Smoker's Lounge

Part One

Summary: It all started with a bad habit.

Important Notes: Written for Superkawaiifreak, but she just doesn't know it yet.

'Arthur Kirkland' the seemingly golden-plated name badge bellowed to all within the vicinity. The man who sported the badge merely sighed, forlorn and tired, as he pressed open the heavy wooden door at the far end of a pointlessly long hallway. It was his scheduled fifteen, but he felt that maybe he'd give himself an extra few – he deserved them after a day like today.

The room was dimly lit, a smoky haze permeating throughout the air in wispy, white, tendrils. Only the sounds of hushed chatter and long exhalations reached his ears, and he was thankful for a place that he could recluse to – away from the loud, obnoxious and sometimes outrageous customers he was forced to deal with on a near regular basis. He was pretty sure he had better things to waste his life on than serving some prat's every beck and call.

Uncaring, he settled himself into an empty spot on a deep, maroon colored sofa, pulling out a polished silver cigar case from his back pocket and flipping it open. People had called him old-fashioned, and more often grumpy, but he had a taste for the more refined things in life – and the more European things he had grown accustomed to when he grew up in London. America, as he had not-so-happily discovered, was more of a melting pot of rubbish and horrible grammar, than a place to settle and experience. And yet here he was, slaving away as a hotel clerk in some swank hotel in New York – waiting for his chance to hop back on a plane and get back across the pond where he belonged. America be damned.

But in this one room he found solace. The heavy atmosphere and quiet din reminded him of smoggy London when he was a lad, how whenever it rained he would sit in the little window seat of their home and read a good book, and that whenever he looked up at Big Ben, he always imagined a dragon or something else mysterious and mythical living behind its massive face. Between tired fingers, he lifted a partially snubbed cigar to his lips, one that he had started smoking this morning, and lit a match, puffing a few times before the tip was sufficiently burning. He wasn't a child anymore.

Someone plopped unceremoniously on the sofa next to him, huffing and groaning in a way that could only be described as annoying. He glanced over, catching a man with sandy blond hair pat himself down before extracting a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his khaki's pocket. "Aw, shit," the blond whined, looking at his pack of (were those menthol?) cigarettes with a depressed glare. "I lost my lighter…" When no one jumped to give him a light, he huffed, crossing his arms and glancing around – officially catching Arthur staring. "Hey! You got a light?"

Arthur frowned around the butt of his cigar before taking in an exaggerated breath and blowing the smoke out his nose. "Perhaps," was all he said, fiddling with the flat cigar case in his hand.

The other man's head tilted in a near comical way, seemingly expecting Arthur to whip out a lighter at any second. "Wow," he mumbled after a stretching silence. "You're so old school. I didn't know people still smoked cigars."

"That's simply because you're uncultured," Arthur replied, somewhat venomously. This man was interrupting his self reenactment of home. London did not include persistent Americans breathing down his neck for a lighter. And if it did – he liked to indulge in the fantasy that there weren't.

Said American frowned, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, even though they hadn't shown the slightest inkling of falling. "Damn, you in a bad mood or something?" He tapped the back of the sofa with a nicotine wanton hand. "You British? I'm just asking 'coz you have this accent and –"

Arthur tossed his matchbook at the man, his brows furrowing more and more with each word that vomited itself from the man's mouth. "Bloody hell," he grumbled with more acid than he had originally intended, "take the whole damn thing if it'll make you shut up."

"Uh… Thanks, I guess." The sandy blond busied himself with lighting his cigarette and inhaling deeply, as if it were the first breath he'd taken all day. "Finally, fuck, I hate it when my breaks come late." He sent the Briton a side glance, tucking the book of matches into the breast pocket of Arthur's burgundy shirt. "Here's these back. I don't know how you can stand to use those – lighters are way better."

Arthur sent him a sardonic glare, batting away the hand that so casually intruded upon his personal space. "Don't touch me, you git," he bit out. Briefly he glanced down at his wristwatch and sighed – it was time to return to his slave labor. He bent, snuffing out his cigar on the sole of his shoe and placed it back within the silver case.

He stood, stretching slightly before making his way out of the room, feeling no better than when he had come stumbling inside.

"Whelp, see you later, Arthur," the American said cheerfully as Arthur pulled the door open. He automatically looked down at his nametag and snarled. Why did he suddenly feel violated?

-o-

The smoke of the room had cleared a bit, as it wasn't normal break hours at the moment. And that was good for him. He liked the quiet. It was relaxing. It had been several days since he ran into that rather obnoxious American, and for that he was grateful. Arthur wasn't sure if he could live through another run-in with that man – at least, not without being arrested for battery or assault.

