[fan-fic] Oedipus Called
Jun. 27th, 2009 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle: Oedipus Called He Wants His Complex Back
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): implied England/France, pre-revolutionary!America and Canada
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, fem!England, France is opportunistic, America tries to kill him
Summary: I saw a cute little piece yesterday about fem!England and child!America and I thought it was weird that I've never seen anything with an older America. So I thought, "Hey! I'll try it!"
And now, I completely understand why I don't ever see it. Because it is one of the most awkward things ever.
Because it seems entirely natural for America to suddenly realize, "Whoa, my mom is hot!"
Also, I way prefer England with the bun. I know "official fem!England" has pigtails but the bun just seems so her.
This was just a short, fun piece to write because it flits between amusingly awkward and awkwardly serious.
Posted here
Things had changed.
Things had changed a lot.
Gone were the days when America curled up against England’s breast and napped on her narrow torso. Gone were the days when she held his hand, when he toyed with her hair or watched her when she fell asleep in his tall, soft grass. He was bigger now, he was taller; he could loom over her but in no way did she allow him to. The hard gleam in her eye, the sharp tone and cutting words; the way her hand would flash red against his face when gave her cheek…yes, he might have been taller but he was not a bigger man than she.
So yes, things had changed—America found himself at a new and curious place in the world—where he could no longer hold England’s hand but couldn’t take his eyes off her either. The way she swept her hair up, pinning it in a smooth knot on her head, the way she looked in uniform (something about the uniform), the way she looked in a dress (even more, because it was shocking, the difference it made), the way her hip curved, how that curve made her sword angle out—
It was nearly to the point—well, it was to the point—of distraction. When he received a letter from her—telling him the roundabout date of her arrival, he’d do all right until the week before and then he’d obsessively clean the whole place and his palms would get sweaty when he finally got to go to the dock to meet her. And when he saw her, he wanted to suddenly disappear—or to just. Just. Have her. With him all the time. But not like when he was a child. It was different from that.
When she touched his hand, it sent lightening through him. And now…now she wanted to teach him to dance. She had unpinned her hair and taken off her smooth, black jacket and folded it neatly over the kitchen chair. They were in her residence, which wasn’t far from the house he was building, so it was far better furnished. And she’d put his hand on her waist and she directed him to hold the other and there was heat behind his eyes.
And he had to step back. “I. I’m sorry.”
She waved her hand airily. “Nothing of the sort,” she said, briskly. “We’ll start again. Come on. Take my hand.”
He stepped back again. “I. I can’t. I.” He bit his lip, shaking his head.
She went quiet for a moment, studying him. “What is this? Have you lost your nerve? You must learn these things, America.”
When she said his name—he heard it, of course, but it filtered in, took on a breathy desperation to it. It—
He shook himself. Not now. “I just. Can’t. Please—I.”
“Are you nervous?” A disbelieving sort of smile was on her face, softening her eyes. “I know I am not a very good partner—but you’ll know when you find the right one.” She sighed. “I suppose I won’t force you but you must learn. I want to take you back to Europe with me at some point and you must know how to dance.”
His throat felt thick. “I can learn…I. I just. I don’t, um—feel very well. Sorry.”
Her eyes narrowed and she stepped towards him. “Are you ill?”
He stepped back. “Please. Don’t.” His hands had gone clammy, breathing had picked up. “I’m fine.”
“Clearly not. Quit playing around and stop this instant!”
He did, on reflex. He went still and she approached him gruffly, putting one hand on his throat and one on his forehead.
“You are awfully warm,” she said, tone darkening. “Do you feel sick?”
“N-not really.” He was getting ahold of himself now, trying to focus on the wall behind her. But he kept getting distracted—by the curve of her throat and the fate, musty tea-smell of her hair. “It’s probably the candles. It’s hot in here. Maybe we could go outside and practice something else instead?”
She was looking at him, examining him. “All right,” she murmured, slipping her hand away from his throat, making him shiver. “Swordsmanship then.” She turned away, grabbing her belt. “Go and get yours and meet me in the front yard.”
This was worse. This was much worse than dancing. But only for a few minutes because England demanded nothing short of to-the-death combat when he practiced with her. And if he couldn’t pay attention, she’d hurt him. And she did. She slashed him right across his muscled arm.
