SUMMARY: You are a new addiction in 'The Boys' team, a Supe with telekinesis powers who has nothing left to lose. The evolution of your feelings over time for a certain French with a strong accent and a golden heart will make you know a new part of yourself or All the times you've felt for Frenchie and the one time it became real.
WARNINGS: slow burn, friends(?) to lovers trope, mutual pining, missing moments, mentions of anxiety and alcoholism. lot of pet names from Frenchie, reader is female. Butcher being out of character. if I missed anything let me know!
WORDCOUNT: 6,8k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: and so, the time has come apparently...some Frenchie love 💗💗
i had this in mind for a long time, and since i was dying to read something about him on wattpad i just figured it would have been better to do something myself!
writing in first person is a new new for me...also, english is not my first language so if anything's a little messy keep that in mind !
MUSIC I WORKED WITH: Into The Black by Chromatics

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

0.1: THE OUTSIDER

The cold, fluorescent lights of the abandoned warehouse flicker above you as you sit, arms crossed, staring down the group. You're still nursing a sore leg from the latest run-in with Vought's Supes, though it's healing faster than you expected—telekinesis can do that, apparently. You didn't ask for it. You didn't ask for any of this.

"Still thinkin' she's a bloody liability," Butcher says, his eyes narrowing at you with that familiar disdain. He's leaned back in his chair, arms resting behind his head, like he's ready to throw you out the second you make one wrong move.

"Maybe," M.M. mutters, casting a protective glance in your direction, his eyes softening just slightly. You know it's because of the bond you've managed to form with Annie, the only person who's been on your side from the start. But even that isn't enough to make him fully trust you. Not yet.

Annie's already left the room, no doubt to try and talk some sense into the rest of them, but she's not here to fight your battles right now. It's just you, a group of men with their own agendas, and... him.

Frenchie.

He's seated in his usual corner, his sharp eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches the argument unfold. He's always watching you, always lingering just long enough to be noticed but never saying anything directly. At first, it was annoying. His endless attention, the way his gaze would follow you, like he was trying to figure you out. But over time, it became something else—something you couldn't quite define.

And maybe that's why it scared you.

"I told you, I'm here to help," you say, your voice sharp, slicing through the air like a blade. "If I wanted to turn on you, I would've done it already."

"Oh yeah? An' why's that, love?" Butcher asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. "What makes you so sure we won't end up with our heads blown off by one o' yer Supe friends?"

"I'm not one of them, you cunt!" The words leave your mouth before you can stop yourself, and you immediately regret the outburst. Butcher thrives on this—on picking at people's insecurities, and you just handed him yours on a silver platter.

But Frenchie is the one who stands up, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as he moves towards you. His gaze is less playful now, more serious, and the shift in his demeanor makes your heart skip a beat.

"She is not lying, mon ami" Frenchie says softly, his accent curling around each word like a melody. He's standing closer to you now, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke that clings to him. "She's done more for us than most. Maybe give her a little credit, eh?"

Butcher scoffs, but he doesn't push further. He knows Frenchie's loyalty is hard to break once given, and for reasons beyond you, Frenchie has chosen to stand by you.

The others exchange glances, but no one else objects, not even M.M., who simply nods in Frenchie's direction as though conceding for now.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"Merci," Frenchie murmurs to you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You are... how you say? Tough as nails."

You shoot him a look, trying to mask the flicker of warmth that spreads through your chest at his words. "I don't need your approval, Frenchie."

He shrugs, his smile widening as he steps back. "No, but it is fun to give, non?"

0.2: FRACTURES AND CONNECTIONS

The bar is half-empty, a quiet refuge in a city full of chaos. Your fingers tighten around the glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swaying gently as you take a long sip, savoring the burn that slides down your throat. You've always liked whiskey. It's one of the few things that makes the noise in your head quiet down, even if just for a little while.

It had been a long day, another botched mission, another narrow escape from Vought's minions, and your leg—though regenerating—was still throbbing. But it wasn't the pain that bothered you.

It was the look in everyone's eyes.

