blood_winged (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blood_winged) wrote2010-08-08 12:23 am
blood_winged) wrote2010-08-08 12:23 am
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] The Five Stages 3/5 [USxUK]
Title: Stage Three: Bargaining
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, Canada, UK, Scotland
Rating/Warnings: PG. Rating possibly subject to change. Sensible Scotland is sensible.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
*****
Alfred felt cold. Scotland had been patiently repeating himself for the past five minutes and still he could only reply with a half strangled ‘what?’. Arthur drinking was expected, and drinking himself to unconsciousness would have been unsurprising, but to put himself in hospital…
“Where..?” he managed finally. “What happened?”
“Some lassie foond heem passed it in a gutter tois days ago. Government didne ken whaur he was until thes morn, an' they tauld me. He's in Cromweel Hospital oan Cromweel Road, sae dornt ye fash yerse, he's gettin' th' best caur.”
The accent was easier to follow as he heard more of it, but the difficulty he had understanding the man paled in comparison to how nauseous he felt at the news. He knew Cromwell, he’d been past it with Arthur before, though he wasn’t sure he could find it again without help, or a taxi. Picking up his glasses and sliding them on, he swung his legs out of the bed and planted his feet on the carpet, trying to find some sense of being grounded.
“Great… that’s great… best care. Got it. He’s in a coma?”
“Ah dunnae kinn hoo much he drenk. Th' doctors say he shoods be alrecht but eh'd nae pit it pest heem tae bide loch thes it ay spite.”
“Oh, man… I should have been there to stop him. This wouldn’t have happened if I was-” There was a snort, and Scotland cut him off, his tone almost scathing and reminding him starkly of Arthur.
“Dornt ye start daein' 'at. Tay mony fowk hae blamed themselves fur his skitin' an' it's nobody's faut but his.”
“Right.”
“It isnae yer faut, alrecht?”
“Right. No, you’re right. I know you are. Man…” Rubbing one hand over his face, he held the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he stood, grabbing a pair of boxers and jeans to pull on. “He’s such an idiot.”
“Ye said it. Ur ye comin'?”
Alfred paused, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he pulled his socks on one-handed. He listened to the silence on the other end of the line punctuated rhythmically by a soft beeping sound and a hiss, and he shut his eyes.
“You know, you’re not supposed to use cell phones in hospitals.”
“Aye.”
“… How is he?”
“Livin’. He isnae lookin' sae great. Grey isnae a guid coloor oan heem.”
“Ah…” Dropping onto his back, Alfred pushed a hand through his hair and gazed at the ceiling. He chewed his thumbnail, and huffed quietly, struggling with himself for a few moments. “Alright, I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Ah'll meit ye at Heathraw. Caa me when ye lain.”
“I will.”
He hung up, and noted down the number from the caller ID, pushing it into the pocket of his jeans before pulling a shirt on and dragging a brush through his hair. The noise he created opening and closing doors while he packed a bag roused his brother, who came in sleepy-eyed and looking faintly annoyed, watching Alfred for a minute then speaking.
“What are you doing?”
“Scotland called. Arthur’s in a coma,” he said, and Matthew stared at him, watching him walking around the room, stuffing clothes haphazardly into a bad. Shaking himself, he walked in, and dumped the clothes out onto the bed, folding and repacking them while Alfred disappeared into the bathroom.
“So, you’re going over there, eh?”
“I thought you’d be pleased to hear that.”
Looking over to the bathroom door, the Canadian nation chewed his lower lip, and followed him, finding him brushing his teeth.
“Look, Al,” he began. “I’m very fond of Arthur, and when you love somebody you… sometimes look past the bad things they do, but you were right. I am your brother, and I should be on your side, and what he did was wrong and if you don’t want to go over there I’m behind you all the way.”
“Fanks, Matt…” Alfred mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, spitting it into the sink and wiping his mouth, turning to Matthew with a small smile. “But I’m going. Even if it’s just to make sure he’s okay.”
“You’re a braver man than me,” Matthew told him, shooting him a slightly crooked grin which Alfred returned, clapping a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder as he passed him.
