This one gets dark! Here we have an angsty fic taking place early in the night after the events of the episode, starting outside Théo's workshop.
Features Chat Noir, Ladybug and Théo Barbot.
Trigger Warning: Implied/mentioned grooming, stalking. Implied paedophilia, contains no sexual content.
Chat Noir soared high above the glistening streets of the Paris night as he split his weapon in two, extending them down to catch the ground and take a couple stilted steps in the sky to clear the rest of the distance to the building he’d meant to land on.
He longed for the day when he had enough experience to not make these miscalculations, both in his traversal ability and in his dumb, stupid decision-making. Copycat’s akumatization was his fault, he knew. But he also knew that his heart had been in the right place, even if Ladybug didn’t understand that.
His feet hit the rooftop overlooking the studio where he’d been captured earlier that day, and he put his baton back up to his ear.
“Sorry, m’lady, made a little misstep. You were sayi—”
“I’ll say!” she seethed over the line, and Chat Noir grit his teeth, both at her words and at the realisation that his quarry didn’t seem to be home. “You told him we were together! That we were a thing, whatever that means!”
“You weren’t there, bug.” He crouched down to make himself small; invisible in the darkness. “Guy looks like he’s twenty-something and he was just… fawning all over you. It grossed me out.”
“W-well he can’t know how old I am. That not his f—”
“Buggaboo, if there is one, single thing that is clear about our identities, it’s that we’re both underage. You can’t be any older than… what, fifteen? Fourteen?” There was silence over the line. “Thirteen?”
“I’m not— I can’t tell you that. You’re in the ballpark, okay?”
“Then you get my point. Look, I know now that I shouldn’t have lied, but the alternative was that I clawed his face off — metaphorically speaking — on camera. In front of a crowd, and all of Paris, right next to the mayor. I was just trying to steer him away from you.”
“The alternative was that you did nothing, Chat.” He sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his offhand. “What was he gonna do? Spam-call my yoyo? And it’s not your job to protect me!”
“I’m your partner, bug. If I have one job—”
“If today proves anything, it’s that I don’t need your protection! And I don’t want your protection, for that matter!”
“Look, I agree with you, Ladybug. I do,” he said, trying his best to sound as passive as possible. “But the day I stop trying is the day I need to hang up the tail. I just couldn’t look away from that, okay? It’s not how I’m programmed.
“Men like that… they look at kids like us and decide that they have to have us. And they don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and they don’t stop. You wave them off and smile them away and suddenly th-they’re turning up at your house, at your work a-and recording you when you least expect it, then the police get involved and your father is lawyering up and suddenly you’re just entrenched in a world of—”
“Chat… what the heck are you talking about?” He bit his lip.
He really should keep all that to himself.
“Just trust me, okay? You gotta take a hard line with guys like that, or they’ll never leave you alone. We might be superheroes, but we’re still kids, you know? We aren’t invincible.”
“Look, whatever… just never antagonise a civilian again, okay? Please?”
He crossed his fingers behind his back.
“Sure, bug. Whatever you say.”
“Okay, good. Goodnight, Chat Noir.”
“Goodnight, m’la—” The line cut off. “ —dybug… ah.” He sighed. “So that went well.”
He briefly considered whether or not he should go on with the harebrained scheme he’d concocted. Was this really for the best, or was he just angry over his own unresolved issues?
He steeled himself.
If there was a time for this, it was now. If he left it till tomorrow, Hawkmoth would have had enough time to recharge, and then monsieur Barbot would be akumatized all over again.
Though… he did say that he’d leave it alone. What was it Ladybug had said, earlier? ‘Liars are losers. Chat Noir may annoy me to pieces, but he’s never lied to me.’
The sound of hurried footsteps — running — dragged his mind away for a moment and he looked back down at the street below to watch the plagiaristic Parisian he’d fought hours before enter into his workshop, carrying in his arms rolls of paper, stationary and other equipment. He looked excited. Inspired.
Chat Noir’s lips curled into a scowl.
“Welp… I guess I’m a loser, then.” There was a first time for everything, after all. Though, if Ladybug never found out, her confidence in him wouldn’t be shaken, would it?
But he’d know.
He reconsidered again, briefly. Whenever she claimed to trust him, have faith in him, he’d know it was misplaced. But if he let this go and Théo did find a way to get to her — to harass her with his misplaced affections, in even the tiniest capacity — and he didn’t make an attempt to prevent that?
To prevent even an inkling of what he went through; the price of his fame? For existing in the limelight as Adrien Agreste?
Any thoughts of guilt were washed off of him by a wave of newfound resolve. He clicked a button on his baton and placed it back on his belt.
He leapt off his perch with all the strength he could muster and flew over the road, slipping through the still-open skylight in his descent. He hit the ground with a mighty crash, the concrete below cracking under his knee, and the artist yelped in surprise, turning towards the noise and finding…
… nothing.
“H-hello?” Théo squeaked. “Hello?! Who’s there?!”
Nothing. Nobody.
He was alone.
Perhaps something had fallen? Yes, that must have been it. He was safe, and alone, and—
“Whatcha workin’ on?” The artist screamed out at the voice that chirped up from right next to his ear, and he twisted, terrified, in its direction, coming face to face with none other than…
His alarm faded. His horror turned to anger.
