[a/n: based on paperman with a tiny bit of 500 days of summer detail. aaand i'm not british and my first language isn't english and forgive me i don't know the geography of england or london to save my life so…pardon me for the mistakes regarding grammar and details about arthur, like the way he talks, etc etc…..ok to the fic then]
Arthur Kirkland's bleak routine starts with waking up, a cup of strong, black coffee without sugar and a cold shower at six in the morning. At seven, he has to stand on the fourth platform at the station to board his 7.08 train to Downtown. By 7.30 he gets off the train and walks for around ten minutes to his six-floor-tall office, the Birchwood Co., a company that publishes books and also produces various types of parchments and papers, greeting cards, and stationeries. He works as one of the Creative Editors in the Design department, the department that handles the greeting cards and the like. Basically, he just has to be a little bit poetic and humorous—though mostly poetic for his part, since that boisterous and loud Alfred Jones deals with the 'funny' cards—and he can pay his apartment rent and buy two months' worth of black coffee.
It is Thursday, and Arthur is as excited as ever to start his day—which means he's not excited at all—so he arrives too early at the station, at six forty. The fact that it is in the end of autumn does not help, as it makes him cold and his fingertips are starting to freeze and he curses internally at how he forgot to get his thicker sweater from the dry clean. The fourth platform only has a small amount of benches to sit on, and most of them are occupied, the only available one is next to an elderly man looking like he is about to fall asleep—the last thing Arthur wants is to be stuck with a strange elder on his shoulder. He sighs, and decides to organize the papers inside his folder to kill time.
The train comes, and he boards, and as usual, he gets off after three stops. His stop is an intersection of four lines, and unlike the one from where he usually departs, the station is big and the crowd quite hectic. He stops to buy the morning papers at a magazine booth, and opts to walk along the walls instead of getting in the flurry of passengers on the middle of the way.
A strike on his shoulder, fallen papers and a small screech.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"
Arthur looks down and sees his newspaper and folder fall, the papers coming out of it as he releases his hold on them to support a figure tumbling down towards him. Another stack of papers join his to scatter on the ground, and he looks at the person whom he is holding. Said person is a young woman with honey brown hair that is held up messily on her head, wearing unbuttoned purple trench coat, her office suit is the color of navy. Arthur's mind goes blank.
"I am so, very sorry! Should've known better than to run with my heels—but I'm late!" She says as she bents over to collect her papers, Arthur following her to gather his. She does it rapidly, not forgetting to reach out and grab Arthur's newspaper, before standing up and handing it back to him. At their close proximities, Arthur can smell her perfume, which smells like roses and he sees her eyes and tries to not stare at the color.
"Thank you," Arthur says stiffly, and she smiles—charmingly, might he add.
"No, why are you saying thank you, it's my fault—ah, I'm late! See you!"
Arthur stands still as he watches the woman runs and disappears from his view, sighing when she's completely gone. He re-organizes his papers inside his folder and also his newspaper, and tries to shoo off the thought that he might have just missed the chance to know the prettiest lady he's ever seen.
"You look awful. Your eyebrows get thicker—or maybe just much more noticeable when you're scowling, you know that, right?" Alfred grins as he peers over Arthur's stuffy cubicle. The latter glares at the younger man.
"Thank you. That was the nicest thing you've said to me this week," he huffs as he continues scrolling through the designs he made before, a document filled with sweet phrases he has conjured up opened on another window.
"Ah, don't worry about it; we still have tomorrow for more bad words. Hey, this is the new designs for New Year, right?" Alfred says as he takes Arthur's folder, carelessly dropping several papers out of it. "Oops."
"Go bother someone else, you twat," Arthur scowls as he takes the papers and stack it back nicely. Alfred grins, flipping the papers in his hands.
"You're easy to bother, it's fun," he says nonchalantly, "wait, what is this—why do you have this? Arthur, what the hell, you're applying for a job at John Dukes Inc.?"
"What?" Arthur blinks, and takes the paper from Alfred, and reads it. It's an acceptance letter from John Dukes Inc., a bigger publishing company than Birchwood Co., and a notice for an interview for Miss Marianne Bonnefoy. Arthur frowns, thinking hard as to how did it got there and—
"Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell."
"I can't believe it, you're resigning and—John Dukes, Arthur?! Traitor!"
"Shut your bloody mouth up, Al, I'm not resigning and I'm not applying for a job at John Dukes! Look, this is not my name!"
Alfred replaces his glasses and squints at the paper, which Arthur now holds up at arm's length in front of his nose, and breaks into a relieved sigh. "Thank god! I thought—"
Arthur abruptly stands and gets out of his workspace, knocking down a couple of things while he's at it, including a bewildered Alfred. He runs towards the exit and dashes to the stairs, not even bothering to wait for the elevator despite his office are on the fourth floor. He ignores the stares of people and also the shout of one of his friends—he doesn't know who, doesn't look—and runs, out of the lobby of his office, to the street.
