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.

With all the crazy shit that had gone down as of late, what with him arriving in London, committing a heist at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and encountering Alfred in the middle of said heist, Arthur was frankly too relieved that the next day was filled to the brim with legal work as it was incredibly boring but also incredibly safe.

"As Aunt Alice was the last main member of the Kirkland family to die, we'll be going over her will and discuss the list of assets and debts left behind," Allistor announced when he and Arthur situated themselves in the dining room around eleven in the morning, brandishing a decently-sized stack of papers bound by a binder clip. "As executor of the estate, I've taken the liberty of paying off the debts beforehand as only a prick would use up so much time to complete what is a relatively simple task."

The Brit let out a small smirk at that, as if to challenge him, but was promptly shut up before he could open his mouth thanks to the Scot hitting him on the head with the files.

"Sod off, you twat," the red-head rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting at the cheeky situation before he retracted his hand (and the documents in turn.) "But seriously, this is a matter of tremendous importance, and is a reason you're here—since her husband is deceased and she didn't have a particularly strong relationship with her family (except me, of course, as I'm a fucking delight), she left all of her assets in your name for you to either claim or sell. So, what'll it be?"

Arthur bit his lip at that, his teeth nibbling into the flesh as fruitless means of making up his mind. "That's kind of a sudden decision for me to make, don't you think?" He pondered out loud, grimacing when his cousin lit his cigarette and began puffing out smoke like a chimney. "I mean, would it at least be possible for me to see what items she has left before I choose?"

Allistor looked away, sheepishness clouding his expression from the clenching of his teeth to the wrinkling of his brow, although that look could have easily been a result of the fumes from his cancer-stick. "I figured you would ask something like that," he sighed, raking a hand through his mussed hair. "But I was hoping you wouldn't since the items she left in England are missing."

"Missing? Why would they be missing?" Arthur questioned, noting the way the Scot stood up and started pacing around like an overly-protective father waiting for his daughter to come home after her curfew. "Wouldn't it be considered common curtesy for the executor to actually have the assets before inviting relatives over?"

"I know, I know," Allistor groaned, finishing the cigarette in record time and pressing the stubbed remnants against an ashtray. "But that's the thing—when she left for the Americas, her family was either so sad or so angry that they hid whatever personal possessions she had left, and they've been gone since."

"You've checked around the house, right?"

"More times than I can count, but this place is a bloody labyrinth even for someone who's familiar with the layout; too many hallways and stairways that throw you for a loop."

"Dammit," Arthur sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his seat. "So that's another reason you wanted me here, aside from sorting out her will: you think three heads will be better than one, even though I haven't been here for seventeen years and Alfred hasn't been out of the U.S!"

"I know you'll probably be useful, but I don't think your American Idiot in the parlor room will be as much," Allistor shrugged with a casual aura about him as he sat back down in his seat, noting with a quirked brow how the Englishman looked more than a little riled up at the comment. "Hey, I'm just being honest—he's probably a decent bloke, but I really don't think he'd be the most helpful sort."

"What makes you think that?" Arthur implored with a tilt of his head, bemused at what answer he could possibly give aside from one resulting from prejudice.

The Scot cast a quick glance over the Brit's head and, upon seeing that the topic of discussion seemed distracted with pulling out and flipping through random books, motioned with a wave of his hand for his cousin to come closer. "Well, aside from the fact that he's American," Allistor began in a hushed tone, ignoring the blond's amused snort. "You haven't told him about Aunty Alice and Uncle Will, have you?"

Arthur quickly settled his line of sight on the ashtray still exuding small puffs of smoke from the recent cigarette, his cheeks flushed and his hands curled in his lap. "I haven't," he confessed with a lower of his head, his eyes behind his mussed bangs. "He loved them dearly, and they viewed him as a second son; to know why he hasn't been able to see them for a while, and know why we're really here, would hurt him immensely."

"You'll have to tell him eventually, though," Allistor reminded softly, drawing Arthur's gaze in his direction once more. The redhead sighed, forlorn with the topic, and lit another cigarette. "It would be much worse for him to find out later rather than sooner."