They didn't trust you. They never would. Not fully. You were still the outsider, the Supe they reluctantly let into their inner circle because they needed you. And maybe that's all you'd ever be. A means to an end.

But not to him.

You sense Frenchie before you see him, the faint clink of his boots against the hardwood floor. You don't even bother turning around as he slides into the barstool next to you, his presence settling in like it belongs there.

"Drinking alone, chérie?" he asks, voice smooth as always. "Never a good sign."

"Since when do you care?" you mutter, taking another sip without looking at him.

He chuckles, that deep, warm sound that always manages to disarm you, even when you don't want it to. "Since I met you."

The confession is unexpected, and it takes you a moment to process it. You turn to him then, your eyes narrowing. "Why?"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar, his eyes locked on yours. "Because I see you, mon cœur. I see what this life has done to you. You think you are broken. You are not wrong... but I am broken too."

There's something raw in his voice now, something that makes your heart ache in a way you're not used to. He always knew how to get under your skin, but this... this was different.

You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your drink. "You have no idea what I've been through, Frenchie."

"Non?" he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then tell me. Help me understand."

You hesitate, the weight of your past pressing down on you. But something in his eyes, in the way he's looking at you like he's not just curious but genuinely cares—it makes you want to share, even if it terrifies you.

"I got my powers when I was a kid, not even old enough to talk," you begin, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. "Vought experimented on me, just like they did with so many others. I didn't ask for it. I didn't want it. But now... I can't get rid of it. And sometimes I feel like it's slowly killing me."

He listens in silence, his eyes never leaving yours. For the first time in a long while, you feel like someone's really hearing you. Not just the words, but the pain behind them.

"Vought has taken everything from me," you continue, your voice barely a whisper now. "My family... my life. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm just... surviving."

Frenchie reaches out then, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand. It's a simple gesture, but the warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. You don't pull away. Instead, you let his hand rest on yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin.

"I know what it is like to lose yourself," he says, his voice soft. "To feel like you are nothing but a weapon. But you... you are more than that."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes meeting his. There's something so pure in the way he's looking at you, something you don't think you deserve.

"Frenchie..." you begin, but the words get stuck in your throat.

"I don't care what Vought did to you," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "You are still you. And you... you are not alone."

For a moment, the world feels smaller, like it's just the two of you sitting in this dimly lit bar, the weight of your shared pasts hanging between you like a fragile thread. You want to believe him. You want to believe that maybe, just maybe, you're more than the scars Vought left behind.

But trusting him—trusting anyone—is a risk you're not sure you're ready to take.

And yet, his hand is still on yours, grounding you in a way you didn't know you needed.

You pull back slightly, your voice barely audible. "I don't know how to be anything else."

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, "Then let me show you, ma belle."

0.3: SHATTERED GLASS

The mission goes south faster than you can blink.

It's always a gamble with Butcher's plans—half-brained schemes that somehow keep working, though not without consequences. The team is scattered across the alleyway, debris from the explosion still raining down like ash. Your head throbs, the familiar burn of your powers surging under your skin as you try to focus on keeping everything—everyone—together.

But your leg gives out again, the injury reopening despite your accelerated healing. You stumble, and just as your body tilts forward, strong arms catch you.

"Easy," Frenchie's voice comes from behind you, his hands steadying you as he pulls you close. His breath is ragged, dust and sweat sticking to his skin, but his grip is unwavering. "I've got you."

For a moment, you just stay there, letting him hold you, the adrenaline pulsing through your veins. You're too tired to fight it, too worn down to argue.

0.4: VULNERABLE HEARTS

You let your head rest against Frenchie's chest for a brief moment, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. It's grounding, this rare stillness amidst the chaos. But then reality snaps back, the weight of your surroundings pressing in once again. You pull away, your body stiffening, though his hands remain on your waist a second longer than necessary.

"Thanks," you mutter, though the word feels inadequate. You limp forward, trying to focus on getting back to Butcher and the rest of the team. Frenchie's footsteps follow close behind, his presence a constant shadow.

