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Selfishly, Marinette hoped that everything would get much simpler once her parents found out the truth. She hoped it’d be one less lie for the pile, one fewer moment where she’d have to scramble to remember exactly which excuses she doled out most recently, so she can keep all the plates spinning, but the real truth is that there’s only so much they can really help with, no matter how much they try. It’s an extra long hug, maybe, given freely at the end of the day. It’s a warm weight around her shoulders after another stupid battle and the knowledge that if push comes to shove, they can and will cover for her.
There’s a lot they can’t help with though. The big thing, for example. The thing she can’t speak out loud without a contingency for the contingency— rewind, pushback, second chance. Even they can’t know about that because the only way to control the fallout is to control the origin, which means no one can know, which means that it’s just Tikki who she can truly talk to, even when things start to get dire.
Even Alya wouldn’t get it, which is the whole reason why she never wanted her to know. She wasn’t supposed to know. When Marinette called her over, frantically typing a string of ‘SOS’ in their secondary chat log, she wasn’t supposed to already be here, fist clenched as it rattled against her door, done in their agreed upon five-two pattern for easy verification.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. Pause. Tak-tak. Pause. Then repeat.
The conversation she had with Adrien earlier still swirls in her periphery, coating her veins in ice. Adrien who doesn’t know any better, Adrien who came up to her with a shaky smile as he said that he may be finding peace with his father’s sacrifice. His ghostly form still lingers in the air, unnaturally calm, buoyed by a hundred white lies that were never supposed to last.
‘I’m practicing affirmations,’ he had said, clutching his bag so tight that it left a red mark around his fingers. He sounded so wistful, so strangely at peace, like his head and heart misaligned, and then it all sunk in. ‘Sometimes—’ he had admitted, voice a little wobbly, ‘—sometimes, when I tell myself that I should give him a chance, I really do feel better about it. I mean, maybe he wasn’t the best dad, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t save the city, right?’ And he sat there, his smile all teeth, as he told her that he’d like to find some way to forgive him, that he’s really been trying to forgive him, even if it’s hard.
It’s all a technicality. Technically, Gabriel did save the city when he could have easily destroyed the whole planet, but that doesn't make him a hero. That doesn't make him someone that Adrien should be forcing himself to embrace.
The mere idea of it was enough to make her heart stop, enough to make her run crying to Alya even though she should’ve been able to deal with it alone. Adrien didn’t know. He doesn’t know about the amok. He doesn’t know about his father. He shouldn’t even be in this position to begin with, but he is, and they are, and maybe it was unfair of her to brush him off and ask him to leave, but what else could she do? She couldn't bear to watch it, but she can’t help him either, so all that’s left is to push him away until she has enough space to think and breathe and crumble.
Hence, this. SOS. Very urgent.
The door leaps open as soon as she unlatches it, but nothing goes according to plan. Marinette doesn't get a chance to parse through the memory to pick out the parts she can share because Alya gets there first, filling the air with ‘why’ and ‘what the hell’ and ‘how could you ever think this is okay?’ as her arms windmill around, cutting through the air. It’s something about an illusion, a simulation, and then something about a lie.
“What— Alya, wait, slow down,” she rushes to get out, glancing briefly at the window while she hurriedly escorts her inside.
It’s pretty bad, but surely this isn’t an akumatised-level of worked up, right? Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry, so half her focus goes to signalling to Tikki that they have to watch out, causing her to miss whatever it is that’s gotten Alya so upset. That’s just the kind of risk she’s got to take.
“—and the letter,” she spits out, still talking a mile a minute. “That’s what was in the letter. It had something to do with him. I should have known it was something like that!”
“Alya.”
Alya’s just about as mad as she’s ever seen her, mouth twitching as this bloom of pink curls over her face. She holds her gaze for as long as she can, breaking it only to check the windows again in a hellish rotation— Alya, window, door, Alya, window, escape route, and repeat.
“Stop! Just… stop. Don’t even bother. You can try to play it off, but I already know the truth.”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“Gabriel was Hawkmoth.”
Outside, the city screeches to a halt. She hears Alya inhale in a huge, shuddering breath, the air bitter and bright, and Marinette freezes mid-rebuttal, moving so fast that her vision goes a little spotty. A tender spot between her ribs aches as the cacophony starts to echo, and her skin starts to prickle.
“That isn’t funny,” she whispers, but neither of them are smiling as the truth weaves between them like smoke.
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Alya—”
“No, you can’t keep doing this! You make everything so hard for yourself, and then it blows up or it doesn’t, but something always happens, and you feel bad, and everyone feels bad, and you can’t just do this! Don’t you get it? I’m worried about you, but I’m also worried about him. This is— and you… You’re lying to everyone.”
