WIP: obviously not finished
Nov. 30th, 2009 12:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle:
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America, England, Germany and Prussia, so far; hinted at England/Canada
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: So far, Canada on D-Day (June 6th, 1944; when England, America, Canada and France beached on the French coast to begin kicking the Germans out).
I have not decided where exactly I wanted to go with this--I just thought it would be fun to write a fight scene between Canada and Germany and I don't often see any England/Canada.
This is most definitely not yet finished. I'm just hoping that posting it will inspire me a little.
On June fifth, just before dark, America wandered among his paratroopers. He smiled for them; he told jokes—he knew a lot of them were going to die tonight. He passed out cigarettes until he had none left and then he took a pack from his senior officers and passed theirs out too.
England was doing much the same on his airfield. There would be no sleep for him tonight. None for Canada either, who was sitting with a group of men, smoking and playing cards but his eyes were dim. The brilliant blue was dull and muted. Canada had liked getting to know his soldiers at first but when they started dying, he seemed to close in on himself.
England watched him. Canada wasn’t like Australia and America. They thrived on the battlefield. It brought out their ability to laugh at the misery of the world but Canada…Canada was more like England. Canada became as hard as a stone. Stubborn, immovable, and cold. England knew Canada did it to shield himself from the pain, though it was something that came naturally to the boy. Canada was empathetic. He felt so deeply for his men that he could never shut them out completely, especially the young ones.
A little niggling voice reminded England that Russia had been that way…before the Mongols had…
He avoided that thought and approached the group; they all lifted their eyes and tensed. “At ease,” he told them, lifting a hand--stop, it’s okay--and his eyes met Canada’s. “Williams. With me.”
Canada’s eye lowered. “Deal me out. You guys can split my cigarettes.” He put his cards face down smiled at them.
They all nodded and smiled and waved.
Such good, stout men, these Canadians.
Canada saluted lazily and then turned and followed England. “What is it?”
“You won’t be dropping with them tonight. I’ll need you in the morning.”
Canada didn’t stop walking but his breathing quieted for a moment. “I told you that I don’t want to command the invasion forces—I want to the drop with—“
“Canada, I could make you a commanding officer so highly ranked that you’d never have to be in battle again but you always refuse.” England didn’t look at him. “You always want to be with your men. And you always want to be with the ones who are going to be in the most danger. They are fighting for you; you cannot protect them just by going with them.” He led Canada into a small tower over-looking the airfield.
Canada looked away. “I feel alive when I’m with them. I feel like what I’m doing matters.”
England looked sidelong at him. “What you’re doing does matter and your men appreciate the love you have for them—but putting yourself in unnecessary danger is just that. Unnecessary.”
“But, England—“
And England turned, putting his hands on Canada’s shoulders. “I know you understand in a way. I know it hurts you to watch them die—and maybe you feel that by going with them, you are somehow punishing yourself for their deaths. Making up for being unable to protect them from war—but you are a nation and it is part of what we are to understand that men will fight and die for us—sometimes, whether we want them to or not.”
Canada looked at the floor. “I can’t accept that. That it’s one of those things that ‘just is’. That’s…”
“It will come with experience. You will understand in time. It will be dangerous enough when we land in the morning. The paratroopers; mine, yours, America’s—they take the biggest risk tonight. Many of them aren’t going to make it. Torturing yourself won’t save them and it won’t help you appease guilt.” England watched him and slid his hand under Canada’s chin, raising his blue eyes. “I will need you at my side in the morning. You must rest and be ready.”
“I can’t—“
“I know. But you must try.” England kept his hand under Canada’s chin and pushed the other into his hair.
Canada swallowed and then nodded, eyes avoiding England’s.
He knew America was spending the night alone and he couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind—couldn’t imagine being alone right now. Canada could hear England when he flinched in his cot; heard his breathing pick up, heard the creak of fabric when he twisted his sheets in his fingers. Canada started to tremble an hour after midnight, when he swore he could feel the cold and damp and terror and the darkness.
He hated not knowing.
He couldn’t stand it and soon he got up, pacing around the little building that he and England slept in. France was outside too, sitting and smoking. Canada didn’t stop to speak to him. He just walked.
