#altno.9

He didn’t actually think, the first time he jumped in front of Ladybug to save her.

She held him tight and whispered, “What were you thinking?” and he couldn’t really say, Well, I wasn’t. So he laughed it off instead.

There was something inherently wrong with that, he supposed. Plagg mentioned it, in between bites of cheese and caring in the strange, impassive way that only the Kwami of Destruction could care. He mentioned that there should be more thinking involved, when you give yourself up for a partner you barely know.

“What if she can’t bring you back?”

Adrien shrugged, completely unbothered, “I know she will.”

The unwavering faith scared Ladybug, but it made complete sense to him.

“You need to take care of yourself too, Chat,” Ladybug would always say, eyebrows drawn into a frown, “I don’t want to keep losing you.”

“I’m sorry,” he would always reply, “But someone needs to buy us time so you can figure out the Lucky Charm,” he would smile, all teeth, “You never fail me, My Lady. How can I fail you?”

Us. He always used us. We. Team. Together.

For as long as she’s breathing, he was too.

—

Sacrifice was woven into the very fabric of Adrien’s skin from the moment he could walk. Maybe even before then. He was a good boy, Mother assured him, and good boys would give up some of their free time to model for his Father’s brand new company. Offer up his social life in exchange for posing in front of a camera. Sacrifice some food to look fit.

He was grateful for it. When Mother passed away, he knew he needed to take care of Father before himself. When an Akuma attacked, he knew he had to set his homework aside.

When Ladybug was in danger, he knew where Chat Noir stood.

It wasn’t that Adrien had a low sense of self-worth or that he was suicidal. No, he just knew what was important to him, and what was not.

Father was important to him. His friends were important to him. Ladybug was important to him.

He was not.

—

In history class, they learned about human sacrifice in ancient cultures. A gruesome topic, censored for the sake of the children and glossed over for the sake of more academic subjects like agriculture and economy.

“Why would people do something like that?” Nino asked, disgusted and rightfully so.

Adrien kept his mouth shut, even as that night he dug deep into research. He felt empathetic, of course. It was a terrible thing, to kill your fellow human for the sake of a god you did not know.

But things always looked worse from the outside.

Adrien thought he might understand the appeal. There was something alluring about living - and dying - for something bigger than the world. Something comforting in knowing that your death meant more, that your death could be the reason why others live, that your death meant that you could be with your god. He knew they were wrong, but that didn’t stop him from understanding.

In these societies, sacrifice was celebrated. Not overlooked and underappreciated, not met with horror and hurt, not -

Plagg watched him with gleaming green eyes, otherworldly and contemplative.

“Am I crazy?” Adrien asked.

Breezily, Plagg replied, “Humans tend to be,” and then, as an afterthought, “I suppose now I know what I chose you.”

“You chose me? I thought Master Fu - “

Plagg laughed, a sharp sound, “Master Fu has as much say in choosing a Wielder and humans have in choosing when Death comes for them.”

Adrien shrugged, uncaring.

—

Adrien didn’t have a childhood dream. Or if he did, he couldn’t really remember.

Luka - Viperion, really - knew something he didn’t. Something from a different time, a different life.

“You can be whatever you want to be, Adrien,” Luka said, almost forceful.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Adrien admitted quietly, hand going to his chest where he could feel the pounding against his chest.

—

Ladybug was quiet, the night before their last Akuma. An uneasy quiet, one that she couldn’t shake off.

“I’m worried,” she admitted.

“Hi worried, I’m - “

“Chat.”

“Yes, that’s what I was about to say.”

She shook her head, serious. “I’m worried about you. You’re getting … reckless.”

I worry, and hadn’t Adrien heard that so many times by now. In Nino’s sideways looks and Chloe’s frequent texts and the Gorilla’s slow, deliberate signs.

“I am not,” Adrien pouted good naturedly, “I swear.”

Plagg sat at the back of his mind, a heavy presence tonight.

