Un-beta'd.
FOR MUH MOLE, cuz ily.

He twirled the silver chain around his index finger. Occasionally - out of habit - placing the blood tasting cross inside of his mouth and sucking on it, before dropping it back on his chest and continuing to swirl it as if he hadn't just wet it with his mouth.

The British boy didn't look up from the papers he was looking over - documents and information on gang leaders and gangs around the area - he didn't look up, either, when the door slammed open. He didn't look up when he heard the faint crack of the wall as the door slammed shut or when a photo fell to the floor with a smash.

He did, however, look up when a familiar pair of blooded hands took the papers away and threw them angrily to the side. The motion was pointless as they fell softly to the ground with no harm from the impact that was forced upon them.

Gregory looked up as Christophe glared angrily down at him, several cuts and bruises on his face. Gregory tutted slightly at the harm on such a pretty face. He got up, buttoning back up his orange shirt - but being stopped by Christophe's hands.

Gregory had just gotten dressed, not ready for Christophe's arrival he hadn't even buttoned his shirt as he busied himself for Christophe's - and his own - next mission.

"Christophe, please let me go. I have to go get the First Aid kit." Gregory stated softly, removing large, soft hands away from his chest and pushing the French boy down onto the bed, ignoring the snarl and French curse that was aimed toward him when the boy didn't get his way. Gregory only smiled as he walked toward the shelf, picking up the First Aid kit and turning to the injured mercenary with the same smile.

Christophe's glare deepened at this. "Vat are you smiling about, Gregory?" Christophe asked, glaring at the blonde boy. Gregory rolled his eyes at Christophe and knelt down in front of him, unlacing his boots and pulling them off with care.

"Remove your trousers, Christophe." Gregory demanded softly.

Christophe smirked, and unbuttoned his trousers then unzipped them, pulling them down and kicking them off - allowing Gregory to see the wounds hidden beneath the fabric. Christophe hissed as Gregory placed alcohol against a deep cut on his thigh.

"Zat 'urt, you beetch." He growled in a deep French accent. Gregory laughed slightly, head shaking out of humour of the 'offensive' nickname Christophe always managed to blurt out - but it was never enough to hurt Gregory; Christophe didn't intend it to. "Oh, so you laugh. 'Ow nice you are," The French boy muttered.

Gregory smirked up at him and moved the swab over to Christophe's cheek, cleaning up a small scratch there and scoffing as Christophe hissed slightly - though his expression did not change.

"How did it go?" Gregory asked gently, cleaning up Christophe's face with alcohol, placing the swab on the side and reaching toward a glass of water he had poured himself - but passed to the mercenary anyway.

Christophe took it and inspected it for a while. Content that it wasn't drugged or poisoned he took a small sip and swallowed, clearing his sore throat and passing it back to Gregory; who took a sip of his own, placing it back on the table.

"Fine." Christophe muttered, slapping Gregory away as he went to bandage the wounds around his body. He glared at the British boy. "You know 'ow I feel about bandages, Gregory.." The French boy said, stroking his hand over Gregory's red one.

Gregory nodded slightly, pulling his hand away from Christophe and walking to place the kit back in it's original place.

"I trust you got the information?" He asked, not looking back at Christophe, but he knew the French boy was glaring heavily at him, and then nodding.

Christophe lay back on the bed with a sigh, "Of course, Gregory. Ven 'ave I ever failed you?" He asked, a mocking drip in his voice which made Gregory smile and turn to face the lying down figure. He walked over and climbed onto the bed, sitting on top of Christophe's body.

"Never." The English boy replied with a fragile laugh. Christophe scoffed and pointed to his trousers.

"Ze information ees een zere," He stated, hands going onto Gregory's hips to balance him. Gregory nodded slightly but made no attempt of moving off of him.

He sighed softly, hand stroking over a still bleeding cut, "So what happened?" He asked, cleaning up the blood with his thumb and popping his thumb into his mouth - swiping the blood away with his tongue.

Christophe shrugged, "Guard dogs as always, mon cher." He replied, fingers stroking over Gregory's pale skin and smiling as the British boy leant down - pressing a soft kiss to the cut on Christophe's lip.

"Poor boy," Gregory teased, a smile edging onto his face. Christophe glared at him for the patronising remark but rolled his eyes as Gregory's head tilted to the side out of pure innocence - or an act at least. Gregory's smile widened as the mercenary shuffled backwards, arching his hips and jolting Gregory forward to lay on him.

"You always 'ave to put me een a place where zere ees always guard dogs. I. Fucking. 'Ate. Guard. Dogs!" Christophe growled into Gregory's neat hair. The other smiled as his chest was placed to Christophe's. He sat up slightly, removing Christophe's hands from him as he let his shirt fall off of his shoulders and onto the floor.

"I know, Christophe - but I don't do it purposely. These are very secure areas, and you are one of the only people I know with the amount of talents needed for entry into said places. It's not my fault you were a little loud.." Gregory responded softly, laying back onto Christophe and pressing his cheek to Christophe's shirt.

Gregory felt Christophe's chest vibrate as he growled and began to speak: "I'm never loud, Gregory. I am perfectly silent." He told the British boy.

Said boy nodded against him, "I'm sure." He replied sarcastically. "So, how long did it take you to get into there?" He asked.

