A/N: Hi guys. I know that I promised to finish the next chapters of A Matter of Trust, but I haven't had access to a computer for ages. This small little fic came inspired by someone very close to me. I hope you enjoy.

Warning: Contains implied slash, boylove. Don't like, don't read.

Disclaimers: South Park does not belong to me.

Sun streamed through the tears in the filthy blind over the window, filtering light over pale skin wrapped in dingy sheets. The figure stirred and rolled over onto it's back, palms pressing to closed eyes. The pounding was worse this morning than the last, causing a groan to escape cracked lips. What time was it? What day was it? After what seemed like weeks of pursuing a near impossible-to-find mercenary, the one night he was close enough, he had somehow managed to slip through clutching fingers.

Gregory pushed himself up on his elbow, willing his eyes to open. The hangover was still manageable, no matter how painful. After all, it was nothing he hadn't dealt with before. A jolt of pain shot up his spine as he threw his feet over the side of the bed to touch the rough carpet. After giving the room a quick survey, Gregory concluded that it was, in fact, a cheap motel room. A dirty bed and dirty sheets with broken shades, yellowed, peeling wallpaper, stained carpet and torn furniture decorated the cramped room.

...How disgusting.

Had he really stooped this low? Apparently. With a stagger he got to his feet and made his way toward the bathroom, leaning his arm against the wall as he relieved himself. The entire bathroom reeked of piss, and if Gregory hadn't already felt so filthy, he might have vomited. When he had finished he washed his hands with cold water, trying to ignore the cockroach scurrying toward a crack in the wall beside him.

The mirror before him that hung on the wall dared him to look up and face himself. Slowly, he managed to drag his eyes toward his reflection. Staring back at him through the dirty glass were two dull, grey eyes, sharp cheekbones, and mussed hair. It was so foreign, so...

Where did that bruise come from?

His fingers probed gingerly at the purple-red bruise on his jaw. As soon as he pressed, memories rushed back like the sting of pain he felt.

Gregory had been drinking with a few locals of the town. Rumor had it that his top mercenary-- ex-mercenary-- Christophe DeLourne frequented this bar. Like his sources had said, Christophe entered the bar at ten sharp, eyes dark and cigarette clamped firmly between his lips. Mud was splattered on his cheek, and something else (Gregory was sure it was blood) stained his shirt. He sat down heavily a few stools away and was presented with a beer without having to ask, sipping the bottle. He was gone in his own world, going through cigarettes in a chain. How many years had it been?

Getting to his feet, Gregory moved and leaned on the counter beside him, ordering himself a drink. Before he could even pull his wallet out, Christophe had slapped a few bills onto the table.

"Eet 'as been a while, cher." He muttered, keeping his head bowed and taking a drag of his smoke. Gregory nodded, sipping at his own draft. "I zought you 'ad geeven up lookeeng for me." There was a small chuckle from both males as Gregory took a seat.

"I almost did, for a while, after not hearing about you. I assumed you dead. How foolish." And it had been foolish. Foolish to the point where it made Gregory laugh, just thinking about it. This caught the other male's attention, who turned to observe the chuckling blond. He hadn't changed. Gregory's felt eyes on him, and turned to meet chocolate orbs. "Where have you been?"

Christophe took a moment to consider his answer, before finishing his drink and putting his smoke out in the ashtray atop the bar. "Let's get ze fuck out of 'ere." Without hesitation, Gregory stood and followed him out, leaving his half-finished beer on the bar. They walked in silence for an hour, before coming to a motel. Gregory raised a brow, to which Christophe shrugged. "Eet eez cheap, and close enough to my targeet."

"Your target?"

"Oui." He didn't say anything more. And even though Gregory wanted to press, he decided to keep silent, following the Frenchman into the room. Somehow, this all seemed too familiar.

