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"We need to talk."
It's said with the eminent tone that always accompanies the phrase—the one that normally has people on alert for something coming down the pipe—but the fact it's coming from Chat Noir of all people? It carries a much more foreboding quality than before, and Marinette's already running through possibilities in her head.
"Okay," she breathes, willing her mind to settle down. He doesn't appear hurt from what she can see, so that's something off her mental checklist.
But he does appear agitated; his posture is ramrod straight, tail lashing frantically behind him, and his ears are twitching as his knuckles clench and unclench at his side. If that doesn't already worry her, it's the fact that he won't meet her eyes. She can't name a time where he's ever avoided eye contact with her.
"I...I need you to know that I truly had no clue, okay?" he begins, gaze moving erratically from somewhere on her face to somewhere on the ground and out to the city lights. "And—and Plagg didn't either, but I should've because—well, I can't say because—but I didn't know, even when you'd questioned it that one time and I ignored the signs, and that's part of why I need to do this and—"
She takes a step forward. "Kitty, you're rambling," she says.
He takes a deep breath, gaze finally meeting hers. "Hawkmoth is Gabriel Agreste."
The air that leaves her is like the popping of a balloon—sudden, sharp, and loud. "Oh god," is all she can manage.
"And I think you can guess that Mayura is Na—his assistant."
Her hand automatically moves to cover her mouth in horror as she shakes her head. "Poor Adrien!" Chat doesn't look to be faring well either, even if he's had more time to process this than her. No wonder he'd looked so distressed. "Do they know you know?"
He quickly shakes his head in the negative. "You're the only one."
"This is huge," she says, rather redundantly, because she knows Chat is aware of the severe gravity this information has caused and what it entails. They both do. "This isn't just a hint— this is the entire bomb. And we need to be extremely delicate with it."
"I know. One wrong move, and it could all blow up."
"Yeah," she sighs, shifting her weight as her mind turns at the thought of Gabriel Agreste's power and money and abilities to shield himself with his position; she thinks of Adrien, stuck in that desolate mansion with the two people who've caused Paris' despoliation for nearly two years, all alone. It makes her skin crawl. "We need to keep an eye on Adrien. Who knows what Gabriel Agreste is willing to do, especially if he catches on and gets desperate."
"Probably throw his son off a building," Chat snorts derisively.
"Oh god, don't say that, Chat!"
"He let it happen before."
"I…" She can't deny it. She remembers the moment with overwhelming clarity, has played it on loop in her mind from her extensive list of mistakes and almost-tragedies. And there are many other moments, she thinks, where Gabriel Agreste would've been willing to do a lot more at the expense of his son's life. "We can't let Adrien get hurt any more than is necessary."
"Too late," he mutters.
"What?" her eyes snap to his. "I thought you said none of them know."
"They don't," he answers brusquely. "Look, that isn't the only thing I need to tell you."
Her mask creases as her brows furrow. "There's more?" she asks in trepidation.
He nods. "I…" He's avoiding her eyes again and nibbling on his lip with such dedication, that she's worried it might begin to bleed. "I need to give up my Miraculous."
If the information of Gabriel Agreste's nefarious doings had been like a douse of ice-cold water, this is like a subsequent hard slap to the face. She stumbles back in surprise, as if such has truly happened. "What?" she jaggedly gasps.
"I can't be Chat Noir anymore," he says.
She shakes her head vehemently. That doesn't make sense. "You're not making sense. Of course you can be Chat Noir." He'd always be Chat; saying otherwise is the equivalent of saying the sun doesn't rise. It isn't possible.
But that isn't what Chat wants to hear, as he looks at her in such abject misery that she's ready to have her heart broken right then and there, atop of the Eiffel Tower. "I can't," he desperately repeats. "I—I'm telling you now so you have time to find a replacement—"
"Replacement?" she spits out, feeling the bitter taste of the word coat her tongue like poison, the utter disdain the mere thought of the prospect brings over her. "Why would I look for a replacement—you're not making any sense."
"I can't tell you," he says, running a clawed hand through his hair, the state of his mane matching his agitation.
"So that's it? We find out who Hawkmoth is, and—and you're just going to leave? To run away?" It's harsh, but the thought of him leaving her…
"You don't understand!" His voice rises a decibel.
"No, I don't!" Her voice matches his in volume as she unconsciously takes a few steps closer. "You can't just give up and expect me to be okay with it!"
"Give up?" he shouts incredulously. "You think that's what this is?"
"I don't know, you tell me!"
"I can't," he says for what feels like the nth time, putting up the roadblock that has her lashing out in frustration and determination. "And even if I did, I'm sure you'd be much more willing to find my replacement—"
"Stop saying that!" she demands. "There is no replacement, and I sure as hell won't ever look for one."
"You have to," he says, still offering her no explanation except cryptic answers and pleadings. "Look, I'll be your partner until you find someone else but in the meantime, you have to start looking. There are plenty of amazing people out there who'll make great Chat Noirs."
She scoffs. "Yeah, because all I need is to find the next amazing Joe Blow off the streets and ask him to be my partner, right?" she snaps. "Sounds fantastic to me!"
"I'm serious," he shouts in frustration, moving in closer, and she can see the desperation and anguish swirling in his eyes. "I don't want to give this up—give you up, or-or Plagg!"
"Then don't!"
"I have to! You have to understand that," he implores.
"Then help me understand," she begs of him, feeling her own desperation match his. "We're partners for a reason, Chat. Let me help you!"
"This is my own problem that I have to deal with on my own. If you care enough, you have to let me do this!"
"I love you, of course I fucking care!"
He recoils back, as the echoes of her frantic confession resonate between them and out into the cool, thin night air, to be carried away by the wind. Her eyes widen in surprise, her breath short and harsh.
The day she ever dreamt of telling Chat Noir she loves him involved him looking ecstatic; but now— now he shrinks in on himself, looking absolutely miserable. "Please. Please don't make this harder than it already is, My Lady," he whispers.
She wants to understand, wants to help him, wants to take whatever is causing him this pain away from him forever. She needs to. Inching closer, she takes his hand, and looks at him straight in the eyes: "I love you. You're my partner, my best friend. You're my Chat Noir," she promises. "Whatever is wrong, we'll face it together. Like we always do." She holds onto his hand like it's a lifeline; like it's the only thing tethering them. "It's you and me against the world."
She can see the emotions battling for dominance across his face as she stands before him, beside him, with him. She squeezes his hand in hers.
He closes his eyes. "If I tell you, my identity will be compromised," he murmurs.
"I don't care," she immediately replies.
"I'm serious, Ladybug," he intones as he opens his eyes. "You'll know who I am. The kind of person you've had by your side all this time."
"I already know who you are. You're just giving me a name." She can see the warring of decisions play out in his eyes, see how he's struggling.
"I… I can't," he finally says. "I can't, My— Ladybug. It's best if you just find somebody else."
Giving her hand one last squeeze, he steps back and launches away with his baton in one fluid motion. Leaving her standing alone on Paris' beacon, in numb shock.