Cloudy with a Chance of Fog [Hetalia; America/England]
Title: Cloudy with a Chance of Fog
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairings: America/England
Word Count 3,000
Warnings: PG-13. Alternate universe; hence, use of human names.
Summary It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn't ask questions (like the curious), he doesn't fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph (like a fan) and he doesn't go back to work (like anyone else would). Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted and watching Arthur steadily.
Status: "Complete."
Author's Notes: Written for akira_nagato for usxuk's Secret Santa 2012 exchange. Happy New Year!
Prompt: Arthur and Alfred fall in love despite one of them being a celebrity while the other is a commoner.
Arthur walks along the empty street, his shadow chasing and running ahead of him at turns as he passes street lamp after street lamp. Clouds brew above his head; even without them, the sky is not bright enough to call dawn, and Arthur draws his trench coat tighter around him.
He has maybe an hour before his agent and probably his publicist figure out he’s has gone wandering out in public without notice again. Toris and Feliks are great at their jobs but they work for an actor, and this morning Arthur just wants to be any other regular Briton who happens to be walking around Los Angeles. He's still running on London time and has been up for hours. His makeup artist will have a fit at the shadows under his eyes, but it’s a common battle they wage. With Arthur’s typically pale English skin, even the slightest discoloration in his complexion shows up like bruises.
He’s craving a decent pot of tea badly enough that he ducks into an all-night coffee shop; that, and the imagined controlled fit Toris will have if Arthur caught a cold now. His agent would still likely press meds and liquids on him and clear up his schedule for some rest, but there would be no escaping Felik’s hysterics.
The press of cold glass under his hands is welcoming; so is the warmth of the cafe. Arthur blinks as he makes his way up to the counter. The lights are turned down, dimmed, casting warm umber globes of light across the dark floor. The ever-present aroma of heady coffee and baked goods wraps around him and it’s pleasant even if Arthur prefers the more delicate scent of tea. There’s no one behind the counter, but there’s a little sign made out of folded blue cardboard with a message written in bold marker: give a holler when you’ve got your order :)
“Hello?” Arthur calls out, projecting his voice.
“Be right with you!” The answer comes back from past a half-ajar employee’s door behind the counter, only slightly muffled by distance, and Arthur finds himself inexplicably pleased at the acoustics of the room. “Let me know what you want and go ahead and take a seat!”
“Just Earl Grey, thanks.”
Arthur settles himself at a tall table and stool near the wide front windows, half hidden behind a wall column. He unbuttons his trench coat and strips the gloves from his hands, and closes his eyes, trusting the rest of his senses to keep him alert in the quiet cafe.
He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, and a young man - dishevelled blond hair, bright, bright blue eyes under a pair of red-rimmed glasses, black apron over what looks like hoodie - bustles through the backdoor. He glances immediately in Arthur’s direction, giving a quick little salute of acknowledgment, then reaches over to flick several machines on. He disappears behind a steamer, and soon the sound of bubbling liquid and the hushed grind of machines fill the air.
Arthur closes his eyes again.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
A mug of a frothy, milky drink appears in front of Arthur. He's still jetlagged and lethargic enough that he says the very first thing that comes to mind. "That's not tea."
“There’s Earl Grey in it,” the barista counters. “I thought you’d appreciate it. You know,” he gestures to all of Arthur, then points to the mug with a flourish, “you being British and that being London Fog and all.”
He looks so pleased with himself that Arthur doesn’t quite know how to react. Again, his more acerbic side seizes control. “You do realise that the London Fog recipe came from Canada. British Columbia, I believe.”
He only catches the flash of startled almost-hurt because he’s arching an eyebrow at the barista. A second later, the other man’s expression brightens several notches, wide grin firmly in place. It’s a cover up worthy of any actor pulling in a decent salary. “Then whoever came up with it has got some seriously messed up naming sense.” He pulls a face, running a hand restlessly through his hair. “Or just really bad geography.”
And suddenly Arthur feels like an absolute bastard.
