[Fic] The Only Constant
Back again! With that promised crossover. It took me FOREVER to write, mostly because I have been working mad hours at work and also babysitting.
(EDIT: There is no Germania in this. I mistagged. >.> Sowwy)
TITLE: The Only Constant
FANDOM: Axis Powers Hetalia, Doctor Who
CHARACTERS: America, Canada, England, France, Italy, Germany, Russia....well, just about everyone, really.
PAIRINGS: I dunno, what's canon? XD
RATING: T, for silliness, set in various times because Who jumps around
WARNING: Um, fluff and ridiculous nations being ridiculous. Only a few of the Doctors, mostly because I'm unfamiliar with a lot of them.
Oh, and kind of long.
NOTES: My two favorite fandoms. For those who haven't seen Dr. Who--please at least give it a try. It's so wonderful, new series or old. I'm pulling bigger references from New Who (because I am most familiar with those episodes), but striving to mention older who as well. There is just so. damn. much.
SUMMARY: There are so few constants, except for this.
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History's a current, a river, a flow. Set in stone and so close, but seemingly beyond reach. There are so few constants.
Except this.
Germany's brow furrows at the image on the wall, tracing a gloved finger over the strangely modern shape etched in marble. It's a box.
More than that, it's a phone box. One of England's. The badly chipped marble obscures the other figure, but there is the image of a man, in clothes too modern for so ancient a time.
"Germany! Germany!" North Italy's voice is bright behind him, and Germany turns. Absently, he feels a smile soften his face, and corrects himself.
"Germany, look what I found!" Veneziano holds up a piece of very old, delicate pottery. As he hoists it higher to show Germany, it slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground, breaking into a million pieces. Italy's head drops, and a waver permates his voice.
"S-sorry Germany...," his breath hitches, "I know we were trying to find more to help our war effort but..."
Germany softly rests a hand on Italy's shoulder.
"Nicht ist es fein," he mutters, "I had my doubts this would turn up anything useful."
A grin lights up Italy's face, and the tears threatening his eyes have gone. Germany sighs--one day, he will figure out why he puts up with this fool.
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France is busy at Le Moulin Rouge, chattering and drinking the night away. To his left, women whose names he will never know. To his right, Seychelles looks on, mildly dissapproving. It is a wonderful night, and the bohemian atmosphere overtakes even them. More important issues lie in the morning, but for now, joy.
When he steps outside to catch a little air, he notices a man sitting quietly on the corner. Normally, he would not notice this, but there was something..different about this man. His hat (a fedora, France notices), is beside him on the ground, and a ludicriously long scarf is wound around his form. The man runs a hand through his mop of curls and looks France straight in the eye with an unnerving steadiness.
"'Allo, friend!"
And France finds himself drawn to speak with the man, who in reality has little to say. He does talk an awful lot though.
"What brings you to Paris, mon ami?"
"Last night of freedom," the man responds in a pleasant bass. He laughs, deep and hearty. France smiles.
"Marriage?"
The man closes his eyes and lets a deep sigh escape.
"Oh, if only it were that easy," he replies, and says no more. France, his mind light from the absinthe, helps the man to his feet.
"One more drink. For freedom."
"For Freedom"
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Greece is unsteady, watching the walls of Troy. The fighting has been going on for days, and he himself has been battered and bruised. There is no way to stop this, this impending victory. The next morning, Troy will fall.
He bends to wash his face in the stream, enjoying the cool of the evening. Across the clearing comes Odysesus and a very strangely dressed man. Odyssesus seems convinced this man is Zeus.
Centuries later, after Rome has conquered Greece and then gone and toppled upon himself and left behind so many precocious grandchildren, Greece will see a man with a much different face--but the same eyes--staring back at him from a televsion screen.
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Russia shivers in the cold, uneasy. Something murmurs through his people--unrest? He is unsure of where he stands. A royal family is tradition, but they have been making decisions like they lived in a vaccum--unaware of how they're affecting others.
And the soldiers. Russia is not usually so caring, but his people have been stretched so thin...he's not sure how much he can take. He stares at the palace, glittering in the cold.
Then there is a man beside him, clad in clothing unsuitable for the weather. Russia shrugs his coat back to his shoulders (it is oddly fit and keeps slipping) and looks at the man.
"Aren't you cold?"
The man's clad in little more than trousers, a shirt, and a..strange looking coat. His head is uncovered, shorn of hair. Russia notices the man's prominent ears growing red in the cold.
The man simply looks at him and smiles.
"Nope," he responds in perfect Russian.
