Sorry it took so long to update this. I'll keep the A/N short.

Once again, thanks so much to my Beta, Scarlet Prussia!

Arthur shifted nervously in the airport. He could not focus on the words of his book and sighed.

"Nervous?" Francis asked. He sat next to the author while he read the paper. Concerned and curious blue eyes looked Arthur over.

"Not really. Just a little travel anxiety," Arthur replied after a bit. Really, his nervousness stemmed from the impending arrival of Kiku. Kiku was running late so they did not go through security together. He was on his way and then he would meet Francis.

Not that Kiku was a radical thinker, no, quite the opposite, but Arthur still worried. For some reason.

"Arthur?" He heard a voice behind him. Both blonds turned and Arthur saw his old friend, carry on bag in one hand and a travel jacket in the other. He was dressed in his usual business attire of slacks, white button up shirt and suspenders.

Arthur smiled gently. "Hello, Kiku." The Englishman glanced once at Francis but kept his eyes on Kiku. "How was security? We got through pretty quickly..."

"It was fine. Is that... Francis?" Kiku nodded at the Frenchman.

Arthur glanced at Francis again. "The one and only." Francis smiled, trying to be friendly. Kiku looked like he had been shocked, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

"He's... perfect!" Kiku's eyes sparkled and he walked over quickly to Francis, looking him directly in the face. "Just as you described on paper!" Arthur was taken aback by Kiku's excitement. He had rarely seen Kiku so worked up and eager.

"Thank you...?" Francis smiled, a little taken aback too.

"Can you act?" Kiku asked, almost before Francis had finished. Kiku had a certain twinkle in his eye that Arthur had only seen when Kiku talked about certain manga and anime.

"Uhh... I have no idea... I never have tried..." Francis said awkwardly.

"Just think, Arthur!" Kiku said, euphoric and fired up. "Just think! The Knife, now a major motion picture! Starring... Francis Bonnefoy himself!"

A movie? Of his book? That would certainly bring in more money but Arthur did not really want to have to hide his face any more than he already did and... he really didn't want to broadcast that Francis was actually real...

"Maybe..." Arthur smiled kindly.

"Flight 113 is ready to board, please have your boarding passes ready," the announcer at the desk called. Arthur and Francis rose, gathered their belongings and proceeded to the gate while Kiku trailed behind. Arthur mouthed 'sorry' to Francis who, in turn, smiled at him and shrugged. They handed their boarding passes and then were seated in a reasonable amount of time.

London to New York would take about seven and a half hours and then they would just take a taxi from the airport to the hotel.

When they were seated and settled, they all sighed in relief and waited until the plane was ready to take off. Clear skies (for once) and good hearts assured the trio the flight would be successful.

"So... tell me about yourself, Francis," Kiku said once they were in the air safely.

"I... really can't. I don't know much myself," Francis sounded regretful. "I don't remember more than a month back. I know I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am French but I speak both English and French and I can cook."

"You have amnesia?" Kiku asked surprised.

"Well... It's like amnesia but I have memories of doing things but no time frame." Kiku and Arthur were and looked confused. "I remember myself as a child but I do not know how far back it was."

Arthur and Kiku glanced at each other. Could Francis be a fraud, still? Arthur imagined all sorts of scenarios of how Francis could actually not be Francis.

"Well... what brought you to England if you are French?" Kiku asked and Arthur tensed slightly between the two.

"I found a copy of Arthur's books in my Paris flat and... well; my memories were very... similar to Arthur's character, Francis..." Francis nodded."I don't know of a serial killer and I am no journalist, nor have I ever had a wife, but the memories of Francis from your books are mine as well." Francis's eyes met with Arthur's. "It is very strange... It is like he knows me more than I know myself."

Kiku went silent for a while, thinking, and Arthur dove into his own thoughts as well. Francis and the Francis from his book were almost the same but it was like one as the model of the other. But how could Arthur have possibly known of the real Francis and had replicated him into print without Francis knowing himself? Could the fictional Francis be inspiration for the real Francis's memories and demeanor?

"Strange, isn't it?" Kiku whispered to Arthur. "Who do you think he is?" Arthur glanced at the Frenchman who was currently talking to the flight attendant about what drink he'd like.

"I don't know but... we need to watch him carefully..." Arthur whispered back. Kiku nodded and then paused.

"... I booked us for two rooms so... you're going to have to share a room with him," Kiku told him gingerly. Arthur let the words sink in and then gave him a dry look.

