My pet project for Miraculous Ladybug for the past month. I'm dizzy from how long this took.

I do not own Miraculous Ladybug.

The Waiting Game

"Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them." - Oscar Wilde

Fourteen

Adrien has never had a good sense of what his limits are.

He blames it on having every minute of his day planned. They tell him that other people know better, adults know better, what he can and can't do. His schedule is a blueprint of his capabilities. He can manage two modeling jobs in a row, but public school is too much, private tutoring will suffice. They shimmy him from precarious boundaries, and he sits in the wide sterile space of absolute can-dos, bored out of his mind.

So when a black cat tells him, "Try," he doesn't know any better and agrees.

Not knowing your limits does not equal being limitless. The first boundary he tests is balancing on a construction beam hundreds of feet above the ground.

He decides he's an idiot.

Unsurprisingly on an autumn moonlit night, it's freezing. His cheeks have long since lost feeling, but the occasional wind cuts to his bones. He's learning that beyond a certain point the cold burns like fire, and yet he's sweating. Profusely. The leather doesn't help. Leather doesn't breathe. Yet another thing he's learning.

Plagg didn't mention any of this when he pitched the whole chosen one idea. Crazy powers, an awesome look, saving people just in the nick of time, and the pièce de résistance, the attention of one up-and-coming polka dot-themed heroine.

Adrien couldn't have sunk his teeth in faster.

He extends his neck out as far it will go to glance at the distance down. It's almost boring when his stomach flip flops sickeningly, as if he hoped it might have done a nervous jig instead this fifth time around. He can already hear it, the things they'll say at his funeral. Just a gullible kid that followed a cat to his death. Poor sucker thought he was going to be a hero. Except they wouldn't know about the cat and the hero part. So probably suicide. The thought doesn't sit well with him, but then again neither does the other 110% of this situation. As much as possible. he'd like to limit the cause of his stomach churning to one item at a time.

What's the point of being nervous? a voice hums carelessly in his head, and he thinks of cats languidly stretching their backs and thread unraveling from worn pillows. It's strange, sharing his mind with a cat. One second he's one hundred percent focused on keeping his eye line above a certain level and the next he's thinking of logs of cheese and the glistening scales on sardines. Talk about cognitive dissonance. It's like their sharing one remote and fighting to keep it on their own channel. It's a bit much for an only child who's never had to share anything.

"Plagg, stop. I need to focus." Adrien slides his foot along the beam, convincing himself that any inch is progress, despite the fact that his hands still have a crushing grip on a steel support pillar. His shoes peek over the edge, enough that he could curl his toes over the rim if he wanted. They curl reflexively anyway as though cringing, so slick with sweat that they squeak against the leather. Ugh the squeak. It resonates up through his body like a shiver and bounces around in his skull. He hates this. He hates how he's one misstep away from a high-speed date with concrete. He hates how the winds buff his legs and tease his feet off course.

He hates how his hands have yet to leave their spot on the pillar.

Think like a cat, Adrien. Even if you fall, you'll probably land on all fours.

Dressing like a cat doesn't translate to being one. Unless his little magic ring can materialize trampolines, falling is only going to end one way. He's just human, and a pretty wimpy one at that. Just a kid who thinks he might-could be a hero.

Then be a cat. Listen, we can stand here forever or you could give me a little more leeway…

Adrien mulls over the proposition before his mind slides into thoughts about silver bells and how bright the moon is, and he dashes across the beam for the first time.

He learns that with Plagg by his side, he might very well be limitless.

Fifteen

Everything with his father is a waiting game.

It's not the most balanced of games; the ball is forever in his father's court and never in his. But, Adrien thinks, that it's not all bad. He still has a way to play, after all. It's just a matter of betting his time and patience in hopes of winning the same of his father's. He once tried to explain it to Nino, but his friend's devastated look of pity insured that Adrien wouldn't be trying that again. Yes, his father isn't exactly dad-of-the-year material, but he understands. There's a fashion empire to run. His mother passed too young. Single parenthood is tough on a guy who's distinctly awkward with children even in the same room. There are millions of reasons.

His father is a complicated man.

