Hey gaiz! This is a silly sort of oneshot (AU) in which a fender bender between our two heroes develops into something more. :3 Basically, I had the idea, couldn't resist, and thought I'd celebrate Thanksgiving with USUK. ^^
(Anybody get the pun in the title? Oh, I really do deserve to be shot for that, but to tell you the truth, I'm pretty proud of myself, lololol.)
Anyways, I hope you enjoy!
Arthur Kirkland would later claim that it was absolutely not his fault. After all, he was neither texting, nor under the influence of anything, nor feeling more tired than usual, nor blasting music nor taking his eyes off the road nor trying to eat nor drink. However, although he wouldn't call himself an absentminded person in any sense of the word, it was Thanksgiving evening and traffic was incredibly light and for just one moment – or perhaps a handful of minutes, honestly he wasn't quite sure – he allowed his mind to wander, slip away from the interstate for what he decided could have only been an instant, and soon enough his windshield was filled with the red glare of brake lights and he wasn't slamming down on the pedal quite fast enough to avoid rather sharply nudging the rear of the car in front of him. He coughed, realized with no small measure of irritation that the impact had caused his tea to spill across his upholstery, and pulled over to the side of the road, jamming the gear into park and marching from his car with the full intention of thoroughly chewing out whichever oaf had decided to come to a standstill in the middle of the interstate.
However, he was forced to pause when he took in the considerable dent welded into the shining red flank of the Mustang and found that it was in fact shaped much like his left headlight; he swallowed, anger cooling as he glanced back at his shattered headlight and ruined passenger seat and realized that the damage his own vehicle had suffered was comparatively minor. He was still paused there on the side of the road, having scarcely begun to mourn such an inconvenience, when the door of the other car clattered opened and a young man stumbled rather than stepped out, righting himself and rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly. His exit was so clumsy, an absolute mess of flailing arms and legs and hands and feet tumbling onto the side of the road, that at first Arthur had thought he might actually be injured, and thus the first thing he felt upon laying eyes on whom he would later know as Alfred F. Jones was a vaguely selfish sense of relief.
"My name is Arthur Kirkland and I am so terribly sorry about all this," he said, immediately extending his hand. "If you'll just allow me to retrieve my insurance information, I'm sure we can -"
Much to his surprise, the young man's face immediately broke into an enormous grin.
"Oh Christ," he laughed, taking Arthur's hand and shaking it vigorously. "That accent. Of course you'd be European."
Arthur blinked, unsure of how to continue.
"I beg your pardon?"
The young man's grin deepened. "So did you forget which side of the road to drive on or what?" At Arthur's unimpressed expression, his smile faded and he cleared his throat. "I mean, the name's Alfred F. Jones, and I'm totally thrilled to meet you."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Despite the circumstances?"
Alfred laughed again; he did that far too often for a man whose expensive car had just been damaged.
"Don't sweat, it ain't gonna be…" he glanced back at the crumpled metal and seemed to deflate slightly, "…too bad," but then he appeared to snap back, his smile returning as he pushed at his glasses with his index finger. "In any case, don't worry," he said, flapping one hand through the air dismissively. "You seem like a nice guy, and I'm too lazy to take you to traffic court."
Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, that's very generous of you. Nevertheless, I think it would be best if we exchanged information, don't you -"
Suddenly Alfred was peering at him very closely; Arthur was forced to notice that his eyes were blue.
"You're not drunk, are you?" he said quite seriously; Arthur blinked, flustered by their sudden proximity.
"I…I should say not!"
And then Alfred let out a booming laugh and rocked back on his heels, slapping his palm rather painfully down on Arthur's back.
"I'm just shitting you, bro!" he guffawed. "Boy, you're quite the serious type, ain't you?" he regressed into giggling for a moment more before he straightened, shoulders still trembling slightly with mirth although he made a valiant effort to maintain a solemn expression when he noticed Arthur regarding him dubiously, still wincing from the smarting pain in his back.
"Now, Mr.…ah, Jones, was it? Those papers, if you please."
Alfred chuckled again, his grin fighting against the corners of his mouth.
"Aw, man, Arthur, it's just Alfred," he winked. "I'll go get them."