As soon as the door had closed, Gregory found himself pressed to it, lips upon his own, tongue probing. The blond struggled, trying to shove the man off of him as the taste of beer and stale cigarettes invaded his mouth with a searing tongue. For a moment, he had the upper hand, pinning the other to the wall, before Christophe shoved him over the dresser pressed to the wall. An ashtray fell to the floor with a pistol, but both went ignored as Gregory kissed him back feverishly, still fighting for dominance. The metallic taste of blood entered Gregory's mouth, and he couldn't tell whose it was, nor did he care at the moment. But as soon as a hand cupped between his legs, Gregory threw his head back, arching.

Christophe lifted him and shoved him face-first toward the wall, undoing his slacks and in the process causing Gregory's jaw to bash the corner of the mirror on the dresser. As soon as Gregory's pants and boxers were pooled around his ankles, the mercenary undid his own cargoes to free himself and without warning, shove into Gregory, who screamed.

Pain caused Gregory's world to go white, Christophe pumping into him with brutal force. Clenching his teeth, he willed himself to bear it as the sharp pains began to turn to sheer pleasure. Soon he was moaning breathily, body damp with sweat beneath his clinging clothes as Christophe kept up pace. It was all over too soon, and Gregory came with a shout, cheeks flushed as the other filled him, heat flooding his backside. Just as his knees began to give, Christophe pulled out and carried the male to the bed, lying him down and towering over him. Lips met, and limbs tangled as the two men moved against each other, rolling over the disgusting mattress. Somehow, Gregory ended up atop the other, and soon slide himself onto Christophe's hardened shaft once more, head bowing.

Keeping their bodies together, Christophe held him close as Gregory slid along him, moaning against his lips in the midst of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The moans from the blond were quiet, the heavy breathing from the brunet even more silent as pale skin glowed over tanned, sweat glistening on both forms. Orgasm came slowly this time, simultaneous as Gregory flushed and gazed into his lover's eyes.

Not too long after, Gregory fell asleep in Christophe's arms.

So where was he now? Sighing to himself, Gregory returned to the room after splashing his face with the same cool water. The pistol was gone, the ashtray remaining. There was nothing in the room to prove their activities from the previous night, and Gregory felt a slight stab of pain in his chest. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and hung his head in his hands.

Minutes passed, the silence more maddening with each passing second. Where had he gone? He could have left a note, could he not have? Ah...

But such was in Christophe's nature to just up and leave. Gregory should have been used to it. Somehow, each time this happened, it was worse than the first. It could be years before he got to see him again, if he got to see him again. Christophe could die. A mission could go wrong, and he could die alone, somewhere bleeding to death, perhaps from lung cancer, perhaps from a careless mistake. Perhaps he could wind up rotting in jail.

All of these thoughts in Gregory's head had him so withdrawn that he didn't hear the sound of the door close.. Only when a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and the scent of hot coffee fill his nostrils did he realize that Christophe was still with him.

"And where were you?" The tone was more accusing that Gregory would have wanted, but he was trying to hide his previous panic.

"Out. To get somezing to drink and eat. I asked what you wanted, but non, you were asleep. I got a croissant and coffee." Looking away, as if ashamed of doing something kind, Christophe shoved the white bag and paper cup toward the blond, who raised a brow and muttered a small thank you.

When Gregory had finished eating, he dressed in his slacks and reclined in the armchair, sipping his coffee. "I thought you had left."

"Left? I told you, I 'ad to stay close to my target."

Gregory's brows furrowed. "Christophe, who is this target that you keep speaking of? Surely you would have taken him out by now?"

"Who said I wanted to take 'eem out? Non. I said I 'ad to be close." By now, Gregory was becoming increasingly frustrated. And Christophe knew it.

"That doesn't answer my question!"

Rolling his eyes, Chrsitophe leaned forward to get in Gregory's face. "Oui. Eet does. You are just stupeed. Faggot." Sealing their lips together briefly, he pulled back in satisfaction as Gregory's mouth made an 'O' of realization. Suddenly, it all made sense.

"You were following me?"

"Oui. Every movement."

Gregory chuckled and shook his head, leaning forward to kiss Christophe again. "You suck."

At this, Christophe smirked. "I beg to differ."

The only noise after that was a sound slap, and a rough laugh.