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She didn’t remember the building looking so…normal before.
But then again, it had been a long time since she’d bothered paying it any mind. She could barely…no. Not barely. She could remember all too well the last time she had been there – the last time her papa had let her be there.
His hand had been so big around hers, back then. So much bigger than it had felt a few weeks before, when…
She still remembered the screaming woman inside, too. Much as she wished she didn’t.
Still.
She had no choice now, did she? She had made a promise, and Couffaines kept their promises.
It was a good day. One of his last good days.
Looking at him now, you’d never know…but she did know. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t not know. He hadn’t wanted to tell her at first – hadn’t known how – but now that the whole ugly truth was out there…she saw it every time she looked at him.
He was dying, and a large part of her…a mean, hard part of her that was only natural, growing up the way she had…she wished he would just get on with it.
“I need you to promise me something,” he said, his voice quieter than she ever remembered it being before. Quieter even than Aunt Juleka’s. He was looking out the window, his fingers moving idly over the old guitar in his lap as he watched the cherry blossom branches move with the early spring wind.
He had told her once this had been her mother’s favorite time of year. Her mother had supposedly planted that tree, back when they’d first moved in to the old house. Back before everything had ‘fallen apart’ – when they had planned on actually filling the place with a family, one that would have had a swing hanging from one of the branches some day.
She didn’t remember that.
She had never met that Marinette Couffaine.
She’d been told she would have loved her.
“Of course, Papa,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it. His lips quirked in a small, knowing smile – like he already knew she wouldn’t be keeping her promise.
“Make sure you visit your maman every now and then, all right?” he asked. He had started playing that old song he always seemed to slip into, the one he had once told her was for happier times. She had always hated the stupid thing – every time he played it he just sounded…stuck. “She’ll need someone. It should be you.”
“…I’ll try,” she said, though they both knew she hated the idea. She didn’t understand why it needed to be her. It’s not like her moth…it’s not like Marinette had any idea who she was, anyway.
“Harmony…” he sighed, his fingers stilling as he looked up at her. He looked so…tired. Worn. “Please, sweetheart. For me.”
She swallowed, her throat feeling too tight, and nodded. She would. For him. Because she did love him, against her better wisdom.
…he had always tried. She knew fathers who hadn’t even done that much. Marinette was how she was because of one such father, if the stories – the ‘legends’ – of the great Ladybug were to be believed.
She had never put much stock in them, herself. Sure, New York had its heroes, but magical jewelry?
It was a fairytale, and when you grew up with a mother who was batshit crazy…well.
Harmonika Couffaine had never put much stock in fairytales.
“Papa?” she asked after a long moment had passed. After he had started playing again. He hummed, and she sighed. “Why…why do you keep going? Why didn’t you just…you could have divorced her. Found someone else.”
Given me a real mother, she thought bitterly.
“No one would have blamed you,” she said. “It couldn’t have been that hard, given…everything.”
He stopped playing again, his gaze turning back to the tree. That little smile was back on his face. The one he got when he was thinking about her mother, of the way she used to be. Back before she had been born.
“…no,” he finally said, leaning his head back against his chair. “I suppose it wouldn’t have been.”
“But you didn’t,” she said, frowning. “You stayed married to her. You go visit her almost every single day. You…Papa. You put your entire life on hold for someone who doesn’t even remember you.”
“She remembers me, sweetheart,” he said, closing his eyes. Harmony frowned, unconvinced. After another moment, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. “It’s not that simple, baby. I couldn’t just…walk away from her.”
“You could have,” Harmony insisted, but he shook his head and turned back towards her.
“No, Harmony, I couldn’t have,” he said, his voice firm. Stronger than she had heard in a while. “Love is a choice, Harmonika Couffaine, and I made mine a long time ago.”
She looked away, and for a moment…it was so strange, but the heat creeping up her neck almost felt like shame.
“…of course, Papa,” she said, and the smile he gave her almost looked relieved. He sank back into his chair, his fingers returning to his guitar. Playing that same damn song again.
“Thank you, Harmony.”
…that was what had decided it, in the end. The look on her papa’s face as he made her promise to check in on her mother. Not every day, but…every now and then. Just to make sure someone was.
Because that’s what he had worried about, in the end. Making sure Marinette Couffaine knew she hadn’t been forgotten, even when Marinette Couffaine didn’t know anything else.
He hadn’t worried about his own daughter.
Of course he hadn’t – because love was a choice, and he had always chosen Marinette first.
…her aunts would tell her she wasn’t being fair. They had been reminding her of that a lot the past few weeks, but she didn’t think that was very fair of them, either. After all, they had known Luka and Marinette Before. She supposed it was easier to forgive someone of their present when you could still be comforted by memories of their past.
Her Granarchy would just remind her it wasn’t right to speak ill of the dead, things being what they were.
…she would be kinder later. When the hurt wasn’t as fresh. When the grave dirt had given way to grass. When she could remember their own good times without anger and resentment.
When the words Luka Couffaine is dead didn’t make her chest burn and ache like a fresh wound.
The breeze was warmer when it blew past her, tossing her bleached hair into her face. She pushed it back with a frown, swallowing as she looked back up at the building.
It looked so…innocent. Like any other house in Paris.
She remembered it looking…bigger. More intimidating.
Scarier.
“All right, Papa,” she said, taking a deep breath of warm, late spring air. She looked down at the flowers in her hands, her stomach twisting unpleasantly. Cherry blossoms, because they had always been her favorite. Her signature. In pink, because she used to be pink. And white, because…well. Mamie used to say it was a funeral color, in her home country.
It had seemed fitting, when Auntie Rose had helped her arrange it in the shop.
“She’ll love them,” she had promised, squeezing her hand. “She’ll be so glad to see you, Harmony.”
Harmony couldn’t believe that.
Marinette had never been glad to see her before.
Marinette had never known her before.
She took another deep breath and steeled herself.
“Ok, Couffaine,” she said, glaring up at the building. “You made a promise.”
She took a step.