[Axis Powers Hetalia, America/England: The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler 3/6]
Title: The Adventure of the Famous Fiddler (3/6) [FF.net] [ Previous Chapters]
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Adventure/Mystery/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England
Word Count: 2,134
Summary: When a famous friend of America's mysteriously disappears, England puts his detective skills to the test. Helping America through his grief while unraveling clues, the two must work together to find out what has become of the missing fiddler. [England POV]
Chapter 3 Summary: America, who had absently picked up one of the remaining fiddles, slunk into a nearby chair. I was about to inquire what he was doing, but there was a look of utmost concentration on his face as he slowly played a melody.
“Very Sherlock Holmes, you know,” I quipped, unable to resist.
Notes: Written for sillyputtie for help_haiti. She asked for A mystery fic. Sherlock Holmesy type (established relationship would be love). So yes. Sherlock Holmes-style domestic-USUK it is!
We stayed as still as two living beings might, breaths held for fear that even the slightest of noises could draw unwanted attention to our impromptu hiding place. As the footsteps drew closer, I felt America give my hand another squeeze. He was quite right, I have to admit, that if I had the choice to be in this predicament with anyone, he would be the only person I would wish to do so with. Something about him, perhaps his damnable hope and optimism, always made me feel like for once in my life, things just might go right.
“See, I told you. Nothing up here,” one of the two voices remarked as the footsteps entered the room.
“Hmm. Must’ve been the curtains. I know I saw something move.”
Chancing a glance out through the bed ruffle, I noted two sets of identical shoes. This, I reasoned, meant police. No criminal or ruffian would have uniform-issued boots the same as his companion, unless under very bizarre circumstances. Although still not about to let my guard down, it put me at a bit of ease as the two men circled the bed.
“Look, the lake isn’t going to drag itself for a body. We’d better get back out there before the chief comes up asking us why we’re taking so long inside.”
He was answered with a grunt, and for a moment I thought we were scot-free. That is, until the tip of one of those uniformed boots stuck through the bed ruffle and came mere centimeters within reach of my nose. I could feel America’s arm tense up as he gripped my hand tighter than ever.
“Hey, were the pillows like that earlier?”
I heard the other officer huff in exasperation, “I don’t know. Why does it matter? Chief already said they’ve ruled out foul play. It’s clearly a suicide; there’s been no sign of forced entry or struggle.”
At that, I didn’t even need to feel the slack in America’s grip to know that those few words, ‘clearly a suicide’ would cut through him like a knife. Whether he was overcome with outrage that his mentor would never do such a thing or struck by grief that if it was the case, clearly he- as the hero- should have noticed and saved him, I knew one thing was for certain: America was about to say something that would give us away.
I turned as quick and silent as I could manage, hoping to mask the shuffles of my movement under the retreating officers’ footsteps. Pressing two fingers to his lips, I caught his gaze and my heart sunk. It had been the latter of the two reactions, that much was certain, as America looked downright stricken rather than indignant.
Holding his gaze, I mouthed to him, It’s all right. I promise, America. It’ll all be all right.
He nodded mutely, but that edge of panic had yet to leave his eyes. I took a deep breath, about to risk whispering to him in consolation; but before a single word could leave my mouth, my eyes caught sight of something on the ground behind America.
Something that not only aided my current theory about the whereabouts of Robert Chafley, but practically confirmed them.
Gesturing as best as I could in the confined space, I pulled America against me; rubbing circles across his tense back muscles in hopes that without words I could ease him out of his concerns. We stayed like that for quite some time, the distant sounds of the two officers opening and closing the doors to each room as they gave the house a look through the only sound aside from our slight huffs of breath and the beating of our two hearts.
“England, I…”
The voice was so small and quiet that I almost didn’t hear it over the slamming of the front door as the two officers finally left. Deciding that it was worth the risk, I started to crawl out from under the bed, my loose grip on America’s forearm drawing him out with me.
“America,” I said, firmly yet gently. I sat on my knees, covered in dust and cobwebs and who knew what else; but the matter of the grime was miles away as I saw the wide blue eyes and knew what heartbreak would lie in the words he was about to speak.
