[Fanfiction] An International Affair 1/?
Hello, back after a (long) while with a first long fic!
Title: An International Affair
Genre: Humor, Romance, Adventure/Action, AU
Pairing(s): AmericaxEngland (for this chapter)
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (mostly for fight scenes, probably)
Summary: Prince Arthur Kirkland, heir to the British crown, is pushed into a world in which way too many people try to kill him when he stumbles across a certain annoying American.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Hetalia or the lyrics to the “Kung-Fu Fighting” song
Chapter One
His Royal Highness Arthur Kirkland, Prince of Wales, walked around the same signpost for the third time before he admitted there might be a possibility that he was lost.
It wasn’t as if he had a bad sense of direction - oh no; in fact, finding his way around the palace and into its many nooks and crannies was one of the many talents that Arthur had mastered at the age of five, much to the consternation of his bodyguards.
And it wasn’t as if Arthur didn’t have a sense of responsibility (although dodging his black-suited babysitters might have admittedly been a lapse of judgment). On the contrary, his grandmother, Her Royal Majesty The Queen, had remarked on several occasions that his bearing and countenance were quite mature for his age.
(Peter had called him a stuffy old closet, but who else besides trashy newspapers cared what younger brothers thought anyways? Arthur shuddered. The last headlines about a royal brotherly splat were still fresh enough to smart.)
It was with this same air of dignity that Arthur paused momentarily in the middle of the busy street, tilted his cap to hide his ever prominent royal eyebrows, and hurried on in a direction he was almost certain was west (there were still a few rays of sunlight peeking from that corner of the sky).
He advanced half a block before he slammed into something warm and solid in front of him. Hastily adjusting his cap, Arthur muttered out a polite, “Excuse me,” and shifted towards the left to pass the man by.
A large, calloused hand abruptly dragged Arthur back with enough force to make him stumble. “And where do you think you’re going, you fucker?” the red-faced punk snarled, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth.
After executing a swift kick to his capturer’s nether regions that would have made his cousin Elizabeta proud, the prince ran for it.
The sounds of pounding footsteps shattered the quiet of the deserted streets. Arthur’s breaths came out in hasty snatched puffs of air as he skidded around the nearby corner, his hand clutching a snitch in his side as he cursed the lack of alleyway escapades in his training as heir to the kingdom. If (no, when) he got back to the palace he would have Ivan set up a regimen of push-ups and pulleys and…
A wall loomed up ahead of the panting prince. Oh bollocks.
And pull-ups, Arthur grimly noted as he grasped at the worn-out bricks of the stupid wall, wincing as the rough surface scratched his hands. This could make embroidering hell for the next few weeks…
Scrabbling frantically at the next brick, Arthur had just managed to hoist himself up another half meter before a fist slammed into his back. Arthur crumpled to the ground, an involuntary hiss of pain escaping his lips. He had barely managed to regain his breath when a hand wrinkled his shirt, wrenching him upwards towards the twisted features of one of his pursuers. The beady eyes feasted greedily on the trickle of red running down the prince’s left cheek. “You wanna scream now, you pans - ”
A jeans-clad leg vaulted over the wall and smashed into the lout’s face.
Arthur blinked.
“Nu fuker!” Arthur’s attacker screamed, clutching his broken nose.
His shout broke the short reverie that had fallen over the rest of the gang. They surged forward in a confused rabble, driving towards the tall, blond man who stood between them and their target.
“Hell yeah! Come on and get a piece of this!” he shouted, waving his fist at them with reckless abandon.
Americans. Arthur snorted, stumbling to his feet and wincing at the all too familiar accent. Of course his would-be rescuer had to be some Hollywood-obsessed American with some fantasy of becoming the next indecently clad superhero sporting another one of those ridiculous monikers.
Still, two instead of one against ten were better odds.
Metal flashed in the corner Arthur’s sight. “Watch out, you bloody wanker!” the Brit shouted, cap slipping off his head as he reached out a hand in a desperate plea to halt the descending blade as it cut through the air towards the American -
Who wasn’t there anymore because he had suddenly transported himself (there was no other explanation; no one excepting Natalia and Ivan had ever moved that fast before) and then a blur of bodies before a bald-headed ruffian was lying on the ground, howling, clutching his wrist in pain.
Arthur gaped at the American, who flashed a bright grin (the very cheek!) at the prince. A distant part of him (that wasn’t on overdrive) noted that the taller man had begun to loudly and obnoxiously belt out, “Everybody was kung-fu fighting” - his hand jabbed at the inner elbow of an oncoming assailant - “Those cats were fast as lightning” - another one of his transportation tricks - “In fact it was a little bit fright’ning” - he hurled his body around, feet spinning out to catch the back of a knee - “But they fought with expert timing!” - and the side of a face, its mouth opening in a half-surprised snarl - “They were funky China men from funky Chinatown” - the last remaining assailant fumbled for his right pocket - “They were chopping them up” - A fist shot out under his stomach - “and they were chopping them down” - and slammed down on the man’s back. A battered gun fell out, clattering onto the ground. It skidded towards Arthur, coming to rest a few centimeters from his feet.
Pumping up his fist in time to the beat of the music, the American loped towards the prince, skidding to a stop before him, still with that off-key screeching - “It’s an ancient Chinese art and everybody knew their part” - he shot a foot forward and twisted it a little - “From a feint into a slip,” - popping the gun into his hand - “and kicking from the hip!”