“What is wrong with you? Are you sure you aren’t ill?”
America jumped back, dropping his sword and clamping his hand on his arm. “I’m…” He looked up at her. Nevermind the blood on his arm…she…
She approached him. “Something is wrong with you—and you won’t tell me. You have never done so poorly. What is wrong, America?”
“England…,” he voice was shaking a little. “I…” How could he describe this feeling? England had always told him he felt things intensely and had a hard time channeling that intensity. And that was true, he didn’t deny it but it didn’t help him learn how to deal with it. He usually just acted. His impulsions would take over and he would simple do what his body told him to.
She brushed his bangs out of his face and gently pried his hand off his bleeding arm. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and started to tie it. He stared at her while she did it. She was…warrior, soldier, commander, mother—everything. She could do anything. Be anyone. She feared no king. She backed down to no kingdom. She’d broken her brother’s arm and crushed her sister beneath her boots; she’d torn France apart, triumphed over Spain and explored the New World, winning Canada in the process. Her empire was ever-expanding. Even Prussia admired her.
He was simply one of her many wards—but he held the place of being the only one that she had not taken from someone. America had chosen her.
She tightened the handkerchief and looked up; green met blue.
His eyes had softened to something else. And she recognized it. The first time she had beaten each of her rivals, they had given her a similar look. But this wasn’t quite that…it was something…else. She blinked. “America?”
He bit his lip, licked it and stepped closer to her. “England. I—“
She was tensing, looking faintly alarmed. “What is wrong with you?” It can’t be that, she thought. It can’t. He is too young. He is. No. He can’t.
He reached out, touching her arm. “I—I don’t know. I. I don’t know what—“
“You will take two steps back this instant.”
It was as if she’d slammed a door in his face. America was still shaking a little. He stepped back, looking away. “I’m sorry. I’ll—go home.”
He didn’t even grab his things. He just turned and ran.
“America!”
But he didn’t heed it. He went to his horse, swinging himself up and leaning down and the horse leapt off.
England watched. His blood was dripping from her fingers.
She didn’t notice.
The next time she came back to him, he was taller again. She’d brought Canada with her, and France. America shook hands with his brother and swallowed, biting his lip and awkwardly embracing England, hands lingering too long on her back.
Until France touched him, a laugh in his voice and said, “Do you have any mind to free her, boy? Women are sometimes touchy about boys being so free with their hands.”
America’s eyes jerked up, glaring daggers.
France’s eyebrows piqued. There was ferocity there, in the boy’s eyes. To a level that surprised him.
England pulled away. “Come, I’ll make some supper and we can settle in for the night.”
And supper went badly. England had this strange way of having no salt to add and yet making everything taste like the Dead Sea. Canada choked when the first bite hit his tongue. France and America both looked at him. France put his forehead in his hand. America looked at England.
Her lips were pressed into a thin line. She scowled and turned her eyes downward, picking up her fork.
“Pride shouldn’t make you eat that, England,” France told her.
“Shut up,” she said, keeping her eyes on the food and taking a bite anyway.
It was bad. It was all over her face. She knew it was terrible but she tried so hard. America’s chin jutted out and he hurriedly shoved a spoonful of what might have been potatoes into his mouth. Tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes as he choked it down.
England stared at him. “America—you, you’ll choke. America—you don’t have to eat so fast….”
“Course I do,” America stammered, mouth full. “It tastes fine. Canada’s just too spoiled on France’s stupid French food.”
Canada gave him a disgusted look and looked at France. But it’s terrible.
France rolled his eyes. Don’t worry about it. Just let him.
A little smile played on England’s lips. “Well, yes, I always thought it was rather bad myself. I mean, snails, honestly.”
“Exactly,” America agreed, shoving another mouthful down because his stomach was starting to turn.
England smirked at France, as if to say, so there and sipped her tea.
America regretted his noble decision in the middle of the night when he woke up, stomach in full-fledged mutiny. He whimpered a little and crawled out of bed, only in his breeches, padding downstairs and outside (where he found a dead squirrel next to the spot where France and Canada had scraped off their plates) where he started to throw up.
When it finally seemed to be over, he knelt by the stream, cupping water in his hands and splashing his face and chest. “I should make some tea,” he murmured. “England doesn’t deserve that—maybe I should ask Canada how to cook so that I can make her something when she’s here. So that France doesn’t make fun of her.”
