Chapter Text
Adrien Agreste is 14 when he meets Ladybug.
Adrenaline tingling at his fingertips, he vaults along rooftops so close to the wide sky and so far from the locked gates of the mansion it’s like the whole city is his.
Then she comes crashing down towards him, and before he knows it his body is pulled tightly against hers as they both hang, tangled in her yoyo cord above the cobbled streets. Her eyes are blown wide in a nervous mess of shock and panic, and it makes an amused snort escape him.
He catches a sweet scent wafting off of her, like the warmth that used to fill the kitchen when his mom made sugar cookies, before she releases her yoyo and they both fall to the ground.
Her voice is marked by stammers, stumbling over an apology clumsily. When he takes off in the direction of a building crashing down in the distance, her frantic yells for him to slow down make him puff out a laugh so bright he loses balance and almost smacks head first into a chimney.
Only a few hours later, as she stands high on the beams of the Eiffel tower, declaring loud and clear her promise to protect the citizens of Paris, does he hear the gentle whisper of a promise of his own in the hurried beat of his heart.
That he loves her now, somehow.
And would protect her with his life.
Adrien Agreste is 16 when her palms cup his cheeks and drag him down into a kiss.
He stands there, utterly stunned. Then his eyes flutter shut and the stars come crashing through the clouds to twinkle at their feet.
When she pulls away, city lights below them emblaze her flushed cheeks in a golden glow, and he traces the freckles along the edge of her mask with the pad of his thumb.
A cool breeze tousles through his hair, the warmth of her skin gleams through the leather of his suit and his life just makes sense.
Adrien is 17 when it stops making sense.
***
Standing in the staircase of the old apartment complex, eyes trained on the colorful ‘welcome home!’ doormat at his feet, he listens to the muffled hum of people laughing on the other side of the dark wooden door. He muses that maybe it isn’t too late to send another apologetic message to Alya and go back to his rented studio, but his entire body stays locked in place.
It's been a little over a month since his return to Paris.
He enjoys hearing his mother tongue spoken in the private conversations of strangers around him, and his daily trips to the coffee shop down the block for his morning chai latte.
He doesn't enjoy the double takes of suspecting strangers, or the memories that crawl along the corners of every street.
It’s been 6 years now, he's not a kid anymore. Such nightmares of the past shouldn’t keep him up at night, but being back in the city of his childhood makes it seem like he'd never really grown up at all.
Like he’s still a dumb 17 year old, utterly unprepared as the life he knows is ripped away from his grasp.
It’s fine, he tells himself slowly. No one behind that door hates you.
Desperately clinging onto this small surge of bravery before it fades again, he knocks.
A mere seconds later, the lock rattles and the door flies open, revealing a young man he immediately recognizes as Nino, Alya’s highschool sweetheart.
He’s taller than he’d assumed, towering a good few centimeters above him with broad shoulders and a grin so easily painted across his features Adrien assumes it must be his default.
“Hey man, come on in,” he says before Adrien has the time to throw up his guts all over their pretty doormat.
Mere seconds after his entrance, Alya all but tackles him into an embrace as the familiar scents of her hair creams and the bounce of her curls tickle the tip of his nose.
“Adrien!” she beams, “I fucking missed you!”
He laughs, finally feeling his ribs loosen their vice grip on his insides as he winds his arms around her too. He lets her sway them side to side slightly, closing his eyes for a moment.
Soft jazz is playing from further inside the modest apartment full of plants and warm lighting. There’s a stew bubbling caribbean aromas into the room, and the warmth of Alya’s hugs he’d missed so dearly calms the usually incessant tightness in his muscles.
“Took you long enough to come back, loser,” comes a familiar disdainful voice.
Alya pulls away, turning back to shoot what he suspects is a murderous glare to the blond lounging on the couch.
“Hey Chlo,” he says, kicking his shoes off as Alya takes his jacket, “it’s good see you.”
“Whatever,” shrugs Chloé, flipping her perky ponytail back over her shoulder, “can we all skip the sappy reunions? I’m starving.”
“Chloé, come on,” says Alya disapprovingly as she takes a seat beside her, “would it kill you to bask in the sentimentality of this moment? We haven’t seen Adrien in years.”
