[APH; one-shot] And it will Carry you Over.
[APH] and it will carry you over.
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia.
Word Count: 1,402.
Characters/Pairings: Alfred-centric. You can take it as AlfredArthur, but I personally think it comes off as more of a parental feeling.
Notes: I wrote this for my friend Whitney because she is wonderful and I love her. <3 I hope she likes this.
This story actually comes from this idea: "(In the grand scheme of things, a moment like that shouldn't matter.)" Not sure how well this is represented here, and I'm actually really unsure about this whole story. I think it starts strong, but then kind of … goes off? Maybe that's just me being super critical .. augh. Also not sure if this is more like romantic love or parental love… when I started, it was meant to be the former, but I think it's sort of become very platonic.
Summary: In which Alfred is sick and can't stop himself from dreaming.
And it will Carry you Over.
Alfred was currently lying in bed, wrapped up in a warm blanket he didn't remember he even owned and he felt like crap. Tony the alien stood over him suddenly, holding a thermometer in his fingers. Without a word, Alfred complied and opened his mouth, and his throat shifting, sending a wave of pain down his body that made tears jump to his eyes.
Screw being sick, he grumbled to himself, closing his mouth around the momentarily cool object and waiting for it to ding, I think I'm gonna die.
He tried to motivate himself to get better and jump out of the bed like the superhero he was, instantly cured, and he would go save some beautiful woman about to be crushed by Godzilla or Ivan or something equally huge and terrifying, and fly away with her giving him a hero's kiss-'Cause hero deserves a happy ending, and not a cold, he thought grumpily to himself, as Tony removed the thermometer from his mouth.
Judging from how Tony didn't just throw the covers off the shivering man and instead threw another one on top of him, Alfred concluded hazily that he must really have been sick. The alien didn't show mercy for nothing. He would have said 'thanks', but his voice was probably so scratchy that he'd sound like a cat going into labor, anyways. So he opted for a small cough, and turning onto his side, closing his eyes.
God, everything hurt. What was this? He didn't usually get sick, but suddenly there was snow everywhere, and there was, like, three flipping feet in Virginia which only ever got a few inches or something pathetic like that a year, and he didn't like it and suddenly whoop-dee-flipping-doo what do you know he was down faster than Superman faced with Kryptonite.
But he was tired, so even though everything was aching, he found himself getting drowsy and he drifted off into sleep without much trouble.
As he dreamed, suddenly he was a kid again, small and looking up at someone who was smiling lovingly, something like a father (Arthur, Alfred thought in his sleep), and he smiled and everything was okay and their hand was so big, holding his protectively, and they were reading stories together, taking walks, playing, he was being bopped on the head and they apologized when he started crying, told him to behave better.
Then he was running after them, sobbing, saying he didn't want him to go, he didn't want to be alone, and they were still for a moment before suddenly striking him and then gathering him into their arms and they cried, oh how they cried. Alfred slept for hours and remembered.
Child Alfred, coughing weakly in bed, sick before he had even truly become a nation, pathetic and shaky. The elder man was fretting, running around in a panic, trying to figure out how to cure whatever it was the young boy had caught. But it wasn't the worry that Alfred really remembered: it was one moment through the drowsy, painful mist that stuck out clearly, just the way Arthur would continually press his hand against Alfred's forehead, wiping away the sweaty hair with a cool palm, dry and soothing, and how he would murmur his name and that it would be alright.
Child Alfred, smiling at the ocean and pointing at the horizon excitedly, and the feel of Arthur's laugh against the wind, the way the normally serious man's smile lit up his face and his eyes glowed from beneath his eyebrows and bushy hair, and how he would ruffle Alfred's hair.
Child Alfred, clutching his teddy bear at night, curled into a ball and nestled into Arthur's arms, while it thundered outside and the boy tried not to tremble. Arthur hummed deep in his chest, a gentle thrumming under Alfred's ear that lulled the boy to sleep despite the roaring of the weather outside.
When Alfred (teenaged Alfred, the-almost-a-real-adult Alfred, not the child Alfred) finally woke to clarity, the sun was only just beginning to settle into place at the peak of the sky. In the moments before stirring, he thought he could still feel the hand on his head, but he was alone in his room. Struggling to sit up under the blankets, he managed to push himself up enough to at least lean up against the pillows. He was sweaty and flushed, but his throat didn't hurt and his head wasn't throbbing, nor was it congested anymore. Looking around blearily, he tried to remember where his glasses had gone, but he was still groggy and disoriented. After a minute, though, Tony entered the room and saw Alfred blinking in confusion and quickly slid the glasses into Alfred's hand.
"Thanks," he said hoarsely, trying to grin (although he wasn't sure it looked entirely like it should). Tony seemed to acknowledge the thanks, and pulled the covers off him a bit more, holding out a hand for the blonde man, which he took and attempted to use to stand. Pushing himself onto his legs, he felt his knees almost buckle from being still for however long he had been asleep. Tony steadied him, then nudged him towards the bathroom. Alfred laughed, a raspy sound, and managed his way over to the door, pulling it open.
It was odd, the nation thought, that he would dream so much of Arthur just because he had been sick. Certainly, the other nation had taken good care of him all those years Alfred had been there; even if he could sometimes be too serious, the older man had doted on Alfred and treated him incredibly kindly, almost spoiling him. So, Alfred mused, letting the hot water soothe his shoulder muscles, which had grown incredibly stiff while he had been lying down, Maybe I was just missing my dad. That's pretty normal. I guess.
Normal people did it all the time, think about their parents and precious people. Maybe Alfred only found it odd because he was usually thinking about his country and all the issues he was struggling to deal with; he had been weaker lately, more on edge, so he hadn't even had time to speak with too many people besides Canada (who had apparently come over to check on him several times; he really did have a good little brother, Alfred reflected), and Russia (that bastard), Iraq, Afghanistan… Well, more than that, probably, but those were the only people he could really remember at the moment.
Drying off his hair as he sat on his bed, Alfred felt a lot better. He was still a bit shaky, but he was pretty sure that would wear off with some cold medicine and food-specifically breakfast, which he could smell cooking downstairs, courtesy of Tony. Alfred managed his normal grin and pulled on his shirt and pants, heading downstairs.
As he ate, he wondered what was going on in the White House right now and if everything was okay (they were probably missing him terribly, he thought to himself cheerfully), and listened to himself munching on toast. Going to the door and pulling on his boots, he wandered back to his dreams and wondered if he still had that old bear.
"Probably somewhere in storage…" he mumbled, finally managing to get both shoes on and standing up. His hand lingered over his jacket before picking it up so he could leave. The dreams fell through one more time, ran through the projector and then flickered away, leaving only the feedback, the soft buzz of white noise. His mouth quirked down uncharacteristically, as a frown flashed over his face.
He finally realized that none of those memories really ever meant much at all, because life kept going; nothing had waited while those moments replayed themselves over in his delirious dreams.
They really probably weren't important, he mused to himself as he yanked on his jacket. They didn't mean anything. They were just moments him and Arthur had been close, moments where Arthur had been a father; someone special that Alfred couldn't help but continue to hold dear (even though he'd never say it).
None of them meant a thing now. There wasn't any meaning behind them, nothing came from them to benefit either him or Arthur.
(And that is, what he thinks, exactly what makes them so damn special.)
end.