The Collective Analysis of a Former Delinquent

So I am feeling very Hetaliafic again, but I still have to finish that Universitalia fic that was actually almost done until my laptop crashed and everything died D:

Emiggax is co-author again, for all my DGM buddies out thar

I really really really like France/UK as well, just so the world can know

This, as well, is a crimefic in a sense. I am by default a humor and romance writer, so this is like a really silly experiment. It is also super silly because it contains a vaguely Ocean's Eleven kind of situation and Feliciano as the don of a mafia and I pretty much lol'd while thinking of this

Thanks for checkin' me—I mean, the fic—out

Disclaimed.

1 – The Kirkland Theory

It was about early o'clock in the bloody morning when Arthur Kirkland received the call that would probably ruin his life. It really varied on which way you looked at it.

"Mmph," he grumbled, patting around his nightstand for the corded phone that usually took it's residence in that general area. His fingers finally touched the familiar cold plastic, and with some effort he managed to bring the phone to his ear lazily. "'Ello? I mean, ah, Kirkland speakin'."

"Mr. Kirklan'?" the speaker on the other line affirmed, and Arthur nodded before he realized that the person probably couldn't see him. "This is Detective Williams. I'm with'a th' New York Police De'pa'ment—we're real sorry t' say this, but…"

Arthur's blood went cold at the pause. One of his many theories was that any call from the police at this time of night was not going to be good, that was for sure. (He was also a little scared to hear the bad news they were going to lay upon him, but don't tell anyone that.)

"…but, I'm jus' fuckin' wit'cha!" There was a sort of obnoxious laughter on the other side of the line, and Arthur blinked slowly. "Sorry cuzzo, it's jus' me. Alfred."

The plastic almost cracked in his grip. "I will disembowel you," Arthur said calmly. "Because it is early o'clock in the bloody mornin' and you think it's real nice to call me as some sort'a, I don't know, queer American ritual prank thing?"

Alfred laughed harder, and Arthur could just see the young man wiping the tears from his eyes under his glasses. "Whoo man, you'sa trip, dude," he replied, a little breathless. Yet, with a quick breath over the phone, his tone of voice made a complete degree turn that Arthur couldn't really remember at the moment. "But, seriously cuzzo, we gotta Code Crimson ova' he'ah. Real bad, man."

That was one of the things about Alfred that made the British man want to strangle his American ass. The man, being from and living in the Bronx all his life, had an accent that was as disgusting as it was amazing. Amazing to hear the murder of a once beautiful language, that is. In fact, give an American any language, and they'll find a way to bodge it up.

"…" Arthur closed his eyes and attempted to count to a billion. He gave up after eleven. "What the blast is a Code Crimson?"

"Code Crimson!" Alfred insisted, and Arthur tried to imagine him dead. "It's a code red—a code red for murda'!"

"What the f—"

"Okay, seriously serious this time. Um. I'm in th' slamma', and I need, er, uh. Bail?"

"…"

Arthur hung up the phone.

"Why the fuck'd ya wait a whole fuckin' day, douche?" Alfred raged about twelve hours later from the other side of the glass in the visitor's room.

Arthur stared at him for a long while. "Betta' question," he replied slowly, bringing a hand to his forehead—most specifically, his temples. "Why the bloody hell are you 'ere? I cannot even attempt to process one reason why'a young, white man in New bloody York would be arrested at, what, early o'clock in the mornin'!"

"Dude, I stole'a car," Alfred explained. "And I would'a gotten away with it too—if it weren't for th' stupid police!"

The British man paused in rubbing his temples. "You…stole a car?" he repeated, furrowing his rather sizable eyebrows. "You filched a bloody vehicle? What is wrong with you?"

"It was for'a dare," the young man admitted, sighing. "I'm sorry, Artie."

"My God—I cannot believe I am related to such…idiocy!" Arthur snapped, pulling at his short locks of dirty blond hair. "You, my dear Alfred Francois Jones, are an idiot!"

"Hey! You leave m' middle name outta this, douche!" Alfred growled, standing up in his seat. "Or, should'a I say—Arthur 'Fairy Princess' Kirklan'?"

"I will annihilate you!"

