Arthur glared across the table, eyebrows melding together into a thick, furry hedge. The child a few feet in front of him merely blinked back owlishly. Grinding his teeth and leaning forwards so that the two were almost nose-to-nose, Arthur stared at his charge, daring him to blink again. Minutes passed and his eyes throbbed, but he had made no progress.
Why must you do this?" he groaned. "Every time—it's not that bad, is it?"
He picked up his own fork, jabbing at Alfred's food. Small greenish wisps wafted from the marks left by the tines. The lump made a hissing sound. Maybe it moved.
Arthur took a cautious bite and paled, swallowing reluctantly. Almost at once he began to cough.
"Okay," he managed between wheezes, "maybe it's a tad underdone. It's not like it's going to kill you."
He offered the kid another forkful; once again, he shook his head, eyes closed tightly. The second attempt was no better than the first, even though he had used the here-comes-the-train method, with great insult to his pride.
"Third time's the charm, I suppose," Arthur murmured, hoping for the best. Miraculously, Alfred closed his mouth around the fork. His caretaker removed the utensil, staring at the boy in disbelief. Had he really-?
There was a great hurk and a slimy, lukewarm mess landed in between Arthur's massive eyebrows. It slid down his face, veering off the bridge of his nose and into his left eye. He sighed, wiping his forehead and preparing to clear the dishes. Wherever the stuff had touched his skin burned like a hot poker, and he was sure it spat at him from the napkin.
"I guess I'll just ask Francis to cook to—"
"What trash."
"Romano?" Arthur turned at the sound of the familiar grouchy voice coming from the doorway. What would the Italian want at this hour? But he was met instead by acidic green eyes boring into him from pale sockets. The man was dressed rather oddly, with pristine white clothing and a strange half-helmet perched on the side of his head.
"Who is this 'Romano'? Another human? It is safe to presume that you mistook me for one of your acquaintances," the man said, coattails billowing as he stepped into the room. Arthur could only gape, dumbfounded at this strange presence. When had… he could have sworn…
The man turned his attention towards Alfred. The poor boy shook in his chair, lips trembling.
"Oi! Don't—"
"You are having difficulties persuading this trash to eat."
Arthur spluttered.
"Am I correct?"
"Er… yes."
The man nodded shortly.
"I happen to have significant expertise in this field."
And he stood at Arthur's spot at the table. Alfred's eyes widened and he pushed himself into the back of his chair, trying in vain to escape from the stranger.
"I will be back within half an hour. If this-" he poked the substance on the plate with a black-nailed finger "- food isn't eaten by the time of my return, I will tie you down and force it down your throat."
Alfred nodded quickly, eyes tearing up as the man turned and strode briskly out the door.
A very odd thing happened then. Alfred picked up his fork, timidly pushing the thing around on his plate. He took a tiny amount and swallowed it with a pained expression, gasping as it hit his stomach. With a quick glance at the door, he began shoveling food into his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"What's the matter?" Arthur asked, rushing over to his charge and patting his back in an effort to calm him.
"The scary man-" Alfred gulped, "-he's gonna kill us and and and and…"
Arthur straightened, walking to the door. Nobody threatened Alfred and lived to tell the—
The man had been there just a few minutes ago. He said he would be back and… oh, well.
When Arthur returned to the table, Alfred's plate was completely cleared.
This seriously does not count as a crossover.
I don't own Hetalia or Bleach.