The Waiting Game

by fierysuzaku

Francis Bonnefoy assumed it to be a simple but very important mission involving a certain Englishman. It turned out be more than he bargained for.

"Pierre Durand."

The vowels and consonants meshes well into his voice as it rolls off his tongue, it feels strange for him though. Perhaps denoting his discomfort with this new mission of his, never the type to go into the long haul, keeping an alias for more than a few days seems troublesome for him.

Oh, well. C'est la vie.

"Francis Bonnefoy."

He visibly winces at that one. He is strange with names, he feels more comfortable simply as Agent Gallia rather than a name he rarely uses himself. After all, aside from the paperwork used to maintain his background, the need to use it never really comes up that often.

Probably, never will.

These so called 'real' names are merely reminders of an outside world his fellow agents tend to dabble in once in a while.

Merely a counter measure, really…

If one tries to look up his name in a data bank, they'll find a false life tailored fit to be an unbreakable shield against the curiosity of hackers and company rivals.

And speaking of hackers…

He casts his attention back to the report at hand and reads.

TARGET: Arthur Kirkland

OCCUPATION: Computer Programmer

OBJECTIVES: Acquire stolen data and eliminate target.

He frowns as he reads over the details. Arthur Kirkland, senior computer programmer at Jones Tech, possibly a hacker that works for The Keepers, rival of I'Agence. Both 'companies' have earned a reputation of producing the best spies the Underworld has to offer. It is not that much of a surprise if their spies tend to clash against each other in a matter of conflicting interests.

The phone rings.

"Oui, Mademoiselle," he greets, his features stiffening to a smile as he listens.

"Agent Gallia, I am sure you've been briefed of this mission," the metallic ring of the voice grates on his ear making wince a little as he voices out the affirmation with a nod.

"You have six months maximum to complete this mission…"

That long? He notes, delicate brows furrowing in unspoken curiosity. He expected it to end quicker than that, surely it's not that hard to get close to the target and retrieve the data.

"… it's imperative that you retrieve the stolen data, if word gets out…"

She does not need to finish the statement, Gallia has already seen the possible outcome, aside from the much expected decrease of clientele, the delicate balance of power between the two companies would be disrupted. After all, who would stake their blood money on a company that can't even protect its own secrets.

"… this is not only for our reputation but the safety of our people."

"I understand, Madamoiselle. The key prerogative of this mission is for me to recover the List and eliminate the hacker," he replies, not bothering to question the necessity of killing the man. If he can attain the whole list of spies from a much secured system, God knows what else he is secretly capable of.

"Good. The last thing we need is anyone else getting wind of this…" she goes on, detailing all the semantics, possible outcomes, standard operating procedures, nothing new really. He has been Gallia for as long as he could remember.

"Noted."

The List. A highly encrypted file containing all the agents' personal information along with the identity of their upper echelons, in fact, it is so encrypted and protected that each name has a unique pass code. It will take months possibly years to crack. That little detail is the only thing stopping the two companies into a full-scale war.

L'Agence can wait. But it will take back what was stolen from them.

"Good."

The call ends and he releases a deep sigh.

He always finds undercover missions draining, too many details to consider. Too many mistakes to make. And apparently, he is to pretend to be the new barista of the pub the target frequents.

Oh, joy. He is never one for mixing beverages, preferring the fragrant bouquet of wine over anything else.

There, he must eventually worm his way into the man's life and get it on from there. It was simple really. Arthur Kirkland appears to be a reasonable fellow, smart with the tell tale hints of confidence showing through his posture and gaze.

His eyes linger, taking in the target's features, his lips quirk into a small smirk when he notices to the thickness of his brows.

Pity, to hide such beautiful eyes with such monstrous brows.

With that thought in mind, his attention shifts to himself, catching his reflection in a nearby mirror to assess his appearance.

Should I wear contacts?

Cut my hair or just dye it?

Does the beard stay?

He has always been particular with his appearance, his natural blonde hair covered with dark brown or black. His chin occasionally shaved or covered with a full grown beard, in rare times, a moustache. He is a master of the art of disguise. He can turn into the most charming of men as well as shift into a shy maiden looking lost and alone in a party of politicians.

He decides to go for a more natural look. His hair is a shade darker than normal with his chin sporting a bit of stubble. He opts to skip the contacts because he doesn't like wearing them for too long. He finishes the look with a ponytail and an easy grin.

The grin widens just so when he notes just how well he fits the look of a charming barista.

Ready or not Arthur Kirkland, here I come.

---

He, Gallia, to term the phrase, is on the verge of ripping his hair out. That, or he takes the next rowdy drunk he sees and slam him into the bar for that satisfying crunch. Because, in all honesty, this pub will be the death of him.

"Oi, Frenchie! Get me an' me bros some pints!"

"The hell? You call this beer?!"

"New guy! Refill!"

"I wanted it shaken. Not stirred!"

If a person asks him what is the hardest part in going undercover, it won't be the lies or the constant mask he wears, no, it will be the excruciatingly long process of immersion and affiliation he needs to go through.

The fact that things can never go perfectly as planned because of the constant factors that seems to make it their mission to make him suffer.

Like today for example, his mind supplies making him groan at the memory of rapid race of orders, violent outbursts, unwelcomed prepositions, and most of all, the extreme lack of a certain Englishman.

Oh, mon Dieu! He groans as he flops down the bed, still in his work clothes and briefly contemplating on finding a job where he didn't feel like being pulled in all four directions.

"I didn't even have a chance to get see him, let alone get near him," he grumbles, pulling the tie off his neck and tossing it into a corner before he succumbs to the seductive lull of sleep.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.

It's been almost a month and he still has not established proper contact with the target – a target so annoyingly elusive that it grates on his very nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He is noticing a pattern with Sourcils (that's his codename now), the target only goes out drinking to unwind. He does not need to talk or socialize. He just sits on a corner with his damn pint or two, leaves money and magically disappears once his attention deviates for just one moment.

And what's even more frustrating is that whenever the pub is not bubbling with customers and rowdy drunks, the time when he actually has an opportunity to chat and socialize, the Brit does not show up. Gallia. No. Pierre. Pierre is not usually this impatient, he can wait for hours under the noon day sun for a perfect shot. He can stand and wait by a dark corner covered in muck and mud just for that window of opportunity to present itself.

But this?

This is torture because never in his life had he felt so powerless and reliant to sheer coincidence and luck. He can't just waltz into the man's office as an intern because that will take paperwork, identification and lots of processing that they do not want. He's already the magical coincidental next door neighbor that just managed to pop in at the right time and place. Except that Sourcils might be some supernatural being because who in the world wakes up at six in the morning, leaves an hour later and comes home probably somewhere along the late or early evenings depending on whether the man decides to grace the pub with his sulking presence.

Their schedules don't match. The only form of discreet contact is currently tittering between chancy and bad timing.

Why did I even agree to this? he wonders, heaving a heavy sigh while he cleans another glass because if he actually thinks about it, he was well within the bounds of refusal. Long term undercover is not his thing. He specializes in hacks, information retrieval, surveillance, discrete assassinations, and everything that is within the bounds of control.

Except. Except for the very fact that if he could not accomplish this. He, the Great Gallia, unable to accomplish this would make him a laughing stock. His pride and reputation would be in tatters along with the company if the Keepers succeed.

They might even force me to retire. He shudders at the thought, a few handfuls of agents willingly retire and the horror stories range from a simple memory wipe to getting a lobotomy before being sent into a mental institution depending on your behavior.

Whatever the truth maybe, retirement is like a death sentence for him. He could never picture a life outside the shadows. Sure, he had dreams of it. Fleeting thoughts of studying photography, traveling for the mere purpose of pleasure… love.

Stop!

Stop.

His lips settle into a grim line as he wills away such useless impossible thoughts.

Smash!

He turns, just in time to see a brawl erupt.

Snap!

A broken chair leg and some shouting, tell tale signs of an impending chaos.

So much for a peaceful night.

He moves in along with security, this was not the first fight he had to help contain and probably not the last. He grabs and pulls off a brawlers effortlessly, and another and another. They're mostly too intoxicated to put up a proper fight but still wild enough to hurt people.

He reaches into the fray, pulling out another random person from the pile. And then –

Crack.

The last thing he notes is a pair of wide green eyes looking at him in panic.

---

He wakes up to the smell of smoke – almost jumping up in alarm and sending himself into a very graceless fall from the comforts of a beige couch which he briefly suspects to be originally brown in color until years of cleaning turned it into an even more lack luster version of its former self. He slowly rises up, surveying his surroundings.

It was familiar, but it wasn't the flat he's currently renting.

"Oh, you're up!"

He starts, turning – much to his surprise – to meet a very familiar pair of eyebrows.

"Sourcils," he whispers to himself, clearly in both in shock and disbelief.

"What did you call me?"

Merde, he understands French, he briefly reprimands himself for the slip before evading the rather loaded question.

"W-Where am I?"

The question seems to have the desired effect. The anger of offense leaves the Englishman's green eyes and turn into an action of discomfort.

Some shuffling and the sudden loss of eye contact.

"In my apartment. I… sort of… accidentally knocked you out last night… sorry 'bout that," he apologizes, eyes still on the surprisingly well-maintained hardwood flooring.

And while Arthur wallows in awkward discomfort, Gallia is still trying to process the fact that he had just been knocked out by this scrawny nerd of a man.

How embarrassing!

"You should get that jaw looked at. I drive a mean hook," he adds in, finally looking up to meet his gaze. His hand reflexively touched the affected area, eliciting a pained hiss and wince.

"It wasn't like I did it on purpose! What were you even thinking! Getting involved in a damn brawl… you got off lucky!" Arthur turns defensive, green eyes flashing in worry and guilt.

"Did I now…" he speaks as if in a daze, his hand still lingering on the injury, it was not that bad, bruised yes ,but no fracture.

I had suffered worse.

"Yes, out like a light you were! Uh… care for some breakfast?" he offers of what appears to congealed brownish black masses that reminds him of the smell of charred remains of concrete and wood.

His instincts were screaming.

NO! Don't do it!

He smiles and nods, thinking that such things may not be as bad as it seems. Sure, he had always been a picky eater but when push comes to shove, he can eat whatever is available. Also, now that he has finally, finally established contact, he needs to grab the opportunity of getting on this man's good side.

He takes a piece, notes the fine dust of black soot…

Crumbs! They are crumbs.

And takes a bite, all the while ignoring the rise of instinctual self-preservation he had gathered over the years.

It was bitter. Hard. And the texture was like gravel. It was like eating gravel coated with butter.

He forces it down and comes out triumphant. Arthur's smile turns soft and hopeful before he scraps something unto the plate.

Mon Dieu! What is this vile thing?!

He takes a bite of what appears to be a sausage.

Merde!

It felt so wrong in his mouth. It was burnt but at the same time undercooked.

How is that even possible?!

Added with the buttery gravel aftertaste, he could no longer keep the charade up making his disgust known. He bravely chews through, the explosion of flavors and juices makes his throat burn and choke.

No! He must have been on to me! The vile beast used poison!

"Dear, Lord! If you don't like it that much, you don't have to force yourself!"

He does not hesitate and vomits it all out at the sink, and judging from Sourcil's disgusted wince, he just lost whatever charm or appeal he had established.

"Here…" he offers a paper towel.

"Dare I ask, is this your way of apologizing because it's clearly sending the wrong message," he says, wiping his mouth, his throat burning from the regurgitated stomach contents.

