[fanfic] Stepping Stones
Jun. 25th, 2009 11:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle: Stepping Stones
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): implied England/France, Canada and America (pre-revolution), and a mention of Scotland and Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, war and some suggestive dialog/situations
Summary: Just a fun piece--with darker undertones--but fun, about the French and Indian War and France discovering Canada and all four of them in London--and George III is boring.
Note: I needed a prompt because I was stuck on another bit I'm working on.twistedsheets10 gave me: Canada, America, England and France, happy family times. So, not all of it's happy but it's them.
post here. Editing done on 07/16/09
France had given Canada up for sugar and that was something he had never really forgiven himself for. Not necessarily because of the people, or even the land—both now belonging to England—but because of the child. Canada was a sweet little thing and he couldn’t bear to tell the boy that he had been given a choice. Easier to let the boy think England was taking him away, rather than know he was being abandoned.
No, not abandoned. He couldn’t bear to think that, himself. He was leaving Canada in England’s capable hands. So long as France had a place in the New World, there would only be war on that continent. Canada would be subjected to the same terrible bloodshed he had seen since childhood. So what should he do? Hold out and wait for the next war to begin? Or give the boy up to his enemy and let there be peace in the New World—even for a little while?
Canada had not understood why they were fighting. France had just come back one day—but without little gifts, except for the ships and gun powder. And the canons and screaming and dying.
France had done the only logical thing and imprisoned the child in the cellar during the fighting. God, what else could he have done? Even England understood that—he had taken America to camp with him but had him under guard at all times. In retrospect, that was a curious thing to do. Lock up the children while the fathers go out and try to kill each other? So then what? If they died, the children could come out and begin again?
France peered into the looking-glass, somehow unable to picture Canada and America fighting. America had England’s backbone and determination but none of his focus; Canada had all of France’s culture and good looks and calm but not really fighting spirit. He sighed at the mirror. He loved little Canada regardless.
Yes, even if that was….unbecoming. How jealous Guadeloupe and his sister, Martinique would be.
That made him pause, look up at the ceiling. Oh, the Caribbean. Oh, more specifically, those twins and the things they could do with their—
Well. Anyway.
“Oh, let me come! Please! I want to see!” America was hurrying after him, pulling on England’s arm, biting his lip, begging.
The sun hadn’t even risen yet—he’d meant to leave his tent while the boy was asleep so to not have this conversation again. “No! Absolutely not! You will stay in the camp and don’t argue with me!”
“B-but, my people are forming a militia for you! I have to be there!”
England jerked to a stop and grabbed him by the collar. “You don’t understand what I’m about to go out and do. I have kept you far away from the battles—if you die, what then? What shall I do?”
America stopped, peering up him, blue eyes wide.
England sighed and knelt. “America, you must do this thing for me. Stay here and protect the camp with Johnson.”
America trembled under his hands. “But—“
“No,” said England, softly, raising his fingers and running them into America’s hair. “None of that, my boy.”
America bit his lip. “I—“
England raised his eyebrows.
America looked down. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll have tea when I return.” He gently touched his mouth to America’s forehead and then stood, turning away.
America sniffled and swallowed and yelled at his retreating back. “You just have to beat up France, right?!” His voice rose, squeaking, trembling. “You can do it! Don’t get hurt!”
England didn’t look back but he felt his spirits lift.
And then plummet on the morning of the eighth, when Williams’ regiment was ambushed.
America crept out anyway. He stole away after England left, following Williams’ regiment. He just wanted to see. He’d heard so much about what was going on—what the men were doing—he wanted to see them fire the muskets. In the manner of little boys, he ran around the soldiers in the camp, and they enjoyed playing with him (even if they seemed to have no real idea of who or what he was, many just assumed he was the son or relative of Lord Kirkland) but when England came around—they stopped. They wouldn’t tell him what exactly it meant to kill another man. They just talked about muskets and knives. America wondered what a stab felt like. Maybe a tingling? Or a hard scratch? He’d been scratched before, by briars and sticks and such. It was probably the same.
So he crept along. He had no musket, those went to the soldiers and so he’d taken a small axe from the wood pile—because, of course, he’d need a weapon to watch the fighting! So he could see how it all worked. He knew about using axes. The Indians had showed him.
(Indians were interesting to America. They seemed to know him, somehow.)
He dodged through the trees, face darkened with dirt—though the morning’s mist was making it slippery. He could see England from here. So tall and strong and proud, was England. He wanted to be just like him! England was different around the troops and they were definitely different around him. They respected him. They probably wanted to be just like him too. How lucky America was to have such a highly regarded keeper. It made his heart soar just thinking about it. One day, he would go to battle at England’s right hand! He just knew it!
America’s fingers tightened on his axe and he smiled. He’d grow up and when he was big, he wouldn’t let anyone beat him up, ever! He’d—!
Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!
America jumped without meaning to and dropped his axe. With a stifled cry, he grabbed it up and stood and—
—and froze.
The French were suddenly there, pouring out from the sides of the road, in the ravine, blasting muskets. America heard a trembling gasp—that was his own—and he staggered back, watching.
Men were falling, screaming—there was blood in the dirt and England was whirling around, roaring orders—but America couldn’t understand them. Couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. He was frozen, as if he’d been covered by a blanket—a thick, suffocating—why was it so hard to breath?
I am afraid.
A ragged whimper escaped—soldiers he’d passed only that morning—a leg blew apart, spraying the brush. America was panting, his legs felt weak and his stomach heaved and then he looked at his hands—
A short scream cracked the muffled cotton in his ears. There was blood on his arms! His legs worked backwards, as if trying to get away from his own limbs and he wiped them on his clothes. He was hardly aware that he was crying.
And then something jerked his head back.
Williams fell to the ambushing Canadians and Indians and then the French came and—England was whirling, fighting—the militia was on the verge of panic—a retreat—it all was happening so fast. England yanked a musket from the grip of a dying man and he and about a hundred others covered their withdraw.
And it was during the wild-eyed battle heat that he was saw him. And for just a flash, he froze; his heart skipped a beat.
America was out in the forest, he could see the damn boy from here; blond-haired and little shirt and ribbon that he’d only just brought him from London. And he was covered in blood and struggling with a French regular. And then there was—
Crack!
England was rocked back to his senses by the butt of a rifle.
“I’m insulted, you know! Looking elsewhere when I’ve appeared in front of you!”
England’s mind emptied—focus, clarity—he had only one goal now. He looked at France, green eyes meeting his blue ones for just a moment and then England was throwing the musket down and taking off into the trees.
France just stood there for a second, blinking and then he laughed. “Oh.” He looked in the direction that England had fled. “Well.”
America bit and screamed, punching and clawing at the man who held him by the hair.
The man yelled at him in French, jerking his head aside, dragging him. Sticks and dirt and leaves dug shallow trenches as America dug his shoes into the forest floor. His fingers were slippery with blood (wherever it had come from) and the pain was like a—like—something blinding. Something—
A flash of red. Yes, yes, like that.
And suddenly there was no pressure on his hair and there was a glint of silver and the man was flying apart. Arms went one way, head went the other.
America just stood there, the man’s blood all over his clothes. He made little sounds, raspy, high—England appeared in front of his eyes and a moan escaped him. England looked angry, he opened his mouth to say something but America didn’t listen. He threw himself into England’s arms, wailing.
Whatever England was going to say, he didn’t. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him and carried the boy back to camp.
America jumped awake. His shift was sticking to him in sticky patches. He touched his chest, swallowing. A dream. Just a dream. But not--had that only been eight years ago?
Beside him, Canada was curled up; soft snores kept making his curls wiggle around, like soft, golden little snakes. Nice snakes, America mentally added. Not the ones that bit you.
America smiled and leaned into his ear, breathing, “Hey, Canada, you have snakes in your hair.”
Canada’s little tongue poked out, wetting the corner of his mouth and America felt a half-hearted kick against his knee. “Stop it, America. I do not.” His eyes opened and his nose wrinkled. “Why are you all sweaty?”
“What’d’you care!”
Canada sat up. “I’m not sweaty. Did you have a nightmare?”
“No!” America snapped. “Of course not.”
“Liar.”
“I have good dreams, always.”
“You don’t either,” said Canada and then he did a double-take. “Hey—we’re not on the boat!”
America paused. “What?”
The last couple months had been spent on a merchant vessel. England had gone all the way across the sea to fetch the both of them so they could spend some time in Europe. America jumped onto the mattress with a gasp. He’d been so used to the rocking of the ship, he hadn’t noticed.
Canada tumbled off the bed. “The window!”
America took a running jump off the bed, tackling him and they had a short fight over who would get to the window first. They scrambled and eventually reached it together. Canada pressed his nose against the glass. “There’s the ship!” He said, pointing down to the harbor, where the Glass Kipper was bobbing. He and America had played on the decks of that ship for many a night, listening to stories from the sailors about great sea monsters and ghost ships (which had scared America, Canada knew, as much as his brother tried to hide it). During the day, England made them work—learning about the great vessel and they’d become very comfortable on it, climbing into the rigging.
They’d given England quite a scare more than once—more recently when America had tied a rope to himself and leapt off, stopping a harmless six feet above the deck but England had been to him in a flash, whacking him over the head refusing him dinner that night. But now! But now! They were off that ship—England must have carried them inside in the night—now they were in Europe!
They had heard so much about Europe!
America whirled around. “England!” He took off.
Canada flailed and ran after him. “England! England!”
England was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as if he had long since expected them. He had a contented smile on his face that broke into a grin when America leapt into his arms and then Canada bowled them all over.
England shouted, America screamed with laughter and Canada was saying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” like a mantra.
A maid hurried to them. “Master Kirkland, sir, are you all right?”
He waved her off. “I’m fine.” He was laughing softly when he sat up, scooping a boy into each elbow. He said, “Now, something you must know—when we are around regular people—you must use human names.”
“What?” said America, looking at Canada. “Why?”
“Because not everyone knows about us. What we are.” He looked up. “Sarah does—but she is my maid. My staff and important officials and the king, of course—but every day people don’t necessarily know who and what we are and the concept would confuse them. So. America, your name right now, is Alfred.”
“Alfred,” America repeated, trying it out on his tongue.
“And Canada, you may keep the name France gave you—Matthieu—but I’m changing the spelling to ‘ew’ after the ‘h’, instead of ‘ieu’.”
“Ew,” said America, smirking at him. “You’re gross, Matthew.”
“Shut up,” Canada scowled, kicking him.
“Ow!”
“Do we have to call you ‘Arthur’?” asked Canada, pointedly ignoring America’s sulky look.
England paused. He looked up at Sarah. “That would look strange, wouldn’t it?” he said, in a resigned sort of tone.
She nodded. “It would, sir. They more resemble your sons. Perhaps they might call you ‘uncle’ if it bother you, Master Kirkland?”
“Or they might simply call me Kirkland.”
“Why can’t we call you ‘papa’?” America pushed against his chest.