“No - sorry. That’s... unforgivably rude of me.” He resists the urge to scrub at his face and wraps his cold hands around the cup instead. He looks at the barista, catching those blue eyes and holding his gaze. “You went out of your way to make this for me. Thank you.”
For a moment they just stare at each other, and then a corner of the barista’s mouth pulls up into a lopsided, more natural grin. “No biggie. I’m supposed to make drinks, you know, that’s why I stand behind the counter. Barista and all that.”
Arthur gives him a small smile, then lifts the cup to his lips. The tea latte is milky and vanilla sweet on his tongue with the underlying familiarity of Earl Grey; it spreads warmth down his throat into his chest. It’s homey and comforting and rather suited for gloomy predawn, in hindsight.
“You’re Arthur Kirkland.”
Arthur’s head snaps up, startled. All right, he’s not exactly obscure - he’s been in the industry for well over a decade - but Arthur knows his fame’s mostly confined to his native country. To be so easily recognised across the pond, when he’s not at any event where people expect to see him, is a bit unnerving - especially when the barista doesn’t sound or act at all like a fan.
The barista grins and waves a hand in the air as if to dismiss all concerns. “Mattie’s was dead gone on Grey when it came out. He always liked the dramatic, more philosophical stuff. So I’ve watched that movie a couple of times.”
Arthur raises the cup, taking a sip of the brew automatically. “You recognized me from that? It was a supporting role.” My hair was dyed platinum blonde, my profile was always cast in shadow and I carried a guitar in almost every scene I was in, he didn’t add.
The barista shrugs, leaning his chin on his cupped palm, his other hand fiddling with a - is that a screwdriver? “I work at a coffee shop. I’m good with faces.”
“Oh.” Arthur eyes the young man across for him for a moment, then - because they’ve done everything backwards this morning - replies with, “And you’re Alfred.”
The caffeine and sugar has kicked in, because he hadn’t noticed the nametag until that moment, but Alfred grins at him. “That’s me, yep.”
The silence that falls between them is almost awkward. Arthur does not fiddle with the stirrer or chug down the latte in jumpy gulps, but takes it in measured sips. It’s a habit that makes others a bit nervous; Arthur has never minded silence, but everyone else seems to feel the need to fill it up with idle small talk, or to flick him speculative sideways glances that they think he doesn’t notice because he doesn’t bother staring.
It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn’t ask questions (like the curious), he doesn’t fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph (like a fan) and he doesn’t go back to work (like anyone else would). Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted and watching Arthur steadily.
Arthur arches an eyebrow.
“You look beat.”
Arthur feels his eyebrows jump. “So do you,” he points out, because Alfred’s alert enough, restless enough that numerous cups of coffee is likely to be involved, but he’s got that worn, slightly unwound look to him that Arthur’s far too familiar with. “And don’t tell me it’s because you work at an all-night cafe.”
Alfred shrugs. “It’s true, though. We get a lot of college students really late at night and the cafe’s pretty cosy even at like three, but it’s hard to get someone in at 5 a.m., so I just stay up.”
“You didn’t sleep at all?”
Alfred shoots him a grin. “We’re not really in the business district or anything so we don’t get much of a morning crowd. It’s peaceful. Gives me a chance to do my tinkering.” He wobbles the screwdriver in Arthur’s direction.
“Not just tinkering.”
“Hmm?”
Arthur curls one hand around his now half-empty mug. “It’s important enough, or you’re passionate enough to make time for it, prioritize it over sleep. You’re not just tinkering.”
“You’re right.” Alfred jerks his head towards the counter. “No, depending on the night, I sometimes pull shots, blend different drinks, practice latte art, you know, the stuff good baristas do. The rest of the time - I fix things. Maintain and program the machines. Invent stuff, for a very generous definition of the word ‘invent’.”
The last sentence is spoken with an affected air, enough that Arthur knows Alfred’s quoting someone, but Alfred says it in a fond enough tone that it has to be from someone close, made in a teasing manner.
“You’re an engineer.”
