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Marichat — shelter 1/3

Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir get caught up—in the rain and in each other.

Words: 10.4k

Rating: General Audiences

AN: Surprise, surprise—a different OTP but the same song influence haha! So title taken from Promise by Ben Howard.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

[Part 1] | Part 2 | Part 3 |

"Really?”

Chat Noir groaned as a drop of water splashed onto his cheek. So deceptively innocent, that singular bead of cool liquid against his heated skin. It would have been a welcoming sensation too, had one not turned into two then three—until the heavens saw fit to truly showcase its displeasure in a torrential downpour that left him shivering and drenched even with the protection of his suit.

Behind him, Ladybug giggled.

“Kitty cat doesn't like to get wet, does he?” she shook her head in mock disappointment, looking perfectly content with her bangs plastered to her forehead and raindrops dappling her eyelashes. “How ordinary of you.”

She so rarely initiated their banter that were it any other day, he would have rejoiced at such a comment, never mind that it had been at his expense. Perhaps he would have quipped with a flirty smirk and a daring now let me show you how extra ordinary I can be. As it was, the weather might as well have been a testament to his mood and so he had no desire to exchange quips.

“Don't you? I thought ladybugs weren't fond of the cold,” he shot back albeit in a tired manner.

“True,” she replied quietly, “but I happen to love the rain, even before I became, well, this.”

The words sounded playful but the sudden absence of mirth from her tone told him she sensed the abrupt shift in his demeanor. Her concern was a heady weight on his shoulders as he felt her step closer to him. It was almost enough to compel him to turn around and apologize for his cold behavior. But…

“Chaton?”

He shook his head. “Not now, Ladybug.”

Without glancing back to see her expression (he was certain he wouldn't be able to carry himself if he saw her features twisted in hurt because of how poorly he had acted, but he just needed to be away), he bounded. Over the ledge of the rooftop they had been on, landing smoothly on the roof of a lower building, and on and on and on as he had no real destination in mind.

The mansion was out of the question—the place more prison than home, possessing a frigidness that had nothing to do with the rain but was all the more potent for it. Because no amount of his cook's world-class hot chocolates or the piles of comfy sheets from the multitude of linen closets that littered the rooms could erase the perpetual feeling of cold that filled his house, so vast and so achingly, achingly empty yet suffocating too. He was drowning in his own supposed sanctuary—in silence, in loneliness, and in memories that should have filled him with happiness but only served to remind him of the void in his heart. Shaped like that of his father whom he hardly saw, then of his mother, and the Adrien he could have been had she not left him behind—passionate and alight instead of this straggling, broken, thing, fumbling through his dreary days with only fractions of himself.

(It was any wonder he kept attaching himself to Ladybug, whom he was assured of was his other half, despite her steady rebuffs of his affections—just anything to feel even marginally whole)

He hated how conscious he was of every frosty sluice that wiggled its way along the planes of his body, snuggling into every line and corner of his skin, over and under his suit, and the tendrils of his hair from root to scalp till he felt submerged beneath an ocean—but he hated the thought of the solitude that would greet him at the mansion even more. So though he was sure to get an earful from Plagg once he detransformed, he continued his aimless wandering throughout the city. At least people on the streets waved when they saw him, their smiles filling that hole in his heart with soft embers however temporary it was, so long as it tempered the frost in his veins. Perhaps he could perform a solo patrol, no matter that the most recent Akuma had been dealt with a little under an hour ago. He might assist the local officers who were managing petty crimes or the regular bystander with a menial task, someone like—

Marinette?

There was no mistaking her, he'd know those bobbing pigtails anywhere, even if they were soaked and plastered to the skin of her neck. Her brows were furrowed the way they did when she was frustrated though her pace betrayed this, her walk measured and leisurely, he nearly forgot it was pouring. Her gaze was trained on the pavement with narrowed concentration, as if the muggy cobblestones held the relief to her vexation and would offer it if she looked hard enough.

The rain may have been uncomfortable for him but it did possess that seductive allure of quiet security as it casted everything in a lethargic haze. She looked so small and so soft, granted she was both those things—

But even against the misty haze of the afternoon deluge, she stood out.

In all honesty, she looked adorable and he couldn’t help it.

He chuckled.

Chat Noir made sure to let it all out because she may have been petite but Marinette gave as good as she got, and it was a lot. Most days it tickled him, she was such an enigma and he was eager to puzzle her out. Other times, it saddened him, that she could be so bold and impassioned with everyone except him, or the Adrien him at least. He thought they were long since past grudging first impressions but that didn’t explain the constant shyness around him. Was it because she could sense that his civilian self was the true mask and Chat Noir the more comfortable, open side of him? Marinette radiated genuineness, after all. It made sense that she wouldn’t take kindly to insincerity from anyone, least of all him. All of a sudden he understood her reservation—thought that he deserved it even.

He sighed and willed the gloomy thoughts to go away, no matter how much the dreary weather attempted to drive them to the forefront of his mind.

Deciding that he had watched her unnoticed long enough, he pounced to the building ahead of where she was walking and prowled on soundless feet down the fire escape, just in time to greet her upside down from where he was hanging upon the suspended ladder.

He smirked when she shrieked in a rather undignified manner, halting her steps gruffly so they wouldn't collide.

“Chat Noir!” she scolded once she had recovered, her hands bound in fists atop her hips and her head cocked to the side as she glared at him through slitted, blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he returned as he flipped and landed on the balls of his feet right in front of her. “I saw you and thought I'd drop by.”

He waggled his eyebrows. She was evidently not amused but that didn’t stop his mouth from twisting into a smug grin.

“I thought you were going home?”

“What made you think that?”

Her eyes widened, almost comically, and he gave her a curious look for it. “B-because the Akuma… I-I mean you… defeated it, right?”

His curiosity melted into concern as she turned into a flustered sight before him, the Marinette he was more familiar with as Adrien.

“Were you nearby?” he stepped closer, grasping at her shoulders and trying to be level-headed while surreptitiously scanning her for injuries. “Were you hurt? Is that why you’re walking so slowly?”

