Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Or Clippy the Office Assistant tool. Or Captain America.
Warning: Profanity. Some stereotypes. Some OCs for the sake of plot. Some inevitable inaccuracies (historically, culturally, linguistically, and grammatically). Differences in child minding styles. Child neglect. Recovering from traumas. A child's reasoning and self-blame.
AN: Thank you for reading! Super stoked to see folks onboard for this one! I feel like it'll be an interesting flavor.
Special thanks to Time Traverser, SnakeGirl101, Vaugn20, Amerikia, Raven30142, Lotto2355, Lapis, Hanahana, and guests for your enthusiastic support!
And to Superwholock12345's observations on life and adulting:
Good for you! ;) Meanwhile, I bought an ice cream cake because I can, cuz I'm an adult. XDDD (I strive to be the badass kindergarten!me envisioned.)
Hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Let me know how summer is going for you!
Chapter 2: Like Clippy the Office Assistant, But Evil
Alfred sighed.
His Irish uncle must've always planned to meet people while he was out and about. He didn't do guests. His place wasn't set up for it.
There was a countertop dishwasher and dirty crumb-filled appliances that were all sharing a wall socket in a way that Arthur would deride as a fire hazard. Alfred ended up snapping pics of it to rile his dad someday (or maybe sue if the place burned down around his ears).
Not a lot of the dishware matched. The blinds were janky. There were no plants, not even fake ones. Reilley's pantry was nowhere near as stocked as Arthur's and he'd just laughed when Alfred asked him to pick up peanut butter.
There was a "three quarter" bathroom that Reilley boasted was renovated. Yeah, in the '80s maybe. Greens. Browns. Patterns. Ewww.
The shag carpet floor was strangely squishy in places and there was a muskiness mixed with cigarette smell that screamed that the place was dying to be aired out.
Alfred half-wished that he was out at his rundown, rural house in the Virginia backwoods. He could at least do something about the features that sucked there.
As a guest, his hands were kinda tied.
Uncle Rhys's cottage, while just as small, had been waaay better organized than this, which was something considering that Rhys didn't like hosting and Reilley was supposed to be sociable.
Rhys's living spaces had a blend of old people smells—wool, sewing supplies, and fishing equipment. There was an outdated, worn in feel to the decor that wasn't staged to impress.
Most of his building choices were old school: flagstones, bricks, and wood. Nothing fancy or auspicious.
The coolest stuff had been his archery gear, astrolabes, and a gun safe. Alfred was expressly forbidden from touching the weapons. Rhys even got uncomfortable if he stared at them too long. (He'd ended up moving the bows somewhere else.)
There were lots of childproof locks and "dangerous" substances (mainly plumbing stuff) that were kept in hard to reach places.
"I'm not a baby," Alfred grumbled.
His uncle had started a bit guiltily from where he was chopping vegetables, supposedly because Rhys was the host and Alfred was the guest.
But really, Rhys was the adult and Alfred was the…not-adult and the knives were kept very sharp.
Somehow in the past few months, the dynamic between them had been changing. Rhys had been getting softer. Or maybe, Alfred had been getting softer? And Rhys was indulgent? Sympathetic? Because Arthur wasn't around anymore? And all the needy kiddie stuff like consoling-back-patting, tear-drying, special-meal-planning, routine-setting, carrying-him-on-a-hip, bedtime-story-reading, and "do you need a cwtch, chwb?" had fallen onto him…like a stack of bricks?
Uncle Alistair and Uncle Reilley couldn't do those things on a day-in and day-out basis.
He was amazed Rhys could, considering his initial knee-jerk aversion to being bothered with him last December. But he'd seemed to steel himself after Arthur was out of the game. And was now over-correcting.
"I-I know that."
Alfred gave him a flat look. "I'm not going to break your stuff or try to eat parts of a toy or chug detergent. You didn't freak out like this last December. What's going on?"
"Stakes are higher."
"How?"
"I don't have a household staff to supplement the care I give."
"You were there at Arthur's flat, while he was at work."
"Yes, but your father was always coming home. I wasn't doing this alone. He took pride in his household being set up for childcare and visits."
"Your house isn't dangerous. These locks are overkill."
"They're a signpost that I need you to stay out of those places. Please respect that. If you are harmed on my watch, it's my honor that is besmirched."
"Why?"
Rhys frowned. "Chwb…"
"Why?"
He knelt to better face him. "I've… let you down before."
"…" Not the answer he was expecting and his struggle to understand it made Rhys seem even sadder.
