Quid Pro Quo

Note: I wanted to write something dirty (well, dirtier than everything else I have going right now). This is the whole reason for this fic. Well, that and suits. Professional business suits are ridiculously appealing.

"The jury's verdict – guilty," the judge announced.

Immediately, the other side of the courtroom burst into happy shouts of congratulations and Arthur Kirkland narrowed his eyes at one Alfred F. Jones who was being given a very enthusiastic hug by his client for winning the trial.

Behind him, Arthur's own client, the young starlet Rebecca Lukeman, was being handcuffed and taken away to the protests of her parents.

"We thought you were supposed to be the best money could hire," Mrs. Lukeman said, glaring at Arthur. Arthur wondered vaguely if her perfectly made-up and too botoxed face was meant to be beautiful when it mostly looked the very definition of the "plastic" in plastic surgery. "We should have gone with Bonnefoy, Carriedo & Beilschmidt."

That was just insult on top of injury, and Arthur had had a long enough day in court on top of the three days the entire case had taken battling against Alfred F. Jones, which was still on top of the stress of losing the court case and all the money Arthur had just lost, and it wasn't like the Lukemans were ever going to hire him again which was a client lost too, so he felt his temper justifiably frayed that Arthur couldn't quite help snapping at her. "Well I'm sorry that your daughter was too stupid to realize three underage DUIs are going to result in real consequences sooner or later no matter what money can get you. I assure you, Bonnefoy couldn't have gotten you a better sentence for vehicular manslaughter."

Mrs. Lukeman's mouth opened and shut, gaping like a fish for a moment before she composed herself enough to respond. "Well I never!" Mrs. Lukeman grabbed her husband's arm and tugged him out of the courtroom, shouting about an appeal.

Arthur thought about telling her it was impossible for her daughter to appeal now, but if Mrs. Lukeman went to Bonnefoy, Carriedo & Beilschmidt, they'd be the ones who had to explain how the court system worked to her.

Arthur wasn't usually this rude to his clients, but he'd lost and was in a foul mood for having to deal with an idiot teenager who had, despite repeated warnings with her past convictions, still thought she could get off for drunk driving and then killing an innocent passer-by. Of course, Arthur's job was to get these people off with just a mild slap on the wrist if complete innocence wasn't possible, regardless of how much he hated most of his clients. These were the cases that paid well and were highly broadcasted. It was how Arthur had become one of the most famous defense attorneys on the East Coast of the United States. Certainly one of the best-known lawyers in New York despite his British accent and dual citizenship. Of course if Arthur had a choice, he wouldn't be in the United States at all but still practicing law back in the U.K.

The point was that Arthur hadn't gotten to the top without a lot of hard work and ruthlessness. He was supposed to win all of his cases, and he had for three years. Right until Alfred F. Jones appeared on the scene a few months ago.

This was not good. In fact, this was absolutely awful. It was the third time in two months that Arthur had come up against Alfred F. Jones, and this was the third time he'd lost. Arthur hadn't lost a case for three years now and he'd lost three in just two months to this unknown Alfred F. Jones who Arthur had never even heard of until he lost that first time. Arthur Kirkland didn't lose.

He took a deep breath as he looked down at his now useless notes and case files. And the Lukemans had been good clients too – very rich, and very corrupt which was always a good combination because the harder they were to defend, the more they paid for Arthur to defend them. He exhaled and began to put his things away. The only thing that made this slightly better was that Rebecca Lukeman had been an idiot to begin with and killing that man with her drunk driving would be very difficult for anyone to get her off of vehicular manslaughter. It didn't make Arthur's failure feel much better though.

"Hey! Hey, Kirkland!"

Arthur turned to see the object of his distaste waving at him in the form of a young man in his mid-twenties and a too-bright smile.

"Jones," Arthur said politely. Because while he'd like nothing more than to tell Alfred F. Jones exactly what he thought of his lawyering and exactly what he'd just cost Arthur, he had a gentlemanly image to keep up.

Alfred extended his hand, and Arthur suppressed a grimace before taking it and shaking.

"Good battle, huh?" Alfred said cheerfully and pumped his hand up and down.

