Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise (I have enough responsibilities as it is, most of them I am holding off on, too). I'm just doing what I do best - procrastinating.
A/N: I know. I know. I should be working on Paint Me a Better Tomorrow. But, this plot bunny appeared out of nowhere one day and I couldn't resist writing it. I was pretty happy to leave it as an original fiction, but my mind somehow warped it in Hetalia, so here it is.
Also, Angelique is Seychelles and Logan is Australia.
Warning: First Hetalia Fic, Language (what is a FullReverse story without a little cursing?), unrequited USUK, Major Character Death (this is the first time I have written this, please bear with me), Characters Not in Character.
. . .
Hero
"A hero can be anyone. Even a man doing something as simple and reassuring as putting a coat around a young boy's shoulders to let him know that the world hadn't ended."
- Batman
. . .
"I can't -"
"Stop. That's where you are already going wrong," asserted Alfred with a disdainful shake of his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "There's nothing you can't do if you try."
"You don't understand," Peter growled, his eyes downcast. "I can't do it. I really can't."
"Then, help me understand," the older man said, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. He brushed a small lock of hair out of the boy's eyes fondly, feeling a slight ache when those brilliant verdant eyes stared up at him. He looks so much like Arthur. "Tell me what you think you can't do."
"It's the truth. I… I can't be what my father wants. I can't even get a nod of acknowledgement from him, much less a smile, like how Angelique or Logan does. I… I'm always disappointing him. He always gives me that look… you know, that one where he gets really frustrated and can't bear to look at me. Then, h-he sends me to my room. What's so special about them? W-why can't I be treated like them?" Peter's voice grew increasingly sad as he went on. His shoulders shook from suppressed sobs, as he tried to reign in his tears. He will never be anything like his brothers. He will never meet his Papa's expectations. I'll never be his favorite either.
"Oh, is that what's troubling you?" Alfred's voice held a tinge of amusement, but only to mask the pity for the eleven year old boy. Is this what Francis has been doing all those years I've gone? If only Arthur was still here, he wouldn't have let this happen…
"Shut up!" The boy stood to his full height of 4 feet and 3 inches to glare at the man, his bright eyes ringed with glistening tears. "Stop laughing at me."
"But, I'm not laughing." And that, shut the boy up.
"Then, why are you here?" Why are you here when Dad isn't here anymore and Papa doesn't even want me here?
"You came to me, Peter. Not the other way around." The moment those words left his lips, Alfred winced at the biting tone that had involuntarily slipped out. He didn't mean to sound so cruel, but evidently, the consequence had not been what he had anticipated. I almost forgot that I was talking to Peter. He is just like his father, though I don't think he would like to hear that now.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" cried the boy. He threw himself against Alfred's middle, wrapping his skinny arms around the man. Small fists gripped the blazer he was wearing and a wetness pooled at his shirt, hiccuped sobs filling the air.
"I'm sorry," he soothed, rubbing circles on the boy's back with a pang of sadness. "Just let it all out. Everything is going to be alright."
"No, it's not!" Peter screamed, his voice partially muffled from his face pressing against Alfred's shirt. "Papa hates me. Dad would hate me, too, if he was still alive." That made him freeze. He grabbed hold of the boy's shoulders and gently pried him off. This better not be Francis' doing.
"Did your father tell you that?" he asked sternly. He had to know. When the boy shook his head and refused to reply, he knew. Alfred cursed under his breath. That son of a bitch.
"Don't tell Papa." The whispered request was simple, but one that he knew he couldn't comply to. "I don't want him to be mad." The at me was left unsaid.
"You know that I have to," Alfred replied, albeit slowly. He bent down to ruffle the boy's hair. "I don't have another choice. I can't let him keep doing this to you. He has to know what he's doing wrong. If he comes after you, I'll protect you."
There was a long pause before Peter answered.
"You're no Alfred," Peter muttered, his eyes looking anywhere, but at Alfred with a slight flush of his cheeks. "You're Bruce Wayne." My hero.
"And, you're Dick Grayson," Alfred added, his voice full of affection. "My little sidekick." Using the corner of his cuff, he wiped away the remaining tears with kind smile.
