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erina-writes-headcanons · 1 month

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i’m back! this time could i have some crushing + gen relationship hcs w/ australia?💞

Jett Kirkland (AUSTRALIA), Nathaniel Zacker (NEW ZEALAND), and Arthur Kirkland (ENGLAND), and Ciarán Kirkland (IRELAND) GENERAL CRUSHING HEADCANONS

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HI, @reeces-pieses!! Of course, you can have another crushing Headcannon. And you are the first time who actually requested for Australia and I will try my best to portray him inside of this Headcannon! I hope you do not mind that I add England and also New Zealand.

Gender: Neutral Warning: None

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JETT KIRKLAND - Australia

Actually, it's pretty obvious when he has a crush but sadly since he is friendly and an extrovert, you are going to think he would be just being friendly so this can be a bit tricky.

He will be touchy around you but not to the point he will make you uncomfortable. Mostly he would shake your hand, head, or shoulder. He still respects your boundaries.

If you are sad, he would try to make you laugh by making funny jokes but if you are still sad and need something to be hugged, he would let you cuddle his koala.

Seems confident but secretly shy. If you actually touch him, he would internally scream in happiness, he could not believe that you actually just touched him.

Actually have crazy effort for you if he had a crush on you, he would keep asking you to hang out with him but since it's in the stage of crushing, he would let you bring your own friends and his friends.

Sometimes, he would lend you his hat or an umbrella if you got sunburnt since his beaches can be hot. He doesn't care if he gets a sunburn he thinks you need it more than him.

It would be hard to catch him getting shy because once you look at him, he would act as if he had not just gotten reddened when you held one of his hands and smiled at you.

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The golden sands stretched out before them, kissed by the warm rays of the summer sun. A gentle breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean as the person strolled along the beach, their footsteps leaving imprints in the soft sand. Seagulls wheeled and cried overhead, adding their voices to the symphony of the seaside.

A person with a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt, the vibrant colours contrasting against the blue sky. With each step, they/she/he felt the stress of everyday life melt away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment. After days of working hard, (Y/N) finally deserve a resting time. "(Y/N)! Oi mate!" A person suddenly called your name.

(Y/N) turned at the sound of their/his/her name, curious about the source of the cheerful greeting. As they scanned the beach, their eyes landed on Jett Kirkland, the personification of Australia, waving enthusiastically with a surfboard in hand. A grin spread across (Y/N)'s face as they recognized the familiar figure, known for his love of adventure and the ocean. "Oh hey, Australia," You made your way over him.

Jett's playful strokes on (Y/N)'s head gave her/him/them a pleasant sensation, and his cheerful demeanour placed them at rest. As he expressed his excitement at seeing you in his own country, (Y/N) couldn't help but grin in response, impressed by his genuine enthusiasm. But you had had no idea that, beyond Jett's friendly façade, he was hiding his feelings for a long time. "Hey (Y/N), do you wanna surf with me. The waves in here are great!" "I... I can't surf," (Y/N) admitted, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

Jett's smile grew wider at (Y/N)'s response. "Don't worry at all! I'll teach you," he guaranteed, his voice full of confidence. "We'll start softly, and I'll be right behind you the entire time. How does that sound?" With a reluctant nod, (Y/N) agreed, feeling both excited and nervous. The possibility of learning to surf with Jett at your side filled you with excitement.

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NATHANIEL ZACKER - New Zealand

Even more obvious than Australia because he would be more clumsy than him. You would often catch him in the act when he was getting shy around you.

Poor guy, he is trying to speak normally around you but he would always be stammering and forgot what he should say next so he would just kind of stand there with a red face and say sorry.

I think he can bake but not as great as Austria or Germany. He would at least leave a pavlova on your tables. It is kind of messy but at least it was delicious. Or he would leave some ANZAC biscuits when it is Valentine's.

Always listen to you when you are talking around him, he would sometimes be in a daze because he thinks you look attractive but once you ask him, he would quickly snap out of it.

Gives you a meaningful small gift when he has crushes on you and it can be either handmade or he uses his own money instead of the government's money.

Most of the gifts he will give is probably a handmade scarf because I headcanon that he can knit since he is the country with lots of sheep. Either it will be a scarf, sweater, bobble head or a plushie.

Actually, would let you cuddle his lambs when you are sad but secretly he wishes it was him instead that is getting cuddled with you are sad.

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As the rain poured mercilessly, each droplet seemed to reflect the pain in (Y/N)'s heart. Standing in the rain, their damp clothes clinging to their/her/his body, (Y/N) felt the weight of their fight with their/her/his buddy push against them like thick clouds above. The lack of an umbrella reflected their unpreparedness for the storm that had formed between them, putting them in this pathetic position of vulnerability.

(Y/N) let out a shocked yelp as her shoes glided on the slick ground, landing against the wet pavement. Pain rushed through your right knee as you slumped, the pain of the impact blurring your senses for a brief second. Nathaniel Zacker, the personification of New Zealand, had just returned from a nearby conference when he heard your cries of pain and hurried to her rescue. With worry on his face, he knelt alongside her/him/them. "(Y/N), A-are you okay?"

