SUMMARY: You've been working with The Boys for a few months now. You are still a little hesitant to open up yourself completely to everyone, but Frenchie knows how to push your walls down or The one time you finally stop to overthink.
WARNINGS: friends to lovers trope, fluff, just two idiots in love, lot of pet names from frenchie 🥹, reader is female. if i missed anything let me know!
WORDCOUNT: 2,6k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i wrote this in like one hour and a half at 3am, sooo i don't really know if it's bad or good, just let me know please 💗 ...also, english is not my first language so if anything's a little messy let me know as well so i can improve !!!
MUSIC I WORKED WITH: Cardigan by Taylor Swift

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The first time you walked into The Boys' hideout, there was an undeniable tension in the air. Your arrival was met with a mix of stares — mostly skeptical ones from Butcher and M.M., curiosity from Hughie, and an unmistakable spark from Frenchie. You felt it the moment his gaze landed on you, as if he saw something no one else could.

But you didn't need that. You didn't need anyone's help or sympathy, especially not from some smooth-talking French guy who seemed to enjoy getting under your skin. You were a Supe, capable of handling yourself. Sure, you had a past you weren't proud of, but so did they. Frenchie, though? He made a habit of being around you too much, always hovering with those soft, intense eyes, offering help you never asked for.

"Ma jolie, you sure you don't want something to eat?" His voice slid through the air like warm honey as he stood by the kitchenette, chopping vegetables for some meal he was preparing. "You barely touched your food earlier."

You scoffed, not looking up from the old magazine you pretended to read. "I'm fine."

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing, and you could hear the soft clink of a knife against the cutting board. "C'est incroyable," he said, shaking his head with a grin. "You're the only one who could refuse my cooking with such ease. Most people would kill for it."

You rolled your eyes, annoyed that he was always so... nice. "I don't need your cooking, Frenchie. I can take care of myself."

Frenchie came around the corner, leaning against the back of the couch where you sat, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. "You keep saying that, mon ange, but you're still here with us, no?"

You hated the way your heart flipped at the sound of his pet names, how easily they rolled off his tongue like you were someone special to him. "I'm here because Butcher thinks I can help take down Vought. Don't get it twisted."

"Ah oui," he replied, his voice lilting with that ever-present teasing tone. "But maybe there's another reason you stick around, hmm?"

"Like what?" you shot back, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze, feeling a warmth rise in your cheeks.

He leaned in closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Maybe you like having someone who cares about you, even if you won't admit it."

Your breath caught in your throat for a second, and you quickly tore your eyes away, the heat in your chest threatening to spread. You hated that he could get under your skin like that, with just a few words and that infuriating smile.

"I don't need anyone to care about me," you muttered, but the words felt weak even as you said them.

Frenchie didn't say anything, but his presence lingered, warm and comforting despite your best efforts to push him away. Eventually, he moved back to the kitchen, humming softly to himself, and you let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the way your heart still pounded in your chest.

Later that evening, Frenchie found himself pacing in the garage. He couldn't stop thinking about you, about the way you kept your walls up, the way you deflected his kindness like it was a threat. It wasn't that he didn't understand; he did, perhaps better than anyone. He, too, had built walls, had lived behind them for years. But with you, it felt different. He wanted to break through. He wanted you to know he cared — truly, deeply.

His pacing came to a halt when M.M. walked in, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you've got something on your mind, Frenchie."

Frenchie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's... complicated."

M.M. leaned against the workbench, crossing his arms. "Let me guess — it's about her."

Frenchie hesitated, then nodded.

M.M. watched him for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly, before exhaling with a shake of his head. "You're getting too attached, man. She's strong, independent. She's not gonna make it easy for you, you know that, right?"

"I know," Frenchie replied quickly, as if it had already been burning in his chest for weeks. "But it's different. I can't explain it. I feel... something for her, and I know she's got her walls up, but that doesn't mean I should stop trying."

M.M. studied him, then gave a small, reluctant nod. "I get it. You wanna protect her, but you gotta understand she doesn't need protecting. Hell, she's a Supe — probably stronger than you or me. She's been through her own shit, Frenchie. Maybe just give her some space."

