The Battle (for) Britain [3a/?]
anonymous
May 11 2010, 00:49:35 UTC
“Uhn, yes? Hullo?”
“Fergus. It’s me, Siobhan.”
“Siobhan? Do you know what time it is?”
“We need your help.”
“With what?”
“We’re at Art’s house, and that damn Yank is here. Says he wants to date Art.”
“…I’ll be right there.”
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Getting a hotel room in London at five in the morning was no big deal-despite the strange look the receptionist had given the drowsy, bruised and bloodied American who came wandering in at five a.m. and tried to pay in American money-and Alfred had collapsed, exhausted, into the fluffy bed without a second thought. But sleep was only merciful for so long, and by eight the next morning he was wide awake, blinking into the sunlight streaming in the hotel room windows, curled up around a pillow that he had pulled close in his sleep, dreaming it was Arthur.
And his face was throbbing.
He tossed the pillow aside scornfully and got up to pad into the bathroom, his eyes taking in the full sight of his nose and cheekbone, splattered with an ugly pink and blue bruise that had crawled over the right side of his face and into his eye socket.
It was better than it could be, he thought to himself. Nations recovered quickly from injuries their human bodies sustained, and it looked rather like the salve England had applied the night before-with his careful, delicate fingers, which Alfred could only imagine running through his hair or stroking his jaw with a roil of melancholy in his belly-had made much of the stiffness and soreness go away.
He showered quickly, the warm water doing little to ease his stiff muscles, and, at a loss for what to do, wandered down into the tea shoppe in the lobby of the hotel.
He ordered English Breakfast and sipped on it absently, not really tasting it in his mouth. He knew he should go back there before the day was out, that he had to stand up to England’s siblings sooner or later, and that if he had to picture England locked up in his room-while he, the hero, dawdled and pondered the options-for any longer, he would go crazy.
He tossed the tea into the bin and ordered a black coffee with a double shot of espresso, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing decisively.
“Yes, this is Alfred F. Jones. 10 Downing Street, please.”
He was going to be the hero, dammit. He was going to do this right, no matter what it took.
“Fergus. It’s me, Siobhan.”
“Siobhan? Do you know what time it is?”
“We need your help.”
“With what?”
“We’re at Art’s house, and that damn Yank is here. Says he wants to date Art.”
“…I’ll be right there.”
---------------------------------------------
Getting a hotel room in London at five in the morning was no big deal-despite the strange look the receptionist had given the drowsy, bruised and bloodied American who came wandering in at five a.m. and tried to pay in American money-and Alfred had collapsed, exhausted, into the fluffy bed without a second thought. But sleep was only merciful for so long, and by eight the next morning he was wide awake, blinking into the sunlight streaming in the hotel room windows, curled up around a pillow that he had pulled close in his sleep, dreaming it was Arthur.
And his face was throbbing.
He tossed the pillow aside scornfully and got up to pad into the bathroom, his eyes taking in the full sight of his nose and cheekbone, splattered with an ugly pink and blue bruise that had crawled over the right side of his face and into his eye socket.
It was better than it could be, he thought to himself. Nations recovered quickly from injuries their human bodies sustained, and it looked rather like the salve England had applied the night before-with his careful, delicate fingers, which Alfred could only imagine running through his hair or stroking his jaw with a roil of melancholy in his belly-had made much of the stiffness and soreness go away.
He showered quickly, the warm water doing little to ease his stiff muscles, and, at a loss for what to do, wandered down into the tea shoppe in the lobby of the hotel.
He ordered English Breakfast and sipped on it absently, not really tasting it in his mouth. He knew he should go back there before the day was out, that he had to stand up to England’s siblings sooner or later, and that if he had to picture England locked up in his room-while he, the hero, dawdled and pondered the options-for any longer, he would go crazy.
He tossed the tea into the bin and ordered a black coffee with a double shot of espresso, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing decisively.
“Yes, this is Alfred F. Jones. 10 Downing Street, please.”
He was going to be the hero, dammit. He was going to do this right, no matter what it took.
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