Christophe is all tied up. A certain orange-shirted Englishman has come to the rescue. Sort of.
"Perhaps I'll have you buried with your own shovel." The man mused, puffing on his cigar. The sight of this had Christophe aching for a cigarette.
"Although I don't know that my workers would touch the filthy thing." Mr Moustache chuckled. Christophe growled and would have lunged forward to throttle his adversary for speaking ill of his beloved gardening tool, had he not been bound to a chair with his wrists behind his back.
The man sighed and took the cigar from his mouth with one white gloved hand. "Such a shame it has to end this way. I was very nearly getting used to our arrangement. But all good things must come to an end, you see." He explained, leaning forward and burning a hole through Christophe's shirt with his cigar.
Christophe suppressed a groan as it seared his flesh. But he could not hide the pain on his face.
"Do not fret, Mole. Your death will be quick, for my own convenience I'm afraid. I have a previous and rather pressing engagement." The man said, twisting his ridiculously trimmed moustache in his fingers.
Suddenly, the wooden door of the underground storage room burst open, and a well groomed gentleman with an orange button-up shirt and brown leather gloves entered, brandishing a rapier. Before Mr Moustache even knew what slashed him, he was on the floor, with a cut throat. He bled to death in minutes.
Christophe studied the new edition to the small room. His most obvious feature was his voluminous blonde hair, that flowed around his face like a halo. Not that Christophe would admit that. He hated this person, for whatever reason. And he hated anything to do with angels. Or God.
"'Oo are you?" Christophe demanded.
"My name is Gregory Fields, a high level agent that was assigned to kill this man - I assume that was also your intention, although judging by your position that did not go according to plan." He said smugly. He had a seasoned and high class British vernacular. Out of principal, Christophe hated the British.
"Fuck you - are you going to 'elp me or keel me with zat sword of yours?" Christophe questioned. Usually, he wouldn’t have much cared either way. But something about this asshole…
"Well I'm certainly not going to help you with an attitude like that." Gregory said. Christophe couldn't tell if the kid was joking or not - he sounded like his mother.
"If you're going to beetch about it, I do not want your 'elp." Christophe growled.
Gregory seemed unfazed by Christophe's rude manner towards him - he was more concentrated on the hole left by the cigar on the French boy's shirt.
""Doesn't that hurt?" Gregory asked, genuinely concerned.
Christophe blinked, and looked down. Of course the fucking thing hurt, it was a burning hole in his flesh! But he wasn't about to admit that to the likes of this 'Gregory'. "None of your beezness." Christophe replied, glaring at the blonde. Gregory stepped closer, genuflecting to peer closer at the wound. Christophe pressed his back against the wooden chair, trying in vain to put some distance between himself and the Brit.
"Don’t be silly of course you must be in pain." Gregory muttered, sheathing his rapier and moving to lift Christophe's shirt. The Mole struggled.
"Eet does not 'urt, I tell you!" He shouted. But Gregory was not to be deterred. He lifted Christophe's shirt, and inspected the burn mark. It was a little to the right of the centre of his chest, as round as a quarter and quite bloody.
"This needs attention." Gregory remarked, letting Christophe's shirt fall. He reached into his left pocket and pulled out a small first aid kit, from which he withdrew a bandage and some medical tape.
"Can you at leest cut zese ropes?" Christophe asked, struggling once more at the knots around his wrists and waist, keeping him bound to the chair.
Gregory chuckled. "Now if I untied you, how do I know you'll get this looked at?"
"I don't need your 'elp, whatever your name eez!" Christophe insisted. Gregory rolled his eyes.
"It's Gregory." He informed the French boy.
"Gregoree." Christophe mimicked in a high voice. Gregory smiled to himself and pulled a knife out of his shoe, using it to slice up Christophe's shirt.
"How stupid of me - my hand must have slipped." Gregory apologised falsely as he moved the tattered shreds of Christophe's shirt away from his chest. As Christophe growled at him, Gregory removed a hip flask from his waist and poured some alcohol on to a strip of bandage.
