Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Lego. Or Facebook. Or Skype. Or the game Parcheesi. Or the song They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa! 1966 novelty record by Jerry Samuels or it's sequel: I'm Happy They're Took You Away, Ha-Haa! (Though I recommend listening to these, trippy as they are.)
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). I'd say this chapter practically oozes drama. Angst. Flashbacks. Dreams. PTSD. Panic Attack. Tyburn Gallows. Jolly boat. Fridge-raiders.
AN: Happy 4th of July! To my fellow Americans (as well as anyone else who feels like joining the bandwagon): May you feast on BBQ, listen to patriotic music, and not lose any limbs by the end of the night. Woooooo! *Confetti Cannon* Thank you for your reviews! They feed me, so Read, Relax, & Review if you can! : D
Chapter 13: Emotional Sabotage
Alfred played cards in the lobby with Tex. They took turns on who was the dealer and who was the player.
They were pretty much alone, save for some old guy who was reading a book and awaiting his appointment, and a receptionist who was absorbed with her phone. It wasn't a problem pilfering the room's toy chest and using Lego bricks as betting chips.
He set down a cracked, green Lego as the next hand began and gazed longingly down the hall to where Arthur was having another session.
"Well?"
Alfred blinked. "Huh?"
"Welllllll?"
"Oh, uh, hit me."
Tex offered him another card.
Al took it and sighed, "I just don't get why he has to have these stupid things. I mean, I know he's having trouble sleeping, but…"
He wished he could tell England that the man just needed to be dog tired. THEN he wouldn't have to deal with nightmares. For some reason it just worked for Alfred—being truly worn out allowed Alfred to skip on over the dream cycle of sleep.
Of course he hadn't been able to do that earlier with England hovering around and enforcing bedtimes. But now that Tex was back, they could stay up late in his room or spend the whole day racing around in the snow outside. With his brother's aid he could reach maximum weariness.
Yesterday morning, they'd had an epic snowball fight. During a truce, they had helped each other build snow fortresses. He'd gotten several sweet pics of each brother's respective side as well as them making badass poses.
It was a shame; before they could do battle, Rhys ordered them back in with the threat of a lecture about hypothermia...and while they were distracted with a spontaneous challenge to play Parcheesi, Reilley and Alistair were tasked with flattening their armaments with snow shovels.
"Dammit Al, I don't wanna play if you're not vested in it," Tex griped as he set the deck down on the table.
Alfred flushed and turned back to his brother. "I'm vested! I just-just…"
His eyes moved to the clock and he felt his anxieties lift a bit: there were only three-scratch that-two more minutes and then Arthur would be free again!
"I-" His ears caught Arthur's voice. He was getting out early!
Alfred threw his cards onto the table and immediately stood up on the drab, flat couch cushions, and turned to see the Brit walking towards him.
Unfortunately, that doctor was still with him., but...he looked his old man over; he seemed okay.
"DAD!" he called and waved.
Arthur broke away from his conversation and frowned. "Alfred?! Don't stand on-You sit down nicely! This instant!"
Here, he'd been agonizing over what kind of head games that doctor was playing on him for the last two hours and...he wasn't even glad to see him...
Alfred's mood soured. His cheeks puffed and he begrudgingly acquiesced. He turned back around and plopped down and made plans to get back at the old man. Maybe he'd ignore him...maybe he'd turn away when he came into view...maybe he'd-
A green sweatered sleeve reached around him and Alfred looked up—surprised to find Arthur breaking furniture rules to lean over the back of the couch to drop a kiss on Alfred's crown. "Thank you. I wouldn't want you to have fallen."
Okay...yeah...if he'd lost his balance and landed on that glass table...he'd have gotten an oh-so-fun opportunity to meet E.R. no...wait...the "A&E" staff.
Arthur released him and walked around the couch. He settled in beside Alfred and raised an eyebrow at the mess of toys.
Alfred groaned, "We're gonna put it all back. Don't nag."
