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Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED

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“You will have to study the stealing methods the man you want used,” Holmes declared, as he stood, and gathered his cloak from a manservant Arthur had not noticed he had called. “It is time I return home, I should think; Mrs. Hudson has promised to bake her excellent boiled potatoes for us tonight, and I would not dream of being late.” He paused. “May I ask whether you intend to look further into your, ah, your suspects’ possible alibis?”

Arthur's brain, not having tackled the matter yet, did a bit of a double-take. “I — do not know. The Yard could take care of it, I suppose,” he pondered.

“Doubtlessly,” Holmes snorted. “My dear man, if I could make one suggestion — I happen to survey a rather large group of, shall we say, young people, who would love nothing better than to investigate discreetly into the matter… in exchange for, perhaps, a few shillings. Maybe such a course of action would be more prudent than a full-out police inspection.”

It didn’t seem to be too bad an idea. “… I… suppose it would be a start. If you answer for the discretion of your… employees, of course.”

Holmes beamed. “Perfect, then! I shall wire when I have results. Kirkland, dear man, goodnight. Monsieur Bonnefoy?”

Francis nodded absently, still studying the photograph from the couch where he had sat. He was still at it when Arthur returned from seeing Holmes off at the front door, and he did not look up until Arthur gently pried his cup from his hands, setting it down on the coffee table instead.

“Well?”

Bonnefoy leant back slightly against the couch’s back, closing his eyes a little, and gazing at him through the slit that remained. “I am not certain. I have heard the name before; the face is more difficult to recognize — ah…” he trailed off, eyes glazing over, and Arthur had the funny impression that he wasn’t seeing him at all anymore.

“What?” he asked, and then jerked his torso back not to fall over when Bonnefoy stood abruptly and directed himself hastily towards the office door, almost running into the lamp, and blinking up at it fussily as he passed on past it. “Francis, what—?”

Bonnefoy paused at the door, one of his perfect hands resting gently over the wooden frame, and he frowned at Arthur as though he was seeing through him. “I shall have to return to Paris,” he said, absently. “There is a man I need to call a favour on.”

*
Notes: The ‘young people’ Holmes refers to are better known as the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’, a group of street children Holmes occasionally calls upon to investigate on delicate matters, because really, who’d suspect children?

Also, I’m setting a slow pace so far, but there will be some of the shooting OP requested as soon as next chapter, sort of. Thank you for your lovely comments, anons∼!

Is this Lupin I'm going to see???

This is amazing, anon, I especially love the part above the kitchen XD

This is lovely. You portray England and France so well and I was grinning like a madwoman when you slipped in Lord Peter Wimsey.

I love the little hints of FrUK already peeking through! Francis's perfect hands! Arthur's heart beating a little faster! And I totally squeed when I read 'manservant' XDDDDD

Eagerly awaiting moar~~~~~

♥

But omg this is brilliant. I don't mind the changes to the request at all - I think you made me realize what I really wanted. Holmes and Lupin, that's just so awesome~ I'm a big fan of criminal books and even though I've always liked Poirot a bit more, Holmes is definitely the right person to help Arthur.

Thank you very much, I can't wait for more! <3

Authornon, you just took basically everything I loved and stuck it in one giant amazing cooking pot with style and characterization and guhhhh <3

Btw, does Holmes know Artie and Francis are countries?

Late update is late. Sorry for that. A few replies:

Peter Wimsey!Anon: … have my heart? :D

OP: fkald;jska—so glad you made it on the wagon, OP! and you might see young!Poirot show up, maybe.

Does-Holmes-know-Francis-and-Iggy-are-countries!Anon: welll, that’s the question, isn’t it. Arthur sure as hell didn’t tell him, but then again, this is Holmes. My guess is yes, though.

Y’all: thankyou muchly. ♥

*
Arthur insisted upon accompanying Bonnefoy back to Paris. He wasn’t very keen on going to France in general, but the man seemed to be in a strange, fussy state, and Arthur was eager to get this case done and over with as soon as possible; if Bonnefoy knew a man who could possibly provide them with any kind of information, it would save them time if they both became aware of it at the same time. There were, in fact, quite a handful of reasons why Arthur embarked on the steamboat that was crossing the channel that same evening alongside Bonnefoy, all of which he very carefully listed, while watching the coasts of France approach in the grey light, and none of which involved any kind of concern for the welfare of the man snoozing next to him, certainly not, what a stupid notion.

They reached Paris sometime before noon, at which point Bonnefoy (who was definitely feeling better) insisted on them lunching at the extremely expensive Fauchon restaurant, and then on them taking a light nap back at his house on the Champs-Elysées. (Arthur, who had a fairly good idea of what a light nap involved, expertly dodged it and left Francis to do it on his own, instead preferring to sit in Bonnefoy’s lush salon and rifle through the information they had managed to collect so far.)

