A/N: The epilogue, as promised; if you read it on my tumblr months ago, it's been tweaked a bit to accommodate the changes in the story, but the majority is the same. Fewer details about the cemeteries I'd chosen, bit more mention of the Miraculous, that sort of thing. It does skip over a lot, given the time jump (which had been requested by the anon who'd wanted an epilogue), so if the demand is there, I can consider writing an interlude…or some sort of second epilogue.

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review this story, especially those of you who've reviewed more than once.

Ten years later….

"It's time, minou."

Adrien looked up from his book, realizing he had been staring blankly at it for quite some time. Marinette stood in front of him, already wearing her coat and holding out his. A lot had changed in ten years, but time could not steal away the love from Marinette's eyes as she looked at him, could not touch her kindness or her concern. Sometimes, he wondered if he deserved her after everything that he had done, but despite the occasional catfight, she had never given any sign that she regretted accepting his proposal.

"Are you sure you should go out in your condition?" he asked, closing the book to avoid taking his coat.

Marinette gave him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was trying to do. "I'm pregnant, not contagious. I'll have swollen ankles and an aching back even if we don't go, so we might as well go now. Come on."

"I could go by myself," he offered as he finally stood to take his coat.

Marinette snorted. "And go off to visit Nino instead, no doubt. What?" she added as she read his expression. "Did you think Alya doesn't tell me anything anymore?"

"I just don't want you to push yourself."

"And I don't want you to use me as an excuse not to go. I know how hard this must be for you, but it's important. And…and I need to go out anyway. You know that."

Adrien closed his eyes. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten, even for a moment. "Of course. Are we meeting up with Mom?" Even after five years, it sometimes felt odd to call Marinette's mother that, but Sabine had insisted. And it felt good to be able to call someone by that name.

"Not until this afternoon. I didn't want her deciding to tag along with us in case you had something you wanted to say to your father."

Adrien's breath hitched. Sometimes, ten years wasn't nearly long enough.

"I know," Marinette said. And she did know, but sometimes, it still felt like she didn't know enough, even after all he'd told her. Because it was still different for her, even if she understood now better than she ever had before.

Besides, he'd known she'd planned to go to the cemetery today. It was la Toussaint. All Saints' Day. They always went today. And next year, they'd bring little Hugo with them.

Marinette plucked two bouquets of chrysanthemums from the vase by the door as they headed out. It wasn't until they were waiting to board at the metro station that he really looked at the bouquets and realized they weren't the same; while both had white and yellow mums, one bouquet was interlaced with hyacinth. Marinette had picked up the flowers yesterday, but she would've needed to ask for these beforehand; the purple flowers were out of season, meaning they would've needed to be ordered in—grown in a greenhouse, mostly likely, and probably flown in from somewhere else. Even if she didn't admit it, she had been planning this for a long time.

Ten years was a milestone of sorts, he supposed. But there were still some nights he could close his eyes and remember it as if it were yesterday. He tried not to get up and roam the apartment when that happened, not wanting to wake Marinette, but he had a feeling she always knew despite his efforts.

The flowers were looking a little bedraggled by the time they got off at Raspail, but Adrien cradled them carefully to his chest to protect them from the crush of bodies as he had throughout the entire trip. His father was buried in one of the oldest cemeteries in Paris, and they were far from the only ones headed there. In the future, he and Marinette would come with Hugo, and one day Hugo would come with his own family. But when that day came, the family plot might hold more than just his grandfather.

Adrien stopped for a moment to close his eyes. He was rather glad his father was buried here; he didn't think he would have been able to stand being in the same room as his father's urn. Nathalie had still asked, but she hadn't even needed to hear his answer before making the necessary arrangements. He was still grateful to her for that. But sometimes…. Sometimes, when he thought about this, he'd think about his mother—

Marinette touched his arm, and Adrien opened his eyes and nodded, letting her lead the way. He followed silently, nodding to those they passed or exchanging small smiles. He didn't see anyone he recognized, but that didn't matter; most were carrying flowers of their own, and they shared an understanding of what this time meant.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the grave, and Adrien felt his heart clench when he finally saw it. Marinette took his hand and squeezed it tightly. She didn't speak, but he knew what she was saying. I'm here, Adrien. I'll always be here for you.

