[Fanfic] Stories
Jun. 6th, 2011 02:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle: Stories
Genre: Gen
Rating: Free
Summary: England tells a story, and baby America makes a promise.
1. The One with the Queen
The first story England told him was about the sea.
He was trying to explain how he had come to this new land, and how long it had taken him to cross the seas, but the child looked confused, his bright blue eyes looking up at him, and England wondered if he knew how vast the ocean was.
Maybe not. The child, America, had talked to him about his land, and forests, and rivers and mountains and strange animals, but not about the sea. So maybe it wasn't part of his life.
So England talked about it. He explained how the water was alive, how it had feelings and ideas of its own, how dangerous and fascinating it was, and he made grand gestures, making voices to convey the feelings of the ocean and the storm – he added a storm, later - and then he had trouble making the voice of the islands, who were supposed to be small, pretty girls, but he improvised with an extremely embarrassing falsetto.
It made America giggle, so it was worth it. And it made him widen his eyes when the storm attacked, and made him hold his breath when the battle happened, and it made him smile when everything ended in peace and happiness for everyone involved. It failed to make him sleepy, yes, but England didn't mind.
He held the child in his arms afterward. America was so small, so young. England would teach him how to be a proper gentleman later, tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, but now, just for now, he wanted to hold him, and see him fall asleep against his chest.
England couldn't help but smile. America had liked that, hadn't he? He was so bright, happy and bubbly and full of stories himself, but he had enjoyed it. This was new. Someone enjoying England's company.
So he did the same the next time. He started with an old legend about a fairy prince and a queen, and there was magic and adventures and then, by the middle of the story, he remembered that not everyone was going to come out of it alive, and that had never bothered him before, but- America was sitting on his bed, his blue eyes round and wide with worry, and England couldn't bring himself to tell him the real ending. So he added sword fights, because he knew America would love that, and heroic stunts, because America would love it even more, and a wedding at the end.
When he finished, America climbed into his lap. England smiled, pulling the blanket from the bed to cover him, holding him against his chest.
"I want princes too," America said, “And queens, and all.”
He sounded very sure of himself, as if he had thought about this long and hard before saying anything.
"But you do," England told him, ruffling his hair, "Now we have the same princes, and the same queen."
"Can she come visit me?"
"Ah-maybe," England said. And then, because America was starting to pout, he added, "She might be busy, but you can visit her. If you want to."
"I do! I want to visit her, England, please, will you take me? When you go? I want to see her! Is she pretty?"
"She's- striking, and yes, of course you'll see her, he said, "Now, sleep."
He didn't, because he wanted to talk about the finest points of the story. It was another thing he loved to do, recap everything and sometimes reenact his favorite parts, with the fighting moves he copied from England. It took him a long time to fall asleep.
It was only fair, because England didn't take him to see the queen, either. He couldn't bring America with him now, it just wasn't possible, the trip was too long and too harsh and too dangerous. And by the time he came back, months later, he didn't remember anymore.
2. The One with the Hero
His plots were always about things America loved. Swords, monsters, magic, science. Villains and heroes, and you could always tell which was which. A bright, clear line between good and bad. Daring rescues, last stands, fire and noise, and always a happy ending.
And, of course, stories about America. Both the land and the boy. The first time he interrupted a story to ask if he could be the hero, England was very surprised, and not completely sure he liked the idea. But then he saw the story could go its own way, he didn't need to change anything to make it work. America didn't mind being out of character, he just didn't want to be left out. So England told him of all the adventures he had never lived, the time he saved the kingdom and the time he had found a diamond and the time he killed a dragon. And so on. America giggled and beamed at him, and bounced on the bed when he was too excited, and whimpered when the plot got scary, and then he hid under the covers and England had to tell the story to a small bump of blankets and pillows.
When he left, America threw a tantrum, saying he wouldn't ever sleep again, ever, and wouldn't eat anything and wouldn't shower either and England would never find him when he came back because he would go all the way to the other side.
England wasn't sure how far that was. He knew there was more to that land than the shore, but he didn't know how much, or if America really could do it.
... scratch that, of course he could. He could do anything. England told him that, patting his back, and said he believed him, but he expected him to behave anyway, and tried to be stern and failed, because America melted over the compliment and hug his leg and smiled, and England couldn't be stern when he smiled.
So he told him he was going to bring more stories, that he would have lots of them when he came back. America agreed. He sniffled a little, later, but didn't cry, and England felt a surge of pride. My child, he thought, my child wants to stay with me.
3. The one with the villains
"Not this time," he said, when America asked for a story about himself, "This one if about me."
"Ooooh okay," his colony said, happily, "I like you."
England made a short pause, to breathe and blink a few times. He smiled:
"Well. I'm glad. Now pay attention."
