Family Ties [Part 93]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): America, Mexico, Spain, Romano, England, Diaspora!Israel, Scotland, France, India, Ireland, Wales, Belarus and Prussia
Rating: 15
Warnings: Fiiiillerrrrrrrr
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
This wasn't real.
He was dreaming, he had to be dreaming, he'd wake up soon and it would be 2020 and this would be some horrible nightmare and none of this would have happened. The world would be normal, and simple, and he'd still be the hero and not suddenly the villain. The world was suddenly upside down and everyone was looking at him like it was his fault, like he'd blown up the first city when it had been Russia, Russia, Russia.
He hadn't started this.
He hadn't.
... right?
Something horrible and bitter and angry whispered in his ear, "yes, this is your fault. Look at what you've done. Look! America the idiot! America the little kid with big guns he can't handle. Why do you even exist, you pathetic excuse for a Nation."
He slammed his hands over his ears hard enough to make them flatten against his head, painfully pressing against his glasses.
"No no no no no!" he yelled, trying to drown it out. There were protesters in the streets, but there were always protesters in the streets, they had the freedom to say what they wanted how they wanted, as long as nobody resorted to violence. They had that freedom.
But...
Why were they getting arrested?
"Stop it!"
America turned a corner too early, clipping the wall with his shoulder and losing balance, spinning and falling to the floor, instinctively curling up, hands still over his ears. Were the explosions in his head or outside of it? The floor was shaking. Or was that him too?
"It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault..." he muttered over and over, as though he could make it true if he tried even when he could feel the words ring false.
"America?"
He froze, and looked up at the door he was closest to, where the sound had come from. Where had he run to, in the end?
"I know it's you, gringo! Let me out!"
Blue eyes stared at the door.
"Alfred!"
America grit his teeth, and grabbed at the keys on his belt. With a rattle, he found the right one, and opened the door. Mexico looked up at him from where she had been putting her ear against the door to hear him, surprised that he'd simply opened the door. Without a moment's more hesitation, she dove past him and out of his reach, looking behind her and stopping when she saw America hadn't made any move to stop her.
"¿Por qué...?"
"Go." America growled, not looking at her. "Run, before I change my mind again."
Mexico took a few steps back, and then ran into someone.
"Mexico!" cried Spain, elated, and suddenly wrapped his arms around the shorter woman. She squeaked and wriggled out of the hug, then darted behind Spain, using him as a human shield and cautiously eyeing America.
"If you think letting me go changes anything, you're mistaken!" Mexico exclaimed, and America flinched slightly. "This is just a dent in the reputation you've given yourself as a warmonger. I won't forgive you so easily!"
Spain looked from Mexico to America, and a subtle change came to his smile. It wasn't any less sincere, per se, but it was certainly a lot less happy.
"So, America." he placed a fist in his hand and cracked his knuckles one by one. "Do I have to chase you or am I going to take you with me quietly?"
"Aw, what the hell?" America gestured skyward, exasperated. "You weren't even in this fucking war five seconds ago!"
"Si, but I am now." Spain chirped. Behind him, Romano finally caught up.
"Don't run so fast, bastard-" he picked up on the situation startlingly quickly for someone so closely related to Feliciano. "Oh shit."
America tensed. Why were they all looking at him like he was going to pull a gun on them at any second. He wouldn't do that. Not unprovoked. He always had a reason, he always...
Never out of just spite, that was Russia's thing...
'We are more alike than you think, America.'
"Shut up." he hissed at nothing. He didn't even have his gun to shoot with; he'd left it back with Ukraine and Russia and not-Mattie.
'Alfred... what have you done?'
"Shut up!" he was running before he could even think about it. He had to get away from this. He had to go where he wasn't wrong, where he was in the right and everything was normal.
He had to go to England.
---
England really, really, really hated hospitals. Even one commandeered from Russia for use of general wounded no matter what, now they'd pretty much won the capital. Every single thing about them irritated him; the endless checks, the lack of things to do, the machinery keeping magical creatures from entering within 500 feet of the building. It was annoying.
But the worst thing he hated about them was being coddled like a bloody child.
"I really must protest; I can feed myself- mmphf!" his snippy remark was cut off by the spoonful of oatmeal that saw his open mouth as an opportunity. Sarah waited until he'd grumpily swallowed the food before withdrawing her weapon- er, cutlery.
