Alfred was scared shitless.

He could handle skiing in California. He could handle rock climbing in Kansas. He could handle riding The Intimidator 305, four times, without throwing up. He could handle being stuck in the middle of a tornado, and breaking his leg by falling out of a tree. He could handle going on a week's diet of entirely ramen noodles, and that time he tried the cinnamon challenge. But this? He'd rather eat that gas station sushi that sent him to the hospital with food poisoning, than this. He'd do anything but this.

"You're overreacting," Arthur had told him, dozens of times. But Arthur didn't seem to get it. Alfred was notorious for screwing things up. He had gotten one of the lead roles in a high school play once (keyword: once), and when the curtains opened for the final act, he forgot all of his 776 lines. During his high school graduation, when he received his diploma, he slipped on stage and landed on his ass in front of everyone in the auditorium. Alfred always messed things up.

And that was the exact reason why he was dreading having to meet the father of Arthur Kirkland.

He had met Arthur's mother quite a few times, and he had a few run-ins with Arthur's eldest brother. But his father? Arthur's strict, stern, business-motivated, no-nonsense, rock of a father? Of course not.

You would think, after seven years of dating, he would have already met the guy. Alfred and Arthur had gone to highschool together, shared a college dorm for four years, and had moved into an apartment together. But yet, Alfred had only seen photos and heard childhood stories about the terrifying Arthur Sr.

Arthur had prepped him with numerous topics he could discuss with the stuffy man, things that would agitate him, and things that would make his father more fond of the American that stole his son's heart. But that wasn't enough to assure that Alfred wouldn't mess things up when he met his dad.

Especially when he wanted permission to put the ring in his sock drawer to good use.

Alfred ran the points through his head for what felt like the thousandth time, and rapped his fingertips against his thigh.

He liked to talk about books, Arthur, his life experiences, work, and football. No, European football. Soccer. He liked to talk about soccer.

The man didn't like disrespectful people, people with awful table manners, and those who took advantage of his loved ones.

Arthur's father would probably be more lenient towards him if he listened carefully, respected and complimented his wife, and showed how much Arthur meant to him. He could probably demonstrate that by holding Arthur's hand and dishing out a few cheek kisses throughout the night.

Or was he against PDA?

"Arthur..!"

From what Alfred understood, Arthur had Mr. Kirkland wrapped around his finger. He could bat his eyelashes a few times, add a "please" to his request, and get whatever he wanted from the man. And Arthur was probably going to use that to his advantage when introducing Alfred. There was no way Mr. Kirkland would treat Alfred poorly if Arthur showed off how happy he made him.

He hoped.

All of Arthur's siblings were married and had kids, so Arthur was the last one of the bunch, and evidently, treated like a baby by both of his parents.

Alfred was the main candidate for taking the Kirkland's last child into marriage and out of their arms, so he was already on Mr. Kirkland's bad side.

Yikes.

"We're leaving in a few minutes. Stop worrying, Al. When you worry, you sweat. I'm sure you'll get along just fine with him. He's not as scary as he seems," Arthur attempted to assure, noticing the jittery actions of his lover. But Arthur was the one that had lived with him for most of his life. Arthur was the one that was pampered by the man and part of his own flesh and blood. Alfred was the American boy that lived with their last available son and probably had done dozens of unmentionable things to their innocent boy. It wasn't that simple.

Arthur had assisted in slicking part of Alfred's hair back and found his nice glasses, and had even went the lengths of picking out his outfit so he looked presentable. Arthur was too good for him, Alfred was sure.

At least, Alfred's parents were far more kind. They had absolutely adored Arthur from the moment Alfred started to babble on about him, and even moreso when they met the Englishman. The only thing that Alfred babbled about akin to Arthur was science, and the Jones family knew, there was nothing more exciting to Alfred than science.

It took a bit of effort, but Alfred finally managed to gather the courage to step outside of the house and get into the car. (Actually, it was at the reminder from Arthur that they would be late if Alfred stalled even more, and Arthur's father would not appreciate the tardiness. But details!)

With the container of Alfred Jones style homemade potato salad in his trembling hands, Alfred tried to regulate his breathing as Arthur started to drive towards his parents' home.

Everything was going surprisingly well. Alfred felt like he was getting along alright with Mr. Kirkland, if you looked past the bone-crushing grip he gave Alfred when they first shook hands, and the scrutinizing gaze constantly sent his way whenever he did something else but breathe.

Arthur's mother, on the other hand, didn't hesitate to hug and kiss him as soon as he walked in the door, (and Arthur had to help wipe her lipstick off of the poor American's forehead). After hanging around her for close to an hour, Alfred could see where Arthur got most of the pet names he used.