Whatever had frazzled her seemed to have evaporated along with what little of his good humor had remained. But her face softened, and so did the tense set of her shoulders that he was unaware of till it was sagging beneath his palms. Her hands cupped his elbows as she calmly coaxed his grip from its firm grasp on her shoulders, till his hold too rested on her elbows.

“No, chaton,” she whispered against the skin of his cheek as she placed a light kiss there. He breathed a sigh of relief. “I locked myself inside the fabric store I was visiting around the area, after helping some other passersby, of course—” he grunted because of course she did, “—and afterwards, I decided to walk home. I just… I happen to love the rain.”

A soft smile stole across her lips and everything about her felt so familiar then—her voice, her face, even her words, and the pieces of him that were shattered tingled in excitable recognition. Her presence seemed to fill the hollow spaces he thought only Ladybug or his mother could occupy but never would because had he ever been worth staying for? Would he ever be enough?

Perhaps he wouldn’t be. But when he was near Marinette, he forgot about all that. She made him feel like he would be okay, that maybe he was deserving of affection despite how lacking he was.

So he kissed her forehead and rubbed at the soaked clothes covering her biceps when he felt her shiver. “Why am I always catching you in the rain?” he murmured. She pulled away, just enough so she could look at him without getting cross-eyed, a question painted on her visage. He merely gave her a secretive smile that in no way assuaged her.

He remembered that day well.

Even before he had been bequeathed the Miraculous, he'd had an aversion to rain that only magnified when he became Chat Noir. The rain wasn't as bad then as it was now, but he carried an umbrella with him the moment he saw the cloudy skies that morning. Giving it to Marinette at the expense of his comfort had been more than making amends. From the beginning he was intrigued by her—with the fervor and spirit she defended herself and others. He was captivated by her even then, a captivation that only intensified as time wore on and she seemed to open to him, more so when he was Chat Noir. But that instance beneath the cloudburst had been the genesis of them, and it was meaningful to him as she'd been one of the first friends he made, the first to have shared belly-aching, lighthearted laughter with. He often tried to (jokingly) sneak into her room to peek if she had kept his black umbrella—if the memory held a semblance of significance to her like it did to him. Speaking of...

He brought out his baton and after a few clicks, transformed it into an umbrella, and hoped that would serve as a better distraction from his earlier slip. He was not wrong.

“I didn't know your baton could do that.”

“There’s a lot of things you don't know about it,” he replied with a devious twinkle in his eye. “I could show you what else my baton is capable of.” He winked at her and she shoved him. He laughed heartily, having been subjected to her exasperation many times before for similar quips, expecting it and enjoying it even. For all her eye rolls and snippy huffs, they were infinitesimal compared to the smiles and the giggles she occasionally bestowed upon him if he was particularly clever.

(He endeavoured to always be clever)

“It's not something I broadcast. Not even Ladybug knows about it, I think. I gotta have some secrets to myself.”

“Yet you just shared it with me,” she prompted, teasing. He shrugged.

“I trust you,” he answered honestly because in that he had no doubt.

Straightening from his feigned wounded crouch, he propped the umbrella between them. Struck, and perhaps humbled from his pronouncement, she wrapped her fingers around the arm he offered her as he murmured, “I think it's time I took this princess home.”

She wrinkled her nose and he barely refrained from bopping it with his finger cause it meant they'd have to let go. But ugh, she was so damn cute.

“You always call me that.”

They began the trek to her residence and where he was once apprehensive of her dilatory gait, he was now grateful as it meant he got to spend more time with her.

At her observation, he offered another shrug. “You always call me kitten,” he pointed out.

You and Ladybug, now that he thought about it.

“That’s because you are one, minou.”

As if to emphasize her point, she reached up and scratched at the spot behind his cat ear that he dearly loved and he was helpless against the purr that emitted from him. When she withdrew with a giggle, he pouted.

“Does it bother you?”

That was the last thing he wanted her to be, but she shook her head and smiled reassuringly.

“Well, if not a princess then what?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I don't know. I mean, I'm… just Marinette.”

She wasn't just anything but he didn't voice that. Instead, he said, “Okay, just Marinette. You may not see yourself as a princess, but you’ll always have a loyal knight in me.”

It was the corniest thing he had ever said yet, and though he meant it in good humor it came out more staid than he intended. He felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He and Marinette had held conversations in the past, more often as Chat Noir than as Adrien, and both were appreciated by him all the same. Being around her made him feel safe, made him feel seen. When crippling forlornness threatened to suffocate him, it was Marinette he turned to for solace. Though she made it easy to talk, they had never ventured into such poignant territory.

God damn rain, he grumbled, for he was sure it was responsible for the vulnerability it provoked within him. As if privy to his thoughts, lightning erupted in the sky, followed closely by thunder. He barely suppressed the urge to mewl, however he did shudder. Was it too much to ask that Marinette not notice?

She clicked her tongue. “Is my brave knight afraid of a little thunder?”

Apparently, it was.

“No,” he muttered petulantly.

“It's okay,” she giggled, giving his arm a genial squeeze. I'll protect you if you protect me.”

It was a susurrous promise in his ear that had his heart both thudding and reposing. So he wasn't the only one affected by the stupor brought on by the rain.

“Always,” he vowed softly.

She smiled, enchanting and lovely, and huddled closer to his side. With her chin resting on his shoulder, he let out a contented sigh. The rest of the walk continued in agreeable silence—both so at ease with each other’s presence that there was no need for words, the shrieking pitter-patter of the rain the soundtrack to their stroll.

Dread, however, churned an angry storm in his stomach at the growing sight of the Dupain-Cheng Bakery. He didn't want to leave her, an impetus that constantly emerged whenever he visited her at night and one that was even larger in the light of day. As an Agreste, there was a lot he could possess with a mere word or snap of his finger, and still there was little he treasured more than the friendships he'd formed since he began public school. If this walk in the drenched and desolate Parisian streets had taught him anything it's that Marinette's companionship, even if it was with Chat Noir, was something he most coveted—had learned to rely on. He resolved to make more of an effort with her when he was Adrien, propriety and his father’s expectations be damned. He was most himself when he was with Marinette and with Ladybug too but as it was, it was her preference to keep their personal lives separate—and it was high time he wore off the mask with at least one of the two most important women in his life.

