Archive of Our Own

She gasped awake so violently that it felt as though her lungs had forgotten how to work. Air tore in and out of her chest in short, uneven bursts, each breath sharp enough to burn. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she could feel it everywhere, thudding in her throat, pounding behind her eyes, rattling through her fingertips. 

For a terrifying moment, she couldn’t tell if the trembling wracking through her body was from fear or phantom pain lingering from the dream. Another dream about Frenchie. Another nightmare so vivid, so cruelly detailed, that it felt less like something imagined and more like a memory dragged violently back to the surface.

 She could still hear herself screaming for him. Still feel the warmth of his blood slick against her hands. The look in his eyes before the light left them. The grief hit her with such force that her chest ached around it, raw and unbearable, worse than any wound she had ever endured. 

In that dream, she had failed him. Failed to protect the one person she could never bear to lose. But the worst part, the thing clawing at her mind, was that it hadn’t felt fabricated. It had felt real. 

Her blurry vision swam as tears gathered faster than she could stop them. She lifted a shaking hand to her face, fingertips brushing damp skin beneath her eyes, and wiped them away with a quiet, unsteady breath. 

Slowly, the haze around her began to clear. She blinked hard and looked around, confusion settling heavily over the panic still crawling beneath her skin. The room felt familiar in an odd, distant way, like recognizing a place from childhood after years away. Warm morning light spilled softly through white curtains, painting the walls gold. The bed beneath her was large and comfortable, tangled in layers of mismatched blankets draped across her legs and waist. 

Nothing about it resembled the cold, temporary safehouses she and the others had spent years hiding in. This room felt lived in. Safe. Normal. Too normal. Her brow furrowed. She couldn’t remember coming here. Couldn’t remember falling asleep. Hell, she couldn’t remember anything about yesterday at all. Only the dream lingered in perfect, agonizing detail.

The room was modern in a painfully ordinary sort of way. Not like the cramped motels, abandoned apartments, or dim safehouses they had spent years rotating through while hiding from Homelander and practically the rest of the country. There were no boarded windows, no weapons abandoned on counters, no smell of mildew or cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to the walls. 

Everything about this place felt soft, lived-in, domestic. Abnormally normal. Her gaze drifted downward, finally taking in the queen-sized bed beneath her. Mismatched blankets in faded blues, creams, and dark reds were tangled loosely around her legs, warm from sleep. Hesitantly, she pinched one between her fingers and lifted it slightly, examining the fabric. No tears. No rough stitching, ng desperately holding ripped seams together. No blood stains scrubbed half-clean. Just thick, comfortable blankets piled carelessly over her like someone had tucked her in without much thought. 

The realization made something twist painfully in her chest. Whose room was this? Slowly, she became aware of the clothes on her body. Or rather, the lack of them. Her brows furrowed as she looked down at the oversized shirt hanging loosely from her frame, the hem brushing against the tops of her thighs. 

One of Frenchie’s shirts. She recognized it immediately from the faint smell of detergent mixed with his cologne lingering in the fabric. They had always shared clothes, though, if she were honest, she usually stole his hoodies and shirts without asking and simply dared him to complain. He never did. The thought hit her like a knife twisting gently between her ribs. Her eyes burned again almost instantly. 

Memories from the dream surged violently back into her head in fractured flashes. Bright lights. Screaming. Agonizing pain ripping through her veins as they tested the uranium on her body. Frenchie’s voice outside the room, desperate and cracking as he begged for her to stop doing it to herself. Then the worst part, holding him against her chest afterward, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe while his blood soaked into her hands, she should’ve listened earlier. 

Her throat tightened painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed harshly at them with the heel of her palm, forcing the images away before they consumed her entirely. She needed to stop thinking about it. Needed to stop digging into the memory before she discovered whether it had truly happened or not. 

Taking in a shaky breath, she forced herself to focus on the room instead. It was fairly large, washed in warm golden sunlight spilling through thin white curtains beside the bed. A salty breeze drifted lazily through the cracked window, carrying with it the distant sound of gulls and waves somewhere far below. 

The bedroom door sat slightly ajar, revealing a dim hallway beyond, while an open walk-in bathroom stood off to the side. Across from the bed rested a dresser cluttered with folded clothes, scattered snacks, tangled charging cords, and several picture frames she couldn’t make out from this distance. Hanging above it was a mirror reflecting her tired, disoriented figure. 

But what caught her attention most was the yellow sticky note stuck crookedly to the corner of the glass. Confusion churned violently in her stomach. Why couldn’t she remember any of this? Why did the dream feel more solid than reality itself? 

She racked her brain desperately, trying to separate memory from nightmare, truth from grief, but every thought blurred painfully together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Carefully, she slid out of bed and planted her feet against the floor, immediately wincing at the uneven sensation beneath them.

Clothes littered the ground in messy piles, shirts, jeans, socks, hoodies tossed carelessly around as though someone had changed multiple times over several days and never bothered cleaning up afterward. She stared down at them, bewildered. 

Had she done this? Why couldn’t she remember? Her pulse quickened again as questions flooded her mind all at once. Whose room was she in? How had she gotten here? Where were the others? Why did this place feel familiar when she couldn’t recall ever seeing it before? 

Stepping carefully over the clutter, she crossed the room and stopped in front of the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked exhausted, hair tangled from sleep, eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying, Frenchie’s shirt hanging from her shoulders like borrowed comfort. Slowly, her gaze shifted toward the sticky note. Her breath caught slightly. It was written in her own handwriting.

Hey! If you are reading this, don’t worry. You just forget now and then because of your nightmares, but it is best if you just go. Curiosity and unease twisted together tightly in her chest as she stepped away from the mirror. Her eyes lingered on the sticky note for only a second longer before she quickly moved toward the bedroom door, needing answers before her thoughts spiraled any further.

Why couldn’t she remember any of this? The frustration clawed at her mind like something trapped beneath her skin. She barely even registered the fact that she wore nothing beneath the oversized shirt hanging from her body; the hem brushed just below her knees anyway, swallowing her smaller frame whole. The fabric shifted softly against her thighs as she stepped out into the hallway.

