Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Room Two. Or Fine Flowers in the Valley.

Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, and grammatically). Some Hawaiian vocab and cultural ideas. Rome's Saturnalia. Carolus Linnaeus, Swedish botanist who's pretty much the father of taxonomy. Castles. Flora. Angst and fluff.

AN: Thank you for your reviews! I know it's been a while. I had to travel down for my little nephew's b-day. Just got back a little bit ago and got caught back up (and caught a summer cold D :). Oh well. Hope you enjoy this tribute to the end of summer (someone tell my climate that it's over, we're still gonna be hitting up in the 90s all week)!

Chapter 40: Hoʻoponopono

Alfred stared at the cracked mirrors and his distorted reflections. "Look what you've made me."

"It…it's…" Colonel Harris chuckled between wheezes, "S' an honor…to be one of your Founding Fathers."

Horror swamped him.

"...back to…"

A heartbeat that wasn't his own sounded against his ear.

"Come…"

The homey smell of linen and sea salt and wool and cologne moved in and he fell into different memories.

He ran through tall meadow grasses, green and dewy underfoot, heart bursting with gladness…

He pushed through flowering patches with a squeal as his name was called again.

"Alfred…"

He picked his pace up each time he heard it, until his chest burned as breath couldn't come quick enough.

Because having a name was beautiful. And this one was chosen special. Just for him.

"…Alfred…"

Flowers could have lots of names, but there was a Swedish man, whom Father had mentioned, that created special names for organisms. A name that would be THE name of whatever something was to whomever was beholding it, wherever in the world they happened to be.

Having a human name was kind of like that.

Because he'd never had one before.

Or at least not one that humans used.

Osha could never get her tribespeople to call him Dyami…and so it never seemed quite right…even when other tribe nations deigned to call him by it. Because they were doing it out of deference to her…and not him.

"...me…"

He rushed into a pair of open arms that swung him high in the air before pulling him in close.

A breeze ruffled his hair and made branches whisper.

"Come back to me."

Always.

Dappled light filtered down through leaves and the brightness made him squint. "Father?"

"There you are," Arthur smiled, though the action didn't reach his eyes and lines of worry remained.

Alfred looked away in guilt and- what in the?!

They'd pulled to the side of the road! Hell, they weren't even in the car! The other passengers were leaning against the van, throwing him concerned glances.

"W-why..?"

"You needed a tree," Arthur shrugged and helped him to sit upright.

A tree?

Yeah, he'd always park himself by a tree following a miserable ship voyage. However, the more paved the port cities became, the farther he had to go to find one until, he finally learned how to just suck it up and trudge on.

Arthur handed him a Mountain Pink that was growing wild and blooming early.

"I had a bad memory," Alfred offered in exchange, wishing he had something better to give.

Arthur nodded.

"I don't remember all the details, but…I had to toughen up. I-I remember that. I…I was soft back then…All that weakness in me," his lip curled, "…had to be…" banished.

"I thought like that for a long time," Arthur remarked candidly "It seems to make sense, building walls. I know plenty on the subject. Halls. Castles. The outer wall is meant to surround the castle's town…to protect them from attack. They were to be stationed with warriors to keep lookout and to be sturdy enough to provide time…time for the villagers to arm themselves or seek shelter in the castle. Castles weren't simply shows of wealth. Not in the beginning…they were strongholds in times of trouble. What could you be a lord of if your people weren't kept safe?"

Alfred found himself nodding along to the history lesson on architecture as he stared at a pumpjack in the distance. He'd used to love these stories as a child and Arthur enjoyed giving them.

So it was surprising to see his father wasn't smiling as he delivered this one.

"It makes sense. You care and so you build. And build and build. Taller. Stronger. Deeper. Until one day, you realize that in all your building...that them, whom you built those walls to guard and keep from all harm, have been left outside. And there's a terrible distance now between you and them because there are all these bloody walls standing in the way."

Oh…

"Softness is no crime…it takes great strength to be tender."

Blue eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. How much had leaked through?

"Are you well enough that you want to continue?"

Alfred gave a brusque nod.

"There's no need to push on. We can linger," Arthur offered him another flower.