With that decision in mind, the ball of anxiety in his gut loosened albeit by a miniscule knot. He supposed it would have to do. Marinette was leading him to the front door of the building's abode where he would be dropping her off and he would have to go home some time if he didn’t want Nathalie or god forbid his father to notice his absence and Plagg was bound to be getting tired now and—

“What are you doing?” he exclaimed in utter bewilderment as she opened her door without letting go of him then proceeded to use her grip to drag him through the entrance. He dug his heels in but to his surprise, she was astuciously strong. “What’s happening right now?”

She gave him a look that clearly conveyed how idiotic she thought he was.

“Do you honestly think I'm going to let you back out in this weather?”

“I’ve got my baton and my suit will keep me warm.”

“Your little parasol—”

“Hey!” So his baton-brella was shiny. It was sleek and still very manly.

“—will do you no good. You hate the rain!”

Was he that obvious? He shot an apprehensive look at the door adjacent to the entryway, where the bakery lay.

“What about your parents?”

“Mama!” she called as she took off her shoes and placed them in a closet just across. “Papa!”

Adrien felt his eyes widen and full-blown panic bloomed in his chest. He gestured wildly at Marinette, limbs flailing in what he hoped she took as a sign to ‘abort, abort!’ but she hardly batted an eye at his antics.

He inched further from the entrance.

Through the wooden doorway that was the bakery’s back entrance, a booming voice replied. “Daughter, is that you?”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette crossed her arms and huffily replied, “Unless you have another child I don't know about hidden away somewhere here then yes! It's me!”

Under her breath, she whined, “He does this every time, who else would call him papa?”

He wanted to chortle, but all he managed was a shaky chuckle that died down anyway when the door opened to reveal the bear of a man that was Marinette's father. He bore an imposing figure, one to match Gorilla's for sure, and at first glance Adrien had been intimidated. But then he affected such a joyous air, punctuated by the smile perpetually etched on his face—piercing even through his groomed, handlebar moustache—that it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a gentle giant that radiated the sun.

“It is you!” he vociferated with unnecessary dramatic flair, sweeping Marinette into a hug that lifted her off her feet before he unceremoniously dropped her. “Ew, wet!”

Marinette cackled. “Serves you right.” Then she executed a delightful hop to kiss her father on the cheek, careful not to get any more of her damp clothes on him. He received it with an outstretched chin and a broad, close-lipped smile, as if there was no better bounty than to be in Marinette’s presence.

Adrien's heart swelled. He knew the feeling well.

But then Tom trained his gaze on him and he felt the goofy grin that had dominated his mouth slip as his nerves returned.

He may have been around adults most of his life but he'd never had to meet parents, with the exception of Chloé's father and even that felt so far removed from this situation. He'd never had the chance, the luxury, to have the kind of friends that invited him over to their houses. Not to mention the implications of Marinette bringing a boy home, and not to toot his own horn or anything, but when he was Chat Noir he was no regular boy.

He was suddenly grateful he got caught in the rain as his dampness hid the way sweat beaded at his temples.

“I see you've brought home a stray,” he observed, his manner gruff. Adrien blanched.

He tried to sound suave, and later he would despair at his lack of a backbone, but for now all he could manage was a squeaky, “M-monsieur Dupain!”

Marinette’s mouth was puckered though he couldn't tell whether it was in a pout or in pitifully contained joviality at his expense. “Be nice, papa.” She scolded airily. “It was raining cats and dogs out there, I might as well drag one in.”

“Marinette?” Adrien whispered. “Marinette, Marinette.” He was so dumbfounded with awe he forgot to be terrified. “Did you just make two cat jokes in one sentence?”

Monsieur Dupain's exploding laughter was enough answer for him, and he found himself joining in the chortles when the man clapped a hand to his shoulder and Marinette finally, finally graced him with that toothy grin he loved so much—the one that felt like every bit of light in the world came from her smile, the one he now knew she inherited from her father, who gave his hair a ribbing shuffle.

“At ease, son,” he spoke good-naturedly. “It's not everyday Chat Noir escorts my daughter home safely from the rain. You have my thanks.”

He didn't realize he was leaning into Tom's hand until the man pulled away from petting his locks. He trained his gaze to the floor. He bit his lip and shifted in his place, uncharacteristically shy at the praise when he would normally lap at any attention—the sincerity in the pronouncement, so like Marinette, disarming him. He was saved from having to stutter a reply when monsieur Dupain concentrated on Marinette.

“And you! My clever, clever girl.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead that had her blushing from her scalp to her delicate neck. Adrien found himself grinning as he relaxed.

“Next thing you know, you'll be punning,” his grin sharpened into a smirk. “I'll make sure of it.”

“‘Punning’ is not a word,” she retorted haughtily before adding, “and in your dreams, kitty.” It was snarky but the comment had no real edge to it, not when they were all dissolving into bubbly giggles.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng!” someone admonished from the top of the staircase, effectively silencing all three of them. “Did you get caught in the rain, again?”

Quick as a whip, madame Cheng went down the steps on light feet, one towel slung over her shoulder and another spread on her hands, which she promptly flung towards the sopping mess that was Marinette. She rubbed vigorously at her head so that when she pulled away, Marinette’s hair was a curling, frizzing mass of midnight tendrils. Beside him, monsieur Dupain released a snicker that fell just as quickly as it rose when madame Cheng’s disapproving stare landed on him.

“Tom!” she clicked her tongue and cocked her hip, a perfect echo of Marinette in irritation that he would have smiled if his nerves hadn't returned tenfold. “Can’t you see her shaking? She'll catch her death standing here, they both will!”

It was then he noticed he was still standing at the threshold of their dwelling, loitering around like the stray monsieur Dupain teased he was. He figured it was time he took his leave, he didn't want Marinette to get sick either and standing at the open door with the wind gusting in surely wasn't helping. He glanced at the solemn skies and quivered in his boots. He wouldn't enjoy the trudge back but Adrien knew enough about social graces to tell when he had overstayed his welcome. Knocking his heels together with a jittery jerk, he was about to give a two-fingered salute when madame Cheng threw the second towel over his head.

