Francis sat up against the red brick wall, panting. In one hand, he held his briefcase, filled with the disassembled parts of the sniping rifle, and in his other, was a Browning Hi-Power auto-loading pistol. It hung limply in his hand, cocked and armed to deliver the first shot should there ever be such a need. It would fire instantaneously enough, and it was not an action that would be foreign to the Frenchman.

But if only he hadn't found himself in a situation like this. He groaned mentally, slapping his forehead that was now beaded in the most unsanitary thing that could ever grace a human being: sweat. How had he found himself in this mess?

The shot that rang throughout the small expanse of a neighbourhood was, indeed, usual enough, but apparently, that hadn't been enough to stop someone from calling 9-1-1. Francis had barely reached the door back to the veranda when the sound of police sirens alerted him. Now, he wouldn't have been opposed to being caught; no, wouldn't that have been the perfect chance to gain attention by having his luscious face plastered all over the media that night? But it was more so that he had promised a certain little someone his arrival, and he'd rather be dressed in a droll military outfit (he shuddered visibly at the thought) than break his promise to the little mister.

Thus, option A was not a viable one… well, at least as of that moment.

Francis sprinted through the door and back down the stairs. His mind began mentally calculating all the possible escape routes, but it all depended on one large factor: whether he would be caught or not the moment he stepped out of the building. He tsked to himself; now that wouldn't have been entirely fruitful. In his mind raced various images of the local map; if he could successfully walk about five feet in public view without being arrested, then he would be able to make his way down through the intricate alleyways and out to freedom. But on the other hand, if that wasn't possible, he would have had to take the long way through the sewer system.

'Mon dieu, let us 'ope it does not come to 'zat!', he blanched internally. For God's sake, the trench coat was something imported straight from Paris itself, and it had been the latest fashion! May he be damned to infect such a beautiful piece of apparel with sewer odour and – he had to cover his lips to prevent himself from retching – rats. Oh, yes, how he hated those furry little creatures with beady, red little eyes. Something about them just gave him the chills.

But all that was conditional; it all decided on the matter of whether or not he'd be at gunpoint the moment he left the house. Francis grinned to himself; now wouldn't that have been such a lovely young mess? He was sure he could flirt his way out of it – after all, what woman could resist a charm like his – but if only all of them were female. Honestly, if he had his way, all men would be the ones in maid uniforms staying home all day, cooking and cleaning, and the females would be running corporations and trades. He drooled; oh, sweet, sweet paradise.

He ran now, towards the front door, leaning against its frame and peering out the half-transparent window cautiously; no red and blue lights were swarming as of yet. This he took with a sigh of relief; well, that was one obstacle cleared. As nonchalantly as he could (that part he could do far too easily), he opened the front door, briefcase clamped tight in one bare hand (he had removed his gloves so as to look a little conspicuous in the warm weather), he locked the door with the other, before plunging the key into one coat pocket. With that, he whistled playfully, an aura of innocence around him.

But he hadn't even reached the last step of the porch when he found himself face-to-face with a wide-eyed, black-haired male. A male with glasses and an unusual cowlick up in the front of his face, his grey eyes opened in nothing more than sheer disbelief.

"Francis? Is that you?"

Francis stared hard at the other, knowing he had seen him somewhere before. He slapped himself mentally; although men weren't exactly his bouquet of roses, he had to admit this one was rather gifted in the looks department, and he always, always knew beauties' names. It took a few seconds more of staring before the image and the name clicked.

"Oui, Roderich! 'Ow 'ave you been?"

"I've been quite fine, thank you…" Roderich stared at him uncertainly, eyeing his all-black outfit and briefcase. "This… this isn't your house, is it?"

Francis laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course not. I am… what do 'zey call it… "house-sitting"?

"I see…" He was still eyeing him warily, which made the Frenchman debate on knocking him out there and then to save the precious seconds that were already ticking by with having nothing accomplished. Luckily enough, the man had changed his point of view at the last minute. "Well, alright. Take care of yourself, will you? There are cops all over the streets. I think they're looking for someone. I have never seen the neighbourhood so shaken up." He shook his head, looking disappointed. "Just be careful, alright?"

The blonde merely nodded, walking past the man with a smile on his face and wink passed. "Moi? I am always careful, mon ami. Adieu!"

Francis cursed internally; well, at least he hadn't been apprehended yet, but upon glancing at his watch, he'd noted that five minutes had already passed. He began to walk more rapidly, steps clacking onto the pavement rhythmically, his eyes the color of the sky warily looking to and fro for any sign of the police sirens. He had just about reached the four-foot mark, slightly relieved, when he heard the sounds of other footsteps trailing him. Just as he was about to dismiss it for another passer-by, it spoke.