"I don't know if there's a way to explain it that you'll fully comprehend. So many things are different now. I didn't know you were shape shifting that night."
"Huh?"
"At the shipyard, I was too wrapped up—I didn't know you were under duress—And then—"
O, they were talking about 1812. It hurt still, but it was hurting less. At least he could discuss everything that happened in the first half. He wasn't sure how to broach the second half.
He'd given some more details about the Gate closure to his family and counselor, but not what came afterwards… He wasn't sure when the right time would be for that, since he couldn't explain that span of months very well or his rationale leading up to the…end.
Tex hadn't beaten around the bush when he'd made mention of this not long after his counseling sessions had started.
To Tex, it was simple; he'd been having a crisis and wouldn't've known up from down, left from right.
Alfred wasn't sure the rest of his family would see it that way. And was nervous about adding one more thing to his stack of issues and how they'd view him.
"I didn't say anything."
Rhys shook his head. "I'm an empath, I should've-and then, I didn't check on you properly. Afterwards. No due diligence. And I didn't help you avert the disaster with Osha—"
Why would he? "I'm not your responsibility-"
"Yes, you are! You're family!" He argued with sudden passion that was uncharacteristic of him. He breathed angrily through his nose for a beat and forcibly calmed himself. "And when I do wrong by you, I'm doing worse by Arthur. I understand that better now. I should've gone with him. I was nearly free of the ropes. I should've signaled. I could've alerted him. I could've stopped—"
He sounded bitter.
"Then, this is for Arthur?" Alfred asked.
Rhys's expression twisted.
"It's both. It's for both of you. Chwb, you…you don't know…when he came to us…with you…injured…" He shook his head. "Can't let anything happen to you. He needs us to make good on our word. He made us promise—"
"Or he'll never forgive you?" Alfred guessed, though it seemed melodramatic. Shakespearean. Yeah, it had Arthur written all over it.
"I would never forgive me. It would be a betrayal." Rhys got a haunted look.
Alfred frowned and shuffled closer.
His uncle sighed. He abandoned the carrots and garlic and rested a hand on Alfred's head.
He tried to explain it again. "That's my brother, chwb. There are certain requests he should be able to make of me, no matter what differences we've had or are having, that I will give my every effort to fulfill. You're my brother's child. When he entrusts you to my keeping, you need to be safe."
As a result of this sentiment, his uncles had launched a "shuffle mode" plan where Alfred was shuttled between his uncles to an array of places, seldom staying anywhere for more than a few days to a week.
He'd gone from being kept at home in Arthur's comfy house where he had all his stuff and knew where all the essentials were to being moved all around.
He'd been at Rhys's city flat when his uncle needed to be in Cardiff, a cottage in Haverfordwest, a tiny lodge in the mountains of Yr Wyddfa, and a trailer home in Ceredigion which allowed for some freelance shepherding opportunities for his uncle and some off-the-gridness for Alfred.
Oddly enough, that trailer home had been Alfred's favorite so far because it was such a rural place that he could be outside. His Uncle Rhys was getting worried about him not having enough fresh air and sunshine. His skin was going a bit dull and gray.
Then, he'd been in Reilley's flat in Derry, this sad shack, and a sketchy hotel in Belfast that he'd need to let Tex know about.
It would totally fit their needs as a recovery site after a death. No one would come poking around. There was too much chance of finding trouble.
He'd been in Scotland's brick cottage in Glasgow, his flat in Edinburgh, and a stone styled one room place in a mountainous area.
Sometimes he got to stay with one uncle for two moves, other times he was handed off from one to one to one.
None of these hideouts were as nice as what he was used to with Arthur. It was all ancient spring mattresses that were loud, air mattresses that leaked, or stiff cots or couches that folded out…and were lumpy.
They just didn't invest their money in the same things. They were bachelors with different priorities.
Reilley liked meals out and going to the pub and entertainment districts.
Rhys was into the arts—operas, museums, art galleries.
Alistair liked his money to be fluid, ready to be used whenever he had need of it. His living spaces were very sparse. And since he didn't have a lot of clothes they couldn't be played with. He'd even been hesitant to let Alfred use one of Arthur's jackets that had been left at his bungalow.
Though, when Alistair realized Alfred really just used Arthur's coat to help himself fall asleep… Alfred started waking up with his uncle's leather moto jacket draped over him as well.
When it was time to be shuffled again, he let Alfred take his father's jacket with him.