“If Mr. Chafley, if he…I could have…I should have…”
I closed the space between us, gathering up his slumped figure from where he sat dazed on the floor into my arms. “Hush,” I said, smoothing down his ruffled hair and trying to sweep the dust from it. “Do you trust me, America?”
He blinked up at me, and with a spark of his usual self, he gave me a little smile. “Of course, England.”
“Then, trust me on this. I am of the firm belief that your friend left his home alive. No one packs a suitcase so discreetly the police don’t notice if they’re just going to drive themselves into a lake, right?”
America’s mouth gaped open, obviously piecing together the same things I had to come to this conclusion. “Then the hangers and the fiddle…”
“And there was an imprint in the dust under the bed where something large and rectangle had once been.”
“A suitcase he packed then!” America said triumphantly. “England, you’re a genius!”
Before I could note that I was just noting the facts, he’d leaned forward to kiss me quite soundly on the lips. We both pulled back spitting and spluttering, each of us getting quite a taste of dust thanks to our adventure under the bed.
“Ugh, I think we need to clean up before we check one thing out.”
“What’s that?” I asked, wondering what clue he’d struck upon that I had yet to think of.
“If he packed a suitcase, clothes and his best fiddle- then he’d need a way to transport the fiddle too.”
Standing up, I extended a hand down to help him up as well. “Looks like you’re onto something there, Mr. Jones.”
America leaned forward, puckered up, and air kissed me a few centimeters away. “Learned from the best, Mr. Kirkland.”
He turned at that, extending the crook of his arm to me. “Shall we go de-dust ourselves first?”
“Quite,” I replied, linking my arm through his as we made our way off towards the restroom.
---------------------------------
As America had surmised, there was exactly one fiddle case missing from the music room. We’d searched it up and down, and found that much like the fiddles themselves- while there were over eight various cases present, America swore up and down that one of the cases, in fact the very one Mr. Chafley preferred using even, was the singular case not present.
“Does this mean that he’s safe, England?” America asked hopefully, his outfit still retaining a bit of dusty residue.
While I hated to give out false promises, all my gut instincts were pointing towards one definitive fact. This I could give to America as a thread of hope.
Clutching his hand and giving him a nod, I reiterated what I’d told him earlier, “As I said, I believe he left here alive. The question that now remains is where is he?”
America, who had absently picked up one of the remaining fiddles, slunk into a nearby chair. I was about to inquire what he was doing, but there was a look of utmost concentration on his face as he slowly played a melody.
“Very Sherlock Holmes, you know,” I quipped, unable to resist.
“Huh?”
Chuckling, I waved my hand for him to continue. “Go on; play if it’ll help you focus. That’s what Holmes did.”
Blue eyes blinked, letting my words sink in, before a tenative smile quirked at his lips. “Okay, but I’m not playing your surprise yet. That’s…that’s special.”
Walking over to him, I swept his ruffled bangs out of his eyes, my hand sliding down the side of his face to rest on his cheek. “I’ll wait for it then.”
“Awesome.”
He took up the bow at that and started up a bluegrass melody, his face one again clouding over with extreme determination. I took a few steps back, and although this wasn’t the promised surprise involving his fiddlework, I found myself entranced by him playing. Long fingers deftly holding the bow, directing it smoothly across the strings as his other hand swiftly moved to aid the melody along. The tune started out a bit slow, but as his brows creased in concentration, the tempo of the song picked up. Just as he started to hit a quicker pace, he came to an abrupt stop, sitting bolt upright in the chair and staring at me with his mouth agape.
“England, I know how we can find out where Mr. Chafley is.”
I blinked. “Really? Is that what you were thinking on?”
He set down the fiddle back in the case it had originated from and carefully tucked it back away. As he knelt to do so, he spoke, “Yeah. I was trying to remember where I’d seen something. See, I noticed Mr. Chafley never had a schedule book or any sort of calendar to mark when I had lessons, but I remembered him writing down the change of time one week on this small notepad. If we’re lucky, he did the same with some clue about where he went and left it the same place I saw it- on the corner of his desk.”
Wiggling his fingers in my direction, he gave me a hopeful smile. “So, wanna go find out if I’m right?”
I clasped his hand and wished with all my might that his theory held water, for the last thing he needed was to feel like this little stroke of luck was a waste. “Right then, let’s see to it.”
