Warning: Mentions of pedophilia, some blood, some angst I guess but a good ending nontheless. Oh and Christophe being Christophe which includes a lot of obscene words and a lot of hate against god.
What on earth should I do. Really God, you have outdone yourself. I have found myself to be in the most difficult positions imaginable and got out multiple times and I am still pretty much alive as of now. I have infiltrated in companies and gangs, I have assassinated, I have spied, I have robbed, I even fucking died and returned and I am still pretty much okay. Or at least I was until a few days ago. Fuck you god. Seriously. I never imagined anything worse than being thrown in a pithole with filthy guard dogs. Monsters. But that cocksucker actually did gave me something worse.
Something far worse, something I couldn't just smash my shovel into or spit at or curse at or fight it in any other possible way except for just killing myself. As this nightmare was growing inside of myself. It was a horrid feeling, sending shivers over my body and fogging my mind. It was twisting everything inside of me. It made me weak, it kept me awake during my few hours of sleep, it took away the taste of my food and made my vital organs burn.
And I couldn't do a goddamned thing about it.
Maybe I could, but in the end I couldn't. The monster was protecting itself somehow, it was able to manipulate my own fucking mind to protect itself. I could not lay a finger on the source as it would make my own heart stop, I could not escape it for it would follow me, Even if I could escape, I would not be able to survive without it as I would die from starvation. I couldn't bash it with my shovel, as it would bash my own heart into pieces. It was the worst curse god has ever sent down on me. Stupid bastard.
Trying to kill god was even likelier to succeed than getting rid of the curse on me.
I am so fucking screwed.
It all started 3 and a half days ago, I had just returned from a mission which might have included getting a priest arrested and a whole church closed. The reason behind it was that the priest had abused numerous children, so it was undoubtfully the right thing to do. A couple of rich-ass parents who suspected something had hired us for this job. It went fairly easy, getting an assault on picture (which did greatly sicken me. I have seen someone getting raped before, more than once, but pedophilia was the fucking grossest thing I have ever seen.) and handing it to the police anonymously. It had all been a success and I got back pretty unharmed except for a stupid cut in my arm as I fell quite a lot of feet from a tree upon seeing the act.
No big deal I suppose. But god sure got pissed to have me screwing his sick church parties, so upon getting back home, he put that stupid curse on me. I could have fucking known he would repay me so badly for ruining his fucked up fun. Gregory was wrapping up the last part of the job administratively, I don't know exactly what he had to do, but I guess it were things concerning our money, and informing our recruiters that the job had been taken care of. He laughingly got up as he saw my sweater being cut and seeping red liquid.
I don't know what suddenly happened, where the monster came from, or if it was already there. but it erupted. My lungs felt like needles were stinging inside of them, my stomach felt like it was being punched, but permanently, it just felt awful. My hands started to tremble and I was completely clueless. Gregory didn't took any attention to my sudden stiffness and took of my shirt.
"Really, why do you have to keep on getting hurt, even on the physically easiest jobs? Do you think it's funny to have me wrap you up every bloody time?" Gregory started laughing at his own joke and gestured me to sit down. Stupid English bastard, making silly jokes while I felt awful all of a sudden. Though I never feel weird all of a sudden. I was the feelingless mercenary. I am The Mole. What was I being a pussy for? I took place on the kitchen table, waiting for Gregory to take out everything he could possibly need to take care of my wound with greatest ambition. After meeting him, he quickly turned out to be better with first aid then any silly doctor I have seen in my life. He was attentive, a perfectionist but still quick and smooth. And he knew me.
He returned, with probably more than necessary, I believe the wound wasn't so deep that he would have to stitch it up. The moment he touched my wounded arm, something, it wasn't pain, shot right through me and made me stiffen up again. "What was that? Does it hurt that bad?" Gregory asked, looking worriedly at me. I shook my head fiercely and shut my eyes tight. What was wrong with his touch? Why did I feel it so prominently. Even when he applied the alcohol on the open wound, which really stings like hell I tell you (But EVERY-fucking-THING on wounds hurt like hell) I mainly just felt Gregory's hand keeping my arm in place. Why didn't it hurt as bad?
"et?" I asked, letting French carefreely slip my mouth. Gregory barely noticed my small French words I let slip anyway.
