Once Again

JULY 1941

Hardly anything made Alfred Jones nervous. He was man of intuition and courage. He couldn't afford to be anxious in the face of conflict; that made his people, soldier and civilian alike, anxious, and they needed a figure of hope while the nation healed from the Depression and battled with overseas morals. Alfred had always been that figure, standing proudly alongside the Stars & Stripes and the Statue of Liberty as a withstanding symbol of freedom.

But in those few moments he waited outside the Oval Office, he wasn't sure when the last time he had been so nervous was.

Wait—the signing of the Treaty of Paris, 1783. That's right.

Roosevelt had sent for him, claiming he had some news to share with Alfred. The possibilities were limitless, but one stuck out in his mind as the one to fear the most.

Had the President finally declared war?

The very prospect of joining another Great War within living existence of another sent a shudder down his spine, but he put on his most charming smile as the door opened to one of the Secret Servicemen, stepping inside.

"Thank you."

The serviceman nodded almost imperceptibly, shutting the door before resuming his still position, leaving Alfred to address the man seated behind a desk in the back of the circular room, absorbed in papers and letters from all corners of the country.

"Mr. President."

The thirty-second President of the United States looked up, saw Alfred, and grinned cheekily.

"Good morning, Mr. America. Please, sit down." He gestured with an open palm towards one of the two plush seats in front of his desk. Alfred trekked around the Presidential Seal on the floor and sat hesitantly in the proffered seat, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Roosevelt took a minute—an achingly long minute—to arrange the papers on his desk before clasping his hands together in front of him, staring at Alfred through small, tired eyes.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, although Alfred received the impression that he already knew the answer.

With the panic of horrible news crawling into his throat, Alfred managed to say, "No, but when do any of us these days?" He attempted to lighten his comment with a smile, but the affect was lost on Roosevelt. Clearing his throat, he added, "Er—what was the news you had—for me—sir…?"

"Right, that," said Roosevelt, as though just remembering, and pulled from one of the two stacks on his desk a neatly folded letter, which he handed to Alfred. "Prime Minister Churchill and I have arranged to meet in Newfoundland on August ninth. It's all a great big secret, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Even my wife isn't aware of this little escapade. She thinks I'm going on a fishing trip in Maine."

"Oh," said Alfred, staring at the telegram from Winston Churchill. As per his norm, the writing was full of passion and flow that Alfred had never been able to muster properly. Even so, this was news indeed. It was the next big step to forming a relationship with Britain—and, by extension, coming into the war.

"I assume the press is the primary reason you're keeping this quiet?" he inquired, sliding the paper across the desk.

"My critics, more specifically. I would prefer not to give them another reason to pick me apart." Roosevelt replaced the letter and fixed Alfred with a firm look. "I would feel much safer if you accompanied me."

Alfred nearly let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't terrible news—it wasn't even bad news—but it would have an effect, he knew that much. Still, it was just a trip, and Churchill wasn't unbearable; on the contrary, Alfred found him to be an incredibly insightful and entertaining guest. Not to mention that a trip to Canada would give him an opportunity to spend some time with his brother.

"You can count me in, sir," said Alfred, beaming as he rose from the chair. "Was that all?"

"Prime Minister Churchill is bringing England's personification."

The smile froze on Alfred's face.

"P – pardon?" But he had already heard it. It was when Roosevelt repeated his words that they became real, and Alfred couldn't do anything but stare for several moments. Finally, when he found his voice, he said, "Are—are you sure you need me there, then? England's a hell of a lot smarter than me, and—"

"America," said the President, stern faced. Above him, the portrait of George Washington glowered at Alfred, too.

He shut his mouth, slowly dropping back into the seat. His knees popped up and down without his realizing.

"I understand you two have a history together—" Roosevelt began.

"And it didn't end well," Alfred blurted, indicating the portrait of America's first president.

"It didn't," Roosevelt agreed, "but we have enemies that would seek to attack us. Should we enter this war, we would be creating the second worldwide war in the twentieth century. Should we enter it—" He paused, making sure Alfred's eyes were fixed on his before continuing, "it is necessary for you to cooperate with Britain. It's time to put those bitter feelings aside. We can't afford to have them interfere with your insight on battle preparations. You're smarter than you think, Mr. America, and a hell of a good military man, if all the things I've heard are true."

Feeling ashamed, Alfred bowed his head, stopped his jiggling knee.

"You don't have to speak to him, but Churchill and I both expect you to respect each other. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred muttered, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. The bitter part of him imagined breaking alliances with England, as he had over 160 years ago, but that was a childish thought. It was 160 years ago. He had grown and matured since then.

