Notes:
Been struggling with writer's block, and thought trying something a little different might help... So decided to write this, which isn't really all that different at all, seeing as though I've used a very similiar AU set-up for one of my Emmerdale fics. That was so much fun to plot, though, that I wanted to see how it would work with Hetalia.
(And thus copying over my explanatory notes from that Emmerdale fic...)
This is very loosely inspired by/a fusion of the Venture Bros. setting, in that the Kirklands belong to the Guild of Calamitous Intent (which here has various local branches, it's worldwide on the show, as far as I can tell), because I love the Venture Bros. approach to superheroes and, especially, supervillains. The Guild is an organisation of supervillains, who seem to largely treat villainy as a regular day job, and there's tonnes of bureaucracy, and lots of rules and regulations governing their behaviour. The Guild also approves superheroes to be assigned supervillains, and provides benefits, support etc. to the villains. (No Venture Bros. characters involved, though, just Hetalia.)
The heroes on the show don't seem to have an analogous organisation, but they have one here: the League.
America/England and Scotland/France will be the main pairings, but there may well be more added later (I'm not sure I'll be able to resist including Wales/Romano when the plot wends around that way).
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Four times a year, Grandfather arranges for the Kirkland estate to be bedecked in lights and seasonally-appropriate decorations, fires up the kitchen staff, orders a small lakes'-worth of champagne, and invites anyone who's anyone north of the Watford Gap to join him in hobnobbing and consuming their own weight in fancy canapés.
Invitations to them, Arthur is given to understand, are highly coveted, with Guild up-and-comers and social climbers of all stripes willing to sell their own grandmothers for the chance of getting their hands on one. Presumably, then, they are the highlight of someone's calendar.
They're certainly not a highlight of his.
He has been made to attend each and every one since he was five years old. When he was a child, he and his brothers were expected to tag along in Grandfather's wake when he greeted his guests, and smile winsomely as they cooed over how 'adorable' they all looked in their tiny suits and bow ties.
Although the cooing declined precipitously as they became teenagers and growth spurts and outbreaks of spots set in, the tagging along continued, and they were expected to smile courteously whilst Grandfather boasted about their exam results and successes on the rugby field.
Nowadays, they're expected to act as little better than glorified - and unpaid - security.
As befits a member of the Guild of Calamitous Intent's ruling Council of 13, Grandfather has a veritable army of minions and henchmen under his command, but minions and henchmen are entitled to time and a half pay for all functions outside business hours, whereas family can be made to work for free. The Kirkland fortune wouldn't be as impressive as it is, Grandfather is fond of telling anyone who cares to listen, if he wasn't willing to cut a few corners when needs be.
So now Arthur smiles just as courteously as he ever did before whilst he mingles, makes small talk, and eats canapés, but he maintains a close watch on Grandfather's guests, too.
Given that at least half of his guests are high-ranking supervillains, Grandfather's parties are like catnip for superheroes looking to make a name for themselves, and at least one of them will undoubtedly swoop in at some point during the evening, full of adrenaline, bravado, and righteous indignation, shooting their laser eye-beams or frost breath around willy-nilly with no care and consideration for the health and well-being of either the civilian half of the guests or Grandfather's antique collection.
And as those civilians are mostly local dignitaries, business owners, and minor celebrities, they're likely to attract the attention of the bloody Frog, as well; a perennial, sticky-fingered thorn in the collective Kirkland side.
Thankfully, Arthur hasn't noticed his smug, Gallic face amongst the gathered crowds milling around the manor, nor has he heard the tell-tale whoosh of an approaching superhero in flight, but as he pushes and excuse-me-sorrys his way through the throng in the formal dining room, he spots a very suspicious-looking figure, lurking by the giant ice sculpture bust of Grandfather that's sneering imperiously down on the room.
It's the man's suit that catches his eye more than anything else. The jacket sits too snugly across his broad shoulders, the sleeves are just a fraction too short, and its elbows and also the knees of the man's trousers are shiny, suggestive of both age and substandard fabric. His shirt is no better - a timeworn shade of off-white and frayed at the collar - and his pink, yellow and green tie is a garish assault on good taste.
All in all, he's the worst-dressed person Arthur has seen tonight, by quite a sizeable margin. Intrigued, he draws closer.
The man visibly pales as Arthur approaches, and his eyes round anxiously behind his thick rimmed glasses, but he stands his ground regardless, and when Arthur holds his hand out to shake, the man grasps it without hesitation. Despite his obvious nervousness, his grip is firm and assured.
