Author's Note: Hello, everyone! This story was requested by icicle223 on Tumblr. It's a sequel to another fic of mine called "I Spy a Family," but you should still be able to enjoy it even if you haven't read the original, so no worries. I'm really excited to finally share it with you guys because it's finals week for me, and it's a relief to be able to post something despite the madness at school.

As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think! I'd really appreciate it. Thanks for being awesome!

It's quiet. Too quiet.

Arthur leans against the stiff, black leather seat of his assigned patrol car and waits to be dispatched. The window is rolled down, yet it does nothing to make him feel less stuffy—all it does is cause his allergies to flare up from the pollen—and, dear god, why is it so quiet? Apparently, no one is committing crimes on a Saturday morning in the suburbia of Connecticut, which isn't surprising, frankly. It's a contentedly serene town. Everyone is either at home with family or spending this lovely sunny day at the park.

The silence is unnerving. Having spent more years than he'd like to count working as a federal agent with Francis, this change of pace has been shocking for them both. It's been three years since they started working on a traditional, everyday police force, and Arthur still can't believe the majority of his job now consists of dishing out speeding tickets and pulling over intoxicated drivers on the highway.

This is what he wanted—to settle down—so why does his heart continue to ache with desire for the good, ol' days of stopping drug traffickers, protecting presidents and prime ministers, and working on counterintelligence missions from the most secretive hideouts on Earth? He misses the adrenaline rush—the exhilaration of constantly having to be on his toes.

Now he's wasting away over here and becoming nothing but an old fart! Granted, he's not young and spry anymore—oh he'd give anything to have his youth back—and it's about time he settled down anyway. This is what's best for him. He can't live life on the edge of his seat forever, especially not when he has two young boys to raise now. They're only eleven, and that means he can't go running around on missions across the globe for months on end like he used to. Slowing down is part of life—a necessary step needed in order to age and mature.

In the middle of his brooding, his phone rings. It's Francis.

"Hello?"

"Mon amour, don't panic but—"

Oh, how wonderful. This is what he gets for complaining about the solitude.

"What do you mean 'don't panic?' You can't begin a conversation like that and expect me to remain calm!" he growls, heart rate already quickening. Is everything okay with the boys? Was there a fire or a tornado or a flash flood? Did someone get hurt?

"Alfred snuck out of the house. He must have taken his bike because it's not in the yard," Francis continues, not paying any mind to his little outburst.

"Snuck out? How? He's grounded!"

"He couldn't have gone far. He's probably down by the river."

Arthur clicks his tongue and sighs. He's tempted to put bars on the boy's window and keep him locked in his room until he's an adult. He has an atrocious habit of wandering off, especially when he knows he's in trouble. Just last week, they'd received a call from Alfred's sixth-grade teacher regarding his disruptive behavior in class. He talks during the lesson, passes notes, and hardly ever even looks up at the blackboard. He's only two days into his month-long punishment, and he's already rebelling again.

"Okay, I'll look for him," Arthur promises, rubbing his forehead. This is not the kind of adventure he had in mind.

"Thank you, mon cher. I'm sorry to bother you when you're working. Keep me updated," Francis says somberly before hanging up. It seems he's getting a little discouraged with disciplining the boy as well, and who can blame him? Alfred is well-versed in stirring up conflict.

Arthur turns on the ignition, adjusts his mirrors, and frowns. He has a young delinquent to catch.

He takes Francis's suggestion and searches the road by the river, and, as usual, the Frenchman's intuition turns out to be correct because he finds several bike tracks on the path cloaked under the canopy of summer-green trees.

After ten minutes of driving in a straight line, he spots a group of boys riding the bikes in question. Alfred is near the back of the group, and although the hood of his sweatshirt is pulled up over his head, Arthur knows it's him by his terrible, hunch-backed posture—he's been trying to get the boy to sit up straight for ages now. Plus, there's no mistaking that red, white, and blue bicycle.

Fully intending to embarrass the boy in order to teach him a lesson, Arthur switches on the flashing lights and ear-splitting siren of the patrol car, making a great racket. He picks up the little walkie-talkie that serves as his intercom and says in his most intimidating voice, "Young man in the dark blue sweater, pull over."

He hears Alfred groan, and the whole group of boys comes to a stop, genuinely believing Alfred is in trouble with law enforcement. They "ooh" and "ahh" as Arthur stops the patrol car, parks it, and steps out to deal with his mischievous son.