Today had been a particularly boring day, as all of the customers that had stopped in today were mostly businessmen and maybe a docile family of sedated children or two. It had been strange, and disconcerting. He was so used to the loud-mouthed American children and the couples practically snogging on his desk, that he had been somewhat… underwhelmed all day.

The door to the lounge creaked open, but Arthur chose to ignore it in favor of watching the smoke of his cigar waft lazily into the air before disappearing into the white ceiling. Fucking hell, he was bored.

"Oh hey, Arthur, right?" He forcibly turned his head at the voicing of his name, scowling when he saw the sandy blond American approach him and settle himself on the other side of his sofa. "Long time no see."

Arthur huffed, flicking a few ashes into a blue ashtray. "Not long enough, in my opinion." He turned his face away and refocused on smoking. It was going to require his undivided attention, he decided.

The American bawed, dramatically clutching a hand over his heart. "You wound me," he jaunted to the Briton, frowning when he received no response. "Wow, you're such a Debbie Downer."

At that, Arthur blustered, nearly spitting out his cigar on accident. "What the hell did you just call me, you prat?"

"Hm?" The American smiled broadly at his new found attention before changing the subject, "You should really take a chill-pill, you know that? You don't even know my name, so stop acting like I ran over your dog or something."

A low grumble came from Arthur's lips as he thought of at least ten ways to end the annoying blond that sat next to him. "Why don't you just leave me alone?" he asked. And it was a good question at that, as the American simply settled him with a blank look. When the staring continued, however, he got a feeling that maybe he'd asked the wrong thing, and that the American was too dull witted to find something else to say than what he'd already planned in his empty head. Arthur sighed. "I don't need to know your name to –"

"Alfred!" the man interrupted with uncalled for enthusiasm. "My name's Alfred Jones. It's nice to finally meet you properly, Mr. Arthur Kirkland."

He stretched his hand out in greeting, and Arthur looked at the appendage as if it were made of sewage. But, being the gentleman that he was raised to be, Arthur shook Alfred's hand, probably (definitely) using more pressure than was truly necessary. The American seemed a little put off by it too, pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket glumly. Served him right. "Brilliant," Arthur said sarcastically, taking another long drag from his cigar. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have better things to be doing than sitting here with the likes of you."

He pretended not to see the childish gestures the American gave him as he left.

-o-

"So, why do you smoke those things anyway, huh Arthur?" the American was asking him as he lit up a new cigar for the day. Where the other blond had come from, Arthur wasn't sure, but he'd stopped trying to figure it out a while ago. "I mean, aren't they way more expensive?"

The Briton sent Alfred a dull glare. He was passed the point of directly telling the oblivious man to go fuck himself – because it never worked, and over the past few weeks, he had fallen into some semblance of a routine that consisted of him somewhat amusing the American for a few minutes before stalking out of the lounge feeling more tense than ever. "Please," he griped, "price isn't everything. It's about quality. And these happen to be over a thousand times better than those fags you smoke."

Alfred made a face at the word 'fags', and Arthur resolved to say it more often. "Oh really now? What makes you say that? I find my cigarettes to be perfectly fine."

Arthur hummed a little as he blew out a cloud of scented smoke. "They're made better, and come without all that rat poison and cat piss that they throw in yours."

The sandy blond gave the filter of his cigarette an uneasy look. "Ah, well… Maybe I like cat piss."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Arthur shot back, trying to steel his face into an impassive line. It was difficult – as he knew that the American had spoken without thinking first (of course), but it was insanely hard to not laugh in his ignorant face. "Well, would you look at the time?" he muttered sardonically, not even glancing down at his watch. "Time for me to go."

As usual, he snuffed what remained of his cigar on the sole of his shoe and tucked it away. When he was about to leave, a foreign tug on the leg of his pants had him pausing. "Hey Arthur, what part of the hotel do you work at? I never see you around – except in here. I'm just a little curious."

"Go be curious somewhere else, you wanker." Alfred frowned, but released his pant leg anyway. Arthur escaped before anything else could come up.

-o-

With a drilled ease, Arthur made a note that the family with the inexcusable number of children had checked out, returned their keycards and left behind two broken lamps and a half melted plastic bowl in the microwave. He'd make sure the damages were charged to their credit card.

He shuffled through a pile of papers, sorting out the reservations that had been made for tomorrow, and keeping them at the ready for whoever had the morning shift. It's not like he had much to do this late at night besides catch up on the bookings and cleaning what office space they had. Thankfully he didn't have to provide much customer service, not when most customers were sleeping – or getting drunk.

But the sound of the little desk bell ringing brought his attention away from the white papers and towards the front of his desk. "How may I… Bloody hell Jones, how did you find me here?" he barked once he recognized the stupid grin and messy blond hair that stood just on the other side of the granite-top counter.

"Wasn't that hard," Alfred boasted with a cheesy smile – no different than usual. "I just asked around. Turns out a lot of people know where the stuffy British guy works."

