Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Downton Abbey. Or Crayola. Or L'oreal.
Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). The naming of floors in the U.S. vs. the U.K.. U.K. buildings have a 'groundfloor' and we in America call that the first floor. Our second floor is their first floor. It causes all sorts of fun confusion for tourists in both places. Blink and you'll miss it reference to Benedict Arnold-Saratoga monument. Another Arthur and Alfred centric chapter. And more feels heading your way...yay : D
AN: Whoooo! We broke the 1,000 Review mark! Yessss! Catchin' up to Wendigo fast! And without further ado here's the next chap! : DDD
Chapter 26: Dammit Foot! Get Out Of Mouth!
Alfred felt his eyes bug out as the car pulled up.
Dude, the pictures hadn't done it justice; "Manor" was a quaint word for the sprawling estate.
It was massive. Turrets and spires...check. Huge double doors...check. Tons of windows...check. Awesome Gothic architecture...check.
The only thing missing was like...a moat.
If there'd been a moat...it would've had to be named Kirkland Castle. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Far larger than Alfred's 1800s retreat…and Arthur made such a big deal over "Kirkland Hall" when...compared to this...
Compared to this...
"Stop gaping; you're making a buffoon of yourself" Rhys tutted as he exited the car.
Alfred fumbled with his seatbelt and sidled out of the vehicle and onto the cobblestone driveway.
He tried to ignore the lavish setting of fountains and balustrades and elegant ironwork to better focus on helping the chauffeur with his bags, but Rhys pulled him away and gestured to two men that were approaching.
"But-but-but-"
This was the 21st Century!
Footmen were so…so...
Gah! It was like an unwelcome return to the Victorian Era.
Rhys steered him toward the entry where (his mouth went dry and stomach flopped) what seemed like an army of staff workers were filing out of the double doors and positioning themselves into an intimidating line of domestic workers.
Yeah, he sometimes watched Downton Abbey but…
He'd felt so much relief when he stopped having to visit with Arthur at a palace. Arthur's London home was way cozier and after WWII, the old man stopped hiring servants (well, other than that housekeeper dude). (He probably should've kept a cook.)
He could feel an intimidating amount of eyes on himself.
This kind of stuff made him hella uncomfortable. He thought he'd outlasted the stuffiness of "upstairs and downstairs." Yeah, there were worker bees of the domestic kind in the White House but...
He'd worked so hard to promote meritocracy. Back home, he was constantly advocating that people had the opportunity to be whatever they wanted to be (with the fine print being: as long as you have talent, discipline, and work ethic). Yeah, some folks argued that their opportunities were limited (sometimes with legitimate concerns, but more often than not, with a waaaah-I-didn't-get-a-participation-trophy-my-soul-is-crushed-forever-entitled-attitude-that-pissed-Al-off), but whatever "class" you were born in wasn't where you and your descendents were eternally "destined" to stay (barring marriage).
"Nobody told me there'd be…"
"An estate this size needs a staff to properly care for it even when we have it closed for most of the year" Rhys explained "Naturally for an event such as this to run smoothly we have to hire on additional hands-usually, we enlist workers from our other properties first, but if the situation turns dire, I-"
Alfred stared. How many "properties" did the Kirkland clan own? And they tried to peg him as the wasteful one?!
Americat began yowling his head off as his kennel was moved. Clearly, his "happy travel" pills had worn off.
He made to follow as the footmen spirited away his luggage and pet, but Rhys's hard heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
Rhys informed him that they'd take care of it all until Alfred found a suitable room.
"But Americat-"
"Is not beyond their skills, I assure you."
Alfred frowned at the snide tone.
Rhys steered him toward the great stone entrance, informing him in a low tone, "The man in the black suit is the butler of Kirkland Manor. When speaking to him, you will address him as Mr. Gray. The woman in blue is the housekeeper Mrs. Sutton. I expect you not to abuse them with whimsical demands that-"
Alfred gulped at the severe expression on the butler's face. Mr. Gray? More like Mr. Grim.
"Hello," Rhys greeted "a pleasure to see you all once more. With your assistance, I'm certain this year's Winter Holiday will be a grand success. Most of you are returning for another year of...I'd like to say festivity but more likely...mayhem."
There were a few chuckles.
"You may however notice a few faces missing, Miss Argall has gone on to university. We're all quite proud of her. Mr. Howell was recently married and the lovebirds are having their honeymoon. And we'll all deeply miss Mr. Carr, who sadly passed on this September."
