Phoenix Hour
When Alfred wakes up feeling as tired, if not more, as when he went to bed the previous night, his first reaction is bewilderment. When his attempt at rising ends with a painful meeting between the back of his head and the headboard as he suddenly finds himself incapable of supporting his own weight, the confusion is replaced with sudden alarm.
With an effort, he struggles into a sitting position, gripping the adjacent bed-lamp for much-needed support. The room swims before his eyes for a moment before his head clears, and even then he just wants to lie back down because he’s feeling so very drained.
’Okay, backtrack, backtrack…what the hell was I up to yesterday?’ England. England was suspicious. Doubly so if alcohol somehow figured into the picture. But, no, wait, that was impossible. Arthur was currently…
Oh. Oh.
“Shit…” He half-groans, half-sighs. “So…that time again, huh? That’s what you’re tellin’ me?” He pats his stomach, and then almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the scene. “Alrighty, then....”
He stands up, congratulating himself when he doesn’t immediately throw up on the nice, and probably expensive, carpet. Probably got it from Turkey or someone and anyway it doesn’t matter because he really needs to make some phone-calls and hell if he knows how much time he has.
“C’mon, work with me, here,” he implores his uncooperative body, for once thankful for the fact that they insist on him having a phone in his bedroom. For emergencies, they’d said. Well, this ought to qualify as one.
“Hello?” he croaks into the receiver once he’s dragged his body across the room and painstakingly dialed one of the few numbers he’s bothered to learn by heart. “Yeah, it’s me. ’Course it’s me. Who else could it be besides me?” The person on the other ends says something. “That was a one-time occurrence. He just happened to be in my room, okay? And didn’t you promise not to bring that up ag…” his attempt at laughing ends up a racking cough, and suddenly there’s real concern on the other end.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay. Or, actually, no, that’s sorta a lie. Hey, listen….it’s um…” And he explains what’s happening, keeping his tone light and cheery. Like nothing’s wrong.
Dead silence greets the news at first, followed by cautious inquiries about what should and could be done about it. Alfred smiles and says, uncharacteristically subdued, “Not much” and after that’s been established beyond doubt, they plan for the coming years.
The other expresses his hopes that it’ll only be around five, perhaps six years. America almost laughs at the rampant optimism and says that, no, it’ll be at least twelve years, possibly more, before things can return to normal.
“Don’t worry,” he says and tries to put some of his usual vigor into it, thinking it might sound reassuring. “If I’m feeling it, that means a lot of the other guys are too. Yeah, it’s convenient like that.”
He really needs to sit down. The carpet is plenty comfortable, and he hopes he thanked Turkey properly for it. If it was from Turkey. He really can’t recall at the moment…
“What?” he mumbles. “Yeah, still here. Sorry. Anyway. Things ought to be calm for at least a couple of years. Make the most of them. Go on a…a vacation or something. You totally need it.” He smiles. “Maybe next time, I will. Yeah. Yeah, I will. Stay gold, man. I’ll be back before you know it.”
The receiver drops to the floor. America looks at his hand, a bit bemused. No strength in it at all. And to think, just yesterday he’d towed…what had he towed? Something…sleek. Black. Heavy, in any case. Possibly Canadian. He could ask Matthew about it tomorrow. Yeah, that sounded good. Hadn’t seen him in awhile…they could grab some chow downtown and then…
And then…
*****
Oliver Thompson is and has always been a bit of a puzzle to his parents. He seems to have inherited neither of his parents’ looks, for one, although his mother rather desperately compares his green eyes with those of his late grandmother.
But she is hard pressed to find an explanation for his intimidating eyebrows which are unlike anything she can find in either her or her husband’s family-trees. The other children in the neighborhood scornfully refer to them and him as “bushes” behind his back, and sometimes to his face.
They dare not do much more to him, as he has such a frightful temper that gives even the larger boys pause and discourages them from further provocations. But they do not include him in their games. He seems not to mind his solitude, but both of his parents have, on occasion, observed him talking to nothing but air. When gently questioned, he gives them odd looks and says that he’s talking to his friends.