The corridor beyond was dimmer than the bedroom, though warm sunlight still spilled lazily across polished wooden floors from windows farther down the hall. Several closed doors lined the right side, likely leading to other bedrooms, while the staircase sat just ahead to the left, curving gently downward. The house creaked faintly beneath her careful footsteps, old in a comfortable sort of way rather than unsettling. It didn’t feel temporary. Didn’t feel like a place meant for hiding.

Her stomach twisted.

This had to be another safehouse. Maybe one of Stan Edgar’s old properties is hidden far from public eyes. But if that were true, why did it feel so lived in? Why did it feel like people actually belonged here?

Slowly, she descended the staircase, one hand brushing lightly against the smooth wooden railing. Questions crashed endlessly through her head with every step. Where was everyone? Why was it so quiet? Usually, wherever their group stayed turned chaotic within hours, Butcher yelling at Hughie, MM trying to keep everyone organized, Frenchie talking too loudly while music blasted from some old speaker. There was always noise. Movement. Tension hangs thick in the air. But here… nothing. Just silence wrapped around the house like a blanket.

Too quiet.

The deeper she went downstairs, the more wrong the silence began to feel. Maybe nobody was home. Maybe she’d been left behind to rest after some mission she couldn’t remember. The thought made panic stir faintly in her chest again. But then her ears caught something soft drifting through the stillness.

Music.

Old and scratchy, muffled slightly by distance, like it was playing from a worn-out radio somewhere nearby. A gentle melody floated through the house, accompanied by the occasional crackle of static. Beneath it came another sound, the faint clatter of cookware against a stove.

And then she smelled food.

Warm butter. Something sweet. Coffee.

Her steps slowed instinctively. The scent wrapped around her almost painfully domestic, pulling at something deep inside her chest. For a brief moment, she simply stood frozen near the bottom of the stairs, listening to the low hum of music echoing softly through the quiet house while morning sunlight stretched golden across the floorboards ahead.

A voice suddenly joined the music. Soft at first, almost blending into the static crackling from the radio. It stumbled through the lyrics unevenly, lagging slightly behind the tempo as though the singer only half remembered the words. Some lines were mumbled entirely wrong before being corrected a beat later. And beneath it all sat a familiar accent, warm and rough around the edges.

Her entire body went rigid.

No.

Her eyes widened instantly as her pulse lurched painfully against her ribs. Quietly, almost afraid of making too much noise, she crept closer toward the kitchen doorway. Each careful step felt unreal, like walking deeper into a dream she was terrified would collapse the moment she moved too fast. Her breathing slowed to near silence as she reached the corner and peered around it cautiously, already convincing herself she had imagined the voice. That grief had finally become cruel enough to give sound to ghosts.

But there he was.

Frenchie stood in the middle of a small sunlit kitchen with his back turned toward her, swaying lazily to the music while something sizzled softly on the stove. Morning light spilled through the open windows in warm golden streaks, mixing with the pale blue glow of the sea outside. A gentle breeze drifted through the room, stirring the curls at the nape of his neck and carrying the smell of butter and coffee through the air. He held a pan loosely in one hand while the other tapped absentmindedly against the counter in rhythm with the song, hips shifting slightly as he hummed along without a care in the world.

It was such an unbearably ordinary sight that it nearly shattered her.

Not bloodied. Not bruised. Not terrified. Just… Frenchie. Alive. Existing so casually within the warmth of this quiet little kitchen as though he had always belonged there. As though mornings like this were normal for them.

Her throat tightened painfully. She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. She simply stood frozen in the doorway staring at him while emotion crashed violently through her chest all over again. The domesticity of it all felt impossible. Too soft. Too gentle for people like them.

Maybe she stared too long.

At some point, Frenchie finally turned around, likely sensing her presence lingering there, and immediately startled so badly that he nearly launched the pan straight out of his hand.

“Merde, putain!” he yelped, fumbling awkwardly to catch it before it hit the floor.

The sudden shout made Kimiko jump violently as well, her shoulders jerking upward in surprise. For one ridiculous second, they simply stared at each other wide-eyed, Frenchie clutching the pan dramatically to his chest while she stood motionless in the doorway like she’d seen a ghost.

Which, perhaps, she had.

“Mon coeur! You’ve frightened me! Why do you sneak like a little gremlin, hm?” Frenchie exclaimed breathlessly, carefully setting the pan back onto the stove before placing an overly dramatic hand against his chest. “You almost made me drop breakfast.”

But Kimiko barely heard him.

She could only stare.

Wide-eyed and utterly motionless, she looked up at him as though afraid he might vanish the second she blinked. He looked so real standing there in front of her, warm skin illuminated by sunlight, curls slightly messy from sleep, faint stubble shadowing his jaw. Alive. Completely, impossibly alive.

Wasn’t he dead?

The thought slammed into her so violently that her chest physically hurt around it. Her mind scrambled desperately to reconcile the memory of his death with the man standing inches away from her now. She remembered blood. Remembered screaming. Remembered grief so consuming it had hollowed her out from the inside. So how could he possibly be here?

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she even realized she was crying. Her lips trembled helplessly as she stared at him like someone witnessing a miracle they didn’t dare trust.

Frenchie’s expression softened instantly, all traces of surprise melting into concern. “Eh, mon amour…” he murmured. He crossed the small distance between them in only a few steps before gently lifting both hands to cradle her face. His palms were warm against her skin. Real. His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes carefully while his gaze searched hers with growing worry. “Why do you cry, hm? Are you alright?”

She sucked in a shaky breath that nearly broke halfway through.

“H-how are you…” Her voice cracked softly. “Alive?”

Frenchie blinked at her for a moment, confusion flickering briefly across his face before something sadder settled there instead. Recognition. Understanding.

“Mon coeur…” he said gently, voice lowering almost painfully tender. His hands slid from her cheeks, one arm circling her waist while the other wrapped around the back of her head, pulling her carefully against his chest. Instinctively, she clutched at his shirt, fingers twisting tightly into the fabric as though terrified he would disappear if she let go. “You had the dream again, didn’t you?”

She frowned against him, pulling back slightly just enough to look up at his face. “What?”