"Do you think I'm not aware of that?" Arthur demanded in a low voice, provoking Allistor to raise a brow as if to argue otherwise. The blond continued, his ears tuned to the accompanied library in case he roused Alfred's attention. "I know that what I'm doing is selfish, but sometimes we have to do selfish things to protect the people we love."

"Are you sure that you're not simply protecting yourself?" The Scot challenged, making the Briton falter as his mouth, fully-prepared to fire back a scathing retort, abruptly shut as he paused, enabling the older male to resume. "He's not a child, you know—he's clearly old enough, so why do you insist on keeping him in the dark about important issues? Unless you intend to keep him ignorant as to give him reason to rely on you?"

"What are you saying?" Arthur managed to mumble without tripping over his words, his fingers fumbling under the table. "That…that you think I'm deliberately lying to him so he won't leave me?"

Allistor took a puff of his cigarette, blowing some smoke off to the side. "I'm just saying that he should be made aware of information that concerns him, even if the information directly concerns you more than it does him. Some space probably wouldn't hurt either, considering, from an outsider's perspective? You two seem a bit too dependent on each other to be considered healthy, but that's just me."

He doesn't know what he's talking about, a voice contributed, causing Arthur to grimace. Some people keep secrets to do evil things, like the NYPD hiding their corrupt agendas from the public; at least you're keeping secrets to make the world a better place for Alfred, so really, how bad is that?

"Hey guys, I found a door in the bookshelf!"

The silence dissipated into nothingness at that. After a moment, Allistor barked out a laugh. "What do you know," he muttered as he squished the bud of his cigarette against the ash tray. "He's not as useless as I thought."

Hence the current situation at hand; in other words, Arthur, Alfred, and Allistor walking down what felt like thousands of cobblestone steps in a cold, damp corridor with only a cellphone to light the way.

"What sort of place is this?" Allistor inquired tentatively as he led the others down the staircase, the luminescence from his phone casting long shadows across the walls to the point where it seemed that tall silhouettes were stalking them. "I don't recall there being a basement, especially one only accessible through a secret entrance of all things."

"Must have been a coal cellar for opening fires and heating up water during the 1800s," Arthur speculated while he swiped his index finger across the brick wall and smelled it, doubling over with a haggard cough immediately. "Also must have been used as a bomb shelter during World War II—the walls still smell like amatol."

Amatol, a highly volatile material made from ammonium nitrate and TNT, the Briton dwelled with a grimace as he stood up straight and wiped his hand against his pants, continuing down the steps behind his cousin and Alfred as he made a mental note to wash his hands thoroughly when they returned to the surface. A rather old, cheap, yet effective strategy for making bombs compared to new-age technology, and a last resort escape plan Kiku supposedly has in early stages of development. I'm not particularly familiar with what he has in mind, so I'll need to speak to him about it as soon as possible that way we can be on the same page.

His memories flickered back to the phone call he had with Kiku during his heist at the V&A, shortly before the Japanese was forced to give his device to Vash Zwingli; the Chief had been in their apartment, their base of operations where their crimes were conceived, but that was all Kiku was able to tell him while relying on the code words they had agreed upon before separating, so as much as Arthur hated to admit, he didn't really know what else had happened after he hung up with the police officer before he engaged his heist. He didn't know if Kiku was okay or, in a worst-case scenario, in captivity by the NYPD.

I'll need to contact him as soon as possible, Arthur decided with his nails digging into his palms. To update him, and be updated, on everything just in case. And to think my biggest concern when I woke up this morning was that Allistor might have used up the last bag of tea!

And also the fact that he had committed his first crime in his homeland the previous night, Alfred had caught him in the act and let him go, and he was going to have to face the American as if nothing had happened. All that too.

"So how long do you think this stairwell lasts? It's starting to smell less like explosives and more like living soil," Arthur mentioned after realizing he had been kept in his thoughts when he was supposed to be acting normal, noting how their current environment was colder and more damp in comparison to a few flights earlier.

"No idea," Allistor replied, tapping his phone when the light was starting to diminish. "The steps are a little more unstable too, so this section is probably older than what was above."

"Well, I hope we reach the end soon," Alfred mumbled, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he followed behind the Scot and in front of the Englishman. "This place is really starting to creep me out since it looks like something out of a horror movie."

