Adrien stood on the doorstep of the unassuming but well-groomed house and tried – again – to not think about how he was literally on the threshold of seeing his "crush" for the first time in seven years. He blew out a hard breath, pointedly ignoring the racing of his heart by readjusting the thick black glasses struggling to stay up on his nose. Again. The hand not gripping the basket of patisseries reached up to knock on the door, only to pause in nervous indecision once more. This time, however, the indecision didn't come from having his fourth existential crisis on her doorstep; Adrien, to his horror, had discovered that Marinette had a doorbell. Now, plagued with yet another decision to make – doorbell or knocking – Adrien was all but ready to dash off the porch…when suddenly, a buzz sounded in his pocket.
Thankful for the delay, Adrien eagerly pulled his phone out of his pocket, then scowled at its contents, quickly turning and glaring around the neighborhood with a blush creeping up his cheeks.
From Alys:
WOULD YOU QUIT FREAKING OUT AND RING THE DOORBELL ALREADY GOOD GRACIOUS I'M NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER
He couldn't spot Alya anywhere, cursedly good journalist that she was, so Adrien settled for dramatically shoving his phone back into his pocket without answering her message.
That'll show her.
Now…the door.
"Ah, Tikki," he muttered quietly to the nothingness around him. "How I wish you were here now. I could use some positive encouragement."
Only pulling on his shirt hem to straighten out the wrinkles twice more and pushing his glasses further onto his nose once, Adrien finally reached up and rang the doorbell.
Then immediately wanted to run away.
She needs you! his inner thoughts yelled desperately at him. You were hired for this! DON'T run, AND DON'T SWEAT WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T SWE –
Adrien yelped and stumbled into the small banister that wrapped around the porch when the door suddenly swung open. He inwardly mourned the croissant that leapt out of the basket, but was more intrigued by the big, blue eye peeking out from under the chain lock keeping the door at a safe two inches open.
"Can I help you?" was what Adrien had expected.
"Are you it?" was what the blue-eyed girl gave him instead.
Adrien blinked, still hunched backward over the banister, unsure how to proceed.
"Uh…yes? That is…" He straightened himself up hurriedly, stilting his sigh at another lost pastry in the process, and looked at Blue Eye. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This is Marinette DupaaaaHHH!"
Another super manly and heroically awesome yelp burst from him when Blue Eye slammed the door just to unlock and yank it open just as quickly, pulling Adrien inside by the arm. Now sprawled out on the floor, Dough Boy hurriedly made a sweep to see if there were any more baked casualties, scrambling up on all fours and crawling through the dimly-lit entryway. Too slowly, he realized how ridiculous he must look and hurried to his feet, fixing his glasses back on his face. Blue Eye was standing at the door still, but facing away from him. Adrien could finally make sure his assailant was the person he thought – hoped? – it was…and when he really looked at her, he felt all at once like he was in between passing out and, to put it frankly, barfing.
It was definitely her.
She was up on her tiptoes in bare feet, a thin silver anklet around one foot and a blue ring around one toe, and still barely tall enough to see through the peephole in her door. A loose black skirt made out of some type of stretchy t-shirt fabric hung whimsically on her hips, something simple that fit her quite nicely. An oversized t-shirt – a Jagged Stone concert tee from a few years prior, Adrien had one just like it – hung loose on her shoulders but was cinched at the bottom, the fabric pulled together to knot in a cute bow. Even from behind (or, well, maybe especially from behind, maybe, if Adrien had really "checked her out", which he definitely did not do, because that would be extremely unprofessional and ungentlemanly), she was still as small and pretty as he remembered. She switched from one eye to the other to stare through the tiny window to the outside, tippy-toes dancing to keep her balanced. The simple action struck Adrien hard enough he physically slapped his chest over his heart in an effort to keep it in there.
Sure, he had magazine cut-outs of her.
Maybe of every modeling gig she had ever done.
And maybe saved every teasing and friendly snapshot of the two of them from the brief time they were in school together.
But….
Marinette really was stunning.
She had grown out her hair, the long black strands ending in dreadlocks, curls, braids, or beads, and somehow working for her. Her bangs were wisped back into a French braid, drawing in some of the free tresses and wrapping around her left ear to show off her small undercut patch there, one Adrien knew used to have the Jagged Stone diamond shape, but seemed to have grown out since then. Those big blue eyes were barely make-upped – so different from her shoots – with just a touch of liner and mascara, and her lips, oh those lips…. The way they moved…and that fulness, and –
Oh crap! They're moving!
PAY ATTENTION, DUMMY!
"…about paparazzi!" Marinette hissed at him. She took one glance back at the door, then took a step toward Adrien, one hand grabbing onto her other arm and tapping furiously. Words Adrien couldn't hear tumbled out of her mouth, and he watched Marinette close her eyes and take a deep breath. Then, as if nothing happened between her last sentence and this moment, her hands snapped to her hips the same instant her eyes snapped to his. "What were you thinking?" Adrien almost held up his basket as a shield against any more conversational interrogation.
"I…wasn't?" he offered.
Honesty is always the best policy. Especially with an angry woman.
