Meow Means 'You Idiot' [1/?]
anonymous
September 27 2009, 16:18:55 UTC
hi! am neither of the anons from above, but this idea got its claws into me made me start writing and this is what happened. i hope you like it, OP! -----
England knows magic. He's well acquainted with the mystical, supernatural and downright strange, which is why he doesn't even blink when a fiercely attractive woman suddenly appears in the chair opposite him. He doesn't raise his eyes but takes in the dress, the feathers and the beads, and decides to ignore her until she goes away.
"America's lonely," she starts, without preamble.
"I don't know what you expect me to do about it," England replies, not looking up from the newspaper spread across the breakfast table. "Hasn't he got other friends he can annoy?"
"No. England--" She reaches across the table, grasps his hand so her nails dig into his palm. He flinches but doesn't pull away, finally looks up and meets her eyes. "There's no one else I can talk to. If he could see me I'd be there myself, you know that."
He huffs, glancing away to the fairies dancing around his saucer. "Obviously. But still, why should I do anything about it?"
She lets go of his hand and leans back in her chair, arching an eyebrow. "Because it's all your fault and you're indebted to me. Is that enough?"
England stares at her for a moment, considering it. "I'm too busy to go and indulge that idiot just because he's feeling a bit lonesome," he eventually says, turning back to his newspaper. "Go buy him a kitten, or something. I don't care."
"Fine," she snaps, and maybe if he'd remembered quite how quick she always was he would be less surprised to find the world going rapidly black.
When he comes to, the light has changed and he's looking up at Native America's face. She's smiling at him. Something is very, very wrong.
"England, you look so cute! How refreshing," she grins with too much teeth, and England hisses and tries to swipe at her with his paw and -- wait, what?
What the fuck did you do me?, England shouts. The kitten on America's doorstep yowls angrily. Native America towers above him and laughs, like birdsong, until the door opens and America looks straight through her.
"Hello?" he calls, glancing around. Native America's face falls, and England feels a little thrill of triumph -- until he's feeling the lurch of a hand around his body and the thrill of suddenly being pulled through the air. He shrieks and struggles, but then he's level with America's face and he's smiling so widely, like England hasn't seen in decades and, oh, hell.
"Hey, little guy," America says, softly. The kitten meows back and, to England's shame, purrs as America's fingers rub at the fur around his neck like he's looking for a collar. "Are you lost?"
England tries to bite America's hand to make him let go, but all he manages is a nibble on his finger and America laughs, happy and genuine, and says, "You're hungry, huh?"
England just blinks at him, so America pulls him close and shifts his grip until he's got him tucked up against his shoulder, supported one hand, and takes him inside. England tries not to snuggle, but America's only wearing a t-shirt and his skin is so warm underneath, so really he just stretches a little and lays his head down because it's safer that way, and it's absolutely not snuggling.
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [2/?]
anonymous
September 27 2009, 16:22:35 UTC
America doesn't talk on their way through his house, which possibly unsettles England even more than suddenly having fur (although, if he's honest, sudden transformations aren't actually all that rare for him, especially considering the company he keeps. He once spent an interesting week as a girl, but he prefers to pretend that never happened). England tilts his head so he's looking up, can see America's face totally unguarded for once and he looks so blank, with no obnoxious grin, that England tries to say something and ends up meowing quietly instead.
America glances down, and the corners of his lips quirk up at the sight of the kitten staring at him. It's an improvement, England thinks. "Hey. You got a name?" England meows again. "No? Hmm. Well, how about... Esmeralda? or Olivia? Like your eyes, yeah?"
What is wrong with you, England says, but it comes out like a confused yowl and America takes that as agreement.
"Olivia, then. Hi, Olivia," he grins, rubbing his thumb against England's fur. England briefly thinks about swatting him away, but it doesn't feel entirely horrible and he doesn't want to be dropped from this dizzying height, so he lets him continue with just one sniff of disapproval.
They reach the kitchen, and America sets England down on the island counter in the middle of the room and turns to open the fridge. His back blocks England's view, but something smells amazing, and England vaguely wonders what time it is and when he last ate and what do cats generally eat, anyway? But then America places a strip of cooked chicken on the counter in front of him and his thoughts all turn to mine and he pounces on it before America has a chance to take it away again. England's never tasted anything so exquisite in his life, and he might be purring and he doesn't actually care.
When he's finished, he sits back and starts cleaning his paws, because a gentleman should always be presentable, even in ridiculous situations. Or because they taste good and he wants to. He doesn't really think about it, but then he does, and what the hell he's still a cat. He hopes Native America is still around somewhere, so he can make her change him back and then claw her face off (although, perhaps not in that order).
The hairs on his back start to bristle like he's being watched and he looks up, ready to fight, and finds America staring at him. "So cute!" he exclaims, reaching out to scoop England up and tuck him under his chin. He carries him into the TV room and sinks down on the couch, slouching so England can rest comfortably on his chest without fear of sliding off, one hand still curled around him. With his free hand America grabs the remote and turns on the TV, immediately going to a sports channel that England glances at and then ignores.