And they return to watching the palace. Russia pushes back from the bars, stomach growling. The man keeps looking ahead, face set. There is something hard beneath that flesh, something darker and colder than General Winter.
Later that year, Russia's people will come to him, unable to stand the pain anymore. And they will revolt. The royal family will struggle and fail to get away.
Strangest of all is the warning the man gives Russia before disappearing into the snow.
"They were right, you know. Nothing good comes of evil men."
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Italia's hands were buried in his skirts, shame in his eyes. He was sure Austria would hit him if he knew that he'd been in the trashbin looking for food. Again.
"Italy...."
It was Hungary. Italia can no longer hold back his tears, and clings to the girl.
"I didn't mean to, Hungary, but I'm starving! Please don't tell Austria!"
"Tell me what?"
Italia lets go of Hungary, and sniffles.
"Sono spiacente, Austria. I was just so hungry!"
Austria pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. Italy cowers, but to his surprise, is not hit.
"Just..don't do it again," and he sounds pained. Italy wipes away his tears.
"Austria...are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Hungary, let's go."
And Italy is left behind, once again. His hands are still dirty, and he wipes them on his skirts. A voice behind him makes him jump.
"Shinsei Roma!" he gasps. The boy across from him shuffles his feet and refuses to look him in the eye. He's holding a little bag, which he shoves into Italy's hands before running off.
Or attempting to. It's not as effective an exit as he hoped when he runs straight into a pair of pinstripe-clad legs. Italy's eyes travel upward--this man is tall, with a shock of brown hair and an infectious smile.
He sticks out like a sore thumb. Italy can only stare. Holy Roman Empire, however, scrambles away from the man's hands, onto his feet by himself. The dark-clad boy sniffs and looks up, trying to seem imposing.
It obviously doesn't work, because the man stoops down to their eye level. He cocks his head, and smiles.
"Buongiorno," he chirps, "I'm the Doctor."
The younger Roman Empire can not drive the blush from his cheeks as Italy comes to his side and clamps 'her' hand to his. Of all people, Italia is brave enough to speak.
"I'm Italia," 'she' responds, and 'Shinsei Roma' can not stand it any more. He wrenches his hand free and runs away, like he so often has. Italia frowns, confused, and the Doctor chuckles.
"He'll be fine. Could you tell me where Roderich Edelstein is?"
The man utters the name like it is unfamilar, strange. Italia is not sure he likes it, but he still responds.
"Austria-san is not home."
The man sighs.
"That's fine," he replies, "it wasn't pressing."
The man stands tall once more and begins to stroll off. Italia cannot help himself (too worried for a very tired Austria), and reaches out, catching the Doctor's coattails. The man looks back, eyes sort of distant.
"Ah...I-I'm s-sorry, I.."
The man smiles, and reaches down to ruffle Italia's hair beneath the kercheif on his head.
"Yes?"
Without the stronger Holy Roman Empire, Italia cannot find the courage to speak.
" 'Austria' will be fine, I promise. So will you."
The man leaves Italia stunned, and dissappears over the horizon. Italia opens the bag that has been in his possession for a while. It's risotto. Italia smiles.
Much later, the man is sitting beside Holy Roman Empire, both with their backs against a blue wooden box. HRE is refusing to talk, only mindlessly shredding grass between his fingers. The Doctor isn't saying much either, enjoying the cool air.
"I think you should tell Italia," the Doctor says, eyes still on the horizon. HRE's eyes are wide, unbelieving. How did this man think that he loved Italia?
"You may be surprised at the results," and there is a pained smile on his face. Holy Roman Empire is reminded of Italia's stories of 'Grandpa Rome'--who was so passionate and full of fire and strength--but so full of inner pain. The young empire wonders, just for a moment, if this man is just...
No, the face is too young, but the eyes are old enough.
"Who....who are you?"
The man's response is geniune.
"Aw, no one, really."
"I mean..where did you come from? Italia and Austria and Hungary and I...our lands are around here. You seem like you're like...," his voice dies,unsure of how to continue. It wasn't something they talked about, how some of them never seemed to age--only change or sort of disappear. Like Grandpa Rome. There was just a sense.
The man looks surprised--an emotion that seems out of place on him--and then chuckles.
"Oh, no. I'm from, erm, well," his hands gesture oddly before he decides on pointing upward. Blue eyes widen.
"You mean..."
The man nods, and suddenly he remembers reading Egypt's writings about how these strange creatures visited him and told him that...
"Relax, I'm a good one. I promise," he smiles, but there's pain there. He stands and rounds the corner of the box and disappears inside. Holy Roman Empire attempts to follow him, but is thwarted as the box vanishes into thin air.
