"Phases" [7c/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:03:50 UTC
-
“They're late!”
The other nations in the meeting room turned to look at England. Some were sitting, others standing and milling around, and a few were even standing at the coffee machine waiting their turn with bleary, jet-lagged bags beneath their eyes.
“Angleterre, it's been two minutes,” France said, propping his elbow on the table and dropping his scraggly chin onto the palm of his hand. “They're not the only ones who are still absent.”
“So? I called earlier specifically to helpfully remind America about today-”
France coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like, “Nagged.”
England glared, but continued without hesitation, “And I was very rudely received for my trouble, may I add. And this is after we were so accommodating as to allow him to skip the meeting hosted in Vienna two months ago.”
“U-um,” Canada interrupted, raising his hand. “I missed that too. I didn't get on the flight to Vienna because America called my cell and said he had a hunch that the baby would be coming soon. Which turned out to be that night.”
Clearing his throat awkwardly, England continued, “Still, he didn't even seem to appreciate how considerate it is that we're holding this meeting so close to his house.”
“This location was picked at random out of Prussia's horrible hat last year,” Germany grumbled from the other side of the table, his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. “I doubt America was pregnant at the time, unless we have his and Russia's conspicuous tardiness after the lunch break to thank for this.”
“How did you buy that... thing anyway, Prussia?” Hungary asked, eying the pale-haired Nation with unconcealed disgust.
Prussia cackled. “I didn't buy it! It was given to me after I won an awesome contest which totally existed!”
“Stop lying. The text on the hat said-!”
“I stand by my outrageous claim! And I'd be wearing it now if West hadn't confiscated it!” He turned to his brother and glared. “You even said you had it burned!”
“I put it out of its misery.”
“Why are you even here, Prussia?” England asked, somewhat grateful that the conversation had steered away from his somewhat botched rhetoric. “Aren't world meetings supposed to be for currently-recognized nations only?”
“Special occasion,” Prussia said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the table. “It's not everyday your asshole former boss inflicts his psychotic weirdo genes on the first civilian colony on the moon.”
"Phases" [7d/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:04:25 UTC
“SEALAND?!”
As Sealand, Finland, and Sweden entered the room, a squabble immediately broke out between the young micronation and England, which all of the remaining nations apart from Sealand's adoptive fathers promptly ignored.
“That doesn't explain why you were at the meeting a year ago,” France said. A sly grin broke out on his face. “I liked your hat, by the way, though I think I would be more deserving of the title.”
“You wish!” Prussia crowed. “And as for the meeting, I smuggled myself in. I'm awesomely stealthy like that.”
“You're as stealthy as an explosion in an orchestra pit,” Austria muttered. “When I think stealthiness, I think of-”
“Me?”
Immediately, all the other nations went still. Even Sealand, with Finland pulling at his shoulders, froze half-way through an attempted kick to England's shins. All eyes in the room turned to the tall figure standing directly behind Prussia.
“How... how long have you been there, Russia?” England asked.
Russia smiled, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He placed a hand on Prussia's shoulder, and the former nation eyed it anxiously, waiting for a vicious squeeze. “Long enough to have heard certain comments.”
“V-Vanya,” Ukraine interrupted, giving her younger brother a quivering smile in the hopes of providing a distraction. “I can't wait to meet my niece. Where is she?”
Some of the frosty edge melted from Russia's smile. “Ah, she needed to be changed and fed. America will be along with her shortly. Which reminds me...”
Russia finally removed his foreboding hand from Prussia's shoulder in order to pull a notepad and pen from a briefcase at his side. His eyes quickly scanned the other nations in the room before he began to scribble on the paper. He tore the page from the pad, ripped it into several smaller pieces, and then folded each piece. Everyone else in the room watched this procedure with slowly growing suspicion or alarm.
Once the strange task was completed, Russia began to walk around the room. He gave each nation a folded slip of paper. “I am handing out slips which reveal the order in which you may hold my daughter,” Russia said. “They may not be opened until everyone has received one.”
Finally, every nation in attendance had a slip of paper. In unison, they began to unfold them and look at their ranking.
“'Two',” read Canada. Looking slightly flustered, he glanced around and continued, “U-um, I've already seen the baby. I'm willing to sacrifice my place in line and trade if anybody is especially eager to see her...”
"Phases" [7e/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:05:59 UTC
“Ve~! I'm the number 'S'!”
“That's a 5, Italy,” Germany said. His voice was slightly muffled given that his hands had come up to cover his face in embarrassment. A slip with the word “Four” on it poked out between his middle and index fingers.
“Oh, I see,” Italy said. After a moment, he continued, “Germany, is that higher or lower than 'S'?”
“'Banned from touching'?” Spain asked, staring at his slip with incredulity. “Just because I appreciate adorable children doesn't mean-”
“You used an unmarked white van with tinted windows to drive here, Spain!” Romano growled.
“Because that's what the rental company gave me! A coincidence!” Spain grinned and embraced Romano with a powerful hug. “Hey, that means I can cuddle up close to you when it's your turn! Just because I'm not allowed to hold the baby doesn't mean I can't hold you! And seeing you hold a baby might give me some ideas...”
Somewhere during Romano's long, heated string of mostly-Italian profanity, Prussia opened his slip. “Oh, what a surprise! 'Kolkolkolkol...' and it goes on like that at least 20 times,” he said.
“Mon Dieu!” France exclaimed, glowering at his slip. “'Last'?!”
England pointed to his long-term bickering partner and cackled. “Stupid frog. Serves you right. Let's see how much higher I am on the list.” “'Equally last'?! That's not even a legitimate ranking! You can't have two lasts!”
Legitimate or not, Russia insisted that each nation organize themselves around the table in the order they had been given. Near the end of this shuffling of confused and irritated nations, America finally entered the room.
“Sorry for being so late! Trust me, a hungry and smelly baby doesn't make for the best introduction... Okay, what exactly are you guys doing?”
But his went unanswered. Everyone in the room turned at the sound of his voice, punctuated with a gooey, “Aww!” in unison from some of the more emotional nations.
America grinned and adjusted his hold on Anastasia so the others could see her better. “Everybody, I'd like to introduce you to the Russian-American Lunar Colony Selene, otherwise known as Anastasia Ivanovna Braginskaya-Jones. But both of those names are real mouth-fulls, so I call her Ana!”
Russia joined America, and gestured toward Ukraine. “I organized a little game to determine the order in which everyone may hold Nasten'ka...”
England sputtered indignantly.
“And my sister won first honors. Everyone else follows her like so.”
“Oh,” America said, smiling at Russia's older sister as he approached her. “That's great! Are you ready to hold your niece?”
