Shout-Outs: Yeaaaah, man, next chapter! I'm really dishing these out as best I can before school starts and all, so like... yeah! And here come the weekly shout-outs (with a new post format so it looks less cluttered, OTL)!~

PrussianAwesomeness - Yes, yes he is. xD I think I mentioned that in the really short and sucky plot summary in chapter 1, but I might have also not, in which case I do fail. His age does have a purpose, though he really doesn't seem like it. I'm rather biased with his cuteness, aren't I? And thank you, will keep updating for you and my loyal fans out there!

Readers-Section - Your reviews usually interest me, and this is no exception (along with others, of course, but you do have some amazing insight which I respect and need)! Anyways, I kind of have to agree with you. Being the author and writing these two, I, of course, have to compare and contrast in my head (and feel like I have a split personality), but I find myself liking Francis more... which is probably why he seems more likeable and realistic (at least to you and me and... whoever else? xD) It helps that I'm like both of them, but Francis is just so hilarious not to do, so voila, there's my work and interpretation of him. As to Matthieu, he is, isn't he? Adorable is the way he should go; I mean, he should have something going for him aside from being invisible, amirite? Lul. Though I've always thought that adult Canada would have some perverted tendencies... oh god, I hope I don't bring that here. Poor Alfred will stand no chance. And thank you, thank you for the compliments! I am trying to do that, moving it along, I mean, seeing as how people will lose interest if it's all too boring or stagnant, but I have this sort of OCD to stabilize their backgrounds first, or at least most of it, so I hope you, along with others, stick around for the real sticky stuff.~

FrUKisLove - Hooray, more nameless reviews. XD And thank you, but please do refrain from killing him. Darling little thing is important to my plot, and I'm sure Francis will try and come after you if you harm his precious little angel. ): You know, the only thing/person he's not perverted towards, so if you take that away, I'm afraid even I cannot control him... sadly. And again, thank you for the compliments! That bomb scene was inspired by an action movie I watched (dur) so I hope I got his reaction (which was awesome) right. And yes, yes it is Arthur. XD Although we can already tell, he won't be too happy...

Reviewer - Well, thank you very much for taking time out of your day to read this little baby of mine, I do hope you enjoyed them both! Thank you for the compliments; I do try to keep them in line as much as possible, as "canon" as possible, but at the same time, adding a little bit of originality in them without completely butchering them, as you so put it. I also agree with you; how I will put them together is starting to sound so absurd, but that is the wonder of a multi-chaptered fic! Ideas pop up as they go along, and if truth be told, I myself am not too sure as to how they'll fall in love, though I have an inkling. Rest assured though, it probably won't be too pretty. After all, it can't be a crime fic if so, am I right?

sweet as candy - A new reviewer! And thank you very much, I will try to keep up your with expectations, but please don't hesitate to say anything if I do not reach or exceed them.

Fan/Person - If you are the same, ahaha. S'no problem, sometimes reviewing can be a pain in the butt, so thanks for doing it anyways! Thanks for the compliments, and I am glad you're staying with me and have read all of them up-to-date. Does my heart good when that happens, especially since I know it sometimes painful to catch up to the rest of the story. Anyways, I do hope you continue sticking around and supplying me some feedback; never bad to get more of those!

-takes a deep breath. WELL, alright, we're done!~ Now, without further ado...

Banging. The banging was so… insistent. Why wouldn't the banging just shut up?

… But of course it wouldn't. When had the banging ever listened to him before?

Now there was screaming. It wasn't the type of blood-curling scream that he had often heard in the lame excuses of American horror movies, but more of the "I'm-going-to-kill-you-in-three-seconds" sort of scream. And that, usually, was his signal to get up his lazy arse out of bed and investigate just what was to be another normal day in the Kirkland residence.

Pillow having been clamped over his ears tightly in an attempt to block out of the sounds of the banging that had begun around thirty minutes ago, Arthur growled lightly as he forcefully pried the soft object away from his head. The banging had insisted on continuing its unfortunately cruel toil on the man's brain, and it took him a good few seconds to realize that the banging had long since ceased, and that the rhythmic sounds he heard, alternating from soft explosions to loud beating, were that of the blood rushing painfully in his head.

Because of course, a headache was a stellar way to start the day.

