A/N: Okay. I'm sensing that you all really care about Christophe. :L

Warning - What I see as a transition chapter, and slight non-con (dream) but nothing graphic, at the end.

Gregory woke up disorientated. He gazed around the room for a few unaware seconds and then recognised his surroundings. The smell of smoke on the bed sheets around him, the shovel stand and rope hook, the year's supply of combat pants on the floor: it all equalled Tophe. He was sure that if he looked under the bed he would find the stuffed giraffe Christophe had cherished as an infant (and still cherished). He sat up and looked down at Tophe, still sleeping heavily, arms stretched out above his head, almost like a baby, one reaching towards but not touching Gregory. He always looked so vulnerable when he was asleep; it was one of the few times Christophe showed vulnerability.

Gregory looked at the alarm clock. It was only five but he knew he stood no chance of getting back to sleep. The thoughts from the previous day that had made him so tense had started to come back. He knew he couldn't simply wake Christophe up for more sex; you could never 'simply' woke Christophe up unless you wanted a fist shoved in your mouth. He looked at the state of some of the combat pants on the floor, blood-stained and dirty, and decided a wash was in order. He left with an armful of them, smiling to himself.

When Christophe finally emerged from his bedroom later that day - afternoon even - it was without pants. He had chosen to shower (without even being nagged) and get dressed but had found when he got to bottom layers, they were all missing. He looked puzzled.

"Gregory," he said, making eye-contact with the blond and lighting a morning cigarette, "deed you steal my clothes?" He smirked. "Ees zat what you do after sex now? Keep my pants as a memento?"

Gregory sighed and picked up a clean, dry, ironed and neatly folded pile from one of their chairs. "I washed them for you; they were filthy!"

Christophe still looked utterly perplexed. "...Why would you want to?" He took the clothes from Gregory. "Thank you zough, zat saves me a job I would nezer do."

"I'm just trying to get us organised," chimed Gregory. "It's a good opportunity don't you think?"

"I suppose so," muttered Christophe, though the look on his face suggested he was still freaked out. "I 'av to get ready for work."

"Okay, lover," teased Gregory.

Christophe grinned. "I enjoyed eet. You can be so much fun when you want to be."

Gregory raised his eyebrow. "...Thanks?"

"Eet's a good thing, really. I love eet when you bottom."

"Well don't get used to it, because I'm not planning on making a habit of it."

Christophe looked slightly put out. "Oh. Well, I can bottom?"

"I'm talking about sex in general, Tophe."

Christophe sighed and nodded. "Oui. I don't even understand what made you so desperate last night. Usually something big 'as to 'appen for you to get een ze mood."

Gregory just hummed and lied that he didn't know.

"Do you 'av any plans?" continued Christophe.

"No."

Christophe looked Gregory up and down. "Just, stay out of trouble." He walked back towards his room. Gregory stared at his bare ass as he walked away. Damn, it was toned from all the physical exercise he did. Gregory grinned and laughed to himself at the thought, causing Christophe to shoot him a glance of confusion, before slamming his door.

"Stop perving on me!"

Climbing a tree, swinging from a branch and jumping into an open upstairs window, searching around for clues or signs, looking everywhere he could: these were all things Gregory knew he shouldn't have been doing. He was alone in Damien's house - which had almost been too easy to break into - and carefully combing it for anything out of the ordinary. He expected Damien to have strange things, that it would be messy and cluttered with items he'd have to move and carefully put back. What he found was the bare minimum. Damien almost had nothing.

His kitchen cupboards contained food, his fridge the same. The dining room had a table and two chairs, that looked like they were never used. In his living room was a sofa, two chairs, a TV, a bookcase with assorted classics and a bible (which surprised Gregory who never had him figured as the religious type). Upstairs his bathroom contained soap and toothpaste, and his bedroom had a bed. There was another room but it was completely empty except for a spare bed. Everything was too simple. Like this house wasn't being properly lived in.