Arthur was tempted to ask to be called Mr. Kirkland, thank you very much, but before he could open his mouth, Alfred was skipping back to his car and diving into the passenger seat, beginning what threatened to be a very long quest for his insurance information. Arthur sighed, stretched his sore shoulder, and fetched his own papers from his glove box, neatening the stack on the hood of his car before he walked back towards Alfred, who was now unloading an impressive variety of garbage onto the side of the road as he rummaged beneath his seat. After about six or seven empty soda cups, a veritable mountain of greasy balls of napkins, a handful of crushed ketchup and mayonnaise packets, a myriad of candy bar wrappers, a few fast food containers, and one empty condom package, he emerged victorious, several crumpled documents clutched in one hand while the other occupied itself with pumping triumphantly through the air.
"I think these are all of them," he began, squinting at the papers as he sifted through them, and Arthur realized that he was sucking on a lollipop, presumably newly acquired. He couldn't help but to stare, and after a moment of silence, Alfred glanced up curiously and noticed the look on his face.
"It was wrapped, I swear!" he protested immediately, pulling the lollipop from his mouth and shoving it in Arthur's face as if this would somehow prove his point. Arthur grimaced against the sudden onslaught of grape flavoring and pushed at Alfred's arm in the hopes of getting him to relent.
"Yes, yes, I believe you," he coughed. "Now please, Mr. Jones - "
"Dude, I already told you, call me Alfred."
Arthur glared. "Please, Alfred, put that back in your mouth and try to focus, won't you?"
Alfred complied, but not without taking on a curious expression, letting the stick of the lollipop bob up and down from between his lips as he tilted his chin to examine Arthur from above the frames of his glasses as if he were some kind of strange specimen, rocking back and forth on his heels in an odd sort of harmony with the movement of that damn piece of candy. In fact, he maintained this rhythm even as Arthur began discussing their insurance policies (having to struggle to see through the coffee stains that littered Alfred's documents), only stopping to pull the lollipop from his mouth with a pop so that he could inquire as to whether Arthur was British or something, as he so eloquently chose to word it.
"English," answered Arthur crisply, "if you will. Now, I see that your policy includes - "
"Hey, Arthur, do they celebrate Thanksgiving over in the UK?"
Arthur glared. "Of course not. Even if it weren't an absolutely disgusting American invention dedicated solely to the purpose of going up a handful of trouser sizes, there would still be no reason to do so," he sighed, bringing up a hand to massage at his temple. "Now, if you please - "
"Arthur," Alfred took a brief lick at his lollipop, "where were you headed tonight?"
Arthur blinked, caught off guard, and answered without considering the consequences of beginning yet another side conversation.
"Nowhere in particular; I was returning from a business trip outside the city. I'm afraid I've still got a while ahead of me, and because of this," he gestured around them with a sigh, "it looks like I'll have to get a hotel for the night. Why do you ask?"
Alfred leaned forwards slowly on his toes and then snapped back again.
"No reason…"
Arthur let out a little hiss of irritation. "Well then, please, let's continue -"
"…just awful sad to be alone on Thanksgiving."
Arthur's glare deepened. "I might say the same to you."
Alfred chuckled. "You've got me there."
"Yes, well you didn't put up much of a fight. Now really, Alfred, we should - "
"There aren't many hotels around here, you know," Alfred bit down on his lollipop with a loud crack, pulling the stick from his mouth and tossing it to the pavement.
"I'm aware," said Arthur briskly, not looking up from the documents. "Therefore, it's all the better that we get through this as quickly as -"
"…not unless, of course, you know where the right exits are," continued Alfred regardless. "There's this one nearby that you can't see on this part of the road because the sign fell down and they haven't repaired it, but otherwise, there's really nothing for at least a couple hundred miles…it would be at least one or two in the morning before you actually got anywhere, and even then you'd find nothing but shitty motels…"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't happen to know where that one exit is, would you?"
Alfred shrugged. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But hey, Arthur, guess what."
Arthur smiled dangerously. "You're going to tell me how to find that exit?"
Alfred laughed aloud. "Nope! Guess again! Actually, never mind, I don't think you'll get it so I'll just go ahead and tell you. I've decided that we're going out to dinner because nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving," he grinned, reaching out and plucking the documents from Arthur's hands. "It's totally against the American way."
