Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Hammer Films or Star Wars. Or Martha Stewart, Clint Eastwood, Betty Crocker, or Jonah Hex. Or Google Translate. Or Ziplock. Or Pizza Hut. Or Spongebob Squarepants. Or Reese Cups.

Warning: Some profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). During the 1820s the furthest planet of the Solar System would be Saturn. Technology would have to develop a lot before astronomers were able to detect additional bodies. Puritans were just the fun-killers of their era. More drama and feels...probably. Some brattiness.

AN: Thank you for you reviews and interest! As for the pronunciation of Rhys. There are two correct versions [r̥ɨːs] in Northern Wales (which kinda has a marbles-in-the-mouth quality) and the Southern Wales (and North American) pronunciation [ri:s]. If you head over to (cough yes) Wikipedia they have a good sound clip for the two versions. I imagine that his brothers pronounce it both ways depending on their moods and their own accents (I interpret them to be more sensitive to a wealth of more phonological sounds given their long linguistic histories), but America's rather late to the language game (having come into existence after the Great Vowel Shift and a simplification of language sounds. I.e. the loss of the ash, the thorn, and a myriad of other fun sounds. Look up "kniçt" and you'll know what I mean). America would pronounce it exclusively in the North American version "Reese" like Reese Cups. If we've any British readers who've talked to Americans, they'll probably pick up on how American English has simplified even more with regards to 'a.' Our version of English (for the majority) doesn't differentiate between "caught" and "cot." Most of us have lost the "aw" vs. "ah" inflectional difference. So, we tend to think of them as homophones. And I'll tell ya what! All the pronunciation differences for "e," "a," and "o," in Old English is tough on a Yankee. But we're good at Early Modern English...so we can read aloud Shakespeare and the King James Bible with relative ease. (In my Linguistic class, you have to read aloud and be graded on the inflection.)

: D And now onwards! Enjoy!

Chapter 7: I'm The Manly Man...And You're The Other One

Alfred watched the Hammer Film with rapt attention. The room was awash in the glow of the television set. He'd turned off all the lamps to increase the dramatic effect.

The satellite signal had miraculously cleared at a little past nine and he was making the most of it. Rhys had gone off to a guest room to "recharge" almost immediately following dinner. Alfred ate another handful of hours old, lukewarm popcorn.

The wind outside was howling again and the screen depicted an eerie vampire-owned estate. The combined creepiness had him burrowing into Arthur's side. Arthur snorted and awoke.

Green eyes blinked just as the blood-sucking fiend bared his fangs. "Bloody hell, Alfred." He reached over Alfred to grab the remote.

"H-hey!"

Arthur turned it to the Disney channel. "There."

America wrestled it back and pressed Return—transporting the channel back to ghoulishness.

Arthur's brows furrowed. "You're going to have nightmares because of this rot."

"Nuh-uh."

"Oh really?"

Alfred's cheeks puffed.

Arthur stretched his arms over his head. "Well then, I'm off to bed. Pleasant dreams." He bid ominously.

Alfred chased after him when he left the couch. "W-wait! You can't go to bed now. It's not even in the AMs yet."

"I'm exhausted, dear boy. I didn't get to sleep the whole way home."

There was a piercing female scream and Alfred looked over to the screen—debating over whether he should try and negotiate. Would Arthur stay if he changed the channel? Except that sounded like a sissy-backing-down-thing to do.

He stayed looking at the screen, crossed his arms, and grit through his teeth. "Fine. Good. Night."

A warm hand rested on his head. "Goodnight, Son." The hand moved down to cup his face. "My door will stay open."

Maybe it was because it was said so gently…

He learnt at a young age that the abrupt sounds of piercing whistle signals and the fading footfalls of clomping boots were sounds of goodbye...

Maybe because it was all sincerity and no teasing…

It should've been anticlimactic that a closed door could mean the end of all they'd had, but the clerk was insistent that the Admiral wouldn't have visitors and though he said nothing of the American's outdated suit—Alfred felt the sneer.

He dropped the remote to catch the hand. "Can't you please stay? Please? Pleeeease?"

He hardly even watched the stupid movie after that.

"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur assured him from time to time while he rubbed Alfred's back. Then he scolded lightly, "Goodness, if you were feeling so lonely, why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I don't even know why I'm so...this…" He sniffled and knew he couldn't blame it on allergies. He was given a comforting squeeze.

