Author Note: Hi, I'm CuttleMeFish and I've returned from a bit of a hiatus (I was hiding out from the summer events). Hmm, I tend to write really weird stuff, and it's not even porn. Just take a look at Fragments for proof…? I like to call this, that one fic in which England is Tony Stark, Hungary is Pepper Potts and I guess America is Death.

At least you have to admit an Arms Dealer Courted by Death AU is a little original…? Right? Maybe not… OTL Such are my fails, I fear.

Warning: Warnings for mentions of the military-industrial complex, weapons, and lots and lots of Fall Out Boy lyrics and other random lyrics. I know the premise sounds serious, but I hope you won't read it in a very serious manner. The story will get weird. You have been warned. Weird as in, dry humor, close encounters with death (pun intended), a little bit of HungaryxEngland thrown in because this is going to get really crackish, and so many more things that come with making America Death personified. Right. =) Hope you enjoy the ride.

Impressive Instant

Part I: Death's Scientific Method

Death's Hypothesis

Death is wandering over arid lands, dark suit all reflecting the sun in the glory of its smooth fabric and lean cuts, so very sharp that the lines shine like daggers.

He has seen the implosion, not in real time, but in the way minutes collide into seconds sending ripples through the air that carry with them sand and memories and tears and screams.

He has waited for Hope to pass through the landscape, and even let her wipe her smooth hand over the heavy-set, thick brows of men and women as they stuttered their last promise to the Earth. He's let Love make his last stops – cry his tears and don his mourning robes before leaving to weave new tapestries with which to drape the lovers and families left alone.

For this alone, no one can say Death is heartless. This is not to that say Death is particularly caring, but it's not like caring has ever been an advantage in his line of work. In a way, his is the business of disadvantage. He can't particularly waste resources on unimportant social niceties. But at least, and this he can say with certainty, he is ethical. Even if he can't always conform to formalities, which is most times, at least Death is ethical. Moral, on the other hand, he is not.

However, he's at least well-intentioned, because, really, if he didn't pick up those souls, they'd just go to waste.

And let no one say Death was a wasteful man! Or lazy; no supernatural being worked more overtime than he did in a single day!

All throughout his journey so far, he's carried his briefcase close to his thigh. He has counted the number of times it's slammed against his leg, all darkly empty and achingly hollow.

He's counted his steps, the sand granules slipping underneath the sole of his shoes, and the run-away hallucinations left behind by humans to wander in search of hope and whim. They're like bruised pink ribbons coiled too tight, waiting to twirl and get lost in light.

Death might not be the best with friendship, but he's definitely friendly. Many times he waves to them – because he can understand their loneliness. So he watches these hallucinations spin in torpid, yellow air, thick and rough like mustard on his tongue. He watches them bargaining their needs, letting no one too close, but not straying too far from civilization either. Sometimes he'll even stop to make small-talk with them, rest his head on the lap of water stream. But recently he's been bothered by the rising number of Oases and women in bright, tight red dresses, both of which tend to be so rude.

Death has no time or either, rudeness or commonality. He has no time to debate with order, either.

By the time he gets to wander into the field of bodies, he's feuding with numbers. Order is an implosion of chaos under the supervision of heat – typically pale cheeks aflame with anger and too much spit in his mouth. Death has no time to deal with that either. So instead of counting, he touches each shoulder before leaning forward and pressing his lips to the cold ones of dead bodies still resisting under the tug of his strength.

He collects souls gently – before stuffing them in small, box-like containers and flat-ironing them with the vigor of his palms. And when he's done, and the souls look like little cards with detailed names and careers and all sorts of nuisances and destinations, he stacks them together neatly in rows until his briefcase is filled to the brim.

This is his job, he thinks. He likes his job.

Maybe. Sometimes.

Human bodies, after all, are just shells. The precious gem is the soul. When he frames it like this, he's an ethical extractor, or maybe more like a nutcracker. Too bad he's never tasted nuts.

He's thinking about this, not as liberally, perhaps, as this short narrative makes light. He's thinking about it quite sternly, actually, when, well, a missile comes zooming from the high, very blue sky up above and hits him right on the head. As in slams right into him, splitting him open in two, until he's just slithering shadows, like eels or very thick licorice worms crawling to become one again.

This is all very convenient, actually.

See, Love is always going on and on about love at first sight, how love feels like getting slammed hard to the ground. Death thinks he understands now, if only because he's quite literally in a hole, as close to the ground as anyone can get (because contrary to popular belief, he does not live underground, thanks – he's not a mole person, okay? He lives in a very nice apartment in New York City surrounding by super famous, hot people, actually).

