Chapter Text
Marinette Dupain-Cheng is lonely.
It's a feeling that she's accustomed to, but this time, it feels different. All consuming.
Who knew that being ignored by Adrien Agreste would have this kind of effect?
She doesn't even like the guy that much — outside of bed, of course — and yet... she feels like she's going insane because he won't talk to her anymore.
No coffee. No good morning. No smile. No breaking into her room to eat lunch with her.
Just the stern expanse of a closed door every day.
She hates it.
(But she supposes she brought this upon herself.)
Why is it that this hurts worse than any actual break up she’s gone through? Why does she care so much?
He’s nothing more than a hook up. That’s it.
And yet... It takes three days before she steels herself up enough to go knock on his door. She's not even entirely sure why. This is what she wanted, isn't it?
When he sees her standing there, he doesn’t say anything, just motions for her to come in.
Though their classrooms are similar in layout — large tables grouped together for collaboration, desks with large computer monitors hugging the walls, old copies of their publications in random stacks, there's something a little more industrial about Adrien's classroom; it feels like a real newsroom.
There's little color in it, and he's done little decorating outside of the awards carefully framed and hung on the walls — there are so many that the frames are starting to overlap one another; all crammed up there in spaces above bookshelves and bulletin boards. Even behind his desk, there aren't really any personal touches; the area is spotless, save for a mug that reads tears of my journalism students. It was a gift from the previous year's editor-in-chief.
Adrien's got a stack of papers in front of him, a red pen in hand, and rock music blasting, which means he's editing articles.
As she approaches his desk, Adrien hits pause on his music. “Do you need something?”
Red ink litters the page he's grading, much more than usual. He's nitpicking everything.
“Taking your frustrations out on your students?”
“Like you care.” Another red slash across the page.
She frowns. “You’re ignoring me.”
“You’re surprised by that?” He glares at her over the top of his glasses, “Like I said, you made your stance exceptionally clear.”
“Okay.” And she doesn’t know what else to say. (Not that she could say anything around the lump in her throat.)
What else is there to say?
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”
He hits play on his music again, as if it's an award show and he's cueing her that her speech has run too long and it's time to exit the stage.
For a moment, all she can do is stand there and blink at him, with his furrowed eyebrows and angry pout, before she takes the hint and turns to leave, feeling utterly and totally rejected.
She’s still reeling by the weekend.
The whole week, it felt like she was just going through the motions, and her heart wasn’t really in it. As much as she tried to hide it, even the kids could tell something was wrong, even if they didn't say anything. She could see it in the glances they exchanged. The careful way Manon asked her if she was all right.
She wasn't, but she couldn't tell them that.
To make herself feel better, on Saturday morning, Marinette took herself out to her hometown's charming downtown area, with its little shops and stores to wander in and out of. She looks through the boutiques at things she can’t afford. Gets a way too sweet coffee from an overpriced shop. Checks in the book store in vain, to see if Catherine Norwood has miraculously published another book.
(The answer, of course, is no.)
It’s not like she really wants to read romance right now, anyway.
The weather matches Marinette’s mood as she steps out of the bookstore. It’s gloomy, overcast, with dark clouds threatening rain, when she decides to walk down to the local farmer’s market.
The pastries and breads don’t interest her, but she picks up a bouquet of bright red tulips and decides the splurge is worth it. If nothing else, it’ll brighten up her little apartment.
Having spent entirely too much money, Marinette is ready to walk back to her car when a voice catches her off-guard.
“What beautiful flowers!”
The voice belongs to a thin, pretty blonde woman wearing an oversized sun hat and a striped shirt. Short, straw-blond hair is tucked behind her diamond-studded ears. Most strikingly, she’s thin to the point of frailty, with purple veins showing in her arms.
She smiles warmly, and Marinette is captured by her radiance.
“I, uhm, I got them at the farmer’s market? Down the street,” Marinette says, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “I think they still have some if you want to buy any?”
“Lovely. I’ll send my son back to get some.”
And just as she says it, the son makes his appearance.
She should have known from the sharp cheekbones they both share, the pretty, long eyelashes. The silken blonde hair and captivating green eyes, even behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
But, no. It takes until she sees him standing there, in his blue Oxford and chinos, a flimsy paper bag of books from the store down the street in hand, to realize that this woman’s son is none other than the last person Marinette wants to see this morning.
“Mom,” Adrien Agreste says. “I thought you—”
Marinette regrets every choice that has led her to this moment.
Because she has just struck up a conversation with Adrien Agreste’s mother while wearing an oversized, ratty t-shirt that says Ciao! and poplin pajama pants that are just trendy enough to pass as real pants. Her frizzy hair held up in a claw clip and her glasses are sliding down her nose.
It’s not like he hasn’t seen her look worse, but something about the way Adrien is staring at her makes her feel so naked.
And he’s seen her naked! Somehow, this feels even more vulnerable.
“Adrien?”
He doesn’t blink. His voice is flat. “Marinette.”
She hasn’t spoken to Adrien in a week. She doesn’t want to speak to Adrien.
The universe clearly has other plans.
“Are you going to introduce me, Adrien?” The thin wisp of a woman on his arm — his mother! — asks.
Adrien hesitates. Marinette can tell that he really, really, really does not want to, and she's curious as to why.
Finally, after what feels like forever, Adrien clears his throat. “Mom, this is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Marinette, this is my mother, Emilie Agreste.”
It's so simple. Just Marinette. Not my coworker. Or my most hated rival. Or the woman I hook up with almost every weekend.
Just Marinette.
(And for some reason, she feels like her heart is going to explode.)