As we wove down the hallway towards the doorway to his office, I cleared my throat and made a hasty mumble of my thoughts before I could retract them.
“I know it wasn’t the surprise you had in mind, but, well, you’re quite good.”
America came to a stop at that, all wide eyes and that hint of smile he always got before he asked... “You really think so, England?”
I flushed and nodded. “Quite. Wouldn’t have said so otherwise, now would I?” His grin grew wider and despite my inherent desire to cheer him up at all costs, I really didn’t want to get into another discussion on America’s awesomeness. Post-haste, I changed the subject just slightly. “What was it called?”
At that, America ducked his head and gave me a sheepish glance. “Um. It’s called Liberty.”
I shoved him in the arm at that and gave a snort of derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You asked!”
With a huff, I rolled my eyes and relented. “Well, I suppose it’s a decent enough tune for such an American title.”
Catching the hint of my smile, America swung his arm around my shoulders and rested his head down against mine. “You know you love it.”
“I see you’re getting back to yourself,” I remarked as we swung into the office, America practically dragging me with him as he rushed over to the desk.
“That’s because we have this!” He said triumphantly holding up the notepad.
I blinked, hating to break this to him. “America, the notepad, it’s…blank.”
But for the first time since we arrived, America’s detecting skills had the optimism to see beyond mine. Running his fingers over the notepad, he smirked.
“Yeah, for now it is. But if he left any pen impressions on this, we can easily find out.” He turned back to the desk at that, scrounging around for a pencil. Finding one with an ‘aha!’ he started rubbing the lead of the pencil across the front of the page. Sure enough, the white outlines of words that had pressed through the page began to appear.
“America, is that…”
He grabbed me around the waist and tugged me close, practically brimming with hope.
“It says right here, Mr. Chafley has to be in…”
Before he could say it, a person with a deep voice cleared their throat right behind us. Jerking around, we both stood face to face with a tall man, who was clearly not there as part of the police detection.
“Who the hell are you?” He asked, glaring at both of us.
I was about to step forward and explain the circumstances that had brought us here when America, with a flash of shock and determination in his eyes, stepped in front of me, holding his arm out to keep me back.
With steel in his voice, he leveled the man a look. “That’s what I should be asking you, Sir.”
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Adventure/Mystery/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England
Word Count: 2,134
Summary: When a famous friend of America's mysteriously disappears, England puts his detective skills to the test. Helping America through his grief while unraveling clues, the two must work together to find out what has become of the missing fiddler. [England POV]
Chapter 3 Summary: America, who had absently picked up one of the remaining fiddles, slunk into a nearby chair. I was about to inquire what he was doing, but there was a look of utmost concentration on his face as he slowly played a melody.
“Very Sherlock Holmes, you know,” I quipped, unable to resist.
Notes: Written for sillyputtie for help_haiti. She asked for A mystery fic. Sherlock Holmesy type (established relationship would be love). So yes. Sherlock Holmes-style domestic-USUK it is!
We stayed as still as two living beings might, breaths held for fear that even the slightest of noises could draw unwanted attention to our impromptu hiding place. As the footsteps drew closer, I felt America give my hand another squeeze. He was quite right, I have to admit, that if I had the choice to be in this predicament with anyone, he would be the only person I would wish to do so with. Something about him, perhaps his damnable hope and optimism, always made me feel like for once in my life, things just might go right.
“See, I told you. Nothing up here,” one of the two voices remarked as the footsteps entered the room.
“Hmm. Must’ve been the curtains. I know I saw something move.”
Chancing a glance out through the bed ruffle, I noted two sets of identical shoes. This, I reasoned, meant police. No criminal or ruffian would have uniform-issued boots the same as his companion, unless under very bizarre circumstances. Although still not about to let my guard down, it put me at a bit of ease as the two men circled the bed.
“Look, the lake isn’t going to drag itself for a body. We’d better get back out there before the chief comes up asking us why we’re taking so long inside.”
He was answered with a grunt, and for a moment I thought we were scot-free. That is, until the tip of one of those uniformed boots stuck through the bed ruffle and came mere centimeters within reach of my nose. I could feel America’s arm tense up as he gripped my hand tighter than ever.
“Hey, were the pillows like that earlier?”
