'Twas the night before Christmas, Jack Skellington was nowhere to be found and RobinRocks was still wondering where the hell her year went. o.O

Well, we've reached our final piece! Like the GerIta fic yesterday, this one is a brand-new fic I wrote for Baby, It's Cold Outside and wasn't intended for the fanbook. It's also the longest so I saved it for last. =)

Thanks, eggnog and a mince pie to: andthenshesaid, CalaveraCandiedSkull, ImaduckQuaQua, Sophie, Narroch, La, Synonymous Brian and IfLifeHadWings!

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree—

I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do with such a bizarre combination of items.

USUK – The Second World War

"I'm going to put up my Christmas lights," Alfred announced.

"I'd rather you didn't," Arthur said, not looking up from his paperwork.

"I know," Alfred replied cheerfully. "I'm going to put them up anyway, though. It's plain as pie in here!"

Arthur sighed and hunched closer over his desk, taping his pen irritably as he tried to regather his thoughts.

"Fine, just... just be quiet about it," he said finally. He glanced up at Alfred briefly, scowling. "As you're able, anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, you got it, doll," Alfred chirped, slinging his rope of New York City-bought Christmas lights over his broad shoulder like a cowboy with a lasso and taking up a hammer and handful of nails as he went to the wall of the tiny underground office they were sharing in the War Cabinet Rooms beneath Downing Street. He was humming some popular overplayed song that Arthur faintly recognised from the radio as he lined up his first nail beneath a pin-up of Rita Hayworth: Arthur was about to point out that humming was not being quiet but was interrupted by the first round of banging, at which he first winced and then sighed and finally put down his pen.

It was official. Alfred had no idea how to be quiet; it was a concept that he simply couldn't grasp. There wasn't even any point in telling him off.

"Alfred," he said, resting his chin on his hand, "it's a wonder Ludwig hasn't pinpointed our exact location by now, it really is."

"Huh?" Alfred glanced over his shoulder at him, nails clamped in his teeth, looking genuinely perplexed.

"You," Arthur elaborated, "and the noise you make at all times."

Alfred grinned around his mouthful of metal and went back to his task; he quickly knocked a wonky line of six crooked nails into the wall, Arthur glancing at the office door every time he started in on a new one, expecting Churchill or one of the other higher-ups from either the British or American armies to come storming in to tell them to stop making such a racket.

Still, at least if that happened, Arthur reasoned blithely, there would be evidence for all to see that he wasn't involved in the racket whatsoever and that it was solely Alfred who was destroying the wall for the sake of his bloody Christmas lights.

Watching Alfred then get tangled up in his Christmas lights as he tried to decide how to arrange them across six flimsy nails, Arthur pulled the radio towards himself, knocking various bits of paperwork aside; he switched it on and began the slow, laborious task of tuning it. They were underground so the signal was never excellent, the sound quality wavering in and out, grainy at best. Alfred had just finished more-or-less slinging his lights haphazardly over the nails, not putting much effort into doing any fancy with them, by the time Arthur managed to get a signal, a weak, watery George Formby song, half of the words indistinguishable. Ah, well, at least it was British – none of that Glenn Miller or Andrews Sisters drivel that Arthur secretly liked but wouldn't admit.

"Okay, let there be light!" Alfred proclaimed gleefully, dropping to his knees with the plug in his hand; he located the socket and jammed the plug in without much ceremony.

Or tried to, at least.

He made a very distressed sound after his fourth attempt.

"Arthur, it won't go in!" he wailed.

"Ah," Arthur agreed calmly. "Yes. That's right. Different design."

"A plug is a plug!"

"Yours have a different shape." Arthur got up, turning the radio up a little as he moved around the desk. He went to Alfred, who was desperately trying to shove the American plug into the British socket – to no avail – anyway. "Alfred, you're going to electrocute yourself."

"It's not fair!" Alfred whined, throwing the plug down frustratedly. "I bought them specially! They're brand new! They have Disney characters on them!"

Arthur looked at the sad little buds of glass sprouting from the cord like thorns. Now that Alfred mentioned it, that did look like Mickey Mouse on the green one... and Donald Duck on the blue...