"I'd rather just stitch it up to be sure, if you aren't heavily objected against it. It could heal up fine, but I'm not entirely sure, so I think it's best to just stitch it up for now, you're used to it anyway" Gregory said as he took out whatever he needed to stitch that damn cut.
This would mean he'd have to touch me longer.
My eyes shot a little open as I found out what I thought. What the fuck did I think. I hated the feeling of his touch!
"As long as you do eet quickly, merde." I mumbled as I quickly got a cigarette out of my pocket. I didn't have one of those for way too long. That must be why I felt so odd.
"If you don't whiff that smoke in my face I'll be done in no time." I watched him disinfecting the needle with the orange Iodine and cleaning the skin around my wound once more with the same stinky stinging shit.
"Are you sure ze're is no ozzer disinfecting sheet available?"
"There is, but I'm not a legimate doctor, so I cannot buy anything better for you. When did you become such a whiny wimp, Christophe?"
"When did you become a fuckeeng sadist?"
And with a smirk on his face he started to stitch me without answering me further. He most likely took my comment as a confirmation I was still feeling alright. Through the corner of my eyes I studied Gregory whom was dedicatedly working on my cut. His focus and skill were absolutely great, as was he in general. Gregory was a very loyal and hard working partner. Moreover, he was good in the stuff I wasn't good in myself.
My head had somehow drifted off, I didn't really experience pain, I just experienced Gregory. I was solely looking at his concentrated face. I don't even remember what I had been thinking, I only knew I freaked out when Gregory's head snapped up to tell me he was done, and he asked if I'd still like bandages. Not wanting to look to suspicious, I nodded and looked away quickly. I really have no idea how my mind wandered off. My mind never fucking wanders off.
The torture didn't end after that though. It had even become worse. Everything just went a little too deep for me. His touch felt different, his voice struck me more than usual and I couldn't hide it. Somehow my fucking body felt like it was boiling and tangling, my skin felt uncomfortable tight and all I wanted was to rip myself literally out of my body. My eyes were fixed on random objects just to not be confronted by Gregory, which would happen soon enough. During supper to be exact.
Gregory had made something very nice smelling of which the name didn't really get into my head. It was just good smelling, good looking, food made by Gregory. It all seemed delicious up until the point where I had to eat it. It felt as if I had a large chunk blocking my throat and as if I had to throw up at the same time. I didn't remember eating anything during the last part of my mission, or anything which might cause nausea in general happening during the mission. Except for gross sights but any kind of gore wasn't really any problem for my hunger.
It was then that I realized I must have caught some illness.
I poked at my food boredly while trying to figure out any way to stuff it down my throat. It was important to stay healthy as possible so I faithfully ate the diet Gregory had set up for them. Dinner was the pinpoint of the diet. I shoved a small bite into my mouth and started to chew on it endlessly, frustrated that I wasn't allowed to smoke now.
"You're not eating." Gregory stated as he had already finished half of his plate. I didn't look up to his face, I didn't dare somehow, not right now when his voiced pierced this deep.
"I'm chewing, mind your own business" I spat with my full mouth which angered Gregory even further. I really shouldn't look up.
"What's the matter? Don't you like it or is something bothering you?" He asked, a bit more concern in his angel-like voice this time. That fucking voice.
"Second. Now shut eet."
I still heard Gregory sigh hopelessly before he continued his meal. "Try to eat, please?"
"I AM CHEWING I SAID, FUCKEENG BEETCH"
I didn't really knew where that came from. I never really got aggressive towards Gregory. Well I did curse the living shit out of him or threatened, but I rarely yelled or got seriously angry for whatever. Fuck I was acting like a girl on her period. It did successfully shut Gregory up but I only made him more aware something was wrong with me.
As I couldn't possibly make it worse, I just stood up and walked off to the small balcony of our apartment to take a damn smoke which directly drove that damn nausea away. With a nice evening breeze and a delicious whiff of nicotine I soon felt a lot better and fucking relieved. I closed the zipper of his body warmer a little higher and swiftly touched the bandages covering up the stupid cut from earlier. It was completely mad. Me. Ill. In any way. I could sleep soaked wet on the freezing forest floor without catching any serious cold. I have eaten from a fucking garbagecan before and it was freaking gross but it never made me ill. That I am still alive is in fact a wonder itself. And now I was losing myself completely. I am pretty certain it was not because of the mission itself, it could be god punishing me, but the mission itself wasn't the reason I am upset or whatsoever.
