combs through his hair idly with her fingertips; as she scratches his head, a soft purr rumbles in his chest.
"Needy kitties," Marinette sighs in fond exasperation. "But you boys know that Tikki is my number one."
"That's ok," comes Tikki's mumbled reply from Marinette's shoulder. A rockslide of cookie crumbles tumble down over Marinette's collarbones and into Adrien's hair. "I don't mind sharing."
"Mmm… peanut butter cookies?" Adrien guesses as Marinette brushes the crumbs off. Tikki chirps an affirmative.
"If Tikki can eat cookies-" Plagg begins before Marinette cuts him firmly off.
"No cheese in my hair. Especially camembert."
"No fun to be had anywhere here," Plagg grumbles.
"Oh speaking of fun," Adrien says, "did you still want to go to the Jardins du Trocadéro Christmas market today?"
"Yeah, we should still find something for my parents. And maybe I can find some new gloves and hats, my old ones shrunk in the wash when I did laundry at their place," Marinette sighs. "They're so tiny now."
"I thought that was their way of telling you to give them a grandchild already," Plagg interjects, sniggering when Marinette groans.
"And Sabine's comment on their clothes smelling like cheese was a hint for them to stop eating camembert," Tikki shoots back sweetly, laughing at Plagg's indignant harrumph.
It's too bad that Marinette's pixie cut means the loss of her pigtails; they made for excellent instruments to sneakily smack others with, if Plagg felt inclined. As it is, napping always happens to be the better and easier alternative.
"There's no rush." Adrien presses a sleepy yawn against Marinette's stomach. His fingers come up to play with the hem of her shirt, baring a sliver of smooth skin. "As for hats and gloves… Plagg?"
The prompt has Marinette tilting her head in puzzlement and Plagg rooting himself more firmly in her hair. Most body heat escapes at the top of the head, which makes it the ideal spot for him to melt into a flat pancake: out of sight, out of mind.
"Too far," he mumbles into Marinette's scalp.
"Are you going to make Marinette get her own gift?" The distinctly less sleepy reprimand has Adrien lifting his head up to squint at the lump Plagg has moulded himself into.
"She won't have to," the cryptic reply sails back.
"Marinette is right here and will get up in a second if someone doesn't start making sense." To make good on her threat, Marinette sinks both hands into the beanbag and begins to rise, nudging Adrien off her hips and shaking Plagg from her hair.
"You don't even know where it is! No, stay here, I'll get it," Adrien relents. As Marinette sinks back into the soft green fabric, he leans down and blows a raspberry on her stomach, startling a shriek of laughter from her. Her swat comes a moment too late as he pulls back, an infuriating grin on his face and that soft, dopey look in his eyes that Plagg has seen on his face since the first time he met Ladybug.
"I knew I chose him for a reason," Plagg sniggers as Adrien goes to retrieve something from the bedroom.
"You're terrible." Several millennia together means Plagg knows Tikki's reactions down pat. The shake of her head is more age old habit than anything else.
"I like to call it efficient."
"Or just plain lazy," Adrien corrects as he comes back in with a square of soft white wool in his hands, relinquishing it to Marinette's eager and curious expression. "Merry early Christmas Marinette. Love, Plagg."
The soft grumble of "Unnecessary" is washed out by Tikki's giggles as the white square stretches open in Marinette's hands and reveals itself to be a knit hat. The scalloped hem along the bottom anchors the pattern of cable and daisy stitching running up along the center, with rib stitches winging out along the sides.
"Awww, thank you Plagg. I didn't know you cared." Delight curls around Marinette's sass as she presses the soft wool to her face. "I already feel warmer looking at it. Is this merino wool? Ooohh, no wonder it's so cozy…"
"It'll feel cozier if you wear it," Plagg sasses before stretching his arms and splaying himself out even further.
"Move or prepare to be smushed," Marinette warns. With a weary sigh embodying the weight of a thousand years, Plagg reluctantly pushes off her head and floats lazily in the air. The hat slips on and woefully covers the silky black hair that he so loves nestling in; but as the ribbed wings flare from her head, Plagg smugly congratulates himself on his good taste.
Laughter escapes from Adrien as Marinette turns towards him. Following up on her glare, he explains between giggles, "You look like a white cat!"
"Of course you do." Head shake upgrades to an eyeroll from Tikki as she flies up and examines the gift. "Really Plagg? The ears?"
"They're essential," he argues, his whiskers twitching as Marinette reaches up and tweaks the ribbed corners sticking out from her head. Without waiting for her to move, he whirls towards an ear and phases through the material, curling against her hair within the white pocket of space. Wool rubs along his head as Marinette draws her fingers away, inciting yet another low purr.
"I guess the other ear is for you then Tikki," Marinette laughs. A brush of Tikki's magic tickles Plagg's senses as she phases into the unoccupied ear, followed by a croon of delight.
"Oh, this is wonderful," Tikki sighs blissfully. "So warm. So soft."
"So lovely," Adrien adds. A soft smack informs Plagg of a smooch given. He can't really blame his chosen; with the white wool covering all of Marinette's hair, she is all big blue eyes and dark freckles against pale skin.
Not every one of Tikki's Ladybugs has been met with enthusiasm from Plagg, though his kittens are always drawn to her bugs one way or another. So while Adrien's adoration of Marinette is hardly a surprise, Plagg is unprepared for how much he likes her himself. Loves her, even. His instincts perked up at her early on, since one fateful rainy day with a black umbrella long ago, whispering that there is something special about her. Something raw and unformed, but powerful and magnetic.
She is fierce for someone so tiny. And she makes his boy smile and laugh with a light that can brighten a stormy sky. She makes him so, so, so happy.
Plagg could love Marinette for that alone.
