Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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“Al, get down!” Yelping, he was pulled down by a sudden hand. A bullet ripped through the air, right where his head ad been. “Jesus kid, watch yourself!”
It was Vincent, blood running down the scowling man’s cheek. Alfred was about to say something, a thanks really, but was shoved aside again as Vincent fired at someone behind him. The other man opened his mouth to shout something, but the words never sounded. Instead, a pained noise replaced them.
It was like everything was in slow motion. Blood began to seep through Vincent’s shirt, the man raising a shaking hand to hold his chest. He stared at blood soaked fingers, before at Alfred. The American barely had time to react, screaming out the others name as he fell forward. The man’s eyes were still wide, his breathing quick. Alfred felt his eyes widen, mind suddenly going blank.
Back on the Wagon Trail, he could have cared less what happened to Vincent. In all honestly, there were many times when he wished the man would die. But things had changed… Sure they didn’t get along very well. Vincent still teased Alfred at every chance he got, and often Alfred would take his bait and fight back…
But… But they were slowly becoming friends… Weren’t they? Alfred had thought they were.
The distant sounds of battle crept into his mind.
“A-Al, hey… Hey kid… You cryin’..?” He was, and Vincent just laughed. But it wasn’t his normal, condescending laugh… It was too weak… And yet, a warmth was in it. “Honestly… Su-Such a baby …”
“Vi-Vincent? He-Hey just hold on! Okay!?” He was trying to stop the bleeding. Begging his frozen mind to work. For battlefield knowledge to kick in. He knew first aid. He knew how to stitch wounds. He could save him…
“Can’t believe… you’re cryin’… For som-someone like me…” The man laughed again. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight down the tears. Why wouldn’t his mind work?
Canons were firing. He could smell the musket smoke. No, no he needed to remain focus. He couldn’t give into this Soldier-mode. He had to be stronger then it!
But Vincent… This was his fault. Vincent had been fighting to help him. Even if they had originally disliked each other. Vincent had dropped his own guard to pull Alfred out of the way…
Orders, generals were shouting orders. He could hear the musket rounds…
“Vincent… Do-Don’t die… Please…”
Rain, the rain was falling. No, he had to stay focus… He had too…
Vincent’s eyes had slipped closed. Alfred felt his chest tightening. Gently he shook the other man, trying to stay focused on the present, opposed to the illusions that were growing strong. “Vi-Vincent? He-hey, wake up! Vincent wake up! You, you fuckin’ asshole! Wake up!”
But the man didn’t move, not even after Alfred’s panicked insult. The American felt the tears racing. No. No. No. It couldn’t. No, he couldn’t…
Alfred felt ice run through his veins as he carefully set the still form down. He was dead… He had died helping Alfred…
It was all his fault.
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He was fighting, Alfred was distantly aware of that. His body was acting without him even thinking really. Firing at his opponents, at Trent’s gang, or were the Red Coats?
Was he in the West, or on the battlefields at Yorktown?
Was the man across from him, laughing like a madman Trent… Or was he England?
A hand grabbed hold of his arm, and a distant voice was saying something to him. He could barely hear the words though, yanking his arm out of the others grip. His blue eyes were locked on the laughing man. His gun aimed as he fire at him.
More voices were shouting at him. Or were they orders? He couldn’t keep anything straight anymore.
“-merica!”
“-and down!”
No, he couldn’t. Not yet. The laughing man… This was his fault, wasn’t it? He had started this whole ordeal. Alfred had to stop him. Had to kill him.
He was shoving past other men. Rain was falling. He could feel it hitting his skin, drenching him to the bone in mere seconds.
He tackled the man to the ground, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. It was England beneath him, England who Alfred had pointed his gun at.
“Pull it,” the British voice snapped. “Show them all you’re a killer!”
No… No, this wasn’t England. The form kept flickering. Alfred felt his breathing come quick.
”The longer you stay in that trance Jones, the harder it is to snap out of it.” Gilbert’s words fluttered to his mind. The advice he had given him during their training only the day before. ”You can’t give into it. I don’t care how fuckin’ appealing it seems. You can’t lose yourself to it.”
Gilbert’s words were right. He couldn’t. As much as he wanted too. He couldn’t… But it was so much easier to fire… Would it be so wrong to allow the trance to keep hold of him? For just a little while longer?
“Big brother!” He froze, Alfred lifting his head to look at the little girl that stood in front of him. Annie, little Annie, was standing there, her hands planted on her hips. “Stop it! Big brother! You gotta calm down. You don’t really wanna kill him!”
