When Arthur woke up from his second "nap" that day, he had only one question in mind, who were they running from? He'd understand if it was the vampire equivalent of Francis, but at this point waking up in what appeared to be D.C. Took its toll on any living thing. Slowly the door to his hotel room creaked open. (It was one of the most different hotels, ever.) Alfred's eyes were filled with an unusual emotion for him, fear, and he carefully approached the Brit.
"Yah K, Ahthur?"
"Belt up! I- I'm way stronger than you!"
"Tha's nice tah know Artie."
"Who exactly are we running from?"
"Leska, uh founhd out tha' yah knew about mah vampire-ness."
"Alfie, love the accent but speak normally."
Alfred nodded and glanced around the room suspiciously. He looked sad in a way, like someone painfully hurt him or broke his heart. His appearance was much, much different from normal, he didn't look like America the nation, he looked like Alfred the person. Texas was covered in smudges, almost impossible to see through, Nantucket looked like it was wilting, and Alfred's familiar bomber jacket was absent from his frame.
Something was definitely up.
"What's wrong, love?"
"Nothing. Nothing's- wrong."
The pause in Alfred voice was unsettling, unnatural in his voice. It didn't fit, Arthur couldn't see the whole picture, but what he knew was committed to memory. Leska was a vampire with some kind of special relation to Alfred, Alfred was a vampire, and they were in danger. Immediate danger, probably from Leska.
"Alfie, what are you hiding?"
"Maybe if it weren't for they fact that Leska is all yandere over me still, who would love to make you fresh meat, and the fact that I'd have to kill my own blood-relatives to save you, I might feel a little better."
Alfred sighed loudly and sat down on the bed next to Arthur, inches away from touching.
"It started in the year 1824, after the Monroe doctrine, when Leska found me. I was outside my home at twilight waiting for a friend and she grabbed me, literally, and forced me into her home."
The Brit was hanging onto his words, memorizing them the moment they came out of the American's mouth.
"She made me drink her blood and then she took me and drunk mine. I became her servant/lover/guest for twenty years, or until I built up enough strength to leave. I left on a cool crisp night, never to return to her again, but she still was after me. I caught glimpses of her on sidewalks, rooftops, and at meetings, but I've always been that one step ahead. She-"
The bedside window shattered, silencing Alfred, as a silhouette's shadow was cast across the ornate carpet.
"Talking about me, Al? How considerate."