Chapter Text
1942
"Amazing that a new life can be born in war," Francis' fingers waggled in front of the small bundle in his arms. Lips stretched into a smile.
"Amazing enough to come back to the field?" Arthur didn't care much for his sloppy mannerisms or appearance, not now when he's been out in the middle of disaster mending men left and right with no end in sight. He's slouched in his antique sofa. Taking in the cushion. The smooth, savory warmth it gave off. The first comfort he's felt in months. He feels his knees are too far apart though. Oh well. Francis doesn't seem to mind.
Francis realizes he was being spoken to and he pauses in his cooing to look at his host. "Eh... Non." He decides firmly. "If anything this only makes me want to stay longer."
Arthur tutts.
"Can you blame me!? He makes your ugly eyebrows look adorable!"
Arthur couldn't bother to find the offense in his claim. He shakes his head. Adjusts a helmet that isn't there. "Think you can manage on your own until Stefan arrives?" Arthur says instead.
Francis is looking down at the baby again. Making faces. Trying his absolute best to make the baby react. Maybe giggle. Arthur thinks he's far too young for any of that yet. All he does is cry, make a mess, eat, and repeat. Like all babies do.
"Francis." Arthur tries again. "France."
"Huh? Oh! Yes. I can manage. Do you forget how good I am with children?" True, Arthur almost agrees. Instead of that, he calls him a frog and insists he needs a haircut, especially when he looked better with the shorter hair they forced him to have when this war began. It doesn't affect Francis. Not while his focus is solely on the child in his arms.
It's so rare. Baby nations. Normally, they're found at toddler age or older. Allegedly, Arthur was one of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to be born of a similar age as the little one here. Though he, along with his Anglo-Saxon siblings, sprung up like weeds. One day they were infants who couldn't support their own heads, then the next they were running around fighting one another and making trouble for the neighbors they reluctantly called brothers.
Arthur glances at the clock on the mantle. It isn't moving. It's glass is cracked. It's also not in its original spot. None of his belongings are. The Blitz ended ages ago it feels, too long to remember, and yet there are still reminders around. He can still taste the vomit on his tongue. The cramps deep in his gut that he tried his damnedest to ignore because there were soldiers to patch up. Surrounding noise to tune out and pretend it wasn't making the nausea worse.
"Should probably get going now. It's getting late." He guesses. There are still boards covering his windows. Francis' paranoia he refuses to admit to.
Francis looks up perplexed. "You only just got here."
Arthur hums in agreement. But he still gets up. He cracks his back, then his neck. Rolls his shoulders. "Got work to do. Men to heal. Then those men have Nazis to kill. You know the pattern."
"Yes but," Francis stood next. Carefully. He monitored his own movements closely. The baby made no sound, though he did squirm. "You should rest. Spend more time with, uh..." He trailed off, realizing he never caught the child's name.
Arthur realized this quickly. Because he never did supply it. "Peter," He says. "Uh, Peter James Kirkland. Or do you think that's too much perhaps? Might be. I hadn't any sleep when I had to fill out his papers for travel. Pulled that name straight from my......" Arthur stopped himself. He lacks a filter just as much as he lacks sleep.
"No. It's a fine name. Fits him." Francis began to sway. Peter's squirming soon subsided.
A beat of stale silence.
"Well.... Suppose I should be going then." Arthur murmurs. He doesn't move.
Francis does. He turns towards the door as if to escort the Englishman out. When Arthur doesn't move, he turns half way, looking at the man expectantly.
"Oh yes! Coming!" Arthur scrambles for the single bag he'd brought along. A flimsy thing. It was chock full of supplies when he first arrived. Everything you needed for a new baby. Though not much. Not when the whole country was on a strict ration. Whatever could be spared, while leaving enough behind for others, that's what he was given.
Turns out it's still the afternoon. Arthur squints through the sunlight until his eyes adjust. Francis stands at the gate.
"Come back. To the war I mean. We could use you." Arthur says before he can stop himself. He's exhausted.
Francis frowns. His shoulders fall. "Some of my men are still fighting. Those who are free, I mean." He says.
"And why not you?"
His eyes were sad. Downtrodden. As they have been for some years now. "You know why."
Arthur didn't comment any further.
There is no rule that a Nation has to fight with their people. But for Francis—France—it was normal for him to be alongside his men. He may not have enjoyed war as much Arthur used to (the thrill he got both from fighting with his men, and the valiant effort they put up, it made his pride swell back in the day), but he still enacted his duties as a Nation and at least showed up for moral support more than anything. He usually put himself in a position of strategy rather than combat. He's good at war strategy. Which is why it's such a shame he's sitting in London doing nothing but feeling bad for himself and his failed efforts. But Arthur can't blame him. Not really. Not with the state he came to him in. Depressed. Spirits crushed. He followed a General here, under the claim that they were a resistance. Arthur took pity on the man.
"Stefan should be here by the weekend." Arthur leans forward to catch a glimpse of the bundle. He's asleep. He sleeps a lot. Just as much as a newborn human. But he isn't human. Arthur can't rightfully explain it, but there's a connection. A deep and subtle connection. The same kind he feels while in the company of another Nation. It's comforting. He doesn't know who this child is to be. Why he was found on the recently built fort. But he's one of them. Could be colony. One he is to obtain after this war is over. So he could be an early sign that victory was just around the corner. Yes. A victory. His little victory. His cornerstone of hope.
"Here," Francis stepped forward, ushering Peter into his arms. Arthur flailed momentarily before he relaxed his shoulders, keeping his arms steady and firm as he cradled the sleeping Peter. "Should hold him before you go."
Arthur's nose. Arthur's ears. Even those trademark British eyebrows. Just as thick as Arthur's. He's the spitting image. Aside from those pale baby blues, but those may change over time. His hair sits in thin wefts of pale blonde. Lighter than Arthur's own hair, which is thick and colored like hay. Even feels like hay these days. Dry and sharp. But Peter's is soft in every way imaginable.
Arthur's eyes softened. He allowed himself the vulnerability to relax. To smile down as his now youngest kin. He traces his cheek gently with a single finger. Soft smooth skin. So new. So fresh. "Be a good lad for your uncle Francis. Mind your manners." He whispers.
"Uncle?" Francis questions with a bite of of intrigue.
Arthur doesn't look up. He spent three weeks getting to know this little one. Now he has to leave him behind. Go back to the field. Treat and repeat. Meanwhile, he will be here. Stephan will arrive eventually. And he will take Peter back home to Cornwall, where he's safest.
He wants to stay.
So Arthur gives Peter back. Just in time for the infant to wake up and begin to fuss. He settles again back in Francis' arms.
Arthur nods to the driver waiting for him in the car. "Well. Off to war, I suppose."
"Be careful." Arthur turns back. Francis is holding Peter's chubby little wrist in his hand, waving it goodbye to Arthur.
Arthur gets into the car.