The Queen's English (part 1a)
anonymous
July 14 2009, 17:01:04 UTC
It was by sheer good luck that Arthur found the blog. He wasn't really one for sci-fi, though he took pride in the fact that his people had produced some excellent things, things that America and Canada gushed over. He liked hearing them tell him how brilliant he was, he liked that they would display knowledge of his lands and his people based on the shows, but personally, he, Arthur Kirkland, preferred the classics.
Yes, well, and fantasy. He tried to tell himself that he bought those books for the fairies, and those other books, the ones about the little wizard-boy, just to see what the fuss was about. But in any case, he had wandered over to this sci-fi blog, this i09, and there had been an article about movie voice-overs that looked interesting. Then he had found a section that made his impressive eyebrows climb.
"Brie to the frontal cortex, is it?" he murmured to himself, watching every one of the video clips provided. "We shall see, now won't we?"
***
At the next World Meeting, Arthur waited until the lunch-break, when everyone wandered out for food, or sunshine, or to stretch their legs. He knew where Alfred was going - a straight line to the nearest burger place, which he'd made a point of locating this morning - so that he could plot an ambush. He didn't want the others around, in case it failed...
But he was sure it wouldn't.
"Alfred," he called, in a level tone, as he saw his wayward colony stride by on his way to burger-heaven. Alfred checked, glanced over at Arthur curiously. He rarely called America by his human name anymore.
"What is it, England?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. "Didn't you yell at me enough at the meeting?"
Arthur kept his facial expression mild. "I haven't yelled at you today, Alfred," he replied quietly.
Alfred snorted. "Of course you have," he retorted. "You always do, and today you..." He paused. "Oh. Wait." Arthur did wait, though inside he was wondering if that was all Alfred expected from him now.
"I - I guess you didn't," Alfred admitted, a little grudgingly but readily enough. "Sorry. Just - heh - just used to it by now." He scratched the back of his head and grinned. Arthur said nothing back, but something inside him hurt a little at Alfred's words.
"I want to talk to you about scheduling a joint commemoration of D-Day next year, the two of us." And Canada, but that wasn't the point. After the debacle with France, the glory-hogging pig-frog, England really wanted to make sure America remembered who had been at the forefront of the European theatre. But that was secondary, at the moment, to the goal of just talking to America.
He deliberately modulated his accent, posh but not too posh, voice level and soothing and - creamy, had that writer called it? The writer was one of Alfred's. He wondered if that was the way Alfred consciously thought of his voice. Alfred's first few irreverent comments were greeted not by the yelling and angry words that Arthur usually would have used, but only a small smile, and a reply in a quiet, unharrassed voice, long and rambling and thorough.
And Arthur talked, and talked, and realized that Alfred was interrupting less and less. He wandered off topic, wandered back, began to talk about Hastings, then Crecy, related them to D-day, made a quiet joke about how his Boss had called it Obama Beach.
He snuck a look at Alfred. The taller Nation was standing rather still now, unusual for someone of such hyperactive energy, and - just - just _gazing_ at Arthur, his entire focus on the older Nation and what he was saying. His eyes were edging towards half-lidded, and - Arthur checked - yes, those blue eyes were definitely glazing over, but not in the way that meant America's ADD-ish attention span was wandering...he remembered the look on little Alfred's face when he was studying the skies, the same intense/dreamy look Arthur gave the seas.
Yes, well, and fantasy. He tried to tell himself that he bought those books for the fairies, and those other books, the ones about the little wizard-boy, just to see what the fuss was about. But in any case, he had wandered over to this sci-fi blog, this i09, and there had been an article about movie voice-overs that looked interesting. Then he had found a section that made his impressive eyebrows climb.
"Brie to the frontal cortex, is it?" he murmured to himself, watching every one of the video clips provided. "We shall see, now won't we?"
***
At the next World Meeting, Arthur waited until the lunch-break, when everyone wandered out for food, or sunshine, or to stretch their legs. He knew where Alfred was going - a straight line to the nearest burger place, which he'd made a point of locating this morning - so that he could plot an ambush. He didn't want the others around, in case it failed...
But he was sure it wouldn't.
"Alfred," he called, in a level tone, as he saw his wayward colony stride by on his way to burger-heaven. Alfred checked, glanced over at Arthur curiously. He rarely called America by his human name anymore.
"What is it, England?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. "Didn't you yell at me enough at the meeting?"
Arthur kept his facial expression mild. "I haven't yelled at you today, Alfred," he replied quietly.
Alfred snorted. "Of course you have," he retorted. "You always do, and today you..." He paused. "Oh. Wait." Arthur did wait, though inside he was wondering if that was all Alfred expected from him now.
"I - I guess you didn't," Alfred admitted, a little grudgingly but readily enough. "Sorry. Just - heh - just used to it by now." He scratched the back of his head and grinned. Arthur said nothing back, but something inside him hurt a little at Alfred's words.
"I want to talk to you about scheduling a joint commemoration of D-Day next year, the two of us." And Canada, but that wasn't the point. After the debacle with France, the glory-hogging pig-frog, England really wanted to make sure America remembered who had been at the forefront of the European theatre. But that was secondary, at the moment, to the goal of just talking to America.
He deliberately modulated his accent, posh but not too posh, voice level and soothing and - creamy, had that writer called it? The writer was one of Alfred's. He wondered if that was the way Alfred consciously thought of his voice. Alfred's first few irreverent comments were greeted not by the yelling and angry words that Arthur usually would have used, but only a small smile, and a reply in a quiet, unharrassed voice, long and rambling and thorough.
And Arthur talked, and talked, and realized that Alfred was interrupting less and less. He wandered off topic, wandered back, began to talk about Hastings, then Crecy, related them to D-day, made a quiet joke about how his Boss had called it Obama Beach.
He snuck a look at Alfred. The taller Nation was standing rather still now, unusual for someone of such hyperactive energy, and - just - just _gazing_ at Arthur, his entire focus on the older Nation and what he was saying. His eyes were edging towards half-lidded, and - Arthur checked - yes, those blue eyes were definitely glazing over, but not in the way that meant America's ADD-ish attention span was wandering...he remembered the look on little Alfred's face when he was studying the skies, the same intense/dreamy look Arthur gave the seas.
He fought back the urge to smirk.
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