Arthur woke up to a throbbing headache. He should have expected that it was a trap-which he did-but he had underestimated how many people the other gang had brought-small frys, they were. Arthur winced. His bandaged hand coming up to touch his cheek gingerly-
-wait. Banadage? Arthur froze for a moment. He immediately sat up from the bed (Since when was he on a bed? He had to be dreaming) and took a quick look around. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off, save for the table lamp. The room, he quickly realized much to his disapproval, was in a complete disarray. Random pieces of clothings were hastily strewn about on the floor. A huge poster of some American superhero hung far by the side of the room. Books-mostly comic books, were littered everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, on the bed-
-Aha. His eyes finally fell on to a very familar brown bomber jacket. Oh no. He had to be dreaming. This was pathetic. He was pathetic. Arthur snorted. Really. Alfred? It had to be a big joke. He glanced down at his bandaged hand. It was done rather amateurishly, clumsily wrapped around, and Arthur couldn't help but think that this would be just what exactly Alfred would do-
-and Arthur decided that when he woke up he was going home, and then find the french bastard later out to kill him to get over this feeling.
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Arthur's head snapped up immediately, startled. What the hell was happening? Were his brothers getting into a fight again? (It was dream, anything was possible-) No, it couldn't be. Even though muffled, Arthur could tell that it did not belong to any of his family member. (Perhaps he wasn't dreaming after all-)
Curiosity eventually got the better of him. Arthur stood up and walked as silently as he could over to the door, the yellings and noises becoming louder as he approached. Turning the doorknob, he opened the door slightly and peeked out.
"-you good for nothing, son of that useless cunt-" The larger man managed to say clearly, a hand gripping the back of the sofa, the other holding a beer bottle with a broken end. "-never should have married such a fucking whore who can't even bear me a fucking son alive-" he advanced towards a figure (Alfred? It had to be. But yet Arthur didn't want to believe that it was-) leaning heavily on to the wall, panting. as he swung his free hand across Alfred's face. "-you should just die. Never should have been born in the first place. That face you have there-" He grabbed Alfred up by his hair and yanked him up roughly. "-don't smile. You think you are that cocky, huh? Think again, brat. One day I am going to pick up that gun and kill you off. How would you like that, huh?" He slurred, before releasing Alfred and kicked him in his leg, standing up fully.
"-if you can, old man." Alfred managed to say after sometime, wiping away the blood away from his chapped lips, a bright smile spreading over his face. "-you can never get rid of your shining son. Dinner's done, dad. It's Mac and Cheese today!"
(Arthur felt the icy pit in his stomach grow. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck was Alfred saying. This was not normal. Why the hell was Alfred things like that as if it was normal. What the fuck was happening. He wanted to move and pull Alfred into safety-)
The man grunted in acknowledgement and moved unsteadily towards the kitchen. "-stuck with babysitting this little fucker-" Mutter.
At this point, Arthur gathered enough sense to immediately shut the door. He headed over to the bed and pulled the covers over his head, turning to the side, breathing hard. He didn't even realized that he had been holding his breath for the whole time.
What the fuck just happened? It had to be a dream. It had to be. Heaven had a twisted sense of humor for showing him something this sick.
Two Breaths Walking [2A/?]
Arthur woke up to a throbbing headache. He should have expected that it was a trap-which he did-but he had underestimated how many people the other gang had brought-small frys, they were. Arthur winced. His bandaged hand coming up to touch his cheek gingerly-
-wait. Banadage? Arthur froze for a moment. He immediately sat up from the bed (Since when was he on a bed? He had to be dreaming) and took a quick look around. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off, save for the table lamp. The room, he quickly realized much to his disapproval, was in a complete disarray. Random pieces of clothings were hastily strewn about on the floor. A huge poster of some American superhero hung far by the side of the room. Books-mostly comic books, were littered everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, on the bed-
-Aha. His eyes finally fell on to a very familar brown bomber jacket. Oh no. He had to be dreaming. This was pathetic. He was pathetic. Arthur snorted. Really. Alfred? It had to be a big joke. He glanced down at his bandaged hand. It was done rather amateurishly, clumsily wrapped around, and Arthur couldn't help but think that this would be just what exactly Alfred would do-
-and Arthur decided that when he woke up he was going home, and then find the french bastard later out to kill him to get over this feeling.
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Arthur's head snapped up immediately, startled. What the hell was happening? Were his brothers getting into a fight again? (It was dream, anything was possible-) No, it couldn't be. Even though muffled, Arthur could tell that it did not belong to any of his family member. (Perhaps he wasn't dreaming after all-)
Curiosity eventually got the better of him. Arthur stood up and walked as silently as he could over to the door, the yellings and noises becoming louder as he approached. Turning the doorknob, he opened the door slightly and peeked out.
"-you good for nothing, son of that useless cunt-" The larger man managed to say clearly, a hand gripping the back of the sofa, the other holding a beer bottle with a broken end. "-never should have married such a fucking whore who can't even bear me a fucking son alive-" he advanced towards a figure (Alfred? It had to be. But yet Arthur didn't want to believe that it was-) leaning heavily on to the wall, panting. as he swung his free hand across Alfred's face. "-you should just die. Never should have been born in the first place. That face you have there-" He grabbed Alfred up by his hair and yanked him up roughly. "-don't smile. You think you are that cocky, huh? Think again, brat. One day I am going to pick up that gun and kill you off. How would you like that, huh?" He slurred, before releasing Alfred and kicked him in his leg, standing up fully.
"-if you can, old man." Alfred managed to say after sometime, wiping away the blood away from his chapped lips, a bright smile spreading over his face. "-you can never get rid of your shining son. Dinner's done, dad. It's Mac and Cheese today!"
(Arthur felt the icy pit in his stomach grow. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck was Alfred saying. This was not normal. Why the hell was Alfred things like that as if it was normal. What the fuck was happening. He wanted to move and pull Alfred into safety-)
The man grunted in acknowledgement and moved unsteadily towards the kitchen. "-stuck with babysitting this little fucker-" Mutter.
At this point, Arthur gathered enough sense to immediately shut the door. He headed over to the bed and pulled the covers over his head, turning to the side, breathing hard. He didn't even realized that he had been holding his breath for the whole time.
What the fuck just happened? It had to be a dream. It had to be. Heaven had a twisted sense of humor for showing him something this sick.