… that jealous little brat.
“You? What the heck do you want?” he said, glaring down at the boy. Chat Noir tucked his hands behind his back as he stepped past the man, making a show of looking around the shop.
“Théo, buddy, what’s with the venom? I thought we were cool?”
“I could call the police. This is breaking and entering!”
“Well, if you wanna get technical about it, I didn’t break in, I just… fell through your skylight. Haphazardly. You really should close it, Barbot. You’re bound to let in all kinds of birds, bats… mangy alley cats. Ooh, that rhymed.” He turned to the man. “Besides, who’s going to take Théo Barbot, the ‘Copycat’s’ accusation against moi seriously?”
The artist gritted his teeth.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, I’m here doing my friend a solid. See, Ladybug is a girl with a lot on her plate. She doesn’t need creeps like you bothering her.”
“Creep?! No, you have it all wrong, Chat Noir. I love her! I’m in love with her. And I’ll prove it!” Chat approached the man and though his posture and expression didn’t change, something shifted behind his eyes, and it unnerved him.
“Take it from someone with his fair share of admirers,” he started, and then, his tone shifted into something angry, plainly threatening, “she’s a kid. You’re like twenty-five or something. Whatever you think you feel, it isn’t love, and nothing good will come of it.”
“I-I’m eighteen! Not twenty-whatever! However o-old she is, we’re close enough in age that I’m willing to wait—” Chat Noir lunged forward and grabbed at the man’s jacket, and the artist yelled out, terrified, as he was flipped over and sent tumbling to the ground.
“Oh, good,” Chat growled. “That’s fine, then!”
The man scrambled back, eyes wide in fear as Chat Noir crawled towards him, animal-like, his face marred by fury. His eyes, wild.
“S-stop! You— you’re just jealous of us! Of what we could have!”
“Oh, sure, soulpatch. Nothing like a groomer with a man-bun to get the jealousy boiling up inside. Hawkmoth gave you power and the first thing you thought to do with it was chain down a child in your workshop!” He stood over the man and grabbed him by the jacket once more, leaning down to him with his claws extended, the workshop lights making the metal glisten above his foe. “Tell me, did you craft that trap for me, or did you have it just lying around, ready for use?”
“I-I didn’t, I mean, I… it—it’s not, it wasn’t—” Chat Noir curled the claw into a fist and brought it down on the floor beside the man’s head, and he screamed out in horror as the concrete cracked as if struck by a sledgehammer. “Please, please wait! I’m sorry! I-I—”
“I don’t care!” Chat Noir seethed. “You will leave her alone. You won’t talk to her. You won’t talk about her. You won’t make anything in her image. Or it’ll be more than this floor that I crack in two. Do you understand?”
“B-but—”
“I WILL LEVEL THIS BUILDING!” Chat Noir raged. “I will tear it down and turn everything it contains to dust! I will find everything that you’ve ever so much as had a hand in making, and I will reduce them down to their component molecules and when I’m done, I will find you, and take the time to consider how badly I want to know what a cataclysm does to a man!”
“I-I…!” The artist tried to speak, but he was petrified. Tears brimmed his eyes.
“And when I’m done with you, I will release this recording,” Chat sneered as he pulled the baton from his belt and pressed a button on the display. “Or snippets of it, anyway.” He hit the playback, and Chat’s own words echoed back at them.
‘She’s a kid. You’re like twenty-five or something. Whatever you think you feel, it isn’t love, and nothing good will come of it.’ Then, he fast-forwarded a moment and it was Théo’s words that played next.
‘— we’re close enough in age that I’m willing to wait —’ He pressed pause.
“Imagine that one going viral over the Ladyblog. Do you understand what’s happening here? I will be watching you very closely, Théo Barbot.” He leant down until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I will destroy everything you have and everything you are, right down to the memory of you, if you so much as utter her name. This is your one and only warning, pervert. Do not make me come after you.”
He released the man and took a step back, peering around the room. At the drawings, photos, half-finished statuettes, so many of them of the girl he loved; the girl who wouldn’t see him. Who wouldn’t see what he’d do for her.
Théo only looked up at him, still paralysed by fear.
“All of this will be gone by tomorrow, Théo. Anything with her face, her name, polka-dots, I don’t care. Anything that’s even a passing reference to her. If I check in and see that you haven’t done as I have told…”
“I get it…” he whimpered. “I understand. I won’t give her any trouble, I promise.”
“Good,” Chat Noir uttered sharply. “Because if you think she hates liars, well, you haven’t seen nothing yet. Get it done.” He looked up at the skylight above. “And consider leaving town. Because all it will take is one slip-up.”
He extended his staff and launched up into the sky.
And he was gone.
Only then, once alone, did Théo Barbot allow himself to cry.
This one is a fluff-piece that takes place almost an hour after the end credits of the episode, by the fountain in the park where Adrien's photoshoot is happening.
Features Marinette, Vincent, Adrien, Manon and Alya!
Adrienette-coded!
