Too Strong to Hold
Requested by Anonymous
Pairing: Frenchie x supe!Reader
Genre: Comfort, Angst
Characters: Frenchie, Y/N
Description: Y/N accidentally hurts Frenchie during a conversation as they forget how strong they are.
The first rule you ever made for yourself was simple: never forget what you are. Not quite human, not a monster either, but something caught in between. Even as a child, you learned to open jars that everyone else struggled to grip and could lift stacks of crates in the yard that grown men found heavy. But your strength was never just remarkable, it was impossible - supernatural. An angry slam could fracture brick, a slip of the wrist could bend metal, and an accidental touch could splinter wood or leave bruises where you meant only warmth. It was more than just being strong: it felt like every muscle and bone in your body was built for power you could barely restrain, like a current surging under your skin, restless and impossible to hide. There was always something dangerous simmering beneath your surface, power waiting to break loose. The second rule was harder: never let yourself love like you aren't.
You broke the second rule the moment Frenchie smiled at you like you were something soft. It reminded you of the time he patched up your scraped knuckles in the back of the garage, murmuring an old lullaby under his breath like you were someone worth soothing. You remember the winter night you both spent in the half-lit kitchen, passing a chipped mug of tea back and forth while you played cards, laughter flickering between you in the hush of falling snow. Or the summer Frenchie taught you to ride his battered old bicycle behind the mechanic's shop, one hand steady at your back. Even then, before you understood it, there was something gentle between you, a promise tucked into ordinary moments you tried so hard not to hope for.
But sometimes, when Frenchie thought you weren't watching, he looked at you with a fierce fondness, as if he saw past what you feared in yourself. Maybe he saw the way you always anchored your strength to care: holding back your temper, mending what you'd broken, fixing engines with careful hands just for the satisfaction of helping. He once confessed, voice quiet while grease stained his fingertips, that he admired how you carried all that power without ever letting it turn cruel. You remember a morning after a storm, when he watched you coax a stray cat out from under the car, patience and gentleness unravelling in every slow movement. "Most people don't know how much work kindness takes," he'd said then, his eyes searching yours. "But you do. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to you."
The shock hits you right away and feels strange. It happens so suddenly that you’re not sure it even happened, but your mind scrambles to catch up with what your heart already feels.
One moment, Frenchie is laughing with warm hands and a low voice, teasing you about something silly and ordinary. Next, there’s a sharp crack and a gasp. Suddenly, he’s on the floor. Your hand is still outstretched. You hadn’t meant to shove him. You hadn’t even felt like you shoved him. Just a reflex, a flinch, a moment of instinct when he startled you from behind. But you’re not built for reflexes. You’re built for damage.
“Frenchie-” Your voice collapses halfway through his name. He’s clutching his side, his breath uneven, eyes squeezed shut. It isn’t dramatic or theatrical. It’s just pain. Real, quiet pain. Somehow, that quiet, honest pain cuts deeper. It’s harsher than anything loud could ever be. "Oh, God, no, no." You drop to your knees beside him and stop just short of touching him again. "I didn’t mean to-" He draws a shaky breath, hiding a wince behind a crooked half-smile. "Yeah, I know you didn’t," he says, his voice rough but steady, with just a trace of that easy humour he never quite loses. "S’okay, mon cœur," he adds, softening the words with a low, familiar warmth. "Just give me a tick, alright? Let me catch my breath, yeah?"
A second. You’ve already broken him in less than a second. Unable to breathe evenly, you blurt out, “I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t be here. I told you this would happen.” Now the heaviness of fear hits you fully, pooling in your chest. He lets out a weak huff that might’ve been a laugh on a better day. “You say this every time you bump into a chair too hard.” “This isn’t a chair!” Your voice cracks, louder than you meant. You pull back, as if even your words could hurt him. “This is you. I hurt you.”
Silence settles heavy between you, broken only by his uneven breathing. You pull your hands back into your lap, curling them into fists like you can contain something monstrous inside your own skin. "I forget," you whisper. "Sometimes I forget how strong I am. It's not just being a little stronger than most people; it's something else." A memory flickers and twists in your mind, sharp and unwelcome. You had been ten, playing with your cousin in the backyard, laughter ringing out alongside the peal of rusted swings and the far-off drone of bees in the clover. The grass was prickly and still damp from a morning rain, clinging cool against your bare knees, and the air smelled of cut grass and sun-warmed earth. A summer breeze carried the sweet scent of peonies and something faintly metallic; the tang of old bicycles and tools from the shed. You don't even remember what startled you, a game, a shout, maybe the slam of the back door, but you remember how your cousin's arm bent wrong when you pushed him away in fear, the faint snap muffled by a chorus of cicadas, the way his sudden sobs cut through the golden haze. Afterwards, silence stretched heavy as the sticky heat, and you felt every eye watching you, sweat cooling on your skin and dirt ground into your palms. You remember the look in your aunt's eyes: not anger, but a wary distance, like she could see through you and wasn't sure what she was seeing. The shame claws at you, as fresh now as it was then.
