Past-Part Fills Part 7
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Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
It’s a scary sight, or so Alfred thinks as he lingers in his bedroom doorway, too scared to contemplate walking inside the room itself. He’s aware that if he moves, even slightly, he’s liable to suffer an ambush before Emma dresses him up like a mannequin plaything.
Every single item of clothing his grandmother bought for him has been strewn across the room, on both the bed and the floor, with Emma perched on the edge of the mattress to examine each garment individually. She has no pattern to her exploration, a magpie choosing the shiniest things in a collection to hoard them.
There is a gleam in Emma’s eyes is that should not be there; it’s almost predatory, and it reminds Alfred of the way werewolves leer at their victims before attacking. Alfred has never seen a werewolf in action, so he can’t judge the accuracy of his assumption, but he saw a TV documentary about them once and the dramatisation sequences gave him nightmares for a month.
“You are such a cute little boy,” Emma says, for the fifth time in as many minutes. “You should ask Mrs Jones to purchase you some suspenders. Bright red ones! Don’t you think they’d look adorable?”
Bored, Alfred zones out, just as something knocks against his hip - he can guess what it is.
Though it’s convenient that Arthur is easy to carry around when in the shape of a military figurine, it’s not convenient that he can still bounce around like a lunatic possessed. Alfred’s hand flies instinctively to his pocket, desperate to quell the giddy toy soldier within. Arthur merely hits back harder, forcing Alfred to slip his hand into his pocket and hold Arthur still as best he can, until his knuckles begin to hurt from the effort.
“This is so sweet,” Emma gushes, lifting up a crisp white shirt that Alfred finds itchy. “And it’s so quaint! Oh, Alfred, dear, you need a little bow-tie to go with it, you’d look like a ventriloquist’s dummy!”
Alfred doesn’t have the heart to tell her that ventriloquist’s dummies petrify him more than clowns, and it would be odd of him to say as much. The only reason he fears those dummies is because he frets that, one night, they might come to life - he isn’t sure why the puppets startle him and Arthur doesn’t, but his fears manifest in peculiar ways.
“You need to wear more yellow,” Emma demands, seemingly oblivious to the way Alfred’s ignoring her talk of fashion. “And - and blue!”
From inside his pocket, Alfred feels the vibrations of Arthur cursing under his breath, irritated at being held in place, or maybe bored of the clothes discussion himself. It serves in further reminding Alfred he needs to distract Emma as fast as he can; he has a task to fulfil and, in her current state, she’s preventing him from completing it.
While Emma bursts into a high-pitched squeal, Alfred seizes his chance to address Green-Eyes without having his caretaker overhear them. Curtly, Alfred whispers down, “If you can jump around in there, you can come out an’ do the talkin’ yourself!”
There’s peace within Alfred’s pocket, but it doesn’t last for long. Alfred had been hoping that scare tactics would quell the miniature mutiny going on below, though predictably there’s no such luck.
Arthur’s response to such a threat is to somehow bite Alfred’s thumb; remarkable, considering his current lack of teeth. Perhaps he just has a splinter and decided to run it over Alfred’s fingers - either way, it hurts enough for Alfred to whip his hand away, letting out a shrill whine.
When Green-Eyes falls from Alfred’s pocket, bouncing against the floor before rolling to a halt, Alfred’s whine dies an extremely sudden death.
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It’s too late to salvage the situation, because Emma has already snapped out of her haze, turning her attention to where Alfred stands.
“What’s the racket for?” she asks, dropping the cardigan to the floor along with the others.
Alfred reddens. “Nothin’.”
Emma displays her default expression of concern, moving to kneel before her ward, when she lets out an “Ow” and stares at the floor.
Alfred looks down, knowing full well what he’ll see. Beneath her knee is Arthur, his raised tunic digging into her -that’s potentially how he ‘bit’ Alfred, but now probably isn’t the time for Alfred to start yelling at his toy for being a jerk.
Far from looking pained, however, Emma just looks thrilled at the sight.
“Which one is this?” she asks, and she smiles as she waits for a response, picking Kirkland up to examine him.
“That one’s Arthur,” Alfred says. He wonders if he should elaborate, and decides it’s the perfect time for revenge. “That one’s Arthur, and he’s being a... a... a real stupidhead.”
“Alfred,” Emma says, mock-scolding, “that’s not very nice thing to say.”
