Author's Note: This second chapter/sequel was requested by icicle223 on Tumblr and was part of my weekend writing challenge. I managed to finish it in time! Woo-hoo! Who knows, there might even be a part three to this story at some point if you guys want to see it. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and please leave a review if you can!

It's just dinner, pull yourself together, Arthur tells himself as he clocks out of his shift at the hospital and shrugs off his white coat.

Dinner dates aren't as official as date-dates anyway. There's no need to worry. All he has to do is endure a little small talk, be polite, and then go home to the lovely solitude of his apartment and put all of this behind him. No problem. This'll be fine. It'll be lovely—a nice chance to decompress and enjoy himself.

Except what if he runs out of things to say? Or worse, what if he says something completely idiotic or commits a social faux pas? What is one supposed to accomplish throughout the span of a date? Is there a checklist of basic topics that should be covered? Does he have time to look up some tips online?

He folds his white coat neatly and stores it in his messenger bag along with his stethoscope and allows himself a quivering breath. He's getting clammy and claustrophobic. His heart rate must be over a hundred, and his blood pressure could be skyrocketing. His anxiety turns his legs into gelatin, and he grips the counter of the nurses' station to steady himself. Is he going to have a heart attack or collapse from stress? Would that be the preferable alternative to going on this damned date? If he faints, he won't be obligated to go anywhere.

Francis is waiting for him in the little sitting area outside the unit, and it takes all of Arthur's resolve to march himself over to him. The poor man has been waiting long enough, and considering Francis' injuries, it's miraculous he hasn't decided to get up and leave in order to get some much-needed and overdue rest.

Francis exudes the pinnacle of happiness and enthusiasm despite having one arm in a sling and a compression bandage snugly wrapped around his sprained ankle. When he rises from his chair, he grimaces just for a second at the trouble his sore back must still be causing him.

"I was beginning to worry you had changed your mind," Francis says with a teasing half-smile.

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough for this? We can reschedule or—"

"You're not going to get rid of me that quickly, Dr. Kirkland."

Arthur feels his cheeks flush with color. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I know, I'm only joking," Francis chuckles before hobbling toward the lobby. His tenacity is admirable.

Arthur offers to help him walk but is promptly rejected. Francis seems intent on proving he is capable of managing on his own, god knows why.

Just as he is ready to ask where they're going, Francis leads him around the corner and down a few blocks before stopping in front of a nearby restaurant packed with couples ranging from young, old, and every life stage in between. It is, after all, Valentine's Day, and it's no wonder the place is busy.

"Looks as though it's going to be a long wait," Arthur remarks, increasingly disheartened by this whole ordeal. He should have firmly refused Francis' invitation and gone home. It would have been better for both of them in the long run.

"Ahh, do not worry, I had the forethought to call an hour ago to reserve a table."

This man has an answer for everything, doesn't he? The thought makes Arthur a tad envious.

Sure enough, the moment they step inside, Francis says, "Reservation for Bonnefoy, please," and they are led through the maze of tables right away and over to an empty spot in the large dining room. Each table has a flickering candle and a vase with flowers as a centerpiece. Along with the choir of clinking silverware and wine glasses, it serves to set a calm and soothing atmosphere.

They sink into chairs across from each other as a waitress hands them each a menu and asks if she can start them off with some drinks.

Francis inquires about their extensive wine collection and chooses one from the list the waitress rattles off at him.

"And for you, sir?" she asks Arthur.

He pauses and, to his great embarrassment, realizes he's been ogling Francis for the past few minutes and hasn't been paying any attention to the menu. What is wrong with him tonight?

"He'll have the pinot gris as well," Francis says, coming to his rescue with a warm grin.

"Okay, I'll give you both a few minutes to decide on the rest of your order."

"Merci beaucoup."

Arthur swallows hard and inwardly winces at how dry his throat is. This always happens to him when he's nervous—his mouth turns into the Sahara Desert.

"Dr. Kirkland?" Francis murmurs with a concerned frown. "Are you all right?"

Arthur rubs the back of his neck and nearly lets a groan slip when he realizes he's perspiring furiously. "P-Please, call me Arthur."

