Uptown, Downtown (Chat Noir x Reader) - Book 1

12 | C'est Si Bon

"Fashion?" you asked in confusion, scratching the back of your head, one fine afternoon, during lunch.

"Yes!" Marinette exclaimed, waving her sketchpad in your face, which caused you to blink multiple times, "If I'm going to be a world renowned fashion designer, I need to win this, and make a good Derby hat! And you're British, right? You have Derby hats, right?!"

"I'm sure my dad has some lying around," you admitted. "Not too sure how I'd look wearing them though. Why don't you ask Adrien to model for you? He is a professional," you gestured to the blond, who was talking with Nino.

"Non!" Marinette practically had a mental breakdown at the mere suggestion, which in turn made you panic.

"Ok, ok!" you spluttered, waving your hands frantically, "I'll be your model! Adrien doesn't have to look at you! I'll be your model, so just calm down please!"

"Wah, I'm sorry! I'll shut up, I swear I'll be quiet! Thank you so much for helping me!" the blue haired girl shook your hand aggressively, before pulling you out of the school building, "Come on, let's go to your house!"

"Ma'am, wait a damn minute—" was all you had time to choke out, before Marinette whisked you towards the nearest bus stop.

You took her all the way to your house, though it was clear she'd never been to the suburbs of any city before. Her eyes were wide at all of the discombobulated junk and dirty buildings, clearly not having expected Paris to be so rundown. Marinette kept looking out of the window as you travelled, whereas you, familiarised with the underdeveloped area, just stared at your phone, exchanging texts with Lucinda.

As soon as you got off, you started to walk Marinette to your apartment. The alleyways were full of druggies, something you were accustomed to at this point, but your classmate was shocked at the sheer roughness of it all. "Do you really live here?" she asked quietly, watching a crow fly above you.

"Oui," you responded, checking your watch absentmindedly. "The rent's pretty cheap, and most of our neighbours are agreeable."

"Most?!" Marinette stuttered, scuttling further towards you, clearly anxious.

You laughed slightly, "Marinette, there are places that even Ladybug and Chat Noir can't fix, and that's because they're not affected by supervillains. They're affected by real life problems that can't be solved by a magic yoyo."

(Had you said that to intentionally provoke her into thinking more about different types of crime, because you had a suspicion she was Ladybug? Maybe.)

"Well… maybe Ladybug and Chat Noir didn't know about this stuff."

Oh, here came the defence. This was proving your Marinette/Ladybug theory pretty well.

"They're supposed to be the guardians of Paris, right?" you asked dryly, "They're not doing their job particularly well if my neighbours get burgled and my mum almost gets assaulted, are they?"

Marinette fell silent, and glancing over your shoulder, you could see she'd become upset, ducking her head shamefully. All at once, guilt consumed you; you hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but against your better judgement, you'd lashed out, and somehow also revealed your harsh life within the dodgy parts of the city. If she was Ladybug, no doubt she'd feel horrible after you'd said all that.

"I'm not saying they're bad," you conceded, stopping in your tracks, causing Marinette to stop as well. "Considering there's a guy with an army of evil butterflies who can turn people into villains, I think they've got their hands full. But, I guess I'm a bit too steeped in this world to realise how important stopping those guys must be."

"I think that after we—uh, I mean, Ladybug and Chat Noir stop Hawkmoth for good, they should focus more on stopping real crimes," Marinette spoke, with a soft smile. "That way you can live better, (Y/n)."

"Oh, not just me," you corrected with a small grin. "One small thing can really change a community, you know?"

Marinette nodded, and you two continued back to your house, where you showed Marinette some Derbys your father had stowed away. Then, you awkwardly wore them, and sat there as a model, as Marinette drew inspiration from the various hats you ended up sporting.

This took up about an hour of your time.

"Inspired yet?" you asked, drinking some water, a lopsided brown fedora on your head, as you stood in the kitchen, Marinette behind you.

"Almost… I just need one final touch, but I don’t know what!" the girl chewed on her pencil, clearly aggravated.

"You need a different perspective from someone?" you asked carefully, all too aware of how reluctant artists were to show their work.

(You could thank your father for that knowledge. Man would never let you so much as touch a single drawing of his.)

Actually, there was an idea.

"Wait, follow me," you instructed, leaving the kitchen; Marinette scurried after you, wary, but her jaw dropped when you let her into your dad's study.

"Wow!..." Marinette breathed, and you couldn't blame her.

The small room was filled wall to wall with your father's precious, immaculately detailed paintings, each depicting the various locations you'd visited in the UK, from the pebbled beaches of Hastings, to the great industrial, desolate heartlands of Manchester. Every single work was unique, and he'd spend hours on end sitting in a chair, his board and palette in front of him, smiling as he stroked his paintbrush over the fabric of his canvas.

"(Y/n), d-did you do these?" Marinette questioned in awe, sitting down heavily in the chair of the centre of the room.

"Me? God no, I'm no artist," you chuckled. "My dad did these, he's the Van Gogh of the family."

"They're amazing! Your dad is so talented!" Marinette exclaimed. "The colour scheme is so… drab, but it works, because… I don't know how it works, it just does!"

"It's because they're all in Britain, Marinette," you answered for her, with a wistful sigh. "The island where you can find a miserable type of joy when rain pours down on your fish and chips. Ah, I miss it."

Marinette smiled at your somewhat dreamy, far-off expression, as you clearly brought yourself back to England in your mind, before her blue eyes settled on a particular painting your dad had done in London.

Unlike most, it had been completed from a photo, taken in Trafalgar Square, right in front of the mighty stone lions, and depicted a flock of pigeons taking off into the sky — the people were left as stick figures, blurry, insignificant splodges of colour in the background, but the birds had been drawn with fantastic accuracy, every single wisp of their feathers a distinct shade.

Feathers.

"(Y/n)," Marinette spoke, catching your attention, "I think I've come up with the final touch."