He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you, like he's waiting for you to let him in. It's frustrating how easily he reads you—how quickly he knows when you're trying to shut him out.

Ahead, Butcher barks orders at Hughie, his voice sharp, cutting through the night air. "Oi! Get yer ass in gear, lad, we're not 'ere for a bloody picnic!"

Hughie, ever the reluctant soldier, shoots you a look as if to say help me. You almost smile, but the pain in your leg pulls you back, reminding you that you're in no shape to be anyone's savior right now.

"You alright, luv?" Butcher's snarky tone shifts ever so slightly when his eyes land on you, but it's hard to tell if it's genuine concern or just his usual game of manipulation. "Wouldn't want our newest weapon to be out of commission just yet."

You grit your teeth. "I'm fine."

Butcher's gaze flicks to Frenchie, who's hovering at your side like some kind of silent guardian. "Seems like ol' Frenchie 'ere ain't so convinced."

Frenchie smirks, but there's something darker behind his eyes, something protective. "She's tougher than she looks, Butcher. But even the toughest need a break sometimes, non?"

"Save the romantic crap for later," Butcher replies, rolling his eyes as he turns back to Hughie. "Let's wrap this up before we attract more company."

Frenchie stays close as the group regroups, the tension palpable. Even M.M., who usually keeps a wary distance, gives you a look that borders on concern. He's always been the silent protector, watching from the sidelines, making sure nothing happens to Annie's best friend.

"You sure you're good?" M.M. asks quietly, his eyes scanning your leg.

You nod, though the truth is you're barely holding it together. "Yeah, just need a minute."

But as you watch Butcher and the others discuss their next steps, you catch Hughie sneaking glances between you and Frenchie, a barely-there grin tugging at his lips. He's rooting for something, something you're not ready to admit is even there.

Frenchie steps in front of you then, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. The others are distracted, caught up in the planning, but you feel the weight of Frenchie's attention on you, pulling you in despite the noise around you.

"Let me help," he says softly, his thumb brushing against your collarbone as he adjusts your jacket. "You do not have to carry everything alone."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard, and for a split second, you let your guard down. You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you feel the full intensity of the connection that's been simmering between you for weeks. There's a pull, magnetic and undeniable, that makes you want to close the distance between you.

But then, Butcher's voice breaks through. "Oi! Lovebirds, we ain't got all day!"

The moment shatters, and you quickly pull back, your face heating up despite the cool night air. Frenchie chuckles under his breath, but there's a flicker of something else—disappointment, maybe?—in his eyes.

You don't have time to dwell on it. The mission's not over yet.

0.5: MISSED KISSES AND SILENT LONGINGS

Hours later, you find yourself alone in your makeshift room at the hideout, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replay in your mind. Your leg is healing, slowly but surely, but it's not the physical pain that weighs on you now. It's the emotional scars that feel like they'll never heal.

You reach for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, the liquid sloshing inside as you pour yourself another glass. You promised yourself you'd cut back, but tonight, you need the burn. You need something to drown out the memories, the guilt, the constant feeling of being on the outside looking in.

A soft knock on the door startles you, and you quickly set the glass down. Before you can even answer, the door creaks open, and Frenchie steps inside, his gaze immediately finding yours.

"Mind if I come in?"

You shrug, not trusting yourself to speak. He takes that as permission, stepping into the dimly lit room and closing the door behind him. There's a silence between you, heavy and thick, as he sits down on the edge of the bed, his eyes flicking to the half-empty bottle.

"You're drinking again," he says, not as a question but as an observation. There's no judgment in his tone, just a quiet concern that makes your chest tighten.

"I'm fine," you say, but the words feel hollow even to you.

Frenchie leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies you. "You know, I've been where you are. Trying to numb the pain, pushing people away because it feels easier than letting them see you... for who you really are."

His words cut deeper than you expect, and for a moment, you want to lash out, to tell him he doesn't know you. But the truth is, he does. He sees you in a way no one else ever has.

You swallow hard, looking down at your hands. "I don't know how to stop... feeling like this. Like I'm always one step away from losing control."