Alfred tried not to shift awkwardly. He felt like such an outsider.
"As such, we welcome our new Groundskeeper, Mr. Moffett. And our two new domestic cleaners: Miss Appleby and Miss Baines. So yes, again welcome all new and not-so-new faces. By now you should've received a packet outlining the events planned and-"
Alfred scuffed a toe along the ground-vainly hoping this turned from a work style "Go Team" huddle to a St. Crispin's Day speech so all eyes would be on Rhys and Alfred could escape and rescue Americat.
But he no sooner moved one foot back (to at least get into position should an opportunity to leave present itself) when both of Rhys's hands clamped down on his shoulders and he was maneuvered in front of the Welshman.
"This is Alfred F. Kirkland-Jones" Rhys announced. "He is Admiral Kirkland's son. England's son: America."
Interest burned in their eyes and Alfred cemented what he hoped was a pleasant (if slightly plastic) smile on his face.
"This will be his first stay at Kirkland Manor."
Something about Rhys's tone said: 'So yes, he'll be an idiot. I apologize in advance for the inconvenience.'
"It is my hope that you'll assist him as he acquaints himself here. I am certain-"
Whatever he said after that was lost to Alfred's inner mantra of: don't slouch. Don't slouch. Don't slouch.
The staff stood stiffly as the austere looking Mr. Gray introduced them all.
Eeeyeah...hardly any of that sunk in.
Ya know other than the fact that Mrs. O'Hannagain was the cook. It was important to make a good rapport with the cook cuz she could totally spit in your food if she wanted. It helped that the plump woman's smile was also genuine. Unlike the pleasant grimaces the others made. Whether that had to do with their line of work or the fact that they'd be dealing with an American who (no doubt they'd been informed) was a handful...was hard to say.
He could already sense that more dislike would come his way as he butchered or blanked out on their names.
Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to employ his usual method for that brand of awkwardness.
Following his injury in 1812, he'd forgotten a good deal of his assistants' and representatives' names (sometimes referring to them with names of people long deceased). Gradually, he came to just arbitrarily calling the person nearest him at anytime "Bob" whenever he needed something. It was better to do that than risk being snootily corrected if he guessed wrong.
Once he learned your name, he'd start calling you by it. And the ones who were poor sports stayed "Bob" even after he learned their proper names. It came to be known as the "Rite of Bob" and the human aides enjoyed not warning newbies about it and letting them figure it out on their own.
He almost tripped when his uncle abruptly began pushing him up the stairs and inside the building while handing him a folder that had the layout of the place by each floor.
Dammit. He remembered there was something about floor levels that were different here. What was it again?
"Now, there are several matters I need to attend to" Rhys stated "I will see you at tea time and we'll discuss your magic lesson for the evening."
"Um…?"
Dude, abandoning him?
"You are welcome to explore the estate. The staff can direct you if there's anywhere in particular you'd like to see. Should you find yourself alone and in need of aid, there are phones stationed throughout. Dial 'Help' and you should receive immediate assistance...or search and rescue if that's what's needed."
Rhys chuckled a bit to himself-apparently amused at the idea of Alfred getting so lost he'd need a maid to come find him.
Alfred scowled and hugged his backpack to his chest. Geez, he'd thought his uncle had been ignoring him on the train and in the car!
"You'll also need to select a bedroom. Naturally most are taken, but I believe Reilley and I may have a few to spare. Mr. Gray has a roster with all the bedrooms on it. If you ask him, I'm sure he would be willing to help you. And while you could stay in a room of someone who won't be here, par exemple: India. Still, there will be many personal items and...well" Rhys gave him an unimpressed once over before clearing his throat "the prudent thing would be to lay claim to a room that doesn't yet have a resident. That way we can avoid any costly mishaps to begin with."
He thought Alfred would trash their stuff. Well, that was kinda insulting. Though admittedly, his track record wasn't that great.
Rhys turned on his heel and left.
He surreptitiously glanced around but the staff had dispersed like-like-like domestic ninjas!
He bit his lip. There were vases and maps and sculptures from the U.K.'s various campaigns and conquests all over the world; so much breakable stuff that it made him kinda nervous.
"Hello Master Alfred."
He jumped, "Eep!"
"My apologies," Mr. Gray frowned "I did not mean to startle you."
