[fanfiction] Divine Intervention 2/9
Chapter 2
Francis awoke the next morning and was surprised to find that the mysterious man hadn’t ransacked his house. Though looking back on it as he slipped out of bed, stretching and yawning, the man was probably just some hallucination brought on by his mind trying to talk him down. He didn’t even look real. Glad that he had the day to recover from last night’s event, he rolled out of bed, pulling off his dirty, slightly crusty shirt and rummaged in his closet and putting on a comfy sweatshirt. He felt lighter, as if a great weight on his shoulder had lifted, as if the shade-Brit had managed to calm him, as if by magic. Okay, maybe not magic.
Sighing, wondering why his mind had picked an angry British man instead of a busty Frenchwoman, he headed downstairs, humming lightly, lost in his own little world. Walking into his kitchen, he headed straight for the fridge, opening it and pulling out the orange juice. Behind him, the toast’s bell rang through the house and the news reporter on the television informed him that it was going to be very sunny all day. Francis was surprised; it was usually cloudy, or maybe he was just imagining that too.
“Could you shove over please? I want some milk with my tea.” The Frenchman did as he was told, more out of politeness than anything. The body that pushed against him was cold and as the gears began to turn in his mind- “Goddamn… you haven’t even got any in here! First I have to go out and buy a fucking teapot because you didn’t have one and now you tell me you don’t have any milk!? You’ve managed to ruin my morning by just existing. I should’ve let you jump off, then at least I would’ve been doing my paperwork with some fucking tea with milk in it.”
The orange juice container fell to the ground and spilled its citrus insides onto the linoleum. Francis pressed himself against the counter, pulling a knife off the wall, holding it with a trembling hand. “Dieu! How did you get in my house?!” He demanded, jabbing the knife at the intruder.
“What do you think?” Arthur’s head poked out from behind the fridge, “I broke in. The backdoor’s lock was bloody easy to pick.” He closed the door, yawning slightly and walked past the Frenchman and plucking the charred bread out of the toaster and placing it into his mouth.
Wondering why his brain insisted on playing tricks on him, Francis watched the Brit take a seat at the small island, munching on the toast and drinking tea while watching the television, as if this was a regular occurrence. Taking time to inspect this figment of his imagination, Francis squinted his eyes. He wasn’t in the most fashionable of outfits, a ragged black wifebeater and a pair of tight (tight as in he could practically see the Femoral artery pulsing) dark skinny jeans. What happened to the smart, tailored suit?
Thin, slightly scrawny upon first glance, though he could see lean muscles on the bare arms that swelled as he lifted the teacup to his lips. The sandy blond hair was standing up in odd angles, the perfect example of bedhead. Two bushy eyebrows contracted as something on the news displeased him and the green eyes narrowed. Overall, probably his frustrations with the world and its idiotic rules and pressures taking form in an angry British punk.
“Excuse me,” The emerald eyes turned on him, “Why are you wielding a knife at me?”
Looking down, the Frenchman realized that he still had the cleaver clutched in his hand. “Oh…désolé.” He put the knife down. “And… why are you here?”
Swallowing, Arthur took another bite of toast. “ ‘m here ‘cause you need to fix your sorry life.” As he spoke, bits of bread flew from his mouth, making Francis cringe away. As he took a step back, his foot found the puddle of orange juice and he sighed, reaching down and picking up the now-empty container, throwing it moodily into the recycling bin. He turned back to the tile, wondering how much papertowel he was going to need, and froze, eyes widening.
“Where’d the mess go?” He asked, staring at the clean floor, then at Arthur. “Did you…?”
“No.” the Briton finished the last bit of toast, “I was just sittin’ here watching the telly, after all, I’m just a figment of your imagination.” He gave Francis a pointed stare.
Francis folded his arm, leaning against the fridge. The ‘mind-reading’ wasn’t scary; one’s mind should be able to read itself. “If you’re a figment of my imagination, you should be able to leave when I think about you leaving.” He closed his eyes for effect, “There’s no place like a home without a British man. There’s no place like a home without a British man. There’s no place like a home without a British man.” It was a stupid mantra, but this was his mind, he had control.
“Well you better throw those ruby slippers out because I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere.” He opened his eyes. Arthur was standing, still frowning, “Now, since you have no food here but half-stale bread and fucking cheese can we go get some real breakfast?”
Shaking his head, Francis walked out of the kitchen. He was feeling quite hungry and Arthur’s need for food was obviously just his stomach using this apparition as a voice. “Fine. We can go down to Lizzie’s.”
The trip there was quick; Francis had walked the path many times. Lizzie’s was like a second home for him, he knew all the staff personally and when he wasn’t at work or sulking at home, he was complaining to the owner while she poured him his third cup of coffee. Arthur brooded behind him, tugging on a white dress shirt he had seemingly pulled out of nowhere, buttoning it up and grumbling to himself.
