Cuisses de grenouille cuites dans la oralloy
"How far did you get with your little science project?”
Frenchie swallows against the nausea. His head is pounding. It feels like one of the times he has overdosed but worse. There's no Cherie to help him this time. Not even MM is here, who has never sweet-talked him but whose hands are just as gentle when it comes to treating his hurts. No doctors to sedate him enough that the bright white lights in the ceiling can no longer thwart his desperate need for the peace of unconsciousness. Not that there aren't any doctors attending to him but it is clear that his comfort is of no concern to them. Not that it matters. He knows that he cannot actually be helped. Save for the one way.
“Which one were you using?” Homelander hums thoughtfully, the rhythmic sound far more calming than his low, irritable questions. “I'm guessing your Harajuku Girl? She's been a test subject before and that healing factor of hers is quite impressive.”
Frenchie pants a little and presses his face to the bare metal cot. It feels soothingly cool against his hot, itchy skin. He knows he should not scratch but he catches himself scratching and stares at his red fingers for a moment in boundless confusion. It doesn’t even look like his hand anymore.
“Not that she is at all comparable to Soldier Boy. You’re destined to fail, of course, but I can’t fault your choice. She was probably your best bet out of your sad bunch of failures.”
Those bright blue eyes, even more hypnotic than usual with Frenchie in the state he is in, glare narrowly at him through the thick glass. “Unless you have access to my son, that is. And I promise you, you slimy little frog, that if I find out that you’ve ever stuck Ryan into that chamber, I will find your pocket supervillain. Then see to it that you’ll go to your concrete grave knowing her death will be legendary. Destructive and agonizing in ways only a god could execute.”
Frenchie shivers and can’t fight the sudden bowel movement.
Homelander sneers, “Disgusting. You’re all so disgusting. Fuck, is that blood?”
Frenchie cannot blame him for his disgust. Homelander is pristine on the outside, as perfectly a designed creature as humanity has ever conceived of. It is only his mind and his heart that are rotten, and his rot doesn’t reek like Frenchie’s putrefying insides do.
“Useless. I don’t know why I even brought you here.”
“Why… Then why not kill me?” Frenchie whispers hoarsely, his throat scarred by his own stomach acid. If his back teeth hadn’t already been replaced by implants—collateral paid for a lifetime of fistfights and drug abuse—they would be decaying inside his mouth. Not that it would matter, just yet more parts of him necrotizing right along with the rest.
Again there is that soft, gentle hum. Strange how this creature can still sound so nice with all his veneer thoroughly stripped away. “And what would be the point of that? To make a terrorist like you into a martyr for your team to rally around?”
He laughs. Frenchie turns his ear toward the sound. He’s never heard him laugh before. He wonders if anyone has ever heard him properly laugh, with abandon and true joy. Perhaps it is an impossibility, like Homelander dancing outside the strict uniformity of a waltz at a Vought party is.
“No, no, no,” Homelander says. “Better you last a little longer.” He singsongs “little” playfully. He is mercurial, it is part of what makes him such a dangerous adversary to have. “I'll keep you alive until your skin sloughs off and every one of your organs fail. Let your friends find you like that: suffering the consequences of your own actions.”
Frenchie squeezes his eyes shut. Horrified at the thought of his friends seeing him that way. Especially Kimiko. His dear cœur doesn’t deserve to see him that way, not with all she has had to endure already.
“Do you think they will despair when they look upon your works, Frenchman?" Homelander is feeling conversational for the moment. His tone is pleasant. "Or do you think they will despair when they look upon mine?”
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