Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Newts Chippy sits comfortably squashed between an adult bookstore and a twenty-four hour laundromat on Republic Row, the busiest street downtown in the professional district. At least, that's the name on the narrow sign; if they'd used the full name that's on the license, they would either have had to sign tenancy for a bigger shop or give out free magnifying lenses. Frenchie wouldn't have minded renting a larger shop—the kitchen is right claustrophobic—and John had been particularly enthusiastic about getting to design a promotional giveaway item. But Roach was adamant about setting up their late-night chippy in the tiny shop for let on Republic Row.

"This place is buzzing after midnight," he'd said, "all those unaffiliated subs looking for a hot meal after, professional Doms needing a bite to eat between appointments—we'll make a mint as a safe space, my friends."

Six months in, and Roach has been proven right. If John's got the books done correctly, Newts is on trajectory to turn a profit by the end of their first year. Frenchie hopes the math's right, because he'd love to give up his valet parking side gig in exchange for a more spiritually fulfilling side hustle. That, and it means Newts could be open more than three nights a week, which means—

Frenchie startles as John snaps his fingers in his face. "Wot, wot?"

"Ye're off bein' an astronaut again." John picks his knitting back up; it's a wonder every scarf and sweater he knits doesn't smell overwhelmingly of chip batter and vinegar.

"We don't open for another…" Frenchie leans over the front counter to get a better look at the cherry red kit-cat clock on the wall. Ugh; damn thing gives him the creeps. "Five minutes, babes."

"And if ground control don't phone ye, ye won't be on earth t' open it." Frenchie waves him off in favor of wiping down the Square reader for the third time. "Daydreamin' 'bout yer man again, hmm?"

"He's not my anything," grumbles Frenchie, making sure the order pad is lying perfectly perpendicular to the back edge of the counter.

"I mean, he is our regular, at least!" Roach shouts from the kitchen. The fryer sounds like the heat conductor needs replacing again, and Frenchie wishes again that Roach would part with his Old Faithful in favor of something more modern, or at least quieter. "Comes in same time every night for the special. Best tipper. He is very definitely our something."

"Nah, he's Frenchie's through-and-through." The sound of John's needles clicking against each other is just this side of audible. "Ye should see how hard they feckin' flirt."

"Just friendly banter, innit?" Frenchie insists as Roach laughs. "'S not like it'll go anywhere."

"Why not?"

Because no one wants to deal with a trans-dynamic sub, Frenchie wants to tell Roach. Because we're too much work for a Dom in general, but especially me. Because he can't suddenly turn horrible if I never let myself get close to him.

Instead, Frenchie settles for turning toward the kitchen window with, "Fuck me, have you seen him?"

"I do, in fact, have eyeballs." But the look in Roach's eyes tells Frenchie he knows exactly what the problem is. Damn him for never pushing, but then again, Roach and John are both true neutrals. They'd never push Frenchie on anything regarding dynamics.

John does, unfortunately, know enough about Frenchie's nervous habits from being his flatmate for years to call them out when he sees them. "Ye be needin' a protractor for those angles next," he says, tilting his head forward toward Frenchie's fastidious and useless straightening of the stack of takeaway menus. "Gonna be a mess by night's end, anyways. What's eatin' ye?"

No one, Frenchie thinks ruefully, that's kind of the problem. "Just trying a bit of the ol' feng shui, see if I can rebalance the vibes in here. Improve the energy flow, y'know, that sorta thing."

"Whatever ye say." Frenchie sticks his tongue out at John on his way around the counter to unbolt the front door.

"Ten on the dot!" yells Roach. Frenchie can't for the life of him figure out why there's a blender going. "Open us up, chuckleheads!"

"Already on i—" The phone starts ringing as soon as he's thrown the deadbolt. "John, could you?"

"If I must."

"Cheers, m'dear." Frenchie looks out the glass at the neat row of clubs across the street. The professional district is full of them, of course, of varying levels of seediness and cost, but these four in particular are the pillars of the community. There's Revenge, Newts' direct face-to-face neighbor and the newest of the bunch, occupying the space Rose Pink once had before it had been proverbially run out of the Republic on a rail.

And good riddance to it. Frenchie's fairly certain he'll never set foot in that building again, no matter how much his friend Jim talks up the new occupant. The small lobby of the chippy feels even tinier when Frenchie considers the shadow cast by 1717 Republic Row.

To Revenge's right at 1719 sits Red Flag, which is potentially the nuttiest name for an association of professional Doms that Frenchie's ever heard. Nothing but excellent reviews in the trades, though; Red Flag immediately found their niche as a club made up exclusively of… Dominatrices? Dominatrixes? Whichever, Frenchie doesn't bend that way, so he's never bothered to learn the plural.

Jackiez seems to be less of a scene club these days and more of a lounge and communal watering hole for those who either couldn't get or couldn't afford an appointment elsewhere. Rumor mill has it that Jackie keeps her upstairs rooms open for Doms and their clients at other clubs to use for sneaking around the "no public sex" prohibition passed a few years back, yet another austerity law aimed at pushing professionals into the margins. Jackiez' license is the same as Newts: a private business, not a spuriously deemed for-profit public service.

Honestly, with all the recent rulemongering about Doms and subs by predominantly non-dynamic politicians, Frenchie's happy to no longer be counted amongst the neutral majority. No guilt by association for him, thanks.

And then there's number 1713: Queen Anne's, a high protocol club for subs who have more money to spend on getting dommed than Frenchie's likely ever seen in his whole life. The story goes that it's been in operation since the reign of its namesake, though not always here on Republic. Whether or not that's true or just hype, Anne's was one of the first clubs to move in when the city redistricted and rebranded itself to be more "neutral and family-friendly" back in the nineties. It's as bizarre to Frenchie as it is ironic, that rich subs go pay out their ears to serve Doms when they have servants at home, but he's never pretended to understand the motivations of the upper crust. How does worrying about procedural spoon placement at a kinky high tea turn anyone's crank? But Queen Anne's stays busy, if the crowds waiting out front every night are any indication.

It's also where Newts' regular and best tipper, Izzy Hands, works. With his Northern accent, Frenchie can't believe Izzy cares about cutlery, either. Maybe protocol is just yet another one of those things only bio-dynamics understand. Frenchie had taken remedial dyn ed, sure, but his eyes always glazed over in the unfun way when the instructor talked about etiquette.

He sighs, opening the door to kick the wedge under it. "I still need the free orders to hang, Roach!"

There's a smattering of swears from the kitchen. "Just write 'one special, one tea' on all of them!"

"What even is the special tonight?" The blender whirs to life again as Frenchie fills out five order slips.

"Uh, soup and toastie?"

John snickers. "Ye don't sound too certain o' that, love."

"These tomatoes are being feisty!"

Frenchie shakes his head and affixes the slips to the glass. Thursday nights always start out slow, but that means their inevitable unhoused guests can get in before the eleven o'clock rush. It also means he has about an hour before Izzy Hands shows up.

Fifteen past eleven, and Newts is predictably packed, everyone crammed in and bumping elbows, overflow still waiting on the sidewalk. Frenchie's grateful for all the mandatory ventilation upgrades on nights like these; the government might get a lot wrong on dynamics, but at least they haven't all been left to fend off a pandemic on their own, as well. It also means he can get by with only wearing a mask outside—the ancient fryer keeps the place warm enough to smother as it is, though they do save on heating costs in the winter that way.

John calls out order numbers in his great booming voice, and the crowd shuffles on. Frenchie's getting into the rhythm of things now, drawing quick stick images of the orders and then swinging back to stab them on the wheel for Roach. Honestly he thinks his drawings are worse than his nearly illegible scrawl, but Roach vehemently disagrees, plus the customers get a kick out of the sheer novelty of it. Once they get nearer to closing time, Frenchie knows some poor drunk sod will inevitably ask to keep the ticket as some strange souvenir, but business will have slowed enough by then to make such requests doable.

It's busy enough that Frenchie figured he'd miss seeing Izzy slip inside. Instead, he manages to look up at exactly the right moment to catch him eye to eye, though Frenchie quickly looks away to scribble out another order, though not before catching a glimpse of silver-shot hair poofed to a frankly concerning height. Must be a real shindig happening at Anne's tonight. He takes another quick glance, and Frenchie's either truly lost it or Izzy's wearing sparkly gold eyeshadow. But it frames Izzy's eyes well, the color a sort of green-brown that reminds Frenchie of a marble he had as a kid and oh Christ he really does have it bad for this man.

"Here, what's with the look?" Frenchie asks once Izzy's finally made his way to the front of the line.

"The what?" This close, Frenchie could swear Izzy's been moonlighting beside John at a drag revue, in that there's enough foundation on him to set up a house with. But it suits Izzy, weirdly enough, the stain on his lips and cheeks.

"The make-up, I mean, and the—" Frenchie gestures heavenward at Izzy's hair. "John, what would you call this?"

"Fifty-seven!" John glances over. "'S a pompadour," he adds without the bellow.

"Yeah, that. You aren't usually all gussied up, is the thing."

Izzy hums, briefly inclining his head. "Eddie thought we'd all play dress-up."

"No costume change for you?" asks Frenchie. "Would've thought you'd want a break from all the leather to match."

"Not when the option's right out of Marie Antoinette. Something about having a theme night or some shit, I don't know." He sighs, rubbing at the corner of his left eye, just enough to reveal a bit of the tattoo lying beneath the powder. "Says he's getting bored, whatever that means. How do you get fucking bored of yourself?"

"There's a lot to be said for reinventing the wheel once in a while." Izzy gives another noncommittal hum, and Frenchie decides to let it go. "You want the uszh?"

"Fire-roasted tomato basil bisque!" Roach yells from the kitchen, followed by an ungodly clattering of pans. "With toastie!" he adds, quieter as he picks up whatever he's knocked over in his enthusiasm.

"Does that come with or without the fucking bull you're keeping back there?"

"Without! The bull is very important to the process!"

Izzy finally cracks a smile and Frenchie tries very hard not to stare. "John roasted the tomatoes himself," he says, already doodling a little bowl on the ticket. "Very nearly roasted the whole flat."

"I consider it a miracle the place hasn't exploded every time I step in."

Frenchie pretends to be personally affronted. "So that's why you're here every night! And here I thought you just liked the food."

He could swear Izzy's gaze flicks down to Frenchie's mouth. "A man can have more than one reason for frequenting a place, you know," he says as he moves down the counter.

His body runs on autopilot, reaching back to hang the ticket on the wheel whilst Frenchie's brain tries to catch up. When he's gathered himself, Izzy's just standing at the end of the counter with his arms crossed, smirking.

Just friendly flirtation, Frenchie tells himself. Just unusually more direct banter. But his mouth's still dry by the time Izzy throws him a little wave on his way out the door.

Chapter Text

By opening time on Friday night, Frenchie has managed to accept—with copious amounts of help and self-esteem boosting from John—that Izzy Hands might actually be interested in him as more than a neighbor.

"Had to shout his number out twice," John had told him. "Should've seen 'im lookin' at you like you were gonna be the meal."

"Maybe he's part shark. Like, um, a mermanshark or something."

John shook his head. "Ye're real feckin' committed to not bein' hit on." He winced and immediately added, "Flirted with, y'know what I meant."

Frenchie dutifully ignored the creep tracking down his spine. "Gotta admit, babes, my track record's not exactly great."

"Yeah, but ye don't have t' become a feckin' priest about it." He paused his needles. "Can't hurt t' ask him."

"Except for the part where he tells me no."

"Look, if ye ask, and he says no, I will make an ugly Christmas sweater fer yer guitar, how's that?"

Frenchie blinked, considering. "With the tinsel yarn?" John nodded solemnly. "But you hate the tinsel yarn."

"And I'm not gonna have t' use it, neither," John said with a grin as he picked his project back up.

But all of Frenchie's earlier resolve is quickly fading now when faced by the clock on the wall and its ever-shifting eyeballs. Another five minutes at most, and Izzy Hands will be making his way across the street.

The ringing of the landline rescues him from his own circling thoughts. "Newts Chippy," Frenchie says brightly into the receiver, twirling the coil of the ancient phone cord around his fingers. "Where that's not our whole name, but it is the whole game."

"That's, what, the third new slogan this month?"

"Jim!" Frenchie smiles and leans back against the partition between the kitchen and the lobby. "And yeah, I like to mix things up, you know how it is."

"Roach still won't let you replace the sign with a giant acronym, huh?"

"Got outvoted two to one on it because John's a traitor." At the other end of the counter, John only pauses bagging an order long enough to give Frenchie the V. "Anyway, what can I do you for?"

Jim groans like they're embarrassed. "So we're hosting the Republic Business Association quarterly meeting tomorrow afternoon, and—wait, y'all are coming too, ¿verdad?"

"Hang on, let me ask." Frenchie presses the receiver to his shoulder. "Did we know about the RBA meeting tomorrow?"

"We certainly know now." Roach pushed another takeaway box through the window. "I elect you to represent us."

"Wha—"

"Seconded!" John smirks at Frenchie as the customer in front of him runs their card. "Majority rules."

"God, but I hate you both," Frenchie says with a sigh, bringing the handset back up to his ear. "Just lost that vote, too. I'll be there tomorrow."

Jim cheers briefly. "Anyway, Stede wanted to know if he could order some kinda fancy orange cake from Roach for the meeting? Said he had a piece of the one at Jackie's umpteenth engagement party last month and it was, and I quote, 'divine, albeit less orangey than anticipated.'"

"Hang on," Frenchie chuckles, "let me relay everything but that last bit. Hey, chef!" he shouts, phone against his chest. "Mr. Bonnet wants to know if he can pay you for a sixty-orange cake for the meeting."

"Sixty‽" Even the fryer sounds incredulous. "Oh, are forty oranges not good enough for the bourgeoisie anymore?"

"Yes or no, mate?"

Roach makes a sound far more irritable than the heat conductor. "Yes, fine, but I'm charging him double for the late notice!"

"He's down for it," Frenchie tells Jim, turning back to the front. There's a tug on the handset; he looks down to find he's wound himself up in the cord. "Um, what time?"

"Four, thank fuck, you're life savers, hombrecito." Jim sounds relieved. "He was not gonna shut the fuck up about it if you couldn't. But uh," and there's a returned hint of anxiety in their voice, "you sure you're gonna be okay to be in here?"

Frenchie freezes from where he's still attempting to untangle himself. "Oh you're hosting the meeting there. In the build—you're literally hosting, oh shit."

"Breathe, Frenchie!" He takes in a gulp of air. "Look, make one of the other two stooges bring it over and represent."

"Neither John nor I can prep the kitchen, and John can't very well balance a cake on the handlebars of his Rascal!" John gives him a concerned glance, which Frenchie waves off. He's fine. This is fine. "But I—I—oh I think I'll be okay. Been a long time since all that nastiness." Frenchie swallows around the lump now squatting in his esophagus. "No worries!"

"If you're sure."

Not really! he wants to shout. Apparently three bloody years still isn't long enough! "Nah," Frenchie says instead, "I've got a system for dealing with all that. I'll be fine." Until I get back to my flat and can successfully have a very quiet pre-work breakdown. 

But Jim doesn't press the matter further, only says to make sure not to sell the last two sausage pasties until they can make it by, and then gets off the line. Frenchie goes to hang up, only to remember he’s still covered in beige plastic-coated wire.

"Need a hand?" asks Izzy, and Frenchie nearly shrieks. Very nearly, since Izzy follows up with, "You alright?"

"Just wasn't paying attention." The crowd has grown again while Frenchie was on the phone; he's not sure if he even has time to try and untangle his body. Before he can stop himself, Frenchie says, "Apparently self-bondage is another service I provide in the workplace."

His brain immediately catches up with his mouth. Izzy's eyebrows are somewhere near his slicked back hairline, but he's chuckling, thankfully. Out of the corner of his eye, Frenchie watches Roach hand a fiver over to John; there seem to be a number of similar transactions happening between customers, he notes as he finally spins his way out of the cord.