His vision obscured by fluffy, white cotton, he had no choice but to double over as Marinette's mother dried his head, surprisingly mindful of his cat ears as she patted him in a significantly more gentle manner than she did Marinette. Honestly, he didn't know whether to purr or laugh. In his befuddlement, he did an odd combination of both and emitted a rather choked yowl as he tried to duck away from her.

“Er, madame Cheng,” he started, stricken breathless at the strange turn of events when she finally let up and closed the door behind him. “This… this isn't necessary.”

Yet he found himself clinging to the towel around his neck where she left it after moving from his hair to mildly pat at his face. And though he stayed by the entryway, he did not motion to leave.

“Nonsense! I won't have one half of Paris’ superhero duo roving in this awful weather when he can be perfectly snug in here!”

As if privy to madame Cheng's ire—outside, lightning split the sky followed by a clap of thunder so roaring he felt it rattle his bones. He grit his teeth.

“If you think Akumas are bad…” monsieur Dupain goaded after glancing at Adrien, no doubt noticing his discomfort. He wanted to be embarrassed but found he was more grateful for the facetiousness, if not wary of madame Cheng's reaction. Marinette and her father had no such qualms, though she did bite her lip to stifle the guffaw that threatened to spill from her lips.

“Children,” madame Cheng deadpanned. “I have two children.”

Tom hummed, pressing a doting kiss on his wife's forehead that, judging by the way the corners of her mouth tilted up, negated his erstwhile badinage.

“Well, lucky for both of you—you're just in time for dinner,” she stated. “I know it's leftover night but I couldn't resist making wanton noodle soup—” damn, he speculated. That sounded, and now that he thought about it, smelled, divine, “—nothing like a little home-cooked brew to heat the cockles on days like these, oui? And there's all that extra catering food from the other day, that one's Italian so you bet we have a little bit of everything—pasta, pizza, bread, you name it. I've got chopsuey for veggies and some coq a vin too, if you wanted? You're staying for dinner, of course.”

“Sabine, mamour,” monsieur Dupain said behind an amused smile, “let the boy speak. Maybe decide for himself, hmm?”

All three Dupain-Chengs whipped their heads towards him and he felt sheepish at their concentration. He looked to Marinette, who merely shrugged haplessly before smirking. He wanted to stick his tongue out at her but restrained himself out of respect for her parents. She was throwing him out to the wolves here! Not that they were wolves, it was just—

“I wouldn't want to intrude…”

Madame Cheng laid a comforting hand on his arm, her smile welcoming as she murmured, “You are not intruding, Chat Noir.”

“But—”

Just then, his stomach growled. Like, literally growled. There was no other word for the monstrous gurgle that emanated from him.

He slapped a hand to his middle just as Marinette could no longer repress herself and cracked up, her derision long time building. Monsieur Dupain clapped a hand over his mouth. Madame Cheng was chastising her daughter, to no avail (the traitor), though her eyes and mouth were tight with laugh lines. His face felt like it was on fire.

“I guess that answers that question,” monsieur Dupain mused out loud.

He wanted to die.

Adrien tried to draw on all the bravado Chat Noir's anonymity afforded him. But they weren't Akumatized victims that needed distracting. These were Marinette's parents and he wanted to charm them, not irritate them. They'd had few interactions when he was his civilian self, nonexistent when he was Chat Noir, today notwithstanding. But even with the limited opportunities for conversation, he all ready knew he adored them the way he adored Marinette.

He liked them, and desired for them to like him.

Did the situation call for his superhero persona then? Chat Noir was boisterous and charismatic, not to say that he wasn't when he was only Adrien. But such moments blossomed when he was around friends and even then, it was significantly more reserved than Chat. He had been in public school for just shy of two years now, so it was no surprise that he fell back on Adrien in times of doubt, drawing on years of formal, etiquette training as he straightened his spine, folded his hands behind his back and gave them a bland smile.

“I am a little hungry.”

A snort. “A little?”

“Marinette!”

Madame Cheng withdrew her touch from his arm to wag a finger at Marinette who had the decency to look chagrined.

“You're having dinner. That's final.”

“Yes, madame.”

She startled. “Goodness dear, you make me sound awful old!”

“Oh,” he grimaced and refrained from rubbing at the nape of his neck. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, that is not my intention at all.”

“It's not really a bother,” she reassured. “But Sabine will do just fine.”

“And you can call me Tom, too. Monsieur Dupain makes me feel like my father’s right behind me!”

He chuckled and Adrien's smile became less forced.

“If it pleases you,” he murmured.

“It does,” they echoed.

Marinette glanced at him with a strange look on her face, probably questioning his formality but he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze head on. Instead, he glimpsed at her parents. Sabine slotted herself to her husband's side as if she belonged there and only there, their bodies attuned like extensions of one another despite the glaring height difference.

Adrien tried not to stare, it was rude. He was just both flummoxed and amazed, maybe even a little sad too. To see the Dupain-Chengs so open with one another, so free with their affections—Tom winding an arm around his wife's shoulders, while Marinette clasped at his other, Sabine fussing over her with the towel once more, her tone sharp even as her eyes glowed with fondness.

A pang of longing washed over him. He had never felt more like an outsider and that was quite a feat, as Adrien lived in a constant state of isolation though he tried not to show it.

But then—Sabine extended her arm towards him.

“Come on up!”

He regarded her hand with a modicum of caution. Not at her, never at her. But what was he doing? He didn't belong here, not when he was a dark cloud of melancholy in this resplendent safe haven. He had never known such tenderness, had forgotten what it was to be cared for the way only a mother's hands could provide. He didn't want to taint this, to taint them. A selfish part of him whispered that he didn't know these people but he could be sure of one thing—everybody left.

And maybe he didn't want to be the one standing alone again.

“Chat?”

Marinette's bluebell eyes met his, and it was like staring up at a blazing, cerulean sky. He felt the harrowing, adumbration that was his tenebrous thoughts lift its foggy thrall on him.

“It's alright,” she murmured soothingly, as if she had a direct line to his head though she couldn't have possibly known what he was thinking.

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “Yes. I shall stay. Thank you for offering.”