It's what make the victories so sweet. When Adrien wins, he gets a nod of acknowledgement and - on the rare occasion - a pleasant good morning or good night. Coming from a man as emotionally constipated as his father, it's on par with getting a golden star and an affectionate pat on the head. Those days, he carries his head a little higher, his footsteps are a little lighter. When he loses…

Well, he's never lost because he just keeps playing until he wins.

Even now, he's playing the game, spreading a mess of newspapers across his bedroom floor and carefully creasing the paper so that it naturally opens to an article on Chat Noir. Same rules, different context. This time, he's looking for approval on Chat Noir.

He's already heard it from everyone else. After all, Chat Noir is big. Front news cover, fan clubs, statues-in-his-honor big. Bigger-than-Model-Adrien big, which makes him grin. School is easier when people are talking about someone other than him - though it's still technically him. He enjoys the attention when it's not being pushed into his face.

But his father is ever the stoic statue. In the midst of this superhero craze, he skips all the action and hype and moves straight to business. A bit of a break won't hurt, a moment to smell the roses, even if Adrien is constructing it from behind the scenes. So what, if the paper always open to Chat Noir's profile and the business section suddenly comes separately? It's not too much to ask for. Just a stray comment will do. Oh what do you know, Chat Noir's done it again or that Chat Noir, he's doing great things.

Plagg tumbles through the air laughing when Adrien tells him as much. "Does your dad usually talk like he's in a family sitcom?"

Adrien's mouth crumples into a grimace. "No, I'm just saying that it would be nice." He throws a pillow at Plagg when the cat starts laughing again. "Shut up. It's just an example."

Plagg finally settles down as Adrien carefully puts the newspaper back together so that it looks untouched. "It's so much trouble though. Why bother?"

Adrien isn't sure if Plagg is talking about the newspaper or his father. If it's the former, he supposes there are other more direct ways of bringing up Chat Noir, but he'd like to avoid being a nuisance if he can. If it's the latter… well, if he doesn't bother, who will? He's always played the game, won the game. He could only really lose if he stopped playing.

Adrien's not even sure what it would mean to stop playing.

So he doesn't answer and instead tells him about the girl who sits behind him in class, the girl who called Chat Noir a total dork. As Plagg sputters about poor taste and predictably forgets what they were talking about, Adrien finishes setting up for his plan.

No harm done if he doesn't win this time, he tells himself, reassures himself. He still has more to bet, after all.

Sixteen

It's stupid, Adrien knows, but he gets in the habit of taking on bigger gambles, bigger risks. He wonders how far he has to go before his father will finally stop him.

Patrol ends well past midnight, at an hour that no normal well-adjusted teenager should be out at. Of course, Adrien's out, but he finds that the whole superhero deal makes him left of normal. He forgoes the routine of swinging down from the roof and breaking into his own room. Instead, he walks in plainly through the front door, bag slung across shoulders and not a single excuse prepared. Last time, Plagg, in one of his rare fits of responsibility, told him there were limits to being careless, but now Plagg is dead-asleep in his bag, too drained after fighting.

The foyer is pitch black, save for the moonlight streaming in through the French doors. A light doesn't flicker on to reveal an angry parent in a bathrobe. Television has set his bar too high. He stomps up the stairs, listening to his footsteps echo hollowly up and down the halls. He used to do this as a kid to ward off ghosts lurking around the corners. Now he thinks that at least it wouldn't be so quiet if ghosts were around.

Still, the lights remain off.

He goes as far as to slam his door as loudly as possible. It's not accompanied by hurried footsteps, demands of where were you. Silence settles back like a layer of dust, coating him and reassuring him that the house is empty.

His father isn't home again.

Adrien flops onto the bed. Not even Plagg is awake to occupy the time with chattering. The only sound is the ticking of a clock, steady and constant. He tells himself that he's tired, that he has to get up soon for school. But he has trouble sitting still.

Despite that he has spent the better half of the night chasing after a supervillain, he desperately wants to go for a run. Anywhere. Rooftops. He loves rooftops. He has to run at full tilt or risk sliding down the rafters, an all or nothing game. And he loves the jumps, the thrills that shoot up his stomach when he isn't quite sure he'll make it. He can run, run until he's so tired that his limbs are heavy and that his lungs expand to bursting. He know from experience that he'll sleep well then. He considers waking Plagg up to do just that when his ring starts beeping incessantly. He touches the rim, and Ladybug's voice comes over the one-way communicator.

