Chapter Text
Adrien leaves his parents laughing in the shade of the patisserie, exchanging coins and friendly conversation with the owners as he chases a slip of shadow past rows of sunny shop windows and friendly faces. He has learned to cross the street; to wait, to look both ways, to listen, to hesitate, to never cross alone unless absolutely necessary.
His feet carry him from pavement to parkway to pavement without a second thought, ignoring the honking of horns and shouts of indignation. The shadow is slipping further and further away. It weaves in between the feet of startled Parisians, people struggling in equal measure not to trip over the small dark creature or the golden-haired boy chasing it, calling breathless apologies in his wake.
He is too young to caution himself against the twists and turns and mire of distance. The small shadow—the little cat that had chased a bug into the shop only to become distracted by the prospect of being pet—was quick. Quick, and skittish, scared to bolting when too-loud of a laugh had sounded, causing even Adrien to startle. He thinks maybe he has lost it when he turns a quiet corner to find it gone.
It is here there is at last some hesitance, a moment of pause at the stillness, the empty eeriness of the narrow street. He takes a few shuffling steps forward. A clattering noise from the cool shade of an alleyway breaks the silence and makes him jump. He takes a step back. Another.
He hears a small mew from behind him.
Adrien turns on his heel, a smile breaking out across his face. The kitten stares up at him, neon green eyes luminous even in the brightness of midday, black fur so dark it looks almost blue in the glare of the sun. He crouches down and offers the creature his hand. The little cat sniffs at him cautiously before doing a bit of a hop on its hind legs, butting its head up into the palm of his hand with the satisfied beginnings of a purr. He laughs, not needing to be asked twice, his hand chasing the cat’s descent to all fours, scratching between and behind its ears. It leans into his touch, then grows bold and ventures forward, hopping up into his lap and rubbing against his chest. He scratches its chin fondly, wondering if maman might let him keep it, already knowing pere would.
The cat does its little hop again, headbutting his chin and purring even louder. He laughs again, leaning back, opening his mouth to speak, only for the words to warp in a harsh gasp as his body is wrenched sideways. The weight of the cat disappears. Sneakered feet tangle painfully, limbs bend and twist in someone’s unyielding grasp. Arms are locked around his torso, trying to lift him off the ground. He kicks out wildly, flailing in panic, his efforts earning him a grunt of pain and a loosened grip that sends him back to the ground. He hardly feels the impact, scrambling to his feet, trying to run. He glimpses the cat, so many paces away like it had wanted to leave, but couldn’t.
A fist tangles in the back of his shirt, jerking him off his feet. A hand grabs his arm, encircling it entirely with a bruising grip as it wrenches him around. He starts to scream. A bright burst of pain shattering against his jaw silences him in an instant. He crumples.
The world rings and rings, sharp and soft, clear and static, aching. His eyes blur vaguely into focus, and he sees the cat again there, at the end of the street, watching him. A slow, disoriented blink as he is lifted up from the ground. The cat is gone now. The street is empty.
His eyes catch on a single, lonely white feather that flutters like a lost slip of gossamer carried by the summer breeze. It reminds him of the rows of lace and silk fabrics in his father’s workroom. Reminds him of the way his father’s hands drift over delicate cloth with a needle, looking as though he is barely touching it at all, his fingers seeming to fly—the rapid pulse of hummingbird wings.
Numbness seems to take him, the world narrowing to that distant point, unaware of every sense of himself.
The lack of something sentient; a feather on the wind.
--
Gabriel Agreste has never once considered himself to be a brave man.
But he gets up again when they kick him. Gets up when his back slams into unforgiving concrete, knocking the breath from his lungs. Gets up when his face is split with more bruised skin than not, his nose and lip bloodied, glasses long ago shattered somewhere, the world a blurry pulse of pain and adrenaline. Gets up when it’s all he can do, staggering to his feet; ribs on fire, knuckles bruised, blood beneath his nails, staining the teeth behind his snarl, dripping down his face in steady rivulets.
He gets up until he hears the click of a gun. Until the arms that strike him force him to his knees, force him to look. He squints at little more than blurred color, the vague outline of shapes, uncomprehending. His shoulders and chest heave painfully as he gasps for breath, blood roaring in his ears. He moves his head, trying to see who is directly around and beside him, still unsure of how many of them there are, still having no idea what it is they want.
Emilie is still out searching. Tom as well—covering as much ground as they can. Sabine made calls for more eyes and is waiting in hopes. And Adrien.
Adrien Adrien Adrien Adrien Adrien.
His heart beats painfully fast. He feels as though he can’t breathe. He should have been watching. Should have been with him.
Should be with Emilie, or else combing the streets as he had been.
He has to get up. Has to keep looking. He can feel himself breaking in every second unaccounted for. He is not brave. He is not. He is unraveled in mere minutes. If he dies here, any fear felt will be for not seeing, not knowing that his son is safe, that he is breathing. It will be the terror that he will never see him again. He will not so much as begin to remember to be afraid of death.
He isn’t sure when he stops struggling; when his breaths turn to gasps and the world to static and fog, vision spotted with dark, lungs starved of oxygen as he hyperventilates.
He thinks maybe he hears someone crying. Thinks again he might be imagining it.
With no warning, his glasses are roughly shoved onto his face. The lenses are cracked, fracturing the world around him into sharp contortions of itself, some clear and others warped. The stark visual shift sends a wave of nausea roiling through him, a spear of pain shooting behind his eyes, an ache to join the rest.
The person in front of him steps aside. The arms that hold him up force him to straighten from his partial collapse. Slowly, shakily, he raises his head.
He thinks maybe he will never breathe again. Will never be able to scrub from behind his eyes the image of his son, bruised and sobbing, the barrel of a gun digging into the soft juncture of his jaw and throat.
Someone is saying something. A dull buzzing noise in his ears that is nearly drowned out by the ringing. There is an iron fist grappling his thoughts, holding his mind hostage. He is blank. He is floating.
He is slammed back into his own body when a heavy boot buries itself between his shoulder blades. The world is suddenly lit ablaze, white-hot and agonizing, coursing through and around him as he crumples beneath the force of the attack, choking, blood pouring from his lips. Adrien screams for him through his tears. His son’s voice is wet and raw and painful—hoarse, so much so that it is fragile, quiet, weak. Adrien has been lost for hours.
How many of those hours were spent feeding his screams?