“My love, you have this dream now and then,” he explained softly. One hand threaded through her hair, fingers slowly combing through the tangled strands while he soothed gentle circles against the back of her head. “It overwhelms you. Then you wake up confused and forget pieces of things again.” His mouth curved into a faint, sympathetic smile. “That is why you leave notes for yourself.”

Her brows knitted together immediately. “So… this happens often?”

She reached for him hesitantly, almost reverently, fingertips brushing along the sides of his face. The scrape of stubble against her skin grounded her instantly. Real. He felt real. Her eyes searched every inch of him desperately, lingering over details she didn’t remember before, the faint lines near his eyes, the exhaustion hidden beneath them, the way he somehow looked older than the version of him trapped inside her memories.

“Yes,” he admitted gently. “More often than I would like.”

Despite the sadness in his voice, he smiled at her with endless patience. As though this conversation had happened many times before and he would willingly have it a thousand more if it meant easing her fear. He carefully took both of her hands into his own and guided her toward the small kitchen table tucked near the window. Condiments, mismatched spices, and half-open jars cluttered the surface in a way that felt comfortably messy rather than chaotic.

“But,” he announced lightly as he pulled out a chair for her, “I will answer every question you have, no matter how many times you ask them.”

She sat slowly, unable to take her eyes off him. Frenchie returned to the stove, grabbing the pan once more while the radio continued crackling softly in the background. The scent of butter and coffee filled the kitchen warmly. Everything about the scene felt too perfect, too gentle.

Kimiko watched him carefully, almost fearfully, as he moved around the kitchen with practiced familiarity. She barely even blinked. Somewhere deep inside her, panic whispered that if she looked away for even a second, he would disappear again. That this was only grief wearing his face. A dream cruel enough to let her touch him before taking him away once more.

“Now,” Frenchie said lightly as he slid the pan back and forth across the burner, batter hissing softly against the heat, “what would you like to ask me, hm?” With an easy flick of his wrist, he flipped one of the pancakes cleanly into the air before catching it again. “Or perhaps a better question…” He glanced over his shoulder at her with a small knowing smile. “What did you dream about this time?”

Kimiko hesitated immediately.

The words sat heavy in her throat. Part of her didn’t want to say them aloud, terrified that speaking the nightmare into existence would somehow make it real again. But another part of her, the exhausted, aching part, wanted desperately to unload the weight pressing against her chest. And if anyone could calm her through it, it was him. It had always been him.

Slowly, she lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap. “I dreamt about you. And me. The others, too,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded fragile even to herself. “We were back at that school…”

The memories returned in broken flashes the more she spoke. Bright lights. Cold metal tables. Needles. Pain so unbearable that it had made her vision blur white.

“They were testing uranium on me so I could take the same power Soldier Boy had,” she continued, brows tightening as she tried to piece it all together. “So I could burn the V out of supes. I remember it hurting so badly…” Her breathing hitched slightly. “You kept telling me we were going to leave after. That everything would finally be over.”

Frenchie’s movements slowed slightly at the stove, though he remained quiet, listening carefully.

“And then…” Her throat tightened painfully. “Homelander came.”

The words alone made dread coil violently in her stomach.

“He killed you.”

Silence settled briefly between them aside from the low crackle of the radio and the soft sizzling from the pan. Kimiko stared down at the table, fingers curling tightly against her palms as though bracing herself for the grief all over again.

But then Frenchie chuckled softly.

Not mockingly. Gently. Almost sadly amused.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Yes. That sounds about right.” He reached into the cabinet beside the stove and pulled down a plate before setting it carefully in front of her. “That particular dream seems to visit you every month or so.”

He placed a fresh pancake onto the plate before grabbing utensils from a nearby drawer, setting them neatly beside her.

“But,” he added calmly, beginning to cut the pancake into smaller pieces for her out of old habit, “the very last part did not happen.”

Kimiko’s head snapped upward immediately. “But it felt real,” she insisted quietly, worry etched deeply across her face. “It didn’t feel like a dream at all. It felt like…” Her voice faltered. “Like I was remembering something.”

Frenchie looked back at her then, expression softening instantly. Sunlight caught warmly against his features as he leaned one hip against the counter, fork still in hand.

“Mon coeur,” he said gently, “I can assure you that I am very much alive. Breathing. Annoyingly handsome.” A teasing smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth. “All because we decided to leave when we had the chance.”

He resumed cutting the pancake before nudging the plate slightly closer toward her.

“You should perhaps ask yourself where we are now,” he continued quietly. “Because that dream… it led to this.”

Kimiko blinked slowly.

Truthfully, she hadn’t thought much beyond the horror of losing him. The rest of the memory had blurred together beneath the overwhelming grief clinging to it. But now, as she listened to him speak, faint fragments began resurfacing beneath the panic.

A gas station late at night.

Frenchie was leaning against the car while the pump clicked steadily nearby.

The two of them were exhausted beyond belief, speaking quietly about impossible things. About leaving. About disappearing somewhere far away from Vought and blood and violence. Somewhere warm. Somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere, they could finally become ordinary people instead of survivors.

Back then, it had felt like a fantasy. A dream too unrealistic to ever truly belong to them.

Yet somehow, sitting here now in this sunlit kitchen while Frenchie cooked breakfast and old music crackled softly through the radio, it suddenly felt terrifyingly possible that maybe they had actually done it.

Kimiko’s gaze slowly drifted around the kitchen now that the panic inside her chest had begun to settle into something quieter, softer. The room itself was a little messy in the comfortable way homes often were. Tiny splatters of batter dotted the edges of the stove and cabinets, dishes rested drying beside the sink, and a dish towel had been abandoned carelessly over one of the counter handles. It wasn’t pristine or carefully maintained like some staged photograph of domestic life. It looked lived in. Used. Loved.

And somehow that made it feel even more real.