"Chat, situation here. I know it's late, but I need you back here stat. I'll be waiting at the Rodin Museum." The call cuts off, and Adrien dives for his bag, upending its contents - and Plagg - non-too-gently.

"Plagg, we need to go."

Despite the cat's garbled complaints, he begins to transform, and all he can think is that his Lady really does have the best timing.

Seventeen

Ladybug is savage when she's angry.

Chat Noir hisses as she dabs rubbing alcohol into his wound without so much as a warning. His vision blurs from the pain, and he would have cried out if he wasn't so conscious about looking cool. Instead, his face squeezes into the smallest space possible, and his mouth falls open with soundless gasps. Not a major improvement, but it beats crying and attracting a crowd.

They're already a spectacle as it is, Ladybug and Chat Noir sitting cross-legged in the back of a pharmacy, the entrails of a first aid kit strewn about them. The owner of the shop is all too happy to help them, and she hovers two aisles over, trying to be stealthy and failing. At least, she gives them space. The same customer has walked past them five times, pushing the limits on his excuse of not knowing where the bandaids are. The only thing that keeps the hounds at bay is the positively vicious scowl marring Ladybug's face. Just short of baring her teeth, her expression warns, don't come near us, and people don't mess with Lady Luck.

Chat finally ventures to open an eye after the pain subsides. Her glare is carved into her face, the stern lines unchanging and unapologetic, but she waits until he settles and places a hand lightly on his shoulder before continuing. Her fingers tremble with the effort to be as gentle as possible.

He puts a hand over his mouth. It would only make her more upset if she saw him smiling.

"You're an idiot," she mutters.

She must be broken because she's been saying the same thing over and over again. Maybe she's hoping each time, that this time she'll be wrong. She's being silly, really. They both know Chat Noir is a smart cookie, but he's prone to bouts of idiocy, especially around her. It's a disease. He doesn't mind humoring her though and gives the same reply. They can be broken records together.

"It's not that bad," he says, looking at the cut across his bicep. It's smaller than he expected given all the bleeding. "I don't need to see a doctor."

"No, not that. Well, yes, there's that. There's a lot of things," she says bitterly. Her scolding doesn't have her usual touch of fondness. "I told you not to go after him. We should have let the police handle it."

"We're heroes. It's our job to chase down bad guys."

"Yes, and it's also our job to stay alive. You knew that guy was beyond us. He's already killed enough people." She runs her nail against his skin, following the shape of the cut. She grimaces, not out of disgust, but out of regret. "You can't catch bad guys if you're dead."

He smiles at her exaggeration. "It's just a cut."

That sets her off. "And what will it be tomorrow? You didn't even wait for me. I had to-" Her mouth clams up as her words tangle, and she glares at him like it's his fault. He's never seen her frustrated to the point of incoherency. She tries again, more slowly but the anger smolders beneath her words. "When I was running to you, I didn't know what I was going to find. I never know these days what I'm going to find. You hunt down criminals like… Like you're desperate. Like there's something hanging over you, and I don't know what, and I can't do anything about it. What you do, it's beyond recklessness at this point."

It's scary, how on-the-dot her intuition can be. He thinks of the game, of how he's upped the ante in a bid for attention. He thinks of how he runs himself ragged each night, finding odd bruises and cuts the next day and not remembering how he earned them. There are limits to being careless. It's Plagg's catchphrase these days, which is an eye-opener when you consider who it's coming from. But he can't let go. He still hasn't won. He considers explaining this to Ladybug, but Nino's expression comes to mind, knitted brow and eyes downcast with sympathy. He couldn't bear to see the same expression on his Lady's face. He respects her too much; her pity would kill something vital to his being, he knows.

The lines of her face slacken as it becomes apparent he won't say anything. She sighs. "Look, I'm not sure what's going on in that head of yours which, believe me, is a first. But you need to set your priorities straight. Your well-being comes first over catching any criminal. You can't keep doing this. I - I can't keep watching you do this."

Her admission is soft, but it weighs heavily on him. Her grip is tight on his wrist, her thumb digging almost painfully in like she's trying to physically impress her words onto him. She stares at him, steely-eyed and resolute. This time he won't get away with silence. He looks at her, this girl who runs down murderers for him, this girl who forces first aid on him, who starts interventions on the linoleum floor of some tiny pharmacy on his behalf. He looks at her, and she's tired and sweaty and grimy and stubborn and won't take no for an answer and she's absolutely precious to him.