A bell rang overhead as Francis stepped inside - he held the door open for Arthur, even though no one else could see him, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be polite to his mind. The restaurant was empty save for an old man sitting at the counter, watching the TV, ranting about how he was a commander back in the war. Everyone knew that he had always worked on a farm, but no one wanted to rain on his parade. The Frenchman took a seat at his usual booth, where he had a view of the harbour, Arthur taking the seat across from him.
“Francis!” Looking round, he spotted the diner’s owner pop her head around the corner of the kitchen. Elizaveta was as smiley and bubbly as ever and Francis felt his gut twitch with guilt when he realized that he hadn’t said goodbye to her. “You’re here!” She hurried over towards them, her long toffee hair held back by a green kerchief, wiping her hands on the front of her apron, managing to avoid getting any mess on her dress. “Oh,” She stopped, looking at Arthur, “Hello there! You must be one of Francis’ friends, my name’s Elizaveta.” She held out a hand.
“Y-You can see him?” Francis said, watching Arthur take the hand and press his lips to it, grinning wickedly at the Frenchman while Elizaveta pulled her hand back, giggling.
“Of course,” She leaned close to Francis, whispering, “He’s cute! Where’d you find him?” And, before Francis could answer, she sauntered off, humming to herself and casting glances over her shoulder at the pair.
Arthur sighed, propping his chin on his hand. “Lovely girl.” Seeing Francis dumbfounded face, he continued, “What? I wasn’t going to tell you I wasn’t a figment of your imagination. I am clearly real.”
Francis scowled at him, but couldn’t pursue the subject as Elizaveta returned, pouring him a cup of coffee, Arthur ordered tea, eggs and sausages, like the British man he was while Francis just asked for some of Elizaveta’s fresh baked bread and some butter. While Arthur stared at the pontificating old man, the Frenchman glowered at him, trying to figure out whether he was just imagining so hard that the apparition had become real or if Arthur was actually a person and he had just made-up Arthur walking on air.
By the time Elizaveta returned with their breakfast, Francis realized that he had been staring at the man for ten whole minutes. Grimacing as Arthur dug into the eggs with what he thought was too much gusto, Francis carefully spread butter over his toast, taking a contemplative bite.
“How are the eggs?” He asked, finishing his first piece of toast, watching Arthur finished the eggs before starting on the meat. The Brit’s face seemed caught in a perpetual frown.
“Utterly unsatisfactory.” Arthur said, munching on the sausages, “The food in heaven is much better.”
“I’m so sorry.” Francis said, rolling his eyes, remembering why he thought Arthur was his imagination in the first place. “But this is the best I can do.”
Ignoring the jib, the Brit just carefully ate his way through the rest of his meal. “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Arthur said, swallowing his last bite and sighing, setting down his fork, “To fix your best. You have five regrets. It’s my job to help you work through them.”
“Why me?”
Arthur shrugged, taking a long sip of his tea. “Dunno. Someone in the higher-ups must like you.”
Sitting back in his seat, Francis looked back out at the harbour, swirling the dregs of his coffee around the bottom of his cup. “I can’t think of anything.” He said finally, looking at Arthur’s green, eyes, wondering why he felt slightly guilty, as if he had disappointed the Brit.
“Really? There’s nothing you regret?” Arthur asked, raiding an eyebrow.
Elizaveta wandered over, smiling at them refilling their drinks, fondly squeezing Francis’ shoulder, obviously under the impression that he was on some kind of date, not getting told his life was lame by a snarky Englishman. “Not that I can think of.”
“Well there’s got to be something or I wouldn’t be goddamn-well here.” Arthur said, slamming his mug onto the table.
Jumping slightly at the sudden noise, Francis tried to change the subject. “You just took His name in vain! You’re an angel, don’t you have rules about that?”
Arthur chuckled. “Does it look like I really care?” He leaned forward, staring Francis straight in the eye, “God is a fucking cocksucker, cunt, whore, bastard, pussy-licking, son-of-a-bitch.” Francis felt his jaw open slightly as Arthur pulled back, smirking at him. “There, happy?”
“You swear, think you’re an angel and believe you were sent to help fix my life.” Shaking his head, he picked up his coffee, taking a steadying drink, “You really are insane.”
“At least I wasn’t the one standing on the railing, ready to toss themselves. Now listen here,” snatching a napkin from it’s holder, he pulled a pen that was definitely not there before from behind his ear, “We’re going to write the regrets down. So, name something.”
“I already told you, I can’t think of any.”
“I wasn’t sent here to argue with you.”
“Fine. I regret not jumping off the bridge.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“I thought you weren’t sent here to argue.”