Stupid France. Stupid France and his—everything. He was always around, always…always around. He scowled and turned back to the house. The stars were shifting. It would be fall soon, the leaves just beginning to change.
He sighed and made his way back into the house. It meant that England wouldn’t stay long—lest she be here all winter. And as much as America wanted her there…he knew she wouldn’t—
A soft sound broke his train of thought when he opened the door. He froze, looking around for either some animal or an intruder.
There again, a shift of fabric and a low curse.
America’s ears perked. He crept through the house to England’s room and listened. He heard a gasp, a muffled sound—what was that—
A soft moan.
Something shot through his system and he grabbed the knob and shoved the door open.
France froze, his mouth on England’s bared stomach. She was lying beneath him, hair splayed out across the sheets. She jumped and went pale when she saw him. “America! What are you—!”
America didn’t hear the rest. He was running forward, grabbing France, throwing him against the wall.
France hit hard, stunned for a moment and America was on him, raising his fist, bringing it down over and over—yelling, eyes wild.
“America! America!” England was yelling, getting up and covering herself. She ran to him, grabbing onto his arm. “America, stop!”
France raised his hands to defend himself, nose spraying blood onto his bare chest.
America didn’t stop, not until England finally tackled him, shoving him to the floor and crawling on top of him. “What is wrong with you, boy!”
America stared up at her, chest heaving. He blinked, suddenly seemed to register her and he grabbed her. In one fluid motion, he was somehow on his feet, holding her shoulders. “What did he do to you!”
“What?!”
“He—he was—“
“America,” France said, getting up from the floor, holding his nose. “I was not. What is wrong with you? Are you that protective—“ and then it hit him, France’s eyes went wide and he stopped.
England looked at him and then at America. “You were out of line, regardless. How dare you come into my room uninvited? What were you doing up?”
“I was. I was sick.” His fingers curled into her shoulders and he stepped away from France, pulling her with him. “I heard noises. You shouldn’t let him in here with you.”
France snorted, irritated now and grabbed America’s shoulder. “You, boy, are in no place to direct your elders and betters.”
America tensed, whirled around. “Who says you’re a better of mine?”
England’s mouth fell open, dumbfounded.
France seemed have a little shake of his head, eyes shooting wide. “I should say that I say so and that’s all that matters to a pup like you.”
“You had better never touch her again!” His tone was savage, finger up and pointing in France’s face.
And then France grabbed him, swinging him around and slammed his back into the wall. “You listen to me, boy.” And France’s eyes were suddenly hard and stern. “I’ll take no lip off of you. Whatever feeling you have for her is unnatural and unless you want a hard, fast lesson on what it’s like to fight a nation, then I suggest to take yourself back to bed, boy.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” America spit at him. “What’s to fear from a nation that loses all the ti—“
France struck him and hard. His head slammed back against the wood and then England was moving, forcing herself between them. She shoved France back. “He is mine, France. And any punishment he receives will be from me. It’s not your place.”
France had his eyes fixed on America. “You keep that boy under control.”
England wrinkled her nose. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your women. I’m no wife to you. You would do well to remember your place as well. He seeks to protect me. There is no wrong in that.”
France waved a hand at her. “You cannot tell me that you don’t understand his intentions.”
She paused. “America is my ward—“
“He clearly looks at you differ—“
“Shut up, France! What do you know!”
England looked aside. “America, mind your tongue.”
The boy went quiet, leaning back against the wall behind her.
France took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself. “He is looking at you as a man would, not as a child.”
She swept her hair from her face, pulling it back and twisting it up. “America is growing up. He is simply confused. I only need to introduce him to other female nations—“
“I have seen confused boys, England. That was not confused. You should not be so quick to dismiss—”
“I will dismiss what needs dismissed,” and her tone was like steel. There was no arguing with her when she got that way, France knew.
He sighed. Jealous men are a different breed. Their will is steel and wrapped in iron and hot coals. But yet, yet, insight. How this would play out in….
America would either go mad with want and take her or he would reject her completely. The boy didn’t like the taxing, didn’t like never being permitted to go and plead his case in London. The boy kept his silence because he clearly wanted her (though his people had been loud in their dissent) but…
Love is blind but not eternal. And he would see…
Hmmm. Interesting.
