CHAT NOIR HAD DRAWN A line in the sand.

It had been two weeks since Ladybug kissed him, since he kissed her back; two weeks since he made the conscious choice to remain partners and friends with her, and nothing more. An older him would have rejoiced to know his past feelings were finally reciprocated, even unwittingly. But this version of him—rebuffed countlessly by his Lady, betrayed deeply by someone he loved, and torn in different directions by the fallout—could see their usual stability and camaraderie as something worth protecting in itself.

He made his way to the patrol rendezvous point with his heart in his throat, excited and nervous to see her again.

A rare clear and calm night for winter, this night was a special type of darkness, so cloudless that Chat Noir could imagine the sky bending into circles around every light source: street lamps and illuminated windows, glistening lights on the skyscrapers in the business district, not to mention the golden Eiffel Tower. The colour palette of the month was red, green and gold. Every bus-stop advertisement and billboard and storefront was dressed for the Yuletide, wreaths adorning lampposts and front doors.

She was sitting cross-legged on the ledge, strands of hair floating across her cheek on the soft wind.

When Ladybug noticed his approach, she rose to her feet. "Hi, Chat Noir. How are you?"

He shrugged lazily. "Can't complain, my Lady. Anything new to report?"

There wasn't—"Nope, do you?"—and he didn't—"Nothing"—and so they departed for their patrol.

Ladybug seemed to exercise concerted effort in asking him questions, keeping the conversation flowing. A light awkwardness had settled on them—similar to how it felt running into her in the Palais office, but the longer they kept talking and joking, the easier it was to shake off the recent and get back to the old.

Their old rhythms, their old inside jokes, their old scripts.

Now, Chat Noir knew better.

Your actions cause her distress.

Last week, Adrien had awoken in the middle of the night to what he thought was a lucid dream. High-pitched quarrelling in the suite's living room, which turned out to be between his kwami and Ladybug's—who vanished into the couch upon being discovered, startled by his noise like a mouse.

Tikki said that his erratic behavior since returning—his avoidance, 'handing out' his Miraculous not once but twice, chasing leads, interrogating Gabriel, all behind Ladybug's back—had nurtured anxieties about their partnership.

Chat Noir supposed he had also already been told, point-blank, to his face. Even the argument that lead to their kiss was about his two-month hiatus: the lonely, uncertain days that had sown Ladybug's anxieties to begin with. He'd promised to communicate better, to stop keeping her out, to share the things that impacted their working relationship.

He'd just never known, wouldn't even know, looking at her springing across the rooftops, that she cared that much. He'd never gleaned anything out of the ordinary under her mask. He'd been too consumed by his own troubles lately, never stopped to think someone else might be hurting simply because he was hurting—someone could sense his changes and his defenses, no matter how hard he tried to pretend everything was normal.

No, you're not pulling this off as well as you think, was what Tikki made him realize, this is hurting the people around you.

Such closeness was a marvel. One he'd never known in his entire young adult life. One that became impossible after his mother disappeared and his father withdrew.

A shaky breath. "I think I should explai—"

Ladybug chose to speak at the same time. "The last time we—"

They both gave a breathy laugh.

Chat Noir tilted his head. "You first."

"The last time we were on patrol," Ladybug said, skirting neatly around mentioning their kiss, "you said you had a lot still going on behind the scenes, even after your time off. Which, you know, I understand in a vague sense. I suppose..."

Chat Noir went eerily still.

The idea of letting her in terrified him.

Every time the prospect of opening up about his innermost thoughts—his father, his mother, his grief, his guilt—came up, it was like an iron sphere pushing up his windpipe. Admitting to Ladybug what he'd been feeling these last several months worked against every single protective instinct of his. He wanted to sedate himself against pain like he used to with alcohol, bury it deep.

Now in the business district, Chat Noir slowed his pace along the thin metal parapet at the top of a skyscraper. His metal staff retracted with a slink of metal. He jumped down to the rooftop and leaned back against the railing.

"I suppose you loved me for years and now, suddenly, your feelings have changed." Where Chat Noir rested backward, Ladybug slung her forearms over the railing and looked out to the cityscape, brow furrowed and blue eyes glittering. She sighed. "I just— why? I'm curious."

"You know what they say about cats and curiosity," Chat Noir said slowly, turning his head when her eyes darted sideways to him, amusement and frustration mixed in her expression.

"Secret identities, dangerous to know too much," Ladybug said. "I get it. I wrote the book on professional boundaries. But maybe some things are too important to keep secret."

Chat Noir steeled himself, exhaling through his nose. "I know. Actually, that was what I started saying before. I owe you an explanation, or as much of one as I can give."

"You don't have to," she rushed to say.

"I think I do." Chat Noir shut his eyes. Being vulnerable is hard. Then his shoulders sagged, and he whispered, "In September, I lost someone important to me." Lost was ambiguous; break-ups, death, travel, incarceration, age, illness, changes of heart—all different routes out of a person's life.

