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.
Vash Zwingli did not consider himself to be, by any stretch of the imagination, either gullible or idiotic; for anyone to associate such adjectives with his character would actually prove their own naivety and/or stupidity rather than his own, primarily given the fact that he was the Department Chief of New York's Police Force, a title (contrary to England's firm belief) that was not given lightly nor wielded without its bearer possessing a strong, capable mind and a keen understanding of their surroundings.
That being said, it was inevitable for the first thing to come out of his mouth upon hearing America's confession to consist of the expression "What the fuck?", which, based on the heavy sigh that registered through his phone, was not the ideal response for the superhero to receive.
"Yeah, it's pretty complicated," America continued, still maintaining a whisper while the Swiss sunk his back into the cushions of his sofa, his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. "A, um, family situation occurred, and I had no choice but to go to London. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it was only supposed to be for about a week and I honestly didn't think something like this would happen."
"Of course something like this would happen," Vash groaned, glancing back towards the notepad enlisting the possible characteristics of England. 5'9, green eyes, blond hair—he'd need to contact a sketch artist to draw up a potential culprit, ideally an artist unassociated with the NYPD since it would be clear that he was doing detective work on his own time and the Mayor had already expressed his disinterest in giving England more attention. "Because just when we think he won't do something crazier, he takes it as a personal challenge and ups the ante!"
"Are you okay? You seem more…tense than usual," the hero commented gingerly. "Did something happen that I'm not aware of? Something important?"
The amount of hesitance in his tone was enough to make Vash's ears burn red. Dammit, either he's getting more perceptive, or I really need to get my emotions under control. Probably both.
"I've had the honor of meeting him in person."
Ugh. His gut still churned when recalling the way that slick accent curled through his ears like an eel swimming in grease. "I've had a hard day," the officer disclosed grimly, feeling around his pockets for the calling card detailing Braginski's phone number. "I won't say much since you sound like you have a lot on your plate too, but it'll definitely be worth it when we catch him."
A soft, diminutive chuckle registered itself across the receiver. "Yeah. When we catch him."
"So you said that you were at the museum when it happened, right? And you actually encountered England face-to-face?" Vash questioned as he walked over to the fireplace sitting beneath his wall-mounted television, fishing out the elusive business card from his back pocket.
"Yep," America admitted with a 'pop' of the p, the sound lost amongst the crackling of flames when Vash turned on the fireplace. "I wasn't wearing my America outfit at the time since, again, I wasn't expecting him to show up, although I did try to stop him to the best of my ability."
"I get it," Vash interrupted as he opened the glass door leading into the inner hearth and tossed the card into the fire with a flick of his wrist, the paper turning to ash within seconds. While he was reluctant to hear that England managed to get away for the umpteenth time, it was probably for the best that he did; the NYPD would never hear the end of it if word got out that England was captured by a civilian, even if it was an unmasked America. "Do you think he'd recognize you if he happened to spot you on the streets?"
"Unless he has a photographic memory, I doubt it," the American responded, Vash nodding. "I made myself scarce to security cameras and people, but I'll keep my guard up and continue to cover my tracks—I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night only to find him in bed with me."
"Right, right," the Swiss agreed, pushing the glass doors closed and turning off the fire when satisfied with his repentance. "But I'm sure it knocked his pride down a notch having a citizen try to stop him; people have been heralding him as a hero since his public debut, so it's probably for the best for him to realize that not everybody likes him. And who knows? Maybe someone outside the police force resisting him will be the kick in the pants he needs to stop his crimes for good."
The receiving line went quiet for a minute, though Vash couldn't blame him at all since really, what were the odds? Although there were still investigations going on at the NYPD after England's security breach during the 2nd Metropolitan heist, so was it possible there was a traitor in their midst who somehow informed England of America's personal plans so that he could terminate a threat? But then that would mean both the traitor AND England knew America's real identity, and if that was the case, surely England would want him out of the way as soon as possible? Then again, he was obviously a megalomaniac obsessed with showing the flaws of the police force and those involved to the world, so it wouldn't be far-fetched for him to wait for the perfect moment to strike.
