Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or the Lenape legend of Rainbow Crow. Or Walmart. Or Woman in Gold. Or Force Majeure. Or Shaun the Sheep. Or Les Visiteurs. Or Play Doh. Or Call of Duty, Halo, or Mario. Or Kleenex, Dimetapp, Robitussin,
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable
inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Governor Andros...whom we can blame for all sorts of colonial resentments. Some hard playful poking at French cinema. Not everyone appreciates AA's Step 9...cough Tex...Fluff. Drama. Angst. More Angst. Texas keepin' it real.
AN: Thank you for your reviews! Hope all my fellow Americans had a great Thanksgiving and survived Black Friday! : DDD And now I've got to get back to my studies. Semester's wrapping up and there's an absurd amount of work for me to do on final projects. We'll see when I can update again. Have fun on that cliffhanger XD
Chapter 24: Little Mr. Sassy Britches
Arthur hummed as he rocked the chair and tried not to think about the folk story Alfred had told him earlier.
Arthur doubled his pace to get them inside as the temperature dropped.
Alfred looked skyward. "'Do not be sad,' the Creator whispered through the breeze. 'When People come they will not prize you for your plumage or savor your scorched flesh. Your beautiful voice is hoarse now. They will not call you a songbird. And so they will never cage you, Rainbow Crow. I have made it so you will remain free..."
It was hard not to see correlations as to why Alfred would connect with that tale and relay it so masterfully. Like he knew full well how Rainbow Crow felt and considering all the things America's leaders had persuaded him to sacrifice...
"See!?"
Arthur didn't release him, but obligingly leant over, comically enough that Alfred giggled as he snatched up the dark feather.
He turned it over. "It's harder to see here because your sunshine is so moody but-wait! Here! See! Look!"
Arthur nodded at the purple and green shine and made sure to compliment it as "Lovely."
Blue eyes lit up at this "correct" answer and Alfred chatted happily—words tumbling out of his mouth. As if he'd been afraid to share such things before.
And it wasn't hard to remember why.
England was already agitated and trying not to step on an America, who was determined to be underfoot.
Little hands tugged at the buckles fastening England's boots. "Daddy, wet me come wif you. I can help. I pwomise, I can help. I did this. I have done this ere your awwival. See, John-"
Green eyes flashed. "I do not want you near them. You've seen first hand what treachery they're capable of-"
"But I know things. And if I go wif you they'll know it's not atliyóhslaˀ and-"
Arthur stopped and whipped around and Alfred bumped into him. "Do not use that devil language, it's how they'll corrupt you."
Alfred's blue eyes were huge in his small pale face.
Arthur struggled to reign in his temper. "You're an English subject and you'll speak English."
Arthur ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
"I hate him." There were angry tears in his colony's eyes.
Arthur's hand wavered as he held the teapot, because that was an awfully bold declaration from his tenderhearted Alfred.
"Why? Whatever did Governor Andros do to earn such venom, my Sweet?" He resumed pouring his child some tea.
"He-he said...he said…"
"Yes, darlingheart?"
"That we aren't Englishmen!" he sobbed. "He said-he said the M-magna...C-carter is-isn't for us and our rights...our rights…"
Andros was a very unpopular figure in the colonies, but he was steadfastly loyal to the crown and an effective administrator.
Arthur had tried his best to promote a middle stance on that. That yes, the colonists were ultimately beholden to King's will in all things. But that didn't mean they were expendable to the Empire at all.
He tried to explain it in terms a child would understand, so he settled for parent and child analogies.
That England's government was a father to its colonies much as Arthur was to Alfred.
Only the child had pierced it to the bone, "It doesn't feel like love."
Alfred had been able to talk frankly about love then. In ways, he still wasn't able to now…
"...English enough to be owned…" But never enough to be an Englishman.
So many mistakes…
He'd made so many mistakes…
But there was still time to fix them. He had to believe that.
The feather was still on the side table next to him.
Terrible memories had bled through as Alfred chatted about his earliest years.
Living in burrows and hollowed out trees…
Albion had memories like that...following Mother's death and various fights with Alba that spurred him to seek such accommodations free from brotherly authority.
It was different for Arthur. He'd nursed a burning resentment for all he'd lost and a determination that he would gain it back and more. And he made good on that.
Maybe he'd been wrong all these years, maybe Arthur was the real radical between them.
For Roanoke there'd been a weary acceptance that this was the life Sky Mother allotted to him. It was the price he paid for being born "wrong." And he made do—prizing the phosphorescent rocks and the soft scraps of deerskin Osha brought him...to make those dark, barren spaces tolerable.