When morning came, he landed ashore at Juno Beach with the Canadian Third Infantry. It was the second most heavily defended of the six landing points. Sword went to England and France’s rebels. Gold was England’s too. America was taking Omaha, Point du Hoc and Utah by himself.
Canada didn’t think of any of that once he beached. All he thought of was movement. To run and dodge and when half his men fell around him, his vision blurred in a way he couldn’t acknowledge and he kept running—a two hundred yard dash to the sea wall and started shooting.
He couldn’t think, forgot to breath—everything was a whitewash in front of him. Only the sea wall was clear. He heard shots, they seemed to slow around him; the mines went off and he heard the screams—blaring in his ears but they seemed far away. He felt his men die in the water, shot before they reached the sand, felt it when they stopped to help each other and met a bullet.
By the end of the first day, fifteen thousand Canadian men landed later, Canada slumped down by a tree and leaned on it, panting. He had been moving for fifteen hours. He had not stopped for water or food. He was trembling all over. The Great War, he thought that had hardened him to warfare but…this. He leaned over, coughing. He hurt all over. There was blood on him. His eyes hurt. His glasses were cracked and smudged.
Outside of Courseulles, he threw up and shook himself. I’m okay.
He needed rest. He desperately needed a break. But his men had made it further inland than any other Allied force, though he would not know it until later. He was proud of his men, fiercely so. They had fought bravely and well and they deserved all the beer in the world when this was over.
I’m okay.
But a tiny voice in his head said, No. You aren’t! Turn around! There was someone there. Canada could feel it. He went still and raised his fist to signal a halt, listening.
His lieutenant whispered, “Sir?”
Canada licked his lips and mumbled in French, "Go on ahead. Hurry. Take the city."
His men looked at him, curious. Canada eyed them. "Now!"
His lieutenant nodded and gestured to the others and they vanished into the darkness.
Canada stood straight up, swaying slightly. “Come out.”
Germany slipped from the darkness. “Canada.”
Canada’s eye twitched and suddenly, he didn’t feel tired at all. “Germany.”
“That was strange—he usually likes to take the attacks in himself,” said the sergeant to another. “Do you suppose he saw something we didn’t?”
“Williams has got strange instincts,” said his fellow. “We should ask the lieutenant. Maybe Williams is just tired. He’s been on the move since early this morning. When I had a cup of coffee with him, he said he’d been up for several hours. Nerves or something—keeps him up maybe?”
“Hard to believe a guy like that gets battle nerves. You ever looked at his eyes when he’s fighting?”
Canada threw down his gear, holding his rifle. Germany dropped his too, holding only his Luger. They sized the other up. Canada breathed in with the breeze. Germany shifted his weight. The silence was like the surface of a lake, smooth and calm but with a certain amount of tension underneath, awaiting a ripple.
Canada spoke first. “Where’s your brother?”
Germany twitched. “Your brother should have run into him a couple hours ago.
Canada allowed himself a smile. “I bet that’ll be interesting.”
“I have no doubts about who will win.”
“Neither do I.” Canada dashed forward and swung with the rifle.
Germany dodged back, fist flashing out. It caught the side of Canada’s face and he staggered and grabbed a handful of dirt. When Germany grabbed his collar, Canada threw the whole mess in his face. Germany swore and stumbled and Canada punched him. He was quick to recover, dodging back and blinking and then running at him. Canada sidestepped, turned to follow-up but Germany had whirled around instead and Canada saw only a glint of silver before his glasses flew right off and his vision was marred with blood.
It was early evening. The sun low and now blurry and Canada froze, touching across the bridge of his nose, feeling the open gash spread over his eyebrow and then took off his gloves. He tossed them to the dirt and listened.
Germany was circling him. A blind opponent was not necessarily a defeated one. He crept around him, breathed in silently and ran at his back.
Canada whirled around and swung. His fist crashed into the side of Germany’s face and latched onto his hair. He jerked the taller nation around—what was it that Australia had shown him—lifted him up and slammed him into the dirt. Canada went down on him, tackling him.
