Chapter Text
“I’ll find a park and then come find you, alright?” Placide says, as he pulls their hire car into the drop-off bay of Gotham General’s Emergency Department.
“Thank you Placide,” Adrien is beyond grateful for the older man’s forethought.
He doesn’t think he could sit in the car another minute, not when he knows his Lady is so close.
“Go on then kid, go see Marinette,” Placide nods towards the building.
Adrien doesn’t need any further encouragement. His belt is off and he is walking up to the ER in a flash. The second he steps through the automatic sliding doors, he hears Placide pull away, off to locate the onsite parking. A wave of noise hits him as the doors shut behind him and he barely refrains from coverIng his ears like a child. Inside is barely contained chaos. The large room is full of people in various states of distress. Nurses in green scrubs flit from patient to treatment room to patient.
Inhaling deeply, he does his best to shut it all out [he has a mission. He will see it through] and makes a beeline to the counter, searching for someone who can direct him to Marinette.
A young woman with dark skin and darker hair pulled back in a series of tiny black braids tight on her scalp [her scrubs have the name Kalisha embroidered on them] is helping an elderly woman fill in some paper.
Adrien keeps looking.
Next to her, a willowy woman with curly brown hair [her scrubs say her name is Samantha] is helping a harried looking mother holding a wailing baby. A prê-maternelle child and an older sibling [?] hang off her skirts, arguing loudly.
No, not her either.
But there!
A blonde in green scrubs stands at the nurses’ station, writing something down on a clipboard, not a patient in sight. Her hair is in a messy bun, loose strands fluttering around her face [her scrubs say her name is Olivia].
Adrien steps up to counter directly in front of her. She doesn't even look up to acknowledge his presence, pen flying over the the page in front of her. Adrien [impatiently] waits for her to finish, barely resisting the urge to tap his foot.Olivia fills in the last box on her board and then flips the page, pen a blur as she starts in on it.
Adrien taps down on a flash ofimpatience.temper.indignationand clears his throat quietly.
“Excuse me.”
The pen freezes and Olivia heaves a sigh. Without looking up, she grabs another clipboard, shoving it over the counter with a pen.
“Unless you’re actively bleeding out, fill that in. Current wait time to be seen by a doctor is one hour and twenty minutes. Take a seat, we will be with you when we can.”
Adrien frowns, “I’m not here for me actually. I’m here to see a patient, only nobody told me what room she would be in.”
The pen stops its frantic scrawl across the page and Olivia finally looks up, “What’s the name of the patient?”
“Marinette,” Adrien says, some of his impatience bleeding into his tone at the continued rudeness [he doesn’t want to be here anymore than she does]. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”
Olivia’s tired face immediately falls into a scowl, “You and everyone else buster. But like I told them, that patient is on restricted visitors. Only immediate family members are allowed on her floor. I’m going to have to ask you to leave before I call security.”
I’m glad they’re taking her security seriously, I’m glad they’re taking her security seriously, he reminds himself over and over [it doesn’t stop the affronted.impatience.indignationrising in his chest at the nurse’s assumption].
“I’m her fiancé,” he says through grit teeth [he isn’t, not yet, but he will be one day. If it gets him through the door, he knows his Lady won’t mind the slight deception]. “Is that family enough for you?”
The black nurse [a flash of embroidery on teal scrubs] Kalisha, her head snaps up at his words and she gapes at him unattractively.
"Shut the f*ck up, the Adrien Agreste is not standing in my ER," Kalisha whispers to herself quietly, "Bree is gonna lose her sh*t when I tell her."
[If Adrien didn't have enhanced senses he wouldn't of heard the quiet aside.]
[But he does, and he did.]
Olivia freezes, eyes widening slightly, “... who did you say you were again?”
“I didn’t,” he says mildly, the silent and you never asked practically deafening in the pointed silence that follows.
He sees Olivia bite back a wince, something like regret flickering through bright eyes [good, he can’t help but think meanly] as Kalisha averts her eyes, with a muttered “Yikes.”
Adrien pulls out his passport and holds it up so they can see it.
“Adrien Agreste,” he says, watching with petty satisfaction as her eyes flick from his passport to his face and back again, the colour draining from her face [typically he hates his fame, but if it will get him what he wants right now, he is not above using it with impunity].
"Adrien Agreste is engaged!" Kalisha whisper-shouts to her patient, sounding shell shocked. "Did we know that?"
"Who dearie?" the elderly woman says, face crinkling in confusion.
"That gentleman there! The blonde! He's a model," Kalisha whispers.
"Good for him," the old woman says absently.
[Adrien loves old people. So unfazed by everything.]
“I should be listed as Marinette’s emergency contact,” Adrien continues, ignoring Kalisha's shameless gossiping. “If that’s not enough, her rings should be in her purse if she wasn’t wearing them. There will be two of them, a promise ring and an engagement ring with a silver holder necklace. She doesn’t like to wear them abroad.”
His inner pocket, housing Trixx and Plagg abruptly feels lighter, and he knows one of them has phased away through the nurse’s station to ensure the jewellery [he’s been carrying the pieces since he was 15 and realized his Lady and his best friend were one and the same] will be exactly where he said it was.
He trusts the kwami to be discrete and avoid detection.
“You’ll have to excuse me Mr Agreste, but hospital policy means I’ll have to check that for myself,” Olivia clicks her pen rapidly as teeth sink into her lower lip.
I’m glad they’re taking her security seriously, Adrien thinks somewhat desperately, stomping on another wave of frustration.annoyance.temper.
“If you would do so quickly, that would be most appreciated,” he manages to choke out, clinging to his polite façade with the tips of his fingers. “I’d like to see my fiancé.”
“Right away, sir,” Olivia turns to the computer next to her, hurriedly typing for several tense moments.
Adrien closes his passport with a snap, stuffing it back into his pocket [he is suddenly very glad he insisted on being Marinette’s emergency contact because that, at least, isn’t a lie].
Olivia reads aloud from the screen, “The emergency contact for Marinette Dupain-Cheng is ... Adrien Agreste,” her voice ticks up noticeably, turning the statement into a question filled with disbelief.
Her head swings around and she gapes at him for several seconds before abruptly seeming to remember herself. She straightens in her seat, a professional mask descending over her features.
“My apologies sir, the number of people who want to see your fiancé is astronomical but that doesn’t mean I should have acted so unprofessionally. Please excuse my poor behaviour, it’s been a long night.”
Adrien grimaces at the knowledge that people have been trying to visit Marinette [he hates his own fame and would never wish to inflict that sort of notoriety on Marinette. Common decency seems to be thrown out the window the second one registers as even vaguely news worthy and his Lady deserves to have her privacy respected]. He stuffs his hands into his pockets to hide the sparks of Destruction that flicker over his fingers at the thought, carefully not acknowledging the rising fury.protectivewrath.anger.
“No apology necessary,” he says [though there will be if you keep delaying] with a plastic smile. “Thank you for keeping my fiancé safe and for protecting her privacy. I know when she’s feeling better, Marinette will want to say the same.”
Olivia smiles, the expression tinged in relief, “I was just doing my job. Your Marinette deserves to rest peacefully after everything she’s been through. If you follow me, I’ll take you to her now.”
She stands hurriedly, walking around the counter and gesturing for him to follow. Adrien strides after her, taking note of the turns and signs they pass so he doesn’t have to wait for help again.Olivia swipes them through a security check point [if push came to shove, he’d be able to use a low powered Cataclysm to get through the door. But he’d only resort to that if he was unable to nab a pass of some unsuspecting worker. And he’d only need to resort to that if his fame and wealth was unable to grease enough palms to secure himself a legal pass], nodding to the security team manning the doors before leading the way through the new ward.
She stops in front of door.
“Here we are sir.”
Adrien goes to enter, but Olivia stops him. He bites his tongue on the growl that wants to rupture from his throat, wrestling with his temper.
“I just wanted to warn you,” she says, perhaps sensing his rapidly depleting patience. “Marinette was in a critical condition when she arrived. She’s only just made it out of surgery. We hope she will wake up in the next couple of ho—”
“Surgery?” Adrien cuts her off, voice rising with his panic.
Olivia winces, “Yes sir. Her injuries were severe.”
“What surgery?” he manages to choke out through his suddenly tight throat.
Olivia hesitates but then says, “Marinette presented to us with a cerebral concussion. Her CT scan showed that it was mild, which is excellent news, but we will continue to monitor her overnight for any complications. As well as her concussion, she had a severe penetrating injury to her lower thigh; five fractured ribs, with one rib fracture escalating to traumatic pneumothorax which was obstructing her airways—”
“I’m sorry,” Adrien interrupts again, struggling to comprehend the medical jargon in a language that is not his primary. “Pneumo-what?”
Olivia’s face softens, “Pneumothorax. It means a collapsed lung. It occurred when one of her broken ribs punctured the tissue of her lungs. Most likely, it happened when she was trying to escape.”
“Her lung collapsed?” Adrien chokes out.
[Her lung collapsed.]
Marinette hadn’t been able to breathe.
[She must have been so scared.]
And he hadn't been there to protect her.
[She could have died.]
Marinette had to have surgery.
[Multiple by the sound of it.]
And he. hadn't. been. there.
Your fault, his mind singsongs and the accompanying wave of selfloathing.guilt.despair almost takes him out at the knees.
“It did, but Nightwing and Red Hood were able to stabilize her in the field until the paramedics arrived, and the surgeons were able to repair the damage,” Olivia says. “They also repaired the damage to her leg. The two surgeons in charge of her care were incredibly pleased with both the surgeries and believe she will make a complete recovery barring any unforeseen complications.”
[A complete recovery.]
She’s going to be okay.
He clings to that thought with everything in him.
“I need to see her,” Adrien says, desperation rising in his chest. “Please.”
“I’m not going to stop you,” Olivia says, holding up her hands peacefully. “I just wanted to warn you. Her injuries were severe. She’s currently hooked up to oxygen to help mitigate the damage to her lungs, which was made worse by the smoke and gasoline she was exposed to. She also has a number of tubes and leads running to various machines that are helping us monitor her condition. It can be quite confronting to see a loved one like that. You should prepare yourself before entering.”