His father suggests psychiatric help. His mother worries that it will do little for their son’s reputation and opposes the idea. In the ensuing argument, little Oliver walks in and asks them to be quiet, because, well…
They’re scaring the fairies.
They argue about it some more, but Oliver’s mother’s resolve has now been shaken, and the issue is eventually settled. Oliver is sent to bed, and his father picks up and leafs through the telephone directory, jotting down numbers and names with an air of purpose and accomplishment.
A step has been taken. He’s confident that his son can and will be set on the proper path with the right kind of guidance.
He continues to believe this until the following morning, when Oliver opens his eyes and realizes his name isn’t Oliver at all.
*****
The first thing that flashes through Feliciano’s mind when he wakes up is ‘Oh no…and I really wanted to go to the carnevale…”.
He can’t, of course. Not now. Or maybe he could? Just one more day, would it hurt? But no, that would be cruel. Feliciano does not wish to be cruel.
But he will have to be. And so he sighs, miserably, and remains in bed to wait. He does not have to wait long: he can hear them now, tittle-tattling in the stairs. There’s some muffled giggling which is quickly silenced by a hasty ssh! and a whispered “quiet!”.
Someone is fiddling with a lighter. Click-click-click.
Then the singing starts.
“Tanti auguri a te! Tanti auguri a te!” Their voices are clear and full of mirthful laughter and it doesn’t matter that it’s a simple song because it’s still very pretty.
Feliciano buries his face in his pillow, wanting to shut it out, but not meeting with much success. He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open, and his family files in; doesn’t want to look at their happy faces.
“Tanti auguri, Andrea!” He flinches at the name. “Tanti auguri a te!” There’s a gentle weight settling on his bed, and Feliciano looks up when a hand softly brushes his hair.
His mother, his kind and joyful and beautiful, beautiful mother, smiles lovingly at him.
“Buon compleanno, il mio tesoro,” she coos at him. “Make a wish.”
Feliciano wobbly smiles back through his tears.
*****
He’s awake when she enters his bedroom, eyes firmly fixated on the ceiling. For a long time, she merely stands in the doorway, sharply silhouetted against the light spilling in from the hallway.
Staring at him.
“You are awake,” she says at length, and he tilts his head so that he can meet her eyes. Her face is blank, betraying none of the emotions that he knows swirls under the surface.
He wonders idly if he, too, appears that way to her. Or perhaps she sees someone else entirely.
“Yes,” he confirms softly. “I am awake.”
“I hoped you’d be asleep.” She enters the room, makes no sound when she steps on one of his haphazardly discarded toys by mistake.
“I apologize.” She nods, once, before climbing into his bed and straddling him. He raises no objections, even though her weight is a burden on his body which is still so very small.
“You are not my son…” She mumbles under her breath, monotonously. “You are not Takeshi.” She is trembling, a crack in her mask. She leans over him, her face hovering above his, and he feels how a lone tear drips unto his cheek.
“No,” he agrees, gently. “I am not. Not as you knew him.” Kiku Honda raises his hand to place it over her cheek. Her eyes close and she draws a shaky breath, her free hand cradling his in an almost desperate manner.
“You have been a kind and attentive mother,” Kiku tells her, and he means every word. “I am sorry to have caused you pain.”
She nods, slowly, as her tears catch the light and glint. In her hand, the blade of her knife seems to flash in response.
*****
The streets of Putnok had never been what one would call “bustling with activity” during the nighttime. Particularly not on a work-night like this one. Nevertheless, Elizaveta thinks that the current stillness borders on unnatural in its enveloping totality. The only sound that can be heard is the patterning of their shoes against the pavement and the ragged breathing of her father as he drags her down the street, at times punctuated by incoherent mumbling.
“I won’t allow it…it’s pure lunacy!” he rambles as they turn around a corner and down another alley. “Madness! They’re mad! You’re my daughter! Not some…you’re not…” he breaks off, unable to say it out loud.
No doubt he finds the concept too alien to completely comprehend.
“Father…” She desperately wants to offer him some comfort, to soothe his agitation. But she realizes her mistake when that one word immediately brings him to an abrupt halt.