Except he didn't think that for all the times she's fought with Chat in harmonized synchronicity, for all the instances where her stubbornness meant someone got hurt, for all the late nights she's spent baking cookies for Tikki and cutting up cheese wedges for him, for all the moments where she believes herself inadequate, he would end up loving her more for who she is.
When Marinette falls, she rises again, teeth gritted, eyes burning, muscles shaking, strong enough to push back against a storm, and soft enough to reach for Adrien as she does so.
As Plagg loves Adrien for his heart, he loves Marinette for her humanity.
Though oftentimes, her humanity sounds like curse words as she stands and trips over her book, and feels like exasperation as she pulls on her jacket and the zipper jams up. Adrien's teasing only earns him a nip from her before they are both bundled up and ready to head out.
The cold presses in immediately as they walk out of their apartment complex and onto the street thinly veiled in snow. Inside his little white pocket, Plagg happily basks in Marinette's warmth.
With the Jardins du Trocadéro only a stone's throw away from their building, it doesn't take long before the warm smells of chestnut and cinnamon saturate the air, freshened with sharp hints of mint and holly. Christmas music hums from various speakers, mingled with the bells of several carolers. As Marinette's and Adrien's steps crunch a conversation, the distant sound of children playing colours the air, lighting a mischievous idea within Plagg.
He doesn't have to wait long before he hears a child running up to greet them. As Marinette bends down to hug Manon, he purposefully stretches and bumps against his wool walls, kneading away at Marinette's hair.
"You look like a real cat, Marinette!" Manon exclaims. "Your ear even moves!"
"Oh, that's just my hand!" Adrien hurries to assure her, his hand flying up to grip the ear Plagg is in. Never one to waste an opportunity, Plagg gives him a hard nip. "Se-ouch!"
"Souch?" Manon repeats, confused.
"It's a treat!" Marinette blurts. Plagg buries his head into her hair, snickering. "I think they might sell some here in the market. You should see if your mom can find you some!"
On cue, Nadja's voice calls Manon over. After pressing quick kisses to both Marinette's and Adrien's cheeks, she bounces away. As she and Nadja walk away, Plagg can hear her ask if they can try some 'souches'.
"You are terrible," Marinette hisses, reaching up and poking at his ear.
"I was just stretching," Plagg protests innocently. He can hear Tikki's snort an ear away. He hasn't been innocent in eons.
"It's just Plagg being Plagg," Adrien sighs, and that seems to say it all. "C'mon, I hear some gingersnap cookies that are calling my name."
"I swear you could sense the nearest cookie even if an apocalypse happened," Marinette laughs, twining her hand through Adrien's and following him into the swell of market festivities.
With over five thousand years lived and lost, Plagg knows it's the simple things in life that are the hardest won and sweetest to savour. With the singing of bells and laughter of children falling thick through the air like snow, with Adrien burning his tongue on hot chocolate and Marinette snickering as she kisses his lips better, Plagg thinks that, for a god of bad luck, he did alright this time around.
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The currency of childhood looks a little less like green strips of paper and the aged metal of coins, and a little more like the sparkly fabric of hair ties, the intricate knotting of bracelets, and the shiny plastic of buttons.
It's the kind of currency that buys temporary gratification and friendship rather than material goods, and the kind of currency that is much easier for a child to acquire- even make.
That is how it starts: with the desire to trade something for Kim's amazingly patterned band-aids. Not that Mylène needs said band-aids, not that Kim doesn't have enough to wallpaper an entire house with them, but they come in a rainbow of colours and a world of designs. It's enough for Mylène to spend a weekend learning how to make printed buttons with pins at the back to bribe Kim with.
Button making, she finds, is easy. Easy, cheap, and fun, all good reasons for Mylène to spend most of her free time at home mass producing them. Unlike Kim though, she doesn't hoard them all to herself until offered with a better deal; the buttons are offered as easily as her smiles.
A few of them have words, some come in an assortment of colours, most bear a pretty or an interesting image. There are always a number of choices to select from since Mylène's imagination never runs dry.
Some kids pick one in an instant, and others take their time and deliberate carefully before purposefully selecting their prize. Mylène loves the way Marinette considers each and every button displayed on the backpack with appreciation and interest before taking her pick.
Marinette keeps them all too; this, Mylène also loves. Many buttons end up rolling into dark and forgotten corners on the floor, or flipping their way into the trash. It's no personal offense to her because buttons are cheap and easy and quick, and the attention span of children can be deplorably short; but Marinette collects them, treasures them, and loves them like Mylène does.
For a while, buttons are the biggest trend in school; everyone would show up decked out in all the buttons they received or traded for. The plastic would wink at Mylène from their clothes and she'd go home and make more, extraordinarily pleased that she brought so many people together.
But trends come and go; kids grow up and change; concerts, clothes, and phones replace band-aids, gum, bracelets, and beads.
And still, Mylène makes her buttons.
And still, Marinette accepts them with enthusiasm.
She's the only one who anticipates them now, even when everybody else has forgotten about the button trend. Most of the time these days, Mylène will make one or two every now and then for herself; but, she has to admit, there's something satisfying about making something for someone else as well.
On rare occasions, Marinette will request a custom button, usually in a bright, solid colour. It's a small detail, but one Mylène wonders over since she knows Marinette to love patterns.
Regardless, the button is made and received with a radiant smile that is Marinette's unique charm. She smooths her fingers over the plastic surface and clicks the pin at the back with the habit of long practice before carefully pocketing the button.
That is something else Mylène wonders: where the buttons go. Mylène's own buttons colonized first on her backpack before migrating to the fair grounds of her green jacket where they rest like established capitals. Mireille had attached hers to her hair accessories; Sabrina had strung hers together into a necklace; Kim had once used all of his to pin the entire bottom edge of his shirt to the elastic top of his shorts, just to see if he could.
A few buttons had stared out from the face of Marinette's bag, but it wasn't even a fraction of the number that Mylène knew her to possess. None decorate Marinette's clothes or bags now, even as she accepts the occasional button from Mylène.
