Chapter Text
Franco doesn’t notice the moment it stops being normal.
Later, he’ll think maybe it was the way Jack laughed, head tipped back, too loud for the quiet street. Or the way Franco was already looking at him, not really listening, just… watching.
He’ll think maybe there was a warning.
There isn’t.
The sound cracks the air open.
Not a bang, not at first. Just something wrong–sharp and sudden and too loud–and Jack flinches.
It’s small. Subtle. Like he’s been shoved more than anything.
“…Oh.”
Franco frowns, already stepping closer. “Did you hear that–”
Jack’s hand goes to his side.
Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just… confused.
“…that- was not expected–”
His voice trails off.
Franco’s brain doesn’t catch up yet. It’s still trying to fit this into something normal, something harmless.
“You good?” he asks, half a laugh in it, automatic. “What even-”
Jack looks down.
There’s a dark patch spreading through his shirt.
Slow at first.
Then not.
“...ok.”
It’s quiet. Almost curious.
And then his knees buckle.
“Shit–!”
Franco catches him–barely, clumsy, arms wrapping around him as his full weight suddenly drops. It knocks the air out of Franco for a second, the force of it unexpected.
“Hey- hey–no, no, no–”
Jack’s breathing changes first.
Shallower. Uneven.
His grip tightens weakly on Franco’s sleeve, like he’s trying to anchor himself, but it’s already slipping.
“I” Jack swallows, face going pale too fast. “Franco, I feel–”
Lightheaded.
He doesn’t finish it.
His head dips forward, body sagging heavier in Franco’s hold.
“Stay with me–hey, hey, look at me–”
Franco shifts, trying to keep him upright, then he sees it.
The blood.
Too much.
Too fast.
Something in Franco’s chest snaps.
“Jack! Jack, hey–hey–stay with me, okay? Okay, you’re fine, you’re fine-”
His hands are already moving, lowering Jack to the ground but not letting go, pressing down where he thinks he should, where he hopes he should.
Jack makes a sound.
Small. Strained.
Alive.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s good, that’s good, don’t–don’t talk, just- just stay–”
Another crack.
Closer.
Something slams into the wall just behind Franco’s shoulder and he realizes that someone is still here.
Franco jerks, instinct finally kicking in, grabbing at Jack, wrong grip, slipping, almost dropping him entirely before he manages to haul him up just enough to drag.
“Shitshit–come on, come on–”
Jack is heavier than he should be. Or maybe Franco’s just weaker than he thought.
There’s a narrow space between buildings. Barely a gap, shadowed and tight, and he forces them into it, back hitting the wall as he half-collapses with Jack still clutched to him.
For a second, all he can hear is his own breathing.
Too fast. Too loud.
No footsteps.
No third shot.
Whoever it was–they’re gone.
Or they think the job’s done.
“Okay–okay–okay-”
Franco’s hands are shaking so badly now he almost loses pressure on the wound. He presses harder, jaw clenched, breath stuttering as he tries to remember anything. Anything useful.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, not sure if he’s saying it for Jack or himself.
Jack’s head lolls slightly against his shoulder.
There’s blood on Franco’s hands.
On his clothes.
He doesn’t remember when that got there.
His phone. Right.
Franco fumbles for it, nearly dropping it twice before he manages to unlock it with one hand. His fingers move on instinct, hitting a contact he doesn’t even think about.
Pierre.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
“Come on, come on–”
Three times.
Nothing.
And then it hits him–mission. Pierre’s not going to pick up. Of course he’s not going to pick up, what was he thinking.
“Shit-”
Franco swallows hard, blinking too fast, vision blurring for a second before he forces it back into focus. He scrolls again.
Dino.
It barely rings once.
“Franco?”
The word almost breaks him.
“He’s been shot.”
There’s a pause–but not a confused one. A sharp one. Focus snapping into place.
“Who?”
“I don’t know–two shots, one hit Jack, one-” Franco’s breath stutters, and he clamps his mouth shut for half a second before continuing, faster now, like if he keeps talking he won’t fall apart. “We’re in–there’s an alley, I dragged him, I- I’m holding pressure, there’s a lot of blood-”
“Keep pressure on it,” Dino cuts in immediately. “Don’t let up. Where exactly-”
“You don’t need it,” Franco says quickly, almost over him. “Tracker- just- just hurry, please.”
His voice cracks on the last word. He hates that it does.
There’s a shift on the other end–movement, urgency.
“I’m coming,” Dino says, steady, certain. “You’re doing fine. Just keep him with you.”