They settle quickly, America stroking him almost absent-mindedly, fingers trailing gently from the top of his back to his tail and England's not used to this much affection and flicks his tail warily. I will bite your hand off if you keep doing that, England thinks, but then America lightly rubs his knuckles between his ears and suddenly all he wants to do is purr. So he does.
----- head-canon time! America can't see anything magical or supernatural, so he can't see the ex-Nation-tans when they occasionally return to Earth. hence, despite hating England, Native America-tan has to go to him instead of directly to America. Esmeralda/Olivia: emeralds/olives. you know, like his eyes. *shot* also, i'm terrible at titles. sorry about that. more soon, hopefully!
Re: Meow Means 'You Idiot' [2/?]
anonymous
September 27 2009, 18:01:01 UTC
xDD This is so unbelievably adorable, you don't even know. I just love Alfred with animals. It's my headcanon that he's got a certain soft spot for them and England as well, but that's a different story.
Oh my, today I come home from helping feed seven little foster kittens, and what do I see? Why two amazing fills of course! I feel really rather loved to be honest, haha.
But, I digress. I must say that I really do like where this is going. America, in my head-canon, is a total animal lover, so of course he'd play hero and save the cute little kitten on his door step. Being the dork I am, I really love the reason for him naming England "Olivia", too. I like how England is acting too, especially how he was at the begining of the story while talking to Native America's ghost.
Keep up the good work, anon! Also, the title isn't terrible at all, I think it's quite fitting actually.
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [3/?]
anonymous
October 1 2009, 00:48:33 UTC
this took longer than i expected, sorry! i've been making plans and writing bits further on, so i know where this is going. thank you so much for all your lovely comments! in case anyone was wondering, this is how I imagine kitty!England: http://substar.deviantart.com/art/Somali-Kitten-Cuteness-60360861 (his eyes are more of a striking green, but that's pretty much it :D) -----
England wakes up slowly, feeling oddly warm and contented. For a while he doesn't question it, just savours the happy sensation and eventually stretches out with a long, satisfying yawn, before suddenly tumbling onto the cushions as America sits up with a startled yelp. He still has claws, then.
"Ow," America says, rubbing at his chest, but he's smiling. "You could do some real damage with those."
England can think of several things in reply to that, but no one could hear them anyway, so the kitten just rights himself on the cushions and looks like he's inspecting a paw. He starts thinking about claws (he really needs to find Native America), and then fur (it's not as pleasant when you're the one in it), and then how much he prefers having hands as he feels an itch behind his right ear and has to shift to one side and scratch at it with his back paw. He feels ridiculous.
America frowns a little as he studies him, then glances at his watch and swears. "The vets will be closed already. I'll have to take you in tomorrow morning." He laughs as the kitten stops and stares up at him, eyes wide. "Nothing scary, I promise. Just need to get you checked out, make sure you haven't got flees or anything."
England doesn't feel the least bit reassured, but he follows America's gaze out to the darkening sky and is too distracted by the empty feeling in his stomach to notice the hand reaching towards him - he's picked up and inelegantly put on America's lap so he's facing his knees, feeling rather indignant about all the handling and thinking that possibly, this shouldn't continue. The title credits of a familiar gothic-looking film are playing on the TV.
He hears America sigh above him, quiet and sad, but by the time he's turned around to see his face America has his phone in his hand and is scrolling through his contacts with a small crease between his brows. He pauses over a name that England is too low to see clearly, sighs again, and slips the phone back into his pocket.
"I don't need any of those guys just to watch a film! I'll be fine! Anyway, I've got you, Olivia. Not that, heh, I need anyone."
In his head, England raises an eyebrow and calls him an idiot. The resulting meow doesn't quite fit. America opens a bag of popcorn and starts chewing through them noisily, and England does his best to ignore him.
England saw the film when it first came out several decades ago, knows every twist and shock and shot of atmospheric fog and fondly remembers when people found this sort of thing truly frightening, and is surprised when he feels the leg beneath him trembling. He almost digs his claws in to stop himself from being shaken off, but it's unnecessary as America gathers him up and hugs him tightly but gently to his chest, hunched up so he's mostly tucked under his chin.
"So scary..." America breathes into his fur, and England struggles not to arch up into the rush of warmth. On screen, Peter Cushing is fighting for his life and America jumps every time someone screams. It's not endearing in any way, England thinks, but lets himself be cuddled because, well, it's comfortable, and when the credits are rolling he bites America's finger and looks up at him.
"Hungry again?" America looks oddly relieved as he releases England from his grip and carefully puts him on the floor, jumping up and then over him as he dashes off to the kitchen. England stares after his retreating back, wishing he still had vocal cords that would allow him to snigger, and then tries to follow.
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [4/?]
anonymous
October 1 2009, 00:56:10 UTC
He promptly trips over his own feet.
