3Christophe let out a sigh and sat down on the sofa, propping up his legs against a glass coffee table. "Mole?" Gregory called from the kitchen "Is that you?"
"What do you theenk?"
The Brit walked into the room and gasped, placing a tea tray on the floor. "Are you all right?" Blinking tiredly, the French boy sighed and motioned towards his body.
"No, stupeed Brit."
"Well, get off the couch, I don't need to clean blood off it this early!" With a grunt, Ze Mole rolled off the couch, hitting the floor quietly and leaving a smear of blood on the white material of the couch in his wake.
"Reemind me to keel you layter." He mumbled softly into the carpet.
With a soft sigh, Gregory rolled Christophe onto his back and winced. Wounds decorated his body, bleeding sluggishly, dirt mixed in with the cuts. After further inspection, he noticed they were bite wounds, like he had been gnawed. "Guard dogs?" he questioned.
"Keel…"
"Wait here, I will be back." Gregory commanded, running to the bathroom. He pulled a step stool from next to the mirror and placed it by the sink, balancing on it precariously as he roots through the medicine cabinet. Taking as many supplies his small arms could carry, the eight year-old slowly makes his way back to the living room. Christophe's breathing has slowed dramatically and his eyes flicker beneath their lids, as if he were dreaming. "Christophe?" Gregory nudges him with his loafer. The French boy groans. "Lovely. Sit up, please, I need to get your bandages on before all that dirt you roll around in kills you."
"Gregory…don't…make…me…murder you. I'm too tired to hide the evidence. I just might end up stuffing your brainz in ze garbage disposal." Gregory scoffs, carefully snipped away the remains of Christophe's clothing. The shirt is nothing but tatters and quite easy to peel away but the black trousers are caked to the wounds with a fine layer of clay and require more skill. The two have worked together long enough that he is more concerned with his friend's bites than seeing him naked. Gregory slips the bandages around and around his thighs, wincing at every hiss of "Stupeed...*gasp*…breet."
"I'm very sorry, Christophe." He apologizes, "I had no idea what you would be going through when I sent you on that mission. It was supposed to be go in, go out."
"Well, maybe you zhould 'ave checked to make zure my accomplizes weren't fuckeeng eediots!" He snarls. Gregory rolls his eyes and dabs gently at a deep cut on his back with an alcohol soaked cotton ball. Christophe lights a cigarette from a pouch in his used-to-be-pants and takes a deep drag, feeling his lungs expand with the smoke, stretching his bandages. He flinches against a sharp jolt of pain shoots up his stomach. "Stupeed, stupeed Americans. I was keeled over a fuckeen TV show about farting. Ze only reazon we are still alive iz zat twitchy child had a bazooka under hiz bed to lend us. Satan showed up and no one batted an eyelash. He kidnapped a gay puppet for Fuck's sake." Christophe hisses. "Iz everyone in zis world out of zeir bloody minds?" Gregory ties the gauze in a knot and begins to work his way down, bandaging his legs.
"Pretty much. I'm honestly surprised it took you this long to notice, Christophe." He pours a healthy slather of disinfectant into a deep gouge. Christophe howls as it bubbles up like a volcano and Gregory struggles to wipe it away, panicking. "Sorry, sorry! Is that better?" The French boy leans over and scoops out a handful of sugar cubes from the forgotten tea tray, cramming them all into his mouth and shoving his cigarette into the spout of the teapot before giving a thumbs up. Gregory watches warily as his hands clench and unclench in the Persian rug, leaving thin trail of blood behind where his nails have been. "Stop staining my furniture." Christophe grits his teeth, powdered sugar falling from the cracks in his sneer.
"Shut up I am not in ze mood for your stupeed jokes..."
"What jokes? That rug costs more than your pay-check can cover, even in a lifetime."
"How long am I goeeng to have to seet here and leesten to you beetch?"
Well, I'm almost done, so just relax, alright; you're going to be fine."
"That's not what I asked, Gregory and you know eet. I know I am going to be fine, but how long until I am?"
"How long until you can move without dying? About twenty-four hours. Until you're completely healed? About six months."
"Fuck!"
"Cheer up! This can't be worse than that time you accidentally joined a flash mob, right?"
His response is muffled, sugar coming out in puffs with his breath but Gregory catches the words "don't," "fucking," "Brit," "Kelly Clarkson" and "dare". He packs up what little supplies remain onto the tray and hands Christophe a cup of Earl Gray. He spits out a mouthful of half-melted sugar cubes , blood, and saliva before giving it back. His nose wrinkles again.
"You are very lucky we have health insurance because I am not paying to have your teeth fixed, Christophe." The French boy grins viciously.
"Eets not my blood. I got a bite out of zose' fuckers before zey got a piece outta me."
Gregory gags and, in what he hopes is suave move, chucks the porcelain cup out the window. He mourns the loss of another perfectly beautiful (and expensive) set as the crash sounds before retorting; "Well, I suppose that's all jolly good then. You've had your rabies shot already, I suppose?"
"Kees my ass, you stupeed Breet."
"Such a joy it is talking to you, truly, Christophe, it is."
Another wolfish smile. "You always zay I am crude and disgusting, yet I am ze one you alwayz turn to for 'elp or when you need a job done right. Why iz zat? Explain it to me."
"Because Christophe, you are a crude, disgusting, rude little chain-smoker but you are my crude disgusting little box of lung-cancer. Not friends, exactly, but allies, and if anyone is going to take you out of this world, it is going to be me; I can assure you of that. Now get some rest. We have another mission tomorrow night."
"No guard dogs?"
"I requested the one with the least."
"Gregory?"
"Yes?"
"Zank you,"
"No problem. But oh! I almost forgot to mention. Christophe?"
"Hmm?
"Don't try and pet the guard dogs next time, okay?"
"How's Wendy doing?"
"…Shut up, 'Tophe."