"Um...uh, h-hello Mr...Gray, right?"
"Indeed sir."
Come on American charisma, where are you?
"...I'm...America."
Crap. Rhys already said that.
Mr. Gray blinked.
"Er...the United States of...America."
Dammit foot! Get out of mouth!
"And how fares the former colonies?" the man quirked an eyebrow.
Alfred glared and hissed, "Freee!"
Yuppity yup yup. It was just gonna be one of those bad-first-impression days, he could feel it.
"I mean...gah...I'm sorry, dude...everything here's so...and he just-just. Did you see that? He just walked away! I've never been here before and he's all 'Godspeed, soldier.' And I mean he's like "go explore" but I don't wanna get yelled at cuz I went somewhere I wasn't s'posed to. And do I really need to view all these diagrams before I go anywhere? Gah, this always happens whenever I have to go to these kinds of places. I'm gonna get lost. And then everyone's gonna be like 'well, did you consult your map?' And I'll be like 'yeah.' And I'll start talking about it and then they'll be like 'Oh, well, things are actually different now. You have an old, outdated map...sorry. Could've sworn we gave you a new one.' I think they do that to me on purpose. Ya know? Well, you probably don't cuz...you know this place really well...naturally cuz you...well...you work here and…" he ran a hand through his hair "Those guys...they took my cat somewhere, is he okay?"
A quick visit with Americat (and a thin layer of cat hair to his turtleneck) restored his spirits. And since Americat purred for Mr. Gray and had always been an excellent judge of character...Alfred decided the man couldn't be all bad and agreed to being given a tour of the estate.
Alfred tried.
Honestly, he really, really, really tried not to be bothered by the almost overwhelming amount of portraits everywhere; royals, aristocrats, artists, engineers, authors, and military officers, and...his wards-more than Alfred cared to count.
Arthur's walls were plastered with his history like garish psychedelic wallpaper. It made your eyes burn after a while and you couldn't escape it. And yeah, he knew Arthur had a life and that it...went on whether Alfred was with him or not but...
Alfred fidgeted as he glanced at a recent photo of them all smushed together.
Mr. Gray remarked it was from last year's Winter Holiday. And it proved that his old man did know he could smile in photos...if he wanted to.
When Mr. Gray asked if he was alright, he shrugged before murmuring "I heard that...in ancient times...in places like Egypt...and...Rome that if you ticked the right people off your name got chiselled off of...everything."
Alfred abruptly thought of the Saratoga Monument...and the conspicuous niche there. Though he hadn't gone that extra step and tried to erase the traitor's existence from memory. Still, it planted an unhappy thought:
Was he viewed as the traitor here?
Was that why there were no photos of him? As well as no desire to take any photos with him?
"Sir?"
He forced a smile, "You probably expected me to look different, hmm? Ya know...taller at least. Maybe wider, if you buy into all those American stereotypes."
And he used to be taller. More muscular. A strapping young hero. He used to be something great, and bright, and just slightly imposing-but a cheerful grin could round his sharper edges most of the times.
And now he was...
"I recognized you right off."
"You...you did?"
Recognized?
He said 'recognized.'
But how? He hadn't let anyone snag a pic of him in this form.
He was led to the library where-
There.
On the wall was a large oil painting of him and Arthur in a...different library. Alfred couldn't remember for the life of him which castle they'd been staying at. It was so long ago, and thinking about it made his heart and his head twinge.
He missed Arthur.
How pathetic was that?
Wasn't even a full day.
He stared longingly at the portrait.
Arthur was all decked out in goofy 1660s garb which meant a ruff, doublet, and super frilly rhinegraves.
Alfred would admit he looked… "eh"...wearing one of his best white gowns which had enough lace to make guessing his gender a bit iffy.
He was seated on Arthur's knee with a small bouquet of flowers between his hands. Arthur had one arm holding onto America (balancing him) and the other held his plumed hat.
Stationed around them were stacks of books and flowers and a globe. The globe showed off Arthur's land along with the Eastern Coast of North America.
As Alfred's eyes drifted away from the painting, he immediately took notice of a very familiar book: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
Eagerly, he pulled it out; remembering it to be in much better condition than his own. He bet it even still had all of its illustrations!
As he thumbed through, he realized that...
It was in better condition...
Technically…
If only because Alfred's was essentially destroyed but he was too sentimental to ever discard it.
But...
Dammit…
As he flipped through the book, he noted how dogeared and worn it was.