She slowly pushed herself up from the chair, almost dazed, and wandered toward the nearby window as though pulled there by instinct. The salty breeze drifting through the cracked opening brushed softly against her face, the closer she got, cool and fresh against her still warm skin. Outside, a narrow street stretched along the waterfront below, cars occasionally passing while pedestrians moved leisurely down the sidewalks carrying bags and chatting amongst themselves. Beyond the road, sunlight shimmered brilliantly across open water, so blue it almost hurt to look at. She could hear waves crashing gently somewhere farther down near the docks, along with the distant cries of gulls circling overhead.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat.

No.

Slowly, she turned her head back toward Frenchie, eyes wide with disbelief. He was already watching her with a grin stretched across his face, arms crossed proudly over his chest, while still holding the spatula in one hand like an idiot.

“Guess where we are, mon coeur?” he asked smugly.

Her lips parted soundlessly for a second before she finally whispered, “Marseille?”

Even saying it aloud felt impossible.

She turned back toward the window almost immediately, staring out at the sparkling water and sunlit city beyond it as though afraid it might disappear if she looked away too long. Marseille. France. The place they used to talk about in passing, like children fantasizing about impossible futures. Somewhere warm. Somewhere by the ocean. Somewhere safe.

“Yes,” Frenchie answered softly behind her. His voice carried unmistakable fondness now, gentler than before. “Now… what else do you remember from that conversation at the gas station all those years ago?”

She felt him approach before his arms slid carefully around her waist from behind. Warmth pressed against her back as he rested his chin lightly atop her shoulder, holding her there in front of the window while the sea breeze drifted around them both.

Kimiko’s mind reeled.

The gas station.

The old conversation surfaced slowly now beneath layers of fear and fractured memories. They had been exhausted, hiding out in the middle of nowhere while Frenchie pumped gas into the car under flickering fluorescent lights. She remembered him asking her what she would want if all of this ever ended. What kind of life would she choose if they somehow survived long enough to have one?

And then, 

Her eyes suddenly caught on something near the refrigerator.

The entire surface was cluttered with colorful magnets, grocery lists, messy notes scribbled in different handwriting… and drawings. Crayon drawings. Childish paintings of dogs and stick figures and crooked houses beside bright blue oceans. One paper had little handprints stamped sloppily across it in yellow paint. Another had “Papa + Mama” written shakily in uneven letters.

Her entire face softened instantly.

Slowly, she turned her head toward him again, emotion already beginning to swell painfully in her chest.

“…Kids?” she asked quietly.

Frenchie’s smile widened immediately.

“Yes.”

The single word was spoken so warmly, so proudly, that tears immediately flooded her eyes again. He squeezed her gently against him, almost laughing beneath his breath at her stunned expression.

“Even when you wake up and forget things,” he murmured near her ear, “I still enjoy telling you all over again.”

That broke her.

A sob escaped her before she could stop it as she turned fully within his arms and threw herself against him, clutching desperately at the back of his shirt. They had children. Somehow, they had done it. They had escaped. They were living in a real home near the sea in Marseille, like they once dreamed about. The sheer overwhelming joy of it crashed into her so hard it almost hurt.

Frenchie held her tightly through it, rubbing slow, comforting circles against her back while she cried into his chest.

Sniffling shakily, she finally tilted her head upward enough to look at him again through watery eyes.

“This has to be a dream,” she whispered brokenly. “There’s no way this is real.”

Frenchie laughed softly, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face. “I promise you, mon coeur, it is.”

Then, with far too much casualness for someone dismantling her entire understanding of reality, he gently pushed her back toward the kitchen table.

“Now sit,” he ordered lightly. “Please eat before the children come downstairs. They will need somewhere to sit, yes?”

Kimiko let him guide her back into the chair almost numbly, her heart still racing uncontrollably beneath her ribs. Everything felt too perfect. Too warm. Too impossibly beautiful to belong to people like them.

And yet somehow… she wanted desperately to believe it did.

Kimiko quickly finished the pancake, barely even tasting it through the whirlwind still spinning inside her head. The warmth of the food settled pleasantly in her stomach, nonetheless, grounding her just enough to move. Almost instinctively, she rose from the chair and carried the plate to the sink. Her body seemed to know exactly what to do, even while her mind lagged in confusion. She rinsed the dish automatically before placing it neatly onto the drying rack beside the sink, wiping her damp hands against the kitchen towel draped over her shoulder.

Then, without really thinking about it, she reached into one of the overhead cabinets and pulled down three plates.

Her movements paused slightly afterward.

It had felt natural. Familiar.

Like muscle memory.

A strange warmth spread through her chest at the realization. Maybe the note had been right. Maybe the memories truly did come back slowly over time. Even if her mind still felt foggy and disconnected, her body remembered this place. These routines. This life.

As she opened the drawer for utensils, something suddenly collided gently against the back of her legs. Tiny arms wrapped tightly around one of them while a small face pressed dramatically against her thigh.

“Mamaaa,” a muffled little voice complained into the fabric of Frenchie’s shirt. “Simone needs a bath again. She smells like rubbish. I don’t want her sleeping in my room anymore.”

Kimiko startled softly before immediately looking down.

A little girl clung to her leg with complete confidence, dark hair tousled wildly from sleep, and large brown eyes staring upward with exaggerated suffering. One tiny arm remained looped tightly around Kimiko while the other pointed accusingly toward the entrance of the kitchen, where a massive, fluffy, dark-colored dog had just wandered in, nails clicking softly against the floorboards as it sniffed around aimlessly.

Kimiko’s breath caught in her throat.

Their daughter.

The realization hit her with such sudden overwhelming force that for a second she simply stared. The little girl looked like someone had taken pieces of both her and Frenchie and stitched them together perfectly. She had Kimiko’s nose and eyes, but Frenchie’s face shape and expressive brows. Even the slight pout on her lips felt painfully familiar.

Emotion swelled warmly inside her chest.

Slowly, Kimiko lowered herself into a crouch in front of the child, unable to stop the soft smile spreading across her face. Her hand lifted almost hesitantly before brushing gently along the girl’s cheek, thumb stroking the round apple of it affectionately.

“You look just like us,” she whispered.

The little girl immediately burst into giggles, squirming happily beneath the attention.

“Mama, did you forget again?” she asked innocently, reaching both tiny hands upward to squish Kimiko’s cheeks between her fingers with absolutely no mercy.