But he had hurt so his friends. He had hurt Molly. Paul. And now, now Vincent was dead because…
“It's not like you! Big brother is kind, he doesn’t like to hurt people, let alone kill someone!”
“That’s right…” He whispered, eyes still transfixed on the little girl, warm tears dripping from his eyes. “But I’m not… I’m not really that guy. I’m America… I’m a soldier…”
“But America is also Alfred!” She chirped coming closer to him. Her little hands took hold of his shaking hand, the one that held his pistol to England’s forehead… No it was Trent’s wasn’t it? “And Alfred is America! If America is a soldier, then so is big brother. But if big brother is a kind person, then so is America!”
He shook his head, shutting his eyes tightly. “Big brother, don’t let this side take over. You’re stronger than it!”
“How’re you so sure..?”
“’Cause, you gotta be strong to be a Nation! And big brother is a big strong Nation, right!?”
“Annie…”
“America is Alfred. Alfred is America.” She smiled, keeping hold of his trembling hand. “If America’s strong, then so is big brother.”
His eyes shut tight as he listened to her words. She was right. He was America. He was a soldier. He had gained his independence, his status as a Nation, through war. That was a part of him. It coursed through his veins. This Soldier-mode another part of him…
But he was also Alfred F. Jones. An orphan. A person who had found a place amongst a group of settlers. Someone who didn’t want to hurt others.
America was Alfred. And Alfred was America.
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“… Thanks Annie…”
He stood, kicking Trent’s guns away from the madman. “It's over Trent.”
His voice echoed across the town. Those that were still fighting ceased, heads turning to look at the two. Alfred was silent, suddenly aware at how much pain coursed through him. Of how exhausted is body felt. He wiped his eyes, before placing the pistol back in his holster. “The fights over. I’m not gonna shoot you.”
“Ya a coward?”
“No, I just don’t see the point to sinking to your level. I’d rather let you rot in jail.”
America fought wars. America killed people. Alfred had done these things as well. But he wasn’t on the battlefield where killing was necessary to survive. No, he was in his new home. A place where killing wasn’t necessary for survival. And as much as he hated this man, as much as he wanted too, he could not kill him. He’d rather see him rot in jail.
And as America, he would make sure that happened.
Turning, he began to walk back to where Vincent lay. The fight had ended with his words, most of Trent’s gang limping away. Gilbert was still shouting something at a few of them, but Antonio was pulling him off the street. Bill was knelt by Vincent, Ruben by his side. Alfred took a steadying breath. It was over. And Alfred hadn’t felt so exhausted since the end of the Revolutionary War. He swayed on his feet, ready to collapse. But he could yet, not yet.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Alfred!” Before he could even react, two hands had shot out, shoving him backwards. Three gunshots echoed into the air. With wide eyes he snapped his head around, staring at the two Nations that had pushed him. The ones who were now standing protectively in front of him.
It was Francis and… And England?
His heart lodged in his throat as he stared at the back of his former guardian. Nothing was said, the two keeping their pistols (Alfred didn’t even realize they had pistols!) raised, standing shoulder to shoulder as they stared ahead. He looked past them, at where Trent had been. The man was on the ground now, two gunshot wounds bleeding, his gun in his hand. He was dead.
“Didn’t I teach you never turn your back on the enemy?” A familiar voice hissed. Alfred just nodded mutely, trying to register what had just happened. Was he hallucinating again? Yes, that had to be it… He was…
England turned his head. And Alfred was met with familiar green eyes, and a freckled face.
He had mistaken Patrick again…
“Didn’t he teach you anything?” The Irishman spat out.
“Are you alright Alfred?” Francis questioned, turning to face the American, slipping the pistol he carried back into its hostler. Again he nodded mutely, trying to register what had happened. The Frenchman nodded, but there was a small frown on his lips. “That was a foolish thing to do, you know that right?”
He nodded, he didn’t dare risk speaking. His voice would crack, he knew that very well. Patrick just snorted, and Alfred licked his lips, trying to say something. The man though had finally faced him, a weak smile on his lips. Alfred felt his throat constrict even more, the red head setting his hand on the young Nation’s head. “Honestly… What am I going to do with you…?”
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But what had happened? Alfred didn’t- No, no… That was right; he realized belatedly, there had been three gunshots. Two had been from Francis and Patrick… But the other, the other had been fired by Trent. It had been meant to kill him. Patrick had shielded him from it, when he had shoved Alfred out of the way. When he had pushed Alfred behind him.
