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The smile that spread across Ladybug's cheeks was akin to stretching a glutinous mound of dough; pulled upon with too much force, it collapsed quickly in the middle. It split apart, tendril by tendril, until the weight of the world won out.
That happened a lot. So often that this time almost didn't register—like many things failed to as of late. There was a delay before Catwalker's gut twisted, aching with the echoes of her dissipating joy. Like for a moment, he'd forgotten there'd ever been more than this.
More than disappointing her at every turn.
Her eyes fell to the rooftop, and he pretended not to notice her rapid blinks. If she'd felt comfortable sharing, she wouldn't have looked away. And Catwalker wasn't meant to push. Wasn't meant to intrude.
All he could do was stand there, fingers laced behind his back, one thumb pressing hard into his wrist in a desperate attempt to feel something—even pain.
The suit wouldn't let him.
There was no defense, though, for the way her eyes flashed angrily back to him. Her lips pressed into a thin, shaky line. "He's not coming back, is he?"
“I…can’t be sure.”
Ladybug snorted.
It was Catwalker's turn to study the slope beneath his feet. The panels were made of zinc, like many other Parisian rooftops. A colour too dull to reflect more than a hazy outline of his shadow—which was a comfort. If he’d seen his own image, he wouldn’t have recognized the face staring back at him.
“I wouldn’t know where to find him," he whispered.
Ladybug released a long sigh, the end of it catching on a wayward breeze. Making it tremble. “Of course not. I don’t expect… Well, it’s not your fault.”
A pang stole through him. “I’m still sorry.”
Her answering smile was warped—like the two sides of her earlier attempt, misshapenly shoved back together. “No, no, no! It’s fine, don’t be sorry. At least you’re here. Pfft, who needs Chat Noir, anyways? Not me!”
“Yes, well…” I know you don’t need me. “Shall we patrol?”
She gave an overly enthusiastic nod. “Yes! Wonderful idea! Fine and dandy! Absolutely perfect, I’d say. Totally—”
Catwalker took off, leaving her to her adjectives. Perhaps it wasn’t the most gentlemanly reaction, but he could only handle so many reminders of how hard Ladybug was trying to put his other self behind her.
Their path through the city ought to have been peaceful. The waning sunlight danced in and out of the buildings they flew past, gradually tucking itself behind the horizon. But Catwalker was far too aware of his every step, too busy wondering if Ladybug, too, could tell that their paces were staggeringly out of sync.
Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe life wasn’t passing her by in slow motion.
No explicit decision was made to stop. At some point, he simply found that the exhaustion coursing through his limbs overwhelmed the tension pitching him forwards. He slowed to a stop near the edge of a row of buildings along the Seine, his heart seizing painfully when Ladybug halted from a few paces behind.
A weary tangle of sighs distorted the air, and it took him a moment too long to realize the harmony of it; that he and Ladybug were finally singing the same, wretched song. That loneliness had a way of bringing people together.
She walked to the edge of the rooftop, fingers clutching at the railing. As she eyed the weathered metal, he expected her to swing her legs overtop of it. Instead, she lowered herself down, feet thudding against the side of the building. Slumping forwards, her forehead came to rest against a low-hanging bar, and Catwalker could imagine the shock of cold metal pressed against his own skin.
It was easier to experience the world through her. He couldn’t seem to make sense of his own skin, and he’d given up entirely on his mind. But a moment spent with her could drag him into tomorrow. It could shock him back into motion.
It certainly did that now, as she turned to him, cheek still pressed morosely against the railing. She barely twisted her head enough for him to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but that was incentive enough; he had to move closer.
He walked up to her side, turning to face her as her gaze drifted back to the river. But it was enough to see the way her lips curled up at the edges—even if his heart sank when they fell.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, shaking her head.
Sucking in a low, desperate breath, Catwalker pushed a response past the weight in his chest. “Whatever for?”
“I don’t know. Just…everything, I guess. You deserve better.”
That was hard to believe. He’d done nothing useful lately—or maybe ever. No matter what form he took, he didn’t seem to be enough. So what could he possibly have earned in response?
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you,” she continued. “You’re so kind, and so thoughtful, and…well, perfect.”
He did his best not to wince.
“But you’re just not…” Her eyes flitted briefly back to his, her forehead creasing. Like she was begging him to understand something. Then her lids squeezed shut. “You’re not him.”
“Chat Noir,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but it still needed to be said. Otherwise, it wouldn’t seem real.
Ladybug nodded. “I miss him.”
Those words burrowed deeper than Catwalker expected. Slicing into some far gone part of himself he’d long since thought had turned to ice. It hurt, feeling that part splinter open. And a crack like that could only spread, could only trickle more poison through his veins.
