Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Slash, AU, swearing, sub-par writing, wonky plots, appallingly slow updates, and Hitler jokes.
I don't know what I'm doing.
Unbeta'd.
[Chapter 7]
Alfred's first word of the day was creaky, dusty, and sounded like it was coming from the throat of something bandage wrapped and freshly revived from its sarcophagus.
"Coffee-" he groaned.
"If you think I'm going to fetch you some, you are sorely mistaken."
Alfred pried his face off his spit damp pillow. Arthur was already up and reviewing notes.
"Dude, do you ever sleep?"
He knew Arthur had to sleep. Arthur got tired. And sometimes, when he woke up in the mornings, Arthur's hair was tufted in odd directions indicating that it had met a pillow at some point. So, theoretically, he knew Arthur slept. He'd just never seen him do it.
"Of course I do. I just don't hibernate like you do. Now get up. We have things to do."
This meant that Arthur had things to do. Alfred would be left behind in some place or another with the order to get to the car and start it if Arthur ran into trouble.
He was a getaway driver. That was going to look so nice on his resume.
He slipped out of over starched hotel sheets, grumbling as he went.
Mornings just weren't fun anymore. No sleeping in. No plush sheets. No early morning cartoons. No marshmallowy cereals. No superhero pajamas.
He missed his Batman pajamas. Those things had been kick ass. Had a cape and everything.
He made his way across the room sadly dressed in a shirt and boxers instead of Dark Knight sleepwear. Rummaging through his duffel bag he found a much wrinkled shirt. He gave it a sniff and after a brief coughing fit swore to find a laundromat as soon as possible.
Or at least some Febreze.
But before hunting for fabric freshener, there was something more important to find.
"So about that coffee..." he trailed off, looking at Arthur expectantly.
Arthur spared him a grumpy glance.
"No coffee until you put on pants."
Well, that was fair enough.
While Alfred still wasn't sure what moral standpoint to take about Arthur's mystery funds, he had to admit that the dollars used to acquire diner coffee instead of McDonald's joe were dollars well spent.
Bacon money was also important.
To a lesser extent, so too were pancake, French toast, omelet, and hash brown money.
But it was mostly about bacon and coffee.
And tea. Arthur was living up to the British stereotype and spent most of his time swimming in the stuff. If given the choice, it would probably be all he drank.
They ate breakfast in a diner full of half-asleep truckers, Alfred shoveling greasy meat and eggs into his mouth and Arthur sipping tea. Alfred took a swig of coffee and spoke up.
"Hey. I was going to see about finding a laundromat. Got anything you need washed?"
Arthur had less luggage than Alfred. Odds were his attire needed a washing even more desperately than Alfred's did.
Arthur arched an oversized eyebrow. "You're offering to do my laundry?"
"Yes."
"I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I want some strange man fiddling with my underthings."
"Shut up and give me quarters."
"No I don't think I will. My underthings are quite important after all."
"Dude, they're just smaller pants that you wear under your pants."
"Maybe for you. But I can't exactly seduce someone in Superman boxers."
"You- What?"
"You know, seduce." Arthur said, clinking a spoon around in his tea mug "You've seen spy films haven't you? Sexy underwear is a must if you want to get anywhere in the field of espionage."
He took a sip of tea and grinned at the silently flustered American.
Alfred floundered for a comeback.
But what could you say when your apparently straight laced kidnapper/companion suddenly told you that those information gathering sessions they went on may or may not have included sexy underwear?
"I- I think you're bluffing."
Arthur had better be joking. He didn't think he'd be able to live with the image of- No! Don't think about it!
Hopefully the waitress would stumble along and save him from whatever this was that he'd manage to get into.
"Really? Then do my laundry and find out."
Arthur's eyes slid half closed and he smiled in mildly sadistic delight.
Alfred came to realization that there would be no rescue. Only he could save himself now.
He flung up his hand as far and fast as it would go.
"Miss!" he called, then coughed, voice having cracked in panic "More coffee!"
"Make sure you fold them properly, Alfred." Alfred said in a high pitched British accent. "I can't be seen looking like some overly wrinkled hobo. You know, like you."
Until this moment, he had never believed than folding laundry was something someone could do while angry. It had always seemed so soothing. And yet, here he was, sorting clean clothes in a way that could be described as 'wrathful'.
"I'm not a fucking hobo." he told his Domo-kun shirt, which would have screamed for mercy had it been a lesser tee. "Hobos wish they looked as good as I do."