I heard the other officer huff in exasperation, “I don’t know. Why does it matter? Chief already said they’ve ruled out foul play. It’s clearly a suicide; there’s been no sign of forced entry or struggle.”
At that, I didn’t even need to feel the slack in America’s grip to know that those few words, ‘clearly a suicide’ would cut through him like a knife. Whether he was overcome with outrage that his mentor would never do such a thing or struck by grief that if it was the case, clearly he- as the hero- should have noticed and saved him, I knew one thing was for certain: America was about to say something that would give us away.
I turned as quick and silent as I could manage, hoping to mask the shuffles of my movement under the retreating officers’ footsteps. Pressing two fingers to his lips, I caught his gaze and my heart sunk. It had been the latter of the two reactions, that much was certain, as America looked downright stricken rather than indignant.
Holding his gaze, I mouthed to him, It’s all right. I promise, America. It’ll all be all right.
He nodded mutely, but that edge of panic had yet to leave his eyes. I took a deep breath, about to risk whispering to him in consolation; but before a single word could leave my mouth, my eyes caught sight of something on the ground behind America.
Something that not only aided my current theory about the whereabouts of Robert Chafley, but practically confirmed them.
Gesturing as best as I could in the confined space, I pulled America against me; rubbing circles across his tense back muscles in hopes that without words I could ease him out of his concerns. We stayed like that for quite some time, the distant sounds of the two officers opening and closing the doors to each room as they gave the house a look through the only sound aside from our slight huffs of breath and the beating of our two hearts.
“England, I…”
The voice was so small and quiet that I almost didn’t hear it over the slamming of the front door as the two officers finally left. Deciding that it was worth the risk, I started to crawl out from under the bed, my loose grip on America’s forearm drawing him out with me.
“America,” I said, firmly yet gently. I sat on my knees, covered in dust and cobwebs and who knew what else; but the matter of the grime was miles away as I saw the wide blue eyes and knew what heartbreak would lie in the words he was about to speak.
“If Mr. Chafley, if he…I could have…I should have…”
I closed the space between us, gathering up his slumped figure from where he sat dazed on the floor into my arms. “Hush,” I said, smoothing down his ruffled hair and trying to sweep the dust from it. “Do you trust me, America?”
He blinked up at me, and with a spark of his usual self, he gave me a little smile. “Of course, England.”
“Then, trust me on this. I am of the firm belief that your friend left his home alive. No one packs a suitcase so discreetly the police don’t notice if they’re just going to drive themselves into a lake, right?”
America’s mouth gaped open, obviously piecing together the same things I had to come to this conclusion. “Then the hangers and the fiddle…”
“And there was an imprint in the dust under the bed where something large and rectangle had once been.”
“A suitcase he packed then!” America said triumphantly. “England, you’re a genius!”
Before I could note that I was just noting the facts, he’d leaned forward to kiss me quite soundly on the lips. We both pulled back spitting and spluttering, each of us getting quite a taste of dust thanks to our adventure under the bed.
“Ugh, I think we need to clean up before we check one thing out.”
“What’s that?” I asked, wondering what clue he’d struck upon that I had yet to think of.
“If he packed a suitcase, clothes and his best fiddle- then he’d need a way to transport the fiddle too.”
Standing up, I extended a hand down to help him up as well. “Looks like you’re onto something there, Mr. Jones.”
America leaned forward, puckered up, and air kissed me a few centimeters away. “Learned from the best, Mr. Kirkland.”
He turned at that, extending the crook of his arm to me. “Shall we go de-dust ourselves first?”
“Quite,” I replied, linking my arm through his as we made our way off towards the restroom.
---------------------------------
As America had surmised, there was exactly one fiddle case missing from the music room. We’d searched it up and down, and found that much like the fiddles themselves- while there were over eight various cases present, America swore up and down that one of the cases, in fact the very one Mr. Chafley preferred using even, was the singular case not present.
“Does this mean that he’s safe, England?” America asked hopefully, his outfit still retaining a bit of dusty residue.
While I hated to give out false promises, all my gut instincts were pointing towards one definitive fact. This I could give to America as a thread of hope.
Clutching his hand and giving him a nod, I reiterated what I’d told him earlier, “As I said, I believe he left here alive. The question that now remains is where is he?”