Franco nods, even though Dino can’t see it.
“Okay.”
The call ends.
Silence rushes back in, thick and suffocating.
Franco looks down at Jack.
At the blood.
At the way his chest moves. Shallow, uneven.
“You’re okay,” Franco says, softer now, like if he lowers his voice enough it might make it true. “You’re okay. Dino’s coming. You just-”
His throat tightens.
He presses harder against the wound instead.
“–you just have to stay.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
But he’s still breathing.
Franco fixes his eyes on that and refuses to look away.
He doesn’t notice how much time passes.
It could be seconds. Minutes. It all blurs into the same stretched, suffocating moment–his hands pressing down, Jack’s uneven breathing, the sound of his own pulse in his ears.
Every tiny movement from Jack feels like everything.
Every pause feels like-
No.
He presses harder.
Footsteps.
Fast. Controlled. More than one.
Franco’s head snaps up, body going rigid, instinct screaming before his brain catches up.
“Franco.”
Dino.
Relief hits so hard it almost makes him dizzy.
“They’re here,” Franco blurts, as if Jack can still hear him. “He’s-he’s bleeding a lot, I tried to-”
“I’ve got it.”
Another voice cuts in–steady, focused.
Lance drops to his knees beside them, already pulling gloves on, movements quick but precise. There’s no hesitation in him, no panic–just immediate action as he takes in the situation.
“Okay,” Lance says, calm and firm. “Move your hands. Slowly.”
Franco stares at him.
“What?”
“I need to see the wound.”
“No- no, I’m holding it, you said–someone said–pressure-”
“I know,” Lance replies, just as steady. “You did good. Now let me take over.”
“I-” Franco’s hands don’t move. “He’s bleeding, I can’t just-”
“Franco.”
Carlos.
He crouches down on Franco’s other side, not touching yet, but close enough, grounding.
“Let him work,” Carlos says, quieter than Lance, but just as certain. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Franco shakes his head, breath hitching. “What if I move and it gets worse–what if-”
“It won’t,” Lance cuts in, sharper now, not unkind but leaving no room for argument. “Not if you listen.”
Franco’s chest tightens.
Too many voices. Too much happening. Jack’s still not–
“No, you don’t get it-” Franco snaps, something in him cracking open under the pressure. “He was fine and then he just–he just dropped and I can’t- I can’t-”
“Franco.”
Carlos again, firmer this time.
“Look at me.”
Franco doesn’t want to.
He does anyway.
Carlos holds his gaze, steady, anchoring.
“He’s alive,” Carlos says. “Because of you. You kept him that way.”
Franco’s breath stutters.
“Now let Lance help him stay that way.”
There’s a beat.
Franco’s hands tremble where they’re pressed against Jack’s side, slick and shaking and useless-feeling now.
Slowly–too slowly–he pulls them back.
The second he does, Lance moves in, replacing them immediately, pressure exact, controlled. His focus doesn’t waver for even a second as he starts working, calling out what he needs without looking up.
“Kit.”
Dino’s already there, dropping to one knee beside him, bag open, hands moving through it with quick efficiency.
“Gauze–no, the larger one–yeah.”
Franco stares.
His hands feel wrong without something to do.
Empty.
“Hey.”
Carlos again, softer now.
Franco doesn’t respond.
“Franco, breathe.”
“I am breathing–”
“You’re not,” Carlos says, not harsh, just… factual. “Slow it down.”
Franco tries.
It doesn’t really work.
Across from them, Lance keeps talking–low, controlled, almost like he’s narrating to himself as much as anyone else.
“Entry wound’s here–no exit–okay-”
Jack makes a faint sound.
Franco flinches forward immediately. “Jack-”
“Don’t,” Lance says sharply, not looking up. “Stay back.”
“I need to-”
“You need to let me work.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Franco recoils slightly, jaw tightening, something hot and defensive flaring up through the panic.
“I’m not just going to sit here while-”
“And you’re not helping if you’re in the way,” Lance shoots back, quick and clean.
Silence drops for half a second.
Franco’s eyes flash, anger snapping into place. Thin and brittle and fueled entirely by fear.
“I kept him alive,” he bites out. “Don’t tell me I’m not helping.”
“And I’m trying to keep him that way,” Lance fires back, finally glancing up, eyes sharp. “So either trust me or watch him die.”
The words land.
Hard.
Franco freezes, breath caught somewhere between anger and something dangerously close to breaking.