Kimiko blinked in surprise while Frenchie laughed somewhere behind them.

“Yes, Charlotte,” he called casually from the other side of the kitchen while pouring kibble into a dog bowl near the doorway. “Please remind your mama that she had bad dreams again.” He pointed the spatula toward the table without even looking. “And sit down before you create another disaster, hm? I still remember last time.”

Charlotte.

The name alone made Kimiko’s chest ache softly. Of course, Frenchie had named her something beautiful like that. She could practically hear his dramatic insistence while choosing it.

Charlotte released Kimiko’s face with another bright laugh before dramatically whispering, “Papa says that because I dropped syrup one time.”

“You dropped the entire plate, bébé,” Frenchie corrected immediately.

“It was an accident!” Charlotte gasped in mock offense before grabbing Kimiko’s hand and tugging eagerly toward the table. “Come sit with me!”

Kimiko let herself be pulled along numbly, heart feeling impossibly full as she stared down at the tiny warm hand wrapped around hers. Everything about this moment felt so natural. So heartbreakingly ordinary.

And somewhere deep inside herself, she realized with terrifying certainty that if this truly was a dream… she never wanted to wake up.

“Yes, Papa!” Charlotte giggled brightly, finally releasing Kimiko’s poor, squished cheeks before scrambling up into one of the dining chairs with all the grace of a tiny hurricane. She practically climbed onto the seat on her knees instead of sitting properly, immediately reaching for the pancake with her bare hands the second Frenchie set the plate down in front of her.

Kimiko watched her with helpless fascination.

The little girl looked around seven years old, maybe a little younger, with sleep-mussed hair sticking up wildly in the back and syrup already threatening the corners of her mouth. But more than anything, what astonished Kimiko most was how normal Charlotte treated all of this. The forgetting. The confusion. As though waking up to her mother, unable to remember parts of her life, was simply another ordinary inconvenience alongside dirty dogs and spilled syrup.

Charlotte swallowed dramatically before sitting up straighter in her chair.

“Okay, so bonjour!” she announced proudly through a mouth still half full of pancake. “You are my mama. My name is Charlotte, and I am definitely the best child out of all my siblings.” She waved one syrupy hand dismissively. “The others can probably be forgotten about.”

Kimiko burst into soft laughter before she could stop herself. The sound surprised even her; it had been so long since laughter had come this easily. Sitting down across from Charlotte, she rested her chin lightly against her hand and simply watched the girl continue devouring breakfast with alarming speed.

Frenchie, meanwhile, looked utterly unsurprised by the declaration. “Ah, yes,” he sighed dramatically while pouring coffee into a chipped mug nearby. “Such modesty. Clearly, she inherited that from me.”

Charlotte ignored him completely.

“School starts again in a few days,” she continued rambling happily between bites. “And uh… You don’t forget very often anymore, so that’s good.” She nodded seriously to herself before brightening again. “We’ve been going to the docks a lot lately! And the market by the water. And restaurants.” Her eyes widened excitedly as another thought struck her. “Oh! Papa, can we go to the pasta place after summer camp today?”

“Yes, Charlie,” Frenchie answered automatically before pointing the spatula toward her plate without even turning around. “And please slow down before you choke to death. Also, utensils exist for a reason, no?”

Charlotte groaned dramatically but grabbed the fork anyway.

Frenchie chuckled softly under his breath before stepping toward the hallway entrance and calling loudly toward the rest of the house, “Breakfast!”

The sound echoed warmly through the upstairs floorboards.

Charlotte immediately resumed talking the second he finished.

She rambled endlessly about walks they apparently took together through the neighborhood near the water. About feeding birds at the docks despite Frenchie complaining every time. About trips to the park where Simone, the gigantic, fluffy menace, currently sniffing around beneath the table, always attempted to steal strangers’ food. About ice cream cones melting faster than she could eat them and inevitably dripping onto the pavement for the dog to lick up before Frenchie could stop her.

Kimiko listened quietly, completely captivated.

Every story painted tiny pictures inside her mind, pieces of a life she somehow couldn’t remember but desperately wanted to hold onto. She could almost see it all unfolding: Frenchie carrying grocery bags while complaining dramatically in French, Charlotte running ahead toward the docks, Simone barking excitedly near the water, while Kimiko walked beside them, laughing softly to herself.

The images felt warm. Real.

So much so that Kimiko barely even noticed when the rest of her family slowly began filtering into the kitchen, still sleepy and dragging their feet from upstairs.

“Good morning, Lia,” Frenchie called casually as another set of footsteps padded into the kitchen. “Pancakes are already on the plate, but if you would like water, please retrieve it yourself, yes?”

The girl responded with an exhausted groan rather than words, shuffling straight to the fridge and pulling out a glass like she had done it a thousand times before. She moved with the practiced irritation of someone who had been awake for exactly five seconds and already hated the world for it. Only then did she slide into the chair between her mother and sister, slouching dramatically as though the act of sitting upright was offensive.

Lia looked to be around twelve, older than Charlotte by a clear margin, and carried herself with a tired, unimpressed air that made her seem far older than she actually was.

“That’s Lia,” Charlotte whispered loudly, entirely without subtlety, leaning toward Kimiko with conspiratorial seriousness. “She is the ancient one.” She nodded as if this werea  fact. “Also, she is soooo moody because we didn’t watch her movie in the bedroom last night.”

Kimiko let out a soft laugh before she could stop herself. It slipped out naturally, warm and unforced, like something she had forgotten she was capable of.

“I am right here,” Lia muttered flatly without looking up, already sipping from her glass. Then, after a beat, she glanced toward Kimiko. “Mama… are you okay?”

The question landed gently. Carefully. Like she had asked many times before.

Kimiko blinked at her for a moment, something tightening in her chest in a way she couldn’t fully name. Then she smiled softly anyway. “Yes, love. Everything is alright. I’ve just… seemed to miss a few memories, that’s all.”

Even as she said it, something about the words felt rehearsed. Familiar. Like they had been spoken in this exact kitchen before.

Lia studied her for a second longer, then nodded once and returned to her breakfast without comment.