"When I said we need to watch him carefully, I didn't mean that closely."

"I know but... I do not know him very well and... I only booked a double and a single." Kiku was tight lipped. "I am sorry, Arthur..."

"It's fine... I'll make it work..." Arthur shrugged but internally was smacking his head against a wall. Of course something like this would happen. Francis wasn't horrible to live with as Arthur had found out the time between Francis's appearance at his house and when it was actually time to go to America, but Arthur had to get used to sharing his space with someone again. The last time, it had been... with him. It took time with Francis but eventually Arthur remembered that someone else was living in his house again.

Though Francis did what he could to help. He cooked most of the meals (as Francis thought Arthur's cooking was dreadful), helped Arthur tend to his garden, and helped with buying groceries. For a stranger, he was usually agreeable and fairly wise. But what Arthur noticed a lot was how he was around the author. Francis would go out of his way to do nice things for Arthur. One day, it was making Arthur's favorite meals, another day; it was to fill a vase full of English roses, merely stating that Arthur might've liked them "because everyone liked roses".

What were a few more weeks in a hotel with Francis?

Nearly eight, long hours later, the trio's plane landed on the tarmac. Everyone rose once they had parked at the terminal, the tired and weary passengers ready to stretch their legs and be free of the plane's confines.

"Wow... That... was long," Francis said, tiredly.

"No shit, Sherlock," Arthur said, the bags under his eyes more prevalent than before. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink and had spent most of the trip trying to resist the urge to run around on the plain or rip the door off the emergency exit and fling himself out into the cold abyss.

"Let's just get our bags and call that taxi..." Kiku said, remaining calm, though his shoulders sagged from the weight for fatigue.

The three nearly stumbled off the plane and walked through the brightly-lit terminal, heading towards baggage claim. They hardly spoke and occasionally shared glances and nods.

When they retrieved their bags from the carousel, they walked outside, watching as cars occasionally pulled up to the curb and took people and their bags in, whisking them away from the airport.

Kiku rose his hand slightly, fore finger extended and a taxi cab pulled up shortly after. Kiku handed the name of the hotel and its address to the cabbie and the driver nodded. He waited until the luggage and all the people were inside and then drove in the direction of the hotel.

They arrived nearly half an hour later and they all stepped out. Kiku paid the cabbie, checked them all in and then opened to door for Francis and Arthur to their room.

"Oh, mon Dieu, a bed!" Francis sighed, going in first. Kiku smiled tiredly and handed Arthur the two room keys.

"Sleep well, Arthur," he nodded and then went to room next to theirs. Arthur nodded and went in, throwing his coat onto the chair back, looking around the hotel room.

It was a very nice hotel. Windows on the far wall extended from the ceiling to about ankle height with heavy, patterned drapes hanging to the sides. The carpeting below Arthur's feet was soft and almost fluffy. Three lamps glowed gently in three corners of the room and a coffee maker sat on top of a microwave and a small mini-fridge.

Francis was lying on one of the two double sized beds, spread eagle on his stomach with his head to the side. Arthur caught himself staring at the Frenchman's face and sighed, hoisting his suitcase up on the luggage rack. Even though he was tired, Arthur liked to stick to his routine.

As Arthur was brushing his teeth, Francis came into the bathroom, yawning.

"You're dedicated..." he said after glancing at Arthur. "Sometimes I skip brushing when I'm tired..."

"That's disgusting..." Arthur frowned. "But... I do it too sometimes..." He sighed and finished before storing his toothbrush and toothpaste away. Francis yawned again and washed his face before going back into the room and coming back with a tube. Arthur watched him in fascination as Francis squirted some white cream out of the small tube and rubbed it on his face.

"What is that?" Arthur asked.

"Moisturizer," Francis said simply. There was a long pause.

"Why?"

"To hydrate the skin. No one likes dry skin," Francis rubbed his hands over his face until the cream disappeared. "See? Feel." Francis took Arthur's hand after a pause and placed Arthur's palm against his own cheek.

Francis's cheek was smooth and soft, not sticky. Francis's stubble brushed against Arthur's palm and Arthur couldn't stop himself from gently rubbing his thumb over the warm skin under his fingertips.

Francis leaned into Arthur's hand, leaning into the author's warm hand.

They stood like that before Arthur came to his senses and took his hand away but did not rip his hand away like before.

