TW: Non-graphic, non-specifically mentioned, implied past rape/non-con.

Tread lightly, guys. This is a vent fic.

It seemed obvious, much later, in hindsight. But seeing what he could see, both in and out of the mask, you really couldn't blame him for not realizing much sooner. At least, that's what he told himself, once he knew, wondering why he'd never put the pieces together.

But, well, the differences were night and day. Ladybug was brave and confident, she never faltered or gave up, she never cowered before anyone. She was strong, immovable, a steadfast mountain holding Paris up practically all on her own, and not even batting an eye at that fact. She was amazing, and seemed like her strength would never find its end.

Now, by comparison, he doesn't mean to say Marinette isn't strong or amazing in her own way, or that she isn't good. She is, most definitely. Taking the lead, standing up for her friends, mopping the proverbial floor with Chloe at times. It was brilliant. But the difference? The clear, obvious, blaring difference that tore the designer girl and her superhero alter ego apart with no visible seams? That was something else entirely.

The fact was, Ladybug never cowered, or flinched. She never bowed down before a deep voice or a looming figure, staring right back with pure defiance and her head held high, fear a far thought from her mind.

Marinette, though? Marinette was an entirely different story. She kept several feet between her and her male classmates or friends at all times. Flinched when M. Damocles would call her name, or anyone's sometimes, and speak too loudly. She was always on edge, always looking over her shoulder in the hallways and she walked home with the vibe of a scared mouse that would panic and bite if you got too close. Sometimes she'd pull Alya close, practically hiding behind her, when talking to even someone so completely not intimidating as Nino, and the other girl would allow it without a second thought. She refused to be alone if it could be helped, she refused to interact with any of the boys without one of the other girls there, she refused to so much as sit beside any in class. The teachers allowed it. The girls didn't question it.

Adrien, though? Adrien didn't get it.

And to be entirely honest, at first, he didn't really think about it. Maybe she was just skittish, maybe she just got along better with other girls. At the very beginning, he even thought it was just him, the way she'd skitter away from him when he got so much as within three feet of her, or trip over her words to no end. Soon, though, he did figure out that it was everyone, all of their classmates and teachers, not just him. But it was, specifically, only the men. It was odd.

The first time he really paid attention was with the Evillustrator. She was worse that day, her nerves frayed and frazzled beyond repair. She jumped at every sound, was visibly trembling half the times he looked at her, in fact she seemed practically ready to scream like a horror movie protagonist when he first arrived to protect her. And she never, not once, relaxed. Even though Chat Noir was one of the city's trusted heroes, even though everyone else was quick to relax with him around, she seemed like she thought he was going to turn on her at any moment while they were alone. She was terrified.

He wondered, so many times, why couldn't Ladybug have been here instead? Marinette would have been much more comfortable.

It got worse once they actually had to go after the akuma. In fact, it got very bad.

Being 'alone' on a date with a male akuma victim that had a crush on her seemed to be the final straw, and she was practically on the verge of tears for the entire time she was there. She flinched away from him when he'd try to reach for her, when he'd gesture with his hands, when he'd speak too loudly. She was stiff as stone sitting next to him, on the very furthest edge of the bench away from him, when he finally snapped.

He thought she was afraid of him for his power. He thought she didn't trust him. He snapped, and she broke, and Chat spent an hour trying to figure out what to do after he'd managed to remove her from the sinking ship and all she did was incoherently cry and back away from him.

He wished he had Ladybug, at that moment. He knew Marinette well enough at least that he knew she needed another girl to calm her down. He could do nothing but wait, far out of her personal space, unable to even say anything for fear even just his masculine voice would set her off.

When she had recovered, she wouldn't let him carry her home. She wouldn't let him touch her, or be near her at all.

She wouldn't let him walk behind her on the way home.

He had to lead the way, per her quietly stuttered directions, and look back at her regularly to check on her. She was always watching him, like a cornered prey animal refusing to look away from its predator. When they made it to her home, she ducked away without a word, escaping into the building and away from him.

Adrien really, really didn't understand. He racked his brain for an answer, and he always came up blank.

In hindsight, digging for answers may have been an incredibly stupid, and rude, thing to do.

But of course, he did what he always did when he was confused by something that he couldn't ask anyone in his personal life about, when he knew someone who had the other perspective on it.

He asked Ladybug.

Ladybug had never been afraid, never had that dark look in her eyes that Marinette did. She'd never, ever, not once, been particularly bothered by Chat's presence, or his touch, or having male akuma victims or onlookers in her personal space. She was the exact opposite of Marinette in that sense, and that was what kept their otherwise identical selves completely separate people without an ounce of doubt.