"You do realize that the first person to mention that typically dies first in a horror movie?" The redhead smirked, making the American's face grow pale as he swallowed thickly. Allistor chuckled when glimpsing his ghostly complexion over his shoulder, sending a wink to ease his suffering for the time being. "Just yanking your chain, mate; I can see the foot of the stairs right about now."

At the sensation of solid ground under their feet, all three sighed with poorly-hidden relief before Allistor continued forward with his phone to guide the way. "No sign of light switches," he reported, turning around to face them. "But from what I can tell, it follows the same floorplan as the first level of the manor, so we shouldn't get too lost; hell, if we split up, we'd probably be done exploring in about twenty minutes!"

"S-split up? That's just how everyone dies in a horror movie!" Alfred exclaimed, his eyes darting between the looming hallways and corner cobwebs with increasing speed. "Sure we'd cover more ground, but wouldn't it be better if we came back with flashlights instead of going into this unprepared?"

Usually he's the one to rush into things without thinking, the Briton acknowledged with a raised brow, the chill of the cellar seeping into his bones until his skin was covered in goosebumps. So this is undoubtedly freaking him out if he wants to take a safe approach. But there's potential down here, and who knows—maybe an item mother left me will help in my plans, somehow?

"Allistor, how about Alfred and I look around together?" Arthur proposed, ignoring the sinking of his stomach when he caught a glimpse of the American's fearful expression; it pained him not to side with Alfred, but they needed to move forward if they wanted to find the items, and three people were better than two. He removed his phone from his pocket and gestured to the Scot. "I still have my phone with me-"

"Then why the bloody hell did I use my phone?" Allistor interrupted with a groan. "I've wasted half my battery but you had yours the whole time?"

"-So we can explore without going into this blind." Arthur resumed, turning up the brightness of his screen before handing it to Alfred. "There's two of us and one of you, Allistor, so between both Alfred and I taking turns with the phone, we'll need all the battery power we can get. We'll meet back at the stairs in about twenty minutes to report any findings, does that sound like a plan?"

"Fine, fine, Artikins, I'll take part in your incredibly-vague idea, just don't blame me if we get spooked by ghosts or turned into vampires," the redhead retorted, emphasizing his indifference with a spin of his heel as he turned around and began to walk down one of the hallways before he disappeared into the shadows, the echo of "Good luck, lovebirds!" being the only indication that he hadn't simply vanished.

"...Do you really think there's ghosts or vampires down here?" Alfred questioned with a trembling voice, tailing the Brit when he headed into the opposite direction as the Scot. "I mean, I know you both were joking about your Great Aunt Elizabeth (at least I hope you both were joking), but could there actually be some ghosts or vampires here?"

"I doubt it," Arthur reassured, keeping close to the American yet refusing to hold his hand unless Alfred made the first move given he was still rather reluctant to take advantage of his emotions and satisfy his own selfish desires through physical contact, the events of last night being one of the few exceptions. "Nobody has tried summoning anything in this basement since the 1940s, and if there WAS a vampire down here, they wouldn't want to drink your blood since it'd be nothing but cholesterol."

Despite the situation, Alfred surprisingly managed a little laugh at his grim humor. "You're probably right," he conceded as he laced his fingers with the Englishman, likely oblivious to the rapid increase in Arthur's pulse. "Plus I could always pick you up and throw you at them, since you're pretty short."

Arthur bristled at that, feigning offense to try avoiding the mental image of Alfred scooping him up like a ragdoll and taking him somewhere to be ravaged like a blushing maiden in a grocery-store romance novel (No, bad brain, bad.) "E-excuse me I am not short, you're just a tree trapped in a human's body! Fight me, I dare you!"

"You tend to say 'fight me' a lot for someone your size. What are you going to do, headbutt me in the nipples?" Alfred teased, his cheeks pink from laughing as they stopped in the middle of the hallway, the bespectacled blond holding his sides due to the intensity of his mirth.

Arthur was just barely able to keep up his charade of mock-annoyance as he leaned against a large painting hung on the wall, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. "Say goodbye to your kneecaps, assholAHHH-!"

