A.N.: In which Chat Noir enlists his good friend's help to impress the woman of his dreams - and may or may not question himself along the way.

"Are you lost?" she asks, and her voice sounds steady, a wire pulled taut. It rings in his ears with clarity and for a second he doesn't recognize her, impassively staring back at him from the door.

This bedroom is modest, tightly decorated with pretty knickknacks, picture frames, posters, matching furniture, and unfinished projects on a neatly organized desk. There are some documents and websites opened up on her computer monitor, and half a bowl of cheesy snacks sitting beside the keyboard. Her curtains are pushed back to let in the last rays of sunlight into her room, and everything is painted a muted pink. Down to the glistening fibers of his suit, softened to pastel.

Behind her, a bathroom split in whites and pinks and pallid blues. A misted mirror, flushed cheeks and damp black hair. She wears flannel pajama pants, and a graphic t-shirt. A smiling face, plain and bright. She huffs, folds her arms, and waits.

"Only in those eyes, Princess," he says smoothly, and her lips thin out almost impatiently.

He's never seen her without makeup, or this utterly unflappable. He searches her face, as she turns to collect some things from her bathroom counter. Her skin is mostly unblemished, pale in some areas, with a slight dusting of darkness underneath her eyes. An exhaustion he doesn't ordinarily catch under normal circumstances. Her lips are still so pink, but do not glimmer or shine in any given light. Her lashes are long and black, but uncurled, left to wisp down and against her skin when she blinks. And her hair, darkened by her shower, is left undone, spilled down her shoulders and stuck against her skin starkly. When she catches his eye, she furrows her brow and twists her mouth just a slight. A challenge, maybe.

She looks lovely.

"This is hardly appropriate," she says, pressing the little jar of lotion to her middle and leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. "Care to explain?"

There is something inexplicably appealing about her, the quirk of her mouth when he smiles innocently back at her, the way her eyes narrow and sharpen, the twitch of her eyebrow, the attractive tilt of her head—what he never sees as anything other than—

"Chat," she says, "if you would."

"Certainly, Princess," he replies smoothly, maintaining a polite distance. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you wouldn't mind lending me a hand?"

She blinks, glances idly at her desk, and then pushes away from the door. She brushes past him, sits on her chair, sets down her lotion and a pair of socks on the desk. "I was kind of hoping to stay in tonight. What do you need help with?"

"A delicate matter," he says, hovering around the middle of the room and then drawing toward her bookcase as she unscrews the cap of her lotion. He briefly catches her lifting her foot to rest her ankle on her other knee, and then switches his gaze to the worn spines of both novels and magazines alike. On one shelf, nothing but fictional and romantic, the curious thriller and a misplaced volume on the psychological evaluation of the deranged. He considers this, noting the author, and presses his fingertips against the title of a fashion tabloid. He pulls it out, and winces as he finds that woeful cover of himself; posing, he recalls, in a most uncomfortable position with a soccer ball. The image is supposed to convey athleticism. He replaces it, fluttering around some other books. "Of which I'm certain only youcan help me with—is this a sketchbook? May I?"

"I'd rather you didn't, it's not my best—you haven't answered my question."

She is rolling on one half of a pair of pink socks, spotted in small white dots. Setting down her foot, she moves to carefully apply lotion on the other as well. She does so methodically, as if, like the painstaking process of brushing the wide-toothed comb through her wet hair, habitual. She sets aside the lotion and leans back to indulge in one of her little snacks.

His gaze only lifts to the painting on the wall, and then flicker to the scant pictures she has pinned nearby. A magazine article he recognizes, something about body types and the discrimination within the fashion industry. A drawing of a sunflower, leaning with the breeze. Two, he counts, posters of himself; the park at night, that nice dark coat; the colorful one, in which he's midway between laughing and grinning.

"I have a plan," he says, and when he catches her trying to follow his gaze he turns back to slide the little novel he'd been holding back into its place. "I'd very much like your input."

"Does it involve leaving this room?" She wipes her fingers off on a napkin, and then searches around in some drawers.

"Unfortunately," he says slowly.

The drawer snaps shut, and she brings back two little hairbands.

Tragic. He'd liked her hair down like that.

"Ordinarily I'd say no," she replies, parting her hair and knotting one pigtail without looking. She has done this countless times before. "It's a school night, you know. But, you've been a good friend to me, so…"

He straightens, and he almost doesn't feel himself smile. His chest feels light and his mood lifts dozens of times over.

She considers them friends.

"Wonderful—you'll help me?"

She stands, ambles toward her dresser and slips on a pair of sneakers he's never seen before.

