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."
Warnings: Angsty? Just a tiny bit. Nothing else that I know of but let me know if there are any warnings that I should put here.
Word Count: 1.5K
Summary: When circumstances and a lack of sleep leave you strung up, Frenchie helps you to relax.
A/N: My rewatch of the boys has left me wanting some Frenchie content. Hope you guys enjoy even if it’s pretty short.
Two days ago, at exactly ten at night, you were burned.
Everything that you were and had been peeled back and busted wide open. Your known addresses and relations were all uprooted, torn from the ground by the bloodied hands of Vought. Now they lay splayed out for everyone and anyone with an ID labeled Vought International to witness, namely a black-suited supe who had nearly ripped your getaway car in half before Frenchie floored it and left his sprinting form in the gravel-ridden dust.
Now you were here: a safe house in the middle of nowhere. Miles away from the millions of residents of New York City. The honking horns and bustling people turned into hundreds of trees. Silent, but deafeningly so.
You thought the quietness would be soothing. Healing. Instead, it grated at your brain like claws. Dug in and dragged until you were left simmering atop the bare mattress, covered in a thin layer of stress-born sweat. Blanket already kicked halfway onto the floor, pooling down the side of the bed and making you want to grab it just to fully throw it off. To get rid of some of that stress that just seems to be bubbling right under your skin, until finally, finally, it pops.
A socked foot kicks at the blanket, heel dragging against the ridges of the mattress so fast that it burns. The rest of your body follows as you fling yourself up into a sitting position, then off the bed completely in one swift movement. Low-pile carpet greets your feet, soft and irritating. Such gentleness seems unfit in your current state, and so you grit your teeth and stomp towards the battered, closed door, flinging it open.
Cool air washes over your flushed skin. The hallway light is off. Dark, like the rest of the house, save for the faint and flashing colors that come from the living room at the end of the hall. No sounds accompany the light, which sparks curiosity amidst the other, more severe emotions that linger. You walk towards it, feet thumping a little too hard against the wooden floor which creaks faintly in protest.
Rounding the chipping paint of the wall, you stop dead in your tracks.
The screen flashes a light blue, painting the sleeping form of Frenchie in its mildness. He’s sat on the ripped, leather couch, legs splayed open and head resting on the back of furniture. It doesn’t look comfortable. His neck is bared and stretched at an angle that you know aches. Yet his eyes are shut, dark eyebrows a little furrowed like he’s dreaming about something.
Unconsciously, you lean towards him a bit, causing a long, noisy groan from the floor beneath you.
His eyes pop open, body jerking forwards so forcefully that you’re sure a muscle is pulled in the process. A hand strays to the gun on the side table before he’s even looked around the room. “Que—,” confused gaze roves around before it lands on you, “Ma belle, what are you—are you okay?”
Frenchie’s accent is thicker with sleep. R’s guttural and words flowing into the next with barely a pause between them. Despite your annoyance with, well everything, you find yourself unwinding slightly. Shoulders slump a bit and chest deflating with a deep sigh. “Sorry,” you whisper, clearing your throat when it comes out hoarse with exhaustion. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
The fingers that were clenched around the handle of the pistol lighten in their grip and recede to hover above it, as if he’s still unsure of what’s going on. Hesitant to completely let go of the thing that could mean the difference between life and death—both yours and his. “S’okay,” he instantly replies, blinking and taking another look around the room. When he finds it dim but devoid of any perceivable threat, his hand returns to his lap. “Something the matter?”
You still, blinking at him. The irritation still heavy in your stomach but lifting now. Your lips part, then close, opening again with the beginning of a stunted word. It’s nothing more than a sound, lost in the silence that ensues as he just looks at you. Dark eyes wide from the sudden wakefulness. Maybe it’s your tired brain reeling for something comforting, but he seems…gentle in the light of the television. More than normal. Hands settled on his thighs and clothes wrinkled from sleep. Soft, not like the carpet. Like…like a piece of clothing fresh out the dryer. Warm. Inviting.
You take a step towards him. He watches you, not saying anything or really moving. Chest rising and falling with his breathing, but it’s relaxed. His eyelids droop just a tiny bit. Not far from sleep, and it seems to be radiating off of him, lulling you in.