He took a shaky breath, decided he didn't dare try speaking right now, and stared at the white stone instead. It was shorter than its neighbours but still rose up about two feet. Nathalie had chosen the design, opting for something simple and elegant, all rounded edges and polished facing, with plenty of room for names to be added below. She'd attempted to get his input, but even months after the funeral, he had tried to change the subject whenever she'd brought it up. He couldn't remember what he'd finally told her. Probably that it didn't matter because it wasn't going to change what had happened anyway.

Only the combined Miraculous had that power. Always a danger, so easy to change too much or just the wrong thing, but to even hold the power of possibility in his hands….

He hadn't handled the situation well, though he wasn't sure how many would fare much better. He could see that now, but back then, he'd been too busy trying not to drown in a sea of guilt and grief to worry about anything specific, even after—especially after—Nino and Marinette had given him their Miraculous. Really, Nathalie was a saint for handling everything as she had. She was a saint for still putting up with him now.

She'd probably come here today, too. For all he knew, Marinette might have invited her to join them and had simply told Nathalie to meet them at a slightly later time so he'd have some privacy first. But if she were coming now, Marinette would have said something. More likely, Nathalie was giving them space to grieve privately as she had so many years before. She was family to him now, but sometimes she withdrew, and he could never seem to convince her that that wasn't necessary.

Marinette passed him the blended bouquet and stepped back. He knelt to place the flowers in the holder by the marker. "I still regret that this happened as it did, Father," he whispered, "and I hope that you forgave me." He glanced over at Marinette, smiled weakly at her, and turned his attention back to the stone. "Marinette and I are getting on well. I think you would have been proud of her; she won the LVMH graduate prize this year for her designs, something I know you would agree was no easy feat. She's really looking forward to working with a design team, but she's been through a lot this year, too, and the coming one won't be any easier. I'm sure Marinette sneaked off to tell you months ago, but if she didn't, we're expecting a boy. We're going to call him Hugo."

Adrien tried to swallow the lump in his throat, couldn't, and straightened up. "I love you," he murmured as his fingers traced the words etched in stone. "I miss you. And I'm sorry."

Marinette was beside him again, one arm curving around his waist. She still held her own bouquet with that hand, and the other reached to touch the headstone as well. She leaned against him, supporting him as much as he was supporting her. "Thank you for watching over us," she said, and he knew she was speaking for all of them.

Adrien took a deep breath, held it, and pulled her into a hug. When she began crying, trembling like a leaf, he held her tighter still, but he couldn't keep his own tears back. "You were right to make me come," he murmured into her hair, "but we shouldn't have come here first. It's too hard on you. I should have come by myself."

"This is important." Despite the quaver in her voice, she sounded defiant, as if she expected him to contradict her. "He's family, and family is important."

She wasn't just talking about Gabriel, wasn't just talking about how much this had hurt him back then, how much it hurt him now. His family was wrought with betrayal. His family, the one thing he had clung to for so many years as a child, had fallen apart around him. He had had more love from those in his father's employ than his father himself, but in spite of everything, he still loved his father.

He'd thought he wouldn't, that his love would change or fade, tempered by truth or time, but it hadn't.

Maybe things would have been easier if it had.

He didn't know. Couldn't know. He only knew things certainly would've been harder if he hadn't found a family with the Dupain-Chengs.

"I need to get used to this anyway," Marinette said to fill his silence. She pulled back and forced a smile onto her face. "Hormones."

It almost hurt to see her hiding behind the mask of humour, but he knew that if she didn't make light of the situation, she'd see the same depths of darkness that he had, and that was the last thing he wanted for her.

He bent to give her a quick kiss, tasting salt, and let her dab at her eyes. He didn't argue when she handed him a tissue so he could do the same. "Maybe we should—"

"I forgot the candles!" Marinette suddenly squawked, pulling away from him entirely so she could rummage in her pockets—to no avail. "I knew I was forgetting something, but I always have that feeling now, and usually it isn't so important…. I don't suppose you remembered?"

The thought hadn't even occurred to him, and he shook his head as she began tearing up again. "I'm sorry, minou. I meant to bring them, I really did. I'm just forgetting everything lately, and…and…."

