[CHAPTERFIC] You Can't Take the Sky From Me Chapter Eleven (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Title: You Can't Take the Sky From Me [FF.NET Chapter Eleven] [ Writing Journal Previous Chapters ]
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly, SpainxRomano. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 2,958
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: He cursed the smug flyboy inwardly for forcing him to become fond of him, as clearly it was America’s fault. He didn’t know how, but as he could scarcely think of more than a couple things he found remotely likable about the man, it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to.
Veneziano sprang out of his chair and bounced over to the phone, picking it up with an excited “Lieutenant Vargas speaking!”
“Lieutenant Vargas, it’s Captain Jones,” came the reply from the other end of the line. Veneziano smiled and leaned his head back toward Germany.
“Germany, Germany. Captain Jones is on the phone.” He nodded and walked briskly over, reaching for the phone.
“Ah! This phonecall is actually for you, Lieutenant,” America clarified, his voice cheerful, almost laughing.
“Ve, Germany. Did you hear that? Captain Jones wants to talk to me.” Veneziano pulled away the receiver and pressed his hand against it.
“Very well,” Germany replied and sat back down, a small smile crossing his lips as he watched Veneziano.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Is there anyone in the room you don’t feel like you can trust completely?”
Veneziano bit his lip and didn’t hesitate before replying. “Just Germany, and I’d trust him with anything. There’s nothing you could tell me that you can’t tell him!”
“A-all right, if you insist.” America took a deep breath. “I met your brother.”
“Romano, you met Romano?” Veneziano exclaimed. “But… how?”
Germany’s interest was piqued at this. His eyebrows raised and he tuned his ears toward the phonecall. “That’s kind of why I’m calling you.” At this, America’s voice shifted dramatically. He sounded serious, almost distressed.
Veneziano's eyes widened. “Is--- something wrong?” His knees wobbled under him, nearly buckling.
“Your brother is fine!” America rectified quickly. “But the ship he’s on was… attacked by the Kosmider.” Veneziano's breath hitched in his throat. “I thought that I should tell you about it, ‘cuz… well…”
“How is everyone else? Is he hurt?” Veneziano was panicked, his free hand clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt.
“Spain and Romano were the only survivors. And he got banged up, but he’s not seriously injured,” America explained. Veneziano didn’t fight the tears that filled his eyes. He’d never been the type to deny himself a good cry. But his brother was okay, and as much as it hurt to think of the fates of the other crew members (most of whom he’d met only in passing), Romano was alive. He hadn’t seen him in half a year, oh God if he’d died and that had been the case he didn’t know what he’d--- “They’re staying on another ship right now,” America interrupted.
"The Victoria?” Veneziano asked with a sniffle. He knew that the Taliesin pirates were the greatest allies of his brother’s crew. He glanced back at Germany, who was listening intently, his eyes having grown wide at the shift in conversation to the other crew. Another thought struck him. “I-if it’s the Victoria, is everyone okay?”
The other end of the line went quiet. “How did you--- yes, everyone on the Victoria is going to be fine. You can thank them for saving the day. Well and me. I was a pretty big hero out there.”
“Thank you, Captain Jones,” Veneziano replied, truly grateful.
“Just doin’ my job!”
Veneziano pressed his hand to the receiver once more and beamed back at Germany. “Did you hear that? Everyone on the Victoria is okay! Ve, that’s wonderful.”
“Veneziano,” America used his first name and his voice was intent, resolute, firm.
“Yes?”
“It’s real dangerous out there right now. The Kosmider… I’ve seen them now and, well I’ll be honest, I was scared.” He let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I mean not much scares me, but y’know.” America exhaled deeply. “Just keep your brother close, okay?”
Veneziano nodded. “I will… keep my brother close,” he repeated. His eyes flitted to Germany once more, who looked away, as if avoiding Veneziano's gaze.
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England had hidden away in his cabin. The ship was on track toward its destination, and he’d entrusted Switzerland with navigation as needed. He just wanted some time alone, without his chaotic crew and all the conflict that came with them, or the baggage that came with Spain and Romano’s appearance on the ship.
Or the constant taunting he received about America. That was the worst. He flushed, his cheeks hot at the thought of Prussia’s frequent snipes about ‘boy toys’ and all that rubbish. Plus, he’d had to contact crews regarding the Kosmider information. He’d just gotten off the radio with the Ukko pirates.