Arthur hadn't yet fully registered the situation and began to try to reclaim his papers. "But I'm English, Thanksgiving is of absolutely no significance whatsoever - "
"And it's going to be your treat because you owe me for totally crashing into my car, and because I'm being super nice to you and not suing you or calling the police and I'm even, like, telling you about hidden exits and stuff, okay?" Alfred flashed him a toothy smile. "Oh yeah, and you don't really have any say in the matter but you should tell me that you will anyways because I wanna hear it."
Arthur swallowed, paused halfway through his fight to wrestle the insurance information back to safety, and stared at Alfred in unabashed shock and confusion as he struggled to determine whether he had either misheard him, heard him correctly but misconstrued his meaning, or heard him perfectly well and was entirely reasonable in thinking that he had, with little to no prior warning, just been asked (or ordered) out to Thanksgiving dinner by a stranger whose car he had only recently severely dented. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally decided to give Alfred a brief once-over before he reached a decision: he certainly didn't look very gay, but then again, there was something in his expression, a little glimmer of uncertainty beneath the amusement, that threatened to convince Arthur otherwise.
"M-Mr. Jones," he stammered, unconsciously reverting back to formality. "Pray don't, ah, be angry with me for asking this, but…but are you perhaps asking me out on a…a date?"
"Not asking," corrected Alfred with a crooked smile. "Remember, you don't have a say in the matter. Keep in mind that I'm super hungry, and it's Thanksgiving, and if you don't, I'm so taking you to traffic court it's not even funny."
"R-right," said Arthur slowly. "But what if I say I'm straight?"
Alfred shrugged. "Then I guess I'll have to admit my mistake and let you go."
"You…you sound awfully confident, you know."
Alfred chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Come on, dude, you pretty much smell like rainbows."
Arthur swallowed. "Well, ah, Mr. Jones, to be terribly honest, I'm not quite sure as to whether I should take that as a compliment or feel rather insulted."
Alfred laughed again, reaching into his pocket for his keys and twirling them lazily around his index finger as he turned back towards his car.
"Whichever you like, Arthur," he flashed him a cheeky grin. "And please, man, it's really just Alfred."
"I thought you said you were going to show me a proper American thanksgiving dinner."
"I sure did," Alfred flipped the menu over, furrowing his brow in concentration. "What do you think this is?"
Arthur glanced around himself incredulously, staring miserably at the nubby carpet, the smudged linoleum tables, the stained ceiling, the gum-popping hostess.
"I think this is a Denny's, and you've either no sense of your own country's principles or are actually trying to reinforce stereotypes," he set his laminated menu down on the table. "Do tell me, Alfred…which is it?"
Alfred chuckled and folded his own menu, beckoning to the waitress. "Neither," he said with a grin. "Do you know a better place we can find straight off a highway?"
Arthur glared. "There was a perfectly lovely steakhouse across the street from this sodding establishment."
Alfred opened his mouth, but the waitress had materialized with her pen and notepad in hand, bouncing and giggling and toying with her hair, obviously beside herself with the excitement of serving such a handsome and charming young American boy. Alfred ordered the Thanksgiving special for two, complete with everything, he emphasized very seriously (the way the waitress' eyes widened when he stressed that gave Arthur a rather ill feeling in the pit of his stomach), and one coffee, one tea, if she would be so kind. She blushed and enthusiastically assured him that she most certainly would, then practically skipped towards the kitchen, throwing a glance that was probably meant to be coquettish over her shoulder as she went.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "She was wearing so much lipgloss you could scarcely make out her chin," he snorted. "If only she knew…"
Alfred laughed, grinning wickedly at him. "What she don't know can't hurt her, eh?"
Arthur almost chuckled, but remembered not to just in time.
"Doesn't, Alfred. She is a singular subject," he said crisply, reaching for his paper napkin and spreading it neatly over his lap. To his surprise, Alfred merely smirked.
"Of course," he drawled. "Excuse me for being colloquial."
Arthur glanced up at him sharply. "You mean to suggest that you actually know the meaning of the word?"
"Sure do. When you're a journalist for The Washington Post, you kinda gotta know these sorts of things."
He said it with such a swaggering intonation that Arthur didn't even take the time to be surprised before he shot back that you also had to know those sorts of things when you were the head editor of a major international publishing foundation that just so happened to have its headquarters in Washington DC. Also, he added acridly, when indicating possession, the verb get had to be coupled with the auxiliary have, because otherwise it implied a shift in state of being, and that wasn't what Alfred was trying to suggest, was it now?