"You had some very troubling memories. You took Rhys and I along."

"..."

"It's...it's very hard…" Arthur began "To...to have a friend...turn on you…let alone a superior officer exploit you."

Alfred looked up and saw that the bridge of Arthur's nose had crinkled. He shrugged a shoulder, "I guess…I...it just hasn't hit yet. Or rather, half of it's hit me."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked sharply.

"It's like...when I watched those crystal ball vids you guys made. Roanoke might've been me...but he was so far away it didn't seem like a big deal. I got the information first. And then I got it. And I broke down at Pizza Hut like a wuss. Except this time it's kinda reversed. I'm getting the upset part, but I can't remember all of Samuel. What happens when I do? Will I freak out worse?"

"We'll deal with that then." Arthur stretched out more fully on his side and pulled a second blanket over them. "...you weren't a wuss…"

Alfred managed a weak smile. It was little things like that which signaled that Dad was still fully in Overprotective Mode.

He'd been super affectionate and considerate since their outing to the Hall. Plus, he'd been pretty gushy over that scrap of parchment and that Alfred needn't be so formal. If he ever had troubles and needed help, go to the source.

What was it he'd said?

Arthur tapped the letter with the back of his fingers,"You silly goose, I don't want you to bother with drafting a letter when a conversation will be quickest in getting you aid!"

Which was something...cuz Dad was pretty damn partial to letter-writing...

"I...I know that letter upset you. I'm sorry," He murmured.

Arthur stiffened, "Oh nonono, you don't need to be sorry, pet."

"But...I…"

"I just feel so terrible I didn't receive your letter. When I think of what you were going through-"

"But you don't."

Green eyes stared down at him.

"How could you know what I was going through? I mean, I don't even know one hundred percent. I mean...I've got some ideas but...anyways. Wait. We're talking about you... you...you don't have to. I mean, I don't exactly remember the context."

Arthur's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"No wait. Hear me out...it's just...we don't know for sure what it was I was asking. Or...apologizing for...I...I just I mean...I don't want you to give me credit where it isn't due. Cuz if it comes out I'm talking about something stupid like napkin rings, I don't want you to feel used."

If Arthur's dopey smile and the light shaking of his head was anything to go by; the Brit pretty much let that go in one ear and out the other. He pulled off Alfred's eyepatch and smiled.

"I see some color there."

"Really?" He asked. Aware there was too much hope in his voice. "What shade?"

"Blue."

"Yeah, but-"

"Ice blue."

Alfred sighed, "So it's still wrong."

"Can you see through it?"

"Hm? Oh…" He looked around. "Eh…"

Arthur's hand gently cupped itself over Alfred's good eye.

"Oh...um…? Well...the T.V.'s a lightish blob and everything else is pretty dark."

Arthur's hand moved away and ruffled his hair, "That's fantastic. You're healing up so quick."

The man tossed the eyepatch onto the table, "You won't be needing that anymore."

"O' course I need that! Look at me! You said it yourself. They don't match!"

Arthur reached over and turned a light on the side table on.

Alfred blinked hard at the sudden light.

"Oh," Arthur breathed delightedly—his hand rested on the cheek of Alfred's injured eye. "That's wonderful. Your pupil's not only there but it reacted. The muscles have re-developed and healed. No, you need to stop wearing the patch and let the eye strengthen." He patted the cheek and then he laid back down on a pillow.

Alfred frowned, "I don't wanna be seen like this."

"Pfft. Neither Rhys nor I care about a mismatch in hue! You're being silly. You're a very handsome boy."

"I mean on the plane!"

"Wear sunglasses," Arthur compromised.

"Yeah...I guess…"

"You worry far too much about your appearance," Arthur tutted.

Alfred pouted; of course he cared about how he looked...

Sir Walter Scott's "The Monastery" was ripped from his grasp. And the thief tapped him hard on the head with it. "You squandered part of your funds for this? Didn't you?"

