"Daddy!" a sweet, high-pitched voice whined. The sound was muffled by a certain thickness in the voice, perhaps a mucous of sorts, but it was still loud enough for Alfred to catch. The blonde American traversed up his home's staircase two steps at a time, blue eyes alight with worry. He stopped in the middle of the doorway, breathing heavily as he balanced a cup of steaming liquid. "Daddy, I cain't sing," Amelia informed her father seriously. Her singing ability seemed to be the most of her worries, though this was the farthest thing from Alfred's mind.
"Why do you think that, honey?" he asked, placing the cup on Amelia's bedside table. The tiny blonde muttered a 'thank-you' of sorts before grumbling and turning on her side.
When ill, Amelia was grumpy. "I just cain't, Daddy. My nose is too stuffy, and my words are scratchy!" Attempting (and failing) to sing a note, the little girl huffed and sat up once more. "Did you get me tea with honey, Daddy?" she asked, becoming vibrant as usual.
Alfred nodded and sat on the edge of his daughter's bed. "Yep. How are you feeling, sweetie?" he asked nicely, brushing away a few stray bangs from Amelia's face. She wasn't too feverish, only a little sweaty (that would bother her immensely later), but the American still wanted to stay on the safe side.
Because if Amelia was anything like Arthur when sick, this would be one of the longest days of his life. Normally, Arthur was an independent man; but he got sick easily and terribly. It was a good thing that Alfred was a good caretaker, otherwise his family would have a bit of a problem.
"Can you bring Winnie or Kitten?" Amelia asked, referring to the family pets. Winston, despite his (irritating) ways, was a good bed buddy. When he wanted to be, the Scottish Fold was as quiet as a church mouse. And, of course, Kitten was no problem at all. The sweet feline would just cuddle up to whomever was laying in bed and stay still the entire day.
Alfred couldn't keep the confusion from his face. "What about Ronald, honey?"
"He's hot and too fat. But I still love him, Daddy." The green-eyed girl wrinkled her nose. "On second thought, I think you can bring all three of them in." She said it in such a way that it wasn't so much a request as much a suggestion. Still, Alfred took everything in stride and nodded, smiling gently when Amelia still attempted to fix her disheveled hair. Like Arthur, it only got more unruly with sickness.
She was so much like her father that it was humorous, Alfred thought. The dirty blonde kissed his daughter's slightly warm forehead and walked down the steps, taking his time this round. Because he was already so prone to falling down flights of steps, Alfred wanted to be as careful as possible, since he knew that his daughter wasn't in any harm.
That, and Arthur would kill his husband if he had to nurse both a sick daughter and the broken leg of an American idiot.
"'Sup, Winnie," Alfred greeted Winston, smirking when the Scottish Fold huffed. The great (and sometimes terrible) thing about Country Cats was that they could convey their feelings just like their respective countries. It made for either a riveting conversation or a terrible question-and-answer time.
With Winston, it usually involved the latter.
"Nothing. Nothing is up," Winston said, burrowing under the lap blanket on the arm of the couch. His accent, as always, had a hint of Northern English, though the rest was mostly a nasally sort of sound; however, it was purely Winston, and Alfred had quickly become accustomed to the Cat's strange dialect.
"That's great," the American responded without giving much thought to Winston's input. "Listen, Amelia's kind of sick, and she's kind of asking for you, so, you know..."
Flattery. Flattery always appeased the great Winston.
"For me? Oh, I'll do it, and I'll do it right!" With that, the deal was struck, and Winston bounded upstairs to the youngest member of the Jones family's bedroom. Like the polite little Country Cat that he was, Winston knocked on the partially open door with his front paw before entering. Faintly, Alfred could hear the sounds of his already-delighted daughter. The dirty blonde smiled to himself before scooping up Kitten, who happened to be dozing in her Kitty Bed. The cream-colored Kitten mewed gently as Alfred stroked the orange patch of fur on her back. He climbed the steps two at a time and deposited Kitten at the base of Amelia's bed.
