Chapter Text
Paris had never been quieter.
The city buzzed with life as usual. Bakers rising early, lovers wandering the Seine, children chasing pigeons in cobblestone courtyards, but beneath it all, a hush had settled. The kind of hush that follows tragedy.
Gabriel Agreste was a hero now.
According to the public story, he had given everything to defeat Monarch, Paris's greatest threat.
A final, noble sacrifice that saved his son, his city, and the world.
But Marinette Dupain-Cheng knew better.
Ladybug had lost.
Not in the way that left broken buildings or weeping crowds. No. This was worse. The wish had been made, reality rewritten, and while the scars were invisible, they were deep.
And only a handful of people knew the truth.
Marinette sat at the counter, staring into her untouched cup of tea, eyes red from yet another sleepless night.
The doorbell chimed. She didn’t look up.
"Still sulking, Dupain-Cheng?" came a voice with that unmistakable British cadence.
Marinette stiffened. “Not now, Felix.”
He didn’t wait for an invitation. He never did. He just slipped into the stool next to her.
“You look like death.” he remarked casually, folding his hands on the counter. His cold green eyes scanned her face.
She sighed, dragging a hand through her bangs. “Did you come here just to insult me or is this a bonus?”
“Think of it as a... public service.” he said, lips curled into the faintest smirk. “If you’re going to play hero, you may as well pretend to be alive.”
She shot him a glare, but there was no fire behind it. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Her head dropped with a deep sigh, chin resting on her palm. “I lie to him every day, Felix. Every time Adrien looks at me with those soft eyes, thinking I’m just overwhelmed or tired, I lie. And I know... if he ever finds out I knew what his father did and said nothing...”
Felix’s eyes darkened.
“You did what was necessary.”
“Why are you even here?” she asked without letting him finish.
He hesitated, gaze flicking away before returning. “Because I don’t think you should be alone with this. With any of it.”
She stared at him, searching for the catch. The smirk. The punchline.
But there was none.
She looked down at her tea, watching the swirl of cream like clouds breaking apart.
“You’re not staying out of pity, are you?” she asked, not quite meeting his eyes.
Felix scoffed softly. “Please. I don’t do pity. I’m staying because you’re the only other person who sees the wreckage the way I do. And because...”
His voice faltered.
Marinette glanced up, surprised.
“Because I hate seeing you like this, okay?” he finished, stiffly, like the words burned coming out.
She blinked.
He stood suddenly, as if he had gone too far, too fast. His coat flared slightly as he turned away, heading for the bakery’s exit.
“Don’t tell Adrien I was here. Or that I'm even back in Paris for a few days.” he said without looking back.
“Felix, wait—”
Felix didn’t turn immediately. His reflection trembled in the glass of the bakery door, a fractured silhouette caught between the warmth of the shop and the gray October morning outside. Marinette could see the muscle in his jaw tighten as though every second he lingered here was a second too long.
“Felix.” she said again, quieter this time. It wasn’t a command, not even a plea. More like a thread, frayed at the ends, reaching for something.
His hand hovered over the door handle. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Marinette rose from the stool, her knees brushing against the wooden counter. The soft creak of the floorboards felt unbearably loud.
“You show up out of nowhere,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, “you say things like that, and then you expect me to just let you disappear again?”
Felix let out a humorless laugh, a short, sharp exhale. “Disappearing is what I’m good at.”
Marinette took a tentative step closer. “And reappearing when it’s convenient?”
His shoulders stiffened. “When it’s necessary.”
Marinette clenched her jaw, a flush of heat creeping up her neck. “You always do this!” she said, voice low but sharp. “You act like you care, then you pull away the second it gets real!”
Felix didn’t turn. The tendons in his neck flexed beneath his collar, his hand still resting on the door like he was bracing against a storm. “And you act like you're the only one carrying the weight of this city on your back.” he said, his tone measured, too controlled. “You're not.”
“I never said I was.” Her fists tightened at her sides. “But at least I don’t run from it.”
That made him turn.
Felix faced her fully now, his green eyes alight. Not with anger, exactly, but with something colder. Resentment. Exhaustion. Hurt, maybe, buried beneath years of carefully curated detachment.
“You think I ran?” he said, stepping closer, every word a needle. “I’ve watched my family eat itself alive from the inside out. I’ve had to lie to my own mother, protect Adrien from truths that would destroy him, manipulate people I didn’t want to manipulate just to get ahead of my uncle's schemes. And when the dust finally settles, when Gabriel is dead and the world has moved on, I’m the villain?!”
Marinette’s breath hitched in her throat, but she didn’t flinch.
She stared at him, at the rawness beneath his words, the jagged edge of truth slicing through the usual detached arrogance. And for a moment, she almost saw the boy Adrien used to talk about with strained affection. A boy forced into roles he never asked for. A boy who had been misunderstood, shaped and misshapen by secrets no one should carry.
But understanding didn’t quiet the ache. It didn’t soften the guilt.
“You’re not the villain, Felix.” she said at last, her voice quieter, but no less firm. “You’re just... another casualty.”