England went strangely quiet for a moment, seeming uncertain. Then he shrugged. “Do what you like.” But the smile was gone and that distance America so hated had suddenly returned.
They just watched as England got up, gave them that strange, awkward smile that he got sometimes and turned away. “Breakfast is ready. Come into the nook when you’re dressed.”
Both of them sat there for a moment and then they looked at each other.
“I hate it when he does that,” America murmured.
“…me too,” Canada mumbled.
“Come now, boys,” said Sarah, pasting on a smile. “Let’s get you dressed, all right? Master Kirkland has a lot planned for you boys today. You’ll be heading right out into London.”
They stood and she took their hands.
England had clothes prepared for them and Sarah helped them put them on. Smart little waistcoats; Canada’s was a deep, royal blue with gold trim and America’s was white, with black trim.
“Have you ever seen a waistcoat in white?” America said, admiring it in the looking glass. “We can’t get them this white back home!”
“You look like a bull fighter!” Canada squeaked, falling back onto the bed in laughter.
America whipped around. “I do not! They wear flashy colors!”
“How do you know?”
“Spain told me!”
Canada sat up. “You’ve been talking to Spain?”
America belatedly realized his mistake. “You better not tell! Else I’ll make you regret it, Canada!”
Sarah was just watching them, seeming somewhere between lost and overwhelmed. How lucky was she, to meet the little colonies before most any other? “Boys, Master Kirkland is waiting on you.”
“Oh, right! Breakfast! I’m starving!” America whirled away to fold up a handkerchief (badly) and Canada jumped off the bed to pull his stockings on (sloppily). Sarah stood them next to each other when they had their shoes buckled on and she straightened and primped and combed their hair. She fussed over America’s wild little strand that never seemed to stay down and Canada’s long, rebellious curl—until America started to fidget and poked Canada in the ribs.
“Quit it!” Canada balled up his fist and jabbed him.
“Now, stop that this instant!” Sarah told them, quite severely. They’re just like normal brothers. “Downstairs now. Don’t run—“
But America had already whirled around and taken off and Canada was quick to follow.
England had already finished his breakfast and returned while they were making a mess with the jam and kicking each other under the table. America was facing the door, while Canada’s back was to it and so America stopped first when England entered again. Canada, seeing his brother’s astonished face, turned as well and then climbed up on his knees on the seat of the chair. “Wow, England!”
He was grandly dressed in red. It was very military in style, unlike America’s and Canada’s, which were formal but clearly civilian. It was clean, almost severe--bare of trim, depending entirely on England's presence to make it impressive. England was just pulling on a pair of white gloves.
“Does everyone dress like that in London?” asked America, looking down at his white fabric.
“Sometimes,” said England. “Sarah,” he added, only slightly raising his voice, “tea before I leave.” While she prepared it for him, he went on, “Today, we are going to see the king.”
Their mouths fell open in identical little Os of surprise.
“He is looking forward to meeting the two of you. So, best behavior today.” His tone was stern on the last sentence and he relaxed a little at the little nods they gave him. He absently took the teacup Sarah gave him but didn't sip any.
“S-so we should say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, right?” asked America, quietly.
“Yes. Now—up. Give Sarah room to clean up. The carriage is being prepared—I’ve gloves for both of you.”
Canada and America looked at each other and then slid off their chairs, both of them checking their clothes to make sure they hadn’t sullied them.
“Is he nice?” asked Canada as England led them into the foyer, setting his teacup down on the window sill and promptly forgot it existed.
“He is a king and kings are often hard to interpret.” He picked up a smaller pair of gloves and gestured for Canada to hold up his hands.
“Do you think he’ll like us?” America asked, taking the other pair of gloves and putting them on by himself.
“That depends entirely on you. You must conduct yourselves as I have taught you. Do not speak. Most questions regarding either of you, he will be asking me. You will keep quiet unless otherwise told to speak.”
America wrinkled his nose but stopped when England’s eyes turned to him. “I mean it, America.”
“Yes, sir.”
England checked America’s gloves, gave them each a glance over—smoothing down America’s errant hair in the process and then nodded to himself. Fingers curling around the grip of his cane, he walked out.
They followed, backs straight.
Neither of them had ever seen a palace and so they watched with eager eyes, exclaiming over the buildings. But that excitement turned to nervousness as they pulled up.
England was watching them both. “America, Canada—you will follow three paces behind me at all times. You will not come forward unless you are directed by me or the king. Do you understand?”
They nodded. America’s hand slid over and Canada clasped it.
“All right. Let’s get this over with. Despite your nervousness—you will come to see that court is very dull.”
They were introduced, England seemed to find it tiresome (he had quite a long list of titles) but he didn’t show it once he headed in to see the king. Canada and America were introduced together as “His Majesty’s Thirteen Colonies of North America” and “His Majesty’s Northmost Colonies, Formerly of France” and they stepped, together into the room, a wide, expansive place that had people in it.
But….but not. Some of these people were people…but some of them felt different.
Well, people or not, they all stared at the little colonies, craning their necks to spot them. They both reached at the same moment, their hands touching and the gripped each others fingers. Silence had descended, heavy, over the hall. Canada was trembling—so many eyes were on them. He was waiting for America to move forward but America felt frozen to the spot. Guards were tall and stiff behind them, people and not-people and England and a king were before them.
The king, well, it must have been him, in the fanciest clothes of all. His eyebrows lifted and England inclined his head and outstretched his left hand, without turning to them. He snapped his fingers, which was muted on the gloves but, nonetheless, rang out in the hall.
America blinked and seemed to come to his senses, he latched onto Canada and walked forward—too quickly, nearly dragging Canada—but managed to stop a few paces behind England.
“Forgive them,” said England, his voice crisp. “They have never seen such as this.”
The king was eyeing them. “You chose well for them.”
A little smile played on England’s lips. “I thought that might be the case.”
America and Canada looked at each other. Chose well?
After that, the King did not speak to them. He spoke only to England. And England did not seem reverent, admiring or afraid—England had had many kings and very few impressed him any more.
It was in the middle of their long, arduous conversation—in which America was getting bored and trying to keep from dozing off where he stood—that the door opened. He jumped a little and he and Canada looked back.
The guards rushed forward, crossing weapons in front of a young woman. Her hair was a dark, fire red and her eyes were green. She was dressed like a man, in breeches and waistcoat but somehow, still managed to look decidedly feminine. This woman gave the guards a terrible look. “Pull your weapons back or I shall break you over my knee.”
America and Canada exchanged open-mouthed looks with each other.
The guards looked at the king, who was scowling. “Ireland, did we have an appointment?”
She brushed aside the spears in her face and strode forward. “Wasn’t under th’ impression that I needed the permission of England’s king.”
England turned now, stiff. “Then you certainly need mine.”
She blinked and feigned surprise, as if unaware that he had always been there. “Oh, look. My brother has come to beg a scrap from his king. How are you, baby brother?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I would ask the same of you, elder sister—but, as my king rules you, I already know.”
Her smirk didn’t falter at all. “My, but you dressed for the occasion. What happened? Did you manage to kill some more defenseless Indians?” She did the slightest of double-takes. “Oh, my….”
England was saying something but she was ignoring him now, turning to look at the boys. “Well, well,” she said and she brushed past England like she had the guards, as if he didn’t matter at all. “You must be the colonies I’ve heard so much about. Ha, I see he dressed you to impress his king.” She simpered, snickering. “Red, white, and blue—how quaint.” She knelt in front of them.
Canada quivered and drew behind America. America was afraid too but he held his ground for Canada, lifting his chin. Ireland lifted a finger, reaching up, touching America’s jaw. America flinched back, tensing.
“Oh, my dears, no need to fear me. Goodness, what has England done to you?”
“N-nothing,” America stammered. “I. We. We are in utmost care.” He remembered his manners. "My lady."
“Are you a woman?” Canada whispered.
Ireland grinned. “I am. True as the fairies that light my isle.”
America blinked, dropped all his defenses and said, rather loudly, “I didn’t know there were woman-nations!”
England closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ireland burst out laughing. “There are, lad. Several of us. All you’ve met is England, France and Spain, I suppose, eh? That’s a damn pity.”
“Ireland!” England snapped. “Do you have some business? Be gone if you don’t—or, just as well, if you do.”
Ireland ruffled their hair and made a show of pretending to yawn. “Actually, since it’s of no concern to you—I’m here to see Scotland. I don’t suppose you could tell me where you’ve hidden him?”
A man came forward from the little group of people watching in the room. From the diplomats and royal court, came a dark-haired man with fair, green eyes. He looked haggard, though impassive. This man stopped before the boys and said, “I am here, Ireland.”
She stood and America felt something different in her stance. Something about her eyes hardened and changed and went back again. He watched her go forward, kiss Scotland’s cheek and take his rough hands in her worn leather gloves. “Brother,” she said, “I’d ask how you are but I don’t need to.” Her smile looked faint, sad. “Come out and have a half with me.”
“As touching as this is,” and England’s voice was dripping with hardly concealed contempt, “I have not given Scotland leave to go anywhere. And I certainly don’t trust him with you. Go back to your island, Ireland.”
“Amusing,” Ireland replied. “I don’t recall asking for your permission.”
“You—“
“England.” Somehow, the name sounded odd from the king’s throat. “Leave them go, we have more important matters to attend.”
“How very true,” England sneered.
Ireland waved at him, smirking and took Scotland’s hand
It seemed hours before the day ended and England escorted them out. “Well, what did you think of court?”
“Boring,” said America, immediately. “My collar itches.”
“Do the meetings always get interrupted by other nations?” Canada asked.
“No, and they never should be. Business meetings—interrupted by hare-brained antics—tch. It’s preposterous.”
It’d be fun though, America thought, It would help people stay awake. “Your king is boring.”
He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until the last syllable left his lips and he nearly tripped.
England didn’t hit him though. He only said, “He’s your king as well.”
America wrinkled his nose. I chose England, why don’t I get to choose his king? But he didn’t feel lucky enough to try pushing that far.
“Did either of you pay attention to what happened in that meeting?” England asked, waving away the carriage driver, they would walk home. The weather was pleasant.
America mumbled something under his breath because he’d stopped paying attention and started counting the number of stones in the walls. (Five thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven before they left.)
Canada had let go of his hand. America looked back at him. “Canada?”
“It’s France.”
England did a double-take. “What?”
Canada’s lip started to quiver, eyes filling up. It had been nearly a year since he had seen him. He looked always the same, trim and eloquent, giving a nod to a pretty flower girl.
“Why’s he in London?” America asked but he received no answer. England was staring in something like disbelief. Canada was shaking. “Hey…?”
“F-France…France!” Canada’s shoulders heaved and he broke away from them, running across the busy street, dodging a horse and carriage. “France!”
“Can—Matthew! Stop!” England took off after him and America flailed and hurried to follow.
France wheezed and shuddered. “God, but winter doesn’t come this way in Europe. I’m a good Catholic—though I am lax on confession, is that so bad? I’m a nation, after all.”
