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Observation	By : Athena2693 Category: +S through Z > South Park > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4415 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Observation: Chapter 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Minor pairing Gregory/Pip
Summary: Christophe snoops

"Kyle, mom says dinner is ready," Ike pounded on his brother's door, not really expecting a response, and not receiving one. Music pounded from inside, disguising any noises that came from inside. He trotted back down the stairs to tell his mother his brother wasn't coming downstairs.
"I'm not hungry," Kyle said to himself softly, turning to lie on his stomach, thinking maybe lying on it would suppress the groans coming from it. He'd head downstairs at night, take some leftovers out of the fridge, and throw them in the trash before his mother could see them. It'd been four days since he'd eaten, but he liked the control he had. He liked being able to count the days, building them up on the calendar. A weird sort of parallel to his life. Every day between the last morsel that passed his lips was a sort of pride. But every day that lay between him and his plan seemed an eternity. Irony sucked.
He stared at his arms. At the stark, sickly whiteness that stained them, and the pink, precise lines that categorized them. One of them was still stained with the remnants of a cut that had been dragged along by something, causing a residue about an inch long. It had been a deep cut. He had made it after coming in his own hands, and mixed the fresh blood with his seed, wondering what color it would form. A very pale pink had been the answer. The little concoction had dried, crusty and disgusting, on his abdomen. He could feel it still there, disintegrating into flakes, pressing against too-hot skin. When sleep finally took him, tears scalded the fresh wounds.

"You shouldn't smoke so early, it makes you smell like smoke."
"And if I smoke later, I'll still smell like smoke? What's the difference," Christophe turned to allowed Gregory to enter. "Have the money?"
"It's not polite to discuss money first thing in the morning."
"You don't have it," Christophe deadpanned. Gregory looked at him, a little smile touching his lips. He must've just got out of bed, as his hair was standing up all over (even more than usual) and he was only wearing a pair of silk black boxers, though the pillow indent against his cheek was a nice hint. He had darker skin then he would suspect, for a boy that insisted on wearing long black sleeves every day. He was as hairless as, well, a baby mole. There was a small mark to the left of his naval; what appeared to be a word in French.
"You done staring?"
"You got a tattoo."
"I did. Do you have the money?"
"The money, the money, yes, Christophe, I have the money." Gregory pulled his wallet from his pant's pocket and passed Christophe two crisp, new, hundred-dollar bills. Christophe set them on the bookshelf and brushed past him to the kitchen.
"Staying for breakfast?"
"What are you having?"
"English muffins with raspberry jam."
"Well…"
"With raspberry tea," Christophe taunted.
"Do you always have flavored tea?"
"I stock up on blackberry, raspberry, and mint frequently. I don't like this water, and I distrust any liquid made in an American factory."
"Isn't the tea made in a factory though?"
"Constructed, yes, but it is not a liquid then, is it?"
"I suppose not."
"Did you bring the pictures I asked for?"
"Oh, um, yes," Gregory dug around in his coat pocket and tossed some pictures on the counter before taking a seat at the bar. Christophe got out the jam and set the water to boil before he picked up the photographs. A boy with unnaturally pretty red hair, red like that of a wine, not like a ketchup. And like many redheads, his skin was pale with just the slightest pink tint. He had a baby face for a young teenage boy, with flawless skin and full, pouty lips. His eyes were innocent and green as emerald. Odd, he hadn't seemed tow aow any older, even his face was still baby-soft in appearance.
"He's very young looking."
"He is," Gregory agreed as he helped himself to the toaster, "He's pretty to. Kind of hard to imagine a little mite like him hurting somebody, isn't it?"
"Very. Maybe you are wrong; maybe he doesn't plan on doing anything. He was the smart one, wasn't he? He could just be doing some science experiment."
"Yeah, and he really wants to make a big boom in the science world. I doubt that, Christophe."
"So do I. Don't you have school today?"
"I'll head home when I want, mum doesn't like to get up before ten anyway."
"You know that minimum dropout age law?"
"Yes."
"It's shit. The state doesn't do anything about it."
"Are you a dropout?"
"I haven't been to school since I was thirteen."
"I can see it made you life lovely and complete."
"Oh, shut up and eat your breakfast."
"Aren't you eating," Gregory asked, watching Christophe take a slow drag from his cigarette.
"I told you, I eat at nine-thirty."
"OCD?"
"No, just set."
"Is there a difference?"
"Of course. Shouldn't you be following your boy toy around, making sure he doesn't get hurt?"
"What could I do if Kyle did bring weapons to school? I'm not talented with such matters, like you."
"I'm not only referring to Kyle. If I'm thinking of the right boy, he gets beat up on q a b a bit. Unnaturally pretty? Petite, small boned, big eyes? Really dorky way of speaking, a little too polite? Wears a stupid little hat?"
"That's him."
"I'm surprised you'd even want him. Nobody else does."
"Well, we Brits have to stand up for each other, I always say. You should understand how it feels, to be an outsider in such a sickenly patriotic nation."
"Yes, well, according to these people I'm just a 'British bastard' who should go back to his own country, hate to see what they'd do if they could actually tell the difference between a British and a French accent."
"Terribly ignorant people, I must agree. Not all of course, but you don't have to look far on the sidewalk to find one."
"Oh, the tea's ready," Christophe grabbed the pot off the stove and poured a cup for Gregory, then one for himself.
"When do you want the rest of the money?"
"After my mission is complete, unless it takes too long, then before my next rent payment is due. I'll head over to Kyle's house today and start setting up surveillance."
"You're not going to go to the school?"
"I'll do that tonight."
"But what if he goes through with the plan today," Gregory's eyebrows furrowed in worry over his beloved.
"He won't."
"But how can you tell?"
"Look at it out," Christophe tilted his head towards the kitchen's window. The golden light of the morning sun washed over the counters and sink, already beginning to warm the little apartment. The rains from the day before were forming a humid mixture of air, a complete change from the previous day. It was autumn; the trees were brilliant colors and the sun was paler, but it was still warm.
"So?"
"He'd have to wear a coat to hide his weapons in, and he wouldn't want to wear a long coat in weather like this. You have to live like your enemy to know how they work."
"Yes, I suppose you do. I must be going now. Did you wish to keep those pictures of Kyle?"
"Well, I would appreciate it, but if you want them back…"
"No, no, of course not. You may hold onto them, I have no need for them."
"Alright. Give your little girlfriend a kiss for me."
"I'm afraid Pip doesn't like smoke, it gets in his hair," Gregory replied teasingly, "I'll call you tonight."
"No, I'll call you. I'm not sure what time I'll get in."
"Alright. So long, and keep my beloved safe."
"Of course, that's what I'm paid for."