“Don’t call me that!” The words are hissed through clenched teeth, eyes filled with a stark and wild fury boring into hers. “Call me dad! Daddy! Nóra never calls me father!”
“Dad…” she amends, unperturbed by his rage. “I’m sorry.” She truly is. If she ever had had a choice, she would never have put him through this. Put any of her many parents through this. “But it won’t work. I can’t run.” How could she? “I’m not Nó…”
“Be quiet!” A window above them clicks open, but her father simply drags her on with the inquiring shouts of whoever it was fading behind them. “Don’t ever say that!” Elizaveta says nothing. “We’ll go to Budapest. By train. Stay at Balázs’ place for awhile…”
The plan seems to instill him with some small amount of confidence, and his hand, damp with cold sweat as it is, gives her a reassuring squeeze. Elizaveta, for her part, simply sighs softly and resolves to stay with her father for as long as she possibly can. She knows she will have to leave him eventually, whether they’re caught or not. It’s her duty.
It’s her fate, if there is such a thing. To fight it is unthinkable, even for her.
The sudden sound of a slightly nasal snigger infringe on her thoughts. Looking around, she spots its source: a boy around her current age leaning in an offhand way against a lone lamppost, hands casually placed in his pockets.
Noticing her looking at him, he grins snidely and tips his cap at her, freeing a few tresses of white hair in the process. He mouths something she can’t make out due to the distance, but she can guess:
“See you in Budapest, Hungary.” And in the gloom, she feels his crimson eyes leering at her.
*****
As the door closes behind him, Tino allows himself a moment to gather his wits and to give a final goodbye to the surroundings that had become so familiar to him during the brief time he’s spent in the house now quietly standing behind him.
Funny, when had he started to think of it as “brief time”?
He throws a look down the road which will eventually lead him to Helsinki. Perhaps he should’ve been there already, introducing himself to the current Eduskunta. He could’ve been, had he wanted. But he wants to walk there at his own pace, on his own terms, in order to savor the last moments of being…well, human, he supposes.
He wonders idly if that makes him irresponsible. Negligent of his duties. But the world is largely peaceful, or at least that’s what he’s been lead to believe. And surely one more day would not matter either way? They had done without him for more than a decade already, hadn’t they?
Smiling ruefully to no one in particular, he wonders if his excuses would ring as hollow in others’ ears as they do in his own.
There’s a crunch in the snow behind him, followed by a “’Ey,” as a gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Tino has long outgrown his habit of jumping whenever Berwald suddenly materializes behind or next to him. He simply says:
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
He can’t see it, but he can picture Berwald’s barely noticeable shake of his head. “No.”
“I’m glad.” His hand finds Berwald’s on top of his shoulder, and he allows himself to smile for real this time. A bit wanly, perhaps, but he doesn’t think the other minds. “You always manage to find me, don’t you? Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I were ever born first.”
Berwald shifts next to him, his grip on Tino’s shoulder tightening the slightest bit. “…’re ya alright?”
“…Yes.” Tino sighs. “Yes, I’m all right. They took it rather well.” He looks back at the house, the place he’d thought of as “home” until just a short while ago. “Or seemed to, at least. They were…good parents.” Some of the best he’d had.
“Hn.” The grunt, deceptively non-committal, sounds so familiar and comfortable that Tino can’t help the small laugh escaping his lips.
“So,” he says, turning his head around to meet Berwald’s eyes for the first time in ten years. “What have I missed?”
*****
Standing guard by the gates of the White House sounds very impressive. Probably looks impressive, too, on your résumé. Only a trustworthy and dependable guy could be trusted with the safety of the Big Man himself, right?
Of course, there were definitely some drawbacks included in this sweet deal. And one of them was staring up at him right this moment, eyes twinkling with what he fervently hopes is curiosity and not mischief in the making.
God, but he hates kids.
The boy, flashing a wide and altogether too cheerful grin, gives him a bright “Yo!” in response to his severe look.
“Hey,” he replies monotonously, secretly a bit nonplussed when his glare leaves the kid completely unfazed.
“Yeah, so, I’m in a bit of a hurry, y’see, so if you could call up whoever’s chief of security these days, that’d be really swell.”
