synopsis ; he calls you a plethora of endearing french nicknames, but you call him an asshole.
words ; 1.9k
themes ; angst, fluff, mild action
warnings / includes ; profanity, kissing, blood and injuries, near death experiences and emotional constipation <3 a bunch of french pet names, frenchie is lovesick, reader is part of the boys gang, the rest of the members are mentioned, hughie and reader are also mentioned to be close friends
main masterlist.
The rag between your teeth tasted disgusting. Sweat and grime and flecks of blood stained the once-white fabric—which had come from Frenchie’s own shirt he tore to shreds to bind your wounds. You bit down harder, tongue retracting further down your throat in hazy revulsion, groaning in pain when you felt his hands all over your abdomen, doused with your dark ichor, his expression heavy-set with frantic concern.
“Hold still, mon amour,” he said, brows drawing together when you ignored him completely, roaring obscenities behind the fabric and thrashed even harder. What a fucking asshole. Memories of the first time you met Frenchie flashed behind your eyelids—he had stuck a gun beneath your jaw with a snarl and the rest was history. A complete one-eighty to his expression now. “HUGHIE, HOLD THEM DOWN!” he screamed, completely strung-up.
Faintly, you registered another pair of hands pinning you to the cold tiles of the floor, and your friend’s stuttering melded into the cavernous cacophony ringing in your ears. It felt as if a fire was eating you alive, trying to crawl its way from inside out. Your skin was hot, nearly scalding to the touch.
You still couldn’t really remember what happened.
Supes… there were supes there. One moment you were helping M.M. reload his gun, and the next, half a dozen quills were sticking out of your abdomen, dripping with strange green liquid you’d come to learn was venom. You were going to die, weren’t you?
Frenchie had screamed your name—you couldn’t remember the last time he called you that. See, he always referred to you with endearing french nicknames that you really didn’t care for (lies, you were quite fond of his silly little pet names). You, however, called him an asshole. Sometimes affectionate, and most of the time, you really meant it.
But not this time.
Instead, you glanced at him with mild confusion, before looking down at your stomach, then back up at him. “Frenchie…?” you asked quietly, before collapsing to the ground.
The car ride back to base was painful. Butcher drove like a madman, and Hughie was sweating bullets in the passenger seat, constantly glancing back at you writhing in the backseats. Frenchie had situated you so your head was in his lap as he crooned reassurances that you couldn’t even hear.
God, everything was so dark. So loud. You wanted to claw at Frenchie’s arms and tell him that you hated him. Or that you loved him. Either would work. Damn it, the venom was messing with your mind.
And that’s how you ended up with Frenchie’s shirt shoved between your teeth as you screamed bloody murder, calling him a bastard as he dug his fingers into the sloppy mess that was your stomach, muttering apologies over and over and over again.
“STOP!” you wailed, kicking at his knee when the agony tore you apart, tears streaking lines through the dirt on your cheeks. “You fuck—fucking asshole!”
He didn’t stop.
If he did, you’d die. You weren’t a Supe, no matter how tough you presented yourself to be. Ironically enough, your utility belt clipped around your waist was shoved lower so he could work on your wounds, various sharp blades pressing dangerously against your back.
You had passed out from the pain at one point, going limp in his hold, which sent him into another frenzy. He snapped at Butcher with a fiery rage he’d never shown him before when the man offered to give you some temp V to speed up your healing.
It took hours until he was done. You’d lost a lot of blood, but he managed to staunch it enough—it was messy, but it’d do. The red slick still left a part-sticky, part-dried residue over the skin of his hands, but he didn’t bother to wash it off. He refused to leave your side. So there he sat, shirtless and filthy, pressing kisses to the side of your sweaty head. It wasn’t often that he cried, but he cried for you. He didn’t even care that M.M. and Kimiko were sending him concerned glances.
He just wanted you to be alright.
It was reassuring to see your chest rise and fall rhythmically. “Come back to me, mon chou. Come back.”
You woke up with a start. The first thing you registered was the thirst. Your throat was barren of any moisture, so you croaked out a raspy, garbled noise, barely loud enough to alert Frenchie who had passed out with his head propped on your shoulder.
He sprang upwards, eyes flying wide open and lips parted as he cradled your face. The calluses of his fingers felt rough on your cheeks, and normally you would’ve grumbled at him, tell him to bugger off in true Butcher-like fashion, but all that came out was a quiet rumble of temporary relief.
“Wa… er,” you hacked out, grimacing at the scratchiness of your voice.
“I’ll get you water, ma puce, I’ll be right back,” he rushed to say, chapped lips coming forward to hastily slant over your forehead. “Don’t move.”
You had half the mind to chuckle at that. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
He disappeared through the door, and you suddenly felt cold without his presence. A tremor spidered up your spine. The pain in your abdomen was still there, now dulled to a faint throbbing. You realized that your bandages were far cleaner than when you had passed out, face clean and free of dirt.