It's not really her place to ask; Mylène is happy that Marinette still wants her buttons at all, but curiosity sings a relentless and irresistible tune.
"Guess," Marinette laughs when Mylène finally asks her.
"You… decorate your room with them?"
"Nope." A funny smile crosses Marinette's face at the suggestion, lighting her expression with a telling shade of embarrassment.
"You hand them out at the bakery," Mylène tries again.
"If I did, they'd all come with cupcakes with your name spelled on them!" There is no doubt that Marinette would make and frost each of those cupcakes herself for Mylène's sake.
The sentiment warms Mylène. Encouraged by Marinette's gentle teasing, she doles her speculations out more freely.
"You're designing something with them? Maybe a recycled material project? Or you're making a time capsule? Oh, maybe you put them all on a string and made streamers. Or a flag! You could make a country with all the buttons you have."
"I should've asked you for ideas ages ago!" Delight infuses Marinette's laughter, turning it infectious. "Is that what you did with yours? You must have so many more than me."
"Actually, I give most of them away," Mylène admits. "It makes people happy."
"You make people happy," Marinette corrects. "I'll show you tomorrow what I've been doing with the buttons! I'm just about done anyway."
"Done?" Mylène catches on, intrigued.
"You'll see." Marinette grins bright with her promise.
And really, it's hard to miss Marinette the next day. She shows up late to school, and where her entrances are usually given just a passing glance from the class who are more than used to her habits, everyone's attention fixates on her the moment she steps through the door.
Her denim jacket is covered in buttons that polka-dot across every inch of its surface. The shiny plastic winks faintly in the light with her every movement and click a quiet conversation when they collide. It's a look that's equally ridiculous as it is strangely nostalgic.
When class goes on break, everyone crowds around Marinette in an instant.
"You look like a broken disco ball," Chloé sneers, backed up by Sabrina's derisive laughter.
"And you look like you've chipped a nail," Marinette fires back sweetly. The buttons along her arms click in quiet laughter as she crosses her arms, watching Chloé fuss over her hands.
The desire for solid, brightly coloured buttons suddenly makes sense to Mylène now. She had been right, in a way: Marinette loves patterns. It had never occurred to Mylène to amass enough buttons to create a larger design; but, she acknowledges, thinking of the big picture has always been Marinette's strength.
Mylène didn't think strength would look like spots of hard plastic layered over soft denim, but the buttons give Marinette a film of protection, turning her simple jacket into a suit of armour.
And yet for all that it may appear silly and childish, Marinette wears it with the ease of confidence and good humour. Mylène wonders how often Marinette must have worn the jacket before she became comfortable in it.
"Dude, this was what I was telling you about!" Nino's exclaims, nudging Adrien in the side. "We were all so obsessed with buttons for a long time. I can't believe you still have all of yours, Marinette!"
"I'm pretty sure I lost all of mine," Kim adds.
"No, Kim, you kept breaking them when you tried to use them in hopskotch," Mylène reminds him. Laughter greets the old memory as everyone recalls all the incidences Kim incited when they were younger.
"I'm not surprised you kept yours, Marinette. It sounds like these are pretty important," Adrien comments. Mylène is close enough to him to catch the whisper of longing ghost along his voice, to see his eyes linger upon the bright buttons.
Marinette is not as close, but Mylène isn't surprised to see her unpin a bright red button to offer to Adrien. Marinette's crush is hardly a secret (to all but the oblivious object of her affections), but Mylène also understands the sensitivity borne from caring for another so deeply. Ivan is a solid, comforting mass behind Mylène, a source of her own strength.
"Anyone can wear a button," Marinette says as Adrien slowly takes the gift. He pins it onto his shirt, a spot of red on black, and beams in a way that warms Marinette's cheeks a sunburned pink.
"Yeah, return of the buttons!" Kim whoops. "Hey, Marinette, can I have one too?"
"You always broke or lost yours, remember?" Marinette swings her attention over to him, her cheeks still flushed. "Mylène makes each of these herself. If you want any buttons again, you should ask her."
Mylène laughs when Kim turns to her with the same enthusiastically eager expression she remembers from when they were kids. It's like no time has passed, and the bubble of excitement and anticipation she remembers from making buttons for everyone surfaces once more.
She goes home that night with requests from most everyone in the class. She sits down at her desk and pulls her button machine towards her, a gift from her father many years ago.
The first button she makes isn't the dinosaur that Kim wants, or the electric blue star that Nino requests. It isn't the adorable picture of a kitten that Rose desires, or the punny joke that Adrien cheekily asks for.
Her first button is Marinette pink, patterned with navy spots reminiscent of Marinette's multicoloured button jacket. The paper circle cut-out slips unexpectedly in the machine, creasing the paper right down the middle, like the demarcation of wings. The result looks unexpectedly pleasing and purposeful, as if it was always meant to be a part of the design.
When it's done, she pins it onto the front of her jacket. If not for the pink and blue, Mylène would think her button looks a little like a ladybug.
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There's not much Ivan has to offer.
Correction: there's not much Ivan wants to offer.
It's pretty simple. Ivan likes to keep things simple. He's an easy kind of guy that way. He does his own thing, and so long as no one provokes (Chloé) or teases (Kim) him about it, life is pretty uncomplicated.
Uncomplicated is comforting. Uncomplicated is kind, which is a welcome constant since more often than not, Ivan finds kindness from his peers to be dressed in mockery.
He's hard to relate to; he gets that. His music taste no one seems to share, his size most people seem wary if not intimidated by, his demeanour deters rather than invites. It's a recipe for solitude… and one that still leaves him unexpectedly hungry for companionship after.
He blames his classmates for that. Even if most of them keep some measure of distance, love still comes from Mylène's open arms, engagement from Kim's teasing, strength from Alya's conversation, empathy from Marinette's steady gaze.
