525,600
drabbles by AngolMoaChan
how do you measure—us/uk
Heroes are often the most ordinary of men.
-Henry David Thoreau
It was a cat of all things, a bloody cat. Alfred—that gitface, ninny, bloody retarded Yank—had shimmied up the trunk of one of the biggest trees in London like a monkey of all things, perched precariously on a thin branch as he pounded his chest and proclaimed, "Don't worry, kitty! Your hero is here to save you!"
Arthur stood below, staring up at the spectacle and shoving his hands in his pockets. Alfred had insisted on saving the cat because—because god knows why, really, he can't understand America's fascination with putting himself in harm's way. Rolling his eyes, he refocused on the scene above him. Alfred was crowing in victory, holding the kitten to his chest, even as it scratched at his shirt and face. The poor thing was terrified, that much he could tell—
And Arthur couldn't help but flash back, to the tiny nation against his chest, his eyes shut, baby lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against his cheeks, tufts of blonde hair waving in the breeze as he swore to protect him and never let him be scared of anything, of anyone, ever again.
And suddenly he understood.
As Alfred set the cat down on the ground, ruffling the hair of a tearful little girl, who thanked him and hugged his legs, Arthur walked over and casually, oh so casually, slipped his hand into the American's. Alfred didn't even react, just a twitch of a grin as he saluted the little girl and turned to the Brit beside him. "Heroic, wasn't it?"
Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes; he looked up at Alfred with the slightest smile on his face. "Yes, you gitface. Heroic indeed."