As he accepted it, he couldn't decide if it made the first flower he was holding look more common or less lonely.

Arthur had a stiff lower back by the time it was his turn to drive.

But that wasn't his reason for sighing.

He was reaching the end of his rope on what he could do to help his child. Every time they seemed on the verge of a breakthrough, the boy clammed up. With castle metaphors still in mind, Arthur thought of a drawbridge rescinding.

They were the only two left awake on this leg of the venture. The sun had set ages ago and the highway was dark. Van One was far ahead of them now, but Arthur could guess from the way it listed that Reilley was at the wheel. He had such trouble staying on the "correct" side here.

Even for Arthur the placement of the wheel and shifter was less than ideal, but he'd made it a point to become skilled in this.

He couldn't offer his services in taking the American to meetings on this side of the pond if he wasn't proficient. In recent years, those short trips were sometimes the only one-on-one time they shared.

Time they usually wasted boasting on their latest accomplishments or picking apart one another's movies. Alfred's had a ridiculous amount of CGI and plotlines with twists that went for shock value rather than brilliance. Arthur's were slow and over invested in the past.

The dark quiet of their van, which had lulled the other occupants to sleep, made them more alert.

It worked for Arthur, naturally, as he was the driver. It was the whole reason he'd volunteered to be last.

There'd always been something soothing in years gone by, to man the helm of his ship at night.

And the cover of night was probably the reason his boy now had less inhibitions. He'd spent the earlier part of the day and each meal time assuring everyone, following his episode, that he was quite alright.

Even though he wasn't.

But he took care to act boisterous and charming.

He tucked in when presented with food, trying to hide grimaces as flavors that usually invigorated, fell short.

The toys that came with his meals were treated as treasures then. Now, they sat discarded in the vehicle's cup holders.

Even though Arthur told him repeatedly that it was alright to feel off after an incident like that, that Alfred didn't need to perform for anyone...

The plastic smile stayed on for hours.

And if weren't for their connection, he could almost delude himself into believing that he was the one overreacting as he'd made the mistake of doing various times ago.

If not for now.

Because now the boy he was glimpsing in his rearview mirror was currently cuddling Hop and twisting one poor shabby ear...and he thought Arthur couldn't see his downturned mouth trembling.

"Sweet," he called softly, keeping his eyes on the road but reaching one hand back to pat the child's sneakered foot consolingly. "Sweet, I'm here. Why don't you talk to me about what's distressing you?"

"He had to burn the softness out of himself."

He wasn't sure if Alfred knew he'd shared that dark thought hours ago.

There was a shadow and a flicker of embers with the idea that made Arthur shiver with memories of the Dark Ages—of being tied fast and wriggling desperately as the wood was stacked high and the crime of sorcery was read out.

He glanced at the boy, but his son remained quiet.

He was resigning himself to the fact that Alfred wasn't going to share more with him and he moved his arm back to rest more comfortably on the console when the child said: "He called himself a Founding Father of mine."

"Harris?" he guessed.

"Yeah…He...he was dying, I think, when he said it."

"I don't know why people think that gives them leave to be dramatic," Arthur delivered flatly.

Alfred's jaw dropped and then he laughed abruptly—soft, shocked, and a bit alarmed.

Arthur checked the gauges to make sure the needles didn't spike; he tended to speed when he was angry. "He was trying to rattle you, darlingheart, I'm sure of it."

"R-really?"

God, he sounded so young.

He was young.

They'd exploited that.

It hurt to know that Alfred dreaded that long dead man far more than he'd ever feared Grym.

He tried not to grip the steering wheel too hard.

"Absolutely," Arthur delivered with all the robustness he possessed. "I know these things. When you've been around as long as I have, sweet, you learn about people and how to define them. Once they have a label, you'll find it infinitely easier in dismissing the upsetting, outlandish things they have to say."

"And...and he's...?"

"A wanker, dear."

"A...wanker?"

He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "You need to put a little more disdain in the word, love."

"Wanker," Alfred hissed through gritted teeth.

Arthur chuckled. "That's the ticket."

"He was a wanker...Colonel Wanker."

Arthur laughed.

