Regular font indicates the present.
Italic font indicates flashbacking or dreaming; whether it's a flashback or a dream will be clarified.
Bold italic font indicates thought.
Bold regular font indicates writing/typing.
'"-Reports have been flooding in from all over London regarding what could easily be viewed as one of the most unprecedented crimes this year-"'
'"-In a shocking turn of events, a thief who has become notorious in New York City for the stealing of priceless artifacts is rumored to have struck today-"'
'"-The City of London Police Department has quarantined the surrounding area of the Victoria and Albert Museum and has not yet released any statements to the public aside from-'"
"'Commissioner Ian Dyson has urged citizens to remain calm as the antics of a probable England-Impersonator will not impact the safety of the community-'"
"'-How could the New York Police Department have let such a criminal slip under their radar and enter London undetected? If an imposter is on the loose, are they partners with the original England they aimed to impersonate? And what does New York City's superhero, America, have to say about this? All of these questions and more will hopefully be answered soon-'"
Vash turned off his television and leaned back into the soft cushions of his sofa, a haggard sigh slipping between his pale lips as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. The pressure building up in his sinuses reduced by a miniscule amount, but it did nothing to reduce the full-blown migraine he was experiencing after having turned on the news channel and caught sight of the top story.
"He struck again, this time in the country of his namesake," he exhaled hollowly, weariness seeping into his bones akin to arthritis with every second drenched in the truth of the circumstance. "And he's making us look like incompetent fools for sneaking past us so easily."
It was just so infuriating—the moment he arrives at his apartment from interviewing Kiku Honda and talking to Arthur Kirkland over the phone, said phone blows up with more calls from other police officers asking where he is and if he's turned on the T.V yet.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He interrogated, irritation evident in his tone as he removed his coat and threw it onto his couch, balancing his mobile device between his ear and his shoulder while he turned on his television. "How is watching T.V important enough to warrant calling me when I strictly told everyone this phone number is reserved for emergencies only?"
"Trust me on this, Vash," Tim Maes, Chief of the NYPD Intelligence Division & Counter-Terrorism Bureau, informed lowly. The Swiss's adrenaline immediately spiked in his blood when hearing that, well-aware that the Netherlands-born but American-raised police officer only used his first name in grave situations. "You'll want to see this."
Hence the blond's aching skull which pounded in tune with his pulse, probing him to clench his eyes shut so that he could focus.
Alright, alright, he began mentally, the darkness behind his eyelids diminishing his pain and easing the rapid rate of his heart. I'll admit that he got us this time, but what needs to be done is for us to fully take action with or without America to help. However, the main problem rests with how to go about capturing him.
It was one thing to target England in New York City, the NYPD's rightful territory; however, it was another thing entirely to go into another country and into another police precinct to catch a thief who, while undoubtedly originating in New York and undoubtedly their problem, technically wasn't their responsibility at the moment to capture.
It would be unwise to take his bait and venture over there ourselves, especially if it means sending our best forces overseas to deal with one man and leave all the other criminals with lower-tier officers, he acknowledged with a furrowed brow, the fingernails digging into his palms leaving angry red crescents in their wake. But if we just sit here, we'd only be playing further into his hands by making us look incompetent—that's why he's really doing this, to convince everyone in the world that we're weak.
He had them in check and was waiting for them to make their next move, something that would either result in their failure or enable them to prolong the game of chess a little while longer. The only question was what to do to ensure that they'd be the ones to have the upper-hand with England at the end of his rope.
"Well," Vash sighed outwardly, turning on his phone and scanning through his call log with his thumb across the screen, pausing when seeing Arthur Kirkland in bold letters. "He wouldn't have bothered with New York to begin with if he wanted to commit crimes in his presumed homeland, and he's made it clear he has a personal vendetta against the NYPD in particular, so it's obvious that he's going to come back eventually. And when he does, the playing field will be evened out once again since it's rather cowardly for him to skip overseas to commit some crimes, even if they are to emphasize a point."
Even with that resolution in mind, he still felt the gnaw of dissatisfaction against his conscious; he couldn't help but feel like, as of late in particular, he had been all talk and no action.
"Sure, I've taken the steps necessary to find the old Detective by contacting his son, but I need to do more somehow," he murmured absentmindedly, his words numb in his own ears. "Until either England strikes again or Detective Kirkland's son calls me when his vacation is over, I have about a week dedicated to my own devices. But where to start?"
