Chapter Text
It was always nice to go back to France. Gregory was grateful for his two distinct advantages while traveling there: Enough money not to worry about travel expenses and a Frenchman for a best friend.
Rarely was such a trip ever a true vacation. Gregory of Yardale was a person of significant importance across the channel. His bright idealism and advocacy for various causes had—through what seemed like a fluke series of dramatic events that belonged more in South Park than London—landed him in an elected office. Once he became embroiled in the world of politics, he had to be a bit more careful about the whole revolutionary business. No more sneaking into authoritarian nations to spread sparks that lead to wildfires, no more sabotaging crime syndicates. No more pretending to be James Bond or Bruce Wayne or Robespierre, or any other sort of rich well-educated vigilante. It was time to grow up.
“Do you ever feel guilty about the chaos you leave behind?” Christophe had once asked him on a helicopter as they fled the bout of military-civilian conflict they may or may not have been indirectly responsible for.
Gregory had grinned at him, disregarded the radio link and lifted one side of his sound-protective headphones to shout in his ear, “Never!”
When working as a politician in the public eye such trips became impossible, and Gregory began to leave these missions to his most trusted bodyguard, The Mole. There were occasional moments when fear might grip him as he read the headlines. An outbreak of a deadly virus in West Africa, indiscriminate drone strikes with high civilian casualties in Afghanistan, packs of wild dogs in India (Christophe hated dogs), drug lords in conflict in South America and complete radio silence in Russia or China. Then the moment would pass, and Gregory would chastise himself for ever doubting that The Mole would return safely. He always did.
This trip, unlike many, was going to be a true vacation, aside from a few meetings with people of importance. Entirely within the parameters of legality. It was an uncommon treat in their line of work. To the media, they were a statesman and his bodyguard on a business trip. To any bystanders, they were two friends strolling down the Champs-Elysees enjoying some ice cream.
They both loved France, Christophe in patriotic spirit, Gregory as a foreigner admires the accomplishment and culture of another nation. The French Revolution was one of his favorites. He was a bit disappointed that his own country had never gotten a grand turnabout Revolution; the transition from the feudal system to the House of Parliament as they knew it today took several hundred years and a dozen bloody skirmishes. But revolt and reform for the betterment of society could be found in many forms, which didn’t always involve chopping off heads.
“America has been rife with protests this administration,” he commented while scrolling through BBC’s website on his phone.
“Mmmhm.” A disinterested Christophe threw some pigeon feed to appreciative birds gathered at the foot of the fountain they were sitting on, checked to see that Gregory wasn’t looking, and nibbled some himself, all while scanning the area for potential threats.
“But then again, they’re always protesting one thing or another in America, it’s superb. And it looks like their relations with Canada might be improving.”
“Ouis,” the Mole parroted.
“That new satyrical play with the anti-government subtext is banned in Russia, which is par for the course, but do you think we should pull a few strings? The arts are a great way to get people to think independently, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to hire some actors, find a small, discreet theatre, and spread the word around—”
“Gregory.”
“Hmm?” The Mole snatched the blond’s phone out of his hand and stowed it away in his pocket before Gregory could protest.
“Stop plotting and meddling with foreign affairs. Especially Russia, we’re one incident away from my job becoming a lot more difficult. This trip is supposed to be a vacation, not a setup for your next adventure. Relax, bête, or you will kill yourself from work long before anyone else gets a chance to.” The Englishman took a deep breath to try and slow down his whirling thoughts.
“Of course. You’re right ‘Tophe. Let’s go have a vacation!” He stood, dragging Christophe who was grumbling about how vacations aren’t invasions, they’re not supposed to be planned out to the very last detail, behind him.
Christophe had been teaching him how to speak French for more than a decade, so Gregory was confident in his abilities when they checked into their hotel.
« Une chambre pour moi et mon copain, s’il vous plaît. » The clerk smiled at them pleasantly, asked for their names, and handed them their key cards. When they entered their room everything was perfectly lovely, except for one flaw.
“There’s only one bed,” Gregory remarked, staring at the offending furniture.
His companion tossed a duffle bag into the closet and spared the bed a glance. “It would seem so.” Then he disappeared to excavate the bathroom. Christophe liked to throw away all the free soap, which Gregory would inevitably dig out of the trash can and make him use later. The blond sometimes locked the door from the outside and refused to let the Mole out until he’d used at least a full bar.
“I did ask for one room with two beds, right Christophe?” he called. There was no reply except for some rustling as little cardboard containers were eviscerated and their contents stowed away. “Should I complain to management? Perhaps I should complain to management.” Christophe re-emerged and wandered over to the bed, then collapsed on it with a groan of fatigue.
“It is a bed. You can deal with it for a few nights, so do not go complaining about all the little things that don’t meet your standards, you spoilt bitch.”
“Get those filthy boots off the covers!!!” the spoilt bitch shrieked.
Lunch was a similar story.
« Une table pour moi et mon copain, s’il vous plait. » The waiter beamed at them, and hustled them over to their table with polite chit-chat about where they were from, (Londres.) where had Gregory learned to speak French, (Mon copain m’a aprris.) oh how sweet, how long had they known each other? (Depuis l’enfance.) He was unaware of Christophe stifling his laughter.