Slightly too firm, actually. Arthur's knuckles soon start to ache, and he drops the handshake a little more quickly than is perhaps polite.
"Arthur Kirkland," he says, summoning up a warmer smile than the brittle one he's been faking for hours in an effort to compensate for the incivility. "And you are?"
The man blinks at him rapidly, his mouth agape; clearly caught off-guard. "Alfred," he says eventually. "Alfred Jones."
The pause is telling, and Arthur very much doubts it's his real name. That's less suspicious than his suit, though. Most of the people Arthur knows use a pseudonym more often than not.
"I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting before," he says. "Are you a friend of my grandfather's?"
"No, I'm..." Alfred swipes the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip to wet it, and then swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. "I'm with the paper."
"The paper?" Arthur echoes, surprised. Grandfather hadn't mentioned there would be any journalists in attendance tonight. "Which one?"
"Um, the local one."
"The Chester Chronicle?" Arthur says, to which Alfred nods vigorously.
Arthur supposes that makes more sense than his initial assumption that, based on Alfred's accent, he must write for an American newspaper. Although Grandfather does have some professional clout in the North West, and plenty of supervillain clout in the UK - and an over-inflated opinion about the importance of both, to Arthur's mind - it's probably not strong enough to have reached across the Atlantic. No-one in America, he's certain, is likely to be in the least bit interested in reading about one of Grandfather's parties.
It's doubtful that many people in Chester are, either, but the Chronicle do always send someone to cover Grandfather's annual charity ball, at least, if only so they can capture the requisite photograph of Grandfather handing a comically over-sized cheque to the local worthy du jour.
They've never bothered to report on the Christmas party before, though. When Arthur mentions that oversight to Alfred, he shrugs and says, "Slow news week."
Which sounds plausible enough, and Alfred seems plausible enough. Obviously, he's out of his depth, but then he looks to be a few years younger than Arthur himself, probably no older than twenty-two or so, and thus hardly a veteran reporter. This could well be his first solo assignment, which seems somewhat unfair of the Chronicle. A Kirkland get-together could end up being a trial by fire.
Whilst he may feel a little sorry for the man, he still doesn't feel ready to entirely trust him at his word. He's definitely not an associate of the Frog's - the man's a double-crossing snake, and black-listed by the Guild as a consequence; no supervillain, aspiring or otherwise, would dare to work with him now - and Arthur very much doubts that he's a superhero. Not nearly enough muscles, and superhero's tend to be simple creatures, not given to subterfuge.
But, nonetheles, something about Alfred niggles; seems a little off. The pauses in his speech, the slight waver in his voice, and the way his gaze keeps darting around the room, never quite meeting Arthur's.
The feeling isn't strong enough that Arthur thinks it necessary to start flinging out accusations of perfidy and demanding Alfred be thrown out of the manor, but it is there. Arthur resolves to be vigilant, and keep a careful eye on Alfred for the rest of the night.
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Arthur's resolution lasts for all of ten minutes, whereupon he's cornered by The Shrike - one of his Grandfather's oldest friends, and fellow member of the UK Council of 13 - who bends his ear at great and tedious length about various ailments, his grandchildren, and his grandchildren's various ailments. Far from being careful, Arthur's eyes soon glaze over and he loses sight of Alfred amongst the crowd of partygoers surrounding them.
Half an hour later, Arthur's mobile starts beeping urgently; a particularly ear-splitting tone set to alert him when the manor's alarm system has been tripped.
A glance at its screen informs him that their intruder is in Grandfather's study: the Frog's favoured looting location whenever he manages to break in.
"Sorry, I've got to go," Arthur tells The Shrike, nodding towards his phone. "Looks like we might have a spot of bother upstairs."
He takes the concealed lift from the kitchen pantry to the third floor library, casts a silencing spell to muffle his footsteps as he sneaks down the hallway outside, and then another on the study door's hinges before he eases it open.
He needn't have bothered, though, because the intruder is making enough noise on his own to camoflage the passage of a herd of tap-dancing elephants; rifling through drawers and then throwing their contents over his shoulder, seemingly without a care for how they clatter against the parquet floor.
This stranger is unmistakably a superhero; clad in an obscenely tight white suit with red stripes running down its back, drawing the eye inexorably down towards the equally taut lines of his arse, and blue stars scattered across its shoulders.
Arthur clears his throat meaningfully.
The superhero continues muttering under his breath and flinging files around with abandon.
Arthur takes another couple of steps closer, and clears his throat again, then, his patience thinning as he continues to be ignored, snaps, "Excuse me, can I help you with something?"
