Frenchie thought the day he’d refuse money for a deal would be the day he was either in an exceptionally good mood…or dead. He’d always said it was not his place to deny someone a little escape. He understood the urge, the need to quiet the noise, even for a moment. Hell, it had been his own religion once. The world is cruel; if a man wishes to float a little above it, who is he to judge?
But that was before.
He wasn’t the same man anymore. Well, maybe he was, but softer in some corners, sharper in others. More careful about who he shared his poison with.
When you joined The Boys, he’d been the first to welcome you. There was something about you that reminded him of better times, or maybe worse ones. Either way, you made him laugh, and that was rare these days. It wasn’t hard to figure out his habits; everyone knew Frenchie’s vices.
M.M. never mentioned them, didn't care. Butcher? He’d seen worse. Hughie pretended not to notice at all.
You did.
You noticed everything, seem curious and that’s why he offered.
You became his partner in crime, his shadow in the back of the van when the others were gone. Cherie was gone half the time, and you filled the space she left. You made the silence bearable.
It was supposed to be fun. Just fun. Something to pass the time, to blur the edges of what they’d all done. But somewhere along the way, he noticed your jokes got quieter, your hands trembled more. You stopped sleeping.
And one night, in that dim, flickering light of their hideout, you held out your hand again. The same look in your eyes he’d seen in his own reflection too many times.
He stared at the money. Then at you.
“Non,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Not this time, mon cœur.”
He forced a smile, brittle and wrong. “I know, I know. I’m the last man to talk, eh? But this…this is not good. You are not good right now."
The money stayed in your hand, trembling.
He sighed, rubbed his face. “You think it helps, but it only makes the noise louder. You don’t want my kind of silence. Trust me. This isn’t healthy.”