France pushed his hair from his face and found America’s eyes. “I apologize, America. We both stepped out of line. Forgive me.” He bowed to him.
England started a little and America blinked. They both gaped at him. And then America stiffened and nodded, bowing slightly in return. “I. Yeah. Um. I. Yeah.”
England eyed him. “Good to see a bit of class from you.”
France smiled. “I should not go out of my way to anger the wards of England. We both know that the world is fickle, who knows what may happen someday.”
England’s eyebrows crooked but then she shook her head. “Go to your room, France.”
“Of course.” And he gathered up his things and left.
She turned to America. “Well, that was quite a show. Are you bleeding?” She reached up, carding her fingers into his hair, searching his scalp for blood.
He shuddered. “Please don’t.” His voice was small. “I can’t take it.”
She removed her hands. “You should not concern yourself for France. He is an old rival of mine. It is part of being a nation to…be able to separate political needs from personal ones.”
“But, you have me. You don’t need him.”
Her mouth opened, shut and opened again. “You are too young for that. You’re just a boy.”
“France just spoke to me as if I were his equal! Why can’t you see me that way!”
England jerked back from him, blinking. “What? You aren’t a nation, America. You aren’t—!”
“I know but—but I can’t stand for you to look at me like I’m a child. I’m not.” He was reaching forward, hands on her hips, stepping into her space. “Don’t look through me. If you still only see a child—“
“You’ll stop right there, America!”
America’s eyes were pleading, fingers tightening in her shift. “You can’t see me as a boy forever.”
“Let go, America.” Her eyes faltered, avoiding his. “Go to your room and stay there.”
“Don’t avoid my eyes, England. Please—“ his tone was nearly a smile, hopeful. He pulled her closer to him, the thin cotton making an exquisite texture against his bare chest. His skin was tingling; he could feel her breasts, warm and soft under that fabric—
“Let go, America.”
“You don’t need France. I’m here with you. All the time. I’m—just, let me.” His hand slid up to her waist. He was shaking. “I want—“
She slapped him. Had to, before those words could get out.
He staggered, hands coming off of her. She didn’t look at him. “Go upstairs and stay there.”
He looked down, away, anywhere and stepped back. He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to find words. He left.
England put her hands in her hair and sighed. “I have to leave. Distance myself from him. He’s just confused.”
America bolted upstairs, throwing himself into his room and latching the door.
“Are you all right?”
He jumped badly, back into the door. “F-France…”
“I’m sorry about what happened. Had I been aware of your feelings, I would have been more compassionate. England is an impressive woman, even among nations. I can hardly blame you for wanting her.”
America looked aside. “I…” He reached up, touching the side of his face, where a red handprint was standing marked.
France walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “And she will be that way. England has an iron resolve and a heart made of stone. Breaking either is hard work and, at times, scarcely worth the effort. You must be able to see her for what she is.”
America looked up, meeting France’s eyes. “What is that?”
He smiled faintly and shook his head. “That is something you must discover. If I told you, the effort to get there would be meaningless. And meaning is important, America.”
“Why can you speak to me like an adult and she can’t?”
Because both of you are children. “Because she raised you. She wants you to be a little boy forever. Seeing you as a man will be near impossible.”
America blinked and looked down.
France squeezed his shoulder. “If you ever need any advice or help, though, feel free to write.” And he left him with that, smirking as he went out into the hall.
Within two days, the house was empty. England left with hardly a word to any of them, arranging a ship that happened to be in port to take her to London. France took Canada back up north and would leave for Europe from there.
America spent his time alone, touching the little welts England had left on his face, seeing her in his mind’s eye. “She’ll always see me as a child, won’t she?”
To prove he was a man, he would have to be a nation, like France.
But to do that…he swallowed…that meant independence, which was something that had crossed his mind from time to time as his people’s anger grew…but he had avoided thinking about it.
But now…
Well, things had changed, hadn’t they?
It made him vaguely sick inside but, he supposed, swallowing hard, that was a part of growing up.
Author/Artist:
historyblitzCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): implied England/France, pre-revolutionary!America and Canada
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, fem!England, France is opportunistic, America tries to kill him
Summary: I saw a cute little piece yesterday about fem!England and child!America and I thought it was weird that I've never seen anything with an older America. So I thought, "Hey! I'll try it!"