“Y-yes, I am,” Ukraine said. A nervous blush rose to her cheeks. “It's been a long time since I held a little baby, though. Possibly not since Bel-” She noticed the sudden look of wide-eyed terror on Russia's face, and quickly covered her mouth at the near slip. “I mean, since our sister was small.”
"Phases" [7f/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:07:15 UTC
“That's okay. Just hold her securely and I'm sure you'll be fine,” America said. He reached into a small baby supplies bag at his hip and pulled out a pink pacifier from one of the pockets. He brought the object up to Anastasia's lips, and the baby eagerly began to suck on it. “This should help calm her down a little if all the passing around makes her start to feel like an unwanted fruitcake at Christmas.”
“And here we go,” he continued, passing Anastasia into Ukraine's arms. “Ana, say hello to your Auntie Ukraine!”
“Oh, hi, baby,” Ukraine cooed at the infant in her arms. “Look at you! Oh, Vanya, she's absolutely adorable. She definitely has your hair.”
“Better than his nose, right?” Prussia whispered conspiratorially to Hungary and Austria. Hungary's response was a sharp elbow straight to Prussia's ribs.
After Ukraine had spent some time with Anastasia, she passed the baby to Canada. Although he liked seeing his niece, especially now that she wasn't a slimy, screaming newborn anymore, but he understood that there were other nations who had yet to see her at all and were quite curious. So, after a comparatively short time with the baby, he passed her to the third nation in line, Japan.
“Your daughter is quite moé, America-san,” the Asian nation said as he somewhat awkwardly held the baby.
“Um, thanks? Unless that's an insult, in which case I take offense.”
For the next half-hour, the baby girl was passed along and cooed at in multiple languages while her parents fielded any questions or comments about her. When it was Finland's turn to hold the baby, Sealand peered curiously at her from his adoptive father's side. Meanwhile, Sweden, looking even more serious than usual, took down notes as he spoke with America about space travel and colonization. Occasionally he'd glance back at the happy smile on Finland's face as he played with the baby's tiny toes before he'd turn back and continue scribbling down notes with even more intensity.
Eventually, Anastasia had been held by every nation (except for the seemingly uninterested Prussia and the increasingly fidgety and pouty Spain, who hovered ceaselessly and whined to Romano for only holding the baby for a minute) ranked above France and England. Along with Spain, the two rival nations had fathered the majority of America's states, and they were eager to see how this newest arrival stacked up in comparison to their own children.
The problem arose when both France and England reached for their turn at the same time.
“Eyebrows, what are you doing?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing! I'm next, not you!”
“Ah, non. I am last.”
“So am I! Which means one of us needs to be more last. And clearly that should be you!”
The increasingly noisy din coming from the quarreling nations nearby made Anastasia begin to fidget in Austria's arms. Her little fists clenched and shook, and her pacifier dropped to the floor when she began to whimper.
“You are scaring Nasten'ka.”
France and England turned to look up at Russia and shrank down in their seats at what they saw. The tall nation loomed above them menacingly, and his expression was so intensely dark that even the atmosphere around him seemed warped by his foul mood. Even more worrying was the fact that he had somehow managed to procure his long, horrible pipe.
“W-where did you get that?!” England yelped. “You didn't have it a second ago, and there's a metal detector at the entrance of the building!”
"Phases" [7g/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:08:18 UTC
“She is just a little baby. She thought that your fighting meant that you were going to hurt her. You are scaring her.”
“It won't happen again!”
“Oui! It was never our intention to-”
“Kolkolko-”
“IVAN,” America warned as he took the whimpering baby into his arms and began to pat her back. “Do you know what would really scare her? Seeing you bludgeon a couple of noisy jerks into a pulp!”
The horrible atmosphere around Russia and, somehow, his pipe both immediately disappeared. He moved closer to America and gently cupped Anastasia's head, running his thumb over her hair. Anastasia's whimpers were beginning to taper off, though her fright had left her with the hiccups. “They made her upset,” he said, almost pouting himself.
“I know. And I'm glad you want to protect her, but don't do anything rash.”
The tension that had built up in France and England drained out of them like a melting glacier.
“You can beat them up later.”
The tension rushed back with a vengeance.
“Right now, though, they need to have their turn too,” America said.
“But they might fight and scare Nasten'ka again!”
“I know, I know,” America said soothingly, rubbing Russia's back. He then turned to look and France and England. “But if they know what's good for them, they won't. Besides, giving second chances is totally the heroic thing to do!”
Carefully adjusting Anastasia so he could hold her with one arm, America pulled up a chair near France and England. “Scooch closer,” he said.
England and France first eyed each other dubiously before turning the same skeptical expression to America.
“Scooch!”
The two older nations finally moved closer to each other. Using his free hand, America took England's and France's hands and positioned them. “Now, hold that pose,” he instructed before he gently maneuvered Anastasia into the combined hold of the two nations.
The baby had calmed down again, though this was likely helped by the thumb she had popped into her mouth to suck. She stared up at France and England with clear blue eyes, until she got bored with them and began batting at the ribbons on her dress again.
A faint blush began to creep over England's cheeks, which he tried to explain away to himself as a combination of overwhelming baby cuteness and embarrassment at having upset her. Certainly not because his and France's hands were practically woven together in order to support the baby. Fortunately for him, he wasn't alone. France was currently operating under the same shaky assumptions.
“She is cute,” England eventually said. “But I have to maintain that my children were much cuter as babies. New York, for example, had the most adorable dimples when he was her age.”
“Oh, I wholeheartedly agree,” the Netherlands said as he smirked from across the room.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” England asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Why, nothing! New York is a fine lad. He really does cut such a nice, tall figure now, doesn't he? And such well-kept eyebrows, you'd think he doesn't have to trim them at all...”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, wow, would you look at the time!” America interjected as he scooped up Anastasia. “We should probably get going - Ana really needs to get some uninterrupted napping. Let's do this again sometime! It'll be even better when she can toddle around and say a few words! Say, 'Bye-bye!' to the nice nations, Ana!” Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “C'mon, Russia, let's get the hell out of here before another fight breaks out.”
It proved to be a good call, as shortly after they closed the door behind them, they heard what sounded suspiciously like a chair being thrown across a room followed by a fistfight.
"Phases" [7h/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:09:16 UTC
-
Very late that night, Russia and America were having a difficult time with Anastasia. She was typically a rather easy baby, having taken relatively fast and well to sleeping long periods during the night. Tonight, however, she was incredibly cranky and upset.
The usual baby woes like hunger or a soiled diaper had been ruled out early, and Russia's mind was beginning to wander to more alarming possibilities. Perhaps she had caught an illness from one of the nations at the meeting, or she was experiencing an allergic reaction to something one of them had worn. As he held the sobbing Anastasia to his chest, shushing and rocking her, he found himself plotting the terrible vengeance he would wreak if one of them had gotten his baby sick.
