Christophe/Rebecca or ChristophexRebecca... it's got those two in it, plus some lovin'. And Gregory is there too! Bromance!

Christophe liked women.

Okay, so it wasn't so cut and dry.

Sometimes he would take whatever he could find for a quick ride and an even quicker ditch, but when he liked a girl, she was a certain type. He liked the skanky women who lived life like a party. Sometimes he wanted the more reserved women who were intrigued by the mysteries of the male physique, especially anything phallic.

He liked a few types of women and sometimes he would surprise himself. But, he never thought he would like anyone quite like… this.

A woman with wild curls nearly trips over her own feet, the tray in her hands clattering loudly. It seemed like it was all over for her before she regained her composure last minute. The chestnut haired girl rights herself, trembling… her timid eyes glancing over everyone, making sure she didn't cause a big scene.

Graceful, like a bull in a china shop.

Not exactly an enigma by any means, nor was she the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She was plain. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Plain and boring. Even on her name tag, 'Rebecca'. It was a normal, safe name. She was the ultimate plain Jane.

But there was something about her body that was striking and Christophe couldn't place it at first.

It couldn't have been her bust. It wasn't as if she was top heavy. Her breasts were relatively small. Gregory had said, 'if they were any smaller, they would be classified as mosquito bites,' and Christophe had to agree.

It couldn't have been her curves. Her waist was relatively straight, concealed by sweaters and blouses. It was safe to assume there was no hourglass figure hidden under there either. Gregory had said, 'she's rail thin, she must be underprivileged and can't afford the food' and Christophe had to agree.

It couldn't have been her hair. It was wild, out of control. Chestnut curls that trailed down, just above her shoulders. She often wore clips or barrettes with the red, hard plastic spheres. Gregory had said, 'I bet she doesn't know what hair products are,' and Christophe had to agree.

Really, there wasn't anything that should have drawn attention to this woman. Plain, flat and thin… Nothing was out of the ordinary. But, why was Christophe unable to look away?

There had to be something. So, he began to look a little harder each time they visited the café.

Rebecca passes by Christophe, the sun hitting her legs, her stockings glistening with a delicate sheen.

Oh yes, her legs.

Lacey things weren't something that Christophe necessarily enjoyed. It reminded him of the Queen's panties, (and he only brought that up to pester Gregory). At one point in time, it was all about au naturale.

The less there was of something, the more it turned the Frenchman on. No panties? That's fine! Christophe would have been more than delighted to know. He would have said, 'zcrew zhe clothes, let's fuck.'

But now he had turned a one eighty. Bare legs and skirts were something he once enjoyed. The sight of something so soft and silky had made him doubt everything. What kind of Frenchman wants a woman fully covered? Or flat? Or rail thin?

He must have been the only one.

The woman sauntering inside and outside the veranda of the café had sparked a fetish in Christophe. But it wasn't like he wanted one. To Christophe, fetishes were for guys that had small 'deeks' and lived in the basement or the types of guys that jerk it to lingerie magazines whist choking themselves.

And it was obvious, the aspiring geologist were none of those things.

But those legs, those stockings… the allure.

That's why Christophe liked the expensive little café in North Park. To get cup full and an eye full.

Rebecca twitches nervously yet again, her voice trembling as she took someone else's order, trying to hold back her spelling tic. Socially awkward. Like this was her first time in the outside world. It reminded him of a male counterpart he knew in South Park and incidentally he liked coffee too.

It's always a big turn on when you compare a girl to a guy.

Christophe brings his attention back to the flimsy café menu, his head resting in his hand. What looked good…? Beside those legs, that is.

"Snail slurper!"

And just like that, he was snapped out of his thoughts.

Christophe's attention draws to his partner in crime. The blonde taps his fingers on the table in annoyance, his accent ringing out in the most infuriating way. "Were you staring yet again?"

"I wazn't!" the Frenchman's caterpillar eyebrows shift into a scowl, "I was just… looking at zhe sky. Iz blue today."