It was getting close to four-thirty in the afternoon when Bonnefoy finally made up his mind to drag Arthur out in chilly Paris, and flag a cab towards l’Étoile. Arthur had interrogated him on the identity of the man they were calling on during lunch, and in vain, but at the sight of the elegant mansion in front of which they now stopped, he cocked an eyebrow.

“Right. I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but—“

“Then do not,” Bonnefoy said amiably, and rang the bell in an elaborate fashion.

It all happened very quickly. A prim-looking valet answered the door, evaluated them both at a glance, nodded, showed them in the house and then into a well-furnished waiting hall, and disappeared through another door. Arthur barely had the time to blink. Bonnefoy looked unfazed.

They waited a few minutes until the valet reappeared, bowed, and ushered them in a smart, neatly-furnished living-room; the man whom, presumably, they had come to see was seated on an armchair by the marble chimneypiece, elegantly dressed in what even Arthur knew to be the best fashions of the time.

At first look, Arthur was surprised by how young the man was. By human standards, he could not be much older than twenty-five, twenty-six maybe, and for a moment Arthur wondered what business could Bonnefoy possibly have to do with such a boy — until he noticed the thin lines around the eyes and mouth, and the well-hidden twist of the lips, that indicated just a few more years. The man must know Bonnefoy quite well, for his politely bored expression slipped off his face as soon as he looked up, and he leapt to his feet with a shout of surprise and an outstretched hand.

“Mon cher, quelle surprise — je vous croyais à Londres!”

“Je préfère ne pas vous demander d’où vous tirez toutes ces informations,” Bonnefoy laughed, and then slid aside to leave Arthur lease to step forward. “May I introduce Mr. Arthur Kirkland, Esq.?”

“Ah, of course,” the man said, slipping instantly into flawless English. His eyes turned onto Arthur, who wondered briefly that they should be ever so familiar before placing the memory — not so much the eyes themselves, which were grey and rather unspectacular — but rather the look inside them: it was Sherlock’s half-intrigued, half-amused gaze whenever he looked at him, the kind that made Arthur wonder exactly how deep the man could see inside him.

“Arthur, this is one very, very dear friend of mine — Monsieur Raoul d’Andrésy. But —“ Bonnefoy affected only to hesitate, the curve of his mouth rising in a way that generally made Arthur want to punch him, “— you — as well as your friend Monsieur Holmes — may know him better under the name of Horace Velmont.”

“… ah,” Arthur said. He shook the hand that was proffered, and attempted to reply to the genial smile by one of his own; he, as well as everybody between Paris and London, knew that Holmes had discovered the infamous Arsene Lupin under the one namesake of Horace Velmont a few years prior — better, even: he had had the story first-hand from Holmes. The detective had not attempted to hide his admiration for the thief and his methods, although he had expressed his disappointment at being foiled time and time again in a rather more passionate way than Arthur was accustomed to, coming from him.

Even now, seated on one of Lupin’s excellent chairs, and watching the man expertly juggle crystal decanters to serve them drinks, he wondered exactly what made him so very talented; what in his posture, what in his clothes, in his looks and his boyish smiles, indicated the mastermind under the skin of the French, crimson-coated dandy. Lupin and Bonnefoy discussed fashion and the latest Parisian news with dapper amusement, and for all of ten minutes, Arthur, sipping his kir, could easily have believed himself in any of Bonnefoy’s salons of elegance and literature.

This lasted until, at last detaching himself from his superficial talk, ‘d’Andrésy’ turned his attention back on Arthur, leant back on his seat, and said, “All this is very well; but you have not yet told me why you have come to see me. Unless it was a visit de courtoisie purely, of course,” he added, with a slight nod in Bonnefoy’s direction, “in which case I am very glad you have come at all, but — for some strange, obscure reason — I am fairly convinced this is not the only reason.”

Arthur scowled. D’Andrésy smiled expectantly, eyebrows drawing together in a fashion that make Bonnefoy chortle, and then cough up his lungs in order to smother his laughter.

“In—ahh, pardon—in fact, mon cher, we have come here with a particular motive. You see, Arthur and I have been working… together,” he accentuated the last word with pained delicacy, making one of Lupin’s eyebrow raise further up, and both of Arthur’s scowl further down, “on a very private project, and we, ah… we supposed you might be able to furnish us with some background information.”

D’Andrésy nodded absently, drawing out a gold cigarette case from his pocket and offering one to each of his guests before taking one for himself. “I see. Background information which, I suppose, has a certain basis?”

Bonnefoy handed him Carra’s photograph without a word. Lupin politely blew out his smoke aside, took one look at the picture, and then burst out laughing.

He looked much younger when he laughed, almost like a boy again, and Arthur threw a confused look in Bonnefoy’s direction, who, though engaged in lighting his cigarette, shrugged, and then passed him the lighter. The nicotine slipped down Arthur’s throat after a moment’s fiddling, filling him with strange relief and much-needed calm.

