This was a one-shot I wrote a while ago that I was pretty proud of. It's set right after England and America's confrontation (as shown in America's Storage Room Cleaning.) It also uses a fan character, but not a country, and this is also the only thing I've ever written with her. And I might never use her again. ^^; Anyway, it's angsty, but ends on a hopeful note. Warning: overuse of the word "sir." = / / / =
It's not intended to be USUK; it explores a more platonic, big brother/little brother sort of relationship between the two, which is my headcanon for them. But that's not to say you couldn't sort of rework it in your head to MAKE it USUK if you prefer that. ^^;
Feedback is always appreciated! ^^
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. Francine Archer, however, is.
Words burned his mind as they played over and over in his memory. Like he was missing something, though he knew he wasn't. No, he just wanted to hear that voice for as long as he was still capable of it. He wanted to cling to the ashen remains of something that had rotted away from the inside out - so that he hadn't noticed until it had been too late.
Those words - that voice. Sweet because he could still hold onto them. Lethal in the meaning that they held.
"You used to be so great."
It was true. So, so true. And that was what burned the most.
Perhaps someday it would dull to an ever-present but tolerable ache. At least he had something to look forward to. But no, at this moment, in the very aftermath of the demolition of his ego, the loss of that man was an unmitigated flame.
It burned when he moved.
It burned when he spoke.
It burned the most when he remembered.
Unfortunately, he simply wasn't ready to move on.
Staring ceaselessly at the bureau across from his bed, a bitter smirk twitched its way onto his face. It was terribly funny how the emotional completely overshadowed the physical. There were all shapes and sizes of bodily woes he could be dwelling on right now, but they simply weren't worth his time - no, not when he could be ripping his psyche apart chunk by pitiful chunk. The pain in his limbs and his throat and his head would fade away soon enough. He feared the pain in his heart would overstay its welcome.
His door opened very suddenly, but it somehow didn't startle him. Any kind of adrenaline reaction seemed inhibited by this drowsy, helpless fog that had engulfed him. Then again, he knew who it was, so why should he be startled?
He heard a short little sigh. "Master Kirkland, I thought you were going to close your eyes for a bit, try to sleep."
"Mm," was Arthur's reply, distant and indifferent, "I suppose I didn't, did I?"
Delicate, swift footsteps pitter-pattered over to his bed; he heard the clink of a metal tray being set down on his nightstand. "One teaspoon as always, sir?" A pause. "...Sir?"
Oh, that had required a response? "Yes, please," he forced out, blinking for the first time he was aware of in several minutes.
Now the tinkling of china, and her voice again. "There you are."
She added cream, as well, then remained standing at his bedside for several seconds. "Is there something wrong, Miss Archer?"
"Well, sir," she began, sounding uncertain and awkward, "you're not going to sit up to drink your tea?"
Arthur mulled this over - well, sort of. Truly, the question went in one of his ears and was engulfed, like all other thoughts, by the flame of his current pain and reduced to soot. "I will," he said very simply after a moment.
"Alright," his loyal staff member relented. "I shouldn't want it to go cold." He must have been a pitiful sight, indeed, for then Arthur caught her gaze and saw the sad, sad worry in her eyes. Why should she worry about him so much? I suppose if I died she'd be out of work. But it's not as if that's going to happen. Not that I'd mind too terribly if it did.
Archer's next mysterious move was to begin reaching a hand out towards Arthur's face. She paused when her soft but work-worn appendage was within a few inches, drawing it back in hesitation. "May I?" She asked permission.
"Of course," Arthur responded without enthusiasm. In truth, he couldn't have cared any less if he'd been dead.
At that, her hand proceeded onto his forehead, where it lay judgementally and patiently for a few moments. "I don't think you've quite gotten over that fever, sir," she commented solemnly when she pulled it away.
"Oh, it might be a while, Miss Archer..."
She looked at him sadly again. "Perhaps, Master Kirkland. I hope not, though." She offered a meek smile. "If I may say so, sir, you're a strong one. I think you'll be on your feet again any day."
"I'd agree, Archer," he interjected monotonously, "but I wager you forget, sometimes, that many of my illnesses are... different."
"Oh. Is that what this is, sir? Not just a cold, then?"
"Oh, it's probably a very normal, human cold," Arthur corrected, "but I'm not exactly at my strongest." He smirked undetectably when he realized how scarcely he would admit to being weakened. But there was no lying to himself or anyone else right now. "I'd be much less affected if I hadn't just..." He trailed off. How to end that sentence? Effectively murdered myself? Collapsed the fruits of over a hundred years' efforts? Driven away the only remaining person who actually gave a damn about me? "...If I hadn't just lost a war."
"Right," the other sighed, smoothing her apron quickly before folding her hands in front of her. "Someday I may understand the whole thing better. A... anthro..."
