Chapter Text
Monday
Hanging tight was lasting longer than he was pleased with. If anything, the situation made Kimiko like Mallory more, as it felt like a forced vacation, something Frenchie sorely needed. But as much as cabin fever seemed to be getting to him, she was trying her best to help him slow down, and appreciate the rest.
A week in though, he was going a little mad.
He had been staring at the mirror of his bathroom for about 10 minutes now, alternatingly ruffling his new curls, or pulling at them mopingly. They still weren’t so long that they got into his face, just flopped here and there, but he looked at them like they were personally invading his well earned space.
“I like them” she signed into the mirror, and he just glanced at her, pouting.
“They make me look,” he shook his head, and some of them bounced about with the movement. “Boyish.” Disgust dripped from his voice, and he stuck out his tongue as if to get the taste of the word out.
Her eyebrow rose up, a question, with a teasing edge. He looked back at her sullenly.
“I have a certain persona, you know,” the adolescent-esque angst quickly fell away to a devilish grin, “I’m known for being a bit of a rebellious bad boy punk rocker. Couldn’t you tell?”
He pulled at the curls, as if he were handing them to her, and she batted him away, gently, careful of her own strength.
“But these, these, ” he hissed playfully, “These do not say Rebellious Bad Boy Punk Rocker, these say, cha bro,” he tried to do a voice, some play off of American that was very, very bad. She snorted. “Why don’t we get some waves, and then drink a brewski in my dad’s yacht, bro.”
“That’s terrible,” she signed, trying to suppress her laughter.
“Cha, bro, that’s what I said, they’re terrible,” he was losing the voice, but he was having too much fun making her laugh.
She reached for the one that hung right in the middle of his forehead, and tentatively tugged it gently, letting it bounce. “They’re not that bad. I like your curls,” the sign for curls twirled around his, letting it bounce again. It was fun, the way they just shot right back. It reminded her of him, always on the move. “If you let it grow really long, you could look like a hair metal guy.” The thought alone made her laugh, although she was sure he could pull it off somehow.
She looked down, wondering if her touching was annoying him at all, only to find that he was watching her, eyes smiling, bright, and soft. Shyness shot through her, and she retreated her hands, and looked away. “I’m sorry,” she signed quickly, and though the sign required touch, she made it as fast as possible, stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket, and pressing her lips together.
“The only thing you have to be sorry for is saying that I’d ever look like a hair metal guy,” he teased, and the tension lifted, a power he had all his own. “But you like my hair curly?”
She did. Very much. But she also liked it buzzed, and short, and whatever he did. She couldn’t really envision having a preference. Her fingers twitched in her pockets, and she knew the thought was coming, and she tried to stamp it out before it made her heart start racing annoyingly, but there it went: It’ll be soft no matter what. Not that she should really go around touching Frenchie’s hair. She swallowed, realizing that it had been a little bit too long since she had responded, and nodded, perhaps a bit too fast.
But he just smiled, and sighed, “I suppose I could let it grow a little longer. It usually goes this way, I let it grow, until one night, I can’t take it anymore, and just shave it.” He looked back at the mirror, and ruffled his hair again, his expression thoughtful, a bit put out, “It always starts out a mess though.”
“I’ll help if it gets that bad,” she offered, and wondered why. She used to help Kenji with his hair. That was probably it. Yeah, that was it.
He smiled, and signed, “Thank you.”
The curls lived another day.
Tuesday
The nice thing about their new apartment building was their neighbors. They didn’t have a lot of neighbors on the fifth floor, but every Tuesday, someone on the 4th floor, on the far side from her balcony, taught trumpet and piano lessons, at 3:45 in the afternoon. The lessons were an hour each, 3:45-4:45, trumpet, 4:45 to 5:45 trumpet, right at the sweet spot when childish trumpet mistakes would be annoying, piano took over from 5:45 to 6:45. The whole day though, the mysterious trumpet playing neighbor would practice, getting ready for their students to come, and her Tuesdays were full of music. If she didn’t have anywhere to go, which this week, she did not, she’d spend the whole day on the balcony, and listen. Sometimes she even liked to clap, as loud as she could, to cheer on the kids. They’d poke their heads out, and wave, and she’d wave back, followed by a thumbs up. It was pleasant.
Some days, she wished every day were Tuesday.
Today, she sat, drinking tea, listening to 4:45 mess up for the 6th time in a row, knowing that the teacher was going to let them play their favorite piece next. It was hers too. The kid really wailed on their trumpet, letting juvenile, but jazzy notes lift out into the sky, mournful and soulful in really the only way a teen could capture. She liked to picture they were blowing away all their easy teenage troubles: got a middling grade on a math test; a pretty girl smiled thanks at them for holding the door at the library but a beautiful boy had helped them up in gym; they weren’t allowed to get the latest whatever it was teens wanted these days. Easy, silly things, but they still warranted a trumpet blare or two, just to deal with.
Sitting like this, just listening, watching the clouds, or the cars and people roll on by, she felt like maybe she could pretend, for just a little while, that this was what her life had always been. That she had easy, silly problems too. This Kimiko had a family, two parents, one brother, and they lived not too far away, a subway ride maybe, and she had dinner with them every Saturday, so often and so typical, she sometimes resented it. Her job was something simple, without a lot of stress, and that she didn’t have to take home at the end of the day--she was a library assistant, or an accountant, maybe even worked at something annoying but necessary and secretly helpful like the DMV. She had hobbies, maybe plants, or painting, maybe she would go jogging, just for the thrill of it. She went dancing with her friends from college, or from work, and was trying desperately to help get the groups to hang together so two of her friends could click. She was in a band, or she was writing a book, or she was an actress. Maybe she ran a restaurant with her favorite person in the world. She traveled often, and everywhere, and was free to do everything, but only did the things she wanted.
Even in all of that fantasy, her new family was there by her side. Somehow, the boys were still in her life, she didn’t like to think too hard about the how or why, but it was too important for them to be there. She couldn’t picture a life without them now. She didn’t want to, especially not while sipping tea and imagining a better world.
She was not one to fall too easily to comfort. He tried to surprise her, and sit quietly by her side without her notice, but she’d heard him the moment he slipped the key in her door. She did not turn, letting him lean in and whisper, “How’s our little Chet Baker doing?”
She smiled at him warmly, and nodded towards the fourth floor window, where one last weepy note poured out into the streets below.
Frenchie clutched his heart, “Poor thing has got it bad.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not everything is romantic. Maybe they failed a test,” she put down her mug and signed.
“That’s romantic though,” he pointed at her emphatically, “Capital R or whatever, the old school stuff M.M. always talks about with Butcher.”
Kimiko frowned and shook her head. She didn’t know what that was.
Evidently, neither did Frenchie. At least not entirely. He shrugged, “I heard them talk about it for hours once on a stake out. Then I asked Cherie and she called me a philistine. Something about Frankenstein, and life and death—I just assume, as I already had, that that means everything is a little romantic.”
She only had two chairs out on the balcony, small things likely taken from a public pool that were halfway broken, but with cushions and blankets had become quite the cozy little seating arrangement. It looked like old paintings of Romans, the two of them half sitting, half laying in the seats, leaned close to one another, just as the lesson began to end, and the music stopped. The sun was beginning to set, and he smiled over at her, a little know it all smile she knew meant he was being particularly “Frenchie” today. But she could see the sparkle of truth behind the persona. Or maybe she was just noticing that his eyes were especially brown and golden in the fading light. She pressed her lips together, and stood to take her mug inside. It was a little early, she usually liked to listen to the piano lesson also, but suddenly things were feeling a little… crowded.
He barely seemed to notice… or he did, and that’s why as he bounded inside after her, he left the balcony door open, and sat at the couch instead of following her into the kitchen as he usually would.
“I had an idea,” he announced, as tinklings of the piano lesson began. There was always overlap with the last trumpet and piano lesson. 4:45 liked to go long into the evening.
She looked over as he waited, patiently for attention. He sometimes made her think of a puppy in that way, but not quite a dog puppy. Whatever a Fox puppy would be like, she suspected.
“I miss cooking. And since I have been furloughed,” he sighed, falling dramatically to the couch. “I think we should make a great deal all week long and experiment with many new dishes!”
