Amor Vincit Omnia [2a/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 21:36:48 UTC
Cui Bono? - Good for whom? (Or: In Which the Magnificent Squib Goes Looking For Trouble)
“Do you think England’s gonna be okay, all alone in his house with those creepy Dementeds all over the city?” Alfred asked. The fog outside of his window seemed almost to be thickening in the dark of night, and when he put his hand against it it was icy cold to the touch.
“Dementors,” Matt corrected automatically. “And he’ll be fine.” Alfred laughed nervously and looked away from the window, to where his brother was relaxing on the bed that he’d previously had to himself, a crossword book on his lap. He tapped his nose with his pen, sticking his tongue out and furrowing his brow in concentration. He pushed his glasses up on his nose with the end of the pen. His eyes flicked up and he noticed Alfred watching him.
“What’re you staring at?” he asked.
“Just marvelling at how much more awesome I am than you,” Alfred replied cheekily, and dodged the pillow that was promptly flung at his head.
“There’ll be a fist right behind the pillow next time,” Matt grumbled, and went back to his crossword. Alfred got up and wandered over to the bed, flopping down onto it heavily and picking up the TV remote.
“Wanna buy a porno?” Alfred asked, more to get Matt riled than from any actual desire to watch a dirty movie with his brother.
“Not really.” Damn. He forgot Matt was part French. “Hey, what’s ‘Baseball’s Mickey’?”
“Mantle, duh,” Alfred replied without thinking twice, channel surfing and then clicking off the TV. He dragged out a long-suffering sigh, got up, paced across the carpet once, twice, over to the desk in the corner, mess around with the stationery. He sat down and doodled some stick figures. Himself eating a hamburger, Arthur sitting on a unicorn that kind of looked like a corndog (Hey, right now Alfred was willing to admit that glowing magical animals were probably a little weirder than a unicorn), Matt with a hockey stick and a big proud gap in his teeth...Alfred was proud of his doodling skills. But he got bored, and started tapping his pen against the desk. His eyes flicked back over to the window.
No, Alfred, look at anything but the fog. Think about anything but how lonely Arthur must be all alone in his house, with his capital filled with those-
Goddamnit.
It was his capital filled with - oh fucking - Alfred’s heart started inexplicably racing, and his leg jiggled nervously. Finally, decisively, he stood up and moved to where he’d flung his bomber jacket over a chair.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked suspiciously.
“I’m going to see England. Get England. Find England. Something...England.” Matthew sighed.
“Look, Al, I know you’re worried about him, but he has magic. You, on the other hand, do not. Versus a Dementor, you wouldn’t survive even if you had the power of Thor.” Alfred sunk, bowed but not beaten, and then looked up at his brother with a determined set to his jaw.
“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped, and paced some more, wringing the familiar leather of his bomber jacket in his hands. “I mean, I...those things out there did attack me, you know. When I...when they grabbed me, I was just alluvasudden so goddamn cold, and I couldn’t move, and...” And what? It had felt like...like those ghouls had latched onto his brain, seeped into his marrow, and sucked every good memory straight out of his body, laid all of his scars and bad memories and insecurities bare. And it would have almost ached physically, but he just remembered feeling too numb, too cold to hurt. Alfred looked down at his hands and realised that they were shaking.
Amor Vincit Omnia [2b/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 21:40:19 UTC
“And I don’t care if he has as much magic as King fucking Arthur, those things...they...dammit, we’re in London. London is filled with these ghoulish soul-sucking monsters, and that...that means they’re around his heart, Matt. His glowing little puppy may help him fight them off on the outside, but they’re attacking his heart, man, and how in the blue fuck do you fight that off?” Matt was silent.
“They breed in the darkness, Al, you won’t last ten seconds out there.”
“Can’t you send your moose to protect me? Just til I get to his house? I just...need to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay.” Alfred was prepared for his brother to sigh and agree. What he wasn’t prepared for was for Matt to set his book down and actually get up off of the bed, with steel in his blue-violet eyes.
