Gregory William Langsdale, of Yardale, the South Park Public School System, Stanford, and Harvard Law, was late. He'd had to stop for another cup of tea, even though the slop they served at Starbucks was weak and tasteless. Then the Green Line had gone down, and the station was packed. Given the anxious faces and tapping feet of the crowd of commuters in the D.C. metro, lateness wasn't uncommon. The solidarity with his fellow commuters did little to comfort him, though, as his jaw clenched and unclenched the longer he stood waiting on the platform.

Tardiness was unacceptable, especially on a Friday. This was a fact that had been drilled into him by his father. Gregory could tell that the day was likely going to be a disaster. His whole morning had felt off. The beer from the night before had left him with a dull headache, and his shower was running cold again. His apartment's heat wasn't working well either, and he'd shivered uncontrollably even once he'd layered on his sweater and scarf. He'd poured his first cup of tea only to realize that he'd forgotten to restock on proper teabags. That cup plus his emergency Starbucks cup was nowhere near enough caffeine given his typical five-cup morning. He felt like he'd snap at anyone who stepped in front of him. Not an appropriate mental framework, he told himself firmly. It would do no good to show up at the office stressed to all hell, especially when Kenny and Bebe would doubtless still be celebrating their success with Butter's case.

The thought of Butters Stotch made Gregory huff out a breath, and his lip quirked upward as his annoyance faded for a moment. The situation had been utterly absurd. Reveling in the fame and fortune of his last blockbuster hit, Butters had once again surrounded himself with curvaceous, lustful women. His manager had thrown a fit and called McCormick Langsdale Stevens, LLC, and they'd worked tirelessly for a week to avoid another tabloid front page with Butter's face plastered all over it. Gregory never would have believed Butters capable of such scandal, but Kenny had just laughed and laughed through the whole project. Gregory had been annoyed at his levity, but when Kenny explained Butters' lifelong crush on Kim Kardashian, Gregory had laughed along with him. Butters was doing well for himself, considering the hell that was growing up in South Park, and Gregory was proud that the team had been able to help him maintain his lifestyle. Plus, the company had received a hefty sum for their efforts.

He checked his watch again, sighed, and finished off the remnants of his tea. He would arrive at least twelve minutes late. Kenny and Bebe were responsible adults, he reminded himself, and surely they wouldn't destroy the office in twelve minutes. They must've learned from last time. Aside from making Kenny alphabetically organize the stack of files that had been knocked off the desk in their enthusiasm, Gregory had considered leaving the walls of Kenny's office scattered with the bullet holes. Then he'd decided it looked unprofessional and had begrudgingly had the whole bloody room repaneled.

Kenny was excellent at his job, Gregory told himself. It didn't matter that his presence increased their decorating budget, nor that he spent his relative wealth irresponsibly. Gregory had no control over Kenny's decisions outside of the office, and had no desire to drive him off. Gregory had never met someone so able to talk information out of strangers, and Kenny's reckless courage had saved both his life, Bebe's life, and their clients lives on multiple occasions. He often reminded Gregory of- well. And Bebe, despite her fierce temper, was clever and kind and just as much an adrenaline junkie as Kenny and Gregory. Gregory was sure he'd have given up the business years ago without her determination and encouragement. Both of his colleagues were vital to his success. He just hoped they would be able to control themselves without his presence this time.

The arrival of the train broke him out of his reverie. "Bloody finally," he muttered, and moved to toss his empty cup into the rubbish bin. As he turned to step towards the train, a low voice caught his attention.

"'Ey, do you 'ave a light?"

Gregory's brain stopped for a moment, and he took a stumbling step away from the pillar where a homeless man he hadn't noticed was sitting on the filthy tile floor, slumped and staring at him. His hair was a matted wreck, falling in clumps around his face, and his beard was scraggly and unwashed. His dark pants and heavy boots were caked with mud. One hand was clutched convulsively around the chain about his neck, and the other held out a dirty looking cigarette. Frozen, Gregory couldn't do anything but gape as commuters rushed all around him. The hazel eyes of the man had dark circles and premature wrinkles, but the intensity and recognition in them was unmistakable.

"I- how," Gregory breathed, and took a step towards the man, reaching out.

