Hello! IT'S ME!

I'm so sorry about the long hiatus! To cut a VERY long story short, it turned out the doctors were wrong and my baby was JUST FINE. He's now nearly seven months old! Thank you so very much for all the kind messages and comments. They helped me an incredible amount.

It's been a very intense year and a half and I mostly just haven't had time or energy for writing, but now that I'm starting to feel more like myself again, I've found myself looking through my abandoned projects and feeling the gears whir into life... (Do gears whir? Maybe not. I'm a writer, not an engineer.) Also, I received a really sweet comment on this story from Ali that made me really want to keep writing. I couldn't reply to you, but thank you - it meant a LOT!

I'm not especially happy with this fic. It was my first in the ML fandom and it's chock-full of some of the worst clichés out there. It's not consistently wonderful writing, and to be honest when I started it I only had the vaguest ideas as to where it was going. Also, it's canon-compliant only up to about halfway through season one, if I recall correctly! But... well... I think I'm going to give it a chance, and at least see where the next few chapters take me. I've gone over my outline and revamped some plot points, and I think there's a sort of half-decent story there, maybe. I've retconned a few things, and as a result new chapters may feel a bit... different (lol! punny) - but I really can't be bothered to edit and repost the current ones, so maybe I'll go back and do that another time.

One of my pet hates in the ML fandom is when authors basically forget that the story is set in Paris and reference all sorts of things (usually American - sorry!) that are very non-French. (Like... no, you can't just go out and buy ready-made cookie dough, at least not easily... and no, a brownie is not considered a pastry in France!) Unfortunately, when I wrote this I think I went a bit too far the other way and overloaded it with pretentious French phrases... So I'm going to try and cool it on that front, lol. Apologies!

I have watched all of season 2 (eek!), and loved it, BUT this fic is going to pretend it doesn't exist. Mostly because I'd have to change so many things in the chapters I've already written that I might as well just scrap the whole thing and start a different story. So apologies for that. I might bring in some aspects of it, but for now just assume that the canon content of ML ends with season 1. If that doesn't bug you too much (yes, that was a pun too), read on!

Also: the next couple of chapters are ones I wrote a year and a half ago and never got round to posting. I apologise for the cringiness. I considered editing them extensively, but eh. Have a dose of terribly overdone Marichat fluff.

"Au revoir, Madame!" called Marinette, as the door swung closed with the world's most irritating bell chime. She caught herself thinking, That'd be the first thing to go in my shop, and immediately pushed the thought away.

Oh, this Monday was bad. In the same way that some people were inexplicably morning people or dog people or vegans, she knew some who were Monday people. Alya was one of them—she was always intensely happy to plunge into work, and tended to get restless if she spent too long away from her desk. Mondays seemed to invigorate her, and she launched herself into the week as English people launched themselves into their icy cold sea in summer. But Marinette always shivered and wanted to creep under a blanket at the mere sight of the water. Mondays were not her thing. And this one was worse than usual.

For one thing, she was on shift behind the till all day today, which always gave her a bad back and sore feet, and was frustrating in and of itself because it meant she was away from the actual sewing. It didn't matter how mundane the actual article of clothing was, Marinette always felt at home with a needle and thread, whether by hand or machine. Time passed more slowly on the shop floor—much more slowly. And it was so boring!

When she had first started working there—at the time, as an unpaid intern—she had done her best to approach it with excitement and positivity, channelling Tikki's constant upbeat attitude. New customers were charming! Repeat customers were delightful! Difficult customers were a challenge! She was working in fashion, and in two months she would start getting paid for it! It was all incredible experience and she did her absolute best to love it. Unfortunately it turned out that, unlike Tikki's, Marinette's supply of positivity was not bottomless. Its last dregs were drained when a young woman (whose attitude reminded Marinette irresistibly of Chloé) categorically refused to pay for an altered dress because it had a tiny rip in the side, despite the fact that Marinette had carefully noted this tear at the time the dress had been brought in. She had mended it as best she could, though this hadn't been the specified alteration, and it was barely visible, but the girl had decided to blame her for its existence and left in a fury.

Not only was she on till today, but Claude had been in an especially foul mood. He had snapped rudely at Marinette, criticised a hand-sewn seam she had been particularly proud of, and then reduced Danielle, the newest employee (and still at the unpaid internship stage), to tears by informing her that she would never amount to anything and she had better resign herself to a lifetime of cleaning, which was all she was allowed to do today.

After that he had stormed upstairs to the tiny flat where he and his wife lived, slamming the door behind him, and leaving Marinette with a headache that was probably going to last all day.

She sighed and, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, checked her watch. It was 10am. Mon Dieu, this is the slowest week in the history of slow weeks. She pondered the risks of opening her lunch and eating some of it behind the counter—she was starving. If Claude caught her, she'd never hear the end of it, if he didn't fire her on the spot.

And, just for a second, she wondered whether Adrien was right.

No! No, no, NO! She could not let herself think about that. It was absolutely ridiculous. One of those things people said—like Ha! I know! We should set up a café together!—but no one ever actually did it. The effort involved would be enormous. The paperwork involved would be horrific. The money involved—no, she must simply stop thinking about it. She needed to think about something else, pick something to distract her from the long hours ahead.