“And what if he’s not?” Matt said bluntly, and Alfred had...had never wanted to punch his brother as bad as he did in that moment. “What can you do? You don’t have magic, Alfred.” The twins met eye to eye, north to south, and Alfred stepped so close that the sliver of air between them was like the black line of their border on a map.
“I don’t care,” he said simply. “I’m a hero. So what if I’m the underdog? The awesomest heroes are always the underdog. Look at Luke Skywalker.” More staring. Alfred wasn’t backing down.
“That analogy makes me Leia,” Matt said finally. “I don’t like it. Arthur told me to make sure to keep you safe, Al.”
“And I already told you that I’m not gonna say no if you send your shiny moose with me. You can do that, right? How much safer could I be? I mean, c’mon man, your moose is huge.” Alfred tried flashing his twin one of his Hollywood grins. Matt shook his head as if clearing the effects of that grin from his mind.
“Arthur told me to get you home,” he said. “You have no idea what you’ll be getting yourself into out there.”
“Neither do you,” Alfred pointed out. “You have no idea why these things are fogging up London ‘til you have to cut out a path with an axe. England doesn’t know either. So stop fucking babying me, like oh, Alfred can’t possibly understand what’s going on cause he’s just some magicless squid!”
“Squib.”
“Whatever, it sounds like squid. Point is, just because I don’t have some big fancy shiny critter that can tear through those things out there like tissue paper doesn’t mean I’m a useless, backwards hick who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground!” Pissed-off and venting, he flung his bomber jacket on over his shoulders and stormed over to the door. It was past midnight. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweats under his jacket. No socks, feet shoved haphazardly into beat-up sneakers. But dammit, he was gonna go see Arthur. He flung the hotel room door open wide, and then turned to face his brother. “And by the way,” he said, gearing up for some big parting shot. “If I did have a shiny spirit guide thing, you know it’d be so much more badass than anyone else’s. Like, Babe or something.”
Bam! Slam the door, storm off down the hallway. Check, please. Cut, print, check the tape.
Amor Vincit Omnia [2c/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 21:44:41 UTC
The only thing that would have made his escape more smooth is if he had chosen to take the stairs so that he wasn’t stuck standing in front of the elevators looking like a moron. After a minute, Matt sidled up beside him. He didn’t say anything to his brother. His brother didn’t say anything back. They got into the elevator, and rode in crippling silence all the way down to the first floor.
“You forgot your key,” Matt said finally, and held it out to him. Grudgingly, exit now totally ruined, Alfred took it and shoved it into his bomber jacket pocket. Matt’s lips curled up in a half-smile. Alfred was aware that he was being followed out of the elevator. And to the front doors. He stopped right outside, and waited for Matt to join him.
“Coming with?” he asked.
“Nah,” Matt said, and wiggled his bare toes against the cold cement of the pavement in front of the hotel doors. “Forgot my shoes.”
“My ass,” Alfred replied, but his lips quirked in a smile. “Gonna give me your moose?” Matt was already pulling out his wand.
“Lend,” he said. “I’m gonna lend you my moose. Expecto Patronum!” he called, and a white stream of light swirled out from the tip of his wand, solidifying into the enormous bull moose. The moose sniffed at its caster, and then at Alfred, and Alfred grinned and stroked its nose gently. It butted his hand lightly. Alfred had to remind himself that getting this cosy with a real moose would probably get his organs squished, but he just wanted to hug Matt’s great big shiny moose.
Which was totally weird. But whatever.
“Thanks, bro!” he said, and jogged off. The moose plodded along behind him. Matt watched him go until he was almost out of earshot in the fog.
“Hey Leia!” Matt yelled cheerfully. “Tell Han I said hi!”
“Screw you!” Alfred yelled back, just as cheerfully.
And then the hotel was behind him, and it was just him and Matt’s moose. And even though he was out in the thick of the fog, he felt a million times better than he had back in the hotel room, because he was doing something. And doing something felt really, really good. That, and there just seemed to be something inherently awesome in walking down the streets of London in the dead of night with a giant glowing moose.