Groaning to himself, the blonde pushed himself into a sitting position, earning him a sense of vertigo that he was not, in the least, accustomed to. He leaned his back against the bed's headboard, leaning his neck back over it so as to almost position it in a ninety-degree angle, hoping that this slight tilt would relieve him of some of the pain that the migraine was bestowing upon him – but, of course, no such luck. Was he surprised? Irritated, maybe, but not in the sense that this was something of extraordinary consequence in his life. Since when had luck ever been on his side? If anything, he felt as though he'd broken about a hundred or so mirrors in a past life of his, and fate above was now convening on him, bent on making his life a living hell. Or something of the sort.

It would do no good to stand by here and do absolutely nothing; the beating in his head now became more dominant than the screams that could be heard from the kitchen below. Belatedly, he realized that his wife was no longer in the bed with him. Her side was extremely cluttered, as though a tornado had just ravaged her side of the bed and left him to deal with the aftermath. Although they shared one bed, Michelle had absolutely insisted on separate blankets for the two of them, given that Arthur apparently tossed in his sleep and that, for the love of her, she could not get her well-deserved sommeil de beauté (as she often called it, though with the results, he begged to differ) with him rolling about like a pig stuck in a trap. Leave it to her to come up with such a beautiful and loving simile for her husband's dormant tendencies. Of course, he hadn't complained, but instead immediately complied; if there was anything worse than Michelle on a normal day, it was Michelle on a normal day without her beauty sleep.

Her side of the bed lay empty, and relatively cold to touch, betraying the fact that she had left not too long ago. Her blanket was strewn across the length of the bed, twisted into an almost perfect double helix knot. The immaculate white pillow – which she had also insisted should be labelled so they not mix their pillows up together – was laying on the floor, tilted at an angle against the bed. Her night socks were a scattered mess, with one on the bed and the other draping off the bedside. It was all he could do not to twitch and burn everything in sight; the very idea of unkemptness often sent him into a slight OCD fit, but the sight of it, well, he shuddered to think. Luckily, it was a sight he had grown used to over the years, and with a resigned sigh, he leaned over and folded the blanket into a perfect square shape. The socks, too, were rolled into a ball and placed on top of the pillow that was now situated exactly five inches from his own. When he had finished with her side, he had promptly cleaned up his own, but once he stood up to gain a view of his perfect folding skills, he was rewarded with more knocking sounds that threatened to burst his head open. Frowning and using one of the bedside tables for support, Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose, hoping to at least alleviate some of the pain, but to no avail.

But, of course.

Arthur was heavily tempted to lie back down on his bed; it was so comforting next to the very thought of the day that loomed before him. However, before he had so much as a chance to contemplate suicide as his second option, another high-pitched scream emanated from downstairs. When that was accompanied by the sound of rather expensive china breaking, he figured that it was about high time he get downstairs and figure out what exactly was happening. Pure willpower was what drove him down the stairs instead of rolling into the possible ensuing chaos that was his everyday life; need he say more?

When he arrived at the scene of the crime that was the kitchen (oh, how wonderfully ironic for him), his eyes were met with two main highlights. One was the couple of people that were standing in the room facing off, one whose glaring hatred was visibly erect on her face while the other whose muted defiance was something he had seen much too often. The second thing was the absolute mess on the floor that lay in between them; as he had suspected, his wife had thrown the ceramics that they had bought earlier that week in celebration of an upcoming party they were to hold. He sighed internally; oh, how wonderful. She'd probably somehow find a way to pin this on him, and make him pay dearly with his own money (Michelle didn't believe in that whole "sharing-a-bank-account" shit, as she so graciously put it, because they weren't "babies" and they earned their own money so why the need to share?). She'd probably also make him clean up the mess that loomed so obviously in the middle of the perfect floor… though it wouldn't take much convincing to do that. Just the sight of it made his fingers itch to clean it up; he would not have such a ridiculous excuse of shatters laying right there in plain sight!

Moving forward resignedly, head still throbbing like the drums on the Chinese New Year, Arthur weaved his way around and behind his son, pulling out a drawer for some gloves. He had learned never to interfere in situations like these, unless he wanted to meet Michelle's wrath (because, he thought, rolling his eyes, he didn't experience enough of that on a good day). However, just as he was about to leave the room for a broom and dustpan, the fighting once more ensued, the tension of the glares having completely been broken in favour of… louder venues.

