Archive of Our Own

The party was, as always, Alya’s idea. The rules for the costume contest? All Alix. Ultimately, though, Marinette was to blame for the whole ordeal.

“Newspaper!” Ladybug huffs.

She drops her head into Chat’s lap and flings her arms out over her, coming centimeters from whacking him in the chin. He reaches out to catch her hand in his, but her dramatics dictate otherwise. Her fingers slip away, and she presses the back of her hand to her forehead.

“Why did it have to be newspaper?”

Chat shakes his head and rearranges his legs the best he can without disturbing her.

“Not the faintest idea, My Lady,” he begins. From her place in his lap, she can see the grin unfurl across his lips, the clearest sign that he knows exactly why, and is not going to be letting it go anytime soon. “I’m sure that it has nothing to do with a certain Marinette Dupain-Cheng winning the annual Halloween Party Costume Contest three years straight.”

“I’m an aspiring fashion designer! What did they expect?”

He chuckles and traces a thumb down the side of her cheek. The delicacy of the motion is at odds with the sarcasm in his voice a moment later.

“I think after the second year, they expected that you might give them a break for once. After the third year, I think they figured out they’d have to take matters into their own hands.”

Chat isn’t wrong. She still felt a thrum of pride each time someone mentioned her work from the last three Halloweens: an ancient mummy with interchangeable gold death masks (it had been her first year as Ladybug, and the inspiration was almost overwhelming); a rather tongue-in-cheek but quite detailed marionette; and, most recently, a man-eating Siren, complete with glistening tail and bloodied fangs. Looking back, Ladybug supposed that Alix, Alya, and the others were justified in their new costume contest restrictions. It wasn’t like she’d been going out of her way to produce contest-winning costumes every year. She just enjoyed working hard and creating. Nonetheless, the new rules must have, in their minds, given them at least a small chance. To her, it felt like a gauntlet thrown at her feet. Ladybug looks up at Chat and grins.

“Well clearly, they don’t know me.”

“Clearly.”

In a feat of speed that shouldn’t shock her by now, Chat scoops her up from under her armpits and pulls her into a sitting position. A heartbeat later, his lips press against hers. The kiss is gentle compared to others they’d shared before, but the warmth of his breath over her skin and the slow slide of his hands down to her waist still send her heart rocketing. Her hands settle on his thighs and squeeze, a poor attempt at grounding herself.

Chat breaks the kiss. He doesn’t move away, instead resting his forehead on hers and drawing in a shaky breath.

“Sorry, you’re just too beautiful when you’re determined.”

Each word makes her heart pump like she’s just finished a mad sprint across the city. She doesn’t think he’ll ever stop making her feel this way, and wonders at the years she’d missed out in her own stubborn blindness. Ladybug looks up at him, and knows her face reflects his unmasked affection.

“Chaton,” she murmurs, “you never have to apologize for kissing me. If you haven’t figured out by now how much I enjoy it, then maybe we need to try again.”

She tips her face up and their lips meet, this time with new vigor. His hands resume their course up and down her sides, and he pulls her a fraction closer. It’s risky, perhaps, their open affection on a rooftop where anyone might see them, but at this distance, Ladybug finds she doesn’t care. It’s not as though the media hadn’t gossiped for years about the nature of their relationship; it had just taken them three years to get it right.

Her teeth nip at his bottom lip, summoning a ragged gasp, followed by a mingling of tongues. Some minutes later, Chat pulls away. He stops and turns his head to peer at her.

“My Lady, you know I’m the last person who would suggest we stop, but this is making it difficult to brainstorm costume ideas.”

With reluctance, she eases away and puts some space between them. They’d met up on a non-patrol night for a purpose, and it wasn’t just to make out every few minutes. There was one week left until the party. Ladybug puts on her best exasperated face.

“Well, if you weren’t so distracting,” she says, “then maybe we’d have an idea already.”

“I’ll try to be less maddeningly handsome next time,” he says. A smile and a wink accompany his words; they’re met with rolled eyes and a shaking head.

Sighing, she settles against Chat’s chest. He tucks his arms around her and props his chin on her head with a matching sigh. His warmth blankets her, keeping off the chill of fall wind that grasps at them from their place on the roof. Chat echoes her sigh a moment later.

“If my father weren’t the human equivalent of a wooden meter stick left out in some designer slacks,” he says morosely, “maybe we could have done a couple costume.”

