Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Warnings: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). The controversial word "irregardless." Also for: Briefly touching on other countries' anti-gun sentiments & the way that carries over into criticizing America's gun culture. Restrictions are fine for them and their country, if it's what their people want.

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Enjoy

Chapter 6: Yankee Doodle Alfred

North Ireland rolled his shoulders and readjusted his flat cap over his curly red hair. He gave his reflection a grin in the mirror in Arthur's hallway. Very handsome. O' course. Such a shame it wasn't a gift their mum had bestowed equally among her boys.

He looked trim. Perhaps not as broad in the shoulders as Scot. But who could compete with that plaid bollix in this age? The barmy git still tossed cabers for fun.

But Reilly was still the better boxer. Quicker on his feet and good at-

Arghh.

There was no denying it, the split had weakened him. Losing the lower half of his isle and having another personification appear to reign over it…and a wench no less!

Well, it still sent his brothers into fits of giggles. They referred to her as his "feminine side." Well, his ego was bruised, his beloved land occupied, and his magic diluted.

He still had mastery over runes, but his spellwork was getting shoddy.

Arthur was still a klutz compared to the rest of them...but at least he had a good well of magic to draw from. Reilley envied that. He was also a bit sore over the fact that Arthur had come out of a split none the worse.

The emergence of Sealand had no real effect on him besides being an annoying little blighter. He and Scot had affectionately dubbed the boy "The Barnacle." It had been fun watching the wean snivel over it. Though now with Sweden as his guardian they didn't get many opportunities to tease him anymore. Sweden didn't seem to agree that joshing built character. The dry shite.

'Dude is scary' America had told him 'Like...that face. I can't tell him that his IKEA furniture breaks like matchsticks or that the stores are built like rat mazes."

North sighed. He missed the star-spangled young 'un. Now there was someone you could tease. Old school enough that he could shrug it off-but just enough spite in him that he'd quip back. North liked to think, it was a result of his immigrants.

Which meant the boy was tough, which was good because North had a feeling the boy would need every ounce of resilience.

He greeted Alistair and Rhys in the parlor. The former had muted the telly to better eavesdrop on Arthur's phone conversation in the other room. He needn't have bothered though. Their youngest brother's volume had been steadily growing since he'd entered the house. It didn't help that July 4th had passed without any update on America's whereabouts. The only thing worse than attending an obnoxious red, white, and blue grill party—was not attending…because it's host was "unavailable." Their government's PC code for: we have no fucking clue where he is, please stop calling.

"Sodding liars!" they heard him explode. "He doesn't abandon his post! He doesn't. No! I KNOW him. I KNOW him. Don't say that I don't I know him, damn it. I raised him."

Listening to Arthur's self-restraint unravel made them all uneasy. This was going to make for a very unpleasant afternoon.

"I don't care what it looks like, you're looking at it wrong!" he ranted.

Wales shifted in his seat. Such a simple movement performed by anyone else might have signified that he was simply uncomfortable. Perhaps a tad impatient or that the trousers he chose for the day were a bit too snug.

North Ireland's eyes zeroed in on the movement. Scotland glowered. They knew what that meant.

Wales felt guilty. And as Wales was not one to take responsibility unnecessarily it meant: Wales was guilty.

"Out with it" Scotland growled.

Wales sighed.

"I didn't want to influence his decision either way. As America's primary colonizer and considering the nature of their separation, I thought it best to leave the decis-"

"Enough with your vague forecasts. Answers, man!" North interrupted.

Wales gave him a flat look. He hated being interrupted. But they didn't have time for one of Wales' long winded speeches. The way one eyebrow twitched-suggested that he might switch from English to Welsh to spite them.

Scotland cracked his knuckles. Letting it be known that he had NO patience for that.

Wales walked over to the unlit fireplace-staring at the darkened bricks. "Albion was supposed to experience an epiphany. Once done, he could then choose whether to send America or not."

"Send him where?"

"To his enemies."

"His…whose?...Wait, America's enemies?"

"That's a long list" North remarked.

"No, England's."

"...That's a longer list" North sighed.

"Do you know...who?"

"Still unclear. All I know, is that he's been biding his time" Wales noted.

"So…" Scotland started "But I thought" and then he scratched his head "He was being sent somewhere to help him. So not sending him would've seemed like not helping him, but you're saying that not sending him would be helping him except that it doesn't address his current issues with magic...or does it? Or are they involved with his issues and are making it worse or wait-"

North shook his head, "Fucking confusing. Wales, explain it again. Without the riddles. "

"Ach, I've talked with trolls that were more direct."