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Adrien soothed, pulling her close again. "It doesn't matter as much as you think it does. Father would be happy with the flowers." Gabriel had never appreciated great shows of sentiment, anyway, but Marinette had liked the idea of lighting candles, and Adrien had been happy to make it part of their tradition. "And we'll phone Mom to make sure she brings some candles when she meets us. We can do that once we stop to get something warm inside of you, okay?" There was hardly a breeze, but it was easy to feel the chill in the autumn air when you weren't moving, and he worried about her. Besides, it was still threatening rain.

"I don't know how you did this, Adrien," Marinette mumbled. "You were so young, and—"

"You'll get through this," Adrien said firmly, tightening his embrace. "We can get through this together. That's what you told me, remember? It was true then, and it's true now, even if it doesn't feel like it."

Something that might have been a laugh escaped his wife. "I don't know how you were so strong. I feel like I'm going to fall apart."

He hadn't been strong. He'd barely been able to hold himself together at the seams. Most of the time, it felt like he hadn't even been able to do that.

"Let's just get some food inside you first, all right? You need to keep up your strength." This time, he led the way. He might not have been strong when he had lost his father, but he could be strong for Marinette now. He knew how lost she must feel. If he could keep her grounded, she might have a slightly easier time of this.

Most places were closed, given the holiday, but he finally found a small café in a more touristy part of town that was open. He sat Marinette down, took the flowers from her and put them on the table, and was able to order two bowls of soup and a warm baguette.

And two cups of hot cocoa, even though memory would make them bittersweet.

Marinette hung up her mobile as he sat down. "Mom says it's fine," she reported. "She'll meet us there in an hour."

"Will you last that long? I'm sure she won't mind if you want to go home and rest first."

"I'm fine," Marinette said firmly, and Adrien didn't argue even though he thought she looked exhausted. She wouldn't appreciate him saying that right now. And he could count the times he'd won an argument with her on one hand.

Marinette did have a bit more colour to her by the time they'd finished and were ready to head out again. She hadn't commented on his choice of drink, so he wasn't sure if she wished he'd chosen anything else or had appreciated the gesture. Considering that after he'd ordered it, he had feared she might burst into tears when she first smelled it, silence seemed acceptable. Unfortunately, he was much too aware of everything silence could hold to be entirely comfortable with it.

Still, he didn't want to ask. He didn't want to make things worse for her.

The Dupain family had a plot in a different cemetery, and Sabine was already there when they arrived, waiting for them by the main gate. Marinette dissolved into tears on her mother's shoulder, and Adrien wrapped his arms around them both. They stayed like that for a long moment until Marinette finally moved, pulling back to wipe at her eyes and nose. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I just miss him."

"We all do," Sabine said, pulling her daughter in for another hug. "There's no shame in that."

They walked slowly, Adrien keeping a tight hold on Marinette's hand and giving it an extra squeeze whenever he felt her tremble. He wished he could lead and let Marinette and Sabine walk together, but he hadn't been here often enough to be able to find the grave. He knew the general area—he'd gone with Marinette before when she went to visit her grandparents, and of course he'd been out here for the graveside—but he didn't want to turn down the wrong row by mistake.

Beside him, Marinette murmured something. He glanced at her; her free hand was cradling her stomach. "Is he kicking?"

"He's certainly awake," she answered softly. "I just wish that he would have been able to meet his grandfathers. Mom will spoil him to bits, I know it, but Dad…." Her voice broke. "He would have been Dad's pride and joy."

"He still will be, unless you think your father isn't about to brag about his grandchildren where he is now."

Marinette smiled weakly. "He'll be telling everyone who will listen," she agreed. "Just like he was when we got engaged."

Despite the situation, Adrien chuckled. "Do you still remember the look on Chloé's face when he told her?"

Marinette began to laugh, too. "She looked like I'd just spat in her pastry before serving it to her."

"It was my fault," acknowledged Adrien. "I was going to call her. I just hadn't expected her to drop by before I got off the phone with Nino."

"Actually, I think that was Alya's fault. She told Chloé we were having a sale on macarons, and those are her favourite."

Adrien blinked. He'd never heard that before. "So you knew she was coming? And you didn't warn me?" And then he realized what else Marinette had said. "Alya had Chloé's number?"

"Of course. She'd had it for ages. Chloé had hoped Alya would be able to get in touch with Ladybug, and she didn't want to pass up an opportunity to meet her hero." Marinette's tone sobered again. "But that was a long time ago now."

A long time ago.

Or a blink away.