His son joined in and while it sounded genuine, it was rushed and slightly nervous as though he was doing something forbidden.

"The power of Saturnalia," Arthur began.

"H-huh?"

"It was a Roman festival in winter. Their version of Yule or so. It was brought to our isle and I...I knew it from...from my time in Rome."

Alfred was hanging onto every word.

"It was a grand event."

He'd leave out the human sacrifice involved.

"Lots of role reversal, gambling, gift-giving, revelry..." he trailed off, remembering it as one of the few times of year he could shirk his duties to the Italy brothers while he was under their grandfather's thumb.

"...kay, I...I'm listening."

"And laughing. Outrageous plays. Irreverent. Bold. Laughing in the face of death and social class and everything that bound civilization. It was the one time of year where you could laugh and mock the highest authority figures. Laughter helps us master-"

"-fear."

"Yes."

He'd had a strong feeling Alfred knew that already, he employed the tactic enough.

More than he'd like to admit, the child had taken him down a notch with a well-timed snort of derision.

"Is it obvious that I'm scared of him?"

Yes.

Arthur answered, "He was a dangerous man. I have no doubt of that. I just don't want you lending him more power over you. More power than he had. He never had you. He just made you think so."

"Colonel Creeper."

Arthur smiled.

Alfred looked up from Hop and slid down his seat as he tried to stretch a foot across the center console. Arthur moved his elbow back so the toe of the sneaker could reach him. He was taking a corner so he couldn't afford to reach back right now.

It was enough; Alfred sighed in relief.

Arthur would tell him to sit nicely...safely...after.

"He…he had awful side hair," Alfred confessed. "You know? Back then? Along the jaw? And he was OCD about his desk. He never ate at it. Ever. I…I don't trust people you don't see eat. Maybe it's messy. Yes, it's probably an indignity, I mean, there's a reason lots of reality television skips over it. But I trust the tasters over the glam people, you know? I think it's a big deal. I think that's why you eat with people, you share with them and them with you and that's how you show them you trust them."

"I can understand that." Truly, that wasn't a quirk. Eating with others was a bonding ritual that hailed from times beyond Albion and his brothers.

Gaining confidence, the child continued, "He didn't like birds. Especially, the way they'd gather wherever I lived…"

"Ornithophobia."

"Yeah!" The boy stumbled over the word a bit as he repeated it.

Good.

Harris was descending and becoming a man again.

It was a difficult balancing act, giving Alfred ways to strengthen himself that didn't undercut or mock the reality of having vulnerabilities.

Because vulnerability in and of itself wasn't an evil.

If there was anything Arthur was learning about it, it was how key it was in developing meaningful bonds.

It levelled the playing field, which was important since Alfred hated to be at a disadvantage. It made Arthur's efforts sincere. It opened him and encouraged his child to do the same.

The boy was beginning to acknowledge out loud that he did have weaknesses, but they were still resisted.

It might have explained why, even with the hex removed, Alfred hadn't leapt into his arms exhilarated by remembering good times they'd shared.

Some memories were being outright rejected.

Because Spring was perceived as a weakness.

England knew the cosmos had set him up for another painful lesson.

First, he'd had one on power. He'd realized his life's ambition to become something great and turbulent and feared only to find that all those qualities made it difficult for him to nurture the little ones in his care.

Now, he was being schooled on weakness. He'd spent the majority of his life despising frailty in himself.

He'd spent grueling sparring sessions after being too slow in parrying during a critical battle.

He'd lost track of all the hours filling out paperwork demanding the implementation of new military gear following preventable losses of life.

There was plenty to loathe in himself; his impatience, his temper, his lean frame and young face that undermined the real strength in him and didn't begin to compare to the strength of his will. It agitated him...how strangers could take one look at him and scoff—thinking him a pushover.

So he learnt the right way to hold himself, to school his features, to demonstrate his biting wit, to display how dangerous he could be.

It had made sense...to be ruthless with himself.

It helped him towards his goals...

It was necessary!

It was…a special brand of torture to watch his child do the same, following his example…quartering off pieces of himself.

They had very different value systems. It chilled him to see qualities he adored in his son be brutally cast aside.

Alfred had a big heart.