“So this is the woman I’ve heard so much about,” Emilie coos. She pats her son’s arm in almost an approving manner.
“Mom,” Adrien says, clearly embarrassed. Spots of color sit high on his cheekbones.
Marinette arches an eyebrow. You talk about me?
So this is why he hesitated so much.
He studiously avoids her gaze until his mother suggests, “We’re just on our way to brunch. Why don’t you join us, darling?”
Above Emilie’s head, Marinette and Adrien’s eyes meet. Adrien’s smile morphs into something more like a grimace.
But if this brief interaction has told her anything about him, it's that he's a momma's boy. And if his mother wants her to come to brunch with them, then she is going to go to brunch with them.
She's been annoyed with him all week. Perhaps it's time to pay it back.
"All right."
Marinette still cannot believe this is happening. She’s perched on a delicate cushioned chair inside of the fanciest little cafe she’s ever seen with Adrien Agreste and his mother.
In her pajama pants.
As she makes idle chatter with Adrien's mother about the weather, Adrien, eyebrows knitted, peruses the menu.
He’s making every effort not to speak to her. Not to look at her. She can tell by the way he’s concentrating too hard on the menu.
Marinette, meanwhile, is looking for something that she can afford.
“Don’t worry about the cost, darling,” Emilie says, gently patting Marinette’s hand. “I’ll take care of it. You teachers work so hard.”
Adrien cuts eyes towards his mother, but doesn’t say anything.
“Thank you, Ms. Agreste,” Marinette says.
“Please, call me Emilie,” she says.
She most certainly won’t be doing that, but she smiles anyway.
Adrien squirms in his chair.
Soon, the waiter comes by to take orders. Food is selected and menus are passed back, and not long after, Emilie excuses herself to the restroom.
Adrien’s mother touches his shoulder as she gets up. His smile is tight, not quite reaching his eyes. The second he’s out of her sightline, he drops it.
And for the first time in days, Marinette and Adrien are alone together.
“Thank God,” Adrien hisses, digging for his hand sanitizer in his pocket. “I touched something under the table.”
“I think you have a problem.”
Adrien offers her some sanitizer, which she accepts. “I know I do, why do you think I’m hiding it from my mother?”
Marinette rubs her hands together. “She doesn’t know you’re a germaphobe? Even I’ve figured that out.”
“No, she does,” Adrien says. He does one more round of sanitizing and then tucks the bottle back into his pants.
It's clear that's all that Adrien wants to say about it, and Marinette won't pry.
“She seems very sweet.”
“She’s the best,” he says, definitively. No room for question. “She’s so… frail. I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to make her worry about me.”
“So she doesn’t…”
“Know I’m probably going to lose my job? No.”
There’s a harsh bitterness to his tone. And why shouldn’t there be? It’s a situation that’s unquestionably bullshit.
Marinette is hit, in that moment, with the startling realization that she’s the only person in his life that knows they’re both fighting to keep their careers alive.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
He snorts and folds his arms on the table. “Sure.”
“What? Why did you say it like that?”
“When should we speak about it? At work, between arguments? During sex? Or no, wait, maybe after? Oh, actually, wait, no, we can’t, because you always leave immediately after.”
She looks away guiltily. Across the street, children play in a park.
At one point in her life, she thought that she wanted kids. Dreamed of them, actually. Had the names picked out and everything.
Now, though… that seems like the furthest possible idea from her current reality.
Romance is dead. The best she can get is a man who will sleep with her and sometimes bring her coffee. And even he rejected her. What she wants only exists in her silly novels, and even those aren’t really satisfying her anymore.
“To be honest, I’m surprised you even agreed to do this.”
She surprised herself by saying yes. But she can’t tell him that. After a week of him ignoring her, though, she had to be close to him, for at least a little while, and she's shocked at how easy it is to be civil in these circumstances.
“Your mom seems like a difficult lady to say no to.”
“She is.” That finally makes him actually smile, albeit at the table. “I had to fight her to move back here.”
With as close as they seem, that surprises Marinette. “She didn’t want you to move here?”
“God, no. And the funny thing is, I only took this job to be closer to her.”
Marinette must look confused at that, because Adrien sort of tilts his head and smiles, like he expected this reaction.
"She has cancer," Adrien says. "I moved back to take care of her. Not that she wants me to. I just used the job as an excuse."
Pieces start falling into place.
It had never occurred to her, until this very moment, that she knows next to nothing about his personal life. His background. In the years that she's known him, this is the most she's ever gotten out of him.
It paints a different image than the one that's been ceaselessly living inside her head.
He's not a driven career man, intent on being the best, like she thought he was. He's just a boy, who loves his mom, and moved across the country to care for her.
And she's not sure where she fits into that picture -- if at all.
There was a time, when they first met in Boston, that she pictured them together. A perfect couple, with a little house and a family. A perfect fantasy to entertain her during boring meetings.
But it was just that. A fantasy.
The reality is so much less.
"I... I'm so sorry."
She doesn't even really know what she's apologizing for. Everything?
A one-shouldered shrug is his only response. Marinette doesn't know what to make of that, but she doesn't like it.
“Do you want me to—”
Before Marinette can finish her question, Emilie returns to the table.
Emilie says something to Adrien in French that makes him laugh. The smile on her face is just for him, and Marinette feels like she’s interrupting a horribly private moment.
As she sits there, a voyeur, she realizes that she wouldn’t fit into this little life of his, even if she wanted to.
And the other thing she realizes, in that very moment?
He can't lose his job. He can't.
She has to make sure that it doesn't happen.