“Oh, mon dieu,” Lupin laughed, at last taking a hold of himself, and grasping onto the arm of his chair for support. “I am excessively sorry—ahahah—c’est trop dommage.” He coughed again, pushed himself off his seat, still smothering down chuckles. “Well, messieurs, this looks like it will take a while. Will you give me the pleasure of joining me for dinner?”

*

Dinner was very, very French.

*

“Très bien,” Lupin said caustically, once they had been served coffee and tea by an old woman whom he called Victoire and kissed on the cheek. “There is little to nothing that can be said about this Ernesto Carra. He is well-known among certain circles for being connected to some… much wider ones, but his real purpose and role are well-hidden. It is difficult to know, though, whether this secrecy is due to his being extremely important to the eyes of some even more important people, or to his being remarkably insignificant.”

He smiled sweetly at them both, seated back on his couch with Bonnefoy’s hand only mere inches away from Arthur’s thigh. “His name, however, is somewhat of a giveaway.”

Arthur’s mind was invaded by thoughts of pasta before he actually realized what the Frenchman was saying. “He’s a Mafioso?”

“Arthur,” Bonnefoy chided softly.

“Piss off,” Arthur replied. “If this Carra is a Mafioso, he becomes our number-one suspect in this case, you realize.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” Lupin interjected gently. “It is certain to the people with enough information in their hands that Carra is connected to the Italian mafia. But, um. His role so far is rather—awkward.”

Arthur opened his mouth again, but Bonnefoy laying his hand across prevented the flood of questions he was about to sprout out. Arthur considered biting down. “C’est-à-dire?”

“Eh bien… it would seem that Carra is, ah,” Lupin coughed delicately, “a delivery boy.”

“A what.”

Bonnefoy drew back with a yelp.

Lupin spread his hands, looking most confusedly helpless. He was way too amused by the entire situation, Arthur decided. “He was never convicted, but he was arrested a few times under suspicion of smuggling art copies from France to Italy. Nothing was ever proven, as nothing was ever found either on him or at his apartment. I personally assume he was able to smuggle the pieces out before he was apprehended.”

“Art copies,” Arthur repeated, exchanging a glance with Bonnefoy, who raised thin eyebrows at him. “So what if he’s suddenly decided that copies just aren’t enough and to try his hand at the real thing? what if his, his what, his bosses have decided to promote him to a more interesting position?”

“It certainly is a possibility,” Bonnefoy murmured.

“It’s a bloody dead giveaway, that’s what it is,” Arthur snapped. “Alright. We need to find out where he lives, the reports didn’t say—“

“That might pose somewhat of a problem,” Lupin said.

“What?”

He steepled his fingers together. “Carra disappeared from Paris two weeks ago. It will be two weeks ago tomorrow.”

“Well that is awkward,” Bonnefoy said dryly, into the pause that ensued. “Although, Arthur, it would make sense if he were coming to England to steal your—whatever it is he stole from your Museum. What was it this time?”

“A painting,” Arthur snapped. “That doesn’t explain how the latest theft at the Louvre museum was performed, though, or haven’t you thought of that?”

“I should say that I have!” Bonnefoy replied indignantly. “Or were you so engrossed in your own misfortune that you could not care to look at other countries—“

“And why don’t you go and get,” Arthur began hotly, only to be interrupted by a dry cough from over on the other couch.

“Gentlemen,” Lupin drawled. Arthur scowled but sat back, crossing his arms, and felt only a little cold when Bonnefoy pointedly moved his hand away. “If we could please return to the task at hand. I can introduce you to a man who, if handled carefully, might direct you back to Carra.” He gave them both a pointed look. “It will probably be dangerous, however. And neither of you can undertake the journey as you are now.”

Bonnefoy drew his eyebrows together, although more in expectation than in surprise, and Arthur frowned. “What does that mean?”

Lupin grinned. “Why, we will have to disguise you, of course.”

*

Lupin’s first plan involved them going as husband and wife.

To Arthur’s intense relief, it backfired remarkably quickly.

Bonnefoy, for whom any opportunity for cross-dress was a good opportunity, had approved of it heartily, but there had been some or other glitch with the dress, and they had to fall back upon going as a British Lord and his French interpreter. This had the concrete advantage of not changing much in Arthur’s apparel (though his outfit was rather more ostentatious than he would have liked). Bonnefoy, on the other hand, with his hair concealed in a cap and relatively cheap clothes on—thick trousers and a linen shirt, jacket and vest he’d sniffed suspiciously before putting on reluctantly—looked almost like a boy again. He also was surprisingly at ease in them, considering the show of displeasure he’d been putting when Lupin had first brought them forward.

“Remember,” Lupin told them just before they left in an elaborately ornamented carriage. “You are Lord Alastair of London and Jean Service, coming to deal in an extremely important matter with Monsieur Louis, reputed carpet-maker.” And he snickered: “Carpet-maker indeed! you’ll order the strangest carpet from the man. Are you alright in there?”