Alfred’s eyes are bright under his glasses. “Yeah. I guess you can say that.”
Arthur takes a long draw from his cup, swirls the mouthful over his tongue to savour the milky, fragrant taste, and the thought is still there when he swallows. He gives in. “You didn’t draw any designs on my latte.”
“It’s a tinkering night, sorry. My brain’s stuck on analytics and electrical circuits and mathematical formulae. I’ll draw you one next time.”
If Feliks were here, his publicist would declare that they’re flirting with each other. They’re not, Arthur’s doesn’t intend it, but he can’t help his interest; there’s something about this half-mad young man that catches at him.
His phone vibrates, a jolt against his side, and the moment slips away; he always forgets to set it back to ringing after leaving a set or getting off the plane. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the ID.
“I have to take this.”
“Sure,” Alfred says, and tips his stool back, hopping off and disappearing back behind the counter. Arthur watches him walk away for a moment, then connects the call. “Good morning, Toris.”
“All right, Arthur?” Toris’ voice comes across the line, warm and slightly concerned.
Arthur brushes idle fingertips against the empty cup. “I needed to clear my mind before I go on set later.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out; he still feels a little worn from the lack of sleep and the flying, but his mind is calm and startling clear, and there’s a warm core of certainty in the centre of his chest - a feeling of heightened confidence that, Arthur’s come to notice, precedes some of his best performances. “It’s going to be a good show, today.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I know the sudden change in location and time zone and weather get to a lot of people. Actors are no exception. Want me to meet you where you are?”
“No, I’ll come back to the hotel.” Arthur glances out the wide windows; weak sunlight is beginning to filter through the cloud cover, washed out and worn against the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It reminds Arthur a little of London at this time of year.
He makes his goodbyes to Toris and reaches for his wallet, bypassing the pound and Euro notes for the dollar bills, counting out a generous tip, when Alfred comes back, a takeaway cup in hand.
“On the house. Seriously. You look like you need half a dozen London Fogs. You should just switch to coffee. And-” Alfred interrupts before Arthur can speak, grinning - one would almost think he delights in interrupting, Arthur thinks idly, “-before you get all self-righteous on getting freebies, that tip you're leaving is more than enough to cover another latte.”
Arthur blinks, and Alfred shoves the cup into his hands.
“Thanks,” he says belatedly, and there’s a little smile stealing across his lips, he can feel it. “I’ll let you get back to your tinkering, then.”
“It’s not tinkering, remember?” Alfred shoots back, and there’s a minute pause before they react, Alfred snickering into one hand and Arthur chuckling quietly.
“Have a good day,” Arthur says, lifting the takeaway cup in silent thanks again, and heads towards the exit.
“You should have won the Globe.”
Arthur’s thoughts screech to a halt; his body follows along, his hand freezing on the bar of the cafe’s door. He turns around. “Sorry?”
Alfred’s tossing the screwdriver up and snatching it from the air now, a smooth rolling movement; he doesn’t even need to look at what his hand is doing. “Edgar, in Grey. Obsessed guitarist bent on composing one song of glory. That scene with Anya, when you’re just dead-out driven to capture the music-yeah. Not going to forget that any time soon.” He catches the screwdriver one last time and returns it to his pocket, then leans over and lightly flicks Arthur between the eyes. “You’ve got the same light in your eyes right now. Dangerously in love with what you do.”
It’s always, always flattering when fans tell him they love his acting, his shows, but this-this is different. Arthur’s more than flattered; he’s absurdly happy, it’s creeping up on him, and he has to duck his head before an incredulous smile can take his face.
He pushes Alfred’s hand out of his face, catching and holding Alfred’s gaze when his vision’s no longer blocked. “‘Dangerously in love with what you do,’” he says softly. “Takes one to know one.”
Alfred’s eyes widen; Arthur has caught him off-guard this time, and Arthur has to smirk a little, let a bit of his acting presence filter into his posture.
When he speaks, however, it’s not an act at all. “Thank you for the drink, and the conversation, tinkerer.”
