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There was something wrong with his father’s hands.
Adrien couldn’t exactly pinpoint what the problem was, but there was something about the way he held his fork and knife that wasn’t correct.
He could have believed he was looking in the mirror, seeing a reverse image of Gabriel and picking out the wrongness in the same way he would pick apart his appearance in his cellphone camera before realizing the image was flipped. But another glance confirmed that Gabriel held his utensils as he always had — fork in his left hand, knife in his right. Perfect form, perfect posture. He sliced into his steak as easily as if it was butter, never sawing, never chopping, and never ever scraping against his plate. It was quiet. Precise. Just as always.
Gabriel looked at him inquisitively. Adrien shook his head and returned his attention to his own food. It was nothing.
Later, Plagg would ask, “What’s wrong, kid? You seem off tonight. You didn’t even say anything when I ate the last wheel of camembert in your fridge!” His eyes darted to the side. “We need more of that, by the way.”
He wanted to voice his concerns, but there wasn’t a single concrete issue to voice. “Nothing,” he said. And when Plagg’s raised eyebrow didn’t drop down, he coaxed it to lower with, “What brand do you want this time?”
Two days later, Adrien’s wariness was compounded when Gabriel made a last minute adjustment to his suit at an elite fashion show, organized by Audrey Bourgeois and others at the top of the industry. He hadn’t really watched his father work before, not with rapt attention, but today he found himself laser focused as Gabriel handstitched the hem of his blazer, repairing where the threads had come loose from a sloppy transport.
It was absurd, right? Why would he get a chill up his spine, now of all times, watching Gabriel quickly and skillfully mend it? His father was stoic, completely cool under pressure as he made the repair, the very epitome of professionalism. And yet, in spite of that, his hands looked wrong. That wasn’t the way he sewed. Gabriel Agreste did not thread his needle like that, or loop it through the fabric with those strokes, or tie it together with those quick movements of his fingers.
“Father?”
Gabriel looked up, not at all slowed in his task as he clipped the end. “Yes?”
“Is… everything alright?”
“Forty-five seconds!” Nathalie called.
Gabriel grabbed Adrien’s wrist and began to slide the suit jacket on. When had his father’s fingers, roughened by a life of drawing and sewing, ever been so soft?
Even through the fine wool of Gabriel’s custom design, his hand left a chill on Adrien’s shoulder as he guided him to his place backstage.
“Nathalie?” Adrien asked. It was a rare, private moment alone in the car — the Gorilla preoccupied with another errand.
Nathalie tilted her ear toward him.
He peered over the seat to look at the steering wheel. Nathalie’s hands were positioned at a perfect two and ten on the wheel, truly perfect, as if the angles had been drawn out with a protractor.
They were Nathalie’s hands. They were correct.
“This is going to sound a little crazy, but… Is something wrong with father? He doesn’t seem like himself lately.”
Nathalie’s knuckles turned white, and those were her hands too. They were so familiar that he knew exactly what would happen — he would not be getting an answer today.
Nathalie glanced over her shoulder, betraying discomfort, or fear, or something for just a moment before her face returned to neutral.
“Of course not, Adrien. You know your father; he’s incredibly busy.”
Gabriel’s hands were behind his back as he stared down at Adrien, but even with them hidden from view, Adrien knew they were not his. They had not been his hands for a very long time, but Adrien hadn’t come any closer to figuring out the mystery in the months that had passed. He couldn’t exactly bring his dilemma to Ladybug, not without more evidence and an actual reason that Chat Noir would know anything about Adrien Agreste’s personal life.
His check of Nathalie’s hands was inconclusive. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary when Nathalie scrolled deftly through his schedule to make adjustments. She seemed to be in the clear.
And then she stuttered. She opened a new event to add to the calendar, positioned her hands over the keys, and… stopped.
Adrien had never seen Nathalie pause like that. But after only a second, she began to type fluently, and he wondered whether time had stretched on longer in his imagination than in reality.
Nathalie caught him staring. She smiled goodnaturedly.
Adrien didn’t know what to believe.
Gabriel’s hands were wrong.
They didn’t stop drawing, not even for a moment, when Nathalie crossed over to him to ask if Adrien could go to work on a group project with his friends.
They glided smoothly to his side when she stopped and coughed into her elbow.
They stayed anchored there when Nathalie coughed one more time, which was two times too many for him to ignore. And they stayed anchored again when Nathalie said, “Sir, your jacket,” and pointed to a crooked lapel with a finger that might be hers.
He looked down. “Oh.”
“I’ll get it.” Nathalie’s hands rose and fixed the fabric expertly as Gabriel’s hovered above. She pushed down to sharpen the crease. She pulled to lay it flat. The lapel was readjusted with precision and she pulled away. Gabriel’s false hands did not follow as they dropped to her side without stroking the fabric a single time more than necessary. Without lingering.
Those were not Nathalie’s hands.
“What is wrong with you?” Adrien finally burst out, sure at last that it wasn’t just his imagination. “Father, Nathalie, this isn’t you! Why are you acting so weird?”
Slowly, they both turned their faces towards him.
It wasn’t until their lips slithered up into wolfish grins that Adrien noticed it wasn’t only their hands — their teeth were wrong too.