“Oui m’sieur,” Bonnefoy said jauntily, in such a voice that, had Arthur not known how good an actor Francis could be, had he not known how easily Francis could slip into the role of a woman, of a prince, of a soldier, of a child, would have made him jump right out of his skin.

“Guns?” Lupin asked, cocking one cool eyebrow, and Arthur patted his coat pocket self-consciously, feeling the hard, cold shape of the machine reassuringly solid against his hip. Bonnefoy, he knew, hid a minuscule woman’s revolver in his puffing sleeves, and probably—knowing him—some knife or dagger somewhere, as well. Lupin nodded gravely, though the twist of his mouth belied his laughter.

He closed the door of the carriage onto them, and then waved them goodbye and good luck as they drove away. As soon as they trotted past the nearest turn, Bonnefoy promptly sprawled his long limbs all over the seat—and all over Arthur.

They left the great avenues quickly enough, slipping into smaller streets and then into decidedly narrow alleyways, the carriage lurching about everytime its wheels hit a badly-adjusted cobblestone. Arthur considered his gilded pocket watch every few minutes, trusting that Bonnefoy would remember the way; the intricate entanglement of constricted lanes was too complex for anyone not Parisian to recall.

They arrived to their destination under half an hour, after much twisting and turning and fierce glances thrown their way by the scrubby, shabby passers-by whose path they happened to cross. It turned out to be less a carpet-factory than a veritable mansion, all the more surprising that most of the neighbouring buildings were either warehouses or decrepit. Bonnefoy flounced off the carriage with a flourish. Arthur followed more stumblingly, until Bonnefoy’s hand shot out and caught his arm, in a gesture that, to the uninformed, might only have looked as a servant helping his employer off his vehicle.

Bonnefoy’s mouth pressed hot against his ear. “Pay attention, Kirkland. You will have to be ruthless when questioning this Monsieur Louis we are coming see; any stray look and our disguise will be off.” He pulled back, with a very smug smirk. “I trust you can do this, oui?”

Arthur smacked the back of his knees with his walking stick. “I can if you can, frog, shut it. Now. March.”

“With pleasure∼” Bonnefoy flounced, blew a raspberry in his ear, and rang the bell.

They got in remarkably easily, the so-called Monsieur Louis running up to meet them in the hall, clammy hands hastily rubbing each other. He was probably a few years on the wrong side of fifty, and age had not been very kind to him; he had grown fat in all the bad places, and bald where he shouldn’t. A secondhand crook, Arthur thought, appraising him coldly as he sat down on an expensively ornamented couch—Francis standing behind him with his hands in his back, a cocky grin twitching his lips, and cap bent low over his eyes—one that the bigger people left to prosper off the poor’s backs, and used to handle the lowest dealings.

“I have wanted to furnish my Parisian apartment,” Arthur replied coolly, without loosening his English any. If anything, he laid the Cockney accent on thick—men of knowledge would have thought it suspicious, but neither Monsieur Louis nor any of his thug-like bodyguards who stood by the door and on each side of the couch were very likely to understand what he said, let alone distinguish one accent from another. “I have been told that your manufacture could provide me with—adequate carpeting.”

Francis translated his speech into English in a crooning, challenging tone, clearly what was expected from a gamin de Paris; his features were hidden enough by his cap to make the disguise acceptable. Arthur watched carefully as the man’s eyes lit up instantly, as he licked his lips nervously before resting his elbows on his knees, and felt his own mouth curve up. He had tamed riotous princes in his time, had been known to stare down tigers and curb the tempers of pirates within the span of one day. A low crook wasn’t much of a match.

“Milord,” Monsieur Louis flaunted, “we ‘ave ze best carpets in Paree, I can assure you. ‘Owever—if I may ask—w’o ‘as indicated our business to you?”

Not even a match at all.

“I wonder,” Arthur said slowly, looking at the man in the eye, “whether I should tell you this much. I am the one paying for your services.”

The pause necessary for Bonnefoy to translate, and then: “Of course, milord, of course, zis was simply—we all ‘ave our little—habits, of course. But if you feel inclined to—“

“A acquaintance of mine,” Arthur interrupted impatiently, “from the best British aristocracy, has advised your business to me. I now wonder whether he was right. It is true that he himself was directed here by a man whose reputation is less than certain.” He let the man flounder in the information for a bit, and then added, “the name of my friend I shall not disclose—I do recall, however, that his informant then went by the name of—I hardly remember—Ernest—Carrero, or something similar.”

“Ernesto Carra, milord?” Monsieur Louis interfered, before Bonnefoy even had the time to play the interpret again.

Arthur pinned him with a pointed glance. “Precisely. Is the name familiar to you?”

“Oui, oui, he is known to us.”

