1940, London.
The London Blitz.
Reducing me to a writhing, screaming child every night. Suffering the impact of the bombs on my city, hearing the screams of my people, seeing the damage and the fire and beaten, broken faces. My people would fight them any way that they could; my citizens rebuilt every morning. My pilots would fight the Germans every night. The dark night air was broken by the sounds of explosions and gun fire.
I was completely alone. France had fallen to the Nazi war machine, and the Soviet Union had a pact with that insane bastard. And the United States was neutral.
Then again, I couldn't expect anything else from the American; last time we met, I'd shouted and screamed at him, telling him to stay out of my life forever. And I guess he'd decided to do just that. He'd sit on the side lines whilst I was bombed and battered every night, he'd sit back and watch whilst my people died. But it's none of his concern, he'd tell himself. He has a duty to his own people, never mind about anyone else's.
It was getting increasingly difficult to wake up every morning.
My eyes fluttered open and I saw light pouring through my windows, the air silent. Finally, it was morning, and I could be safe for a while, before the dark curtain of night fell over me once more.
I had my back to the window, so I went to turn over. A sharp pain ran up my left side, causing me to gasp and freeze immediately. I glance down and saw my side caked with dry blood, but more of the crimson liquid was seeping out due to my careless movement. I sat up slowly, my head and limbs heavy, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My head spun as I went to stand up.
I ended up falling back on my bed, my eyes squeezed shut as I tried to will the dizziness away. All I ended up doing was doubling over and throwing up.
A few minutes later, I managed to stand up and walk to the bathroom, glancing at myself in the mirror. I was a mess.
I was pale, paler than usual, with dark bags beneath my eyes. My eyes seemed brighter than normal, however, in contrast to the rest of me. My mouth tasted like vomit and my hair was a mess, and my left side was covered in cry blood, with more blood running down my leg. I sighed, and immediately regretted it as I threw up again.
Eventually I managed to clean myself up, pulling on my green uniform and walking to the base to assess the damage done to us the previous night. There was no cleaning up my appearance, however; my hair was wet as I'd run it underneath some cold water and hadn't bothered drying it. I looked exhausted and I was definitely losing weight. I walked into the main office and one of the female workers walked over to me immediately.
"Would you like some tea, Mr. Kirkland?" she asked me, as per usual. I nodded and she walked off to fix my drink. It had become a regular morning routine; I'd come in looking like Hell ran me over a few times and then spat me back out, and Miss Thompson would walk over and ask if I wished for some tea. I'd answer yes, she'd walk off, and my Prime Minister would walk over, smoking one of those damned cigars and filling my head with the smoke. This time when he walked over, I could feel my stomach churning again, and I willed myself not to throw up. My throat was still burning from the first two times.
I turned to greet Mr. Churchill, but the words died in my mouth. Because standing behind him, was a man I never thought I'd see again.
Alfred F. Jones.
Alfred's eyes landed on me and for a moment, I thought I saw concern in his eyes. His smile seemed to falter slightly, but I pinned it all down to my imagination. I was surprised he wasn't laughing at my weak and pathetic appearance.
"Good morning, Kirkland," Churchill addressed me, cigar smoke heading my way. I nodded in response, keeping my jaw locked. "How are you feeling?" he asked with absolutely no concern in his voice. He didn't even wait for my response.
"Wonderful news, Kirkland; America has sent over volunteers for the RAF to help fight the Nazis!" Churchill announced. Alfred grinned at me.
"Couldn't let you have all the fun, y'know?" he said, rather unconvincingly. I still wasn't speaking.
Churchill continued talking about something I probably should've been paying attention to. New battle plans, how many Americans we had, a new secret weapon we're testing, how much damage was done last night…I wasn't really listening at all.
I was looking at Alfred. Luckily, he was actually paying attention to my Prime Minister, thus not noticing my staring. He seemed older, more mature than even in World War I. And, I thought, holding down a blush, he was extremely handsome. I was still in love with him, despite how I'd screamed at him last time. But he came back to me, which much mean he wasn't mad at me, right?
"…so we're testing the Ironsides, and we…"
Churchill's words barely reached me. My head was beginning to spin again; where was my damn tea? Usually it makes me feel better. But there was a low, throbbing feeling in my chest as I looked at Alfred. I was wondering what it was…
"…a warehouse was hit in the blast last night, but…"
Nervousness. Anxiousness. Love. That's what I was feeling. It was an inappropriate time to be feeling such emotions, but I couldn't help myself. Dammit, I was so in love with Alfred, when did this happen?
