So yeah, this kind happened after looking at A LOT of Hitman!America fan art and some ideas I shared with my girlfriend. Actually this chapter probably wouldn't be up if it wasn't for her.

I hope you enjoy, and in advance...I apolgise, I did not mean for all the pain this fanfic may cause.

Actually, no I'm not.

With that done, on with the chapter...

"Oh I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop chop chop!"

The man screamed behind the cloth around his mouth, but he was too scared to move his bondaged hand.

"If I miss the spaces in-between then they will all come off!"

The man had tears streaming down his face but he couldn't look away from the large knife that was being jabbed between his stretched fingers.

"And if I hit my fingers the blood will soon come out, but all the same we play this game-"

The man snapped his head up and shuddered at the excitement in the oceanic blue eyes opposite him.

"Cos' that's what it's all about!"

The knife was slammed into the chopping board. Some of his fingers had small cuts that seeped, but otherwise they were still intact. He began to sob quietly.

"Oh wait, the song isn't over yet."

The man felt sick. He shook his head, begged behind the gag as the knife was brought high above his hand and past the grin across is torturer's face.

"Oh chop chop chop chop chop. I'm picking up the speed and if I hit my finger my hand will start to bleed!"

A blood curdling scream engulfed the apartment as the knife was stabbed into the centre of his hand.

"Aw, looks like I'm going to need some more practice. Good thing we have all night."

The classical music was beginning to become boring as Alfred was swirled around the dance floor. White lights dowsed the dancers that dared to enter the beams but they were quickly engulfed by darkness once more when they glided away somewhere else. Alfred usually felt more comfortable in the spotlight but that was on one of his hits, not in the middle of a dance floor with snotty ladies and gentleman around him.

And none of them were half as snotty as the man leading him in this charade of political engagement though.

This guy was his next hit, assigned to him by a particularly unhinged Frenchman who had contacted him a week ago. Whatever vendetta the Frenchman had Alfred could see why he was so adamant about it. The guy was a total asshole. And English. Not British, but English. As if it really mattered. He himself had been confused for a Canadian once, until he forced the guy to sing the American national anthem at gunpoint. Thinking about that memory made Alfred smile.

"You enjoy Strauss II, American?"

Alfred immediately wore a frown. "Who?" The Englishman only chuckled. Alfred's frown became a glare. "Sorry but I don't listen to anything that doesn't have words in it. I'm a lyrical man you might say, gives more meaning." Alfred was all too aware they were the only two men dancing together, and to think the Englishman was so upfront in dragging him onto the dance floor.

"I guess it's only natural that someone like you wouldn't appreciate artful music such as this. Strauss II composed many pieces for political events, this particular one is called Wiener Blut or Vienna Blood. I must admit Austrians know their way around music." He explained on deaf ears; Alfred was preoccupied with not falling over his feet in these continuous turns and sways.

The Englishman smirked, and then suddenly gripped the small of Alfred's back tightly as he leaned him down. His body prickled where a knife was pressed into his shirt. Shit. "I think you'll find words are not needed to portray a meaning. For example physical portrayal breaks the language barrier in many countries." Shit. Those emerald eyes were really quite something when a scar of darkness trailed across his cheek. That smirk grew into a sinister grin and Alfred jolted when the hidden knife was slowly glided down his back. "You look more like a brat than a man. Tell me. What is your Hit count?"

Alfred sucked in a breath. The violins screeched in his ears as his heartbeat increased. This really wasn't good and now he couldn't think straight.

"It's, uh, big." That's the best you could come up with?

The Englishman looked sceptical. "Oh really? Let's hope its bigger than that gun." The knife made a soft clink when the Englishman tapped it against the protruding bulge beneath Alfred's shirt. His eyes clenched shut and willed himself to think of a way out. This guy knew his stuff. He could easily stab him, get him off the dance floor and out the building without anyone suspecting anything but too much wine. Alfred wished he had done his homework on this Englishman in more detail.