“Lia,” Frenchie added from the stove, flipping something in the pan, “is Kenji awake? You all have summer camp in a few hours.”

At that name, Kimiko froze.

Kenji.

Her head lifted sharply. “Kenji?” she repeated under her breath, turning toward Frenchie with sudden alertness.

Frenchie turned from the stove at once. The softness in his expression deepened as he saw her reaction, and he stepped away from the counter to meet her properly. Without hesitation, he took both her hands in his, steadying, grounding, familiar.

“Yes,” he said gently. “When you passed out after having him, the doctors needed a name. I chose your brother’s name.” A faint, almost apologetic smile flickered across his face. “Because I knew that is what you would have wanted.”

Her breath hitched.

Of course, he knew. He always knew.

Tears gathered quickly in her eyes again, spilling over before she could stop them. Frenchie sighed softly, brushing them away with careful thumbs as though this too was routine, something he had done many times before.

“Go wake him, mon coeur,” he murmured. “That boy is a handful in the morning.”

She nodded shakily and let go of his hands, turning toward the hallway.

As she stepped out of the kitchen, the warmth of the room lingered behind her: voices, laughter, the clink of dishes, the soft chaos of a family beginning its day. For the first time, she realized she had barely looked at any of it properly before now. The walls, the frames, the small scattered details of a life already in motion.

And yet… something inside her quietly insisted she had done this before. Many times.

She moved slowly down the hallway, her steps quieter now, as though the house itself might shift or change if she disturbed it too much. Only now did she truly begin to look at the walls, not just glance past them, but see them.

Framed photographs lined the corridor in a gentle, uneven rhythm, each one capturing fragments of a life she could not fully place, yet somehow felt emotionally pulled toward. The earliest image showed her and Frenchie seated in a small café, steam curling up from delicate teacups while a towering plate of pastries sat between them. He was mid-laugh in the picture; she was smiling in a way that felt unfamiliar yet deeply comforting, as though her face already knew how to make that expression even if her mind didn’t remember learning it.

The next frame made her pause longer.

An amusement park. Bright lights blurred into soft color behind them. Frenchie was on one knee, dramatic even in still image, holding up a ring while she stood frozen in surprise, hand over her mouth, eyes wide, joy breaking across her face. It looked like the exact kind of moment that should have burned itself permanently into memory. And yet, she only felt a distant warmth looking at it, like remembering someone else’s happiness.

The third photograph widened the world even further.

All of them together.

Annie, Hughie, MM, Monique, and even Butcher, awkwardly present but unmistakably included, sat gathered in a park under soft sunlight. In the center were she and Frenchie, dressed in wedding attire, standing slightly closer together than anyone else, as if the rest of the world had simply arranged itself around them. The image felt unreal in its normality. Like something stolen from a life that was never meant for people like them.

Her breath slowed.

She kept walking.

The staircase revealed more as she ascended.

Another frame: she's pregnant, sitting on a beach blanket with the ocean behind her, hand resting gently over her stomach. Frenchie wasn’t in the shot, but the angle suggested he had been the one taking it, capturing her in a quiet moment she could almost feel if she stared long enough. The wind in the image seemed almost real.

Another collage followed.

Top photo: her in a hospital bed, exhausted, pale, but alive. Frenchie beside her, holding a newborn carefully in his arms. A label beneath it, Lia. To the side, a toddler photo of a second child, messy and laughing mid-motion.

Below that, Charlotte.

Same structure. Same format. Crying in her own frame, cheeks wet and expression furious in the way only children could be. The absurdity of it made Kimiko laugh softly under her breath before she even realized she was doing it.

The last frame made her slow completely.

She leaned closer.

A baby photo, another child. Smaller. Round-faced. And in a strange, almost impossible twist of recognition, the features aligned in a way that made her chest tighten. Jet-black hair, soft Asian features, a chubby expression that felt eerily familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. For a moment, she just stared at it, her mind trying and failing to place why it felt like looking at something known from a half-forgotten past.

“He looks like…” she murmured to herself, then smiled faintly, shaking her head as if the thought was obvious. “Of course. Frenchie chose well.”

Something warm settled in her chest.

She glanced down at her hand without thinking.

A ring.

Of course, there was one.

It felt right there, too. Like everything around her had simply aligned into place without resistance, as though this life had always been waiting just beneath the surface of her awareness.

A soft, contented exhale left her lips.

All of this had happened. She couldn’t remember it clearly yet, but that didn’t feel like a loss. It felt temporary, like fog lifting slowly from glass. She would hear the stories again. She always did. And eventually, she would remember it all properly.

For now, it was enough just to know it was real.

She climbed the rest of the stairs at an unhurried pace now, the rhythm of the house settling more deeply into her bones with every step. At the top landing, she paused briefly in front of their bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and she could already hear the faint signs of life within, soft movement, the quiet chaos of someone awake but unwilling to be. She made a mental note, almost absently, to straighten it later. Laundry, too. It felt like something that needed doing before their planned movie night, as though she had always known there would be another evening like that waiting for them.

She continued past their room without entering.

The door beside it drew her attention instead.

It was open just a crack.

From within came the unmistakable sound of rustling blankets followed by a suspicious stillness that immediately gave itself away. Kimiko’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. Of course, he was already awake. Or at least technically awake while refusing to admit it. Kenji had always been like that, quiet in the mornings, stubbornly clinging to sleep a few minutes longer than anyone allowed him. It reminded her, faintly, of someone she couldn’t quite place but felt affection for anyway.

She gently pushed the door open and leaned her head inside.

“Kenji?” she called softly.

The bed across the room went completely still.

A moment later, exaggerated, poorly executed fake snoring began drifting from beneath the blankets.

Kimiko sighed through her nose, unimpressed but clearly fond.

“Kenji,” she said again, stepping into the room properly now. “You need to wake up, baby. You have a summer camp soon.”

As she moved further inside, her eyes scanned the space automatically. Toys were scattered near the floor, and along the edge of the bed, and without thinking, she began picking them up one by one, tidying them into a small pile before placing them neatly on the dresser. The motion felt familiar, grounding in a way she didn’t question. Like she had done it a hundred times before.