Adrien swallows hard.
“I saw the footage,” he croaks through a suddenly dry mouth. “I know it was bad. I just need to see her. Please.”
“I’ll give you some privacy then Mr Agreste,” Olivia says with a sad smile.
She dips her head and hurries away.Adrien takes a deep breath, doing his best to calm himself, and then enters the room, shutting the door behind himself.Inside is quiet, broken only by the intermittent beeping of the heart monitor.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
“Marinette,” he breathes, spying her figure lying [so still] on the bed.
Despite Olivia’s warning, he almost collapses at the sight.
His Lady looks so small.
Clad in a white, spotted hospital gown and with a thick blanket draped over her hips, she looks like a tiny porcelain doll. There’s a bandage on the bridge of her nose [a sharp knife dances over delicate flesh, weeping red trailing in its wake] and the nasal cannula just below it that Olivia warned him about.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Her face is bruised in several places. Deep purple smudges her skin like a particularly macabre painting – smears run up her right cheekbone and disappear into her hair [the area had been darkening when the livestream started]; a distinct handprint decorating her left [the backhand catches her cheek, her head snaps to the side]; and liberally coating her forehead [bluebell eyes roll back, Marinette drops like a stone].
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Smaller bandages and gauze litter her exposed skin, no doubt covering scrapes and lacerations she’d obtained in her desperate last bid effort to escape. More bandages wrap around her wrists, almost hiding the bruises ringing them that peak out over the crisp white linen [blood streams down delicate wrists, deep lacerations slicing through soft skin]. He knows if he could see through the blanket covering her legs, he’d find similar marks on her ankles. A hint of white peeks through the neckline of her gown, hinting at more bandages.
[“A collapsed lung ... it occurred when one of her broken ribs punctured the tissue of her lungs.”]
He suspects that the wrappings areprotecting the incision the surgeons would have cut into her skin andthat her torso will be covered in even more bruises [a punch lands with an audible snap! of bone] but can’t bring himself to disturb her rest to check.
Adrien has no recollection of crossing the room.
All he is aware of is the loud ringing in his ears, the sting of linoleum biting into his knees as he hits the floor, the metal bed railing slamming into his chest.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
He reaches out with a hand that trembles, clasping the hand closest to him, being careful to avoid disturbing the IV.
Her hand is warm [he’d half convinced himself that it would be cold and stiff]. Until that moment, Adrien hadn’t believed she was alive. The seal on their bond is still in place. The gaping hole in his soul where she should be hurts.
But now he can see her.
He can feel the warmth of her skin against his own.
Can hear her heartbeat on the monitor and see the steady puffs of air pushing her chest up and down.
Marinette is alive.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
[His stupidity hadn’t gotten her killed.]
For the second time that day, he dissolves into tears [unlike the despairing sobs on the plane, these ones feel restorative, healing].
Marinette is alive.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
His Lady is predicted to make a complete recovery.
She’s alive and he’s here with her.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
He will keep her safe while she recovers [and then never let her leave his sight ever again].
He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, clinging to Marinette’s hand and weeping into the surprisingly soft fabric covering her lap. But he gradually becomes aware of purring and a rumbling chirping in his ears.
Plagg?
And Trixx?
Keeping his hold on Marinette, he slowly sits up, blinking as movement near his shoulders resolves into the floating forms of the two kwami.
“She’s alright kid,” Plagg says, voice low but no less reassuring for it.
Trixx darts in to nuzzle his nose, throat rumbling with another of those chirping purrs, “Our Kit is strong. She’s going to be okay.”
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
“She could have died,” Adrien croaks, body wrung out and exhaustion starting a slow but steady march through his veins.
“But she didn’t,” Plagg counters. “Don’t borrow trouble kid.”
But it was close.
Too close.
And this time it would have been permanent.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
He swallows hard and looks back to his Lady.
He can just make out a little red lump [Tikki] tucked in by her hip next to a brown and white lump [Kaalki]. The female kwami are so still they resemble the plush animals they are pretending to be. Plagg flies down to wedge in between them, curling up around Tikki protectively. Adrien isn't surprised. Tikki looks haggard, like she's feeling every single one of her millions of years [antenna flat to her head, blue eyes shimmer with tears, red skin dull, the usual sparkle of Creation and energy conspicuously absent]. Similarly, Kaalik hasn’t moved an inch from her balled up position by Marinette’s hip. Her green eyes are dull, lifeless and she doesn’t even look at Adrien [usually she’d gush about his worthiness of being blessed by her presence. The Horse’s obsession with wealth and fame is legendary and Adrien is both independently wealthy thanks to France’s child labor laws and the obscene amount of wealth he stands to inherit when he turns 18].
It's clear they’re both reeling from the attack.
Seeing the Ladybug prompts him to sit up properly [he doesn’t drop Marinette’s hand. Can’t see himself letting go for a long time]. There’s an important task he needs to take care of before Placide makes it to the room [he can’t be that far off joining them. He needs to hurry].
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Reaching out, he gently removes Marinette’s earrings from her ears. Tikki doesn’t move but the studs in his hand shimmer and then he’s holding two slim black sleeper earrings. With less care, he removes the jewellery decorating his double helix. In their place, go the Ladybug Miraculous. Taking the discarded earrings [two nondescript silver hoops], he pops them into Marinette’s ears for safe keeping [he’ll reclaim them when he is able to return her Miraculous].
“It’s just in case Teeks,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll return them the minute she’s ready to be Ladybug again.”
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Tikki trembles but nods her head in acquiesce before burying her head in Plagg’s chest, tiny shoulders shaking.
Adrien feels terrible.
[Your fault, your fault, your fault.]
“Trixx,” he murmurs.
The little Fox perks up, “Yes kit?”
“Where did you put the rings?” he asks.
Trixx flies over to a chair tucked in the corner of the room. On it rests a familiar purse. Trixx grabs the strap and lugs the bag over to Adrien.
“Thank you Trixx,” Adrien murmurs, pushing gratitude.love.thanks down the bond.
Trixx nuzzles his cheek in reciprocity before floating down to curl up around Kaalki, that rumbling chirp starting up again as he tries to comfort the non-responsive Horse [how much worse had it been for them? Trapped with Marinette but unable to help, unable to utilize their powers to get her to safety?].
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Adrien puts the strap of the bag on over his head, sliding it around to cross his chest diagonally and pulls the small bag into his lap. Opening the zipper, he peers inside. His rings and necklace are there, as is the Horse Miraculous. He deftly slips the rings onto the ring holder and then delicately loops the chain around Marinette’s neck, bringing the rings down to rest atop her hospital gown above the valley of her breasts.
The distinctive krr-click! of a latch opening has his head snapping up.
Before he can do more than shuffle on his knees to place himself firmly in front of Marinette, the door swings open.
--
“As I just said,” Placide says, each word a struggle as professionalism wars with fury at being kept from his [son] charge. “My name is Placide I.T. I’m in the employment of Adrien Agreste. I’m his bodyguard. It is imperative that you take me to him so that I can perform my duties.”
“As I just said, Mr Placide,” the woman he’s been arguing with for the past five minutes uses his words against him, accompanying them with a plastic smile. “That won’t be happening.”
The smile grates.
It is patronising [she took one look at him and concluded he was all brawn and no brains] and infuriating [she’s keeping him from his son, actively blocking him from being by his side] and condescending [like he’s too simple to understand that she’s denying him in some twisted power play that serves no purpose other than to assert her flimsy dominance].
It makes him want to do something startling to wipe. it. off.
[He won’t. He is aware of the power he wields as tall, well-muscled man. Is aware of the way his service in the military as a young man shaped him into a finely tuned weapon that civilians instinctively shy away from. His mere presence is the threat and he usually likes it that way. It makes him remarkably good at his job. But he refuses to wield that power as a weapon against women and children, or against civilians, no matter how vexatious they are.]
“Look,” Placide says, grasping onto his rapidly thinning patience with all his might, even as a hint of growl enters his voice. “I appreciate you’re just doing your job, but you’re preventing me from doing mine as part of the security detail employed by the Agreste family. I need to see Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng. If you can’t make that happen, find me someone who can.”
The plastic smile gains a vicious edge, her vapid brown gaze simpering and cruel, “Visiting hours are long over sir. Even if they weren't, I can’t just wave you through security. If we make an exception for one, we have to make an exception for everyone, and then what would the point of the rules be? I’m sure even someone like you can understan—”
“Samantha,” a sharp voice cuts over the top of her.
The newly named Samantha shuts her mouth with an audible click! of teeth, something sour flitting over her face. Placide turns to see a diminutive blonde in green scrubs glaring at her less than helpful colleague.
“I’ll take it from here,” the blonde says, her displeasure clear to the entire room.
[The young black woman who had tried to step in earlier and been viciously shut down for her efforts looks absolutely gleeful at this turn of events.]
Samantha huffs and shoves away from the desk, “Whatever. If you’re back, I’m going on break.”
Placide ignores the petulant display and turns back to the blonde, trepidation waring with hope. Things either just got a whole lot more annoying, or this is the lucky break he didn’t think he was going to get [if this new woman is half as obstructive as the last, he is going to say goodbye to professionalism and simply kick down every door in this bloody hospital until he locates his son].
“Mr Placide?” she says, mouth curling uncertainly around the French pronunciation.
“That’s me,” he nods and she nods back, eyes sharp.
“My name is Olivia Young, I’m the Charge Nurse for tonight. You said you work as part of Adrien Agreste’s security team?”
“Yes ma’am,” Placide says, preparing to explain himself again.
“Do you have any ID on you?” Olivia says and he’s pleasantly surprised by the question. “Anything to prove you’re who you say you are? I’m sure you can appreciate that I can’t just let anyone claiming to know Mr Agreste through security without confirming their identities.”
Placide approves of her approach. Sensible and cautious, but flexible enough to account for the situations outside the norm [it’s a stark but entirely welcome contrast to the rigid adherence to policy and procedure that Samantha had all but weaponised].