Unable to deal with so much in one day, Holy Roman Empire promptly passes out.
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"Arthur?"
Still kneedeep in paperwork, England looks up. Scotland is at the door, a bit of worry on his face. Which is odd, because he's never quite sure what Scotland will say when he comes to the door. Ireland (and his troublesome, violent brother to the North) he sometimes cannot understand, but is usually pretty genuine. Wales has never really caused problems.
But Scotland...there's always a wondering there.
"Yes, James?"
England is not fond of using their 'human' names, mostly because it implies a closer relationship than he would like to have with Scotland.
"You alright? I heard what happened."
And England resumes his usual stance, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, longing to relieve a pain he knows he can never take care of.
"What?"
"A spaceship nearly falling on London! Must've shaken ya."
Oh, it's not the worst thing that's happened on Christmas, he wants to say. Instead he nods and thanks Scotland for his empathy.
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UNIT is not one of England's more favorable institutions. Not because of the moral decisions he must face dealing with both it and Torchwood (thankfully Wales has better luck with his branch), but because so often he hears that neither of them are being very effective.
Well that, and the fact that many of the nations seem to ignore that they belong to it does not help. It seems like the only time they rush to UNIT is when something is threatening to expose itself to the public.
Erm, well, perhaps he could state that differently, after what Wales has told him about Torchwood Three's leader.
He missed the 70s (or was it the 80s?), when the Doctor was there and things got sorted out easier. But now, America is standing, ranting something about a man with a squidhead, and Canada is just hoping that the Christmas attacks don't spread elsewhere. Poland is wholly unconcerned. The rest of the nations are just sort of confused.
And now England hears about how ATMOS is really a plot to destroy most of the world. For a moment, the noise in the room is just too loud.
"OI. FINGERS ON LIPS!" he finally yells, and the room is oddly quiet. He smiles, inwardly. Outwardly, he controls the room with a tenacity he hasn't had for centuries.
"Without this man that you are complaining about, I doubt many of us would be here. I do not understand him, nor will any of you. He has never given me a reason to doubt him before, and I have known him for CENTURIES. So SHUT IT"
The room is silent for a moment, and England recalls the first time he met the Doctor, ages before when both of them were still so young, and disbelieving of the name, refused to believe him.
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ALRIGHT. DONE. I'm planning to write some more native America soon, as well as some GermanyxItaly and HRExChibitalia stuff. For now, bed.
(EDIT: There is no Germania in this. I mistagged. >.> Sowwy)
TITLE: The Only Constant
FANDOM: Axis Powers Hetalia, Doctor Who
CHARACTERS: America, Canada, England, France, Italy, Germany, Russia....well, just about everyone, really.
PAIRINGS: I dunno, what's canon? XD
RATING: T, for silliness, set in various times because Who jumps around
WARNING: Um, fluff and ridiculous nations being ridiculous. Only a few of the Doctors, mostly because I'm unfamiliar with a lot of them.
Oh, and kind of long.
NOTES: My two favorite fandoms. For those who haven't seen Dr. Who--please at least give it a try. It's so wonderful, new series or old. I'm pulling bigger references from New Who (because I am most familiar with those episodes), but striving to mention older who as well. There is just so. damn. much.
SUMMARY: There are so few constants, except for this.
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History's a current, a river, a flow. Set in stone and so close, but seemingly beyond reach. There are so few constants.
Except this.
Germany's brow furrows at the image on the wall, tracing a gloved finger over the strangely modern shape etched in marble. It's a box.
More than that, it's a phone box. One of England's. The badly chipped marble obscures the other figure, but there is the image of a man, in clothes too modern for so ancient a time.
"Germany! Germany!" North Italy's voice is bright behind him, and Germany turns. Absently, he feels a smile soften his face, and corrects himself.
"Germany, look what I found!" Veneziano holds up a piece of very old, delicate pottery. As he hoists it higher to show Germany, it slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground, breaking into a million pieces. Italy's head drops, and a waver permates his voice.
"S-sorry Germany...," his breath hitches, "I know we were trying to find more to help our war effort but..."
Germany softly rests a hand on Italy's shoulder.
"Nicht ist es fein," he mutters, "I had my doubts this would turn up anything useful."
A grin lights up Italy's face, and the tears threatening his eyes have gone. Germany sighs--one day, he will figure out why he puts up with this fool.
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France is busy at Le Moulin Rouge, chattering and drinking the night away. To his left, women whose names he will never know. To his right, Seychelles looks on, mildly dissapproving. It is a wonderful night, and the bohemian atmosphere overtakes even them. More important issues lie in the morning, but for now, joy.
