Warnings: Violence (mild torture), language
When Francis opens his eyes he knows exactly where he is, and he does not even allow himself the chance to be afraid. He's good, he's very good, but this isn't his first time. He knows, immediately. He knows what he is. He's caught.
He just doesn't know by whom.
It could be the Russians, easily, Ivan or that slick freak girl who licks knives, because they've been gaining on him since last Christmas and he hasn't been careful. He wouldn't put it past them, not the rope holding him down to the metal chair bolted to the dingy concrete floor or the cold, cold room with one pale light.
It's awfully standard, he thinks, and he wants to guffaw because god damn is he the only one with any style?
But the door opens then and there's a click click click of someone's heels, and Francis doesn't lift his head yet, doesn't breathe and doesn't speak, and isn't shocked to find that the shoes below him are black and leather and neatly laced.
So his captor isn't an eccentric, that's all he knows. And he doesn't seek to know any more. The light goes out.
He mourns the loss of proper beauty sleep, but while he's grateful to rest at all, he's curious. It could be a ploy, sure, leaving him on his own for this long. But rather than feeling bothered by it Francis just gets bored, and when he hears the locks being fiddled with he's looking up, ready to get this done.
It's Arthur.
That's all he can think. For a very brief moment his body (not his mind, it's too good for that) thinks that it is being rescued. But Arthur's face is blank and his eyes, green and sharp and always, always so full of life—they're dead. And Francis thinks for a second maybe they're both dead. But then he figures Arthur's just fucking with him.
He's got that sardonic smile on, and it's not new. Nor is the black zip-up laptop case tucked beneath the Englishman's arm.
Francis feels like he's swallowed a bucket of ice.
"Surprised to see me, Bonnefoy?"
Francis doesn't answer; his voice is lost.
Arthur removes the case from under his arm and places it at Francis' feet. He straightens and begins to pace the room, casually circling the restrained Frenchman.
"While you're not the worst I've ever tracked, I certainly expected better from you. Barbados was a grave mistake, Francis. But I suppose you weren't really trying to hide from me, were you?"
Francis gulps on cue, but the shivering is very real. This isn't Arthur. This isn't the grumpy Englishman with a penchant for argyle and a tendency to cry when he drinks. This is Agent Kirkland, class A operative, master of stealth and interrogations specialist.
This is a madman.
Arthur stops on a dime.
"So tell me, Francis, how have you been? I've been just splendid myself. Have you ever scoured the earth in search of your lover's killer?" He turns his head sharply to the right and leers at Francis, who tries to keep a blank face and fails.
"It's marvelous, I tell you. Quite the holiday. Do you know that last week I pulled the soupy remnants of a man out of some dreadful French waterway? And do you know that the moment I saw a scrap of blond hair I nearly threw myself in?"
Even if Francis could speak, he would have no response to this uncharacteristic desperation, and his stomach rolls with guilt and grief. He knows. He knows why Arthur is here. And he knows there is no way this day can end in anything other than sorrow.
"Rosbif, why are you doing this?" Francis asks tiredly. So he knows. He knows that Francis knows. But that doesn't explain the theatrics.
Arthur pauses for a moment, his thick eyebrows rising past his hairline before he scoffs.
He scoops the laptop bag up and unzips it quickly, efficiently, before pulling a pair of scissors from inside.
"Arthur, mon dieu, enough already! I'll tell you whatever you want to know!" He's not really afraid, no, he's just angry, angry that Arthur would push it this far when they both know, they both know Arthur would never hurt him that way, that he couldn't-
Arthur snaps the scissors open and drags them, flattened, against the inside of Francis' left arm.
"Do you know how I have suffered?" He whispers as he turns the scissors up, digging the point into Francis' flesh.
"Arthur..." Francis breathes out carefully, watching the thin string of blood fall down his arm and dribble onto his pant leg. "That picture..."
"Francis. I have only one thing to say." Arthur straightens again.
"You, of all people, know what I am capable of."