It was about France too, and Spain, and it was a difficult story to tell, because England had to show both were no match to the British Empire, but that America still shouldn't trust them, or talk to them, or even come near if they happened to pass by. So he told him about their battles, and blood and darkness, and maybe he had mixed their wars a bit, but who cared?
When he was done, he waited for the excited questions, but America was unusually silent. This time his face looked almost white, and he was looking at the covers, running his little finger over the fabric, his small shoulders tense and taunt.
"... America? Did you- didn't you like the story?"
He could tell another, he wanted to say. But he couldn't, because America's eyes, blue and wet, made him feel like there was a tiny needle stuck in his heart and-
"Did they do that?" America whispered, "Did they really hurt you?"
England stared at him. America grabbed his hand and held it against his cheek, and then he said:
"When I grow up, I will protect you always, all the time! I won't let them be mean to you!"
And then England could feel the wetness in his palm, so he picked him up and held him against his chest and he had to force himself to be careful so he wouldn't him too tight.
"That's not- America, I won that battle."
"But you got hurt," he sniffled, "You're hurt, and I didn't save you."
Oh, America, he thought. He kissed his head, and tried to explain he was supposed to take care of America, but the child refused to listen, pressing his face against England's chest and holding his shirt in his closed fist, and this time England had to wait until he was asleep to put him in bed again.
4. The one with the leaving
He wasn't supposed to enjoy this so much, he thought.
First, it wasn't right. America had been upset. That should make England feel guilty, and not... warm, not like he was feeling now. It shouldn't make him feel happy.
It shouldn't make him feel loved.
He put America in bed, and tucked him in, and then he brushed his soft golden hair from his forehead. So small, he thought, so small, living in this empty land.
... that was nonsense, of course. America had lived here well enough, he knew that. And the boy was strong. He knew that too. So he didn't need to worry.
England sighed. He got up, and took the candle from the bed stand. And stopped at the doorway, looking at America's sleeping form. A hero of his own.
It shouldn't make him feel like this. It was so daft, so childish, he was the British Empire, he didn't need any saving. Maybe he should go back home, before he could get too attached, before he could make a fool of himself.
He sighed.
At least he could come back with new stories to tell him. And it shouldn't, but that made him feel better anyway. He closed the door, and blew out the candle. And then he stood there in the darkness, scowling at himself. He didn't want to go, that was the truth. He had to, he had all the reasons to, but he wanted to stay here, wanted to hold him forever and protect him and watch those eyes light up with his words.
America was his, his little hero, and he didn't want to go.
Genre: Gen
Rating: Free
Summary: England tells a story, and baby America makes a promise.
1. The One with the Queen
The first story England told him was about the sea.
He was trying to explain how he had come to this new land, and how long it had taken him to cross the seas, but the child looked confused, his bright blue eyes looking up at him, and England wondered if he knew how vast the ocean was.
Maybe not. The child, America, had talked to him about his land, and forests, and rivers and mountains and strange animals, but not about the sea. So maybe it wasn't part of his life.
So England talked about it. He explained how the water was alive, how it had feelings and ideas of its own, how dangerous and fascinating it was, and he made grand gestures, making voices to convey the feelings of the ocean and the storm – he added a storm, later - and then he had trouble making the voice of the islands, who were supposed to be small, pretty girls, but he improvised with an extremely embarrassing falsetto.
It made America giggle, so it was worth it. And it made him widen his eyes when the storm attacked, and made him hold his breath when the battle happened, and it made him smile when everything ended in peace and happiness for everyone involved. It failed to make him sleepy, yes, but England didn't mind.
He held the child in his arms afterward. America was so small, so young. England would teach him how to be a proper gentleman later, tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, but now, just for now, he wanted to hold him, and see him fall asleep against his chest.
England couldn't help but smile. America had liked that, hadn't he? He was so bright, happy and bubbly and full of stories himself, but he had enjoyed it. This was new. Someone enjoying England's company.
So he did the same the next time. He started with an old legend about a fairy prince and a queen, and there was magic and adventures and then, by the middle of the story, he remembered that not everyone was going to come out of it alive, and that had never bothered him before, but- America was sitting on his bed, his blue eyes round and wide with worry, and England couldn't bring himself to tell him the real ending. So he added sword fights, because he knew America would love that, and heroic stunts, because America would love it even more, and a wedding at the end.
When he finished, America climbed into his lap. England smiled, pulling the blanket from the bed to cover him, holding him against his chest.
"I want princes too," America said, “And queens, and all.”
He sounded very sure of himself, as if he had thought about this long and hard before saying anything.
"But you do," England told him, ruffling his hair, "Now we have the same princes, and the same queen."
"Can she come visit me?"
"Ah-maybe," England said. And then, because America was starting to pout, he added, "She might be busy, but you can visit her. If you want to."
"I do! I want to visit her, England, please, will you take me? When you go? I want to see her! Is she pretty?"
