A-hem. Alright, so... Business first, then the story. Speaking of, my other two are on HIATUS. Not quite giving up, just leaving it be for a while. A long while, but I actually wrote quite a bit of this fanfiction before I began typing it, so this one actually might be updated in a timely manner. At least during the summer.

As for my excuses, I do have them, I'm just not going to trouble you with them.

Anyway, (this is the last thing before I get to the story, I swear it) if I had something that I actually owned, I probably would be here, gloating, but that's besides the point. The point is that I don't own Hetalia.

Chapter One; Reevaluated.

"Alfred, I don't think you should…"

"Oh, don't listen to Birdie, Alfred! This is so totally awesome! Almost as awesome as you getting me as your Shoulder Demon!"

"Alfred…"

"Shut up, both of you." Alfred says, as he crouches behind the sunflowers in his neighbor's yard, trying to ignore the two small, winged people sitting on each of his shoulders.

He had to, didn't he? If he was going to survive on his own. He needed food, and money, and those snob neighbors of his wouldn't miss a couple hundred dollars. Hell, he'd seen the mother blow a couple thousand like nothing. And he couldn't go home. Not now.

He wasn't aware of speaking aloud, but he must have, because suddenly, Matthew bursts out, "What are you thinking, Alfred! Of course you can go home! Your Mom probably doesn't even know you're gone."

"And if she does?" Alfred's lips barely move as he says this, his eyes still focusing on the mansion in front of him, looking for a weakness in the "security;" locked doors. Gilbert had taught him how to pick locks, but he wasn't very good, and he wasn't very fast. If he had to take the time to sit by the front door and fiddle with it's lock, the likelihood of him getting caught increased exponentially. No, what he needed was…

An open window. Perfect.

"She doesn't." Matthew snorts, making his large, feathery white wings rustle as he adjusts the halo floating an inch above his chin-length blond hair. "Not after the sleeping pills Gilbert had you put in her supper, though why, I don't know. She sleeps like a rock as it is."

Gilbert is lying back on Alfred's shoulder, arms folded behind his head, bat-like wings tucked flat beneath his back, tail moving lazily as he lays there. His dark hood is covering his snow-white hair, his ruby eyes closed as he grins, smug as a Chesire cat. "Simple, Mattie. It was awesome. Like in a movie. Slip drugs into the jailer's food, then make your escape."

Matthew rolls his violet eyes, before refocusing on the boy whose shoulder he was currently riding. "Please, Alfred. Don't do this. There's no reason to. You're not in trouble yet, and your Mom never really punishes you anyways. If you turn back now, we can all just pretend this never happened."

Matthew doesn't understand. Part of the reason Alfred is doing this is because his mother never notices him, or hardly ever. She's always in her room, worrying about his father, who'd joined the army for the sake of a family tradition. One his father expected Alfred to carry on, as evident by the bomber jacket his father had sent him for his last birthday. And, when not worrying, his mother's maintaining his father's business, which made parts or something. Alfred wasn't really sure. But apparently it was good money, because they could afford to live in this neighborhood.

"I'm telling you, Alfred, he doesn't know what he's talking about. No one ever has adventures from home. Besides, it's not like you've just decided to live on the streets forever. After we get to Emily's, you can live with her."

"She's Amelia now, she hates that nickname, Gil, and she's barely keeping her apartment as it is; it would be wrong to push another mouth unto her. And even then, she lives in New York City, and Alfred can't drive. It'll take forever to get there."

Amelia is Alfred's sister. When he was little, though, he called her 'Meli, since he couldn't pronounce Amelia, and later he called her Emily, just to annoy her. She's in college now, studying to be an actress, while also getting a general degree, but her dream is, and has always been, to be the first woman to play seriously in Major League Baseball. She's his only sibling, and they're very close, but he knows that what Matthew says is true. On top of school, Amelia has to work in order to earn money for food and rent. Their parents paid half of her tuition, and the other was paid by her partial scholarship, but their mother insists she pay for lodging and basic needs herself, supposedly in order to learn responsibility, something their father approves of, but mostly because their mother doesn't approve of Amelia's career choice. But regardless, he's already decided that he won't go to her for help. Not that Mattie or Gil need to know that.

"That's why we're doing this," Gilbert shrugs, not seeing anything particularly wrong with what they were about to do, though knowing others would view it differently. "So we can get supplies. We're Robin Hood stealing from the rich, and giving the goods to ourselves, the poor. And we'll give whatever's left to Emily as a thank-you gift for bringing us in."