"Sirs, ya both need to calm down befo' we hav'ta remove ya," the security guard commented weakly, and Arthur turned to look at him as slowly as was virtually possible. The guard seemed to tremble, and then stepped out of the visitor's room stuttering some poppycock about needing to polish his badge.

Alfred groaned, bumping his forehead against the glass. He slid down with an audible squeak, and ended his descent with a plop of his face to the wooden surface of the desk. "Get me outta he'ah, Artie," he whined, banging his forehead against the window repeatedly. "If'fa I stay too long—shit, I mean, look at my face, Artie!" He pointed furiously at his slightly tanned, better-than-average Caucasian visage. "Do ya see this?"

Arthur looked at his face from a general angle. "Ya look as stupid as ye did three seconds ago," he deadpanned. "What needs t' be different?"

"Art, ya may not undastand this, but I am fuckin' beautiful," the American man explained, pulling at his own cheek. "You really think someone this gorgeous is gonna last a week in tha' shithole? No way, man. No way."

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Well, then it was no wonder that Alfred needed glasses.

"Regardless of your hideously disfigured face, I am still a wee bit perplexed on why I am sittin' here in the precinct jail, talkin' to you behind an exceedingly thick slab of glass," the British man replied shortly.

"Are you tryin' t' say somethin' he'ah?" Alfred demanded, scowling. "Because I am poiplexed on why you haven't posted m' bail yet."

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't get paid until Friday, twit," he explained in a particularly strained voice. "And I would've been willin' to get you out with my savin's, provided that this was a big mistake and ye didn't need to be in jail." He stared directly into Alfred's clear blue eyes. "Unfortunately, that is not the case. I'll be back to get you on Friday, cuzzo." He stood up, taking a sort of sadistic pleasure in the mortified gape fixed onto his younger cousin's face. "Hopefully you learn your lesson about stupid dares this way, moron."

"Abba—wibba—you—" Alfred stammered, banging his fists on the surface of the desk. "Arthur! Artie! Cuzzo! Come back man—I'm mad sexy for this jumpsuit, and these dudes prob' don' even rememba' what a vagina looks like! I love you!"

Oh, the cries of pain from an American idiot. Arthur could think of nothing he loved the sound of more—wait, sorry, he forgot about The Beatles. He loved the sweet sounds of The Beatles for sure.

And so, Arthur took his leave from the visitor's room, with Alfred clawing at the glass and a promise of two whole days without Alfred's inane phone calls or text messages or emails.

So wonderful. God, the possibilities of what he could do with his time! He could drink tea without a mocking tone discussing the greatness of coffee! He could watch the BBC in peace! He could possibly even enjoy a good night of knitting!

Alfred may need to stay in jail a little longer, the more Arthur thought about it.

Then again, the more Arthur thought, the more likely he was to stop paying attention to his surroundings, as noted in the following events.

"Hmmph!" the Englishman grunted, bumping rather roughly into another man. "My apologies," he automatically said, turning to look at the poor assaulted individual.

And then he realized that if he thought Alfred's eyes were a particularly nice shade of blue, he'd obviously never seen this bloke before.

The man with the intense blue eyes was just a bundle of adjectives, including tall, distinctly broad, clearly Caucasian, and he possessed blond hair that was fastidiously slicked back for optimal professionalism, probably. He just seemed professional with the way he wore a suit like it was pressed seconds before he stepped into the police precinct.

"Not a problem," he replied in a slight German accent. "Please, excuse me, sir." He continued on his way.

Arthur watched him go for the sake of being curious, and then he simply shrugged it off as a normal occurrence between strangers.

Once he turned to walk, though, his flat, work shoes pressed against something that wasn't the floor.

"What's this?" the blond man muttered, bending down slightly to pick up the object. It was, firstly, rectangular. Covered by a black bag, the object fit in his hand much like a TV dinner would.

This must be the German's, he immediately thought. Arthur turned around in order to call the man back, but the door slammed shut the moment he laid eyes on it.

Well, damn.

"Ach!" Arthur sniffed. "Well, obviously the bloke didn't need it that much anyway if he's just gonna drop it and leave! I say, America."

With that, he tucked the box under his arm, and left the station with a jaunty whistle.

He'd just hold on to it for a while, until by some chance he met the German again.