"We're here," Marinette said, tugging on his arm when he didn't immediately turn to follow Sabine. And, sure enough, he could see it now, the polished black stone that belonged to the Dupain family. His eyebrows rose when he read it, though; he hadn't realized Tom's name had been added.

"Just got it back last week," Sabine said, not missing his reaction. She knelt to place her flowers, and Adrien handed their bouquet to Marinette, who joined her mother. "I'm glad they finished before today," continued Sabine. "He would have understood, but it looks proper now."

It looks official. But Marinette must have known; she didn't look as ashen as she would have otherwise. Still, Adrien could understand Sabine's sentiment, even though he was surprised; he would have thought it would be months before there was time to add Tom's name to the headstone.

Thomas Charles.

Adrien had never heard anyone call him Thomas.

1969 – 2027.

He had died too young. For a man with such a big heart, it shouldn't have given out on him. Marinette had been devastated, and poor Sabine had been in shock as she'd been the one to find him that morning in the bakery, but little Hugo had given them both reason to carry on.

Adrien had suggested naming Hugo after Tom. Hugo Thomas Agreste. It would be another way to keep the great man that had been Marinette's father alive in their hearts. Marinette had smiled and blinked away tears, but she'd never said what she thought of the idea. What Tom might have thought.

Adrien hadn't wanted to push her. Especially not now, when it was still too fresh. They had a bit time yet, but it wasn't enough. And Tom…. They hadn't had enough time with Tom, either. He knew it was foolish, but he still wished it hadn't happened. Not yet, not now. Not before Hugo was born, let alone old enough to remember Tom.

But he no longer had the means to turn wishes into reality, let alone a way to try to change something as irreversible as death.

"Did you want to light a candle, Adrien?" Sabine asked quietly. Two small candles were already burning brightly at the foot of the marker, and she held out a third towards him.

Adrien took it and the matches. "Thank you," he said, kneeling next to Marinette. Then, to Tom, "Thank you for everything you have done for me. For us." He lit the candle, watching the flame flare before settling down. He blew out the match and wrapped it in the wet tissue he'd been using to dry his eyes earlier. He already needed another one; it was hard to force his words out. "You welcomed me into your life and into your family. You trusted me to take care of your daughter and now your grandchildren, and I'll always…." He swallowed. "I'll always remember you. And your advice. It was worth much more than I ever paid for it."

Marinette giggled. "Dad always did have the best advice."

"And no qualms about offering it," Sabine agreed, smiling herself. She stood, and Adrien followed suit, helping Marinette up. They stood in silence, watching the candles burn and remembering the light Tom had brought to their lives. Adrien hoped that, wherever he was, he was happy.

He deserved happiness.

They all did.

And perhaps, once little Hugo was born, they'd see some of Tom's light reflected in him. No one was truly gone while memories of them lived on, but sometimes a piece of their spirit seemed to show up in those who didn't carry those memories with them. If Hugo fell in love with Grandma Sabine's kitchen, Adrien would always encourage him to visit and learn. And if not, then he'd see that Hugo found something he loved to do just as much as Tom had loved to bake.

He wished he had asked Tom for more advice on parenthood; one night's visit wouldn't be nearly enough. But he'd take what Tom said to heart and try to be the best father that he could for little Hugo. He would always tell him he loved him and encourage him to learn, teach him to be kind to others and to put himself in their shoes so he could understand how they saw the world, and allow him to make decisions and take risks and to accept his mistakes and the consequences that came with that, trusting his judgement and supporting him. It would be hard. Adrien knew that. It would feel impossibly hard once the time came.

But he wanted to be a good father for his little boy. His son. His Hugo.

The idea of parenthood still terrified him—he'd been responsible for people's lives before, but this time it would be for a tiny little boy he'd helped to bring into this world, and that felt infinitely more frightening—but he already loved Hugo so much he thought his heart would burst, and he hadn't even really met him.

But he'd heard his heartbeat and felt him kicking, and that had been enough.

Life was a gift. With Hugo, it would be celebrated at birth, when he entered their lives, and it would be celebrated at death, as Tom's had been, as a life well lived. For Tom had lived well. Quality over quantity, he'd quipped more than once in Adrien's hearing. Gabriel had shared the same sentiment. It was one of the few things they'd had in common.

And it was something Adrien would always remember about them both.