“It’s not that simple.” It’s not, and it never has been, but Alya’s always been stubborn, and she’s always been stubborn too, and together, they both make a horribly stubborn set of heroes.
“He was his father. It’s not like it’s rocket science.”
Marinette’s stomach churns as she stands there, thrown back into the eye of the storm all over again. She’s wrong. It’s never been that simple. Nothing miraculous-related is ever simple or easy, even if she wishes it was.
“Just stop for a minute and listen to me,” she argues, chest a little tight. “Do you remember Théo?”
Alya’s eyes narrow as she reluctantly lets her make her case. “The megacreep?” she asks, voice pitched high and skeptical at how he relates to any of this. “I still can't believe Mme Bustier tried to hire him again.”
“Exactly! That's what I mean! If people found out Adrien was Hawkmoth's son, then he'd never be able to escape it. It'd follow him around forever, even if he had nothing to do with it! And he— I can’t do that to him. I couldn’t just tell everyone and ruin his life. He’s already gotten enough stalkerish attention from the modelling! If people started talking, it'd just get worse and worse, and there’d be no way to ever undo it.”
“I…” Alya sighs, pinching her forehead with a frown. “I guess. But he isn't like that! There's no way he knew, and he definitely would have done something if he did. You know that!”
Heat sprints down Marinette’s throat, and she has to remind herself to not react right away. She knows it’s bad, choosing to hurt him just to protect him from a storm of hypothetical hurt, but there’s nothing hypothetical about it. He'd be bullied and he'd be ostracised, all when he’s barely had a chance to taste what a normal life would be like.
“You know people won't see it that way,” she argues. “They'll just see the rich, sheltered son of the unabashed terrorist and want nothing to do with him. And Adrien— Hasn’t he suffered enough? He’d be crushed. There’s a difference between his father being awful and him being a literal supervillain.”
For a moment, Alya falls silent. Her shoulders drop and her hands hang by her side, limp. “Still,” she insists, voice a little jagged. “You should have told him. Ladybug should have told him, even if Marinette couldn’t. You can't just decide for him.”
Marinette sighs. She meant to just breathe, but it comes out like a sad little puff of air. It’s not really about the decision. It's just… Isn't it better if she’s the only one that has to suffer? Why trap them both under that burden?
Still, deep down, she knows that it’s wrong.
“I was going to,” she admits, and it sounds pathetic, even to her.
That’s the real truth though, even if it sounds a little ridiculous, all cracked and coated in desperation. She imagined a hundred ways to get it done too, ranging from most to least plausible, most private, least traumatising, and then… and then Chrysalis arrived and it suddenly wasn’t safe to be unhappy or unstable anymore. The truth would destroy him, and getting forced into going along with the lie would destroy everyone else, so it had to be her burden alone. That’s what Ladybug’s here for, even if she hates being pinned beneath the weight of it. If she can’t fix things, then who can? Not Scarabella, whose identity was out before the end of the day. Not Chat Noir, who’s got enough on his plate already.
No, it’s always been her job. She has to be Ladybug, which means being Ladybug— living up to the vision people have of her, being perfect, always being on, on, on, even when it hurts.
It’s Paris, so that's just how things are. There’s no such thing as long-lasting peace, and if even normal people navigate through life on their tiptoes, avoiding anything that could spike their emotions lest it gets them akumatised, then there’s no chance she has the luxury to let herself sit around and feel things. That’s just the way that it has to be, even if it means choking down shards of half-truths whenever things get rough.
It’s Paris, and it’s home, and she'll do anything to protect it, warts and all.
Alya stares at her for a second, gaze a little murky. “So, what happened then?” she asks, which is fair. It’s so fair, and yet she can’t bear to listen to it, the words coated in familiar barbs that she’s considered night after night. “Because he clearly doesn’t know, and you clearly aren’t telling him.”
“I just… I can’t tell him. Not now.”
Even with Alya, who should be able to know and hear anything, there’s only so much she can safely reveal. She was already nearly akumatised. Chrysalis is convinced of her identity. Her uncle was an imposter or a fraud or maybe even kidnapped. Anything could be fake, so she has to check and check and be ready nonstop, and there are some certainties to the fallout.
It’s a recipe for resentment— catastrophic, atomic levels of anger and pain and another round of mourning, both for the man that Gabriel was and for the man that he was not. When Adrien finds out, it’s going to destroy him. When he finds out, he’s going to have to knowingly hold up the keystone of the fortress of lies until it topples around them, and when it does and he inevitably gets akumatised for it, when Paris faces his wrath for the fairytale it’s forced him into, she’s not sure if she’ll be able to stop him. That’s the real heart of it, honestly. If that happens, she’ll end up being emotionally compromised, and Chat Noir shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of whatever happens in that fight alone. That’s not fair to him either. That’s why no one but Nathalie, who won’t let her go back on her word, was ever supposed to know.