Yes, it got him into trouble. It compromised him. Confused him to such a point he felt betrayed.

And he betrayed his young heart in turn by misinforming it—insisting its life mission wasn't pondering, struggling, and learning WHO to love and trust in…but rather…evaluating WHAT to love and trust in.

And he chose principles, and resources, and things.

Arthur watched the child snuggle against Hop.

It was...safer to love something rather than someone.

Hop could never deliver a harsh word or glance.

Hop could never make an arse of himself, or fall short, or be treacherous and petty.

Hop could never disappoint him.

Hop could never love him either.

Arthur sighed.

Thankfully, Dr. Hargreaves had been very supportive when Arthur discussed his son's tendency to be overly critical of his shortcomings and his fear that it was a learned behavior from himself.

"I think it's easier to spot harmful ways of thinking in others. It's only after you see them do it and feel shock...that we open ourselves to the realization that we're not so different. Perfectionism is...dangerous. It causes anxiety and low self-esteem. It's...interesting that things which would be easily forgiven for others is unforgivable to the self. We have more patience, more kindness for strangers. When you start cycling into self-censorship, ask why. Why am I being so judgmental? If there was someone else in my shoes, would I treat them this way?"

The main takeaway being: Give yourself permission to BE yourself.

Alfred watched him closely and aped him often.

If he was going to encourage a change in that behavior, he had to embrace all those pieces of himself that he hated; so his son could know he was allowed to be whole (imperfect as he might be).

He turned the radio on and set it to classical.

All the times he'd modeled the right way to hold a fork or introduce himself or dance a set…

All the times he'd enjoyed being looked up to.

And it was in this bad habit your son followed your lead, Arthur, old boy.

Yes.

Arthur focused on the road with determination.

Yes, and he'd follow his lead out of it, too.

But first-

He gave the little sneaker one more fond pat and gently pushed it back.

"Alfred, sit nicely now."

There was a groan, but Alfred did as asked.

"Thank you, sweet."

Alfred jumped as the walkie came to life and it was agreed that they'd need to find a motel.

Spain ended up paying for one room for him and his. He watched with amusement as Texas was bodily dragged by his father and brother into the space.

"Al!" He gripped the door frame as he was tugged in.

The blond waved him farewell.

"Al?! Allie! Why won't you help me? This is for the Civil War, ain't it?! Ain't it? Al-"

"No," he laughed. "It's because you won't do the Mexican Hat dance anymore."

"NEVER! NEVER AGAIN!"

Alfred's cheeks puffed in displeasure.

Here, Alfred was happy to sing all the songs and dances that Tex liked best from the old days and he wouldn't reciprocate. Tex could be stingy like that.

Alistair splurged and got a room for himself.

That left six of them to one.

It was a bit of a cramped space; Alfred could stand between the two beds and touch each.

Momilani claimed one bed but said Alfred was welcome and it seemed like he'd need to take her up on the offer since Mathieu and Arthur were going to share the other.

Rhys and Reilley were going to use the room's fold out couch and Rhys suggested they wish him luck that he didn't wake up with a black eye because Reilley tossed and turned.

Alfred kicked his shoes off and sat on Momilani's bed and watched.

It was the easy way Mathieu and their European relatives maneuvered in the small living quarters that drove home how many years in the field they'd spent together.

Canada was welcome in their tent when they shared.

It made sense.

He'd seen his brother come out of their tent plenty of times during the World Wars following a briefing.

He'd tried not to let it bother him that the space where he was usually informed of new developments was always on his own side.

Arthur had shared tents with him.

Reilley and Alistair had too.

He just...hadn't been welcome when it was all of them.

They were always kind of a united front against him.

Canada went to take a shower.

Momilani and Rhys went to a neighboring 24-hour liquor store to see about picking up some quick, semi-healthy snacks for the next day; or Rhys went for that...Momilani was Alfred's agent in ensuring tasty things made it to the cashier.

Reilley was asking the front desk for more towels, because the room did not have enough for their party.

Alfred took in a deep breath.

The coast was clear. It was essentially just him and Arthur in the room.

He owed him.

Arthur had been super patient with him and all the old man wanted in return was for him to be forthcoming. Right?

