A/N: Written for the livejournal community usxuk's Secret Santa, beta-read by Ellarose C. Prompt was "America and England as human beings, meeting again and again throughout time, joined by fate. A bunch of tiny AUs, basically." I had written more, but I cut it out since it wasn't working and I had a time limit.

I hope everyone enjoyed their holidays and that you all have a great New Years.

Those who say stories begin neatly are liars. He knows this because there was nothing simple or tidy about the first time they met.

He is Artorius, a Roman soldier, the leader of his battalion. In battle he is knocked to the ground. The Celt warrior screams above him and then the other arrives. The other changes his name so frequently, he cannot possibly remember them all, but at that time he was mostly certain that the other had no name. He is a captured warrior press ganged into obeying Roman rule. At that moment, however, there is no authority that holds him—Artorius' comrades have abandoned him to his fate, but he still comes to his aid.

Somewhere, somehow, he has acquired a club and now he uses it to smash it into the other man's stomach, knocking the wind out of him before he deals a deadly blow to the warrior's head.

Artorius is stunned, but his savior only glances back once to him, perhaps just to make sure he is unhurt. For that moment, Artorius' world shrinks down to those two pools of blue and he is lost. He does not know the other, does not know why he helps, only that he now owes his life to him.

(He does not remember three weeks earlier, when a ruckus awoke him late at night, causing him to step out of his tent and demand an explanation. One of the captives had been beaten to the ground, accused of trying to steal food. Artorius is too tired to care one wit and since the captive wasn't the one making the noise, he demands they leave him be. He does not see the blue eyed captive scramble to his brother's side, does not see those eyes gratefully follow him while he pulls his brother back to relative safety.)

Another warrior approaches; Artorius' savior rushes on to meet him while Artorius picks himself off the ground. He collects a spear and follows the blue eyed man into battle.

They do not win the fight. His sky eyed savior is struck in the leg; Artorius can only fend off enemies while the man succumbs to his wound behind him. Seeing and feeling himself truly alone, Artorius turns his weapon on himself. His last act is to toss a coin onto his savior's body and slip one under his tongue, payment for Charon when the ferryman comes. While he falls to the earth, a part of him wonders if he shall see his savior in the depths of the Underworld.

The next he sees him, he grins at him from a window sill. Between them, the other man's employer lies upon his bed, throat slit, body spread eagle on the bed where Artair had straddled him minutes before. The body is cooling in the crisp breeze coming from the window, so Artair salutes the other and jumps out the window before he can catch him.

They have themselves a merry little chase, crisscrossing across Europe, Artair always a half step ahead of him. Sometimes they met and managed a moment of conversation. The former bodyguard is engaging as he is persistent; they spend evenings trapped in snowed in cabins, play long games of cards, share meals at holidays, all the while chattering and downright teasing and tempting as they gripped secreted weapons.

It comes to a head when he corners him in Venice. There is nowhere to run, and his half pursuer, half soul mate is through playing their most diverting game.

Artair truly hates killing him, but there is no choice. He kills his cherished opponent with a mercifully placed knife. He gets rid of his old wardrobe and decks himself out in black for the rest of the year. Come New Year, he is to be hung high until dead in Kiev. Just before the bag slips over his head, he gazes up into the blue sky, as blue as his eyes, and wonders what he would think of this now.

They meet as old men; each Wednesday, Art goes and sits in the park, feeding the birds. He is the last of his siblings, his parents are a faded memory; he has always lived on the streets. Once he was a violent scrapper of a vagrant, a pickpocket and mugger, but age has blunted his rage and leaves behind an emptiness. He has nearly nothing, but he has this: peace and calm as he and his birds share a sandwich he got from a friendly priest. Promptly one hour later, Al walks by, his aged wife's arm in the crook of his elbow, chatting and teasing one another. They have obvious wealth; once upon a time, he would have robbed them blind, but now Art nods to them and they smile back. For years these nods and smiles, birds and crumbs, peace and acknowledgement are part of the universal routine.

In later years, Al and his wife start arriving later and later and she walks slower and slower each time. One week, they don't come at all. Nor the week after or the week after that; it is four weeks later when Al finally returns. Before, whenever Al came through with his wife, he seemed effervescent and considerably younger than his true age. Today, however, he is bent and shuffling, weighed down in stiff black clothes that do not suit him. When he finally appears, Art is torn between hurrying to his side or staying where he is.

He is almost upon Art when he finally looks up. Al pauses as their eyes meet, regarding him curiously, like Art is some object he saw a long time ago but can no longer remember the name of. In spite of that, he's a sight of sore eyes and Art finds himself smiling. "Good to see you again. How are you?"