“Why not?” Alya asks, and again, it’s such a good question. Why not?
The letter was a Marinette thing. Surely, she could have gotten away with that, but she can’t. She can’t because every Marinette thing is also a Ladybug thing, and every Ladybug thing has to be perfectly formulated to keep up the illusion while giving away nothing of substance, and Ladybug can’t be trusted with an akumatised Adrien. The idea that she could be in a position to cause him so much pain that it akumatises him is enough of a wake-up call as is.
Marinette freezes under the force of her attention. Her mouth feels like it’s been rusted shut, and there’s no way to un-stick it. It wasn’t supposed to be a big lie, but it’s snowballed and snowballed and snowballed. Even after what feels like an eternity, she can’t come up with a single good thing to say about it. She hates everything about it, but this is bigger than her feelings. Her feelings shouldn’t matter.
“I just can’t. Not right now. But I will,” she promises. “Someday.”
Alya stares at her with the disbelief of someone who’s witnessed a million broken promises that she’d be honest about her feelings someday. It’s just that usually, they were the harmless, Buttercup sort of feelings. Not this.
“Fine,” she eventually says, trudging towards the door with a frown. “Look, I’m not going to tell him, but I’m not going to cover for you either. He deserves to know the truth.”
“I know,” Marinette replies, feeling the words get pulled out of her. Then she apologises like it’s an afterthought, a belated realisation that Alya’s now complicit in it too, even if she doesn’t want to be. “And I’m sorry.”
Alya doesn’t really acknowledge if she’s heard it, but it feels good anyway, finally being able to say it out loud. The door rattles when it hurtles into its frame, and for a second, she finds herself wishing it’ll never open again, even though that wouldn't really solve anything either.
She should tell him the truth. She should, but it’s one thing to know that and another entirely to do it, and the gulf between them just laughs at her until it’s all she can process— the crescendo, crescendo, crescendo.
-
In the end, even though she stares her phone down like it’s radioactive, nothing much happens for the rest of the night. In fact, Marinette does nothing but sink into her blankets until Tikki lands on her hand, whispering something about patrol, and she could just skip it, citing some excuse about a deadline that’s been hounding her, but honestly, a little air sounds really, really nice right about now.
The city is just so beautiful from so high up. Everything’s much smaller and softer, blurred by the breeze and a faraway lens, and as she holds her hand out, it also feels like she could reach out and grab it.
There’s a faint thud on the rooftop when Chat Noir inevitably joins her, clambering onto the edge to look out with her. “Meow-ch,” he says, smiling. “You don’t look too good today, Bug.”
“Good evening to you too, Chaton.”
She doesn't ask him how he can tell. They’re kinda beyond that at this point, so familiar with each other’s quirks that she’s not sure he could even explain what he noticed. It's just something you feel— something you know.
“Penny for your troubles?”
Marinette shakes her head. She somehow manages to smile though, so at least that’s something. “It's kinda a lot. I don't really want to… to, you know,” she says, shaking her hands around in a flurry that’s supposed to imply something about the magnitude of it or the fact that she really doesn't want to bother him either.
“It’s no bother at all! Cat’s honour.”
Marinette frowns, staring out at the streetlights. They dot the horizon like little paint strokes, and the city’s never been prettier than it is tonight, all pristine and perfect. “I don't want to dump it on your shoulders,” she says, ignoring his probing eyes.
“Well. I can't help if I don't know what’s wrong,” he rebuts, his voice so soft that it evaporates. “I don't have to help either. I could just listen, if all you want is to let it out. Or we could— well. There’s some stuff you should probably know too, so maybe we can trade.”
That grabs her attention, leaving her reeling as she stops staring at the rooftops. There’s no undercurrent of teasing in Chat’s voice, no hidden gotcha that’s threatening to leap out and trap her, and he’s probably the person who can actually understand her best, all things considered. She shouldn't have to hide from him, even though she often does, and that’s what makes it so tempting.
For all his bluster and easy confidence, Chat Noir is a pretty tightly bound book. He spouts off enough anecdotal nonsense in interviews to convince people otherwise, but it’s all pretty calculated and sly. All of it’s done to fill in the bones of the kind of hero he wants to be known as, to give him something to strive for, so the fact that he’s volunteering something first is a bit of a marvel of its own.
“I dunno,” she finally admits, scooting over till they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. After another few seconds, she lets her spine relax as she leans into his weight. “It’s kinda a lot.”
“So is mine.”
