Mr. and Mr. Jones
For all his redeeming qualities, Alfred wasn't the most observant creature to have walked the earth. In fact, he was, as Arthur fondly referred to him, a dozy sod. It had taken him several weeks to notice the new paisley-print curtains in the front room and even longer to spot the additional freesia flowerbeds in the front garden, an area of land he had to pass on a regular basis.
It was a blessing, really, that Arthur had such a refined eye for detail.
He relayed this to their balding, rounding marriage counsellor, affirming that Alfred's absent-mindedness seemed to have accelerated in the past year and, in turn, had added to the rift that had grown between them.
Perhaps Arthur should be more appreciative of this aspect of Alfred's personality. After all, being both a married man and a professionally trained assassin, under the guise of an accountant, wasn't the easiest lifestyle to juggle. That wasn't to say Arthur wasn't good at his job, he was exceptional, and keeping secrets came to him as instinctually as blinking or pulling a trigger but mistakes were bound to happen when sharing your entire life with another human being. A human being you loved dearly, even if said human snored and cracked their toes and ate cereal from the box.
Secrets eroded a marriage; the two were incompatible and couldn't coexist with one another.
Even more worrying was that Arthur was slowly starting to get the impression that he wasn't the only one withholding information. Alfred was a simple man, an emotionally sincere man, but he was sharper than he let on and Arthur wondered if he had been underestimating him all this time.
After six years of unconventional wedded bliss, the air between him and Alfred had soured with all the things that were left unsaid and they were crumbling.
-/-
The obscure, drowsy village in eastern Russia was both decrepit and picturesque. The people and the architecture harmonised each other, the inhabitants seemingly painted in the image of the little village, both resistant to the whims of time and sealed inside the 1970s. The peeling floral wallpaper and the crinkly white-leather sofas were a testament to that.
Arthur had taken care of a high-profile drug smuggler not two days past, landing himself a pretty thirty-thousand dollar wad of cash, and he was now contentedly occupying himself with his much-cherished, dog-eared Austen novels and sweet Russian tea. He didn't plan to do much else for the rest of his stay but the body was uncovered a great deal faster than he had anticipated and an instruction had been sent out for the police question all solo travellers in the nearby towns.
That wasn't good news for Arthur.
He made his way to his hotel room, nimble on his feet, and had nearly reached the staircase when he was approached by two stony police men.
"Excuse me, sir, are you travelling alone?" they asked with their fierce Slavic accents.
Arthur furrowed his brow, feigning confusion. He could think of no other alternative than to play the old language barrier card.
"We're together," someone said, the sunny American accent a stark contrast to the Russian tongue. "Is there a problem?"
"You are with him?" The police man pointed at Arthur, suspicious.
"Yes," Arthur responded seamlessly, leaning against the stranger. He was a fair bit taller than Arthur and he was pleasingly muscular. "We're on our honeymoon."
They didn't seem totally convinced but the two of them left without any further enquiries. Once Arthur and the stranger were left alone, he took the opportunity to inspect his rescuer.
He was young, perhaps five years younger than Arthur's thirty. With his dark blond hair, dazzling blue eyes and boyish grin, he was like a slice of Californian summer. His biceps bulged under his shirt, his chinos were tight in all the right places and the modern glasses he wore suited him well, promising a level of maturity and not just a pretty face.
Arthur very much approved.
The man chuckled. "Are you checking me out?" There was a fleck of heat in his eyes as he regarded Arthur and the Englishman couldn't help but want to kindle that flame. Pride and Prejudice was enjoyable entertainment but that wasn't to say there weren't more satisfying pastimes.
"Perhaps. You are my husband after all," Arthur teased, honeying his voice with sultriness.
"Well, since I'm your husband, it shouldn't be a problem if I took you out for a drink, should it?"
"No problem at all."
Alfred F. Jones was his name.
