Sometimes I just shouldn't be allowed near a computer. Seriously, someone needs to keep me away from this thing. So, I was surfing the web today and came across this article "In America, Crazy is a Pre-existing Condition". ...Then I started wondering about how there is always some crazy stuff happening, over zealous people and facepalm moments in the media. Now, I'm not trying to make a social or political statement-seriously, there is no way I think I am even accomplishing that-but I did wonder how that would work in Hetalia. Then I wondered if Alfred went through 'phases' like other teenagers except they were more widespread and then I remembered the article and thought that maybe those phases were incidents of insanity that everyone else had to deal with. Then, running onto a new tangent, I thought private eyes were cool.

Then the multiple tangents had a sexy, filthy orgy and this was born. I don't even know what this is. Seriously, I don't even know and isn't that SICK?

Warnings: cheesiness, OOCness, slash, borderline gratuitous mentions of sex, fail reproduction of a whole genre of movies, crack

Pairings: mentioned Alfred/Matthew

Summary: Alfred is going through one of his 'phases'. Matthew has to go fix things. He's not excited.

I knew he was coming into my office before he even knocked. Maybe a part of my brain heard the soft, hesitant footsteps, or maybe heard the breathy exhale of breath on the other side of the door. Or maybe I've just got the sixth sense for bad news carried by a wide-eyed vixen, thanks to all my experience. Regardless, I was prepared for an entrance.

But not prepared for his entrance.

He had long legs that seemed to go on for miles clad denim jeans, not too tight but not too baggy either. It was tight in all the right places and baggy in all the right places. He wore those jeans well, too. He also wore a loose red hoodie that let a man's imagination go for a wild spin after a night of heavy drinking. It taunted the viewer. It hid that supple, slender body from the perverted eye of any passerby. That damnable hoodie—red like the fires of hell and many flags from around the world—screamed "Haha! The person wearing me valued comfort and warmth and sneers at your base, caveman desires."

He had blond, curling hair, the kind that so pale and bright it gives off a bit of excess light to the surrounding areas. Seeing that shine around his head, one might assume the man was an angel with a glowing, curly halo.

And his eyes.

Purple and blue swirling and warring and mating all in that single gaze that seemed to shimmer even in the artistic play of light and shadow in my musty office. When those dastardly pools of pretty locked eyes with my own sky-blue orbs, I was reminded of every single stupid decision I'd ever made.

And then he spoke, his melodious voice somewhere between a sigh and a whisper. It brought to mind hours of lectures and choking back sobs in dark corners of janitor closets during recesses in World Conferences.

"I was really hoping Arthur was wrong this time." The blond-haired beauty sighed, shoulders sagging elegantly. "Why me?"

The resignation and sorrow in his voice sparked something in my long-dead heart. Coupled with the way he looked at me—disappointed and annoyed—I felt perhaps I owed something to this young man.

"What can I do you for, doll face." I said, leaning forward and clasping my hands casually in front of me. "There must be a reason that you came here, to me, to my office. Out of all the private detectives in this wretched town, you came to my door."

He looked at me, his expression offended and confused.

"What—"

"There has to be something." I pressed forward, tipping my hat back so I could better study my visitor. "Girlfriend cheating on you? Boyfriend cheating on you? Someone killed your father? Something special gone missing?" I asked. When a hurt look flashed across his pretty face, I grinned and knew I had hit the nail on the head.

Its what I do best.

"Actually, yeah." Blondie said worriedly. "My polar bear disappeared. Usually he comes when I call if he's not already there because he's hungry. But now he's already missed lunch and both his afternoon snacks and I can't find him anywhere." His voice trembled and his eyes looked watery.

"Don't cry, miss—"

"Don't call me—"

"Well, its not as though you've given me reason to call you anything else."

"I have a name."

"I'd love to hear it, sweetheart."

The glare he sent my way was acidic. "You know who I am, Alfred."

