Summary: The new student at South Park High is strangely familiar…
Fandom: South Park
Pairings: Christophe/Kyle, Stan/Wendy, Damien/Pip, Kenny/Various (He's such a slut)
Warnings: Slash, bad language
Disclaimer: I'd sell my soul to own them (Especially Christophe – damn that sexy French accent!). However, since no-one seems to want to buy my soul, I'll settle for slashing them
Author's Note: My French is a little rusty, and I don't have anyone to beta it for me. Feel free to point out any mistakes I've made
Chapter 1 – Qu'est-cette il?
"Class, we have a new student today."
The bored class perked up at the prospect of a little entertainment. Of course, a new student was interesting enough until you got to know him/her/it, but seeing the famously ill-tempered Mrs. Carmichael tear into them was always good for a laugh. Right now, she looked supremely pissed-off that her lesson was being disrupted by a new arrival. In the back row, Stan Marsh smirked at his best friend Kyle, and they both straightened in their seats to get a good view.
The boy that stood by the doorway had a deep tan, and spiky dark hair that stood up untidily in all directions. He was probably about seventeen, although his eyes were those of someone far older. They seemed to change colour as the light hit them, one moment dark, deep brown, the next a glowing honey colour. He was dressed scruffily in battered black jeans, a faded dark green t-shirt and black leather biker gloves…the kind with the strap on the back and the fingers cut out. Scars were clearly visible on his skin, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He wasn't particularly tall, but he wasn't short either, and from what could be seen beneath the overlarge t-shirt, he was slim but well-muscled. Wendy whispered something to Bebe, who giggled.
"Who is he?" Kyle asked Stan quietly; "He looks familiar…"
"This is Christophe DeLorne," Mrs. Carmichael said, "He's from France. Do you speak French?"
"Évidentment, femme imbécile. Je suis français. " He smirked at her blank look, "I speak French, Madame - and English."
For Kyle, hearing that accent again brought back a sudden rush of memories that he thought he had buried: of a war some nine years previously, and a bleeding French boy dying in his arms. Could it be? Certainly he had changed, but once Kyle looked at the boy with that idea in mind, he realised that it was the Mole – the young mercenary who had died in the war, savaged by guard dogs. Of course – it hadn't really registered with Kyle that the Mole would have been brought back too when Kenny's wish had changed the course of history.
He glanced over at the blonde boy, who never wore his hood any more. He had reappeared shortly after the end of the war, saying that angelic choirs weren't really his thing. Kyle had given up worrying about it long before – the guy had more lives than a cat.
"…take any free seat," Mrs. Carmichael was saying. She sounded a little disgruntled – she was certain she had been insulted, but she hadn't understood a word. Christophe's gaze swept the classroom, and he did the tiniest of double-takes as he saw Kyle. Their eyes met for a moment, and Kyle's stomach flipped over. It must be delayed shock, the rational part of his brain advised, the guy died in your arms – it's bound to be a bit weird seeing him again. It didn't come up against any argument, as the rest of his brain seemed to be gently dissolving. Apart from the tiny part of his subconscious that replied slyly; yes, but he wasn't this gorgeous nine years ago, was he? Christophe picked a seat in random and sank on to it. Mrs. Carmichael continued 'teaching'; happily oblivious to the fact that no-one was listening to her.
A note edged its way onto Kyle's desk. He glanced up at Stan, who nodded. He read the note:
You recognise him, right?
Of course I do! How could I not?
What the hell is he doing here?
He recognised you.
You look a bit freaked, dude…
I watched the guy die, Stan. It's a bit freaky for him to just walk in like that!
What about Kenny?
That's different. We're all used to that.
Suppose you're right.
It seemed to take forever for the lunch bell to ring, and Kyle couldn't stop his eyes from drifting to the scruffy French boy every time his mind wandered. When the bell finally did ring, Stan hurried off to meet Wendy, and Kyle walked slowly towards his locker, lost in thought. He pulled his math books out, staring at the covers without really seeing them. What was the Mole doing in South Park again? Why was he there?
Kyle was so preoccupied with his musings that he only just noticed the object of them pass by; "Hello, Mole." The mercenary didn't turn around, but he did stop.
"My name eez Christophe…Kyle."
"I knew it was you. Why are you here?" Christophe turned around and smirked.
"Philosophy 'as never been my strong point, mon ami."
"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it."
"True. But I do not 'ave to answer your questions."
"But I think I have to ask them. And eventually you'll tell me just to shut me up."
Christophe lit a languid cigarette and blew out a thin stream of smoke before answering; "Ah, ze interrogation techniques of all ze world pale beside you. What do you want to know?"
"I thought I'd been pretty clear about that."
"I 'ave no ulterior motive. I live 'ere now, much to my distaste."
"But why here?"
"You would 'ave to ask my muzzer," he grimaced; "I wish you luck wiz zat, 'owever. Ze chances of 'er being 'ome are très petit."
"You really have no reason for being here?"
"Uzzer zan a new 'ouse, non. And now I am leaving – I am sure your friends 'ave been waiting."
"Unlikely," Kyle replied with a trace of bitterness. Stan only had eyes for Wendy, Cartman couldn't care less about anything other than feeding his fat ass, and god only knew what random person Kenny would be tongue-wrestling with this week.
"Well in any case, I am going. Au revoir."
Kyle watched Christophe walk away, trailing smoke. Some time had passed before it occurred to him to go and get his lunch.
Qu'est-cette il? - Who is he?
Évidentment, femme imbécile. Je suis français - Obviously, stupid woman. I am French.
Mon ami – My friend
Très petit – Very small
Non - No
Au revoir – Goodbye
Author's Note: I was watching the movie again tonight, and I had a minor revelation – Christophe is left-handed. Okay, so it's not a big deal, but I can't believe it never registered before. When he takes a drag of his cigarette, he holds it in his left hand, and he holds the shovel left-handed too.
Okay, I'm done. You can stop pretending to care now.