He dips his hand into his pocket, retrieving his passport and phone.
“My passport,” he hands it over and pulls up his employment contract from his email. “And my employee contract with Gabriel Incorporated.”
Olivia takes his passport, opening it and holding it up in front of her. Her eyes flick between the document and his face before she nods [he passed muster it appears], passing it back and accepting the phone in its place. Her eyes scan over screen quickly, scrolling through the entire contract twice before she nods and hands the device back.
“This all looks in order,” she says crisply [the tightly wound ball of emotion sitting in his throat unwinds]. “I can take you to Mr Agreste, if you’ll follow me?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, placing his hand over his heart and bowing to express the depth of his gratitude.
Olivia looks startled and then smiles, “Happy to help. Come on, it’s this way.”
Placide ambles along beside the small blonde, drawing a mental map of the building as they go. She swipes them through a security checkpoint and then stops short in front of a door marked 14A.
“Here we are,” she says somewhat redundantly. “If you need anything, there’s a call button inside the room. I have to get back to the ER, but the staff on this ward will be able to help you if anything comes up. I believe the Charge Nurse working this ward tonight is Sofia Garcia.”
Placide commits the name to memory and bows his head, “Thank you for your assistance, Madame Young. You have been most helpful.”
Olivia smiles at him [a small, tired thing]. “Glad I could help,” she says, tipping her head and disappearing back the way they came with a little wave of her hand.
Placide immediately turns to the door, pushing down on the handle slowly, making an effort to keep quiet to avoid disturbing the room’s occupants. Slipping inside, he shuts the door behind him.
The room he’s stepped into is small, though it would be deemed ‘large’ by hospital standards. To the right of the door, just below a large square window is a two-seater couch that he would bet anything unfolds into a bed. There is a TV on a nearby wall, a rug beneath it, a coffee table and an armchair that cordons off the area from the rest of the room, marking it clearly as the entertainment area
It is a fancy room for a hospital.
Almost too fancy.
If it had been Adrien in that bed [he would tear the world apart with his bare fists before he’d let that be reality], he wouldn’t have even noticed [it goes without saying that Gabriel would spare no expense to ensure the health and safety of his progeny]. But the patient is Marinette, which begs the question: who is paying for all this? Certainly not her parents [have Sabine and Tom even been notified?]. He marks the thought for later contemplation [if no one else is picking up the bill, he will. He refuses to let the Dupain-Cheng’s be saddled with it or for the kind-hearted family to be riddled with medical debt] and continues his perusal of the room.
Directly ahead of him is a stereotypical hospital bed.
Lying in it, looking smaller than he’s ever seen her, is Marinette.
She’s covered in deep bruises and white bandages. She’s hooked up to a heart monitor, an IV drip of some sort and a nose cannula has been fitted to her face [the sight of the medical equipment makes her seem impossibly fragile. More breakable. Delicate in a way that he’s never associated with the young girl who has always been so full of life and spirit]. Stuffed plush animals resembling the Parisian heroes rest on either side of her, tucked neatly atop the blankets. He can make out the familiar form of a ladybug, a black cat, a fox and a horse [where in the world did Adrien find them on such little notice?] and despite everything, a flicker of warmth twists around his lungs [it’s good to see his boy indulge in such childishness, he’s been denied it for far too long].
Next to the bed is Adrien.
“Adrien,” he says, relief flooding his veins at the sight of his charge though he frowns when he realizes the boy is kneeling on the floor [not counting the germs, that can hardly be comfortable].
“Hey Placide,” Adrien croaks.
Placide uses his softest voice [he never wants his boy to interpret his words as disapproving, doesn’t want to deepen the scars left by Gabriel] as he says, “Adrien, why are you on the floor bud?”
Adrien shuffles awkwardly on his knees with a pained grimace but shrugs [there’s something almost helpless about the gesture, like the boy doesn’t even know how he ended up there], making no effort to get up despite his clear discomfort. The movement tips his face into the light, illuminating the tear tracks on his cheeks.
Placide’s heart clenches in his chest at the sight [his boy has been crying. One look at Marinette is more than enough to make the reason blatantly obvious, but it still hurts to know his boy is in pain].
He casts his eye around the room again, gaze snagging on the armchair near the TV.
Resolve ignites in his belly.
He can’t do much [he’s not a doctor or a surgeon or even a nurse. He’s a bodyguard, but the threat is long past now]. He can’t fix Marinette, but he can get his [son] charge off the floor. He crosses the room in three long strides and picks up the armchair. He carries it over to Adrien’s side and sets it down as close to the bed as possible. His knees creek and groan as he kneels [damn he’s getting old] down next to the boy, threading an arm around his shoulders and under his long legs.Adrien doesn’t resist, but also doesn’t make any moves to help [and that’s alright. He can look after his boy until he is able to do so himself].
“Come on kiddo,” Placide says gently. “Up you go.”
He hefts the boy up, hugging him to his chest tightly [the heavy weight of him in his arms is reassurance all of its own] before placing him down in the armchair. Adrien doesn’t let go of Marinette’s hand, not even once in the transition. As a result, his body ends up folded forward, contorting awkwardly over the metal guard rail on the side of the bed.
Placide searches the side of the bed, looking for a lever or a latch—there!
He pulls, and the metal buckles. He leans over and quickly folds the rail down and out of the way. Adrien falls forward but catches himself quickly. Arm now supported by the mattress and without a bar holding him back, he slumps down, chest resting on the bed near Marinette's hips.
“Oh,” he says blankly, eyes wide. He twists his head, turning earnest green eyes rimmed in red his way, “Thank you Placide.”
Placide ruffles his hair gently, “You’re welcome, bud.”
Adrien leans into the touch before turning back to the bed, green eyes fixed on Marinette’s slumbering face. Placide cups the back of his head for a short moment and then turns on his heel, heading for the cupboards on the far wall.
An investigation of its contents turns up a fleece blanket, two pillows and a set of extra bedding.
Grabbing the blanket and a pillow, he shuts the door with his foot and crosses back to Adrien. He tucks the blanket around his boy’s shoulders and places the pillow down on the bed next to him. Adrien grabs it with his spare hand, stuffing it underneath his chest and head to support his neck as he cranes it back to keep Marinette's face in sight.
Adrien looked after, Placide searches the room again.There, behind Adrien, tucked into the corner of the room, is another chair. He quickly rescues it, pulling it out from behind Adrien, and plants it at the foot of the bed [placing himself directly between any threat entering the room and his charges].
“How’s our girl?” he says, throat tight as he takes in Marinette’s form again.
Adrien shrugs as his lips twist bitterly, “The nurse said she’s just come out of surgery. She has a concussion and five fractured ribs. One of her ribs punctured her lung and it collapsed but they repaired it, along with the stab wound to her thigh. The nurse said they were concerned about her head injury and the damage to her lungs from the smoke and gasoline, but that they were optimistic that she would make a full recovery.”
Placide winces at the list of injuries but knows that Marinette got off lightly all things considered. It could have been much, much worse [they could be in the morgue right now].
Adrien is silent for a long moment and then.
“She’s been hurt so badly Plas.”
[The childish butchering of his name, that until the plane earlier he hadn’t heard in literal years, has his heart melting in his chest.]
“She will wake soon and we will look after her and put all this nasty business behind us,” Placide says firmly, leaving no room for doubt in his words.
Adrien sniffs, but nods, “We will.”
A shrill beep rings through the room.
Placide sits up, eyeing the various health machines worriedly, searching for the one sounding the alarm.
“It’s not Marinette,” Adrien says and Placide exhales loudly, relief making him dizzy. “Just my phone ...”
Adrien sits up [but doesn't drop Marinette's hand] and pulls out his phone. Green eyes flick over the screen and then he shoves the device back into his pocket.
"Email from Gabriel," he mutters, "I'll answer it later."
Placide nods his head but keeps his mouth shut.
Adrien sighs and then reaches out, stroking Marinette's hair back from her face with a tenderness that has a painful lump filling Placide’s throat [how Gabriel could deny his boy this is inconceivable. He’s never seen a bond as deep or as pure]. His boy scoops up the fox plush from the pile and cradles it to his chest like a much younger child would hold a security toy or blanket. Placide turns away, giving his charge as much privacy as he can [he would never mock his boy for taking comfort from a toy. If he needs to hug the toy, he can damn well hug the toy].
“I need to use the bathroom,” Adrien announces quietly, pulling his attention away from the door. “Will you watch Marinette for me?”
Placide is glad for the privacy of the room as a rush of love and warmth surges in his chest at this sign of trust [Adrien may have grown up in the lap of luxury but he’d been deprived of many things through Gabriel’s neglect. In response, he clung tightly to the people that were his, protective to the extreme. For him to feel comfortable leaving an injured Marinette in Placide’s care? They’ve come such a long way from the sullen teen who called him The Gorilla and snuck away from him at every opportunity]. He knows his face has gone soft, the mushy smile his boy can pull from him so easily making an appearance.
“Of course,” he says. “Take your time.”
Adrien smiles weakly and stands up, bending down to press a soft kiss to Marinette’s forehead.
“I’ll be back sweetheart. I love you,” he hears his charge whisper, before straightening and slipping into the private bathroom in the corner that Placide had missed in his earlier sweep of the room.
Placide turns back to the painfully still girl on the bed behind him.
“Wake up soon little one,” he murmurs quietly. “Adrien needs you. But I’ll be here, looking over him until you’re ready.”
--
Adrien wastes no time [sometimes he hates being Chat Noir; the lie about the notification had slipped from his lips so easily, too used to fabricating excuses to protect his secret identity]. The second the bathroom door shuts behind him, he stuffs a towel into the bottom of the door and pulls Marinette’s bag back over his head, placing it on the hook on the door.That done, he meets resolute purple eyes.
As quietly as he can, he says “Trixx, let’s pounce.”
Orange light washes over him and then he is standing in his Renard suit [a black haori lined in orange, with stylised flames of the same colour licking up the garment, left open over a fitted kimono. The kimono jacket has been tied by a black obi that holds his flute and is made out of the same orange material of his pants, which taper in at the calf, disappearing into black combat boots].