“Of course. I’m Arthur’s hero, right? That’s what heroes do.”
Leaving Matthew in charge of his house, Alfred headed straight to the airport and hopped into the first available seat on a flight to Heathrow airport. Still, it was nearly twelve hours before, tired and a little sore, he walked off the plane, his phone already held to his ear. Half an hour later, bag in hand, he stood at the arrivals gate, his eyes searching for Arthur’s brother. They hadn’t met often, and he could barely remember what the man looked like, but Scotland seemed to know that, and when he saw a sign reading ‘Alfred Jones’ bobbing above the heads of the crowd he all but ran to it, coming face to face with a red-headed man who almost matched him in height, his piercing green eyes a mirror of Arthur’s. He offered a hand, which was taken and shook firmly, and the two of them headed to the exit.
“Englain did 'at tae ye?” Scotland said as they walked out into the heavy London air.
“Huh?” Alfred’s fingers instinctively touched his forehead, tracing the line of stitches that were now near needing to be removed. “Uh… yeah, I got in the way of a glass he was throwing.” The weak attempt at humour didn’t seem to amuse his companion, who merely frowned and directed Alfred towards a car, taking his bag and tossing it into the back seat before getting in. He fished his keys from his pocket and started the engine, and Alfred sighed, settling back and taking a better look at the man in the driver’s seat.
He could definitely mark him for Arthur’s brother – he held his jaw in the same way that Arthur did when he was annoyed. His eyes were the same shade of impossible crayon green, but his hair was red, he was taller, freckled, and with a wildness about him that Arthur lacked. No name, either, at least not one that Alfred had ever been told – he was just ‘Scotland’. His car smelled like pine, and Alfred noticed the small tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.
“Yoo'd hink he woods hae learned by noo.”
“What?” He glanced up to find Scotland giving him a sideways look.
“Abit his skitin'. He cannae handle it.”
“Oh… yeah.” Nodding, he saw Scotland smile grimly, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. He didn’t need to be able to read the atmosphere to see that the man was agitated, and he held in the urge to ask to stop at the next McDonalds they passed. His stomach gurgled in complaint at the denial, but if Scotland noticed, he didn’t mention it.
“Ah suppose things hae bin pilin' oan top ay heem an' th' change in government didn’t help,” he said then. “Elections hae aye gart heem a bit funay in th' heed.”
“Nobody told me…”
“Ye didn’t ask. He wooldn’t hae said, Ah hink it embarrasses heem.”
“I guess that makes sense…”
“But there's nae excuse fur heem throwin' things at ye loch 'at. Ah'll be givin' heem a guid talkin' tae when he wakes up.”
“Uh… thanks.”
Scotland showed no signs of leaving him to face Arthur by himself as they pulled into the hospital car park and got out. The Scottish nation seemed to already have a good rapport with the staff as he walked in, throwing a small salute to the receptionists on his way past.
“Is he still allowed visitors…?” Alfred asked, trailing behind the older man as they made their way through the maze of corridors. “It’s nearly nine.”
“Private room. He's in a coma, anyway, yoo're nae gonnae be keepin' heem waukin' if yoo're haur.”
He slowed, pushing his hands into his pockets and clearing his throat, looking over to Alfred.
“He drinks tae cope. He shooldnae, an' aam nae makin' excuses fur heem coz he cannae handle his liquur, but he diz. Ye ken whit they say abit auld dogs? That's Englain. Ah've bin tryin' tae gie heem intae coonsellin' fur years but he willnae admit he has a problem. Mebbe thes’ll finally sway heem.”
“Drinks to cope…?” It had been something Alfred had always suspected but never brought up, partly out of uncertainty, and partly out of worry over the answer he might get. “I didn’t know you’d been trying to get him to counselling.”
“Whit dae ye hink we argue abit aw th' time? When he tint ye th' first time it broke heem up - nae coz he tint th' lain, coz he tint ye.”
“… You lost me there again. ‘Tint’…?” The language barrier, however small, was beginning to wear on the both of them and Scotland made a small sound of irritation.