I sighed. "I think I would remember slender blonds who smell like maple syrup mixed with memory."

"Its me, Matthew Williams. Canada? Your adopted brother?"

I stared at him for a second too long before he snapped, "Alfred!"

"That's Detective Jones." I said coldly, and swiveled my chair away. "I'd break a rule or two for you, Mr. Williams, but I won't sit here and be disrespected in my own office."

"…I'm sorry, Detective Jones." He bit out, passive anger glowing in narrowed eyes. "I'd be ever so grateful for your help."

"That's more like it, Mattie!" I smirked, glancing at him. He sneered at me. I knew what he was thinking. He must be used to batting his eyes and having every person in the vicinity bend over backwards and into pretzels just for a glimpse of his sweet smile. But if he thinks I'll bark like a dog and wag my tail for him just for a treat, he's got another thing coming. It'll take more than a murmured plea for help and a flutter of golden lashes and a wink promising me a night I'd never forget, for me to sign my soul and time away to this leggy golden succubus.

Of course, if he were to pay me and offer to pleasure me sexually I wouldn't necessarily refuse. Just the thought of those pouty, pink lips around my—

"You realize, Detective, that your internal monologues are not internal." He asks, raising a slender golden eyebrow and, in that one gesture, managing to shove all my mistakes and shortcomings and weaknesses into my face.

I blinked, caught off-guard by his admission (I'd been speaking aloud the entire time? Fuck!), but a man of my line of work knows never to let others know when he's caught off-guard. So I said, "Then you know I think you're very attractive and if you were to offer to pleasure me orally I wouldn't refuse?"

Matthew smiled tightly, his expression a little manic and cheerful. "Yes Detective. And I think it'd only be fair to tell you, that, if you keep fantasizing about me out loud and poetically describing me and calling me any more pet names, I will kill you."

I nodded, studying the other man from head to toe.

That dame was dangerous.

The moment Matthew entered Alfred's office, saw the ratty dark brown trench coat and matching hat and took in the cheesy ambiance of the room, and heard the beginning of the other blond's monologue, he regretted agreeing to help Arthur.

But, at the time, he really had no better choice.

The day had started out relatively normal. He had spent the entire morning searching for his polar bear companion and had finally quit, deciding that the bear had probably decided to go frolic in the woods for a while (as he tended to do every few years in the entirety of the time the pair was together) and would return when he felt like it.

Then the doorbell rang and the entire day started to go downhill.

"I need your help." Arthur had said the moment he opened the door. "Alfred—"

And it was at that point, that Matthew decided he had heard enough and, in the politest and most succinct way, quietly shut the door in his former guardian's face.

But just as he was about to walk off, the Englishman began to pound on the door.

Sighing, he realized that Arthur was probably annoyed that he hadn't said "Good day" at the very least and reopened the door.

"You didn't even say 'good day'." The sandy-haired man sniffed angrily, "I raised you better than that…" He trailed off and snuck a quick glance at the palm of his hand (an act that Matthew most definitely noticed) "…Matthew."

"You wrote my name on your palm so you wouldn't forget." Matthew said in a quietly, accusing way.

"…I did." Arthur said unapologetically. At Matthew's displeased frown, he quickly added, "At least I remembered it at some point today."

"Francis never forgets." Was his former colony's quick response as the younger nation turned on his heel and headed into the house. Arthur, flinching minutely at the unspoken reprimand and reminder that Francis was better at something than him, took the cue to follow Matthew.

"I'll make some tea." Matthew called out as Arthur settled into the parlor and indulged in his favorite hobby of counting how many more photographs of him there were than Alfred and Francis in the room.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring any scones, my boy." Arthur said as Matthew set a delicate china teacup in front of him.

"I'm not."

"Beg pardon?" Arthur asked absently, blowing gently to cool his tea.

"Nothing." Matthew said cheerfully, hiding a smirk behind his own cup. "So what has Alfred done now and does he really need my help?"