He had brought his winter clothes, many of them—when his first colonies failed and he’d heard about the biting winters. They should have told him it was more like Russian winters. Then he could have tried something heavier. He hadn’t thought anything could be as brutal as a Russian winter. This was certainly a close contender.
His eyes were burning. The flying snow and ice was cutting into his face. His fingers had long ago gone numb. How long had he been walking? He’d reached the shore two weeks ago and had started inland almost right away. He had wanted to get to some of his farther colonies but if they weren’t already dead, he’d surely make them all kings. His assistants and aids and servants, he’d sent back—afraid that they would die out in the snow when it began to get heavy. He coughed again and blinked hard. His vision was blurring. He pulled up his thick wraps under his eyes.
Perhaps I, too, should go back?
And leave his colonies to fend for themselves? Well, in a way, they already were. But—oh, would England have done such a thing? He scowled. Of course not. Stupid England. At least he’d arrived in the New World before that filthy Empire could get here.
It was almost as if England had heard him because the snow suddenly collapsed beneath his legs and a pit opened up below him. France fell.
He awoke sometime later. It was dark but be damned if the moon was shining hot and orange. He flinched, feeling his lips twist bloody and raw and snowflakes settle on his lashes. He groaned faintly and blinked several times.
Oh, that wasn’t the moon at all.
There was a tiny figure with a torch.
“Ahh!” France jumped a little.
“Ahhh!” The figure answered and jerked away from the edge of the hole.
“Wait! Please!” France tried to get up but his leg shrieked in pain and he fall. He moaned. “Please, child! I am hurt! I won’t harm you!”
Wait…a child? Out in this weather?
The tiny figure peeked back over. He was heavily furred, only a big pair of blue eyes peered out at him from behind his heavy wraps and hood.
France got a strange, fluttery little feeling when he saw this child. But his leg hurt and he was cold. “Child, my leg is broken. Can you get help?”
The child blinked. Adorably, his head tilted slightly to the side, framed by snow and the glow of the torch.
That, France thought, is beautiful.
The boy called something down to him but it was in a strange tongue that France didn’t know. France tried English and the child responded again, in some variation of whatever he’d first said. It must have been the language of the local people—his officials had mentioned it but France had not yet learned it.
The child looked down at him for a long time and then said, “Français!”
France blinked. “I—y-yes, child! French! Do you know it?” Perhaps this boy had learned it from his colonists?
He vanished.
France deflated, panting now. His face felt hot but he was so, so cold. Had the snow gotten heavier? Or lighter? Everything was starting to feel light and warm and surreal. Silver and gold. At least it was not as windy down in this pit. It was such a tragically romantic death, bordering on pathetic.
England was going to laugh. Oh, how that bastard would laugh.
He wrinkled his nose, red tinting his vision.
He lay back against the dirt and snow, cursing his fate and England and his thin clothes and England and his wet hair and the snow and mostly England. He didn’t notice someone was in the pit with him until thick hands grabbed him about his waist. His eyes fluttered open in time to see the world spin and then he was face-to-well, something with a wet, furry back. The blood rushed to his head and he couldn’t think anymore.
France sighed, looking in the windows. He’d go to Bond Street, see what England was passing off as style—a way to kill time, really. In time for—
“Oof!”
A little child had thrown himself into France’s leg. He looked down. “You have to be careful, boy. Were I military man, I might have kicked you.” He reached down—
But then the child looked up, tears streaking down his face and France froze, leaning over, thumb barely brushing that blond hairline. “Canada.”
“France!” Canada wailed and he leapt up and grabbed him around the waist.
France just stood there in surprise for a moment and then he laughed and grabbed him up, tossing the boy in the air and catching him. “Canada! What are you doing in London!?”
“I’m here with America and England,” he cried, grabbing at his shoulder and burying his face in his neck. “I’ve missed you!”
When France opened his eyes again, there was a woman sitting next to him. She was looking at him quite frankly, in earnest curiosity. He started to sit up but she reached out, touched her hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him back down. She said something, softly, again in the Other Language.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, voice tinged in regret, in French. “I don’t understand.”
She looked regretful too but then she turned, grabbed something and offered him a cup. She spoke again, though, this time, in halting French, “Warm tea. It is good.”
She must have learned it from his colonists. He took it, quietly thanking her and she seemed to get the inflection if not the words. She just smiled and nodded and stood, heading over to a fire pit. The building seemed to be a house. There were skins and dried vegetables hanging from the ceiling. Many thick wraps were drying by the fire pit. The smell of woodsmoke was somehow comforting and clean.
In the corner, stood a man. A big man who was so still and silent that France did not observe him until that moment. He tensed, eyes training on him and looked at him fully. The man had a weapon close by, a spear and he seemed to loom over the room now that France had noticed him. France glanced at the woman and then back at the man. The man’s eyes narrowed and France understood.
He looked down and sipped from his cup.
All was quiet, until the woman brought him a beautifully carved wooden bowl with some kind of thick stew in it. She started to speak again and it was a mix of her own language and the broken French she knew. From the lilt of her voice, and what he got of the French, he could tell she was telling some kind of story. Something idle, he supposed, to fill the silence. Something about a shaman and a mammoth. The vowels seemed to smooth themselves around his ears as he took a bite of the stew. It was not what he was used to…but it was good in a strange, rustic sort of way.
Oh, I am alive, aren’t I? Did…
He put the bowl down and sat up again too fast, surprising the woman. She flinched and the man moved forward a step. France lifted his hands. “A child?” he said in French. “He…” He reached out, just about two feet about the floor. “Very small.”
They looked at him uncertainly.
“Little child with the torch?”
They both seemed surprised by that. The woman’s face grew stony. Had the knife been in her lap before? He eyed it. “No harm. I want to thank him.”
The man took a heavy step forward. “You—“and here were words that were in the man’s language and then,—“the child?”
France studied him. “The child,” he repeated.
A tiny yawn interrupted them. France looked over, so did the man. The woman stood slowly, edging over to a pile of furs in the corner. She was clearly comfortable with the knife in her hand.
A little blond head poked out of the furs. The tiny child stretched and blinked a set of big blue eyes.
France hadn’t seen the blond hair before. It surprised him, given how dark-haired the man and the woman were. A handsome child. He…can’t be normal. The fluttery feeling made sense now. He looked at the man. “Are you a chieftain?”
The man nodded gravely.
Of course, France thought. He smiled a little as that blond head turned. He is a tiny nation.
The child petted a white pelt next to him and stood. He blinked and made a small sound, immediately padding over to France. Those blue eyes were wide in wonderment.
France rubbed his back, nuzzling his ear. “I’ve missed you more than you can possibly imagine.”
He looked around, spotting England and smiled a little when the man reached them. “Hallo, England. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, fancy that,” England said, as if he had discovered the corpse of a putrid animal.
America bumped into a rich man, got yelled at, scurried away and then got distracted by some lads playing with a large hoop. The boys were running down the street with it, hitting it to keep it up. America ran after them a few paces and one stopped.
“Oi, you! Whacha doin’! Y’never seen it or summat?”
America shook his head. “What is it?”
The other lads had stopped. “Oi, eh,” said the boy, “lis’en a’im. He’s got a funny way o’ talk, doesn’t he?”
“Wh-what?” America walked up to them.
“Lookit tha’ fancy ge’up, e’s got? You a rich man?”
“No,” America said, absently, studying the hoop, which was bigger than himself. “I work for what I got. So you just hit it and run with it? That’s really great. Can I try?”
France combed his fingers through Canada’s hair. “Have you gotten taller, Canada?”
“Yes,” Canada blubbered.
“I don’t suppose you were just leaving?” England asked.
“No, and even if I were, I would stay. Are they staying with you here in London?”
“Yes,” England’s tone was resigned. “We were just on our way back from meeting the king.”
“Well, I shall stay with you then.” He grinned and leaned back to catch Canada’s eye. “What did you think of England’s king?”
“He’s boring,” Canada said, voice breaking through his tears and becoming a weak laugh.
“Certainly made a good impression, didn’t he?”
“Oh, shut up,” England grumbled. He turned away to continue down the street.
“Such a pretty blue, Canada. Did you pick it? No, England did? Oh, well, you match me, how appropriate. What did you think of the ride over? Did the ocean scare you?”
Canada hiccupped and France reached up to wipe his tears away. “The ocean was so big! For miles around the boat, there was just water. But, we kept busy—America and I learned how to help on the ship. We got in the rigging—and we scared England.” His laugh was almost conspiratorial.
France laughed with him. “England is so easy to startle. Just like a wild animal.” He rubbed noses with Canada. “Did you speak to the sailors?”
“They told us stories! They scared America but he didn’t want to admit it! But I knew it,” Canada said, almost proudly.
England snorted as he walked up the front steps of his home. “And who was it that you hid behind when Ireland approached you?”
Canada deflated a little. “Well, but—“
“Ireland?” said France. “I thought I saw her—coming out with Scotland but I figured my eyes were playing tricks on me.” He winked at Canada. “She’s frightening. I’d be scared of her. Why do you think England keeps having to deal with her. The moment he thinks he’s got her under control, she does something else to throw him off. Wily woman, she is.” He smirked.
Sarah was coming to greet them. “Good afternoon, Master Kirkland,” she said, taking his coat and cane. Then, “Master Bonnefoy, how good to see you again. You—“
France reached out, skimming his fingers over her jaw. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Sarah. Are you—“
England grabbed his wrist. “Hands off my staff, or I shall remove those hands of yours.”
“Oh, but then times alone would be—“
“Stop it. None of that vulgarity in my house and certainly not in front of Canada and America!”
“Master Kirkland…”
England snorted and looked at Sarah, who seemed puzzled. “What?”
“Where is the young master?”
England grumbled and snorted. “He’s right here, of course—“ He looked at the door. Which was closed. “America?”
He walked over and opened the door, looking out. “America?”
France breathed in Canada’s ear, “Looks like he escaped.”
Canada giggled.
England swore, tore off his cufflinks and gloves and threw them to the floor. “That dratted boy! I can’t take him anywhere!”
“Master Kirkland—“
“Sarah, bring my day coat! I’ll go find that little bastard and box his ears! God knows what he’s gotten up to!”
“He’s never been to London, England—calm down. He’s probably fine.”
“Oh, I forgot, you probably frequent Covent Garden—and that means you know this city quite well, does it?” England snapped, jerking his coat away from Sarah when she brought it.
“Well, I have been there time to time—“
“What’s in Covent Garden?” Canada asked.
“Well, it’s—“
“Don’t you dare, Francis! I’ll have that pathetic excuse for a beard shaved off, your skin included!” England jerked off all the finery he was wearing so that his waistcoat—knee-length and black—wouldn’t clash. He pushed the silk cravat into Sarah’s hands and whirled around, opened the door and slammed it on his way out.
Sarah looked them, apologetic. “I am sorry, Master Bonnefoy.”
“No matter, Sarah. I have known him a very long time. If you are not too troubled—might we have some tea?”