That night, though? At the top of the Eiffel tower, with only the two of them and no one else, was the night that her secret identity fell to pieces in front of him. When he asked, and that same darkness creeped into Ladybug's eyes and she pushed away from where she sat right beside him, only to be followed by a fearful and stuttered excuse to escape being alone with him, Chat Noir could finally find no differences separating the two.

Marinette had never intended for her two lives to bleed together, not ever.

As Ladybug, she was untouchable. Unstoppable. Nothing could hurt Ladybug, no one could beat her down and steal her worth. Ladybug was superhuman in the sense that she was above everything that would make Marinette crumble. The power, the freedom, it was a safety net and an escape, one so whole that while she was Ladybug, she couldn't remember what plagued her every other waking moment.

She relishes being what she thinks she had once been capable of. Enjoys being able to enjoy Chat Noir's presence, instead of fearing him like Marinette does everyone else in her life. It's so refreshing to be able to fight by his side and not be afraid, or even to sit side by side on a rooftop in the dark with no one else to know where she was if she disappeared. It doesn't bother her, she isn't scared, because Ladybug is indestructible. Ladybug isn't Marinette, she doesn't have to be afraid.

Until that night, and the distinction starts to crumble. Ladybug begins to bleed into Marinette, and Marinette, unfortunately, starts to bleed into Ladybug as well. It gets harder to remember which is which.

It becomes impossible to not be afraid.

Chat is aware, instantly, from the moment it begins. She doesn't dare wonder if he's figured out who she is, because she can't bear to think of that too while he's already aware something is wrong. She can tell it hurts him, but he doesn't pay mind to it, himself, it seems. He brushes off the way Ladybug has begun to startle when he arrives, how she stands a few feet further away, how she flinches when he looks at her. She can see the way his expression drops, the way his teasing and flirting disappear.

More than anything, she notices how he doesn't push it. He doesn't ask, even though she knows he's curious. Well, maybe curious doesn't quite fit it. He's more than just casually interested in the why, he's actually genuinely concerned about if she's okay. She isn't, but she can't tell him that.

What would he think of her, if he knew?

She thinks he'd be disappointed to find out she's just Marinette, and that's bad enough. But this? She's convinced he'd hate her. If the flirting hadn't stopped already, it would once he found out. She can't handle imagining him looking at her with disgust, so she doesn't.

But her nightmares don't listen.

In some dreams, he finds out everything she tries so hard to keep below the surface, hidden behind her mask and kept locked as far away from him as possible, and he abandons her, revolted at her vile secrets and doubting her integrity. In others, her vindictive subconscious makes him the one in her memories, and she wakes up crying harder than usual.

She grows even more distant. Her mind assaults her with visions of what if when he's around, and even fans of the superhero duo start to notice. People start pointing out the exact day she started pushing him away, when the last time she allowed any sort of teamwork involving physical contact. Theories start popping up. Alya goes on and on about it, wondering what happened, wondering if Chat did something to deserve it. Marinette doesn't want to hear it, and yet, she can't tell her why that is, leaving her with no choice but to listen. She doesn't know Adrien is going through the same.

She doesn't know that Chat is also wondering if it was him, if he somehow caused this. She's too lost in her own wounds to picture him caring about it at all, at least not after he inevitably finds out. She doesn't want to think about that.

Along with Chat, Adrien has started treating her differently too. Is Marinette acting that much different than usual that even he noticed, too? Is it Ladybug, bleeding through into her daily act, drawing his attention? He's more careful with her. He doesn't try to touch her shoulder anymore, or step too close, or appear too suddenly. His voice is quieter when he speaks to her, gentle, as if she'll shatter if he's too loud.

Well, he's not wrong, if that's what he thinks. But it doesn't help.

She tears into herself, over it. She knows it isn't fair. He isn't the one at fault, he didn't do anything wrong, and he's never been anything but perfectly respectful to her. He's never given her any reason to fear him, but still, she gets even more afraid and avoids him entirely. Any look he sends her shoots fear into her heart, and any time his incredibly gentle tone is turned to her, she feels cold in the chest, terrified and guilty.

It isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to Chat.

But she can't help it.

Adrien doesn't have proof, or a confirmation, but he's convinced. He can't see the differences anymore, can't put a wall between them. He knows it's her. He knows Ladybug and Marinette are one and the same, knows their strengths and weaknesses are the same.

Or at least becoming the same, even if they had been separate before.

And he knows, all too well, that it's all his fault.

He sees it now. He sees the carefully constructed way Marinette had blocked away her demons, chained them up and kept them so far away from Ladybug that she could be invincible to what plagued her.

It doesn't mean he understands what those demons are. He has no idea, not an ounce of a clue about what Marinette is going through, or what caused her to be this way. But he isn't stupid, and he isn't so unfamiliar. He gets it. He knows abuse better than anyone. He knows it's something, something that's left scars, even if they're invisible.

