Deliverance

Summary: Depressed and ready to die, Arthur Kirkland travels to Paris in order to visit one last place before he commits suicide - before he can he's 'rescued' by an obnoxious Frenchman, who's convinced he can be saved. Human AU. FrUk. Rated T (subject to change).

Warning: slash-y stuff, some swearing, suicide and mental illness/self destructive behaviours.


Chapter One: Shakespeare and Company

Arthur Kirkland had gone to Paris for one reason. He had no desire to see the Louvre, or the Arc de Triomphe, or, God help him, the monstrosity that was the Eiffel tower. He'd flown the one hour, twenty-five minute long flight from London to Paris for a two night stay. A pit stop, really. His last trip. He'd gone to Paris for a bookshop. Not just any bookshop, mind you, but one of the most magnificent bookshops in the world. Shakespeare and Company. He'd heard of it from a friend of a friend, looked at pictures, and hurriedly added it to his list of places that he absolutely needed to visit. He'd done most of them, but he was running out of time.

There's no way he could carry on. He couldn't stand to make the long flight over the Atlantic to visit the last few places on his list. He'd just have to deal with his failure.

He'd left London in rain and landed in equally bloody terrible weather. He'd checked into the hotel (he struggled with that, as the bloody French refused to speak a word of English) and unpacked his clothes. He wouldn't be there long, but it gave him a strange satisfaction to see clothes neatly hanging up. But no satisfaction was greater than crossing something from a list. His current list - his last list, he reminded himself, was tucked away in the middle of his notebook. Listbook? It was a small thing, bound in brown leather, small enough for his inside coat pocket but big enough so that his handwriting didn't look untidy or cramped. He sat on the edge of the queen sized bed and read through the last four items.

- visit Shakespeare & Co

- write note

- call A.

- kill self.

It was a very simple list. The note shouldn't take long as he'd been planning it in his head for three weeks, he'd memorised it, almost word for word. He'd considered a few times adding 'eat last meal' onto the list. There were a few reasons that was omitted: one, he'd not had much appetite, need, or want for food lately, and two: where would he find a decent meal in France?

The saddest of all was that he'd never garner the satisfaction of crossing the last ever thing from his last ever list.

He rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath, and left the hotel room.

Shakespeare and Company was situated on the left bank of the River Seine, on the 5th arrondissement. On the outside, the green shop looked small, and to a non-book lover, uninteresting. Arthur knew that even if he hadn't known it was there, he'd have found it somehow. Him and books, they went together like scones and jam. He was always found a good bookshop, no matter where he went. They were compatible.

However, French builders clearly didn't care much for compatibility - Shakespeare and Company was closed for 'one day only'. He sighed. He probably should have suspected that something would go horribly wrong if he went to Paris. He trailed back to the hotel, slowly, letting the rain soak his hair. He couldn't even bring himself to complain silently (though the weather report did predict 'sun with cloudy intervals'). He was share the two receptionists glared at him as he trailed water through the lobby - he scowled back at them. This had ruined his day. Worst of all, it had thrown his list to shit.

He really did think about crossing it off anyway, after all, he had seen it. But that would be dishonest. He'd have to change his plans. He sat at the desk, hotel pen in his hand, ready to write his note. And then his mind went blank. Who did he plan to address the letter to, again? Certainly not his brothers? They wouldn't care. Would they even notice if he went missing? He smiled at the thought, that, one day, he might suddenly pop into one of their heads, and then they'd sigh and shrug and carry on with their merry little lives. Bastards. He did have some friends. Kind-off. Well, not really friends. Not even acquaintances. Some people who he happened to work with. When he'd been with Alfred all their friends had been his friends. He really, really couldn't address to Alfred.

With an ego the size of his, he'd think the whole thing was his fault. It was only partly his fault.

Arthur sighed with frustration, and decided to check the minibar. Of course, nothing appetising, but he'd try the damned French beer. He sat back down at the desk with the beer, grimacing at the taste.

He glared at the blank piece of paper. How did those useless junk mail letters begin?

To whom it may concern…

As soon as Arthur wrote it down, he knew it was ridiculous. It didn't stop him from making a brief outline of what the actual letter might say. Suddenly everything sounded so pathetic. He finished the beer before tearing up the piece of paper and watching it flutter around him.

Okay. So clearly fate was messing with him. All these things were happening for a reason. He lookout another beer, not daring to look at the price (with any luck he'd be too dead to pay for it) and drank half of it quickly.

Perhaps if he just let destiny decided whether or not he lived. That seemed fair. He took his phone from his pocket. He hadn't deleted the number from his favourites yet. It hadn't been him to add it there in the first place - Alfred had.

If Alfred answers, I won't kill myself.

It didn't even ring. His phone was switched off, which was fair enough. He left a quick message asking for him to call back as soon as he could.

If he calls back…I won't kill myself.

Artur sits at the desk once again with a third beer (though he doesn't feel like it and his head is getting a little but fuzzy) and stares at new sheet of hotel stationary paper. Dear…no.

I've been thinking about this for a long time.

He writes some more, but tired and frustrated, he screws it up and buries his head into his arms on the desk.

He wakes up in the pitch black hotel room, his neck stiff. He'd fallen asleep with his wet jacket still on, and it had soaked though his jumper and made his shirt damp. He took off the coat and jumper and dumped them on the bed. He flicked on the lamp beside the bed and looked around. Rain pattered heavily on the window pane. He fished the notebook from his coat pocket to check the ink had't ran and stuck it in his trouser pocket. It poked out but he liked to have it on his person. His mouth felt stale with the beer. He shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Perhaps the minty smell cleared his head, because suddenly the reason he was even here popped back into his head. He spat, dropping his toothbrush in the sink and ran to his phone.

No calls. Maybe his phone was still switched off. He rang him again. It rang twice before it was answered and immediately hung up.

It was anger that made Arthur throw the phone towards the wall, and satisfaction came when it shattered quite easily. He was breathing heavily and he didn't quite know why.

Alfred must have listened to the message. He must have. And he didn't want to speak to him, even though he asked, begged to - he needed to. He was trying to hold back his tears, which was nearly impossible. He didn't take the time to pick up his coat as he stormed out of the hotel room.

It was judgement day. His judgement day.

He was going to jump into the Seine. It was five minutes to midnight. The rain battered him. He felt ill as he stared into the black waters. But he was ready. He thought of, briefly, for all the people who might miss him. His boss, perhaps, if only because he did most of the work.

Before he jumped, he felt a hand grab his wrist tightly, pulling him away from the edge.

He turned, and was faced with someone whose lips were moving but who wasn't saying anything. Well, nothing in English, anyway.

"What? I don't understand a bloody word you're saying!" Arthur said. The Frenchman tutted at him and rolled his eyes.

"Anglais?" he said, and not waiting for an answer, he began to drag Arthur further away. "Come on."

For the life of him, Arthur had no idea why he followed him.


A/N:

1) Shakespeare and Company is a real bookstore in Paris. It's quite cool and interesting, and it looks pretty (if you're a book lover, that is).

Also, please review and let me know what you think.