A large rip and an abrupt lack of support sent the Briton into a fall, spiraling backwards as he dropped his phone and collided with the floor. Pain exploded along the back of his head and shoulders like fireworks, the sudden, sharp ringing in his ears coupled with his confused equilibrium provoking dizziness and bewilderment that didn't subside until almost a minute had passed. When his brain finally caught up with his body, Alfred was sitting next to him with his eyes wide and his mouth moving rapidly; regardless of his growing ability to physically adapt thanks to his criminal persona, it took a little longer for the Englishman to piece together what he was saying.

"-ou okay, Arthur?! Do you need to go to the hospital?! How many fingers am I holding up?!" He exclaimed, punctuating his examination by showing off several fingers that took Arthur a second to determine.

"Four…?" He replied, hesitant despite his head feeling less fuzzy when the American sighed with relief, his answer apparently correct. "What-?"

"You were leaning against a painting and fell right through it! Should we find your cousin? I'm gonna find your cousin and we'll head upstairs and take you to the doctor and-"

"Alfred." Arthur started, causing the tall blond to shut up (a feat he previously believed impossible.) "Where are we?"

The bespectacled blond blinked rapidly at that, as if he hadn't even noticed where they were given the circumstance at hand, only to look around with a furrowed brow. "I…I don't know."

The Brit sat up before Alfred could protest, his skull a little heavy but better than before, and did some looking around on his own. "It appears to be a hidden room, a study perhaps, where the entryway was through the painting," he evaluated as he stood up to his full height with a groan, accepting the American's hand when he offered it. "But what exactly could be here?"

His eyes answered that question when they registered the sight of duct-taped boxes scattered over the room, and various items he had never seen before—a 19th century mahogany grandfather clock with a bullet through the moon dial, a standing globe with quilting pins and scribbles over the countries, pieces of glimmering jewelry dangling from the necks of wire mannequins, a cheval floor mirror with pieces of cracked glass disrupting the reflection, and a gigantic bulletin board with pictures, newspaper clippings, and post-it notes tacked with red string connecting everything together.

"What the hell is this?" Arthur questioned slowly, absorbing the information as he stepped deeper into the room, breaking remnants of glass under his shoes and brushing aside spider webs the further he treaded within. "How long has this room existed?"

"I don't know," Alfred expressed, staying close to the painting Arthur had accidentally ripped. "But I have a bad feeling about this. We should really find Allistor and get you to where you can rest."

"Yeah, yeah, give me a minute," the Englishman mumbled absentmindedly, enraptured by the clues and secrets contained in the hidden room considering, no matter where he looked, he was engulfed by information that clicked in his perspective yet would likely seem nonsensical to the average eye. His brain, always turning cogs and organizing things, engraved all he could comprehend into his memory for means of observation and contemplation later, at least until he could return and take pictures without Alfred holding his phone hostage.

Why is this in the basement with a painting as the only presumable entrance inside? Did this indicate that my extended family had something to hide? What does all this mean? He wondered as he traced a newspaper article written in a Slavic language, peered at a black and white photograph of a disastrous-looking car crash, and attempted to read a faded post-it note littered with chicken-scratch handwriting and numbers. Who is the one that did this?

Arthur glanced away from the bulletin board and towards the desk it was hanging over, seeing the scratches covering the wood and the paper balls bundled across the surface. He continued to cascade his vision over the desk for any further signs, noticing two things at once: what appeared to be a framed photo covered with cobwebs, and an old bureau plaque layered with dust. Torn between both, he settled for the frame first and cleaned the image with the hem of his sleeve.

And promptly turned pale at what remained beneath.

He didn't know when his sight began to blur, or when he sat down in the wooden desk chair that creaked with his movements—all he knew was the picture he held in his hands, trembling as he did, staring back at him before it became riddled with tears.

"Arthur?" Alfred called out, stepping forward and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

"It's me," he murmured quickly as he wiped the tearstains from the photo with his thumb, showcasing the fatigued yet beaming blonde in a hospital bed with a wrinkled, pale bundle in her arms, the date scribbled in the bottom right corner. "23/4/1993; It's my mother and I on the day of my birth. Which means…"

Keeping the frame to his chest, he reached out and brushed the dust away from the plaque sitting to the side, revealing the name he had both anticipated and dreaded seeing again, hearing again in his mind.