(Y/N) gazed up in surprise as Nathaniel came before them, his presence both unexpected and reassuring. With a trembling nod, (Y/N) accepted Nathaniel's offer of help. Nathaniel softly placed his arm around (Y/N), carefully guiding them to their feet, and (Y/N) couldn't help but feel reassured by his touch. "Th-thank you," (Y/N) stuttered, their/her/his voice quiet and grateful as they fought to stand, their/his/her wounded knees protesting with each step.

Nathaniel's concern only deepened as he noticed (Y/N)'s struggle. With a tender smile, he offered his scarf to keep them warm, his gesture of kindness warming (Y/N)'s heart despite the chill of the rain-soaked air. "Come on, let's get you somewhere dry and warm," Nathaniel said gently, his arm still supporting (Y/N) as he led them towards his home.

Nathaniel's pulse raced and his cheeks flushed crimson as he silently thanked his fortunate stars for the unexpected meeting with his crush. Nathaniel took consolation in being their light of peace amongst the storm, despite the tornado of emotions rising inside him.

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ARTHUR KIRKLAND - England

Another guy who is obvious but not as obvious as New Zealand. In Cannon, he is a Tsundere and this is one of the reasons why it is obvious.

The reason it is not that obvious is because he could act like a poise gentleman. Doesn't react when you touch him or tease him or just simply look away as he hides his red face.

Acts rude towards you but in reality, he doesn't want anything bad to happen to you. For example, if you wanted to do something reckless, he would say whatever but as soon as you were gone. He would scream 'DON'T DO IT!"

Tries to bake a scones for you but soon there would be mountains of them that were thrown away because all of them are not edible and already looks like charcoal.

Another guy with crazy effort because if anything bad happens to you, he would try his best to protect you. For example, if you were bullied, he would stand up for you and doesn't care if he also gets injured.

He may be stubborn but he will try to be open-minded for you and tell you his opinion if you need to ramble or need someone to lean on when you are sad.

Also if he is drunk, he actually gonna cry about how mean you are for rejecting him and admitting that he has a crush on you but you keep ignoring him whereas you stood there in confusion.

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As (Y/N) sat next to Britain in the meeting room on Monday morning, the weight of the global warming debate lingered in the air. Despite their best efforts, (Y/N) struggled to concentrate on America's presentation about some mythical hero concept to tackle climate change—a notion that appeared to be more absurd than possible.

As (Y/N) listened to America's presentation, a pounding pain seized their temples. Despite the regular room temperature, a sudden cold fell over the meeting, forcing (Y/N) to quiver uncontrollably. Yesterday the girl remembered Britain told her/him/them not to eat ice cream when it's cold but they/she/he did not listen, (Y/N) just rolled their/his/her eyes and continued snacking on the ice cream bowl while watching Sherlock Holmes.

As Britain witnessed (Y/N)'s declining condition, he let out a depressing sigh, recalling his earlier warning against eating ice cream on a cold day. He rose from his seat and gently excused himself from the meeting room, hoping to ease (Y/N)'s discomfort. In the kitchen, he quickly brewed a hot cup of English breakfast tea, its sweet scent filling the room with warmth and comfort. Returning to (Y/N)'s side, Britain presented the calming beverage with a sweet smile, hoping it could help his crushes cold.

(Y/N)'s astonishment was evident as they/she/he kindly thanked Britain for the steaming tea, their/his/her thankfulness reflected in their emotions. (Y/N) received the cup with a friendly grin and sipped the hot drink. Britain, hesitant to meet (Y/N)'s eyes directly, felt a flush creep up his cheeks as he uncomfortably shook off the gesture. "Well, it was nothing," he said, his voice laced with a mix of annoyance and hesitation. "Your cough was bothering me, so I figured you needed something warm, obviously," he said, his attempt to hide his worry showing his actual sentiments.

As Britain watched (Y/N) sip the tea he had prepared, a hidden joy rose inside him, knowing that his crush had found comfort in his act. Silently, he prayed for (Y/N)'s quick recovery, hoping that the tea's warmth would help ease her/his/their sickness. Seating himself alongside (Y/N), Britain couldn't help but mutter quietly, barely audible, "Get well soon, my love." He prayed against hope that (Y/N) hadn't noticed his whisper.

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CIARÁN KIRKLAND - Ireland

The one who actually manages to hide it from you and not obvious unlike Britain, New Zealand and then Australia. He could actually act normal despite having a crush on you.

His personality is much of a Kuudere instead of Tsundere so he would not get red when he is speaking with you not stammering when starting a conversation.

But since he has a crush on you, you would actually notice chocolates shaped like clover on your table when you just arrive at the school or the world meeting.

More open-minded than Arthur so he would be more understanding and secretly more empathetic when he is around you than when he is around other countries.

It's cannon he hates getting bossed around, especially by his brothers BUT he doesn't mind if you actually ask him to do things for you if you need him but just don't take it for granted it.

From far away, you could actually hear a Celtic harp from far away and you might be wondering who plays it and what music it is. Well, it's actually for him and it's a secret way of him confessing to you through his music.