Your brain blanks. Forgets why it was so strung up just moments ago. It fades into the background with him there, looking like that. Black shirt loose enough that it shows a tiny amount of his upper chest but tightens around his upper arms, hugging the muscles that flex as he wordlessly moves himself over from the middle of the couch to the side. You were always one to succumb to the welcoming heat of clothing fresh out of the dryer. Falling into its warmth even when you’re meant to simply throw it into the hamper and carry it off to be folded.
The leather is warm against your bare thighs. It sticks to your skin, making a noise as you shift to get into a comfortable sitting position. Back pressed against the cushions, legs faced towards the muted television. It’s playing some ocean-centered documentary. A whale swims leisurely on the screen, a calf trailing after it soundlessly. You glance at Frenchie and find him watching it with soft eyes.
“You know, a…baby can swim right after it is born. Comes out ready for life, whatever it may throw.” Confusion blossoms even though you’re used to him just knowing things. You wonder if he was watching it before he fell asleep or if he already knew this fact. Did he have the sound on? You can’t recall, though the walls aren’t thick enough to muffle the sound if it was. His knee bumps against your leg as he turns, fully moving his body to face you. “It doesn’t know or…or worry about it. Just knows his mother will protect him. It is nice, tu vois?”
When you give a blank store, too tired to see where this is going, he continues, “To have someone care.” Though you were burning earlier, too hot for even the thin blanket, you find the heat from his knee on your skin pleasant. You can barely think past it. “Hughie, M.M., monsoir Butcher, even. Me. We care.”
Your eyebrows lower and pinch together. “Frenchie, I kn—.”
“We—I want to know you are okay. You’ll tell me if something is wrong?”
That…you didn’t think anything was specifically wrong. Sure, you were now known by Vought and out of the action for the foreseeable future, but it’s not like that was what was keeping you up, right? A few weeks and they’d forget about their quest. They’d send Black Noir after some other poor soul and leave you be. So why did him saying that make your heart thump, stomach curling in on itself and cramping the tiniest amount? It’s happened to him multiple times, and he always came out on top. A few aliases and safe houses down, but alive, nonetheless.
You aren’t him, though. Not used to the intrusion and abrupt change that it brought about. Maybe…maybe he was picking up on that even if you hadn’t realized it yet. Hadn’t even entertained the thought of how much it was bothering you. Putting your since constant strung up stance on your lack of sleep and whatever slight irritation the reality of being far away from the bustling city you’re so used to brought forth.
He puts a warm palm on your lower thigh and you just—deflate completely. Muscles loosening in the tightness they had gained the past two days and going limp. You slump sideways an inch, and he reads that just as well as he has your taut features, leaning forwards to wrap that same hand around your arm and tug you towards him.
No blanket could ever compare to the comfort of being surrounded by Frenchie. He’s muscular, but not so much that his chest is hard. It’s surprisingly giving, like a fluffed pillow. Against your head, you decide it’s nearly the same as he moves you completely onto his lap. You help him, but you’re so tired that it’s mostly him that’s moving you there. Not that either of you mind.
His legs are on either side of you, jeans bunching up around his thighs with how he’s had to shift to allow you between them. A hand strokes at your hair as you relax further into him, letting his body heat engulf you. It’s only then that you bob your head in a nod, feeling the right side of your hair move against his chest, head faced to the couches back cushions. “Yeah,” you whisper, closing your eyes. Exhaustion finally running its course and leaving you unable to elaborate further than that one simple word. Like he always seems to, he understands; the lack of explanation perfectly fine because he already knows the reason for the tension that had riddled you earlier.
In the blue of the televisions light, Frenchie smiles, adjusting his back so that his spine doesn’t dig into the arm of the furniture. As soft as your breathing has become, he says, “Now sleep, mon amour. I’m here.”
You soon do, the quietness not seeming so bad when he’s there.
Pedido: “Estou tão feliz por você estar aceitando pedidos para The Boys!! Você poderia fazer algo fofo com o Frenchie e com o Hughie?? Não há nada escrito para nenhum deles”
Pessoal, esse foi o pedido de uma leitora no meu sideblog gringo. Como eu escrevo em português primeiro e depois traduzo em inglês, vou postar ele por aqui. Aliás, que saudade de vocês! Minha vida anda uma zona kkkk mas finalmente consegui um tempinho pra fazer o que eu amo: escrever.
