I have a really good reason for the delay. My computer completely died on me. Couldn't access any files and lost a lot of stuff. Twice. :\ So the 4000 some word chapter I had written up for this was erased, twice. Had to re-write it, thrice. ._. Question for readers: Would you guys prefer shorter chapters updated more frequently or longer chapters updated less often?
Alfred froze mid-boot removal, with one foot in the air. He stared at the shadowy figure on his cot and let out a breath when his sleep deprived mind connected the French accent with the nation he had been expecting.
"Francis! You're here!" The boot was carelessly thrown off to the side with the other one as he went to light a candle to better see France. It was unnerving being in a dark tent with him, alone. The nearest fire that he could make use of he'd passed on the walk through the camp.
Before he could slip out of the tent to grab a spare piece of wood or something to light the candle, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Ma petite you would leave when I've just arrived?" How did Francis manage to make Alfred feel so guilty without them having even had a conversation yet? Instead of walking out, like he probably should, Alfred turned around and faced him. "I was going to come back y'know. It's creepy dark in here, and it is late."
Speaking of late... "What took you so long?" He glared at Francis, but the Frenchman just smiled softly and steered Alfred back towards his cot and sat him down on it before taking a seat next to him as well.
"Rough waters, and where have you been all day?" The question was gracefully turned back on America who blinked dumbly. Everything that had happened earlier played back through his mind at breakneck speeds. He just shrugged his shoulders and looked away. Sometimes it was easier to deflect a deflected question with not saying anything.
At least that was Alfred's logic.
France's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the blood on the side of Alfred's face. He reached up and slid his fingers across the dried splatter.
"Amérique..." His fingers slipped under and across to the other side of the young nation's face, tilting it to where they were looking at one another. "Is that yours?"
For a second Alfred had no idea what he was talking about. Francis tapped his fingers twice against the bloody cheek, eyebrows arched curiously.
Oh...He'd forgotten to wash the blood off. Alfred none too gently swatted Francis's hand away from his face. "The British Empire is what happened."
Neither said anything, and eventually Alfred broke the silence. "It's not mine," his gaze flicked back to Francis, and he quickly added, "and it's not his either."
Francis made a noncommittal 'hm' sound.
Nothing came to mind to say. Which was ironic since Alfred had been thinking nonstop about all the things he'd say to the French nation whenever he arrived. The moment had come and all he wanted to do was get some rest and not have to think about Arthur or Gilbert or the war. Or especially the lives lost during it.
His shoulders slumped forward and he sighed tiredly. "Francis was there something really important you were going to tell me?" He turned his wary expression on the Frenchman. "I-It's great having you back and around to kick some British butt, and I appreciate it-"
Francis smoothly interjected himself into America's ramblings. "Yet you're tired and are in no mood to listen to my proposal." His lips tilted up faintly.
"Proposal?" Curiosity was probably his greatest weakness, and France was playing right into it. But they would be moving again in the morning, and knowing Prussia it'd be before the sun even came up.
"Maybe tomorrow?" For once he'd do the mature thing and get to bed instead of staying up to hear whatever it was that France had to say.
The other nation smoothly got to his feet and pivoted on one foot so he was facing the still seated America. "Oui, tomorrow then." Francis bent over and pressed his lips to the top of Alfred's unruly hair before turning and walking out of the tent.
Alfred sat rigid on his cot for a few minutes after Francis had left, not quite sure what to make of their brief conversation or the casual manner in which he'd left. He stared at the other side of the tent, waiting to make sure France wouldn't pop his head back in. Eventually exhaustion won out over the nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
So rather reluctantly he laid back on the cot and dragged the threadbare blanket up around his shoulders. The moment he closed his eyes he was fast asleep.
The sound of men laughing woke him up. Which was weird because usually it was more along the lines of an angry Prussian shouting at him and dragging him out before light was on the horizon.
America sat up, his blanket having been kicked off sometime in the night. Groaning softly he stretched out his arms and legs before getting up to stumble about for his boots. He halfheartedly pulled them on and then walked out, blinking against the harsh sunlight that greeted him.