“So good news!” Marinette put her phone back in her purse as she approached the group. “Nadja said that you are a-okay to use those photos with Manon. She’s going to email you her written permission soon.”
“Ay-hey! Fantastico!” The photographer pumped his fist in the air while continuing to rapidly shift around, taking photos of Adrien and his newfound shutter-buddy with swift succession.
“I’m bored…” Manon complained. “We’ve been doing this for hours now!”
“No-no-no,” the photographer chided. “It’s only been forty-five minutes. You have a lot more to give, little girl! I can feel it! Now look into the camera! Your maman just brought out a GIANT cuppa-cake, and it is all for you!”
Manon lit up like the Eiffel Tower and the camera was clicking away once again.
“She did?!” The little girl looked around. “Where is she?!”
“She is at home with your cake,” the photographer said dismissively. “You smile into the camera for another two… three hundred shots and it is… all… yours…” He was on the ground now, splayed out on his back and stretched into a downright alien posture to take the ‘perfect shot’.
“Great…” Marinette sighed as she began walking back to Alya, who had sat herself down by a tree. “Now I’ll have to buy her a cake as well.”
“I’m still bored…” Manon said through gritted teeth, her little arms crossed over. “I wanna take a photo with Marinette!”
Marinette’s head whipped back around to the photoshoot so quickly that she almost could have broken the sound barrier with the power of her neck alone.
“Oh no, you two are perfect the way you are!” The photographer grinned with barely restrained agitation. “We don’t need any third parties. Now-a please, little girl, give me a biiiiiig smile…!” He crouched down in preparation with a forced, wide grin that slowly began to crawl down into a frustrated scowl when Manon stared down the camera lens with untamed fury.
The man’s eyes raised above the camera, his mouth opening to say something, but Adrien held up a finger, silently prompting him to stop. Adrien knelt down behind the little girl.
“Manon, look, I get it. These photoshoots seem fun at first until you’re standing around for hours on end. But I have a little trick to help lift my spirits; do you want to know what it is?”
“No. I. Want. Marinette.”
“It’s a little trade secret, Manon. I can tell you, but if I do, you need to promise not to tell anyone. Do you think you can do that for me?” She looked back at him for a moment before she resumed staring down the camera.
“FINE.”
“It’s a three-step process for lifting your spirits and I’ve found it to be quite effective,” he started, and Marinette watched on curiously. There was something familiar about the mischievous lilt his voice had taken up, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on just why it digged at her brain. It was like her memory was picking at a thread, but wouldn’t commit to pulling at it completely. “Step one…” He slowly snaked his hands towards the girl’s sides. “Tickles.” He went in for the kill and Manon’s eyes blew wide before scrunching up as she howled out with laughter, twisting and turning to escape the assault.
The photographer ducked back down to his camera and returned to work, muttering in joyous Italian as he shifted about to get every angle he could.
“S-stop!” She giggled. “Sto-o-ooop! Aaagggghhh!” She waved her arms around, but couldn’t quite return fire against the model.
“Step two: spins!” He grabbed her by the sides and lifted her up as he began spinning on the spot, and Manon flailed about with unrestrained glee, her legs kicking at the air as if she was pedalling some invisible flying machine.
“WeeEEEeeeEEEeeee!” she squealed, her voice rising and falling as she spun.
“You’re flying, Manon!’ Marinette called out, and the girl burst into a fit of giggles as she went around.
“I’m flying! Yaaaa-hahahaha!!!”
Eventually, he slowed the spin, but went around a few more times so that the photographer could get in some clearer shots.
“Step three: stomps!” He hoisted her up onto his shoulders and began shuffling around, jumping and stomping and shifting short and wide distances; anything to jostle her about and make her laugh, and the carefree joy on his face was plain to see; his expression more genuine — more real — than anything Gabriel could force out of him.
“Yes, yes!” The photographer jumped around with them as he kept taking shots. Marinette had no idea how he could be getting any usable material like this, but he seemed to be happy. “Perfetto! He is the jumpy-castle, little girl! The merry-go-round! If he keeps going you’ll launch into space! Oh no!”
She giggled and squealed and screamed in her own amusement, and Adrien, too, was full of smiles and laughs, and he’d never looked so pretty in Marinette’s eyes. She felt like she had a backstage pass; not into the shoot, but into the soul of Adrien Agreste.
Was this who he was, when he didn’t concern himself with meeting other people’s expectations? When he wasn’t trying to appeal for the world’s attention, or satisfy his father’s rigorous standards? When he was just being himself, unapologetically?
He was goofy, and fun, and sweet, the latter of which was normal for him; ever-inescapably caring and kind. But still, this was so unlike his usual prince charming routine, and yet… it was so fitting for him as well. He was Adrien Agreste: the human being, as opposed to the Gabriel-brand caricature of himself that most of the rest of Paris knew.
By the time any of these photos hit a sheet of paper, they’d be edited into something perfect and picturesque; the mess and dirt and joy stripped away for something unreal, in an attempt to make him seem more than human; more than a person. Or, perhaps, less than a person. A pretty, porcelain doll, that any advertising campaign or agenda could be painted on top of.