"Now, no more tears. I am going to speak to your father. If you choose to go to your room, you'll find a little gift from me." He gave him a knowing grin. "I made sure to get it signed." With a start, Peter stared at him uncertainly, before beaming up at him through his tears.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The boy exclaimed, embracing him and squeezing him tight (or, as tight as a twelve year old could muster, anyways). Then, he quickly released his pseudo-uncle and ran towards his room, his sorrow long forgotten. In the distance, Alfred could hear the slam of a door and a squeal. He allowed himself a small smile and chuckled. You're welcome, Peter. But, he quickly steeled his expression and sighed, as he headed for the boy's father, who was currently residing in the study (and, probably had no intentions of moving out). Here goes nothing…
. . .
"Francis."
"Alfred, -"
"We need to talk."
"Straightforward as always," Francis said with a chuckle. He dragged his swivel chair closer and clasped his hands together on top of his desk. "What do you want to talk about?"
Alfred took a moment to gather his thoughts, before fixing a cold stare at his longtime friend. "It's about your kid-"
"Angelique or Logan?" the other interrupted, disregarding how Alfred's eyes became a piercing glacial blue at the mention of all every son he had, except for Peter. Francis' face glowed with pride, a broad smile on his lips, as he took a side glance to the pictures on the walls, each one depicting either Angelique or Logan with the occasional photo of Peter or Arthur.
"Peter, your youngest." The one you always neglect was left unsaid.
"Oh, him." Disappointment practically dripped from his voice alone, his expression grim and standoffish. "What about him?"
"What about him?" Alfred parroted angrily. "What about him? He came to me, near tears, saying that he can't be the son you want. That he can't be like his older siblings. What the hell are you doing, telling him things like that? He's just a kid."
"It's the truth." The immediate reply was short and said without emotion. "I have no reason to lie. Life's harsh and unforgiving. The boy has to learn that. Twelve is just a number." Alfred frowned.
"His name is Peter, not the boy. Like I said, he's just a kid. Twelve may just be a number, but that's still goddamn young. He can learn the lessons of life later on. You can't make him grow up before he gets to enjoy his childhood."
"He'll get his childhood when he deserves it," Francis growled. Alfred was taken aback by his ferocious tone. "He shouldn't be spending time indoors reading his fucking bedtime stories and fairytales. He should be outside in the sun, playing with his older brothers. He's just like Arthur." The last part was spat out with contempt.
"You don't understand," Alfred gritted out with a near eye roll (which he could barely contain out of respect). "Peter is 12. Angelique is 15 and Logan is 18. Can't you see there is an age difference between the three children? He's just a kid. He can stay inside if he wants. It's not like he's cooped up inside doing meaningless things. Have you seen the books he's reading? They are beyond the level kids at his age are reading. You should be proud of Peter. Instead, you're being a fucking coward just because you can't face the fact that Arthur is gone."
Francis stood up to his full height, still diminutive compared to Alfred, pushing his chair backwards in the process of standing. He looked far beyond his 43 years in his rage. His lips were pressed in a thin line of concealed anger and his eyes were dark, shimmering with the threat of harm. "You're the one that doesn't understand. What do you know? You're barely 30. You don't even have a wife, much less a kid. You, of all people shouldn't be the one telling me how to raise my son. I thought you were my friend, Alfred."
"Don't guilt trip me," Alfred replied between clenched teeth. "I'm not the kid you used to manipulate. Yes, we were friends once, but I'm not so sure anymore. I can't be friends with someone who doesn't love their own flesh and blood. You can't lie to me. I know how you still see Arthur when you look at Peter. I'm neither blind nor stupid. I can see how much of his dad lives inside of him. Everything from his hair to his bright, intelligent eyes, reminds me of Arthur. I know it's even more surreal for you. You can see Arthur in him and you miss him so much that you can't stand it, so you send him away. Him reading is just an excuse you made up. You can't hide anything from me, Francis."
"You!" Alfred could see that Francis' nostrils were flared, his cheeks flushed a crimson red (all telltale signs of his anger). In quick retaliation to being berated, he brought back his fist and struck fast towards Alfred's face. Typical.
With a scoff, Alfred caught the older man's wrist effortlessly. "You're losing your touch, Francis. What happened to all those years when you beat my ass flat on the floor? Life weakened you. It's almost pitiful."
