Author's Note: This request comes to you guys from toboewhisker on Tumblr! Enjoy!

Let it be established from this day forth that Alfred F. Jones can take care of his goddamned self. He's nineteen-freaking-years-old, a grown man by law, and last time he checked, that's old enough not to need a babysitter, especially not after he's been at war for nearly a year.

So when Matthew, his normally docile and companionable twin brother, drops the bomb on him during one of their sporadic phone calls, Alfred can't believe his ears.

"You want me to what?"

"Al, you can't just go back to your place in New York next week. You've been away for so long… You need someone to stay with," Matthew explains, remaining calm. "The worst thing you could do is be home alone."

"Fine, if you're so worried, I'll just crash at your place for a bit," Alfred suggests, sticking a piece of gum into his mouth in a feeble attempt to relax. His leg begins bouncing up and down rapidly in frustration.

"You know I'm going on a business trip, and it's too important to miss."

"More important than your brother?"

"Of course not! Don't say that! If there wasn't any other alternative, I would cancel the business trip in a heartbeat, but you might recall that you have another brother that's been absolutely worried sick about you."

"Half-brother," Alfred emphasizes, huffing.

"What's the difference? He cares about you, and he's been waiting to hear from you for six months now. Al, I know you two haven't been getting along lately, but you could've at least sent a letter letting him know you were okay. He shouldn't have to be calling me to make sure you're alive."

"Yeah, whatever. Don't let Arthur manipulate you into thinking he actually cares. He just likes having control over people."

"You don't believe that."

Alfred shakes his head and scoffs, still stunned that Matthew would even think to put him in this position. "Let me get this straight. You want me to visit my lovely,big brother Arthur—the same brother who was totally against me joining the Marine Corps in the first place. Arthur? Shit, he'll be delighted to see the cast on my leg. He'll probably even say I deserve it for volunteering to serve."

"He wouldn't."

"If you seriously think that, then you don't know him as well as I do."

"Al, he loves you. Of course he didn't want you to serve. He didn't want to see you hurt," Matthew reasons, pleading for Alfred to understand. "He'll be able to take care of you until you're back on your feet again."

"Just because I have a broken leg doesn't mean I can't handle everything by myself. I'm home for good now, Matt, and believe it or not, I remember how to function like a normal human being."

Matthew sighs but refuses to relent. "It's not just the broken leg I'm worried about."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing… Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. I've already spoken with Arthur, and he thinks it's a good idea, too. You'll be boarding a flight to London next Friday, and he'll pick you up from the airport."

"No."

"Al, please."

"No, Matt. You can't make me do this."

Matthew makes a disgruntled noise and swears under his breath before composing himself again. "Look, if it turns out to be awful, you can call me, and I'll cut my trip short, okay? At least give this idea a chance. Trust me. Arthur's not a bad guy. You guys used to be so close—closer than we are now. Why can't it be like that again?"

"We're different people now," Alfred mutters, pursing his lips into a thin line. Thinking about Arthur always makes his blood boil, and now is no different. He'd rather not let his thoughts dwell on the man for too long.

"Alfred…"

Uh-oh, the full first name is never a good sign.

"He's hurting, too," Matthew whispers, and he's using that sad tone of voice that makes Alfred want to punch a wall.

He's not going to give in. Not today. Not ever. Not…

"Okay," he sighs loudly, running a hand through his perspiring hair. "Fine. I'll stay with him for a little while, but the second he pisses me off, I'm calling you, all right?"

The cheer in Matthew's response is obvious. "Oh, God, thank you! I promise it won't be so bad. I'll call Arthur right away."

"Yeah, have fun with that."

"I'll check in on you when you're in London, okay? Try not to be too miserable over the whole thing."

"I can't promise that."

"All right. Awesome. Cool. This makes me really relieved, Al. It's going to be okay. Arthur will be happy, too, I'm sure," Matthew rambles, and Alfred can imagine him all giddy and smiling in person. "Talk to you soon."

"See ya."

The line goes dead, and Alfred drops the phone in his lap with a heavy groan. What did he just agree to?

He'd better strap himself in for a grueling ride.