Alfred gets off his bike and holds it upright by its handles. He doesn't say a word as Arthur approaches him and pulls off his hood, revealing the boy's dirty blond hair and the cowlick perched atop it. He's as red as a cherry. Good.

"You're under arrest," Arthur says dryly. "Drop the bike and place your hands where I can see them."

"Dad," Alfred hisses, but he lets go of the bike nonetheless. A few of his fellow bikers stifle some snickers, catching on.

"You were speeding—and where is your helmet?" Arthur asks him as he takes the bike in his own hands. "Get into the car."

"But I—!"

"Now, Alfred."

Alfred throws his hands up in defeat and storms his way over to the patrol car, looking like the unhappiest and most miserable boy in the world. He takes his spot at the passenger's side while Arthur stows his bike across the backseats, murmuring to himself about how he's never allowed to do anything fun and how he's going to live in the woods because it'd be better than always being bossed around.

"You're so humiliating," Alfred grumbles as a final note, hiding his flushed face behind his hands.

Arthur allows himself a triumphant smile, picks up his walkie-talkie again, and addresses the rest of the boys, "Carry on, lads. Don't run into any trouble."

Then, he returns to the driver's seat, spares Alfred a sidelong glance, and mutters, "You snuck out of the house, made your papa worry, and didn't even have the decency to let anyone know where you were going. Do you want me to have an aneurysm?"

Alfred raises his eyes, daring to look at him, and asks, "What's an aneurysm?"

"Something you'd best hope I don't have," Arthur fumes, driving toward home. "What has gotten into you? Have Papa and I been so awful to you that you feel the need to rebel? Is this a cry for help?"

"You don't get it," Alfred huffs, fidgeting in his seat.

"You're right, I don't. I've been trying to understand, Alfred, but you haven't given me any information to work with. You've been avoiding your papa and me… I want you to know we're here to help, no matter how big or small the problem may seem."

Naturally, Alfred doesn't appear to take any of his lecture to heart. If anything, it just feels as though Arthur is watching Alfred walk farther and farther away from him.

"Did someone say something to you at school or hurt you in any way?"

"No, Dad. It's nothing like that."

"What is it, then?" All Arthur wants is a proper answer to a simple question.

"It's nothing… I'm sorry for sneaking out."

The boy is just trying to placate him, and Arthur knows this, but harassing him for a real answer now will only make things worse, he fears. He has to try to be patient and hope the truth will come out eventually.

They reach the house they've called home for three years now. Francis just trimmed the lawn yesterday, despite Arthur's insistence that it was too hot to be doing such laborious work. He was right, of course, and Francis came back inside with the beginnings of heat stroke topped off with a painful sunburn.

"This is your stop," Arthur says, torn between giving Alfred a reassuring smile or a stern frown.

"Okay," Alfred whispers, but he doesn't move.

"Is everything all right?"

Alfred turns to him, hands in his lap, and says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can, my boy."

"Did you want to be a dad?"

Well, that's one question Arthur wasn't prepared for. He takes a breath, sits back, and stares at the horrifically picturesque neighborhood they live in. It's everything anyone could ever ask for—it's safe, the people are pleasant (for the most part), the school district is one of the best in the state, there's room for the boys to run and play, and the list goes on.

Yet…

Arthur touches the badge on his uniform and feels like a part of him is missing. He left it behind somewhere during his last mission.

"I'm not sure what I wanted, to be entirely honest. I'm not sure what I expected either. I didn't know what being a father meant, and I'm still learning. I'm new to this in many ways."

"Oh…"

"Why do you ask?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders at him and lies. "I don't know."

There's something deeper going on here, Arthur is certain.

"I'm sure Papa has lunch waiting on the table," he notes, hoping the prospect of food will bolster the child's spirit.

"Yeah. See you later," Alfred murmurs, getting out of the car this time.

Arthur nods and goes around to the back to hand the boy his bike. He gives him firm instructions to relinquish it to Francis, who will be monitoring his bike usage from now on. They don't need another scare like this in the future, and taking away Alfred's form of transportation seems like a good first step to keeping the boy from disappearing again.

He watches Alfred go inside and wants to stay a little longer, but then his walkie-talkie awakens, and he's dispatched to handle a car accident on the highway.

"Ah, you're finally home. Do me a favor and fold the laundry, would you?