"This was my father's study."

~ na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na~

A short bark of laughter made itself known on the other end of the line, Vash grinding his molars together to prevent himself from speaking a scathing remark and cutting the phone call short; he didn't want to waste an opportunity simply because he couldn't hold his tongue and keep his temper in check, especially when said opportunity had lengthy connections in the criminal underground. "You must be rather desperate to come crawling to me for help," Braginski continued once he composed himself, the Swiss glad that he couldn't see how much he was rolling his eyes. "I suppose England has been more difficult to capture than initially anticipated?"

"If he wasn't, then I wouldn't be talking to you, now would I?" Vash couldn't help but spit, earning himself another chuckle that reverberated unpleasantly into his ear. Okay, he supposed that there would be no harm in speaking his mind as the Russian seemed to be in a good mood. Might as well continue if it'll make him chatty. "Don't make me regret my decision and go back on my end of the bargain."

"Alright, alright, I'll comply with your demands, officer," the Russian conceded, his tone still lilting with the barest trace of amusement. "So what exactly do you wish to know about England? Think carefully—my work is never finished, so I'm afraid I cannot bear to part with it for long without there being dire consequences."

"Don't remind me," Vash groaned, rubbing his temple with one hand as he settled himself against his sofa, running over the primary questions he wanted to ask before his unknown quantity of time ran out. "The less knowledge I have about what 'business' I've taken your attention from, the less weight on my conscience. Who is he?"

"He has never told his true identity as far as I know, nor given any indication of where I may find out," Braginski answered, drawing a frustrated sigh from the impatient Department Chief. "But he's human, so it's inevitable that he'll slip up and make a mistake—I have a capable ally on the prowl as we speak, one who will inform me on any developments in that regard. But from what I've gathered, he's very young and relatively inexperienced."

"What makes you say that? And how old do you think he is?" Vash inquired, pressing the speaker button on his phone before grabbing a pen and notepad from the coffee table that was propped in front of the couch and, with the paper balanced on his lap and the pen ready in his hand, he was prepared to copy down anything that Braginski relayed, whether verbally confirmed or heavily implied.

"I've had the honor of meeting him in person, and he looks to be about twenty-two years old. 5'9, thin, green eyes, blond hair, English accent that he's clearly used to hiding—during our conversation, his choice of vernacular was surprisingly Americanized, so I would conclude that he moved to New York while young but grew up in an English family, therefore exposing him to a combination of both British and American voice and slang. As for his inexperience, I say that less as a confirmation of himself, and more as a heavy assumption when taking his youth into account."

Vash wouldn't be surprised if his notepad was reduced to cinders based on how quickly he was scribbling, immediately regretting his decision to prolong the use of the phone number considering it was extremely rare for Braginski to be so…compliant. Unless he was deliberately throwing out false information to send him on a completely different track? That was always a possibility since criminals tended to protect those who shared their goals, but then again, info was info, so beggars couldn't be choosers. "Alright, alright, why is he doing this?"

Another laugh. Ugh, there goes his brief flash of hope. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer. At least give me a challenging question if you're going to deprive me of time that could be dedicated to my work."

"Fine," Vash agreed, inwardly grimacing once he acknowledged that that was a dumb question to ask in hindsight—the thief made his motivation blatantly-obvious and wouldn't hesitate to go on a lengthy spiel if it meant getting his already-received message across. "Why were you able to meet up with him in person?"

"Well, I won't go into too many details as the contents of that conversation are classified," Typical. "But long story short, he wanted allies."

Vash paused, his saliva caught in his throat as the sentence sunk in. Good God, he was already too late in catching him before he could sink his claws further? Great, just what he needed: MORE cocky assholes with high boots and coat-tails running around the city. He found himself in strong need of an even stronger drink, though he tossed that tempting idea aside since he didn't want to give England the satisfaction. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, managing to croak out "Allies?" after a minute.