In his state (which was, so embarrassing), he failed to notice Tom's absence, but he could hear him in the bakery. It was near seven, so it was safe to assume he had gone to lock up the shop. Sabine was on his right, patting at his cheek with the towel again as she led him by the elbow up the staircase and into their residence. On his other side, Marinette's fingers brushed his. Anyone else would have seen it as an accident but he recognized it for the sign of support it was, and not for the first time he was grateful they were friends no matter what form he took.

“So make yourself at home,” Sabine was telling. “I’ll just grab a change of clothes for you.”

Wait, what?

He must have said this aloud since Sabine shook her head at him. “You might get a fever if you stay in that suit any longer so let me fetch you something dry. Tom is certainly larger than you but I'm sure I can scrounge through some of his older things.”

“Mada—er, Sabine,” he corrected himself at her wayward, reproving look. “That really isn't necessary.”

His ring beeped and he groaned. It seemed Plagg wasn't giving him a choice in the matter.

“You're about to detransform, Chat,” Marinette said. “I have a mask for you to wear, if your secret identity is what you're worried about. We don't want to make you uncomfortable either.”

He wasn't—worried that was. But he didn't want to put them in danger by revealing himself. And honestly, as fun as it was having Marinette as a classmate, he far preferred the moments they had together when he was Chat Noir. He didn't want that to fade, he couldn't bear the shift in those depthless orbs if she knew who he was and the distance between her and Adrien yawned between her and Chat Noir.

“Do you often have masks laying around for any superhero who visits your home?” he joked, though considerably more subdued. “And I thought I was special.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you want it or would you rather perish in this cold?”

“So dramatic,” he sighed, feigning at being put out.

“You two are too cute,” Sabine cooed. He and Marinette blushed at the reminder that they weren't alone. Mon dieu, he forgot that they weren't supposed to be all that familiar with each other. Had he given them away? Her mother looked far from angry, if anything she seemed pleased.

“Stay here and keep each other company for a bit. I’ll get those clothes then you can both change.”

“Actually, mama, I've got a sweatshirt for Chat. If you could just provide the bottoms?”

“If you say so, dear.”

Sabine disappeared into a room next to the main entrance, leaving them in the living room. As soon as the door closed behind her, he whirled on Marinette, flicking his tail at her bottom. She yelped.

“Hey!”

He crossed his arms. “You don't get to hey indignantly! I do!”

Her face was a perfect picture of incredulity. “Did you just—did you just slap my butt?”

His face burned (had it ever reverted to its normal state since he got here?) at the implication.

“There was no slapping, my tail lightly grazed your derrière,” he said this very quickly, “and don't change the subject!” He held firm and willed his cheeks to cool as he pasted on a stern expression. “What was that about?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” she brought a hand to her bottom. “I can't believe you slapped my butt!”

“What do you mean? It was a light graze!” he groaned. “And stop turning this around!”

“‘Yes madame’? ‘If it pleases you’? What is this, Les Mis? ”

“I'd make a beautiful Cosette, true.” To emphasize this, he ruffled his golden locks like the model he was when his true aim was to douse her with tiny droplets of water. She screeched.

“Chat!”

“That’s just the way I talk. I call Ladybug, ‘milady', remember? It's not exactly a term of endearment you'd lump in with ‘bae’!”

“I know how you speak, but that?” she shook her head, a sudden despondency occupying her mouth, pulling down the corners in a way that made him sick to see.

I did that, he brooded.

“You were so… polite—”

“I'm nothing, if not a gentleman,” he averred, slightly affronted at the insinuation he was otherwise, though he knew that wasn't what she meant. Marinette was too discerning for her own good and he clutched the towel at his neck with both hands to quell the disquiet that rose within him at her introspective gleam.

Her frown deepened. “That's not the right word, then. You were tame?” she sighed, anxiety evident in the lines that creased her forehead as that furrow from when he first saw her reappeared with a vengeance. “You sounded… empty. It was—” she gulped. “It was haunting, and I'm worried about you. Is it something my parents said? Something I did?”

“No,” he was quick to assuage because it was the truth and he wanted no blame to anchor her, least of all on his account. “No, no.” He sensed she was far from convinced so he nuzzled first at her cheek till her breath was a balmy and measured zephyr against his skin. Only then did he move to her neck, planting a quick peck to the exposed skin above her collar before resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“It's me.”

All I do is cause pain, he wanted to say. Instead, “I just... don't like the rain.”

She brought a tentative hand up to the small of his back and rubbed small circles onto it.

“Chat…”

“I really, really don't like the rain?”

She huffed, “I won't push you,” though she did soften against him, nosing at the hair by his ear as the tension lining her shoulders gradually drifted away. “But I do wish you'd tell me, mon minou. ”

My, she said. My kitten. She'd never said that before and especially not with so much gravity—so much intent and possessiveness.

Hers.

His heart soared.

Yours, he mouthed against her flesh—he quite liked the sound of that.

It was what prompted him to confess, weighed down as he was with shame at such sentimental weakness that he couldn't find the courage to even look at her as he spoke.

So against the sanctity that was the hollow of her throat, he confided, “It was… it was raining. The day my mother…” he trailed off, unable to continue when a barrage of memories assaulted him—a rapid succession of flashing effigies he could scarcely form together and would have forgotten, were it not for the way pain tainted his recollections and tore his body every time he remembered.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “She… died?”

He laughed even if he was brimming with bitterness. “No. But I wonder if that would have been better.”

Marinette clenched his waist in reprimand, possibly shock too as she expelled a perturbed whine. “That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t think so when she left me behind, either.”

She had nothing to say for a while after that, which was fine with him. Words of consolation were inappropriate when his mother was very much alive, just... gone. Apologies were futile, it wasn't Marinette's fault nobody stayed for him.

For a few heartbeats they remained, his head on her shoulder and her hand on his waist, the only parts of them touching. The sweet scent of her overwhelmed him despite the prominent musk of rain that permeated the air around them. He breathed her in, and drew strength from her steady presence till the agonizing numbness withdrew from his bones and feeling returned to his knees, enough that he could stand on his own without leaning on Marinette.

Well, maybe just a little. He touched his forehead to hers.

