January, 2014. Dusk. Basement, current base.

"Get him on the table," MM instructs Butcher, who had an arm around an injured Frenchie's waist.

"No. I said I'm fine!" Frenchie insisted.

"For fuck's sake, Frenchie. Shut up!" Tina told anxiously. MM brushes past her to the surgical tools on the trolly.

"Roll it up," says MM. Butcher reaches for Frenchie's pant leg,

when Frenchie pulls a gun on him.

"Back off!" he warns.

"Wow! The fuck are you doin'?!" Butcher exclaims.

"Frenchie!" Tina questions in shock. MM freezes.

"(I said) back off! I'm fine!"

"Dude," MM calls. Frenchie aims the gun at him next, making everyone extra wary. "Your leg was chewed into by a guy with shark teeth!" he states bizarrely.

"(I don't care!) No one touches it!" Frenchie reaffirms.

"The fuck's wrong with you, psycho?!" Butcher mocks, earning an aimed rifle from Frenchie once more.

"Okay, everybody out!" Christina decides.

"Fuck no! We're not leaving you with this wanker!" Butcher tells. Frenchie glares heatedly at him, pulling the trigger in threat, only to have Butcher reach for his gun too. Tina quickly grabs Butcher's hand in place.

"Billy, no!" She can feel him hesitate to either listen, or act, so she faces Frenchie next.

"Frenchie!" she yells, then purses her lips, attempting to calm herself. Frenchie does not face her, eyes fixed firmly on Butcher. MM is behind Tina, watching the situation cautiously, ready to either jump Billy out of a bullet's way, or jump Billy out of shooting Frenchie.

Everyone was on their toes, but Tina found the entire situation silly and uncalled for. She knew Frenchie wouldn't actually shoot Butcher, but she damn well knew that Butcher might shoot him. Not to kill him, at least.

Slowly, she approached Frenchie's side. She placed a light hand on his shoulder, causing his eyes to dart to hers warily. With gaze fixed firmly on his, Tina carefully placed her other hand on his weapon-wielding one, lowering it gradually. "Just put it down," she nodded, trying to keep her tone even and calm. MM and Butcher watch worriedly, but sooner somewhat relax when Frenchie easily complies.

Frenchie lets her take the gun away, moving his gaze to his lap, away from anyone else's eyes.

Tina studied him carefully, trying to understand his struggle, because she was damn sure he was struggling with something. He wouldn't talk in front of Billy and MM, but she hoped he'd talk to her, was confident he would.

She faced the other two. "Guys. Please," she told.

MM seemed to come around, but Butcher was still concerned. MM then guided him away. "Come on, man," he told. They moved out from the so-called med-bay. It was just the trolly, a shaggy curtain, and a bad excuse for a patient's bed.

When they were far enough not to be heard, Tina faced Frenchie once more, only to find him attempting to sit up and get off the bed. She held him back by the shoulders. "Frenchie, wait."

"Chérie, I told you. I'm fine," he dismissed sternly, trying to move aside. His voice was stiff; he was in pain. Why was he being so stubborn about it?

Tina gathered some patience and cupped his face to meet his reluctant eyes. Thankfully, he stopped moving. "Frenchie. You know I care about you, right?" she stated. Despite knowing what she was trying to do, Frenchie was still affected by her words, hence showing a displeased look on his face. "Right now, you're bleeding all over the floor. You're gonna pass out if we don't get you cleaned and patched up." Frenchie's reluctance formed a lump in his throat that he swallowed as he looked away, from her gaze and grip.

"Hey," she called for his attention once more. He did not oblige, but as far as she was concerned, still had ears that could listen whether he wanted them to or not. "It's me. Just me. Whatever it is you have to hide, you don't have to with me," she told heartedly.

Frenchie and Christina had a very serious friendship, that they were starting to feel more like family. This is why her genuine, honest tone pained him seemingly more than his foot, cause he could feel himself wanting to give in.

Tina locked her eyes onto his. "Please," she spoke quietly. Frenchie's inner brows raised with hers. He refrained from cursing as he sighed irritably, finally moving back on the bed. Tina smiled lightly at him in approval. He refused to look at it, wanting this over with.

'(There is no 'over with'. I can't get out of telling her),' he thought.

