The Battle (for) Britain [5b/6]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 02:16:55 UTC
“I don’t think he will,” Wales said, quietly, a suggestion. Though the glares of the siblings only intensified, a silent consensus came between them that that was an entirely real possibility.
The groan of wood came from above them as America moved across the floor of the second story, pausing for a moment before coming quietly and carefully down the stairs. The sight of England’s siblings, huddled around their tea in the dark living room, their eyes on him like creatures in the underbrush, was enough to give him pause. He looked at his feet, unable to take all of their gazes on him at once.
“I understand why you mistrust me,” he said, quiet in the tight atmosphere-which, for once, he was successfully reading-but plenty loud enough for all of the siblings to hear him. “I do.”
The siblings were silent, observing him. Why don’t you bugger off and leave us alone, then? they all thought silently.
America looked up at them, suddenly finding the heart to continue. “But I can promise you all, from the bottom of my heart, that nothing like… that will ever happen again.”
The dubiousness of the statement was palpable, and America was hesitant in continuing.
“I… I mean, I really… I really love England. I have since I was a kid. And I don’t claim to love him the same way y’all do. I’ll never be his brother again. I’ll never replace you guys.”
Northern Ireland, for once, looked humbled. Scotland busied himself with sipping his tea, and Ireland and Wales fiddled with their fingers in the handles of their teacups.
“But England and I are… are past all that stuff now. I’d never hurt him like that again. Never. I want him safe and happy just as badly as you guys do, and I’ll damn well protect him with all I’ve got before I let anyone else hurt him.”
America paused awkwardly, stuffing his hands deeply into his blue-jean pockets.
“I love him, ‘s all.”
Suddenly, none of the siblings could conjure any biting remarks, sarcasm, or insults to throw at the younger nation. They sat awkwardly, not wanting to let their hearts be won over by America’s speech, but knowing grudgingly that they already had been.
Wales was the first to speak up.
“You truly love our Lloegr?” he asked quietly, from behind his teacup.
America nodded eagerly, his expression humble and pleading. “With all my heart,” he said.
Northern Ireland clapped her teacup down on the table in front of her, stomping up from the couch and storming toward America, stopping just short of an uncomfortable proximity. She glared up at him, and he stood tall, reserving a healthy measure of fear as he regarded her.
She fumed silently at him for a moment, before sighing through her nose, and poking an aggressive finger into his chest.
“If you ever hurt our Arthur again,” she said, her words biting from between her teeth, each syllable making America flinch infinitesimally. “We all reserve the right to come to your house and kill you.”
America nodded quickly, his eyes wide. “Acknowledged,” he said, his voice a squeak.
“Good lad,” she said, patting his cheek roughly before stalking away, and for the first time, America realized what exactly he had just gotten himself into.
He was a hero, for sure. He could handle these guys, no sweat. For England.
The groan of wood came from above them as America moved across the floor of the second story, pausing for a moment before coming quietly and carefully down the stairs. The sight of England’s siblings, huddled around their tea in the dark living room, their eyes on him like creatures in the underbrush, was enough to give him pause. He looked at his feet, unable to take all of their gazes on him at once.
“I understand why you mistrust me,” he said, quiet in the tight atmosphere-which, for once, he was successfully reading-but plenty loud enough for all of the siblings to hear him. “I do.”
The siblings were silent, observing him. Why don’t you bugger off and leave us alone, then? they all thought silently.
America looked up at them, suddenly finding the heart to continue. “But I can promise you all, from the bottom of my heart, that nothing like… that will ever happen again.”
The dubiousness of the statement was palpable, and America was hesitant in continuing.
“I… I mean, I really… I really love England. I have since I was a kid. And I don’t claim to love him the same way y’all do. I’ll never be his brother again. I’ll never replace you guys.”
Northern Ireland, for once, looked humbled. Scotland busied himself with sipping his tea, and Ireland and Wales fiddled with their fingers in the handles of their teacups.
“But England and I are… are past all that stuff now. I’d never hurt him like that again. Never. I want him safe and happy just as badly as you guys do, and I’ll damn well protect him with all I’ve got before I let anyone else hurt him.”
America paused awkwardly, stuffing his hands deeply into his blue-jean pockets.
“I love him, ‘s all.”
Suddenly, none of the siblings could conjure any biting remarks, sarcasm, or insults to throw at the younger nation. They sat awkwardly, not wanting to let their hearts be won over by America’s speech, but knowing grudgingly that they already had been.
Wales was the first to speak up.
“You truly love our Lloegr?” he asked quietly, from behind his teacup.
America nodded eagerly, his expression humble and pleading. “With all my heart,” he said.
Northern Ireland clapped her teacup down on the table in front of her, stomping up from the couch and storming toward America, stopping just short of an uncomfortable proximity. She glared up at him, and he stood tall, reserving a healthy measure of fear as he regarded her.
She fumed silently at him for a moment, before sighing through her nose, and poking an aggressive finger into his chest.
“If you ever hurt our Arthur again,” she said, her words biting from between her teeth, each syllable making America flinch infinitesimally. “We all reserve the right to come to your house and kill you.”
America nodded quickly, his eyes wide. “Acknowledged,” he said, his voice a squeak.
“Good lad,” she said, patting his cheek roughly before stalking away, and for the first time, America realized what exactly he had just gotten himself into.
He was a hero, for sure. He could handle these guys, no sweat. For England.
His cheek stung dully.
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