Father unmasked as supervillain?

Unlikely to be guessed, he hoped.

"I won't specify how, but the person I loved is gone, and it— it broke my heart. Really bad. I went into a really dark place in the aftermath. I couldn't even make it through a day without wanting to collapse, and I didn't have it in me to be a hero. I still don't have it in me to be with anyone."

"Even me," Ladybug finished, finally understanding.

"Especially you," he admitted in a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head, wrestling with the words, scuffing one of his black combat boots against the concrete roof. "There's this feeling in me now. A darkness, or a fear, maybe, of being blindsided, of not knowing, of playing the fool, of giving more than I get. My brain says 'maybe I can avoid this pain if I remove some liabilities.'"

Ladybug swallowed, and before she could school her features, Chat Noir saw the strike of hurt on her face and wanted to kick himself. She said quietly, "And I'm a liability?"

"I never want to hurt you, Ladybug." Guilt sat heavy in his stomach like an iron ball. "I don't want you to think I just threw away our partnership. I still care about you, and you're still one of my best friends."

"I know. Me, too."

"But if I love you, I could lose you—or, worse, I could lose myself. I feel like I poured myself out for this person, trying to earn their love," he said, his voice frantic and hoarse, "and right now, I really need to preserve whatever is left."

Ladybug nodded, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder. Then she made a plaintive sort of noise and ran her thumb across his cheek. Chat Noir didn't even register that he'd teared up, that the tears had spilled over, until the wind blew across the stripe of wet skin that Ladybug had touched.

"I'm sorry that I didn't let you know before I disappeared, but I couldn't do more. I couldn't call you or return your voicemails," he stammered, "because you make—made me— and I just... couldn't."

Ladybug closed the distance between them in two steps and hugged him tight, an unromantic hug, hopefully, hands locked together around his waist, cheek squished against his heartbeat. His arm curled lightly around her shoulders.

"If you'd told me," she mumbled, "I would have let you stay away as long as you needed. You should have taken your time."

"Time." Chat Noir laughed bitterly, the other arm folding itself around Ladybug's upper back. "I could either grieve alone or grieve with some sort of distraction."

She pulled her head up to search his face. When he looked down, a lock of his blonde hair fell into hiss eyes. "What does that mean, alone? Does no-one else know what happened to you?"

Chat Noir flinched. Shit. He was certainly alone in detainment, but essentially the whole world knew what had happened to him. Still, better if Ladybug boarded a completely different train of thought.

"Yeah," he lied, skirting the line they were treading. One day, when everything settled down and he was free from all this scrutiny, he might be able to tell her more. "Something like that."

Ladybug promptly stopped asking questions. "Thanks for telling me this, chaton," she whispered, then stayed silent in his embrace.

Being honest with her, knowing their love still persisted through whatever dynamic, like water poured into vessels of different shapes, but still just as pure... it was nice.

More than nice, but he couldn't think of one word, more like a sensation: someone blowing cool air on a stinging wound. Walking into a warm, dry house out of a storm. Finally sitting down after being on one's feet for the whole day. Ladybug was a cold wind of grace. She didn't heal his injuries, but she was a welcome relief.

Chat Noir cast a cursory look at the skyline, dark as an inkwell.

"Should we finish the patrol?" he asked, his pulse thrumming steadily faster from being held by her. Ladybug's embrace tightened reflexively.

"Okay, sure," she agreed solemnly.

But neither of them parted for a long, long time.

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What does one even do with romantic feelings for Chat Noir?

"Seriously," Marinette ranted on the phone, "isn't it so typical of me that I spend years sabotaging myself with Adrien and then the moment Chat Noir becomes emotionally unavailable, I develop feelings for him, too? Am I just attracted to people I can never have?"

"No," Alya's voice rustled on the other end of the line, "but you probably tell yourself you can never have them as a way to avoid putting yourself out there."

Marinette glossed over the jarringly accurate assessment and continued, "You should have heard him. I've never seen Chat Noir so sad." It was Sunday evening, and Marinette was dreading school the next morning. Alya was, as always, providing a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. "He seems lonely, and I'm pretty sure when he was gone, he was out of Paris—out of the country, maybe. When he came back, he was so willing stretch his legs, to see the city again and he said he missed having André Glacier's ice cream."

"Are you trying to uncover his identity?"

Marinette stopped short, head on her pillows, staring at the moonlit clouds beyond her skylight. "What? No." A beat of silence. "Well, would it be so terrible?"

Alya chuckled warmly. "Of course it wouldn't be terrible, if it was a decision you two made together. If he's in as vulnerable a place as you said, anonymity can be a way to leave some of his civilian stress behind. Believe me—being Rena makes me feel a lot more competent and in control of my life."

Well, Marinette wouldn't rob Chat Noir of his distractions and his escapes. She also didn't truly want to intrude into his life, and she couldn't even being to predict how their dynamic would change if she knew his civilian identity, or vice versa, or if they both knew—was an unmasking what she really wanted, or did she want to be free from feeling helpless all the time?