Tina moved the trolly closer to her side as she stood opposite his leg. The blood was closer to below his knee, so what she saw when she rolled up the pant leg was quite clear save some crimson smudges from the wound above.

Tina couldn't keep her brows from raising, trying still to keep any extreme reactions at bay.

Now she understood why he was fighting them…why he was so reluctant.

All across the skin of his right leg, were burn marks. Small, round…cigarette burn marks…They looked old. Really old. Yellowish cores encircled with shriveled skin.

Frenchie expected her to say something, to even look at him pitifully,

but she did neither.

Instead, she rolled up the pant some more to get to the wound.

It was he then who felt the urge to say something, maybe tell her – felt he needed to. But his train of thoughts was cut short when she spoke up: "This is gonna hurt a bit." She had a disinfectant bottle tipped to pour at the several, bleeding teeth marks on his leg. Frenchie balled his fists and gave her a firm nod.

He hissed sharply when the liquid came in contact, scorching like fire to flesh. Her heart jumps in response to his pain, before she tips the bottle back onto the trolly. "Okay. Worst part's over," she assured.

She continued to clean the wound and wrap it in gauze, giving Frenchie some time to reconsider telling her. He wasn't sure what she was trying to achieve with holding on to silence. He was more than sure it didn't mean she just didn't care, just ignored it, so it must have meant the opposite. Did she pity him?

He watched her push the trolly back to the side of the bed, getting closer to him, still refusing eye contact. '(Of course she does, you fool).' He didn't want that, didn't want her to find him weak, to feel sorry for him. He hated the thought.

Then, finally, she faced him, an unreadable expression on her face. "I'm not gonna push you," she says, "but I will listen…You know I will."

Frenchie eyed her intensely. '(I know, chérie.)'

He wanted to. He really wanted to…He decided he would.

Frenchie sat up, causing her to act in assistance as he attempted to sit at the edge of the bed. When he stilled, she took to his side, shoulder to shoulder. She waited patiently, certain he would speak.

"When I was a boy," he started, "my father - he stole me from mamma." Tina listened intently, pre-aware it wouldn't be pretty. "In Marseilles, middle of the night, just broke in, took me. Kept me with him for years. Hotel after hotel..." Frenchie paused, hesitant to go on. Dark memories called to him hauntingly. He didn't want to go back, back to the past.

Frenchie felt a hand sneak into the one he was resting on his knee. He watched as her fingers hooked underneath his palm, and her thumb to the back of his hand securely, reassuringly.

He found it in him to go on.

He was quicker, wanting out of the past as soon as possible. "Every few nights, he would take me out for a walk, smoke a Gauloises…tell me he loved me, then put the flame to my skin…" Frenchie pursed his lips in sorrow and frustration, his eyes watering. Tina swallowed the lump in her throat. Her grip on him had subconsciously tightened, as if – just then – she was trying to save him. "I tried to run away so many times. Jumped buses, trains. Anything to get back to Marseilles," he shook his head, a sole tear stubbornly rolling down his cheek. "To mamma," he whispered.

Tina's chest ached with his. She could just picture him, alone in a dark corner, crying for his mother, afraid. She hated it, physically loathed it.

He sniffed back tears, snapping her and himself out of it as he went on. "You'd think, after he died, I'd have felt relief…Free…" his expression grew plain. "But I felt…indifferent…Nothing…" Tina wondered about his words…To feel nothing for someone gone. Flash backs from a very familiar feeling – memory – presented themselves to her then, before an abrupt, curious thought.

"…Did you ever…try to get back to your mom?" she asked. It took Frenchie a minute to answer the question.

"She'd moved on," he simply gave, a certain resentment settling onto his features. Tina's brows furrowed.

"She remarried?"

"And had kids. Two. A girl…and another boy," he cut himself off with a seemingly ironic chuckle. Tina put her other hand on his.

"Frenchie," she called. "Did you tell her you were-"

"Still alive?" Frenchie snapped to her. "Would it have mattered?" Tina's eyes widened at what he'd said in disbelief.

"Of course it would've – Frenchie…You're her son," she reminded.

"Ah yes, the son with a colorful criminal background. Who do you think taught me everything I know? How do you think he died, hm?" Frenchie pulled his hand out of hers, pointing to the distance. "Shot, in a robbery. Ironic, considering the amount of people he'd robbed blind. He set me on the same path. Drugs. Arms dealing. Theft. It became all I know, and you want me to walk up to mamma, and look her in the eye?" he exclaimed.

