Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Lord Byron's Manfred Quote: "Cold—cold—even to the heart." Or East Lynne. Or the Marine's motto: The few, the proud, the marines. Or the song: Streets of Laredo.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some fight terms. Side note: Mood swings can also be a symptom of C-PTSD.
AN: Thank you for your reviews and your patience! I was on a family trip visiting more family several states away. And, I kid you not, never had a minute by myself to write XD. BTW I love it when you guys dig deep and contemplate. That's what makes writing from a space of moral gray so fun. Hope this next chap gives you more to ponder. : D
Chapter 37: In a Fridge of Semi-Forgetfulness
Arthur's stirring of his tea slowed. "Wot?"
He had to have misheard.
Mathieu took a deep breath and repeated himself.
The spoon sunk into the cup.
They'd been having a nice little chat; he and Mathieu were seated on one side of the couch, Reilley and Rhys on the other...because Texas' home still needed more seating for proper entertainment and this was the first time Spain and his brood had left the area long enough for him and his to enjoy the space.
He had a news channel going on in the background. As his government had warned him, a Referendum had been officially scheduled and the media was having a field day.
Even as removed as the U.S. was (and it had a terrible track record for broadcasting world events preferring to focus on itself and its most sordid dramas), England's troubles were of note.
He'd so wanted the EU to succeed but if his citizens didn't feel secure…it was all moot.
Sensing his depressed air, and because Mathieu could be such a lamb, led the lad to lighter talk in efforts to buoy his former guardian's feelings.
They'd all been talking about Toronto Theatre District and the need to plan a trip there and then more generally about plays and melodrama.
And changing humor over the years.
O how Arthur remembered stage productions of East Lynne not leaving a dry eye in the 1860s and now it couldn't be read aloud in classrooms without fits of giggles following the monologues.
The discussion on melodramatic and operatic complications somehow segued into Mathieu discussing his latest session with Meegan and how he was working to unravel and de-escalate the tension between himself and Alfred before they wound up in such a state, which Mathieu stated was difficult considering how jealous he'd been of Alfred this past year.
Arthur had openly stared—blindsided by the abrupt confession and then spluttered, "What for?!"
To his surprise he then received an apology for not being more helpful sooner and was left hastily trying to assure he wasn't fishing for such sentiments.
He'd wondered repeatedly for the root of Mathieu's ill moods but...he'd have never guessed jealousy!
Mathieu fidgeted, "I..I guess I just felt...threatened…"
Arthur's eyebrows shot upward. "Threatened? How?"
He was too surprised by the admission. His Mathieu, who had always been very patient and supportive and secure…
All the memories of him being a good role model flitted through his mind; playing with Australia and New Zealand when they were too little to join "big kid" games, helping a very young Hong Kong learn to tie Western shoelaces, distracting Wy out of a tantrum with quirky questions.
"By Alfred's situation."
"Good God, why?" He set his tea and saucer down onto the table. Nothing about the American's predicament seemed envious in the slightest.
And it had been difficult remaining largely stoic in the face of it; if he'd empathized too much with America's horror and frustration, the boy would've demanded concessions from him that he just couldn't give.
He had to ride in the bloody car seat.
Arthur wasn't stupid. He knew how much his son loathed it.
The idea of suddenly being a child again and trying to rally Parliament's respect and attention...
Mathieu swallowed and continued softly, "You're...blood-related...that's...that's a special connection..."
Green eyes widened. Oh...
It was…
Impossible to deny the joy that sprang in him in realizing Roanoke birth's arose from his explorations.
It was…
Something infinitely pleasing to him to be able to reach with his magic and receive near instant confirmation that his child was alive and well, along with shades of his feelings. There was always a bit of anxiety in waiting for his other wards' communications...even with the creation of phones and instant messaging applications. And considering Alfred was one of the worst at keeping in touch, it was a boon of enormous proportion to not have to rely on technology at all in regards to him now.
It was...