Frenchie's hand reaches for yours, his fingers curling gently around yours. It's such a simple gesture, but it anchors you, pulling you back from the edge you didn't even realize you were standing on.

"You don't have to do it alone, mon cœur." he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. "Let me be there for you."

For the first time, you let yourself lean into him, your head resting on his shoulder. His arm wraps around you, holding you close in a way that feels safe, like maybe, just maybe, you don't have to be strong all the time.

"I'm scared," you admit, your voice barely audible. "I'm scared of what I'll become if I let this power take over."

Frenchie presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. "You are not your power. You are so much more than that."

His words sink in, and for the first time in a long time, you feel the tightness in your chest loosen, just a little. You tilt your head up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the air between you shifts.

He leans in, his lips hovering just inches from yours, and your heart pounds in your chest, the world narrowing to just this moment, just him.

But then, you hear a faint knock on the door. Both of you freeze, the spell broken.

"Uh, hey," Hughie's voice comes through the door, awkward and uncertain. "Just checking in... everything okay in there?"

You pull away from Frenchie, your heart still racing, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. You glance at him, and he gives you a knowing look, his eyes twinkling with unspoken promise.

"Yeah, we're good," you call back to Hughie, your voice steady but softer than usual. "We're good."

Hughie's footsteps retreat, leaving the two of you alone again, but the tension between you has shifted, lighter now, more hopeful.

Frenchie leans back, his hand still resting on yours. "Missed opportunity, non?"

You chuckle softly, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the whiskey. "Maybe. But there's time."

He grins, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Time... and many more moments like this, I hope."

You lean your head back against his shoulder, the exhaustion of the day catching up with you. But for the first time, you feel like you're not carrying it all on your own. And maybe, just maybe, you don't have to be afraid of letting someone in.

As sleep pulls you under, you hear Frenchie's voice, soft and full of love. "I'll always be here, chérie. Always."

And somehow, you believe him.

0.6: BOWLING NIGHT

It was supposed to be a night to relax—no missions, no chaos, no Vought. Just you, The Boys, and a dimly lit bowling alley tucked away in some forgotten part of the city. Hughie had suggested it, insisting that everyone needed a break. Butcher had grumbled about it, M.M. had been skeptical, but in the end, here you all were.

You stood at the edge of the lane, fingers nervously gripping the bowling ball as you glared down the pins. Frenchie, standing beside you, grinned in that way he always did—like he knew something you didn't.

"You're thinking too hard, mon cœur," he said softly, his accent curling around the words like smoke. "Just throw it. Let it go."

You shot him an annoyed glance, though your heart skipped a beat at the way he leaned in, his shoulder brushing against yours. "Easy for you to say," you mutter, shaking your head.

Frenchie shrugged, stepping back and watching you with an infuriatingly smug expression. The dim lighting of the alley cast shadows across his face, but his eyes still sparkled mischievously.

With a deep breath, you finally swung your arm and let the ball roll down the lane. It veered wildly to the left, crashing into the gutter with a loud thud.

Hughie winced from behind you, holding back a laugh. "That was... something."

"Shut up, Hughie," you shot back, but you were already laughing, unable to stay annoyed when Frenchie started clapping dramatically.

"I see why you stick to using your powers," Frenchie teased, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Bowling may not be your strongest suit, no?"

You rolled your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the warmth in your chest said otherwise. "I could take you down any day of the week," you challenged, half-joking, though your competitive streak flared up.

"Oh? Is that a bet?" Frenchie's grin widened, and without waiting for a response, he stepped up to the lane.

His first throw was smooth, calculated. The ball glided down the lane with ease, knocking down eight pins. Frenchie turned back to you, hands out in a dramatic gesture. "See?"

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. "Beginner's luck."

But then, after his second throw, Frenchie knocked down the last two pins for a spare. He turned back to you with an exaggerated bow.

As the night went on, the playful competition between you and Frenchie only intensified. At some point, Butcher groaned from his seat. "Christ, would you two just kiss already?"

