Arthur Kirkland was not a lucky man. Being cursed with particularly evil demons disguised as humans for siblings and a demeanor that most would describe as unpleasant if they were putting it nicely, along with one thing after another falling apart, blowing up in his face, or falling apart then blowing up in his face, you would be right in assuming that at twenty eight his outlook on life was not all puppies and rainbows.

It wasn't all bad. He had a job he enjoyed. Well, mostly enjoyed. Had a cat who was a good listener when he came home complaining about the idiots at work. Or wasn't listening and staring at him to feed her, he could never really be sure. Walks in the park could be lovely, but with a bad case of as 'englishness' as Francis ever so childishly called it, he apparently needed a desperate attitude adjustment.

Which is exactly why he decided to move to sunny California for a change of pace. Well, he says 'decided' when really it was all Francis', despite his general assholishness, constant pestering for multiple years to move, with an odd mix of concern and complete exasperation with Arthur's constant pessimism, saying he thought it would be good for him to have some new surroundings that weren't the always overcast and gloomy scenery of jolly old England. After years, a long, tiring, extremely annoying years, a position in the San Francisco branch of his publishing firm opened up with higher pay and considering his boss there in London recommended him for the job, Arthur had no real reason to refuse Francis' request to move anymore. A person who values routine, the change felt odd and scary, but he felt good about it, maybe even a little optimistic, and he did admit to himself he enjoyed his time in Los Angeles a few years back visiting some friends, so maybe living in a California coastal city wouldn't be too bad. Plus he hears it's quite foggy there, so he wouldn't have constant sunburn just from standing outside for too long.

With that in mind, Arthur finally relented a month before his birthday and packed his bags, sold at least half his things, used up just about all his life savings to buy a decent sized house half way across the globe, and left the only country he'd ever called home behind for the notorious nation he'd only ever heard about.

Airports have always been one of his least favorite places. The goodbyes, the multiple crying people, voices begging loved ones not to go, the sea of people in a rush barreling into you no matter what you do to avoid them, the stress of not knowing whether you will ever see your luggage again, it's just one huge pain in the ass. So when he got the San Francisco International Airport, after dealing with customs, he made a beeline for the baggage claim as to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. He stood watching the conveyor belt going round and round, tapping his foot impatiently. It had been twenty minutes. If he didn't hurry Francis would come looking for him and that was the one thing he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Nothing good comes from Francis looking for you. Ever.

Looking around while he waited, he noticed there was a café about half a dozen meters or so away. He glanced back at the baggage claim, conflicted. He didn't want to go get a cuppa, miss his bag in the cycle, and have to wait another half hour for it to come back. He deliberated for a while. And then he did a quick one eighty towards the café, baggage claim and Francis be damned.

He desperately needed a decent cuppa after the day he just had.

First, he had to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to get to the airport, only to be hassled by security, almost tripping over a little girl lying in middle of the ground for some odd reason, then bumping into the girl's mother, the shock making him let go of the suitcase and ultimately dropping it on her foot. After listening to her enraged babble for about ten minutes, he ran with the rising sun to the terminal, bumping into at least twenty people on the way there, having his foot stepped on enough times his new loafers were most likely permanently scuffed, eventually getting to the airline desk sweating, panting, and seriously contemplating homicide, having a momentary heart attack when he couldn't find his ticket, having made it just in time to have barely caught his plane.

He then spent the next ten hours having the tiny spawn of Satan kicking the back of his chair for the entire flight, the man next to him's incessant snoring or singing surprising well done yet still annoying renditions of the opening to Drake & Josh, a baby somewhere on board who would not stop crying, and the flight attendant introducing herself as Michèle constantly coming by his seat asking him if he wanted peanuts. Or water to wash down his peanuts. Or maybe some orange juice because it was morning to have with his peanuts.

As lunch rolled around, and they were selling the horrible airplane food, he opened the container of the sandwich he bought, alarmed to find it also containing a packet of peanuts. He looked to the back of the plane, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Michèle peeking from behind the curtain with a terrifying glint in her eye and grin on her face. He whipped his head back around and threw the packet at the devil child behind him. That at least stopped the kicking for an hour or two. He was starting to feel a little targeted.

When Michèle came back round she just stared him straight in the eyes, shaking her head slowly before moving on to the next row. Arthur felt himself breaking into a cold sweat. He should have called his mother and told her he loved her before he got on this flying madhouse because there was a good chance he'd never make it to San Francisco.

When Michèle came back with the alcohol towards the end of the flight he ordered a scotch. But after she gave him his drink she didn't leave. A few awkward seconds of silence passes, and she still said nothing. She reached into the food cart and some irrational part of his mind thought she would pull out a knife and stab him right then and there. What she pulled out wasn't a knife. Michèle pulled out a packet of peanuts, simply dangling it in front of his face without a word. He said no for the tenth time. She still didn't move. He tried to push her hand away from his face. Her hand wouldn't budge even a centimeter. He looked up at her. Her eyes and grin from earlier were still in place, flat and dead. He felt the sudden need to run to the bathroom and pray for his life or scream bloody murder. Possibly both.