Special to look down into someone's face and take note of features that you once idly dismissed as similar to yours by happy chance to being the direct result of yours.
But…
He looked Mathieu determinedly in the face.
All the years their nations had spent together, coordinating efforts and enterprises...
All the shared intellectual tastes...
All the festivities and ceremonies and battles and events…
Their lives were very integrated. The threads of their destinies were woven together, recorded, and preserved through the impressive mantel of empire.
Even their modern day interactions were greatly influenced by a wealth of history that maintained an affection that had lasted and manifested in new generations of people.
Hearing the lad speak of feeling isolated…
He settled a hand on the lad's shoulder. "Mathieu, you are family. Every bit as much. Every bit."
He pulled the younger nation into his side, ignoring the height and breadth of the young adult.
Mathieu still seemed tense.
So Arthur smiled and continued, "And I cannot overstate my appreciation that you didn't need to be melodramatic and allow our troubles to fester into a supernaturally enhanced grudge which makes allowances for apocalyptic possibilities. I repeat, I AM grateful."
Mathieu breathed out a soft laugh and tentatively made eye contact.
Rhys set his book in his lap and added, "Yes, you have all the benefits of being a part of our clan and none of the genetic inclinations towards madness or-" He looked over at Reilley who'd dropped a vanilla biscuit into his cup and was trying to fish it out with a second biscuit which was swiftly melting due to the heat of the beverage "-eccentricities."
Sensing he was the butt of a joke, Reilley made a rude gesture at his eldest brother.
Arthur tried to frown but couldn't quite manage it.
Mathieu sighed and rested more of his weight against him and Arthur remembered carriage and train rides where he was always having to assure the boy that he could rest, Arthur would keep watch (the boy had developed paranoia regarding train robbers and highwaymen because all of their conversations with Alfred seemed to consist of harrowing adventures the American had survived). Arthur had listened to Alfred's many anecdotes about thwarting would-be villains and dismissed them as a means of shameless self-promotion and near comical vanity.
But now…
Considering what a magnet for trouble his boy was…
Arthur pushed it out of his mind.
He needed to focus on Mathieu right now.
He gave the boy another hug and neither pulled away for propriety's sake or ill-timed pride.
He smiled when the boy leaned into him, laying his head on his shoulder.
In fact, it was rather nice to have someone receive his affection and sincerity without questioning his motives…without doubt souring the moment...
He rested his head atop of the boy's and hummed lightly as the tele made broadcasts of predicted doom should the U.K. not find a way to reconcile with the E.U.
The pleasant atmosphere ended when Mr. Gray entered the room with a look of alarm.
The fact he didn't even acknowledge them and, instead, went straight to the window, was worrying.
As was his quiet but clearly uneasy, "Oh dear."
Chairs screeched back and they found themselves crowding near the glass pane for a view.
"What the devil?"
Apparently, Alistair and Texas had resumed their barbaric training regime.
But the longer Arthur watched, the more outrage he felt.
His brother was trying to land real blows on the lad!
Magic training his arse!
He needed to break that up immediately.
Arthur was through the halls and out the door and onto the porch and...was shocked to see Antonio standing there without intervening. His suprise nearly made him trip over poor Alfred.
He sidestepped him at the last possible moment and was just going down the steps when his arm was seized in an uncompromising grip.
"Let them fight," Alfred intoned imperiously.
The boy's expression was colder than any he'd been subjected to by the child in some time. And he was caught off guard by how disturbing that felt.
His first instinct was to reach out and soothe it away but it ran deeper than Arthur expected.
More than ice; it was something hard and immovable and cold.
"Cold—cold—even to the heart—"
Arthur hastily shook his head to clear it of Byron's Manfred and tried to focus on the matter at hand.
Texas dodged a jab that could've broke his nose.
Their weapons had been abandoned in favor of hand-to-hand combat. Scotland had driven his claymore into the ground in frustration because it was too damn slow to keep up with Tex's knife and there were shallow teasing scratches cut through Alistair's shirt and reddening his arms.