Amor Vincit Omnia [2d/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 21:47:53 UTC
Arthur could feel a migraine setting in. He was quite familiar with the feeling: had plenty of them, ever since the second World War (funnily enough, and he only found this out later, there had been a Wizarding War going on at the same time, and oh, ha, wasn’t that just hilarious - sometimes, England really just wanted to kill them). And the worst part was that he had to suffer with them, because it wasn’t as if he could just point his wand at his head and mutter a spell to make it go away. No, it would be a potion. Arthur really was shite at potions. And he would rather cut off his own hand and feed it to a swarm of pixies than ask any of his brothers for help.
But why did he have a migraine? Other than the fact that he had been plagued by nightmares for the past few nights that had kept him from getting more than two total hours of restful sleep, and aside from the Dementors lurking right outside of his house, he had Floo-called his good old friend Albus Dumbledore to find out what in the blue bloody hells was going on.
And he had found out that the barmy git who styled himself ‘The Dark Lord Voldemort’ had risen once more and there was a war on. Which was abso-bloody-lutely fan-fucking-tastic for England, and oh, thanks for the warning. After running him through the situation, Albus had promptly began trying to recruit him to join the rebellion force against Voldemort, and much though Arthur did dearly love the company of his old friend, he felt that the wizened wizard had to be getting silly in his old age because Arthur Kirkland did not join Wizarding Wars. He had enough problems to deal with when his fellow Nations got into the royal slapfights that they termed conflicts, thank you, and would it please for the Wizarding World to go twenty bloody years without getting into a war with itself?
Right bastards, the lot of them.
Arthur had politely declined Albus’ offer, but as he had stewed over it for the hours afterward he wondered if, in fact, that was the right thing to do. After all, there were Dementors breeding all over London. Clearly, there was some kind of breakdown going on somewhere. And anyway, this Voldemort fellow had apparently risen from the grave to make this second bid at supreme control over the Wizarding World.
Trust a fucking dark wizard to not stay dead. Really, he wondered, was his Ministry so completely inept that they couldn’t even handle one bloody fucking barmy twat? Agh, it made Arthur so angry that he could just...just...do something that he was sure wasn’t very gentlemanly at all!
So he felt it was about time that he paid his Minister for Magic a little visit, and showed him just how ungentlemanly the Nation of England could get when there were Dementors breeding in London!
...Was that a knock at his door? Who could be coming round at this time of night?
Amor Vincit Omnia [2e/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 21:50:27 UTC
“America.” He hoped that he sounded as unamused by this as he was trying to let on.
“Well hi England!” Cue hundred-watt smile. “Wanna let me in before those Demented thingers swarm me? Matt’s big shiny moose brought me here, but it pittered out right outside your gate.” Arthur grunted and stood aside so that the American Nation could slouch his way inside.
“Whatever you wanted, America, I’m afraid I’m not in the mood.” His brain was attempting to bash its way out of his forehead, and he wasn’t really in the mood for much else but curling up in as small a ball as he could in pitch darkness and pray for sleep. Or death. But no, if he was dead, then he wouldn’t be able to go give the Minister a heaping piece of his mind in the morning.
“Oh, I just wanted to come make sure you weren’t lonely in your house all by yourself,” Alfred said. “And - wow, you look like shit. You okay? Those things didn’t get you, did they?”
“Thank you, America.” England drawled sarcastically. “And no, it’s not the Dementors. I just have a bit of a headache, is all.”
“Oh, you’re having a migraine?” Arthur had forgotten that Alfred knew he had a problem with migraines. Alfred dropped his voice down a few dozen decibels. It was a normal speaking voice to Arthur’s ears, but to Alfred it must have been a whisper. “Sorry, I’ll keep it down. Anyway, I was just hoping I could crash on your couch or something tonight, you know, cause it’s thick with those things out there, and I just wanna make sure that they leave you alone.” Arthur was annoyed as always by how Alfred never explicitly asked permission, always just went ahead and took until he was told to bugger off. The way that he slung his bomber jacket over the coatrack and just kind of traipsed further into the house like he owned the place seemed so much more infuriating when it felt like Arthur’s head was about to roll right off of his shoulders.