He was rooted to the spot, watching the scene unfold. His eyes remained locked on the prone Nation’s form. His whole body trembled. Alfred knew they couldn’t really die. If he had any doubts, Francis being shot in the forehead had reassured him of that fact. He really shouldn’t feel so terrified. Patrick would be fine. Why was he so terrified?
Blue eyes widened behind glasses, hands almost rising to rub them in disbelief. Patrick’s image flickered, like a ripple in a pond. Red hair flickered to familiar blonde, the freckles vanishing for an instant. Francis was shouting in more of a panic now, Patrick biting something out at him, his image continuing to flicker back and forth. Finally, Alfred managed to move his body, taking a step forward on numb feet.
“En… gland?” No, no Alfred was hallucinating again. That had to be it. Because there was no way England would be here… No way…
Green eyes snapped around. He saw England’s face, no he saw England. But there was no way…
“England!?” He took another quick step. Blue eyes remaining locked with green as England mouthed foreign words. Antonio had jumped to his feet, suddenly grabbing hold of Alfred as he tried to reach where the bleeding Nation lay. He struggled against the other’s grasp, watching green eyes fall closed again, hearing the panicked shouts from Francis and German curses from Gilbert. “England! Arthur! ARTHUR!”
A weight hit the back of his neck. A veil of darkness falling over his mind.
Oh my goodness. This was such a long segment -dies- But I figured you would all kill me if I just cut the gun fight in half. Even though I still left it at a cliff hanger of sorts…
And on that note… I really I hope the gunfight was okay… It was my first time trying to write one, and I already do not have much experience writing fighting scenes in general. So I hope it wasn’t too confusing… Though I have a distinct feeling this entire chapter was just confusing as Hell.
orz; I also probably just… Butchered France so much throughout these past few segments. But I can’t help it… My head canon for him stresses that, despite how much he flirts and likes to joke around, he is one of the most mature characters. I figured with the seriousness of what’s happening here, that he would just be serious to give Alfred some good advice…
And yet, I still feel like I butchered him…
But right… I do hope everyone enjoyed this. I will try to get another chapter up soon. But I don’t think anything will ever be as long as this one!
-dies for how long it turned out to be-
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Pardon me... I'm just going to run over here and squee like a mad woman into my pillow so as not to scare the neighbors.
I can't wait for more!!!! I've got to know what happens next now. XD
Also... ReCaptcha= mopes Vincent... *sobs* Vincent!!!
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Will his friends find otu his AMerica after a freakout like this? Will England survive?I can't wait to read the next chapter! >w
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Sorry for any confusion (and your questions shall receive answers very soon~)
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Nooo! Vincent...I was starting to like him T~T
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much love to you, authoranon. and moarrrr
ps. i like france in this fic 8D
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i'm eagerly waiting for the next installment. <3
also, would you alert us by posting updates in the filled prompts page? this was posted quite a while ago and i just read it now... :) but this suggestion is just a suggestion so if you prefer not to, then go ahead :3
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And you don't have to wait very long~
Ah! I'm actually incredibly new to the kink meme. So I never actually knew about that orz; Ho-How would I go about doing this? I would like to do that.
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{In the text box} Request and Parts 1-5 (iirc you have 5 parts on the request page?): (add link here)
Parts 6 onwards: (indicate the thread links in the fills from previous parts page; meaning this whole thread starting from part 6)
Direct link to Part n: (link :D)
hope this helps :) and fufufu also because i'm interested in seeing when you'll update this (i check the filled prompts regularly too :D--- might be the same for the other anons)
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Arthur.
Blue eyes opened to gaze at a clear blue sky. Just like that day so long ago… The day when he had first met England, when he had first become a colony.
“Alfred?” He lifted his head at the sound of his name. England was standing a few feet away, clothed as he was during his younger years. Sitting up, the American gazed at the older Nation. England was smiling, as if nothing bad had ever happened between them. It made Alfred’s heart clench painfully. The Englishman continued to gaze at Alfred, cocking his head to one side good naturedly, holding out his hand. “Alfred, it’s time to go home.”
Home? But Alfred could never return to the same home England returned too. Too many things had occurred since those days. And yet, Alfred found himself raising a shaking hand, reaching out to the smiling Brit…
Storm clouds appeared out of nowhere. Rain began to pelt the Earth. Everything changed, twisted into a nightmare.
England was still there, but clothed in the uniform of a British soldier. And Alfred was standing, the weight of his Continental uniform on his shoulders. England had his musket pointed at Alfred… It was that day. That day replaying itself over again in his mind. And just like before, he could only watch as his body moved on its own.