Arthur crossed his arms. "I haven't nagged."
"You were going to. I could sense it."
"Creative use of Legos. I suppose the colors denote different betting amounts?" Dr. Hargreaves guessed.
Alfred stiffened. He had not been expecting the man to walk over now that the appointment was done. He was less than four feet away. Dude...his bubble...his BUBBLE was being breached!
Tex gave the down low of which brick equalled what.
Alfred felt unease twist his stomach and he sank back into the couch a little more. He tried breathing more deeply, but it didn't help.
The man checked his watch. "I still have a little time before my next appointment. Perhaps I can join you in a round?"
America tried to catch his brother's eye to signal a discreet 'No' but failed.
Tex shuffled the deck. "Blackjack. Ya know? 21?"
The man turned to face America. "Any tips for me, Alfred? Is he a card shark?"
The light glinted off the pen tucked behind Dr. Hargreaves's ear.
Alfred froze.
Osha's head tilted and the line of light filtering between the blinds glinted off the pen resting on her ear.
He was so weak, so heavy, so drugged…
But if he could get that pen...he could use it as a weapon.
He tried to prop himself up and his vision blurred.
No. This was someone different. It'd be bad to hurt them, right?
"Alfred?"
He stared.
Maybe he didn't even have to hurt them? Maybe if he could just...get away?
Move. Body. Move. Dammit! He was too freaking slow! A shadow fell over him.
Alfred stared up at the doctor as the man moved forward. The sound of his own breathing muffled everything.
Move.
"...Al?"
"Move dummkopf!" Prussia barked. "Move! You cannot do this in battle! Move! Move! Move! Dammit! America! Move or DIE! If you do this in training, you will do this on the field!"
"Alfred it's al-"
But...
They'd put a redcoat on his targeting dummy...and his hands shook and the rifle dipped.
"-right...perf-"
"P-perhaps not." Dr. Hargreaves replied. "I...I wouldn't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Alfred. I'm so sorry. I never want you to feel-"
It took Dr. Hargreaves quietly reminding Arthur to do some journal exercises and then walking away for Alfred to return to their plane of existence. Alfred realized belatedly that he was trembling and that Arthur's arms were wound tightly around him and his old man was murmuring over and over: "It's alright. It's perfectly alright."
He felt his face heat up as he noticed Tex was staring at him.
"Where'd you go, Al?"
"I just want to leave!" he blurted.
"Kay." Tex stood up, pulled on his jacket, and pocketed his deck of cards. "Arthur, keys?"
"Wot?"
"You want the toys put away. You do it. I'm gonna take Al out for some fresh air and then we'll pile into the car."
In some ways, being out in the cold open air helped. His head cleared, his vision sharpened, his hearing improved.
But then it shot over clarity and entered overload.
Light was too bright. The exhaust from cars, the smell of gravel, the nastiness of a nearby trash can, scents of coffee kept floating by, and then there was the buzzing: the murmurs of too many cellphone conversations all going on at once-
He threw up. Hard. On dirty curbside snow.
Tex whistled. "What'd you eat? Another boot? For kicks this time?"
Alfred laughed weakly. In years past, there'd been times where rations ran so low they were forced to boil boots and saddles. Sometimes Alfred's stomach didn't take it too well.
"S'matter? Left boots, don't agree with you?"
He wanted to laugh at the memory. Instead, another wave of sick left him.
"Good Lord! Are you alright?" Arthur rushed over. He set soothing hands on his back and shoulders.
He nodded weakly.
"Do you want me to get you water? I'm sure I can-"
He shook his head for 'No.'
"Are you certain? It would be no trouble...What was it, love? Was it a sight? A smell? A phrase?"
Damn Arthur's intuition; the man knew he'd been triggered.
Alfred shrugged. Because saying it was all caused by a "pen" was anticlimactic.
Arthur nodded at his laptop's screen.
Mathieu smiled. "It's...it's really helping me. You know, talking things out. Handling my stress in a more productive way."
