Shout-outs: Hurr we go with shout-outs!~

callous-enigma - Well, hai durr, again! Thanks for reviewing, fangirl (I so got that right!). And yes, that's actually a tad surprising. I'd have though you wouldn't hold as much hate towards girls with a back, ahaha, even if this is achieved by bullying others. And so, here ya go, your next chapter. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing.

PrussianAwesomeness - Yep, you are right! Here's some candy! Though I made it obvious enough, at least I hope so. But yes, the fact that she speaks both English and French was the hint that I was talking about. That, and, I really can't see England for some reason with any other "canon" girl. Hungary, I think, would just be some sort of apocalyptic thing... though now that I think about it, I haven't even seen a fic with them both. Or maybe I've been too lazy to find one, whichever works!~

Sasha - Ahaha, yet again, we have a winner! I dunno about Gakuen Hetalia, I played the one that was for PC and I actually kind of laughed at it, but the enjoyment was decreased by the fact that I had to keep reading off a site for the translations because I sadly cannot read Japanese for the life of me. I thought she was an alright character; headstrong and stubborn and with a little bit of an attitude, though I obviously took that part of her and blew it out of proportion. And yes, we all know the trials of love, tsk, tsk, but who we fall in love with is definitely not something that can be predicted, no? And our little Arthur just happens to fall in love with the "wrong" person... or is she?

fantasyAge - Oh... my, don't kill your sleep cycle now. But yes, thank you for your musings (which always help) and I'll try to address them the best I can. For your first question, I made him short because in my eyes, short and cute comes hand in hand with Matthieu. I dunno why, that's probably messed up lawl. That or, you can always imagine Francis to be ginormous. xD And the innocence thing... well, we'll see. /wink Now for your second question, yes indeed, thanks for this. I often forget about base interactions, but don't worry, there will definitely be more, and especially more Alfred. It's just that between teen angst and his new bodyguard job, there isn't really time for them to really sit at a table and talk, ahaha. And well, Michelle loves them both... just, not in the normal way one would expect? Lmao, Arthur's always been abused, his life sucks, so what little thing Michelle adds is nothing to him, I guess. It's more of a "I gotta live with it" type deal. Finally, about the accents, I was just thinking that, but the thing is, I don't know how to do a Spanish accent LOL. "You" would only be the one thing that would change. xD But if you can give me pointers for that, that'd help. xD And thanks for your review! Feel free to leave more comments like this!

Readers-Section - Well, thank you, I appreciate that very much. I know reviews take time so I appreciate you taking time out of yours! And thank you for your compliments, a writer really needs them every now and again. Yes, I agree, which is what I was going for, but sometimes I find I blab a little too much so people lose interest. Ah well. I'm glad it doesn't seem that way, but even I'm having the feeling that I should be moving on. Nothing is worse than a stagnant story, and I'm hoping this chapter moves me away from that! And yes, you are right, yet another winnah! And ohkai, I thought so too, but I did have a reason for that, but I'm seeing that it seems like it's being overshadowed by said personality, ahaha. But I think I fixed that in a later chap which I wrote, but I won't spoil anything! Except the fact the Michelle isn't all that mean. And maybe in an even later chapter, a little bit of a flashback of the past will help. And yes, that was what I was looking for, to hate her, so I guess it's working. But as I said, I hope later, even if you won't like her, we'll all understand why. xD Alfred is awesome, period, specially with Matthieu. This is a fact. I will take no arguments! D And well, here's the next chapter. Hope I didn't disappoint! xD