It shouldn't be that hard, he reasons, after the second try, to make his limbs move in sequence without wobbling, tripping, or simply collapsing, but it is. He tries jumping forward instead, and that works pretty well, but he can't do that all the time. It would look weird. Third attempt and he makes a gangly show of moving one leg at a time - it works, he doesn't fall over, and his last shred of dignity dies without a fuss. He's met plenty of cats in his time! It cannot be that complicated!
Eventually, after a few solid minutes of trying every combination, his back legs move in time with his front and he's propelling himself forward and it's graceful and he can walk! And so he trots triumphantly into the kitchen, before remembering that, no, really, he's still a cat. He stops trotting.
There's a small plate of tuna on the floor. He stares at it, and then up at America, who is leaning over the counter with his chin on his hands and his elbows on table. He makes a vague gesture towards the plate and says, "it's all I've got. I'll get you something proper tomorrow." England doesn't know how the convey that tuna should be a sandwich, preferably with thinly-sliced cucumber, so he huffily eats it as is and is quietly grateful that it isn't actual cat food.
America finds a chocolate bar in a cupboard and considers that enough for now. They are both mostly silent as they eat, until America yawns loudly as he chucks the wrapper in the bin and stretches his arms up high, before crashing down and scooping up England with one hand and tickling him under the chin with the other. "Bed time," he says, heading towards the stairs and racing up them.
America's bedroom looks entirely unchanged from the last time England saw it, and he has a good view as America gently puts him down on the bed and continues walking into his bathroom. A few moments later he comes back out with a couple of large, fluffy towels, and kneels near the bed to set them on the floor, pulling and pushing at them until they are in a vague approximation of a cat bed shape. He puts England in the middle, lightly scratches behind his ears, and heads back into the bathroom. That is most definitely relief that England is feeling as he circles around and eventually settles, curling up a little. This is absolutely fine.
England glances over as he sees America getting into his bed, and then rapidly looks again. Apparently America sleeps in just his underwear. That's... new.
"Goodnight, Olivia," America calls, turning off the light. England refuses to reply, instantly distracted by how visible everything still is in the darkness - for the first time he wants to see if there's any advantages to being only a few inches high, and manages a few tentative steps towards that interesting space underneath America's bed (he thinks he can see something painted and wooden, but, surely not-) before the light is back on and he has to blink to adjust. Without warning he's in shadow again, and America's silhouetted face is peering down at him. His smile looks a little strained.
"Hey, Olivia, are you scared? You can sleep up here, where it's safe. Not that I'm scared or anything. Ha." He reaches down to lift him up before England has a chance to protest, and he's placed on the spare pillow. It smells like America, and something he can't place, and after a moment he realises that this is the side he always used to sleep on when he was comforting America on nights like this.
You idiot, England sighs. "Meow to you too," America replies, stroking him once before flicking off the bedside lamp again and settling under the covers, one hand still curled around England. It's beginning to feel familiar (comfortable), but England doesn't want to think about that.
--- tomorrow (their time) there will be vets and talks and Native America! but not yet, because this anon needs to sleep.
Aw, I just love this! I found it completely endearing that America cuddled "Olivia" during the "scary movie" and before he went to sleep. Also, I laughed really hard when I read that England wanted his tuna on some bread with cucumber and how his last shred of dignity died while trying to walk. I am little worried about America just eating a chocolate bar for dinner, but hopefully he'll make up for it with some real food in the morning. Good job writer anon (#1), I can't wait to read more!
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [5/?]
anonymous
October 20 2009, 11:17:03 UTC
sorry for the delay! there's been illness and uni and all sorts of fun distractions, sigh. -----
In the distance England can hear groaning, something low and pained and desperate, and as he blinks awake his outstretched hand becomes a furry paw and America is inches away, his eyebrows drawn and his mouth open, eyes screwed shut and England can't reach him. Git! Wake up!, he tries to say, and maybe America hears him as he turns his head towards the sound and whimpers.
"E-England... I can't-- Eng..." America murmurs, flinching away. The room is still dark, no hint of dawn light behind the curtains, and when America suddenly jerks awake there's a disorienting moment as he scrambles for the light switch, fumbling hands knocking against his alarm clock with a loud clunk and sweeping his glasses off the bedside table before the light flicks on and he slumps back on to the bed, heavy breaths as he stares up at the bright ceiling.
A few seconds pass and America does not move again, so England mewls quietly and tries not to hiss when America starts, his whole body tensing with a violent shake - then America turns his head and sees him, the confused little kitten on his pillow, and cannot help but laugh; a low, quiet sound.
"Hey. I'm, ah. Sorry, about that. Bad dream, you know. Heh, nothing to worry about." England doesn't reply, but he can see the hard line of his shoulders and the way his eyes are too shiny, almost trembling, and doesn't protest when America shifts over and curls around him, one hand around his back and his nose pressed lightly against the top of England's head, close and warm and still shivering.
"Just a really stupid bad dream," America continues, mumbling into his fur, and it feels a little damp. England closes his eyes. "My friend was fighting the mummy and I-- I couldn't save him. I couldn't reach him, and," America pauses, sighs, before finishing in a whisper so quiet that England can only just hear him. "I'm supposed to be the hero."