Secretly asks his fairies to get information about you, kind of creepy but the purpose is actually he just wants to understand anything you are interested in so when he speaks about it with you, he would not act like an idiot and pretend to know it all.

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On a beautiful Saturday morning, (Y/N) entered the crowded grocery shop with a list of tonight's groceries in hand. As they looked through their long list, their look changed to one of anger, as they saw how much money they'd have to spend and the effort of carrying the heavy bags. With a resigned sigh, (Y/N) readied themselves for the work ahead, knowing that the feast at home would make it all worthwhile.

Navigating through the packed aisles in search of sauces, (Y/N) felt a jolt, forcing the items in their arms to fall to the ground. "Oh! I'm so sorry! "I didn't mean to knock into you!" (Y/N) apologised, hastily leaning down to get the dropped objects. As their fingers accidentally brushed against one another's, (Y/N) glanced up to find the personification of Ireland in front of them. "Oh, hello, (Y/N)," he said kindly. "Here, let me help you," he said, joining (Y/N) in gathering the scattered goods.

As Ciara gently placed each grocery item into (Y/N)'s basket, he couldn't help but notice how heavy the load was. "You have quite a few groceries there. "Do you need a trolley for all that?" he asked concerned. (Y/N) shook her head, but Ciara sighed, indicating his concern. "Don't be stubborn," he softly reminded. "You clearly need some assistance. "Let me take that basket for you," he insisted, attempting to relieve (Y/N) of the weight.

As Ciara continued to assist (Y/N) with picking up the groceries, her surprise mingled with a blush at his kindness. "You don't need to. I don't want to burden you," (Y/N) insisted, averting their/her/his gaze shyly. Ignoring her protests, Ciara shook his head and continued to help, his determination unwavering. "Your house is nearby, right?" he asks. "I can bring these for you," Ciara offered. "You don't need to. It's too heavy, I can manage," (Y/N) tried to reject his offer again. "It's okay. Besides, you need some help so I will help you," he said bluntly, his sincerity shining through his words.

As they approached the cashier, (Y/N) sighed, accepting Ciara's assistance once more with a sweet grin. "Okay, thank you very much, Ireland. "I'm sorry I made you bring all of these groceries," you said. Ciara brushed aside your apology with a soft smile that was gone in one second. "There was no problem. He reassured you, "The least I can do is help you." Unbeknownst to (Y/N), Ciara's aid was motivated by more than simply kindness.

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rebelsandtherest · 1 year

Text

Frater Familias

Words: 5,719

Summary: Churchill lies, Singapore falls, an empire abandons his children in a sea of wolves. When their brother finds out, there will be hell to pay.In early 1942, Alfred Jones travels across the globe to save his baby brother and sister from the betrayal of their father. When Arthur Kirkland returns at long last, his eldest is waiting for him, ready to spill blood.

Warnings: Language, mentions of death and bodily injury.

Author’s Note: I kept things very vague to make it easier for myself, but this takes place not too long after the Battle of Coral Sea in May 1942.

You can also read on Ao3 if you prefer

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Alfred Jones hadn't wanted to kill his father this badly since 1781. Come to think of it, Alfred wasn't sure he'd ever wanted to kill his father as much as he did now.

Sure, he hadn't been pleased that President Roosevelt acquiesced to Britain's insistence on a Germany-first strategy. The scar of Pearl Harbor was still fresh and livid, and he was spoiling for a chance to hunt Kiko down personally. Even so, he'd kept his mouth diplomatically shut and had taken heart when Churchill assured him that British forces in the pacific would hold, that the ANZACs would have plenty of reinforcements to hold allied territories there.

That, as it turned out, had been a massive lie. Gargantuan. Colossal. Titanic, in fact. His father might as well have designed the ship himself, stuck his two youngest on board without lifeboats bound straight for an ice field, and stayed cozy in Belfast while Alfred broke his back feeding coal to the Carpathia in a blind, unplanned panic. Churchill fiddled while Singapore fell, and Father fiddled along with him.

"Where is he?" Alfred demanded, ignoring the guard at the entrance who was trying to slow him down."

"I'm sorry?" Asked the startled British soldier stationed at the war room door.

"Arthur Kirkland. Where is he?"

The soldier took a few tries to say, "General Kirkland hasn't yet arrived, sir."

"Fine. Which room will be his?"

"Sir, I'm so sorry, can I get your name, I'll need to ask–"

"Where?" Alfred demanded, and there was something in his too-perfect voice, his too-blue eyes, that made the soldier startle and point immediately down the hall.

"End of the hall, on the left."

Alfred stormed in that direction without a word. The soldier blinked a few times. A deer released from headlights, it took him a moment to get his bearings.

"Wait," he called after Alfred, quickly jogging after him. "Wait sir, you're not allowed to-" but Alfred was already inside, going around to sit in the officer's chair behind the empty letter desk. "Sir, the General won't be here for another five, six hours."