She could see it now: Adrien holding Manon on high with a joyous expression, his hair edited back into place and the background saturated into something surreal, right below a banner that said some crap like ‘live life to the fullest; live Gabriel’ or some-such.
The reality of the moment was much more precious. And it was just for them; just for her.
The photographer said something and Adrien put Manon down. Marinette blinked out of her fixated stupor as the boy approached the photographer, whispering to him conspiratorially as his eyes shifted over to her. Just the fleeting eye contact between them sent butterflies rushing through her stomach.
The photographer turned to look at Marinette and Alya, before turning back to the boy, who looked up at him hopefully. The man relented, patting the model on the shoulder before turning back to the girls.
“You two! Yoo-hoo?!” Alya looked up from her phone and the man waved them over. “Group photo! Free of charge!” He looked over to Adrien. “This time,” he said with a smirk, and Adrien shook his head with a smile as he ushered the girls towards him.
‘A photo?’ Marinette thought. ‘With… with Adrien?!’
She slowly ambled towards him, swaying as if in a dream-state until Alya grabbed her arm as she passed and pulled her along.
“Heck yeah!” the brunette cheered, before leaning into her friend. “Look alive, girl.” They strode up to the blond, who looked to the photographer for directions.
“Okay, okay, up against the fountain. Adrien, you’re in the middle… uh, little girl, if you could detach yourself from Pigtail’s leg for just a moment…” Marinette hadn’t even realised that she was there. “... that would be good…”
“Manon… i-it’s only for a m-m-moment… p-please?” Marinette tried, and thankfully, the girl did as she was told for once.
“Bene, bene…” The photographer took a couple steps back and worked at his camera. “Little one, you stand in front of Adrien, Glasses, you stand to his right… Pigtails, to his left… oookay…” He looked up from the camera for a moment. “Move in a little closer… a liiiitttle closer…” He ducked back down behind the lens. “Not that close! You, Pigtails! Are you friends or are you lovers?!” Marinette squeaked and Adrien gawked, but before she could move, the camera clicked, and Alya burst out into a laugh that she wasn’t prepared to contain.
“V-Vincent!” Adrien spluttered, red in the face, and the man responded only with the most shit-eating of grins. Marinette, on her part, was frozen in place and an almost impossible deep red. If her transformation ever failed to give her a mask, all she’d have to do is remember this moment, and her face would be disguised the same shade as her suit.
“Okay, everyone, seriously, gather in and smile! I’m off the clock now! You get one more.” They did as they were told. “Adrien, hands on the little one’s shoulders. Girls… sling an arm around him. Come on, come on, you have a pretty boy right there for you!” Adrien drew a twitchy smile. Manon looked up at them.
“What’s a ‘lover’?” she asked, all innocence, but Marinette was too caught up in the moment to even process what she’d said, and both Adrien and Alya took the need to smile as an excuse to ignore the question.
“Vincent…” Adrien seethed through his teeth, his face turning what Marinette could only describe as being a pretty shade; a rose blush that she could only hope to see on him a billion more times before the end. Seeing him at least half as embarrassed as she was made her feel a little less alone in her humiliation, and that feeling steeled her to put an arm around him and lean into his space, even as she desperately fought off the nerves that commanded her to shake and squirm and retreat back into the depths of her bedroom. Alya threw an arm around him much more casually.
“Smiles!” Vincent commanded, and they each tried their best; Marinette offering something cute and dorky, Adrien, calming into something shy but composed, Manon, something silly and Alya, something downright cheeky.
The camera snapped, and both Marinette and Adrien exhaled.
“Alright…” Alya drawled. “Cool it, lovebirds.”
The lovebirds in question turned to her, mortification written all over their faces, and once again, the camera clicked.
This one is a fluff/angst fic with a little humour that takes place maybe an hour after the umbrella scene at the end of the episode.
Features Plagg and Adrien!
“Come onnn…” Plagg drawled. The kwami hovered over to the large windows of the bedroom for what might have been the one-hundredth time that afternoon. Just like when he’d last checked, rain was still hitting the glass in gentle layers, and the city — or more importantly, Plagg’s view of it, which seemed to be his only entertainment in this house — was still shrouded over by cloud cover. With nothing of interest to see, he once again returned to the boy. “What’s taking so long?”
Plagg peered over Adrien’s shoulder at the three monitors before him. To the left was a display of the newly-minted Ladyblog. To the right, a collection of news reels. And in the centre, an empty browser, left open for research purposes. So far, it had remained untouched.
“Plagg, buddy, if we’re going to be roomies, then me needing to do homework is just a reality you’ll need to get used to.” Adrien looked sidelong at his kwami. “I’m only part way through maths. I still need to do my English homework, my Chinese homework, my history homework, my fashion theory, my science and geography homework AND I need to round out my old geography project, so that I can put aside the last of the homeschool-stuff that’s being replaced by the school-school stuff.”
Indeed, the desk before him was covered with papers, text books and booklets, all surrounding the keyboard that had been pushed to one side.
“But you’ve been doing it for hours now!”
“Minutes, Plagg.” He dropped his pen just in time to catch his forehead as it fell into his hands. “I’ve been going for minutes. Not even twenty. Aren’t you, like, an immortal spirit or something? Shouldn’t a few hours of homework go by in the blink of an eye for you?”