Feeling the onset of a throbbing headache, he turns to his fellow guard: “Who the hell’s the kid?”
His friend gives an unconcerned shrug; “Not mine. Hey, scamp,” he says to the boy. “This isn’t some playground. Go find your parents. Bet you they’re worried sick.”
For a fleeting moment, a look of intense pain seems to flash across the boy’s face before he again breaks into a sunny grin. The transition is so quick the guard thinks he must’ve imagined it.
“Current ones? Back in Minnesota.” Rubbing his nose against the back of his sleeve, he adds bit high-handedly: “So are you calling the big man or what?”
Right, now the brat was just asking for it. “Okay, look here kiddo…”
”What’s all this racket, then?”
What were the damn odds? The little snot had some great timing, he’d give him that.
“Excuse us, sir.” He turns around and hastily salutes at the man striding towards them. “This…” his tongue stumbles over “brat” before he thinks better of it. “Kid seems to have lost his parents in the crowd.”
“Have NOT!” the brat protests loudly. “Didn’t you listen? Sheesh, what kind of guys are they employing these days, seriously?”
The guard bristles at the remark, but keeps his expression carefully schooled. Not that the chief of staff seems to pay him any attention. He is peering closely at the kid, brow creasing in slight puzzlement. Then something like realization dawns on his face, and he all but breathes out:
“Mother of God…is it really…is it Alfred? Alfred J. Jones?”
There’s not a soul employed at the White House who wouldn’t recognize that name, and the guard feels his jaw come unhinged.
“The one and only!” The kid, Alfred, declares with a loud and happy laugh.. “Man, is it good to be back.”
------------------------
AN: So this is not how it works in canon. The only strip that ever really touches on the issue of the nations' immortality is the lost strip "Who are you", in which France has remained unchanged over the course of at least three generations. So the idea that they die and then are reincarnated is simply a "how it could've worked" thing that hit me over the head a while back when I tried to sleep. That didn't work out too well. Sleep, that is.
I imagine it would be a rather traumatic experience for both child and parents. Perhaps especially the latter. In fact, this fic ended up spending much more time dealing with the various parents' reactions that I originally thought. But I'm somewhat pleased with the end-result, nevertheless. I hope at least someone got some enjoyment out of reading it.
With an effort, he struggles into a sitting position, gripping the adjacent bed-lamp for much-needed support. The room swims before his eyes for a moment before his head clears, and even then he just wants to lie back down because he’s feeling so very drained.
’Okay, backtrack, backtrack…what the hell was I up to yesterday?’ England. England was suspicious. Doubly so if alcohol somehow figured into the picture. But, no, wait, that was impossible. Arthur was currently…
Oh. Oh.
“Shit…” He half-groans, half-sighs. “So…that time again, huh? That’s what you’re tellin’ me?” He pats his stomach, and then almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the scene. “Alrighty, then....”
He stands up, congratulating himself when he doesn’t immediately throw up on the nice, and probably expensive, carpet. Probably got it from Turkey or someone and anyway it doesn’t matter because he really needs to make some phone-calls and hell if he knows how much time he has.
“C’mon, work with me, here,” he implores his uncooperative body, for once thankful for the fact that they insist on him having a phone in his bedroom. For emergencies, they’d said. Well, this ought to qualify as one.
“Hello?” he croaks into the receiver once he’s dragged his body across the room and painstakingly dialed one of the few numbers he’s bothered to learn by heart. “Yeah, it’s me. ’Course it’s me. Who else could it be besides me?” The person on the other ends says something. “That was a one-time occurrence. He just happened to be in my room, okay? And didn’t you promise not to bring that up ag…” his attempt at laughing ends up a racking cough, and suddenly there’s real concern on the other end.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay. Or, actually, no, that’s sorta a lie. Hey, listen….it’s um…” And he explains what’s happening, keeping his tone light and cheery. Like nothing’s wrong.
Dead silence greets the news at first, followed by cautious inquiries about what should and could be done about it. Alfred smiles and says, uncharacteristically subdued, “Not much” and after that’s been established beyond doubt, they plan for the coming years.