If only he'd had a red shirt to throw in with Arthur's whites. He'd like to see how tough Mr. Super-Spy was walking around with pink undies.
And not even sexy undies. Arthur had lied about that. Just normal, everyday underwear dyed pink.
He giggled at the thought, but then realized that, unlike him, Arthur wasn't prone to wandering around in his boxers. So even if he did dye them pink, he'd never actually know if and when Arthur was wearing them. How was he supposed to sneer knowingly if he had no clue? It kind of took the fun out of the idea.
He was still perfectly willing to dye Arthur's socks pink out of spite though.
Oh yes, he'd have to remember that for next time.
He picked up the next shirt. Green with long sleeves. One of Arthur's. He glared at it.
This was the last time he did anything nice for Arthur.
Ever.
In fact, if he came back right now mortally injured, Alfred would make him beg before taking him to the hospital.
Ok, maybe not that. Alfred wasn't that heartless.
But supposing Arthur found himself in low to moderate danger, Alfred would quite possibly deny Arthur assistance until Arthur acknowledged that Alfred was a helpful assistant and not a smelly hobo.
That would show him.
Alfred managed to fold the shirt in half before realizing how lame he was becoming.
No! He would not be housewife to a foreign agent! When Arthur got back, Alfred was going to give him a piece of his mind!
That's right! As soon as Arthur got back, he was-
The door opened and Alfred forgot about his angry rant.
"Oh God. Please tell me that's ketchup."
Arthur rushed towards the bathroom, not even slowing as he threw Alfred a look that said 'You're an idiot'.
Alfred followed, still holding the half-folded shirt.
He supposed he was an idiot. There was no way the sticky red that now coated Arthur's hands and the right side of his chest could be ketchup. Alfred had seen enough ketchup stains in his time to know that ketchup didn't dry to that color brown.
He'd played enough football to know that blood did.
What was happening? Were they in danger? Was Arthur hurt? Had Arthur hurt someone? Had Arthur killed someone? Did Arthur know what sort of shit that would put them in? Did Arthur know what that position that would put Alfred in? Did Arthur even remember that Alfred was a civilian? Did Arthur realize that Alfred couldn't afford to be involved in something like this the way an agent could? And did Arthur have any idea how many quarters it was going to take to wash that stain out?
"Arthur?" he called, peering anxiously through the open bathroom door.
Arthur stood over the sink scrubbing vigorously at his arms. The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain. He turned off the faucet and then swore at his shirt, as if seeing the large dark stain for the first time. He moved towards the tub and sat down on the edge, face hidden in his hands.
"Arthur-"
"I'm fine. Shut up. I need to think."
"Arthur, what's-"
"I said shut up!"
Arthur looked at Alfred, who was lingering awkwardly in the doorway.
"They've found me. We need to leave."
"But, what do-"
Arthur stood abruptly, more put together than he had been a few minutes ago.
"Get me a shirt and then check us out. Get in the car and drive three blocks south to that abandoned gas station. I'll meet you there in half an hour. While you're waiting, plot an escape route. Back-roads or side-roads only. And for god's sake, do it yourself. Leave that damned machine out of this. We can't afford to screw up right now."
Arthur was now looking under the sink, pulling out assorted bottles of bathroom cleaner.
"What are you doing?"
"I've got some cleaning up to do."
And somehow, Alfred didn't think he was talking about the shirt.
Arthur got into the car exactly twenty eight minutes later smelling faintly of garbage and bleach.
"Have you got a way out of here?" he asked as he buckled in.
Alfred ran his fingers across his pocket feeling the folded edges of Tino's note through the denim.
"Yeah." he said "I think I do."
[End Chapter]
I've had some people ask, so I'm just going to confirm that there will eventually be slash of the USUK variety. There's been a warning for this at the top of the page since chapter one.
It's understandable that you're confused, as nothing overtly slashy has happened so far. With my current chapter plans (which are very much subject to change) the slash won't really start till around the halfway point of this fic.
Rest assured, the slash is coming.
And while we're on the subject of warnings, I'd like to call your attention to the 'appallingly slow updates' warning. Sad to say, that too will soon be coming into effect.
I don't expect to be incommunicado for too long, but I hope you will bear with me until I can hash out a regular updating schedule again.
I send my thanks to everyone reading this and hope you all understand.
Continue?