Once, when he was younger, Adrien had gone with his father to the funeral of some colleague or other. It was an open casket funeral, and Adrien had slipped in to take a look when his father wasn't watching.
The man had looked like something made of wax; shrunken, skin yellow and shrivelled by age and his disease.
Marinette looks nothing like that.
Her skin looks soft and pale, despite the blusher someone had added. Her hair is arranged neatly fanned out around her face, making her look like a pre-Raphaelite princess. Like Snow White waiting to be woken up.
He drags his eyes away down to her hands. She's holding a single red lily, making him wonder what had happed to the rest of the bunch. He notices her nails are red and dotted to match. A coincidence, he remembers with a twist of his stomach. He'd painted them for her that last evening before the contractions started had everything had spiralled straight down to hell.
He's grateful that the church is empty. The other mourners are waiting outside, and even Tom and Sabine have abandoned their vigil to give them a moment alone.
Should he say something? His throat is too dry to speak and his hands are clammy and lifeless at his sides. He can't make them move, which is a problem as he wants to touch her; feel the warmth that must surely be there.
Since he'd first seen her, she'd always been so warm and alive and animated.
Her hair stirs, and for a second, he can't breathe. Then a little red head pops out, big blue eyes gazing up at him sorrowfully.
"Tikki." His own voice is so rough he barely recognises it. His throat closes and his eyes burn, but there's no moisture.
Glancing around, the coast seems to be clear, but he leans over anyway, lifting the front of his jacket for her. Plagg leans out of the inner pocket but turns away almost immediately, burrowing down back into its depths.
Lucky.
As he watches, Tikki curls up against Marinette's neck briefly. Her lips seem to be moving, but he can't hear whatever she's saying. He can feel Plagg stirring fretfully against his chest. Then she zips into the air and disappears into his pocket.
After that he takes his seat mechanically and stares straight ahead.
People start to filter in, paying their last respects before passing him to find their own seats. A few pause to murmur condolences, but he ignores them until they shuffle away.
Eventually, Sabine and Tom come to join him, sagging with grief, and Adrien moves along to make room.
Before any of them can attempt speech, Alya appears, to Adrien's intense relief. She's carrying Emma, fast asleep, in the baby carrier.
Oh, God. Emma.
He had completely forgotten about her.
He pinches himself, and tries not to think of an empty mansion and his father's eyes looking right through him.
Then the priest arrives, starting the service.
Adrien won't be able to remember any of it.
That's not completely true.
He will never forget the moment the lid of the coffin is lowered.
It's well made, so the ominous creaking he might have expected is absent, replaced by a soft thunk as wood meets wood.
And he'll always remember gripping his seat until his knuckles turn white, forcing himself to breathe slowly and ignore the mad impulse to vault over the front of the pew and tear the lid open again.
Shut away.
The priest is looking at him, and now it's his turn.
He stands shakily. Just the movement of standing up makes his head spin as the lack of food and sleep makes itself keenly felt.
I can't do this.
Tom's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing kindly. Adrien nods jerkily at the implicit question and follows his Father-in-law to the front. Nino and Alya are already there, along with Marinette's Uncle Wang and a few friends from university and college. Ivan meets his eye, and half smiles, though it's more like a grimace.
Then his shoulder is braced against a corner of the coffin next to Tom and he's only got a second to summon up some of Chat's strength – because he's a super hero, dammit – when the priest takes his first step towards the doors of the church, and they're all following.
Don't slip. Don't slip. Don't slip.
Tom is shaking, tears, rolling down his cheeks and there's a gasping, but he doesn't know who it's coming from.
Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together.
Through the doors, down the path to the waiting hearse.
And it's finally over, the funeral directors guiding the coffin inside, releasing them to join the other mourners as they follow the car to the gravesite. Sabine takes his hand as soon as he's within arm's reach. She's holding a handkerchief to her face in her other hand and leans into Tom as he presses back into her, arms going around her waist in a full body hug.
Adrien realises then that his eyes are still dry, the knowledge twisting horribly in his stomach.
Oh God, I'm turning into Father.
Before he can dwell on that, he feels something brushing his hand. Glancing down, he sees red, spotted lilies. Follow the arm holding them up, and it's Alya, pushing the rest of the bouquet at him. She's saying something, but he can't hear her.
Red lilies.
Ladybug.
The world narrows to a pin prick, and he sways, then it rushes back again with a disorientating roar in his ears.
He's missed something, because now they're at the gravesite – Nino must have half dragged him there – and the coffin is being lowered. He can't focus, and his eyes wander to the piles of earth beside the grave.
It reminds him of an akuma they'd faced when they were kids, the Underminer, who tunnelled under the streets of Paris, burying his victims. He remembers trying to scramble out of a pit, deprived of his baton, until the familiar zing of Ladybug's yoyo heralded her arrival and his means of escape.
She's in there.
His muscles burn to leap to her side, to save her, as he has done thousands of times before.
You didn't save her.
Alya nudges him, jolting him and prompting him to stare at her blankly. She tilts her head towards the grave and holds up her own bunch of white lilies.
"The flowers."
Oh. Oh, right.
He takes a shaky step, but he's finally gone too far.
His stomach drops, lilies slipping from numb fingers as the ground rushes up to meet him. He lands on his knees and is only saved from face planting by Nino's quick hand on his shoulder.
God bless Nino.
Although, he realises with some vicious satisfaction, his trousers are almost definitely ruined now. Despite the cold, the ground is soft with recent rain and there will certainly be stains. He allows his weight to relax, sitting on his folded legs.
Definitely ruined.
Father would have a fit.
He can feel himself shaking, grinding his knees further into what's rapidly turning into mud. Anxious voices buzz overhead, but he ignores them.
The grass is cool and wet, he can feel the water seeping through his clothes.
There's water on his face, but it isn't raining.
His chest might be cracking open as it heaves. It hurts.
He's so, so glad.
A/N: So, I made a mistake. I've based this story so far on the funerals I've attended, and research has revealed that in France it may be more typical for people to pay their last respects at the home of the deceased or at the funeral parlour, rather than displaying the coffin in the church itself. As I already mentioned a church in part one, I'm sticking with it, but apologies to any French readers for the Research Fail. I will do better in future.
Thank you again to everyone who's followed, favorited or left a review for Lilies! You are all awesome!
That's it for this story. It's the first time I've attempted a Death Fic, so hopefully it wasn't too awful. On the bright side, I finally finished a multi-chapter fic! Horray! I am planning a sequel, featuring single-parent Adrien, toddler Emma and Chat Noir antics, along with a new Ladybug to mentor and adventures to be had. Hopefully, it will be a lot more upbeat than this. If any of that interests you, please watch this space. And, as always, please let me know what you think! Thanks! :)