The smoke was filling my head and the nervousness had turned into a fiery heat in my stomach. The room was spinning and all I could hear was the hustle and bustle of the people around me. Dammit; darkness was slowly filling my vision, and I could tell what was happening. I was about…to…
My eyes closed and I felt myself falling. There was a shout of surprise and I prepared myself for impact on the floor, hoping that maybe I'd be completely gone by the time I reached the ground. I think I did, because all I can remember is suddenly feeling someone's arms catching me and holding me close.
But that couldn't be right…
When I next opened my eyes, I was back in my room. The window was open, filling my room with fresh, but very cold, air. I sat up slowly and noticed as something fell to my lap. I assumed it was my blanket, but then I remembered that I'd put that to soak in the bath tub, considering how it was covered with blood. I glanced down and saw a brown bomber jack with the number '50' sewn on the back. I picked it up, and recognised it was the one Alfred had worn earlier.
I could feel its warmth on my fingers as I held it up in front of me. Warmth I'd felt earlier when I'd passed out—does this mean Alfred had caught me…? But that doesn't make sense…
I shivered and got up to close the window. I tried to pull it closed, but all strength had left my arms. I felt like a helpless child. I glanced at the jacket once more, before walking over and picking it up. It really was warm…
I glanced around to find myself alone, so I slipped the jacket on, walking over to my mirror. I was practically drowning in the thing, but I held it closer to myself and nuzzled the soft material on the collar. It was warm, just like Alfred…I wonder if it felt like this to be held by him.
I looked up at the mirror and my heart nearly leapt out of my chest as I noticed Alfred standing in the doorway. I turned around to face him, his expression reading confusion and something else I didn't understand.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked, walking over to me. I stuttered, falling over my words before realizing that it just wasn't going to work. Instead, I pulled the jacket off and handed it to him.
"…thanks," I mumbled, staring at the ground.
"…You can keep it for a little longer, if you want," Alfred said, not taking the jacket from me. I looked up at him, seeing an unusual and unexpected serious expression on the young boy's face.
It felt wrong to call him a boy. He didn't look like it anymore. I was the child now. Take care of me, Alfred, please…
I snapped out of my pathetic thoughts and shoved the jacket against his chest. "No, I'm fine," I said, pulling my hands away as if I'd been burnt. Alfred sighed and pulled his jacket back on.
There an uncomfortable silence between the two of us, before Alfred spoke up again. "Hey, Ar..England?" he asked. I looked up, wishing he'd said my name. "…I'm sorry,"
"About what?" I asked, confused.
"About before…in the Great War…I'm really sorry about shouting at you,"
I scoffed and glanced off to the side. "Idiot," I responded. Alfred looked confused. "Don't apologise for things that aren't your fault,"
"But it-,"
"Was my fault," I interrupted, looking at him. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. You didn't deserve it. I still don't know why I did it, I didn't have control over myself," I explained to him. Alfred looked at a loss for words for a moment, before grinning widely.
"I'll forgive you this time, old man," he laughed.
"I'm not old!" I cried back at him as he continued to laugh. "Hey, Alfred?"
His laughing stopped immediately, looking nearly amazed. "…what?" I asked, wondering what was wrong.
"You…you called me 'Alfred',"
I blushed brightly but scowled as best I could at him. "Idiot, I'm trying to be serious here!" Alfred merely smiled in response. "Look, I'm … I'm really grateful that you're here," I admitted, looking off to the side again. "Thank you,"
There was a pause, when Alfred spoke up again. "Arthur? Look … the truth is, I'm here because I-,"
There was a knock at my door, interrupting Alfred. It turned out to be Miss Thompson with some tea (she'd had to make me a new cup, since I'd passed out before my one this morning). Alfred let her in and once she left, I was expecting him to continue what he was saying before. Instead, he smiled at me, almost sadly.
"You get some rest," he said, before turning and walking out of the room.
I sighed and sat on the bed, taking a sip of my tea. I was glad Alfred was here. I smiled to myself, thinking;
Alfred was here to fight the Germans.
He was here to protect me.
He was here to be my Hero.