"Frenchie…"

"Tell me I'm wrong…Tell me you wouldn't do the same…"

"…" she faced away, at a loss then and having him believe she'd proved him right…

"…Christina," Frenchie took her hand in his, causing her to face him, but he wasn't looking at her, brows deeply furrowed. "Everything I've told you…No one knows-"

"Frenchie," Tina sighed. "Do you really think I'd tell anyone?" she frowned, almost offended.

"No. No…Just…You're the first person I've told…" his sad eyes finally locked with hers. Tina gave him an understanding look. She brought her free hand to his cheek, caressing it warmly. Frenchie shut his eyes, sighing in relief, the relief of her trusted presence, relief with the fact that she wasn't judging him, wasn't pitying him…that it was her…

She then removed her hand, smiling lightly.

"Can I tell you something I've never told anyone before?" she said. Frenchie acknowledged her words. He didn't like that she was feeling the inclination to even out the situation. She didn't owe him a secret in return for the one he gave her.

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," she retorted, almost desperately…He noticed that desperation.

He nodded.

"When I was twelve, I got into an argument with my stepmom. She was a horrible woman. Jumped at every chance given to abuse me, and dad never interfered much. Think she actually convinced him she was 'disciplining' me, or whatever the shit." Frenchie frowned. "One time, we were arguing - me and her. Dad was at work. We were on top of the staircase…" she quieted at that, causing the cogs in Frenchie's mind to start turning. "There was this boy I liked at school," she smiled at the faded memory. "So, that morning, I put on my uniform, and decided I'd keep my hair down. She wouldn't approve." Tina raised her brows playfully, but there was a grimness in her eyes that kept Frenchie's concern still.

Her fake smile quickly dissipated. "We started arguing. At some point I remember her actually asking me if I was trying to act like a tramp," she chuckled grimly. At that, Frenchie's brow raised and nose cringed in disgust. For someone to say something like that to a twelve-year-old!

"I can't recall all the in-betweens…" Tina's face hardened suddenly, too suddenly. "But I remember why I snapped." Frenchie could tell the story was about to get much worse, and a subconscious part of him was aware it had something to do with prementioned staircase. "She told me I was nothing but a disappointment," Tina's tone was cold, unforgiving. She was twelve at the time. Nearly twenty years had passed, and she looked to still hold the same amount of rage and hatred, unchanged. "That dad only put up with me cause he had to…" Frenchie frowned deeply. "I kept telling her to stop," Tina's voice cracked, causing Frenchie's grip on her to tighten, as if she'd slipped and he was trying to keep her from falling. "She wouldn't listen. Wouldn't shut up," Tina spat through clenched teeth. There was a heavy tension as she worked her restraint, evidently trying not to yell, to control that rage.

…Mainly…the rage was from a deeply buried sense of guilt…

The rest only confirmed what Frenchie was starting to suspect Tina had done…

"Then she mentioned my mom…

…

…

…I pushed her off the stairs…" His face went blank.

So did hers.

"…I killed her," she blankly confessed.

…It took Frenchie a minute to process all she'd said, before inching to catch her eyes. "Christina," he called, tone firm. She looked to him with red, glossy eyes, in spite of her plain features, her calm posture. "You were twelve," he emphasized. "She never should've spoken to you that way-"

"I killed her, Frenchie," Tina reaffirmed, as if what he'd said was completely irrelevant to the facts.

"But you didn't mean to," he told.

"What if I did?" she argued, inner brows raising in desperation.

"Ma chérie. I know you-"

"Do you?"

"You know I do…" he insisted. "You were just a child," he smiled with a shrug, trying to highlight how bizarre it was to imply she'd been a twelve-year-old cold-blooded killer.

Tina's tears threatened to spill, and so she looked away. Frenchie eyed her knowingly. "Tina," he softly uttered, pulling her into his arms. She did not refrain, and, in turn, wrapped her arms around his waist and put the side of her face to his chest.

This was the most intimate they'd ever been with each other thus far. They were exposed, vulnerable, but safe, at ease.

At that point, they were willing to do anything for each other. Anything.

XXXXX