"That's not how it works, Gilbert, and, besides, don't you think you're taking this 'demon' thing a bit—oh." The small, sad sound of understanding is accompanied by an expression of uncertainty. Gilbert's reasons weren't unfounded, but… "You still can't drag Alfred off on some fool quest." He says, firmly, but not unkindly. "Look for him online or something. You know better than I what will happen if we let Alfred go through with this. You're letting personal feelings get in the way of your duty."

"I don't care. I can't help it, Matt, you know he's like a brother to me. It's been ten years, and he didn't just lose me. He lost his mother, too. I need to know how he's doing, and I can't, not if Alfred doesn't do this."

"You want to be reevaluated?!" Matthew is incredulous. He doesn't really understand how someone might want to be regarded as inadequately able to do a job, but, then, Gilbert has been doing this longer than he has.

The Prussian snickers, leaning against Alfred's head. "Spoken like a true new-be. I've been reevaluated before. Nothing happens, except that another assignment is added to your list, and you get stuck with some stuffy, 'experienced' Spirits 'helping' you for the remainder of your current assignment."

"A-hem." Matthew turns, startled, wings almost smacking into the short, blond haired Angel that has appeared behind him. Especially when compared to Matthew, currently dressed in a Canadian sweatshirt adorned with a maple-leaf, the man was ridiculously traditional, wearing a white, one-shoulder, knee-length toga, and no shoes, as well as the plainest golden Halo in Matthew's, admittedly limited, experience (Matthew had a small maple-leaf attached to his). The only apparent personal touch the newcomer seemed to have added was a small, circular locket with a strange engraving.

"Yes, well, I'll be one of the, how was it that you put it? Yes, 'stuffy, 'experienced' Spirits 'helping' you' until your current assignment joins us in the spiritual realm. Speaking of, I assume that this blond fellow here is my new assignment?" says the Shoulder Angel, in his thick british accent, pointing to Alfred's head. "Bloody young. The two of you couldn't even handle ten years?"

Gilbert peers at the green-eyed Angel from behind Alfred's neck, curious. He's been reevaluated twice before, and he'd never seen this Angel, though he'd heard that he had been given the pair who were most common in these cases, which was largely why he'd referred to the Spirits who would join them as "Stuffy." And despite the recent rise in population, re-evaluations aren't actually all that common. "What happened to Elizaveta, and Roderich? Aren't they supposed to help the reevaluated? And where's the new Demon?"

The Angel holds up a hand to stop the barrage of questions, sighing once before beginning to reply. "How about you let me answer each question before proceeding with the next eight million. Yes, Elizaveta and Roderich are typically the one's who help the reevaluated... when the problem is irresponsibility, and not a severe personality and swaying power imbalance in the Angel-Demon team. But, besides that, they're already on assignment, so they're not available, in any case. And as for the new Demon… Well, I'm sure Headquarters will send someone—"

There's a bang, and a taller blond appears, this one a Demon with a hairstyle similar to Matthew's, wearing a simple black suit with a blood red rose in its jacket pocket. Rather than the typical horns, he has pointed ears, and lacks a tail, though he does have large, black-feathered wings. He shortly begins yelling, in a French accent, about how they "couldn't do this to him" and "he hadn't done anything wrong this time" and "why should he have to help some incompetent fools at the cost of his freedom."

"Any minute. Well, speak of the devil and all that." Arthur laughs nervously. "Terribly sorry to young Alfred, for all of the confusion. Anyway, I'm Arthur Kirkland, and I hope we can all get along in the years to come." He finishes quickly, almost panicky as he concludes that that whiny voice could only belong to one person...

A person who has fallen silent, also evaluating the other's speech and, turning to confirm that, yes, it was that Arthur Kirkland, he can't help letting out a "hon, hon, hon," that leaves the other's blood cold, so-to-speak.

Except, it seems, Gilbert's.

"Hey, Francis, this is so awesome! It' seems like it's been forever!"

Francis smirks. "Yes. That does tend to happen when you get the two of us put on a practically permanent probation. Of course, both of us were almost out, when you dragged me back into this horrid business."

Gilbert is too busy hugging his old friend to take notice of the slight ice in his friend's tone.

"Um...Guys?"

"Yes, Al?" Matthew asked, coming out of his slight trance.

"Oh, nothing. Just wanted you to know that I was still alive, and that, while you were all arguing, I raided my neighbor's kitchen, and even managed to snatch about five hundred bucks, not that they'll miss it."

Gilbert jumps up, performing that embarrassing number rather uncomfortably known as the "victory dance."