“And who’s fault is that?” she quips.
Adrien looks down, ashamed.
He’d always planned to study physics in London, but hadn’t planned to estrange himself from his friends in the process. Throughout the time spent alone at the university library, or alone in the labs, or alone in his room, he’d forgotten the sound of his own voice.
Talking to people there made him feel like nothing but dead leaves and rotting maggots were coming out of his throat, and any contact with Paris opened wounds he didn’t have the strength to heal.
He’d watched the years flicker dully, working as a research assistant for one of his professors after graduation and occasionally responding to Alya’s video calls when the incessant pinging of his phone became unbearable.
“Oh stop being a baby and just admit you missed him,” says Alya, slapping Chloé’s shoulder as she passes behind her on her way to the open kitchen to plate the food.
Adrien offers her an apologetic smile as he takes a seat on the couch, his clammy hand finding the back of his neck.
He knows he would probably have to make it up to Chloé one way or another for his absences and lack of communication, but seeing as she was being relatively civil, he doesn't worry too much.
During his entire two-hour ride back to Paris in the Eurostar, he’d sat there bouncing his leg and crackling his knuckles – no doubt driving the passengers beside him utterly insane – overthinking how horribly out of place he would be coming back after so long.
But instead, Chloé and Alya spend most of the dinner chatting enough for both Nino and himself to enjoy their food without needing to contribute much to the conversation. He’s not sure if they’d purposefully agreed to do so beforehand, but no one asks him any questions about his time in London, or his return to Paris.
Relief slowly floods through as the warm food fills his stomach.
He gets to know Nino a little bit better through quiet exchanges as they do the dishes, the girls still bickering on the couch.
He studied sound engineering, and is now an assistant producer in a small music studio, with occasional DJing gigs.
It’s funny to think of Alya’s lovestruck descriptions of her mysterious crush as the Nino Lahiffe stands right next to him, handing him soapy cutlery to rinse and telling him about their last couple’s trip to Marseilles.
It really has been a long time since he was last home.
Now, Alya lives with the boy she had spent countless lunchtimes raging over, and Chloé works a stable job in finance that provides her enough time and money to fuel her shopping addiction.
Sitting on the wooden floors, his back against the couch as they play uno around the round coffee table, he honestly wonders why he was so worried to come back.
***
[3 days after the Final Victory]
Voices fill his eardrums.
“Don't worry, Mr. Agreste,” comes the stable timber of a young police officer with stompy boots laced all the way above his ankles, “in the event of a mob, we'll be here to protect you until you reach the courthouse.”
“Just Adrien is fine,” he mumbles, but it is lost in the busy bustle of adults around him.
A firm hand presses against his shoulder to send him forward, and the heavy doors of the mansion open.
He knows he shouldn't look, but he does.
A huge crowd of reporters presses against the metal gates, festering like worms piling and twisting so close to each other they all look like one confused tangle of limbs eagerly shoving channel mics towards him.
Adrien can barely see their faces.
Big cameras flash so bright and so loud it makes him lose his balance before an officer grabs onto his arm to prevent him from falling.
“Adrien Agreste, did you know your father was Hawkmoth?”
“Adrien Agreste over here!”
“Any comments on Ladybug declaring your father to be the most wicked criminal this city has ever known?”
“Adrien Agreste, did you know your mother’s body was hidden in your basement for almost three years?”
“Adrien Agreste!”
“Adrien Agreste!”
Bodies press against him despite the best efforts of the police escort trying to lead him to the car parked along the sidewalk Hands surge from the crowd as if intent on grabbing chucks of his flesh and tear him bit by bit until there's nothing left of him to reach for.
Someone rips the baseball cap that had been screwed down to obscure his features, a stray fingernail scratching painfully against his cheek in the process.
The shutter of camera flashes rise in a deafening crescendo, blinding lights leaking through the spaces between his fingers as he tries to shield himself from their view.
With every fiber of his being, he hopes to melt into the pavement and disappear.
***
Adrien watches the cold tap water collect into the palm of his hands, his thoughts still muffled from his nightmare ridden night.
Startled by the chime of his phone on the edge of the sink, he bends down to splash his face.