Marinette scoffed. She opened her mouth, and Adrien mentally prepared himself for a tongue-lashing…but she shut her mouth again and just stared at him instead. The head tilt that followed made Adrien's knees weak, and for the 142nd time since he agreed to this job, he reminded himself firmly that his thoughts needed to stay professional.
(But, DANG if she didn't look adorable.)
"You look familiar…" Marinette was up on her tiptoes again to get a better look at his face. Adrien flushed in response, the sheer proximity of her enough to blank out his mind again. She grabbed her arm again and muttered something; it looked like she might be counting. Whatever she was saying matched up with the rhythm she patted on her arm. Adrien narrowed his eyes at the gesture, but was caught off guard when her eyes flicked to his for just a moment.
And now she was circling him with those cat-like eyes.
And now she was pinching in the side of his shirt as if measuring the extra fabric there, and though Adrien already had figured out how not prepared for close quarters he was, he now found that physical interaction of any sort with Marinette put his brain into a near-catatonic state. His shoulders hunched when he raised his hands and basket away from the hem of the shirt Marinette was measuring, but it wasn't to be helpful to her; the motion was a pure reflex, as if his subconscious knew that, while this was a bad situation, any skin-to-skin contact – accidental or otherwise – would result in death. Or something like that.
"If you wear a shirt size smaller," Marinette said, seemingly to the shirt itself instead of Adrien, "it would fit your torso better…but being so tall, you should find a store with a tall size. A lot of them have those sizes online, even if it's not in the physical location. Now the pants…"
No, not the pants.
Not.
The.
Pants.
Normal bodily functions – like breathing – where becoming difficult, just with Marinette being who she is and touching him. Now, with little more than a verbal warning, Adrien felt rather than saw her small hands grab a hold of the fabric so close to his, uh, back pants pockets and then use the same "measuring" or whatever technique she had used on his shirt from that spot all the way down the side of his leg.
He was almost positive he could hear the slight fizzle as his brain short-circuited.
At least, because of this brain malfunction, he didn't jump or flail like he normally word have.
"You have nice assets here," Marinette was muttering on to him.
Did she just…?
Did she just…!?
"…But this cut is wrong for your height." Marinette took a small step back and looked up into the space above Adrien and down to his feet before looking him over again. "How tall are you?"
Guuhhh….Marin – WAIT. DIRECT QUESTION! ANSWER, ANSWER, ANSWER - !
"Uhh…6'1"?"
"Holey cheeseballs…" Again, Marinette held onto her arm and tapped on it, her lips moving in tandem. But before Adrien had a second to study the odd habit further, she circled him again. Only this time, when she came back to his front and pulled on his shirt, she stretched the fabric tight against his skin and started touching his abs.
Adrien died a little at the approving hum she gave him.
"Huh," she said plainly, a tone of surprise evident. "Not bad. Were you a model in a former life?" She smiled a little to herself, as if she had just made a joke.
It was something said in jest, surely.
…Right?
"Uh, excuse me," her voice sounded from farther away, and when Adrien shook himself out of his current daze, he realized she had started to move through the house. "I can give you tips to actually dress properly, but if I have to think for you too, you're fired."
"Th-That – " Adrien choked out, then cleared his throat, dropping his still-propped-up arms in the process. "That won't be necessary, Mlle."
"Hm." Marinette looked like she would say something more, but remained silent. She turned and started down the dark hallway again, skirt and long hair flowing in tandem. "Follow me, then, and I'll explain what I need you to do."
Adrien's steps were slow to respond, his mind sobering with every step. Marinette had grabbed onto her arm again, and started tapping her finger on the skin by her elbow once more. The action spoke louder to Adrien than anything Marinette had said or done so far. The girl Adrien had known in school had changed more than even he – or Alya – had anticipated. A sigh escaped from the breath he had been holding. While he watched Marinette move deftly through the hallways – and so silently Adrien's footsteps seemed abnormally loud – he could see the glimpse of the girl from before, the one who had come to rescue him on more than one occasion, even though she never realized who he really was to her. At this thought, a scene from the past came to mind, unbidden, as he watched her swaying steps ahead of him.
Adrien, the baker boy, as he was wont to do, leapt onto the small table on his rooftop terrace, facing Chat Noire as she lounged cross-legged in his chair. In one hand he brandished his broom like a sword, and in his other hand he held his watering can shield.
"And then the brave knight – that's me, Kitten, remember that – would slay the dragon and rescue the princess. 'Oh! Sir Knight!'" he'd say in a falsetto voice that always made Chat Noire burst out laughing, usually spilling milk through her nose. "'Just Adrien, my dear'," – he'd follow in as deep a voice as he could make – "'Oooohhh AAaaddrrieeeennn…' she'd say, as I sweep her off her feet and – "
"Promptly drop her right on her face, as per usual! The end!" Chat would laugh and laugh at this joke, holding her stomach as she did so.
"I was going to say, 'as we rode off into the sunset,'" Adrien responded in an unimpressed tone, dropping his arms to his sides. "But I suppose I'd have to admit that your way is more accurate." He'd laugh and roll his eyes, and just as he picked up another bun, Chat would snatch it from him, blinking her slitted eyes and winking.