Vash was fully-aware of the answer before that sentence rolled off his tongue. America. I need to talk to America.
He knew that the superhero, even with his bright smile and plethora of determination, was just as sick of their enemy's antics as the Department Chief was. He wasn't oblivious to the history America had with England, however extensive or short it was, therefore making him a prime candidate for questioning of the villain's past so that hopefully they could be prepared for the future, as he had no doubt England would suddenly stop now when the situation was going according to his schemes.
The Swiss nearly snapped his phone in two out of frustration when he dialed America's number only for him not to answer. Well, that idea went down like a ton of bricks; he felt like quite the capable police officer, today.
Fucking hell, he groaned with his teeth gnawing into his bottom lip, feeling his blood pressure skyrocketing. He'd imagine his doctor would be none-too-pleased with the current status of his stress-ridden body. Honda doesn't know anything, Kirkland's on vacation, America's off-the-grid—is there SOMETHING SUCCESSFUL I can do?!
Yet another question he was aware of the answer to, however, this was one that made his stomach churn with poorly-concealed distaste as he really, really didn't want to resort to such means of accessing information. But…as painful as it would be to endure, it was his only shot.
Even if he had to request the assistance of evil, it would aid in the dissolution of a potentially-greater evil. The final inquiry that resided was whether he was desperate enough to sink so low.
His shoulders sagged under the weight of the unvoiced reply. Yes.
Before he could waste another second trying to convince himself there was another way, Vash walked into his bedroom and opened the doors of his closet, retreating inside only to emerge with a safe the size of a shoebox held in his arms. He placed the safe at the foot of his bed and, after dialing in the combination (7-1-2, which matched Lilli's birthday of July 12th), reached into the furthest corner of the safe where he kept his most important documents that ranged from his birth certificate to his social security number.
His fingers finally grasped a small piece of paper that he never hoped he would have had to see again, and turned the business card (How ironic, he noted dully) over in his fingers.
The blond dialed the number into his phone and pressed the green button to initiate the call, his pulse akin to a hummingbird's wings regardless of how deeply he wished he wouldn't experience such.
The caller picked up. "Well, this is quite a surprise—to what do I owe the pleasure, Department Chief Zwingli?"
"Cut the shit, Braginski," Vash started, his already-thin patience resembling the thread of a spider web. "Time to cash in on a little favor you owe me. What can you tell me about England?"
~ na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na~
Despite his arms and legs feeling like chunks of lead hastily stapled onto a torso, he was constantly tossing and turning between the sheets. Whereas each eyelash was akin to a solid gold brick, he could not find any sense of reprieve through closing them. Regardless of the jetlag, of the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the windows, of the Briton dreaming beside him, Alfred could not sleep and it was driving him completely insane.
Dammit, he inwardly moaned as he raked a hand through his tousled blond locks, eyeing the creases in the wooden ceiling with poorly-concealed distaste. I knew I shouldn't have taken those sleeping pills on the plane—it'll probably be hours before I can fall asleep again!
A moment passed before a soft sigh pried between his pale lips, the hand that had previously slipped through his hair now rubbing his forehead as means of diminishing the headache creeping within his skull. Then again, like taking pills would be able to knock me out like it did earlier, Alfred dwelled with a creased brow. I hate to admit it, but I'm still running off the adrenaline high from seeing England today. What are the odds of him coming overseas around the same time I did? Hell, what are the odds of us meeting at the exact same location?
There was no way that it could have been a coincidence, especially since England's predominant enemy as well as his presumed base of operations were both located an ocean away in New York City. The probability of such a situation occurring was so improbable, so unlikely, so bat-shit crazy that Alfred felt stupid for even contemplating it to be another one of fate's wicked tricks she liked to play on him.
'Fate is a bitch—she screws everyone,' is a quote Alfred F. Jones could readily accept as truth if this all did turn out to be mere chance.
Though if, and I'm only saying 'if' because I have no real evidence in support of this theory, the American began, keeping an ear out for Arthur in the instance he woke up and saw him in his current state of psychological disarray. He knew that I was coming here and decided to follow me that would mean he knows my identity, right? I didn't speak to anyone but Artie, Mattie, and Kiku about this trip; not even Vash is aware that I'm here, otherwise I'd be in even bigger trouble with the police if they knew I was slacking on my crime-fighting.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he could taste the sharp tang of iron, knowing Vash along with the rest of the NYPD were definitely flipping their shit about the latest heist if they hadn't done so already.
