Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or the new Power Rangers Movie. Or the New King Arthur Movie. Or Harry Potter. Or Silver Bells (the carol).

Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Brief hint to the 1940s bewilderment of sufferers of PTSD. Brief mention of Virginia Kidnapping Laws. Salem Witch Hunt paranoia. Tunisia Campaign. RMS Lancastria. Manhattan Project. President Andrew Jackson hated the British with the undying passion of a zillion suns (and if you read up on him you will understand why he is totally allowed to feel that way.) Texas being Texas. Lots of flashbacks/musings in this one. Target parking lots are dangerous. Lots of parentheses and ellipses in this chap...lots of 'em.

AN: Hope you all had a very Merry Christmas! (Or that you at least survived the holidays). Also, "Happy Chrismahanukwanzakah To You" (Shameless Quote from an old Virgin Mobile commercial and if you have lots of spare time-I recommend watching it on Youtube for a laugh). As for my well-wishers/concerned readers, yeah I'm okay. ^^ Family. Full stop. And my nephew likes to scream it out in the early a.m.'s of daybreak. The result? I ended up writing out about half the chap-read it, reread it, read it one more time...scrapped it (for the good of us all)...got some sleep. Had a little writer's block which I cured by bingeing on solitaire, the movie Austenland, and Linkin Park. Aaaand here ya go! : D

BTW: Happy-over-1000 Reviews for Wendigo! Whoo! XD Hope you all have awesome plans for New Year's!

Chapter 7: Operation Reconciliation/Go-Go-Magic-Hogwarts


Even hours after America's confession, England couldn't believe his good fortune. Over. It felt surreal. Over. It was finally over. He rested his cheek against his child's head.

The little one had nodded off a bit past midnight.

Goodness. Of all the scenarios he'd considered occurring on Thanksgiving...and he'd imagined quite a few nightmarish possibilities:

Possible food fights…

Broken crystal…

Mathieu prematurely bringing up 1812…

Hell, he'd even had a nightmare a few days ago that Andrew Jackson showed up as a guest...

Over…

He pinched himself...twice…

No, not a dream…

Over…

Wind battered against against the windows.

His redcoat's tattered edges fluttered as another gust of wind blew by. The cold mud seeped into his boots as he knelt in the rain, watching the blue uniformed soldier...his colony...his boy...his son...his America turn his back on him and walk away…

No, he shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. He stared down at the child in his arms.

Back.

Returned.

Reconciled.

Finally.

He buried his nose into the soft blond hair-breathing in the fresh scent of flowers. Alfred mumbled sleepily and curled his fingers into Arthur's sweater.

England smiled as he recalled earlier, in the minutes following America's tearful confession.

O the poor little lamb had been so distressed. Arthur's immediate thought had been to use the room's rocking chair to settle him down. So delighted with the turn of events and caught up in memories of all the other nights he'd spent on it; he hadn't given any thought to how old the weathered piece of furniture was.

His mind had been buzzing with how a good rocking always soothed his little one when scary stories, bad dreams, or baseless insecurities caused distress.

Surely it would comfort his Alfred, who was trembling in his arms like a leaf during a storm.

They'd only rocked twice before they had fallen right through-the chair splintering into pieces.

England grimaced-ahhh, his tailbone...

"You broke it!" Alfred cried in dismay.

The child was so hilariously indignant…England forgot his pain.

"...can't blame it on me, I haven't had any burgers this week…" the child moved around to face him and tapped an accusatory finger on his nose "you broke it-"

The Briton couldn't contain the bubble of laughter rising in chest and he squeezed the boy close.

Of all the silly things to be concerned with…

They'd just overcome two centuries of estrangement! Of empty spots at tables! Of cold shoulders! And sharp remarks! And bleak mornings following nostalgic dreams...

To be troubled over something so simple as a chair!

Silly little thing.

"Don't laugh" the child whined.

He was so young.

Alfred's cheeks puffed...and Arthur laughed harder-nuzzling him.

"Sorry love, I'll get you a nice new chair" he chuckled "I promise."

England had decided then that Alfred's old bedroom was no place to be anyways. It was coated in dust and grime. The downstairs parlor was much better; he'd cleaned the area vigorously in his past visits.

Alfred had been concerningly quiet though, as they selected several sleeping bags and unzipped them to lie like quilts and cushion them from the floor. But he didn't fuss or sneer or refuse when Arthur stretched out and patted the space on the makeshift bed beside him.