John Dukes Inc. is a company with a long history with the Birchwood Co. Both are publishing companies, in fact, the Birchwood Co. owner and founder, an old Englishman named Arthur Kirkland—Arthur's great uncle and namesake, founded Birchwood Co. first as a publisher of mostly poetry books and romantic literature. Somewhere along the line, a young bloke named John Dukes gained trust from the Arthur senior, and from then on they both led the company together; at that time, young Arthur was only five. Later on, Dukes bailed out and started his own publishing company—and to Arthur Sr.'s bitterness, a more successful one. That's how it started, the rivalry between the two companies, which are only located one block apart.
By running with god-knows-from-where energy he got, Arthur makes it to the lobby of John Dukes Inc. in only three minutes. He immediately approaches the receptionist desk, where a cheerful woman greets his presence.
"Hello, welcome to John Dukes Inc. May I help you?"
"Yes, uh, is there perhaps a," he pants, squinting at the paper, which has become wrinkly as he ran, and reads the name written there, "Marianne Bonnefoy here?"
The receptionist frowns—a young woman with reddish hair that pulled into a tight bun and thick makeup that doesn't quite cover her freckles—before her eyes lightens up and her expression changes in a terrifying pace to a sad one. "Oh yes, yes there was. In fact, she was just here this morning."
Arthur glances at his watch. 9 o'clock. "Is she still here?"
"Unfortunately no, she was here at 7.45, as her interview was scheduled at said time, but she did not bring the required documents for her interview," the woman says. "She was very pitiful and she looked like she's having quite a bad day. Her papers were messed up and she broke her high heels," she adds, in a gossipy tone. Arthur groans in exasperation and messes up his hair. He thrusts the paper on his hand towards the receptionist.
"Did she not bring this?" He asks, praying that the paper that stuck with his stack wasn't the reason this Marianne Bonnefoy missed her important job interview. He's about to be disappointed, because the redhead woman's eyes grow wide as she takes it.
"Oh dear, yes! This is the one," she exclaims, "How could this be in your possession, mister…?"
"Arthur Kirkland," he answers, and scowls at the woman's shocked expression. "Look, lady, there was an accident, so can you maybe ring her up and tell her that her documents are now complete?"
The woman hesitates, and Arthur groans. "Good god, she was not a spy or anything from my company! Can you please do it, because I might have just ruined someone's future?!"
"I… I certainly will," she answers at last, and Arthur's too troubled to say thank you as he walks out.
"Long live the queen," Arthur slurs that night as he lays sloshed on the bar in front of Kiku Honda, a Japanese guy with English citizenship, and also his stiff and awkward best friend since high school. Kiku stares at him emotionlessly—ignore the fact that Kiku does almost everything emotionlessly—and pulls away his glass.
"You have drunk too much," he tells Arthur as-a-matter-of-factly and the Brit sniffs, before making a futile attempt to sit straight.
"You, Kiku, do not understand this matter at all," he accuses, pointing his finger at Kiku aggressively that he nearly harms Kiku's eyes if Kiku hasn't got quick reflexes. Kiku slightly sighs and pulls his barstool nearer to Arthur.
"I certainly do not, since you have not even told me what this matter is," he tells Arthur while acting as a shield for Arthur's glass, as Arthur desperately tries to reach it. "You just told me to meet you here and suddenly you drop drunk. Now gather yourself and tell me about this matter."
Arthur runs a hand through his face to his hair. "I just ruined someone's life and future, Kiku."
"Ah, you should not be so dramatic—"
"It's true!" Arthur snaps, and Kiku falls silent. He swallows the lump in his throat as he tells Kiku his day. "Well, there's this—this girl. Wait, I want you to listen before making comments. I met her today, at the station. She was… really beautiful. Elegant. Charming. Mesmerizing—"
"I get it, Arthur."
"Yes, sorry. She was that pretty. Honey-brown hair held up with some wild baby hair around, slender figure—I held her, she sort of fell on me—gorgeous smile, airy voice, and her eyes, Kiku. Her eyes are purple. And they were beautiful."
"Yes, Arthur. I get it. And there is no such thing as purple eyes. She must have worn contacts."
"…Anyways, clichéd as it was, we bumped into each other and mixed our papers up."
"Ah. I see," Kiku says, a slight smile playing on his lips. Arthur narrows his eyes.
"You shouldn't be smiling, you twat, I am serious about ruining her future part," he grumbles, "Apparently, she was applying for a job at John Dukes, and an important document of hers got mixed with my stack. And," he lets out a long sigh, "I went to John Dukes, and she missed her interview. Because of me. Not to mention that she apparently had more misfortune, as the receptionist lady mentioned she broke her shoes."
"Relax, Arthur," Kiku soothes, "it is not entirely your fault. Anyways, how did you get inside John Dukes without anyone glaring at you?"
"Oh the receptionist glared at me okay," Arthur mumbles, gulping down another shot. Kiku gives up on restraining him to drink and finally grants him access to his glass. "It might be her dream job, Kiku, and now maybe she couldn't have it. Well, not on time."