She huffed, and moved to lean over him, so he could see her sign, and see her reprimanding look, “You are on a break, not fired.”
His nose scrunched and he waved her away, “Who can say?”
“I can say,” she signed, smiling, and he rolled his eyes.
“But let’s make something new, non? What have you always wanted but never eaten? What have you always wanted to learn to make?”
“I don’t know how to make anything,” she hopped over the couch, landing beside him.
He sat up to meet her, “Except madeleines!”
She tried to hide her smile, and nodded.
“Should we go to the store? Just… figure it out?” she shrugged, pointing to the junk mail pile (and possibly real mail. She was still getting used to receiving mail) stacked with coupons.
It was a sight. At first, he balked at the concept of the coupons. Then, his eyes travelled over the sales, and he grabbed them up quickly.
“How much are eggplants usually? This is absurd!”
“No eggplant then?” She asked, and he shook his head.
“No, if this is a sale, then we better, we may never eat them again!”
Produce proved a worthwhile adventure. Frenchie refused to shop at the nearby store, a brand name she’d seen many places, but Frenchie condemned it as a gentrifier, and not worth the coupons. Luckily, there was a smaller, but local store just a couple more blocks out of the way. And they too had been kind enough to send her coupons. The vegetables and fruits there were a practical smorgasbord.
There wasn’t much in the way of fresh protein though. This did not stop them.
“Something new, I’ve never made fresh pasta before,” he said, as the little old woman directed him towards flour and eggs needed to do so.
“You should make pasta puttanesca. I read it in a book once. I love it,” he smiled as the old woman handed him canned olives and anchovy, and gave him her recipe.
“We could do soup, and ratatouille as well!” He got to the joke before her, “And don’t you dare mention Pixar.”
She shrugged, hiding her smile.
The store had dumpling wrappers. She put them into the basket, along with a handful of scallions, and a thing of mushrooms that looked fun and weird to her, and Frenchie immediately began planning a sauce they could try to make with them all.
Fruit alone was a sweet enough dessert to her, but he had visions of tarts, cakes, sorbets, soufflé, creme brûlée, crepes, and she just was caught in the whirlwind of his enthusiasm. As was often the case with him. The thought sent a warm rush through her, a sensation that felt both exciting, and cozy. Safe.
They had enough for many meals, many plans, and many leftovers. She didn’t even think about the inconvenience of carrying so many groceries, the weight nothing to her, until the old woman who owned the store scolded Frenchie for making her carry everything.
He winced, “She is very strong, Madame, she’s training for the olympics! She won’t let me help!” The lie was so easy for him. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
She looked back at the woman and nodded, lifting their bags with ease.
“A little thing like you?” The woman gasped. “Well god bless you, I hope you bring us home a medal!”
Frenchie beamed, “She will, Madame, she’s amazing! She’s on her way to setting a world record!”
“Damn right, she is,” the woman said, and they all laughed. “She’s setting records, and you’re what, her cheer squad?”
“Oh yes, Madame,” he nodded, solemnly, as if this was a great undertaking, a noble pledge, “She brings home the bacon, I make good food… Out of the bacon for her.”
The woman laughed, smiling cheerily at them, “Well, where were you 50 years ago? You’re a lucky young lady, you are! And remember, don’t let that pasta dough get too dry—put a cloth on it!”
He bowed for the woman, and they headed out, all smiles, but she couldn’t quite shake what the woman said, as they walked home, and Frenchie listed rapidly the menu for the week, looking to her for approval of every choice.
Pasta Puttanesca went off without a hitch. The dish was rich, and bright, the vegetables combining and breaking down into a cozy, warm sauce. They sat on the balcony eating, the lessons long over, but someplace down the street was carrying the theme—they saw the sign as they walked back “Jazz Nights at McGillacuddy’s” and right as they sat to eat, the first band played, something fast, something rhythmic, something bouncy and dizzying. She wondered if the neighbor played there.
There was quite a lot of puttanesca left. Frenchie said they could freeze it, save it for another day. “Or… we could… bring it into the office, a treat for the crew and all the hard work they’ve done?”
It was a sweet idea with an obvious ulterior motive. She shoved him gently, and gave an exaggerated, disciplining frown.
He bit his lip to keep from laughing, “What? It would be nice! We could check in on everyone and how things are going!”
“You are on vacation!” She signed, her hands gesturing harshly. She pushed a beer towards him, and her hands pointed at the stars, at the bar down the street, and at him, “Relax!”
“Your ring makes a bit more sense every day,” he sighed and took a long sip of his drink.
She just sat back, victorious and posed, queenly. “Damn right,” she signed.
“You could go back, you know,” he mumbled, watching the streets below. “ You have not been benched.”
She groaned.
“What? Don’t you want to go back?”
“She doesn’t know what to do with a supe on the team,” she signed, taking a sip of her own drink. “I don’t think she really wants me there.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t, instead, simply nodding.
She wasn’t satisfied with that, and tapped his chair to get his attention. “What?”
He rubbed his face, and looked everywhere but at her, before finally holding his head heavily, and sighing. “I don’t think she doesn’t want you there. But I think you’re right… She doesn’t know what to do with you.”
She tapped again, and he looked up, and the way his lips pressed together, and his eyes looked mildly guilty, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing, “She’s scared of me.”
“She shouldn’t be,” he put his beer down, and signed, and she appreciated the intent behind it, but she shook her head.
“I don’t care if she’s scared of me. Lots of people are,” I’m a monster, the voice inside her never let that go. Even if more and more she was feeling that perhaps life was more complicated, maybe things didn’t have to be so black and white, the thought never went away. “I wish that…” She wished that Mallory trusted her. That she could have some perfect and good way to prove that she was with them and would not betray them, that she’d never do anything to hurt her team. But there wasn’t anything. All she was good for was violence. And what did that prove except what was already evident to Mallory?
Serge took her hand and squeezed. She shut her eyes, trying to quiet her thoughts, and focus on the touch instead. His hands were calloused, and still had a little flour on them. She liked the way the little particles dragged, creating a little friction between their skin as his thumb softly stroked her knuckles. It was different. Something to distract from how much she enjoyed just getting to touch him at all.
“She shouldn’t be scared of you. You have done more than enough to show that you are on our team,” she opened her eyes, and he was close, his eyes matching the intensity and seriousness of his voice. “Mallory’s wrong.”
She wasn’t. But for a while, while the music shifted to something that thumped through her chest, and she looked into Serge’s brown eyes, Kimiko could believe him. She sniffed, and waved him away, to sign, “I don’t need to go in unless you all need me. And you need me right now, so I’m here, also on vacation,” she smirked, leaning back, and trying to convince herself that the steady drum beat was still affecting her, and that her heart wasn’t beating loudly in time with the song.
There was that lingering seriousness in his eyes, but he leaned back as well, and his smirk matched hers, but there was some other joke on his mind that she wasn’t privy to. Or maybe not a joke, just… Something.
“What’s funny?” she signed, and he smiled wide.
“Nothing,” he laughed. “I’m just glad that you’re bossy. This has been a pretty good vacation. Probably my best one.”
The drummer on this song was nonsensical, and had begun their solo much too early. She sunk into her chair, and nursed her beer, trying to take deep breaths of her nose, and let her chest settle.
Finally, she signed back, “Me too,” and looked away quickly when he grinned.
“Now, what should we bake for dessert?” he hummed to himself, taking their plates and heading for the kitchen. He turned back before she could ask, “And don’t even begin to suggest that we clean first, that’s a battle for another day, when the weather is worse, and the music is bad. Today, we bake!”
She started to follow, trying to decide on suggestions. They had brought blood oranges back, and the way they smelled was sweet and just a touch sour, almost bitter, and made her mouth water just to think about them, but he’d mentioned creme brulee, and fire, and that sounded like a fun mess to regret tomorrow. He seemed to be of the same mind, as she overheard him muttering about whether or not the welding torch he had next door would work well enough as a torch, or if they’d have to be boring and use the broiler.
Then the song changed. It was slow, and soft, and familiar, but she couldn’t place it. But Frenchie shot up, his eyes wide with excitement, thoughts of baking abandoned, as he rushed to her side.