"It's blue every day." The brit says flatly.

Christophe mutters a curse under his breath, looking back to his one page menu, searching for something to wet his whistle. Cheap was the keyword. Everything was at least six bucks. The Frenchman expected whatever he got to be laced with gold. Or pyrite at least. Because they were making a fool out of him. Get it? Pyrite is fool's gold and he's being made a… Ha.

Geology jokes because he's an aspiring geologist.

Yes, there wasn't anything quite like uncovering a few minerals and the smell of dirt. His trusty shovel is his tool and the earth is his sandbox, free to explore and uncover its majesties.

Rebecca hurries by again, holding the tray to her side, ceramic cups clanking lightly together. And just like a man signaling down a plane, Christophe's attention flickers to her.

Boy, he would love to survey her cave.

When he looks back to Gregory, the brit is less than amused.

"What?" Christophe barks.

"Look at you! You're head over heels! Couldn't you find someone a little more… robust? Maybe cultured? Less poodle hair and more meat?" Gregory rolls his wrist, trying to place his words carefully. Don't be fooled, the man was oh-so obviously trying to rustle his jimmies. "Or maybe not twelve years old?"

"I zhink I've seen 'er at our college once," Christophe watches the woman lean over the table to set down more coffee cups. Trying to seem subtle, about it he continues to look, knowing that Gregory sees every move he makes. "And I never zaid I liked 'er."

"Actually, isn't that how Lady and the Tramp went? The mutt and the poodle slurping up spaghetti?" Gregory flips his menu again, licking his thumb as he does so. His lip rising in repulsion, like Christophe was some kind of sexual beast.

Asshole.

"I don't fucking know! I don't zeet around and watch movies about dogs."

A few people on the veranda look to the two Europeans, who were not only being obnoxiously loud, but were also destroying the calm café atmosphere. Christophe and Gregory, however, were none the wiser.

"H-e-l-l-o," A familiar tic sounds. Christophe freezes and looks up.

Rebecca rummages through her front pockets of her apron, retrieving her note pad. She clears her throat, "U-um, did… did you guys decide on what you were going to order?" she whispers to herself. "O-r-d-e-r."

Everyone knew the Frenchman was a badass. He fit the part of a tough guy. The wrinkles, the slight 5'o-clock shadow, hell, even his body type screamed mercenary. But somehow, Christophe couldn't say more than a few words to her without muttering something in French or swallowing his tongue.

He wasn't shy, no, that wasn't it… was it?

He holds his face with an almost embarrassed expression. Peeking through his fingers, he sends a few daggers in Gregory's direction.

He spent all his time fighting with the man and he had completely forgot about ordering for the fifth time in a row. He wasn't prepared. At all. He awkwardly stammered into his hands, looking up at the woman then to Gregory, "Je ne sais pas quoi dire."

The blonde lifts his finger, as if to silence his partner, "So sorry about this, but we'll need just a few more minutes. Christophe knows what he wants, but it's really not on the menu." He finishes lowly, so the waitress wasn't to hear him.

Rebecca looks between the two, biting at her lips, sensing something was amiss.

"Y-you both are here nearly every day," she trails off, her hands holding the note pad and pen jitter together, "I-I bet you guys have the menu memorized better than I do."

"That's not all Christophe has memorized-"

Christophe places a hand on his companion's wrist, cutting him off, as if begging him not to say anything bizarre or humiliating. He was going red. Christophe DeLorn, blushing. And Gregory was eating it up, enjoying every minute of it.

The blonde gives him a sly look, a slim eyebrow raising. Christophe begs him with his eyes, even going as far as to mouth, 'please'.

But, as everyone knows, the British are not to be trusted. And they're assholes. That too.

Gregory jerked his hand away from the Frenchman, knocking it into the rolled silverware with enough force to send them scattering onto the ground. "Oh shoot. Damn these jittery hands. I've spilt the utensils all over the floor. Whatever will I do?" he says unnaturally, like a bad actor.

