The world was moving too fast. Mornings became evenings too quickly, yet time passed so slowly that Peter constantly checked for the time. And every time, it had only been ten minutes. Twelve if he were lucky. Although it had been exactly one whole week, he could recall the previous Tuesday in detail so vivid that it might as well be happening before him in real time. He remembered to constantly be nagging Alfred to fix the curl in his suspenders, but none of them had taken the initiative to do it. It had bugged Peter all the way to the park. And when they got there, there was not a single town inhabitant that was absent; All of them wearing the darkest and/or the finest clothing they had. All of them saying their condolences. Some of them having a voice too hoarse to sing. None of them smiling. Except Peter, because he loved to sing.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?

In his left hand, Peter had felt Alfred's hand gradually tighten until he himself realized, and loosened up. Then it tightened again. Sometimes Peter would look up at him to non-verbally ask him if he were okay, but Alfred refused to make eye-contact.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,-

Peter could understand why people's eyes were puffy, and he could understand why many of them seemed to avoid making eye contact with him. Probably better than anybody. He wasn't stupid. He was in the house when it happened. Or, well, he had gone out to get help when Dad began coughing blood, but hadn't returned in time to see him close his eyes. Heck, Peter hadn't even heard him say anything before he left because he was so grippen by panic. But the awkward atmosphere everyone created by avoiding the topic of why they were singing in the park in the first place, had him gasping for air when he returned home.

And auld lang syne, Peter had been humming the rest of the day, even if Alfred repeatedly told him to shut up with a voice so brutal that he had to sit down and breathe. None of them had had a conversation that day.

Two days later, on Thursday, two strangers had knocked on the door. There was a very tall man, and a girl who seemed to be around Peter's age. It came to Peter's attention that these two were the 'Jack and Wendy' that Alfred and Daddy had been mentioning. Jack was Peter and Alfred's godfather, so now they were going to live with them. Under the same roof. Like a family. It had started out on a good note because Wendy was good at many things, and Jack was funny and loved to play. They had livened up the house and town slightly, so Thursday and Friday had been enjoyable days.

Then came the weekend and suddenly, things weren't so enjoyable anymore. Alfred had work to do so Peter was left alone with these two people that he barely knew. Wendy was alright, though; He had already spent a lot of time playing with her and showing her around town, as well as running errands at the grocery store with her on Jack's request.

The problem was Jack. Uncle Jack.

Peter had stopped liking uncle Jack.

And that was why earlier today, Peter had decided to go out by himself. He didn't ask Wendy nor Alfred to come with him. He had taken his toy plane with him, hoping to bump into a certain two people who would play Pilot with him, and he did. However, they looked at him as if they were still singing in the park. Asking how he was doing, if he were feeling better, how Alfred was holding up, blah, blah, blah. In fact, every person (not that there were many to begin with) Peter encountered on the street either looked away, cast him a sympathetic glance or went as far as to walk on the other side. At some point Peter tried serenading 'Scarborough Fair' because he loved it when people would join in, either from their house or from the other side of town where he couldn't even see them, but he ended up singing the whole song by himself. He had concluded that enough was enough and that grown-ups were hopeless. He headed straight home.

And here he was, by the kitchen table, drawing together with Wendy. Uncle Jack was reading the newspaper on the couch, and Peter occasionally cast a glance at him. If he were so unlucky to not look away in time, uncle Jack would mention a fun, little fact about some obscure animal that Peter didn't know existed. Wendy would follow up by announcing her opinion on said animal, and then they would return to silence.

Peter was attempting to draw a cat. He was mighty proud of it too. That was, until he noticed Wendy's inaudible snort across the table. He looked up at her and caught her in the action of quickly looking back at her own drawing.

"What?" Peter asked and put down his pencil.

"Nothing," Wendy replied, not lifting her gaze.

"You made fun of my drawing!" Peter accused and lifted himself slightly from the chair.

"No, I didn't," said Wendy indifferently. At this point Peter heard his own heartbeat.

"Yes, you did!"

"Did not."

"Did too!"

"Did not."

"You have to say sorry!"

The sight of Wendy not answering, simply idling in her own bubble with not a care in the world, had Peter's nostrils flaring until he knocked over the glass of water, so it spilled over half of her paper.

"Peter!" she cried and immediately got up from her chair so as to not get her skirt wet. Peter caught the sound of a rustling newspaper and the couch creaking slightly. In a swift second, uncle Jack was by their side.

Peter pointed an accusing finger at Wendy.

"She made fun of my drawing!"