Unfortunately, Texas got too cocky and not long after Scotland surrendered his sword for speed, Scot managed to disarm him.
It didn't matter though, Tex was better at brawling than knife fighting anyway. And the fact that he wasn't drunk meant his opponent couldn't count on slipping in a lucky shot.
He snickered as they circled one another.
Yeah, that Scottie could pack a punch! But Tex could take one. Hell, Tex could take several.
And there was something real pleasurable in seeing how that rankled the older nation.
It had unsettled plenty of foes before him too. To the point that Tex had learned how to play it to his utmost advantage.
It was an ace up his sleeve; he was way stronger than he looked and ten times as ornery.
Lean...and MEAN...
He gave another one of his infuriating, lazy, side-smile-smirks, the ones that always intimidated his opponents. The one that said: 'Yeah, I took your strongest hits. What else you got, mister? What else you got, cuz that ain't near enough!'
Alistair's problem was he too used to being King of the Hill. Of winning a bout at the onset through might and skill.
It'd been too long since he met someone who could take what he dished and serve it back with more spice.
Tex and Al had fought too many impossible battles.
It never mattered how good you were; how fancy your footwork was and how many notches in your belt there were.
It was how long you could last.
And Alistair was tiring out.
Alistair went in to grapple with him, no doubt expecting his weight to give him the upper hand.
He felt a spike of elation as he heard Al laugh wickedly and taunt: "Bad move, Uncle Al! He's a wrangler! He wrangles things!"
Funny how he could go on and on about his cattle driving, rodeo ways and people still underestimated his strength. What? Did they think wrangling a neighbor's feisty bull when it wandered into your ranch was easy?
Sure, Alistair put him in a hell of a bind, wrapping around til they were like a pretzel.
And yeah, the Triangle Choke could've been a finishing move...on somebody else.
Somebody who wasn't him.
And yeah, some maneuvering and a spin would've been more conservative and what he'd have done if this had been a real honest to God fight because Hell, don't be flashy if you don't need to be, but this was Alistair.
And he wasn't just aiming to win.
He was aiming for the ego. And not just Scotland's...no...now that he had Al's blessing he could give 'em a real warning.
Cuz these Euros needed to get it through their thick heads that they weren't pathetic colonies anymore. They weren't anybody's castoffs anymore.
He wanted Papi to see it.
He wasn't the sniveling little debilucho, España left behind.
He sucked what air he could between his teeth. And it wasn't easy o'course but...he stood up and yeah, his windpipe didn't like the hold but the ring was small and he only had to move three steps over.
He couldn't even help the predatory grin spreading across his face as he heard Al chanting, "Power Bomb."
Why draw it out for his number one fan?
He slammed the older man down and during his opponent's stunned reaction following the landing, freed himself, and rolled the Scot out of the ring.
"Woooohoo!" his brother squealed. "Woo! The Few, the Proud, the MARINES!"
Al raced down the steps and into the ring and Tex grabbed his hands and put him into a spin, going faster and faster until his brother's feet left the ground and they sang "USA! USA!" and ignored the nations of the U.K. rushing past.
"Good God, is he alright?" England demanded.
"Get away," Scotland growled, trying to detangle himself from a concerned Wales.
"Did you feel anything break?" Northern Ireland asked. "Do we need to get you to h-"
"Get away. The lot of you. Away."
Tex set Alfred up on his shoulders, "Okay! It's time to celebrate."
"Texas, what did you do?" Hawaii yelled from the kitchen window. "Did you hurt him?!"
"Yeah, I did!"
"Do I need to call Stuart?!" Momilani shouted.
"Yeah! Let him know that I'm winning! And because I'm winning, it's time to make me-"
"I swear to God," Hawaii groused, "if you say 'sandwich' I'm gonna beat your-"
Tex spun on his heel to face her. "Tch. Like I'd let you...you and your penchant for pineapple...your weird ass grilled cheese sandwich…"
"Hey!"