"I'm glad to hear that."
They'd surprised each other with the admission that each was attending counseling. While he hadn't disclosed all the events that led up to it, Arthur knew choosing to tell was the right decision.
Mathieu had visibly relaxed and began telling him the different coping strategies they'd given him for maintaining healthier boundaries and asserting himself.
"Which is...which is why I wanted…" Mathieu hesitated.
It was still a work in progress. "Yes?"
"I still want you to teach me about the occult, as you said you would...if my interest lasted."
Well, he was persistent.
Arthur still felt a little uneasy about the process, because once somebody delved fully into the occult there was no backing out. He'd have to stress that to the fullest. But...if 'leaving Mathieu out' was causing him great psychological strain, then he had no choice but to include the lad.
He was just wondering aloud about whether the lot of them should migrate over to Kirkland Manor. It'd be horribly understaffed, being an off-season, but the space could be soul-saving.
All the Kirkland Brothers and the North American Brothers under one roof...was...unwise.
Mathieu agreed enthusiastically and Arthur was feeling his own hopes start to buoy.
Mathieu seemed more like himself; positive, earnest...shy, keen on strengthening his bond with Alfred (His words!) and it made Arthur remember the little child who hovered around his knees and tried so hard to be good and quiet and polite.
Arthur paused when he noted Alfred's sullen reflection in his computer. He turned.
"Alfred, don't skulk about in doorways." He motioned for the child to come over and set the box of crackers on the placemat of the seat beside him. Something nice and easy for the boy's tummy. After that round of spewing, they'd foregone a trip to the store to bring him home to rest. Wales had volunteered to go in their stead and after combining their list with his own, warned that he'd likely be gone for some time.
Meanwhile, Alfred, rather than discussing what had caused him such distress, simply left for a nap.
It was eerily reminiscent of his reaction last year after his Sight began returning. Rather than telling Father what had frightened him in the kitchen (or now at the clinic), he'd just left. When he had trouble coping, he isolated himself.
Arthur tapped the placemat again—hoping the child was willing to be comforted now.
"Alfred? Al? You...You haven't been returning my calls. Are you okay?"
Arthur's eyebrows raised in surprise; he'd been refusing to communicate?
Goodness. That's what made things so bloody difficult; sometimes America's silence was deliberate and other times he was muted.
Alfred wore a bland expression in response to that statement and muttered: "Tch...snitch."
Arthur swallowed a sigh. He would let that one go. He cleared his throat loudly and changed the subject. "Well, it'll be good to have you home, Mathieu. We'll...we'll see about giving you both some valuable lessons on magic. Rhys has been developing more safety drills and lectures-"
He was trying his best to simultaneously judge his boys' reactions.
Mathieu looked fairly pleased.
Alfred looked…well...put-out wasn't a strong enough phrase...
"We think Kirkland Manor will work best. Plenty of room for us all. Won't that be nice, sweetling?"
Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "It's your house, you can invite whoever you want."
That was...uncalled for. It was more than just defensive, it was rude. And now their home had become a "house" again. To make matters worse, Mathieu looked wounded.
Yes, Arthur knew they were having troubles (most of which had been instigated by Mathieu this go around), but Alfred wasn't helping anyone with that surly attitude.
"Alfred," he murmured quietly. "I know you're not feeling well, but I won't have you be unpleasant. Maybe you should rest some more if you're not fit to be civil."
Alfred's eyes flashed with something like betrayal.
Arthur was hopelessly caught between them.
Mathieu was still understandably reeling and insecure over his familial origins and under no circumstances did Arthur want him to feel rejected from their very-alive-if-dysfunctional-family, and Alfred was still angered by his brother's many transgressions as of late and disliked what he perceived as Arthur making light of them to favor Mathieu.
Arthur sucked in a breath. He could understand Alfred's resistance. He'd been wronged multiple times in a row.
But as the father figure in their lives, Arthur had to give Mathieu the benefit of the doubt that he was sincere about receiving help and that he wanted to reconnect with them.