Arthur looked offended for a moment. "S-stuffy!" he repeated, aghast. He was not stuffy. These people were uncouth! "Simpletons; the lot of you!"

Alfred simply continued to smile, leaning onto the counter and letting his arms splay across the countertop overdramatically. "What time do you get off tonight, Arthur?" he asked instead, tapping a blunt nail to a rhythmless tune onto the granite surface.

"And what makes you think I'd tell you?" he ruffed, setting down his stack of organized papers with more force than necessary. Why was it that this man couldn't take a hint? He was short of committing homicide, and yet the American still continued to follow him around and hound him whenever he had the misfortune of running into him. "Do I look daft to you?"

The American paused, looking as if he'd just been presented with a double edged sword. "Well, I wouldn't say –"

With a loud jingling of bells, the front doors opened and closed. A young woman with long, curly brown hair and a knitted green cap stomped inside, patting down her own arms in attempt to ward off the cold November weather. Her dusky green eyes lifted from her boots to the service counter. "Oh, hello," she nearly purred, pulling off her coat as she made her way behind the counter. "Arthur you have a guest? Isn't this new – I'll have to write about it in my diary. How strange."

Arthur harrumphed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He didn't know if he should be embarrassed or mortified. "Elizaveta," he said; his tone dark and brimming with warning, "This is not my guest. He works here, and he was just leaving."

"Isn't that convenient!" she announced, clapping her hands together yet being able to retain a look of boredom on her face. "You're just leaving, too! Its a few minutes early, but you have too much overtime. Ludwig will kill you if he finds out you're doing it on purpose."

Finding no flaws in the woman's logic, Arthur snapped his mouth shut and gathered up his trench coat that he had lain across the back of a chair. "Fine," he snapped, heading for the time clock down a nearby hallway.

Elizaveta watched him go with an amused expression before glancing over at Alfred, who seemed confused by the entire interaction. "He's a Scrooge," she said to the American with a lopsided smile, "but when he loosens up, he's really sweet. Sometimes. I've only witnessed it twice."

"That rarely, huh?" Alfred asked, his semi-permanent grin returning to his face. "Man," he whistled, "I'd like to see that."

The woman began thumbing through the papers that Arthur had finished organizing. "If you'd like, I could give you a couple pointers," she suggested ruefully, her brows waggling in an obscenely suggestive way, and Alfred blanched, shaking his head. "Aw, that's no fun." She shrugged. "Anyway, Arthur really likes his tea – holding true to his British stereotype. Also, he's a pretty bad cook, although doesn't like to admit it. I think he tried to poison me once with a scone. And finally, don't let him drink. I've only heard bad things about that."

Alfred grimaced as the woman spoke, pretending that he was disinterested in what she was saying while he waited for Arthur to show up once again. "How do you know all this anyway?" he asked after a moment's pause.

"Oh, you know; this and that." She stapled a few pages together with a malicious grin.

"Right."

Arthur appeared from around the corner, his trench coat halfway slung over his shoulders. "What are you still doing here, git?" he ground out, displeased by his sour turn of luck. "Don't you have someplace else to be, besides here torturing me?"

Alfred shrugged, following the Briton outside into the bone chilling cold, ignoring the strange looks that Elizaveta sent their way. "Nah, not really," he responded with a bored tone. "Actually, I wanted to ask ya if you wanted to go and grab something to drink. Like… tea or something."

Pausing, Arthur turned to stare incredulously at the American. "Tea, at ten in the night? Are you daft?" He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Never you mind, don't answer that."

"So… are you free on Friday, then?" There was a little trickling sound of hope in the American's voice that kept Arthur from exploding into a homicidal fit. "I mean, I don't want to sound creepy or anything, but I kinda just want to hang out. Is that wrong?"

Arthur sighed, once again failing to find a flaw of logic – it was too late at night to be thinking anyway. "No… it's not, I suppose. Blasted… I have Friday off. I'll be at the Corner Café just down the street at noon."

Despite the snarky tone and rushed, force-fed plans, Alfred grinned and clapped Arthur on the back. "Cool! I'll see you then!"

Arthur watched Alfred hail a cab and leave, tiny flakes of snow beginning to flutter down from the overcast sky. He set towards home, dismissing the thought that maybe – but not really – that he was somewhat excited for Friday. Because he wasn't.

-o-

On Friday morning Arthur woke groggily, physically rolling out of bed and lying on the floor for a few moments while he collected himself before getting up and trudging to the shower. He loved his days off, which he normally spent reading and catching up on a few chores that his busy work schedule didn't allow him to keep up on.

He toweled at his damp hair as he walked across his small flat – that to him, was reminiscent of a hole in the wall. The clock on the microwave proclaimed it was nine in the morning, which left him with three hours before he should be at the café – not that he was counting or anything. He pulled a few cold scones from his refrigerator and munched on them, not really caring that they were stale – or maybe burnt, sometimes it was hard to tell.