Sighing to himself, he pulled needle and thread through and finished stitching up the hole in his hat. America had quipped about it ‘maybe being important’ or something, but in truth he was right. He’d had that old hat since he first became captain. And before that the hat…
England shook his head and tied off the last stitch. He longed do work on his needlepoint, which always calmed him, but he knew with an injured hand, he couldn’t handle the tiny stitches and detail required to do so.
And speaking of, England glanced at his bandaged hand with a frown. 'You have to change it once a day.' America’s demand was simple enough and obvious as well. But in truth, he’d completely forgotten to do so until now.
He slid open one of his drawers, immaculately organized, and snatched a roll of clean bandages. Then he unwrapped his current bandage, the white fabric falling onto the floor and revealing the tender and swollen flesh beneath it.
It looked better, he thought. The swelling had gone down and while the wound was still fresh, it didn’t appear quite as raw.
There was a small washbasin by his bed, and he grabbed the bar of soap that sat beside it and dipped a cloth into the water, cleaning the wound and ignoring the searing pain that overcame him as the rough fabric pressed against it. He dried it off and gently wrapped a new bandage around his hand. Once he’d tied it off, he leaned down to pick the discarded one up off the floor.
England paused, old bandage in hand, and his mind flashed back to America chiding him over the injury. 'Stupidly heroic', those had been his exact words, although he’d backtracked on them when England had pointed it out. A half smile crossed his face, unbidden.
That insufferably stupid man would simply not leave his mind. This had been a constant state of affairs the past several days. After the first visit it was him wondering why he couldn’t hate America, after the second it was his constant curiosity over whether America could keep his promise (and as much as he loathed admitting it, the greater part of it had hoped he’d be proven wrong, and that America would come, guns blazing, to help when he called).
After the third… well his mind was a jumble. There was irritation, there was worry, there was confusion, and worst of all, the thing he hated to admit most, there was fondness.
He cursed the smug flyboy inwardly for forcing him to become fond of him, as clearly it was America’s fault. He didn’t know how, but as he could scarcely think of more than a couple things he found remotely likable about the man, it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to.
Perhaps it was merely shallow. America was, he could not deny, extremely attractive. He remembered the way his bright blue eyes flickered, their gaze intent, when he’d surveyed England’s wounds. He recalled his soft blond hair that always stuck out at random points from his aviator cap. He was buoyant, and the very way in which he moved screamed of the freedom he found in the sky, and his carefree youthfulness, untainted by the world. And his smile; that was the worst. It was bright and full of life and confident as all but Christ almighty it made him want to stare and not look away and…
It was all America’s fault, no doubt.
England rubbed the bandage on his cheek, flushing. “I should switch this one as well.” He reached in the drawer and pulled out a piece of gauze and a roll of tape, then washed and replaced that bandage.
It was then that he noticed that he was still holding the bandage he’d been given the previous night. He threw it onto his desk as if it were a hot coal.
But he wouldn’t trust someone he merely found attractive. And he’d trusted America with a great secret. He’d put him on the same level of his closest allies, and he knew it.
England clenched his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, spotting his personal radio when he opened them. You could contact him… He shook his head. You have information on the Kosmider. He should know, right? England excused.
But America would contact him if he so wanted to see him again. Why bother if America had no interest in meeting another time?
“Idiot, it’s not about seeing him again, it’s about working against the Kosmider,” he told himself, not entirely convinced.
He’d try the radio in his plane on the off chance he was there. If not he could try the crank radio he’d loaned him…
England toyed with the radio, his hands shaking. The radio crackled and whined as he searched for the correct frequency. There. “A-America, A-America…”
He gritted his teeth and switched the radio off; swifter than he was certain he was capable of. Fucking hell. England shoved himself out of the chair and threw his body onto the bed, his stomach against the mattress, his hands underneath his forehead, and his reddening face muffled into the pillow. It was so like the previous night, when America had left him behind on the deck. He’d shoved his face beneath his arms in an attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t insanely, ridiculously flustered. But he wasn’t foolish enough to deny that he had been, and he was now as well. What the hell was his problem?
