One sheep, two sheep, three sheep.

This isn't helping.

Arthur's a light sleeper even on his good nights, and he's notorious for being quite the insomniac. Even so, sleep usually does come to him with enough patience, so long as he doesn't have a seven-year-old child thrashing about in the sheets next to him, apparently.

He tries to be understanding, truly, but his already thin tolerance for children is crumbling even further, and he's just about ready to scream. How can the child be such a fitful sleeper?

He glances at the clock on the nightstand and glowers. It's four in the morning.

"Don't," Alfred mumbles in a dream-softened tone, eyes squeezed shut. "I promise I won't… Sorry… Don't… Please."

Arthur raises himself up with one elbow and studies the boy's face, intrigued. Should he wake him? He'd read somewhere that it isn't right to shake someone out of a nightmare, but this has been going on for hours.

"Let me go," Alfred groans groggily before kicking one of his legs out and hitting Arthur in the knee. It doesn't hurt, but Arthur flinches in surprise. He can't watch this go on—it's distressing for him, too, although he can't explain why.

"Alfred… Alfred, wake up."

"Mmrugh…"

"Come on, now."

Francis and Matthew are both in a deep sleep on the queen-sized bed across the room, unbothered by the noise, and Arthur is envious of them.

"Ugh," Alfred continues to complain as his eyes flutter open, blond lashes gently peeling away from his bottom lids. "What—?"

Arthur frowns at him. "You were having a nightmare."

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't apologize. Does this happen often?"

"Kinda, but I'm used to it."

Arthur sighs. This isn't his problem, and he shouldn't be getting involved. He's not going to get any sleep tonight anyway.

"Did I wake you up?" Alfred asks, voice laden with regret.

"No," Arthur lies. "I wasn't able to sleep anyway."

"Oh, okay. How come you can't sleep?"

Because I'm allergic to brats such as yourself, Arthur thinks gruffly. "Ahh, too much stress, I suppose."

"Why're you stressed?"

"I won't bore you with the details."

"Tell me," Alfred insists, sounding rather mature for his age.

"This case is simply getting to my head, is all. Go back to sleep."

"When I can't sleep, I think about things that make me happy," Alfred explains, leaning back into his pillow. "Like when I play basketball with Mattie."

Arthur's not sure why the boy is telling him this. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to wake him after all.

Alfred snuggles his blue dinosaur, senses Arthur isn't up for a talk, and says, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

As Arthur watches the boy drift off again, he can't help but feel a little protective for some reason, and so, he pulls up the duvet to Alfred's neck to make sure the boy doesn't catch a chill—the blasted air conditioning in here is too strong—and goes back to staring at the ceiling and counting sheep.


"Arthur, you look awful," is the first thing Francis says in the morning.

"You don't say?"

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

Francis clicks his tongue, bothered by this news. "You're going to be impossible to work with today."

"Oh, I'm the impossible one?" Arthur asks with an unconcealed, giant yawn.

"I slept like a baby," Francis gloats as he gets up out of bed and stretches his legs. "We have a complimentary breakfast waiting for us in the hotel's restaurant downstairs, but it's only offered until nine o'clock, so we have to hurry."

Alfred pops his head out of his fortress of pillows at that. "Breakfast? Woo! Hurry and get dressed, Mattie!"

From the opposite bed, Matthew rubs his eyes cutely, sniffs, and wipes a hand over his face. "Wait for me."

But their first attempt at getting ready for the upcoming day commences on a rocky start. Francis can't find his room key, even though he insists he left it on the table last night. He goes on a wild search for it for twenty minutes, only to discover he'd actually left it in the pocket of his slacks.

When they do eventually make it to the restaurant on the second floor, Alfred goes missing again. Arthur finds him lurking about in a lounge room with the help of the hotel's security, and then they're finally able to find their seats for breakfast.

"Coffee or juice?" their waitress asks, a pleasant, young woman with an early-bird attitude.

Arthur isn't sure he's able to form coherent sentences at the moment, and so, Francis does most of the talking.

"Juice for the boys, coffee for me, and tea for the grouchy Englishman next to me," Francis says, flashing the woman a smile.

She laughs, amused. "Coming right up."

The waitress leaves, and Arthur tries to shield his eyes from the harsh sunlight coming in through the windows while Alfred and Matthew challenge each other to a thumb war. He's already got a pounding migraine, and he would gladly go back to bed if time permitted.