He'd been wearing it too much ever since and it was losing its smell.
He supposed their scheme was clever, since they insisted that Alfred was very memorable. (It was why he didn't get picked very often for espionage missions and he learned to embrace the kick-down-the-door style of getting the intel you needed.)
However, they kept using waterways.
He'd had more boat rides in the last few weeks than he'd had in the last 40 years.
He felt his stomach flop at the prospect of yet another ferry ride (which were usually more tame than having one of his uncles at the wheel of a boat).
It all meant he was back to being buddy-buddy with his ye old traveling companion: the bucket.
However, the seriousness of his circumstances meant none of his uncles teased him about it.
They'd have bought him meds but that would've given them away as none of them suffered seasickness.
Barbados's visit was a godsend.
She sometimes got seasick or airsick depending on her nerves, so she was able to smuggle some medicine in for him.
She was also currently keeping him company.
It was kind, considering Alfred couldn't really wander about without some risk of deportation, so she had to be holed up inside Reilley's tiny (it was really a shack, but if you called it that within earshot of his uncle, he got mad) cottage.
Alfred's complaint to each former colony that had come to babysit him over the past few weeks had been: "Everywhere I get stowed smells like sheep or cigarettes…or both."
This cry for help prompted all kinds of air fresheners to be gathered and gifted to him by each new visitor, for which he was grateful. He'd station them around strategically.
He'd had Mattie visit twice, Jet and Jake came as a team (which might've been a mistake as it was super crowded in Scotland's flat with four of them there), Jamaica visited once, and France kept offering to visit, but no one took him up on it.
These visits seemed to be a mixture of getting Alfred's spirits up and a reprieve for his uncles who'd seldom done the full-on drudgery that child rearing demanded. In the past, they'd had Arthur, and nannies, and tutors, and Arthur, and valets, and hired companions, and Arthur, servants, and Arthur doing the brunt of it.
Though, none of the visits coincided with any of Rhys's turns.
Rhys kept assuring him that he didn't mind child-rearing, even if Reilley clearly disliked it and Scotland was determined to stoically endure this year until Arthur was better.
Alfred sighed.
Uncle Reilley's guest room here was small, stuffy, and plain with a homespun coverlet on the bed that had likely been made by Rhys since it had a repeating border of a blocky geometric dragon. The space doubled as a storage room. There were crates and plastic bins stacked so high it blocked the window.
The creaky wooden bed frame where he was sleeping was painfully plain, worse than Alfred's old four poster and since he had nothing to do—and he'd always planned to carve his old bed but didn't, he'd asked for permission to embellish this one.
He'd remove sections to work with in the den as boring low budget children's T.V. programming ran in the background. Alfred had asked more than once if he could borrow his uncle's laptop. But the man choked as he said, "S-sorry, boyo. No can do."
Alfred's gut said it had something to do with the U.K.'s age rating system. Though, what did Reilley expect him to watch?
The situation sucked.
Alfred had had to leave a lot of things behind in order to travel quickly and with little trace. No electronics save an emergency burner phone Rhys had given him to use as a last resort if something bad happened. Same with the cash—he was only supposed to use it in a worst case scenario.
Supposedly, it came from an allotment Arthur had saved up. He did that for each of his wards—intended the amounts for aid or doting purposes.
From what Rhys told him, Alfred's stash was pretty impressive, since he never contacted the man for help and the interest had compounded over the years.
Reilley had overheard and since anything of Arthur's was free game to him—Reilley kept bumming notes off him.
It stopped after Alfred told Alistair.
Alistair…
He was still the coolest uncle…but he was kind of a cold parental figure.
He provided food, shelter, and safety. And he wouldn't let anyone take advantage of Alfred.
It kind of ended there.
He took care to be present but only within earshot.
He had more important things to do than babysitting. Though, he'd throw in a few magic lessons here and there or bring back McDonald's treats.
It didn't quite make up for what a hardass he was.
It was Alistair that had decided that Alfred only got to bring along a few toys with no lights or sounds and a couple changes of clothes (all muted colors).
Nothing could be attention grabbing. No Captain America stuff. No flag paraphernalia. No light up shoes. No special cloak.
Alfred was trying to be a good sport.
They were so worried about him. He knew that.
They were operating under the possibility that Alfred was in imminent danger and that he was dealing with a hostile government.
They could be wrong. They acknowledged that, too.
It wasn't worth risking him.
His uncles were super creeped out by the timing—that this was happening while England was out of the loop seemed too coincidental.