It felt like almost no time had passed when the hero finally responded with a soft, almost breathless voice.
"Vash, can you keep a secret?"
The man in question frowned upon hearing such a request, what felt like a blunt knife twisting into his gut.
His gaze wavered in the direction of the fireplace, sick to his stomach. "Yes. You can trust that I won't tell a soul, America."
"Well…" Another pause. This couldn't be good. "He was really strange the entire time we fought. Whenever I've fought him as America, he's never hesitated to fight back. But when I fought him as me, he kept dodging my punches and tried to run away."
Vash raised an eyebrow at that, attempting and failing to picture the scene. "Maybe he could tell how taller and stronger you were compared to him, and decided it wasn't worth it?"
"No," America dismissed immediately, the officer intrigued given his sharp reply. "If he always let the fact that his opponent was stronger than him deter him, he would never confront me directly; he'd have his sidekick, Japan, handle me instead. He told me outright that he wouldn't fight me, he said it conflicted with his moral compass and that he wouldn't allow himself to deliberately hurt citizens who aren't connected to the police."
Vash couldn't help but scoff amusedly. His moral compass is a roulette wheel. "Well, I'm sure he would have changed his mind if he knew who you are," he suggested, writing down the sentence 'overwhelmed with delusions of being a phantom thief, or a thief with gentlemanly principles' before he somehow forgot about it. "But at least we know he has a weakness, he's vulnerable, and that he's convinced what he's doing is for a noble cause. Did anything else happen?"
"No. Nothing else happened. But Vash, promise me that you'll keep this between us—where I've been, what I've done, don't breathe a word of this to anyone. If the press finds out about this or, God forbid, England finds out about this, there's no telling what they'll do."
The people are already distrustful of the police and America since he's an extension of their influence, Vash acknowledged as he stood up from his position near the fireplace and settled back onto the sofa. If the press gets word of him helping a villain, even a villain that has favor in the public's eyes, they'll undoubtedly use that information to blackmail America and make him their puppet. As for England finding out, it wouldn't take long for him to connect the dots and realize America's identity, giving him a huge advantage like we discussed earlier.
The Swiss sighed heavily, his temples beginning to pulse with pain as he glanced down at his notepad, eyeing the information littered on the page with varying levels of exhaustion and resentment. So now I know for a fact that Braginski wasn't lying to me, at least about England being overseas since America saw him in person. I suppose only time will tell whether the rest of his intel can be trusted. All I need now is to wait until Arthur Kirkland returns from vacation so that he can help me find his father—after that, I have no doubt we'll be but a stone's throw away from unraveling this whole mystery.
"I understand completely, America. You can be certain that I won't tell anyone." He reassured as he flipped the page of his notepad over in favor of a fresh page. "I assume you're in a safe place right now, away from reporters?"
"Yeah, I'm staying with someone I'd trust with my life, and they just fell asleep in their room. Again, I'm really sorry about suddenly leaving the U.S, but I'll be back in about a week once some personal-stuff gets resolved, I swear."
"Alright, and until you get back, I'll cover for you if the Mayor or anyone else asks about you," Vash decided. "Just do me a favor and make sure you're not seen if you have to do anything as America, otherwise it'll blow your cover and invalidate anything I do on your behalf."
"Got it. Thanks again, Vash."
The hero hung up before the officer could say anything more, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts and notepad to keep him company as silence engulfed the apartment once more.
A week. Just one more week, and then hopefully Detective Kirkland would be able to help him. But what could he possibly do until then, how could he possibly occupy his time with something beneficial to the case until Detective Kirkland's son returned?
Another glance to the notepad had him quickly scouring his contact list for a name that made his stomach twist and his heart ache given the memories associated with it, clicking and calling the person with only small traces of doubt.
"Guten tag." Ja, Roderich, it's really me, you don't need to sound so damn surprised, I need to ask an important favor of you—are you still close with Feliciano and…do you think he'd be okay with sketching out a suspect's face for me?"
