A brown haired boy screamed out in agony, eyes wide shut, writhing among the white sheets of his hospital bed. Sheer terror etched into his features. A golden blonde British boy sat next to him, holding the brown haired boys hand for reassurance. Dark circles played under his eyes and a deep crease seemed forever prominent on his forehead.

"It's alright, Christophe. I'm here. I... I'm here..." the Brit winced as Christophe's nails dug into his hand.

The screaming ceased, leaving the boy sweating and gasping for air. He looked fragile. But, being locked inside your consciousness for a month would do that to someone, so it's no surprise. It was his fault that Christophe looked this way. If he hadn't been so stubborn. If they hadn't failed their mission. If he hadn't let Christophe go alone. If only he hadn't...

"Ze... Ze dogs... No-non... Not ze dogs..." the french accent whimpered through Christophe's lips.

"I'm so sorry..." Gregory began.

"Gregoree..."

He was so defenseless. Gregory felt a sharp pang of guilt in his heart as he looked over Christophe's body. His brown hair was disheveled per usual. A big piece of gauze was taped over his right eye where he had gotten a huge gash. He still had dirt under his fingernails and some on his face, a result of his obsession with digging.

Ze Mole. That's what he liked to be called, and the nickname fit well. His trusty shovel was lying up against the wall next to the bed. He never went anywhere without it. Christophe's body had many gashes, cuts, scrapes, bangs and bruises all over it. Even though he was almost done healing, it wasn't exactly a pretty site. A nurse, her name tag said 'Allison', peeked into the room.

"Gregory, sweetie," she said softly. They'd all gotten to know his name by now. He showed up every day and never moved from Christophe's side. The stubborn part of him, the part that had partially been responsible for his friend's poor condition, forced him to watch over his friend as he were a guardian angel.

"Visiting hours are over, hun."

The Brit nodded, not bothering to turn and face her. He leaned in towards the boy's ear.

"I'll come back for you tomorrow, mon ami," he whispered, adding in the french phrase that Christophe had used so many times before.

Gregory stood, gently squeezing the french boy's hand before placing it lightly across his abdomen. Sighing, he glanced over his friend one last time like he had millions of times that day. Noting that Christophe seemed to be at peace at the moment, Gregory turned and walked silently out of the hospital.

Gregory sat on the beige couch, idly staring at the wall, teacup in hand. He was back at home, alone, without Christophe's company. It was strange. The feeling of being alone, and Gregory was nowhere near getting used to it. He could imagine Christophe scolding at him with his back turned, "Gregoree! Don't be a leetle beetch! Stop walloweeng een your self pitee. Go. Make yourself useful."

And then he would turn around, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Don't forget ze meession," he would say, before walking out of the room. Then Gregory would roll his eyes, combing his fingers through his golden locks. After contemplating for a minute what the french boy had said, he would then grudgingly stand up and follow him. Gregory sighed, defeated. After all his petty worries, their mission should run smoothly.

But not this time. This time they had failed, just barely escaping. He was lucky enough to on have several small wounds and a broken bone or two. But Christophe, he wasn't so lucky. He always suffered the brunt of the injuries on their missions, but they were never this bad. They had been ambushed, with virtually no escape. Christophe had gotten slashed, right under his left eye, and stabbed, right through the abdomen, missing vital organs by only millimeters. He had crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach, hitting his head harshly on the concrete floor. The doctors had diagnosed him with a grade 3 concussion. On top of all that, there had been guard dogs. After Christophe had fallen, the dogs had assaulted him. They'd bit him everywhere. Arms, legs, stomach, face. One dog grabbed one of his legs and dragged him a good 30 feet or so before Gregory jumped in, ripping the canine's jaw from his dear friend's leg. All the blood. Gregory shuddered at the thought. So much blood. In theory, Christophe should have been dead. Just when all hope seemed lost, Damien interjected, sending the perpetrators straight to hell. A malicious grin was plastered to his face as he turned to Gregory. "He's one lucky son of a bitch," he had chuckled darkly, before fading into the shadows.

Gregory could feel sleep heavy on his eyelids. At first he was tempted to fight it, just in case the hospital called with any progress. But he knew Christophe would be livid with him later on. Laying his head back, he stretched across the couch, resting his teacup on the coffee table in front of the couch. Allowing the night to overtake him, he fell into a dreamless sleep.