info ;; Totally sorry about the late update for anyone who was waiting. I do hope I've kept the attention of some people. This is quite the crack pairing, and I'm not sure how it will be received. I would love reviews, comments, and suggestions. Thank you for your time.


Christophe stood in the corner of the high school cafeteria.

Wendy spotted him as she left the line, carrying a tray laden with salad and a pre-packaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He stood without his trademark cigarette, leaning against the wall as if he belonged there, like a gargoyle. His eyes glossed over the cafeteria, flickering onto hers as she stared. Quickly averting her eyes, she took her usual seat next to the window, awaiting Bebe's arrival. Often, after math, Bebe was pestering nerds to give her their answers. Today, she must have been pressing unusually hard, because Wendy watched in horror as Christophe pushed himself from the wall and walked his casual, sensual walk towards her table. She put her face down, picking at her salad, as if it would deter the bold mercenary, but to no avail.

She'd never seen him before the war, but she'd heard the stories. Stan told her about the "fucked up" kid who died in Kyle's arms, forever scarring the daylights out of the Jewish boy. Everyone had felt strange after that, especially Kyle, who was unusually reserved whenever the subject of Christophe Moliere came up. Perhaps the death of the mercenary contributed to the reason he denied any further dates with girls after the incident. Even more so when the dead kid came back to school the very next week, toted behind one Kenny McCormick like a demented show-and-tell subject. Apparently the two were best friends in hell. Kyle stopped talking to anyone once they hit High School, and he avoided every class the Mercenary had been in before he dropped out to pursue his dirty career. Wendy knew she didn't want a part of a once-dead kid who dropped out of high school. She was uncomfortable knowing so much as his real name, or his existence at all. It all made her incredibly squeamish.

Her discomfort only increased as the Mercenary placed his palms on the table, straight across from her, leaning in with his handsome, rugged features. For seventeen, he appeared much older, much wiser. Somehow, despite the unease, far more alluring than the other boys his age, and far more dangerous than any teenager in South Park High, including Cartman. Wendy would take Cartman over Christophe, any day.

"Wendy. 'Ello," Christophe purred, a smile plastered to his face.

She didn't speak, instead shoved a fork of food into her mouth. Chewing out of necessity, she felt her stomach roll as her nerves assaulted her from every side. The Mercenary leaned closer, head cocked to the side.

"Wendy," he said. "You are doing a project on women's rights, oui?" he asked.

She looked up sharply, gulping down the half-chewed food. "How did you know?" she asked suddenly.

Christophe's grin widened, the sheer enjoyment from his small victory evident on his face. "Gregory ees my friend, remember."

"Ugh, I didn't think he would talk to you about me," Wendy sighed in frustration. "So what if I'm doing a project on women's rights?"

"I can 'elp."

Wendy shook her head, holding a hand up. "No," she said. "No thanks, I can manage myself. I honestly don't like you. You creep me out."

Christophe's face turned sad, as if mocking the puppy-dog eyes people often gave to gain sympathy. "But mon amie, comment pouvez-vous dire cela? I've done notzhing to offend," he whispered, his dark eyes staring into Wendy's.

Where his French charms had worked on other girls, Wendy picked up her tray, glared at him, and stalked to another table.

Confused but not daunted, Christophe stayed back, wondering the best course of action now that Wendy had taken refuge among the unpopular crowd. He spotted Bebe moving through the lunch line, glopping food onto her tray in a mechanical manner. Everyone thought the woman had turned anorexic, but she ate more than Christophe. He was quite convinced she was bulemic, as he'd heard her several times in the girl's bathroom throwing up. No comment on why he was staking out the girl's restroom.

Appearing before Bebe as she exited the line, Christophe gave her a devilish grin. "Bebe, mon cherie, 'ow 'ave you been?" he asked, following her closely as she moved towards her usual table. Before she made it outside the cafeteria kitchen, he side-stepped into her way, all business and none of the sweet, weedling Frenchman he'd acted all day. "I 'ave a proposition for you."

"Ew, you want to marry me?" Bebe asked, shocked. "Gross."

"No, beetch," he said in irritation. "I 'ave a deal to make."

"What do you have that I might want?" Bebe asked, rolling her eyes.

Christophe shrugged, moving to block the door as the blonde tried to dodge out. "Shoes," he said. "Money."

He had her attention now.

She frowned. Not as wary of the mercenary as the rest of South Park, the blonde sighed and stopped trying to move around him. "What is it?"

Glad to hear the sound of a victory once more, Christophe shrugged, faking disinterest. "I want to date Wendy."

Bebe almost screamed. She put her hand over her mouth, a little gasp coming out. "As in date, date? Like, boyfriend-girlfriend date?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Oui," Christophe said, leaning against the door frame. "As een date, date."

Bebe squealed in girlish excitement, almost dropping her tray. "Oh my god! This is so crazy! You're like, the biggest anti-romantic, and she's dating your best friend!" Suddenly hushing down, she peered around to check that no one had overheard her or grown interested. "You're playing a sick game, aren't you?" she asked quietly.

Christophe shrugged. "I want what I want," he answered.

"What makes you think I'll help you? Wendy's my best friend and you're not exactly the safe type," Bebe said, giving him a skeptical look-over.

"I 'ave a 'undred dollars een my pocket," he said. "Eet's all yours, right now, eef you'll 'elp me."

The internal conflict of Bebe Stevens lasted only a second. Eyes gleaming, she nodded. "Deal. But I'm not making any promises. She's pretty happy with Gregory, you know."

"I know," he said mildly, pulling the hundred out and handing it to her. She grabbed it, but he didn't let it go. Staring at her, he lowered his voice. "Eef you breathe a word to anyone, I know where you live." Letting the bill go, his dark eyes watched her fold it into her pocket, smile on her face.