The British fuck… what was he up to?

Rebecca peers to the utensils with a slightly panicked expression. "Oh, I'll get it, d-don't worry about it."

Christophe wasn't sure what Gregory was trying to do.

The woman leans way down, bending over as she picks up each individual piece of silverware. The view was clearer than ever. He could see every curve of the woman's leg, along with more of her stockings. The soft sheen making his hand twitch. What he wouldn't give to reach a hand out and touch it.

And now Christophe understood.

That asshole. That fucking bitch.

Christophe avoided the urge to look at the glorious sight while the Brit sat there, fingers laced together, and sitting up straight with that fucking grin.

"Enfoiré." The Frenchman grunts out, looking at the tablecloth, feeling his cheeks heat up even hotter.

"What was that?" Gregory sneers, "You're trying you're hardest not too look, aren't you? You're filth if you have to claw at the table like an animal."

The woman stood up straight with the utensils in hand, "Huh?"

Before Gregory could open his mouth, the Frenchman's foot connected with Gregory's left kneecap, making the table bounce violently. Gregory yips loudly as Christophe murmurs, "Nothing. Zhank you, mignonne. We'll pick out something zoon."

"O-oh, okay." Rebecca pockets her pad, wringing her hands around the silverware before darting off, hurrying inside, partially in embarrassment and the constant demand of her job.

When she's out of sight, Gregory leans in, hissing, "Mignonne? As in… sweetie? Really?"

"Fucking beetch."

A few minutes pass and the two look over their menus respectively. Christophe calms, feeling his humiliation dissipate. He tries to focus more on what he wants to order rather Gregory's insults. He had to admit, his mouth was a little dry. Coffee sounded fine. Black coffee, nothing crazy or expensive. He didn't want Luwak coffee or anything spectacular. Just plain black coffee.

Black, like those lace stockings-

The woman wanders over to their table again, jittery as ever. She tucks a curl behind her ear, staring down at the two. "S-so, what will it be?"

"Excuse me for asking but," Gregory places his menu down, "are you single?"

Christophe slams the laminated paper onto the table. A fire igniting in his chest, and not a good one, more like, 'must kill brit' flames. When they would go home, he was sure to make it a mission to kill Gregory and bury him under a bed of limestone. Throw him into a volcano… maybe hit him a few times with the shovel in that oh-so defined jaw of his.

"…I-I, uhm… no, I-I mean," the woman looks between the two, obviously flustered, "Well… yes but why?"

"What about boyfriend history? Do you have one?" he prods, "Also, how old are you? Twelve?"

The woman flushes, causing Christophe to, yet again, cover his face in humiliation. Gregory was on his high horse and there was no way to knock him down either.

"Nineteen in November. And… well, I did date this boy Kyle Broflovski in high school but it wasn't for too long."

Christophe's hands slide down his face, recognizing the name right away before recovering his expression.

Gregory, he was such a little shit.

"What cute stockings." Gregory holds the side of his face, bending over the table, pretending to get a better look, "Are you wearing a garter perhaps? I mean, if I'm not being too intrusive, they are so fetching in the light."

"I-I… um, well, I don't like the elastic bands. Those 'stay up stockings'," She gestures to her thighs, lifting her skirt somewhat, "They squeeze and I don't like them."

Christophe slams his head into the table, making it rattle and shake. Rebecca and Gregory didn't even give him a passing glance.

God could have struck him down with a bolt of lightning. He fulfilled his purpose in life. There was nothing more to see down here.

"Cute. Cute. Cute. I was just asking because my friend here finds you very interesting." Gregory adds, "He's just really shy around pretty girls."

Rebecca peers down to the Frenchman, but he was too busy focusing on the blonde. If looks could kill… Gregory would have been a pretty little stain all over the ground. Christophe grinds his teeth together, reaching for his jacket, "I'm out of here."

