Work Text:
Gregory’s role in the mission was quite simple, really.
Once the USO show was in full swing, he was to sneak into the venue’s electrical room and shut off the power, thus disabling the alarm systems and onstage electric chairs. So once Gregory began to hear voices booming from the stage, followed by the cheers of thousands of American soldiers, he spared no time making his way through the backstage hallways.
Despite the protests of the boys who initially organized La Resistance, he’d insisted on being of more assistance. After all, their capability of carrying out the interception on their own was…questionable, to say the very least. Gregory was experienced in both planning and swordfighting (thanks to a lifetime of fencing) – Stan, Kyle, and Eric barely understood what was going on in their own country.
Gregory had made sure to meticulously study the schematics of the venue prior to the mission. Not nearly meticulously enough, he supposed, because the moment he opened the door, a small alarm sounded just above his head. Shit. Gregory spotted the speaker and quickly smashed it with his cutlass, but too late, as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps echoed from down the hall.
“Coucou, crétin!¹” A voice called out. The Brit whirled around to see a somewhat stocky, disheveled-looking young lad holding a long shovel emerge from around the corridor.
He was immediately able to identify this boy; La Resistance had received intel not too long ago that MAC had caught wind of their plans, and decided to specially hire a local mercenary – a bitter little French boy known as The Mole, to take care of any…incidents that might occur during the USO show. Initially, Gregory wasn’t supposed to run into him at all, if everything went according to plan.
“I have been waiting all night for you to show your face, p’tit rebelle,” The Mole grinned, his smile crooked and unsightly. “I was told to go after a ‘Gregory’, ze ‘annoying blond one with a British accent’. Zat would be you, non?”
“Unfortunately for you, Mole.”
The brunet opened his mouth to respond, but was unable to get a word in before Gregory initiated combat, drawing his cutlass from its sheath and attempting to slash horizontally. The Mole quickly deflected the attack with a single sweep of his almost comically large shovel, the tool being slightly longer than he was tall.
“The military can’t afford to supply their own head of security with proper weaponry,” Gregory remarked. “Hard times, I take it? What with the war you lot started, no doubt.”
“I fund myself. Zat is part of ze job. Zey pay for my services, which includes my own tools and weapons.” The Mole retorted very matter-of-factly (which the Gregory did not appreciate in the slightest– he was already quite unused to being talked down to, but by a filthy, morally corrupted merc, no less, he was properly vexed), taking an inexperienced swing at the Brit’s head.
“Like I said, budget cuts.” Gregory quipped, his smile twisting into a mocking grin. He nimbly ducked out of the way of the shovel blade without so much as moving from his spot, sending the other boy awkwardly stumbling forward by the force of his own swing and the weight of the “weapon”. “Seriously, you’re the best they can do?”
The Mole let out a grunt of frustration as he regained his footing, whirling around to face Gregory.
“You disgust me, Mole. You’re fighting for the wrong side.”
“You zink I give a single sheet about war or censorship or whatever zis stupid organization is so pissed off at?” The boy scoffed. “I am here to do my job. Zat is it. Truthfully, I do not believe strongly in much anything.”
“My Lord, that’s even worse!” Gregory cried, attempting to thrust in The Mole’s direction, only for him to swiftly duck.
“I remain versatile,” The Mole scrambled back onto his feet to parry another swing of Gregory’s cutlass. “I will work for any client, collect my fee, and move on.”
The Brit wrinkled his nose in revulsion, and their weapons collided once more with the familiar clang of metal against metal. The Mole was sloppy. Careless. Perfectly prone to a single, brutal kick in the stomach that sent him stumbling backwards into the industrial concrete wall, followed by a literal faceful of Gregory’s boot. The Brit stifled a smirk at the despicable skeptic’s yelps of pain, finding some sort of twisted pleasure in smashing his unsightly face in.
Oddly enough, The Mole simply looked back up at him, grinning defiantly and revealing the several teeth missing as a result of the other boy’s assault. This only frustrated Gregory even more, so he didn’t even think twice before delivering the finishing blow.
The Mole didn’t cry out, at least not immediately, as the blade was thrust deep into his abdomen with a sickening squelch. He simply glanced down at himself, watching his own blood slowly oozing from the wound, and back up at Gregory. His eyes went wide with agony, but that same taunting grimace of a smile remained plastered on his face as his legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, leaving bloody tracks trailing down the wall behind him.
“Do what you must…I will not call for help.”
Gregory knew what to do– retrieve his sword, leave the enemy to bleed out, and carry on with his mission, but something about the way the Mole was looking at him gave him pause. He took a step back.
“...I’m no better than you are, am I?” Gregory uttered after a moment.
“At least you belong to a cause you care about,” The Mole argued weakly, shaking his head. “You will be remembered as a hero, a noble man fighting for freedom. I doubt zat I will be remembered at all.”
“I’ll remember you,” Murmured Gregory. The Mole couldn’t help a weak chuckle at the sheer absurdity of the other boy’s claim, throwing him into a small coughing fit that had crimson bubbling from his throat and trickling down his jaw.
The blond tried to maintain a neutral expression as he lowered himself to his knees and grabbed the other boy’s face, smearing the blood with a gentle swipe of his thumb. Beads of red stained the cuffs of Gregory’s orange button-up, but he wouldn’t even notice until after the whole night was over. In fact, if he thought there would’ve been even the slightest chance of saving him, Gregory would’ve just as soon torn off one of his sleeves and used it to try and stop the bleeding. God, what am I doing, he thought.
“Why are you still here..?” The Mole muttered softly, his breath growing more labored and shallow by the minute. “I will die with or without you.”
