"OK, now what?" Allen questioned.

He and Arthur had finally, after about five minutes of struggling, falling back down and swearing, managed to stand themselves up with the help of one of the wooden walls that surrounded them. It was still fairly dark, but at least they weren't freezing to death on the cold stone floor anymore. Of course, there was still much to do.

"We have to find something to cut the rope with," Arthur responded. "Can you see anything sharp?"

"I can't see anything."

"It's not pitch black, Allen," the Brit remarked dully. "There's natural light coming in through a few spots, so we aren't exactly at a dead-end."

"Right, right," the auburn responded, a hint of apology in his tone.

Meanwhile, Arthur was already starting to study the shelves he could see, hoping the light would be enough to reveal anything they could use to liberate themselves. And at the same time, he prayed that no one had thought to remove anything sharp enough to sever the thin rope, otherwise it was back to square one.

That's when it caught his eye – a soft green glint high above on the top shelf, revealing what he believed to be two or three empty bottles that provided the Brit with a sudden sense of relief and the feeling that there was at least some hope for progress and escape. He didn't want to sit around and wait to burn. That was pointless. And the most logical way to avoid that was to therefore knock the bottles over and use the broken glass, right?

So, without any prior thought, Arthur decided to try and test the durability of the wood that formed the shed and made a move to get closer. However, in his rush, he forgot he and Allen were still attached, and the sudden tug once more pulled Allen's arms the wrong way.

"Woah," Allen cried in surprise and a burst of pain, "steady on, pal!"

"There'll be no steadying," Arthur stated, though, he winced a little with guilt. "I think there's a bottle on that top shelf. If we can knock it down and smash it, we'll have what we need . . ."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Allen replied.

"I can't reach it," he said bluntly, mentally cursing the shelves for being height-ist. "I'm not tall enough, plus, no hands right now . . ."

Allen let out a huff and said: "Turn us around. I'll see if I can—"

"Not being funny, but you can't use your hands either. I think we're going to have to make it fall without physically trying to reach the shelf, somehow."

Great, Allen thought, that was going to be a difficult task for the both of them considering their present situation, and he could just picture in his head the bottle dropping and not smashing because it was plastic. Oh, God, that would fucking suck, even more than that one time when—

"Wakey wakey, Allen," the Brit said.

"Hm? What?"

"I'm asking what you think would happen if we used the wall."

"Oh, uh, right," he responded. But he didn't quite understand what he was trying to get at. "How exactly is the wall going to help us, though . . . ?"

"It's not as sturdy as it could be," Arthur explained, gently kicking the wooden planks of the wall and assessing their stability and strength. "So, in theory, if we apply enough force to the boards, we could cause the whole thing to shake and make the bottle fall and smash that way."

"That's a bit of a push."

"That's the idea," he said.

Allen slowly breathed out in defeat. It was the best they had, after all, and if it didn't work he could just blame Arthur for having such an absurd idea. Everyone wins!

"Let's do it."

The auburn said the easiest thing to do would be to stand side-on and just throw their weight about ("Not that you have much, eh? You're like a twig . . .") and go from there, and that's exactly what they did. It took several shoves using their shoulders to finally get the bottles to budge far enough, but as sure as the sun rising in the morn', two of them plummeted to the ground and released a brief chorus of smashing chimes.

"Holy shit, it worked," Allen exclaimed, completely astounded and now, more than ever, filled with the belief that they could do this.

"Of course it did," Arthur replied. "A little faith would be appreciated."

Allen mumbled an apology and said: "Now come on, let's be quick about this. We don't know if anyone was close enough to hear that."

"So let's get a move on!" the Brit responded, at a bit of a loss with the American, and they both shuffled sideways two steps to stand over the glass shards.

The next step was difficult, but after around two minutes of trying to lower themselves so they could actually grab the glass without hurting themselves further, Arthur had managed to get hold of a piece sharp enough and he immediately got to work. And soon enough, both of them felt that relieving relaxation of the ropes that, with a final saw and pull, had them lightly drop the the floor: they were finally free.

Arthur tossed the glass carelessly to the floor and rubbed at his wrists. He was sure they would be red and grazed, but that wasn't as important in that moment as getting out, getting to Alfred and getting rid of Charles. The American shared the sentiment. He flexed out his wrists and hands, removing the tension, and he turned to the Brit, somewhat glad they could actually see each other.

"You alright?" he asked.

Arthur nodded, not that the other could see it all that clearly. "Yes, fine. You?"

"Right as rain," Allen said.

He took a second to gather his bearings, and then walked to the door in order to grab the handle and open it. But it wouldn't budge.

"It's locked," Arthur reminded him.

". . . I was just checking . . ."

"Well, we'll have to get out some other way."

"I mean, we could just break down the wall," Allen suggested.

"Seriously?" Arthur responded, giving an invisible, confused frown.

"Yeah," he reiterated. "We probably weakened it already, so it wouldn't take much more effort to just plough through the wood."