"Your wish is my command. So, tell me about yourself. I know we talked earlier, but now I have to ask the real questions. What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy sports? Have a favorite color?" Francis continues, smiling with his blue eyes, and something in Arthur's stomach bursts with nausea.

Arthur begs himself to relax as he clears his horrendously dry throat. "Unfortunately, my job leaves very little time for leisure."

"That answers the first two questions, I suppose. And your favorite color? You can tell a great deal about a person by their color choices."

"Is that so? What does blue say about me, in that case?"

"You're a contemplative person—but you don't share what's on your mind with just anyone. You require space. Distance builds fondness for you," Francis claims, tracing a hand over his recovering shoulder.

"You can tell all of that from one color?" Arthur asks, very skeptical but playing along anyway. "Don't fiddle with your shoulder, you'll just irritate the injury."

Francis drops his healthy arm obligingly and says, "Maybe it was just a lucky guess."

Arthur snorts, and then silently cringes at how hideous he's being. "Do tell what your favorite color is, Mr. Clairvoyance."

"Oh, no, I don't like to categorize myself by just one color choice, so I won't answer that question," Francis smirks, leaning back. "You must truly enjoy your job, since you devote all of your time to it."

"I knew medicine would be a twenty-four-hour job, especially for the first few years, and though there are days when I wonder why in the world anyone would agree to being routinely assaulted by bodily fluids and millions of bacteria, I do, on the whole, find it to be very rewarding work… You mentioned you cook? That must be something you do in your free time as well."

Francis nods. "Yes, it is, but you know what they say—work you love never really feels like work at all."

The waitress brings them their wine, and Arthur randomly orders the first dish he finds while skimming the endless column of entrée options. Francis, being the food expert he is, seems to have a much better idea of what he wants to satiate his tastes.

It takes Arthur twenty minutes to finally stop shaking and sweating. He thanks the wine for accomplishing that for him, as it really is rather excellent and refreshing. It's just enough to ease his tangled mess of nerves.

Francis talks a bit more about the restaurant he works for and how he'd like to own his own bistro someday. "Food brings people joy, regardless of who they are or where they come from. It is a language everyone speaks," he says, and Arthur is impressed. He imagines Francis toiling over crepes and serving them on dainty plates with flowers painted on the porcelain.

Shortly after their waitress brings them their food, and Arthur is forced to acknowledge his sudden loss of appetite, the sound of wailing fills the entire dining area as an exhausted mother and father amble to a table a short distance away from them with their three children. The oldest child is no more than six years old, and a quarrel ensues as the boy gets into a fight with his little sister about the seating arrangement.

"I have the greatest sympathy for people with children," Francis comments softly before swirling his wine around in his glass and taking a careful sip.

Arthur hums noncommittally and tries to avert his attention away from the screaming children and back to his dinner, which consists of grilled fish and a rainbow of steamed vegetables he didn't realize he'd ordered. Francis also has some kind of seafood before him, but it's more aesthetically pleasing to the eye—and thus, it's likely twice as expensive as an ordinary dish because of the mere effort put into its presentation.

Arthur has never been picky about food. Food provides sustenance, and as long as it serves its function in terms of basic nutritional values, why bother with how it looks? Francis, however, would likely have a far different opinion and be offended by his ignorance.

The rambunctious children nearby become hard to ignore as their screaming continues with renewed fervor. The same boy and his sister knock over a bowl of breadsticks with their inquisitive hands.

"Colin, how many times do I have to tell you to share?" the mother asks, exasperated.

"Lucy started it!"

"No!"

"I hate you!" Colin shouts.

"I hate you more!" his sister, Lucy, snaps back in between howls.

"Stop it, both of you! I've had enough!" the mother tries to reprimand them while bouncing the youngest child, a one-year-old boy, in her lap.

And suddenly, the screaming stops as quickly as it broke out. The mother looks visibly relieved, until Lucy clutches at her neck with both hands and doubles over.

Recognizing that look of distress, Arthur blinks once to confirm he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing and bolts out of his chair and over to the family without wasting another moment, not even remembering to excuse himself.

"Lucy?" the mother asks with concern, eyes widening.

