The original story has been circling the internet for some time now, and I've been meaning to do a Hetalia version of it for some time. Finally got around to it, mostly because it's so short. It's a personal favorite, and as a strong shipper of USUK, I thought it fit the characters. Well, it would work with Prussia too, and I might do one of those later, but USUK is still my favorite. :P

Enjoy!

Arthur opened his eyes slowly, repressing a groan. Ugg, he'd done it again, hadn't he? The Brit knew a hangover when he felt one, and it was never a good feeling. Mouth and ears full of cotton, a spiteful Leprechaun dancing a jig in his skull, the obnoxiously loud sunlight, and dry eyes. Worse, an irritated wife. Amelia was usually the understanding sort, especially since she liked a drink herself, but his tolerance was notoriously low. Even the occasional drink with friends or for work could be risky. Last night, if he remembered correctly, he'd had the lapse in judgment to let mates from work keep him for an extra pint or three. More than enough to knock a lightweight off his stool.

Slowly, Arthur dragged himself upright. He pried his eyes open, slowly putting his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked over at the clock, but was surprised to see a glass of water and a pair of painkillers sitting next to it. A note in his wife's messy scrawl read 'Morning Artie!' flanked by a heart and smiley face. For a minute Arthur just blinked at the arrangement before reaching out to take them. This wasn't like Amelia, but he was hardly complaining.

Arthur downed the pills, and drained the glass. He stood shakily, managing to pull on some clothes before shuffling to the door. He clutched the doorframe, getting his bearings as his head pounded. Before he could gather the will to brave the kitchen, though, he heard Amelia call, "Go get your dad, tell him breakfast is ready."

A frown crossed Arthur's face. Breakfast? Yes Amelia liked an artery-clogging breakfast on the weekends, but it was never extended to him after he came home drunk. Eggs, grits, bacon, waffles, the works, it smelled like.

Feet pounded up the stairs, and a minute later Peter came around the corner. He stopped when he saw Arthur, and grinned. "Mom said breakfast is up."

He started to go back downstairs, but Arthur caught his son's shoulder. "Wait. Why's she being so nice? I came home completely sloshed last night, didn't I?"

Arthur cringed to think Peter had been awake for it, but he had to know.

Grin widening, Peter said, "Sure did. Francis brought you by when it was past midnight. You kept yelling something about orange trucks and someone stealing your magic sword. You threw up on the wall too, like that demon girl on the Exorcist, not that I've seen it or anything. You know that table we have in the hallway? You fell on it after you punched Francis and broke it. Oh, and you gave Francis a black eye. You have one too from where you walked into the doorframe. It took all three of us to get you up here. And you kept using words mom wouldn't explain."

Okay, now he was even more confused. Deciding to worry about his son seeing a horror movie and hearing a possible plethora of swear words letter, he said, "You're not making any sense, lad, and the painkillers haven't kicked in yet."

"Well, mom was mad. Like when the Yankee's get their butts kicked and you blew something up in the oven again, but at the same time. Between the two of you, there's going to be twenty whole dollars in the swear jar."

"Peter," said Arthur warningly.

If possible, the boy's smile grew wider. "Mom was trying to get you undressed, because you were still in your work clothes. But you said, 'Unhand me you bloody wench! I am married to a beautiful woman!'"

Arthur blinked a few times, slowly putting all this together. Deciding he'd done his part, Peter trotted back downstairs. Well...the last thing he remembered was sitting next to his old friend/enemy/coworker, the now apparently black eyed Francis, agreeing to stay for a second round of drinks. He'd broken an expensive table Amelia had been quite fond of, doled out two black eyes, sworn in front of their son, and he was afraid to ask just where he'd had the bout of projectile vomiting. Despite that, he was apparently forgiven. All for saying the right thing at the right time.

A weary smile tugging at his face, Arthur carefully moved towards the stairs. He would still need to apologize profusely, and his stomach rebelled at the very thought of alcohol, but considering it was the worst he'd ever been, he had far less ground to make up than ever before. It was the only time Arthur ever remembered alcohol inducing anything that could be remotely categorized as good behavior. Not that he was complaining, of course.

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