FrUkIsLove - LOL, it's not a problem to both a late review and the logging in. It just makes me happy that you do it in the end. (: And I understand the circumstances; with summer and my job, I feel like my updating is actually killing me, instead of making me happy. And next week, the update might be late, so in advance I apologize to you, but details will be in the A/N. Dx Anyways! LOLOLOL, poor Michelle. Everyone just hates her. C'mon... she has... good sides... kind of. LOL. Just gotta, dig deep? LMFAO. And thank you for that! But as I've been thinking, I suppose it really is about time to alternate a little action with talking. his is a crime fic after all! Plus, character development will be done through action as well... what I'm talking about, just wait and see! /evil laugh Omg LOL, you know, the sad thing is, I forgot about Michelle's reaction until you brought it up just now. What an awful writer I am, oh god. XD But now that you reminded me, well, let's just say it won't be pleasant. I won't say anything more lest I ruin it, but you won't be disappointed (unless I do, so I'll apologize in advance ;-;) But yes, THE POWER IS MINE. But really, Michelle has her good sides, and I actually just wrote about that in a future chapter since you guys brought up good points about her being a little too harsh. But in that chapter, no, she's not going to magically become a cutesy princess. But... a bit better? Lawl. But here, I do hope this chapter is to your liking!

Fan - Ahaha, yes, yes she is. And only a little? Well, that's new. Maybe if you reread again... ahaha, just kidding. But yes, here's the next chapter, please do enjoy!

... /takes a deep breath OKAY I AM DONE! This is later than usual, but next week might be worse, but... blahblahblah. I'll let you get to the story now. xD

Was it possible that someone could actually die of laughter? He wasn't sure, not that he'd had any personal experience of that. He was usually the one employed for the "quick" kill of sorts, a one-shot head kill that left little to no chance of pain for the target. Any bouts of asphyxiation or anything of the sort that could somehow be torturous for the victim was not in his arsenal, though if it was, he'd have thought dying of laughter was definitely the way to go.

Because that's what he felt like doing at that moment.

It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, the blonde, blue-eyed male had been pouting a little too excessively (le gasp, nothing was too excessive for him!) for his own good, moping and dragging himself around the house that morning. He wasn't quite sure if yesterday had been a dream or not, some sort of horrible nightmare. Of course, this thought was immediately ruled out by the fact that he had been making out with flirtatious, promiscuous little Matilda, and if that had really been a nightmare, then he really should have them more often.

He smirked; he wondered, if he died, would Heaven be like that? He would sure love to hope so.

Still, there was the looming, nibbling feeling as Antonio's words sank in that morning when he opened his eyes to the cool room that was uncharacteristically empty of company (he cursed internally; in all his haste and confusion yesterday, he had forgotten to call Matilda over. But, ah, well, she was practically wrapped around his finger – and well, literally around his body (he grinned) – yesterday, so it wouldn't take much to fix that little mistake). Alright, maybe, just maybe he would admit that he had been a bit careless in the past, but where was the fun in life if it was all caution? Restrictions made him want to gag, and as such, he always loved to pretend (more often than once) that they didn't exist. He would feel so physically constrained when he was told to do this and that, like being slowly suffocated to death. It was just… disgusting. No one could trap a free bird like himself; he could do what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and silly little rules could never hope to trap him (what was that "do no commit adultery" rule about? Had he followed that, not only would he be sexually deprived, but he would be a sexually deprived Frenchman who would probably go slowly insane in his little shack without the company. He could only think of what would happen to his poor Matthieu to see his father in such a state).

But – and he hated to think it – had he really been that disregarding of the rules to a point that he was now to be watched and stalked for his every movement? No, wait, now that didn't sound so bad. To be watched meticulously by some exotic beauty from the East Asian countries, with her beautiful black hair and her tanned skin, her chocolate eyes that he could forever bathe in…

Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

Unless… they sent a male. Francis had to admit that he didn't completely reject that idea, but he was obviously not as enthused about it as the idea of an exotic goddess. Males, females, anything that moved was his prey – he thought to himself as he licked his lips – and so gender or sexual orientation mattered little to him. But somehow, he often found females much more enticing, what with their soft bodies, their luscious curves from where his hands would grasp their supple flesh, where he would push himself rhythmically against their bodies, and he would hear their cries and ecstasy and he would be aroused…

On the other hand, with males… well, alright, they weren't that bad. To be honest, they were something more of a challenge, seeing as how sexual moments with them were often rough and lacked the tenderness associated with the opposite gender. He would admit that he had triumphed five males in his lifespan (a record, but not as awesome as his forty females, of course!), and they were… enjoyable, to say the least. But he still had yet to meet one who didn't immediately want to "fuck", as they so often and crudely dubbed "lovemaking", the moment they got in a bed. And he knew asking for some gentleness from them was nothing more than wishful thinking. He'd probably sooner land himself into a four-some than one of those.