Wales went pink. "Well obviously, Arthur was supposed to have held onto him. Arthur always clings to what matters to-"

"And he was just supposed to know to do this?"

"W-Well yes" Rhys snapped-becoming more and more agitated "I told you he was supposed to experience a realization that America was in danger and choose to keep him close if he wanted to bypass the threat and-"

"...tricked me."

Jaysus! All three men startled. No one had been watching for England.

And there he was lurking in the doorway-teeth bared, green eyes slitted.

The doorjamb splintered under his white-knuckled grip, "You! You bastard!" he growled lowly "...you...you tricked me."

"No," Wales replied as calmly as he could manage, though under three pairs of accusing eyes, he began to sweat "I wanted to be neutral regardless of what you chose. Because he isn't your colony. He shouldn't depend on you for protec-"

"Deceived me."

"No," Wales insisted "I-"

England chuckled "heh...supposed to just hold onto him...just reign him in, hm? Ha, because that's worked so bloody well in the past, hm? Forgotten the Proclamation Line, have you? Reign him in...He hates that" His voice went low and dark as his anger went white-hot.

"Albio-"

"I was giving him space!" he hissed "He likes space! He resents me when I don't give him...Deceived...deceived-" He clapped a hand to his mouth-as if to block sickness or horror (or both) from spilling out. "I... thought I was...helping him. You tricked me" he choked as he sunk to his knees.

Having heard enough, North delivered a hard punch to Wales' stomach, who doubled over and wildly tried to push him away. He didn't notice Scotland come up from behind which made it easy for the Scotsman to shove him down.

"Gwalia. You" Alistair poked him hard in the forehead "botched this." He glowered down at his eldest brother "You'll fix it."

Wales stared at the floor.

Scotland stretched and rolled his shoulders, "Eire. You call the boss. Tell him and the Queen, that Art's lost his marbles and the four o' us are taking a holiday in the States to find 'em. I gotta scrape Arthur off the floor and put a kettle on."

Arthur sat despondently in his study with a stuffed animal toy in his lap, an untouched cup of tea on his desk, and a phone pressed into his ear. His brothers were up to God knows what-from the sound of it they were rummaging through his things.

Imbeciles. His luggage was already packed, lying just inside his closet. It'd been packed weeks ago when BA denied his passport.

The phone rang and rang as it was wont to do.

"Aha ha ha! You've reached the majestic message machine of the epically heroic Amer-"

His hand clenched around the toy. Hop was a cloth and wool bunny he'd stitched together in the 1650s almost immediately following his adoption of Alfred. He'd noticed the toddler playing with rocks and a crudely made doll of sticks and hay. Supposedly, it was given by some friend in the forest. Some friend who didn't take into account how tender that baby flesh was and how easily the sticks scratched him.

He'd whined when Arthur had taken it. He'd cried when it wasn't returned. The bunny was presented soon after. So much softer and warmer than the previous toy, Alfred adored it.

A warm glow had entered Arthur's heart every time he saw that little face nuzzle it.

In the 1750s, Alfred had forgotten it in his guest quarters at the palace. By the time the French Indian War ended, Canada was settled into their family dynamic, and Arthur recalled the lost toy...he returned with it to find his colony was grown.

He hadn't the heart to throw it out though. Not when he'd worked so hard on it, not when his little Alfred had loved it so much.

"Daddy? Daddy, wake up!" Alfred ordered in a loud whisper.

"Go. Back. To. Bed. March."

"Daddy…" he whined.

"Now, boy."

"Daddy, can Hop and I sweep wif you?"

"No dear."

"Pweeeeease. Hop will not steal all of the bwankets this time."

"...Sweet... Sir Gawain slept in his own bed" Arthur stated matter of fact-using the boy's love for the knight's valor.

The child read that tale over and over. At first Arthur had thought it was because it was the easiest for him to pronounce-Alfred purposely avoided tales with...Wancewot. Arthur blamed himself-he shouldn't have laughed so hard. For a while he feared the child wouldn't want to learn anything about the Knights of the Round Table because of Arthur's moment of insensitivity. But then the child latched onto Gawain. He raved about the man's heroic nature-each additional reading provided some new trait to emulate. If the child hadn't adored his guardian so openly, Arthur might've been jealous of his old knight. As it was, he'd found the man a wondrous tool to encourage certain behaviors.