He could do this.

His confidence returned, Alfred lifted his head, met Roosevelt's waiting gaze, and smiled.

"When do we leave?"

"Good morning, sir. I have this morning's paper for you," said Arthur brightly, although he felt anything but. Last night's bombings had been particularly painful, and he had a nasty feeling that when he resurfaced to ground level, he would find more than a few bases and national monuments obliterated.

"Cheers," said Britain's Prime Minister as Arthur handed him the paper. "Clementine prepared a spot of tea."

"Lord knows I need it." As though to prove his point, Arthur grimaced as he lowered himself into the chair beside Churchill's desk inside the makeshift office. The tea in front of him steeped invitingly, and Arthur only just managed to avoid singeing his tongue by taking a very tiny sip.

"Any news?" he asked, setting down the cup with a clink that echoed in the tunnel.

"I haven't received any reports from above yet, although I plan to inspect the damage myself when they give the clear," Churchill grunted. "And there's the meeting. We're leaving today."

"Right," Arthur confirmed. "In Newfoundland, with President Roosevelt."

"And his personification," Churchill added lowly.

The cup froze halfway to Arthur's lips.

Slowly, he replaced the cup onto its saucer, knowing full well how carefully Churchill was watching him. He didn't know the full history between him and the boy he'd christened and raised, but he knew that they hadn't spoken since 1781, after Alfred had snuck into Arthur's camp outside New York and refuted any further relation to him. Those words rang as clearly in his head now as they had 160 years ago. Your blood doesn't run through my veins.

Once he recollected himself, he managed to spit out, "Are you sure you absolutely need me on this trip? I could stay here and keep an eye on things."

" 'Things' is a vague word. What is it exactly that you would do while I am gone?" Churchill prodded, giving him a steely look over the rims of his reading glasses.

"Oh, you know, sign reforms, military authorizations and—and…"

"Sulk?" Churchill offered.

Arthur looked away.

"Britain, we're in the middle of a bloody war. Stiff upper lip," said Churchill firmly, unconsciously reminding Arthur of the countless times he had told Alfred that. "We need you at this meeting."

"Why, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Reinforcement, as well as insight. This is the first time I'll have met President Roosevelt."

"But you're quite capable of handling yourself. You've made that fairly obvious—"

"As I said, reinforcement," he said simply, and took a sip from his teacup.

Arthur looked at the ground, a sense of both dread and fear overwhelming him. The thought of meeting Alfred again made him tingle with nerves. There were so many questions they had left unanswered at the end of his rebellion, so many bitter feelings left over. Until that day, Arthur had never imagined that Alfred was capable of fury—anger, yes, but never so much—but he was wrong, and the thought of experiencing the boy's wrath again terrified Arthur.

It terrified him so much he couldn't breathe.

"I need air," he muttered, and before Churchill could stop him, he darted from the office, through the tunnels, past sleeping and waking men, women, and children, avoiding each one of their eyes until he reached the doors leading to ground level.

Shoving his shoulder against it, Arthur pushed against the heavy doors with all his might, ignoring the shouts of the guards and the aches in his bones telling him not to, until he opened it just enough to slip through—and he was in open air.

He took deep, gulping breaths despite its ashen tinge, shutting his eyes as he took breath in, opening them as he released it. Thrice he did this before looking up from the glass-strewn ground.

And was met with a horrifying sight.

There were no fires. There were only shells and blackened craters. Arthur took several tentative steps forward, rubble crunching underneath his shoes. Surveying the scene around him, he spotted Westminster Abbey around the corner, a chunk missing out of its side, and several men were crowded around the Thames, pulling out a floating shell. The buildings across the street were largely untouched, but facing it—

Arthur's mouth fell open. The Houses of Parliament were spared (how Jerry could have missed it, he had no idea), but the Treasury next door was in pieces—windows were shattered, chunks of the building clattering to the ground. Workmen clambered all over the place, barking orders at one another to do this and that. Arthur's eyes filled with angry tears, and he was reminded of the reason why he came out here.

What would Alfred think if he saw him like this, so pale and sickly-looking? Would he laugh? How much had he changed since they last met?

Arthur dropped to his knees, wiping his eyes against his sleeve. He couldn't go on like this for much longer. It was getting to the point where America must enter the war. Sure, he had the Soviet Union on his side now, but Stalin was as much of a tyrant as Hitler—even Ivan knew that—and America had essentially chosen a side when President Roosevelt agreed to loan a financially-broke Britain weapons and old aircraft carriers simply because they could. Even in depression, America was still more powerful than any of them.

America was the only option.

A bell chimed in agreement.