"Sir, I'm going to have to see what's in that suitcase."

And that was when he ran.

Despite the shouts of protests and commands for him to cease, Francis ran, now ducking through the alleyways like a mastermind. The officer pursued him, but it was obvious when the other footsteps rang away that he had gotten himself lost in the intricate maze. The victory was to him – but, of course – but he still found himself running and weaving through the maze. It was not only until he reached the last fourth of the way to his freedom did he stop to take a break.

He hadn't noticed that he'd been doing actual exercise.

Now he sat there, panting, armed in the case that anyone should ever come. At this point, the maze could only provide the option of going forward; if someone found him here now, the only choice would be to shoot. The alleyways were much too narrow and filled with too many obstacles to attempt an agile escape.

Just as he was about to get his heart in order (he groaned bitterly to himself; the last time he had this much of a pulse was three nights ago in Motel Cordial, with a certain blonde whose busts were almost visibly larger than his head… but at least then it had been satisfying!), his phone rang once more, to which he hastily answered. The silence in the alleyways was rigid, selfish. Any noise that broke it would be sent every which way, and he would be immediately found.

"'Allo?" he said, almost hissed, into the phone.

A bright voice blasted down the phone, ringing in the hollow, dead quiet space. "Hola! ¿Como estás, mi amigo?"

Francis sighed, before staring at the like it was some sort of alien. Of all the times he had to call, did it have to be now? "Antonio! I am sorry, but right now is… not 'ze best time. I am in 'ze middle of 'ze "chase", as Americans call it."

"Oh, I see. Forgive me, por favor. Pero… the higher-ups wanted to me to check up on you… Did you finish the mission?"

"'Oo do you 'sink I am? Of course, I did!"

"Bueno", the voice on the line said shortly. "Well, whenever you're done, there is another mission for you. … Well, good luck!" Then the line went dead.

"Anto-" Francis sputtered, before tucking the phone back in his pocket. Leave it to his "friend" to ditch him in the times of crisis. He shook his head, resisting the urge to throw the phone at the wall.

Or, he would have, had it not been for the click of a very familiar weapon. He gulped, before turning cautiously towards the sound, eyes widening in surprise with a tinge of fright as he found himself held at gunpoint.

Now, a variety of things can go through a person's mind when they know that they are either going to be shot, or die (which really, to him, was redundant because if someone was pointing a gun to your head, that would more than likely lead to the latter). Someone could be thinking of their life; one of those clichéd "I saw my life flash before my eyes" moments. Someone could also be questioning the satisfaction of their life; they could be wondering if they had really gone through their bucket list and that why, oh, why, did they not even write up said bucket list in the first place? But, someone could also be thinking about the last thing they said to someone dear and near to them; they could be regretting slamming the door on their faces or be satisfied that they had exchanged some glorious lovemaking that day (to which he could easily empathize with, of course). But to someone like Francis, there was only one thought that ran around his mind like a rampant chimpanzee that was in dire need of a tranquilizer.

S'il vous plait, not the face.

His eyes widened at this realization. If he had to go, really, he had to go. Of course, he vastly regretted not being there for his petite Matthieu; he felt a pang of pain in his chest as he pictured his little one's anguish and innocence at where his Papa could have gone. But just a notch above that was the feeling of vanity. If he died, he wanted to, at the very least, look good. He didn't want to be one of those victims where their faces were so beat up or blasted open that no one could even recognize them anymore. No, he wanted to be beautiful when he died. He wanted to at least, if anyone should remember him (to that he scoffed; but of course everyone would remember him), to remember him with an image of his perfectly sculpted face that he thought was God's gift to the earth. After all, who could resist such a handsome face as his?

A voice interrupted his little mind rant, the tenor of which made him snap up to attention. "Sir, put down the gun, and put your hands up where I can see them."

Francis glanced up for the first time, his eyes having been far too trained on the gun to pay attention to anything else. He was struck with the vision of a brunette, biting her lip nervously. However, her aura of nervousness was overshadowed by the determined look in her eye, frowning and holding the gun as steadily as she could at what would appear to her to be the criminal they were looking for. Now again, two things were going on in the Frenchman's mind, namely, "I am going to kill that Espagnol" and "Would you like to join me tonight, mademoiselle?"

But he shook his head; maybe now wasn't the best time, considering her rigid posture. It would seem that it would only take a minute wrong move for her to blast his head to smithereens which, obviously, was not the better option.

"Sir, I said now. Please put the gun down and slide it towards me slowly."

