Author's Notes: Well, I actually came up with this idea in the middle of class. It's inspired by that movie called Anger Managment. The one with Adam Sandler in it. I actually liked what I wrote during schopl qnd decided to turn this into a full plot lined story.

To my new readers: Hello and nice to meet you!

Enjoy and thank you!

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Arthur glared irritably at the judge who sat atop the podium in all of their power. He could practically feel the glares that were aimed at him from the others in the courtroom.

It was no matter though. He knew he was innocent. If that absolutely irritating frog didn't want to get his grimy face punched in and his excuse for a beard pulled out

then he shouldn't have been touching him. In fact, Arthur did warn Francis to get off of him. "Friends" or not, he got what was coming to him. However, Arthur didn't expect the Frenchman to actually press charges against him. All though, it was in public. A few other bystanders may have gotten hurt in the quarrel…

"Kirkland," the judge repeated, getting annoyed.

Arthur glanced up from the table, withdrawing from his thoughts, "Yes?"

The judge sighed, "Do you decline to the accusations made against you?"

For a moment Arthur paused, glancing at the poor victims of his wrath with sympathy. Except for Francis, he deserved it.

"No, your honour," he grumbled.

"Very well. Since you have admitted to what you did and the injuries suffered to those who did not…," the judge trailed off and read her paper, examining Arthur's quote in a past interview, "deserve it?" Her eyes flicked back up at him.

He simply nodded at her.

She continued on, "And Mr. Bonnefoy has agreed not to press too harsh of charges. He has actually made a request that you get put into the anger management lessons provided by the law."

Immediately Arthur whipped around in his chair and gave Francis the biggest acidic glare he could manage, "You what?"

The Frenchman smiled uneasily, fearing for his stubble that might be ripped out again, "It's what is best for you, mon ami."

"The court has decided the idea might be beneficial to you, Mr. Kirkland, and those around you," the judge glanced at Francis. "I grant you thirty days in the anger management program. A mentor will move in with you to monitor your behavior."

Now Arthur was absolutely livid, he shot out of his chair and gripped harshly at the table in front of him, "You can't just have someone barge into my home!"

"I can, and I will. It is either this, or serving parole as well as three months of community service. Your choice, Kirkland."

"I'll take the bloody anger management."

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Arthur threw the door to his flat open. The door slammed against the wall, alerting the neighbors and nearly sending the poor door off of its hinges.

"I can not believe you! The utter nerve!" The Englishman turned on his heel and reeled back his fist.

Instantly, Francis cringed and ducked away from the fist just in time to hear Arthur's knuckles crack against the wall and the Brit hiss in pain.

"Damn wall," he gritted his teeth as he inspected his knuckles. Once he was sure they were all right, he stalked into the kitchen.

Francis had never heard him make tea so angrily. It sounded as if the delicate teapot and its cups were going to crack with the way Arthur was slamming them down into the counter. Even the poor cupboards got slammed against the wall as he fetched the kettle.

"WHERE IS THE BLOODY KETTLE- Oh, there it is."

Francis's eyes widened. A debate of whether he should make like a u-haul and leave, or stay and offer help pried in his mind. It was his fault, so he decided he should stay for a bit.

"Arthur…," He spoke carefully. The Englishman was in the kitchen after all, where knives were handy. "It's only thirty days. You don't even 'ave to go to zhose meetings and share your feelings. Zhey are moving in with you for only a little while. Zhey will most likely stay out of your 'air."

"Oh, suuuure!" Arthur appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with kettle in hand, "It will just be a brilliant blast won't it?!" He shouted sarcastically. "I don't need some twat standing over my shoulder and watching everything I do. I already have you for that and I don't even like you that much!"

The Frenchman smirked, "You wouldn't even acknowledge my existence if you didn't consider me somewhat of a friend, mon ami. And you know it."

Arthur glared harder at him for being caught. He would never admit that in his mind to himself however. They were just acquaintances. Not friends in the least.

"Wipe that smirk off of your face, frog."

Francis simply grinned, "All right. So, I suppose you're going to make some room for your mentor?"

"Not in the least, I'm going to do my damn well best to get rid of him as quickly as possible," Arthur stalked back into the kitchen and put the kettle atop the stove, turning the knob to high. Causing a large flame to appear below the kettle, starting to boil the water contained in the dome.

"Why?" Francis strode into the small kitchen flat after him.

"The sooner I get rid of he, or she, the better."

"But you're a gentleman, aren't you?" Francis asked evenly, knowing his question would strike a chord within the other.

"Of course I am, much more than you," Arthur snapped.

"Zhen, you should treat your mentor with respect, right?"

"Why on earth would I do that?" Arthur asked, pouring himself a cup of tea and begrudgingly poured the Frenchman one too.

"Because you're a gentleman, as you said. Don't gentlemen treat zheir guest, living in zheir home with respect and give them what zhey need?" Francis's smirk reappeared as Arthur went absolutely rigid.

He knew the frog was right.

Arthur grumbled and downcasted his eyes, "Fine, but if they touch my belongings, or me, they will lose a finger."

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Precisely three hours later, Francis had finished helping the Brit clean up his flat. It was not that much work, Arthur kept his home rather clean. They simply had to make room in the den for the anger management mentor that would be living there with Arthur. The den now contained a small day bed in the corner and a dresser with a bedside lamp on top. It wasn't much, but he felt it was enough for his guest.

"When do you zhink zhey will arrive?" Francis turned his head slightly to Arthur, but continued renovating the room to his own personal taste which the Englishman quickly found annoying.

"I would say most likely tomorrow, or today."

Francis nodded and sat back against the wall, gently sipping his tea.