“Everyone leaves. Why do people leave?” he absently pondered aloud, when what he truly meant was, why do people leave me? He hadn't really expected an answer, but Marinette had always possessed the uncanny ability to read him. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been thrown when she pushed on his shoulder and vehemently said, “She didn't deserve you, okay? Anyone who leaves doesn't deserve you. But Chat, you're the most hopeful person I know. Are you honestly going to stand here and tell me everyone leaves?” She demanded. “I mean, would you? Would you leave Ladybug? ”

Ladybug, who he loved. Ladybug, who was his partner and his other half. Ladybug, who wanted another and did not love him back. Ladybug…

Who he did not really know at all.

Still, the answer was a given.

“No,” he said with a sureness that she must have expected given her satisfied countenance. “I wouldn't leave her,” he answered. But with a little more softness and with utmost intentness, he added, “And I wouldn't leave you.”

Her eyes widened before they lowered to the ground, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she tried to wave off his comment. He would have none of that, now. Ladybug may have taken precedence in his heart, but when the dust settled and the thrill of the adventure faded, whose presence did he truly long for? When insidious doubt slithered in his mind, whose council did he seek? Who did he want to share everything with, from the quiet moments that rarely graced his day to the hopes and dreams he envisioned for his life? Who did he most want to steal time with?

Marinette had gradually crept and crawled her way in. She buried and burrowed herself, till the gaps that made up his patchwork soul felt flowing with effulgence.

Till they were molded in the shape of her.

He tilted her chin up and she followed, though her eyes remained averted.

“Marinette,” he murmured susurrously. He moved his hand away so he could cup both her cheeks, face framed between careful claws—urging her to look up, to see him. He needed her to know.

“Marinette.”

She looked up then, at the urgency with which he said her name, and Adrien started, “I wouldn't leave you. Ever. I—” I what?

What else had he been trying to say again? He rested his forehead atop hers once more, because he was a sinner seeking refuge and she felt heavenly against his skin. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to tell her that maybe his mom hadn't deserved him but he sure as hell didn't deserve Marinette. He couldn't seem to muster the right words, not when she stood on the tips of her toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck, not as she caressed the bridge of his nose with the tip of hers, nudging at the crease on his cheek and nestling there, lips finding purchase on the corner of his mouth. He could steal a kiss, or would it be a gift if she gave it freely? All he had to do was turn his head…

A jarring crash! sounded, followed by a poorly muffled curse.

They sprung apart—shock dropping like an anvil between them and breaking the glass ceiling that was their potent, emotional atmosphere. Adrien bottled his instinct to dig his claws into the walls out of fright and in lieu of doing so, returned his grip to the towel around his neck. He had leapt towards the kitchen, his back hitting the island counter. Across him, Marinette had fallen over the coffee table, her legs skewedly draped on the table top and her arms sprawled over the couch’s seat cushions. She would probably be nursing a bruise come morning if the sour and disgruntled look on her face was anything to go by. He grimaced. Next to him, a pair of portly limbs stuck out from beside the floor of the island table.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck. “Er…”

“Papa?” Marinette cried from her place on the ground.

A pause before a meek, “Yes?” followed.

Monsieur Dupain remained on the linoleum as he said this and Marinette groaned. Adrien bounded to her side to offer his assistance. Her pain seemed momentarily suspended as a whole new discomfort overtook her features and her blush returned.

They—they had nearly kissed. Here. In the living room of her home. In the living room of her home! And yet… they had nearly kissed. Who had leaned into who? Did that really matter, at this point? That her parents were feet away certainly hadn't warranted any significance to them at the time.

Still, the thought came to him, unbidden—he wished they hadn't stopped.

He wished they had kissed.

He held out his arm and she placed her hand in his. He pulled her up, but in his jittery state had underestimated his strength. She stumbled onto him and he wrapped the arm that wasn't holding her hand around her waist to steady her. When she straightened, she was flushed against him, the downy curves of her lithe, womanly frame in absolute harmony with the firm lines of his figure.

He gulped.

Whatever cold had conquered him during the rain had dissipated. He was a livewire and Marinette the spark to light the fuse—he was ablaze. Every nerve, muscle and cell had zeroed in on each point of contact. He inwardly swore at the way his tail flicked in response to the current of electricity that thrummed down the length of his back because it gave him away. Then again, perhaps he wasn't the only one whose actions were transparent. Perhaps he wasn't trying to hide what he was feeling from her, because of her. After all, he hadn't retreated his hold around her waist.

And she didn't seem inclined to let him go.

“Don't mind me!” Tom called and with a jolt of awareness, they let go of each other. What was the matter with him? He had to do stop doing this. He had to control himself, her parents were right there for god's sake!

He crossed his arms to stifle the pressing need to touch her, while her hands enveloped her cheeks, as if that would be enough for her to vanquish the tell-tale signs of her bashfulness.

“What are you doing on the floor?” she asked, flabbergasted when her father didn't move from his prone position.

“I was just trying to put away some pastries.” Well, that solved the mystery of where Marinette inherited her clumsiness from. “I didn't want to disturb you two so I tried to be quiet but I tripped!”

He was going to die—scratch that, he was all ready dead, and this was the ninth circle of hell where he had to endure every sort of humiliation known to teenage-kind.

Her hands now encompassed her entire face and from behind the curtain of her palms she grumbled, “You didn't have to do that, papa.”

“It's okay! I didn't see anything!”

Don't say it isn't what it looks like, he chanted to himself. You're fine. Marinette’s fine (even if she has turned an alarming shade of red by her standards) and nothing happened. Nothing here suggests that you've done something incriminating so don't say it isn't what it looks like, don’t say it isn’t what it looks like, don’t say it isn’t—

“It isn't what it looks like!”

He was an idiot.

“Chat!” Marinette griped as she balled her hands into fists at her sides as if to withhold from punching him, her glare so murderous he felt like curling into a big, mass of regretful leather. He gave her a winning smile instead, and hoped it would be enough to dim her ire.

It wasn't.

“Just pretend I’m not here!” Her father barreled on, obviously unconvinced of Adrien's words. Marinette clapped a hand over her eyes and groaned.