And the worst of it was: Arthur knew he was soft enough to let Alfred stay. He really ought to say no, say that Alfred could just march his happy arse right back out there and go back to the hotel where Arthur had told him to stay, and that if he wasn’t on the next flight out of England, Arthur would kick his arse so hard he wouldn’t need a plane to cross the Atlantic.
But Alfred was a squib.
His squib.
And every time that Arthur tried to gather the words to tell Alfred to go back to his bloody hotel and loiter around in his brother’s hair, all he could think of was how cold and pale Alfred’s face had been that morning, what it had felt like to see the big, strong, healthy young Nation crumple before his eyes.
“All right, you can stay,” he said tiredly. “But just the night. I have business to do tomorrow, and you have a flight to catch with your brother.”
“But I want to stay and help, England. How can I convince you that I’m not totally useless?” England was far too tired and hurting far too badly for this conversation.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said. “It’s late.” Alfred watched him for a minute, and then smiled again.
“Sure,” he said. “Where’m I sleeping, old man?”
“Guest room,” Arthur said, moving toward the stairs.
“Sweet! More comfy than the couch,” Alfred said, trailing along behind Arthur.
When Alfred snuck into Arthur’s bedroom around four in the morning and promptly fell fast asleep, strong arm wrapped around Arthur’s waist, warm breath on the shell of Arthur’s ear, he would never know how close he came to being on the receiving end of a rather nasty Entrail-Expelling Curse.
But he also wouldn’t know, if Arthur could help it, how much more easily Arthur slept after that.
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2e/?]
anonymous
August 18 2010, 23:11:27 UTC
OP here! Oh, anon. Arthur's opinion of the Wizarding world's war=WIN. And Alfred's so adorable. Both in his concern for Arthur as well as his fail hero attempts. Thwarted by an elevator, lol.
This continues to be an amazing fill, and I eagerly look forward to the next part! ♥!
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2e/?]
anonymous
August 19 2010, 06:58:58 UTC
Trust a fucking dark wizard to not stay dead. Really, he wondered, was his Ministry so completely inept that they couldn’t even handle one bloody fucking barmy twat? Agh, it made Arthur so angry that he could just...just...do something that he was sure wasn’t very gentlemanly at all!
That bit? Genius. And America thinking Babe would be his patronus? What the--? Al!!! XDDDD Love you, author-anon!
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2e/?]
anonymous
August 19 2010, 07:57:39 UTC
I am ADDICTED to this fill. There are so many things here that I love but can't name because there are just too bloody many. <3 SUFFICE TO SAY I LOVE YOU ANON.
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2e/?]
anonymous
August 19 2010, 20:02:14 UTC
Everyone is so IC. And haha, stupid elevator ruining the hero's awesome exit. Speaking for awesome, is Prussia in this? Fantastic chapter, can't wait for more!
recaptcha, again: twentieth ballians? what does that mean?
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2a/?]
anonymous
September 1 2010, 05:50:47 UTC
Ouch poor guy! So those nations who are not magical are the ones that lean more towards the tech right? So Japan doesn't have magic either huh? poor guy ...but then again he most likely wouldnt get involved I think. I wonder he mustve had some a one point before he got disconnected so to speak from his magical side.
Re: Amor Vincit Omnia [2a/?]
anonymous
November 16 2012, 14:49:07 UTC
surely if that were the case then england would have lost his magic in the industrial revolution? just thinking... and japan was all isolationist for such a long time, i'm not sure that fits
maybe a america doesn't have magic because when he was just a colony it was a deliberately non magical colony. cuz puritans. or something.
“Do you think England’s gonna be okay, all alone in his house with those creepy Dementeds all over the city?” Alfred asked. The fog outside of his window seemed almost to be thickening in the dark of night, and when he put his hand against it it was icy cold to the touch.