With a tired sigh, he sat on the old sofa that he'd managed to buy dirt cheap from some bloke that had planned on dumping it in the garbage. It was time for a little telly, and he ate his scone, mindlessly watching the news and half of an even more mindless cartoon. "I'll never understand American 'humor'," he grumbled to himself.

A half finished cigar dangled from his lips as he pulled his black coat tighter around his body, trying to ward away the nipping wind. People bustled around him, walking what he determined to be too fast, but not fast enough whenever he had the misfortune of stepping too near one of the homeless. Arthur felt horrible for the people – what did they do when winter hit full force? Every time he heard a beg for change, he vowed over and over that he would return to London as soon as he possibly could. He did not want to be homeless in a place like this.

The Corner Café came into view and he leaned up against the building to snuff out his cigar, ignoring any comments that flew his direction about being in the way. Dignified, he entered the café as he normally did, grabbing a newspaper and settling himself into his favorite corner by the tall window. The same young woman that served him every Friday, shimmied up to the table and set a steaming cup of chamomile tea down, smiling broadly as she did so. "The usual for ya," she said with a wink as she left.

Arthur couldn't complain. He enjoyed his routines too much to scold the woman for assuming he wanted anything at all. With a flick of his wrists, he opened the paper, scanning the headlines for anything of remote interest.

The door chimed merrily as someone else entered the café, the serving girl sauntering up with a smile. "Hello," she cooed, "Can I help you today?"

A pause. "Actually, I was looking –" Arthur looked up just in time to see Alfred spot him. "Found him!" Alfred sang out, ignoring the serving girl in favor of seating himself on the other side of Arthur's table. "Hey! I'm kind of surprised you're even here. I mean, I thought the other night was probably a last ditch attempt on me, huh?"

"What?" Arthur tried his best not to roll his eyes, and failed miserably. "I'm not flaky," he said with a grimace. "And every time I tell you to bugger off, you don't listen."

Alfred laughed too loudly for the quiet of the café. "Yeah, listening isn't one of my best traits – or at least when I don't want to. I can be an awesome listener!"

"I'm sure." Arthur brought his tea to his lips, relishing its warmth as he peered out at the light dusting of snow along the city streets. He wished he had a fireplace. He could just imagine curling up next to the fire with a good read. Something romantic and fantastical – maybe with pirates.

A hand waved in his face, and Arthur scowled as he broke from his reverie. "Hello? Earth to Arthur, do you read me, Arthur?" Alfred said, speaking into a closed fist and pretending to make static noises.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, even though his better judgment told him to refrain from speaking to the annoying American altogether.

Alfred smiled lightly. "You really spaced out," he answered, pausing a moment before breaking out into a peal of laughter. "Ha! 'Spaced out', ha – ha, wow, get it? Man, I crack myself up sometimes." He slapped his hand on the tabletop, ignoring the scalding glare Arthur sent his way. "Excuse me, could I get a tall white mocha please?" he asked as a serving walked passed. She nodded and continued on her way. "So, Arthur, how've you been? I haven't seen you these past couple days."

Arthur purposefully stuck his nose into the newspaper despite the absurd article that rested before his eyes – who the hell cares about some bloody penguin in Australia? "Good to know you stopped stalking me for a couple days."

"Stalking…?" The sheer confusion in the American's voice was enough to make Arthur look up from his paper, and damn if he didn't look upset. "We work in the same hotel – granted it's huge, but it's your fault 'coz you smoke."

The Briton couldn't follow the logic, or lack thereof, and said, "So do you."

"Exactly!" Alfred raised a finger into the air and made a little invisible checkmark. "I wasn't stalking you, dude. We probably would have never met if we didn't use the smoker's lounge."

Arthur glanced at the American wearily. Was this conversation going anywhere? "Right, true fact, I suppose. That doesn't explain you following me around, though."

They paused as the serving girl brought Alfred his coffee, tucking a napkin suspiciously into the American's hand before skipping off. "I didn't follow you anywhere!" Alfred huffed, taking a quick drink of his coffee. "I just wanted to hang out – how many people can say that they've got a cool British friend?"

Arthur's mind stopped at the words 'cool' and 'friend'. Since when was he either? He sent the American and confused glance. Alfred merely smiled and looked down at the napkin in his hand. "Err, hey, Arthur. You want this girl's number?"

Alfred waved the napkin in Arthur's face, and the Briton slapped the appendage away with a scalding look. Some friend indeed.

-o-

"I have a new word for you," Arthur said casually as he took up a seat on the fading maroon colored couch in the lounge. Alfred inclined his head towards the Briton to show that he was listening. "Persnickety."

