So here's another installation of the Unexpected Series. So far, I'm planning this fic to only have one part. There's a little angst, but nothing over the top. I'm dealing with a lot, so I'm not making any promises on how often I'll be able to update, but I will finish. I promise. If it ever takes too long, feel free to message me. I really hope y'all enjoy it. :)

Francis wiped the bar, his eyes drifting to the blonde man at the end of the bar chugging beers like his life depended on it. He had never seen the man before, but something told him he should go talk to him. Other customers always volunteered their sob story to him, but this one…this one was tough. He'd just bark at Francis for another beer. It wasn't like he had a problem with not being told, but one thing he loved about his job was that he always got to hear people's stories. He felt like a therapist.

Francis studied the man. He had a small frame, but was tall and slender. His blonde hair reminded Francis of daffodils. His green eyes were like emeralds that shimmered in the light. The man's features screamed that he was in a rough patch. His shoulders were slumped when he came in and he was rather snappy. He kept his eyes down and kept sighing, forlorn. Currently he had his head buried in his arm dirtying up the counter. He was playing with his empty cup, his eyes staring through it at nothing in particular.

The Frenchman sighed and threw the towel over his shoulder and walked over to this mysterious new customer. He didn't have anything better to do. His other customers were buying drinks to talk to girls. A group of friends were playing pool in the corner, another playing darts. Nobody was being particularly interesting. He had a few regulars sitting at the bar talking with each other.

"Can I get you another beer?" Francis asked, leaning on the counter with a charming smile.

The man looked up and blinked as though startled by the sudden interruption. He nearly fell off his bench as he straightened up. His eyes took a few moments to adjust and focus on Francis, who was smirking at him.

"On second thought, I might have to cut you off there," Francis frowned, standing up and folding his arms.

"What? No. You don't tell me when I've had enough! I tell you when I've had enough. Now take my damn money and do your fucking job," the man snapped in an unmistakable English accent.

Francis sighed and took the cup off the counter before filling it up. He got so tired of people barking at him as though he was the root of all their problems. He was a bartender! It wasn't his fault that they had some stupid problem going on his their life. He had plenty of problems himself and he was still managing to stay pleasant, thank you very much. Between parent teacher conferences, getting yelled at by his boss, and the shitty salary he was paid, he had to have a second job to be able to just get by. He wasn't treating people poorly. He was not about to have some English snob yelling at him.

"Here you are, mon ami!" Francis smiled politely as he set the beer on the counter.

"Thank you. Don't speak that shit around me."

"You seem like something is bothering you. Would you like to talk about it? I am a barkeep after all. We're practically therapists," Francis said cheerfully, ignoring the man's comment. "I've got until three in the morning."

"Why would I want to talk to you? I don't even know you," the Englishman glared.

"Which is why it's perfect to talk to me! I'm an unbiased ear to rant to. It's part of my job description." Francis said as he cleaned a glass.

He glanced up to see the man downing the beer. Francis could not figure this guy out. Why was he refusing to talk? Everyone talked to him! He was charming and kind and sensual if that's what his customer needed. This man was so tight lipped. Was it a breakup? He looked for a tan line on the man's ring finger. When he didn't see one he knew it wasn't a divorce at least. One clue. The man didn't looked like the corporate jerks who came in bitching about their boring job and their terrible boss. It was hard to figure out what this man did. He was dressed like an old man.

"I just…I work for a year on that damned novel and what do I get? What? I get told I need to change the whole bloody thing! Those blokes at the publisher know nothing about good literature! More accessible, they say! I'm sorry that I actually have a full command of the English language. If there are some idiots who don't understand my words, then they can buy a bloody dictionary!"

Francis stared at the man, surprised he had opened up so suddenly. He had almost accepted that he would never get any information from this man. He put down the glass he was cleaning, tossing the rag aside and leaning on the counter to show that he was interested in what his customer had to say.

"What do you do?" Francis asked, narrowing his eyes.

The man stared at the bartender as though he were the dumbest person on the face of planet. He opened his mouth to say something before shaking his head and taking another gulp of his beer. He slumped back down into his arms.

"I am a writer and it seems as though people such as yourself have no interest in the art of literature. They want me to change my novel! A year of my life went into that fiction! I loved that book! And those arseholes are just totally illerate I suppose. Ugh, why did I had decide to move here? My beautiful language is so butchered and ignored in this godforsaken country."

"Who turned down your novel and why?" Francis asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to press the conversation.

"Those bastards down at the publisher! God, it's like you've not been listening to me!"

