Name: Capital Punishment

Genre: Action, Crime, Romance, Angst, Tragedy

Pairings: FrUK

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. If it was, Canada would appear more.

Summary: Francis Bonnefoy is the head of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a rather interesting undercover job of which is perfectly complimented by his main job. He is a family man, although the only family that remains for him is his fourteen-year-old, Matthieu. Arthur Kirkland is a lowly law enforcement agent, a nice way to say a "grunt police officer", and is vastly dissatisfied with his job. His ordinary life of grumbling abruptly grinds to a halt when he meets with one of the most wanted (although unknown) men of all time.

"… And with that, it seems that these underground activities have risen in level gradually over the past year. Of course, according to our sources, this is nothing more than a very rough estimate, but it cannot be denied that the number of… shall we say incidences are increasing steadily, much more so than is normally expected in a place like Louisiana. The roots of these sudden toll on murders are as of yet, still to be confirmed, but our superiors in the Office of Congressional Affairs would like us to investigate, if we can, any more on the matter. It is quite troubling and if recent research can prove it, there will be at least two five individual deaths per month within the course of the next six months. It is something that has caught even the President's attention – this is not a matter to be taken lightly, people."

He snorted. Cerulean eyes focused on his nails, which at that moment were being trimmed delicately with a nail filer. He noted with disdain when one specific nail, the one on his pinkie finger, stubbornly refused to be cut short into the perfect semicircular shape that he so willed it to be. In response, he raked down the metallic thing harder on the thing, grinding his teeth slightly at its stubbornness. In a battle of willpower and staring, well, no one could beat him, not even a blasted fingernail.

The outburst had caught the attention of those seated around the oval table. There were about nine people seated – including himself – and one more extra that was the speaker. All eyes were now on him, their expressions a mingle of curiosity, suppressed laughter and irritation. Not that it mattered to him; weren't all eyes always on him? He offered them all a quick scan, before nodding at them and resuming his habitual duty, as though nothing had ever happened.

A cough came from in front of them. "Ah, yes, Mr. Bonnefoy? Was there something you'd like to add?"

The man shook his head, looking as bored as he felt. "Non, non, please carry on."

"Right. Well, as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, we, as the panel, would love to hear more insight from someone such as yourself. I am sure you have been in contact with the Director of National intelligence. Would you care to add any more comments on the matter?"

Francis rolled his eyes, unsure of whether he ought to respond or not. The whole meeting up till that point had already passed by in an oh-so-lovely three hours. He hated meetings like these honestly, where all they did was pool their collective results in one go. Now, he would not have despised them so much had it not been for the fact that they were so drastically droll and depressing… much like the presentation that had just been delivered for them was. He would have much rather discussed the effects of alcohol in prostitute bars, to investigate just how many of them were able to bring a man home when intoxicated – or even whether or not the men needed to be intoxicated to bring one of them home.

He smirked lightly to himself; it sure wouldn't take him a lot of convincing, he knew for one.

But really, this was just one of the more boring things about this place. He had just been promoted a few weeks ago due to a rather unfortunate incident involving the previous Director, which had involved an accidental trip down the Grand Canyon… with his body never to have been found. Yes, yes, it had been a rather depressing thing over all, but seeing as how this job was high-priority and fast-paced, they had immediately put his name up for a promotion, seeing his stellar record and punctual hours. Even he had been surprised by his own lack of tardiness and the whole fact that he would not only be given quite a hefty raise (he would rather not mention numbers for fear of being mobbed), to a point where, when he had been offered that letter in position rise, he had actually – he shivered at the memory – slammed down his nail filer in mid-process to stare at the messenger's face incredulously and letting out a huge, "Quoi?"

But the adrenaline rush that had come hand-in-hand faded within a week or so, after noticing that all he really did differently was do more paperwork and sit in his office for longer periods of time. At least in his previous position, he had been allowed the freedom of flitting through the numerous stalls in wild abandon (what else for than to flirt with the insanely hot secretaries and their huge busts? Oh yes, Matilda down floor four stall number one hundred and thirty one by far). Now, he felt like a caged bird, and none more so than during these boring things they called meetings. They didn't even allow him to serve wine, for the love of God, and that right there just did it for him. Ever since he was refused his one true passion (aside from females, of course) he had instantly begun to spiral into a deep hatred for these things.