He looks at her, and for the first time, he thinks he might be alright if he stops playing his father's game.

"Okay, yeah… I'll take care of myself."

Strangely, it's as simple as that. As much as he can't stand the thought of losing this round, he can't even venture the thought of breaking a promise with her.

Eighteen

The job becomes infinitely more fun when Nino becomes a superhero.

"Man, are patrols always this boring?"

Chat Noir turns back, expecting Nino's exasperated brown eyes only to see Mercury's blank whites. He's still getting used to that.

"Hey! It's a good thing that nothing's going on. The paperwork with the police afterwards sucks."

Mercury kicks a rock, and it rattles its way down into a gutter. "Yeah sure. But where's the excitement? I want to try this baby out." Electricity sparks from his gloved hands and snakes down his body. The air crackles, and the whole alleyway is lit like midday despite being past midnight. Chat is surprised that the whole neighborhood isn't awake.

"Show off," Chat scoffs before extending his staff out and tripping Mercury over, effectively ending his little light show. "You're being too flashy. Ba dum tsss." He winks and extends a hand out, gleefully taking in Mercury's disgust. His face has sunken in like he's aged years in a matter of seconds. Chat would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying the new blood. Ladybug barely bats an eyelash these days at his puns.

Mercury reluctantly takes the hand. "Man, how does Ladybug put up with you?"

Chat shrugs his shoulders and gives his staff a twirl. "I grew on her. She couldn't resist the old Chat Noir charm." He grins when Mercury merely raises a very Ladybug-esque brow. They're starting to rub off on each other. "No, she's just used it. Believe me, she used to hate it as much as you do."

Mercury stops short at that. "I don't hate it… It's just all… different."

"Well, better get used to it. Lots of things are going to be different now. Snapping electricity out of your fingers isn't exactly normal."

"No, I mean you're different. The Adrien I know doesn't make shitty puns that make your skin crawl. If anything, you always seemed a little constipated making jokes."

"Thanks, appreciate the honesty."

"Of course. I'm always here for you, man. No but seriously. I've known you for three years, and I got to say, you're a lot happier when you're Chat. More carefree. I could go freudian on your ass and cite issues with your dad, but yeah. This superhero thing. It's good for you."

Chat wonders if it has been. It hasn't all been laughs, all playing with crazy powers, but Nino doesn't know that quite yet. "Wish I could say the same to you. I don't know how this is going to grow on you, Nino."

He snorts. "Don't worry about me, man! I'm going to be kicking ass before you know it. You two better watch out. I'll catch up to you in a flash."

Chat bursts out with laughter. "In a flash! Nino, how is that not funny!"

He only laughs harder when Mercury puts him a headlock and gives him a noogie. For the rest of patrol, his hair stands on end from all the static shock, but he thinks it's a fair trade if he gets to slowly drag Mercury over to the punny dark side.

Nineteen

For the first time, Chat Noir feels like his bad luck is seeping into his civilian life.

Patrol is over, but he sits on the roof of the building where he once practiced parkour. The beams he regularly threw himself on are now covered with proper concrete and installation and whatever else buildings are made of. It's a plain office building. Ugly, too. Chat doesn't even know what their business is, but he loves the roof. The air tastes of nostalgia, and on the right nights, the moon glows big, full, and mysterious, reminding him of a meeting between a lonely fourteen year old boy and a black cat.

"Not going home?"

He turns to her, his little miss in red and black, and she casually takes the place next to him like she belongs there. In his mind, she always has. "Just enjoying the view, my Lady. Of course, with you here, I'll have to change the object of my attention." He rests his chin on his knuckles and flatteringly flutters his eyes at her. She laughs and bumps shoulders with him. It's affectionate enough to know she appreciates the attention, but not enough to know if she's interested. Wily fox, she is.

"You'll make the moon jealous. A bit fickle with your affection, non?"

"She understands. Honestly I don't think it'll work out. Every date we've been on, all I do is talk about you."

"Only good things, I hope."

"Of course. Only the best."