“Hey,” America said sleepily as he reentered the room holding two glasses of water. He set them down on the night-table and reached out to Russia. “I had an idea about what might be wrong with her when I was getting the cups out. Let me see if I'm right.”
“Her behavior reminds me of my states who had colic as babies,” he explained. “But it's probably not that.” He stretched out his legs on the bed and placed Anastasia tummy-down over his thighs. Carefully but still firmly, he began to pat and rub the baby's back in a certain rhythm.
“There we go. I don't know why this is such a relief to some babies, but it works,” America said gently as Anastasia began to settle down. “Does that feel good, Ana?”
Russia marveled as he watched the activity. “You said it couldn't be colic. Why not?”
“Because she'd have to be acting like this at least three times a week every week for several months.”
Russia blanched.
“Yeah. Ten of my states had colic.”
“If not colic, what do you think it is?”
“Oh, she's probably just overstimulated,” America said, looking relieved as Anastasia's eyes finally began to droop. “Try to imagine it like this: your whole life, you think the entire world is just you and two other people. You may not necessarily understand what those people are saying, but they're nice and warm, they feed you, make you feel comfy. Suddenly, you're surrounded by all of these weirdos yapping at you in crazy blabber-talk, and none of them look, sound, or act like the people you're used to. You might not even be able to see or hear the people you know. It's kind of like-”
“Being invaded,” Russia muttered.
“Yeah, exactly like that! It's easy to understand being upset by all that, right?”
“More than you realize.”
“Hey, don't be like that. I was just-” America's point drifted off as he seemed to finally catch up with the implications of his lover's expression. “Ah. Sorry.”
Russia shrugged. He reached out and stroked the baby's back, and gave a small smile when she gurgled slightly in her sleep.
A few minutes later, America announced that he felt she was “finally down for the count”. After kissing the sleeping baby on her forehead and allowing Russia to do the same, he moved Anastasia to sleep in her bassinet by the bed.
With a happy sigh, he clicked off the light on the bedside table and collapsed back on the bed, grinning as he felt Russia's arm snake around his waist and pull him close. “Good night, Ivan and Ana,” he murmured.
“Given the hour, don't you mean 'Good morning'?”
“Good-” America paused, and there was a rustling of sheets in the dark as America moved to glance at the alarm clock nearby. “Good 3:54 AM, Ivan and Ana. Love you.”
Russia chuckled softly. “You too. Ah, but was that for me or Nasten'ka?”
"Phases" [7i/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:10:59 UTC
-
Meanwhile, it was midmorning in Germany's house. He was slightly jet-lagged from the long trip, but he had somehow managed to sleep a few hours on his flight back to Europe, so it wasn't as bad as it could be. In fact, he even had the rest of the day off just to recuperate.
He entered his bedroom and took the next few minutes to search the room thoroughly. He then secured the two locks on the door and slid its door chain in place. From there, he moved to his windows, where he pulled down a cloth shade, shuttered his venetian blinds, and closed the window curtains.
After another security sweep, he seemed content that nobody could possibly be watching him. Germany moved to his closet and pushed aside his clothes until he was staring at a seemingly blank wall. He slid his hand against the wall, revealing that a portion of it was a secret sliding panel concealing a safe. His fingers flew around the dial, and its strong door swung open.
Germany pulled a large case from the safe and carried it into the private bathroom attached to his bedroom. He set the case on his sink and tapped his password into its number pad. He opened the lid, and there was his prize.
Slowly and reverently, he raised the object up and set it on his head. He peered at his reflection in the mirror and smiled at what he saw.
Atop Germany's head was a tall, purple top hat covered in satin leopard spots. On its right side, several peacock plumes jutted out from the hat's brim and fluttered slightly in the air. The words “WORLD'S GREATEST PIMP” were embroidered across the front of the hat in stylish, curling gold thread.
He couldn't believe he'd nearly burned this thing when he'd taken it from Prussia.
---
Germany, you sly boots. And you guys didn't think I'd end the chapter without revealing what Prussia's horrible hat was, did you? XD
NOTES: 1 I'm not crazy about Anastasia's “official” name. Taken from Selene, a Greek goddess of the moon. I literally couldn't come up with anything better than that, so it stuck. :/ 2 The 'cure' America uses for Anastasia's fussiness is apparently the only thing that could get me to settle down when I was a horrible colicky baby, according to my mother.
Other than that, I think most everything here is self-explanatory. If you'd like any more clarification, though, I'd be happy to oblige. Just ask!
Finally, it's looking like there will only be 2 parts left at the moment! Phew! This might change, which is why the parts are still labeled [number/??].
Re: "Phases" [7i/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 04:49:54 UTC
First, New York! I cackled at that. Did America manage to keep NY's parentage from England or is England in denial?
Second, this chapter is pure awesomeness. From England being grandpa/other babydaddy to Russia's numbering system to Spain's white van to America's flippant attitude to Russia's violence to the adorable FrUK moment.
First, New York! I cackled at that. Did America manage to keep NY's parentage from England or is England in denial?
LOL. Probably a combination of the two. I can see America using lies of omission rather than blatant lies, like being kind of vague and always skirting the issue by finding some distraction. England, meanwhile, would invent increasingly implausible explanations on why a couple of "his" states look a little... different.
To be fair, England is likely not alone in this. There are probably at least a couple of states that just have a string of question marks in the "father's name" space on their birth certificates. XD
Re: Author!Anon
anonymous
May 23 2010, 04:25:52 UTC
Tehehe, with the way land passed back and forth, there would be more than a couple with questionable parentage. It's so Jerry Springer.
It's just more fun to poke at England with parentage debates because I think he would be the one to care about it the most. Possessive!England is headcanon for me XD
Re: "Phases" [7i/??]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 22:12:48 UTC
God I misfired badly D: Sorry. Hope this is in the right part now
but still this fic is great; love pimping!Germany, protective!Russia and Pedo!Spain. I was laughing my ass off so badly and cooing at the idea of Sweden and Finland having their own kid.
Oh man, from Russia's numbering to Spain's pedo van, I just died laughing. And America and Russia's interaction with Anastasia is just too cute for words. :D Love it!
"Phases" [8a/9]
anonymous
June 29 2010, 20:26:13 UTC
Sorry for another long wait between parts. June and July are incredibly busy months for me this year. :/ But we're almost there!
--- Phase 8: First Transmissions
In the months that had passed since Anastasia's birth, Russia had managed to fill three baby milestone scrapbooks. This was not because Anastasia was developing quickly; in fact, her aging had begun to slow down from the human standard somewhat, which America said happened to all of his kids at one point or another.