Arthur rolls the ache out of his shoulders and wonders when he went from being a bachelor that tracked down the most wanted men and women in existence to being Mr. Mom. He can fold a shirt in under five seconds, wash the dishes while simultaneously helping with homework, and can tell a darn good bedtime story, but he can't run five kilometers like he used to. His left leg never did fully recover from that time he was shot in Florida.

He puts down his things and goes about finishing the chores Francis has divided up between them. It seems there's always something that needs doing, and Arthur can't recall how long it's been since the two of them have had the chance to sit down and talk one-to-one.

It's an odd thing—he doesn't know what to make of their relationship anymore. They're partners but now they're also parents, which changes everything. They are more than just lovers, yet Francis seems more and more like a stranger. Where did the days of sipping tea together and complaining about politics go? What happened to the cheap wine and awful romance movies and cheesy dates? Where did the independence—the liberty of making the calls in their own lives—go?

"I left a plate for you in the microwave," Francis says, and it's like he's nothing more than an acquaintance—someone whom Arthur can say "good evening" to and nothing else. Even the tone of his voice seems so far away and cold.

"Thank you."

"Mmm."

"How was everything today? Aside from Alfred's brief getaway, of course."

Francis blinks wearily, worn out. Has he been like this for a while? How has Arthur not noticed this? Is he unhappy? Is he going to leave him with the boys?

"It was fine. Your mother called and said to reach out to her in the morning."

Arthur frowns. It's never a good sign when his family is trying to get in touch with him. They must want something. "My mother? Did she say why she needed to speak to me?"

"Something about how upset she is that she hasn't had a chance to meet with the boys yet. I think she wants you to visit over the summer."

He has to snort at that. The only time he'll go home is when he's sent over in a coffin. "Really now? I don't think that's going to happen."

"Why not? She said she was looking forward to a reunion. She wants your brothers to visit as well."

Oh, how precious. Prior to the adoption of the boys, his mother never extended him an invitation to come and stay with her. All they did was exchange Christmas and birthday cards—nothing more, nothing less—for the past ten years.

"Well, there can only be one explanation—she's gone mad."

"Don't say that. She's trying to reconnect."

"I don't want to reconnect, and certainly not with my siblings."

"That's a shame… You should consider yourself blessed to have a family."

Ah, so he's playing that card again. Most of Francis's family is either dead or has intentionally kept out of touch over age-old feuds, and he's always insisting Arthur do something about his broken bonds with his brothers before it's too late—before they all die in tragic accidents or of illness and leave Arthur without anyone to hate.

"I wouldn't use 'blessed' in this context."

"You're all adults now. Surely you can get along for a short while."

"Adults? I think not. You don't have the slightest idea as to what menaces they are."

"No, but I'd still like to get to know them. It's about time I met your family," Francis points out, suddenly looking more energized. There's a glimmer of mischief in his eyes—playful and young in every sense. It's like they're meeting for the very first time again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Francis shrugs his shoulders benignly and sways from side to side as a smile creeps across his lips. "We need to find out if your mother approves."

Arthur snorts in derision. "As if I care what she thinks."

"You should care, at least a little."

"Well, I don't."

"You do, you just haven't realized it yet," Francis insists, still looking far too happy for comfort. "Come on, Arthur... Please, call her tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to get away for a while and spend a few weeks with your family. We could all use a break once the boy's finish the school term."

No, Arthur refuses to be tricked into spending a chunk of his summer in such dreadful company. If Francis wants to go on vacation, they can travel to Las Vegas or Maui.

"Think about it, okay? At least promise me that."

"Okay," Arthur pauses for dramatic effect, and then huffs, "I've thought about it."

Francis chuckles softly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to do. It's your family and your decision."

"Don't do that. I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?"

Arthur scowls and steadies a baleful look at him. "Don't pretend to be nonchalant about all of this and think it'll make me change my mind. I won't be falling for your reverse psychology today."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Francis says with a smirk before marching up the stairs to put the boys' clothes in their dressers.

Arthur stands in the empty laundry room for a while and groans. He's already getting mental images of rolling plains and the boys running around in front of his mother's old cottage. Maybe there is a part of him deep, deep, deep down that misses home. Perhaps it's the piece he's been missing—the last part of himself that he's never truly reconciled with.

Damn Francis for putting the idea into his head. The man does these things on purpose. All he has to do is plant the seed of a thought to get what he wants. He knows Arthur's weakness—his tendency to be over-analytical—and uses it to his advantage more often than Arthur cares to admit.