Gregory shook his head, his chest aching with instant regret. He was foolish, really, for having ever believed that murder could be justified, let alone righteous. Was the cessation of atrocities such as the one he’d just committed not the very thing he was fighting for to begin with?
“So you shall die beside me. You are not the enemy, Mole, I see that now, and I apologize for not having seen it sooner. But my heinous actions would have been equally unjustified, had you been my enemy, or my dearest ally.” He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his voice steady.
“Please,” The Mole smiled bitterly, now growing too weak to muster even the smallest bout of laughter. “Spare me ze theatrics. You are doing zis, why, because of your conscience? Your honor? I would razher die alone zhan be subjected to your faux-chivalry.”
The blond let out an involuntary grunt of frustration, his scarcely-maintained composure (not patience, contrary to what the Frenchman must’ve presumed) beginning to wane.
“Mole, you must listen, I-”
“My name is Christophe,” He spat, and Gregory paused.
“Christophe. Right. That’s a brilliant name, darling.” He breathed, tracing a gentle, almost reverent hand from the other boy’s temple to his tightly-clenched jaw.
Christophe said nothing and simply watched him, as if almost dazed (or most likely, spooked) by the tender shift in Gregory’s tone and touch alike. Goodness, was that boy easy to read.
“I’m not going to pretend that I like you. As a matter of fact, I can hardly stand you. I find you and your faithless, apathetic way of life to be, quite frankly, disgraceful.” The Brit continued, ensuring that he held Christophe’s weakening gaze as he did. “Despite this, I firmly believe that you are deserving of life…and yet of life I’ve denied you.”
The other boy cast him an incredulous glance. Gregory let out a sigh, and continued.
“My actions are unjustifiable, and your blood is forever on my hands, I know. Nonetheless I feel that providing comfort and companionship in your final moments is the very least I can do, and that refraining from doing so would also deny you of your very humanity. I wish not for grace, forgiveness, or peace of mind when I do this– only that you may pass with what little dignity and solace I’m able to provide.”
Fortunately, Gregory was quite accustomed to hiding behind his practiced eloquence and enunciation, because otherwise, he would’ve likely been reduced to a blubbering mess by that point.
Christophe opened his mouth to protest, but halted at the small, strangled sob that seemed to tear through Gregory’s chest and erupt out his throat.
For a brief moment, neither of the boys said or did anything. The continued fanfare of onstage spectacles filled the silence between them, sounding distant and echoing through the vast utility halls behind the venue. The noise snapped Gregory back to reality– he was running out of time. He glanced up at the now-open door to the electrical room, then back to the boy fading in his arms, and shook his head. This was likely one of the dumbest things he’d ever done, but he wasn’t sure if he could live with himself if he left Christophe now. So instead, Gregory gently took the brunet by the shoulders and attempted to prop him up against the wall so that he was sitting fully upright.
Even in those watery, half-lidded hazel eyes, from behind which the life was quickly draining, something within Christophe seemed to shift. His gaze softened. His shoulders relaxed. A single shaky sigh slipped past his dry, cracked lips. Gregory offered a soft smile as he carried on busying himself with Christophe’s appearance, fixing him up in small ways with careful, tender hands as if he were something fragile, something precious. After a few more minutes of Gregory smoothing his collar, fixing his hair, and the like, Christophe spoke up.
“Stop,” He uttered, weakly grabbing hold of the other boy’s wrist and shaking his head.
With what was likely the very last of his strength and willpower, Christophe tore Gregory’s cutlass from his own abdomen and tossed it aside.
“N’attends pas que je meurs, tapette!²”
Then, without so much as a warning, he yanked Gregory forward by the collar of his shirt and closed the gap between them.
Gregory’s initial stupor was quickly overwhelmed by the torrent of other emotions, most of which completely unfamiliar to him, and some he couldn’t even begin to identify. But for once in his young life, confusion wasn’t exactly a bad thing.
The kiss was messy and inexperienced, but full of fervor– for what, exactly, Gregory hadn’t a clue. Whether it was an emotional, heat-of-the-moment display of gratitude, or simply an item on the Frenchman’s bucket list, or something else entirely, he’d never really know, and didn’t particularly care to. While Gregory himself likely wouldn’t have gone along with it under any other circumstances, he was willing to make an exception. At least that was what he told himself.
Emotions were fickle things. They could be beautiful, yes, but they could also be dangerous. The unfamiliar torrent of sensations that sent shockwaves throughout Gregory’s nervous system the moment his lips met Christophe’s seemed to be some unfortunate mix of both; blissful and miserable, comfortable and confusing, beautiful and dangerous. It was for this reason that Gregory thought it best not to think about them at all. Whatever he felt in that moment wouldn’t matter in the end, anyways– Christophe was dying, and kissing him in his final moments. For the sake of simplicity, Gregory was merely complying out of his own goodwill and human decency. Nothing more, nothing less.
And just like that, it was over, and Christophe was pulling away, and yet the feelings lingered. Something gave Gregory the sense that they wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.
“Merci...d’avoir finalement terminé ma vie de misère,³” The Frenchman breathed, grinning (as best he could) encouragingly. “Now go fuck ‘em up.”
With a final shuddering breath, Christophe stilled, his features softening and his eyes glazing over. For the first time since they’d first encountered each other that evening, he appeared at peace, like a man absolved of sin, a man who’d had the weight of every cruelty, every tragedy, every struggle, misfortune, and injustice he’d endured in his young life be suddenly lifted from his shoulders. One of most faithless individuals Gregory had ever known suddenly appeared holier than anyone he’d ever seen in the pews.
“Your death will not have been in vain,” Gregory pressed a tender kiss into the other boy’s forehead, mumbling the promise into his skin. “You will have died for the resistance, Christophe. I will ensure you are never forgotten as long as I live.”