For a second, it looks like he might argue again.
Then he looks at Jack.
At the way Lance’s hands move–steady, sure, doing things Franco doesn’t fully understand.
And something in him folds.
He steps back.
Not far. Just enough.
“…fine.”
It comes out tight. Fractured.
Carlos doesn’t comment on it. Just shifts a little closer, a quiet presence at Franco’s side.
Across from them, Lance keeps working, Dino handing him whatever he asks for without hesitation, the two of them falling into a rhythm that feels practiced, familiar.
Controlled.
Unlike everything else.
Minutes pass.
Or maybe it’s seconds again.
Eventually, Lance leans back just slightly, not relaxing, but… stabilizing.
“We can move him,” he says.
Carlos nods immediately, already shifting position.
“On three,” Lance continues. “Careful with his side–keep him level.”
Dino adjusts his grip, precise, ready.
Franco takes a step forward without thinking.
“I can-”
Dino’s hand catches his arm.
Not rough. Just firm.
“Let them,” he says quietly.
Franco hesitates.
Then nods.
Jack is lifted, careful, coordinated, nothing like the frantic dragging from before.
For a moment, Franco just stands there, watching, hands hanging useless at his sides.
Then Dino’s still there, grip loosening slightly but not leaving.
“We’re going,” Dino says.
Franco swallows, nodding again, because speaking suddenly feels harder than it should.
He doesn’t look away from Jack once.
—
The drive back is silent in the worst way.
Not truly silent–Franco’s breathing keeps hitching every few minutes, Dino occasionally answering short calls through the car speakers, tires against wet pavement–but the kind of silence where everything important is sitting there anyway.
Franco’s hands still smell like blood.
He scrubbed them once before Carlos practically shoved him toward the car.
Didn’t help.
He sits curled slightly into himself in the passenger seat, knee bouncing hard enough to shake the entire leg. Every few seconds he checks his phone again even though there are no new messages.
Still nothing from Lance.
Nothing from Carlos.
Nothing about Jack.
Dino glances over briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“He’s alive.”
Franco lets out a laugh that sounds wrong. Thin. Frayed.
“Yeah, currently.”
“Franco-”
“No, because what if-” His voice catches sharply. “What if he stops being alive, Dino?”
Dino goes quiet.
Not because he doesn’t care. Franco knows that. Dino just… processes things differently. Always has.
Eventually, Dino says, carefully, “Lance stabilized him.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s okay.”
“No.”
The honesty hurts more than reassurance would have.
Franco presses the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough to ache.
The second shot replays again.
The wall exploding beside him.
The realization that someone had aimed at him too.
“You should’ve stayed there,” Franco mutters suddenly.
Dino frowns slightly. “What?”
“At the clinic. You didn’t need to babysit me.”
“You weren’t exactly stable.”
Franco looks out the window again.
“…I was fine.”
Dino doesn’t answer that one.
Because they both know it’s bullshit.
—
The house is quiet when they arrive.
Too quiet.
Franco barely gets through the door before Charles is there.
For one awful second, Franco thinks
‘Jack died.’
Because Charles crosses the room too quickly, expression tight enough to make Franco’s stomach drop.
Then Charles reaches him.
Hands immediately on his face, checking him over like he’s looking for blood that isn’t there.
“Are you hurt?”
Franco shakes his head automatically.
“No.”
Charles exhales once, sharp through his nose, before pulling him in without another word.
And that nearly breaks Franco more than the shooting did.
Because his father’s arms are warm and solid and familiar, one hand settling against the back of his head, fingers pushing lightly through his hair like Franco’s still fifteen and scraped his knees instead of watched someone bleed out in his arms.
“It’s okay,” Charles murmurs quietly. “You’re home.”
Franco grips the back of Charles’ shirt hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
“Jack got shot.”
“I know.”
“He was bleeding so much-”
“I know.”
The words stay calm. Certain. Not dismissive. Just steady enough to hold onto.
Behind them, Dino quietly shuts the door.
Charles pulls back just enough to look at Franco properly again, thumb brushing once under his eye before Franco even realizes tears made it that far.
“Listen to me,” Charles says softly. “Lance called. Jack made it into surgery.”
Franco swallows hard.
“Surgery” still sounds terrifying.
But it sounds better than dead.
“I want to go back.”
“Not tonight.”
Franco’s expression twists immediately. “Papa-”
“You’re shaking.”
“I don’t care!”