“Look.” Arthur threw the pen down on the table, leaning back, running his hands over his face. “You’re the only thing keeping me here, the only thing keeping me from the Pearly Gates.” Sighing heavily, he dropped his hands back to the table, his green eyes slightly glassy, (or maybe it was just the light) “I just want move on.”
Francis looked away from the Brit, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’ll play along.” He saw Arthur grin out of the corner of his eye, “So are there any limits, or rules or something?”
“Of course.” Arthur picked up the pen, letting it twirl in his fingers, “You can’t do anything that could harm another person or yourself.”
“That’s it?” Francis was honestly surprised. This man’s empty promises sounded rather nice if they weren’t complete lies. “What about money?”
“We’ll face that problem when it arises.” Arthur put the pen to the napkin, looking at Francis expectantly.
Deciding to play the Englishman’s little game, Francis put some seriously thought into his regrets. It was almost like figuring out the reasons why he wanted to jump off the bridge presented to him in a nice neat form. “I want to paint a picture of the countryside where I grew up.”
“Tch.”
Francis’ mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“I was expecting something like ‘I want a million dollars’ or ‘I want to live forever’.” Arthur said, slowly writing, swearing every time to napkin ripped on the tip of his pen.
“Those aren’t regrets.” Francis countered.
Finishing the word and stabbing the period, Arthur looked at Francis, clearly unamused. “You don’t think people think on their deathbeds, ‘Damn, I wish I could’ve lived forever’? Or that they lose their jobs and the thought of ‘If only I had a billion dollars right now…’ doesn’t go through their head? Don’t be naïve Francis. We are foolish, selfish, sad creatures.”
Francis couldn’t argue with the man. It was too true. Arthur seemed so young, but the words coming out of his mouth betrayed a man who had seen the world at it’s worse. Grabbing his mug, Francis finished the last of his coffee. The Brit just stared out the window, his eyes distant as he tapped his biro nervously against the table.
“I’ve always wanted to hear Ave Maria live. With a full orchestra and everything.” Francis spoke, setting his mug down.
It took the Brit a moment before he started to write again, “Ave… Maria…”
Not wanting to go back to that awkward silence of before, Francis continued to talk. “I want to ride a horse.”
Watching Arthur bit his lip, as if resisting the urge to make a comment, Francis watching him carefully. “You’ve never?” He asked finally, grinning slightly.
“No. My mother hated animals. And I’ve always admired the waitress here, but I’ve never asked her out.” Looking around, Francis watched Elizaveta clean up a few dishes, smiling kindly at her customers, wishing them all to have a wonderful day. She really did suit the small-diner owner part almost perfectly.
“Ask… waitress… out… Okay, one more.”
Francis had been so concerned with Elizaveta that his fifth and final regret slipped out before he could stop himself. “I… I want to fall in love.” He said, clutching the mug tightly, noticing a moment too late what he had said. Swallowing, he looked to Arthur, who was shaking his head.
“This isn’t a goddamn Kate Winslet movie, name something serious.” Francis felt his face fall and his cheeks blush in embarrassment. He closed his eyes, tilting his head down in shame. Here was a madman telling him he was being an idiot and the sad thing was that it was completely true. “Oh…” He heard Arthur breath. The pen started it’s annoyed tapping.
“It’s stupid,” Francis said, keeping his gaze averted, studying the table, “Just... forget it, cross it off the list.”
“No... if it’s a regret I can’t leave until it’s fulfilled.” Watching the pen slide across the napkin in a scrawled fashion, Francis finally managed to gather the strength to raise his head. Arthur was staring at the list. “Not a bad list. Should be pretty easy. Do you want to do these in order?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. I still think you’re totally insane.” Francis said, trying to regain some of his nonchalantness he had held this morning. He wished desperately that Elizaveta would come over and give him an excuse to look at something else besides Arthur.
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Slipping the napkin into his pocket with some difficulty, Arthur got to his feet, finishing the last of his tea in one long chug, “Be ready to leave tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.” Stuffing one hand into his pocket, the other running through his hair, the Brit started towards the door.
“Hey wait! Where are you going?” But Arthur gave no response. He stepped outside, glancing up to the sky frowning. After a minute of glaring at the sky, rain suddenly began to pour down and Francis remembered vaguely about the weatherman telling him it was going to be very sunny.
Also getting to his feet, Francis pulled out his wallet, fishing out a few bills and throwing them onto the table. Elizaveta walked by, picking up the plates. “An odd guy?” She asked, placing a hand on her hip, watching the grinning Brit cross the road and disappear around a corner.
“You have no idea.”
Chapter 3>>
Author’s Note
Um, thank you all for the wonderful reception this story has gotten… I wasn’t expecting this many people to like it~