"I once cracked the doorframe just by leaning when I was tired. Last year, I caught a falling shelf by instinct, and it left a dent in the wall like the plaster was nothing." You press your fists together, small shivers running through your fingers. "I forgot I have to measure everything. Every movement, every touch, like I’m defusing a bomb all the time." Your laugh is hollow. "And then this happens, and I remember exactly what I am."
Frenchie shifts slightly, wincing, but opens his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. Not afraid. Never afraid. “You are not a weapon,” he says quietly. You shake your head immediately. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Not right now.” “Then when?” he presses, softer now. “When you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve to be touched at all?” Your breath catches. “That’s not what I-” “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” he interrupts gently. “And I am hurt, yes, but I am not broken.” He exhales carefully, easing himself up onto one elbow. “And you… You look like you are about to disappear.” You swallow hard. “Maybe I should.” Your words hang there between you, heavier than anything else that’s been said, and the hurt you feel floods the silence.
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, slowly and carefully, he reaches out. You flinch. “Hey.” His voice is firm, cutting through the panic. “Look at me.” You force yourself to meet his gaze. “I am choosing this,” he says. “I am choosing you. Not because I don’t understand the risk, but because I do.” His hand stays extended, patient, unmoving. “Come back, yeah? Don’t leave me here alone just because you’re scared of yourself.” Your eyes burn. “I could hurt you again.” “Yes,” he says simply. “You could.” The honesty hits harder than denial ever could. “And you’re still-” “I’m still here.”
Suddenly, the room feels too small and too loud, the air heavy with the smell of engine oil and dust still drifting from the shelves. Claustrophobia presses against your ribs, as if the tang of grease and metal itself carries your fear. Even the dust whirls seem restless, echoing your anxious urge to bolt. Everything sharpens: the harsh hum of the flickering fluorescent light reverberates like your heartbeat, the cold press of the concrete floor against your knees a grounding weight you cannot escape. The cluttered shelves feel like they're closing in, crowding your thoughts. Your anxiety swells in the space created by everything you're trying not to let yourself feel, rivulets of panic running through every sensory detail until the room feels as unsettled as you are.
Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for his hand. You expect him to pull back, but he doesn’t. Your fingers barely touch, just the lightest brush, and you hold your breath like it might break something. Nothing does. He squeezes your hand, steady and warm. "See?" he murmurs. "You’re not too much. You just forget to be gentle when you’re scared." Your vision blurs. "I hate this," you say quietly. "I hate feeling like I break things." "You don’t," he says, thumb rubbing softly over your knuckles. "You’re just still figuring it out. We both are." He gives you that crooked smile again, despite the pain. "Besides, I’ve survived worse than you, cherie."
A watery laugh escapes you. “That’s not exactly reassuring.” “Maybe not,” he admits. “But it is true.” You shift closer, careful and measured. Each movement is now deliberate, as if you’re rewriting your own rules in real time. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I know,” he replies. “And I’ll do better.” “I know that too.” You finally let yourself lean your forehead lightly against his shoulder, so soft it’s almost nothing. But it’s something. And this time, you don’t pull away.
Maybe you can’t stop being strong. But maybe you can learn how to be careful without being alone. And maybe Frenchie will keep reminding you, again and again, that love isn’t something you have to hold back. Just something you have to hold gently.
So tonight, when you stand to make tea again, you promise yourself you’ll let him help with the mug, letting your hands overlap for a moment longer than comfort allows. Tomorrow, you’ll fix the broken shelf together, letting Frenchie balance the boards while you hold the screws, measuring your strength not by what you keep away but by what you dare to reach for. You will practice a little each day, letting connection become your new habit, not something you have to fear. Those are your next steps: trusting yourself to stay, to try, to let yourself hope.
Learning to trust yourself will be slow, and some days the old fear will return, as sharp as ever. But you imagine a time, maybe next week, maybe years from now, when your hands won’t shake before you reach for someone else, when you’ll choose connection, knowing all the risks but daring anyway. There will still be mistakes and moments of doubt, but now, you know there can also be hope. The journey ahead is unsteady, and you are not finished changing yet. But for the first time, you’re willing to believe that strength could mean something more than solitude. You do not have to disappear. You are still becoming.