So…if I work under the assumption he knows who I am, why did he refuse to fight me and almost let me take his mask off? I have no doubt that if he really did know my identity and I tried to capture him, he wouldn't hesitate to return the favor by returning my attacks. Therefore, was today just a big accident? Or what if he DOES know who I am but pretended he didn't as to lull me into a false sense of security, remaining one step ahead of me as a result?
His eyes grew hooded at that, absentmindedly grasping the fabric of his shirt where his heart was located, both soothed and unnerved at the sensation of it pounding steadily beneath the pads of his fingertips.
That still makes no sense, though. If I worked under that assumption and he only pretended to not know my identity as means of benefitting his plans, surely he wouldn't have been so lenient with me almost leveling the playing field by removing his mask?
This time it was a groan that escaped his mouth given he was beginning to grow dizzy from all the thoughts twisting and twirling around his mind like to a man lost in a labyrinth. Why did his brain like to torture him with countless conspiracies when he was trying to gain some much-needed shuteye?
Maybe I'm the supposed masochist instead of Arthur? He wondered, reflecting back on one of the first things Allistor said about the Brit when they met what felt like forever ago. His palms reacquainted themselves with his face as another groan became vocalized between his fingers; Alfred quickly shut himself up when said Brit began to stir into consciousness as an undeniable result of his ministrations.
"How is it possible you're even louder when in bed?" Arthur yawned as he rolled onto his side so that he could face the American, a small smile playing against his lips despite the fatigue when Alfred's face grew crimson at the insinuation. "Oh, shove off, you know what I mean. What's eating at you?"
"N-nothing," Alfred lied as he turned onto his right side so that he could face Arthur, the blood rather persistent in dusting his cheekbones. "Just…got trapped in my own head."
"Really?" Arthur droned with sarcasm thick in his tone. "You're going to say that to me?"
"I'm being honest, you know," the American reinforced, grinning a miniscule amount when the Englishman teasingly flicked his forehead. "Hey, it's possible for me to think deeply about stuff!"
"Enlighten me, then," the Briton resumed bluntly, emphasizing his request with the propping his head upon his fist as opposed to against his pillow. "What sort of 'stuff' has gotten you so flustered over?"
Oh God.
Alfred exhaled shakily at that, glancing downwards to avoid the Brit's intuitive gaze. Would it be better in the long run for me to tell him now? Alfred questioned, curious as to when Arthur's fingernails had become so bitten up; the American himself had picked up such a horrible habit ever since he had started crime fighting, yet that was because of the immense stress that accompanied living a double life. So, aside from studying, what else could Arthur have had to worry so vigorously about to result in such measures? One way or another, he'll find out the truth as there's a high chance reporters will catch wind of England's escapade, so it probably would be better for him to hear it straight from the source instead of somebody else.
That was easier said than done, though. Despite the rationality, he still found it hard to swallow both metaphorically and literally.
"I lied to you earlier," he started, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth with every syllable. Arthur's quirked eyebrow provoked him to expand on his explanation, much to his ever-growing distaste at his own faults. "When I said that I went to the gift shop earlier while we were at the museum? I didn't really do that. In reality…I saw England in action."
Bright emerald faded into an intense, calculating forest green as the Englishman's eyes danced upon the blankets of the bed as one would read a book, his mouth opening and closing akin to a fish as it was clear countless queries were swimming in his mind. After a moment, the short blond spoke. "What was he like?"
Alfred's esophagus became even more constricted, if such a feat was even possible. He was convinced that he'd end up suffocating if any more muscles in his throat locked up.
"I knew you would show up."
He stood there, a stark contrast of black amongst the gold of remaining artifacts and the glimmer of shattered glass strewn upon the ground, a devious, closed-eyed grin stretching his lips when he turned to face the American; a fallen angel given the prideful smile he wore as a result of the inflicted chaos. "I imagine you find this quite smashing?"
Whatever confidence England held as tightly as the bag of stolen items dissipated when his eyes locked with Alfred's, the barrier of his mask doing nothing to conceal the shock that welled from the inside-out.
"He was beautiful."
His heartbeat roared louder in his wrists when the Englishman's eyes widened at that, guilt stringing his heart as one would tie a noose.