"Oh, Arthur, what's wrong?" Francis asks teasingly, touching his shoulder. "Tired of being a father already?"

"Shut up."

"Don't be so rude in front of the children. Pull yourself together. The day is still young."

Matthew wins the thumb war, and Arthur tries his best to act like a fully functioning human being, but it's a large request to make of him.

A moment later, the waitress returns with their drinks. "Now, what can I get started for you guys?"

Francis glances at the menu, finds the first thing that catches his eyes, and says, "I'll have the Belgian waffles and some eggs."

"Poached or scrambled?"

"Poached."

The waitress scribbles on her notepad and nods before turning to Arthur. "And for you, sir?"

Arthur doesn't think he'll be able to stomach anything at the moment, given his headache, but he wants to at least make an effort to consume some calories before he has to deal with Francis's presence for the course of yet another day. "Oatmeal, please."

The woman nods again, and shifts her attention to the boys with a wide smile. "And what would you sweethearts like?"

Matthew bites his bottom lip and shrinks in his seat, timid as always. "Papa, can I get pancakes?" he asks, just to be sure he has the man's approval.

"Of course, mon lapin."

"Okay, I'll have pancakes, then."

"And I'll have the same thing!" Alfred exclaims, returning the smile. "Oh, and bacon!"

Arthur shakes his head and intervenes. "No, no bacon."

"Aww, why not?"

"It's too greasy, and the last thing I need is for you to start whining about an upset stomach."

"Fine," Alfred surrenders, making sure to drop his smile into a frown. The waitress gives him a sympathetic look before she goes off once more. "It's not fair."

"What was that?" Arthur asks rhetorically, stern.

"Nothing."

"Good."

Francis rolls his eyes at both of them. Their food doesn't take long to arrive, and they dig in, ending up comfortably quenched by the time they're finished. The cost of the meal is covered by the agency, and so, when the waitress does her rounds for the final time, they leave her a generous tip and thank her before rising from their seats.

"I'd just like to say you have a beautiful family," she says to Francis and Arthur, eyes shimmering. "It was a treat to be your server."

Arthur is the first one to turn red with embarrassment, and Francis follows, except his blush isn't quite as obvious.

"Merci beaucoup, dear," Francis replies, recovering well, and then, they go their separate ways.

They decide they'll relax in the hotel room for an hour, and afterwards, Arthur will take the boys to the pool, as promised.

But first…

"I need to run a quick errand," Arthur states as they're walking out of the restaurant. He's feeling a little better after having his tea, but it's clear one wrong movement or word might set him off.

Francis narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. "What kind of errand?"

"Must you know everything? I'll be back in thirty minutes. Will you be all right watching the boys on your own?"

"I'm not the one who has lost my child yet."

Arthur takes that as a yes and heads off, dead-set on a serious mission. If they're all going to make it through this trip, there's something they'll desperately need, and Arthur knows exactly where to get it.


"You bought the boy a leash? He's not a dog!"

"No, a dog is capable of being more obedient," Arthur agrees, though not for the right reasons. He swoops down and pulls the harness over Alfred's head and clasps the child-safe buckle closed before the boy realizes what he's up to. "At least now he'll be within our sights at all times."

Francis, completely disgusted by the idea, watches with a glower as Alfred stomps around in a circle and tries to free himself. The boy tries to make a run for it, but Arthur holds onto the leash tightly and pulls him back, quite pleased with the results.

"See? It works flawlessly," he says.

"Arthur, this is ridiculous."

"It's not. It's also for his safety. If the Vargas brothers find out who we are, and Alfred wanders off again, we're going to have a problem."

Alfred, meanwhile, throws a temper tantrum. He's already dressed in his swimming trunks and doused in sunscreen, ready for the pool. "I don't want to be on a leash!"

"Well, there's nothing I can do about that," Arthur huffs, giving the boy another firm glare. "Now, let's get going."

Francis wants to argue some more, but they really are running short on time, and the sooner Arthur takes the boys out, the sooner he'll be able to get to work without any distractions. "Call me if anything comes up."

"Make sure your phone isn't on silent, frog," Arthur adds before gesturing for the boys to follow him. "We'll be in touch."

Alfred continues to whine and demand his freedom, but Arthur manages to ignore him, even as the boy makes a scene in the elevator and garners the attention of a few passersby. And while Matthew should be defending his brother, he seems to find all of the madness quite funny, and decides not to get involved.

