Arthur Kirkland was a policeman- a bobby, as he'd be called in his native London. Except Arthur Kirkland was not in the lovely city of London, and was still coming to terms with that fact. No, he was stuck in the bloody United States of America, and, by default, had to deal with more insolent people than the average, polite, British Londoner. Instead of 'insolent,' Arthur could have (and would have) substituted a range of terms from 'idiotic' to 'morbidly obese' to 'ridiculously patriotic' to 'unmitigatedly (yes, he knew that was not technically a word, thank you very much) drunk;' but insulting the civilians often resulted in a scowl from his Swedish chief of police that had no right to be as frightening as it was. Arthur could have come up with his own adjectives for the terror that that infamous scowl inspired, but he had better things to do with his time.

Mainly, dealing with a perpetually drunk Frenchman (at least, he was perpetually drunk whenever Arthur encountered him) who seemed to have memorized Arthur's route, and had taken to stationing himself in areas that Arthur passed by, and then 'sharing' his 'gorgeous body with the world'- but only while Arthur drove by. Arthur preferred to call that compulsive stripping, or, if he was feeling particularly irked, public indecency worth a fine and possibly a night in a cell for the repeat offender. Of course, a night in a cell required Arthur to spend much more time in an enclosed space –his squad car- with the frog than he deemed he could tolerate without going berserk and murdering anyone who irked him even the slightest bit (an example of which would be those salespeople at the mall who accosted him when really, he'd just wanted to buy a new tin of tea leaves from the quaint tea store that had opened up recently, and no, he did not need a cordless eyebrow trimmer- the nerve of those wankers!), so he just took his petty satisfaction in setting the frog back the cost of more than a few bottles of wine each time he pulled a stunt like that. And if you were at all in any way having any thoughts- however vague or unrealized or subconscious- that Arthur had taken the chance to admire that finely toned body when he got the chance, then you were a complete nutter and a bloody pervert to boot.

Unfortunately, Arthur knew he'd have to do something about the moron before word started getting around. It wouldn't do to have a certain albino in the forensics department teasing him about the growing following of males who found Arthur attractive for some reason unknown to the Englishman. First an all-American college boy ("Hey, Iggles… I kinda sorta really like you."), then an obsessive Japanese boy with a camera that he carried around way too much ("May I take some pictures of you? For a photography course, that is."), then, of all people, the unnervingly quiet younger brother of Wang Yao, Arthur's one-time squad buddy and one of his few friends on the force (he'd barely gotten anything other than silence and the occasional (who was Arthur kidding (himself, of course), it was more than occasional) visual once-over from that lad). Now there was this French prick –and no, that word did not conjure up images of the rather well-endowed man (you sodding tossers, get your bloody minds out of that filthy gutter!) who had managed to cultivate one of the oddest relationships Arthur had ever been in (and that was saying something). Their conversations had consisted of threats, fines, and pick up lines, but Arthur was 98% sure that the frog was a genuinely good person. The other 2% was reserved for the possibility that the man was, in fact, a psychotic murderer and had chosen Arthur for his unfortunate victim.

So, Arthur was currently driving about 10 miles slower than the speed limit suggested (even though he usually took the liberties awarded by his badge and went 10 miles over), and running through his options for the conversation (that he was most definitely not looking forward to) in his mind. He had several personas he could opt for; good cop, bad cop, or (his personal favourite) supremely annoyed Englishman (or he could just drive by like usual and ignore the frog, but Arthur was more of a man of action than inaction, and he had the nagging feeling that if he started ignoring his semi-stalker, he would end up being found in more public places, and at more usual times of the day. and if there was anything that Arthur hated more than pushy salespeople, it was being embarrassed in public).

But when Arthur finally stopped his car, it wasn't him who initiated contact. Rather, it was the frog (clad in nothing but a skintight pair of jeans that looked like they were dangerously close to restricting the blood flow to his legs enough that he'd have to get them amputated) who lurched over to him as Arthur was exiting his squad car.

"Bonjour, mon ami!" The frog practically sung, making a vain effort to stay upright by leaning on Arthur's newly polished car.

"Cease and desist, frog." Arthur scowled, hand resting on his belt. "I'm glad you seem to have grasped the concept of clothing, judging by the fact that you're wearing something that covers your bottom half, but if I catch you out here naked one more time, your French behind is landing in a cold cell for the night."

The frog pouted. "Aren't you even going to ask me my name?"

"The more personal contact occurs with a stalker, the less likely they are to stop their behaviours." Arthur deadpanned, his scowl morphing into his usual, less severe, frown.

