((Can't stay, but here's more of that fic))
The rest is on my ff.net account OddLittleBrit~
Alfred soon fell into a comfortable routine with the Bonnefoy’s. He slept the room at the end of the hallway, next door to Matthew’s that was big enough for him to fit his clothes and new toys, as Matthew had been generous with the toys he protested were ‘too young for me, Alfred can have them!’. The large window across one wall gave him a beautiful view of the rolling hills of the village outskirts, something his young eyes have never seen. At first, the vastness of the place had spooked him, how... green it all was! Everywhere he looked, trees surrounded him and mud coated the ground.
He still had school, only now it was in the village school which was much smaller than his own bustling grounds. Every morning he was woken at seven by a call of “Good morning, garçons!” which was followed ten minutes later by a call of “Alfred F. Kirkland, get up now or there’s no breakfast!”
That prompted him to roll from his bed, and scramble to the bathroom, usually meeting Matthew on the way in, who would smile politely as he headed downstairs. “I’ll tell Papa you’re up.” Clean and dressed, he would bound downstairs and greet his foster father with a grin. “Good morning Mr. Bon- Fancis!” The Frenchman had insisted he be called anything but Mr. Bonnefoy - “That was my father Alfred, I’m Francis to you, oui?”
By a quarter past eight, he and Matthew were being waved off by Francis and headed down the long winding road. Francis had dug out a spare pair of boots for him after he arrived back home one night splattered in mud, and it made squelching through muddy puddles all the more fun knowing he wasn’t in for a lecture that night.
Once they had arrived at the school gates, Matthew would wave goodbye and wander off to find his friends in the year above Alfred, while Alfred waited under the nearby tree for the bell to ring. Ivan, the boy he had met on the train had also ended up at the school, and Alfred soon found himself waiting there for Ivan instead and the two of them would spend the day joined at the hip. Ivan seemed cold at first, but Alfred found that he could soon get him to open up if he was persistent.
The two grew close over the first few weeks and Francis had even allowed Alfred to bring Ivan home a few times for dinner. They would spend the hours before dinner out in the fields, two city boys exploring the vast lands, sometimes roping Matthew in to show them around more. He took them deep into the woods, showed them how to wait in silence for the squirrels and birds that inhabited the trees and helped them perfect the art of tree climbing. Eventually Francis could be heard calling them for dinner, and the three of them rushed back to find a table ready and Francis sitting in wait.
The days were so fast that most nights, Alfred simply fell into bed in the evenings, too tired to think as he fell into the bed and slipped straight into a deep sleep. It was on calmer days, the weekends and such, that he was more alert in the later hours of the day. As he lay in bed, watching the window quietly, his mind would wander; more often or not to his father. He felt rather guilty sometimes that he hadn’t thought about his dad in a while, that he wasn’t so distracted by this new life he had almost forgot this wasn’t permanent. He wondered on those nights where Arthur was, what he was doing and if he was thinking of him.... it was on those nights that he silently cried himself to sleep.
-----
Two months. It had been two long months since Arthur had arrived in the trenches, and it had been the worst two months of his life. There was no way to properly describe the place he was in, no words that properly depicted the horrendous scenes that he woke up to each morning, if he slept at all that is. More often than not, he spent his hours off duty shivering in his cot, his useless blanket clutched between shaking fingers.
The cold wasn’t the only problem though, oh no. If it wasn’t the cold, it was the rain that pelted down, icy sheets soaking him to the bone or filling his boots. Or it was the constant noise, the hum of war, occasionally punctured with gunfire and screaming. That, or just the sheer thought of what was going on just feet from his door - death. The men being gunned down in an instant, pushed by orders not to retreat. They had to run, in suicidal waves towards the guns that knocked them down with ease. It was sheer luck that he had survived this long.
He sat now, watching the clock on the wall for the minutes to pass by. Five more minutes, and he was out again.reluctantly, he tugged on the helmet that lay abandoned next to him, clipping it under his chin with a grunt. He stood up, tugging his uniform straight before he realised what he was doing. A smile graced his lips as he remembered Alfred’s small hands tugging him like that, telling him to look his best for a night out.
“C’mon dad, you gotta look good - for the ladies!”
The cheeky bugger, he thought, slinging his gun over his shoulder. The thought gave him some comfort as he headed out for the night, and he left feeling a little lighter than usual.
Not that the feeling lasted. Running along the field, all thought was wiped from his mind. His legs moved without command, flying over the remains of troops and weapons, finger pulling rapidly on the trigger as he moved. It was a robotic action he did without thought, which would explain how he didn’t stumble when he was first shot.
His feet continued to pound the ground, and then suddenly it was flying up to meet him. As his body collided with the mud and the breath was knocked from him, a wave of pain ran through him. it ripped through his abdomen, sending shudders up his spine as he hacked and coughed in a heap on the floor. He could feel something seep into his shirt and refused to believe it as he pushed himself up. He had to keep going, he had to. It was just a cut.
He threw himself to his feet, lurching forward with a terrible yell. He almost doubled over, but his legs told him otherwise and propelled him forward again. Through bleary eyes, he watched the men ahead of him fall and before he knew it, he had all but fallen over the dead man at his feet. He staggered, refusing to believe again, the bare truth. The green eyes of the soldier stared lifelessly back at him and with a horrified cry, he recognised the Scotsman he had shared a bunker with for the past week.
“N-No-Ahhhh!” In the one moment he stopped, gunfire ripped through him again. In his one show of weakness in two months, some blasted soldier had gone and sent a slurry of metal through his chest. The Brit toppled forward in a swirl of agony, as he felt blood soak him, as his leg twisted to some unnatural angle beneath the Scot and his head met solid ground with a thud.