It’s a text from Mylène, another of his classmates from the LeGrand Academy.
Hey Adrien! Can’t wait to see you again today!
A few days after his welcome back dinner, Mylène had contacted him about a little fabric store she owned, admitting it was in dire need of a new part time employee.
Adrien is pretty sure she had somehow been coerced into it by Chloé or Alya to get him out of his depressing apartment. He doubts there’s any way he can weasel his way out of any less than 3 months of work with two stubborn best friends breathing down his neck.
Adrien is dreading his first day at Fabric Fable, but if it means easing the tensions still plaguing his childhood friendship because of his 6 year long absence, it’s a relatively cheap price to pay.
He runs his hands through his hair, pushing the blond locks back to screw on a forest green baseball cap firmly over his head.
It’s an early September morning, his rented apartment is spacious and well situated in a relatively quiet neighborhood, but it’s still unbearably empty, with nothing but bare white walls, basic furniture sets and empty shelves.
Maybe being out will do him good.
On his way to work, he makes a quick detour to the coffee shop down the block. He exchanges polite small talk with the sweet barista at the till, before walking the rest of the way to the Fabric Fable boutique with his chai latte in hand.
His skin crawls uncomfortably with each step he takes towards it.
The shop is tucked in a narrow cobbled street, the signage marked by the store’s name in gold cursive matching a small wooden door that emits a joyous jingle as he steps inside.
The inside is densely packed with all things to do with making clothing. Each of the surprisingly tall walls is lined with shelves upon shelves of fabric rolls, evidently organized by color and prints. There’s a little island going down the middle with buckets of yarn and open organizers displaying a variety of threads.
“Adrien!” Mylène calls, directing his attention to the counter tucked in the corner.
“Hi,” he chokes out, clutching the strap of his messenger bag tightly.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, sidestepping the counter and welcoming him into a loose embrace, “it’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you again too,” he says, looking around in awe again, “the store looks amazing.”
“Thank you,” laughs Mylène, “how about I give you a tour?”
Adrien nods, following after her.
She guides him into a whole other room on the other side of an open door frame. The ceiling is much lower in the annex, and Adrien has to make sure to duck his head as he enters. It’s also filled with other sewing accessories such as buttons, ribbons, and even more fabrics, and a large cutting table in the corner.
Mylène explains employees are expected to cut the fabrics for customers, but instructs him to leave it to his coworkers for now. There’s a fashion school a few blocks away, so most of the customers are frantic university students with a thousand questions to finish their projects in record time. Back in the main room, Mylène reassures him he would mostly be mending the till once customers have already been taken care of.
Large windows line the street view, and Adrien can’t help but notice a few people filing past throwing curious looks inside.
“Are you nervous?” asks Mylène, interrupting her demonstration on how to use the cash register.
“Sorry,” he says, his hand going to the back of his neck to grip the tense muscles, “it’s just… everyone is looking at me.”
Mylène’s gaze flickers out the window, then inspects his features for a few seconds before a kind smile sparks a twinkle in her eyes.
“It’s alright,” she says, “they’re probably curious to see who the handsome new employee is.”
Adrien laughs tightly.
He nods, looking back at the machine and prompting her to continue her explanation to keep him distracted from the uneasy feeling.
Once Mylène is done with her initiation of the fabric boutique, opening time is nearing. Just then, someone barrels into the store, almost throwing the door right off its hinges as words tumble into the space.
“I’m so sorry Mylène, I swear I didn’t mean to be– oh my gosh! I’m not late!” she says, looking up from her wristwatch with a triumphant smile despite her shortness of breath.
Inky strands cascade down to her shoulders, her features dolled with touches of makeup that highlight the almond shape of her eyes and tint her lips in a smooth cherry red. She’s wearing gray plaid trousers, and a white cardigan with little embroideries scattered along the fabric that exude feminine class despite the casual setting.
There’s a sort of magnetic force wafting off of her narrow frame that knocks the air right out of Adrien's lungs.
As she throws her arms around Mylène to greet her, the world floods back to him again and he blinks out of his daze, noticing with immense relief that his brief lapse had gone unnoticed.
