Just A Little Tender Lovin' Care, Part 1
anonymous
September 10 2009, 04:00:12 UTC
Sorry--I'm not any of the anons who'd responded so far, but I just couldn't resist.
Even now that they were . . . uh, dating, or their special relationship was even more special, or whatever you wanted to call it, it wasn’t like America was over at England’s house every day. Hardly ever, actually, or at least not nearly enough for him, but he did have plenty of work to do, after all-how many awesome heroes did the world have, anyway? So the least England could do, considering how America was taking the time out of his schedule to hang around England’s house for a whole week, was take into account that America was bothering to visit him at all (not that America wouldn’t, because he missed England like . . . like something . . . sappy and dumb, like part of himself, or some shit, when they weren’t together, but it wasn’t like he needed to tell England that, because England would probably just laugh at him like it was funny or something, anyway, and it wasn’t like he needed that crap from England of all people, especially these days).
So when England opened the door and stumbled in, cursing up a blue streak like usual (the way he swore always did make America smile, because only England could swear like that, fascinating and sort of weirdly cute at the same time), and slammed it behind him against the rain that had blown inside in his wake, America bounded into the front hall and drawled, “God, England, take your time, not like I’m visiting or anything, doesn’t matter, maybe I’ll just head back home at this rate, where they actually care when I get kept waitin'.”
He waited for England’s response.
When none came outside of a groan and England raising his hand to rub wearily at his forehead, America blinked, surprised. Well, that was weird.
England shrugged out of his raincoat and hung it up, reaching down to tug off his boots, wincing the whole time. “America,” he said wearily. “I . . .” he looked up, frowning blearily. “I’m . . . terribly sorry I’m so late.”
Whoa. Okay. Something weird was going on for sure, then. Whenever England apologized, especially in that grumpy, sincere sort of way, all was not right with the world.
“So,” America said. “So, uh, what’s up?” He rocked back on his heels and sent England his most winning hero smile.
England frowned and came into the front hall in his stockinged feet, moving like he was ancient (which, well, he was, but he usually didn’t look like it; he was usually graceful and, well, you know, super hot and stuff) and hurt all over. “I have returned from a long day of meetings with my politicians which all ran over, as I’m sure anyone with a brain larger than the size of a pea would have managed to comprehend,” he said acidly.
“Jeez, England,” America drawled, “someone’s got his panties in a wad. Or what, did that one guy hit on you again? Because I think it’s awesome that an old man like you can still incite fire and passion in the hearts of his finest-”
England closed his eyes as if in physical pain for a moment, then padded achingly in the direction of the kitchen. America noticed with a frown that his hair was soaked, plastered to the back of his neck and his forehead and dripping little rivulets down his skin, and that his clothes were damp. He was shivering slightly. “Kindly never make a sexual innuendo about one of my MPs ever again,” he bit out, and that sounded like normal England, except the way that the words were just a touch too tight and strained, even for his “pissed off” tone (which America knew pretty well-he heard it a lot, after all). “And if this is to set the tone for our interactions for the rest of the night, just-just sod the fuck off.”
Even now that they were . . . uh, dating, or their special relationship was even more special, or whatever you wanted to call it, it wasn’t like America was over at England’s house every day. Hardly ever, actually, or at least not nearly enough for him, but he did have plenty of work to do, after all-how many awesome heroes did the world have, anyway? So the least England could do, considering how America was taking the time out of his schedule to hang around England’s house for a whole week, was take into account that America was bothering to visit him at all (not that America wouldn’t, because he missed England like . . . like something . . . sappy and dumb, like part of himself, or some shit, when they weren’t together, but it wasn’t like he needed to tell England that, because England would probably just laugh at him like it was funny or something, anyway, and it wasn’t like he needed that crap from England of all people, especially these days).
So when England opened the door and stumbled in, cursing up a blue streak like usual (the way he swore always did make America smile, because only England could swear like that, fascinating and sort of weirdly cute at the same time), and slammed it behind him against the rain that had blown inside in his wake, America bounded into the front hall and drawled, “God, England, take your time, not like I’m visiting or anything, doesn’t matter, maybe I’ll just head back home at this rate, where they actually care when I get kept waitin'.”
He waited for England’s response.
When none came outside of a groan and England raising his hand to rub wearily at his forehead, America blinked, surprised. Well, that was weird.
England shrugged out of his raincoat and hung it up, reaching down to tug off his boots, wincing the whole time. “America,” he said wearily. “I . . .” he looked up, frowning blearily. “I’m . . . terribly sorry I’m so late.”
Whoa. Okay. Something weird was going on for sure, then. Whenever England apologized, especially in that grumpy, sincere sort of way, all was not right with the world.
“So,” America said. “So, uh, what’s up?” He rocked back on his heels and sent England his most winning hero smile.
England frowned and came into the front hall in his stockinged feet, moving like he was ancient (which, well, he was, but he usually didn’t look like it; he was usually graceful and, well, you know, super hot and stuff) and hurt all over. “I have returned from a long day of meetings with my politicians which all ran over, as I’m sure anyone with a brain larger than the size of a pea would have managed to comprehend,” he said acidly.
“Jeez, England,” America drawled, “someone’s got his panties in a wad. Or what, did that one guy hit on you again? Because I think it’s awesome that an old man like you can still incite fire and passion in the hearts of his finest-”
England closed his eyes as if in physical pain for a moment, then padded achingly in the direction of the kitchen. America noticed with a frown that his hair was soaked, plastered to the back of his neck and his forehead and dripping little rivulets down his skin, and that his clothes were damp. He was shivering slightly. “Kindly never make a sexual innuendo about one of my MPs ever again,” he bit out, and that sounded like normal England, except the way that the words were just a touch too tight and strained, even for his “pissed off” tone (which America knew pretty well-he heard it a lot, after all). “And if this is to set the tone for our interactions for the rest of the night, just-just sod the fuck off.”
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