Al's gaze starts to become unnerving, but far more surprising is when he shambles forward, scaring the birds into flight as he marches up to Art. "Can I join you?"

Art, surprised, scoots to one side. Al sits and for a few moments, awkward silence separates them. They are leagues apart from each other in so many ways, but it has never been so apparent until now.

"Do you feed the birds every day?" Al speaks up at last, startling Art again.

"Only on Wednesdays."

Al mulls over the answer, frowning down to the ground where a few of the braver birds have returned to see if Art has any more offerings for them. "If I brought you lunch, would you mind eating it with me here tomorrow? I'll bring enough for the birds, too."

Once upon a time, this would have sent Art scrambling for his knife. Years—nearly a dozen—of overheard conversations, brilliantly warm smiles, and the little bits of gossip that Art has managed to hear remind him that Al is a good person, a respected person. But, besides that, Al's face is a portrait of loneliness, grief etched into several new lines that frame his eyes and mouth. Art gazes at him for awhile and nods.

They meet the next day, Art warily and Al with a small picnic basket in hand. The sandwiches Art recognizes as coming from a local shop, and never fail to be delicious. They sit and talk, feeding the birds as they speak. Strangely, Art finds himself telling Al things he would never have thought he would tell a stranger during the coming days and weeks. Of his childhood and family, of fighting and sins, of his consuming aching emptiness.

To his shock, Al seems to know all too well of the last bit.

Two months later, when a chill breeze nips at their cheeks, Al invites Art back to his home.

"Were I a younger man," Art begins, brushing crumbs from his fingers with a saucy smirk. "I would think that a sad attempt at seduction."

Al laughs and it is almost as warm as it used to be before his wife's death. "But, Art, can't you give me a break for being out of practice?"

Art pauses to frown at him, but Al's face is poker straight. "I am too old for such nonsense."

"Now, that's nonsense. Being old's the best reason for nonsense!"

As he watches the other man's face, he thinks he might be able to glimpse the truth beneath it. A twitch of the mouth, a flicker of the eye, they betray a doubt and a worry that Al tries to hide from him. Because, after all, doesn't Al know of loneliness, too?

Instead Art offers his hand; the other beams and takes it.

Every Wednesday after, two old men now walk through the park, hand in hand, huddled together against the stiff wind.

Her name is Alice Rose—although she prefers to be referred to by Rose—and she doesn't want to know his name at first in the next life. All she knows is that he is her patient when a couple of his fellow soldiers all but toss him unto a cot. His shoulder is shredded and she races against time and the blood flow to save him.

The wound is a mess—shrapnel had torn through it, shattering the collar bone and mangling the muscle. He is losing blood too fast, she's certain he will bleed out faster than she could sew him up. The soldier looks so young and pale when she finally finishes, she can't bear to stay by his side anymore. Surely he won't last until dawn, like so many of the other men, and her heart can only ache so much for these boys before it snaps and what good will she be to anyone then?

Despite leaving him to the other nurses' care, she keeps an ear out for her previous charge. It is a near thing, but he makes it through the night. Lucky does not begin to describe his situation; Rose would have been proud of her work if she could forget that she had been almost positive that he would die. Still, he is an oddity that lurks in the back of her mind mostly forgotten until another nurse tells her he's awake.

His name, she learns, is Fred. For a man who is possibly maimed for life, he greets her cheerfully, or as cheerfully an anemic, half dead person can. While his face is pale, his eyes shine too brightly to be from morphine; he thanks her for saving him and spends the rest of his time trying to chat with her every moment he can. In spite of herself, she has to hide her smiles and barely manages any frustration to reprove his flirtatious invitations to come back with him to visit his home across the ocean.

In the end, he is finally sent home. She does not see him off; she is far too busy, she tells everyone—literally everyone: patients, other nurses, doctors, even a few bemused or apathetic soldiers who are visiting their friends—that she just does not have time to spare.

Late that evening, she finds a letter sitting upon her cot. She does not know how or who snuck the letter in, but he must have talked someone into it because it is addressed to her in his sloppy penmanship and it is his name at the bottom of the letter. It is his voice in the letter as well; she can hear his rambling tenor and drawling accent in every bit of his writing, from the colloquialisms to the shape of the letters.

His letter rambles, but he eventually says that he understands how busy she must have been and why she couldn't see him off. All the same, he says—at length—that he will miss talking to her. And then he left an address for her to write him, asking if she would mind talking to him still. He jokes that they're doing the whole thing backwards and says that soldiers were supposed to ask to write to girls before the go to war, not afterward, but all the same he wants to keep speaking to her.