Over the course of a few weeks, Alfred had been trying to decode (or at least that's how the American phrased it) British English, with little to no success. So Arthur had taken it upon himself to self impose the more masterful language upon Alfred. If anything, it was amusing at times, but rather pointless.

Alfred tapped his chin as he thought; an unlit menthol cigarette nestled between his lips. Lately Arthur noticed that the American had been smoking less and less – preferring to allow the fag to hang from his mouth than to smoke it. "Persnickety… Yanno, I'm pretty sure I've heard that one before – on T.V." He gave Arthur a half lidded stare. "Isn't it a type of cheese, or something?"

The snort that erupted from Arthur's mouth could have been attributed to either outrage or suppressed laughter. "I – what! No, not even close." He closed his eyes in disbelief, lighting his own cigar as he relaxed further into the sofa cushions. "It's about being picky. Very picky."

"Oh…" Alfred grinned. "So, kind of like you, then, huh? You're probably the pickiest person I know!"

Arthur blustered, shooting Alfred a vehement glare. "I am not persnickety!" he hissed, crossing his arms tightly. "I just know when I like something a certain way. It's not like I spend my time looking for the most expensive and drawn out ways to do things."

Alfred only laughed, pulling his unlit cigarette from his mouth and stuffing it back into the rumpled carton. "Okay, so what about me? Do you like me?"

"W-what kind of stupid question is that?" Arthur breathed in a deep lungful of smoke, willing himself to calm down. Moronic Americans, always finding ways to rub on his nerves. "I don't have to like you, you're my friend," he answered, somewhat backwardly. He didn't care that the statement had simultaneously made no sense and contradicted itself, but it kept Alfred shut up, and right now that's all he cared about.

After a couple minutes of silence, Alfred stood, giving Arthur a small smile. "So we are friends, then," he said and left, leaving a stuttering Arthur behind to mourn his horrible word choice.

-o-

"Don't you have a little bird or someone you'd rather bring along with you? I have more important things I could be doing."

Alfred cast him a side glance as they walked (more like power walked to the Briton) through the crowded New York streets. "Eh, not really. Why? What could be more important than going to catch a movie with your buddy?"

Arthur grumbled something obscene under his breath. "There are quite a few things I'd rather do than be chummy with you."

"And yet here you are."

The Briton bristled. "Don't mock me, boy."

The cinema was sparse, as it was only two in the afternoon on a Monday. How he had gotten the day off, Arthur would never know – and how Alfred knew he had the day off was a mystery he didn't feel like bothering himself with.

A bored looking man greeted them stiffly, pointing out a few movie selections and commenting on the price reduction for matinee. "Let's go see that one, Art," Alfred cawed, pointing at a poster decorated with zombies and an axe-wielding murderer. Arthur was too busy fuming over the spontaneous nickname to disagree, and was promptly dragged through the ticket line.

"Do you want any snacks?" Alfred asked as he rounded about the concessions stand, eyeing the large, brightly lit signs depicting what candies and other artery clogging cuisine they had for sale. "We should get a jumbo popcorn…"

Arthur shook his head at the American's childish display, watching the sandy blond get excited as he peered into the glass candy case. "I'll just have a large coke," he told the clerk with a bemused expression.

Alfred looked scandalized as the clerk nodded and began to prepare Arthur's soda. "Just a coke?" he repeated, sounding as if he'd heard a foreign language and couldn't quite grasp what was being said. "I'm being awesome and paying for everything, and is all you want is a coke?"

"Wh-what! What makes you think you're paying for me?" The Briton crossed his arms over his chest and tried to level the sandy blond with a burning glare, conveniently forgetting that Alfred had paid for his ticket while he was busy trying to brainwash himself about that nickname. "I'm perfectly capable of paying for myself."

The American rolled his sky blue eyes, waiting for the clerk to return to the counter and said, "Okay, I'd also like the skittles, gummy bears, uhm, oh and the hot tamales and a large popcorn with extra butter and, and uh, a large frozen coke!"

Arthur sympathized with the clerk as he began to scrounge up Alfred's order. "You might as well order one of everything," he said crassly, watching with irritation as Alfred actually seemed to consider the idea. "I hope you don't plan on eating all of that! You'll make yourself sick." Not that he cared.

"Well, of course I do – otherwise it'd just be a waste. Duh." Alfred laughed, slapping his bank card on the counter as the clerk ran off to get his frozen coke. "I think I'll save the skittles for tomorrow while I'm at work." And with a sage nod at that last thought, Alfred turned and paid for their snacks and began to try and stuff as much as he could into his arms.

Arthur just grabbed his coke and amusedly watched Alfred attempt to carry everything that he had ordered. Finally the sandy blond managed to warp his arm around the tub of popcorn with the boxes of candy in one hand and his frozen soda in the other. "You got it all?" the Briton asked with a rueful smile.