You pretended not to hear him, cheeks heating at the comment. M.M. chuckled under his breath, and Hughie made a face as if he agreed.

The night ended with Frenchie winning—a fact he wouldn't let you forget. He disappeared for a moment, only to return triumphantly holding a giant plush toy—a bee with oversized eyes and fluffy wings.

"For you, mon cœur," he said with a wink, offering the plush like a prize.

You stared at it, momentarily stunned, before accepting it with a small laugh. "A bee?"

"Bien sûr! For a queen bee, no?"

Despite yourself, you smiled, clutching the ridiculous plush toy to your chest. And as Frenchie's eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual, you felt the invisible line between you two shift—just a little closer.

0.6: CONFESSIONS

A week later, you found yourself at a birthday party, the music too loud and the air too thick with the smell of alcohol and laughter. M.M.'s wife was celebrating, and everyone had shown up, including you. The stress of the last few months had worn you down, and tonight, with a few drinks in your system, you finally allowed yourself to let loose.

Hughie was by your side most of the night, as he often was. The two of you had become inseparable lately—best friends in a way that surprised you, but felt right. He made you laugh, distracted you from the darker thoughts that often crowded your mind.

But tonight, your thoughts were elsewhere. On Frenchie. You couldn't stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to understand you without you having to say a word. The drinks weren't helping either, loosening the filter between your thoughts and your mouth.

You found yourself in a corner of the room, leaning heavily against Annie and Hughie as they laughed about something you hadn't quite caught.

"I think I love him," you blurted, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Annie blinked, glancing down at you. "Wait, what? Frenchie?"

You nodded, the alcohol making your emotions feel raw, exposed. "Yeah. I do. But I... I can't tell him. What if he doesn't feel the same?"

Hughie, ever the soft-hearted listener, wrapped an arm around your shoulder. "I think you're underestimating him. He's crazy about you. We've all noticed."

You stared at him, the weight of your unspoken feelings settling in your chest like lead. "But what if... what if I mess it up? I always mess things up."

Annie smiled softly, brushing a hand over your arm. "You won't. And even if things don't go the way you expect, at least you'll know. You deserve to be happy, you know? You deserve to feel loved."

You swallowed hard, the vulnerability of the moment making your chest ache. "But what if being happy isn't for people like us? What if it's not safe?"

Hughie shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "There's never gonna be a perfect time or place for this stuff. If you wait for things to be safe, you'll never take the leap."

His words hit you harder than you expected, cutting through the haze of alcohol. Hughie had been through his own share of struggles, and if anyone understood the complexities of love and fear, it was him.

Annie smiled at you, her eyes full of encouragement. "You don't have to be afraid. Frenchie's a good guy. He'll catch you if you fall."

You closed your eyes for a moment, the emotions swirling inside you. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to stop running from your feelings, from the possibility of happiness—even if it terrified you.

0.8: THE ABDUCTION

The peace you'd managed to find in those moments shattered the next day.

It all happened so fast. One moment you were back at the hideout, going over plans with The Boys. The next, Frenchie was gone—taken by The Deep and Black Noir. The Seven had found you. You weren't sure how, but it didn't matter now.

Panic clawed at your chest, threatening to drown you as you watched them drag Frenchie away. You tried to fight, but Black Noir had overpowered you, his silent strength terrifying in its precision. You barely had time to process it before they vanished into the night, leaving you breathless and shaken.

When you finally regained your senses, you were ready to tear the world apart to get him back.

You didn't care about the danger, didn't care about the risks. All you knew was that you couldn't lose him. Not now. Not after everything.

Butcher was the first to approach you, his expression grim. "We'll get him back. Don't lose your head."

You could barely hear him over the roar of blood in your ears. All you could think about was Frenchie's face, the fear you'd seen in his eyes as they'd taken him.

M.M. placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "We're gonna get him. You need to stay focused."

You nodded, though your hands were shaking, your mind spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You couldn't stop the tears from burning at the corners of your eyes, but you swallowed them down, refusing to fall apart.

Not yet.