Their eyes remained linked for what felt like an eternity, Alfred waiting for the sharpness of that knife against his back. People clapped as the music ended and men bowed at their partners. The Englishman lifted Alfred up and bowed the same, not so much as a falter in that perfect narcissistic expression of his. Alfred wasn't really sure what to do with himself, he could hear murmuring from other dancers and it felt like all the white lights were targeted on him. The Englishman stood and smiled and tilted his head ever so slightly as he dealt the final blow.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland. I doubt you bothered yourself with searching for it. It was a pleasure to dance with you Alfred F. Jones."

And just like that, he was sauntering away and out of sight.

Alfred yanked a hand through his hair. "What the fuck is with this English dude?"

"I want no mistakes Jones! This monster needs to die and it needs to be done on that exact night." The Frenchman had slammed the files on the table, a fire burning in those bloodshot eyes. He was willing to pay, that was all that really mattered. Alfred leaned back on the chair and kicked his feet onto the pile of paper cuttings and photographs.

"It'll be done quickly and professionally, don't even sweat it Frenchy."

"Don't call me Frenchy, I'm-"

Alfred raised a finger, wiggled it, and shot a smile at the infuriated Frenchman. "I have a no name policy. That way whatever work I do it doesn't get linked back to you, or vice versa if you decide to hire others in the future."

"Very heroic of you." Hissed the Frenchman.

Alfred shrugged. "I try my best to make everyone happy. I even give some of my Hits a sing along if I like 'em enough."

"You don't get it Jones. This guy..." the Frenchman swayed a little then regained his balance. He should really be laying off the wine for a while, Alfred thought. "Don't underestimate him, he knows where to get into your head. Into everything you care about."

Alfred stared at this boozed up Frenchman. The stubbles along his chin were somehow untidy, his sunken face must have once been quite radiant and smooth back in the day, but now it was aged by despair and alcohol. His words struck Alfred for a moment, he could admit to that, but then his mind wiped clear of nervousness and he smiled even brighter than before. "I'm a professional, I'm ready for anything this British guy throws at me."

Alfred locked onto him standing beside a stack of champagne glasses piled in a pyramid. "We need to talk." Arthur sipped his champagne nonchalantly in response. "I get it, you think you're better than me just because you caught me off guard well that's not-"

"I don't think, brat, I know I'm better than you." Arthur looked at him with an almost pitied expression, if not for the vibrancy in his eyes. "Whoever paid you to kill me needs their money back." He swallowed down the rest of the champagne in one gulp. Alfred noted the movement.

"I don't collect the money until the target's dead and buried."

"How noble." Arthur retorted. Was this guy made of sarcasm?

Alfred gritted his teeth. "I need the money. So I need you to be dead, tonight."

Arthur turned to him fully now and his eyes travelled along Alfred's body unsettlingly. He squirmed; no man had ever looked him over like that before. When his inspection was done Arthur placed the empty glass on a layer of the pyramid. Like a viper he swiftly moved forward and grasped Alfred's chin. He pushed him back against a nearby wall and placed a warning finger to his lips. Alfred didn't shout, after all he was armed too and the police weren't high on his favourites list.

"Alfred F. Jones. No known father, mother long dead and a dear younger brother in a coma after he fell into a frozen lake." Alfred's chest tightened. "Oh yes I know all about you. You don't exactly hide your information well do you? I'm guessing the money is to help pay your brother's medical bills judging by your desperation for money and the amount of Hits you've taken on in the last year. I must say for a scrawny brat you've made quite an impression on my world. I've heard many assassins mention you. Some even nickname you Hero Jones. However," Arthur made sure he tilted Alfred's chin just right so he could see the fear spark in his blue eyes. "you haven't impressed me yet. I am a very hard man to please so don't beat yourself up by it too much."