Somewhere in his subconscious, an answer to that flickered to life, but England quashed his train of thought before it could become anything more than that, a glimmer of something at the back of his mind.
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“It’s started appearing more predominantly in the newspapers,” Japan noted as he threw that day’s issue onto the table, folded in half.
America frowned, taking the paper and shaking it open. It was tucked at the bottom of the front page, but it was on the front page nonetheless. “Attacks continue on merchant ships,” he read the headline.
Japan nodded. “It’s been in the paper before, but always tucked as a small footnote inside.”
America skimmed the article, resting his chin on his hand as he did so. “It sucks.”
“Captain?” Japan sat down next to his superior and glanced over at him.
America sighed and slid his hand down his face. “This is a worldwide catastrophe, Japan! And this article makes it sounds like a couple of idiots in a zeppelin are flying around getting a few lucky shots in on merchant ships. Just merchant ships too.”
“What else would it be? There hasn’t been an attack on military vessels yet.” Japan raised an eyebrow.
Pirates, the word died on America’s lips before he could speak it. “It just… this is a big deal Japan. Why are they trying to make it into something less?”
Japan frowned. “Maybe the Kosmider won’t amount to much…”
America shot him a steely glare. “They will.”
And so forceful was America’s tone, that Japan merely nodded and didn’t question him. “But we have been receiving some intelligence on them lately. I’m sure you know…”
“Yeah.”
“General Wang contacted the base today,” Japan noted. “Have you heard yet?” America shook his head in the negative. “The navy has been scouting around, picking up stragglers from fallen ships. Ah, he found a huge mess the other day about two hundred kilometers west of Luong.”
America gripped the edge of the table, his breath catching in his throat. “Wh-what?”
“A merchant ship and a pirate ship, both in shambles. Most of the wreckage had already sunk, of course. There were also two fallen zeppelins, so it appears whoever this was put up a fight.”
“Well there were reports of attacks there,” America replied, his voice having grown quieter. He hadn’t told Japan or France about his whereabouts six days before. Indeed, it had been almost a week since he’d last spoken to England. He wondered how he was. Perhaps he should contact---
“Yes, I remember that,” Japan replied. “Well General Wang--- “
“WAIT!” America shouted. “Were there any survivors?” His knuckles were now white from gripping the table.
“I’m afraid not,” Japan spoke morosely.
America deflated, his small string of hope having been cut. He prayed that Japan did not notice how unusually enthusiastic he’d been in asking.
“General Wang, China, has been extremely helpful. Information on the Kosmider is supposedly difficult to come by. We saw for ourselves how elusive they are.” Japan averted his dark eyes. “It’s not right that the newspapers aren’t treating this like a serious threat but… for now it’s best we just follow orders. I’m sure the military will have this all worked out.”
America bit his lip, and went silent for several moments. “Y-yeah, I guess,” he finally spoke. Japan couldn’t help but notice that for once, his captain didn’t agree right away to put his confidence in the military.
It was at that awkward moment that France chose to gallivant into the hangar, a smirk on his face. “Afternoon, you two.” He winked and pulled out a chair, sliding into it across from America and Japan.
“Afternoon,” Japan replied, polite as ever.
America crinkled his nose, finally registering France’s appearance. He was wearing a white shirt, buttons half undone and hanging off one shoulder as if it had been stretched. There were, oh God, lipstick marks pressed all over his visible chest and up onto his neck and… “Ugh, France! Take a fucking shower or change clothes or…”
“Is my attire a problem?” France feigned innocence, which America found to be pointless, as no one could ever convince him that France was innocent of anything. “I assure you this shirt is my uniform shirt, and these pants are regulation as well.”
Japan was pointedly looking away, seemingly embarrassed at the mere presence of France and his lipstick stained chest.
“Look, we’re working here! You don’t use your lunch break to have sex with a random lady at the nearest bar or whatever and then subject us to the nasty evidence of it.” America leaned forward on the table as he spoke.
France chuckled, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but the question is, who says it was a random lady?”
“Okay, your exploits with queens or dudes in lipstick or hell, inanimate objects. I never know with you,” America huffed.
“Inanimate objects?” France gasped, mock scandalized. “That is not my thing.”
Japan was now hiding behind the paper, his body leaning over the table, in attempt to ignore the entirety of the scene in front of him.