How long had he slept? He walked further out and stopped a passing soldier.
"What time is it?"
Smiling broadly the man clapped Alfred on the shoulder. "About a quarter 'til noon."
His jaw dropped. "What?"
The soldier nodded and began to move again, turning around to walk backwards as he addressed Alfred for a moment. "We've been given the mornin' to recuperate!"
Recuperate? That's a word he didn't think was even in Prussia's vocabulary. Something was up.
He weaved through the various soldiers milling about until he got to Prussia's somewhat grand tent. It wasn't that much better than the others, but it was a lot roomier and the inside was nicer than the simple cot and blanket setup most had.
"Prussia?" It was always safer to make his presence known with the albino. Always.
A low moan from inside the tent made his stomach plummet. Without waiting for the usual approval he burst into the tent, gaze sweeping the inside worriedly. At first glance he didn't notice anything, or anyone out of place. So where had-
His foot brushed against something and he looked down, fearing the worst. Instead he saw Prussia lying on an expensive looking fur rug with one arm flung across his face. Across the way France was sprawled out along a piece of furniture and mumbling in French.
"Quelle heure est-il?" His voice drifted across the room, sounding lower than usual.
Un-freaking-believable.
"You guys are drunk!" Alfred looked from the still motionless Prussia to France as the Frenchman slowly straightened and ran a hand through his loose hair.
France smiled, a sardonic tilt taking the place of his usual smirk. "Non we are ah…" He trailed off eyes narrowing as he tried to think up the word.
"Hung over." America stated, still unable to believe what he was seeing. They were at war and the two were getting drunk and sleeping in 'til the afternoon. No wonder the soldiers had been given the morning off to 'recuperate.' These two were probably trying to make a recovery themselves.
"Quelle heure est-il?" Francis repeated the question while stretching out lazily. Apparently neither were in the mood to get moving or do anything.
"It's abou-"
"Dites-le dans le Français." Francis was no longer squinting at Alfred tiredly, and he'd somehow gotten to his feet and was looking directly at him. Had he not just seen the nation mumble and groan himself awake from a drunk stupor-Alfred would have thought him completely sober.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Is Prussia even alive?" He wasn't in the mood to oblige a drunken France right then. This was so, so unprofessional or something. America carefully edged the toe of his boot forward enough to nudge Prussia in the side.
No reaction whatsoever.
That couldn't be a good sign. From this angle he wasn't sure if Prussia was breathing or not. "France?" For a brief moment he looked away and that was all the opportunity that Prussia needed.
One second he was poking an unconscious Prussia and the next his boot had been grabbed and his footing literally pulled out from underneath him. He fell to the floor with a thud, landing flat on his back and gasping for air that suddenly wasn't in his lungs.
"Dummer Bauer."
Alfred gaped at Gilbert who was sitting on his chest somehow. What was with these two?
When he could breathe again he started to shove Gilbert off of him. The nation seemed content to sit atop him and so he glanced over towards Francis in hopes that he'd help out. France was busy tying his hair back with a ribbon, sitting with one leg crossed over the other-The very picture of elegance...
Despite the reek of alcohol that still permeated the air.
"The heck is wrong with you guys? We've got to move and Arthur's probably ten steps ahead of us by now."
Prussia arched one brow. "You think so hick? Far as I know we are at an advantage." He leaned in dangerously close to Alfred, one hand pressing down roughly on his shoulder. "Or do you know something I don't?"
Alarms went off in America's head and he quickly shook it back and forth.
"We're about to meet up with your delegates, non?" Francis interrupted while watching them.
For a few lingering moments Prussia kept his dark gaze fixed on America and then got up with a grunt. Alfred sat up slowly, not wanting to set off either of the unstable nations. Both were giving him weird vibes at the moment.
"Yeah." America watched Prussia anxiously, eyes going wide when the nation suddenly started taking off his clothes and changing. Alfred stood up and turned around so he was directly facing Francis and had Gilbert to his back.