"Yeah! Go, Al! That was awesome, those Angels didn't even notice!"

"Yes, excellent work… Alfred, was it? I look forward to seeing you among the ranks of Shoulder Demons in the future."

This snaps Arthur out of his, much deeper, trance, making him turn his head quickly to glare at Francis, eyes flashing.

"Nothing's been decided, you idiotic frog. Bloody hell, the boy's only ten years old, and even if he does have you on his shoulder, whispering those poisoned words of yours into his ear, he's not yet so far gone that I can't drag him back onto the right track."

"Yes, of course," Francis smiles wickedly, leaning nonchalantly against Alfred. "Nothing's been decided. It's entirely possible that you can bring this boy away from the path of sinful fun and back on the hard, toiling path of righteousness. Just like you put 'Jack-the-Ripper' back on track. Or Adolf Hitler. Actually, now that I think of it, one of the only times you ever beat me in the battle of morality was with little Alice, and we both know know where she is now."

"You were Hitler's Shoulder Angel?" Alfred asks, intrigued.

"Damned Wanker!" Arthur shouts at the same time, "She was my daughter, you heartless bastard!" A furious Arthur lunges at the apparently smug Francis, but Matthew is trying to hold him down, and Gilbert is blocking his way.

"Temper, Temper," Francis taunts, clicking his tongue, "You ought to be careful, mon petit lapin. You might just be switched to Demon if you can't keep it in check."

"Righteous anger is encouraged as Angel behaviour, and you know it." Arthur retorts, scoffing as he plops down onto Alfred's shoulder in resignation, slightly calmer. "Besides, Headquarters wouldn't dare reassign me. Especially not about something related to Alice. They know some limits, at least."

"You were Hitler's Shoulder-Angel?" Alfred repeats, a bit impatiently.

"Yes. Quite probably one of the most embarrassing assignments of my career." Arthur replies bitterly. "Unfortunately, the Holocaust can't be blamed on Francis, though, or I'd be free of him. He'd have been permanently taken off duty, and it would have been anything but a retirement. Besides, he's not one for murder. His favorite sin is usually a bit more... artistic. No, I'm not even sure if Hitler knew we were real, or if he even heard us at all, considering the number of voices he had housed in his head..." Arthur answers, trailing off in thought.

"Voices? So, he was crazy," Alfred says, nodding. He'd always thought so. No one could be that evil without having something wrong with their head.

"Yes. Although, I do have a theory about insanity. There are some specific voices that keep popping up, usually only when I've been assigned another barmy nutter, but it's still strange that the same ones keep popping up."

Alfred is quiet as he realizes exactly what it was that Arthur had said, and then he asks, "Wait, you knew? Can you read minds, or something?"

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. "Well… yes, but not much more than any other Angel. It's just that while most only receive vague ideas of what their charges are feeling or thinking, to help prevent the possibility of being deceived by them, I can sometimes feel specifics, like what someone might be hiding if they try to tell only a partial truth, or different voices or tones in their thoughts."

Alfred is too tired to be particularly alarmed, but Matthew is looking at Arthur in slight awe, and not a little curiosity. If he were able to get a bit more knowledge out of Alfred's thick skull, it probably would've been a bit longer before they were reevaluated. Though the boy was so stubborn that it was unlikely he could have put this off for too much longer.

Arthur is still rather uncomfortable. He doesn't like talking about his abilities, especially when some of them are often doubted. Like some of the ways he comes across information. It wasn't just slight mind-reading, that was certain. And the fact that he could read the minds of those who were a bit off their trolley better than those who were sane was regarded with suspicion. So, he decides to get back to business.

"Alfred, are you really serious about running away?" Arthur is trying to change the subject, how cute. "Alfred?"

"He's asleep," Matthew says, half in amusement, half in weariness. "We won't be able to wake him up." Matthew turns his gaze to Gilbert, eyes kind. It would do neither of them any good to deny the Demon the chance to do what he had begun this ridiculous crusade to achieve. "Gilbert… Go find Ludwig."

So? Have I improved? Do you want more? I'll give it to you regardless, as I said, I've already written quite a bit of it, so I might as type it up and feed it too you wolves. I say that endearingly, of course.

The only cookie I want is called the review-chip cookie, and it is the golden apple of writer-food. But I can and will use any and all flames to perform Black Magic on the senders. Only semi-harmless, bad-luck curses, though.

*This Chapter has been edited, but if you find a mistake, whether it be grammar, punctuation, exact repetition, etc. please inform me via a review or PM.