The superhero freezes for an instant, and then wheels around on his heel to present his face to Arthur. His practically bare face. He's only wearing a tiny electric blue domino mask and...
Arthur groans, and then gestures towards his own face, drawing circles in the air just in front of his eyes with an extended index finger. "You're still wearing your glasses," he says.
Alfred pales again, quickly snatches off the offending eyewear, and then squints at Arthur myopically. Clearly, they weren't just part of some mild-mannered-reporter disguise, but actually required to correct his vision.
"You've not being doing this very long, I take it," Arthur says, and not without a degree of sympathy. He's only been in the supervillain game for a couple of years himself - Grandfather had insisted he finish uni before he joined the family business - and he'd royally bollocksed up his first couple of heists.
Alfred shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "It's only my second time out."
Novice or no, Guild and League guidelines both state that a superhero apprehended whilst performing a heroic deed should be taken into the custody of whichever supervillain was lucky enough to catch them - whether or not they're official Arches - until such time as the hero can effect a daring escape (or twelve hours has elapsed, whichever is the shorter duration).
And as he's so green about the gills, Arthur has no intention of subjecting him to anything other than the lightest of perils - perhaps a spell suspended by his ankles above the tank of very well-fed piranhas, or tied beneath the exceedingly blunt and slow-swinging scythe - but rules are rules, and he has to do something.
"You'll know better next time, won't you," Arthur says. "Now, come on" - he reaches out and takes hold of Alfred's wrist - "I'll take you down to the dungeons, and—"
"To the what?" Alfred's eyes widen once more beneath his tiny mask.
"The dungeon," Arthur repeats slowly and carefully. He hadn't realised it could be a confusing concept, but Alfred certainly looks extremely bemused by it. "Until such time as you break free, et cetera, et cetera."
When he tries to tug Alfred forward, Alfred digs his heels in and refuses to be moved. "I'm not going to just follow you to a dungeon," he says, sounding incredulous. "You're a supervillain."
"Well, yes. That is the point of all this," Arthur says. "Punishment for the commission of an heroic act, and so on. You should know that already. Haven't you read your League handbook?"
Alfred's blank look suggests that he hasn't, or, at the very least, hasn't got to that particular subsection yet. Just like a hero to rush off half-cocked and underprepared, riding high on the virtue of their own do-goodery.
Arthur sighs heavily. "Look, seeing as though you're so new to this, I'll make it as easy as I can for you. I'll restrain you with the Grade C chains - one good tap, and they'll just fall to pieces - and put you in cell 5. There's a hidden escape tunnel beneath the fourth tile on the right of the door. You'll be free within an hour, at most. We have to go by the book, whether you've read it or not." He holds out his free hand, palm flat, towards Alfred. "Now, if you'll give me your League card, I can get all the paperwork sorted out, too."
A faint blush spreads across Alfred's cheeks. "My League... Oh, I, um... I left my wallet in my other pants." He pats the skin-tight fabric covering his right thigh. "Not enough room for pockets in this costume."
Arthur has to clear his throat yet again. It suddenly feels very dry. "Quite," he manages to squeak out after averting his eyes from the distracting movements of Alfred's hand. "It's okay, we can work around it. If you let me know your superhero alias, I can look you up in the Guild records; get your membership number from there."
"It's Captain..." Although he'd started off with a great deal of conviction, Alfred quickly falters into silence. After a moment of furrowed-brow contemplation, he finishes with a tentative-sounding, "Awesome?"
"Captain Awesome?" Arthur can't recall ever having heard the name before, or having read it in any recent Guild communications. The niggle of doubt he'd felt when he'd first met Alfred starts squirming into life at the back of his mind again. "Who's your Arch?"
Alfred's frown deepens. "The Crimson Terror," he offers, even more tentatively than before.
Arthur knows there isn't a supervillain named that operating in the UK. Or anywhere else for that matter. The doubt blossoms into terror.
Alfred could very well be an unlicenced hero. One unbound by the rules of either the Guild or the League. A vigilante. A loose cannon. Dangerous.
He fumbles in his jacket pocket, meaning to call Alasdair or Dylan for back-up, but before his trembling fingers can get a good grip on it, Alfred twists his body around, effortlessly wrenching himself free of Arthur's hold on his wrist.
His shoulder knocks against Arthur's as he does so, striking with all the force of a train at full speed, and that glancing blow sends Arthur flying.
He lands flat on his back, and heavily enough that it forces all the air from his lungs. Beyond the loud, concussed ringing in his ears, he thinks he can hear the faint, muted beat of Alfred's retreating footsteps, and then an even fainter, "Sorry!"