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"This was my father's study."
It was amazing how so few words could make such a big impact on both men—Arthur's hand trembling as he brushed away lingering traces of dust from the plaque, Alfred unable to move forward to comfort him or backward to give him space—and yet do nothing to dissuade the thickening silence between them, encasing them in a solitary bubble where even the slightest hitch of breath could make it burst. And as Alfred looked around the room, taking in the slashed portraits and broken marble statues with growing confusion, he could not understand for the life of him.
The American swallowed thickly after a moment, placing a hand on the Brit's shoulder to ease him out of wherever his mind was. "Your father's study?" He repeated, quietly breathing a sigh of relief when Arthur gave a small nod of his head. "Well, it definitely looks like a place I imagine he'd spend a lot of time in." Alfred continued offhandedly, although he hoped his assumption was right on the money considering he couldn't exactly remember much of what Mr. Kirkland was like, as he primarily hung around Arthur's mom more than his dad.
While they were practically honorary members of my family, she heavily inserted herself into my life and took care of me when my parents died, he reminisced with a ghost of a smile on his face, his hand slipping from Arthur's shoulder to comb through his hair instead. Unlike his dad, who I can't remember when I last saw.
His comment seemed to do the trick, a quiet chuckle escaping the Briton. "Yeah. Books and globes and newspaper clippings, he'd definitely hole himself up in here if only to feel like a secret agent or something," Arthur smiled, Alfred removing his hand from his hair when the blond sat up in his father's chair, looking back towards the bulletin board. "It's just a little overwhelming, that's all."
"Overwhelming?" Alfred bounced back, picking up the framed photo depicting Arthur and his mother on his literal birthday so that he could study it. "I mean, I get that it's weird to know that there's a room hidden behind an old painting filled with really," he glanced at a headless statue standing in a particularly-dark corner. "Really strange stuff, but I don't see why you would be-"
Acting like your dad is dead when he's not, Alfred finished to himself, catching Arthur's gaze with his own bemused expression. "Like this."
"Like what?" Arthur challenged, rubbing the tearstains from his cheeks using the hem of his sleeves, pointedly avoiding the American's general direction. "If you must know, the cobwebs and dust in this room are triggering my allergies; God knows the last time this place got swept or dusted."
A foreign sensation settled in his stomach like a rock disturbing the calm surface of a pond, making his toes curl and his hands stuff themselves into the pockets of his jeans; he couldn't pinpoint a name for the sensation in the slightest, only aware of his heartbeat growing louder in his ears and his saliva being reduced to sand in his mouth.
In the years he had consistently donned his mask as 'America', he had realized that his gut was rarely wrong about anything and, unlike people who were prone to switching sides as easily as the flipping of a coin, never lied to him; on many occasions in his endeavor as a superhero, building his resume as someone people could depend on, his gut had been the difference between seeing another day or having his body tossed off the side of a shipping dock, and while people tended to criticize on his strategy of 'act first, think later', he rarely rolled with anything else due to the positive results it usually brought him.
He supposed that the reason England particularly hated him so much was because, for the most part, the only thing predictable about him was that he was unpredictable; while England thought, America felt. And right now, he felt that Arthur was lying to him. No, he knew Arthur was lying to him, and to his face as if that wasn't enough insult to injury.
And it fucking hurt to realize what was happening before his very eyes.
"Arthur," Alfred began, looking up at the bulletin board and following the red string connecting photographs, news clippings, and post-it notes together in a seemingly-chaotic map of information. "Why are we really here?"
He could feel the Brit's eyes practically boring holes into his body, a short laugh dismantling the quietude with as much grace as a hammer breaking a window. "What?" Arthur asked, setting the framed photo and plaque onto the bureau desk. "What are you talking about? You know why we're here-"
"Do I, though?" Alfred interrupted, tearing himself away from the board and focusing back on Arthur, his eyebrows narrowed and eyes hooded. "Are you sure that there's not something else so important that you needed to go to a place you've been wanting to return to for seventeen years, but never did because there were always 'too many obstacles' or you were 'too busy'? Are you positive that there's nothing more to our spontaneous vacation aside from reading legal work and possibly getting a check at the end of it all?"