After a cigarette or three I returned inside and just flopped on the bed. Gregory decided to once again clean them while I was gone and the strong smell of the lavender washing powder stung in my nose once I dropped on them. But it did actually work therapeutic, so Gregory insisted on washing the sheets often with it. I hogged the sheets forcefully even though the smell was so intense but it was a surprisingly relaxing activity. I claimed all of the sheets of our bed. Sucks for Gregory. But right now I was just happy to lie down without any weird feelings. In a mixture of cigarette smoke and lavender I already fell asleep.
It was about midnight when my eyes snapped open again. 23.47 read the alarmclock. The door to our bedroom just opened, so I suppose Gregory finally got to bed as well. I quickly closed my eyes again, pretending to sleep.
I've been behaving odd today anyway, Gregory would fall for my fake sleep.
I couldn't hear Gregory move for a little while. Maybe a minute. I wasn't sure and didn't trust my own senses anymore. I still held possession of all the blankets, so I feared we were forced for any kind of interaction. Gregory finally moved. He walked over to my side of the bed and very carefully placed his a cool hand on my forehead. I needed to control myself a lot, his hand nearly made me shiver. I heard him sigh again as he pulled his hand away. I didn't hear him move after that, so I suppose he was still in front of me, observing me. I kept my breath as slow as I could, inhaling those damn sheets but it helped to keep me calm. Finally he stood up and walked out of the room again. I tensely kept laying there.
Fuck you god. It had to be that cocksucking asshole. It had to be. He was manipulating me. Fuck him.
I couldn't fall asleep for the rest of the evening. Gregory had grabbed another sheet to sleep underneath and didn't bother with me anymore. I nearly went to grab a cigarette again as Gregory usually slept pretty deep so he wouldn't notice, but something stopped me. That fucking stupid weirdness.
It only got worse the next days. I absolutely denied anything being wrong with me and spent more time than usual smoking on the balcony. Yes, I knew I was also making it worse by separating myself and not telling Gregory anything. He was getting worried and kept asking me what is wrong, though not as much as he would normally have, as I did scare the shit out of that pussy by yelling at him. I felt oddly guilty about it. Around 6 in the morning I got up already every day, 'waking' Gregory up in the process who made sure I did not leave the house. He allowed me everything but to leave.
And here I am. The dawn of my fourth day of the torture. I wonder if this would go on, how long did god intend to torture me? I can hear Gregory getting up loudly. My wellbeing clearly affects his sleeping, I'm not sure if I'm happy with that or not. I suppose it is nice of him to be concerned, but I don't know if I want someone being concerned about me. I put the third cigarette of this morning in my mouth, after laying awake in bed for another hellish night I really need a bunch of them to get me even slightly in a better mood.
As far as I can actually have a relative good mood with that motherfucking God spitting on me.
Gregory directly changed our diet when it had become clear I could barely eat anymore. My breakfast was now a bowl of sweet cornflakes in warm milk, which tastes like heaven I tell you. If I would miss something when this curse is gone, it would be this breakfast. And most other meals as well. Though I eat it hunched on the couch with Gregory sitting on the kitchen table, regularly eying me to see if I was still eating.
After this, I will never complain about girls being beetches on their period, as I am positive this was a pretty good comparison. My mind was fogged up completely, focusing on every detail I didn't want it to focus on. My body trembled, my senses were both sharper but weaker at the same time. I can't control myself completely anymore, and I have no fucking idea why, which might be the worst part of it.
"CHRISTOPHE!"
I never noticed Gregory walking over to me, but he was standing in front of me suddenly. I think I didn't hear him? How can I not hear him?
"What?" I reply gruffly.
Gregory falls silent again, his eyes lacking their usual powerful and arrogant shine. "Your arm, please let me look at it" his voice sounding very doubtful. It makes me feel bad. Worse. Guilty. I hate his voice, it was too striking.
I would want to reach out my arm, but I again feel too weak to actually do so. My body feels so limp, so the only think I can think of to allow him was nodding and granting him access to my body. My arm was gripped warily, it feels as if he handles me like porcelain now. I'm completely at loss of anything to do.
