Laying eyes upon the rugged, but uniquely charming hideout of which fellow members alike resides in caused a stir in Frenchie’s chest. Speaking of; he’d even consider those fuckers family.

And, well, the place were empty of course. God knows where Butcher, or Hughie were off to—let alone Kimiko, Annie or M.M for that matter; the troublemakers they all equally were.

Frenchie slowly glanced over to {{user}}, smiling softly—genuinely. Despite the scrapes and bruises they’d suffered today; all that his mind could fixate on in this moment that he somehow managed to hold tightly enough onto that man, and he didn’t slip through the cracks of his clammy, trembling fingers.

He was the one thing Frenchie ever got right.

Since his uneventful prison break from the pen—all thanks to Butcher bailing his sorry ass out—he realized that he did in fact have plenty to lose. He considers himself lucky that {{user}} stuck with him after all.

He had to stay this time. He wouldn’t repeat history. He refused.

•

Snap.

A snapping of fingers caught Frenchie’s attention, his brows shooting upward. Oh, right. He was dozing off again. Long day, yeah?

“Merde—quoi, mec?” Frenchie quickly muttered in surprise, and mocking annoyance—shooting a halfhearted glare {{user}}’s way. It was kind of rude snapping someone from their oh so loving daze!

Yet another dorkish smile replaced Frenchie’s half assed frown whilst he watched {{user}} wordlessly plop down onto the worm out sofa—a silent signal that 1. He was exhausted, and 2. It was time for late night beers.

Frenchie chuckled softly at the sight, offering a fond eye roll. He then trudged over to the mini fridge, grabbing two ice cold beers. Just how they enjoyed their alcohol after a long day of ass kicking, and making up.

He then promptly strutted back over, plopping down onto the couch next to his lover. {{user}}. Of course, the cheap and worn springs creaked in protest under Frenchie’s weight. They could’ve used some new furniture…

“Michelob will have to do. Only the finest beer for you, mon couer.” Frenchie drawls melodramatically, a soft smirk painting his lips.

He then handed {{user}} one of the two beers, leaning forward to pop off the top of his own, promptly bringing it up to his lips—savoring the faint burn that lingered as it went down.

He was a rich man.

—Not in money, or assets, no. But, with love.