"I should kill you for disgracing this family again! You putain cul –" Arthur and Alfred both flinched, "don't you have anything better to do than embarrass me? What, in the honest fuck, is your problem here? Do you have some sort of death wish?"

Alfred was quiet, but one could tell from the look on his distorted face that he was trying not to let it get to him. Unlike with Arthur, Michelle had a new line of terror, and even he, rebellious as he was, was smart enough to know not to cross it. In comparison to her, Arthur looked like a tame kitten next to a hungry lioness.

"Well? Nothing to say for yourself? Of course not, you're always so quiet at home but in school, just because I'm not there, you think you can do whatever the fuck you want? Well, if that's the case, then get the fuck out of my house and live on the streets for all I care! Just don't waste my time crying out like un lâche putain and get out! Get out now! I fucking hate you!"

As tough of a shell as Alfred had built around himself, it seemed to crumble before his very eyes as he started shaking visibly. His voice was no longer the resilient, rebellious tone he had used last night. Instead, it was now filled with sorrow and… there was no other way to put it, but whining. His face cast off that glare; his mother's words were often the sure fire way to get through him, but at the same time, it often hurt him more than he let on. Arthur's mouth opened; there were limits to Michelle's inappropriate behaviour, and this was it. However, before as he could so much as say a single syllable, his son spoke up. "No… I'm sorry, I won't… do it again. I promise… Mom."

Smack.

Flesh hit flesh before Arthur could so much as process what was occurring. In the second it had taken him to blink, Michelle had crossed over the wreckage that was the china splatter, raised her hand, and slapped the teen right across the face. "Don't you ever call me your "mom" again. You are not my son. I raised no such a delinquent and imbécile. If you're still home tonight, I'm going to fucking burn your room."

Finally, Arthur seemed to have found his voice, where it had hidden along with the silent tears that were streaming down Alfred's face. "Now, Michelle, that was a little much, don't you think? Maybe you just need some air…"

She whipped around, her newfound fury rekindled and now targeted towards her husband. She stepped forward, her pointer finger jamming repeatedly (and painfully) at Arthur's chest. Never in his life was he more scared of his wife scorned; not even being repeatedly under the risk of gunfire and being killed by criminals held a candle to the heart-stopping fear he felt that now froze him to his spot. "You, you, you! It's your entire fucking fault he turned out like this, you know! You're too soft on him, homme stupide, and you don't even try and punish him! Now we're stuck with a sorry excuse for a son, always acting out because he has some sort of fucking attention problem. He's a fucking attention whore!"

"I-"

"Tais-toi! If I see his face tonight, you better be ready to call nine-one-one, because he is not getting out of here alive." With a huff, she turned on her heel and out the door, where movement could be heard from the front porch. "And clean up that mess on the floor!" With a sound of finality, she slammed the door, leaving both him and his shuddering son in awkward silence.

"Don't take it too personally, Alfred, you know how she is," Arthur began, the first start of the conversation since the two had entered his car on the way to Alfred's school. It had been Alfred's idea to reject taking public transportation by saying that criminals were more likely to kill a kid alone on a bus than one in a car with another person. It was all bullshit, but he had played quite effectively on Arthur's weakness, his overprotectiveness of him, to get what he wanted. Of course, what with all the events that had occurred around them – most of them centering around Michelle – it wasn't particularly hard to do that.

He received nothing but silence on the other end, reminding him painfully of last night. Speaking of pain, his headache had somehow grown substantially worse since he'd left the house, and there was no way that this was treatable by any sort of pain reliever. He had that much faith in humanity, and if pills were manmade then, he would be well damned to stake such a painful throbbing to them. Still, he grudgingly thought, if it would help….

