The Frenchman:

It's been nearly two weeks. The lamps and furniture have been replaced, the living area cleaned and organized. Elizaveta ties her scarf leisurely and watches her reflect as it watches her back. One fold, two fold until the green and brow scarf forms a knot.

That color matches your eyes. He told her once. Elizaveta remembers how she frowned at the words. Gilbert isn't affectionate and hardly the type to say sentimental things. The compliment was too soft for him. She worried about him all day and when they met up later he stressed that everything was fine. Finishing his argument with, it's like you in scarf form with the green and brown. That made her smile, like she smiles now and brushes her finger over the tight stitching.

It's cold outside even without snow, and Elizaveta tugs at her scarf so that it covers her chin. The unmarked car is still there; she tries not to look at it while crossing the street to the parking lot. Several people cross with her, the Hungarian keeps her head down, allowing the winter breeze to cover her face with brown hair.

"Ms. Hedervary." Some calls. Elizaveta ignores it, head down, and eyes on her feet.

"Ms. Hedervary," Only a few more inches and she'll be by her car. Her hands dig around for her keys and she presses the button to turn off the alarm.

So, close, Elizaveta is so close that her fingers could reach for the door handle but someone else does it for her. Her eyes shoot up and come face to face with blue eyes and a wide smile.

"The wind sure is harsh today, isn't Ms. Hedervary?" Elizaveta isn't sure if he's being sarcastic or serious.

His smile is cheerful and his face is young. The name stitched into his jacket reads A. Jones and Elizaveta wonders why they would put such a young officer on what might possibly be a high-profile case.

Officer Jones' hands are still on the door handle, though he hasn't opened it yet. They stare at each other, him smiling and her progressively frowning at his nonchalant attitude. So, Elizaveta entertains him, if only so she can get into her car.

"It's as windy as it was yesterday, I suppose." Her answer is monotonous at best and Elizaveta inches closer to the car door.

"You think?" he asks casually but the tightening of his grip on the handle didn't go unnoticed. "You've been lying low for a little while now, Ms. Hedervary, the wind really is getting rougher."

Something about they way he says it, his tone, which puts Elizaveta on the defensive. She wants to smack that stupid grin off of his face. "Am I under arrest?" she asks.

The officer raises a brow. "Hm?"

"I said, am I under arrest, Officer Jones?" Her voice is stern and she does reach for the door this time.

"Call me Alfred," he clarifies and much to her satisfaction opens the door. Elizaveta is quick to get inside but as she tries to close it, Alfred leans in. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other so you don't have to be so formal. Have a good day, Ms. Hedervary."

His smile has lost some of its cheerfulness and is bordering on arrogant. Elizaveta doesn't rise to jab or bid him a farewell. When he's out of the doorframe she slams it shut. Alfred doesn't move when she starts the car. He just stands there, hands on his hips, smiling. Ugh, she refuses to look out of the window though her peripherals catch his every move.

When the car is warm enough, Elizaveta wastes no time with leaving the lot. Alfred waves her off and when she is far enough out of his sight, the Hungarian flips him the bird. Gilbert would have been so proud. Better yet, he probably would have yelled profanities at the officer until they couldn't see him anymore.

She chuckles at the thought and turns on the defrost as the window starts to fog. The light ahead turns red and it gives the chance to retriever her phone. Elizaveta had programmed the number that morning at it's the first thing that comes up when she unlocks it. One ring, two, three before someone picks it up. The voice is a woman or girl, she can't really tell but it throws her off for a moment.

"Um, hello?" Elizaveta asks with a bit of reluctance. "May a speak with Francis?"

"Whose calling?" the woman asks in a voice that's barely a whisper.

The light turns green and she inches up, waiting for the car in front of her to move. "Liz, my name is Liz."

Elizaveta makes a right turn and follows the road as she's put on hold. There isn't a particular place she's going, just away from the apartment and eavesdropping cops. When the fogs clears, she turns off the defrost and rides until someone gets the phone.

"Mattie, who did you say it was?" the voice is distant at first but slowly gets clearer. "'Ello, this is Francis. 'Oh do I 'ave the pleasure of speaking with?"

Elizaveta holds back a laugh. His voice is so very…French, something she didn't expect. "Francis, hello," she answers politely. "My name is Liz."

He hums before speaking, "Such a lovely name to match an equally love voice. 'Owever, I don't think I know you."

She pulls over by what looks like a café. "Yes, well that's because you don't. I'm a friend of one of your old friends. That's why I'm calling you, actually, he needs your help."

"A friend of a friend?" Francis muses. "I 'ave a lot of friends, which one exactly?"

"Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Francis laughs and it's both lewd and insulting at the same times. "Gil? Oh, mon Cherie, 'friends' is a very strong term. That little white devil needs my help?"