“Ahh,” Arthur agreed, drumming his fingernails on the marble handle of his walking stick. “And would you happen to know where such an excellent adviser resides today, Mr. Louis?”

Monsieur Louis gave him a blank look. “Ernesto Carra, do you mean, milord?”

Arthur leant back against the back of the couch. Bonnefoy’s knuckles brushed the fine hair at the back of his neck, and he allowed himself a dry smile. “You see,” he added, casually, “it is not only carpets I am interested in.”

Later, Arthur would wish he could say it all happened very quickly. It didn’t. Instead the thugs were almost sluggish as they drew nasty-looking pistols from their inner coat pockets and fixed both Arthur and Bonnefoy at gunpoint; and Monsieur Louis looked like an oversized puppet as he set the tips of his fingers together and smiled a sickeningly sweet smile. “Oh, milord, you should have known zat some questions are just not asked.”

Arthur looked bored. Bonnefoy rolled his eyes.

Monsieur Louis never saw it coming.

*

Author!Anon fails at action/drama so bad but is having a lot of fun with this fill anyway.

Also, for some reason, the notion of Lupin and Francis as BFFs makes my headcanon happy. ♥

This fill makes me happy ♥

I clicked the link to the third fill out of boredom - and here it is, one of the best fills of this meme. With my most beloved literature characters AND so much subtle-yet-hot FrUk love, everything neatly packed with perfect storytelling and decorated with a ribbon of humor...

Forgive the lyrical blah, dear anon, I only wanted to tell you that I love this fic of yours to pieces and that you're amazing.

So wonderful, Lupin and Francis are BFF is my head canon too.
Can't wait for the next part, finally, some actions!!!!

This... this is the Fr/Uk fic I have been trying to write, but just never could despite my best efforts. I salute you, you amazingly talented author anon, and I eagerly await more of their adventures.

DHKAaFaC!Anon says thank you for the answer, and also that her title is definitely a mouthful. /shot

Perfect characterization again, authornon <3 and Lupin and Francis would SO be BFFs, no joke. also, your 'dinner was very, very french' line made me laugh out loud. ♥

Oh god, I'd love this fill even if it wasn't about my absolute favourite pair. *____* It's exciting and fun and it's just SO GREAT to see England and France work together (in my headcanon they are a great team as long as they manage to put aside their disputes). And hopefully kick some arse together too. x) Not that I don't like the mystery solving as well. It's interesting~

There's just one thing that bothered me. XD That mention that England was using Cockney accent when he spoke to those guys, I just can't imagine anyone saying those lines in a Cockney accent. Remember that it's a working class accent.

Oh and ignore this if you don't want to answer but I just got curious. X) Are you perhaps French yourself, authornon?

Anon above was wondering this too. Authornon is very deft with her French :)

Well, that was fast. Author!anon writes three sentences in French and is busted? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

… yes, I am ~~James Bond~~ French. Hi. :D As for the Cockney accent, well, I thought I'd left it off a little more ambiguous than that, but obviously not. I appreciate you pointing it out, and will change it if I ever deanon. Thank y'all! your comments make my day a little lovelier. <3

By the time the scuffle had broken up, by the time all of the thugs were unconscious on the fine parquet and most of the windows had been smashed, Monsieur Louis was cowering behind the sofa, and Arthur was feeling as though he was back on the seven seas.

“Now,” he chided softly, crouching down to the man’s level, “I’m sure there was no need for that, was there? you will tell me what I want to know—and sell me a carpet too if you want, I’m not picky—and then we will leave the building quietly, and you will not be hurt. How’s that?”

Monsieur Louis clearly understood only half of what he said, but he got on the gist of it pretty well. He nodded frantically, and then started to blurt out information in a mangled garble of half-French and half-English; Arthur could make it out well enough after a minute, but Bonnefoy made a point of translating all the difficult bits for him.

Carra, it turned out, had left Paris a little under a fortnight before, much as Lupin had told them. What Lupin had not known, however, Monsieur Louis did know, more or less: “He has gone to Italy, ze Italian frontier. In Provence,” he blurted, “zere is a village zere, spanning over the two, ‘alf-French, ‘alf-Italian. I don’t know any more zan zat, I swear.”

“Really,” Arthur uttered coolly, raising his eyebrows. “And you wouldn’t happen to know on what account he has gone there, I suppose.”

“I — I do not—“

The gun dug a couple of inches inward into the skin of his throat.

“I — ‘e did say ‘e was going to deliver —ah!— art pieces. Art pieces, zat’s what ‘e said!”

Arthur released his collar roughly, and exchanged a look with Bonnefoy over the back of the couch. “Art pieces. Indeed.”

Bonnefoy grinned, some of the exhilaration lingering from the fracas still remaining in his eyes, but his thrilled expression rapidly wilted as his head snapped up. He walked to the door opposite the windows, opened it abruptly, and seemed to listen for a few moments before he slammed it shut again. “A group of people, coming this way,” he said, his blue eyes locking with Arthur’s startled green. “Someone from the house must have alerted them. Outside.”

