Gloves
whil-o-whisp
1,430 words
South Park, Gregory x Christophe/The Mole
A/N: This might continue as a multi-chaptered story, but this can be read alone. : D I'm broadening my horizons and writing this from Gregory's point of view, first person, something I don't usually do. I want all americans to have a fantastic turkey week, and if any other countries have holidays within this week, Happy Holidays!
Disclaimer: I own..... nothing.... except amazing ninja skills.... yep....
"Afternoon, Christophe." He ignores me, moving immediately to my kitchen for his precious coffee. I swear he has an addictive personality, first cigarettes, then coffee. He must never sleep. At least I don't have to remind him where the coffee and mugs are. There are some… perks to familiarity. He has come over to my house nearly every afternoon this week, though with the circumstances, I am not surprised. From my information, This past Sunday was the anniversary of his mother's divorce, a rather painful ordeal for the family, though Christophe could not have been more than a year old at the time.
He has no finesse, knocking the glass mugs about searching for the one he has used every afternoon. A creature of habit. He sits in the same spot on my couch, he uses the same mug from my kitchen, he smokes the same brand of cigarettes he did when he was a child; any low rate hit man could figure him out. Well, as if any low rate hit man could overpower Christophe. And After the bullet ordeal in the eighth grade, it'd be hard pressed to get a killing shot off anywhere but his head.
"That's an unnerving train of thought…" I have this irritating habit of speaking to myself; I really must try to stop it. You never know who could be listening in and some things needn't be said in others company. Besides, Christophe would love to point out that particular downfall. Well, he's got enough flaws to rebuke it, so I needn't worry. The boy truly must train himself better, a creature of habit, addictions, a modus operandi that can be easily identified and unique to his person, really, its only through sheer brute force and a French man's luck that he's lasted to seventeen.
Seventeen… Not even a year till he is considered a full adult, able to vote and move out of his retched home. Christophe living alone and voting for our future presidents is a rather frightening idea. I really must look into what his plans are for adulthood, if he has any. I highly doubt he will go to Colorado State. Too close to home. Will he go to college at all? I have reason to doubt he will, he despises people so much, I'm surprised he hasn't dropped out of high school. He would deny it profusely, but I believe it's for his mother's pride. Merely a speculation though.
"What iz an unnerving zhought?" That voice is still so very French, and gravely, more so than when we were children, if I were to venture a guess. Must he maintain that 'smoking, French, mercenary' stereotype? Really now. The couch dips as he sits beside me, his seat, always beside me. He is the longest lasting mercenary, all others falling, retiring, or failing. Failure is not an option for lesser Mercenaries than Christophe. Failure isn't a word for ones like him. To fail for the 'big shots' means death, if not at the hand of their target, then a lesser enemy who takes the rebounded opening.
I hope one of these days Christophe will retire from this line of work. While it will hurt me financially for quite some time, it would be best for his health and well being. Few in this profession, mercenary or informant, live very long, and Christophe is too talented, too intelligent to fall to some low-grade mercenary or self-righteous 'do-gooder'.
"Merely mulling over some information, Christophe, nothing for you to worry over." He takes this as an answer, not a truthful one, but an answer. He seems to have a knack for knowing when he's lied to. Makes being his informant terribly complicated. "I hope you didn't murder any of your classmates today, Christophe. The Junior year needn't be thinned out." And his mother did not need the added stress of more calls from Christophe's School Counselor. Neither did the School counselor for that matter. The man's hair was nearly white from the unfortunate coincidence of having Eric Cartman, Kyle Broflovski, Stan Marsh, and Kenny McCormick on his roster. The disadvantage of having only two counselors is that one gets A-M, and the other gets N-Z, and sometimes, troublemakers are grouped together.
It doesn't help that Christophe slots perfectly into the M part of this equation. His only reprieve is that he does not also have Tweek Tweak as a patient.
"Non." I really must inform him the meaning of a rhetorical question. I would know by now if he had murdered one of my upperclassmen. We sit in silence for some time, or near so. I type and he smokes and drinks his coffee noisily. No manners. Sometimes I must remind myself why I even put up with this man. He's crude, ill mannered, inconsiderate, rude, and works in my line of work, none of which I find endearing qualities.
Has he been watching me this entire time? Couldn't have, I would have noticed, wouldn't I? Surely so. He doesn't distract me nearly that much, I assure you. "Eet isn't cold." What an odd thing to say.
"What?" Oh how intelligent I must sound. Well its not as if he was at all clear in his statement in the first place. He reaches down and grabs my wrist, thumbing the top of my black leather gloves. Ah. The Gloves. Symbolism I should really be too good for. Another thing I cannot lie to Christophe about. The children at school and mother and father can believe what they want, whether it be that I am cold or am obsessive compulsive, they are too simple to guess the truth. If I were cold, I would be wearing my coat, instead of a short sleeve shirt and gloves, counterintuitive if one wants to warm up, and if I were obsessive compulsive over textures, I would not have such a diverse wardrobe, or take my gloves off, which is something I do happen to do on occasion.
He has tried to break me of this symbolist habit since I attempted to lessen his nicotine consumption. The symbolism of clean hands. I find it rather amusing actually, that it bothers him so much, the fact that I wear these gloves to keep my hands from getting dirty. He is the mercenary, he is the one getting into the 'nitty gritty' of murder and theft and breaking and entering of compounds most young adults do not even know of. I am merely the informant, I give him his jobs and he does them for me. I know how to work a gun, but have not shot anyone; I know knife work and code breaking but only through curiosity, not necessity or profession. I have never killed, nor stolen (physically. I don't count monetary amounts, and even then I did not steal it for myself, and it came from sources who stole it first), or physically broken the law. I am clean.
"You are never cold, Christophe, who are you to judge?" He lets it slide, because it's the truth, and for the moment I have avoided the conversation. He is the only child in South Park to wear a short sleeve shirt, even if he wears two of them, in the winter months. He also wears gloves, though his lack mine's symbolism. They are merely protection from the innumerous welts and splinters he had grown tired of. Maybe a metal shovel shaft is in order, though I do not believe he'd use it. For reasons unknown to me, his splintered, old, blood stained, chipped and damaged shovel seems to hold some sentimental weight in Christophe's mind.
We again sit in silence, though not uncomfortable. I enjoy the silence whilst in Christophe's company, because it means he is not smoking, and his drink lays still. He is giving me his attention, his thought, and nobody else. I enjoy the silence because we are not working, and we are not at school, an upperclassman whom people fear, and the pleasant underclassman who is well liked who must keep up standards, and we are not friends for his mother's benefit. We are Christophe and Gregory, a strange mixture between coworkers and lovers, friends and enemies, adults and children.
I lay my hand on his thigh, palm up while watching the snow fall outside. His hand falls nicely into mine, gloved palm against gloved palm, the same, and gloved, clean fingers against blistered, calloused, dirt covered, ashen fingers, different.
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