Chapter 1: Duty Calls
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Lord, I ask for courage;
Courage to face and conquer my own fears...
Courage to take me where others will not go.
I ask for strength; Strength of body to protect others...
Strength of spirit to lead others.
I ask dedication;
Dedication to my job, to do it well...
Dedication to my community to keep it safe.
Give me, Lord, concern;
For all those who trust me...
And compassion for those who need me
And, please, Lord, through it all;
Be at my side.
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Arthur Kirkland was a bit of a grump in most situations, and at any time of the day. But this particular Monday morning on London's Oxford Street, making his solitary way through the bustling noisy crowds of commuters, tourists and infuriatingly loud teenage girls, the policeman found himself far more irritated than usual. England had been having unseasonably hot weather for early April, which didn't help things, and Arthur took the liberty to briefly take off his peaked black cap to wipe his sweaty brow. Trying in vain to peer over the heads of the crowds, the Englishman frowned as he saw no nearby restaurants or fast-food places to relieve his rising exhaustion and irritation. Only bloody clothes shops, M&S and all the rest of it...
And to put the cherry on the cake, he was tired. So damn tired. He'd pulled three all-nighters in a row from the past Friday to Sunday, and the shadows under the young man's eyes were so pronounced that he looked like the walking dead.
Heaving a sigh, Arthur silently pondered how this day could possibly get any worse.
A shrill cry from the other side of the busy road snapped him out of his dozing senses, and Arthur instantly swerved round and pushed through the wall of people in the direction of the sound, rushing across the road while glancing quickly from side to side, throwing his hand out to stop oncoming cars, ignoring the blaring honks, and dashing to a distressed teenager and her friend, who were clutching each other in fear.
Apparently someone up there hated him.
"What happened here? Are you alright?" he questioned hurriedly, putting a gloved hand on the girl's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.
The girl looked at him with wide frightened blue eyes.
"I—some guy just rushed by us and took my bag!" she stammered, pointing ahead of her.
"Any distinguishing features?" Arthur pressed, looking in the same direction for the thief.
"Well...he had a red baseball cap and Tottenham shirt,"
With that, Constable Kirkland was in pursuit. Such striking identification features were more than enough to catch a criminal, and so he kept his eyes sharply alert for any sign of the thief. Racing through the crowds and dodging oncoming obstacles, weaving left to right, Arthur finally caught sight of a red baseball cap atop the head of a man racing ahead, and homed in on it. Breathing short, even breaths, he regulated his movements so not to tire himself out and lose the chase. He was surprised to discover, getting closer, that the culprit was not the kid he thought he would be, but a grown man with far more muscle than he himself possessed. More crucially, Arthur noticed a brown designer handbag clutched in the thief's left hand. Accelerating, Arthur shouted for him to stop. A useless exercise, because the man simply kept on running, but at least the policeman could say he tried. Now there was only one way to end this.
So Arthur jumped him. As soon as he was within range, he leaped into air and threw his entire body weight onto the thief, sending them both crashing to the ground, the policeman positioning himself so that both legs were either side of the man's body so the man was securely trapped. Seizing the stolen item from the captured man, he hung it around his neck as he tried to restrain the struggling criminal, grabbing hold of his wildly flailing arms and folding them roughly behind the man's back, holding the two fists fast with one hand as he scrabbled for his handcuffs, grabbing them and cuffing the thief good and tight.
"You are under arrest for robbery and police evasion!" Arthur informed the thief, breathing hard. This was a rather useless statement, one might say, since it was obvious both both involved the crimes that had been committed here. But, ever the stickler for traditions, the Englishman stuck to his lines.
God, this bugger was tough! Jerking and wrenching under him, Arthur was on the verge of losing his grip and being thrown off at every violent movement. Beads of sweat slid down the side of his face, and blurred his vision. He needed backup for this one. Grabbing his walkie-talkie from his belt, he wedged it in between his shoulder and his ear and shouted:
"Hey, Frog, 10-101 [Civil disturbance - Mutual aid request]! Kirkland engaged with criminal on the left-side of Oxford Street!"
A crackly but suave voice cooed in reply,
Ooh, is little Stuffy-Pants having trouble with a méchant petit garçon [naughty little boy] again?
"Stuff it, Frog," Arthur hissed, as his captive gave another defiant lurch, spewing curses. "Just get over here!"
iOui, oui,i the Frenchman said, iI will bring Ivan along for good measure—you know he's the best man for this kind of thing,/i
"You do that," the Englishman accepted through gritted teeth, pulling his captive's arms in opposite directions with a sharp yank, making the man cry out. "You're not making this easier on either of us, sonny!"