"She's- striking, and yes, of course you'll see her, he said, "Now, sleep."
He didn't, because he wanted to talk about the finest points of the story. It was another thing he loved to do, recap everything and sometimes reenact his favorite parts, with the fighting moves he copied from England. It took him a long time to fall asleep.
It was only fair, because England didn't take him to see the queen, either. He couldn't bring America with him now, it just wasn't possible, the trip was too long and too harsh and too dangerous. And by the time he came back, months later, he didn't remember anymore.
2. The One with the Hero
His plots were always about things America loved. Swords, monsters, magic, science. Villains and heroes, and you could always tell which was which. A bright, clear line between good and bad. Daring rescues, last stands, fire and noise, and always a happy ending.
And, of course, stories about America. Both the land and the boy. The first time he interrupted a story to ask if he could be the hero, England was very surprised, and not completely sure he liked the idea. But then he saw the story could go its own way, he didn't need to change anything to make it work. America didn't mind being out of character, he just didn't want to be left out. So England told him of all the adventures he had never lived, the time he saved the kingdom and the time he had found a diamond and the time he killed a dragon. And so on. America giggled and beamed at him, and bounced on the bed when he was too excited, and whimpered when the plot got scary, and then he hid under the covers and England had to tell the story to a small bump of blankets and pillows.
When he left, America threw a tantrum, saying he wouldn't ever sleep again, ever, and wouldn't eat anything and wouldn't shower either and England would never find him when he came back because he would go all the way to the other side.
England wasn't sure how far that was. He knew there was more to that land than the shore, but he didn't know how much, or if America really could do it.
... scratch that, of course he could. He could do anything. England told him that, patting his back, and said he believed him, but he expected him to behave anyway, and tried to be stern and failed, because America melted over the compliment and hug his leg and smiled, and England couldn't be stern when he smiled.
So he told him he was going to bring more stories, that he would have lots of them when he came back. America agreed. He sniffled a little, later, but didn't cry, and England felt a surge of pride. My child, he thought, my child wants to stay with me.
3. The one with the villains
"Not this time," he said, when America asked for a story about himself, "This one if about me."
"Ooooh okay," his colony said, happily, "I like you."
England made a short pause, to breathe and blink a few times. He smiled:
"Well. I'm glad. Now pay attention."
It was about France too, and Spain, and it was a difficult story to tell, because England had to show both were no match to the British Empire, but that America still shouldn't trust them, or talk to them, or even come near if they happened to pass by. So he told him about their battles, and blood and darkness, and maybe he had mixed their wars a bit, but who cared?
When he was done, he waited for the excited questions, but America was unusually silent. This time his face looked almost white, and he was looking at the covers, running his little finger over the fabric, his small shoulders tense and taunt.
"... America? Did you- didn't you like the story?"
He could tell another, he wanted to say. But he couldn't, because America's eyes, blue and wet, made him feel like there was a tiny needle stuck in his heart and-
"Did they do that?" America whispered, "Did they really hurt you?"
England stared at him. America grabbed his hand and held it against his cheek, and then he said:
"When I grow up, I will protect you always, all the time! I won't let them be mean to you!"
And then England could feel the wetness in his palm, so he picked him up and held him against his chest and he had to force himself to be careful so he wouldn't him too tight.
"That's not- America, I won that battle."
"But you got hurt," he sniffled, "You're hurt, and I didn't save you."
Oh, America, he thought. He kissed his head, and tried to explain he was supposed to take care of America, but the child refused to listen, pressing his face against England's chest and holding his shirt in his closed fist, and this time England had to wait until he was asleep to put him in bed again.
4. The one with the leaving
He wasn't supposed to enjoy this so much, he thought.
First, it wasn't right. America had been upset. That should make England feel guilty, and not... warm, not like he was feeling now. It shouldn't make him feel happy.
It shouldn't make him feel loved.
He put America in bed, and tucked him in, and then he brushed his soft golden hair from his forehead. So small, he thought, so small, living in this empty land.
... that was nonsense, of course. America had lived here well enough, he knew that. And the boy was strong. He knew that too. So he didn't need to worry.
England sighed. He got up, and took the candle from the bed stand. And stopped at the doorway, looking at America's sleeping form. A hero of his own.
It shouldn't make him feel like this. It was so daft, so childish, he was the British Empire, he didn't need any saving. Maybe he should go back home, before he could get too attached, before he could make a fool of himself.
He sighed.
At least he could come back with new stories to tell him. And it shouldn't, but that made him feel better anyway. He closed the door, and blew out the candle. And then he stood there in the darkness, scowling at himself. He didn't want to go, that was the truth. He had to, he had all the reasons to, but he wanted to stay here, wanted to hold him forever and protect him and watch those eyes light up with his words.
America was his, his little hero, and he didn't want to go.