England lifts his head up a little so his fur brushes against America's chin, and the resulting huff of laughter (still watery, but they both ignore it) is enough to make America pull away and sit up, legs loosely crossed and his hands flat against the mattress, pushing down as he stretches his shoulders. He glances at the clock and huffs quietly.
"I'm hungry," he says, with no real aim, and swings his legs out from under the covers. He winces as he goes to place them on the floor and one foot starts to press down on something sharp and hard - he reaches down and gingerly picks up his glasses, blowing lightly on the lens before putting them on. England watches as America grabs a hoodie from the floor and shrugs it on, padding around the bed and out into the hallway.
England briefly thinks about following, then thinks about the stairs, and decides to get comfy on the pillow again. After a short while he hears the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, the whirr of the microwave and faint whistling (he doesn't recognise the tune), then the rustle of the covers as someone sits down on the bed. He opens his eyes to see Native America grinning down at him.
You, he hisses, and lunges for her.
She laughs, and fends him off easily. "Having fun?"
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [6/?]
anonymous
October 20 2009, 11:19:06 UTC
Change me back! he yells, and to the room it sounds like an vicious yowl but Native America's smile widens in understanding.
"So soon? No, sweetie, you're staying like this until he's happy." She reaches down and scratches behind his ears, not gently - he hisses again and jumps back, tries to bite at her fingers but she pulls them swiftily out of reach.
No, England replies, scowling as best he can. You honestly think this is making it any better?
"You're right," she coos, looking almost tender. "But, well, I'm enjoying this, and America is smiling more. That's good enough for now."
You're insane and I hate you, England doesn't say, but Native America laughs like he did anyway.
There are footsteps on the stairs and America's voice calls up, "Olivia? Are you okay?"
England turns to watch the door for the few moments before America appears, and when he looks back Native America has gone. America stares at the empty space for an instant, puzzled, but then England takes a step across the pillow towards him and he forgets.
"You were meowing a lot. Missing me already?" America chuckles as he sits on the bed next to England, combing his fingers through his fur. England tries not to purr in response.
America pulls his hand away so he can delicately take off his glasses and pull off his hoodie before he tucks himself back under the covers, his head on the same pillow as the kitten. England wants to say something, point out America smells like cheeseburgers (edible, a tiny part of him thinks, and he stamps it down) and he has claws and this is all a terrible idea, but America is asleep before he can make a sound.
Several hours later and England is fast asleep in a warm patch of early sunshine, the whole bed to himself. He's dimly aware of an overwhelming sense of happiness, but mostly he just never wants to have to move again - he meows, quiet and unhappily, when a shadow falls over him and there are hands wrapping around him, but he does not open his eyes until he feels himself being set down on something solid and cold. It smells strange.
He blinks a couple of times, adjusting, and by the time that he's aware that he is in something dark and plastic and enclosed the carrier door is shut, wire mesh and he's trapped and oh god--
"Hey, Olivia, don't worry." America crouches by the side of the bed so his face is level with the door, and he's smiling. England stops freaking out, breathes, and glares at him instead. "It's time to get you checked out, okay?"
Not okay! England tries to shout, but America stands up and is out of view before there's a lurch and England stumbles to the side, unsteady on the thin blanket covering the base of the carrier. He hisses sharply, and America apologises, a smile in his voice, as he adjusts his grip on the handle and carries him out of the house as smoothly as possible - England huddles against the side and watches the house go by through the small square of the door, unsettled by the strange feral smell and the slight swinging of the carrier.
Meow Means 'You Idiot' [7/?]
anonymous
October 20 2009, 11:21:39 UTC
England is almost relieved when America places the carrier carefully in the front seat of his car and wraps a seatbelt around it, holding him steady and secure. He's on a slight slope and his view is filled entirely by the driver's seat, but for the moment he's not moving and therefore is somewhat happier. That is, until the door opens and America slides in, starts up the car with a flick of his wrist and suddenly there's noise and movement and he digs his claws into the plastic floor as he feels the car start to roll - there's an unsteady moment as he tries to find some way to not feel like he's about to fall over, and eventually just curls up tightly against the side and closes his eyes. America doesn't talk, turns off the radio so it doesn't disturb the kitten and the resulting silence is stranger than the amplified vibrations of the car.
It's a short, quiet journey, and soon America is switching off the engine and unbuckling the seatbelt around the carrier, clambering out the driver's side with England in hand. He walks quickly, and through his small, framed field of vision England only catches a glimpse of brick walls and a glass door before America pushes it open and the sudden rush of scents and sounds is dizzying - heat and sweat and animals, complex and varied and yet still distinct; he can smell the fear and excitement and each species, each individual one; he feels a little sick, and for the first time he realises quite how distant America's house is from anything else.
America continues without pause, walking up to a wide, pale wooden desk and placing the carrier on top so England is facing the receptionist - a young, pretty brunette, who suddenly laughs in recognition. "You and your strays, Al. What's it this time?"