The little blonde giggled. "Oh, Daddy, I'm feelin' better already! But where's Ronald?" Amelia asked, pouting. She, like Arthur, was hard to please when even slightly under the weather. And when they were really sick...
When they were really sick, Alfred took a mini-vacation to the nearest motel.
Shaking the untrue thought from his head, Alfred forced a smile and ran back down the stairs, taking a few seconds to breathe. He was getting much too old for this job, he reminded himself, before setting out to find the overweight feline in question.
They had tried multiple diets with Ronald, all of which ended up with ruined upholstery (Ronald's own personal punishment on the family), and an American Cat that mysteriously weighed more than when the diet started. Eventually (and Arthur had been the one to initiate this), they stopped trying to force Ronald into a body image that he apparently wasn't comfortable with.
"Ron? Ron~ald! Ronnie? Ronald F. Jones, get your furry butt over here!" Alfred called, though he gained no answer. Sighing, the American said, humorlessly, "Guess who's opening a new can of yellow-tailed tuna!"
There was a large flash of white and dark gray, and Ronald seemingly materialized in front of his Master. "At your service! Now, how about some tuna?" Ronald asked, looking about as cheeky as Alfred did when there were cheeseburgers up for grab. It was an inherited trait that Alfred regretted had been inherited by his Cat.
"Yeah, not until you lay with Amelia for an hour or so. Up the stairs you go," the dirty blonde commanded, pointing to the ever-so-daunting staircase. Ronald hesitated.
"I can't climb that! I thought we were on the same page!" the Country Cat replied, appalled.
Quickly deciding that a vein had, in fact, popped in his head, Alfred smiled menacingly and leaned down to his Cat. "If I carry your obese body up those stairs, do you promise to lay with my ailing daughter for an hour? And then I will let you eat twice your massive body weight in whatever dang fish you want. Are we understood?" the American asked through gritted teeth. He hated being the bad guy, he really did, but desperate times seemed to call for desperate measures. This was such an occasion.
"First, words hurt, Master. Second, yes, I will."
And that was how Alfred found himself hefting a large (Ronald chose to keep his weight anonymous to the rest of the Jones family) Maine Coon Cat up a flight of sixteen stairs and practically throwing the Cat on his daughter's bed. He was this close, this close, to exploding.
But all feelings of anger and frustration dissipated when Amelia flung her chubby arms around her father's neck. "Thank you so much, Daddy! I'm feelin' a hundred times better now!" The girl kissed Alfred's cheek and snuggled back into her fluffy comforter, a hot pink blanket with crowns sewn into them. Ironically, Arthur had picked them out.
"You're welcome, Mel. Now get some rest, 'kay?" Alfred replied, kissing the top of his daughter's head lightly. He tried not to mess up her hair too much, though it was rather hard when the green-eyed girl's hair was sticking up in various places. Luckily, Amelia seemed to take no notice.
Pulling up a small purple chair that had "PRINCESS" printed on the seat, Alfred sat down to read his daughter a quick story as she took a much-needed nap. He himself started dozing off soon after page twelve of "Beauty and the Beast".
Because Disney did it better.
: :
When Arthur came home from a long, stressful day of work, he was greeted with no sounds from his family. Yes, he knew that Amelia had been feeling a little sick, but he usually heard laughter coming from her room, at least. Alfred always managed to keep her highly entertained when she was ill, but there were no sounds at all. On top of that, neither Winston nor Ronald had attacked him upon entering the household. That, too, was an odd occurrence for this household. Steeling himself, Arthur gulped and looked at the stairway. He knew not what sights awaited him at the top of the steps, if any sight at all; but he was a Brit built on strength and courage. Surely silence couldn't scare him as much as he felt that it was.