There isn't much Ivan will do for other people. He finds though, that it is easier paying back an attitude in kind.
So when he hears the faint sound of crying as he pushes into the boy's locker room and spots the unmistakable pink and black of Marinette tucked up in a corner, he doesn't back out in embarrassment or disgust. His large frame edges into the empty space with caution and consideration. Compassion is a skin that Ivan doesn't quite know how to fit into but that he wears without hesitation; after all, he remembers a time when he had escaped to isolation to lick at wounds carved by Kim's taunts, only to look up and find a balm in Marinette's presence as she reached out to him.
It had been such a little thing what she did for him that day, listening to all the things he couldn't say and lifting his hopes and spirits with her encouragement, but it meant a lot to him. There'd been no pity, no mockery, no judgement, just a unique blend optimism and understanding that she offered and he accepted.
It's different, being on the other end. When Marinette lifts her head at the sound of his steps and bares her vulnerability in her startled gaze and wet cheeks, Ivan feels more the awkward intruder than well-meaning comforter.
"Ivan?" Her whisper scrapes over his name like sandpaper, loud as a shout in the empty locker room. "This is the girl's…"
Marinette's voice trails off as her blue eyes focus on something behind him. Ivan doesn't need to turn around to know she's caught sight of the urinals; the dawning realization that pales her face a mortified white tells him all.
"...boy's locker room," he corrects. The alarm that upsets Marinette's face propels him forward until he can slide down the lockers and plant himself next to her, a boulder shielding her view.
His shoulders bunch up, tense with uncertainty. It's rare that he's in a position to comfort someone else; rarer that they want his comfort. Still, Ivan offers his solidarity, the best he knows to give from his limited experience.
Marinette offers him the smallest smile before resting her forehead on drawn up knees, hiding her face. At her acceptance of his presence and their location, a slow exhale empties Ivan's lungs and loosens the tension strung across his chest.
They sit together in shared silence for a few moments.
"It's been… a long day." The admittance trickles out from a crack in Marinette's curled form. She huffs at herself. "Long week. Long month really."
Her spine curves further as she bows down over her knees, a comma caught between two worlds.
"I'm so tired," she says simply.
Ivan glances over at Marinette and reads what she doesn't say. Exhaustion drapes heavy over her shoulders, stress hardens her mouth, responsibilities roll in a mess down her cheeks.
He has only ever known Marinette at her strongest, at her kindest, at her tallest. When she is joking with Alya, standing up to Chloé, reassuring Juleka, tripping over Adrien, she is spirit in motion, all quicksilver smiles and words. As someone who sits at the peripheries and prefers to remain in a state of solidity, Ivan not only tolerates but appreciates Marinette's fluidity and how she knows when to push and when to settle.
Now though, he wonders the price she pays for maintaining that equilibrium.
It's really not something Ivan can relate to or understand, so he doesn't try. Eloquence has never been a strong point for him, so he has no words to offer up that can help or comfort. But maybe that isn't what she needs.
He stands, a slow and steady process that's mindful of the space he fills and the space around Marinette he leaves untouched, and moves to his locker. After twirling the combo open, he rummages around until he finds what he is looking for.
When Marinette looks back up at his approach, a black t-shirt with Jagged Stone emblazoned on the front drips from his fingers.
"I don't have a tissue," Ivan explains. He doesn't know how to offer a hug to her either when he knows Marinette to be a tactile person, so he gives her the next best thing.
"Ivan, I- I don't want to ruin… it's ok, I don't…" Marinette trails off as he slides down to sit next to her again, t-shirt resolutely held out to her. He won't force her to take it, but he won't move on the matter either when it's clear she has need of it.
"It's clean," he adds when she still hesitates.
A watery chuckle bubbles weakly from Marinette as she takes the shirt. She hugs it close to her chest, and when her fingers smooth over the Jagged Stone print, a faint smile whispers across her face.
It's only because he's watching her that he sees the moment she goes tense, her arms tightening around the shirt, her eyes cutting over to noise just outside the door. Ivan turns just as the locker door opens and the loud laughing and joking of two boys Ivan's seen from the year below them punch into the space. They knock and jostle into each other, an intrusion of kinetic energy interrupting the fragile calm.
It takes them a moment to catch sight of Ivan but when they do, he levels the most intimidating glare at them, shoulders rolling forwards to make him appear larger, darkness shadowing his eyes to live up to every stereotypical impression others have judged him to be. His frame provides an unbreachable divide, a mountain that refuses to negotiate.
The boys take the hint and flee, sucking up the tide of their voices and leaving the locker room dry with silence once again.
Ivan releases his shoulders and straightens his gaze, shrinking back into his own mass and shifting to settle back into his own skin again. He doesn't like how others read anger and threats within his demeanour so easily- hates it, actually- but at the moment, that doesn't matter.
"Thank you," Marinette says. Simple words for complex emotions.
He mumbles something in response but it isn't the words that are important. He knows that Marinette could've dealt with those boys just fine on her own, even in her deflated state. He also knows that sometimes, a little help goes a long way; that sometimes, strength from a friend can be an anchor when trying to believe in strength in self.
They spend the rest of break sitting together on the locker room floor, comfort found in solidarity.
Marinette offers the shirt back the next day, clean and washed, but Ivan refuses, citing that he doesn't like Jagged Stone very much anyway (a lie, to be honest; Jagged Stone is very much his guilty pleasure music that he will never admit to even as Marinette holds proof in her hands).
"Keep it," he insists, immovable.
Her blue eyes rove his face, searching for what he doesn't say, and when she finds it, an understanding smile lights her face. She tucks the t-shirt back into her bag, safe and snug.
It's not much. He doesn't have much. He understands better now though that it was never about what he lacked, but what he had to offer. As Marinette pulls him into a hug, Ivan finally gets that he has always been enough.
