Summary:
Soon after Adrien's first date with Ladybug makes front page news, Lila seeks revenge on the boy who exposed her with help from an unlikely source: Chat Noir.
It started like this:
Marinette Dupain-Cheng—AKA motherfucking Ladybug—was slumped in the empty seat beside him, unfinished sketches and half-full lunch trays scattered between them like cards on a table. She had bruises on her knuckles and glitter on her nails and pink barrettes in her long black hair, nose scrunched in fierce concentration as she pored over the open notebook in front of her. She looked like starlight—like the way a symphony sounded—and every cell in Adrien’s system was about to dissolve into cosmic ooze.
“So,” she was saying, “I think that accessories are the best to start with, since I’ve got a few samples sewn up already. The Hero's Day fundraiser is in two weeks, and I want my website up for the hype.”
“That’s a great idea, M.” Across the table, Alya stabbed her fork into a cherry tomato. “We could be affiliates! That way I can can boost your stuff on the Ladyblog.”
“I need to get on it, it’s just hard to find the time. I’m so tired most nights I’m in bed before ten.”
The excuse slipped out of her easily, as though she'd used it often before. Adrien dropped his gaze into the safe zone of his lap, picking at the holes in the knees of his jeans.
“I think that scarves are easiest to customize,” said Alya. “You could do them in different weights, too. Winter and summer.”
Nino snuck a bite of dessert off Alya's tray, arm draped comfortably over her shoulders. “You should make one for Adrien to take to his next shoot. He can totally drop your name to folks in the industry.”
“Oh yeah!” He startled. “I mean—y-yeah, absolutely, Marinette. I would—I would definitely.”
Marinette pursed her lips, setting down her pen, and Adrien squirmed in the crosshairs of her attention like a beetle trapped by an overturned glass.
“Not if it’s any kind of trouble,” she said. “Y-you look distracted, Adrien. Are you sure you're okay?”
“Yeah, just—just homework, that’s all. I’ve had a few late nights in a row this week. I’m—” He gulped, trying to look anywhere but her: the blush on her cheeks, the worry in her eyes, the adorable furrow in the center of her forehead. “I’m coping, Mari. Sorry for zoning out.”
Inside his jacket, Plagg snorted.
Okay, so coping was a generous description for whatever the hell he'd been doing this month. Whatever this was—this sick, wonderful limbo. Coping was a privilege that Adrien couldn't afford when Marinette filled the room like the sun against his back; her fingers begging to fit between his own; her clothes smelling of cinnamon and sweet summer air.
She was frowning at him now, her eyebrows drawn together, but Nino cut in before she could speak.
“You’re doing Ladybug’s outfit for the fundraiser, right? That is so crazy. I can’t believe you know her.”
“Right?” said Alya, beaming through a mouthful of salad. “It’s great for your resume! And no press is bad press when you're trying to build a business."
Adrien shivered in both relief and disappointment as Marinette’s attention slid away from him.
“Maybe, Alya, but I don’t want to push her. Chat Noir seems more comfortable in front of the press."
“Chat talks the talk,” said Alya matter-of-factly, “but Ladybug is Ladybug. There’s two types of people in this city, girl. People who want to be snapped over her knee like an akumatized object, and people who don’t have working eyes.”