Christophe snorted, "Zirty minutes," He said, "Eet took twenty to get out - I'll 'ave you know," Christophe stated, anger dripping in his voice; but not aimed at Gregory.

"Like I said, it's not planned purposely." Gregory informed him with another sigh, feeling Christophe's arms fall around his waist and hearing the small grunt of pain - even if he asked, Christophe would retort with a childish antic of how he was being lazy. Christophe stroked the bare skin of Gregory's back and kissed his head softly.

"Mm.." Christophe muttered, not really making sense or replying to Gregory's previous comment. Gregory shifted slightly, allowing himself to look up and smile at the other.

"My mother's home." He told Christophe.

The mercenary nodded, "I know, I saw 'er." He replied; tapping his fingers against Gregory's back and gently running his fingers across the band of Gregory's jeans. Gregory rolled his eyes and lay his head back on Christophe's chest, smelling the dirt and cologne.

"Remove your shirt." He told Christophe politely, sitting himself up a little and pulling up the dirty, green shirt and exposing tanned skin. Much more tanned than his own pale skin tone. Christophe grunted and pushed Gregory to sit on his legs as he sat himself up and removed the shirt, tossing it into a basket by the door.

"'Appy now?" Christophe asked.

Gregory nodded and allowed himself to be pulled back into Christophe's embrace, their legs tangling together and Christophe's arms falling back around his waist, playing - again - with the waist band of his jeans.

"You realise my mother could walk in at any given moment," Gregory supplied. Christophe sighed against Gregory's hair.

"Yes, Gregory.." He replied softly, "I realise zat, but I always zought you loved a challenge? You are quite ze dare devil." He said, a small smile dancing over his lips as Gregory snorted against him. Gregory sighed, the air brushing agaisnt Christophe's skin.

"I suppose you're correct," He said, proud of the laugh that erupted from Christophe's lips. The Frenchman obviously proud of winning something against the British boy. Gregory rolled his eyes in humour.

"Besides," Christophe began, "She didn't look very 'appy when she zaw my face.." He said, a grin spilting onto his lips. He looked down at Gregory's innocent posture; realising just how quiet and delicate the mastermind could be. "I'm sure she zinks you're 'elping me get back on my feet.." He said.

Gregory shuffled against Christophe, getting himself comfortable and then placing his hands in front of his face, playing with Christophe's skin and stroking it. "Did she say anything to you?" Gregory asked against Christophe's chest, his lips brushing against the tanned skin.

"Oui, she said many zings, but mostly repeated everyzing.. Somezing like, "Oh 'eavens, Christophe! Vat on earz 'appened to you?" and I merely said zat I 'ad fallen down a 'ole.." Christophe said, failing his attempt to impersinate Gregory's mother.

Gregory hit his stomach slightly, "Do not mock my mother, Mole." He warned. Christophe scoffed.

"I'm zorry, muzza's boy.. did I 'it a nerve?" The Frenchman teased, hand falling under Gregory's jeans and boxers and falling to rest on his bum. Gregory smiled slightly, shaking his head at the teasing words and warm hand on his skin.

"You bastard," He retorted softly, pressing a kiss to Christophe's skin. The French man shivered, moving his other hand under Gregory's jeans and boxers and holding the other closely against him.

"Did you ever tell your muzza about your leetle job?" Christophe teased, arching his hips against Gregory's and feeling the boy gasp against him. Revenge was sweet.

"O-Of course not," Gregory stuttered, nuzzling his head against Christophe and narrowing his eyes in thought, "Imagine it, Chris - imagine the massacre if I told her what I do for a living, imagine the massacre when she informs your mother.."

Christophe smirked, "My muzza wouldn't mind zat much," He stated, earning a sarcastic laugh from the British boy lying ontop of him.

"Oh yes, of course not," Gregory replied, mockingly, "Because she didn't care when you almost got killed because of said job. She amazingly let you keep your job - but never wanted it to get as serious as it is now."

Christophe rolled his eyes, "Don't be so over dramatic," He grumbled, his hands still tucked under Gregory's trousers. "Eet'll be fine, you know my muzza, she'll get mad, she'll 'ave a few drinks and come 'ome whining; 'Oh, my poor baby, I am zo zorry I did zat to you, my darling boy, oh 'eavenz, Christophe, I'm zo zorry, my leetle angel,'" Christophe scoffed, "She's crazy at 'eart." He told Gregory.

Gregory smiled, the movement of his lips brushing to Christophe's skin. "So it runs in the family, I see."

"'Ey!" Christophe muttered, offended, "Zat 'urt me." He whined in sarcastic hurt. Gregory smiled, pulling himself away from Christophe's chest, and placing both of their chests together as he leant up to Christophe's lips.

"Oh I'm sorry, Mr. Tough Guy, did I hurt your little heart?" Gregory mocked, his lips pouting as he impersinated Christophe's whining. Christophe glared at him, but accepted the kiss pressed to his lips and returned the gentle gesture.

"You're lucky I love you, beetch.." Christophe muttered as Gregory let his head rest on Christophe's shoulder, under the junction of his jaw which met his neck. The Brit smiled, hiding his face in tanned skin.

"Of course I am," He responded, "My little mercenary."