Pages were wrinkled and creased and smudged.
And his ears began to ring with nearly forgotten scoldings of "Do be gentle Alfred" and "Dear, please don't hold the book by its pages" and "Love, please decide: will you be eating a treat or reading a story? You're soiling the pages."
Alfred worried his lip between his teeth.
Looking back now, it was obvious that Arthur had likely gifted him with his own edition to end the abuse on his-Arthur was crafty like that.
He'd even written a note in the copy he'd gifted Alfred with.
Unfortunately, that backfired spectacularly since it prompted a very, very young Alfred during one of his visits to his father's homeland to do the same.
Oh God...
There it was on the back cover. (He'd half-hoped Arthur would've covered it with a panel-the way libraries did when kids scribbled on the inside flaps of books.)
God...and at the time he'd thought himself so terribly clever; Daddy had written him a message at the front of his copy, so he'd write to Daddy using the end of his.
Scrawled in huge, clumsy, misspelled letters (that not only took up the last page and back cover, but weren't even all penned facing the right way) was the humiliatingly mushy message:
I luv yu Daddy
Yu ar the behstest hero I no
Bettir than Gawain
Yu shud hav a book to
Luv
yor littel Alfred
He felt his face burn as he shut the book and slid it back into its place; it was one thing to destroy his own copy, but he'd gone and ruined England's too.
The rest of the tour largely involved going over where they'd be dining, where the kitchen was, which parlors they'd be using the most.
Mr. Gray was greatly amused that Alfred insisted on being shown where the toilets were. He had his reasons! Ya know, cuz it was important to know where the most frequented (usually off entry ways) were and the most obscure ones (the ones no one would be in line for cuz they were out of the way).
Alfred liked to think he was a practical person. He did wish the corners of the man's mouth would stop twitching upward as Alfred used his emergency highlighter to mark the bathrooms on his layout of the house.
Damn, this place had too many stairs and apparently you were a wimp if you asked whether there were elevators here.
He was just...feeling a little lightheaded. Maybe he should've bought a second sandwich at lunch.
"So that's England's wing?" He pointed to a great archway where, perched at the top, hung a familiar white flag with a red cross on it.
"Yes, sir."
He usually always saw England sporting the Union Jack that it made him feel nostalgic seeing this one.
The flag unfurled as the wind blew-beckoning him to come outside and play.
He raced out the open door-dancing from foot to foot. He was still growing used to the feeling of woolen stockings and wasn't entirely sold on the boots adorning his feet, but it was nice not having to pluck burrs and stickers from between his toes.
Mr. Gray was pointing to a large hallway with doors lined on either side. Each room had a plaque and-
He watched Daddy interacting with the servant-hesitating between selecting a pistol or a "town" sword for their outing.
He kept asking the man when he was going to learn some skill with swords and guns.
There was something so impressive about watching men wield weapons. They always had swords in town and in stories and in pictures and in the one pretty stained glass window he'd seen.
All Alfred seemed to have was flower crowns and necklaces. And that was just in Spring.
He wasn't the only son with such desires.
He'd overheard many fathers in the village scoffing other boys' requests by saying that they'd learn when they could lift the weapon.
He'd been hoping against hope that Arthur would answer in that way; because if Alfred could lift a bison, he could definitely lift Arthur's sword. If he could just get permission to touch it.
But Arthur had simply answered, 'When I decide the moment is right.'
Daddy settled on the pistol with the engravings; the one Alfred longed to hold.
Mr. Gray beckoned for him to hurry it up.
His father usually kept it in his desk and whenever Alfred's fingers neared its drawer, the boy was given a stern warning that Alfred wasn't to be near it.
He watched Arthur tuck the gun into his belt and use his coat to conceal it.
He chewed his bottom lip in discontent.
Arthur often insisted that this was "their" home, "their" house, "their" pantry, "their" food, "their" land…
Soooo then...that pistol ought to count as "theirs" too, right?
One of these mornings, Alfred planned, he'd rise early and trace those engravings as much as he wanted.
The servant then handed Daddy a basket where Alfred's nose could pick up the delectable smell of freshly baked baked bread.
It had that wonderful (not-made-by-Daddy) smell that made his mouth water.
He danced around, cheerfully sweeping his hands over flower blossoms. If it was like their last picnic there'd be cheese and jam and maybe apples!