Baggage claim at Heathrow is worse than enduring the blistering heat in Iraq. Not only does his luggage get misplaced—he has to stand around idly for over an hour before the airport's staff finally finds it. He's pretty sure he looks quite awkward in his military fatigues and thick cast as he's kept propped up by his crutches. He attracts a lot of curious glances, but he pretends not to see them.

One kind man offers to help carry his bags, but Alfred politely declines the offer and makes his way out to the main entrance of the terminal, where he sees crowds of families waiting for their loved ones. He searches for a head of blond hair and a pair of bushy eyebrows.

"Alfred!"

He sucks in a breath and suddenly remembers his unit in Baghdad. There were children running, and someone to his right screamed. He had turned around to see old Greg, his best friend, staring blankly up at the sky, following a little black bead slice through the clouds—airstrike. He'd heard his name being shouted and then—

"Alfred?"

There's a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur's standing right in front of him, eyes oddly swollen around the edges.

"Let me help you with those," Arthur says, grabbing his two duffel bags. "The car is parked just outside, so you won't have to walk far."

Alfred blinks and soundlessly lets himself be led toward the exit, still a bit disoriented from the sudden flashback. A moment later, Arthur's helping him into the passenger's side and loading his things into the trunk.

"I was beginning to think you had missed your flight. I've been waiting for two hours," Arthur says as he slides into the driver's seat and starts the car. "You must be hungry. Would you like to stop for food?"

It's hard to focus on what's being said to him, but Alfred manages a timely reply. "I ate on the plane."

"Ah, all right. Then, we'll head straight home, yes?"

The conversation wanes there, mostly because Alfred can't be bothered to pretend to be enthralled by Arthur's presence. He leans back into his comfy seat and listens to the soft rock playing on the radio instead. It's been a while since he's been able to hear some good songs, and it's a darn shame because he really does love music.

Arthur, the idiot, keeps trying to get him to talk. "It's been far too long, Alfred. Far too long."

"Mm," Alfred hums, really not in the mood. "Not long enough."

Arthur pretends not to hear him and plasters a smile on his face instead. "It's good to see you."

"Arthur?"

"Yes, lad?"

"Shut the hell up."

Somehow, since they've last spoken to each other, Arthur has developed the patience of a saint. "Now, now, there's no need to be upset. I know things have been… shaky between us, but I'd like us to start on a clean slate."

"Yeah, not gonna happen," Alfred grumbles, rubbing at an aching spot on his head. "Let's just get one thing clear, I'm not here for you. I'm here for Mattie. Next week, I'll be back in New York, and we can both go back to the way it was and pretend we don't exist."

Arthur clicks his tongue in disapproval. "If you keep up that attitude, this is going to be a very long stay for you, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, whatever. I don't need you to treat me like some kid or psychoanalyze me, Arthur. Or, should I start calling you Dr. Kirkland? Mattie tells me you've been busy now that you've got that fancy practice of yours. How'd you even find the time to deal with your dear little bro?"

"You're not fooling me with your apathy."

"Sure, because you can read everyone like a book, can't you? That's one of the perks of being a psychiatrist."

"It might surprise you to hear this, but I'm only trying to help, Alfred," Arthur states firmly, patience finally thinning. He pulls the car into a driveway, and cuts the engine with a sigh.

Alfred takes a second to regard the house. He hasn't been here before—Arthur just recently got himself this new place, and it looks like a typical European residence with a little garden out front. He grabs ahold of his crutches and makes a point of getting out of his seat without Arthur's help before hobbling his way up to the front door.

Arthur takes his bags out of the trunk and lets him in, and almost at once, a portly tabby cat with yellow eyes dashes up to Alfred and brushes against his leg, purring.

"Winston missed you," Arthur says with a gentle smile, and Alfred doesn't have the heart to shoo the sweet animal away.

"Hey, Winston, old buddy. Arthur's been treating you right, I hope. Giving you the good canned tuna, right?" Alfred coos, scratching behind the cat's ears.

Winston meows again in response and takes a few paces forward to greet Arthur as well, shoving his head into his owner's ankle. Arthur pets him briefly and then returns back to the matter at hand.