Francis did nothing more than continue the eye contact, considering his options. After a few seconds of deliberation, he set the gun on the ground, before sliding it slowly towards the female. The policewoman scooped down swiftly, keeping the gun pointed in the middle of his eyes, grabbing the gun and placing it in her now empty holster.

"Now, I'm going to have to get you to put your hands up, sir."

He did so. Quickly, she placed her gun on top of a trash can, moving over to the man. With two clinking sounds, the Frenchman found himself in handcuffs. He chuckled to himself; oh, the irony. He hadn't thought he'd be caught so quickly, and especially not by a woman, of all things. But of course, the devilish part of his brain was already concocting several escape routes. The fact that she was a woman was perhaps the largest advantage in his arsenal.

She roughly pulled him upwards (oh-la-la, so she liked rough, did she?) into a standing position, keeping a firm grip on his hands that were now forced behind him. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law." She began to recite the Miranda warning, to which Francis merely rolled his eyes at. Honestly, did they still actually say that? It sounded oh-so-cliché, and so reality-TV. But he shrugged, taking a deep breath as he slowly set his plan in motion.

"'Zere is no need to worry, mademoiselle. I would not dream of ever going against anything you say," he began in the most suave voice he could manage, which of course, was not difficult.

"P-please keep quiet, sir. I would like to ask you to cooperate with me until you get to my car. You will be taken down to the station for questioning."

"Ah, but of course. But… ah, you know, I could not 'elp notice 'zat you seem razzer nervous. Would you like to talk to me about it?"

There was the cocking of the gun, the cold metal now pressed firmly onto the back of his neck. "Sir, please shut your trap."

Francis chuckled. "Eh, maybe after 'zis 'ole thing is over, you and I… 'zere is 'zis quaint little café by my 'ouse." He half-turned to her, waggling his eyebrows. "What do you say, mademoiselle?"

She cringed back, pressing the gun closer to his neck. "N-no, thank you."

"But madam, look at me. Do I seem like I am un criminal?" He flashed her a small smile; it was only a matter of time.

"U-um…" She hesitated, lowering her gun and eyeing him warily. It was only a second, but it was the opening he was looking for.

With practiced agility, he twisted his body to face her, one leg kicking up to pry the gun away from her hand, which flew behind him and fell with a loud clang. Stunned from the display, Francis took advantage of the moment by moving up against her, pressing her back towards the alley wall, where she stood, trembling. He slid his cheek down her own smooth, supple flesh, inhaling her rose-scented perfume as though it was his very oxygen.

"Now, now, mademoiselle," he started, purring into the nape of her neck, a seductive tone laced in his voice. "I do not mind 'ze forceful type, you see. But… you know, I would prefer it to be on a much… softer venue, would you not agree?" Pouting his lips, he pressed them softly against her neck, causing a shiver to pass through her body. "Come on… what would you prefer, going back to a stuffy office, or a soft bed wiz' moi?" He pulled back, now staring at her chocolate eyes, now widened in nervousness – all traces of anger and hostility gone. Flashing her his signature smile, he asked, "What do you say, mademoiselle?"

She shivered again, gulping, before nodding her head.

Check, and mate.

The door slammed open, causing a gust of air to rush through.

"Matthieu, I am 'ome." Francis called out to the house in general. He was met with silence for a few seconds, before it was interrupted by the soft padding of footsteps that were in a rush. Taking his coat off, he gestured for his company to come in, whilst hanging his outerwear on the nearby rack. When he turned back around, he was caught by a vice-like grip on his lower torso.

"Papa, papa! Je tu manquès!" The younger boy grinned, looking up at his father with nothing more than childlike innocence that most would have already lost at his age. His indigo eyes were as astounding as always, his hair primped and done graciously just like Francis had instructed him to. It was a different feeling from when he'd heard the voice over the phone. Back then, his heart had melted, but right now, it felt as though he could melt into a puddle and remain that way all day long.

He chuckled, bending down and placing a kiss atop the male's head, causing him to blush vaguely. "Désolé pour le retard, Matthieu. I 'ad some… trouble." He glanced behind him, smiling.

"Non, non, il est bon." He followed his father's glance with curious eyes. Behind him stood a chocolate-haired female, nervous in her posture but otherwise slightly comfortable in the homey abode. Matthieu smiled, running up to her and pulling on her shirt lightly. "Papa, Papa, est-elle ma nouvelle mama?"

Francis froze slightly, before shaking his head. "Non, she is my… 'ow shall I say it… mon ami." It was really odd; him bringing home various women every night was something more of a routine than it was a surprise, so even Matthieu hadn't questioned it any more. However, Matthieu's innocent question had also become routine, but it was something that Francis could easily dismiss with a laugh and a shake of his head. For some reason, today, it had given him pause. But of course, it must have been from the long day, he reasoned. His senses were not as acutely trained after his "mission", owing to his slower reflexes.

