Sorry I kept you guys waiting for this next chapter, finals killedddd meeeee D: (but it's summer now, so that means I get to spend more time on writing up my baby 3) That, and uh...I lost a hard copy page of this chapter...so uh...had to rewrite it...derp.

Alfred woke up to the scent he hadn't smelled in ages.

The smell of food burning.

He shot up in bed, turning his head wildly around and having his worst fear confirmed; Arthur was in the kitchen. He scrambled out from under the covers, stumbled to the door and grabbed a handy fire extinguisher...just in case. Alfred thundered down the stairs, armed and ready, calling out "Arthur! Dude, are you sure you should be cooking? Don't you remember the la-" WHOOSH! a frying pan flew at him, barely missing the American's head and clattering to the floor somewhere behind him. Several objects...rocks? No, wait, Arthur's scones came hurtling at him next, one of them catching him in the stomach. Damn...those things were hard...maybe they were rocks?

"What the bloody hell did you do to me?" Arthur roared, stomping out of the kitchen and raising a wooden spoon menacingly.

"Dude, don't blame me for what you did, I'm not the one who got you wasted-"

"I'm not talking about my drinking habits!" Arthur shouted, brandishing his spoon, "I wake up-because of your boorish snoring, mind you-I wake up, next to you, in your bed!" he jabbed the spoon at Alfred, "Now bloody explain it!"

"You wanted to! Wait, can you remember anything from last night?"

"If I did, why would I be asking you?"

Alfred started laughing. "Artie, the only reason you found yourself in my bed was because you asked to; you said that the couch would hurt your back and-hey, how the hell do you not have a hangover?"

"Never bloody mind that! Why didn't you leave once I was in there?" Arthur demanded, folding his arms and furrowing his enormous eyebrows suspiciously.

Alfred stood there, dumbstruck. What was he supposed to say? Oh, I stayed because I was hoping that, in your drunken state, you'd sleep with me? Even in his head, the truth seemed stupid to tell; for now, at least. "Because Artie...um...I-I just miss when I was little and I'd get in the bed with you because I'd get scared..." This is the worst lie ever.

"You wanted to sleep with me, didn't you?"

"No! Not in that way!" Totally in that way.

"Don't you bloody lie to me!"

"Why don't you try listening to me?" Alfred shouted, his patience finally at it's end. "Arthur, I stayed because seriously, I liked being that close to you without you yelling at me, and besides, even if I wanted to do anything, you were passed out within two minutes!"

Arthur looked at him. "So, you didn't do anything?"

"No! If anything, you were the one trying to do something!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded.

"It means that even when you're drunk, you're a pretty good kisser."

Arthur blanched. Did he really kiss that bleeding idiot last night? "...Get out," he whispered.

"What was that?"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" he repeated, flinging the wooden spoon at Alfred's head.

Alfred laughed loudly at him. "Dude! This is my house! You can't kick me out of my own-OK! Ok I'm going!" he exclaimed, for Arthur had just wailed a large butcher knife at him. He should probably hide those things from him. Alfred slammed the door shut behind him, a scared chuckle escaping him as he heard the dull thuds of the remaining knives hit the floor. He stood and brushed himself off. "That was close...but...now what am I gonna do..." he thought aloud, walking down the driveway. Alfred stopped, a sudden idea popping into his mind. Instead of leaving Arthur to cool off, Alfred had a much better idea...

Climb back in through the window.

He walked towards his backyard, whistling the Mission Impossible theme. He stepped up on the porch, turning the back door knob. Nope, it was locked. He sighed and tried the window next to it; that was locked as well. Alfred groaned, he figured that the doors and windows on the ground floor would be locked. He jumped up and latched onto the side roof, easily scaling it and swinging into the thankfully open window; he really was lax when it came to home security. Alfred landed on the aged carpet floor with a soft thump, tensing at the slightest sound, in case it was Arthur coming to investigate. He slipped out of the spare room and bounded down the stairs as quietly as possible, jumping across the last three steps and dashing for the wall against the kitchen, where Arthur couldn't see him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Arthur, still trying to 'cook,' didn't hear him. Alfred wasn't sure why he was still pretending to be one of those actors from an old spy movie, maybe it was because he wanted to see what Arthur was like without him around. He edged closer to the entryway, ears straining to hear what Arthur was grumbling about.

"Stupid bloody yank!" Arthur said furiously, banging pots and pans around. "He's just so oblivious to everything!" Alfred shrank further into the shadows. "When is he gonna realize I miss him too! The bleeding idiot!" the Briton fumed. "Why do I even care for him at all, all he's ever done is hurt me!"

"Artie...if that's how you feel...then...I'm sorry."