"Your daughter is choking," Arthur says hurriedly as he reaches the girl's side. He pats the child's back firmly and tries to encourage her to cough, but it doesn't seem to do any good—the girl's airway must be too obstructed. She can't speak or gather enough air to cough.

It doesn't take long for her lips to take on a bluish hue—cyanosis.

Arthur stands the girl up, pushes her chair aside, and kneels down behind her to be at her level. He shoves up his sleeves to his elbows, curls one hand into a fist, places it right above the child's bellybutton, and then covers the fist with his other hand before pushing against her abdomen in an upward motion to help her spit up whatever she's choking on.

The rest of the family is beside themselves, and Arthur can feel Francis staring at him from his peripheral vision.

"Come on now," Arthur urges the girl as his efforts continue to fail.

"Arthur…" Francis gasps, now standing beside him. He's gawking at the child's panicked face, horrified.

The whole restaurant, including the kitchen staff, is observing anxiously, stricken.

And then, without warning, Lucy loses consciousness and falls into Arthur's arms, limp.

"Damn it," Arthur blurts out by accident, gently lowering the girl to the ground as her mother lets out a frightened shout. He turns to the child's father and calmly instructs, "Call 911."

He addresses Francis next, "Ask an employee for the CPR kit. They'll know what I'm referring to. Every restaurant has one. Hurry."

Then, once that's all done, Arthur tilts the girl's head back, opens her mouth, and uses the penlight he always keeps in his pocket to illuminate her airway. He can see a half-chewed chunk of breadstick lodged there, but there's no conceivable way he'll be able to get it out without doing more harm than good. He doesn't have the right equipment on him to perform a bronchoscopy and get it out with forceps.

"Arthur," Francis whispers helplessly from above as he returns with the kit. "Is she going to be all right?"

"She's coding," Arthur replies before placing two fingers against the side of the girl's neck and confirming his suspicions when he doesn't feel a pulse. "Tear open the kit, take out the mask inside, and put it over her mouth," he orders as he begins chest compressions.

The girl's body rises and falls from the force, and after thirty compressions, Arthur attempts to give the girl a breath of air, not very hopeful it'll do much good since her airway is still blocked—but he has to try something. He makes sure Francis has adjusted the mask properly, tilts the girl's head back again, and exhales slowly into the plastic nub of the mask.

When the breath doesn't help, he continues the chest compressions, and he starts sweating profusely for the second time that night. He hopes help is almost here. He can't do this for much longer without an extra pair of hands.

"Is he a doctor?" someone asks.

26, 27, 28, 29, 30, another breath.

"Is she dying?" another person cries out.

24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, breath.

Francis has a hand pressed against his mouth in alarm as he watches. "Mon dieu."

20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, breath.

He checks for a pulse…

Got it.

The paramedics come in, and Arthur quickly gets out of their way, letting them take over.

"She needs an emergency bronchoscopy. She has a breadstick in her airway—a starchy food that has expanded by absorbing mucus. She has a pulse now," Arthur informs them as he helps move the girl onto a stretcher and gives himself a second to catch his own breath.

"Oh, hey, Dr. Kirkland. Didn't think we'd be running into you here," one of the paramedics says with a cheeky smile. "Are you tagging along?"

"No, I'm not a relative, I just—" Arthur begins to say before the girl's father cuts him off by grasping him by the wrist and hauling him to walk alongside the paramedics to the exit.

"Help her, please. I want you to go with her," the man requests.

Conflicted, Arthur follows the crew outside to the waiting ambulance. He spins his head around to find Francis standing in the doorway of the restaurant's entrance with a wan smile on his face. He waves a hand to gesture that Arthur should go.

"Give me one moment," Arthur says to the father before jogging over to Francis with an apology already on his tongue.

"It's okay. Twenty-four-hour job, oui?" Francis assures, but Arthur frowns nonetheless and hands Francis the money for his meal.

"Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry."

Why does his chest feel all hot all of a sudden? The way Francis is looking at him with a mix of remorse and admiration…

He wrenches himself toward the ambulance. It seems he can't have a normal date like most people on Earth. Frankly, it doesn't surprise him at all that something like this had to happen on his one night out.

