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    Summary

    Normally, having these four together would end disastrously. The French guns have more issues between them than you’d ever signed up to deal with when you became a Master— and you’re quite tired of it, by now.

    In your room (chosen for privacy, size, and to emphasize just who’s in charge) with the four of them, the energy couldn’t be tenser.

    Charleville is hovering anxiously, wringing his hands as his gaze flits back and forth between the other three. Tabatiere has seated himself at your desk chair, lax posture not quite matching the tension in his shoulders, and hasn’t opened his eyes in a while. Chassepot is bold enough to have perched on your bed; he’s glaring at nothing in particular, pointedly refusing to meet the eyes of the one person who’s easily the most agitated of them all.

    Gras. He’s occupied the space closest to the door, and with his arms crossed over his chest, the nasty look on his face lingers somewhere between indignant fury and something like nervousness.

    . . .

    Gras suffers through a punishment, and has a very bad time of it.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
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    Chapters:
    1/1
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