Despite his efforts to ignore the commanding presence of the beautiful stranger, he watches from under the protective shade of his cap as she prattles something about the line at the café while handing Mylène a mug.
“This is Adrien,” says Mylène, motioning towards him, “the new employee I was talking about.”
The stranger turns around, her big blue eyes finally meeting his. They twinkle like two shiny marbles, framed by her dark lashes as she blinks, as if startled by the sight of him.
His gaze sputters down to his sneakers.
“Oh right,” she says with a little laugh, “I completely forgot that was today.”
“This is Marinette,” says Mylène, “you can ask her anything about everything, she’ll know.”
Adrien nods, unable to piece together why her clear laughter had left something deep inside his chest gleaming with warmth.
Marinette.
What a beautiful name.
“It’s uhm, nice to meet you,” he mumbles.
“Pleasure’s all mine!” says Marinette.
Customers begin to file in more regularly at around 11, but true to Mylène’s word, none of them ask him for advice. Instead, he stays sitting behind the counter ringing their orders and wishing them a good day, keeping his chin tucked down to hide his gaze behind the visor of his cap.
Around 1pm, Adrien figures he’s due for a little break. The store is relatively quiet, so he slips into the backroom for a breather, leaving its door open to allow the sound of the door chime to travel. He pulls the cap off, running a hand through his hair.
Marinette is also inside what looks suspiciously like a broom closet with a sink, kettle and microwave.
She doesn’t seem to have noticed him, lost in thought as she stirs through a mug of tea.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she turns around, and Adrien’s breath is knocked right out of his lungs again as her gaze locks into his.
Her eyes are so, so blue.
“Oh, Adrien,” she mumbles, probably embarrassed not to have noticed him sooner.
“Hey,” he says, laughing awkwardly as he tears his gaze away from her and bows his head.
As silence stills between them he glances up, finding her eyes trailing across his disheveled hair, an incredibly sad veil tiding over her features.
Adrien is immediately compelled to dispel the weirdly sorrowful mood that clings around her, but before he does, she takes in a sharp breath and snaps her eyes back to his with a stiff smile.
“How’re you finding working at Fabric Fable?” she asks.
“It’s good,” he says, looking down at his sneakers again, “everyone's been very nice so far.”
She laughs, echoing his ‘so far’ jokingly.
She takes a sip of her tea, and Adrien tries not to make it obvious that the only thing he can think about is the lipstick stain she kisses onto her mug.
“Well, let me know if anyone is ever not nice,” she says, “I’ll set them right in their boots.”
“Will you now?” he says, raising a joking brow with an ease he didn't know himself to be capable of.
“I’ll have you know I’m much stronger than I look,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Is that a threat?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug, matching his quips effortlessly as she sidesteps him to get back into the annex, “is it?”
Adrien’s eyes follow after her, his smile lingering even as he shakes his head to set his thoughts right.
In the month that follow, Adrien gets his bearings at Fabric Fable until he doesn’t dread walking to his workplace anymore. He becomes grateful to have something to do with his days, an excuse to leave his empty apartment. He tries not to get in anyone’s way.
Usually it’s relatively mindless, and often he catches himself completely checking out for hours at a time.
He gradually allows Alya, Chloé and even Nino to claim little parts of his daily life as their own.
Sometimes, he hops into Chloé’s fancy sports car after work, letting her drag him around her favorite restaurants with stunning views of the Eiffel tower.
Nino takes him to his favorite arcades, teaching him the tricks behind every game, until he has an entire collection of plushies filling his large bed.
Alya appears at his front door unannounced with bags of fresh groceries, declaring she will make dinner for him. Her boisterous voice and the colorful mix of spices she uses in each dish fills his usually void apartment, and even if it’s just for a few hours, his life feels a little less empty.
Then, there’s Marinette.
Despite the fervent panic coursing through the store with the mid terms of the fashion students fast approaching, she remains unfazed, always assisting customers with an air of consistent calm. She’s always three steps ahead of everyone, providing a solution before customers have even noticed the problem.
She’s bright, and bubbly, and appreciated by all as a saving grace with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things to do with fashion. When she laughs, she makes no effort to hide it, bursting in bright fits that could make a stone statue crack a smile.