If he to admit it, that was probably the largest thing that bugged him about having a bodyguard around. Part of it was the pride that he had to be watched over like a baby, but the biggest obstacle was the fact that he would be trailed by some leering psychotic maniac who would never let him out of his sight. He could almost feel his freedom literally go down the drain, and he just barely resisted the urge to kneel on the floor of his bedroom, raise his arms, his head lifted above while he screamed, "NOOOOOOOON!"

Well, it wouldn't have been above him to do something dramatic like that, but seeing as Matthieu was still asleep, perhaps that wasn't the wisest, for now.

Nevertheless, it wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter, and he couldn't very well go against his superior's orders. Antonio had used that whole puppy-dog look to get him to go along with it, but he better get a beautiful mademoiselle! With that in mind, he rushed through his daily routine (except for the shower, of course, it was the sacred ritual that must never be rushed at all costs, even if the house was on fire!), pulling on his sky blue coat and dark blue jeans – a relatively normal but still bright outfit for him. After all, his looks would probably be enough to stun the señorita (as Antonio put it); there was no need to blind the poor girl.

A few minutes later, he had found himself in front of the quaint little café, which was not yet so hustling and bustling due to the early hours, and the fact that most people were probably on their way to work instead of lounging about like he was about to. Sauntering over to the nearby waiter, he confirmed his reservation under Bonnefoy (the organization had gone ahead and booked it under his name; they better not have had paid this under his name!). He was then escorted to a table close to a potted plant, whose leaves tickled his shoulder slightly whenever he moved. It was also close to the large, open window, allowing him to have a view of the outside while he hummed to himself and processed what he should do while waiting for his company to arrive.

The ringing of the bell by the front of the café became an old game quickly, for as people slowly filed into the place, he found himself becoming more and more excitable at the prospect of meeting whoever was supposed to escort him around. Still, after the first five or so that turned out to be false alarms (but he had to admit, the "company" here wasn't too bad; he had managed to achieve a record of five numbers under ten minutes), his hopes were slowly dashed and deteriorated; perhaps the other had backed out at the last second? He mourned internally for the possible loss of his possible beloved, petite bodyguard, and he set his face down on the table in agony. Well, so much for romantic dates and daring espionage missions.

"I'd have thought you to be at least above a pig with manners. Seems I was wrong."

The biting remark was familiar; the accent was even more so. Francis, instead of being stung by the comment, found himself electrified and even energized by it, and he sat up. Cobalt eyes widened in surprise and shock as he took in the sight before him.

It couldn't be.

As though ignorant of his shocked stature, the other continued, "It's also rude to stare, bloody git."

It was at the even more familiar insult that brought him back to the present, and Francis shook his head, a seductive smile on his features. He chuckled. "So, 'eet 'ees you, 'zey sent?"

"Sadly." Green eyes were electrifyingly bright against the light coming in copious amounts from the window. The blonde surveyed the shorter one with ever-prying eyes, taking in every sight of him from his extremely ironed uniform, to the hat on his head, to the gun that was propped comfortably in his holster, and even the way the other moved to sit down across from him. It was as though he was a fish out of water; he couldn't stop gulping for oxygen, and that oxygen was the very sight of the man whom he'd thought he'd never seen again.

Mon Dieu, miracles do happen.

As the other settled into his chair, Francis took the opportunity to speak up once more. "So… I believe… 'eet was "Arthur", oui?"

"Arthur" nodded, confirming it without saying anything. The look on his face was one of concentration, as though he was thinking of some complex plan, solving some puzzle that he couldn't quite put a handle on. Francis pursed his lips; was he shy? Well, this was no fun. The man he'd met back at the police station was much more resilient than this one; it was too boring. Perhaps he'd attempt to get a rise out of him?