"Well to be fair, sir, I was busy cleaning a cup when you decided to share your story with me with zero warning," Francis smirked raising his eyebrows, standing up with his arms across his chest.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you are right. Forgive me. It just seems so damned cliche to spill my troubles to a bartender who I've only just met in a bar full of vagrants. I'm not a cliche person. I…I…My glass is empty," his voice sounding like a child who dropped his ice cream.

"Let me fill it up for you. You better be careful. I'm supposed to cut you off once you're drunk, but I have the feeling you're not done with telling me your story."

"No, I suppose I am not. What is your name?"

"Francis," the Frenchman said with a small wink. "And you might be…?"

"Arthur."

The men were silent for a moment. Francis admired Arthur with a soft expression. This man was very nice to look at. Arthur was tapping on the glass and put it down with a sigh. He rested his arms on the table looking Francis in the eye as he sat up straight. He looked so much nicer when he was looking confident.

"Tell me, Francis, do you read?"

"Of course."

"I mean really read. I'm talking about classics, Dickens, Hemingway, Poe, Chaucer, Faulkner?" Arthur stared almost desperately at him.

"Well, I…yes," Francis humored the man.

"Nobody does anymore and it just kills me," he said bitterly as the stared at the amber liquid in his cup before whispering, "They called me pretentious."

"You, pretentious!" Francis gasped, a hand flying to his chest.

"Oh, hush! You don't even know me! I'm Arthur Kirkland! I am an author of exactly five novels that are on the bestseller list in the UK. I have done book signings for people who really care for literature! And I come here after my sister persuaded me that I should branch out. I think she's wrong. This country is full of idiots who would rather watch a movie," he hissed bitterly.

"To be fair, I'm sure that there are people here who would enjoy your work. And I'm sure that here are people in the UK who would rather watch a movie."

"Shut it! You're French! What do you know?"

"Enough to know that you are a prideful, arrogant Brit who can not take criticism."

"Don't flatter yourself, frog. That was criticism! It was murder, though you wouldn't know as you were not there. They took my manuscript and marked all over it. They told me it was contrived and pretentious and only the elderly could enjoy how dry my writing is. Do you know what that is like? But you're just a bartender," Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Well is it?" Francis asked turning around to pour a scotch for a regular.

"Beg pardon?"

"Is you writing dry? Is your wording pretentious? Do you try so hard to be great that you make you work contrived?"

"I…I…what?"

"You have to be honest with yourself if you'd like to get any better. You know a great artist doesn't have to try so hard. They just do their art, let their soul come out. Are you doing that? Or are you too busy being dry and pretentious?"

"I'll have you know I studied at Oxford."

"And that's great, but I'm sure you already knew how to write before you went to your university. You learned writing styles and fancy vocabulary, but you don't learn to be an author. It has to be in you. You have pour your guts out on the paper."

"You don't understand!" Arthur slammed a hand on the counter, his eyes flashing dangerously. "They want me to make my book into some sappy teen romance! They want me to make another horrendous vampire novel. I'm sorry, but I have originality! I do put myself in my work, but I want be fanciful, you know?"

"You're trying too hard, Arthur."

"Piss off," Arthur mumbled.

Arthur stood up and stumbled over himself. He steadied himself on the bench and shook his head as though that was going to rid the alcohol from his system. He picked up his keys and wallet from the table.

"How much do I owe?" he slurred, swaying.

Francis laughed and shook his head. He'd been working as a bartender since he was eighteen, but never had he seen someone trying so hard not to be drunk. Arthur did look especially cute as he stood leaning on the counter attempting to be poised.

"Let me call you a cab. You're too drunk to drive and walking in this state, you're likely to get robbed or arrested," Francis told him, motioning for him to sit. "You owe fifty dollars."

"I'm fine. I can hold my liquor better than anyone in this bloody place."

"Sit."

Francis made it clear there was no arguing. He ordered the taxi, happy to hear there was one already outside. Francis grabbed a black sharpie from his apron and grabbed Arthur's arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur snapped, attempting to pull his arm away. Francis gave him a look that shut him up.

"In case you get lost, you have someone to call."

The Frenchman pushed the man's sleeve up and wrote: If lost, call Francis Bonnefoy along with his phone number. Francis winked at Arthur, bidding him adieu. He leaned on the counter as he watched the man walk out. There was something about that English author that he could not put his finger on. He was fiery and pretentious and a bit of an asshole, but Francis had never enjoyed talking to someone more in his life.

Well there you are. I do have the second chapter finished already. I hope you enjoyed it.

Please review.