EMELIE HADN'T AGED A DAY from his memories.

Her skin was still porcelain smooth and without blemishes or scars, her hair still glossy gold and perfectly curled, the wedding band on her ring finger glistening as bright as Adrien could remember. He sat in the oval-backed chair beside his mother's hospital bed. Her hand was faintly warm in his, and he marvelled at the fact that his palm now outsized hers.

One of his earliest memories—he must have been about four years old—was Gabriel and Emelie cooking together in the mansion's industrial kitchen. Tucked behind the grand staircase, the kitchen was large enough for hosting massive soirees and events, but soirees and events only happened once in a blue moon. Most of the time, the family of three used the smallest cooktop for the simplest recipes. Back then, even in such a spacious mansion, the house felt utterly full.

Emelie would hum and sing as she worked, swaying in time with her own melody, and Gabriel would drape his arms around her and smile into the bend of her neck, swaying side to side exactly in sync. "Too much sugar, Emelie," he'd chastised one time. They were making crepes, Emelie ladling the batter into the pan and Gabriel shaping the pastry with a wooden spreader.

She'd laughed, bright and airy. "I want mon ange growing up fat and sweet as honey, rather than thin and sour."

She was not very French that way. It was her countryside (albeit wealthy) upbringing showing through, all meaty soups and plump roast poultry. Adrien remembered the scene so clearly. It must have been a spectacular display of love to pass into a toddler's long-term memory. Or maybe it hadn't been spectacular, and what he was remembering was actually the superposition of countless sunny weekends, innumerable family breakfasts, all his parents' tiny displays of love summed up into one crystalline, perfect memory.

He'd been twelve when Emelie disappeared, and now he was—legally, at least—a man.

Adrien's thumb kept stroking, stroking, stroking, the back of Emelie's hand.

The chemical odour inside her private room still tickled his nose, but Adrien figured it would grow on him the more he visited. Heloise had been the one to officially, on paper, inform him of his mother's discovery, and he'd remembered at the last minute to act the clueless, broken angel. Really, he'd been a second away from sighing and saying over the phone, "I know."

So now, besides meeting the detectives and lawyers, and attending counselling, the hospital was one of the few places Adrien was allowed to visit. Outside the doors, invisible through the thin rectangular window, he knew his two police escorts were waiting to deliver him back to Le Grand Paris.

The life support machinery whirred and beeped rhythmically, backgrounding the maelstrom of thoughts in his head. He'd told his counsellor that he didn't want to get his hopes up, in case Emelie couldn't be revived. But what was he doing now, holding vigil by his mother's side, for what felt like hours on end?

He could say that he was taking things slow, but as soon as he'd been allowed, he'd rushed here. Maybe there were some types of love that couldn't be moderated.

A gentle double-knock at the door. That would be his police escort, gently prompting Adrien to wrap things up.

"Bye, Mom," he whispered, rising from the chair and replacing it by the window.

"Sorry for the wait," he said remorsefully. The slimmer one, always brusque and taciturn, coughed.

Adrien was aware that for men and women of the law, ferrying him around the city to his appointments and standing upright outside his hotel room was particularly mind-numbing work. He didn't want the constant baby-sitting, and he doubted they did, either. This was just an unpleasant result of the terms of his house arrest before the trial.

The stockier man gave Adrien a confidential smile. "That's alright. I don't mind the downtime."

"Thank you," Adrien said, anyway. "You're very understanding."

The same man opened the back door to the inky black SUV—one of Le Grand's fleet—and ushered Adrien in. They weren't the only two assigned to him; in fact, over the months, he'd started memorising the names and faces of the about fifteen different officers that guarded him.

"All ready?" the slimmer one asked, sliding her sunglasses on in the driver's seat.

"Yes."

Just before the other police officer shut the door and slid into the passenger seat, a tiny flash of cobalt blue caught Adrien's eye. It was a blur in his periphery, gone when he turned his head to stare out the window. As the SUV pulled away from the curb, Adrien craned his head back to verify if his mind was playing tricks on him.

Nothing.

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Marinette was starting to hate the press.

For privacy's sake, the authorities had managed to keep a wrap on Emelie's discovery for about a week. But now, of course, with increasing numbers of hospital staff caring for Adrien's mother, word quickly got out, and unsurprisingly the Agreste family, the biggest media buzzword of the year, was making global headlines again.

"Gabriel Agreste's wife was reported missing five years ago in Tibet, and pronounced deceased one month later," Nadja Chamack had reported from the studio. Her face had been pale and pinched as she recited the sobering news. "The beloved screen actress was found unconscious underneath the foundations of the Agreste mansion and has since been taken to the hospital. She is stable, but still unconscious."

When would Adrien get a reprieve?