Alfred recovers quickly. He lifts his chin, and salutes Arthur with his screwdriver. “Any time.”
Arthur slides out the door with Alfred’s gaze on his back.
-----
From the red carpet of the Golden Globes
(It’s open season on the red carpet. Actresses in dresses of all colours, although the weather means more shawls and heavier fabrics, and actors in their tailored suits - it’s all in the details for them. The cut, the subtle patterns, tie or bow tie, cufflinks, polished shoes. A young man strides behind the waves of couples; he’s alone but comfortable in the fact, the calm, confident air around him pulling the eye, his subtle, fluid movements arresting attention. His hair is windswept, but the man himself appears impeccable in a well tailored suit that hugs all his slim lines and a tie that sets off his green eyes. It’s not quite his turn with the interviewers and he waits, taking the time to survey his surroundings, the crowd beyond the barriers, but the interviewer swings eagerly in his direction; he’s quick on his feet, looking straight into the camera and smiling, then tilting his head towards the interviewer to hear him better through the din of noise)
Interviewer: And here's an up and coming star who is charming lords and ladies alike with his nuanced ways and intense performances. Propelled into international limelight for his supporting role in the award-winning psychological thriller Grey, for which he was nominated for a Globe two years ago, and well-loved for playing the Lord Williams on British series Chatsworth House - it's Arthur Kirkland!
Arthur Kirkland: Good evening.
I: You're making waves, Arthur. There's been quite a buzz about you.
AK: Yes, I hadn't quite realized. (he gives an acknowledging nod to the crowd and smiles the slow, quiet smile that is his trademark; the screams and applause from the audience swells). It doesn't really sink in until you're in front of an audience like this.
I: I saw you on TV last weekend, in fact, trading barbs with the detective team of Autopsis (in an aside for uninitiated audiences) Arthur plays a visiting forensics expert in the hit investigative series, folks. (turns back) You were really very good.
AK: It's kind of you to say so. Peter's a guest role so I'm afraid you won't see me after this season, but it's been a pleasure.
I: How are you finding America? You've been spending quite a bit of time in L.A.
AK: Yes, I’ve been working on a few projects here, actually. The people are friendly, the work is rewarding, and I must confess - it's a lot sunnier here than it would be in London.
I: (makes a show of looking around) I see lots of lovely ladies around, but no plus one for you today?
AK: (laughs) No, not quite. I’m here with friends, you know, catching up with a few classmates, cheering on some colleagues.
I: I’m sure the ladies will be happy to hear that you’re still on the market... for now.
AK: (blushes slightly) Now you’re just flattering me.
I: One last question before we let you go -- I can see they're impatient for you further down the carpet. The eternal debate: coffee or tea?
AK: (instantly) Tea. (they laugh) But I've been enamoured by a hybrid of it, of late.
I: And that would be?
AK: A tea latte. London Fog. It seems to have become my beverage of choice here. (he looks away, a quiet, enigmatic smile on his face - there’s definitely an inside story here, a look that many a fan will pour over and speculate on when the footage goes out, but that the interviewer misses).
I: Patriotic indeed!
AK: (a flicker of surprise crosses his face before his smile widens) When you put it that way, I suppose so.
I: Ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Kirkland!
AK: Thank you very much.
(they shake hands. The interviewer murmurs a few quick words, grinning, and Arthur smiles back, before glancing back up, giving a small wave at cameras flashing all around him)
end.
tbc
Notes
- London Fog: made from Earl Grey tea, steamed milk and vanilla syrup. It's delicious.
- So, the reason why this is marked "complete" and tagged tbc is because I came up with an entire long backstory for Arthur's career, the plot for the development of Alfred and Arthur's relationship (how they get from the scene in the cafe to the time during that Globes interview) - and very much beyond. It's become terribly monstrous; there was no way I could have finished the whole thing for this Secret Santa and I didn't want to rush it, so this will stand as a one-shot for now. If I ever finish writing the story I want to tell in this 'verse, this will basically serve as the prologue of that fic
I very much hope you enjoyed reading this!