Arthur in end made it off the plane without Michèle brutally murdering him and stuffing bags of peanuts down his throat, having told her he was allergic to them. That was a lie and she seemed to know it. She had smiled, nodded, and not ten minutes later as the plane was landing in its destination, she speed walked up the aisle right up to him and dropped a bag of almonds in his lap before speed walking back. He looked down at the packet dumbfounded, and the plane landed to a chorus of baby wails, feet hitting plastic, and opera renditions of Drake & Josh.

He ended up missing his luggage and waiting another half fucking hour for it to come back around. Then walked out to the airport to find late afternoon California sun blazing in his eyes and Francis, grandly dressed as ever, leaning up against some ridiculously fancy car that probably cost as much as Arthur's newly purchased abode if the sleek exterior and what he guessed was real leather interior had anything to say about it.

Francis groaned when he caught sight of Arthur walking at a snail's pace, dragging his luggage with one hand and shielding his eyes from the most sun he had ever seen with the other. Well alright, that was a bit of an exaggeration, even if he had spent most of his life in a particularly wet part of the United Kingdom.

He reached the car after a couple minutes or so, a journey that probably would have taken him one if he hadn't enjoyed Francis' expression as he almost hobbled along like an old man in desperate need of either a cane or a wheelchair so much. When he did reach, however, there was no greetings from Francis after so many years of non-physical contact, the usually touchy Frenchman quiet and hurried. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Am I keeping you, because this" He makes a gesture to the concret of the terminal, "was all your idea."

Francis heaves a sigh, before groaning and running his hand through his hair. "No- well yes but- just get in the car, rosbif. "

Before he could even be offended, his luggage was practically ripped from his grasp and tossed in the in car's trunk that in no way was good for a car that looked like it could bleed money from the exhaust pipe.

Francis continued his apparent mission of commandeering his things and manhandling them into the car trunk, a bloody miracle it all fit inside, Arthur thinks. It was as Francis had slammed the trunk door and moved to the driver side of the car that Arthur really looked around and it settled in what he was doing.

This wasn't just a visit. He was going to be living here, for many years, potentially the rest of his life. He was going to have to learn to drive on the right side of the road, wait to get his green card so he can start working at the San Francisco branch in two weeks time. He looked up at the sun just setting on the horizon, turning the sky shades of pink and orange, feeling very apprehensive, and maybe even a tad bit frightened, but it was far too late to turn tail and catch the next plane back to London. His flat was sold and his job back home already filled up by someone capable.

He was broken out of his reverie by Francis sticking his head out the driver's side window. "Eyebrows, get in the car pour l'amour de dieu!"

Arthur snapped his head in his direction. "Alright, frog face I'm coming, don't get your knackers in a twists!"

There was a huff and a low mutter, "Nobody but you would use the word 'knackers' I swear."

'Not home.' He reminded himself in the plush leather interior of the car after he had spent a solid minute stood in the curb yelling very inappropriate for an airport type things in Francis' face before getting in. 'This is home from now on.'

"You know, when I said move here, San Francisco wasn't what I had in mind."

'This old argument. You'd think he'd get tired of bringing that up.' Arthur rolled his eyes, not turning from the window.

"Well, I didn't have a job offer in L.A, my sincerest apologies." He could hear the sarcasm practically dripping off his own voice. Now it was Francis' turn to roll his eyes.

"Must you so hostile already? This is the first time we've seen one another face to face in years!" Arthur sighed.

"You know what, you're right, I apologize." His felt a bit ill saying that and seeing Francis' stupid face turn smug right after. Then he yawned unexpectedly, remembering he hadn't gotten much rest on the flying hell earlier. Francis cocked an eyebrow at him in question. "Hard flight?" Arthur shook his head.

"You don't even want to know." Francis rolled his eyes again, no doubt having his fair share of plane rides from satan with how much traveling he did, and Arthur couldn't help himself.

"Your eyes are going to end up stuck like that." He smirked. Francis groaned.

"Sleep you stupid Englishman, it'll take a while to your house."

Arthur chose not to antagonize him further, Francis seemed to be a particularly bad mood and even he knew when to step back and allow Arthur deal with his problems, so in times like these Arthur returned the favor. He leaned his head on the window and watched the passing Californian scenery, so very different from what he knew.

He prays he won't regret this.

Notes:New story! I swear I'm not abandoning Your Bones, chapter five is coming out but I wrote half of this while procrastinating chapter four. This was supposed to be a one shot about ghosts in Chicago. I got so far off track what is wrong with me.

In french:
Rosbif- roast beef
Pour l'amour de dieu- For the love of god

Translations from google as I am not a native speaker. Apologises for any mistakes.