"I know you can, but allow me to play my little role, okay Arthur?" As always, Sarah's accent was impossible to place, Yiddish with a hint of American, French, German, Spanish, Russian, and god only knew what else. "Not all of us have the privilege of running around being important enough to get bombed like you have."
England's eye twitched. "If you think that I wanted this to happen you're- mmphmm!"
Sarah smiled at him, all motherly patience and it was getting on England's nerves. "Swallow quickly or you'll be eating the spoon itself."
"Yeah England, swallow it" Scotland snickered. France smirked to himself, though he looked paler by the day. England refused to admit any worry over him.
"Fmmk oo." the younger nation grumbled, and when it seemed that his meaning hadn't quite been grasped around the spoon he had in his mouth, he flipped his brother the bird instead.
Beyond them, Ireland was finally sitting up and talking, albeit quietly and with a distinctive rasp to her voice. It was uncertain whether it was the burning from the bomb or all the screaming she'd done that had damaged her so, but she couldn't speak above a loud whisper. She had a bowl of warm broth in her lap, using her uninjured hand to eat it, though she seemed to be waiting for it to cool before she did. Unfortunately for both Scotland and England's morale, her position was to their left, and so most of what they could see of her was burned and red and scarred and bandaged. She'd brushed her hair to the side to cover the burn on her face, though a long red line crept over the bridge of her nose to stop midway across her other cheek, accentuating the dark rings under her eyes from lack of sleep.
Nearby, India was bustling about packing up her things. Though relatively unmarred by the war, she definitely looked as tired as Ireland, and was currently muttering about the stress probably turning her hair gray, though there wasn't a single white hair in sight.
"I'm going to have flown around the world eight more times before this is over." She grumbled, roughly pulling the zip of her bag shut and slinging it over her shoulder. Then, in a sudden switch, she gently touched Ireland's hand. "I'll be back, okay? Just got to sort out the rest of this mess. Don't do anything rash." Her voice was low and careful, soothing, but a worried crease appeared between the red head's eyebrows.
"Don't you do anything like that either." she whispered. India simply smiled and stood, walking to the other end of the ward.
"Not like we can do much with yer back up here!" Scotland called after her. She paused in the doorway and shared a look with Sarah. They nodded, and India left.
"Great, now you allied them against us." England said. "Good going."
---
Wales stared at his mashed potatoes with a thoughtfulness not usually seen on a face as young as his. Next to him, seated on a booster chair much as he (humiliatingly) was, Belarus picked at her food, still clutching the sunflower toy. Prussia had no such problems with appetite, and was clearing his plate of food at the speed of sound.
"Hey, Prussia." he said finally.
"Hmmphf?" the red eyed Nation mumbled around his food.
"When am I allowed to go back to my family?"
Prussia swallowed and gestured with his fork, a skewered sausage on the end. "When you're called. And you'll know when you're called, trust me."
"Right." the blonde said, looking back down at his food. He usually liked mashed potatoes and sausages, but he wasn't hungry right now. "What about North? When's he coming here?"
"Oh him. He'll be down in an hour, maybe a day, somewhere between the two, depends."
A pause. "He's kind of lazy."
"I'll give him a day then." Prussia grinned, biting viciously into his bratwurst. "He might be a bit different, but he'll remember you, don't worry about that."
Green eyes watched him warily. "Different how? He'll be albino?"
Prussia frowned. "Watch it brat, I'm naturally like this." he grumbled. "He'll probably be more aware of a lot of things. Again, depends on him and how he takes it, but if he's one of your family he's gonna be a stubborn son of a bitch so he'll probably be fine or whatever."
Too many questions again. Wales finally started eating.
Suddenly, there was a loud thud from upstairs, like someone had fallen off a bed.
"... ooor maybe not a day at all." Prussia muttered, looking upwards.
Notes:
- Late! I'm sorry guys, I'm updating so much slower now... but on the other hand, the story's nearly over, and I'm really just trying up the loose threads.
- If there are spelling mistakes it's because I'm still really tired and slightly hungover from when I got dragged to Brighton to go clubbing. =____= Thanks Nena.