“Yeah?” Alfred huffs, folding his arms indignantly. “Well, it’s true. He’s being...”
Alfred pauses, trying to think of that word his tutor always calls him. It begins with an ‘i’...
“He’s being impatient.”
“Oh?” Emma asks. “Impatient about what?”
“He wanted to ask you about that doll you had when you were a kid,” Alfred replies. “But he couldn’t wait. Smooth move, Arthur.”
Emma laughs. “In that case, you can tell him that I had many dolls, if that’s what he wishes to know.”
“I meant the one you told me about before,” Alfred explains. “She told you she was a princess or somethin’?”
There is a pause, and the mere existence of it makes Alfred’s heart sink. If Emma can’t remember the doll in question, maybe the doll held little significance to her, or perhaps she no longer owns it - and if that’s the case, Arthur will no doubt pull the biggest strop that’s ever been pulled.
“Ah,” Emma replies eventually, a noise of recognition, and Alfred breathes out heavily with relief.
Before he can say anything more, Emma stands up, placing Arthur on the bedside table. “Why does he want to know about my dear ragdoll?” Her smile expands. “Is he trying to find himself a wife?”
It’s clear that Emma is stupidly refusing to take this mission seriously, but Alfred perseveres. “Something like that. His real wife. Do you still have the princess? If you don’t mind, I’d kinda like to have Arthur meet her...”
Emma pauses, her hand atop Arthur’s painted head as her face turns away from Alfred’s view. Though Alfred can’t see her expression, her tone of voice sounds jovial enough when she replies, “I do still have her, as a matter of fact. She is in the attic at my house. I did consider giving her away when I first moved here but, ha-ha, I couldn’t bear to part with her!”
Alfred frowns. “You have a house?”
“Rude!” Emma says, with a false gasp. “Where did you think I lived, in one of your cupboards?”
“I never really thought about it...” Alfred mumbles, hopping from one foot to the other. He prepares his best ‘hurt puppy’ look and asks, “Will you take me? Mom and Dad are out until way later so they don’t hafta come. It’ll be like a day out! Just us three, y’know? Pleeease.”
“Ha, inviting yourself to my home,” Emma chuckles. “What am I to do...”
There is another pause. Alfred exchanges a glance with Arthur and sees that Arthur’s cheeks have gone bright red, his eyebrows furrowed in an exhibition of stunted rage. Alfred can’t think why, but he has no time to work it out - Emma turns around, delivering a swift nod.
“You’ll take us?” Alfred cries, excitedly taking a few steps forward towards his caretaker. He stares up at her in awe, proceeding with, “Arthur too?”
Emma grins. The werewolf-gleam returns. “Sure, if you can both hold on.”
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For weeks, the weather outside hasn’t been particularly brilliant, which is unfortunate considering how sunny the area is supposed to be. Nevertheless, it’s expected that any member of staff would at least have the decency to remove their drenched shoes before traipsing through the house.
Bonnefoy frowns down at the troublesome wet patches on the ground, willing them away. The inanimate bastards almost made him slip and fall. Which would be highly inconvenient, of course, because he’s busy doing his daily snoop of the Jones manor.
He isn’t sure why he cares. He shouldn’t be wasting his time with domestic issues, because he probably has tasks assigned to him for the day already, from either the raisin-faced bastard or his charming wife. Nevertheless, it is of little concern; Harold never says a word when Bonnefoy slacks off because that would be very hypocritical, and Verna doesn’t complain because she lives in a world of her own, barely noticing the state of her household.
Everything is very quiet and dull when little Alfred departs to see his parents, and there are still only nine toy soldiers on Alfred’s shelf. Discovering who wet the tiles is probably the most excitement Bonnefoy will have all weekend.
With the same amount of investigative flair as Inspector Clouseau, Bonnefoy decides to follow the trail to see where it ends. He turns on his heel - carefully, so as to avoid the slip he’d managed to shun moments prior - and walks out into the hallway, taking great care in ensuring his steps make no sound.
These are the moments in which he thanks the Captain’s training, though his natural stealth is a useful advantage. If he’s lucky, the track of water that snakes across the floor might well lead to the culprit that left it there, depending on whether or not it’s been freshly made. Criminals always return to the scene of the crime, he’s sure of it.