"How rude! Insulting people's cooking in their own home no less!"

"Well, maybe if that said person wasn't trying to poison them –"

"Poison! I'll have you know that my cooking is bloody delicious and you are just too damn French to appreciate the fine art of British cuisine."

"Thank god for that! Please, tell me you don't cook for yourself everyday because I'm starting to suspect you've disabled the fire alarm by the amount of smoke your kitchen belts out!"

"I did not!"

A dark red blush and thick brows furrowing in defense is telling him otherwise.

"You did, didn't you! It's a miracle you didn't burn the building down already!"

"You talk so high and mighty, let's see you do it!"

"Quoi?"

"You heard me. Cook something decent," he challenges, chest puffing out like proud bird as his gaze cut across the space between them. Without thinking he grabs the pan, blue eyes burning in determination and answers.

"Bien! I will."

---

He is sulking. Arthur Kirkland, proud self-proclaimed English gentleman is currently sulking. Lips pursing into a pout, bright green eyes cast down in stubborn defiance.

"Such bitterness…" he hears the Frog comment, smug amusement practically radiating from his voice, making Arthur scrape off the remnants of the French toast and eggs with more force than necessary.

"Oh, come now, no need to be so bitter mon cher, I could teach you if you'd like," he offers with a smile making Arthur turn his attention away from the dishes and towards the Frog in his kitchen.

"Mon cher? Someone's getting awfully familiar with a guy who just knocked his lights out a few hours prior," he says, eyes narrowing in suspicion as his brows furrow along.

"Désolé, I haven't introduced myself. Pierre. Pierre Durand," he introduces, offering up a hand which Arthur reluctantly takes.

"Yes, the new bartender who know nothing about the fine qualities of lager. How unfortunate to meet your acquaintance, Arthur Kirkland," he introduces with a frown recalling the many times the man got scolded for mixing up the drinks wrongly.

"Yes, the violent drunk who punched an innocent man and tried to inadvertently poison him as well," Pierre quips, lips curling into a grin making him bristle up like a cat.

"Hey! I wasn't drunk. I just got dragged into a fight. It happens," he defends, pulling his hand away from the strangely rough yet elegantly shaped hands.

"Of course, of course. Now, are you going to take my generous offer or not?" Pierre nods, pacifying his bruised ego only to rile him up once more.

"The audacity! No, I do not need you to teach me anything!"

"You sure?" he ventures.

"Affirmative."

"Then how are you exactly going make it up for me?" the smile turns a bit sly, sending alarms through him.

He's planning something.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well… you did say you were sorry. Prove it," the Frog challenges, grinning as he watches his display of visible discomfort.

"And how exactly is teaching me how to cook make up for the incident?" Arthur asks, trying to add things up because they were clearly not making any sense. After all, how does cooking lessons constitute as an apology.

"Well, since you wanted to make up for it by cooking a decent meal…"

"You want to teach me until I can make you a proper one, how romantic of you…" Arthur cuts him off, tone sharp and condescending, deliberately giving the statement that added kick and bite.

"Are you honestly going to trouble yourself for this? For bit of a kitchen mishap," he adds, casually leaning back as if to scrutinize the Frenchman even further.

Yes, this does not make sense at all.

"If that was a mishap, mon ami. I dread to see what you consider a disaster. Come on, I always wanted to practice my cooking skills and what better way than to teach it!"

Ah, there it is. The thread of reason.

"What? Aiming to be a chef or something?" he delves, curious of the man's motives. Cooking lessons are harmless and actually quite helpful in his opinion but he just couldn't understand how teaching him will make up for the rather unfortunate incident.

"Yes, not really a chef but a cooking instructor. And if I can teach you to cook, I feel I could handle anything life throws at me," Pierre turns, cocks his head while flashing him a bright smile. Arthur's stomach did a tiny barely noticeable flip.

A flip he will deny until he can deny it no longer.

"And let's say… despite your innate talents you fail to teach me what I technically already know… what then?" Arthur asks, challenges as he waits for his response.

"Until the bruise is gone... If I cannot manage to teach you how to make a decent meal by then, I'd stop. Honestly, you have quite a hook to leave such damage," he remarks, catching his reflection on the metal pans where he notes the telltale discoloration on his jaw making Arthur feel guiltier.

"Does it hurt that bad?"

"Non, it's not broken or anything. So, when are you free?" he asks. Arthur fidgets a bit, it's really been a while since he thought about his free time.

"Uh… well… I usually eat out. My workplace is not that far but morning traffic is such a bitch and I prefer to be on time. I have cereal for breakfast. Toast, when I'm feeling particularly vengeful towards my idiot of a boss. Allow him some time to flounder about on his own for a while…"

"So you're rarely home," he concludes, looking a bit sorry.

"Well… aside from weekends I guess," he shrugs.

"Perfect. I'll teach you cooking on weekends!" he says with a little clap.

"What? I never agreed for you to teach –"

"Consider it a service to humanity. I'll even throw in an occasional free meal in an effort to salvage some of your taste buds."

The nerve!

"B-But –"

"Non! Take it or leave, Rosbif!" he declares, suddenly burning with determination and fervor.

"Fine! Whatever," he finally relents and ignores the sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach telling him he will rue the day he agreed to this arrangement.

Oh, what the heck. It's just cooking lessons, Arthur. It won't hurt.

---

"Agent, report."

"I have established contact with the target and will proceed to surveillance. Permission to use level five equipment."

"Granted. Drop off coordinates, given."

"Received. Will proceed to drop off location to meet the contact in an hour."

"Access code, given."

"Received. End of report."

---

The cafe on the coordinates appears quite cozy and quaint. Amber lighting and wood work gives it a more welcoming and rustic feel to it. Hardly the expected venue of a drop-off.

Perfect.

He approaches the counter, the man behind it flashes him a cheerful smile as he asks for his order.

"One mocha frappe with mocha jelly and an extra shot of espresso, milk skimmed and a bit of cinnamon and almonds on top, and don't forget to add in more sugar," he replies barely missing a beat as he held the genial smile, ignoring the telltale twitch of the cashier before he relays it to the barista who also seems to cringe at the request.

There should be limits on just how much sugar their customers can put in their drink.

He takes his number and receipt, flashing the cashier a bit of teeth as he gives his thanks.

He spies a table, just at the end of the cafe cast against the mahogany bookcases with random worldly trinkets sitting just the edge of the shelves.

"Here's your order, sir," the server says, voice shy and airy as he gently places the drink on the table. Gallia gives a polite smile of thanks which the boy returns. He notes the soft features and violet eyes that appear more indigo in this lighting.

A short bow, a clumsy awkward jerk of the hand as the drinking straw rolls from table. The boy flusters and automatically ducks down in apology as he retrieves the fallen straw.

"S-Sorry. I'll get you another," he stutters a bit, clutching the straw tightly in his fingers as left to find a replacement.

Gallia doesn't need to look and check to see a small box resting just beside his bag on the floor.

The boy returns with a new straw and more apologies. Matthew his name tags reads.

"It's okay, Matthieu. Accidents happen," he assures as the boy gives him a small bashful smile and a murmur of thanks.

He wonders just how many men and women had fallen for such a ruse.

He orders a sandwich to go and leaves, gives his barely consumed drink to a random street child before he goes to work where a brooding Englishman most probably awaits him.

---

Cooking lessons: Day One

"Come on, Arthur. It's not that hard. Just flip it."

"I can't, it's stuck!"

"What? Fool, you forgot to add the oil. How can you make omelets if –"

"Oh, shut up you sodding wanker!"

Cooking lessons: Day Three

"Rosbif, no."

"What?"

"Those two do not go together and never will. Do not."

"It's just Hollandaise and a bit –"

"You will not defile my perfect Eggs Benedict with your special sauce."

"But –"

"Don't you dare, Arthur Kirkland."

"Fine."

Cooking lessons: Day Fi –

"Good morni –"

Slams!

"Hey!"

Cooking lessons: Day Seven and a half

"Get out."

"No."

"I will not cook this with you."

"Mon Dieu! It's just frog legs."

"I will not cook your sodding frog legs!"

Cooking lessons: Day Ten

"I can't have lessons today."

"Busy?"

"Yeah... you could say that."

"Oh, does rosbif have a special date?"

"Just mind your own damn business, Frog."

---

When Arthur told him that he'll be unavailable for cooking lessons, he immediately thought the man was on to him because he's been sporting a slowly healing bruise for more than a month now and maybe Sourcils finally realized that bruises do not heal that slowly unless you have a very serious illness. But the unusually lack of bite in the man's tone told him otherwise.

Though he must admit, he was a bit surprises to see Arthur at the pub, drowning himself in liquor of all things.

"Don't mind him, it's that time of the year," his boss informs, catching his gaze.

"Time of the year?" he ventures but instead of gaining an answer, the man merely gives a look and says, "Ask him".

He steals a glance at the drunken Englishman who seems to have fallen asleep at the bar. He decides to ask him later when he's sober.

The moment of sobriety did not come for Arthur which pushes him to take the alternative.

"We live in the same building, I'll take him home," he informs his boss who just simply shrugs and lets him off early because Arthur was starting to moan out tragic poetry about death and love. Not the best things to hear at a pub during that time, maybe if it was a little later in the early mornings, yes.

"Come on, let's get you home," he says as he slings a limp arm around his neck.

"Leave me alone ye bloody wanker! Can't a man grief in fucking peace!" Arthur exclaims as he roughly pushes the Frenchman off of him making the other sigh in utter frustration.

It's been been quite a while since he had placed the man under his surveillance beneath the veil of cooking lessons and random visits. He had hacked the man's computer and found nothing. He had all but ransacked the flat if not for the Englishman's eerie ability to notice if his things were tampered with.

"Frog, did you move my chair?"

"What?"

"My chair, I swear, the distance from the table seems off."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The lamp angle is crooked.

"I may have accidentally brushed my shoulder against it. Goodness, Arthur focus on cooking!"

"Huh? Oh, right. Sorry about that, I have tendency to be quite particular with these things."

"It's fine. Now, fry me that egg."

He had relayed the information and it was obvious the higher ups were getting frustrated and more importantly, impatient with the lack of progress. In fact, if not for the solid trace he would have deemed the man completely innocent.

And if Arthur Kirkland is innocent, he has no business with him.

And for that brief thought, his chest tightens with discomfort. And he hates himself for allowing such things to happen.

In the course of the passing weeks, his daily regimen has started to revolve around Arthur Kirkland. He already knows of the basics. He is an only child. His parents are long gone because of old age and sickness. He attained bits and pieces of the man and he fears of whatever bits and pieces the man had reaped from him in turn.

In such a short time, they develop a strange sense of familiarity and closeness that makes him both happy and unnerved. Happy for it makes things easier but at the same time unnerved because deep within himself he can feel a genuine coil of happiness whenever he feels himself getting closer to Arthur.

"Come now, cher. Talk to me. What's wrong?" he asks, urging the other to open up and somehow he feels that prying open a steel door with his bare hands seem more possible as the drunk began muttering under his breath, far too low and rambled even for his finely-tuned ears.

Then suddenly, out of the blue. He snaps.

"Why do you care! You're just a weird French fop that likes to give a failure like me cooking lessons. Which you are failing miserably, might I add," he declares, shifting from a gruff drunk and into an utterly posh prick.

He cannot help but wince at the reminder. He has tried. He has placed genuine effort on the task. Looking up simple recipes. Self-help videos. Even went as far as digging up teaching strategies. And for some strange almost mythical reason, he has failed.