To his disappointment, Alfred didn't look particularly startled or emotionally crushed, but rather merely threw his head back and laughed, so amused, apparently, that he had only just calmed to irregular fits of giggling when the waitress returned with their beverages. Arthur seized his tea and added cream almost viciously, tearing open a package of sugar and stirring violently so that the edge of his spoon sung against the china cup.
"What, pray tell," he hissed through his teeth. "Is so unbearably funny?"
Alfred chuckled again, taking off his glasses to dab the moisture from the corners of his eyes. "Sorry, Arthur, it's just…" another giggle, then he slid his glasses on and seemed to make an effort to be serious, though he was still smiling. "You're so damn cute."
Arthur swallowed, inadvertently dropping his spoon in surprise and making a clatter against the rim of his teacup.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Cute. You're cute."
Arthur felt the suggestion of heat at the edge of his collar and glared, picking up his spoon again and returning to his methodical stirring, watching the steam curl upwards and dissolve against the cheap flickering diner lights.
"Shut up. You don't know me."
"Nope, but I'm fixing that," Alfred was grinning terribly foolishly at him and Arthur concentrated determinedly on the rhythm of his stirring. "So, what's it like being an editor?"
"Hell," snapped Arthur frankly, mainly because he was still angry and discomfited. "My entire day consists of dealing with and correcting the general incompetence of society," he shot Alfred a pointed look, "a demanding task, to say the least. But nonetheless, I suppose I was born for the job," he sighed, finally lifting his teacup to his lips and speaking around the edge. "I'm a perfectionist and an absolutely heartless critic, and I seem to thrive on pointing out the faults of others…it sort of vindicates my own worth, in a way," he snorted. "But that doesn't mean I always enjoy it."
Alfred stared at him for a moment before taking a long and pensive sip of his coffee; this finished, he set the mug back down on the table, wiped his mouth on the corner of his sleeve (Arthur gave a little hiss of disgust and loudly pointed out the napkin sitting right there), and leaned forwards on his elbows, perching his chin on the backs of his hands.
"That was pretty straightforward, you know," he said slowly, "and you don't seem like the type who would spill his guts to just anyone."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement curving up one side of his mouth. "How perceptive of you. You're right; I'm not. But you see, Alfred, dear," he smiled sweetly. "I have no reason to give a damn about what you think."
Alfred pouted. "That's not very nice."
Arthur shrugged. "It's merely the truth."
"Well, guess I can't blame you," Alfred leaned back and took another sip of his coffee. They were quiet for a moment, then, "Aren't you gonna ask me what it's like being a journalist?"
"No, I don't believe so."
"Well, the thing I like most about it is the travel. Even though I'm a bit of a homebody, I really love meeting new people, so the pros and cons sort of even out. Secondly, I've always been really into American politics, believe it or not, and - "
"Alfred, are you deaf?
"Selective hearing. Anyways, I've always loved domestic politics, so I started covering minor campaigns and stuff when I was straight out of school, but lately I've been getting more attention and get this, I got selected to follow the Obama campaign trail and - "
"Wait, you mean to say someone actually selected you for such a serious matter?"
"Hey," Alfred's eyes glittered at him mischievously. "You don't know me."
Arthur glared. "But I'm not trying to find out."
"…and I was just coming back from following his progress through North Carolina, which has always been such a swing state that he really needs to work them hard these days, and anyways Obama was amazing, such an incredible orator if you know what I mean - "
"Even if he doesn't always live up to his promises," cut in Arthur sharply, smirking when Alfred rolled his eyes.
"He has a way with words, okay? Anyways, if you would just stop interrupting me for a second, Arthur, maybe we could get somewhere -"
"But you see, I don't want to get anywhere."
"Oh please, you know you…" but then Alfred trailed off, eyes widening and fixating on something behind Arthur, mouth falling unabashedly agape. The forebodingly thick smell of grease betrayed that their dinner had arrived, but nonetheless Arthur turned just to witness what was provoking such awe - or was it fear? - from his companion. Three waiters could scarcely hold all the teetering platters, and Arthur swallowed, stomach turning and mouth falling slightly open at the sight of the mounds of turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stewed vegetables and gravy looming before them.