Bonnefoy is led first past the grand hall itself, and then past the staircase, towards the long, narrow passageway that the business chambers lead off from. It’s darker here than it is anywhere else in the house, even in daytime, partly because of the single window and partly because it’s such a miserable day outside anyway. Soldiering on, he taps with his foot and patiently follows the splashing sounds, only to begin screaming internally when he finds that the trail leads off into Harold’s office.
Gloved hands clenching at his sides, Bonnefoy grinds his teeth together and straightens up to full height. The raisin-faced bastard is in for it now. If Harold really is the one behind this, dragging his sodden shoes through the house without a care in the world, then Bonnefoy will have no choice other than to fake a fall due to ‘hazards in the workplace’ and demand subsequent compensation.
“Something smells like wet dog-” Bonnefoy begins as the door swings open, taking his first step of the day into Harold’s quarters. Usually he would have already searched the room by now in his daily snoop, but it was sadly interrupted by Harold’s selfishness regarding wet kitchen tiles.
Instead of finding a drenched, forlorn Harold in the office’s chair, however, Bonnefoy finds a young boy standing on it tip-toed, reaching desperately for the shelf containing Harold’s personal jar of pastilles.
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Instantly Bonnefoy recognises the child, simply from his alarming eyes. They are a shade away from being red, and though his hair is usually an intense platinum it has darkened in the storms, the locks of his fringe sending rivulets down his cheeks. The child’s clothes visibly cling to him due to saturation from rainfall.
“Gilbert,” Bonnefoy mutters, thinking of all the occasions he’s had to play host to the irritating Weillschmidt child for the sake of his son. “Who let you in? Did you really walk all this way by yourself?”
“Door was open,” Gilbert shrugs. He points roughly at the pastille jar and adds, “Get that down for me.”
“You’re not supposed to walk into people’s homes without permission,” Bonnefoy snaps, ignoring Gilbert’s demand entirely. “Nor are you supposed to walk through their home and get their floors wet after being in the rain.”
The young German merely scoffs. “Al will be fine with it. Besides, I’m here for an important reason.”
“Alfred isn’t here,” Bonnefoy replies curtly. “And even if he was, it wouldn’t be acceptable for you to barge in and steal from Alfred’s grandfather. Where are your manners?”
Confused, Gilbert points again at the pastille jar and asks, “You mean those aren’t Alfred’s?”
Bonnefoy could state that it is probably worse to be willing to steal from a friend, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts. Instead, he demands, “What is the ‘important reason’ for your visit?”
Reminded suddenly of his original goal, Gilbert slips a hand into the unzipped parting of his jacket. Bonnefoy watches closely, ready to leap from the room if Gilbert takes anything remotely resembling weaponry from his pockets - Gilbert is rather interested in fighting and he demonstrates his interest through carrying replica guns and swords around with him, so it is only a matter of time before he gets his grubby paws on the real versions. He must be a nightmare at airports and even more of a problem-maker in homes for the elderly.
“This,” Gilbert says, simply, pulling a completely dry envelope from somewhere within his jacket. “I made sure the rain didn’t get to it because then the ink would run. See? I plan ahead.”
With that declaration of unwarranted self-importance, Gilbert offers the mysterious envelope to Bonnefoy.
The butler moves to take it from the child without asking what it contains. He can tell from looking that it’s a letter, but he can’t so much as guess what the letter’s about and it piques his curiosity. Bonnefoy turns it over in his hands; written on the envelope, in large, scrawled handwriting, is the word ALFRED.
“When he gets back, give it to him,” Gilbert orders. The boy has never had any sense of respect for his elders, and for some reason Bonnefoy finds that amusing rather than annoying. “I have to be home by seven so I can’t give it to him in person, but I’m sure Al won’t mind not seeing the awesome me when he reads what’s inside.”
Now Bonnefoy knows the intended recipient of Gilbert’s letter, he can accurately guess what the letter may be about - Francis has already told Bonnefoy everything he needs to know about the ongoing village drama, and it’s hilarious that Alfred has been left in the dark for so long.
“Understood,” Bonnefoy says, trying not to break into a grin. “You should leave now.”
With no more than a shrug, Gilbert hops down from the chair. Droplets fly from him as he lands, as though he is a dog shaking itself dry after swimming. If Bonnefoy wasn’t so close to laughter, he would be infuriated by Gilbert making such a mess; as it is, he merely watches the boy walk past him towards the open office door.
“Oh, and,” Gilbert says, his tone one of afterthought. He pauses in the doorway for a moment before finishing, “Has Alfred hung out with Francis lately?”