“Yes, Master Bonnefoy, of course. Would you like a bit of cake?”
“Only if you made it, my dear. Kirkland is a terrible cook.”
She was fighting a smile, France could tell. He grinned for her and she inclined her head and turned away. “Just so, sir—please make yourselves comfortable. The parlor is open.”
France sat with Canada on the couch; the boy curled up on his chest, seeming unable to make himself let go. France stroked his fingers through Canada’s hair. “Do you remember the first time I met you, Canada?”
He felt Canada smile, heard the soft fondness in his voice. “Oui…”
France knelt on the floor and smiled. “Hello, child.”
The child reached out, petting France’s blond hair. “Your hair, like mine.”
His French was accented and broken, interspersed with his native language—just like the man and the woman. France responded, smiling. “And blue eyes, like you.” France reached out, touching the boy. His skin was rougher than it appeared. France ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. “What is your name, child?”
The child paused and looked puzzled. He looked back at the man and woman and repeated the question to them in his language.
The woman beckoned to him and he smiled (so charmingly, France thought) and went to her. She lifted him up and went to the firepit. The man sat down on the edge of the bedding, next to France. “You are like him, are you not?”
“I am, I think. I represent a country far away from here.”
“We do not know the child’s name. He replaced one who was here before, a man like us with a sister in the south. He ages very, very slowly. No one here looks like him. Except for the people from the large ships. It is their language you speak.”
“Those are my colonists. They are from a crowded, busy, war-torn continent.”
“Many of them don’t make it through the winter.”
“That is how desperate they are to try.”
The man nodded grimly. “You mean him no harm?”
“I mean him no harm at all. He is an interesting child. I would like to teach him proper French. In return for any help you might give my colonists, I will help your little nation grow.”
“You told me stories of the Mi'kmaq. You weren’t even aware that you weren’t human. You were adorable.” France kissed his forehead. “You still are.”
Canada sat up. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“We live a long time, Canada. And one day, when you grow up—you’ll see me whenever you like.”
Sarah brought them cake and tea and excused herself.
“Really?” Canada said, hopping off out France’s lap to get some cake.
“Of course, when you’re your own nation, instead of being under England’s boot heel.”
Speaking of England’s boot heel, they heard the front door slam open.
“Get up to your room! There’ll be no bloody supper for you tonight, lad! I don’t—“
“But I didn’t do anything wrong! Ow!”
Canada flinched but France stood. “Come,” he said quietly. “Best go reign him in before he makes the boy glad England is all the way across the ocean.”
“You cavort about with classless lads! You have higher standing than that, America! You just went to see a king! Most of these people have never—“
“Whole lot of good that did! Bastard about put me to sleep! Good thing Ireland came in!”
France and Canada heard a loud crack. France winced. “He asked for that one.” They came round the corner to see America cringe, glaring under his eyelids at England and holding the side of his face. “Oh, now really,” France said. “Is this necessary?”
America popped up. “He’s lost his top because I asked the street boys to show me their stick-hoop game! It was really fun! And he comes along—“
“You’ve ruined your good clothes! Do you know how long it took to make those!”
“Not like you made ‘em!” America shot back. “What poor seamstress woman did you pay a pence to do the whole bit for you!” England flinched away from that remark for some reason. “My people are all working class! The only lazy, upper class we have are men you installed--!”
“America!”
England jerked his chin to look at France, surprised.
America scowled and looked down. “Well—it’s true!”
“It’s not,” said France and he let go of Canada to kneel in front of America. “And you know it. Now apologize.”
America made a short, disbelieving sound. “But France--! I didn’t do anything wrong! I--”
France raised a finger, laying it over America’s lips. “You were not wrong to play with the boys. But you should know better than to run off in a city you’ve never been to with boys you don’t know. And England worries about you. He’s just terrible at showing it. Apologize, for worrying him and twisting the truth.”
America bit his lip, sulky and he huffed, “Sorry…”
France put a hand under his chin and lifted, raising America’s eyes to his. “You can do better. Stop this sulking. You’re nearly a man. Real men don’t sulk. At least not where the whole world can see them.”
America shifted and squirmed and then looked up at England, who was still staring at France as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I. Er. I’m sorry for running off without…without telling you.”
“And,” France prompted.
“And for twisting the truth to hurt your feelings.”
France stilled for a moment. He knows England better than he realizes.
England shifted and frowned and looked everywhere but at America. “Of course. Yes. You. Are forgiven.”
“Now, England, you should apologize for insulting your own citizens. Those boys are yours and they taught America a game.”
England sputtered. “What! Who are you to—“
But France was raising that finger again, stepping into England’s space, shushing him silently. “Go on.”
England sputtered and huffed and—God, he’s barely more of an adult than America sometimes—finally looked down at America. “Apologies.”
“Oh, Bless the Virgin, do I have to walk you both through by hand?”
“Shut up!” He looked at America. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. But not for hitting you. Insulting the king like that is a bit far, even for you.”
America nodded, a little awkwardly.
“There, see, all better. Good thing I came back with you after all.”
England threw him a dark look. If we hadn’t run into you, this wouldn’t have happened, frog. Instead, he said, “Come, America, I’ll put something cool on your face. Perhaps I should not have hit you quite so hard.”
America hesitated, coming away from the wall, cringing slightly.
“Now—ah—come America, I am sorry.”
America nodded a little and followed him to the kitchen.
France sighed and looked down at Canada. “All’s well that ends well. Let’s have some more of that cake?”
Canada nodded.
After a light supper and an hour of daylight left, all was quiet within the house. They moved to sitting room, where England sat by the light and read to them until America fell asleep on England’s lap (the red mark of England’s handprint having faded away, for the most part) and Canada was dozing off.
France cradled Canada and murmured. “He looks very good in blue.”
“He does,” England agreed, petting America’s hair.
“You made their clothes, didn’t you?”
England shot him a look, daring him.
But France didn’t mock him; he just smiled. “You are so strangely domestic at times. Makes me want to kiss you.”
England stiffened and then scowled. “Stop it.”
France smirked, shifting to lay Canada on the cushions and he leaned over, nosing at England’s throat.
England’s throat tightened. “Stop,” he said, tersely. “They’re right here.”
“Guess you ought to be quiet then, shouldn’t you?”
“France—“
He kissed England’s ear, all those little places, tongue flicking out. He could feel England tensing as he moved a hand to England’s thigh, right beside America’s head. “Shhh,” he whispered, “don’t move, or you’ll wake him.”
“France,” England murmured through gritted teeth. “Stop…”
France worked his way down England’s throat, shifting, kissing under his jaw. England was starting to tremble. He moved his hand up England’s trousers, up to the fro—
England’s hand flashed out, grabbing his wrist and he finally turned his head to look at France. “Stop it—“
France grinned and kissed him.
When America awoke the next morning, he found himself curled up around Canada. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The sun was up and…he looked down.
“Not in my shift.” America plucked at his day clothes from yesterday. Not the white suit—which he’d taken off to be cleaned—just breeches and a little button-up. “Well,” he shifted. “Can’t be expected to wake up in my shift when I fall asleep. I wonder why England didn’t wake me up to change…” He reached over, tugging the covers off of Canada. “He’s still in his day clothes too.”
He sighed, groaning faintly. That meant they’d have to iron them. What a pain. He shook Canada. “C’mon,” he murmured. “let’s change before England comes up and sees us still in yesterday’s clothes.”
Canada did a double-take at his own shirt. “Well, that’s strange. England didn’t wake us?”
America shrugged.
They rolled out from under the covers and changed clothes, made up the bed and washed their faces but when they went downstairs, the kitchen was empty. Only a note was on the counter, from Sarah, informing them that breakfast was in the cellar to keep cool (fresh fruit and milk with bread and butter) and that she was heading out to the market.
“Did England and France go somewhere?” Canada wondered aloud as he went into the cellar (America refused, convinced it was haunted) and came back with the fruit and milk and bread and butter (and a jar of honey). “Maybe we should check the stable house?”
“Why don’t we just check his room first?” America said, putting honey on his bread with some apple slices and biting into the whole mess. “Isn’t it great coming here? We don’t have to make our own breakfasts. People do everything for you in England. Well, if you’re important enough.”
“Yeah,” Canada said absently, sipping his milk. “I hope France didn’t leave already…”
“Nah, let’s go check the rooms.”
So after they finished their fruit and milk and bread with honey, the boys padded back upstairs and checked England’s room; only to find it empty. They looked at each other, clasping hands as they went to the next room and the next and the next—
Finally, they opened a door and peeped inside. There were clothes on the floor.
“Hey! Yeah! There!” America shoved the door open.
“Is he still asleep?” asked Canada, disbelieving.
There was a soft sound from the bed and the boys crept up to the foot and then peered over. Well, there they were! Together—they had just spent the night in the same room. Both of them were relieved.
America laughed and ran over to the side of the bed, climbing up on the edge. “Hey! Hey! Lazybones! Get up! It’s nearly eleven in the morning!”
England jumped and his movement startled France, who tensed, eyes popping open. They both froze. England went pale. France smiled. “America—sorry, what time did you say it was?”
“Nearly eleven.” America peered at them. “Where are your night clothes? Are you suppose to sleep starkers?”
“What?” asked Canada. “Really?” He climbed onto the bed with America. “Did you drink last night?”
England, for some reason, seemed rooted to the spot. He just stared at them like they had caught him doing something terrible. It was weird.
France seemed just fine though. “I have to admit, we did a bit. And then we were both so exhausted that we just chose a room and went to sleep—but we didn’t want to wrinkle our clothes by sleeping in them, so we just took them off.”
Something was weird about that but America couldn’t quite pin down what. So he shrugged. “Okay! We already had breakfast and Sarah went to the market. What are we going to do today?”
“I think we’re just going to relax for a time today. It is already so late after all,” France told them, opening his arms. Canada and America crawled to him eagerly and laughed when France set about tickling them.
England seemed to relax a bit, though he kept the blanket over his lap. He even smiled a little.
France chuckled and glanced at him, making eye connect and he said to the boys, “Look at poor England over there. So lonely. Go tickle him. Get his ears—it’s his ears that do him in!”
America whooped and tackled England, holding him down while Canada grabbed for his ears, making England twitch and yelp.
France chuckled, leaning back against the headboard and just smiled.
Really, he thought, if only good things lasted.
--
1. The Battle of Lake George in September of 1755.
2. King George III, ruler of Great Britain (plus Scotland) and Ireland.
3. Attack of the Mammoth, just in case you were interested in her story.
4. Covent Garden; an entertainment district of London--that once had a famous red-light sector.
Also, thank you tokaiamara for informing me of my silly errors. *flails*
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): implied England/France, Canada and America (pre-revolution), and a mention of Scotland and Ireland
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, war and some suggestive dialog/situations
Summary: Just a fun piece--with darker undertones--but fun, about the French and Indian War and France discovering Canada and all four of them in London--and George III is boring.