“Mirage,” he intones, holding the image of what he wants [the kwami resting on Marinette’s bed undisturbed and a notice me not to allow the kwami to move about without being seen] in his mind.
And then he waits.
Not even a minute later, Plagg, Tikki and Kaalki phase through the door.
“We need to hurry,” Adrien says. “Akuma attack, category 3. Tikki, Trixx, merge.”
A flash of pink light washes over him [in the mirror he can see the flames lining his haori have been replaced by red spots that decorate his obi and boots]. He has to breath slowly and carefully around the bloated sensation that envelopes him as the God of Creation settles into his soul alongside Trixx. Swallowing down bile, he snaps open his borrowed yo-yo and pulls out the Mouse Miraculous.
Mullo appears in a flash of light.
She blinks when she sees him, “Adrien, where is Marinette?”
Adrien grimaces, “Marinette was attacked by the Joker. She is recovering. I will be operating as Mr Bug while she recovers, but I need your help.”
Pink eyes harden and she nods firmly, “Whatever you need.”
Adrien exhales shakily, relief coring him from the inside, “Thank you Mullo. Trixx, Tikki, Mullo, merge.”
Another flash of light washes over him, just as something deep in his chest twinges.
A steady pressure on his soul that presses and presses and presses, hovering on the edge of painful.
It is a warning [it violates the Balance for him to use the Miraculous without a soul of Creation to act as a counterweight]. The Miraculous are not meant to be stacked like this. A soul is only so flexible [it is why Master Fu begun his search for new holders with children. Children are still growing so their souls are more malleable] and Adrien has long since reached the age of maturity. His soul has settled. If he had been younger, the Destruction in his soul still untapped, it would not have been such an issue. But his strongest bonds lie with Plagg [the God of Destruction] and Trixx [who’s Aspect similarly lies in Destruction]. Their souls sing to his, amplifying and strengthening the Destruction in his core. It is probably only Tikki’s interference that allows him to wield Creation, let alone any of the same Aspect like this, but it is uncomfortable [his soul stretches painfully, distorting its true Aspect to accommodate both Tikki and Mullo].
It hurts.
“Kid,” Plagg says, disapproval.worry lancing through neon green.
“I know Plagg, but we don’t have a choice,” he says, pushing sorry.resolve.determination back at the Cat kwami. “Multitude.”
The pressure gripping his soul squeezes [he’s reminded of the old school traps in which the walls of a room shrink around a victim until they’re nought but a bloody smear]. Adrien grits his teeth and pushes through the pain, focusing until he has two clones in front of him.
To one, he hands the Cat Miraculous. They quickly transform with a muttered, “Plagg, claws out.”
The other closes their eyes and intones solemnly, “Mirage.”
Light sweeps over all three of them.
When he can see again, he takes in his and his clones’ appearances in the mirror. The first clone [Black Cat] now appears to be Chat Noir, all hints of the other active Miraculous hidden away. The second clone [Adrien 2.0] is in their civilian attire [he will be staying at the hospital to maintain their civilian identity and protect Marinette]. And Adrien himself is disguised as Ladybug [his heart pangs in his chest at the sight of familiar bluebells in the mirror].
Adrien nods in approval.
“Everyone know the plan?” he says, pulling the Horse Miraculous from Marinette’s bag.
“Yes,” Black Cat and Adrien 2.0 nod firmly.
“Good,” Adrien slips on the glasses. Bracing himself for the pain, he says “Trixx, Tikki, Mullo, Kaalki, merge.”
He gasps, hand reaching up to his chest, the pressure on his soul intensifying as a fourth kwami merges with his soul.
It hurts.
His soul is stretching, trying to encompass all of the kwami, but it's too much. The strands of forest green are so thin, they're almost transparent and he can feel the way little stress fractures tear into his soul [he’d already been at his capacity with Tikki. Adding two more kwami to the mix was borderline suicidal. But he didn’t have a choice. Paris needed him]. His knees buckle under the assault. Two sets of hands catch him and help him find his feet. He looks up, meeting two pairs of grim green eyes.
“We need to be quick,” Adrien gasps, “I’m not going to be able to sustain this for long. Voyage.”
A portal swirls open at their feet.
“Go, I’ve got this,” Adrien 2.0 says, green eyes resolute.
[And it never gets any less strange to see himself like this.]
Adrien and Black Cat nod in unison and step through the portal into chaos.
--
Adrien puts the towel back where they found it and reaches out to flush to the toilet. Washing his hands, he dries them quickly, and then exits the room. Crossing back over to the bed, he sinks down into his armchair with a sigh.
“No changes,” Placide murmurs from his spot by Marinette’s feet.
“Thanks, Placide,” he says.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
His surprised when his stomach growls [the original must be famished for him to be feeling the effects like this] loudly.
Placide’s head snaps up and he stares at Adrien before chuckling.
“I’ll go hunt us down something to eat,” he says, pushing to his feet. “Lock the door behind me and don’t let anybody except me in, yes?”
Adrien nods in acquiesce [that will make things easier for the original to resume his place when the Akuma has been dealt with].
“Good lad,” Placide says with a warm smile, heading for the door.
Adrien gets up and follows him, flicking the switch on the handle to lock the door as instructed and listening while the heavy footsteps of Placide recede into the distance. With a sigh, he trudges back over to the bed and picks up Marinette’s hand.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Without the kwami, the room is oddly silent, even with the whirling, beeping medical equipment.
He pulls out his phone [he carefully doesn’t wonder how the magic has perfectly replicated everything in the original’s pockets. The physics behind it are not for him to comprehend. It’s sufficient that he knows it works] and checks on the news now that Placide is not there to monitor his internet use.
He types in JOKER + GOTHAM into Google and scans the results.
JOKER STILL AT LARGE: MAYOR IMPOSES CITY WIDE CURFEW.
CRIME ALLEY RESIDENTS TAKE TO THE STREETS TO HONOUR FRENCH STUDENT AND JASON TODD-WAYNE AFTER JOKER ADMITS ON LIVESTREAM HE WAS RESPONSIBLE.
JOKER ATTACK EXPOSES DEADLY IMPACTS OF UNETHICAL JOURNALISM.
Adrien drops his phone on the bed and clasps Marinette’s hand between both of his, as he struggles to regain his hold on his temper.
The Joker has not been apprehended.
He’s still out there.
Plotting further chaos while Marinette lies in a hospital bed.
[Beep. Beep. BEEP.]
Adrien fantasizes about taking Kaalik and Plagg and driving a cataclysm into the Joker’s face.There’s a not so insignificant part of him [the parts of him that are pure furious.feral.vengeance] that would derive immense satisfaction and pleasure from wiping the Joker from the face of the planet. That would be viciously satisfied watching the man crumple into ash [the Destruction of his soul purrs at the thought].
His Lady would not approve [or mayhap she would. They are French after all]. Permanent maiming is probably a safer bet [no need to deal with the mess that would come with pissed locals up in arms about him becoming judge, jury and executioner].
A muted woosh! from the bathroom and a flash of blue light interrupts his thoughts, letting him know that the others are back. Pressing a kiss to Marinette’s fingers, he gets up and goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
“All sorted?” he quietly asks.
“Paris is safe,” the original says [and it’s so beyond odd to see his Lady’s countenance instead of his own. Makes him feel like the worst kind of fraud for wearing her face].
“Good job,” Adrien says [he doesn’t offer his fist for the customary celebration of a job well done. Can’t when Marinettehasn’t woken. It wouldn’t be right].
“Let us return before dad gets back,” Black Cat mutters, fingering the ring on his finger.
“Wait, before we do that, I need to get the snacks for the kwami,” the original says. He reaches into his yo-yo, pulling out each kwami’s favourite food from the dimensional pocket Marinette keeps stocked, placing them down on the bathroom counters.
“Right, now I’m ready.”
Without another word, all three of them release their transformations together.
Adrien wheezes, knees biting into the harsh tiled floor as two sets of memories slam into place, jostling for space alongside his own memories of the same time period. His head aches, stuffed to overflowing.A migraine sets in behind his eyes.
His soul, finally empty of all other influences other than his own, feels loose, like an elastic band hopelessly stretched beyond capacity. His skin is abruptly too small and too big to host his own soul. Phantom aches shudder through forest green as his physical body is wracked by great heaving convulsions. He hurts, the sharp ache of an overused muscle filling every cell of his body, from his eyeballs to the tips of his hair to his fingers and toes.
“Kit,” small paws rest on his face as worried amethyst orbs float in front of his swimming vision.
“You pushed yourself too far kid,” Plagg’s voice grumbles.
Neon green and purple gently wrap his aching soul up in a tender embrace, coaxing forest green to shrink back down to its proper size. Under their ministrations, the odd, loose feeling fades away and he finds he can breathe properly again.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Adrien mumbles, closing his aching eyes. “Paris needed me.”
“Paris can wait,” Plagg growls, neon green lighting up with protectivefury.wrath.concern. “With the Cure, they’d have been fine, and you know it kid. You need to work on your self-preservation skills.”
“Chat Noir and Ladybug can’t just vanish when Marinette Dupain-Cheng is in the hospital and Adrien Agreste is out of the country,” Adrien says, eyes still closed against the throbbing radiating from behind his eyes. “People would notice.”
“Adrien is right,” Tikki says, voice subdued. “It was too much of a risk. Their identities would have been compromised.”
“f*ck the secret identities,” Plagg snarls. “My chosen is killing himself—”
“AND MINE IS IN A HOSPITAL BED!” Tikki roars and the whole bathroom goes still as a snap of fury.grief.wrath lashes through writhing red.
Adrien moans quietly as his bruised soul scape lights up under the onslaught. The red abruptly stills, withdrawing almost completely, a shadow of guilt.regret.sorry trailing after it. The following silence has him slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. He tips sideways, face planting into wooden cabinetry that is blessedly cool against his flushed face.