“My god, I haven’t heard this song in ages!” careful to wait until she offered her hand, he dragged them back to the balcony, to lean over and confirm it was the song he was thinking of. The other songs had all been instrumental, but here, she could hear just faintly a woman’s voice take over, and begin to sing in French.
He closed his eyes, and leaned against the door to her balcony in ecstasy. “It’s been too long! Everyone always plays it in English!”
She remembered the song now, from that diner with Cherie. She hadn’t paid much attention to it then. She wished she had.
“Is it different in French?” she signed, and he laughed, excited, an about to rant laugh.
“Completely!” He offered her his hands again, and spun her when she took them, until they settled into a slow, gentle dance, one hand holding hers in the air, and the other resting on her side, hers on his chest. “Well, okay, not really all that different, but,” he bit his lip, looking off in thought, trying to place it. “In English, it’s sung to someone, the person you are looking at, but in French. She’s thinking of someone else, the man she loves, how he makes her feel. How he’s loyal, and is good to her. But there’s the sadness, you know,” she watched his face as he explained. He was looking at her, in that way he did where his focus was completely on sharing a story, letting the person listening in to a portion of his life—his face was open, his smiles playful, but genuine. Sometimes she wondered if the stories he shared were real, but she never doubted the feelings he expressed through the story. Those were some of his most honest, most passionate, and the moments where she could see he felt truly known. “Back then, I dunno if it was the same, if that was the intention. But la vie en rose, it means, life is pink, life in rose colored glasses. Do you know that phrase?”
She’d heard it a little bit. She nodded, but smiled, encouraging him to continue.
“If you look at the world through your rose colored glasses, you don’t see things for what they are,” his gaze was focused over her now, and his thoughts seemed far away. “It’s a song that can mean many things. It can make sense of things. My mother,” he glanced down at her, and she knew that meant it was hard to talk about. She danced closer, and rested her head on his shoulder. She hoped it helped. Heart beats rarely explained anything of feelings, but she wondered what she could pick out from hearing his, steady and slow, in time to their steps, to the slow rhythm of the song. “She liked this song. I think it helped her make sense… Of the life she was living. Of loving someone who wasn’t good to her.”
She could hear that kind of melancholy in the song. The voice singing pushed the notes, giving them a wavering, smoky edge. But at the highest note was something brighter. Something light and airy, but strong and firm—determined. It wasn’t all sad. And he had seemed so happy to hear it, and dance with her.
She pulled away to look up at him, hoping the question was evident. It seemed to be. His smile wasn’t sad at all.
“Like I said, it can mean many things. It makes sense of the world in a bad time. Life is pink,” he twirled her again, and she wondered if that was to avoid something, but she came back to his arms, and he dipped her--a new move she hadn’t anticipated. She held her breath as he held her like that for a moment, and they slowly came back up. She had not held him tightly, or tried to scramble back--she trusted him. She wondered if it was her own heart she heard skip a beat or if her senses picked up both of theirs, it echoed so loudly within her. “They sang it back at the end of World War II, you know. After so much horror, they wanted to see a world where… Life was pink. And true, it’s bad to forget. But…”
He hummed, and the sound was quiet, rough, and she felt it through his chest more than heard it. She pressed herself against him again, the feeling like the drums before. But she almost craved it now. The little flip her stomach did was thrilling, but that combined with how at peace she felt, to and fro, just swaying to this easy, sad, and joyous song. She couldn’t figure any of it out, there was no easy answer. But she was happy.
Maybe the lady from the store was right. She was lucky.
“But it’s hard to find the good in it all. So you have to hold onto it, indulge in it,” Serge said finally, and his chest rose and fell against hers, his breathing steady and even, like he was sleeping. She was surprised to find the same was true about her, even though her heart felt so loud and fast. “Let life be pink, if only once in a while,” he smiled against her cheek, and she felt herself do the same.
They pulled away, and even as peaceful as it had felt, the way he looked at her in that moment, soft, but… Longing. Her breath left her. Her heart felt like it was beating directly in her ears now. She looked along his face, landing on his bottom lip, it lightly quirked up, ready to smile, like always. They were pink, funny enough, his lips. She wondered why she’d never noticed before.
But the song ended, and the cheers pulled their eyes back to the balcony. The music began again, fast, and upbeat, and he raised his eyebrows, already swaying the two of them more speedily, and she laughed, and twirled him this time.
She was lucky.
So lucky.
Friday
It was a weird enough thing to get a call from Mallory. It was weirder that it was Friday morning, the day of the call. The weirdest bit though was that Mallory wanted her to come in, not the both of them.
Frenchie took it well. He nodded, and smiled, supportive, but she could see the light edge that took over his shoulders, and how he did not get up from his hunched position on her couch. “Maybe she’s figured out what would be best suited for you,” he was enthusiastic, as he picked at the fruit and pastry they had been eating for breakfast. Silence was her natural state, so she didn’t feel bad keeping her thoughts to herself, that maybe Mallory simply finally had a need for violence. Instead, she just smiled gently, and took his hand.
He looked at their entwined fingers, questioning, and then laughed, and shook his head, “No, no, you do not need to worry about me, mon coeur, I’m fine not going in to help. I’m, after all, on vacation,” he leaned back to sell it, but she frowned at him. “I’m fine, I promise, don’t worry! Kimiko,” he squeezed her fingers, and then put his hands behind his head. She still didn’t buy it, but she sighed. “Sure, I… I want to go in and help. I want to be working and doing what I can for Mallory. But I know that I… I went a little overboard the last three months, and I need this rest. Go, bring home that bacon.” He winked, and she still wasn’t sure. But at least she felt better about leaving.
Besides, she was a little curious what Mallory needed from her. She nodded, and promised to stop by a restaurant on the way back. He shook his head, and pointed to the kitchen, “And miss the chance to have dinner ready for you when you come home? We can do the whole bit! I insist!”
With that, she left, and hoped everything went alright.
“Kimiko, great, thank you for coming in,” Mallory was busy, leaning over a table with M.M. and, surprisingly, Butcher. She approached, and Mallory whispered to her, “And thanks for keeping an eye on Serge too.” That was just for her ears. Kimiko nodded, understanding, but feeling slightly uneasy. Hughie was not here either. It felt odd to be planning without the team complete.
She half smiled at Butcher, who made some gruff noise at her. M.M. got a wave and a fuller smile, and he had the decency to say hello and ask after Frenchie.
“ He’s doing well, ” she typed. Frenchie had hacked something for her, and now her background was totally custom, and the voice was a little less cold. She filled the space with yellow and orange polka dots, and a sparkly mess of letters that read “BADASS”. They’d had a good giggle out of that. “ Eager to come back though. ”
Mallory pretended to not have heard that. M.M. at least laughed, “Man gets a full week off and is complaining. I’d give him a hard time if I were you, Kimiko.”
“Yeah, if he’s sick of you already, and you don’t even live together, I’d worry,” Butcher grumbled, and M.M. smacked him for her. “The fuck!” was all Butcher had to say to that, but she snorted.
“Alright, people, we’re burning daylight, and this is time sensitive,” Mallory scolded the three of them, and they set to work.
The job was weird. Really weird.
The rumor mill that Frenchie cultivated had sent him word that someone was in the market to manufacture a newly developed formula to compete with Compound V. The exact people behind the new chemical were unknown, but Frenchie had uncovered who was funding them, and where they were working out of.
“The De Fiore crime family, standard mafia nonsense, drugs, hits, assorted businesses for money laundering and thievery,” Mallory passed the file around, and Butcher snorted.
“Your basic Soprano knockoff douchebaggery, got it.”
“And at a children’s hospital? That seems… Dickish,” M.M. frowned deeply.
“Charities are unfortunately ripe for money laundering,” Mallory groaned, and then looked up at Kimiko. “But, good for us, cause that’s how we’re gonna get you in.”
Kimiko frowned, wondering if she should bring up what she was wondering. Butcher thankfully asked for her.
“This is what Frenchie’s been up to these past three months, yeah? Timely, this vacation of his.” Kimiko watched the careful exchange of looks between him and Mallory, Butcher’s eyes searching cruelly and Mallory guarded.
“He’s a liability. He’s known to the De Fiore’s.”
