3' am and he's not sure what to do with himself.
Tears are blurring his vision, and he's not sure if it's from the lack of sleep or the fading memories that keep him awake.
A tap at the window startles him; he tells himself it's nothing, but then he looks up and there she is—drenched to the bone and weak. He has no idea how she got there or why, but he tells her to stay because it's raining (who is he kidding; he was relieved that she appeared).
He offers her a blanket, which she doesn't accept, and they sit on the floor in silence, each trying not to look at the other.
She begins (very intelligently)
He tries to encourage.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"So you show up at three in the morning."
He's not helping, and she looks away.
He looks at her, and wonders just how she managed to be climbing in his window at three without a ladder and, presumably, without assistance.
How did she know what window was his when all the lights were out?
What was so important that she decided at three in the morning she had to talk to him about?
What was so important that she was sitting here, just as sleep-deprived as he was, at three in the morning?
Oh;it was now closer to three thirty.
"You don't know me."
That's what she wanted to say?
He wanted to disagree, but in some ways , he already knew that.
Where was she going with this?
What else could he say?
" What I mean is—what I want to say—I'm-I –Oh, why does this have to be so difficult?!"
She starts to talk to herself, a muttering stream of sounds that he can't quite decipher, but as he looks at her he sees something he hadn't before; something that really should have been obvious.
Her jacket lay wet and discarded on the floor, wwhich gave him a clear view of slim, muscled arms, but mostly allowed him to see the bruises… and the scars.
It was healing, or she was, and he suddenly understood why and how she was here.
He hadn't meant for it to sound like a question.
Perhaps she'd forgotten he was still there, as involved as she had been in her own conversation, and she stares at him a few seconds before answering.
"And… You're Chat… Right?"
She looks hopeful, but scared.
Acting on its own, his body lurches forward, shaking, enveloping Marinette in a hug.
Not missing a beat, her own arms wrap around him, too tight, knocking the breath out of him.
Between the two of them, they have hundreds of questions, but as their hug loosens and he catches his breath, he finds himself with nothing left to say.
"We're idiots aren't we?"
She asks him, and her eyes are mirthful in a way he hasn't seen in a long time.
Their laughter fills the room and it won't stop.
Snippets of conversation happen, but mostly it's just them and they're happy.
Maybe they're crying, but it's tears of joy, and whatever this revelation means for tomorrow, neither of them care because… the friend who each'd thought was dead is alive, and there's no place they would rather be than with each other.