Arthur Kirkland was on a top secret mission. He had told no one, not even his closest allies, for this (self-imposed) assignment was fraught with dangers beyond the capacities of all but the most skilled and fearless of men (meaning himself of course). No other undertaking in the history of the world had had higher stakes than this. If successful, it would cause changes so radical they would rock the very foundations of the Earth! For there was no greater challenge than this: to successfully spy on Francis Bonnefoy in the shower.

Arthur blushed, his back pressed against the closet wall in his target's spacious bedroom. Alfred would jeer at him if he knew what he was doing, or suggest (with that infuriating eyebrow waggle) there were romantic, perverted ulterior motives involved. And to be quite Britishly frank, there was nothing farther from the truth. Arthur hated the man. Any sane person would despise someone who floated about spouting all that love and romance nonsense like Francis did. Granted, he knew a good vintage when he found one, and he had an impressive cellar full of aged treasures (not that Arthur had ever seen it, mind you), but honestly, it wasn't like a good strong cup of Earl Grey wasn't a superior substitute for any of that French...err…swill.

A clatter of bottles and a faint pleased humming pulled Arthur back to the task at hand. He could not afford to be distracted at such a critical point! This was to be the day that he discovered his rival's most valuable secret, and obtained it for himself. Yes, today he would once and for all find out what Francis' preferred brand of shampoo was.

Because if you had pinned Arthur to the floor, put a gun to his head and demanded he admit the one thing he admired about Francis in exchange for his life, it would be the hair.

Smooth, lustrous, silky (begging-to-be-touched soft) looking hair. And he was determined to have it for himself. This was why he was in Francis' closet at night, waiting for the Frenchman to remove the bottles from their secret hiding place in preparation for use in his daily ablution. A rumble from the pipes and soft hiss of hot water later, Arthur heard the splashes and delighted singing that signalled the time to put his plan into action.

Moving stealthily from his hiding spot, he crept toward the bathroom. (And he was not missing the sensation of being surrounded by the scent of that man's cologne, to be very clear).

Inches away from the door to his heart's desire, Arthur allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. It had been pitifully easy to get inside. And easier still to conceal his presence until the opportune moment. Honestly, if it had have been any easier, he wouldn't have had to even try. Still smirking, he slipped inside the bathroom.

Oh. Dear. God.

As it turned out, Arthur really should have gone on a more careful, thorough, reconnoitring trip before attempting his mission. Because finding out that Francis' shower, unlike a normal person's, lacked a curtain was an incredibly awful experience when the man in question was in said shower.

Francis blinked at the horrified, panic-stricken man frozen in mortification on his bathroom floor.

"Err…Art?"

Even as Arthur's instincts screamed at him to go run away get out now, he found himself riveted in place by the (highly bemused) unbelievably handsome man standing before him, unashamed and unembarrassed. And then, when that amazing man called him 'Art', in that gently laughing tone, Arthur realized what a disgusting pervert he really was. Not only did he break into Francis' house to intrude on his shower, but then he stared at him so lecherously, as if he were on display!

Beet red with shame, Arthur jerked around, and tried to flee out the door. But the condensation from the steam had made the floor slippery, and he fell, landing roughly on his stomach and jarring his wrists. But before he could scramble to his feet, he felt a warm, damp hand on his shoulder, preventing him from leaving.

"No no my Art, you cannot burst in and then leave. A Monsieur-proper like you must have had a reason to be here, oui? Tell me, my dear."

Arthur felt his face burn all the brighter. Did Francis have no modesty at all? He'd been leered at by someone who had broken into his house, and all he did was kneel on the floor next to him in a hastily wrapped towel, asking what he was doing? He should have been calling the police!

But…That was just the type of person Francis was.

So Arthur disclosed the details of his mission in a nearly inaudible voice, feeling all the more disgusted with himself when he realized how stupid it really sounded.

Francis threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

"My shampoo? Art, Art, of course I will share! You did not need to creep in like a burglar to steal what I would give freely to you! But that is Art, oui? So untrusting, you think everyone is the same."

The Frenchman's expression changed ever so slightly, and the amusement in his eyes softened to something else, something that made Arthur's breath lodge in his throat.

"But there is a condition now, of course. Art must be punished for sneaking in. You cannot just walk out with it now, no. no you must stay here. With me."

And so Arthur found himself sitting shyly in Francis' tub, the towel around his waist doing very little to ease his feeling of embarrassment. The hot water plastered both his hair and towel to his skin, and he kept his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Francis, who either didn't notice Arthur's timidity or didn't care, knelt behind him in the rather roomy tub, and began to firmly massage the shampoo into the other man's hair.

Whether it was from the pleasant heat of the water, or the gentle, soothing motions of Francis' fingers through his hair, Arthur found himself relaxing, until he was leaning back into his former target, his eyes shut and a smile hovering about his lips.

Francis smiles at the content expression on Arthur's face, and carefully rinsed the shampoo out, making sure none got into the other man's eyes, using the motion as an opportunity to whisper in his ear.

"It is too cold for you to go out tonight with such damp hair, mm? We cannot have you taking a chill, now can we? You'll just have to spend the night with me. My bed is quite big enough for us both, my dear Art."

The shorter-haired man's eyes snapped open, and he pulled away, blushing furiously.

"Never! I hate you more than anyone on this planet, and you know it! I don't f-feel anything like that for you!"

Amused blue eyes looked into defensive green, and Francis smiled.

"You're a terrible liar."

And curled up in Francis' arms that night, in borrowed pyjamas with the blond man's stubble affectionately scratching his cheek, Arthur smiled too. He should have known he was transparent. Looking over the night's events, Arthur could safely say one thing: mission accomplished.

…And the shampoo was the last thing on his mind.