This would have explained why he had never spoken before, or at least attempted not to, but the presenter in front of them was giving him no choice. He sighed, deciding to go with the flow and at least look like the leader, instead of being more than an arrogant, pompous idiot.

Francis cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, I 'ave talked to 'ze National Intelligence last week, actually. As you 'ave said, 'e was razzer curious about 'ze sudden rise in death tolls, and so we chatted about 'eet a bit, oui. But we did nuzzin' more 'zan what you 'ave discussed up 'zere. 'E just gave us all a 'eads-up and 'zat 'ze military might act soon. 'E said, 'owever, not to let our guards down. 'Zat is all." He shrugged as if to prove his nonchalance, before settling back against his chair, legs propped up on the table.

Everyone stared at him uncertainly, but nevertheless nodded; did they have a choice? "Very well, thank you very much, Mr. Bonnefoy." He nodded dismissively, but said nothing more, his attention already back to his nails (literally) at hand. "And… I believe that concludes our meeting today, ladies and gentleman. As our Director has warned, just because you are part of this agency, does not mean you are immune to being killed. This is a harsh truth, but it is so. Please do be careful out there." The presenter then turned towards his higher-up, questioning. "Is… there anything you would like to add, sir?"

The male resisted the urge to just sigh and go on a wild rampage after being interrupted his little chore again, but thought better of it. After all, what would be his reputation like? Francis, the egotistical, unstable, charming ladies' man? No, no, he would have preferred Francis, the egotistical, resourceful, charming ladies' man. It definitely had a better ring to it.

He pretended to glance at the board and his notes carefully, as though contemplating on his next actions, but he knew very well what his answer was before it left his lips. With slow deliberation and fake pondering, he pursed his lips as though deep in thought, before waving his hand lazily at the general. "Non, 'zat is all, I believe. You are all dismissed."

Scraping of chairs as they were pushed back was audible within the small room, and people started murmuring as they chatted among themselves, nodding and discussing the results of the meeting. After all, this building was the only place they could talk about such highly confidential information; should they have been caught doing so outside, then they would have been instantly fired or fine, sometimes even both. Even last week, there had been such an incident occurring. His name was Roderich, a quiet fellow, someone that he had expected to be the last one to be fired. However, when he'd gone on a drinking binge, the poor man had absolutely no alcoholic resistance, and had thus blurted out all he knew about the Feliciano case to a nearby bartender. Said bartender had then proceeded to tell his wife, his friends, and slowly, the rumours had reached one of the workers in the agency, who had promptly reported it. He was out there quicker than the snap of a whip with a $5,000 fine for sharing top-secret information. Sad, really.

Francis took his time getting up, and just as he was about to leave the room, he was stopped by a touch on his shoulder, which he instinctively cringed back from. He was not used to such… aggressive touching (save for the bed episodes, of course, but those were whole different story), and he couldn't help the devilish look that flashed his face for a second before he turned towards the owner of the hairy hand with a smile on his face. It was the presenter.

"Thank you for your input today, Mr. Bonnefoy," he started with a smile.

"Of course, of course. 'Zat is my job after all, no?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose." The man put his hand out, which Francis received gingerly (the disgusting cooties), shaking it briefly before letting go, and wiping it on the back of his shirt. "As you know, today was my last meeting, and I will be resigning this Friday. Thank you for having me here."

"Of course, of course, 'zat is no problem! You are always welcome to come back… Ah, non, wait, you are not. Silly me!"

"No, no, I understand that. Secrets are top priority, after all. Now, then…" he turned to leave, before he paused by the door again. Francis groaned internally; would no one leave him alone with his godforsaken nails? However, the sudden mumbling by the other had left him surprised, and he strained to hear the next words. "If you have some free time, Mr. Bonnefoy, would you like to have some coffee with me? The day's done and over with and…"

Francis grin exploded; so that was what that was all about? He moved forward, patting the other on the back in a friendly but far-too-informal manner. "Is 'zat all? Really, now, you should speak up! Well, normally, I would never decline something like a drink wiz' friends" – friends or lovers, he didn't care, of course, as long as they had cash to pay and a free night alone in a motel room – "but alas, today, I 'ave some urgent business to take care of. I do 'ope you understand, monsieur?"