A queer sort of sadness wrapped its dark palm over your heart. Frenchie took good care of you.
M.M. appeared by the doorway, wearing a mildly guilty expression.
“Hey,” he said, ambling closer. “How you feeling, kiddo?”
You lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.
Gingerly rubbing the back of his head, M.M. whistled out a long exhale. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re hurt. And you saved my life. Thank you. Frenchie definitely gave me a mouthful when you were asleep.”
You allowed for a small grin to play at the corner of your lips.
“He never left your side, you know,” M.M. mumbled. “He really cares about you. Loves you, even.”
After a considerably lengthy silence, you cracked open your mouth to hoarsely whisper out, “He’s an asshole.”
M.M. regarded you with a quirked brow. “And you aren’t? Come on. The two of you are perfect for each other.”
“He doesn’t love me,” you said in a small voice, staring at a particularly interesting spot on the floor. “He loves the idea of me, but not me.”
“What?”
The sound of that French accent by the door made your heart drop down to your stomach. Your eyes shot up to see Frenchie holding a glass of water, staring at you with an expression that so clearly read anguish.
M.M. pursed his lips awkwardly and sent you one last nod before doggedly bowing his head and striding out. Frenchie didn’t acknowledge him, gaze glued on you, shuffling forward and holding out the glass.
You made to take it from him, but he merely tutted, using his free hand to lift your chin and raise the cup to your lips. If you weren’t so desperately impatient, you would’ve protested. Just this one. This one time, you’d let him take care of you.
The water was heaven on your tongue. You gulped down so quickly that you nearly cried with relief, droplets falling from the corner of your mouth and meandering down your jaw.
“Slowly, slowly, mon trésor,” he crooned, before placing the glass down. There was a tender look to his eye that you misliked. Asshole. “Good?”
“Good,” you croaked. A frown molded over your visage.
“What was that about, mon amour?” he asked, sitting on the mattress. “You think I don’t love you? Why on earth would you think that?”
When you refused to meet his eyes, Frenchie slotted his palm beneath your chin once again, gently running his thumb over your jaw until you reluctantly moved your irises to meet his.
“There you are. Bonjour, mon chou.”
“Hey, asshole.”
Much to your chagrin, Frenchie threw his head back and laughed. It was a genuine laugh, full-chested and lively.
“I love you. I love you so fucking much. I don’t know what else to tell you. I don’t know how to get you to believe me.”
You wanted to believe him so badly. Was it because you loved him, too? Or was it because you just wanted any love?
“Then show me.” The words were soft—so quiet it was near indiscernible.
Initially, there was a beat of shocked silence. Then, Frenchie didn’t waste any time leaning forward and kissing you gently, enveloping your lips with his own. He cradled your jaw with shaking fingers, nose slotted against yours so that it brushed your cheek when he angled his head to the side. It was so slow, so soft, so very warm that you nearly crumbled into a million pieces under his touch.
He kissed like it was the last time he’d ever be able to do so. His brows furrowed in concentration, as if this was his one and only chance to show you just how much he adored you.
When you finally broke away, you had a palm pressed against his bare chest. He knocked his forehead against yours affectionately, a pleased grin playing on his lips.
“Do you believe me now?” he asked. Before even giving you the chance to reply, he swooped back down to kiss you again. “And now?”
“You’re annoying, you know that?” you replied easily, though with a fond smile etched over your mouth. A sudden wave of bashfulness tumbled over you. You tilted your head slightly, averting your gaze once more. “Thank you. For saving my life. I could’ve died if it weren’t for you.”
He waved your sentiment away. “Bah, I didn’t do much. I cried—and I nearly pissed my pants. I was afraid you’d… you…” The words died on his tongue. He didn’t have the heart to finish his sentence.
“I’m okay,” you susurrated, leaning forward so that his nose bumped into yours. “Thanks to you. I owe you one, asshole. I owe you big time.”
“You don’t owe me anything, mon ange. I just need to know that you’re alright,” he whispered, lips only a hair's breadth away from yours—
Before Butcher sauntered in with his stupidly loud voice.
“Honeymoon’s over, you cunts!” he announced with his incredibly thick accent. Frenchie looked as if he was ready to commit homicide, and you could only muffle a snort of amusement, patting his bare shoulders in mock sympathy. The bearded man saluted you with a roguish leer. “Y/N, glad to see you’re back in tip-top shape. Hughie’s been a nervous little bird ever since you went down.” You most definitely weren’t in tip-top shape, but you supplied him with a forced smile that was far too wide to be deemed natural. It was nice to hear that your old friend was worried for you, though.
Butcher clapped his hands together. "We’ve got some business to attend to."