“If it moves, it’s your thing.”
“You underestimate my taste,” France argued.
America rubbed his forehead, giving up. “Just button up your damn shirt.”
“Ah but…”
“Captain’s orders.”
France pouted and buttoned his shirt. “Captain,” he used the term teasingly, “if we are such outstanding aviators, which some of us are, why have we been sitting at base for the last week doing nothing? There are things going on out there, many things.”
America shook his head. Japan had put the paper down, as it was safe to look up now. “I don’t know, dammit,” he grumbled. “Trust me, if it were up to me… we’d be out there fighting off zeppelins right now.”
France smirked. “Ah, is the favorite feeling a bit rebellious?”
America’s blue eyes flitted to the side, and he caught his plane out of the corner of his eye. “It’s… just… “ He paused. Did he really want to say this to France? “We’re the heroes, and we’re sitting around waiting until it’s okay for us to fight. Because it’s not time yet to go to war, because a certain amount of people have to die first. I don’t even know why!”
France’s eyes widened. Japan looked shocked as well. “One person dying is too many, and it’s already gone way beyond that. Fuck it!” He clenched his eyes shut. “I just want to be in my plane taking those damn bastards down, finding out who is in charge and…”
“America,” France interrupted, voice surprisingly soft. “Calm down.”
The younger man took a deep breath, inwardly counting in attempt to assuage his anger. “S-sorry. I’m not sure what happened there.”
“Being part of the military doesn’t mean you always have to agree with them,” France began. “True, that may be one of the reasons why they like you so much.” America opened his mouth to protest, but France continued. “But blind devotion only leads to trouble.” America nodded. “To think you don’t have the right to disagree? You are so naïve.”
“Yeah, you tell me that all the damn time.”
“It’s only the truth.” France shrugged. “I’m sure even goody two shoes Captain America has a bit of a rebellious streak to him.” He winked suggestively.
America snorted. “God, you make everything sound so pornographic.”
France placed his hand over his chest, faking innocence again. “Truly America, your mind is soundly in the gutter. Why do you insist on assuming my words are laced with innuendo?”
Japan rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “Captain, I’m sorry but I must request that I don’t believe you should even dignify that with an answer.”
“Request granted.” America grinned.
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly, SpainxRomano. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 2,958
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: He cursed the smug flyboy inwardly for forcing him to become fond of him, as clearly it was America’s fault. He didn’t know how, but as he could scarcely think of more than a couple things he found remotely likable about the man, it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to.
Veneziano sprang out of his chair and bounced over to the phone, picking it up with an excited “Lieutenant Vargas speaking!”
“Lieutenant Vargas, it’s Captain Jones,” came the reply from the other end of the line. Veneziano smiled and leaned his head back toward Germany.
“Germany, Germany. Captain Jones is on the phone.” He nodded and walked briskly over, reaching for the phone.
“Ah! This phonecall is actually for you, Lieutenant,” America clarified, his voice cheerful, almost laughing.
“Ve, Germany. Did you hear that? Captain Jones wants to talk to me.” Veneziano pulled away the receiver and pressed his hand against it.
“Very well,” Germany replied and sat back down, a small smile crossing his lips as he watched Veneziano.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Is there anyone in the room you don’t feel like you can trust completely?”
Veneziano bit his lip and didn’t hesitate before replying. “Just Germany, and I’d trust him with anything. There’s nothing you could tell me that you can’t tell him!”
“A-all right, if you insist.” America took a deep breath. “I met your brother.”
“Romano, you met Romano?” Veneziano exclaimed. “But… how?”
Germany’s interest was piqued at this. His eyebrows raised and he tuned his ears toward the phonecall. “That’s kind of why I’m calling you.” At this, America’s voice shifted dramatically. He sounded serious, almost distressed.
Veneziano's eyes widened. “Is--- something wrong?” His knees wobbled under him, nearly buckling.
“Your brother is fine!” America rectified quickly. “But the ship he’s on was… attacked by the Kosmider.” Veneziano's breath hitched in his throat. “I thought that I should tell you about it, ‘cuz… well…”
“How is everyone else? Is he hurt?” Veneziano was panicked, his free hand clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt.