Instead, the boy had very slowly shuffled over while fidgeting with with the large overly starched white collar on his costume. It was fastened on at the back of his neck, making it difficult to remove.

The boy had been painfully embarrassed when Arthur insisted on helping him; like it was a shameful thing to need assistance for anything, which made Arthur's heart ache.

As a young colony, Alfred would sprint to him whenever he needed assistance-slamming his little body into his father's legs and wrapping his arms tight-paying no mind to decorum. Arthur standing in a meeting with his officers just made him an easier target for his young colony.

At the time, he'd found it terribly improper and often scolded him for making such a scene (he had a terrible fear that Canada would one day followed his lead, and together they'd have knocked their colonizer on his arse in front of his men).

He'd give an awful lot to have that Alfred back.

This Alfred sat so stiffly-facing away with his head up, his shoulders back, and his spine straight...which while it would've made him a noble figure for death by firing squad it didn't really match the moment they were having.

Arthur knew he was being selfish: that he was wanting too much too soon. That he should be grateful to have his child back at all...even if he was in pieces.

He'd ended up turning several more lanterns on to give him better light for the task...and leaving them on as a nightlight for Alfred's comfort (the child had never been exceedingly fond of the dark).

Still, it hurt him somewhere deep as he'd gently unclasped the row of metal hooks and eyes; Alfred subconsciously leaned away from his touch.

Afterwards, the child rebuffed Arthur's attempts to make conversation-insisting he was tired. Arthur didn't doubt that; it was late, he'd slept poorly over the past few weeks, and he'd had a rough go of it this past year.

He had stared at the child's back for some time after that-trying to reassure himself that Alfred DID always get cranky when he was tired and that was the reason behind his sudden coldness.

The Tunisia Campaign had certainly made him act similarly. Arthur's repeated explanations of why certain plans just wouldn't work, had made Alfred become increasingly petulant in their interactions.

The chronic shortages of supplies and the multitude of bugs had also done little to improve the boy's mood. Having to share a tent and more importantly a mosquito net with his ex-colonizer, because he was so poorly equipped, didn't aid matters.

Alfred also had great difficulty sleeping there, which meant Arthur had great difficulty as he was often jostled as Alfred tossed and turned.

One night the Briton had been on the brink of telling the boy to stop snivelling (which usually got him to stop moving for a few hours at least), when the boy whined pitifully, "So hot here."

Yes; it was. While London and Jamestown were humid places, their temperatures were far cooler.

It was the desolate tone though that roused Arthur's concern. On closer inspection, he'd found Alfred's face deeply flushed, his eyes glassy, and his skin terribly warm. For a little while, England feared that despite his best efforts to prevent it, the boy had caught malaria. Instead, he'd been overheated and dehydrated. It wasn't easy, but England managed to badger his own army and Alfred's until they began making allocations to ensure that Alfred received more water. His argument being that if they were going to make use of their strongest member, he needed to be in good health. Or it'd all be for naught.

Arthur had thought at the time, that Alfred was far too spoiled and that Arthur really shouldn't be indulging it but…

He'd looked so helpless in that moment, and the fact that England was largely responsible for him being there at all...

Damnation.

In light of all he knew following the wendigo fiasco, it made sense; he'd had a fussy seven year old with him the whole time. Naturally, he'd been a pain in the arse. God, it made him feel guilty.

Still, at least he'd had the good sense to keep Alfred close through most of the war. Must have been his parental instincts at work.

Arthur had watched the little back for about eight minutes before his self control failed utterly and he snatched the child up in a fierce embrace.

Two centuries was just too long!

"Arthur?!"

He had instinctively flinched...understanding now why Antonio had been so insistent that Texas call him 'Papi' when he'd thought their troubles with one another were over.

He hadn't pushed the issue over the past month; sometimes, Alfred called him Father or Dad or...Daddy...and other times...he was back to Arthur. All of which were far superior to "limey bastard" or "red-coat-son-of-a-bitch."

But...after tonight...he'd thought...it could be undone...

