Here, have a chapter of confused and grumpy England adorableness. :) Also, please ignore my fail attempts at using American spelling and stuff for Alfred's speech. =.=

He had searched the whole building. The whole bloody building, thought Arthur, and no sign of the git! Honestly, when I get my hands on him... He spent a few happy moments entertaining thoughts of strangling the currently-absent America, and then opened another door with a push that was rather more savage than strictly necessary.

And there, framed by another set of double doors leading to a balcony, stood Alfred. He was leaning over the railings, back to Arthur, lit with a washed-out yellow under the bright, mid-morning sun.

"There you are, you wanker, I've been looking for half a bloody hour for-" Arthur froze, halfway across the room, as a pair of yellow, cold eyes focused on him. The bald eagle perched on Alfred's arm swivelled its head to get a better look at him, gaze calculated and predatory. Arthur got the uncomfortable feeling it was assessing him. When, after a second, the creature looked away and returned to looking curiously at Alfred, he let out a small breath of relief.

Alfred chuckled, still not turning around. "You can come closer, Iggy, he won't bite." He raised one hand and absently ran a curled finger down the back of the eagle's head, smoothing the slightly ruffled feathers.

Arthur swallowed, and stepped forward, this time not quite flinching when the bird looked at him again. "Are you quite sure about that?" he asked the back of Alfred's head, one eyebrow raised.
"Yeah, yeah. He's never bitten me before!" Arthur could practically see Alfred's grin.
"And what a big comfort that is," he mumbled snidely, taking another step forward, hesitantly. "He's not my national animal, you git."

The bird cried out at the movement, a sharp, unexpected noise that startled Alfred as well as Arthur. Arthur froze again, whilst Alfred turned sideways so he could look at the nervous nation hesitating in the middle of the room. He frowned at Arthur, who shrugged back at him in confusion (eyes still on the eagle), and then looked back at the creature perched on his arm. "Hey!" he said to it, tone mildly reprimanding, but also lightly amused. "Play nice, yeah? He's a friend." He paused, looking over at Arthur and grinning. "Most of the time, anyway."

Arthur closed the last few steps between them slowly, but the bird didn't object any further. He stood next to Alfred, watching as the taller nation stroked the bird gently, eyes happy.
"He's magnificent," said Arthur softly, smiling slightly despite himself. He knew he should be shouting at Alfred for delaying the meeting and dragging him back down to the conference room by his ear, but couldn't quite find the incentive to break the quiet peace.

Alfred turned to grin at him, almost radiating with happiness; England complimenting anything that was even remotely connected to him was a rare occurrence. "Hey, you can touch him!" he said, and before Arthur could protest he caught the smaller man's fingers in his own and pulled them gently up to smooth over the ruffled feathers of the eagle's neck.

The second Arthur touched the bird, its head whipped round, gold eyes meeting green- and Arthur recoiled. It knows. Yea gods, it knows, how can it-? He could almost hear its thoughts as it stared at him mockingly, hungrily. Dead man. Prey. Carrion. And then, with a derisive screech, the bird flared its wings and launched itself into the air, feathers glistening as it wheeled up and away from them, its cries echoing over the bustling city.

Alfred winced, looking at the scratches its claws had left across the sleeve of his beloved bomber jacket. "Well, wouldya look at that," he said thoughtfully, almost to himself. "He ain't never been that rude before." He turned to frown at Arthur, gaze pensive, the clueless smile he usually wore absent from his face. "There's nothing 'bout you that should get him so riled…"

And for a moment, standing there on that balcony in the high summer sun and the entire, glittering city spread out below them, Alfred's impossibly blue eyes locked with his and their fingers still woven together, Arthur nearly broke.

"I…" The word was barely audible over the breeze, little more than an exhaled breath. "I l…"

"Must've been your scary eyebrows" laughed Alfred, nose wrinkling in amusement and mock-disgust, and the moment was gone. "They'd've scared me off for sure!" He grinned, poking Arthur's forehead gently with his free hand. "Maybe he thought they were coming to eat him or sommat!"

"G-git!" stuttered Arthur, swatting Alfred's hand away even as he felt the heat rising in his cheeks and realised he was probably going scarlet. "Give me my bloody hand back!" he snapped, scrambling to cover his confusion, and tried to jerk his hand out of the American's. At the last second, though, Alfred grabbed it back in both of his, prying the Englishman's fingers open to peer at his palm.

His expression sobered almost instantly. "Hey, Iggy, what's this?" he said, raising one eyebrow and lowering his hands slightly, so Arthur could see the long, but shallow, ragged-edged cut across his palm that Alfred was looking at.
"It's nothing," he said quietly, trying to pull his hand away, but Alfred wouldn't let him. "Honestly," he added, scowling. "It doesn't even hurt. I… cut myself when I was cleaning."

"It doesn't hurt?" Alfred poked the cut and, when Arthur didn't even wince, made a face. "Man, Arthur, that's weeeeeird. Dude, you should, like, totally go and get this checked out by a doctor or something. Maybe it's infected or whatever, and then, like, your whole hand would turn green, and it'd spread, and then bam! Zombie before you know it."
"…Really." Arthur finally managed to reclaim his fingers with a derisive snort of amusement.

"Seriously, bro! I don't wanna have a zombie apocalypse just 'cos you couldn't be bothered your British ass to go to the doctors."
Arthur sighed. "I don't think I'm in any danger of turning into a zombie, Alfred. I'm sure it'll heal on its own in a few days." He turned and headed towards the door, before stopping when he realised America wasn't following him. "Come on. The meeting's already been delayed for half a bloody hour because you didn't turn up. I'm dragging you back whether you like it or not, so you may as well come willingly."
"Fine, fine, coming," sighed Alfred melodramatically, sloping with exaggerated reluctance across the room and following Arthur out of the door.

"It's arse, by the way," Arthur added as they walked down the corridor, side by side.
"Huh?" America frowned at him in confusion.

"It's arse. Not ass. Really, your English is appalling."
"Yeah, well, your American ain't all that good either, old man. It's ass."
"How dare- It's arse. As in, America is an absolute arse."
"Nuh-uh! It's ass. As in, England has a huuuuuuge stick up his ass."
"You- git!"
"Owwww! Iiiiiggy!"
"…Serves you right."

Arthur hadn't been joking when he had said the cut didn't hurt. In fact, he hadn't felt it since performing the spell that had brought Alfred back to life – his whole hand had gone numb. He didn't just not feel pain, he felt… nothing. Nothing at all.

So I must have imagined it, he thought, as he walked down the corridor with Alfred whining and laughing by his side. It must have been a trick of the mind. Because, for a second, before the eagle had flown, he could have sworn he felt the warmth of Alfred's hand in his right the way down to his bones.

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