He grinned up at the sky and giggled as a large hand settled on his head and ruffled his hair.
He grabbed it with his left hand and they were off.
As they walked along swinging hands, warmth fluttered through his heart.
To have someone like this...caring for him…
Someone who seemed so knowledgeable and strong and powerful who, for some reason, chose to protect Alfred of all people.
Like he was special…
Until he wasn't.
Until he became an upstart of a colony who dared to want more.
The iron ring on his father's hand was very cool.
It was always so because Arthur enchant-
Alfred blinked as static filled up his ears.
Iron was important because-
The static became a roar.
Needed to be cold in order to-
As if sensing Alfred was going to comment on it, Arthur opened his mouth to say-
What? Wait...what did he say?
He stared blankly as Mr. Gray's mouth opened and closed. The man began walking back towards him.
He tried to meet him in the middle. He tried to shuffle over, but there was a weird disconnect in his mind, in his body, in his-
The room tilted oddly.
Father said something important and settled Alfred on his hip. He talked a bit more and then nuzzled Alfred's hair.
His old man had a habit of that-told him that his hair always carried the scent of flowers and fields and-
He'd never had the guts to ask anybody if that's what he smelled like now-because for years afterward he had the oh-so-lovely aroma of what Andrew Jackson dubbed "Ravaged land." He got burnt to the ground in 1812 and the proof was in the smell.
A smell that emanated strongly from him for several years as he recovered.
The acrid smell of burning hair.
The frantic beating of his heart.
The sound of the building being pilfered.
He was needed in the-
Library!
He was needed in the-
Fiery, flickering, orange.
And he couldn't breathe.
He couldn't breathe.
His eyes stung from more than just smoke.
He couldn't believe it.
Didn't want to.
How could this have happened?
How could he have let this happened?
He allowed this to happen...
And all the air everywhere was gone.
He couldn't breathe.
And it didn't matter…
Nothing did. His world had ended...and he was the only one that cared...
Arthur rushed about completing last minute odds and ends in his office before he headed home for one last round of packing and a depressingly quiet evening (save one evening call to Alfred to make sure he was settling in alright).
Getting ready for work had been a solemn affair; the L'oreal fish-shaped shampoo bottle was gone, as was the Crayola pack that had been sharing the console table with his briefcase. There were no toys to trip on as he put on his shoes. And tonight he would dine alone.
He sighed and tried to shake off the melancholy that kept draping itself over him...like a flirty, tipsy France. There was still plenty to do; he needed to pack Barbados' and Seychelle's Christmas gifts (which were fragile enough he didn't trust them to be shipped with the others). He had to select several kitty toys for Camelot's entertainment. He needed to...to...make sure he had enough...socks and pants and...that he packed his toothbrush.
Much to do.
Quite a lot.
He stared longingly at his desktop calendar wishing he could will this day to end and begin the next already.
He wanted to have a magic lesson in the garden. Being in his element would bolster Alfred's confidence.
The child's reaction to his Numerology lesson had concerned him. The fact of the matter was that sometimes you wouldn't have natural skill in some of the disciplines. Arthur wasn't all that great when it came to Numerology, but he still was very fond of the art.
Identifying symbolic numbers in literature and media was an intriguing pastime that had often made waiting in ship hulls and military bunkers more bearable.
He was planning on tasking Alfred with hunting down "magic" numbers in fairy tales.
Learning was best done when the subject matter was allowed to be as interesting as it was.
Rhys went at it with far too serious of an air. Arthur had taught in a similar manner long ago-rapping a pointer stick against a chalkboard, droning on and on about the significance of this date and that, forcing the child to stand up and recite back what he'd instructed.
Not letting him put what he learned into his own words as he understood them. No...it had to be as Arthur understood them.
Arthur shook his head; still disappointed with himself for teaching that way. It was a mistake Alfred was still paying for with his vehement dislike of geography.
Speaking of geography, Arthur cursed his carelessness for the upteenth time; why hadn't he warned Alfred that the manor was in a forest?
Poor lamb.
As if a train ride from London to Manchester with Rhys as company wasn't enough to contend with, he had to sit back and watch as the chauffeur took them deep into Wykeham Forest.
So soon after being rescued from a remote place in the woods...
Damnation.
A trigger for anxiety, if there ever was one. He swore even now, hours later, he could still feel traces of unease from Alfred.