"Sorry. Nerves are a bit jangled up."

"Nothing to apologize for." Izzy reaches across the counter to straighten Frenchie's name badge. "Unless, of course, you only get up to such activities at work. In which case you should be very sorry, indeed."

More money is exchanged throughout the lobby.

"Not 'zactly a safe practice," Frenchie says with the same easy confidence he's built up over years of bullshitting the rich before parking their cars. There's always a tension in the air when Frenchie meets Izzy's eyes, but tonight, it feels more like the spark of a match that yearns for ignition. He finds he doesn't need to pretend at boldness quite as much. "More an activity for at least two, in spite of the name."

"Christ," and Frenchie would know Lucius' voice anywhere, which means Jim can't be far behind. "Can anyone break a twenty? Haven't lost this many fivers in one go in ages."

But Izzy says nothing. There's a keen edge to his stare, almost calculating. Frenchie knows he's the taller of the two of them, yet still feels…

He takes a breath, hoping it didn't shake, and reels himself back before he can slip under. It's unnerving, how easy it would be for Frenchie to just let go. Nothing like it's felt before. Real.

"Special, Si—" Frenchie claws completely back to the surface and clears his throat, hoping Izzy somehow stopped being entirely too observant at some point over the past ten seconds. "Special, then?"

Izzy nods. Frenchie scribbles.

He tears the slip from the pad, turning long enough to pierce it on the wheel. Frenchie turns back, and someone in the crowd gasps for him as Izzy hooks his finger in the collar of Frenchie's tee and tugs. Mouth to Frenchie's ear—this close, he can smell the leather, the chill of Izzy's sweat where its cooled on his skin in the autumn night.

"If I had my way right now," and Izzy's lips brush the shell of Frenchie's ear, "I'd have you on your knees so fast your head would spin." A purposeful inhale, and Frenchie wonders what Izzy smells on him. "Thing is, I'm not sure that's something you actually want, lad."

It's like Frenchie left work and stepped straight into the coldest shower possible.

Like he's back across Republic, doing whatever it takes to show he's as real as the rest of them, that he belongs, but there are never enough pieces of himself he can give to prove it.

There's a mark of concern in Izzy's eyes as Frenchie shrugs off the hand in his shirt and draws back. Frenchie hesitates, wondering if he's misjudged the situation, if Izzy was truly looking for consent and not taking a dig at Frenchie being trans-dynamic. He's just so tired of extending grace and getting burnt for it, and in the end, protecting himself is all Frenchie really has.

“Next,” he says, looking down at the order pad. Izzy's hand twitches across the counter, like he wants to reach out again. A few aching seconds pass, and then Izzy's hand disappears from view as he moves down the line.

Frenchie plasters his smile on, and gets back to work. There's a good eleven customers in line ahead of Lucius and Jim; Frenchie hopes he's as returned to normal as possible by the time they reach him. He anticipates dropping hard once he finally gets home, but Frenchie thinks he can keep everything bottled up tight until then so long as neither of them ask what happened.

So of course Lucius asks, “Uh, what just happened between you and Izzy up here?”

“Bit o’ the old miscommunication, I think,” Frenchie tells him, tapping his pencil on the edge of the counter, a metronome for his nerves.

“Yeah, I don't buy that for a second, actually. Not when you two have been eye-fucking each other for months.”

Frenchie bristles, tapping faster. “Long con then. Took a dig at my status. It's whatever.”

Jim's hand slaps down on the pencil. “Bullshit,” they say, and the word wavers in the air between them, like Jim nearly lost control of their Dom voice. “That doesn't sound like the Izzy I know, at all. And I've been apprenticing under him at QA for almost a year now, so I think I'd know.”

“Still can't believe he's poaching you from us,” grumbles Lucius around the straw for his water bottle.

“Well I don't know how else to interpret what he said.” Frenchie jerks his pencil out from beneath Jim's palm. “And I'm not going to have my dyn called into question at fucking work, ta.” He kicks the wooden support beneath the counter with the toe of his trainer for a distraction. Frenchie’s not even close to masochistic, but a sore toe is enough to jam the lid back on the emotions box currently trying to tear itself open in his head. “Now what are we having?”

Jim snorts and shakes their head. “Not the conversation I want to, apparently.” Frenchie takes down both their orders; after he's put the slips on the wheel, Jim has invaded Frenchie's space nearly as much as Izzy had. “You know,” they say quietly as Lucius chats to the person in line behind them, “I get that you've got serious trauma. I'm not gonna invalidate that. But it fuckin' sucks to know you assume the absolute worst of every Dom you come across.”

“Not you,” insists Frenchie.

Jim huffs a laugh. “Why, Frenchie? Am I not real enough, either?” Before Frenchie can think of a way to reply, Jim and Lucius move down in front of John.

He kicks the support beam again, knowing he'll have a bruised toe by the end of the night at this rate. Frenchie puts a smile on, and tosses Jim's words into the box beside Izzy's to deal with later.

The end of the work night comes alongside the turning of the actual day, but Frenchie's used to the birds singing him off to sleep now. Typically, he does the bare minimum necessary to get ready for bed before falling into it, asleep within minutes. Tonight, or today he supposes, it's an hour past dawn, and Frenchie's still staring at the spackle on his ceiling as John snores in the other room. His big toe throbs from where Frenchie couldn't stop kicking it, trying to maintain himself during the rushes. He closes his eyes, and he sees Izzy's worry, or else Jim's hurt.

The sub drop he was expecting never comes, but neither does rest.

Chapter Text

John tried to talk to Frenchie about what happened with Izzy over brunch, but Frenchie sidestepped the question, mostly because the more he thought about it, the less certain he was himself. He pushed his omelette around until it had visited nearly every part of his plate, taking a cautious bite once in a while to see if his stomach could handle it yet. His mug of tea was refilled four times; at least if he was jittery at the afternoon meeting, Frenchie could blame too much caffeine.

“Ye’re sure ye don't want me t’ do it?” John had asked for the seventh or eighth time as Frenchie headed out to the chippy. “I'm sure Roach could help walk the cake over.”

“You really that keen to see Roach and Stede have a fistfight on the sidewalk?” Frenchie hesitated, then wound his scarf around his neck a second time, wondering if he could get away with a third before John caught on. He might not know the ins and outs of having a dynamic, but John did know a collar when he saw one.

“My money's on Roach.”

“Mine too, but ‘local immigrant of color knocks out white business owner' doesn't sound like a great advertisement in the daily local fish wrapper.”

John scowled, but let the matter and Frenchie both go.

On the bus, Frenchie kept getting glared at when he couldn't keep his leg from bouncing. He finally went for a third wrap of his scarf, then thought he saw a woman across the aisle give him a pitying look and took it off altogether. Roach was luckily too busy fussing at piping bags to pay Frenchie much attention at all when he’d arrived.

Now, holding a cake that honestly smells so heavily of orange that Frenchie's wondering if Roach has hidden an entire miniature grove inside it, Frenchie leaves Newts and starts across the street with nine minutes to spare. He stops at the curb, blinking at Revenge's cheery yellow paint, swearing he can see the old faded pink beneath.

Frenchie turns and heads for the crosswalk. No need to jaywalk when there's time to spare. Except this will spit him out in front of Queen Anne's, and that looks very much like Izzy leaving the building in black jeans and a peacoat, so he turns again to go to the opposite cross.

About midway across Republic, his ears start ringing. Frenchie starts humming to try and drown it out. He pivots so quickly to the left on the sidewalk in front of Red Flag that Frenchie nearly drops the cake box.

“None of that,” he tells the cake in his hands, staring at it instead of his destination. “Roach’ll have my hide if you go flying now.”

I'll have your hide for that.

Frenchie stops walking. He feels like he should be looking over his shoulder, or at least setting the box down on the sidewalk while his hands shake it out. But cake on the sidewalk is just more advanced litter, protected or not, and Stede Bonnet would definitely be angry about his food having become rubbish, tainted, and Frenchie hears that loud ringing again, and the world looks a bit blurry, and he cannot drop the cake, he cannot drop the bell, he cannot drop.

The box shifts in his hands and Frenchie clutches it like a lifeline. “Easy, lad. Easy. I'm just going to set it d—”

“Don't trash it, don't trash it, I can't let y—”

“Okay! Alright. I'll put it on the bench.” Frenchie doesn't know what to do with his hands now that they're empty, besides remember that they're supposed to be full. He feels his bottom lip split open between his teeth. Someone far away starts whimpering.

“He was like this when I got here—saw him start over in front of Zheng's.”

“Puta mier—this is all my fault. Fuck!”

Frenchie knows he's staring down at his hands, but his neck feels like it's going the other way, that his fingers are trembling above his head. The longer he stands still, the less connected he feels to his feet.

“Why is it your fault?”

“Because he had to bring the cake here!”

“But what the fuck does t—”

“Because he was Ned Low's last sub!”

The ground looks closer now. Frenchie's not sure why, but he's not going to question it. Whoever was whimpering finally stopped, at least, but now Frenchie's having trouble hearing anything. There's a hand on his face, and Frenchie flinches away before he can stop himself.

“Not your face. That's fine. Thank you for telling me.”

“I didn't…” Frenchie doesn't know how to finish that. He's not even certain he started it.

“Can I hold your hands?”

Frenchie feels a bubble of slightly hysterical laughter building behind his ribs. “If you can find them up there,” he feels his lips say.

“Fuck. Alright.” Whoever's with him grunts. Frenchie sees dark denim and charcoal wool, and then a set of white weathered hands. There's a tattoo on one of them, but that can't be right. He'd remember. “Here's your hands,” the voice says. “We're just going to sit here and keep our hands together for a bit, you and I.”

The voice’s hands are cold but solid, more genuine than anything else Frenchie can feel at this moment. He thinks if the cement beneath him—sidewalk?—suddenly gave way, these hands would catch him. Frenchie squeezes their palms together, and he's met with the same.

“Too much caffeine,” mumbles Frenchie, only to feel slightly ill at the obfuscation. “More than that,” he adds. “Should tell you.”

Thumbs rub across the backs of Frenchie's hands. “You don't have to,” says the voice. Frenchie believes it's a man's, someone familiar, but he hates to assume. “I know enough.”

They sit there in silence as the cotton in Frenchie's skull slowly dissipates, dissolving like fairy floss, leaving stickiness behind. Frenchie can distinguish more sound around them, mostly footsteps and the occasional car rolling by.

“Where is the cake?” an unfamiliar accent asks. “And what's going on out here? Jim's having a fit on their phone.”

“‘S on the bench.” Frenchie's arm shifts; he glances up to see the voice’s elbow pointing toward the cake box nearby.

“Ah! Wonderful.” A set of manicured hands enter Frenchie's field of vision, fingers covered in rings. “I can definitely smell the oranges this time. Are you both coming in, or—”

Frenchie tenses all over as the voice shouts, “Stede fucking Bonnet, if you don't get your lily-livered arse back inside right now, I will personally murder you.”

“Well!” Stede’s stomping feet seem to echo, but Frenchie doesn't feel as threatened. “No need to be r—”

“Fuck off already!” A door slams. “Fucking idiotic son of a twat.” The hands in Frenchie's turn to weave their fingers together; it feels a bit like they're getting ready to play at some nursery school rhyming game. “Back with us yet?”

“Maybe?” Frenchie runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. They're chapped beneath his mask, and he immediately thinks of his mum shouting at him to moisturize. “Never. Never dropped like that before.”

“What do you need from me?” and Frenchie finally looks up into Izzy's face. His hair is shorter than Frenchie's ever seen it before, unruly and spiking out at odd angles, like he's been running his hands through it. He's wearing a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, lenses still slightly fogged, likely from the mask dangling from its loop around Izzy’s right ear.

Frenchie shrugs, wishing he could look away. “Dunno, really. Used to doing this bit on my own, but haven't had to in a long time.” There's a glimmer of anger that flits across Izzy's features. “Sorry,” Frenchie adds reflexively, and Izzy sighs, squeezing his hands again.

“Not for you to be sorry about.” The door to Revenge swings open again, and Izzy mercifully breaks eye contact as Jim squats down beside them. “Get it settled?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, “but I'm gonna have to cover for Lucius in the aftercare suite tonight so he ‘n Pete can Frenchie-sit.”

Frenchie’s stomach feels sour, thick and heavy as curd. “That's not necessary.”

“Like hell it's not,” Izzy snaps, then winces. “It is,” he reiterates in a calmer tone, but now Frenchie knows what his stern sounds like. He must look as dazed again as he suddenly feels, because Izzy mouths a swear and stares heavenward before looking back at Jim. “You got him covered at the chippy?”

“Archie's gonna fill in.”

“Good. Anyone behind the bar at Jackiez?”

“Swedie, I think?”

Izzy nods, and now he's looking at Frenchie again, and that's helpful as much as it simultaneously isn't. “You eaten yet today?”

“Couple bites of omelette.”

“Come on then.” Izzy holds one hand up to Jim to help pull him to standing, and then they both reach down to tug Frenchie up off the sidewalk. “I think our Swedie can at least manage toast without setting anything on fire.”

Frenchie walks unsteadily between them, clutching both their hands. He feels like some small newly-minted woodland creature, like David Attenborough will start narrating about a wild boar eating him at any moment.

Jim threads their fingers together. “How you doin’?”

“Very fucking embarrassed, honestly,” Frenchie admits, only to have to stifle a yawn into his own shoulder.

“Tired you out?”

“Was already tired. Didn't sleep w— Well, actually, didn't sleep at all.” Izzy comes to a stop, then quickly matches step again. “Was gonna grab a few winks before opening tonight.”

“Already said I put Archie on it.” Jim tries the door to Jackiez only to find it locked, but Izzy waves them off, already pulling out a ridiculously overloaded ring of keys. “You ‘member Archie, yeah?” they ask.

Frenchie nods, making hesitant eye contact. “She's not on payroll.”

“Roach can pay her in chips if he wants.”

“I'm fine now, I sw—”

“You're not,” says Jim, ducking until they can look him in the face. “You're not, and that's alright. Look, you work on this street, and that means you're crew. Eres de la familia, ¿comprendes? We take care of our own.”

Frenchie feels his face trying to crumple. “Don't make me cry, babes.”

Jim pulls him into a hug. “I think maybe you need to, if you want my opinion.”

“Don't, really.” Frenchie's traitorous nose sniffles. “‘S allergies.”

“Yeah,” Jim says with a snort as Izzy finally gets the door open, “you're definitely not the only person I know who's allergic to fuckin' aftercare.”

“Speaking of,” begins Izzy, and Jim releases Frenchie with a bit of reluctance. “Go grab my kit, would you?” He presses the keys into Jim's hand. “Come on,” he tells Frenchie with a laugh after Jim sketches a salute and dashes off to Queen Anne’s.

Frenchie stands there looking inside long enough for Izzy to grab his hand again and tug him in out of the cold.

Chapter Text

The inside of Jackiez reminds Frenchie a bit of a chain restaurant with too much budget allocated for wall decor, like a sitcom bar where the only thing holding the place together is less the customers and more the vintage bric-a-brac. There's an honest to god penny-farthing bicycle hanging up over a booth; upon further inspection, it seems to be hooked up to some kind of ye olde dildo. Frenchie takes a closer look at the walls as Izzy leads him through the barely-existent aisles between tables toward a corner booth near the bar. Sure enough, every item on haphazard display is a relic from BDSM days of yore.

Izzy grunts as he sits down on the red vinyl padding of the booth, turning as he scoots over so that his back is against the wood-paneled wall, left leg stretched out across the seat. A rusted roller skate juts out from the wall several centimeters above Izzy's head, and Frenchie decides he doesn't want to know what dynamic purpose it once served, actually.

“My apologies,” says a heavily accented voice from somewhere behind the bar top, “but we are supposed to be closed.”

“‘S alright, Swedie,” Izzy replies, unbuttoning his coat before tossing it over the table and onto the booth opposite. “Just me.”