"U-Um... well... good night," Arthur said awkwardly and then shuffled backwards, away from Francis. He felt his cheeks warm up and he quickly changed into his pajamas.

Francis came in while Arthur was changing his shirt and he caught him staring at Arthur's back when Francis glanced over. Quickly, he buttoned up the rest of the buttons and climbed onto his bed. He sat close to his pillows and pulled the sheets out from under him and then slid under. Sighing, he turned out the bedside lamp, snuck a glance at Francis (who was getting into his own bed after changing), and then let his eyelids slip shut.

Arthur didn't wake until about six in the morning when the sun was just barely peaking over the horizon. Arthur did not see the sunrise though because his vision was blocked by the sleeping figure of a certain Frenchman.

Arthur's eyes snapped open, eyebrows arching and then limbs flailing.

"What the bloody-?" He yelled scrambling to get away, his legs getting tangled in the sheets. He tripped backwards, yelping as he went careening off the bed. His legs ripped the sheets from the Frenchman's body.

Francis woke with a yell and a cry of protest. "Quoi?"

Arthur leapt up after detangling himself, pointing an accusatory finger. "What do you think you're doing in my bed?" His face was red with embarrassment and annoyance, but not quite anger.

"The real question, Arthur, is why are you in mine. I was simply sleeping and you-" Francis looked around. "Oops."

"Who told you that you could just climb into my bed?" Arthur scowled.

"Oh, no one," Francis said, indignant, but calm. "I went to the bathroom and thought this was my bed." Arthur narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "I did not mean to get in bed with you, I swear..."

Arthur paused. "You better not be lying."

There was an awkward pause.

"You were very warm and comfortable, though," Francis chuckled and Arthur's frown deepened.

"Shut up, frog, and get back in your own bed. We don't have to be ready until nine," Arthur relaxed a bit and slid back onto his bed. Francis nodded and returned to the other bed. Arthur sighed and lay back down.

"By the way..." Francis said, once Arthur had gotten comfortable. "Your night wear is surprisingly adorable on you."

Arthur didn't respond but his cheeks burned to himself.

"Arthur, it's time to go..." A voice spoke through the English author's light dreaming. "Arthur." A light touch gently made its way down Arthur's shoulder to the tip of his elbow, gently shaking him.

"Mmm... not yet, Dylan..." the Englishman groaned. "Go wake Seamus first..."

"Arthur, it's nine o'clock, we have fifteen minutes to get ready," Arthur was shaken again, a little harder this time. Arthur swatted lazily at the intruder.

"Five more..."

"Do it or I get a kiss," a sing-songy voice said.

"Wha-?" Arthur said groggily, his eyes opening to an approaching Frenchman's puckered lips.

Arthur punched the man in the jaw and Francis fell back with a yelp.

"You punched me!" he said in shock, his hand clutching his jaw. He wasn't angry but he wasn't exactly happy either. "You actually punched me!"

"You tried to take advantage of a sleeping person," Arthur shrugged, awake now. "You were asking for it. You knew the risks."

Francis sighed and rubbed his jaw, occasionally shifting it from side to side. "Well, it's time to get ready, anyway."

"Alright," Arthur swung his legs over his bed after sitting up. Stretching first, he went to his suitcase and pulled out some nice slacks, a button up shirt and an overcoat. The temperature was nice and cool but not chilly yet. Autumn in New York was about the same in London, fortunately, if not a bit colder. Francis was already dressed and groomed, looking quite dashing in dress pants, a white button up and a black jacket. A simple outfit, but it made the wearer look so chic and modern.

Arthur's eyes lingered a little longer than he would've liked to admit. Francis gave him a graceful smile.

"Arthur, you're staring."

Quickly, the author turned away.

"I'm going to get ready," he mumbled, taking his clothes and toiletries into the bathroom.

After almost exactly fifteen minutes, Arthur was ready and a knock came from the door. Francis went to open it and smiled.

"Ah, bon matin, Kiku," Francis greeted him warmly. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you," Kiku nodded. "Are you both ready?"

"I am. Francis, do you have a room key?" Arthur went to his carry on bag and retrieved a few pens (he never knew when he might need one), tucking them into his breast pocket.

"I do," Francis held up the small card and slipped it into his wallet.

"Let's go, then," Kiku said, politely.

The trio then rode the elevator down to street level and Kiku called a taxi. They engaged in some small talk, the weather for the week, their previous travels, and finally, the convention schedule.