Little fingers gathered shells from seashores and smooth stones and claws and bones and broken glass from sailors' bottles...because when the sun hit them right...these fragments of rubbish transformed them to treasures and a young America liked to think the right lighting did the same for him too...and an older America cursed the gloomy weather that never let him shine on England's shores.
It hurt Arthur to think of Alfred after 1812. Healing up...healing wrong...no...scarring...in a house filled with fragments…
Living with just "enough." Arthur could never live like that…
He'd survived during times of war like that...but he could never just...live...
On bits of lumber and metal and scraps…
Miscellaneous furniture and unfinished trimmings…
Chimneys that weren't used…
Rooms that never heard happy voices...
Against his will, he was reminded of when the Angles and Saxons arrived and called the walled Roman cities, like Londinium, tombs for the dead.
And Arthur couldn't bear for his Kirkland Hall, his son's tribute to him, to ever be a mausoleum.
Arthur felt another painful pull for him to make Kirkland Hall a happy, cozy place. He'd already begun knitting doilies for it. He'd thought about simply sharing the surplus of the ones he'd had but…
Fragments…
Scraps…
Castoffs…
The house was overdue for some present-day, personalized TLC as it were.
His brothers' teasings about "nesting" made his ears ring as he remembered them. He'd seen enough broody birds pluck at their breast feathers in efforts to try and make their nests softer and warmer.
Was it so terrible to want safe places for…
He glanced down at the warm weight in his arms.
For several hours, Alfred had bounded about with delight and accomplishment—feeling fulfilled for upholding his "promise" and vowing that he'd do even better at a later date.
It made his heart flutter to hear his son speak so cheerily of the future. Before he'd reference it abstractly in the context of future business deals or celebratory events like his Halloween galas.
This was a small, personal promise—maybe next week or the one after. And the immediacy of it just…
To know Alfred would be there...front and center in his life once more…
That they'd wake up in the morning and they'd break their fasts and there'd be no desks between them for business talk—no hashing out of international trade policies.
Following their flight, the child hungered for stories and games and movies and...Arthur…
Arthur's presence was sought for all. It made him reminisce about Alfred's colonial days when he'd been treated like the sun of the child's skies. There was something familiar about his zest...but Arthur couldn't pinpoint what it was precisely.
He reveled in every moment of it though. It was like cradling sunshine. Impossible and yet...happening and he wasn't about to question it or let go.
However, it wasn't long before the elder nation noticed the fever bright intensity of those blue eyes...
And now that the child was cuddled against his chest and sleeping, Arthur could hear the slight sniffle as he breathed.
Arthur exhaled in frustration and pulled the blanket tightly around the little one.
He should not have conceded to Alfred's wishes. His fall through the ice, the strain of a flight, his vulnerability to the season…
He was taking ill.
"It seems like a cold, sir," Nancy confirmed after he'd called her over.
Arthur glared.
"Rest should see it-"
He stood and left her in the room.
Angry as he was with himself for allowing this to happen, he blamed her too.
She was the professional, she should've detected it first.
As he neared their quarters, he crooned, "Love, how bout you put your jimjams on?"
"Huh? Why?" Alfred blinked sleepily and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Arthur grimaced and fished out a handkerchief, "Blow."
Alfred obeyed, but insisted it was just dust allergies.
When Arthur decided to put his own pajamas on because he was feeling "tired," he was amused to see Alfred follow suit as he'd hoped he would. The boy always had a tendency of playing follow-the-leader with him whether it was in ordinary life or in lawmaking policies.
"See, I've got stripes too," the boy compared their sleeves.
Arthur nodded, "Very handsome on you."
The boy flashed a smile that showed off his missing tooth.
And Arthur hadn't realized his son had been self-conscious until that point—that he'd been careful to give close-lipped smiles or open ones that didn't expose the bottom row of teeth.
He'd have to work at chipping away that obsession with body image.
But for now, he'd ask what had been niggling at his thoughts since their little flight. "Love, who's Ginnie?"
"Virginia," Alfred responded immediately. "Virginia, my friend. Mine. I could feel it. The blood in her. Like no one before. Mine. Before I lost her. I don't know for sure what happened to her though...I lost her...and I forgot..."
And Arthur knew with frightful certainty who she'd been: Virginia Dare. His first colonist born in the new colony...and lost.
Alfred grinned. "She'd play with me. Everybody else was suspicious of me, but not her. I remember...I remember how they'd chase me away with stuff, but I always came back...I probably shouldn't have floated up to the loft and knocked on its window shutter but...there was lots of stuff I did back then because...I just didn't know better, yet."