“Lost. Lost. Coz he lost ye.”
“I… didn’t know you cared,” he muttered, and regretted it the instant the words left his mouth. Scotland stopped, and stared at him incredulously for a long, uncomfortable moment. He licked his lips, and rubbed one hand along his jaw, lowering his eyes.
“Ay coorse Ah caur,” he said softly. “He's mah brither. 'Main 'en, he's in haur.”
The nearest door was opened, to a spacious room with chairs and a small table, but it was the bed which drew Alfred’s attention. In it, was Arthur, and he wasn’t aware of crossing the room, only that he suddenly had the smaller man’s hand held tightly in his, looking down at his pale face and the purplish bruising colouring the curve of his eye socket. He brushed his fringe gently away from his forehead and kissed the backs of his fingers, and somewhere behind him heard Scotland take a seat, paper rustling as he picked up a magazine.
“Jeez, Artie, what have you done?” he murmured. He glanced up, looking over the machines monitoring him. “You’d better wake up… I’m still angry with you.” Hearing Scotland let out a quiet snort he looked over to him, and the man shrugged, going back to his magazine. Slowly, Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed, careful of the tube feeding into Arthur’s arm. “Can he hear me?” he asked.
“Ah dunnae kinn. Mebbe,” came the non-committal response. Alfred squeezed Arthur’s hand again.
“Maybe… If you can hear me, then listen… I’m still angry with you, Arthur, but if you wake up I swear I’ll forgive you.”
“Oi,” Scotland said. “Whit did Ah teel ye?”
“Keep out of this a minute, alright?” Another shrug from the Scottish nation and Alfred turned away from him, absently rubbing his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles. “You did something wrong, and I think you know that… Don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you. You have a war on your hands here, Artie… but I think you can win it.” Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s forehead, then rested his own against it, closing his eyes. “I know I have to change,” he said quietly. “But so do you.”
-----------------------
<| Chapter Two | Chapter Four |>
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing/s: USxUK
Characters: (this chapter) US, Canada, UK, Scotland
Rating/Warnings: PG. Rating possibly subject to change. Sensible Scotland is sensible.
Summary: When their break-up leaves Arthur devastated and Alfred hurt and steering clear of him, the American nation finds out that love doesn't work like it does in the movies, and sometimes you have to come close to losing something before you realise what you have.
*****
Alfred felt cold. Scotland had been patiently repeating himself for the past five minutes and still he could only reply with a half strangled ‘what?’. Arthur drinking was expected, and drinking himself to unconsciousness would have been unsurprising, but to put himself in hospital…
“Where..?” he managed finally. “What happened?”
“Some lassie foond heem passed it in a gutter tois days ago. Government didne ken whaur he was until thes morn, an' they tauld me. He's in Cromweel Hospital oan Cromweel Road, sae dornt ye fash yerse, he's gettin' th' best caur.”
The accent was easier to follow as he heard more of it, but the difficulty he had understanding the man paled in comparison to how nauseous he felt at the news. He knew Cromwell, he’d been past it with Arthur before, though he wasn’t sure he could find it again without help, or a taxi. Picking up his glasses and sliding them on, he swung his legs out of the bed and planted his feet on the carpet, trying to find some sense of being grounded.
“Great… that’s great… best care. Got it. He’s in a coma?”
“Ah dunnae kinn hoo much he drenk. Th' doctors say he shoods be alrecht but eh'd nae pit it pest heem tae bide loch thes it ay spite.”
“Oh, man… I should have been there to stop him. This wouldn’t have happened if I was-” There was a snort, and Scotland cut him off, his tone almost scathing and reminding him starkly of Arthur.
“Dornt ye start daein' 'at. Tay mony fowk hae blamed themselves fur his skitin' an' it's nobody's faut but his.”
“Right.”
“It isnae yer faut, alrecht?”
“Right. No, you’re right. I know you are. Man…” Rubbing one hand over his face, he held the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he stood, grabbing a pair of boxers and jeans to pull on. “He’s such an idiot.”