Fuck. You. Fucking. Damned. God.
Fuck you for making me weak.
Fuck you for making me hate myself for becoming weak.
Fuck you for making Gregory concerned.
I keep my eyes closed as Gregory pulls of the clean bandages from last night and starts to take the stitches out, not saying a word. His hands are the gentlest pair which ever aided me and like I have already said, he knows exactly how to do it for me.
Soon, I feel all stitches being removed from my arm again. I wait for Gregory to wrap some new bandages around my arm but he doesn't, so I try to throw a quick glance to look what he is doing, trying not to start dazing at him. Again. But that beetch is making it fucking hard for me I tell you. I'm still at the side of the couch, giving Gregory access to my arm. That pussy is sitting on the floor with all the aid kits, holding my arm, staring sadly at my face as he held it.
I want to tell him to stop.
Fuck you Gregory, stop giving me these weird looks.
Though those words just didn't manage to pass through my throat. I'm left to stare back to that sad face. I want to tell that fucking Brit so much, that he's a fucking Brit, that he's a fucking pussy, that he should finish the bandages like the overprotecting, overworrying pussy he was, and ask him why the hell he gave me these weird looks.
Nothing.
"Please, Christophe," Gregory kills the silence upon this room.
I want to shut that fucking voice up. I always wanted to, but now more than ever. He nearly pleas to me and my heart squeezed painfully by the sound. I open my mouth, but again nothing but a freaking pain with shivers.
"Just help me getting your symptoms okay?" Gregory shows me his fake smile, which is still better than that weird look he gave me before, "I'm just worried, because I cannot do anything more for you, so please let me figure out what's wrong. Can you do that?"
"Bien sûr" I somehow manage to mumble. He knows that means 'Of course' anyway so I don't really bother to speak English. French is better and nicer to speak anyway. Moreover, Gregory loves my French.
Gregory's broad smile fades to a honest small smile. "Alright, just let me grab some papers so I can just go through some checklists I've found," closing the aid kit and placing it on a small table, Gregory swiftly walks away to get whatever he needed.
It felt so odd to speak to him again. I honestly didn't speak a word since the first day, trying to evade any form of interaction with Gregory. Which now turns out to have been the right choice. Every fucking thing he did was fucking affecting me. Every. Fucking. Thing. That's why I considered just running away and leaving Gregory. But for one thing, he would try to go after me and probably find me because of my weak state, and secondly, I'm too weak to leave anyway. I am weak. Fuck. Why doesn't this shit feeling leave me alone for god's sake? It somehow feels as if I have a chain around my neck, keeping me here, and it was tight. It is really fucking tight.
He returns. Multiple forms in his one hand. A pen in the other.
"I'm just asking you anything, even if I think I know the answer. Just nod for yes, and shake for no. Because I believe you find it hard to speak?" he asked, scanning the list for that certain question.
Nod.
"Trouble with hearing as well?" no "You sure? You didn't react to me this morning, or is that because you're absent minded right now?" Yes "Absent minded?" "Oui, Beetch" with another sad smile he crosses another box. I don't know why I was cooperating. "Trouble with language in general? As in, do you find it hard to understand sentences or to make them?" No. He grabs a short, thin straw and keeps it in front of my eyes. I just look angrily at him. "I'm trying to help, Mole. Jeez. Well, can you see sharp?" yes "Are you able to focus on one thing?" … No.
As he further questions my sensing abilities, I can already see where this was going. Gregory was losing hope at my painful answers, as I can imagine the likely result of my answers could mean a very, very bad brain-sickness-problem-whatever.
"That's it, okay, give me your arm, I'm going to check basic things like heartbeat, temperature, bloodpressure…" I wish Gregory would stop talking. His voice fucking hurt. And he was scaring me by telling what was wrong. It actually scared me. If that bastard would just leave me alone-
I'm scared. All these things piercing through me, all these realizations, Gregory's fear and my own. What kind of fucked up scene did God throw me in.
And why did he have to hurt Gregory along with me?
"Fuck.." I hear Gregory mumble, which made my heart throb even more painfully. Gregory never says fuck. Never. "It is all too high, Christophe… We maybe should really call an ambulance, or at least go to a real doctor."
"Non" My voice sounds cracked up. Damn. "You're 'elping me, Gregoree. Just go on," I don't want any-fucking-one else near me, as if this alone wasn't humiliating enough.