The man walks away from the two as Gregory calls out in between laughs. "Wait! Come back! Christophe, it was just a joke! I only wanted to tickle your pickle!"

The Frenchman shoves through the Café doors, nostrils flaring. If he would have stayed any longer, the brit would have been beaten to bloody pulp.

Christophe finds a nice, comfortable spot near the entrance, leaning against it he searches his pockets for a cigarette pack. What luck! Like an excited boy on his birthday, he pulls out the little cardboard, flipping open the top.

His face falls. The Frenchman finds nothing but little crumbs of tobacco. He grinds his teeth together, crunching the pack in his grip, tossing the empty pack aside angrily.

He notices a familiar woman emerge from the café... but something about her was different. She starts towards him, wringing and tugging at a fabric in her hands. Rebecca bites at her bottom like, shoving them in Christophe's palms, bowing slightly as she does so, as if he was landmine ready to explode at any moment.

The Frenchman glances down and nearly jumps out of his skin, noticing it was two dark colored stockings. His eyes dart to her now bare legs. The man is speechless, his mouth incredibly dry, looking between her and the things that made his heart jump out of his chest.

"Y-you're always looking at them… And your friend was asking all those questions, I figured maybe you might want them."

Christophe tried to regain what little composure he had left. He didn't think the girl would appreciate a strange man reaching out and groping her legs. "…Did Gregory put you up to this?"

"Of course not." The woman smiles brightly, "You're both... you know, into drag, right?"

…what?

…what?!

Christophe was ready to shake his fists up to the heavens, telling God to suck his 'deek' just for a chance to be struck by lightning. Death would be an incredible equalizer at this point. Still gripping the thigh highs, the man gestures to her legs. "No, I just-"

"Just what?"

He swallows roughly, looking down at the pale appendages, "I really like zhe way your legs look in zhese."

"My legs?" Rebecca blinks, lifting her skirt timidly, the slight glimmer of her garter belt clasp reflecting back in his eyes. It was enough to make the man melt. His tongue lost somewhere in his throat. His forehead starting to become slightly sweaty. The sight was magnificent. He hadn't ever seen that much leg from her.

"Tu me rends fou." Christophe rambles in French, reaching out and grabbing her hands, the words fumbling out of his mouth like vomit, "Puis-je t'appeler biscotte? Non? Parce que je te trouve craquante."

And the French wouldn't stop. It seemed like all the English he knew was thrown right out the window and he couldn't remember a single word of it. And Rebecca stands there, tilting her head, watching the man mumble incoherently to himself. Not like she could understand a lick of what he was saying anyways, which made Christophe panic even more, tensing up.

"A-are you okay?" Rebecca removes her hands from him, only to reach up and cup his face, "I don't… I don't understand what you're saying. U-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d."

And right on time, the blonde hustles out of the Café and next to Christophe, slapping his back roughly. He smirks towards Rebecca, flashing his pearly whites. "Translation? My good chap here is asking you for a little date tonight. Perhaps after work?"

The woman is quiet for a long time.

She looks between the men, focusing intently on Christophe. The sides of her mouth curl up and she beams, her eyes lighting up. It was like watching a twelve year old on Christmas, "Oh! I'm sorry, yes! I would love to! O-okay, I get off at work at seven then I'm free for the whole night."

"T-très bien." Christophe chokes out.

The woman gives an almost coy smile, "I'll be sure to wear my best stockings." She titters, disappearing back into the café.

As soon as the woman is out of sight, Christophe relaxes. Gregory jerks his shoulder roughly, spitting. "You owe me, snail slurper."

"Yeah… thanks, Greg."

Translations:

Je ne sais pas quoi dire - I don't know what to say

Enfoiré – Fucker

Tu me rends fou - You make me crazy

Puis-je t'appeler biscotte? Non? Parce que je te trouve craquante –Can I call you biscotte? No? Because I find you irresistible

Très bien - Excellent