A/N: Cheerio! Olive Fudge here, reporting for fanfic duty! This is my first fan fiction on this site so please, don't pelt me with flames. This is a human AU, set in the colonial times. My social studies teacher has started talking about the Revolutionary War and the events leading up to it. This story kind of built in my head. I've never cried so much over my homework.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Arthur was hot, tired, and very unamused. He strolled through the streets of Boston, body laden down with his heavy uniform and rifle. The red coat wrapped around his thin shoulders like a large blanket and his hat provided no relief from the golden rays of the sun. The Briton never liked being an soldier and after all, seeing his prior bosses being tar and feathered was not a pleasant addition. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down the cobblestone streets. Above all his needs, Arthur Kirkland was starving. He hadn't eaten in days. It was Tuesday currently and the last time he had a grain of bread was last Saturday. There wasn't a pound in his pocket and he desperately needed food. Not many people were on these roads today and no one really was going to hand over some food to a British official. Guess he was going to get into a house then. Finding the closest house that looked slightly refined, Arthur went to knock on the door. It opened with a loud swish. A boy that looked seventeen stood in the frame, his hair messy with a strand of hair sticking up and large blue eyes hostile. "What d'you want?"

Arthur took of his hat and held it to his chest, staring at the man. "Cheerio poppet. I was wondering if I could stay for a bit?"

"You from England?"

"Yessir. May I com-"

He stepped back quickly as the large wooden door slammed in his face. Arthur frowned, brows furrowing. He rapped on the door again. "Hey poppet! I do suppose you've heard of the Quartering Acts, yes?"

"Whatever. Go away old man."

"I"ll have you know, I'm only eighteen you daft buffoon!"

"Why should I care how old you are?"

The Briton knocked on the door again. "You asked, that's why!"

"Yeah, yeah."

"What's your name poppet?"

Arthur heard a loud puff from inside. The door opened a crack and he could see one of the boy's large azure eyes peek at him. "The name's Alfred F. Jones."

"You're quite the cocky one aren't you Alfred? What's the F stand for?"

"It's a secret!"

"Alright. Can I come in?"

The English man saw one of his blonde eyebrows raise while he pondered. "Fine. You can only come in for awhile, alright?"

"Fine, fine."

Door swinging open, he saw the young colonist staring him down. Feeling a bit intimidated, Arthur walked through the opening into a neat and well decorated house. "This is quite the nice house poppet."

"Thanks."

The cool house was a relief from the sweltering heat. As the British man looked around the room before feeling a tap on his head. Looking up, he saw Alfred towering over him. "Take off your shoes. My mother doesn't care for dirty footprints on her white carpet."

"My boots aren't dirty!"

Alfred shrugged before trudging off to fetch a glass of water. Arthur stared at him, frowning even more. Unbuckling his shoes, he padded across the carpet to go find the American. Seeing him pour a glass of water from the crystal pitcher, the Briton's throat prickled with thirst. When he was handed the glass of liquid, Arthur tried to appear as a gentleman by sipping the clear water however when the cool liquid snaked down his throat to sooth the burning sensation, he downed the entire glass quickly. The entire time, Alfred assessed him carefully. He was obviously good mannered, a soldier. After the older man put down the glass, Alfred raised the pitcher. "Want more?"

Arthur eyed the container. True, he wanted some more but trying not to annoy the American, he shook his head. "It's alright poppet. D'you have a spot of food?"

"Yes."

They stood there awkwardly, the younger man towering over him. Arthur cleared his throat before scratching his straw blonde hair. "May I have some?"

"Why should I give you any?"

"Because poppet. I haven't eaten since Saturday so if you would please be kind-:

"Look, I've given you water and some shelter from the heat. I think it's time to leave. I don't even know your name"

The Englishman scrunched his nose at the American's cheeky comment. "There's no need to be rude. My name's Arthur. If you would like me to leave, I'll kindly go away."

Turning around swiftly, Arthur went to go put his boots on. "Wait!"

Looking back, he saw Alfred rubbing his cheek sheepishly. "Yes poppet?"

"I'll give you a few pieces of bread. You have to leave after that though."

"Thank you."

The colonist disappeared into the kitchen doors and Arthur's stomach rumbled with anticipation. Slipping on his shoes, the Briton shoved his hat on, adjusting it a bit. After a few minutes, the American was by him, handing him a small linen cloth with three rolls on it. "Goodbye," Alfred grumbled. Waving at him, Arthur placed a piece of bread in his mouth. "Foodbye poffet."

"Leave."

Arthur placed his gloved hand on his the brass doorknob before looking at the American one last time. "Fow old are ju?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm seventeen."

"Afh! I thee."

With that last comment, the Briton was enveloped by the hot afternoon. Alfred watched him leave until he was not a speck in the day, glad he was gone.

...But hoping he would see him again.

