|Naomh Pádraig | Saint Patrick (naomh_padraig) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2012-07-19 17:27:00
|Entry tags:||saint george, saint padraig|
Who: The English!George and Padraig (Irish!Patrick)
Where: Their homes
When: After Patrick and Padraig's conversation
What: Seriously, is there something in the water in America? (Originally posted by George)
By the time George got home, he felt like he could fall into bed and sleep for the next three weeks. Instead, he knew he'd have to be up at the same time tomorrow. He guarded the British monarchy, which currently meant being heavily embroiled in the plans for the Prince's wedding. There was nothing worse than working out the security logisitics for a wedding that wasn't even his own.
He toed off his shoes by the door, tucking them neatly in place before walking to his couch and collapsing tiredly on it. He needed to call his brother. Both he and Padraig were far too busy to make a trip to see each other, but at least they could always speak on the phone. And Padraig had spoken with the American version of himself, which had doubtlessly been weird. If the American Padraig was anything like the American George, anyway.
He lay back against the couch, dialing Padraig's number from memory and listening to the phone ring. When his brother answered, he said, "Hello, you."
"George," Padraig said efficiently. There was fondness in his voice, but it wasn't as evident perhaps as some Patricks would have made it. "You sound tired, brother. Did the Queen have you chasing her Corgis again?"
"Very funny," George said with a laugh. "I'd much prefer the Corgis. Planning a royal wedding is the most horrible process, Padraig. I'm terrified that Henry will get married soon and double the problem. How are you?"
Padraig made a face to show exactly how he felt about Royal weddings, and he was half glad George couldn't see it. It wasn't dignified, though he did enjoy bothering his brother about England. It was fun. "Anything Henry does tends to get the wrong kind of press, poor boy. Thank you for calling in the midst of talk about centrepieces, I know how draining that can be. Ah, wait, no I don't!" he said cheerfully.
"As for me, I'm- getting along." He wasn't. He was beyond tired. "Patrick actually had a helpful suggestion, which frankly astonishes me."
"You're the devil," George said, snorting. "And you should be nicer to Patrick, he can't possibly be as bad as the other George, unless he's also sending you pictures of Saint Sebastian's arse at all hours of the day."
"I am not, nor do I in any way resemble the devil, George. Though I am glad I do not receive photographs of Saint Sebastian's arse." Patrick wouldn't be sending photos of Sebastian anyway. It would be John. Which he wouldn't necessarily complain about-
"I am nice to Patrick. I have just had to keep tabs on his country as well for the past two decades, which isn't easy. It seems he is stepping up now, however, and it couldn't come at a better time."
"So he isn't wandering around, drunk out of his mind anymore?" George asked, raising an eyebrow. He was still baffled about how that had ended up as his brother's defining trait in America. "Well, that's a relief. What was his good idea?"
"I bloody well hope not," Padraig said with a sigh. "He wants to start a fund to help with this new wave of Irish emigrants. He didn't even gloat that I keep losing people to him, which was big of him. I gloated when they came back after the 80s. Either way, he's actually come up with something good. I put him onto a few contacts of mine to start him off, and now I feel I should contact the Patrick in Australia as well. A lot of people from here have been heading there. Have you ever spoken to him, though? He makes American Patrick look like Stephen-fucking-Fry."
"That's a good idea," George agreed, nudging one of the pillows off the couch with the edge of his toe. "America's quite odd about their emigrants, for a country composed almost totally of emigrants. And no, I haven't spoken to any of the Australian saints in about a decade, I think. That George and I had a falling out, and I think the last thing I said to him was that he probably fucked kangaroos. It was silly, in retrospect."
Padraig snorted into the phone and then he coughed once. "Terribly sorry for that lamentable sound, brother. Did you really say- Of course you did. Australian Patrick owns a farm which he spends a lot of time working, by choice. He sends me photos of himself atop horses with no manners and he is grinning madly in all of them. He looks the same as Patrick does. And might I add I remain resolutely relieved that I retained my own face!"
"I don't know, the American's hair is quite tall and impressive," George teased. "I think you should grow yours that way, just to try it. You'd find it very liberating, I'm sure."
"I don't think it's possible for my hair to act in such a way. My hair is refined, George. And I do not need liberating." Padraig rose from his sofa and he made his way into the kitchen to make himself more tea.
"It's finally nice to have some help. There isn't much we can do about the economy, but he wants to help with the fallout, which is brilliant. He came up with the idea of asking more affluent Irish families to donate. Which is actually a sound idea."