“Dementors,” Matt corrected automatically. “And he’ll be fine.” Alfred laughed nervously and looked away from the window, to where his brother was relaxing on the bed that he’d previously had to himself, a crossword book on his lap. He tapped his nose with his pen, sticking his tongue out and furrowing his brow in concentration. He pushed his glasses up on his nose with the end of the pen. His eyes flicked up and he noticed Alfred watching him.
“What’re you staring at?” he asked.
“Just marvelling at how much more awesome I am than you,” Alfred replied cheekily, and dodged the pillow that was promptly flung at his head.
“There’ll be a fist right behind the pillow next time,” Matt grumbled, and went back to his crossword. Alfred got up and wandered over to the bed, flopping down onto it heavily and picking up the TV remote.
“Wanna buy a porno?” Alfred asked, more to get Matt riled than from any actual desire to watch a dirty movie with his brother.
“Not really.” Damn. He forgot Matt was part French. “Hey, what’s ‘Baseball’s Mickey’?”
“Mantle, duh,” Alfred replied without thinking twice, channel surfing and then clicking off the TV. He dragged out a long-suffering sigh, got up, paced across the carpet once, twice, over to the desk in the corner, mess around with the stationery. He sat down and doodled some stick figures. Himself eating a hamburger, Arthur sitting on a unicorn that kind of looked like a corndog (Hey, right now Alfred was willing to admit that glowing magical animals were probably a little weirder than a unicorn), Matt with a hockey stick and a big proud gap in his teeth...Alfred was proud of his doodling skills. But he got bored, and started tapping his pen against the desk. His eyes flicked back over to the window.
No, Alfred, look at anything but the fog. Think about anything but how lonely Arthur must be all alone in his house, with his capital filled with those-
Goddamnit.
It was his capital filled with - oh fucking - Alfred’s heart started inexplicably racing, and his leg jiggled nervously. Finally, decisively, he stood up and moved to where he’d flung his bomber jacket over a chair.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked suspiciously.
“I’m going to see England. Get England. Find England. Something...England.” Matthew sighed.
“Look, Al, I know you’re worried about him, but he has magic. You, on the other hand, do not. Versus a Dementor, you wouldn’t survive even if you had the power of Thor.” Alfred sunk, bowed but not beaten, and then looked up at his brother with a determined set to his jaw.
“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped, and paced some more, wringing the familiar leather of his bomber jacket in his hands. “I mean, I...those things out there did attack me, you know. When I...when they grabbed me, I was just alluvasudden so goddamn cold, and I couldn’t move, and...” And what? It had felt like...like those ghouls had latched onto his brain, seeped into his marrow, and sucked every good memory straight out of his body, laid all of his scars and bad memories and insecurities bare. And it would have almost ached physically, but he just remembered feeling too numb, too cold to hurt. Alfred looked down at his hands and realised that they were shaking.
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“They breed in the darkness, Al, you won’t last ten seconds out there.”
“Can’t you send your moose to protect me? Just til I get to his house? I just...need to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay.” Alfred was prepared for his brother to sigh and agree. What he wasn’t prepared for was for Matt to set his book down and actually get up off of the bed, with steel in his blue-violet eyes.
“And what if he’s not?” Matt said bluntly, and Alfred had...had never wanted to punch his brother as bad as he did in that moment. “What can you do? You don’t have magic, Alfred.” The twins met eye to eye, north to south, and Alfred stepped so close that the sliver of air between them was like the black line of their border on a map.
“I don’t care,” he said simply. “I’m a hero. So what if I’m the underdog? The awesomest heroes are always the underdog. Look at Luke Skywalker.” More staring. Alfred wasn’t backing down.
“That analogy makes me Leia,” Matt said finally. “I don’t like it. Arthur told me to make sure to keep you safe, Al.”
“And I already told you that I’m not gonna say no if you send your shiny moose with me. You can do that, right? How much safer could I be? I mean, c’mon man, your moose is huge.” Alfred tried flashing his twin one of his Hollywood grins. Matt shook his head as if clearing the effects of that grin from his mind.
“Arthur told me to get you home,” he said. “You have no idea what you’ll be getting yourself into out there.”