"Well..." he began – before trailing off awkwardly, realising that he had nothing to add. "Well," he said again.

Alfred sighed, his shoulders visibly sagging beneath his camel-coloured uniform jacket.

"They're really awesome Christmas lights," he said, craning his neck to look up at Arthur. "They only just worked out how to put Disney characters on them – and I just figured, you know... you probably don't have any Christmas lights, let alone ones with Disney characters on them. It's all black-out with you and I thought it would be nice to have some festive lights down here at least where Ludwig can't see 'em and use 'em as a target, but..." He looked irritably at the plug again. "Guess not." He sighed again and sat back. "I'm sorry. It's ruined. It's Christmas Day and we ain't got no tree, no pumpkin pie, no candy canes, no Coca-Cola and no damn Disney Christmas lights."

"Alfred, it's not ruined," Arthur said, nudging at him with his knee. "You know what? I didn't even realise we were celebrating."

"Not properly, obviously," Alfred replied. "We don't have any of the stuff we need down here. I don't even have a present for you. Where was I gonna get one? Still, I was kinda banking on the lights..."

"Well, perhaps it's fitting," Arthur said gently. "As you said, it's all black-out with me – I assure you that London is completely dark up there on the street." He gave a snort. "Of course, I don't know why we're bothering with the black-out tonight. It's Christmas Day – Ludwig will be getting drunk off his arse. So will Gilbert. All those bloody Krauts will."

Alfred gave a little smile but it wasn't long before his blue eyes had slid forlornly back towards his lights, weaving across the wall like a vein of particularly sickly ivy. Arthur sighed impatiently at him.

"I have a present for you," he said briskly. "Close your eyes and keep them closed."

Alfred blinked up at him.

"Why?"

"Just do it!" Arthur went back to the desk as he gave the order, rummaging around in the drawer for the emergency candles and a box of matches.

Alfred had stood up and was obediently waiting with his eyes closed, swaying back and forth to the tune of Miller's 'In The Mood', now spilling from the crackling radio. Arthur turned off the desk lamp and Alfred tilted his head confusedly at the sudden darkness behind his eyelids.

"Can I open my eyes yet?" he asked, taking a blind step forward.

"Yes," Arthur replied, repositioning his candles ever so slightly; he watched Alfred open his eyes behind his glasses, watched him blink and hesitate and then smile.

"Christmas lights," he said, still beaming.

"Old-fashioned, I know," Arthur said. "They're just the emergency candles in case the power goes out—"

"I like them." Alfred looked at the two plain yellow-white candles, one at either end of the desk. "It's been a while since I've been in a candlelit room. Guess I've gotten too reliant on electricity..."

Arthur looked at the flickering candles himself.

"Well," he agreed, "there's no denying that electricity is useful but... sometimes it's nice to... I don't know, remember."

"Remember what?" Alfred asked. "When there wasn't a freaking war on?"

Arthur smiled sourly at him as he came to his side.

"When isn't there a war on?" he sighed tiredly.

Alfred pulled him into his arms and wrapped him up in an embrace.

"Still," he said close to Arthur's ear, "this is better than the trenches, I guess."

"Mm," Arthur half-purred in response, cuddling against him. "Don't tell anyone, old boy, but I actually hated the trenches."

"Oh, your secret is safe with me!" Alfred laughed, patting him on the back.

"Good. I've got that stiff upper lip thing to keep intact, you know."

"Huh." Alfred paused consideringly. "Your upper lip isn't too stiff to dance with me to old Glenn, is it?"

Arthur sighed deeply against him.

"It's Christmas!" Alfred accentuated bleatingly.

"Alright, alright, you ridiculous boy – even if it is to this Yankee bollocks." Arthur stepped back from him and let him take up a half-assed lead position, both of them already moving out of time with each other to the crackling music before they began properly. "It's dark in here, mind; we'll probably fall flat on our faces."

"It's fine, the song's half over anyway," Alfred conceded with a grin. "Just watch your step, babe."

Arthur rolled his eyes at him but smiled. It was more a sort of tame shuffle with a little kick or twist or quick-stop thrown in than it was a proper jitterbug, too dark and without the space or musical momentum to do the thing right; that, and the fact that Arthur had never been particularly good at the jitterbug or the lindy hop or whatever the hell the blasted dance was called didn't particularly help matters. He could keep up well enough but it wasn't always particularly graceful on his part. Alfred was much, much better at it than him.