America chuckles in reply, familiar, and England can't see him but he can picture his expression perfectly, with the carefree smile that reaches his eyes, and it annoys him more than he can explain. "This is Olivia, 'found her outside my house yesterday."
"Olivia? How sweet!" She leans forward so she can peer into the carrier, grins at the tiny kitten cowering at the back. "Aww, she's shy."
England blinks at her, thinks about people and citizens and what would she say if she knew. America is talking, lightness in his voice and the receptionist is listening but England isn't, caught between the urgency of his surroundings, of the dog he can hear snuffling a few feet away and the scent of the other cat in the room, so aware that he can only just endure it, and something he can't quite grasp - this is normal for everyone else. Even as a human he would feel odd and out of place.
He doesn't notice that America has finished talking until he is abruptly being carried again, a few steps to the line of seats against the colourless wall before he is set down, facing the opposite row of chairs. A large dog with a cone collar pushes his nose forward, sniffing excitedly in England's direction before his owner tugs on his leash, holding him still. America drums his fingertips lightly on top of the carrier. There's a radio playing quietly, something generic and ignorable, and America's tapping starts following an assumption of the beat and it thuds in England's ears. He thinks about his house in London. He tries to remember the last time he felt homesick for something that was intrinsically himself.
-----
England knows magic. He's well acquainted with the mystical, supernatural and downright strange, which is why he doesn't even blink when a fiercely attractive woman suddenly appears in the chair opposite him. He doesn't raise his eyes but takes in the dress, the feathers and the beads, and decides to ignore her until she goes away.
"America's lonely," she starts, without preamble.
"I don't know what you expect me to do about it," England replies, not looking up from the newspaper spread across the breakfast table. "Hasn't he got other friends he can annoy?"
"No. England--" She reaches across the table, grasps his hand so her nails dig into his palm. He flinches but doesn't pull away, finally looks up and meets her eyes. "There's no one else I can talk to. If he could see me I'd be there myself, you know that."
He huffs, glancing away to the fairies dancing around his saucer. "Obviously. But still, why should I do anything about it?"
She lets go of his hand and leans back in her chair, arching an eyebrow. "Because it's all your fault and you're indebted to me. Is that enough?"
England stares at her for a moment, considering it. "I'm too busy to go and indulge that idiot just because he's feeling a bit lonesome," he eventually says, turning back to his newspaper. "Go buy him a kitten, or something. I don't care."
"Fine," she snaps, and maybe if he'd remembered quite how quick she always was he would be less surprised to find the world going rapidly black.
When he comes to, the light has changed and he's looking up at Native America's face. She's smiling at him. Something is very, very wrong.
"England, you look so cute! How refreshing," she grins with too much teeth, and England hisses and tries to swipe at her with his paw and -- wait, what?
What the fuck did you do me?, England shouts. The kitten on America's doorstep yowls angrily. Native America towers above him and laughs, like birdsong, until the door opens and America looks straight through her.
"Hello?" he calls, glancing around. Native America's face falls, and England feels a little thrill of triumph -- until he's feeling the lurch of a hand around his body and the thrill of suddenly being pulled through the air. He shrieks and struggles, but then he's level with America's face and he's smiling so widely, like England hasn't seen in decades and, oh, hell.
"Hey, little guy," America says, softly. The kitten meows back and, to England's shame, purrs as America's fingers rub at the fur around his neck like he's looking for a collar. "Are you lost?"
England tries to bite America's hand to make him let go, but all he manages is a nibble on his finger and America laughs, happy and genuine, and says, "You're hungry, huh?"
England just blinks at him, so America pulls him close and shifts his grip until he's got him tucked up against his shoulder, supported one hand, and takes him inside. England tries not to snuggle, but America's only wearing a t-shirt and his skin is so warm underneath, so really he just stretches a little and lays his head down because it's safer that way, and it's absolutely not snuggling.
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America glances down, and the corners of his lips quirk up at the sight of the kitten staring at him. It's an improvement, England thinks. "Hey. You got a name?" England meows again. "No? Hmm. Well, how about... Esmeralda? or Olivia? Like your eyes, yeah?"
What is wrong with you, England says, but it comes out like a confused yowl and America takes that as agreement.
"Olivia, then. Hi, Olivia," he grins, rubbing his thumb against England's fur. England briefly thinks about swatting him away, but it doesn't feel entirely horrible and he doesn't want to be dropped from this dizzying height, so he lets him continue with just one sniff of disapproval.
They reach the kitchen, and America sets England down on the island counter in the middle of the room and turns to open the fridge. His back blocks England's view, but something smells amazing, and England vaguely wonders what time it is and when he last ate and what do cats generally eat, anyway? But then America places a strip of cooked chicken on the counter in front of him and his thoughts all turn to mine and he pounces on it before America has a chance to take it away again. England's never tasted anything so exquisite in his life, and he might be purring and he doesn't actually care.