When he pressed it to the wound on the French boy's chest, Christophe hissed and glared at Gregory, who smiled back cheerily. It made Christophe sick.
When Gregory was satisfied that the wound was clean, he tore off a second strip of bandage with his teeth and taped it over the burn. "There. All fixed, and free of infection. You would be surprised the damage one of those things can do to you." Gregory mentioned. This comment had Christophe aching even more for a cigarette.
"Can you now untie zeese ropes maybe?" Christophe asked. Gregory surveyed him for a moment.
"Hm… I'll untie you as soon as you admit that you wouldn't have made it out of here alive without my help." Gregory said smugly. Christophe's eyes went wide, then turned into an image of defiance.
"I will not betray my own dignitee wiz such lies!" He spluttered.
"Fine, I guess I'll just leave you down here so that his assistants can find you and torture you to death." Gregory shrugged, turning to leave.
"Wait!" Christophe shouted. Gregory turned to face him slowly. Christophe gritted his teeth. "I… may not 'be able to… get out of 'ere… wizout your 'elp…" He muttered. Gregory stepped forward with that annoying cheery smile of his, and happily untied the ropes. Christophe stood and immediately punched the irritating Britfag right in the face.
Gregory stumbled back, holding his nose which was pouring crimson blood. "What the bloody hell was that for!?" He shouted.
"For beeing a Breeteesh asshole!" Christophe replied, going over to the wall and retrieving his shovel.
From the distance, they both heard barking. "Sheet! Ze guard dogs! I fucking hate guard dogs!" The Mole screamed.
"Well don’t just stand there yelling about it, move!" Gregory shouted, shoving Christophe towards the opposite door. The two of them began sprinting along the underground corridor, not knowing if they were heading for a way out or a dead end.
One of the dogs began catching up. It lunged at Gregory and sank it's teeth into his leg. "Dammit!" The Brit shouted, pulling his gun and shooting the animal at point blank range. But the damage it had done was irreversible - it had torn the muscle quite badly, and Gregory knew he would not be able to walk. He only had five bullets left, and there was probably another dozen dogs heading for him.
Christophe, who had stopped if not only to watch the blonde get gored by the dogs, realised this too. Gregory looked up at him. "What are you hanging around for? More are coming, go on!" He advised.
Christophe growled and cursed his own good will coming at such an inconvenient time, to such an inconvenient person. But he kneeled down, facing away from Gregory. "Climb on." He commanded. Gregory was about to object, but Christophe whipped his head around. "Do you want ze dogs to get us both? CLIMB ON!" He shouted.
Gregory crawled on to Christophe's back, and hung on for dear life while the other teen ran for them both.
Eventually, they came to a dead end wall of earth. "We're screwed. Nice knowing you." Gregory remarked. The Mole shook his head and unsheathed his shovel.
"Zey don’t call me Ze Mole for notheeng." He grinned, and he attacked the wall viciously with his shovel. Gregory was amazed at how quickly they were moving through the soil. After five minutes of rapid digging, Christophe broke the surface, and they burst out into the cool night air.
Christophe lay face down in the dirt, exhausted from the effort. "Get off me, beetch." He panted.
Gregory got off the French boy, and both rolled over on to their backs, gasping for breath and looking up at the clear night.
"Is 'The Mole' really your name?" Gregory asked after a while. Christophe lit a cigarette.
"Christophe DeLorne." He replied. When Christophe finished his cigarette, they both stood.
"It was lovely to meet you, Christophe. Perhaps we will meet again in the future." Gregory said, holding out his hand for a handshake. Christophe ignored the gesture, and instead took Gregory's face in his dirt-caked hands and kissed him on each cheek.
"Au revoir, mon cher. We shall meet again." Christophe promised, before sheathing his shovel and walking off into the night, lighting another cigarette as he went.
Mon dieu! That was my very first Gregory/Christophe fic, so If you like, Rate and Review. I'll proably get to posting this, along with more stories, on Fan Fiction.net and Archive Of Our Own. Feel free to send story requests, you know I love 'em!