No, Russia had simply become a very... passionate photo and video camera enthusiast. As a result, normal milestones like five pages of “Nastya's first Christmas!” and a few pictures of the “First time Nastya crawls!” were filed alongside things like “First time Nastya wears lime green socks with froggies on them (see book 2, page 7 for first lime green socks with turtles on them)!” and “Nastya's first time listening to Tchaikovsky!” (Which was mostly just her laying against a pillow and sucking idly on her hand, though Russia insisted he saw a gleam of keen musical appreciation in her eye.)
“I am ready when you are,” Russia said, holding his camera up.
America sat the wiggly, happily babbling Anastasia in her highchair. “For?” he asked.
“Nasten'ka's lunch, obviously.”
“She's had spaghetti before. You can't pass this one off as a first.”
“But this is the first time she will have puréed mushrooms in the spaghetti sauce. I checked the ingredients.”
America chose to give that response a very wide berth. “And what,” America asked, pointing to a stack of three scrapbooks near Russia. “Are those?”
“Ah, these are for Nasten'ka's first birthday.”
“That's over a month away!”
Russia sighed. “I know. I am behind. I wanted to have at least two more books for it by now.”
The only way America's facial expression could be more blank would be if somebody managed to erase his features entirely like chalk wiped from a board. After a moment spent staring at Russia's eager little smile, he said, “You - you're just... you're just some kind of something. I don't know what the word is yet, or if it's even been invented, but I'm working on it.”
Russia's little smile remained, though a flash of something in his eyes made it turn fragile. “I do not want to miss anything,” he said. The unvoiced 'again' hung over the statement like a rain-heavy storm cloud.
“But I showed you Alaska's baby pictures before Ana's colony was even a doodle on a NASA intern's napkin.”
“I know. And I love those pictures. But it is not the same. With Nastenka's pictures, I am taken back to the moment it was taken - my own memory. With Alaska's, it is like a relic of someone else's experience. I was not there.”
“I couldn't drag a baby into our mess. I'm never going to feel guilty about keeping you away from him during that time, you know.”
"Phases" [8b/9]
anonymous
June 29 2010, 20:27:11 UTC
Before America could respond, the doorbell rang. The two nations blinked at each other for a moment, each wondering if they had somehow forgotten a prior engagement. The bell rang a few more times in quick succession.
“Sounds important,” America said as he attempted to extract his finger from Anastasia's grasp. She had grabbed said finger and was attempting to guide it into her mouth full of sprouting baby teeth, apparently choosing to make do with that when spaghetti was not immediately forthcoming. “I'll get it.”
“Nyet,” Russia said. “I will do it. Nastya seems very hungry, and I do not want a page with 'Nastya's First Cannibalism Experience' in one of my books.”
After a few quick seconds for Anastasia to receive her first bite of (puréed mushroom!) spaghetti and Russia to document it with photographic evidence, the tall nation set out to uncover the mystery of the still-ringing doorbell.
The guest on the doorstep was somehow not the first thing Russia noticed. That distinction belonged to the peculiar weather. The morning had been very clear and bright, the textbook example of a perfect spring morning. Now, however, the atmosphere had taken a turn for the sour. A dense, miserable fog had rolled in, and it tricked the eye into perceiving eerie, unnatural movements in the inanimate shapes in the distance.
There was a young man at the door. His apparent age and physical features were familiar, and Russia soon recognized him as one of America's older states.
“Ah. You are... Massachusetts,” Russia said. He paused for a moment, squinting in thought as he attempted to recall the state's human name. “Adam, yes?”
“I need to see Pops. It's... it's bad. It's wicked bad, Ivan.”
It was a truly merciful thing that Russia had somehow managed to develop an immunity to the many (intentional or otherwise) ways America and his states slaughtered his human name with mispronunciations. He remembered a time when hearing “EYE-van” this “EYE-vin” that would have given him a visible twitch in his eye at the very least.
Things changed, and not just on his end. America had gotten somewhat better about the pronunciation issue over time, though in his typical fashion, it had been a process dragged out over long years of slowly improving relations after the Cold War. Even after things changed from “slowly improving” to “very much improved, thank you, as evidenced by the pants hanging from the ceiling fan”, he still occasionally made the mistake.
But his states were now, and Russia assumed always would be, incredibly unpredictable about the whole thing.
“Come in,” Russia said, stepping aside. “And it is 'ee-VAHN'.”
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
He kept a close eye on Massachusetts as they made their way in silence down the hall. Something was off. Out of all of his full-blooded brothers and sisters, Massachusetts bore the strongest resemblance to England. Today, however, the green eyes were wide and slightly glazed over, the blond hair limp and unkempt, and the eyebrows... well, the eyebrows were the same as ever, looking like two very lost fuzzy caterpillars. But there was something in the nervous tightness around his shoulders, waxy complexion to his skin, and anxious twinge in his movement that implied a great disturbance in Massachusetts.
Russia wondered if he would need to protect Anastasia from her own brother.
"Phases" [8c/9]
anonymous
June 29 2010, 20:28:45 UTC
“This is the Starship Spaghetti, requesting permission to land. Over,” said America's voice as they got closer. He was guiding a baby-sized spoonful of spaghetti towards Anastasia's mouth.
“Noodles: check. Sauce: check. Deliciousness: engaged. Adjusting trajectory and...” With that, America made a sound like a jet as the baby's mouth closed around the spaghetti.
He glanced up as Russia and Massachusetts entered. “Adam?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “Something wrong?”
The state fidgeted slightly, and for a moment his eyes seemed even further away than they already had been. He mouthed something inaudible for a second before his voice grew louder. As he spoke, his normally thick accent abated. He even pronounced most of his 'R's. “The planets align and the dimensions grow weak, shaken by the march of the celestial giants. Reality keens and groans, suffering under the pressure of the Great Old Ones, and the cult of Dagon seeks blood for its unnatural god.”
Russia blinked.
“Aw, geez,” America groaned, shaking his head.
“You know the screaming void of space between the stars and celestial bodies,” Massachusetts said, pointing to Anastasia. “Yours is the blood of pilgrims journeying through that yowling, hungry emptiness!”
Anastasia ignored him completely, too busy babbling gleefully at her breakthrough scientific discovery that spaghetti can, in fact, stick to walls.
“Massachusetts - Adam,” America said firmly. This caught the state's attention, and he turned his head blearily. “How long have you been having this episode?”
“I have endured a fortnight of fragmented sleep and the tortuous visions it brings.”
America glanced at Russia, who sighed and said, “Fourteen days.”
“I knew that. I was just testing you,” America said in a rush. After a pause, he added, “You passed, by the way. And I was afraid of this. Sounds like he's got another bout of Innsmouth.”
“Innsmouth? Is that a disease?” Russia asked, moving between the state and Anastasia, who had taken the moment of distraction as an opportunity to thoroughly investigate her dish of spaghetti. Sometimes a noodle or two would make it to her mouth instead of smeared across the front of her onesie or into her hair, but this seemed to be largely coincidental.
