A cigarette was wrapped by his lips, and whilst it would usually calm him down his fingers still trembled as he pulled the cancer-stick from his mouth with two fingers, smoke trailing from his nose.

No matter how much time had passed, it never got easier.

His eyes trailed across the apartment that the team had now claimed as theirs. The Boys. Powered by CIA itself, no less. Flatiron had a way of being both comforting and extremely uncomfortable when their headquarters were empty, save for you.

You both had just gotten back from a job. It was supposed to be easy until it wasn't, and a child, a single, delicate child was harmed. He could blame himself or blame you, but you both knew it was neither of your fault.

"Are you good, mon amour?" His voice rang thick with his usual accent as he set his gaze on you, finally giving you his attention since you came back.