The American nodded, happily slurping on his straw in response.

"Ve – May I have your tickets, please?" A young man asked airily as they approached the long hallway containing the theaters. Arthur dug out his ticket from his pocket and handed it to the brunet who couldn't be a day over fifteen by the looks of him. "Thank you! I hope you enjoy your show! And you sir?"

Alfred's brows creased together as he looked at the food in his arms. "Shoot. Hey Arthur, my ticket's in my front pocket, you wanna grab it for me?"

Arthur blustered, turning a horrified shade of pink. Quickly he snatched the frozen coke from the American's hand. "Get it your damned self!"

"Ah, oh hey, good idea!" He dug into his pocket with his now freed hand and pulled out his ticket, handing it to the teenaged airhead with a grin. "Here ya go!"

The young brunet took the ticket and ripped off the side, stuffing the scrap into a little metal box. "Grazie! Have a wonderful time in the theater!" He handed Alfred the remaining piece of the ticket, and they shared the same, dopey smile.

Arthur rolled his eyes and kicked Alfred's ankle. "Let's go, git. It'll be starting soon, you know."

The theater seemed to be exceptionally dark – not even a row of dim lights in the stairs – as the beginning credits started to roll. They found a seat in the furthest row back, because Alfred claimed that it would give them the best view ever. Not that anyone would mind Alfred's incessant jabbering, as they were the only ones within the boxed room.

"Here," Arthur said gruffly, sticking Alfred's frozen coke into a cup holder and sitting in the seat next to it. "How old is this movie anyway? It's dead in here."

Alfred only smiled, settling himself into his chair and propping his feet on the seatback in front of him, despite the disgusted glare Arthur sent him. "Oh, I dunno. I think it's been out for a couple of months now – but I heard it was really scary." Alfred made a guffawed sound. "I doubt it though."

"Uh huh…"

The movie itself was appalling. There was no plot – just a man running around with an axe and smashing in the skulls of zombies (whose costumes were horrendous). Arthur was positive he could make better CGI scenes with an old Macintosh, rope and poster board.

Alfred, on the other hand, sat still as stone, holding his tub of popcorn to his chest as if it were a shield. At every moment of 'suspense' in the film, Alfred would proceed to simultaneously hide his face into the popcorn and eat, mumbling something about not being scared by some stupid zombie guts. Arthur wasn't entirely sure which was more pathetic, the movie or Alfred.

As the last scene of the movie continued forth, supposedly surmounting to some grand ending, Alfred had finished his coke, gummy bears and hot tamales, and half of his over-buttered popcorn. "Oh… Oh, he so shouldn't go in that barn, Arthur," Alfred whispered feverishly, his blue eyes wide as he drunk in the eerie scene on the large screen before them.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes. "He's going to. And he's going to die. Can't all be beer and skittles."

"Hey! Don't ruin i – Ah my fucking God!" On screen, a rather mutilated looking zombie fell from the barn rafters and onto the hero – or maybe anti-hero (he was a murderer after all) and proceeded to rip out the man's jugular with mangled teeth. Arthur laughed, probably not the most gentlemanly reaction, but Alfred flinched, burying his face into Arthur's nearest shoulder and spilling the half full tub of buttery popcorn on their pants.

Arthur's mouth snapped shut as Alfred breathed a frightened sigh – the hot breath leaking through the wool of his overcoat and tickling his shoulder. "I-Is he dead yet?" Alfred asked after a few moments, bringing Arthur back to reality.

Huffing, he jostled his shoulder, knocking Alfred's glasses askew and forcing the other man to sit up. He turned back to the screen to see the credits rolling. "It's over. I thought you said the movie wasn't scary," he chided, making Alfred grimace. "Also, you'll have to buy me new pants. You covered mine in butter."

"B-buy-!" The American sent him a glare. "Like I'm really going to buy you new pants. Just throw them in the wash."

Arthur snorted, standing in the now lit room and motioned to the large, dark stain on his gray pants. "This is oil, it'll never come out – not very well, at least, and not with the soaps I use."

Alfred set him with a somewhat blasé stare before simply muttering, "Then I'll buy you new soap."

"Not the point, prat!" Arthur took the opportunity to punch the American on the shoulder. Hard.

-o-

"So Arthur, you like video games?" Alfred asked as he settled into what was becoming more and more their couch.

Arthur made a face at the suggestion, pulling his cigar from his mouth with a frown. "No. I'd rather not sit and rot my brain with those damned things. Reading is a preferable pastime."