"Now, unfortunately, all of the bedrooms are upstairs," Arthur announces with a frown, looking pointedly at Alfred's injured leg.

"It's fine," Alfred retorts, already climbing the stairs to prove he's capable of doing so. He takes the guest bedroom that Arthur directs him into and studies the prison he'll be stuck in for the foreseeable future. He still can't believe he let Matthew talk him into this. He's too much of a pushover at times.

Arthur sets his bags down, straightens up to his full height, and asks, "Do you need help unpacking?"

"No."

"Right then. Can I get you anything?"

"Nope."

Arthur clears his throat uncomfortably, puts one hand on his hip, and says, in a defeated tone, "Well, if you need anything I'll either be in my study or the other bedroom."

He leaves, and Alfred lies back on his new bed, jetlag catching up with him. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in a while, and it wouldn't hurt to just rest his eyes for a second or two. He folds one arm behind his head, wiggles around to get cozy, and before he can stop himself, he's dozing off for a nap.

There's something fuzzy on his chest.

Something that shouldn't be there.

Alarmed, Alfred cracks his eyes open and sits up, startling Winston, who had been using his body as a pillow. It's then that he also notices the blanket pulled up to his waist. Funny, he doesn't remember covering himself up.

Winston jumps off of his chest and down to the carpet to stretch his kitty paws. He really needs to work on eating smaller portion sizes. He must be at least six pounds heavier than when Alfred last saw him, and he's pretty sure that's not good for a fully grown cat.

"You're just curvy, aren't ya?" Alfred jokes, running his hand over Winston's tail. "What's your owner up to, huh? Probably being his usual grumpy self. How do you put up with him?'

Winston gives an appreciative meow and strides out of the room.

Alfred yawns and gets out of bed, pausing only momentarily to locate his crutches. He makes his way out to the hallway and sees that the door to Arthur's study is closed, meaning he must be hiding away in there.

Good, that gives Alfred the chance to explore and figure out what to do with himself. It's only about three o'clock in the afternoon, and his mind is horribly confused by this five hour time difference. Ideally, he should try to prepare himself some lunch, but his stomach hasn't been very agreeable for the past few weeks, and he doesn't know how it'll handle being fed anything other than the packets of ready-made meals the military has been providing him with for months.

In that case, he could do with a good shower instead. He's got a cast protector in his luggage to keep his leg from getting wet, and after searching for five minutes, he finds it. All set, he finds the bathroom and closes the door behind him before stripping. He slips his foot into the cast protector, takes his glasses off, turns on the water, and carefully gets into the bathtub, chiding himself for not finding himself a stool or something else to sit on. No matter, he can stand as long as he makes sure to brace himself on the wall.

Squinting through his terrible vision, he finds a bottle of shampoo and picks it up. He opens the cap and pours some into his palm, and as he does, he loses his balance, and the leg that isn't injured comes sliding out from under him. There's a brief sinking feeling in his stomach before his butt hits the bottom of the tub and his head knocks against the spigot on the wall rather painfully.

Water pelting him in the face, he tries to at least sit up, but everything's unbelievably slippery. He flails a hand upward to turn off the water, but that's when the door to the bathroom comes swinging open, and a new sinking feeling of horror and dread replaces the first.

"Don't come in!" Alfred shouts, but it's too late, Arthur's already in the bathroom and gaping at the mess he's gotten himself into.

To his credit, Arthur doesn't stand around in shock for long. Within a couple of seconds, he turns off the water, draws back the shower curtain, and has two hands on either of Alfred's shoulders to pull him up into a seated position against the wall.

"What happened?" Arthur demands.

"I-I slipped," Alfred offers lamely, feeling stupid. Here he is, sitting naked and injured in front of the last person he wants to see.

Thankfully, Arthur tosses him a towel before continuing the interrogation. "What did you hit? How's your leg?"

"The leg's fine."

"Did you hit your head?"

Alfred flushes and directs his gaze to the opposite wall. "Maybe a little?"

Arthur makes an exasperated sound and rushes out of the room before returning a minute later with a small bag of ice. "Here," he says, pressing it to the back of Alfred's head. "Hold this in place. How hard did you hit your head?"