He looked like she’d slapped him.
She could see the way his jaw twitched, how his eyes flicked to the side, searching for a way to disarm her words. He couldn't. Not this time. Not with her.
“And you think you’re not?” he asked, stepping forward again. The distance between them now was barely a breath. “You think standing on rooftops in red and black absolves you of the choices you’ve made? You think lying to Adrien is somehow noble because you’re ‘protecting’ him?”
Marinette’s eyes burned. “Don’t...” she whispered.
“You’re both living in a dream.” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard her or maybe just didn’t care. “And someone has to be the one who remembers the real cost of that wish. Someone has to stay awake.”
She shoved him.
It wasn’t forceful. Barely more than a press of her palm against his chest. But it surprised them both. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and for once, she didn’t blink them back.
“You think I don’t remember?” Her voice cracked. “Every day, I see the holes in the world. The people who don’t exist anymore. The choices that shouldn't have been mine to make. I wake up every morning knowing I let Adrien lose his father, knowing I watched someone... something, twist reality and I couldn't do anything to stop it!”
Felix didn’t respond. He just stood there as if he were made of stone.
“I didn’t win, Felix...” she continued, softer now. “I survived. And that’s not the same.”
Felix looked down.
When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost lost beneath the hum of the city just beyond the bakery door.
“You’re right.”
Marinette blinked, startled.
“I’m not the villain,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet hers, “but I’m not the hero, either. And maybe that’s why I don’t belong here.”
He turned again, hand finally closing around the door handle. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
“I only came to make sure you were still standing.” he said, voice clipped. “Now I see you are. Barely. But... you are.”
Marinette opened her mouth to speak, to stop him, but she didn’t know what to say. What could she offer? Forgiveness? Understanding? A promise she couldn’t keep?
The bell above the door rang out again and Felix was gone.
The gray of the morning swallowed him whole and Marinette was left staring at his reflection fading from the glass.
She stood there long after he’d gone. Long after the wind outside picked up, rattling fallen leaves against the sidewalk like whispers that couldn’t settle. The tea on the counter had long gone cold.
Eventually, Tikki emerged from her hiding place in the flour bin, her tiny face drawn with worry.
“Marinette...?” she said gently, fluttering beside her shoulder.
Marinette didn’t answer. Her hands were clenched at her sides, fingers trembling slightly, as if holding onto something invisible just to stay grounded.
“Marinette.” Tikki tried again, softer now. “Please... talk to me.”
But Marinette didn’t even look at her.
Tikki drifted closer.
“I know things feel impossible right now. I know Felix is difficult, and the weight of everything you’ve had to do is—” she paused, eyes gentle “—it’s more than anyone should carry alone.”
Still, Marinette said nothing. Her shoulders, once tense, slumped forward, the fight seeming to drain out of her all at once. She reached up to wipe under her eyes, though no tears had fallen, and turned slowly toward the counter again.
Tikki waited, hovering just above the tea cup. Watching her chosen one shrink into herself.
Marinette let out a breath, one that sounded like it had been trapped in her lungs for hours. “I’m tired, Tikki.” she murmured, barely audible. “I just need to be alone.”
The words were quiet, but they hit Tikki like a gust of wind.
“You always say that...” the kwami whispered, drifting back slightly.
Marinette’s fingers curled around the cold porcelain cup. She didn’t drink. She didn’t look up.
“Tikki...” she said, this time more firmly. “Please. Just... not now.”
Tikki hesitated.
Not now.
How many times had she heard that lately? Not now. I’m fine. I can handle it.
But Marinette wasn’t fine. She was unraveling, thread by thread, stitched together by silence and secrets and smiles that never quite reached her eyes anymore.
“I don’t want to be another voice asking something of you,” Tikki said at last. “I just want to help you remember who you are.”
That earned a flicker of movement from Marinette, who finally looked up, her gaze meeting Tikki’s.
And in that look, Tikki saw everything.
The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt that weighed heavier than her Miraculous ever had. But most of all, the loneliness. The kind that settles in not because no one is around, but because no one seems to understand.
“Who I am doesn’t matter right now.” Marinette said. “What matters is what’s coming next. And I can’t afford to fall apart.”
Tikki’s tiny face crumpled at that.
“You’re not falling apart...” she said, voice trembling. “You’re hurting. And pretending that you're fine isn't helping anyone.”
Marinette turned her face away again. “Just give me some space, Tikki.”
The kwami hovered in the air for a long moment. She opened her mouth as if to speak again, then closed it. She dipped low, brushing once against Marinette’s wrist before she floated away, small and defeated.
She didn’t return to the flour bin this time. Instead, she drifted to the window, her reflection small in the glass, distorted by the raindrops beginning to bead against the pane.
Outside, Paris went on, unaware and oblivious.
Tikki stared out at it, watching umbrellas bloom like dark flowers in the gray morning mist. Somewhere, someone was laughing. Somewhere, someone was waking up to a world they thought had always been this way.
No one knew what had been traded to keep it that way.
And the girl who had made the trade sat behind her, growing quieter and quieter with every passing day.