August 13th, 2014

AUTHOR: cantharidindeath

August 13th, 2014

Alfred F. Jones loves turning up early for his shift.

He doesn't get many opportunities. When Yao finally lets him take off his suit and tie and put aside his waiter pad and check presenter, he's generally five minutes behind instead of the five minutes ahead he needs to be to get rid of that pungent stink of Chinese food, grab his flashlight, and shrug on his jacket as he races out the door. At this point he'll usually be stuck in evening traffic, beating an annoyed rhythm onto the dashboard of his hand-me-down Camry, praying for that God-given string of green lights—and even then, then, when everything goes his way, he'll generally get through the glass revolving doors of the Science and History Museum mere seconds before closing time.

Up until December 21st of last year, Alfred would have gone straight for the spinning chair at the front desk and propped his feet up onto the mahogany. He would have winked at the pretty Belgian receptionist, making small talk before everyone left and he had to force himself up to lock the doors. He would have spent the entirety of his ten hour shift playing whatever videogame his fellow waiter had given him. He would have dragged himself home when the manager came in at eight and slept from nine to five before getting back to Shinatty Stir-Fry, lamenting his life with two jobs and seriously considering quitting as a museum night guard.

On December 21st, Yao had taken a day off for some Chinese festival, enabling Alfred to get tired of the game Kiku had given him and push him out of the house onto the festive, wintery streets early to take a quick look at the museum he guarded. He'd wandered for an hour, aimlessly blinking through the 1700s and 1800s and yawning through a documentary on Darwin, when he chanced a glimpse toward British History and laid eyes on what at first appeared to be an angel. Emerald eyes, pale skin, graceful movements—he seemed flawless at first glance, bleak winter sunset glinting off his golden crown of hair.

On December 21st, Alfred F. Jones learned to love turning up early for his shift through the blessing that became Arthur Kirkland.

Bursting through the doors, Alfred raced past the front desk, waving briefly at Michelle before taking two rights past the planetarium and dinosaur exhibit. Rounding another few corners and sliding down the handrail of a flight of stairs, Alfred dashed around a Greek Ionic column—and abruptly raced back behind it, peering out warily over his wire-rimmed glasses.

Was it just him, or did Arthur look particularly dashing in his tour guide uniform?

Alfred watched, barely blinking or breathing, as Arthur trailed his hand along the glass in front of portraits of Queen Elizabeth. He turned to smile as a child asked a question, bending down to pat him on the head before answering.

Turning abruptly, the die-hard American buried his face in a hand and cursed, trying to fight down his blush through sheer will-power despite the image of a smiling Arthur seared into his brain. Peering through his fingers, his hand abruptly dropped as the time flashed up from his (flag-shaped) watch.

"Shi—CRAP!" Hissing through his teeth, Alfred raced past the exhibit toward the locker room, completely unaware of green eyes that followed him past the entrance.

When Alfred reached the front desk, he was very pleasantly surprised to find that Arthur hadn't signed out of his post yet. Trying to stop himself from glancing around wildly for a glimpse of that soft blonde hair, Alfred slowly turned his head before spying the Brit.

"Hey!" Thanking every deity in existence that he hadn't stuttered, Alfred cupped his hands around his mouth and called to the tour guide, who was staring contemplatively at a mannequin of Theodore Roosevelt. "Arthur—Mr. Kirkland—shouldn't you be checking out now?"

"I know that, idiot!" Whipping his head backward, the British man glared. Alfred tried not to let himself get overly starstruck, or fool himself into thinking he'd seen the trace of a blush grace Arthur's cheeks. "I just wanted to take a look at the statue—I'm not doing this for anything specific—I just—I'm going to check out now."

Alfred stared dumbly as Arthur drew closer, leaning across the desk and swiping his card into the scanner. He stiffened slightly, trying not to think of touching the soft skin or basking in the musty museum smell that seemed to radiate off him. Arthur leaned back, tucking his card into the pocket of his slacks, and paused.

"Y—You know," Arthur said slowly, stuttering. "This local high-school is going to have a nighttime trip to try out our new IMax Theater next Wednesday, and I have to be here, so I was wondering if I could maybe…um, take forty winks in the night guard cots?"

Alfred stared, brain functions dropping to zero as he stared at the now fully blushing tour guide. Arthur was now refusing to meet his gaze.

"You mean…sleep in the same room as me?" Alfred blinked, barely stopping himself from covering his face as blood rushed to it.

"D-Don't get the wrong idea, you insufferable git!" Arthur's gaze snapped up, and the sight of his green eyes sparkling on his flushed face nearly caused Alfred to lose it. "I just need somewhere to sleep and I'm not going to waste money on buying a new sleeping bag…"

"Um, no problem!" Alfred fumbled nervously with his flashlight, training his eyes on the tips of the unruly spikes in Arthur's hair. "I mean, there's two cots and I'm the only one on shift, so…"

"Th—Thanks!" Arthur nodded fiercely, at this point red as a tomato, and abruptly turned and bolted through the door, leaving it whirling in his wake.

Alfred stared at the doors for a single minute before pumping his fist into the air with a loud cheer.