"Wasn't even addressing you," he scoffed.
She rolled her eyes.
"AL," he emphasized.
"Yeah, Big Bro?" his brother chirped—all sunshine and smiley again, like he hadn't been a bloodthirsty little brute two minutes ago. God, he loved him.
"Al, I want pie!"
"Diner or scratch?"
"Oh Baby Bro, you are so funny. Ya know I'll take scratch given the option," Tex grinned.
"To the supermarket?!" Al declared.
"To the supermarket! Whoosh and away!" Tex ran them up into the house to get his truck's keys.
Alfred sang "The Streets of Laredo" while he wove dough strips into an impressive lattice because his big brother deserved the best and he was giving his all to ignore the kitchen's other occupant.
"He could've been seriously injured," Arthur seethed.
Alfred shrugged, "He shouldn't have underestimated Tex."
Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "And you...goading him on. Did you want Texas to-to-actually-"
He set the lattice over the pie and began fitting it. "It was an insult for Tex to sandbag like that. And...I couldn't let you guys think so little of him. I mean, even if he could've totally used it against you later. I...I just can't take hearing you guys talk down to him like he was an amateur."
Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times before murmuring quietly, "I...I don't think I fully believe that was at the heart of your reasoning."
Damn their stupid connection. Either Alfred was losing his edge on the whole mental shielding thing or Arthur's game in that arena was improving with an impressive, if eerie, speed.
He had to stay one step ahead of the old man.
He pressed the ends of the lattice strips against the pie's rim. He then began sealing them with the bottom pastry, imagining the ends to be like his connection to Arthur.
Because yeah, maybe there was a little bit of him that wanted to stick it to them because they just kept butting into his and Tex's plans.
And why couldn't they understand that they just needed time alone and it was safer if they just backed off until they could handle this stupid gate thing!
They'd already come to the rescue enough, it was time to leave the ball in their court.
They weren't helpless.
He could do it.
He could open the gate by himself.
He'd closed it himself.
That had to be proof he could do it.
Had to be.
He curled the dough, tighter and tighter.
He heard Arthur make a soft gasp. "Stop...doing that."
"Doing what?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"Alfred, I don't like that," Arthur breathed out heavily. "And I know you're doing it on purpose now. Stop. When you...it makes you disappear. I...it hurts me."
Alfred's fingers hesitated and he finished the pie up with less zeal. It wasn't supposed to hurt him. It was just supposed to...block him.
He eased up and Arthur released a breath and sagged against the counter. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Son...I really do not appreciate this 'Us versus Them' mentality of yours."
"..." Alfred began crimping the edge of the pie. He would've appreciated having this conversation after he was done baking because bad feelings could sour a meal. He remembered being warned that it was a spell anybody could cast and it could sicken the eaters because it spoiled the ingredients.
Good thing his love was strong enough to dispel the negativity and he knew the pie would be edible.
With pie in hand, he descended his stepladder.
He blinked and looked up as Arthur blocked him.
Tired green eyes were fixed on him. "Tell me. Tell me what else I can do. Because I don't know. I don't know what more I can do for you when you're...like this. I don't understand. I'm trying. But this...yo-yo-ing...sometimes you're so close and then...you act like this and I...talk to me. Please."
"..."
"Alfred? What can I do?"
"Well, you can get out of my way. I need the oven next and you're standing in front of it."
Alfred chewed at his lip. He'd gone to lie down in his room after the glaze was added and the buzzer rang and the pie was finally cooling and Tex was barbecuing dinner to celebrate his victory.
Alfred had lied and said he was taking a power nap but...he was really taking a self-given time out.
Cuz he seriously needed to chill.
God, he could be such a jerk sometimes and he couldn't even blame the Hex for it.
He hadn't meant to snap at Arthur like that. It came out before he was even thinking. That was happening with a frequency that was alarming. Alfred had long prided himself on his self-control. Learning how to smile through tirades, shrug off criticisms, and tune out others' negativity had long been some of his most cherished skills.