America shook his head. “It's one of his seaside towns. I think it's pretty damn creepy in the way that incredibly old, misunderstood little towns can be, but poor Adam must've gotten the 'imaginary creature friend' gene from England.”
“Meaning?”
“He thinks a lot of... I don't know, intelligent fish or something... live there. Or at least have business there. It's kind of hard to make out what he means when he gets into moods like this, considering I don't know mos-... a handful of the words he uses. A very small handful. And besides, I've never seen these friends when he insists they're present, so...”
“'Friends'? Hah, 'friends'. Human concepts like friendship, love, decency... the Deep Ones look upon these as man looks upon chitinous insects clashing crooked horn and chattering carapace. Meaningless rituals developed by inferior beings, done to fritter away lives which are unspeakably short and pointless.”
“They're late!”
The other nations in the meeting room turned to look at England. Some were sitting, others standing and milling around, and a few were even standing at the coffee machine waiting their turn with bleary, jet-lagged bags beneath their eyes.
“Angleterre, it's been two minutes,” France said, propping his elbow on the table and dropping his scraggly chin onto the palm of his hand. “They're not the only ones who are still absent.”
“So? I called earlier specifically to helpfully remind America about today-”
France coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like, “Nagged.”
England glared, but continued without hesitation, “And I was very rudely received for my trouble, may I add. And this is after we were so accommodating as to allow him to skip the meeting hosted in Vienna two months ago.”
“U-um,” Canada interrupted, raising his hand. “I missed that too. I didn't get on the flight to Vienna because America called my cell and said he had a hunch that the baby would be coming soon. Which turned out to be that night.”
Clearing his throat awkwardly, England continued, “Still, he didn't even seem to appreciate how considerate it is that we're holding this meeting so close to his house.”
“This location was picked at random out of Prussia's horrible hat last year,” Germany grumbled from the other side of the table, his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. “I doubt America was pregnant at the time, unless we have his and Russia's conspicuous tardiness after the lunch break to thank for this.”
“How did you buy that... thing anyway, Prussia?” Hungary asked, eying the pale-haired Nation with unconcealed disgust.
Prussia cackled. “I didn't buy it! It was given to me after I won an awesome contest which totally existed!”
“Stop lying. The text on the hat said-!”
“I stand by my outrageous claim! And I'd be wearing it now if West hadn't confiscated it!” He turned to his brother and glared. “You even said you had it burned!”
“I put it out of its misery.”
“Why are you even here, Prussia?” England asked, somewhat grateful that the conversation had steered away from his somewhat botched rhetoric. “Aren't world meetings supposed to be for currently-recognized nations only?”
“Special occasion,” Prussia said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the table. “It's not everyday your asshole former boss inflicts his psychotic weirdo genes on the first civilian colony on the moon.”
“Yeah, jerk England! Special occasion!”
Reply
As Sealand, Finland, and Sweden entered the room, a squabble immediately broke out between the young micronation and England, which all of the remaining nations apart from Sealand's adoptive fathers promptly ignored.
“That doesn't explain why you were at the meeting a year ago,” France said. A sly grin broke out on his face. “I liked your hat, by the way, though I think I would be more deserving of the title.”
“You wish!” Prussia crowed. “And as for the meeting, I smuggled myself in. I'm awesomely stealthy like that.”
“You're as stealthy as an explosion in an orchestra pit,” Austria muttered. “When I think stealthiness, I think of-”
“Me?”
Immediately, all the other nations went still. Even Sealand, with Finland pulling at his shoulders, froze half-way through an attempted kick to England's shins. All eyes in the room turned to the tall figure standing directly behind Prussia.
“How... how long have you been there, Russia?” England asked.
Russia smiled, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He placed a hand on Prussia's shoulder, and the former nation eyed it anxiously, waiting for a vicious squeeze. “Long enough to have heard certain comments.”
“V-Vanya,” Ukraine interrupted, giving her younger brother a quivering smile in the hopes of providing a distraction. “I can't wait to meet my niece. Where is she?”
Some of the frosty edge melted from Russia's smile. “Ah, she needed to be changed and fed. America will be along with her shortly. Which reminds me...”
Russia finally removed his foreboding hand from Prussia's shoulder in order to pull a notepad and pen from a briefcase at his side. His eyes quickly scanned the other nations in the room before he began to scribble on the paper. He tore the page from the pad, ripped it into several smaller pieces, and then folded each piece. Everyone else in the room watched this procedure with slowly growing suspicion or alarm.
Once the strange task was completed, Russia began to walk around the room. He gave each nation a folded slip of paper. “I am handing out slips which reveal the order in which you may hold my daughter,” Russia said. “They may not be opened until everyone has received one.”
Finally, every nation in attendance had a slip of paper. In unison, they began to unfold them and look at their ranking.
“'One,'” Ukraine said, smiling. “Oh, thank you, Vanya...”
“'Two',” read Canada. Looking slightly flustered, he glanced around and continued, “U-um, I've already seen the baby. I'm willing to sacrifice my place in line and trade if anybody is especially eager to see her...”
“Nyet. It does not work that way.”
“O-o-okay, nevermind.”
Reply
“That's a 5, Italy,” Germany said. His voice was slightly muffled given that his hands had come up to cover his face in embarrassment. A slip with the word “Four” on it poked out between his middle and index fingers.
“Oh, I see,” Italy said. After a moment, he continued, “Germany, is that higher or lower than 'S'?”
“'Banned from touching'?” Spain asked, staring at his slip with incredulity. “Just because I appreciate adorable children doesn't mean-”
“You used an unmarked white van with tinted windows to drive here, Spain!” Romano growled.
“Because that's what the rental company gave me! A coincidence!” Spain grinned and embraced Romano with a powerful hug. “Hey, that means I can cuddle up close to you when it's your turn! Just because I'm not allowed to hold the baby doesn't mean I can't hold you! And seeing you hold a baby might give me some ideas...”
Somewhere during Romano's long, heated string of mostly-Italian profanity, Prussia opened his slip. “Oh, what a surprise! 'Kolkolkolkol...' and it goes on like that at least 20 times,” he said.
“Mon Dieu!” France exclaimed, glowering at his slip. “'Last'?!”
England pointed to his long-term bickering partner and cackled. “Stupid frog. Serves you right. Let's see how much higher I am on the list.” “'Equally last'?! That's not even a legitimate ranking! You can't have two lasts!”
Legitimate or not, Russia insisted that each nation organize themselves around the table in the order they had been given. Near the end of this shuffling of confused and irritated nations, America finally entered the room.
“Sorry for being so late! Trust me, a hungry and smelly baby doesn't make for the best introduction... Okay, what exactly are you guys doing?”
