On the bright side, this one is a short one. Meme de-anon...and I've lost count of how many I've uploaded out of the 7. I actually think I have two more to put up and I'll have gotten everything up. There's an Itacest and a 3 part "Making Tsunderes Smile" coming up.
I
Sometimes when Alfred F. Jones went to the grocery store he could be seen making silly faces at the children behind him in the checkout line. He'd stretch his lips out with his fingers or cross his eyes, and sometimes even puff out his cheeks until the child's laughter rang out through the store, his own joining in. Then he'd wink at the mother and turn to buy hamburger meat and other supplies for the week. Outside he'd nudge aside a car that had parked too close to his so that he could climb in and drive off.
Sometimes when Alfred F. Jones went to baseball games—and he went to a lot of baseball games—he'd smuggle in burgers from McDonald's under his jacket rather than pay the increased price in the stadium. When it was time for the American national anthem, he'd stand the tallest and the proudest, tears streaming freely down his face by the time the last note rang over the silenced stadium.
Sometimes when Alfred F. Jones paced BWI airport he'd spot a soldier. He'd salute at him and smile proudly, tipping his hat if he had one, or murmuring thanks as he passed. Once he'd stretched out his arms and received a tight hug from a whole group of nameless faces who were off to face hell and risk life and limb for their country. For him.
Sometimes when Alfred F. Jones walked down the street he pretended that the next day he wouldn't be flying to London or Tokyo or Paris. He pretended like there wasn't loads of paperwork to do or that his body didn't ache in time to his waning economy. But, in the end, as he'd pass a park full of screeching, giggling children and the mother's who stood around watching, he'd feel that same swell of pride in his chest. He was proud to be America, if only for his people.
II
It wasn't too uncommon to find Arthur Kirkland lingering around the Tower Of London when the rain let up. He'd wander the dark hallways sometimes, brushing past tourists as if they weren't there, and find ghosts to whisper to. They'd rarely whisper back, but when they did he'd always give a wry smile and murmur something about how much times had changed since they'd been killed.
It wasn't too uncommon to find Arthur Kirkland sitting out in a particularly nasty spat of a storm, head tilted back as a stream of bobbing black umbrellas coursed past him. He'd let the cold water soothe the furrow from his brow, ease a small smile onto his lips. He'd breathe and sigh and breathe again, at peace beneath an uneasy sky and the dim glow of streetlamps.
It wasn't too uncommon for Arthur Kirkland to visit Westminster Abbey and shuffle through with the tourists to overlook the graves. He'd always stop just inside the west entrance and stoop by the plaque honoring the life of Sir Winston Churchill; brilliant green stone matched by brilliant green eyes. Sometimes tourists would stop to watch him murmur prayers to himself as he shook through memories of the Great Wars in his past and how he'd weathered through them. There was always something so reverent about him that they never disturbed him, leaving him to mull over his history.
It wasn't too uncommon to find Arthur Kirkland buying sweets at a local shop and eating them as he hurried off to Parliament, a briefcase in hand. He'd always wear a black bowtie and sometimes a top hat; some things he felt should never go out of style. Children would sometimes turn their heads to giggle at his massive eyebrows and he'd scowl to shoo them off then smile fondly to himself. For all that England had changed in the years, he was fond of his people and always would be.