Note: I needed a prompt because I was stuck on another bit I'm working on.
twistedsheets10 gave me: Canada, America, England and France, happy family times. So, not all of it's happy but it's them. post here. Editing done on 07/16/09
France had given Canada up for sugar and that was something he had never really forgiven himself for. Not necessarily because of the people, or even the land—both now belonging to England—but because of the child. Canada was a sweet little thing and he couldn’t bear to tell the boy that he had been given a choice. Easier to let the boy think England was taking him away, rather than know he was being abandoned.
No, not abandoned. He couldn’t bear to think that, himself. He was leaving Canada in England’s capable hands. So long as France had a place in the New World, there would only be war on that continent. Canada would be subjected to the same terrible bloodshed he had seen since childhood. So what should he do? Hold out and wait for the next war to begin? Or give the boy up to his enemy and let there be peace in the New World—even for a little while?
Canada had not understood why they were fighting. France had just come back one day—but without little gifts, except for the ships and gun powder. And the canons and screaming and dying.
France had done the only logical thing and imprisoned the child in the cellar during the fighting. God, what else could he have done? Even England understood that—he had taken America to camp with him but had him under guard at all times. In retrospect, that was a curious thing to do. Lock up the children while the fathers go out and try to kill each other? So then what? If they died, the children could come out and begin again?
France peered into the looking-glass, somehow unable to picture Canada and America fighting. America had England’s backbone and determination but none of his focus; Canada had all of France’s culture and good looks and calm but not really fighting spirit. He sighed at the mirror. He loved little Canada regardless.
Yes, even if that was….unbecoming. How jealous Guadeloupe and his sister, Martinique would be.
That made him pause, look up at the ceiling. Oh, the Caribbean. Oh, more specifically, those twins and the things they could do with their—
Well. Anyway.
“Oh, let me come! Please! I want to see!” America was hurrying after him, pulling on England’s arm, biting his lip, begging.
The sun hadn’t even risen yet—he’d meant to leave his tent while the boy was asleep so to not have this conversation again. “No! Absolutely not! You will stay in the camp and don’t argue with me!”
“B-but, my people are forming a militia for you! I have to be there!”
England jerked to a stop and grabbed him by the collar. “You don’t understand what I’m about to go out and do. I have kept you far away from the battles—if you die, what then? What shall I do?”
America stopped, peering up him, blue eyes wide.
England sighed and knelt. “America, you must do this thing for me. Stay here and protect the camp with Johnson.”
America trembled under his hands. “But—“
“No,” said England, softly, raising his fingers and running them into America’s hair. “None of that, my boy.”
America bit his lip. “I—“
England raised his eyebrows.
America looked down. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll have tea when I return.” He gently touched his mouth to America’s forehead and then stood, turning away.
America sniffled and swallowed and yelled at his retreating back. “You just have to beat up France, right?!” His voice rose, squeaking, trembling. “You can do it! Don’t get hurt!”
England didn’t look back but he felt his spirits lift.
And then plummet on the morning of the eighth, when Williams’ regiment was ambushed.
America crept out anyway. He stole away after England left, following Williams’ regiment. He just wanted to see. He’d heard so much about what was going on—what the men were doing—he wanted to see them fire the muskets. In the manner of little boys, he ran around the soldiers in the camp, and they enjoyed playing with him (even if they seemed to have no real idea of who or what he was, many just assumed he was the son or relative of Lord Kirkland) but when England came around—they stopped. They wouldn’t tell him what exactly it meant to kill another man. They just talked about muskets and knives. America wondered what a stab felt like. Maybe a tingling? Or a hard scratch? He’d been scratched before, by briars and sticks and such. It was probably the same.
So he crept along. He had no musket, those went to the soldiers and so he’d taken a small axe from the wood pile—because, of course, he’d need a weapon to watch the fighting! So he could see how it all worked. He knew about using axes. The Indians had showed him.
(Indians were interesting to America. They seemed to know him, somehow.)
He dodged through the trees, face darkened with dirt—though the morning’s mist was making it slippery. He could see England from here. So tall and strong and proud, was England. He wanted to be just like him! England was different around the troops and they were definitely different around him. They respected him. They probably wanted to be just like him too. How lucky America was to have such a highly regarded keeper. It made his heart soar just thinking about it. One day, he would go to battle at England’s right hand! He just knew it!
America’s fingers tightened on his axe and he smiled. He’d grow up and when he was big, he wouldn’t let anyone beat him up, ever! He’d—!
Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!
America jumped without meaning to and dropped his axe. With a stifled cry, he grabbed it up and stood and—
—and froze.
The French were suddenly there, pouring out from the sides of the road, in the ravine, blasting muskets. America heard a trembling gasp—that was his own—and he staggered back, watching.
Men were falling, screaming—there was blood in the dirt and England was whirling around, roaring orders—but America couldn’t understand them. Couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. He was frozen, as if he’d been covered by a blanket—a thick, suffocating—why was it so hard to breath?
I am afraid.
A ragged whimper escaped—soldiers he’d passed only that morning—a leg blew apart, spraying the brush. America was panting, his legs felt weak and his stomach heaved and then he looked at his hands—
A short scream cracked the muffled cotton in his ears. There was blood on his arms! His legs worked backwards, as if trying to get away from his own limbs and he wiped them on his clothes. He was hardly aware that he was crying.
And then something jerked his head back.
Williams fell to the ambushing Canadians and Indians and then the French came and—England was whirling, fighting—the militia was on the verge of panic—a retreat—it all was happening so fast. England yanked a musket from the grip of a dying man and he and about a hundred others covered their withdraw.
And it was during the wild-eyed battle heat that he was saw him. And for just a flash, he froze; his heart skipped a beat.
America was out in the forest, he could see the damn boy from here; blond-haired and little shirt and ribbon that he’d only just brought him from London. And he was covered in blood and struggling with a French regular. And then there was—
Crack!
England was rocked back to his senses by the butt of a rifle.
“I’m insulted, you know! Looking elsewhere when I’ve appeared in front of you!”
England’s mind emptied—focus, clarity—he had only one goal now. He looked at France, green eyes meeting his blue ones for just a moment and then England was throwing the musket down and taking off into the trees.
France just stood there for a second, blinking and then he laughed. “Oh.” He looked in the direction that England had fled. “Well.”
America bit and screamed, punching and clawing at the man who held him by the hair.
The man yelled at him in French, jerking his head aside, dragging him. Sticks and dirt and leaves dug shallow trenches as America dug his shoes into the forest floor. His fingers were slippery with blood (wherever it had come from) and the pain was like a—like—something blinding. Something—
A flash of red. Yes, yes, like that.
And suddenly there was no pressure on his hair and there was a glint of silver and the man was flying apart. Arms went one way, head went the other.
America just stood there, the man’s blood all over his clothes. He made little sounds, raspy, high—England appeared in front of his eyes and a moan escaped him. England looked angry, he opened his mouth to say something but America didn’t listen. He threw himself into England’s arms, wailing.
Whatever England was going to say, he didn’t. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him and carried the boy back to camp.
America jumped awake. His shift was sticking to him in sticky patches. He touched his chest, swallowing. A dream. Just a dream. But not--had that only been eight years ago?
Beside him, Canada was curled up; soft snores kept making his curls wiggle around, like soft, golden little snakes. Nice snakes, America mentally added. Not the ones that bit you.
America smiled and leaned into his ear, breathing, “Hey, Canada, you have snakes in your hair.”
Canada’s little tongue poked out, wetting the corner of his mouth and America felt a half-hearted kick against his knee. “Stop it, America. I do not.” His eyes opened and his nose wrinkled. “Why are you all sweaty?”
“What’d’you care!”
Canada sat up. “I’m not sweaty. Did you have a nightmare?”
“No!” America snapped. “Of course not.”
“Liar.”
“I have good dreams, always.”
“You don’t either,” said Canada and then he did a double-take. “Hey—we’re not on the boat!”
America paused. “What?”
The last couple months had been spent on a merchant vessel. England had gone all the way across the sea to fetch the both of them so they could spend some time in Europe. America jumped onto the mattress with a gasp. He’d been so used to the rocking of the ship, he hadn’t noticed.
Canada tumbled off the bed. “The window!”
America took a running jump off the bed, tackling him and they had a short fight over who would get to the window first. They scrambled and eventually reached it together. Canada pressed his nose against the glass. “There’s the ship!” He said, pointing down to the harbor, where the Glass Kipper was bobbing. He and America had played on the decks of that ship for many a night, listening to stories from the sailors about great sea monsters and ghost ships (which had scared America, Canada knew, as much as his brother tried to hide it). During the day, England made them work—learning about the great vessel and they’d become very comfortable on it, climbing into the rigging.
They’d given England quite a scare more than once—more recently when America had tied a rope to himself and leapt off, stopping a harmless six feet above the deck but England had been to him in a flash, whacking him over the head refusing him dinner that night. But now! But now! They were off that ship—England must have carried them inside in the night—now they were in Europe!
They had heard so much about Europe!
America whirled around. “England!” He took off.
Canada flailed and ran after him. “England! England!”
England was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as if he had long since expected them. He had a contented smile on his face that broke into a grin when America leapt into his arms and then Canada bowled them all over.
England shouted, America screamed with laughter and Canada was saying, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” like a mantra.
A maid hurried to them. “Master Kirkland, sir, are you all right?”
He waved her off. “I’m fine.” He was laughing softly when he sat up, scooping a boy into each elbow. He said, “Now, something you must know—when we are around regular people—you must use human names.”
“What?” said America, looking at Canada. “Why?”
“Because not everyone knows about us. What we are.” He looked up. “Sarah does—but she is my maid. My staff and important officials and the king, of course—but every day people don’t necessarily know who and what we are and the concept would confuse them. So. America, your name right now, is Alfred.”
“Alfred,” America repeated, trying it out on his tongue.
“And Canada, you may keep the name France gave you—Matthieu—but I’m changing the spelling to ‘ew’ after the ‘h’, instead of ‘ieu’.”
“Ew,” said America, smirking at him. “You’re gross, Matthew.”
“Shut up,” Canada scowled, kicking him.
“Ow!”
“Do we have to call you ‘Arthur’?” asked Canada, pointedly ignoring America’s sulky look.
England paused. He looked up at Sarah. “That would look strange, wouldn’t it?” he said, in a resigned sort of tone.
She nodded. “It would, sir. They more resemble your sons. Perhaps they might call you ‘uncle’ if it bother you, Master Kirkland?”
“Or they might simply call me Kirkland.”
“Why can’t we call you ‘papa’?” America pushed against his chest.
England went strangely quiet for a moment, seeming uncertain. Then he shrugged. “Do what you like.” But the smile was gone and that distance America so hated had suddenly returned.
They just watched as England got up, gave them that strange, awkward smile that he got sometimes and turned away. “Breakfast is ready. Come into the nook when you’re dressed.”
Both of them sat there for a moment and then they looked at each other.
“I hate it when he does that,” America murmured.