Even when the store is crowded with frantic fashion students and other part time employees, he notices her leaning along the walls, listening intently to someone’s requests.
Even when he's in the backroom waiting for the kettle to boil, he recognizes the rhythmic clicks of her shiny loafers, and the clear chime of her voice that paints his surroundings in vibrant colors he thought had been lost in his teenagehood.
She’s often much too busy to notice him, but Adrien sometimes finds himself hoping she also recognizes pieces of his presence in the boutique.
His forest green messenger bag leaning against the inside of the counter, or a mug he’d brought from home resting on the drying rack in the breakroom…
One evening, while he’s back on the fluffy rug of Alya and Nino’s living room playing Uno, a truth he had desperately tried to ignore suddenly hits him.
“I think I like one of my co-workers,” he says with a sigh.
“Marinette?” asks Nino, poorly masking his curiosity as he shoots him a look from over his glasses.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “wait I didn't say it was–”
“Dude, I dropped by once to pick him up,” Nino sorts as he turns to Chloé, “I could've had a gun to his head and he wouldn't have noticed.”
Alya laughs as Chloé shakes her head disapprovingly.
“You are down bad, huh?” asks Alya, clearly very amused.
“Yeah… I guess I am,” he says shamefully.
“Why’re you acting like it’s a bad thing?” asks Alya.
For a moment, it’s like the Uno cards are turning into cinders between his fingertips. He wants to change the subject, but knowing Alya she would probably notice and badger him even further.
“I don’t know,” he lies, “I don’t think I’m cut out for romance.”
“How would you know?” asks Chloé, her voice devoid of its usual snarkiness.
Adrien chuckles.
The couple exchange a look over their cards, but before he can comment on it, Nino speaks up.
“What do you like about her?” He asks as he plays his turn.
“I’m not sure,” he says, “I just can’t think of anything else when she’s around. It’s like I knew her in another life or something.”
“Oh Adrien…” sighs Chloé.
“Forget another life,” adds Nino, “you knew her in this life, don’t you remember?”
Adrien’s confusion must have been apparent on his features because Nino shakes his head.
“You two would have probably run into each other when we were all in Lycée,” explains Alya, “Marinette and Nino were inseparable back then.”
Now that she mentions it, clouded memories flit through his mind. He’s with Chloé and Alya, waiting outside a public school in a different neighborhood, until Alya slaps his shoulders to direct his attention to two teens walking down the steps of the building.
“That’s him,” she had said, “that’s Nino.”
Marinette had been standing beside him, her inky hair much shorter, tied into two neat pigtails rather than falling down her shoulders loosely.
He can’t believe he had forgotten.
Then again, a lot of memories from his final months of Lycée are locked deep in parts of his mind he doesn’t like to think about.
“No wonder she felt so familiar,” he mumbles absentmindedly.
“So you’re… serious about her?” asks Nino, glancing over his glasses just like Alya had just a moment ago.
There’s a subtle hostility in his eyes that Adrien can’t quite place, and it makes him think twice about his answer.
“I mean, I’ve only spoken to her briefly so… I don’t know…” he says finally.
“Why don’t you ask her out?” says Alya, not even trying to hide her excitement, “get to know her and all that jazz.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to date after–”
Ladybug.
The reassuring weight of her trust as she stood by his side, the red of her cheeks when he leaned close, and the bright colors of her soul that felt like half of his.
“After what?” asks Nino, snapping him back into the reality of their uno game.
“I just… I only got back a few months ago, I need time to settle first,” he says.
***
“Uhm, I’m so sorry ma'am, let me just get–”
“I can’t believe this! You call yourself a fabric store and yet you don’t have a clue about what I’m talking about, do you?”
Adrien isn’t sure how he ended up trapped against one of walls of the annex, fabric rolls pressing against his back as he desperately tries to put some distance between himself and a customer who seems equally passionate about her project as she is impatient about his blatant lack of fashion knowledge.
“I–I apologize for the inconvenience, I’m new h–”
“Clearly,” she scoffs, her tone cutting through the usually serene ambience like a pair of sheers through silk.
Adrien doesn’t know what to do.
He’s desperately trying to explain that if she just waits for Marinette to come back from her coffee run next door, she would have all the professional assistance she needs, but her impatience keeps escalating with each of his meek attempts to reason with her.