Yeah, Death is not heartless. He's just not the type to fall in love. It's sort of against the rules.

(There's an exit clause somewhere; he's just never cared to read it.)

The very idea that this could be as close as he ever gets to falling in love: it's a big deal.

It also makes a lot of sense.

The missile reads in bright, bright red: Kirkland Enterprises.

Isn't Arthur Kirkland like one of his favorite people ever? – He's his best and most consistent supplier.

Businessmen like Death love their suppliers, which Death had always thought was more an exaggeration or one of those turn-of-phrase human statements he'd never understand.

But now it feels more like fact. Getting knocked half-unconscious to the ground, it must mean something, like his equivalent of that stupid man with the giant diaper and tiny wings shooting an arrow at his stomach.

And let it never be said Death didn't participate in market research, or take supernatural superstitions seriously. He's the most thorough man in the field, after all, always working overtime and what not.

Reasons Why Death should pursue Arthur Kirkland

Reason #1: Because he's the original Arms Dealer

I am an arms dealer fitting you with weapons in the form of words.

And I don't really care which side wins, as long as the room keeps singing.

That's just the business I'm in.

Inspiration is like lightning. That's probably the only reason Arthur likes it, because once when he was little, he saw lightning hit an energy post and became mesmerized by the way fire followed the line of light into smoke and darkness. So yeah, it's definitely a good thing he's always liked playing with fire and light and things that go boom. In fact, he once put a metal fork in the microwave on purpose. He'd always known it'd blow up. He'd just loved the sound. And the way his mother's face showed the ticks of her fast-beating heart in the dance of the freckles on her nose.

Technically, his mother had said this recklessness was, no is in his blood. So, it's also a good thing he's not queasy at the first sight of red. Not that he'd ever be a red. He's too in love with green for all that.

(What is all that again? Arthur's sure he once had to read Marx when he was in college, sometime before he decided he was a genius anyway, so why did he need to study again?)

It's all good, though. He respects those that will wear red, either in their brains, in their hearts, or on their chests. They all respect him, too. Right? Or pretend to. People don't mess with the man whose crib was practically an empty missile shell.

(And that's an exaggeration. His mother would've never allowed his father to fashion something so beautiful out of something so crude. His mother had sensibilities. Unfortunately, he probably didn't inherit those.)

To make things simple: Arthur knows war is his business. Death is his legacy. Blood, well, blood is just collateral damage. Some might think this way of thinking is cold-hearted, or whatever. Listen: He's just a businessman. The businessman. He does his part for the military-industrial complex. And if anyone thinks the concept of military exists only in the vacuum of ethical judgment, or at the edge of political amorality, well, then they don't understand their society, because part of military involves militancy: Arthur thinks he's never seen a group of people more militant than 21st century Westerners. Himself included.

This isn't to say Arthur doesn't think people are important. He does. He just doesn't pretend he knows the entire world.

No one should pretend they know, much less understand, the world.

He knows his family, though.

He owns his blood. Not just the buckets and buckets weighing on his back, but the currents of pumping veins cursing through his body in intricate maps of blue and red.

And he thinks –

His great-grandfather was a weapons developer for the British Government, always looking to push someone a little too far. Unfortunately, he pushed his son too far, as in to another continent, and so it was that Arthur's grandfather ended up a developer of early chemical weapons in the United States during World War I, which only propelled his father to go shooting like a misdirected missile into nuclear and biological weapons during World War II, right to the very brink of science and madness.

By the time life caught up to Arthur, well, he'd just jumped right off the perpetual, familial cliff.

Good thing he'd never been afraid of heights.

Or falling.

Reason #2: Because he's a Hot Mess – emphasis on the hot

Oh baby you're a classic like a little black dress.

You're a faded moon stuck on a little hot mess,

a little hot mess.

"There's a social movement living inside every human being," Arthur says for an interview.

Death thinks that sounds sort of poetic, so he posts it up on his blog, which is surprising only because he never updates it.

Then he finds out someone else said it before Arthur through a comment left behind by some stranger from Sweden. Apparently that doesn't really matter to mainstream media because now that Arthur's said it, it's his quote – full freight.

When the quote gets used in a televised wine ad – modified, of course – Death lifts his beer glass in mock cheers.

Apparently, Arthur doesn't just have television commercials, but an entire franchise, including his own calendar. He also has his own magazine. The calendar sells better than the magazine, though. There's not really a market for rich, ingenious playboys looking to publish bad scone recipes and share weaponry-building tips. However, there are plenty of women and men more than willing to cough up the twenty bucks to get a good look at Arthur's half-naked July spread, which Death begins to think is way too expensive considering there's a couple of free sex videos making rounds on the internet.