"Father?" the lad burst into his office, his hat and cravat askew "Oh Father, where-Ah, there you are! I've been looking here and there and ha! Simply everywh-"

"Alfred" Arthur set down the report he'd been reading and stood up from his desk. He walked around it to stand in front of the lanky teen and retie the boy's cravat into a more fashionable knot. As his fingers arranged the fabric, he announced, "I think it's high time, we discussed other consequences of your...age. There are certain complications with you addressing me in such a way."

Alfred blinked owlishly, "What do you mean, Father?"

Arthur sighed, "You cannot call me that in front of the mortals. You will confuse them or worse...Massachusetts is having enough tribulations as it is without reviving any of that blasted Salem nonsense."

Blue eyes stared at their shoes.

"Sweet, at home it's perfectly fine, but here in public people will talk. And when people talk, they scrutinize, and once that happens they're bound to notice quite a few odd details about our family altogether..."

The boy nodded "...Yes...Arthur."

The Englishman hadn't been prepared for how stark...how harsh his first name could sound leaving that mouth...how cold the syllables could be. It wasn't that way when his other colonies said it.

"W-well," he scrambled, setting his hands on the boy's shoulders and giving them an affectionate squeeze, "No one is here right now. I only mean when we have mortal company. Like my officers who are unaware of what we are-or-or when we're in town, pet."

"Yes, Arthur."

It was his own fault; he knew that and he cursed himself for ever opening his blasted trap at all back then. He'd just been so afraid that Alfred could be prosecuted as a witch if anyone took notice of his non-aging body or his monstrous strength.

But...God! If he'd known he'd still be dealing with the fallout of his stupid decision in the 21st Century, he'd have bit his thumb at whatever the mortals had to say about it.

He eventually got the boy to call him "brother" or "sir" when in the presence of humans…because, dammit, it had hurt to be addressed like a stranger by the child he'd raised.

But after he gained independence...he'd given up that fight.

But now...now that he had a second chance...

He swallowed hard as he looked down at the small cherubic face-wan in the lantern light, "You-you don't have to...I mean, you can...you know you-you-you…"

He took a shaky breath as Alfred blinked at him in concern.

"You can call me Dad. Perfectly fine…to-to call me Dad or Father...or Daddy" he murmured a bit too hopefully.

Alfred stared.

Too much...too soon…too strong.

He'd laid it on too thick.

The child rolled over to better face him.

"...kay...th-thanks…"

"O'course."

Alfred had fidgeted rather restlessly with the edge of the blanket while Arthur's heart sank like the RMS Lancastria. The child took several deep breaths as if he was steeling his nerves to say something.

Arthur had felt his stomach twist; was he going to tell him off?

Seemingly resolved, Alfred looked Arthur in the eye.

He was going to tell him he needed space…that all of this was fine and good, but Arthur was smothering him. And he was…God, he knew he was, but dammit he just couldn't help it.

"Good-good-good...g'night Daddy" Alfred immediately buried his face into Arthur's chest to avoid looking at him.

Arthur's breath had left him in a soft whoosh.

Even now, a good hour later, Arthur was still reeling from the revelation:

Shy.

His child was shy.

It made a terrible sort of sense; especially given light of all he'd seen in Alfred's subconscious and his Calvinistic tendencies of self-denial.

Following their wars he'd isolated himself, become paranoid...equated love with selfishness, pain, and weakness. He could love, but he didn't seem to...expect it back. Perhaps he even thought the seeming unrequitedness made him more heroic?

Well, Arthur would just need to disprove all his warped little theories and how better than by example?

He hummed lightly as he pet the soft hair and contemplated the small pair of black shoes set next to his-marveling at the enormous set of buckles hot glued to them. They were his from the 1600s. He'd had no idea Alfred still had them; it made him wonder what other items of his had made their way into Alfred's 'dress up collection.'

O he'd love Arthur's country estate! His storage room had quite a few costumes that he and his former charges would wear when they visited renaissance and medieval fairs as a group (often upstaging the staff workers with the quality of the fabric and the chronologically correct details of their garments). Alfred would have such fun with the capes and play swords.

His face softened as he watched the child sleep.

Shy…

He was so...loud and showy in other pursuits, Arthur hadn't noticed that in matters of the heart…

Shy…

Wait. He wasn't shy with Texas or Hawaii! Practically showered them with "I-love-you's."

He frowned; it really wasn't fair.

Yes; he heard an anguished declaration of love from the child before they plummeted into the ocean. And yes, he could sense it through their bond that Alfred had a warm spring of affection for him...