“Non,” Bonnefoy replies, though he knows Francis spent time with the Jones child just a few days ago. “Like I told you before, Francis hasn’t been here in months.”
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Her house is tall and narrow, one unit of a long, terraced road. Neighbouring, there are houses just like hers for what feels like miles, each one made from reddish bricks and grey slab roofing. Symmetrically-planted trees line the pavement, and though every single row house in the area has a porch, only Emma’s has been decorated with flowering plant pots and blooming miniature shrubs.
As with many places, Alfred has never been to the outskirts of the city - or at least, not until now. His life revolves around the countryside-postcard scenery of the village, and the urbanised heart of accommodation and retail that is the city’s core. That’s why Emma’s house impresses him so much - it’s new, fresh, and to him it’s almost heavenly.
Then again, it wouldn’t surprise Alfred if it is Heaven, because he should be dead anyway. When Emma said to hold on, it certainly wasn’t an overestimation.
In contrast to her house, Emma’s car is old, beaten, and potentially illegal to use due to its poor condition. It’s not difficult to see why it’s in such a state because her driving is atrocious, consisting of jumping red lights and swerving around pedestrians instead of waiting for them to finish crossing the street. In the time it took to arrive at her house, Alfred must have mentally prepared himself for the afterlife at least twice and screamed more often than he’d care to admit.
He didn’t truly believe her when the car had stopped and she’d alerted him, “Here we are!”, because it felt more like the calm before the storm. A trick, to make him open his eyes again, prior to an almighty ten-car pile-up.
Now, as he watches her struggle with the hatch to her attic, he places his thumb to his wrist, just to check that he still has a pulse. It’s racing, but that’s little wonder.
“Almost got it,” Emma promises, swaying in a misshapen circle. “Almost... there...”
Her attic hatch does not have the typical cord to pull it open; instead, it has a handle, and in order to pull on it she has to use a large stick with a hooked end. He’s never understood why anyone would build a house with too high to be opened by human hands alone, but that’s doubtless why his grandmother thinks he’ll never be any good at decor.
As Emma engages in a battle of woman versus wedge, Alfred distracts himself by staring at the artwork on Emma’s walls. The landing here is far shorter than the landing at Harold and Verna’s, and there are also far fewer bedrooms, but Emma has still managed to fit in quite a lot of framed paintings and posters in the space she had to work with.
He recognises some of them; Emma’s showed them to him in the past when she took them to work with her. He sees a familiar national flag consisting of three stripes (from the grand Kingdom of Belgium!), and an equally familiar collection of globs with words on them (that’s a world map, Alfred), but there is a photograph near the staircase that Alfred has never seen before.
It contains three people, standing in an awkward row - one of them, a man, has a scowl and gelled hair; the next one along is clearly Emma, but with shorter hair; the third figure is another male, but shadowed enough for his features to be indecipherable.
Alfred tries to peer closer, his natural curiosity taking hold, but a cry of “O lieve hemel” alerts him that Emma has successfully prised open the ceiling hatch. He turns away from the photograph, and when he sees the ladder leading to the darkness of the attic, he forgets about it almost instantly.
“You’re okay to be trusted with ladders, yes?” Emma asks, taking a step back to triumphantly admire her work. “You won’t fall down and shatter if I leave you up by yourself?”
Alfred looks crestfallen and counters, “Wait, wait; where are you going?”
“Downstairs,” Emma says, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead. “I’m parched. Manual labour and careful driving does that to me.” She winks at Alfred and goes on, “I have Coke in the fridge if you want some.”
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“If you weren’t doing something stupid, I would be worried,” Emma replies, grinning. “Feel free to be nosy! I can tell you want to be.”
She flicks a mounted light-switches before walking to the stairs. The switch sets off the bulb in the attic and Alfred stares up to find the darkness above him illuminated; he sees the outlines of cardboard storage boxes and can’t contain his urge to pry, leaping onto the ladder’s second rung, Arthur jumping around excitedly in his coat pocket.
“This has gotta be quick,” Alfred says, flopping onto the attic’s floor as he takes Arthur out into the open. “We hafta find the doll before Emma gets back, okay?”
First the toy soldier jumps up, and then it’s Arthur sitting up, running a hand through his obstinate hair. Alfred is overjoyed to finally see him after a whole morning of not being able to, but his joy is crushed when Arthur snaps coldly, “Don’t patronise me, Sir; my battalion and I are used to stealth missions.”