“Yes, you do,” Charles replies evenly. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
“I should be there-”
“And pacing holes into the floor while Lance threatens to sedate you?” Charles asks dryly.
Franco opens his mouth.
Stops.
Because honestly? Fair.
That tiny hesitation is enough for Charles to guide him toward the couch, one hand still at the back of his neck.
“Sit.”
Franco actually does.
Mostly because his legs suddenly feel unstable.
Dino stays nearby instead of leaving, hovering at the edge of the room for a second before settling into the chair opposite them. Close enough to help. Far enough not to crowd.
Charles finally looks toward him then.
“What happened?”
And there it is.
The switch.
Subtle, but immediate.
Dino straightens slightly.
“We don’t know who the shooter was,” he says. “Two shots fired. First hit Jack. Second aimed at Franco.”
Charles goes still.
Not visibly tense.
Which is worse.
“Near miss?” Charles asks calmly.
Franco nods before Dino can answer. “I moved.”
“When?”
“When Jack fell.”
A pause.
Charles processes that frighteningly quickly.
“So the second shot was intentional.”
Not a question.
Franco’s stomach twists.
“I don’t- maybe they panicked-”
“No.” Charles’ voice stays level. “A second shot means they reassessed.”
Silence settles heavily over the room.
Franco suddenly hates it.
“Him getting shot–fine, whatever, I get it, this happens to you people apparently-” His voice cracks angrily. “But I wasn’t even involved.”
Charles’ gaze flicks back to him immediately.
“You were there.”
“That shouldn’t matter!”
“It does.”
The answer comes too fast.
Too certain.
Franco stares at him.
And maybe this is the first time he really understands something awful:
There is no “uninvolved” when it comes to the Court.
Not really.
Not when he’s Charles Leclerc’s son.
“I don’t want this happening again,” Franco says quietly.
Charles’ expression softens slightly. “It won’t.”
“But you can’t promise that.”
That gets no response.
Because they both know he’s right.
Franco looks down at his hands again.
They’re cleaner now.
He still remembers the blood anyway.
“I’m tired of standing there useless,” he mutters.
Charles says nothing.
Dino shifts slightly in his seat, eyes flicking toward Franco.
Franco laughs once, bitter and exhausted all at once.
“I mean, seriously–someone already tried to shoot me.” He looks up finally, jaw tightening. “Clearly I’m a threat anyway.”
“Franco-” Dino starts carefully.
“No, think about it.” Franco leans forward now, words picking up speed as the thought fully forms. “I already know things. I already get dragged into this stuff. Jack nearly died and all I could do was panic and call people!”
“You kept him alive,” Dino says immediately.
“But I couldn’t stop it.”
Silence.
Then Franco looks directly at his father.
“I want in.”
The room stills completely.
Dino closes his eyes briefly like he knew this was coming the second Franco made that call from the alley.
Charles, meanwhile, just watches his son carefully.
Not surprised.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Charles studies him for a long moment before finally sighing softly through his nose.
“We are not having this conversation tonight.”
“Papa."
“No.”
The response isn’t harsh. Which honestly makes it worse.
Charles crouches slightly in front of him instead, one hand settling against Franco’s knee.
“You watched someone you care about get shot two hours ago,” he says gently. “You are frightened, exhausted, and running entirely on adrenaline.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
That takes some of the fight out of Franco immediately.
Charles always does that–answers the emotion underneath instead of the words themselves.
“We’ll talk once we have updates on your boyfriend.”
Dino snorts.
Franco looks genuinely offended. “He is not my boyfriend.”
“Oh?” Charles raises an eyebrow lightly. “So you cry over all your friends covered in their blood?”
“Papa!”
“I’m just asking.”
“I hate this house.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Dino says dryly from the armchair. “Considering you live here.”
Franco throws a cushion at him.
Dino catches it one-handed without even looking up from his phone.
“Childish.”
“You are months younger than me.”
“And yet consistently wiser.”
“Papa,” Franco says flatly as Dino makes an outraged noise, “he’s starting again.”
Charles gasps softly like he’s offended. “I would never do something like this to my family.”
“You absolutely do,” Dino replies immediately.
Franco points accusingly. “You called me Franchino in front of Carlos for three straight months.”
“It was cute.”
“It was humiliating.”
“You survived.”
‘Barely’. Franco thinks.
Charles finally stands again, smoothing down his sleeves slightly before looking between the two boys.
“Now. Franco.”
Franco narrows his eyes immediately.
“What.”
“You smell like blood.”
“…rude.”
“It’s true.”