"Will we be going to the same seminars?" Arthur asked Kiku once they had told the cab driver the address.

"Well, we can, though I would like to attend some seminars for editors and publishing. There are some new speakers and returning speakers for the seminars I would like to hear," Kiku informed them. He handed Arthur and Francis each their own convention schedule. "We should coordinate plans so that we may eat together though." The three looked over their schedules, occasionally remarking on eye catching titles or descriptions.

"Oh, Writing from the Heart with Antonio Carriedo sounds interesting," Francis noted.

"He's a cocky bastard," Arthur responded and Francis smiled.

"And you aren't?" Francis teased. Arthur rolled his eyes but didn't comment.

They arrived not a quarter hour later and got out, seeing other groups and people go into the convention hall. A sign that shouted "International Author and Publishing Convention" was placed outside with a smaller sign that said "tickets: $30 single day, $40 weekend pass".

Arthur, Kiku and Francis agreed to meet around noon for lunch and that they would get breakfast from a small food stand or from the refreshments room on their own.

"Oh, I forgot to mention, I will be in a panel at two today. Will you come to watch?" Kiku said, just before they were going to split off.

"Of course," Arthur said, automatically.

The two old friends nodded, smiled, and then parted ways, leaving Arthur with Francis.

"So, did you say you wanted to listen to..." Francis glanced at the schedule. "Leonard Whitehouse?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur nodded. "He wrote some very interesting papers on the joy of writer's block and creativity."

"Alright. That sounds interesting," Francis nodded and folded his schedule, tucking it into his coat pocket. "I'll follow where you go... since I'm not an author or an editor."

Arthur paused. "Alright," he waded through the crowd to the conference room, quickly finding a pair of seats in the middle and sat down. People filed in soon after and things settled down when the old bearded author came in.

Francis kept his distance for the most part, but, occasionally, he would make some sort of contact with Arthur; a leg gently tapping against Arthur's, a finger brushing the author's as they walked to another panel.

Finally, it was lunch time and they met back up with Kiku. They ate together briefly before Kiku had to go and prepare for his panel. Arthur and Francis stood outside the panel room and then went to find a seat near the front once the doors were opened.

"Welcome to the Ask the Editors panel, everyone. Thank you for coming!" Frank Nickles, the organizer of the panel, said. He smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose. "We welcome distinguished international editors today. Let me introduce to you Heracles Karpusi from Greece, Lawrence Beddingger from America, Kiku Honda from England and Toris Laurinaitis from Lithuania." Everyone clapped politely.

"To start off, I will have Toris talk a little on the editing and publishing process," Nickles spoke and then sat down.

Toris stood and then started speaking, looking nervous at first and then relaxing as he continued. Arthur and Francis listened intently, drinking in every word. He elaborated and informed on the actual behind-the-scenes facts. Once Toris was done, the panel was open for questions. People in the audience asked questions periodically but the panel seemed to drag after the halfway point for Arthur. He glanced over at Francis, watching him a little.

He took in how perfect Francis's jaw line seemed, dotted with the hairs of his beard. Arthur looked at the specific hue of Francis's eyes, at how clear the blue eyes were, and yet how many secrets those eyes seemed to hold.

Arthur wondered what they had seen, if they had seen everything fictional or if they had seen reality the whole time.

"Mon cher, you are staring at me again," Francis whispered, snapping Arthur out of his almost trance like observations.

"I was not..." Arthur mumbled and turned back to the front. Francis chuckled but went back to observing the editors. The panel wasn't bad, but the topic did seem a little dry. Francis didn't mind too much though. Every moment with Arthur meant a moment closer to him. Francis had a goal.

"... What do you think about the panel so far?" Arthur whispered not long after the staring.

"... Interesting at first, but it is a rather... riveting topic, as it is." Francis responded. Arthur nodded and sighed. He could see on Kiku's face that he was bored too.

Arthur sighed but bore through the rest of the panel. When Frank Nickles thanked everyone for coming, everyone rose quickly, most hurrying towards the exit. Arthur and Francis waited until most of the room had cleared before going to the front where Kiku sat with his fellow editors.

"Well... that was... very nice," Arthur had to resist from just telling Kiku the panel was a bust. At least it had a good beginning.

Kiku sighed. "It's okay. I had hoped it would be more interesting. I know it wasn't actually," he didn't look overly disappointed, fortunately, and Arthur was lifted by Kiku's usual demeanor.