"Especially since we got our uhm, win the other day." He was doing his darndest to ignore Prussia's grumbling and the sound of him shuffling around trying to find clothes apparently, but blood still rushed to his face.
Francis hid a smile behind his hand at Alfred's naïve antics. It was endearing, but he'd no doubt get over such modesty soon.
"I'm going to go pack my things." Alfred mumbled as he rushed out of the tent.
Honestly he didn't have much to pack, but it gave him something to do other than sit around with the other nations. Soon they'd take back Philadelphia, and if the runners between their camps and the delegates were right then…He sighed and rubbed at his forehead.
At the very least maybe the bright sunlight and clear skies would sober those two up. He hurried back to his tent and began stuffing away extra clothes and other items strewn about. Breaking down both the cot and tent went by quickly as well. Just as he was rolling up his pathetic blanket someone cleared their throat from behind him.
"Sir."
America straightened and faced the messenger who'd been behind him, holding out a letter with a wax seal visible. "Thanks."
The soldier nodded before turning and rushing off. No doubt to deliver other important letters.
Alfred turned the letter over in his hands so he could better see the seal. His eyes widened at the familiar red wax and the embellishment in it. This was a letter from George.
He bent over to slide the knife out from his boot strap and cut through the wax easily. His fingers shook as he unfolded the letter, eyes glued to the elegant script of his General.
America,
News has not likely reached you of our situation and so I hope this letter finds you sooner rather than later. Spain has been an invaluable ally in the Southern states. With his determination this solemn affair may draw to a close much sooner than anticipated-That is not the reason to which I write this hasty letter.
I am writing to you of a subject that is of great concern. Do not worry about us as the South is all but reclaimed-You might, and I suppose you will learn of this perhaps before my letter even reaches you. This elegant way of communication cannot lessen the blow of the news I must be the bearer of-and what unfortunate news it is.
There is a threat you must keep an eye for. I've only but heard rumors and without evidence I say this in the most solemn manner. The British Empire is long re-
The letter suddenly stopped. Ink had been spilt across it and for some reason George hadn't bothered to write out the letter again or even include another slip of paper with the rest of it. Had he been in such a rush that he wouldn't notice it?
America bit down on his bottom lip, chewing at it nervously. His stomach was doing flips and not the good kind either. He folded the letter and carefully put it on an inside pocket of his pack. Maybe another letter would come. One that explained whatever this supposed threat was.
He just hoped that George was alright.
"Behind us!"
"Gottverdammt! Shoot the red coats! Hurensohn."
Everything was dark, and blurry. Except for that bright bit of flickering light off to the side. Alfred rolled to his feet, holding his bloody shoulder while he tried to figure out what had happened.
Camp had been taken down and then…Then they'd been marching for the better part of the day and had continued on into the evening. Nothing of interest had happened.
In fact Philadelphia had just been in sight when everything had gone to crap real fast. How England had recovered from his loss and prepared a trap so quickly was beyond Alfred's comprehension. This couldn't be happening.
The burning of their supply wagons said otherwise. That along with the cries of soldiers in both German and English. He looked around, trying to spot Arthur, or even Gilbert, but stopped when he saw Francis standing with blade drawn and staring at something.
Or more specifically someone.
Alfred's stomach dropped and a wave of nausea almost made him fall back to his knees.
"Canada."
Historical notes? Whatarethose? Seriously getting into further territory with this AU that won't contain as many as before. But I did use some heavy influence and wording from George Washington's actual letters, specifically the ones he wrote to his wife Martha. Also during this time Canada was a colony of Britain's, and in this AU England's going to pull all the stops-Including dear Mathieu.
Burning supply wagons/night attacks were a common thing to do during this particular war. Dirty fighting. AMG WE'RE DEVELOPING PLOT WUT. Again if y'all could answer my question about whether or not you prefer shorter chapters updated more frequently or longer chapters updated less often-That'd be fabulous.
Quelle heure est-il? – What time is it?
Dites-le dans le Français. – Say it in French.
Dummer Bauer. – Silly farmer.
Rest of the translations aren't important really. Just the good ol' curses and whatnot.