But he wanted to hear those precious three words, preferably in a situation that wasn't life-or-death!

He wanted to hear it at the end of telephone calls, see it at the bottom edges of letters, feel it in impromptu hugs.

Patience, Arthur, patience he told himself once again.

Mind buzzing, he replayed the night in his mind's eye over and over.

The little looked up at him so earnestly, so desperately, so woefully.

"I just need...I just want you to see me…"

"I just want to stand with you..."

"I-I just wanna be-"

Together.

Together.

Together.

Which was what Arthur wanted to! Contrary to Blue's assessments of him, Arthur did not set much store in eloquence in moments like that.

He didn't need a ballad illustrating the sentiment.

Alfred choked out the words.

What more could Arthur ask for? Especially, considering the nigh insurmountable amount of pride that had to be swallowed to do so.

But Alfred managed.

That was all that mattered, and since it caused the child so much distress Arthur felt no need to drag it out. Maybe some other former colonizers would've dared ask their colony to repeat it more coherently. Not him. He was a parent; he could distinguish disclosures in the messy sobbing of children the way a dental hygienist could a hold a conversation with their patient.

God, any additional second keeping them apart would've been criminal.

He was proud of him. He was so proud of him. And he immediately set out to soothe him, to assure him that he was still deeply wanted.

"My darling boy" he murmured for the umpteenth time that night and kissed the child's forehead before stretching and settling into the makeshift bed-finally feeling content...relaxed...like a bow being unstrung for a well-earned moment's rest.


Alfred awoke as pale sunlight streamed in through the semi fogged windows.

Yup. The votes were in and tallied: Alfred was a terrible person.

It hurt. More than he thought it would. The hero was in a rough spot. Somehow he needed to simultaneously keep his sense of independence (because England could be domineering if you gave him half a chance) while providing familial amity (because his father was...pining for affection).

Yeah. It kinda came outta left field; Arthur was soo (the arm draped over him tightened and pulled him closer) cuddly.

Damn. He was cuddly. Where was the British stuffiness America had learned to endure?

He carefully wriggled free from the older man's hold even though it meant leaving the nice warm cocoon of blankets and arms.

"No" Arthur mumbled. "No. Stop."

Alfred blinked, paused, and then determinedly slid himself away.

Sorry old man-gotta stretch these wings, butterflies gotta fly.

Really wish it wasn't so friggin' cold though, he thought as he pulled Arthur's coat more tightly around himself. He should've grabbed a coat before he left last night, but he'd just been so out of it-it hadn't crossed his mind.

Alfred ran a hand through his messy hair and glanced over at his old man. Arthur was frowning now; his arm sweeping over the now vacant space beside him.

"No...no...please…"

Alfred crawled back over curiously; was...was he having a bad dream?

"No...don't. Please."

Dude, his dad was having a nightmare...which made him feel hella awkward. What was he s'posed to do?

Usually, he and Tex would just dump water on the other if they noticed a bad dream taking place. But that seemed way too mean, compared to how Arthur had been treating him during his night terrors.

He rested an uncertain hand on his father's shoulder and gave a gentle nudge.

"Nonono."

He nudged harder.

Green eyes fluttered open and Alfred was abruptly seized and crushed against the man's chest.

"You're safe" Arthur mumbled "Keep you safe...horrid woman...never...promise...you."

Aaand Alfred was back to playing teddy bear...which should've pissed him off but didn't.

He blinked hard and tried not to sniffle; Arthur was having a nightmare about Osha. Alistair had been pretty candid on his opinion of Iroquois and her treatment of everyone. He didn't need to know Gaelic to recognize a hardcore dissing. And the fact that his uncle didn't realize he'd switched dialects was telling. Ya know, in addition to the fact that his volume increased in a really scary way that Alfred had to hold his phone at arm's length or risk going deaf.

He'd seen in his cell phone text history that she'd been pretty nasty to England...plus, she mind-controlled Mattie...and Tex...and teamed up with a psycho bent on ruling North America...and ended up aiding in the release of a bunch of citizen-munching wendigo…and totally ruined Halloween for a lot of innocent people...

Yeah...

She wasn't all bad but she'd definitely made the worst first impression of herself ever. And the fact that his dad had taken it all so hard meant they had quite a few issues to work out before America dared invite them both to his next 4th of July. (He was trying to get the courts to view it as a parental kidnapping so it'd just be a class six felony. That way even if they threw the book at her, she'd only serve five years rather than ten.)