Gregory picked up the only item on Damien's otherwise empty desk - an information leaflet. It felt odd he would even have a desk for such a solitary purpose. There were draws, but they were locked and Gregory hadn't been able to pick them. He looked at the leaflet with raised eyebrows: 'How to Tend to a Rose Garden.' What could Damien possibly want from one of those? Gregory opened it to find lots of small text, no pictures. One part caught his eye because it had been circled. It read:

The trick to caring for roses is to ensure they have the correct levels of sun and water. Rose gardens set up in the correct area Will thrive. Prune your dead-heads to encourage more flower growth. The best time for pruning is early spring. Roots should be strong. Of All flowers, roses are surprisingly forgiving. Evil they are not if you give them adequate care. When grooming, use sharp clippers. He (the editor) would recommend that. Controls in the type of fertilizer used can have a massive effect. The best have a balance of key chemicals. Rise will your roses, like the morning sun in a still-living world. Of course, fail to follow instructions and they will die. His (the editor's) did. Thorn - don't touch it.

The instructions struck him as being rather all over the place and not very clear; plus the capitalization of 'Will' and 'All' was troubling him. It was as if there was something else there, some deeper meaning.

He shook his head and put the leaflet back down where he'd found it. No, it had probably fallen out of some magazine or newspaper article. They definitely needed to get better writers.

He looked around the rest of the room and frowned, opening draws where he found black and grey underwear, opening the wardrobe that contained nothing but ordinary clothes - a lot of black, but some blue and green too. He sighed and walked out the bedroom. Nothing unusual, everything open, no locked doors. Absolutely nothing worth investigating.

He walked back onto the landing and then crouched to the floor in shock as the door unlocked and he heard two different voices entering. The first to speak was Damien.

"Tell me, did you see anything?"

The other person was quivering, their speech long past eloquent; though they sounded to have quite a posh voice. "N-no, Master, please... I-I know nothing."

Gregory, realising he hadn't been seen, crawled to peek through the banisters just a crack. The person fell to the ground screaming in pain. Gregory wasn't sure what Damien was doing but it sounded like hell. And why the fuck was someone calling Damien 'Master'? Gregory could tell he was power-hungry - it was in the eyes, the way he held himself - but he didn't think the limits would stretch that far.

"You're lying." Damien's tone was frighteningly cold. "You must have found something about him."

The man gasped. "N-no. H-he doesn't seem to be planning anything, really! I-It's almost like he's t-taking a break b-by coming here."

"That's what he said. But don't you think he could have lied?" Gregory could hear a crunch and another scream. Perhaps the breaking of a bone? Gregory very carefully crawled to where he would have a better view of the scene. He looked down on the living room, attempting to hide himself as best as he could. He could see the back of Damien's head and as predicted, his foot was down on the man's leg. Gregory recognised the man. He looked to be their age. He had brown curly hair and quite a pleasant face, though at that moment red and panicked. He also had fresh burn marks on his skin and looked like he was overheating.

"P-please have mercy!" Mark begged through pained moans. "I-I don't think he knows what you are! L-Like I didn't until recently! He's not a threat. Y-You can be confident in your decision."

What you are, thought Gregory in confusion. And what was Damien?

"I need to know that for sure. What has he been doing?"

"W-well h-he talked to Stan Marsh, th-then he came here...but didn't do anything... and then he went back to his place."

"And did you see what he did inside his apartment!? That is where he'd do his planning."

"H-his apartment is on the third floor! How am I supposed to see in?"

Damien growled and hit Mark again. "Useless. And has he done anything today?"

Mark flinched. "W-Well I w-wasn't watching him today b-because I was meeting with you."

Damien shook his head. "Really fucking useless."

Gregory knew they were talking about him by that point. Someone had been following him and he never realised: that wasn't like him. He always knew when someone was tracking him. Did this mean the man was particularly good or were his own skills failing him? Had he let his slow building obsession with Damien affect his senses. Gregory looked down at the scene again and saw two fearful eyes staring back at him. He froze. Mark had seen him.

"M-Master!"

"What?!" Damien's tone was past impatient.

"P-please. He- he- he's-"

Mark was stopped from finishing his sentence as Damien, moved, blocking Gregory's view and a loud scream then silence was heard. Gregory stared down at the restricted view he had of the situation, just being able to see Damien's back. There was nothing more he could learn. He realised he needed to leave before Damien spotted him - not that he wouldn't love to confront him, find out what his problem was, fight him for information... feel their bodies close together.

Gregory almost felt sick with disgust at himself. Someone had just died and he was fantasising.