“Neither do you,” Alfred pointed out. “You have no idea why these things are fogging up London ‘til you have to cut out a path with an axe. England doesn’t know either. So stop fucking babying me, like oh, Alfred can’t possibly understand what’s going on cause he’s just some magicless squid!”
“Squib.”
“Whatever, it sounds like squid. Point is, just because I don’t have some big fancy shiny critter that can tear through those things out there like tissue paper doesn’t mean I’m a useless, backwards hick who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground!” Pissed-off and venting, he flung his bomber jacket on over his shoulders and stormed over to the door. It was past midnight. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweats under his jacket. No socks, feet shoved haphazardly into beat-up sneakers. But dammit, he was gonna go see Arthur. He flung the hotel room door open wide, and then turned to face his brother. “And by the way,” he said, gearing up for some big parting shot. “If I did have a shiny spirit guide thing, you know it’d be so much more badass than anyone else’s. Like, Babe or something.”
Bam! Slam the door, storm off down the hallway. Check, please. Cut, print, check the tape.
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“You forgot your key,” Matt said finally, and held it out to him. Grudgingly, exit now totally ruined, Alfred took it and shoved it into his bomber jacket pocket. Matt’s lips curled up in a half-smile. Alfred was aware that he was being followed out of the elevator. And to the front doors. He stopped right outside, and waited for Matt to join him.
“Coming with?” he asked.
“Nah,” Matt said, and wiggled his bare toes against the cold cement of the pavement in front of the hotel doors. “Forgot my shoes.”
“My ass,” Alfred replied, but his lips quirked in a smile. “Gonna give me your moose?” Matt was already pulling out his wand.
“Lend,” he said. “I’m gonna lend you my moose. Expecto Patronum!” he called, and a white stream of light swirled out from the tip of his wand, solidifying into the enormous bull moose. The moose sniffed at its caster, and then at Alfred, and Alfred grinned and stroked its nose gently. It butted his hand lightly. Alfred had to remind himself that getting this cosy with a real moose would probably get his organs squished, but he just wanted to hug Matt’s great big shiny moose.
Which was totally weird. But whatever.
“Thanks, bro!” he said, and jogged off. The moose plodded along behind him. Matt watched him go until he was almost out of earshot in the fog.
“Hey Leia!” Matt yelled cheerfully. “Tell Han I said hi!”
“Screw you!” Alfred yelled back, just as cheerfully.
And then the hotel was behind him, and it was just him and Matt’s moose. And even though he was out in the thick of the fog, he felt a million times better than he had back in the hotel room, because he was doing something. And doing something felt really, really good. That, and there just seemed to be something inherently awesome in walking down the streets of London in the dead of night with a giant glowing moose.
Maybe that was just him. Maybe not.
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But why did he have a migraine? Other than the fact that he had been plagued by nightmares for the past few nights that had kept him from getting more than two total hours of restful sleep, and aside from the Dementors lurking right outside of his house, he had Floo-called his good old friend Albus Dumbledore to find out what in the blue bloody hells was going on.
And he had found out that the barmy git who styled himself ‘The Dark Lord Voldemort’ had risen once more and there was a war on. Which was abso-bloody-lutely fan-fucking-tastic for England, and oh, thanks for the warning. After running him through the situation, Albus had promptly began trying to recruit him to join the rebellion force against Voldemort, and much though Arthur did dearly love the company of his old friend, he felt that the wizened wizard had to be getting silly in his old age because Arthur Kirkland did not join Wizarding Wars. He had enough problems to deal with when his fellow Nations got into the royal slapfights that they termed conflicts, thank you, and would it please for the Wizarding World to go twenty bloody years without getting into a war with itself?
Right bastards, the lot of them.
Arthur had politely declined Albus’ offer, but as he had stewed over it for the hours afterward he wondered if, in fact, that was the right thing to do. After all, there were Dementors breeding all over London. Clearly, there was some kind of breakdown going on somewhere. And anyway, this Voldemort fellow had apparently risen from the grave to make this second bid at supreme control over the Wizarding World.