She looks down and smiles fondly, playing with the string of her yoyo. "And how long will this date last?" She gives him a pointed gaze. "Plan on camping out here for the night?"

He grimaces. "So that means… you know that I don't really have a place to stay."

She gives him a sympathetic smile. "Mercury told me. He said that your house is being foreclosed." Because his father was a super villain, because now his father is in jail. Chat Noir arrests a super criminal mastermind, and his reward is to lose his father and get kicked out of his house all at once. It's all kinds of fair.

"I'm a bit down on my luck. It's fine though, really. My friend, he's letting me crash on his couch for now, so there's that until I figure things out."

She hums, twirling the string around her finger. "But that's only temporary. I was thinking… my roommate moved out recently - so she could be closer to her job - and my place is pretty nice. Central location in Paris. The kitchen was remodeled recently, and there are two bedrooms so you would get your own and-"

"Wait… Are you-" He shakes his head as if he needs to physically sift the meaning out of her words to understand. "Are you suggesting I live with you?"

"In not so many words, yes." She trails off, her smile suddenly nervous, "This sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

"No! No! I'm just surprised. In so many ways, this is a godsend, and-and it's you! You and I… I mean… I'm just surprised."

"I can see that," she laughs.

She tends to have that effect on him, of reducing him to a blubbering mess. Even after years, she still catches him off guard. He rubs his eyes, buying time to get his bearings back. "So then, living together… You can't exactly do that with masks on."

"Well, I don't know about that. I could survive most of my day with a mask on. Might get some weird looks, but it's not like it keeps me from doing my assignments."

"Ha. Ha. Come on. What happened to personal space, keeping it a secret, even between us?"

She hums thoughtfully, "I'd say that secret has been more mindfully looking the other way for quite a while. Hasn't it, Adrien?"

He smiles because there's something beautiful about his name on her lips. He snorts good-naturedly. "I-I can't believe this. Literally years of keeping this a secret, and it's out in the open just like that. You have this crazy way of taking big complicated things in my life and just making them into nothing. I feel like an idiot now." He knows he's rambling, but she listens and indulges him. She'll spoil him rotten.

"Marinette." He says it quietly to himself, tasting her name, savoring each syllable, knowing that he can attribute her every identity with it. Her eyes close behind the mask, and he wonders if she, like him, likes the sound of her name on his lips. He hates how these thoughts bubble up, buoying buried hopes to the surface. "Okay then. For the record, I could have kept up the ruse for at least another year. You folded first."

"Fine. I'll write it up in the housing contract." She hops to her feet and holds a hand out to him. "I'm cutting your date short. It's late. Alya still has her futon around, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you borrowed it."

"So it's as easy as that? We'll be partners in crime and… flatmates?"

"I don't see why it has to be complicated," she grins. Adrien can think of a million things to complicate it. That grin being the first on the list.

"It's a bit rash of you."

"A bit of rashness never hurt anyone." She gives him a cheeky smirk. "I've learned that from the best."

"Funny. I snore."

"So does Alya… Don't tell her I said that."

"I'm not a morning person."

"Neither am I."

"I might bother you all the time with love confessions."

She gives him a skeptical look. "No, you wouldn't. You're a lot more considerate than you make yourself out to be. Any other complaints?"

"I'm…" he grasps at straws. "I'm ridiculously picky about having croissants in the morning."

She stares at him before bursting out laughing. "I grew up in a bakery. I think I have you covered." She grabs his arm and tugs him forward. "Now if you're done trying to make me give up on you, we should go home."

It's a simple sentence with simple words strung together, but it makes him tingly down to his toes. He thinks of the moon that's witnessed another deal and this drab ugly building that seems to tie his fate to others. If he's going to start believing in anything - God, destiny, Lady Luck - it'll be tonight. He takes her hand carefully, and she quietly lets him.

"Okay. Let's go home."

Twenty

813 days since last accident.

When Adrien opens his eyes, all he sees is that dreaded ceiling - gridded, white, impressively clean, and iconic of hospitals. In his head, he takes his imaginary "X days since last accident" signboard, crosses out the 2 years, and writes a big fat zero. Well, it was a good run while it lasted.