Dino nods unhelpfully. “You do.”
“I hate both of you.”
“And yet,” Charles says lightly, “you continue returning home. Curious.”
Franco slumps further into the couch.
For the first time since getting home, exhaustion starts properly settling over him. It’s visible now that the panic has dulled slightly–the heaviness in his limbs, the way he keeps rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
Charles notices immediately.
“Go shower.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’ll feel better.”
“I want updates.”
“You will receive updates whether you’re showering or not.”
Franco groans dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushions.
“Papa, if they call while I’m upstairs-”
“I’ll come get you.”
“…immediately?”
“Yes, tesoro. Immediately.”
That finally gets Franco moving.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Mostly because he’s trying to make a point now.
Charles watches him disappear upstairs before the amusement softens off his face slightly.
The second floor creaks.
Bathroom door shuts.
Silence.
Dino looks up from his phone.
“He means it.”
“I know.”
Charles moves toward the kitchen then, motions familiar and automatic. Dino follows a moment later, leaning against the counter while Charles starts pulling ingredients from the fridge.
It’s strangely domestic for a man half the city fears.
Dino’s used to it.
Charles always cooks when he’s worried.
“You should sleep too,” Charles says absently while setting a pan down.
Dino shrugs one shoulder. “Later.”
“You’ve been up since six.”
“So have you.”
Charles points a wooden spoon at him without turning around. “I am the parent. I am allowed.”
“That’s not how logic works.”
“It is in this household.”
Dino’s mouth twitches faintly.
For a while, only kitchen sounds fill the room. Running water upstairs. Knife against chopping board. The low hum of the stove.
After a bit, footsteps can be heard moving faintly across the hall.
Charles lowers the heat slightly under the pan before speaking again, voice calmer now.
“He was going to end up here eventually.”
Dino looks over immediately.
“You knew?”
Charles smiles faintly. Tiredly.
“Franco has my temper and your inability to let people go.”
“That’s a terrible combination.”
“It truly is.”
A pause.
Then Dino says carefully, “You could still say no.”
Charles goes still for half a second.
Not because he hadn’t considered it.
Because he has.
Repeatedly.
“I could,” he agrees quietly.
But neither of them believes he will.
Upstairs, a door opens again.
Then footsteps–slower this time.
Franco reappears wearing one of Charles’ old shirts and sweatpants, curls damp, face scrubbed pink from hot water. He looks younger like this.
Too young for tonight.
Charles’ expression softens instantly.
“There’s my baby.”
“I’m literally twenty-two.”
“Still my little boy.”
Franco wanders into the kitchen on tired autopilot, immediately hovering near Charles like he’s done since childhood.
Charles hands him a spoon without even looking.
“Taste.”
Franco does automatically.
Then blinks.
“…oh.”
Dino snorts quietly. “You forgot he can cook again?”
“No, I just forgot food could taste like things.”
“That would be the shock.”
Franco leans heavily against the counter after another bite, eyes drifting toward his phone again almost unconsciously.
Still nothing.
Charles notices that too.
Without a word, he reaches over and squeezes Franco’s shoulder gently.
“He’s stubborn,” Charles says quietly. “Jack will fight.”
Franco swallows hard.
“I know.”
And for a moment, standing there in the warm kitchen light with his father cooking dinner and Dino leaning nearby pretending not to hover–it almost feels normal.
—
Franco wakes up disoriented.
For one blissfully empty second, he doesn’t remember.
Then the panic comes back instantly. Not as sharp as last night, but heavier. Sunk deeper into his chest now.
His phone is still on the bedside table.
No missed calls.
No messages.
Franco stares at the ceiling for a long moment before dragging himself out of bed.
The house is quieter than usual.
Dino’s gone already.
Franco can tell because the coffee machine’s been used,
one of the kitchen chairs is slightly crooked,
and Dino’s hoodie isn’t hanging over the couch anymore.
Charles is in the kitchen.
Of course he is.
He’s sitting at the counter with his phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, still dressed properly despite the fact it’s barely morning. Calm on the surface.
Only the constant checking of his screen gives him away.
Franco shuffles in silently.
Charles looks up immediately.
“There’s my sleeping beauty.”
“I slept like three hours.”
“And you were still difficult to wake.”
Franco grounts in response, collapsing onto the stool beside him.
“Any updates?”
Charles’ expression softens slightly.
“Jack is out of surgery.”
Franco goes completely still.
“…and?”
“He’s alive.”
The breath leaves Franco all at once.