But his went unanswered. Everyone in the room turned at the sound of his voice, punctuated with a gooey, “Aww!” in unison from some of the more emotional nations.
America grinned and adjusted his hold on Anastasia so the others could see her better. “Everybody, I'd like to introduce you to the Russian-American Lunar Colony Selene, otherwise known as Anastasia Ivanovna Braginskaya-Jones. But both of those names are real mouth-fulls, so I call her Ana!”
Russia joined America, and gestured toward Ukraine. “I organized a little game to determine the order in which everyone may hold Nasten'ka...”
England sputtered indignantly.
“And my sister won first honors. Everyone else follows her like so.”
“Oh,” America said, smiling at Russia's older sister as he approached her. “That's great! Are you ready to hold your niece?”
“Y-yes, I am,” Ukraine said. A nervous blush rose to her cheeks. “It's been a long time since I held a little baby, though. Possibly not since Bel-” She noticed the sudden look of wide-eyed terror on Russia's face, and quickly covered her mouth at the near slip. “I mean, since our sister was small.”
Reply
“And here we go,” he continued, passing Anastasia into Ukraine's arms. “Ana, say hello to your Auntie Ukraine!”
“Oh, hi, baby,” Ukraine cooed at the infant in her arms. “Look at you! Oh, Vanya, she's absolutely adorable. She definitely has your hair.”
“Better than his nose, right?” Prussia whispered conspiratorially to Hungary and Austria. Hungary's response was a sharp elbow straight to Prussia's ribs.
After Ukraine had spent some time with Anastasia, she passed the baby to Canada. Although he liked seeing his niece, especially now that she wasn't a slimy, screaming newborn anymore, but he understood that there were other nations who had yet to see her at all and were quite curious. So, after a comparatively short time with the baby, he passed her to the third nation in line, Japan.
“Your daughter is quite moé, America-san,” the Asian nation said as he somewhat awkwardly held the baby.
“Um, thanks? Unless that's an insult, in which case I take offense.”
For the next half-hour, the baby girl was passed along and cooed at in multiple languages while her parents fielded any questions or comments about her. When it was Finland's turn to hold the baby, Sealand peered curiously at her from his adoptive father's side. Meanwhile, Sweden, looking even more serious than usual, took down notes as he spoke with America about space travel and colonization. Occasionally he'd glance back at the happy smile on Finland's face as he played with the baby's tiny toes before he'd turn back and continue scribbling down notes with even more intensity.
Eventually, Anastasia had been held by every nation (except for the seemingly uninterested Prussia and the increasingly fidgety and pouty Spain, who hovered ceaselessly and whined to Romano for only holding the baby for a minute) ranked above France and England. Along with Spain, the two rival nations had fathered the majority of America's states, and they were eager to see how this newest arrival stacked up in comparison to their own children.
The problem arose when both France and England reached for their turn at the same time.
“Eyebrows, what are you doing?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing! I'm next, not you!”
“Ah, non. I am last.”
“So am I! Which means one of us needs to be more last. And clearly that should be you!”
The increasingly noisy din coming from the quarreling nations nearby made Anastasia begin to fidget in Austria's arms. Her little fists clenched and shook, and her pacifier dropped to the floor when she began to whimper.
“You are scaring Nasten'ka.”
France and England turned to look up at Russia and shrank down in their seats at what they saw. The tall nation loomed above them menacingly, and his expression was so intensely dark that even the atmosphere around him seemed warped by his foul mood. Even more worrying was the fact that he had somehow managed to procure his long, horrible pipe.
“W-where did you get that?!” England yelped. “You didn't have it a second ago, and there's a metal detector at the entrance of the building!”
Reply
“It won't happen again!”
“Oui! It was never our intention to-”
“Kolkolko-”
“IVAN,” America warned as he took the whimpering baby into his arms and began to pat her back. “Do you know what would really scare her? Seeing you bludgeon a couple of noisy jerks into a pulp!”
The horrible atmosphere around Russia and, somehow, his pipe both immediately disappeared. He moved closer to America and gently cupped Anastasia's head, running his thumb over her hair. Anastasia's whimpers were beginning to taper off, though her fright had left her with the hiccups. “They made her upset,” he said, almost pouting himself.
“I know. And I'm glad you want to protect her, but don't do anything rash.”
The tension that had built up in France and England drained out of them like a melting glacier.
“You can beat them up later.”
The tension rushed back with a vengeance.
“Right now, though, they need to have their turn too,” America said.
“But they might fight and scare Nasten'ka again!”
“I know, I know,” America said soothingly, rubbing Russia's back. He then turned to look and France and England. “But if they know what's good for them, they won't. Besides, giving second chances is totally the heroic thing to do!”
Carefully adjusting Anastasia so he could hold her with one arm, America pulled up a chair near France and England. “Scooch closer,” he said.
England and France first eyed each other dubiously before turning the same skeptical expression to America.
“Scooch!”
The two older nations finally moved closer to each other. Using his free hand, America took England's and France's hands and positioned them. “Now, hold that pose,” he instructed before he gently maneuvered Anastasia into the combined hold of the two nations.
The baby had calmed down again, though this was likely helped by the thumb she had popped into her mouth to suck. She stared up at France and England with clear blue eyes, until she got bored with them and began batting at the ribbons on her dress again.
A faint blush began to creep over England's cheeks, which he tried to explain away to himself as a combination of overwhelming baby cuteness and embarrassment at having upset her. Certainly not because his and France's hands were practically woven together in order to support the baby. Fortunately for him, he wasn't alone. France was currently operating under the same shaky assumptions.
“She is cute,” England eventually said. “But I have to maintain that my children were much cuter as babies. New York, for example, had the most adorable dimples when he was her age.”
“Oh, I wholeheartedly agree,” the Netherlands said as he smirked from across the room.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” England asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Why, nothing! New York is a fine lad. He really does cut such a nice, tall figure now, doesn't he? And such well-kept eyebrows, you'd think he doesn't have to trim them at all...”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, wow, would you look at the time!” America interjected as he scooped up Anastasia. “We should probably get going - Ana really needs to get some uninterrupted napping. Let's do this again sometime! It'll be even better when she can toddle around and say a few words! Say, 'Bye-bye!' to the nice nations, Ana!” Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “C'mon, Russia, let's get the hell out of here before another fight breaks out.”
It proved to be a good call, as shortly after they closed the door behind them, they heard what sounded suspiciously like a chair being thrown across a room followed by a fistfight.
Reply
Very late that night, Russia and America were having a difficult time with Anastasia. She was typically a rather easy baby, having taken relatively fast and well to sleeping long periods during the night. Tonight, however, she was incredibly cranky and upset.
