Archive of Our Own ^beta

It took some time for Marinette to notice it, to understand the implications, to keep watching so her theory is validated.

But once she did, once she spent a whole night pacing, hurting for him, angry on his behalf, she made a plan. Many plans, in fact. She tackled it with a rational, logical chain of cause and effect. She plotted out her strategy and set to work.

Plan: Feed Adrien Agreste is a go.

This morning, like the previous four mornings, the phenomenon makes Nino pause so he can grin, sit back, and watch. Alya, smugly checking it out under the guise of monitoring the news feeds for any word of the city’s resident heroes, wiggles her eyebrows at Nino when the classroom door opens, and Adrien Agreste immediately perks up.

It could just be the fact Marinette Dupain-Cheng is actually, you know, on time (a truly impressive feat in itself), but it’s really all about the utter focus in Adrien’s body when it’s her pale pink slipper through the door.

A week ago, Marinette came to them and started talking about it, eyes narrowed while she reported her findings. Initially, Nino and Alya passed it off as her usual obsession, but still, they both started paying a little more attention.

And Mari, as it turns out, is right.

Any time her father comes for a cooking lessons, Adrien is completely absorbed, takes any baked goods with polite but greedy hands, eats quickly and neatly. He rarely gets to go anywhere for lunch and usually talks about eating salads or not at all because of a photoshoot. On most any outing, he eyes sweet shops and restaurants closely before he looks away with indifference, someone used to being denied.

“Oh my God, girl,” Alya admits a few days later, “you are so totally right on.”

Nino sighs, upset he hadn’t seen the signs in his best bro. “I am so totally pissedright now because I missed it, but yeah, Mari. You got it in one.”

“It’s okay,” Marinette waves it off at them, “I’ve got a plan. And you two need to be in on it.”

So, sure, It might take a little more effort than usual to be up earlier than her standard ten minutes before school, but the hard work has been so completely worth it.

The first day she brought a box, huffing and out of breath, but still early.

Such a definite win when her three friends pause in their conversation and zero right on to the box in her hands.

“We had so many extra from this morning, I brought you some!” And her cheeks are slightly flushed, the box oddly unscathed for the usual types of “accidents” following in her wake.

Adrien’s eyes go huge when the pastry box she holds out to him is a thing of true beauty. Sticky and sweet and probably something no one would ever let him have. He tilts his head adorably, eyes flittering up to hers, and he’s so handsome, “whoa! Really, Marinette?”

In a show of complete confidence, she bites down on her lower lip shyly and jiggles the box a little as enticement.

Nino cranes his neck over, “dude, raspberry and strawberry? I think someone loves us, bro.”

“We’re trying new recipes,” she laughs a little, glad she isn’t stuttering with Nino and Alya right there with him, “to stay progressive, you have to change up the menu sometimes.”

The crinkly paper full of utter delicious is held out to him with her small smile and inviting eyes. She might bite down on her lower lip when Adrien’s eyes zero in on the target and his fingers brush her when he takes the offered treat, just staring at it.

She gives the next to Nino, making eye contact with a conspiratorial smirk at the huge smile breaking out on Adrien’s face is something close to reverence.

“This looks amazing, Marinette! Can I –?”

And Adrien’s eyes are so hopeful, so beautifully green.

(Her heart literally breaking for their poor Sunshine Child, Alya takes a deep, deep breath, calms it down so she doesn’t start an internet crusade against Gabriel Agreste.)

“You had better before Nino steals it!” Marinette finds herself teasing, completely delighted when Adrien pulls the pastry to his chest protectively with eyes narrowed at the possible thief.

Nino almost snorts pastry up his nose while Alya accepts the last one in the box.

Satisfied, Marinette takes her seat and sighs happily as Adrien neatly devours the pastry with a genuine smile.

**

After a few days, Marinette just starts bringing some (carefully, carefully, prepared) odds and ends from the bakery. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes after lunch. It’s always small paper bags with something as simple as croissants or other viennoiseries. Each one earns an incredibly bright smile, actually makes it possible for her to talk to him without stuttering all over the place, even gives her room to tease him back a little.

Because it’s all about food, and if there is anything other than fashion, video games, school work, and the occasional akuma battle Marinette Dupain-Cheng could talk about, it’s food.

“Raspberry is your favorite? I’ll remember that, Adrien. Tartes maybe?” She muses, tapping her lip with a finger while he almost bounces on the bench next to her.

“Really?! Marineeette, you’re killing me slowly.”

“I don’t feel very bad about it. Besides, you like them, admit it.”

“…I do. You’re amazing, Mari, and I don’t tell you that enough.”

Even though the nickname warms her, she can laugh a little and tease back, not show him how upset she is he’s woefully underfed and no one, no one, even noticed before her, “I see right through you, Adrien Agreste. You just like me for my pastries.”

“Aww, Mari.”

“Sure, sure,” she shoos a hand at him, “I understand. Really, I do. Boys are incredibly fickle, you know.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re so sweet,” he sighs dramatically back, eyes soft with the tease, arms thrown up on the bench and actually looking relaxed, “how can I hope to resist?”

It moves from the little treats to Adrien turning around when he hears her sigh in frustration at the next physics problem that is beyond impossible and how– how is this her life? She recycles, takes up for her classmates, and tries to save Paris only to be thwarted by speed equals distance over time.

“Don’t sweat it,” and his voice is full of warmth and confidence, he even winks at her miserable expressions. “We’ll meet at the library during lunch and go through it. You’ll have it in no time.” An unconscious squeeze of her hand doesn’t register as anything other than thank God I’m not going to fail.

It goes from weekly “help me or I’m going to die” study sessions with half the class (and Adrien handles all the questions like a pro, is infinitely patient with them all), to the new movie coming out in theatres with Nino and Alya (and who would have guessed what a nerd Adrien absolutely is but even still, the next saga in the Marvel Cinematic Universe was really incredible). Something she can look back at much later and wonder how his hand on the small of her back became something so unconscious and comfortable while they were standing there gushing about the effects.

But it was nothing when Adrien steered her toward his waiting car when they bid Alya and Nino good-night. The big guy even nodded down at her while he held the door open for them.

She listened and asked questions, giving him well-deserved praise on his knowledge of all things comic books.

Calling him a dork is done with love, really, and it’s good she laughs at him openly until he’s joining her, head back against the seat and more relaxed than she’s ever seen him.

When the car pulls to a slow stop, she expects to be outside the bakery.

They’re not.

Adrien glances from the window to the rearview mirror, catches the Gorilla arch a very obvious eyebrow, and something in his head clicks.

“Oh, good idea!” He says aloud and turns to Marinette, “let’s get coffee before we take you home.”

