Chapter 4

Sighing heavily, Arthur stared hard at his kettle, the dusty coffeemachine dripping to his left, and the two mugs of warm milk in the microwave. Shouldn't Matthew and Alfred be helping him, not him catering to them while they fawn over Francis? The microwave beeped at him before he could mourn the subject any further and he opened it, taking the two mugs and entering the living room again.

Alfred currently had Francis on his lap, the little shirt pulled up and blowing raspberries on his stomach while the tiny nation squealed in delight, squirming vigorously on the American's legs. His brother was quietly sitting apart from the other two, trying to avoid getting hit by the small feet.

"Ahem." Clearing his throat, Arthur walked into the centre of the room, watching Alfred pick Francis up, placing him on the couch between himself and Matthew. Chest still heaving, France wiped his teary eyes on the back of his hands still grinning widely. "Don't drink it right away." He said, passing the smaller mug to Francis and the bigger one to Matthew, "Sorry, I'm out of hot chocolate."

Before Matthew could shake his head and tell him it was no problem and that he was trying to cut down, there was a sharp hiss from France. "C'est chaud!" he said, sticking his tongue out and pulling the mug away from his lips.

"What did I tell you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow down at Francis.

"N-Not to drink it."

"Lesson learnt then." England sat down in his armchair, watching France glare at his mug before blowing on it, flushed cheeks puffing out. Matthew and Alfred exchanged a quick look before both fixing Arthur with a look that clearly said 'so, Dad's a little kid, care to explain?'

America cleared his throat when Arthur made no answer. "France… when exactly did, uh, this happen?"

Sipping at his milk carefully, Francis pulled back, a small white moustache on his upper lip. "A few days ago. Angleterre was kind enough to take me in." he sent England a smirk that would've suited the older version of the French nation. "I do not know 'ow it 'appened. Truly it is a mystery."

"W-Well…" Matthew piped up, "What do you think England? I-Is there a way to reverse it?"

Shoulders shrugging, Arthur reached over to the coffee table, picking up the spell book, tossing it to the Canadian who caught it, opening to the dog-eared page. "Apparently there's no way to reverse it. It's a waiting game."

Alfred snorted. "That's because it's not magic." He said, "It's obvious alien involvement." To his left, Matthew let out a small sigh, shaking his head.

"It is magic." Arthur said, "And scepticism isn't going to get us very fair thank you very much Agent Mulder."

Raising hands in his defence, America shook his head. "I'm just sayin' and," he looked to Matthew quickly, "What do you mean 'us'?"

The green eyes blinked, first looking at Alfred, then to Matthew's slightly guilty face. France, meanwhile, was greedily the milk greedily, apparently oblivious to the goings-on. "Well," Arthur started, slightly cautious, "He's your father… I thought you might want to help him."

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Alfred's blue eyes flicked to the kitchen entrance. "Shouldn't you go get that?" he asked, voice weak.

Glaring at his two sons, the Briton slowly got to his feet, leaving the living room with a deliberate slowness. Were his sons really just going to abandon their father like that? Was he really going to be saddled with the Frenchman without anyone to fall back on?

Two minutes later, Arthur was back in his armchair, sipping his tea, a leg crossed over the other and eyes hard while both Matthew and Alfred were looking shamefaced, the American nursing his coffee while the Canadian was having his hair pet by the tiny Frenchman who was sitting in his lap, smiling as the tiny fingers curled into the pale blond hair.

"So you're abandoning him." England said finally.

"Don't be so dramatic Artie." America said placating, "We're busy people! We can't just stop our lives because some magic shit has happened. You'll just have to take care of him. We're too far and I've just passed that big health bill… I can't deal with a kid right now."

Before Arthur could counter the American, to his great surprise, Canada also spoke up, gently tugging his air away from Francis' grasp. "I'd help too Arthur," he said, adjusting his glasses, "But I've got some stuff to deal with… p-post Olympics and everything, and I've got to support Al through this new bill… he needs to see that universal healthcare isn't just for socialists."