“Ye said it. Ur ye comin'?”
Alfred paused, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he pulled his socks on one-handed. He listened to the silence on the other end of the line punctuated rhythmically by a soft beeping sound and a hiss, and he shut his eyes.
“You know, you’re not supposed to use cell phones in hospitals.”
“Aye.”
“… How is he?”
“Livin’. He isnae lookin' sae great. Grey isnae a guid coloor oan heem.”
“Ah…” Dropping onto his back, Alfred pushed a hand through his hair and gazed at the ceiling. He chewed his thumbnail, and huffed quietly, struggling with himself for a few moments. “Alright, I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Ah'll meit ye at Heathraw. Caa me when ye lain.”
“I will.”
He hung up, and noted down the number from the caller ID, pushing it into the pocket of his jeans before pulling a shirt on and dragging a brush through his hair. The noise he created opening and closing doors while he packed a bag roused his brother, who came in sleepy-eyed and looking faintly annoyed, watching Alfred for a minute then speaking.
“What are you doing?”
“Scotland called. Arthur’s in a coma,” he said, and Matthew stared at him, watching him walking around the room, stuffing clothes haphazardly into a bad. Shaking himself, he walked in, and dumped the clothes out onto the bed, folding and repacking them while Alfred disappeared into the bathroom.
“So, you’re going over there, eh?”
“I thought you’d be pleased to hear that.”
Looking over to the bathroom door, the Canadian nation chewed his lower lip, and followed him, finding him brushing his teeth.
“Look, Al,” he began. “I’m very fond of Arthur, and when you love somebody you… sometimes look past the bad things they do, but you were right. I am your brother, and I should be on your side, and what he did was wrong and if you don’t want to go over there I’m behind you all the way.”
“Fanks, Matt…” Alfred mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, spitting it into the sink and wiping his mouth, turning to Matthew with a small smile. “But I’m going. Even if it’s just to make sure he’s okay.”
“You’re a braver man than me,” Matthew told him, shooting him a slightly crooked grin which Alfred returned, clapping a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder as he passed him.
“Of course. I’m Arthur’s hero, right? That’s what heroes do.”
Leaving Matthew in charge of his house, Alfred headed straight to the airport and hopped into the first available seat on a flight to Heathrow airport. Still, it was nearly twelve hours before, tired and a little sore, he walked off the plane, his phone already held to his ear. Half an hour later, bag in hand, he stood at the arrivals gate, his eyes searching for Arthur’s brother. They hadn’t met often, and he could barely remember what the man looked like, but Scotland seemed to know that, and when he saw a sign reading ‘Alfred Jones’ bobbing above the heads of the crowd he all but ran to it, coming face to face with a red-headed man who almost matched him in height, his piercing green eyes a mirror of Arthur’s. He offered a hand, which was taken and shook firmly, and the two of them headed to the exit.
“Englain did 'at tae ye?” Scotland said as they walked out into the heavy London air.
“Huh?” Alfred’s fingers instinctively touched his forehead, tracing the line of stitches that were now near needing to be removed. “Uh… yeah, I got in the way of a glass he was throwing.” The weak attempt at humour didn’t seem to amuse his companion, who merely frowned and directed Alfred towards a car, taking his bag and tossing it into the back seat before getting in. He fished his keys from his pocket and started the engine, and Alfred sighed, settling back and taking a better look at the man in the driver’s seat.
He could definitely mark him for Arthur’s brother – he held his jaw in the same way that Arthur did when he was annoyed. His eyes were the same shade of impossible crayon green, but his hair was red, he was taller, freckled, and with a wildness about him that Arthur lacked. No name, either, at least not one that Alfred had ever been told – he was just ‘Scotland’. His car smelled like pine, and Alfred noticed the small tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.
“Yoo'd hink he woods hae learned by noo.”
“What?” He glanced up to find Scotland giving him a sideways look.
“Abit his skitin'. He cannae handle it.”