"Trouble breathing?" he continues obediently, with as much difficulties as I had. Not really, something like it. I make a doubtful face to make him ask similar questions. "Can you take deep breath?" Yes, "Both through your nose and mouth?" Yes, He scans the list before coming up with it, "Does it… Hurt?" Yes I nod sadly. And with a huge sigh he also crosses that box. "Please don't tell me more things hurt?" Yes. "Now you fucking tell me?" I see Gregory getting more desperate by the second. "Headache? Please indicate how much as well" I put four fingers in the air. "Pain in your upper stomach?" six or seven. "Lower part of your belly?" Five. A little sigh of relievement passes Gregory's lips. "Do your muscles hurt anywhere?" I think a little, nearly indicating my heart but I couldn't. So I shake no before making clear I had shivers.
My heart only starts to throb more as I denied the pain.
"Does that cut hurt abnormally?" No. "Am I missing an internal pain?" No, I lie. "But you eat bad. Can you indicate which organ troubles eating?" I indicate my throat to around where my stomach is. "Nauseous?" Yes. "Did you throw up?" No.
Gregory looks really desperate, though he slightly smiles as my last answer was not bad. I would like to have thrown up though, if that would make me feel better. But right now, I really doubt if whatever-I-might-have is anything curable. Gregory holds on tighter onto his pen and inhales deeply again. Please don't ask. Please not.
"Chris, you're blood pressure is high and your heartbeat rate is too high as well, do you feel anything else wrong with your heart?" I feverishly shake No, while my heart was screaming yes throughout my body and I cringed at it. "CHRISTOPHE HONESTLY. SHIT. DOES IT HURT?"
I pull up my legs to push my face between my knees to not face Gregory anymore. I pull my legs closely to my body as the pain only got worse. Fuck you god. I fucking damn hate you. I would have grabbed a knife to fucking pierce my heart if I had any control over my body right now. It's throbbing against my chest so painfully. The only thing I could do was push back against my ribcage, or hit it, or try to tear through my skin with my fingertips. But it never stopped. It was piercing in my ribcage and I realized I had begun to sob. "Oui. C'est douleureux."
"Christophe, you need to get to a fucking real doctor!" Gregory desperately rips my arms away from my legs and forces me to sit down normally again, his hand resting on my racing chest. "I cannot help you, honestly, and you are really sick, Christophe…" I keep my eyes shut tight, trying to just ban Gregory out of my mind, as he made it worse. His hand on my chest made my heart race even harder than before and made my blood boil more and more. I want him to be gone. Leaving me all alone with this stupid throbbing heart god has given to me.
This was all too confusing for me.
As I open my eyes again, I see Gregory, like expected, right in front of me, doing the last I expected him to be doing, sobbing. "I cannot help you, Chris"
"IT FUCKEENG 'URTS, STOP ZAT!" that makes two times I yelled at Gregory. But this time, instead of pushing him away I pull him on my lap completely and I scream out in his shoulder in agony. Gregory embraces me quickly and allowed me to muffle my own screams in his shoulder. Somehow, it actually made it easier for me to calm down. I have no idea for how long I have been going berserk, but it was enough to leave me crying for another few minutes, before falling down exhausted in Gregory's arms completely. That bastard was going to die if he would either start laughing at me now, or use this against me later (which he unfortunately did, the latter.)
To think there'd be a moment I'd really hate myself. I'm really awful.
Gregory is luckily wise enough to know he shouldn't say anything. Not like he would be able to anyway. He just keeps on holding me tight as it seemingly really calms me down. I expect he holds me because he might be afraid he might fall apart himself if he lets go. And so would I, I think. I don't want to try out. I honestly just want to be held. I have to trust Gregory. If not him, who else can I still trust.
Though I still don't want him to suffer. This is my freaking curse, not his.
Or me making him miserable was all a part of god's plan to ruin my life.
That fucking asshole should get a life and some more bitches to get his balls licked.