The usual baby woes like hunger or a soiled diaper had been ruled out early, and Russia's mind was beginning to wander to more alarming possibilities. Perhaps she had caught an illness from one of the nations at the meeting, or she was experiencing an allergic reaction to something one of them had worn. As he held the sobbing Anastasia to his chest, shushing and rocking her, he found himself plotting the terrible vengeance he would wreak if one of them had gotten his baby sick.
“Hey,” America said sleepily as he reentered the room holding two glasses of water. He set them down on the night-table and reached out to Russia. “I had an idea about what might be wrong with her when I was getting the cups out. Let me see if I'm right.”
“Her behavior reminds me of my states who had colic as babies,” he explained. “But it's probably not that.” He stretched out his legs on the bed and placed Anastasia tummy-down over his thighs. Carefully but still firmly, he began to pat and rub the baby's back in a certain rhythm.
“There we go. I don't know why this is such a relief to some babies, but it works,” America said gently as Anastasia began to settle down. “Does that feel good, Ana?”
Russia marveled as he watched the activity. “You said it couldn't be colic. Why not?”
“Because she'd have to be acting like this at least three times a week every week for several months.”
Russia blanched.
“Yeah. Ten of my states had colic.”
“If not colic, what do you think it is?”
“Oh, she's probably just overstimulated,” America said, looking relieved as Anastasia's eyes finally began to droop. “Try to imagine it like this: your whole life, you think the entire world is just you and two other people. You may not necessarily understand what those people are saying, but they're nice and warm, they feed you, make you feel comfy. Suddenly, you're surrounded by all of these weirdos yapping at you in crazy blabber-talk, and none of them look, sound, or act like the people you're used to. You might not even be able to see or hear the people you know. It's kind of like-”
“Being invaded,” Russia muttered.
“Yeah, exactly like that! It's easy to understand being upset by all that, right?”
“More than you realize.”
“Hey, don't be like that. I was just-” America's point drifted off as he seemed to finally catch up with the implications of his lover's expression. “Ah. Sorry.”
Russia shrugged. He reached out and stroked the baby's back, and gave a small smile when she gurgled slightly in her sleep.
A few minutes later, America announced that he felt she was “finally down for the count”. After kissing the sleeping baby on her forehead and allowing Russia to do the same, he moved Anastasia to sleep in her bassinet by the bed.
With a happy sigh, he clicked off the light on the bedside table and collapsed back on the bed, grinning as he felt Russia's arm snake around his waist and pull him close. “Good night, Ivan and Ana,” he murmured.
“Given the hour, don't you mean 'Good morning'?”
“Good-” America paused, and there was a rustling of sheets in the dark as America moved to glance at the alarm clock nearby. “Good 3:54 AM, Ivan and Ana. Love you.”
Russia chuckled softly. “You too. Ah, but was that for me or Nasten'ka?”
“Everyone in earshot, really.”
Reply
Meanwhile, it was midmorning in Germany's house. He was slightly jet-lagged from the long trip, but he had somehow managed to sleep a few hours on his flight back to Europe, so it wasn't as bad as it could be. In fact, he even had the rest of the day off just to recuperate.
He entered his bedroom and took the next few minutes to search the room thoroughly. He then secured the two locks on the door and slid its door chain in place. From there, he moved to his windows, where he pulled down a cloth shade, shuttered his venetian blinds, and closed the window curtains.
After another security sweep, he seemed content that nobody could possibly be watching him. Germany moved to his closet and pushed aside his clothes until he was staring at a seemingly blank wall. He slid his hand against the wall, revealing that a portion of it was a secret sliding panel concealing a safe. His fingers flew around the dial, and its strong door swung open.
Germany pulled a large case from the safe and carried it into the private bathroom attached to his bedroom. He set the case on his sink and tapped his password into its number pad. He opened the lid, and there was his prize.
Slowly and reverently, he raised the object up and set it on his head. He peered at his reflection in the mirror and smiled at what he saw.
Atop Germany's head was a tall, purple top hat covered in satin leopard spots. On its right side, several peacock plumes jutted out from the hat's brim and fluttered slightly in the air. The words “WORLD'S GREATEST PIMP” were embroidered across the front of the hat in stylish, curling gold thread.
He couldn't believe he'd nearly burned this thing when he'd taken it from Prussia.
---
Germany, you sly boots. And you guys didn't think I'd end the chapter without revealing what Prussia's horrible hat was, did you? XD
NOTES:
1 I'm not crazy about Anastasia's “official” name. Taken from Selene, a Greek goddess of the moon. I literally couldn't come up with anything better than that, so it stuck. :/
2 The 'cure' America uses for Anastasia's fussiness is apparently the only thing that could get me to settle down when I was a horrible colicky baby, according to my mother.
Other than that, I think most everything here is self-explanatory. If you'd like any more clarification, though, I'd be happy to oblige. Just ask!
Finally, it's looking like there will only be 2 parts left at the moment! Phew! This might change, which is why the parts are still labeled [number/??].
Reply
Second, this chapter is pure awesomeness. From England being grandpa/other babydaddy to Russia's numbering system to Spain's white van to America's flippant attitude to Russia's violence to the adorable FrUK moment.
Thank you. You made my night.
Reply
LOL. Probably a combination of the two. I can see America using lies of omission rather than blatant lies, like being kind of vague and always skirting the issue by finding some distraction. England, meanwhile, would invent increasingly implausible explanations on why a couple of "his" states look a little... different.
To be fair, England is likely not alone in this. There are probably at least a couple of states that just have a string of question marks in the "father's name" space on their birth certificates. XD
Reply
It's just more fun to poke at England with parentage debates because I think he would be the one to care about it the most. Possessive!England is headcanon for me XD
Reply
but still this fic is great; love pimping!Germany, protective!Russia and Pedo!Spain. I was laughing my ass off so badly and cooing at the idea of Sweden and Finland having their own kid.
Still one of my favorite fills on this site.
Reply
ENGLAND: New York is my son. What? My genes are recessive. All of them.
Reply
Reply
---
Phase 8: First Transmissions
In the months that had passed since Anastasia's birth, Russia had managed to fill three baby milestone scrapbooks. This was not because Anastasia was developing quickly; in fact, her aging had begun to slow down from the human standard somewhat, which America said happened to all of his kids at one point or another.
No, Russia had simply become a very... passionate photo and video camera enthusiast. As a result, normal milestones like five pages of “Nastya's first Christmas!” and a few pictures of the “First time Nastya crawls!” were filed alongside things like “First time Nastya wears lime green socks with froggies on them (see book 2, page 7 for first lime green socks with turtles on them)!” and “Nastya's first time listening to Tchaikovsky!” (Which was mostly just her laying against a pillow and sucking idly on her hand, though Russia insisted he saw a gleam of keen musical appreciation in her eye.)
“I am ready when you are,” Russia said, holding his camera up.