“Spain and Romano were the only survivors. And he got banged up, but he’s not seriously injured,” America explained. Veneziano didn’t fight the tears that filled his eyes. He’d never been the type to deny himself a good cry. But his brother was okay, and as much as it hurt to think of the fates of the other crew members (most of whom he’d met only in passing), Romano was alive. He hadn’t seen him in half a year, oh God if he’d died and that had been the case he didn’t know what he’d--- “They’re staying on another ship right now,” America interrupted.
"The Victoria?” Veneziano asked with a sniffle. He knew that the Taliesin pirates were the greatest allies of his brother’s crew. He glanced back at Germany, who was listening intently, his eyes having grown wide at the shift in conversation to the other crew. Another thought struck him. “I-if it’s the Victoria, is everyone okay?”
The other end of the line went quiet. “How did you--- yes, everyone on the Victoria is going to be fine. You can thank them for saving the day. Well and me. I was a pretty big hero out there.”
“Thank you, Captain Jones,” Veneziano replied, truly grateful.
“Just doin’ my job!”
Veneziano pressed his hand to the receiver once more and beamed back at Germany. “Did you hear that? Everyone on the Victoria is okay! Ve, that’s wonderful.”
“Veneziano,” America used his first name and his voice was intent, resolute, firm.
“Yes?”
“It’s real dangerous out there right now. The Kosmider… I’ve seen them now and, well I’ll be honest, I was scared.” He let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I mean not much scares me, but y’know.” America exhaled deeply. “Just keep your brother close, okay?”
Veneziano nodded. “I will… keep my brother close,” he repeated. His eyes flitted to Germany once more, who looked away, as if avoiding Veneziano's gaze.
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England had hidden away in his cabin. The ship was on track toward its destination, and he’d entrusted Switzerland with navigation as needed. He just wanted some time alone, without his chaotic crew and all the conflict that came with them, or the baggage that came with Spain and Romano’s appearance on the ship.
Or the constant taunting he received about America. That was the worst. He flushed, his cheeks hot at the thought of Prussia’s frequent snipes about ‘boy toys’ and all that rubbish. Plus, he’d had to contact crews regarding the Kosmider information. He’d just gotten off the radio with the Ukko pirates.
Sighing to himself, he pulled needle and thread through and finished stitching up the hole in his hat. America had quipped about it ‘maybe being important’ or something, but in truth he was right. He’d had that old hat since he first became captain. And before that the hat…
England shook his head and tied off the last stitch. He longed do work on his needlepoint, which always calmed him, but he knew with an injured hand, he couldn’t handle the tiny stitches and detail required to do so.
And speaking of, England glanced at his bandaged hand with a frown. 'You have to change it once a day.' America’s demand was simple enough and obvious as well. But in truth, he’d completely forgotten to do so until now.
He slid open one of his drawers, immaculately organized, and snatched a roll of clean bandages. Then he unwrapped his current bandage, the white fabric falling onto the floor and revealing the tender and swollen flesh beneath it.
It looked better, he thought. The swelling had gone down and while the wound was still fresh, it didn’t appear quite as raw.
There was a small washbasin by his bed, and he grabbed the bar of soap that sat beside it and dipped a cloth into the water, cleaning the wound and ignoring the searing pain that overcame him as the rough fabric pressed against it. He dried it off and gently wrapped a new bandage around his hand. Once he’d tied it off, he leaned down to pick the discarded one up off the floor.
England paused, old bandage in hand, and his mind flashed back to America chiding him over the injury. 'Stupidly heroic', those had been his exact words, although he’d backtracked on them when England had pointed it out. A half smile crossed his face, unbidden.
That insufferably stupid man would simply not leave his mind. This had been a constant state of affairs the past several days. After the first visit it was him wondering why he couldn’t hate America, after the second it was his constant curiosity over whether America could keep his promise (and as much as he loathed admitting it, the greater part of it had hoped he’d be proven wrong, and that America would come, guns blazing, to help when he called).
After the third… well his mind was a jumble. There was irritation, there was worry, there was confusion, and worst of all, the thing he hated to admit most, there was fondness.
He cursed the smug flyboy inwardly for forcing him to become fond of him, as clearly it was America’s fault. He didn’t know how, but as he could scarcely think of more than a couple things he found remotely likable about the man, it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to.