She sat lightly on the edge of the bed as she worked, smoothing the blankets down with one hand.

From beneath them came a muffled groan. “Nooooo,” the boy protested weakly. “I don’t wannaaa.”

Kimiko’s expression softened instantly.

“But it’s fun,” she coaxed gently, brushing a hand along the blanket-covered shape of his back. “You are going on an exciting trip. And after, we are going to the pasta place when we pick you up.” Her voice dipped into something warmer, teasing. “Your papa has pancakes waiting downstairs.”

That did it.

“Pancakes?!”

The reaction was immediate and explosive. The blanket flew upward as a small boy shot upright, eyes suddenly wide with alarmed enthusiasm. Still tangled in his pajamas and half-trapped in his own sheets, he scrambled out of bed with far too much urgency, nearly tripping over the mess of fabric before bolting past her without another word.

Kimiko barely had time to shift aside before he was gone.

She blinked once. Then let out a soft, genuine laugh.

That’s her, Kenji, alright.

She returned to their bedroom in a quiet, unhurried way, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile balance of the morning. The room felt warmer now than it had when she first woke, less unfamiliar, more anchored. She moved to the wardrobe and began dressing with simple efficiency, choosing a practical outfit suited for the day ahead, something comfortable enough for walking through the streets of Marseille and accompanying children to summer camp. Each motion carried a growing sense of ease, like her body already understood the shape of this life even if her mind still had to catch up.

As she finished, the sounds of the house rose gently from below.

Voices overlapped in a familiar, chaotic rhythm.

Lia’s irritated complaints about being forced to walk with her family instead of meeting her friends. Charlotte’s indignant protests about Simone’s smell and urgent insistence that the dog required immediate bathing. Kenji’s smaller, sharper voice cutting through it all as he was sternly reminded not to feed pancakes to the dog again, especially not with syrup still clinging to her fur. Even Simone herself contributed in low, contented huffs and shifting paws as though participating in the argument without words.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t orderly.

But it was alive.

Kimiko paused at the top of the stairs, listening.

A small smile formed without effort.

This, this noise, this mess, this tangled domestic chaos, was exactly the kind of life she had once tried to imagine in stolen fragments during moments that felt impossibly far away. A life without alarms, without hiding, without blood or fear pressing constantly at the edges of every decision. Just… mornings. Ordinary mornings filled with children and complaints and pancakes and a dog that smelled faintly wrong.

A dream come true.

The thought settled inside her gently, like something finally finding its correct place.

She and Frenchie had built this. Somehow, against everything they had once been surrounded by, they had chosen a different path, and it had worked. Three children. A home in Marseille. A life that moved forward instead of constantly looking over its shoulder.

And as she stood there, she felt it more clearly than she had felt anything all morning: the absence of fear.

No looming threats. No Vought. No Homelander waiting in the dark edges of memory. Nothing pressing in from the outside world.

Just here.

Just now.

She exhaled slowly, and for the first time since waking, the breath didn’t feel like something she had to fight for. It felt steady. Certain.

Safe.

The children moved first, as they always did, like gravity itself was pulling them toward the day. Shoes were shoved on in mismatched haste, backpacks bounced against small shoulders, and voices overlapped in excited arguments that barely formed coherent sentences. The front door stood open like a promise, flooding the entryway with harsh morning light that made everything beyond it seem briefly unreal.

Frenchie stood just behind her, close enough that she could feel his steady presence at her side. His arm rested lightly around her shoulder, an anchor more than a hold.

“Ready to go?” he asked gently.

She nodded without hesitation.

He let go, stepping forward to herd the children out as they spilled toward the threshold. Lia and Charlotte were the first through, bursting into the sunlight with the reckless confidence of childhood, their laughter swallowed immediately by the brightness outside. Kenji followed a moment later, more carefully now that he was perched on Frenchie’s shoulders, steadying himself with small hands in his father’s hair while Simone trailed behind them like a lumbering shadow.

Kimiko followed after them.

The light hit her directly as she crossed the threshold.

She flinched instinctively, lifting a hand to shield her eyes. It was too bright for a moment, overwhelming, almost blinding, like the world had sharpened too suddenly after the softness of the house behind her. The air outside felt different too: wider, louder, carrying the faint salt of the sea mixed with distant city noise.

Ahead of her, the children were already moving down the steps, voices fading into the open street.

Frenchie turned slightly, adjusting Kenji on his shoulders, then looked back at her properly.

“Are you coming, mon cœur?” he asked, extending his free hand toward her.

There was no hesitation in her movement. She took it immediately.

His hand was warm, familiar, grounding in a way that made the brightness feel less harsh. He guided her forward, and for a moment it felt entirely natural, like this was simply the next step in a day she had lived many times before.

Then he stopped.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just enough that the rhythm of the moment fractured.

He turned to face her fully, still holding her hand. The world behind him continued as if nothing had changed, the children moving ahead, Simone sniffing along the pavement, but between them, everything narrowed.

Frenchie pulled her gently closer.

And hugged her.

Tightly at first. Then softer, as if something inside him was beginning to break.

Kimiko’s breath caught.

She felt it before she understood it, the shift in his posture, the tension in his arms, the way his grip lingered a second too long, like he was memorizing her presence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

A pause.

Then, softer still:

“I also wish this were real.”

The words landed wrong. Not like a sentence spoken in a morning routine, not like something that belonged in this place, in this light, in this life. They cut through everything around her as though none of it had been solid to begin with.

The warmth of his arms didn’t disappear, but it changed, became distant, like she was feeling it through glass.

Kimiko’s stomach dropped.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around his sleeve.

What?

Dread rose through her so fast it felt physical, like something cold expanding behind her ribs. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Panic tightened her throat completely shut.

Her hands moved instead, urgent and shaking.

“What do you mean?” she signed rapidly, each motion sharper than the last. “You must be lying. This is too real. This HAS to be real.”

Frenchie didn’t flinch at her desperation. He only looked at her with something painfully calm, something like acceptance. Like he had already stood through this moment before.

“I do too,” he said softly. “But unfortunately, this is not in the cards for us anymore.”

The world around them began to destabilize.