But it did. There was something about silence coming from a place that was usually filled with a child's high-pitched laughter and a husband's singsong, tenor voice that unnerved Arthur. And Winston always made some sort of sound so that he was never really forgotten.
Slowly, quietly making his way up the stairs, Arthur noticed that Amelia's bedroom door was cracked open. The lights had been dimmed, also disturbing, though the hallways seemed to be relatively untouched. The array of family pictures was still intact, and Amelia's collage of posters on her door appeared to also be unharmed.
If Arthur could see his own reflection, he was certain that he looked terrified. His heart beat heavy in his chest, his palms were sweating too much to be considered normal, and he knew that the shallow breathing that he heard was his.
Or was it?
Gasping softly, Arthur stepped back. No, he wasn't afraid. Fear was not in an Englishman's nature. He could take anything thrown at him and still be unaffected. Arthur Kirkland Jones was a stonewall to be reckoned with.
Taking a few more quick breaths, allowing himself to prepare for whatever lay beyond this accursed door, Arthur swung the door open, yelping when he saw his daughter laying in bed, head cradled against one arm, using her other arm to keep Ronald in place. The three Cats were sleeping peacefully as well, with Ronald under one of the youngest Jones' arms, Kitten nestled onto her side, and Winston keeping his rightful position at the top of Amelia's head. Alfred, too, was in the room. He was seated in Amelia's purple chair that lacked any sort of comfort, like armrests. His head was dipped forward, and Arthur could make out the sounds of his husband's light snoring.
While he waited for his heart to regain its steady beat, Arthur smiled lightly. How natural this scene was, how serene. Of course he secretly wished to be a part of it, but he also couldn't say that he minded being the one to come upon it.
Alfred snorted and started awake, blue eyes dancing across the room to take in his surroundings. When his gaze rested on Arthur, he sighed contentedly.
"Long day?" Arthur whispered, taking a few steps closer.
"You don't know the half of it," Alfred responded, peppering Arthur with a few kisses to the face. The Brit gave him a confused expression. "I hate when we live in England, you know. Then you have to be the one to work, and I'm no good at taking care of Mel when she's sick."
"It's just like taking care of me, you know."
"My point exactly."
Stifling a chuckle, Arthur returned the kissing gesture. "Yes, well, you're so good at taking care of me. Was Amelia really that bad?"
"Considering all the stairs I climbed, I think I lost two pounds. Are you impressed?"
"Not particularly, but it's more than we can say for Ronald."
Arthur glanced over at their still-sleeping daughter and grabbed America's hand in his. "Let's let her sleep and get you a real bed, okay? And then next week we'll talk about moving back to the States for a while."
"Oh, can we move to Georgia?" Alfred asked excitedly. Arthur shook his head.
"Because her accent isn't thick enough."
"It's a sweet accent."
"How about we go to Boston, or something?"
The American laughed. "Listen, Iggy, but I'm not ready to hear my daughter say, "Park the car in Harvard yard," in that accent. Let's just save that one for acting classes."
"Ohio?"
"No one wants to live in Ohio. Her skin will get all dry from the temperature changes! And our daughter has the softest skin!"
"Washington."
"Which one?"
"Washington."
Alfred considered this for a few moments before nodding. "Sounds fair. As long as she doesn't fall in love with any sparkly mythical creatures."
"You're not referring to unicorns, are you?" Arthur asked, glaring. In response, Alfred shook his head reluctantly.
"Sadly, no. Welcome to American culture. Where we have sparkly vampires, racist bunny rabbits, and Lady Gaga."
A.N.: Yay! More domestic!USUK! And Winston!Verse! I am so, so happy with how this turned out. I'm a sucker for my head!canon of the Jones family. See, I imagine Arthur as a nicer fellow once married, and Alfred learns to be a bit more responsible. And, on the upside, they could almost be human, if it weren't for the talking Cats. Thank you guys for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed! Comments are always loved, and I would write any domestic and/or Winston fluff given to me!
Again, thanks!