Jack looked at Wendy, his brows furrowed.

"Did you do that, Wendy?"

The urge to protest was as clear as day, but ultimately she fiddled with her hands and averted her eyes.

"Sorry, Peter," she mumbled before glancing at him, "If you want to, I can teach you how to draw cats." Though obviously not convinced by her own words, she still went to get one of the kitchen towels to wipe over her side of the table as she muttered things under her breath.

"And you, Peter?" Jack followed up, looking at him this time, "What did you do?"

Immediately Peter crossed his arms and looked away from Wendy who was nearly lying across the table to reach the far limits of the pool that had formed. The colors on her drawing were long muddled together. Peter huffed.

"Nothing," he said, closing his eyes and lifting his chin.

"You ruined my drawing," Wendy shot as she wrenched the cloth.

"Come on, Peter, you're better than this," Jack said as he touched the back of Peter's chair, "You're old enough to say sorry, aren't you?"

"She started it."

Perhaps if Wendy wouldn't act like such a know-it-all then Peter wouldn't have lashed out like he did. Perhaps if she could mind her own drawing and not try and make a scene out of how Peter obviously had less art experience than her, they'd still be idling in their quiet atmosphere waiting for the right time to make dinner. Eventually uncle Jack sighed and shuffled over to the kitchen bench, fetching a piece of paper which he handed to Wendy.

"Would you mind fetching something at the store for me, Wendy?" he asked as Wendy quickly skimmed over the list of groceries.

"Okayyyy, but what does this say?"

The two took their sweet time in arguing back and forth what was written, but eventually came to an agreement. Wendy huffed and put the list in the pocket of her skirt and headed for the door, Peter quickly on her heels. Joyfully he was about to open the door and race her to put on shoes, but was stopped when Jack placed his significantly larger figure in front of the door frame. Peter attempted to sneak between his legs but to no avail, and his cheeks felt hotter the second he saw Wendy being let through.

"I wanna go too!" Peter protested as he heard Wendy's petite footsteps descend the staircase, but uncle Jack did not waver.

"You're not going anywhere till you apologize," he said.

"But I didn't do anything!"

To that Jack simply shrugged and leaned against the door frame. While Peter stared daggers at him, the sound of Wendy tapping her shoes on the floor filled the silence before the outer door opened and closed, causing the water in the now standing glass on the kitchen table to shimmer slightly. Jack sighed and muttered something about closing doors quietly before he padded over to the couch and sat down. As the silence settled, Peter stared hard and focused on the door frame before him. As if the house would blow up if he stared hard enough. So that the house would blow up if he stared hard enough. A month or so ago Peter had had this black hole in his stomach when Alfred was being a jerk, and now it returned. If Peter could find some physical manifestation of how much he wanted to be anywhere else but in this house, that black hole was it. Even if Alfred would come home soon, Peter didn't want to meet him. Didn't want to look at the solemnity of his eyes right before the questions poured. However, Peter had tried to go somewhere, but everybody looked at him with the same apologetic, somber expression.

Was there nowhere he could go?

"Hey, Peter."

Hesitatingly, Peter turned his torso around and saw uncle Jack on the couch, that obnoxious smile of his plastered onto his face. He scooted as close to one armest as he could before petting the space next to him. But even just being in the same room as him was enough to make Peter want to hibernate for a month, so instead he climbed into the leaning chair. Tossed the embroidery tools that neither he nor Alfred had managed to throw away, onto the coffee table, even if it slightly stung to do so. Peter also made sure he couldn't see Jack, not even in the corner of his eyes, so he leaned his back onto the armrest closest to where Jack was sitting. And in return and to Peter's delight, Jack scooted over to the other of the couch's armrest instead. There. With all this distance to keep them apart, Peter could rest somewhat assured. Now he wouldn't mind as much to hear the opening sentence that Jack would use to make himself on even footing with him, the empathetic "I know what you're going through"-opener that Alfred once told him about, which Alfred had heard from Matt, which Matt had learned from uncle Francis.

"Listen, I am probably an awful caregiver," Jack started. Peter pretended his ears didn't just prick slightly.

"So, well, if you can't come to terms with me for the first days or weeks or even months," Jack continued, his voice sounding as if he were having the most casual of conversations, "Then that's alright."

How fortunate, because Peter wasn't planning on coming to terms with him anyway. In fact, once Peter was old enough he would move out and maybe ask Wendy if she wanted to come with him. He would move to one of those countries far away that Alfred had told him about, like Peru, and never come back to England. And Peter was nine years old; He was almost there! What was the point in trying to fight a futile battle if he were going to leave soon anyway?