The knife—ah, he’d forgotten already—it punched into him, once, twice—three times before Canada could grab onto Germany’s wrist and held him. It was hard—Germany had grown up fighting. His training under Austria and then Prussia made him solid and taut with corded muscle. Canada, on the other hand, had been shielded by France and England from the constant warfare that seemed to plague Europe. His build was lean; he had never beaten America in a practice match and Australia’s brawling was hard to compensate for. He leaned all his weight on Germany, scrambling for and losing his free hand. Germany had his Luger up in a flash and brought it down on Canada’s face. He felt his nose crunch and Germany threw him off.
Canada was on his hands and knees, coughing, when Germany kicked him. He heaved, twitching but didn’t fall, pushing himself to get up. Germany grabbed him by the hair, drug him over a foot and shoved the Luger in his face. “I’m going to take you prisoner.”
Canada’s left arm hung limp but the fingers on his right hand twitched over his belt to the combat knife. It was dark enough that Germany didn’t seem to notice. “Even if you do,” Canada said, mouth gummy with blood, “the Allies have still won the day. My men will have taken Courseulles.”
Germany jerked him up by his collar, spitting in his face. “I will take it bac—“
Canada jerked up with the knife and jammed it into Germany’s stomach. He tore it aside, ripping through uniform and flesh. Germany let out a gruff yell, shattering the silent forest around them. He let go of Canada’s hair and collar and staggered back from him.
Canada was panting, his hands searching the ground for his rifle. Germany held his stomach in, shaking as he twitched and breathed and tried to pick up the Luger and point it at Canada. For just a flash, the crack of gunfire lit up the trees around them. Canada whimpered, jerked at the impact and then his hands found his rifle.
And someone yelled, “Germany!”
They both stopped as another figure ran to Germany from the darkness. They spoke to each other in harsh, crisp German that Canada could only be bothered to translate bits and pieces of. Germany leaned slightly, pointed at Canada and the dark, lean, blurred figure looked over.
Canada looked back, rifle raised. It’s Prussia. At least, it moved like Prussia but without his glasses and the dark of night, he couldn’t be certain.
But maybe-Prussia just huffed and scowled and said, “You idiot.” He grabbed Germany, pulling his arm over his shoulder and started to lead him away.
Canada sighed silently in relief. After a bit of searching, he found his glasses but both lenses were shattered. He kept them anyway, putting them in his breast pocket and picked up his gear. Everything hurt as he staggered on to Courseulles. At the gates, he met Canadian guards, who were quick to assist him. One grabbed him to help him walk while another ran off to their temporary headquarters to radio ahead to England’s base and get a medic.
His lieutenant was there when Canada entered headquarters. He was to him in a flash. “Sir, are you all right?”
Canada smiled and nodded a little. “I’ll be fine.” He thanked the guard and sent him back to his post and his lieutenant helped him get his jacket off.
“Was it another like you, Sir?” The lieutenant was the only one in his direct unit that knew what he was.
“Germany.”
“I had wondered why you sent the rest of us ahead. The sergeants were concerned.” He started opening up Canada’s shirt and grabbed a hand towel.
“He would have killed you all,” Canada said, quietly. “And I wasn’t sure I could beat him.”
The lieutenant paused with the rag and then he smiled a little. “But it looks like you did, Sir. I never doubted you.”
Canada sighed and gave him a truly grateful smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The door opened and the medic and another officer entered. “Commander Kirkland says he’s on his way here to check on everything.”
The lieutenant chuckled. “You’d think those Brits didn’t trust us to do anything right.”
“I won’t need a medic,” Canada told them and he smiled at his lieutenant. “Do we know if anyone got farther than us today?”
“No, sir, we got six miles inland and reached our final destination—but had to pull back because we outran everyone else and couldn’t hold the position.”
Canada helped hold a rag to his shoulder, while the medic ignored him and started digging the bullets out. He grinned a little, feeling a swell of pride in his men.
England arrived within the hour, eyes wide and hard. “Williams!”
Canada’s lieutenant saluted and the medic took out the last bullet. He said, “Kirkland. There was no need for you—“
“You two,” England interrupted, pointing at the lieutenant and the medic, “get out.”
The medic grabbed up his tools but left a roll of gauze. The lieutenant glanced at Canada, saluted and left.
When they were alone, England seemed to waver. He looked at the floor, sighed and finally said, “What happened?”
“I ran into Germany.”
