rating; PG. Seriously. This is the most kid-friendly Mole will ever be.

information; Gregory and Mole tackle his greatest fears. Head on. Or hands on. Either way, this is the story. It might be more than one chapter, but I like what it is now. It depends on your reaction to the story. So please enjoy!

"What ees eet?" he asked in irritation, tapping ash across the breakfast bar of their shared apartment.

Gregory grinned, picking the skillet up and flipping the eggs with the ease of a trained cook. "It's special," he replied, smiling to himself. He heard the mercenary shift behind him, grumbling between his teeth. Gregory simply grinned wider and turned several pieces of bacon over. Though a true Englishman at heart, he found he had a guilty pleasure in the foods of the American people. Specifically their breakfast items, which, while questionable in nutrition, provided quite a jolt of energy on lazy Sunday mornings.

"I 'ate surprises," Mole informed him. "Zey're met witzh a quick deatzh."

Gregory laughed, rolling his eyes as he pulled down plates from the cupboard. Porcelain white, with multi-colored dots around the outside. Christophe had, on more than one occasion, called them ugly. Gregory kept them for that sole purpose. "You hardly scare me, Mole," he said. "I'll still be breathing when I bring it home tonight."

"We'll see about zhat."

Sliding eggs onto the plates, Gregory balanced them on his arm as he turned around, placing the plate of freshly cooked bacon on the breakfast bar joining the kitchen and the livingroom. "Eat up," he said, presenting the twin eggs to Christophe. "An All-American breakfast for two foreign Revolutionists."

Mole set his cigarette on the edge of the plate, pinching the egg white between his fingers and lifting it from the plate. "I am a mercenary," he said, stuffing the egg into his mouth. "I fight whoever zhey pay me to fight."

Making a face at the Frenchman's lack of table manners, Gregory picked up his fork. "You forget I've hired you on," he said casually. "Indefinitely."

Mole grunted, snatching a slice of bacon from the plate between the two. His silence indicated only that he had nothing more to say to the cocky British man across from him. Holding his tongue had been a quickly learned trait, amazing even himself in his willingness to change overnight. Prior to living with Gregory in their typical New York apartment, his habits ruled his life. Smoking, drinking on occasion, digging up any yard within sight, speaking his mind as loudly as possible, and taking showers as rarely as physically able, to name a few. Gregory had objected to quite a number of things, leading Mole to change his ways to fit the salary Gregory doused upon him in heaping helpings. No other job had paid quite as well, yet no other job had required him to sleep with his boss.

In the time it took Mole to finish his line of thought and swallow a single slice of bacon, Gregory had finished his plate and was at the sink, rinsing it off to put it away. "I'll be home in an hour," he informed the mercenary. "I expect you to be here. This is quite the gift, I do believe."

Blinking heavy eyelids, Mole shrugged a shoulder. "I'll be here," he answered.

"Perfect."

...

Staying in one spot had never been so hard. Mole paced the apartment several dozen times, noting the position of each door, the windows, the blinds, and the wear on the carpet. In an attempt to stave off boredom in that crucial hour, he smoked four cigarettes, tossing each butt at the sink from the breakfast bar. Each had made their intended landing, and he felt quite proud of himself. Eventually, his paranoia took over, and he retreated to the bedroom, hands gripped tight around his trusty shovel. If Gregory planned to double cross him, assassination was the only way. Mole didn't plan on going out like that.

His diligent waiting payed off as the door opened, revealing Gregory and a plain cardboard box. Mole held the shovel at the ready as he walked out of the bedroom, down the hall. Gregory seemed completely disinterested in his hostility, noting the shovel in advance while placing the box on the floor. He stepped to the side, placing a hand on the Mercenary's shoulder and the other on the shaft of the shovel.

"You wont need this," he promised, staring into Mole's eyes. "Trust me."

Reluctantly giving the shovel away, Mole snorted. "What ees eet?"

"Open it and find out," Gregory offered, gesturing towards the box as he placed the shovel against the wall.

Wary, Mole squatted by the box, poking at it with his finger. Deeming it safe, he peeled back a flap, revealing the darkness below. He peered closer, peeling back a second flap. A grey and white face popped out at him, tongue lolling out, brown eyes beneath white visor-like eyebrows bright in excitement. Mole shouted in surprise, falling back and scrabbling to get up as the puppy jumped in the box, his back legs never clearing the side. Whining, the puppy kicked at the wall of the box, unable to limb or jump out, as Mole reached for his shovel.

Gregory stopped him. "It's just a puppy!" he said quickly, placing himself between the shovel and the mercenary. "It's not a threat."

"I fucking hate dogs," Mole growled.

"You hate guard dogs," Gregory corrected. "This is a schnauzer puppy. They're very good with children. They're even used in hospitals as therapy dogs."

"So zhey guard ze dead."

Gregory blew air out his nose, clamping his mouth shut. There was no arguing with the mercenary, which made it harder to come to some kind of compromise. Stepping aside to scoop up the puppy, Gregory pressed him towards the unarmed mercenary. "He's just a puppy," he said. "You need to name him."

Mole shrunk away from the creature, pressing himself against the wall, his eyes never leaving the grey affront to his fears. "Get ze beetch away from me," he warned.

Cornering the mercenary against a bookshelf and a wall, Gregory eased the puppy towards him. Flailing, Mole knocked over the bookshelf and scrambled into the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the fan. Gregory looked at the puppy, who licked his chin. "I don't know either," he said, setting the puppy on the floor.

He walked to Mole's designated bathroom, knocking on the door. Getting no response, he shrugged and turned around to make himself a sandwich. As he walked to the kitchen, he saw the puppy squatting near the door. Dawning on him, he clapped his hands. "No!" he shouted. "Bad puppy! You don't pee on the floor!" He hurried over, picking the puppy up and unlocking the door as he heard Mole snickering behind the door.

"This is going to be a long process, isn't it Beetch?"