"Space is the last thing I want to give her," Frenchie muttered under his breath, his mind drifting back to the fleeting moments he caught you off guard — a small smile here, a spark in your eye there. "I just want her to know she doesn't have to go through this alone. That she's not alone."

M.M. tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're already in deep, huh?"

Frenchie laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "Bien sûr, it's me, no? Always the one falling in love with broken things."

M.M. stepped forward, resting a hand on Frenchie's shoulder. "Then maybe don't think of her as something broken. Maybe she just needs time to figure things out for herself. Give her that, and who knows? Maybe she'll let you in."

Frenchie nodded, but the conversation didn't give him much relief. You were a puzzle — a complex, beautiful puzzle that he wasn't sure how to solve.

Frenchie, despite his earlier conversation with M.M., couldn't resist. After the sun set and everyone settled into their own corners of the hideout, he found himself standing at your door, his knuckles hovering before knocking softly.

You opened it with a curious, almost wary expression, arms crossed. "What do you want?"

His face softened, that familiar gentle smile creeping back as he held up a small DVD case. "Ma chérie, I was wondering... would you watch something with me?"

You glanced at the DVD in his hand — La Boum. "What's this?"

"A classic," he said, a glimmer of excitement lighting his eyes. "French, of course. A coming-of-age film. You'll love it."

You hesitated, not wanting to admit that the idea of sitting next to him for a whole movie sounded... nice. Against your better judgment, you stepped aside. "Fine. But don't expect me to stay for the whole thing."

He grinned like a kid, stepping inside and plopping down on the couch. You joined him, careful to keep a reasonable distance between your bodies.

As the film played, you found yourself getting pulled into its quiet charm. The soft French dialogue, the sweet awkwardness of young love — it all felt distant, but somehow comforting. And then there was Frenchie, sitting beside you, humming along to certain parts, grinning whenever something particularly nostalgic happened on screen.

At some point, you noticed he'd moved closer, his arm casually draped behind you on the couch. You could feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of cigarettes and cologne that had become oddly familiar in the short time you'd known him.

"Ma belle," Frenchie whispered during a lull in the movie, his voice low and tender. "I've been meaning to ask... why do you push me away?"

You stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. You hadn't expected the question — hadn't expected him to confront you about the growing tension between you.

"I don't push you away," you lied, your gaze fixed on the screen.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Oui, you do. Every time I try to be close, you act like you don't need anyone."

"I don't," you replied, a little sharper than you intended. "I can handle myself."

Frenchie turned to face you, his expression softening as he spoke. "Mon ange, I know you can. But that doesn't mean you have to. We've all been through things, non? And you, you've had to deal with so much alone. I just... I want to help, to be there for you. Is that so bad?"

You glanced at him, your defenses cracking just a little. His words struck a chord deep inside — a part of you that was still raw, still aching from years of isolation, of hiding your pain beneath layers of anger and deflection.

"I don't need protection, Frenchie," you whispered, your voice softer now.

"I know," he said, his eyes locked on yours, sincere and full of warmth. "But maybe I need to protect you. It makes me feel... like I'm doing something right."

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. No one had ever spoken to you like that before — like you were something worth caring about without being fragile or broken. You'd spent so long telling yourself you didn't need anyone, but here was Frenchie, sitting right next to you, practically begging you to let him in, to just care about you without strings attached.

"Frenchie..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but you didn't know how to finish. You didn't know how to say what you were feeling because it was confusing, scary even. Part of you wanted to tell him to stop, that he was wasting his time. The other part — the quieter, more vulnerable part — wanted to reach out and let him be the person who helped shoulder the weight you'd carried for so long.

He didn't push you for an answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly, giving you the space he knew you needed. His hand slid from the back of the couch to rest gently beside you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the warmth of his presence.

"I know you don't need anyone," he said quietly, his eyes soft. "But sometimes... it's nice to have someone, non? Someone who understands."