And now, I completely understand why I don't ever see it. Because it is one of the most awkward things ever.
Because it seems entirely natural for America to suddenly realize, "Whoa, my mom is hot!"
Also, I way prefer England with the bun. I know "official fem!England" has pigtails but the bun just seems so her.
This was just a short, fun piece to write because it flits between amusingly awkward and awkwardly serious.
Posted here
Things had changed.
Things had changed a lot.
Gone were the days when America curled up against England’s breast and napped on her narrow torso. Gone were the days when she held his hand, when he toyed with her hair or watched her when she fell asleep in his tall, soft grass. He was bigger now, he was taller; he could loom over her but in no way did she allow him to. The hard gleam in her eye, the sharp tone and cutting words; the way her hand would flash red against his face when gave her cheek…yes, he might have been taller but he was not a bigger man than she.
So yes, things had changed—America found himself at a new and curious place in the world—where he could no longer hold England’s hand but couldn’t take his eyes off her either. The way she swept her hair up, pinning it in a smooth knot on her head, the way she looked in uniform (something about the uniform), the way she looked in a dress (even more, because it was shocking, the difference it made), the way her hip curved, how that curve made her sword angle out—
It was nearly to the point—well, it was to the point—of distraction. When he received a letter from her—telling him the roundabout date of her arrival, he’d do all right until the week before and then he’d obsessively clean the whole place and his palms would get sweaty when he finally got to go to the dock to meet her. And when he saw her, he wanted to suddenly disappear—or to just. Just. Have her. With him all the time. But not like when he was a child. It was different from that.
When she touched his hand, it sent lightening through him. And now…now she wanted to teach him to dance. She had unpinned her hair and taken off her smooth, black jacket and folded it neatly over the kitchen chair. They were in her residence, which wasn’t far from the house he was building, so it was far better furnished. And she’d put his hand on her waist and she directed him to hold the other and there was heat behind his eyes.
And he had to step back. “I. I’m sorry.”
She waved her hand airily. “Nothing of the sort,” she said, briskly. “We’ll start again. Come on. Take my hand.”
He stepped back again. “I. I can’t. I.” He bit his lip, shaking his head.
She went quiet for a moment, studying him. “What is this? Have you lost your nerve? You must learn these things, America.”
When she said his name—he heard it, of course, but it filtered in, took on a breathy desperation to it. It—
He shook himself. Not now. “I just. Can’t. Please—I.”
“Are you nervous?” A disbelieving sort of smile was on her face, softening her eyes. “I know I am not a very good partner—but you’ll know when you find the right one.” She sighed. “I suppose I won’t force you but you must learn. I want to take you back to Europe with me at some point and you must know how to dance.”
His throat felt thick. “I can learn…I. I just. I don’t, um—feel very well. Sorry.”
Her eyes narrowed and she stepped towards him. “Are you ill?”
He stepped back. “Please. Don’t.” His hands had gone clammy, breathing had picked up. “I’m fine.”
“Clearly not. Quit playing around and stop this instant!”
He did, on reflex. He went still and she approached him gruffly, putting one hand on his throat and one on his forehead.
“You are awfully warm,” she said, tone darkening. “Do you feel sick?”
“N-not really.” He was getting ahold of himself now, trying to focus on the wall behind her. But he kept getting distracted—by the curve of her throat and the fate, musty tea-smell of her hair. “It’s probably the candles. It’s hot in here. Maybe we could go outside and practice something else instead?”
She was looking at him, examining him. “All right,” she murmured, slipping her hand away from his throat, making him shiver. “Swordsmanship then.” She turned away, grabbing her belt. “Go and get yours and meet me in the front yard.”
This was worse. This was much worse than dancing. But only for a few minutes because England demanded nothing short of to-the-death combat when he practiced with her. And if he couldn’t pay attention, she’d hurt him. And she did. She slashed him right across his muscled arm.
“What is wrong with you? Are you sure you aren’t ill?”
America jumped back, dropping his sword and clamping his hand on his arm. “I’m…” He looked up at her. Nevermind the blood on his arm…she…
She approached him. “Something is wrong with you—and you won’t tell me. You have never done so poorly. What is wrong, America?”