"It is an unfortunate incident," Kiku agrees, "but seeing that you probably would not meet her in a short while, you have to cope with it. I guess maybe you would have to suffer from some unlucky days, as she probably cursed you out and wished for a misfortune of your own."
Arthur doesn't know which is worse, the fact that Kiku's words about how he would most probably not meet Marianne Bonnefoy again is true, or that Kiku is a terribly honest friend.
The next day, Arthur is late, courtesy of a bad hangover and two additional hours of staying awake, looking up Marianne Bonnefoy on the internet—Kiku's bright idea, of course. It was a stupid step, because he fell asleep without any clue where can he find Marianne Bonnefoy and he was too much of a wimp to maybe add her on Facebook to notify her about their incident and say sorry.
Alfred's insults are to be expected.
"Holy shit, you look like a zombie with caterpillars as brows."
"Sod off, Alfred," Arthur snaps. He arrives at work at 9.30, his collar is still upwards and he doesn't notice, his tie is loose and his hair is even messier than usual. There are bags under his eyes, something that, according to a certain American, makes his thick eyebrows stand out even more.
"No need to get snappy, man," Alfred grins. "Oh, hey, your old man wants to see you."
"Uncle Artie?" Arthur frowns. "He's here? I thought he was in Aberdeenshire."
"Well, he's here now, isn't he? He said he's waiting for you in his office," Alfred says, his grin not leaving his face. As he walks Arthur towards the elevator though, he drops his voice to a serious one. "Hey, man, if this company becomes yours, 'think you can give me some promotion?"
Arthur snorts. "I'm not getting this company, Al. Uncle Artie never said anything about leaving this to anyone. And for the record, I don't see him leaving in the near future."
"Of course this would be yours, Artie. You're named after him! Just remember that, 'kay? We're mates, right?" Alfred says, cheerfully slapping Arthur's back. Arthur winces.
"No," he deadpans, rubbing his shoulder blade and scowls at Alfred's retreating back. Arthur turns back as the elevator dings, and opens.
He blinks and rubs his tired eyes—surely that is not Miss Marianne Bonnefoy inside the elevator, looking back at him with surprised eyes, her hair still held up with wild baby hair framing her beautiful face, with the same purple trench coat that is unbuttoned but now with white blouse and beige skirt inside, a folder in one hand. The door closes, and she makes a quick movement to press on the button to keep it open, as Arthur stands frozen in place.
"Well, are you just going to stand there?"
Arthur blinks again and dumbly shakes his head, before stepping inside the elevator. A surge of emotion runs through him and he's at a loss of words—apologies, admiration, desire to know—
"You were the one that I bumped into yesterday, weren't you?" She asks, smiling brightly at Arthur.
"Y-yes."
"I'm Marianne Bonnefoy."
I know. "My name is Arthur Kirkland," Arthur answers; his throat feels dry. Marianne's eyes widen and she gasps.
"Wait—but, my interviewer told me yesterday to meet Monsieur Arthur Kirkland, the owner of this company—so you—?"
"Ah, no. That would be my great uncle. In fact, I am just about to go see him," Arthur says as he clears his throat. "About yesterday… I apologize."
Marianne tilts her head. The elevator dings; they step out to the sixth floor. "What for?"
"The paper for your interview at John Dukes…" he trails off, scratching the back of his head out of habit. His cheeks are starting to feel hot and his neck feels stuffy. Marianne blinks, and laughs airily, waving her hand at him.
"Oh, that! Yes, the company called me, thank you very much for that! But the redhead lady was sort of a, uh, to put it mildly, she was a bitch—pardon me—so I told her non. Moreover, she called after I did my interview here…" she smiles, and Arthur feels as though his hangover hits him again—his head spins, "so I think I work here now. My interviewer said Monsieur Kirkland really liked my novel review I sent prior."
"So you're working here now?" Arthur says, hardly believing his luck. Marianne nods eagerly.
"Yes. I will start assisting one of your editors next Monday. I believe his name is Monsieur Gilbert Beilschmidt? My interviewer, Monsieur Antonio Fernandez said that he is very punctual and detailed, even though he can be a bit 'silly' at times, he said," she smiles. Arthur's jaw falls open in surprise and he abruptly closes it, biting his tongue unintentionally in process. He hisses and clears his throat once more, even though a bunch of offensive words run through his mind. "By the way, Arthur Kirkland, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"Ah. Congratulations. A-and, just call me Arthur, please. The pleasure is all mine."
Marianne laughs again, light and airy. "I think we should be friends. The story of our first meeting was quite funny after all. Thank god—thank you I missed that interview at John Dukes. Are all the people here nice? There's you, there's also Monsieur Antonio, my interviewer; he's a really warm person. And by the looks of it, he describes Monsieur Beilschmidt as quite a pleasant person too…"
Arthur groans internally, and wonders if he should consider his luck as good or a rotten one.
[a/n: SORRY.]
[a/n 2: btw yes i couldn't resist throwing in some btt in there. ahhh my favorite trio.]
[a/n 3: this is a repost from my tumblr! this ff account is new, hehe. hope you enjoy x]