Alfred had a few decent conversations with Mr. Kirkland, who insisted that Alfred called him 'sir', and felt like the frightening male might have been easing up around him. At least, when Arthur was close to his side.

Although their meal consisted mainly of British food that Alfred wasn't sure he'd ever want to eat again, he was enjoying himself. Mrs. Kirkland had some funny stories of Arthur's past to tell.

They were seated at a square table that was decorated with a fancy tablecloth. Their seats were rather close (enough that Alfred could hold Arthur's hand over the table and they wouldn't be stretching their arms out, but still small enough that reaching something too far in front of him would be considered rude), but seemed comfortable.

Mr. Kirkland was seated in front of Alfred, with Arthur to his left and Mrs. Kirkland to his right. After giving another flurry of compliments towards the food that Mrs. Kirkland had prepared, the group moved on to eat and give idle chit-chat.

Everything was going perfect! Everything was fine. Everything was going according to pl-

"Daddy, would you please pass the potato salad?" Arthur questioned, gesturing towards the container of the Jones specialty.

Alfred had reached for the potato salad.

Arthur had asked for him to pass them, after all. He had asked for Da-

Alfred's hand met with another's, and the American immediately regretted glancing to see whose hand he was touching. Alfred was sure the startled expression of Arthur's father was permanently burned into his mind.

Fuck.

Mr. Kirkland got to first-handedly witness Alfred Jones turn absolutely red in embarrassment. The American could feel the rush of blood and heat force itself all the way up to the tips of his ears and down to his closing throat.

He could have just played it off. He could have said that he didn't hear the first part of what Arthur said, or just make a joke, or just politely tell the older male that he could do it instead. But no, he had to get overly embarrassed and mess the night up.

Now both of Arthur's parents had a fairly unflattering image of what was going on in their son's relationship, and judging by the way Mr. Kirkland's face turned a bit red as well, there wasn't a chance they missed the reasoning behind Alfred's embarrassment.

Alfred Jones was going to die a slow and painful death.

Arthur covered his face with his hands and looked away from the scenario, the tips of his ears turning a visible pink as well.

Correction: Alfred Jones was going to die a slow and painful death from one of two options. Lack of oxygen from forgetting how to breathe, or lack of oxygen because Arthur was going to choke him as soon as they were in private together. And not in the kinky way.

Alfred sputtered out syllables helplessly, before he finally managed a coherent "I'm s-so sorry, sir!" and glanced back towards the plate that was in front of him. He could tell Arthur's parents were continuing to stare at him, which just made the tips of his ears burn even hotter.

Alfred kept his head down for what felt like days, wishing that his corpse would just shrivel up and he could feel the sweet release of death already. He was sure Arthur didn't feel any better than he did, but he wasn't the one that was going to be judged by the terrifying Mr. Kirkland for the rest of his life.

The potato salad was not passed to Arthur that night.

The group ate the duration of their meal in silence. Which was preferable, because Alfred wasn't sure that he could say anything without squeaking like a prepubescent middle school boy in the middle of a class presentation.

When Mrs. Kirkland brought out dessert, she resulted into small-talk about the weather with her son. Mr. Kirkland continued to glare daggers into Alfred's skin in between bites of cheesecake. Alfred's hands didn't stop shaking until Mrs. Kirkland started to put plates away and started to distribute some of the leftovers into different containers for him and Arthur to take home.

The American had to endure hell for a solid twenty minutes while Arthur and his mother washed dishes in the kitchen. Alfred certainly didn't have the balls to ask Mr. Kirkland about marrying Arthur, now. Alfred didn't have the balls to do anything but pretend to be fascinated with the wall decor - for twenty minutes straight - instead of talking to the man.

He could feel Mr. Kirkland judging him, and was certain that he was making plans to tell Arthur that he wouldn't tolerate "that American" in his home again. Who could blame him?

The idea of them going home later came up by Arthur's fussing mother, and her insistence that she didn't want her "baby driving home so late". Alfred had never been more excited leave a dinner party before.

Arthur had received a hug and a kiss from both of his parents, and Alfred had received a forgiving hug by Mrs. Kirkland and another bone-crushing handshake from the devil himself.

"Be good to him," was the firm command sent his way, and Alfred almost peed himself.

"O-O-Of course, sir! Of course! Arthur means the world to me! A-" Alfred cut himself off before he babbled on more and made a fool of himself. With another firm shake that nearly had him whimpering, Alfred spared a grimacing smile and held Arthur's hand as they walked towards the car.

Within the sanctuary of his own vehicle (and after locking his door just in case), Alfred wheezed in a breath in an attempt to relax, and gave a nervous wave and smile towards the older couple as they drove off.

Arthur waited until they were halfway down the street before he finally spoke up.

"My dad said he wants to meet with you over lunch. Next week."

And Alfred nearly cried.