She swallows her grimace and ignores the sudden lurch in her stomach. Years of friendship with Adrien had done plenty to lower her regard for Gabriel Agreste, but it wasn’t until they started dating that Ladybug had found herself fighting off the urge to hang Agreste from the Eiffel Tower by the toes. As if hiding their superhero identities wasn’t enough for the two, hiding their relationship from a strict and judgemental father had proved a challenging test of mental (and sometimes physical) acrobatics. Desperate to avoid the media rumour mill, they made sure that Alya and Nino alone were privy to the fact that Marinette and Adrien were together. The situation was a touchy subject for Adrien, and one he couldn’t seem to quit dwelling on, in mask or out.

“Next year, after your birthday, we will,” Ladybug says, trying her best to sound reassuring. “We would have struggled to match our costume materials this year anyway. Not like I have any costume ideas. At this rate, I’m just going to buy a copy of Le Monde and tape it over my face.”

Chat laughs, giving her a soft squeeze around the middle. Ladybug snuggles a shade closer, and flicks through her stacks of mental design books, grasping for anything she might be able to make using newspaper.

When they had all met at Alya’s to plan the annual party celebrating Halloween, Marinette hadn’t expected Alix’s proposal, nor had she guessed that the rest of their friends would so heartily agree to the new contest rules. Alix had come prepared, though, pulling a stack of folded and slightly wrinkled slips of paper from her pocket and dumping them into Nino’s upturned hat with much fanfare. I read about this online, it’ll be totally fun! Alix had said, Everyone draws a paper from the hat at random. You have to use whatever is written on the paper in your costume. Most of your costume should use that thing.

And, of course, Marinette just had to draw newspaper. The 31st was fast approaching, and she still had no idea what she could make out of the flimsy material.

“This is impossible,” she grumbles. “Alix may have brought it up, but the whole idea reeks of Chloé.”

Ladybug feels Chat shake his head above her, then lift his chin to straighten the hair he’d mussed.

“No way,” he says. “Chloé would never go out of her way to make something more difficult for herself. Besides, she got the short end of the stick when it came to drawing the costume material.”

He leans over her shoulder just so that she can see the waggle of his eyebrows. Ladybug snorts, Chloé’s look of disgust as she pulled a slip of paper reading ‘popsicle sticks’ from Nino’s hat still fresh in her mind.

“You may be terrible,” she starts,” but I guess you’re right. Her pick was almost just as bad as 'newspaper.’ I guess we can’t all draw 'bedsheet.’ At least you actually got something fabric.”

With a forlorn look, Chat turns from her to stare out over the view of Paris that unfolds from their rooftop perch. A small pout tugs at his lips.

“You could give me all of the fabric in the world, and I still wouldn’t know what sort of costume to make. Here, in the city of fashion: child of a famous design icon, and I’m utterly clueless.”

He collapses back against her, fluttering his eyelashes in that pretty way she knows he uses just to make her swoon. Ladybug gives his shoulder a soft shove.

“Please, yours is easy. Tie it at the waist and the shoulder and you’ve got an instant toga.”

That causes Chat to straighten. He taps his lips with a gloved finger as he ponders the thought.

“I guess I could pull off the Roman god thing if I tried,” he muses. “And I’d never pass up an opportunity for My Lady to see me in nothing but a sheet.”

He shoots her a sly smile and flexes an arm. Solid muscle shifts under the tight, leather-like material of his suit, as if she needed a reminder of just how fit he was. He’d shown her the unreleased stills from his first underwear shoot (done in advance of his 18th birthday, still a few months out), but his suggestion nonetheless leaves her fighting a blush now.

“You would make a pretty good Narcissus, I suppose,” she teases.

Ladybug giggles as Chat’s face drops into a mock-scowl. He wiggles back enough to cross his arms over his chest.

“Narcissus is Greek, not Roman,” he says, sticking his nose in the air. “But, I suppose your unfair insinuations have given me an idea for your costume, so, you’re welcome. Take all of the front page newspaper spreads about yours truly, and fold them up. Then, walk around waving it at people all night.”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this…”

“You’ll be Chat Noir’s biggest fan!” His arms splay out over his head excitedly, and she can just hear the *ta-da* he wants to let loose.

Ladybug buries her face in her hands and groans. How did he somehow manage to make her love him more and more by the minute? When she’d started liking him as Adrien all those years ago, she never once anticipated that ‘biggest goof in Paris’ would end up being the trait she fell hardest for.

“That’s an inspired idea, Kitty, but I have to make my costume out of newspaper, not a full-length mirror.”