Duty calls.

"Is my little girl going to be all right?" Lucy's father asks as they arrive at the emergency room Arthur thought he wouldn't be returning to tonight.

Yao isn't around either—must have gone home. Someone else has taken over.

"Can someone answer me?" the father demands, and Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder as they reach the double doors of the unit.

"Sir, please wait out here while we treat your daughter. Someone will let you know when you can see her," Arthur finally tells him.

The father puts his head in his hands and does what is asked, not putting up a fight, and Arthur can't help but feel sorry for him.

Fortunately, he won't have to be the bearer of bad news today because after the bronchoscopy Arthur suspected the girl would need, she is stable again. Aside from a sore throat, some wooziness from being put under anesthesia, and a broken rib from the repeated chest compressions done on her, she is all right and is expected to make a full recovery.

He's just leaving the room when he runs into the father again, who is drenched in tears of relief. The older man doesn't hesitate to give Arthur a hug and says, "Thank you. You helped save my daughter's life, and I'll never be able to repay you."

"I'm happy to have been able to help," Arthur says reassuringly. "And I wish your daughter a speedy recovery."

He leaves and runs a hand over his face. What a day. Just this morning, he wasn't sure if he was going to make it to work on time because of the snow, and now it seems like that happened ages ago. He's a completely different person now.

"Arthur, did she make it through all right?"

To his amazement, Francis is standing by the nurses' station, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"She's fine. What are you doing here?"

"That's good. I was worried about the poor child. And what do you mean? We never finished our date!"

"I thought tonight was a prime example of why I can't go on dates," Arthur sighs, more exhausted than he's been in a while.

"I don't see it that way at all. At least there's never a dull moment when you're around," Francis jokes, rubbing his shoulder and earning himself another chiding from Arthur.

"You've been out and about all day with those injuries of yours. Go home," Arthur insists, brushing past the man as he begins his retreat from the hospital for the second time that day. Is he going to make it to his car, or will he be expected to tend to another medical emergency?

"Are those doctor's orders?"

"Yes," Arthur replies flippantly, rummaging around his bag for his car keys.

"Could you slow down for just a minute?"

Frustrated with himself and the world at large for his romantic ineptitude, Arthur drops his bag in anger and leans against his car with a growl and another sigh.

Francis reaches out his healthy arm and touches his jaw, prompting him to look at him. "You know, there's something irresistibly attractive about a man who swoops in and heroically saves lives."

Arthur bites his tongue and laughs dryly. "I'm not a hero." He refuses to respond to the other half of the statement.

"Well, I think you are," Francis murmurs, closing the space between them and making Arthur's stomach rumble in that awfully uncomfortable and nauseous way again.

"What are you—?"

And before he can utter another word, Francis is kissing him. It's soft and feathery, and Arthur just stands there, feeling awkward and awful for not knowing what to do, but enjoying it far too much to pull away.

His first kiss. It took twenty-five years, but it has finally happened.

Francis releases him and smiles, blond stubble stretching across his face. A second later, he bursts into a relentless fit of laughter, and Arthur hopelessly watches. He's laughing at him, isn't he?

"Arthur Kirkland, you are the most peculiar man I've ever met."

Peculiar isn't a good thing, is it?

Francis scribbles something on a scrap of paper that he takes out of his wallet and says, "That's my number. Give me a call when you're free and maybe we'll have better luck on our next date."

Next date?

"You're blushing. It's wonderful," Francis teases, pecking his flaming red cheek. "Get home safe."

Francis walks off into the night, and Arthur remains petrified in place, hand clutching the piece of paper. His heart skips a beat. Should he admit himself so he can get an EKG? This persistent feeling of fullness in his chest is worrisome.

He picks up his bag, finally finds his keys, unlocks the car, and gets inside. He stares at his reflection in the rearview mirror, discovers how disheveled he is, and then takes a long look at the bright lights of the hospital. Did he hallucinate all of this? He checks the phone number on the paper, and it looks real.

He can even see Francis' leftover footprints in the snow.

He turns on the ignition, switches on the radio, and smiles—overcome with giddiness.

This is what love feels like.