Chapter Text
Chapter I: The Forbidden Drawer and The Neighbor’s Cat
Marinette is an ordinary girl with an ordinary life.
And to be perfectly honest, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
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It began with the idea of leaving day-old croissants behind a chimney.
At least, Marinette considered that as the beginning.
Not the evening she first spotted Chat Blanc on the roof three streets over from her rooftop balcony, nor the following months that he lingered there. Not the afternoon where he interrupted her birthday picnic with Alya in Place des Vosges and he chased them through the square. (Thank goodness Carapace was nearby to save them!) Not even the two weeks immediately following, when Chat Blanc wrested Tom & Sabine’s customers of their purchased goodies. He’d ambush anyone with a gold-embossed teal baggie and then scamper off with his prize in mouth like a triumphant kitten.
A terrifying yet controversially adorable phenomenon to witness.
Marinette couldn’t shoo him away from that other rooftop. She wasn’t a superhero or in possession of a Miraculous-deely-whopper... thing. Besides, a superhero telling off a supervillain’s lackey for disturbing a civilian only exacerbated the situation. What she could do was address the threat to her parents’ business.
(Although if Twitter could stop trending #montchatblanc, #miauo_feuille and #macaronron every time Chat Blanc struck, that would be great).
Who would've thought Hawk Moth’s most destructive Akuma had a real weakness for viennoiseries and pâtissièries?
Which is how Marinette came to the brilliant decision to leave food out for Chat Blanc.
Her logic was simple: their poor customers would no longer have to live in fear for their croissants if he was given his own. If he received them out of sight, past open hours of her parents’ bakery then no one need be any wiser.
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Deciding to leave food out for Chat Blanc and going about it were two different things, Marinette discovered.
What was the point of going through the effort if he didn’t know? How to get his attention? Or more importantly, how to get his attention without attracting anyone else's?
Her solution is ingenious, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it sooner:
Laser pointer.
Those worked on cats, so in theory, it should work on cat boys too.
Laser pointers in the Dupain-Cheng household, however, were considered contraband. Along with bouncy balls, remote-controlled helicopters, and a fart machine that Marinette’s Maman didn’t share the same humor or patience for as her Papa did. The laser pointer had been Marinette’s. Her Maman confiscated it when the couple in the apartment across the street complained about a little red light shining into their home. Eight-year-old Marinette just wanted to play with their cat. (Her parents wouldn’t allow her to have a pet due to the bakery and Coco always looked so lonely, sitting there in that window—how was she to know that the flat would get trashed in the cat’s enthusiasm?)
Reclaiming her laser pointer took opportunistic timing and no small amount of luck.
When the bakery was hit with an afternoon rush, Marinette begged her Maman to cover the register so she could sneak away to use the bathroom. She slipped into her parents’ bedroom, all super spy-like—Alya would be so proud—and navigated her way to her Maman’s side of the bed where The Forbidden Drawer lay. Inside housed a treasury of all seized items, including her Papa’s fart machine stuffed into the back. Her laser pointer lay innocently beside it.
Heart hammering in overdrive, Marinette slowly retrieved it from the drawer. Partly in fear of Maman utilizing her innate ‘someone-hath-disturbed-Ye-Forbidden-Drawer’ sense and creeping up the stairs to catch her red-handed. Partly in awe, for reuniting with a favorite toy once lost long ago. A quick click to the button proved it lived strong; ready for mischief after all these years. Pocketing the laser pointer, she made her trip to the bathroom and returned to register duty.
She could only hope she didn’t look as guilty as she felt.
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It took her at least three days to work up the nerve.
Hawk Moth had a few long active Akumas plaguing Paris and Chat Blanc was one of several. Marinette's beloved literature teacher and her classmate's father were among that growing number as well.
This one, however, unsettled her the most.
She couldn't quite place her finger on why.
Her unease didn't stem from her close encounter with him weeks ago. Not entirely. It had been around long before that if she thought about it.
There was plenty about him to fear. He could summon corrosion and flick it at a whim. That temper of his on a hair-trigger often resulted in whatever vexed him so reduced to ash; usually billboards and cars. Occasionally whole streets or buildings in wide-ranged attacks. Pont Alexandre III and Musée Grévin were collateral of a few of his skirmishes with the heroes. (And he often clashed with Ménagerie the Miraculous powerhouse).
In typical, crazed-attention-seeking cat fashion he tore through cafés, parks, and across rooftops; startling the people going about their day. If he'd been lurking near an outdoor photoshoot he never resisted stalking the crew and leaping at the models. He taunted other Akumas when he grew bored and interfered with them as much as the heroes and first responders. He did this all in the name of fun, but his interpretation of the word differed from the traditional definition of it.
These moments of stillness were uncharacteristic of him, but then, Akumas had to rest at some point, right? They weren't always galavanting about the city, terrorizing it. There were times where some of them disappeared for days, or even weeks. Maybe they needed to rest too. She just happened to be at a vantage point to witness when Chat Blanc did.