Each time Arthur had met Alfred, he was like this. Although he basically gave off the standard business look – glasses and slicked back hair, suit and tie, and all – Alfred was also extremely unkempt on second glance. His tie was always crooked, there tended to be a coffee stain on his sleeve more often than not, or the crumbs of evidence of his last meal on his collar, and he always had that piece of hair that stuck up on his head so persistently that Arthur itched to grab it and perhaps rip it out altogether because the gel clearly wasn't working.

While Arthur gave off a very professional image and the more conservative judges tended to like him, Alfred F. Jones had the annoying sort of boyishness about him that charmed judges, juries, and even the audiences watching them. While he probably couldn't hold up to a more mature and critical judge, if he could win over whole juries, the judge hardly mattered. And it certainly didn't hurt that Alfred was classically attractive in the all American sort of way. He was clearly athletic with a healthy, golden tan, and features that promised to chisel out in a couple of years. In other words, he was effortlessly achieving what Arthur had always slaved for too quickly and too easily and Arthur may have possibly resented him for it a bit, though it wasn't the biggest reason Alfred was an eyesore to him.

"It's not a good battle if I didn't win," Arthur answered, extracting his hand. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Oh come on, it was pretty good," Alfred said, completely ignoring or possibly not noticing at all that Arthur clearly wasn't in the mood to talk. Especially not to him. Instead, Alfred hopped up on the desk and sat talking to Arthur as he put away his papers. "You know, you're probably the hardest competition I've had. You actually managed to put up a fight for someone who is obviously guilty," he said.

Arthur snapped up to glare at him. "You can't immediately assume someone's guilty, you idiot," he said.

"Except when they obviously are," Alfred said, much too casually. "And Rebecca Lukeman definitely was. I mean, we had five witnesses to see the car crash into Jerry Martin, and that's on top of all the witnesses who actually saw her drinking at that party and climbing into the car."

Arthur really did not need Alfred reminding him about all the problems with this case.

"And she had three previous DUIs too. You know we were curious to see who was going to take this case for the Lukemans at all," Alfred continued.

"I—"

"Thank you again, Alfred." Arthur was interrupted by Jerry Martin's tearful widow who gave Alfred another hug that he happily accepted. In contrast, she shot a venomous glare at Arthur after letting Alfred go, and then left the courtroom.

Arthur exhaled and turned back to cleaning up his things. At this point, he wanted nothing more than to go to the nearest bar and get roaringly drunk which he completely intended to do immediately upon leaving the courtroom. He hated losing. That's why he made sure to never ever lose.

"Don't tell me you actually wanted Rebecca Lukeman to win," Alfred said. "Sarah lost her husband to drunken driving."

Arthur glared at him. "I couldn't care less about your client. It's not my job to be sympathetic. It's my job to win the case, and as I didn't do that, you can be assured the Lukemans will never come back to my firm."

"You should come work for the State's Attorney too," Alfred said, utterly oblivious to Arthur's annoyance.

"Look, Mr. Jones—"

"You can call me Alfred," Alfred said.

"Whatever," Arthur snapped. "We are not friends. We aren't even really acquaintances, so if you were here to rub in your victory, you've already done it. Now if you'll excuse me," Arthur said, clipped, and then grabbed his briefcase and stalked out of the courtroom.

His only satisfaction was the slightly stunned expression on Alfred's face as he left.

Here were the facts:

Arthur Kirkland was 29 years old, single, bisexual, and British.

He'd gone to King's College London for his law degree and immediately gone into practicing at the Kirkland law firm. His older brothers had all been working at the firm for years before Arthur graduated, though, so it was always difficult with his brothers as the senior partners and Arthur as the young associate. He'd never gotten along with his brothers, but now that he worked under them, it was even worse than before, having to take orders from them and listen to them criticize his methods and point out any mistake he made. Arthur was the youngest brother and what everyone called idealistic and naïve. Back then, he'd only taken cases he believed in, but he still had the highest success rate out of all four brothers which hadn't helped the sibling rivalry.

He'd managed to hold out for two years, finally making it as a third year associate when a very media-popular, high-profile case was dropped in his lap. Although Arthur had believed the man – a polygamist and murderer was completely guilty of all charges and possibly more – his brothers had pressured him into taking the case. The huge Henry VIII case as it was called, had been broadcasted internationally so the entire world had seen when Arthur had lost. His brothers probably would have kept him on despite that, but Arthur's own pride couldn't take it and he'd resigned from the Kirkland firm himself.