Repeatedly.

Miserably.

Unless properly supervised, Arthur Kirkland cannot cook a decent meal to save his life.

In fact, it seems it is not only the Englishman who suffers a bruised ego.

"Bien, don't talk to me. But we need to go now," he sighs, exasperated and tired as he gives the arm a tug.

"Fine. But, don't get any ideas, you hear!" he shouts and raves about how perverted the French are. And truth be told, he cannot blame him for his caution, he has flirted with some of the ladies openly, even made a tiny barely noticeable pass with Arthur who seem to have radar with these things and roughly rebukes him with a well-aimed slap on the head which he never seems to be able to avoid.

"Oui, oui. Come on, Sourcils," he nods, calmly going with whatever mad ravings the man is sprouting which really ranges from inconsolable sobbing, self-blame and misdirected anger to anything within his reach.

"Shut up, Frog!"

He somehow, by some merciful miracle, manages to get them to the Englishman's Mini Cooper without incident and drive them home. It was just after minutes of calming silence did Arthur finally begin to speak coherently albeit with a noticeable slur in his tone.

"I lost her in a car crash two years ago," he admits, lying curled up at the back like ball.

"Who?" He already technically knows the answer.

"My fiancée. We were to be married you see. But –" he trails off, melancholia dripping into the atmosphere as Arthur chokes down a sob.

"She must be a great woman to put up with the likes of you," he replies, picturing a red-headed woman with sharp features and a bright-eyed Englishman sporting a mischievous smirk.

"Bess, is the greatest."

He does not bother to correct the lapse of tenses.

It should be was.

And in all honesty, he really wants it to be was.

"Bess?" his fingers tighten on the wheel and he doesn't understand why he should feel upset. It is normal to grieve and judging from Arthur's personality, he takes things more deeply and harshly than others.

"A nickname. For Elizabeth," he supplies, tone turning nostalgic and soft as if he is just at the edge of walking off into the world of dreams.

"You have thing for nicknames," he notes, a small sliver of fondness curling up in his chest.

"I do not. Now, focus on the damn road!" he barks, suddenly turning back to his brusque prickly exterior.

"I don't have to. We're already here," he declares as he turns the engine off, turning to see a pair of confused emeralds.

"What?"

"I don't know you've notice mon cher but the car was already parked five minutes ago," he states with a smile.

"Why –"

"Because, you were to interesting to stop."

"By that you mean, you were too nosy," he mutters as he gets of the car.

"More like, too kind. Honestly, what were you thinking drinking that much all on your own?" he asks for he did not expect the Englishman to be in the pub before his shift and crying himself a river of tears. In all honestly, he did not expect such grief and pain to accompany the drunken slurs and sobs.

Or perhaps he could not really grasp the concept of grief in general.

"I didn't. I just – If it isn't yet obvious to you but I'm a rather pathetic sort. I'm moody. I can't cook a decent meal. I'm stuck at this boring job. And I apparently can't get over my fiancée who is long gone."

"People do not heal the same way. But they do heal if they allow themselves," he says, meeting a pair of startled eyes that seem to think he just sprouted a new head.

"Even I have my moments," he confesses with a watery smile showing a bit of himself, of Francis. The boy who never knew a family, the teen who never grew to trust, the man who forgets himself and hides behind a name.

A smile that bares many things yet says nothing at all.

"Stop, that. If you're going to bother smiling at least be genuine about it," he reprimands, making Gallia's smile shift into brief surprise before gives out an airy chuckle.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever. It's none of my business anyways," he grouses, pushing himself up from the seat and exits the vehicle.

His stance wavers and sways only to be steadied by a warm comforting arm.

"You're dead on your feet. Here, let me help," he offers.

"You've helped enough. I'm a grown man. I can handle this," he says trying to push the other off.

"Nevertheless, let me help. I do not like to have any possible mishaps on my head," he insists, tightening his grip and shifting his stance to accommodate the other as they make their way up the entrance and into the lift.

Arthur grapples for his keys while he effortlessly fishes them out from the confused man's back pocket. He leads Arthur into the room. Oddly messy and smells of lavender and lilies. He sets him on the bed and wastes no time to go rummaging for some painkillers and water.

"For tomorrow," he offers.

Arthur nods and takes the pills, finishing the tall glass of cool water and handing it back to him. The glass perches safely by the bedside table along with the pair of soft pajama bottoms and a ragged old shirt which he hands to the Englishman who seem to have suddenly lost his shyness.

He notes the shadows and moonlight playing across the expanse of exposed skin and muscle.

"Thanks, Pierre."

Arthur sounds grateful, a soft smile lacing his lips. It was enough for him to remember.

Remember, who he is. What he is.

"You're welcome. Now, sleep, I'll know how to let myself out," he murmurs offering a small smile.

The Englishman nods as his eyes droop and his breathing evens. Francis' gaze lingers and pauses. Taking in the softness and vulnerability just within his reach. He sighs. Deep. Heavy. Tired.

He has a report to make.

---

"Agent, reporting."

"Proceed."

"Desired info is not within target's home base. Suspect data to be in secondary base."

"Secondary contact will be notified."

"No other notable progress found. Request a drop."

"Request sent for evaluation. Will update once ready."

"Noted. Merci."

---

Arthur wakes up to see a Frenchman wearing a fixed glare and to the faint sounds of bubbling.

"What are you doing?" he asks with a stifled yawn, a bit bleary eyed and still nursing a mild hangover.

"Brewing tea."

The answer was crisp. To the point. Unusually so, along with the strange determined looked Pierre is currently sporting. He takes a glance around and saw an open 'The Joys of Tea Brewing' by the kitchen counter along with remnants of what he suspects to be failed attempts in tea brewing.

He had half a mind to burst into righteous fury because how dare the Frog waste tea and gas. That is before he notes the brand and realizes that Pierre had at least the common sense to buy a lesser brand which Arthur immediately critics to be atrocious.

But it is the thought that counts.

"Are you sure? Because it seems you're having a stare down with my kettle," he quips raising a brow in inquiry, it was quite amusing to be honest. To see the goof appear so serious. He might even say it's adorable. But then remembers that he is still a Frog who likes to insult his cooking.

He waits for a reply.

A scoff.

An expression of dismissal.

Anything remotely in-character.

None came.

"Please stop. You're scaring me. And… the water's ready," he says which immediately grabs the Frenchman's attention.

"How –"

"I'm English." He smirks. Practically preens. The image of a speechless Frog gaping at him will forever be a treasured memory.

"That's hardly enough – hey!" he exclaims when Arthur takes out the kettle and puts out the fire.

"You'll over boil it you dolt. Now, you sit with your brekky while I make us some proper tea," he stresses it, insists on it because he is Arthur Kirkland and it will be a cold day in Hell if a guest (albeit semi-unwelcome) drinks low grade tea under his domain.

---

He watches the Englishman scurry about the kitchen, taking out a tin of tea leaves from the cupboard while he empties out the freshly boiled water from his oh-so-beloved kettle.

Honestly, he first thought it was merely a house decoration. After all, who in this day and age still use such old-fashioned things. And then remembers who the owner was and realizes.

Of course. Of course.

So he is here. Sent to the kitchen table with the cooling 'brekky' (Arthur's usual designation if it is within the terms of anything related to cooking because the man is simply a bad cook) watching Arthur move with a grace of a well-practiced tea brewer (not that he's met any other tea brewer in his lifetime, but he's sure, if there is such a thing, Arthur Kirkland is a very fine example of such a creature).

He briefly wonders what he looked like while Arthur watched. Did he appear forced? Awkward? Fake?

He does not know. But if there is one thing for certain…

Arthur Kirkland is –

"Milk?"

His thoughts come to a halt.

"Yes, please," startled at his brief lapse of attention, he blinks for a few seconds before he smiles and takes a sip.

He will give the man props. He can brew his tea.

Probably the only thing edible besides his Roast beef.

Arthur takes seat. Comments on how the toast has too much butter on it while Francis snipes about the fact that at least they can taste the butter instead of the black squares of cancerous death.

Arthur naturally takes offense and takes the recent faux pas as ammunition. He returns it with equal insult. Somewhere along the line, the topic of books comes up. Tiny bits of trivia. History.

It was an unspoken law between them to never mention anything within the confines of anything British or French.

The talk about literature. How Arthur once expressed interest in writing while Francis teases him about it.

"Make sure to save a copy for me, cher."

"As if! Good literature is wasted on the likes of you!"

"Such harsh words from a Twilight fan."

"I am not a Twilight fan. Just because I read the books doesn't mean I'm immediately a fan."

"Whatever you say, Arthur."

They eventually settle into a peaceful silence with nothing but the clink of silverware and dishes. It was a lovely morning. Oddly domestic.

Francis couldn't help but burrow into this calming bubble of warmth.

"I'll offer to do the dishes, Pierre. And no, don't you get used to it, Frog. I'm only doing this because of last night. Thank you, for taking care of me."

He nods in ascent, commenting on getting a bit more sleep before his shift. He wishes Arthur to have a nice day off. He does not wait for a reply and makes his exit.

He locks his door and curls up behind it as if hiding from the whirlwind of emotions hammering through his chest.

Arthur Kirkland is an arrogant brash Englishman who is obsessed with tea. He is rude. Gruff. Barely the gentleman he claims himself to be.

BUT.

But, if he really wants to finish that previous thought, right before Arthur interrupted. He would say Arthur Kirkland is beautiful.

Lovely.

Basically everything he cannot have and more likely break.

And that thought scares him the most because he feels the guilt. He feels the fear. Fear for the budding affection within him. Fear of the impending future for them. More specifically, for Arthur because even if Francis or Pierre will learn to love.

Gallia cannot. And will not.

And I am above all else, Gallia.

---

He has been staring.

Overtly.

So obvious even a blind man could catch him.

"Yes?"

"Your bruise is gone," he observes, eyes narrowing in scrutiny as if the most suspicious thing in the world is him holding a cook book and a spatula.

Honestly, the priorities of this man.

He rolls his eyes and retorts.

"Yes, rosbif. I would be awful worried if it didn't disappear –" he trails off, eyes suddenly wide with realization.

Oh.

Oh.

Guess who forgot to put his makeup on this morning.

"So… I guess this makes it up then…"

"Tea," he speaks without even daring to think while Arthur looks at him as if he just sprouted another head or has gone insane.

Maybe I have.

"What?"

"Teach me how to make tea," he elaborates while those green eyes widen before his brow furrows into a squint.

"You want me, to teach you tea brewing."

"Yes."

He still wonders what compelled Arthur to agree rather than gloat. And much, much later, if he thinks about it, he didn't really need such a reason anymore. He already has what he wants (sort of). He's just technically waiting for the call.

So why?

He really does not want to know the answer. Really, he doesn't.

It will only make things harder for you anyway.

---

"I swear to God, Frog! You are doing this on purpose!"

Arthur, to define the word is frustrated.

Not miffed.

Not angry (okay, maybe he's a tiny bit angry).

But that's the Frog's fault.

Can't bloody make tea to save his life.

"Yes, Rosfib. I sincerely like it when you of all people correct me in the kitchen," Pierre retorts, huffs with an upturned nose and crossed arms.

The perfect picture of a Parisian aristocrat.

It's times like these that Arthur wants to throttle the man. Perfect hair. Great build and physique. And of course, he won't forget – the bloody annoying ability to look like a damn bloody model straight out of a fucking high-end magazine.