A rushing train passenger knocked into him before he'd gotten more than six inches and pushed him towards the train. In shock, Gregory stumbled back and boarded the train on autopilot, then realized what he'd done and turned to disembark just as the doors closed in front of him. He blinked, still unable to think, and found the man's stare again. Their eyes stayed locked together until the train whisked him out of sight.

It was Christophe. It shouldn't be possible, but it was Christophe. The voice, the eyes. Gregory would have recognized them anywhere. After its stall, Gregory's brain kicked into a faster gear as his heart started pumping adrenaline through his system. What was Christophe doing in D.C.? He was supposed to be dead, put to rest in his beloved dirt, and Gregory was supposed to have moved on. They'd both known the risks when Christophe had joined up, and Gregory had accepted that Christophe had probably died doing what he was best at. He shouldn't be alive. He shouldn't be here, in the underground of the metro. He shouldn't be homeless, begging for lights and cigarettes and he should have let someone, anyone but preferaby Gregory for bloody fuck's sake, know he was alive.

Gregory's breathing sped up as he tried to control the rush of emotions that was welling up. Anger, and pain, and joy, and confusion, and a deep deep sadness. His hands shook, and he looked wildly around, worried someone else on the train would sense his abnormal behavior. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, and the metallic taste that flooded his mouth helped to clear his head enough that he could formulate coherent thought. It might not have been Christophe; it could have been anyone. Christophe had had a rather average appearance, with his brown hair and muddy eyes, and his mind was probably filling in a strangers face with the details that were buried in his memory. And the voice, well. Surely it was common for homeless vagrants to have strange, French-like accents. And the smoking was nothing out of the ordinary either. And even if it was him, surely he would have stopped Gregory for more than a light. Surely he would have stopped Gregory from getting on the train, from leaving him again.

His breathing slowed again as he worked through the encounter. Most probably it was all just a result of the mild hangover and the lack of caffeine and the stressful morning. He would go to work and forget about everything else, and then maybe, at the end of the day, would see if the man was still there.

By the time the train arrived at his stop, Gregory had nearly managed to put the whole incident out of his mind. He headed to his office building, which was an old fashioned towering brick structure. The first floor lobby was modern, however, and clearly expensive. He smiled at Jim at the security desk, then slid his key card and got on the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently as the ancient relic made its way up to the top floor of the building.

As he got off, he was entirely unsurprised to hear the raised voices of Bebe and Kenny, doubtlessly bickering over something menial. As soon as the metal doors clanged shut behind him, Bebe whirled around a corner and into the hallway, Kenny at her heels.

"I told him it was stupid!" she cried by way of greeting. "It's an inappropriate use of office funds! But of course he wouldn't listen to me, no. You've got to make him get it out of here!"

"Shut up, Bebe. It's fucking badass. Hey, Gregory. Sup." Kenny flashed Gregory a smile full of glittering teeth, and Gregory lifted his eyes up to the ceiling in a plea for patience.

"What in the bloody hell have you done this time, Kenny," Gregory sighed, sweeping past both of them and into Kenny's small office.

A large red plastic keg now stood displayed prominently in the corner of the room, a garish NASCAR sticker plastered on it. It clashed horribly with the dark oak and tasteful crown moulding of the rest of the room.

"That had better not have beer in it, Kenny. We have plenty of scotch, and you know my opinions on beer in the workplace," Gregory said, annoyance making his headache pang. He turned a glare towards Kenny, who rolled his eyes.

"Of course not. How much of a complete moron do you think I am? No, it's got lemonade in it. The non-alcoholic kind. For fucks sake."

"Still, it's hardly professional!" argued Bebe, leaning against the doorframe and glaring at the offending piece of paraphernalia. "What sort of people do you want our clients to think we are?"

"People who know how to have fun, obviously," said Kenny. "Look, not all of our clients are these stuffy suit-tie-and-trust-fund types, yeah? What about the businessmen with new money, and the fucking rednecks who happened to strike it rich? We've worked for them in the past, and you gotta admit that the'd feel more comfortable in the presence of a like-minded individual." He flashed another grin and took a bow. "You two are great for the uppity suit types. I'm just trying to make us seem more well rounded."