He didn't have to go shopping for any supplies. Though he had made Gregory pay him for them, he bought them in bulk over the Internet, knowing a mercenary could never have too many contact-sized cameras and miniature microphones. Kyle's house wasiculiculously easy to break into. Nobody was home; the parents had actually left a note on the door (though it was addressed to the fuel delivery man) that said they would be back that afternoon. That gave him as much time as he needed to bug Kyle's home. A click wiggle of a copper wire, and he was inside.
Christophe set to work, not really concentrating on the main rooms that much since he doubted that Kyle would do anything incriminating in them, but placing a camera in each just to make sure. However, he pretty much plastered the bathroom with cameras. Teenage boys, when they needed privacy, could always run away to the bathroom, and parents would never bother them in there. It would be a perfect place to, oh, build bombs and such. He even hid one behind the showerhead.
He brought out a little digital camera and set to work in the boy's bedroom. It had been closed with a sign threatening death on entry, but not locked.
It was like any teenage boy's room, maybe a bit more depressive. Instead of band posters on the walls, he had paintings that were signed by himself, mostly utilizing dark swashes of color. Christophe centered the lens on these paintings, snapped three times each. There might be some sort of message hidden in the colors. He even took the paintings off the wall and checked behind the canvas, but found nothing.
Before touching any of the CDs, he took a few snapshots of the arrangement, so he'd be able to check the viewer later and make sure they weren't disturbed. Mostly sad arrangements, but nothing terribly violent; Nine Inch Nails, Silverchair, Placebo, Donnie Darko soundtrack, Smashing Pumpkins, Our Lady Peace. He checked the cases, but again found nothing.
Clothes were strewn carelessly across the floor, and no sheets were spread out over the bed. Christophe climbed atop it carefully, moving the blankets aside. They smelled of sex, boy sex. There were some remnants of cum bleaching the bare mattress and what appeared to be blood.
"Why would there be blood on his bed," he wondered aloud dimly. He pulled back the covers, exposing more of the silky blue mattress. "Blood and more blood."
But it wasn't the blood of someone who had been murdered. It wasn't a deep, lush splatter; it was just a trace, like a finger had trailed along the bed, painting it as if it were also a canvas. Christophe took a few snapshots of the odd pattern after completely stripping the bed.
The closet was just full of old clothes that the boy didn't wear anymore. He searched through the pockets but found little besides lint and loose change. Taking a flashlight from his holster, he carefully tested the walls, floor, and ceiling for hallowed boards, but again found nothing.
It seemed the boy was just depressed. But still, he checked everywhere in the room. Every drawer, every space, everything that could possible be allowed out. Nothing. He had bought a gun, that had been proven, and it wasn't here.
Christophe took a seat upon the bed and lit another cigarette, placing the butt of the other in a little tin pouch on his belt.
"Come on Christophe, you've killed and blackmailed and deactivated bombs, I think you should be able to find the cubby of a seventeen year old boy."
Of course, this was a veryght,ght, probably psychotic, seventeen year old boy. Christophe rested his head in his hands and tried to concentrate on his own advice. To defeat the enemy, you have to know them. All right, he was Jewish, but he didn't hide anything in the books, he'd already checked. He was artistic, but he'd already checked all the CDs and paintings. He was incredibly smart, but the book theory was already out. He was good with computers and electronics…
Yes, he remembered that. They had mentioned that Kyle had managed to break the access code during the war. That means he had to know computer, had to understand them. Christophe walked over to the computer and switched it on, taking a seat in Kyle's chair. And…the television turned on.
What the fuck?
He wasn't really quite sure what happened, but there it was, the television was glowing with the Windows logo and the monitor was black, lifeless. Looking down at the wires, he realized it wasn't even plugged in.
Christophe took out his knife and flipped open the screwdriver, before realizing the screws weren't even in place. With a quick, fluid motion, he pried the screen right off the front. The monitor was completely hollow.
Inside was a cornucopia of plastic tubing, different chemicals, matches, nails, and batteries. Three guns rested on top, along with three jack knives, and a pair of scissors. One of the blades of the scissors was stained with dry blood.
"Sohavehave ourselves a cutter," Christophe mused taking out the scissors. He knew some cutters liked scissors as they cut deeper then knives, and wider than razor blades. They got the blood they needed to see, but they also got a nice scar they could be proud of. Kyle must've got some kind of pride from his scars. Christophe set them exactly where he had found them and closed the little treasure chest back up. He knew where to have the cameras facing. The answer was easy enough. Kyle was a smart boy, he could compromise with anything, so they had to be everywhere.
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Observation