Okay, I'm really getting into this story, so I kind of kept writing into the early hours of the morning. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed and favortied! I love the reviews. They're really nice and encouraging.

Once again, I hope that you enjoy and that it isn't too painful so far. Oh, and please forgive and language errors you find and feel free to point them out so that I can correct them.

I still haven't randomly gotten ownership of Hetalia, much to my disappointment. ^.^


Chapter One:

The Wait and the Frenchman

Anger fingers tapped against the cold, white plastic of the lobby chair. If there was anything that Arthur Kirkland hated more than waiting in a hospital for news of what could be his only lead, it was waiting in a hospital for news of what could be his only lead in France. It wasn't really that he had a grudge against the nation, itself, or most of its people, for that matter. It just so happened that France was the birthplace and home of one Francis Bonnefoy, renowned journalist and professional personal nuisance to one Arthur Kirkland. Said nuisance was happily babbling to a young nurse at the reception counter and laughing good naturedly as though Arthur's entire life's work wasn't hanging in the balance of one mysterious hitman's life.

"Frog, stop flirting and tell me what's happening," he finally hissed, unable to take any more of the suggestive laughter. The sterile smell and white walls were enough to drive him mad as it was. Francis just seemed to be an added catalyst to the process.

Francis glanced back at the Brit before finishing up his conversation with the receptionist and returning to Arthur, taking the seat across from him (he likely recalled the time Arthur had given him a black eye for "invading personal space"). The Frenchman leaned back in his chair and neatly placed one leg atop his opposite knee. "It seems as though your boy will live," he announced, taking his time.

Arthur let out a silent breath of relief. At least he hadn't been suffering through Francis for just a body in the morgue. "Do they know about him?" he asked.

Francis gave a curt nod, "Oui, and they are taking the proper precautions. From what I 'ear, though, 'e will not be going anywhere anytime soon."

One almost comically large brow rose a bit, "Just how badly was he wounded?"

Francis chuckled, "Enough to end up in critical care, mon cher. I am told that that is generally a good indicator that the situation is quite serious."

Arthur narrowed his emerald eyes into a deadly glare, "Shut it, frog."

Francis merely smiled, "Come along, cher. I am 'ungry and your assassin is going nowhere for a while, non? Besides, you 'ave not 'ad anything to eat and it will do you no good to starve yourself in France, the country of delectable dinning."

Arthur sighed. At least he hadn't had to endure a cooking insult yet. "I'm coming back the second they tell me he's stable," the Brit warned.

Francis kept smiling as he rose to his feet, offering Arthur a hand that the Englishman promptly refused.


As it so happened, Arthur was able to finish half of his meal (he'd found a small British-style pub run by a rather loud couple from Ireland, but Arthur wasn't going to complain as long as he got "real" food) before Francis' phone rang with the news that Winter's assassin was stable.

The rest of the meal was even more awkward than the beginning. Arthur had refused to share a table with Francis and had seated himself far from the bar to avoid the temptation. Francis had been fine with the arrangement, deciding to chat with several of the patrons and refusing to eat. So Arthur sat along in the corner of the pub, eating as fast as possible while still maintaining his manners.

Once he was finished, he quickly paid the bill and grabbed Francis by the collar, dragging him back to the hospital. While Arthur could translate a few sentences in French, he was not getting lost in what he saw as an insane and overly fashion obsessed country, and he definitely wasn't getting locked out of a meeting with his only lead of Winter just because he couldn't fluently speak French.

The trip back to the reception desk was quick and quiet. Francis chatted with the woman at the desk, this time seriously and often gesturing to Arthur. He had to present his official ID and wait for the woman scrutinized it for at least two minutes before smiling and handing it back. She said something to Francis who promptly translated, "We can go now."

Arthur nodded and they set off, climbing the stairs. He'd had to provide his ID once again then they made it to the proper floor. Apparently, the French police had set up a small guard detail at the end of the two halls that lead away from the room. For once, Arthur mused, the French were doing something right.

There was a strange sense of suspense building in Arthur's stomach. What would one of Winter's crew look like? Most likely, they would be fiercely intimidating. Probably somewhere around their late twenties and in prime physical condition. They would likely sport several nasty scars. Over all, the picture in his mind was something akin to a rough looking gangster out of a movie with a belligerent and malicious attitude to match.

Arthur had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed when Francis stopped in front of an unassuming brown door. He nearly bumped into the Frenchman, but managed to sidestep at the last moment. "What the blo—"

"This is it," Francis interrupted, serious for a change.

With slightly wide eyes, Arthur reached for the handle and slowly pulled it open. He heard Francis step in behind him, but he was more focused on the lump under the white blanket. The scent of sterilized equipment hit him like a punch to the nose. It was much stronger than it had been in the lobby. An annoying beep echoed insistently through the entirely too white room. Yet all of those things were completely ignored as the detective took the few remaining steps towards the bed.

And his eyes narrowed, "Francis, as hilarious as this may be to you, my life's work is a very serious matter and I will not have you setting up a fake guard detail for a prank."

