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.
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.
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