"Sir Gawain-"

"But, but...Daddy...Sir Gawain is big... I'm a wittle hero. I can pwotect Hop. But I need a big hero to pwotect me."

He twisted an ear as Alfred had done when he was small, vainly hoping it might offer him some smidgen of comfort.

Canada tapped his pencil impatiently. The screen across from him informed him that his U.K. relatives had "Arrived."

He glanced down at his notebook, he'd been sketching for a while. It usually made Alfred a bit envious that Mathieu was the one with more talent in this area. But everything was a competition with his younger brother.

Canada swallowed a curse. He realized too late, that he'd subconsciously drawn his brother in his Patriot uniform.

Yankee Doodle Alfred.

A magnet for trouble as usual, eh? He smiled sadly.

England and his brothers should be here any moment. The prudent thing to do would be to stow the drawing away...Maybe after he shaded the hair a bit more…

He wondered idly if they'd notice him sitting here, or if he'd have to gain their attention somehow. Wales had texted him-asking him to join their efforts in locating America. Wales would probably notice him-the man sometimes visited with him on St. David's Day. He also enjoyed instructing Mathieu in the finer points of the Welsh language and didn't cringe, the way England did, if he ended up slipping into French now and then.

He debated internally over whether to give Doodle Alfred a firearm. While it would've fit his brother's character, the Canadian just wasn't fond of guns-even drawing them. He settled for a flag. He found himself eyeing it a bit distastefully. His brother's government had been very uncooperative.

He found himself hoping it was just an error in communication and not that they were actively trying to freeze him out. Otherwise, they would find out firsthand how persistent a Mountie could be.

Mathieu realized pretty quickly that something was off when America didn't respond to his comments on Facebook. When he'd gotten the pass around by various officials, he decided to just drive down to Virginia and see what he could discover for himself.

He'd arrived at Alfred's house expecting Texas to at least appreciate his efforts...but the man had refused to open the door and told him that he and his polar bear better scram-or he would declare it Canadian hunting season.

He'd been forced to lodge at a nearby hotel.

He glanced up and stood as the personifications of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland approached.

Maybe they'd have better luck reasoning with Texas.

Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland all greeted him with handshakes, claps on the backs, and various "How are ye's?"

He tried not to feel sullen about the way England lagged behind completely disinterested in him-his eye were busy glancing around. The man had probably been hoping the whole while that Alfred would tumble out of the baggage carousel or spring out from behind a pillar or turn out to be the pilot of the flight.

He'd done all of those things enough times to make them all hope that this all might've been an elaborate, cruel prank.

And if he had turned up then, he'd have gotten the lecture of a lifetime and not the sock on the jaw he deserved. Alfred always got a slap on the wrist from their former guardian.

When Arthur drew near, he nodded a greeting and half-hearted pleasantries ensued until Arthur glanced at his notebook and blanched. Canada followed his gaze and paled; his doodle was missing a mouth. He'd been so focused on getting his hair right. He hastily slashed a line which made Yankee Doodle Alfred look supremely dissatisfied.

The drive to Alfred's home was punctuated with interjections of "God Wales, yeh pack too much. My legs are cramping."

"You had a choice between sitting with the bear or next to my luggage, you-"

"I couldn't afford to get the fur on me. I'd have to have this dry cleaned and ye know how expensive that is here-"

"Mattie boy, what route are ye taking? I'd say you were takin' the loong wa-"

"Eire!" his elder brothers groused.

Canada glanced at the passenger seat.

Arthur's listless eyes reminded him of opium dens-which the man had sometimes sought out for business and relief. Many of his connections as well as himself had sustained enough injuries during his conquests abroad to enjoy sinking into oblivion now and then.

Canada had occasionally used laudanum to numb his wounds from the Crimean War.

Unfortunately, England's use of it as well as his own had falsely led him to believe that Alfred would benefit from it as well. After all, New York City and San Francisco had plenty of dens (far more than either Canada or England).

So during a visit in the 1870s when he'd noticed Alfred was battling consumption, he'd offered to treat him with a good dose of laudanum. He'd pitied his brother's condition-he was so worn down from his Civil War-catching tuberculosis just seemed like a cruel move by Fate. So Matthieu had decided to do what he could to alleviate his brother's pain.

Mistake.