Alfred gestured to the space around them, careful to avoid knocking boxes or statues over given the spread of his arms. "Are you absolutely certain that this room isn't simply 'overwhelming'?"
For a moment, all was still. Alfred didn't even realize he was close to crying until he felt his eyes grow warm and his tear ducts burn, but even then, he shoved that back; he could only hope that his gut was wrong this time, since if it was right, then how many times had Arthur lied directly to him in the past? Did he feel remorse, or was he so skilled at doing it that he no longer batted an eye at denying him the truth? And…if all those things were the case, then how much of their relationship had been built on a foundation of lies?
"You're one to talk."
That sentence ripped through the American's brain like a bullet through the skull. "Excuse me?" He questioned, legitimately curious given the Briton mumbled whatever it was he said.
"I said you're one to talk, Alfred," Arthur restated in a low voice. "Yes, alright? I lied. I lied, I've lied, and chances are that I will continue to lie since guess what? People lie. All. The. Time. Matthew lies, Kiku lies, Gilbert lies, Allistor lies, everyone has lied at least once in their lives, and if they say they haven't, chances are that they're lying too! Nobody's a pure, perfect person and I don't see why you're having such a big problem with accepting that!"
Alfred bristled at that, his hands clenching to fists at his sides. "I don't have a problem with accepting that people aren't perfect, my problem is that we've been away from home for two days and you still haven't properly explained why we're here even though you promised me at the airport that you would! What, did you think that I wouldn't see you crying when you said this was your father's study?"
"What the hell is wrong with you? I bring you with me as my guest and you think you're entitled to interrogate me like I'm on some goddamn trial?" Arthur barked, standing up from where he was sitting at the study desk just so that he could poke Alfred's chest several times. "My secrets are not your vintage comic books for you to scope around and criticize as you damn well please! I'm entitled to my privacy and I do NOT have to tell you every little detail about my life!"
"You don't need to, Arthur!" Alfred exclaimed, resisting the urge to grind his teeth and opting to rake a hand through his hair instead. "I just want you to be honest whenever you do decide to tell me something! I'm not like you, I don't like solving puzzles and playing mind-games, I just want clear-cut, straightforward answers! And since I'm here as your guest, anything that involves you concerns me, so I should know whatever the hell's going on!"
"NO YOU SHOULDN'T!" Arthur shouted, the sheer volume of his sentence causing Alfred's eyes to widen and his jaw to drop by a fraction. The Briton took the silence to catch his breath, panting as the American stared, shocked, at him. "You shouldn't have to deal with the truth. I don't want you to."
Alfred turned around, unable to face him at that. "You're…you're really going to deny me something important I should know? Something about us?"
"Just not now," Arthur breathed, catching him by the hem of his sleeve. "I'll tell you eventually, I promise."
The bespectacled blond shoved him off, still in a daze. "When would that promise come to fruition? A day? A month? A year?" He spared a glance over his shoulder, unable to see the Englishman's eyes given they were concealed by his bangs, his head hung low. "How long would it take?"
He could see Arthur bite his lip as he went silent, a part of him ashamed that that was the first thing he noticed. "That's what I thought. I'll be going, then."
That definitely got Arthur's attention, as his head immediately tilted up to meet his gaze again. "Where?"
"Just out," Alfred explained as he headed for the ripped painting, stepping through the destroyed artwork and into the hall. "I'll be back, though. See you later, Arthur."
And with that, he turned away from the painting and bumped right into Allistor, thankfully avoiding a fall by keeping a hand against the bricked wall, the cold rock a welcome change from his hands that had grown warm from how much he had been gathering them into fists. "I heard your little shouting match from down the hall," the Scot started as he looked the American up and down, likely checking for any physical signs of their squabble. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Something like that, though I wouldn't exactly call him St. Peter," Alfred retorted as he passed Allistor and headed up the stairs, oblivious to where his feet were taking him until he ended up in the bedroom he and Arthur were sharing, his legs colliding with his side of the bed. He glanced down at the side closest to the wall that had the pillows and covers all nice and tidy, and compared it to the part of the bed he just hit, which had the blankets grazing the floor and the pillows still lumpy from recent use.