Gregory sighed. Kenny, as a co-founder, could do what he liked with his office, and even without formal education, his business sense was impeccable, especially when it came to other people. "Fine, I don't give a damn. Just keep the door shut when we have important clients. Just looking at it gives me a headache. Bloody Americans." He turned his heel and marched into his own office.

He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it until his jaw stopped clenching reflexively. Though the room was lushly decorated with antique rugs and wood paneling, it was almost clinically neat. Gregory hated clutter. It reminded him too pointedly of his earlier life. There was a precise stack of follow-up paperwork from Butters' case on his desk that needed to be finished. He sighed, glanced over at the small end table that held his scotch, then reminded himself that drinking at nine in the morning was not in any way professional. He sat down at his desk, tried to forget about the morning, and started signing documents on the appropriate lines.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Bebe opened the door and brought him a mug of tea- proper tea, not the Starbucks shit he'd slurped down that morning.

"So," she said, setting the mug down on the desk for him. "What's up with you?"

Gregory raised an eyebrow at her, then picked up the mug and took a long sip.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

"Oh, come the fuck on, Gregory. You hate when we work for those redneck businessmen Kenny was talking about."

"Bills have to be paid," Gregory replied stiffly, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah, I know that. But you take every pleasure in making them feel as uncultured and ignorant as possible every time you shake their hands. Solidarity with the masses they oppress, or whatever bullshit you tell yourself. I expected you to flip your shit with Kenny wanting to make them feel more comfortable. And anyway, that's clearly just an excuse for him to make his office as hideous as a men's locker room."

"How often do I truly flip my shit?" Gregory asked. "I just happen to believe that Kenny has control over his work environment, and that we should all endeavor to accept our colleagues', ah, nuances of personal taste."

"That's some total HR bullshit, Gregory. I've known you since undergrad. Something's up. And you've signed the wrong section of this report." Bebe plucked the first sheet of paper from the top of his inbox. "And your hands are shaking, darling. If you need to talk to someone, I'm here."

Gregory's mouth thinned, and he swallowed. Bebe was a lovely person, and she really did mean well. But she didn't need to be bothered with his personal nonsense. "I just-" He cleared his throat. "It was a bit of a rough morning, that's all. I just need to get my mind focused. It's probably a lack of tea, so thank you. This will help." He lifted the mug in a toast to her, and gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Bebe studied his face for a few moments, then sighed and nodded. "Okay, if you say so. But my office is right next door, in case you need anything."

"Of course," replied Gregory, and she left him alone.

He ran a hand through his thick hair, messing up the careful styling that had gone into his curls, then shook his head. He corrected the error he'd made, double checked the work he'd already done, and started to edit their new contract. Their previous confidentiality agreement had had a loophole, which was unacceptable. McCormick Langsdale Stevens, LLC had to set a standard of supreme discretion if they wanted the sort of clients that Gregory was determined to obtain.

The time ticked by steadily, and Gregory's focus only broke once when Kenny barged in with a roll of cream crackers. "At least eat something, even if it is this nasty shit," he said, and left Gregory alone again.

The crackers were enough to sustain him for the rest of the day, and the sun was down before Gregory realized how long he'd been sitting at his desk. He rolled his head, a few vertebrae popping, and got up to leave.

"No new calls today?" he asked Bebe as he passed her office on the way to the door. She shook her head, and he smiled and nodded back at her. It would be a quiet weekend then. The payment they'd received from Butters' management was more than enough to fill their needs for a few weeks.

Ordinarily he'd stay at the office until at least nine or ten in the evening, even on a Friday, but he was anxious and unsettled. He wanted to get back to the metro station. Neither Bebe nor Kenny commented on his early departure, and he was grateful. His pace quickened the closer he got to the station, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he saw that the green line was fully operational again, and the delay had been rectified.

On the train, he tapped his fingers against the handhold, trying to will the train to faster speeds. The woman next to him raised her eyebrows at him when he moved too far and bumped into her. He murmured an apology and gave her a winning smile, feeling like an idiot. He tried to calm down for the rest of the ride, which seemed to take longer than the rest of his day put together.