Arthur had already changed into his pajamas and was sitting on his bed playing Room 2 on his phone while it was plugged into the wall.

Alfred stared at the moonlight peeking through the blinds and haltingly admitted that when he sang Fine Flowers in the Valley, he'd think about flowers as well as the…plotline of the song.

He'd start off with valley flowers like butterfly weed and then would move to the depressing shale barren and then over to the cliff side where small, sad vegetation like Mountain Meadow Rue, and Small Enchanter's Nightshade clung and survived despite and because of sea spray and waves.

He'd half-hoped that Arthur would be as absorbed in his game as Tex got while playing farm games on his cell.

To no avail…

Arthur's fingers stopped moving and he set his phone aside.

There was always something a little dangerous in having England's full attention.

Alfred fidgeted. "I…I didn't expect you to get so worked up…I mean, yeah, I guess I can understand, but-"

"Alfred," Arthur's brows grew formidable and his eyes were stormy. "The 'ocean,'" he gave air quotations, "isn't malicious. It's wild, untamable…true enough. But it isn't cruel! Waterways are life giving, lucrative, useful-"

Alfred sent an image of blackgrass, which was met with confusion.

Yeah, it wasn't the most beautiful plant, but…

"It only grows happily in brackish water," he explained.

"...?"

Alfred stared at his socks and belatedly realized they totally didn't match. "...Estuaries, where freshwater and seawater meet."

A large eyebrow was raised.

Alfred's cheeks puffed. He thought what he was going for was obvious but Arthur wasn't cottoning on.

He huffed. "Salt Meadows...in Virginia..."

"…"

God, he was getting frustrated. "Virginia wouldn't be Virginia without the ocean. Can you imagine how different it'd be?"

"..."

Fine. He couldn't be subtle.

Goodbye sense of pride.

"If it's too hot...or too cold...daffodils don't grow well. The…the sea regulates temperatures for coasts a-and islands."

Regardless of our clashes...I wouldn't be here, if not for you.

"Alfred?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Dammit! I wanted to do a fancy extended metaphor for our relationship, too! You went off about castles, but I don't have castles. I mean, like bonafide, legit ones. And I don't think I could make construction sound fancy, even though I've worked on lots of projects. So I went for flora because flora is always romantic, but it didn't work."

Both eyebrows shot up. "Aha."

"Fine! No poetry. Fine…fine…I…I'm…sorry I hurt your feelings. When I sing it…I think of those flowers and all the times I felt lonely. You can really learn a lot about flowers when you're outside all the time. I saw tons. I had…I had enough time to memorize. I always did. That song is…something to me I…it wasn't just because of you…other times as well. I mean, I remembered the loneliness even if I couldn't remember Osha or Sarah. Being alone in the fields knowing no one was coming. I know I'm not making sense. But my feelings are all swirly. It just hurts the worst with you because I…I just…I l-l-l-"

"Alfred-"

"-so much."

Alfred's face was cupped gently. "Alfred, I accept your apology. Thank you for telling me why you sing it."

There.

That was as honest as he could make it.

So why did he feel so…crappy?

Arthur pulled him into his arms. "Shh, it's alright, love. I shouldn't have asked with so many watching us. That made it difficult."

His back was rubbed and patted.

"It's alright. I'm here."

And it's childish, and vicious, and exacting, and selfish, but he wants to extract another promise:

Like the first, under the shade of their tree: You have to love me for forever.

Here, under the light of the moon, the second one almost left his lips: You have to be here for me, forever.

But he fought it, braced himself against it, tried to kill it.

Because it was monstrous and unfair and uncompromising.

Arthur laughed softly in his ear, as lightly and easily as he had the first time.

And he knew the wish had made itself known through their bond.

"I promise."

Hawaii put a hand on her hip as she stonily eyed the barista, "Did I stutter, sweetie?"

"Quad it is."

She needed that espresso goodness if she was going to make it through her usual mid-morning slump.

She really wished they carried guava cream cheese danishes here the way they did at home. Those breakfast bars Rhys got the previous night just didn't cut it and they'd all needed to stop for a pick-me-up.