It didn’t break like glass or burn like fire; it simply unmade itself. The edges of the scene blurred first: the distant sound of the children’s voices thinning into nothing, the weight of Simone’s presence dissolving mid-step, the house behind them losing its shape as if someone were gently erasing it from reality. Colors drained next, pulled outward into a widening emptiness until even the sun overhead ceased to feel like light.

Within moments, there was nothing left.

No street. No sea. No home.

Only white. Vast, silent, infinite.

And just the two of them standing inside it.

Kimiko staggered as the collapse finished, then immediately surged forward, grabbing him like he was the only fixed point left in existence. Her hands moved frantically between holding onto him and signing against his chest, desperate for him to understand everything at once.

“This can’t be real,” she sighed, breath breaking apart as she clung tighter. “I just dreamt a dream, this is a dream. Why do I have memories of everything we did? The pictures, the frames, the drawings, I recognize them.” Her hands shook harder. “They feel too real.”

The last part cracked into a sob.

Frenchie caught her immediately, pulling her fully into him without hesitation. His arms wrapped around her like they always did, steady, familiar, unbearably gentle in a place that had nothing else to offer.

“I’m so sorry, mon cœur,” he whispered.

His voice echoed strangely in the emptiness.

“All those memories…” he continued softly, one hand moving slowly through her hair. “They are not memories. They are dreams you have made.” A pause, quieter now. “Dreams of what we both wanted. The dog. The children. The house by the water. Me.”

He exhaled shakily, the first real fracture in his composure.

“You must understand,” he said. “I am gone.”

The words didn’t arrive as an explanation. They arrived like finality.

“And what remains… is your grief creating me.”

“No!”

The word tore out of her in a raw, broken burst, less language than instinct. Her hands followed immediately, frantic and shaking as she signed so fast it almost blurred.

“No, no, no, no. You cannot just say that!”

Her chest hitched violently as she stepped into him again, fists striking weakly against his chest in desperation rather than anger. The impact meant nothing against him, but it grounded her in the only way she still knew how.

“We were supposed to leave together!” she signed, each motion sharp with grief. “Go to Marseille. Get away from everything. Live. You can’t leave me again!”

Frenchie didn’t stop her hands this time. He only watched her for a moment longer, eyes heavy with something unbearable, before gently catching her wrists.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered them. Not to silence her, but to steady her.

Then he pulled her into him.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured into her hair. “I know. I know.” His voice softened further, almost breaking at the edges. “I’m sorry, mon cœur… but it wasn’t my choice.”

She shook her head against him immediately.

“Yes, it was,” she signed against his shoulder, breath uneven. “You chose it. You stayed behind and distracted him so I could live. It was stupid. I could have taken him.”

A small, sad sound left him, almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

“Ha,” he whispered. “Of course you could have.” His arms tightened slightly around her. “You would have given him hell.”

That earned a broken, watery exhale from her that barely resembled laughter.

They stayed like that for a while, clinging to each other in the vast white nothingness, as if holding on could somehow preserve what had already been lost. Her grip never loosened. He never did either.

Finally, her hands moved again, slower now.

“What will I do without you there?” she sighed, voice collapsing into itself. “There is nothing there for me now.”

Frenchie pulled back just enough to look at her properly.

“What?” he said softly, immediately, and firmly. “No. Yes, there is.”

She hesitated.

He continued, steadier now. “You live. For both of us. You continue forward. Save the world, if you must. Or run from it. It does not matter.”

His thumb brushed lightly beneath her eye as if catching a tear that never stopped coming.

“Do what is best for you,” he added quietly. “And know I will always support you. Any decision.”

Her hands trembled again.

“I don’t want to see you disappear again,” she signed, more sharply now, like the fear itself was anger. “You always leave at some point.”

Frenchie gave a small, sad smile.

“Sure,” he admitted gently. “But I always come back, don’t I?”

He leaned his forehead against hers.

“We are like magnets,” he said softly. “Sometimes pulled apart… but always returning. No matter the shape. No matter the form.”

Silence stretched between them.

Her breath shook once. Twice.

“…I love you,” she signed quietly.

His arms tightened around her immediately, like the words had weight.

“I love you more, mon cœur,” he whispered back.

And then the white swallowed everything, sound, space, even the feeling of holding on, until there was nothing left but light.

“Wake up.”

The voice was flat, clinical in its lack of warmth, and it cut through the white like a blade.

Kimiko jolted as if yanked upward through water. Her lungs dragged in a sharp, uneven breath, and the world snapped back into place in fragmented pieces: harsh lighting, a solid floor beneath her, the dull ache of exhaustion in her muscles, and the unmistakable wet sting of tears still drying along her cheeks. Her vision blurred once, then stabilized.

Sage stood over her, arms loose at her sides, expression composed in the way only someone practiced at emotional detachment could manage. Her eyes tracked Kimiko for a second too long, like she was confirming something measurable rather than comforting a person.

Sage exhaled through her nose.

“Let’s grab something to eat,” she said evenly. “And then we get to work.” A brief pause followed, so small it almost didn’t exist. “There’s no time for mourning.”

It wasn’t cruel. That was the problem. It wasn’t anything at all. Just a fact presented as instruction.

Kimiko didn’t respond immediately. Her body lagged behind her awareness, still half-anchored in something that no longer existed: sunlight on water, children shouting, a hand holding hers at a threshold that had turned into nothing. The contrast made her stomach tighten sharply, like reality itself was an injury.

Her throat worked once.

She forced herself upright.

Right.

There was a job.

There had always been a job.

The grief didn’t disappear; it simply folded inward, compressed into something harder, denser, more usable. Her expression settled, smoothing into focus as her breathing steadied into something controlled again.

She would function.

She had to.

Because this wasn’t over. Not in her head. Not in her memory. Not in the way it mattered.

And if anything remained of what she had lost, if there was even a fraction of truth buried beneath all that loss and noise, then it would be paid for in full.

Her hands curled slowly at her sides.

A decision formed, quiet and absolute.

She will be the one to kill that Nutcase of a Supe who deserved to be ripped apart into two and have his dick chopped off for taking her future away from her.