“England…,” he voice was shaking a little. “I…” How could he describe this feeling? England had always told him he felt things intensely and had a hard time channeling that intensity. And that was true, he didn’t deny it but it didn’t help him learn how to deal with it. He usually just acted. His impulsions would take over and he would simple do what his body told him to.
She brushed his bangs out of his face and gently pried his hand off his bleeding arm. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and started to tie it. He stared at her while she did it. She was…warrior, soldier, commander, mother—everything. She could do anything. Be anyone. She feared no king. She backed down to no kingdom. She’d broken her brother’s arm and crushed her sister beneath her boots; she’d torn France apart, triumphed over Spain and explored the New World, winning Canada in the process. Her empire was ever-expanding. Even Prussia admired her.
He was simply one of her many wards—but he held the place of being the only one that she had not taken from someone. America had chosen her.
She tightened the handkerchief and looked up; green met blue.
His eyes had softened to something else. And she recognized it. The first time she had beaten each of her rivals, they had given her a similar look. But this wasn’t quite that…it was something…else. She blinked. “America?”
He bit his lip, licked it and stepped closer to her. “England. I—“
She was tensing, looking faintly alarmed. “What is wrong with you?” It can’t be that, she thought. It can’t. He is too young. He is. No. He can’t.
He reached out, touching her arm. “I—I don’t know. I. I don’t know what—“
“You will take two steps back this instant.”
It was as if she’d slammed a door in his face. America was still shaking a little. He stepped back, looking away. “I’m sorry. I’ll—go home.”
He didn’t even grab his things. He just turned and ran.
“America!”
But he didn’t heed it. He went to his horse, swinging himself up and leaning down and the horse leapt off.
England watched. His blood was dripping from her fingers.
She didn’t notice.
The next time she came back to him, he was taller again. She’d brought Canada with her, and France. America shook hands with his brother and swallowed, biting his lip and awkwardly embracing England, hands lingering too long on her back.
Until France touched him, a laugh in his voice and said, “Do you have any mind to free her, boy? Women are sometimes touchy about boys being so free with their hands.”
America’s eyes jerked up, glaring daggers.
France’s eyebrows piqued. There was ferocity there, in the boy’s eyes. To a level that surprised him.
England pulled away. “Come, I’ll make some supper and we can settle in for the night.”
And supper went badly. England had this strange way of having no salt to add and yet making everything taste like the Dead Sea. Canada choked when the first bite hit his tongue. France and America both looked at him. France put his forehead in his hand. America looked at England.
Her lips were pressed into a thin line. She scowled and turned her eyes downward, picking up her fork.
“Pride shouldn’t make you eat that, England,” France told her.
“Shut up,” she said, keeping her eyes on the food and taking a bite anyway.
It was bad. It was all over her face. She knew it was terrible but she tried so hard. America’s chin jutted out and he hurriedly shoved a spoonful of what might have been potatoes into his mouth. Tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes as he choked it down.
England stared at him. “America—you, you’ll choke. America—you don’t have to eat so fast….”
“Course I do,” America stammered, mouth full. “It tastes fine. Canada’s just too spoiled on France’s stupid French food.”
Canada gave him a disgusted look and looked at France. But it’s terrible.
France rolled his eyes. Don’t worry about it. Just let him.
A little smile played on England’s lips. “Well, yes, I always thought it was rather bad myself. I mean, snails, honestly.”
“Exactly,” America agreed, shoving another mouthful down because his stomach was starting to turn.
England smirked at France, as if to say, so there and sipped her tea.
America regretted his noble decision in the middle of the night when he woke up, stomach in full-fledged mutiny. He whimpered a little and crawled out of bed, only in his breeches, padding downstairs and outside (where he found a dead squirrel next to the spot where France and Canada had scraped off their plates) where he started to throw up.
When it finally seemed to be over, he knelt by the stream, cupping water in his hands and splashing his face and chest. “I should make some tea,” he murmured. “England doesn’t deserve that—maybe I should ask Canada how to cook so that I can make her something when she’s here. So that France doesn’t make fun of her.”
Stupid France. Stupid France and his—everything. He was always around, always…always around. He scowled and turned back to the house. The stars were shifting. It would be fall soon, the leaves just beginning to change.