"N-not beautiful as in romantic or attractive," Alfred backpedaled quickly. "But in how expressive he was, if that makes any sense. From what little is known about him, he tries to exploit the emotions of others yet attempts to remain pokerfaced, to prevent such tactics being used against him. But, for some reason, when he saw me…he grew genuinely scared. Like I was the last person he wanted to see."
I could tell what he was thinking for that instant. Things like 'Why are you here?', 'Don't come any closer', 'What should I do?,' all of that.
Alfred's breath pried his lips open in a heavy huff of air, repressing the urge to rake his hands through his hair out of paranoia he'd tug too hard and develop a bald spot. "He told me to stay back because he had no interest in hurting innocent civilians, yet I tried to fight him. I wanted to stop him and try to catch him so that his crimes could be put to an end, but…"
Even though the rain had not increased in its intensity, it gave off the illusion of such in comparison to the silence that overwhelmed the two as a result of Alfred's admittance. The noose had been strung tight, and left his words hanging in its wake.
It felt like an eternity when it was probably just a couple of seconds.
"…But what?" Arthur inquired tentatively, as if speaking louder would send the American's resolve spiraling down as too much weight would to a house of cards.
I lost sight of my virtue and let my emotions get the better of me, Alfred confided internally, his hands turning to fists against the blankets. I ignored what America would have done and did what I, personally, wanted to do. I…failed.
His heart was clenched inside in a glove of steel, crushing the organ until he felt like he was going to throw up.
"But I let him go," he muttered, spitting the words out as if they were cyanide on his tongue. "I let him go when I clearly had the chance to. W-when I could have arrested him for all he's done, when I had his mask literally in my hands!"
I could have seen his face.
I could have finally figured out his identity.
I could have finished this and keep everyone I love safe.
The hand that situated itself upon one of his fists scrunching up the sheets was enough to bring him a little further away from madness, a pale thumb rubbing soothing circles into Alfred's skin. "May I ask why?"
Quietude bloomed between them with the intensity of a kudzu plant, starting off slowly until not even the rain against the window panes could reduce it by even a miniscule amount. The American swallowed the lump in the back of his throat as he relinquished his tight grip on the blankets and gave a gentle squeeze to the Brit's hand still resting on his own.
"He told me why he does it all," Alfred confessed after a moment, hating how much his flaws and insecurities prickled like the scars on his body. The American lowered his head as means of concealing his humiliation, his eyes clenched tightly behind his bangs. "He said that…that he's in love with someone and he thinks committing crimes will somehow help them not get hurt, anymore."
"There's someone I love."
'There's someone I need to protect.'
He didn't realize how much he was shaking until he felt arms wrap around his neck and envelop him in a hug, the gesture uncalled for but by no means unwelcome as his own arms automatically slipped around the Briton's waist and his face buried itself into the man's shoulder.
"I couldn't do it," he rasped hoarsely, his nails digging into the smaller blond's back, holding back the strong temptation to sob into the fabric of his Union Jack T-shirt as so much had happened in such a short span of time and it already felt so overwhelming despite it being only a day since they arrived and he never wanted to let go of him if it meant never having to deal with anything again. "Even though he's done so many horrible things, even though he's endangering so many people, I just couldn't do it if it meant breaking his heart, Arthur!"
I saw the man beneath the monster and was afraid, realizing our ideals are one and the same.
He was oblivious to how much air he needed to release from his lungs until the pianist fingers from before threaded through his hair, the scrape of nails against his roots nearly making him whimper in appreciation. Ignorance cloaked his cognition with every rub into his curls and each massage against his scalp, the ministration innocent while maintaining an aura of intimacy. He had no idea how much he needed this until he found himself nuzzling his cheek against Arthur's neck, his insides clenching for what felt like entirely different reasons.
"There's no shame in letting him go," Arthur murmured, the ghosting of his breath upon the shell of Alfred's ear sending shivers down his spine regardless of how it was probably an accident. "No shame in showing mercy; it only means you're human."
Was it an act of mercy, though? Or was it guilt, knowing England and I are fighting for the same reasons but on opposing sides? Regret in realizing the thief I've characterized as horrible is motivated by compassion? Hypocrisy in the acknowledgement that, if I deliberately arrested someone who expressed no desire to hurt an innocent person, I would have inadvertently proven him right in his belief that the NYPD is heartless?
"A-are you certain about that?" Alfred mumbled, surprise blossoming within his expression when Arthur pulled back from the embrace and cupped his cheek. "Do you really believe-"
"I have no doubt in my mind that you did the right thing," Arthur confided with a subdued grin and hooded eyes. "To do so much to keep the one you love safe and have your dreams, so close to being snatched, given back…I'm sure he would have thanked you if he had had more time to escape."