—

“You’re a good kit,” Plagg said, paw resting on his cheek, “She doesn’t deserve you. None of them do.”

Adrien rolled his eyes, “Okay, what’s gotten into you now?”

“Kwamis are helpless creatures,” Plagg said ambiguously. He came to Adrien, resting his forehead on the teen’s, “But you’re a good kit, Adrien. Don’t forget that.”

“Okay …?”

Plagg smiled, all lips and no teeth.

—

“I’m not sure what I want.”

“I’m sure it will come to you, with time,” Luka had smiled, that day, “We all grow out of our childhood dreams anyway. Listen to the music in your heart.”

But like his piano lessons, he knew that the tune he played was dictated by someone else. It always had been.

See, self-sacrifice was woven into Adrien’s skin. Since before he would walk.

—

The night before the last Akuma, Ladybug had been worried.

Adrien hadn’t been.

For as long as she was breathing, he was too.

—

He wakes up a few seconds later coughing on smoke, and he rapidly realizes that he can’t quite breathe properly - there’s something pressing down on his chest, constricting his lungs. That’s extremely alarming, and he opens his eyes, which immediately begin to water in the dusty air. 

The source of the pressure is immediately obvious - Illya is on top of him. Illya had tackled him to the ground and had presumably taken the brunt of the explosion and Napoleon would like to wonder why but he is too busy struggling to breathe. 

“Peril,” he says, his voice hoarse and breathless. “Peril. Can you please move?”

There’s no response. Illya doesn’t even stir. 

“Peril,” Napoleon says, more insistent. “Illya.”

Still nothing. Shit.

“Guess I’m moving you myself,” Napoleon mutters. It takes him a little while, but eventually he manages to roll Illya off of him, his body hitting the ground with a thud. As soon as they’re separated, Napoleon takes a wonderfully deep breath, coughs, and then sits up, turning to look at Illya. 

The other agent’s eyes are closed. His chest is rising and falling, a bit too shallowly, but consistently. His face is streaked with black and red and there are bits of shrapnel in his hair and on his clothes, both of which are singed. Most worrying is the large wet spot on his shirt - the black fabric hides the color of the spot, but Napoleon knows it must be blood. To confirm, he reaches out and touches it, nodding in solemn acceptance of the situation when his fingers come away red. 

He carefully lifts Illya’s shirt away from his body, the fabric sticking to the blood. There’s a large bloody gash underneath, but whatever shrapnel had created it is gone, surely knocked out of him in all the chaos. 

Napoleon moves on instinct, shrugging out of his suit jacket, which is already dusty and torn and beyond saving anyway. He presses it firmly into Illya’s wound, and he knows this is painful and hopes that the pain will serve to wake Illya up. 

But it doesn’t. He knows Illya’s breathing, and a quick press of his bloody fingers to the side of the other agent’s neck confirms that he is in fact alive. So why the hell won’t he wake up?

“Come on, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Wake up.” This sentence is punctuated by a fairly light slap to Illya’s cheek. There’s still no response. Despite himself, Napoleon feels a jolt of worry surge through him. 

“This isn’t funny. Wake up,” he demands, slapping Illya’s cheek hard enough to leave a red mark on his already battered skin. 

Napoleon feels bad about this for all of a second, at which point Illya’s eyes slowly flutter open. They’re glassy, and they wander about the room for a long moment before at last coming to rest on Napoleon. 

“Что -” Illya pauses and coughs, badly hiding his wince. After a second, he tries again. “Что...ты делаешь?” He raises a clumsy hand and taps Napoleon’s right hand, which is currently pressing his suit jacket into Illya’s wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. 

“I’m trying to prevent you from bleeding to death because you decided to tackle me out of the way of an explosion,” Napoleon explains, his tone irritated but his words slow so Illya has time to process them. 

“Oh.”

“How are you feeling?”

Illya groans. He tries briefly to sit up and makes it perhaps a quarter of the way before sinking slowly back to the ground. “Not too bad.”