It wasn't until two days later that he even remembered he had the box.

"Good morning, New York City! It is Friday—the best day of the week, amiright? Well, I hope you're ready to get your smog on, because this air can cause asthma in a second!" the radio blared, as Arthur didn't have many options for his alarm. "Wow, not only is acid rain a definite maybe—but these immigrants are comin' in like flies! I feel like I'm gonna lose my job some day—" A hand slammed onto the entirety of the alarm's surface, and Arthur hoped that the dismiss button was somewhere in the area.

"Hermm," he groaned, slapping the back of his hand against his forehead. "I hate Fridays."

Actually, it was probably important for one to know that Arthur Kirkland hated all days. Even Saturdays.

("Wakin' up is a bloody chore," he once explained to Alfred, who was probably not listening at the time. "And the Spainards downstairs make the loudest bloody noises! How can I enjoy a day that starts so badly every time?")

Speaking of Alfred—shite.

"Oh damn," Arthur muttered, hitting the back of his head against his pillow. Repeatedly. "Of all the days—"

His cellular phone started ringing. Arthur cursed up a storm before picking it up slowly and bringing it to his ear at an equally leisurely pace.

"…'Ello?" he greeted in the blandest, most unimpressed voice he had in his arsenal.

"Artie, cuzzo!" Alfred's exuberant voice cried back, and Arthur's face dropped into a deep frown. "Guess what t'day is? If you guessed 'Alfred's Bail Day,' you were right fo' once in ya douchebag life! Congratulations!"

The Englishman closed his eyes and counted to ten. He gave up after three. "Smashing," he replied with a deceptively calm tone of voice.

Why couldn't Alfred've done something crazy like start a dogfight or kill a man? Then the jailtime would've been for, well, ever and Arthur would have been lonely for the rest of his default miserable life. (And, yes, he was aware that he forced himself to be miserable—no need being happy and getting your hopes up for nothing, really.)

"Up, up!" Alfred crowed, cackling like he won the lottery by cheating. "I've gotta date wit' some Mickey D's, man—and you're'a the chaffeur!"

"My God, you are such an arse," Arthur whispered, closing his eyes. "It is almost…amazing."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm an amazing kinda guy. Now get'cha English ass outta bed—you promised me bail, man!"

Arthur took in a deep breath and hung up the phone. Double shite—there goes his happiness for the rest of his life.

Stumbling out of bed with an almost insufferable yet sudden headache, the blond man wandered into his bathroom to take a slash and to punch himself in the face, as that was the only way he could wake up and go about his day with his normal formidable scowl. Then, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair, patted down his eyebrows a bit, and gargled mouthwash.

(He liked to think the American opinion of English dental hygiene needed to be proved horribly wrong sometimes, really.)

Arthur then felt the need to explore his kitchen for edible food and a cup of tea before he posted bail for the bane of his existence.

"Damned Americans and their bloody laws," he muttered spitefully as he dragged his feet across his apartment to the small kitchen. With a forceful swing, he forced the freezer door of his refrigerator open.

And he suddenly realized that he had a lot of TV dinners.

"Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Stouffer's, Hungry Man—what the hell is that doin' in here—oh, Stouffer's again," Arthur announced quietly, cocking an eyebrow at the sheer amount of one particular brand of microwavable dinners he possessed. The Hungry Man, though, was rather random. As well, the box with the black plastic bag covering it's entirety was also a little out there—to the point that Arthur picked it up and ripped off the dark plastic.

He stared at the box in his hands, a frown on his lips. "Stouffer's?" he read aloud, disgusted. "Where am I getting' all o' this bloody food from?"

He stuffed it back into the freezer with a sigh.

Guess I'll just stop by McDonald's.

"I stole'a car, got thrown in jail!" Alfred sang as Arthur sat behing the glass screen once more. "But m' cuzzo's so great he posted bail! I love ya, Artie—you're so fun! Even though ya look like you want ya head to a gun!"

"You went off-beat," Arthur commented calmly. "And your rhythm didn't fit ya new rhymes. Keep the singin' to the professionals, ah?"

The bespectacled man shrugged, laughing boisterously. "Eh, whateva'. I'm jus' happy t' be leavin', man." He stretched lazily, a grin on his lips.