Which, looking back on it, was really their first…

(Date? Like, one not in masks?)

Sitting out to look over the beach, to vent to him about the design she’s working on for the fall, to let him vent about the stupid meetings with executives and lawyers, being there when he has no say in anything anyway.

It’s something comfortable, their new normal that she doesn’t think anything of it, really.

The new normal is making sure she has something to steer him off his strict diet regimen. The new normal is him turning in his seat to stand between lectures and prop his elbows on her desk so the four of them can talk. The new normal is getting a random text, come to the show, I’m dying here, and waving to the security at the backdoor and getting a very obvious in before she goes in to talk him out of a case of the I hate this life sometimes with banter about that hideous colors or some other made-up flaw. The new normal is him walking past her parents with a casual greeting and coming up the stairs to her room without even a pause. The new normal is Natalie giving her the barest of nods before she’s off, pizza already probably ordered and Alya on the way with Nino.

It even kind of rubs off in her, well, other life.

You know, the one with the spots and sweet yo-yo.

Because she finds herself stuffing Chat Noir almost as much.

(Is he incredible in the leather suit? Not that she’d ever, upon pain of death, admit it to him, but yes, yes he is. Almost emaciated, but incredible nonetheless.)

She even starts doing this thing, sneaking around the first floor to drop an extra something in a plain brown bag to hide a few rooftops away for after the inevitable fight for Paris.

“Wait, Chat Noir!” She’d gripped him by the wrist, smirking, looking down at the three pads left on his ring. “This will only take a second, okay?”

“Anything for you, M’lady, as long as we make it fast.”

“This way!”

The swing without the potential of innocent people getting hurt is really more tagthan move before you get squashed with various things. So she’s laughing by the time they reach the roof and she unearths the sweet pastry. Her grin is wide as puts it delicately in his upturned palms.

The look on his face?

Priceless.

And it’s impossibly endearing when he neatly devours it with his eyes closed and nose scrunched up under the mask in pleasure, the soft mm with each bite.

Her earrings give the signal, and she scratches under his chin affectionately before she takes off, glad to see him smile.

And even more ironically–

It’s how she unwittingly uncovers his identity.

(But the tells were always there, weren’t they? Especially when the two of them started being comfortable and close, a daily presence. An important someone.)

The third or fourth time she brings him a treat, it all clicks together, and Ladybug takes a few short seconds to completely freak the hell out in her head before she sucks in a deep breath and smiles back at his look of adoration at the chocolate croissant she’s holding out in front of him.

Nope. Not happening. Adrien is Chat Noir? That is absolutely insane.

Which would be completely and utterly true–

–if not for the fact she’s never seen the two of them at the same time, only assumed her feline partner was getting Adrien to safety by his word alone

–if not for the fact the two of them are similar in height, weight (woefully unhealthy to be completely honest), build, complexion, and hair color

–if not for the fact they both love puns and are completely loveable nerds

–if not for the fact they’re both fearless and self-sacrificing

–if not for the fact they both make the same humming noise when they take a bite out of her pastries

–if not for the fact they both have beautiful eyes and kissable mouths

(That’s enough of that. Just! Okay, maybe back to the freak out.)

But Chat is finishing up the treat in the same neat way as Adrien, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, savoring it.

And her face heats fast enough that she has to turn away or be caught.

“Gotta bug out! Hope you liked it, Chaton!”

“Delicious as always, M’lady, thank-you.”

Is soft and fond enough that she has to risk it, even while she’s already on her feet with the line extended, ready to jump into the night and swing back home, to give herself a little bit of time to work past the shock and well of fricking course, she really can’t help herself and peeks back at him over one shoulder with her face literally on fire.

The soft eyes and curve to his mouth is now something familiar and–

Oh God.

Adrien is Chat.

Chat is Adrien!

He must know something is up because his head tilts just slightly to the right, and his, “M’lady?” is inquisitive.

“Just wondering what your favorite fruit is,” she finds herself saying numbly, “maybe I’ll bring tartes next time.”

His grin is wide and white, eyes full of warmth, “raspberry actually. That’s my favorite.”

“I’ll…I’ll remember that, Chaton. See you!” and if her jump is just a little off, she really, really hopes he can’t tell.

**

The thing about secrets is:

Once you know, you can’t unknow.

So Marinette takes the next day off from school, playing up a possible cold since the weather has begun to change anyway.

She gets a full day to be in her room, trying to wrap her head around the image of Adrien and Chat Noir being one and the same while she idly sews a lining in a jacket and adds her specialty signature.

It doesn’t get much better when a familiar tapping on the trap door overhead shakes her out of her musings and makes her stomach drop abruptly.

When she raises the latch, her worst fears are confirmed when her partner is crouched to stare down at her with a frown marring his face and eyes narrow behind the mask. She catches the movement of his tail flicking anxiously back-and-forth.

“Feed a stray one time and he just keeps coming back for more,” she tries to joke, but his expression doesn’t change from this uncharacteristic serious one.

“You wound me, Princess. I heard you were sick.” And that pout takes on a whole new connotation (since she can let herself focus on his mouth just–just a little more without feeling guilty).

“I’m sure there’s a lot of people in Paris with a cold, Chat Noir. Out of all of them, you’re coming to visit me?”

“Just making sure an akuma doesn’t take the chance while you’re not feeling well. It’s a good superhero thing to do.” He defends lightly, looking her over from his vantage. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

And Marinette looks up, sighs a little, wondering how she could have missed itbefore.

“The cold air isn’t helping much. Why don’t you come in so I don’t get worse, okay?”

He perks adorably and quickly slides seamlessly in, closing the latch behind himself.

The small, satisfied grin is just right there.

Since she’s throwing caution to the wind, saying the hell with it, Marinette shakes her head fondly, “you’re in luck, Chat Noir. I’m going down to the bakery for a snack. If you’re a good kitty and stay out of my yarn this time, I’ll bring you up something, okay?”

And yes, yes, Chat (Adrien) is sneaky. In his leather suit, he can just movequickly and quietly, just appearing at her side to cock his head down and give her an endearing smile.

“I absolutely promise. But, I should be the one going to get you some comfort food since you aren’t well. Is everyone asleep downstairs? If not, I’ll run out and be right back!”

She doesn’t think about it when she pokes a finger in his chest, “hey, Minou! I’m the one that feeds people here. It won’t take a minute, so why don’t you get Ultimate Mega Strike III ready and I’ll prove I can kick your butt, sick or not.”

The wide grin and soft eyes is reminiscent, really. He gives the same kind of look–

To Ladybug.

(And…and Adrien gives it to Marinette sometimes, doesn’t he? Oh God, she’s so screwed.)