“Izzy!” A tanned head pops up over the edge of the bar; his blond hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and he grins wide enough to show several golden teeth. “Aren't you supposed to be at the meeting with Mistress?”

“Change of plans. Could you toast up some of the good bread for us?”

Swedie nods. “Would you like lemon?”

“On fuckin' toast?”

He keeps smiling. “She said I need to remember to ask about it with the waters, but I don't want to forget, so I ask for everything.”

Izzy sighs, adjusting his left leg with his hands. “Well let's do water with lemon too, then.” Swedie bustles off, and Izzy looks up at Frenchie expectantly, holding out his hand. “Stop hovering and sit down already, for fuck’s sake.”

Frenchie twists his fingers together. This certainly looks like an invitation to cuddle up on Izzy, but… “How, um, where do you…?”

Izzy smiles, but his eyes look sad. “Low did a number on you, didn’t he?” murmurs Izzy, but he mercifully doesn’t leave Frenchie time to answer the question. “Touch seemed to help you out there. No reason it couldn't in here.”

Frenchie goes to take off his jacket, but freezes, hand hovering uncertainly over the zipper. He stares at the logo for Queen Anne’s on Izzy's black hoodie, then realizes that means he's just staring at Izzy's chest and looks down at his trainers.

There's a rumble from Izzy that sounds like it wants to be laughter. “Let me help,” he says, reaching out to tug on Frenchie's sleeve until he finally sits down. Frenchie honestly can't remember the last time someone undressed him, even partially. It's doing something funny to his stomach, and he can't decide how to feel about it, not with his brain going fuzzy.

He watches his jacket join Izzy's coat on the other side of the booth. Frenchie rubs his arms—a tee was fine when he was just going to work after, where it would be almost too warm.

“Cold?” Izzy asks. Frenchie nods, but doesn't look over. “I'd offer my hoodie, but I don't know that it would fit you. Jim should be here with a blanket soon enough.”

“There's a blanket in your kit?” Frenchie watches the room tilt slightly sideways as he lets Izzy shift him to lie back against his chest. He doesn't know what to do with his legs at first, but settles for folding them up on the bench, knees toward the ceiling. His lower back is likely to start screaming if he stays in this position for too long; given how Izzy’s wrapped his left arm around Frenchie, hand splayed over his heart, Izzy might yell louder than his spine if Frenchie tried to get up.

“If you'd rather have Jim take care of you when they get back,” Izzy tells him quietly, his cheek practically against Frenchie's temple, “I’ll understand.”

That bubble of anxious fear swells in his gut again. “Am I doing something wrong?” he asks before he can think better of it.

“No.” Izzy holds him tighter. “Just know I'm not your fi—” He stops suddenly and sighs, a warm puff of breath against Frenchie's skin. “Out of fucking practice at this part, anyway. Haven’t worked aftercare in years.”

Frenchie's saved from having to figure out what to say by Swedie showing back up with two mismatched ceramic mugs of water with giant curlicue straws and a ramekin piled comically full of lemon wedges. Izzy's chest shakes behind Frenchie's back, and he can feel the shift of Izzy's cheeks against his own face as Izzy laughs silently.

“Jackie’s type really is the most consistent fucking thing in the universe,” he says, holding Frenchie firm when he tries to sit up. “None of that, lad. Just tell me what you need.”

The part of Frenchie's brain that isn't currently pivoting on a wild and unseen axis wants him to squirm and see if Izzy still holds him down. “Water, please,” and he feels ridiculous asking when it's right there and Frenchie could do it himself actually, this is all nonsense and silly and—

“Good.” Izzy's voice has dropped an entire register into something that pools molten heat at the base of Frenchie's spine. He stiffens reflexively, anticipating some humiliating follow-up. But Izzy only repeats himself—“There’s a good lad, asking me for what you need.”—and holds the cup down to where Frenchie can grab for the straw with his mouth and drink.

Frenchie relaxes by degrees, feeling heavy. Izzy chuckles when Frenchie slumps against him, but it isn't unkind or at his expense. Like Izzy appreciates it somehow, for a reason that Frenchie knows would escape him even if he was thinking properly.

The straw disappears from between his lips, and Frenchie realizes he's closed his eyes. Doesn't seem important to open them when he can hear just fine, so he leaves them shut. He feels weirdly safe here, practically in Izzy’s lap, and Izzy isn’t behaving like Frenchie’s too much of a bother. Granted, he is a professional, but Frenchie decides not to worry about that for now because this is the nicest he’s felt in… Hours? Days? Potentially months, but that would require counting, and Frenchie isn’t keen on trying math at present. That's a problem for Later Frenchie.

“Do you like having your hair touched?” Izzy asks, and Frenchie nods more emphatically than he meant to. “Would you mind if I did?” which seems a weird way to phrase that, but Frenchie shakes his head with equal fervor. “I need actual words, lad.”

“Don't mind.” Frenchie's tongue feels uncoordinated in his mouth, a stranger behind his teeth. “Would like that.” He thinks Izzy says more, but Frenchie's too distracted by the steady stroke of fingertips against his scalp to register the words. Izzy's neck is warm against his forehead when Frenchie turns into it, but it makes Izzy's hand falter, so Frenchie adjusts back how he was. There's an undercurrent of anxiety trying to take hold— Izzy’s being too nice about all of this and he probably thinks you're faking because you aren't a real submissive— so Frenchie follows the fuzzy parts of his thoughts further down until he almost feels asleep.

“Holy shit.” Frenchie resurfaces long enough to determine the new voice is Jim again. “I think this might be the most relaxed I've ever seen him, and we've been smoking buddies for fuckin' years.”

“You've never taken him down before?”

“Nah, he wouldn't let me.” Frenchie hears himself grumbling as Jim's hands tuck a blanket around him; Izzy laughs again, and resumes petting Frenchie's head. “Said we like different stuff and he didn't wanna put me out, especially when I'm already partnered. I kept telling him it was no trouble, but.”

Izzy sighs deeply, an exhale strangely full of resignation—it sours Frenchie's stomach. “Maybe he'll let Lucius… Fuck, no, he's got Pete so Frenchie'll say no, won't he?” There's a near press of lips to Frenchie's temple, if a warm puff of breath can be believed, close enough to resonate but too far away to be a kiss, like Izzy thought better of it at the last possible moment. “Fuck,” repeats Izzy.

“Yeah, he's a tough nut to crack.”

“No fucking wond—it was really him? You swear?”

Frenchie lets Jim lace their fingers together, wonders if he should come up for air and join the conversation, then decides against it. “Wasn't my place to tell you, but yeah. Me gustaría poner mis manos en Low. Frenchie only told me because we were stoned as all fuck. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

“‘M right here,” Frenchie says. Even Ned’s last name is enough to dissipate the pleasant fog in his skull. “Got ears, you know.”

He scowls when Jim ruffles his hair, and they laugh as they set it back to rights. “Looked to me like you were on cloud eight at the least.” Frenchie finally opens his eyes as Jim audibly settles onto the other side of the booth. “Lucius said Pete's about ten, fifteen minutes out. Said he'd catch the bus home once his secretarial meeting duties this afternoon were over.”

“It's too much trouble,” and Frenchie feels the tell-tale swoop in his stomach, the same one he gets when it's been too long since he knelt for himself. Thinking about being his own Dom makes him feel worse, so he stops. “Can handle myself,” he insists, and leaves it at that.

“Sure, but you don't have to, is the thing.” They spread their arms along the back of the booth, an easygoing sprawl, then adjust their leg back beneath the table as Swedie shows up with several mangled pieces of heavily buttered toast. “Don't tell me the fuckin' appliances are fighting you again.”

“This is why Mistress only lets me handle the bar.” He hooks a finger beneath the gold ring around his neck and tugs it. It makes Frenchie miss the weight of a collar on his, sets his teeth on edge with the force of his sudden yearning.

Frenchie doesn't know how Izzy knows, but Izzy strokes his fingertips down the back of Frenchie's neck. He bites his bottom lip as his head drops forward, tumbling back into subspace like he'd not left it for a few minutes at all. Izzy keeps rubbing, and Frenchie knows the three of them are talking again, but the words don't reach him.

“Come on,” Izzy says softly, hand gripping the back of Frenchie's neck to pull him to recline against Izzy once more. There's no hiding whatever sound drops from Frenchie's lips, but he's aware enough to realize Izzy isn't hard in his trousers, so it must not have been too embarrassing a noise. He lets Izzy arrange him—it’s nice, this, not having to do the leading and the following both. “Take a bite, lad.”

Frenchie blinks a few times. He finds his own hand with some difficulty, reaching for the geometric nightmare toast Izzy holds in his fingers, but Izzy pulls it back out of reach.

“Let me.” It doesn't sound like a Command, but Frenchie can hear where Izzy's voice would like it to be one. He wants to turn around and get a good look at Izzy's face, just to make sure he's not being tricked somehow, though Frenchie doesn't know of any toast pranks historically played on subs, and pranks seem like more of a Jim thing than an Izzy activity.

“Oye.” Jim prods at Frenchie’s thigh with their foot beneath the table. “Quick, before he starts making airplane noises.”

“‘M not a little,” he manages after a long second’s thought.

“Yeah, but Viejo’s a dick,” says Jim, laughing.

“I will take off my leg and beat you with it,” Izzy tells them, and Frenchie isn't close enough to coherent to figure out how that might work.

“Es una broma, Viejo, relaja la raja.”

Swedie giggles. “That is a naughty word, Jim!”

“Y es une niñe traviese,” Izzy replies, and Frenchie’s head goes a bit swimmy. Something about the already lyrical quality of Izzy's tone combined with the sheer musicality of Spanish just wipes Frenchie’s brain clean like a magnet to a hard drive. Enough so that, when the toast presents itself again, Frenchie doesn't think twice about taking a bite of it. “Mi chico bueno,” murmurs Izzy, and then Frenchie stops thinking entirely.

Chapter Text

Frenchie honestly doesn't remember getting in Pete's car, let alone leaving Jackiez. He becomes gradually more aware of his surroundings as Pete drives, not that the music coming through the stereo helps him place what year he's in, let alone the decade.

“Is this…” Frenchie rolls his tongue around in his mouth. “This B*Witched, mate?”

“Oh! Uh.” From the corner of his eye, Frenchie catches Pete staring at the radio like it's betrayed him. “That's—It’s Lucius', from the last time he drove the car. You can change over to radio and fiddle with it if you want something, I dunno, cooler.”

Frenchie doesn't really know that his fingers will cooperate; it still feels like all his bones have melted. “Nah, this is fine,” he says, stroking along one of the green stripes of Izzy's blanket, which he’s kept for some reason.

“Didn’t expect you to bounce back so fast,” Pete tells him sheepishly. “I know I stay out in orbit for a long fucking time after Lucius gets me down.”

“Never done it like that before,” admits Frenchie, finally feeling the familiar curl of anxiety in his stomach again.

“Like what?”

“Y’know.” Pete throws him a puzzled look. “Soft,” says Frenchie, turning his eyes to watch the cars in the other lane. “Even when I take myself down, it's not all warmth and cuddles.”

“You take yourself down? Not alone, at least, right?” Frenchie shrugs with one shoulder, and Pete makes a hum that's half-incredulous, and half distress. “That's fucking dangerous.”

“Beats the alternatives.” The blanket bunches between his fingers. “And the beatings, for that matter. Never been easy to launch me into space.”

“Fuck.”

The car is mercifully silent for a few minutes, save for the early aughts girl group blathering about blaming weathermen coming through the speakers. Frenchie wonders if there's more he should be saying, some sort of information he should offer. Then again, being willing to flirt with developing a potentially fatal case of absubosial serotonin syndrome instead of simply submitting to a Dom probably says enough.

Eventually, Pete clears his throat as the car merges onto the M25. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” Frenchie had hoped no one would ever know except John and Roach, truth be told, and then Jim found out. And now… Izzy doesn't seem the type to engage in hot gossip, but how much can Frenchie trust that impression of him? Sure, he was wonderful today, but that barb about Frenchie's dynamic still stings.

“Okay.”

Pete navigates quietly for a few seconds, then begins singing along off-key to “C'est la Vie” under his breath. Frenchie’s been roommates with John long enough to have the track listing of every album of every girl group from the UK memorized; he knows too damn well that these songs are all playing out of order. Who listens to a single CD on shuffle? Come to think, who even still owns a car with a CD player these days? Frenchie runs through the bare facts he knows about the vehicle based on the interior alone, then takes a quick glance at either side of the backseat.

“Golf Mk4, right?” he asks, settling back down. “Except the radio, that's got to be aftermarket work.”

“Uh, yeah.” Pete blinks at Frenchie owlishly. “Yeah! Didn't take you for a car guy.”

“Used to park loads of these when I first started valet parking at Heathrow.” He almost laughs as he adds, “Everything I know about cars was learned either against my will or by complete accident, trust me.”

Pete grins, lopsided but genuine, eyes still on the road. “I tried to be a car guy for a while after I came out—y’know, so I could do my own vehicle maintenance. For the man cred?”

“Man cred?” Frenchie feels like he's just received more information about Pete than he should have, but can't quite connect all the dots.

But Pete just barrels on. “Anyway, found out I was actually garbage at it when I tried to change Lucius' air filter when we first started dating. Surprised the relationship didn't explode, too.” He looks pleased with himself when Frenchie does manage to laugh this time.

“How did you manage that with just an air filter?”

“Lucius says the car was terrified I might try to work on her again and took herself out before it had a chance to happen.” Pete sighs as traffic comes to a standstill, one hand coming up to rub at his collar—whether beneath it or above, Frenchie isn't sure, trying not to focus on his new awareness of what his own throat lacks. “Look, um. How about I talk, and you just listen, okay?”

Frenchie picks some lint off the blanket, then puts it back when he can't figure out where to put it. “Sure,” he says, shaking his hand, lint clinging to the callus on his thumb. 

“I know what it's like to have a Dom push your boundaries farther than you either wanted or agreed on.”

His awareness of the lint fades. When Frenchie jerks his head up to look at Pete, he's met with his profile, Pete's hands both curled around the steering wheel, thumbs rubbing it.

“Before Lucius,” continues Pete, staring out the front like he's memorizing the plate of the car ahead. “And it wasn't nearly as bad as what happened to you, but it was enough to put me off the idea of a committed relationship with a Dom for years.”

“How d’you know mine was worse?” Frenchie's chest feels tight.

Pete finally looks at him. “Don't freak out, b—”

“No promises.”

“Fair enough.” Pete drums his thumbs a few more times before putting his hands in his lap. “No one knew who it was until today, but there's not a Dom working in the Republic who doesn't know exactly why Ned Low got run out.” Pete's left hand suddenly shoots across to grab Frenchie's right; he wasn't aware it was shaking until Pete's palm landed on his own. “It's okay.”

“‘S not.” His voice cracks in the middle. “Fuck, they're all gonna think badly of me now. Like… Like I'm broken or something, fuck.”

“No one's gonna think anything different about you, I swear. And if they do, I'll take out their kneecaps.”

“Very specific of you.” Frenchie goes to wipe his face with his sleeve and accidentally uses the blanket as a tissue, instead.

“Knees are really important!” Pete reaches over with his right hand to open and rummage through the glove box, retrieving a stack of takeaway napkins that look about as old as the car. “Can’t do shit if your knees are shot,” he says, and holds an ancient napkin to Frenchie's nose.

“Can do it mesel—”

Pete makes a frustrated noise, and the napkin lowers as his shoulders drop. “Just because you can doesn't mean you should, or that you ought to even.” He lets Frenchie pluck the napkin from his fingers. “After all the hell you have to have gone through to transition in the first place, you deserve to be able to celebrate it. You deserve to let yourself be taken care of.”

Frenchie blows and wipes his nose quickly. “Wait, are you transdynamic, too?”