The table was seated for two with an excellent view of the street below and a candlelight centerpiece. Looking around the restaurant Gregory observed that they were probably the only people in this area who weren’t a couple. All the families with screaming children were seated in large booths on the other side of the room. He turned to Christophe, who had his chin in his hand and was looking oddly soft, like all the cynicism had been sucked out of him. It was mildly concerning.
“Tophe?”
« Quoi ?»
“You were looking at me strangely.”
“Ah, désolé. I expect we will be getting good service here.”
“Will we? The yelpers were vicious in the reviews.”
“Yelpers pretending to be sous chefs can go fuck themselves, we’re going to get good service because that waiter liked you. You were being infuriatingly charming again.”
“Ah.” Gregory looked pleased with himself. There were always advantages to being, as Christophe put it, infuriatingly charming.
The day continued with sight-seeing, remarkably good weather, and confusing subway transfers. The next morning Gregory blinked himself awake in their shared hotel bed, rolled over, grabbed his phone, yawned, opened Twitter, and sat up cursing a few seconds later. Christophe grumbled something and draped an arm over the blond’s shoulder, peering at the screen.
« Qu’est-ce que c’est? » Gregory read one of the headlines:
“Young Parliamentary Official Explores Paris with Boyfriend! There are pictures—how did the paparazzi sneak into the restaurant?! What do they even want with me, why aren’t they chasing some pop star or the royal family?!”
“In the world of politics, you are fairly sensational.” Gregory whacked him over the head, which did nothing to discourage The Mole’s grin.
“Don’t you start, you’re the one who was supposed to be shooing the media vultures away! Now everyone thinks we’re a couple—stop laughing at my expense, this isn’t funny!!!”
“I do not know why you are so upset. You are the one who said it first.” He stared at the brunette with dawning horror.
“…What?”
“You were introducing me as ‘mon copain’ all week.”
“Yes, ‘copain’ means friend, right?!” The Mole shook his head.
“It's an easy mistake for English-speaking people. You say, “my friend,” all the time, and no one thinks anything of it. But in French, when you start getting possessive like that— mon copain instead of un copain—it might be implied that your relationship with that friend is not entirely platonic.”
“Fuck!” Gregory swung himself out of bed and began pacing around the room, running one hand through his curls and tapping madly at his smartphone with the other. Christophe lounged across the covers and watched him, amused. “This is horrible, I need to organize a press conference and I have a meeting with the Secretary of Commerce at one—why didn’t you correct me?!” he asked, rounding on the Mole, who shrugged.
“It was hilarious.”
“God damn it Christophe—what am I supposed to tell the press, that you let me go around making a fool of myself all day?!”
“Mais oui. Honesty is the best policy, non?”
“NOT IN POLITICS!!” The politician sat on the edge of the bed and clutched at his hair in despair. Christophe was still laughing, but he crawled forward to hug the other man from behind.
“You are worrying too much again. You will tell them there was an error in translation, that I am your bodyguard and have been for a long time, but you mistakenly introduced us as boyfriends. If they ask me to comment, I will tell them you are an idiot. Then everyone will laugh, and this will all be over. D’accord?” Gregory took a calming breath and stared at his phone with renewed vigor.
“You’re right ‘Tophe. And even if people aren’t convinced, I can put a positive spin on this. Most of my supporters are progressive anyways, what do they care if I’m gay?” Christophe leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Voilà, problem solved.” He watched to see if Gregory would react or consider his actions remotely out of the ordinary. There was no reaction except a few mutterings about how he would have to rearrange his schedule. Once again, he lost Gregory’s attention to the phone. Christophe sighed and went to go grab a shirt.
One day, that idiot would realize he wasn’t this affectionate with everyone. He was, in fact, the antithesis of an affectionate person except when it came to that idiot. Christophe could only hope that by some miracle, one day two neurons would fire within his thick skull and he might put things together.
Hopefully that day would come before The Mole went on a mission he couldn’t return from.
He had followed Gregory ever since they were children. He would follow him anywhere, to England or Antarctica, to South Park Colorado or all the way to Jupiter. When he was younger he had no idea why he couldn’t help but orbit the spitfire sun that was Gregory of Yardale. Now, he was starting to figure things out. Christophe was certain that Gregory was going to make history, and maybe he would be a footnote. He would be the Patroclus to his Achilles, the Watson to his Sherlock, he would be a war dog, a rodent, he would be anything for him. If a day should come that some conspiracy theorist put together all the chaos they’d caused and Gregory was put on trial for his meddling, Christophe would be the one to take the fall, plead guilty, claim he was acting independently, do and say anything to incriminate himself.
Gregory had already gotten him killed once, and would surely get him killed again, but Christophe was fine with that. He was that kind of mad, loyal, and besotted. Gregory could take him for granted because it was worth it to be near him, and to be useful.
On the flight home:
“Tophe, are you mad at me?”
“Non.”
“You’re sulking.”
“I am not sulking.”
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me about something?”
“Salop, if I was mad at you, I would have already punched you in the face.”
“You can’t punch me, you’re my bodyguard!”
“You think that will stop me?”
“…Fine, alright. Go ahead and sulk, if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” Christophe remained silent, staring out the window at the cloud banks below, waiting for the moment when Gregory would fall asleep and rest his head on the shoulder next to him.
Moment by moment, The Mole would wait.