InsaneJournal

WHO: Padraig and English!George
WHAT: Padraig trying to reassure a frantic George
WHEN: January 2nd, 1941 (a few days after This)
WHERE: The war bunkers in London
WARNINGS: Warthings?



The London Blitz had been going on for months while Padraig sat in Dublin, utterly helpless. He knew his brother was suffering while the city was inundated with bombs from the Luftwaffe and he could do nothing. Then on the night of December 29th, London suffered the worst bombing yet. The timing had been worked out perfectly. It was low-tide which meant the Thames was low. The fires that were started were harder to put out. An area greater than the great fire of 1666 had burned and St. Paul's Cathedral had only been saved by the acts of heroic civilians and firemen and at the cost of lives.

After that night 160 were dead and more were injured and the moment Padraig heard about it he arranged to travel to London. George needed him.

Of course travelling to London during war time was not the easiest thing to do. He had some of his people arrange it. His people could even get him to the war rooms, they said, and so by the second he was stepping up to the bunker...where he immediately had a gun put to his head.

Padraig raised his hands in the air. "I'm here to see George!" he insisted. "I'm his brother!" Instead of just marching Padraig into the war rooms where he could see everything, he was then blindfolded and brought in to them.

"George? This man mentioned your name. Says he knows you?"

There was no privacy in a bunker, not really. George wished for some, so he could cry and talk aloud without anyone staring at him. The most he could do was hide himself in one of the rooms for a short while and chain smoke, which was what he was doing when they told him Padraig was here.

George more or less ran over the lieutenant who'd brought him the message, running until he reached the room where they were holding his brother.

"He's mine!" were the first words George hissed out, and the other men stared at him askance. George realized that he looked and sounded slightly...feral, and made an effort to compose himself. He reached forward to tug Padraig's blindfold off. "He's my brother, he's no threat."

Padraig blinked a little as the blindfold was pulled off of him. When his hands were released as well, he stepped forward to pull George into a hug, not even bothering with everyone else. He didn't care that they had put a gun to his head, all that mattered was that he was here for George.

George returned the hug, squeezing Padraig so tightly that in other circumstances he'd have been worried about his brother's ability to breathe.

"You shouldn't have come," George murmured, unable to put any sincerity into the statement. "It's dangerous."

"Don't," Padraig commanded his brother. "You need me." He glanced around at the random men who were still sort of hanging around being awkward. "We're fine," he said, and then he turned back to George. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," George said, half-collapsing onto Padraig. He opened his eyes to stare at the men and (his troops, his people, they needed him to be kind, to be strong, but his city was rubble and he couldn't protect it and-) muttered, "Go."

They filed out, several still staring at them as they went. It wasn't until the door clicked closed and he and Padraig were alone that George let himself sink to his knees. "We're going to lose."

"No," Padraig went to his knees as well and he placed his hands on his brother's shoulders. "George, no. We can't let that man win and we won't. That is not even a possibility."

"We're just a little island in the middle of the ocean," George mumbled, leaning his head forward to rest on Padraig's shoulder. His eyes lost focus. "Not an empire. Not really, anymore. I was so stupid to think I could do this. I haven't heard from the German me for seven months. I feel like I'm burning."

Padraig knew what it felt like to watch his city crumple and fall, but nothing like this had happened to Dublin. Their war had been on a smaller scale and while it had certainly had a cost too, this was different. But Padraig was not going to let George give up.

"But what an island," Padraig said firmly, petting his brother's hair. "What an island, George."

"I'm so scared," George finally let himself admit. He had held it in for the Great War and for all of this terrible war. There was a certain terrible pleasure in admitting it out loud. "The guns are different. The planes are different. We gas each other to death now. I don't know if we can win, and I'm just so scared."

"I know," Padraig said softly. "I know you are. Look at me." Padraig took his brother's face in his hands and he kissed George's forehead before saying, "war is changing and so we will change. We're going to get through this. I'm here now."

