note ;; Welcome to another KennyxMole story! They're always on my brain. Always. I hope you enjoy. It is a oneshot unless enough people enjoy it. Then I will certainly put my mind to it and make it a full length story! Just for you, coz I think you're awesome. ;D

summary ;; Kenny never forgets, but he'll forgive this one time. / end short summary

warnings ;; Swearing? Potential for nude Christophe, but cruelly not? Violence? Yeah.

disclaimer ;; I do not own the South Park. I wish I did. But I don't.

The shovel cracks against his skull, knocking him to the ground.

He feels the blood dripping from the gash across the back of his head, drizzling down his neck, over his shoulder, down his back. It surprises him. He can admit it to himself, as he dies, that he is surprised the unstable mercenary did this. He swings the shovel like a pro baseball player, and no one can dodge that. Especially from behind. He always thought the Mercenary would prefer a dick move to an actual kill. He never thought he would see it, or be the firsthand recipient.

He doesn't die, not right away, and he can tell Mole's confusion about what to do is simply angering the mercenary. Sulfur wafts down to his level, stinging his nose, followed by the sweet smell of smoke. Angry mumbles fill his ears, sometimes French and sometimes English. The pain in his head overwhelms his body, to him, it seems like it will never come to an end. His ears pick up the sound of the shovel cutting through the air, then there is darkness.

He comes back. He always does. This time, he comes back in the cemetery, waking up over his grave. They haven't put dirt over his coffin yet, and he wonders when they're planning on it. Maybe they keep it open to shove all his deaths into. The thought doesn't make him uncomfortable, rather, it makes him happy. He knows he has something to do before he can go home, and he sets his feet in the right direction.

Christophe Moliere lives on the other side of town, but it takes only minutes to jog there. Fresh from Hell, Kenny feels as confident as he's ever felt. He doesn't knock on the door. The sky is beginning to brighten over the horizon, and he doesn't think anyone will be awake.

Except Mole.

Mole, who, for the last three years, has been Kenny's best friend. A person he trusts more than the friends he's had since kindergarten. To do this to him is unthinkable, and Kenny demands an explanation. There is no logical one that he can think of, and it pisses him off. There they were, painting and writing on people's shit like the insecure douche bags they were, and Mole had to revert to military mode and nearly take his block off. It sent him to Hell for five days, in which time Mole has probably spent doing something nefarious or ridiculously stupid with whatever motive he used to kill his supposed best friend.

Kenny pulls himself up the side of the house, following the familiar pattern up to the roof. Once there, he pushes Mole's window open and slips inside. As he does so, he notices Mole's shovel leaning against the door, likely an attempt to keep his mother out of his business. Mole is asleep in his bed, and despite his killer instincts, doesn't hear Kenny. Years of living in the McCormick house and treading like a mouse have given Kenny an inhuman ability to sneak lightly. He takes the shovel in his hands, moving over the bed. He lowers the shovel to Mole's neck, pressing the metal down.

Mole wakes with a start, a stream of french growling from his throat, before he stops moving entirely and stares at the specter before him.

"Surprise, mutherfucker," Kenny snaps, glaring at the half-naked, muscular teen beneath the shovel's blade.

"Kennee?" he asks. The surprise in his voice is evident as his eyes widen in recognition.

"What the fuck?" Kenny demands. He presses the shovel onto the mercenary's throat as he tries to get up. "What the fuck, dude? I thought you were my friend!"

"Kenny, you do not undarestand," Mole says, his explaining voice straining beneath the shovel. "Eet iz not personal, eet was a job,"

"I expected something like this from Cartman, or Clyde or Craig or even Tweek, but you? For fuck's sake, dude, you're a dick. That was a dick move. You hear me? A. dick. move. What were you thinking? I come back, you stupid asswipe. I always come back. Or didn't you get that memo in first grade?"

Mole tries to move quickly, but the blade of the shovel cuts into his throat. Kenny smirks at him, ire mingling with regret painted across his face. The two face off, neither submitting to the other's gaze. The silence in the room is deafening, closing in all around them, a suffocating presence. Mole's breathing is shallow and short. Kenny's is fast and angry. Neither of them know what is going to happen, and their tense bodies are ready to fight.

Kenny relents first, slamming the shovel onto the floor, cracking the hardwood. He grunts, glaring at his so-called best friend, almost daring him to try and move. They stay silent, and Kenny allows him to move into a sitting position on the twin sized bed. They both know the damage the shovel can do, and it keeps them neutral. For now.

Mole reaches for his bedside table, and Kenny slams the shovel into his way. The mercenary glares darkly. "I am grabbing my ceegaretts," he growls.

Kenny moves the shovel over the table, flipping the pack onto the floor. "Grab them."

Chuckling, the brown-haired teen reaches for the pack, pulling out a single one. From his bed, he produces a match and motions towards Kenny. The blonde reluctantly holds the shovel out, allowing the mercenary to light the match, light his cigarette, and inhale calming smoke.

Kenny set the shovel down again, lighter this time. Fuck, he wanted a smoke right now.

"Eet was a job, you must beleeve me," Mole says, smoke rolling from his lips.

Kenny is silent, watching his companion through doubtful eyes.

"Ze contact, 'e says to meet 'im at ze school one day."

"Last Friday," Kenny says, reminding Mole that he ditched on their smoke break at lunch.

"Oui, last Friday. I... am soree for zat as well." Mole takes a drag on his cigarette while Kenny stares. Apologies are not a thing Mole does, or has ever done. That he is giving one, and suggesting another, is something Kenny finds disturbing. Instead of elaborating, Mole taps ashes on his floor, returning the cigarette to his lips. "Toutes vérités ne sont pas bonnes à dire," he mumbles as smoke curls up from the corner of his lips.

"What did you say?"

"Eet iz notzing," Mole corrects. "Old zhings ma mère used to say." He holds the cigarette out towards Kenny. "Take eet, I do not want eet."

Kenny gladly takes it, though he doesn't move his other hand off the shovel.

"I did not know what 'e wanted. By ze time I did, eet was too late."

"It still took you three days to kill me."

"You are my friend," Mole says slowly, as if unsure of the right words in English. He's been speaking it for years, yet he pauses thoughtfully to gather the right words. "I did not want to hurt you, mon amour."

"A little late for that, don't you think?" Kenny asks.

"I did not want to!" Mole snaps angrily. "You must believe me, Kennee. Please."

"I do," Kenny growls, dropping the shovel. "That's the problem."

Mole seems surprised, watching the shovel drop to the floor. Kenny sits next to him, exhales smoke and hands the cigarette back. Taking it cautiously, the brown-haired teen watches his companion for any signs of... of... anything. Mole can't read Kenny, and never has. He probably never will, but for him, it is good enough.

"Don't fuck with me again," Kenny warns.

Mole smirks. "Of course not, Kennee. I will kill ze fucker who hired me," he answers.

"Good. Because that was a dick move, dude. Such a dick move."