Rhys was behind her on the phone for the upteenth time checking on something. It felt like he was always on it; he was probably one of those phone addicts recent studies were warning about...Or maybe she should try and shuffle the deck and switch vans—for her own sanity as much as to indulge Tex who was desperate to jump ship.

"Switch with me, pleeeeeease! This is supposed to be a Bro-trip," he whined as they walked through the parking lot.

Puerto Rico made a rude gesture at him.

Tex crossed his arms moodily. "You're my brother...you're not my Bro."

When Spain sent him a warning look, Tex grumbled, "And you're my cross to bear," while giving the rosary around his neck a flick.

Out of the corner of Momilani's eyes she watched as Rhys shifted his stance. "Good. See to it. I'm depending on you."

The Welshman slid his phone back into his pocket.

"Momilani," she offered as the barista stood poised with a pen in hand.

"How do you sp-"

"M-O-M-I-"

Afterwards, she went to wait with the others; it was agreed that a slower pace might help Alfred relax.

And she really wanted him to.

Poor baby just couldn't catch a break.

And he was trying so hard to keep pace with them.

He could be so stubborn.

It reminded her of his earliest visits to her lands as a Protestant missionary.

He came in a prim, three-piece suit that had a pocket-sized Bible and he refused to dress down. He'd already been seasick and then he promptly passed out from heat exhaustion.

Because...no...Virginia humidity didn't compare to hers.

She and Tex took that as an invitation to strip him and hide his clothes while he recovered in her thatched hale.

He wasn't a very good sport about wearing a malo but...Hawaii had cheerfully offered in what broken English she had mastered that it was that or nothing.

It stayed on.

He was so funny about being naked. Why even that morning, he'd given her a warning—pointing his finger and declaring that whatever things she needed to tell him that cropped up in the next five minutes could wait.

He watched her like an iolani, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Okay, fine. She did sometimes interrupt to tell him things.

Maybe if both her pearl babies were similar in their feelings, she could break the habit.

But Tex, while just as stubborn as his brother, didn't have the same hangups.

He'd wear the malo if he got to wear his hat.

And he hadn't cared during his Wild West days if she came out to ask him a question while he bathed in a barrel.

He still didn't care.

If he was running late, she could poke her head in and tell him to hurry the hell up...like she did three hours ago.

They were just different.

Again she wished Alaska had come on the trip. Sure, he often left her chattering in the silence but he spoke when it mattered and with such insight...it was easy to feel safe with him nearby.

He knew Alfred and Texas better than even they probably suspected.

She felt like she knew them too...she just couldn't guess their endgame the way Alaska could.

Reilley grimaced at his cup, "Yanks can't make tea."

She rolled her eyes. Oh yeah, because that was the real disaster underway.

"You just gotta hold on. I'm gonna make sweet tea once we make it to the site," Tex promised between sips of his coffee.

Alfred stared longingly at his brother's styrofoam cup.

He had gone an awfully long time without a Starbucks treat.

Maybe she could slip him a teensy drink or two.

Arthur seemed to sense her caving will because green eyes were suddenly on her.

Those eyes always caught her off guard.

She, Alaska, Molossia, and Tex all had brown. It was just Al that was their token light eyed, fair haired one.

And yes, for a long while, his blue eyes had unnerved her. They just didn't seem as friendly and warm as soil brown eyes did.

Compared to his father's hard olivine eyes…though…

"They called your name," Arthur informed her.

"Right."

She eagerly got out from under that stare.

When she returned, she found Arthur halving his pastry with Alfred while reminding him to make use of his napkin.

She supposed it was a softer tone than what she'd gotten.

Alfred believed in him and his faith had to be enough for her too. She knew firsthand that the Englishman could settle him during an episode. And last night she'd watched, nearly dumbfounded, as Alfred accepted a foot massage from him.

Her pearl baby was never very keen on being touched and his feet were sensitive.

It was a neon sign of trust.

It was just…

She had trouble putting her finger on it.

Maybe it boiled down to the fact that Arthur just wasn't a real friendly fellow. He hadn't been especially charming in the 1780s either, (unlike Portugal who'd not only come before him but had been extremely handsome, and he brought her the best instrument ever: the ukulele) but the reality that this was England at his softest…

She knew they were doing their best to perform Hoʻoponopono, but they were having trouble restoring harmony to their relationship.