George looked up at his brother, and said, "Fucking bastards burnt my city." It was half a laugh, and half a sob. "Ought to burn them to the ground just for that."

The knock at the door startled him, and George bared his teeth before he got himself back under control. "What?"

"S-sir?" The same lieutenant that had brought George the news of Padraig's arrival had drawn the short straw once more, and poked his head in the door. He blanched at the look George was sending him and made no comment on the fact that George was half-wrapped around his brother. "We just received word. Ah, er-"

"Out with it."

"Dublin's been bombed, sir." With a wince, the lieutenant handed over the telegram.

Padraig went white.

Ireland was neutral! They had decided to stay out of the entire thing considering the country was still recovering from their own civil war. De Valera had made the decision, but it had been Padraig who had advised him. Their independence was new and wars were expensive. The emergency had been called and the government had special powers to keep the people safe, but neutrality had to be maintained.

And now this. His stomach clenched and he prepared for the worst.

He turned to his brother and spoke in Latin to ensure that the lieutenant wouldn't exactly know what was being said. "I need to speak to De Valera," he hissed. "And then I need to make a call to America."

George had gone just slightly catatonic, and it took Padraig shaking him to snap him out of his panicking spiral of thoughts. Padraig had come to help him, and then Dublin had been bombed. The two could not possibly be connected, and yet...

It was delusional and narcissistic to think that God was punishing George by punishing the world. But the thought beat at the back of George's head anyway, like a moth trying to incinerate itself on a lantern.

"Yes, of course," George said, his voice sounding flat and strange to his own ears. He pulled himself to his feet and led Padraig through the bunker, to one of the few 'offices' with a private telephone line.

The moment Padraig was shown the phone, he picked it up and dialed with one hand, keeping his owner clutching his brother's shirt the entire time.

Eamon De Valera was not the president of Ireland, but he was the prime minister and he had been the one to push neutrality. It was De Valera who he called, instead of Hyde. "Eamon, it's Padraig. Tell me what happened." And while Padraig listened to what had been destroyed, he kept his eyes firmly on his the table beside the phone. He couldn't look at his brother yet.

"I see. And you're certain of that? No that's- that's a relief. I'm going to stay here for now, especially in light of this. I want reports every single day. No, twice a day. Mmm. Send them to my brother. And I'm sending someone to you. He should be there soon. You'll have to explain him to Hyde."

When Padraig hung up with De Valera, he rang the Patrick in America. He hadn't spoken to the man in a while but he trusted him and he knew that the Yank would have no problem rushing to Dublin's aid. And he was right.

Finally he hung up and he went to hug George again, this time sounding relieved. "No one was killed," he said, letting out a breath. "They ruined some buildings and there were injuries but no one was killed. The Yank is heading to Dublin tomorrow."

George slumped against Padraig, letting out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Oh thank God," he said. "I thought..." He shook his head. "I couldn't bear it if the same thing happened to your country, Padraig."

Padraig patted George's back. "George, everything I said before still stands. We're not going to lose. Ireland is staying neutral but I'm here. I'm staying. It's you and me, and we've faced unbeatable odds before."

George smiled. It was wobbly and small, but it was more than he'd managed in several weeks.

"Thank you. I can't--thank you so much."

Padraig pulled George into another hug. It was strange, being here and planning now to fight for England's safety. Just a few short decades ago he had been fighting against England. Things were different now. Their countries had a treaty and Padraig would like to think that even if they didn't, he would be here for George now.

It was hard to know for sure.

"Of course you're welcome. How long has it been since you've slept?"

"Er." How long had it been? George had taken a few cat naps in the past few days, small ten minute snatches of sleep that were enough to keep him going. But an actual good night's rest?

"A week?"

"George," Padraig hissed, as if he hadn't ever done the very same thing. "I know it's hard, but you have to sleep. Fill me in and then I can take care of things while you rest. And eat something, hmm?"