"Oh man," he could hear Alfred breathe. "This is going to be awesome."
To his dismay, Alfred took it upon himself to serve them, and Arthur soon found his plate teetering with food that actually shone with grease beneath the flickering diner lighting. Of course Alfred immediately got down to attacking his dinner, knife and fork working simultaneously to reduce his considerably larger pile of food to nothing but gravy stains and discarded Brussels sprouts, while Arthur primly cut free a corner of his turkey and put it in his mouth, chewing hesitantly.
Alfred snorted.
"Come on, man. The food's not gonna hurt ya."
Arthur glared. "If only I could be so sure."
To his credit, Alfred chuckled at this, letting out a little burp at the end for flourish. Arthur narrowed his eyes.
"You're disgusting."
Alfred merely grinned. "This is America!"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "And my point is proven."
Admittedly, Arthur was being particularly disagreeable just to be difficult; however, despite his finest efforts, Alfred seemed to be generally impervious to his insults and slights, either laughing them away or jokingly returning them, all the while steadily progressing through his dinner with a disturbing speed. Perhaps this generally laidback and affable nature could explain why Arthur was suddenly finding himself relaxing, carrying on the conversation with his own little details and anecdotes, occasionally laughing, once even smiling without the slightest intonation of condescension or sarcasm, and actually making his way through a considerable portion of his meal, despite himself and all he stood for as a human being.
Alfred was young, having just finished graduate school at Georgetown, and prone to sudden flashes of intelligence regarding modern politics which tended to leave Arthur too surprised to respond. In addition, he was the child of a single mother, had been the head editor of his high school newspaper and the star of the football team at the same time, and had a half-brother named Matthew, who was shy and lived in Canada, could Arthur believe it?
Arthur dryly told him that indeed he could and Alfred frowned.
"Alright, then, what are some of your achievements?"
Irked, Arthur launched into the story of his young adulthood: English-born, preparatory school then Oxford educated, had moved to the States on request and the promise of a higher salary, neither liked many people nor made too many friends due to his opinion regarding the general incompetence of society. He was also a cat person. Alfred snorted and said that was such a cliché; Arthur glared and replied that it most certainly was not and that he would bet his life that Alfred had a dog because he both behaved and ate like one and had probably learnt to do so through example.
"Touché," Alfred muttered, and Arthur hissed in disgust.
"What a revolting language."
"What, got something against the French?" Alfred paused. "Oh, wait. You're English. That was a stupid question."
Arthur chuckled, pushing a pea around on his plate with the tip of his fork.
"Well, yes, there's that of course, but also my ex -" he stopped short as Alfred's eyes suddenly crackled to life with curiosity; he finally speared the pea with his fork and jammed it into his mouth to avoid having to divulge any further information.
"Arthur," Alfred leaned forwards, chin balanced on the backs of his hands. "What was that?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said hurriedly, stuffing a potato into his mouth. "Stop spewing nonsense."
Alfred's grin deepened. "Funny, I could have sworn -"
"Hm? You're not making any sense."
"I'm absolutely sure you said something about an -"
"What bollocks are you spouting now?" Arthur brandished his fork at Alfred warningly, though he furrowed his brow in mock concern. "Are you feeling alright? You're not running a fever, are you?"
Then Alfred beamed at him, eyes dancing blue, and Arthur swallowed rather thickly, bringing his fork slowly down to rest on his plate and averting his gaze in irritation and confusion as Alfred leaned back in his seat with a peal of laughter and proclaimed that he was feeling better than he ever had in his entire life.
Arthur couldn't quite say how they had ended up where they were and he reasoned that perhaps this had something to do with the quantity of empty glasses cluttering the tabletop. He certainly hadn't meant to agree to go out for drinks after dinner, certainly hadn't meant to get into his car and follow Alfred deeper into the exit until they reached one of those sleazy roadside gentlemen's clubs (despite the fact that none of the offered shows held any interest for either of them), certainly hadn't meant to order even one gin and tonic, let alone another, and then another…Arthur took a brief count of the glasses on the table. There were seven in all, and two were squat shot glasses, meaning that five belonged to him. Arthur silently congratulated himself on his deductive skills and counting prowess as he waited for Alfred to return from the restroom…that was where he had gone, right? Goodness, Arthur wasn't sure, but he was sure that he was feeling quite fine and that Alfred had given him a very handsome view indeed when he had left their table on his way to…wherever he was. That piece of information was entirely irrelevant; what really mattered what that the boy had quite a nice rear, especially when he walked with that cheeky little swagger of his.
