A/N: This story is too long to be a one-shot, but it's also not going to be more than three or four chapters, just a head's up. Enjoy!

The winter sun streamed in through the windows of the HMS Albion, making the chilly captain's quarters uncommonly warm for December in the Atlantic Ocean. Arthur Kirkland paced the floors of the cabin restlessly, running an anxious hand through his messy blond hair. They would be in Boston soon, and he was both delighted and dismayed at the prospect.

His young charge Alfred was probably at the wharf already, heckling the merchants and chasing seagulls and being a general nuisance. Arthur had to smile at the thought. That lad was growing at a frankly alarming rate, and his love of mischief was growing along with it. Which was less than ideal, the former pirate mused, because Alfred Kirkland was more than a headstrong boy—he was the personification of England's colony, America, as Arthur himself was the personification of the British Empire. And although Arthur was terribly fond of him, lately he'd become more rebellious than usual.

And not just that, he was cocky too, he thought with a scowl. Why, he had positively laughed when Arthur insisted that their people not travel past the Appalachian Mountains a few years ago*, and for their own safety, too! And then there had been the whole Stamp Act fiasco*. Just thinking about it made England want to shake the young man and set him straight. Really, the taxes were to alleviate the debt that had been created for America's protection! (And that Canada boy, too.) Arthur took a deep breath, reminding himself that although Alfred was a colony, he was also a young man, and young man did like to act before settling down to become proper English gentlemen (like himself). Yes, America would behave, he and that quiet brother of his –Matthias?—would grow up to be fine subjects of the British Empire.

Just then, the cabin boy poked his head into Arthur's rooms, and announced in a chipper Cockney voice, "We've arrived, Cap'n! We're at Boston!"

"Good lad," Arthur said, shaking off his irritated mood and flashing the boy a smile as he strode to the doorway. "It's been too long since I've seen America."

-Boston, Massachussetts, December 1773—

"Good gracious lad, I'd forgotten what an appetite you have," John Hancock remarked with amusement, watching as his young friend Alfred Kirkland reached for yet another cut of delicious Virginia ham.

"I can't 'elp it," he declared around bits of tender meat, his bright blue eyes shining. "I'm a growin' lad! And besides," he added, swallowing, "once Iggy gets here, I'll have to force myself to eat his cooking, so this has to tide me over until he leaves."

John laughed again, shaking his head at the young man's reasoning. "Well, at least you have some manners," he mused, and added, "and get your elbows off the table, you little heathen."

Alfred snorted, pretending to daintily wipe his chin as he polished off another helping of mashed potatoes. "You sound like Mrs. Adams," he teased, referring to John's friend's wife, Abigail Adams. "She hasn't tamed me yet!"

"Yet," John emphasized. He regarded the young man thoughtfully as he threw back some mulled cider. He was going to be a tall man when he finished growing—and muscular too, thanks to the work he sometimes did in town. He had unruly golden brown hair and a cowlick that stuck out defiantly on the side of his head, despite constant coaxing. His face was lightly dusted with freckles, and his round eyes were the same color as the clear Atlantic Ocean that ran up to meet the Boston Wharf. He was a good-looking young man, but it was his cheerful, hardworking personality that made him so likeable, despite his cheeky nature (or perhaps because of it, John mused. Really, Alfred reminded him of himself when he was younger.) "But not for lack of trying. Say, when did you say Mr. Kirkland was going to get here?" He was one of the few humans who knew about the nations' semi-immortal status and what they represented; he also knew that Alfred's older brother figure heartily disapproved of himself and had had his ships confiscated, something that John was still angry about (but at least the people of Boston, who were quite fond of him, had put up enough of a fuss that some of those odious Townshend Acts got revoked, he recalled with a smirk.)