The other expresses his hopes that it’ll only be around five, perhaps six years. America almost laughs at the rampant optimism and says that, no, it’ll be at least twelve years, possibly more, before things can return to normal.
“Don’t worry,” he says and tries to put some of his usual vigor into it, thinking it might sound reassuring. “If I’m feeling it, that means a lot of the other guys are too. Yeah, it’s convenient like that.”
He really needs to sit down. The carpet is plenty comfortable, and he hopes he thanked Turkey properly for it. If it was from Turkey. He really can’t recall at the moment…
“What?” he mumbles. “Yeah, still here. Sorry. Anyway. Things ought to be calm for at least a couple of years. Make the most of them. Go on a…a vacation or something. You totally need it.” He smiles. “Maybe next time, I will. Yeah. Yeah, I will. Stay gold, man. I’ll be back before you know it.”
The receiver drops to the floor. America looks at his hand, a bit bemused. No strength in it at all. And to think, just yesterday he’d towed…what had he towed? Something…sleek. Black. Heavy, in any case. Possibly Canadian. He could ask Matthew about it tomorrow. Yeah, that sounded good. Hadn’t seen him in awhile…they could grab some chow downtown and then…
And then…
*****
Oliver Thompson is and has always been a bit of a puzzle to his parents. He seems to have inherited neither of his parents’ looks, for one, although his mother rather desperately compares his green eyes with those of his late grandmother.
But she is hard pressed to find an explanation for his intimidating eyebrows which are unlike anything she can find in either her or her husband’s family-trees. The other children in the neighborhood scornfully refer to them and him as “bushes” behind his back, and sometimes to his face.
They dare not do much more to him, as he has such a frightful temper that gives even the larger boys pause and discourages them from further provocations. But they do not include him in their games. He seems not to mind his solitude, but both of his parents have, on occasion, observed him talking to nothing but air. When gently questioned, he gives them odd looks and says that he’s talking to his friends.
His father suggests psychiatric help. His mother worries that it will do little for their son’s reputation and opposes the idea. In the ensuing argument, little Oliver walks in and asks them to be quiet, because, well…
They’re scaring the fairies.
They argue about it some more, but Oliver’s mother’s resolve has now been shaken, and the issue is eventually settled. Oliver is sent to bed, and his father picks up and leafs through the telephone directory, jotting down numbers and names with an air of purpose and accomplishment.
A step has been taken. He’s confident that his son can and will be set on the proper path with the right kind of guidance.
He continues to believe this until the following morning, when Oliver opens his eyes and realizes his name isn’t Oliver at all.
*****
The first thing that flashes through Feliciano’s mind when he wakes up is ‘Oh no…and I really wanted to go to the carnevale…”.
He can’t, of course. Not now. Or maybe he could? Just one more day, would it hurt? But no, that would be cruel. Feliciano does not wish to be cruel.
But he will have to be. And so he sighs, miserably, and remains in bed to wait. He does not have to wait long: he can hear them now, tittle-tattling in the stairs. There’s some muffled giggling which is quickly silenced by a hasty ssh! and a whispered “quiet!”.
Someone is fiddling with a lighter. Click-click-click.
Then the singing starts.
“Tanti auguri a te! Tanti auguri a te!” Their voices are clear and full of mirthful laughter and it doesn’t matter that it’s a simple song because it’s still very pretty.
Feliciano buries his face in his pillow, wanting to shut it out, but not meeting with much success. He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open, and his family files in; doesn’t want to look at their happy faces.
“Tanti auguri, Andrea!” He flinches at the name. “Tanti auguri a te!” There’s a gentle weight settling on his bed, and Feliciano looks up when a hand softly brushes his hair.
His mother, his kind and joyful and beautiful, beautiful mother, smiles lovingly at him.
“Buon compleanno, il mio tesoro,” she coos at him. “Make a wish.”
Feliciano wobbly smiles back through his tears.
*****
He’s awake when she enters his bedroom, eyes firmly fixated on the ceiling. For a long time, she merely stands in the doorway, sharply silhouetted against the light spilling in from the hallway.
Staring at him.
“You are awake,” she says at length, and he tilts his head so that he can meet her eyes. Her face is blank, betraying none of the emotions that he knows swirls under the surface.