The man just smiled and shook his head. "Yes, yes, of course, I understand. Are you going back home to your family?"

Francis giggled like a little schoolgirl at this question, before raising his pointer finger in front of his lips, winking at the other. "Now 'zat, my good man, is a secret."

The two shared a brief laugh, before they turned to leave the office. Francis stared at the empty room for a few seconds, before smiling to himself, flicking all the lights shut.

He made his way down to the bottom of the office building, a rather large black twelve by twelve briefcase in his hand. Dressed from head to toe in a black trench coat that hovered all the way to the bottom of his knees, he greeted passer-by with a smile and nod, except of course for the females, which he granted with an extra wink, sending them giggling. Ah, the female presence was always so… endearing. They were so soft and… should he say squishy? They were so delicately fragile like roses, as though one wrong move could break them. He loved that, of course. He loved that way he could test their limits to see just how far they could go without something going horribly wrong, how far and fast he could push before they screamed in ecstasy –

He chuckled, shaking his head. No, no, he would save that for tonight. Right now, he had another job that needed doing.

As he broke out past the sliding doors, Francis glanced briefly around the sights and sounds. It was already five in the afternoon (usually, he would have left at seven in his previous position), but it was still light out, which was just as well. But of course, he already knew this, seeing as how he'd checked the weather and light in advance just for today. It was absolutely essential.

The streets of Louisiana were nothing but bustling, but he'd seen it far too many times to even spare it no more than a passing glance. It was far too repetitive, the honking of the cars and the shouts of angry civilians who had just been fired and were roaming the streets in hopes of a job. Not even the buildings could distract him; the sense of aesthetics had been lost in America, he could tell. At least, back home, everything was carefully built and handcrafted piece by piece, whereas here, it looked as though they had hired a giant toddler to put giant blocks together, paint it, and voila! It was a sorry excuse for a city, should he be able to say anything about it.

(Well, truth be told, he had attempted to drop in the local government office to demand a miniature Eiffel Tower be erected dead smack in the middle of the city. He hadn't understood why a.) they had booted him out and b.) why they did not do it. Freedom of speech, his beautifully shaped arse!)

Francis made his way towards a mansion off St. Charles Avenue; this place was full of rich people. Shrugging the coat closer to himself, he now pulled out a matching hat from the pocket, donning it on his head in an effort to conceal his bright mess of hair (which of course he hated; every second he was not getting attention was like having a fish out of water, its natural element). Upon arriving, he settled his eyes on a white, four-story mansion that had the perfect view of both the intersection and various alleyways. With no hesitation, he plucked the key he had "acquired" into the door knob, alighting the stairs until he was on top of the spacious veranda that occupied that whole top floor. Glancing to make certain that no one was around, he nodded satisfyingly to himself. The sources had been right; the family here left on Tuesdays and did not return until eight in the evening, during which time he would be long gone.

It was just as well.

Grimacing lightly to himself, the blonde made his way over to the edge of the roof, which was corralled with a cemented wall, tall enough for a person who was laying down to conceal himself. Perfect.

He sat, squatting, and pulled the briefcase closer to himself. Entering the ten-digit code, he unlocked it with two practiced hands, rapidly pulling the contents out of the bag and assembling them. He whistled when he finished; the M40A3 glinted in his hand.

"Mon dieu, you are something else, aren't you?" Without another word, he inserted the .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge that had been especially manufactured for it. Upon hearing the satisfying click of bullets and ammos, he rearranged himself into a laying position, a quarter of the tip of the sniping rifle visible, immobile.