“But you’re gonna be going all night!” Plagg groaned, ignoring his holder’s question. He floated down to sit square in the centre of the boy’s math homework. “It’s unbearable!”
“I won’t, Plagg. Really. I did a skim through; my homeschooling has put me well ahead of most of this. I don’t need to study it, I can just… take it like a test. I mean, I was speaking fluent English almost as early as I was speaking fluent French.” His head rose so as to make eye contact with Plagg. “I’m British on my Mum’s side. It’s not my first language, but it’s, like… my second-first language. Now the East Asian languages? That’s where I struggle… well, a little. Japanese is a new one and—”
“Okay, okay… I’m sorry I distracted you.” Plagg stepped off the page and walked across the desk, just to plant his butt down on the middle monitor’s stand with dramatic effect. “Just… get back to it.”
“Thank you.”
The sounds of pen on paper resumed uninterrupted…
…
… for about fifteen seconds.
“So where is your Mum, anyway?” Once again, the pen clattered down onto the page. Adrien pinched the bridge of his nose. “What? I’ve met your— well, I’ve seen your Dad, and I can already tell that he is not the one you take after, so when do I get to meet your—”
“Well, Plagg,” he seethed, shooting his kwami a withering look, “I’ve taken this long to mention her, her face is plastered over every surface of the house and everyone in the house is miserable. So take a guess!” Plagg raised a brow — the unadorned ridgeline of one, anyway — looking somewhat baffled by the boy’s upset.
“... So not holidaying in Bermuda, then?”
“Wha— I— NO! No, she’s not.” His face fell back into his hands. “She… she’s gone, Plagg. I mean, gone-gone; I’m pretty sure, anyway. Dad… he won’t say for sure, but… look, no. She’s… dead, okay? You won’t be getting to meet her.”
“‘Kay, kid. I’m sorry to hear that.” The kwami fell silent again. Adrien picked up his pen and stared down at the page.
“Yeah, I’m sorry too. I think you would have liked her.”
“Can I ask…?”
“I guess,” Adrien said with a sigh as he rubbed at his eye, suddenly feeling much more weary than he had some minutes ago. “The door’s open, now.”
“What happened?”
“She was sick — really, really sick — for a long time. Then, one day, when I went to visit her… her deathbed, she was gone. Just… bed empty, and Dad clamped up. He refuses to s-say that she’s… you know, gone-gone, but… I’m never going to see her again; that much is clear. Dad… Father, he… changed, after that. I mean, he changed when Mum’s illness got really bad, but any shred of who he was just… left him. That’s how I know. I wish I had more than that, but I really don’t.”
“I’m sorry. How long has it been?”
“Half a year? Maybe a little longer… long enough that I’m holding it together, but not so long that it’s stopped… totally sucking whenever I think about her. Which happens whenever I’m left alone with my thoughts.”
“Then it’s a good thing that I’m here to bother you now. Right, Chat Noir?”
“Hmph…” Adrien shook his head, the ghost of a smile threatening to form in the corners of his mouth. He looked down at the kwami. “Right.”
“That’s the spirit! Now, you knuckle down and get this stupid work done so that you can start explaining what these weird, light plates on your desk do. And what your pocket-brick does. What this ‘television’ is. And I want to know what an ‘internet’ is. I have so many questions that need answering…” the kwami prattled on. Adrien watched the little guy babble, silently grateful for being so much less alone than he was when he woke up this morning. “... Like, why is football played on a table, now? What’s up with that? Does your history homework cover the last two-hundred-ish yea-aaaah what are you doooo…iiing…?” The kwami bristled at the finger that had taken to scratching under his chin.
“You’re a cat, no?”
“I… sort of… maybe…”
“Does kitty like a little scritchy scritchy?”
“I resen-en-ent that… stopppiiiiittttt…” The hand dropped away.
“Fine. Sorry for—”
“Why’d you stop?!” Plagg cried, and Adrien couldn’t help but grin at that. “What?!”
“Oh my God, you’re just… you’re just a cat, aren’t you?” He resumed his petting and, finding that his kwami was now finally, mercifully occupied, he picked up his pen and got back to work. “You’re a frustrating piece of work, Plagg…
Project from architecture school where my professor told me to “make a transformer” when the assignment was to make a temporary building so I compromised and made a giant bug car tent
This one is a little angst/fluff fic set a few days after the episode.
Features Xavier Ramier (Mr. Pigeon) and Ladybug. Mentioned Chat Noir!
‘Mister Pigeon.’
There was a time that Xavier Ramier would have loved that moniker.
Adored it, even.
Yes, he was ‘Mister Pigeon’, the weirdo. ‘Mister Pigeon’, the kook. The crazy. The funny bird man who was oft to be spotted running from disgruntled park rangers, all for the lowliest crime of showing his avian friends the love, kindness and respect that they deserved; that every living thing, great and small, deserves.
If he’d earned it any other way, he’d have carried it as a badge of honor, even if he knew that it was being put on him as a term of derision; disrespect. Yes, he’d love to be ‘Mister Pigeon’.
Just… not like this.