The buildings lapsed by, and the only noise now was the radio and the incessant honking of horns around them. At this time was rush hour, so it was only understandable that the traffic jam was extremely prominent. On any other time, this would have been extremely welcome to him; if it stopped him from experiencing yet another day being treated like an imbecile at his job, he would have been stuck here on the highway for hours on end. However now, the jam served as a reminder of the tension that hung between the two of them, of the Alfred whose eyes were still rimmed with red from the tears he had shed earlier. He wished he could take the pain away, but he felt that under his wife's almost tyrannical rule, he was absolutely helpless. He couldn't fight back even if it meant his life was at stake, but even more so, if it was Alfred's. The very least he often found himself doing was reflecting her anger towards him instead of their son; he never wanted Alfred to experience such brutality and anger at a young age. He had vowed to protect him, but from the scene that morning, it was clear that he wasn't exactly Superman.

Perhaps it took almost an hour before they finally arrived at Sherwood Middle School, whereupon a large throng of students had already gathered to start the day. Judging from the car's clock, they had a good twenty minutes before the bell rang. Alfred was already moving, where he had been previously immobile, the palm of his hand caressing the spot where Michelle had slapped him; there was no doubt that it still stung, and that, through his fingers, Arthur could see that there was still a streak of stubborn pink. He bit his lip; he knew that any words of comfort would only make it worse here. Instead then, he cleared his throat, shifting his gaze to the playing schoolchildren, although his hand twitched visibly as he held it back from caressing the boy's hair and telling him that it was alright, that he would always be here.

Finally, Alfred unbuckled his seatbelt, shrugging his backpack onto his shoulders. He seemed to hesitate for a second, his eyes shifting rapidly from left to right, as though looking or something or someone. Arthur opened his mouth to ask, but before he could do so, the blonde leaned over. His eyes widened, frozen and stunned, before he was gifted with a quick peck on the cheek. Alfred then turned quickly and shoved his way out the car door, and just before it slammed, he could have sworn he heard a murmured, "Thanks, Dad."

Arthur groaned at the list of to-do things that were situated upon his desk. He had just arrived at the office that day, somewhat numb from what had just happened a few minutes ago. Granted, his relationship with Alfred wasn't what one could call top-notch, but when it came to Michelle, they were often united against a force that they couldn't fight against. To Arthur, he wasn't quite sure what it was about the woman that he couldn't completely dislike; something about her always made him come back, no matter what happened. He had often mulled this over in the past, reasons about why he stayed with her despite her verbal – and sometimes physical – abuse, but he chalked it up to the fact that he really had a soft spot for her. Had it been any other person, he would have long since stood up for himself; nothing disgusted him more than the feeling of playing second fiddle to anyone else who wasn't either his boss, or paying him… or both. Perhaps he was just frightened in the likelihood that, if he did talk back, she'd turn around and leave him forever. The thought made him blanch internally and his chest hurt; he had lost so much already, and if she was gone, too, then, he wasn't too sure how he could live on.

Maybe, just maybe, he would hold his head high for Alfred, and perhaps that would be enough to sustain his life. But even with that, he wasn't sure how long it would last.

The male resisted the urge to bang his head repeatedly on his desk, but that didn't stop him from doing it once. Next to his wife, these papers and documents that needed sorting were nothing of consequence. Still, they ignited that flare within him, that pride that he was so reduced to nothing more than filing papers and taking orders that he wasn't even sure who he was anymore. Green eyes scanning the list, he found even more tedious and menial tasks for him: bring coffee to Velma, make a report on yesterday's incidences, check-up on the news of the killers, and do some other chores that were, in his mind, akin to cleaning out the toilet.

He shuddered at the thought; if he was told to do that, he wasn't sure he could guarantee the mental state of his mind, let alone the toilet sanitation.

The man groaned, rubbing his eyes as though lacking sleep. The headache had, thankfully (oh, one of the many things his life so easily graced him with), subsided, but there was still a dull throbbing at his left temple, which he quickly ignored. He scanned the list once more, and finding that no, there was in fact no play on his eyes and that faeries were not playing tricks on him, he decided to get to work. He might as well start his wonderful start of a day.

It was in the midst of him brewing a cup of coffee (he blanched; how Americans could love such a bitter drink was beyond him; it was tea for him all the way) that a voice upon the intercom requested his presence in the chief's office. 'Great', he thought, 'Tosser probably wants more shite done for his family. What am I, a maid?'