“How?” They all asked at once. She felt a bit better that even in this new office, they were still a team, and they were on Frenchie’s side.
Mallory rolled her eyes and grumbled, “He stole their coke.”
“Ah,” M.M. said and rubbed his temples.
Butcher laughed, “Sounds like our Frenchie.”
The charity in question was some bullshit called Supes Get Shots. Some vaccination drive to encourage kids to get their shots for school. They apparently went around the country, helping kids stay brave in the morning, and then visiting long term patients in the afternoon. Technically a good thing, but hiding a lot of ulterior motives—at the very least there was no weird experimentation going on. It was just a photo op and the money laundering. The De Fiores handled the money laundering, with donation drives, parties, and a ticket deal for Supes who wanted to participate. As a mostly a lower tier charity drive, it was something supes on the up and up did in order to build their public image—buy a ticket, volunteer your time, get the photo op. This worked well for their purposes, as no one needed to have heard of her, and they took care to doctor a few YouTube videos of her daring do already made up to make her seem a bit more authentic.
And having only recently received a social security number, identification, and all the things that a normal person would typically have had their whole life, made disguising Kimiko rather easy. Sure, her face had been plastered as a terrorist on all news channels for the past year, but disguises seemed to be a lot less complex than she’d seen in movies. A makeup team, that they apparently had on hand and on call, readied her with some cheesy little suit, little blue shorts, and a crop top long sleeved shirt that felt like something a scuba diver would wear, and a short, red wig, that bounced whenever she moved. She had stared in the mirror the entire time they turned her into someone else, completely baffled at the new person before her. She really did look different.
M.M. and Butcher would not need disguises, utilizing the distraction of the charity drive’s excitement to get in, find the alleged new chemical, and get out. If she could get away, she’d search too, but her focus was to distract. At least there wasn’t any plan for violence. She could smile and wave at kids for a day, even if the shorts were a little tight.
“This is a bit fancier than our usual ideas, huh?” M.M. had tried to make her feel better, her discomfort with being dressed as a supe clear.
She nodded, overwhelmed, and honestly, unimpressed. They’d managed to get in many places without this level of complication. But this was the plan. She could be this stranger for an afternoon, this supe, Kimmy Ishida, aka…
“The Blue Bruiser,” Butcher had declared it, quite pleased with himself. “You started off as a peewee boxing champion, able to take grown men ten times your petite size, and suddenly you knew you had to be your hometown hero, facing the bad guys, punching ‘em down--the ad reel will say leaving them in bruises and behind bars, but you and I both know they don’t have faces anymore, eh, Kimmy?”
She did not laugh. She did not smile. M.M. groaned, as they drove down to the hospital. “Butcher, you remember that shit, but do you remember the plan?”
“He better remember the plan,” Mallory said, in all of their ear pieces.
“We park a ways away, let Kimiko walk the rest of the way to the Charity thing, big happy distraction, we park, get inside, and start looking around, say we got a nephew or something if asked, try and gather whatever intel we can, but the compound is key. At noon, Kimiko gets a lunch break. She’s got an hour to look herself. At one, the charity moves to the upper levels or whatever. We meet up at the parking lot, and get the fuck outta dodge. Maybe Kimiko saves the outfit though. Frenchie may be into that sort of thing.”
She kicked the back of his chair, and while he did laugh, the wind was knocked out of him.
“What was that?” Mallory asked.
“Just a little team building. Butcher knows how to be a better team player now,” M.M. said, rubbing his temples again. She was slowly starting to share the sentiment.
But the plan started off well enough. They dropped her off, and she made her way to the hospital, the ear piece sounding off with the remnants of Butcher and M.M.’s bickering.
The hospital had a big, colorful sign outside, Homelander and A-Train’s faces smiling down as Queen Maeve is given a shot. She did her best to not grimace at the sight, as she approached a booth with a few other supe looking types filling out paperwork with a chipper, friendly looking attendant.
She smiled, and typed into her phone (the notes app rather than the translation). It was good English practice, at least.
“Hi, I’m The Blue Bruiser, I’m here for Supes for Shots? Sorry, I lost my voice from a big fight, it’s nothing serious, just sore. Can still wave and help kids feel brave!” She handed the phone over to the freckled young woman at the booth, and tried her best to look apologetic.
“Oh shoot, that’s too bad! Well, as long as it’s not contagious, I’m sure it’s fine, yeah, they just really like the photo ops really, the hospital and the parents, and the kids, you know, they feel better just that you’re there, no problem at all!” She wiggled her head as if it was some cute little movement to signal she was on Kimiko’s side. “I’m Suzy, by the way, pleasure to meet you, Blue Bruiser! You’re gonna need to fill out these forms real quick, no biggie, and then we’ll get you over to the main hall where we’re doing them, okay? You new on the scene?”
It was a lot all at once, while also trying to fill out the form in accordance with the info Mallory had given her before, but she figured smiling and nodding worked okay. It seemed to work just fine for Suzy, who was happy to chat for the both of them.
“Oh, that’s so exciting. We at Supes for Shots really like helping up and coming Supes get a chance for some face time with the people, you know? Like it’s so important for you guys to actually get to be on the ground meeting people, letting them get to know you…”
Her voice tuned out for Kimiko after awhile. She tried her best to finish the form quickly, trying to let her handwriting look messy in a natural way than through evident effort. The other Supes by her finished, and turned in their clipboards. Not wanting to be last, she powered through hers as well, and handed it in, smiling at all of them. She hoped she looked friendly, but she felt awkward. It was probably all the spandex.
“You guys are all set! Thanks again for helping out, we appreciate you!” Suzy was all smiles, as if smiling was her natural state. It was a little unsettling.
She followed the other Supes inside to the main hall, and was immediately hit by the mass of people, children running, giggling, crying, parents grabbing, scolding, making googly eyes at Supes, and everyone posing with overworked and exhausted doctors and too perfect Supes in their bright colors, standing around like poison dart frogs daring the foolish to come near.
“First time?” A man in a lime green suit and a black mask, leaned over and nudged her.
She didn’t much like the contact, but she tried to brush it off, and nodded.
“They really just want you to smile and wave, it’s pretty easy. The kids are gonna cry no matter what we say and do, just focus on looking heroic, and getting that pic, and you’re golden.” He winked at her, and she decided she did not care for him and his goatee and ponytail. “I’m the Neon Light. I’ll see you later.”
No, no you will not. She groaned internally, and hoped against hope that this went quick, and proved worth it.
Lunch was soon, and while she hadn’t minded sitting with various kids, holding their hands gently while they screwed their faces up bravely, trying to make it through the scare of getting shots, she was eager to do more, and search herself. But, it was almost nice—this was their only worry in life. That’s how it should be. And she liked helping them through it.
One girl had hugged her tightly, and told her that she loved her… well. Blue Bruiser. But the ease and tenderness with which she said it… she was glad none of the boys were here to see her tear up.
Well, almost.
Maybe she could tell Frenchie later, and he’d understand. That in the midst of danger and deception, she still had a moment where… Life was just a little pink. He’ll like that , she thought, smiling to herself, as a family ran past her to ask some tall, muscled blonde who looked vaguely enough like Homelander for them to be able to tell others they had met the actual thing. That didn’t seem to bother the guy.
But just like the real thing, when Suzy came to announce the break for lunch, he immediately departed without another glance at the family. The parents didn’t even care, but the little boy looked after the hero, his brows drawn, and his eyes wet. She went over, and kneeled in front of him, and made the silliest face she could think of to keep him from crying. It used to work all the time on Kenji. As luck would have it, it worked now too.
The little boy, shaggy brown hair, and bright green eyes, couldn’t have been older than 4. He hiccuped out his laughter, but that didn’t change that he was laughing, and his tears forgotten.
“Come on, Darren, say goodbye, we get to go get ice cream now!” The boy’s father said, picking him up, and his mother turned to her and smiled.
“Thanks for everything. You guys make this whole process so much easier.”
She nodded. She wasn’t sure about any of that, all she had done was hold hands and wipe tears away. But it felt… nice. And she waved to the little one as they walked away, and felt especially good about what little she had been able to do when he waved back, a big smile showing off his baby cheeks and dimples.