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The next morning Arthur was rudely awoken by a loud knocking on his front door. His eyes flicked to the clock on his bedside table.

It was only six in the morning.

Now, Arthur usually got up at approximately eight in the morning every single day. It was good to keep up a sleep schedule, but six in the morning was outrageous. Surely this would throw off his schedule.

Arthur irritably tore the covers off of himself and stood up from the grand bed. He slipped his freezing feet into his house shoes and peeled his robe on, tying the band in front of his waist into a bow with harsh movements. Without even checking his appearance, he ran a distressed hand through his messy hair, slicking the strands back.

Haughtily, he made his way to the front door where the knocking didn't cease. He grasped the knob in his hand and threw the door open with and much force as he could muster without waking his neighbors.

"What?!-" Arthur barked as the door opened. His eyes soon landed on a lean figure that was just the slightest bit taller than himself.

The figure was in fact a boy, no more than twenty surely. He eyed the other from head to toe, depicting the lad's appearance.

Old sneakers, slapped with mud and untied, a ragged looking hoodie accompanied with a faded out logo of some sort of superhero symbol, and wrinkled cargo trousers. The other's appearance was soft and over his...decent features was a pair of thin framed glasses that lay askew on his face.

Arthur faltered for a moment, but his glare soon grew harsher, "I don't pay for girl scout cookies, or allow drunkards into my home and give them help, please leave," he went to close the door, but then the teen quickly fumbled and placed his hand against the wood of the door with just enough force to stop him from closing it.

"You're, um," the teen dug into his hoodie pocket with shaky fingers and a stretched smile, fetching a folded up sheet of paper. He quickly unfolded it and read as carefully as he could for being dead tired from his long plane ride, "Mr. Kirkland, right?" He asked with a yawn while trying his best to hold eye contact. But he had to admit, this Mr. Kirkland was rather intimidating at six A.M.

It wasn't Alfred's fault though that he had gotten there so early! He didn't expect his flight to get in so early.

"Yes, I am. What of it?" Arthur growled, but his alerted demeanour started to fade when he inspected the other farther.

The teen could barely stand he was so completely tired, it seemed as if he would fall asleep and topple to the ground right in front of Arthur. The way the other could barely look him in the eye reminded Arthur of a child whom was sent to the corner. Over all, he deemed the teen with the American accent was relatively harmless.

"Um, I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm supposed to come here for you anger management lessons," the American replied, leaning against the door frame to support himself from nearly passing out.

Arthur's eyes narrowed considerably, "You have got to be joking me, right?"

Alfred rubbed his eyes, "No…, may I come in?"

For a moment Arthur stood eyeing the other in disbelief before stepping aside to allow the other access into his home against his greater judgement.

If this really was his anger management counselor, he could not let himself get upset.

Alfred groggily thanked him and shuffled inside, making himself right at home. He plopped onto the leather sofa in the living room instantly. He nuzzled his cheek against the soft leather fabric and stretched out completely with a dopey smile.

"Mmm, much better," he inhaled deeply and relaxed with a satisfied exhale.

Reluctantly, Arthur followed after and took his own seat in an arm chair across from the American. Acidic eyes turned somewhat calm as Arthur eyed the American. So many questions wove their way into his mind.

What was an American doing in the U.K.? And such an odd American at that. Then again, Arthur always found Americans odd.

"Mind if I ask you some questions?" Arthur asked rhetorically.

"Um, sure. Go ahea-"

The Englishman cut him off with a fake, pleased smile as he leant his head against his upright palm, "Good. First off, who are you really?"

Alfred rubbed his eyes once again and sat up faintly, "Alfred Jones…?" He repeated with a confused tone.

"How old are you?" Arthur leant back in his chair, stubbornly crossing one leg over the other.

"Nineteen."

Oh, this was just brilliant.

"Why is a nineteen year old my counselour?" Arthur grit his teeth, trying to keep his irritation to a minimum.

"Oh! That, yeah well, um," Alfred fumbled for the correct response, picking up on the Englishman's growing anger.

"Spit it out," Arthur was practically seething now.

The American nodded and fumbled to reply in time, "Well, I'm Alfred Jones. Your scheduled counselour is my dad- Henry Jones. He couldn't make it, so he sent me," Alfred replied delicately with a small smile. Behind the smile was nerves and fear. This Arthur guy was like a ticking time bomb about to explode. Why did his dad have to send him to this guy of all clients?

"What makes you, qualified to mentor me?" Arthur's glare didn't falter in the least bit.

"Because I know my dad's job just as well as he does. I know more psychology than the average person should," he pulled a nervous laugh, but when he saw Arthur still looking as unamused as ever his smile fell, Man, I got my work cut out for me on this one…"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're already being mean," Alfred sighed, almost in a pout.

Was this teenager in his flat actually pouting like a little child?

"I am not!" Arthur barked, leaning forward in his chair with his nails digging into the arms of the chair. He then blinked and quickly composed himself. "All right. Fine. You seem tired, would you like to go sleep in the den?" The lighter blonde stood from the armchair shakily. His body was completely wracking with waves of anger.

Alfred nearly jumped up from the sofa and scooted quickly over to Arthur, smiling wide, "Yeah, dude! I mean, uh, please."

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed at the odd American. Was this for real?

He shook his head with a sigh and paced out of the room. The Englishman beckoned the younger who instantly followed after.

Arthur really needed to smoke a fag, or drink some ale. Preferably both.

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Author's Notes: There it is, the first chapter! How do you like it? Any misspellings, grammar mistakes, comments, or constructibe criticism? Then leave me a review containing your information you would like to share. I would love to read it.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.