Alfred looked away, "It's an older edition and it's used! It's not like I bought his latest work, though I imagine the subject will likely come up. England always buys books so new, the ink still smells. Which means I need a different approach; I want it to play like I've had this a while and will soon be in the market for the newest one. So I got this and read it up and it's really quite-"

The man straightened Alfred's collar, "You're here to strengthen diplomatic ties-"

"I am!" He insisted. "I mean...I shall. I, yes, it is technically written by a Scotsman, but England's dominion-"

The human made sure all of Alfred's buttons were fastened correctly,"You're here for business. For trade-"

"I should think-"

"No one invited you to think. This isn't some event of the Arts. With poets reading and everyone pretending to be philosophes. You're to shake hands and make friends and be delightfully charming. Clear your head of all your absurd schemes. You-"

"You have my word, I'll be friendly company and-" Alfred tried to snatch the book back and looked to his other diplomatic associate for support.

The man gave him a flat look and heaved a sigh as he stared back out at the ballroom as he applied last-minute wax to his mustache. He addressed the other man rather than Alfred. "I told you we should've arrived later with him. The less time spent, the less opportunity he has to make a fool of himself."

Alfred reached for the book again.

The man moved the novel away. "Everyone here will be friendly. Those nations" He pointed to Europe's most powerful countries collected together at the center of the ballroom. "Are at the center of our world. They're the sun," The man hissed. "And you might as well be Saturn. I need you to be charming. I need you to hang off their every word. For God's sake don't you dare try to dominate the conversation with a bloody romance novel. You can read, thank the Lord, but don't think that's going to impress them!"

Alfred glowered.

"Don't do that." The diplomat reached over to smooth out Alfred's features. "God knows your face is one of the few advantages he gave you."

Alfred realized too late that he'd broadcast that unhappy memory of an 1820's overseas trade mission.

"They're burning in hell," Arthur informed him confidently and looked wickedly satisfied at the thought.

Rhys watched Alfred laboriously squirt the last bits of a Hershey's syrup bottle into his milk and stir it in with a spoon. He made a mental note to purchase his nephew some Nesquik when they were back in the U.K.

All that morning, Alfred had been fretting over making arrangements to have someone watch over his Virginia Colonial since his U.K. relatives were badgering him about not letting the pipes freeze again. Only the child was whining about costs; because there was already someone watching Tex's estate and how much money were they going to shell out in hiring house sitters? And then there was Americat to think of. He was over at Tex's home because when Tex had returned after New Year's he'd taken Americat back to the States. And that led to a personal crisis as Alfred realized he hadn't spent any time with his kitty since December. Did that make him a bad cat owner?

Yes, it technically did. But Rhys caught Arthur's warning glare before he answered affirmatively.

It took a call to Texas and his reassurance that Americat was fine because fat animals only have one love and it's food and the promise that he'd bring Americat when he came over.

Alfred took a slurp of semi-chocolate milk. There hadn't been enough syrup to transform it completely. "Dude, I-I dunno. I mean, I can't just invite you to somebody else's house. It's bad form."

Rhys watched the conversation unfold like a badminton match.

"There you go again sounding like Daddy McPrissypants."

"Keep that attitude and you're certainly not invited," Arthur sniffed.

"Dammit Al, tell me when I'm on Speaker!"

"You should always assume it. I do."

"Well ya know what? Ya know what? There! I put you on! Now all the fellas can hear ya!"

And then Alfred started belting the theme song of Spongebob Squarepants.

"And you're off now," Tex grumbled two lyrics in and it became clear the call and response nature of the song had garnered more enthusiasm than expected.

"Dude, I'm like a professional when it comes to rabble-rousing," America boasted. "You set yourself up for that."

"Tch. Whatever. Buzz off!"

Alfred gasped. "Excuuuse you?"

"Huh? Nah, not you. Not you, Baby Brother. I'm tellin' Stuart off. He's poking fun at our Bromance. Tch. It wasn't weird until the second half of the 1800s. It wasn't." Tex growled at someone near him.

"Tex has always been touchy," Alfred complained to his father and uncle. "It's the Spanish influence. They're a handsy, gushy people. Mexico too. She's superstitious as hell. And thinks it's good luck to touch a blond's head. Sometimes she still ends our trades deals doing that. I smile so it's less awkward."

"Hey! The egg thing does work. Gets rid of mal de ojo."

"Horrid waste of food."

"I blame you England. That Victorian-ness you shipped over, messed him up. And he got even prissier. Like he wasn't girly enough before-"

"I am NOT girly."

