Chapter 3: Chasing Ghosts

Paperwork was truly his nemesis. Now, Alfred wasn't that far into the hero facade he put up to think he actually had a supervillain nemesis. If he had to choose one, though, it'd be paperwork. The words sat on the stark white sheets, swimming through his vision as Alfred bounced his foot up and down, trying in vain to stay focused. He was so much better with the social cues of this job he shouldered as a personification. He could talk to people all day, every day. That wasn't an issue. The problems cropped up when he sat down at his desk, piled higher than the heavens with stacks of forms and legislation and propositions and issues, and he tried to read through it all. He signed his signature when needed, tossed a few ridiculous proposals away, and- was interrupted by a knock on the door. A rather loud one, at that.

Standing, he briefly stretched and wondered who the actual hell would be visiting his apartment right now. Next month was when he hosted, about two weeks from that day, and usually, countries tended to stay away from his house like he was contagious. Perhaps they were scared, or maybe annoyed, but they did the same to Russia and England, so he supposed it couldn't be for only bad reasons, right? Sliding his slippers on, he glanced down at his sweats and t-shirt with a cringe. Hopefully, it was just Mrs. González from next door; she always said he didn't eat enough and brought over pork tamales whenever she made them. She'd seen him in worse outfits than this.

Peeking out the peephole, he blinked and jolted back before looking again to confirm what he'd seen. Denmark himself, in the flesh, grinning like a kid on Halloween. Blinking, he opened the door slowly, watching the other's face brighten at the sight of him. Well, that was new. Usually, Japan and Israel were the only ones he could look forward to smiling at the sight of him. Well, them and Matthew. That was his brother, though, so it didn't really count.

"Um, Denmark." He pitched his voice lower so his neighbor watering her potted plants on the stairs next to them wouldn't hear, "What are you, uh, doing here?"

"Just visiting!" The Dane laughed brightly, "Cozy place here, huh? Took me forever to find. I had to text Columbia."

"You mean Canada?" Alfred hissed quietly, grabbing the other man by his coat sleeve, "Come in, get off the stairs."

He closed the door firmly behind him, the door knocker outside rattling slightly in their wake. Alfred sighed, moving towards the kitchen, Denmark following close behind. he gestured at the table, where a fruit bowl set on top of a soft blue tablecloth. The other nation obediently took a seat, looking around him with wide eyes.

"Nice place you got here." Denmark whistled appreciatively, "Pretty cozy though, isn't it? Figured you'd have a house or at least a penthouse."

"It's cheap and I like the neighborhood. Great families around here." Alfred sighed, moving to the fridge, "Water? Coffee? Juice box?"

"Juice box?"

The American sent him a dirty look over the fridge door, "I babysit...besides, they're convenient."

"I'll take water." Denmark laughed, kicking his feet up on another chair, "Damn, have any of the other countries been to this place? Looks like a nice old grandma lives here. Are those doilies-?"

Alfred slammed a glass of water down a bit too hard, making the table rattle, "Mrs. Conn knits."

"And why does it smell like pie in here? Do you burn candles-?"

"Occasionally!" His voice pitched a bit higher in embarrassment, "Yankee Candle is perfectly respectable, and I got some for Christmas!"

"From who? France? England?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Cooper!" He huffed, "Are you here just to criticize my house?"

"Nah, I was here to go grab a few beers. I figured you'd live in the thick of New York City so there'd be a bar or something, but..."

"There are bars around Hamilton." Alfred sighed, "Uptown is already open. It's just down Broadway."

"Don't you have a car?"

"In Manhattan?"

"That's a point." Denmark shrugged, "I'm guessing you're not going in fuzzy eagle slippers?"

"No." The American downed the rest of his own water before trudging off to his bedroom, "I'll be out in a minute."

Saying Matthias was shocked would be an understatement. He'd expected a penthouse in the city, maybe a huge mansion on the outskirts of New York. What he got, however, was a nice, quaint apartment in Hamilton Heights up in northern Manhattan. Children ran around the streets, playing basketball or tag, chalk covering the sidewalks and pretty flowerpots by the doors. He figured America would be a party animal, maybe a heavy drinker, maybe a fast food enthusiast. He figured beer bottles or burger wrappers would litter the floor, and the whole house would be a mess. Instead, the apartment was well kept and had candles on doilies, blankets covering chairs and couches, and carefully framed photos sitting on a mantel. A flag hung over the table in the small living area, an old antique one with thirteen stars. Beneath it, several medals and badges were framed and displayed.

It didn't look like what he imagined the young nation's home would be. Hell, a stack of coloring books and a box of crayons were nestled on a table in the corner for what Matthias assumed was babysitting purposes. What sort of nation babysat? Even Finland didn't do that!