Which Alfred knew. It made him grin. It made him overconfident—

"Hey, I'm gonna lift you," Alfred announced without much more warning than that; Arthur wasn't expecting to be seized about the waist, wasn't ready for it and was halfway through stepping back towards Alfred again after twisting under his arm away from him when he was grabbed. The momentum of his own motion countered Alfred's and made him overbalance as he hoisted him up—

(And it made him complacent.)

Which was an understatement, Arthur felt, as they toppled with a collective strangled cry and Alfred grabbed flailingly at the string of lights as he fell, bringing both it and the nails down on top of them.

"Owww," Alfred moaned a moment later.

"You have to stop doing that without any warning," Arthur grumbled, disentangling himself from first the lights and then from Alfred– who was still lying on his back on the floor groaning to himself. "I'm not a girl and it therefore follows that I'm not as easy to lift as one."

"I totally warned you," Alfred grumbled, arching his back and reaching under himself to grab hold of the discarded Christmas light plug and look at it irritably for a moment before tossing it aside. "God, no wonder that hurt..." He sat up himself, rubbing at the small of his back. "Anyway, you ever think that maybe you just need to lose a few pounds?"

"Sod off – rationing already took care of whatever body fat I had prior to 1940. Frankly I actually wouldn't mind having it back."

Alfred opened his mouth to either reply or laugh that obnoxious laugh of his – but got no further as a knock at the office door sounded.

"Ah, here we go," Arthur grumbled, getting up and going to answer it, straightening his crooked tie. "Stop making such a bleeding racket, anyone would think the pair of you were hammering in nails..."

It was some lowly British officer standing outside the door; he saluted immediately, his posture very rigid.

"Major Kirkland, Mr Churchill wants to see you, sir," he said quickly. "Wouldn't give me the details, just requires your presence immediately."

"What about Captain Jones?" Arthur asked, thumbing over his shoulder at Alfred, who had come wandering over to be nosy on hearing Arthur being addressed by rank.

"Mr Churchill didn't ask for him, sir," the officer replied, barely looking at Alfred. "Just for you."

"I... well, yes, alright then," Arthur muttered; he gave a quick, barely-formed salute himself and then waved the same hand at the officer. "I'll be along now."

The officer gave a nod and turned, walking briskly away as though rather glad to get away from them.

"Why was he scared of you?" Alfred asked as Arthur closed the door again. "I find it hard to believe you're as cruel and ruthless as all that."

Arthur sighed at him as he went to get his hat from the back of his chair.

"He's not afraid of me," he explained wearily. "He just doesn't want to be down here. It's Christmas Day and he got sent on an errand that tore him away from drinking with his chums – and besides, drinking with his chums probably isn't even what he'd rather be doing. Maybe he has a wife, a sweetheart, a child, a mother, a family he'd prefer to be with today." He put on his hat to complete his uniform and turned towards Alfred. "And he can't be with them. He can't go home, even on Christmas Day. Why not? Because Churchill and I aren't going to back down. If you must know, I honestly don't care how many Christmases it takes."

Alfred frowned at him.

"Well, neither do I, but—"

"That's that, then," Arthur said. "Cruel and ruthless, as you said. Besides, you'll find that the war tends to lose popularity around this time of year. Nothing much about it is exactly in the spirit of the season, is it? Goodwill to all men – except those bloody Jerries." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh well, only twenty minutes left of Christmas Day left anyway. Lord knows how long my boss is going to keep me with his godforsaken maps and newspapers so I might as well say it now." He put a hand on Alfred's chest and pressed up towards him, kissing him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, love. Blow out the candles and make a wish."

He moved away and Alfred caught him and brought him back to kiss him properly; Arthur kissed him back for a long, blissful moment (during which Alfred thought that he might actually be able to keep Arthur here for himself instead) before suddenly coming back to himself and pulling away rather firmly.

"Don't go bruising my lips again," he huffed breathlessly, "or Churchill will just sit and smirk at me for the whole meeting. The "I know and approve of you shagging the United States" one is his worst."