"Al, it's fine. We all know I'm the manly man and you're...the other one."

"I am NOT the girly one."

"You're a dandy. Always have been. Frolicking in fields in stockings!"

"Whoa! First off, fields would tear stockings up-"

"You're the Martha Stewart to my Clint Eastwood, the Betty Crocker to my Jonah Hex-"

"I'm like Luke Skywalker. I'm a farmer that kicks ass! And you're gonna go down like Custer if ya don't shut up. You would starve to death if there weren't people to serve you food. Why do you think I outfit all of these destroyers with bigass cafeterias? You couldn't survive with-"

"I'm a Grill MASTER!"

"God, I can't believe I have to be the one to say this: You can't live off of meat alone!"

"Yes, I can!"

Arthur finally took the phone himself, "Texas, inform me in a week's advance on when you're going to visit. So we can prepare."

"I've been your guest before. I didn't break nuthin. You make it sound like I'm somethin' you have to batton down the hatches for."

"You are," Rhys added definitively.

When the storm finally cleared and driving conditions improved, England insisted on making a trip to D.C.

He'd received an email that his private investigator was waiting to meet with him and had a quite a discovery to share. He'd hired Detective Jenkins in late December during the aftermath of America's...death. It was an attempt to get to the bottom of the postal conspiracy and a way to keep himself sane as he was besieged with grief.

Alfred thought the trip was an opportunity for him to inform Congress of his holiday plans and, unwilling to disappoint the lad, Arthur agreed to have him along but under the condition that they pitstop at the British Embassy first. How could he say no when Alfred humored him by wearing sunglasses instead of the patch? And when he feared that drawing it out any longer might be construed as deception? Alfred had a right to know.

The nerve-wracking part came when Rhys (whom Arthur deliberately left out of the loop and tried to coordinate their departure with his shower) slid into the passenger's seat. His wet hair trickled rivulets down his steam-reddened face and did nothing to soften his hard hazel glare.

"You're all wet," Alfred observed—kicking his feet playfully.

"Indeed."

Thankfully, Alfred's presence and his habit of singing along with the radio kept the peace... though there was palpable tension between the brothers.

The ceasefire ended when they reached their destination and Alfred raced toward the building—ignoring Arthur's warning to be wary of ice on the sidewalk.

Rhys grabbed him by the elbow, "What the devil are we doing here and why was I not informed?"

Reluctantly, the Briton divulged their reason for coming.

The Welshman's eyebrows shot up, "Are you certain you want to do this now? That you don't want it shipped to us instead?"

"And give them the opportunity to 'lose' it?" Arthur replied bitterly.

They arrived in the lobby to find a slightly flustered Mr. Jenkins having his hand shook vigorously by America.

"You found it! You found it! Thank you!"

It was a large wooden coach trunk...from the late 1700s. Alfred's fingers lovingly tapped the aged brackets.

"Shabby chic is in. I can spruce her right up." He smiled over his shoulder at Arthur, "I can't believe you found this for me! John-that is John Hancock, he bought her for me. For when I travelled. So I'd look sophisticated! I think if I re-stain her she'll-"

Jenkins meaty hand met Arthur's in a firm handshake. "It was moved into the Dead-Letter Office in 1825. Been there for ages. They seemed pretty glad to be rid of it, too. It was under strict orders that it had to be 'asked for.' It was odd. Also, gave me this." He handed Arthur a binder. It held very old papers put into modern plastic protective sheets.

Arthur opened it, aware that Rhys was reading over his shoulder.

The top one said:

Alfred F. Kirkland

12th Regiment, Infantry—men from Virginia.

It listed his rank as a lieutenant and his death as a "Battle Casualty in 1812."

Arthur flipped through the pages. There was already confusion in the paperwork as Alfred was simultaneously in the Regular Army and in several state militias and thus over-enlisted.

The militia papers were a mess; some hailing from the 1770s, others from the 1800s. There were notes here and there from commanders (of varying eloquence) stating that there had to be errors because if Kirkland had indeed served during 76, he'd be old and gray.

There was even a rather embarrassing dismissal from the newborn US Navy.

"Gah! Don't look at that!" Alfred gasped as he realized what they had.

" 'Persistent violent seasickness,'" Rhys read off.