.x.

She weighs next to nothing, pressing soft against his back. Her arms cross over his shoulders and link by the hands just under his throat. She is so warm, as if radiating straight into his skin. The smell of flowers, humid and stifling, clouds his senses and for a second he has to shut his eyes and bask in it. Adjusting her, he settles on his toes along the railing of her balcony and leans out to watch the city twinkle against the coming night. He waits, counts the calm and even beats of her heart, and launches them across the air and onto the next rooftop.

Her breath hitches for only a second, but her heart never skips a beat.

"You astound me, Princess," he murmurs, voice lilting softly on the end.

"I'm not scared," she grumbles, petulant.

"Precisely," he sighs, wistful, and lands easily on the balls of his feet. Her ankles lock around his front every time that he does, thighs closing in against his sides or his ribs and voice jumping when she can't quite hold tight enough. The closest call, he sprints along the ledge of a building and swings to some adjacent rooftop she likely did not see in this not-dark.

"Where," she gets out, teeth grit, "are we going?"

He hums, slowing along the parapet of an apartment landing. "Would you like to catch your breath?"

She sits down on the parapet and breathes in, feet swinging in the air and fingers curled in against the edge. The inches he keeps between them are scant, his arm almost brushes hers when he leans back. He faces opposite her, the heels of his feet dug into the ground and head tilted back to catch what stars peek through the clouds and the musk of city lights below. It isn't quite the sight he imagines hers to be.

"Lovely, isn't it?" he pipes up, and bumps his shoulder against hers. It is a strange sort of comfortable they have between them, unbidden and misplaced. He doesn't understand it, but for the second their arms are snug against one another, it is almost as if touching another part of himself. Natural.

"It always is," she says, breathing in. "What's this plan? And why my input?"

"I'm in love—"

"No."

"—with," he continues with a sharp chuckle, "not you."

"I'm all ears."

"She's…complicated. Sometimes I feel as if she feels the same, and then she gives me the cold shoulder, so to speak. Do you know that saying?"

"Yes, go on."

"She's beautiful, Princess," he sighs, "absolutely breathtaking."

"I'd expect nothing less, from you."

"Oh, come now. I'm not that superficial."

"But of course."

"I'd like to be with her—I want—I don't know how to be."

"You want my advice?"

"Oh, that would be most gracious of you, you're—"

"Just drop it."

"—sweetness itself, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Be serious."

"I should ask the same of you, my love."

She leans away, and in the moment before she swings her legs across the space between the both of them he feels the sudden, sharp slice of panic drag up his chest and out his throat silently. Her feet don't quite touch the ground like his, but she settles comfortably and moves her gaze up to the sky. "Well, I'm not really an expert in this area."

"Curious—I'd imagine any young man would be…clambering for your attention."

"Go on," she knocks her hand against his arm lightly. "We're being serious now."

"Oh, but of course—"

"I think," she cuts in, holding his gaze for a moment. Startling, they sparkle in the moonlight silvery and unearthly. "I think I wanna hear your little plan."

"Her unequivocal love for this city," he announces, the arm not connected to hers sweeping grandly. Out toward the half not bright with movement, homes darkened by sleep. Plain, convoluted, so filled with stories. "I want, for just one night, to enjoy our home together. No strings attached, no responsibilities. Just us, and everyone else."

She is watching him, this indecipherable look in her eye. Her mouth looks soft, rose petals. "How romantic—can I guess at who this mysterious girl is?"

"The one and only," he nearly sings, hand flat on his chest. "My lady, keeper of my—"

"Right," she interrupts, and there's this oddly familiar look on her face. Her mouth quirks and her brow furrows and her eyes, ethereal, otherworldly, roll just a slight.

She's lovely.

"Maybe you should just, take a hint—if she hasn't expressly told you she feels the same, maybe she…doesn't?"

"Sweetness," he says, straightening, "are you trying to confessto me?"

"What in the—?"

"Are you trying to tell me—in keeping me from displaying my affections for my lady—that you have feelingsfor me?"

"No." She pushes herself up to stand. "Stop being silly and hear me out."

"Anything for you."

"Stop," she says, scattering an exasperated laugh. "We're supposed to be serious."

"I know—and I'll try my very best—but you have to agree it's so difficult with you."

Her smile curls further for a moment, and the pinch of her brow, and the narrowing of her eyes, is so familiar he loses his thoughts for a second. "I'll admit that."

It washes away, just as quick as it came.

"I'd like to know why you're asking meto help you," she says, and then spares a simper. "If you're so convinced I'm absolutely smittenwith you."