0.9: THE FIGHT

The warehouse was a maze of steel and shadows, and every step you took echoed like a heartbeat. You could feel Frenchie's presence—distant, fading—and your pulse quickened with every second wasted. Annie walked beside you, her face set in hard determination, her light flickering like a warning.

But there wasn't time to process fear. The moment you stormed into the central room, there they were—The Deep and Black Noir, standing like sentinels in front of Frenchie, who was slumped against a metal chair, blood trickling down his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," you spat at The Deep, rage bubbling in your chest. His smug expression flickered for a moment before returning to that self-satisfied smirk you hated.

"Yeah? Well, you're gonna wish you stayed home," The Deep sneered, stepping forward.

But before he could make another move, a familiar gust of wind blew past you, and A-Train skidded to a halt by your side.

"You're late," you muttered, though you couldn't hide your relief. A-Train's presence was unexpected, but welcome.

"Had to make an entrance, right?" A-Train shot back, giving you a quick smirk. "We taking these clowns down or what?"

Annie glanced at him, her hands glowing brighter as she squared up against Black Noir. "You better be on the right side this time," she said, though her voice wasn't accusatory—just weary.

A-Train scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm here, aren't I?"

You didn't have time to process whatever uneasy truce had brought A-Train to your side. The Deep moved first, lunging at you with surprising speed. But you were faster. Your telekinetic power flared to life, throwing him back into a stack of crates with a force that rattled the entire warehouse.

"That all you got? Not really impressive." you shouted, though your chest was already heaving with the effort of holding back your real strength. You couldn't let your powers spiral out of control, not now, not with Frenchie so close, his life hanging in the balance.

The Deep scrambled to his feet, shaking off the blow, his arrogance replaced with cold fury. "You're gonna regret that, b—"

Before he could finish, A-Train was suddenly in front of him, his fist connecting with The Deep's face faster than you could blink. The impact was deafening, sending The Deep crashing into the far wall with a sickening thud.

"Guess he's fishing for compliments," A-Train quipped, glancing back at you with a grin.

Annie didn't give him a chance to bask in his own joke. She stepped forward, her hands blazing with light as Black Noir made his move, silently charging at her with deadly precision. But she was ready.

"You take care of Frenchie," she called over her shoulder, her voice strained with effort as she unleashed a burst of energy that collided with Black Noir's sword mid-swing. "I'll hold him off."

You hesitated for a split second, torn between helping her and running to Frenchie. But A-Train's voice snapped you out of it.

"Go! We've got this!" he shouted, already moving to back Annie up as Black Noir's relentless attacks forced her backward.

Your heart pounded as you rushed to Frenchie's side, your hands trembling as you knelt in front of him. His face was bloodied, bruised, but his eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice.

"Frenchie... please, stay with me."

His smile was weak, but it was there. "I knew you'd come, mon cœur."

"I'm getting you out of here." You gripped his hand, your voice shaking as much as your body was. You could feel the power simmering under your skin, waiting to lash out, but you held it back. If you lost control now, you could hurt him, too.

"I trust you," he whispered, his fingers curling weakly around yours.

But before you could move, the sound of a guttural scream pulled your attention back to the fight. Annie had managed to blast Black Noir off his feet, sending him skidding across the floor, but he was already recovering, his silent, ominous form rising once again.

The Deep wasn't down for long either, though he staggered to his feet, a hand pressed to his bleeding temple. "This isn't over," he snarled, lunging toward you again, but this time, you were ready.

You threw out a hand, telekinetic force slamming into him with enough power to send him crashing through a nearby door, disappearing into the next room. A-Train followed him with a blur of movement, leaving you to deal with Frenchie.

You glanced back at Annie, your voice strained. "We need to end this, now."

She nodded, wiping blood from her lip. "Together?"

You stepped forward, standing side by side with Annie, and with a combined burst of your powers, you sent Black Noir flying backward into the steel wall, pinning him there with the sheer force of your combined strength. He struggled, but your telekinetic grip held firm, as Annie's energy burned bright against the darkness he exuded.