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairings: America/England
Word Count 3,000
Warnings: PG-13. Alternate universe; hence, use of human names.
Summary It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn't ask questions (like the curious), he doesn't fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph (like a fan) and he doesn't go back to work (like anyone else would). Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted and watching Arthur steadily.
Status: "Complete."
Author's Notes: Written for akira_nagato for usxuk's Secret Santa 2012 exchange. Happy New Year!
Prompt: Arthur and Alfred fall in love despite one of them being a celebrity while the other is a commoner.
Arthur walks along the empty street, his shadow chasing and running ahead of him at turns as he passes street lamp after street lamp. Clouds brew above his head; even without them, the sky is not bright enough to call dawn, and Arthur draws his trench coat tighter around him.
He has maybe an hour before his agent and probably his publicist figure out he’s has gone wandering out in public without notice again. Toris and Feliks are great at their jobs but they work for an actor, and this morning Arthur just wants to be any other regular Briton who happens to be walking around Los Angeles. He's still running on London time and has been up for hours. His makeup artist will have a fit at the shadows under his eyes, but it’s a common battle they wage. With Arthur’s typically pale English skin, even the slightest discoloration in his complexion shows up like bruises.
He’s craving a decent pot of tea badly enough that he ducks into an all-night coffee shop; that, and the imagined controlled fit Toris will have if Arthur caught a cold now. His agent would still likely press meds and liquids on him and clear up his schedule for some rest, but there would be no escaping Felik’s hysterics.
The press of cold glass under his hands is welcoming; so is the warmth of the cafe. Arthur blinks as he makes his way up to the counter. The lights are turned down, dimmed, casting warm umber globes of light across the dark floor. The ever-present aroma of heady coffee and baked goods wraps around him and it’s pleasant even if Arthur prefers the more delicate scent of tea. There’s no one behind the counter, but there’s a little sign made out of folded blue cardboard with a message written in bold marker: give a holler when you’ve got your order :)
“Hello?” Arthur calls out, projecting his voice.
“Be right with you!” The answer comes back from past a half-ajar employee’s door behind the counter, only slightly muffled by distance, and Arthur finds himself inexplicably pleased at the acoustics of the room. “Let me know what you want and go ahead and take a seat!”
“Just Earl Grey, thanks.”
Arthur settles himself at a tall table and stool near the wide front windows, half hidden behind a wall column. He unbuttons his trench coat and strips the gloves from his hands, and closes his eyes, trusting the rest of his senses to keep him alert in the quiet cafe.
He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, and a young man - dishevelled blond hair, bright, bright blue eyes under a pair of red-rimmed glasses, black apron over what looks like hoodie - bustles through the backdoor. He glances immediately in Arthur’s direction, giving a quick little salute of acknowledgment, then reaches over to flick several machines on. He disappears behind a steamer, and soon the sound of bubbling liquid and the hushed grind of machines fill the air.
Arthur closes his eyes again.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
A mug of a frothy, milky drink appears in front of Arthur. He's still jetlagged and lethargic enough that he says the very first thing that comes to mind. "That's not tea."
“There’s Earl Grey in it,” the barista counters. “I thought you’d appreciate it. You know,” he gestures to all of Arthur, then points to the mug with a flourish, “you being British and that being London Fog and all.”
He looks so pleased with himself that Arthur doesn’t quite know how to react. Again, his more acerbic side seizes control. “You do realise that the London Fog recipe came from Canada. British Columbia, I believe.”
He only catches the flash of startled almost-hurt because he’s arching an eyebrow at the barista. A second later, the other man’s expression brightens several notches, wide grin firmly in place. It’s a cover up worthy of any actor pulling in a decent salary. “Then whoever came up with it has got some seriously messed up naming sense.” He pulls a face, running a hand restlessly through his hair. “Or just really bad geography.”
And suddenly Arthur feels like an absolute bastard.