He wasn't choosing one over the other. He wasn't.
Arthur reached a hand for Alfred—inviting him to be part of this conversation, to join them.
Alfred's expression didn't flicker but he took a half-step back...and Arthur's heart felt like it was under that cruel little foot. Was this how his mother felt when her sons just couldn't keep the peace between themselves?
"Oi, Al! Where you at?" a Texan voice hollered.
"Kitchen!" Al yelled back.
"Don't shout," Arthur winced at the volume.
"Grab me somethin,' won'tcha?!"
Arthur shook the box of crackers again, but the boy ignored him; he went to the pantry and, judging by the sound, was after crisps.
"Oi, grab the shortbread, too," Scotland ordered as he entered the space to raid the fridge for drinks. He pulled out a pack of sodas. "And chipsticks for Reilley. And maybe something sweeter for you. I don't think shortbread'll do it for yeh."
"Feel free to contribute to the grocery fund," Arthur gritted through his teeth at his brother.
"Hello, Mathieu," Alistair greeted nonchalantly, like Arthur hadn't said anything.
Yes. Arthur knew how maddening sibling relationships could be. But if his boys didn't weed it out now, it'd sprawl into the unruliness that the Kirklands now deemed normal.
"Hello."
Alistair cuffed Alfred lightly on the ear. "You say hello?"
Alfred hugged his pantry finds to his chest as they slipped in his grasp and glared up at his uncle.
Alistair sighed, "I oughta just let you fight it out and be done with it."
Arthur balked. "Alistair?!"
The last thing needed was violence.
"Reilley!" the Scotsman shouted. "Come help Al carry this. Else yeh'll be eating chipsticks off the floor."
The Irishman was grumbling to himself as he came in to rescue his snack choice. He turned on his heel and was about to leave when Scotland chastised him.
"Ack, well don't strain yerself, lass!"
Embarrassed, Reilley came back for several more items.
Alistair then looked down at his American nephew. "Well? Yeh wearin' that face for me special, or do we all get to enjoy gawking at it for the next hour?"
Alfred nodded his head over at Arthur and Mathieu. "They both have shrinks and they're being bossy and wanna psycho-babble me out. I'm s'posed to cave and let them, otherwise I'm not civil."
"Tha' so?" Scotland turned to appraise Arthur.
Arthur choked and, from the sound of it, wasn't alone; a quick glance showed Mathieu looked equally mortified.
Alistair hefted the six-pack of soda onto his shoulder and with his free hand poked and tickled at Alfred while singing, 'They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha ha!'
After a brief chase, America stood still and Alba lifted him (and all the snacks he was carrying).
Alfred giggled shrilly. Considering his task accomplished, Alistair carried him out of the room. While they left, he incited the younger to sing to the sequel verse with him: 'I'm Happy They Took You Away.'
With stiff angry movements, Arthur stood up and gathered the laptop in his arms. "I'm very sorry, Mathieu. Let us continue this in a refined corner of the house."
England tossed and turned and kicked off the blankets. It was the fourth night of sleeping alone and he wasn't handling it much better than the first. Having Alfred so far away was difficult, even when he was irritated with the boy.
Mathieu had been so subdued after the teasing despite Arthur's assurances that there was nothing wrong with them seeking such assistance, that by the time the conversation ended…
Arthur was intent on confronting the American and discussing how very difficult things were going to be on all of them, if they couldn't work something out. And if Alfred couldn't be respectful of counselling.
But Alistair had stopped him in the corridor.
The Scotsman threw his arm out to block him from passing. Alfred was cheering Texas on as he challenged Reilley to Guitar Hero.
"Don't badger him. It's simple. If he doesn't want to learn magic with Mathieu, he doesn't have to."
Arthur glared—alarmed that (from the sound of it) Alfred had confided in his uncle that it was more than a grudge he was feeling. He was planning on outright refusing to share his lesson time with his brother.