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The key to making people happy, Sabrina learns early on in life, is to give them what they want. Consequently, the ideal is to be what they want. Realistically, the closest she can get is becoming the necessary conduit to the desired objective that the other person needs. Values. Wants.
It's close enough. Keeping herself of interest to another person- a friend, especially- is to make herself useful after all.
"Sabrina!" Chloé's imperious voice yanks like a leash. "Hurry up, we still need to find a dress for you."
The precariously balanced bags in Sabrina's arms shift so they settle a little more comfortably before she rushes to keep pace with Chloé down the expansive floor of the mall. Chloé's steps lay down a firm tempo and Sabrina gives a burst of speed until she's finally in rhythm, an echo at Chloé's elbow.
"Red would look terrible on you- good thing at least it looks good on me- and yellow is my colour." Chloé glances at Sabrina with an appraising gaze. "... maybe purple."
"Oh, purple is my favourite colour!" Sabrina chimes eagerly. It's not really a lie; she likes some colours more than others, but none strongly enough to deem a favourite. Chloé's colour choice looks like confidence and approval, and it dresses Sabrina before Sabrina has the chance to try anything on.
The fit doesn't even matter; Sabrina decides already that she loves it.
"Yes, well, you need just the right shade of purple otherwise you'll look ghastly. Good thing I have excellent shopping skills," Chloé compliments herself before swinging into a store. The door snaps shut a hairsbreadth after Sabrina manages to squeeze on in with the bags in her arms smacking the glass in her haste.
The store glitters in a pristine white that highlights the jewel hoard of designer clothes displayed prominently from the racks. The place even smells rich with perfumed cloth. It's the sort of place that Sabrina wouldn't even consider given the exorbitant prices, but one she gets to appreciate and benefit from now thanks to Chloé.
Sabrina sets the bags down on one of the plush chairs and wanders a few racks away from the row of deep red dresses Chloé is contemplating for herself. Sharply constructed blazers warn Sabrina to keep her distance; flowing blouses ripple away as if they are too good to touch; dramatic skirts glare at her with glinting embroidery.
The entire store loudly stares her down until she shrinks back towards the relative safety of shoes and accessories. Perhaps she can find something to offer to Chloé here.
The friendly sight of patterns draws Sabrina's eye like a hook and she edges away from the bold, accusing colours of the racks behind her to the variety of tights displayed before her. Packaged in small boxes so only a small sample of fabric shows, they are much easier for her to appreciate and admire. Knit wool warms her fingertips, sheer nylon glides over her palm, and fishnet catches upon her knuckles.
Sabrina works her way through the display until she finds herself at its back where the discount items sit forlornly. The decreased price tag alone is enough to make them unsatisfactory to someone like Chloé, but they aren't completely without potential.
"Just what are you doing?" Chloé demands as she stalks up to Sabrina.
A touch panicked at Chloé's impending approach, Sabrina plucks her prize from the discount rack and holds it up for Chloé to see. The purple tights displayed through the box clearly received the tail end of a dye job, with the colour fading to a weak dusty grey at the bottom.
"Just thinking this might be perfect for Marinette," Sabrina suggests sweetly, arrowing for Chloé's sensitive spot. She inwardly sighs in relief as it works when Chloé takes the box with a considering gleam in her eyes.
"From the reject pile too," Chloé laughs. "You can give this to her in class tomorrow." It's not so much a suggestion as it is a command.
They both walk away from the store at the end of the day several purchases heavier and several laughs lighter over Marinette's inevitable reaction to such an ugly pair of tights. Chloé's anticipation and derision fuels Sabrina's own simmering eagerness to make her best friend happy.
Except when Marinette eyes the offered tights in Sabrina's hands the next day, she doesn't yell, become insulted, or blindly accept the gift as Sabrina thought she would. Instead, Marinette's brow furrows before her blue eyes flick up to consider Sabrina's innocent smile.
"I didn't ask you for anything," Marinette says, her expression betraying a measure of discomfort.
"We're friends, aren't we?" Sabrina allows her lower lip to tremble and her eyes to droop as if bracing herself to be brutally rejected.
"I think the last thing you said to me was that I'm exactly like Chloé," Marinette counters dryly.
"Any Chloé is my very best friend!" How dare Marinette misread her words like that, even if she had meant something completely different in the previous context. The box in Sabrina's hands shake as she starts to draw it back towards herself before Marinette's sigh stops her.
"Ok, ok, just this once," Marinette accepts. Instantly, Sabrina straightens up and cheerfully shoves the box into her hands, a triumphant smile split across her face.
"Great! I'm sure they'll look amazing on you!" Sabrina exclaims.
"I- uh…" Marinette trails off as she examines the sad purple and grey of the tights for the first time. "Well, um…"
"I can't wait to see you wear them." Sabrina nails Marinette in with a sweet, hopeful smile. At Marinette's reluctant nod, Sabrina knows she will be bearing a victory flag back to Chloé. The bait is taken, the trap is set, and all is left is to enjoy the show.
Chloé's interest in Marinette never wanes, so by extension Sabrina pays hawkish attention to Marinette's arrival at school the next day, waiting to see how the mighty will fall.
When Marinette skids into class, late as always, Sabrina almost gets whipped across the cheek from Chloé's ponytail as she does a double take. Sabrina's eyes immediately drop to Marinette's tights, blinking hard when instead of the sad, dusty purple and grey, she sees a vibrant ombré of deep purple to dark pink. The tights look nothing like the pair Sabrina gave her the previous day, and if it wasn't for the visible telltale stitching of the brand, she would suspect trickery.
"Nice tights Marinette. They look good on you," Sabrina comments when Marinette stops in front of their desk.
The look of disgust that Chloé shoots Sabrina has her regretting her words, but Marinette draws her attention away with a thank you. In a move that fools no one, Chloé sits back in her seat feigning extreme disinterest, a clear divorce from the situation, leaving Sabrina on her own.