Pain surged at that. Because, of course he didn't. He was just a baby. His insides writhed with a venomous hate for them...them who'd harmed his child...them who'd kept Arthur from him.
And it hurt to think...she…
He thought of all the times he'd knelt before her and kissed her ringed hand.
All the times he'd promoted her to doubting diplomats.
All the times he'd sat beside her and poked fun at the various actors attempting to do justice to Shakespeare's works.
All the times he'd fought in her defense, working to unravel various plots that dared to center around her and...
All the while she'd deceived him...delayed him...
She, who'd known how much he longed for…
He smoothed the lapels of the child's pajamas.
Beautiful bairn.
Precious.
He cupped the child's face.
Like he'd ever needed something as obvious as the sun to point it out.
Alfred was one of the last people left at the dinner table because Tex and Mattie had gone off to talk and bone broth was just so tasty and Arthur had been surprisingly enthusiastic about him having a third helping.
Though he'd had to accept a nasty spoonful of Robitussin too because Arthur was convinced he was catching something.
Even after their plates were whisked away, Arthur and Rhys continued sitting nearby. They were still discussing their citizens' growing distrust of governmental bureaucracy and fears of terrorist infiltration, when Alfred left.
Because yeah...he had enough of that of his own to worry about without his paranoia going to town here too. And right before he and Tex had to go the airport and take their chances.
Plus, he wanted to make sure Alistair wasn't still pissed off with him before he had to leave.
He knocked on the door twice before barging into the blue, white, and plaid decked bedroom.
But his uncle wasn't there. Though the dreaded haggis book was.
With a morbid fascination, he approached it from where it was laying almost innocuously on his uncle's bed.
The fiendish compilation of putrid recipes...he shuddered.
He didn't know all of his dad's childhood history, but he'd gleaned enough to know that Scotland was largely responsible for raising him. And considering the Scot's immunity to bizarre cuisine, it was no wonder why his Dad's cooking sucked so hard.
As he cautiously flipped through its pages, he realized it wasn't a cookbook at all. It was a—
"Gramarye," he breathed with a sudden forceful epiphany.
He let it fall from his hands and it bounced on the covers.
A Gramarye...but it wasn't a Grand Witch's…
It wasn't the one he needed to find.
The one that wasn't behind the chimney with his other spellbooks as it should've been if his instructions had been followed to a T.
The one he needed if he was to stand any chance against his former family who were far stronger magic practitioners than himself.
If he was to turn the tide of the war, he'd need to remove the opportunity for them to take advantage—magically.
He blinked...but they weren't...at war...anymore.
He shook his head, tried to force down the memories, and left the room. He'd ponder on it all later when he and Tex were Stateside.
Until then he wanted every remaining moment—
"There you are, love," Arthur's green eyes crinkled fondly. "We're about to start a movie and we-"
He perked up and rushed toward him.
But Arthur took a half-step back and gripped the wall.
And Alfred stopped short.
Maybe...he was coming on too strong…maybe it was good they were leaving and Arthur could have a break.
He'd thought Arthur was enjoying their time together, but maybe...
He rocked on his heels unsurely.
It was fine; he was an exhausting person to be around. He'd heard that plenty of times. He'd get a hug from Tex who never minded his exuberance and liked using his momentum to swing him around—especially now that he was smaller and there was less chance of property damage.
"My ankle's smarting," Arthur offered sheepishly.
Alfred looked up sharply. Had he landed him too hard after their flight?
"Twisted it the other day."
"...oh...I'm sorry."
"Trust a Yankee," Arthur chuckled as he picked him up, careful to compensate for his bad leg, "To apologize for something completely beyond his control."
It was s'posed to start a tip-for-tap about how Brits like Arthur would say "sorry" even if they were the one who was run into and how Americans would apologize for bad weather.
But…
He didn't want to argue…
Even if it was just pretend...
"If I'm too heavy...I can walk."
"Heavy," he scoffed and snuggled him—pressing his face into Alfred's hair. "I'd lose you to a high wind."
The movie was a bust. It was some foreign thing Mattie had the hots to see because Francis gave it accolades.
Alfred never trusted Francis's movie tastes. Ever. His people could never end them right. Either they'd conclude them despite tons of plot holes or just before things got good. OR...nothing happened. It'd be an hour and a half of...domestic NOTHING. Time Alfred could never get back.
He supposed if he was stuck in cinema hell and had to choose a French one, he'd begrudgingly watch Les Visiteurs again.