The gun had been knocked from his hands, England pointing his own musket at Alfred. It was just like that day… Just like.
“Fire!” Gunshot fire sounded around him. Alfred felt his stomach drop. He saw the surprised look on England’s face, crimson blood making the red of his uniform darker.
No… No that wasn’t…
He watched, rooted to the spot as the man fell forward, face first into the mud. England made no movement, Alfred felt his stomach churn. He whispered the man’s name, ignoring the cheers of the soldiers around him. The man did not move. Alfred felt blue eyes widening as he repeated the name. Finally, finally he got his legs to work. He rushed forward, falling to his knees besides the Brit, turning him around. He could feel his throat tighten, his stomach threatening to escape.
Green eyes were hollow, still wide with in surprise. There was no life in them though, blood trailing out of the corner of the man’s mouth. Alfred shook, shaking the man by the shoulders, calling his name. But he didn’t stir.
No, this wasn’t what happened that day. This wasn’t…
“England!? Arthur n-no, wake up! Wake up!” He was shaking him, eyes wide as saucers. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t right!
“ARTHUR!”
“Whoa! Easy there cowboy!” Strong hands pushed him down, Alfred suddenly very aware of the fact he was no longer out in the rain. His heart pounded against his chest, eyes darting all over. But everything was blurry. Where was he? What had happened? Where was England? Where was Arthur!? He struggled, flailing his arms out, shouting the name again and again.
“Alfred, Alfred calm down!” A gentler hand touched his arm, and Alfred calmed almost immediately. Molly, it was Molly. And the first voice, the first voice was Bill he realized. Breathing quickly, he let the two adults push him back down, one of them handing him his glasses. He put them on almost immediately, looking around wildly. He was in his room at the inn. It was nighttime, a candle sitting on the bedside table. Molly was seated on the mattress next to him, keeping a soothing hand on his arm while Bill ran a hand through his hair.
His other arm was in a sling, and a bandage on his cheek. But that seemed to be it. At least from what Alfred could see. He almost released a sigh of relief.
“You okay there Al?”
It took him a moment to grasp the situation. To recall what had happened. He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat, looking at the older man. “Vincent…”
“Ruben got there too late.” Was the soft response. Alfred shut his eyes tightly.
“He’s dead ‘cause of me…”
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“But-” A gentle, but firm, punch to his sore shoulder cut off any words. Bill was frowning, leaning back a little bit.
“Vin told me that if anythin’ happened to him, and you blamed yourself, I’m s’pose to punch ya.” A small grin formed. “I told him the same thing.”
“Bill…”
“We knew what we were gettin’ into Al. Vin wouldn’t want you blamin’ yourself like you do for Annie.” Alfred opened his mouth, eyes widening. So he knew that as well. Molly broke in though before he could say a word.
“Alfred, we’re all like family out here. When this whole Trent thing started up, Vincent told me once, you reminded him of someone he couldn’t protect …”
“Vin swore that he wouldn’t let the bastard hurt ya.” Bill finished, looking off to the side. “His little brother, that’s who you reminded him of. He was killed when Vin and him first came out here.” A grin had formed. “From what Vin told me, his kid brother was a real cry-baby.”
Alfred, despite the sorrow that weighed against his heart, couldn’t help but smile.
Everyone else was alright, Alfred learned. Even Patrick. Though Bill did admit, reluctantly, that it had been touch and go for a good while. Alfred’s stomach flip flopped over hearing that. He had almost died. Well, died in terms of mortals, as a Nation he would have been fine. Alfred needed to remind himself of that. Patrick wasn’t a normal human being. He wouldn’t have really died like the others…
“You called him England,” Molly had ventured later that evening, when she brought him dinner. He glanced up at her, shifting uneasily under her sharp gaze.
“I did..?”
“And Arthur,” she whispered, and a gentle hand had reached out to smooth back his bangs. Molly would make a good mother, he thought idly. He wondered why she had no kids of her own…
“Arthur… He was my guardian. He was from England. Patrick… He looks a lot like him…” Alfred looked away. He hated lying. He wanted to tell her the truth. To tell them all the truth. Tell them who he really was. But that wasn’t going to happen. That couldn’t happen…
They would think he was insane. Or a monster.
He couldn’t sleep that evening. He had tried, honestly he had. But sleep continued to evade him. If he closed his eyes, he wondered, would he see the gunfight replay itself? Would he have to face the spirits of those who had died because of it? Because of him?
His stomach knotted painfully. Vincent’s lifeless face flashed in front of closed eyelids. And then Patrick’s pained face. No, no. Arthur’s. It had been the Englishmen that he saw. The man who had raised him, who he had fought against. The man who hated him now.