Napoleon fixes him with a look. “You want to try that again?”

“Fine. Hurts.”

“How’s your head?”

“Dizzy.”

“Anything feel broken?”

“No.”

“Are you bleeding anywhere else?”

Illya has to think for a moment on this question. Napoleon takes the time to look over what parts of Illya he can see. He comes to the conclusion that Illya isn’t seriously bleeding from anywhere else on his front side just as Illya says, “I am not.”

“Do you think you can walk?” He doesn’t see that there’s much of an alternative, regardless of Illya’s answer. They can’t stay here forever, and he (much as it pains him to admit) probably isn’t strong enough to fully carry Illya the entire mile back to their car. 

Fortunately, Illya’s answer is “yes,” though it’s not said with as much confidence as Napoleon would like. If nothing else, though, it’s a promise to try. 

Before they can think about moving, though, Napoleon needs to create a better bandage. Holding the jacket is working fine for the moment, but Napoleon imagines the two of them are going to need the use of both hands. So he takes off his white button-down, which is now more of a gray, and ties it by the sleeves around the jacket, pulling the knot tightly until Illya takes a sharp breath and whispers, “that’s enough, Cowboy.”

After this, the two of them manage to get Illya to his feet. It’s a slow process, full of cursing and stumbling, but by the time it’s over Illya’s standing up and the jacket is still being held firmly in place. Success, Napoleon thinks, and they begin to walk.

For the first few steps, Illya stubbornly pulls away from Napoleon, as though he thinks he’ll be able to walk on his own after going through a goddamn explosion. When he nearly falls for the fourth time in as many steps, Napoleon decides he’s had enough. He’s not risking Illya getting any more hurt just because he’s too stubborn and too macho-spy to admit that he needs help. 

He steps in closer to Illya and slides an arm behind his back, careful not to jostle his makeshift bandage. He expects Illya to pull away and insist that he’s fine, but instead, almost immediately, Illya leans into him. Without Napoleon even having to ask, Illya places an arm around his shoulders to further support himself. 

At this point, Napoleon’s taken on more than half of Illya’s weight, and when they take a step it’s clumsy and slow, but neither of them stumbles. They take another step, and another, and it’s a long way back to the car but they’re going to make it, Napoleon is certain of that. 

They walk without speaking, the only sounds being their own breathing, punctuated by the occasional cough (in Napoleon’s case) and the occasional poorly concealed noise of pain (in Illya’s case). They only speak once the car is finally in sight. 

“Thank you,” Illya says, his voice so quiet Napoleon’s half convinced he hasn’t actually said anything. “For helping.”

Napoleon shakes his head, trying to ignore the growing feeling that he can only describe as fondness. “Thank you,” he shoots back, “for tackling me out of the way of an explosion. That’s - it means a lot.”

“Is nothing,” Illya says, except that it isn’t. “This is what partners do, yes?” 

Napoleon’s pretty sure he is right about that. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s what partners do.”

For the moment, Patton and Logan were content enough waiting, especially as it was somewhat uncommon for them to end up in the same spot. Logan tended to choose either elaborately selected, impossible-to-find places that would guarantee his victory, or the closest corner he could find that would allow him to wait in relative comfort. Patton was more of a crouch-sneakily-in-a-heap-of-teddies sort of a guy. It seemed Roman’s closet had fulfilled both sets of requirements.

Patton had looked like he was about to say something else, but just as he released his hand from over his mouth footsteps sounded in the hallway.

They shared a glance, and Patton looked away first, stifling his giggles lest he gives them both away.

The footsteps paused. The bedroom door creaked subtly as it swung open. Gentle footsteps drew nearer.

Silence.

And then everything happened very fast.

The door burst open, light flooding as Patton giggled and Logan smiled, offering a wave and a measured, “Congratulations” to Virgil for finding them.

