secret agent man!arthur featuring villainous fashion designer!francis is definitely one of the most interesting combos i've ever made. doesn't matter, here it is! fair warning, it's been about four years since i was in this fandom so if you see something wrong please say something!

"So," Arthur says, still focused on the photograph pinned to the file. "You want me to bust Francis Bonnefoy?" The target's picture looks up at him with a smug expression, white teeth impeccably straight. Personally, Arthur thinks the man looks like he'd be better off walking on a runway, not designing the clothes.

His superior, Ludwig Beilschmidt, gives him a cool look. His broad shoulders are tense, and there are bags under his eyes. Arthur can't remember if Ludwig's ever called out sick, or even used one of his vacation days. "He's constantly swathed in reporters and you're undoubtedly at risk of attracting unwanted attention," Ludwig says, adjusting his glasses. "But I assumed someone with your level of skill could handle this as quickly and efficiently as possible."

Arthur thumbs through the manila folder. He weighs his options- on one hand, he could reject the case and ruin his nearly non-existent relationship with his boss, or, he could lock up a high-priority criminal while also gaining accolades that'll boost him to assistant supervisor. It's not a tough decision to make.

"Alright," he says, shutting the file. "I'll take the assignment." After all, it's not like he has anything better to do. If he doesn't occupy his time with cases, he'll end up working with Jones in the records department, and that's the last thing (and person) he'd want to waste his skills on.

Ludwig manages an expression that is a strange cross between a grimace and a genuine smile, which, okay, is a little unsettling, but Arthur'll take what he can get. "Excellent. Head down to Honda's office, he'll give you a debriefing." He picks up his phone and dials a number. presumably to call Kiku, before pausing and covering the receiver with his hand. "Oh, and Arthur?"

"Sir?"

"... Good luck."

Arthur furrows his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

Ludwig makes a sound that sound like a scoff. "You'll need it."

Arthur tries to not dwell on his boss's tone and turns on his heels to head for the elevator. He's never been underestimated before, and he's never been anything short of a hard working employee. He's locked away more criminals than anyone else in his division, and he's only twenty-seven years old. He presses the down button on the elevator, lost in thought, before a shrill voice calls out from the hallway. "Wait, wait!"

Arthur cringes at the voice and presses the 'close' button while silently apologizing to a higher power for being such an ass. Unfortunately, said higher power wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic, as the doors stay open long enough for Jones to wedge a stubborn hand between them.

His stupid face is grinning at Arthur, as he steps into the elevator. "Whew, almost missed the elevator there," Jones laughs, crowding into Arthur's personal space in order to press the button for his floor. Arthur feels his head throb in warning; too much time around Jones usually leads to a migraine.

"Yes, you're quite the lucky one." Arthur manages to keep a cold tone and attempts to end the conversation. Jones, the dense idiot, disregards Arthur's aloofness and continues to talk.

"I don't know, remember that one time we were on that mission in like, Serbia, and right when we cornered the kingpin, my gun went off and accidentally shot you in the calf?"

"Bulgaria."

"What?"

"That mission. It wasn't Serbia. It was Bulgaria."

"Same thing!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Not in the slightest."

Jones shrugs. "Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Either way, that mission sucked balls."

"You seem to be forgetting the part where you made me a tourniquet and got an award for outstanding bravery. For stopping the bleeding. On a wound that, mind you, was inflicted on me by you."

"Oh yeah," Jones chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alfred F. Jones, professional hero."

Arthur is instantly reminded why he hates Alfred so much.

Thankfully the elevator dings, signaling Arthur's floor, and he steps out of the elevator. "Be seeing you, I suppose."

Alfred smiles, bright and wide. "See ya, Artie!"

Arthur doesn't have time to tell Alfred to not call him by the childish nickname before the elevator doors close. He rolls his shoulders- there's more important matters at hand than scolding Alfred for his petty habits.