When he steps outside to catch a little air, he notices a man sitting quietly on the corner. Normally, he would not notice this, but there was something..different about this man. His hat (a fedora, France notices), is beside him on the ground, and a ludicriously long scarf is wound around his form. The man runs a hand through his mop of curls and looks France straight in the eye with an unnerving steadiness.
"'Allo, friend!"
And France finds himself drawn to speak with the man, who in reality has little to say. He does talk an awful lot though.
"What brings you to Paris, mon ami?"
"Last night of freedom," the man responds in a pleasant bass. He laughs, deep and hearty. France smiles.
"Marriage?"
The man closes his eyes and lets a deep sigh escape.
"Oh, if only it were that easy," he replies, and says no more. France, his mind light from the absinthe, helps the man to his feet.
"One more drink. For freedom."
"For Freedom"
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Greece is unsteady, watching the walls of Troy. The fighting has been going on for days, and he himself has been battered and bruised. There is no way to stop this, this impending victory. The next morning, Troy will fall.
He bends to wash his face in the stream, enjoying the cool of the evening. Across the clearing comes Odysesus and a very strangely dressed man. Odyssesus seems convinced this man is Zeus.
Centuries later, after Rome has conquered Greece and then gone and toppled upon himself and left behind so many precocious grandchildren, Greece will see a man with a much different face--but the same eyes--staring back at him from a televsion screen.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Russia shivers in the cold, uneasy. Something murmurs through his people--unrest? He is unsure of where he stands. A royal family is tradition, but they have been making decisions like they lived in a vaccum--unaware of how they're affecting others.
And the soldiers. Russia is not usually so caring, but his people have been stretched so thin...he's not sure how much he can take. He stares at the palace, glittering in the cold.
Then there is a man beside him, clad in clothing unsuitable for the weather. Russia shrugs his coat back to his shoulders (it is oddly fit and keeps slipping) and looks at the man.
"Aren't you cold?"
The man's clad in little more than trousers, a shirt, and a..strange looking coat. His head is uncovered, shorn of hair. Russia notices the man's prominent ears growing red in the cold.
The man simply looks at him and smiles.
"Nope," he responds in perfect Russian.
And they return to watching the palace. Russia pushes back from the bars, stomach growling. The man keeps looking ahead, face set. There is something hard beneath that flesh, something darker and colder than General Winter.
Later that year, Russia's people will come to him, unable to stand the pain anymore. And they will revolt. The royal family will struggle and fail to get away.
Strangest of all is the warning the man gives Russia before disappearing into the snow.
"They were right, you know. Nothing good comes of evil men."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Italia's hands were buried in his skirts, shame in his eyes. He was sure Austria would hit him if he knew that he'd been in the trashbin looking for food. Again.
"Italy...."
It was Hungary. Italia can no longer hold back his tears, and clings to the girl.
"I didn't mean to, Hungary, but I'm starving! Please don't tell Austria!"
"Tell me what?"
Italia lets go of Hungary, and sniffles.
"Sono spiacente, Austria. I was just so hungry!"
Austria pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. Italy cowers, but to his surprise, is not hit.
"Just..don't do it again," and he sounds pained. Italy wipes away his tears.
"Austria...are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Hungary, let's go."
And Italy is left behind, once again. His hands are still dirty, and he wipes them on his skirts. A voice behind him makes him jump.
"Shinsei Roma!" he gasps. The boy across from him shuffles his feet and refuses to look him in the eye. He's holding a little bag, which he shoves into Italy's hands before running off.
Or attempting to. It's not as effective an exit as he hoped when he runs straight into a pair of pinstripe-clad legs. Italy's eyes travel upward--this man is tall, with a shock of brown hair and an infectious smile.
He sticks out like a sore thumb. Italy can only stare. Holy Roman Empire, however, scrambles away from the man's hands, onto his feet by himself. The dark-clad boy sniffs and looks up, trying to seem imposing.
It obviously doesn't work, because the man stoops down to their eye level. He cocks his head, and smiles.
"Buongiorno," he chirps, "I'm the Doctor."
The younger Roman Empire can not drive the blush from his cheeks as Italy comes to his side and clamps 'her' hand to his. Of all people, Italia is brave enough to speak.
"I'm Italia," 'she' responds, and 'Shinsei Roma' can not stand it any more. He wrenches his hand free and runs away, like he so often has. Italia frowns, confused, and the Doctor chuckles.
"He'll be fine. Could you tell me where Roderich Edelstein is?"
The man utters the name like it is unfamilar, strange. Italia is not sure he likes it, but he still responds.
"Austria-san is not home."