Arthur finds himself a nice beach chair to lounge on beside the pool and perches himself upon it with a heavy sigh, blinking against the drowsiness he feels because of the warmth of the Florida sun on his face. He tells Matthew and Alfred to stay in the shallow end of the pool, and reluctantly unclasps Alfred from the leash so he can go and swim.

"Aren't you going to swim with us?" Alfred asks, considerably calmer after his previous fit, even though his eyes are still a little puffy from the aftermath.

"I'd rather not."

"Please?"

Arthur groans. "Maybe later."

Alfred accepts his answer and sprints off with Matthew.

"Don't run!" Arthur scolds them, but they're too far away to hear him. He leans back, rests his eyes for a moment, sunglasses sitting on his nose. It's sizzling hot out, and Arthur hopes he won't have to endure the heat for too long before the boys tire themselves out.

Every few minutes, he looks over to where the boys are playing, and thus far, they're well behaved, although he catches Alfred splashing water at Matthew's face at one point and has to reprimand him.

He tries his hardest to not fall asleep, and he achieves that by people-watching from behind his dark shades. Most of the people around are with their families, as expected, and about an hour after his arrival, a group of mothers arrive with their children and sit in the chairs next to him, prattling on about little Timmy's upcoming birthday party and some other nonsense Arthur doesn't wish to hear. He's been trained to deal with various forms of torture, but nothing could have prepared him for the ramblings of three middle-aged women.

"Diane's daughter just started the sixth grade! Can you believe it? They grow up so fast," one of the women cries, and Arthur makes a mental note to purchase some earplugs in the near future.

It's then that two heads of almond hair catch his focus, and he picks up his cellphone.

"Francis, I see our two Italian friends," he whispers when he hears the other line come to life. "They just came into the pool area. They're arguing, I think."

He hears some papers shuffle, and then Francis's voice meets his ears. "Can you make out what they're saying?"

"They're too far away."

"Can you get closer to them?"

"I can try," Arthur murmurs back, standing from his beach chair and putting on his sandals. If he makes his way over to the station where extra towels are being distributed, he should be close enough to catch at least a few words. He puts his plan into action, and makes it halfway before he's forced to stop.

"Dad!" someone screams, and he swivels around on his heel to see where the noise is coming from.

There's a small waterslide that coils into the deep-end of the pool, and even though they know they're not allowed to go off so far, Alfred and Matthew have done so anyway and have somehow managed to sneak past him. Honestly, how is it that two little boys are able to outwit him, a federal agent, without getting caught? He feels personally offended by this.

But he can be furious later. Right now, his attention is solely on the small figure bobbing in and out of the water, flailing about.

"Mattie's drowning!" Alfred shouts, clinging to one of the edges of the pool to keep himself from sinking as well.

Arthur's certain his heart stops in that moment. He completely forgets about the Vargas brothers, kicks his sandals off of his feet, drops his cellphone, yanks off his shirt, and dives into the pool in the blink of an eye. He's only realized now that there isn't a lifeguard on duty, and so, he must be the one to lift Matthew out of the water and bring him over to safety. He tucks the boy against his chest when he reaches him, and guides them over to the ladder a few meters away, blood cold in his veins.

The middle aged mothers are there to take Matthew out of his arms and sit him on dry land again as he climbs out of the water, sopping wet and shaking from the fear the boy has caused him. Thankfully, Matthew is breathing, although he has swallowed a few mouthfuls of chlorinated water. He coughs hard and tears spring to his eyes while Arthur rubs circles into his back and tries to get his own breathing under control.

"It's all right now, lad," Arthur soothes him, and one of the nearby mothers wraps a towel around the little one's shoulders. "There, there… Shh…"

Matthew hiccups, but he is, thank goodness, unharmed albeit shaken up. Arthur helps him stand and leads him over to his abandoned beach chair.

"Rest here, and we'll go back to the hotel room in a minute, okay?" he instructs before remembering to go over to pick up his phone, through which a frantic Francis is shouting.

"Arthur! Arthur, is everything all right?" the Frenchman asks.

"I'll explain later," he sighs in response. The Vargas brothers are gone now. They must've wandered off into the lobby.

"Dad! I'm stuck!"

He whips his head to the side and finds Alfred still clinging to the edge of the pool for dear life, thoroughly frightened and pale. Arthur speed-walks over to him and frowns.

"I told you and your brother to stay out of the deep-end, and look what happened!"

"I'm sorry! Help, I can't climb up," Alfred begs, sounding genuinely apologetic.