"Je m'apelle Francis Bonnefoy," he started, reaching out a hand over the table, so as to shake the other's. When he found that it was merely ignored, he pouted, retracting it before staring intensely at the other, who was now looking at the window, arms crossed in front of him as though he would much rather be anywhere but here. Ah, but he couldn't have that, could he?

He had an idea.

"So, mon britannique," he began in a low tone, before firing off his native tongue, "Pourquoi êtes-vous si courts? Mais, ne vous mé prenez pas. Je pense que c'est vraiment intéressant. Tout comme vos yeux. Vous avez de beaux yeux. Si je vous ai demandé decoucher avec moi ce soir, le feriez-vous?"

Studying the other's reaction, Francis smirked internally as he noticed the tightening of the other's lips, no doubt itching and burning with curiosity. He kept staring, waiting, waiting. After all, sometimes the best thing was to wait; all good things came to those who did. Often this concept applied to females and his potential bed mates, but he was certainly confident of his skills to entice anyone, even if it was just into a conversation.

Un, deux, trois.

"What in the bloody hell did you just say?" the other burst out. It was almost like he spat out the words, as though he had lost some internal struggle with himself. The look on his face solidified this theory; he looked as though he wanted to put his fist in his mouth and wished he never asked. However, this look was also laced with burning curiosity; alas, no one could resist the language of love.

"I said, you are a very beautiful man," Francis said simply, cracking up internally at how much he left out. Eyes trained on the other, he watched as a red flush crossed the other's features, green eyes widening as they were taken aback by the… compliment.

"Wh-what? I find that a tad insulting, you little frog. You don't go around calling men "beautiful"! Are you daft?"

"Maybe, but per'aps I am daft over you." He waggled his eyes seductively at the other. This caused an even more crimson flush on the other's face, a reaction that Francis was getting quite accustomed to… and finding it quite sexy, at that.

Arthur grabbed the closest thing he could – a napkin – and threw it against the Frenchman's face, temporarily cutting the intense stare, but unsuccessfully hiding his stammer. "Oh, b-belt up. Save your compliments for someone who cares."

"I am 'urt, mon ami. Why must you throw things at my beautiful face? Do you 'ate me so much?" He pouted, feigning hurt as he removed the napkin and folded it delicately back on the table.

"Seeing as how it's not part of my job to like you, then yes, yes I do. You're nothing more than a pompous wanker that derives pleasure from night-time activities day in and day out. You are someone who has absolutely sense of dignity or self-respect, and you seem to treat others with that arrogant attitude of yours. You seem to see everyone as lower than you, whether in intelligence or in some other facet, but that is your judgement. In short, I don't like your kind." Arthur's eyes narrowed, glaring at the other man, taking a deep breath from the analytical observation that had just been made of his charge. Francis, on the other hand, was nothing short of appalled, staring at the other with his mouth half-open; surely, he wasn't that much of an open book.

Was he?

It took him a few seconds to recover, but when he did, he shook his head. "Oui, guilty as charged. What a remarkable talent you 'ave there, mon ami. Can you use 'zat skill to 'elp me pick up some fine Mademoiselles?"

"Hell no!"

"Oh, I get 'eet. I am not 'zat shallow, mon lapin. Surely, I will share. Do not be so shy! All you need to do is ask."

"Git, I don't want one! I'm perfectly happily-" he could swear the other stumbled on this word, "- married with a woman I love. Keep me out of your damn love life and your "help"!"

"Oui, oui, I get it," Francis whispered conspiratorially, winking at the other over the wine glass. "Do not worry; your secret 'ees safe wiz' me. I promise."

"Bloody frog!"

Luckily, before Arthur could pull out his gun – Francis had not missed that twitch in his fingers as they caressed the weapon – the waiter had come by, asking for their orders and their drinks to go with the food. To be frank, Francis was a bit disappointed at the disruption; teasing the other gave him infinite fun at the other's expense. He pouted when the tall, slick man came, but ordered nonetheless; a café gourmand for him with a side of wine, while his companion ordered scones and a cup of tea. Then the employee left, leaving them both staring at each other in silence; well, it was more like Francis staring and the other glaring so murderously that, if looks could kill, he was quite certain he'd be dead ten times over.