A figure sauntered into her mind's eye.

Tall, handsome, dressed in black, with short blond hair that curled just a bit at the top and eyes that were inhumanly and entirely green…

Now that he was in her head, Chat Noir refused to leave. He crossed his arms and stared at her cockily, his tail flicking just a bit as it sometimes did. She had always loved how blurred the line between cat and boy was, far more so than her own transformation; Tikki had once explained this was to do with Chat's powers, which were far more intense and draining than her own, and required a more complete shift. Chat's catness was both entertaining—she had once spent hours making him chase a paper mouse, to his chagrin, when they were fifteen—and endearing. She had, twice, succeeded in making him actually purr.

The first time had been more funny than anything else. It had been back during their teen years, when Chat had gone through a phase of wearing his hair really long. Marinette hadn't liked it much; it didn't suit his face especially well, and it was so wild that she accused him of having limited visibility in battle. Eventually, she had got so annoyed with it constantly being flicked or tossed out of his face one night on patrol that she had stopped on a flat rooftop and said: "Sit down."

Chat had skidded to a stop and given her a comically surprised look. "Huh?"

"You heard me. Sit." She pointed at the ground by her feet.

He stared at her for a second, one eyebrow slightly raised, and then swept her an exaggerated bow. "As you wish, my lady."

She kept her arms crossed as he swaggered towards her and then folded himself up at her feet, all sharp angles and gangly, teenage limbs. With Chat, she had learned, it was important never to give an inch, because he would then immediately grab a mile and run with it.

She looked down at the boy, who hadn't taken his eyes off her. It made her uncomfortable when he gave her that look—like she was the only person in the world he ever wanted to see.

"Turn round," she ordered.

He hadn't expected that, and confusion crossed his face, but he obeyed. She couldn't resist teasing him. "Good dog!"

Chat's tail twitched on the ground. Without turning round, he said, plaintively, "You know I don't like it when—oh!"

The oh was because she had plunged her gloved hands into his hair. It might be irritating when it hung all over Chat's mask and made him constantly try to blow it back, but it was so soft and full of such pretty glinting golden shimmers that Ladybug immediately wished she could actually feel it with her bare hands. She forgot her plan to tie it back and started to just play with it, combing her fingers through it and sweeping it to the side, careful to avoid touching his very sensitive cat ears, and grinning when she noticed that the back of Chat's neck was starting to flush a deep red.

"I've always wanted a little sister so I could do her hair," she said lightly. "Will you let me put ribbons and butterflies in it?"

Chat's reply was slightly breathless, which instantly made her stomach flutter. "My lady, at this moment in time you could do anything to me."

Valiantly ignoring the suggestiveness in his words, Ladybug retorted, "Then I take it you won't mind if I shave the side of your head and give you one of those obnoxious hipster buns at the top?"

"I could totally rock a man bun," he protested indignantly.

"All guys think that, and most are wrong." She congratulated herself on dispersing the tension so well. "Maybe I'll plait it. It needs to be out of your way."

He shrugged. "Can if you want."

"Hmm." She considered what would look best on him, the fashion designer in her coming out. Adrien, who also had really long hair these days, had recently done a shoot with his blonde locks shoved into a messy bun low at the nape of his neck; he had endured endless teasing from the group over it, but Marinette had secretly thought it quite nice—though then again probably anything would look good on him to her. Maybe a similar style would suit Chat?

She suddenly noticed that as her hands absentmindedly touched different parts of his head, he would instinctively lean into her fingers, just like a cat who was begging for scratches. Her eyes lighting up with mischief, Ladybug subtly pushed harder, and got an instant reaction of Chat butting his head against her hand. She stifled her laughter, forgetting the hairstyle, and obediently dug her fingertips hard into his scalp.

That was when he started purring.

She had frozen at first, completely unsure how to handle this. Was that an actual purr? Or was he sort of growling? She could feel the vibrations running up her arm and had to acknowledge that yes, this was a purr. Chat didn't appear to have noticed the latest development and was melting in pleasure beneath her fingers, tilting his head so that she could get at the parts that needed scritches the most. Ladybug had been so fascinated that she'd spent the next few minutes indulging in this strange bonding session.

Then an ambulance had gone by in the street below, its strident siren breaking the tranquillity of the night, and Chat had suddenly gone very still, the purr breaking off. She paused, wondering what would happen next. The back of his neck had become very red again. There was a long silence while Chat stared straight ahead.

Then, quick as a flash, he had jumped to his feet. Refusing to look at her, he had gabbled, "I have to go, see-you-later-bye!" Before Ladybug could react, he was a blur in the distance. She'd laughed until her eyes watered.

Next time they fought an akuma, she noticed that he had had his hair cut to a sensible length once more. She didn't comment.

Marinette chuckled to herself now, thinking about it. Poor Chat!