Adrien joined their weekly group video call on his laptop, the camera positioned at a low angle. On Marinette, such a low angle would make her self-conscious of her nostrils and her double chin, but somehow Adrien looked as chiselled and gorgeous as ever, his grass green eyes luminous in the soft lamplight at the hotel writing desk.

"I've turned my phone off," he told his three friends, following the inquiries about the paparazzi. "There are so many people asking for comments or exclusive interviews—not that they ever really stopped—that I thought it would be easier. I'm still checking my messages from you guys on my laptop, though."

Alya hummed her approval from her quadrant of the screen. She wore orange plaid pyjamas and had halved her usual voluptuous ponytail into two loose braids. "That's a good move," she told Adrien. "Usually I support granting access to knowledge, but these gossip vultures are pissing me off."

The mainstream news was fine. It was those tabloids pulling the same harassment tactics as when they showed up outside Francois Dupont High School, shoving cameras into the faces of schoolchildren and trespassing on private property, that were now accosting health workers and taking up already scarce streetside parking to camp outside the hospital, lying in weight for a juicy scoop.

At school this last week, Marinette and Alya spent one lunchtime lambasting the press behaviour during the Agreste investigation. There was no ethical practice, no discretion. Marinette watched with equal amounts of pride and awe as Alya ranted and ranted, eventually distilling their conversation into an incisive Ladyblog post about the intersection of free speech with rights to privacy in 21st-century internet landscape, the rights and responsibilities of the news to the public, the rights and responsibilities of the public to the news they consumed.

Journalism school wouldn't know what hit them.

Marinette smiled softly at the boy in the upper right corner of her laptop. The fading afternoon light fell through her sunroof, today's sunset milky pink. "Has it been hard to study, Adrien?"

She'd truly let herself get carried away lately. The investigation was hectic, with Emelie and the Familiar and Gabriel's statement, then there was Chat Noir and... the kiss... and she'd shamefully forgotten her main priority: getting Adrien through this trial.

Already, she was thinking of ways to cheer him up. She wanted to rally the class around him in this troubling time. They could send a parcel, but it would certainly be ripped apart by his security detail before being delivered—which almost ruined the special mystery of being gifted something—or they could write a letter, but they couldn't be there with him.

Marinette would keep thinking on it.

"There have been a lot of distractions," Adrien admitted, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "My grades aren't as good as last year. I think I'm saying goodbye to being valedictorian."

Nino, his headphones sitting like bubbles on either ear, groaned dramatically. "And saying hello to a tragic A-minus average. Heartbreaking."

Adrien barked a laugh, falling just as quickly into his usual pensive mood. "I know. Golden tears, right?"

Pensive. Neutral, present, witty when he needed to be. That's how he seemed—not distressed, or hopeless, or, God forbid, intoxicated—and Marinette didn't know what to make of it. Either he was a better actor than she gave him credit for, or he was far stronger than she gave him credit for. In both situations, there was something deeply impressive about this boy.

"Seriously, though, man," Nino went on. "I wish we could visit you. Are you feeling lonely? Stir-crazy?"

"You know, I get more fresh air than you'd think," Adrien informed them, scratching at the back of his neck, the veins in his bare arm flexing. "I just can't wait for the investigation to be over. Then we can hang out."

"Same," Marinette blurted, dragging her eyes back to the camera. "What shall we do when you're a free man again? Shall we get tickets to Jagged Stone? He's in Paris in June. Or hit the Louvre again!"

"Those are great ideas, Marinette," Adrien said. "But I honestly don't need anything exciting or exclusive."

"I mean, it should be a little exclusive, because I think you'd get swarmed if this get-together happened in public," Alya pointed out.

"Probably," Adrien agreed with a sad chuckle. "Brunch at the bakery, Marinette? Would that be okay?"

She should bake him more treats and deliver them via Ladybug! There was more than enough time before their next scheduled interview. Still, something different, bigger, better, that let Adrien know how invaluable he was to so many people.

"More than okay! We could even use our living room for added privacy. My mom's been trying out a new layering technique for her chocolate-lined croissants—"

A loud droning sound interrupted the call. Alya blinked. Nino's face crumpled into a bashful grin as his stomach rumbled again. "Look what you've done, Marinette. Now I'm hungry."

Marinette laughed joyously. "Well, I'll tell Mom that her recipe is a hit already. Let's calendar this brunch for some happy day in the future, yes? I hope everyone's free."

Alya glanced down and mimed checking an invisible diary. "Some Happy Day in the Future. Yep. I'm available."

"Great," Adrien said softly, his smile radiating through the screen like a heavenly sunbeam. "See you guys, then."

After they bid farewell and ended the call, Marinette covered her eyes with the palms of her hand. She watched the fractal shapes drift across the back of her eyelids, unsure when she imagined green eyes and an irresistible smile who, exactly, she was thinking of.

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A / N :

this chapter is kind of short because the next one is long (and hilarious. i had the biggest grin writing the whole thing.) can't wait to share it with you!