For some reason, he found this adorable; never had he had so much fun teasing someone else.

"So-"

"Don't you start! Before I forget, we might as well discuss the details of this partnership." Arthur sighed, taking a deep breath as though this was going to be the most painful thing he was going to do in his life. But, of course, it couldn't be; he was with Francis, after all.

Before he could reply, he pulled out a sort of flat screen – if he remembered correctly, it was something along the lines of an "iPad". Eyes boggled in amazement when it whirred to life, Arthur expertly clicking buttons on its surface as they were led through a multitude of windows until they finally arrived at a simple-looking document with a bunch of words scrawled all over. Francis groaned.

Arthur shot him a seething look, before saying, "What's the matter, frog, are you illiterate as well as unattractive?"

Francis shook his head, feigning hurt at the insult. "Non, non, not at all. I was merely amazed at your fast finger work, mon lapin, and I was getting excited thinking about 'eet, 'ees all."

The other's eyes widened, before he sputtered, "I- you-… Sod off! Can't you pay attention to something else other than the bed for more than five seconds?"

Francis chuckled; the sputtering was simply adorable. He loved getting a rise out of the other – nothing better than pure entertainment. "Oui, of course I can. I'm paying attention to you, am I not?" When he received a glare from the other, he put both of his hands up, palms out, in mock surrender. "Je me le procurer. S'il vous plait, continue."

One last glance was shot in his direction, before Arthur turned his attention back to the machine that lay between them. "Right, well. According to this, whatever "mission" you have, along with its information, will immediately be passed on to me as well. This way, we will be in sync, and if need be, we can put our thoughts together and come up with logical conclusions." Francis nodded, barely paying attention, his focus on the Briton's lips as they moved so effortlessly, tainted with that marvellous accent that made him shudder to think about how it would sound should they ever spend a night together. Just the thought of it made him grin. "From what I gather, I will be accompanying you wherever you go, and I have to leave you my number so you may contact me whenever you need me. You are not to be out of my sight for too long – I don't even want to think about what it is you did – to ensure both your job, and mine. I think that's all." He frowned, pursing his lips in concentration as he flicked through various paragraphs. "I'm curious, what is it that you do exactly? Hello?"

Francis started; he hadn't noticed how much he had been observing the other so into his work until he was being addressed. He scolded himself; he knew better than to stare! Coughing to cover up his lapse in concentration, he smiled at the other before replying. "I am a sort of… investigative journalist, you could say." From the looks of things, Arthur hadn't been informed of his job at the CIA, or of his other job. "I visit crime scenes and… gazzer' 'ze information. Pourquoi?"

"Curious."

Francis could swear that their waiter was purposely listening to their conversation, for before he could make a perverted remark, he once again appeared, setting their order before them. He then bowed, asking them not to hesitate if they needed anything else, but disappearing back to wherever he came from. Instead of the irritation he felt, it was quickly replaced by one of excitement comparable to a giddy school kid; in front of him lay an artistic array of miniature puddings: a mini triangle of brownie, an eggcup-sized crème brûlée and a taste of something like clafoutis. Compared to his meal, Arthur's looked so sadly plain that he felt a surge of pity for the man… and something else. For when he looked up, he read a second of longing on the man's face, before it was replaced by one of indifference.

Francis smiled. "Do you want a bite, mon lapin? Do not be shy; I will gladly feed you." He waggled his eyebrows, waving around a piece of the brownie in a tempting way.

"I'm perfectly fine feeding myself, you frog! And who'd want any of that disgusting French food?"

Francis gasped, clutching his chest in feigned hurt. "What is wrong wiz' French food? Come on, mon britannique, you know you want some," he said in a sing-song voice. He was rewarded with a twitch from the other's face – and somehow, he hadn't known where he'd procured one – another napkin to the face. When he pulled it off, he could have sworn he caught a sneer from the other, before he ducked and resumed eating his food.

