Disclaimer - I am neither Parker, nor Stone. I do not own South Park or any of the characters, only a copy of the movie on dvd. This is a fanwork done for my own amusement, not profit.

The First Encounter.

Gregory arrived at the rendez-vous and leaned against the wall, drumming his fingers against the brickwork in the pre-arranged sequence the middleman had specified, almost jumping out of his skin when a dark shape dropped down from the top of the wall to land next to him. A light flared in the twilight as the other lit a cigarette, displaying intense, exhausted features and darting eyes.

'And 'oo are you?' The boy demanded in a thick accent.

'Gregory, I go to Yardale. I've seen you around town on occasion. I never see you on the school buses though, you vanish often and are regularly injured.'

'Couilles.' He spat, exhaling smoke.

Gregory turned the other boy gently by the shoulders so they faced one another in the half-light and ran his thumb over the cut on one of the lad's cheekbones. 'I can help if you're having problems at home, Mole.'

The French boy pulled back slightly, although he let the blond's hands remain on his narrow shoulders. 'It is zat fuck-shitter God 'oo is making my life 'urt, not ma mere. I am ze Mole, mercenary and agent for hire. You cannot save me, little rosbif, God and I 'ave business wiz each ozzer.'

Gregory glanced about, double-checking the park was abandoned and pulled the bitter boy close, pressing their lips together. Dirty, strong fingers tangled in his golden curls and the only sound audible in the empty playground was the noise of them breathing heavily through their noses before The Mole broke away, wiping his sloppy mouth across his forearm. 'Fils de salope.' He breathed, awestruck. His cigarette had been trampled underfoot as they'd made out and he pulled out a new one, lighting up.

'Wait!' Gregory managed to find his voice as The Mole turned and headed away. 'You'll be back, right?' A shrug of black-clad shoulder was his only answer, but Gregory was heartened that he'd not been turned down outright. 'What do I call you?'

That made him turn around and dark eyes peered out of his pale, wan face, examining Gregory minutely. 'You may call me Christophe.' The shovel slung across his back glinted in the last rays of daylight and Gregory slid down the wall to stare up at the emerging night sky in shock. 'Alors.'