"Yes, allies," the Russian confirmed, the curtness of his response akin to a pinprick on Vash's skin. "A King cannot consider himself a King if he does not have subordinates to follow him, so it's only expected that he would want to pool his growing fame into the underworld before his window of opportunity closes. As for what allies he's gathered, I am unsure, although I would speculate that it somehow relates to his recent developments in the country of his namesake."

"Of course," the blond breathed against his volition, his eyes widening in realization the longer he dwelled. It all makes sense—by going overseas and committing crimes there, he would not only prove his point about the NYPD to the world, but also impress potential allies. "So…that would mean-"

"-It really is him in Europe right now, not an imposter as many have speculated," Braginski finished, snapping Vash out of his thoughts as the bam of a gunshot would slice through a church. "Although I must admit that his methods this time were rather sloppy; it's clear that he's trying hard to impress someone."

Or he's deprived of his usual resources and is on his own for once. The bastard's right, his methods this time were sloppier than usual, so maybe he has someone manning the fort over here while he goes elsewhere and can't contact them as easily, forcing him to make do with what he has? Then that would mean he's more vulnerable, more likely to take risks.

More likely to get caught.

"Braginski, you magnificent son of a bitch, you've been a huge help today and I thank you for your cooperation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a criminal to throw in prison." Vash announced as he ended the call and proceeded to dial in another number, pressing the phone to his ear and chanting "Come on, come on, pick up the phone, you idiot" under his breath until, miraculously, America actually answered.

"Hello?" The hero whispered (a fact which made the officer immediately unnerved given it was rare for him to do so.) "What do you need, Vash?"

"America, thank God you finally picked up," Vash began, unable to believe how greatly his luck had turned in his favor. "Listen to me: the person who committed the theft in the U.K isn't an imposter, it's actually England, and he's vulnerable right now-"

"Yeah, I know." America interrupted, catching him by surprise.

"How do you know?" The Swiss questioned, his eyebrows rising along with his confusion. "I haven't heard anything from you since the event happened—which, by the way, don't do that again because that was very irresponsible and the next time I see you I'm going to shove my foot so far up your ass you'll cough out toenails—and it's not like the theory of an imposter isn't completely dismissible since the perpetrator's tactics were noticeably different, so how do you know and where are you?"

"Well, that's the thing: something suddenly came up and, I, uh, I'm in Britain right now. And I actually encountered England at that museum."

Christ in a sidecar.

Author's Note: Welp, the cat's out of the bag now, in multiple ways. Also, since one of my assignments in a university class was to figure out our Myers-Briggs personality type, I figured out the types of our lil' cinnamon/sinnamon rolls—Arthur would likely be an INTJ like myself, since he's imaginative, highly-confident, determined, and strategic, but also arrogant, overly-analytical, and admittedly clueless in romance, whereas Alfred would likely be an ENFP since he's curious, enthusiastic, popular, and friendly, but also highly emotional, easily stressed, a notorious overthinker, and has difficulty in focusing.

Anyways, kudos to all of you who are still following this story—it's been ages since I last updated because all kinds of shit has hit the fan, primarily the ending of high school and the beginning of university, which has occupied my time and prohibited me from publishing this chapter sooner. I had much more opportunity to type in my sophomore year of high school (which was the year when I posted this fanfiction and updated the most frequently), but now it's a juggling act just to keep my personal and school lives from collapsing, so I apologize frequently for the delay but thank you all frequently for your incredible patience and kindness.

Big shout-outs particularly towards Milk of Awesomeness, Missingwings, harmonylucis, Mythomagic101, Lucinda, meapzilla2mouse, DemonicPiano, Guest (2x the mystery, 2x the love), Bobbi Stork, and Usukislove. I'll make sure to reply to as many of you as I can shortly after this upload given, again, I haven't had much time to do so given the craziness that has enveloped my life like a bitch tornado.

On the upside, has anyone played Hiveswap? I did, and God is it great. Can't wait for Act 2, lemme tell ya. Good shit right there.

Anyway, I love you all immensely and thank you again for your perseverance/understanding. I don't know when I'll be able to update next, but I'll try my best to write soon since I still want to do this story, and still want to hopefully brighten your day.

Until then? Stay Awesome.