Alfred pondered what he had learned from his meeting with the FBI Agents. They were staying at a hotel for the night since the storm had picked up, Alfred just barely making it back to his apartment through the imbeciles that came out, solely for the purpose of killing you in the snow. Why was it that people drove with deadly intent when the weather was bad? They sucked to begin with!

But they had been in Canada, how were they transported there without anyone noticing? You didn't just jump the border with kids, did you? It had been done before. But he found it disturbing that the one border that was unprotected was the one they were crossing. And this man Whyntir was in the middle of whatever was going on. Slowly, for the first time all day, he picked up his cell phone and pressed three until it started calling his brother.

"Alfred?" There was some noise in the background, a television playing.

"Hey Mattie, busy?" Alfred asked, still in thought.

"Not really. Something wrong? You're quiet," his brother asked, he could hear the noise drop steadily.

"Not really wrong, but I was wondering if you can call someone about looking into the Government records on residents."

"What for? Got a case hat reaches to my neck of the woods?"

"Exactly," the American grinned, "I'm looking for a man named Whyntir."

"Alright, how about I call you back once I get the information."

"That'll be fine. Thanks bro. I'll meet up with you when you find something."

"If I find something"

"Touché, but I'm sure you will. You're awesome that way Mattie."

"I'm touched," the voice was teasing, but he could hear the warm smile that seeped into his voice.

The two hung up and Alfred was left to himself once again. It was, in one word, traumatizing. All he could do was keep thinking about this, now, international crime. But it did make sense. Children taken, never to be found again, that are really over the border and well out of the reach of the federal government. And getting through the border would be almost too easy. That was probably why they indulged themselves without worry.

"Alfred, you're home," Arthur said surprised, making his way from his room.

The American smiled slightly, "Yeah, I'm back. How was your day?"

"Uh, alright. Uh, Alfred . . ."

"FINALLY!" a childish voice shouted from behind the older Englishman who jumped away to reveal a small, eight year old boy who held a strong resemblance to Arthur. It was Peter Kirkland, Arthur's baby brother who, in all honesty, denied his feelings for the elder vehemently. But Alfred was sure the younger was going through that Family sucks phase that every kid went through.

The boy ran to Alfred and gave him a hug, "Where have you been all day! I've been bored to death by Artie's constant boringness!"

"Good to see you too Peter," Alfred laughed and patted the blonde hair, "I've been working on a case."

"Really? How old is it?"

"Twelve years."

"Much closer to thirteen than twelve now," Arthur interjected as he made his way to the kitchen, "I guessed that you had forgotten the fact that today is New Years Eve. You've been so horribly wrapped up in that case. I realize your trying to help some poor restless spirit and his family, but you have your own family right here you git."

Alfred blinked a few times, New Years Eve . . . tonight? He had gotten the case on the twenty-ninth at the Concert, began on the thirtieth where he had almost fainted with how Ivan possessed his sister's body. Wit, that was yesterday. It was the thirty-first. His head reeled. This was a very fast paced case and was warping all senses of time that he had before . . . if he did have any before that is. He laughed, "Ah, you're right. I totally forgot. I guess I shouldn't ask why Peter's here then. Your mom really likes spending the holidays alone, doesn't she?"

"Yes, well, I always believed she should have stopped after Dillon, but no. We just had to add a fourth terror to the family. What's worse is that she dumps him on me when he could very well go to Angus. He is the oldest and most successful one as she loves to point out every bloody time I see her."

Arthur's family was a mess, ever since his mother's first husband died in World War Two; she had fallen into a depression and a slight degree of bipolarized behavior. It turned out that he was a Scotsman and the father of Arthur's elder brother Angus. After that she had a one night stand with an Englishman and Arthur came into being as a bastard child. A fact neither of his brothers allowed him to live down. Two years after Arthur's birth, his mother married an Irish man and she gave birth to Dillon, but they divorced four years later. Peter was, ironically, the only one to have a blood brother. Alfred's aunt had somehow found the same Englishman and repeated her previous actions. She was a mess, yes. The rest of the family kept their distance, not really wanting to intermingle with such a shameless woman. Everyone knew her as a whore, but for her life style, she was surprisingly beautiful. Pale skin and naturally rosy lips with the most beautiful green eyes anyone had ever seen. Come to think of it, Arthur had inherited those gorgeous emerald orbs.

"Hey, don't worry about it Artie," Alfred smiled, "You're the one they all look up to anyway."

"Pfft, yeah right," Peter scoffed, only to receive a sharp whack to the head by Alfred giving a look of 'Not helping!'

Suddenly, the American's phone went off. He hastily picked up the device and answered, knowing who it was, "Hey Mattie, did you find anything?"

"Actually, I did. Though there isn't a lot I'm afraid. What I can tell you is, if you are hoping to prosecute him in Canada and America, you'll be hard pressed. He was a war hero of the European Theatre and once Hitler had fallen, he transferred to the American military and fought for the remaining war. They even quoted him in his reason why he did such a daring move," Alfred heard papers rustling.

"Did you actually get the files!"