“…me too,” Canada mumbled.
“Come now, boys,” said Sarah, pasting on a smile. “Let’s get you dressed, all right? Master Kirkland has a lot planned for you boys today. You’ll be heading right out into London.”
They stood and she took their hands.
England had clothes prepared for them and Sarah helped them put them on. Smart little waistcoats; Canada’s was a deep, royal blue with gold trim and America’s was white, with black trim.
“Have you ever seen a waistcoat in white?” America said, admiring it in the looking glass. “We can’t get them this white back home!”
“You look like a bull fighter!” Canada squeaked, falling back onto the bed in laughter.
America whipped around. “I do not! They wear flashy colors!”
“How do you know?”
“Spain told me!”
Canada sat up. “You’ve been talking to Spain?”
America belatedly realized his mistake. “You better not tell! Else I’ll make you regret it, Canada!”
Sarah was just watching them, seeming somewhere between lost and overwhelmed. How lucky was she, to meet the little colonies before most any other? “Boys, Master Kirkland is waiting on you.”
“Oh, right! Breakfast! I’m starving!” America whirled away to fold up a handkerchief (badly) and Canada jumped off the bed to pull his stockings on (sloppily). Sarah stood them next to each other when they had their shoes buckled on and she straightened and primped and combed their hair. She fussed over America’s wild little strand that never seemed to stay down and Canada’s long, rebellious curl—until America started to fidget and poked Canada in the ribs.
“Quit it!” Canada balled up his fist and jabbed him.
“Now, stop that this instant!” Sarah told them, quite severely. They’re just like normal brothers. “Downstairs now. Don’t run—“
But America had already whirled around and taken off and Canada was quick to follow.
England had already finished his breakfast and returned while they were making a mess with the jam and kicking each other under the table. America was facing the door, while Canada’s back was to it and so America stopped first when England entered again. Canada, seeing his brother’s astonished face, turned as well and then climbed up on his knees on the seat of the chair. “Wow, England!”
He was grandly dressed in red. It was very military in style, unlike America’s and Canada’s, which were formal but clearly civilian. It was clean, almost severe--bare of trim, depending entirely on England's presence to make it impressive. England was just pulling on a pair of white gloves.
“Does everyone dress like that in London?” asked America, looking down at his white fabric.
“Sometimes,” said England. “Sarah,” he added, only slightly raising his voice, “tea before I leave.” While she prepared it for him, he went on, “Today, we are going to see the king.”
Their mouths fell open in identical little Os of surprise.
“He is looking forward to meeting the two of you. So, best behavior today.” His tone was stern on the last sentence and he relaxed a little at the little nods they gave him. He absently took the teacup Sarah gave him but didn't sip any.
“S-so we should say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, right?” asked America, quietly.
“Yes. Now—up. Give Sarah room to clean up. The carriage is being prepared—I’ve gloves for both of you.”
Canada and America looked at each other and then slid off their chairs, both of them checking their clothes to make sure they hadn’t sullied them.
“Is he nice?” asked Canada as England led them into the foyer, setting his teacup down on the window sill and promptly forgot it existed.
“He is a king and kings are often hard to interpret.” He picked up a smaller pair of gloves and gestured for Canada to hold up his hands.
“Do you think he’ll like us?” America asked, taking the other pair of gloves and putting them on by himself.
“That depends entirely on you. You must conduct yourselves as I have taught you. Do not speak. Most questions regarding either of you, he will be asking me. You will keep quiet unless otherwise told to speak.”
America wrinkled his nose but stopped when England’s eyes turned to him. “I mean it, America.”
“Yes, sir.”
England checked America’s gloves, gave them each a glance over—smoothing down America’s errant hair in the process and then nodded to himself. Fingers curling around the grip of his cane, he walked out.
They followed, backs straight.
Neither of them had ever seen a palace and so they watched with eager eyes, exclaiming over the buildings. But that excitement turned to nervousness as they pulled up.
England was watching them both. “America, Canada—you will follow three paces behind me at all times. You will not come forward unless you are directed by me or the king. Do you understand?”
They nodded. America’s hand slid over and Canada clasped it.
“All right. Let’s get this over with. Despite your nervousness—you will come to see that court is very dull.”
They were introduced, England seemed to find it tiresome (he had quite a long list of titles) but he didn’t show it once he headed in to see the king. Canada and America were introduced together as “His Majesty’s Thirteen Colonies of North America” and “His Majesty’s Northmost Colonies, Formerly of France” and they stepped, together into the room, a wide, expansive place that had people in it.
But….but not. Some of these people were people…but some of them felt different.
Well, people or not, they all stared at the little colonies, craning their necks to spot them. They both reached at the same moment, their hands touching and the gripped each others fingers. Silence had descended, heavy, over the hall. Canada was trembling—so many eyes were on them. He was waiting for America to move forward but America felt frozen to the spot. Guards were tall and stiff behind them, people and not-people and England and a king were before them.
The king, well, it must have been him, in the fanciest clothes of all. His eyebrows lifted and England inclined his head and outstretched his left hand, without turning to them. He snapped his fingers, which was muted on the gloves but, nonetheless, rang out in the hall.
America blinked and seemed to come to his senses, he latched onto Canada and walked forward—too quickly, nearly dragging Canada—but managed to stop a few paces behind England.
“Forgive them,” said England, his voice crisp. “They have never seen such as this.”
The king was eyeing them. “You chose well for them.”
A little smile played on England’s lips. “I thought that might be the case.”
America and Canada looked at each other. Chose well?
After that, the King did not speak to them. He spoke only to England. And England did not seem reverent, admiring or afraid—England had had many kings and very few impressed him any more.
It was in the middle of their long, arduous conversation—in which America was getting bored and trying to keep from dozing off where he stood—that the door opened. He jumped a little and he and Canada looked back.
The guards rushed forward, crossing weapons in front of a young woman. Her hair was a dark, fire red and her eyes were green. She was dressed like a man, in breeches and waistcoat but somehow, still managed to look decidedly feminine. This woman gave the guards a terrible look. “Pull your weapons back or I shall break you over my knee.”
America and Canada exchanged open-mouthed looks with each other.
The guards looked at the king, who was scowling. “Ireland, did we have an appointment?”
She brushed aside the spears in her face and strode forward. “Wasn’t under th’ impression that I needed the permission of England’s king.”
England turned now, stiff. “Then you certainly need mine.”
She blinked and feigned surprise, as if unaware that he had always been there. “Oh, look. My brother has come to beg a scrap from his king. How are you, baby brother?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I would ask the same of you, elder sister—but, as my king rules you, I already know.”
Her smirk didn’t falter at all. “My, but you dressed for the occasion. What happened? Did you manage to kill some more defenseless Indians?” She did the slightest of double-takes. “Oh, my….”
England was saying something but she was ignoring him now, turning to look at the boys. “Well, well,” she said and she brushed past England like she had the guards, as if he didn’t matter at all. “You must be the colonies I’ve heard so much about. Ha, I see he dressed you to impress his king.” She simpered, snickering. “Red, white, and blue—how quaint.” She knelt in front of them.
Canada quivered and drew behind America. America was afraid too but he held his ground for Canada, lifting his chin. Ireland lifted a finger, reaching up, touching America’s jaw. America flinched back, tensing.
“Oh, my dears, no need to fear me. Goodness, what has England done to you?”
“N-nothing,” America stammered. “I. We. We are in utmost care.” He remembered his manners. "My lady."
“Are you a woman?” Canada whispered.
Ireland grinned. “I am. True as the fairies that light my isle.”
America blinked, dropped all his defenses and said, rather loudly, “I didn’t know there were woman-nations!”
England closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ireland burst out laughing. “There are, lad. Several of us. All you’ve met is England, France and Spain, I suppose, eh? That’s a damn pity.”
“Ireland!” England snapped. “Do you have some business? Be gone if you don’t—or, just as well, if you do.”
Ireland ruffled their hair and made a show of pretending to yawn. “Actually, since it’s of no concern to you—I’m here to see Scotland. I don’t suppose you could tell me where you’ve hidden him?”
A man came forward from the little group of people watching in the room. From the diplomats and royal court, came a dark-haired man with fair, green eyes. He looked haggard, though impassive. This man stopped before the boys and said, “I am here, Ireland.”
She stood and America felt something different in her stance. Something about her eyes hardened and changed and went back again. He watched her go forward, kiss Scotland’s cheek and take his rough hands in her worn leather gloves. “Brother,” she said, “I’d ask how you are but I don’t need to.” Her smile looked faint, sad. “Come out and have a half with me.”
“As touching as this is,” and England’s voice was dripping with hardly concealed contempt, “I have not given Scotland leave to go anywhere. And I certainly don’t trust him with you. Go back to your island, Ireland.”
“Amusing,” Ireland replied. “I don’t recall asking for your permission.”
“You—“
“England.” Somehow, the name sounded odd from the king’s throat. “Leave them go, we have more important matters to attend.”
“How very true,” England sneered.
Ireland waved at him, smirking and took Scotland’s hand
It seemed hours before the day ended and England escorted them out. “Well, what did you think of court?”
“Boring,” said America, immediately. “My collar itches.”
“Do the meetings always get interrupted by other nations?” Canada asked.
“No, and they never should be. Business meetings—interrupted by hare-brained antics—tch. It’s preposterous.”
It’d be fun though, America thought, It would help people stay awake. “Your king is boring.”
He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until the last syllable left his lips and he nearly tripped.
England didn’t hit him though. He only said, “He’s your king as well.”
America wrinkled his nose. I chose England, why don’t I get to choose his king? But he didn’t feel lucky enough to try pushing that far.
“Did either of you pay attention to what happened in that meeting?” England asked, waving away the carriage driver, they would walk home. The weather was pleasant.
America mumbled something under his breath because he’d stopped paying attention and started counting the number of stones in the walls. (Five thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven before they left.)
Canada had let go of his hand. America looked back at him. “Canada?”
“It’s France.”
England did a double-take. “What?”
Canada’s lip started to quiver, eyes filling up. It had been nearly a year since he had seen him. He looked always the same, trim and eloquent, giving a nod to a pretty flower girl.
“Why’s he in London?” America asked but he received no answer. England was staring in something like disbelief. Canada was shaking. “Hey…?”
“F-France…France!” Canada’s shoulders heaved and he broke away from them, running across the busy street, dodging a horse and carriage. “France!”
“Can—Matthew! Stop!” England took off after him and America flailed and hurried to follow.
France wheezed and shuddered. “God, but winter doesn’t come this way in Europe. I’m a good Catholic—though I am lax on confession, is that so bad? I’m a nation, after all.”
He had brought his winter clothes, many of them—when his first colonies failed and he’d heard about the biting winters. They should have told him it was more like Russian winters. Then he could have tried something heavier. He hadn’t thought anything could be as brutal as a Russian winter. This was certainly a close contender.
