The British Gentlemen
Alfred Jones slurped at his coffee and squinted at the page of printed text before him; his brother must have accidentally picked up his glasses that morning, because he couldn't find them anywhere, even after he had spent a whole five minutes looking. He had even looked in the blender, the most unlikely place he could think of, and they hadn't been there. It was three in the afternoon, and he had long since developed a headache from squinting at things. He had one last appointment to get through before he could call it a day, do his customary swing-by at the local McDonalds (he didn't need to read the menu to know what he would order – big mac, extra-large fries and a strawberry shake, day in, day out) and finally crash on his couch and play computer games until he dropped.
The last, painful little name on his schedule was something like Arnold Kool-aid, or Ashley Kolland; he couldn't quite make out the letters. As to the reason for his appointment, he had no idea at all. From the thickness of the file he had been given, it was probably an important one. But then, he was pretty damn fine when it came to his job. Five minutes with the patient and he was sure he could diagnose him even without the case notes. And anyway, he had already been committed, so he was a nutter, right? He'd be a nutter tomorrow, too, and Alfred could deal with him properly then, when his head didn't feel like the inside of a slushie-machine. Groaning slightly, he raised himself from his desk and made his way into his appointments room, adjoined to his office. Once in the familiar, cosy surroundings, he sprawled out on the sofa he had special-ordered, an exact replica of the kind of psychiatrist's sofa you got in the movies, and waited for his patient to arrive. It was kind of warm in the room. After a long, excruciatingly dull day of manic depressives and ex-addicts, it was the sort of room he'd love to just veg out in and forget all about his job. Maybe he should get maintenance to turn the heating down, or he might fall aslee-
"Hey, wake up, you git," an irate voice cut through the pleasant cloak of peace and contentment which had been cocooning his tired brain, and he cracked open one eye, only to find himself looking into the cross face of a young man, whose own eyes were bright bottle-green, and narrowed in annoyance. "I've been yelling at you for the past ten minutes," the man grumbled.
Alfred, once he had shaken himself out of the stupor of sleep and got over the stunning green of the man's eyes, realised he was sprawled out asleep on the sofa. This man, dressed in a starched white shirt, smart charcoal-grey trousers and green sweater vest, must be an orderly or secretary or something. And he looked a bit pissed.
"Ah- oh, haha, sorry about that," Alfred grinned sheepishly. "Must've dozed off. Lucky my patient didn't arrive yet. When's he getting here, do you know? And who are you; I'm not sure I know your face."
The young man's formidable eyebrows drew together into a fierce frown, and he held up one wrist; on it, there was a metal cuff with a name and number. Alfred's mouth dropped open – this must be his patient.
"Hey, why are you wearing street clothes if you're a patient?" he asked indignantly, covering his stupid blunder.
"I can wear what I please, thank you very much. I'm certainly not going to wear one of those god-awful jumpsuits as if I were a prisoner, and although I have a rather fine arse, I'd rather not show it to the entire building by wearing one of those ridiculous gowns," the man huffed indignantly.
"Alright, fine, sure, whatever," Alfred said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender, fighting back a grin at the man's 'fine arse' comment. "It is against regulations, but fine."
"Bloody pompous gits," the man huffed, obviously remembering something unpleasant from the way his lip curled up and his fists clenched. "I told them, if I wasn't insane already, I certainly would be by the time I got out of this hellhole if they insisted on inflicting traumas like that on me. Here, what are you giggling about?"
Alfred bit his lip to stop the chuckles from escaping at the sight of the ruffled young man in front of him. With his flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes, he looked like an angry pixie or something. He was slenderly built, but not weedy. It looked as though there were lean, wiry muscles under the neat clothing. His hair was dark blond, with a sort of earthy hue in it which matched his forest green eyes, and his skin, apart from the red blotches, was delicate and fair. His features were petite and almost feminine in their refinement, except for his wayward eyebrows, which were thick, heavy, and drawn together in anger. At a guess, Alfred would put his money on anger management issues for this one. Well, that was an easy one; Lovino Vargas, another patient, had the same difficulties, so he knew just how to deal with it.