He didn't have any idea of where he would go, and was still unsure even when he dawned on his bomber hoodie and stuffed some currency into his pocket. In the taxi he hailed, he had a brief idea of where he wanted to go, but that vanished with the rain droplets that began to pelt the windshield, and was replaced instead with thoughts of perpetually-messy hair and bright green eyes.
It was when he passed Tower Bridge and he glanced up that he finally figured out where he wanted to spend some time alone.
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If you asked him (and got him really, really drunk), Arthur Kirkland would say that he could barely remember a time in his life where he did not know Alfred F. Jones; and, if you begged him (and got him even moredrunk), chances are likely that he would begrudgingly tell you that he wouldn't want it any other way.
From the time he was five until he was seven, he was convinced that his name was ArthurandAlfred, from how often his parents and teachers referred to them as a pair. From the time he was nine to ten, he was certain that he and Alfred would be best friends forever, as they would always play together, do homework together, eat dinner together, anything and everything together. And when he was fifteen, he didn't realize he had fallen in love with his best friend until he found Alfred lying in a hospital bed on his birthday.
And even now, he thought as he sat back down on his father's desk chair, allowing his tears to fall and his walls to crumble when he could no longer hear Alfred's footsteps. Even now I'm still in love with that idiot. Hopelessly, completely, entirely in love with him, but…
"Oh Christ, I swear that guy's a fuckin' parasite."
Arthur was afraid he was going to get whiplash from how quickly his head snapped back up only to come face-to-face with Allistor, who was already lighting up a cigarette and fighting his way through the cobwebs as he walked towards him. "What do you want?" Arthur snapped, reluctant to hear his cousin's inevitable teasing while he was defenseless.
The redhead sat down at the desk, ruffling the blond's untamable hair as he exhaled some carcinogen-laced oxygen into the air. "If you think I'm gonna kick you in the nuts when you're down, then you have a piss-poor opinion of me," he replied once he retracted his hand, giving him a semi-awkward pat on the back.
"I already have a piss-poor opinion of you," Arthur couldn't help but retort, Allistor chuckling heartily.
"Ah, sod off ya cuntasaurus, I'm trying to be the rough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside older brother figure you've been lacking your whole life," the Scot informed, earning a small giggle from the Brit. "But seriously, I'm sorry that that happened to you."
"How much did you hear, exactly?" Arthur asked tentatively, wincing when his cousin scratched the back of his head.
"Pretty much all of it," he confessed with a sheepish shrug, the blond groaning and burying his face in his hands. Allistor patted him on the back a second time, his touch more gentle and sincere compared to the first one. "It's bound to happen eventually, no relationship can be complete smooth-sailing."
"But we're not even in a relationship-" Arthur responded, opening his mouth only to be silenced when Allistor raised his hand.
"Friendship, or whatever sexual-tension-filled relationship you two have, requires just as much effort as a romantic relationship, if not more; at least with a romantic relationship, you can fix some of your problems by fucking, but unless you have a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone, you have to stick with talking the problem out and finding a resolution," Allistor elaborated, Arthur grimacing at his choice of vernacular. "Don't give me that look, be glad you were overseas during the time I would have given you The Talk©, I wouldn't be nearly as prudish with my language as I am now."
That earned a full-out laugh from Arthur, a sharp laugh that belted out of him faster than he could recognize. Allistor grinned at his vocalized mirth. "See? You're smiling, I can be not a Total Dick©."
"I wouldn't say that," Arthur retorted, wiping a few stray tears from the corner of his eye using the hem of his sleeve. "But…I do feel a little better. Just a little bit. Don't let it get to your head, twat."