"Still." Alfred looked up from his cup of hot chocolate to gauge his uncles' tired faces. "If they do summon me…?"
"No," Alistair answered for all of them. "Not like this. They can wait. We will figure out some excuse to give. If something happened to you…no, laddie."
"Do you think they'll force me to return? Even if they're having 'trouble verifying my identity' and all?" He used air quotes.
"We wait for Arthur."
That gave him a pang of guilt. "We can't just make Dad do ALL of the heavy lifting."
"He will want to be involved," Rhys stated.
Reilley gave a grim smile. "Even as it is, if we raised the alarm and made one phone call to him…boyo, he'd be here by nightfall. And what an interesting night it would make for the news anchors."
All of his U.K. relatives seemed very certain about that; that Arthur wouldn't wash his hands of him for peace and sake of mind.
It was hard to feel so sure about anything when he couldn't relax.
The parallels between this whole hiding out thing and his time with Osha and his captivity with Harris ... was forcing him to face up to a lot of discomfort.
For one, it was hard to believe no-coffee-strapped-down-cabin-captivity with Osha could somehow get a step up on the "ladder of awful experiences to never repeat" (as his heart had been in danger of being eaten by a Wendigo-tainted personification).
God, his life was weird.
But Harris was amazing that way. He could slide into "worst-place" in any lineup with an ease that was horrifying and he'd been a human and now…he was a gramarye. It was a waste of a gramarye.
He'd be a constant irritant to anyone who wanted to research spellwork.
Like Clippy the Office Assistant, but evil…eviler…
Alfred was making use of his journal and jotting it all down so he could better examine his feelings on it for when he finally got to talk to Counselor Howells again.
He angled his knife as he followed the design he'd traced out along the wood.
Reilley didn't mind that he went the arts and crafts route, provided he set a tarp down to collect the shavings.
His Irish uncle wasn't a very hands-on child minder now that he had his nephew full time and wasn't much of a homebody.
Being indoors when he didn't have to be got Reilley rankled.
And he trusted Alfred not to "act the maggot" while he was out, whatever the hell that meant.
In return, his uncle brought him a lot of takeout food as a kind of apology for not being able to take him anywhere or hang out in isolation with him.
It made Alfred miss Uncle Rhys. The Welshman always made sure he was present in the room and engaged with him regularly, only leaving for occasional business drop offs, visiting Arthur as he recovered, and grocery shopping (when the item was too specific to leave for online shoppers to find for him).
They'd had magic lessons involving Music and Flora. They'd read stories and plays. He'd let Alfred help him with some tapestry weaving, since the American had never learned that particular skill.
Alfred knew more about sewing and mending clothes, drapes, and bedding.
Wales had seemed pretty enthusiastic, for him at any rate, to impart instruction on the subject. He also didn't think embroidery was a girly skill and couldn't understand why Alfred wouldn't boast about it. Rhys was very proud of his own needlework.
"I'm certain your father would treasure a handkerchief from you."
He'd been working on one on and off as a result. He struggled with the suitability as he remembered that they were historically given as a "departure" gift.
And… because he might not live this down.
His "best" usually involved flowers, borders, and monograms. Sometimes one, sometimes a combo. The trifecta was only for really fancy pieces or a case of total boredom—where even sequins and beading could be thrown in.
Which meant, the thing in Alfred's Ziplock bag with assorted threads was far too gaudy to ever be given to anyone…except Texas, who liked special jean jackets to be done up to the nines, but who preferred bandannas over handkerchiefs.
He was better off with carving something. He was out of practice, since his hands were smaller, but there was muscle memory coming back.
He could sense that when he finished up with this project, he'd be back in the swing of it.
Seated on the floor with one headboard post on his lap, Alfred mumbled, "You could've gone with Rhys to see Father and then headed right over to the Summer Olympics."
Barbados had been flipping through channels with the air of someone on the brink of cabin fever for the last twenty minutes. Her phone was recharging from the movies they'd been marathoning. And she hadn't packed a laptop to save on luggage weight and hassle.
"You could go now. I would understand. Reilley usually comes home before one at the latest." And sometimes that meant a lonely cereal dinner at 7:00 pm followed by greasy egg rolls near midnight when his uncle stumbled through the door.
She set the remote down on reaching a classical music and arts channel.
"But then, I wouldn't get to spend time with you. I can see Arthur next week and then head over."
He leaned lightly against her legs as he continued shaping the fourth leaf of a shamrock into the wood.