Francis stopped at his side, careful to keep a bit of distance between them, and frowned, crossing his arms, "I am insulted! 'ere I 'ave brought you to a lead on your case, encouraging your obsessive be'avior with work, and you tell me I am playing a prank on you! You are incredibly rude, you little punk!"

Arthur threw a finger at the bed's occupant, "That is just a boy! He probably can't even buy alcohol!" Perhaps that was an over exaggeration but only a small one. The boy was twenty, at best, still younger than Arthur and Francis.

"Does this shock you so badly?" Francis asked, pouting.

The truth of the matter was that the boy on the bed did shock Arthur. He was fairly tall, it seemed, but obviously young. His wheat colored hair was short with a stubborn, gravity-defying cowlick. While he didn't seem to be the muscular, hulk of a creature Arthur expected, the boy sported lean, well defined muscles visible on sun-kissed arms that were pulled out of the blankets to host an IV line. One wrist was bound to the railing by a padded cuff. The most shocking thing, Arthur realized, was the clear proof that Francis hadn't been playing a prank: the bandages covering the boy's left ribcage were still turning a dark red with the splotches of blood still seeping from the wound.

Arthur found his frown deepening, "A child like that should be running errands for his mum."

Francis shrugged, a hint of sadness visible in his eyes, "Perhaps we are not all so privileged, non?" He'd seen many things in his line of work. The few times when the Frenchman was willing to stop flirting and teasing and display rare moments of clarity and insight were what made putting up with the man almost worth it.

Still, something twisted in Arthur's stomach as he leered down at the boy, "Don't forget what he is." Young or no, Arthur reminded himself, the boy before him was a trained killer and likely one of the most deadly creatures on the planet.


Alfred was dreaming. He figured it was just some stupid pre-death, dying thing. He was sitting on a bench in a park. He didn't have anywhere to go, nothing to do, no urgent business to take care to keep Winter from threatening Mattie's life. Nothing. He could hear an anthem from his childhood playing somewhere in the distance and, it was beautiful. "Land of the free, huh?" he muttered to himself. He'd wanted to return to the land of his birth as long as he could remember being away from it. For Alfred, that line held more truth to it than anyone could imagine.

His peaceful, awesome dream slowly faded away. He figured that that meant he was ready to finally kick the bucket.

And then the noise stated. The stupid beep that he was only partially aware of at first only grew in annoyance. 'Come on, man… Is that really necessary? I'm already dying. Isn't that bad enough?' he wondered, not really feeling his brows draw closer together.

Wait… Why did death smell like a hospital and, and why was everybody speaking French? 'Oh, crap!' he hissed mentally, blue eyes snapping open to meet the blurry image (he vaguely noted that his glasses were missing) of a lighter shade of the same color. The nurse screamed about the same time he became aware of the sharp ignition of pain in his chest. That was right… Winter shot him in chest to add the insult of helplessly laying there while he bled out. Jerk.

'Dude… this sucks…' he told himself, groaning.


Arthur had been just outside of the room, ready to return to his hotel room when he heard the woman scream. Acting quickly on instinct, he grabbed hold of the door and threw it open, ready to face whatever had spooked the woman.

When he scanned the room and found nothing out of the ordinary, the nurse pointed at the boy on the bed and shouted something in French. Arthur blinked, confused until he finally realized what had happened: the boy was awake.

Likely assuming that he was ignoring her, the nurse huffed and stormed out of the room, leaving Arthur alone with the mysterious assassin. There was a strange hammering in his chest. He'd never been so close to his goal before. At the same time, he had no idea what to expect from the boy. Obviously his assumptions had already been busted by his mere appearance. Arthur didn't even know what language the boy spoke.

He slowly took steps towards the bed, listening to the boy let out a soft groan, probably feeling the pain from his injuries. Arthur stopped roughly a foot from the bedside. Slowly, emerald eyes met the bluest pair he'd ever seen. The boy's brows were upturned, likely confused and in pain and his mouth was a straight line but, Arthur could tell he was biting at his lip.

Neither one spoke for a moment.

Unfortunately, the silence and eye contact were shattered by the door whipping opened, a rather ruffled looking Francis quickly crossing the floor. He looked down at the injured boy and smiled softly. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked.

Those large blue eyes blinked several times, clearly lost.

Francis tried again, switching languages, "¿Hablas español?"

Once again, they were met with silence and a confused look. Obviously Spanish wasn't the key language, either.

Francis tapped his chin, thinking before seemingly getting an idea. He tried again in what Arthur was sure was Russian.

The boy noticeably cringed and Arthur wasn't sure if it was from the language or his injuries, "Немного." Arthur didn't have to know much about Russian to know that the boy's pronunciation was absolutely dreadful. He clearly wasn't Russian, but would have likely picked up a bit from Winter.

"Why do you know bloody Russian?" Arthur snapped at the Frenchman.

Francis chuckled, "Mon cher, I am brilliant, non? Besides, remember that my work takes me around the globe and I must know 'ow to pick up a date and order a decent meal wherever I am!"

A light snicker came from the boy that quickly turned into a groan. Arthur narrowed his eyes. Was this boy really one of Winter's? "Then you speak English?" Arthur deadpanned.