"I mean, it must be super frustrating to first be robbed of your own dad and then be forced to live with two strangers in the same house for I-don't-know-how-many years?" Jack carried on, and at this point it began sounding as if he were just as confused as Peter.

"I know children hate to be told this, but you're just a little kid! A chap!"

Darn right, he was.

"-And you already live in this alien situation where everyone talks about 'Oh, findings of landmines' and 'Hopefully, this war will never repeat itself' as if you should know what they're talking about! And not enough with that, but to make things even farther from home, two intruders who talk weird are now going to live under the same roof as you. And for what?"

Admittedly Peter recognized himself in it. His heart rate even elevated slightly. A tiny croak came from uncle Jack as he was probably about to continue on with his rant, before he sharply inhaled, held, and released it in a deep sigh. When he started talking again, his voice was way more controlled.

"My point is that we've all lost something and been forced to deal with it in ways that we maybe wish we could have, I don't know, avoided. Take a sidestep and hopefully the problem would slide right past us. I mean…" Jack chuckled, "I can see from miles away that you want me out of this house on the dot, isn't that right? I won't be mad."

Feeling slightly conflicted, Peter decided to nod slightly. In actuality, Peter didn't want him out of the house. He wanted him out of reach. He wanted Jack so far away that no matter if Peter decided to become a globetrotter, it would be impossible to meet him again. Peter wanted to possess magical powers, just for one second, so he could banish this fraud to another realm and never see the light of day again. Or perhaps wind back time so far that he never came back from wherever he was enlisted during the war. Dared Peter say so far back that his mother hadn't had time to give birth to him in the first place? Or even better, just to make it simple, wind back time so Peter himself hadn't been born? As of now, Peter had such a strong desire to completely annihilate someone, something, anything, that the black hole in his gut squeezed out a hot tear from the corner of his eye. Once again, his gut was overflowing with something that he didn't know what to do with.

"I'm going to stop talking soon, but…"

Peter heard Jack shift slightly where he sat, but didn't know how. He just sounded more serious now.

"Now that we'll be trying to find out how to work this out, you have to remember to say what you feel. You have to scream and cry and talk about what you want or don't want, or else these years will be utter chaos. I cry a lot too! Because I also have no idea what to do; I feel like I'm trying to read a piece of sandpaper to map out a desert. Or instruction papers written in Arabic, or-"

"I want to tell jokes around the dinner table," Peter blubbered and sniffed.

"Yes!" Jack gasped enthusiastically and sounded as if he scooted slightly closer the leaning chair, "I want to have a nice family dinner too!"

"With mashed rutabagas…"

"Yum, yum!"

"And juicy pork chops…"

"Mmmm!" Jack crooned satisfied. After a few shuffles from the couch again, his voice suddenly sounded a little closer.

"Hey, look at me."

Despite Peter's burning aversion, he looked over his shoulder and met those bright, green eyes of his. They were as polarly opposite as one could get…

"Let's make that a goal!" he beamed, "A fun family dinner."

Wordlessly, Peter brought the heel of his hands to his eyes to wipe away the rest of the tears and nodded. As the insides of his eyelids displayed a colorful light show, he heard a brief chortle coming from Jack as he scooted back to the other side of the couch again.

"But that all starts with us trying to work together, alright?"

None of them said anything after that.

Alfred looked at Wendy as they sat by the foot of the stairs. She glanced at him, returning the solemn concern. Surprisingly enough neither uncle Jack nor Peter had heard them come in the door, despite the living room door having been left open. Or perhaps it wasn't all that surprising. Uncle Jack had sounded fairly despondent where he was rambling about landmines and weird-speaking people, so Alfred had decided to simply wait. Things were calmer up there as of this moment, however, so he supposed that the coast would be clear any minute.

"A fun family dinner sounds good," Alfred inaudibly sighed, noticing Wendy's attentive eyes on him, "How's it like living with two extra people?"

With a thoughtful hum, Wendy looked back at the at the bag of groceries, supporting her face in her palms. She took her time before she spoke through her squished cheeks.

"Compared to living with only Jack, it isn't all that different," she stated before sighing lightly, "And compared to living with my family, it still isn't that different."

Alfred smiled knowingly. His assumptions couldn't be far off.

"How old were you?" he asked.