He was charming; he was vivacious and overflowing with idealisms. He was a beer drinker and a connoisseur of fast food. He was intelligent, once a straight A student and now he had a successful career in construction. He was a delightful kisser. He was magnificent in bed and truly had the stamina of a healthy, red-blooded twenty-five year old male. And he knew exactly how to make Arthur fall apart.
Arthur had made a pointed effort throughout his working life to avoid making commitments to anyone other than himself. It was unwise put another human in a position of power over his happiness, especially in his line of business. He reminded himself of that every time he woke up with his legs entangled around Alfred's or caught himself biting his lip at the thought of kissing Alfred just one more time.
Alfred discovered they didn't live all that far away from each other in New York so they travelled back together and somehow stumbled into seeing each other on a regular basis. Despite Arthur's personal principles, he found himself grasping tighter and tighter at Alfred, unable to let go.
He fell in love effortlessly, dizzyingly, and without his permission. He was effervescent with it, nonetheless, alive and beaming. Alfred proposed six months into the relationship and Arthur found himself walking down the aisle in a flurry of his favourite flowers, windswept with bliss.
-/-
Arthur's slot had been double-booked, in essence.
There had been another assassin on his job.
Another assassin that had completely cocked up all of Arthur's hard work and neither of them had come out of it prosperous. He'd shot the bugger but it hadn't kept him down for long. Arthur had been left with no choice but to flee the scene. Leaving him thirty-thousand dollars lighter and at the mercy of a vicious boss.
Arthur hadn't seen the other's face and, despite his zealous efforts, it was proving to be difficult to identify the swine.
His home life was in a similar state of disarray. Alfred was irritable, distracted, Arthur was too side-tracked to pay any attention and so the two of them retreated into themselves. Dinners were spent in silence, their chairs so close their feet almost touched but their worlds couldn't be any further apart.
Almost four days had passed since the appearance of the mystery hit man and Arthur's frustration had been left to fester from relentlessly staring at the pixels that formed the back of assassin's head, the only picture he had of the idiot and it had offered no answers.
Arthur snapped his book shut and placed it on the bedside table. He shuffled under the duvet and moved to switch his lamp off just as Alfred strolled into the room, wearing only a pair of cotton pants for bed. He stretched his arms above his head only to recoil, hissing with discomfort. He rubbed at the left side of his chest.
Arthur's fingers paused, leaving the lamp on.
Underneath Alfred's hand, there was a mottled purple bruise marring Alfred's lovely tan skin.
"How did you get that?" Arthur asked, hesitant.
"Huh?" Alfred blinked. "Oh, this? You know me, clumsy as ever," he said playfully. "I tripped over at one of the construction sites a few days ago."
Alfred's manner was casual, faultless, and anyone else would have no reason to believe the American was lying. But he wasn't talking to anyone else, he was talking to Arthur and Arthur knew how to read Alfred, he knew his husband's tics and tells.
The flickering of his eyes and the small adjustment of his glasses were enough for Arthur to be sure his husband had just lied to him.
"How many days ago?"
"Um, I dunno. Maybe four?" Alfred kissed Arthur on the forehead and flicked his light off. "Night sweetheart."
Something cold settled in Arthur's stomach, something he didn't want to be there but, at the same time, he couldn't ignore. He didn't sleep that night.
-/-
A key turned in the front door and Arthur's ears prickled at the metallic sound. Careful, calculated footsteps followed as well as the all too familiar click of a loaded gun.
"Arthur?" Alfred called into the house. His name was affectionate on Alfred's lips, just like it always was. "Sweetheart, are you here? I think we need to talk."
With an agility that had served him well throughout his career, Arthur soundlessly ducked under the dining room window and crept towards the garage, car keys in hand.
Arthur slipped Alfred's car and was accelerating out of the driveway and along the network of roads in their neighbourhood in not time. He was sure he was in the clear when Alfred came hurdling out of someone else's garden and towards the car, gun trained on Arthur.
Unthinkingly, Arthur slammed the brakes down and the car jolted to a standstill.
"You know you can't drive that car!" Alfred taunted, taking a step closer.
Arthur's eyes went steely and his resolve hardened. He suddenly wasn't feeling as merciful towards his husband as he had moments ago.