Adrenaline was racing through him again by the time the train lurched to a halt at his stop. He stumbled out of the train in his haste, and looked around wildly for a sitting figure. He couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen the man, and he started to feel a panicked disappointment rising into his throat when the station appeared empty. As the woman he'd bumped pushed past him, however, he took a step to the side and caught a glimpse of a half-gloved hand from around the opposite side of a pillar.

Gregory managed to restrain his cry of relief and took a moment to collect himself before strolling casually over to examine the person sitting on the other side of the column.

The man was slumped, staring at the ground, and seemed not to notice his approach until Gregory stopped directly in front of him. It was the same man, Gregory could tell from the clothes. He just needed to see his face. He cleared his throat.

"Did you ever find that light you were after?" he asked, his voice barely carrying over the background noise of the metro station.

The man's head shot up, and Gregory froze in place under the intensity of the glare. It was Christophe. He had no doubt now. He'd seen that glare too many times. He let out a soft breath, a look of wonder spreading over his face.

"Go ze fuck to 'ell and let Satan fuck you in ze ass," Christophe spat.

Gregory let out a noise that was meant to be a laugh, but it sounded like a sob to his ears. He fell to his knees on the dirty tile of the station in front of Christophe, incredulous. He was composed enough to not fling his arms around him, but he reached out a shaking hand and touched two of his fingertips to Christophe's scruffy cheek.

Before he knew what was happening, he was spun around, his arm twisted painfully behind him, trapped against Christophe's chest. Christophe's other hand squeezed tightly around his throat. He couldn't breathe.

"Don't fucking touch me," Christophe breathed into his ear. His breath stank of cheap alcohol and cheap cigarettes, and Gregory struggled to get away. The grip at his throat was more painful than anything he'd felt before, and he realized in a flash just how much Christophe had been holding back when he'd taught him to fight all those years ago. He was running out of air, and he believed in that instant that Christophe was truly going to choke him to death.

"Tophe," he tried to say, and stopped tugging at the hand at his throat. He held it up in a gesture of peace, and Christophe let him go.

Gregory fell forward onto one hand, and sucked in air. He turned and matched Christophe's glare with his own. "What the hell are you doing, you prat," he rasped, "there's a thousand people about!"

Christophe wasn't looking at him, however. He was staring down at his own shaking hands, a look of confused terror on his face. His breath shuddered, and he slowly looked up to meet Gregory's eyes. The guilt and pain Gregory saw in his expression melted his flash of anger away, and he felt a prickling at the back of his eyes.

"Oh my god, Christophe," he said, and blinked rapidly.

"God is a bitch," Christophe muttered, then pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Gregory. I am 'allucinating, oui? I do not even remember what I am doing 'ere." He met Gregory's eyes again, and shook his head. "Are you real? Dites-moi. I thought I 'ad imagined you zis morning. And every morning. Oh, fuck, your throat. Fuck. Fucking fuck." His voice was utterly distraught, and Gregory glanced around, worried that the people passing by would alert the authorities to potential trouble.

"Christophe. I'm going to help you to your feet, yes? Come on." Gregory reached out and gently took Christophe's hand. Christophe tensed for a moment, but eventually he gripped back. Gregory could feel the trembling in his hands as he pulled Christophe to his feet.

Christophe was several inches taller than him, but he stood with a defeated sort of slump that made him look much smaller than he actually was. He bent down to pick his pack up off the station floor from where he'd been sitting on it, and Gregory could make out the end of the shovel. Any lingering doubts he had about the identity of the man in front of him vanished the moment he saw it. Christophe and his shovel were essentially one being, and Gregory felt the pesky pricking at the back of his eyes again.

"God," he muttered, trying to control himself, and took Christophe's hand again. "Come on. I'm taking you home."

Christophe froze, pulling away. "Home?" he whispered, fear in his voice.

"My new apartment. Here. In D.C. It's just a few blocks."

"Oh." Christophe let out a shuddering sigh, then nodded and took Gregory's hand again, his grip tight enough to grind Gregory's bones together. "Good. D'accord."

A/n

Welcome to my attempt to write chaptered fic!

This fic is loosely based on the show Scandal, which I adore. Leave a review if you feel like and enjoy!