"Fine," Alfred said with a grin, "I'll let you off for now – but you're going to be putting up with that worst smirk of his all day tomorrow."

Arthur merely snorted at him, patted his broad chest somewhat derisively and stalked out of the office with as much dignity as he could muster. Which was remarkably quite a bit, actually.

Still, you won't be walking like that tomorrow, Alfred thought gleefully, watching him go.

He groped about for the light and flicked it back on, whistling along to the struggling radio buzzing its way through Bing Crosby's "Comin' In On a Wing and a Prayer'. Two American songs in a row, he couldn't help but note. Arthur never had been a very good liar – and Alfred wondered why he was even still bothering considering all this. American GIs on leave in Britain were still the toast of the town with their fast-paced jitterbugs and uniform pockets full of gleaming coins and chocolate and it wasn't as though Arthur himself was immune to those particular charms. The plug-shaped bruise no doubt forming on Alfred's back was testament to that – as was the fact that Arthur, though he would never admit it, could be bribed with chocolate. Alfred had taken to always carrying a bar in his pocket for a while (just in case) until he discovered that Arthur was quite a good pickpocket and kept robbing him whilst pretending to be affectionate.

("I wondered where all my bribery-chocolate was going, you little thief!" Alfred said crossly, manually extracting Arthur's hand from inside his bomber jacket – clutching the half-melted Hershey bar, of course.

"If it's bribery-chocolate then it's for me anyway," Arthur replied flatly. "So let go."

"I'm not just going to let you steal it! You have to earn it!"

Arthur scowled at him.

"Earn it?" he replied icily. "How is this for earning it? Rationing, bombing on cities, more rationing, more bombing on cities!" He successfully snatched his hand back, still clinging to his prize. "You don't understand what it's like. We don't have things like this anymore and you, conversely, have a whole suitcase full of chocolate!" He clutched at the mangled bar very possessively. "Besides, you know I can be rather determined when I want something.")

Rationing. Bombing on cities. Soldiers parted from their families for yet another Christmas. No Disney Christmas lights. All because Arthur was rather determined when he wanted something – when he wanted victory.

Alfred leaned over and switched off the radio, glancing at the little propped-up calendar sitting on the desk next to it.

December 25th, 1944.

He blew out the candles and made his wish.

But you should be careful what you wish for. WWII was over by the August of the following year but the Cold War was hot on its heels (lol paradox).

Christmas lights with Disney characters on them: New technology in the 1940s and the must-have thing for the season. I know about these because there was a string of Disney's Snow White-themed Christmas lights in my dad's family when he was little that dated from the 1940s (my dad was born in '56) that he really liked. Apparently they were dangerous and sparked all over the place and had to be thrown out but according to aunts and uncles, my dad used to play with them when he was a kid so I reckon he actually broke them and the "Uh, they were dangerous!" thing is a cover-up.

American and British plugs are different. That's why my American laptop always needs a USA-to-UK plug adaptor on it at all times like some kind of bulky condom as though I can't trust it not to father hundreds of little baby plugs that will be of no use to anyone because they're Anglo-American mutants and have like five pins or something... XD

Ranks: I don't even know if the characters have ranks in Hetalia. It looks like Hidekaz just picked whatever uniforms he liked best. None of them have any kind of rank insignia on them, although England is notably officer class because his uniform has an officer's/Sam Browne belt. In the armed forces, Major is a much higher rank than Captain – however, America wears an air force uniform, not an armed forces one. If I've understood the Wikipedia article correctly, the rank of Captain in the air force is more or less equal to Major in the army... I think. But then we're talking US Air Force Captain against British Army Major so I don't know if those correlate the same way...

Eh. Whatever. I don't pretend to know how the army works. If America is a lower rank than England, it's probably for the best, lolololol.

Hershey's chocolate is awful and I've yet to meet a fellow Brit who disagrees with me. It was probably better than ration chocolate, though.

Thankyou all for following this all the way through this week! It's been fun counting down even though I still can't believe it's Christmas again already...

Merry Christmas for tomorrow! Hope Santa brings you all lots of goodies! =)

RobinRocks

xXx

Ah, how seasonal my pen-name is at this time of year...