We'll meet again - By George deValier

Chapter 1

Pairing: Alfred Jones/Arthur Kirkland (USUK)

Summary: WW2 AU. Londoner Arthur Kirkland's pub, the Emerald Lion, is overrun by American servicemen on leave. One in particular is driving him to distraction - loud, brash fighter pilot Alfred Jones. Unable to stop it, Arthur finds himself falling for Alfred's charms - just as the pilot is preparing to leave for war.

This story is the first of my ongoing Hetalia WW2 AU, the Veraverse. It stands on its own, however if you are interested, check out my profile page for other fics in the series.

Winter, late 1943
London, England

The Americans were starting to drive Arthur mad. For weeks now his London pub had been full of loud, obnoxious, carousing American servicemen on leave. They yelled, they drank, they fought occasionally, they drank, they flirted with the local girls, and they drank some more. Then they did it all over again. To begin with it was a vaguely interesting break in the same tedious old routine. By the end of the second night, Arthur had had enough.

To be honest, they were not all bad. They generally tried to be well behaved, they poured a lot of money into his pub, and after all, they were allies fighting a common enemy.

Truth be told, they weren't starting to drive Arthur mad at all.

He was.

"Hey, Art, buddy! Another bourbon here!"

Arthur looked up at the grinning blond holding his empty glass over the bar. Everything about the American irritated Arthur. The absurd bomber jacket he lived in. His perpetual grin. The way he never combed his bloody hair. And the arrogance... Arthur had not been the least bit surprised to learn he was a fighter pilot. Thought the whole bloody British Isle owed him their freedom and allegiance. Arthur gritted his teeth and snatched the glass.

"My name is Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy." Arthur reached for the bourbon. Ghastly American stuff. He barely went through a bottle a year before the war. Since the Americans turned up, he went through a carton a night.

"All right, sorry Art. Thur." Alfred grinned. He was obviously used to getting his way with that grin... but it bloody well wasn't going to work with Arthur. "Come have a drink with us."

Arthur clenched the bottle a little too strongly as he poured it into the glass. "Thank you, but no. I'm working."

Alfred just laughed at that. "I thought you owned the damn place. Let someone else pour the drinks for a while. Take a load off."

Another irritating thing. That ridiculous accent. Alfred seemed able to stretch every word into seven syllables. Arthur suppressed his irritation, pushed the glass across the bar, and attempted to be polite. He had a reputation as a gentleman to uphold, after all. "Thank you again, but I'm afraid I'm run off my feet with all you soldiers."

"Soldiers?" Alfred gasped loudly and put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Why Arthur, you wound me! Don't you know that I'm..."

"The youngest flight leader in all US Army Air Fighter divisions," Arthur finished for him monotonously. "This must be the - twelfth, I believe it is - time you have informed me of the fact."

Alfred just kept grinning as he took a swig of bourbon. "Well, don't you go forgetting it and calling me a soldier. That's an insult to a man, that is."

Arthur shook his head as he glared at the American. The arrogance was unfathomable. "I do apologise," he said sarcastically. "Will you ever forgive me."

Alfred leant fervently across the bar. "Don't be like that Arthur, of course I'll forgive you!" Arthur rolled his eyes, but Alfred did not seem to notice. "Hey, I know, make it up to me by having that drink with us, yeah?"