Quick Service
Author: Queen Celestia
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I making any money off of this Fanfiction.
AN: This was made for my friend who for some reason wanted a fanfiction about this. It's pg-13 for all the swearing.
To say that Arthur was a simple man would be bit of an understatement.
He liked his simple creature comforts, such as sitting in front of the fire wearing his carpet slippers and a bathrobe drinking a small touch of whiskey.
Or perhaps, if he was feeling adventurous, eat some marmite soldiers and a soft boiled egg whilst reading the National Express, before sputtering some swear words into his morning tea.
Simple comforts, simple joys, things he had learned to much appreciate in his wilder days of youth, that involved going for days eating gritty mash and drinking alcohol due to the water being contaminated… Horrible memories to say the least. So the simple joy of a properly made cup of tea was something to cherish.
In fact, right at this moment, that was what he wanted.
He sort of doubted the tea would be made perfectly – for he was in France, but he hoped that it would be hot, and at least exist.
He had picked a inconspicuous café, in the hope of getting served faster, and as he sat himself at the table, he looked at the provided menu, and settled on a rather safe choice – a choice that even a French man couldn't screw up if he tried.
For surely, it couldn't be too much to ask for a pot of Orange Pekoe – right?
The waiter seemed busy, and Arthur due to being patient, didn't mind so much, as long as he got served after the fact.
First come first serve, and manners were always the way of the gentlemen.
His concern however grew, as some customers who came after him claimed the waiters attention, and how their cups of hot drink arrived, followed by some nibbles.
Where was his?
Perhaps the waiter hadn't seen him?
"Excuse moi." He called out politely, the waiter however didn't seem to hear him, and turned to some new customers coming in. No doubt French from how they were dressed, and the small dog that seemed to be pouting cradled in the woman's arms.
Perhaps the chatter was a little loud, and his request wasn't heard?
When the waiter came by again, Arthur gave a slight cough.
Nothing.
Instead he watched as the waiter seemed to gush over the new table, and present a lavish display of food, before personally lighting the flambé on fire.
The screeching delight of the woman grated on Arthur's nerves, his eyes sceptically taking in the woman as she lifted her spoon towards the pudding, and took a swoop of it.
Glancing at his watch, Arthur realized he had already been sitting there for thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes too long.
Perhaps it was because he still had the menu open? Arthur thought, as he took a deep breath to calm himself. Surely the waiter couldn't be purposely ignoring him?
"Excuse me." He said more loudly, as the waiter neared again.
The waiter seemed to pause – he could have sworn the man had paused - but the pause was infinitesimal, nothing, as yet again the waiter gushed over some new comers, all over them like a bad French rash.
The anger in his stomach began to boil as he watched the people all around him get served, their steaming pots of tea seeming to line up in an array of mockery, laughing at his own lack of tea.
"Excuse me!" He said louder.
Only to be completely ignored.
"What's wrong?" Flying Mint Bunny asked, and Arthur let out a growl.
"Bloody French man won't bloody serve me." He hissed, as he turned his attention back to the menu, his finger impatiently tapping the table.
"Did you try calling him?"
"About five thousand fucking times, the bloody tosser apparently is deaf."
Flying Mint Bunny hovered nearer to Arthur, looking concerned, "I'm sure he isn't ignoring you on purpose, that would be just rude. Try again?"
Muttering, Arthur gave his friend a nod, before saying, "Excuse moi monsieu-"
The man walked right past him.
"Look at that bloody bloody wanker, like some bloody whore from some bloody whore house unable to take a bloody fucking order like a bloody fucking gentlemen. All I wanted was some fucking pot of tea something to bloody fucking relax over. I thought wouldn't that be a wizard idea! Oh! How novel! Of course not Arthur, why would such a simply delightful idea, ever come to bloody life? Flaming Nora, you must understand that this could only simply be an idea, some sort of morbid fantasy! Never actually happen! Of course I get stuck with the poxy plonker of a waiter who can't see past his own po-faced nose, and who apparently doesn't understand a bloody fucking word I say!"
He took a deep breath, and attempted to more aggressively get the mans attention.
His hopes raised, as the man's eyes seemed to settle upon him, and focus.
"Excu-"
The mans eyes seemed to slide past, and the man, instead of walking towards him actually, quite literally, walked backwards.
Away. From. Him.
"Gorden Bennett!" Arthur swore, " He's bloody taking the piss out of me he is!
Of course I get landed with the wazzack of all wazzacks, who's probably thinking of going home to his hairy trollop and fucking her brains out while drinking some bloody fucking expensive wine, and laughing – " Here Arthur paused in his tirade and faked rather obnoxiously what he thought would be a proper French laugh – "Haw Haw Hawwww!" – if one were to be honest with him [and Flying Mint Bunny had more sense than to do that with him at the moment] it sounded more like a constipated donkey attempting to give birth. A male constipated donkey, attempting to give birth.
His feelings incensed even further as a familiar blond with wavy blond hair entered the establishment, and settled down into a chair.
It took him a moment to remember who it was – Matthew – and he felt like calling out to him, when the waiter seemed to magically appear before Matthew, and attentively take down his order.
If it had been anyone else- Francis, Alfred, hell, even Yao – Arthur wouldn't have been so incensed.
Wasn't Matthew sort of invisible?
"Flaming Nora! How the bloody fucking hell does the invisible nation get served before me?" Arthur swore loudly, "This is absolutely naff – I don't even know how this is bloody fucking possible – this bloody fucking muppet of waiter probably can't even wipe his own arse, never mind properly serve the punters! I don't even want tea from this manky establishment! It's absolute crap! Utter bull shite – "
A cough behind him caused the incensed British man to look up.
There stood the waiter.
Opening his mouth to tell his opinion that he was a 'bloody fuck tosser who couldn't even wipe his own arse, never mind see where the fucking punter was' – the man beat him to it.
"Excuse moi monsieur," came the dulcet tones, before asking in heavily accented English, " I do not take kindly to being insulted in my own establishment, if you would kindly leave-"
Arthur simply lost it.
Standing up, he slapped the man across the face with a menu, loudly swearing "IF YOU BLOODY FUCKING SERVED ME AN HOUR AGO THIS BLOODY SITUATION WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED YOU GORMLESS PO-FACED POXY EEJIT! YOU BLOODY COCKED THE ENTIRE SITUATION UP!"
Out of nowhere materialised two other waiters, their hairy French hands firmly holding the incensed British man back, quite literally dragging him out of the café and tossing him out onto the street.
"SHITE HEADS!" Arthur shouted, "YOU'RE ESTABLISHMENT IS BLOODY BOLLOCKS! NO ONE SHOULD COME HERE IF THEY ACTUALLY FUCKING WANT TO BE BLOODY SERVED! IT'S RUN BY BARMPOTS! BARMPOTS I TELL YOU!"
The people on the street gave Arthur derisive looks, as if he had clearly fallen off his rocker.
And perhaps, when Arthur kicked a rock at the door of the café, he had.
His swearing got even louder, when a police man approached him, giving him a warning glare – a glare that informed him that if he didn't clear off soon, more dire consequences would happen.
Spitting on the sidewalk, Arthur gave a growl, before scarpering, knowing that he would never come to Café Francis ever again.