Emma’s attic is a treasure trove of Styrofoam packaging and discarded objects, heaped up high in boxes or just piles. Arthur crawls over towards the back of the room, skilfully navigating his way through the cardboard maze without another word.
Alfred can’t help but feel like Arthur’s trying to get as far away from him as possible. He also can’t help asking, dejected, “Are you mad at me?”
“You tell me,” Arthur’s voice calls back, from behind an unreasonably unbalanced stack of boxes.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Alfred says, following after Arthur with shaky steps. “Why are you mad at me?”
“Various reasons,” Arthur says, when Alfred stands over him. He’s decided to rip apart one box in particular, plunging his hands past scarves and socks within. “Firstly, because you’ve been jiggling me around all morning by moving too much and now I feel seasick. Secondly, because it smells like mothballs in your pocket and that’s not a pleasing scent whatsoever. Thirdly, you told that tasty Dutchwoman I was looking for my wife.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I thought you were,” Alfred answers, bunching up the hem of his shirt in a gesture of discomfort. “Anyway, Emma’s not Dut-”
“She’s my fiancée,” Arthur interrupts, delving into an assortment of Christmas decorations in a strangely violent manner. “I don’t remember a wedding, I just remember leaving her. Or... or... what if she doesn’t want to see me again, or what if I don’t want to see her again and - fuck it, Alfred, I don’t even remember her name.” He pauses. “And now you’ve definitely ruled out any chance of me copping off with your housekeeper.”
“I don’t know what that even means!” Alfred cries.
Arthur doesn’t look up, starting on a fresh box after repositioning the others. “Shut up and start looking, brat.”
Alfred ignores the order. “You can’t do anything if you just give up like that so quick, Arthur - with either Emma or that ragdoll.”
There’s only silence. It’s weighted and suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred says, in order to break it, though he isn’t sure what he’s apologising for. He doesn’t care about people being angry towards him - such is the likely case with Antonio and Gilbert and Francis - but his stomach feels uncomfortably light at the thought of Arthur turning against him, too. “I don’t wanna fight with you.”
The pause drags for a few seconds more, and then Arthur finally tilts back his head, and he’s just about to say something when-
“Alfred!” Emma’s voice trills. “Alfred, are you alright?”
It’s not the voice he wanted to hear. Alfred affrights while Arthur immediately swaps to his other form, leaving his liege to deal with the mess left behind - and it’s a considerable mess. Alfred tries, and fails, to create an excuse for causing so much storage-box destruction, his panic intensifying as Emma’s footsteps draw closer.
“Alfred...?”
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“Do you like tinsel, then?” she asks while stepping neatly over the clutter to cross the floor. “I don’t. It makes me sneeze, but Elizaveta is very insistent that I keep some around.”
Alfred follows behind without speaking, wrapping his arms tightly around the bottle in lieu of Arthur. He thinks he’s just about to cry, and then something soft and musky-smelling is thrust towards his already-occupied hands.
“Here,” Emma says. “I can’t believe you didn’t spot her! She is the first thing I see every time I come in here.” She laughs. “This attic is her queendom.”
“This is her?” Alfred asks, setting down the bottle to seize the ragdoll he’s being offered. “This is your doll that says it was a princess?”
“Yes,” Emma replies, speech accompanied by a solemn nod. “Isn’t she lovely?”
Alfred barely hears his caretaker, already lost in examining the doll, eyes roaming over every inch of it. The face is flat, with only a raised panel for a nose, the eyes and mouth sewed - but it is a nice mouth, red and rosy, and the eyes still have a quality to them that makes them seem alive, like Arthur’s greens. The doll’s hair is buoyant, coloured brown, and the hands and feet are gently curved nubs at the end of her limbs.
It isn’t the most impressive ragdoll in creation, but Alfred can definitely see why a toy soldier like Arthur might fall for it.
“What do you think?”
Alfred raises his head to see Emma staring expectantly, lips curved into her usual smile. He meets her gaze and holds it, thinking of how to reply.
In the end, he settles on, “Do you have any ice?”
The curve of Emma’s smile turns into a flat-line. “Excuse me?”
“For the Coke,” Alfred says, nudging the bottle with his foot. “I don’t like it otherwise.”