She ruffled his hair gently. "You know I've been worried about you. We all have. Don't you, Alfie?"
"…"
"I worked with Rhys to time my visit. Reilley has never been great at…this. He's good for an afternoon here or there."
"…"
"I…I know you think I'm bossy and…I am, but…I did pack my suitcase with things for us to do…if…if you're interested?"
"Livvie…" He abandoned his craft altogether to hug her legs and sniffle into her kneehigh woolen socks.
Woolen socks had been part of Uncle Rhys's care package for any former colony that helped out with babysitting Alfred during this period.
She held him close and hummed Greensleeves for him.
The problem was that in all the stringent checkboxes and coordination of plans and their earnest attempts to keep him safe and uphold some kind of brotherly vow to Arthur—no fun had been penciled in for Alfred…at all.
And yes, he was doing the exercise packets his counselor had planned out for the next two months on hearing he needed to be off the grid for a while, but-but!
It was hard. This was hard.
Olivia came to sit down on the floor with him and pulled him onto her lap.
"It wasn't your fault. Arthur was struggling with a lot of things for a long time. We all know that. No one drinks like he does and doesn't have something inside of them to work on."
Alfred pressed his face into where her shoulder and collarbone met and he tried to be comforted.
They were the right words. Not his fault. Not his fault. Not his fault.
Her arms came around him soothingly.
He tried even harder…because it was the right kind of hug.
His spine was still a little touchy, if he twisted too quickly or didn't stretch periodically.
But her touch was light.
Her hands rubbed soft circles on his back.
Alfred gave consoling hugs like these, too, when he could be moved into offering one.
It was the right hug…
They'd learned it from…the same person.
That was the problem.
It wasn't Father holding him.
Rhys left Parliament in a slight daze. He wasn't dressed nearly formal enough to have been traipsing through.
Knowing that being too formal while his brother wasn't allowed buckles or drawstrings and how that would've strained their visit, he'd opted for a pullover sweater and slip-on pants.
He'd had two aides chuckle that he was in school morning-dropoff garb.
Still, he didn't give them the satisfaction of embarrassment.
Arthur's panic at his news had prompted him to speed over without changing his clothes or caring about it.
Green eyes widened.
"Get Roanoke's charter, my thirteen colonies, I-I have backups on file. I can arrange an appointment with Parliament if they need to see the originals. I mean, he was British America! Of course, I have records."
He whispered both of his computers' passwords into Rhys's ear (home and work) and told him the safe code he'd need at Parliament if an appointment was necessary.
"Get the paperwork. Get it. I'll sign. I'll sign it. Can you go now? If you go right now, please, you might be able to come back before visiting hours are over and we can have this part done today."
"Understood."
It was the fierce embrace and the breathless "Diolch, brawd mawr" that had left him stunned…and determined.
Gratitude the likes of which he hadn't felt since Arthur was very small...
It was late by the time he returned to the clinic, but there was a provision that allowed adult family members to spend the night.
In the morning, they could make use of the phone and fax machine. They were quite adept at operating "antique" equipment.
Arthur was restless. "Is it…alright for you to be here? He's…he's not alone, is he?"
"No…he shouldn't be."
"...He's not in Wales," Arthur deduced as he watched Rhys set up the cot he'd been provided with. "Where—?"
"He is safe. And we will keep him safe while everything gets sorted."
Arthur scowled. "I take it that we don't know how deep it goes…whether the orders are still in effect?"
"If we can get his situation with the birth certificate handled, it's one less problem."
"Are there many problems where he's concerned right now?"
"…One at a time."
Arthur sucked in a breath. "It's all catching up. His age, his circumstances."
"We're…we're afraid of drawing more attention to it. I've told him something needs to be done. He agreed."
"…" Arthur's expression was downcast,
Rhys frowned, not expecting that reaction. "I actually think the timing will work out for you."
"What?"
Rhys faltered. "You-you told me—your intentions—"
Arthur gave a hollow laugh. "I can't possibly apply for custody now."
O na…
Rhys swallowed uncomfortably. "You're…no longer interested?"
"Who would entrust me after this?"
Rhys's pulse quickened. "I…thought you…you… would've wanted him."
"Of course I want him!" Arthur hissed and then seemed nervous—aware that an outburst could have consequences here. "But that ship has sailed."
Rhys was going to be ill.
He barely made it to the room's bin before sickness escaped him.
