Iridescence of a Paperweight [3/13]
anonymous
February 24 2011, 22:09:56 UTC
“…America, put me down, you nutter,” England ordered, flushed, smacking at the hand around his tie. This was certainly not how he’d anticipated his retrieval to be. Why couldn’t Canada have found him? Hell, even France would’ve been better than this. Or maybe, oh, an America who was apologetic or horny rather than drunken into a stupor of rage. Yes, that sounded simply marvelous.
But America was miles away; if he wouldn’t recognize England by sight, surely sound wouldn’t be of much assistance, either. He scowled and dropped England once more, earning a startled yelp. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m nice enough to letcha sort yourself out before I beat the shit out of you. You have forty-five seconds.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, muscles tensed and-wait, bare chest? England paused in fixing his tie to squint at the other nation. His dress shirt was flowing over his belt, and most of the top and middle buttons seemed to have been popped off; his collar was a mess, and his tie was hanging undone around his neck. What exposed skin there was had been endowed with beads of sweat, hairs on end, tendons taut.
And boy, did he look knackered, right mad, angry, and unfairly sexy all at once.
England opened his mouth, then closed it again. “America…” He began lowly, unsure if he should bother getting to his feet. (While it wasn’t becoming to kneel on the floor, it was preferable when poised against being shoved down again.) “Look at me.”
America’s brow wrinkled. His nose did the same second later. “Nah, I’ll pass.”
Cheeks reddening, England glowered up at him. “I beg your par-that was an order, now fucking look at me. Good boy. No-don’t, just, don’t. No talking on your part. Thank you.” America looked more baffled than frustrated at that, which was much nicer than that façade of rage he’d just been sporting. England sighed, leaning against the table and trying to look as dignified as possible. “Sit.”
“Uh,” America said, still looking at England, apparently flabbergasted. An aggravated sigh from the other did it, though, and in another moment he was on his bum about arms-length across from England. “…What?” Cobalt eyes narrowed once more, accusing. He leaned away. “Is this a trick?”
England deadpanned. “No. Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey!” Jolly good, England, rile the boy up again. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you commie…communist!” America, ruffled and bristled and looking like he was going to pounce-- oh god, it was like a come-hither bedroom face one might find adorned on Stalin. …No, England, that’s not attractive, he berated himself, paling at the thought.
“America,” he said slowly. “I know how difficult this must be for you to do, but use your goddamn brain. Do I look like Russia to you?”
Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked away patiently.
“…Nnno.”
“Did I feel heavy enough to be Russia?”
“…I guess not.” (England would pretend he wasn’t insulted by the lack of certainty there.)
“And do I even fucking sound like him to you,poppet?”
“Well, now that you mention it-“
“Good,” England praised, smiling sardonically as he elongated his response, speaking slowly as though to a child. “Then why the hell did you just assault me, hm?”
“Becaaauuuse…” America trailed off, eyes crossing in scrutiny. “Um…oh. Ha ha.” Slowly, he appeared sheepish. All the rage from before had spilled into a nervous smile, and…really, the boy was just going to smile at him as if that made it okay? “Heyyy there, England.” Oh, for heaven’s sake--! America shifted awkwardly in place. “I, uh, have this condition, y’see…”
England’s brow crinkled in disbelief. “No.”
“Yeah. Ha. Um. It was really Tony’s fault, back during the height of the Cold War, when he thought it would be good to put me into alien-training-stuff in case we had to go head-to-head in battle. The effects never wore off and every so often I turn into, like, an anti-commie monster. It’s pretty trippy.” America tried a smile. “And it seemed like a good idea at the time, I swear.”
But America was miles away; if he wouldn’t recognize England by sight, surely sound wouldn’t be of much assistance, either. He scowled and dropped England once more, earning a startled yelp. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m nice enough to letcha sort yourself out before I beat the shit out of you. You have forty-five seconds.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, muscles tensed and-wait, bare chest? England paused in fixing his tie to squint at the other nation. His dress shirt was flowing over his belt, and most of the top and middle buttons seemed to have been popped off; his collar was a mess, and his tie was hanging undone around his neck. What exposed skin there was had been endowed with beads of sweat, hairs on end, tendons taut.
And boy, did he look knackered, right mad, angry, and unfairly sexy all at once.
England opened his mouth, then closed it again. “America…” He began lowly, unsure if he should bother getting to his feet. (While it wasn’t becoming to kneel on the floor, it was preferable when poised against being shoved down again.) “Look at me.”
America’s brow wrinkled. His nose did the same second later. “Nah, I’ll pass.”
Cheeks reddening, England glowered up at him. “I beg your par-that was an order, now fucking look at me. Good boy. No-don’t, just, don’t. No talking on your part. Thank you.” America looked more baffled than frustrated at that, which was much nicer than that façade of rage he’d just been sporting. England sighed, leaning against the table and trying to look as dignified as possible. “Sit.”
“Uh,” America said, still looking at England, apparently flabbergasted. An aggravated sigh from the other did it, though, and in another moment he was on his bum about arms-length across from England. “…What?” Cobalt eyes narrowed once more, accusing. He leaned away. “Is this a trick?”
England deadpanned. “No. Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey!” Jolly good, England, rile the boy up again. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you commie…communist!” America, ruffled and bristled and looking like he was going to pounce-- oh god, it was like a come-hither bedroom face one might find adorned on Stalin. …No, England, that’s not attractive, he berated himself, paling at the thought.
“America,” he said slowly. “I know how difficult this must be for you to do, but use your goddamn brain. Do I look like Russia to you?”
Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked away patiently.
“…Nnno.”
“Did I feel heavy enough to be Russia?”
“…I guess not.” (England would pretend he wasn’t insulted by the lack of certainty there.)
“And do I even fucking sound like him to you,poppet?”
“Well, now that you mention it-“
“Good,” England praised, smiling sardonically as he elongated his response, speaking slowly as though to a child. “Then why the hell did you just assault me, hm?”
“Becaaauuuse…” America trailed off, eyes crossing in scrutiny. “Um…oh. Ha ha.” Slowly, he appeared sheepish. All the rage from before had spilled into a nervous smile, and…really, the boy was just going to smile at him as if that made it okay? “Heyyy there, England.” Oh, for heaven’s sake--! America shifted awkwardly in place. “I, uh, have this condition, y’see…”
England’s brow crinkled in disbelief. “No.”
“Yeah. Ha. Um. It was really Tony’s fault, back during the height of the Cold War, when he thought it would be good to put me into alien-training-stuff in case we had to go head-to-head in battle. The effects never wore off and every so often I turn into, like, an anti-commie monster. It’s pretty trippy.” America tried a smile. “And it seemed like a good idea at the time, I swear.”
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