Arthur crouches down, snakes his arms under Alfred's armpits, and hefts him up and out of the pool, holding the soggy boy up with an impressive scowl.

"I knew I shouldn't have taken you off your leash."


Francis can't stop fussing over Matthew when he sees the state he's in. "The poor child! I'm not leaving him in your care ever again," he says bitingly at Arthur before wrapping his dear Matthew in a warm, calming hug. "Thank goodness it wasn't worse."

"If he hadn't deliberately disobeyed me, this would never have happened."

"Don't talk about that now! It's too soon!"

Arthur shakes his head and decides there's no way he can win this battle. Not only did Matthew have a near-death experience, but they've also failed to get important information from Lovino and Feliciano Vargas. All of this time wasted, and still they haven't made any groundbreaking progress, or so Arthur thinks until…

"I've bugged their room," Francis reveals. "When you told me they were at the pool, I managed to break in when the housekeeper left their door momentarily open to go off and get them some more ice. We should be able to track everyone they speak to from now on."

Well, it looks like they're not as bad off as he thought, then. He allows himself a breath of relief. There's a silver-lining to this disaster after all.

Francis brushes back Matthew's hair and says, "Now, all we have to do is wait, and I know a way to kill time. I've been doing my research, and the hotel has a play-center for the boys. We can drop them off there and possibly check out the spa."

"You go on ahead," Arthur replies with a grimace. "That doesn't sound like something that would interest me."

"Arthur, if there's anyone who is in desperate need of a spa treatment, it's you. I can tell your headache hasn't gone away yet, and now that we have time to unwind, why not give it a try?"

He really doesn't like the sound of this, but if it'll help with his incessant migraine, then he'll do it. Once Matthew feels a little better, they follow through with Francis's scheme and send the boys off to play, earning themselves a break from child rearing for a bit.

Arthur reluctantly follows Francis into the spa, and they're ushered by a member of the staff to enter a locker room, deposit their things, and change into some bathrobes. Francis is far more enthusiastic about the whole ordeal while Arthur sulks and wonders if there's a way to back out of this now.

"You're the only person in the world who could be more stressed from being in a spa," Francis chuckles at him.

Another staff member approaches them, and after sitting in some lumpy chairs, they get some green goo slapped onto their faces to exfoliate their pores. It dries and hardens before it's wiped off, and then Arthur is led into a separate room and is told to lie down on a table and wait for the masseuse.

A massage sounds heavenly right about now, and Arthur lies prone on the table as ordered and waits, a towel tied around his waist. It's been officially over a day since he's last slept, and as he keeps waiting and waiting, he finally feels his eyes slip shut against his will, and he dozes off right then and there, exhausted.

He jolts awake when someone touches his back, and it takes him a few seconds for him to remember where he is. His headache is still knocking against his skull with a dull ache, and the smell of some essential oils fills his nose and overwhelms his senses—lavender, it would seem.

A hand kneads at his left shoulder, and he lets out a sharp cry of pain, never realizing how tender his muscles were in that spot.

"Relax," a voice says, and Arthur swears it's…

"Francis!" he growls, trying to sit up, but then an elbow buries itself into the small of his back, and he lets out a low groan at how good it feels. "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I asked for permission from the staff, don't worry," Francis coos back at him tantalizingly. "I couldn't trust anyone here. For all we know, they could be working with the Vargas brothers, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't get your massage."

"I'm going to kill you."

"No, you won't."

"Would you like to find out?"

Francis laughs loftily and works on one of Arthur's more prominent knots as payback, eliciting another yelp of pain from the man. "Just hold still."

"Francis, this is inappropriate on so many levels."

"And who's going to find out?"

"That's not the point."

Francis kneads the back of his neck, easing the worst of his headache. "Just a few minutes, and I'll let you go. Please, you're one big, tangled knot, and I can't let you continue like this out of good conscience."

Arthur can't find the will to keep resisting, and so, he lies there like a ragdoll, slipping into a power nap once more before Francis tires of him and lets him up. Eyes glazed over with sleep, he blinks at Francis and sees his startlingly bright grin. They're both a little flushed from the heat in the room, and Arthur quickly gets up in disbelief, stunned by everything.

"All better?" Francis asks, and Arthur swallows thickly, taken aback. Why does Francis keep looking at him like that?

"I-I'll go and pick up the boys."

And Arthur rushes out, feeling oddly feverish.