Perhaps it was merely shallow. America was, he could not deny, extremely attractive. He remembered the way his bright blue eyes flickered, their gaze intent, when he’d surveyed England’s wounds. He recalled his soft blond hair that always stuck out at random points from his aviator cap. He was buoyant, and the very way in which he moved screamed of the freedom he found in the sky, and his carefree youthfulness, untainted by the world. And his smile; that was the worst. It was bright and full of life and confident as all but Christ almighty it made him want to stare and not look away and…
It was all America’s fault, no doubt.
England rubbed the bandage on his cheek, flushing. “I should switch this one as well.” He reached in the drawer and pulled out a piece of gauze and a roll of tape, then washed and replaced that bandage.
It was then that he noticed that he was still holding the bandage he’d been given the previous night. He threw it onto his desk as if it were a hot coal.
But he wouldn’t trust someone he merely found attractive. And he’d trusted America with a great secret. He’d put him on the same level of his closest allies, and he knew it.
England clenched his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, spotting his personal radio when he opened them. You could contact him… He shook his head. You have information on the Kosmider. He should know, right? England excused.
But America would contact him if he so wanted to see him again. Why bother if America had no interest in meeting another time?
“Idiot, it’s not about seeing him again, it’s about working against the Kosmider,” he told himself, not entirely convinced.
He’d try the radio in his plane on the off chance he was there. If not he could try the crank radio he’d loaned him…
England toyed with the radio, his hands shaking. The radio crackled and whined as he searched for the correct frequency. There. “A-America, A-America…”
He gritted his teeth and switched the radio off; swifter than he was certain he was capable of. Fucking hell. England shoved himself out of the chair and threw his body onto the bed, his stomach against the mattress, his hands underneath his forehead, and his reddening face muffled into the pillow. It was so like the previous night, when America had left him behind on the deck. He’d shoved his face beneath his arms in an attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t insanely, ridiculously flustered. But he wasn’t foolish enough to deny that he had been, and he was now as well. What the hell was his problem?
Somewhere in his subconscious, an answer to that flickered to life, but England quashed his train of thought before it could become anything more than that, a glimmer of something at the back of his mind.
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“It’s started appearing more predominantly in the newspapers,” Japan noted as he threw that day’s issue onto the table, folded in half.
America frowned, taking the paper and shaking it open. It was tucked at the bottom of the front page, but it was on the front page nonetheless. “Attacks continue on merchant ships,” he read the headline.
Japan nodded. “It’s been in the paper before, but always tucked as a small footnote inside.”
America skimmed the article, resting his chin on his hand as he did so. “It sucks.”
“Captain?” Japan sat down next to his superior and glanced over at him.
America sighed and slid his hand down his face. “This is a worldwide catastrophe, Japan! And this article makes it sounds like a couple of idiots in a zeppelin are flying around getting a few lucky shots in on merchant ships. Just merchant ships too.”
“What else would it be? There hasn’t been an attack on military vessels yet.” Japan raised an eyebrow.
Pirates, the word died on America’s lips before he could speak it. “It just… this is a big deal Japan. Why are they trying to make it into something less?”
Japan frowned. “Maybe the Kosmider won’t amount to much…”
America shot him a steely glare. “They will.”
And so forceful was America’s tone, that Japan merely nodded and didn’t question him. “But we have been receiving some intelligence on them lately. I’m sure you know…”
“Yeah.”
“General Wang contacted the base today,” Japan noted. “Have you heard yet?” America shook his head in the negative. “The navy has been scouting around, picking up stragglers from fallen ships. Ah, he found a huge mess the other day about two hundred kilometers west of Luong.”
America gripped the edge of the table, his breath catching in his throat. “Wh-what?”
“A merchant ship and a pirate ship, both in shambles. Most of the wreckage had already sunk, of course. There were also two fallen zeppelins, so it appears whoever this was put up a fight.”
“Well there were reports of attacks there,” America replied, his voice having grown quieter. He hadn’t told Japan or France about his whereabouts six days before. Indeed, it had been almost a week since he’d last spoken to England. He wondered how he was. Perhaps he should contact---
“Yes, I remember that,” Japan replied. “Well General Wang--- “
“WAIT!” America shouted. “Were there any survivors?” His knuckles were now white from gripping the table.
