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It was with a particular sort of terror you greeted the world every day; every morning you woke up you checked your hands, your face, your room, for any sign that you were still you and not the soulmate you’d been waiting for since your last birthday. This particular terror surged in the morning, died down during the day, and then reawakened when the sun finally went down and you were faced with the idea of another day of uncertainty. You didn’t bother concealing the bags underneath your eyes.
Halfway through reading a paragraph on the history of furniture for art history your vision exploded in a mess of colors and light and suddenly you were hurling through the night on an impossibly long pole. A brief wonder on your soulmate’s potential status as a stripper was all you had time for as you shortly began to fall, a surprisingly masculine scream ripping itself from your throat.
Instincts took over; you tucked yourself into a ball and momentum carried you into a roll onto a lower roof, something long and flexible whipping the backs of your legs.
You straightened and tucked the pole — it was more a staff, actually — into your belt with a flourish, more muscle memory than anything, and held your hands out in front of you.
The black leather and claws left you nonplussed, the “tail” hanging at the small of your back even more so. Right.
So they were really into leather and parkour.
Keeping your breathing at a reasonable speed was an ordeal.
“No way.” Grabbing a tuft of hair and tugging it down in front of your eyes didn’t alleviate anything. Blond. Blond! Golden blond, the kind people would kill for and Jesus Christ —
You turned your arms this way and that, examining and poking and prodding. That was leather alright. It looked and felt expensive. Probably worth more than any one thing you owned.
“Chat!” Oo, that was the clincher wasn’t it?
A familiar red and black figure flipped neatly onto the roof and you had to keep your inner fan tightly lidded (besides, a signature on “your” forehead would be left behind at the end of the night).
“You alright? You’re lagging behind on patrol.”
“Yeah. I mean, yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Yea — uh, yes.” Please kill me.
Her lips were thinning and there was a furrow to her brow. “Chat . . . “ A light went off. “Am I speaking to Chat right now?”
“Oh, thank god. You’re not, I’m —“
“Don’t tell me!” She whipped up her arms to make an X so fast you could feel the breeze a few feet away. “Secret identities! I could follow your civilian ID back to Chat if you tell me.”
You slumped. “Right.”
Your eyes were fixed on your shoes. They were more like slippers, actually. Little black slippers that look like they have no arch support but you can’t feel the rough texture of the concrete underneath you. Magic.
“Well, since I’m not Chat and would probably get myself — uh, him, I mean — killed. . . wanna hang out?”
The touch of concern on her face is tucked away as she nods. Her smile is natural despite the stress that lines her brow and you realize you’ve never heard of the heroes of Paris officially getting days off.
“Sounds good. We could survey the city from the tower and I can tell you some embarrassing stories about Chat.”
(The tower is gorgeous and before Ladybug you didn’t know you could choke on laughter)
(You wondered how Chat was doing)
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“We’ll figure it out.” It’s the note you’re left with when red and black spiral in your vision and you’re left in your room, the sun slowly rising over the horizon. The handwriting wasn’t yours — it was actually surprisingly neat and you wouldn’t hesitate to call it calligraphy rather than just writing. He’d left you sitting on your mattress, and you flop backward onto it.
Sure. Your soulmate was a superhero. You’d figure it out.
Even the potential complexity of the situation can’t bring you down and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.