“I will absolutely indulge you, Princess. How about if I go with you and carry everything up? I can be as quiet as a mouse.”

She only hears it faintly, her heart picking up just a little. “No, no! It’s fine. I already know where everything is. I might trip on your tail and go flying. That? Would not be good. My parents might think I’m hosting Superheroes Anonymous or something.”

She’s already turning, trying to hide the heat in her cheeks, throwing a hand up over a shoulder while she disappears downstairs.

But the utterly ecstatic look on his face when she puts a plate with two raspberry tartes on the desk beside him is almost worth the anguish.

**

So.

So.

Adrien is her Minou, her Chaton. Marinette.exe has rebooted.

Once she’s over the initial freak out and Tikki listens with a sympathetic ear, she digs her heels in and tackles the problem like Ladybug fights akumas:

With patience and strategy.

She makes certain to bring different treats when she feeds Adrien and Chat Noir in the same day, assures herself she can’t hear his empty stomach rumbling while she listens to Adrien vent about the photoshoots or watches Chat Noir fight, tries to get him out of the way before he takes hits. She makes sure he has her attention when school work in the library finally gets done and answers his texts with the appropriate emojis.

She shows up when he needs her, in either identity, and does all she can to make sure he knows people care about him, people value him, value his opinions, his pains, his happiness, all of it matters.

For his eighteenth birthday, she makes herself go to Agreste Manor and request a few moments of his Father’s time, makes herself be calm and polite, to lay out all the plans for the party she’d like to throw for him, to assure him everything would be absolutely safe.

“Please, Monsieur Agreste,” she ends it, staring up the grand staircase at her idol’s staunch expression, “I know this is highly irregular, but he’s always so kind to everyone in class, helping us during study groups, supporting anyone when it seems we might fail. Please, please, let us do this for him so he knows how much we appreciate his kindness.”

Her heart thumping, she keeps herself from begging, but just barely.

Instead, Gabriel Agreste turns to his assistant, “make certain Adrien’s schedule is clear. Put something false on his tablet as I’m sure Miss Dupain-Cheng wishes it to be a surprise.”

She hopes her appreciation is in every line of her body when she profusely thanks him.

“His…his favorite cake is white with buttercream icing. I trust your parents will make it for him?”

“Absolutely Monsieur! I’ll tell them when I get home.”

“And you will have healthy snacks for him?”

“Yes! I have vegetables trays to be picked up before the party.”

“…he is allergic to feathers.”

“Ah, we’re only going to decorate with balloons and streamers. Our classmates are making a large banner to go across the room!”

And she must be imagining things when she sees the expressionless mask break just a little, just enough for the smallest upturn of his mouth, “very well. I trust nothing will happen to him under your watch, Miss Dupain-Cheng, since you care so much about my son.”

She gasps a little, wondering if she’s really that transparent, “I…I’ll make sure he comes home safely and that he has a wonderful time.”

“That is all I ask. Good day, Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

“Good day, Monsieur Agreste, and thank-you again for your time.”

And all of it. All of the pain and indecisions, all of the time spent as Marinette and Ladybug taking care of her partner, all the hours baking, all the hours with his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair with the sigh of leather in the background, all the hours watching him discreetly for tenseness in his shoulders and back, for the polite mask he has to wear, all the hours of fighting beside him to be the heroes they’ve had to become, all the hours of listening for his stomach to rumble and set off her you need to eat alarm–

All of it was worth it when his eyes blow so wide and green (she knows what his initial reaction would be, latches on to one arm so he doesn’t duck down in a fighting stance and give himself away) as the whole class leaps out of hiding and screams,

“Happy Birthday, Adrien!!”

It was worth it to see his whole face light up with a blinding smile.

It was worth it when her parents brought out the massive cake towering over most of them.

It was worth it when his father actually showed up at their school in person to join the party.

It was worth it when she had a spare moment in between making sure everything went off without a hitch to pull him aside in the shadows and put a massive cheeseburger in his hands with a wink.

(The tight hug was just appreciation. That’s it. And it’s…it’s fine because she still gets to be his friend, his partner, it’s really fine.)

It was worth it when he started opening presents, and his face was just so, so–

Happy.

She made her Minou happy.

“You did an amazing job, Mari,” Alya sidled up to her while the class was gathered around the birthday boy, watching him open his presents with unadulterated glee. “He looks like a little kid, all kinds of excited.”

She hums in reply, arms crossed over her chest, smiling softly, “everyone pitched in, Alya. I’m so glad it turned out to be a good day for him.”

“You’re the one that assigned jobs and got permission from his dad. All-in-all, I say you deserve the credit.”

She shrugs carelessly, keeping back to watch the playfulness of the group, “as long as it makes him smile, then it’s all worth it.”

Her best friend sighs a little and throws an arm over her shoulders, “you? Are Grade A girlfriend material. You know that don’t you?”

The two of them exchange grins, laughing a little while the music plays and Adrien tears into Mylene’s gift with wide, excited eyes.  Marinette smiles softly at him while he thanks Mylene and Ivan profusely for being so thoughtful.

**

Of course, she should have known.

Nothing good lasts forever.

“Stop following me, Chat Noir!”

She can hear the desperation in her voice, throws the yo-yo again to make the next jump, tries to be faster, tries to just get away.

“You’re hurt, Bug! Stop and let me see how badly!”

“It’s fine!” She yells back mid-leap, “I’m almost out of time and you need to go!”

“I can’t just leave you like this!”

Stop being so wonderful, she thinks while the wind rushes by. Just stop being so amazing in and out of the mask.

“You have to, Chaton! Just–”

Which is apparently the moment Tikki gets tired of all this one-sided identity reveal because her transformation abruptly drops without a second warning, leaving her suspended in mid-air without a line, without options, without escape.

(You can’t keep running like this.)

The abrupt noise is panic as her stomach drops, and she’s suddenly just Marinette hanging in mid-air above the Parisian skyline.

I might not see nineteen flitters across her thoughts when gravity takes over and she starts to drop; Tikki dives down with a screech at the same time she manages to get a breath.

The fall is going to hurt, but if she can at least grab on to the chimney right there, she won’t hit the street below–

Her hand doesn’t get poised, ready to try catching herself. Chat’s grip on her wrist, his own momentum, counters her fall instead.

“Got you!”

Of course he does.

His arms are everywhere, under her knees, around her back, pulling her close to his body, protecting her from the elements, holding her tight while he lands expertly on the roof that might have taken her out of the hero game. He makes sure he’s gentle with her in every way he can be, obligingly tilting his head so she can hide her face in his neck.