“I’m afraid not,” Japan spoke morosely.
America deflated, his small string of hope having been cut. He prayed that Japan did not notice how unusually enthusiastic he’d been in asking.
“General Wang, China, has been extremely helpful. Information on the Kosmider is supposedly difficult to come by. We saw for ourselves how elusive they are.” Japan averted his dark eyes. “It’s not right that the newspapers aren’t treating this like a serious threat but… for now it’s best we just follow orders. I’m sure the military will have this all worked out.”
America bit his lip, and went silent for several moments. “Y-yeah, I guess,” he finally spoke. Japan couldn’t help but notice that for once, his captain didn’t agree right away to put his confidence in the military.
It was at that awkward moment that France chose to gallivant into the hangar, a smirk on his face. “Afternoon, you two.” He winked and pulled out a chair, sliding into it across from America and Japan.
“Afternoon,” Japan replied, polite as ever.
America crinkled his nose, finally registering France’s appearance. He was wearing a white shirt, buttons half undone and hanging off one shoulder as if it had been stretched. There were, oh God, lipstick marks pressed all over his visible chest and up onto his neck and… “Ugh, France! Take a fucking shower or change clothes or…”
“Is my attire a problem?” France feigned innocence, which America found to be pointless, as no one could ever convince him that France was innocent of anything. “I assure you this shirt is my uniform shirt, and these pants are regulation as well.”
Japan was pointedly looking away, seemingly embarrassed at the mere presence of France and his lipstick stained chest.
“Look, we’re working here! You don’t use your lunch break to have sex with a random lady at the nearest bar or whatever and then subject us to the nasty evidence of it.” America leaned forward on the table as he spoke.
France chuckled, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but the question is, who says it was a random lady?”
“Okay, your exploits with queens or dudes in lipstick or hell, inanimate objects. I never know with you,” America huffed.
“Inanimate objects?” France gasped, mock scandalized. “That is not my thing.”
Japan was now hiding behind the paper, his body leaning over the table, in attempt to ignore the entirety of the scene in front of him.
“If it moves, it’s your thing.”
“You underestimate my taste,” France argued.
America rubbed his forehead, giving up. “Just button up your damn shirt.”
“Ah but…”
“Captain’s orders.”
France pouted and buttoned his shirt. “Captain,” he used the term teasingly, “if we are such outstanding aviators, which some of us are, why have we been sitting at base for the last week doing nothing? There are things going on out there, many things.”
America shook his head. Japan had put the paper down, as it was safe to look up now. “I don’t know, dammit,” he grumbled. “Trust me, if it were up to me… we’d be out there fighting off zeppelins right now.”
France smirked. “Ah, is the favorite feeling a bit rebellious?”
America’s blue eyes flitted to the side, and he caught his plane out of the corner of his eye. “It’s… just… “ He paused. Did he really want to say this to France? “We’re the heroes, and we’re sitting around waiting until it’s okay for us to fight. Because it’s not time yet to go to war, because a certain amount of people have to die first. I don’t even know why!”
France’s eyes widened. Japan looked shocked as well. “One person dying is too many, and it’s already gone way beyond that. Fuck it!” He clenched his eyes shut. “I just want to be in my plane taking those damn bastards down, finding out who is in charge and…”
“America,” France interrupted, voice surprisingly soft. “Calm down.”
The younger man took a deep breath, inwardly counting in attempt to assuage his anger. “S-sorry. I’m not sure what happened there.”
“Being part of the military doesn’t mean you always have to agree with them,” France began. “True, that may be one of the reasons why they like you so much.” America opened his mouth to protest, but France continued. “But blind devotion only leads to trouble.” America nodded. “To think you don’t have the right to disagree? You are so naïve.”
“Yeah, you tell me that all the damn time.”
“It’s only the truth.” France shrugged. “I’m sure even goody two shoes Captain America has a bit of a rebellious streak to him.” He winked suggestively.
America snorted. “God, you make everything sound so pornographic.”
France placed his hand over his chest, faking innocence again. “Truly America, your mind is soundly in the gutter. Why do you insist on assuming my words are laced with innuendo?”
Japan rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “Captain, I’m sorry but I must request that I don’t believe you should even dignify that with an answer.”
“Request granted.” America grinned.