Part 94
Characters (in this chapter): America, Mexico, Spain, Romano, England, Diaspora!Israel, Scotland, France, India, Ireland, Wales, Belarus and Prussia
Rating: 15
Warnings: Fiiiillerrrrrrrr
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
This wasn't real.
He was dreaming, he had to be dreaming, he'd wake up soon and it would be 2020 and this would be some horrible nightmare and none of this would have happened. The world would be normal, and simple, and he'd still be the hero and not suddenly the villain. The world was suddenly upside down and everyone was looking at him like it was his fault, like he'd blown up the first city when it had been Russia, Russia, Russia.
He hadn't started this.
He hadn't.
... right?
Something horrible and bitter and angry whispered in his ear, "yes, this is your fault. Look at what you've done. Look! America the idiot! America the little kid with big guns he can't handle. Why do you even exist, you pathetic excuse for a Nation."
He slammed his hands over his ears hard enough to make them flatten against his head, painfully pressing against his glasses.
"No no no no no!" he yelled, trying to drown it out. There were protesters in the streets, but there were always protesters in the streets, they had the freedom to say what they wanted how they wanted, as long as nobody resorted to violence. They had that freedom.
But...
Why were they getting arrested?
"Stop it!"
America turned a corner too early, clipping the wall with his shoulder and losing balance, spinning and falling to the floor, instinctively curling up, hands still over his ears. Were the explosions in his head or outside of it? The floor was shaking. Or was that him too?
"It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault..." he muttered over and over, as though he could make it true if he tried even when he could feel the words ring false.
"America?"
He froze, and looked up at the door he was closest to, where the sound had come from. Where had he run to, in the end?
"I know it's you, gringo! Let me out!"
Blue eyes stared at the door.
"Alfred!"
America grit his teeth, and grabbed at the keys on his belt. With a rattle, he found the right one, and opened the door. Mexico looked up at him from where she had been putting her ear against the door to hear him, surprised that he'd simply opened the door. Without a moment's more hesitation, she dove past him and out of his reach, looking behind her and stopping when she saw America hadn't made any move to stop her.
"¿Por qué...?"
"Go." America growled, not looking at her. "Run, before I change my mind again."
Mexico took a few steps back, and then ran into someone.
"Mexico!" cried Spain, elated, and suddenly wrapped his arms around the shorter woman. She squeaked and wriggled out of the hug, then darted behind Spain, using him as a human shield and cautiously eyeing America.
"If you think letting me go changes anything, you're mistaken!" Mexico exclaimed, and America flinched slightly. "This is just a dent in the reputation you've given yourself as a warmonger. I won't forgive you so easily!"
Spain looked from Mexico to America, and a subtle change came to his smile. It wasn't any less sincere, per se, but it was certainly a lot less happy.
"So, America." he placed a fist in his hand and cracked his knuckles one by one. "Do I have to chase you or am I going to take you with me quietly?"
"Aw, what the hell?" America gestured skyward, exasperated. "You weren't even in this fucking war five seconds ago!"
"Si, but I am now." Spain chirped. Behind him, Romano finally caught up.
"Don't run so fast, bastard-" he picked up on the situation startlingly quickly for someone so closely related to Feliciano. "Oh shit."
America tensed. Why were they all looking at him like he was going to pull a gun on them at any second. He wouldn't do that. Not unprovoked. He always had a reason, he always...
Never out of just spite, that was Russia's thing...
'We are more alike than you think, America.'
"Shut up." he hissed at nothing. He didn't even have his gun to shoot with; he'd left it back with Ukraine and Russia and not-Mattie.
'Alfred... what have you done?'
"Shut up!" he was running before he could even think about it. He had to get away from this. He had to go where he wasn't wrong, where he was in the right and everything was normal.
He had to go to England.
---
England really, really, really hated hospitals. Even one commandeered from Russia for use of general wounded no matter what, now they'd pretty much won the capital. Every single thing about them irritated him; the endless checks, the lack of things to do, the machinery keeping magical creatures from entering within 500 feet of the building. It was annoying.
But the worst thing he hated about them was being coddled like a bloody child.
"I really must protest; I can feed myself- mmphf!" his snippy remark was cut off by the spoonful of oatmeal that saw his open mouth as an opportunity. Sarah waited until he'd grumpily swallowed the food before withdrawing her weapon- er, cutlery.