England approached, movements crisp, almost wary. He touched Canada’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I need new glasses.”
England frowned and sighed helplessly. “You’ll be the death of me, Canada. Are you really all right?”
Canada smiled a bit, reaching out to the warm blur of England in front of him, touching his sleeve. “I’m okay.”
England seemed to hesitate again and then slid the hand on his arm to Canada’s jaw. “You fought well today, Canada. Bravely. I’m proud of you.”
Canada felt some new, warm, suffocating feeling in his chest but he just smiled and said, “How did everyone do?”
“We won’t know until everyone is accounted for. There are still paratroopers wandering the countryside.” England slid his fingers down to Canada’s open shirt, sliding a hand inside it. “How bad are your wounds?”
Canada shivered a little at the warm contact. “Bullets, gash with the knife—my nose is healing, I think.” He couldn’t properly see England’s hands; he more felt the disjointed touches of the pads of England’s rough fingertips.
England pushed his shirt off, carefully watching Canada’s face, noting when he flinched. He picked up the roll of gauze and bandaged him. Somehow, the touches and sweeps of gauze were relaxing. Canada leaned into those fingers, half-closing his eyes.
England watched him. Canada had always been good to England. Always been fair and kind, strong and resilient. And England had…not always been the best in return. He owed Canada better. Once he finished with the gauze, he threaded his fingers into Canada’s hair, combing through it, just watching the boy relax. He did it until he felt a touch on his hip.
That made England pause. “Well, I will help you upstairs. You need sleep.” He shifted, moving an arm around Canada’s waist.
Canada perked and blinked and nodded, holding onto England and standing. “Are you needing to leave?”
“No.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“Is this your way of saying you want me to?”
Canada chuckled. “No. I just assumed you would leave.” To go back to France or America or a fight, he didn’t say but England heard it.
He tightened his arm around him. “Well, I’m not.”
Canada looked away, grabbing onto the railing as they maneuvered the stairs. “Thanks.”
When Canada awoke the next morning, it took him several seconds to realize he was looking at America. He blinked rapidly and started to sit up but his brother reached out and pushed him back down.
“You’re fine, Canada. How are you feeling?”
“What are you doing here?”
America chuckled. “Well, nice to see you too.” His eyes drifted over England, who was sleeping right next to Canada, curled up with him. “He come to you last night?”
Canada nodded. “I ran into Germany.”
“I heard,” said America. He glanced aside. “I ran into Prussia.”
“What happened?” He started to sit up, still speaking quietly.
“He took off. Said he had business to take care of.”
England’s eyes fluttered open and he jumped a little. “America?”
“Mm,” he acknowledged, and then he was looking back at Canada. “You’re all right though?”
Canada nodded. “I’m okay. Think I’m mostly healed up.”
America seemed to search his eyes, as if waiting for something else but Canada didn’t know what it was and so he gave him a little smile. This must not have been it though because America glanced at England, looked back at Canada and then nodded. “Well, France is downstairs. He’s pretty worried.” He stood up. “I’ve got the cook up and making something. So get downstairs soon.”
Canada watched him leave, eyes lingering on the door long after it had closed.
England rested a hand on Canada’s back. “What is it?”
“That was a little weird, wasn’t it?” Canada looked over.
England shrugged. “He’s changed since he entered this war. Don’t worry yourself over it.” England was already touching him again, running his hands along Canada’s spine and ribs. “Are you sure you’re healed up?”
“Y-yes,” Canada said, quickly—too quickly and tried to hide the shudder when England touched his thigh. “Um. Yes.” He scooted to the edge of the bed and got himself up.
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America, England, Germany and Prussia, so far; hinted at England/Canada
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: So far, Canada on D-Day (June 6th, 1944; when England, America, Canada and France beached on the French coast to begin kicking the Germans out).
I have not decided where exactly I wanted to go with this--I just thought it would be fun to write a fight scene between Canada and Germany and I don't often see any England/Canada.
This is most definitely not yet finished. I'm just hoping that posting it will inspire me a little.
On June fifth, just before dark, America wandered among his paratroopers. He smiled for them; he told jokes—he knew a lot of them were going to die tonight. He passed out cigarettes until he had none left and then he took a pack from his senior officers and passed theirs out too.