Or maybe…
That wasn't him at all.
Well, crap.
Now that the Hex was gone, it was up to him again to manage his emotions and he was sucking pretty hard at the whole composure thing.
There just wasn't any ice in him anymore.
Crap…
Crapcrapcrap.
His mouth made an 'o' of surprise.
He had been pretty hotheaded in his Revolutionary days, hadn't he?
All the nostalgic whimsy he attached to that golden era and he forgot that part.
How the hell did he forget that?
And trust that to be the first thing that returned to him in full force!?
To have fissures in his sense of self-possession that went off like landmines at the slightest prodding…
Yeah, England was a natural born button pusher and liked to get in his face but it didn't warrant reactions like that. Especially when he wasn't really earning it.
The worst part was feeling that flicker of genuine hurt from the other end. He was getting more and more attuned to it.
It was easier to dismiss when he thought Arthur was doing it deliberately to guilt trip him into doing what he wanted and Alfred despised being manipulated…but…
But he knew now that Arthur was actively trying to shield him from the majority of it.
It wasn't that the old man was dangling it…it was that Alfred was looking for it.
Like a blood scent that hounds traced through the marshes…
Which made him feel…uneasy…
Did he really want to make his father bleed?
When did he get so vindictive?
He turned on his side.
No.
He'd always been vindictive.
Tex always said, rather gleefully, that Alfred had a streak of mean as deep as the Grand Canyon.
The question was…why did he suddenly care that he was?
Wasn't a little bit of spite necessary for a hero to survive hero-ing?
Because it took some meanness to push on when strength failed and see a mission to its bitter end...to see to it that the bad guy—
He shook his head.
But England wasn't an enemy anymore.
In fact, it was seeming more and more like Arthur had never intended to be...
He'd been and continued to be bossy and abrasive and annoying and heavy-handed but—
There were two polite knocks.
"It's not locked," Al called softly.
Arthur opened the door and stepped in.
"Dinner is ready," he stated neutrally.
And just as he'd felt a flash flood of vitriol in the kitchen, he was now swamped with contrition.
"I'm sorry about…about earlier."
Arthur blinked.
Alfred shifted, yeah, he wasn't sure which part he was sorry for either. It was...kinda mixed?
The Briton's expression remained stern but he nodded, "I accept your...apology."
Alfred winced as he could practically hear through their bond 'half-assed as it is.'
"Now, dinner is ready."
Alfred didn't move.
Did he want to start a fight with the old man? It kinda felt like he did. Except he didn't. Except he did?
Did he?
Even though it was obvious by now that Arthur wouldn't rise to the bait.
And it grated on him because it removed his ability to justify—
He sat up in alarm.
Justify?
Justify what?
Acting up?
He stared at his feet.
What was up with him?
Was it stress? PTSD? Random jerkass flare up because...history?
Did he really have to get a counselor to make it go away? He never had to before. The Hex just...packed it away in a...well...in a fridge of semi-forgetfulness. That he was really starting to miss.
"Should we start without you?"
"…right," he nodded absently, not taking in Arthur's head tilt at the odd answer to a Yes or No query.
Whenever he got too gooey with his father land, a sense of guilt and embarrassment and something...would come over him.
He used to think it was because he was just upholding sound policies because England was England and would take advantage.
Or some outsider would observe the weakness and exploit it.
Or...or maybe he just didn't like acknowledging the connection between them that he just couldn't rid himself of and—
He used to joke that being too chummy was unpatriotic.
He used to think that.
He…he still…felt…
He looked around dazedly at Tex's shelf of knicknacks and tried to orient himself against a sudden inexplicable whiff of burning timber.
Why? Why did he think that?
Arthur's mouth was moving but he couldn't concentrate well enough to understand the words.
The smoke was making him dizzy.
The fireplace was experiencing a bad downdraft but he didn't want to embarrass himself by coughing in such a tense atmosphere.
