They’d both been tossed around a little. To be fair, Chat Noir knew that Ladybug had taken more hits than she absolutely had to in order to protect him - the issue was that it hadn’t just been an akuma this time, they’d teamed up. It was bound to happen sooner or later, of course Hawkmoth wasn’t the only villain in Paris interested in teaming up with a magically powerful person with an easily manipulated vendetta. Chat Noir loved Paris. Really, seriously, and he felt it with the whole of his being sometimes, he loved this city, and the people of it, and he loved how Paris breathed and felt alive, and he would defend it with all of his being forever. Looking out across Paris from atop the tower was one of his favourite things to do, just to watch the city .. be alive. But some of the people of the city just weren’t super nice, and wouldn’t you have guessed it (just his luck!), when muggers team up with akumas and slice a solid couple of inches into your (his) side, Ladybug’s Miraculous Ladybug didn’t do much to fix it. He might have sort of stopped bleeding, maybe, but whatever coagulation was going on there had been ruined when he’d tried to stand.
Ladybug hadn’t even had time to check on him. She’d been about to transform back; the ML always worked to fix him up when he got hurt; bar a few occasional scars that stuck with him, the really bad ones, Adrien was usually largely untouched by these fights ... at the end of them, anyway.
Chat struggled into the rooftops, rather than staying in some mangy dark back-alley which was wet and smelt of feet, and he stopped. You know, to admire the view. Maybe to breathe. One of the two. His side burned worse than it had that one time Flamor had set him on fire (not highly recommended), and he... he was... he was on Marinette’s balcony. It took him a long while to realise it, gulping in air like he was, chin up to open up his airways, but he was on Marinette’s balcony.
That was a good thing. Right? She could sew. (The thought struck him before he had really considered what it would mean.) He’d need stitches. He couldn’t go to hospital, he was about to transform back; Adrien’s injuries would definitely make the news. Ladybug might recognise them, and - beyond that - his friends would definitely want an explanation. Somewhere in the course of this debate, Chat Noir had lain himself down on Marinette’s rooftop, breaths shorter and sharper, body becoming flatter and flatter against the cool of the concrete below him. Marinette was here. He held his staff at an angle, then extended it, so that it struck the little skylight into her room - the impact was barely jarring, but enough to make him groan. Chat swallowed. He steeled himself. When Marinette did pop up, out of the roof, he managed a pale-faced half-smile and an unenthused, “Hey, Princess.”