“Me-owch!” he exclaims, throwing his hands over his heart, “My Lady cuts to the quick!”

Somehow, he manages to flop and roll his way into her lap, their positions now flipped from a few minutes before. Chat stares up at her with Spring-green eyes, bright enough to ward off all of Autumn’s harsh cold. Ladybug runs her fingers through his wild hair and smiles down at him.

“As it is,” she says, “Chat Noir’s biggest fan is Ladybug, and she can’t just show up to the Halloween party without a proper costume.”

Chat purrs under her words and lifts his head into her touch. Adoration swells between them, as crisp and clear as the evening air.

“Hey, Buginette,” he murmurs.

“Yes?”

“What’s black and white and red all over?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Come on.”

She indulges, if only because the way he waits for her response, ears twitching, eager tail flicking up, makes her chest tighten in anticipation.

“…A newspaper?” she groans.

Those sparkling eyes narrow, and his smile turns smirk as he leans up. His cheek grazes hers.

“Your face when I do this.”

Chat’s gloved hands cup her cheeks, and he brings her lips down to his in a searing kiss. By the time he pulls away, leaving her panting, she is, in fact, all three of those things.

She is also inspired.

…

Alya’s words are almost impossible to discern over the background roar of music and laughing teens, but Marinette doesn’t even need to hear her to know what she’s saying - “Where are you? The party’s already started!”

“I know, I know,” Marinette replies, raising her voice as she does her best quick shuffle through the thick, Friday evening crowd at the metro. “I promise you’ll understand when I get there.”

Her elbow juts out at an awkward angle as she cradles her phone against her cheek; there’s a jarring crunch as a young man, walking backwards while talking excitedly to a friend, bumps into her. Marinette breathes a curse that goes unheard by either the man or Alya on the other end. If she had the time, she might pull off to the side of the long hallway leading back to the metro station, attempt to peel off her long coat, and check for damage. But, as Alya has already pointed out, she’s running very late to the Halloween party, and she’d rather not expose her costume to any more unpredictable elements. With luck, any repairs she’ll have to do at Alix’s will be minor.

Alya says something at the exact moment a loud shout - distinctly Kim’s - drowns her out. Marinette rolls her eyes, imagines the wine glass, already half-empty, in Kim’s meaty fist, and promises to Alya that she’ll be at Alix’s apartment in a matter of minutes. There’s no answering response - in fact, it sounds as though Alya’s pulled the phone away from her face to yell at Kim - so Marinette hangs up and slides her phone into her bag with a slow, delicate flex of the wrist.

The ascent up the stairs from the metro station to the street is just as slow and delicate, every bend of the knee cautious in the extreme. She flinches with each jostle as someone whizzes past her on the stairs. It would be a miracle if she made it the three blocks to Alix’s intact.

“Tikki,” she mutters, voice low enough for only Tikki to hear her, “Remind me to never, ever, be this ambitious about a costume again.”

Tikki’s high giggle floats up from the collar of her coat, and through the thin fabric of her leotard, Marinette feels the small kwami nuzzle into her neck.

“I’ll remind you, Marinette,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll listen.”

“I know…”

She’s not sure what’s more of a relief as she clears the final stair and exits the station: the crisp bite of the evening air, or the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to hobble up any more steps like an arthritic old lady.

The sun had set in the short time it had taken her to ride the metro from her home to Alix’s, transforming the lavender-gold of dusk into the sharp black of night. Now, streetlights cast their flickering glow down on the wide sidewalks, and the wind tugs at the edges of her coat, perhaps curious to see what she had been keeping under wraps all week. Never before had Marinette experienced an American Halloween (though Alya had put her through enough scary films over the years to give her a good idea of what it might be like), but imagines it must feel like this: bright stars in a clear sky peering down like unblinking eyes, a shudder of excitement, shadows flitting behind trees and around corners, a thrill of eager fear.

She’d always loved holidays, and this imported one was no exception. Even on the safe Parisian streets, Marinette lets herself wonder if she might hear the sudden howl of some unimaginable, tormented monster, or feel the snuffle of a werewolf nosing at her ankles, considering its prey. Sure, Marinette had seen stranger things, more dangerous creatures, in her time as Ladybug, but she lets her imagination build an excited sort of terror in her gut, and it carries her the rest of the way to Alix’s building.

Stepping into the elevator (thank goodness Alix’s apartment building had an elevator) brings a new rush. Alix, only two floors up, has the music pumped loud enough for Marinette to hear it from the street, and it only gets louder as the small elevator lurches upwards with a shaky thrum. As she tugs the elevator door open and lets the noise assault her ears, she figures it’s fortunate that Alix’s neighbors were so accepting when she held big parties.