And in the end, Arthur took his law degree to the United States and started as a poor, solo lawyer in New York with a bad reputation thanks to that disastrous case. But Arthur was a fighter if nothing else, and it had taken him three years, but he had finally managed to claw his way to the top again.

And this was the biggest reason he did not like Alfred F. Jones. On top of losing, the man was too naïve and idealistic, and Arthur hated how Alfred F. Jones, just by virtue of existing, reminded him of his past life. And by winning those three cases against Arthur, he'd proved he was better than Arthur even with his idealism. He was the person that Arthur had once wished he could be.

.

Here were the facts (that Arthur knew about Alfred F. Jones after one private detective and a lot of gossip from the all too talkative Bonnefoy, Carriedo & Beilschmidt firm to find out all he could about the young man who had suddenly beat him in that first case):

Alfred F. Jones was a 26-year-old fresh graduate of Yale Law School. He'd graduated at the top of his class a year ago, and immediately gone to work for the New York State's Attorney – New York being his home state. It had taken him less than a year to become a new favorite and the rumors said that he'd been scouted by all variety of law firms, though he'd firmly refused and stayed on with the state. The reasons were as ludicrous wanting to actually help the government, to having a lover in the court system somewhere who was forcing him to stay.

As of yet, he had a perfect conviction rate – though Arthur firmly believed that was only because Alfred hadn't been around for very long and was also very lucky. And though he didn't make very much in terms of money, he was popular and well-liked.

As for his private life, Alfred F. Jones kept fairly quiet about things, though the rumors were that he'd had several girlfriends and even a fiancée before. When asked, Alfred F. Jones never confirmed or denied anything though. So all in all, he was a perfect mix of enigma and talent that a lot of lawyers expected good things from though many of the more experienced lawyers and judges were still quite skeptical about him – Arthur included.

And that was why Arthur was both surprised and annoyed when he looked up from his fourth pint at Rourey's, his favorite pub in New York, and found himself staring into the bright blue eyes of Alfred F. Jones.

"Hey," Alfred said with his customary grin as he slid onto the barstool next to him.

Arthur was drunk enough by now to give in to emotion over propriety, and he groaned into his drink. "What are you doing here?" he said.

Alfred was the last person he wanted to be seeing after a case he'd just lost to the inexperienced young lawyer. It was humiliating.

"Just thought I'd go for a celebration drink," Alfred said.

Arthur squinted around the pub, but at 5 in the afternoon, the pub was fairly quiet and empty, and there was no one else around at all. "Alone?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. It was early to be drinking, but Arthur really just wanted to get drunk at the moment. In fact, he was already starting to feel relaxed – a few more drinks and he could be in a blissful state of oblivion.

"Well, you're here," Alfred said. "Jack Daniels, on the rocks," he ordered when the bartender came around.

"Alfred," Arthur said. "I have absolutely no intention of having a celebratory drink with you when I bloody lost." He couldn't believe Alfred F. Jones was either stupid or cruel enough to suggest this.

"You're at least a little happy that she lost," Alfred said.

Arthur looked incredulously at him. "I lost to an idiot," he said and took another long drink. "I lost to a bloody idiot."

Alfred laughed. "Hey, you know she was guilty," he said.

"Go away," Arthur said, glaring at him.

Alfred's drink came and he took it, taking a small sip. "Fine, you don't have to celebrate with me, but you look like you at least want some company," he said.

"If I wanted company I'd call Francis," Arthur said, snorting. "I certainly don't want you for company no matter how good looking you are."

"How many drinks have you had?" Alfred asked, grinning. "You think I'm good looking?" He sounded boyishly pleased as though he was unaware of just how attractive he was. If Arthur were being critical which he usually was, he'd say that Alfred was, at the least, cute with his dimpled smile and clear blue eyes. If he was drunk and becoming increasingly uninhibited as he was at the moment, he could admit at least to himself, that Alfred was a little bit stunningly gorgeous in the way that movie stars tried to look and managed to get close to if they used a lot of makeup and the right camera angles. If Alfred was richer and working at an actual, well-known firm instead of the State's Attorney's office, he would probably be the most eligible bachelor on the planet. Of course Arthur had absolutely no intention of ever letting anyone know about his private and inconsequential opinions because no matter how attractive Alfred might be, Arthur had no intention of starting anything with a man who had defeated him three times in court.