Delicate fingers released his chin and moved to tangle in the hairs above his neck. God, why was he paralysed? All his usual wit was gone, his head empty and blank and all he could focus on were those emerald eyes peeling away at his soul. And then it happened. Hot lips pressed against his hungrily, entangled his tongue, and then pain flashed as teeth bit down. He yelped as sour blood peaked his taste buds. He was breathless by that one kiss, or was it more like an assault?

Arthur chuckled darkly. "As I said, I'm a hard man to please."

Alfred was now concerned whether that had two meanings. Either way, his stomach twisted as the fingers and the man slipped away in silence. The music started up again and it sounded exactly like the other one to Alfred. Still he stood there and listened, picturing Arthur swirling him around the dance floor effortlessly.

"Strauss..." he whispered. No, you're not getting away that easily.

He ran forward and grabbed Arthur's arm. Swiftly he dodged the hand that flew up, seeing the glint of the knife, and snatched both wrists tightly. The Englishman suddenly looked thoroughly frustrated, Alfred drank in the victory. "My turn to lead, old man." He said boastfully. Arthur's anger lessened as he allowed Alfred this challenge. This was all becoming rather fun to him.

"Old man?"

"Better than gramps."

Arthur squinted his eyes. "If you're trying to impress me you are doing it all wrong."

Alfred slid his hand along Arthur's wrist and took the knife away. Without so much as glancing at the crowd he dropped it behind him and kicked it beneath a table with his foot. His eyes never looked away from Arthur's, not even to blink. "This isn't about impressing you, this is simply settling the score. Impressing you comes later." Alfred concluded to himself more than anything. He led Arthur back onto the less crowded dance floor, it seemed people were starting to make their leave from the event. How late was it now? How long had he been dancing before with Arthur? It hadn't felt long at all.

He started to move to the music having memorised Arthur's lead from earlier. He was definitely aware of eyes being on them now, maybe returning to the dance floor had been a bad idea. "Actually its getting late I should-"

"It doesn't matter what they think." Alfred's heart jumped at the hiss in Arthur's voice, or perhaps it was the dullness in his eyes that made him appear more...human. "If you spend your whole life caring about what strangers think of you, you won't get anywhere."

"Sounds like you stole that line."

Arthur laughed. "In my childhood days I memorised lines from Shakespeare plays. In adulthood I try to make lines that people will never forget. After all in this line of work most of what you say will be the last thing that person hears. Don't you agree?"

Alfred thought for a moment. "Usually I make them sing something." He replied sheepishly.

"Sing what, exactly?"

"Uh, usually the American national anthem."

Arthur didn't look shocked. "Honestly, Americans are so full of themselves."

"And English people aren't?"

"We have sophistication."

"A big-nosed complex is what you have." Alfred retaliated, swinging Arthur around sharply.

Arthur squeezed Alfred's hand painfully tight. "Well then, Americans have an ego complex." He shot back as Alfred swallowed down the pain. He hadn't even realised the music had finished again until he saw men bowing to their partners in the corner of his eye. He stepped back from Arthur and bowed the same. Wait. There was a red speck on his shoes. His shoes. His heartbeat quickened as the side of his abdomen suddenly began to pulse. How did he? Alfred looked up and expected a smirk, however Arthur's face was that of a stone. Of something dead. "A small needle can go undetected if it punctures the skin correctly, and as such I have used it as a last resort in similar situations."

Alfred wobbled a little. He tried to put pressure on the little puncture but it stung worse. "What...was in...that?"

"Just a little tranquiliser, nothing that'll kill you because that's not my intention tonight." His legs went limp but strong hands pulled him back up again. His chin rested on Arthur's shoulder as lights and colours just became blurry shapes before his eyes. A reassuring hand dragged through his mangled hair and he could feel his eyes closing. "You maybe a brat and a cocky one at that. But you are certainly not someone I want to kill. I kill people who need to be killed. Whoever hired you is as much of a monster as he makes me out to be."

Then, Alfred blacked out to the sensation of hands holding him close. Safe and warm.