"I would hope so," Alfred agreed before reluctantly pulling his face away from the Brit, rubbing his arm as sheepishness colored his cheeks crimson. "But if there's one person that deserves appreciation, it's you; I'm sorry for waking you up and going on about my problems. You'd still be sleeping if it wasn't for me overthinking stuff."
A quiet chuckle rumbled through Arthur's throat at that, the sound only stopping when the Englishman's back reunited itself with the mattress. "Trust me, I don't mind at all," he reiterated, still wearing that heartfelt expression. "And…thank you."
Alfred's brow furrowed at that, especially when taking into consideration how he hadn't done anything particularly worthy of praise from him. "For what?"
"Just for being you." Arthur smiled as he rolled over onto his left side, no longer facing the American. "Now go to sleep, alright?"
"Sure," Alfred nodded, still bemused but by no means planning on probing further when his exhaustion from earlier was finally starting to catch up with him, evident in how his pulse was starting to slow and his rampant thoughts grew muddled. "Don't be surprised if I end up spooning you in the middle of the night, though."
Arthur's ears became bright red at that, the shade visible through the wild tufts of his hair. "Believe me, I've been on the receiving end of your unconscious affection in the past," he retorted, likely wearing a timid grin based on the low, almost humorous tone in his voice. "So I'm well-aware of the consequences that accompany sharing a bed with you."
The American snickered at that, inwardly marveling at how much lighter his chest felt after confiding his innermost thoughts to the Briton; although he could still feel traces of the anxiety that had plagued him whenever he was alone with nothing/no one to distract him, he felt…a lot better knowing he told him the truth and that, even if what he did wasn't exactly the smartest choice, it was the right choice.
He could feel the lingering gaze upon his back as he opened up the window of the museum to prepare England's alibi against the approaching security guards, and when Alfred glanced back towards the exit to see if the thief still hadn't taken his escape, he was already gone.
The only thing left in his wake was an unspoken promise that clung in the air, one that was identical to the one he had given America during the MCNY Theft:
"I owe you one. Thank you."
And yet, as Alfred wrapped his arms around his friend's waist from behind and pressed his chest to his back, the faint aroma of earl grey and new books invading his senses when Arthur leaned into his touch, he somehow knew that England would eventually fulfill the debt left by both America and Alfred.
It was just a matter of time.
Author's Note: My life has been consumed by ice skating gays. Send help.
Anyway, I'm sorry it's been such a while since I last updated—the last few weeks have been spent prepping for both my second ACT and mid-terms for my senior year in high school, not to mention I turned 18 on December 2nd. I bought fifty chicken nuggets from Burger King and so far love adulthood if it means I can do that all the time. Also, I am still over the MOON at the sight of my new fanart I commissioned to the Tumblr artist Ikimaru, who's known for Homestuck, Gravity Falls, Steven Universe, and is my art idol. The design for America's outfit is heavily derived from Miyagino 'Mikura' Asakura's work (which is still totes fabulous btw) while I designed England's outfit myself. I literally sobbed tears of joy when seeing it for the first time, knowing such an amazing artist who I admire took the time to make it for me. Easily the best birthday present I've ever gotten.
Also, big shout-outs to all my readers who favorite/follow/read/love this story, though particular shout-outs to guys like meapzilla2mouse, Missingwings, Guest, Milk of Awesomeness, HarmonyLucis, Mythomagic101, Motivation is Dying (you reviewed six times omg thank you so much), Guest (I don't know if this guest and the other are the same person but if they are, thank you and if they aren't, thank you anyway), Usukislove, HarmonyLucis (x2 lol), SomethingMoreQ (I love your five reviews, they're all so helpful towards me improving myself), and Platinum Shining Myth (thanks for following me on Tumblr btw, I like your blog a lot.) You guys get the scratch-and-sniff stickers with fruits on them instead of regular, non-smelling stickers. That's how much I appreciate your feedback.
So I'll try to update soon with chapter 37—I have big plans in mind and, with Christmas vacation close on the horizon (thank God, I literally told a teacher 'I'm ready for death' when she asked me how I was doing) I'll be able to get more writing in.
Until then? Stay awesome and, in case I somehow don't update until after Christmas Break, happy holidays~!