“No, the other kind of trans.” Pete pops the lid off of a takeaway cup and holds it out for the dirty napkin. “But after a while, I got really tired of spending so much time and money on growing a dick when there wasn't anyone sucking it. And don't say that it's different,” he continues. “You had to get a whole surgical implant about it, after all.”

“Thought about having it removed after…” Frenchie trails off, but Pete's nodding when he looks up. “Felt wrong to, I guess, even if the neurotransmitters were causing more problems than they were giving me solutions.”

“Because they made you who you already were in your heart. Not to be a sap or anything.” Pete smiles crookedly. “But I get it, man. I really do. Just the idea of stopping my T is fucking devastating. Detransition would make life easier for both of us, probably,” he says, pointing back and forth between them, “but I'd rather take the hard road and actually enjoy the journey, you know what I mean?”

Frenchie exhales a wry chuckle through his nostrils. “Can't ‘zactly say I've been enjoying it.”

“Well no t—” Pete startles as a driver lays into their horn behind them, then settles his eyes back on the road. “No time like now to start,” he finishes, and Frenchie wishes it could be as easy to move on as Pete makes it sound.

By the time Lucius makes it home to his and Pete's maisonette, Frenchie’s nerves are back on edge. It's hardly Pete's fault that Frenchie’s brain is demanding he go back and throw himself at Izzy immediately. If anything, Pete has done his best to accommodate and distract him, even though Frenchie is so behind on Doctor Who that he'll never catch up, no matter how much is explained.

Still, he's grateful Pete has turned out to be a cuddler, even if Frenchie can't enjoy the cuddling, too focused on the stupid half-whining sounds coming out of his own mouth. Never mind that he's receiving affection from someone with a partner; if Frenchie considers it for too long, he'll break out in hives bound to rival any he's ever had after eating peanuts. Even that blip of a thought is enough to have Frenchie tensing all over where he's curled up against Pete's chest, screwing his eyes shut so he can't see Lucius.

Pete responds by loosening his arms. “You're okay,” and that's ridiculous, Frenchie knows that he is okay, but can't figure out how to begin explaining that it's Pete he's worried about. That Lucius will inevitably pay too much attention to Frenchie and then something awful will happen to Pete because of it.

“Frenchie.” Lucius sounds closer than he was before Frenchie shut his eyes. “Can you look at me?”

He hesitates, then opens the eye not buried in Pete's shirt. Lucius has crouched down on the floor beside the couch; they aren't nose-to-nose, but it's close.

“Good, thank you.” Lucius scrunches his nose when he smiles; between that and the praise, Frenchie’s muscles relax of their own volition. “I promise nothing's going to happen to Pete if I help you.”

“Said it out loud, did I?”

“You did, and I'm glad of it.” Lucius adjusts until he's sitting cross-legged in front of them. “That's made, like, a lot of pieces click into place actually. No wonder you won't play with anyone who’s partnered.” He lifts his hand and then asks, “Can I touch your neck?”

“I'm right here,” Pete tells him, holding Frenchie tight again. “Lulu can still see me, and I'm safe right here with you.”

“Feel bloody moronic,” Frenchie mumbles, staring at Lucius' hand hovering nearby. “Should have a better handle on all this shit.” The hand keeps not moving. “You can, you can touch me, Jesus Chr—”

Lucius' fingers settle warm on the nape of Frenchie's neck, and the rest of him relaxes almost immediately. It's little more than petting his skin, but the nausea Frenchie had started feeling again during the previous episode ebbs away. Beneath his ear, he can hear the steady thud of Pete's heart; between the two, Frenchie feels soothed.

“It's not moronic,” says Lucius, and it's easier to look at him now. “Incredibly un -moronic, in fact. There's nothing stupid about trying to protect yourself.”

Frenchie watches Lucius' mouth keep moving, though the words seem indistinct. His eyes want to close, so he lets them, the exhaustion of the afternoon and the night before finally drawing him into sleep.

Chapter Text

His legs dangle off the end of the bed as Frenchie sits and stares holes through the thick envelope Lucius had given him Sunday morning. Frenchie remains uncertain that he wants it; feels a bit like blood money, except that Frenchie was the one who bled for it.

“Izzy's been hanging onto it since the collection was taken,” Lucius had told him, sitting beside him on the couch where Frenchie had slept. “Just waiting for whoever it was that was… Abandoned that night to make themself known.”

Frenchie had shrugged, because he didn't know what else to do with his arms. “Abandoned was the least of it,” he'd mumbled. Even that much truth made him feel like puking.

“Still, Republic Row felt responsible for making sure they—you—got whatever help or treatment was necessary after having such a traumatic experience.” Lucius had closed his eyes with a sigh. “Petey, love, either kneel like you clearly want to, or sit down on the couch, but either way, you've got to stop hovering over my shoulder.”

Pete had knelt sheepishly. Lucius' hand had settled on the top of his head immediately, and Frenchie felt the pull to kneel beside him, to get the same comfort. He clenched his hands and resisted the urge as hard as he could.

“‘M fine,” Frenchie insisted. It was a wonder his knees weren't knocking together.

“If you were fine,” pointed out Lucius, “then you wouldn't be fighting what your dyn wants right now.”

“C’mon.” Pete reached up for Frenchie's hand, lacing their fingers together and giving his arm a tug. “Plenty of room down here, and he's got two hands.”

That's where Roach and John had found him when they came by after closing up at the chippy: on his knees, Lucius' hand in his hair, and Pete still clinging to Frenchie's left hand. In Frenchie’s right was clutched an envelope stuffed with more cash than he’d ever seen in one spot before, not even on the nights he made the bank deposit after close.

“Could quit the valet wi’ that, y’could,” John had said from the back seat.

“Or have a man killed!” Roach had said enthusiastically. When no one followed up, he'd tugged at the collar of his tee, fishing his protection charm out by the string that hung around his neck. “I mean, theoretically. We've not counted it all up yet.”

“Pete gave me the number for his therapist.” Frenchie watched Roach bring the charm to his lips, kissing it as he drove. “Do I look like I need a therapist?”

John had snorted. “Ye sure ye want me t’ answer that, love?”

“You've been on the NHS waiting list for a submissive specialist for what, couple years now?” Roach looked at him sideways briefly before his eyes settled back on the road, fiddling with another protection charm on one of his bracelets. “You could go private. No more waiting.”

“Could send you to get your road anxiety exorcised,” Frenchie'd teased, laughing when Roach gave him a playful shove.

But they’ve both gone to bed now, leaving Frenchie not only awake but alone with his own thoughts. He’d thought the big wooden crate he’d been visualizing in his head to stuff bad feelings into was enough; it had been, after all, ever since he first invented it as a child. But Frenchie can’t seem to get the lid to stay on it after everything that transpired yesterday. John had suggested he imagine some nails and a hammer; all Frenchie managed to picture was himself nailing his own sleeve to the top of the box.

Great, he’d thought, even my imagination is broken.

Frenchie doesn’t smoke often, but he’s already on his third cigarette this morning, hanging out on the apartment’s sad excuse for a balcony. The bells from the Anglican church down the street ring out, calling penitents to the morning service; they’re loud enough that Frenchie swears the wrought iron balcony shakes. He doesn’t think the breeze, cold as it is, would be strong enough to cause the trembling beneath his feet.

Sighing, he leans back against the glass door. Whether the fog in the air is from his breath or the cigarette, Frenchie can’t be sure. He grips the railing with his fully gloved hand; Frenchie’s fingers on the other hand already feel frozen, only protected up to their second knuckles by John’s knitting. The wash downstairs will be ready to toss in the dryer soon enough. There’s no need to light up again, but Frenchie does, anyway.

He's a mere two puffs in when he spots a familiar looking peacoat making its way down the sidewalk toward his building. Puff three becomes a coughing fit—Frenchie clings to the precarity of the balcony rail, cigarette slipping from his icy hand.

Izzy takes a neat step backward and dodges it before it lands on him. “Not quite ticker-tape, is it?”

“You home from the war already?” jests Frenchie, then coughs again. “How's our boys on the frontlines then?” he asks once his lungs have stopped trying to divorce his chest.

“Fucking same as always, I'd imagine. Havin’ a lie-in after another long fucking night.” Izzy stubs out the cigarette, though Frenchie's sure it went out during its tumble. “Y’ever hear Jim try to hold intelligent conversation before noon? Nasty business.”

“Oh, they sent you ‘round to check on me.” Frenchie feels oddly disappointed, but tries to play it cool, even as he winds his scarf around his neck a second time.

But Izzy shakes his head. “I rang them for your address,” he says, scratching above the top edge of his mask. “They said that Lucius said you'd spent the night over at his. Thought I'd pop by and see if you were up.”

Frenchie wonders if Izzy can see his face heating up from where he stands below. “Oh,” he repeats, fiddling with the fringed end of his scarf. “Got your blanket in the wash.”

“I'm not here for the fucking blanket, you twat.” Izzy tilts his head to one side, both hands jammed in his coat pockets. “You want to buzz me in, Juliet?”

“Rather be Mercutio. More glitter ‘n glam, less wings ‘n self-offing.” Frenchie can see Izzy puffing up a reply and decides to cut him off before he can get too grumpy. “Be down in a jif,” he tells him, suddenly praying he's not accidentally locked himself out again.

But Frenchie hasn't, and he opts for the stairs over the elevator, so he's able to keep his word. The anxiety doesn't really hit until Frenchie opens the door to the vestibule. At a distance, two floors between them, engaging in their usual banter had been easy; this close, Frenchie can't help but feel slightly inadequate, or at least ill-prepared. If Izzy's not here to check up on him, then what exactly should Frenchie expect from whatever conversation is about to be had?

Gran didn't raise a coward, Frenchie thinks, but she did raise a very good liar.

The entry door swings open, and there's Izzy before him, a width no bigger than the chippy counter between them. He's wearing an almost identical outfit to yesterday afternoon—makes Frenchie wonder if the man's even been home yet.

“Hi,” he offers with a wave that's as nonchalant as Frenchie can muster. “Need to pop your blanket into the dryer ‘fore someone else snatches it up. The dryer, I mean. Not the blanket.”

Izzy's shoulders shake. “Lead on, then. Unless it cramps your style.”

“No style to laundry, really.” Frenchie can feel the nattering onslaught approach over the horizon of his vocal cords. “Unless you count tilting the dryer to make it free.”

“Fucking… What?” Izzy sounds clearer; Frenchie can only assume he's taken his mask off—if he spins to check now, Frenchie might lose his nerve.

“If you shake it the right way, it thinks you've already dropped the coins in,” he explains instead, leading Izzy past the mailboxes and down the four steps to the landing where the washers and dryers are kept. “Only the one on the far right, though—haven’t figured out the combination for the other two yet.”

“Why the fuck do you know that?”

“Got bored during lockdown, didn't I?” Frenchie pulls open the door to his washing machine and tugs out the blanket, its green and tan stripes darker from the water.

Izzy snorts. “So you took up petty theft?”

“Nah,” he says, tossing the blanket into the drum, “had that in my toolbox since primary school. Just refined it a bit.” He checks the lint trap a second time, then doesn't slide it back in the whole way. “Y'know, evolution,” continues Frenchie as he closes the dryer, then wraps his arms around it to bodily lift it to balance on its front right corner. “Survival of the fittest,” he grunts before doing something John has dubbed the “wash day shimmy”. There's eventually a clink from somewhere within the depths of the dryer, and the sensor light pops on next to the coin slot.

“Well I'll be damned,” says Izzy. He actually looks impressed, too, enough to make Frenchie feel light-headed, though he thinks he's covered for it by hoisting himself up to sit on top of the dryer, his sock-clad heels tapping against the door. Izzy leans back against the dryer opposite, arms across his chest, feet crossed at the ankle. “Smarter lad than you let on, hmm?”

He sounds like he's teasing, but Izzy's pinning Frenchie with his gaze, and it makes his intentions that much harder to figure out. The distance between them doesn't make Frenchie feel any less… Inspected, or perhaps assessed, and that never seems to end well. Only reminds him of all the qualities he lacks.

“Might be a rubbish sub,” Frenchie eventually says, studying his own socks, “but I'm good at plenty of other stuff.”

“What makes you say you're a rubbish fucking sub?”

Frenchie rubs his big toes together. Shrugs. Doesn't feel much like explaining, so he shrugs again.

Izzy scoots the old metal folding chair from the corner over in front of Frenchie—has he always had a limp and Frenchie just never noticed it before? “Look,” begins Izzy, settling down on the chair in an easy sprawl, “clearly I've done something that's upset you.” He sighs, steepling his fingers together in front of him, angled down toward the floor. “I don't think it's to do with yesterday, but I know I'm not your type, so I'm sure yesterday didn't help matters.”

He says something more that Frenchie doesn't catch, too stunned. “How d’you know whether you're my type or not?” he blurts out, and Izzy stops speaking in favor of blinking enough to make Frenchie seriously consider whether or not it might be morse code.

“At the bloody chippy Friday,” says Izzy incredulously. “I grabbed your shirt and thought you were ‘bout to yak all over the bloody till! And then you were so fucking hesitant yesterday and…” Izzy crosses his arms again, then uncrosses them, then shifts restlessly in the chair. “Figured I'd read you all wrong these past months and made an arse of myself.”

Frenchie scoots closer to the edge of the dryer, hands rubbing his knees over his pyjama trousers for want of anything else to occupy them. “Were y—” He wets his lips. “Were you flirting with me?”

“Not sure I could have made it any fucking clearer without hiring a skywriter.”

“Christ,” groans Frenchie, “I'm an idiot.” Izzy arches his eyebrows; Frenchie’s going to rub holes in his trousers if this keeps up, so he looks away again, down to Izzy's feet on the floor. “One of the, uh, let's say less than fun things about being transdynamic is no one ever seems to take you completely seriously.”

“Which is absolutely fucked,” Izzy says, “for the record.”

Frenchie hums his agreement. “It's like there's a whole different set of expectations for us than for cis-dyns,” he continues. “And it doesn't matter how well you do in a scene, or how hard you push yourself. You're still never quite satisfying enough for your partner. Like—like aspartame instead of sugar. Doesn't help that it's always been hard to get me down.” He bites his lip, gnaws it a bit before adding, “Makes Doms think I'm not sure I want to be there—honestly lost count of how many times I've been called a tourist.”

“Fuckin' hell.” Frenchie finally looks at Izzy again, a bit bewildered by how horrified he appears to be. “You thought I was making fun of you.”

There's really nothing to do besides shrug for a third time. “Sorry,” Frenchie offers, smiling uneasily.

“What the fuck do you have to be sorry for?”

“Besides being so broken I immediately assumed the worst of you?”

The chair legs scrape backward against the concrete floor and there stands Izzy, practically between Frenchie's legs, and he immediately derails that train of thought. Frenchie knows what to do with his own hands even less now, so he grips the dryer’s sides like it's about to blast off, and no, that train must likewise return to the station. Maybe controlling his brain wouldn’t be so har—so difficult if Izzy didn't have such a dramatic presence; Frenchie doesn't feel like he's looking down at Izzy currently, no matter the reality of it.

“Tell you something of a secret?” Izzy asks in a woodsmoked tone.

“Yes, s—yeah.” There's a hint of amusement in Izzy's eyes, and Frenchie wonders how many other slip-ups he's caught before.

“Man that trained Eddie ‘n me was a lot like Low,” he tells Frenchie, and the name doesn't hurt so much with Izzy's voice curled around it. “That whole idea of needing t’ break a sub in used to be the norm here on the Row, and when you finally apprenticed as a Dom to Hornigold, it was only after a year and a day of subbing for him. So you're not the only man in this room who's ever thought of himself as broken, lad.”

Frenchie doesn't know what to say, but his hands seem to have a mind of their own, and when had Izzy's made their way to the lid of the dryer, too?