"It was a pretty cool challenge actually. I've been wanting to try out this dye kit I had for ages and this was the perfect thing! If you want a pair, let me know and I can do one for you," Marinette offers. The glare she levels at Chloé is fierce- their ploy hadn't passed by unnoticed after all- but when her gaze focuses on Sabrina, it's open with sincerity.
Startled, Sabrina only stares wide eyed back at Marinette, trying to pick apart what it is Marinette really wants. She is so used to adopting other people's wants as her own that Marinette's direct offer gives her pause.
"Well, think about it," Marinette says. "No pressure though. Whatever makes you happy."
"Are you happy with how your tights turned out?" Sabrina asks.
In a twirl that makes her white skirt flare, Marinette is impossible to look away from. From the tips of her light pink flats deepening up to the dark rose pinks and deep purples of her tights, interrupted by the cloud of her skirt before topping with a light blue sweater, Marinette is sky incarnate. Change looks effortless on her.
"Yeah," Marinette smiles. "Pretty pleased."
As Marinette shakes her sleeves back from her hands, her fingers peek out. They're stained with purple and red dye splotches, lasting marks of her labour. Disquieted, it takes Sabrina a moment to see how Marinette has shaped and moulded herself into her own person, independent and confident and beautiful. A slow process of staining into irrevocable change, for better or for worse.
Most of Sabrina's life has been a process of learning where people's needs lie, what to do to impress others, when to speak up, how to find her place. At this point, she is very good at recognizing people's selfishness and finding a definition of herself that will echo after them.
Except Marinette is no mirror she can copy from; Marinette evades capture like that. It leaves Sabrina feeling like the world has shifted, like the gravitational pull towards others that she relies on so much changes. It takes her a moment to find her voice again.
"Good," Sabrina finally answers. "I'm happy for you then."
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"You know, I know Donatella Versace and Sarah Burton personally. I modeled for a few of Dona's collections, and the McQueen Fall 2016 line was inspired after me."
Lila drapes herself over the staircase railing with her chin resting on top of folded hands. Amusement colours her features as Marinette gives a mild shriek and knocks the open fashion magazine on her lap to the ground. Marinette nearly faceplants off the stairs in her haste to scoop the glossy magazine up, but she manages to right herself before folding the pages closed in her hands. Lila's heard about Marinette's chronic clumsiness but seeing it in effect gives her a better picture of what she's working with.
Marinette's clipped response is hardly the reaction Lila expects. "Is that so?"
"Of course," Lila says. She'd go and sit next to Marinette, but something in the other girl's demeanour radiates suspicion rather than admiration. "They're so nice. If you want, I can talk to them about meeting with you. I heard you really like fashion."
A spark leaps up in Marinette's eyes and her expression brightens with hunger for a brief moment before shuttering closed. When her lips purse, Lila gets the strange impression that Marinette is purposefully putting distance between them. A perplexing outcome considering Lila's been catering to all of Marinette's interests and massaging at her soft spots.
She gives it one more shot. She's gained everybody else's recognition and admiration; surely, Marinette should be no different.
"You know how the McQueen Fall 2016 line is so eye-catching? Like how the collection is a blurring between reality and dreams? That came about because Sarah said she'd never met anyone as fantastical as me."
Marinette raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Lila leans over the railing to come closer, her hair sliding forwards to brush against Marinette's shoulders. The proximity has Marinette visibly tensing, but she stays solidly seated on her step, not budging an inch.
"Who knows, maybe the Spring 2017 line will be inspired by you… if you want me to talk to her for you." Lila dangles the bait, and waits for it to catch.
"The Fall collection was beautiful," Marinette muses. She evades the tantalizing offer with a doggedness that's beginning to grate on Lila. "'Like the clothes were spun from dreams.'"
"That's exactly what I said," Lila chirps.
"I was actually quoting Vogue." The magazine in Marinette's hands waves up like a warning flag, the glossy cover glaring in the light. "It also has an article all about Sarah's process on that collection… and not once did it mention you."
"Well, you can't expect magazines to always get things right." Lila straightens up on the railing, her fingers gripping the edge a little tighter. Movement mirrors her as Marinette sits up as well, her blue eyes rising up to meet Lila's gaze suspiciously. Accusingly. Her gaze reminds Lila of a particular spotted superheroine, and the memory completely sours Lila's demeanour.
She stops dancing and and cuts to the chase. "You seem to have a hard time believing me. For class president, your way of welcoming newcomers leaves a lot to be desired."
The strike to the jugular isn't a tactic Lila usually uses; in fact, she loathes using it at all. Her pride stems from her art of enacting subtlety, and resorting to blunt tactics makes her feel clumsy and outplayed. That Marinette forced her hand stirs the hot boil of frustration simmering in her nerves.
"I'm sorry. I just find it hard to believe you actually know all these people," Marinette explains, her tone carefully neutral. It doesn't fool Lila for a second; she can still see the way Marinette's eyes tighten at the corners, the way her fingers drum persistently against the magazine cover.
Her suspicions, Lila is sure, have absolutely no foundation. After all, the only other time they've interacted was a brief introduction when Lila first joined the class. That Marinette would be so quick to judge her within a few minutes of actually talking to each other is as good as a slap.
Lila's heard how Marinette's clumsiness is charming, even endearing, but all she sees is gracelessness. She didn't think it would extend appallingly to Marinette's manners as well. Someone should tell Marinette that she is as subtle as a brick.
It's clear here too that someone should set the better example, so Lila arms herself up and bares a dangerously gracious smile. "My parents are diplomats. We go to a lot of fancy functions. I end up meeting many persons of interest."
"Yeah," Marinette says, her own smile a twist of irony. "I've heard you've met Steven Spielberg. That you even met Ladybug."