Arthur let out a drunken burble of laughter at his own pun and tried to take another sip from his glass before he realized it was empty and set it down with a low groan, nestling his head in his arms.
"Excuse me, sir, but I'm afraid you look a little down…may I offer you something to cheer you up? My treat, of course."
Arthur blinked, lifting his head to see a stranger leaning down over the tabletop, a drink balanced in each hand, the rims of the glasses catching the lights of the club. He blinked again, rubbed at one eye, and finally decided to frown.
"Who're you?"
The man's smile deepened, almost sinking into a leer.
"A reasonable question. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, and I am the owner of this establishment," he beamed and leaned back as if he took pride in the legion of scantily clad women parading about onstage in the back of the bar, respected the jeering men as his loyal customers. "And might I ask you the same?"
Arthur frowned harder.
"So you offer me a drink without knowing who I am?"
Francis nodded; he was definitely leering by then.
"That is how one picks up a pretty young thing such as yourself, is it not?"
Arthur surveyed his glass as if the answer were hidden in the film of alcohol resting on the bottom.
"Are you gay?"
"Yes," Francis leaned further over the tabletop, balancing his chin on his elbow and raising an eyebrow."Is that a problem?"
"No, I am too," Arthur blinked and glanced around himself, seeming to take in his surroundings anew. "I say, what am I doing here, then? And...what are you doing running the bloody place?"
"I daresay that's anyone's guess, mon ami."
Arthur chuckled, then stilled, glaring suspiciously at Francis.
"Are you…" he paused, wrinkling his nose, "…French, by any chance?"
Upon hearing the oui that followed, Arthur snorted and turned away, glaring into his drink.
"Well, that is a problem."
Francis seemed stunned for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed, nearly spilling the drinks all over his fine violet-colored silk suit.
"Ah, but of course! Your accent, I should have known, you are English, non?" his laughter melted into a smile and he leaned forwards again, sliding one drink over to Arthur and twirling the stem of the other glass between his fingers, watching the liquid swirl back and forth against the sides. "All the better," he purred, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a little sip, keeping his eyes – blue, but dark and hazy, not clear and bright and boundless like the sky or valuable like antique porcelain – on Arthur all the while, close enough so that his breath brushed warm against his cheek. "I have always been fond of une petite anglaise…"
"Oh really? Looks like you and me have something in common, then."
Alfred set his fresh bourbon down on the table and turned back around to face Francis, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his chin into the air. Arthur couldn't see his face from his angle, but he could very well imagine his expression, that little crooked smirk with a cocked brow and that defiant glitter in his eyes, offset by lopsided glasses, a rakish sort of petulance…the idea made Arthur feel somewhat nauseous; whether he was defending Arthur or not, oh how richly that boy deserved to be set in his place!
Thus, before Francis could respond, Arthur was sighing and tugging on Alfred's sleeve.
"It's you and I, Alfred," he mumbled, digging his fingers into the fabric of the bomber jacket for balance. "You see, the trick is to take the other subject out of the sentence and then see if it makes sense. Me have something in common?" he frowned, as if faulty grammar tasted bitter, "I don't think so."
Alfred was quiet for a moment, simply staring, then laughed and gently unlatched Arthur from his sleeve, keeping a hold on his wrist to draw his arm up around his shoulders and help him from the booth. Francis took a step back, raising his eyebrows and passing a hand uncomfortably through his hair.
"Oh, perdonez-moi, I didn't realize - "
"Save it, surrender monkey," grinned Alfred, sticking out his tongue. "You knew what you were doing."
Smirking, still rather drunk, Arthur managed to lean over Alfred's shoulder and extend his middle finger as they headed towards the door.
"Yeah, save it, frog!" he shouted as Alfred dragged him outside. "And happy fucking Thanksgiving!"
Alfred sighed as they stepped out into the parking lot, the chill in the air betraying how late the night had grown. "Aw, man, Arthur, you really got carried away…" he glanced down at his cargo uncertainly, worrying his lower lip. "Damn, there's no way you can drive…"
"I don't very well want to drive," Arthur proclaimed, digging his fingers into Alfred's jacket with the strength of his conviction. "It has brought me nothing but trouble."