“Took a lot of unlearning for us all,” Izzy continues, “after the district went union and we ran him out of Queen Anne's. But none of us much liked the taste of doing to an actual submissive all the things that had been done to us. A lot of fucking work went into becoming the Dom I am now.” Izzy squeezes Frenchie's hands, his stare somehow more intense. “A lot of fucking therapy.”

“Is this the part where you tell me to ring up Pete's therapist and use that envelope to glue my pieces back together?” asks Frenchie, voice scarcely more than a whisper of consonants.

“I'm not gonna fucking tell you to. ‘S not my place. But I am encouraging it.”

Frenchie deflates into a slump. “Haven’t had my head examined since they made me go through it before the implant procedure. Don’t much like the idea of doing it over again and, you know, having to spring clean my brain.” Izzy’s still running his thumbs across Frenchie’s knuckles; watching the repetitive motion is nearly as soothing as the feel of Izzy’s calloused hands.

“Oh it’s a bloody nightmare, alright.” Something about Izzy’s sudden enthusiasm and volume makes Frenchie snicker. “I’d only had it before by force, too, requirement for the damn surgery. Fucking health service.”

“Wait.” Frenchie slides off the dryer to land neatly on his feet, though the socks slide against the smooth floor. “Are you… Like me?”

Izzy shakes his head. “Like Pete.” He draws himself up a bit taller, his tousled hair a crown. “That a problem?”

“No! I mean, sometimes surprises are a problem for me, but this isn't a problematic surprise.” Frenchie winces before admitting, “Might not know my way around the, uh, downtown scenery if you will. But the only issue is skill.”

“Not a surprise person? Must make birthdays fucking awful.” It's easier to tell Izzy's teasing this time, now that Frenchie isn't tying himself in knots trying to make every word a bully.

“You should ask Roach what happened last time he baked me a cake without me expecting one.”

The left side of Izzy's mouth quirks up, and there's a dare in his eyes as he takes his hands back. “In the spirit of no fucking surprises,” he says, grabbing Frenchie’s forearm for balance as he rolls up his left trouser leg. Frenchie only stays confused for a moment; as soon as the leg clears the top of Izzy's trainer, he understands.

“That does explain a few things,” says Frenchie, blinking at what appears to be a metal tube where Izzy's shin should be.

“Such as?” Izzy sounds suddenly on alert, and while Frenchie hates that Izzy's raised shields with such alacrity, it also makes him feel less of a mess. If someone as formidable as Izzy can also jump to a worst case scenario, then maybe Frenchie isn't the weakling he imagines himself to be.

“Was wondering why you'd go to all the trouble of sawing a leg off just to beat up Jim, for starters.”

Izzy huffs a laugh and lets his trouser leg fall back over the prosthesis. “Jim would've run clear across the district by the time I got the fucker off, so not much of a threat, really.”

“Yeah, but Jim's a natural switch. Could just toss a Command at them.”

“Not without negotiating.” Izzy tilts his head slightly to one side. “What does the natural part have to do with it?”

“Oh, uh.” Frenchie rubs the back of his neck. “Just that they aren't transdynamic, so you know it’ll work the first time.” Izzy keeps staring at him, so Frenchie continues. “Don't always work on me the first time or two, do they. Not unless I'm already down pretty far.”

“‘S that why you keep thinking you're not a real sub?” Frenchie turns his head away, but Izzy's hand is there to catch him and turn it back, almost too quickly, like he'd already known what Frenchie was going to do. It's hotter than it has any right to be; Frenchie can feel the tension leaching out of his muscles. “Can I try something?” Izzy asks softly. “Do you trust me enough?”

Frenchie couldn't lie, not when he already feels ankle-deep into subspace. “Not sure,” he says, and feels terrible about it, but Izzy only nods.

“I'll let you take my leg off and beat me with it after, if I've made you feel fucking uncomfortable.” He holds his hand out to shake on it, and Frenchie eyes it warily. But the easiest way to prove to Izzy that a first Command won't work unless Frenchie's already drowning is to let him try. And Izzy's never purposefully hurt him.

He takes a shaky breath, and then Frenchie puts his hand in Izzy's.

“Kne—”

Izzy's other hand shoots out and grabs Frenchie beneath his armpit when his knees immediately buckle. Everything feels suddenly hazy, like awareness has drained away, a black-and-white film gone technicolor, vibrant and indistinct. He hears the creaking of the folding chair; the floor settles itself beneath Frenchie's knees; there's soft cloth against his ear and temple, and a hand carding through his hair.

“There you are, pet,” murmurs Izzy. “Seem real enough to me,” and Frenchie can tell that his own cheeks are wet, but feels nothing but joy.

Chapter Text

Monday morning, Frenchie had called into the valet service and requested to use a day of his accrued sub leave. It's not that he was still ill or dropped, but accidentally spending several hours on his knees when he’s pushing forty had perhaps not been the most brilliant of ideas. He'd hoped his boss wouldn't pry for details, and she didn't, more or less.

“If you've got injuries, dearie, then take the week,” Holly had said. “God knows you've got enough time accrued to cover us all.”

Which was how Frenchie had discovered he had somehow banked nine months of leave over the years. John had cackled over his sewing machine and asked what Frenchie intended to name the baby.

It had been tempting to call out Tuesday after Pete's therapist told him she wasn't accepting new patients, as well. Frenchie felt awful about potentially lying again, though, not necessarily because he felt some weird loyalty to his boss, but because what if he actually needed it? He'd never taken sub leave from a job before, at first from an overwhelming need to prove himself as capable, and then because he simply wasn't subbing. The first few times he'd played Dom in his own head, Frenchie could’ve definitely used a few days off; having simultaneous Dom and sub drop had made him briefly consider driving an expensive car directly through the hotel lobby, but calling in was as unfathomable as it was embarrassing. How could he possibly explain that he was such a shit sub that even his imaginary Dom was depressed about it?

Now, here was Izzy, who'd been trying to take care of him before he even knew who Frenchie really was.

So Frenchie worked his shift Tuesday, taking the keys of ostentatious vehicles from their hoity-toity owners, and did his best not to think about the unopened text from Izzy currently burning a hole through the pocket of his uniform jacket. He wasn't sure how to reply to how are you? with anything less than honest word vomit. Plus, as lovely as Sunday morning had been, how was someone as arbitrary rules-averse as Frenchie going to be enough of a sub for a man who worked high protocol?

“I mean,” John began on Wednesday morning, flipping bacon from his seat on his rollator, “ye could just ask him that.”

“I'm not even sure what my fucking limits are anymore,” groaned Frenchie, head pillowed on his arms at the table. “Never really got to have any.”

“Ye said anything at all t’ him yet?”

“No.”

“Oh Frenchie.” John drained the grease from the pan. Frenchie was only saved from whatever mothering John was surely about to launch into by the door buzzer. “Speak o’ the devil?”

But no, it was Roach, holding a manila folder full of what looked like photocopies, which he'd deposited in Frenchie's arms with no warning on his way toward the kitchen, sniffing as he went.

“What is all this?” asked Frenchie, following behind. “Old newspaper articles?”

“Microfiche.” Roach had already taken the spare apron from its hook and was shooing John away from his own pan.

“Micro what?”

“Fiche—ah, yes, hob is much too hot for this. When was this stove last cleaned? No, no, don't answer. Anyway,” he said, continuing to fiddle with knobs and make himself at home, “I did some digging at the library about your man an—”

“He's still not my man!”

John snorted. “Yer knees beg to differ.”

Roach laughed as he put fresh bacon in the pan. “Hornigold.”

“What?” asked Frenchie again.

“No, who. He owned Queen Anne's before the Teach-Hands-Rackham joint venture.”

“How much did you tell him, babes?” Frenchie asked, staring at John, who picked at his manicure.

“Exactly as much ‘s ye told me, suppose,” said John with a nonchalant shrug, not looking up, a pair of magnifying glasses perched on his nose. He'd already produced a seafoam-green velvet bodice from somewhere, continuing the painstaking process of embroidering it with a pattern of nautilus shells. “Like greater London’s queerest platonic polycule, we are. And Roach knows feckin’ everything worth knowin’ eventually, anyway.”

Frenchie slumped onto a barstool. “Might still have liked to be asked first.”

“Heard ‘n noted.” John met his eyes above the rims of his glasses and added, “‘M sorry, Frenchie.”

“Yeah, ‘s alright,” mumbled Frenchie. “Still, Roach, this not an invasion of his privacy somehow?”

“Hmm?” Roach turned his attention away from rearranging their spice cabinet, a canister of Tesco’s cheapest in each hand. “Public records,” he explained. “Only the news that was fit to print.” He grinned, then explained, “I didn't even check the Daily Mail. All on the up-and-up.”

“Feels like something I should ask to hear about, though.”

“Ye can't even text back a hello!” John couldn't see Frenchie scowl at him, but it made him feel better to scowl regardless. “Ought t’ be thankin’ Roach fer the initiative, honestly.”

“Not to mention the restraint!” Roach flipped the bacon again. “You're lucky I didn't go full consulting detective on him!”

“Fine,” he said, digging his mobile out of his hoodie pocket, “fine. Look, gonna text him right now. That make you both happy?”

“T’isn’t my dyn t’ satisfy.” John's knowing grin was downright aggravating.

“Well I'm pleased,” said Roach, tossing an ancient bottle of turmeric in the general direction of the bin. “Is this where I tell you you're a good boy?”

“Fucking hate you both,” Frenchie told them as he tapped out a reply. “Mental. Got my chakras unaligned just listening to you.”

Izzy, Monday, 6:03 am: How are you

Frenchie, Wednesday, 12:22 pm: I'm okay, sorry for the late reply

He hit send after a few more seconds of dithering, then put his phone back in his pocket, only for it to immediately beep at him. Roach swirled around cackling to point at John, who swore heavily in Gaeilge before rolling out toward his bedroom.

Izzy: It's alright. Just glad you're okay

Frenchie: potentially strange question for you

Izzy: Expect a potentially strange answer

Frenchie: and fuck how are you? Sorry

Izzy: Can't complain. And nothing to beg forgiveness for. Yet

“Shit,” remarked John, passing a five pound note to Roach. “I know girls what would kill for that shade o’ natural rouge.”

“Shut it!” Frenchie hissed, crossing his legs.

Izzy: Didn't scare you much did I?

Frenchie: wouldn't call it scared tbh

Izzy: Good. You had a question

Frenchie: roach took it upon himself to look up your backstory. I didn't ask him to do that and would have preferred he didn't but now I have a whole load of newspaper clippings in my kitchen

His leg bounced harder with every minute that passed. Frenchie reached over to grab a slice of bacon to munch nervously, only for Roach to swat at his hand with his turning fork.

Izzy: Is this you asking for permission to look or are you needing to beg forgiveness after all?

Frenchie: permission

Frenchie: sir

Izzy: You know you could have looked without asking me, don't you?

Frenchie: didn't feel right

Izzy: But I do like that you asked

“If ye don't quit squirmin’, ye’ll end up arse over teakettle on the floor.”

In a slightly higher pitch, Frenchie repeated, “Shut it!”

The articles are, as Roach had said, relatively dry and bereft of much scandal, though Edward and Izzy's acquisition of QA reads more like some kind of staff mutiny than a business deal. Hornigold had been swept up in a police raid of some sort due to an anonymous tip-off about illicit substances, though he was arrested on far worse charges. Anyone involved in submissive trafficking had to be at least as bad as Low, Frenchie figures; if it absolved Izzy of his trauma, then maybe therapy really could work for him, too.

But Frenchie hasn't had much luck on that front. In between continuing to exchange texts with Izzy yesterday, Frenchie had called a dozen private submissive specialists. Not one of them had availability, so by the time he'd left for his valet shift Wednesday evening, Frenchie had been frustrated in more than just the fun way. He's made at least a dozen more calls this afternoon, working his way down the listings and into the more abysmally rated therapists, and still nothing.

And then there’s the last text from Izzy, received this morning around the time Frenchie had fallen into his bed. It's all Frenchie's been able to think about since he opened it. Or at least, all he's been able to quietly panic about.

Izzy, 6:02 am: We’re having our monthly newbie open house at QA Monday next. I was hoping you might accept a personal invitation to attend 

Frenchie knows he has to say something, because he likes Izzy, a crush big enough to send notes in class over. He doesn't know how it will turn out, subbing for a professional; if that makes Frenchie a client, then is the relationship strictly business? Never mind his looming unease about a high protocol setting—the vlogs Frenchie found online made it seem like a somehow kinkier Ren faire. Christ, his gran must be throwing an absolute fit from the afterlife, watching Frenchie even consider playing at servitude when she'd worked downstairs her whole life and made damn sure that he would never have to do likewise.

“Yo, Frenchie!”

He can't imagine his nonexistent therapist would sign off on jumping into the game again so suddenly, either. Fuck, Izzy won't wait for him forever though. Or is Frenchie some kind of charity case?

“Frenchie!”

“Wot w—oh,” he says, blinking quickly, “shit, there's a queue behind you, Jim.”

They shake their head, laughing. “Yeah man, where the hell have you been? Because it definitely ain't been here.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Frenchie can't find the pen he was using, then checks for it behind his ear. “Been trying to set up therapy intake and everyone's booked up for months so I'm...” He sighs, tapping the nib end of the pen on the order pad. “Bit stressed.”

“Gonna wear a hole through our flat’s floor, what with all the feckin' pacing,” groans John as he bags up an order. “Never see our deposit again at this rate.”

“Didn't Pete give you the hook-up with his?” asks Jim, fiddling with the brim of the truly ridiculous hat they're wearing tonight.

“Tried to, but she's not accepting new patients.”

“Oh,” Jim realizes, “so that's why you haven't texted Viejo back.” Someone behind them in line grumbles, but they're hushed by another waiting customer quickly. Frenchie isn't sure how keen he is on being half of the Row's personal telenovela. “He's been lamenting in my inbox all goddamn day about it, the fucking drama queen.”

“I wanted to talk to him about it face-to-face. Got a lot of… Misgivings about trying high protocol what with the… The you know,” and he broadly gestures at his entire body. “Anyway, you want the uzsh or the special?”

“I made empanadas!” shouts Roach from the back. There’s a mysterious clanging that Frenchie can’t readily identify the source of. “Chicken curry as the filling! Side of basmati with peppers and cashews!”

“He’s very excited about it, can you tell?”

“I'll take both the uzsh and the special,” Jim says, laughing when Roach cheers. “Beats nibbling canapes—god, I am bored out of my mind tonight.”

“Really?” Frenchie hangs the order on the wheel. “What's the occasion?”

“Film noir detective cocktail party.” Jim shrugs as they walk backward toward John. “I think el jefe might be losing his marbles at this point.”

“Does explain the tan trench and fedora.” Frenchie tips his own pretend hat. “M’theydy.” Jim flips him off from the other end of the counter, grinning, then goes back to whatever they had started doing on their phone.

Frenchie takes the line as quickly as he dares, keeping one eye on the wheel as he scribbles to make sure he doesn't put Roach in the weeds. Izzy hasn't been by yet, which is odd. Maybe he's waiting for a response from Frenchie before darkening the door. He can shoot him a quick text once he's through the queue. Then again, if Izzy's gone along with the costumed theme, Frenchie might have a heart attack if he shows up.

“Ye’re flushin’ over there,” says John as Frenchie hangs up another order. “Need a breather?”

“Might need a medic if Izzy's gone noir.” Roach’s responding cackle is frankly rude. “‘M serious! If he's gone full Picard in the holodeck, I'll require A&E.”

“Most he ever does is his ‘do, though, innit?” John repacks the sack in front of him, trying to find room for the container of rice. “Creature of leather-clad habit, that man–was quite shockin’ t’ see him all normal-lookin’ in the laundry Sunday.”

“I get no support here,” Frenchie tells the next customer. Another order for the special, and then several fish and chips in a row after him, and that's the first rush done and dusted. The order pad only has a few remaining slips, so Frenchie ducks down behind the counter to grab a new one.

“Get yer finger poised at nine, Roach,” says John, and Frenchie gives him an odd look as he stands back up. John only gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head.