"That's . . . That's not a completely stupid idea," the blonde mused, looking to the wobbly wall curiously, trying to picture himself and Allen bursting through it rather dramatically, albeit successfully. "What are we doing, then, just . . . Tackling it head-on?"

"I was just gonna run at it, to be honest, yeah."

Arthur randomly wondered if running at walls was something Allen had done frequently in the past; it was such a casual tone, it was almost as if he was an expert. Though, when he thought about it, perhaps Allen was just more experienced in tackling problems with brute force rather than using brute force to tackle inanimate surfaces . . .

"Welp, here goes nothing," the auburn said as Arthur came to again.

"W-Wait, what—"

But Allen had already begun his short run-up, and before Arthur could stop him or move to help him, the American slammed into the wall and then, in a flash, the sound of wood cracking echoed through the small space and he stumbled backwards, shoulder aching but feeling good.

"Are you alright?" Arthur questioned warily as Allen gripped his shoulder and stretched it out.

"Totally cool," he replied. "Fancy giving me a hand this time? Two shoulders are better than one, I imagine."

"Oh, of course," the Brit said, and in a joint effort, they began to further break the wooden panels using whatever remaining strength they could muster.

Arthur couldn't recall a time when he'd ever had to use physical strength to escape from such a situation before, if he were being honest. Perhaps, however, that was because he'd never had to deal with ghosts of the past coming back into existence and messing around with things he cared about before. God, he couldn't wait to send Charles back to Hell, and to possibly send with the prick a letter to Henry, his own twin from the Civil War, warning him away too.

It was while the blonde was contemplating all of this and continuing to subconsciously hammer at the boards with Allen that he suddenly found himself falling forwards, to where the wall should have been supporting him. Time slowed down for a moment, and once he had regained all composure, he blinked in absolute bewilderment and looked up at the paling starry sky.

"Need a hand?"

Arthur glanced to the left and foggily saw Allen, hand outstretched, smiling triumphantly (or was he just laughing at Arthur?). Still, he took the hand with a faint apology, and brushed himself off once he was back on his feet.

"Looks like we did it, Arthur," Allen said as he tried to work out where they were in relation to the house: to Amelia and Alfred: to Charles. "Time for Phase Three."

"Which is?"

"Finding the others, obviously."

"Right . . ."

"We just need to find the house again, and I think we'll be able to find them no issues," he elaborated.

After a brief pause and another look around the environment, it was as if he picked up some sort of trail, like a bloodhound, and he began to head off in a random direction. Arthur followed close behind, not wanting to get left behind but also concerned about what on Earth had compelled Allen to head in that specific direction; he asked as they walked.

"The shed door points this way," the auburn said. "Likelihood is that it's pointing straight to where we need to go."

"You know," Arthur mused, "you really are unassuming."

"How do you mean?" Allen queried with a puzzled frown and glance.

"As in – and don't take this the wrong way – but . . . One doesn't look at you for the first time and presume that you have brains as well as brawn," he answered honestly.

Allen let out a puff of amusement. "And no one would assume you're a bit of a teddy bear based on your attitude and exterior."

"I— I'm not a teddy bear!" the Brit protested, feeling frustrated out of the blue. "If you would have said that to me four-hundred and fifty years ago, you'd be dead where you stand, I'll have you know . . ."

"And I don't doubt it."

Arthur hummed a little sceptically. "Besides," he said, "if you think I'm that sort of person, you're the only one."

"Whatever you say . . ."

Of course he didn't believe it; Allen had a feeling that there was some unspoken thing that pestered the back of Arthur's mind quite regularly, and he could deny it all he wanted, but he had a soft spot for Alfred. Just like Allen had a soft spot for Oliver, despite all the little things he did that were annoying or tedious or too parental or just way too funny and endearing— God, he really needed to time those sorts of memories better . . .

"Well, it seems you were right," Arthur remarked after a few moments of awkward silence and Allen's silent thoughts.

A couple of hundred metres away, they could now spy some of the illuminated windows and rooms of the house. But there was no sign of life. No sign of Alex, nor of Charles, and the pair looked to each other in the waning darkness of the early morning.

"Shall we?" Arthur said.

"After you," Allen nodded.

The blonde let out a shallow sigh, weary and anxious, and they unanimously decided to head for the door by the back fields – the sunflowers among which Allen had been attacked. Twice. Better not make it a third, he pondered, because they always said that the third time was lucky, but he figured it wouldn't be lucky for him.

As they had drawn nearer, the lights remained on and the windows remained empty of any other Americans. It seemed like a good sign at first, until Arthur realised that there was no sign of Alfred or Amelia either. Wherever they were, it had to be tucked away where they couldn't be seen from outside. Charles, after all, had told himself and Allen that they would burn after an hour of solitude. That meant an ultimatum; they were in danger, too, especially now that he and Allen were out and about. A wave of nausea crashed into him at that moment.