"I think you're fat," Arthur said instead, turning a critical eye on Alfred. "You know you're supposed to be professional in court," he said. "Do you ever iron anything? You do know what an iron is, don't you? You have crumbs all over your shirt, and your tie—have you never been taught how to tie it properly?" he demanded.

He was drunk enough to justify reaching over and grabbing the offending tie, tugging it loose as he glared at it. "And what are those stupid designs? You wore a tie with hamburger prints. Hamburger prints," Arthur repeated, squinting at the deep blue tie that was, indeed, speckled with not only hamburgers – but hamburgers with little googly eyes. "Just what do you think of the court house?" he demanded.

"My brother gave me this tie," Alfred said with a frown that was closer to a pout than anything else.

Arthur groaned. "I can't believe I lost to someone like you," he said, wobbling a little on his stool. He had maybe drunk a little bit more than he ought to. At this point, while he was still coherent, it would be a good idea to call Francis or one of the others. Arthur fully intended to drink himself into oblivion, and that meant he'd need someone to drive him home because he certainly wasn't stupid enough to get a DUI.

He let go of Alfred's tie, wobbled a bit more which apparently alarmed Alfred enough to reach out and steady him on his barstool. Arthur slapped his hands away and pulled out his cell phone, scrolling through the address book until he got to Francis's number.

"Francis Bonnefoy speaking," Francis picked up on the second ring.

"Who're you calling?" Alfred asked.

Arthur ignored Alfred. "It's me, obviously, you frog. You've got caller's ID," he said. "I'm at Rourey's and I am going to be drunk. So come over and give me a ride back," he ordered.

He heard Francis give a long-suffering sigh at the other end of the line. "Why do you always call me for this? Do you have no one else to call?"

"Because I beat up Antonio the last time I made him come, and Gilbert always ends up drunker than me and then neither of us will get home," Arthur said.

"Are you saying you think I am responsible?" Francis asked, and Arthur could almost see his grin on the other side of the phone.

"Also, I enjoy puking on your shirt the most. Rourey's," Arthur said and then hung up on him.

Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert were three of Arthur's acquaintances – all three of them a few years older than him. He'd met Francis back in the UK actually having gone to law school with him and immediately hated the snobby Frenchman on sight. Antonio and Gilbert were both Francis's friends, which by proxy, meant that Arthur hated them too, though now that he knew them better, he hated each one of them for different reasons. It had been pure unlucky coincidence that the three of them, whom Arthur had thought had buggered out of his life forever, turned out to have started a law firm in New York. When he'd first moved to New York, Arthur had slept on Francis and Antonio's couch for two weeks before he found his own place, and he'd never admit it, but Bonnefoy, Carriedo & Beilschmidt had helped introduce Arthur to his first clients here in New York – granted, they were clients that the three of them didn't want – but clients were clients.

"Who'd you just call? Your girlfriend?" Alfred asked.

"Francis, and he is not a friend," Arthur said. "Or a girl," he added. "Definitely not a girl friend." He was babbling a little but he was on his fifth drink now and getting steadily closer to his desired state of oblivion. "Why do you care? Just who are you anyway?" Arthur asked, jabbing Alfred in the chest as he called for a sixth drink.

Alfred seemed to be amused by the question. "Alfred F. Jones, awesome prosecutor," he said. "Are you so drunk you forgot me?"

"You're an idiot," Arthur declared as the bartender passed him his glass. He took another long drink. "Why do you keep winning against me? Why do you even have so many cases against me? It's been three times. Three. Whole Times." Arthur punctuated each word with a jab to Alfred's chest. "I've never lost here except to you."

"If you'd stop taking so many cases for the bad guys—" Alfred said.

"It doesn't matter if they're bad or good as long as I win!" Arthur snapped and turned back to his drink. "Stop going on about justice and bad guys – there's no such thing as black and white. The law system is proof of that."