"Nothing at all," he replied to the man. "Now, why don't we get started; take a seat."
The man scowled again.
"Aren't I supposed to be lying on that?" he asked drily, gesturing to the couch Alfred was still draped all over. Alfred spared it a half-glance.
"Do you want to be?" he asked.
"No I bloody don't!"
"Then take a seat wherever you want," Alfred grinned. "I'm Alfred F. Jones, your assistant psychiatrist. I, er, sorta lost my glasses, so you're gonna have to fill me in a bit on your background. You're British, right? What's your name?"
The patient looked somewhat underwhelmed by his introduction, but perched delicately in a padded armchair nevertheless, and folded his hands in his lap.
"My name is Arthur Kirkland," he said primly. "Delighted to make your acquaintance." He didn't look particularly delighted; more disdainful. "I do in fact hail from the United Kingdom, England to be precise, Buckinghamshire, if you want to be very particular."
"Huh. Isn't England and Britain and the UK all the same thing?" Alfred wondered aloud. Arthur's lips thinned.
"Only to infidels," he sneered.
"Huh," Alfred said again. "So, you like tea and scones?"
"Just because I'm English doesn't mean I'm a walking stereotype," Arthur glowered.
"So that's a no?"
"Actually I do happen to like tea and scones, but the principle remains," Arthur said stiffly. Alfred grinned. This guy was kind of cute. A bit irritable, but in an endearing way.
"Well I like coffee and burgers, so I guess I'm a stereotypical American," he said aloud, keeping his thoughts to himself. "Why don't we see if we can move past that and get along?"
"I don't see why we should," Arthur said, scowling darkly again. "You're one of the wankers who's trying to prove I'm off my rocker."
"Off your – what now?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Did you even go to university? Off one's rocker refers to one's supposed mental instability."
"Ohh, you mean like bonkers and raving and stuff? Sure, I know Brit-speak," Alfred said enthusiastically. "I'm just going to pop orf to the loo and see the Queen,"
Arthur glowered for another few seconds before bursting into a fit of laughter.
"Th-that was terrible, you wanker," he sniggered. "Have you never met a real Englishman before?"
"Well, not exactly," Alfred said, a bit miffed, and also blushing a tiny bit at the sound of the pleasant laughter still tingling in his ears. "And if they're all as mean as you, I'm not sure I want to," he quipped.
"'Mean'?" Arthur echoed. "You sound like a five year old in the playground. How old are you, lad? Are you old enough to be a doctor?"
"Of course I am," Alfred protested. "I'm twenty-two, for your information. I've been practising – wait – almost two months now."
"Oh, bloody marvellous," Arthur said sarcastically. "I'm being treated by a lad only a fraction of my age."
"Hey, you don't look that old," Alfred frowned. "You can't be much older than me."
"That's all you know, lad," Arthur said arrogantly, tilting his chin up and taking on a smug expression. "I happen to be generations older than a little whelp like you."
"You can't possibly be more than – than thirty," Alfred frowned, squinting desperately in case his glasses-less state had somehow dissolved wrinkles, grey hair and sagging skin, but Arthur Kirkland looked young, smooth, and proud. In fact, he looked almost a different person to the angry young man of before. He looked haughty and arrogant, with a proud smirk curving his lips. In fact, he did look older now that Alfred thought about it, but still not a day above twenty-five.
"How old are you, then?" he demanded.
"I am just over one thousand six hundred years old," Arthur replied boastfully. Alfred's eyes widened; apparently, his diagnosis had been slightly off the mark. The man didn't have anger issues, or if he did, they were the least of his problems. Shame really, he'd probably be a pretty nice guy if he wasn't crazy.
"So you're immortal?" he asked, trying to act as if he believed the man. He caught a flicker of irritation in the man's eyes.
"Don't be stupid, boy. I'm not immortal," Arthur scoffed. Alfred sighed in relief. "I'm a nation. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Delighted to make your acquaintance."
Alfred, eternal chatterbox, was struck dumb for the first time in his life.
"Y-you're a country?" he asked once his mouth was working again.
