[Fanfiction] - Watching you, {Part 2}
Title: Watching you
Pairing: US/UK, minor FrUK
Rating: PG13
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is a private investigator who meets Arthur Kirkland - a man in the need of help. His successful lover may be having an affair. As time passes by, Arthur might have one, too, with a certain investigator.
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Arthur hadn't been lying when he said that he would get me any information I could possibly need. As I entered my office Monday morning with a blood alcohol level that would have any average man sent straight into the graveyard, I found a thick, blue map waiting for me at the desk. Special delivery from Arthur Kirkland himself. It smelled of Bailey tea and expensive tobacco.
As I started to flip through the pages, the first though that hit me was: what the hell does he expect me to do? Every page was filled to the brim with information on Francis Bonnefoy. Nothing had been left out; when he got up, when he took a bath, when he ate breakfast and what kind of muesli he preferred, when he got to work, got home, took a piss, masturbated, shaved legs, forgot to shave legs, had meetings, had a new sports car. It was as if Arthur wasn't his boyfriend, but rather some kind of creepy stalker with too much spare time on his hands. He had probably only hired me because he wasn't keen on cancelling his daily nail-therapy at the Korean beauty shop to go and look into the bedroom and check if Francis was getting it on with someone.
I'll admit it, I almost felt insulted. Did he think lowly of my ability to investigate? If not, why would he have gotten me all this stuff? If I ever was in the need of money, I could sell a paragraph a day of this shit to the newspapers and earn my living that way! The thought humoured me. Then the phone rang.
"Alfred F. Jones, private investigator for-"
"I know that!" Arthur's voice was colder than the Russian winters. I forced my lips up into a smile.
"Hello, darling."
"Why haven't you called? It's already three!" I raised my brows and threw a look at my watch above the door. He was right. Five minutes past three to be accurate. I sloped my head to the site and gnawed at a nail.
"Funny, I thought it was still early in the morning."
"Have you found the map yet?" I slid my fingers across the blue front of the thick pile of papers.
"Yes, and it confuses me. What is it you need for me to investigate? It seems you've got it all already."
"I am just helping you out the best I can. As you may have noticed, I do not have any information on what he's doing when at work." Politely I flipped through a few pages loudly in order for him to hear that I was actually looking at the written words.
"Oh, yeah, I noticed that right away."
"Liar," he whispered, then cleared his throat before he continued, "The whole problem is his work. I can't go anywhere he works without being noticed. They know who I am. So you'll have to go." I nodded, and then remembered he couldn't see me.
"Sure thing."
"There's a scheme in the back of the map. You can see when he leaves for work and when he returns. You'll have to see what he's up to in those hours."
"What kind of evidence are you looking for? Photos, sound recording, films…"
"All you can possibly get. Dirty details, snapshots, anything. Just don't be risky. You'll have to do it unseen." There were some loud sounds in the background. Arthur's voice disappeared for a moment, then returned lowly, "Get to work, report back at Friday." The line was cut. I sighed and put down the phone.
Arthur was no atypical costumer. Most people wanted all they could get for the money, but often they wouldn't be looking at it in the end. They just needed to see one photo of their husband doing the dirty stuff, and then they broke down in tears or went nuts in anger. Only once had I experienced a woman who wanted every photo and movie I had recorded. When I asked her why, she admitted, "I always knew he was fucking his secretary, but I think she's so sexy I just wanted to watch them getting it on."
Yes, folks, this world is a sexual mess. I swear, if Freud was living today, he wouldn't only question Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower - he would be analysing his brain to a bloody mess interviewing the people of today. Hell, I was no difference. I had seen Arthur's stuck-up English face once, and I had already jerked off to it twice this weekend.
I had gotten lost in my own thoughts. I sighed, stretched my arms above my head lazily and peeled a cigarette out of my pocket, lit it and inhaled. Cheap tobacco, the kind that rips up your lungs and leaves you with cancer after only three boxes of cigarettes having passed across your lips. I blew out the smoke and pressed my nose to Arthur's blue map and imagined the smell from his fine, French ones belonged to mine. Not that I am a fan of French stuff, though French girls do know how to use their tongue - yes, experience speaking.
I grabbed the map and turned it over, looking at the last page. Francis' schedule. Monday - Friday: work from 8 in the morning until five in the evening. Sometimes Saturdays in the afternoon, sometimes Sundays in the morning. The last one made me the most suspicious. What kind of man gets out of bed early Sunday morning unless he's promised something good? This could be my first clue to solving Francis' love-life.
There was, however, one thing that looked more suspicious than working Sunday morning - the fact that Arthur hadn't included a single thing about himself. I turned over every page. Not a single thing. Of course I am to follow Francis and not him, but mostly clients can't help but share details about themselves in the run. Something along the lines of, 'When he's out, I just stroll around and wait for phone calls," or, "as I checked her messages one day, I found-.' But not once did Arthur use his own name, nor 'I'. I leaned back into the chair and inhaled deeply, closing the eyes slightly.
"What a wary, little man."
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Tuesday morning I sat in my old blue Fiat, waiting outside a little flower shop while throwing looks up the apartment building. Apparently, Arthur and Francis had three different homes they used for different occasions; an apartment here in the normal streets of the town, when they just wanted to fit in and look like everybody else. (If you can do that while wearing socks to $300 each). A house in the I-am-rich-and-better-looking-than-you-and-if-not-I-can-pay-for-plastic-surgery-hah!- part of the city which they used for… Well, obvious reasons. And yet an apartment in the centre of the shopping area, used when Francis needed some time off from Arthur.
Apparently it had been used a rather lot recently which was one of the reasons for Arthur's worries.
The timers neared eight. I sunk down deeper into the seat, letting my gaze wander outside the window. Some romantic dude was buying roses with a big smile. Tall, blond, looked European. Reminded me of Francis. As he turned around I realised that it was in fact Francis.
"Fuck." I quickly looked away and acted as if I was very busy operating my non-existing radio. He didn't offer me one look, just walked straight pass the car and in through a door. I looked up as it slammed shut - looked up and felt stupid. It had been a while since I had a good job, but not noticing the one I was shadowing when he was practically in my face that worried me a little.
I decided to be more careful, watched the door for five minutes straight until it opened again. Francis came out first, followed by Arthur wearing nothing but boxers, a shirt and some fuzzy shoes. A stupid grin crossed my lips and I leaned forward, resting my nose at the steering wheel while watching them kiss goodbye. Francis had changed into an earth-brown coat (probably fashionable, though it looked worn-out from where I was sitting), brown boots and a blue hat. He reminded me a little of a comic-character.
Mental note: the new Superman is out tomorrow, make sure to get it.
I followed Francis with my gaze as he walked to his golden car - according to Arthur's papers an 'informal, little Mercedes-Benz' - and got in behind the wheel. He started the motor and waved at Arthur, but the Englishman had already gotten inside again. Though I was sitting metres away, the disappointment in his face was clear. It, however, had already disappeared as he drove pass me, and I had little time to wonder as I had to be quick and follow him, before loosing sight of him.