"Stalker? Moi?" The frog seemed horrified. "I, mon cher policeman, am Francis Bonnefoy, not a stalker."

"Good to know. Now, am I going to have to take you down to the station or not? Because I have rounds to get done." Half of Arthur (the pansy, girly half) had been wishing for something like the line that came next, and the other half of him (the British gentlemanly half) was completely horrified.

"I'd rather have you be the one who gets done." Francis moved closer, grinning like… well, like an obviously drunk Frenchman.

"I'm quite sure it's illegal to proposition a police officer like that." Arthur's stomach was either doing cartwheels or twisting itself into knots- considering its general shape and location, either acrobatic was probably bad for the rest of Arthur's internal organs. His heart, for example, which was beating much faster than it usually did (Arthur attributed that to the adrenaline that came from being ready to whip out his handcuffs at any moment (and if any of you gits took that in a sexual manner (which you probably did; too many damn perverts on the internet), then you should be the ones cooling your heels in a cell for the night)), and the blood flow to his face seemed to have increased a little more than marginally. Arthur counted his blessings that it hadn't gone the other direction, as he never would have lived that down.

"But it's really very enjoyable to see you blushing like that," Francis leaned closer, and Arthur took a step back, as he was not confident in the frog's lack of sexually transmitted infections to be comfortable with close physical contact.

"My Taser is fully charged and I'm not afraid to use it," Arthur snapped, Francis' comment only making his face get redder. He was sure that he could pass for a stop sign at that point, and hoped that he didn't cross the colour line into Red Delicious territory, which might incite a reaction from the frog that would be grossly overstepping both Arthur's personal boundaries and those of the law.

"Right back at you," Francis winked and smirked, showing teeth that were way too straight and white to help Arthur's self control (because if the rest of him was as perfect as his teeth, then Arthur was making a huge mistake in turning him down- which, you know, Arthur was intending on in the first place because it wasn't like he was actually attracted to the sodding wanker in any way, shape, or form, no matter what his lower parts (or you denizens of the web) were thinking.)

"Which car is yours?" Arthur motioned with his head to the row of parked vehicles on the side of the street.

Francis, grinning even wider now (obviously anticipating that he was going to get the chance to tap some hot British 'arse'), pointed to a car parked directly under a streetlight. "The black Porsche."

"Lovely. I'm about to have it towed. Say your last good-byes." Arthur turned around to get back in his squad car with no small amount of satisfaction as he heard the outraged gasp from Francis.

"… I suppose I deserved that," Francis replied, sounding about as petulant as he could get without reverting to an age below 10.

"You most certainly did," Arthur slid into his car and buckled his seat belt, waiting for the Frenchie to get off of his car.

"How about this proposition instead," Francis stuck his blonde head through Arthur's window, his smile now a tad more sober. "I'll meet you when your shift ends at the bar of your choice, pay for your drinks, and we'll see how it goes from there." Francis offered a slip of paper with nine digits on it to Arthur, and Arthur put it in the breast pocket of his uniform.

"I suppose I could do worse," Arthur said airily (even though Francis was French, and there was no 'worse' than French (at least from the general perspective of his family)). "My sainted mother would have conniptions, but I suppose if our countries can cooperate on nuclear matters, I can let you take me out for drinks. At least you aren't a woman."

"Why? Are you completely homosexual? Because I bat for both teams myself," Francis stepped away from the car and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops on his jeans, succeeding in pulling them further down on his rear and letting the beginnings of a pair of sharply defined hipbones show.

"Because then, my aforementioned mum would have to deal with the possibility of French blood diluting our gene pool," Arthur quipped, and immediately gunned his engine- but was still assaulted by Francis' parting remark:

"Even if I were a woman, mon cher, I would still top!"

Regardless of how many different outfits Arthur tried on over the years, Francis always liked his police uniform the best. Arthur had always assumed it was because the frog was a sentimental fool, and liked to reminisce about how they'd first met (and he was half right), but Francis' reason was that his first fantasy about Arthur had involved Francis bending the Englishman over the hood of his prized squad car and staining that uniform so badly that a new one was more necessary than previously imagined.

But, shh, don't tell Arthur. He might want to try it out.

Authoress' Random Ramble

Completely inspired by the two lines about the Taser, which were shamelessly ripped off from one of my little sister's Disney Channel shows.

Also a present for crackberries, because her new fic (House of Flies) is quite possibly one of the most epic things I have ever read. Seriously. If my retinas could choose one thing to have sex with, it would be that story. Or a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch (brunette, not blonde, thank you very much).

Less than three, less than three.