Death admits he's very confused as to why he finds all of this so intriguing. Really, it's not a very original story.

Arthur Kirkland is the type of man that hops from hotel to hotel room and travels by private jet as opposed to limousine. He has this habit of falling asleep during hangovers with his face pressed against car windows, aviators slammed close to foggy dark glass with so much pressure it might bend the silver frame. He has this smile, all bright and stunning, like a right-hook-pow that makes people's knees weak.

(Death will confess he doesn't quite understand the statement because his skeleton is more metal than anything else, which means his knees are never quite weak and don't buckle like human knees.

Still, he can totally understand why people are dazzled by Arthur Kirkland.)

He's smooth and charming and he says the right things. To the right people, of course. So Death role plays as an important investor, even dyes his hair black for the occasion, and ends up at a fashionable gala event in which Arthur ends up dancing on a bar top with two supermodels. This happens right after he gets on stage, gives half a speech before stumbling over to the band and playing the guitar, the saxophone, and the violin, not all at once, though.

People don't seem as impressed as Death.

In fact, Arthur seems to be getting quite a bit of bad press. But Death thinks the entire ordeal is completely badass. So he approaches Arthur, slowly.

That's what humans do, right? Approach slowly before pouncing? – No, wait, that was lions.

Regardless of whether it was lions or humans that pounced, Death decides by the end of the night that pursuing a relationship with a human could be highly problematic.

They talk and drink and Arthur can't seem to stop drinking. With every sip Death takes, Arthur downs a glass. Death just watches, half-concerned and inspired by such a hearty liver (because that had to be a sign of a strong heart, right? Like, a heart that could take lots of shock and heights and maybe explosions).

Unfortunately, Arthur ends up suffering from severe alcohol poisoning, meaning that when Death gets close enough to, well, make a real move, Arthur ends up on the floor, throwing up half his innards on Death's very expensive, rented Westwood suit.

A ruined classic.

Or, well, two.

Reason #3: Because he's, uh, Bendy?

We do it in the dark with smiles on our faces.

We're trapped and well concealed in secret places, whoa.

We do it in the dark with smiles on our faces.

We're trapped and well concealed in secret places.

However, Death is nothing if not resilient.

The following month, Arthur dreams of Death.

In his dreams, it's morning. He knows that it's morning because the sun is skittering over his face, warming his cheeks and pinching at his eyes in a way that makes him roll on his side and tuck his head under a thick burrow of blankets and sheets and a very fluffy pillow. Except that's illogical, so, really, he only knows this because there's a murmur against the dry, sticky skin of his neck that says rough and throaty, "Good morning."

And that's good enough for him, because there are these fingers drawing smooth, gentle circles up and down his throat – forcing his neck to cant just a touch more. He tilts his head in welcome as hot, wet lips press against his own. His breath quickens mildly as his body responds by arching into the touch, twisting around to let his palm fall to his companion's neck, right where he can curl his fingers around the ends of his soft, short hair.

His mind hadn't quite fully caught up to the dream aspect of the scenario, but in Arthur's book sex is always good, so he wriggled into it, whining from the loss of contact when the hard body behind him moved back. He's not awake enough for words, though. Actually, he's not awake. So he makes inarticulate sounds and pushes his ass higher up in the air.

"If you keep doing that," his companion groans raggedly, pushing his erection against the soft, sensitive skin of Arthur's lower back. Slowly, he edges downwards, pressing and sliding carefully over the curve of Arthur's ass. "I'm just gonna have to take you again, and then you'll be late for your meeting and I'll be late for my, uh, meetings."

"Whatever they pay, I'll double, but you stay and fuck me, golden boy," Arthur groans, climbing up to his knees. There's this delicious itch developing like a hot rash down his back and his thighs, and everywhere he wants those cool fingers drawing lines and circles with the press of thumb pads and maybe the smack of wide palms. He looks over his shoulder, and sees that his companion's shadowy face is spasmed in shock. Dreams, making such irregularities of nature possible, because, really, shadows with faces? "Please."

The response is automatic as his companion jumps onto his back, pushing him forward before pushing inside him. It sends Arthur scrabbling for the headboard, nails digging into the wood.

And then he wakes up with a pillow over his face, which he proceeds to throw away as he tries to recover his breath. Rather bitterly, actually. Because his hard-on is so painful that he has to stay in bed for quite a while, jut assimilating to the fact that his whole body feels like he's been punched in the chest, or smothered to the mattress, like he hasn't been breathing. There's this thump in his brain as his body begins to recover sense, and then he comes to terms with the fact that he almost feels as if someone had peeled off his skin like clothing, stripping him to his bones before reconstructing him whole.