Grumbling to himself, Arthur wished deeply that he could shoot himself (or his boss, for that matter) then and there, but he figured that since curiosity was burning inside him, he might as well find out what the big deal was before succumbing to his last resort. He walked into the room, eyes rolling as he found his the elder man relaxing by his desk and sipping his coffee while watching television. It made him wonder in what state of drunkenness he had been to accept a job under such an obviously perfect example of a stereotypical American. It must have been after four rounds of drinks; he was pretty certain that it was only upon his third did memories start to blur, and upon the fourth, there was no predicting his memory's stability. Yes, that must have been it.

The man gestured for him to sit down, and he did so reluctantly. Usually, orders were barked at him the very moment he entered the room; something about him in such a vulnerable position made him feel as though the man was trying to soften him up for something that would be apocalyptic. Instinctively, he tensed, but more so against his internal conflict than the external. He knew that, if the man was going to make him do some sort of obscene chore that even ants wouldn't do, his first reply would be a biting, sarcastic remark which would definitely get him fired. He braced himself for that, tightly biting his tongue as the other man yawned, taking his time for the torture sentence that was no doubt soon to follow.

"So, Arthur, I have a job for you," he began, drawling in a bored tone.

"Yes, sir?" Arthur replied, allowing the release of his tongue before once more biting on it.

"You see, we've got more than enough policemen here. You could even say we have a little bit of an excess." The Briton's eyes narrowed; was this some subtle way of firing him? If so, then he wasn't quite sure just how strong his teeth were against his tongue. However, he did nod mutely, as though to agree. "So we've gone around offering up some of our men for some odd jobs here and there, but most of them still stay within the confines of law enforcement – you know, stuff like crossing guard and whatnot – so it's not too bad. Then the other day, we got this odd job request from some high-end agency, and they wanted someone from our station to act as a bodyguard for someone."

At this, Arthur's eyebrow rose. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad a torture sentence, if this was going the way he thought…

"And I was thinking, since you seem to be… bored most of the time," (somehow, he knew that the word "dispensable" would have been too mean; still, he congratulated his boss for avoiding an argument), "I put your name up. Hope you don't mind (mind? he hadn't even known about it till now), but they accepted you. Simple job, just make sure your charge is safe. The agency told me that he could be quite a handful, so they just had to make sure they assigned the guy someone who was meticulous and responsible – and guess what? You were the first person that came to mind! So I thought this would be the perfect job for you."

Yes, perhaps this wasn't so bad.

"Oh, and they sent me a picture of him. You're to meet him tomorrow morning, about eight, at the café by the corner of Fifth and Sixth. Here you go. Good luck, Arthur."

When emerald eyes focused on the mess of blonde and blue in the picture, he felt what little hope he had clung to explode in front of his very eyes. His teeth, which at that point had been resolute on keeping his tongue in captivity, loosened. His hand immediately went to the holster that kept his gun; only willpower kept him from drawing it and shooting himself in the head.

It was going to be bad.

A/N: ... If this chapter was total blabbing and purely me droning on and on about how life sucks (both for me and Arthur), tell me, because I'd completely agree. /facepalm Also, I said that I'd be moving the plot on, but I really had to let you all see Arthur's side and again, how much is life is a hell hole, which I hope somewhat justifies his actions in the future (spoiler alert... not really!) But yes, here's a little more of a slice of pie in Arthur's totally awesome life with Michelle and Alfred (oh god, he's rubbing off on me).

On a more interactive note, can anyone guess which character Michelle is? I think I gave enough of a hint with her name and the language she speaks, though I hid that completely with her outrageous personality. Come on now, she likes to be no one's territory. /giggles Also, if you have time, please give me a little feedback on her; is she too much, too bitchy, or just right?

Now, I'll say that I promise that the next chapter is when we'll really jump into stuff. How do I know? Simple! I already wrote the next two! (/shot /shot /shot) And those... wow, I had a hell of a time writing those (yes, there is blood and sexy Arthur), so I hope those will give you a light at the end of the tunnel after all this gibberish. xD And the reason I wrote them in advance was not because I'm a keener, but because of my job. I'm not sure when I'd have time to write them, and since I had a day off today, I kicked it up and raped it a bit... I just hope it recovers soon.

And, that was it! Have a good day, readers, and pray Francis isn't in your closet tonight. c:

And now, more fail translations from Google:

putain cul - fucking ass

un lâche putain - a fucking coward

homme stupide - stupid man

Tais-toi! - shut up!