"I don't have the time, patience, and energy to give two one-on-one classes a day on the same subject-"
Alistair shrugged. "Then don't."
Arthur stared.
"You teach Mathieu. From what I've heard, tha's what Mathieu's after. He's only been goin' to you about these lessons, right? S'all about you bein' the one to teach him? Right? So teach him. See what it is he wants out of it."
"And what about Alfred?" Like his son would take that lying down. It reeked of favoritism.
"Like I said, it's simple. You teach Mathieu."
"But-"
"I'll teach Alfred."
He'd been so angered by that, he seethed most of the night away.
His tone. His goddamn tone! The presumption that he'd do a better job than Arthur! When Arthur knew well his teaching methods! Had a plethora of poor childhood memories as a result!
And then there was the idea of it!
Giving his child up…
He was just supposed to give him up?
Never.
He fell into a fitful sleep.
The ship was a lost cause: pierced through the bilge by the mast of a previous wreck.
His hand clenched into a fist. They'd sailed unknowingly into a ship graveyard and would now join it.
His vessel was sinking. The hull was utterly breached and an oil lamp had fallen and set the cargo aflame. Sailors were abandoning their posts and the few passengers aboard had taken the jolly boat.
Those unlucky enough to be on board were now risking their lives by swimming through shark infested waters for the shore.
Admiral Kirkland watched the chaos unfolding with resigned disappointment. A flicker of movement caught his eye.
There. On the deck railing, leaning against a swivel gun (like it was a toy rather than a dangerous firearm), was America...no...Roanoke.
England's stomach flopped with fear. Arthur forced air into his lungs and started across the deck toward him because this was no place for the child to be. If he moved swiftly, he may yet be able to demand a spot on the small jolly boat for his son.
When the child noticed him, he stood up on the railing. His ragged gown clung to him and his tiny bare feet tottered with the violent motions of the sea.
The ship rocked dangerously in her death throes and Arthur was all too aware that the child could fall backwards into the waves at any moment.
Throat dry, he hoarsely beckoned for the child to come over to him. The commotion drowned him out.
The ship tilted as it began to capsize. He fought gravity to run up and grip the railing. The child was balanced precariously. He looked over into his father's face and voice heavy with disappointment murmured: "You didn't come. I waited for you...but you didn't come."
There was a crash as a mast went smashing down.
Arthur cursed as he searched the growing wreckage for something he and his child could float on.
There! A barrel.
He looked up—intending to tell the child to hold onto him and he'd slide down and get them to safety.
But the child was gone.
Arthur woke with a gasp. The house's creaking from winter winds reminded him of the ship's timber groaning ominously. Without delay, he sped down the hall.
He stared at the closed door and swallowed thickly. He'd just...take a peek. Make sure he was in bed and safely tucked in and then he'd leave.
He tried to open the door as quietly as possible.
"Well, at least you made it to 5 am," Alfred murmured softly in the darkness.
He blinked. "You...O Alfie, you should've come over."
"...you hungry?"
Several minutes later and a trip downstairs, Arthur yawned as he put the kettle on. He then went hunting for a can opener.
Alfred pulled out and plugged in the toaster. While the boy hunted down a space heater, Arthur opened the breadbox and selected thick slices.
Alfred was still terribly waifish. Arthur knew now that stress made the boy lose weight; which explained why (in the past) he'd never seemed as concerned about his weight gain as Arthur had.
Alfred knew something stressful would happen and it would all fall off. Definitely not a healthy way to regulate weight, but that was a matter to address in the future.
Arthur pulled out the frying pan and took out a package of sausages. He assured his son several times over that he did NOT need help making a simple breakfast and for him to set the table.
Arthur felt his spirits lift as he slid meat from the pan onto Alfred's plate and the toaster pinged in the background.
It was comfortably domestic sitting like this. Arthur at the head of the kitchen table, Alfred at his right.
Alfred didn't complain as he ate around the blackened bits of meat and mopped up beans with his slice of toast. "This reminds me of when I had to work out in the fields. Having to get up super early to eat something or I'd putter out before mid-morning."