When he's finished, he sits back and starts cleaning his paws, because a gentleman should always be presentable, even in ridiculous situations. Or because they taste good and he wants to. He doesn't really think about it, but then he does, and what the hell he's still a cat. He hopes Native America is still around somewhere, so he can make her change him back and then claw her face off (although, perhaps not in that order).
The hairs on his back start to bristle like he's being watched and he looks up, ready to fight, and finds America staring at him. "So cute!" he exclaims, reaching out to scoop England up and tuck him under his chin. He carries him into the TV room and sinks down on the couch, slouching so England can rest comfortably on his chest without fear of sliding off, one hand still curled around him. With his free hand America grabs the remote and turns on the TV, immediately going to a sports channel that England glances at and then ignores.
They settle quickly, America stroking him almost absent-mindedly, fingers trailing gently from the top of his back to his tail and England's not used to this much affection and flicks his tail warily. I will bite your hand off if you keep doing that, England thinks, but then America lightly rubs his knuckles between his ears and suddenly all he wants to do is purr. So he does.
-----
head-canon time! America can't see anything magical or supernatural, so he can't see the ex-Nation-tans when they occasionally return to Earth. hence, despite hating England, Native America-tan has to go to him instead of directly to America.
Esmeralda/Olivia: emeralds/olives. you know, like his eyes. *shot*
also, i'm terrible at titles. sorry about that.
more soon, hopefully!
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I will be following this. <33
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What colour is kitty!England, out of interest?
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in my head he's Lilac Somali (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somali_%28cat%29), basically a long haired blonde-ish colour. they're very pretty cats ^^,
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But, I digress. I must say that I really do like where this is going. America, in my head-canon, is a total animal lover, so of course he'd play hero and save the cute little kitten on his door step. Being the dork I am, I really love the reason for him naming England "Olivia", too. I like how England is acting too, especially how he was at the begining of the story while talking to Native America's ghost.
Keep up the good work, anon! Also, the title isn't terrible at all, I think it's quite fitting actually.
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in case anyone was wondering, this is how I imagine kitty!England: http://substar.deviantart.com/art/Somali-Kitten-Cuteness-60360861 (his eyes are more of a striking green, but that's pretty much it :D)
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England wakes up slowly, feeling oddly warm and contented. For a while he doesn't question it, just savours the happy sensation and eventually stretches out with a long, satisfying yawn, before suddenly tumbling onto the cushions as America sits up with a startled yelp. He still has claws, then.
"Ow," America says, rubbing at his chest, but he's smiling. "You could do some real damage with those."
England can think of several things in reply to that, but no one could hear them anyway, so the kitten just rights himself on the cushions and looks like he's inspecting a paw. He starts thinking about claws (he really needs to find Native America), and then fur (it's not as pleasant when you're the one in it), and then how much he prefers having hands as he feels an itch behind his right ear and has to shift to one side and scratch at it with his back paw. He feels ridiculous.
America frowns a little as he studies him, then glances at his watch and swears. "The vets will be closed already. I'll have to take you in tomorrow morning." He laughs as the kitten stops and stares up at him, eyes wide. "Nothing scary, I promise. Just need to get you checked out, make sure you haven't got flees or anything."
England doesn't feel the least bit reassured, but he follows America's gaze out to the darkening sky and is too distracted by the empty feeling in his stomach to notice the hand reaching towards him - he's picked up and inelegantly put on America's lap so he's facing his knees, feeling rather indignant about all the handling and thinking that possibly, this shouldn't continue. The title credits of a familiar gothic-looking film are playing on the TV.
He hears America sigh above him, quiet and sad, but by the time he's turned around to see his face America has his phone in his hand and is scrolling through his contacts with a small crease between his brows. He pauses over a name that England is too low to see clearly, sighs again, and slips the phone back into his pocket.
"I don't need any of those guys just to watch a film! I'll be fine! Anyway, I've got you, Olivia. Not that, heh, I need anyone."
In his head, England raises an eyebrow and calls him an idiot. The resulting meow doesn't quite fit. America opens a bag of popcorn and starts chewing through them noisily, and England does his best to ignore him.
England saw the film when it first came out several decades ago, knows every twist and shock and shot of atmospheric fog and fondly remembers when people found this sort of thing truly frightening, and is surprised when he feels the leg beneath him trembling. He almost digs his claws in to stop himself from being shaken off, but it's unnecessary as America gathers him up and hugs him tightly but gently to his chest, hunched up so he's mostly tucked under his chin.
"So scary..." America breathes into his fur, and England struggles not to arch up into the rush of warmth. On screen, Peter Cushing is fighting for his life and America jumps every time someone screams. It's not endearing in any way, England thinks, but lets himself be cuddled because, well, it's comfortable, and when the credits are rolling he bites America's finger and looks up at him.
"Hungry again?" America looks oddly relieved as he releases England from his grip and carefully puts him on the floor, jumping up and then over him as he dashes off to the kitchen. England stares after his retreating back, wishing he still had vocal cords that would allow him to snigger, and then tries to follow.