Your gaze flicked to his, your defenses wavering. He wasn't asking for much — just for you to let him be there. To be a friend, maybe more. And as much as you hated to admit it, you realized you did want that. You wanted to stop feeling like you were on your own all the time. And Frenchie, with his quiet care and gentle patience, made you feel like it was okay to need someone.

"I don't know how to let people in," you finally admitted, the words surprising you as they tumbled out.

Frenchie's smile was soft, kind, and just a little sad. "Ça va," he murmured. "I'll wait."

You didn't say anything, just stared at him, feeling that warmth in your chest grow, spreading through you in a way that made you feel both safe and unsteady. He wasn't rushing you, wasn't demanding anything from you. He was just... there, offering you something you hadn't realized you'd been craving.

The movie played in the background, but neither of you were paying attention anymore. Frenchie's hand inched closer to yours on the couch, and without thinking, you let your fingers brush his. It was the smallest touch, but it felt like a thousand things unsaid.

"Why do you care so much?" you asked, genuinely curious.

He looked at you, and for a moment, you saw something raw and real in his eyes. "Because I see you, ma belle. I see someone strong, but someone who carries too much alone. And... I don't know. Maybe it's because I've been there, too. Maybe it's because you deserve more than just getting by. You deserve to feel like someone has your back."

You wanted to argue, to push back against the idea that you needed anyone, but the truth was, you were tired. Tired of pretending you didn't need anyone. And Frenchie, with his relentless softness and unyielding care, made it impossible to deny that you wanted what he was offering.

Before you could respond, the credits of the movie rolled, and the room fell into a comfortable silence. Frenchie stood up, turning off the TV, and you watched him move, the light from the screen casting a soft glow on his face.

When he turned back to you, there was a moment — a beat where everything felt suspended in the air. You were both standing there, just looking at each other, and for the first time, you felt vulnerable, but not in a bad way. It was like Frenchie had peeled back a layer you'd kept hidden for so long, and you weren't sure what to do with it.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, closing the small distance between you. Frenchie's breath hitched, but he didn't move, didn't rush. He just looked at you, waiting for you to make the next move.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your pulse racing as you leaned in slightly, your lips brushing against his in the softest, most tentative kiss. It was barely more than a whisper of contact, but it felt like everything.

Frenchie's hand came up, gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you back, slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world. It wasn't passionate or hurried — it was soft, like he was savoring the moment.

But before either of you could get lost in it, the door creaked open, and M.M.'s voice interrupted the quiet.

"You two done with your French movie night?" he asked, clearly oblivious to what he'd walked in on.

You jumped back, your heart still racing as you tried to act like nothing had just happened. Frenchie, on the other hand, just grinned, his hand dropping from your face as he gave M.M. a casual shrug.

"Bien sûr, we were just finishing up," he said, glancing at you with a smirk. "She's a fan of French cinema now."

M.M. raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Right. Well, don't stay up too late. We've got a mission in the morning."

As M.M. left the room, you and Frenchie exchanged a look — one filled with a mix of surprise and something else. Neither of you said anything, but the lingering feeling of that kiss hung in the air between you, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Frenchie cleared his throat, the usual smirk returning to his face. "I guess... we should get some sleep," he said softly, his eyes still holding that softness from before.

You nodded, feeling a bit flustered but not regretting what had just happened. "Yeah. Probably."

But as you turned to head to your room, you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. And when you glanced back at Frenchie, you saw that he was smiling too, that same warmth in his eyes that made you feel like, maybe, letting him in wasn't so scary after all.

You lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, your mind still racing from the kiss. It had been so gentle, so unexpected, but it had left a mark on you — something you couldn't quite shake. You could still feel the softness of Frenchie's lips, the way he'd held your face like you were something delicate, even though he knew you weren't.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel alone.

In the room next to yours, Frenchie lay awake, his heart still racing, his mind replaying the kiss over and over. He smiled to himself, a quiet, contented smile, because for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe — just maybe — things were falling into place.

"Bonne nuit, mon cœur," he whispered into the darkness, knowing you couldn't hear him, but hoping you felt the same.