A/N: ok I posted this separately but for some reason I felt like including it here too. I know it's not romantic but its still about the relationship between two people. So…. Iono. Just read please
Gregory had to appreciate the irony of the situation. All of those years he had protested doing field work for exactly this reason. And yet, here he was, hanging from a tree by his ankles, a smug looking Mole standing before him. The Mole blew a puff of cigarette smoke into his face, giving him a twisted smile.
They weren't exactly friends anymore, not that they ever were. But at least when they were younger they were able to work together (relatively) civilly. But everything had changed after the Canadian-American war.
The Mole didn't exactly forgive easily. And he didn't take his death very well. He blamed Gregory for getting him into the whole thing. He felt that Gregory hadn't exactly done his part. And the Mole was very bitter. When he finally returned, the first thing he did was spit in Gregory's face and declare his resignation. He was now a free-lance mercenary. He no longer did Gregory's bidding.
At first, Gregory had only been a bit miffed. The Mole was his best operative, but he could go on. It wasn't until later that Gregory realized how much he relied on the Mole. He ended up doing most things himself. And he really didn't enjoy that. He was the leader, the commander, the tactician, not the field man. His life, his superior intellect was far too important to throw into needless danger. But, if he wanted to get things done, he had to do them himself.
And that was how he found himself in this ridiculous situation. And that was how he found the Mole.
After he'd penetrated the extensive security system around the complex, he made his way to the holding chamber. There lay his prize. But when he got there, he found the chamber empty. He was apoplectic with rage. No one could have beaten him here! No one was that good. Except…
He heard a click. The cold barrel of a gun was pressed to the side of his head.
"'Ello, Gregory," said a gruff voice. The Mole emerged from the shadows, a darkly amused look played across his face. Gregory looked him up and down. He was dirty as ever. A thick layer of dirty seemed to coat his entire body. Unkempt dark hair fell into his intensely chocolate eyes. His face and arms were covered in bruises and scratches, but such was his work. A smoking cigarette rested between his lips. His ever-present shovel was strapped across his back. A small bag was clutched in his other hand. Gregory's eyes narrowed. That was what we wanted.
"Hello, Mole," Gregory responded, almost cordially. "It's nice to see you again, old chum." The Mole gave a derisive snort.
"Vhat are you do-eeng here?" he asked coldly.
"I believe I came for that," Gregory said, nodding towards the bag the Mole was holding. He nodded carefully, all to aware of the gun pressed against his head. "Now, if you'll please give it to me…"
The Mole gave a throaty laugh.
"You are so full of yourselv," he said harshly. "I do not work vor you anymore."
Gregory met the Mole's eyes calmly. The Mole was a mercenary, but Gregory was confident he would not harm him. All Gregory had to do to attain what he came for would be to work the Mole the right way. Or hit the Mole over the head with his own shovel. Whichever worked out best in the end.
Gregory opened his mouth, an eloquent and persuasive speech on the tip of his tongue. But in that instant, an alarm sounded. Suddenly, the dark hallway was bathed in flashing red light. They could hear the sounds of men yelling and barking dogs nearby.
"Sheet! Sheet!" the Mole exclaimed, withdrawing his revolver from Gregory's head and shoving it back into his belt. He took off tearing down the hall. Gregory had no choice but to run after him.
They dashed out of the complex and into the nearby woods, praying they could find cover there.
As they ran, Gregory was slowly gaining on the Mole. Perhaps if he jumped on his back he could take him down.
Gregory was too preoccupied to even notice where he was going. He didn't even see the rope laid across the forest floor until it was too late. Before he could even blink, he was whipped into the hair, hanging from a tree branch by a rope attached to his ankles. He let out a strangled yelp.
The Mole spun around, hand on his revolver, ready for anything. When he saw Gregory's predicament, he let out a low chuckle. Gregory's cheeks colored from a mixture of embarrassment and rage. He did not appreciate being made a fool of. He could hear the guard dogs barking in the distance. Panic began to rise in his stomach. He had to get down. Fast.
"Mole, get me down," he demanded. The Mole just stood in front of him, arms crossed, looking amused.
"Non," he said wryly, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke into Gregory's face. Gregory coughed.
"I'm serious, Mole," he said, eyes narrowing dangerously. The Mole drew closer, so his face was barely inches from Gregory's
"Non," he repeated gruffly.
"Why the hell not?" Gregory spat, losing his reign on his temper. The Mole simply stared at him for a long moment. A sickeningly twisted look on his face.
"You've never been to 'ell," he said, voice dangerously low.
"Mole, can you please put that behind us!"
But the Mole did not forgive so easily.
"I told you, I fucking 'ate guard dogs," he hissed.
"Look, I'm sorry," Gregory said quickly. The Mole could see that Gregory's eyes were only on the bag he was holding. That's all Gregory ever cared about. Getting what he wanted. He didn't care if people got hurt, as long as he got what he wanted out of it. The Mole was dirty, the Mole was crude, and the Mole was violent, but Gregory was the despicable one. He cried not one tear when the Mole died.
The Mole could see him, as he sat in Hell, being forced into playing tea party with Satan's son. And when the Mole looked up in the midst of his torture, he could see Gregory up there, not caring. Gregory going on with his life, as if nothing had happened. Gregory taking credit for the resolution of the whole war.
The Mole had always looked out for himself and only himself. No one else was going to. Even God was a fucking faggy beetch. But the Mole had expected some scrap of tiny loyalty from Gregory. They were both independent, but they had an understanding. But no, Gregory stood alone. The Mole did all the dirty work, Gregory took all the credit. So the Mole walked away. But Gregory still found him.
Gregory stared at the Mole's unreadable face. He was loosing circulation in his feet. He had to hurry. Why would the Mole help him? He was just as incompetent as ever. He got himself killed by guard dogs for Christ's sake. How had he even survived without Gregory's guidance?
Gregory could hear the shouts of the guards and the barking of the dogs. Searchlights panned across the trees. He struggled a bit against the binding rope. It was hopeless. The Mole had to get him down. But the Mole was just standing there, cigarette pressed between his lips.
A shot rang out. Gregory flinched. The Mole remained impassive. Gregory forgot his pretenses, his ambitions. This was about survival now.
"Christophe…" Gregory pleaded, desperation tinging his voice. He only used the Mole's real name in extreme situations. "You're not really going to leave me here are you?"
The barking of the guard dogs was drawing closer. Panic was growing in Gregory's stomach. Another warning shot was fired nearby. The Mole shrugged his shoulders and took a long drag from his cigarette.
"Karma's a beetch, Gregory," the Mole sneered as he turned and walked away.
A/N: Um. Yeahhhhh. I don't know what that was exactly. Please review! I have a Cartman/Shelly in the works next!