Texas and Scotland barely made it fifteen minutes in before they were snoring.
Lightweights.
Reilley and Rhys were looking over maps for the May Day trip and jotting down supplies they'd need to gather for it.
Mathieu was seated on the other side of Arthur. The two were drinking tea and chatting with an ease that suggested it was a familiar routine.
And Alfred could feel all the years he'd been gone.
Because there was a synchronization there that he just couldn't pick up on. They knew how to hush at certain dramatic moments and then comment about lines the characters made and supplement them with knowledge about philosophy and museums and...high art stuff that...flew right over Alfred's head.
And their eyes were so bright and animated...so glad to have someone to talk to…
He'd tried to join in a couple of times and they humored him but…
They were Louvre-Museum-visitor-people and he was a...well...Play-Doh Barber Shop dude.
It usually didn't bother him but…
The fact that he was being showed up so easily...so...lazily…
It was one thing if somebody outright beat him in an activity; scored more points than him in boxing, ran faster than him in running, chose the right number to bet on.
But this...
As the credits rolled, Mathieu noticed he was staring hard at him and smiled. He hesitantly reached over and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "I...I'm really glad you're alright, Al."
Tch.
"..."
Arthur looked at him expectantly. "Alfred?"
"..."
"Alfred," Arthur gave him a firm poke. "Have you naught to say?"
"...Thankssss," he hissed. Even though he'd have made it out of that pond by himself eventually...probably...maybe.
Arthur frowned.
Alfred crossed his arms and looked away. It wasn't fair that Mathieu had gotten to be the hero. Let alone in the right circumstances that somehow won him Arthur's approval. Alfred had saved plenty of people riiiight in front of the old goat and never received such blatant gratitude!
Arthur sighed and then made an exaggerated yawn.
Oh no! Alfred looked at the clock in horror.
10:00 p.m.
Arthur stood up and stretched. "Goodness! It's grown so late. I think we ought to retire for the evening."
"But-but-but!"
Arthur gathered him into his arms.
Mathieu gestured at the T.V. "Thank you, Arthur….Alfred. Al, I...I know those movies aren't high octane exciting, but...I really appreciate that you... Thanks."
Arthur sniffed, "Alfred can do without explosions for one night. Besides, I was quite curious. I do want to see that other one though, if you're interested, Woman in Gold?"
Mathieu nodded attentively, "Yes. Or Force Majeure-"
"Are there any fun movies?" Alfred demanded. "Feel good ones? Ones that'll be-be good?"
And keep his Southwestern brother awake? Tex had been snoring for the past half hour.
Arthur's lips twitched. "You know? I need someone heroic to watch Shaun the Sheep with me."
Alfred's cheeks puffed with displeasure.
"Well, search no longer," Reilley laughed from across the room. "Rhys would be happy to watch it with you." He elbowed the Welshman. "Hell, I think he already owns it. Ordered it special and everything."
His uncle didn't deny it and went a rather interesting shade of pink.
Still, the worst part of the night came when his dad carried him upstairs, and he couldn't pretend tomorrow was forever away.
"I...I can sleep in my own bed," he forced himself to say.
Arthur looked a little stunned and murmured that he'd only been teasing earlier.
"We can watch whatever film you like tomorrow, Sweet. It's just good to take turns. It's fair."
Alfred chewed his lower lip. "I know. I just…" can't hope to sneak off without you noticing if I'm riiiight next to you.
Arthur tucked him in and read him a few stories and told him several times, when Alfred kept asking for one more hug, that the door would be open if Alfred changed his mind or had a bad dream or anything.
Arthur also turned on three more nightlights to "lead" the way if needed.
It was several hours before Alfred felt it was "safe" to start moving. He closed and locked the door between their rooms and began packing.
He wrote a letter by nightlight that he hoped explained enough for there to not be hard feelings but that was also vague enough not to be a betrayal of Tex's plan.
His phone vibrated.
U ready, yet?
Alfred typed back, Where u ?
Where 4 RThou?
Alfred, glanced out his window and saw his brother give a wave from below.
It wasn't easy fitting his suitcase out of the window. Or floating down without dropping his stuff or banging into anything...which could set off red flags and panic for the household with fears of a break-in.
"Goddamn, that is a neat trick," Tex declared in a hushed tone of awe. "Now, let's get to gettin.' I gotta cab that'll meet us, but we gotta hoof it partway."
A cold wind blew and Alfred pulled on his gloves. "Right."