"It was three years ago," she replied in her characteristic, matter-of-fact voice. As if it didn't faze her in the slightest. In a silent moment of swimming in their own introspection, Alfred found himself admiring the girl. While he himself had been completely thrown off balance by some overwork, this girl still kept her head up and clear. She didn't lower the standards for anyone and held herself accountable for any breach of it. And should something weigh her down, she surely would refuse to let it get the better of her. At least, that was what she looked like in Alfred's mind. Whether or not that corresponded to reality was a different story, and whether or not Wendy would agree to this image, she was worth admiring.

"Wendy," Alfred said, his mind still wandering. Wendy didn't respond vocally.

"Take care of Peter for me."

After having secured that things had settled completely upstairs, Alfred got to his feet with Wendy right behind him. They soundlessly made their way up and when they stood outside the living room and looked in, what met them was Peter napping in the leaning chair, and Jack tousling with the embroidery tools. Immediately he noticed their presence.

"Hiya, uncle Jack," Alfred greeted softly to keep Peter from waking up.

"Hiya," the older of them replied before nodding and looking toward Wendy, "Did you get it all?"

"They didn't have parsnips," Wendy confirmed before she carried the bag over to the kitchen bench to take the groceries out. In the meantime, Alfred's eyes were glued to the hands trying to figure out how a needle was supposed to penetrate a linen cloth in a way that would make the result look pleasing to the eye. Though uncle Jack's hands didn't stop moving, the movements weren't fluent at all.

"You embroider?" Alfred tried. Jack simply let out a laugh.

"Do I look like someone who does?"

For the briefest moment, Alfred's chest tightened as they exchanged a bittersweet laughter over the disagreeable piece of embroidery. Before it could proceed into a memorial, however, they brushed it off with yet another laugh, wiping the corners of their eyes, before Jack got to his feet with the groan of an aged man. Alfred acknowledged the exact second uncle Jack took notice of his tear-stained face.

"I think we all need some nutrition," he sniggled as he trudged to the kitchen to help Wendy.

"Do you want any help?" asked Alfred, but his request was quickly turned down.

"No need," Jack assured, "Wendy is going to teach me a thing or two and I need you to sit back and enjoy my creation afterward."

Alfred couldn't help but laugh a little at that as well. This house was full of children! Eyeing Peter sleeping – or so it looked – in the leaning chair, he flopped onto the couch and leaned against the armrest closest to him. With a gentle finger, Alfred poked at Peter's bum. At first, the boy squirmed slightly. The second time, he kicked his hand away so Alfred released a little whimper. That was when Peter lazily looked over his shoulder, Alfred catching sight of his red cheeks.

"Hey, li'l man," Alfred whispered and poked him once again. A little croak came from the little boy's throat as he turned his body to face Alfred, but still comfortably curled up against the chair's back support.

"Are ya being nice to uncle Jack?"

Of course, Peter pretended to be too sleepy to answer. But then again, Alfred was in no position to blame him; Alfred spent almost all his time outside the house. And unlike Peter, he was able to make excuses for himself to go out that would force him to spend hours away from the house. He could easily go to Elizabeta and ask to work for five hours, and be granted his wish, which he tomorrow would. Peter could not. If he didn't find a playmate, it was over for him. Though Alfred wished he were doing better than his brother who was eight years younger, he admitted that he wasn't. He could even argue for the fact that he was being worse off, as he exploited sources around him. Alfred did all in his power to not show it, but if he had to place his bet on who would adapt to this situation the fastest between them, it would undeniably be Peter.

"Be nice to 'em, Peter."

Ever so slightly, Peter opened his eyes again, and Alfred was taken aback at how resentful his eyes were when he so thoughtfully spent a moment to stare at him. With the expression unchanged, Peter sat up and slid off of the chair, before shuffling over to where Wendy was explaining to uncle Jack how big of a difference it was to cut onions along or across the fibers. With very little information about what was going on, Alfred watched as Peter poked Wendy on the shoulder. And immediately, as if they had been waiting for it, Wendy and uncle Jack stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Peter was actively looking away, sniffing once and quickly wiping his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said. Right after that, he turned around and left.

Alfred could ever so blurrily notice a smile on uncle Jack's face as he watched Peter padding back to the chair, before he and Wendy continued with their cooking class.

"Aren't you a grown man," Alfred playfully said and ruffled Peter's hair when he returned to his fetal position in the chair. The boy didn't reply, but his stomach released a huge growl.

A/N: I am aware that the story is progressing slowly (that's my opinion at least), but gosh, writing a story this long is such a learning process! I am currently re-writing the ending a bit, and I'm SO excited for you guys to catch up!