"Of course not," she said seriously, making an x over her heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die and all that childish stuff."

Moving out of her way, he smiled smugly. "Eet won't be childish if you fuck me over."

...

Final Bell rang at three thirty, letting out swarms of South and North Park High students as they went their ways to the weekend. A big football game was set for Saturday, and plenty of jocks and cheerleaders had to get ready by decorating their cars with cheap window chalk and streamers. Legality was never an issue with the High School or the town, for that matter. Unless a mass lawsuit broke over the town, they didn't care one way or another what happened or who did what. As students peeled out of the parking lot, Wendy and Bebe stepped out of the front doors, the former laden with textbooks, the latter carrying her purse over her shoulder.

"Where are you going to be?" Bebe asked incredulously.

"With Gregory," Wendy said. "He has something planned."

"But your study session!"

Wendy shrugged, a dreamy smile on her face. "It can wait, Bebe. Not everything is about books."

"With you it is," she protested. "Is there something wrong? Is Gregory ... are you guys -" Bebe stopped, jaw slack in amazement, her feet planted to the spot. "Are you two having sex?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Wendy laughed. "No, we're not," she reassured her.

Bebe sighed in relief. "Oh, good."

Wendy stopped walking, hugging her books to her chest. Her eyes narrowed, and she sighed grumpily. "He's there," she said.

Bebe followed her friend's glare, noticing the dark-haired mercenary standing by his car. Probably his father's car, because he couldn't possibly afford a beautiful canary-yellow muscle car. Bebe didn't know her cars, but she knew what was expensive and what was mediocre. The yellow two-door car parked outside the school was of the first variety. Standing beside him, talking in hushed tones, Stan Marsh kept looking behind him as if he were being followed. Bebe found this incredibly odd, but she put it out of mind quickly. When Stan spotted them, he gave Christophe an awkward goodbye wave and started walking home. Christophe looked up to the pair of girls, blew smoke from his nose, and looked back down. Bebe considered aiming Wendy the other direction, but the hundred dollars in her pocket reminded her of the deal.

"He's so... so..." Wendy failed to bring the word to mind, stuttering over her sentence.

"Handsome?" Bebe offered, shrugging slightly as Wendy gave her an incredulous look.

"Handsome?" she asked. "You think he's handsome? He's dirty!"

Sighing, Bebe walked down the stairs, purposely aiming Wendy towards the car. "This isn't fourth grade anymore," she said cautiously. "The hot-and-not list isn't in effect anymore."

"Tell me about it," Wendy said, shaking her head. "He doesn't sparkle with me."

"Well, I think he's handsome," Bebe said.

Wendy was about to say something, but Christophe interrupted, dropping the cigarette to the ground and scuffing it out under his boot. "Wendy," he said, popping open the door of his '83 GTO. "Would you like a ride?"

Turning her nose up, Wendy shook her head. "No, I would not like a ride from you."

"Your 'ouse ees ten blocks from 'ere," Christophe pried. "And eet's cold out 'ere."

Stepping forward, Bebe smiled. "If you don't take the ride, I will," she warned.

"Bebe!" Wendy stared at her in confusion, wondering what got into the normally level-headed blonde.

"It's a nice car. And he's your boyfriend's best friend. Maybe this is part of Gregory's special surprise for today," she said.

Wendy glared, feeling trapped between a rock and a hard place. The hard place being the fragile line of best friends and boyfriends, and best friends of boyfriends. Finally giving up, she scoffed, moving toward the car. "I'll see you at school tomorrow," she told Bebe, shooting Christophe a death glare as she slid into the passenger seat of the stunningly beautiful vehicle. She'd never pegged Christophe for the type to take care of anything, but the car was mint and extraordinary.

Christophe smiled at Bebe, closing the door behind Wendy. He mouthed, thank you, to Bebe before going around the car to get in the drivers seat. After starting it up and pulling away from the curb, he looked at Wendy. "Eets not so bad, non?" he asked.

"You're a creep," Wendy responded.

Christophe grunted, arching his caterpillar eyebrows. Where Gregory's looked normal, Christophe's looked like two caterpillar had gotten into miracle grow and were fighting over his nose in an epic battle to the end. The French, as it were generally believed, didn't shave body hair. It must be true. As if sensing Wendy's mortified stare at his genetic crisis, he turned his attention to the road once more. After a moment of tense silence, he took a breath. "So, zhis relationship witzh Gregory," he started, testing the waters. "Eet ees serious, non?"

"Of course it's serious. Its not like I ... well I mean. ... wait, no, not serious like that!" Wendy protested, staring at Christophe with wide eyes and slack jaw.

"Zthen zhere ees still time to change your mind?" he asked.

Wendy glared daggers at the brash mercenary. "Stop the car," she said angrily, her fingers wrapping around the door handle. "Stop the car right now or I'll..."

"You'll what?" Christophe asked curiously. "You'll tell on me? You'll hit me? I am not afraid of you. Zhe opposite, really." He spotted the dangerous look on his female companion's face, and he smiled, drifting the car to the curb. "Of course, mon cheri, I wouldn't dream of insulting you."

The second the car stopped, Wendy pushed the door open. "Don't talk to me again," she warned darkly, slamming the door shut behind her. Without giving the car a second look, she stormed away, no fuming under her breath. No doubt the cocky mercenary watched her walk away, and it only made her more frustrated that she wanted him to see her, wanted him to watch her walk away. Why she cared about what the dirty teenager thought, she didn't know.

As she pushed the front door of her house open, she looked back, into the street, half expecting the dark mercenary to be standing at the end of her sidewalk. Instead, his car drifted past two blocks down the road, and he never looked her way. Frustrated, she slammed the house door behind her and threw her jacket on the floor.