"Steady on there. Are you ill? You…you didn't need to come if…I mean, I appreciate you coming, each week, of course, especially in light of this, but if you're unwell—"
He nodded blankly even as his spirit was sinking.
It had come during a low point, when Alfred was recounting the events of Beltane. He was so confused over Arthur's reaction. He kept assuming it was his shapeshifting that had triggered the breakdown.
When Rhys's assurances failed in the face of his nephew's insecurities, he'd had to pull out the stops to fight that doubt off.
"I know he loves me," Alfred stated, "…but that doesn't mean he isn't repulsed or needs some distance. Mint…Mint told me…Morganna was a shapeshifter, too."
His nephew started sniffling.
A pox on flying rabbits. She had no right to tell him that.
"You are nothing alike. Nothing, chwb. Arthur knows that. We all do."
The child's hurt expression remained. "But Uncle Rhys…he'd never seen me like that before. I was always…America the Beautiful…Like after the war and I was missing so much of my face…he couldn't see me like that. I couldn't let him—"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course he could have. I think it's been made perfectly clear over this past year, you'd have had him wrapped around your finger. He'd have made an absolute fool of himself trying to pamper you during your convalescence in one of his estates. Would've let France come over, personally, to offer you that Louisiana Purchase if it would've taken out the sting."
A weak smile twitched along Alfred's lips at the thought.
"I guarantee you. You'll always be his America the Beautiful."
"Uncle Rhys…" He sighed.
"Always."
In an effort to bolster his brother's clout, he'd told the child of Arthur's desires for them to enter a custodial arrangement of sorts. Rhys included his own interest in devising rules and ways for Alfred to alter or leave the agreement if he needed to or to establish a joint-custody arrangement, since he would probably be comfortable with Texas acting as a guardian.
After cleaning himself up and getting some water, Rhys returned to his cot.
An unhappy silence fell.
Arthur sighed and turned over.
Rhys stared hard at his younger brother's back.
Rhys could try and walk the offer back. Though, he shuddered at what that might do to his nephew's self-esteem. It would seem like a rejection.
His stomach flopped at the prospect.
It was easier to just come clean.
"Arthur?"
"Hm?"
"Arthur?"
"Wot?" Arthur rolled back over to face him. He'd started getting drowsy and irritable as his sleep medication set in.
"I told Alfred that you wanted custody of him."
"WOT?"
Texas fiddled with his hat. He was up the creek without a paddle.
No Al.
Hawaii was mad at him because…Tch…politics.
Alaska didn't want to be in the middle of his and Hawaii's feud.
It felt wrong to call up Molossia if it wasn't something important. The kid got nervous if Tex was too wound up and full of venting energy.
All of his ranch hands were out.
It left him with Canada…and Spain.
Except, he'd already called Spain yesterday.
And he'd already called Canada this morning.
Damn it. He was feeling blue.
He dialed, expecting a message machine. Maybe this time he wouldn't mess it up as bad?
"Hola, Tonito."
How was he that cheery…?
How he had managed to flip a 180 since the 1500s…?
"H-hola…whatcha doing?"
"Cooking."
"Yeah?"
"Gambas al ajilo. What are you doing?"
"Ranching.
"You don't need both hands?" There was more than a hint of parental scolding in that.
Tex rolled his eyes. "Just fed the horses. Waiting for a bit while they finish."
"Ah. Do you need to tell me something?"
Damn. This was getting embarrassing. But he'd set things up this way by being so curt in his previous interactions.
"Um…no. Not really. If you're busy, I get it. It's-"
"Are you lonesome? You said you were, yesterday. Are you still feeling this way?"
"…"
"Tejas?"
"Yeeeah…I am."
The tone brightened even more. "Okay, mijo. What do you want to talk about?"
"You can choose. I'm the one pestering you."
There was laughter. "No, it is no bother. But if you insist, Formula One."
Tex blinked. "You…you know that comes over to me. Grand Prix?"
"And you are a fan?"
"Well, yeah! I like all the racing!" He really did: cars, motorcycles, heck! He watched the luge during the Winter Olympics! And shouted at the screen and everything!
"Me, also!"
He wasn't sure why having things in common with Spain surprised him.
Of course they'd have more than just hair, turrón, and tempers, right?
"Mijo, are you there?"
"Yeah, I just…we'll…maybe need to…plan something? The Austin track is great…you know?"
"I would like to see it."
He almost choked on his spit. That sounded like real interest and not patronizing "O how nice" small talk.
"Uhhh…Okay. I…I'll see what I can do!"
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