Emma blinks rapidly with disbelief, unaware that Alfred is only trying to get her to leave the attic again for a few minutes. He wants to bring the ragdoll to Arthur and hear Arthur’s verdict - maybe, if this is the right princess, Arthur will talk to Alfred again without sounding so harsh.
“I do, yes,” Emma says, halfway between sighing and laughing. “I will be back shortly, I suppose...”
Casting a look of bewilderment at the boy, she hops to the ladder and disappears through the hatch. Once Alfred is sure she’s not going to be poking her head up again anytime soon, he runs to the box pile he left Arthur behind, almost tripping on his own feet in the process.
“Well?” Arthur is saying, his breathing heavy, sitting up again while ruffling his hair absent-mindedly. It seems to be his nervous tic. “Well, show me her, then!”
Alfred crashes to his knees and thrusts the doll out into Arthur’s face, celebrating internally when Arthur takes it from him with shaking hands. He watches Arthur’s expression closely, searching for any trace of recognition, and Arthur turns the doll over and over, scrutinising.
All according to plan.
Next, there will be a grand transformation, and there will be a woman with beauty and brains and everything else in between, a figure worthy of Arthur’s temperamental affections. Perhaps she’s British, perhaps she’s something else. The meeting of the two will be something to behold; Alfred can see it in his mind’s eye as Arthur prods the ragdoll’s raised little nose.
But it doesn’t go according to plan.
There should be more in Arthur’s eyes than just confusion, there should be more to Arthur’s mien than just austere anger. These aren’t the reactions Alfred imagined - he was supposed to be a hero, reuniting two long-parted lovers, but Arthur doesn’t seem to recognise the ragdoll at all. This should be a joyful reunion.
After what seems like an eternity, Arthur roughly passes the doll back to Alfred, announcing, “That’s not her.”
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“That’s just a fucking doll, Alfred! It’s not like me at all. It’s never been alive.” He lets out an inhuman, shrieking sort of noise, thumping his fist against the wall, and the outburst scares Alfred into shuffling away. “That’s just a fucking doll.”
Alfred’s lip quivers. “But Emma said-”
“I don’t flaming care what Emma said!” Arthur cuts in. “I can’t believe you, I... Why promise me something that wouldn’t come true?!”
“I didn’t think-”
“You never do!”
Arthur’s fury is close to burning and Alfred supposes he should feel guilty, perhaps, or like a failure. But he doesn’t. Though this was supposed to be a reunion and Alfred was supposed to be the heroic crusader, rekindling a decades-old relationship... Alfred finds himself thinking he prefers Arthur if Arthur isn’t with anyone.
Because Arthur is Alfred’s soldier, Alfred’s friend. Not the friend and soldier of some useless ‘princess’.
“Alf-reeed,” a feminine voice calls, diffusing the row before it can implode. Arthur fades to a figurine before Emma appears, but this time Alfred is quite happy to be alone.
Experiencing vexation he’s never felt before, Alfred crosses his legs and folds his arms, seconds away from a tantrum. He glares at the ragdoll, and it’s only now that he sees nothing more than cheap fabric, rope-hair and threaded-eyes, a dress fit for a pauper and not a royal. What was he thinking?
“On second thoughts,” Emma’s saying, from somewhere nearby, “there is no ice. I couldn’t find any, I apologise.” Then she’s laughing as she goes on, “You have a real obsession with my Christmas decoration boxes, don’t you? Why do you keep sitting here?”
Alfred’s eyes stay directed at the floor, so he only sees the toes of Emma’s shoes come into view. She must notice his distress because she doesn’t say anything, waiting for Alfred to open up to her - he’s glad of that, because he’s not too sure what he has to say to her anymore.
“Hey, Emma?”
Her reply is quick, soft. “Yes?”
“Was she ever really a princess?” Alfred asks, pointing at the ragdoll.
Emma kneels down, reaching out to tilt up Alfred’s chin. He considers resisting but doesn’t, wishing to hear whatever it is that Emma has to say.
“She was a princess to me. In my head.” She points at her temple. “And she was a very important, successful woman, because that was who I wanted to be. In your head, anything is possible. It’s all fun. Just your imagination, right?”
Alfred watches in hush as Emma lifts Arthur from the floor, showing him to Alfred as though it’s something new.
“It’s natural to make-believe. Don’t be embarrassed about it. It’s just like how, in your head, this is a real-life soldier and not just a toy.”