"Shut the fuck up!" Francis tightened his fist and wrenched his arm out of Alfred's grasp. "Who do you think you are coming into my house after all those years you left and yelling at me? I don't need your help. I can raise my son just fine." Alfred thought he was doing a good job (an amazing job actually) reigning in his anger, but it was Francis (it was always Francis), who had to push it. So, he threw a punch. And, it landed.
Francis felt where the blow had struck with a hand, his expression disbelieving. He balled up his fist and hit (or, at least, tried to) Alfred back. The younger man simply side stepped the punch nimbly and sent an uppercut to his friend's chin. It caused him to go reeling back, losing his balance. But Alfred never let him have even the slightest semblance of a pause. In the next moment, he was already on top of Francis, dishing out a barrage of punches, after he had jumped over the desk. But as he went on, the strength in his hits dissolved.
"This isn't what Arthur wouldn't have wanted. He would have wanted Peter to grow up loved, even if he wasn't there. And, what do you do? You go and raise him the opposite from what he wanted. You fucker, how is this respected his wishes? This is not what he wanted!"
"You… you loved him, didn't you?"
The question took him aback. "Yes, but who didn't? He was an angel, a godsent gift. He was the kindest, sweetest human being I ever met." The good always die young.
"Answer my question!" Francis seemed adamant about it, clear jealously in his eyes. Alfred sneered and slapped him straight across his face.
"Would you forget my love interests for a moment? Your son is the most important thing right, not who I love. He cried today. Your actions caused your youngest son to cry. You should be ashamed." He slumped against the desk, resting his head against the wood. Francis had always been a tough nut to crack, but a good beating always set his head on straight. He could only hope that the fact still stands. There was a long silence before he spoke again.
"Who are you to criticize your son?" Alfred gave a bitter laugh. "You had a similar childhood. You were as much of a reader as Peter, which lead you to be such a hopeless romantic. You, of all people, shouldn't be finding fault in his behavior." When Francis didn't reply, he continued, "Francis, I know Arthur's death hurts. It hit us hard, too. But as harsh as it sounds, he died a while back. You have to move on. His legacy still lives on. In you. In Sky. You can't just push him away. He needs your love, just as much as you need his love."
There was a pregnant silence, so long that Alfred thought he had knocked Francis out. The man had been laying on the ground, hand over his eyes, unmoving. "Francis?"
"Alfred, shut up," he heard him say, but there was no heat in those words, unlike before. "I already heard you preach enough. And… as much as I hate to say it, y-you're right. And, you can't be any more right. I've been a right bastard. To you. To Peter. I should have been a better papa all these years. The loss of Arthur hit me hard, but it probably hit him and you just as bad. That's why you left, didn't you? And, that's why he started reading those books of his… But, I never noticed. I was too lost in my grief and never saw a single thing. I-I've been a terrible friend. Can you ever forgive me?"
"The one you should be asking forgiveness from is not me," Alfred said pointedly. "Your son needs it more than I ever will. He needs to know that you love him." Francis stood up rapidly, his movements wild, and Alfred could see tears streak on his face. He had been crying.
"Where is he?"
"In his room." Without another word, he ran towards Peter's room, leaving Alfred behind. Once his footsteps could no longer be head, Alfred stood up from where he sat and turned to Francis' desk. He let his fingers trail along the smooth mahogany, until he reached a picture. It clenched his heart to even look at it. A photo of Arthur sat innocently on the desk, staring up at Alfred with bright eyes and a beautiful smile. He skimmed his fingertips against his face, preserved with a click of a camera. It hurt to see his beauty and it hurt even more to know that he won't see such wonder in his life anymore.
"Artie… I know it's really late. I know I should have said it sooner, but I was scared. You were already ready to marry Francis and I didn't want to ruin what we already had, our bond was too special. I-I loved you too much to hurt you. And, I still love you today. Rest in peace, Artie. May your spirit watch over us. I love you." Trembling, he kissed his fingertips and touched his cheek again (hating that he only felt cold glass, instead of warm skin). He quickly turned away from the photo and walked towards the door, before he felt the traitorous sting of tears. I wonder if Francis and Peter made up…
. . .
He found Francis slumped against Peter's door, head in his heads. The older man seemed distraught, his clothes in disarray. "Francis?"