He's on sedatives. He knows from how floaty his head feels. He's less in a hospital bed and more on some drifting cloud that's carrying him to who-knows-where. Probably some sort of unconscious oblivion. He tries to look around, his eyes swimming in their sockets and wildly out of his control. On one side, he catches sight of an IV drip, which explains the itch in his wrist. On the other side, someone is watching vigil over him, which explains the perfume tickling at his nose. Marinette. He rummages at his side until he finds her hand, and he intertwines their fingers together.

"Princess?" Marinette's pet name slurs on his tongue.

There's a snort. "Hold on, lover boy," his visitor says, Alya says, untangling their hands. "Your princess is in another castle."

He's fairly certain there should be alarms ringing, warning him about the social disaster he's just committed, but his drug-addled mind takes it all in stride. Ah, the upsides of being only semi-conscious. Instead, he laughs at her reference; she famously hates video games. "Nice. Mario. Nino and Marinette would be so proud of you." He wheezes with laughter before hissing in pain.

"Yeah, I wouldn't laugh," she says a bit too late, obviously suppressing her own smile. What's the word? That German word that means taking pleasure in other people's pain. Schadenfreude. Alya is a schadenfreude fiend. "You have some broken ribs, you know."

No, he did not know, but he certainly feels it now. "I feel like I got hit by a truck."

"As far as I understand it, what happened to you isn't all that different."

Adrien decides that he doesn't want the details. "Where's Marinette? And Nino?"

Alya hums as she thinks, a habit he recognizes from Marinette. "Nino is in another room. He's got stitches and a concussion, but he should be fine after an overnight stay. Marinette is fine. She's been with you all night since you got here, and I just got her to go to sleep. She fought me tooth and nail, but she'll thank me when she doesn't pass out during her own presentation. They're judging her portfolio tomorrow."

Oh right. It's near finals week. Adrien groans as he remembers what day it is tomorrow. "Oh crap," he mutters. "I have my senior thesis proposal due tomorrow. I haven't even picked a topic." He tries to think of any material science articles he's read recently. Nano… He likes nanotechnology, but his head aches before he gets any further.

Alya tosses a pillow over his eyes. "Stop thinking so much. Is that the thing to be worried about? You have seven broken bones and mild trauma."

Adrien snorts. What does that even mean, mild trauma? Is trauma something you can do in halfsies? He wishes that whoever was in charge of his childhood had known that. He sighs, thankful for the pillow. His headache eases into dull throbbing.

"Your priorities are ridiculously skewed," Alya says beyond the darkness of the pillow.

"I'm a college student. By definition, my priorities are skewed."

Adrien can't see her, but he knows Alya well enough to know that she's rolling her eyes. He and Nino tend to elicit that kind of response. "Sure, school does that, but it's the heroics that make you guys backwards. All the head trauma."

He laughs, which he forgets he's not supposed to do. Half laughing, half groaning, he whines, "Ah, what am I going to do? I need to go to the library."

"I swear, the three of you are so busy dodging bullets and taking down Godzillas, you trip over the small things. Just get an extension. You're the professor's favorite, aren't you? And even if you weren't, hospitalization is an instant get-out-of-jail-for-free card."

Right. Right. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Dodging bullets," Alya reiterates. "Also you're drugged to the gills, that might be part of it. Want me to write the email for you? I wrote one for Nino earlier."

The drugs are messing with his emotional filter. He suddenly feels like crying. "Yes please. What would we do without you?"

"I don't know. Apparently drag your IV and your sorry ass over to the library. You guys worry about the Godzillas. I'll handle the small things."

They should do something nice for her. She's always been part of the team, even though she doesn't have a Kwami. If she isn't tending to their wounds or covering them in school, she's writing about them on her blog. They'll do something nice, bake a cake, a giant custom cake shaped like a journal. Marinette's dad can help. It'll have all her favorite flavors, and they'll all have a hand in it, and even though she's not much of a crier, maybe she'll be touched to the point of crying.

Adrien squeezes the pillow over his face, but he hears Alya laugh.

"Are you crying? I have so much to tell Marinette between the hand-holding and this."

He snorts and throws the pillow at her. He realizes he doesn't particularly care if she sees the wet spots on the cover.

Twenty-one

"So imagine the belt from this one and the lining in the pants with this one."