Clouds of fog pour out from under the crack in Alix’s door, and when Marinette lets herself in, it’s to a celebration already in full swing. Streamers drip down from the narrow hallway leading to the the main room, obscuring Marinette’s view and leaving her just the sounds of music, laughter, and loud conversation. They stroke her face and arms as she walks through them, reminiscent of ghoulish fingers.

Alix had outdone herself this year, and with Juleka and Rose having offered to help with decorations, the spacious apartment had been wholly transfigured. Every lightbulb in the living room had been replaced with blacklights, giving an unnatural glow to the fake spider webbing draped across almost every surface. From the corner by the kitchen comes the flash of a strobe light, casting strange shadows on those entering and leaving, making their movements seem exaggerated, animatronic. It’s dark enough for Tikki to flit out from under her collar and make her way, unseen, to one of the adjoining rooms, likely to track down Plagg.

Speaking of. The apartment is packed with people, many of whom Marinette recognized from collège, and some who must have been from Alix’s lycée. She scans the crowd for a familiar blonde head, tall enough to be bobbing over the top of the crowd, but has no luck. Nathanael’s bright red hair, from which a pair of cotton-ball covered rabbit ears spring up, catches her eye first. He’s chatting with Max, who sports a green hoodie and matching sweatpants lined with clothespins from the crest of his hood all of the way down his back. The clothespins continue along a makeshift green tail, completing his stegosaurus look. Her search is interrupted by a sudden excited shout.  

Ever the hostess, Alix shoots up from the couch and bounds over to Marinette the moment she spots her. Marinette throws her hands up as Alix leans in to grab her by the shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Fragile costume,” Marinette says. “I’m so sorry!”

Alix rolls her eyes and slams her fists on her hips, then yelps as a section of the bubble wrap enveloping her entire frame lets out a series of pops.

“I’m sure you’ve managed to outdo us all again,” Alix says. She twists back to check the severity of the deflated section at her hip, resulting in another bout of pops. Alix curses, but doesn’t seem all that concerned as she turns back to Marinette. “Though I know that coat can’t be it - it’s not even made out of newspaper!”

“It’s not,” Marinette says with a laugh. “I need to use your bathroom before the big reveal, though, to make sure nothing was ruined on the way over.”

“Sure thing. Not like I want your costume to be messed up or whatever, but it might give some of us lesser mortals an actual chance at winning the contest, you know.” Alix’s voice is teasing, of course, but Marinette catches the competitive glint in the slight narrowing of her eyes.

“I thought that was the point behind having the weird material rule in the first place!”

Alix shrugs to yet another chorus of popping bubble wrap. “True enough,” she says. “I didn’t expect it to backfire on me so badly though. What was I supposed to do with bubble wrap?”

Bubble wrap coats Alix from head to toe, nothing but her face and hands left unbubbled. A few pieces of the wrap have come escaped the tape holding them to her, and flap as she moves. She looks like a porcelain doll about to be packaged and shipped, or a very unusual mummy.

“I was wondering what you were supposed to be,” Marinette says. “An overly safe ghost?”

“I’m underwater!” Alix exclaims, as if it were obvious. Then, with an air Marinette might call sheepish if she didn’t know the overzealous girl better, “It’s the only thing I could come up with.”

They share a laugh, and Alix herds Marinette towards the bathroom, careful not to touch any part of Marinette’s coat too hard. As they navigate the crowd of partygoers, Marinette spots Alya, perched on a bar stool near where someone who could only be Nino, head covered by a large, glimmering helmet, fiddled with the stereo system. Alya waves to Marinette, her wide grin accentuated by the heavy black stripes artfully crossing her face. She hops off of the barstool and weaves through the people to reach Marinette, and amidst the dim, strobing light and the spider webs dangling down, Alya disappears. She reappears at Marinette’s side a moment later, at which point Alix passes Marinette off to her and rejoins the party. They make their way to the bathroom, trying twice to talk and failing both times as the music suddenly surges in volume and bass with Nino at the helm.

It’s quieter once they’ve gone down the hall and closed the door to the bathroom. Alya begins to lean in for a hug, but stops  at the last moment.

“So, let’s see this costume you’ve been so secretive about,” she says with a smirk. She crosses her arms over her striped body and leans against the sink.

“Not before I get a look at yours,” Marinette replies. “The tiger idea was pretty inspired, you look amazing!”