“Okay, okay, enough baby time, let’s not get you any ideas, missy, put a ring on that first before trying to poke a hole in any condoms!”
“Butcher,” M.M. hissed.
“Get looking, we only got an hour left,” Butcher finished, and M.M. added, “We’re in the east wing of the hospital, if you wanna check out the other one.”
She let the sound click off, and headed out of the main hall, following Supes and doctors in the general direction of lunch, and cutting off at the first opportunity, following another hallway down to the west.
So far, so good. The direction she’d gone in was absent patients and regular doctors--this was clearly the research half of the facility, and the few doctors she passed had their heads bent down over clipboards and samples, rushing back and forth from lab to lab. They barely paid attention to a lost supe. Based on signage alone though, none of the labs she passed so far had anything particularly that suggested something amiss. She kept walking, head down, eyes forward, wanting to cause as little trouble as possible.
That is, until she heard Suzy’s voice again.
“I checked all the records, sir, I promise, I had no idea,” she sounded harried, like she was on the verge of tears. Kimiko ducked into a small nook, a space for a lone coffee maker and snack machine, and pretended to look at the various colorful packages, as Suzy and a large, muscled man in a suit hurried past.
“That fucking punk, you had one fucking job, Suzy, keep out idiot fucking dickheads,” the man spoke low, thick with the sound of rasping vocal chords eroded by heavy smoking, she figured. She had never wondered what it would sound like for someone to swear awkwardly and badly, but she appreciated the art that Butcher put into it much more listening to this man. “I swore to God if I ever saw that little bitch ass French boy again, I’d kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him!”
“Well, I didn’t know, he was with a senator’s aid, I thought that it was all above board!”
“You have a fucking picture, Suzy, fuck!”
Her blood went cold. Her heart picked up in speed. She watched and waited to see what corner they turned down, and slowly went back out, eyeing the space around them.
Frenchie’s here? With Hughie? She thought, and was immediately furious. With Mallory, with Frenchie, with herself for not being able to ring into the others to let them know. She wondered if there was enough time for a text, until she spotted a loose tile above her head, just by the fluorescent light, making it flicker lightly.
It was the opposite direction the man and Suzy had gone in. At least that was a blessing.
She raced down the hall. They didn’t have much time left. And they’d been made.
She hated to, but she agreed: idiot fucking dickhead, she thought, desperate to get to them before any De Fiores found them.
Of fucking course it wasn’t hard to find them. She’d nearly passed the lab room labelled “Blood Work: 2” until she’d heard a crash inside, quickly followed by a hiss of curses in French. She almost felt like rubbing her temples ala M.M., opting instead to swing the door open as harshly as she could without tipping off anyone else, and then slamming it shut--again, attempting to be somewhat quiet. It was a delicate balance.
“AH FUCK,” Hughie shouted, and the both of them held up guns at her as they whipped around to look at the intruder. Frenchie immediately lowered his weapon, and smiled at her. What hurt was how quickly the smile was replaced by a thoughtful, somewhat sad look. But Hughie took her attention quickly, “Kimiko?! Is that you? Wow. Huh. Was this. Wait, was this part of the plan, Frenchie?”
“Probably Mallory’s version,” he said, and she did not miss the cool edge his voice had adopted.
She scowled. “What are you doing here?” she signed. Everything else didn’t matter. That Mallory had fucked this up beyond reason, that of course, Frenchie wouldn’t want the opportunity that he’d been working towards for three months to go to waste, why didn’t anyone just talk to each other, she could have screamed. But the important thing was, the De Fiores knew Frenchie was here. And they were out for blood. “They know! They’re coming!”
Hughie seemed to try to be following along, but their shared lessons in ASL didn’t help translate her language. He swallowed, nervous, and seeing that Frenchie was becoming increasingly tense, and his jaw had moved in such a way that almost looked combative, moved instead to defuse, “Well, whatever the plan is, uh… Should we. Get back to it? I think we found what we need, so… Do we… Go?”
“We only have the chemical, we don’t have the rest,” it took a minute, but Frenchie stopped glaring at her, moving instead to continue his search throughout the lab.
She grabbed his arm, and tried to control the fact that her hands were trembling enough to sign, “There’s no time! I just passed them, they’re coming! We have minutes, maybe less!”
“A minute is all I need,” he winked, but there wasn’t much merriment behind it.
“Do we have a minute?” Hughie asked, and with a growl, she handed her ear piece to Hughie, and pointed at it repeatedly. “Oh, oh! Yeah, yeah,” she wasn’t sure if he really understood her intention, but she needed someone to communicate this all back to M.M. and Butcher, and she was not done with Frenchie.
He was bent over a file cabinet, rummaging through folder after folder, intent on what, she couldn’t figure out. But she pulled out a lot of them, and waved them in his face, gesturing with her head towards the door.
He ignored her at first,sparing her only a sullen glance before diving back in. But then Hughie once again, now with backing up from Butcher and M.M. made the highly anxious suggestion that they leave.
“I guess they can’t do like uh… Anything, to make the charity thing look like it's not working, but M.M. says they overheard somebody say they’re gonna start locking down ‘key corridors’ and a bunch of dudes in suits just went right past ‘em.”
A loud kathunk sounded behind them, as a metal screen slammed down over the door to the lab.
Thankfully, Frenchie relented, “Okay, we can go,” and grabbed a handful of files himself. Hughie followed suit, and she ran to the door, to figure out how to get through, before Frenchie gently touched her shoulder, “Ah, we came in the other way.”
The ceiling tile by the fluorescent light came back into her mind, and she looked up. Sure enough, there was an open tile above them.
Frenchie bowed, and she wondered if perhaps he was trying to alleviate her anger towards him, all sweetness and smiles, and playful behavior back now that things were going his way. “After you,” he purred, and she huffed, jumping up into the ceiling, and reaching back for Hughie.
Once he was inside, she did not reach back for Frenchie. Hughie whispered as he grabbed him, and they all began to crawl in the tight space, “Is she… Is she mad at you? I mean, I’ve seen her mad at you before, I just don’t know what you did this time.”
She could imagine the look Frenchie gave Hughie at that, but she didn’t look back. All her senses were focused on crawling, quiet as a mouse, and focusing on the sounds below.
About ten pairs of feet thundered down the hallway towards the lab they had just exited. They’d have to get out of the ceiling fast, as it would become apparent where they had gone, as though hidden, there wasn’t much they could do if bullets were shot up at them.
She directed them to a sharp left. Left was back the way she had come in from, towards Butcher and M.M. Maybe they could hop out above the snack machine, run the rest of the way through the hospital, or get to the main hall, and try to connect back up with the others there. She wasn’t sure what sort of lock down procedures a children’s hospital had, much less one with secret experiments going on in the other wings of the hospital.
Decisions were made for her as she heard the small squeak of, “Shit!” from Hughie, as the ceiling collapsed under him. Frenchie and Kimiko hopped down with him, only to see Suzy hyperventilating about the insulation-covered man that had just fallen in front of her.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Suzy looked up, crying, and spotted Kimiko, and immediately pointed at Hughie in desperation, “Oh my God, Blue Bruiser, please help, I think these guys are attacking, help!”
This was not her day. She looked around vaguely for something not terribly harmful to knock the poor woman out, but luckily, Frenchie was ahead of her.
“Chloroform,” he shrugged, laying Suzy down gently on the ground, and looking at least mildly guilty for it. “Should do the trick, Blue Bruiser.” He looked back at her, a teasing glint in his eye. She whirled away, and stomped back to the hallway, to check that the coast was clear.
The door to the main hall was guarded, but not blocked, for some reason. She wondered if the De Fiores were incompetent, or if there was some plan she wasn’t aware of. She nodded at Frenchie and Hughie, to let them know about the guards.
Frenchie shrugged and held up the rag he used on Suzy. She looked back at the heavily armed, but lightly armored guards, and considered.
Taking the rag from him, she was about to run, but he held her back for a moment, “You put it over the mouth and nose, hold it until they’re limp.”
“You’ll probably need two!” Hughie said. She ripped off the red wig, and held it up to see if that would work.