He couldn’t be sure weather the charge was ending, or if he was already slipping away but it suddenly quietened, and as he looked towards the late evening sky and thought of his son.
“I’m sorry Alfie, I’m sorry. I-I promised....”
-----
A week later, an unknowing Alfred walked through the doors of Francis’ house, Matthew not far behind.
“Francis? We’re home!” he called, slipping his shoes off by the door. As he peeled himself out of his coat, the blonde appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Oh, Alfred - Bonjour, ‘ow was your day?” he seemed distracted by something, but Alfred seemed oblivious to it.
“Oh, it was great! Mattie raced me home just now, and see who won! Hahaha, I’m the fastest in the world!” Francis chuckled, ruffling the boys hair with one hand, as the other tucked some papers into his trouser pocket. Alfred noticed that however, and his eyebrows bunched together.
“Is that a letter Francis? Is it my dad?!” He had begun to ask this, ever since a letter had found its way to him from Arthur. It wasn’t much, a reminder to be good and an ‘I love you’ but it had brightened his day. The letter was pinned to his headboard, where he read it each night.
In reply, Francis sighed, then nodded. “Sort of...” He turned back to the table and took his seat, indicating for Alfred to sit next to him. There was a plate of cookies on the table, Francis’ special homemade ones. This must be serious, Alfred thought as Francis pushed the plate towards him.
“Thank you,” he mumbled as he nibbled at it, watching the Frenchman curiously. “So... it is from dad?” Francis shook his head.
“Non, not from him... about him. Alfred, did ‘e tell you where ‘e was going when you left?” A shake of the head. “Ah... well, he... ‘e was fighting. In the war, as a soldier.”
Alfred’s head jerked upright, staring Francis in the eyes. “F-Fighting? B-But don’t the soldier,” he whispered the word “...die?”
Francis’ heart dropped, seeing the boy so shocked. He supposed he had heard stories in the playground of children who had lost their fathers. He wrapped an arm around the boy.
“Not all of them, Alfred... your father... ‘e’s alive. But ‘e’s ‘urt, and cannot fight anymore, ‘e’s very ill. I.. I ‘ave invited ‘im ‘ere, so the two of you can stay safe ‘ere in the country, oui?”
Alfred’s face switched from near-tears to a grin in a second - his father was coming!
“Really?! Daddy! Wait, why were you so sad, it’s good! I’m gonna see daddy!”
Francis watched as Matthew entered the kitchen, and smiled at the both of them. “I know, and it is. But you ‘ave to remember ‘e’s very unwell... and ‘e might not look the same... ‘e’s been through a lot Alfred... a lot.”
----
“Kirkland, Arthur Kirkland,” said the man at the door. He was shorter than Francis, but not by much. Emerald eyes studied him in the same way, sitting beneath the large eyebrows and mop of ruffled blonde hair. The man’s uniform was clean and pressed, hiding the bandages Francis knew were hidden beneath. One arm was outstretched for Francis to shake, the other clutching a crutch, which stood in for the missing leg.
“And I am Francis Bonnefoy, please, come in.” He stood aside, allowing the man to cross the threshold, and watched uneasily as he struggled out of his jacket. “Can I ‘elp?” The man gave him an odd look, not quite a glare and a little shocked. “No, no thank you, I’m okay...” after a minute of precarious balancing, he had it off, and passed it to Francis who was ready to hang it up.
Francis then lead him to the living room, where a pot of tea was waiting. They sat and began to talk. Francis went to question Arthur’s health, but before he could begin the Birt had asked -
“How is Alfred?” Francis smiled; the face that the strict looking man cared so much for his son was heartwarming.
“Arthur, ‘e ‘as been wonderful! ‘E’s polite, and it’s been a pleasure to ‘ave ‘im - e’s been nothing less than a gentleman. I suppose ‘e gets that from you, non?” Arthur’s lips quirked into a smile, chuckling at the Frenchman’s compliments.
“I guess he does. When- what time will he be back?” Francis glanced at the clock, mentally adding the hours on.
“They’ll be ‘ome in an ‘our or so.”
“They?”
“OH, oui I forogt to say - I ‘ave a son, Matthieu; ‘e’s seven. ‘E’s been so good with Alfred, they got on like an ‘ouse on fire.”
The continued to talk for the hour, Francis reassuring Arthur that Alfred’s grades had been on track, that he’d eaten his greens (well, most of them). Francis asked a few times how he had been, but Arthur waved his questions away, telling him nothing more than what was obvious. He had mutilated a leg so badly, it was removed, and the shots that had left him short of breath and aching. Francis understood he didn’t want to talk, but made it clear if he needed to talk, he was there.
“We fathers ‘ave to stick together, oui?” Arthur chuckled, about to reply when a cry broke through the house.
“Ha, I win again! That’s nine to me now!”
Arthur’s eyes widened, and his face visibly lit. His voice was no more than a whisper. “Alfred?” Francis nodded, standing to open the door. Arthur pushed himself forward in his seat, hands gripping the side of the armchair so tightly his knuckles turned white. There were some hushed words out side, the sounds of a jacket being dropped, before the door flew open and Alfred landed in his arms with a cry of “Daddy!”
Despite the having the breath knocked out of him, and the painful jabs that shot through his chest, Arthur grinned. He wrapped his arms so tightly around Alfred, the boy giggled “Daddy, I can’t breeeaath!” He pulled away, keeping his arms on his sons shoulders as he looked him over. Had he really been gone long enough for him to grow so much taller? What did it matter though, he was home now - he was with Alfred.
It was the innocence of his next question though, which broke the spell.
“D-Daddy.... what happened to you?!”