For some reason, having two mid-teenage boys gave Arthur the authority to call everyone younger than him 'sonny'. It was a habit even he didn't quite know the meaning of.
"The sooner you pack it in," the policeman continued, giving the man's arms another sharp wrench, "the sooner we can all get this whole thing over and done with!"
By now, a large crowd had formed a wide circle around them, thankfully giving Arthur space to do his job—unlike some of the crowd's he'd been in during the course of his career.
Unfortunately, the thief was not so complacent with his wishes, and still insisted on struggling even as Arthur's perverted French colleague, Francis Bonnefoy turned up in his police car to help finalise the arrest. As they wrestled the unwilling criminal to his feet—both men holding on from both sides and using every bit of strength—and up to the car, an looming figure emerged from the passenger seat and stood in front of the thief, huge frame blocking out the sun and drowning him in a darkness that made the man look up.
Ivan Braginski, a Russian policeman who, like his French colleague, had been temporarily transferred to the English force. However, unlike Francis, his transfer was for the purpose of teaching the unpredictable, powerful man both restraint and manners—both of which seemed to fly out of the window when dealing with both suspects and criminals alike. This made him infamous in the London area, and earned him the nickname 'Smiling Creeper'.
Looking slightly comical in his standard protective gear over navy pullover and white shirt, trousers and black boots, all of which seemed slightly too small for him, he nonetheless looked very, very intimidating. Lacking the traditional policeman's cap, his silvery-blond hair gleamed in the hot morning sun, and his neck was shielded by his trademark turned-up collar. Strange...
The burly Russian's face was stretched into a wide, oily smile that raised the hair on the back of Arthur's neck even now. This was far and beyond the kind of smile that gave you warm and fuzzy feelings; there was nothing warm and fuzzy about Ivan's current smile, the type that assassins gave before ripping the throat out of their victim.
"Hello," he said, in that thick accented voice devoid of anything but playful friendliness. All the worse for the thief. "Are you making our job difficult, little one? You know it won't be good for you to do that."
Both Arthur and Francis watched the Russian carefully, just in case he decided to do something stupid. As it happened, they were watching the wrong person.
The thief glowered and spat.
"Fuck you, ya damn Commie ba—!"
He did not finish his sentence, for Ivan had simply swung his arm around and smashed his bear-like fist into the man's jaw before his colleagues could stop him. The thief slumped forward, completely out for the count, as Constables Kirkland and Bonnefoy buckled to support this sudden increase in weight.
"Bloody hell, Braginski, what's the matter with you?" Arthur raged as they bundled the unconscious man into the back seat of the police vehicle. "There was absolutely no need for that kind of action!"
"He insulted me," the Russian replied evenly, strapping the man in none-too-gently. "And he was a handful, da? If I had not done this he would have been more trouble."
Arthur was about to rebuke him, but gave up with a loud growl of irritation. The Russian's eerily calm expression was all-too-indicative of how pointless it would be to say anything more. The Englishman could rant until he was blue in the face, and it would not make a blind bit of difference to the stubborn temp's mind.
They really needed to do something about this nutter.
"You know what, forget it! Francis, you take care of the rest, I'm going to return this stolen item to its owner," Arthur huffed, turning on his heel and storming off from whence he had come, drained both physically and mentally from the past twenty-minute ordeal.
"Fine—but I'll send some other to accompany you so you don't drag me into your messes again!" the Frenchman called after him, slamming the back door of the car and standing by the driver's seat.
Arthur waved curtly without looking round, rolling his eyes. Another door slammed, and the car drove off into the chaos and traffic-laden Oxford Street. The Englishman grinned as his malicious side envisaged the Frenchman trapped helplessly in gridlock, cursing and shouting as he always did in any situation which didn't give him a boner.
Ignoring the whispers and eyes of onlookers, Arthur eventually found the brunette teenager and her friend, whose faces lit up on seeing him carrying the stolen—and, judging by its appearance—very expensive handbag.
Handing it over to the grateful owner, Constable Kirkland managed a tired smile.
"You take better care of your belongings next time, missy," he warned. "I suggest hanging it across you like so," He placed the long leather strap of the bag over the girl's head so it was slung across her body. "Much less likely to be grabbed off you."
The girls giggled at their own stupidity and expressed their thanks before going on their way, chattering excitedly.
Arthur waved them off and resumed his inspection of the area, strolling down the pavement feeling far less down in the dumps as he had twenty or so minutes before. Maybe it was the rush of action that was still pumping through his veins that caused this buzz, or maybe it was the satisfaction of a job well done, or maybe the grateful smiles of the girls he had helped in doing it.