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There’s no other explanation for why their library bookcases would be so damn tall. There is no other logical explanation, anyway, because the bookcases’ top shelves are literally impossible to reach, unless the person trying to reach them happens to be a giant.
Bonnefoy stares despondently up at the distant top ledge, his gaze fixed on one anthology in particular. It’s a collection of children’s stories, made from numerous yellowing pages containing fairy tales and folklore. Not the sort of literature he usually takes interest in, but there is one story in particular within the book that he really wants to read.
The butler can remember young Alfred being offered the hardback in question a few times, and the short story Bonnefoy wants to read is one he remembers reading when he was just a knee-high boy himself. It depressed him greatly at the time; The Steadfast Tin Soldier. It would be nice to read it again, and it’s not like he’s actually going to do any work today; he’s wasted the morning already and he fully intends to waste the afternoon, too.
The Steadfast Tin Soldier tells the story of an enchanted metal figurine, one that falls in love with a ballerina made of paper. They face many trials and tribulations in their romance; the soldier only has one leg, and the pair of them end up being thrown into a gutter at one point, and they are maimed by rats and fish. In the end, the steadfast tin soldier and his ballerina love die in a fire, the soldier melting into the shape of a valentine heart.
Bonnefoy thinks that Arthur, being the sick bastard he is, would have found the story hilariously funny, under different circumstances.
But this is no time to think about Arthur. There is a mountain to climb, Bonnefoy’s very own Everest, and he intends to conquer it like Napoleon conquered Egypt. Hopefully, however, there will be not be a Waterloo anytime soon, because Bonnefoy really wants that book.
He flexes his fingers and tilts his head, preparing himself for climbing. He’s never been fond of heights and climbing - back when he was but a child, growing up in the agricultural regions of Île-de-France, he hated having to climb trees with his friends and often found himself stuck upon various branches, frozen in terror.
It would be unseemly, not to mention mortifying, for him to now end up clinging with fear to a bookcase.
Taking measures to avoid knocking any of the books over, Bonnefoy places one foot on the bottom shelf and hooks his hands onto a shelf above. He begins easing his way up the case’s front, using the shelves like steps, a makeshift staircase leading him straight to his old, dusty prize.
This isn’t so difficult, he muses as he hauls himself further. But he shouldn’t push his luck. Determined, he outstretches his arm and reaches as far as he can, fingertips just brushing against the spine of the fairytale collection. A few millimetres more, and he’ll have the tome in his grasp, and he’ll be able to clamber down again-
It is in this moment precisely that, from somewhere within the manor, someone decides to turn their radio on at full volume.
Waterloo.
Granted, the radio is quickly turned off again, but for all of ten seconds Mozart’s Requiem shakes the house to its rafters. Even though it’s a brief burst of simulated orchestra, it’s still enough to make Bonnefoy cry out and fall down in shock, bringing a great deal of the books with him. He doesn’t know what’s happened until he’s lain on the floor, a sharp pain ringing through his spine, head throbbing from impact.
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His eyes widen with delight when he sees the object lain on the floor, right beside his head.
There, miraculously dislodged during Bonnefoy’s tumble, is the copy of Fairy Tales Told for Children. The title is cringe-worthy considering how old Bonnefoy technically is, but he doesn’t care - all he cares about is whiling away the hours, and in his learned opinion, ironic entertainment is the best way for him to do so.
He grins. When he’s finished reading, maybe he should put the book down on Alfred’s pillow. He’ll leave it open on the page where the tin soldier dies. Not for Alfred to read, of course, because that would be too cruel - but for Arthur.
Revenge is sweet, but nobody ever said it can’t be petty.It must have been the dust, Alfred decides, as he stretches out over the living room sofa. Dust is his number one enemy, clearly; it’s the only reason he started crying after Emma’s statements back in her attic. It was hay-fever that made him cry, allergies and nothing else.
Though, for whatever reason, he still feels like crying now, even though he’s back in his father’s apartment.
He is aware of his parents chattering mindlessly around him - his head rests in his mother’s lap and his dad has taken up residence in the adjacent armchair, as usual. There’s an action film playing on TV, but no amount of explosions can attract Alfred’s attention away from the ceiling for too long. His parents are half-heartedly discussing the film, but the volume’s been drastically turned down and it’s difficult for Alfred to figure out what’s going on, so he doesn’t know how his parents can be sure about their inane theories.