He'd shrieked and thrashed like he was melting in hellfire. Every shadow had become a monster. Even the bedsheets were a terrifying force-threatening him. Canada had stood dumbly by the bed...until Alfred made to claw at his own eyes. Thankfully Canada was strong enough to pin him down-but the coughing grew so much worse as his panic heightened. All he could really do was watch blood dribble down and apologize over and over-assuring deaf ears that everything was going to be alright.

No one was going to get him.

No one was going to drag him away.

No one was going to eat him.

He blamed Arthur for all the Hallow's Eves spent terrifying Alfred. It had made a lasting impression on his subconscious. But getting angry over all that now, just wasn't constructive.

"So, I'm over at Holiday Inn and I'm sure yo-"

"Take us to the house," Arthur commanded.

"Texas won't all-"

"I have a key."

Canada frowned. He didn't have a key. Alfred hadn't bothered giving him one. Since Texas' rejection of him, he'd had to call and leave messages and hope to be called back. Sometimes he was. Sometimes he wasn't. It made him wonder about his Southern brother. When he called back, it seemed like he genuinely wanted help to find Alfred. But whenever Canada offered to meet with him, he went cold.

"When did you notice?"

"I...think I was second. After Texas. Apparently they call one another everyday" From the way Arthur grimaced, Matthieu wasn't alone in his resentment of that.

"You call each other though?" Maybe it was because he was listening for it, but he caught the squashed flat note of dismay. And he deduced at once, that Arthur usually got texts.

"Well, we sometimes have movie marathons. And we were trying to schedule one. Only Alfred already got to choose last time. So it's my turn. But he kept saying that the least I could do for him is let him watch what he wanted. And I didn't feel like watching Power Rangers."

Scotland and North Ireland both sniggered.

"And then he said he didn't want to watch stupid chick flicks,"

The sniggering turned to guffaws.

"So I...I...well later that night, I sort of typed on his timeline that Mighty Morphing Power Rangers is for whiny, star-spangled babies. When he didn't...respond, I knew something was wrong" he murmured. "...I've already apologized to Japan."

England turned the key and stepped in-making numerous breaches of etiquette. He did not call saying he was coming by. He did not knock. He did not call out a greeting. He did not care.

As they filed in with their luggage they heard an angry Texan drawl emanating from the kitchen.

"I want the National guard. I want the Marshals. Hell, I'll take girl and boy scouts and soccer mom brigades. He needs to get found. I-yes..but..No.." he sighed.

Texas walked halfway into the entryway. North waved, but the young man was too involved in his phone call to notice any of them. "No, you're assuming-you're assuming, urgh. No listen. You ARE assuming that no one's ever gotten the drop on him before. They have. It happens. I'm not saying that. I'm sayin'-Look, he did not just leave. Why the fuck would all his shit still be there? I mean, did you guys even dust this stuff" he waved a hand toward a corner where they saw a cardboard box filled with personal items and a...red white and blue suitcase. Arthur's heart sank.

"Yes, I know there were several charges on his bank account for plane tickets out-yes, I know he's bribed people in the past before to get outta st... but...but I'm the one that watches our accounts and...It's been four weeks since he's had McDonalds. That. Does. Not. Happen. And he's a so-so sweet-talker, so there's no way folks are treating him to every meal."

As England had suspected, Texas was a fountain of information. After giving and receiving several nods from his company-they silently agreed: Let the man talk.

Texas kicked the toes of his boot against the crown molding on the wall, "And this box of stuff...yeah, I know-the phone's not there and… But there are two things, Alfred's always got with him. His cross and his gun. Cuz them's his roots-he's a Pilgrim and a Patriot. Or Puritan. Hell, I know there's a difference, whatever, he's both. Irregardless, finding him without one of those things is odd. But finding him without either?! Why, that's queerer than a three dollar bill!"

He stamped his boot in agitation, "Can't you just do an alert for him? I know, I know. But you see…" He took a deep breath, "His...license says he 19 but...Dammit, Al's gonna hate me."

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, "Look...he's…" he bit his knuckle as though struggling with himself over whether to keep going "He's really 17. Well yeah, we do everything we can to make him look older. That's why he gets to keep the glasses and I have to drag his ass to the gym. We keep him as broad-shouldered as Canada, they can pass for twins. No one doubts Canada's 19. Can you please put an Amber Alert out for him? Just ask? Alright, thank you."

He turned the phone off and tossed it onto the nearby coffee table, before sitting down on a dark leather ottoman-his face in his hands.

England cleared his throat.