For the first time, Black Noir looked vulnerable—defeated.

A-Train came back a moment later, dragging a barely conscious Deep with him. "Well, that was messy," he muttered, tossing The Deep's limp form onto the floor.

You didn't feel triumphant. The adrenaline still coursed through your veins, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you turned back to Frenchie. Annie and A-Train could finish off the remaining two. Right now, all you cared about was him.

1.0: HOMELANDER'S WRATH

Just as you reached Frenchie, the sound of another fight echoed from deeper within the warehouse. You turned, your stomach dropping as you realized what was happening.

Butcher was fighting Homelander.

You didn't even have time to think. All you knew was that Butcher was out there, and he was alone.

"Stay with him!" you shouted to M.M., who had just arrived, his face set in grim determination as he hurried to Frenchie's side.

"I got him," M.M. said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go."

You ran toward the sound of the fight, your heart racing as you turned the corner and came face to face with the carnage.

Butcher was holding his own, but barely. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his movements were slower, more desperate. Homelander, on the other hand, looked barely fazed, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, terrifying cruelty.

"Butcher!" you screamed, throwing yourself into the fray, using your powers to shove Homelander back just enough to give Butcher a moment's reprieve.

Homelander turned his gaze to you, that awful smile spreading across his face. "You again. You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Butcher coughed, staggering to his feet, blood staining his teeth as he grinned through the pain. "She's a stubborn one, that's for sure."

Homelander laughed, the sound cold and hollow. "You think you can stop me? After everything?"

Before you could respond, Homelander lunged. Butcher moved to block him, but it wasn't enough. The force of Homelander's attack sent both of you crashing to the ground, your breath knocked from your lungs.

But then, from behind you, a burst of light filled the room. Annie appeared, her eyes blazing with determination, and beside her, Hughie and M.M., dragging a bloodied but conscious Frenchie into view.

"We're not alone," Hughie said, his voice stronger than you'd ever heard it.

Homelander faltered, if only for a second. But it was enough.

With a surge of power unlike anything you'd ever felt before, you and Annie combined your strength, your powers colliding in a brilliant flash of light. You pushed Homelander back, your telekinetic force crushing the air from his lungs, while Annie's light seared into his skin.

For the first time, Homelander looked scared.

And then, with one final push, you threw him back with everything you had. He crashed into the far wall, crumpling to the ground.

The silence that followed was deafening.

1.1: AFTERMATH AND CONFESSIONS

The hospital room was suffused with a soft, sterile light, the kind that seemed to wrap around you like a comforting blanket. It felt surreal to sit beside Frenchie's bed, your heart a chaotic mix of relief and worry. Each time you looked at him, you were reminded of how close you had come to losing him, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

As he lay there, bruised but undeniably alive, your mind raced with thoughts of the chaos from earlier. The fight had felt like an eternity, and every moment had been marked by the fear of what could happen if you didn't get to him in time. But now, here he was, and you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the weight of emotions threatening to spill over.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a raspy whisper that warmed your heart. When he cracked a smile, even from his hospital bed, it lit up the room like sunshine breaking through the clouds. "You're looking a little lost there, ma chérie."

You laughed, though it was more of a nervous chuckle. "Well, you know, I just watched you get the crap kicked out of you. It's a bit unsettling."

"C'est la vie," he replied with a casual shrug, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of vulnerability. "But I'm here, am I?"

You squeezed his hand, your heart racing at the warmth of his skin against yours. "You scared me, you know? When they took you... I thought I was going to lose you."

His gaze turned serious, the humor fading as he searched your eyes. "I was scared too, mon cœur. I thought I'd never see you again. It's... it's terrifying to think about."

"I know," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "I kept thinking about how I couldn't imagine my life without you. It felt like—like everything was falling apart."

Frenchie's brow furrowed as he considered your words. "But we are here, together. And I think we can manage this... all of this," he said, gesturing between the two of you. "We're both broken, but maybe we can help each other heal."