He sighed and made his way back into the house. It meant that England wouldn’t stay long—lest she be here all winter. And as much as America wanted her there…he knew she wouldn’t—
A soft sound broke his train of thought when he opened the door. He froze, looking around for either some animal or an intruder.
There again, a shift of fabric and a low curse.
America’s ears perked. He crept through the house to England’s room and listened. He heard a gasp, a muffled sound—what was that—
A soft moan.
Something shot through his system and he grabbed the knob and shoved the door open.
France froze, his mouth on England’s bared stomach. She was lying beneath him, hair splayed out across the sheets. She jumped and went pale when she saw him. “America! What are you—!”
America didn’t hear the rest. He was running forward, grabbing France, throwing him against the wall.
France hit hard, stunned for a moment and America was on him, raising his fist, bringing it down over and over—yelling, eyes wild.
“America! America!” England was yelling, getting up and covering herself. She ran to him, grabbing onto his arm. “America, stop!”
France raised his hands to defend himself, nose spraying blood onto his bare chest.
America didn’t stop, not until England finally tackled him, shoving him to the floor and crawling on top of him. “What is wrong with you, boy!”
America stared up at her, chest heaving. He blinked, suddenly seemed to register her and he grabbed her. In one fluid motion, he was somehow on his feet, holding her shoulders. “What did he do to you!”
“What?!”
“He—he was—“
“America,” France said, getting up from the floor, holding his nose. “I was not. What is wrong with you? Are you that protective—“ and then it hit him, France’s eyes went wide and he stopped.
England looked at him and then at America. “You were out of line, regardless. How dare you come into my room uninvited? What were you doing up?”
“I was. I was sick.” His fingers curled into her shoulders and he stepped away from France, pulling her with him. “I heard noises. You shouldn’t let him in here with you.”
France snorted, irritated now and grabbed America’s shoulder. “You, boy, are in no place to direct your elders and betters.”
America tensed, whirled around. “Who says you’re a better of mine?”
England’s mouth fell open, dumbfounded.
France seemed have a little shake of his head, eyes shooting wide. “I should say that I say so and that’s all that matters to a pup like you.”
“You had better never touch her again!” His tone was savage, finger up and pointing in France’s face.
And then France grabbed him, swinging him around and slammed his back into the wall. “You listen to me, boy.” And France’s eyes were suddenly hard and stern. “I’ll take no lip off of you. Whatever feeling you have for her is unnatural and unless you want a hard, fast lesson on what it’s like to fight a nation, then I suggest to take yourself back to bed, boy.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” America spit at him. “What’s to fear from a nation that loses all the ti—“
France struck him and hard. His head slammed back against the wood and then England was moving, forcing herself between them. She shoved France back. “He is mine, France. And any punishment he receives will be from me. It’s not your place.”
France had his eyes fixed on America. “You keep that boy under control.”
England wrinkled her nose. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your women. I’m no wife to you. You would do well to remember your place as well. He seeks to protect me. There is no wrong in that.”
France waved a hand at her. “You cannot tell me that you don’t understand his intentions.”
She paused. “America is my ward—“
“He clearly looks at you differ—“
“Shut up, France! What do you know!”
England looked aside. “America, mind your tongue.”
The boy went quiet, leaning back against the wall behind her.
France took a deep breath and seemed to calm himself. “He is looking at you as a man would, not as a child.”
She swept her hair from her face, pulling it back and twisting it up. “America is growing up. He is simply confused. I only need to introduce him to other female nations—“
“I have seen confused boys, England. That was not confused. You should not be so quick to dismiss—”
“I will dismiss what needs dismissed,” and her tone was like steel. There was no arguing with her when she got that way, France knew.
He sighed. Jealous men are a different breed. Their will is steel and wrapped in iron and hot coals. But yet, yet, insight. How this would play out in….
America would either go mad with want and take her or he would reject her completely. The boy didn’t like the taxing, didn’t like never being permitted to go and plead his case in London. The boy kept his silence because he clearly wanted her (though his people had been loud in their dissent) but…
Love is blind but not eternal. And he would see…
Hmmm. Interesting.
France pushed his hair from his face and found America’s eyes. “I apologize, America. We both stepped out of line. Forgive me.” He bowed to him.