Oh, so he wanted to play that game. Well, two could play it… if not better.

Whistling nonchalantly, Francis walked his fingers over the tabletop, before "accidentally" tipping his wine glass over, spilling the contents all over the table – and all over the Briton's food and uniform. A sharp intake of breath emanated from his companion.

"You bloody nitwit! You did that on purpose!" he cried, grabbing at his napkin (Francis could swear that those came out of nowhere at this point) and began wiping at his soiled uniform.

"Who, moi? I did no such thing!" He looked affronted, but it was made less convincing by the smirk on his face. "My hand… tripped. Oops?"

"You ought to walk the plank for that one!"

Francis chuckled at the pirate reference, before securing the brownie piece on his fork. He then pushed his chair back, standing up, earning a suspicious glare from his companion. "What do you think you're doi-"

The Frenchman stood behind the man, reaching over his shoulder and grabbing the napkin delicately from the other's furious, shaking hands. "Non, non, 'zis 'ees 'ow you do 'eet. You dab, do not wipe." To demonstrate his point, the male reached over the other's shoulder, dabbing the front of his chest. He could feel the Briton tense at their proximity, surprise no doubt overtaking him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the anger caught up. Before the other could protest, Francis jammed the fork with the food into the other's open mouth, causing him to stiffen, eyes widening as he quickly chewed to avoid choking.

"'Eet 'ees good, non?"

Arthur was silent as he swallowed with great difficulty, as though the food was acid. Even so, Francis smirked triumphantly at the second of satisfaction on the other's face; of course, French food was irresistible.

"… Bloody frog!"

The plane trip to the site of investigation had been nothing short of entertaining, due to the company present. Their destination, according to Arthur's iPad, was London, Texas, a remote, unincorporated community in Kimble County. Apparently, there had been some murders that had risen more than a few suspicious eyebrows, and so they were sent in to investigate. Francis had received a phone call just prior to landing about the nature of murder and his job; he was to gather as much information as necessary, and return to the CIA office and reiterate all he had seen. The report would then be filed, and administered to the Director of National Intelligence for security reasons.

It was so drab, much like the pilot's fashion sense (Lars vastly needed a wardrobe change). The only thing that kept him going was the shorter blonde now almost glued to his side, emerald eyes flitting around suspiciously.

"Relax, mon ami, no one 'ees going to attack right now," he said, chuckling as they descended the plane.

"How do you know that?" Arthur demanded. Francis decided to just shrug and let it go; the other's tense state would prove to be a weapon in his arsenal for future pranks.

The car trip to the murder site was no less interesting than the plane trip had been – if not more so. With Arthur driving, Francis had been free to poke fun at the other man, both physically and mentally. After a few comments about Francis' "sexy 'air", Arthur's "nonexistent fashion sense", belly tickling and shouts that had caused them to veer into the opposite lane more than once, the two finally arrived in the dead midst of nowhere. Immediately, the Frenchman felt his mood drop; there was no mall in sight. How was he going to survive this place without a change of clothes? Obviously, he had packed some, just in case, but surely he couldn't be expected to fend for himself without a mall! He felt a rising panic within him, but no matter how much he looked, the mall he so yearned for refused to appear, and it took all he had to sit there in the corner and rock back and forth in his corner.

Well, willpower and the fact that Arthur was suppressing a sneer at the oncoming breakdown that the Frenchman was so obviously on the verge of.

Sucking in a deep breath – and coughing from the arid oxygen – Francis sauntered forward towards what could only be a post office, almost indiscernible as such with all the yellow tape that had been plastered all over the entrance and the perimeter in general. This brought a sense of lucidity within Francis; although he was more prone to slacking off than not, there were times when he knew that something was serious business, and there had never been a more prone example of such. Police cars took up most of the space, and he, along with Arthur, had to weave themselves in and out through a complex maze that it felt as though they were dancing some sort of complicated Macarena. When they had finally passed through – with Arthur grumbling and glaring at the heat and the physical torture they had just encountered (which, Francis thought selfishly, he had no right to do; at least he had a hat, whereas he only had his gorgeous coat and his beautiful, perfect self), they were met with who could only be the head police officer around here.