England was doing much the same on his airfield. There would be no sleep for him tonight. None for Canada either, who was sitting with a group of men, smoking and playing cards but his eyes were dim. The brilliant blue was dull and muted. Canada had liked getting to know his soldiers at first but when they started dying, he seemed to close in on himself.
England watched him. Canada wasn’t like Australia and America. They thrived on the battlefield. It brought out their ability to laugh at the misery of the world but Canada…Canada was more like England. Canada became as hard as a stone. Stubborn, immovable, and cold. England knew Canada did it to shield himself from the pain, though it was something that came naturally to the boy. Canada was empathetic. He felt so deeply for his men that he could never shut them out completely, especially the young ones.
A little niggling voice reminded England that Russia had been that way…before the Mongols had…
He avoided that thought and approached the group; they all lifted their eyes and tensed. “At ease,” he told them, lifting a hand--stop, it’s okay--and his eyes met Canada’s. “Williams. With me.”
Canada’s eye lowered. “Deal me out. You guys can split my cigarettes.” He put his cards face down smiled at them.
They all nodded and smiled and waved.
Such good, stout men, these Canadians.
Canada saluted lazily and then turned and followed England. “What is it?”
“You won’t be dropping with them tonight. I’ll need you in the morning.”
Canada didn’t stop walking but his breathing quieted for a moment. “I told you that I don’t want to command the invasion forces—I want to the drop with—“
“Canada, I could make you a commanding officer so highly ranked that you’d never have to be in battle again but you always refuse.” England didn’t look at him. “You always want to be with your men. And you always want to be with the ones who are going to be in the most danger. They are fighting for you; you cannot protect them just by going with them.” He led Canada into a small tower over-looking the airfield.
Canada looked away. “I feel alive when I’m with them. I feel like what I’m doing matters.”
England looked sidelong at him. “What you’re doing does matter and your men appreciate the love you have for them—but putting yourself in unnecessary danger is just that. Unnecessary.”
“But, England—“
And England turned, putting his hands on Canada’s shoulders. “I know you understand in a way. I know it hurts you to watch them die—and maybe you feel that by going with them, you are somehow punishing yourself for their deaths. Making up for being unable to protect them from war—but you are a nation and it is part of what we are to understand that men will fight and die for us—sometimes, whether we want them to or not.”
Canada looked at the floor. “I can’t accept that. That it’s one of those things that ‘just is’. That’s…”
“It will come with experience. You will understand in time. It will be dangerous enough when we land in the morning. The paratroopers; mine, yours, America’s—they take the biggest risk tonight. Many of them aren’t going to make it. Torturing yourself won’t save them and it won’t help you appease guilt.” England watched him and slid his hand under Canada’s chin, raising his blue eyes. “I will need you at my side in the morning. You must rest and be ready.”
“I can’t—“
“I know. But you must try.” England kept his hand under Canada’s chin and pushed the other into his hair.
Canada swallowed and then nodded, eyes avoiding England’s.
He knew America was spending the night alone and he couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind—couldn’t imagine being alone right now. Canada could hear England when he flinched in his cot; heard his breathing pick up, heard the creak of fabric when he twisted his sheets in his fingers. Canada started to tremble an hour after midnight, when he swore he could feel the cold and damp and terror and the darkness.
He hated not knowing.
He couldn’t stand it and soon he got up, pacing around the little building that he and England slept in. France was outside too, sitting and smoking. Canada didn’t stop to speak to him. He just walked.
When morning came, he landed ashore at Juno Beach with the Canadian Third Infantry. It was the second most heavily defended of the six landing points. Sword went to England and France’s rebels. Gold was England’s too. America was taking Omaha, Point du Hoc and Utah by himself.
Canada didn’t think of any of that once he beached. All he thought of was movement. To run and dodge and when half his men fell around him, his vision blurred in a way he couldn’t acknowledge and he kept running—a two hundred yard dash to the sea wall and started shooting.
He couldn’t think, forgot to breath—everything was a whitewash in front of him. Only the sea wall was clear. He heard shots, they seemed to slow around him; the mines went off and he heard the screams—blaring in his ears but they seemed far away. He felt his men die in the water, shot before they reached the sand, felt it when they stopped to help each other and met a bullet.