The man sighs.
"That's fine," he replies, "it wasn't pressing."
The man stands tall once more and begins to stroll off. Italia cannot help himself (too worried for a very tired Austria), and reaches out, catching the Doctor's coattails. The man looks back, eyes sort of distant.
"Ah...I-I'm s-sorry, I.."
The man smiles, and reaches down to ruffle Italia's hair beneath the kercheif on his head.
"Yes?"
Without the stronger Holy Roman Empire, Italia cannot find the courage to speak.
" 'Austria' will be fine, I promise. So will you."
The man leaves Italia stunned, and dissappears over the horizon. Italia opens the bag that has been in his possession for a while. It's risotto. Italia smiles.
Much later, the man is sitting beside Holy Roman Empire, both with their backs against a blue wooden box. HRE is refusing to talk, only mindlessly shredding grass between his fingers. The Doctor isn't saying much either, enjoying the cool air.
"I think you should tell Italia," the Doctor says, eyes still on the horizon. HRE's eyes are wide, unbelieving. How did this man think that he loved Italia?
"You may be surprised at the results," and there is a pained smile on his face. Holy Roman Empire is reminded of Italia's stories of 'Grandpa Rome'--who was so passionate and full of fire and strength--but so full of inner pain. The young empire wonders, just for a moment, if this man is just...
No, the face is too young, but the eyes are old enough.
"Who....who are you?"
The man's response is geniune.
"Aw, no one, really."
"I mean..where did you come from? Italia and Austria and Hungary and I...our lands are around here. You seem like you're like...," his voice dies,unsure of how to continue. It wasn't something they talked about, how some of them never seemed to age--only change or sort of disappear. Like Grandpa Rome. There was just a sense.
The man looks surprised--an emotion that seems out of place on him--and then chuckles.
"Oh, no. I'm from, erm, well," his hands gesture oddly before he decides on pointing upward. Blue eyes widen.
"You mean..."
The man nods, and suddenly he remembers reading Egypt's writings about how these strange creatures visited him and told him that...
"Relax, I'm a good one. I promise," he smiles, but there's pain there. He stands and rounds the corner of the box and disappears inside. Holy Roman Empire attempts to follow him, but is thwarted as the box vanishes into thin air.
Unable to deal with so much in one day, Holy Roman Empire promptly passes out.
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"Arthur?"
Still kneedeep in paperwork, England looks up. Scotland is at the door, a bit of worry on his face. Which is odd, because he's never quite sure what Scotland will say when he comes to the door. Ireland (and his troublesome, violent brother to the North) he sometimes cannot understand, but is usually pretty genuine. Wales has never really caused problems.
But Scotland...there's always a wondering there.
"Yes, James?"
England is not fond of using their 'human' names, mostly because it implies a closer relationship than he would like to have with Scotland.
"You alright? I heard what happened."
And England resumes his usual stance, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, longing to relieve a pain he knows he can never take care of.
"What?"
"A spaceship nearly falling on London! Must've shaken ya."
Oh, it's not the worst thing that's happened on Christmas, he wants to say. Instead he nods and thanks Scotland for his empathy.
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UNIT is not one of England's more favorable institutions. Not because of the moral decisions he must face dealing with both it and Torchwood (thankfully Wales has better luck with his branch), but because so often he hears that neither of them are being very effective.
Well that, and the fact that many of the nations seem to ignore that they belong to it does not help. It seems like the only time they rush to UNIT is when something is threatening to expose itself to the public.
Erm, well, perhaps he could state that differently, after what Wales has told him about Torchwood Three's leader.
He missed the 70s (or was it the 80s?), when the Doctor was there and things got sorted out easier. But now, America is standing, ranting something about a man with a squidhead, and Canada is just hoping that the Christmas attacks don't spread elsewhere. Poland is wholly unconcerned. The rest of the nations are just sort of confused.
And now England hears about how ATMOS is really a plot to destroy most of the world. For a moment, the noise in the room is just too loud.
"OI. FINGERS ON LIPS!" he finally yells, and the room is oddly quiet. He smiles, inwardly. Outwardly, he controls the room with a tenacity he hasn't had for centuries.
"Without this man that you are complaining about, I doubt many of us would be here. I do not understand him, nor will any of you. He has never given me a reason to doubt him before, and I have known him for CENTURIES. So SHUT IT"
The room is silent for a moment, and England recalls the first time he met the Doctor, ages before when both of them were still so young, and disbelieving of the name, refused to believe him.
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ALRIGHT. DONE. I'm planning to write some more native America soon, as well as some GermanyxItaly and HRExChibitalia stuff. For now, bed.