Frenchie smirked, taking the mess of hair and pouring a generous amount of chloroform into the fibers, “Should work. Red didn’t suit you anyway.”
Her eyebrow twitched, and she almost smiled at him. But she remembered that this was specifically a mission dangerous to him, and he was here anyway, and dashed off, determined to stay angry, at least until they could have a proper conversation about it. She just had to get them out, alive, safe, and she could be at peace to yell at him over how stupid all of this had been. Maybe she’d yell at Mallory too. Damn it, she’d snap at anyone who so much looked at her wrong, but for now, she put that energy into slamming the rag and the wig into the faces of the two guards before they could even blink.
Down they went, and she held them against the wall until she was certain they had limply fallen asleep. She stood, and looked back over her shoulder at Hughie and Frenchie, who came running to her side, Hughie smiling widely, and Frenchie smiling, but he looked lost in his own racing thoughts.
“You know, the red didn’t work, but I do think blue’s your color, Kimiko,” Hughie laughed.
She glanced down at the suit, which was increasingly terrible to move in, too tight, too squeaky, too clingy--but he was right. The blue wasn’t so bad.
But there wasn’t time for that. She kicked open the door, and Hughie shrank against the sound of it. Someone screamed, and suddenly, doctors, nurses, parents, and children all looked their way.
Genius Hughie, shouted, “Gas leak! There’s been a leak in this wing, everybody out!”
And so, everyone scrambled, heading out towards the main exit, creating just enough chaos that the guards who’d noticed them couldn’t easily make their way to them.
In that same chaos, M.M. and Butcher emerged.
“We gotta go,” M.M. said, while Butcher grabbed Hughie, and began pulling them in the same direction as the crowd.
“Did you get anything?” Frenchie asked, eyes darting between M.M., Butcher, and the guards who were steadily picking their way through the crowd.
“A little, not enough,” Butcher growled.
“There’s supposed to be something in the director’s office though,” M.M. grumbled, helping an elderly couple up, a convenient way to duck out of view of the guards. They all followed his example. “Couldn’t make it up there though.”
A disappointment for sure, but what could be done , was her first thought.
Of course, that wasn’t Frenchie’s. He darted off against the grain of the crowd for the stairs. M.M. yelled after him, and Butcher dragged both Hughie and M.M. forward, saying something about how Frenchie could take care of himself.
But she watched as the guards abandoned trying to reach them, and all ran after Frenchie. She didn’t hear whatever the others said after that. She was already running towards the stairs after him too.
She grabbed a guard that was in front of her, and leapt onto his back, pushing him down into the stairs with her legs, and letting the momentum of the movement help her jump towards the top of the stairs, in front of Frenchie. He hopped on a leg, surprised to see her, but corrected, and laughed.
“Thank you for joining me,” he took her hand, and pulled her towards the left, just as the shooting began. “This way.”
If they could have stopped, she would have told him, there’s no time, they have to get out, the others needed them, but shot after shot bounced off the concrete walls of the hospital, blowing chunks of rock into the air. All they could do was run. They passed many faces, some shouting at them, some trying to grab at them to stop, but most ducking, trying to hide behind gurneys, and tables, all screaming. None of this could be worth it. The mission had to have been a complete failure.
It certainly wasn’t worth the dread every time she had to pull Frenchie away from flying bullets and rocks.
But finally, they made it to some enormous, big office, on one of the higher floors, far too fancy and decorated for hospital administration in her mind, with its deep red carpets, and mahogany furniture. Frenchie held up his gun at the unsuspecting woman, shaking against the large desk at the end.
“Fuck this, man, this is not worth the fucking shit the De Fiore’s pay me, just let me go,” she wailed, half in anger, and half in exhaustion. “I just wanted funding, man, come on!”
She was prepared in case this was a trick, but Frenchie seemed calm, even friendly, as he lowered his gun, just a bit. “Hey, look, I get it. We all do a little bit of evil in the hopes that some good comes out of it. That’s what you’re talking about, right? Not your nasty little habit, non?”
“Fuck you, guy,” the woman roared. “If its just you, fuck this, De Fiores are gonna be here any second! I just gotta wait you out.”
Kimiko sighed. She wasn’t sure what Frenchie needed here, but they were here now. And the sooner they could leave, the sooner they’d be safe. She walked over to the woman, who flinched, but positively screamed when Kimiko demolished the thick desk with the palm of her hand.
“And we’ve got nothing to lose, Madame. So why not just go ahead and give me something that I can use to take down the De Fiores. What’s the phrase? You scratch my back, I scratch yours?”
She scrambled, salt and pepper hair flying out of her bun, as she reached into one of the demolished drawers of her desk, and threw a hard drive Frenchie’s way. He caught it easily. But they all jumped when a shot broke through the door, and shattered a window behind them.
“Fuck me, I’m out of here, this sucks,” she dove past them to a side door, a stair well hidden.
Kimiko and Frenchie exchanged a look, and followed to the stairwell, just as De Fiore’s guards burst through into the office. A second’s decision made by a scream--someone below had got the administrator, and was climbing up the stairwell to them. So up they went.
Kimiko managed, as some in purple and red suits managed to catch up to them, throw the purple one into the red, and the two fell back into the rest of the guards, giving them a little bit of a head’s start. In that time, they managed to get to the roof of the hospital.
“Now what,” Frenchie groaned, rubbing the back of his head as he looked around for anything resembling a plan. Now he tries to think of a plan, she wanted to snap. But the door to the roof was already breaking down.
She looked over the roof, trying to see how far the next building was. It was… Far. There was a possibility she could make it, but there was no way Frenchie could. And if she tried to carry him, they definitely wouldn’t make it. The fall to the ground would kill them, but she could come back to life…
“Shit!” Frenchie shouted, as bullets whizzed by them, hitting some metal thing that began to steam hot air, separating them from the door. No way back.
It was better than nothing.
“Hold tight,” she signed, and when he realized what she was doing, he began to talk much too fast for her to pay attention to, as she grabbed him, and started running.
“Fuck, Kimiko, no, no, we can’t make it, Kimiko!”
She tried to reach the other building. She did. The wind rushed too fast for her to hear anything but its roar, but she felt Frenchie hold onto her tighter, saw the gap between her and the red brick building she was trying to grasp. So she spun in the air, holding onto him, protecting what vital parts she could. She hoped she was right. It had to be like a reverse grenade, right?
She knew that never worked though.
She hoped for once it would.
She woke up in the car, the boys all yelling at one another, and Frenchie just staring at her, bruised, and his arm wrapped up in what looked like M.M.’s jacket. His goggles were cracked, one of the lenses just completely gone. As soon as her eyes opened, Frenchie breathed, like he’d been holding it this whole time.
“Thank God,” he whispered, and the hand that wasn’t wrapped up grabbed hers, and did not kiss it, but held it to his lips. She was still coming to, unable to think quite as clearly as she wanted, but she could squeeze his fingers back. She hoped that said enough. That she was deliriously happy that he was there, in front of her, and only a little worse for wear. That she was sorry that she had to do that. She tried to slip her hand from his, to try and sign, but he held her firm, shaking his head. “We’ll talk later. Just rest, please, mon coeur.” It wasn’t a request, but rather a plea. He couldn’t talk right now. So she swallowed down the guilt that was eating at her, and let her other hand find his cheek, and run her fingers against it, softly.
He looked up at her, wonder and a question full on his face, but she just smiled, weak though it was. She was just so happy. That was all she could do to tell him.
They’d handed their papers, the hard drive, everything over to Mallory upon returning to the office. Butcher, M.M., and Hughie dealt with giving her the rundown of what had happened, and why she had “a massive shit mountain of disaster to cover up”. Kimiko and Frenchie had been immediately directed to the apparent medical team that Mallory’s operation had on hand. They really had an impressive amount of resources more than they did back in the basement. It still was overwhelming to her. But even as Frenchie was checked over, his arm broken, the rest of him just heavily cut and bruised, thankfully, Mallory warned them that their turn to explain themselves was coming. “And it’s not gonna be pretty,” the woman had said, taking a deep breath with the end of the sentence, for all intents and purposes looking like a lioness ready to pounce.