“Ch-Chaton…”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, M’Lady, but you were going to fall.” He whispers helplessly, already starting to move over to the next roof, taking leaps carefully with her in his arms.

“I…I can get home from here, you…you don’t need to–”

“You were limping in the suit, Bug. Your knee isn’t going to be any better without it. How badly does it hurt?”

“I–it’s fine,” she lies because Adrien didn’t need to worry about her like this. He shouldn’t have to when they’re not in the middle of a fight. She’s fine, she’s always fine.

“Why don’t I believe you?” He hums back while he runs effortlessly and holds her tight, so tight (at least until he realizes who is under the mask), “honestly, LB. You take care of me all the time–”

“–You get hurt for me all the time–” she counters.

“–You always feed me–”

“–You always follow my crazy plans–”

“–You’re always there when I need you–”

“–You’re always there when I need you, too.”

“Then let me take care of you, okay? Please?” He asks almost desperately, holding her that much higher against his chest.

“Chat.” And God does she want to cry, to hold on around his neck and never let go, to push him away in the same instance so he can have both Marinette and Ladybug that care about him, that need him. She isn’t ready for him to know.

(Would he be disappointed? Would everything change? Would he be able to look her in the face with the same fond expression? Would she lose him after everything they’ve been through?)

“It’s okay,” he makes a final leap, landing on a railing, leans down when they aren’t in mid-air to talk against her exposed throat. “I promise, I promise, it’s okay.”

But still, but still.

Her arms tighten around his neck because her eyes are getting hot and full. Rapid blinking isn’t stopping it, biting down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood isn’t stopping it, and her chest shudders with a wet breath.

(Everything is going to be ruined, isn’t it?)

When he feels something wet against the side of his throat, he gives her his immediate attention (she’s going to miss that).

“Bug? Ladybug, tell me!”

She can’t even shake her head because all she can think about is how it’s all–

Over

She’s going to lose them both (she’s going to lose him), and her heart is already breaking, making her chest ache while she tries to hold it all in.

She barely registers Chat Noir kneeling down and the chair under her back, but knows when his arms slide out from under her knees, when he starts pulling away, that she’s lost something so precious, something so wonderful.

(He doesn’t love Marinette. He loves Ladybug, and the truth is going to–)

It hurts more than bruises or lacerations, it hurts enough to sap her monumental strength away to leave a teenage girl trying not to sob hysterically and make her partner (the man she loves) feel bad because he doesn’t really want her.

(He probably never did.)

His hands on her leg are so absurdly gentle, his claws carefully cutting her pants away from the sluggishly bleeding gash.

She needs to do something, to make him go so he doesn’t need to feel honor-bound to stay.

“I-I’m sorry,” she grits her teeth, steels her voice, “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

“M’Lady–”

“It isn’t fair to you,” she covers her eyes with a hand, trying to stop, to just stop, but dammit her shoulders are shaking and her voice is thick, “it isn’t fair. It was easier when you didn’t know who I was. You…you could be safe with me, I could take care of you, and now it’s all…it’s all–”

Her lip quivers stupidly, tears tracking down her face under her hand, and she bites down harder.

“I’m sorry, Chat Noir. I’m so, so sorry,” wrapping one arm around her body, trying to comfort herself, to get ready for his inevitable rejection, for the awkward separation that would follow, for his smile to be gone, for the warmth of his hand against her back, for his ease in her presence to be a thing of the past.

(God, she’s going to miss all of it, all of him.)

The hands on her leg pause noticeably, and even covering her eyes, she can feel the anxious swish of his tail, the leather subtly winding around her uninjured calf in comfort.

“I don’t understand,” he comes back gently, “but I’m going to take care of your leg, and then you can explain it to me, okay?”

“Please don’t,” she bites out on a sob, “please don’t help me.”

“I would do anything for you, Bugaboo, but don’t ask that of me, okay? I want to help you.”

She finally lowers her hand and looks up, shows him exactly who has been under the spots all this time, stares down into the lenses of his mask with her eyes narrowed and wet tracks down her face.

“I’m not who you think I am, and-and I don’t expect you to stay,” she breathes in around the quaking in her chest, “we can still be partners, we can still fight for Paris, but you don’t have to pretend now that you know. It’s okay, it’s fine–”

But it isn’t, not really.

Regardless, she has to make it fine for him, she has to protect him, take care of him as best she can (now as much as he would let her).

Even with the mask, she can tell his brows are raised, and his hands still again.

“Bug, what are you talking about? You think I would leave you just because you’re Marinette?” And of course he sounds hurt, of course he’s disappointed she wouldn’t have faith in him.

“No,” she has to look away from those eyes, “I know you wouldn’t because you’re not that kind of person. You’d stick by until the end,” and she tries to just breathe, to just make the pain in her chest stop, “but you have feelings for Ladybug and that’s not…” me. She swallows around the lump in her throat, “so you don’t have to force yourself now that you know. You-you don’t have to do that, not for me. We can…we can still work together,” (I hope), “we can still stop the akumas, I’ll still take care of you, but you don’t have to– you d-don’t have to–”

“Love you?” He asks quietly. “Are you trying to tell me I don’t have to pretend I love you as much as I love Ladybug, Marinette? That I don’t have to love you at all now that I know?”

She doesn’t want to see whatever is going on in his expression, doesn’t want to see relief or guilt or anger, doesn’t want to see Chat Noir (Adrien) feel better now that she’s given him a very obvious out.

The leather on her jaw, the thumb moving in careful circles is jarring enough that she almost pulls out of his hold, her eyes wide with panic–

(Because she doesn’t need to hear whatever kind, placating crap he’s going to spew out, whatever “thank-you for understanding” or “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she doesn’t need any of that.)

But the other hand is on the back of her neck, keeps her from pulling away, and the mask is closer, those eyes narrow and seeking, missing nothing.

“You can go,” she manages, her tone hoarse but firm, “I understand, I promise. You can just–”

(Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. Don’t hate me, don’t banish me from your life.)

“As if I’d even want to,” he returns gently, kindly, “as if something like a mask could hide you from me, Marinette.”

And it’s so much not what she expected that she’s got no way to counter when he tilts his head down and presses his mouth sweetly to hers.

It’s careful and chaste, more than she expected, more than she thought she deserved.

Chat Noir pulls back, still being absurdly gentle with her, laying his forehead against hers while his thumb carefully moves over her cheek and the tears drying on her face.

“Like I said,” and those eyes stare right into her wide ones, don’t give her an inchto hide, “I’m going to take care of your leg, and you are going to let me. Then, we’re going to talk about this, Marinette.”

And she can’t remember when her hands came up to grip his wrists, can’t really recall when her eyes started to get hot and full again.