Leaning against the arm of the couch, he waited until he heard footsteps coming down the hall and blinked at seeing the American in simple skinny jeans and a shirt with a jacket. It was more casual than he'd ever seen the other nation, meetings usually being more formal and monotone in regards to wardrobe. Most wore the same thing to every one. Liechtenstein occasionally wore a different dress or bow, but even she was more subdued. Morocco was the only one he could think of that frequently spiced things up with clothing, but Matthias was pretty sure not even a thunderstorm could put a damper on that woman, let alone a bland meeting.

"Ready?" America raised an eyebrow, opening the door.

As soon as they stepped outside there was a collection of shouts.

"Al! Al!" A small gaggle of kids waved at him from down the street as they approached, "Wanna play?"

A girl offered up the basketball, scuffed up but still usable, with a smile that showed a single tooth missing. She was maybe seven, with dark curly pigtails and wide olive eyes, and the boy that shoved up beside her looked just the same.

"Yeah! You're the best at basketball!"

"Sorry, Vanessa, Tony, I'm showing a friend around." Alfred gestured at him, smiling placatingly, "Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Leave the poor boy alone!" The mother, watching over the group of children but appearing to be the parent of these particular ones, snapped her fingers, "You take up enough of his time on Fridays. Both of you, now!"

"Yes, mamá."

Another girl skipped down the street, following behind them, "Did ya see our chalk?"

"Yeah, kinda hard to miss, Lottie."

"Charlotte! Get back here! En seguida, niña, don't make me ask again!"

"I still don't know what that means." She shrugged, blonde braid bobbing over her shoulder, "See ya later! Dad said to thank you for fixing mom's flower pot, by the way!"

"No problem." The American chuckled as she fled back to the matronly woman, "Kids. There's so damn many of them around here, especially in these apartments. There's a school two blocks over, so this is a popular family neighborhood."

"I can tell."

"The bar is just down here. Maybe a ten-minute walk." He nodded on down the street, "Shouldn't take too long."

It actually took around six minutes before they were standing outside, America pushing the door open. They were greeted with loud laughter, the TV going in the corner, the thick stench of alcohol, and a small radio playing music up by the bar. Matthias smiled; his kind of place. He followed his fellow nation up to the bartender, the younger man holding up his hand to get the man's attention.

"One Old Fashioned and..." The American glanced to him, gesturing towards the lineup of drinks.

"I'll take a glass of Hennessy." Matthias raised an eyebrow at the look he got from the nation next to him, "What? That's popular in New York, right?"

"Yeah." The blond snorted, "Pretty strong, though."

He shrugged, "Can't be too bad. Bet you're more of a lightweight, though?"

"Why do you say that?" The American scowled as he flashed his fake ID, "I drink. I've drank."

Laughing, Matthias shook his head, "You babysit, live in a family friendly block, and have a moderately clean apartment. I'm going out on a limb here and saying you're usually sober."

"I just don't like drinking." America took a seat at the bar as their drinks were brought out, "Bad memories."

"Prohibition?" Denmark raised an eyebrow, "Yeah, you did have a lot of stuff going on then. Illegal stuff, that is."

The younger snorted before sipping his drink, his face wrinkling at the taste for a moment. Matthias was vaguely amused; America really was such a child. He was young in terms of nations and his physical body, and while he could be intimidating and powerful, it seemed like he loved kids. Like he wanted a nice family. It made him sort of sad, thinking about that and comparing it to what the nation actually got; France, England, and Canada. The Canadian seemed pretty nice, but he mostly followed France and England like a lost puppy. Then again, America did too, it's just they liked Canada and let him stay.

"Prohibition sucked, dude." America grimaced, "Like, Al Capone is cool in legends and all, but when there are turf wars going on in your cities it's pretty scary. I had a lot of bloody noses, I'll tell you that."

"I bet. Didn't Romano stay over here a lot around that time?"

"Yeah." The blond scoffed, thinking of the Southern Italian, "Talk about a pest. He was so involved with bootlegging, it was ridiculous!"

"Really?" Matthias rolled his eyes. Nowadays, the two Italians were very...gun shy, to say the least. They were brave when needed, but other than that...

"Yeah. Anyways, drink up. It's on me."

"Thanks." The Dane spared him a grin before ordering another glass.

"I don't get many visitors, so." The American shrugged, "Might as well enjoy it while it lasts."

America had enjoyed it too much. Way too much. After three very strong drinks and a couple of whiskey shots, the kid was blacked out and Matthias was left half dragging him down the street back to his apartment. He really hoped all those kids were inside with their parents or else this would get really awkward, really fast. Turning down America's block, he trudged his way to the nation's door.