"Alfred.." he addressed. "I… I can't do it. I can't face my own son. I am a disgrace. I'm so sorry, Arthur.. I'm so sorry." Francis was near tears, similar to how his son was.
"You have to," Alfred said as gently as he could, even though all he wanted to do was pummel his own best friend. "If not for my sake, then for Artie's sake. And if not for him, then for Peter's sake. He deserves to feel the love of his parents, especially the only parent he has left." That last part made Francis wise up. Finally.
"C-can you go first?"
Alfred rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "You're a 43 year old man. Knock on the door. Be a man. Grow some fucking balls and face the problems you've created." I'm already sick and tired of your shit. Fucking pussy. But even his thoughts sounded half-hearted. Being forceful was the only way to get to his friend. He couldn't be Mr. Nice Guy when Francis acts so fucking stubborn all the time.
With a trembling hand, Francis reached for the door knob. He was even hesitant to rest his palm on the cool metal. After a long pause, he plucked up the courage to twist the knob. The door opened and Francis released a small gasp.
"Peter?"
"Papa?" The boy's voice was stricken with fear. Alfred felt a pang of sadness and he could only speculate how much worse it was for Francis.
"C-can I come in?"
No. "Yes, you can."
Francis stepped into the room with Alfred following close behind him. He saw his own son cowering behind a book. It was new, but Peter was already a quarter way through the pages. He felt a sense of pride well up in his chest, but it dissolved when his heart felt like it was being squeezed when he saw the fear in Peter's eyes.
"Don't be scared, Peter," he soothed, sounding less of the Francis that the boy knew and more of the papa that Arthur wanted him to be. "I'm just here to talk."
"I didn't do anything wrong!" Peter exclaimed immediately. "I really didn't do anything wrong…" Francis softened even more, if that was possible, and crouched down to Peter's level.
"I know you didn't. I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to apologize. I know saying I'm sorry won't do anything to remedy what I have done to you over the years, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm going to try to be a better d- papa to you. I'm really sorry, Peter." His voice trailed off at the last second and he faltered. Would his son accept his apology? Did it sound even remotely sincere?
Peter sat there, biting his lower lip. He looked up at his Papa, then over at Alfred. who just nodded with a small smile. He choked and threw himself at his dad, tears streaming down his cheeks. "So, you love me?"
Francis wrapped his arms around his son. It was a great feeling, finally deserving to call Peter his son. Not Arthur's son, but his son. "Yes," he said with a slight chuckle, "I love you. How could I not? You're your dad's son. You're my son. I've been an idiot. I'm sorry for taking so long to realize that."
"It's okay, daddy." Francis' heart wrenched at being called daddy and he felt tears falling. "Daddy? Are you okay? Why are you crying?"
"I'm just really happy." He wiped his tears away with a hand, flushing when he heard a snort of laughter from Alfred. "Really, really happy, my little robin."
"I'm not Robin." Peter's voice was muffled from pressing up against his dad's shirt. "I'm Nightwing. I'm way cooler than Robin."
Francis laughed for what seemed like the first time in years. He wiped away tears of mirth and grinned. "Yes, you are, Nightwing. And, what am I?"
"You're Bruce Wayne," Alfred replied softly, "after his parent's death in the car accident, consumed by grief."
"No!" Both Francis and Alfred were startled by Peter's sudden cry. "He can't be Batman. You're Batman. He's Bruce Banner."
"And, why the Hulk?" Francis asked. He didn't sound mad, just curious, and Alfred was trying very hard not to laugh.
"Because… because you do bad things, but it's not exactly in your control. And in the end, you're a good person." Francis felt the sting of tears once again, but he pushed it away.
"And, here I thought it was because he was green and ugly." Trust Alfred to ruin a tender moment, but even so, Francis had to smile.
"Alfred! Daddy is not green or ugly!"
"We'll see about that. Now, tell me, squirt. Why did you choose me as a vigilante?"
Peter turned to look at Alfred with a soft smile. "Because even if some people don't consider you a hero, you're my hero. And, that's all that matters."
. . .
I hope you enjoyed it. I don't think it's my best work, but it's my first time writing anything remotely related to Hetalia. So far, I'm really only good at writing PJaTo. Please check out my other stories. Review if you like.
Until next time, this is FullReverse. ^-^