Like most after their costume material selections, Alya had been pretty put out with her drawing of “tape”. But it had taken no more than two quick internet searches for her to figure out the perfect costume. One orange body suit and a *lot* of black electric tape later, and Alya was the very vision of a big cat predator. She flicks one of the ears Marinette had helped her make - sturdy, made of cardboard and yet more tape - and smiles.

“You should have seen Nino when he came to pick me up. He’s been asking all night if he can touch my tail.” Alya whips around the stuffed tail attached to the back of her costume.

“I’m sure he has,” Marinette snickers. “You know I will be.”

Alya nods in approval. “I’d expect nothing less. Now, enough with the coat business, show me your no doubt *amazing* newspaper masterpiece!”

“I… might need some help getting it off,” she confesses, tugging at a coat sleeve. “With the costume underneath, it’s kind of a tight fit.”

Shaking her head, Alya scoots around to Marinette’s other side and begins helping her peel off the coat. The fabric drops to the floor, and Alya gives her a low whistle.

“Well, they all said it couldn’t happen, but you’ve surpassed yourself again, girl.”

“Hand me my bag, there’s obviously something missing.”

Alya obliges, and Marinette opens her purse and slowly pulls out a jet black mask and a pair of cat ears on a headband. Her hands are steady as she positions the mask over her eyes and ties the bright green ribbon with care around the back of her head. There’s not much give to the mask, but it feels sturdy and comfortable once in place. The ears slide on next. She turns to the mirror over the sink, and grins.

Chat Noir grins back.

It had taken days of work, and more failure than she’d be willing to admit to anyone other than Tikki, who had witnessed the sticky, excruciating process firsthand, but the end result was worth it. Black, papier-mȃché ears peek out from her dark hair, and the mask of glue and paper, sweat, and (some) tears is a near-perfect replica of the famous hero’s own. (She’d know.) Like Alya, Marinette had opted for a bodysuit as her base, paired with black leggings and boots. From there, she’d built Chat’s armor out of newspaper painstaking detail, using a combination of balloons and wire to shape the ankle guards, gauntlets, shoulder plates, and golden bell of his well-known suit. She’d recreated his baton out of papier-mȃché as well, and relished in painting the tiny, green pawprint on its side. After a few hours of deliberation, she’d even created a plate - undamaged after her trip - to go over her chest replicating a musculature she is blessedly familiar with. (Whether he’d be flattered, or alarmed, remains to be seen.)

“Seriously, girl, you took ‘newspaper’ and ran with it,” Alya says. “How long did this all take?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marinette replies, voice flat but mouth still curled in a smile. She pulls on the final accessory, a pair of black gloves.

“Well, regardless of however many hours of sleep you didn’t get,” Alya teases, “I think you’ve got a winning costume on your hands. Has Adrien seen it yet?”

Marinette shoots her a dubious look. “I wouldn’t even tell you what I was doing,” she says. “Do you really think I’d tell him?”

Alya shrugs. “I’m just sayin’, I know how gushy new relationships are. I would have only been mildly offended if you’d told him about it and not me.”

“Alya, you are first in my heart forever and always,” she says. A heartbeat later, she bites her bottom lip and glances at Alya with a hint of shyness. “Besides, I wanted to surprise him.”

“There it is, the truth comes out!”

Laughing, they make a few more adjustments to their costumes, Alya touching up her whiskers, Marinette combing her hair with her fingers, and then exit the bathroom. Once again, a wave of music rushes over Marinette. Someone must have dragged Nino away from the sound system, though, as, for the first time since she arrived, the volume is at a less-than-ear-splitting level. It’s a nice change of pace, as Alya can hear her when she says, “Speaking of Adrien, have you seen him yet? I tried looking for him when I got here.”

Alya’s expression is hard to read under the UV light and thick makeup, but if Marinette had to guess, she’d say it’s a look caught somewhere between resignation and deep, deep disappointment.

“Yeah, he’s here,” she says. “He and Nino got ready together at his place before they came and picked me up.”

“Where is he? I thought I would have seen him, if he was with you guys.”

The look on Alya’s face doesn’t fade - if anything, it grows wearier, and her eyes drift over the party in a thousand-yard stare.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, visiting all of his favorite party haunts.”

Alya grimaces at her own words, and a red-flag goes up in Marinette’s head. “Alya, was that a pun? That sounded an awful lot like a pun.”

“Let’s pretend that never happened and get a drink. There’s no way anyone is going to keep Nino away from the music for long, and I’d better be ready.”