"Oh?" Arthur sipped at his tea.
"Yup. If I ate quick and got out the door; it meant I'd be out with the crops before Tex came staggering down. He's not a morning person."
As if to confirm that statement, Texas appeared in the entrance of the kitchen with his glasses askew. "You...made food."
Alfred nodded. "Yup."
"Do we...hafta...be somewhere?" It was like it cost the brunet dearly to force out each word
"Nope."
He got a sour look, grumbled several inappropriate things in Spanish, and then said, "I'm going back to bed."
"Love you, Sunshine," Alfred replied cheekily. "Always."
Tex grumbled a very begrudging "love you, too" before he slunk away.
After sharing a laugh at the Texan's expense, they put their dishes in the sink, and then went to climb up onto the trampoline and watch the weather channel's broadcast for the day.
There were so many things he wanted to ask: the contents of the child's bad dream and whether it had anything to do with his anxiety attack at the clinic or his...tantrum at Mathieu's impending inclusion in magic training. Whether the child was feeling...jealous...and what they could do to make him feel more secure.
He touched the wheat blond hair gently. He loved him dearly. There was no need to fear displacement; love wasn't a finite resource.
The child smiled at him and poked fun at the weatherman's outfit. He looked expectantly at his father to join in on the sport.
There was so much to address, but he was loathe to spoil the good mood.
And the man was such an easy target. An ascot, really, whatever was he thinking?
To say Rhys was agitated was an understatement. Being in close quarters with so many potent auras was exhausting him. His work trips to Parliament were almost a reprieve.
It was tiresome even with his brothers, whom he at least knew well. Having to deal with a Texas who was...in flux...was just maddening. His aura just wouldn't settle. It was like a dust devil that touched down and lifted up and...
One minute he was calm and still and the next...like the sail of a ship; he filled out with the breeze and jolted the vessel forward.
And now...NOW!
He didn't mean to eavesdrop. He'd dropped his favorite sterling silver pen and it rolled under the couch from the living room (which was now cluttering the parlor since the trampoline had been erected). It was so far under he had to walk over to the other side to better reach. He was just trying to retrieve it when two pairs of feet stopped.
The lightup shoes were a dead giveaway...as were the boots and spurs.
"I just… I dunno, Tex...I'm having second thoughts."
"What? Whaddyamean?"
"Bro, you saw me the other day. I totally froze up. I...I can't...lead you somewhere if I know there's a possibility I could just switch off like that. It wouldn't be right. I'd never forg-"
"Al, I believe in you 212 percent."
"Look, maybe you're right and I'll shake this off in a few more weeks, but...I think we gotta have some kind of backup plan. I mean, we can test the waters? See how he reacts to some of it, and then decide whether or not to bring him in."
"That there is a bad idear."
"It's just...Dad's...done a lot for me lately and he hasn't complained even once about it. He...wasn't lying when he said I could tell him stuff. I've...really tested that out. It...it feels like he's in it for the long haul. I mean, he didn't even cuss me out for yesterday. I totally lost my cool in his Skype session with Ma-"
"Are you real sure, though?"
Alfred sounded annoyed as he said, "I thought you were okay with him? That you were over the bar fight and everything?"
"I AM. I want you to have bonds and stuff..."
"Then what's the issue?"
The boots moved restlessly. "Nuthin,' it's just the miles per hour you're travelin' at. S'little risky is all."
"W-whaddya mean?"
The toes of the boots scuffed at the floor. "Geez, I dunno if I should say. I don't want you to take it weird."
"Nonono...no...I...I always value your opinion. Sometimes you see stuff I don't."
"I just...I could be wrong but…"
The sneakers moved around. "Just say it. Whatever it is, just say it. Band Aid rip. Go!"
"I mean, it just kinda seems like you're rushing into it."
"...I don't understand. Say it a different way."