Frenchie will swear forever that he did not drop the pad, that it merely slipped out of his fingers.

In the months Frenchie has known Izzy, he has seen him in exactly two outfits. First and foremost, Izzy has his QA uniform, which seems to be a series of black leather clothes that were originally made for someone at least two sizes larger, then adapted crudely for Izzy. Even the few bits that aren't leather don't seem to fit. Jim had described the ensemble once as, “like if that menswear guy on Twitter attended Folsom Fair and had a humiliation kink.” Frenchie refuses to touch social media, but he trusts Jim's colorful analogies. As for the second outfit, he's seen Izzy wear it twice as of the past weekend, and lounge clothes always leave some ambiguity to the form of the person wearing them, regardless of the size.

The suit Izzy is wearing now, this minute, striding toward the counter, leaves nothing ambiguous. Frenchie's picked up enough sewistry from John to know that this is well-tailored, and looks nothing like a costume, not like Jim's outfit had. It's solid black, which seems fitting, his green tie fastened at his throat with a rather complicated looking knot that Frenchie immediately stops thinking about for his own sanity. Given how put together Izzy looks, Frenchie imagines there's a matching handkerchief in the breast pocket, though it can't be seen beneath the overcoat. He glances at Izzy's feet, and is surprised he can't actually see his own reflection in the polish of his dress shoes.

Izzy's eyes seem amused beneath the shadow of the brim of his black hat when Frenchie meets them. “I'd ask how you are, but that seems fucking redundant.”

“If ye’ve got braces on, he's gonna pass out,” says John, laughing as Frenchie tries to rub two thoughts together in his skull.

“Better leave the jacket on then.”

“Oh don't bother on my account,” and Frenchie sounds winded to his own ears.

Izzy's quick smile seems almost shy. “You got a minute to talk?”

“Uh, yeah, probably. Gets quiet when you all are…” Frenchie swallows. “Occupied?”

“That’s what I figured,” says Izzy. “Or hoped. Got our house newt playing majordomo for the next half hour or so, if I can borrow you that long?”

Frenchie knows he doesn’t technically have to ask permission from his co-owners, but it’s testament to his sudden shift of headspace that he even feels the need to. Something about Izzy just screams authority right now, and fuck but Frenchie craves it, aches for it, like every neurotransmitter to be found in his brain has attuned itself specifically to the shockingly well-dressed man in front of him.

“In ainm Chroim, Frenchie,” John says with an exasperated grin, “just feckin’ go out back already.”

“Right. Erm,” and Frenchie points toward the kitchen with his thumb and tilts his head. “Back this way.” He slides the order pad down the counter toward John, and then pushes open the swinging door. Roach has been awfully quiet since Izzy walked in, busily chopping away at peppers. But he throws his left hand out as Frenchie and Izzy pass him, landing square in the middle of Izzy's chest.

“You know,” begins Roach, turning to face him, his chef's knife twirling in his fingers, “I was a butcher for many years before we opened shop here.” He gives a meaningful glance toward Frenchie. “I cut every piece with intention,” he says, then looks Izzy straight in the eyes. “Nothing goes to waste in my kitchen. I assume you are also an intentional man, hmm?”

Izzy wets his bottom lip. “Could say that.”

“Then I assume you won't waste this, either.” Roach pats Izzy's chest once, then turns back to his cutting board. “No funny business in our alley, Frenchie.”

“Oh, yeah,” Frenchie says, rolling his eyes, “because your shovel talk was such a riot already.”

“I see no shovels here,” replies Roach, focused on his peppers. “Just knives.”

“Fucking—” Frenchie scrubs a hand down his face, and then grabs Izzy's wrist, making for the door out back, tugging Izzy to follow.

Chapter Text

The chill of the late night air feels good on his bare forearms after being in the chippy for several hours, but Frenchie knows he’ll soon regret not grabbing his jacket. His lighter and a tin of smokes are jammed in his jeans pocket, though; hopefully Izzy won't begrudge a nervous habit. He leans back against the wall, slightly slumped to even out their heights, and pops open the tin.

“Rolled those yourself?” asks Izzy, and Frenchie nods as he puts one between his lips. “It’s exceptional work.”

“Thanks.” Frenchie crosses one long leg over the other and pretends he hasn't gone warm all over from the barest hint of praise.

Izzy smirks. “Good with your fingers then?”

He inhales wrong and coughs. “Says the man with the fancily knotted tie.” Frenchie takes the next puff correctly. “You clean up nice, by the way,” he tells Izzy on the exhale.

“Eldredge knots aren't especially fuckin' difficult to tie. Not compared to other knots I know.” While Frenchie splutters again, Izzy adds, “Nice to air out the good suit once in a while. Few fucking occasions for it.”

“Ought to invent a few then.”

There's a hint of rose to Izzy's cheeks that couldn't be from the sudden breeze. “Might just.” Frenchie holds onto his cigarette with his lips, rubbing his arms with his hands. “Want my coat?” Izzy asks him.

“If you won't miss it,” Frenchie mumbles around his cigarette. He watches Izzy shrug off his black overcoat—he was right about the pocket square matching his tie, and Frenchie catches a glimpse of the right strap and metal grip of Izzy's braces beneath his unbuttoned suit jacket. It warms him to think Izzy was in such a hurry to come to the chippy that he forgot to do up his jacket before putting on the coat now settling backwards on Frenchie, his arms threaded through the sleeves. Izzy's close enough to kiss, if Frenchie dared. “Hiya,” he says instead.

Izzy acts like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. “Hello.” He seems to make a decision, plucking the cigarette from Frenchie's mouth, his fingertips barely brushing Frenchie's lips. It's still enough to short-circuit his brain, especially when Izzy takes a drag off it himself. “Not the only nervous fucking Nelly here,” he says after another puff.

“What’re you nervous about?”

“Overstepping.” Izzy takes another quick puff. “Making you uncomfortable. Giving you the wrong fuckin' impression.”

Frenchie's stomach sours. “Oh. So you—” He winces, then clears his throat. “Just friends then.”

“What? No, that's n—”

“Thank fucking God,” Frenchie says with a relieved laugh.

“That's not how I meant it,” continues Izzy. “I mean that I don't want to have given you the collection we took and then give you Evelyn’s number and you feel fucking obligated to show up to QA on Monday.” He sighs heavily, then takes another long inhale, his right thumb brushing along Frenchie's cheek. “I knew it was a lot to ask of you. I don't want you to think you have to, to—to make it up to me or some shit, fuck.”

Frenchie misses the touch as soon as it withdraws. “Who's Evelyn?”

Izzy breathes audibly through his nose, eyebrows raising and lowering again just as quickly. “Old friend,” he explains. “Mostly retired from the submissive head-shrinking business, but willing to get back in the game.” Frenchie watches Izzy scan the confusion on his face. “Jim texted me, said you were having trouble finding someone.”

“Yeah, I—that’s part of why I hadn't replied.”

“What's the other part?”

It's Frenchie's turn to sigh, and he takes the cigarette back from Izzy. “High protocol,” he says before putting the now very short cigarette back to his mouth. “Neither done it nor ever had the inclination. I think my gran would actually disown me if she still complained amongst the living.”

“God rest her.”

“She worked her way up to housekeeper. Took a lot of pride in it, y’know? But she didn't want me having to wait on people who thought they were better ‘n me.” Frenchie huffs a wry laugh, watching the lit end of the cigarette draw closer toward his fingernails. “Still wound up in valet.”

Izzy's quiet as Frenchie finishes the cigarette, then drops it to put out beneath his heel. “You know why we picked high protocol?” he asks.

“I did wonder—you don't seem the type for strict hierarchies, no offense.”

“You'd usually be right,” Izzy says, hands in his pockets. “But after the sheer chaos of the fucking abuse shack Hornigold called a club, we decided the best way to keep everyone safe under our roof was to have as many clear rules as fucking possible.” He rocks back on his heels. “If everyone knows exactly what part they're there to play, knows precisely what to expect of an evening, then there's less of a chance of either something or someone flying off the fucking rails. A strict code of conduct protects anyone who plays under that roof, regardless of dynamic.”

“I get that,” says Frenchie, because he does honestly; Rose Pink had been a fucking free-for-all, and look how that had ended. “It just seems, I dunno… Degrading? To always be playin’ at Upstairs Downstairs. I can see how it's helpful as a framework, but I don't understand what anyone gets out of it, you know what I mean?”

“Trust me, Frenchie,” Izzy begins, trying not to laugh, “I only degrade someone if they explicitly ask for it.”

“I just mean the structure itself. Nature of the beast, innit, big guys at the top with everything, little guys at the bottom with jack squat.” Frenchie watches Izzy’s forehead crease. “‘M not trying to insult you, I swear.” He inhales through his mouth, the cold shocking his teeth. “Just thinking about the majority of the Doms back at RP, what they’d have done with that kind of power.”

Izzy closes his eyes; his face softens. “That was the only club you ever attended, wasn’t it?” he asks before looking at Frenchie again.

He feels ashamed about it, but Frenchie nods. “Only one what worked with my availability and budget. Not to mention my gender preference.”

“Just because one club treated submissives as lower than the fucking dirt doesn’t mean they all do.” Izzy opens his eyes again—there’s such a resolute sadness to them, and Frenchie hates to think that he’s put it there. “That was the old way of thinking, that because we were in charge and because subs are biologically wired to enjoy being subjugated, that we could just do whatever the fuck we wanted so long as the sub had signed in at the door. No room for preferences and negotiation; a fucking disservice to both sides of the equation—there were nights I’d go home puking from the fuckin’ stress of wondering if I’d gone too far.”

“Definitely understand that, from the opposite direction.” Frenchie tries to smile. “And high protocol fixes all that? When there’s still a class system involved?” He looks at his feet, kicking the butt of the extinguished cigarette over toward the dumpsters. “Can’t imagine it gives the same kind of rush or thrill or even glory, if it’s just being attended to by the help.”

“It’s not about glory.” There’s an edge to Izzy’s tone that hits Frenchie as hard as any lash ever had, strong enough that he can feel his knees wobble. He finds Izzy's eyes with his own before he even realizes his head has moved, and there's a heat found there that makes him dizzy. “It’s not even about either person getting what they fucking want necessarily, but what they fucking need. It’s about belonging; community; respect. Not a self-serving respect, either,” Izzy continues, and Frenchie shuts his mouth again. “There may be a constant, visual reminder of the power exchange in play, but the gift of respect marks us all equal, no matter who's kneeling.”

“But what respect is there for m—” Frenchie swallows and amends, “For the sub?”

Izzy relaxes slightly, like his sternness was only melting frost. “Because no matter what happens, no matter the mistake or misstep, the boundaries you set will never, ever be crossed. The Dom is respected for the power of their authority; the sub is respected for giving the Dom that power.”

He doesn't think the gears shifting in his brain are audible, but Frenchie doesn't feel certain of much right now. His instincts are screaming above the clicking clang of realization that he can trust this to be the truth; it's hard to weigh that feather against the slab of his experience.

“Seems a bit religious,” he says, hoping the inner turmoil doesn't show.

“There's a ritualistic quality to it, yeah. Requires some fucking faith.”

“Is it…” Frenchie pauses to collect his thoughts, still running wildly. “Don't you get tired of always doing the same thing? Just sounds very different to, um, y'know.” He gestures with his hands before saying, “What we did on Sunday.”

Izzy studies him, arms now crossed in front of his chest. “Frenchie, you do realize that I only typically do high protocol for my work, right? I don't normally take my fuckin’ work home with me.”

Frenchie sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “Hadn't… Hadn't quite put that together, no.” He scratches the back of his head and looks at the lamp overhead, not wanting to look directly at Izzy any longer. It's too intense. “That's the other thing, see, is you're inviting me to your job, and I don't know ‘zactly what that means. I don't know how y—” Frenchie startles at the feel of Izzy's touch on his face again, enough of a shock to make him turn his head back, seeking sensation, almost chasing the caress.

“Just ask what you're meaning to ask, pet,” Izzy demands in a harsh whisper. There's no Command, but there's no denying it isn't a request.

“Is that the only way you want me?” Now both of Izzy's hands are on his face, and it feels so right to be caught between them, like Izzy's the only thing keeping Frenchie connected to the ground. Frenchie grabs Izzy's wrists to keep either of them from flying off.

“I want everything you're willing to give me,” and Izzy finally closes the last distance between them. His mouth is soft against Frenchie's, achingly gentle, though it simultaneously burns like a brand. Frenchie's certain it will leave a permanent mark and he wants it, wants Izzy, wants more. He reaches out and grabs the lapels of Izzy's suit jacket in his fists, trying to leave a wrinkle of his own.

Izzy pulls back, and Frenchie can hear the petulant whine fall from his own lips. He tries to bring Izzy's face back to his, and Izzy huffs a laugh as he grabs Frenchie's biceps and pushes him back against the wall.

“Oh shit, yes,” Frenchie groans, using the bit of leverage he has to push back, only to feel Izzy’s hands hold firm. His eyes flutter back open, and fuck but Izzy looks as wrecked as Frenchie feels.

“Can I touch your neck?” he asks, but Frenchie was nodding before he'd even finished asking. Izzy holds Frenchie's jaw again, lips meeting each other in the middle as questing fingertips find the back of Frenchie's neck. Frenchie melts into him, trying his best to participate, to do more than let his mouth be plundered, but it's impossible to not simply let Izzy lead and take whatever he wants. He can't remember the last time he's been kissed this thoroughly—maybe his first boyfriend in secondary, when time was short and the longing felt nearly apocalyptic.

Frenchie feels the tip of Izzy's tongue along the seam of his lips, and his brain initially tells him not to resist. But it's about respect echoes in his ears, so Frenchie keeps his mouth closed, shaking his head slightly, bewildered when Izzy not only listens to his no and doesn't push, but retreats again.

“You alright?” Izzy asks, and Frenchie can't stop the grin on his face.

“Fucking fantastic, babes,” he says, breathless. “Just had some bad times kissing like the French.”

“But closed mouth is still o—”

“Please don't stop kissing me.”

Frenchie loses sense of time. All that exists is now, and here, and all the places that he and Izzy fit together. It takes him a minute to even figure out that they've stopped kissing, unless the meeting of their foreheads counts. The noise of the outside world filters into their bubble; predominantly, he hears Roach shouting from the kitchen, though the words are indistinct.

“Think your break is fuckin' over,” Izzy murmurs.

“Sounds like.”

They breathe each other's air a few moments more.

“Free Monday night?”

Frenchie takes a few more breaths, and then takes the leap.

Chapter Text

E. Higgins, Submissive Specialist (Retired), lives in Bow fucking Quarter of all places; Frenchie briefly considers cancelling the appointment on that basis alone. Dealing with rich snobs is bad enough when he’s being paid for it; why would he want to rub elbows with more of them in a gated enclave on his day off? But Izzy swore in every direction except backwards that Frenchie would not only like her, but that she could help him, which is why he woke up at the arsecrack of dawn to make it down here at eight in the morning on a Monday.

The guard who buzzes Frenchie past the gates makes a show of turning to watch him as he walks into Bow Quarter. Frenchie can feel his beady eyes on his back until Frenchie's made it past the little cottages—it’s enough to have his skin crawling, a seething ooze that pools beneath every goosepimple on his arms. He's still ticked off by the time he's found her building and gone up the lift, though his hands have at least stopped shaking in anger when he rings the bell to her flat. Clenched in his fingers, Frenchie can feel the tell-tale give of the nose wire in his mask that means it's broken; he jams it into his jacket pocket and wonders if either John or Roach know any good curses to bestow on the microaggressive man at the gate.

The door swings partially open long after Frenchie's finished mangling the mask in his grip. He's not as angry now, but he is slightly confused.

“Don't s’ppose you're my therapist, are you?” Frenchie asks the grey parrot visible through the cracked door. He can hear a series of chains being undone, likely by whoever's crimson dressing gown-clad elbow the bird is clinging to by its toes. Or whatever a bird’s feet are properly called, because Frenchie can't currently recall.