Marinette takes a deep breath as she counts every inhale between them. Alya’s voice rings in her ears whenever she lets her mind wander, layered by a confused Adrien, so the distraction is nice. It’s grounding.
She has to tell him.
She has to tell someone.
“...well, okay then,” she hums, but she doesn't say anything more. Even that much, that one little agreement, feels like a monumental step forward— one that leaves them sitting there in silence as her mouth opens wide before swinging shut all over again.
“Do you want me to start?” he eventually asks, eyes kind and bright and glowing like he’s stored part of the moon somewhere deep inside them. “I—” Chat Noir coughs, staring at her like he’s a sailor trying to gauge the slosh of the sea, and his heart rate spikes beneath her as he tries to collect himself. “I know it sounds bad, but just let me explain, okay?”
It all comes out at once, the words crashing into each other in their haste to evaporate as he wrings out his hands. “A few weeks ago, I detransformed in front of my girlfriend,” rushes out, followed by the whole merry parade. “She got akumatised, and I guess I just panicked. I had to, so I did, but luckily, she didn't notice.” One, two, three, four. Disaster, disaster, disaster, disaster.
Luckily? Honestly, they’re lucky they don't pitch off the roof entirely when she’s finished rebooting. Marinette nearly loses her balance as her balance slips, and Chat Noir just grimaces as he grabs her arm to steady her. She was prepared for a lot of things, but she wasn’t ready for that.
“You— what?!”
“It was the only way,” he insists, suddenly far more interested in the skyline than her safety, which was never really in question anyway.
“You can’t just— You shouldn’t have done that. What if someone saw you? What if Chrysalis saw you?”
Despite his earlier reluctance, Chat doesn’t even flinch. He just shrugs like he’s immune to it, like the possibility doesn’t even phase him. “Then I would’ve used my powers to erase their memories,” he says, idly swiping at the air.
That’s not good enough though. It’s one thing if it was someone random or someone he liked but didn’t really care about that much. Maybe, if she had to, she could meddle with an acquaintance or a friend, a distant one, one who wouldn't have remembered it after the battle ended anyway.
If it was his parents though, his mom, his girlfriend, the love of his life on the other end of the storm, would he be able to go through with it? Could he make that choice and live with it?
“What if she saw you and found out?” she asks. “Would you have erased her memories too?”
As he considers it, Chat’s face immediately sours. His eyebrows pinch inwards as his nose wrinkles, and for a moment, he stares into the aether, probably just imagining it. “Erased her… I don't know,” he says, letting his arms flail around between them. “Maybe I would have, but maybe I wouldn’t. Look, I’m just trying to be honest. I saw the best path to protect her, and I took it, and I knew you wouldn't like it, but I had to. I just did what needed to be done.”
While she sits here, doing nothing much at all, it feels like someone’s sitting on her lungs. It’s just not fair. Nothing about this is fair, and the sky is murky, and the air is just water, and perfection is a monstrous burden for someone so terribly young.
Marinette tries her best to smother it, but the scoff comes out anyway, grating and sharp and entirely unwelcome. Deep down, she knows she shouldn't be upset, but it just gets to her in a way that it shouldn't. The existence of his ‘girlfriend’ is a relatively recent development. He said so himself, and he really shouldn't be making reckless choices for her sake. He really, really shouldn’t, and yet there he was, detransforming in her vicinity to try to civilian the akuma out of her.
Why is it fine if he does it but despicable when she does the same?
“You barely even know each other!” she half-shouts, mostly mad at herself. Her tenure as Ladybug and her affection for Adrien have lasted just as long, but that doesn't mean they should be weighed equally.
How can he know it's worth it? How can he pick one person’s life over the fate of the city without letting the consequences of that choice seep into him?
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you!” Chat takes a deep breath, one so deep it rattles through his chest, hollowing it out completely. “Look, she’s one of my closest friends. One of my only friends, really, and she’s— My parents aren’t in the picture anymore. I can’t just sit around and keep losing people,” he croaks out, deflating into nothing. “I can’t. Not when I can stop it from happening.”
“Chaton…”
“I mean, what’s the point of having powers if I can't even protect anyone that matters?” he asks, staring down at the faraway lights. “I know it was reckless. I know. But honestly, I don’t know if I could hurt her, or fight her, or, well, you know what I mean. And she’s been so stressed lately, like she’s never fully with me, and the akuma could’ve been the final nail in the coffin. It’s happened before. So, I… I had to make a choice. It was just me and her, and I made my choice, and I’m sorry.”
As she takes in the sight of him, Marinette sighs, reaching towards him. Her hand hovers by his arm though, bobbing like it knows it’s unwelcome, and for a second, it’s like his warmth fades away too.