He wonders idly if he, too, appears that way to her. Or perhaps she sees someone else entirely.
“Yes,” he confirms softly. “I am awake.”
“I hoped you’d be asleep.” She enters the room, makes no sound when she steps on one of his haphazardly discarded toys by mistake.
“I apologize.” She nods, once, before climbing into his bed and straddling him. He raises no objections, even though her weight is a burden on his body which is still so very small.
“You are not my son…” She mumbles under her breath, monotonously. “You are not Takeshi.” She is trembling, a crack in her mask. She leans over him, her face hovering above his, and he feels how a lone tear drips unto his cheek.
“No,” he agrees, gently. “I am not. Not as you knew him.” Kiku Honda raises his hand to place it over her cheek. Her eyes close and she draws a shaky breath, her free hand cradling his in an almost desperate manner.
“You have been a kind and attentive mother,” Kiku tells her, and he means every word. “I am sorry to have caused you pain.”
She nods, slowly, as her tears catch the light and glint. In her hand, the blade of her knife seems to flash in response.
*****
The streets of Putnok had never been what one would call “bustling with activity” during the nighttime. Particularly not on a work-night like this one. Nevertheless, Elizaveta thinks that the current stillness borders on unnatural in its enveloping totality. The only sound that can be heard is the patterning of their shoes against the pavement and the ragged breathing of her father as he drags her down the street, at times punctuated by incoherent mumbling.
“I won’t allow it…it’s pure lunacy!” he rambles as they turn around a corner and down another alley. “Madness! They’re mad! You’re my daughter! Not some…you’re not…” he breaks off, unable to say it out loud.
No doubt he finds the concept too alien to completely comprehend.
“Father…” She desperately wants to offer him some comfort, to soothe his agitation. But she realizes her mistake when that one word immediately brings him to an abrupt halt.
“Don’t call me that!” The words are hissed through clenched teeth, eyes filled with a stark and wild fury boring into hers. “Call me dad! Daddy! Nóra never calls me father!”
“Dad…” she amends, unperturbed by his rage. “I’m sorry.” She truly is. If she ever had had a choice, she would never have put him through this. Put any of her many parents through this. “But it won’t work. I can’t run.” How could she? “I’m not Nó…”
“Be quiet!” A window above them clicks open, but her father simply drags her on with the inquiring shouts of whoever it was fading behind them. “Don’t ever say that!” Elizaveta says nothing. “We’ll go to Budapest. By train. Stay at Balázs’ place for awhile…”
The plan seems to instill him with some small amount of confidence, and his hand, damp with cold sweat as it is, gives her a reassuring squeeze. Elizaveta, for her part, simply sighs softly and resolves to stay with her father for as long as she possibly can. She knows she will have to leave him eventually, whether they’re caught or not. It’s her duty.
It’s her fate, if there is such a thing. To fight it is unthinkable, even for her.
The sudden sound of a slightly nasal snigger infringe on her thoughts. Looking around, she spots its source: a boy around her current age leaning in an offhand way against a lone lamppost, hands casually placed in his pockets.
Noticing her looking at him, he grins snidely and tips his cap at her, freeing a few tresses of white hair in the process. He mouths something she can’t make out due to the distance, but she can guess:
“See you in Budapest, Hungary.” And in the gloom, she feels his crimson eyes leering at her.
*****
As the door closes behind him, Tino allows himself a moment to gather his wits and to give a final goodbye to the surroundings that had become so familiar to him during the brief time he’s spent in the house now quietly standing behind him.
Funny, when had he started to think of it as “brief time”?
He throws a look down the road which will eventually lead him to Helsinki. Perhaps he should’ve been there already, introducing himself to the current Eduskunta. He could’ve been, had he wanted. But he wants to walk there at his own pace, on his own terms, in order to savor the last moments of being…well, human, he supposes.
He wonders idly if that makes him irresponsible. Negligent of his duties. But the world is largely peaceful, or at least that’s what he’s been lead to believe. And surely one more day would not matter either way? They had done without him for more than a decade already, hadn’t they?