“Okay,” she sighed, “this has gotten way out of hand—” She took a step forward but in her temporary blindness, must have miscalculated her step because one moment she was next to him and the next, she was falling over the coffee table again. She would have bumped her head against the corner, but Adrien was quicker and wound an arm around her waist once more. What he hadn't anticipated (again) was Marinette's strength, for just as he held her, she instinctively flailed for the closest solid thing to stop her fall.

He was the closest solid thing.

Adrien only had enough time to twist his body so that he received the brunt of the impact, landing on his back next to the coffee table with Marinette on top of him, her hands splayed on either side of his head to balance herself.

She was so red he could feel the heat emanating from her body, even through the damp cold of her clothes. He felt his own temperature rise, heedless to the pain throbbing around his shoulders and back. He should have apologized that he had allowed them both to fall, should have lent her a hand and gotten them both off the floor.

He should have let her go.

But then he tightened his arm around her middle, and he nearly purred at the soft hitch of her breath, chest to chest, her legs tangled in his, the soft skin of her—

“What is going on here?”

They turned their heads towards the source of sound and found Sabine staring down at them with a look on her face that, even upside down he could tell, was one of consummate perplexity.

She turned towards the kitchen and her eyes widened from the saucers they all ready were. “Tom? Is that you?” she took a step back and surveyed them. “What are you all doing on the floor?”

Silence met her as each one tried to prepare an explanation that would make the most sense (and would be the least embarrassing version) of the past half hour.

“It isn't what it looks like!”

“Marinette!” Adrien cried, even as he swallowed a laugh. He let loose a disbelieving breath.

She did not just say that!

“Shut up,” she averred in sibilating tones and through gritted teeth so as not to further rouse her mother’s suspicions.

He couldn't resist teasing her.

“You just said not—”

“Shut up.”

He did not.

“It really is, though, Sabine—what it looks like, that is.”

Marinette’s glare ascended to volcanic levels of intensity.

“What?” he insisted. “We really all fell.”

“The kids were having a moment—” Tom supplied.

“They were?” Sabine answered and Adrien was curious at the eager tilt to her inquiry.

“—and I tripped trying not to ruin it.”

“Oh, mamour,” she lamented with a feigned woeful hand to her cheek, “I think you failed.”

“No, he didn't!” Marinette rebuffed. “There was nothing to fail because there was no moment —”

“Oh, there most definitely was a moment.”

“Papa,” she rebuked exasperatedly. “There was no moment!”

“I mean,” Adrien started, goading her evident mortification even if it meant extending his own, “there was a little moment—”

“Chat Noir!” she shrilled.

Sabine actually shoved the sweatpants she was holding under her bicep to clap her hands and do a little hop. “Well, don't let us interrupt! What do you need? Do you want us to leave or…?”

“Oh my god,” Marinette breathed, grabbing the fabric from her mother as it was now Sabine’s turn to poke fun at her daughter. Tom joined her guffaws. “We're going. Now.”

Then, with that forceful grip of hers, she dug her fingers into his arm and dragged him up the stairs to her room.

(He had to hide a wince. She was so lissom! Where was all this strength coming from? He glanced at her body from the corner of his eye. Where was she hiding it?)

“That's right hun,” her mom called up to them, “just keep living in the moment!” Adrien laughed and Sabine winked before giving him a sly wave.

Marinette tugged harder.

To avoid tripping, he followed—having just enough time to wave back at her mom and hear her laughingly berate Tom to, “get off the floor, for goodness’ sake!”

“I’m telling you, Sabine,” he grunted, then the cacophony of objects tumbling to the floor as he muttered, “moment. ”

When they reached the top, Marinette shoved him inside her room and slammed the trap door behind them, further silencing the din that was her parents’ entertainment.

“What just happened?” It didn't seem like she was looking for a direct answer, her gaze darting about her room skittishly as she repeated, “No, seriously, what just happened?”

But he couldn't help himself.

“I think your parents ship us,” he quipped, poking at her side to rouse her from her apparent shock. She batted his hand away but he dodged her, nudging the pad of his finger onto the space just above the bend of her waist where he knew she was most weak. She squealed.

“They're terrible,” she panted. “And so are you.”

He stuck his tongue out and she shoved him, but without much force. He stayed her hands on his chest.

“I think they're wonderful,” he murmured, rubbing lightly at her knuckles. “They’re raising you, after all. And you're…”

Her fingers rippled over his suit, caressing his collarbones as she seemed to hold her breath.

“What?” she whispered.

“You're exquisite,” he said, his voice imbued with all the reverence he felt for her.

He expected her to hit him again, or at the very least roll her eyes. But Marinette always was one to surprise him, as she briefly broke their hold to boop him on the nose with one hand.

“Such a tomcat,” she said, voice not so much ribbing but calm, sleepy.

He'd even go so far as to say appreciative.

“Only for you, Princess.”

She narrowed her eyes at the nickname. “And Ladybug?”

The fondness had abated ever so slightly, replaced by a carefully crafted blank tone that was only betrayed by the indiscernible tautness to her mouth. She might have pouted, if it didn't reveal the vulnerability she seemed to want to keep from him. And he might have missed it, if he hadn't known her so well.

So with a solemnity he rarely displayed when he was Chat Noir, he said, “Ladybug doesn't like me like that, and I respect that.”

“But you like her like that,” she lamented, a knowing yet sorrowful gleam he couldn't decipher clouding her gaze.

Maybe that's changed, he wanted to tell her, especially if it meant he could erase whatever it was that had dimmed her propensity for effervescence. But then his ring beeped before he could further dive into the ocean of her eyes, and he sighed.

She flattened her palm along the side of his face till the tips of her fingers brushed the underside of his mask. When she withdrew, he felt positively bereft. He had never wanted so desperately to be rid of his suit. He yearned to hold her, feel the dips and crests of her hands or the warmth of her skin. He longed to mold himself to her figure till she filled his empty spaces and all he knew was Marinette, and whatever sadness that had plagued her banished because his shadows would only serve to brighten her light.

“Marinette…”

Say it, he implored himself.

His ring blasted another strident warning just then, and like a waft of smoke, the moment had drifted from his grasp.