Chapter 2

The day was drab and grey, Arthur firing at the Americans. The day was March 5, 1770. He was not in a good mood. After marching through the city with his troop, this group of idiotic colonists ambushed them, jeering with wide sneers. They had mocked them beyond tolerance but Arthur's official had stood in front of them, arms stretched as if to block the bullets the experienced soldier knew was coming. The yells had come from behind them, ridiculing them, telling them to shoot. Arthur's head was pounding, the Briton's thought swirling. After all of that horrible taunting, someone finally fired at the Americans. Now they were being pelted with debris, rocks, sticks, and whatever those colonists could find. His hair was stained with rain, emerald orbs focused on those before them. The Englishman shot again, grazing a colonist's arm. He didn't want to kill anyone, just wanted to teach those ignorant arseholes a lesson. However, two men already lay on the ground, temple punctured by bullets. Gritting his teeth, the British soldier laid his rifle down to reload. As he was doing so, the colonists' voices still echoed through the Massachusetts air. Listening to the verbal abuse, Arthur picked through the comments.

"You British are killing our men one by one!"

"Are you ignoring our rights?"

"We don't want you barging into our colonies!"

Arthur's head snapped up at the last remark. That obnoxious voice... Straightening up again, he searched through the crowd, green eyes sweeping over everyone until he found him. The mop of unruly blond hair, the blue eyes that were lit up with anger, his voice piercing the damp air. "Alfred?" he whispered to himself.

"Oy, pay attention Kirkland!"

He turned to see one of his fellow soldier aim his gun at the young seventeen year old. Arthur felt something pulse through his brain and just as the soldier placed his finger on the trigger, the Briton shoved him aside. "Wait!"

"What are you doing Kirkland?!"

Huffing heavily, he stared at the monochromatic floor. "Sorry, I slipped."

Scoffing in unbelief, the other soldier turned to fire at some other people. Relieved that Alfred wasn't hurt, Arthur turned back to the crowd and noticed that Alfred had spotted him. Staring at him with wide cobalt eyes, Alfred retreated a bit, loud yelling gone. He shook his head to clear his head and ran, heart pounding hard. Arthur watched the young man leave, still out of breath. Shrugging, he raised the gun again and fired.

Slamming the door to his room, Alfred collapsed on his bed. His rain sodden clothes dragged him down and he swiped the shaggy blonde hair our of his face. The American, heart throbbing in his chest rather uncomfortably. Despite only knowing Arthur from insulting him and feeding the Briton, he had just saved his life today. Why? Alfred hadn't done anything for him to be deserving of this deed! After all, he was a colonist and Arthur was part of the British Empire. Yes, after the few days the Englishman had left his house, Alfred had missed him. The seventeen year old didn't understand the feelings, he didn't even long for his father after he died. Yet, the British voice ringing through the halls made him shiver with a burning ache to see his bushy eyebrows and bright sea green eyes.

"Alfred? Are you home?"

Groaning loudly, Alfred rolled onto his face and yelled a muffled, "Yes mother!"

Elizabeth Jones tromped up the stairs to the bedrooms. Twisting the cold metal doorknob, she entered the room to her son's area. "Alfred?" Gasping loudly, she stared at her boy. "What is going on? Alfred, those sheets are white! Don't ruin them with your horrid clothes!"

"Quiet mother. I'm thinking."

"About what? I hope it's about how you're going to clean this disgusting mess! Goodness Alfred! I taught you better than this!"

"Mother."

"I mean honestly, even a child should know not to lie down on white sheets with your muddy shoes still on! My house has been the cleanliness of this town and now my own son!"

Sitting up immediately, Alfred snapped at his mother. "Shut up! I almost got killed today so I'd like to be alone for a bit. Please leave."

"But-"

"Goodbye mother."

Sighing angrily, Elizabeth stalked out of the room, throwing the door closed behind her. Alfred fell again, glasses sliding down his nose. He wanted to find Arthur and shoot him in the head for making him confused. It wouldn't help course, but the urge to throw something at the wall was painfully apparent. Taking his jacket from which he had thrown on the ground when he came into the bedroom, Alfred slipped it on and went back to the scene. After exiting his house, the colonist looked around. The rain had stopped, damp air mixing with the scent of gun powder. Bostonians walked down the street, some with bandages wrapped around their arms, legs, and whatever had been injured. "Those damn British," cursed a woman who held her husband, who's arm had been grazed and wrapped in a cloth. Running down the streets, Alfred reached King Street where few British soldiers remained, red coats on the ground and wrapping wounds. At the sight of the young American, one of them raised his gun to him. "What d'you want colonist?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Well, who is it?" asked the soldier, rifle lowering a bit.

"Um-Arthur."

Smirking at him, the Redcoat finally put down his weapon. "We've got many Arthurs chap. Quite a common name in England."

"Well, he's got bushy eyebrows, bright green eyes, messy blonde hair, about up to my chin, and he's eighteen."

"I reckon you're looking for Kirkland. He left to go back to his current housings, the Lestrade house."

"Thanks."

"You didn't happen to be in this little massacre did you?" the soldier asked, gesturing to the five bodies. Alfred gulped, bile rising in his throat. None of the bodies were people he knew but the seventeen year old had never seen a corpse. "No sir. I was at home," he lied, voice higher than he would have liked it to be.

"That's good."

Alfred ran quickly away from the disgusting sight. He knew where the Lestrades were, right around the town square. Going towards the large brownstone house, he covered his mouth with his long white sleeve. Quite honestly, he was a bit nauseous. The Lestrades would just have to be kind enough to hand over a glass of water