Which is particularly more noticeable after hours tending a rowdy pub.

And all that perfection and beauty comes the desire to ruin it. Call him petty, jealous, bitter. He doesn't care. He gets a twisted sense of satisfaction in messing up the man's hair. Riling him up, bring out that sharp tongue and temper.

His hearts beats, sings and rejoices.

For every quip. Every retort. Every jibe.

Arthur is not one to like arguments or petty mindless debates, but for one Frenchman he makes an exception.

However, despite how much he likes to see that perfectly tied ponytail loose and disheveled (as much dishevelment the man is capable of, which by far not that much) with a noticeable furrow of frustration resting between his brows, Arthur does not appreciate it if it is at his own expense.

"Well, maybe you should stop day dreaming and focus on the damn tea."

"But it's so boring…" Pierre bemoans as he slumps down the chair across Arthur, tired and frustrated from the continuous episodes of failures.

"Oh, don't be such a queen. You don't see me moaning about," he rolls his eyes only to be surprised when he felt gentle yet rough fingers, cup and turns his attention to a pair of mischievous blues.

"Hm… maybe I can fix that… I'm sure your moans would sound lovely, mon lapin," he leans in and whispers with an airy roughness that makes Arthur's heart race and cheeks flush.

"I..."

His breathe hitches when the man leans in only to back away with a Chesire grin upon his lips.

Well, two can play at that game.

With a sudden burst of daringness he closes the distance between them in a kiss.

Soft. A bit chapped. The beard tickles his chin.

"Think you can handle me then, love," he whispers the challenge, pulling away with his heart pounding a tattoo unto his chest while his face was dusted with red.

The Frog was silent. Blue indigo eyes wide and clear with shock.

Silence continues to pervade the air and it was suffocating uncomfortable.

"Idiot," he mutters before standing up from his seat.

"Call me when you've gathered you wits," he calls out and leaves – back straight, gait steady.

Only when he is finally alone and safe within the confines of his home did he finally let the shakiness of his knees give out as he turn into a crumpled mass raking in the aftershocks.

What the heck just happened?

---

It was rather quick.

Pretty chaste to be honest.

In fact, he barely felt it, aside from the tiny flutter in his chest and the tingling sensation upon lips, he can't really say it was amazing.

Yet all things considered, he was quite thoroughly floored.

Who would have thought that scruffy Englishman had it in him…

To kiss him of all things. As a strange convoluted form of payback.

As least he hopes it was.

So he is there, sitting in the kitchen trying to discern what otherworldly purpose has pushed the man into kissing him. That, and the strange effect of leaving him too stunned to respond.

Arthur Kirkland kissed me.

He's trying to wrap around that fact. Yes, they have grown somewhat close but he always thought that it was merely friendship with a bit of rivalry and teasing.

But a kiss. Light. Innocent. Barely there.

A simple kiss that makes a piece of him flutter and soar.

He feels happy.

His fingers trace his lips, his heart lurching at his throat while his stomach flips.

Merde.

---

Arthur is still curled up on the floor when his phone rings, interrupting him from a series of what-ifs and situations of will-be.

He sees the screen and hesitates. Ponders. Decides.

"You kissed me."

"I… Look, Pierre. I'm…"

"You kissed me."

"Yes, I did," he answers, steeling himself for the onslaught of questions he was to answer.

"Why?"

Okay, maybe not exactly an onslaught.

"I believe it is to express a sign of interest towards another party. Usually, affection. Attraction. Does it mean anything else in France?" he supplies, trying to sound less cringing and awkward because, he, in some random strike of idiocy just decided to kiss Pierre and is now trying to ask him out in the most awkward way possible.

The silence on the other end speaks volumes.

"Does this bother you?" he ventures, only now did he realize.

Of course. Of course the man is taken. Some far-away sweetheart in France or something.

"I… I don't know…"

Might as well take the plunge.

"Goodness, Frog. I'm not asking for marriage! A simple 'Yes, Arthur, I would love to go on a date with you' would suffice. Unless of course you're not interested… then I –"

"No!"

Ouch, that hurt more than expected.

"Oh. I apologize, I thought –"

You thought what Arthur? That he likes you beyond the limits of friendship. Well, tough.

"No! I mean, yes. Yes, would love to go on a date with you."

Sweet Merciful Mother, he said yes!

"Really! I mean… Good. Pick you up at seven on Sunday. I know a place that serves great Italian. Take it as a neutral ground, considering I wouldn't be caught dead reserving a table at anything mildly French," he says practically preening with glee only to realize one thing.

"Oh, bollocks. You don't have work do you? I'll talk with Rhod," he says immediately reprimanding himself.

Stupid, Arthur! Couldn't you've asked him when he's free first?

"It's fine. Dinner sounds lovely. I'll see you soon, mon lapin."

"See you, Frog."

The call disconnects and Arthur finally breathes.

Well, that was easier than I thought…

---

He stares at the phone in disbelief.

"I just agreed to a date with Arthur Kirkland."

The Hell?!

---

"Excuse me, miss. Do you have a smaller size for this pair?" Gallia asks the salesgirl who takes the offered garment and begins inspecting it.

"This is a rather old style, I'll go check," she says taking the pants with her.

While waiting Gallia takes the time to reflect on the events that progressed.

Established contact. (Technically, the other way around…)

Built connections. (Even decided to agree on a date with him of all things) Reported and requested surveillance material.

Concluded that said act is within target's capacity. (Arthur really shouldn't have bragged about his rebellious exploits in college.)

Combed the place clean. Hacked his personal laptop and monitored online movements. (He's a lot kinkier than he lets on. I don't know if that's a good thing, given the current circumstances.)

No useful or suspicious finds. Pushed the necessity of a second agent to infiltrate Jones Tech to gather information there. Copied company pass and sent through contact A.

Infiltration a success and awaiting contact B.

"I'm sorry, Sir. But we're all out, can I suggest some other similar styles," she offers.

"Well, I don't see any harm in it," he shrugs offering the girl a smile as she navigates them around the shop where another salesgirl is waiting. Her hair was almost silver, a big blue bow serves as keep her long hair in place. She was quite pretty. Doll-like.

He offers a smile she does not bother to return. He can almost detect a hint of disgust in her gaze and stature.

"Natalya here is in charge of this section and has offered to help you out, I'll just be by the counter if you need anything," she smiles politely before leaving them both alone.

Natalya eyes him with cold indifference, turning her back, she silently searches through the racks.

"Here," she says lightly shoving the pants towards him.

"Merci," he smiles once more, brushing their fingertips making the other immediately recoil as if he was something tainted.

"I hope it is to your liking," she says stiffly, watching him as he inspects the offered pair. He finds the chip right inside the back pocket and takes it.

"Non, this will not do. The shade is too dark," he comments, handing back the pair. She proceeds to find another and give it to him where he finds another chip at the same location.

"Hm… the stitching at the seams does not look durable for me. Are there other styles?" he asks, discreetly pocketing the chips.

"That's all we have. We might have another shipment in a few weeks," she informs before leaving him to his own devices.

He exits the store and proceeds straight to home base.

He has a lot of work to do.

Gallia stares at the list of agents. Still encrypted. Still protected. It showed no traces of being copied or transferred except for that one moment when Contact B copied them the data into the chips.

He breathes.

Taking in everything, after what seems like hours of looking through the computer – honestly, he expected a lot of data to look through, but not a whole database.

She works fast, I'll give her that, he concludes as he leans back into his chair staring and contemplating on his next step.

His lips thin at the implications but nevertheless, he writes the report and hits send.

The next day, he goes back to the store finally deciding to buy the same pair of pants he rejected and hands Contact B back the chips where she is tasked to deliver them.

His phone rings.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself."

"I just want to ask. Are you allergic to anything?"

"Not that I think of? Why?"

"Just wanted to make sure this won't be your last dinner, Frog."

"I see. Well, rest assured I'm not allergic to anything."

"Okay, see you later then."

"Yes, see you."

---

Dinner was held in a small but elegant Italian restaurant named La Roma where an adorable Italian chef, Feliciano Vargas, welcomes them with a cheerful smile. He was like a bubbling ball of energy that you can't help but be infected with his enthusiasm.

The food was absolutely delicious which made it strange why the place is vacant on a weekend. Which makes him wonder…

"You know, I expected this place to have more customers with such a brilliant chef," he comments eliciting a bright beaming smile from the Italian.

"Ve, that's because we're usually closed on Sundays! But Arturo's a good friend so…" he trails off, leaving the implications hanging. He, in all degrees, feels quite flattered and spoiled. He doesn't really date given his line of work even if he does have his occasional nights of pleasure. So for him to experience a small piece of luxury, it feels quite nice.

He was about to ask how the two met when the door slams open, his grip on the knife shifts ever so slightly as his posture stiffens in high alert.

"Oi, idiota! I thought you're closed!" the (he assumes to be) Italian man exclaims wearing a dark scowl as his brown amber eyes zero in on them.

The chef, clearly unperturbed by the rather rude entrance, just jumps the other in a tight hug which the man (albeit grumpily) returns.

"Fratello! You're back! How was Spain, Lovino? How's Antonio?" he asks in rapid fire all the while practically hugging the air out of Lovino's lungs.

"Tsk, ask him yourself," he clicks his tongue before cranking his neck towards the door where a smile man was leaning against.

"Hola, Feli! Not too busy I hope."

---

"No, I'm just helping Arthur with his date," Feliciano vigorously shakes his head before give out a flourishing wave towards them making Arthur blush a bit from the curious light in the Spaniard's eyes. Then, as if remembering something incredibly important, Feliciano suddenly clasps in hands together in exclamation.

"Oh! I forgot. Arthur, meet Antonio. He's Lovino's –"

"Finish that sentence and I will gut you."

"Davi! He's Davi's cousin!" he finishes blanching just a bit from his brother's steely gaze.

"And speaking of Davi…"

Everyone's attention immediately shifts to the new arrival who is now occupying Antonio's previous position at the door.

"Davi!" Feliciano exclaims, ever the bubbling ball of happy energy, as he gives the man a hug.

"Hey, guys," he greets, giving the rest a casual wave before his and Arthur's eyes meet. "Good to see you still alive without me, Arthur. Miss me?" he practically preens, flashing them a bright warm smile.

Arthur scoffs, giving his head a bit of a toss as his nose pompously upturns.

"Hardly. Barely noticed the absence."

Davi gasps, clenching his chest false hurt before good-naturedly disengages himself from the chef to give Arthur a hug.

"Good to see you finally out. So… who's the poor soul you've wrangled into a date?" he comments as his dark olive eyes land on the smiling Frenchman.

"Pierre. Pierre Durand," the Frog introduces himself extending a hand which Davi readily takes into a firm shake.

"Davi. Davi Carriedo Martins. I'm Arthur's best friend," he declares with a wide grin.

Was it just Arthur but did the air seem a bit cold between these two.

Nonsense.

---

Gallia does not like this Davi person. He's too touchy. The way he imposes and declares that Arthur is his best friend grates on his nerves for some reason. True, he technically doesn't really have any right over who the Englishman chooses to associate but surely he could find someone less touchy and affectionate.

He doesn't even like it, he grumbles recalling how Arthur tends to avoid physical forms of affection. But it appears the Portuguese is the exception.

"I didn't expect you to be here," Antonio murmurs, disengaging him from his thoughts. The intended date has turned into a makeshift form of a social gathering where everyone is huddled into their own corners talking about random things from recipes to new updates on life. And from the looks of things, Davi has managed to maneuver Arthur's attention away from him completely.