“Ch-Chat–”

He quiets her with another gentle press of his mouth against hers, tilting a little so they both can breathe, holding her there for a few moments longer than the last time.

Her eyes spill over and her hands tighten on his wrists, but his gloved thumbs gently swipe the tears away.

He’s smiling when he pulls back this time, not a Chat Noir smirk, not an empty Adrien Agreste smile, but something warm and full and fond. Something a little closer to awe.

“Now, it’s your turn to say, ‘alright, Chat Noir. Take me inside and bandage up my leg.’”

Sniffling and trying to stop the steady stream of tears, trying to get her damn hands to stop shaking, “alright, Ch-Chat Noir. Take me inside…and–and bandage up my leg.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, M’Lady,” and he presses his mouth to her forehead before rising up, pulling out of her grip.

Once Marinette palms the tears off her face, she gets a look at where he landed them.

Ironically, they’re already on the roof to the bakery, and he’d put her down in her own chair by her table. He walks around her plants knowingly and knowledgeably opens the hatch before coming back to slide his arms back under her knees and shoulders again, still smiling in that genuine way while she’s looking around her roof mindblown.

He already knew.

He didn’t just discover her.

He already knew.

And still, he didn’t–

(reject her, throw her away)

Which stupidly makes her eyes leak even more because he already knew and still kept coming back, kept protecting her, kept standing by her, kept letting her take care of him, letting her love him in her own way.

“You stupid cat,” is sobbed out against the side of his throat while he carries her easily down from the loft bed and to her chaise.

He hums a little, chest rumbling with the beginnings of a purr. “Correction, Bugaboo. I’m your stupid cat.”

She bites down on her sore lip again just to hear something like that from him. “Minou…” is enough of an answer to make him tilt his head and kiss the top of her head before he eases her down.

In the light from her desk, he can see the nasty gash even without the enhansed lenses and cat’s eyes, making hurt noises under his breath, “stay here. I’m going to get some supplies, but I’ll be right back.”

With her forearm over her eyes, she nods because her voice is cracking and dammit, she needs to just stop with the crying already.

His footsteps are soft, going down to her bathroom for the first-aid kit, and Tikki finally emerges from her purse, looking at her bloodied charge with big eyes. But, the young heroine doesn’t even look up.

“I’ll-I’ll get you cookies–” she moves the injured leg to put a foot on the floor, ready to shove herself up, to get moving, to take responsibility, to make sure Tikki was cared for.

The small goddess ducks around her arm and nuzzles into the side of her neck, holding Marinette back from standing up.

“It’s perfectly fine, I know where the extras are,” the kwami is being calm and soothing, worried about the shaking teenager collapsing in on herself. “Right now, you need to rest and allow Chat Noir to care for your injuries.”

“I-I can…he-he doesn’t need to…he’s not…Ladybug–” she bites down, berating herself because she really needs to get it together and make some sense.

“Oh Marinette,” the goddess sighs sadly, “He loves you. Ladybug is all the best parts of you, so how could he not?”

No amount of self-control could stop her from breaking down again, leaning over herself, hugging her arms around her stomach because dammit, just dammit.

“I knew he would catch you,” the little kwami swears solemnly, “and I knew it was time. That is why your transformation ended so abruptly. I’m sorry for scaring you, but if you continued to run away, you might have been hurt worse! I didn’t know what else to do to help you.”

But all Marinette latches on to is: “Time…?”

“Yes, time. It’s time for you to let him take care of you,” and the small goddess floats up to meet Marinette’s confused gaze, her watery eyes and wet face. “You’ve been working so hard at school and with your designs and trying to keep up with Adrien and Chat Noir as well as being Ladybug that you’re completely worn out!”

“I–” and Tikki might have a point. Working early to make different treats for them, trying to be available in-between Adrien’s hectic schedule as well as fighting alongside her Chaton was enough for any teenager. Throw school work and her budding portfolio in the mix and she’s averaging three to four hours of sleep a night (sometimes less).

So…maybe she hadn’t noticed how tired she really was until now.

It just hadn’t mattered because as long as Chat Noir and Adrien Agreste were okay, as long as they were happy…

The little goddess hums knowledgeably and subtly pushes back so Marinette unconsciously sinks back into the chaise instead of poised to stand. “Your partnership has always been based on being equals, Marinette. Isn’t it always you telling the media that Chat Noir isn’t your sidekick?”

“Of course he’s my equal,” the heroine of Paris sinks a little further down, “he’s always known that.”

“Then it’s fine to let him do things for you when you’ve pushed yourself this hard, right? Since you take such good care of him, then it’s fine to let him do the same.”

“But, Tikki, he always takes care of me,” she replies low, eyes going to the stairs leading down to her bathroom.

And even if she’s tiny, the goddess is still a force to be reckoned with, and is satisfied with her decision to shake Marinette out of her one-sided vision of Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir, “that isn’t true! You don’t let him take care of you, Marinette. And he wants to! You can’t see it, but he does!”

“I…” and nope, she’s really got nothing for that.

“This is not about simply fighting akumas. It hasn’t been about that in months, maybe even before you started trying to take better care of Adrien.”

“I–” she whispers, “I’m…I’m supposed to, he’s my partner–”

“Be honest with yourself, Marinette. You were bringing Chat Noir pastries long before you suspected who he was. You’ve pulled him out of trouble, taken care of him, saved him, trusted him, all of it before you realized he was Adrien.”

Marinette goes silent, not admitting she’d fallen so hard for both Adrien and Chat Noir, that she loved all sides of him even before she knew he was the same person.

The little goddess lights down in her lap, looking up at her with kind, fond eyes, “just let him take care of you this time. That’s all you need to do, just put yourself in his hands, okay?”

All Tikki gets back is a wet, slow blink because Marinette obviously doesn’t get it.

Chat Noir hops back up to her floor with the large first-aid kit in one hand and a glass of water in the other, interrupting the kwami’s pleading.

She’s helpless to do much more than stare at his easy smile while Tikki flutters up to nuzzle against her neck as Marinette huddles in on herself, exhaustion in every line of her body. She accepts the glass of water absently, is shaken out of her revere when his gloved hand fits under hers and helps raise the glass to her mouth.

His eyes don’t leave her face until she takes a few drinks, keeping the glass steady for her. It’s an unconscious thing when his free hand makes comforting circles on her calf, the same way Adrien’s hand on the small of her back reminds her he’s there.

“It’s fine,” she tries again between sips, “I can–”

“A little more,” he interrupts gently, using his hold to tip the glass back at her, “you still look pale. There’s some pills in the first-aid kit for pain, but I’d like you to take a few more sips before I give them to you, okay?”