Thick, soft fur presses into his cheek and neck [Trixx he thinks woozily].
“Shh, Kit,” Trixx croons [anxiety.worry.panic flickers like starbursts through the ocean of calm.safe.here radiating from his amethyst] “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”
Adrien swallows a mouthful of saliva in his otherwise dry mouth [a sure sign that he is on the verge of throwing up] and focuses on the chirping purr rumbling through the little body pressed up against his cheek.
He breathes.
“Marinette is not just my chosen, she is our Guardian. The masks keeps us all safe Plagg,” Tikki says much more quietly. “She almost died protecting it. Do not minimize her sacrifice. I will not stand for it.”
“Tikki,” Plagg says, shades of regret winding through anxiety.protectivewrath.fury filled neon green. “I’m not to trying to diminish your chosen. Marinette is one of the best Ladybug’s the world has ever seen. But Teeks, look at Adrien. No, don’t glare at me, look at him. He’s not alright.”
Adrien doesn’t move, his roiling stomach only just beginning to settle.
“'m’kay,” he slurs, raising a leaden arm to flash the room a thumbs up.
Trixx shushes him softly, “You’re not okay Kit. Plagg’s right, that was dangerous. You’ve strained your soul. It will take time to recover.”
[Time we might not have, goes unsaid but heard by everyone in the bathroom.]
Adrien opens his eyes, wincing as the bright light agitates his head. He gingerly hoists himself upright. His system starts to even out, the pain fading until only a dull ache is left behind, settling into his veins and muscles much like the ache he associates with a hard workout. Back against the cabinets, he breathes carefully, letting head [supported by the wood behind him] roll back on his neck so he can see the room.
For the first time since releasing his transformation, he becomes aware of all of the kwami sharing the bathroom with him.Tikki and Plagg are hovering near the door, both of them peering down at Adrien while their colours ping with concern.worry.guilt. Mullo and Kaalki are munching slowly on their treats, eyes wide as they quietly watch the drama unfold. He feels more than sees Trixx, a little weight resting on his shoulder and a thick, fluffy tail wrapping protectively round his throat.
“What’s done is done,” Adrien says quietly, eager to quell the arguing. “It was necessary and I would do it again to protect Marinette in a heartbeat.”
“Because you have the self-preservation instincts of a honeybee,” Plagg mutters under his breath but thanks to his enhanced senses, Adrien hears him without any trouble.
Which rude.
He has self-preservation skills!
“Don’t let Pollen hear that type of slander coming from your mouth,” Trixx warns.
Plagg smirks, “Was I wrong though?”
“Bee’s sacrifice themselves to defend the hive,” Trixx say slowly [and Adrien knows that this banter is performative, meant to provide comfort and familiarity, but it still works, the tension that had been steadily mounting through his body sloughing away]. “If you replace ‘hive’ with Marinette, then it would be accurate.”
“You guys suck,” Adrien says, using the cabinets to haul himself upright. “I’m so telling Pollen about this.”
Trixx gasps in faux offence, “You wouldn’t!”
Adrien suddenly doesn’t have the energy to engage in the continued banter, not when the last of his memories slot back into place and he remembers what Adrien 2.0 had discovered.
“Joker is still at large,” he says abruptly. “We need to stop him. It’s not safe.”
Trixx flies to hover in front of Adrien’s face, “You want to go after him.”
It’s not a question.
Amethyst and neon green shudder with concern.worry.anxiety. Adrien wraps resolve.determination through forest green and meets the Fox kwami’s gaze resolutely.
“I am going after him,” he corrects. “And I won’t let you stop me.”
“Is it safe?” Mullo squeaks, whiskers twitching with her anxiety. “Trixx said your soul was damaged by the merge. Should you be transforming so soon?”
[Adrien doesn’t care about the state of his soul. Marinette won’t be safe until Joker is taken care of. He’s going.]
Tikki eyes him with solemn blue eyes and he holds himself perfectly still under her ancient gaze.
“Who will you take?”
Adrien doesn’t hesitate, “Plagg and Trixx. It would be good to have Mullo cover me so dad doesn’t notice anything off, and obliviously I'll need Kaalki for transport.”
Tikki closes her eyes and Adrien feels red prod gently at forest green. He doesn’t resist the inspection, opening his soul up for her to see what she wishes. The little godling hums under her breath. She pokes thoughtfully at one of the tears that is slowly healing under the Trixx’s steady attention. Red caresses the tear and it seals itself shut.
She hums again, this time the sound is satisfied.
“Plagg and Trixx will not cause any additional strain, you bonded long before your soul settled and your soul adapted accordingly. Kaalki’s Aspect is Neutral so the strain will be minimal, but Mullo is Creative. Her addition will most likely cause damage no matter how gentle she is.” Tikki sighs and opens her eyes at last, “Limit yourself to five minutes if you can. We need you to be ready in case of another akuma attack.”
It takes him a moment to realize the Ladybug has given him her blessing, but when he does awe.gratitude floods forest green.
“Thank you, Tikki,” he breathes.
A bubble of red dripping in fury.wrath.vengeance hits the bond as Tikki snarls, blue eyes alight with her rage, “Avenge my chosen. That’s all the thanks I need.”
Purple lights up with a feral kind of yes!.fury.vengeance.malice as neon green floods with eager.vengeance.malevolence [it’s as if the Fox and Cat had been waiting for Tikki's approval before allowing themselves to want revenge. Knowing them, they had been. Neither of them would compromise his health or safety. If Tikki had said his soul was too damaged to sustain another transformation right away, that would have been it, they would have refused to go. Adrien would never force a kwami to bond with him so he would have been forced to wait until he was healed enough].
“We will Tikki,” Plagg says it like he’s swearing fealty to the little Ladybug, loyalty.iswear.devotion shining brightly against the pure destruction wreathing his soul.
“Eat up then,” Adrien urges, gingerly stretching out limbs that ache.
The two kwami descend on the snacks [Kaalki and Mullo shifting to provide room for their siblings to join them on the counter], gobbling down the treats in preparation for their new mission.
“For the record,” Plagg says around a mouthful of cheese. “This is exactly what I meant about your self-preservation skills kid.”
The words are admonishing but Adrien doesn’t care.
[Who needs self-preservation skills anyways?]
“Let’s do this,” Adrien says. “Plagg, claws out.”
He’d braced himself for pain, but neon green merge with forest easily, the two colours embracing each other with an ease bred from familiarity, Plagg’s green becoming an extension of his own.
Tentatively hopeful, he says, “Plagg, Trixx, merge.”
Again, the new addition in his soul doesn’t hurt. Trixx’s amethyst clicks into place like a puzzle piece he didn’t even know he was missing.
Two down, two to go.
The easy part out of the way, Adrien grits his teeth, braces himself.
“Plagg, Trixx, Mullo, merge.”
The strain is immediate. Mullo’s light grey meets resistance, Adrien’s Destructive soul rejecting the Creative Aspect. The Mouse forces her way in and the jagged tears in his souls stretch and deepen, sending splintering red hot pain through his soul. Adrien locks his teeth on the tortured whine creeping up his throat and forces himself to focus.
“Multitude,” he gasps.
Adrien 2.0 appears just as a loud knock on the outside door silences the room.
“Dad’s back,” Adrien 2.0 says, urgency bleeding into his tone.
“Go. We will be back shortly,” Adrien promises.
Adrien 2.0 grabs his flute and says, “Mirage.”
Immediately his outfit changes back to his civilian attire, while Adrien is left in his Mischief outfit. Adrien 2.0 casts one final look over Adrien, before slipping out of the bathroom, Tikki phasing through the after him door, leaving Adrien and Kaalki alone in the bathroom.
Adrien doesn’t hesitate, “Plagg, Trixx, Mullo, Kaalki, merge.”
The pain hits again, but this time it’s more a dull burn than a roaring fire and he’s able to push through it. He forcefully shifts his thoughts to the Joker.
He focuses on the criminal, on landing close by to his location but hidden from sight, and then intones quietly, “Voyage.”
A shiny blue portal opens at his feet and he steps through.
He immediately plummets, wind snapping around him, the pitch black of night embracing him as he sails through the air. He easily sights a rooftop below and lands on featherlight feet.
Setting an internal timer for five minutes, Mischief goes hunting.
—
Jeremiah – ‘the only person to ever get away with calling me Jeremiah was me nan, call me Jerry’ – Rogers has so many regrets.
He regrets letting his dumb as rocks nephew pick out his latest job.
[It had seemed like a golden opportunity to give Gavin some independence, to let him dip his toe into the world outside of school and enter the big leagues in a controlled manner.]
[Hindsight is a f*cking comedian with a sense of irony.]
He regrets accepting the job at face value.
If he had been properly rested [it has been so long since he’s slept the recommended number of hours for a male his age. Two months ago, he’d gone to bed a solitary bachelor and woken up a father of three. Flick, his indomitable older sister, was gone – life snatched away by the same Rouge attack her husband Josh had perished in – and he’d been saddled with two little girls barely out of diapers and a wet behind the ears teen who tries his best but shouldn’t be trusted to operate anything more complex than a toaster. Because like hell was Jerry letting those kids go into the system. He is a terrible substitute for Flick he knows, but he’s trying. Parenting is hard and stretching a pay cheque meant for one adult male to encompass three grieving independents is f*cking brutal] he never would have been swept up in Gavin’s excitement nor the lure of the multiple zeros attached to the promised paycheque.
It had been life changing amounts of money [which should have been his first clue that something was off about the job].
With that kind of money, he’d be able to afford [safe] childcare for the girls so he could get back to work. He’d be able to rent a bigger place, one where the kids could all have their own rooms rather than cramming into his hastily repurposed study [Flick’s house has been tied up in so much legal red tape that he doesn’t have the time nor constitution to fight, so they’ve been making things work with his bachelor pad. But the kids deserved more than that. Deserved better. He owed it to them and to Flick to do better].
He’d been a fool not to question it.
And if he’d known the job was for Joker, he’d have boxed Gavin’s ears for even thinking about accepting it [any Gothamite worth their sh*t knows not to f*ck with the Joker].