She sits for a while on her cot, stunned and feeling small for lying about being busy. The address in the letter, however, makes her smile and she pulls out a sheet of paper to write a reply. After all, it would rude not to after the effort he made to make sure she got the letter.

They start up a long dialogue spanning years and miles. His shoulder and that arm never recover, but despite the rare line about it paining him or it stopping him from getting a better job, he rarely complains about any disability. He returns to his father's ranch and talks at length about everything that goes on; Rose has never ridden a horse in her life, but now she knows every detail that goes into their upkeep, from feeding to cleaning to vet visits. His letters dip into local gossip or into his family's own struggles and spats. Her favorite is his almost surreally beautiful descriptions of the lands and environment around him; for a man who can misspell his own president's name, he can paint a picture of a sunset that she can see whenever she closes her eyes.

Logically, the letters should bore her to tears—she dislikes gossip, and her own family's squabbles just make her want to pull her hair out. But when she reads of his favorite mare first foal, or of his brother's trials in trying to court his sweetheart, she finds that her mouth aches from smiling too widely. Whenever he writes in what she can only assume in a most wistful voice that he would like to see her face once more, she finds herself wishing the same. Since the end of the war, she feels like a top that has stopped spinning. The structure of her life is in a shambles, and despite the fact that she finds a nursing job easily enough, returning to her old life is like trying to slip on a shoe she wore when she was ten.

So, when his next letter comes, all but flat out begging her to visit, she does so. She scrapes up her savings and hops on the next boat she can. Had someone told her just a month ago that she would ditch her old life in the sudden hope of finding some new adventure across the ocean, she would have laughed in their faces. But here she is, traveling by ship and then by train, to meet her friend. Fred will not mind her dropping in—he wrote more than once that he loves a good surprise—but, she tells herself, should he tire of her, that it won't stop her. That she'll just have to keep looking for something else for her grand adventure.

She tells herself that because she can't leave her heart too vulnerable—if he does reject her in the end, she isn't going to let her trip be in vain. All the same, when her train finally pulls into the station and she hands over the remains of her money to a cab driver, she hunkers down into her seat and tries not to let her nervousness show.

The trip has been such a long one that the ride to the ranch seems both seconds long and mind numbingly slow. When she steps out of the cab, she finds the ranch to be almost exactly what she imagined. Even the peeling paint job on the house is a match for the sun bleached blue she hoped for.

Fred's father spots her first; curiously, he is both everything and nothing like she imagined. He is tight lipped and stern looking, but he greets politely and is a perfect host to her while he sends a ranch hand to go find Fred.

When Fred stumbles into the house, he is like she imagined as well. The sun has done him an immense favor and he looks well despite his crippled shoulder. He trips over himself, all puppy eager, to greet and hug her and she knows she didn't make a mistake coming here.

In this life, his name is Arthur and he has just been stood up on a date. He waits for nearly two hours in the pouring rain because he doesn't dare leave his spot in front of the clock in the park in case his date finally arrives. At last, he has to admit to himself that no one is coming. Slowly, he lets the bouquet of roses he so lovingly picked out fall to his side as he trudges away, further into the park. He is in no mood to return home just yet. Francis will be waiting to hear how his date went, and no matter if his roommate is well meaning or not, Arthur can't deal with another person at the moment.

Besides, the rain is soothing, the perfect way for the earth to cool after the recent humidity. He tries to console himself that the date probably would have been a disaster anyway—they had planned to go to an outdoor concert, and the rain would have made the most frightful, disgusting, absolutely fun mess—but it does little to help in the end. Only the rain comforts him, like a balm on his aching heart.

Just as he musters up enough resolve to go home and face Francis, a soft humming catches his attention. He pauses, listening to the song; it is an old song, one that he remembers his grandparents playing when he was young. It makes him think of old war movies and memorabilia that his grandparents kept, but the longer he listens, he more he finds himself thinking of other stranger things. He thinks of ancient battles, of romantic but tense dinners, of old worn hands at last finding the mates to match them, and, more importantly, of eyes so blue as to break his heart.

He shakes his head and smiles at himself; if Francis was around, he would tease him about his beliefs in things like fate and magic. Being stood up doesn't leave him in the most romantic mood, but he finds his feet carrying him to the source of the music nonetheless.

It appears he is not the only person out in the rain today; the mysterious singer is just around the corner, perched on the top bar of the hand rails surrounding a statue. He couldn't be much younger than Arthur, but his voice sounds odd, like he's pitching it unusually low. He is nearly as drenched as Arthur, and seems to care about as much as him as well. Arthur has to smile.