"It's only been a few years." Elizaveta justifies.

"A few years are a long time to go without speaking to a friend. So tell me, what assistances does he need from me?"

She clears her throat. "He's been arrested."

There is a pause before Francis sighs. "On what chargers?"

"I think that should best be discussed in person."

"Today then?" Francis inquires. "I can meet you at a café or something?"

She smiles and glances at the building beside her car. "I know a place."


Their coffee and pastries arrive, delivered by a petite young woman with blue eyes and dark hair. Francis smiles at her, all white teeth and warm lips. "Merci," he says, and she smiles back, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.

"Let me know if you need anything," she says, coquettishly, and he assures her with a charming grin that they will. She bustles off, glancing coyly back over her shoulder, and the Frenchman cranes his head around to follow her figure, until she disappears inside.

"Really?" Elizaveta asks and blows the steam from her coffee. "Is this a daily occurrence? You're shameless flirting with women?"

Francis licks icing from his thumb and smiles wistfully at her. "I find it rude if I don't."

She sets her cup down and dabs at the residue with a napkin. "Rude?"

He nods and forks a piece of the black cherry tart. "If a woman is beautiful, why not tell her or show her? That's like, seeing someone and not greeting them, very impolite."

"You're logic is screwed."

"It made you smile, non?" Francis takes a generous bit of his tart and Elizaveta doesn't grace him with a response.

It isn't hard for her to understand how Gilbert and this man may have been friends. The self-proclaimed Prussian is also a shameless flirt, just a bit more blunt. Perhaps blunt isn't the right word, both of them are very straightforward in their pursuit. Francis is more of the wooing type; she reasons and sips her coffee. Gilbert lacked that grace. He says what he means and if that meant, 'I want to have sex with you, right now, on this store carpet' then that's what was coming out his mouth.

"You're blushing, mon Cherie." Francis chuckles and she tries to hide behind the mug.

"Not because of you," Elizaveta quickly clarifies. "I, I was thinking of someone else."

He nods and drinks some coffee. "Gilbert and I were friends for a long time. Since high school, but we grow old, things change."

Happy to be on a more appropriate topic Elizaveta nods. "And university too, right?" she inquires. "You used to bring him back home when he was drunk."

Francis smiles somewhat fondly at her statement. "Something like that, yes. But we separated because of…irreconcilable difference."

"Interesting choice of words," she grins and picks at her banana bread. "What were the differences?'

Something like sympathy passes across Francis's face. He sits back in his chair and levels a somewhat suspicious glance her way. "Who was it that gave you my phone number, Liz?"

"Um," Elizaveta's eyes dart toward the tabletop. "Ludwig."

"Hm, and how is Ludwig doing?" the question isn't asked in concern.

"Well," she answers and tries not to look bothered, "He recently moved into a new apartment."

"And, how much did you know about me before Ludwig gave you my contact information?" The questions come back-to-back, almost accusatory in nature. She wants to look at his face, to read it, but shame keeps her from getting no closer than his chin.

"I knew enough."

He snorts. "You're a terrible liar, Liz." The sound a chair sliding across the floor makes her eyes shoot up toward Francis who is now standing.

"What," Elizaveta calls and stands as well. "Where are you going?"

"Gilbert and I separated on good terms, "Francis reaches for his coat. "I intend to keep it that way by not sharing something he either didn't trust you with or wanted to keep away from you, mon Cherie."

Elizaveta quickly finds her wallet, tossing the money on the table and rushes after Francis who is already out of the door. "Wait, Francis, please, you don't understand." She takes hold of his arm, forcing his to stop walking and face her. "It's murder, they say he killed someone. But I know him; I know he wouldn't do that. If you know something, tell me."

He brushes hair back that has blown into her face and Elizaveta is too worked up to care that he's being so affection. "Gilbert is lucky to have someone as dedicated as you."

"If you don't tell me, I'll get the information from Antonio." Elizaveta says determinedly.

Francis' smile falters a bit, but he doesn't look any closer to telling her anything. "Tony? Ah, I haven't heard from him in a while as well. How has he been?'

Elizaveta turns her face from his touch. "He's been more help than you."

"You've talked to him?"

"We're meeting later." She bluffs but it's enough to make the French straighten just a bit.

"Liz," he starts.

"Elizaveta," she corrects, not liking the nickname being used by someone other than Gilbert.

Francis chuckles and lightly puts his hands in his pockets. "You are quite the spitfire, Elizaveta. I admire your determination." His face suddenly turns serious. "But it would haunt me if I didn't warn you. You are such a lovely woman, I would hate for something to happen to you. So please, let, as they say, sleeping dogs lay. Some things are better left unsaid."