Though it doesn’t matter to him what his parents do, because outside, the sun is setting.
Emma has gone home for the night and Arthur is sulking upstairs; Alfred feels hopelessly lonely and it’s enough to turn his stomach. His mother’s fingers card through his hair in an attempt to be soothing, but it’s of little comfort.
If the dwindling amount of light sneaking in from outside is anything to go by, it will be Alfred’s bedtime soon. He fears that, when he goes upstairs, Arthur won’t be waiting for him like normal, and he’s consequently dreading being sent to sleep - but he can’t make himself think about anything else.
Sighing, Alfred glances at the television screen, only to catch the very start of the advert break. He lets out another exhale, this time one of annoyance, before squirming away from his mother’s touch to sit up next to her.
“Ah, Alfred,” she breathes, as though seeing him move is some grand revelation. “You’re finally awake!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Alfred mutters, but he’s drowned out when his father speaks over him.
“If you’re tired, you should go to bed, kid.”
To Alfred, that sounds like the worst possible thing he could do, but he has to stay calm. He kicks out his legs unenthusiastically, mumbling, “Don’t wanna.”
“Why not?” his father asks, adjusting his glasses. They’re too big for him and they make Alfred cringe; if that’s the sort of glasses he’ll get on Monday for himself, he’ll never live it down. “Don’t you like your new room?”
Alfred frowns. “No, I’m just not tired. Whaddya mean by ‘new room’?”
Before his father can say anything, his mother interrupts, smugly replying, “It’s been redecorated, as you know. But it’ll be renovated entirely within a few weeks - we’ve hired the state’s best interior designers to give this place some life. Great news, right? It’ll be less like a living space and more like a home by the time you move in again, dear.”
“I didn’t notice,” Alfred begins, but his mother’s declaration hits him halfway through his sentence. “Wait, what? Moving in where?”
Initially his mother gives him only a blank stare, before turning to his father and stating in a questioning tone, “Kevin?”
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Unwilling to do anything of the sort, Alfred’s mother sucks in air through her teeth. “How could you not tell him?”
“I wanted to do it tomorrow! Give me a break!”
“So he doesn’t even know?!”
Desperate to avert an argument, Alfred raises a hand and clasps his mother’s shoulder. “Know about what? Tell me!”
There is a severe gap of painful silence, overstaying its welcome by far. Alfred’s parents stare at each other and Alfred can’t work out if that’s a step in the right direction or a marathon in the wrong one, so he waits impatiently, sinking back into the couch cushions.
“We were thinkin’,” Kevin says eventually, “and we decided that, now you’re getting older, it would be better for you to attend school and get used to life here. Rather than living in the middle of nowhere with my folks.”
Alfred’s mother smiles down at him, although it’s a humourless smile. “Don’t you think that would be nice? To live here full-time? Your father and I will be able to look after you if we take leave from work, and you’re very close with Emma...”
It’s right about then that Alfred stops listening.
If he hadn’t felt sick before, he certainly does now.
Gosh darn you, character limits.
Quick chapter of quickness is quick, so it hasn’t been edited or whatnot... /embarrassed/ If there are glaring errors, feel free to attack me verbally orz. Also, Alfred’s parents are Monaco and Molossia. Just ‘cause.
Oh, and happy St George’s Day, everyone! :D At least, it is where I am, ha. Timezones to the rescue~
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And Monaco and Molossia as Alfred's parents? Yes, brilliant choice. If you didn't have my eternal love before you have it now.
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I used to cry so much with the Steadfast Tin Soldier! Children stories can be so terrible D: I kind of love Bonnefoy here. I can see France in him and that's great in an AU, where warping characters to fit the story is so common and so tempting. Loved Gilbert, too.
Arthur's explosion was perfect. He's frustrated and angry and I can't imagine how terrible he feels. I also liked how Alfred wanted to help him, but deep inside he prefers to have Arthur all by himself. That's very IC with America, who is attention seeking and a bit selfish while still being good-hearted and wanting to help people. It's also nice how you are developing his feelings towards Arthur: it wouldn't be IC (or logical, age-wise) to have him fall in love right now, though I can see his attachemente changing with time.
The mistery around Arthur, Bonnefoy and Harold is still intriguing and I can't stop imagining theories.
All in all, in a time when fandom is making me a bit sad, your story is a beacon of happiness and amasement.
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