Very quietly but quickly he exited Damien's house via the nearest window and a tree branch, making sure to avoid being spotted through the downstairs window. He figured Damien would be busy with the body anyway. Hearing someone being tortured and not doing anything wasn't going to play on his conscience. He'd tortured enough people in his time. He'd just hoped he'd have got more out of it from sticking around to listen. All he got were more questions.

He supposed there was a small feeling of guilt in the back of his head, as if it was reminding him that he was meant to save people like Mark, that he always preached heroism. But Gregory was too involved in his own problems at that point to care about other people's, and this flaw in his character was probably all that had saved his life so far, but would probably kill him one day.

Later that day - night even - after many hours of forcing himself to wait, of pulling at his hair and pacing his living room, Gregory walked back to Damien's house and knocked on the door. He kept a strong and in control look on his face.

"Why are you stalking me?" he demanded when Damien opened the door.

"You're at my house," retorted Damien, frowning. "And I told you to stay away."

"I'm not going to," Gregory said firmly. "I want to know why you always turn up where I am, why I've had the feeling that I'm being followed," - he lied about the being followed bit because he knew he couldn't mention Mark - "and why I'm still alive."

"Does the fact you're alive bother you?" replied Damien, in a tone mixing annoyance and amusement.

"It just surprises me since you seem to want me dead, yet I'm still here. And every time I see you, you never try to kill me."

Damien scoffed. "Shouldn't you be flattered I no longer want you dead."

"Well I don't know if you do or not. And I would like to know why you would ever want me dead?"

"You want to dig around some more?" Damien growled. "I don't want you dead right now but if you continue annoying me that could change. And if you wanted to snoop around my house, you could have just asked. I have nothing to hide." He pulled from his pocket a single blond hair which he dropped on Gregory's head. "It just screamed of expensive shampoo."

Why was it that Damien was getting the better of him? Finding him out from a single hair that shouldn't have even been visible to the human eye unless up close. Gregory almost screamed. "No."

Damien glared and stepped closer to Gregory. "Do you want to make me angry?" he snapped. "Because I would kill you now if there was longer left to wait."

Gregory held his ground. "...Until?"

Damien smirked like he was triumphant, then frowned like he was the opposite. "You'll... You'll find out soon enough if you don't already know."

Gregory knew he had no luck furthering that line of enquiry. He changed to another one. "You have blood on your face."

Damien stared blankly at him. "Do you have a point?"

Gregory leant closer to Damien's pale skin, eyes quickly scanning it. He was surprised Damien allowed such a probing, standing there with an almost inhuman cold face. He saw - or rather didn't see - what he was searching for. "You don't have any cuts."

"Observant."

"The blood is someone else's."

Damien nodded and smirked. "It is."

"Did you kill them?" He knew he had.

Damien took another step towards Gregory, staring into his eyes with blackness. "Blondie, you don't want to be asking that question."

Gregory stared back, determined not to falter. "Why?"

Damien's face had grown so close that Gregory should have been able to hear his breath. "Because, ask too many questions and someone's life may be cut short after all." Damien ran his teeth along Gregory's jaw, up to his ear. "A sexy blond I know of."

Gregory held his breath to stop from gasping. He pushed Damien away, politely but firmly, trying not the show this contact had any effect on him. He knew pushing Damien away any more forcefully would inevitably lead him to attack in a fight. He didn't want that. He grit his teeth and looked into Damien's eyes. "You can't keep making death threats and then not following through on them. It's getting old."

Damien laughed. "I'm sorry. Shall I make it up to you? Would you like to grab a coffee?"

"What? You tell me to stay away from you and then you ask me for coffee! You tell me you hate me and then act like this! Why would I want to get coffee with the man who's threatening me all the time and won't tell me why?!"

"How do you know I'm not protecting you from a horrible truth, saving you even?" Damien grabbed Gregory's hand and held it tightly, pulling the blond effortlessly towards him like they were about to dance. He smirked down. Gregory glared back up. Damien's hand burnt.

"Because that would make you the hero, and heroes don't try to kill the ones they 'protect'." Gregory tried to pull his hand away. Damien increased his grip and bent down, kissing it slowly.