"Yeah, the guy lives in my district, which is disturbing if he really has something to do with all those missing children. Anyway, he was dubbed the purest form of Nationalism and a hero of all countries."

"Oh god."

"What is it?"

"Every single one of those kids he took . . ."

"Yeah? Alfred, I don't get what-."

"All of them were foreigners. Feliks was Polish, Toris was Lithuanian, Meimei was Chinese, or Taiwanese, whatever, and Elizabeta was Hungarian. They all had foreign backgrounds," his eyes widened in sheer terror, "Oh shit!"

"Alfred, you aren't making any sense with that connection. Maybe you're looking too deep into the situation," still, worry tainted the other's voice.

"Nationalism can be dangerous. And it makes perfect sense why he would come here! We got folks from all over the world here in the town and in the city. Even Russians . . . neither the Cold War, nor racial discrimination affect this one little place. They all come here, and they all disappear."

He knew Matthew could piece it together, but he would be silent seeing as he couldn't really judge either course. "So when can I expect you here?"

Alfred bit his lip. He'd leave right then if it wasn't for the snow storm, also, it was a holiday and he could not, not spend it with Arthur and Peter. "Next week, I should be able to get through by then. The storm is pretty heavy. Oh, and happy early New Years."

A chuckle floated through the phone, "Alright. I'll be waiting for you. And Happy Early New Years to you too."

He hung up his phone and stared at the wall for a few moments. He had a motive, though orthodox, was liable. Radical Nationalism was dangerous, very dangerous. And that explained why he was safe. He was of a minority in this town: An American. And the kidnapping of foreign children, never to be seen again: a scare tactic to keep them in line.

The doorbell rang and Alfred was snapped out of his thoughts to Arthur running for the door. Peter groaned from the next room over, "It's not your boyfriend again, is it?"

"Bloody- shut up Peter! And be nice to Francis," the Englishman snapped, "Unless you want me to cook tonight."

Peter raised his hands in surrender, "I never said I didn't like Francis!"

With a sigh, Arthur opened the door to reveal the baker with a small bouquet of roses and dressed rather smartly in a charcoal tweed suit under a black trench coat with polished black shoes and a matching, dark grey fedora and scarf. Alfred had to admit, the Frenchman could pass for a millionaire.

"Bonjour mon cher, Arthur. It is rather horrid outside with all that snow," the Frenchman commented, stepping into the small apartment while taking off his hat with his free hand.

Arthur took the other's jacket and hung it up before snatching the hat and doing the same motions, "I would suspect so. Think you can make it back to your place, or will you be staying here for the night? I wouldn't want you to get into a car accident."

"Of course not, who would cook for you then?" he teased, only to get a red faced Englishman punching him in his arm.

"My cooking isn't that bad!" he muttered defensively.

"You gave me food poisoning," Peter's voice called from the kitchen.

Alfred nodded, "Yeah, and I had to go to the ER to get my stomach pumped."

Arthur looked down, wanting to shrink, or die, or maybe just turn invisible like . . . Alfred's brother . . . damn it what was that boy's name! A hand snaked itself around his waist causing his face to go even more red. "I think that is enough for poor Arthur, I fear he might just break down with all your cruel words. Come along mon cher, those two villains can say what they wish. No matter if you can genocide an entire civilization with your cooking, I love you all the same." That received him another punch to the arm.

Five days later

Peter seemed really out of it. He was gaining dark circles under his eyes and he looked around himself suspiciously. Arthur couldn't tell what was wrong, when he found his little brother looking out an open window at night, the boy's only explanation was that he heard knocking on the window. When he looked out, he saw himself. He was terrified of going back to sleep, swearing that it wasn't his reflection. He saw himself, his skin sickly pale and his sky blue eyes were clouded over with white film like in those horror movies where the person was dead, but when he opened the window, they disappeared. Arthur insisted it was just the snow through the glass that caused the appearance, but it didn't help the young boy.

Arthur placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, "Why don't we go down to Francis' bakery and get something sweet for desert tonight? What do you say?"

"Yeah, okay," a small smile tweaked the courners of his lips, though he was utterly nervous. They left in the car and headed towards the market.

Arthur swore he hadn't been in the store that long. He checked his watch, he was right. Only five minutes and he had the éclairs the two of them had decided on, but Peter was no where to be found. He called his brother's name, no answer. Worried, he went back to Francis.

"Frog!" he shouted, "Did you see where Peter went?"

Francis blinked, "Non, I thought he was still with you."

Now the Englishman started worrying his bottom lip, "He isn't. Actually, he's gone." His eyes widened, "You don't think-."

"I would pray not . . ." The Frenchman turned to the backroom, "Chelle, could you watch the shop?"

A young woman with olive skin and blue eyes, her hair dark brown pulled into loose ponytails with two red bows at wither end, "Of course Francis. I hope Peter's okay."

"As do I," the Frenchman muttered solemnly before pulling off his apron and hat and replacing them with his fedora and heavy coat before the two blondes left the bakery, asking anyone if they had seen Peter and calling his name. After an hour, they realized he was gone for good.

A/N: I feel so horrible for this, but I want Arthur to have more of a role than he was having. So enjoy~.