"He's having one of his 'episodes'." The green-eyed man admitted, sipping his tea. "He's pretending not to know who I am and keeps talking out loud to himself. Absolutely barmy, that one."

"He's your son."

"So are you, but you're perfectly normal." Said the Brit. "That's why you're my favorite."

Matthew decided against reminding Arthur that he hated the Englishman for several decades and still considered bludgeoning him unconscious with a hockey stick and shipping him to Francis, naked with an industrial size tube of lubricant, because he was still a little bitter about Alaska and being forgotten and/or confused for Alfred among other things.

"So, what's wrong this time?"

"He is a skid mark on the legacy of Sherlock Holmes!" Arthur bellowed, thick eyebrows bristling with indignation. "The git's locked himself up in his office—which he's remodeled to resemble one of those tacky, old private eye offices with the blooming lighting and everything—and has declared himself to be a detective." He snorted indelicately. "The bloody twit couldn't investigate himself out of a paper bag."

"Right." Matthew said slowly. "And you'd like me to do what…?"

"Talk to him." The older nation said. "If anyone can talk some sense into him, Matthew, its you."

"No."

"Are you still angry at him?" Arthur asked, surprised. "What did he—"

"He started crying the last time we had sex, while still in me, called me 'vile Jezebel' and 'nefarious slut', and then started ranting about how I was 'dragging him down the road of sin'. I couldn't even finish with him whimpering about how he was going to burn in Hell for eternity." Matthew said flatly, purple eyes cold. "And when I woke up, he left me a Bible and a note telling me that even a 'soul as diseased as mine' could find salvation."

Arthur winced and took a sip of tea. "You know he can't really stop that side of him from coming out."

"Third time that week."

Arthur hesitated for a moment visibly battling with the next words he planned to say. Finally he just forced out, "You two have sex that often?"

"Well, he is right there." Matthew pointed out. "As selfish and inconsiderate as he can be, he always shows up when I call him."

Green and clearly disturbed by the realization that his former charge had a regular booty call that also happened to be a former colony of his, Arthur stayed quiet and concentrated on drinking his tea. Unfortunately, another question came to mind. "You don't—"

"Arthur, if I refuse to have sex with you, I also won't have sex with Francis."

Pleased that that perverted, French ponce had never been intimate with Matthew's vital regions, Arthur nodded approving.

The two sat in silence for a while before the Englishman carefully asked, "So will you do something?"

Sighing, Matthew started to speak. "As much as I love smacking the crazy out of Alfred, I'm afraid I can't—"

"Stupid pseudo-French bastard!" A loud voice screeched, followed by rapid snarls in French. The shattering of earthenware punctuated the yelling and cursing, a thud and the dull striking of flesh filling the air.

Matthew winced at the sound of something else expensive and most likely irreplaceable breaking and quickly wondered how much beer and weed he had (because sobriety was detrimental and painful when dealing with Ethan and Alexandre). Once he realized that he was out of both and probably couldn't get either immediately, he sighed (because he really, really didn't feel like dealing with fighting provinces right now).

"I guess I will." It probably would be better to let them punch it out and then force them to clean up later.

Arthur, who didn't seem alarmed by the increasingly violent altercation going on a room over, smiled proudly at him. "Good lad. Just remember to play along and try to get him back to normal."

Quick Notes: Miguel is Cuba. Lars is Netherlands. Ethan is Ontario and Alexandre is Quebec (both names taken from a popular baby names chart for each respective province)

Yes, in this phase, Alfred thinks he's a private investigator. Seriously, this story is not serious and probably will not be very long. I really just had to get it out of my head and I hope it wasn't too painful to read. Remember, all comments and criticisms are welcome.

And, to Matthew, my beloved Canada and the nation I would gladly molest, I'm sorry you had to suffer like this on your birthday. No matter how much your patience is tested and how often I force you to deal with Alfred, never forget I love you.

And would gladly molest you. *3*