“I think Nino was the only one excited about his costume material,” Marinette says, raising her voice as they skirt the main party and make their way to the kitchen. “Everyone knew he was lucky when he got tin foil.”

“He’s always wanted to be Daft Punk,” Alya agrees.

The kitchen is no less crowded than the living room, and a cheer goes up when Alya and Marinette enter. Their friends, and even a few strangers, swarm, attention drawn to Marinette’s costume. Rose, who had drawn ‘garbage bags’ and cleverly cut and taped them to look like a cute raincoat with matching boots and floppy hat, reaches out and pokes the bell at Marinette’s throat with a finger. Ensconced in black tulle, Juleka shoots Marinette a rare smile and gives her a thumbs up - the sparkling, blue-painted wine corks strung from her body bobble with the motion, giving the illusion of falling rain; it would be no shock to Marinette if they won the best couple’s costume prize.

Kim, who always seemed to take on secondary hosting duties when it came to Alix’s parties, parts the group and hands Alya and Marinette drinks. A cardboard box sits at his middle, attached with a pair of blue suspenders around his shoulders. The box had been painted a cherry red, its bright color matching Kim’s shirt and hat. A large, fake moustache hangs off of Kim’s upper lip.

“Mario Kart just made sense,” Kim tells Alya as she takes a sip. “I like competition, and I’m pretty good at the game, if I do say so myself.”

“Did Max suggest it?” Alya asks, raising a knowing brow.

Kim glances away and ducks his head. Maybe it’s the lighting, but she suspects his cheeks may match his shirt. Alya looks like she’s about to ask something else, but Marinette cuts in.

“Kim, have you seen Adrien? I want to make sure I say hi to everyone before it gets too late.”

Kim’s response is a bark of laughter, followed by a shake of the head so vigorous that half of his moustache comes unstuck from his face. “Yeah, I saw him earlier when he came in to get a drink. Pretty hard to miss.”

Between Alya and Kim’s reactions, Marinette knows she’s missing something, but before she can ask, a classmate calls Kim over to start some kind of Halloween dare. She renews her efforts to track down Adrien once she and Alya return to the living room, but the space is packed, and another wave of thick fog rolls out from the fog machine, further hindering her search.

She lets Alya lead her back to Nino and the sound system. Nino removes his tin foil helmet to gawk at Marinette’s costume, and nearly settles a hand on the outfit’s fake chest before Alya glares him down. A few others come up to ask about the Chat Noir costume - if it was really made with newspaper, how long it took, if she would ever stop wiping the floor with her designs. Alix flits by again, long enough to tell Marinette that she had her begrudging vote for the contest, and even Sabrina, coffee filters cut into snowflakes fluttering around her, stopped to inform her that, although she would be voting for Chloé’s superior ‘Ice Queen’ costume, Marinette’s costume was pretty impressive. From the opposite side of the room, Chloé glares them both down and reaches up to adjust the rhinestone encrusted crown constructed out of popsicle sticks - the only part of her costume that appeared to use the item.

And while the praise is nice, the longer it goes on, the more Marinette wishes that it came with a pair of green eyes and some terrible joke about her use of “mews-paper”. After a few more conversations spent at half-attention as she continues to peer into the crowd, Marinette gives up. Adrien could find her. She stands on the outskirts of a conversation between Nino, Alya, and Max about the ‘Tron’ reboot (‘Daft Punk was the *only* good part about that movie, dude!’), and sips at her drink.

“I see you decided to go as my biggest fan after all.”

If ever there was a voice that went straight to her chest, it was Adrien’s. There was a rush that came with the secretive mention of their alter-egos in such a public place, knowing they could be overheard, but knowing it was too loud for that to ever happen. She could hear the excitement, the delight, crackle in his words. Marinette takes a deep breath, reminding herself *not* to kiss him the moment she turned around.

She turns, schooling her face with a friendly smile. A moment later, she feels the expression slide away, to be replaced with shock, then confusion.

Before her stood a figure entirely covered in a single, white linen. From two crooked holes cut into the fabric glimmer a pair of amused green eyes. It takes her a long few seconds to find her words.

“Adrien, don’t tell me you are what I think you are.”

“Boo,” is all he says in reply.

Of course. Of course, Adrien would draw “bed sheet” and decide on the simplest, most juvenile, most laughably Halloween costume of all. Adrien Agreste, famous fashion model, international heartthrob, devilish superhero, and her secret boyfriend… is a bedsheet ghost.