He'd gladly done what he could to soothe the child over the phone-ignoring his Prime Minister's vaguely uncomfortable expression as he entered Arthur's office at the tail end of the conversation-pointedly looking away as Arthur crooned "I love you's" into the cellphone's mouthpiece.
Then he endured several more tedious discussions regarding his list of emergency numbers. He'd already gone over it twice that morning!
Then he was summoned over to Hallkeeper's Lodge for no other reason than to have him rummage through their Lost Property box because purportedly Alice swore she saw a hat of his in there.
By the time he was trudging back to his office (hatless), he was growling darkly about delays.
At first, he was concerned to find the door unlocked but as he entered…
There...on his desk was a large gift bag.
A nearby note explained that Parliament and the Royal Family had been deeply concerned by Arthur's recent troubles and were glad to see him take a proper holiday.
The thought of being a topic of conversation (personally rather than economically or politically) mortified him. But as he continued reading…
It took great effort not to go teary. They were all very glad America was well and wished him a swift recovery-hoping he accept this token of their well-wishes.
He eyed the great silver gift bag with its red, white, and blue tissue-a plush bald eagle toy peeked from the left corner.
He'd be sure to have Alfred write them a nice Thank You note. They both would write a nice Thank You note.
He sniffled into his handkerchief.
What with his brothers acting so aloof regarding Alfred's new challenges and their refusal to validate Arthur's genuine concerns on the matter; it was good to know he had some support.
He hastily pocketed the handkerchief as his cellphone rang from its charging station.
Poor darling, was he missing Arthur again already?
Without looking at the screen, he answered, "Hello?"
"Hello, sir."
"Ah yes! Thank you, Mr. Gray. I take it they've arrived safely?" He'd specifically emailed the man this morning, insisting he call Arthur when they'd arrived and were settled in. He'd had a strong feeling that Rhys wasn't going to text him and let him know when they made it there. He was right. And Rhys was actively ignoring his texts.
"Yes...howev-"
"Good, good, good. And how is my Alfred? Minding his manners, I hope?"
"Well, sir-"
"O but he's probably chattering away, isn't he? I do hope you'll be gentle with him. Now if he does persist in being underfoot and he's finished his coloring book, I've another for him in my study. Always good to keep him busy if he's in a mood to be a handful-"
"I don't want you to be alarmed, but there was a-a small incident."
Arthur's blood went cold.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"Nothing serious. He did...faint-"
Arthur gasped, "Did you fetch a doctor?"
"Katherine is a certified nurse, sir."
"That's right. That's...she just finished up though. Maybe, you should phone a hospital though. Just to be safe and-"
"She's...been a nurse for the past eight years, sir."
He was too concerned to be properly embarrassed by the light rebuke.
"Right...and she says he's alright?"
"He's lucid and we've given him some fruit juice."
"Did she say he was alright?" Arthur pressed. "Dammit. I shouldn't have let Rhys bully me into letting him go. He wasn't ready. He's still recovering! His health is still delicate. I'm on my way."
"Sir, with all due respect. I don't believe that's necessary. The boy did admit to being rather famished. Low blood sugar is the most likely cause for his-"
Arthur paced back and forth, "It's also a symptom of PTSD! Did Katherine consider that?"
"I'll have Katherine ask him more questions. Right now though, he's awake, his blood pressure's normal, and we're bringing him something to eat. We're going to take turns sitting with him until we're certain he's fully revived."
Arthur forced himself to take a deep breath in through his nose and replied more calmly, "Thank you Mr. Gray, for calling me. I do appreciate it."
"We've set him up in your room for the moment-"
"Good. That room has a thermostat. Please make him comfortable. I'll arrive in the next five hours. Goodbye."
Arthur shook his head. It was not the result of low blood sugar.
Stubborn little thing. You just couldn't expect him to own up to his own fragility-physically or emotionally. He was far too proud.
He thought again about Alfred's distressed phone call.
Dammit boy, you should've just been honest with me, especially if you were having a panic attack.
His feelings of frustration grew-last time he'd been able to sense it. Was there too much distance between them now?
He stiffly collected his items, carefully tucked the gift bag under his arm, and hefted the small potted plant up.
He deposited the plant on Roger's desk to tend in his absence and distractedly waved as coworkers bid him farewell.
O Alfred...if you were having reservations...you could've refused. You could've waited and traveled with me. And I could've explained that the land there would do you no harm.
It wouldn't dare risk Arthur's wrath.
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