A “Congratulations” that was lost as Roman came tumbling down from the heavens with an almighty screech, bowling Virgil over and sending them both crashing to the ground.

If a muffled scream could be heard from somewhere under the mass that was Roman, it certainly wasn't Virgil.

Patton darted forward, helping heave away Roman and free Virgil from underneath, who looked like he couldn't decide whether to be confused, angry, or painfully amused.

“Geez, Princey, couldn't've warned a guy that you were gonna launch yourself from the closet like an oversized gremlin?”

Roman cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his head and averting his gaze. “You're the one who opened the door I was leaning against!”

Virgil rolled his eyes, about to offer a retort before Patton cut in.

“Hold on a second, Ro, you were up there the whole time?”

Shrugging, Roman cast around for something, before bending down to pick up his phone which had bounced several feet away. “Yeah? It's comfy.” He flipped over the device in his hand, eyes absorbing the shattered screen with dismay. “Oh, come on.”

“Karma,” Virgil stated with finality, taking Logan’s offered hand and begrudgingly getting to his feet. “Can't say you didn't have it coming.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still not my fault, though.”

“At least nobody was injured!” put in Patton, just as the top half of the closet where Roman had been sitting caved in on itself, sending a resounding CRASH throughout the household and wafting a large dust cloud into the air.

Logan coughed, fanning dust away from his mouth in the stretching silence.

Izuku giggles at the word play image.

But he still doesn’t actually want to stay inside. Outside has so many cool things.

Heroes, parks, hero merch, Kacchan and his friends, heroes.

He still isn’t allowed to use the computer for more than four hours, which isn’t enough to replace all of that.

Plus, after getting to watch heroes live so many times, it’s much better than through a screen.

The only thing worse is when he’s too close. Caught up in the action. And he’s just a little kid, not a hero yet. So instead of watching, he has to hide.

But how long would that actually help for?

Today, the villain had been pushed back near his hiding spot. If she had dodged left instead of right…

Would he have survived?

His hiding place was too close this time, too flimsy. Why had he thought that being between two pallets of carboard boxes would be enough?

Ducking into the nearest spot clearly isn’t going to work at some point.

Maybe if he did hiding drills? Like fire drills?

Well, maybe not drills, that would be weird. But they also went over multiple evacuation routes and talked about general rules before doing drills…

Rule one, look for options, but be quick.

Rule two, don’t hide somewhere the villain will try to use.

Wait, no. That needs an extra rule. No. Not rule. Step.

Step one, look for options, but be quick.

Step two, figure out the villains’ quirk, adjust options.

Step three, hide.

…

That was quick.

Too quick. He’s missing something.

Eraserhead would know what he’s missing.

Maybe… too simple?

No, simple is good. Eraserhead told him that overthinking takes too long in emergencies.

But maybe… not detailed enough?

Oh.

He forgot principles and stuff. What makes somewhere an option?

Izuku thinks over places he had hidden before, hadn’t hidden, what worked and what almost didn’t.

Physically strong. No carboard boxes or flimsy playground sets if he could help it.

Out of sight. If he was hiding, it was because he was too close to get far enough to be safe. Being seen and becoming a target would just make him less safe. Being a hostage makes it so much harder for the heroes.

Nothing dangerous in the hiding place. There was the guy who Mic had to shout down that one time, and Izuku had almost fell down into a bunch of broken glass in an alley. Mic really hadn’t liked that hiding spot when he found out Izuku was there…

A possible escape path. He remembers a few instances where Eraserhead has made enough of a distraction that he could run to a safer hiding place, or even back to the police.

Plus that time an ice block had almost hit him and another kid. If Eraserhead hadn’t shouted, they wouldn’t have dodged. But they were only able to dodge because there was room. So something so small he couldn’t really move was probably a bad idea too…

That was… all so hard to get in one spot.

There really are very few good hiding spots for him. But he needs them. It’s not like he can stay safe behind police lines and watch the fights from there all the time.