And with the small circles moving up her calf, being infinitely careful of his claws, she can’t tell him no and drinks more until he seems satisfied, even takes the two small white pills when he holds them out.

The swish of his tail is an easy back-and-forth movement when he rises up slightly to put the glass down on her desk and returns to take care of the nasty gash that at least looked a little better than it had when she was in the suit.

Chat Noir’s eyes miss nothing, the bruises from tumbles as Marinette and fights as Ladybug, the healing scratches, the way her muscles tremble slightly to emphasize just how hard she’s been pushing herself. He sees more than she’s apparently let him before, covering up with her larger-than-life personality, covering her own exhaustion by taking care of him and Alya and Nino and her parents and their class and all of fricking Paris.

The young hero wants to berate himself for not paying enough attention to realize.

(Still, now that he can finally, finally stop having to hide the fact he knows her identity, he can be more sneaky when she gets overrun like this. He can be the one to bring her treats and run his fingers through her hair until she gets sleepy enough to drift off, held warmly against his chest, cuddled in his arms. Now that they both know, he can keep her safe. This little revelation is more important than revealing who she is under the mask; it’s about knowing the effects, the strain of doing it all herself, of how hard and how far Ladybug pushes herself. It’s kind of a rude awakening, giving him an opportunity to really see her in a way he’s never been able to before. It makes him want, need, to be that person who gets to have this, the trust it takes to see her weak, to have the chance to try and make it better, to give her his strength just like this.)

And she knows he’s trying to be careful when one gloved hand wraps around her ankle and brings the injured leg back up on the chair so he can clean the gash.

He’s meticulous and precise, taking every precaution, making sure no debris is in the wound, making sure it’s clotting, handling the gauze pads and bandages with the very tips of his claws to keep it as sanitary as possible.

He tries to keep her distracted, to try and talk her away from the pain, his voice low and soothing when he makes observations about the akuma they finally beat, making terrible jokes and the worst puns just to get her to react, apologizing when she flinches, and doing absolutely nothing to hide the stars in his eyes when he looks at her (at her, at his Marinette) or holds back the irresistible, gentle touches.

Asking him to keep his hands away from her is literally unthinkable.

“Okay, it’s clean,” he finally tapes gauze pads down and soothingly rubs her other knee before getting the bandage started, “I’m glad it wasn’t that deep, so you won’t need stitches.” He holds her calf tenderly while winding the bandage with his other hand.

For her (now that he can, it will always, always be for her), he makes sure the bandage isn’t too loose or too tight; when the job is done and he doesn’t really have an excuse to keep holding on, his long fingers wrap around her ankle, rubbing soothing circles on the bone.

She nods, just a shift to keep from dislodging Tikki. “It feels better already. Thank-you, Adrien.”

And because she tries so hard to make it light for him, the whole reveal, the fact she also knows, because she tries to make it just a part of their routine, his heart beats harder in the rhythm of her name sliding around in his mouth.

But her smile is still so heartbreakingly sad, her bright eyes dark with it that Chat Noir’s chest goes impossibly tight. It’s instinct and raw emotion driving him to move close, to rise up off his knees and reach for her. He gently lifts her up just a little, enough to slide under her, so he can hold her in his lap and curl his taller, bigger body around her like a shield.

(And those words on her roof, her tears and fears rolled up, shoved in his face, how she thought he would be disappointed it was her under the mask, how she thought he would just leave her, how she couldn’t see it, couldn’t see how Ladybug was always just a mask, just an outer suit while Marinette was the real power behind the yo-yo. But all of it, all of it, makes his path so crystal clear for the first time in his life. What he needs to do, what he would literally give his life to protect.)

His chest hurts for her, he hurts for her, but still. But still. The overwhelming affection and admiration, the need to shelter, to be strong, to hold and support; all of it combined with the ache in his whole body when he can’t touch her–Marinette, Ladybug– when he can’t have the opportunity to soothe her, the warm fuzzy whenever she takes care of him, smiles at him, rolls her eyes at his stupid jokes with a punch to his arm, all of it so overwhelming, he’s surprised he’s not channeling pure Chat and bouncing off her walls.

It’s too much and not enough when she lets him wrap himself around her, when she just lays her forehead against the side of his throat and gives in a little.

“I’m here. Mari, I’m here.”

Her breath catches when the soft pahh and flash of light turns it into Adrien curling around her, his arms just as steady as Chat’s. Her chest hitches and her eyes get hot again when he doesn’t let go.

(When did he get so strong…?)

She doesn’t acknowledge the two gods giving them privacy, chattering in low tones. Instead, she does exactly what Tikki suggested and lets herself relax into him, putting herself in his hands.

He’s warm where she’s cold, strong where she feels weak, and his arms hold her up without being stifling. When she expects him to start talking like he’d promised, when she expects him to say something, anything about the humdrum of homework or how Chloe is really just a pain in the collective student body ass, or make another witty round of terrible puns to break the silence, when she expects him to say how shocked he was to find out who Ladybug was under the mask, when she expects it to still be over and done with, said in a way that was trying to be infinitely gentle because Adrien wouldn’t hurt her if he could help it.

(That’s what makes it worse.)

She expects all of that, prepares herself for worst case scenario (Ladybug) while his heart thumps steadily under her palm and his fingers gingerly take the ties out of her hair so he can run his fingers through it.

A wave of utter relief crawls through him when her back and shoulders finally lose some of the tension, when her breath is soft and stabilizing against his throat. When she doesn’t pull back, when she doesn’t pull away, when she just lets him do this, the automatic reactions kicks in, and his chest starts to vibrate against her, a soft noise meant to soothe.

“You…you’re purring.”

“Mmhm. I do that when I’m happy, Princess,” it’s quiet and fond without letting go or letting up, his fingers combing gently through her hair.

Happy. She…she made her Minou happy…

Because that’s all she ever wanted for him, why she started this whole thing in the first place, isn’t it? So she could see the two important men in her life be happy.

It seems like her whole body lifts in a satisfied sigh, and he can feel it around the hold he has (she doesn’t seem like she’s going to try getting up again, but still, he keeps his grip with the excuse to make sure).

“…You didn’t think I would be out of my mind knowing it was you under the mask?”

Even if his voice is easy, the calm she’s used to hearing, her heart still starts to pick up, her muscles tightening so she could run, “Adrien–”

“I could have thought the same thing, you know,” he counters quickly, a warning squeeze so she wouldn’t even try moving, “I could have been terrified you wouldn’t want the guy that loves stupid cat puns and is the biggest nerd in Paris. I could have been worried you would pass me off as easily as you did Chat Noir, that you couldn’t love those parts of me you don’t always see.”