"You must be serious with this one, Antonio," he muses, keeping his tone low as he sips a glass of wine.

"Well, I'm a just a humble but clueless tomato farmer. I'm lucky enough that Lovi gives me the time of day," he smiles as he joins him at the table, following Gallia's gaze towards the bickering pair of Italians.

"But instead of tomatoes you harvest heads."

Antonio. The Conquistador. One of their top assassins. And one of the very few men Gallia would trust with his life along with a loud mouth jack-of-all-trades Black Eagle.

"Well… cabbages are quite well in season."

"I see," he murmurs and nods while the other casts him a look.

"We are allowed to have lives outside our work you know. They even encourage it to a certain extent. Makes things easier," he shrugs, his green eyes shining as his lips quirk into a goofy smile. It does not take a genius to know that the Conquistador might be going into an early retirement.

"So this Arthur..."

"A target," he snaps, snipping whatever wild ventures Antonio has at the bud.

"You don't date targets," his eyes narrow, giving Gallia a glimpse of the belying intelligence within.

He doesn't technically date at all, to be honest.

Gallia dares not to answer. It was enough.

"I see," Antonio concludes, giving him a look of what seems to be a mixture of understanding and pity.

"Don't. Just don't," he says. He does not need comfort. He does not need any form of affirmation. He is going to kill Arthur Kirkland and he does not need a reminder of how his heart slowly breaking because of it.

Antonio nods in understanding, offering a steady grip on the shoulder as a form of support. Gallia takes a deep breath casting his gaze towards the conversing pair of friends.

Arthur laughing at something Davi said while smacking the other playfully on the shoulder.

He ignores the small pang of jealousy that seems to grow with every smile elicited from Arthur.

You can never have that with him. The dark thought taunts him, coils in his chest before he shakes it off as he puts on a smile and interrupts the two but pauses when he hears Davi exclaim.

"It was supposed to be a surprise!" Davi pouts.

"That's beside the point and you know it. You know how busy I get. What if I was out on some business trip or something," Arthur counters.

"But you're not on a business trip, are you my friend."

"No, I'm on a date. Which must feel particularly ignored because you distracted me with your wild stories. What were you doing in Spain anyways? I thought you were in Portugal, moping away your intellectual talents in a cubicle."

"About that... I sort of quit my job. So... I... Oh, don't give me that look Arthur. I'm fine. I found a better one that offers more benefits with less of the hassle."

"So, where is the great Davi –"

Maybe it was impatience on his part and he is feeling a ignored so...

"Gentlemen, forgive me to interrupt your conversation," he chimes in finally gaining the two's attention.

"Nonsense, Pierre! You are more than welcome to join us," Davi smiles in turn, eyes suddenly brightening with mischief as he elbows his friend, "but the night is young and I have kept you two away from each other long enough."

He stands and adds, "As for your question Arthur, I'm sorry to say but the answer is confidential and you'll just have to interrogate me on another date," he makes a flourishing bow of exit, ignoring Arthur's protest.

"But!" Arthur calls out, a noticeable hint of worry coating his voice before his friend waves him off again.

"I'm fine, Arthur. Now, enjoy your date!" he remarks and proceeds to tune out the Brit in favor of his cousin.

Okay, maybe this Davi person is not that bad.

---

The date, to describe the word is a complete fail. There are certain rules in dating, yes, he has technically been out of the game for quite some time but surely he was not as foolish was most claim him to be.

But, you just have been a dolt and forget about your bloody date, he reprimands himself as a frown scrunches up his brow.

Idiot.

"I have to say, that was quite an interesting evening," Pierre comments and he hides the inward flinch trying desperately to remain calm despite the impending disappointment coming his way.

"Sorry. I guess. I got a bit carried away," he mutters, ducking his head not daring to meet Pierre's gaze.

"It's fine. You rarely get to really talk with your friend anymore," he shrugs with a nonchalance that surprises Arthur. Most would certainly point out how he all but ignored his date in favor of his longtime friend that – he notes – didn't even bother calling ahead to inform him of his arrival.

The git didn't even say where he's working now... he notes in frustration.

"Still. Let me make it up to you," he replies, deciding to push his curiosity and frustrations towards his friends to another time.

"Another date? Such a sly one you are," Pierre comments, leaning with a sly mischievous grin while he splutters for a retort.

"It's fine. I had a great time. But next time, pick a more… private setting hm? Or perhaps, I should return the favor, when are you free mon lapin?" the man asks and he could feel his cheeks suddenly warm.

"I have to check my calendar," he answers casting a glance at the Frenchman who merely nods as they leave the car's warmth and into the cold parking lot.

"But I believe I have an early off at Friday..." he cannot help but add in suddenly feeling like an indecisive teenager.

"Duly noted. I'll see if I'm free on that day as well..." Pierre nods, taking out his phone to make a memo.

"I believe this is your door?" Arthur comments as they stop at a familiar door. He cannot help but feel a flutter of hesitation.

I what should I do? Should I kiss him? Is it too soon?

"Yes, I believe it is," Pierre sighs, giving him a smile as he takes Arthur gloved hand gives it a kiss. Arthur briefly wonders if kisses should feel this warm or electrifying because he swears, he can feel heat radiating from the spot where Pierre just deigned to kiss.

"I had fun."

Arthur smiles and leans to for a chaste kiss on the lips surprising even himself of the ease and naturalness of the action. The Frenchman freezes, blues eyes wide and owlishly blinking while a soft blush gathers upon his cheek. Arthur notes that he definitely likes this look better than the smug grin he usually wears around him.

"I had fun, too," he whispers, snapping Pierre out of the daze who gracefully recovers with a smile.

"Goodnight Arthur."

"Goodnight Frog."

Arthur walks the small distance towards his own flat and thinks, maybe the date wasn't a complete disaster after all.

---

Their bodies collide, wild movements of rustling sheets, thrown clothes with passionate gasps.

"More."

He begs. Pleads.

"Francis more."

Arthur grabs him for another kiss. Sweet passionate deep. No longer light and hesitant. He is lost in their frenzy, licks, nips, touches that bruised and made everything within him coil and burn. Their hearts beat in sync as if their very souls are entwining. The red threads of Fate thickening into coils and chains.

Together forever.

"I love you."

Gallia wakes drenched and painfully hard, along with sinking painful feeling that he is already in too deep to make it out of this mission unscathed.

Merde.

---

If Arthur could describe the last weeks, it was like a whirlwinds of petty arguments, tea, botched dinner dates, impromptu meetings and kisses.

Lots of kisses. Some sweet and light like the man's macaroons. Others a bit heated like brandy on a cold night.

The second date went off without a hitch. They ate in a French restaurant this time because Arthur cannot really expect himself to complain when he is technically making it up for the Frenchman. And besides, it wasn't that bad. Sure, the man had the audacity to try and feed him snails and frog legs of all things. But still, aside from the tiny hitch with the food, everything just fell into place along with the rest of the dates that now litter his planner.

Yes, it's not much but he can quite conclude that he has a connection with the man. Pierre asks him the strangest of things and they range from his childhood to his work place.

It even went as deep as his old dusty dream of being a writer which made him interrogate Pierre in turn which he would describe as trying to crack a very hard nut.

"Well... if I had to choose outside cooking... I want to be a photographer. Travel the world. That kind of thing."

"The Eiffel Tower is not really my most favorite of structures."

"Honestly, you are such a child! A man can like pink. Pink is a lovely color!"

He finds it quite strange to be honest, how he and Pierre easily get into these situations where everything just feels so natural. It's as if they have been doing this old sing and dance for years and merely on the process of relearning it.

In all his years, he never thought he will grow to become intimate with another human being after Bess. The car accident happened on such an ordinary day. No dramatic fights. None of those sappy confessions of love on a warm summer day that only ended in tragedy when the clouds darkened and shrouded everything in melancholia.

No, it happened when she went out for some groceries. Arthur remembers giving her a peck on the cheek, as he was busy reading the paper. He remembers calling out for her to bring an umbrella because the sky looked a bit dark and she came back in a rush to grab an umbrella briefly commenting if she should go or not.

And Arthur just had to open his big mouth and jeer at her.

"The mighty Bess stopped by a bit of a drizzle?"

She puffed up at that, saying that as her loyal knight he should be the one making her errands. And then, he rolled his eyes, complaining how he rarely gets a day off and prefers to stay in their warm apartment. She chides him of being an old man trapped in a young man's body.

He scoffs and shoos her away.

To this day, he can still remember her laughter before the tell-tale sound of a closing door. The next time he hears of her, it was raining cats and dogs with a choppy line from the hospital informing him that she got into a car accident.

The traffic was gruelingly slow and when he finally got to the hospital, he wasn't directed to a room but to the morgue where she laid there lifeless and cold. And in all honesty, Arthur felt a piece of him died that day, burned along side with her cremated body and disappeared forever to join the wind and sea.

"Why do you love the sea so much? You can't even swim."

"I should ask you the same question, my dear. But for me, I guess it reminds me of your eyes, the shadows hit it just so, I am reminded of the sea."

"It is unlike you to be so absentminded, Arthur."

"What? Oh, how –" he blinks, soft memories of sea foam and smiles fading as he meets a pair of questioning blues.

"I let myself in. You forgot to lock the door," he informs making Arthur's brows furrow.

"I did?"

"No, I used the spare key you lent me. Arthur, is something wrong?" he asks as the questioning takes on a touch of concern and worry.

"No, I just got lost in my memories again I guess. I'm fine," he assures and he can clearly see the doubtfulness in the man's face along with a hint of knowing just what memories he's been engulfed in.

"Okay, I just stopped by to drop this off," he backs down, presenting a square Tupperware that seems to contain his dinner for the night.

"Thanks. But, honestly, you don't have to cook for me whenever our plans fall through. You have your own life to live," he says feeling his hackles rise a bit at thought of the man seeing him as someone that needs extra gentle handling, "now, stop giving me that look. I am fine, Pierre Durand now go, you're going to be late."

"Fine. Fine. As my lord commands. The lowly Frog shall leave him to mope. I'll see you later," Pierre sighs, clearly unsatisfied with his dislike to 'talk' about things.

"Yes, later. And –" he waves him off but the words catches at his throat for some reason.

"Hm?"

"Be careful. Just be careful."

"Don't worry, I will."

Arthur smiles, sips his warm cuppa with a contented sigh. He knows he can never forget his Bess, but he knows that a new beginning is just waiting around the corner. He just hopes and prays that he's making the right choice in this.

A bit too late to be hesitant don't you think?

---

Francis admits. He has fallen. Failed in a sense where he should not be feeling these things. Failed in a sense where he all but ignores and halts his progress for the purpose of lengthening his time with this kind of intimacy. Allows himself to be lost in the whirlwind of passion and warmth he never thought to feel.

It was like quicksand. The stronger he struggles. The quicker he sinks.

And how deep I had sunk.

He had felt himself slipping the moment he typed that report informing l'Agence his suspicions – that, Arthur Kirkland is being used a decoy along with the supporting details and assumptions to support his claims.

He ignores the lingering thought at the back of his head telling him that he'll still end up killing him whether he is innocent or not.

Arthur Kirkland knows him as Pierre Durand and not as Francis Bonnefoy. And that fact alone has been all but sealed the man's Fate because Pierre Durand is not real and Francis Bonnefoy is. Francis has legitimate records. Pierre is nothing but a clever ruse of falsified information that can be uncovered via thorough investigations.