His eyes were burning. The flying snow and ice was cutting into his face. His fingers had long ago gone numb. How long had he been walking? He’d reached the shore two weeks ago and had started inland almost right away. He had wanted to get to some of his farther colonies but if they weren’t already dead, he’d surely make them all kings. His assistants and aids and servants, he’d sent back—afraid that they would die out in the snow when it began to get heavy. He coughed again and blinked hard. His vision was blurring. He pulled up his thick wraps under his eyes.
Perhaps I, too, should go back?
And leave his colonies to fend for themselves? Well, in a way, they already were. But—oh, would England have done such a thing? He scowled. Of course not. Stupid England. At least he’d arrived in the New World before that filthy Empire could get here.
It was almost as if England had heard him because the snow suddenly collapsed beneath his legs and a pit opened up below him. France fell.
He awoke sometime later. It was dark but be damned if the moon was shining hot and orange. He flinched, feeling his lips twist bloody and raw and snowflakes settle on his lashes. He groaned faintly and blinked several times.
Oh, that wasn’t the moon at all.
There was a tiny figure with a torch.
“Ahh!” France jumped a little.
“Ahhh!” The figure answered and jerked away from the edge of the hole.
“Wait! Please!” France tried to get up but his leg shrieked in pain and he fall. He moaned. “Please, child! I am hurt! I won’t harm you!”
Wait…a child? Out in this weather?
The tiny figure peeked back over. He was heavily furred, only a big pair of blue eyes peered out at him from behind his heavy wraps and hood.
France got a strange, fluttery little feeling when he saw this child. But his leg hurt and he was cold. “Child, my leg is broken. Can you get help?”
The child blinked. Adorably, his head tilted slightly to the side, framed by snow and the glow of the torch.
That, France thought, is beautiful.
The boy called something down to him but it was in a strange tongue that France didn’t know. France tried English and the child responded again, in some variation of whatever he’d first said. It must have been the language of the local people—his officials had mentioned it but France had not yet learned it.
The child looked down at him for a long time and then said, “Français!”
France blinked. “I—y-yes, child! French! Do you know it?” Perhaps this boy had learned it from his colonists?
He vanished.
France deflated, panting now. His face felt hot but he was so, so cold. Had the snow gotten heavier? Or lighter? Everything was starting to feel light and warm and surreal. Silver and gold. At least it was not as windy down in this pit. It was such a tragically romantic death, bordering on pathetic.
England was going to laugh. Oh, how that bastard would laugh.
He wrinkled his nose, red tinting his vision.
He lay back against the dirt and snow, cursing his fate and England and his thin clothes and England and his wet hair and the snow and mostly England. He didn’t notice someone was in the pit with him until thick hands grabbed him about his waist. His eyes fluttered open in time to see the world spin and then he was face-to-well, something with a wet, furry back. The blood rushed to his head and he couldn’t think anymore.
France sighed, looking in the windows. He’d go to Bond Street, see what England was passing off as style—a way to kill time, really. In time for—
“Oof!”
A little child had thrown himself into France’s leg. He looked down. “You have to be careful, boy. Were I military man, I might have kicked you.” He reached down—
But then the child looked up, tears streaking down his face and France froze, leaning over, thumb barely brushing that blond hairline. “Canada.”
“France!” Canada wailed and he leapt up and grabbed him around the waist.
France just stood there in surprise for a moment and then he laughed and grabbed him up, tossing the boy in the air and catching him. “Canada! What are you doing in London!?”
“I’m here with America and England,” he cried, grabbing at his shoulder and burying his face in his neck. “I’ve missed you!”
When France opened his eyes again, there was a woman sitting next to him. She was looking at him quite frankly, in earnest curiosity. He started to sit up but she reached out, touched her hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him back down. She said something, softly, again in the Other Language.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, voice tinged in regret, in French. “I don’t understand.”
She looked regretful too but then she turned, grabbed something and offered him a cup. She spoke again, though, this time, in halting French, “Warm tea. It is good.”
She must have learned it from his colonists. He took it, quietly thanking her and she seemed to get the inflection if not the words. She just smiled and nodded and stood, heading over to a fire pit. The building seemed to be a house. There were skins and dried vegetables hanging from the ceiling. Many thick wraps were drying by the fire pit. The smell of woodsmoke was somehow comforting and clean.
In the corner, stood a man. A big man who was so still and silent that France did not observe him until that moment. He tensed, eyes training on him and looked at him fully. The man had a weapon close by, a spear and he seemed to loom over the room now that France had noticed him. France glanced at the woman and then back at the man. The man’s eyes narrowed and France understood.
He looked down and sipped from his cup.
All was quiet, until the woman brought him a beautifully carved wooden bowl with some kind of thick stew in it. She started to speak again and it was a mix of her own language and the broken French she knew. From the lilt of her voice, and what he got of the French, he could tell she was telling some kind of story. Something idle, he supposed, to fill the silence. Something about a shaman and a mammoth. The vowels seemed to smooth themselves around his ears as he took a bite of the stew. It was not what he was used to…but it was good in a strange, rustic sort of way.
Oh, I am alive, aren’t I? Did…
He put the bowl down and sat up again too fast, surprising the woman. She flinched and the man moved forward a step. France lifted his hands. “A child?” he said in French. “He…” He reached out, just about two feet about the floor. “Very small.”
They looked at him uncertainly.
“Little child with the torch?”
They both seemed surprised by that. The woman’s face grew stony. Had the knife been in her lap before? He eyed it. “No harm. I want to thank him.”
The man took a heavy step forward. “You—“and here were words that were in the man’s language and then,—“the child?”
France studied him. “The child,” he repeated.
A tiny yawn interrupted them. France looked over, so did the man. The woman stood slowly, edging over to a pile of furs in the corner. She was clearly comfortable with the knife in her hand.
A little blond head poked out of the furs. The tiny child stretched and blinked a set of big blue eyes.
France hadn’t seen the blond hair before. It surprised him, given how dark-haired the man and the woman were. A handsome child. He…can’t be normal. The fluttery feeling made sense now. He looked at the man. “Are you a chieftain?”
The man nodded gravely.
Of course, France thought. He smiled a little as that blond head turned. He is a tiny nation.
The child petted a white pelt next to him and stood. He blinked and made a small sound, immediately padding over to France. Those blue eyes were wide in wonderment.
France rubbed his back, nuzzling his ear. “I’ve missed you more than you can possibly imagine.”
He looked around, spotting England and smiled a little when the man reached them. “Hallo, England. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, fancy that,” England said, as if he had discovered the corpse of a putrid animal.
America bumped into a rich man, got yelled at, scurried away and then got distracted by some lads playing with a large hoop. The boys were running down the street with it, hitting it to keep it up. America ran after them a few paces and one stopped.
“Oi, you! Whacha doin’! Y’never seen it or summat?”
America shook his head. “What is it?”
The other lads had stopped. “Oi, eh,” said the boy, “lis’en a’im. He’s got a funny way o’ talk, doesn’t he?”
“Wh-what?” America walked up to them.
“Lookit tha’ fancy ge’up, e’s got? You a rich man?”
“No,” America said, absently, studying the hoop, which was bigger than himself. “I work for what I got. So you just hit it and run with it? That’s really great. Can I try?”
France combed his fingers through Canada’s hair. “Have you gotten taller, Canada?”
“Yes,” Canada blubbered.
“I don’t suppose you were just leaving?” England asked.
“No, and even if I were, I would stay. Are they staying with you here in London?”
“Yes,” England’s tone was resigned. “We were just on our way back from meeting the king.”
“Well, I shall stay with you then.” He grinned and leaned back to catch Canada’s eye. “What did you think of England’s king?”
“He’s boring,” Canada said, voice breaking through his tears and becoming a weak laugh.
“Certainly made a good impression, didn’t he?”
“Oh, shut up,” England grumbled. He turned away to continue down the street.
“Such a pretty blue, Canada. Did you pick it? No, England did? Oh, well, you match me, how appropriate. What did you think of the ride over? Did the ocean scare you?”
Canada hiccupped and France reached up to wipe his tears away. “The ocean was so big! For miles around the boat, there was just water. But, we kept busy—America and I learned how to help on the ship. We got in the rigging—and we scared England.” His laugh was almost conspiratorial.
France laughed with him. “England is so easy to startle. Just like a wild animal.” He rubbed noses with Canada. “Did you speak to the sailors?”
“They told us stories! They scared America but he didn’t want to admit it! But I knew it,” Canada said, almost proudly.
England snorted as he walked up the front steps of his home. “And who was it that you hid behind when Ireland approached you?”
Canada deflated a little. “Well, but—“
“Ireland?” said France. “I thought I saw her—coming out with Scotland but I figured my eyes were playing tricks on me.” He winked at Canada. “She’s frightening. I’d be scared of her. Why do you think England keeps having to deal with her. The moment he thinks he’s got her under control, she does something else to throw him off. Wily woman, she is.” He smirked.
Sarah was coming to greet them. “Good afternoon, Master Kirkland,” she said, taking his coat and cane. Then, “Master Bonnefoy, how good to see you again. You—“
France reached out, skimming his fingers over her jaw. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Sarah. Are you—“
England grabbed his wrist. “Hands off my staff, or I shall remove those hands of yours.”
“Oh, but then times alone would be—“
“Stop it. None of that vulgarity in my house and certainly not in front of Canada and America!”
“Master Kirkland…”
England snorted and looked at Sarah, who seemed puzzled. “What?”
“Where is the young master?”
England grumbled and snorted. “He’s right here, of course—“ He looked at the door. Which was closed. “America?”
He walked over and opened the door, looking out. “America?”
France breathed in Canada’s ear, “Looks like he escaped.”
Canada giggled.
England swore, tore off his cufflinks and gloves and threw them to the floor. “That dratted boy! I can’t take him anywhere!”
“Master Kirkland—“
“Sarah, bring my day coat! I’ll go find that little bastard and box his ears! God knows what he’s gotten up to!”
“He’s never been to London, England—calm down. He’s probably fine.”
“Oh, I forgot, you probably frequent Covent Garden—and that means you know this city quite well, does it?” England snapped, jerking his coat away from Sarah when she brought it.
“Well, I have been there time to time—“
“What’s in Covent Garden?” Canada asked.
“Well, it’s—“
“Don’t you dare, Francis! I’ll have that pathetic excuse for a beard shaved off, your skin included!” England jerked off all the finery he was wearing so that his waistcoat—knee-length and black—wouldn’t clash. He pushed the silk cravat into Sarah’s hands and whirled around, opened the door and slammed it on his way out.
Sarah looked them, apologetic. “I am sorry, Master Bonnefoy.”
“No matter, Sarah. I have known him a very long time. If you are not too troubled—might we have some tea?”
“Yes, Master Bonnefoy, of course. Would you like a bit of cake?”
“Only if you made it, my dear. Kirkland is a terrible cook.”
She was fighting a smile, France could tell. He grinned for her and she inclined her head and turned away. “Just so, sir—please make yourselves comfortable. The parlor is open.”