"Fine," Alfred said, and had this young Australian known him better, he would have known to be frightened by his stoic, collected anger. Facial expression unchanging, the American wheeled back in the chair and propped his feet on the desk. "I'll wait."

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There was quite a bit of hubbub around the base when the British entourage finally arrived. None of the humans here knew what Arthur was, but they did know he was a high-ranking General, so the arrival had caused quite a bit of fuss and bustle. Alfred remained in the office, unaffected. When he heard English accents appear down the hall, he closed his eyes and mentally braced himself. When he opened them again, the click-clack of English bootheels was just around the corner, and in seconds he was staring up at his father, England himself.

Arthur stopped short just inside the threshold of his office, flanked by two aides, one young and fresh-faced, the other brunet with a trim mustache.

"Alfred," he said plainly, as if he hadn't expected to see his eldest here, after everything, the 's glare was fixed solidly on Arthur, but he spared a dismissive glance at the humans. He returned his ire towards his father before he told the aides,

"You two, get out."

Arthur didn't even blink. The younger aide looked to his mustachioed companion for help.

"Sir," the elder man said, glancing diplomatically between Arthur and Alfred, whose crossed arms and lack of cover disguised whatever rank he might've been. "This office has been assigned to General Kirkland, I must insist that—"

"Yes, it has," Alfred said in a patronizing tone. "Now get out."

Bewildered, the aide looked to Arthur, but though the General's eyebrows had fallen in a dark look of annoyance, his eyes hadn't moved from the seething American before him.

"It's been a long journey, Hesten," Arthur said stiffly, "go find your lodgings." The younger aide immediately began to splutter some confusion, but his elder quickly shushed him and shepherded him out the door. "Close the door on your way out," Arthur instructed. The brunet man did, glancing fleetingly at Arthur and then at Alfred before the door clicked shut.

The walls were battle-thick concrete, and as the door shut, the sound of the outside hall faded into a dull ambiance.

"Of all the asinine American theatrics I've witnessed, Alfred, this must be among the worst."

"How dare you," Alfred spat.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," Alfred yanked his feet off of his father's desk, not caring that he left scuff marks. He stood to his full height and god it had never felt so right to be taller than this cowardly, self-righteous excuse for a father, "how fucking dare you. Show up now? Of all times? Where were you?"

"Alfred," Arthur didn't have to physically roll his eyes for Alfred to hear the intent in his voice, "I did not ask for you to—"

"Where were you?" Alfred demanded, raising his voice louder than he'd intended. "Because I can tell you right now where you weren't."

"I'm not going to to stand here and allow you to lecture me in my own office—"

"By the time I got here, Jack had already died twice!" Alfred shouted. Arthur had been ready with a retort, but he stopped short as the 'twice' rang off the walls. "Zee was only alive by pure luck, stuck as a nurse on a doomed destroyer, blown up by so much shrapnel that by the time I got her to shore I thoughtshe was dead. And where were you?"

For a moment, silence was his only answer, father and son locked in a staring contest while Alfred took in loud, furious lungfuls of air.

"I realize you've only recently opened your eyes to the fact," Arthur said flatly, "but we are at war, Alfred. We all must make sacrifices."

"Sacrifices," Alfred scoffed, surprised they'd reached this point so quickly. "And who is it that decides what's worth sacrificing?"

"We are Nations," Arthur insisted. "Difficult decisions such as these are an unfortunate necessity of what we are, how we must conduct ourselves in times of—"

"They are your children, Arthur!" Alfred hadn't meant to call his father by his first name, and he hadn't meant his voice to crack like it had. "Damn the nations, damn Churchill, damn you, damn it all, they are your children!"

"They are my children," Arthur matched Alfred's volume, but kept a stern expression, "and they, along with the rest of my family, are at war."

"Fuck you!" Alfred shouted back, "Fuck you and this entire fucking family, Jack is barely over a century old, Zee even less so, they're babies, dad, infants! And you just fucking left them out here!"

"We've all seen war within our childhoods," Arthur snapped back, with a surprising amount of bite behind his words.

"With muskets, bows, and daggers, not this!" Alfred swept his hand as if to indicate the entire world. "Go to the artillery, go to the infirmary, go to the foxholes and tell me this war is like anything you or Ifaced as children. Jack's only recently got over the shellshock from the last time you left him to the wolves, and now this!" Alfred took sick satisfaction in seeing his father's face flinch.

"I've tried to shield them from it," Arthur bit back, "Just like I tried to shield you and Matthew when you were young, but it's never worked, not once. It's not worth lying to them."

"Lying to them about what? Your reinforcements? Their chance at survival once Churchill wrote them off?" Alfred demanded. He watched his father flinch again and hoped to god he was listening. He was aware that he was shouting loudly enough to be heard outside the office, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Let the humans know exactly what their general was—a callus empire, and an absent father. "Curtin was preparing a speech to brace his people for invasion, and how to break it to their children—their children!" the American spat. "Your son was deluded enough to believe he could fight them off alone, because what other choice did he have?" Arthur was emotionless. "Tell me! What other choice did either of them have? If I hadn't heard the rumors coming out of the pacific, what do you think would have happened?!"