"I know you can, but allow me to play my little role, okay Arthur?" As always, Sarah's accent was impossible to place, Yiddish with a hint of American, French, German, Spanish, Russian, and god only knew what else. "Not all of us have the privilege of running around being important enough to get bombed like you have."
England's eye twitched. "If you think that I wanted this to happen you're- mmphmm!"
Sarah smiled at him, all motherly patience and it was getting on England's nerves. "Swallow quickly or you'll be eating the spoon itself."
"Yeah England, swallow it" Scotland snickered. France smirked to himself, though he looked paler by the day. England refused to admit any worry over him.
"Fmmk oo." the younger nation grumbled, and when it seemed that his meaning hadn't quite been grasped around the spoon he had in his mouth, he flipped his brother the bird instead.
Beyond them, Ireland was finally sitting up and talking, albeit quietly and with a distinctive rasp to her voice. It was uncertain whether it was the burning from the bomb or all the screaming she'd done that had damaged her so, but she couldn't speak above a loud whisper. She had a bowl of warm broth in her lap, using her uninjured hand to eat it, though she seemed to be waiting for it to cool before she did. Unfortunately for both Scotland and England's morale, her position was to their left, and so most of what they could see of her was burned and red and scarred and bandaged. She'd brushed her hair to the side to cover the burn on her face, though a long red line crept over the bridge of her nose to stop midway across her other cheek, accentuating the dark rings under her eyes from lack of sleep.
Nearby, India was bustling about packing up her things. Though relatively unmarred by the war, she definitely looked as tired as Ireland, and was currently muttering about the stress probably turning her hair gray, though there wasn't a single white hair in sight.
"I'm going to have flown around the world eight more times before this is over." She grumbled, roughly pulling the zip of her bag shut and slinging it over her shoulder. Then, in a sudden switch, she gently touched Ireland's hand. "I'll be back, okay? Just got to sort out the rest of this mess. Don't do anything rash." Her voice was low and careful, soothing, but a worried crease appeared between the red head's eyebrows.
"Don't you do anything like that either." she whispered. India simply smiled and stood, walking to the other end of the ward.
"Not like we can do much with yer back up here!" Scotland called after her. She paused in the doorway and shared a look with Sarah. They nodded, and India left.
"Great, now you allied them against us." England said. "Good going."
---
Wales stared at his mashed potatoes with a thoughtfulness not usually seen on a face as young as his. Next to him, seated on a booster chair much as he (humiliatingly) was, Belarus picked at her food, still clutching the sunflower toy. Prussia had no such problems with appetite, and was clearing his plate of food at the speed of sound.
"Hey, Prussia." he said finally.
"Hmmphf?" the red eyed Nation mumbled around his food.
"When am I allowed to go back to my family?"
Prussia swallowed and gestured with his fork, a skewered sausage on the end. "When you're called. And you'll know when you're called, trust me."
"Right." the blonde said, looking back down at his food. He usually liked mashed potatoes and sausages, but he wasn't hungry right now. "What about North? When's he coming here?"
"Oh him. He'll be down in an hour, maybe a day, somewhere between the two, depends."
A pause. "He's kind of lazy."
"I'll give him a day then." Prussia grinned, biting viciously into his bratwurst. "He might be a bit different, but he'll remember you, don't worry about that."
Green eyes watched him warily. "Different how? He'll be albino?"
Prussia frowned. "Watch it brat, I'm naturally like this." he grumbled. "He'll probably be more aware of a lot of things. Again, depends on him and how he takes it, but if he's one of your family he's gonna be a stubborn son of a bitch so he'll probably be fine or whatever."
Too many questions again. Wales finally started eating.
Suddenly, there was a loud thud from upstairs, like someone had fallen off a bed.
"... ooor maybe not a day at all." Prussia muttered, looking upwards.
Notes:
- Late! I'm sorry guys, I'm updating so much slower now... but on the other hand, the story's nearly over, and I'm really just trying up the loose threads.
- If there are spelling mistakes it's because I'm still really tired and slightly hungover from when I got dragged to Brighton to go clubbing. =____= Thanks Nena.
Part 94