Allen overtook, not taking much notice of Arthur's slowing of pace, and he reached the backdoor first. Gently, he took the handle in his grip and opened the door, grateful that it didn't make a sound. He crept into the kitchen, Arthur right behind, and he closed out the outside world and let out a quiet sigh of relief.

He went to say something but was immediately shut down when Arthur raised a hand and shook his head. They didn't know if anyone was in the house. He didn't want to risk them giving away their position or alerting anyone of their emancipation so soon.

"Whisper," the Brit quietly told him.

"No shit, Sherlock," Allen replied, rolling his eyes. "We need to arm ourselves before we go any further. Alex and Charles could get the jump on us, otherwise."

"I'm aware of that."

He glanced around for anything obvious that could have been useful, and his eyes landed on the utensil draw. Knives, he thought, they would prove very useful indeed. While Arthur hurried to the draw and began to carefully take out kitchen tools – a set of tongs, a turkey baster, a wooden spoon – Allen took his search elsewhere.

And it didn't take long for him to spot the item of his dreams and other peoples' nightmares.

"Hello there, beautiful," he muttered to himself with a slight (and wicked) smile as he approached it.

He picked up the baseball bat that had been left resting in the corner of the room and checked the weight, the balance and the swing as quietly as possible, and he felt perfectly satisfied. But then he looked properly at the wood of the bat, and he frowned with confusion when he saw a splattering of red tainting its grain.

Arthur had been unsuccessful finding a nice, big knife in either utensil draw, so he had settled on the rolling pin and pocketed a smaller knife in his jeans as back up. It was hardly practical but it was all he could get his hands on. He looked to Allen to see if the American had had any more luck in securing defence, but before he could say anything he saw the bat and the nausea returned. Did he have concussion? . . .

Allen glanced from the blood on the bat to the Brit: the blood on the skin. "Do you want me to—"

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Arthur whispered back. "A weapon's a weapon."

"Or a rolling pin."

"Well I don't think I can baste anyone to death, so it'll do." He sighed wearily as the wave ebbed. "What would be good is a pan, or a solid pipe or—"

Allen waited a moment, wondering why Arthur had stopped. "Or . . . ?"

"Russia . . ."

"Russia?" Allen repeated. "What good can he do right now?"

"When I spoke to him earlier, I told him that – if he didn't hear from me again after two hours – to send aid," Arthur said. "Norway and Romania, but also Matthew . . ."

"Alfred's brother, Matthew?"

"Shit," the Brit mouthed (he could never swear that quietly) and he said: "If Matthew shows up, he'll be in danger too . . ."

"And it's definitely been two hours," Allen reminded him.

But that wasn't the worst of it. While the duo tried to think individually if what to do, the soft, gentle pat-pat of footsteps overhead – upstairs – reached them and their alarm only grew. Someone was in the house, and the only question they had was: who was it, Charles or Alex?

"Go to the lane," Allen suddenly told Arthur. "Go all the way down and wait for Matthew."

"No, I'm not just leaving—"

"Arthur—"

"It's not safe to split up!"

"You know Matthew better, and presumably the others," Allen commented, wary of the movement above them. "It's better you go than me. Plus, Alfred would rather you were out of harm's way."

"And out of us two, I'm not the one who might die."

The American let out a restrained sigh. He didn't get what so hard to understand.

"But fine," Arthur said all the while. He didn't like it one bit, but it was a bad time to start an argument and someone had to go. "If you think it's for the best . . . Just don't get caught." He gave Allen a weak smile. "I don't want to have to save your ass, too."

"Duly noted," the auburn replied with a similar expression. "I'll get Amy and Al, and we'll regroup with you and Matthew. Just wait for us."

The Brit nodded. "Be careful, for God's sake," he said, and with a shared look that said 'good luck', Arthur cautiously headed again towards the back door, quietly opened it, and left the house and Allen alone.

And alone, he was glad to be, because now he could focus and (in a nice way) he only had to worry about himself.

With his adopted baseball bat in hand, Allen began to leave the kitchen, moving slowly and quietly in order to avoid detection, and he made his way safely into the living area. The lights were off, only the golden beam from the kitchen flooding into the room for illumination, but that was good; he wouldn't be seen so easily from outside.

The one hinderance was that Allen wasn't sure where to begin his search, however. Seeing no one from the outside had been a problem as much as a blessing, so he walked as silently as he could along the side of the staircase, past the side table, past the basement door, past the v—

The basement. Of course it was the basement. But did Alfred even have a basement, or was it just soke cupboard under the stairs, like in Harry Potter? Was there a magical little world stored away—

'Jesus Christ, you fucktard,' Allen chided, 'as if that's going to be a thing.'

But he still felt compelled to check, and so, as the footsteps above vanished, Allen carefully pushed open the door and stepped into what was indeed a small basement. After he closed the door, he readjusted his firm grip on the bat ('Just in case.') and turned down the stairs, only to see the two people he had hoped to find.