"I just...I mean, I've seen you and listened to you a lot when you were drunk. You...have a lot of stuff wrapped up in the idea of family-ness and what a father is s'posed to do. And, granted, Artie is making a hell of an effort. Now. But is this a longterm thing? Or a short term thing?"
The sneakers were perfectly still. "You...you don't think...it'll last?"
"I ain't trying to be mean, Al. To be perfectly honest, I don't think Papi-dearest on my end is gonna hold up either. Spain's got the attention span of a gnat. He's gonna move on."
"England's not Spain!" Alfred argued heatedly.
"I'm not trying to make you upset. I just wanna point out that, no matter how you slice it...your Daddy is STILL the guy who didn't want to see you free."
Alfred's feet staggered back.
Texas continued, "He pointed a gun at you in the rain...you used to tell me that a lot...and then you got your eye shot out in Round 2…"
Rhys hardly breathed.
Yes. Arthur could be very controlling. And yes, England had been loathe to part with his colony, but...phrasing it that way...was unfair.
Alfred swallowed thickly and his aura went sickly. "I...thanks...different vantage points are always...t-thanks, they're...valid concerns."
Rhys's eyebrows came together; this sounded frightfully like emotional sabotage.
Arthur sighed when his head hit the pillow that night. Was it a little pathetic that he was missing his child's company so strongly?
After their cozy breakfast, Arthur was surprised to have Alfred spend most of the day away from him. He'd thought he'd have a chance for a heart to heart with him, but instead the boy went on the town with Alistair and Texas.
Scotland probably did it on purpose, knowing full well how much it irked England to not be the "Fun One" in Alfred's estimation. And considering Alistair's plan to usurp Arthur's role as mentor…
His teeth gnashed.
Meanwhile, Rhys kept trying to corner Arthur for "something important" but he was in no mood to hear about auras and whatnot. Reilley had gone to Parliament to meet with Northern Ireland advisers; though his business didn't stop him from posting a complaint every time Alfred updated Facebook with some fun activity: snowmen, snow angels, the park, a movie.
Which only deepened Arthur's own feelings of resentment...
Alfred, Texas, and Alistair missed lunch and dinner and the empty space at his table bothered Arthur enough that he went out to eat...and earned a passive-aggressive text from Rhys about running out on him.
He walked around, smiled at postcard-perfect families, sat down at a cafe and worked on his journal exercises. The assignment was: listing things that used to make him frustrated and don't anymore alongside a list of things that currently vex him. He was supposed to see if there were any patterns or coping skills he'd applied to a previous situation that might serve him well now.
He decided to list his present irritants first. Since listing every skirmish that irritated him would fill the book, he selected key ones here and there with a mix of other things. The Hundred Years War was on there. Obviously. Lasted so bloody long. Napoleon too. Both World Wars, of course. He had a long history of conflict with the Middle East. Ugh, McDonald's and the rise of the fast-food industry in general. People who let their pets wee on others' lawns. Unkempt hair, clothes, rooms.
It was allowed to be as thorough as he wanted from the most important: the frustration, guilt, and rage he felt when he was helpless to protect those he loved.
To trivial: When take away restaurants didn't include plastic silverware and the food choice made it vital; like soup, or rice, or spaghetti, or salads, or things drenched in sauce...
When he finished and read the list over, he noted with a start that he'd left off the American Revolution.
His jaw dropped.
1812 was still on there but…
He lifted the pen to add it in but...He…
An old iron key...
Wasn't…
To a monument of love...
Angry…
A sun faded flag in a room made just for him...
Anymore…
"...I just thought you didn't love me anymore…"
It was never: 'I stopped loving you…'
Heart hurting, he pulled his cellphone out and without really thinking the matter through rapidly typed: I miss you.
The second after he pushed SEND, he felt a backlash of anger at himself for being so selfish. He was spoiling Alfred's good fun. And didn't the child deserve fun without his paranoid father trying to guilt him about it? What was Arthur think-
The phone vibrated immediately, barely a minute after his message.