Alfred's face turned bright red.

"You didn't even last a month," Rhys continued—sounding amused. "Your commanding officer said and I quote-"

Arthur gave his brother a sharp elbow.

Alfred looked away, "I was no good."

Arthur blinked. "That's alright."

Alfred's lips thinned.

"Why wouldn't that be alright?" Arthur demanded.

Alfred's arms crossed over his chest defensively.

"Wot? What? You think because Daddy's an Admiral you have to prove your seamanship too?"

There was something in the flinch that let him know how much was invested and lost in that "failure."

"You don't," Arthur stated bluntly, surprised this was even an issue. So the boy would never be a captain of the seas...so what? America was a captain of the skies.

The startled jaw drop prompted him to repeat that last bit out loud.

There was a stunned, shy sort of nod.

Arthur snapped the binder shut and went over to investigate the trunk.

There was an old chain wrapped around it with a large rusty padlock.

Previous crisis forgotten, Alfred waltzed up. He took the chain between his small hands and with a grunt—snapped it apart.

Detective Jenkins visibly shuddered as he muttered, "Nations…"

England's eyes narrowed at the human's words and the man hastily remembered himself. He wondered what it was that made humans quick to forget that he and his brothers were inhuman themselves...yet everyone picked up on Alfred immediately.

Yes, the chain bit...exacerbated it...but...Jenkins had already seemed unsettled by the child.

It irritated Arthur. Regardless of the little one's strength and precociously confident bearing, it seemed painfully obvious how vulnerable he was. He moved a lot when he was uneasy...the way ponies did. Their coltish legs moving restlessly and their tails swishing as they were maneuvered into situations they were anxious about...

Alfred threw the lid open and its hinges screeched. He peeked inside and had such a violent reaction for a moment Arthur feared the thing had been cursed.

"Gah! Bills!" Alfred screeched as he ran his hands through the piles of post. "Bills, bills, gonna repossess my house. Spoiler." He threw a letter into a corner of the trunk. "They did. Like, sorry guys. I missed that payment. Was sorta dead. Sorta dead. Don't worry Scotland straightened it out."

Wot?

"Hey...what...is this?" Alfred plucked one out. "Dude! It's one from Texas and it's...it's written...in Spanish...I will never know the contents of this letter...unless I marry Google Translate."

"...Or ask Texas to read it," Rhys muttered.

"Oh no, he'll edit it. He might've said something snarky and he'll amend it. And I can't trust Mexico. She'll go the other route and make it seem like he only had horrible things to say-"

"Spain then."

Arthur remained silent...having already spotted his own handwriting on several aged letters.

Alfred blinked and then slowly nodded, "...Spain might work." Satisfied, he returned his attention to the trunk. "Hey look, Dad, here's one from you! Here's another one! And...another one...and…"

Arthur closed his eyes as puzzlement entered the little voice,"That's...that's so weird...why didn't they just forward these to me? They musta gone to the Dead Letter Office after my K.I.A...or my name-change but...Hey...this one says Jones...this one too...Dad?"

"..."

"Dad...is there...something...going on here?"

Arthur took in a deep breath. It would've been wrong to try and conceal it...but...he didn't know how he could explain it gently.

"Your father was investigating a postal issue," Rhys explained.

"That's not what I'm asking."

"I think so," Arthur answered gravely.

"...Are we bookends?" Alfred asked as he tugged the sleeve of Arthur's coat.

Green eyes opened to a small solemn face. It reminded him of brisk early mornings with pale grey light. A sigh of relief would escape him as the church doors released them back into the world. Young America would grip his hand so tightly whenever there were brimstone speeches from the clergy and Arthur had to repeatedly assure him that Judgment Day was not upon the morrow.

The worried, pinched expression on the child's face made Arthur long for the early days of Christianity; when Pagan celebratory methods were more freely incorporated. Somewhere along the way, when the church became a political as well as a moral influence, it got in the habit of associating joy as sin.

He was abruptly reminded of how the Puritans agonized over another's settlements choice to raise a Maypole and tried to rally England's government to deliver a punishment.

A small hand tugged at his fingers...tugged him back into the present.

"I fear so. I didn't receive your letters, either."

Alfred glanced down at his handful of letters and then to the trunk where more resided.