"Yao Wang. Pleasure to meet you, aru," the Chinese man said, holding out a hand which Francis, then Arthur, took turns shaking. "Glad you could make it so quickly, aru."

"But, of course," Francis began with a flair. "Expect nothing less of moi." He heard a coughing sound from behind him, and he could almost feel the daggers pointed at his direction. "I mean, of us. So, what 'ees 'ze problem?"

"Well, two days ago, we received a distress call from one of the employees at the postal office, aru. She was just unlocking the door, and, well, I think you better see for yourself, aru." With a nod, the man ordered the others wordlessly to lift the police tape around the entrance, allowing Francis and Arthur to enter.

Even with Arthur entering first, there was no doubt that the former was also met with the same aroma – no, that was too pleasant a word, stench would have been more appropriate – that floated around the room.

Blood.

The metallic smell infiltrated his senses, and an arm instinctively covered his sensitive nose. Francis blanched; he hadn't smelled something this foul in a while. His targets were often farther off, being a sniper, and thus he usually wasn't exposed to this sort of blood stench. But now, it was there, hanging heavy in the air. He felt like he could drown in it. It was so bitter, so ugly… so angry. His nose had been the first to adjust before his eyes could, and already, he could feel a shudder pass through him. It was an odd chill, despite the high temperatures they had thus far encountered. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

What sort of monster had been here?

Soon, of course, his eyesight was able to catch up and process the sight in the room. The postal office was only one room, a rectangular piece. The windows had been boarded up with wooden planks, preventing light from coming through, except in minute cracks between the timber. The only real source of luminescence was from the doorway from where he had entered. Scarce as it was, it had shed enough in the room… shed enough light for a sight that he was not prepared for.

On the floor lay three bodies, laying face-up. All their expressions were distorted into one of unnatural sleep; that is, they could looked as though they were asleep, if not for the fact that their eyes were propped wide open, and they were surrounded by pools of blood. The smell was soon explained; it was as though a mini-pool of the crimson liquid had exploded in the room. It was not limited only to the floor; blood dripped from the ceiling, splattered in irregular patterns across the wall. In the silence, one could hear the liquid drip down onto the floor with a splash, further adding on to the already intensely foul smell in room.

He could only afford to whisper, as though a louder decibel would awaken the crimson, viscous thing. "Mon Dieu."

Francis took a tentative step forward, an arm still over his nose and mouth, a frown now on his beautiful face. Arthur was still a few steps ahead of him, frozen. "Mon britannique, 'oo could… 'oo could do something like 'zis?"

Silence.

"Mon britannique?" He thought the pause had been so the younger could come up with some sort of sarcastic retort, but no such thing came. Instead, he was only met with more deafening silence, interrupted only by the trickling of blood off the ceiling.

"Mon britannique? Mon britannique? " There was still no answer, and Francis moved forward, almost instantly behind the shorter blonde. "Arthur?" At this distance, he could see that the other was frozen, save for the slight tremors running up and down his body at irregular intervals. Despite the situation, he chuckled. "Now, now, mon ami, I know you are très excited, but keep 'eet togezzer, non?" When there was no reply, he moved another step forward, just a few inches away from the other. "Shall I restrain you wiz' your 'andcuffs?" He chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh, half-expecting the other to turn around and smack him in good fun (oh, he was so fun to tease!), but no such luck.

It was with the tremors that slowly became more prominent and the lack of response that alerted Francis' intuition that something was horribly wrong.

"Arthur?" Francis attempted a light laugh. "Come now, mon britannique, if 'zis is some vow of silence, I promise you 'zat 'eet will not be you 'oo wins."