My body rests limply against Gregory's, my head resting on his shoulder. His heart was racing as well now, and his breathing was quick. Quicker than it should be. His hands claw rougher unto the shirt I've been wearing for 4 days already and I feel a cold wet drop slide onto my forehead. "Don't fuckeeng cry" I say hoarsely. Oh really. What is my body freaking out for? I am the Mole. I am a mercenary. And I'm damn fucking good at it. I keep my cool. Always. Under every damn situation. Well I might be a little out of myself when guard dogs are around, but this is fucking ridiculous. This is really fucking bullshit. And now I'm being some pussy, and I just fucking cried and screamed in front of that pussy, and now I make him cry-
This is fucking bullshit. Absolute. Fucking. Bullshit.
But though it might be bullshit, I wipe away the tears from Gregory's face, as he obviously didn't seem to let me go anytime soon and also, for this one time, I hold him as well. It just feels oddly calming. We stay in place. The old fashioned clock our livingroom indicates it's already 8 am already. And even though we just got out of bed, we go to sleep on the couch. Neither of us really slept the past days and we finally had a little kind of comfort now.
Around 1 in the afternoon, Gregory wakes me up again to my displeasure. Really. Why doesn't that asshole permit me some long awaited hours of sleep. "What was our first mission this year?" He hastily asks me.
"Pourquoi? And why did you 'ave to wake me up?" I sound somewhat less cracked up as I did before the nap though.
"Answer me, now."
"Let's see, zat was in Czech, Liberec, zere was some guy in zat tower on a mountain robbing skiing tourists and raping some of zem, and 'is name… I 'ave no fucking idea! It was fucking boreeng, I only remember zat you are terrible at skiing!" I snap. Why did he need me to remember that, he was the one who made reports of everything in his freaking large documentary.
"Fiala. Tomas Fiala." That does ring a bell. "38 minus 25"
"What is wrong wiz you, you do ze zinking!" My heart was picking up pace. Again. "Zat's.. 13"
"I'm just checking if your brain is still completely working. Sit up straight." Whatever. I sat down upright on the coach again and the bastard tried the trick of hitting a nerve underneath my knee, making my leg jerk up. "How's your concentration doing?"
"'ow should I know! I just woke up!"
"Sight, hearing, breathing, heart?"
"Acceptable, fine, fast, faster."
"Doing better or worse than earlier today?"
"Better."
Gregory walked away, to the table to sit down behind his laptop again, not paying any more attention to me. He just starts his laptop to do some of his stuff like there was nothing at all going on. Maybe I should get myself some sheets or something, it isn't particulary hot in our apartment and I feel slightly feverish. Though I don't want to stay in bed all day either. Or on the couch, or underneath the bed, or in another place where I'm able to curl up into a tiny miserable ball hidden in covers. That would not possibly make me feel any better.
So I take a shower. An uncommonly long shower in order to get my thoughts away and working on any way to keep my mind going on. But anything consisted of going outside of our apartment, and not just the balcony. I didn't have any 'hobby's' inside. Nothing. I don't clean, I don't cook, I don't read, I don't play any games, I don't puzzle, I don't sing or make any other form or music, I dislike seriously listening to music, I have no shows I like to watch (except for CSI and that shit, but I don't feel like watching any of those shows somehow). Maybe I could draw, it doesn't sound as utterly boring and strict as any of the other standard hobby's. and that's really all I can come up with during that half hour I let the hot water make my body boil comfortably.
I cut off the hot water as soon as I'm done and stand underneath an iceclold stream of water for another few seconds, just so I wouldn't get cold after getting out. I quickly dry my whole body and put back on the grey sweater and sweatpants I have been wearing ever since this shit begun. For this one time, I even put effort in drying my hair. If I have any kind of flu or cold, I am not going to make it worse myself.
Upon returning to the livingroom I am faced with the surprise of Gregory's backpack being packed, his laptop shut off, a few other devices in the house including all phones lying on the table next to the laptop, all shut off, and no sign where Gregory was.
His shoes were still here. All of them. So he was inside.
What the fucking hell was going on.
The answer fell directly into place right when I found Gregory. It wasn't hard as our apartment wasn't really that big, but I find him standing on our balcony, doing the thing I was doing nearly nonstop for the past days. He smokes. He isn't wearing his orange shirt anymore, he wears a neat black one, a few tints darker as his usual pants which lost a little of their color apparently. The whole scene told me directly what was going on. He is about to leave.
Which is odd, as he never told me about a new mission we'd have to do.