The second time had somehow been less amusing. It had been just after an especially nasty akuma—she certainly didn't miss those—which was circus-themed. Having to duck Blade Runner's weapon of choice—enormous, vicious-looking knives—was terrifying and exhausting, and there had been one truly horrible moment where Chat had done one of his stupid, heroic rescues and nearly got himself skewered for his pains. Ladybug could still remember how her heart had all but stopped. He had escaped, and his cry of triumph had been enough to distract the akuma for that one crucial moment, but she had still felt cold with terror for long afterwards.

Chat had noticed that something was off, and when he got it out of her, immediately launched into action. He'd found her a place where she could detransform in peace—he hadn't used Cataclysm, so was safe—and away from prying eyes, gone to the nearest bakery to find her cookies, and fed them to her through the door until Tikki was sufficiently rested to retransform. Then he'd swept them up to the top of the Eiffel Tower and wrapped his arms around her.

She had been surprised for a moment, but it was such a comforting and badly-needed embrace that she didn't protest, instead simply relaxing into his arms and pressing her face into his chest. She could feel the heat of his skin even through the suit, and it was doing a wonderful job of dispersing those shivers that hadn't stopped running through her since the awful moment when the blade had almost pierced him.

"I'm sorry," he'd mumbled.

She hadn't answered, just holding him tighter. She didn't know what she would have done if she had lost Chat Noir.

"You did jump into a T-Rex's mouth once," he continued, with a hint of humour this time. "So I guess we're even now." Ladybug made a disparaging noise, and he laughed. "Okay, I won't do it again. Promise."

She sighed and nodded, too spent for words. They clung together in silence for a few heartbeats. Somewhere in the back of Ladybug's mind, a voice was telling her that this probably wasn't a very good idea, but she couldn't quite remember why and was trying to ignore it.

Chat sighed too and dropped his head forward onto hers, burying his nose into her hair. She felt him breathe in deeply, inhaling her, and his hands dropped to her side, just above her hips, and pulled her closer against him. That was when it started—a low rumble in his chest that she could feel beneath her cheek, quickly getting louder. He was purring again.

He had been so mortified that time that she hadn't dared bring it up again, and couldn't help wondering whether the purr was an indication of something a bit more… intimate… than she had at first realised. The thought was too alarming to contemplate, so she had immediately put it aside and tried to forget about the whole thing.

Marinette came back to herself with a start when the bell rang, alerting her to the fact that another customer had come in, and she realised to her chagrin that she was blushing intensely. The woman who had entered gave her an odd look before showing Marinette where her jacket needed mending. In a daze, Marinette gave her a quote and told her when she could pick it up, then corrected herself when the lady (who clearly had no patience for daydreaming shop girls) pointed out frostily that the date she gave had been two days ago.

When she had gone, Marinette groaned and fell forward onto the counter, annoyed at herself for being such an idiot. It was ridiculous to spend her time daydreaming about Chat Noir. It was literally the most pointless thing she could possibly do.

You said no to him, she reminded herself firmly. You closed that door. Slammed it in his face, in fact.

She winced. She regretted that conversation with him so much it hurt now. He had been so hurt, so utterly broken by her carelessness. And then she had compounded it a few days later when he had come to say goodbye.

It had been such an awkward conversation. Chat was so different when he wasn't flirting with her and grinning at everything. He was sombre, closed in, pale.

"When will you come back?" she had asked, her voice sounding empty and hollow to her own ears.

He had given her a flat, cold look.

"I don't know," he said.

A sudden dizzying fear had opened up in the pit of her stomach. Trying to say the words without letting her voice shake, Ladybug had faltered, "You—you will come back, won't you?"

Chat hadn't answered. She understood. All she could do was look at him, with her guilt and shame and pain in her eyes, and helplessly wish that things were different.

His mouth twitched, as if he wanted to say something, and then he closed his eyes briefly and clenched his fists in frustration. He turned away to leave, but changed his mind and came back, staring at her with green eyes that burned with agony.

"Just tell me why," he said roughly. "Tell me what I did wrong."

Ladybug's mind had spun. She had no idea what to say. Her feelings were so muddled and confused she wasn't even sure what they were, let alone how to explain them.

"I—" she stammered.

"Tell me the truth, Ladybug."

Why did it hurt so much? It wasn't fair. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. "I—I don't know," she said haltingly. "I didn't—I didn't realise you were serious. I thought you were just—flirting—I—you always seemed so, so charming to everyone, to Alya, to m—to Marinette, it was like—I just didn't know what you really felt." Tears were stinging her eyes.

"So I should have made my intentions more clear?" he said tightly. "I thought I had, but go on."

She stared at her feet, miserably. "I don't know! I—you were always there—I didn't think of you as—it was too—too easy, too obvious—I mean—I don't mean that, I mean—" What the hell was she saying? The words tumbled out of her, stupid and hurtful and meaningless.

"Okay," he said, cutting across her babbling. "I've heard enough, thank you. Perhaps I wasn't enough of a challenge. Merci, Mademoiselle. I appreciate your honesty."

He bowed to her—not in the mocking, flamboyant way that Chat Noir always bowed, but a cold, painful gesture. "Adieu, Ladybug."

And he had left.