He watched the American shuffle through the information and pout. "Aw, that's kind of boring." Arthur violently poked the man's shoulder, and Alfred yelped; covering his mouth with a hand as idle stares began to point their way. "Would you stop that?" he hissed, rubbing his shoulder tenderly. Arthur knew there was still a blue-yellow bruise under the thick leather jacket (one that he was positive was a violation of their dress code), even though it was a week after he'd punched him. Served the git right for ruining his good pants like that.

"Reading is not boring," he insisted, taking a calming drag of cigar as Alfred merely fiddled with his lit cigarette between restless fingers instead of smoking it. "It requires a lot more imagination than your video games do."

"Hm, maybe. I don't read much, though. I kind of find it hard to sit still for too long – I always want to work or something." He let out a loud laugh, drawing the attention of other employees yet again. "Hard to believe, eh, Arthur? Yours truly is a workaholic."

Arthur's lips tweaked upwards a little. "A little bit – yet you're always here, so I'll give you some credit." Alfred nodded and snuffed out his cigarette. "At least, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery."

Alfred glanced up at the Briton for a second before a grin spread across his face. "You know, you're right. I think on Friday night you should come and have dinner with me – to keep me from thinking about work of course." The American's smile only grew as Arthur's face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "What? And after that we can get shit-faced or something else manly. Sound good?"

It was hard to ignore the stares that came from many of his nameless co-workers (he hardly ever ran into any of them while at his post) and tried to give Alfred the most venomous glare he could muster given the circumstances. It wasn't nearly as potent as he'd hoped. "Alright. Fine. Just, bugger off, you bloody nuisance."

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder with a short laugh. "Awesome! I'll leave you a note later about what time it'll be. Have a nice break!"

The Briton glared daggers at the man's back until he was long out of sight. He simply couldn't fathom how the American managed to twist his words like that, when the blond couldn't even speak a word with more than four syllables.

-o-

He gripped the rumpled paper in a suffocating vice. 'Meet me at Ramses' at 11:30' the note read in cramped, but very neat handwriting that made Arthur feel somewhat astonished that the American could do anything neatly. Unfortunately, he had never been or even heard of this "Ramses'" place before, and was humiliated by the fact that he had to ask several of his co-workers and passerby's as to its location.

Arthur resolved to punch Alfred again when he saw him.

Luckily, however, Ramses' was a semi-popular restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, and he flung his scarf around his neck tighter.

"So," Elizaveta crooned from her spot behind the front counter, "I saw that little note of yours. Are you going out to see your girlfriend?" She dragged the last word out with an agonizingly pitchy squeal.

Arthur sputtered, whirling around so he could shake his fist at her as he blustered his way through some horrible excuse and most definitely not blush at the connotations. "I don't have a girlfriend!" he cried, suddenly pointing at her. "You're the reason I hate women, blasted, girly and nosey – don't make that face at me, prat!"

She merely shrugged at his unfounded accusations, curling a finger around a lock of her hair casually. "Oh, I see. I was mistaken, then."

"Terribly so."

Elizaveta grinned, not unlike the cat peering down at a defenseless canary. "You're going to see your boyfriend!" she exclaimed, giving the last word the same treatment as last time, although with a more suggestive hint at the end.

Arthur blushed so hard that his ears rang. Alfred – boyfriend? Maybe something in his head had just exploded; because just the thought of Alfred like… that should have made him vomit, not turn into a self-righteous tomato as he flung insults at a smug European woman before stomping out of the lobby.

It was New York's fault, he told himself, and the dirty American air was slowly poisoning him. He was supposed to be refined – he was an Englishman, and no matter how tall they were, he would always stand a head above any of these plebian louts. He breathed in deeply, feeling the icy December air invigorate and cool his too warm chest. He smiled lightly to himself. Sometimes a mental pep-talk was all he needed to be right as rain.

He found the restaurant easily enough, but noticed with a frown that he was just under an hour early. Arthur glanced down at his mobile. Maybe he should get Alfred's number sometime, if the man insisted on pestering him like this. It was becoming rather inconvenient when he couldn't get a hold of him during moments like these.

Rather than stand outside in the snow and freeze his bits off, Arthur entered the compressed building and shivered as a blast of warm air stretched across his numbing cheeks. The serving host looked at him a bit expectantly, and he faltered. "I uh… I'm just waiting for someone," he mumbled, taking a seat on one of the leather upholstered benches.

The man seemed to nod in understanding, shuffling through a pile of menus in boredom before his mouth made a little 'o' shape as a thought struck him. "Oh, you wouldn't happen to be Mr. Jones' guest, would you?"

"If you mean Alfred Jones, then, yes, I suppose I am he."

"He's here waiting. If you'd follow me…" Arthur's brows furrowed as he stood and trailed after the man. How late was this place open, anyway? He was mildly surprised to find that many seats were actually taken – mostly by younger, flirtatious couples who had no problem snogging in public. Sometimes he forgot that New York hardly slept. It was a bright contrast compared to the sleepier London, and honestly, he'd much rather be sleeping right now.