"It's alright, Kiku. We can go do something nice tonight to make up for the panel. Dinner? A movie?" Arthur pictured a nice dinner of exquisitely plated food that was served right out of the cook books he loved. He pictured a nicely lit room where the three of them could maybe talk about their recent reads, or maybe even the news, if there was anything exciting or engaging.

"Well... Actually, I was invited to a sort of... 'after convention' party, this evening," Kiku said, shattering Arthur's fantasies.

"Oh," Arthur said, trying not to sound disappointed.

"I'm sure I could ask him if I could invite you too..." Kiku smiled small, sensing the author's disheartened mood. "I can call..."

"It's alright. We have many more nights here. We can eat together later," Arthur said. He wasn't terribly disappointed. "Besides, I'm not going to be alone..." He nodded towards Francis, who brightened significantly.

"Sorry, again..." Kiku smiled gently. A fellow editor came behind Kiku and set a hand on Kiku's shoulder. The man smiled gently and welcomingly.

"Are you coming, Kiku?" he asked. Kiku glanced at Arthur and then to Francis and nodded at the man.

"See you two later," Kiku waved and then walked off.

Arthur and Francis were alone together, once again.

"Would you mind having dinner with me, then?" Francis said, after a bit of time. "If you don't have other plans already..."

"Where do you have in mind?" Arthur asked.

Francis smiled.

"I asked someone during the convention for restaurant recommendations."

"What did they recommend?" Arthur asked. He felt pretty impressed by the Frenchman's daring nature.

"You'll have to come with me to find out, cher," Francis winked. Arthur grumbled but let himself be lured.

"Well, alright then..." Arthur said. "Should I dress nicely or is it a casual place?"

"It's formal, but a casual formal outfit is also acceptable."

"Well... What the bloody hell does that mean?" the author asked, frowning.

"Dress how you normally dress," Francis said with a mischievous smile. "You dress like a casual gentleman." Arthur sighed in exasperation but was already thinking of outfits. "I am going to go buy some books but I will meet you back in the room and we can have dinner at... shall we say six-thirty?" Francis went to the door and winked at Arthur again and left. The door allowed the sound of the convention goers in and then cut the noise off abruptly once the door clicked shut.

Arthur then realized he was now the room's only occupant now. He sighed and went to the door, not wanting to surprise the next panelists when they came in. However, as he was reaching for the handle, the door was flung open, successfully jamming the British author's fingers into a rather uncomfortable and unnatural position. Arthur fought the howl that came up his throat but he grit his teeth. A groan slipped through, however.

"Whoa! Sorry, I didn't see you there dude. I thought everyone was out of... Arthur?" The attacker paused and Arthur froze. He looked up slowly, dreading what he'd see.

There stood the golden boy in all his glory, just as Arthur had left him nearly five years ago.

Arthur felt his chest tighten and his brows furrow. "Excuse me," Arthur steeled his voice, not meeting those cerulean eyes he knew so well. He pushed past him and nearly sprinted away from the panel room. Arthur heard the same voice calling after him but the Arthur plowed through the crowds, not looking back.

Arthur ran out of the convention center and hastily flagged a taxi, but just as he was getting in, a hand clamped around his wrist.

"Wait! I want to talk to you!" Alfred's eyes searched Arthur's face. "I need-"

"I don't give a damn about what you want!" Arthur yelled, cutting off the American. "You made your decision five years ago! You did what you had to do!" Arthur wrenched his wrist out of Alfred's grasp. He saw the golden boy's face fall, the emotions showing across his face at Arthur's words.

Arthur slammed the cab door close and practically barked at the driver to go. The cab soon sped away, leaving the American on the curb. Once the cab had turned the corner, Arthur relaxed... He apologized to the cabbie and slumped against the seat.

"Was that an ex?" The cabbie asked after a moment of silence.

"Yeah..." Arthur said with a sigh. The cabbie hummed softly and nodded.

"Good luck with 'em," he said. Arthur looked up at the rear-view mirror to see the cabbie glancing at him occasionally.

"Thanks," Arthur felt his pounding heart slow and he had a moment to take in the cab's interior. The inside wasn't much different than the ones in London. The cabbie's info was tucked into a small plastic card holder on the back of the front seats and Arthur squinted at the name.

With a sharp intake of his breath, Arthur finally processed the name.

Jack O'Connell. The name of his serial killer.