America sat the wiggly, happily babbling Anastasia in her highchair. “For?” he asked.
“Nasten'ka's lunch, obviously.”
“She's had spaghetti before. You can't pass this one off as a first.”
“But this is the first time she will have puréed mushrooms in the spaghetti sauce. I checked the ingredients.”
America chose to give that response a very wide berth. “And what,” America asked, pointing to a stack of three scrapbooks near Russia. “Are those?”
“Ah, these are for Nasten'ka's first birthday.”
“That's over a month away!”
Russia sighed. “I know. I am behind. I wanted to have at least two more books for it by now.”
The only way America's facial expression could be more blank would be if somebody managed to erase his features entirely like chalk wiped from a board. After a moment spent staring at Russia's eager little smile, he said, “You - you're just... you're just some kind of something. I don't know what the word is yet, or if it's even been invented, but I'm working on it.”
Russia's little smile remained, though a flash of something in his eyes made it turn fragile. “I do not want to miss anything,” he said. The unvoiced 'again' hung over the statement like a rain-heavy storm cloud.
“But I showed you Alaska's baby pictures before Ana's colony was even a doodle on a NASA intern's napkin.”
“I know. And I love those pictures. But it is not the same. With Nastenka's pictures, I am taken back to the moment it was taken - my own memory. With Alaska's, it is like a relic of someone else's experience. I was not there.”
“I couldn't drag a baby into our mess. I'm never going to feel guilty about keeping you away from him during that time, you know.”
“I know.”
Reply
“Sounds important,” America said as he attempted to extract his finger from Anastasia's grasp. She had grabbed said finger and was attempting to guide it into her mouth full of sprouting baby teeth, apparently choosing to make do with that when spaghetti was not immediately forthcoming. “I'll get it.”
“Nyet,” Russia said. “I will do it. Nastya seems very hungry, and I do not want a page with 'Nastya's First Cannibalism Experience' in one of my books.”
After a few quick seconds for Anastasia to receive her first bite of (puréed mushroom!) spaghetti and Russia to document it with photographic evidence, the tall nation set out to uncover the mystery of the still-ringing doorbell.
The guest on the doorstep was somehow not the first thing Russia noticed. That distinction belonged to the peculiar weather. The morning had been very clear and bright, the textbook example of a perfect spring morning. Now, however, the atmosphere had taken a turn for the sour. A dense, miserable fog had rolled in, and it tricked the eye into perceiving eerie, unnatural movements in the inanimate shapes in the distance.
There was a young man at the door. His apparent age and physical features were familiar, and Russia soon recognized him as one of America's older states.
“Ah. You are... Massachusetts,” Russia said. He paused for a moment, squinting in thought as he attempted to recall the state's human name. “Adam, yes?”
“I need to see Pops. It's... it's bad. It's wicked bad, Ivan.”
It was a truly merciful thing that Russia had somehow managed to develop an immunity to the many (intentional or otherwise) ways America and his states slaughtered his human name with mispronunciations. He remembered a time when hearing “EYE-van” this “EYE-vin” that would have given him a visible twitch in his eye at the very least.
Things changed, and not just on his end. America had gotten somewhat better about the pronunciation issue over time, though in his typical fashion, it had been a process dragged out over long years of slowly improving relations after the Cold War. Even after things changed from “slowly improving” to “very much improved, thank you, as evidenced by the pants hanging from the ceiling fan”, he still occasionally made the mistake.
But his states were now, and Russia assumed always would be, incredibly unpredictable about the whole thing.
“Come in,” Russia said, stepping aside. “And it is 'ee-VAHN'.”
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
He kept a close eye on Massachusetts as they made their way in silence down the hall. Something was off. Out of all of his full-blooded brothers and sisters, Massachusetts bore the strongest resemblance to England. Today, however, the green eyes were wide and slightly glazed over, the blond hair limp and unkempt, and the eyebrows... well, the eyebrows were the same as ever, looking like two very lost fuzzy caterpillars. But there was something in the nervous tightness around his shoulders, waxy complexion to his skin, and anxious twinge in his movement that implied a great disturbance in Massachusetts.
Russia wondered if he would need to protect Anastasia from her own brother.
Reply
“Noodles: check. Sauce: check. Deliciousness: engaged. Adjusting trajectory and...” With that, America made a sound like a jet as the baby's mouth closed around the spaghetti.
He glanced up as Russia and Massachusetts entered. “Adam?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “Something wrong?”
The state fidgeted slightly, and for a moment his eyes seemed even further away than they already had been. He mouthed something inaudible for a second before his voice grew louder. As he spoke, his normally thick accent abated. He even pronounced most of his 'R's. “The planets align and the dimensions grow weak, shaken by the march of the celestial giants. Reality keens and groans, suffering under the pressure of the Great Old Ones, and the cult of Dagon seeks blood for its unnatural god.”
Russia blinked.
“Aw, geez,” America groaned, shaking his head.
“You know the screaming void of space between the stars and celestial bodies,” Massachusetts said, pointing to Anastasia. “Yours is the blood of pilgrims journeying through that yowling, hungry emptiness!”
Anastasia ignored him completely, too busy babbling gleefully at her breakthrough scientific discovery that spaghetti can, in fact, stick to walls.
“Massachusetts - Adam,” America said firmly. This caught the state's attention, and he turned his head blearily. “How long have you been having this episode?”
“I have endured a fortnight of fragmented sleep and the tortuous visions it brings.”
America glanced at Russia, who sighed and said, “Fourteen days.”
“I knew that. I was just testing you,” America said in a rush. After a pause, he added, “You passed, by the way. And I was afraid of this. Sounds like he's got another bout of Innsmouth.”
“Innsmouth? Is that a disease?” Russia asked, moving between the state and Anastasia, who had taken the moment of distraction as an opportunity to thoroughly investigate her dish of spaghetti. Sometimes a noodle or two would make it to her mouth instead of smeared across the front of her onesie or into her hair, but this seemed to be largely coincidental.
America shook his head. “It's one of his seaside towns. I think it's pretty damn creepy in the way that incredibly old, misunderstood little towns can be, but poor Adam must've gotten the 'imaginary creature friend' gene from England.”
“Meaning?”
“He thinks a lot of... I don't know, intelligent fish or something... live there. Or at least have business there. It's kind of hard to make out what he means when he gets into moods like this, considering I don't know mos-... a handful of the words he uses. A very small handful. And besides, I've never seen these friends when he insists they're present, so...”
“'Friends'? Hah, 'friends'. Human concepts like friendship, love, decency... the Deep Ones look upon these as man looks upon chitinous insects clashing crooked horn and chattering carapace. Meaningless rituals developed by inferior beings, done to fritter away lives which are unspeakably short and pointless.”
Reply
Leave a comment