His words echoed in your mind, filling the space between you with a heavy, palpable truth. "I want to," you admitted, the weight of your feelings pressing against your chest. "But I'm terrified of losing you again. The thought of it is... it's suffocating."

He nodded, a look of understanding crossing his face. "You don't have to be afraid, ma belle. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

A silence fell between you, the kind that felt thick with unspoken words and hidden emotions. You wanted to tell him how you truly felt, to confess everything that had been building inside you since the moment you met. But fear clung to your throat, choking the words before they could escape.

"Frenchie," you started, your voice barely above a whisper. "What if... what if we're just delaying the inevitable? What if this life catches up to us, and—"

"Don't say that," he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. "We can't live in fear of what might happen. We have to fight for what we want. For each other."

You felt a heat rise to your cheeks at his words, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. "What if I don't know how to fight?"

Frenchie's expression softened, and he squeezed your hand tighter. "You do know how to fight, ma belle. You're one of the strongest people I know. You've faced everything head-on. But fighting for love? That's a different battle."

You felt a rush of warmth flood your cheeks, the way he looked at you making you feel invincible, even in this vulnerable moment. "It's just so much easier to fight someone than to say what I'm feeling."

He chuckled softly, and it filled the room with warmth. "We are both idiots in love, huh?" His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was also a seriousness there that made your heart skip.

"Yeah, idiots," you agreed, your voice tinged with a nervous laugh. "Really, really stupid ones."

"Then why don't we stop being idiots?" he said, his tone earnest. "What's stopping us?"

"I... I don't know how," you confessed, your chest tightening. "It's terrifying."

"Courage doesn't mean we're not afraid," he replied, his gaze steady. "It means we face our fears anyway. Maybe we start by being honest with each other."

Just as you opened your mouth to respond, the door swung open with a loud creak, and Butcher stumbled into the room, his face a mix of bruises and exhaustion. His eyes darted between you and Frenchie, a knowing smirk growing on his face.

"Look at you two, all cozy and lovey-dovey. I swear, if you two don't kiss soon, I might lose my bloody mind."

Your cheeks flushed as you shot a glance at Frenchie, whose own expression shifted between embarrassment and amusement.

"Shut it, Butcher," you said, your voice firm, though laughter bubbled beneath the surface.

"Seriously, if I have to hear you two talk about feelings one more time, I'm going to be sick," Butcher continued, though his playful tone made it clear he was just teasing. "You two are like bloody teenagers."

Frenchie laughed, the sound rich and full. "You're just jealous, mon ami." he shot back, his pride shining through his pain.

Butcher rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a grin. "Right, right, lovebirds. Just remember that you two aren't in some rom-com. This is the real world. And in the real world, you two are going to be just fine, as long as you don't forget to actually say it."

You glanced at Frenchie, the unspoken words lingering between you like a fragile thread. Maybe Butcher was right; maybe it was time to stop dancing around what you felt.

"Okay, okay," you said, your heart racing as you looked back at Frenchie. "Let's just—let's just get it out in the open."

Frenchie's expression turned serious, anticipation gleaming in his eyes. "What is it, ma chérie? What do you want to say?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the emotions swelling inside you. "I love you. I love you, Frenchie. I'm scared, but I love you."

His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and joy lighting up his features. "You... you love me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes!" you said, your heart pounding as you leaned closer. "I've been so afraid to admit it. But I do. I really do."

The moment hung suspended in the air, your heart racing as you braced yourself for his response. But instead of words, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips with his in a soft, tentative kiss.

It was everything you had hoped for and more. The kiss deepened, both of you pouring all the unspoken emotions into that singular moment, every fear and every longing merging into something beautiful.

Butcher cleared his throat, a loud, exaggerated noise that echoed through the room, causing you both to pull apart, cheeks flushed. "Finally! I thought you two would take a bloody century to get there."

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in ages. Frenchie's smile was infectious, and as you shared a glance filled with warmth and relief, you knew that you could face anything together.

Time passed, filled with light-hearted banter and deeper conversations, but no matter what happened, you felt grounded by the connection that had blossomed between you and Frenchie, and this time it was real.