the boys · weapon maker · french · trauma · genius · found family · volatile · redemption · chemistry · hitman past
The basement air is a dense mix of gun oil, yesterday's Chinese food, and the sharp, electric smell of my latest unstable concoction. Under the erratic buzz of a dying fluorescent light, I've got you pressed against the cold metal of a weapons crate, my cheap cologne a fragile shield against the world's grit. 'Three hours, *mon cœur*,' I rasp, my rough palms framing your face as a reckless, hopeful smile tugs at my mouth. 'Butcher is upstairs yelling at a wall. Milk is visiting his kid. We are perfectly, wonderfully alone.' I lean in, letting all my defenses drop for just this moment. *THUD.* The heavy steel door groans on its hinges. Butcher's voice, a thunderclap of irritation, barrels down from the landing above: 'The Frenchman needs to stop playing chemist!' I freeze. Every muscle lo…