By the end of the first day, fifteen thousand Canadian men landed later, Canada slumped down by a tree and leaned on it, panting. He had been moving for fifteen hours. He had not stopped for water or food. He was trembling all over. The Great War, he thought that had hardened him to warfare but…this. He leaned over, coughing. He hurt all over. There was blood on him. His eyes hurt. His glasses were cracked and smudged.
Outside of Courseulles, he threw up and shook himself. I’m okay.
He needed rest. He desperately needed a break. But his men had made it further inland than any other Allied force, though he would not know it until later. He was proud of his men, fiercely so. They had fought bravely and well and they deserved all the beer in the world when this was over.
I’m okay.
But a tiny voice in his head said, No. You aren’t! Turn around! There was someone there. Canada could feel it. He went still and raised his fist to signal a halt, listening.
His lieutenant whispered, “Sir?”
Canada licked his lips and mumbled in French, "Go on ahead. Hurry. Take the city."
His men looked at him, curious. Canada eyed them. "Now!"
His lieutenant nodded and gestured to the others and they vanished into the darkness.
Canada stood straight up, swaying slightly. “Come out.”
Germany slipped from the darkness. “Canada.”
Canada’s eye twitched and suddenly, he didn’t feel tired at all. “Germany.”
“That was strange—he usually likes to take the attacks in himself,” said the sergeant to another. “Do you suppose he saw something we didn’t?”
“Williams has got strange instincts,” said his fellow. “We should ask the lieutenant. Maybe Williams is just tired. He’s been on the move since early this morning. When I had a cup of coffee with him, he said he’d been up for several hours. Nerves or something—keeps him up maybe?”
“Hard to believe a guy like that gets battle nerves. You ever looked at his eyes when he’s fighting?”
Canada threw down his gear, holding his rifle. Germany dropped his too, holding only his Luger. They sized the other up. Canada breathed in with the breeze. Germany shifted his weight. The silence was like the surface of a lake, smooth and calm but with a certain amount of tension underneath, awaiting a ripple.
Canada spoke first. “Where’s your brother?”
Germany twitched. “Your brother should have run into him a couple hours ago.
Canada allowed himself a smile. “I bet that’ll be interesting.”
“I have no doubts about who will win.”
“Neither do I.” Canada dashed forward and swung with the rifle.
Germany dodged back, fist flashing out. It caught the side of Canada’s face and he staggered and grabbed a handful of dirt. When Germany grabbed his collar, Canada threw the whole mess in his face. Germany swore and stumbled and Canada punched him. He was quick to recover, dodging back and blinking and then running at him. Canada sidestepped, turned to follow-up but Germany had whirled around instead and Canada saw only a glint of silver before his glasses flew right off and his vision was marred with blood.
It was early evening. The sun low and now blurry and Canada froze, touching across the bridge of his nose, feeling the open gash spread over his eyebrow and then took off his gloves. He tossed them to the dirt and listened.
Germany was circling him. A blind opponent was not necessarily a defeated one. He crept around him, breathed in silently and ran at his back.
Canada whirled around and swung. His fist crashed into the side of Germany’s face and latched onto his hair. He jerked the taller nation around—what was it that Australia had shown him—lifted him up and slammed him into the dirt. Canada went down on him, tackling him.
The knife—ah, he’d forgotten already—it punched into him, once, twice—three times before Canada could grab onto Germany’s wrist and held him. It was hard—Germany had grown up fighting. His training under Austria and then Prussia made him solid and taut with corded muscle. Canada, on the other hand, had been shielded by France and England from the constant warfare that seemed to plague Europe. His build was lean; he had never beaten America in a practice match and Australia’s brawling was hard to compensate for. He leaned all his weight on Germany, scrambling for and losing his free hand. Germany had his Luger up in a flash and brought it down on Canada’s face. He felt his nose crunch and Germany threw him off.
Canada was on his hands and knees, coughing, when Germany kicked him. He heaved, twitching but didn’t fall, pushing himself to get up. Germany grabbed him by the hair, drug him over a foot and shoved the Luger in his face. “I’m going to take you prisoner.”