"Do you have cloth for ears?" Arthur demanded irritably. "That's what I said."
"So when you told me your name was Arthur…"
"An alias, obviously," 'Arthur' said impatiently. "I can't have just anyone knowing my true identity. You, however, may call me England."
"So, uh, England, why did you, uh, reveal yourself to me?" Alfred asked.
"Well, uh," 'England' looked wrong-footed for a moment before brightening. "Because so far I've had fairly shoddy treatment, and as a country, I expect better, even from Americans. Maybe you can talk some sense into them now that you know my predicament."
"So you were committed to a mental hospital because somebody discovered your true identity and mistook you for a raving psycho?" Alfred asked, trying to get the man's story straight.
"Exactly," England nodded. "I'm glad you seem to understand, at any rate. 'Delusional', they called me, well I'll show them who's bloody delusional. What, do they think that governments run themselves?"
"Well," said Alfred reasonably, then thought better of it. "As a country, then, how far back do you remember?"
"Ah, I'm glad you asked that question," England said, his eyes fogging over with pleasant reminiscence. "Back in my younger days, around the fifth century, I believe, I was only really a tribe – they called me Angle-Land back then. I ran practically wild, bow and arrow as my only friends – oh, and the flying mint bunny, of course."
"Uhuh," said Alfred flatly, wondering how he could ever have mistaken this man for sane. "And other countries, do they exist as people, too?"
"Of course," England nodded vigorously. "But we only reveal ourselves to each other. Imagine if every citizen knew they had their country waltzing around town. There'd be a riot!"
"Sure," Alfred mumbled, now scribbling furiously in his notepad. "So," he looked up in sudden interest. "Have you met America?"
It was apparently the wrong thing to say. England's face suddenly clouded over, and a look of sadness overtook him.
"No," he said, his voice small and depressed. "Not since he left home. Over two hundred years ago now. The damned revolutionary war…"
Once again, Alfred was left at a loss as to what to say. Here was a man who thought he was a country, even though the facts clearly couldn't hold for more than a second. Perhaps if he simply caught the man out on a few facts of history he could convince him to see reason? The problem with that was, he was about as familiar with English history as he was with ethnic dance; not at all.
"So, how does this country thing work?" he asked tentatively, trying to pierce the cloud of gloom which had settled on the man's shoulders. "Do you work for the government?"
"No, you pillock," Arthur snapped at him. "What do you think I am, some sort of conspiracy theorist? I'm a perfectly normal businessman, thank you very much! Or I was, until you wankers decided to bring me in here."
"Businessman?" Alfred frowned. "That's a weird way to describe yourself. I guess you mean trade or whatever?"
"Trade? What're you yammering on about? I work in marketing," Arthur snapped. "Have you not heard of Kirkland Inc.? We gross over two billion every year."
"Uh, yeah, I've heard of it," Alfred nodded. "Thought that name sounded familiar. But doesn't your schedule get a bit tight? I mean, don't you have to do anything, being a country and all? Or is it more like a hobby, like being Batman?"
"What?" Arthur asked flatly, giving Alfred one of the filthiest looks he had ever received. "I think you might have got it right when you chose to lie down on the couch. Batman is a fictional character, and a bloody stupid one at that. And what do you mean by 'being a country'?"
"But – you just – you –" Alfred said, getting confused, and with half his mind still stinging at the slight to his favourite comic-book hero. "You just told me you were the Kingdom of United Britain and England or something."
"Nonsense," Arthur scoffed. "I'd have to be crazy to think something like that. Not to mention delusional."
"Well someone in this room sure as hell is," Alfred murmured weakly under his breath. "So sorry, must have dozed off again," he said louder.
"Great god," Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm being treated by an idiot."
"You were the one who said you were friends with the flying mint bunny," Alfred blurted out in frustration.
"And so I am," Arthur said nonchalantly. "Does having friends make you insane now?"
Alfred let his head fall back onto the couch. It looked like that hamburger was going to have to wait a long time.
Ok, so this is something I found in my documents and it amused me so I thought I would post it. It's probably just a oneshot despite its inconclusiveness, but I hope you enjoy :)