Texas swore, fell off the ottoman, scrambled for a gun that he wasn't wearing and picked up an odd metal sculpture as a makeshift weapon.

"How-how?"

"America gave me this" he held up the key before pocketing it.

"Well, in case you dunno, he ain't here" He set the sculpture back on the table.

England blithely continued "These are my brothers."

"I know" he spat "Al's got pictures of them. But I don't have time for a bunch of Euros to be underfoot while I'm trying to-"

"I'm a North American too."

"Tch. Technically."

"So you're the one he learned the "Tch" from" Canada noted flatly.

"We're here to locate Alfred. And I believe it would be best if we united forces."

He grumbled, "You're just looking for free room and board. This is Alfred's house. Here, Alfred's the host. I'm not. Find another spot to stay."

It was rare that England was grateful for his brothers. But this was one such occasion. Scotland and North had had a handful of interactions with Texas when their immigrants moved into the boy's territory. He loved poker. They used that.

If they won, they could stay. If they lost, they had to bugger off back across the Atlantic. Arthur had no intention of conceding to those terms regardless of how their game turned out. But Wales was lucky that night.

A grumbling Texas had been forced to acquiesce with his uninvited guests.

"So this is Southern Hospitality?" Scotland smirked.

"This ain't my house, smartass. Pick a spot to sleep, don't break anything, don't bother me, and don't mess with what the T.V.'s recording. Al's got it just how he likes it."

He then stormed off, presumably to wherever his room was.

Canada took his usual room. Wales, North, and Scotland spread out to find suitable accommodations.

England headed straight to America's bedroom. He'd ventured near it several times in the past, only to be shooed away by its owner.

It was the one place America didn't allow guests to enter.

England expected a mess: of bright colors, of potato chips and empty soda cans, of pop-culture posters stapled to the walls, maybe a dresser covered in Anime figurines.

What he got was a dreary room with white chipped walls and a large four poster bed hewn from oak-with no embellishments whatsoever.

There were whites sheets (no duvet) and a pillow. One pillow which looked flat enough that "Pillow" was a generous description for it.

Above the headboard hung a crucifix which looked a lot like...Arthur blinked in surprise. Which was the one that had hung over his bed as a child.

Stacks of books dotted the perimeter of the room haphazardly like miniature metropolises that didn't want to trade with each other. Most were on politics: liberal, conservative, libertarian. There were plenty of history books but they were mostly on the U.S.-vain boy.

The closet had no door, which made the assortment of suits, uniforms, and casual outfits easy to see.

This all culminated into making the defining feature of the room be the gun cabinet.

It filled an entire wall from ceiling to floor and apparently had inset lighting.

Arthur set his luggage by the bed and stared at the macabre shrine of violence.

It always made him so nervous to be holding a gun around his child. At first it had frustrated him, he was a master gunman-his days as a privateer had served him well-there was no need to fear his hand slipping. He usually felt more confident with a pistol in his belt, more secure. He'd just squash down the momentary anxiety when a little foot brushed against the weapon and tell his toddler to mind the holster when he balanced him on his hip.

Until he'd woken one morning intending to start breakfast, to find Alfred settled on the floor. Once again he'd pilfered his colonizer's wardrobe. Alfred had Arthur's naval coat and hat on; his tiny feet were in his father's shoes which he clacked together and would likely rub a bald spot in the leather-if he let it continue.

He approached, intending to scold him...to find those precious, chubby fingers holding his mother of pearl pistol...the one he kept loaded in his desk...and the gun was facing the wrong way.

"Alfie, love, let that alone please" he wheezed as his lungs spasmed painfully.

"Hm?" His little hands continued tracing the ornate designs on the barrel.

"Alfred" he tried more sternly and knelt down-partly because it helped him maintain eye contact, but mostly because his knees wouldn't support him.

The child looked at him and forever scarred his heart when he tapped the barrel against his lips as he was wont to do with quills when he pondered over the alphabet.

"Daddy?" he mumbled against the metal. Then set it down and crawled over to him.

"Daddy, why are you trembling? Daddy, are you cold?"

He had a half a mind to throw them all out. Every. Single. One. Root through the whole damn house and dispose of them all. They weren't toys. They weren't trophies. They didn't belong in a bedroom.

The idiot could have had a state of the art security system installed instead.

He took a deep breath and glanced around the room again.

It was still depressing: bare and harsh and uninviting. The paint was peeling in places.