The young nations murmured in his blackout state, senseless words spilling out, "Var är du..."

Matthias froze, blinking as his brain caught up with the babbled nonsense. Why the hell would America know Swedish? True, it wasn't an uncommon language, but...the majority of his population spoke English or Spanish. Even Chinese, he'd think, would be a second or third choice before Berwald's language. So why was America muttering Swedish in his alcohol-induced coma?

Glancing around, ensuring no nosy mother was peeking out the windows, he slid the key out from the plant pot he'd seen America place it under. Unlocking the door and nudging it open with his hip, he got his fellow nation in by hooking his hands under his armpits and dragging him. Carefully, or as carefully as Matthias could, he dropped the sleeping blond onto the soft couch and sighed, looking around. There had to be a bathroom around here somewhere, and he had to take a major piss.

Looking down the hallway he's seen America come out of when he'd changed his clothes, he flipped the light switch on and began the hunt. There were a couple doors he opened, one being a broom closet and the other he assumed was the American's bedroom. He closed it quickly, not wanting to impose by looking around the quaint, square room. The third one he tugged open had a set of stairs leading down to what the Dane assumed was a basement. Maybe a basement bathroom? He was willing to give it a shot. Flicking the lights on here too, and honestly hoping this wouldn't drive America's electric bill up any, he blinked when he reached the end of the stairs. Piles upon piles of boxes that held who knows what were stacked up against the wall to Matthias' right and shelves on the left had carefully folded clothes that he quickly realized were actually military uniforms and old dress clothes alike.

"What a museum wouldn't kill for these." He muttered as he picked up a dog tag and looked at the shiny metal.

His phone rang suddenly, making him jump as the necklace clattered back against the others. Sighing, he dug it out of his pocket. Tino. Great. What he definitely wanted right now was to be mother henned to death when he had to go so bad he was nearly floating in his shoes. Looking around still, he accepted the call.

"Hey-!"

"Where are you?"

"Oh, um..." Matthias chuckled slightly, "Forgot to tell you, didn't I? I decided to take America up on his offer for a night out drinking. Bars in New York are great, by the way!"

"You're the one that offered to go drinking. Are you telling me you just barged into his home?"

"Nah, he invited me in." He protested, "Right now I'm looking for a bathroom, though, so-"

"You really need to let us know these things, Matthias. We were worried sick!"

He felt guilt gnaw at him slightly, but he knew Tino was most likely the only one worried. The others gave him a bare minimum of twenty-four hours before blowing up his phone.

"Sorry, sorry. Figured I'd only be gone a day or so. Hey, did you know America speaks Swedish?"

Please take the bait, please take the bait, he pleaded silently into the phone as Tino made a surprised noise.

"Really? Does he know Finnish? Norwegian? Icelandic? They're pretty obscure in America, I suppose, but there's always a possibility."

"I don't know, honestly. He was kind of blackout drunk when he spoke it."

"Blackout-? Matthias!"

"How was I supposed to know he couldn't handle his alcohol?"

He heard the sigh from the Finn and could practically feel the disappointment radiating off the smaller nation even miles away, "Matthias, you're responsible for him right now, okay? Don't let the poor boy run off into traffic!"

"He's not a child, Tino. We're not responsible for anything he does." Matthias sighed, looking around at the basement. He saw a door huddled among the trinkets and clothes and boxes and darted for it, pulling it open.

"He's barely an adult, then." The other nation argued, "You see him at meetings. He always looks so sad and lonely. All I'm saying is try to make sure he doesn't get hurt."

Nearly crying in relief at the toilet in front of him, the Dane rushed to assure Tino, "I know, I know. I'll watch him until he's sober, okay? I guess I can America-sit for a night. All he's done so far is sleep, anyway. I really have to hang up now, sorry. I'll call you back."

Tino's response was cut off. When he opened the door again, it was with a much calmer demeanor. It was amazing what a couple glasses of Hennessy could do to a guy. Looking around, he saw a super old camera sitting on one of the shelves near the clothes, seemingly just catching dust. It had some accordion looking thing in the middle and was super bulky, a model 95 he read as he inspected the plate. Lukas was more into that photography stuff, he'd probably know what it meant, but to Matthias, it was really just shiny garbage. Autographed, he noted, by some dude named Edwin.

He knew Berwald would look down at his snooping, but he was curious about his drinking buddy's past. All he knew was that he'd gotten into one hell of a firefight with England and somehow won. Not on his own, given, but it was still impressive. Especially since it knocked England down a few pegs in terms of ego. Picking up an errant letter tucked under a box, seemingly forgotten with the name and address on the front completely unreadable due to water damage. Slipping the paper out, delicate and crinkled with age and improper care, he could read a few words.