Some had even been opened already by stranger's hands. It made something coil vengefully within Arthur...like a harassed adder.

It surprised him when Alfred looked back up and smiled with certainty. "You didn't forget me."

Alfred pulled his blanket up and adjusted the overlarge headphones to sit more securely over his ears. He and Dad had splurged for First Class seats and left Rhys to fend for himself in Coach.

Their seats were next to each other and they kept the privacy screen rolled down for dinner.

"Eat your meal too" was the light scolding Arthur gave when it became clear Alfred was devouring his dessert first.

The food was good though it couldn't fully distract him from the dramas of the other day. He licked the spoon coated with fudge from his sundae and he thought about the letters he'd Ziplocked and packed into his luggage.

When Arthur chided him for ordering a cold dessert in the middle of winter and asked what he planned to do when he was chilled to the bone, Alfred quipped that he'd just beg for Arthur's coat knowing the man had a soft spot for pitiful things.

After they finished and the food and beverages were cleared away, Arthur's coat landed on top of him. When he peeked over it. Arthur slipped him a pastry he'd saved from his own dinner.

Geez...Dad was getting downright gushy. Wasn't even gonna make him ask or take the opening as a chance to scold him…

Bickering had been part of their dynamic so long...it felt kinda weird going so long without it. Though...his Dad had been kinda weird and getting weirder for a while now. The old man had remarked that it might be better if he let Arthur go through some of his letters and weed out "Bad" ones. Ones he'd sent in frustration or anger.

Alfred shut down that request though with a stern: "You keep telling me I'm allowed to have feelings. You are too."

He'd only read two so far. Yeah, one had been kinda...angry...upset at Alfred's "selfish inappreciation" of his father's efforts to "shield him" and that was irritating. But...the sting was offset by the tear stains…

And the other was one of those elusive invitations to Arthur's annual Winter Ball. Only when he'd waved it in front of him, green eyes had zeroed in on the long broken wax seal.

Alfred had tried to explain that at the Dead Letter Office they sometimes opened mail to try and identify the addressee but Arthur didn't go for it. Alfred didn't really either, but...he liked to think that some of the letters were there by mistake. There were a few 'Alfred Kirkland' ones from 1814 that were legitimately stamped DECEASED...though why those were kept and not thrown away...meanwhile some of his Jones ones just weren't delivered…

And now there was a good chance that Arthur hadn't been getting his letters either for some time.

Alfred frowned. He remembered distinctly...that he'd sent a book...to Arthur…

Maybe that was The Book he was looking for? Because he'd taken a look at the chimney stash and known immediately that none of those spellbooks were what he was questing for.

He polished the pastry off, cuddled into Arthur's coat, and tried to follow the plot of the inflight movie.

Alistair's red eyebrows twitched, "Who the hell bought you that damn straw?"

"Rhys did! He went to the store this morning after we landed," Alfred answered—fingers tracing the loops of his crazy straw. He then blew bubbles into his cup of chocolate milk.

Hell's bells, it was too early in the morning for this.

"And here I thought we got rid of yeh," Alistair grumbled as he sat across from his nephew at the table. He'd been nagged into helping Arthur's housekeeper, Charles, make the London house ready for their arrival the previous day.

He hated playing as Rhys's minion, but the fact of the matter was whenever he took ill...that was the brother who came to his aid. It made it hard to turn down sincere requests.

Alfred grinned, "Nope!" He played with the straw by poking the top through the gap in his bottom row of teeth.

So he'd lost one huh? He was gonna lose another if he didn't mind his manners! Arthur was really letting things go to the dogs if he wasn't reprimanding Alfred for any etiquette at all.

"Stop that!" He gestured at the splashes of liquid dripping onto the table.

Alfred very deliberately blew more bubbles.

Little brat! Alistair reached across the table and snatched the straw away.

The mismatched blue eyes stared.

Alistair set the straw down on his napkin.

Little cheeks puffed and then Alfred stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

Alistair pointed a threatening finger. "Warning you laddie. Do that again and I'll snip that tongue off."

He made a scissoring motion with his fingers.

Alfred mulled that around and then defiantly blew another raspberry

Alistair slapped his hands down and stood up. His chair screeched. "Tha's it!"

He lurched forward to, as Reilley would say, 'put the fear o' Jaysus in him.'