And while she knew Alfred contributed plenty to that...it was easier to blame Arthur. He was so cold.

She watched Arthur eye the plastic cutlery with disdain but still maneuver it well enough to dine with the elites.

He was reserved and he'd taught Alfred to be the same; secrecy and discord brewed illness.

On her islands in times past, when a child fell sick parents were taken to task. Was there quarreling in the household? The wrongs of a father could fall on his offspring.

She pulled out her drink's straw and licked some whipped cream off the end before pointing it at him. "I still can't believe your queen didn't tell you and you didn't suspect anything. I thought you Brits were all mystery masters and could sleuth out anything?"

He gave her a deeply irritated look; it was interesting how dangerous that expression was on him. On Alfred it was the same scrunching of features but an agitated Al just looked funny, even when he'd been a man.

But you couldn't laugh because it hurt his star-spangled little feelings.

Arthur set his utensils down. "What was there to be suspicious of? The settlement failed and I accepted it as a natural result since no...since there was no...no…" Something hard in him faltered and memories of pain seemed to flash over his face.

She fidgeted. "Oh…"

No personification...no baby.

Arthur stared her down. "Considering how the others attempts failed too...I-I just thought it wasn't to be."

Alfred looked up and leaned against Arthur, who seemed to take comfort in the action. He reached down and carefully brushed a crumb away from the corner of Alfred's mouth.

"You know what I can't believe?" Alfred interrupted.

"What, sweetling?" Arthur looked grateful for a diversion.

"That John Smith kept his big fat mouth shut. I mean, that guy was a Grade A blabbermouth."

"Wot?" Arthur blinked as he processed that and then his jaw dropped, "H-he knew?! He knew you were-"

"Well yeah, I mean, why did you think we hung out so much? I mean, you can only hear his stories so many times. Heck, I can probably tell them now. Anyways, he said there were others like me. And if I was good, he'd bring my water-father to me or me to him. Dude, when I think of all the trade negotiations and treaties and prisoner releases I got roped into on account of that hope…" Alfred gave an exasperated smile. "He sure knew how to work an angle that guy. He...Dad?"

Arthur's teeth were gritted as he muttered, "I wondered how he kept getting out of trouble at home...blackmail. They didn't want him sharing…" His fists clenched and the knuckles went white. "And you're correct, he knew how to press an advantage. Told me once while we were in passing that what he'd found was as good as gold…was worth a hundredfold..."

Hawaii edged back, aware that if he slammed the table in his anger he'd likely snap it in half.

"Dad?"

"One more ship. One more expedition and on his return he boasted that I'd fill a barge with Spanish doubloons to have what he'd discovered. That's why he was so desperate-"

"Daddy?"

Hawaii winced; America just wasn't very good at reading the atmosphere.

England was clearly feeling betrayed and undermined by the humans that surrounded him then and now. Adding one more...wasn't helping.

Alfred tugged at the Briton's elbow. "Don't be angry! He taught me lots of things. Like business!"

Arthur's eyes flashed.

Maybe that's what unnerved her about him, he reminded her of a storm.

The sea element in him she could handle. She was a master surfer, she could ride out those highs and lows.

But there was lightning in him.

"-when he saw how they shunned me whenever I traded on my own. He came with me and started giving me odds and ends. He showed me that if you had something, somebody really wanted. They'd trade with you...even if they didn't like you."

Apparently, that was a prized gem because Alfred's whole face lit up as he shared it. And if history proved anything, it was that it became a policy he lived by.

She watched Arthur's face darken.

Alfred had cheerfully labeled Tex a tornado, herself an undertow, and Alaska an avalanche.

Well, she'd name England a hurricane.

And he looked ready to do damage.

It was like standing in the sand as ominous clouds sped near.

It wouldn't be until they were loading back into the vans, after Tex had gleefully pounced on her offer to switch vehicles, that she mused about Alfred.

Years back when she'd asked what disaster America was, he'd smiled wryly.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm an earthquake...I shake things up!"

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