He crosses the hallway, dodging energetic interns and irritated superiors, making his way to Kiku's office. The short, Japanese man greets him with a meek smile, and gestures for him to enter. Kiku's office is almost terrifyingly spotless and Arthur can't help but feel ashamed when he thinks of his own cluttered desk. He has almost no personal items, except for a framed picture of a smiling man cradling a cat in his arms. Arthur files that information away in the event of unexpected small-talk. Kiku rummages around in some of his file cabinets before drawing out an even thicker file than the one Arthur already has in his hand.

He sets the file down on the desk before taking a seat, and nodding his head for Arthur to do the same. Kiku messes around with his computer, before turning the screen towards Arthur. "This," he says, gesturing towards yet another handsome candid of Francis Bonnefoy, "Is Francis Bonnefoy."

Arthur nods, opening up the file. "Ludwig already gave me a basic rundown of sorts."

Kiku opens up his own file. "You're going to be needing a lot more information than that if you want to catch him." He flips through the papers, stopping every once in awhile to skim the contents. "Everything's in here: associates, schedules, routines, addresses, et cetera." He turns the file towards Arthur. "It's all yours."

"Splendid," Arthur replies sarcastically, setting down his own file to pick up the denser one. "So, what did Monsieur Haute Couture do anyway? I thought he was just a fashion designer."

Kiku clicks his tongue and pulls up another photo of Francis on the computer screen. "Apparently, 'Monsieur Haute Couture' has been dealing in some, er, shady business." The image is blurry, but Arthur makes out the undeniable silhouette of a gun being exchanged between a long-haired blond man and a brunet.

Arthur points a finger at the second man. "Who's this?"

Kiku raises an eyebrow at the question, an expression of disbelief spreading across his face. "That's Lovino Vargas." He emphasizes the last name, but Arthur can't quite place the name, with or without forceful emphasis. "He's the head of the Italian mafia family."

"The Vargas family? As in the notorious underground crime syndicate?"

If Kiku could slap Arthur, he probably would, at least, judging by his expression.

Arthur raises his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay. You want me to go undercover and arrest this French fashion designer-turned-criminal."

"Well, it's easier said than done."

Arthur purses his lips, and skims over a few more documents in the file. It seems like Francis has been wrapped up in all different types of crimes, from fraud to unlawful possession of firearms. "He really gets around, doesn't he?"

Kiku wheels forward in his desk chair, reaching across the table to turn the file a few pages forward. A plethora of photographs and names cover the page, each one an image of the blond man with a woman. "In more ways than one." Kiku leans back into his seat. "All those women were closely involved with him. We've even pulled in a few of them for questioning."

"Did they have any information?"

Kiku pauses, looking hesitant. "They were all closely involved with Francis. Both business-wise, and- er- behind closed doors. We think that we might have found a way to get into his inner circle."

"Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting."

"If you're uncomfortable we can just have Alfred on the case instead-"

"No!" Arthur says, a bit louder than intended. He clears his throat. "I mean, it's okay. I'll take the case." There was no way he'd let Alfred take over another one of his cases. The one time he let him take control cost them the entire operation.

Kiku frowns. "If you're sure. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."

"If I wasn't able to do things that make me uncomfortable, I wouldn't have taken this job." Arthur smiles, gathering up his papers. "Now, when does my flight leave?"

The flight from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle Airport is possibly one upside in this mission. Most of the passengers are tapping away on their laptops, and the first class ticket lets him enjoy a cup of tea without having to worry about a child kicking his seat and making him spill it over his suit. The airport itself, however, is hell. The bustle and commotion of people pushing through to get their luggage leaves him feeling slightly dizzy. He manages to pull his own bag off of the conveyor belt and makes his way through the crowd. As soon as he exits the airport, he's hit with a solid wall of unbearably humid heat. He curses the clothing department at the agency for dressing him in a blazer and tweed pants.

A cab pulls up to the sidewalk, and he shoves past a group of lost American college students to reach the car. He knocks on the glass window and the cabbie rolls it down with a mildly irritated look on his face.