Well that wakes her up.

There’s still dirt and tear tracks on her face, still clear exhaustion in the lines of her body, and how she wobbles a little in his lap. But her eyes and that set line to her jaw, make him a little breathless, a little warm in the face.

(She’s beautiful, whether she’s chewing Chloe out or kicking an akuma in the face, she’s so fucking beautiful.)

“Look at me, Chat Noir,” and her eyes narrow, hand moving up to automatically to cup his chin and turn his face down just like Ladybug, making him pay attention to the next plan, the next move, the next set of instructions.

(I will do everything in my power to protect you, to do everything I can to take care of you, to someday deserves you.)

It makes his eyes fall half-mast, his mouth tingle with the need to kiss her just like this.

“In the beginning…it was never about you. That’s not why, okay? The media was all over us, more than they are now, and if they caught how I felt about you, akumas from then on out would use us against each other. We would be our own greatest weakness, and it would only put us, Paris, and the people we love in more danger than we might be able to handle. I…I tried to make the best choices, the safest choices. I never wanted you hurt, Chat. I never wanted to be forced to make a call against you, not when you mean so much to me.”

It’s so very Chat when he grips her wrist to turn her hand around, his eyes going dark jade as he presses his mouth to her palm just briefly, showing her his support, his understanding.

“Are you trying to tell me–” and his breath is warm and stirring against her heartline, one of his brows arching playfully, almost purring.

“I’m-I’m telling you,” breathe, so what if he’s…so cute like this, “that you are the only person I trust with my life. I–I can’t do what I have to do without you. You’re not just my partner, you’re not just my friend, you’re not just someone I lo– I-I like…”

(Oh Bugaboo, I heard that. And his eyes get even softer, even more in awe.)

“You make me…better, stronger. I can be my best self when you’re by my side. I can stop being just Marinette and step into Ladybug as long as Chat Noir is there with me. I depend on you, I respect you, and y-yes, I mean, you’re insane, so of course I can’t help but be drawn to you, no matter how hard I might have tried to fight it. Frankly, the puns are terrible, I’m not going to lie–”

“Aw, c’mon, Bug,” he coos back, tilting his face so he’s pretty much laying his cheek in her palm, smiling stupidly fond while she tells him how much she needs him, when she fills his heart, fills his chest, and he is so patiently waiting until she’s finally run out of steam so he can just close the distance a little and–

Unconsciously, his chest rumbles in the same deep purr.

“–but,” she taps her fingers against his cheek to get his attention focused, “I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t do that to us. You think I was immune to all those hand kisses and bedroom eyes? You just! You just had to keep being so damn cute and sincere and–”

And now her other hand is fluttering while she talks.

He has to bite down on his lower lip so he doesn’t move in for the kill.

(Yet)

“How could I resist all of that?” Is her helpless rhetorical question, finally using the flailing hand for the inevitable facepalm. “I’m not made of stone, Adrien.”

“Of course not, Mari,” and finally, finally. He’s been waiting for this for what seems like forever, waiting to look her in the face, tell her how much he absolutely loves her, and needs her (apparently just as much as she needs him), that if she just lets him, he would always be by her side. He would always protect her, always love her (and at this juncture in his life, he can’t imagine ever existing not loving this girl). He will always stand with her, never let her fight alone.

He would be her partner in and out of the masks–

If she would only just let him.

“You’re made of steel and iron, of beauty and grace,” he tilts his head to kiss her palm again, watching her face perk out of her hand as he does, “you’re made of bravery and kindness, a little bit of klutziness thrown in. As Marinette or Ladybug, you’re made of all the best possible traits, everything that makes you a force to be reckoned with.”

And her breath catches, just a gasp, a soft noise that makes him smile a little wider, makes him a little more lost in her big eyes. It’s nothing for his arms to tighten, just enough to pull her closer to his warmth and strength, to feel the lines of her against his body. He can hold her close, so close, without the need for excuses. He can just because he wants to, needs to, has been itching for this for so long.

“I fell in love with all those things in Marinette. I fell in love with those things in Ladybug, so it kinda wasn’t hard to see you under the mask. None of it stopped the inevitable. I mean, who wouldn’t fall head over heels for you?” And so he pushes just a little more, leans down to bring their foreheads together, to feel his chest expand with it, to feel his mouth tingle again, to let his eyes slide down to her lips, her white teeth catching the bottom one in a tight hold.

“You’re so beautiful, Marinette. All of you. It’s no wonder I fell so hard for both of you.”

It’s so stupidly sincere she can help but go hot in the face, and abruptly laugh a little with her eyes crinkled in mirth.

“You might be a little biased, but…Thank-you, Minou,” and her finger are running through his messy hair, shifting her weight in his lap. When her eyes slide down, linger on his mouth, he almost stops breathing. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. This…um, how we feel can’t interfere with the job, and now you understand why. It’s important we keep things business as usual,” and yes, yes, this, making rules and planning worst-case scenario is already soothing, a step into control, into Ladybug. (Well, Marinette, the fixer of broken things. You know, the whole creation power and such.)

She’s at ease in his lap when she’s in charge, looking at him from this close, from his soft eyes and endearing smile, the same stars in his eyes as in Chat’s when Ladybug does something to encourage his terrible behavior.

“As you say, M’ Lady,” is soft and warm against her, his hand still holding hers, pressing her palm against his chest, over his heart. “I’ll be a good kitten while we’re batting akumas.”

When his smile takes on Chat Noir’s smirk, his eyes heat up, the jade going dark when they slide down to her mouth and back up again, never losing the mischievousness she’d only come to associate with Adrien for his jokes (not…not when he’s looking at her like he might–he might kiss her. Again. Oh God, again. He kissed her on the balcony. Adrien, her Chaton, kissed her on her balcony. Twice.)

“G-Good, that’s…that’s good–”

“I’ll still flirt with you. Sadly, I can’t help myself. I mean, it’s part of my DNA where you’re concerned, so you’ll have to deal with that.”

She laughs a little to hide her roaming thoughts (the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and–) “I think I’ve managed fine so far. You’re not as distracting as you’d like to think, Chaton.”

“Oh? Looks like I might have to step up my game then, Love Bug,” his smile become a smirk, so very Chat and Adrien at the same time. “I wonder if I can get you to blush while you’re kicking the hell out of the next bad guy of the week.”

“That sounds like the opposite of what I’m trying to get you to do,” and when her eyes narrow just a little, when her nose wrinkles up, he’s helpless against it. Helpless against the look in her eyes and the magic that seems to surround her even when she isn’t in the mask.