Arthur immediately seized Monsieur Louis’ collar again, shaking him once, brutally, before asking, “The name of the village. You know it. Tell me. Now.”

“I do not know!” Monsieur Louis whimpered a little as the muzzle of the gun prodded at his throat pointedly, but he did not amend his words, instead dissolving into a puddle of begging and whining, and Arthur let his fingers relax their stony grip.

“Arthur,” Bonnefoy said urgently, “we can go out through the window but we have. To go. Now.”

“Of course,” Arthur muttered absently, finally releasing the man and checking the door. The stomping in the corridor outside had become even more pronounced, and the thrill that was thrumming in Arthur’s veins rose faster, quicker. Which is why it didn’t alarm him at all when one of the bodyguards on the floor pulled himself up and promptly shoved his gun at the nearest standing person in existence. Which happened to be Bonnefoy, who reared instinctively back and snarled like a very angry cat.

Arthur’s arm swivelled around; there was a gunshot, which he only belatedly realized came from his own weapon, and the man collapsed, clutching his bloodied arm to his chest. There was a deafening crash behind them as the door shattered, and Arthur didn’t even look back as he dashed for the window; Bonnefoy’s fingers curled ice-cold around his wrist before they both jumped the some five feet that separated them from the ground, recovered, and promptly made a run for it.

They were across the square and halfway into one of the side alleys before they realized they were being pursued by a group of ten or fifteen, brandishing weapons. Arthur, still in his pirating mood, was all for stopping and taking them on, but Bonnefoy’s fingers still coiled around his wrist yanked hard, and they tore past another corner.

“Cours, imbécile,” Francis snarled, and they did run, faster and faster, elbowing past the rare people who stood in their way, until the sound of their pursuers and even that of their own hassled footsteps faded out in a buzz and all they could hear was the beating of their hearts.

Arthur could feel it thrumming between their interlaced hands, their open palms, irregular, a little wild.

Past yet another corner they smashed into an old woman, who hurled abuse at them even as they fled (and who no doubt would be delighted to point their followers their way); and then Francis was laughing, lost and incontrollable, and Arthur was, too—before he was pushed into the dark alcove of a doorway.

“What the hell—“

A pale hand covered his mouth, and a long body his, effectively shutting him up. They were so close that their eyelashes were brushing, and despite the ridicule of the situation Arthur’s heart did skip a beat when Francis pressed their chests together and his lips to his ear. “There is a last man coming this way,” he murmured, so softly Arthur almost didn’t catch more than a mere exhalation. “Stay put, Arthur.”

Arthur swallowed and went still, his hands hesitantly coming to rest on Francis’ hips. They waited together, breath held, and so long that Arthur actually started to think this was no more than Francis getting an opportunity to feel him up, but then a man did sprint past, barely even giving the alcove a half-look before he continued towards the other end of the alley.

Francis lowered his head a little, supposedly in order to listen more closely, but in this new position his breath was rippling just over Arthur’s collarbone, and Arthur had to swallow again. The sound of footsteps faded, and then disappeared altogether.

And still Francis would not budge.

Arthur barely resisted the terrible suspicion that was rising in him before he shoved him away. “You bastard,” he snarled. “How much longer did you intend to stay like that if I hadn’t—if I—“

But Francis was laughing, and running his hands through his dishevelled, gold-fine hair before putting his cap back on, and Arthur fell silent, eyes narrowed.

“Bastard,” he said again, not very heartily. Francis caught his hand in his again, lifting it to press a soft kiss to his knuckles, and Arthur felt a blush rise up in his cheeks. Then—

“Come now, rosbif, we cannot stay here forever, can we?” and he dragged him away, towards the wider, sunlit avenues of Paris, and Arthur protested every step of the way.

*

“These are the results of the Sûreté,” Bonnefoy gushed the next morning, at breakfast, spreading out a map over Arthur’s place of toast’n’eggs. “There are three villages that overlap the French and Italian frontier in Provence, but, all things considered, I thought we might begin with… this one.” He landed one long finger on the village he indicated. Arthur eyed it distrustfully.

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because,” Bonnefoy said, with a very smug smirk, “this particular village specializes in the fabrication of carpets.”

“Of… carpets.” Taken entirely out of context, the remark made no sense whatsoever. Arthur’s sleep-addled brain needed a few moments to sort the thing out, while Bonnefoy waited with a patient, magnanimous air. “Oh. Oh. Yes, I see.”

Bonnefoy snorted.

Arthur glared.

They continued in this vein for a few minutes. Then Arthur snorted in turn, broke the gaze, and looked down at his place again. For some reason, bacon didn’t seem quite as appetizing as it had five minutes before. “… so we go there and—“

“—we ask questions—“

“—we shoot at a few people—“

“Poor man,” Bonnefoy said pityingly. “No finesse at all.”