Whatever the reason, Constable Kirkland continued on the many rounds of the long day, smiling.
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6:30 pm. Arthur turned the key in the lock of the front door of his flat, and let himself in. Half an hour earlier, his shift had ended, and the policeman was all too glad to drive home to be with his two boys for the evening.
"I'm home," he called, sighing and shrugging off his boots and ridding himself of his burdensome police gear at the threshold, shutting the door behind him.
"Hi, dad!" a cheerful, soft voice greeted, and the policeman looked up to see his fourteen-year-old son Matthew approach him beaming, hugging him tightly. The younger of twins, the boy was always the first to greet him after a day's work. Arthur returned the gesture with one arm, the other busy disposing of his protective gear.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "How was school?"
"Great! I got a B in my maths test today!"
Arthur beamed. Matthew was such a good lad. Standing before him with those bright, bright blue eyes, face glowing with eagerness to please under soft toffee-brown curls and stray antenna, he was the picture of childish innocent. Arthur noticed that his son had discarded his school uniform for a far more casual red top and jeans.
He ruffled Matthew's hair.
"Well done, lad! Keep it up,"
His younger son nodded enthusiastically. Suddenly, the policeman noticed something was amiss.
"Where's your brother?" he asked.
"Oh, in his room playing on his X-Box," the boy informed, smiling sheepishly, as if he were somehow responsible for his brother's disregard for his father's arrival. But, being the more responsible of twins, Arthur wasn't surprised.
Sighing softly, he patted his son's shoulder awkwardly and made his way into the rather spacious living-room. It was a modest affair; nothing too extravagant but with no hint of scruffiness that defined a lot of apartments that Arthur had had the misfortune to see in his career. Dignified brown leather sofas and chairs were laid out around the coffee (or tea, since that was the only beverage Arthur drank aside from the standard Coke) table, behind which the T.V sat on its small cupboard which housed various technological equipment (games, etc), DVDs, and, of course, the DVD player itself. The walls of the room were a relaxed cream colour, the new beige wooden flooring complimenting the moss-green rugs. Various still-life paintings decorated the walls, and, in Arthur's opinion, added to the serenity of the place.
Turning right down the short corridor and turning left to face the door of his older son's room, he simply opened it and went inside.
Magazines, posters, flashing lights from the TV screen—these were what the father of two's eyes were bombarded with. He frowned to see the discarded clothes and unmade bed. But, he conceded finally, there was no point in trying to correct this now. He'd nagged about his son's untidiness for years, but nothing had changed. Well...Alfred had stopped bringing midnight snacks into it and littering the place.
"Busy, I see," Arthur remarked sarcastically when his son didn't look up from his furious car racing game, slouched on his oversized red-and-blue-striped bean-bag that reminded Arthur of the American flag, the only visible part of him being his stray cowlick of dirty blond hair.
"Oh, hey dad," came the reply more befitting of one who had a load of work on his hands and wasn't in the mood for conversation.
Nevertheless, the boy's father persisted.
"How was school?"
"Good."
This was getting nowhere.
"Alfred, just pause the game for a minute so I can talk to you. Don't worry, I'll keep it short." Arthur couldn't help but lace bitterness into the last words. It was just so frustrating when his own son couldn't be bothered to have a few moments of small-talk with his father.
"Can't, I'm nearly at the finish line, I'm winning!"
Arthur was about to put his foot down, when all the exhaustion of the day's running around, shouting and chaotic surroundings suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks, and dealing with his rebellious eldest son was the last thing he wanted to put himself through.
"Fine," he muttered. "Fine. I'll be in the living room when you can be bothered to talk."
"Aw, Dad—!"
Without another word, Arthur turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.
He stormed down the short corridor, if it could be called that, fuming. Was it just so much to ask for a decent conversation at the end of a long, tiring day shouting and cursing at his colleges and criminals alike? Honestly!
Back in the living-room again, Arthur approached the nearest sofa and let himself collapse into it with a long, drawn-out sigh. He needed some tea to lift his spirits. Something...
His lime-green eyes then happened to fall upon a photograph, carefully preserved on the mantelpiece. A woman smiled sweetly back at him, long wild ginger locks flowing past her shoulders, cradling two newborn infants in her arms, lying in a hospital bed. Despite the exhaustion of the birth, her face radiated with youth, as if she were ready to bound out of bed and waltz out of the hospital doors with all three of them—their two sons and Arthur himself—in tow.