Spreading his arms out wide in a flourish, he beamed at the Brit.
Scratch that. Arthur had apparently been saved by some loony-bin nut-job.
The blond-haired man stuck his hand out towards the prince, grinning, “Oh man, I was so awesome, wasn’t I?”
What? Oh yes, he should probably... Clearing his throat, Arthur gingerly accepted the proffered hand, wincing as the overgrown man pumped it up and down energetically. “Ah, Mr….?”
“Oh yeah! Alfred! Alfred F. Jones!” the American shouted into Arthur’s ear.
“…Mr. Jones. Err… I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Jones. You may call me (the prince debated giving him a false name but decided that it was too much of a bother. Besides, there were probably loads of people with his name) Arthur.”
“ASSISTANCE? Oh come on,” The Ameri - Alfred slapped Arthur’s back, grinning (the Brit stumbled forward a few steps), “don’t be such a stiff, old man! I totally rescued your ass back there!”
“Arse!”
Alfred blinked, his victory dance halted in mid-jump, “Wha…”
Arthur felt his cheeks heating up, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from spluttering, “Arse, you bloody wanker! Your - my - your arse! At least use proper English, you - you - ”
The Brit took a few deep breaths. Foul-mouthed as the American was, he had sav- assisted Arthur, and yelling at him was rather discourteous.
No matter how much the tone-deaf lout deserved it.
Stiffly. “I apologize for my conduct, Mr. Jones.”
The American grinned, a long lock of hair swinging wildly across forehead as he resumed bouncing around excitedly, “Nah, don’t worry! Probably just a little shaken, huh?” His eyes flashed a blinding shade of bright blue. Arthur felt his cheeks grow red again. Stupid weather, getting him out of sorts today…
Distracted by his laughable attempts at reasoning, he was barely able to hold back a squeak when an arm snaked around him, pulling him towards a very well-muscled body. “Let’s go get something hot to warm you up!”
Arthur struggled for a few minutes before giving up. It was warmer like that, anyways, he decided.
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What a typical American. Arthur mentally rolled his eyes as he watched his companion practically inhale (and choke on) the monstrous cup of dark liquid in front of him.
Sighing softly, Arthur curled his hands around his own smaller cup of coffee. If he had the choice, he would have gotten a nice cup of tea, but having forgotten his own wallet in his haste to get out of the palace, it was only acceptable that he accompany the person paying for the drinks to their choice of venue, no matter how detestable it was or so small that they only offered the bitter brew at this shop.
Starbucks indeed. The one time you were relying on Americans to go for the largest alternative possible and they decided to...Never mind. He brushed a hand through his hair absentmindedly. Now he just needed a way to contact Ivan discreetly so he could get -
Oh fuck.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. He was so fucked. How could he have forgotten? A sharp flare of panic rose in his throat as he hastily tried to flatten his bangs in front of his eyebrows. If Alfred - or anyone in the shop for the matter - caught sight of them, there would be a riot. He could already picture the headlines: “Good Prince Gone Bad!” or even more humiliating: “Arthur Absconds with American!”
Ivan was going to kill him. Or even worse, Elizabeta would most definitely blackmail him to pose for unprintable camera shots (Arthur would never, ever drink again, especially near his grandmother’s old angel costume. Giving the Countess this much blackmail material was not conducive to his health or image).
“Hey, Arthur.”
Arthur refused to look directly at him. At least this way he could keep his dignity, and any stray photographers wouldn’t be able to get a good shot of them together. But how far would it be for them to get in the right angle - oh fuck it, he was doomed anyways, so what the hell - Arthur looked up.
Alfred was directing a sympathetic glance towards him. Bloody hell, how was he going to - “Did they have a bad hair day?” The blond man patted his hand.
“Pardon?”
“Your eyebrows, man! They look like a bunch of caterpillars crawled up and ate -”
Arthur threw his still steaming cup at the tosser.
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Wrenching open the door, Arthur stomped out into the cold. That stupid, idiotic-
A hand gripped his arm, painfully. He whirled around snarling, “Wha---aaaaaiiiiiiiiii…….”
His shout trailed off into a (dignified) squeak. A silver-haired girl stared back at him stonily, her grip not lessening a bit where it dug into his arm.
“Err…Natalia, I -”
“Brother was worried.”
Arthur blanched. Without another word, the shorter girl began to tow the prince towards a car waiting discretely by the roadside.
As he stumbled after his bodyguard, Arthur shoved his free arm into his coat. Hopefully that hand wouldn’t freeze to death; his left arm was already doomed to a relentless loss of circulation courtesy of Natalia.
Arthur frowned as his fingers scraped over a smooth, thick surface. Shifting slightly, Arthur managed to ply it out just as Natalia shoved him with a glaring lack of gentleness into the car.
It was the coffee cup that he had emptied over a certain uncouth American. Grimacing slightly (really, no matter how high dry cleaning bills were these days, how childish was it to slip a used cup into his coat just to get back at him?), the prince was just about to toss it into the plastic bag stowed under his seat when a smear of ink caught his eye. Twisting the cup towards his face, Arthur peered into the inside to read the untidy scrawl of words scratched out on the bottom:
Alfred F. Jones
398-395-4937 ;)