It’s too late now
It had been too late the moment he’d walked into the warehouse and seen the Clown Prince in all his horrifying purple and green glory [the only thing dumber than working for the Joker is getting cold feet about working for the Joker.]
So here he stands, cursing out his nephew, wearily watching the Joker pace the floor of the warehouse he and twenty other goons have packed into.
“Did you hear?” Joker croons. “Crime alley is hosting a candlelight vigil for a fallen birdy and a princess. We should drop in, really set things alight.”
Everything in him goes cold.
Stephanie and Sophie are in Crime Alley.
“Crime Alley?” he says, forgetting himself in his utter panic at the thought of Flick’s children in danger.
Joker frowns, toxic green eyes locking on his form. Jerry freezes and does his best to meet that toxic gaze as Joker stalks over, getting uncomfortably close to Jerry’s face.
Threat, I feel threatened! his mind jibbers inanely [the Tony Stark quote from the first Avengers film suddenly the only coherent thought rattling around in his brain].
“Are you deaf boy?” Joker says voice laced with threat. “Because surely that is the only reason you’d ask me to repeat myself.”
“No sir,” Jerry prays that Joker is in a benevolent mood [he’s heard the stories. He knows that the Joker doesn’t give a single f*ck who’s side you’re on; anyone in his immediate vicinity is automatically placed inside the kill box, held at the mercy of the Clown Prince’s intrusive thoughts]. His mouth continues without his explicit permission, bullsh*tting an answer that he hopes will be sufficient to save him from the Joker’s wrath. “Not deaf sir. Just shocked at the brilliance of your plan. It’s quite the statement you’ll be making, sir.”
Joker stares at him for a long moment. Jerry stares back wide eyed, heart racing in his chest as he prays to every god and deity he knows [he can’t double orphan his kids. He can’t]. And then Joker tips his head back, a loud cackle spilling from his scarred lips.
“Oh Jerry, I think I like you.”
A gloved hand, stained in crusted brown Jerry knows is blood [he’d watched as Joker had stabbed that little girl, as he’d toyed with her and then left her for dead in a burning building. Had hated himself for not doing anything to help her even as he’d known that he couldn’t. He couldn’t jeopardise his family. Not for a girl he didn’t even know. He’s a plumber not a hero] reaches out and pats him on the cheek before finally, finally, the Joker moves on.
The second his back is to Jerry, he is reaching for his phone [he’s not leaving Flick’s children’s safety to chance].
He does his best to type out a message to the number Red Hood had given him [the crime lord found him in the laundromat cradling two screaming toddlers and not far off tears himself as he'd stared down at the bright pink load of whites he’d ruined like a f*cking idiot that first awful week post Flick. That’s how he categorizes his life now. There was life with Flick and life Post Flick. Living Post Flick has been one of the hardest things he's ever done], all the while hiding his actions from a scheming Joker pacing not even five feet away.
JOKER AT WHOUSE CNR BEMEJO AVE AND GAIMAN. PLANNED ATTACK ON C—
Jerry freezes, text only half typed, when Joker turns back around. He keeps his hand lax in his pocket [best not to draw attention to it or the phone hosting the traitorous text message].
“I say we go and say hello,” Joker says, eyes alight with manic glee.
“How about you don’t,” an accented voice filled with malice says.
The voice has an odd echo to it, as if more than one person is speaking, and seems to come from all corners of the warehouse at once. Heads swivel, bitten off curses filling the air as everyone in the warehouse tries to locate the speaker. Jerry whirls around in time to see a figure stalk out of the shadows. They cut an intimidating figure as they prowl forward, movements all rolling lethal grace.
The shadows seem to writhe around them, curling and lashing at the air unnaturally as they pass.
Jerry is frozen in place, ice filling his stomach as something heavy fills the air, pressing down on the warehouse.
Something dark and oppressive and vicious.
As they get closer, the shadows seem to peel away and suddenly Jerry can make out details. He distracts himself from the terror flooding his system, locking his limbs in place, by taking in as much detail about them as he can [if he makes it out of here alive, maybe they’ll feature as a new villain in his bedtime stories for the girls. Watered down of course. Only one Rogers-Cohen needs to be traumatised].
Their clothing looks like military grade armour, all streamlined kevlar paired with heavy gauntlets and combat boots. Over the top of the suit is a steampunk inspired jacket, the clasps and fastenings on the top of the garment accented by burnt orange that matches the inner lining of the jacket. Fox ears [?] peek out from messy blonde hair and they twitch and move [the actual f*ck], swivelling in all too natural movements [are those f*cking real?!]. They’re wearing a domino mask, but unlike the white lenses of the Bats, their eyes are still clearly visible.Radiating with an otherworldly glow, one gleaming purple and one electric green eye scans their surroundings.
They look regal [dangerous his mind whispers], the parts of their face not covered by a mask are hauntingly beautiful [Jerry is a modern man who is comfortable in his sexuality but he could have gone his whole life not knowing that his brain finds scary-possibly-a-demon-I’m-not-ruling-anything-out beings attractive because that seems counterproductive to his continued health what the f*ck Jerry] and the suit fits them like a glove, highlighting broad shoulders and compact muscles.
“We are Mischief, Tikki’s chosen Arbiters of Justice,” they say in that creepy layered voice.
Joker co*cks his head, rising brows making the white face paint coating his face crack and split as he hums, “Not a bat or a bird then.” He sounds oddly disappointed, but shrugs, “This is a private meeting. So off you pop before I decide to do something about your lack of manners, hmm?”
The air snaps, the scent of ozone permeating the warehouse as it abruptly gets cold enough that Jerry’s breath fogs up [phantom giggles drift through his mind, “You’re a dragon Uncle J!”] in front of him. The shadows darken, gaining weight as if they suddenly contain thousands of eyes, beasties from the vast abyss peering through the veil between their worlds the way hyenas stare at the carcass of a fresh kill.
And suddenly the clues click together.
Fox features.
Manipulation of shadows, ice and storms.
A shroud of malevolence so thick Jerry has been choking on it since they entered the warehouse.
They’re a kitsune [Flick had gone through a mythology phase as a young girl and Jerry had been determined to do everything his big sister did, so he'd learnt about the deities and creatures of myths and legends].
Which means Joker has pissed off somebody very powerful.
Jerry suddenly wishes with all his being that it had been a pissed Batman who’d found them. At least with Batman, broken bones and regrets would be all he had to deal with, not this pant-wettingly terrifying aberration of myth made flesh. He’s sweating buckets and he can hear poor Frank standing next to him stuttering out a fervent prayer [he doesn’t blame him, if he was religious at all he’d be following suit. If ever there was a time for prayer, being caught between an unholy demon and the Joker would be it].
“We are not leaving. But we won’t take long,” Mischief states.
The look on Joker’s face [boredom and cruelty and barely constrained violence all rolled into one] has Jerry fumbling for half remembered words prayer. If Joker provokes them more than he already has, things are going to get real f*cking ugly fast.
“You attacked a French citizen,” Mischief says, voice idle but gaze steely.
The boredom vanishes from Joker’s face, a look of stunned delight replacing it [as if the Rouge doesn’t feel the abnormal pressure intensify; doesn’t see the shadows grow teeth, the writhing tendrils congealing into a convulsing mass that looks thick enough to drown a man; doesn’t feel the unnatural chill steadily lowering the thermostat of the room].
Joker licks his lips, a crazed glint entering his eyes, “You mean little Marinette Wayne?”
The temperature plummets, the sound of cracking ice accompanying the otherwise silent footsteps of the fox prowling forward. Frost and black ice tipped footprints follow in their wake.
“Her name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Mischief says, their voice arctic. “It would serve you well to remember it. Tikki, God of Creation has weighed your actions, your soul, and found you wanting Joker. We are here to collect.”
Their eyes seem to burn, the green and purple blazing so brightly it’s difficult to discern their features through the haze.
Joker no longer looks amused.
The cold look on the criminal's face would be chilling in any other circ*mstance, but here and now, with his fingers turning purple from the artificially subzero temperatures, Jerry can’t help but think that the Rouge is punching above his weight class [and doesn’t even seem cognisant of it].
“Kill him,” Joker says and immediately the sound of gunfire fills the air.
Jerry flinches, biting down on the cry rising in his chest [kitsune demon or not, he doesn’t want to watch them be gunned down and he definitely doesn’t want to see what they count as retribution if the attack fails].
Mischief doesn’t move, glowing green and purple eyes locked on the Joker.
Jerry gapes when he realizes why.
The bullets are sailing straight through him.
Mischief stands stock still, letting the bullets sail harmlessly through their body. They even have the audacity to yawn, showing off abnormally sharp canine fangs in the process, as if they are bored by the display of violence. The deafening sound of gunfire [amplified tenfold in a room filled with metal and little insulation] is rapidly replaced with the click! click! of empty bullet chambers.
Mischief smirks.
“Our turn,” they say, voice filled with malevolence.
Jerry doesn’t see what happens next, but he does sees Joker stumble, hand coming up to clutch his face as a meaty thud rings out through the warehouse. The Clown Prince works his jaw, the bones creaking at the movement as a deranged little giggle slips from his lips.
“Oh, little fox,” he breathes, green eyes lit with unholy glee. “You –”
Again, Jerry doesn’t see Mischief move, but suddenly Joker is on the floor, an agonized scream splitting the air as he clutches his thigh. White juts through grasping fingers and Jerry gags when he realizes that the white stuff is bone. Bloodspewsfrom the injury in a morbid parody of a fire hydrant.
Mischief still hasn't moved. They stare coldly down at Joker the way Jerry imagines an ancient deity would stare down from the heavens as the Earth was torn asunder. And Jerry trembles, terror and horror and morbid fascination holding him stock still [Joker has always been so untouchable. Even the other Rouges leave him well alone. To see him felled, bought low like this is a reminder that he’s only a man. And all men can fall].
Joker convulses on the floor, skull slamming into hard concrete as his head whips around under a phantom blow. Toxic green eyesbulge and Joker gags, horrible retching sounds the only sound in the room as he seemingly chokes on air. Hands scrabble at his mouth and throat desperately, a fish caught on a hook deprived of oxygen.