Not relief exactly.
Not fully.
But enough that his shoulders finally unclench for the first time since yesterday.
“He’s sedated,” Charles continues gently. “Lance stayed overnight. Carlos too.”
Franco nods slowly, staring down at the counter.
Alive.
Okay.
Okay.
Charles reaches over automatically, smoothing a hand briefly over Franco’s hair before handing him a mug.
“Drink.”
Franco obeys on instinct.
The coffee’s sweet.
Charles always makes it sweeter when one of them’s upset.
A phone buzzes against the counter.
Charles picks it up immediately.
Carlos.
Franco straightens slightly as Charles answers.
“Yes?”
A pause.
“Good.”
Another pause.
Franco watches Charles’ expression carefully.
“He woke up?”
Franco nearly drops the mug.
Charles notices instantly, lifting a hand slightly in silent wait before returning to the call.
“No complications?”
…
“Mm.”
…
“Yes, I’ll tell him.”
And there–finally–a small exhale from Charles.
Relief.
“He’s stable,” Charles says after hanging up.
Franco closes his eyes briefly.
Stable.
Stable is good.
Stable means breathing. Stable means alive. Stable means-
The front door opens.
Both Franco and Charles look up immediately.
Charles is already moving before the door fully shuts, one hand subtly gesturing Franco back while the other drifts automatically toward the kitchen drawer.
Prepared.
Then
“Jesus Christ, Gasly, what the fuck?”
Pierre appears around the corner looking mildly bloody, exhausted, and somehow still unbearably smug about it.
“Well bonjour to you too, bébé.”
“There’s blood on your face.”
“There’s usually blood on my face.”
“That is not comforting.”
Pierre shrugs off his jacket with a hiss through his teeth before tossing it toward the counter. The sleeve is torn, blood smeared dark along the fabric.
Franco’s immediately on his feet.
“Papa Pierre!”
Pierre looks over at him instantly, expression softening for exactly two seconds.
“There’s my favorite person.”
Charles scoffs from beside the medical cabinet. “Traitor.”
“You’re holding antiseptic.”
“For your own good.”
Pierre points at him lazily. “See? Hostile environment.”
Charles ignores him entirely, already pulling out supplies while Pierre drops heavily into one of the kitchen chairs like he owns the place.
Which–to be fair–he practically does.
Franco hovers nearby while Charles grabs his jaw and tilts his head toward the light.
Pierre winces dramatically.
“You know, usually people buy me dinner first.”
“You’re annoying enough injured. Don’t start.”
“Mm. So cruel to me.”
Franco snorts despite himself.
Pierre notices immediately.
“There he is.” He nudges Franco’s knee lightly with his own. “I was wondering where your personality went.”
“It got shot yesterday.”
That quiets the room slightly.
Pierre’s expression shifts–not guilty exactly, but softer around the edges.
Then Franco notices the cut properly.
“What even happened to you?”
Pierre sighs theatrically. “Meridian happened.”
Charles mutters something in French that’s probably rude while dabbing disinfectant against the cut near Pierre’s eyebrow.
Pierre flinches. “Ow.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
“Sometimes I hope not.”
Franco rolls his eyes automatically before the words fully catch up with him.
Meridian.
His stomach twists.
“…What happened?”
Pierre glances toward Charles briefly.
Not asking permission.
Just checking information boundaries out of habit.
Charles says nothing, continuing to tape gauze into place.
So Pierre looks back at Franco instead.
“I had a stakeout,” he explains. “Some dealers decided Court territory looked appealing.”
Franco nods slightly. He knows how this works. Territory disputes. Supply routes. Threats.
“One of ours got threatened,” Pierre continues. “So your father sent me to make sure they understood why that was a bad idea.”
Pierre says it so casually.
Like discussing weather.
Franco used to find that terrifying.
Now it’s mostly just… Pierre.
“We thought it was local business,” Pierre says. “Then Meridian arrived.”
Charles finally speaks from behind him.
“Ocon?”
Pierre hums once in confirmation.
“Not alone.”
Franco frowns slightly.
“With who?”
Pierre reaches for the coffee Charles made earlier without asking permission. Takes one sip. Makes a face.
“This is disgusting.”
“It’s mine.”
“Oh. Then it’s wonderful.”
Charles looks deeply unimpressed.
Pierre grins tiredly before finally answering Franco.
“Some Oliver Bearman.”
Franco blinks.
“…Ollie?”
Pierre looks at him properly then.
“You know Bearman?”