"Witch. Nation. Monster. I don't give a damn what you are, Lieutenant. But you're going to be loyal to us," Colonel Harris growled, a gleam in his eyes that put a chill and a tremble in the young nation. "You're going to be loyal or so help me I'll sink you in a grave so deep, you'll never trouble us again."
Gooseflesh rose on his arms.
With detached interest, he registered that yes…yes, he'd been afraid of that human. He was the first.
And that in and of itself was frightening. He'd never been truly afraid of any of them before. Especially, not one of his own. Not even Sarah he realized idly.
But Bertram Harris was a fierce man.
"Alfred?" His name came in but so soft and staticky, it was like an old radio channel. Remember those? Remember when they were cutting edge?
Remember a lifetime ago when—
Alfred F. Kirkland was determined to win the colonel's respect. He just needed time. Time always abetted him. During the Revolution, plenty of men had doubted his capabilities. Time wore them down or opened them up.
He'd lost count of all the men that had remarked upon first meeting him that he wasn't special.
He wasn't.
Not in the usual sense.
The only thing that let him stand apart was his determination.
Anyone else would have let constant failure dissuade them.
Not him.
And bit by bit he'd improve at whatever it was; from violin to musket to anything really.
It was a belligerent quality that ultimately endeared him to most humans...just not right away.
Colonel Harris would learn to regard him as an asset. Would learn that his determination was limitless.
"So you're remembering that horrible man?" Fingers brushed fringe away from his eyes.
"I…I..."
Eventually, he just wanted to gain his trust...so it would stop…
It felt like the Salem Witch Trials all over again. Only instead of being accused for witchery he was being questioned for his loyalties.
The flames in the office's fireplace looked absolutely wicked.
And he wondered with a dull sort of dread how much worse burning a witch was rather than hanging one.
"How?! How can I or any officer ANY citizen depend on you, when you wear THIS around your neck!" He grabbed the locket and pulled so hard the chain snapped.
His neck stung. Contrary, to whatever humans seemed to think. Nations very much felt the same twinges of pain they did. He clamped a hand on the spot and winced at the rapidly forming bruise.
"I did not say 'at ease,' Lieutenant. Return to attention-"
Alfred glared. He didn't care! And said so and received a vicious backhand and a curse of "blatant insubordination." Another officer wrote the offense down.
Ridiculous. How dare he be treated thus!?
"Tell me why you wear this? Now! Speak!"
It was a locket with portraits of Arthur and Mathieu.
"They are my family," he spat. Incredulous that he was even being subjected to this. "Mathieu, my brother. And...my father."
He was the embodiment of the nation! That his loyalties could even be questioned was the pinnacle of absurdity.
"Delusions," the man muttered and shook his head contemptuously. "Lieutenant. All delusions. Lies that you tell yourself to give an illusion of normalcy which you, by the essence of your existence, have no right to shelter in. Come now, United States, accept this. For your own sake. For ours."
Alfred bristled. So it was this again. He gritted his teeth and hissed, "My name is Alfred-"
"You're the United States of America. You don't have a family. You don't have a real name. What you have...is a responsibility." He paced in front of Alfred, a hard military clip in the sound of the footfalls. "And by Heaven or Hell, I will see that you live up to it. Now, tell me why you have betrayed us?" He shook the locket.
"I haven't the slightest idea of what you're going on about."
"No? What about this then?" Harris pulled out an envelope from a folder on a desk behind him. "Well, Lieutenant?"
Alfred's mouth went dry as he looked on an opened envelope penned in his own hand from himself to his father.
"Well?"
"..."
"Shall I read a line or two to refresh your memory? Yes, I think I will. 'My dearest, first, and foremost founding Father,'" Harris then broke off in an aside, "quite a mouthful, Lieutenant." He took in another breath and read off in an affected voice, "'I write to you in desperation. If you can no longer look on me with affection or pity, than I must depend on your sense of honor. I beseech you, hear me out. Meet me in the meadow where first we-'"
"I remember all too well," Alfred forced out. "There's no need for this spectacle."