Instead of a sarcastic reply, he was met with a shudder by the other. Now alarmed, the Frenchman stepped over around the male, to view his face. What he saw there was more disturbing than the image in the room, and a gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Lips pale and mouth flapping open and close like a fish, Arthur's face was completely devoid of colour, save for the emerald eyes that almost bulged out of their sockets. Dead was an adjective he could use as a comparison; a corpse was a noun he could use. The only sign of movement from the other was his mouth and erratic breaths; his eyes were concentrated on the sight before them. There was a major spasm throughout his body, before it settled into irregular shivers. Arthur stood frozen.

"Arthur." His voice was no longer a call; it was a demand. Wordlessly, the Frenchman regained his position behind the shorter male, moving himself close so that there was no distance between his front and the other's back. When he received no response, no rebellion of his proximity, he knew at once that this was worse than he thought. "Arthur, come back to me." His voice, laced with seduction, was also uncharacteristically serious, but it still garnered no response. An arm reached out around the other's ear, and gently, as though with a lover, his gloved hand covered the other's eyes. The other arm snaked around the other's torso, pulling him closer. The other shuddered, and whether voluntarily or not, he leaned closer into the half-embrace, his back arching to fit the Frenchman's chest.

As delicately as with a baby, Francis stepped backwards, bringing the Briton with him. For a second, he was worried that his legs would not support him, but thankfully, the other had control of his limbs. Frowning, he continued this backward walk, feeling the temperature through his thin glove. Cold and clammy, with sweat slicked on his forehead, Arthur stuck to him wordlessly, his body spazzing every few seconds, but whenever Francis would tug on him gently, it would cease. With much effort, Francis managed to pull them back out into the glaring sunlight, where he slowly let go of the man and turned him around to face him.

Arthur's face was still frozen in shock, but at least some colour had returned to his lips. Without another word, Francis walked over to Yao. "Watch over 'im, s'il vous plait." The policeman nodded, pursing his lips. The Frenchman then walked back over to the Briton, eyes narrowing at his frozen companion. He leaned over close to the other, and still eliciting no reaction, removed the hat from the other's head and blessing his forehead with a quick peck, before he turned and re-entered the room reeking of death.

Well, that was unexpected. That was the first time someone had resisted his voice. How… intéressante.

A/N: ... o.o I have no comment for this chapter, except that this is the LONGEST chapter I've written yet so far, even without the review replies. Uhm... yes, this I wrote in two days. LOL. Mostly because it's two separate events, but whoo, we all know Arthur is hella excited. WE CAN ALL TELL THAT, CAN'T WE? LET ME HEAR YOU ALL SAY YEAH. LMFAO. But yes, yes, I have some action here (okay, not so much, unless you count Francis touching Arthur "action") and FrUK action. Or is it... From the way Francis is thinking, it seems like a game to him. A very... interesting one. But I hope you loved this chapter as much as I loved writing it. I actually squeed writing it.

Also, that scene at the end is based on a scene from a manga/anime, it happened exactly like that, with dead bodies and someone covering the eyes. Does anyone know? /hinthint to callous-enigma

Now about the late update for next week, I have a really full work schedule, and I'm spending some family time, so if I don't update next week, please don't kill me! ;-; It will probably be up the week after that, and I know I update weekly, so this might be a bit of a bummer to those who read this fic, so I'm REALLY REALLY sorry. Please dun kill me! /hides behind Matthieu

Well, yeah, here you go. LOL. Uhm... yes, well, I have no other comment. I love these two. Period. XD (Duh, otherwise I wouldn't be writing a FrUK fic. Dur, dur.) So please, leave me feedback and reviews, if you wish, and have a good week, folks!

And now for some more fail Google translations! They are SUPER rough so please don't kill me! Dx

Pourquoi êtes-vous si courts? Mais, ne vous mé prenez pas. Je pense que c'est vraiment intéressant. Tout comme vos yeux. Vous avez de beaux yeux. Si je vous ai demandé decoucher avec moi ce soir, le feriez-vous? - Why are you so short? But do not take me wrong. I think it's really interesting. Like your eyes. You have beautiful eyes. If I asked you to sleep out with me tonight, would you?

Je me le procurer - Okay, okai, I get it