“Marinette,” is softer, his hand unconsciously pressing her palm tighter against his heart, his pulse picking up under her heartline. “Mari–”

“Adrien…” because she feels it just as strongly, automatically licks her lips a little while she stares up into those eyes, and she’s just–

Lost

When he finally loses his patience, when his control finally slips, the press of her mouth, warm and sweet, is a shock up his spine, electric and oh so inviting.

Her small noise against his lips opens her up, and he tilts his head just a little to find a better angle, to make the kiss less timid, but no less gentle than the one he gave her on the roof.

(And still he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be selfish when she’s hurt and exhausted and thought he wouldn’t love her, but he has to make her see. Until she absolutely turns him away, she’s stuck with him. Mine, Marinette. Until you don’t want me anymore, until you make me, I’m not leaving you.)

It’s not within his power to control himself, to pull back when her fingers tighten in his hair, when she licks daintily over his lower lip and opens her mouth for him, for more. The need is too much, too pressing.

After waiting so long, they both have no other option than to give in.

And even if he is Chat Noir, a superhero, a savior of Paris, even if he is Adrien Agreste, supermodel and millionaire, not even he is strong enough to pull away when she moans into his kiss and moves under his mouth to get more.

He shudders when she whimpers his name, Chat’s name, maybe a please in there somewhere, but she’s holding the back of his neck and scratching her nails gently through his hair with the other hand, doing him no favors here.

He can only pull her in tighter, can dive down to get more of her taste, can be so stupidly in love.

She only pushes him back when things like breathing are more important than her tongue in his mouth (but only barely), panting with dazed blue eyes that are really his undoing.

“Marinette,” is an obvious whine and he flops his head down on her shoulder, “you can’t look at me like that! It isn’t fair.”

“I can’t?” She mutters in a daze, lips tingling, her fingers idly playing with his hair.

“Noooo,” he whines while gently rubbing circles on her uninjured knee. “You look so cute like that! What do you expect me to do except kiss you again?”

(And again and again and again. Really Marinette, no one is that strong.)

“I…Well, I mean, I wouldn’t really mind so much if you wanted to—um, againbecause that was really, really n-nice,” because apparently rambling is where her night is going to go while she reels from everything, half-giddy with relief Adrien is holding her, acting like smitten Chat Noir, and hasn’t even let her go yet.

His snickering is soft, turning his face so the warmth against the side of her throat is the gentlest of kisses, just a barely-there press of his mouth. Her jaw closes with a click, her head automatically tilting to the side for him to press one more.

“You aren’t making this easier,” and that is the pot calling the kettle black because he’s talking against her throat all soft and gentle, wrecking her previous processes. “I don’t usually kiss beautiful girls when they’re injured and sleep deprived.”

And when he finally looks at her, his eyes are half-mast, her heart beats a little more strongly, her fingers in his hair sliding down to the back of his neck (because she could pull him down again if she really wanted to couldn’t she?), and the affection, the respect, the admiration she has for him, for Adrien, for herMinou just makes it difficult to take a breath.

“Then what kind of girls do you usually kiss, Minou?” She asks instead, so many of the old insecurities melting away so she can absolutely tease.

“Beautiful ones that can stand meow type of humor,” he grins unabashed, “ones that know when I’m kitten around and when I’m serious.”

“I’m pretty sure I said how terrible the puns are.”

“You didn’t mean it. I can tell, you know.”

“Mmhm. Keep telling yourself that.” She pats him on the shoulder. “But, since we’re not going to get back to kissing until I’m no longer injured and sleep-deprived, I need to get in a bath and wash off, at least.”

(And no, she is absolutely not getting flushed at how dark Adrien’s eyes turn at the mention of her in the bath. Nope, not noticing at all, not going to ask if he maybe, might want to join her.)

To keep from giving in to things like temptation, Marinette puts a foot on the ground to try standing up off his lap.

Chat, however, is nothing if not adaptable.

“That sounds smart, Mari, making sure you get plenty of sleep and time to heal,” but his arms change position while he’s talking, taking her by a bit of a surprise when he’s adjusted to be able to stand up and lift her against his chest at the same moment.

“Adrien–!”

“I’m just going to run the bath for you, and wait outside the door until you’re done. As tired as you are, you could fall asleep and drown. I can’t paw-sibly take that chance with my partner’s safety, now can I?”

And it’s just another jolt when Adrien carries her without any strain, without any effort, just like Chat Noir does when he needs to. It’s just another turnabout in her mind when things like masks and secret identities stop hiding the truth but are more like revelations.

(“You don’t let him take care of you! And he wants to!”)

So maybe that’s why she doesn’t fight him when he’s checking the water’s temperature and talking gently about the anime he thinks she might be into while the bath fills and steams up the room. Maybe that’s why she talks to him through the closed door while she lounges and washes, her injured knee up out of the water. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t freak the fuck out when the door is shoved unceremoniously open as she stumbles with a grunt of pain on getting out of the bath.

Regardless of why she isn’t kicking his ass out the hatch to go home at the god-awful hour, she wraps a towel around herself (they’re both red as tomatoes, but he doesn’t leave the room, just turns his back while she covers up) and completely doesn’t pass out from the amount of blood rushing to her face when he carries her back to her room and roots around in her drawers for panties and pajamas.

She lets him use the red, spotted pajama bottoms in her drawer artfully made for him and only slightly peeks at him while he’s changing out of his jeans.

(Turn-about really is fair play.)

And while they’re snuggled together in her bed with said anime playing on her laptop, she doesn’t make him leave, but makes herself comfortable against his chest until she’s completely content to never move again in her life if she doesn’t have to. She smiles gently at Tikki snoozing gently on the shelf above their heads while Plagg is wrapped around her snoring even louder.

When she nudges him awake in the early morning with hot, flaky croissants and fresh coffee, it makes her warm in too many ways when he flops his upper body over her lap and demands pats before he can even consider sitting up. It’s easy to run her fingers through his soft, fluffy bed-head, scratching lightly at his scalp while he wears the pjs she made and his chest rumbles lightly against her thighs. It’s easy to remember Tikki saying Plagg likes his Camembert so the hunk she holds out to him makes him do aerial flips all over the place. It’s even easier to coax Adrien over on his back so she can tear off pieces and feed them to him while she checks her phone for the latest news, and easier still to look at him with soft eyes after he’s transformed and ready to get home before Natalie is supposed to wake him up for school.

What she doesn’t count on, however, is how loud Alya screeches when Adrien pauses on his determined stride up the steps to pick her up high against his chest and carry her to class.

Next time, she’ll make sure to bring plenty of treats to keep everyone otherwise occupied.

(And berate the hell out of that damn cat for almost blowing their cover.)