The boy's eyes flickered from Francis back to Arthur. "Yeah, I speak English," he answered, his speech giving away his nationality immediately.

Francis looked just as surprised as Arthur. They'd expected something a bit more… brutal than the strange blue-eyed American who looked as though he should be heading off to start college, not belonging to an international assassin's crew. And that made Arthur angry. "Are you serious?" he demanded, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Serious about what?" the American responded, looking a bit dazed and confused, likely a side effect from the pain medication, "Speakin' English? I'm doing it now, right?"

"Do you 'ave a name, cher?" Francis cut in, taking a step closer to the bed.

"'Course I've got a name," the American said, his eyelids slowly drooping, "Where am I?"

Didn't this man realize that he wasn't just a normal citizen who'd been the innocent victim of a gunshot wound? What gave him the right to act like he deserved the medical attention he received? Arthur's temper flared, "It doesn't bloody matter whe—"

"You are in France," Francis cut in once again, "In a 'ospital outside of Paris." Francis shot Arthur a reprimanding look as if to silently say 'That is not how to deal with this one.'

The boy shifted as if to move his arm, only to find it trapped. Half hooded blue eyes snapped back open in what seemed to be a small panic attack that was severely muted by his injuries. His frantic eyes landed on Arthur, and for just a moment, he debated letting the poor boy free. Arthur steeled himself, though, and remembered the damage this boy had dealt.

Francis, Arthur decided, was an idiot. He fell for what was likely a trick and approached the boy, gently patting the panicking blonde's arm, "Shh, cher, it's alright."

Arthur narrowed his eyes as the American slowly relaxed, his eyes watching the roof and not using Francis' proximity to his advantage. "You guys are really stupid," he said softly.

Arthur raised a large brow, trying to vent his anger towards the American through his eyes, "Oh? Pray tell: how am I stupid?"

A bitter smile rested on the injured blonde's lips, "Why do you save somebody to kill 'em again?"

"What are you talking about, cher?" Francis asked.

"Obviously you know 'bout Winter," he pointed out, turning his gaze back to Francis, "Which means you just wanna know a few things before you ship me off to the gallows."

"Git, the gallows haven't been used in decades," Arthur snapped.

The other blonde frowned, "It's a figured of speech, dude." Arthur cringed at the… normal American word. This boy wasn't supposed to talk like a normal teenager. He was supposed to remind Arthur of the blood he'd spilt with every passing second.

Francis patted the boy's arm again with a soft smile, "Actually, cher, we—"

This time, Arthur was the one who cut in, "If you cooperate, perhaps we can work out a deal that isn't too unreasonable. However, if you do not agree to give me the information I need, you are correct, I will make sure that you get what you deserve."

The boy flinched at the last sentence and Arthur scowled. He cursed the American for making him feel guilty for pointing out the obvious. Worse than that, though, was the lazy smile that settled on his face as his blue eyes started shutting once again, "I don't think killing me would be enough for that, British dude." Arthur bit down hard on his lip. So what if he knew what he'd done was wrong? That didn't do anything to right the wrongs done in the name of money.

The room was quiet for a while. During the silence, Arthur noticed the American's eyes slowly closing further and further with each blink. Arthur was just as angry with the boy who seemed far too innocent to be a killer as he was with Francis for standing next to him as though the American were a dear friend, recovering from a nearly fatal accident.

"Alfred F. Jones," the American finally muttered, breaking the silence.

Arthur blinked, "Pardon?"

"My name," he explained, his eyes completely shut now, "And I'll tell ya whatever you wanna know… But I wanna help you. I wanna… be a hero, too."

Arthur's scowl deepened, "How can a paid murder be a hero?"

"Donno," the bo-Alfred replied, his speech even more lazy than before, "Wanna… try." He was out like a light.

Francis walked back to Arthur's side, his eyes still watching the sleeping American. "I think 'e was being honest," he admitted.

"I don't care if he honestly believes the rubbish he's spewing," Arthur snapped, "He's a killer."

Francis turned his blue eyes down at Arthur, setting a hand on his shoulder, "So are you, cher. And what is the difference, hm? That you 'ave the legal rights to do so if the situation permits it? Perhaps you should not be so quick to judge."

Arthur came within a hair's breadth of punching the Frenchman in the nose. "I'm not a hired assassin," he hissed.

Francis shrugged, "No, you are not. All I am saying is that there is a reason that 'e was dying out in a field somewhere and is willing to fight against Winter. Perhaps you should look into this, oui?" Arthur turned his eyes back to Alfred, refusing to speak. He was not going to admit that the French journalist had a point. Francis chuckled and patted Arthur's shoulder, "I am going to get a cup of coffee."

Arthur didn't follow him. Instead, he stayed behind to try and put the pieces of the mystery together. After several minutes, he decided to make a quick call; he was going to find everything there was to know about this Alfred F. Jones.

Okay, so here's another chapter done in the past twenty-four hours, which is kind of freaking me out… O.o Anyway, hopefully you guys enjoyed this. I think I'll be posting another chapter fairly soon since the writing bug for this has hit me pretty hard.