Then come home already :(
Home…
I'm on my way. He wrote back.
He gathered his items and rushed to the station. Jumped the last few steps of various staircases and willed his legs to move faster.
When Arthur returned, he gave his coat a vigorous, obligatory shake before bringing it in to hang. He'd moved to the staircase to sit down and remove his shoes and found Alfred already sitting there—leaning against the banister; head bowed, knees tucked up under his chin and his arms were tight around his legs.
He'd seen frozen children in such positions during brutal winters. Children with nowhere to go, no warmth to be found and sheltered in.
His dream fluttered through his brain.
"I waited for you…but you didn't come..."
And he thought of poor Roanoke…who died waiting...
Of Kirkland Hall that rotted away as it was waiting...
He sat down and pulled off his shoes—tossing them to the side instead of carefully arranging them near the door. Then he pulled the sleeping child into his lap and cradled him.
Alfred curled up and there was something sweet and sad in it. Arthur wished in vain that his body temperature was warmer (being out in the evening air had chilled him). His cold embrace was making the little one shiver but the child didn't cringe from him.
His son gradually awakened and they exchanged pleasantries. Arthur hoped disappointment didn't ring in his voice. The child sighed as he rested his head against him. There was something so...somber in the action and Arthur held him close.
He carried the boy to the Living Room where it would be warmer and that was it. That was all the interaction they had. He'd watched numbly as their tender moment was forgotten and Alfred scampered to Tex's side. Two hours later, Arthur hoped to rekindle some of that affection by tucking him in but was waved away when it was time for bedtime; the boy wanted to play through to the end of a board game.
"Reilley'll cheat if we leave it until tomorrow!"
"I will," the Irishman promised cheerfully.
Arthur retired for the evening. Alone.
He reached a hand into the gap of the headboard and mattress and pulled Fluff, the un-Favorite rabbit, from its depths.
He sighed and wrapped an arm around the thing.
Then he sighed and turned his light off.
He nearly groaned in frustration at being back in the Elizabethan era. He wandered from a leisure game of archery and slipped into the woods—happy to exchange the cheers of spoiled dukes for the twitters of wild birds.
Still, it was a surprise to watch his forest morph into the North East woods of Massachusetts.
Though it meant he was likely entering one of Alfred's nightmares...he was almost grateful. At least he got to escape his own.
Thunder rolled overhead and there was something sinister in the air.
Goodness, was he going to stumble out and witness a witch trial memory?
Two men rushed toward him and he instinctively went into a defensive stance, but they ran past.
Judging by the wardrobe, they were not in the 1690s but the 1770s? Late 1770s?
On a personal note, he was more than a little relieved that his ruff, doublet, and hose went unnoticed.
He felt his mood improve as he approached a small, dimly familiar village and saw his flag everywhere. And then his spirits sank as he realized he must've been wrong and it was the early 1770s, right before their troubles escalated to irreconcilable heights. And they were probably going to relive a painful scene from their past.
Only…
Green eyes went wide; the windows of shops were broken and the acrid smell of smoke was in the air.
He released a startled gasp—the crops had been burnt and several homes were little more than cinders.
He realized with alarm that the town had been attacked. Nearly leveled!
And he felt a well worn spark of anger at that.
Was it the natives? The French?
There were King's men stationed here and there and a clear sense of foreboding lingered like mist.
There was fear on the people's faces as they struggled to salvage possessions. Several children were injured, yet the soldiers did nothing.
Arthur's chest puffed. Admiral Kirkland was about to give them a brutal upbraiding, when he turned to see what could be so bloody interesting over there that they felt justified in ignoring innocents.
A Tyburn Gallows…
Capable of hanging 24 convicts at a time…
And it had been put to use...
He frowned, unsure of when Alfred had seen one. It certainly wasn't with him. He made a point not to take his young colonies through Tyburn. And he hadn't thought the idea of it had come over to America…
Then it hit him.
He stood in quiet numb surprise and realization: this was a nightmare where America had lost...
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