“Shut up, frog.”

By the time they had finished arguing, they were buying train tickets in the gare de Lyon.

*

The train trip from Paris to lovely Provence (though how exactly lovely it was during winter Arthur wasn’t willing to bet on) was a long one, and they didn’t find any eligible seats until two in the afternoon. The car they did eventually climb into was not half-empty, but they managed to secure a compartment for themselves, shutting the door and door curtains before they even heaved their suitcases in the luggage rack.

Arthur finally let himself drop onto one of the banquettes with a sigh of pleasure. Bonnefoy cocked an eyebrow at him, and Arthur glared steadily in return; they had passed most of the time in the station blaming each other for any delays coming their way, and it was hardly easy to stop being mad at Francis Bonnefoy. In fact, Arthur didn’t think he ever had.

“Get those perverted thoughts back into your brain, you lecher.”

“I did not even say anything!” Bonnefoy proclaimed, dramatically, before lounging onto the opposite banquette with the usual nonchalance that would have made any other person look shabby, but somehow graced him with sheer elegance.

“Yes, well, let it stay that way,” Arthur muttered, and then turned his head on the seat and looked out the window, as he intended to do for the entirety of the trip, nine hours or no.

“We won’t get there till the middle of the night,” he murmured discontentedly, and then promptly fell asleep.

He woke several hours later (though how many he couldn’t have said, exactly; he could only tell by looking at the dark, ever-moving window), his head pillowed on something soft. For a sleep-fluffed minute he thought Bonnefoy had been considerate enough to cushion it with a folded coat or something similar (and for a few more moments considered the plausible possibility that he might have slipped a colony of red ants in its pockets as well—but then where would he have found the ants, he pondered…)

Then he blinked, and realized his head was actually lying in Bonnefoy’s lap.

And instead of scrabbling away and punching the pervert in the face like any sensible person would have, he stared fussily up at him, and then asked, in a drugged voice that made Bonnefoy’s eyes instantly snap to his face, “… why is my head… lying on your lap?”

Francis’ fingers stilled in his hair, which Arthur was appalled to find they had been threading through. Or maybe he was appalled to find he didn’t mind half so much as he thought he would. “Because, chéri, you would have gotten a crick in the neck if you had not rested your head on something soft.”

“The seat was doing a fine job all on its own before,” Arthur grumbled, but he turned his face into Bonnefoy’s jacket and inhaled deeply, smelling soap and musky cologne.

“Ah, oui, but then a delicious-looking young woman with her child came in and took the other seat, and there was not any room on this one for you, your head, and me.”

Arthur stared at him in horror. “You mean there was this woman and her son in the compartment and you actually went and pulled my head on your—“ he could not finish, and instead pushed himself up and away from the other man’s legs, jostling him in the process.

Bonnefoy stared discontentedly at his fingers, which had faltered in the air. “Well, non. I waited until the young woman had gone off again, of course, and then I could not return to the other seat because you were clinging to me and whining like a small child—“

“I was not!” Arthur blustered in, feeling his face heat up sharply.

“Was too,” Bonnefoy countered, looking entirely too smug about the whole situation. Arthur considered banging a head several times against the windowpane — either his own or Bonnefoy’s, he wasn’t feeling particularly scrupulous about it at the moment.

He was distracted, however, by a folder falling off the seat beside Bonnefoy. “What’s that?”

Bonnefoy did not even have the grace to look awkward. “This is the Sûreté’s report as to the alibis of our different suspects during the last two thefts at the Louvre.” He cast Arthur a triumphant look. “Since your Yard does not seem able to do the job as quickly.”

Arthur shrugged the jibe off. “Why didn’t you show me before?”

“Because,” Bonnefoy said scornfully, “when it arrived you were busy blaming me for the lack of train tickets for an earlier train.” His upper lip curled in a half-sneer that usually made Arthur knee him in the groin. “I figured I would look into it first.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and made a grab for the folder, but Bonnefoy swiftly held it out of arm’s reach. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, when Arthur growled at him.

“Oh, god, fine,” Arthur groaned finally, after a one-minute staring match, and threw himself down on the banquette again. After a minute’s reflection, he added, “You’re an arse. What’s it say?”

Bonnefoy settled back down as well, looking way too cheerful for comfort. “Eh bien… it seems that most of our usual suspects were in Paris during both thefts. Louis and Line Bernard were residing at Montmartre, and Louis Bernard visited the Louvre only two days before the painting was discovered to be missing. Louise d’Ancors was attending an auction at the Drouot sales, but there is no sign of her having gone to the museum in the week before the theft. Lucien de la Battue and Philip Amperdale were both staying at de la Battue’s studio (no doubt engaged in the process of dark, sinful actions)—“ he waggled his eyebrows in the most ridiculous manner, “—but they did not, under their names, anyway, go to the museum any time around the theft either.”