George smiled. "It seems like most of the versions of you have a good head on their shoulders, no matter the state of their hair." More seriously, he added, "At least it's easier on the Irish leaving for America now than it was during the Famine."
"As long as they can keep from filling their heads with alcohol, sure," Padraig grumbled. He'd like to go out and get drunk without having to worry about anything. But the grass was always greener on the other side and he was sure Patrick had more to worry about than he wasn't admitting. And so Padraig let go of his anger.
"It is easier and it's a much shorter trip. Legislation is different though. A lot of people who have sold their homes and packed everything up are being turned back. Patrick wants part of this new fun to go to helping those who can't afford it with immigration lawyers who tend to work things out. He really did cover a lot of bases with his idea."
"Maybe you should make a trip over to talk about it in person," George suggested. His brother needed a vacation the way a drowning man needed air, not that Padraig would ever admit it. A trip to America would at least be a change of scenery.
"I suppose a trip would be beneficial, but it will be difficult to find enough time to get away. The elections are coming up, though I suppose I could look into it. Are you suggesting I go meet Patrick by myself? I hate that infantile country."
He was so close to forcing his brother to take some much-needed time off. Of course, George couldn't take any time off. In addition to his duties guarding the Queen, there were still hours and hours of logistics to work out regarding the upcoming wedding.
It was at that moment that George recalled himself sitting in a stuffy, airless room three hours earlier, listening to bickering about how to keep the paparazzi at a manageable distance while not ruining the ambiance. The fight had been going on for three hours at that point, and George had looked down at his clipboard only to discover he'd carved the words 'CRUSH KILL DESTROY' into the paper, as well as the word 'DIE' repeated at least twenty times.
Perhaps he could also use a vacation.
"I might be able to arrange to go with you, if you're offering?"
Padraig smiled as he dropped a teabag into his mug and poured boiling water over it. He was much less openly affectionate than Patrick was, but he still loved his brothers. "George, if I have to go anywhere, I would rather have you with me."
George smiled, even if his brother couldn't see it.
"Well, I've got several years of vacation time saved up. Whenever you're able to get away, I should be able to as well. Barring anything terrible and unforseen. Like a giant monster attacking Windsor."
George had giant monster contigency plans, though. He felt that it never hurt to be prepared.
Padraig walked back to his sofa, considering that. "Mary dissolved the Dáil as you know," he said, referring to the Irish President, "and the election is on the 25th. I should be back in the country for that, though the lead up to the election doesn't concern me as much." Padraig was less involved with the leaders of his country than George was. Mostly, he just cleaned up their messes.
"I want to be here so I can speak to the Taoiseach they nominate," he explained, "but I suppose I could try to find someone to take care of my missions while I was gone. It wouldn't really be much of a vacation, however. If I went, I would need to speak to the archdiocese, as well as the Irish Heritage Society there."
George sat up and reached for the leatherbound dayplanner resting on his coffee table. He had his time schedules weeks in advance, usually, which meant he knew what he'd have to shuffle around. Meetings, meetings, more meetings, but all of which could be pushed around or rescheduled.
"It wouldn't need to be a long trip," George agreed, humming a little as he flipped through the small book, the dates and times written in his messy scrawl. "Of course, you realize we run the risk of having them follow us back here at some point? They'll start missing the old country and all that."
Padraig chuckled and he sipped at his tea. "Patrick already wants to come to Ireland. I told him I would take him back to the farm because he is just recovering those memories and I think it will be better for him to see that there is nothing left to fear from it. I didn't tell him I own the land. I don't think the information would be beneficial."
He had owned the land that he had worked as a slave for several centuries now, and he intended to always own it. There was something empowering about it.
George frowned. "He's forgotten...Oh. Oh, that can't be pleasant to remember suddenly. How much of his, or your, life does he actually recall?"
"It seems to slowly be coming back to him," Padraig said, leaning back against his sofa. "He brought up the time that John the Baptist and I resided in the safe house together during the Marian raids."
George was busily texting the American. They didn't speak on the phone much, both being slightly disturbed by perfect echoes of their own voice, and the fees for texting were outrageous. But he needed instant communication.
'Did your Patrick remember that we tortured him?'
No point in being delicate. He sent the text as he told Padraig, "I remember that. You two got on well, if I recall correctly."
"We did, yes. Patrick wanted to remember what had happened, as it appears John is back in Patrick's life. I informed him that we spent most of our time discussing our differing ideologies. George, are you doing other things while you are speaking to me? Should I be offended? I hear beeping!" Padraig was amused, however.