On my bare feet I walk up to him, shivering slightly. The bastard didn't look up but just kept leaning on the fence, focused on my cigarettes he was smoking. Not that I am in the position to complain, as Gregory does the financial stuff and buys me the cigarettes. But they're still mine.
"You took long enough" Gregory says after finishing 2 whole cigarettes, though I'm sure he smoked some more while I was still inside. "I assume you feel a little more better now?" His voice is too serious. I just hum through my own cigarette I had claimed. "Sorry for saying this on short notice-"
"Short notice" I repeat him sharply.
"I didn't have a choice okay? I am certain enough you are not going to die from whatever-you-might-have, so I'm doing the safest thing now. It should take me about 3 days including some sleep." Gregory says, still not turning around. I fucking hate his serious business attitude, especially when it's against me.
I try to inhale the smoke as deep as I can to keep myself calm. I am really clueless what's fucking wrong with my whole chest. My heart was racing so ridiculously fast, "What ze fuck are you going to do anyway?"
"You didn't figure?" Gregory suddenly turned around, eyeing me suspiciously again. "Fuck, let's hurry then, I'll fill you in, I thought you were thinking straighter, Sorry." Gregory directly throws the half-smoked cigarette away and took mine as well and gestured to get inside again. "You do remember that case in salt lake city we once had, and that Austrian guy who kept in touch with us for some cases here? He really wants us there. The job details aren't essential for you, but I'm doing it all. I told him we weren't able to do it because you were working on a longer job this time which wasn't abortable in this state, but you know with whom we're dealing. He has threatened to sent some people here to help us make up our minds, but I don't want you to get any trouble now so I'll do it. You are supposed to be on a mission yourself, so I put off all communication sources so they aren't able to get to you meanwhile. I have my cell on, though, so you don't have to worry about anything. Just grab one of the emergency phone-cards if anything is wrong. Do you still have my number memorized?"
I hate to admit that it actually took me some additional seconds before I even registered everything he just said to me and to recall his number, I open my mound to recall it out loud but I luckily catch Gregory's glare in time before I ruined his number. I'm not allowed to say it aloud for some obvious and paranoid reasons I came up with myself. "You zink you can 'andle it yourself?" I ask him then, hoping to talk him off it. He couldn't just be going 3 days, fucking beetch.
"I have to, we never got to try out my skills solo on the field like this, have we? It's always either you alone, or me going with you. But we will find out, I'm very well prepared, Mole." He walks away meanwhile, to the hallway and grabs his own pair of combat boots. How do I stop him? Fuck you God, why am I not able to stop him?
"Take me wiz you-"
"No."
"If I'm dying 'ere you will not be 'ere in time!" I try. It's ridiculously dramatic and unlikely to happen, but I feel like resorting to being this dramatic. I just want that asshole to not leave.
"You may call 911 if you're dying, I am still not a doctor." He wraps the scarf around his neck.
"You don't fuckeeng care?" My body nearly lungs itself at Gregory to pull him back and to keep him here, but that just went too far. I'm not that weak and pathetic. Though it would keep him here if I can't control myself. But though that motherfucking god turned me into something remotely close to a girl on her period, I am not fucking going to lose my dignity.
"Please Mole, don't make this any harder than it already is. You have foodsupply which should last 5 days it you would eat very much, but right now I think it could last over a week if you keep eating as little as you do now. There's some good stuff in the fridge, you've gotten enough cigarettes, and just so you know, I took two packets. I know you count them." If anything was wrong and Gregory was under pressure, he would suddenly smoke pretty much. Not as much as me, but still uncommonly much.
"But-"
Where did all of the things I need to say go? What did I want to scold him for? How do I stop him?
"I'll be back in two days around 8 in the evening Mole. Don't get out of the apartment. Sorry."
I can't remember when he put on his coat, but he had it on already and closed the door shut and locked it. No goodbye. He just fucking left. For three fucking days. I stare at the door for that-fucking-god-might-knows-how-long before I lost it completely.
A/N: I'm already working on the second part, which is also the last part already. as I'm not yet satisfied with the ending, but I wanted to upload around half of it already so you can tensly wait until the final half is up with all the angst I warned for at the warnings at the beginning of this chapter. But yeah, It will eventually all be alright, though it takes our little stubborn french mercenary quite a lot of effort.
Thanks for reading so far!