"Oh yeah!" Alfred said brightly, sitting up straighter at the mention of Arthur's name. "He wrote me before he left England and said he would be here this week…I haven't been down to the wharf to see if they've come in yet. But I think we would know if some more redcoats showed up in Boston," he added with a grin. Lately, the colonists and imperial Britain had been cordial, but it seemed that more and more little arguments were breaking out between the two English-speaking peoples. He actually hadn't seen Arthur in three years—not since that dark day in 1770. But he was ready to forgive him, and he really did miss him. He rushed to the window of John Hancock's lavish home facing the harbor, but his view was obscured by the Hancocks' fine English garden. "John, you really have to do something about all these damn flowers," he said crossly, straining to see over the hedges. "It's so bloody domestic."

John shook his head, grinning at the young man. "Get out of my home already, you nuisance. And tell that boss of yours not to confiscate any more of my ships!"

Alfred bounced away from the windows—he literally bounced when he walked, all knees and elbows, and he was too damn energetic for his own good—over to the table where John lazily sat at the head like the aristocrat he was. "Maybe you should stop your smuggling operations," he chuckled as he picked up two soft rolls for the road. Everyone knew that John Hancock was the primary competition in Boston for the East India Tea Company, something that amused the genteel privateer greatly.

John just laughed, as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Right, lad. I'll see you at the Admiral Benbow Inn tomorrow night, right? Sam[1] requested that you be there. Says it's important."

"Yep!" Alfred said, mock saluting the man. "See you tomorrow!" Snagging an apple from the table for good measure, he dashed out of the Hancock mansion, racing down the steps and out to the busy street. Although Beacon Hill was slightly elevated, he still couldn't see past the miscellaneous carriages, horses, and pedestrians to the wharf to see if the ship had reached the harbor yet. Heck, he had gone down every day for the past week to check—Arthur probably wasn't here yet. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but he really did miss him.

Racing past the smithy and the cobbler's, he finally made it down to the wharf, and to his delight, he saw Artie's beloved two-masted brigantine, the Albion, sitting contently in the Boston Harbor. The ship looked mostly empty from where he stood; Arthur had probably given his men shore leave already. They were bound to be around here somewhere, but he didn't see the familiar uniforms of His Majesty's navy, nor did he spy England's distinct messy mop among any of the crowd.

He frowned slightly—he did not pout, whatever Artie might say, because that was a very unheroic thing to do—as he continued to pace the cobbled streets. He was not patient by nature, and was greatly relieved when he saw a cluster of navy sailors at the docks, pulling in the rowboats they had traveled in from the ship. He saw a flash of the familiar naval blue coat and shouted, "ARTIE!"

Predictably, Arthur Kirkland looked less than pleased to have his charge screaming his nickname in front of his men, but he looked like he was trying to hold back a grin as Alfred came barreling towards him.

Lord, he had gotten taller! Why, they were practically the same height! Arthur thought with concern as Alfred hugged him tightly, talking a mile a minute as usual about what he had for lunch and what he had been doing for the past few months and how Arthur's letters always made him laugh. "Hello, chap," Arthur said, chuckling a bit as he hugged the boy back. "Slow down, lad, I can barely understand what you're saying. My God, your English is just as terrible as I remember. These Bostonians are corrupting you."

"Whatever you say, Captain," Alfred said happily, glad to have his best friend back. "Come on! We have a lot to do, but first, I'm hungry! So we're going to my favorite pub to get some food, okay? My treat!" (Never mind that Arthur provided Alfred's allowance.)

"Lead the way," Arthur said, nodding at the few remaining sailors to dismiss them. He had been a little apprehensive about seeing America, but all his worries melted away when he saw how happy the young man seemed to see him. Smiling, he resigned himself to at least an hour of Alfred's yammering, unable to be too miffed about the whole "Artie" thing.

[1] Samuel Adams, John Hancock's acquaintance and one of the leading instigators of the Tea Party.

Albion is the ancient name of Great Britain. Hurr hurr I'm so clever. But really England, did you have to name a ship after yourself? :P