She slaps a palm to her forehead, uncaring of the crinkle of papier-mȃché, and sighs.

“How did I spend all of those years thinking you were some sort of suave, mature icon?” she asks. “You’re the biggest nerd I know.”

Adrien laughs, the sheet muffling the sound but not the sentiment. “I know,” he says. One side of the sheet rises as he rubs the back of his neck with a ghostly hand.

Marinette can’t see his face, but she can hear the tease in his low voice when he steps close enough for the sheet to tickle her ear and says, “But you like me that way.”

How a dork covered in a formless bedsheet, looking like an overgrown child, could raise heat in her cheeks with such speed, Marinette would never know. She knows from experience that the mask doesn’t cover her blush, and she has no doubts that Adrien is aware of the exact effect he has on her.

Adrien steps away before any of the others notice their proximity. “Your costume looks amazing, Marinette,” he says, voice louder. By now, the two of them had perfected the levels of comfortable friendliness in their voice - just warm enough for anyone to gather that they’d known each other for years, but not so companionable that a person might guess that each of them were fighting the desire to jump the other, then and there.

“Thanks, I was hoping everyone would like it.”

“It must have taken forever to make the papier-mȃché parts.” He gestures to the chest piece, and she can feel his smirk from under the sheet. “Are those pecs a replica?”

“I took a bit of artistic liberty with them,” she says airily.

Adrien appears to shake his head. A lump forms around where she thinks his chin might be - he strokes at a non-existent beard as he circles her, eyeing the details of her costume.

“No, I think you stayed pretty true to your inspiration,” he says, voice thoughtful. “If anything, you may have underrepresented some of Chat Noir’s finer features.”

‘Like his big mouth?’ is on the tip of Marinette’s tongue when Alya swings in, throwing an arm around Adrien’s shoulder and grinning at them both.

“Our girl is pretty talented,” she says, loud enough for just the two of them to hear. “Unlike you, Monsieur Refused-To-Get-Out-Of-Bed.”

Adrien raises both arms, shaking Alya off. The sheet ripples and drapes around him. For a split second, the eerie image of a diaphanous specter, inhuman glow cutting into the violet dark, burns into her retinas. It’s not a moment later that the effect is ruined when a rather offended-sounding Adrien goes, “Excuse me, but the sheet ghost is an American Halloween classic. I chose to embody the true spirit of the season.”

Alya snorts, and it’s all over from there: Adrien launches into what sounds like a memorized list of every American movie, TV show, and book in which a bedsheet ghost was present or mentioned. Marinette half expects him to pull out a works cited page from somewhere under the sheet after his third or fourth example. They’re all saved by Nino, whose new disagreement with Max over who would win in a fight - Dracula or Jacques Derrida - has become contentious enough to need arbitration, for which Alya happily steps in. Marinette shuffles closer to Adrien, letting Nino and Max into their little circle and listening as the debate picks back up.

Other partygoers drift through the conversation, but Marinette, for the most part, stays out of it, instead enjoying the presence at her side. From the corner of her eye, she glances up at Adrien, only to find his head turned just enough to look down at her. It’s silly: with the rest of him shrouded in that goofy sheet, all she can see are his eyes, and it’s still enough for her to feel like melting then and there.

He bumps her gloved hand with his, and she snags a bit of his sheet with her pinky. They lean in.

“You really do look great,” Adrien says softly.

“Your costume is ridiculously perfect,” she replies.

“And you haven’t even seen what’s under it,” he says, sounding all-too-sinful for a boy wearing a sheet over his head.

Again with the suggestions. She won’t let him get one up on her again. Marinette fixes him with her best Chesire grin and says, “Is it those too-short Ladybug sleep pants Nino got you last year for Christmas?”

Adrien turns his head back to Kim and Nino’s debate, suddenly enthralled. It’s all the answer she needs.

…

The next few hours pass faster than a witch sailing across the face of a full moon. Marinette giggles over Adrien’s attempts to pour himself another drink without splashing all over his once-pristine sheet (‘Just pretend they’re blood stains. It adds character’), and they both watch in horrified fascination as Kim, a cheesecloth covered Ivan, and one of Alix’s friends from lycée all compete to shove as many handfuls of cloyingly sweet “candy corn” into their mouths as possible. She’s self-aware enough to know that she and Adrien are spending too much time together to avoid suspicion, but as she and Adrien bounce up and down to a dubstep remix of “The Monster Mash”, Marinette decides that she just doesn’t care.