“I’m not getting paid enough for this,” someone mutters, voice shaking with barely contained panic. “I’m out.”
Rapid footsteps head for the door. Jerry stops breathing when inhumane green and purple eyes turn, watching the bolter. Shoes squeak on concrete as the bolter wrenches themselves to a stop and the acrid stench of urine fills the air. That cold face doesn’t even twitch.Jerry’s lungs burn, begging for oxygen that he doesn’t dare try to provide, gaze locked on the demon clad in human flesh in front of him. Finally, after what feels like an age, that terrible gaze moves, turning back to the Joker. Jerry sucks in a shaky breath and almost collapses from the heady rush of sweet, sweet oxygen hitting his system. He wobbles, but forces his legs to move, carrying him toward the door [if Mischief isn’t going to stop them from leaving, he’s getting the f*ck out of there. He owes the Joker nothing. As far as he's concerned, Gotham will be a safer place for his kids without Joker in it]. Around him, everybody seems to have the same idea.
They bolt for the door as one, movements sharp and panicked, like the hounds of hell are on their heels. And maybe they are. Jerry sure as f*ck feels hunted [he still feels the weight of those eyes pressing into his skin]. He staggers to a halt just outside the door, hiding in shadows that are just shadows as macabre curiosity glues his feet to the floor, preventing him from leaving entirely. Shuddering, he watches as Joker finally flops over, whatever force that had been choking him releasing him from it's grip.
Joker lies there, crumpled up on the floor like a discarded napkin, gulping down air greedily and noisly.
The reprieve doesn’t last long.
A groan is punched out of Joker as his body is slammed into the floor by an unseen hand.
The loud crack! of bones snapping fills the air, as does Joker’s agonized scream.
There’s more wheezing and then the sound of cackles, broken and wet, fill the air.
“My, my,” Joker gasps. “You’re even more fun ... than Batsy.”
Mischief doesn't say a word, but the violence halts as they tip their head.
“I wanted to see ... how he’d react,” Joker continues, voice rattling wetly in his chest. “But he ... disappointed me ... but you ... oh, I wasn’t expecting you ... you’ve blown ... all my following expectations ... out of the water.”
There’s another meaty thud!
Another crack! of bone.
Another shrill scream, cracking under the force of the pain-filled exclamation.
And more wet giggles.
“Oh,” Joker wheezes, delight evident. “Oh, you really have … cast off the shackles … of their morals ... haven’t you? You don’t even realize ... how far you’ve sunk, do you? How far ... are you going to go ... in your quest for revenge ... hmm?”
“Revenge?” Mischief says. “This is not revenge. This is vengeance. This is justice.”
Joker cackles, the sound bouncing eerily off the metal walls of the warehouse.
“Oh, that’s what ... you’re telling yourself,” Joker rasps, still cackling. “But I can see it in your eyes ... you like this ... you like seeing me in pain ... you like inflicting it ... being in control ... hate to be the ... bearer of bad news kid ... but that’s not justice ... that’s the start ... of the slippery slope ... into villainy ... welcome to the dark side.”
The now familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh rings out and Joker grunts as more bones break from the force of the blow.
There’s a beat of silence and then Mischief says, “The injuries you gave Marinette Dupain-Cheng have been returned to you two-fold. Justice has been rendered.”
“Keep ... telling yourself ... that kid,” Joker wheezes around broken little giggles. Said giggles cut off suddenly and the Joker sounds panicked when he says, “Wait ... you can’t leave me ... like this ... I’ll bleed out.”
Mischief’s voice is suddenly much closer to Jerry’s hiding spot, “We’re giving you the same chance you gave Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Jason Todd. Escape on your own power or perish.”
And Jerry thinks the kitsune might be karma personified.
He doesn’t know much biology but he knows enough to know that Joker’s leg injury is serious. The amount of blood pooling beneath the Rouge, soaking through green and purple fabric alike, is rapidly reaching critical levels. There’s a very real risk that Joker will die here, not with a bang like he no doubt foresaw for himself but with a whimper, broken and alone like so many of his victims.
“You can’t ... do this,” is barely more than a broken shout.
“You do not dictate what we can and cannot do,” they say with finality.
And then, before Jerry can move, can hide, a hauntingly familiar black and orange figure slips out of the warehouse.
Green and purple eyes lock on his own and he sees a slim brow arch over the top of their mask.
“I have kids,” Jerry blurts, swallowing hard. “Please don’t—"
Mischief holds up a hand and Jerry cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut so quickly he almost bites off his own tongue.
“You have two options,” Mischief says idly, as if they didn’t just spend the last handful of minutes [being terrifying as f*ck] torturing a man without lifting a finger. “You can try and get him to a hospital before he bleeds out. Or you can walk away and wash your hands of this mess.”
Jerry blinks, mouth dropping open, “Wait, you’re just letting him go?”
“Justice has been rendered,” they repeat, before stalking away.
They vanish between one step and the next, disappearing as if they had never been there.
Jerry stays there, rooted to the spot.
It is only the pain filled cursing and wet hacking coughs from inside the warehouse that jolts him out of his shock. He whips out his phone. Unlocking the screen, he stares down at the half-finished text message blankly before clicking on Hood’s contact with fingers that tremble.
The line almost rings out but then there is a click, and a gruff voice says tersely, “This is Hood.”
Jerry clears his throat, once, twice, three times, “This is Jerry? From the laundromat? You told me to call you in case I ever needed your kind of help.”
“Are you safe?” Hood says and the concern in his voice nearly brings him to tears.
“Yes,” Jerry says, sniffling slightly as he slumps back against the warehouse wall.
“What’s going on Jerry?” Hood prompts, voice soft.
“A demon fox just beat the sh*t out of the Joker and left him for dead. They told me I could try and get him to a hospital to stop him from like bleeding out or walk away. But Joker knows what I look like. If I walk away—” his voice dies, choked under a wave of panic.
“If you walk away and Joker survives, the kids will be in danger,” Hood finishes grimly.
Jerry isn’t even embarrassed by the whine that rips from him at the confirmation of his worst fears. He abruptly becomes aware of the tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t bother wiping them away.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you and the kids safe Jerry,” Hood swears, and Jerry believes him.
“Where are you, Jerry?”
“The Bowery,” he rasps. “Outside the warehouse on Bemejo Avenue and Gaiman Boulveard.”
“I’ll be there in 10,” Hood says.
“Hood,” Jerry says and then hesitates.
“Jerry?” Hood’s voice is soft and coaxing.
“Joker was going to attack the vigil for Jason Todd and Marinette Dupain-Cheng in Crime Alley. I was in the middle of texting you a warning before the fox demon appeared out of literal thin air.”
Hood curses, long and hard and vicious in a way that would have Jerry flinching in fear if he hadn’t just had the sh*t scared out of him by a literal demon.
“I’m on my way Jerry, don’t move,” Hood grits out and then the line goes dead.
Jerry crumples to the floor, phone clutched in his fist.
Holy f*cking sh*t.
If he ever comes across Mischief again, it will be too soon.
--
Adrien steps out of portal into the familiar sterility of the hospital bathroom with a quarter of a minute to spare.
Pain eclipses his senses, and he barely registers the door opening as he pants heavily, bowed over the sink as saliva pools in his mouth. Adrien 2.0 slips inside, shutting the door behind him as Adrien swallows compulsively, over and over, hoping to override his rising nausea.
“Is it done?” Adrien 2.0 says quietly.
Adrien doesn’t answer him, can’t answer him, not through the pain splintering through his soul. He gasps out the necessary phrases to drop all the transformations and crumples.
All he knows is pain.
A solid wall of agony.torment.suffering rises up and drags him under. He stays there, drowning beneath wave after wave, tossed about in the powerful undertows of pain.hurt.spikingagony.
He drifts, buffeted by the thrashing tides.
Eventually he becomes aware of glowing red, cushioned by purple and neon green, tenderly cradling his bruised and battered soul. Soft, gentle touches [that are almost agonizing against the backdrop of pain still washing over him] stroke over his soul. Everywhere the light touches tingles, painful pins and needles prickling over forest green. And then the spot goes blissfully numb, splintering cracks fusing shut.
Adrien whines subvocally, reaching out instinctively towards agitated purple and neon green. The rushing streams of anxiety.panic.guilt flowing in torrents through both colours stills, before settling into a soothing mix of safe.here.comfort.
Adrien burrows closer and drifts again.
An indeterminate amount of time passes before he becomes aware of loud tapping.
“—rien, Adrien kiddo if you don’t answer me, I’m kicking down the door,” the sound of Placide’s frantic voice makes its way to his ears as if from a long distance.
Adrien tries to answer, but his voice is hiding and all that comes out is a keening little whine.
“Adrien?” Placide sounds relieved. “You okay buddy? What’s going on?”
“Say you fell asleep,” Plagg’s voice says tersely near his ear.
He finally finds his voice, and obediently repeats, “Fell ‘sleep.”
“You think you can open the door sweetheart?” Placide says.
Adrien thinks about it.
He looks at the door.
It's so far away.
But he really wants his dad.
“Yeah,” he decides.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dad croons.
Adrien hauls himself across the floor, ignoring the thin weight that settles over his neck. He bumps against the wood and stops, panting heavily.
“That’s it,” Dad says. “You’re almost there, sweetheart. You just need to unlock the door.”
Adrien doesn’t think he can do it.
A black blur enters his vision, followed by the click! of a latch.
The black blur disappears as Dad gently pushes the door open.
“Oh Adrien,” Dad says.
He likes the way dad says his name. He doesn’t sound disappointed like Gabriel. No, it’s like dad wraps his love around each syllable, a warm blanket for him to rest upon. Adrien reaches for him and Dad immediately drops to his knees, folding him into a warm embrace. Adrien shamelessly wiggles closer, burrowing into the safety of his arms and Dad doesn’t disappoint, scooping him up like he’s six again, cradling him to a firmly muscled chest.