Alfred looked up at his bedroom, up at the glow from the nightlights that Arthur had left on for him, up at everything he was leaving behind.
His vision blurred.
"Al?"
He wiped his face roughly. "Right."
He soldiered on.
Arthur tossed and turned.
England swallowed nervously and tried to keep his expression calm and pleasant.
Somehow all the wards he'd raised had returned to childhood and were under his roof once more.
It should've filled him with euphoria but…
His London flat was soooo small…and somehow he was the only adult present…
No servants this time...
No brothers…
No...substantial staggering in the children's age ranges…
He'd always been rather fortunate that he'd raised them in waves. Certain children had been older and available to watch the younger ones.
All of them were eight or under now.
New Zealand and Australia were fussy toddlers he was trying to feed.
Mathieu was off quietly reading to his stuffed animals.
Jamaica and Barbados were arguing over dolls.
Hong Kong, Wy, and Sealand were infants. He gave their cradles a rocking whenever he walked past.
More of his wards were in playpens that were stationed all over the room. He'd already counted five! Each with several little ones inside! Malta gave him an adorable smile around her teething ring.
He smiled back and tried not to panic.
He needed his brothers.
It was a difficult fact to accept. But he just couldn't care for all these precious darlings without them. He just couldn't allot the necessary time each one needed to be properly—
He wrinkled his nose as one ward began undressing himself and waved his trousers triumphantly over his head.
The rascal.
"Daddy! You're not watching me!" A seven-year-old America sulked from where he was sitting on the counter with his violin.
England sighed as he dipped a spoon into the baby food jar. "Love, Daddy's got to feed them right now." Or they'd all suffer from dual caterwauling. Jet had always been loud. But Jake, while usually quiet, had an impressive set of lungs when he put them to use.
"But Daddy!"
"Maybe later, when I've put them down for their nap. Alright, poppet?"
The doorbell rang.
He looked down at his food splattered clothes and apron. He was not fit to answer.
It rang again.
Bugger.
"I got it! The Hero is on the job!" The violin was set down carefully and then the child hopped down and sped off.
"Wait, Alfie!"
He toweled his hands off only—Australia coughed. His heart stopped and he had to wait and make sure the little one wasn't choking.
To his great relief a few careful pats released a burp.
Only…
He realized then that little socked feet hadn't come racing back.
His heart began to pound.
"Alfie?"
He didn't hear any voices. No back and forth. No annoying adult voiced salesman pitch. No saucy retort from his little Mr. Sassy Britches.
He hurried to the door.
"Alfie?"
The door creaked from where it was left yawning open to the outside world.
"ALFIE?!"
No sign of his son anywhere.
Stolen!
"NO!" he screeched at the ceiling. He gasped for breath and then squinted at the clock.
Blast, his vision was acting up. He pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and fished out his glasses.
It was just a little past two; he checked his own forehead with a shaky hand. He'd sweated through his clothes. Was he coming down with something, too?
He noticed that Alfred had shut the door to his room. As he'd made a very big deal of keeping the door open on the off chance of more Gryms, it was odd and disconcerting.
Had Arthur's nightmares been loud? But...the child would've woken him up if he'd overheard...
"Alfie?" He called groggily.
He wrestled his way out of the twisted sheets and got out of bed and grimaced. The cold was doing his ankle no favors.
He'd taken three steps before realizing, he didn't sense his child at all.
He wrenched the door open, breaking its simple lock, and turned on the lights.
On the bed was a simple letter. So simple it tormented him with all the possibilities it opened.
Daddy,
I hate leaving like this.
I'm not in trouble but I must go.
Forgive me.
Love,
Alfred
He made the emergency known.
Arthur tapped his fingers nervously from where he was sitting fully dressed at the kitchen table.
Mr. Gray and Nancy were in the next room over making calls to Parliament and the American Embassy to see if there'd been any emergencies across the pond.
If it wasn't for his dream, he'd have left immediately. If his brothers weren't ready in the next ten minutes, he'd still do so. To hell with the dream's warning about getting in over head...alone...
Footsteps approached.
"Texas?" He asked sharply as Scotland came toward him.
"No, he's gone too. Luggage and all."
Like Alfred.
It wasn't the fae, then.
"They left together," Rhys confirmed as he pulled on his boots. "The cameras caught them. I recorded it on my phone and sent you a link."
Arthur swiped his finger across his phone's screen.
The footage was slightly grainy but…
Arthur pursed his lips.
He watched as Alfred looked up, started to move away...and looked up one more time and rubbed his face with the sleeve of his jacket.
