Last Call Casualty

England x Reader


You were jolted awake by the insect-like vibrations of your phone on the nightstand. You picked it up and saw that it was just past three AM. You didn't need to ask who it was on the other end.

"I'm going to guess that you don't know what time it is, Arthur," you muttered, sitting up blearily.

"Nope," he hiccupped. He sounded distraught. No surprises there. The Brit only ever called you when he was pissed (read: drunk), and he tended to become more and more depressed with each shot of gin. Honestly, he was a lightweight.

"I need you," he said. At least, this was what you assumed he had meant. What he actually said was "Uh nead oo."

"How much have you had to drink, Arthur?" you demanded, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Dunno. There was one, and two, and… uh… what comes after two?"

By this time you were on your feet, going to the closet to get some clothes. "Just wait there," you told him, silently hating yourself for going to him again. "I'll be there in ten."

"How many is ten?"

Damn him.

"Baby?" Your boyfriend sat up, blinking thickly at you. "Where are you going?"

"Give you three guesses."

He thought for a bit. You could practically see his brain warming up as he slowly became more lucid. When he finally reached the correct conclusion, he frowned.

"Not that guy again," he growled. "I thought you weren't hanging out with him anymore."

You sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I can't just leave him at the bar. He doesn't have anyone else he can call."

"There's a good reason for that." Your boyfriend had always hated Arthur. Though you sort of agreed that the British man was a massive inconvenience, you hated it when your boyfriend insulted him.

"Look, baby. You can't keep doing this."

You gave him a pleading look. "Well, what else am I supposed to do?"

He locked eyes with you, and you suddenly knew what was coming.

"Come back to bed. Forget about him."

You hesitated in the doorway, one foot in and one foot out. You were already dressed, your purse over your shoulder.

"If you go to him," promised your boyfriend quietly. "Your stuff will be in a box when you get back."

Your grip tightened on your purse strap as you thought it over. It was several minutes before you made your decision.

-

"I know you're drunk, Arthur, but I really hope that you understand the sort of pain I endure for you."

He was slumped against the window in the passenger seat of your car, his mouth open stupidly. He perked up a bit when you said his name, however.

"It's 'cuz 'ou lurve meh," he slurred. "'Ou lurve meh, righ?"

You rolled your eyes, but decided to humor him.

"Yes, Arthur," you said, with a smile that even a two year-old would have recognized as fake. "I love you with all my heart."

He grinned dully. "Tha's good," he said, his eyelids drooping. "'Cuz uh lurve 'ou, too."

You pulled the car into his driveway, feeling the weight of your interrupted sleep on your own eyelids. You couldn't go home, obviously. Arthur had a guest room, though. There was another weight somewhere in your chest that had nothing to do with the time, though it was accompanied by something else, which sort of dulled it. The first sensation, you knew, was depression. You had been with your ex for almost a year. Now you were single and homeless. The second feeling, you decided, must be shock. You'd probably burst into tears when you woke up tomorrow.

You pretty much had to carry Arthur inside, seeing as he was totally unconscious. You really wanted to pass out as well, but forced yourself up the stairs to his room. You hadn't been in here in a while, and weren't entirely happy with what you saw.

Empty whiskey bottles were scattered all over the floor, making the six steps from the door to the bed some of the most hazardous of your life. When you reached the bed, you sort of just let Arthur fall limply onto the mattress before sitting down beside him. He weighed a lot more than you, and it had worn you out. You weren't sure if you'd make it as far as the guest bed. A hung-over Arthur might just trip on you lying in the hall the next morning.

Something on the nightstand caught your eye. Upon closer examination, you saw that it was a photograph, perfectly sized to be put in a wallet. It was lying facedown, so you picked it up.

The people in the photograph were young and happy. There you were, eighteen again, in your graduation robes. Arthur was standing beside you, grinning at the camera. He'd been constantly drunk for nearly a year now. You'd nearly forgotten how handsome he'd been back when he was sober.

You replaced the photograph, face-up, when Arthur stirred, mumbling something. It sounded suspiciously like your name.

"Arthur?"

It was more of a drunken groan this time, but definitely your name. Thinking that he was still asleep, you stood to go.

His hand shot out, fingers capturing your arm in a surprisingly strong grip. You were so surprised that when he pulled it like a little kid trying to get his mother's attention, you fell backwards to land on top of him.

"Don' go," he whispered in your ear.

He was obviously not going to let you go anytime soon, and you were too tired to fight him. "Fine," you sighed to no one in particular, stretching out beside him. He released your arm to wrap his own around your waist. You didn't fight him. It was actually quite nice, aside from the smell of alcohol.

"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper.

"Nigh'," he whispers back. "Uh love 'ou."