He doesn’t know what he’s trying to do; it never happened, and she doesn’t remember it anyway.
He doesn’t know whether it’ll help, or what his goal is; all he knows is that the idea of seeing anything like that happen to her again, even once, might be enough to strike him dead.
He doesn’t know when it gets into his head that he needs to balance the scales, but he finds that the idea stops him from losing his mind at night; every successful Akuma fills him with visceral terror, now, but if Ladybug makes it out unscathed, then that doesn’t matter.
It takes her weeks. The first time she heard it was ‘17′ after he shoves her out of the way of a petrifying ray. Then ‘24,’ ‘29,’ ‘40.’ He’s counting up, and she knows it, but the what escapes her. Every time he says another number, it comes out almost desperately, and that worries her.
It’s just under a month before he reaches 100, and, as he mutters the number to himself, over and over, and limps in what must be a homeward direction, she knows that she has to ask.
When Ladybug asks him to meet her later that night, he doesn’t know whether he should be excited or worried. She always seems to be busy when he suggests they spend more time together, so whatever it is, it must be important, right? The idea occurs to him that maybe this is the day she’s decided to return his affections, and he chuckles. Probably not, but he can dream.
He lies in his bed, alone with his uncertainties and the bruises that are a source of comfort as much as pain, because they’re not on her. Every ache her powers didn’t quite wipe away is a reminder that he’s a step closer to balancing things out.
He lands, and staggers, before straightening up, and giving her a cocky grin.
“Milady? To what do I owe the invitation?”
She pauses, and realizes that she doesn’t know how to put this.
He seems to recognize her uncertainty, and his cheer drips slowly away.
She casts about for the words, and can’t seem to find them.
“Is everything alright?” He’s worried, smiling nervously, and he shouldn’t be.
There are no better words to use, so she uses the ones she can find.
“I… I keep hearing you… You’re counting something, and… I… You’ve been acting strange.”
He pulls up an easy grin, marred somewhat by a twitch, some muscle in his face seemingly unhealed.
“Oh, just a little personal project.”
He hesitates, hesitates again, and rolls his eyes. “I’m just counting how many times I get you out of trouble.”
The strange moments make sense, now, but…
He takes a breath, and something she doesn’t recognize flickers behind his eyes.
“I just thought it would be fun.”
She looks him in the eye, and she can see in his face that he’s nervous, but he doesn’t flinch away.
She looks down, and then, after a second, looks back up.
“You haven’t just been counting.”
He doesn’t have a response for that.
“You’ve been looking for chances.”
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself properly.”
Now he flinches, cat ears twitching away from her.
“I can take care of myself, Chat. You don’t have to worry about me.”
She meant the words to be reassuring, but as he opens his mouth to respond, she can see words forming and being discarded.
“I… I know that you’re strong. And I know that you’re capable. I just…” He hesitates. “If something happens to you, we can’t purify the Akuma, and if it could hurt you in the first place, then an army of them…” He trails off, looking down. “But, if it happens to me…”
Her fist clenches at her side, and she steps forward.
“Chat Noir,” she says, pressing the palm of her other hand into his chest, hard enough to make a thump.
He jolts, looking at her.
“No,” she repeats. “You’re not allowed to think like that. I… Listen. I know… technically…” she sighs, the sound coming out aggravated. “We’d handle it. I can’t…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I probably sound ungrateful, and… You don’t know what it’s like to see your partner beaten up, over and over, okay?”
“I have dreams about it,” the words come out in a whisper, like a carefully kept secret, and he doesn’t meet her eyes as he says it, staring instead at his feet.
He looks up, tears in his eyes, and it feels like a punch to her stomach.
She lets out a breath, like the shadow of a laugh, but not amused. She shakes her head.
The words are gentle, an admission of the same secret he was keeping.
It shouldn’t surprise him, but the words seem to tear at him.
“I just… What if I can’t find my lucky charm in time, or… Or if I detransform before I get the chance?”
He’s crying now, and though he can’t see properly, the way her voice quavers tells him that she is too.
“I…” he swallows, trying to find something worth saying, and whatever he was planning, it vanishes as her forehead thumps gently against his chest.
He can feel her shaking, now, and he does the only thing he can think of, wrapping his arms around her, in the vain hope that it might help.
It only seems to make her shake harder, but before he can retract his arms, she returns the gesture, and the two of them sink slowly to their knees.
“You shouldn’t have to save me,” she mumbles.
He laughs, a weak, shuddering sound, entirely devoid of humor.
“You shouldn’t have to carry the weight of an entire city. I can’t just let you carry it alone.”
“You don’t. You never have.”
“I…” The memories are still there, 25,913 times that he did. Times that he didn’t help her, couldn’t save her. And he can’t say a word about any of them.
He tightens his grip around her.
And, somehow… As he pulls her closer, it feels almost as if he’s found the version of her that matters. Surrounded by an ocean of failures, she’s still okay. She’s still breathing.
For tonight, maybe that’ll be enough.
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