“I'll get that mask for you,” she said, moving towards her closet where she retrieved the fabric along with another black garment apart from the pants her mother had provided.

“You never did answer my question.”

“What question?” she grunted while pulling forcefully on something. He smiled, despite himself.

“Why do you have a mask at the ready? If you wanted me out of my suit, all you had to do was ask,” he drawled. “You didn't have to use the rain as an excuse.”

She laughed. “You are so full of yourself, minou. ”

He tried not to frown petulantly that she hadn't tacked mon before the endearment. He failed. She released a triumphant crow as he assumed she found what she sought. He tried not to be charmed.

Again, he failed.

He prowled towards her and wrapped his tail around her calf, even as he crossed his arms and attempted to maintain a miffed mien.

“So why the mask, then?” Inexplicable jealousy clawed at his stomach like bile. “Is there another superhero?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied coyly.

His hair stood on end and it took all his wits to smother a growl. “Who?”

She laughed again, flicking a slick strand away from his forehead with her free hand when a vexed rumble still managed to sound from his throat.

“Relax,” her giggles continued as she twisted her fingers in his hair. “My cousin asked me to make him a Zorro costume last Halloween. This was just one of my trial masks that I kept for reference.”

His unwarranted haze of envy cleared at her blithe demeanor, and he found himself joining her chortles.

“Sorry,” he murmured, leaning into her touch when her hand stayed in his locks. “It's the Miraculous. Sometimes I can't help it when the feline instincts take over me and, well,” he shrugged feebly. “You're my friend, Marinette. I feel very…” possessive “... protective of you.”

Twice over, he yearned to tell her, when he was either Adrien and Chat Noir and she was nearby when an Akuma attacked. His eyes veered towards her and his body leaped to cover her and carry her to safety—every time.

“You don't have to worry,” she said. And the jesting manner with which she strived to convey her next words was lost when her laughter faded into a gratified hum as she rubbed at the sublime spot behind his cat ear while the tip of his nose ambled along the dewy arch between her nape and shoulder.

“You know you're the only one,” she sighed.

“Ton minou?” he asked into the skin of her neck, unable to look her in they eye as he spoke the question, his voice small.

“Oui,” she declared with not a hint of hesitance. “Mon minou. ”

His ring trilled. What was it now—the third time? The fourth? Either way, he was cutting it pretty close, and Marinette knew it too as she gently pushed him away and placed the clump of ebony garbs in his arms.

“You should change.”

He nodded. “I should.”

But he didn’t move from his spot, apart from his tail, which slunk from her calf to curl around her thighs.

“Tomcat,” she said again after clicking her tongue. “Are you going to slap my butt again?”

“Oh my god!” He rolled his eyes even as his face burned. “I wasn’t trying to slap it! It was a graze okay, I lightly grazed it—”

She laughed hard at his flustered state and he twisted his lips in a sulk though in truth, he was glad for the levity. Adrien didn't think he had ever in his life experienced such a wide range of emotions in so limited a time span as he had in the past hour. He had been wet and cold and hungry and mortified and exhausted to his bones. But he had also smiled, so wide that his cheeks throbbed from the gratuitous stretch of it. And he had laughed, the kind of laugh that left his stomach feeling as if he had gone through a hundred push-ups yet he was certain he would have done a hundred more, if it meant he could induce such laughter again. And sure, he was tired but it was inconsequential, welcomed even, because above all else—

He felt love.

It was unmistakably bizarre for such a sensation to arise, in this house of effulgence of which he was a penumbral interloper. Or perhaps it was for that very reason that he felt comfortable at all. For he knew love. And he knew his father loved him.

(Right?)

What little he knew of love, he learned from the man and that surely counted for something.

And he loved Ladybug—that had never been an issue... but was in love with her? Or had he been taken by the grandeur of two superheroes destined by forces that could only be speculatively attributed to the Universe and its magic determining they were meant to be together? If that was so, shouldn't he have been with Ladybug by now, instead of this unending game of cat and bug? A game in which only he was the player, chasing his tail more often than he was pursuing her, in love as she was with someone else. Besides, what was that about? Destiny or Fate or whatever it wanted to be called, who said They got to decide? Adrien all ready had so little control over most aspects of his life, would whom he gave his heart to be willed by someone other than himself, too?

So… did that mean he wasn't in love with Ladybug? And then there were his feelings for Marinette to consider. For what other explanation was there for the way he felt drawn to her? For this intense, almost frantic, need to see her smile and make her laugh? And what of the safety she incited in him, that he might be the one with powers but when it came down to it, she was the true hero simply because of the way she made him feel, like he was more than he truly was, like he was brave and whole and happy. Ladybug made his heart race but Marinette— Marinette made his heart soar. He didn't think that immediately meant he was in love with her. But with the fog that had been his admiration for Ladybug gradually lifting, it suddenly seemed so easy to fall for Marinette and he felt his heart flood open with possibilities for her—for them.

He groaned. Mon dieu, he didn't know what to feel!

In any case, he was more familiar with the aftermath of love, when the novelty faded and the scars were left behind. They were unseen to everyone and yet it had him feeling ugly all the same.

But not here... not when he was surrounded by the tenderheartedness of the Dupain-Chengs and most definitely not when he was consumed by Marinette’s incandescent aura.

As perplexed as he was, one thing was becoming quite clear to him—knowing of love was an entirely separate experience from feeling it.

“Chat?”

Unbeknownst to him, pensive as he was, Marinette had led him to her bathroom door. If laser vision was a part of his superpowers, he would have drilled a hole into the wood with how hard he had stared at it. Thankfully (or not, seeing as he had been walking in the rain), the only thing heated about him was his cheeks. He looked at her with an apology in his eyes. She returned her fingers to his leather mask and traced the lower edges as she tilted her head and asked, in a voice overflowing with concern, “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” he shook his head. “I think, for once—” He pinned her with a decisive stare. He infused pointed meaning into every word, syllable and letter he dared to say next, so there was no mistaking his sincerity.

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

AN: I JUST HAVE A LOT OF SADRIEN AND MARICHAT FEELS OKAY XD Stay tuned for part 2 :)

Update: Read Part 2 here

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