"Oui?"

Arthur groans internally, hoping to avoid having to use French as frequently as possible. "Hi, can you please take me to the, er, Grand Hotel du Palais Royal?" He cringes at his own pronunciation, butchering an already intolerable language. Ugh, language of love my arse.

The man seems to understand him well enough, jerking his head toward the backseat. Arthur thanks him before cramming into the car. As they pull away from the airport, he watches the scenery as they drive further into the heart of the city. The streets are lively with tourists and citizens alike, enjoying the hot summer day outdoors.

The hotel itself is far more luxurious than he imagined, and his reservation definitely cost about half of what he makes a year. Arthur silently thanks Kiku for his case management skills and exits the cab. The concierge takes his luggage from him before he can even check in, and he finds himself in the blessedly cool lobby, waiting to be given his key card.

The woman at the front desk spouts some rapid French that his ears can't quite catch and hands him a card, before pointing him in the direction of the elevator. As he gets on, a young man calls out from the hallway.

"Attendez! Attendez s'il vous plaît!" Arthur groans, reminded of the events that had transpired between Alfred and himself only a mere week ago. Nonetheless, he sticks out a hand and holds the door. Though he has a basic understanding of French, the desperate calls of 'wait' are almost universal in tone. A young man sprints into the elevator, lithe frame heaving heavily.

Arthur can't believe his eyes. The boy's face is terribly reminiscent of Alfred's, down to the glasses- though his features are softer. His watery blue eyes glance at Arthur through thick, platinum blonde lashes, looking violet under the lighting of the elevator.

The boy gives him a shaky smile. "Merci beaucoup monsieur."

Arthur shrugs, watching the boy press his floor's button, "No problem."

The boy turns in surprise. "Ah, you're British?"

Now it's Arthur's turn to be puzzled. The boy has an accent he's never heard before, a cross between an American accent and a French one. "Yes, from London. Where are you from?"

"Montreal originally, but I'm moving to Montparnasse soon." The boy tucks a strand of curly hair behind his ear and adjusts his red sweater. "My name's Mathieu. Mathieu Williams."

"Arthur-" He nearly gives Mathieu his full name before correcting himself and giving him his cover name instead. "Davies."

Mathieu reaches out to shake his hand and Arthur obliges. "So, what's your business in Paris?"

"Oh, you know. Just visiting. Perhaps I'll pop by that fashion show, see what's brewing in the industry."

Mathieu gives him a small smile. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you more often, Mr. Davies." When Arthur gives him a confused look, Mathieu only smiles wider. "I'm one of the models for Francis Bonnefoy's new line, La Révolution Évanescente? It's one of his biggest projects."

"Ah, well, I suppose we will be crossing paths again, Mathieu." The elevator dings, signaling his floor. "Take care now."

Mathieu gives him a little wave before the doors close, and Arthur walks down the hall, searching for his room. When he gets inside,the first thing he's greeted by is a king size bed, which only reminds him how tired he is. He peels off his blazer and unbuttons his shirt, damp with sweat. He falls onto the bed, pulling his phone out from his pocket and checking the screen. There's only one text from Kiku.

kiku [4:52 PM]: Bonnefoy's show 9, in Carrousel du Louvre. The after party is invite-only, but I've gotten you a press pass under the assumption that you'll be a journalist, as per usual.

arthur [5:19 PM]: thanks, u know me so well.

kiku [5:20 PM]: Unfortunately.

Arthur puts down his phone and stretches out his shoulders, before rolling over. He dozes off for a few minutes, sinking into a blissful sleep. A loud honking outside his window jerks him awake, like a cold splash of water. Shouting in French fills the streets, and Arthur covers his head with a pillow, groaning. This is going to be a long week.

ahh okay, i know there was no real fruk in this first chapter but just bear with me! i have all sorts of good stuff planned out for these two dweebs.

please leave some reviews, i'd love to know what you think!

thanks for reading, i hope i'll have the next chapter posted soon!