Yes, they technically share the same face but one can be so amazed just how many unrelated people look alike in this world. It all comes down to the finer things like DNA and fingerprints which he made sure to cover up as much as he can.

Arthur Kirkland is going to die and he is merely prolonging the inevitable.

Then one night, after a particularly enjoyable evening he receives the report informing him that his report was considered and the contact at Jones Tech has looked into it. It turns out that Arthur Kirkland was there on that night. Footage was seen. Employee logs confirmed along with computer access codes used that night.

It was official, no matter how unseemly it is. Arthur Kirkland really is the hacker and he doesn't know what to feel about it.

He scrolls down and sees the final orders.

Files retrieved.

Suspect confirmed.

Eliminate target.

---

He decides to place it in his tea, to help mask the faint bitterness. His hands shakes. Falters as he takes a pinch of the dark green dust into the tin. His breath harrows and quickens as he reminds himself to replace the tin contents after Arthur finally slips away.

No mess. No pain. A merciful end. He tells himself. Convinces himself.

The trap is set, now all he has to do is wait.

---

"The hell?" he doesn't bother act surprised when Arthur catches him with messy heaps of spilled tea leaves.

"I'm sorry," his voice catches as something lurches up his throat, "I-I was... I tried making tea and got a bit clumsy... I'll replace it. I know it's your favorite blend. I -"

"Hush, calm down. It's just tea, Frog. I'm not mad or anything but you look like you're about to cry or something," Arthur assures, cupping his chin while a thumb lightly runs over cheek.

Or something.

"You alright? You seem off," his brows furrow, eyes turning alert as he begins to take in the surroundings.

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired from the mayhem at the pub..." he answers with a deep sigh, leaning into the calloused warmth of Arthur's hand and just drinks in everything. From the messy hair to the old jumpers and sharp English lit of his tongue.

"Maybe you should stick to the fancy bars. Rowdy pubs are not your thing."

"Maybe."

"Okay, what's wrong," his eyes narrow, face inching closer as he takes in whatever Gallia, Francis, has to offer.

"Nothing." I just can't kill you. I know I should. But I can't because I feel like I'm falling in love and I can't stop.

Arthur looks at him. Really looks and he is suddenly exposed under that gaze of bright green fire. A fire so bright and brimming with intelligence and life.

For a moment, he pictures the fire dead with nothing but dull lifeless stones in its place. A piece of his heart crumbles off at the thought.

"Fine. Look. You don't have to tell me if you're not ready okay," Arthur sighs and Francis breathes.

"Maybe later. After your dinner meeting," he offers making Arthur eye him doubtfully.

"Make yourself at home, till then."

"You trust me all alone in your house?" he asks with genuine surprise which makes Arthur laugh.

"I really don't have anything to hide now do I?" Arthur replies, his lips quirking up in amusement, "Be sure to lock the door when you leave," he adds in before leaning in for a quick kiss. "See you later, love."

The door closes with a soft click, Arthur's footsteps echo out of earshot and for the first time in a long time, Francis Bonnefoy cries his heart out.

---

He wakes up to a pounding headache and the urge to vomit. It takes him a while to notice he is tied to a chair in a dark room with nothing but a glaring bright overhead light bulb that makes his eyes squint.

"Glad of you to join us. Agent Gallia."

The voice was robotic. Artificial and cold. His felt his stomach drop in fear.

"Who –" he ventures only to be cut off.

"Who I am is not really important... and you're not really here to ask questions but to answer them," the voice reprimands and Gallia notes the strange inflection within the mechanical tone. He keeps silent, this could be anyone but he fears that he already know who.

"So, care ta tell me why you're snooping 'round." There was a tiny sound of creaking of wood, telling him his captor just took a seat, intending to wait him out. It was no question now. He was careless and triggered alarms.

The Keepers know.

"Maybe these would refresh your memory." He sees a gloved hand tossing something on the floor that sounds like falling rice. He looks down on the white tiled floors to see black tiny pieces scattered and crushed.

Bugs. Their bugs.

He bites his lip in an effort to swallow down a swear.

Now, is not the time to be vocal.

"Ya see… Jones Tech is a very good customer and we were really surprised to see such things hiding in their servers. Surveillance was hacked. Showing a bit of a 15 minute loop. Ye work fast for a Frenchie."

"Untie me at once! Before I decide to get the police involved. I don't know who you are or what you want but I was never near Jones Tech," he vies for the innocent civilian card in hopes that it will make the enemy (if stupid) underestimate him. And he really hopes this is one of those stupid henchmen scenes.

"I hardly think you'd want the polis involved." A match was lit from behind making him stiffen in alarm. Only then when he smelled cigars did the tension in him ease.

"Calm down, I'm not burnin' you. Yet."

His lips thin as he breathes out, staring with baleful defiance into the darkness where a small red-orange circle burns.

"So... Arthur Kirkland. He's your target, right? The big bad hacker that crushed your firewall. Your team has great tech but you really don't know how to dig deep into things. Too fast. Too sloppy for my taste," the man, Gallia can conclude now, taps the ashes off his cigar before blowing some smoke into his direction.

"Not the talkative type are ya. That's okay. I'm just passin' on the message. Being a good lad that I am." He could practically feel the stranger grinning at him. He eyes the glowing embers of the cigarette end and he notes the lack of noise which means that he is definitely not dealing with clumsy stupid henchmen today.

"But here's the thing. We looked it up and apparently Mr. Kirkland wasn't even near the place when it happened."

"What? Im –" he bites his lip stopping his exclamations.

"Ah, there we go. Some progress. I knew that fancy pansy place would take the bait."

Bait? Could it be? No!

"I'm sure you're familiar with decoys, lad. We usually pick them with care but our source got a bit overconfident. A common trait for newbies really..."

He doesn't understand. He was right? Arthur really was just a decoy but how?

"You really need to learn to control your expressions, lad. I can see you're wondering how this little mix-up happened. It was quite easy really, we installed a defense loop in the system. It's an automatic response to hacks and unofficial file transfers. So when your place tried for a surveillance feed, they got Artie doing overtime along with employee records and access codes to come with.

"You guys are good. But we're better."

He sits there gaping. They were tricked. They were fed a loop. The enemy was waiting and came prepared.

"The Keepers would have such good uses for such a list. Don't you agree, Mr. Durand?"

"What do you plan to do with us?" There is no use hiding behind facades.

"You have a partner then? Finally showing true colors aren't you, dragging everyone down with you."

He ignores the barb, Natalya can take care of herself.

"Arthur. What do you plan to do to him?"

"Oh, so not your partner then... but why do you care? He's just a target. Gonna kill him anyways."

A beat of silence before a loud bellowing laugh echoes through the room, the mechanical sound grating on his ears.

"Aw, this is rich. The wee bugger managed to burrow into yer cold dark heart did he now?"

"He knows nothing. You're right, he's just a target. So leave him out of this."

Let l'Agence think they're safe for now. Let them think Gallia was killed off by the true orchestrator. Let the fight continue elsewhere. Away from Arthur.

"Well, this is an interesting twist of events. Don't you agree," the mechanical voice is gone and is replaced by a noticeable Scottish lit.

The lights suddenly turn on, illuminating the room. Harsh and glaring. He doesn't really have time to take in the environment because he was busy staring at the two men before him.

"Yes. Interesting indeed."

He wants to take in more of the redhead's features. His build and height but is too distracted by his shorter companion. Messy blond hair and sharp green eyes of emerald fire.

"A-Arthur?" he gapes while the Scottish man practically preens.

"Hello, Gallia. I'm Albion. A Keeper of the Empire."

---

The Keepers of the Empire, commonly known as The Keepers or The Empire, a group highly specialized with Intel and black market trade offs. They could procure the darkest of secrets for the right price. They can pass off imitations as originals and have enough skill to convince experts that the piece they're holding is nothing but pretty stone and nothing of great value.

They are known for their connections throughout the globe. An Empire built on shadows and blackmail. As opposed to l'Agence that is has chosen to bear the mark of being a jack of all trades that could bring you quality service.

Give them a job and they will accomplish it. Or at least, ideally.

"Surprise is a lovely look on you love," Arthur comments, an unfamiliar smugness in his tone despite its soft airy delivery.

"So is nausea apparently," the Scottish man adds in with a mutter and Gallia couldn't help but notice the similarities between the two.

"You're related," he voices making both to raise their thick brows in unison which is quite unsettling.

"Was it that much of a surprise? I expected you to be sharper than that," Arthur snorts before turning to what Pierre suspects to be his cousin or something and says.

"Leave us."

Just like magic, the playful mirth in the Scotsman's features turns flat. Bright green eyes narrow into a glare of protest which Arthur returns with his own. The staring contests lasts a few more seconds, both men looking to be in a telepathic conversation.

"I'll be fine."

The Scotsman sighs, taking leave but not before dropping to whisper something into Arthur's ear which he merely nods in acknowledgment.

"Do you think that is wise of you, cher?" he ventures, turning his attentions back towards his captor. He took the chance to observe his surroundings during that little match of theirs (a large error on their part, obviously too confident for their own good).

"You're hardly a threat for me, Gallia. This room is under surveillance so if anything is to happen... I'll be taking you down with me."

"You talk as if you can take me on, cher," he replies earning another smirk from the man that tells him of dark secrets and danger. His gut clenches on instinct as it tells him one thing and one thing alone.

This man before him is dangerous.

"So what exactly does this entail for me, Mr. Albion? You have your data, it's only a matter of time before your people crack the codes. You even have l'Agence fooled. And all this time, everything was just an inconvenient fall of circumstances. The spy didn't know you were an agent which complicated things but it seems that you've managed to clean things up quite well.

"I've always found it quite strange why you moved so quietly. How you seem to catch every misplaced piece. Tell me, who else is in on this? Are the Italians in on this?" he asks only to realize with dread.

Antonio. No.

"Do you always have a habit of making yourself into a victim? You came to me remember?"

"Strange, I remember it quite differently," he snipes, but Albion chooses to ignore it.

"You lied to me. You were going to kill me. And calm down, the Italians are innocent. Your Conquistator is safe. Unlike the l'Agence, we actually take precautions. Sloppy work you have with you. Kill off everyone involved... nice," Arth - Albion sneers.

"How kind of you... but you left out Davi."

"Did I? Huh, fancy that. Don't worry, I'm sure Davi won't do anything rash. Though I must say, I did not expect to come out retirement. I thought it's one of those permanent fixtures in your head."

"Retirement? So you mean to tell me, Arthur Kirkland is…"

"Real? Yes, you could say that."

There was a flutter of hope and he mercilessly kills it himself.

"So you were really innocent then… but I don't understand. Why is the Empire involving itself, wouldn't it be easier for them to let you take the fall?"

"Wouldn't it be easier for to just follow order and kill me?"

He says nothing. He already suspects that they know more than they let on.

"Emotions are a fickle thing and let's just say I have great connections in both the right and wrong places," Albion muses, his gaze never breaking away as if telling him, I'm the one in control here and you're powerless so don't even think of escaping.

"I'm guessing I'm at the wrong side of things..." he trails off. He will not let his voice break. He will not give this man the satisfaction.

"You tell me. After all, you have the audacity to come into my life in the mask of comfort and companionship. Manipulate me. Play with my feelings and tried to kill me off with my favorite tea. I expected a lot of things from you Francis Bonnefoy but never this." The disappointment in his tone was almost a slap, a clear insult and it hurt like hell.

