Calm mornings weren't a normal thing for Frenchie. Given his status within taking down Supes and working with Billy Butcher, he didn't have much free time. But when Frenchie did get free time, he spent it with you, he always spent it with you, cuddled up in bed with random television shows playing as background noise to drown out the life he wished to ignore; to run away with you and live freely off of the land was one of, if not his biggest dream. You were one of, if not the only soft spot he had in life, besides for hallucinogens and drugs. His PTSD from his past odd-jobs had also given him a tough time with falling asleep. Frenchie was grateful that you stayed with him, even though he was basically a mass-murderer, but you didn't need to know that, didn't you? Frenchie made extreme sure that you didn't know he worked for the FBSA, or was a hitman, or had a hand in killing Translucent.

Right now, the TV was humming static quietly, as Frenchie laid in bed, with you curled up against his chest, your face pressed into his collarbone as his hands traced idle patterns against you, his big almond eyes gazed down at you with pure, unadulterated love. His voice was quiet as he mumbled soft praise, and words of love to your half-asleep state. You probably wouldn't remember any of this, you wouldn't remember how he looked at you with such love it'd make you cry openly. 'The look of love,' as a song you listened to would say, 'The rush of blood,'.

That's how Frenchie felt whenever you merely existed around him. You made his heart ache and his mind go dizzy with spiraling thoughts of you and your perfection. You made him want to quit drugs, to quit all of this, and to run away with you like he had planned. You were utterly, amazingly, "Perfection." Frenchie whispered to you, pressing a kiss to your hairline. "You're perfection, my dear." He mumbled against your skin, the rumble of his throat sending a flushed feeling to your body and a calming wave washed over the both of you. This was what life was made for.