A/N: This is dedicated to my own Stan, AKA Pia, my valentine, as I am poor and cannot buy her anything. Instead I present to thee, badly written ChristophexGregory!

Warning: Slash.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

The great thing about South Park was that you could go for a walk at any time in the night and feel safe. It was 01:23, according to his watch, which he'd had set perfectly, to the second, of course. He'd say it was cold, but that goes without saying; it was September, and the snow was already two feet deep. Night was probably his favorite time to be out, because the other residents of South Park were tucked away in their average little beds with their average little families, therefore he did not have to converse with them.

He was hunting. Not in the illegal sense; he didn't have a rifle, and he wasn't looking for an animal, although the last could be debated. He was hunting for an old friend. He'd automatically gone to the house he'd once lived in, but alas, it was empty. He had to have still lived there; he'd climbed over the garden fence and checked through his window, and noted the dirty old shovel he was positive he would never leave behind. This also told him that the boy was not out on business. South Park was just a mountain town, there were only a handful of places he could be.

And so he was stood outside the church. It was the last place he wanted to look so, obviously, he headed there first, because if the Mole was not at home at 01:27, he was in the church, yelling at God. He stepped over a homeless person who hadn't quite made it to sanctuary, and pushed open the large, heavy door.

Of course, there he was. Sat on the front bench, smoke rising above him in strange patterns that seemed oddly beautiful in the weak candle light. His foot steps echoed as he cautiously approached his prey.

"Christophe," he said, confident that he himself had already been identified, purely from his footsteps. He was ignored. He took that as a good sign, and continued. "What are you doing?"

The brunette sucked the life out of his cigarette and threw it to the floor, reaching into his pocket immediately for his next. Gregory reached into his own coat pocket, and presented a lighter as though it was a peace offering, lighting the cigarette that hung loosely out of his mouth.

"Merci," he said, devoid of all emotion.

"What are you doing?" He pressed on. The Mole inhaled deeply and breathed, "What does eet look like, faggot?" His voice had changed slightly, became rougher with the many years of chain smoking. He was honestly a walking miracle.

"It looks as though you have not changed. You're still yelling at God, I presume?" Gregory smiled at the deja vu that washed over him.

"Non, but eet iz a good guess. I am looking for a quiet place for my smoking." His French accent had gotten worse over the years; he slipped in and out of it and now Gregory was sure he was putting it on for affect. "Cut to the chase, Gregory. What iz eet that you need me for?"

"I'm offended. You make it sound like I have no reason to look up an old friend other than work!" The Mole raised a thick eyebrow and shook his head. Gregory laughed to himself and took a seat.

"Okay, I shall admit it. I have a job for you."

"What kind of job iz eet and 'ow much will it pay?" He asked after once again puffing on his half cigarette.

"It pays well, I assure you. However, I cannot give you the details, as I do not know them myself. 'Snake', as he so originally calls himself, will fill you in after you accept."

"'zen I decline. I am not stupid." He said instantly.

"I thought you'd say that."

Gregory could only hear their breathing for almost ten minutes after that. He checked his watch. 01:56. He was startled when the bench moved, and the Mole stood up at his full height. He wasn't very tall, he mused, though he couldn't really talk, but he didn't look like someone you'd want to get in a fight with. Probably because of his dirty, scarred face, and that look of pure hatred in his eyes that never left, even when he seemed content.

When the Mole headed for the doors, Gregory followed. He had a feeling their conversersion was not yet over, and that he could perhaps do a little more convincing. 'Snake' didn't sound like the type of guy who'd be pleased with rejection, no matter how unreasonable his request was. Vaguely he wondered what was with these stereotypical code names.

They were walking through the grave yard. He'd never been afraid of graveyards, but then again, he'd never really been afraid of anything. Brave, some people, including himself, would call it, but deep down he knew he was just stupid. He often forgot that he was not invincible. The silence had stretched on for much too long, and so Gregory asked:

"How is your Mother? I trust she is well?"

The Mole stopped suddenly, and Gregory stumbled backwards so as not to run into him. He turned and smirked.

"Ask 'er yourself, Mon Ami."

They had stopped on a grave that was covered in dying flowers. A cross stood on a stone block, which read something he could only half understand in French. He did understand the name, however. Ah.

"I'm... terribly sorry, Christophe." The Mole flinched slightly at either the apology or the use of his real name, and shrugged, kneeling in the snow.

"She was a beetch. Of course, I loved 'er dearly, but she was a beetch. She begged to be burried in the 'ouse of this cock-sucker, even as 'e tore away ze last of 'er soul. Stupid woman," he said fondly, leaning against the cross. Gregory suspected this was the real reason he'd chosen to smoke at the church.

"You are not sad?" He asked. He knew the answer.

"Of course I am not. As I said, she eez a beetch. Was a beetch." He corrected. He had not noticed he'd finished his previous cigarette; the end still hung out his mouth.

"You are sad, aren't you?" He teased. The Mole groaned and knotted his eyebrows.

"You. You want me to be sad, because you do not want to believe zat I feel only anger towards your God. I am not sad. She eez gone. Zer would be no need for me to be sad because eet would not bring 'er back, no? Even if eet would, I would not be sad, because I do not want 'er back." Gregory groaned this time, rolling his eyes at how predictable his friend still was.

"Of course you feel more than just anger. It is impossible for a human to feel just one emotion." The Mole laughed at this, and reached into his pocket, fumbling for another cigarette.

"You think so? Well, pretty boy, you are wrong, so very, very wrong."

"I am never wrong, Christophe, I am sure you have realised." The Mole laughed.

"That ego of yours. Eet never changes. You 'ave to realise, zat not everyone 'as a million emotions. I would like to 'ave none, I think, rather than 'as many as a God loving cock-sucker such as yourself."

Gregory smirked down at the brunette. Oh, he'd missed teasing him, because really, Christophe was the best person in the World to torment, and the only one he'd ever even consider tormenting. When he knew he was wrong, he swore a lot, he lost his accent, and he fumbled with his cigarettes. Well, he did the last one always, anyway. But it was terribly amusing to watch him lose his cool. Maybe Gregory was some sort of sadist.

He was still searching in his pocket for his lighter. Gregory waited until he was met with pleading eyes before getting out his own lighter. He took the cigarette out of the Mole's mouth and lit it in his own, this time, helping himself to a few deep breaths of nicotine, despite not liking it all that much. The Mole glared at him until he removed it from his mouth, making to pass the cigarette back, but instead dropping it in the snow. Christophe made a growl of protest, and Gregory grabbed him by his thin, torn shirt.

He pressed his lips against the Mole's chapped, nicotine-and-tar's own, and breathed. The smoke passed between them, and he felt Christophe inhaling it desperately, shivering, although he was sure that was just from the snow. He was a whore for his fags, that was for sure. Gregory didn't release his grip for a few more seconds, not until Christophe finally unstiffened against him. He smirked and moved back.

"So, 'tophe. Can you please just agree to 'Snakes' terms, or do I have to do something more?"

"Faggot." The Mole cursed, looking down into the snow moodily. "You would kiss a man outside the house of your God?"

Gregory grinned, resisting the temptation to do it again, purely for the look of distaste he received. 'Snake' would get the Mole's services, he'd make sure he did.

"Mon Cher, I would kiss you anywhere."

A/N: I'm actually not quite sure what I've written or why Gregory kisses Christophe, but hey, make up your own minds, because it's 01:54 and I probably have school tomorrow. Reviews are very appreciated, so do it, whores. Even if it's "It's shit." As long as you say, "It's shit, because..." Thank you and GOODNIGHT, FINALLY.