Alfred smirked tiredly. "Aw, shucks, I like you too, Arthur," he chuckled, heading towards his battered Mustang and sitting down on the hood, reaching down to zip up his jacket. Arthur frowned; the crisp night air had knocked a little sense into him and he was standing upright without wavering, arms crossed over his chest.
"Your sarcasm is charming, let me assure you."
Alfred glanced up at him, quirking a brow.
"Naw, Arthur, I meant it. You're cute."
"Mm. Cute. I'm not cute," Arthur gestured for Alfred to scoot over and settled onto the hood next to him, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. "I'm drunk, that's what I am."
"Well, I won't argue with you there," Alfred sighed, straightening his glasses and furrowing his brow. "Oh, what to do with you…" he paused for a moment, seeming to consider something, then sighed again, more heavily, and ran his hand over his face. "Look, Arthur, you can't get back on the road tonight. There's a motel nearby and -"
He stopped at the expression on Arthur's face, flushing a brilliant (lovely) shade of red that was clearly visible even in the thin moonlight.
"Not like that!" he cried, holding up his hands. "No, no, no, never, what kind of guy do you think I am, anyways?" he paused for a moment, biting down on his lower lip. "No, wait, don't answer that. Look, Arthur, it's not far, all I'll do is drive you there and help you get a room, I swear! I'll even walk back because I have to go soon, anyways, or else I won't make my deadline." He straightened his glasses again, meeting Arthur's gaze very seriously. "No tricks, I promise."
They were silent for a moment, then Arthur chuckled, the alcohol in his veins suddenly running hot and impulsive, or so he would later try to convince himself.
"Oh, Alfred, if I'm cute, then you're positively adorable," and he leaned forwards, catching Alfred's collar in his hand and veering in close. "Who said I didn't want any tricks?"
And with that, Arthur kissed him, heart stuttering at his surprised intake of breath, pounding wildly in the moment of suspense before he began to kiss back, hesitantly at first then more enthusiastically, at which point Arthur's pulse rushed and he blamed the warmth in his blood on the gin and not the soft brush of Alfred's hand against the back of his neck, the lingering flavor of bourbon on his lips, the scarcely-audible sigh of contentment at the back of his throat as he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, leaning up into Arthur with more force than perhaps either of them had expected.
Eventually Alfred broke away, breathing heavily with high color glaring in his cheeks and his glasses skewed across the bridge of his nose. Arthur swallowed, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, and unlatched his hand from Alfred's collar, drawing back entirely and lacing his fingers together on his lap.
"Sorry," he mumbled, turning away with the gin suddenly dying from his veins, "I'm terribly drunk."
Arthur was beside himself when he received the call. Three months since he had let his mind wander away from him on the freeway, three months since he had experienced his first genuine American Thanksgiving, three months since he had gotten tipsy and kissed Alfred in the parking lot of a sleazy gentlemen's club, three months since he had been silently escorted to a nearby motel and put to bed, three months since he had woken alone and gotten back on the road alone and thought (alone) that everything really was for the best despite the persistent sensation that he was missing out on something, and three months then spent trying to smother that feeling beneath mountains of paperwork and publishing contracts until he received the call summoning him to traffic court the following Monday due to the fender bender that began the whole damn thing in the first place.
He was enraged. Alfred had promised not to cause any legal trouble so long as Arthur went out to dinner with him, and gone out to dinner with him Arthur had, that and more, in fact. Oh yes, Arthur was enraged, and this naturally caused him to spend several hours choosing the correct suit from his considerable collection and a good twenty minutes fixing his hair.
"Solely to impress the judge!" he hissed when he thought his cat was giving him a questioning look, glaring and sending the poor animal retreating beneath his bed.
However, as it was, Arthur's carefully-selected wardrobe would never get its chance. When he reached the steps of the courthouse he found Alfred leaning against one of the columns, smoking with his hands jammed in the pockets of his crisply-pressed navy suit, glancing up as he tapped ash from the end of his cigarette and grinning when he saw Arthur approaching, though this expression quickly faded when he was met with a glare.
"Hey, Arthur, long time no -"
Arthur took the last few steps two at a time and slapped the cigarette from Alfred's hand, rolling his eyes when he cried out indignantly and tried to reach for the butt as it fluttered to the ground.