"I just can't help wondering about Chat Noir," she admitted. "I want him to be okay again."

She remembered their most recent patrol with painful clarity.

The way she'd been rehearsing casual talking points before his arrival, her forced ease in his proximity, the awareness she was such a phony pretending everything was back to normal when she'd been the one to pull their mouths together, to entwine their limbs so close that their feet shared the same spot to stand on.

She'd wondered if Chat Noir could see her shameless pretense for normality hanging in the fucking air like the moon. Was she totally transparent now that they'd kissed, now that he knew there was a part of her that wanted him, too?

And if she was transparent, what did he see in her?

Did he still love her, and in what way? Was his (completely valid) step away from romance enforced in principle and in practice? Had he ever kissed anyone else? Was there someone else? Did he like kissing Ladybug? Would he let her do it again?

Such trivial concerns, but they were hers.

Then—when they were hugging in silence on the top of a skyscraper, trailing her eyes over his carefully blank face, the goddamn mask, his peridot eyes twinkling in the city lights—a terrible truth rocketed into her: he didn't call her bugaboo anymore. Marinette couldn't even remember the last time Chat Noir had used the nickname, even though she really hated it. Or she had, once.

Bugaboo was part of his mischief, his lightheartedness, him. Chat Noir knew when to push her, when to force her to take a break, and when she just needed to snap out of her overthinking habits. He'd been a lifeline in so many different ways; he deserved that sort of support in return.

Ladybug was furious—unsure at whom—that he'd gone so long without it.

I poured myself out for this person, and right now, I need to preserve whatever is left.

It sounded like he'd had a bad break-up and left the city. She wanted her playful, carefree, unburdened, bugaboo-calling Chat Noir back. She missed him so much.

"There's nothing you can do to make Chat Noir be okay," Alya reminded gently. But wasn't that so unfair, so cruel? How could life just hurt people so casually and go on unhindered? "You just need to be there for him."

Marinette knew that. Whatever version of Chat Noir was before her, she would gladly support, in whatever way, for however long he wanted. If she had to pick one, his love or his happiness, she knew which one was worth more to her. What Chat Noir and she had, the rest of the world didn't understand. (Perhaps neither of them truly understood it either.)

Paris saw their closeness and thought it must be romance, but it went deeper than that. Romance was too frivolous a word to describe it. How could it be just romance when Ladybug would rather drips of his company for the rest of her life than a flood of it that ruined them both?

She put the back of her hand over her eyes and quickly requested, "Alya, distract me before I cry or something."

"Adrien's Christmas party," Alya segued without missing a beat. "The happiest event of the year." Marinette nodded, already feeling her pulse slow down in her chest. Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. "Nino's received confirmation from the Couffaine twins about where the boarding point will be."

"Did he put it into the group chat?"

Marinette attempted to discreetly blow her nose and utterly failed, but Alya didn't mention it, barreling on: "Yep, and everyone knows to be there before we raise anchor. The Ladyblog callout has got enough attention, I think. People have been tagging you every day."

"Great, then it makes sense Ladybug will have seen it by now," Marinette said, "and offered her help to her number one fan. A gesture of festive goodwill."

All she had to do was think of Adrien, his resilience and warmth in the face of adversity, and her heart settled.

Breaking Adrien's confinement for a Christmas party was probably a huge risk—no, it was a huge risk—but she considered the gamble worth it. Audits, interviews, Heloise, student council, tax returns, Shanghai. What was the investigation for, if not people being able to celebrate with their loved ones in safety and in a warm home?

Why would Adrien put himself through this trial if not for the people of Paris, his unshakeable sense of right and wrong? If she had to break him out of the hotel to give him something in return for his months of sacrifice, it was worth it.

"—so can you drop Adrien's costume to him at the next interview you guys have?"

"Should be a breeze," Marinette answered, "and his gift is coming along great. I love how everyone's personality shines through in each individual part."

The length of fabric sat at her sewing desk, a dark crumpled heap in the shadows of her bedroom. This upcoming week at school, Marinette would collect the rest of the homeroom class' contributions and stitch them to the main work.

"Oh, I can't wait to see it," Alya squealed. "You're such a talent."

"And you truly are my rock. Thanks, Alya."

"You're welcome, girl. I'll see you tomorrow."

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a / n :

yesterday i watched the first six episodes of season 5 and it gave me the manic energy needed to pump this update out and refocus on this fic. no spoilers, but i personally feel like some of the season 5 character development mirror threads of under oath -- not completely bc this story departed from canon around rocketeer but it's still very validating for the characterization i went with!

some fun behind-the-scenes info to help pave a path to the end of the story:

1) i adapted the 3-Act Structure so each act is actually equal in length (they wouldn't be in the classic structure) with around 15 chapters each.

2) this is the penultimate chapter in Act 2

3) in my head, each act is named after a Miraculous: Butterfly, Black Cat, then Peacock.

thanks for everyone's patience and support!