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It shouldn't be that hard, he reasons, after the second try, to make his limbs move in sequence without wobbling, tripping, or simply collapsing, but it is. He tries jumping forward instead, and that works pretty well, but he can't do that all the time. It would look weird. Third attempt and he makes a gangly show of moving one leg at a time - it works, he doesn't fall over, and his last shred of dignity dies without a fuss. He's met plenty of cats in his time! It cannot be that complicated!
Eventually, after a few solid minutes of trying every combination, his back legs move in time with his front and he's propelling himself forward and it's graceful and he can walk! And so he trots triumphantly into the kitchen, before remembering that, no, really, he's still a cat. He stops trotting.
There's a small plate of tuna on the floor. He stares at it, and then up at America, who is leaning over the counter with his chin on his hands and his elbows on table. He makes a vague gesture towards the plate and says, "it's all I've got. I'll get you something proper tomorrow." England doesn't know how the convey that tuna should be a sandwich, preferably with thinly-sliced cucumber, so he huffily eats it as is and is quietly grateful that it isn't actual cat food.
America finds a chocolate bar in a cupboard and considers that enough for now. They are both mostly silent as they eat, until America yawns loudly as he chucks the wrapper in the bin and stretches his arms up high, before crashing down and scooping up England with one hand and tickling him under the chin with the other. "Bed time," he says, heading towards the stairs and racing up them.
America's bedroom looks entirely unchanged from the last time England saw it, and he has a good view as America gently puts him down on the bed and continues walking into his bathroom. A few moments later he comes back out with a couple of large, fluffy towels, and kneels near the bed to set them on the floor, pulling and pushing at them until they are in a vague approximation of a cat bed shape. He puts England in the middle, lightly scratches behind his ears, and heads back into the bathroom. That is most definitely relief that England is feeling as he circles around and eventually settles, curling up a little. This is absolutely fine.
England glances over as he sees America getting into his bed, and then rapidly looks again. Apparently America sleeps in just his underwear. That's... new.
"Goodnight, Olivia," America calls, turning off the light. England refuses to reply, instantly distracted by how visible everything still is in the darkness - for the first time he wants to see if there's any advantages to being only a few inches high, and manages a few tentative steps towards that interesting space underneath America's bed (he thinks he can see something painted and wooden, but, surely not-) before the light is back on and he has to blink to adjust. Without warning he's in shadow again, and America's silhouetted face is peering down at him. His smile looks a little strained.
"Hey, Olivia, are you scared? You can sleep up here, where it's safe. Not that I'm scared or anything. Ha." He reaches down to lift him up before England has a chance to protest, and he's placed on the spare pillow. It smells like America, and something he can't place, and after a moment he realises that this is the side he always used to sleep on when he was comforting America on nights like this.
You idiot, England sighs. "Meow to you too," America replies, stroking him once before flicking off the bedside lamp again and settling under the covers, one hand still curled around England. It's beginning to feel familiar (comfortable), but England doesn't want to think about that.
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tomorrow (their time) there will be vets and talks and Native America! but not yet, because this anon needs to sleep.
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Lovin this so much!
sweet dreeams.
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In the distance England can hear groaning, something low and pained and desperate, and as he blinks awake his outstretched hand becomes a furry paw and America is inches away, his eyebrows drawn and his mouth open, eyes screwed shut and England can't reach him. Git! Wake up!, he tries to say, and maybe America hears him as he turns his head towards the sound and whimpers.
"E-England... I can't-- Eng..." America murmurs, flinching away. The room is still dark, no hint of dawn light behind the curtains, and when America suddenly jerks awake there's a disorienting moment as he scrambles for the light switch, fumbling hands knocking against his alarm clock with a loud clunk and sweeping his glasses off the bedside table before the light flicks on and he slumps back on to the bed, heavy breaths as he stares up at the bright ceiling.
A few seconds pass and America does not move again, so England mewls quietly and tries not to hiss when America starts, his whole body tensing with a violent shake - then America turns his head and sees him, the confused little kitten on his pillow, and cannot help but laugh; a low, quiet sound.
"Hey. I'm, ah. Sorry, about that. Bad dream, you know. Heh, nothing to worry about." England doesn't reply, but he can see the hard line of his shoulders and the way his eyes are too shiny, almost trembling, and doesn't protest when America shifts over and curls around him, one hand around his back and his nose pressed lightly against the top of England's head, close and warm and still shivering.
"Just a really stupid bad dream," America continues, mumbling into his fur, and it feels a little damp. England closes his eyes. "My friend was fighting the mummy and I-- I couldn't save him. I couldn't reach him, and," America pauses, sighs, before finishing in a whisper so quiet that England can only just hear him. "I'm supposed to be the hero."
England lifts his head up a little so his fur brushes against America's chin, and the resulting huff of laughter (still watery, but they both ignore it) is enough to make America pull away and sit up, legs loosely crossed and his hands flat against the mattress, pushing down as he stretches his shoulders. He glances at the clock and huffs quietly.