He revved the engine, taunting Alfred in return, and the American's stance faltered. "Artie… you wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?" Arthur challenged, unsure whether Alfred could hear him through the glass. It didn't matter, Arthur knew his husband had got interpreted the message correctly.
Alfred fumbled back, lowering the gun, his expression slackening with fright.
This was the man that had charmed his way into Arthur's bed, into Arthur's heart seduced him and played him so unapologetically. Arthur couldn't believe he had once been deeply in love with this lying bastard, allowed him to tamper with his emotions.
The Englishman pushed the pedal to the floor and the car collided spectacularly with Alfred, sending the man cartwheeling into the window screen and up and over the car. Arthur sped away and didn't look back.
-/-
Sniffling was undignified and Arthur resented that Francis Bonnefoy, of all people, was a witness to him in this state but the tears were relentless and, try as he might, he couldn't seem to stem them. It had been like this for almost half an hour.
It was absurd, being reduced to this snivelling. He should have been wickedly pleased – he'd run that deceitful snake over with his own car for heaven's sake. Alfred must have been knocked out cold. Maybe he'd broken a couple ribs. One could dream.
"Look, rosbif, I know this is difficult. Alfred had us all fooled. But the cold, hard truth is that he is a fraud, he manipulated you and used the marriage to get close to you and, through you, this company. More importantly, he is an assassin. He won't hesitate to kill you, Arthur, so you can't hesitate to kill him."
Arthur nodded, pressing his lips together and swiping a tissue at the tear-tracks on his cheeks.
He wouldn't shed another tear over Alfred F. Jones.
"Do you love him?"
The question startled Arthur and his heart stammered in his chest. He shook his head vigorously. "No, not anymore. Of course not."
"Then get rid of him. You can't survive while he does."
Francis handed his phone to Arthur. The reward sum of fifty thousand dollars shimmered on the screen and underneath was a profile picture of Arthur labelled with his name: Arthur Kirkland Jones. Francis' finger swiped the screen and a duplicate of previous screen greeted Arthur. Almost a duplicate, it was Alfred's face and name staring up at him this time.
"They know you're married to each other. As far as they're concerned, you've been associating with the enemy and you'll remain a target until you neutralise that enemy."
The Frenchman pressed a gun into Arthur's hand and squeezed his fingers around the cool metal.
"You're the best we've got, mon cher, I know you can do this."
-/-
The phone rang twice before Alfred answered.
"I want a divorce."
"I had something more permanent in mind."
"You could have killed me." The words were spoken with ease, even a hint of amusement. He was tormenting Arthur, like a large cat would flick the tail of a cornered mouse.
"Don't be so overdramatic, Alfred. That was foreplay," Arthur responded, smirking.
"Yeah, you never were very good at foreplay."
It took every last ounce of Arthur's willpower to subdue the rage that itched along his insides. Alfred was well-versed in which buttons to press on Arthur's interface and short-fusing at the insult was exactly what Alfred was striving for.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Foreplay was necessary, unfortunately; otherwise you'd come ten seconds into the main event. As you can appreciate, that was very unsatisfying for me."
Take that, wanker.
There was a long, stagnant silence before Alfred exhaled shakily. Arthur really thought he had him, Alfred wasn't hot-tempered but he was terrible at handling blows to his pride.
"We could play this game all night but it won't get us anywhere. What do you want?" Alfred asked, business-like, and disappointment stabbed into Arthur.
"I want to invite you for dinner. Seven o'clock, at home, as usual."
He hung up the call before Alfred could react. Arthur knew he'd show.
-/-
Bullets hole-punched the liquor cabinet and the brandy glasses inside exploded into shimmery fragments. Arthur skidded out of the room as Alfred turned the machine gun to him and sent another round of bullets shredding through the wall, the bullet-holes chased Arthur as he bolted into the kitchen.