Canada’s left arm hung limp but the fingers on his right hand twitched over his belt to the combat knife. It was dark enough that Germany didn’t seem to notice. “Even if you do,” Canada said, mouth gummy with blood, “the Allies have still won the day. My men will have taken Courseulles.”
Germany jerked him up by his collar, spitting in his face. “I will take it bac—“
Canada jerked up with the knife and jammed it into Germany’s stomach. He tore it aside, ripping through uniform and flesh. Germany let out a gruff yell, shattering the silent forest around them. He let go of Canada’s hair and collar and staggered back from him.
Canada was panting, his hands searching the ground for his rifle. Germany held his stomach in, shaking as he twitched and breathed and tried to pick up the Luger and point it at Canada. For just a flash, the crack of gunfire lit up the trees around them. Canada whimpered, jerked at the impact and then his hands found his rifle.
And someone yelled, “Germany!”
They both stopped as another figure ran to Germany from the darkness. They spoke to each other in harsh, crisp German that Canada could only be bothered to translate bits and pieces of. Germany leaned slightly, pointed at Canada and the dark, lean, blurred figure looked over.
Canada looked back, rifle raised. It’s Prussia. At least, it moved like Prussia but without his glasses and the dark of night, he couldn’t be certain.
But maybe-Prussia just huffed and scowled and said, “You idiot.” He grabbed Germany, pulling his arm over his shoulder and started to lead him away.
Canada sighed silently in relief. After a bit of searching, he found his glasses but both lenses were shattered. He kept them anyway, putting them in his breast pocket and picked up his gear. Everything hurt as he staggered on to Courseulles. At the gates, he met Canadian guards, who were quick to assist him. One grabbed him to help him walk while another ran off to their temporary headquarters to radio ahead to England’s base and get a medic.
His lieutenant was there when Canada entered headquarters. He was to him in a flash. “Sir, are you all right?”
Canada smiled and nodded a little. “I’ll be fine.” He thanked the guard and sent him back to his post and his lieutenant helped him get his jacket off.
“Was it another like you, Sir?” The lieutenant was the only one in his direct unit that knew what he was.
“Germany.”
“I had wondered why you sent the rest of us ahead. The sergeants were concerned.” He started opening up Canada’s shirt and grabbed a hand towel.
“He would have killed you all,” Canada said, quietly. “And I wasn’t sure I could beat him.”
The lieutenant paused with the rag and then he smiled a little. “But it looks like you did, Sir. I never doubted you.”
Canada sighed and gave him a truly grateful smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The door opened and the medic and another officer entered. “Commander Kirkland says he’s on his way here to check on everything.”
The lieutenant chuckled. “You’d think those Brits didn’t trust us to do anything right.”
“I won’t need a medic,” Canada told them and he smiled at his lieutenant. “Do we know if anyone got farther than us today?”
“No, sir, we got six miles inland and reached our final destination—but had to pull back because we outran everyone else and couldn’t hold the position.”
Canada helped hold a rag to his shoulder, while the medic ignored him and started digging the bullets out. He grinned a little, feeling a swell of pride in his men.
England arrived within the hour, eyes wide and hard. “Williams!”
Canada’s lieutenant saluted and the medic took out the last bullet. He said, “Kirkland. There was no need for you—“
“You two,” England interrupted, pointing at the lieutenant and the medic, “get out.”
The medic grabbed up his tools but left a roll of gauze. The lieutenant glanced at Canada, saluted and left.
When they were alone, England seemed to waver. He looked at the floor, sighed and finally said, “What happened?”
“I ran into Germany.”
England approached, movements crisp, almost wary. He touched Canada’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I need new glasses.”
England frowned and sighed helplessly. “You’ll be the death of me, Canada. Are you really all right?”
Canada smiled a bit, reaching out to the warm blur of England in front of him, touching his sleeve. “I’m okay.”
England seemed to hesitate again and then slid the hand on his arm to Canada’s jaw. “You fought well today, Canada. Bravely. I’m proud of you.”
Canada felt some new, warm, suffocating feeling in his chest but he just smiled and said, “How did everyone do?”
“We won’t know until everyone is accounted for. There are still paratroopers wandering the countryside.” England slid his fingers down to Canada’s open shirt, sliding a hand inside it. “How bad are your wounds?”