"But you did hear them," Arthur said, voice straining to keep its composure. "And so your very complaint here is rendered moot-"

"Don't you go making this out to be my fucking responsibility," Alfred spat, coming around the desk to face his father directly, where no tip of Arthur's chin could hide how much his eldest towered over him, "don't you sit there and act all sanctimonious because I managed to get here at the eleventh hour. It wasn't your doing, it wasn't your plan. I'm here in spite of you, not because of you."

"And yet," Arthur wasn't actually looking at Alfred when he said it, straightening his shoulders to some invisible mirror, saving face as he always has when he said, "You are here, as am I, now."

"I was here before you had the decency to do your own duty as father," Alfred yelled, "I was here before the order reached the SecNav's desk. You were off in fuck knows where doing fuck knows what drinking tea farmed thousands of miles from your stupid cozy island, while I commandeered a ship to offer your children hope." Alfred glared, a thousand things he wanted to say simmering under the bonfire of anger. "I have a court martial waiting for me in Los Angeles," he confessed angrily. "They'll drop the case before I get home, once I've told the President about the hell you've left us here, but don't you dare act like my being here was part of any grand plan. They are your children, and you chose to abandon them. If I didn't know that it would fuck them over even more than you already have, I would've stuck a bowie in your liver the second you stepped through that door."

A long stretch of silence passed in between them, but it offered no resolution.

"Are you not my child, as well?" Arthur asked, venturing a glance at his eldest.

"I am," Alfred replied, glaring, "but none of us asked to be." When the words landed, Arthur's furious expression cracked and morphed through shockwaves of hurt. Alfred knew he'd hit his target, so he took a step closer. Quiter, but not quietly, he said,

"For the last century, I've looked on in envy at the father they had. A doting father, a loving father, a father who was there," Alfred pressed into his father's personal space, and Arthur was glaring up at him with a mix of hurt, anger, and trepidation writhing underneath his drawn brows. "Nothing at all like the man who paid humans to raise me. I thought you had changed. I've seen you change, become someone you never were for me, and I praised God and all his fucking angels that my brother and sister would be so lucky. It took him four kids, but Arthur Kirkland finally figured it out. Now it's all gone right out the window because his empire's gotten too big for his goddamn war," Alfred's fists were trembling with anger. He'd never said such things to his father in all his life, and he hadn't planned on saying them today. It was the memory of Jack's dead eyes, the tears of relief on Zee's bloodied cheeks, how thin and worn they'd both felt under the weight of his hugs, that dug up a protective sort of anger for them that he'd never felt for himself.

Arthur looked like he wanted to slap Alfred across the face. If he wasn't so completely dumbstruck, he probably would have.

"You are not going to do to them what you did to me," Alfred growled, getting right up in his father's face, "because if you do, I'll fucking kill you." With that, he stormed out of the office and slammed the door louder than a gunshot.

Arthur stood motionless for several long minutes afterwards, before slowly moving around his desk and gingerly lowering himself into his chair. At great length, he bent over his lap, ran a world-weary hand through his hair, and let out a shaking sigh.

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It felt as though the entire building was staring when Alfred left his father's office. He tried to ignore it, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers and trying to level his rapid breathing. God, he needed fresh air. He'd taken not even ten steps toward the exit before he came to a halt, faced with the last person he expected to see.

"Jack," he blurted, heart leaping into his throat. "How long have you—" Alfred stopped short, because it was clear enough from the boy's expression he'd been there more than long enough.

"I-I was just here to give him-" Jack looked down at his hands, and it was then that Alfred realized the teen was holding a dossier. "I heard dad got in this afternoon—since he's not been briefed on the–" his voice was steady, but he wasn't, swaying on his feet, hands making the folder wobble just slightly. Underfed, underslept, and overwrought, he looked like a stiff breeze might knock him offshore. "I mean, I thought I should be the one to tell him about everything, and you know how he likes having things written down- I didn't write all of it, but I wrote one of the reports, edited some of them, you know, included the things I thought he would find important, everything we were able to…" Jack trailed off, staring down at the folder in his hands, wondering if there'd been any point in putting it together. It wasn't as though the British Empire had any need for retrospectives on what was essentially a United States Navy rescue operation.

"I guess I just wanted to let him know I was alright," Jack muttered, almost to himself. He heard a sigh and looked up. Unfamiliar wrinkles cast shadows across Alfred's forehead, a mix of grief and pity and fading anger. The American reached under his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"C'mon, kid," he said behind his hand, voice hoarse from yelling and fatigue. "Let's get you outta here, aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I haven't been able to sleep much," Jack replied. They both had dark circles under their eyes.

"Fair enough. Any good place to hide around here? I nicked some of the old man's gin." Alfred shook what sounded like a partially empty bottle, and Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"He's going to notice that," he said, eyes flickering to his father's office. "Soon," he added.

"No he won't," Alfred used the bottle to wave Jack into step with him as he left their father to sulk alone. "He drinks rum when he knows he's fucked up. And the fact that he hasn't already come out here to search my pockets means he knows he fucked up."