In truth, he had tried to be Chat Noir again. If he was only disappointing Ladybug further by trying to be who she wanted, then why bother?
If only he could remember how.
On the streets below, an accordion started playing mid-song. Or maybe the tune had been building for some time, and he could only now hear it.
“I’m sure he misses you too,” Catwalker said. Every day.
“I’m not,” she scoffed. “The way things ended, the things I said…”
“But…he did something wrong, didn’t he? Isn’t that why he’s gone?”
“No.” Ladybug frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“Well, I just thought—”
“I did something wrong. It was all me.”
Catwalker gritted his teeth to keep from arguing; he wasn’t sure if he’d be allowed. “If you say so.”
When Ladybug’s shoulders slumped even further, he knew he’d done another thing wrong.
A shriek of laughter tore through the evening, zapping through Catwalker as his eyes sought out the source. He found a couple at the edge of a nearby bridge who’d started dancing along to the swell of music. Their movements were absurd. Exaggerated. And they stirred something inside him.
It felt like a thing he would have done, once.
“Forget about it,” Ladybug said. “Maybe I should just go home.”
Catwalker’s stomach dropped. Eyes still fixed on the dancing couple, he didn’t stop to think his next words through. “Or…we could dance.”
“What?”
The shock in her voice made him fear he’d given himself away somehow. But dancing, he reasoned, was a perfectly respectable way to pass the time. Not so out of character.
He couldn’t say the same about the smile that slipped onto his cheeks, or the overly enthusiastic flourish wrist as he reached a hand down to her.
“Just one dance? I’d hate to let such a lovely evening go to waste.”
A pretty pink coloured Ladybug’s cheeks—maybe just the hues of the sunset, but maybe something more. She seemed able to do nothing more than gape at him.
Time stretched out long enough that he felt his smile begin to fade—and even that took too long. As if he’d spent too much energy putting it on, and now his muscles couldn’t remember how to wipe it away. Yet just when he feared all hope was lost, Ladybug reached up and grasped his wavering hand.
“One dance,” she echoed. “I’d like that.”
“Okay,” he said, rather breathlessly.
There were no more smiles as he pulled her to her feet. He was too overwhelmed by the warmth seeping through their clasped hands—something that apparently even the suit couldn’t hold back.
The accordion’s song ended, a lively tune falling into a softer one. One more suited to their careful dance. They locked eyes, a shiver running down Catwalker’s spine as Ladybug’s hand found its way to his shoulder. As he cradled her back with one hand, her thumb tapped a light, off-beat rhythm against the back of his other. Their feet began to move.
It soon became apparent, between one stuttered breath and the next, that Ladybug had no qualms about testing the bounds of their newfound proximity. She drew closer, step by step, until her cheek pressed against his chest. And, in a proper waltz, their clasped hands should have remained in the air instead of drifting down to hug their sides—not that he did anything to fight that. In fact, his hand had fallen to the small of her back, and his face had dropped dangerously close to burying itself in her hair.
So maybe it was partially his fault, what came next. But who could blame him, when her hand cupped the back of his neck with an inexplicable desperation?
Almost like her heart was beating the same unruly dance as his.
Almost like she wanted him.
“Catwalker?”
He managed the barest of hums in response.
“Promise you’ll never leave me? At least…”
Her eyes fell—and that was unacceptable, really. He had to let go of her hand, in favour of gently tilting her chin back up.
She swallowed. “...not without saying goodbye.”
And he couldn’t lie to her. Couldn’t promise he wouldn’t hurt her again when he could barely manage to get out of bed in the morning.
So instead he kissed her.
It was the tiniest brush of lips at first—just enough to spark some life into his tired heart. Enough to carry him through one more day. Then she kissed him back.
Her lips parted easily. Softly. But as his hand tightened on her waist, pressing her closer, the tempo increased. She tasted of sugar and cinnamon. She smelled of something floral, both bitter and sweet. And despite his flip-flopping stomach, Catwalker could only cling tighter as things progressed.
She was both his inevitable downfall and his safe place to land.
He knew he’d lost himself—completely—when she broke the kiss with a timid giggle, her fingers curling into the golden cord of his suit, giving it a light tug until he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He was gone.
She beamed up at him, eyes twinkling. For just long enough that he dared to think, against all reason, that maybe he might last beyond just one more thing.
One more dance. One more day.
One more chance at disappointment.
Her smile fell, and he could practically hear her earlier question crash through the sudden space between them. He's not coming back, is he?
Catwalker might just have her answer.