"Kitten," he gets in, and she scoffs.

"Don't."

"I don't have a pun, it rhymed—"

"Don't."

"You're friends with her. For the life of me, I could neverconvince her to meet with me outside of our duties."

"That would be dangerous," she states, oddly stern. "And…aren't you notallowed to know each other as civilians?"

"We won't," he assures, smoothly rising from his seat. "Like this. I'll be in my suit, she in hers. We'll be safe."

"Is that any basis for a relationship?"

He blinks, and then rights himself. "You certainly do cut to the bone, Princess."

"I… I don't mean to be rude in any way," she sighs, and folds her arms into herself as he circles her thoughtfully. "It's just… I really don't think she'd like that."

"Me?"

"No, that."

"I've…come to terms with the fact that we'll never be together."

She whirls around to face him, eyes focused. "Really."

There is a small scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, button like. And there, he can see the irritated skin of her lower lip, having been bit and chewed from stress.

Tiny, tiny imperfections. They make up the whole of her face and add something, something lost under the thin coat of foundation and creams and curled lashes. Curious, to be so lovely no matter the fact.

"So you are interested in me," he mumbles, grappling for something to say. Something to lighten this strange weight in his chest. "Forgive me, my love, for I don't feel the—"

That same exasperated laugh, her body leaning into him all too naturally. "Stop that—we're being serious."

"So you say," he says, and then hopes she doesn't hear him swallow. "I just want one night. I just want to get to know her—as a person. Not the mask or the costume or the…this."

She eyes him carefully, and at once the atmosphere does become serious. For once. For once since they've known each other.

Not long, he has to remind himself. At most, a mere fraction of his knowing Ladybug.

"I'll tell her," she finally says, and holds his gaze as if to assure him.

"Thank you."

He doesn't know the time, but her hair is completely dry now.

"Would you like to see?" he asks, and she tilts her head. "Would you like to see where?"

.x.

"Oh, cliché," she sighs as he carefully sets her down. "You hopeless romantic."

"Nothing less for the best."

This high up, the city is but a mass of lights and brilliance. It all glows golden, speckled fine by color like an intricately fractured diamond. It softens her pale skin and at once she is eerie, pretty in a way his mind cannot comprehend. He can't stop staring at her and when she catches him staring she furrows her brow.

His heart is pounding, and he doesn't know why.

"You don't have feelings for me, do you, you dork," she says, and leans her weight against the thick metal beams almost carelessly.

"I would be so lucky," he quips, and is startled by her laughter, sharp and genuine. "Oh, how charming you are, Sweetness."

"I should say the same to you."

A retort is hot on his tongue, but she turns her head and her smile softens toward the city. Her eyes grow warm, filled to the brim with fondness.

"She'll like this. Good call."

"If I know my lady," he says, folding his arms. "She'll be…"

"Breathless," she says, and inhales contentedly the crisp air of movement.

"Breathless," he repeats, and finally, finally turns his gaze to the city down below.

.x.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asks, kicking off her shoes thoughtlessly. She switches on the desk lamp and rifles around for a brush.

"I had a bit of a mission tonight," he says, and she looks at him sharply. "I had to make absolutely certain you'd be on board with my plan—and, of course, that she'd be happy with the view."

"Right," she looks away, pulling her hair free of her pigtails.

"Has anyone ever told you—you look…nice, with your hair down?" he chances, and she snorts, unladylike.

"As if, my face looks too small."

"Oh, I disagree entirely," he says, endeared.

"You should go to bed," she says around a smile, brushing down her hair. It's wavy now, and when she shakes her it out he catches the smell of outside, only faintly traced with her shampoo. "It's getting rather late, and it's a school night, you know."

"I want your opinion," he says, leaning in. A familiar distance, the kind where secrets are exchanged. "Am I nice?"

Her lips purse, and then soften. "I'd say so, yeah."

She flicks off the light, and ushers him toward the balcony.

"Time for bed. We've spent more time together than I could've ever possibly wanted."

"You are so cruel."

"Out, I need my rest."

"Oh, but you're already so pretty. Spare some for the rest of us."

"Out," she says on a laugh. Exasperated.

"Why, my love, I wish we'd only more time."

"You just want to waste my time—or have you been staring at my chips for a reason?"

"I'm hungry."

She shoves him out as soon as he has a handful, and just before she shuts him out for the night, she says, "Don't sneak into my room again or I'll hunt you down."

"You are," he says, "sweetness itself."

She locks the latch behind him.

.x.

A.N.: ;^)