Arthur's head whipped upward. A bell was chiming. The clock tower still stood. Both the men on the docks and on the Treasury paused in their toils, listening to Big Ben sing.

Something snapped in Arthur, swelling him with a pride and satisfaction he hadn't felt in decades.

"There'll always be an England," he murmured, singing with the chimes.

America was the only option, but Britain wasn't lost. Her spirit wasn't lost, nor broken. It was right here, ablaze within the souls of each and every Briton.

And Arthur needed as much of it as he could get if he wanted to survive this.

AUGUST 1941

The HMS Prince of Wales gleamed in the Canadian sun, the soft seas reflected against her plates. Alfred and his president had arrived second on the USS Augusta, and now the time had come for the two leaders to meet. Roosevelt didn't look nervous, even leaning on his son Elliott's arm; Alfred tried mimicking him, although he kept tugging on his tight shirt collar and wiping the wrinkles from his sleeves.

After several minutes of this, Roosevelt sighed.

Alfred stopped in the middle of shaking out the creases in his trousers. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't be. I just hope you don't plan to court Mr. Britain." He matched Alfred's appalled expression with a wry grin. On Alfred's other side, his brother chuckled.

"Shut up," Alfred grumbled.

"Sorry," said Matthieu Williams, who had been summoned (along with Roosevelt's two boys) to keep the two other personifications in line. "Roosevelt just has a good sense of humor."

"And an excellent memory…"

A horn sounded from somewhere in the distance, and the British ship's landing dock dropped slowly onto the American ship, allowing the small gathering on the other side access to the Augusta's deck.

The first man Alfred saw was Churchill, dressed in navy blue and looking ecstatic to meet Roosevelt. The second and so on were several aides and men of other occupation, a couple of them Americans returning from diplomatic business overseas, and filing in from the back—

Alfred turned away, catching his brother's eye and conveying a sudden sense of panic. "I can't do this," he whispered under his breath. He had told himself again and again that he could in the days leading up to this, but now that the moment was here, he thought he would have a seizure before he could say hello. It was a little kept secret that Arthur could hold grudges for long periods of time—his relationship with France was a perfect example.

"Yes, you can," Matthieu replied, his eyes following a figure approaching the ship, undoubtedly Arthur. "And he's headed this way, so stiff upper lip."

Before Alfred could remark on how many times Arthur had told him that, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

Dammit, Alfred thought. Matthieu flashed him a smile, silently indicating that he should too. "Don't embarrass your president," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Mr. America?" Roosevelt said, with an underlying tone of inquiry.

Alfred shot Matthew a look, but his brother merely shrugged, moving away to greet the Prime Minister. He hated how right Matthieu could be sometimes. It was infuriating, but he wasn't making this meeting any easier by refusing to look. It was childish, and he knew it. So he took a deep, stabilizing breath, and turned back around with his most charming smile plastered on his face.

Arthur looked worse than he expected. He stood as far away from Alfred as he could get without being rude to the President, eyes averted and posture rigid. Still, the glimpses that Alfred received of him displayed an ill-looking pallor and hollow cheeks. His fair hair was as unruly as ever, sticking up at odd angles and mussing in the salty breeze.

He looked up only when Matthieu greeted him, lips curling into a small, humorless smile. His eyes flicked once over Matthieu's shoulder, finding Alfred in a heartbeat.

Alfred looked away, taking the Prime Minister's pudgy hand in his own. "An honor, sir."

"Not a misfortune, I would hope," said Churchill cheekily. "Make sure Mr. President reads the letter I gave him, will you?"

Letter? What letter? Alfred masked his confusion, but his gaze slipped briefly to Roosevelt's hand. There, between his fingers, rested an envelope with a royal seal.

Now that was just ironic.

"Of course, sir." Alfred smiled.

"Jolly good, boy," Churchill growled, with a friendly pat on his shoulder.

From there, the leaders slipped into conversation, leaving the personifications to their own devices. After making sure his brother was all right with Arthur (the smile on his face was plenty of confirmation), Alfred slipped away from the group, heading for the bow. He braced his arms on the railing, stretching the muscles and ligaments, fingers curling around the cool metal. His meeting Arthur again hadn't gone at all like he expected, but it went better than he thought it would. Arthur hadn't said a word, but he hadn't ignored him—same as Alfred.

Still, it was only the beginning. There was plenty of time for things to go wrong.

He sighed, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. He wondered if Arthur was pleased to see him wearing a suit after Alfred had utterly refused to wear them as a colony. Of course, they were as uncomfortable today as they had been in the eighteenth century, but he wore them often. He had to.

As Arthur had said a long, long time ago, dressing appropriately was only polite to the guests you were meeting.