“Oh… yeah.” Nodding, he saw Scotland smile grimly, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. He didn’t need to be able to read the atmosphere to see that the man was agitated, and he held in the urge to ask to stop at the next McDonalds they passed. His stomach gurgled in complaint at the denial, but if Scotland noticed, he didn’t mention it.
“Ah suppose things hae bin pilin' oan top ay heem an' th' change in government didn’t help,” he said then. “Elections hae aye gart heem a bit funay in th' heed.”
“Nobody told me…”
“Ye didn’t ask. He wooldn’t hae said, Ah hink it embarrasses heem.”
“I guess that makes sense…”
“But there's nae excuse fur heem throwin' things at ye loch 'at. Ah'll be givin' heem a guid talkin' tae when he wakes up.”
“Uh… thanks.”
Scotland showed no signs of leaving him to face Arthur by himself as they pulled into the hospital car park and got out. The Scottish nation seemed to already have a good rapport with the staff as he walked in, throwing a small salute to the receptionists on his way past.
“Is he still allowed visitors…?” Alfred asked, trailing behind the older man as they made their way through the maze of corridors. “It’s nearly nine.”
“Private room. He's in a coma, anyway, yoo're nae gonnae be keepin' heem waukin' if yoo're haur.”
He slowed, pushing his hands into his pockets and clearing his throat, looking over to Alfred.
“He drinks tae cope. He shooldnae, an' aam nae makin' excuses fur heem coz he cannae handle his liquur, but he diz. Ye ken whit they say abit auld dogs? That's Englain. Ah've bin tryin' tae gie heem intae coonsellin' fur years but he willnae admit he has a problem. Mebbe thes’ll finally sway heem.”
“Drinks to cope…?” It had been something Alfred had always suspected but never brought up, partly out of uncertainty, and partly out of worry over the answer he might get. “I didn’t know you’d been trying to get him to counselling.”
“Whit dae ye hink we argue abit aw th' time? When he tint ye th' first time it broke heem up - nae coz he tint th' lain, coz he tint ye.”
“… You lost me there again. ‘Tint’…?” The language barrier, however small, was beginning to wear on the both of them and Scotland made a small sound of irritation.
“Lost. Lost. Coz he lost ye.”
“I… didn’t know you cared,” he muttered, and regretted it the instant the words left his mouth. Scotland stopped, and stared at him incredulously for a long, uncomfortable moment. He licked his lips, and rubbed one hand along his jaw, lowering his eyes.
“Ay coorse Ah caur,” he said softly. “He's mah brither. 'Main 'en, he's in haur.”
The nearest door was opened, to a spacious room with chairs and a small table, but it was the bed which drew Alfred’s attention. In it, was Arthur, and he wasn’t aware of crossing the room, only that he suddenly had the smaller man’s hand held tightly in his, looking down at his pale face and the purplish bruising colouring the curve of his eye socket. He brushed his fringe gently away from his forehead and kissed the backs of his fingers, and somewhere behind him heard Scotland take a seat, paper rustling as he picked up a magazine.
“Jeez, Artie, what have you done?” he murmured. He glanced up, looking over the machines monitoring him. “You’d better wake up… I’m still angry with you.” Hearing Scotland let out a quiet snort he looked over to him, and the man shrugged, going back to his magazine. Slowly, Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed, careful of the tube feeding into Arthur’s arm. “Can he hear me?” he asked.
“Ah dunnae kinn. Mebbe,” came the non-committal response. Alfred squeezed Arthur’s hand again.
“Maybe… If you can hear me, then listen… I’m still angry with you, Arthur, but if you wake up I swear I’ll forgive you.”
“Oi,” Scotland said. “Whit did Ah teel ye?”
“Keep out of this a minute, alright?” Another shrug from the Scottish nation and Alfred turned away from him, absently rubbing his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles. “You did something wrong, and I think you know that… Don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you. You have a war on your hands here, Artie… but I think you can win it.” Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s forehead, then rested his own against it, closing his eyes. “I know I have to change,” he said quietly. “But so do you.”
-----------------------
<| Chapter Two | Chapter Four |>