Eu espero que vocês gostem <3
Um Frenchie Ciumento
Palavras: 1.124
Avisos: Nenhum
Ligação: Platônico!Leitora x Hughie Campbell, Leitora x Frenchie
Contém: FLUFF!!!
Pedidos abertos
English version here
Apenas +16
A sua gargalhada ecoou pelo ambiente.
Você e Hughie haviam ficado em casa daquela vez. Você havia se machucado, e alguém precisava ficar de olho em você. Mesmo que você tivesse insistido em ir, dizendo a todos que você estava bem, aquilo não teve a menor importância. Era melhor deixar você se recuperar totalmente antes de qualquer coisa.
Billy, Milk e Frenchie desciam as escadas, conversando sobre algo entre si. Ao ouvir a sua gargalhada, Frenchie quase atropelou Butcher e MM, correndo pela escada abaixo e indo a passos largos até onde você estava.
Você e Frenchie namoravam há alguns meses, e nesse meio tempo uma amizade nasceu entre você e Hughie. Ele era como se fosse a sua versão masculina, e te entendia como ninguém. Aquilo despertava ciúmes em Frenchie. Ele estava pronto para flagrar você e Hughie na cama, trocando beijos. No entanto, a visão que ele encontrou e o motivo das suas gargalhadas haviam sido diferentes das que ele havia imaginado.
Você e Hughie pareciam duas crianças, saídas diretamente da quinta série: Você estava escondida atrás da mesa, e Hughie se escondia no sofá. Pelo ambiente, várias bolinhas de papel jaziam espalhadas pelo chão.
“Devolve o meu donut!”
Sua voz saía entre risos, enquanto você jogava uma bolinha de papel na direção dele. Ele havia levantado um pouco a cabeça, em uma tentativa de ver onde você estava. Aquilo fez com que a bolinha colidisse em sua testa, e ele se abaixou de novo. Tomou o último donut da caixa e o ergueu no ar, se levantando. A ação dele fez com que você soltasse a bolinha imediatamente, olhando o donut como se ele fosse sagrado. Hughie sorriu.
“Você quis dizer esse donut aqui? Com cobertura e recheio de chocolate?”
E então, ele mordeu o donut. Você abriu a boca, indignada.
“Hughie!!”
Você correu na direção dele, em uma tentativa de roubar o que havia restado do donut. No entanto, você parou no meio do caminho. Colocou uma mão no abdômen ferido e resmungou de dor.
Ok, talvez eles estivessem certos e foi bom você ter ficado em casa.
Frenchie olhava toda aquela cena com semblante sério. No entanto, quando viu que você sentia dor, sua expressão suavizou e ele correu até você, preocupado. Hughie estava mais perto, e foi ele que conseguiu te segurar primeiro. Aquilo foi o suficiente para que a expressão de Frenchie retornasse para a austeridade - com uma pitada de preocupação dessa vez.
“Tudo bem?” Hughie te olhava, protetor. Você apenas assentiu a ele “Ok, acho que eu te devo uns donuts.” Ele te soltou “Vê se descansa.”
“Eu estaria descansando se uma certa pessoa não tivesse roubado os meus donuts.” Seus olhos estavam estreitos, e você sorria. Hughie soltou uma risada leve e subiu as escadas, saindo do esconderijo. Foi quando você olhou para Frenchie.
“Oh, mon amour!”
Com um sorriso largo você se jogou nos braços dele, em um abraço caloroso. Ele, no entanto, não foi tão recíproco. Envolveu os braços ao redor de você e logo soltou. Meio sério, disse:
“Vá se deitar. Precisa descansar.”
Você se afastou, com os olhos estreitos. Frenchie sempre foi carinhoso com você, então aquela frieza te assustava um pouco. Determinada a descobrir o que diabos estava acontecendo, você o segurou pelo pulso e o arrastou até o quarto. Lá, você fechou a porta e parou em frente à ele, com os braços cruzados.
“O que está acontecendo?”