It's quiet, and Francis is alone once more. He understands why he is alone now. This is not an interrogation, it's a punishment.
He's trying to wrap his head around what Arthur wants from him when the door opens again, and Arthur falls into the room, his suit jacket missing and a bottle of liquor in his hand.
"I'll give you a hint, Frog." He mutters as he falls against Francis' chair, washing his captive's face in the scent of some atrocious American-made whiskey.
"So you've figured out what I found, haven't you?" He slurs. Francis tries to turn away, but Arthur follows him, pressing in close and staring at him with foggy green eyes.
"I should have told you."
Arthur hiccups away, chuckling darkly.
"'N what good would that've done me, mate? Given my nightmares a different tone?" Arthur pauses, tipping the bottle back and taking long, practiced swallows before he slams it to the floor, glass shattering everywhere.
"You 'n I both know what that amounts to, love, but tell me what it means?" Arthur has a piece of the glass in his hand now and he's advancing, and Francis is terrified, his bladder hurts and his ass is sore and it's hopeless, so fucking hopeless, but he responds just the same.
"What does it mean, Arthur?"
Arthur stops, his arms going limp, the shard of glass balanced on loose fingertips as the stunned Englishman glowers at his prisoner.
"It might mean they're dead. It might mean they're not. But what it means, Francis Bonnefoy, is that at some point in time they were, most certainly, alive."
He moves so quickly then that Francis has to wonder if the drunkenness was all a ploy. The glass cuts air and skin, sliding fast against Francis' face. It's just a nick, but it stings like hell and the Frenchman hisses.
"You've been running from someone, lad. You've been hiding. And this-" He pulls the photograph from his shirt pocket, unfolding it quickly and pressing it into Francis' still-bleeding face "is bloody proof that you know something you shouldn't."
He backs off at last, pocketing the photo once more and smoothing down his shirt and hair. Francis glares up at him, his feelings and thoughts knocking around his worn mind and leaving him with nothing more than a sharp awareness of his body's many needs.
"I know you're going to tell me everything, Francis. And you and I are going to find out everything we can about this little photograph."
"What's there to tell, Arthur? Oui, oui, your américain was alive. Maybe he is now. I should have told you this, sure, but I was trying to keep my fucking head!"
Francis heaves in a breath, frustrated and exhausted. Arthur's eyes are wicked as he sizes up his infuriated prisoner.
"I already knew."
Silence.
"AVEZ-VOUS DEVE-"
"And what gives you the right to be angry, hm? You didn't tell me. You didn't know that I knew. You found out that he-" Arthur stopped abruptly and whipped around to hide his face, but Francis could hear the tears in his voice.
"You knew. The love of... but you didn't tell me."
Neither of them speak. Arthur sways a bit, trying unsuccessfully to wipe at his face without Francis seeing.
"A friend told me they had seen Matthew and a man just like him outside a club in Lyon. I stuck my nose in, and the morning after I woke up with a bad headache and that photograph stapled to my chest."
Francis pauses, watching for a reaction, but Arthur is still.
"There was a man outside of my room with a garotte, a gun, and a threat. I fled that morning, and I have been running for over a month."
Arthur sniffs, but he doesn't turn around or speak.
"Arthur, I am sorry. I am. But I do not know what we can do."
Arthur pulls the picture out once more, turning to face Francis as he studies it, his eyes hooded and his mouth a grim line.
"They're better than this. All of it. And to think that I am..." Arthur glances up, his eyes remorseful. "If he were to see what I've become."
"Arthur, you can't-"
"I can't let it end this way, Francis. Even if it means the death of me. I can't look at something like this and just... run away. Perhaps you can, but it's not in me."
Arthur tosses the photo onto Francis' lap before crouching to undo the knots holding him down.
Francis touches his face first, his eyes anywhere but down as Arthur exits the room at last.
When he can't help himself any longer, he looks.
There's two headless bodies in his lap.
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for reading. Please, if you have the time, let me know what you think of the story so far. The next update will be here very soon!