Chloe hands Adrien the two pages, each with a sketch she's made to upgrade Chat Noir's outfit. He never asked, but she's always been talented at worming her way into getting what she wants. His eyes glaze over as he stares at both designs before they slowly wander to the folder they have yet to work through. It's impressively thick, maybe two inches. They've already been at it for the better half of an hour, and his attention span is dissipating at an alarming rate. Even when he was a model, he didn't have to sift through so many designs. It's all he can do to keep from face planting into the table and willing unconsciousness. At least, Marinette would have had pity on his soul and grabbed him something sweet.

Speak of the devil, Marinette walks out into the living room in her comfortable home clothes, blinking at the light pouring from the windows like it's invaded her home uninvited. She gives Chloe much the same look.

Chloe snorts when she sees Marinette. "Marinette, what horrible thing are you wearing? Have you seen yourself in the mirror or did it crack at the sight of you?"

Marinette gives a noncommittal grunt and makes her way into the kitchen. Chloe scoffs and flips through her portfolio.

"Chloe, why do you have to be like that? Can't you just get along?"

Chloe huffs in way of laughing. "That's about as close to getting along as we'll get. Anyway, she makes it too easy. Did you see what she was wearing? And she thinks she can be a designer like that." She flips out another drawing for him. "And by the way, we're sticking with leather. It'll be in soon."

He grumbles, at both bits of news. It's an ongoing project of his to get Marinette and Chloe to get along. Marinette is his girlfriend and his best friend, and Chloe is his childhood friend. It's ridiculous that they can't stay in the same room together. Every word he utters has to be calculated, and though they've never pulled him into their feud, he can't help but feel invisible ropes pull him back and forth between them. It's the kind of stress that puts people in an early grave.

And the leather thing just sucks. He'll be chafing for the rest of his life.

Chloe continues to mix and match ideas for his outfits, even when Marinette wanders in with a croissant in hand. She settles herself beside Adrien, her eyes scanning the designs curiously. She breaks off the corner of her croissant where it's crispiest and pops it into his mouth. Food! He might survive this yet.

"Oh! I like this one!" Marinette passes the croissant to Adrien and reaches for a drawing tucked into a corner, only for Chloe to flick at Marinette's crumbly hand and pass her a handkerchief. Marinette doesn't even bat an eyelash, taking the napkin and thoroughly wiping her hands before proceeding to take the drawing. It's a curious exchange, fraught with the potential for bickering, but somehow, they've emerged out of it civil. Adrien tries to hide his smile by stuffing half the croissant in his mouth.

Marinette hums as she examines the drawing. "Yeah, the lines on this one are quite nice, but can I make a suggestion?" Chloe languidly waves her hand, like she doesn't care, but Adrien notices the way she cranes her neck just the slightest bit to get a better look at what Marinette is drawing. Using Chloe's design as a basis, Marinette sketches out another outfit on a paper napkin, toning down on some of the details and building a different frame in the shoulders. She passes it onto Chloe. "What do you think of something like that?"

Chloe scrutinizes the drawing, the purse in her lips more pronounced the longer she stares at it. Finally, she slips it into the folder reluctantly. "I'll consider it." Marinette grins like she's won. "But I don't like what you've done with the pants." Chloe gets up and heads to the kitchen, presumably to make some tea.

"Aww Chloe, admit it. You love my designs!" Marinette calls after her.

"No, I don't."

"You do!"

"I don't!"

"Chloe, I'll sign that napkin for you!"

Adrien nudges Marinette, telling her to quit it. She laughs and gives him a quick peck on the lips, and he hates how her kisses tend to distract him. "Don't rile her up. You always do this on purpose."

Marinette snorts, picking a layer off of the croissant. "But she's hilarious to tease. She makes it so easy."

He considers telling Marinette that they both said the same thing, that they might be more similar than they like to think, but he imagines the repercussions would be severe. He doesn't want to sleep on the couch tonight, so he settles for stuffing the rest of the croissant into her mouth and laughing as she sputters.

Twenty-two

The prison is a pleasant temperature, a nice difference from the chilly mid November air rattling outside. He thought it would be cold - movies and books had told him so - but he's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed by the reality. His father sits across from him, a stern rigid figure even in prison orange.

"And so to what do I owe for the pleasure of entertaining Chat Noir?" He conducts their reunion like a business meeting, but then every exchange they've ever had was like a daily report from subordinate to superior. Why would four years change that?