The man gave him a sneering smile, "A shame. It deserves an audience. You might've made a fair playwright, Lieutenant. You have a gift for grandiosity and farce. I was most entertained."
"..."
"I think you'll find it far easier to confess before me than a jury, Lieutenant. I don't think a jury would be near as compassionate of your crimes. Fraternizing with the enemy during war time. Directly. To England himself no doubt."
Alfred watched despondently as his letter, his only real hope of guidance out of this...this mess, was tossed into the fire.
"So he had some conditioning, is that really a surprise?" Alistair raised an eyebrow and pointed with a half-eaten rib. "I think it's kind of a relief to hear about it to tell yeh the truth. He should not get so excited about Flag Day. I've seen him, s'not natural. I mean, c'mon. He adds new patriotic holidays all the time. This kind of explains why."
Arthur's mouth remained in a grim line and he poked at the ribs on his plate.
Alistair shifted from his place on the couch and winced.
Cue Rhys immediately abandoning his meal and returning back over to fuss.
Alistair tried and failed to wave him away.
Rhys applied another ice pack to Alistair's back. "I warned you. I warned you not to tempt fate, brawd bach, and-"
The Scotsman rolled his eyes. "Aye, aye, belt up now."
His elder brother deliberately poked one of his bruises and regretted it when Alistair hissed. He scrambled to apply ice to that spot. "Mae'n ddrwg gen i."
"I will be alright! Back off!" he snarled.
Curse his luck, shouting didn't work. And it brought the Ginger over.
Reilley walked over and sat on the floor, leaning against the cushion Alistair was on and talking while chewing. "Yeh just don't get it, Alis. I'm the Handsome One, Rhys is the Smart One, Arthur is the Crazy One, and you're the Strong One. Yer the anchor. The rock. Yeh aren't s'posed to fall."
"Like Hell, you're the Handsome One. And-and I didn't...I ain't felled. I'll tell yeh what yeh all really are: bampot, crackpot, and fusspot. I'm the jackpot—the only one with looks, strength, and sense. Look, I jus' underestimated the lil' Spanish brat." He smiled in spite of himself. "He was tougher than I thought."
At his brothers' looks, he shrugged. "Wha? I'm glad he's the one watchin' wee Al's back when I can't. I just need to sharpen him up is all."
Arthur's eyebrow twitched. "Wot?"
Alistair rose up onto his elbows. "Didn't yeh see him, Artie? That much raw strength and he can't end the match sooner? Ack, his form was all sloppy. All over the place. That might be fine for some ol' saloon but it ain't good enough for someone watching over my nephew. I'll whip him into shape. Discipline and drills'll do. It'll also help his magic. Repetition always worked well for me. And he reminds me a bit of meself-"
Rhys glowered at him, "Because he's a reckless idgit?"
Alistair grinned and looked over to where Tex was quite obviously retelling the fight in his own colorful point of view. He used exaggerated antics and spoke loudly and excitedly in Spanish while Puerto Rico indulged him and Spain...held his tongue and smiled tightly.
Because...Spain was an excellent knife fighter and had been noticeably displeased when Tex was disarmed so easily.
Scotland had snuck a quick look at the Spaniard's face as he did it. And he took it as a given that if the fight got too nasty, he may well find that knife re-entering the fray and guided by a more veteran hand.
Still, the lad had potential.
And he was getting why his nephew liked him so much.
"Yeah. A reckless idgit with training wheels."
Reilley smirked, "Dare you four pounds to issue him a kilt as part of his training."
Alistair gingerly stretched. "Triple it and I'll present it to him in front of Spain."
Because that would get the Spaniard's goat; if he wasn't as possessive of his offspring as England was of his...he was damn close.
And because it annoyed Tex, it made him work harder to try and prove his autonomy.
It was a win all the way around.
"Done."
"Done."
They shook on it.
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