“Hands promised me you weren't a wise guy,” groans someone who Frenchie hopes is E. Higgins, though she sounds brasher than he suddenly discovers he expected, like he’d subconsciously decided she must sound meek. She finally wrenches the door open, and she's taller than he prepared for, too. He can stare her almost right in the eyes.

Well, the eye, singular. He wonders if all her patches match her clothes perfectly.

“That bespoke?” he asks, pointing to his own right eye in lieu of pointing at the patch. “Same fabric, ‘s all.”

She looks at him quizzically; the parrot cocks its head to the side. “My son's a tailor, yeah.”

“So’s my roommate. Always swears up a storm when he has to use velvet.”

“If Melvin curses when he sews, he's not seen fit to inform me about it.” She holds out her hand. “Evelyn,” she tells Frenchie as he shakes it as gently as possible, afraid of angering the parrot. “Sorry about still being in my ‘jams—lost track of time.”

“No bother.” Frenchie tries to decide if the bird is extending its wing in friendship. He'd hate to offend it. “Might just show up in mine next time. And who's your little friend?”

“Oh, this is Ne—” Evelyn stops, then closes her eye for a moment. “Neville,” she says firmly. “His name’s Neville.”

Neville gives out a series of what sounds like a man clicking his tongue before saying, “Mindful.”

“Like the wizard?”

“No, like the prime minister. Late husband had a weird sense of humor.” Evelyn doesn't invite Frenchie in so much as she turns and walks into the front room with the expectation that Frenchie will follow. “Should I call you Ét—”

“Absolutely not.” Frenchie prides himself on his ability to mostly forget that his actual name is not, in fact, Frenchie. Even a syllable and a half of it is enough to embarrass him. “Sorry, did you want me to shut the door?” he asks the back of her head after he’s crossed the threshold.

“Shit, yeah, please and thanks. Somehow I don’t think either of us feels like chasing a fucking parrot right now.”

Neville warbles before saying, “Know yourself!”

“Also what name do you go by?” she asks, then tuts before adding, “Not you, Neville.”

“Everyone calls me Frenchie,” and Evelyn laughs loudly enough to startle a squawk out of Neville as she turns into her kitchen, Frenchie right on her heels. The appliances alone look like they could easily cost more than his and John’s entire flat. “How'd you get my first name, anyway?”

Evelyn throws him an odd look over her shoulder as she reaches into a cabinet. “Your intake forms?”

“Right. ‘Course!” Frenchie stares at the spice rack on the counter opposite, scrubbing at his neck beneath his scarf, wondering who would emerge victorious should Roach attempt to reorganize her six containers of paprika. “Bit early. Haven't caffeinated.”

“You drink coffee?” Frenchie hums noncommittally. “Black okay?”

“I'd drink purple if it had caffeine in it.”

“Good man,” and Frenchie's incredibly grateful that Evelyn’s back is toward him so he can school his face into something that doesn't scream please tell me I'm good again. At least her ridiculous coffee machine makes enough of a racket grinding beans to cover up any audible whimper he might have made. He doesn't think he made a peep, but Neville looks like he wants to say otherwise.

Frenchie holds a finger up to his mouth, staring pointedly at the parrot, who immediately impersonates a particularly loud zipper. It feels much less foolish to mouth a thank you to Neville than Frenchie thought it would. Maybe he could've skipped finding a therapist and just hung around the zoo.

By the time Evelyn hands him a glass mug full of coffee, Frenchie thinks he's recovered himself. She doesn't head off toward a sitting room, only eases down to sit on one of the backless bar stools at the kitchen island.

“You can take off your coat and stay awhile, you know,” she says as she pats the tabletop, looking for something if the way she subsequently scans the counters is any clue. “There's hooks on the wall near the front door—just don't use the third one, that's Neville's.”

“Might make him upset?”

“Might get shit on your coat.”

“That's rude, Neville!” Frenchie tells him with a grin, unsnapping his jacket as he moves.

He's made it to the row of copper hooks when Neville says, “Fuck off,” very clearly.

“You can't tell my client to fuck off, Neville!” Frenchie debates taking off his scarf and hanging it up with his jacket, but then feels like he’ll break out in hives without it around his neck. Evelyn is still berating the bird once Frenchie's rejoined them, only now it's for perching on the edge of a tan ceramic ashtray. “Do you have any idea what the RSPCA would do to me if I caught you on fire?”

“Mindfulness!” chirps Neville. Evelyn successfully shoos him off the table, but he doesn't flap off far, settling down to preen on the handle for the oven door.

“First he shits all over my favorite duvet,” she says, and Frenchie is desperately glad that look is aimed at Neville and not him, “now he's trying to put me out of a job.” Neville clucks his tongue before imitating a trombone; Evelyn might be exasperated, but Frenchie definitely needed the laugh. “Go on,” she tells him as she pats at her dressing gown, “try the coffee. Promise it's not poisoned.”

“Sounds like something someone who'd poisoned my coffee would say,” he mumbles, but takes a sip anyway. It's rich and bright, and enough other adjectives that Frenchie thinks he understands what wine aficionados mean when they prattle on about notes and flavor profiles. “‘S very good. Thanks.”

“No sweat; that coffee maker damn near runs itself.” Evelyn frames her mug between the palms of her hands, but doesn't pick it up, merely watches Frenchie drink his. There's a keenness to her gaze that would be alarming at any hour; this early in the morning, it's enough to give Frenchie the jitters. “I like to break the ice with a weird question,” she finally says. “That okay with you?”

“Depends on how weird it is.”

“Fair enough.” Evelyn taps at the corner of her mouth with the first two fingers of her right hand. “If you could describe yourself with a beverage of any kind, what would you be and why?”

Frenchie blinks several times as Evelyn takes her first sip. “That's definitely a weird question, yeah,” he says.

“Make you nervous?”

“A bit.”

She hums, then takes a longer sip. “Why’s that?”

He feels stupid, like he isn't supposed to find such an insane question challenging, then stupider still when he realizes the problem. “Ugh, don't laugh.”

“It is way too goddamn early in the day to start laughing at a client.”

“I don't want to answer it wrong,” he admits. Frenchie starts to slump back in his seat, then remembers it's a bar stool just in time to avoid disaster.

“You think there's a wrong beverage to be?”

“I mean you're asking it,” says Frenchie. “Last therapist I saw before the implant seemed like all he wanted was for me to trip over my answers or else give him some sort of ammunition that would let him deny me the procedure.”

“Government really hates spending money on taxpayers,” she grumbles. “Cheap fucking bastards. But this isn't that.”

“Yeah, but what if I say a beverage that makes you diagnose me with something?”

Evelyn does snort at that. “Frenchie, I had you diagnosed within about thirty seconds of meeting you.”

He sets his coffee down immediately instead of taking a drink. “Erm,” and Frenchie swallows in an attempt to convince his vocal cords to chill out. “What… What with, ‘zactly?”

“Granted I did have a head start from your intake forms.”

“Is it bad?”

She shakes her head, but Frenchie doesn't feel relieved. “I wouldn't call any potential diagnosis bad, really. They're just…” Evelyn takes another sip while she thinks. “Fuck, what's the word?”

Neville whistles. “Scattergories.”

“Yeah, categories, that. Just a starting point for us to understand how our brain is operating.”

“But there are bad diagnoses,” Frenchie insists. “Can't think of a redeeming quality to having terminal cancer.”

“But I'm not gonna diagnose you with cancer, terminal or otherwise.” Before Frenchie can reply, Evelyn says, “Mine’s a Bloody Mary, by the way. It's terrible for you, but it’s delicious and also technically a salad, so you can pretend it's healthy.”

“And that represents you?”

“I am, if nothing else, a snack.” She looks all too pleased at the splutter of laughter Frenchie can't hold back. “Does any of that make you worried about me as your therapist?” Frenchie, still grinning, gives her a quizzical look. “I said I'm terrible for you, didn't I?”

“Thought you were describing the drink.”

“I was,” begins Evelyn, “but if it represents me as a person, then doesn't that alarm you?”

He huffs one last laugh. “No, ‘course not, that’d be right silly to write you off based… On…” Frenchie gives a little nod. “Right, point made.”

“Glad to hear it. So tell me about your drink.”

Frenchie watches Neville duck his head beneath one wing to nip at a patch of feathers with his beak. It's easier to think if he's not looking directly across at Evelyn—not only her, really; he's never been able to process information well while making direct eye contact. Evelyn seems content to wait, and doesn't push him to look at her, which is also very different from his previous therapist.

“Coconut milk,” he finds himself saying, like it had sifted to the top of his head while he wasn't paying attention. “But it has to be warm, and it has to be homemade. Gran used to swear by it—made me drink a cup before bed every night to help me go to sleep.”

“Does that actually work?” she asks, leaning forward like she's considering taking notes.

“No idea,” admits Frenchie. “Didn't like it much, honestly. But both it and me are products of my gran.” When Evelyn doesn't follow up, he asks, “So you said you'd diagnosed me?”

Her eyebrows lift, and she sets down her mug and swallows. “Yeah, more or less. The drop you experienced wasn't just a drop, for one thing. Sounds like more of a flashback to previous trauma than anything else.”

Frenchie turns back to watching Neville again, only to find the bird is staring at him now, so he looks into the mirror of his coffee instead. “What, like PTSD?”

“Not necessarily, but you did get triggered and subsequently lost track of where you were in spacetime. So it's traumatic stress of some flavor.” Evelyn’s fingers go back up to her lips, and then drop just as quickly so she can pat at her robe again. “Hard to know exactly with your being autistic, too.”

“My being what now?”

She stands up to rummage through her pockets better. “Yeah, let's come back to that, actually. We'll get there, and I know you're wanting to try and attend an event at Queen Anne's tonight.”

His reflection in the mug looks far less perplexed than Frenchie feels, his face that same careful blank mask he's spent his entire life perfecting to disguise his various anxieties. He's not wholly unfamiliar with autism, but Frenchie had thought it mostly reserved for people like his uncle Jamesie, who doesn't speak and only eats three foods and even wears his noise-canceling earmuffs in the bath. It had never occurred to Frenchie to even wonder if he was autistic, because he was so… Well, functional, and he hates that his brain went there, but here he and some undiscovered ableism are.

Frenchie must make a weird sound, because Evelyn looks at him again. “If I'm…” Fuck, go Frenchie, just say the bloody word! “If I'm autistic, is that allowed? I mean, as a sub, am I allowed to be there if I am autistic?”

“Oh honey, you're going to QA.” She seems to have found what she was looking for, retaking her seat. “The chances of one entire neurotypical person being in the building are slim to none.”

“I just remembered it being one of the things that would keep you from being allowed from transitioning, is all.”

Her eye rolls. “Ableist asshole government remains ableist and assholish, news at eleven.” Evelyn taps whatever is obscured in her right hand against the palm of her left several times. “Again, what we’re most interested in here is learning to recognize how your body reacts to stress. Labels are helpful, but we're not gonna get married to them.”

Frenchie looks down at his fingers twisting together in his lap. “Seems like if I get stressed out so easily I forget what year it is that I should be avoiding stress altogether, not running into a whole club full of it.”

“Kink can be extremely therapeutic for some trauma survivors. There's plenty of normies who get involved with a measure of kink to work through their issues safely.”

“Lot nicer of a word than tourist, that.”

“Not to mention the hormonal factor at play here,” Evelyn continues. The object in her hand appears to be a packet of cigarettes, if the giant photo of a blackened lung is any indication. “Not being Dommed seems to be doing you more harm than good. It's a kind of stress, too, going without something you need to be healthy.”

“I didn't know how badly I needed it until… Well, that Saturday.” Frenchie props his elbows on the table, chin resting on his fists. “Still seems like a huge risk, jumping back into an ocean when you know there are sharks and you're shaped like dinner.” He sighs and amends, “Though I guess I'm more dessert-shaped, given I want the soft stuff.”

Evelyn doesn't answer for long enough that Frenchie decides to look at her again—she has that assessing look to her features again, like she's reading something particularly engaging. “They're very similar things, honestly, kink and trauma,” she says, picking back up her own thread like Frenchie hadn't just offered her a new one, “in that both deal with stress that overwhelms you.”

“If you're into more masochistic activities, yeah, sure,” agrees Frenchie. Neville has resumed grooming himself, so Frenchie watches him again, his little beak weaving its way between feathers, a silent metronome. “Don't think the soft stuff's all that stressful.”

“No, the ones that don't leave a mark on you can be stressful, too.”

Frenchie snorts. “What, like the Inquisition attacking you with cushy pillows and overstuffed chairs?” He glances back at Evelyn and immediately wishes he hadn't. She doesn't look upset, but rather like she's trying very hard to not tell him off.

“I'm gonna need you to cut that out,” she says, and Frenchie is certain she's a Dom now, because newts don't leave him thinking he should grovel.

“...Monty Python references?” he asks hopefully.

“Don't play smart with me, Frenchie.” She pulls out a cigarette and pops it in the corner of her mouth. “Mind if I smoke?” Evelyn asks before lighting up.

Let's hope not, Frenchie thinks as she takes two puffs in quick succession.

“I mean the self-flagellation you're doing about liking so-called softer activities,” she explains after a third. “Just because you jammed your way through and survived a meat grinder once doesn't mean you gotta jump back in.”

“‘M already trans-dyn,” Frenchie reminds her. “Looks bad, doesn't it, if I'm not into the hard shit.”

“If your Dom's a fuckhead, sure.” Evelyn taps the ash into the tray without looking. “All your preferences say about you is that you've thought about it long enough to have preferences.”

“Don't really know that I've thought enough on it beyond figuring out what I hate.” He picks up his mug for want of something to do with his hands beyond drum on the table like he wants to. “Even then, I'd let them do it to me anyways. Figured if I let them do all the mean nasty stuff, I'd get what I wanted in aftercare, and there wouldn't be anything new to make fun of me about.” He holds his right foot down with his left to make it stop tapping against the island. “Except I didn't even earn the privilege of aftercare, did I.”

“Shouldn't have been something you had to earn in the first place.” Evelyn holds her left hand out to him across the table; he's weirdly grateful to have the option of declining the touch, even if he doesn't want to. Her fingers are warm, or else Frenchie's are still cold.

“‘M sorry,” he says, “about the—”

But Evelyn waves him off with her cigarette, ash tumbling onto the tile below. “Not all stress is negative and makes you feel like shit, Frenchie,” she tells him. “Distress, eustress—they're totally different things.”

“Never heard of eustress in my life.”

“It's basically any stress that benefits you and releases endorphins. Like sex, for one.”

Frenchie rolls the new information around in his head. “In terms of kink, though…” He grimaces, hums, seeking for the right word, and autism feels much more like a hat he could wear suddenly. “Couldn't distress and eustress be the same thing?”

“Yeah, sure. Some people find distress enjoyable in controlled situations; some don't.” Evelyn takes a last puff, cherry burning brightly at the very edge of the filter. “What's distressing for one person,” she says, stubbing it out in the ashtray, “won't be distressing for every person. And there can be real benefit in letting yourself be distressed in the right environment to be rewarded with eustress after.”

“Like tolerating shit I hate to get aftercare.”

She nods as she pulls another cigarette from the packet. “But you've gotta be able to fucking trust the distresser.”

“Didn't trust hardly no one at Rose Pink.” Frenchie chews at the side of his bottom lip. “Maybe Mags ‘n her crew, but being attracted to the Dom was important to me, and…” He trails off, belatedly realizing he's squeezing Evelyn's hand hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, sorry, Ma’am.”

“Just Evelyn,” she says, “and you're fine. Takes a lot more than that to break me.” Her thumb rubs across his knuckles. “Why don't you tell me what happened?”

“There's literally no way you don't know already.” When she nudges the packet toward him with her elbow, Frenchie relinquishes her hand to take a smoke for himself.