The night she carried out her mad scheme was clear for once. Quiet, cloudless, illuminated by the moon, and the millions of lights interspersed throughout Paris. Like clockwork, Chat Blanc resumed his perch on that other rooftop. He gazed out at the city, the tip of his tail idly flicking behind him.
A lone void of color in the dark.
Perhaps his appearance was what truly disturbed her. As if someone upturned a jug of bleach on him; scouring him clean of all color. White suit. White hair. Flaxen skin. Save for the eyes—a pale blue as cold as a frigid winter morning.
There was something intrinsically wrong with it.
“Okay,” Marinette steeled herself, clutching the laser pointer in a white-knuckled grip. “You can do this. It’s like playing with the neighbor’s cat.”
Except Coco's capacity for destruction couldn’t match Chat Blanc’s.
(A close second though).
With one deep breath for fortification, she clicked the laser pointer on. It took a few seconds to orient the red dot and not accidentally shine it through anyone’s window. Her hand shook as she carefully trailed the dot to one of his hands.
She didn't have to wait long.
Chat Blanc's whole form perked. His other hand slammed on top of the dot—compromising his balance and sending him tumbling backward as a result of it.
He recovered from his spill with a sinuous roll into a crouch. (An incredible display of flexibility that she could never hope to achieve). He prowled closer to the dot on all fours, one hand tentatively coming forth to swipe.
Marinette suppressed a snort, biting the corner of her lower lip to keep from laughing.
This was exactly like playing with Coco.
Alright kitty, let's play!
Tight circles that his head mimicked in a trance.
Left to right to left to right where his hands slapped spastically after it.
Racing down the rooftop and back in a mad scramble.
Placing the dot just out of his reach so that a hand pawed plaintively at it.
And when he pounced with a small mew that carried over, she giggled. Because how could she not? That sound was adorable!
Her laugh may as well have been her death knell. Any interest Chat Blanc had in the dot was forgotten in favor of her.
Right.
Cat boy.
The boy half of him probably didn’t care for being teased.
His head turned in her direction first, his eyes a luminous glint from this perspective. Chat Blanc rose to his full height; the movement conveying his displeasure at being the butt of a joke.
Marinette panicked, for a wild moment thinking he was going to obliterate her and her whole neighborhood in a fit of petulance. Maybe all of Paris too. Why not the moon as well, for good measure?
“No, no, no!” The laser pointer fell from her hands as she whipped them up in surrender.
He didn't move but his tail did. A languid sweep around his ankles, which she took to mean as considering. Humored, even.
Cautiously, so that he could read her intent, Marinette lowered one of her hands. She groped around blindly for the pastry box where it was placed on the table. Once in hand she used both to open it just enough to reveal its contents to him. Four of her Papa’s not-pretty-enough-to-sell-but-still-good-to-eat croissants. Hopefully, he could identify them for what they were.
Chat Blanc clambered onto the railing. His feet and hands shifting beneath him, much like his namesake, preparing for a leap. A grand leap that would take him from his rooftop straight to hers.
Oh no...oh no no no... Not once did Marinette account for the possibility of him coming over while she was up here too! Her primary concerns were sneaking the croissants past her parents without raising suspicion and getting them to him.
She really didn’t want to take her eyes off of him but she needed to move fast. She knew better than to trust muscle memory to guide her across the rooftop without stumbling over something. Clutching the box in both hands, Marinette skittered toward the chimney, stood on the tips of her toes, and wedged it between the two stacks.
Not bothering to wait and see what happened next, Marinette dove through her skylight, back into the sanctity of her home.
If she spent the night on the living room couch because he was scratching at her skylight?
Well, who could blame her?
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The next day Tom & Sabine's customers left with their purchases, unharassed.
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A routine developed from there.
Every evening around 22:15, long after her parents retired to bed, Marinette would venture onto her rooftop to feed the catboy. Most nights she'd find him perched on the railing of that other rooftop, eerie eyes fixed on her. Some nights he wasn't there, but those were few and far in between. She'd rattle the box like a dinner bell to catch his attention and his faux kitty ears perked up at the promise of food. She always placed the box in the same spot as that first night and scurried back to the safety of her room.
She felt bold enough after a month to call out: "Psp-psp-psp! Dinner! Psp-psp-psp!"
Although not very loud.
She didn't want her parents, or people on the street below, to hear and question what she was up to.
With his own croissants and assorted pastries, Chat Blanc didn’t pounce on the bakery's unsuspecting customers anymore.
…
…
…
But this had the unforeseen outcome of him believing there was an open invitation to linger on her balcony. He scratched at her skylight, prowled around for at least an hour, and left crumbs on her lounge chair.
Perhaps she should have anticipated that.
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Feed a stray cat once and he’ll never leave.
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