"I'm sending texts that are vital to the fate of the world and our future," George said, smiling. The phone beeped loudly as the American texted him back.
'yeah, he just remembered a little while ago. It wasn't pretty. Why are you asking?'
"The other George says hello, by the way." George felt like it was safe to assume that his other self would have greeted Padraig with embarassing enthusiasm.
'Just curious. Talking to Padraig. We're thinking of visiting.'
"Ah, tell him I send salutations," Padraig replied. "George, if we are to visit the colonies, I should inform you that Patrick and John the Baptist are involved in a relationship with each other. This is vital information that should keep you from embarrassing yourself by expressing any sudden shock at the two canoodling."
'cool! You can see our new house, it's the best house :D Um also if you do come, be sure not to mention the torture thing. Patrick is kind of sensitive about it.'
George frowned at this, but Padraig's words distracted him quickly enough from the lingering guilt that was always there. He laughed instead.
"I can't say that I'm terribly surprised," George said. "Would you like to place bets on which couple has more dignity? Sebastian and the other George apparently never let go of each other."
Padraig chuckled and he took another sip of his tea. "Well, good for them. They aren't running around, trying to keep a country in check or chasing after the royal family. If they have the time for it, then they should do as they like. I know I was intrigued by the idea of John. He certainly let me know he was. But I am, alas, married to my country." He knew George understood that.
"That being said, knowing you, I am willing to place my money on John and Patrick having more dignity. Because I know saying that will make you make that face I enjoy."
'I'll keep that in mind. Try not to maul Padraig with your affection the first time you see him.'
Out loud, George said, "Hmph. I am very offended by that, brother. I am a bastion of dignity at all times."
"Oh yes, you're a paragon of grandeur." Padraig reached over to grab his planner as well and he opened it up. "You shouldn't be offended. John is a public speaker. His dignity is built in. So is this something you really would like to do?"
"Don't ever forget it," George said. "And true. Even with the huge amount of paintings of him without a head, he still has more dignity. Alas. Anyway, yes, I really do think that this is a good idea. It would be interesting to see America, at the very least. I don't have anything that I absolutely must be here for until March."
"Then we should go very soon," Padraig said, hoping to get it planned efficiently. "But if you make me go to Colonial Williamsburg, you will be staring at the business end of a hissy fit."
"I plan to conspire with my other self to dress you in a 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' shirt and buy you a Statue of Liberty hat," George said, his tone entirely serious. "Then I'll take pictures. Dozens of them. Your dignity will go along with mine. And soon would be best, yes."
"I will have my revenge," Padraig warned good-naturedly. "And I will wager you twenty of your dirty, English pounds that Patrick already has one of those shirts. And probably one of the hats too."
"You're on, Irishman," George said, laughing. There were few things that could help calm him down and take his stress away better than talking to his brothers. "All right. I'd hate to interrupt their Valentine's Day, so perhaps sometime after that?"
George didn't have any plans for Valentine's, but he knew there was no joy in being the third wheel.
"We could always head over next Wednesday. Give them a day to recover from their Valentine's Day and then see them. You know Dewi lives with Patrick, right? Those bloody colonials have everything."
"Do you think they even know how lucky they are?" George asked, flipping to Wednesday in the dayplanner. Two meetings scheduled, but both could be shuffled around. The real difficulty would be making sure everyone picked up the slack while he was gone. "They might've changed, but they have a dozen of us all within arms reach instead of scattered across the UK and the Continent. And Wednesday should be fine for me."
"I should hope that they do," Padraig replied simply. "And I suppose we shall see. If they are unaware of how felicitous their situation happens to be, we can always remind them of such things.
"Good. Wednesday it is then. I will have to make about two dozen phone calls to make sure everything runs smoothly in my absence as well. I do rather like my cathedral in New York City. I plan to be incredibly annoying about it, just so you are aware."
"I suppose I've earned that, considering all the times I've dragged you to my chapel at Windsor," George said, already texting the American to let him know of the plans. "Excellent. This should be an interesting trip. Hopefully we won't have to nag them excessively."
"Even if we do, I have honed my nagging skills to an art," Padraig said, sounding almost tired. "I should let you get back to your corgis or your centrepieces or your tea, English. But it's been lovely talking to you and I'll see you soon. I have a feeling my flight plans will see me landing in Heathrow before heading to the US, so I suppose I'll just pick you up then, how about it?"
"Heathrow's a black hole, there's no escaping it once you're in range," George said. "So I'll see you there without a doubt."
George couldn't help but grin. He was going to see his brother in person. That didn't happen nearly often enough.