Canada shivered a little at the warm contact. “Bullets, gash with the knife—my nose is healing, I think.” He couldn’t properly see England’s hands; he more felt the disjointed touches of the pads of England’s rough fingertips.
England pushed his shirt off, carefully watching Canada’s face, noting when he flinched. He picked up the roll of gauze and bandaged him. Somehow, the touches and sweeps of gauze were relaxing. Canada leaned into those fingers, half-closing his eyes.
England watched him. Canada had always been good to England. Always been fair and kind, strong and resilient. And England had…not always been the best in return. He owed Canada better. Once he finished with the gauze, he threaded his fingers into Canada’s hair, combing through it, just watching the boy relax. He did it until he felt a touch on his hip.
That made England pause. “Well, I will help you upstairs. You need sleep.” He shifted, moving an arm around Canada’s waist.
Canada perked and blinked and nodded, holding onto England and standing. “Are you needing to leave?”
“No.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“Is this your way of saying you want me to?”
Canada chuckled. “No. I just assumed you would leave.” To go back to France or America or a fight, he didn’t say but England heard it.
He tightened his arm around him. “Well, I’m not.”
Canada looked away, grabbing onto the railing as they maneuvered the stairs. “Thanks.”
When Canada awoke the next morning, it took him several seconds to realize he was looking at America. He blinked rapidly and started to sit up but his brother reached out and pushed him back down.
“You’re fine, Canada. How are you feeling?”
“What are you doing here?”
America chuckled. “Well, nice to see you too.” His eyes drifted over England, who was sleeping right next to Canada, curled up with him. “He come to you last night?”
Canada nodded. “I ran into Germany.”
“I heard,” said America. He glanced aside. “I ran into Prussia.”
“What happened?” He started to sit up, still speaking quietly.
“He took off. Said he had business to take care of.”
England’s eyes fluttered open and he jumped a little. “America?”
“Mm,” he acknowledged, and then he was looking back at Canada. “You’re all right though?”
Canada nodded. “I’m okay. Think I’m mostly healed up.”
America seemed to search his eyes, as if waiting for something else but Canada didn’t know what it was and so he gave him a little smile. This must not have been it though because America glanced at England, looked back at Canada and then nodded. “Well, France is downstairs. He’s pretty worried.” He stood up. “I’ve got the cook up and making something. So get downstairs soon.”
Canada watched him leave, eyes lingering on the door long after it had closed.
England rested a hand on Canada’s back. “What is it?”
“That was a little weird, wasn’t it?” Canada looked over.
England shrugged. “He’s changed since he entered this war. Don’t worry yourself over it.” England was already touching him again, running his hands along Canada’s spine and ribs. “Are you sure you’re healed up?”
“Y-yes,” Canada said, quickly—too quickly and tried to hide the shudder when England touched his thigh. “Um. Yes.” He scooted to the edge of the bed and got himself up.
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Date: 2009-11-30 06:11 pm (UTC)The affection between Canada and England here... I loved it! ♥ And as always you do cool fight scenes. I kinda loled at Prussia just running off from America, "My bro senses are tingling!"
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Date: 2009-11-30 08:08 pm (UTC)You liked the quiet, awkward sort of affection between them? Cool!Writing things between them is a fun difference from America. :D
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Date: 2009-11-30 08:15 pm (UTC)I did, it's such a lovely contrast. Of course, I'm stickler for England with all his kids and the differences with how they interact, but this is just 'awwwww~'. Canada craves daddy!love but shy and England's all like "*fumbles with it*"
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Date: 2009-11-30 11:27 pm (UTC)This made my day.
And oh my God England and CANADA YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.
♥♥♥♥
You write the most fantastic fight scenes. ♥
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Date: 2009-12-04 11:25 pm (UTC)*flails* I like writing fight scenes between characters who don't usually get put together. And Canada is tough! Woo! Go little brother nation!
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Date: 2009-12-04 11:46 pm (UTC)Canada is badass.
(and I love that you put the "Canada could go crazyass as Russia there." XD
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Date: 2009-12-09 01:03 am (UTC)I really like where this is going ~ good luck with it!
England/Canada oh god guilty pleasure.