But Kimiko didn’t think about that. She sat by Serge’s side, while he laid on the cot they’d gotten out for him, exhausted from the pain, and the medicine they’d supplied him with. He was somehow determined to stay awake though, no matter how much she tried to tell him it was his turn to rest.
“I’m sorry,” they both signed at the same time, their hands bumping into one another with the movement of the word. Rather than pull away, Frenchie held her hand in his, and squeezed again.
“I fucked up,” he said, his eyes squinting at her, looking both embarrassed, and tired. “I should have… I should have told you what I was planning.”
“I fucked up,” she signed, regretful that she had to take her hand back from his to do so, but the words were too important to say. “I should have told you what Mallory was doing. Mallory fucked up. But.” She pressed her lips together, her heart fluttering in remembered anger. “It was to protect you. You were in danger, those people only wanted to hurt you .”
She could see that he was tempted to roll his eyes, to fight back. To rub his hair, to tap on anything in frustration. But his body was too beat up to do any of it. Instead, he just swallowed hard, and breathed deeply through his nose. Finally, he said, “We all… We all have to put ourselves on the line, Kimiko. I should not be exempt from danger. I don’t deserve that kind of… Special treatment.”
She laughed angrily, “That’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he started, but she signed in front of his face, and bewildered, he stopped.
“That’s stupid. You were in danger, we wanted to protect you. But also, you being there made the mission more dangerous for all of us. She should have talked to you about it, yes, but you weren’t on the mission not because of special treatment. Because it could have jeopardized it.”
He looked ready to fight more. She knew there was a lot of guilt and anguish that he held onto--who among them didn’t have some regret they wore like a badge? But the fight went out of him--she could see the realization hit him slowly, and the gears turned to understanding her and Mallory’s perspective. Instead of that fighting spirit, his face quickly turned to one of shame, and she wished that it didn’t have to.
At least she was also feeling ashamed. “I’m sorry I fucked up,” she signed again, and he laughed.
“By fixing mine?”
“No. Because I didn’t talk to you. Because I didn’t tell you Mallory’s plan. Because I got you hurt. I don’t ever want to get you hurt.”
He smiled, and tried to shrug. The movement made him wince, and she moved closer, wanting to do anything to alleviate his pain. But she didn’t know how to heal. Just hurt. That knowledge sat deep in her gut like a snake, burrowing, twisting and turning, heavy and cold.
“Technically, we couldn’t have gotten out of there any way. And I’m not the one who died,” he waved his cast around, and it was her turn to wince for him. He just laughed, “I’ve broken bones before, Kimiko. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Now, the anger came back in full force. She frowned down at him until he stopped waving his cast sheepishly. “I worry,” she signed, huffing with each sign. “I worry a lot.”
She didn’t want to. She didn’t all day long, even as her eyes burned along with her fury, even as her hands trembled. But suddenly, she felt as if she wouldn’t be able to breathe if she didn’t let loose the tears that threatened to fall. She saw a tear drop onto his cast before she even realized that she was crying.
“I was… I was so scared,” it was hard to make her hands work, but she needed to say it, even as she felt like all the strength in her fingers was seeping out of her. “You can’t die, Serge,” she signed his name, the only sign that came out strong, and she wanted to make those movements over and over, take comfort in their steadiness, the way her hands could relax into the motion, but she didn’t. She pressed on, trying to find the right things to say to explain what had been beating at her all day through the rapid rhythm of her heart. “You can’t die.” She pressed her fingers lightly to his cheek again, wanting the touch to be more substantial, but not trusting herself enough not to hurt him.
But he used his good hand, and pressed her hand to his face, his eyes looking at her with warmth, and tenderness.
She shook her head, the tears still falling. She wanted to say more, but she didn’t want her hand to leave his face. His thumb stroked her hand, and she wondered if he understood. He had the uncanny ability to know so much of what she wanted to communicate, but this… This felt so much bigger than something she could say.
And one little word seemed to carry all of it together. “Mon coeur,” he sighed, and nestled deeper into the cot. The medicine seemed to be getting the best of him, but he kept his eyes on her, even as she could see sleep begin to take him. “I worry for you too… I’m sorry I made you worry. I won’t… I won’t do stupid things again.”
She smiled, and finally pulled her hand away to sign, “And I won’t jump off buildings and try and cushion your fall again.”
He laughed. “Then we are agreed. We will be smarter, live another day.”
She nodded, smiling. She tapped him as his eyes slipped clothes, just to sign, “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t leave you to face Mallory alone,” his voice was quiet and mumbled. He was half asleep already. She just smirked, and rolled her eyes. He laughed, gently, “I guess you’re right. Mallory should really be scared of you.”
“Damn right,” she signed, and once again, told him to go to sleep. When his eyes closed, and his breathing steadied, she kissed his forehead, and let him rest.
She had a lot she wanted to talk to Mallory about.
Monday
Things worked out, as they tended to. Hughie and the senator were able to work with them to decipher the information, and had a plan for taking down the De Fiore’s with something the senator had up her sleeve. The hard drive really made it come all together.
Mallory agreed Frenchie could come back to work, but he was still on a forced vacation at least for a few more days--he could work fine in the office with a broken arm, but she had meant to give him a break--he had been working himself raw. They agreed, as a team, to work on communication. Jake, the nice assistant who she practiced ASL with, had previous HR experience, and was put in charge of “team building exercises” that they’d start back up once Frenchie returned. Butcher had immediately become unreachable upon hearing this news. Honestly, Kimiko thought that was funny.
But she decided to take time off with Frenchie. She did not ask for permission.
He was more resigned this time than the anxious, cabin fever version of himself that he’d been the past week. He was frustrated with the cast, but overall, was almost happy to be home instead of working. That was at least a win in her book.
But time off, and the stern talking to that had resulted from, gave him the time to contemplate other aspects of life, and take his frustrations out on them.
He was once again, sitting with an electric razor, staring at the damn mirror in the bathroom—this time, it was hers.
It was a subtle shift, one she barely realized had happened at all. But when they had come home after that disastrous mission at the children’s hospital, he’d stayed the night over at her space. They hadn’t really… Meant that to happen. It had never happened before. But he was determined not to sleep, the nap on the cot in the office having lasted almost 12 hours. So they tried to watch animal documentaries, take their minds off of the mess of the day. She’d woken up the next morning, his head in her lap, and her neck sore from sleeping sitting up. Despite the flurry of feeling that threatened to paralyze her to her spot, she’d moved him to her bed, as if by instinct. It was a little awkward to carry him, but he needed the rest, and her bed was closer. It made sense.
He hadn’t left all weekend. And for that, she was grateful. They did not sleep in the same space—she had planned to use the pullout function of her couch, and let him take the bed, but the disagreement over this arrangement resulted in them switching night to night. The topics were broached here and there—“I can’t take your bed, please let’s switch” absolutely not, you’re healing besides it’s your turn I’ll use it tomorrow; “I could…” go was the end of that sentence and that was the last thing she wanted. She made that very clear. And he did not want to leave either, though even more so, he did not want to invade. But she tried to make it clear everyday that this space was always open to him too. It always was. And so, he stayed. And it wasn’t until Monday came around, and she breathed in his smell on her pillows that she even realized how serious of a change this was for the two of them.
It really hit home when she realized that he’d been hogging her one bathroom for upwards of 30 minutes, just to stare at his hair forlornly, and she had burst into nose snorting, bent over laughter at the miserable sight. Poor Frenchie, with his beautiful curls, perfect pout, and pink casted hand, struck the pose of a man who had lost a war with himself.
“You’re laughing,” he moaned pathetically. “I look like a school boy with a beard, and you are laughing. At me,” he finished, pounding on his heart with his good hand. “Not even with me!”
“Yes, I am laughing at you,” she agreed with him, signing as she tried to regain her breath from her laughter. This wasn’t quite a sign, but she pretended to rub tears from her eyes, and cry.
He grinned despite himself. “Ha ha, very funny, I’m Kimiko and I do not look like a 12 year old werewolf boy.”