“Hey Mista Pigeon!” The voice of a young boy hollered across the street, and Xaviar sunk in on himself a little as he stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket. “Dude, look, it’s Mista Pigeon!”
“Hey, pigeon-man!” another boy called.
“Shouldn’t you be building a nest somewhere?!” They were getting closer. Xavier picked up the pace a little.
Ever since that day, the ridicule had been unrelenting. Oh, sure, being akumatized made you just as much of a victim as anyone else in these attacks… but only if you were likeable, or deemed respectable, or at the very least, found worthy of pity.
Xavier Ramier was rarely considered any of these things. He was just the weird bird man. That his supervillain persona was also considered the most ridiculous to date didn't help matters any; he’d even made the Bubbler look good.
“Hey Mista Pigeon! Why you waddling away?!”
“Pigeons don't waddle, bro…”
“Shut up! Hey, where're you goin’?!”
“J-just leave me alone!” Xavier cried, waving a dismissive hand in the general direction of the approaching boys. “I'm b-busy! Very busy!”
“But why?! We just wanna join you!”
“We do?”
“Yeah! We're just like you!” Xavier turned around, eyeing the approaching duo incredulously. They were both young, certainly no older than seven or eight. One of them had in his hand a chocolate ice cream on a stick, which was drawn back past his head. “We just wanna feed the birds!”
He laughed as he chucked his sweet treat at the rattled man, who stumbled back in an attempt to avoid the assault on his laundry.
But as it turned out, he needn't have bothered, as before it was able to hit him, a blinding bolt of red and black intercepted it, smashing it out of the air and onto the road.
And there she was, dropping out of the sky and landing between the children and their quarry like a guardian angle:
Ladybug.
The one and only.
The boys lost their minds with glee.
“Ladybug!” they yelled, overjoyed, as they ran up to the heroine. “Ladybug! Ladybug!” One of them fumbled around in their pocket, producing from it an ice cream wrapper and a pen. “C-can I have an autograph?! Please?!”
She eyed down the boys, reeling in her yo-yo with a deft flick of the wrist, before standing up straight and extending a hand to them.
He held his wrapper and pencil out to her…
… only to gasp, wide-eyed, as she picked only the former from his hands, scrunching it into a ball and depositing the litter into her yo-yos compartment.
She stared down at them, her face the very image of stern, as she put her hands on her hips.
“Naughty boys don't get autographs,” she chided.
“Wh-wha…?”
“Naughty boys, who go around harassing people in the streets, don't get autographs. Do your parents know that you're out here?”
“Uh… umn…” The boys suddenly found the ground at their feet very interesting.
“How would you feel if someone threw ice cream at you, hm?”
“W-we weren't—”
“I’m very disappointed in both of you,” she uttered, her voice steeped in judgement, and the two children shrunk in on themselves. Nobody wants to disappoint Ladybug; her young fans least of all.
“B-but—” One of them tried.
“Hm?” she cut him off.
“We were just—”
“Huh?” she interrupted.
“I didn't—”
“No, see, I'm waiting for an apology, young man.” She crossed her arms.
“... Sorry…” they mumbled out meekly.
“What was that?”
“I-I'm sorry, Ladybug,” they said, a little louder.
“Good, now say it to Mr. Ramier. And look him in the eye.”
The boys fought to pull their eyes from the ground to look up at the disgruntled man.
“Sorry, Mr. Ramier,” they chorused in a hollow way.
Xavier didn’t respond; made no effort to accept it, let alone offer forgiveness. He did stand a little straighter, however.
“I better not catch you being rude to people again,” Ladybug said. “Nobody likes a bully. Now…” She waved them off. “Go home and think about what you've done.”
The lads didn't argue, taking a few tentative steps back before scattering off in different directions.
“Look before you cross the road!” she called. “AND STAY IN SCHOOL!!!”
Xavier gawked at the young girl, who stood, his back to her, as she watched the boys run off.
No sooner than they'd left her view, she spun around on her heel, any signs of anger stripped from her features, replaced only with concern.
“Are you okay, Mr. Ramier?” she asked, softly.
“Oh, ah, yes. Yes, quite. Th-thank you, Ladybug. You, uh…” He tried on a cheerier tone. “You’ve saved me, once again! I’ll just be on my way!” He began to turn. “I’m sure you’ve got more important matters to attend to than—”
“I’m sorry I never checked in with you,” she hurried to interrupt. “After the attack.” He stopped. “I… was so caught up with my own stuff, I never even thought to… make sure you were okay.” He turned back to the girl, who was peering down at the ground rather sheepishly, not unlike the boys had been. “So… I’m sorry about that.”
“No no, that-that’s perfectly fine. And besides, Chat Noir already did his little, uh… ‘supervillain welfare check’, earlier. Talked to me; even brought a treat for Edgar and his friends, though— oh!” he looked about warily, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “He told me not to tell anyone that.” Ladybug smiled.
“My lips are sealed,” she said, warmly.
“Gave Morticia quite the scare, though!” he laughed. “Flew onto his arm to say thanks, and he sneezed right on her! Did you know that he’s allergic to feathers? I couldn’t imagine…”
“Oh, trust me, I’m perfectly aware.”