“Talvez você que deva me dizer o que está acontecendo.”
Você arqueou as sobrancelhas.
“Quem está estranho aqui é você.”
Ele desviou o olhar. Inspirou fundo e, finalmente, disse:
“É que você e o Hughie…”
Você nem deixou ele terminar de falar. Apenas soltou uma gargalhada alta.
“Para com isso. A gente é só amigo, e eu tenho quase certeza de que nós dois estamos interessados em pessoas diferentes.”
Hughie estava bem feliz com Annie, e você também estava bem feliz com Frenchie. Na verdade, naquela mesma semana, você até havia ajudado Hughie a preparar uma surpresa romântica para Starlight. Você amava ver os dois juntos, e seu coração até ficava mais quentinho quando via o olhar de amor e devoção que eles trocavam.
A expressão de Frenchie suavizou um pouco.
“É que eu sempre vejo vocês dois rindo juntos, e…”
Você revirou os olhos e se aproximou dele, segurando seu rosto entre as mãos.
“Hey, eu disse para parar com isso. Não faz o menor sentido. Ele é meu melhor amigo, e eu não me vejo com nenhuma outra pessoa que não seja você.”
Ele sorriu, agora olhando nos seus olhos e envolvendo os braços ao redor de você.
“Então a gente devia deixar isso oficial, Mon Coeur.”
Você congelou instantaneamente, o rosto queimando.
“Como assim?”
“Eu também não me vejo com nenhuma outra pessoa.”
“Pessoal, vamos ter um casamento!”
Hughie pareceu ter surgido do nada na porta, segurando uma caixa de donuts. Você e Frenchie sequer perceberam quando ele abriu a porta. Você arregalou os olhos.
“Hughie!”
Ele colocou a caixa de donuts em cima da cama e, antes que qualquer um pudesse dizer alguma coisa, Hughie enganchou os braços em você e Frenchie, arrastando-os até os demais. MM olhava vocês com um sorriso largo, e Annie e Kimiko - que haviam acabado de chegar - não entendiam muito bem o que estava acontecendo. Butcher apenas negava brevemente com a cabeça, soltando uma risada baixa.
“Garoto, você tá fodendo o momento deles.”
MM levantou-se da cadeira, caminhando até a geladeira.
“Esse momento exige uma cerveja de comemoração.”
Você não ficava mais vermelha porque era impossível. Ele sequer havia feito o pedido oficial!
“Pessoal…” Frenchie ergueu as mãos em frente ao corpo, pedindo um pouco de calma.
“O que está acontecendo?” Annie se aproximou do grupo com Kimiko. Hughie estava radiante.
“Y/N e Frenchie vão se casar!”
“Oh, parabéns, pessoal!”
Com um sorriso largo, Annie te abraçou. Você estava congelada, tão vermelha quanto um tomate. Kimiko deu a você um sorriso largo.
“Gente, ele não pediu!”
Assim que você esclareceu, todos ficaram sem reação. No entanto, tudo começou de novo quando Frenchie enfim disse:
“Mas eu ia pedir. Y/N…” Romântico como sempre, ele tomou a sua mão e pousou um dos joelhos no chão. Meu Deus, estava acontecendo! “Você casa comigo?”
Os olhinhos de todos estavam arregalados em pura expectativa. Você tremia de ansiedade até que enfim, assentiu.
“Eu… Claro que sim!”
A sala foi coberta com gritinhos. Frenchie se levantou e te abraçou, e você quase podia sentir seu corpo derreter de puro amor. Até que, de repente, você sentiu outro par de braços te abraçar: Era Hughie, abraçando você e Frenchie simultaneamente.
“Como as crianças vão se chamar?”
Você pigarreou, sem jeito.
“Cedo demais, Hughie. Cedo demais!”
setting: aboard the revenge, post season 1, pre season 2
summary:
At least there’s a part of him down there with Lucius, keeping him company. The other part, is lying with the rest of the old crew, as still as they are. He wonders if he’ll keep fragmenting until there’s absolutely nothing of him here, now. Good. If he isn’t there at all, Blackbeard can’t hurt him. It’s quite a solid plan.
Glimpses of life aboard The Revenge from Frenchie’s POV.