"Pretty hard."

"If I have to bring you to the hospital on your first day back—!" Arthur growls but never finishes the thought. Suddenly, he darts out a hand and grasps Alfred's chin, forcing him to look at him. He scans Alfred's eyes for a moment, and when he's satisfied, he lets him go and glares. "You could've warned me you were going to shower."

Somehow, even after all of this time and after facing countless enemies on the battlefield, Alfred still finds himself feeling intimidated by Arthur. His elder brother is nine years older than him, but at the moment, it feels like that number is closer to fifteen years. It's like Alfred's just a young boy again, being reprimanded for playing basketball in the house.

"You're taking baths from now on. No more showers," Arthur states, and Alfred feels too humiliated to protest to being bossed around. "Do you feel dizzy or disoriented at all?"

"No."

"Good," Arthur sighs, before turning on the water again, running a bath this time.

"You can leave now," Alfred murmurs, but his brother doesn't seem to have any desire whatsoever to go.

Arthur readies a stern look at him. "I'm not going to leave you alone in a tub of water with a potential concussion. I'll wash your hair. You can do the rest."

This is beyond degrading. If only Alfred had his cellphone right now. He'd be calling Matthew to get him out of here at once. This is madness.

"You really don't have to do that."

"Shh," Arthur says sharply, working a sudsy lather into his hair. "Be quiet."

Alfred shuts his eyes so that he doesn't have to witness any of it. He feels Arthur's fingers rubbing circles into his scalp, mindful of the newly forming welt on his head. If he just imagines he's getting his hair washed at the barber's shop, it doesn't feel as shameful.

That is, until Arthur cups some water into his hands and pours it over his head to rinse it.

Sudden panic overtakes him, and he gets an irrational sensation of drowning. The water dribbles down his face and nose and, oh God, he can't breathe. He's going to drown. Water. Days without it and then so much that it bloats his stomach and makes him sick. Drowning, sinking, not enough air.

Arthur dunks his head into the water, and Alfred lashes out, swatting his brother's hands away. He snaps into an upright position, gasps for breath, and chokes on the oxygen in his lungs as it refuses to be exhaled. He thinks he's hyperventilating, and the world goes blurry even with his glasses on. He remembers a lakebed, brown with sand—an oasis in the middle of nowhere. He was so thirsty he poured the stuff down his throat and then was agonizing over a sore stomach for three days. Sand everywhere. In his mouth, chest, stomach, blood…

"Hey, hey! Alfred!" Arthur exclaims, bringing him back to reality. "It's all right! You're all right!"

But Alfred still can't breathe. Everything hurts like when that house collapsed, and he was trapped under the rubble for eight hours, waiting for death.

Arthur looks at him with worry and says, "Easy, now. You're okay. Take a deep breath."

Alfred tries, he really does, but no air gets through, and the corners of the room are fading to black.

"Breathe with me," Arthur tries instead, exhaling loudly and slowly. He waits for Alfred to copy him, and when he does, he inhales the same way. Together, they repeat this little exercise five or six more times, and Alfred, admittedly, feels better. "In… out… In… out."

His awareness returns to him, and Alfred's panic attack halts as quickly as it sprouted up.

"There we go. Much better," Arthur says encouragingly, relieved, but there's an expression on his face that makes Alfred squirm.

So, he knows. He knows Alfred's slowly losing his mind and has been returned home with some faulty parts. He's broken. Malfunctioning. And he's only going to be a nuisance to everyone who's unlucky enough to be caught around him now.

"Alfred," Arthur begins seriously. "You should've said something. This… This can be treated."

He's fairly certain he's going to die of embarrassment at this rate. Here he is, being helpless, little Alfred again. The same Alfred who went to such great lengths to prove he could manage his own affairs. The Alfred who flung himself into war and expected not to come back with scars.

Arthur finishes washing his hair, and Alfred scrubs himself clean before drying himself and hastily changing into some sweatpants and a t-shirt. When that's done, he returns to his bedroom, shuts the door completely, and collapses onto the bed.

Time to call Matthew to get him out.