“No - sorry. That’s... unforgivably rude of me.” He resists the urge to scrub at his face and wraps his cold hands around the cup instead. He looks at the barista, catching those blue eyes and holding his gaze. “You went out of your way to make this for me. Thank you.”
For a moment they just stare at each other, and then a corner of the barista’s mouth pulls up into a lopsided, more natural grin. “No biggie. I’m supposed to make drinks, you know, that’s why I stand behind the counter. Barista and all that.”
Arthur gives him a small smile, then lifts the cup to his lips. The tea latte is milky and vanilla sweet on his tongue with the underlying familiarity of Earl Grey; it spreads warmth down his throat into his chest. It’s homey and comforting and rather suited for gloomy predawn, in hindsight.
“You’re Arthur Kirkland.”
Arthur’s head snaps up, startled. All right, he’s not exactly obscure - he’s been in the industry for well over a decade - but Arthur knows his fame’s mostly confined to his native country. To be so easily recognised across the pond, when he’s not at any event where people expect to see him, is a bit unnerving - especially when the barista doesn’t sound or act at all like a fan.
The barista grins and waves a hand in the air as if to dismiss all concerns. “Mattie’s was dead gone on Grey when it came out. He always liked the dramatic, more philosophical stuff. So I’ve watched that movie a couple of times.”
Arthur raises the cup, taking a sip of the brew automatically. “You recognized me from that? It was a supporting role.” My hair was dyed platinum blonde, my profile was always cast in shadow and I carried a guitar in almost every scene I was in, he didn’t add.
The barista shrugs, leaning his chin on his cupped palm, his other hand fiddling with a - is that a screwdriver? “I work at a coffee shop. I’m good with faces.”
“Oh.” Arthur eyes the young man across for him for a moment, then - because they’ve done everything backwards this morning - replies with, “And you’re Alfred.”
The caffeine and sugar has kicked in, because he hadn’t noticed the nametag until that moment, but Alfred grins at him. “That’s me, yep.”
The silence that falls between them is almost awkward. Arthur does not fiddle with the stirrer or chug down the latte in jumpy gulps, but takes it in measured sips. It’s a habit that makes others a bit nervous; Arthur has never minded silence, but everyone else seems to feel the need to fill it up with idle small talk, or to flick him speculative sideways glances that they think he doesn’t notice because he doesn’t bother staring.
It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn’t ask questions (like the curious), he doesn’t fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph (like a fan) and he doesn’t go back to work (like anyone else would). Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted and watching Arthur steadily.
Arthur arches an eyebrow.
“You look beat.”
Arthur feels his eyebrows jump. “So do you,” he points out, because Alfred’s alert enough, restless enough that numerous cups of coffee is likely to be involved, but he’s got that worn, slightly unwound look to him that Arthur’s far too familiar with. “And don’t tell me it’s because you work at an all-night cafe.”
Alfred shrugs. “It’s true, though. We get a lot of college students really late at night and the cafe’s pretty cosy even at like three, but it’s hard to get someone in at 5 a.m., so I just stay up.”
“You didn’t sleep at all?”
Alfred shoots him a grin. “We’re not really in the business district or anything so we don’t get much of a morning crowd. It’s peaceful. Gives me a chance to do my tinkering.” He wobbles the screwdriver in Arthur’s direction.
“Not just tinkering.”
“Hmm?”
Arthur curls one hand around his now half-empty mug. “It’s important enough, or you’re passionate enough to make time for it, prioritize it over sleep. You’re not just tinkering.”
“You’re right.” Alfred jerks his head towards the counter. “No, depending on the night, I sometimes pull shots, blend different drinks, practice latte art, you know, the stuff good baristas do. The rest of the time - I fix things. Maintain and program the machines. Invent stuff, for a very generous definition of the word ‘invent’.”
The last sentence is spoken with an affected air, enough that Arthur knows Alfred’s quoting someone, but Alfred says it in a fond enough tone that it has to be from someone close, made in a teasing manner.
“You’re an engineer.”
Alfred’s eyes are bright under his glasses. “Yeah. I guess you can say that.”