Yes, that must have been it.

Matthieu seemed to have found the answer valid enough, before he nodded and returned to his father's side, tugging on his sleeve. "Voulez-vous regarder mon dessin maintenant?" The male merely chuckled, ruffling through his hair playfully.

"Oui, oui, lead the way." To the female, he turned, flashing her a white smile. "Mademoiselle, if you would like to freshen up, 'ze bathroom is 'ze first door on 'ze right up 'ze stairs. 'Zen… you can get comfortable in 'ze bedroom… right next to it. 'Zat is fine, oui?" Still in a bit of a daze, the female nodded, before ascending the stairs. Francis glanced quickly at her retreating figure, brows furrowed, before he proceeded to follow his son into the kitchen.

Matthieu jumped up and down excitedly, before bringing a twelve by twelve white sheet up to his father, practically shoving it into his face. Francis pried it carefully away from his son's eager fingers, glancing at it.

It was a painfully artistic drawing; he really should enrol his son in an art school in the future. It depicted his classroom, with the seats and tables and the teacher drawn in in blurs. The only clear figures were that of two drawings towards the center of the paper, two smiling faces that stood out to him above all else. One of it was Matthieu; that much he could tell from the vivid purple eyes and the interestingly curled cowlick upon his face, not to mention the polar bear that was held in his hands. However, it was the figure to his right that made Francis frown in confusion; why had Matthieu drawn himself twice?

The drawing looked to be exactly similar to his son's own image of himself, but with a few subtle differences. One, for example, were the hue of his eyes, which were that of a deep, sky blue. He pursed his lips; who was it? Atop the drawing was the phrase "M + A" scribbled in roughly.

"Matthieu, 'oo is 'zis?" he asked, pointing to the random figure.

"Oh! Il est le petit nouveau dans ma classe."

"Ah… intéressante." He turned back to his son, who was still awaiting criticism. "Very good, as usual, Matthieu. I am proud of you."

"Merci, Papa!" He grinned, before pulling the paper back and running up the stairs. "Je vais dormir maintenant! Bonne nuit!" With that, he dashed off.

Francis frowned, but said nothing more. He shrugged, before running his fingers through his glossy hair, his mind now tuned to a whole other frequency, one that encompassed him, a bed, and a whole new playmate. He grinned to himself; oh, what would he do without women?

After three hours of sensual pleasure, Francis found himself staring up at the canopy of his bed, reliving the memories of that night. The female nuzzled next to him dreamily, a look of contentment on her face. The Frenchman smirked; but, of course she was content. It was him, after all, and there no other man better in bed than he. His fingers crawled up and down her bare back, recalling his firm grip on her hips, the way she ached for more as she repeatedly pulled herself closer to him. She was a clingy one, he noticed, someone of sexual inadequacy, to which of course, he was just much too glad to oblige. Her chocolate-coloured hair fell in tufts around her forehead, and he sighed as he remembered these locks wildly thrashing about as they pressed their bodies closer together, closer, tighter… and faster. She had screamed in ecstasy at the last minute, before she collapsed, panting, on his torso. She was… satisfying.

But why then, he thought to himself as he continued to stare at the roof, did it not feel like that?

He groaned, rubbing his hands on his face. That had to be it.

"Papa, Papa, est-elle ma nouvelle mama?"

A/N: So, I think this'll be updated pretty frequently because, holy crap, do I have muse for it. Here's a continuation of the previous chapter, which I HAD to show because it shows you more of Francis' character and his daily life (as if we didn't already know _;). This was also longer than my previous chapter, which I didn't even notice, haha. Sorry if it seems like fluff, but it is important!

Also... GUESS WHO'S MAKING AN APPEARANCE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER? /shot (read: the story's other main character)

As a side note, anyone who can decipher that drawing gets cookies.

And... that was all! Thanks to the reviewers, and someone's anonymous review about correcting the French. Honestly, if you guys think it needs correcting, please do so. I only use Google and even I don't trust it entirely. Feel free to tell me the corrections in a review or message! Also, if you can, please review! They are always welcome.

Now more translations: (courtesy of Google)

Je tu manquès - I missed you

Désolé pour le retard - Sorry for the delay

Non, non, il est bon - No, no, it's ok

est-elle ma nouvelle mama? - is she my new mother?

Voulez-vous regarder mon dessin maintenant? - Will you look at my picture now?

Il est le petit nouveau dans ma classe - It is the new kid in my class.

Je vais dormir maintenant - I'll sleep now