And so, she’s not paying much attention in the heartbeats before it happens. A body careens into hers.

“Ohmygosh, I am so sorry!”

Marinette feels the thick, lukewarm trickle down from her temple before her brain catches up with what has just happened. Shocked, she runs a single finger along her cheek. The tip of her finger is dark red when she pulls it away. Wetness blooms across her chest and seeps into her skin. The music is still pumping away, the crowd still dances around her, but it all feels very, very distant.

“Marinette, are you okay?”

Adrien’s face swims before her, sheet pushed back over his head enough for her to see the concern in his expression. She nods mutely and looks down at her costume.

“I didn’t mean it, I swear,” Sabrina says in a rush. “I was bringing Chloé a drink, and I was holding mine too, and someone knocked into me and - I really am sorry.”

The papier-mȃché chest plate caves inwards, revealing a frame of crossed wires that Marinette had painstakingly bullied into shape days ago. The bell at her neck, stained red, begins to droop. Strips of paper sink off of her chest and arms and hit the ground with a soggy, red-wine-and-vodka-cranberry soaked plop. Marinette looks from her now-emptied cup to Chloé and Sabrina’s.

Sabrina does look apologetic, if not more than a little guilty. She squats down and starts picking up as much sticky, dissolving newspaper as she can before it can stain Alix’s floor. Marinette doesn’t dare peer into the crowd, starting to gather around them now, to track down Chloé, to see if she is gloating, or seems unsurprised. A lick of fire burns her throat, ready to lash out at Chloé or Sabrina as she had done more than once before, but she swallows it back. Yelling might make her feel better, but it wouldn’t undo the destruction to her costume. Accident or no, she was definitely out of the contest.

“It’s okay,” Marinette says, trying and failing at a strained smile. “It’s not the end of the world.”

But it feels like it as she rushes to the bathroom, ignoring Alya and Adrien’s calls and trying to keep any more of her costume from sloughing off onto the floor.

Bathroom door firmly locked behind her, Marinette takes a deep, shaky breath, and begins peeling away the hours of work turned to goop. Even her mask had caught some of the splash - it might make it through another hour or so, but she wouldn’t be able to use it ever again. She rips it off and throws it in the wastebasket.

With most of her costume discarded, Marinette is left in her damp, sticky black leotard and leggings. Shoulders slumping, she stares at herself in the mirror, then shakes her head and turns on the water in the sink. She has to splash her face one, two, three times before she starts feeling awake again.

Maybe it’s just her, but the party feels more subdued when she exits the bathroom a few minutes later. The music volume has lowered, and she catches the strains of piano and creaking wooden stairs of a spooky Halloween soundtrack. People cluster in tight circles, chatting, and more than one group pauses to watch her head back towards Alya and Nino.

Adrien isn’t with them, but it’s not difficult to spot him now that she knows what she’s looking for. He’s back in costume and talking to Sabrina in the corner. Her hands are animated as she speaks, making all of the coffee filter snowflakes attached to her quiver erratically. He nods at whatever she says. They both turn and look across the apartment, to where Chloé stands, leaning against a wall with a visible pout. Then, Adrien spots Marinette. He pats Sabrina on the shoulder, and makes his way over.

She wants to run to him, throw her arms around him, and maybe cry, just a bit. Instead, Marinette shoots him a weak smile. “Well, it was good while it lasted.”

Adrien nods, expression unreadable under the sheet.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your costume, Marinette.” He raises his voice, loud enough to be heard clearly over most of the crowd. “Want to share mine?”

Before Marinette can respond, Adrien lifts up the sheet. It billows up over his head as he takes one big step and closes the gap between them. He lowers his arms, bringing them and the sheet down over both of their heads.

Like that, it’s just the two of them, cocooned in the sheet. Adrien cups her face in his hands, and makes a home for his lips on hers. The brush of his tongue brings a burst of candy sweetness.

Catcalls and cheers rise from the party around them, the sheet hiding little of their closeness. It must be a good two minutes before someone - Alix, Marinette thinks - shouts, “All right, all right, we get it!”

They part. Adrien beams down at her, smile bewitching.

“I guess we got to do a couple costume after all,” Marinette breathes.

…

Nino takes first place in the costume contest for his intricate helmet.

Juleka gets second place for her raincloud, and she and Rose do, in fact, win the Best Couple Costume category.

In an unprecedented move, the party overwhelmingly votes to give Marinette and Adrien the third place prize for their impromptu “Ghost Camel” get up.

By the end of the night, they’re already planning for next year.