Alfred was coming to the conclusion that the whole thing had really done a number on his dad. He'd need to get her to apologize or something.

He laid there quietly listening to strong heartbeats, as blankets were rearranged and arms came to rest on him again.

He'd honestly felt guilty last night when his dad made it clear that he was...wanting closeness that Alfred wasn't sure he was capable of giving.

His heart wasn't in the greatest shape. Bits of it that weren't frozen were broken or cauterized. He did his best to throw the old man a bone though, which seemed to work.

And if addressing him as "Daddy" made him happy...Alfred supposed he could get used to it...again. Even though...saying it in public or in front of other nations was going to be...interesting.

He already felt himself blushing at the thought of a G8 meeting where "Daddy" insisted that he eat the meal he prepared him and drink his milk so he could "grow up big and strong." He'd probably pinch his cheek too when it happened.

Alfred sighed. Such a mess.

Several hours later found them tromping their way out of the woods and back to civilization.

Arthur was surprisingly chatty despite the bags under his eyes-usually being tired made him quiet and irritable.

He'd made sure several times that Alfred did want to spend his winter with the man. And each time Alfred assured that, yes, he wanted to celebrate Yule with him-his mood improved. He was entering "creepily cheery" territory.

Maybe his dad had found the supposed euphoric stage of sleep deprivation. The dudes at UC Berkeley insisted it was real.

Still, he couldn't really complain. Not when England actually invited him to talk about Power Rangers. Which was great cuz they were making a new movie for 2017! When he finally realized that he'd blabbered on and on and on-he segued into how there was also a King Arthur movie slated for the same year and maybe...maybe they could...ya know...see them...together.

Cuz...family-ness...and this was a ton of time to prepare in advance for it...

Arthur said he'd be delighted.

Delighted.

Alfred chewed his lip as his cheeks warmed.

Nobody was ever delighted to watch Power Rangers with him. Mattie endured it for the sake of fairness. Texas considered it a proper penalty for times he screwed up and either forgot to do his half of chores or hurt Alfred's feelings.

He gave a sidelong glance and Arthur smiled and ruffled his hair.

Alfred would admit making it over the barbed wire fence was much easier with England's help...but walking hand-in-hand with him through the campsite parking lot was still kinda awkward.

Yes, they'd held hands several other times through this month.

But those had been more...professional? His hand had been held in that urgent sort of 'I'm leading you out of danger' and to be fair Alfred had almost gotten run over by a van backing up in Target's parking lot.

This though...this was...leisurely hand holding...ya know with that playful 'swing-of-the-arms' motion that Alfred often saw parents use to entertain little kids.

Arthur hadn't done this with him in...centuries.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice Arthur stop, and he bumped into him.

"Careful dear."

"S-sorry."

"We'll get you all settled, and you can rest on the drive back. How's that?" Arthur reasoned gesturing at Alfred's truck.

Alfred couldn't help staring.

Dude.

His tone.

His flipping tone.

All sugary.

He felt his eyebrow twitch.

He'd thought things were weird between them lately. Things were now officially "hella weird."

England just wasn't displaying the usual level of grumpy, cantankerous, dissatisfaction that Alfred had grown to depend on. Was he patronizing him? Like in stealth mode or something?

"Umm."

Arthur turned to him expectantly, posture relaxed, eyes pleasant.

Moment of truth.

If he was gonna pull off Operation Reconciliation/Go-Go-Magic-Hogwarts, it would depend on how well he could execute this.

It was hard. No. Brutal. Handing his truck's keys over.

It was...horrible...having to stand by and watch Arthur move the deeply hated booster seat from the rental car (parked right beside his vehicle) into the truck cab-nodding absently as Arthur reasoned that he'd send his brothers or Mathieu or maybe Spain to fetch the rental.

It was devastating to his soul...having to sit in it complacently while Arthur fussed over the straps-making sure they crossed Alfred's torso correctly.

And to think...

He had a month of this to endure.

Though, it was pretty funny watching Arthur clear the driver's side of the stack of phonebooks and the mannequin leg.

He'd spent several minutes staring at that leg (which Alfred had used to press the gas pedal...Ah yes, American ingenuity at its finest).