"You speak as if you know me," he snarls.

He does not know this person. This person does not know him. This is not Arthur. This is Albion. Arthur Kirkland is gone. He cannot change that.

"I do. I know what you are. You are right bastard. A vindictive little shit that likes to include civilians into his games. I would have understood if you came for me but to go for Bess..." Albion snarls, growls out the accusation leaving him in shock.

"Are you implying that I - I did not! I have done a lot of things but I am quite sure starting traffic accidents out of spite is not on my CV," he retorts, how dare he. How dare he accuse him of such a thing.

"And of course, let us not forget of you taking the cowardly and not-to-mention stupid way out via self mind manipulation. You could have turned yourself into a vegetable, Frog!"

"What are you talking about!" he exclaims, no longer trying to reel in his emotions and here was Arthur, no Albion, or whatever, staring at him as if he's hiding something. Surveying, going around him in circles like a vulture and with a sudden heavy sigh, he tugs, pulls, unties the ropes and says, "Leave."

Gallia wastes no time and grapples him to the floor, hands easily wrapping around Albion's neck while he towers over him.

"What is this? Some twisted form of pity? Giving me a fighting chance before finally finishing me off? I see that you're the type to play with your food, cher," he spits, brittle and hard, so full of spite and anger.

"I see no use in talking with you Agent Gallia. You are nothing but a shell. A remnant of what was. There is no use in digging things up anymore," Albion answers with nonchalance.

"Do you think I can't do it? That I can't kill you. Do you think I'm that weak?" This time Albion laughs, haughty and amused as if Gallia doesn't have the power to break his neck on intent.

"Oh, darling. Perish the thought. I assure you, I would never peg you as weak. Careless. Foolish. Yes. But weak? No."

"You're mocking me."

Albion sneers, "Am I? Forgive me. I just felt a bit of nostalgia coming through. Please, carry on," he says, flourishing a wave for him to continue which only irritates Gallia further.

"It's unlike you to be so hesitant, Francis. No, you're Pierre now. Oops, wait. How silly of me. It's Gallia. You've always been Gallia."

"Stop it!"

This is painful. Too painful.

"Stop what, love?"

"Stop talking as if you know me," he whispers, suddenly showing far too much. Albion's eyes soften and he doesn't dare meet them.

"You like lilies. Favorite color is pink and sky blue. Pastels calm you down. You dislike the Eiffel Tower at first but it eventually grew on you. You dream to be a photographer because you remember your mother being one before she dies and sent your father into alcoholism. You like to cook, draw and read romance novels on your free time. And of course, you can't brew tea to save your life."

"Shut up!" No, I don't want to hear it. I doesn't want to hear any of it.

"You're angry. No, frustrated. I know so many things about you but when push comes to shove, you know so little about me in turn. You find it unnerving. Strange. I must confess, it's oddly refreshing to see you so open before me."

"By that you mean weak. Defenseless."

"What are you talking about? I'm practically at your mercy."

"What do you want from me? You want something, I know it," he demands, tightening his grip only to receive nothing but a small flutter and rise of the man's pulse.

"My dear Gallia –"

"I'm not your Gallia!"

"Nor am I your Arthur. And such a tragic pair we are, are we not?"

Damn this man. Damn him to hell! Well, two can play at this game.

"I want my memories back," he declares, finally eliciting a small shock of surprise from those green orbs.

"Why bother. Nothing will be the same. We can never go back."

He was right. Annoyingly, frustratingly so. Memories will not make this better. Perhaps, nothing can make this better.

"I want to know. Why, I chose to forget you. Why I hated you so much that I chose to break your heart. I want to know the reason why I was willing and stupid enough to perform memory tampering on myself all for the purpose of forgetting you. I want to know," he answers, finally meeting the man's gaze head on. They stay like that, in calculating silence when finally, Albion relents.

"Okay."

With that he relaxes his grip and the man wasted no time reversing their positions and covering his nose with the sick cloying scent of chloroform.

Putain.

---

He wakes up, this time strapped to a bed with a familiar face smiling at him.

"You."

"Me." His smiles widens, the overhead lights glinting off his glasses hiding the boy's violet eyes.

"You're the – why?"

"I have my reasons. Just like you."

"I'm nothing like you," he glares, daring the other to refute. Gallia was a lot of things but he was no traitor.

"True, you're far too kind for my tastes," he says only to cut off whatever retort Gallia has for him, "you had everything in your arsenal. Bugs. Intoxication. Intimacy. Truth serums."

"They're still experimental," he frowns, recalling the dangerous side effects of seizures and psychosis that comes with it.

"But effective enough to get the job done eh?"

"You don't know that. The information was too valuable to risk losing," he reasons, wondering just how a young man can have such a cold heart.

"Hm, true. But those drunken episodes…"

"Are not reliable."

"I really question why they chose you of all people. You're not really the long haul types. But then again, even I made an error in judgment. After all, who would've thought Arthur was off limits. Making him as the scapegoat was my mistake," he admits with an almost repentant look on his face.

"The main objective was to fool l'Agence into thinking that the file retrieval was a success. You never needed to hack anything, you could get it from the source. You just wanted a target. And whatever happens to me is –"

"An unfortunate loss. Now, don't give me that look. It's how things work in our line of work. You are the best but you are not expendable. That's the rule," he reminds, still smiling that cold empty smile.

"You do not think I'Agence would suspect anything?"

"Whatever your fate maybe, I'm quite sure the Empire can find something to distract them. In fact, Arthur can actually just return back to his normal life… if he wants of course, it's too risky to do another memory tampering."

"You're so confident in this," he observes, suddenly thinking of Natalya and how she'll fare given their rather unfortunate circumstances.

"The Empire will make sure your secondary spy gets to accidentally uncover the feed from Alfred's blabber. What? I know how things work on your end too. Also, did you honestly think he became one of the world's top and youngest CEOs just by being stupid and rich?" Matthew asks, arching an amused brow as realization dawns on him once more.

"Jones Tech is a part of the Empire."

"Yes and no... it's quite a special relationship really. I'll scratch your back and you'll scratch mine kind of thing. But we're not here to chat are we?"

"No."

"I gotta say. That was pretty ballsy doing it to yourself. Any idea why?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be in this predicament," he snaps while the boy just nods along.

"True. Now, let's get started. Please take note that erasing memories is a lot easier than restoring them. As you probably know…"

"No I don't know."

"We just bury the memories and the mind does the rest to fill in the gaps. A reboot comes with a lot of confusion and headaches so it will take some time," Matthew supplies matter-of-factly as he shifts his attention towards a rather large machine, akin to the size and appearance of decades old computers.

"How long?"

"Oh, about 24 hours," he estimates, hooking a device that looks to be a gas mask on him.

"Twenty-four?! Wait, how long was I out?" his voice was muffled by the device, he suddenly feels claustrophobic.

Surely, l'Agence would have noticed...

"Long enough to go through everything with a fine tooth comb but not long enough to raise suspicions." This time Matthew flashes him a grin, as if reading his thoughts.

"You people really do work fast. But how can I be sure you won't mess with my mind and turn me into a vegetable," he spat only to get nothing but silence.

Non! Merde!

"Relax, I'm not that mean. I know my orders," Matthew assures him and he wills himself to focus on something else because stress will not help in the procedure.

"You said Arthur won't be getting a reboot why?"

"Well, unlike you, who had a more selective approach, Arthur undergone a lot of more tampering to make sure he won't get any triggers. But enough chit-chat. Let's get this over with," he declares, flipping a switch which seems to release a gas that makes him drowsy and for what seems to be the third time that day, Gallia succumbs to the darkness once more.

---

Too fast. Too much.

His breathing hitches. His body convulses and strain against the bonds.

Too much memories. Forwarding scenes of childhood, dark teenage years he has relived. Suffocating him in their intensity. Everything just comes flooding in like a tidal wave. He gasps and tries to reach out and understand instead of being washed out by the wild torrent of emotions that are on the process of overwhelming him.

"Gallia."

"Albion."

Shadowed rooftops and narrow alleyways. Familiarity, clinging at him as he gets sucked into the gunshots and blood.

"Mon Dieu, die already!"

"Oh, but you'll so lonely without me, love."

Sharp snipes and retorts. Clashing of emerald fires and dark blue ice.

"Well, what do we have here, a trapped rabbit."

Smug smiles and lingering touches that should never make one's heart race.

"My, my, my. How cruel of Lady Luck to abandon her precious Frog."

Gleaming teeth and snarls that turned into fiery hot kisses of tension and all consuming fire.

Tight embraces. Burning coiling heat. Temptation and whispered admissions.

Hard nail raking against hardened skin drawing more than blood as they leave their marks.

And warmth. Sweet delicious addicting warmth that engulfs and suffocates.

"I love you."

Secrets. Confessions. Promises.

"Let's just leave everything and start fresh."

Dreams. Hopes. Betrayal and pain.

---

He wakes up in bed alone. A room so white it threatens to blind him. A bed with thin sheets to fight off the almost Baltic coldness of everything. It takes him a while. To regroup. To breathe. To relax.

In. Out. In. Out.

Release.

He opens his eyes he never knew he closed and takes in everything. His hands uncurl from the now rumpled sheets. He ignores the marks of bruises upon his wrists focuses on trying to stop his hands from shaking like a leaf.

Get a hold of yourself.

The thoughts are still there. The memories flooding in, interlocking and mending with memories he never knew he had. Memories once inconsequential and useless now loud and incessant before him.

His breathing finally steadies along with the world. Everything starts flowing again.

"It's rude to linger at doorways, cher."

The door opens, no knock or announcement. Just the smooth slide of joints and the soft click of a lock. Their eyes meet. No longer of fire nor of ice but of something else.

"Francis."

"Arthur."

---

He enters the room and makes no inquiry for the other's well-being. He closes the door and say his greetings. They square off in silence, waiting for someone to break it.

"I believe you have some explaining to do," Francis murmurs, leaning back against the bed while he chooses to keep his distance.

"Ladies first," he replies sharply while the Frenchman merely smiles in turn.

"Ever the gentleman. You never did change. You're still the manipulative bastard I know," he muses, pausing for a brief thought before adding, "we both know I never killed her. Unless I'm missing that chunk of memory… nevertheless, I should applaud you. Using my confusion and shock along with my feelings to make me agree with this memory reboot, well done. Bravo!" he claps and Arthur denies nothing.

"It was too good to pass up. Freewill is the key component to the procedure. It increases the success rate along with decreasing the risk of the subject turning into a useless vegetable," he shrugs, he finds no danger in admittance.

After all, this is the moment where we drag out the skeletons for a show.

"How kind of you. An explanation you say…"

"You never showed up. I assumed the worst," he supplies, casual and light as if they were talking about the weather.

"Rejection? How a fragile pride and heart you have mon cher," he laughs and it just reminds Arthur far too much of the past.

"Stop dicking around! I thought –" He has enough. He is not here to play around. Circle each other like beasts.

I am here for answers and I will get them.

"You thought what exactly?" He's trying to look clueless now, irritatingly nonchalant as if he wasn't recovering from the trauma of a mental procedure.

"I don't know. Dead? Held captive? Imagine my surprise when I saw you all fine and drinking the night away with your mates," he answers sharply, feeling the coil of satisfaction when surprise and a bit of guilt mar those indigo blue depths.

"You were there."

"I was there."

---

He sat there frozen, watching the very cause and root of all this and all he could say was, "You shouldn't have".