Arthur found the bed much too hard. No wonder he'd slept like a lamb at his house-if he had depended on this slab nightly. The sheets were coarse and cheap.

He lied there and stared at the ceiling thankful for the slight rattle of the ceiling fan—which provided some distraction. He went over what Texas had shared with them earlier. Poker and alcohol loosened his lips the way sincerity and the offer of assistance hadn't.

There wasn't a struggle. Whoever had him, he went with willingly. So they said. Supposedly. Possibly. Possibly. Possibly.

Except that he was America and couldn't go two minutes being quiet. Always loud. Boisterous. Noticeable. Tweeting texting calling.

Always?

Was he always like that?

When he was a fledgling nation he could be quiet. He sat at the far end-Arthur wouldn't suffer him being nearer-silent but for the scratching of his quill. Observing. Taking notes. Studious.

Nostalgia took hold.

Poor.

Arthur had tried not to focus on him and his too thin frame and his tattered clothing (several fashion trends behind the rest of them). Not his responsibility.

See? He'd thought viciously, If you'd stayed you'd be well-cared for and warmly dressed. Like Australia, like Barbados, like your brother.

And he didn't offer him a carriage ride to the restaurant after the meeting, though it was wet and cold and blustery. And he could see those boots had holes in them and the icy puddles would seep through.

Let him ask. Let him kneel in the mud. Let him cry for help, for attention, for affection.

But he didn't. He arrived at the restaurant drenched. And no the establishment won't have him dripping on their fine carpet. They escorted him out. Let him feel abashed for the impropriety of his poverty. He brought it on himself. Severing their ties.

It wasn't Arthur's fault, when the boy missed the meeting two days later because of whooping cough.

The note he'd sent to excuse himself was surprisingly well-written. He would've thought it was by one of his assistants, except they were so poor from their Revolution they could only afford to send Alfred. He was proud of the professional air of that note.

He sent Canada to visit and hint that Alfred might consider coming by the house to recuperate.

Not an outright invitation, Alfred did not deserve one. The prideful, ungrateful whelp. Arthur needed to humble him a bit. Let him glimpse how scary the world could be, if England let him slip from his grasp entirely. It was England who patrolled the sea. England who resumed legal trade with the boy (who was up to his eyeballs in debts) in 1794.

He pressed Canada for details. His manner? His complexion? The state of the room?

But the boy didn't come.

He sent Reilley next to persuade him that the estate was far more hygienic than his current lodging—which was a breeding ground for pestilence.

Arthur had waited around the house all day; making excuses for his various appointments on why he couldn't leave.

But the boy still didn't come.

Scotland had stoically puffed on his pipe as England instructed him to convince Alfred to come to the house.

Scotland fetched him instead.

In nothing but his thin, worn nightgown, Alfred had been mercilessly slung over his Uncle's shoulder like a sack of wheat and marched through town at two in the morning through a snow storm.

He arrived at Windsor Castle shivering and wet; and added pneumonia with a touch of frostbite to his list of ailments.

Rather than staying for a few weeks, he'd been forced to stay a few months.

As he mopped the boy's feverish face with a cold washrag, Arthur berated his older brother—who shrugged it off.

He indicated towards the prone figure between them "That's what yeh wanted, isn' it?"

Yes. It gave him the opportunity to apologize for the Scotsman's actions and lavish Alfred with attention. Watching him struggle to sit up and hold a bowl with shaking hands, convinced him that Alfred was entirely too young to be on his own. He needed to be back underwing.

He'd had a stint of freedom. Now he was experiencing the difficulties it incurred.

He remember how Alfred had plucked at his new nightgown subconsciously as he thanked him, face tilted downward.

Arthur had swept a hand under his chin and forced those eyes to hold his. He'd colored and thanked him again, this time without mumbling.

The pristine gloved hand patted his cheek "Of course, luv."

Damnation.

He choked on air and bitterness and memories.

If he could've spared more men.

If he could've beaten that frog sooner and spared more men. If he could've convinced his king and Parliament that reconquering their lost colony was worth the time, money, effort, and bloodshed. That the geography of the area wasn't so vast that they couldn't hold it. That the American spirit of defiance could be tamed.

He might've reconquered him. And they wouldn't be in this damned predicament. And Arthur could get a goddamned decent night's rest. And Alfred wouldn't have such a god awful uncomfortable bed. And he'd see him in the morning, and Arthur would probably burn the toast, and Alfred would complain and tease, but eat it anyway.

He buried his face into America's hard pillow.

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