He hated how Alfred reminded him that there were actually good people in the world. Every case he'd seen Alfred take was against those who were guilty and powerful. He was like the retarded vigilante of the justice world. Arthur was even fairly sure that some magazine or newspaper had already nicknamed Alfred something similar.

"You used to think the same thing," Alfred said after a moment.

Arthur almost choked on his drink when he processed those words. "What?" he asked.

And that was when Francis walked into the pub.

"You disgusting Englishman, who drinks at six in the afternoon? Of course, only the English."

Arthur turned to glare at him. "You're one to be talking," he said.

"Hey, Bonnefoy," Alfred said behind Arthur.

Francis blinked. "Your unlucky drinking companion is Alfred?" he asked. "Now how did you get stuck with such an uncultured Englishman?" the second question was address to Alfred.

Arthur ignored them and ordered himself another drink. Now that Francis was here, he didn't have to worry about passing out in a gutter or accidentally bringing unwanted strangers back home. Regardless of how much they disliked each other, Francis was fairly responsible when it came to getting Arthur safely back to his flat because he depended on Arthur to do the same for him. They had a system based on mutual distrust – if Francis didn't get Arthur safely back to his flat, then the next time Francis needed Arthur to do so for him, Arthur wouldn't.

"You should come drinking with me," Francis said. "The tastes of the English are not to be trusted," he said.

Arthur tried to kick him and missed when Francis sidestepped him and then sat down on Alfred's other side. By now, more customers had come in so the bar was getting noisier, which meant it was harder for Arthur to hear what Francis and Alfred were talking about, not that he cared. He just wanted to be left to himself to get drunk after all, so Francis's presence was more useful than an annoyance for once if it meant he'd distract Alfred. Even though Arthur didn't particularly like the looks that Francis was sending Alfred's way. Not that he himself had any interest in Alfred no matter how attractive the man might be, of course.

Arthur sighed and got another drink – he wasn't even sure what number he was on now, the lull of voices in the background adding to his already drunken state. He was at the point now where he was pretty sure that in the morning, he was going to wake up with a bad hangover and a disjointed memory of what had happened the night before. Arthur was actually starting to get pleasantly sleepy now. He wouldn't mind passing out for a few hours and forgetting about his third defeat against Alfred F. Jones.

"Whoa, there, Arthur."

Arthur found himself blinking awake again when his world tilted, and then he was being lifted upright by a pair of warm arms. When he looked up, he saw Alfred looking at him with a mix of amusement and maybe even a little worry. "You okay there?" Alfred asked.

"You…" Arthur mumbled, squinting at Alfred. "You and your stupid tie and your stupid suit, and your stupid hair. Why does that piece always stick up?" Arthur found himself glaring at that piece of flyaway hair on Alfred's head and he reached for it and tugged hard.

"Ow! What the fuck," Alfred said, wincing, and trying to get free, though it only meant he let go of Arthur, and Arthur realized he was drunk enough that he couldn't quite figure out which way the floor was, and ended up slumping over onto Alfred to keep himself from sliding right onto the ground.

Alfred smelled wonderful. Like cologne and Jack Daniels but mostly like himself, and even with the layers of suit coats and shirts between them, Alfred felt very warm and very firm beneath Arthur's hands. And by now, Arthur was drunk enough to admit to himself that Alfred was like something out of one of Arthur's wet dreams – perfect when he was in a state of unconsciousness – or in this case, rapidly approaching semi-consciousness – and not something he would normally ever even try for if he was in his right mind.

"Oi, rosbif, you are much too drunk. I'm taking you home," Arthur heard Francis say.

Arthur ignored him, looking up at Alfred's face and pink lips – and then he climbed his way up Alfred until Arthur could see his face.

"Everything 'bout you is bloody unfair…" Arthur slurred.

And then he kissed Alfred.

After that, in accordance to Arthur's prediction, the memories were disjointed. There were some voices, and maybe the smell of a taxi, and holding onto someone as he was taken out of the pub. At some point, he remembered someone pulling his shoes off for him which was maybe a little odd because Francis never bothered doing anything other than opening Arthur's apartment door for him if he couldn't do it himself, and generally on those nights, Arthur woke up face down on the wooden floorboards of his entrance.