"No?" he murmured into the skin. "Not unless the hero was under some kind of spell or had a destiny that he couldn't control on his own." He pulled his head back up and dropped Gregory's hand, gazing, searching in his eyes. Gregory felt like Damien was looking for some kind of recognition in these words. Gregory understood nothing. Damien sighed and pushed Gregory back, closing the door without another word.

Gregory ran a hand through his hair and growled under his breath. He knew he had to be missing something that would help him work it out. There was something about that man, and sometimes he felt like it was so obvious that he was blindly missing it. He glanced down at his arm, stinging from where Damien had held him. The impossible signs of a burn were forming.

But there was no way... no way someone's hands could be that hot.

Gregory fell into his bed when he arrived home and barely bothered to pull off his trousers. He felt tired and confused. Christophe must have already gone to bed, which was strange because he usually always sat up late watching the news and blaming God for all the natural disasters that were happening.

Another volcano, floods, a devastating earthquake... plus the fact the sun seemed to be rising a little later than it should.

Gregory listened quietly and heard his answer - Christophe was with a girl. He rolled his eyes and sighed, searching for his iPod in his bedside draw and playing one of his favourite Beatles albums. (It wasn't frequent but there were times when Christophe would kick him from whatever room they were staying in if a beautiful woman caught his eye, and he obviously caught theirs. This was usually after Christophe checked with Gregory if he didn't want sex at all. Gregory never really found that Christophe slept with other men, just him.) As Yesterday rang around his head, he thought over his day and closed his eyes, knowing that however tired he was, sleep was far away.

Damien sees that Gregory doesn't love him. Gregory feels nothing but repulsion. His only chance is to take it by force; that body, those groans... all for him. To suck on that skin and kiss those lips with the blond reciprocating was too impossible to even dream. Instead he had to dream in non-consensual acts of what anybody else would call lust and hatred. They would never feel Damien's desperation. They couldn't feel it. It was almost as impossible as the dream he wished.

Gregory looks up at Damien in fear and Damien revels in it. The fear feeds his lust. He's hungry for terror; he wants to see dread fill those light-blue eyes. Those eyes pretend to be innocent but they are far from it. Damien is not raping an innocent flower, this man is just as twisted.

Damien rips the blond's trousers away, digging his nails into the man's thighs and listening to the cries of pain. He wants to hear a lot more of those cries, because pain is something. If he can't give pleasure then pain will do.

"Admit you've lost," he growls, staring with an intentionally burning gaze. "You can't stop me."

"I - I - I've lost." Gregory's words scream around him in a desperation he's never heard and can only imagine. He's never heard the blond sound this way.

"And you're all mine." Damien leans forward and sinks his teeth into Gregory's shoulder.

Gregory whimpers. "Yes. All yours."

Damien bites harder, delicious blood pouring from the wound. He sucks at it. "And do you want mercy?!" he yells, pulling back and sitting up.

"Y-Yes! Please." A tear rolls down Gregory's cheek. "Don't do this."

"I have no mercy." Damien pulls Gregory's legs further towards him, watching as Gregory struggles and fails to get away. He forces a kiss onto Gregory's lips and feels them conforming to him, but quivering. He trails kisses along Gregory's neck. "Don't worry. This may even feel good."

"N-No. S-Stop."

Damien looks at Gregory again and the tears are turning to blood, and it's everywhere, dripping down the blond's face and into the bed sheets. Damien tries to grab Gregory's face in panic, to somehow stop the flow, but he stops when he sees his hands are also dripping in blood. And suddenly everywhere is. It's matted in Gregory's hair, running down his chest, from his nose. It's covering the room.

Damien feels the taste in his mouth.

Damien woke up with a short gasp and glanced around him. He was surprised to feel relief when he realised his was on his own, that it had been a dream. What was this relief? Was he thankful not to be raping Gregory? How, when he'd just been thinking it?

Which one was it? Which side was winning?

He groaned and sunk his teeth into his pillow, willing himself to fall back asleep.

Stupid mortal.

A/N: How to Tend to a Rose Garden... Please, please, tell me if you worked it out. Think about how awkward the sentences are and leave it in a review if you get it (and then also why it's so relevant). Writing that was hard! If you haven't got it or think I'm talking complete nonsense right now then ask me if you want to know (or otherwise wait for later in the story).