“You don’t look like a 12 year old werewolf boy,” she snorted again, finally joining him in the bathroom properly, standing beside him and looking at his reflection, trying to understand how he couldn’t see what she saw. Despite his misery, he looked handsome as ever. His curls came in so many varieties, perfect little ringlets coupled with angular waves that twirled just so above his forehead. One dangled just above his eyes, which sure, she could see as being inconvenient for him, but it only drew attention to his long lashes. His beard was thicker than she had noticed before, and it actually made him look sturdy, broad, (and not for the first time did the thought strike her that she’d have liked nothing more than to drag her fingers through it). He could have looked quite the dashing picture, had he not been so determined to mope about it. She sighed, and signed, “You look like… Someone who wears plaid. Like the man on the paper towels.”
He turned around to look at her, his mouth agape in horror.
“Are you telling me I look like I’m from…” he hissed the last word out, “Portland?!” She had no idea, but the sheer terror it produced in him made her smile, and shrug, the teasing too good to pass up. He turned back to the mirror, and nodded. “That’s it. It has to go.”
He hesitated a moment, looking down at the razor, and she wondered if it was because of his arm. She tapped his shoulder, and he looked back at her to watch her sign, “I can help. I used to cut Kenji’s hair.” It was true. They would help each other. It would get so unruly, and they didn’t trust the others to come close to them with anything half as sharp as scissors. So they tended to one another. It was a simple chore, something she barely thought of as more than a necessity. The memory of it now though shot through her, and she clutched her hands close, missing her brother fiercely.
His good hand found hers, and his thumb stroked the top of her fist gently. She shook her head, knowing the question he was asking without him having to say it. “Are you okay?”
She slipped her hand free, and signed, “No, but I will be.”
His smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, worry shining through them, but he did not say anything. Instead, he sighed, and ruffled his hair.
“You like it this way though?” It was a small question, considerate, but a little shy. It surprised her.
“I like it all ways,” she signed. “It’s your hair, so I like it.”
Even as she signed it, it felt like she had said more than she realized. But it was true. And even though her stomach flipped a little at the brightness of his smile, as he turned and offered her the razor, she did not regret saying it.
“Will you help me?” He asked, easy and simple. Like they did this every day. Like it was a chore, something that had to get done, and they could ask one another for help without worry that the answer would be anything other than yes. Where her stomach had flipped before, now, she just felt warm.
She nodded, and he handed her the razor, and turned back around, pulling his shirt off over his head with his one good hand, struggling only slightly over the cast.
She brought a stool in from the kitchen, to let him sit, while he placed the proper sized tool at the edge of the razor. She also brought out the dust buster for the hair, setting it by the door.
Frenchie laughed. “I see that has not escaped the stickers either.”
She shrugged, “It looks better with stickers.”
“Most everything seems to,” he agreed, and settled on the stool, waiting for her to begin.
He did not explain the steps to her, and she did not need him to. He wanted it all gone, she knew, and she knew the different steps that needed to be done at the nape of the neck, the ears, what have you. Her hands were confident as they began moving along his skull, and he leaned into her touch, trusting that confidence.
She was about a third of the way through the curls when he spoke.
“You don’t… you don’t have to answer, you’re busy but… I’d like to hear about him. Kenji… Whenever you want, if you ever want. It helps to share.” His foot was tapping quickly, as if he was slightly nervous to ask.
Her hands were busy, but she smiled, and nodded. She’d like that. She paused a moment, and signed, “After,” to assure him that once they were done here, she would like that very much.
His foot stopped, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
She smiled back at him, and continued her work.
As she made her way to his neck, she dusted off some of the fallen hair from his back, and shoulders, feeling him shiver slightly under her touch. Questions fluttered through her as her heart quickened ( did I do that? Should I do that more? I wonder what else I could do that would make him shiver like that? ), but they quieted quickly upon feeling a ridge in his skin. She looked further, and there were many. Scars, some faded, some new (she even recognized a few from their latest mission), covered his back, and as she glanced in the mirror to confirm, his whole torso as well. She hadn’t realized, but she had paused in her work.
He noticed, and knew what her question was without her needing to ask. “No… a lot of these… I’m still not okay. But I live, and I will be. Ask me later?”
He rarely hesitated in sharing parts of himself. Now that he did, she could only nod. Some things were hard to voice, even if we have already faced them. She could understand that easily.
He murmured, his voice low and easy, almost a purr, perfectly contented and safe, “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” she signed, smiling, equally content. She’d been feeling more and more this way ever since they’d found her, but especially now: there was all the time in the world. And every day offered the possibility of more small and good and wonderful things.
She sat in the living room, flipping through the channels while she waited for Frenchie to clean off the rest of the excess hair. When he was done and dressed, he flopped down beside her. They always sat close. But she looked over at him, his head very near her shoulder, but not quite, and felt a warm rush of affection. Without a second thought, she reached for his cheek, and brushed her fingers against it, as she had been doing more and more.
He looked up at her, and smiled, one brow raised, “What is that for? Not that I don’t like it—I do! Just, it’s nice.”
She blinked. She didn’t have a ready answer for it, but… it occurred to her as she signed, “What does Mon Coeur mean? This means the same.”
His smile went away, but not out of any negative sort of feeling. If anything, the quiet, wide eyed look of awe that replaced his smile was brighter than any expression she’d seen. Nerves shot through her even so. Had she said something wrong? Was this… was this too much? Her hand retreated, but he took it, gently, and quickly, and squeezed, a light, airy laugh escaping him.
“Mon coeur means my heart,” he tried to say it plainly, she could tell through his laughter, he was trying to play off the weight of it. But his hand trembled just a little, and she squeezed back, trying to quiet her own shaking with the gesture. “Ah… It’s just a. An endearment.”
Did contentment breed bravery? She took her hand back to sign, “But what does it mean to you?”
Again, a look of startled awe. But then he smiled, a shy thing, but full of an absoluteness—like she was the only other person in the whole world, the only star in the sky. It was so much, and yet… She hoped that’s what he meant.
That’s what she had meant. Even if she was still deciphering exactly what this feeling was, that was how she felt, as she looked at Serge. He was the core of her dreams of a better world. The starting point of all her hopes. A contented peace she didn’t know she’d ever live to get to see, and here he was.
“It means you are my heart,” he shrugged, no longer laughing to hide, but laughing in amazement. “The person who keeps me living a worthwhile life. Who I want to give a worthwhile life to. My heart.” He looked at her, his hands cautiously raised, and she leaned closer, as he mimicked her gesture, stroking her face softly with his calloused fingers. “Mon coeur,” he whispered, and it was her turn to shiver. That was new. She did not dislike it.
She… almost wanted to try to do that again. But she pressed her lips together, and smiled, repeating the gesture back to him.
“It tickles,” she retracted her hand, and he caught it, laughing, “I like that! It’s a good thing!”
She laughed too, and was surprised to see his shoulders relax at the sound.
“I’m… This is okay? I don’t. This is how I feel, but I don’t want you to feel like…”
She shook her head immediately, and began signing quickly, “I made a sign for it! I feel the same,” she paused, only to add, “You are important to me. I don’t know in all the ways…” He winced, and she assumed he was remembering that same awkward conversation with Cherie. “But we don’t need to know. I want to figure it out with you.”
He still seemed unsure, and so she punctuated her statement with a question, thinking back to Butcher, and his odd but helpful relationship advice. “May I hug you?”
He did not know the sign hug. She explained, hugging herself awkwardly, feeling silly that she hadn’t shown him that one before. But he got it quickly, and simply beamed at her.
“Always!” He spoke with much too much enthusiasm, and did not even think to curb it or hide it. She laughed, and leaned into his arms, wrapping hers around him carefully, so as not to hurt his broken arm. Even with it broken, he held her tightly, and breathed in deeply, as if savoring every second. She found that she did too. And that even if she had been nervous before, and he had too, both of their hearts had settled into a solid, steady, peaceful rhythm. She felt like she could live in that sound forever.
They did not remove one another from each other’s arms. Somehow, they had found a comfortable way to lean on one another, his vast rested on the top of the couch, and her head, half on the cushion, and half on his shoulder, to keep most of the tension off him, but to still be able to keep contact with one another. She held his other hand idly, as she flipped the channels with her other hand. They settled on something playing videos of various creatures, and the different holes, caverns, warrens, and nests they built for themselves and one another. It was cozy.
It was peace.
Every day wouldn’t be like this. But this? This was the goal.