He dialed his son's phone number repeatedly, but the boy didn't answer.
Reilley carried the rubbish bin from Alfred's room down and they found earlier drafts.
I'm sorry to leave like this, please don't freak...
I'm sorry I can't tell you why I'm just leaving like a weirdo in the middle of the night...
I'm sorry because you're probably gonna be terribly upset and I'm sorry I...
Arthur laced his fingers and sucked in a breath through his nose.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
It all reminded him of that draft of a letter they'd recovered from the chimney of Kirkland Hall.
I realize our many difficulties as of late make overtures challenging, but if you could have pity on me. I would have us meet by our tree.
...Forgive me...
He looked down at the letter Alfred had left him this night.
Forgive me.
There'd been tear splatters on the earlier drafts. And this one, even this one, had a splotch at the top lefthand corner. Though it wasn't discarded because it didn't muss up the ink.
He ran a hand through his hair roughly.
He felt so afraid.
Arthur's boots squeaked as he ran through the airport lobby. He'd hoped to catch the Americans before they boarded but…
He was too late. He knew it from the moment he entered. He just didn't sense him.
Damnation!
"Inglaterra!"
He jolted and slid to a stop.
Antonio grinned and adjusted his carry on bag and walked over. "Whoa, you got my message so fast? And came to pick me up? Muchas gracias."
"Er…"
His brothers caught up then.
"Jaysus," Reilley wheezed. "Couldn't yeh have waited til the car stopped? Shit. And you wonder who Alfie gets the crazy from."
"Wow, you all came?" The Spaniard looked around surprised. "I feel so important."
"Uh."
"Oh."
"Ack."
"No," Rhys replied to the point. "Weren't you supposed to come later on the-"
"I didn't want mijo sneaking off," Spain shrugged as he re-tied his scarf. "Brrr. So chilly here."
"He already did. That's why we're here. To give chase," Rhys explained. "They ran off."
Spain's countenance darkened in a way that reminded England of naval wars. His green eyes narrowed and he swore lowly in Spanish before muttering, "My instinct was right. Those little...they must've snuck past me. I swore I saw a cowboy hat. I have been here since—you know what? I will make a call." He pulled his phone out and dialed and turned around for a moment. "¡Hola, Stuart, soy Antonio! Siento llamar tan temprano-"
England massaged the bridge of his nose while Spain relayed the situation.
Spain turned back around and flashed them a smile and whispered loudly, "He's looking into it." He nodded along as the call continued. "I know, yes! These shenanigans! Junior is determined to be the one who gives me gray hairs. Hm? Yes. He...did not tell you? W-wait? ¿Qué quiere decir con eso? Well, what does he sign? He doesn't actually sign 'Tejas' on his checks, does he?" Antonio raised an eyebrow. "You mean to say, if I see his Driver's License 'Tejas' is going to be printed across—Of course he has a name! A good Christian name! He is Antonio II." He continued in a deeper, darker tone. "Why is this funny?"
"He's a junior?!" Scotland snickered. "God. Tha's why he has such a chip on his shoulder. Tha's good training material, there. I will use that."
"Muchas gracias mi amigo," He thanked though he still sounded mildly annoyed as he ended the call. "Okay, they're heading to Tejas' hacienda. Stuart already received an email telling him he doesn't need to feed Americat today because they'll get to it."
"Which means we need to go…to?"
"Fredericksburg."
"No, not Alfred's home. Texas's-"
"It is Fredericksburg," he insisted. "Just...in Tejas."
There were four heavy eyebrowed looks of bafflement while they digested that.
Arthur's eyebrow twitched.
Spain explained slowly. "There's a Fredericksburg in Tejas….and a Fredericksburg in Virginia...and they live…"
"In both places."
Spain nodded enthusiastically, "Yes! They even have the same house numbers. Clever! Yes?"
"That's...so…"
"Them," Mathieu finished.
Arthur motioned Antonio to the counter so they could plan a course to pursue their wayward offspring.
He pulled Reilley over too.
The Irishman frowned. "Hey! Whatcha-"
"Do you have your runes?"
His brother blinked. "Aye."
"Pick us the best flight," Arthur requested quietly.
"Luck of the Irish?" He smirked.
"I need all the luck...any I can find…" He choked. "Any you'll spare...I'll take anything."
Reilley stopped smiling.
Pride?
No, he didn't have any left. Not when he could sense how loathe Alfred was to leave him. Not when he could feel both their hearts breaking with the distance.
Scotland was beyond exhausted, but if he didn't drive the rental...it meant handing the wheel to…
He looked over to his passenger seat where Arthur's bloodshot eyes were fixed nigh unblinkingly on the road.