Chat is his escape the same way Ladybug was hers. Chat let him be free, let him be himself, and now he's starting to understand that it was the same way for her. Ladybug was strong, brave, unbroken and free, while Marinette is caged by something he isn't yet sure of. Ladybug could forget Marinette's worries and regrets, could let her live without the oppression within herself.

But it wasn't like that now. The two had become one, neither able to escape the fears of the other, and it was all his fault.

And yet, still, he doesn't know how deeply that fault runs. He doesn't understand where her fear comes from, exactly what she's afraid of. Is it something he's done? Something she thinks he'll do? But then, it's not just him, so it can't be that simple.

He's too pure, too prone to seeing the best in the world, to even think of the obvious answer.

Adrien can't escape his guilt over shattering the safety net she'd had, for causing the bleed over between her two selves. He knows she didn't want him to know who she is, and he knows admitting that much may only make it worse, but he needs to do something, he needs to try.

How can he say he loves her if he doesn't at least try to help her?

He can't get rid of her demons, can't overcome her problems for her. But he can be there for her, for whatever she needs. And to someone like him, that support sounds pretty nice. It's that thought exactly that leads into possibly an even worse decision than trying to talk to her about herself in the first place, the thought that his Lady is alone in her struggles and feels as isolated as he does.

She should never have to feel something like that. He doesn't want her to feel like he does.

And that's how he ends up on her balcony.

It's not really where he should be, and it's not entirely somewhere he expected to be. But he's here all the same, and once he knocks on the skylight, he knows there's no going back.

Though it's once she opens the hatch, peers out at first curiously, and then cowers back once she sees him that he once again considers that this is a bad idea. It's when she asks, with that same stutter she'd always given Adrien, what he's doing there, that he really starts to question himself.

It's when he freezes, unsure of what to say, and her eyes go wide like she's expecting the worst. It's when he does finally speak, and she flinches so hard she hits herself with the hatch that she's still holding up. And it's when he reaches for her in that split second before he can think better of it, when she sees him move, and she flees away into her room completely.

Every one of these moments, he regrets his choice. He knew this was a bad idea. He knew he would only make it worse, again.

He knows she'd rather he just leave her alone.

Whatever it is that's bothering her, it isn't something he can help with. She's made that much clear, as Marinette, since the day they met.

It's only with his suit on, with his cat ears, that he can hear her faint apologies from within.

She knows why he's here.

He's figured it out. Which part of it, exactly, she doesn't know yet. Which part of it would be better, she really doesn't know.

Would it be better that he figure out her identity, or better that he figure out the… other thing? No, once she thinks of it like that, her identity is definitely better. Better than that. Better that he know who she is, than to know what she's hidden all this time. Better that her partner, her backup, the one person she trusts most, knows the disappointment of who she is than the disgust of that. Anything is better than him knowing that.

And if he's figured out both?

It's not something she can bear to think about. Everything is already wrong, blurred and fallen out of place. She can't handle completely losing him, on top of it. Chat is one of the only things she's gotten to appreciate normally, the only boy she's been able to be friends with without being terrified of. He's proven to her, time and time again, his loyalty and trustworthiness, and it means so much more to her than she would ever be able to tell him, if she even dared to.

Which is why it hurts as much as it does, falling right back where she started and becoming afraid of him, too.

She doesn't expect him to hear her rambled, panicked stream of apologies that she hadn't even noticed at first. She didn't expect him to stick around, even, not after she shut him out without a word. But he's still there, and she wants to appreciate it even though everything in her mind is screaming danger, as his purposely quiet voice manages to drift through the ceiling. His words are low, warm and reassuring and as quiet as they can be without being lost outside, and she wishes so badly that she could enjoy them, that even just the pitch of his voice didn't send icy fear shooting through her.

But he's trying. He's still here, he hasn't rejected her entire existence yet. He hasn't abandoned her. Whatever he knows, right now, it wasn't enough to drive him away. He's still here, reaching out to her, trying to be by her side like he always has. In the way she hasn't let him, lately, pushing him away and letting that become a wedge between them. She's seen the way he's backed off, given her space, the way that even now, if she asked him to leave, she's sure he would.

Maybe Ladybug has surfaced for air in the sea of trouble that is Marinette, or maybe it's the reassurance of knowing Chat will always leave her in control, or maybe it's something else that she doesn't even know. But whatever it is, it's just enough, just barely enough that she can push the emotions away and come back to this moment.

It's enough, that she doesn't have to tell him to leave. She doesn't have to send him away, again, to escape to a safe space on her own, to calm herself enough only until she'd next come face to face with another boy. In something that could be considered some kind of progress, that she can listen to his voice above her ceiling, and not completely lose her head.

Chat is safe. Chat has always been safe.