With Chat, she can peel away the niceties and be truly honest, and maybe sometimes that means being a little bit too sensitive. Maybe that means actually showing him the uglier parts of her, cushioned by a sense of genuine security.
“I’m not mad at you,” she says, which is true. She isn't. “I’m just scared. I can't lose you too.”
It all gets a little overwhelming, memories and alternate futures and what-ifs peppered throughout her head. One blink. The shattered moon, the total catastrophe. Another. Her as Marinette, hand in hand with a Chat Noir that’s got a storm inside him. Adrien on his knees, face contorted with agony as a sheen of purple washes over his skin. She tries to get to her feet, but all she can manage is to flop a little to the side, ending up lying on the concrete as borrowed strength starts to leave her, and the cars below start to slow like they’re swimming through syrup.
“I don’t know why you think you ever will,” he says, voice so soft that it’s hard to believe it’s real. He always sounds so sure of himself in a way that’s enviable and impossible to emulate.
The midnight chill crawls into her throat, splintering into little shards, and it takes two attempts to get anything useful out.
“When we were confronting Monarch, I had to do some… things,” she whuspers, cringing when her shoulder pops as she twists around to look at him, hoping to safely gauge his reaction so she can pivot if it starts looking grim. “Bad things. Things I’m not proud of.”
Chat Noir nods, looking at her with this gooey sort of grimace like he already knew what was eating at her. “No one ever said saving the world was gonna be easy.”
“It’s not just that. It’s just— I had to make some choices too, and they were pretty bad ones. I can’t help but feel like I really made a big mess of things. Or, well, maybe it wasn’t just me, but I went along with it, and now, if I take it back, I think it’ll be worse than if I never did it at all. I just… I felt like I had to.”
Helplessness doesn’t look good on her. She knows that, but she also knows this is far more important than that, so she tries her best to ignore the siren in her bloodstream screaming at her to run away before she ruins everything again.
“You all did your best,” is what he finally says, pushing a tiny smile onto his pale, stony face. ‘You all,’ he says, because he still believes in heroic sacrifices, and it takes an unfair amount of effort to bite back the instinctual rebuttal. “Besides, it’s not like you had your knight in shining leather for backup.”
Marinette nearly loses her footing again as his words truly sink in. Her heart seizes, and her stomach churns. There he goes again, slathering a thick layer of humour over any unpleasant feelings he may be dealing with. It’s a weapon and a shield all at once, a shroud, a way to deflect any unnecessary scrutiny.
“You can't be everywhere!” she argues, blinking furiously to keep the tears from forming. The streetlights stretch into streaks of hazy white and yellow, turning into veritable stars. Shooting stars. The kind you could wish on, except she’s gotten really sick of wishes. “You had no way of knowing that he’d pick that day to strike.”
“Maybe, but I still wish I could’ve helped.”
He’s a good person. He’s better than her— kinder, more patient, more genuine, even if it sometimes grates her gears. He should be demanding her for answers. He should ask for the truth, for the trust that he deserves, but all he ever does is offer her a hand and a warm space beside him, and it’s just too much.
She’s been unfair— unfair both to and towards him, and that’s got to end tonight.
As she looks out at the streets, it's easy to imagine the vastness of something bigger surrounding them, something more like the ocean. Its shiny surface would tap against the concrete and sand, and there'd be a voice coming from the waves as she paddled ashore, a voice coated in pinpricks of starlight as it told her that she was going to drown.
It all gets to be too much, so at some point, she buries her face into his shoulder, and the floodgates spill open anyway.
“Chat, I’ve been meaning to tell you the truth about Monarch. The full truth. It’s just— The timing wasn’t very good, and suddenly there was all this other stuff going on, and I didn’t want to distract you or hurt you or mess it all up, but I want to be honest.” Marinette sighs, squeezing her hands together, and the pain keeps her grounded. “I want to tell you, but I think I should tell someone else first. Monsieur Agreste’s family should know too, and I guess… I mean I never really had the courage to tell them, but I should’ve. And I will. So, I mean, what I’m trying to say is— I do want to tell you, but would you mind waiting for another day? I know I’ve made you wait a lot already, but I just… I want to do this right.”
Chat’s response is muffled by her sniffing, but it’s not too difficult to make it out. Her ears have always been well tuned to his voice.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
Marinette nods, not trusting her voice. As the breeze picks up, she slumps into him, all exhaustion and no bones, and she briefly wonders if she'll ever be ready before shaking the thought off, focusing instead on the warmth all around her, the ease of it all, and she’s so winded that she couldn't even try to reply anyway. He doesn't pry though, and he doesn't judge. All he does is accept it, acting like the knowledge that she’ll definitely tell him is enough, and for that, she can only be grateful.
24 hours. That’s what she’s decided. Tomorrow, she’ll tell them both everything.