"How did you? Did you purchase? Or find? Where would you? How long have you had? No, no I don't need to know" England flashed him a stern look "I'm throwing this away when he get home."

"Kay."

That was fine.

He still had the left leg in the basement.

The ride back was also...different.

Since Thanksgiving was now officially over, Alfred was now allowed to play the Christmas music station. He expected some grumpy sort of protest-possibly along the lines of connecting Christmas music to commercialism to Black Friday to overspending.

Arthur surprised him by singing along with Alfred and the radio. It wasn't that Arthur's singing was bad. On the contrary his dad had a pretty good singing voice (better than his by a long shot). But, he usually only sang when he was in a very good mood or someone was injured.

He remembered making a hospital visit to some of his men in 1942 (a good breather from the Tunisia Campaign-it felt like no one was listening to him at all there which meant he was always losing his temper). Turned out that Arthur was doing the same. Hong Kong had been transported there to recover fully.

Alfred had leisurely strolled by the door (rubbernecking).

The room had been filled with Arthur's current and former territories. All anxiously attending Hong Kong who was injured pretty bad.

Arthur had sat beside the teenager, holding one hand and singing softly.

Alfred gave them their privacy and continued on-convinced himself that he didn't need all that-even as he looked over his soldiers in various stages of dying. Didn't need any reassurance after watching two of his "physically alright" men dive under beds at the slightest sound.

No. He didn't need any handholding.

But...some people did. And they deserved to have that time together.

While waiting in the lobby of the hospital, trying to get himself psyched up to go back to his base with thoughts of honor and defense and maybe even a sprinkling of revenge for the sake of his men, he'd intercepted the courier who'd been sent to retrieve himself, Canada, Australia, and the U.K. brothers.

It had taken a lot of charm, rank pulling, and persistent salesman talk to convince the young courier that only America was needed. It earned the old man a five hour reprieve before another more experienced courier was sent to retrieve him-no if-ands-or-buts.

It later earned America a sharp slap from England for "interfering with war plans" and a threat to report him for misusing his rank. Thankfully, he hadn't carried it out, though Alfred made sure to lay low after that-asking for missions that would take him far away from the old man.

They set him to work in the essential "overture" of the Manhattan Project. Then he'd gotten a nasty gram insisting he return to assist his European allies.

When he tried to dig his heels in, his boss strong-armed him; work with England (who had more experience with this style of warfare) or go home.

He was brought out of his musings by a playful poke.

"Now, now. Sing the echo at least."

Arthur gestured at the radio which was now playing Silver Bells.

As they sang a duet, he couldn't but wonder: was them being on good terms, really that important to his dad? In his Empire days, it'd seemed pretty glaringly obvious that England didn't need America all that much. While cotton and tobacco were pretty awesome, it just didn't compare to gold and pearls and chocolate and spices and silk and-and-and everything.

Following 1812, England constantly boasted about his other colonies' accomplishments. She was mastering the piano forte. He was quite a skilled painter. She could sing opera. He could sculpt. She could weave tapestries. They could perform wonderful orchestral pieces together for balls and holidays.

All ladies and gentlemen and children of refinement.

Alfred who, until that moment, had been proud of being a funambulist in a circus, had felt his throat close up when Arthur pointedly asked him what he was up to.

Because dancing along in a garishly pied ensemble on a highwire in a big top...was far too crass and vulgar for "the refined" to ever appreciate.

They pulled into the driveway to find Mexico and Spain standing in it. The former was yelling loudly in Spanish while the latter was pleading to be allowed "to talk."

Their attention was focused on the top of the house because...Oh...

There.

Peeking out the attic window...was a canon.

"Good Lord," England gasped "what in the world-"

"Dammit Tex" Alfred grumbled as he rolled down the window to better hear the commotion, "That canon is special. It's for the Zombie Apocalypse. Now the secret's out. Everybody on the block's probably gonna get one now and there goes our originality."

England carefully parked the truck before giving him an incredulous look.

"What? It will happen" Alfred guaranteed "And when it does, you'll be glad you're on my team. 'Sides I wanna try it against Wendigo too!"

"He wouldn't actually light it, would he?" England asked aghast.

"REMEMBER THE ALAMOOOO!"

Both blonds shared a look.

"Daddy, I need to get in there fast. Before somebody calls the cops."


Read & Review Please! And Happy New Year! : DDD