When he goes to bed that night with Francis, he makes sure to have his back to him, making it clear he's not going to concede to this battle without a bit of a struggle first. Francis tries to get him to relent by winding his arms around his middle and pressing their bodies against one another, and the man's warmth seeps into Arthur's skin and bones, setting him at ease. Nonetheless, Arthur doesn't acknowledge the caresses, and instead, slams his eyes shut and inwardly yells at himself to go asleep and ignore the man.

It works somewhat because before he knows it, he's peeling his eyes open to the early morning light of another day, and he can hear the boys stomping past the bedroom door, a signal they're up to no good.

He disentangles himself from Francis' arms, taking care not to wake him, and saunters out into the hallway to investigate. He's covering a yawn behind his hand when he sees Matthew standing at the foot of the stairs with tears in his eyes.

"What's going on here?" Arthur asks, heart clenching with pain as a sob escapes Matthew's mouth. "Matthew, dear, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Matthew nods his head and throws himself against Arthur's chest, seeking reassurance as his sobs increase in pace and strength. "I tried to make you breakfast for you and Papa's anniversary."

Anniversary? Is it that day already? He pales as he imagines how upset Francis will be when he finds out he's forgotten about their three-year anniversary. He'll have to listen to him gripe for weeks about how ungrateful he is and how he's never appreciated.

"It hurts," Matthew hiccups against Arthur's shirt.

He snaps himself out of his train of thought to look at the bleeding cut on Matthew's palm, and he sets aside all of his other worries for the time being. "How did this happen?"

"I was trying to cut off the leafy parts of the strawberries for the French toast."

Arthur clicks his tongue, brushes Matthew's hair back with one hand, and guides him over to the counter in the bathroom. He sits him down and searches around for the hydrogen peroxide in the medicine cabinet, still berating himself for forgetting about today when Matthew had the sense to remember.

"It's all right. It looks worse than it is," he promises as he wets a washcloth with the hydrogen peroxide and presses it against the wound. "You know you aren't allowed to use knives without permission."

Matthew sniffles in remorse and wails, "I wanted it to be a surprise!"

"You didn't have to go through all of this trouble, my boy."

Just as Arthur is finishing up cleaning the cut and placing a bandage over it, Alfred comes bursting into the bathroom with a mini first-aid kit from the basement in his hands.

"Matt! Are you okay? I have the stuff!"

Arthur smiles down at his dramatic son and then at his injured one and says, "All fixed. No more surprises, agreed?"

Before the boys can respond, a fourth person enters the room, and this time, it's Francis. His hair is all over the place and his feet are still in slippers when he asks, "What's going on?"

"Matthew wanted to prepare a breakfast for us for our anniversary," Arthur explains, one hand rubbing circles into Matthew's shoulder.

Francis's reaction to this news isn't all that different from what Arthur's was a few minutes ago. His eyes widen, his complexion turns a shade lighter, and he tries to act completely natural but fails.

"Ah, Mathieu, that wasn't necessary. Thank you for the thought," Francis finally murmurs, embracing the child. "You're too good to us sometimes."

At this, Alfred rolls his eyes and shouts, "Hey! What about me?"

Francis deposits a sloppy kiss to Alfred's cheek, causing the boy to squirm and exclaim over and over again about how he's too big to be kissed and that he's not a baby anymore.

"You didn't forget about our anniversary, did you?" Arthur asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

"W-What? N-No! Of course not! How could I forget? I've had this day planned for—"

"Because I forgot," Arthur admits, ruffling each of the boys' mops of blond hair.

Francis lets out a sigh and then laughs, shoulders shaking. "Of course we both forgot the most important day in our relationship."

They're both walking disasters. That's why they belong together.

"Let's see if some of that breakfast Matthew made can be salvaged," Arthur suggests, brushing past Francis and stopping for just a second to give him a barely perceptible, affectionate nudge in the side before heading out into the hallway again.

Despite having closed the door to the bedroom, Arthur can hear the sound of the rest of the family gathered around just outside, inquisitive ears trying to listen in. Don't they know better than to eavesdrop? Francis, clearly, is uncivilized, but he thought he'd taught the boys to be polite.

"Why do we have to stay quiet?" he hears Alfred whisper.

"Because your father is going to call his mother."

"He has a mother?" Alfred asks, and Matthew snickers from beside him. "Can I talk to her?"

"No," Francis mutters. "Keep your voice down."

Arthur shakes his head at the conniving trio and pulls the bedroom door open to glare at all of them. "Out, right this second!"