"I still think you're a pinko commie." Alfred grumbled but still shooting Matthew a small grin that the Canadian returned. "So yeah, sorry Art, we can't help." The brother, seeing the dirty look Arthur was giving them both got to their feet, Matthew gently placing Francis on the ground.

They were all quiet as they watched Francis toddle over to Arthur's chair, grabbing his leg. The Englishman pat his hair. "I think you can let yourselves out then." He said calmly. Alfred nodded to Matthew who muttered a quiet apology before leaving the room, American following.

Arthur watched them go, hand still on Francis' head until he heard the telltale creak and whine of his front door as it closed. Slowly, he got to his feet, gathering the mugs and walking back into the kitchen, depositing them in the sink. Apparently he was alone.

"It is alright Angleterre… really." Francis said suddenly from behind him. He looked down to see the Frenchman tugging at the bottom of his sweater, smiling up at him comfortingly. "They are big boys now, they do 'ave their own problems to deal with, we cannot rely on them for everything."

"I know." England said, sighing and rubbed his temple with one hand, "You'd think they'd at least offer a little help."

The Frenchman chuckled, clinging to Arthur's leg. "What? Taking care of petit moi getting to you?"

Arthur blinked down at Francis, smiling weakly. "Hardly, you're less of a handful than those both were. There's just one of you, not two. Heaven forbid that ever happen." He offered his hand, "How about bed? You must be tired."

Starting to protest, but a yawn interrupting his words, France nodded, taking the proffered hand, leaning heavily on Arthur as he led him upstairs into bed.

Crawling in a few minutes later, pyjamas on, bunny in his lap, Francis watched with sharp eyes as Arthur moved about the room, taking off his own clothes absently humming to himself under his breath. "I want a bedtime story." He announced.

Head turning to peer at the Frenchman, Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Really?" The Frenchman nodded adamantly and Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Well…" the green eyes glanced over to his small bookshelf where all his favourite stories were tucked away together. A particularly old and worn book caught his eye and he walked over, plucking it from between a book of sonnets and a collection of tales from Baker Street.

Francis curled up on his lap as Arthur leaned against his headboard, a pillow tucked in his lower back (a suggestion from Yao to keep the pains away). "What book is it?" the young nation asked excitedly, turning the book over in Arthur's hands to see the cover.

"The Tale of Peter Rabbit," Arthur said, opening the book and smiling at the faded signature within the book before turning his attention to the picture of five bunnies and a small box of text under them. "Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were, Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree."

"Rabbits?" Francis interrupted, a small hand reaching out, touches the pale illustration, "You and your rabbits Angleterre."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, jaw bumping against the top of Francis' head as he spoke. "Do you want a story or not?" The Frenchman merely sighed, but said nothing, sinking back into the Brit's chest, yawning again.

So England continued to tell the story. He almost didn't even have to look at the words because he knew them so well. They were a part of him, a part of a childhood he never had and for a moment, just a single moment, when dear Peter was fleeing home, Arthur felt a twinge of jealousy towards the young Frenchman.

"I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening." He said, reaching the ending lines of the story, "His mother put him to bed, and made some chamomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter. 'One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.'," his voice pitched up for the mother's voice before going back to it's usual tone, "But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper. The end."

Closing the book, Arthur looked down at the cover, running a hand over it and smiling. "So," he said, putting the book aside, "Did you like the story?"

There was no answer and, upon closer inspection, Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find a sleeping Francis in his lap, curled into his chest, hair fluttering in time with his slow breathing. The small stuffed rabbit was clutched tight to the Frenchman's chest. Shaking his head and smiling softly, Arthur reached over, turning off the light and curling around Francis, falling asleep quickly.

Author's Note

After two weeks of block, I finally found my writing again. THANK YOU WORLD.

The Tale of Peter Rabbit (c) Beatrix Potter