England started a little and America blinked. They both gaped at him. And then America stiffened and nodded, bowing slightly in return. “I. Yeah. Um. I. Yeah.”
England eyed him. “Good to see a bit of class from you.”
France smiled. “I should not go out of my way to anger the wards of England. We both know that the world is fickle, who knows what may happen someday.”
England’s eyebrows crooked but then she shook her head. “Go to your room, France.”
“Of course.” And he gathered up his things and left.
She turned to America. “Well, that was quite a show. Are you bleeding?” She reached up, carding her fingers into his hair, searching his scalp for blood.
He shuddered. “Please don’t.” His voice was small. “I can’t take it.”
She removed her hands. “You should not concern yourself for France. He is an old rival of mine. It is part of being a nation to…be able to separate political needs from personal ones.”
“But, you have me. You don’t need him.”
Her mouth opened, shut and opened again. “You are too young for that. You’re just a boy.”
“France just spoke to me as if I were his equal! Why can’t you see me that way!”
England jerked back from him, blinking. “What? You aren’t a nation, America. You aren’t—!”
“I know but—but I can’t stand for you to look at me like I’m a child. I’m not.” He was reaching forward, hands on her hips, stepping into her space. “Don’t look through me. If you still only see a child—“
“You’ll stop right there, America!”
America’s eyes were pleading, fingers tightening in her shift. “You can’t see me as a boy forever.”
“Let go, America.” Her eyes faltered, avoiding his. “Go to your room and stay there.”
“Don’t avoid my eyes, England. Please—“ his tone was nearly a smile, hopeful. He pulled her closer to him, the thin cotton making an exquisite texture against his bare chest. His skin was tingling; he could feel her breasts, warm and soft under that fabric—
“Let go, America.”
“You don’t need France. I’m here with you. All the time. I’m—just, let me.” His hand slid up to her waist. He was shaking. “I want—“
She slapped him. Had to, before those words could get out.
He staggered, hands coming off of her. She didn’t look at him. “Go upstairs and stay there.”
He looked down, away, anywhere and stepped back. He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to find words. He left.
England put her hands in her hair and sighed. “I have to leave. Distance myself from him. He’s just confused.”
America bolted upstairs, throwing himself into his room and latching the door.
“Are you all right?”
He jumped badly, back into the door. “F-France…”
“I’m sorry about what happened. Had I been aware of your feelings, I would have been more compassionate. England is an impressive woman, even among nations. I can hardly blame you for wanting her.”
America looked aside. “I…” He reached up, touching the side of his face, where a red handprint was standing marked.
France walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “And she will be that way. England has an iron resolve and a heart made of stone. Breaking either is hard work and, at times, scarcely worth the effort. You must be able to see her for what she is.”
America looked up, meeting France’s eyes. “What is that?”
He smiled faintly and shook his head. “That is something you must discover. If I told you, the effort to get there would be meaningless. And meaning is important, America.”
“Why can you speak to me like an adult and she can’t?”
Because both of you are children. “Because she raised you. She wants you to be a little boy forever. Seeing you as a man will be near impossible.”
America blinked and looked down.
France squeezed his shoulder. “If you ever need any advice or help, though, feel free to write.” And he left him with that, smirking as he went out into the hall.
Within two days, the house was empty. England left with hardly a word to any of them, arranging a ship that happened to be in port to take her to London. France took Canada back up north and would leave for Europe from there.
America spent his time alone, touching the little welts England had left on his face, seeing her in his mind’s eye. “She’ll always see me as a child, won’t she?”
To prove he was a man, he would have to be a nation, like France.
But to do that…he swallowed…that meant independence, which was something that had crossed his mind from time to time as his people’s anger grew…but he had avoided thinking about it.
But now…
Well, things had changed, hadn’t they?
It made him vaguely sick inside but, he supposed, swallowing hard, that was a part of growing up.
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no subject
Date: 2009-06-28 01:59 pm (UTC)HAHAHA! Biggest warranted ass-kicking ever.
England: Oh, I see. Helped America win the war, did you?
France: You bet I did. *wink* And now I'm going to take over Europe.
England: Aha~! Oh really~? Prussia? Russia? Sweden? Woudl you like to come watch?
France: Oh, hell.
no subject
Date: 2009-06-28 02:06 pm (UTC)XD You're so screwed France. So very, very screwed.