Smiling ruefully to no one in particular, he wonders if his excuses would ring as hollow in others’ ears as they do in his own.
There’s a crunch in the snow behind him, followed by a “’Ey,” as a gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Tino has long outgrown his habit of jumping whenever Berwald suddenly materializes behind or next to him. He simply says:
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
He can’t see it, but he can picture Berwald’s barely noticeable shake of his head. “No.”
“I’m glad.” His hand finds Berwald’s on top of his shoulder, and he allows himself to smile for real this time. A bit wanly, perhaps, but he doesn’t think the other minds. “You always manage to find me, don’t you? Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I were ever born first.”
Berwald shifts next to him, his grip on Tino’s shoulder tightening the slightest bit. “…’re ya alright?”
“…Yes.” Tino sighs. “Yes, I’m all right. They took it rather well.” He looks back at the house, the place he’d thought of as “home” until just a short while ago. “Or seemed to, at least. They were…good parents.” Some of the best he’d had.
“Hn.” The grunt, deceptively non-committal, sounds so familiar and comfortable that Tino can’t help the small laugh escaping his lips.
“So,” he says, turning his head around to meet Berwald’s eyes for the first time in ten years. “What have I missed?”
*****
Standing guard by the gates of the White House sounds very impressive. Probably looks impressive, too, on your résumé. Only a trustworthy and dependable guy could be trusted with the safety of the Big Man himself, right?
Of course, there were definitely some drawbacks included in this sweet deal. And one of them was staring up at him right this moment, eyes twinkling with what he fervently hopes is curiosity and not mischief in the making.
God, but he hates kids.
The boy, flashing a wide and altogether too cheerful grin, gives him a bright “Yo!” in response to his severe look.
“Hey,” he replies monotonously, secretly a bit nonplussed when his glare leaves the kid completely unfazed.
“Yeah, so, I’m in a bit of a hurry, y’see, so if you could call up whoever’s chief of security these days, that’d be really swell.”
Feeling the onset of a throbbing headache, he turns to his fellow guard: “Who the hell’s the kid?”
His friend gives an unconcerned shrug; “Not mine. Hey, scamp,” he says to the boy. “This isn’t some playground. Go find your parents. Bet you they’re worried sick.”
For a fleeting moment, a look of intense pain seems to flash across the boy’s face before he again breaks into a sunny grin. The transition is so quick the guard thinks he must’ve imagined it.
“Current ones? Back in Minnesota.” Rubbing his nose against the back of his sleeve, he adds bit high-handedly: “So are you calling the big man or what?”
Right, now the brat was just asking for it. “Okay, look here kiddo…”
”What’s all this racket, then?”
What were the damn odds? The little snot had some great timing, he’d give him that.
“Excuse us, sir.” He turns around and hastily salutes at the man striding towards them. “This…” his tongue stumbles over “brat” before he thinks better of it. “Kid seems to have lost his parents in the crowd.”
“Have NOT!” the brat protests loudly. “Didn’t you listen? Sheesh, what kind of guys are they employing these days, seriously?”
The guard bristles at the remark, but keeps his expression carefully schooled. Not that the chief of staff seems to pay him any attention. He is peering closely at the kid, brow creasing in slight puzzlement. Then something like realization dawns on his face, and he all but breathes out:
“Mother of God…is it really…is it Alfred? Alfred J. Jones?”
There’s not a soul employed at the White House who wouldn’t recognize that name, and the guard feels his jaw come unhinged.
“The one and only!” The kid, Alfred, declares with a loud and happy laugh.. “Man, is it good to be back.”
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AN: So this is not how it works in canon. The only strip that ever really touches on the issue of the nations' immortality is the lost strip "Who are you", in which France has remained unchanged over the course of at least three generations. So the idea that they die and then are reincarnated is simply a "how it could've worked" thing that hit me over the head a while back when I tried to sleep. That didn't work out too well. Sleep, that is.
I imagine it would be a rather traumatic experience for both child and parents. Perhaps especially the latter. In fact, this fic ended up spending much more time dealing with the various parents' reactions that I originally thought. But I'm somewhat pleased with the end-result, nevertheless. I hope at least someone got some enjoyment out of reading it.