Arthur takes a long draw from his cup, swirls the mouthful over his tongue to savour the milky, fragrant taste, and the thought is still there when he swallows. He gives in. “You didn’t draw any designs on my latte.”
“It’s a tinkering night, sorry. My brain’s stuck on analytics and electrical circuits and mathematical formulae. I’ll draw you one next time.”
If Feliks were here, his publicist would declare that they’re flirting with each other. They’re not, Arthur’s doesn’t intend it, but he can’t help his interest; there’s something about this half-mad young man that catches at him.
His phone vibrates, a jolt against his side, and the moment slips away; he always forgets to set it back to ringing after leaving a set or getting off the plane. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the ID.
“I have to take this.”
“Sure,” Alfred says, and tips his stool back, hopping off and disappearing back behind the counter. Arthur watches him walk away for a moment, then connects the call. “Good morning, Toris.”
“All right, Arthur?” Toris’ voice comes across the line, warm and slightly concerned.
Arthur brushes idle fingertips against the empty cup. “I needed to clear my mind before I go on set later.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out; he still feels a little worn from the lack of sleep and the flying, but his mind is calm and startling clear, and there’s a warm core of certainty in the centre of his chest - a feeling of heightened confidence that, Arthur’s come to notice, precedes some of his best performances. “It’s going to be a good show, today.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I know the sudden change in location and time zone and weather get to a lot of people. Actors are no exception. Want me to meet you where you are?”
“No, I’ll come back to the hotel.” Arthur glances out the wide windows; weak sunlight is beginning to filter through the cloud cover, washed out and worn against the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It reminds Arthur a little of London at this time of year.
He makes his goodbyes to Toris and reaches for his wallet, bypassing the pound and Euro notes for the dollar bills, counting out a generous tip, when Alfred comes back, a takeaway cup in hand.
“On the house. Seriously. You look like you need half a dozen London Fogs. You should just switch to coffee. And-” Alfred interrupts before Arthur can speak, grinning - one would almost think he delights in interrupting, Arthur thinks idly, “-before you get all self-righteous on getting freebies, that tip you're leaving is more than enough to cover another latte.”
Arthur blinks, and Alfred shoves the cup into his hands.
“Thanks,” he says belatedly, and there’s a little smile stealing across his lips, he can feel it. “I’ll let you get back to your tinkering, then.”
“It’s not tinkering, remember?” Alfred shoots back, and there’s a minute pause before they react, Alfred snickering into one hand and Arthur chuckling quietly.
“Have a good day,” Arthur says, lifting the takeaway cup in silent thanks again, and heads towards the exit.
“You should have won the Globe.”
Arthur’s thoughts screech to a halt; his body follows along, his hand freezing on the bar of the cafe’s door. He turns around. “Sorry?”
Alfred’s tossing the screwdriver up and snatching it from the air now, a smooth rolling movement; he doesn’t even need to look at what his hand is doing. “Edgar, in Grey. Obsessed guitarist bent on composing one song of glory. That scene with Anya, when you’re just dead-out driven to capture the music-yeah. Not going to forget that any time soon.” He catches the screwdriver one last time and returns it to his pocket, then leans over and lightly flicks Arthur between the eyes. “You’ve got the same light in your eyes right now. Dangerously in love with what you do.”
It’s always, always flattering when fans tell him they love his acting, his shows, but this-this is different. Arthur’s more than flattered; he’s absurdly happy, it’s creeping up on him, and he has to duck his head before an incredulous smile can take his face.
He pushes Alfred’s hand out of his face, catching and holding Alfred’s gaze when his vision’s no longer blocked. “‘Dangerously in love with what you do,’” he says softly. “Takes one to know one.”
Alfred’s eyes widen; Arthur has caught him off-guard this time, and Arthur has to smirk a little, let a bit of his acting presence filter into his posture.
When he speaks, however, it’s not an act at all. “Thank you for the drink, and the conversation, tinkerer.”