Three pairs of eyes widen at the sight of him. The culprits know to be flustered and ashamed for being caught because they all rise to their full height and go running off in opposite directions.

Honestly… All he wants is a moment of privacy.

He clutches the stationary phone in his hand and sighs heavily, nervous. What is he supposed to say? Are they expected to catch up on everything they've neglected to talk about all of these years? Or can they be detached and cold as always toward one another?

He picks up his calling card, sits on the edge of the bed, and dials the number he wishes would stop plaguing him.

The line rings five times before there's an answer.

"Hello?"

Involuntarily, Arthur's throat constricts, leaving him to sputter over his own breath as he struggles to say something. "Mum? It's Arthur."

To say Mrs. Kirkland is overjoyed is a severe understatement. She makes a series of rapid-fire exclamations and thanks the lord that Arthur hasn't completely dismissed her existence and has finally taken the time to reach out to her. "I spoke to Francis the other day—you barely ever mention him in the letters you've sent, but he seems like a lovely man. As for Alfred and Matthew, it's a travesty they haven't met their grandmother yet! You must bring them over on holiday."

Hearing Francis being described as a "lovely man" makes him choke on the air in his lungs. "I'm not certain it would be—"

"July would be best," his mother interrupts, not giving him a chance to argue. "I can have everything arranged at a moment's notice though, and you needn't worry about imposing all of the sudden… My first grandchildren! I must say, I didn't think I'd live to see the day. I had expected Patrick or Allistor to have children first, of course, and so you can imagine my surprise when you sent me that letter a few years ago announcing the adoption. I'm happy for you."

He frowns and his face becomes uncomfortably hot from the amount of attention and praise that's being showered on him. He doesn't want to be congratulated or exalted by his family. His decisions have had nothing to do with them, and he doesn't feel as though they deserve to share their outlook on how things have turned out, regardless of whether or not that outlook is positive.

"Speaking of Allistor, he's been asking about you—misses you quite a bit, I daresay. I know he would enjoy getting to meet the twins as well, so you absolutely must bring them over for a visit."

"I don't—"

"Well, it's settled, then. Isn't it? Just pick a date, and I'll inform everyone else."

Arthur slouches over and feels the need to groan. He can't hide the boys from his family forever, can he? The same goes for Francis, he supposes. If two weeks is all it'll take to get everyone off of his case about this issue, then so be it—he'll suffer through it for the greater good in the long-term. If Alfred and Matthew (for reasons that are beyond him) end up wanting to visit his family again in the future, he'll just buy them plane tickets and send them off along with Francis while he stays at home and burns the photographs he has of his brothers just for the heck of it.

"Okay. I'll speak to Francis and see what we come up with," Arthur surrenders, and he can feel himself sinking. He is the emotional equivalent of the Titanic right now. There's no possible way this will end well. He has officially crashed into the iceberg. Abandon ship.

After nearly an hour of small talk, the call finally ends, and he pulls at his hair, frustrated with how he's been manipulated into going through with what is likely going to be the worst vacation he has ever taken.

He relays the news to Francis, who immediately spills the secret to the boys by shouting, "We're going to Europe!"

"Yay!" Alfred shouts back, bouncing up and down with Matthew in tow.

"This doesn't mean your punishment is over," Arthur reminds the child, pointing a stern finger at him. "We can find chores for you to do in Europe."

"No fair!"

"Fair," Arthur retorts, shoulders sagging with regret already. Now they have to spend money on plane tickets and figure out what to pack. A vacation means two weeks out of his calendar will be rendered useless and unproductive, and when he comes back, he's going to have to make up for lost time.

"It'll be fun," Francis vows, looking pleased with himself. "You're doing the right thing."

Arthur finally lets out the groan he's been wanting to let out for a while now and grumbles, "I'm going upstairs. I don't want to hear about this trip again until the day of our departure, or else I'm changing my mind. Consider me agreeing to this as an anniversary gift."

"Your wish is my command," Francis says with a wan smile. "We should forget about our anniversary more often."

"What are we going to see in Europe?" Matthew asks.

Alfred hastily jumps in with his own question as well. "What are the people like?"

"Is there maple syrup in England?"

"Does everyone there talk with a funny accent like you?"

"Is the food as bad as Papa says it is?"

"Can I use words like 'bloody hell' and 'chav' when we get there?"

Arthur shuts his eyes for a full three seconds, turns himself around, and retreats back to the bedroom, hoping this might end up being an elaborate nightmare.

It's not.