Jack led Alfred out past the perimeter of the small base and up onto a small hill a few hundred meters from the beach. Though grassy and dusted in the shade of several short, scraggly trees, the area was still dusted with sand. It made a comfortable place for the pair to sit and stare out at the ocean, passing their father's gin back and forth until they were both tipsy enough to deal with what the day had wrought. The sun was hot on their backs as it tilted past afternoon an into a long autumn dusk.

"Did he really mean it?" Jack blurted, breaking the silence. Alfred looked over at him.

"Mean what?"

"I mean, when you said that Churchill planned to give up the… surely dad have to have known, right? Did he… I guess I just… did he really plan to do that? To take Churchill's side of things, if things got really bad?"

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but quickly thought better of it. Things got 'really bad' a long time ago, kid, he'd almost said. Alfred wasn't willing to guess whether or not Arthur had really planned to abandon his youngest son and darling daughter to the fury of the Japanese military, if it had come to that. Deep down, past all his anger and resentment, even Alfred did not want to think of his father as a cruel man. Callous, yes, stupid, absolutely, but not the sort of man who would watch his children sink beneath the waves of invasion and remain unaffected.

Yet if Alfred's ships had not sailed swiftly enough, what would Arthur be doing at that moment? Alfred realized Jack was staring at him, eyes lost. He sighed.

"Dad is… a complicated man," Alfred told him lamely. "As far as fathers go—and never tell him I said this—he's not… the worst out there. But wars turn him into a moron, make him forget his human side. I think we all saw that well enough in '15." Jack looked away quickly, jaw clenching. Alfred was grateful that at least that he hadn't had to say Gallipoli to get his point across. "He's always been like this. It's nothing you did. It's just him being the dumbass he hides under all that 'keep calm and carry on' bullshit." He watched Jack's back for a moment. The teen fiddled with the sandy grass and found a pebble, flicked it down the hill and watched it trace a line in the sand.

"Always been like this?" Jack asked, and glanced back to Alfred, unable to hide his curiosity. Alfred actually laughed.

"God, kid, he used to be even worse. I mean, hell, he was still a fucken' pirate when I was a baby, he ever tell you that?"

"He what?" Jack's face grew into a wicked grin.

"Sure as shit! I still remember—I mean, not well, but I know he had this ludicrous red coat and earrings and a cutlass and everything. God knows what a pirate was doing with a baby."

"So what, did he take you out on the ship with him?" Jack was transported, trying to imagine Alfred as a baby, much less their stick-up-the-arse father as a pirate.

"That, I don't know. It was a long time ago, and I was really small. I do remember his ship, though, at least the one he had when I was a bit older." Alfred's smile faltered. "He'd be gone for years at a time, even decades. He'd come back unannounced, stay for a week, and then leave without saying goodbye. He did that because of a war. We'd always have a year or so of peace in between, and he'd stick around and be a decent dad, and then, boom, another war, and off he goes. Actually," Alfred chuckled, "I'm not sure he was ever not at war, when I was growing up, I think the letters just took a while to cross the Atlantic." he shrugged and looked over at Jack, who was frowning at him. It made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

"Listen, all I'm trying to say, is that he's always been like this. And he's gotten better—god, so much better, but this war…" Alfred began to say something, but came up short. He let out a breath with a shake of his head.

"It's different," Jack said quietly. All the nations knew it—even Jack, who was scarcely 150, could feel it.

"What he did to you and Zee is indefensible, in any century, in any war." Alfred said, eyes landing on the edge of a bandage peeking out from under Jack's sleeve. "I just want to make sure you understand, it's nothing you did, nothing Zee or anyone else did. It's just… dad." It was an unsatisfactory, unjust answer to the horrors that had unfolded in the last six months. Alfred knew it wouldn't wipe away the uncertainty in Jack's guileless face, but maybe, over time, it would temper his resilience to exist as the son of a deeply flawed man.

"Right," Jack said softly, sounding more thoughtful than was his wont. He picked at his fingernails, lost to his own musings for a while. In the quiet that followed, Alfred realized how exhausted he was, and let his eyes drift shut, enjoying the feel of the sun warming his face in flickering patterns as it twinkled through the leaves.

"So wait," Jack broke the silence once again, "if dad was a pirate, does that mean that the King sent out men to hunt him down? His own nation?"

"Oh, man," Alfred sat up, reaching for the gin, which was closer to Jack. "Gimme that. I can't tell this story as good as uncle Rhys, but I'll try."

--------------------

Though she was probably a fiercer fighter than virtually anyone in their family, barring perhaps Alfred or Arthur himself, in wartime, Zee's sex relegated her to hospitals and infirmaries rather than battle stations. It'd been this way in the last war, and she found she preferred it. War was death, and if she had to watch her people die, it was far better, she thought, to see them die after doing her damnedest to save them.