He turned a leaf, glancing up at a frowning Arthur. “Hunderton was also in Paris, and he did visit the Louvre only the week before the theft. Interestingly, both Brenda Rilke and le club des vieilles femmes folles de peinture came to see the newest collections the very day of the theft—it was the opening day, actually, which might explain it… in fact, only Lord Wimsey was not in France then. He was, to everyone’s knowledge, residing in his property in England with his family at the time.” He shut the folder with a smart snap. “As for Carra, of course, nobody knows, since he disappeared from his Parisian lodgings two days before. If he did come into the museum that day, it was under an assumed identity.”

“Which whatever organisation he might be working for would doubtlessly furnish him with,” Arthur murmured. “Well, I’d like to say that that clinches it, but I’m officially confused right now.” He gave Bonnefoy a pointed look. “Any breakthroughs you’d like to tell me about, before you accidentally forget?”

“Unfortunately not,” Bonnefoy murmured. He considered the folder in his hands thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then handed it to Arthur, earning himself a raised eyebrow in response. He shrugged. “You might as well rifle through it, I suppose.”

Arthur did, for the next hour, and found absolutely nothing worthwhile in it. He put it down to the mere incapacity of France’s police services, and, as he moved to cast the folder aside, looked up to find a fairly peculiar expression on Bonnefoy’s face. “What?” he snapped, nervousness catching the word and turning it into a very British Wot before he could stop it.

Bonnefoy blinked, and seemed to shake himself out of it; his usual smooth, slightly disturbing expression smoothed down over the previous one as his lips rose sharply in a smirk. “Why, chéri, I was simply admiring the interesting curve of your eyebrows—“

“Belt up,” Arthur cut in, not very keen on engaging in their usual banter. He looked out the window, at the darkening evening outside, and the black silhouettes of passing trees across the clear-cut sky. “God, this trip is taking forever. That’s what you get for travelling in French trains, I reckon—“

Bonnefoy shrugged and smiled, the curve of his mouth rapidly changing into a leer. “Tu sais, mon amour, there are many activities one can engage in in the relative comfort of a train compartment—“

Arthur kicked him in the face.

*

They had to change trains for a smaller, provincial one at seven in the evening, and did not arrive to their destination until ten. Arthur was certain no respectable inn would accept them at such a time of the night, but Bonnefoy sweet-talked a maid in the local tavern into letting them in a room — for twice the price, and a kiss.

“C’est notre dernière, je suis désolée, il n’y a qu’un lit,” the girl said, with such an strong South of France accent that Arthur, too used to the Northern accent, did not even catch on the meaning of her words. It was made fairly obvious, though, when he realized that the room held only one bed.

“Oh, great,” he said, as soon as the door had closed behind the maid. “That’s just peachy.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Bonnefoy scolded, a trifle reproachfully. “It is not the first time we share a bed.”

“That was different,” Arthur muttered, feeling heat rise up in his cheeks.

“Really. How so?”

“Because this time there will be no bedding each other, you pervert,” Arthur snapped. “And don’t you dare protest,” he added, as Bonnefoy opened his mouth.

He closed it, and pouted a little, but set about undressing quietly.

“And you keep your hands to yourself,” Arthur added to the list of rules, feeling incredibly awkward, sitting in bed with just his undergarments on, and watching Bonnefoy move about the room to blow out the candles. “If I wake up and find your hands anywhere near me, I’ll wring your neck.”

Bonnefoy rolled his eyes, but extinguished the last candle and climbed under the blankets as well. They lay back to back in the near-darkness, three inches of air between their skin, and unnaturally tense, until Bonnefoy apparently decided nothing would happen tonight, and relaxed into his pillow: Arthur felt it in the dip of the mattress, the soft sigh, the rustle of hair against rough linen.

It was a full hour before Francis did make a move, apparently thinking Arthur was asleep. He rolled on his back, and then rose on one elbow, listening; satisfied with the result, he then proceeded to mould his body to Arthur’s, fitting his back against his chest, and pressing one knee between his thighs. Stray locks of hair tickled the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur, very much awake despite his closed eyes and even breathing, thought he should shove him away. But Francis’ mouth pressed against his shoulder, and one of Francis’ hands splayed across his chest and atop the steady beating of his heart, and he figured he might as well bear the treatment just a little while longer.

*

Well, look at that. Aren’t they cute.

Also, Author!anon is taking the exams for the Ecole Normale Supérieure—err, big literature school in France—from Monday on, so there will be no new chapter this week. I’ll try to get it on by Sunday, though. Hope you enjoyed, anons∼

Ooh, Captain Kirkland in pirate mode!

My happy dance as I found the update made my family rather suspicious I think.

I love the subtleness of your fr/uk. Thank you so much for writing this!

Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED

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