Tomorrow, everything will change, and she’ll just have to deal with the consequences. That’s the only way she can salvage this.
-
Despite all the encouragement, it still takes her until the morning to work up the nerve to try to end things.
It’s a little silly, but something about it makes her feel better, so even though he won't be able to see it, she made sure to get up earlier than usual just to pick an empowering sort of outfit for the occasion. There was just something ritualistic about it, something that made it feel right, and the residual confidence still lingers by the time she makes it to his window, knocking against it faintly as she tries to avert her eyes.
(The specifics of his room are nothing she hasn't seen before, but still. As a civilian, he's entitled to his privacy, even if his father installed some bizarrely large barred windows that effectively let anyone with the height get a major eyeful. Something, something, large gilded cage, she imagines.)
“Adrien Agreste?” she asks, smiling on reflex when he scrambles over, steps a little fidgety as he fumbles with the latch.
As she marvels at the way his eyes gleam, dripping with concern as he stares out at the city behind her, she wants to tell him that this is how he has always seen him. He has always been striking and beautiful and trusting and kind— kinder than his father, stronger too— and she’s pretty sure that'll never change.
“At your service,” he says, offering a hand as she slips inside, and it’s familiar and warm, even through the suit. He takes another quick peek outside before pulling the window closed, telling her she just tug on the handle when she wants to leave, and that all works out better for her anyway, since that means there’s one fewer place where an akuma could fly in.
“Thanks.”
Marinette clutches her yo-yo tight in her hands. It’s her PR smile that she has to shape her face into, lowering her shoulders as she shuffles over to the couch, sinking into it with practiced ease. There’s a sweater half-folded and draped across one of the arms, and it’s nice to see the space look a little less clinical.
“So… are you here for hero business? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure being a backup holder isn't going to work any better the third time. Not that I wouldn't want to help you. It's just, well— you know.”
“What? Oh, god no. No, that’s not it at all! Sorry.”
Marinette sighs as she grits her teeth. That’s what happens when she gets distracted by Adrien and his innate Adrien-ness! He makes very valid assumptions about the silence, and then she has to dig herself out of the hole she created yet again.
It’s her Ladybug voice that has to do most of the talking, coated in enough confidence and assurance to soften the blow.
“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” is what she starts with, throwing each word out carefully, “But it’s pretty intense, so if now’s not a good time—”
“Now’s fine,” he answers, cutting in so fast that it’s almost hard to believe.
“Are you sure? Because it's— I wanted to talk to you about your father. You should know what really happened.”
At that, Adrien’s grin finally warps into a little half-frown, and her heart pangs in sympathy. “Oh. So this is about the day he, uh…”
“Yes. He did make a sacrifice, and he did do some good, but it wasn’t that simple.”
Her eyes briefly lower to the ground, focusing on the way one of his ankles is hooked around the other. Adrien is remarkably calm when she eventually stares him down, waiting for his permission to continue, which he gives with a shaky nod.
At first, she starts with the big picture. There’s still a few details she has to edit out— the exact number of kwamis, the cages, the fact that the combination of Tikki and Plagg could grant someone a wish— but the most important pieces are still there.
In this version of events, there were still the nightmares and a big commotion, the clambering mass of people trying to find him, to find all of them, all with a ring burning into their fingers. There was still an incident in the mansion, something that happened there while Adrien was gone, but it wasn’t a coincidence. Monarch’s timing wasn't a coincidence, and neither was his father’s.
It wasn't luck or heroism that brought him there because he wasn’t a hero. Not at all, honestly. It was all part of Monarch’s grand plan, down to stranding him in London while Gabriel convinced the world that he’d actually gotten kidnapped.
The thing is, it’s much easier to stage the disappearance of a beloved celebrity when said celebrity is secretly your son. It’s much easier to convince someone like Gabriel Agreste to work with you if you can find a way to share the same goals. And, all in all, it’s much easier to share the same goals if you’re two sides of the same coin. So, yes. Gabriel Agreste was Hawkmoth, and he was Shadow Moth, and he was Monarch too, and he did sacrifice himself, but it wasn’t as simple as everyone probably thinks.
“—because the Peacock Miraculous is damaged,” she shares, trying to end it with something good. Gabriel did save someone, even if Nathalie’s illness was also largely his fault. “I mean… I don’t know for sure, but from what I can tell, he traded his life for that.”
Every so often, the pace slows as her eyes dart around, but the skies have been blessedly akuma-free. She can’t let her guard down though. Not yet.
Adrien’s face is slightly pale, his lips pursed. “So you’re saying my father…”
“Was Hawkmoth, yes.”
“That’s impossible. There’s no way he— and Nathalie covered for him too? And you… wow. Wow.”