No. He wanted to live. And the rules of the road never seemed to matter when Arthur had a ward to rescue.
He sighed and turned the volume up on a Rock n' Roll station.
It didn't help that he'd spent the nonstop flight to Austin unable to sleep because Reilley kept loudly chatting up some bird.
When he slowed at a redlight, he stretched his stiff shoulders.
But they were finally in Fredericksburg and he stared at the glow of a Walmart supercenter in the early morning light.
Rhys demanded Tums and rather than invite the consequences, he turned in.
It was 0900 hours and he needed caffeine. He was getting a headache from withdrawal.
It also wouldn't hurt to pick up some supplies before they crashed at Texas's home. They'd all left with nothing beyond the clothes on them, their wallets, and passports and whatever was in their pockets.
He parked the rental and looked up at the rear view mirror. Mathieu had been fairly quiet as the crisis unfolded.
"What say you, lad? Get you some maple syrup and Egos or pancake mix or summat?" Since it was very unlikely the Americans had enough food in their home for themselves let alone guests on such short notice.
Mathieu gave him a weak smile.
They all had to peel off a few layers before they headed in. The Texas "winter" climate was much warmer than where they'd left.
Arthur wrung his hands fretfully as Reilley and Antonio got shopping trolleys.
"We've got time for this," Alistair told him.
His younger brother looked like he was at his wits' end. "He just...I need to go to him. He feels so close and poor thing, he-"
"Arthur, food first."
"What if he's in danger? What if his government has threatened him? What if it's Osha? And then there's the matter that they didn't leave in a car. They trekked God knows how far. What if he has frostbite? What if his illness has worsened?"
"Arthur, food."
They browsed aisles and made selections.
Rhys stared at Alistair's breakfast choice. "You must be joking."
Alistair set the box of PopTarts in their cart. "Tex and Al got me hooked."
"They're children. They can get away with eating frosted garbage. You're a grown man, you must watch your-"
"Stop. Just. Stop. When I've had a full night's rest, you can nag me. But not now. Besides, it's not like I'm going to eat the whole box in one go. Dammit all, Arthur. Pick something."
Arthur looked miserable, "...not hungry."
Alistair glowered. "I ain't asking. I'm telling."
Green eyes flashed.
That was better.
Alistair forced himself to smirk which got his brother even more riled up.
But before the Briton could answer they heard a familiar drawl.
"C'mon Ally A'la Mode. It'll be great. We'll have a side of ribs. Ice cream. Freedom Fries. Scary movies. Video games: Call of Duty or-or Halo? Or uh, Mario-whatever-you-want."
And out from between the aisles, totally oblivious to them, strolled the Americans.
Alistair stared; they'd been just a half-step behind them the whole time! It meant Arthur had noticed his child missing almost immediately.
"And we can blast music as loud as we like. Or you can rollerblade inside, I don't care."
His nephew looked less than enthused by any of these prospects—lying down at the bottom of the basket portion of their shopping trolley and staring up at the ceiling of the superstore morosely.
"We can...do boardgames?" Texas sucked in a breath and forced out, "Play...Bop it?"
"..."
"Ally, I ain't a mind reader like Captain Limey-pants. Whaddya need? Tell me, I'll get it."
Alfred frowned and sat up and his nose ran. "He's an Adbiral."
Scotland winced. Alright, Arthur was right. The laddie looked and sounded pretty peely-wally.
He couldn't say 'm' anymore.
"Ew," Tex grimaced. "Kleenex for sure." He grabbed a box off an endcap of an aisle and thrust it at the blond. "You get on in there. We're gonna pay for it. It'll be fine. They'll understand."
Alfred opened the box and blew his nose with a tissue. "He's an Adbiral."
"Lil' Dimetapp'll fix that up."
"He's an Ad-"
"Al, I don't care. I'm being sarcastic."
Alfred shook his head and stared down at his phone and he sniffled, "He kept calling. Can't I just give hib a text so he knows-"
"Hey! We made a deal." He plucked the phone out of his brother's hands and pocketed it. "No phone-answering for 48 hours. You wrote a note. That's more than what I did."
"You didn't leave Spain a note!?" Alfred gasped and gestured with his hands. "The horns!"
"I ain't gonna get the horns!"
Spain sighed from Scotland's other side and crossed his arms.
Alistair looked at the Spaniard's dark green eyes. O, laddie was gettin' the horns alright.