“Apparently his allergy made him more of a liability than an asset during my… tenure as a supervillain,” he said, casually. Her smile faded.
“Well, it was… inconvenient, but I’d never call him a liability. He’s my partner; I couldn’t do this without him.” Xavier nodded, his expression warming.
“How fortuitous that you should have him, then!” he said, clasping his hands together. “He seems to think you’re better off without him.” Her frown dipped down into something akin to horror.
“He said that?”
“Well, not in so many words, but— wait…” he crossed his arms, his eyes rolling up to the sky as he slipped into a moment of deep thought. “Actually, he said it in exactly that many words. Hrm… we also had a surprisingly enlightened conversation on the importance of keeping cats indoors… discussed how I might be able to justify Edgar as a service animal— Oh! And did you know that pigeon feathers as accessories are coming in vogue? Why, he told me all about this hat—”
“Hold on, hold on. Back it up, Mr. Ramier,” she approached a little. “What did Chat say about himself? In relation to me and/or our partnership?”
“Hm? Oh, uh, well, something along the lines of… well…” He fidgeted. “Maybe I shouldn’t say. Our conversation… he didn’t say it was in confidence, but—”
“I’m his partner. And his friend. If things aren’t alright with him, I should know. For Paris’ safety.”
“Then why not talk to him?” he asked, to which Ladybug had no answer. “Maybe you could call him? I think he’d like that. He seems pretty… lonely, to me. He told me himself that he’s jealous of all the friends I have.”
“... Meaning the pigeons?”
“But of course!” He grinned. “He told me how nice it was that I looked out for them! But the way he said it…” He softened. “I can’t help but wonder who’s looking out for him…”
“I am,” she murmured as she pulled her yo-yo from her belt, opening it up and pressing some buttons on the display. “Always…” She looked up at him from her yo-yo. “Are you okay, now, Mr. Ramier? I think I need to go and take your advice.” He smiled.
“Of course, Ladybug, of course. Give Chat Noir my best. Oh! And keep up the good work! Paris is in good hands.”
With a wave, she darted away from him, slipping into the nearby alley with her yo-yo to her ear.
Project Update: Paper Boats Pt. 2 and M.E.S.S. Ep. 7
I am happy to report that Paper Boats: Under the Weight of the World (sequel to Under the Crying-Tree) is fully written and has just gone through its first round of editing! Won't be long now.
I try to take a bit of time between editing runs to refresh my brain, so the next item in the works is this week's helping of the Miraculous Episodic Shorts Series! Episode 7: Mr. Pigeon. I already have an idea of where I'm going to take this one, so I don't expect the process to be too long.
Anyway, this has been my attempt at justifying this blog a little over my AO3. I'll try and post project updates semi-frequently from here on out, should anyone be interested.
Rewatching Timebreaker for my Miraculous Episodic Shorts Series and I just noticed for the first time that Alya...
Girl, who have two whole shirt pockets right there; you really couldn't have born the brunt of your shirt having a lump on one side in favour of giving the priceless family heirloom entrusted into your care to... the most habitually clumsy person you know?
This one is a fluff-piece that takes place after Marinette leaves her parents' bakery early into the episode.
Features Tom, Sabine and Master Fu!
“À ce soir!” Marinette chimed as she rushed out the door, and before her parents had time to reply, she was already rounding the corner. Tom could only smile as she left, and when his wife’s arms found their way around him, he held her in return. Despite his own anxieties, Sabine always managed to assure him that everything was going to be okay, whether she did it consciously or not.
“I don’t know where she gets it from,” Sabine said, warmly. “Her clumsyness. She certainly doesn’t get it from me.”
“No, she gets it from me,” Tom sighed. “The… the worrying. Nervousness. She’s always afraid that she’s about to fumble, and so she does. It’s a… how do you say it?”
“A self-fulfilling prophecy?”
“Mn… yeah. But she’ll get past it. You know, eventually. I did.” A car horn blared outside.
“Mmhm,” she gave him a light pat on the chest before releasing him and making her way towards the till. “Maybe you could give her some advice, then.” She opened it.
“I dunno, I mean my method was to meet a beautiful Chinese woman with boundless confidence to spare. I don’t see how that could apply to her.”
“Ha! You never know, hon. I wonder about that girl, sometimes. I’ve never once heard her utter a word about a boy; it’s always been Socqueline this and Chloe that.”
Tom chuckled as he made his way to the counter.
“Her best friend and her arch rival; that’s not the same. She’s just not of the age, yet.”
“She’s growing up faster than you think. Soon it’ll be all about boys or girls or both… could you get me some more golds from upstairs? We’re almost out of fifties…”
“Ah, again? I swear, we’re always out of—” The bell at the door chimed, and both Tom and Sabine turned their attention to their customer.
“Welcome!” They said in unison, as an old man on a wooden cane slowly ambled into the store. He wore a red, floral shirt and seemed to be of Chinese descent.
“How are you today, monsieur?” Sabine offered.
“Oh, I’m well, thank you,” the man smiled, wearily. He seemed exhausted, as if his legs would give out on him at any moment. Tom approached the man.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need a place to sit?”