As she fumbles with what to say next, Marinette’s bones are a few degrees shy of melting, her heart easily overclocking. It just feels like there’s no good way to do this, like whatever she does choose is the veritable worst way to go about it. With a deep breath, she manages to pick up her head and lags under the heaviness sewn into her limbs. Her feet are like anchors, weighed down by each admission, and she almost wants to laugh even though she knows it isn’t funny. Whatever it takes to help him get through it. That’s what she promised herself.
The weird thing is that Adrien, although visibly affected, seems relatively nonplussed. He’s still perched on the sofa, feet tap-tap-tapping against the floor as he chews on it. She kinda hoped he’d yell or cry or do something that would punish her for keeping this all under wraps, but all he does is let his body sag as he rifles through his memories, mentally recategorising them.
“You aren't upset?”
Adrien blinks up at her, confused. His eyes rove around, and his lips flatten, and he seems… fine.
“Oh, trust me, I am. I probably will be later too, when it all really hits me, but I guess I can't say I'm that surprised either?” His voice is pitched up as it reaches into the hypothetical, and another pang of sympathy rushes through her veins. “Maman’s death really changed him, and I always thought it was just grief or paranoia, that maybe time would heal whatever he was dealing with and he’d realise that trying to insulate me won't actually protect me, but I guess it never did.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Holding back a wince, Marinette wishes there was more she could do or say to fill the space. Everything she comes up with sounds kinda disingenuous though, and it’s not like Ladybug is supposed to know a lot about him. ‘I’m sorry your dad turned out to be evil.’ ‘I’m sorry he’s disappointed you so much that it’s not surprising.’ ‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way.’
‘I’m sorry for being so selfish,’ or, maybe, ‘I’m sorry you still can't know the full truth.’
On the bright side, Adrien seems to savor the silence, slumping into the couch as he traces loops into one of the cushions, and all she has the energy to do is to let him do it. Being a superhero means that she doesn’t get to live the same life as other people. She doesn’t get to weigh her personal feelings above her responsibilities, except maybe she does. Maybe she does, and maybe that means she has to live with the consequences too. It’s only fair that she’ll set him up for even more disappointment, when he finds out his girlfriend is the one who watched his father wish himself out of existence.
Occasionally, when she tries to be Marinette and not just Marinette-who-is-also-Ladybug, when she watches the world outside of her complicated, messy bubble, it’s hard to not feel like she’s destined to be alone. She shouldn’t be so nervous she could burst, afraid that Adrien will explode and that she won’t be able to stop him. She shouldn’t be coming up with a hundred contingencies— Luka or Alya will have to get her miraculous, if not Chat Noir— for the imagined reality where something bad happens, and she shouldn’t be tempted to ask Chat Noir to practice each hypothetical just to calm her own neuroses.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she tentatively asks, slightly afraid of what'll come from either answer. “I can listen, if you’d just like to vent.”
Adrien shakes his head, but his mouth flops open anyway, letting a torrent flood out. “Not really,” he says, but he doesn’t actually stop. “Well, actually— it’s kinda funny. You know, there’s this scarf in my closet, a blue one, and my girlfriend made it for me, but at first, I thought it was my father’s doing.” For a brief moment, Adrien’s placid model smile gives way to his real one, but it disappears just as fast, and his voice still warbles on the way out. “Sure, it made me happy, but it wasn’t like I needed it to be from him. I was just glad someone remembered. I think I just got used to being disappointed, and when I found out he didn’t make it, I realised, well, maybe he didn’t care about me, but I still had other people that did, and I... Do you get what I'm trying to say?”
She doesn’t, but she nods anyway, motioning for him to keep going.
“I guess my father was able to make the right choice in the end. That doesn't make him a hero, but it’s better than nothing. And I have people who do love me, so it’s not like I’m alone. And I guess… I guess I always hoped I'd understand why he did what he did, and I still don't, but at least I know why.” Adrien hums softly as he tries to fix his posture, running one hand down his spine. “Can I ask you something though?”
“Of course,” Marinette replies, bracing herself prematurely.
“Why didn't you tell me sooner? Or I… I mean, I really thought I was crazy, seeing everyone celebrate this idea of him that wasn't real. So— why? Why lie about that?”
Marinette closes her eyes against the sudden rush of fear. She can’t let any weakness slip though, so they fly open just as fast as she tries to school her mouth into its plasticine smile.
“I panicked. I had to give a statement, and you’re not even an adult yet,” she says, even though the hypocrisy is obvious. (Who’s letting teenagers run around and fight men old enough to be their father?) “Besides, even if you were, it’s pretty damning to brand someone as a supervillain’s son when you had nothing to do with it. I just… It was the right thing to do.”