Maybe she lets herself, maybe she forces herself, it isn't entirely clear, but it's a conscious decision to believe. To believe that even now, with strain on their partnership and a primal fear of even him, that he will not hurt her.

It's when her fearful noises and apologies cease into silence, and his first reaction is to turn even further to concern, that further solidifies that belief. She's giving him nothing, here. No answers, no help, no friendship, has only pushed him as far away as she could and yet all he cares about, still, is if she's okay. She can take that, she can accept that.

She can make the fear listen to that.

He doesn't expect the hatch to open again, doesn't expect her to peer out at him with a steadier expression than before. She doesn't expect her bravery to hold, expects the sight of him to send it fleeing from her reach yet again, but it doesn't, not even as he backs away from her as slowly as he can. From his place on the balcony floor, where he'd spoken through it, he creeps backwards, his every movement slow and deliberate and in plain sight, giving her every chance to decide whatever is best for her.

It's cautious, a wary treading like leaving a wild animal be without disturbing it, but he doesn't mean it like that and she knows. She knows he isn't afraid of her, isn't scared of her. It doesn't take an argument against her anxieties to understand, without a doubt, that the way he sees her is fond respect, endless trust and careful concern. He's not backing away because he's afraid of her, he's backing away because he's afraid of what he'll make her feel.

And after all this time, after so many instances of no one understanding or realizing how they affect her, that action means everything.

There's silence between them as she pulls herself up, her eyes never leaving his as she brings herself to sit on the edge of the opening. It's easier than she expects, a tiny glimmer of the comfort she used to be able to effortlessly take from his presence, and it feels like a leap in the right direction. It feels like a wisp of the power she held as Ladybug. It's the first time she's been in control, been able to do as she wished despite the fear weighing on her, as Marinette herself.

At first, Chat considers sitting on the railing, as far from her as he could get. But making any of the sudden movements required to make it up there he decides is too much, too risky, when they've finally made it this far. Instead, he sits carefully at the far end of the balcony, his back to the rail and his hands in plain sight, and waits. He's afraid to speak again, afraid to do anything that may shatter the paper thin feeling of trust, of progress, that's slowly building. He's afraid to even look at her too hard, instead keeping watch on her body language only through the corner of his eye.

Marinette knows he's here for something. There's something looming over them, a conversation that needs to happen, something she'd rather run and hide from but she can't bear to when this is the strongest she's been in so long. She doesn't want to talk, about herself, her identity, or any of the rest, but she knows she has to.

She asks, then. Asks why he's here. What he knows. She's trying to understand exactly what kind of conversation this is going to be. It throws him off at first, leaving him to grasp at words he can't find, as if he'd forgotten entirely up to now. When he does figure it out, when he thinks of what to tell her, she isn't expecting the answer he gives.

"I want to help you."

Maybe it isn't exactly what he intended, the words coming out wrong in ways she doesn't get. He's scrambling right after, tripping over his own thoughts, backpedaling and trying to reassure her of… something, as if what he'd said was wrong. He's gone from a fragile silence to blatant rambling in seconds, trying to make clear to her his thoughts and intentions. Surprisingly, it isn't scary to her at all, only interesting and vaguely confusing as she tries to make something understandable of the waterfall of words and unorganized thoughts escaping him.

She's able to string together an idea, something that kind of makes sense from it all, about halfway through. That he knows who she is, but he's not disappointed. That he doesn't know what's hurting her, but he wants to help. That he doesn't want her to feel alone, in a way he himself does. It's stuttered and disjointed but it makes more sense than one would expect and it means more than she'd thought, and it's only when the tears start coming that he manages to figure himself out and scramble even more that he'd done something wrong.

He still loves her, even knowing both sides of her. He still wants to be here for her, when she'd pushed him away. From the start, through it all and to now, he had never given her reason to doubt him. He doesn't know what she's hiding, and yet he's still offering, still saying he wants to listen to her and be here for her and help her in whatever way he can, if she will let him, and it's too much.

She doesn't know when she climbed up from her place in the hatch, when she ended up moving to him or when she ended up in his arms.

She doesn't know when she stopped being afraid of him, when his voice became soothing or when his touch stopped making her want to run away.

She doesn't know when she started talking, when the story started coming together, when she'd finally admitted what she would to no one else.

All she does know, is that after her words were done and he knew it all and he could have abandoned her there and she wouldn't have blamed him at all, he didn't. He stayed, he listened to it all, and when he could have left, he only held her tighter.

After that night, Ladybug and Chat Noir were more inseparable than ever before. The theories people made about the two changed from Chat having done something wrong, to the two finally having gotten together, and neither would confirm or deny anything. Ladybug did still struggle with male akumas going forward, but every step of the way, Chat was there by her side when she faltered.

And late at night, when Marinette's demons got the best of her and she needed him most, he was there to tell her it wasn't her fault.