Matthew,

Tell England to fuck off. I won.

The Reunited States of America

Stopping dead in his tracks he tucked the letter back in the envelope and then shoved it under the chest again. Totally not what he wanted to know. Civil Wars were touchy subjects and while he was totally invading America's privacy, he didn't want to invade it that much. Looking at the chest itself, it was clearly an antique. A thin layer of dust covered it, and the latch was rusted, so it probably hadn't been opened in forever. Long lost facts about the American Revolution? Maybe embarrassing baby photos? Maybe embarrassing photos of England? The temptation was too strong.

The chest creaked as he pried open the latch, the hinges also rusted beyond repair. Looking in, a large linen blanket covered the entire top. A few stains and discoloration was apparent at the top, probably from setting in the trunk for ages, but Matthias just picked it up and sat it on the shelf next to the chest. Inside, a few toy soldiers were haphazardly tossed in. They were wooden and painstakingly carved and painted. By who, he had to wonder. The next thing was a leatherbound journal. He reached for it, curiosity peaking. Would this be the juicy gossip he wanted?

Inside the cover, in small and childish letters, a claim was written.

Property of Alfred Henry Kirkland.

Okay, so no one could ever know he snooped and found out America's name. Like, ever. Not even Tino or Lukas or Emil or Berwald, because they'd all definitely skin him alive. It's not like this was the first time he'd snooped, though, so he honestly couldn't bring himself to feel too bad.

Turning the page, he grinned in anticipation, only for it to fall almost immediately. The page was written entirely in Swedish, like actual Swedish that Berwald spoke daily. Blinking, he glanced around and wracked his brain for the reason an English Colony would know Swedish that young and write in his journal with it?

Glancing over the page, Matthias felt his mind go numb. There was no way. No way.

Kära Bok,

Storebror England sa till mig att öva mitt skrivande här. Jag tror att han försöker lära mig engelska, men jag vet inte vad som är fel med pappas språk. Han vill också att jag ska kalla honom pappa, men han är inte pappa, så jag kommer inte. Jag saknar mina farbröder och föräldrar, men storebror England är trevligt också, antar jag. Jag bara verkligen vill ha min familj tillbaka.

Undertecknat,

Ari Oxenstierna (Broder England sa mitt efternamn är Alfred Kirkland nu, men jag gillar fortfarande pappas namn bättre så jag ska använda det.)

Is it bad the first coherent thought he had was that Tino would literally kick his ass to Russia and back for taking his son out drinking? Because that was totally the first coherent thought he had.

I'm back lmao BUT with an extra long chapter to say I'm super sorry and life just got the best of me. Hopefully, I'll be on schedule from now on lol. Also, don't worry, we see Alfred's dream later. We also get awkward Denmark questioning Al, but like, even more awkward because he knows he's questioning his own nephew lmao.

And yes imo Arthur would totally make Alfred's middle name Henry. And yes, Alfred DEFINITELY changed it to "Fuck" during the Revolutionary War just to majorly piss England off, but he tells everyone it stands for "Freedom" now. Only England knows the truth. Jones def came from John Paul Jones, another 'traitor' to Britain who actually only added the Jones on to his name to hide from the law. Al would be into that tbh.

And yes, good cameo to Edwin H. Land, props to those who got it.

I wrote this at 3 AM, by the way, so I hope you guys like it! Comments are much appreciated, but please don't totally roast me lmao.

TRANSLATIONS (Sorry if they're off lmao this is all old Google Translate):

Swedish~

"Kära Bok,

Storebror England sa till mig att öva mitt skrivande här. Jag tror att han försöker lära mig engelska, men jag vet inte vad som är fel med pappas språk. Han vill också att jag ska kalla honom pappa, men han är inte pappa, så jag kommer inte. Jag saknar mina farbröder och föräldrar, men storebror England är trevligt också, antar jag. Jag bara verkligen vill ha min familj tillbaka.

Undertecknat,

Ari Oxenstierna (Broder England sa mitt efternamn är Alfred Kirkland nu, men jag gillar fortfarande pappas namn bättre så jag ska använda det.)"

"Dear Journal,

Big Brother England told me to practice my writing here. I think he's trying to teach me English, but I don't know what's wrong with dad's language. He also wants me to call him Father, but he's not my dad, so I won't. I miss my uncles and parents, but Big Brother England is nice too, I guess. I just really want my family back.

Signed,
Ari Oxenstierna (Brother England said my last name is Alfred Kirkland now, but I still like my dad's name better so I'll use it.)"