But now that smile remained in a faded photograph, preserved on the mantelpiece. He remained. His boys needed him now more than anything, but his job often brutally mocked that necessity. The stinging guilt resurfaced now, as it often did these days, and Arthur made no effort to suppress it. Why should his boys run to greet the father that only saw them for a mere few hours in the evening and perhaps a few minutes in the mornings, only for him to be worn out and despondent in his chair for the most part? It was ludicrous, really. Absolutely ludicrous.
A grim, bitter smile cracked across his face, and Arthur closed his eyes.
Here I sit and wonder why
The best are always the first to die.
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Alfred finished his game, but no euphoric rush came with the victory. Now he was weighed down by the horrible guilt that he had done something wrong. That innate sensation that dulled the senses and made everything else utterly insignificant. He'd brushed his dad off for a game. His father's last bitter words had stung him, but his mind was set on the game, and he'd shrugged it off.
Until now.
Sheepishly, or as sheepish as Alfred could be, the elder twin exited his room and made his way cautiously into the living-room, so his father wouldn't notice him straight-away.
Alfred found him slumped over on the sofa, head resting against its arm, fast asleep. He looked at his father for a few moments, noting how peaceful the man looked, an expression he had not seen his father wear in so long. He'd always be tired and touchy—but then, he had a whole day of rushing, shouting and real bad run-ins with the worst sort of people you'd never want to come into contact with. His father did it every day, for everybody's benefit. For his benefit. So they'd all be safe.
Something swelled inside the teen, and Alfred figured that the least he could do was cover him up with a blanket and make a cup of hot tea for his dad to wake up to.
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Ivan entered his apartment, taking off his stuffy gear, jumper and boots while leaving his shirt on. Small, dank, and in need of repair in some places, it was the only thing he, with his minimal funding, could afford. Thus the place still smelled vaguely of booze and whatever else its previous owner had housed, information Ivan would rather go without knowing.
He wasn't complaining—it was better than home, at least. It had central heating, and he had the place all to himself and his thoughts.
Although, often this comfort could backfire horribly when the nightmares came...
Pushing the threatening thoughts from his mind, the Russian made his way to his pokey kitchen, switched on the light, and opened the fridge, helping himself to a bottle of vodka.
He didn't fetch himself a glass.
Wandering into the next room, a comfortably larger living-room with a TV and shelves of books Ivan had not gotten round to inspecting, more for the lack of knowledge of the English language than being pressed for time. He didn't bother to switch on the light, and instead felt his way to the worn sofa-bed, and flopped down upon it, ignoring the complaining groan of the worn-out springs.
Cracking open the bottle, Ivan's eyes briefly gazed hazily into the dark space, allowing himself to fully sink in the life he now lived, in all its bright days and sullen nights. In a foreign land, he was an outsider. Even in his current residence he was an alien, imposing in walls not built for his kind.
The darkness was the same, though.
Oh yes, the darkness never changed.
Smiling horribly, Ivan's fingers unconsciously turned down the collars of his shirt to feel the scars.
Oh yes, they were still there. They never went away, wherever he chose to go. They followed, and brought hell along with them.
Giggling, Ivan brought the bottle end to his lips, and took a long, drawn-out swig, and did not stop until the bottle was at least half empty.
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NOTES:
-I made Arthur, Francis and Ivan constables for two reasons:
-Firstly, the position of 'constable' goes way back. It was established in England following the Norman Conquest of 1066. In France, office was established by King Philip I in 1060. I can't find anything on Russia. Could someone help me out with that? Anyway, its a reference to how the countries all three represent go way back as well.
(Even though they're all human in his fic...)
-Secondly, just as the countries England, France and Russia are meant to represent the majority of their people and not their leaders, so too do the constables represent the majority of policemen, all out there doing their bit.
(Even though they're all human in his fic...)
-This is the first Hetalia fic in which I've used the countries' human names, to make the story itself more grounded in reality. I hope it's worked...
-It was fun finding the codes the police use to communicate situations and things to each other, but hard to find the one I wanted XP
-Also, I have absolutely no idea if the police force have such things as 'temporary tranfers' or not...I tried to find out but couldn't find anything saying they did or didn't...^^;
-The poem at the beginning is called 'A Prayer for Courage'-and for the life of me I can't find the poet...I think it's a personalized one, because it always goes by different names and is edited a bit in various versions I've found. Found it here under the title 'I Ask': . amongst others...very touching and sad.
-The two lines in Arthur's 'reflection scene' was taken from the last two lines of an elegy written on a grave I saw once.
-Finally, on a more light-hearted note: the title 'Boys in Blue' is a reference to the navy blue uniform worn by UK police.