“...I didn't need your protection,” he whispers, sounding more betrayed by that than by anything that’s come before, and it’s just so, so unfair.
“It wasn't just about you!” she spits out. “Do you know how dangerous it is to give people a target to hate? Even if they don’t mean to, they would, and those feelings would be enough to spawn countless akumas! And you know what, I wouldn’t even blame them for being pissed at him, but what was I supposed to do?”
Marinette deflates. No one was supposed to know that the Butterfly Miraculous was never recovered, but she supposes most people can assume as much anyway, considering Chrysalis's sudden appearance.
“—you’re right though. I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry. It’s all on me. Chat Noir… He didn’t know. So if you want someone to blame, you can blame me.”
“It’s not that. I just—” Adrien sucks in a breath with a wince, letting his words blur together. “I wish I was there. I wish I could’ve done more to help.”
The silence settles in her lap and across her shoulders and even down her neck. What could he have done anyway? There’s a good chance that his father would have done something worse if he knew Adrien was aware of his intentions, so maybe his obliviousness was for the best. Sometimes ignorance truly is another set of armour, since there’s no way to weaponise knowledge that someone doesn’t actually have.
“I’m sure you did what you could,” she eventually says, pushing herself onto wobbly feet. “It’s not like it was your job to stop him just because he was your father,” she clarifies, pouring as much sincerity as she can into it.
Adrien takes a deep breath, shifting as the couch sinks in deeper without her weight to counterbalance it. “Maybe not,” he says, sounding unconvinced. “But it’s not like it’s your fault either.”
Marinette shrugs, but Ladybug’s the one that answers. “It kinda was,” she says.
Her voice is a little too wistful and a little too sad, choked up at the idea of Adrien running around out there— Adrien as Aspik or Trionyx, Adrien who she recruited to stop his father, the things they did without knowing the truth. She isn't perfect, but sometimes the job demands that of her anyway. It’s no wonder that she keeps making a mess of things.
“Hey, look. Look. No. He was literally my dad, and I'm saying it isn’t.” Adrien scrubs his eyes with his sleeve, but his voice is remarkably clear, ringing out like the worst thing she could do is let this false belief fester. “It was his fault, okay? He chose to do that, and you did your best to stop him. You both did,” he insists, bringing her partner into the mix too, choking on it. “I might not love how it turned out, but it’s not like it’s your fault you got stuck in that position.”
“I should have handled it better,” she clarifies awkwardly. “You should have known sooner.”
There’s no way he can understand the gross interpersonal mess she’s made of it, keeping things from her boyfriend to protect her partner while also enduring the lie in front of her partner to shield said boyfriend, but this much? This much, he should get. And he should understand it too. He should know that he deserves more than what he’s gotten— both from his father and from everyone else.
“Are you gonna be okay?”
“Probably. I… Probably.”
“Are you sure? Because I can stay if you want. Or I could… um. If you want to let it out, I’d be happy to be on akuma watch. I’ll wear headphones or something.”
For some reason, Adrien manages to let out a miniscule laugh at that, letting this fragile little huff of air climb out his throat. Maybe it’s just funny to imagine her like that, half dead to the world as she’s got a pair of headphones on that are so comically oversized that they warp her sense of balance. She’d do it if she had to— if that’s what he wanted.
“I think I just need time to process everything.”
“Well, feel free to wave me down if you need anything,” she says, drawing it out for as long as she can. “I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”
The icy cocktail of humiliation and fear sloshes around her chest as Ladybug swings out of there. It takes her three tries to unlatch the window, and when she makes it back to her room, Marinette crawls back into bed without a second thought. All she wants is to melt into the fuzzy middle distance, but peace isn’t coming for her.
She moved on instinct. In fact, she has no idea what route she took home nor what was happening around her, but she does know that she did the right thing. She knows she did what she thought was right, and maybe it wasn’t, but maybe this will be, and when her phone jolts to life in her pocket, and a message from Adrien joins the few from Alya— an apology, something funny that she saw that reminded her of her— she takes a deep breath before letting it open.
hi mari, he writes.
are you busy rn?
It takes only a second to decide how she’ll respond. Perfection isn’t found by living life on edge nor is it the product of chasing after an idealised version of what you should have done a hundred steps ago. No, the real struggle, the real victories are won by taking the good and the bad and by trying to find a way to make it better. That’s how you truly make the best of something bad, so that’s what she’ll do.
I’ll call you in a bit, she answers, and she does.
It’s true. Maybe Marinette Dupain-Cheng is actually Ladybug. Maybe Hawkmoth was Gabriel Agreste, and maybe she couldn’t stop him, but if she can learn to be true to herself, then isn’t that a victory too?