The other man notices him at last; his eyes flicker open and focus on Arthur with startling clarity. Arthur nearly steps back when he sees that they are blue as the sky hidden above the rainclouds, blue as the eyes he just envisioned moments ago. But then the other (The Other) smiles and the illusion passes; he is just another ordinary person in this ordinary city in this ordinary world. His smile, however, is cheerful and mischievous, like he knows a fantastic secret and is dying to tell someone. Arthur can't help but smile back.

"Hello!" the other man chirps, surprising Arthur out of his thoughts. "Lovely weather, huh?"

Arthur can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, so he decides on the truth. "I'm quite enjoying it myself."

From the way the other beams, he was being sincere. (Which earns him points with Arthur because Arthur loves the rain far too much to listen to people gripe about it.) "Perfect for taking a walk, huh?"

"How so?"

"Well, for one, no one to bug you while you're out," he answered with a grin as he began to swing one leg back and forth. He seems like an oversized child with every movement and Arthur can't decide if it's endearing or silly yet.

Arthur has to chuckle. "And yet, here you are talking to me."

"How mean! I was just being friendly, you know. Thought I found a kindred spirit and everything."

"Kindred spirit? And just how are we alike?" Arthur raises his eyebrows.

"Well, we are both out enjoying the rain for one," the man answers with a sunny smile. Something about it tugs on Arthur's memories, but he ignores it easily. "And it looks like we were both waiting for someone who didn't show."

Arthur's eyes go wide. "How do you know I was waiting for someone?"

The man points to Arthur's side, reminding him of the bouquet he's still hauling about. "Those, for one thing. Unless you always carry flowers around when you go on walks?"

Arthur has to snort as he pulls the bouquet back up to his face. These were no ordinary roses, nothing store bought. No, these came from his own collection; there is not much room for him to grow roses, but the ones he grew were his pride and joy. It is a shame that they would never reach their intended receiver.

To his surprise, when Arthur glances up, he finds the other man has his hands upraised. At first, Arthur wonders if perhaps he's trying to signal that he wants a hug before he realizes it's the flowers he wants to inspect. The Brit ponders over it for a moment before walking over and handing the flowers to the other man. The blue eyed man studies each blossom before gently pressing his face against the petals and taking a deep whiff of them. From the sigh of contentment he breaths after he pulls back, Arthur can only conclude that he approves of them. Arthur tries not to fidget or go red with pride—they are his prized blooms, and he can't help but like those that appreciate them.

"Damn, I don't know who you're gonna give these to, but they really need to be thankful for these things. Are these homegrown? They smell amazing!"

Arthur is torn between unabashed glee and crushing disappointment; as much as he loves the compliment, he did not need the reminder that the flowers were never going to be appreciated by their intended. His feelings must show on his face because the other man's smile vanishes.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yes," Arthur coughs, too quickly. Now the other man looks confused and uneasy. Arthur has to glance away, but when he looks back, he can't help but smile when he sees how carefully the other is cradling the roses. "You can keep those if you want. I don't need them anymore."

"Huh? Um… thanks, I think," he murmurs, glancing between him and the roses in confusion, but Arthur notices that he gently holds the roses closer to his chest, as if protecting them. "They really are nice roses."

Arthur nods. "Take care of them—and yourself," he adds as an afterthought and begins to walk away. The conversation is just too uncomfortable now; Arthur scowls when he realizes that he was the one to kill it in the first place.

He doesn't get far until the man's voice calls out to him. "Hey, wait up!" Arthur pauses and glances back to see the man hop off his perch and face him. He smiles his bright smile again, shift the roses from both hands to one, letting them rest against his shoulder. "My name's Alfred. Since you gave me a gift, will you let me buy you a drink? There's a coffee shop down the street—they make a wicked hot chocolate. Guaranteed to warm you up. How about it?"

Arthur pauses to consider Alfred; his smile is bright and confident, just as his gaze is. A warm drink with this cheerful man doesn't sound bad at all—in fact, it sounds wonderful, even if it isn't going to be a date and a concert. At least he doesn't have to face Francis empty handed. He smiles at last. "My name is Arthur, and a drink would be lovely."

Alfred beams and jogs over to him. "Awesome! Just follow me—it's just around the corner." As they walk, Alfred manages one more surprise for him. "You know, it's the strangest thing, but you seem really familiar to me!"

Arthur glances at him sharply, eyes widening in surprise before his face softens into a smile. "Actually… I felt that as well."

"Heh, strange world, huh?"

"I suppose so," he murmurs, turning his face up to the rain. Beside him, Alfred laughs.