"I'm hungry," he says, with no real aim, and swings his legs out from under the covers. He winces as he goes to place them on the floor and one foot starts to press down on something sharp and hard - he reaches down and gingerly picks up his glasses, blowing lightly on the lens before putting them on. England watches as America grabs a hoodie from the floor and shrugs it on, padding around the bed and out into the hallway.
England briefly thinks about following, then thinks about the stairs, and decides to get comfy on the pillow again. After a short while he hears the sounds of cupboards opening and closing, the whirr of the microwave and faint whistling (he doesn't recognise the tune), then the rustle of the covers as someone sits down on the bed. He opens his eyes to see Native America grinning down at him.
You, he hisses, and lunges for her.
She laughs, and fends him off easily. "Having fun?"
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"So soon? No, sweetie, you're staying like this until he's happy." She reaches down and scratches behind his ears, not gently - he hisses again and jumps back, tries to bite at her fingers but she pulls them swiftily out of reach.
No, England replies, scowling as best he can. You honestly think this is making it any better?
"You're right," she coos, looking almost tender. "But, well, I'm enjoying this, and America is smiling more. That's good enough for now."
You're insane and I hate you, England doesn't say, but Native America laughs like he did anyway.
There are footsteps on the stairs and America's voice calls up, "Olivia? Are you okay?"
England turns to watch the door for the few moments before America appears, and when he looks back Native America has gone. America stares at the empty space for an instant, puzzled, but then England takes a step across the pillow towards him and he forgets.
"You were meowing a lot. Missing me already?" America chuckles as he sits on the bed next to England, combing his fingers through his fur. England tries not to purr in response.
America pulls his hand away so he can delicately take off his glasses and pull off his hoodie before he tucks himself back under the covers, his head on the same pillow as the kitten. England wants to say something, point out America smells like cheeseburgers (edible, a tiny part of him thinks, and he stamps it down) and he has claws and this is all a terrible idea, but America is asleep before he can make a sound.
Several hours later and England is fast asleep in a warm patch of early sunshine, the whole bed to himself. He's dimly aware of an overwhelming sense of happiness, but mostly he just never wants to have to move again - he meows, quiet and unhappily, when a shadow falls over him and there are hands wrapping around him, but he does not open his eyes until he feels himself being set down on something solid and cold. It smells strange.
He blinks a couple of times, adjusting, and by the time that he's aware that he is in something dark and plastic and enclosed the carrier door is shut, wire mesh and he's trapped and oh god--
"Hey, Olivia, don't worry." America crouches by the side of the bed so his face is level with the door, and he's smiling. England stops freaking out, breathes, and glares at him instead. "It's time to get you checked out, okay?"
Not okay! England tries to shout, but America stands up and is out of view before there's a lurch and England stumbles to the side, unsteady on the thin blanket covering the base of the carrier. He hisses sharply, and America apologises, a smile in his voice, as he adjusts his grip on the handle and carries him out of the house as smoothly as possible - England huddles against the side and watches the house go by through the small square of the door, unsettled by the strange feral smell and the slight swinging of the carrier.
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It's a short, quiet journey, and soon America is switching off the engine and unbuckling the seatbelt around the carrier, clambering out the driver's side with England in hand. He walks quickly, and through his small, framed field of vision England only catches a glimpse of brick walls and a glass door before America pushes it open and the sudden rush of scents and sounds is dizzying - heat and sweat and animals, complex and varied and yet still distinct; he can smell the fear and excitement and each species, each individual one; he feels a little sick, and for the first time he realises quite how distant America's house is from anything else.
America continues without pause, walking up to a wide, pale wooden desk and placing the carrier on top so England is facing the receptionist - a young, pretty brunette, who suddenly laughs in recognition. "You and your strays, Al. What's it this time?"
America chuckles in reply, familiar, and England can't see him but he can picture his expression perfectly, with the carefree smile that reaches his eyes, and it annoys him more than he can explain. "This is Olivia, 'found her outside my house yesterday."
"Olivia? How sweet!" She leans forward so she can peer into the carrier, grins at the tiny kitten cowering at the back. "Aww, she's shy."
England blinks at her, thinks about people and citizens and what would she say if she knew. America is talking, lightness in his voice and the receptionist is listening but England isn't, caught between the urgency of his surroundings, of the dog he can hear snuffling a few feet away and the scent of the other cat in the room, so aware that he can only just endure it, and something he can't quite grasp - this is normal for everyone else. Even as a human he would feel odd and out of place.
He doesn't notice that America has finished talking until he is abruptly being carried again, a few steps to the line of seats against the colourless wall before he is set down, facing the opposite row of chairs. A large dog with a cone collar pushes his nose forward, sniffing excitedly in England's direction before his owner tugs on his leash, holding him still. America drums his fingertips lightly on top of the carrier. There's a radio playing quietly, something generic and ignorable, and America's tapping starts following an assumption of the beat and it thuds in England's ears. He thinks about his house in London. He tries to remember the last time he felt homesick for something that was intrinsically himself.
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