"Look, don't ask me questions you know the answer to. Besides, I don't see what the big deal is. You've cut out on him plenty of times. Why the sad violins now?"
"You...don't get it." Alfred raised up on his knees and gripped the edge of the cart.
"Nope! Sure don't."
"...I had to go...and he wasn't even bad at be this tibe…" Alfred whimpered and rubbed at his eyes.
Tex lifted the cart on its first two wheels and brought it down—forcing Alfred to sit down. "Al, stop. I've held my peace as long as I could, and I can't no more. You are diving in too deep, too fast. A break'll be good for you. You're giving him WAY too much credit."
"Don't say that."
"You gotta hear it."
"Tex-"
"Cuz yer forgetting-"
"He loves-"
"-All the years he kicked you to the curb-"
"No, he-"
"All the times he-"
"Loves-"
"-Couldn't care less!"
"Stop saying-"
"Oh yeah, he loves you. He loves you, alright. He loves you best when he needs something the most!"
"Please, don't say that!"
"Money!"
"Stop!"
"Guns!"
"Stop it!"
"Alliances!"
"STOP!"
"He always comes round when his economy fluctuates and he's looking for the Special Relationship to bale water out of his sinking rowboat-"
"Texas!?"
"And now there's some Referendum comin' and his banks are freaking and lookie who he's cuddling up to? Who he's hoping will trade with him if he-"
"Shut up!"
"Centuries of putting you down. Spitting on you when he could-"
"Your dad's no angel either!" Alfred shot back as his shoulders heaved.
"HELL no. He's still all about himself. Me. Me. Me. He's like one of them AA people trying to make amends and convince himself he's not an asshole."
"You heard theb. They bade it so I could get work when I was over there and-"
"No. Just. No. I don't accept that. And I won't let you, neither. I know what that means. It means they knew where you were. They coulda gone in any tavern you were scrubbing down tables and said 'Hey! It breaks my heart to see you workin' your ass off. I love you, come home. I'm sorry I've been a prick. I'll stop. Come home. Please.' That's it. Tha's all they had to do, partner. That's the bare-fuckin-minimum. They didn't. And you deserve more than that and I won't let you take less."
Alistair let out a whoosh of breath like he'd been elbowed in the gut.
"-Lys! Alba!"
He stared dumbly as Reilley grabbed at him with a wild hand.
"Scot! Scottie, need you! We can't hold him much long-"
Gray eyes watched as Reilley, Rhys, and Mathieu were trying...and failing to subdue an unhinged Arthur that wanted Texan blood. He moved to help. Put him in a headlock, used all his weight as a nation but...
God...when England was raging. He watched in horror as his youngest brother managed to pull ALL OF THEM forward. Their shoes squeaked against the floor as they were moved.
Antonio briskly walked in front of them, "Tonio, Alfred. Go. Now."
"P-papi?! The hell are you—" Brown eyes widened as he registered them all. "How in the hell?!"
Alfred's jaw dropped as caught sight of the rest of them. His expression brightened hopefully. "D-daddy?"
The word was like a starting pistol.
Arthur lurched forward and they scrambled to keep hold of him.
Alfred stood up in the cart and looked at them in bewilderment—wiping at his teary, snotty face. "W-why are you? Let hib go! Dad?!"
Spain took his spot between them and the Americans. "Go, mijo. We'll talk later."
Well, Alistair thought. Maybe it was good to have a former enemy and rival here. At least he understood that there was no reasoning with England when he got to this point; he was a mad rocket and spitting furious.
"What in tarnation?"
Antonio pulled his coat off and cracked his neck and knuckles. "I will hold him off while you escape."
Tex looked to his father and then to Arthur and then to Alistair who mouthed: Run, while you bloody can.
That little tirade…
Uncomfortable truths aside...for them all...
It would've been a hard thing for Arthur to hear even in a sound frame of mind. After pulling a frantic overnighter...
The boy slowly nodded. He pulled Alfred out of the basket, threw him over his shoulder, and turned tail.
"NO! DADDY!" His nephew shrieked and stretched his arms out for his father. "Tell him he's WRONG! DADDY! DAAADDDDY!"
Alistair swore softly. Yes, he knew the boy was sick and unsettled and upset but...
Goddamn it, Al. Anything but that! Anything...but...that.
It wasn't a human sound of rage and pain that escaped Albion then.
Scotland glanced down at his feet. He'd dug his heels in and...he was still moving forward and the cement was cracking under them.
Spain settled into a fighting stance and nodded that he was ready.
And thank God for that, because they couldn't hold him.
On the count of three, they let England go.
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