Trust a fucking dark wizard to not stay dead. Really, he wondered, was his Ministry so completely inept that they couldn’t even handle one bloody fucking barmy twat? Agh, it made Arthur so angry that he could just...just...do something that he was sure wasn’t very gentlemanly at all!
So he felt it was about time that he paid his Minister for Magic a little visit, and showed him just how ungentlemanly the Nation of England could get when there were Dementors breeding in London!
...Was that a knock at his door? Who could be coming round at this time of night?
...Oh. Fuck.
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“Well hi England!” Cue hundred-watt smile. “Wanna let me in before those Demented thingers swarm me? Matt’s big shiny moose brought me here, but it pittered out right outside your gate.” Arthur grunted and stood aside so that the American Nation could slouch his way inside.
“Whatever you wanted, America, I’m afraid I’m not in the mood.” His brain was attempting to bash its way out of his forehead, and he wasn’t really in the mood for much else but curling up in as small a ball as he could in pitch darkness and pray for sleep. Or death. But no, if he was dead, then he wouldn’t be able to go give the Minister a heaping piece of his mind in the morning.
“Oh, I just wanted to come make sure you weren’t lonely in your house all by yourself,” Alfred said. “And - wow, you look like shit. You okay? Those things didn’t get you, did they?”
“Thank you, America.” England drawled sarcastically. “And no, it’s not the Dementors. I just have a bit of a headache, is all.”
“Oh, you’re having a migraine?” Arthur had forgotten that Alfred knew he had a problem with migraines. Alfred dropped his voice down a few dozen decibels. It was a normal speaking voice to Arthur’s ears, but to Alfred it must have been a whisper. “Sorry, I’ll keep it down. Anyway, I was just hoping I could crash on your couch or something tonight, you know, cause it’s thick with those things out there, and I just wanna make sure that they leave you alone.” Arthur was annoyed as always by how Alfred never explicitly asked permission, always just went ahead and took until he was told to bugger off. The way that he slung his bomber jacket over the coatrack and just kind of traipsed further into the house like he owned the place seemed so much more infuriating when it felt like Arthur’s head was about to roll right off of his shoulders.
And the worst of it was: Arthur knew he was soft enough to let Alfred stay. He really ought to say no, say that Alfred could just march his happy arse right back out there and go back to the hotel where Arthur had told him to stay, and that if he wasn’t on the next flight out of England, Arthur would kick his arse so hard he wouldn’t need a plane to cross the Atlantic.
But Alfred was a squib.
His squib.
And every time that Arthur tried to gather the words to tell Alfred to go back to his bloody hotel and loiter around in his brother’s hair, all he could think of was how cold and pale Alfred’s face had been that morning, what it had felt like to see the big, strong, healthy young Nation crumple before his eyes.
“All right, you can stay,” he said tiredly. “But just the night. I have business to do tomorrow, and you have a flight to catch with your brother.”
“But I want to stay and help, England. How can I convince you that I’m not totally useless?” England was far too tired and hurting far too badly for this conversation.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said. “It’s late.” Alfred watched him for a minute, and then smiled again.
“Sure,” he said. “Where’m I sleeping, old man?”
“Guest room,” Arthur said, moving toward the stairs.
“Sweet! More comfy than the couch,” Alfred said, trailing along behind Arthur.
When Alfred snuck into Arthur’s bedroom around four in the morning and promptly fell fast asleep, strong arm wrapped around Arthur’s waist, warm breath on the shell of Arthur’s ear, he would never know how close he came to being on the receiving end of a rather nasty Entrail-Expelling Curse.
But he also wouldn’t know, if Arthur could help it, how much more easily Arthur slept after that.
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This continues to be an amazing fill, and I eagerly look forward to the next part! ♥!
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<3 Anon, you're so awesome~ *camps out to wait for more*
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That bit? Genius. And America thinking Babe would be his patronus? What the--? Al!!! XDDDD Love you, author-anon!
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Looking foward to your update, anon!
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recaptcha, again: twentieth ballians? what does that mean?
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maybe a america doesn't have magic because when he was just a colony it was a deliberately non magical colony. cuz puritans. or something.
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