Chat - no, Adrien - speaks freely, knowing that the police promised to cut the feed for the visit, knowing that Nino is disconnecting the feed himself remotely, just in case. "They wouldn't let me talk to you as your son. I assume because they're afraid that I'll conspire to get you out. But Chat Noir, the hero who's earned the city's trust and who captured you in the first place, he's allowed to come and go as he pleases."

"So are you here to conspire with me then? Where's Ladybug? I'm sure she can manage a spoon with that miraculous of hers." This mocking side of his father is new to him; whether he developed it in prison or has always had it in him, Adrien doesn't know. The only thing he does know is that the mention of Ladybug puts him on edge, and he's grateful that he declined Marinette's offer to join him.

"No, I'm not here to get you out. As far as I'm concerned, you'll be staying here a long time."

"Proof that blood does not run thicker than water. So what are you here for then? To see if I've cracked? To see if I've repent for my ways? Are you here to see the fruits of your brand of justice? You're wasting my time, boy, so speak up or get out."

That last tone aches something strong, nostalgia of a nasty sort, but he shakes it off. Tough love, he told himself as a kid, because his father was a strong man, a stern man, a busy man, and somehow someway he was going grow up better for it. And when he finally reached this pinnacle of perfection his father was pushing him towards, the old man would change his tune; he would tell Adrien how proud he was, how much he loved him. But Adrien knows now. Distance has effectively washed out his rose-colored glasses. The man sitting across from him is like ceramic, shattered and glued back together with pride. He won't change. Ceramic isn't flexible. It stands strong until it can't anymore.

"I came to see what was different."

"Then you must be disappointed."

Adrien wonders if he is. He knows that Chloe is probably passed out after an all-nighter, working on her new fashion portfolio. Alya is at her new job, familiarizing herself with the all the editors' favorite coffee flavors and hating every second of it. Nino is lounging at home, surrounded by computers and waiting for his signal. Marinette… Marinette is waiting.

And here he is, talking to an old relic from a past life.

"No… I'm different and the people around me are different, and that's enough for me."

Chat Noir gets up, moving out of the room when his father gets in one last word. "You're more like me than your mother. I know a lost cause when I see one." He scoffs. "She hated the things I did, but she never gave up on me."

Chat stands at the door, pondering on the meaning of his words. Is he trying to make Adrien mad by comparing them, guilty for abandoning him? He tries to twist it, find the bone his father is trying to pick with him, but when he breaks it down, all he hears is an old tired man who misses his wife. It's something he'll think about for the next couple of years before he visits his father again. But he doesn't tell his father as much and leaves him in the ripples of his own words.

Marinette is standing outside the prison, blowing clouds into the the air and watching them ascend into the gray sky. When he comes out, no longer a hero but plain old Adrien, she smiles and fusses over his clothes. "You forgot to bring gloves." She gives him one of hers, grasps onto his bare hand with her own, and stuffs their joined hands into her pocket. She leans in, intent on sharing her warmth despite the fact that she's the one who's been standing outside for the better half of an hour.

"It's not him, is it?" she finally asks.

"No," Adrien admits, huffing into the cold air. "At least, I don't think so. Nino can keep surveillance on him, but we should be looking at different culprits. Someone else who can make akuma."

She hums, "Okay, I trust your judgement. We'll look into it later. For now, let's get something nice to eat. I'm thinking hot and soupy."

She hates soups, but he adores them on wintry days. He knows he's still learning, learning what it means to play an even game, what it means to give and get something back, what it means to be spoiled with love and to let it happen. He presses a kiss to her temple, a snowflake melting between them.

"Okay, your treat."

She laughs.

In the end, he thinks it's all just a matter of time.

A/N: Mercury is recycled from the concept art of the Quantic superhero team. You can find pictures floating around of him.

Oooh boy, this took much longer to write than I thought it would. I have fourteen wildly different copies to give you a sense of how many times this was rewritten. Hopefully, it turned out well enough, but I probably won't be able to tell until a few weeks from now. Hindsight is 20-20. Or you guys can save me some weeks, and tell me what you think. Did you like it? If you did, what did you like? If you didn't, what do you think i could improve on? Leave me a review, so I know I'm not just visited by crawling bots!