"Dammit, crabby Artie's back, bring back insecure Artie right now!" Allistor joked, earning another laugh from the Brit. "There he is! Smiling like someone told him McDonalds went out of business!"
"Don't make me too hopeful," Arthur grinned, waving the cigarette smoke out of his face with his hand. "So what do you think I should do? About Alfred and all this?" He wondered, motioning to the room with his arms outstretching.
The Scot shrugged. "Just do whatever you feel is natural, although, if I have to be honest…I think this is less about you protecting Alfred and more about you protecting yourself."
Arthur's eyebrows narrowed at that. "If you think I'm only keeping secrets from him so that he won't leave me-"
"Not that," Allistor broke in once more, catching the Englishman by surprise. "I mean, don't you think that, in a way, refusing to tell Alfred that your parents are gone is a way of protecting yourself from the truth? If he believes they're alive, maybe you can convince yourself that they still are, too?"
Arthur's eyes grew wide at that, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he tried and failed to respond to that, meeting his knowing gaze with his own surprised expression. Could he be right? Is it possible that my reluctance to tell him what happened is…just a coping mechanism to protect myself from what happened? And if I want to move on, I should not only face my demons in this house, but also in me?
He shook his head after a moment, unable to help the laughter bubbling from his lips. "Wow, I…I never thought that, before. But you're right, Allistor. I guess there's a first time for everything."
"That's why they pay me the big bucks, Artikins," Allistor winked, putting out his cigarette on the dusty ashtray on his father's desk. "And I'll ignore your insult there if you promise to go to him and tell him the truth, sooner rather than later."
Arthur nodded quickly at that, eyes glazed over as the realization settled within his bones. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll get right on it, I've got to go find him!"
With that, he turned on his heel and dashed out of the ruined painting, towards where he remembered the staircase being. "Thanks for everything, Allistor!"
He could barely hear his cousin's "Anytime, prick" over the sound of his shoes hitting the stairs and his heartbeat roaring in his ears, his thoughts swirling and insides spinning akin to a tilt-a-whirl at an amusement park.
Now where could I find him? And even if I did find him, how could I get him to talk to me long enough for me to at least apologize and try to make things right?
As he entered his bedroom, knees colliding harshly with Alfred's unmade side of their bed, he caught a glimpse of the loose floorboard underneath his bed where he stashed his England costume the night prior, and got an idea.
A crazy, insane, perfect idea.
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY! Whoo-whee, it's been a long, weird almost-year since I last posted, a thousand apologies for the tremendous delay in updating. I've been super-busy with my first year of university (which I just finished, hooray), been applying for various part-time jobs, learning how to sew, getting addicted to South Park and Daria Cohen's 'The Vampair Series', figuring out in general wtf I want to do with my life, all those happy things. But the biggest, worst thing that's been preventing me from updating sooner? Writer's Block, my Achilles' Heel. Seriously, it was a bitch and a half typing up Vash's part of this chapter since I felt like it was an important conversation to have and I wanted so many things to happen but I also felt like it wasn't the right time for certain things to happen, yadda yadda yadda.
Surprisingly, it took less than a day to type out the remainder (I used the Code Geass OSTs 'Occupied Thinking', 'Reversed Thinking', and 'If I Were a Bird' in that order, for any of you who want to listen to those songs while reading this for the full experience), which I'm super happy about because I'm still writing this, I'm not giving up on this since this story is no longer my baby, but it's yours. You guys who are still reading and loving this are the ones who keep pushing me to type each new chapter, so…I want to finish this for you guys. You all are some of the most amazing people I've ever met, and I'm so happy you all have been sticking around and enjoying this dumb idea I got at 3 AM while trying to sleep.
But all that aside, this is not the end. Far from it. I have many, many things planned, and I intend to fulfill them to the best of my abilities. And know that, no matter how long it may take for me to update again (which will hopefully be soon because again, love you guys and want you to enjoy your baby), I'm not giving up on this story.
So I'll see you guys soon, and until then? Stay awesome, darlings :D