France sat with Canada on the couch; the boy curled up on his chest, seeming unable to make himself let go. France stroked his fingers through Canada’s hair. “Do you remember the first time I met you, Canada?”
He felt Canada smile, heard the soft fondness in his voice. “Oui…”
France knelt on the floor and smiled. “Hello, child.”
The child reached out, petting France’s blond hair. “Your hair, like mine.”
His French was accented and broken, interspersed with his native language—just like the man and the woman. France responded, smiling. “And blue eyes, like you.” France reached out, touching the boy. His skin was rougher than it appeared. France ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. “What is your name, child?”
The child paused and looked puzzled. He looked back at the man and woman and repeated the question to them in his language.
The woman beckoned to him and he smiled (so charmingly, France thought) and went to her. She lifted him up and went to the firepit. The man sat down on the edge of the bedding, next to France. “You are like him, are you not?”
“I am, I think. I represent a country far away from here.”
“We do not know the child’s name. He replaced one who was here before, a man like us with a sister in the south. He ages very, very slowly. No one here looks like him. Except for the people from the large ships. It is their language you speak.”
“Those are my colonists. They are from a crowded, busy, war-torn continent.”
“Many of them don’t make it through the winter.”
“That is how desperate they are to try.”
The man nodded grimly. “You mean him no harm?”
“I mean him no harm at all. He is an interesting child. I would like to teach him proper French. In return for any help you might give my colonists, I will help your little nation grow.”
“You told me stories of the Mi'kmaq. You weren’t even aware that you weren’t human. You were adorable.” France kissed his forehead. “You still are.”
Canada sat up. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“We live a long time, Canada. And one day, when you grow up—you’ll see me whenever you like.”
Sarah brought them cake and tea and excused herself.
“Really?” Canada said, hopping off out France’s lap to get some cake.
“Of course, when you’re your own nation, instead of being under England’s boot heel.”
Speaking of England’s boot heel, they heard the front door slam open.
“Get up to your room! There’ll be no bloody supper for you tonight, lad! I don’t—“
“But I didn’t do anything wrong! Ow!”
Canada flinched but France stood. “Come,” he said quietly. “Best go reign him in before he makes the boy glad England is all the way across the ocean.”
“You cavort about with classless lads! You have higher standing than that, America! You just went to see a king! Most of these people have never—“
“Whole lot of good that did! Bastard about put me to sleep! Good thing Ireland came in!”
France and Canada heard a loud crack. France winced. “He asked for that one.” They came round the corner to see America cringe, glaring under his eyelids at England and holding the side of his face. “Oh, now really,” France said. “Is this necessary?”
America popped up. “He’s lost his top because I asked the street boys to show me their stick-hoop game! It was really fun! And he comes along—“
“You’ve ruined your good clothes! Do you know how long it took to make those!”
“Not like you made ‘em!” America shot back. “What poor seamstress woman did you pay a pence to do the whole bit for you!” England flinched away from that remark for some reason. “My people are all working class! The only lazy, upper class we have are men you installed--!”
“America!”
England jerked his chin to look at France, surprised.
America scowled and looked down. “Well—it’s true!”
“It’s not,” said France and he let go of Canada to kneel in front of America. “And you know it. Now apologize.”
America made a short, disbelieving sound. “But France--! I didn’t do anything wrong! I--”
France raised a finger, laying it over America’s lips. “You were not wrong to play with the boys. But you should know better than to run off in a city you’ve never been to with boys you don’t know. And England worries about you. He’s just terrible at showing it. Apologize, for worrying him and twisting the truth.”
America bit his lip, sulky and he huffed, “Sorry…”
France put a hand under his chin and lifted, raising America’s eyes to his. “You can do better. Stop this sulking. You’re nearly a man. Real men don’t sulk. At least not where the whole world can see them.”
America shifted and squirmed and then looked up at England, who was still staring at France as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I. Er. I’m sorry for running off without…without telling you.”
“And,” France prompted.
“And for twisting the truth to hurt your feelings.”
France stilled for a moment. He knows England better than he realizes.
England shifted and frowned and looked everywhere but at America. “Of course. Yes. You. Are forgiven.”
“Now, England, you should apologize for insulting your own citizens. Those boys are yours and they taught America a game.”
England sputtered. “What! Who are you to—“
But France was raising that finger again, stepping into England’s space, shushing him silently. “Go on.”
England sputtered and huffed and—God, he’s barely more of an adult than America sometimes—finally looked down at America. “Apologies.”
“Oh, Bless the Virgin, do I have to walk you both through by hand?”
“Shut up!” He looked at America. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. But not for hitting you. Insulting the king like that is a bit far, even for you.”
America nodded, a little awkwardly.
“There, see, all better. Good thing I came back with you after all.”
England threw him a dark look. If we hadn’t run into you, this wouldn’t have happened, frog. Instead, he said, “Come, America, I’ll put something cool on your face. Perhaps I should not have hit you quite so hard.”
America hesitated, coming away from the wall, cringing slightly.
“Now—ah—come America, I am sorry.”
America nodded a little and followed him to the kitchen.
France sighed and looked down at Canada. “All’s well that ends well. Let’s have some more of that cake?”
Canada nodded.
After a light supper and an hour of daylight left, all was quiet within the house. They moved to sitting room, where England sat by the light and read to them until America fell asleep on England’s lap (the red mark of England’s handprint having faded away, for the most part) and Canada was dozing off.
France cradled Canada and murmured. “He looks very good in blue.”
“He does,” England agreed, petting America’s hair.
“You made their clothes, didn’t you?”
England shot him a look, daring him.
But France didn’t mock him; he just smiled. “You are so strangely domestic at times. Makes me want to kiss you.”
England stiffened and then scowled. “Stop it.”
France smirked, shifting to lay Canada on the cushions and he leaned over, nosing at England’s throat.
England’s throat tightened. “Stop,” he said, tersely. “They’re right here.”
“Guess you ought to be quiet then, shouldn’t you?”
“France—“
He kissed England’s ear, all those little places, tongue flicking out. He could feel England tensing as he moved a hand to England’s thigh, right beside America’s head. “Shhh,” he whispered, “don’t move, or you’ll wake him.”
“France,” England murmured through gritted teeth. “Stop…”
France worked his way down England’s throat, shifting, kissing under his jaw. England was starting to tremble. He moved his hand up England’s trousers, up to the fro—
England’s hand flashed out, grabbing his wrist and he finally turned his head to look at France. “Stop it—“
France grinned and kissed him.
When America awoke the next morning, he found himself curled up around Canada. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The sun was up and…he looked down.
“Not in my shift.” America plucked at his day clothes from yesterday. Not the white suit—which he’d taken off to be cleaned—just breeches and a little button-up. “Well,” he shifted. “Can’t be expected to wake up in my shift when I fall asleep. I wonder why England didn’t wake me up to change…” He reached over, tugging the covers off of Canada. “He’s still in his day clothes too.”
He sighed, groaning faintly. That meant they’d have to iron them. What a pain. He shook Canada. “C’mon,” he murmured. “let’s change before England comes up and sees us still in yesterday’s clothes.”
Canada did a double-take at his own shirt. “Well, that’s strange. England didn’t wake us?”
America shrugged.
They rolled out from under the covers and changed clothes, made up the bed and washed their faces but when they went downstairs, the kitchen was empty. Only a note was on the counter, from Sarah, informing them that breakfast was in the cellar to keep cool (fresh fruit and milk with bread and butter) and that she was heading out to the market.
“Did England and France go somewhere?” Canada wondered aloud as he went into the cellar (America refused, convinced it was haunted) and came back with the fruit and milk and bread and butter (and a jar of honey). “Maybe we should check the stable house?”
“Why don’t we just check his room first?” America said, putting honey on his bread with some apple slices and biting into the whole mess. “Isn’t it great coming here? We don’t have to make our own breakfasts. People do everything for you in England. Well, if you’re important enough.”
“Yeah,” Canada said absently, sipping his milk. “I hope France didn’t leave already…”
“Nah, let’s go check the rooms.”
So after they finished their fruit and milk and bread with honey, the boys padded back upstairs and checked England’s room; only to find it empty. They looked at each other, clasping hands as they went to the next room and the next and the next—
Finally, they opened a door and peeped inside. There were clothes on the floor.
“Hey! Yeah! There!” America shoved the door open.
“Is he still asleep?” asked Canada, disbelieving.
There was a soft sound from the bed and the boys crept up to the foot and then peered over. Well, there they were! Together—they had just spent the night in the same room. Both of them were relieved.
America laughed and ran over to the side of the bed, climbing up on the edge. “Hey! Hey! Lazybones! Get up! It’s nearly eleven in the morning!”
England jumped and his movement startled France, who tensed, eyes popping open. They both froze. England went pale. France smiled. “America—sorry, what time did you say it was?”
“Nearly eleven.” America peered at them. “Where are your night clothes? Are you suppose to sleep starkers?”
“What?” asked Canada. “Really?” He climbed onto the bed with America. “Did you drink last night?”
England, for some reason, seemed rooted to the spot. He just stared at them like they had caught him doing something terrible. It was weird.
France seemed just fine though. “I have to admit, we did a bit. And then we were both so exhausted that we just chose a room and went to sleep—but we didn’t want to wrinkle our clothes by sleeping in them, so we just took them off.”
Something was weird about that but America couldn’t quite pin down what. So he shrugged. “Okay! We already had breakfast and Sarah went to the market. What are we going to do today?”
“I think we’re just going to relax for a time today. It is already so late after all,” France told them, opening his arms. Canada and America crawled to him eagerly and laughed when France set about tickling them.
England seemed to relax a bit, though he kept the blanket over his lap. He even smiled a little.
France chuckled and glanced at him, making eye connect and he said to the boys, “Look at poor England over there. So lonely. Go tickle him. Get his ears—it’s his ears that do him in!”
America whooped and tackled England, holding him down while Canada grabbed for his ears, making England twitch and yelp.
France chuckled, leaning back against the headboard and just smiled.
Really, he thought, if only good things lasted.
--
1. The Battle of Lake George in September of 1755.
2. King George III, ruler of Great Britain (plus Scotland) and Ireland.
3. Attack of the Mammoth, just in case you were interested in her story.
4. Covent Garden; an entertainment district of London--that once had a famous red-light sector.
Also, thank you to
kaiamara for informing me of my silly errors. *flails*
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no subject
Date: 2009-06-26 04:07 am (UTC)Have I ever told you enough how I absolutely love how you portray these four as a family? Because I do. Oh I do so much.
I love that you put the good and the bad things, and France finding Canada! ♥ I laughed so hard with France's thoughts about the sugar twins.
And then the last scene. Oh those four. ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-06-26 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-30 01:15 am (UTC)You do an amazing job protraying everything (literally everything). I loved how there was this sort of tension that was beginning to rift between America and UK, even behind the cutesy hugs and laughs... Oh man I'm off to read another of your stories :)
no subject
Date: 2009-07-16 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-12 01:05 pm (UTC)