"Anthropomorphic embodiment."
"Anthropomorphic embodiments of the nations, and all that," Archer finished with a small, embarrassed smile.
"Mm..."
The following pause was stiff and depressing. Or at least, Arthur imagined it was for his employee. For him, it was exactly like the last several hours had been. He was more than used to it.
"You... You were going to sit up, sir?"
"Egh... Why not?" Arthur muttered, turning onto his back and pushing himself upwards with his hands. The effort it required would have been disconcerting had he cared more. He deposited his weight on his backside, pushing a few sudden, slightly painful coughs from his throat. Miss Archer reached forward to adjust his pillows into a suitable position. He leaned back gratefully once she was done.
She then proceeded to take his tea from the nightstand and hand it to him. The steam seemed to have ceased to pour out of the porcelain cup, indicating that it was at a drinkable temperature. He rested it on his knee for a moment, enjoying the sensation of the heat through his comforter. Then he took a sip.
Even his old friend tasted bitter in the back of his throat today; perhaps because his sense of taste was dulled by his sickness, but more likely because he couldn't enjoy it after all that had happened to ruin it for him. Every time the rich flavor ran over his tongue, vivid images of wooden crates bobbing in the Boston surf at midnight flashed into his mind. The victorious smile that had been on Alfred's face, too, was clearly visible.
"And what are you going to do about that, Arthur? Hm? Got a back-up plan now?"
Still. The warmth was comforting, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend this was an entirely normal tea time.
He had to struggle to keep his fourth sip in his mouth as another cough exploded from him. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing the tea with difficulty and feeling his raw throat bother him once again. He suddenly felt a cool hand on his back, through the cotton of his somewhat uncomfortable shirt. His breaths became more even, and he handed the teacup off to Archer. "Th-thank you..."
Archer only responded by removing her hand from his back and glancing away. He looked up in time to see a light blush painted across her cheeks, and he smiled wearily.
"Do you mind..." She trailed off. She just barely met his eye for a moment before glancing away again. "Do you mind if I sit, sir?"
"Not at all."
"Thank you, sir." Archer just barely sat herself on the edge of his rather grand bed, almost as if she was fearful of affecting it with her presence in any way. Arthur realized how silly this was - the blankets couldn't have been any more twisted and wrinkled if they'd been tied in a knot. But Ms. Archer has always had an almost over-the-top sense of her place in this house - Arthur's only home in the colonies.
He winced. Former colonies.
She was en employee plucked from London and brought straight to Boston, and if there was anything she understood, it was the rules of being "the help." Arthur saw the value in knowing one's place, but he'd never been terribly uptight about such things in his own home. Life was too short for these people to assault them with rigid guidelines for behavior. He'd just have to hire someone new soon enough...
Therefore, Archer continued to amuse him somewhat; he tried to hide this as best he could. He knew it would only embarrass her. Such a young woman so concerned with being so proper. I can hardly criticize her for it.
"I-if you don't mind my asking, sir," she spoke suddenly, and he rose his gaze to meet her eyes. She almost appeared to be pushing out of that comfort zone to speak her mind for once. "It's... It's not just the loss of the colonies that's bothering you... is it?"
Oh. He heaved a sigh that ended in a cough. When he replied, it was agonizingly quiet. "You've never met Alfred, have you?"
"No, sir, I haven't," Ms. Archer said. "But you've spoken of him quite a bit. Not always fondly, I might add."
The blond man smiled sadly. "Please, Ms. Archer; I'd rather you not remind me."
That blush again, probably induced by the thought of having spoken out of line. "I'm terribly sorry, sir..."
"Please, don't be." He let out a quiet laugh. Even if it did carry a heaviness that it shouldn't have, it felt good to laugh. It was the first time in at least a day, probably more. "I'm simply an emotional old fool. It doesn't take much to set me off these days, does it?"
"You have every right to be emotional. In my opinion," she added. "You see him as a younger brother, don't you?"
Arthur nodded. "Very much so." He paused to choose his next words, and to make sure he wasn't going to burst into sudden tears. That would have been horribly irritating. But he was much too tired to start sobbing now. He'd been crying far too long already. "He's filled that place for me for a very long time. But, just like everyone else who's ever cared for me in the least..." He trailed off, losing volume. "It never lasts very long. I drive them all away eventually. I always make some... massive mistake... me and my narcissistic thirst for grandeur..."
"Now, sir," his staff member argued gently, "you can't place so much blame on yourself. You certainly can't help what the King's been doing."