Something in Marinette's expression darkens, but her gaze dropping down to her magazine seems to suggest it's an expression aimed more towards herself than Lila. Regardless, Lila's hackles rise and her eyes narrow at the mention of Paris' resident heroine.
"Steven is very charming, very funny. Ladybug..." Lila sniffs. "I met her. She doesn't seem to be much of a hero."
"She saves the city every day!" Marinette defends, her eyes rising up to meet Lila's gaze.
"She's a bully," Lila snaps.
The words seem to hit Marinette like a physical blow, causing her to flinch away from the railing. She takes a deep breath, then admits, "Ladybug's not perfect. She makes mistakes. Everyone does; she's as human as the rest of us."
"She's someone with the abilities and the influence that the entire city of Paris will listen to. She should know, that when she thinks she has the right to use that power against someone, it'll hurt that much more too," Lila growls, phantom wounds prickling across her body. "Or maybe that particular sort of pleasantry is only extended to foreigners."
Bitterness and hurt catches on the threads of her voice, sprouting barbs that are impossible to smooth over. There are no lasting physical reminders of her time as Volpina, but Lila knows there are scars in her mind that are not so easily forgiven or forgotten. They stitch the patchwork of her anger and knit a gnarled net of her resentment that tangles up in a tight knot the more they roll at the bottom of her stomach.
Marinette rises from her seat on the staircase to stand, and her hand flutters up to rest on the railing separating them. The intensity of her blue eyes focuses onto Lila, and there is no trace of clumsiness in the way she carries herself; only a sort of natural, confident grace that Lila envies.
"I think," Marinette says slowly, her words untangling themselves from her thoughts as she speaks, "Ladybug tries to do the right thing, and she is genuinely sorry when she doesn't. It's a learning process for her still. But she doesn't discriminate. She just doesn't like liars."
The anger that growls at Ladybug rears its head to fixate on Marinette. 'Liar' warms Lila's cheeks like an unwelcome kiss that lingers.
"You seem to know her really well," Lila comments.
There's a slightest pause before Marinette reveals, "We're friends." It's the truth, as far as Lila can tell; but just not all of it.
The conversation has veered far from how Lila planned it, and it feels like she's lost more than she's gained. Before she has the chance to regain control, Marinette seizes the reins.
"Anyway, thanks for offering to talk to Donatella or Sarah for me. But honestly, I would rather get to know you," Marinette says, kindness softening her expression into something more open and inviting.
The simple offer is the smallest shift that completely changes Lila's perception of her. For a split second, Lila almost believes there is a different Marinette entirely standing before her on the other side of the stair railing. It's an illusion that leaves her unsettled, an offer that's meant to engage but leaves her wary.
Lila is excellent at reading people, and Marinette is not hard to understand. There is true sincerity in Marinette's clear eyes and in her easygoing tone, but her words feel like a trap. Friends and admirers are what Lila set out to collect, but the price of vulnerability that Marinette wants is too high, too chancy. There is so much more to lose in something that real.
"Maybe another time," Lila replies as she takes a step back from the railing, her hands tucking into the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers grip the fox tail necklace sitting warm in her pocket, wishing that it could grant her the power to recreate this entire conversation so she could slant it in her favour.
She's been outplayed twice, and the trickery, however unintentional, shapes her anger into something almost tangible. The curve of the fox tail flows like a lick of fire against the pads of her fingers.
"Another time," Marinette promises, offering her another friendly smile.
Lila's eyes narrow as they catch the shine that curves over Marinette's earrings when she turns away. Marinette should know: tricks don't work on tricksters.
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.
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Low humming resonates through the city, vibrating at a frequency only Hawkmoth can feel. None are strong enough for his butterflies to stir, or for the amplification of his window to resonate with.
There are people hurt, desperate, spiteful, and scared out there, but none close enough to Ladybug and Chat Noir to be of any use. He's engaged in this fight often enough to develop a sensitivity to the humming that warps with their particular tones. A reaction, he knows, to their Miraculous energies. Powerful, even when inactive.
"Master," a voice whispers up. When Hawkmoth turns to look at Nooroo, the kwami ducks his head in submission. "I must eat."
"Yes," Hawkmoth murmurs as he procures a container of blackberries, rich and succulent, from his jacket. "I need to pass a message along with the next akuma."
Nooroo pauses in his reach for the food before daring to ask, "A message?"
"A trade," Hawkmoth says. His gaze cuts over to Nooroo. "Of kwami."
He spots the briefest flicker of hope in Nooroo's eyes before they dim. "They won't take it."
The laugh that rumbles through his chest is low and dark. "I know. That is not the point."
Neither of them say any more. Nooroo nibbles at his blackberries and Hawkmoth stands, waiting for the right vibration to come calling to him. The brooch sits cold and heavy in his palm. For a moment, he imagines the sharp prick of earrings and the smooth face of a ring in its stead.
He can almost taste their power, heady and potent. His fingers curl tightly over his own brooch, over the image of the woman he is doing all of this for.
It's not long before a dissonant humming rings clear through the air. The frequency has the windows shuddering open, the butterflies rising aloft on waves of sound as he pins his brooch to his shirt.
"Transform me," he commands. Nooroo obeys, dropping his remaining blackberry as he swirls into his Miraculous in a flare of purple light, saturating Hawkmoth with his power.
Hawkmoth stamps his cane down in a sharp jab before calling a butterfly to his palm. The anger that rings through the air collects in a bubble of purple power, suffusing the white butterfly until it is stained with its victim's imprint. The akuma flutters out of the window, winging purposefully towards its target.
A smile curls on Hawkmoth's face as his akuma lands and his champion rises.
Flashes flicker in front of his eyes as Nooroo's magic binds them together, allowing him to peer out of his champion's eyes. He gets a front row seat to the chaos his champion sows in turning each citizen she stings into angry, albeit clumsy hornets as large as a young child. What they lack in quality, they make up for in quantity.