America, who had absently picked up one of the remaining fiddles, slunk into a nearby chair. I was about to inquire what he was doing, but there was a look of utmost concentration on his face as he slowly played a melody.
“Very Sherlock Holmes, you know,” I quipped, unable to resist.
“Huh?”
Chuckling, I waved my hand for him to continue. “Go on; play if it’ll help you focus. That’s what Holmes did.”
Blue eyes blinked, letting my words sink in, before a tenative smile quirked at his lips. “Okay, but I’m not playing your surprise yet. That’s…that’s special.”
Walking over to him, I swept his ruffled bangs out of his eyes, my hand sliding down the side of his face to rest on his cheek. “I’ll wait for it then.”
“Awesome.”
He took up the bow at that and started up a bluegrass melody, his face one again clouding over with extreme determination. I took a few steps back, and although this wasn’t the promised surprise involving his fiddlework, I found myself entranced by him playing. Long fingers deftly holding the bow, directing it smoothly across the strings as his other hand swiftly moved to aid the melody along. The tune started out a bit slow, but as his brows creased in concentration, the tempo of the song picked up. Just as he started to hit a quicker pace, he came to an abrupt stop, sitting bolt upright in the chair and staring at me with his mouth agape.
“England, I know how we can find out where Mr. Chafley is.”
I blinked. “Really? Is that what you were thinking on?”
He set down the fiddle back in the case it had originated from and carefully tucked it back away. As he knelt to do so, he spoke, “Yeah. I was trying to remember where I’d seen something. See, I noticed Mr. Chafley never had a schedule book or any sort of calendar to mark when I had lessons, but I remembered him writing down the change of time one week on this small notepad. If we’re lucky, he did the same with some clue about where he went and left it the same place I saw it- on the corner of his desk.”
Wiggling his fingers in my direction, he gave me a hopeful smile. “So, wanna go find out if I’m right?”
I clasped his hand and wished with all my might that his theory held water, for the last thing he needed was to feel like this little stroke of luck was a waste. “Right then, let’s see to it.”
As we wove down the hallway towards the doorway to his office, I cleared my throat and made a hasty mumble of my thoughts before I could retract them.
“I know it wasn’t the surprise you had in mind, but, well, you’re quite good.”
America came to a stop at that, all wide eyes and that hint of smile he always got before he asked... “You really think so, England?”
I flushed and nodded. “Quite. Wouldn’t have said so otherwise, now would I?” His grin grew wider and despite my inherent desire to cheer him up at all costs, I really didn’t want to get into another discussion on America’s awesomeness. Post-haste, I changed the subject just slightly. “What was it called?”
At that, America ducked his head and gave me a sheepish glance. “Um. It’s called Liberty.”
I shoved him in the arm at that and gave a snort of derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You asked!”
With a huff, I rolled my eyes and relented. “Well, I suppose it’s a decent enough tune for such an American title.”
Catching the hint of my smile, America swung his arm around my shoulders and rested his head down against mine. “You know you love it.”
“I see you’re getting back to yourself,” I remarked as we swung into the office, America practically dragging me with him as he rushed over to the desk.
“That’s because we have this!” He said triumphantly holding up the notepad.
I blinked, hating to break this to him. “America, the notepad, it’s…blank.”
But for the first time since we arrived, America’s detecting skills had the optimism to see beyond mine. Running his fingers over the notepad, he smirked.
“Yeah, for now it is. But if he left any pen impressions on this, we can easily find out.” He turned back to the desk at that, scrounging around for a pencil. Finding one with an ‘aha!’ he started rubbing the lead of the pencil across the front of the page. Sure enough, the white outlines of words that had pressed through the page began to appear.
“America, is that…”
He grabbed me around the waist and tugged me close, practically brimming with hope.
“It says right here, Mr. Chafley has to be in…”
Before he could say it, a person with a deep voice cleared their throat right behind us. Jerking around, we both stood face to face with a tall man, who was clearly not there as part of the police detection.
“Who the hell are you?” He asked, glaring at both of us.
I was about to step forward and explain the circumstances that had brought us here when America, with a flash of shock and determination in his eyes, stepped in front of me, holding his arm out to keep me back.
With steel in his voice, he leveled the man a look. “That’s what I should be asking you, Sir.”