"Indeed, what a long time it has been, Mr. Jones," Arthur spat, straightening his lapels with a snap. "I'm almost surprised to see you here, seeing how you obviously choose to treat your promises."
Alfred was still gazing mournfully at his fallen cigarette.
"Dude, that was so uncool, you totally -"
"Mr. Jones! If you please!" Arthur pressed the cigarette into the marble with the toe of his shoe, grabbing one of Alfred's lapels to affront him. "I absolutely demand that you explain yourself!"
Alfred finally snapped back to attention, hackles rising.
"Hold on, Arthur, you don't understand, if I could just have a minute -"
"No minutes!" Arthur actually stamped his foot. "I am a very busy man, Mr. Jones, and I want my explanation here and now!"
Alfred, looking somewhat like a cornered animal, bit down hard on his lower lip and mumbled something into his shoulder.
"Would you be so kind as to repeat that, please?"
More mumbling.
"Mr. Jones."
Still nothing intelligible.
"Alfred!"
Alfred bit down on his lower lip harder still, squeezed his eyes shut, and shouted that he just wanted to see Arthur again, okay, and to just call him Alfred, for god's sake, because courtesy hardly mattered anymore!
Arthur blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I don't know!" Alfred threw up his hands in exasperation. "I thought you were really cute and I just got so mad when I saw that French dude hitting on you and then I realized that you're not like everybody else you're kinda special or something and then in the parking lot when you…" he paused, lowering his voice and glancing around them, "kissed me, I dunno, I just felt…look, I was sorry to leave you, okay? And…and well, Arthur, I haven't stopped being sorry since," he flushed, speeding up so that his words blurred together, "but I didn't get your number and I wasn't sure how to find you and I tried some nearby publishing companies but they didn't want to talk and this was the only thing I could think of to do and so here we are and I'm sorry for troubling you but I really wanted to see you and tell you all this but I guess you were pretty drunk that one time and you're not interested so I'll go call this whole thing off now," he turned, and before Arthur could stop himself he lunged forwards and latched onto his sleeve, staring determinedly at his feet. Alfred stilled, glancing back at him over his shoulder questioningly.
"I wasn't…" Arthur swallowed, feeling heat blossom about his collar, both irritated, mortified, and...something he couldn't quite name, didn't want to name. "I wasn't that drunk."
Alfred blinked, then turned, though he didn't try to free himself from Arthur's hold.
"You weren't?"
Arthur coughed. "No."
They were silent for a moment, then Alfred smiled tentatively.
"Hey, Arthur…" he glanced back at the courthouse, then turned and straightened his glasses. "Let's say we ditch this lousy old place and go get some lunch."
Arthur wouldn't look at him. "Not Denny's."
"Of course not," Alfred looked as if he were struggling to subdue a grin. "We'll go wherever you like. Provided of course," he coughed, glancing downwards, "you let me go, that is."
Arthur felt himself flush spectacularly and practically sprung away from Alfred's sleeve, jamming his hands in his pocket as if doing so would somehow disguise the embarrassment evident in his cheeks.
"Don't be a dick," he growled, beginning to descend the stairs. When Alfred didn't follow, he cast a glare over his shoulder, quirking a brow. "Well, come on, then."
Alfred stared for a moment, then exploded into an enormous grin, bounding down the stairs to fall into step beside Arthur, where he really seemed to belong, after all.
I hope you guys found that as fun to read as I did to write; seriously, I went to town, possibly at my own expense, haha. I am indeed aware that Thanksgiving was actually yesterday; however, I was celebrating with my family (in Washington DC lololol) and couldn't get the time to update. I hope everyone had a good one, and for the non-celebrators…don't fret, now you don't have to lose the extra weight. XD
As an aside, I am a resident of North Carolina and living in a swing state is pretty kewl because the candidates actually bother to come around and try to rally voters. We have an amusing demographic in that all the areas surrounding the big universities are passionately liberal, whereas the rural areas are all diehard conservative. Domestic politics. Good times.
Thanks so much for reading, and I would be thrilled to hear your thoughts!
PS – I am starting my newest USUK opus magnum (pfft) very soon. It will be another long AU and I am so excited, so if anyone's interested, tune in next week! :D
Till then!