Right Where Clint Belongs
What if everything around you isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection? Is that all you want to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself afraid to see?
Stop squealin', remember that it's all in your head~
GregMole
South Park
Plot twists and angst ahead. BEWARE.
Evolution-- Adaption, fighting to survive. And when you hear the words "fighting to survive," what do you imagine? A bear ripping it's claws into an opposing bear? A cheetah sinking its deathly white teeth into a zebra? Or perhaps a shark tearing some random species of fish apart. Well, in this instance, "fight" means to run. The creature with the better ability to flee. To know when to run; to know when to hide. That is what evolution is. Survival, not of the fittest but of the smartest. But, being a trained mercenary does help. What do you do when you want natural selection to choose you? To wipe you from existence?
Tired hazel eyes closed for a moment as the shower water sprinkled down on him like a warm rain. Except rain should never be that hot; the brunette had turned the shower up on full heat and not bothered to turn it down. He hadn't even bothered to take his clothes off. The mercenary's mind was elsewhere. Replaying the scene that had just unfolded before his eyes. Christophe kept trying to believe that if he told himself that he was just tired, that it was all a dream, that he was going to wake up any moment in Gregory's bed, curled up against the Brit's small frame. The brunette was shaken from his thoughts as boiling water droplets raced each other down his arm and into an open wound.
In a fast moment, Christophe pulled his arm back and threw a fist into the tiled wall, producing a loud bang. The breath that he hadn't even known he had been holding escaped him in a sigh. Then a growl reverberated from his throat as he brought his fist back again ready to hit the wall again, knowing it wouldn't help anything; it wouldn't even make him feel better. How could he have been so stupid to think that it would all be okay? The Frenchman took in a weak breath, the air wavering and making a soft sigh sound as it entered his throat. Silently, Mole brought his hand forward into view, staring at the already red, bruised knuckles that were starting to swell up from the violence they'd been put through.
To think, a car wreck. A mirthless laugh escaped Mole as he stared at his knuckles. Followed by an uncontrollable burst of laughter. The French man really found nothing funny at all, maybe it was his mind trying to help him cope, or maybe he had finally lost it. He tried to quiet the laughter as he continued to stare. He wasn't sure if water in his eyes was from the shower or if he was actually crying, he didn't care to even try to check. What was the point anymore? Self-destruction seemed to be the answer for once. Christophe scoffed out the breath that once again had got caught in his lungs.
They had fucking lied to him. They said he'd make it. Another laugh echoed through the empty bathroom. So when he didn't, he told them he wouldn't kill them, and did the exact same thing they had done to him; he lied. The fucking assholes that let him die, they wouldn't be letting anyone else die. No more lies to loved ones that "they'll make it, we have them under intensive care and watch." Two hours and thirty five minutes after Gregory had been promised to "make it, he'll be fine," he did the exact opposite. Mole had stayed by the bed the whole time. And the other fucker? He made it out with a few bruises. Another growl tore from Mole's throat as he closed his eyes tightly; they were tears, they wouldn't stop either.
Gregory'd be so angry if he saw what Mole had done to the guy that made it out alive. The thought of what Gregory would say if he were there at the moment left an unsteady feeling. "Fuck you," he growled out, "I don't fucking cry." Muddy hazel eyes stared at the tiled wall after he opened them again. "Fuck vous pour existing, fuck vous pour dying." Mole averted his gaze from the tile wall instead to look out the privacy glassed shower door. The urge to punch it quickly and strongly tempting him but before he had a chance something caught his eye. Past the bumped glass was the shovel, covered in blood. If Mole hadn't known what it was he wouldn't have been able to tell what it was. Gregory would have bitched at him, for killing them all, for beating that guy's skull in until the remains were unidentifiable. The mental image of the guy sprawled out on the pavement, his face a total mess brought a slight smirk to the brunette's lips.
Mole hadn't noticed the water cooling down; he was too busy trying to accept what had happened. Another weak intake of air and the brunette laid his forhead against the glass door. Muddy hazel eyes traversing the bathroom for a moment before he closed them, he just wanted to die.
"Mole."
The brunette yanked away from the door looking around. Now, now he was losing it. "Tch, I zought eensanity took a while to 'appen?" A chuckle escaped Christophe as he stared at the wall in front of him again, though he wasn't really seeing it; his mind was far too deep in thought to see what he was looking at.
"You look happy, it's hard to believe."
"Shut ze fuck up!" Mole threatened, sheer panic washing over him. Gregory was not there. He had died. "Don't fucking talk to me, vous are fucking dead!"
Gregory smiled, a forced worried one, holding onto one of Mole's hands he spoke up again, "They say if you talk to comatose patients it helps," he paused for a moment, "I'm not sure if it's true. You better make it; I was horrified when I heard you got into an accident. I phoned your mother, she's flying back as soon as possible. She really loves you, you know." The blonde smiled again, still just as worried, as if he were trying to convince himself that everything was fine and failing. "I've been here three days now; you never let me work, even when you're not awake." Gregory fell silent when the facial expression on the mercenary changed, upset, almost pained. "You'll probably yell at me later, but all I've been doing is praying that you'll be okay," he said with a sigh and stroked his thumb across the Frenchman's hand. "I just wish you'd wake up."
Shock played across Gregory's face as Mole opened his eyes at the request, blinking rapidly as if getting used to seeing for the first time. A loud gasp escaped past the Brit's lips. "Mole!" Familiar hazel eyes moved to him, confusion playing into his gaze.
"T'es qui?"
---
T'es qui = Who are you?
Hope you guys like it :D
R&R, non?