She and Jack had their separate forces, but the two had clung close together as the situation in the Pacific soured. She'd been aboard the destroyer for a little over a week by the time the Americans arrived, but she hadn't had a chance to see the Yankee himself before a Japanese bomb blew her floating hospital to bits. It had in fact been Alfred who spotted her bobbing in the surf and dragged her to shore, later admonishing her with a wobbling voice that it was the worst kind of way to say hello to one's estranged brother. Left with open wounds and a dislocated shoulder, she'd been brought down the coast to the base where Jack was holed up, becoming the first female resident of its sparsely-appointed infirmary.

In the short, hellish time that Alfred had fought alongside her, he'd seen his sister absorb all kinds of pain with the iron-willed composure of their father, but after a thousand small cuts, the shoulder is what did her in. She'd vomited and promptly passed out when the medics had set it. They'd given her morphine when she woke up, but it had left her deliriously nauseous. Unfortunately, when they'd taken her off it, the pain kept her awake so long she'd cried, which had startled Jack so badly he begged her to take the morphine until the swelling went down. She'd capitulated, but the nausea had kept her abed.

Alfred rapped his knuckles on the open doorframe before ducking in. Tired brown eyes squinted open to see him, and she grunted to acknowledge him.

"Hey Kiwi," Alfred said softly, unconsciously slouching to make himself smaller, quieter. He unfolded a canvas chair that had been stashed in a corner and sat near the head of her rickety hospital bed. "How're you holding up in here?"

"This place fuckin smells," she complained, voice gravelly and hoarse. "Or maybe that's just you." Alfred snorted.

"Feeling better, I see," he smirked. Zee sighed, using her right hand to manually adjust her left arm, which was strapped to her torso in a sling.

"If one more person talks about how I'm feeling, I'll vomit again."

"Alright," Alfred lifted his hands, "I won't ask. Jack said you'd convinced them to let you go tomorrow?" Hearing this, Zee's eyes opened a little wider, and she turned her head towards Alfred, one eye obscured by her curly hair that was pressed against the pillow.

"You've talked to Jackie today?" she seemed surprised.

"Yeah," Alfred frowned at her, "have you not?"

"This morning I did, but dad said no one could find him," she said. It was Alfred's turn to be surprised.

"You've talked to dad?"

"Yeah, 'bout an hour ago, give or take." She watched Alfred's face with catlike attention. "Dad mentioned he'd spoken with you. What did you say?" Alfred couldn't help it when he let out a snort.

"Spoke with me, huh."

"What did you say?" Zee asked again. "I haven't been coddled like that in thirty years. And what with how he's been…lately," Zee's eyes were distant for a few seconds before she shook herself and looked up expectantly at her brother. Alfred drew in a deep breath and leaned back in his chair before letting out a long sigh.

"He's been acting like a shit father, you and I both know that," he began, picking at a stray thread in his sleeve so he wouldn't have to make eye contact, "I just told him so."

"What, just… Just told him that?" Zee was incredulous, "and he listened?"

"Apparently," Alfred demurred.

"Christ," Zee let her head fall back into her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "That must be nice." Alfred would've had to have been deaf not to hear the bitterness in her tone. It made him angry at their father all over again. Zee had always been the apple of Arthur's eye; that he had ignored even sweet Eleanor so profoundly was a testament to how low he'd stooped.

"He doesn't listen to me because he sees me as his equal, if that's what you're thinking," Alfred cut in. "He listens to me because I was his biggest fuck up, and he doesn't want to fuck up more than he already has with you two." Zee had no immediate response to that, and continued to stare up at the ceiling, swollen arm rising and falling with every breath. The wall lamp shone through her half-full IV bottle, casting abstract patterns of light that morphed gently against her hair.

"Well," Zee said at length, still staring at the ceiling, "I guess the coddling is nice." Quieter, hoarser, she muttered, "Could've used a few more fucking troops."

"He'll pull his head out of his ass and remember how to be a good father, eventually," Alfred told her, not really knowing if he had that kind of faith in their dad, "in the meantime, I got you. Both of you. You need something, anything, even if it's just yelling at Admiral Lord Father again, you tell me." Zee smiled at the sardonic title.

"Thanks, Yankee," she said, voice thicker than before. He'd never heard her use the moniker so affectionately. "I… might take you up on that."

"'Course. Us victims of the Arthur Kirkland School of Parenting gotta stick together." Zee let out a laugh that quickly turned into a hiss when it jostled her arm.

"I don't suppose you could get rid of this goddamn morphine and convince my arm to heal, could you?" She asked him, blinking away tears of pain.

"I will happily yell at the Empire till the cows come home, but even I can't work miracles, Kiwi-girl."

"Damn," Zee grit out. Alfred glanced at her shoulder, and then out the window; it was getting late.

"We'll have you outta here in no time. But I think it's about time you got some sleep."

"I've been trying," Zee huffed, clearly frustrated with the entire situation. She glanced at the empty glass on the stool by her bed. "Would more water be too much of a miracle?" Alfred smiled.

"Course not." He plucked up the glass and left the room, returning with not one but two full glasses of water, which he deposited on her bedside stool. While Zee gratefully took a few large gulps, he dug around in his pockets and produced a few squares of Red Cross-issue chocolate. He waved them at Zee. "Motivation for you to rest up and get off that morphine," he said, setting them beside the water glasses. She looked at them hungrily but warily, obviously still nauseous.