“Yes, I know Bearman,” Franco says slowly. “He’s my friend.”
There’s a pause.
Not awkward.
Just sharp.
Pierre studies him for a second too long.
“Huh.”
Franco’s stomach drops instantly.
“What does huh mean?”
Pierre leans back in the chair slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.
“It means your civilian friend carries a gun very well.”
“No.”
“He does.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Franco, baby, he shot at me.”
The words hit like ice water.
Franco stares at him.
Pierre continues anyway, tone calmer now.
“Ocon and Bearman were collecting from the dealers. Meridian supply connection, apparently.”
“No.”
“I watched him clear the room.”
“No.”
“He nearly took my shoulder off.”
Pierre points vaguely toward the blood on his sleeve.
Franco’s breathing starts going uneven again.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It rarely does.”
“Ollie’s not Meridian.”
Pierre tilts his head slightly.
“Then why was he doing collections with Ocon?”
Franco opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because Pierre’s right.
And Pierre does not lie about operational details. Ever.
Not to Charles.
Not about things that matter.
Franco feels suddenly sick.
“He fired first?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you shot him.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No apology.
Just truth.
Because to Pierre, this isn’t personal.
It’s survival.
It’s work.
It’s > he shot at me, so I shot back.
Franco hates that he understands that.
Pierre watches him carefully for a moment before sighing softly.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I did not kill your little friend.”
“That’s not comforting either,” Franco snaps immediately.
Pierre blinks once.
Then laughs.
“Oh, there’s the Leclerc temper.”
Charles looks unbearably pleased by that.
“Don’t encourage him.”
“You made him like this.”
“You helped.”
“I improved him.”
“You taught him how to hotwire vehicles at sixteen.”
“And? Useful skill.”
Franco lets out a disbelieving laugh despite himself before immediately looking upset about it.
Pierre notices that too.
His expression softens again, quieter this time.
“I know this is difficult.”
Franco looks at him sharply.
“You shot my friend.”
“He shot at me first,” Pierre replies evenly. “And if I had hesitated, I would not be sitting here right now.”
The room stills slightly at that.
Because Franco knows he means it.
Pierre isn’t dramatic when it comes to missions.
If he says Ollie nearly killed him..
He means it.
And somehow that makes this worse.
Franco presses the heels of his palms against his eyes briefly.
“Jack gets shot,” he mutters. “Then Ollie’s apparently Meridian, and now you’ve both shot each other–what the hell is happening?”
Charles finally steps in then, one hand settling briefly against the back of Franco’s neck.
Grounding.
Steady.
But Franco still feels overwhelmed enough to crawl out of his own skin.
“I need to go think.”
Pierre raises an eyebrow slightly. “Thinking. Dangerous hobby.”
Franco points at him tiredly. “You are genuinely the worst person I know.”
Pierre smiles immediately. “Aw. You say the sweetest things to me.”
Franco groans and turns toward the stairs before either of them can say anything else.
A second later, his bedroom door slams upstairs.
Silence settles.
Pierre exhales softly, leaning his head back.
“…Well. That could have gone better.”
Charles finally finishes fixing the bandage near Pierre’s eyebrow before lightly flicking the center of his forehead.
Pierre scowls. “Violence.”
“You deserve worse.”
“Probably.”
Charles’ hand lingers briefly near Pierre’s face anyway, checking for any other injuries automatically.
Pierre notices.
Smiles faintly.
“Hi baby.”
Charles immediately looks annoyed.
“You are bleeding on my chair.”
“And yet you’re touching me very tenderly.”
“You got shot at.”
Pierre shrugs one shoulder carelessly.
“We both have faced worse, yet we are alive..”
Charles’ expression tightens for the briefest second.
Old history.
History he did not intend on remembering.
Then he mutters, “Idiot,” under his breath before going to grab a clean cloth to start on Pierre’s shoulder.
Pierre watches him go with something dangerously fond in his expression.
—
A few hours later, Franco’s stomach finally betrays him.
Loudly.
He stares at his bedroom ceiling in offended silence for a moment.
The room feels smaller now than it did earlier.
Not calmer. Just stale.
He’d spent the last few hours pacing, lying face-down on the bed, thinking too much, not thinking enough, checking his phone every ten minutes for updates that never came, and trying very hard not to picture
Jack bleeding in his arms, Ollie holding a gun, or Pierre getting shot because apparently all of Franco’s friends had collectively decided to become unbearable this week.
Another growl from his stomach.