Alfred stepped into the other entrance to the kitchen and Arthur spied him in the glossy reflection in the counter. He leapt out from behind the breakfast bar, catching his husband by surprise which allowed Arthur to deliver an unforgiving kick to Alfred's arm, sending the gun clattering to the floor.
The American recovered fast, faster than Arthur had timed, he grabbed Arthur's collar and swung the smaller man headfirst into the fridge. Black spots bounced in Arthur's eye-line and pain erupted across his skull. Alfred bashed him against the fridge again but Arthur predicted the move and hooked his leg behind Alfred's. He yanked their legs forward and the two of them toppled to floor. Arthur's gun slipped out of his hand in the tumult.
Arthur took the opportunity to sink his teeth down into the Alfred's ear, crunching at the cartilage. Alfred growled, kneeing Arthur in the stomach, effectively dislodged all the air from the Englishman's lungs. He struggled for oxygen, wheezing and writhing under Alfred's weight.
Then Alfred's weight wasn't there anymore. The man was leaning away from Arthur, his fingers brushing against the handle of his gun. Panicking, Arthur peered around for his gun and stretched out his aching arm when he located it by his thigh.
The mouth of a gun butted against Arthur's forehead, Alfred was holding it with a white-knuckle grip. Arthur had reacted quickly enough, however, and tapped his own gun against Alfred's hairline.
His husband's eyes were enflamed as he gazed down at Arthur through cracked glasses, his chest rapidly expanding and contracting. They remained suspended in the ceasefire in absolute stillness and Arthur felt his fear ballooning inside of him with each second that stretched by.
Nothing in this world could make him pull the trigger on Alfred.
He couldn't pull the trigger but Alfred could, nothing was stopping him and any of these seconds could be Arthur's last second. Arthur couldn't back down, couldn't reveal his fatal flaw.
Alfred's grip loosened and he dropped the gun.
"I can't."
What –?! This wasn't a part of the rules.
"Stop it."
Alfred shook his head. "Take your shot."
"Come on!" Arthur goaded, his head alight with the sheer volume of emotion Alfred was inciting in him. This wasn't fair, Alfred wasn't playing fair.
One of them had to die. Him or Alfred. And it had to be him. Arthur couldn't shoot Alfred. He couldn't.
"I can't, Arthur. Do you honestly believe I can kill you?"
A sob tumbled past Arthur's lips when Alfred batted the gun out of Arthur's shaky grip. Arthur yanked on Alfred's tie and the American surged into Arthur, kissing him sweet, furious desperation.
"If we stay together, we'll always be on the run," Arthur gasped as his lips were released from the kiss. His hands were in a million places at once, familiarising himself with the beautiful landscape that was his husband and Alfred was already busying himself with Arthur's shirt buttons. "We'll never be safe together."
"That's your fault, not mine." Alfred worried his teeth against the thin skin at Arthur's jawline and the Englishman hummed with pleasure.
"And how do you work that out?"
"Because you made me fall in love with you and I can't fall out of love with you. I don't care if we have to go and live on a volcano or in an igloo in the North Pole; I don't care about safe if I have you."
Arthur smiled, smiled until he laughed and laughed until he cried.
"An igloo in the North Pole? You wouldn't last a day, you daft arse." He guided Alfred's mouth towards his and kissed him gently.
"Yeah but you married me, Mr. Jones."
"Kirkland-Jones."
Alfred smiled tenderly. "Nah, you're a Jones. And don't worry about the igloo thing, I've got some ideas on how to keep each other warm," Alfred said with a mischievous grin. That particular grin had proven to be teeming with pleasurable promise in the past. Arthur usually couldn't walk for a while after Alfred had used that grin on him.
"We'd better test-trial your ideas then, see if they're effective enough, don't you think?"
Written for USUK Sweethearts Week, Day Five: Cinematic.
Predictable parody is predictable. Argh. I'm not sure how easy this is to follow if you haven't watched the film, there may be a few jumps that don't make sense. I'm sorry if that's the case, I just didn't have to time to write an entirely faithful parody of the film, I rewatched it to write this fic and a lot more happens than I remember!