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Kimiko doesn’t speak. She doesn’t really need to, he can read what she means in her eyes. The guys make fun of him, say he’s gone soft. Maybe. Only for her. Something had changed when he set eyes on her in that basement, chained to the wall like an animal. Besides, he talks enough for the both of them.
Kimiko brushes a lock of hair out of her face, smiles at him. Her nails are painted yellow today. She likes to alternate colors. She smiles rarely, and only for him.
“Mon coeur,” he murmurs, cupping her face, an action that would’ve gotten his wrist broken a couple months ago. She pushes her smooth cheek into his hand before returning her attention to the puzzle she’s been working through for the past couple of days. It’s a cartoon character, a madly smiling marshmallow. Blood flakes onto all that white from under her fingernails. He brushes it away, to be helpful.
Kimiko makes him feel settled under his skin like no one else ever has, his constant frenetic energy swallowed by her dark eyes. She puts a puzzle piece in place, gives him a challenging look like Stop lingering and help me with this that has him huffing a laugh, searching among the scattered pieces for one that has an edge. He can field strip an AK-47 in less than thirty seconds, it should be easy enough to finish a puzzle with only 500 pieces.
They’re still at it a half hour later when the Boys get back, Butcher and Mother’s Milk brushing past them without comment and Hughie offering an awkward, “Hey Frenchie, Kimiko,” as he trails after Butcher like a puppy.
Kimiko shifts a little closer to his side. It’s easy to forget how small she is, she has so much presence. He feels a sudden surge of protectiveness, looks down at the fine hairs on the back of her neck. He’s killed so many women from this position. Kimiko won’t be one of them, she’d just heal and kick his ass when she came back. He takes some comfort from this.
“Ah, mon coeur, I think you will find that this piece does not go here,” he says, touching once at the top of her hand. Such fine bones, he can’t believe she’s used them to gouge out eyes. Kimiko flips her hand, holds his and squeezes for a moment. Frenchie stares when she releases him, feeling something warm unfold in his chest.
Kimiko hunches her shoulders against the windchill; she looks vaguely comical bundled up in a puffy coat that’s too big for her, reaching past her knees. They have discovered that Kimiko doesn’t deal well with cold, having come from a jungle country.
“You look like a petit marshmallow,” he tells her as they walk into CVS. Mother’s Milk needs facewash, Kimiko needs tampons, and Butcher will be a connard for the rest of today if he doesn’t get the fancy gold foil chocolates he pretends he doesn’t like. She glowers at him from under her cute little pom pom hat, stuffing her hands further into her armpits. She’s displayed a surprising taste for fashion; her gloves, hat, and scarf are the same shade of pink, contrasted tastefully with her black coat. Frenchie wonders when he began noticing things like this.
“Ah, mon coeur, I joke,” he assures her, ushering her through the aisles, avoiding the gaze of a life-size Homelander cutout. She follows his gaze, and they exchange a sympathetic look. “We’ll get there one day.” They both know what he means. One day, Kimiko will crush Homelander’s smug skull under her foot, and Frenchie will be cheering her on.
She grabs for the closest box of tampons; Frenchie sighs and gets her the nicer kind. Or at least, the nicer kind according to his last girlfriend. Kimiko deserves as good of a life as he can give her. She nods once in agreement when he offers it to her.
Frenchie isn’t sure how this whole mute thing works, really. He knows she understands everything, he reads it in her eyes, feels it in his heart. He knows she still has a tongue, and that there doesn’t appear to be any kind of damage to her body. She has ignored any and all attempts to teach her sign language. Frenchie’s hoping it will just take time. For now, he loops his arm through hers, patting her glove with his bare fingers. He can just feel the heat leaking from her.
“Merde!” Kimiko looks at Frenchie with a blank face, crouched from where she dropped from the fucking ceiling pipes and onto the couch next to him. Frenchie drops the hand from where it flew to his chest, motions at her. “What were you thinking, eh? You nearly gave me a heart attack.” She smiles, knowing he’s being dramatic. “I should put a bell on you,” he grumbles, changing the channel to a children’s cartoon show.
Kimiko, apparently deciding to stay, relaxes onto the couch, pulling her legs close to her face and resting her chin on her knees. Frenchies shifts until he can stretch his legs out on the crate that passes for a coffee table.
Hughie’s heavy footsteps can be heard moments before he enters the room, exclaiming, “Hey, I love this show!” as he squishes himself next to Frenchie, forcing them all together on the couch. Frenchie and Kimiko exchange a look that speaks volumes. Hughie is too socially well-adjusted to really fit in here, but he’s smart and it’s kind of nice having him around. Like a puppy that gets into everything.
“Ah, mon ami, you Americans have no idea what true cinema is,” Frenchie says, kissing the tips of his fingers. Hughie just rolls his eyes, smiling. He watches til the next episode comes on and leaves as the credits start to roll.
Kimiko has been slowly drooping, getting softer and warming against Frenchie’s side. He dares to put an arm around her shoulders and she leans into it far more than expected, listing to the side with her head in his lap. Fast asleep. Totally vulnerable.
A knife could kill her, the voice in the back of his head that never shuts up whispers.
Not for long, he whispers back, touching her fine, dark hair. He strokes it away from her face, her big eyes, her mouth that so often frowns and never speaks. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, curls into a tighter ball. Frenchie’s almost choked up, but if one of the Boys comes here and sees that he’ll never hear the end of it. So he settles for putting his hand on Kimiko’s waist and staying awake, watching her back. He knows she trusts him. She’s never had to say a thing.
He has nightmares of his Papa’s heavy hand sometimes, of being toted from village to village. Of his Mama’s stricken face as he was ripped away from her. He would never tell the Boys this, never tell anyone. There is no need to expose a weakness to people (Butcher) who might someday use it against him.
This latest nightmare has him trembling awake in the dark, the TV long since turned off. When did he lie down? Thin fingers touch his cheek, and he’s halfway through pulling his knife when he recognizes them as Kimiko’s, smells the peach shampoo she uses as she swings a leg over his chest to hold him down with ease. He makes a helpless noise.
In the dark, her face is a pale moon, only the light from under the door enough to see her smile. She strokes back and along his hair like he did to her earlier, reassuring, untangles herself so she can lie next to him. Frenchie is near breathless, facing her. She hums a song, something like a lullaby, still touching his hair.
Frenchie will make time to be humiliated about this in the morning; for now, he lets her do what she wants, feeling the space between them warm with their body heat. She presses their foreheads together. Frenchie has never been this soft with a woman. He’s never been this soft with anyone.
She’s still humming, lifts her hands from between their bodies. Safe, she signs. Clever girl, of course she was learning. He nods, feels the briefest brush of lips across his forehead. It could be accidental. He’s too tired to mull it over, settles instead for throwing an arm over her waist and squeezing, once. She’ll know what he means. She always does.