Now, if his sources were right – and of course they were; it wasn't called the Central Intelligence Agency for nothing – the killer would be passing this alley in about five minutes, making his daily routines to check if there was anyone to possibly rape or kill. Francis was absolutely disgusted by this; what kind of idiotic, barbaric male would treat a woman so roughly? (He was an exception to that, of course, because more often than not, they wanted him to treat them roughly, to which he would of course, easily see through.) Not only was that enough of a motive for him to kill the bastard, but it was also his job. His… other job.

The male tensed, glancing through the scope with a 0.5 MOA, again, specially customized for himself. No sign of movement as of that moment, and it was silence save for the bustling cars.

Then the phone rang.

Jumping slightly, he pulled out his red cellphone from his coat pocket, glancing briefly at the phone number before smiling. Setting the gun down parallel to his body, he clicked the "Answer" button.

"Papa?" came a small voice.

Francis felt his heart explode; it was a voice that he heard every day, but still he had not grown tired of it, and he felt like he never would. It was just so pure, so angelic, and so… sadly he would admit, unlike himself. But the voice was his, and that was all that mattered.

"Oui, mon petite ange", the male replied heartily, still feeling light-hearted. "Why are you calling me at 'zis time? Should you not be asleep?"

"Oui, Papa. Je me demandais quand tu rentrer à la maison. "

"Mm, in about trente minutes. Are you alright by yourself?"

"Oui, Papa. Mais peut tu rentrez bientôt? Je veux tu montrer un dessinque j'ai faità l'école!"

"I will. But Papa has to go now, oui? I will be home soon."

"Okay, Papa! Je t'adore!"

"Je t'adore trop, mon bien-aime Matthieu."

The line went dead, and Francis pocketed the phone, feeling lightheaded. However, the feeling of euphoria did not last too long, before he spied movement within the rifle's scope. He smirked to himself; just as predicted, the bastard had arrived, and was lounging by the wall, smoking nonchalantly and waiting for an innocent victim.

Today was going to be his last.

After having propped up with rifle to its position, Francis stuck a finger in his mouth, wetting it before releasing it back into the air, calculating the wind flow direction and speed in one swift move. The distance to the target was approximately three hundred fifty meters. Obstructions, none. Target direction, southeast. Wind flow, south. Wind speed, five kilometres an hour. Rifle readjusted to compensate for wind resistance.

His gloved fingers – it was extremely vital not to leave fingerprints – wrapped themselves around the trigger, a blue eye looking through the scope, aimed dead center for the forehead.

Un, deux, trois. Boom.

The bullet launched itself at startling speeds, causing nearby civilians to jump at the dreaded but commonplace sound. Au contraire to others, the practiced man watched the bullet fly in slow motion, the winds parting ways violently for the volatile object, passing through nothing more than gaseous air.

Then it struck the target.

There was no sense of forewarning. Blood splashed openly from the gash where the bullet had struck; he had used the softest bullet possible so as to keep the lower half of his head intact. The upper skull, eyes, nose and upper facial features, were blown to smithereens, leaving nothing more than a bloody, half-decapitated corpse in its wake. The not-so-human being sprawled to the floor with a thud, a fountain of crimson sprouting from the top of his head.

Francis smirked at the job well done.

Standing up, he patted his hands together and, disassembling the rifle back to its components to stow in the bag, he hummed nonchalantly in his head, head waving to and fro in rhythm with the beat.

"Je viens, Matthieu."

A/N: So... holy crap, I finished this in two hours, and I am super excited. This is my first crime-based fic and I really hope you guys like it! I tried not to spoil too much in the summary, so I hope you can bear with that for now. As is mentioned, this will eventually be a FrUK fic, so please do not read if you dislike this pairing!

Honestly, I am so excited for this plot that I could not help but start it today (on the day of an exam, haha). But yes, please enjoy and please please give me feedback and reviews as to what I should change/improve. Thanks, everyone and lots of love!~ 3

Translations: (google, google, google, blame google)

mon petite ange - my little angel

Je me demandais quand vous rentrer à la maison - I was wondering when you'd come home

Mais peut vous rentrez bientôt? Je veux vous montrer un dessin que j'ai fait à l'école! - But can you come home soon? I want to show you a drawing I did in school!

Je t'aime trop, mon bien-aime - I love you too, my beloved