Ladybug appears quickly in a blur of red, nimbly evading the paralyzingly sting of the hive. She doesn't fight so much as she dodges, snapping her yoyo out to make a call that goes unanswered.
Hawkmoth seizes the rare opportunity to talk to her alone. Like the Miraculouses, their wielders are stronger when together. Isolated, they are much more malleable and open to suggestion.
"Ladybug," his champion calls out, guided by his thoughts. The hornets back off and settle in a loose ring around them, alert and waiting. "Hawkmoth wishes to propose a deal."
Quiet echoes in the streets for a stunning moment, broken by Ladybug's, "No." Her answer strikes out like a punch, already on the offense.
"A trade: his kwami for yours."
"Why would you ever think I would agree to that?" Her yoyo whips out, calling forth her Lucky Charm in the form of a pair of handcuffs. The drop into her hands with an ominous jangle.
"You're right," his champion purrs, her tone dropping to a dangerous hum. Her hornets shift around them, quivering with tension. "It hardly seems like a fair trade. Maybe it makes more sense if I offer the deal to Chat Noir. I'm sure he'd be willing to make the trade... if it was in the interest of saving you."
The yoyo snaps back to Ladybug's hip with a sharp click as she marches forward, unafraid of the toxic stingers his champion wields. Her blue eyes fill the entirety of his vision, crackling with a tumultuous storm that only promises devastation. Her body resonates with her anger, tremours leaking out across tense muscles like the brewing of an earthquake.
He can see clear through her epicenter. The heart has always been such a vulnerable spot.
"The only person who will lose their Miraculous will be you," Ladybug promises, her quiet voice rigid in its savagery.
Her words are a closing, but his champion takes them as an opening. In a blink, the stingers at the tips of her fingers arrow for the exposed skin of Ladybug's cheeks. Surprise is what allows a faint line of red to trail in their wake, a tally mark of success that smiles even as Ladybug recoils sharply back.
The scratch isn't deep enough for the paralytic to work quickly, but Hawkmoth's champion follows the jerk of Ladybug's head to reach for her earrings regardless. Her stingers scrape dangerously close to Ladybug's earlobe for a tantalizing second. So close yet so far.
Quicker than lightning, Ladybug ducks and slides back around to come close again. Her hands snap out and cuff his champion's wrists.
"Oh dear, that looks like it might sting," his champion says as Ladybug takes a slow, unsteady step back. "Need a sedative? I have just the thing."
"In your dreams," Ladybug growls. Hawkmoth's vision shakes as she grabs the possessed item on his champion's person. "You won't ever win against me and Chat."
"And in the end, it'd still be the both of you together. The offer still stands… either for you or for him."
That is the last word he is able to impart before Ladybug breaks the corrupt artifact, captures the akuma swiftly in her yoyo, and purifies it. Nooroo's magic holds tenuously, stretching out long enough for Hawkmoth to glimpse Chat Noir arriving at the scene.
There is a brief exchange between Chat and Ladybug, and though he can't hear a word, he can read the steel that threads through Ladybug's spine, hardens the curl of her fists. She steps, almost unconsciously, right in between his former champion and Chat, blocking Chat from view.
The last thing Hawkmoth sees before the magic breaks are her eyes that cut over to him, hard as diamonds and narrowed in secrecy and promise.
The vision fades, and the butterflies slowly settle on the ground once more around him, luminous and still. The window blinks closed as Nooroo pops out of the brooch, exhausted. He flutters weakly away to another corner where his remaining blackberries wait for him. Hawkmoth watches him go, dispassionate and thoughtful.
Ladybug may have gained nothing other than a new level of contempt for him from this encounter, which would be a shame- he found her responses rather informative.
Chat Noir is the lesser problem of the two. The boy- he can only be a boy, with his cavalier mannerisms and reckless strategy of running headfirst into battle- follows Ladybug's lead and is enamoured with her. She is Chat's gaping hole in his armour, easy enough to exploit, easy enough to manipulate Chat's Miraculous away with.
The boy is simple enough to read. Ladybug, frustratingly less so.
Hawkmoth was taken aback when she strode forward straight up to his face in their first confrontation and captured every single one of his akuma with a singularly intense ferocity. Their fights following only prove that she will eventually thwart him again and again, even when he manages to turn Chat against her.
He thought her single minded in her drive, to the point of tunnel vision that excluded even Chat at times. He thought, and was proven wrong.
Her blue eyes, burning, light his vision.
For as strong as Ladybug is, her anger betrays her age. She is better than Chat at keeping her emotions under lock and key; but evidently, she cares, perhaps just as deeply for her partner as he does for her. It is even better that she zips it within herself so protectively. That sort of strength, Hawkmoth knows, can make for a brittle chrysalis.
His fingers dig into his palm, exerting enough pressure over the perfect face of his brooch to crack it if it were an ordinary piece of jewelry. Sometimes he believes the potency of his desperation fissures right into its heart.
Love. The greatest source of pleasure and pain.
He had taunted that his offer of a trade may have been more appropriate for Chat; but in actuality, Ladybug is his closest match.
Her wingbeats initiate creation; his, change. Their effects ripple outwards in waters that are the same but driven by different winds, creating clashing currents, a civil war.
In another life, she could've been him.
AN: Fun fact: every time I read or wrote 'Nooroo', I kept seeing 'Nooooo'.
Sorry that this chapter took so long! I struggled a lot with many of these characters, and it was a slow and uncertain process of finding the right mindspace for each one. The next one should come a little quicker! I'm in my last couple weeks of working on my shot for my animation final too though, so I guess I'll see how well I can multi-task.
Apologies for any typos, I'm posting this in a bit of a rush so I can free my mind and hands for concentrating on this week's work.
As always, would love to know who you liked best!