“Come on sweetheart, time to rest,” Dad says gently.
Adrien’s head lolls on his neck and he snuggles impossibly closer as he mumbles on a sighing breath, “'anks dad. Love you.”
The arms carrying him spasm and then haul him impossibly closer.
“I love you too kid,” Dad says, his voice weirdly wet.
Warmth encases him in the soul scape and physical plane.
Adrien clings to both and falls easily into the embrace of sleep, safe at last in his dad’s arms.
--
Marinette wakes to beeping.
Forcing weighted eyelids open, she takes in her surroundings.
White walls.
Machines.
Heart monitor [the infernal beeping suddenly makes much more sense].
Oh, she thinks, mildly surprised, this is a hospital.
“Marinette?”
She tips her head as much as she can as familiar blue eyes swim into view.
“Teeks?” she croaks.
“Oh Marinette!” Tikki sobs, flying up to nuzzle her cheek.
Marinette startles.
Tikki is c r y i n g.
Marinette tries to raise a hand to cup the little goddess close but can’t. Both of her hands are weighed down, tangled in something heavy that clings to her tightly. Panic lights up her system, the heart monitor beeping shrilly to alert her to her racing heart [she’s restrained. Why is she restrained? The last time she was restrained—].
Immediately the red of Tikki’s bond lights up with safe.dontpanic.safe.
Marinette latches on to red and takes a deep breath to force baby pink into an artificial calm.
Sharp stabbing pain shoots through her chest, punching the air she had literally just inhaled out of her lungs.
Ouch.
[She’d almost forgotten what it was like to receive an injury that wasn’t completely healed at the end of the action.]
Note to self, don’t do that again.
She focuses on taking short, shallow breathes that move her ribcage as little as possible.
“Teeks, what?” she croaks, words drying up as they scrape against her dry throat.
Tikki notices her discomfort.
“Oh! Just a second!” she says.
The God of Creation flits over to a bedside table that Marinette hadn’t noticed, just off to the side of her bed. She grabs a cup of water and flies it over, helping Marinette latch onto the straw. Cool water hits the back of her throat, soothing the ache that had settled there.
“Thank you Tikki,” she says, words coming much easier.
“You’re welcome, Marinette,” Tikki says, eyes still wet but so relieved.
Before she can do more than frown, there’s a rustle of clothes, movement at her hip and then, another familiar voice.
“M’nette?”
Adrien’s pale face swings into view. Emerald eyes latch onto blue and he slumps over her, pressing their foreheads together tightly. Her eyes widen at the fast movement and the tears flooding his eyes.
“Marinette,” he says again, her name coming out on a sob.
“Adrien,” she reaches for him automatically.
This time her arm moves easily [and oh, the restraining weight had been his hands]. She cups his cheek, brushing away the tears cascading down his cheeks. He leans into her, pressing against her forehead like he wants to burrow under her skin and never leave.
“Take it off,” he begs, voice strained.
“Adrien?” her brows furrow as confusion rises in her chest.
“Take it off,” he repeats, stress lining every word. “Please, I need to feel you.”
Her eyes widen.
The seal!
She’d been so desperate in that warehouse. She had wanted to spare her kitty the pain [hadn’t wanted him to feel her burn alive]. It had seemed like the only rational choice at the time [she hadn’t wanted him to feel her terror and resignation, to know that she had given up]. But now, looking at Adrien [hair a dishevelled oily mess, eyes stained with purpling bruises and lined in red, face gaunt like he hasn’t been eating properly, clothes hopelessly rumpled and creased like he hasn’t changed in a long while], she can’t quite muster up the same level of conviction [now it just feels like cowardice].
Adrien’s breath hitches in his throat, a high-pitched whine forcing its way through clenched teeth, “Please. Please take it off. It hurts. Please. Take it off takeitofftakeitoff.”
His words are slurring with the strength and weight of his distress andMarinette dives into her soul scape without another thought. Locating their bond, she winces at the sight of the seal still firmly encasing her half. Adrien is pressed right up against it, the wilted, dimming green of his soul relentlessly searching for a weakness, the tiniest of cracks to push through [he won’t find one. The seal had been absolute by design]. Even without touching his soul, she can feel the echoing pangs of terror.distress.desolation.grief lingering in the soul scape.
She grabs the seal and rips it off.
The second she does, green lurches forward, burrowing so deeply into pink that she can only see glimpses of it shuddering and heaving in distress through shifting strands of pink. Marinette reaches back, twining pink around trembling green, carefully encasing each centimetre she finds in here.sorry.loveyou.here. With their souls so enmeshed, she is assaulted by barrelling waves of relief.exhaustion.fatigue that pour out of Adrien, one after the other in a rolling cycle, ripping into her and threatening to overwhelm through sheer intensity and volume. Caught in the rip current of writhing emotions, she is almost bowled over by the rough undertows of selfloathing.recimination.myfault hiding in their depths.Swallowing hard, she shoves away her guilt [she’d made a mistake. She’d miscalculated and hurt Adrien so badly] and focuses on pumping comfort.here.sorry.loveyou.notleaving.here into the bond.
“I’m sorry,” she says, choking on tears. “I’m so sorry Adrien. I’m here, I’m alright. I promise love. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You got hurt,” he gasps, sobs rattling his frame. “You got hurt and I wasn’t there.”
Marinette reaches as far as she can, tucking his head down into the cradle of her neck. Adrien collapses forward, pressing keening little whimpers into the column of her neck that shatter her heart into tiny little pieces. Tears stain her skin, letting her know how badly she f*cked up.
“I’m sorry,” she presses trembling lips to his temple and breathes the words into his ear. “Adrien I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he chokes out [but it was. She’d miscalculated, had been selfish and Adrien had suffered]. “But I was so scared. I’ve never been so scared Marinette. I couldn’t feel you. I was just empty.”
His body shudders as the green her soul is so tightly wound around does, spiking with distress.pain.abandonment. Salt streams down her cheeks even as she does her best to keep a steady stream of comfort.here.sorry.loveyou.here cycling through pink.
“I’m so sorry Adrien,” she says, the only words she can offer.
“Please,” he gasps against her throat, body almost convulsing with silent sobs. “Please don’t—” he chokes, words lost to another sob.
Marinette can’t stand watching him fall apart.She grabs his hands and tugs him up onto the bed, needing him close, needing to reassure them both that their bond is still intact, that they’re both safe and here. Adrien comes easily, lanky body folding down carefully around her and the many wires attached to her. His face stays buried in her throat [blonde hair tickles her cheeks] as long legs twine with her uninjured leg. One of his knees hikes up over her thigh, cautiously pressing down into the mattress between her legs so he can wiggle even closer [there’s nothing even remotely sexual about the gesture, just a desire to be as close as possible that she reciprocates]. His upper half is twisted, the bulk of his weight firmly on the mattress, as he hugs her arm to his chest. Marinette can’t move without pain lighting up her senses [her chest aches and her leg is throbbing], but she stubbornly winds her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as tightly as she can.
“Never again,” she says fiercely. “I’m so sorry Adrien. I wanted to protect you, but I didn’t realize how that would feel for you.”
Adrien sniffles, wiggling impossibly closer.
“Hurt,” the word is mumbled but she hears him all the same. “Couldn’t feel you. Was all alone.”
Marinette buries her face in blonde locks as tears continue to track steadily down her cheeks, “I’m sorry.”
“I need you,” Adrien whispers back. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“Never,” she says fiercely. “I love you too much to ever leave you.”
She wraps up all her love.adoration.possessive.mine.commitment and hugs the dim green firmly, pressing it through the bond like an oath. She watches, entranced, as the green of his soul regains its pigment, returning to a healthy forest green. Adrien’s soul burbles with love.mine.wonder and tension she hadn’t even been aware of melts from broad shoulders. She tightens her hold and reaches up to card her fingers through his hair.
“Love you too Marinette,” he breathes the words into her skin. “So much. I don’t want to be in a world where you’re gone.”
[A flash of a white mask.]
[A matching white suit.]
[And a reverent whisper, “It was our love that did this to the world, my Lady”.]
“Therapy,” she breathes out tremulously, “We need so much therapy.”
Adrien’s shoulders shake and she worries for a moment until she hears the giggles he can’t stifle in her throat. Her lips quirk up and then she’s laughing too.
M I S T A K E.
She cries out involuntary as the spasming of her diaphragm jolts her chest, sending sharp, stabbing pain bolting through her system.
“Marinette!”
Adrien pushes up onto his elbows, green eyes frantically searching her face as worry.terror.panic flood the bond.
Marinette tries to smile and returns to her short shallow breaths as she rides out the waves of pain, “I’m okay,” she says. “Just probably shouldn’t be laughing any time soon. That hurt.”
Self-crimination floods his face and the bond in equal measure and she frowns.
“Nobody’s fault," she says firmly. "Just something we will have to live with for now.”
Reaching out, she makes grabby hands until he leans forward enough for her to grab him gently. She latches onto him, tucking his head back into her neck and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. He capitulates far too easily which lets her know how badly the attack had been for him.
“I want you to be better,” Adrien whispers, despair.dismay.powerless weighing down green.
“Me too,” Marinette admits, soothing green with safe.here.loveyou laden pink. “Who knew being injured would suck so much?”
Adrien huffs what might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so sad.
She presses another kiss to his hair.
“'m tired,” he mumbles, green flooding with exhaustion.fatigue.
[Marinette is beyond worried for her kitty. That level of tired is soul deep, and with the forest green clinging so tightly to pink, she is able to feel the micro-tears that litter her partner’s soul. Each one hums with Tikki’s red Creation.]
[What on earth happened while she was unconscious?]
“Then rest kitty,” she whispers pumping safe.here.loveyou.mine into pink and wrapping it around limp green like the softest of blankets swaddling a babe.
Adrien’s breathing evens out in the space between heart beats, limbs going heavy and lax.
Fatigue, a heavy weight still clinging to her limbs, drags her down into sleep after him.
Tangled on the bed, two halves of the same soul rest together peacefully for the first time in days.