Franco groans dramatically into his pillow before finally dragging himself up.
The hallway is dim when he steps out.
Quiet too.
No TV. No music. No voices.
Franco wanders down carefully, still half expecting someone to immediately start another emotionally devastating conversation.
Instead, he pauses at the bottom step.
Pierre is asleep on the couch.
Fully asleep.
One arm hanging off the side dramatically, head tipped back at an angle that absolutely should not be comfortable. There’s a blanket half over him that he’s clearly kicked off in his sleep.
Charles is sitting on the floor beside the couch.
Not asleep.
One arm resting against the cushion near Pierre while the glow from his phone lights his face faintly in the dim room.
For a second, Franco just stands there quietly.
Because it’s strange, suddenly, seeing them like this.
Pierre, who always seems untouchable somehow, asleep and injured. Charles sitting beside him like if he looks away for too long something bad might happen.
Franco watches Charles glance up from his phone before automatically checking the edge of the bandage wrapped around Pierre’s shoulder again.
Just to make sure.
The movement is absent-minded. Practiced.
Like he’s done it before.
Many times.
Something uncomfortable twists in Franco’s chest.
Not fear exactly.
Understanding.
His father has probably watched a lot of people bleed.
Probably lost some too.
Almost lost more.
And despite everything–despite being the head of the Court, despite the control and authority and terrifying calm–Charles still sits on the floor beside injured people to make sure they keep breathing properly.
Franco suddenly feels very young.
Charles notices him then.
His expression softens immediately.
“There’s my missing child.”
Franco shrugs awkwardly. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby in this house,” Charles murmurs.
Pierre makes a sleepy noise from the couch without opening his eyes.
“Mm. I said that earlier.”
Franco startles slightly. “You were asleep.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Charles rolls his eyes fondly.
Franco finally moves closer, hovering near the couch before glancing down at Charles’ phone.
“Who’re you messaging?”
Charles tilts the screen toward him without hesitation.
Franco leans over his shoulder slightly.
Not Alex. Not Lance.
Tsunoda.
Franco blinks.
Charles:
Need confirmation on Bearman.
Pierre identified him at the exchange.
Yuki:
Bearman works Meridian side. Has for a while.
Mostly under Ocon.
Yuki:
Sorry kid found out like this.
Franco stares at the messages for a second too long.
Charles lets him.
Doesn’t try to hide the screen. Doesn’t soften the truth.
Pierre shifts slightly on the couch with a quiet hiss as the movement pulls at his shoulder.
“Told you,” he mumbles sleepily.
“You’re supposed to be unconscious,” Franco mutters automatically.
Pierre cracks one eye open.
“Unfortunately I am no longer.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“And yet you love me.”
Franco opens his mouth.
Stops.
A little bit, yeah.
Pierre smiles smugly like he can hear the thought anyway before shutting his eyes again.
Drama queen.
Franco shakes his head faintly before finally wandering toward the kitchen in search of food.
There’s leftover pasta in the fridge.
Of course there is.
Charles always cooks too much.
While the microwave hums quietly, Franco’s eyes drift across the room absentmindedly and catch on an old photo frame sitting on one of the shelves.
He’s seen it before.
Just never really looked at it.
Four people. Younger. Grinning.
Alex. Charles. Two others.
One with visible blue eyes. The other being the shortest of the group.
Something Alex had said months ago resurfaces suddenly.
“They’re dead.”
Franco’s stomach twists strangely.
Alex had never elaborated after that. Franco hadn’t pushed.
People died in this world. That wasn’t unusual.
Still.
Looking at the picture now, with Charles sitting on the floor beside an injured Pierre like he physically cannot relax while someone he loves is hurt-
Franco suddenly understands something else too.
The losses don’t stop mattering just because you survive them.
His chest feels tight again.
So he looks away from the frame quickly.
Nope. Not thinking about dead people right now.
Absolutely not.
The microwave beeps.
Thank god.
Franco grabs the food and leans against the counter while eating in silence for a moment.
“Papa.”
Charles looks up immediately.
Not alarmed. Attentive.
Franco stares down at the fork in his hands for a second before speaking again.
“I meant it earlier.”
Silence settles softly through the room.
Even Pierre opens one eye again.
Franco keeps going anyway.
“I don’t want to keep standing around waiting for people to get hurt.” His grip tightens slightly around the fork. “And I’m already involved whether you want me to be or not.”
Charles watches him carefully.
Franco swallows once.
“I want to join Saturn’s Court.”