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, already regretting his honorable decision. "Don't cock up again, Alfred," he threatened with a scowl. "I can assure you that I will not put nearly as much of an effort into postin' ye bail again if you end up stealin' another vehicle. Good day." He stood up, turned around, walked towards the door, and was completely and totally ready to make a dignified exit.

At least, until the boom of an unnaturally enraged voice nearly shattered the glass all around him.

"Whaddaya mean ya can't find th' package? Yer such'a fuckin' dumbass, Ludwig—m' brotha' probably jus' keeps ya around fo' ya cock, asshat!"

That rage was so…completely unnecessary, Arthur thought. It was so out of place that he ended up turning around and poking his head around the wall of the booth with the source of the sound.

A built, blond man was sitting at the desk, rubbing his temples as the other auburn-haired man continued to scream and rant.

Ironically enough, the yelling was coming from a man who not only looked like he was the size of a fifteen-year-old girl, but also carried the air of a child fond of temper tantrums.

God, Arthur wished he could still pull off a tantrum.

"If you don't shut the hell up," a deep, almost painfully familiar voice replied calmly. "I'll find a way to punch through this glass and slap you. I can promise you this, Lovino."

Arthur looked at the man who was sitting on the visitor's side of the booth. The blond hair wasn't as slicked back, and he wasn't wearing a suit like last time, choosing instead to don a simple outfit of a black tee and jeans—but the Englishman was assured that this was the German man who dropped that particular box two days ago.

"If ya even looked at me wrong, I'd stab th' shit outta—"

"Excuse me sir," Arthur interrupted as quickly as possible. That Lovino character did not look very pleased at the moment, and he did not desire to hear the gory details of 'Ludwig's end. "Hello, yes, I apologize for cuttin' off yer conversation." He held out his hand. "Arthur Kirkland."

The German man looked a little confused, but shook his hand anyway. "Ludwig von Beillschmidt," he replied curtly. "May I ask why you are conversing with myself?"

"I wonderin' that too," Lovino spoke up, and Ludwig threw him an absolutely filthy look of evil. "Shit man, he pops up outta nowhere while I'm yellin' at ya—it'sa little we'ehd, Ludwig."

"Which I understand," Arthur agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn't bring himself to smile for politeness though, and he looked into Ludwig's amazingly blue eyes. It might have been virtually possible to actually get lost in this bloke's eyes—seriously! "But, I feel obligated to inform you that I might 'ave a certain box o' ya's. We bumped into each otha'a couple'a days ago, and ya dropped it. I picked it up, tried to give it back, but ye were gone." He shook his head. "So, I kept it. It's a sort'a TV dinner, I know—I can't rememba' the name o' it at the moment, but I think it was—"

Ludwig and Lovino both cut him off with a passion never seen before in his twenty-six years of life. "And what was your name again?" Ludwig asked with a subdued panic, but his eyes were wide.

Lovino was standing up. "Get his fuckin' name, asswipe!" he hissed like he was telling a secret.

The German banged on the glass. "Shut up, moron," he snapped, and turned back to Arthur. "Um, I'm sorry for my associate. He isn't very smart, see—"

"I understand." God, did he understand. "I'm Arthur Kirkland."

Ludwig stood up, a painfully serious expression on his face Arthur also noticed that the man towered over him—not that it was terribly difficult. "Thank you, Mr. Kirkland," he said, shaking the British man's hand shortly. "We'll be by as soon as possible to pick it up." And he practically ran out of the visitor's room.

Arthur watched him go, his hand suspended in the air.

"But," he spoke without thinking. "You…don't know where I live."

The Kirkland Theory — END

So ends the first chapter to a very silly experiment.

As I have noticed over time, most Hetalia American-based AUs take place in, of course, New York City. While I usually hate conforming to the norm in fanfiction ways, I shall not be different—but I will use more than just Manhattan. I also ABSOLUTELY ADORE writing out accents, because I like to repeat them out loud in exaggerated dialects as I type. The New York accent will be consistent in this, I can assure you. As well as some thick English, because I can listen to The Hoosiers sing mimicries for hours man

The TV dinners are actually VERY IMPORTANT to the plot. REMEMBER THAT lololol