Alfred recovers quickly. He lifts his chin, and salutes Arthur with his screwdriver. “Any time.”
Arthur slides out the door with Alfred’s gaze on his back.
-----
From the red carpet of the Golden Globes
(It’s open season on the red carpet. Actresses in dresses of all colours, although the weather means more shawls and heavier fabrics, and actors in their tailored suits - it’s all in the details for them. The cut, the subtle patterns, tie or bow tie, cufflinks, polished shoes. A young man strides behind the waves of couples; he’s alone but comfortable in the fact, the calm, confident air around him pulling the eye, his subtle, fluid movements arresting attention. His hair is windswept, but the man himself appears impeccable in a well tailored suit that hugs all his slim lines and a tie that sets off his green eyes. It’s not quite his turn with the interviewers and he waits, taking the time to survey his surroundings, the crowd beyond the barriers, but the interviewer swings eagerly in his direction; he’s quick on his feet, looking straight into the camera and smiling, then tilting his head towards the interviewer to hear him better through the din of noise)
Interviewer: And here's an up and coming star who is charming lords and ladies alike with his nuanced ways and intense performances. Propelled into international limelight for his supporting role in the award-winning psychological thriller Grey, for which he was nominated for a Globe two years ago, and well-loved for playing the Lord Williams on British series Chatsworth House - it's Arthur Kirkland!
Arthur Kirkland: Good evening.
I: You're making waves, Arthur. There's been quite a buzz about you.
AK: Yes, I hadn't quite realized. (he gives an acknowledging nod to the crowd and smiles the slow, quiet smile that is his trademark; the screams and applause from the audience swells). It doesn't really sink in until you're in front of an audience like this.
I: I saw you on TV last weekend, in fact, trading barbs with the detective team of Autopsis (in an aside for uninitiated audiences) Arthur plays a visiting forensics expert in the hit investigative series, folks. (turns back) You were really very good.
AK: It's kind of you to say so. Peter's a guest role so I'm afraid you won't see me after this season, but it's been a pleasure.
I: How are you finding America? You've been spending quite a bit of time in L.A.
AK: Yes, I’ve been working on a few projects here, actually. The people are friendly, the work is rewarding, and I must confess - it's a lot sunnier here than it would be in London.
I: (makes a show of looking around) I see lots of lovely ladies around, but no plus one for you today?
AK: (laughs) No, not quite. I’m here with friends, you know, catching up with a few classmates, cheering on some colleagues.
I: I’m sure the ladies will be happy to hear that you’re still on the market... for now.
AK: (blushes slightly) Now you’re just flattering me.
I: One last question before we let you go -- I can see they're impatient for you further down the carpet. The eternal debate: coffee or tea?
AK: (instantly) Tea. (they laugh) But I've been enamoured by a hybrid of it, of late.
I: And that would be?
AK: A tea latte. London Fog. It seems to have become my beverage of choice here. (he looks away, a quiet, enigmatic smile on his face - there’s definitely an inside story here, a look that many a fan will pour over and speculate on when the footage goes out, but that the interviewer misses).
I: Patriotic indeed!
AK: (a flicker of surprise crosses his face before his smile widens) When you put it that way, I suppose so.
I: Ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Kirkland!
AK: Thank you very much.
(they shake hands. The interviewer murmurs a few quick words, grinning, and Arthur smiles back, before glancing back up, giving a small wave at cameras flashing all around him)
end.
tbc
Notes
- London Fog: made from Earl Grey tea, steamed milk and vanilla syrup. It's delicious.
- So, the reason why this is marked "complete" and tagged tbc is because I came up with an entire long backstory for Arthur's career, the plot for the development of Alfred and Arthur's relationship (how they get from the scene in the cafe to the time during that Globes interview) - and very much beyond. It's become terribly monstrous; there was no way I could have finished the whole thing for this Secret Santa and I didn't want to rush it, so this will stand as a one-shot for now. If I ever finish writing the story I want to tell in this 'verse, this will basically serve as the prologue of that fic
I very much hope you enjoyed reading this!