"Oh," Arthur moaned, casting aside the consolation and rubbing one of his eyes, "it's as much my fault as it is George's." In his peripheral vision, he saw her furrow her eyebrows, and he realized he may have caught her off-guard with the casual reference to their monarch as simply "George." But he'd spent enough time with the man to earn that right. "Alfred - Alfred was my responsibility. But..." That sad smile again. "He didn't want to be my responsibility any longer."
"This isn't necessarily the end of you having anything to do with him..."
Oh, damn. He felt tears dampen his eyelashes. "It is if he has any say in it," he protested, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Trust me."
"Master Kirkland, if I might offer my opinion," Archer persisted, "he doesn't hate you. He can't. It's fairly impossible for one to hate someone who's cared for them so loyally for so long. He's angry with you, surely. But that will fade."
Greatly to his displeasure, the tears pushed closer to spilling out. "Perhaps, Ms. Archer. But... but the things I've done to him..." He closed his eyes as he let out a breath, and one tear escaped his left eye. "'British wrongs,' he called them. Injustices. Well... rightfully so, I suppose. Rightfully so." He took quite a pause attempting to regain his composure, something he most likely wouldn't be capable of. He didn't dare look at Archer now. "It's not just how alone I am now. I'm... I'm afraid for him."
"...Sorry, sir?"
"I'm afraid for him. For Alfred. I'll no longer be around to protect him, or even give him advice. If I try, he won't accept it. He's made the decision to be completely independent." Screw keeping his composure - he looked up at his caretaker pleadingly, feeling his voice wobble precariously. "I-I fear he won't make it, Ms. Archer. He's so young; I don't believe he has any idea what he's doing!"
Arthur suddenly felt a small hand squeeze his own. Embarrassed that his current state even warranted such comforting actions, he let his head drop, propping it up on his hand, resting that elbow on his leg. But, God; he had to admit it felt good to have that hand there, for what it was worth.
"He'll be alright, Master Kirkland. You have to believe that. I, well - I don't know Alfred personally, but I know these people. I've been here a few years now, and they're capable, they're strong, they're intelligent. They have a sense of confidence, a-and for good reason, I think! This revolution happened for a reason, and I really do believe they'll be able to get on. And if they will, he will." She paused. "R-right? That's how it works? If they're alright, he'll be alright."
"Yes, Ms. Archer." Arthur nodded, head still hanging. "There's a direct connection between a nation and his people."
"And I don't believe you're as alone as you think you are," she continued. "Maybe you don't exactly have any other countries on your side right now. But I'm not sure you need them. You're strong, even without the American colonies. You're so strong! A-and..." She gave his hand another squeeze, trailing off oddly. "And maybe they're silly and unimportant, but there are people, normal little people who care about you still. Not nations, not military geniuses, but... but people nonetheless."
It took him a bit to realize she meant herself. Slightly taken aback, he had no response to such a suggestion. For some reason, he'd never considered that Archer might care about him past that she got her pay every week. Was he daft to not see that he'd made a human connection? Probably.
Arthur began to feel weariness wash over him again from the new wave of tears, and the tight, heavy pounding in the front of his head began to worsen. He admitted to himself that he probably did need more sleep. "I should like to be alone for a bit, Ms. Archer," he muttered.
You blithering idiot! You're doing it again, don't you see? Aren't you capable of anything but driving people away? Can't you ever accept help when you most need it? Say something before she goes - acknowledge how grateful you actually are! This is the mistake you keep making!
He couldn't force his lips to move again. Dizziness was consuming him. He wanted to sob. He wanted to go mad. He wanted to die...
The disappointment was audible in Archer's voice when she responded. "Of course, sir." She stood up. He felt the warmth of her hand slip from his own.
She walked back to the doorway, and Arthur laid down, wiping tears from his face with his shirtsleeve and then pulling the blankets back up to his shoulders. "Don't forget about your tea," he heard her bid.
A thought suddenly struck him. She was just about to close the door when he sat up halfway quickly, regretting the action when his head swam in response. "Wait," he called.
She paused and looked up at him, her face almost hopeful. "Yes, Master Kirkland?"
He desperately organized his thoughts into speakable sentences. "As soon as I've recovered, I'm obviously going to be readying to leave for London. I won't require staff for this house anymore..." His mouth hung agape for a moment as he waited for more words to come to him. "I... suppose what I'm suggesting is - would you like to return to my London home with me, as a member of my staff there? I don't want to leave you without employment..."
Slowly, Archer's face lit up. "I'd very much like that, sir. I thank you for the offer."
Relieved, Arthur found himself smiling back. "Ms. Archer, it's no trouble at all."
Still smiling, her gaze suddenly met with the floor. "If it pleases you, sir, you can call me Francine."
A tad confused, his smile changed somewhat. "Alright. Thank you, Francine." He nodded shortly. "Really. ...Thank you." Thank you so, so much...
She shook her head briefly before closing the door. "Thank you, sir."