It's such an addicting feeling that he wakes up with a peppery saunter to his step, even bypasses coffee, and tries to remember if he had someone in his bed the night before – because if so, he needs to call them back.

He spends the rest of the day daydreaming in between weapon plans and board meetings.

His fingers ghost over the strange cuts on his skin during lunch, and then he creates a robot.

Reason #4: Because he's not afraid of Death

I only keep myself this sick in the head because

I know how the words get you.

Arthur Kirkland did not imagine dying would feel quite like this. He's surprised to find he's sort of enjoying the whole thing a bit too much. Maybe it's because everything feels like watching someone else – like he can zoom in and zoom out and tell the camera what angle to turn all at once. And there's this song, this one song that plays in a loop in his head, like liquid time melting between his ears before giving way to the faint sound of flickering flames and the smell of skin grated by concrete and glass.

This is beauty, slow and tender and slipping through his fingers, which he can't actually feel anyway.

This is what he will remember, he decides, which is far better than remembering the splinter in his side, because he's pretty sure he's punctured more than a few internal organs with his own ribs. And he's not sure how he knows, actually, so much as he does and all humans should know their own bodies, right? – Or at least this he will now believe forever.

That's something, to believe at the end.

"Tell me something, Arthur Kirkland."

He can feel as his world turns on an axis, circular and slow. His mind can't quite catch up to the speed with which the words whispered hot and hard against his ear make him cognizant of the fact that he can't use his mouth, much less his neck. It's the same dawning realization that he's been looking at the ground, not at the sky, blood rushing from the side of his temple in pitter patters to the ground.

That's the music. Well, isn't that something?

"Arthur Kirkland, do you know who I am?"

Everything is very sudden. It's unfamiliar. But this he knows, and then he's surprised, gasping for air with his tongue rolled and his lips open wide.

Oh, well, yes, he'd read about blinding lights and flashes of life snapping shut backwards into nothingness like some weird movie reel being rewinded to the beginning. He does not assimilate death so much with fire and passion and want and lust, and heat between his legs, aching and fiery. He's very sure he recognizes this feeling, like a pit in his belly swirling and swirling until he wants to bend towards the hardness pressed up against him, behind him, which is impossible because he's still staring right at the ground and – oh, oh, he can't feel his back, either.

"Oh you do! Awesome! My brother kept telling me that I should totally have someone introduce us because that's the polite way humans do things, but I called bullshit. It's just his way, being so orderly. Because he's Order."

The voice is amused, grating in its murmurs. Arthur can almost see, more than feel his own pupils dilating – expanding from green to black as oxygen continues to leave his body, like heavy smacks and punches and, gah, when was the last time he fell off a cliff? It had nothing on being smashed by a car.

"Here's the thing, Arthur Kirkland," the shadow settles over his hair, down the expanse of his body, and Arthur's not sure how because he can't feel it, but he writhes beneath the warmth. "Your weapons have killed a lot of people and sent them to me, you know? – Shh, shh, it's not a condemnation, babe. I'm actually here to apologize. No, don't gasp like that – seriously. Hey, hey, don't die yet! I didn't say you could!"

You fucking bastard. He thinks as his face falls right into concrete again. You killed me. You fucking bastard.

The voice above him, behind him, all around him, it talks again. It talks about nonsense. Is this what happens when you die? Your brain just turns to mush? Arthur wonders if his brain is now lining the road, maybe making a neat pathway, though he doubts it, what with all the twisted thoughts in his mind. The voice eases into a more comfortable tone. It's a hug. Can shadows hug?

"I know, I know this isn't the best way to get asked out on a date, but," the voice reverberates in this ripple of taut laughter, "I'm kind of really into you. And I've never really done this before."

Arthur can feel his chest constrict and expand and there's this want so deep in his bones.

"So, here's how it's gonna work, Kirkland. I'm gonna be courting you, which means, well, you're probably gonna be experiencing a lot of moments like this, I guess. But don't worry. I'm not actually going to kill you."

No. Wait. Wait. No.

"No dice, babe. You don't get any say in this," the shadow slithers to the ground beneath him. "Oh, oh, and if after a few dates you want to dump me or whatever – which I doubt, because I'm a great supernatural being, like so much better than all the other stupid ones out there – I promise I won't let you die. Not during that date, anyway. Because that wouldn't be ethical. I know you probably don't put ethical and death in the same sentence, but I totally am. So yeah, that's all I wanted to say.

See you soon, hot stuff."