There was no way that had really been England. Alfred had just hallucinated again… That had to be it…
Was Patrick really alright? Or had they just told him that..?
He rose from his bed, leaving the room without a second thought. He would just take a peek, just a quick look to see if they were telling the truth…
His leg ached as he walked down the hall, being careful not to make any noise. Leaning against the wall, Alfred paused at the stairs, soft voices carrying up from the lobby. It was Francis, Antonio and Gilbert. He could recognize their voices anywhere, speaking in a mix of French, German and Spanish. Like they so often did. The American half wondered if the strange hybrid was like their secret code. One only those three could decipher…
Actually, he really wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
Creeping passed the stairwell, Alfred paused outside the door to where he was sure Patrick was. He paused, hand poised above the door knob. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open, peering in hesitantly.
The room was pitch black, Alfred squinting to see where the bed was. There was shifting, Alfred holding his breath. Someone was moving, and Alfred heard a sharp hiss of pain.
Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea.
“Who's there?” The voice was groggy, Alfred’s chest clenching… No… It couldn’t…
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“That is the name I go by these days.” That same answer…
“So your… Your alright?”
“Mmhmm.” Came the tired response, followed by more shifting and another hiss. “You should be more careful. You’re lucky I wasn’t a normal mortal being America.”
“I know…”
“Why didn’t you kill him?” The accented voice was curious, Alfred frowning as he carefully walked over.
“I just couldn’t.”
“He could’ve killed more of your friends.” He was sure Patrick was scowling. “More people could’ve have died, and you had the opportune shot. The opportune moment to end his life.”
“I know! But I… I just couldn’t okay? I couldn’t kill him. If I killed him I would just be as bad as him!” The other Nation released a sharp, annoyed breath, Alfred digging his nails into his palms.
“You are a Nation America. The bloody United States of America! We Nations kill!”
“In wars!” Alfred could not keep his voice from rising, glaring sharply in the direction Patrick’s voice was coming from. “I know… I know I’m the United States of America. And yeah. I have killed people before. But I’ve had no option all those times! It was in wars. But I have not, and will never kill someone if there’s another option! And there was. He had lost. He would go to jail. I would’ve made damn well sure of that! I would have made sure he would never hurt any of my friends or anyone else! I didn’t have to kill him! I know it was stupid to turn my back on him! But at that point in time, I was a bit preoccupied clinging to a slim hope that maybe, just fuckin’ maybe, Vincent was alive. I was more preoccupied seeing if any of my other friends were dead because of me!”
It was like everything had just exploded. And Alfred knew there was no reason to yell like he was. The other truly hadn’t provoked him, at least not enough to warrant this reaction. But it was like all the stress had just snapped the last bit of restraint he had. The words flying from his mouth before he could stop them. Alfred felt tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and dug his nail deeper into his palm to fight them down. He would not cry. He would not.
There was a long silence, before finally, Patrick released a small laugh, and suddenly Alfred was pulled into a warm embrace. He stiffened, suddenly unsure of what to do, a gentle hand rubbing his back.
“Honestly… What am I going to do with you?” Patrick’s voice was soft, and so familiar. So very familiar.
“England…”
“… You keep mistakin’ me for him.” There was a hint of amusement. A gentle hand rubbing his back, Alfred digging his nails deeper. “It's alright, Alfred, you can cry.”
“I-I’m not…”
“I won’t tell anyone.” The voice was British. There was no denying it. And Alfred wasn’t sure if it was because of the fact that his nerves were so fried, or that England really was there, holding him like when Alfred was small. All the young Nation knew was that he allowed himself to cling to the other man. He didn’t let his tears spill. No he refused to do that. But he clung still, like a frightened babe, eyes squeezed shut. And his body shook with invisible sobs as he thought of everything. As he thought of Annie, of Vincent, of Canada, of England. As he thought of all the mistakes he had made. Of the Native from all those months ago, of the Natives that were still being forced from their lands. And how useless he was in stopping it.
And he held back his tears. Despite how they burned. Because he wouldn’t cry. Not anymore. And Patrick, or maybe it truly was Arthur, he couldn’t tell anymore, held him in a warm embrace. Fingers stroking his hair, rubbing his back. And a soft voice, Arthur’s voice, brushed against his ear.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me… I once was lost but now am found, was blind, but now, I see.”
He could feel his eyes droop, a song he hadn’t heard in decades. He remembered, England would sing it to him. When he was small, whenever he was upset.
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