“Hang on, I’ll get a chair…” Sabine said as she rushed out the back.
“Ooh, thank you, young man. The weather… it is so warm out there, today. Beautiful, though…” Sabine returned with a teatowel and a short, flour-encrusted stool, which she placed out of the way of the door. She was quick to wipe it down as Tom helped the man over to it, and he sat down with the baker’s large, supportive hand at his back. “Thank you, thank you…”
“I’ll get him some water…” Sabine said as she darted once more into the back room.
“O-oh, thank you!” he called out. “You both are so kind… just like that… oh… what was her name…?” He leant forward onto his cane. “The young girl with the macarons…”
“Young girl with the macarons?” Tom asked. “Black hair; pigtails?”
“Yes, yes…” the old man muttered as Sabine returned. She knelt down to him, lifting a cool glass to his lips, but the man lifted his cane onto his knees so as to hold the glass himself, sipping at it under his own power. “Very sweet; helped me cross the road. That crossing out there changes so quickly… or perhaps I’m getting slower in my old age.
“But anyway; lovely girl. Dusted me off and even offered me a sample… and I thought, ‘that might be the best macaron I’ve had in a long, long time. I should visit the bakery she came from.’ A-and…” he chuckled. “I am glad that I did, because it is clear that my blood sugar is acting up again, hah-ah…”
“Well, then we should fix that,” Tom said, practically beaming at the news that his daughter was out there doing good. “I’m sure that we can spare you a couple—”
“Spare me? Oh no, young man, I am very much a paying customer, and you have already gone out of your way. Madame, monsieur… I will have one dozen of your finest macarons, please. A variety, perhaps?”
“Of course,” Tom smiled. “I’ll go get those.” He got up and went around behind the displays, taking a bag and filling it one at a time. He discreetly tossed a couple extras in as well.
“This is a nice place you have here, Madame…?”
“Cheng Xia Bing, but I’ve gone by ‘Sabine’ since I made the move to Paris. That is my husband, Tom Dupain. And you’ve already met our daughter, Marinette.”
“Your daughter? I knew I saw a resemblance. I am Wáng Fù. You’ve done a good job with that one. She is kind. Spirited. Those are the most important things you want from a child.”
“Thank you for saying so. Though… adding ‘punctual’ to the list wouldn’t hurt.”
“Sabby!” Tom chided from behind the counter. “The man is praising our beautiful daughter!” He came back around with a paper bag. “Tell me, did she make it to school on time?”
“Ooh… I don’t think so.”
“Ah…”
“Did I mention that she was kind?” Fù asked with a smile, earning a small chuckle from the parents. “Brave, too. That car was coming right for me. If she didn’t pull me across the road, well, you’d have lost a profit of… how much do I owe you?”
“That will be twenty-four euro.” Fù pulled a wallet from his pocket and took out a couple notes.
“So low! Well, that does it; I’ll just have to come back, won’t I? Please, keep the change…” The end of his walking stick hit the ground and he hoisted himself back onto his feet. He took the bag from Tom and began making his way towards the door…
… before stopping, and turning back around.
He looked over the bakery, absorbing its atmosphere. The warm tones, quaint wallpaper and exposed brick of the back area, which spoke to him of home. The whites and golds of the main storefront, which spoke to him the pride of hard-won accomplishments. He didn’t need the miraculous of emotion to feel the love that emanated from within these walls.
“Is everything okay?” Tom asked.
“Are you feeling alright?” Sabine approached him.
“Oh, yes. I’m perfectly fine. I just can’t help but…” A smile touched his lips. “What a lovely place to raise a child.” He waved a gentle finger at the two. “I can see where she gets it from. I can, indeed… indeed, I can…” He turned, with that, and pushed the door open. “Have a nice day, you two.”
“And you as well!” Sabine called out.
“Bon appetit!” Tom’s voice followed.
And then, the door closed behind him, and it was only Fù and the street that remained. People passed him by, all too preoccupied on their phones to pay any attention to the old man.
“Master,” a voice whispered, and Fù made a point of staring straight ahead at the street. “Did you find what you wanted? Is she the one?”
“To know the make of person, Wayzz, it helps to know where they come from. Before I believed, but now, I know; this ‘Marinette’? Yes, she is the one. He produced from his pocket a small box, which he held behind his back. “Take it. Put it where she will find it. I will wait out here.” He felt the box leave his grasp.
Wáng Fù sighed as he looked out at the city. At the old buildings, pressed side-by-side. At the school, where he could only guess how many innocent children dwelt.
Soon — all too soon, he had to assume — this city would be enveloped in chaos, and those who rose to defend it would never be the same again. He looked down the street, and then, at the remains of the crushed pistachio macarons; unfortunate casualties of the new ladybug miraculous holder’s first ‘save’. And he smiled, when he saw movement upon the crumbled confectionery.
He walked over to the sweet debris, and bent down to pick up a piece, uncaring of what those around him thought. And he watched, with a warmth in his chest, as the black and red insect took flight off the biscuit.
Master Wáng Fù didn’t typically believe in such blatant signs, but in that moment, with disaster looming and tragedy ready to strike, it was far from a cold comfort.