Arthur kept sneaking surreptitious glances over Matthieu's shoulder, watching Alfred wander over to the bow. He knew he was being rude in doing so while Matthieu was talking—about what, he wasn't paying enough attention to know—but he couldn't help it.

Alfred had grown up far more than he expected.

He supposed it made sense, given all the western expansion and petty wars Arthur had read in the papers—not to mention his exceedingly enormous economy—but it still amazed him that he had grown up so much.

"Why don't you talk to him?" said Matthieu abruptly, drawing his attention back.

"You know very well why I can't," Arthur snapped.

Matthieu chuckled. "Just making sure I had at least some of your attention."

Arthur harrumphed, snuck another glance at Alfred. "When did he get glasses?"

"Annexation of Texas, eighteen forty-five," said Matthieu matter-of-factly. "From what he told me, he just woke up blind one day." Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at Alfred's back for a moment before turning around. "Believe it or not, it's better that you meet him now than thirty years ago."

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"He wasn't always like this. Before the Depression, he was a little…well, arrogant."

"Isn't he always?" Arthur blurted, earning a chastising look.

"I'm talking about a careless arrogance. The kind that doesn't matter how bad his economy or government is. The kind that only cares about himself and doesn't take responsibility for his actions. For a long time after his Civil War, that's how he was. I don't know if it was his people doing it to him, or the boom in industry or, hell, even the imperialistic kick he had back in the nineties, but be glad you weren't meeting him then. Ivan's told you about the Alaska Exchange, hasn't he?"

"We don't talk much at all, actually," said Arthur, admittedly a little dumbfounded. If he thought about it, he supposed the praise he received for his evolutionary military tactics could have gotten to his head, but it certainly wouldn't have been a result of the Civil War. Not if Arthur's murky, pain- and blood-ridden memories of his own had anything to say for it.

Matthieu gave a little snort that he attempted to hide behind a cough, fighting a smile. "Let's just say Al got a little cheeky and said something he shouldn't have. The fight was hilarious to watch, but Al lost miserably. If you look closely, there's a scar on his nose from where Ivan punched him and broke it."

"I'm sure that was a blow to his confidence," Arthur muttered.

"Definitely, but my point is that he's different now. The Depression humbled him."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Arthur sighed.

"He won't say it, but I think he just wants your acceptance." Matthieu's expression turned somber, studying. Unable to resist, Arthur glanced at the bow. Alfred hadn't moved from the spot, not even to check on his president. He was no longer the lanky boy who fidgeted uncomfortably in breeches and came home covered in mud and filth from the woods. He had filled out, amassing the same strength and power that Arthur had known a long, long time ago—before the empire, and before the war. Undoubtedly, he understood loss and hardship the same way he did. He had made mistakes and learned from them, repeated them at times. Hated that they had happened at all.

For Alfred, who was steadily growing to the status of an empire, where mistakes were made to a scale of far greater effect, it was only the beginning.

How could Arthur not warn him?

He looked back at Matthieu, who waited patiently for a response, and felt something harden within him. Empathy. After all the pain Alfred had given him before, during, and after the rebellion, a part of him wanted Alfred to suffer. It didn't matter that he had already. Arthur wanted to know about it.

"Don't expect me to talk to him. This is purely a business meeting. Nothing more." And before Matthieu could formulate a response, he stormed off to the other side of the ship. Away from the leaders, away from the alliance forming between them, away from Matthieu and Alfred. Away from forgiveness.

Footnotes:

1. Roosevelt actually did keep this meeting secret from his wife. Eleanor had a tendency to tell the press about what he was up to, and Franklin didn't always appreciate that, especially when the country was so ardently neutral at this time.

2. The two actually met before the Atlantic Charter, once, at a dinner in Gray's Inn (one of the four "Inns of Court", the professional associations of barristers and judges) in London, 1918. Churchill didn't remember it, but Roosevelt did, and it came up during the Newfoundland visit—much to Churchill's embarrassment.

3. In December 1940, England ran out of funds for the war, so Roosevelt passed the Lend-Lease to help them out.

4. Matthieu's explanation of when Alfred got glasses refers to the theory that Alfred's glasses represent Texas. Frankly, I've got nothing better, and I can see how annexing Texas would make him either far-sighted or near-sighted—or both—so I'm using it.

5. "Pain- and blood-riddled memories of his own" refers to England's Civil War in the 17th century.

Disclaimer - IMPORTANT: this story is rated T so that it may remain on the browser page, but this is a war story, and there will be sections of it that are or verge upon an M rating, particularly for violence and gore. I will do my best to provide warnings where they are necessary.