But this time he was tumbling into a warm bed, and there was a flash of blue eyes above him, and someone's hands running down his sides that felt so good. There was a warm mouth on his own, and friction between his legs, someone's voice – his own – begging for more and more. And then blissful oblivion.

When Arthur woke, it was indeed to the expected nausea and piercing headache that accompanied his hangovers, and he groaned, trying to suffocate himself into his pillow. In fact, he thought he possibly felt worse than usual – sore all over like he'd done some sort of strenuous activity the day before when in fact, all he'd done was go to court and then the bar.

Arthur groaned again, and was suddenly and very unpleasantly startled to feel a weight around his shoulders move. He instinctively froze. Shit. He was in bed with someone was his first thought. It better not fucking be fucking Francis was his second thought. Although come to think of it, it was fairly unlikely it was Francis because Francis seemed just as appalled to sleep with Arthur as the feeling was mutual (unfounded, entirely, because while Arthur had his doubts about Francis, he knew that he himself was definitely amazing in bed).

It took him a few moments to finally worked up the willpower to crack his eyes open to figure out just how to deal with his unwelcome bedmate. Which was no easy task considering how hung over Arthur was. It was due to sheer willpower that he managed it at all.

Which wasn't a good idea when he found himself staring at an expanse of golden, tanned skin. Naked. Okay. Even worse. And plus, judging from that arm that was running its way down Arthur's back, Arthur was naked too. He'd gone and picked someone up and brought him back to his flat. Shit, this was exactly the sort of thing Francis was supposed to prevent. Arthur could only hope it was someone who would be easy to get rid of.

"Hey, you feeling okay?"

The voice pierced through Arthur's head, making it throb worse, but the worst part was that Arthur recognized it.

Alfred F. Jones tugged Arthur forward a little more and Arthur was caught, staring into his blue eyes and smile. "Morning, Arthur," he said and leaned forward to kiss him.

Apparently, with enough shock and willpower, Arthur's hangover was not actually undefeatable as Arthur shrieked and scrambled back.

"What the hell are you doing here? Fuck! Get out!" Arthur shouted. He was so worked up he couldn't even curse properly. "Get out!" he shouted again.

Alfred's expression went from startled to annoyed, but he did get out of bed and shit, Alfred really was completely naked. And damn, his arse was seriously fine which Arthur found himself noting despite his current perturbation.

"Arthur—" Alfred said.

"You—you get out!" Arthur shouted again, pointing at the door.

Alfred got dressed much too slowly for Arthur's liking as Arthur mentally cursed everything from Rourey's pub to Alfred's stupid cowlick and swore to himself to never ever fucking ever drink ever again.

Arthur glared at Alfred when Alfred turned around. "Get out!" he repeated again before Alfred could say anything.

But instead of being ashamed or irritated or anything like the sort of expression he ought to have, Alfred just looked mildly amused again, coming nearer – much to Arthur's consternation so that Arthur was forced to back up until he was close to falling off the bed. Then he smiled, leaned forward, and kissed Arthur which had to be disgusting no matter how Arthur looked at it because Arthur could taste the stale alcohol on his own breath.

"Last night was seriously awesome," Alfred said as he pulled back and grinned. "See you in court next week!" he said, walking out of his bedroom.

A moment later, Arthur heard his front door slam shut. He finally let himself slump, and a moment later, ran for the toilet so he could throw up.

Fuck, Arthur thought as he straightened up over the toilet and then went to brush his teeth. He'd just slept with the last person he intended to in the world. The guy who had actually defeated his undefeated record. Three times.

Arthur was not looking forward to meeting Alfred F. Jones again.

And what was that about meeting him in court again next week?

Arthur paused, toothbrush in mouth, as he mentally catalogued the cases he had. He had a meeting early on in the week with his client, Ivan Braginsky, about something he wanted to discuss, and he had to prepare for the Vargas brothers case, though they only had to deal with the pre-trial motions next week. Arthur shouldn't be seeing Alfred at all unless…

…oh shit, Alfred was on the Vargas case.

Arthur scrubbed his hands over his face as he exhaled. He was not looking forward to this.

TBC?

Yeah, this is just going to be an utterly self-indulgent, cheesy dramatic, trashy fic. Not even lying.