Alfred shrieked and sprinted away.

Alistair chased him up the stairs and saw with belated horror that the child was racing towards the Master Bedroom.

"Oi! Stay away from-"

Alfred slipped through the double doors.

Alistair cautiously followed.

"Get outta there," Scotland hissed because he'd been warned that the room's inhabitant had been in a foul mood all morning.

Alfred lifted the blankets at the foot of the bed and went under.

Fuck.

Alistair glared at the little lump as it moved up in the bed.

His heavy footfall made a floorboard squeak and the Scotsman's breath caught while he waited for some sort of reaction but...nothing...

Maybe Arthur was asleep and hadn't heard?

He dared to get closer.

Alfred was near the head of the bed now. The Scotsman caught sight of a glimmer of gold at the edge of the blanket.

Maybe he could grab him and go. He took another few steps forward and was about to reach for his nephew when he noticed two venomous green eyes were watching him.

Alistair crossed his arms and stood his ground—unwilling to be visibly cowed by his youngest brother.

Arthur met his challenge by propping himself up with one arm.

Dammit all. Arthur had that look. That pissed off I-want-a-brawl delinquent look.

"Why are you in here, Alba?"

Fuckin' lion's den.

Alfred crawled out from the blanket, looked over his shoulder, and giggled.

Stupid cub! Baiting him in here.

"Chased me," Alfred answered.

"Chased you?" Arthur sat up and smoothed the child's mussed hair. "Whyever did he do that?"

"I stuck my tongue out at him."

"Did you now? Sounds like a dangerous sport. He has quite a temper, you know?"

Alfred giggled again and made his way into Arthur's arms which obligingly wrapped around him.

Arthur leaned back against the headboard.

"Said he was gonna cut it off!"

"He was being a brat," Alistair grumbled in his defense.

"He took my straw!" Alfred pouted.

"He was blowing bubbles and making a mess!"

"Ripped it right outta my mouth and everything, Daddy."

That was when Alistair knew he was in dangerous waters. Rhys had warned him that Alfred was remembering things. He certainly was; he remembered which chords he could pluck to instigate "Daddy's" vengeance. And Arthur was a finely tuned instrument of retribution that longed to be played.

"Is that so?" Arthur's voice was deceptively soft and Alistair was backpedaling his way out of the room.

Rhys had specifically told him that morning to stay out of Arthur's way. That his people's displeasure with the EU was making him surly and that certain more mysterious triggers that Rhys wouldn't disclose over the phone, made him dangerous.

"...I guess I did kinda make a mess though" Alfred admitted. "I just...it's so weird. The straw can go right through my teeth. Cuz-cuz-cuz of the missing one. It can go right through!"

"Right through?" Arthur asked indulgently.

"Yes!"

Good. He was distracted by his offspring. Dammit. His boot made another floorboard creak.

"Leaving us so soon, Alba?" Arthur asked.

The hairs on the back of Alistair's neck stood on end.

"Busy. Lots ta do. I gotta run by the market and-"

"Then I'll be quick. Let's make a pact. Us three. That we won't go snatching things what are not ours."

Alistair glared at his brother who glared right back.

"Otherwise," Arthur gave a syrupy smile. "I might decide you have something that I want, Brother. And if it's just a contest of speed and force..." His teeth were sharp in that grin.

And for a horrible moment Alistair envisioned Arthur reaching for him and wrenching his jaw off. Dark energy crackled off of Arthur in waves and Alistair vowed to do tarot reading and soon.

Alfred seemed to realize only then that he'd unleashed something that could spiral out of hand and hastily tried to perform damage control.

He wriggled to gain attention and asked, all sweet concern, "Daddy, are you still tired?"

"A-a little bit, Sweet," Arthur murmured—going docile once more.

Alfred gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms like an airplane, "Me too."

Had to hand it to that manipulative little bastard; they settled in for more rest and Alistair retreated from the room.

He closed the door with a sigh of relief and turned to find a scowling Rhys in the hall. He was a little out of breath and had no doubt been signaled by the dark aura a few moments ago.

He took an oven mitt off to waggle a finger, "I warned you, Alba. Albion's not to be trifled with right now. Don't provoke him. Why do you think I had you and not Reilley here? I trusted you to have more sense."

Read & Review Please : D