The host brought him to a little secluded section in the back where the lights were somewhat dimmer and cigarette smoke wafted lazily in the air. "Mr. Jones, your party is here."

Alfred perked up from a corner table, his glasses dipped lower on the bridge of his nose as he held a book open on the table top with a hand. Quickly the sandy blond pushed up his glasses and stuffed the book in a rucksack that was draped over the back of his chair. "Arthur! You're early… like, really early!"

The Briton merely shrugged, shedding his overcoat and resting it over a chair back before taking a seat across from Alfred. "I got off at ten," he explained, somewhat grouchily as he played with the lapels of his maroon work shirt. "Elizaveta is impossible to be around, so I just came here instead staying out and turning into a popsicle."

"Oh, ha. I thought you'd want to go home and change." Arthur shrugged and muttered something along the lines of 'these clothes are good enough'. The American picked up his menu and handed it to Arthur. "I've already ordered. You go ahead and get whatever you want. And don't worry about price – it's my treat."

Arthur scowled at that as he snatched the menu away. "I'm not a girl," he complained, looking for the cheapest thing he could find. Damn, he hated the dollar system sometimes. Finally he just picked something out that looked the most like beef and pointed the selection out to Alfred. "I guess I'll just have this." Alfred nodded and waved down a waiter. "I'll have to show you real English cuisine sometime," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Alfred grinned wolfishly. "Oh? Is that an invitation, Arthur?"

The Briton ran a hand along his face in irritation. "Like hell it is." Despite the rebuke, Alfred continued to smile as he ordered for Arthur, who gladly accepted the cool glass of water that the man brought with him.

A comfortable silence fell over their table as Alfred leaned back in his chair and Arthur drummed blunt nails on the smooth tabletop. "By the by, what was it that you were reading earlier?" he found himself asking.

"Reading? Me? Never. I think you were hallucinating." Alfred laughed his too loud laugh, and picked up the salt shaker, playing with the top and sprinkling small, white grains on the black table surface. "Speaking of books, you said you like to read, right? What kinda books do you like?"

Arthur frowned, slapping the American's hands and prying the salt shaker away from him. Sometimes he felt like Alfred's bloody father. "I prefer the classics." A blank stare from Alfred told him that the statement was a little too over the American's head. "Oh, you know, things like Beowulf and Macbeth? Sometimes Dickenson or Orwell…"

Something must have clicked in Alfred's head and he laughed again. "Out, out, damn spot!" he cawed, rubbing his large hands together. "Shit, yeah! I remember that from high school! My teacher was obsessed with every innuendo he ever thought he saw in that play."

"That must have been so long ago," Arthur grumbled tiredly. Hell, Alfred was probably fresh out of school and was getting ready for University or something. He felt old in comparison.

Alfred shrugged. "It's been a few years now. Been keeping busy with a few classes at a local University. I want to get a degree, but I don't have the time anymore."

The waiter came and set their plates before them, one looked to be a plain steak with mashed potatoes and garlic on the side, while Alfred simply picked up a massive looking burger with both hands. "You git, you came here just to get a burger? Honestly, what's wrong with you?"

"But they have really good burgers here, Arthur," the American protested, lightly squeezing the burger in question until a little bit of grease dribbled from the sides of the buns. "Doesn't it look delicious?"

"No."

Alfred laughed, this time somewhat more subdued as his bright blue eyes sparkled in mirth. "It's okay; I still think you're cool, even if you do hate burgers."

Arthur wasn't sure if he should have felt flattered or mortified. He settled for petulant as he stabbed his steak a little viciously. And as Alfred babbled about this and that through the entire meal, Arthur couldn't help but find himself reciprocating some of Alfred's feelings. Sure, the American was too loud, too dumb, too tall, and too… many things, but he had simply inserted himself right next to indifferent Briton, and for some reason Arthur couldn't bring himself to dislike that fact.

He supposed it wasn't too horribly bad to have company every here or there.

Not that he'd ever tell Alfred that.

-o-

Unimportant Notes: I'm breaking this off here. Originally this was supposed to be a short, bam-bam thank you ma'am, fic. But it turned into a monster. So I'm breaking it up. I doubt many people want to read a 20k or so word one-shot. Well, maybe, but whatever. This should only have one more part. Or maybe two. I haven't decided yet.

Semi-important Notes: I'm American, and a bumpkin at that, so my version of English is vastly different than the norm, but if I wrote England/Arthur wrong or did something incredibly annoying with his thoughts/dialog, please let me know. I'm ignorant when it comes to British English, although my search engine received a massive overhaul while I was working on this, so I hope it won't be utterly appalling. Also, I just used American spelling for everything. It'd be weird to switch back and forth, not to mention frustrating.

Thanks for reading!