"But I did. Now, tell me why you left me hanging there in the cold dark night without as much as a notice. A simple no, would have sufficed." His tone was sharp as ever, bordering on condescending which really irks him because of the reason of the circumstances.

"Would it? Would it actually be enough, Britannia?" he asks, allowing a small smirk to curl when he sees the other visibly paling at the words.

"W-What?"

"That's your real alias, right?" he presses, watching the other squirm beneath his gaze.

"Where did you –"

"Does it really matter where I get my information right now?" he evades, because no, Arthur doesn't need to know he accidentally came across the information when he heard Arthur answer as Britannia instead of Albion when he thought Francis was still asleep.

"I admit. It was carelessness on my part. I showed too much. I played into your casual questions about company gossip. I allowed myself to be led. I was foolish. Foolish to trust the Empire himself with my heart.

"Speechless, I see. Shocked that I found out about your little secret? Well, you should imagine my surprise when I found out I was being used. Found out that I was basically spoon-feeding a rival information. I do not blame you. I was stupid enough to assume that the things between us stayed with us.

"Your turn, Britannia," he challenges, watches as the man grapples for an answer.

"It wasn't intentional."

Connard.

"Let. me. finish. I don't know how your higher ups do it but at the Empire, the higher your position, the more expected of you to be involved in the operations. When we met, I was still Albion. I became Britannia far after we've decided to deepen our relationship," he supplies, eyes getting a bit too nostalgic Francis' taste because now is not the time for sweet reminiscences nor will it ever be.

"Must have been a great boss for you to look so genuinely aggrieved…" he muses, snapping the other from whatever memory lane walk he's having.

"Did you forget that most of these things are familial?"

Oh.

Oh.

"So the great prince decided to grace the common pauper of his attentions. I am honored," he sneers, he doesn't really care about Arthur's familial relations nor does he have particular interest to know more.

"Ever the drama queen… the point is –"

"Spare me. I get it. But it doesn't change anything. You used me."

There, he said. No circles. No fancy trips to whatever sweet and distant memory. Just plain and straightforward.

Just the way you like it, right?

There is no escape. There is no explanation but it is a simple fact. Arthur Kirkland used him to further the Intel of his company. No more, no less. Despite his intentions. Despite the possible sincerity of his feelings, it changes nothing because he used his trust to his advantage and...

I don't think I can forgive you for that Arthur.

"You know, I expected a fight. I expected you to track me down and we'll break everything down to the ground with our bullets and shouts. I never got that fight, instead… instead… I got this."

The bitterness shows. Ugly. Angry and hurt.

"You've made your choice. It was only proper –"

"Proper? You think running away from me is proper," he snaps, eyes flashing in indignation.

Since when have we ever cared for propriety?

"You ran first. You turned your back first."

So it's back to this again?

"Then why didn't you –" Chase after me. Look for me. Hunt me down as your prize. Claim me as your own.

"Because, I wanted it to be your choice! I wanted it not because we fought and made up. I wanted it because we made plans and decided it on together. Together, Francis. I waited. I waited for you not only on that night but many nights after."

No, that's a lie. He didn't. He wouldn't. He suddenly doesn't want to know the truth anymore.

"I waited for a month. Your answer was quite clear after."

Why didn't you wait longer? I came. I was late but I came.

"And you thought retiring was the best choice. I came back you know," he informs, dismissing the tiny voice saying he waited and you were too slow to catch him.

"You came back for a fight."

"But I came back nonetheless. Now, imagine my surprise. To see you in public. To call out to you and you look at me with such confusion," his throat catches at the memory.

"Excuse me? But you must have the wrong person"

"At first, I thought. We were in public. You are on an assignment. I really didn't care if you botched a mission at that time so I pressed on further," his breath shudders and hitches but he continues, "You called me a drunk. Had the gall to call me a cab to the hospital. I was about to shove you down the table when I saw her."

"Arthur?"

"I saw her. And I saw you. She called you by your name but that didn't really matter to me until later… Never have I seen you look like that. You looked at her with such adoration and joy… at that moment, I knew. You were not my Arthur. My Arthur was gone," he tries to smile and fail. He focuses on stopping the tears instead.

"I expected us to go down fighting. Go down like rabid beasts because neither of us was willing to give way. We will fight and fight until there is nothing left. Gone will be our prides as they burn along our broken hearts.

"But we didn't fight. We didn't do anything but sulk in our respective corners until one of us decided enough was enough. I expected a lot of things from you Arthur Kirkland, but never that. And so I thought… why not. If he can do it, why can't I? If he can throw his heart away, so will I. That has always been our game, cher. If he can, I can do it too. And I did," he concludes, raising his eyes to see what response awaits him.

"Silence is so unlike you, cher."

"Do you plan on going back?"

Of course, of course it's going to be all about business. He got what he wants, now it's time to clean things up.

"I don't think I can even go back," he snorts, masking the hurt with his adverted gaze and pompous tone, "I don't suppose I can still risk one more procedure…"

"No need. We'll just make it appear you've been tampered with… there's no need to risk… and l'Agence wouldn't touch you anymore because -"

"I'm damaged goods. Too unstable. Not worth the risk and effort. Don't look so surprised, cher. I know my place. I know my worth. I know the price for this. But you don't have to do this."

"I know. But I want to."

This is it. The time to sever the bonds.

"I see. Thank y –" he is barely able to finish it for Arthur with three quick strides engulfs in a kiss. A sweet soft kiss full of emotion and longing. A kiss that makes his heart pound and break. Swelling with everything they held and have held.

Arthur pulls away. Too soon. Too quick.

Francis grabs and pulls. And gives him that well-aimed punch he rightful deserves.

"Fuck! The hell!" He's on the ground, bleeding from the mouth glaring daggers at him.

Good.

"How dare you!" How dare you kiss me like that! "What was that for!" I did not need it. I did not want it. "You bastard, how dare you!" How dare you remind me. How dare you make me remember.

"It was just kiss. What, I'm not allowed a final farewell?"

You twisted little bastard.

"How does that constitute as a proper goodbye! A handshake. A hug. But –" A kiss. A warm soft kiss that melts ice and sorrow.

"It was just a sodding kiss." No, it wasn't. Maybe for you, but not for me.

"What is it with you? I let go, you pull me in. I try to explain and you shut me down. You think you're the only one? The only one who is tired? The only one hurt? Newsflash, Frog. I may come as a surprise but I have a heart too and bit of closure would've sufficed. But, no. I can't even have that without you throwing it to my face. I loved you. Twice."

"Don't you dare use that on me!"

"You're not the only one who has a heart! You're not the only one capable of love. You're not the only one in this relationship that cares. Do you think I offer up romantic notions of escape to every agent I meet? Do you think I would wait for a bloody month to see if I was actually being rejected or not? I loved you. I still love you and it hurts me because I know it's not going to be enough!" he shouts, raves. The color of his cheeks a ruddy red as his chest heaves with emotion.

Francis. At that moment, laughs at the tragedy of it all.

He laughs and laughs until the tears he held back finally break the dam and flows.

"You're right. We're really a perfect pair of star-crossed lovers," he guffaws clutching his sides, he laughs some more because if quiets, they will turn into sobs. Painful ugly sobs.

Too twisted. Too broken. Too proud to heal properly. Love is not enough. Without trust, it can never be enough.

The laughing stops, fades into a familiar waiting silence. He tightens his hold on himself and speaks, "Goodbye, Arthur."

"Goodbye, Francis."

And with that Arthur Kirkland leaves him for the last time.

---

They meet again. Years later. Unexpectedly in America of all places. Sharing a hotel suite of all things.

"I can find another hotel. You stay here," Arthur offers and he makes a grab for his luggage.

"Non. It is big enough. I'm sure we can manage," he waves it off, knowing how the hotels during the summer season are practically booked.

So they stay there. In silence, watching each other more waiting for the other to break.

"So how are you?" Arthur asks, seating himself on the couch, a reasonable distance.

"Oh, here and there. I'm a photographer now… a bit of cooking on the side but that's more of a hobby than a profession. You?" he ventures, waiting for a certain topic to be breached.

"I quit Jones Tech."

Okay, he did not expect that. A change in career can mean many things.

"Oh? Not here to check up on me then," he says watching his eyes widen with confusion before he it sets into a realization.

"What? No. I… I'm here to meet my publisher."

This time, it is his turn to blink and be surprised.

"You're an author."

"It's no big deal really. I'm just here to help with the promotion," Arthur waves it off or at least tries to because Francis can only think of one author who is currently on a promotions tour.

"A.K. Green," he ventures making Arthur blush and he knows specifically why.

"It is you!"

"Don't."

"You write romance novels."

"Sh… no one's supposed to know," Arthur begs, practically pleads with him.

"Romance. Fluffy. Soft. Cutesy romance."

"Oh, please stop."

"What would the Keepers think I wonder?" he muses and all of the sudden the atmosphere between them shifts once more.

"I don't know. I don't really keep in touch that often."

"Oh?" Personally, he finds that hard to believe.

"Well, family wise. Yes, I'm involved. But they know I can't go near the family business anymore."

They lapse into silence after that and it stayed that way until the next morning where they meet and try to grapple on what to do next because in all honesty, both of them feel lost at that moment.

---

They decide to start out small. A friendly invitation to dinner. Revolving around random chats and topics, away from the past, away from the wounds. And so they talk. They laugh. Agreeing to meet again when they have the chance.

Francis was a traveling photographer and Arthur finally settled down at his home in an English countryside.

Surely, the likelihood it seems quite improbable.

Yet, they meet again in Portugal. Arthur was lost and Francis was busy taking pictures. They find themselves in a small local cafe. It was Francis who first offers to a trip to Spain where a certain retired Spaniard was kind enough accommodate them. A vacation. No alcohol. Just plain companionship.

Next, they found themselves tagging along with Lovino who seems to be raving and grumbling about Feliciano's German boyfriend. Francis did not expect to meet Gilbert there and while it is painful (probably even more painful for Gilbert) to be the only one left, it is still a start. It is still a chance.

So they smile. They joke. They heal. Meet new people and connect.

Bit by bit. Slowly but surely. They learn to touch. Fleeting. Hesitant. Chaste.

A pat at the back. A lingering warm hand on one's shoulder.

They ease into. Slip into place like old puzzle pieces.

A hug. Sharing of scarves and jackets. They find themselves holding hands. Leaning against each other for warmth.

Until one night, they kiss. Tentative. Careful of the exposed mess that was their past. They dance around it. Poke at it. See if the sleeping monsters would creep in and ensnare their hearts once more. It is a painful process. Awkward and unfamiliar grounds for both.

So they take it slow once more. Passion can wait. They had that before and it burnt them both. Badly. Now, they must learn to trust once more. And so they work, build, rebuild and mend. Pushing fallen pieces into place. Renewing the old frayed bonds. It was not easy, there were slips, falls and wreckages beyond repair but they somehow they managed.

And finally, they say it.

"I love you."

"Je t'aime"

Soft. Unprepared. Unexpectedly vulnerable and shy.

One reaches out and they meet in between with a kiss. This time with a bit more heat, with a bit more passion.

They touch. They explore and refresh their memories as they embrace.

They fall.

They settle. Together this time.

And this time, they can really say, it was truly worth the wait.

-END-

A/N: This is a pitch-hit!gift for shinobiqueen on Tumblr for the FrUK Gift Exhange. I apologize for the lapses of character and overlooked grammar errors. This is my first AU, be kind. Comments and suggestions are always welcome. :)