“Hearing through the grapevine and hearing from the person himself aren't the same thing.” She smiles, small but sincere. “Pretend I don't know anything, and just let it out.”

He takes a shaky breath, and then Frenchie does.

Chapter Text

Frenchie felt wrung out entirely by the time he arrived back at his and John's flat, but not in any way he would deem negative. He imagines anyone who'd sat with a therapist for nearly three hours would be exhausted. When Frenchie had realized the time and tried to profusely apologize for monopolizing hers, Evelyn had only shrugged.

“Perks of being an only patient,” she'd told him, before promising to not be in her pyjamas next Monday.

John was bustling around in their kitchen making brunch when Frenchie got home; between the therapy session and his nerves about newbie night, Frenchie was too queasy to eat one of John's overstuffed omelets. Now, laying across his bed, watching the letters blur together on the QA paperwork in front of him, he's wishing he’d at least had some toast while he wasn't the one having to make it.

“Just take it slow,” Evelyn had said before he left. “You'll be fine. More than.”

If he takes filling out this list any slower, Frenchie will prematurely fuck up before he even has a chance to fuck up normally.

“Ye’re broodin’ awful feckin’ loud.” Frenchie looks up—John’s rolled in while Frenchie was definitely not winding himself up into a panic of immense proportion. “Stomach was louder, though,” and Frenchie's never been so glad to see a couple of soft-scrambled eggs on a chipped plate in his life.

“Ta,” he says, immediately followed by, “it’s less brooding and more freaking out.”

John nods, folding his now empty hands into his lap. He's changed into the Snorlax kigurumi Frenchie and Roach got him for Christmas a few years back as a joke; must be laundry day. It adds a different layer of unreality to the situation that Frenchie's oddly grateful for. Hard to take life too seriously when your roommate's a Pokémon.

“Think this might be the part where I should ask, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’” John says carefully as Frenchie munches on the eggs.

“And I think I've already experienced that.”

“Hmm, yeah. Might be my point.”

Frenchie sets down the fork along one of the pieced lines of his grandmother's quilt, a brilliant bit of red silk beside an old denim patch. Beneath the plate of half-eaten eggs, the checklist stares at him, still waiting, mostly empty.

“Whatever happens tonight,” continues John, “even if it's feckin' awful ‘n’ ye… I dunno, trip over Izzy's boots ‘n’ spill shite everywhere? Can't be worse than what ye’ve already survived.”

“Social faux pas are a whole different sort of trauma,” Frenchie tells him after a surprise snort. “Like there's a whole fucking instructional handbook, John! I'm too dyslexic for this, never mind the…” He stops short of saying autism, not because he thinks John will judge him, but simply because Frenchie doesn't find himself ready to bring it up, even to someone who's known him for nearly thirty years. “Nerves are eating me alive,” he says instead, and feels like a coward.

“Oughta call Jim,” John suggests. “I'm no good at cold feet, even when I actually understand what the toes are gettin’ frostbit for.”

“That's actually a good idea.”

John chuckles, propelling himself back toward the door with his feet, rollator scooting a few centimeters at a time. “I have ‘em once in a while, arsewipe, thanks so much.” He pulls the door to Frenchie's room shut, and Frenchie taps out a text to Jim while he scarfs the rest of his cold eggs.

Frenchie: you got a minute to gab? Starting to freak out a bit

Jim: yeah man!! You call me or I call you?

They pick up halfway into the second ring. “Talk to me, Frenchie. Something happen?”

“Not really.” Frenchie’s already feeling silly for bothering Jim. “I mean, had a marathon of a therapy sesh this morning, but th—”

“Oh,” says Jim, like Frenchie’s explained it all. “Fuck, therapy always leaves me feeling like a half-souped turtle.”

“This particular turtle stewed for three hours,” he tells them, moving his fork and empty plate to the bedside table.

“Jesus Christ. You must have really connected with them!”

“Guess I might've, yeah.” Frenchie misses the phone at the chippy; he could really use a cord to fiddle with. “Anyway I thought I was fine—tired, y'know, but fine? But then I started trying to make sense of the handbook, and then I tried to fill out the paperwork, and now I'm… Ugh, need reminding why I'm even bothering at all, honestly.”

Jim makes a thoughtful sound. “What's wrong with the forms?”

“Dyslexic, babes.”

“Shit, that's right. Fuck, Frenchie, I am so sorry! I seriously fucked up here.”

“‘S easier to read on a screen than it is print-outs. Could ask John to help, but I'd rather not ask him to play kink proctor.”

Jim spits out a string of colorful Spanish. “That's what's wrong with the handbook, too, isn't it?”

Frenchie winces. “Yes and no?” He rolls over to lie on his back, papers crinkling beneath the back of his head. “Like, yes, those letters were also moving around, but it was more just not being able to visualize the various actions completely from start to finish? The photos are too static for me to really parse what the movement is actually s’pposed to look like.”

“Did you look at the QA TikTok account?”

“Don't do socials.”

“Not even YouTube?”

Frenchie blinks. “Is YouTube a social media? Thought it was just videos.”

“I can't believe it; the old man is actually better at the internet than you,” says Jim, snickering. “Anyway, sí, loquito, it is, and our channel has a whole playlist of videos that go over positions, but you'll be learning them later in person if you wanna wait. Even cracking the book open has you absurdly ahead of the rest of the class. But,” and Jim enunciates the T before pausing dramatically.

“But?”

“You should go look at some of the other videos to remind you why you're bothering. Trust me.”

“Why do I feel like I should be worried?” mutters Frenchie, but he's sitting up and reaching for his tablet regardless. “How do I find the account? And what exactly am I even looking for?”

“I'm way ahead of you,” says Jim. “Just check your email—it's a weird video, there was a song trending and everyone was doing little dances to it?”

“You've already lost me.”

“Just check your fuckin’ em—”

“I am,” says Frenchie, already tapping on the link Jim's sent, “it's going, hold your horses!”

He pulls the phone away from his ear as Jim laughs, and hits the volume button on the side of his tablet. The video must be a couple years old, or maybe social media is even weirder than Frenchie thought, because Dear Silas definitely released this song in 2022. There may be a good number of things Frenchie doesn't know, but he absolutely knows his music. The location is likewise instantly recognizable, now that Frenchie's seen the inside of Jackiez.

“Here, Jim,” he begins, only mildly interested in watching Lucius and Archie do… Whatever it is that they're doing. “What’s with the tricycle-powered dildo on the wall?”

“Ye olde fucking machine.”

“Seems a bit impractical.” Now Jim is on the screen doing a series of hip thrusts, because of course they are. He feels a bit embarrassed, though Frenchie knows it's ridiculous.

“Are you saying that such a thing as a practical fucking machine exists?”

“Good poi—”

Frenchie has no idea what sound just came out of his mouth. He’d assumed Izzy would only be in the background looking bored, or perhaps some degree of stoic, considering Jim said this video would make Frenchie want to attend newbie night, after all. The possibility of watching Jim and Izzy dance together—or more accurately, at each other, he supposes—never crossed his mind.

But there they are, back to back, doing the same odd shoulder shimmying. He watches them both do a jumping turn to face each other, and Frenchie immediately looks at Izzy's legs—sure enough, he's wearing a prosthesis that appears to be a curved, springy blade. Frenchie glances back to their faces in time to catch the look in Izzy's eyes, and he's taken back to that fateful interaction in the chippy so quickly he probably has whiplash. Izzy squats, and for half a horrible second, Frenchie's concerned he's going to do whatever the dance from Fiddler on the Roof is called; Izzy doesn't, but what he does do is infinitely worse.

“I don't understand how you stayed standing up with him looking at you like that.” Frenchie turns the volume all the way down before rewinding the video. “He gets so fucking intense, Jesus Christ.”

“Practice, mostly,” Jim tells him. “And before you start in on me being a switch as an explanation, I've seen him accidentally bring Doms to the floor before.”

“Really,” breathes Frenchie. If he speaks any louder, his voice is going to do ridiculous things.

“I mean, purposefully, too,” adds Jim, wonderfully oblivious to the wardrobe malfunction currently happening in Frenchie's boxers. “He's one of the few pros who’ll even see other Doms.”

“Didn't know there was much call for that.” There's something like jealousy flaring hot in his belly; Frenchie doesn't like knowing he's capable of it. “Happen, um. Happen often?”

Jim cackles again. “Not terribly, but between you and me? Just so you stop turning green?”

“I am n—”

“He hasn't seen a sub as a client in almost a decade.”

Frenchie pauses his most recent loop of the video segment. “What do you mean?”

“Eh, that part ain't mine to tell. And Izzy does deal out discipline on behalf of the house, when some sub gets stupid and disrespectful and earns it.” Jim, barely audible, adds, “Which is still several hundred percent more than Ed does.”

Between the last vestiges of envy and the word discipline, though, Frenchie's going to need to change sooner rather than later. “Oh,” he squeaks.

“Saw him dish it out to both a sub and their Dom once, the sub for the grievance and the Dom for not managing their submissive better. He's a real mean motherfucker when his leg hurts.”

“Good thing that's not terrifying at all to know.”

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Frenchie. Suffice to say you're the first submissive he's been interested in for a long, long time.” Frenchie doesn't know how to respond to that, and Jim seems content to let the air die momentarily. “So that talk you into it?” they ask eventually, cheeky as ever. “Should I still pick you up at five-thirty or do you need to loop that clip a few dozen times more?”

“Goddammit, Jim.”

“You're very welcome, McCoy.”

“Yeah, cheers,” Frenchie says, and lets himself flop backward onto the bed, feet still touching the floor over the side. “Send me a text with the dress code though, would you? Until I make it through the whole handbook.”

“Right, fuck, let's make that five instead of five-thirty,” suggests Jim. “That way I can be your kink proctor, your forms are ready in time, and John's innocence goes unsullied another day.”

“John will be genuinely touched you think he's innocent.”

“Oh and Frenchie? Throw a text at Viejo and tell him you’ll be there so he stops blowing up my inbox worrying about it.”

That's almost more embarrassing than Jim's dancing was.

Frenchie sighs as he sets his phone back down on the corner of John's vanity. Three hours since he texted Izzy; a little over an hour until Jim picks him up. Still nothing in the way of a reply, or even an indication that Izzy's seen the message.

“Quit fussin’, Frenchie,” chides John, “ye’ll ruin yer eyeliner. ‘M ready fer that hand, anyways.”

“Would've been done ages ago if you'd not done the toenails.”

“Can't be sendin’ ye out half done.” John dutifully sticks Frenchie's right hand into some kind of bright pink drying contraption, then takes up the glittery black lacquer once more. “If ye're gonna paint the shutters, might as well do up the trim.”

Frenchie huffs a laugh. “That anything like matching the curtains with the drapes?”

“Not unless ye’re shavin’ yer head.” John pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his thumb’s knuckle. “Dunno why ye’re fretting over a reply when ye’re gonna see him later.”

“He might've changed his mind since yesterday afternoon!” John makes a rude noise. “Shove off, it's a possibility.”

“If ye really think the man what's been makin’ out with ye in the back alley every break’s changed his mind, there's really no hope fer ye.”

Frenchie can feel his cheeks heating; he's glad he was able to talk John out of the full face he wanted to do. “Wasn't every break, thanks, just… Most of ‘em.”

“His boss even sent over that weird little man Saturday t’ drag him ba—hold still, dammit!”

“Sorry.”

“Fer feck’s sake,” grouses John, sticking the brush back into the bottle.

“They're technically still co-owners, Ed ‘n’ Izzy,” Frenchie tells him, wondering if his right hand is dry yet; he's not really enjoying being a pretzel. “Even if Teach does hold the majority share, he's still not Izzy's boss.”

John dabs at a bit of polish on Frenchie's pointer finger. “Whatever happened t’ Rackham, anyway?”

Frenchie almost shrugs, but John's eyebrow warns him against it. “Dunno,” he says, instead. “Weren't in the clippings Roach brought over, unless you skipped reading that bit aloud.”

“Now when’ve ye ever known me to censor anythin’?”

“I just meant t—” Frenchie's phone buzzes against the vanity, and John curses as Frenchie immediately pulls his hand out of the dryer so he can pick it up.

Frenchie, 1:22 pm: see you later

Izzy, 4:28 pm: You’ll be there?

“Ah, young love.”

Frenchie glares at him, playfully pushing John's knee with his hopefully dry foot. “You're not that much older than I am!”

John only laughs, beginning to paint again. “And ye’re more besotted than a teenager.”

Frenchie: yeah managed to survive a whole morning of therapy but it was real touch and go for a bit this afternoon

Izzy: I'd meant to text you earlier than this to check up on you. Can be a real mind-fuck, therapy in general and Evelyn in particular 

Frenchie: is everything ok?

Izzy: Leg’s been giving me fits since I woke up. Overdid it this weekend probably

Frenchie: do you need to stay home and rest?

Izzy: Absolutely the fuck not

Izzy: Wouldn't miss this for anything

“D’ ye have a sick bucket handy? Think I've been exposed t’ too much sugar,” teases John, but Frenchie's too busy grinning at the screen to bother ribbing him back. 

He'd originally considered himself lucky that QA’s dress code was, by and large, almost exactly what he wore when he parked rich people's cars. But now, looking at himself in John's full-length mirror, Frenchie isn't sure it's good enough. His long-sleeve black button-down is tucked into wide-legged trousers, equally black. The only ties Frenchie owned were solid red and company-issue, but John had dug around in his closet until he'd found the solid black one from his ma’s funeral tucked in with some petticoats. Frenchie’s work shoes are dress shoes, and they're as shined as he could manage, but not even close to as reflective as Izzy's had been last Thursday.

Even with the nail polish and eyeliner, Frenchie feels… Plain, which is fine for work but a weird way to feel about an outfit for a kink club. At least Rose Pink had never made him worry about what he wore there, given the first thing you did upon entering was undress. Thinking about RP makes him feel nauseous all over again, so he does as Evelyn suggested this morning and reaches out to Jim. Halfway through typing, Frenchie realizes Jim's bound to be driving.

Given Jim would have likely told him to text Izzy and ask him, Frenchie does just that.

Frenchie: not sure my outfit’s up to snuff tbh

Izzy: Did Jim happen to put you up to this?

Frenchie: lol no but why

Izzy: Used to insist on outfit approval prior to appointments, is all

If Frenchie's pulse hammers any harder in his ears, he's going to need to pull out his guitar to go along with it. He lets his left foot tap like it wants to while he thinks—flirting was much easier when he wasn't sure Izzy actually liked him, he's decided. Similarly, Frenchie thinks his compression shorts are going to be far more necessary at QA than they ever were at RP.

Frenchie: is that something you'd still like sir

He tosses his phone onto John's bed as soon as he's hit send. It's taking every ounce of self-restraint Frenchie has not to press the heels of his hands into his eyes, or to call John back in from his sewing machine for moral support. 

The phone buzzes once, then twice more in quick succession.

Izzy: We've hardly talked anything over, but. Yes

Jim: ETA 3!

Izzy: Show me

Frenchie does his best to look as casual as he isn't feeling and snaps several photos of himself in the mirror. They all look fundamentally the same to him, so he picks one at random and sends it before he can overthink.

Breathe like a square box, Frenchie reminds himself, and lets his eyes track along the edges of the mirror as his mobile buzzes twice. More of a refrigerator box, but rectangles are probably fine. He finally picks up his phone after it alerts him for the fourth time.

Izzy: Fuck

Izzy: You look stunning 

Jim: Your chariot awaits, you ready??

Izzy: Bare your wrists. Lose the tie. First three shirt buttons undone. Need to see to a few things now, so I'll see you at nine

Frenchie feels slightly stoned as he makes the adjustments to his outfit. He tucks the tie in his back pocket, in case someone in the training session causes a fuss about him not being fancy enough. His hands aren't shaking, which he thinks would be shocking if he was still thinking straight.

Jim: Loquitoooooo

Frenchie: ready