“Please, I just–”
“What’s with the cap anyways, what kind of customer service is this that you can’t even look me in the eyes?”
Adrien is trying to keep his cool but every breaths are getting shallower and shallower, until it feels like they're only reaching halfway down his throat before he has to exhale again.
Her voice is both way too loud and yet far, far away. He knows she continues talking but he can’t really understand her words anymore. He’s looking down at his sneakers, utterly deafened by his rapid breaths and the harsh hammering of his heartbeat against his eardrums.
For a second, he’s 17 again.
He’s still in that courthouse, listening to lawyers and attorneys bellow at each other with camera flashes thundering behind him, burning the skin of his back.
“Hey!” the customer barks, “are you listening to me?”
Her hand suddenly barges even further into his personal space and for a second he thinks she might hit him. Instead, she grabs onto his baseball cap to throw it off his head, his blond locks falling free over his eyes again.
Gosh, he can already see the headlines.
Adrien Agreste, son of Paris’ most notorious terrorist, making a mess in a fabric store.
Mylène would probably lose all her clientele, her shop would go under.
I should have never–
The bell jingles.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
Ah, it’s Marinette.
Pretty Marinette, with her sparkly bluebell eyes and her windchime giggles.
“Ma’am, step away from our employee,” she says, her voice firm.
He hasn’t looked up from his sneakers, but suddenly her shiny loafers come into view and she steps in front of him.
She's much shorter than him, but it’s like an impenetrable boundary has been drawn around him, protecting him from harm.
Suddenly he feels like he can breathe again.
“We don’t tolerate bullying, I’m going to ask you to leave now,” she says.
He has the vague idea he's swaying on his feet, but doesn't have the strength to find his bearings again.
Suddenly, two hands hold his waist, pulling him back up right. He blinks the fogg away from his eyes, finding Marinette standing right in front of him.
Bright sunlight pours in from a small window beside her side, casting shimmers in her eyes that swirl with blues of bright skies and clouded ocean depths.
“Adrien, hey,” she whispers, “what's wrong?”
He breathes out a sigh of relief, seeing her there.
It's stupid really, to think this woman he'd met only a few weeks ago could have such an effect on him.
Slowly, he lets his head fall onto her shoulder, welcomed by the soft scent of her laundry detergent and a hint of a flowery perfume.
A group of pedestrians walk past the shop, and he can guess the edges of their conversation if he really listens.
“Adrien,” she says again, her voice softer as her hand finds his arm, “it's okay, she’s gone.”
His mind still full of cotton, he nods, his hand about to find her hip to pull her closer until–
“Oh my gosh!” He says, finally back to his senses and very conscious of the fact his actions are far from appropriate, “I'm sorry Marinette, I shouldn't have–”
She giggles softly, and only then does he notice the soft flush nipping at her cheeks.
“It's alright,” she says, “I would have stopped you if it made me uncomfortable.”
“Still I–” before he can finish his sentence, her palms cup his cheeks gently.
“Stop worrying your pretty face about it,” she says, “now tell me, are you alright?”
Adrien barely hears what she's saying. The only thing he can think about is how close her face is to his, and the echo of her calling him pretty. For what feels like the first time, his eyes never leave hers.
For what feels like the first time, he doesn't mind being seen.
If it's her, it's alright.
Her gaze is gentle, true, searching his eyes worriedly.
“I'm alright,” he breathes, swallowing thickly as his eyes flit dazedly across the soft planes of her cheeks, and her long lashes fluttering against them.
Her breath hits his lips softly, making him itch for more as her thumbs begin smoothing soft touches along his cheek.
Her magnetism crashes against his inhibitions until it becomes unbearable, urging him to just–
The chime of the doorbell rings over their mingling breaths, making both of them jolt back.
Adrien, in his urge to get away as fast as possible, smacks his head against the rolls of fabric he had forgotten were behind him.
“Ow, fuck,” he curses, hand flying to smooth over the back of his head as Marinette puffs out a giggle.
It's unbearably cute.
She walks away, still shaking her head amusedly.
“Welcome to Fabric Fable, is there anything I can help you with?”