"Do you know how to motivate with anything besides food?" She teased.

"Food is an excellent motivator. Now get some sleep," he bent to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. "And don't tell Jack I gave you chocolate, I'm not made of the stuff."

--------------------

Alfred didn't see much of his father in the following days. When he did, it was always from a distance, and generally one of them would make themselves scarce before they crossed paths. He heard by way of mouth that the General was making something of an apology tour with his two youngest, or at least as close to apologies as the British Empire was capable of crafting. Zee left the hospital but kept the sling, and was, apparently, coddled quite fiercely by her prodigal guardian and given free run of the base, much to the discomfort of the men. She milked Arthur's guilt for all it was worth, and Alfred could tell it would be some time before she'd give him the forgiveness he hoped for.

Jack received similar coddling once Arthur tracked him down. Unlike his sister, Jack seemed eager to receive the affection and make amends, putting the harms of days past as far away from his mind as possible. Jack had always been trusting and kind, though Alfred didn't think Arthur deserved it. Jack was young, baby fat not yet making way for the angled jaw that promised to fill in as he grew more and more to look like his father. Even so, Alfred could still see the shadows that clung to the boy's features when Arthur wasn't looking. They made him look far older than he was.

Throughout it all, Arthur avoided speaking with his eldest son with obvious intentionality. Alfred didn't plan on stopping him. His anger towards his father was still not completely slaked, and it wouldn't do anyone any good to butt heads now that the Empire and his children were negotiating apologies.

Still, Jack had begun sneaking looks over his shoulder at Alfred whenever Arthur suggested a new plan of attack or promised reinforcements. It took a few times for Alfred to realize that Jack was looking to him not just for reassurance, but for a second opinion—for approval.

He had a feeling he and his father would argue about that, some day.

"But they're both okay? I mean, as okay as can be?" Matt's voice was tinny, worried words garbled somewhat by the thousands and thousands of miles of cables that brought his voice to Alfred's ear from the other side of the globe.

"Yeah, they'll be alright. I think it's going to take them a little longer to heal than normal, but they'll be alright."

"Good. And what about you?" Alfred wanted to tease his brother for how mother-hennish he sounded, but separated by so much distance, Matt's concern was a welcome comfort.

"Oh, I'm fine," Alfred shrugged, resisting the urge to rub at the spot by his collarbone where the lingering ache of Pearl Harbor had taken root. "I'm just glad I got here in time."

"Me too," Matt said darkly. A moment of silence passed before the Canadian added, "I'm not… happy you were dragged into this war, Al, but I'm not unhappy either." Alfred clenched his teeth and sighed out through his nose, fighting off a flare of anger towards their father.

"Well," He joked, because what else could he say? "Someone's gotta keep this family kicking, right?"

Arthur had been on base for a little over a week when Alfred went to the Officer's mess to meet his siblings for breakfast, as had become their habit, only to find both missing. Alfred had already finished his eggs and half of his pancakes when Jack and Zee arrived, Jack looking crestfallen, Zee furious. They slid into the bench opposite Alfred.

"Dad's gone," Zee said bluntly.

"Wait, what?" Alfred frowned, stopping mid-bite.

"He left—early this morning, apparently," Jack griped. "Didn't even tell anyone. Didn't even say goodbye to Zee, much less me!"

"He left this for you," Zee said, reaching across the table to give him a small envelope.

"Oh, god," Alfred groaned, taking it. The Anzacs watched with interest while he opened it and scanned its contents. It was a small notecard, but with the sun shining on it over Alfred's shoulder, Zee could see that it was packed with text, their father's neat handwriting compressed into a wall of ink.

"What's it say?" Jack asked eagerly. Alfred's expression remained unmoving as he read. At length, he took a stiff inhale and slid the note into his breast pocket.

"Says I owe him a bottle of gin," he said. Zee looked at him quizzically, but when Alfred volunteered no further information, she shook her head and stood.

"Jackie, d'you want tea?"

"Nah, I'm good," Jack waved her off, still sulking. He began to pick at the wooden edge of the table, prying off a small splinter of wood and flicking it away. Alfred watched the sad, annoyed tilt of Jack's eyebrows and wondered if this was how he had looked, a lonely child left on the shores of Virginia.

"Hey, don't be so glum," he told Jack, "like I said, war makes him act stupid. He won't be like this forever." And hopefully, it would not be years or decades. "In the meantime," Alfred flipped his plate around and handed Jack the fork. "I'll be here as long as you need me, for whatever you need"

"Really?" Jack took the fork gratefully, and surveyed the two pancakes left on his brother's plate.

"Really really." After a little hesitation, Jack managed a smile. He used the fork to give a playful, grateful salute and dug in, immediately transported from his sadness by the contraband maple syrup. Zee soon returned with her tea and lounged against Jack while Alfred sipped at his coffee. While the troops ran drills and the officers ferried new intelligence to and fro, the three siblings, long separated by the world's largest ocean, shared the first of many morning reprieves together, the faults of their father temporarily forgotten.

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