64 Prompts, 60 and 61
Title: Bright
Genre: AU, fluff?
Character(s) or Pairing(s): UK, US, UK -> US
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: Arthur crosses the street at just the wrong (or is it right?) time.
60. Bright
Arthur had been called bad-tempered, unfriendly, old-fashioned, hard to please, and emotionally crippled, but most people forgot to include absentminded. In reality, that was the most prominent of Arthur’s traits. He forgot his keys on an almost daily basis, had lost his briefcase twice already this year (it was March), and nearly always missed some particular or other about his work. His only saving grace was that Arthur tended to work so diligently at combating his natural forgetfulness that most didn’t notice it.
Still, Arthur could leave all the sticky notes and cell phone alarms he wanted, but there was no way those would have helped him remember to check the street for traffic on a bright Tuesday morning when he was already late. Instead, he’d had his eyes on his watch and barreled straight into the crosswalk before glancing up to see whether he was allowed to cross just then.
The car didn’t even have time to stop, only to skid and hope for the best. It was the squeal of the tires that made Arthur look up. Shock wrote itself on his face and his body froze, unable to force himself to move and get out of the way of the bloody car! Instead, he pulled a stupid expression and squinted his eyes closed to wait for the impact. And what a pity, he’d had a presentation due today.
The force hit Arthur’s body concentrated in his middle and he went flying, back slamming against cement hard enough that he cried out automatically. Pressure returned to crushing Arthur’s chest and he gasped, wondering vaguely if the car had knocked into him and still been unable to stop before running him over as well. The squeal of tires and shouting of by-standers filled his senses, pain rippling up his spine and radiating in a starburst from the area around his ribs where he’d been hit the hardest.
Arthur groaned, shuddered, and felt his breath leave him as his vision tunneled into the tell-tale bright light without his eyes even opening.
-
What felt like less than a second later, Arthur shifted uncomfortably into consciousness and pried his eyes open. His first thought was that heaven kind of ached, then his vision was taken up by a blonde being with bright eyes hovering over him. The being looked male, from what Arthur could tell, and appeared anxious. There was brilliant light spiking behind him, though, and he was bare-chested with gleaming tanned skin.
“Are you an angel?” Arthur croaked. He knew it was cliché, but if angels looked like this, heaven could ache all it wanted and Arthur would hardly complain.
The being’s face split into what looked like a relieved grin. “Naw, man, but I’m flattered. Can you tell me your name?”
“Arthur,” he answered automatically. “Am I…not dead then?”
Laughter, once again more relieved than humored. “Nope. You’re gonna live, but I need you to answer a few questions, okay?”
“Okay,” Arthur replied dimly. Things were starting to slip into place. The man hovering over him asked Arthur where he was and what he remembered happening, and as he answered, Arthur recalled everything. He’d been crossing the street in High Holborn, without looking, like a complete idiot, and there had been a car coming, and he’d thought it hit him.
Judging by the scene, Arthur hadn’t been hit by the car, but instead with the entire body weight of Alfred Jones (as the man introduced himself). He’d seen Arthur start crossing, and had tried to shout at him, but when Arthur didn’t react, Alfred had taken a running leap at him and tackled both of them out of the way just in time.
Arthur sat up, forcing Alfred to lean back on his heels instead of hanging over him on hands and knees as he had been. “And why are you not wearing a shirt?” he asked when he could collect a few of his wits together. And he’d called this man an angel. How utterly mortifying!
“Um.” Alfred pointed at Arthur’s head. “I need something to stop the bleeding.” Arthur realized belatedly that Alfred’s shirt was probably the red-stained lump of cloth near his right hand. He felt around his own head until his fingers brushed over a shallow cut on the right side of his scalp, halfway back. It didn’t appear to be serious, but it had apparently bled a lot, as head wounds were wont to do.
“Thank you,” Arthur said softly over the sound of sirens approaching. Alfred beamed at him, helping Arthur to his feet. He steadied Arthur with an arm on his shoulder when he wobbled slightly.
“No problem,” the man said brightly. “I’ve always wanted to be somebody’s hero.” If Arthur were less shaken and suffering from slight blood-loss, he might have blushed. As it was, he bent to retrieve Alfred’s shirt from the ground, hugging it to his chest as he dug in his pockets for the business cards he kept there instead of where they were supposed to be in his briefcase.
“I’ll get this cleaned for you,” he said hurriedly, eyes darting to the ambulance that had just pulled up. “It’s the least I can do. Here’s my card.” Alfred took it, examining the bit of paper briefly. “Feel free to ca- contact me any time.”
Alfred smiled at him again and Arthur was struck by just how cheerful the man was even in a near-death situation. “Sure thing, buddy. Gotta get my shirt back at some point, right?”
Arthur only had time to nod before he was being ushered toward and then into the ambulance. He hoped Alfred didn’t completely see through his pathetic attempt at holding the man hostage via his shirt. It was a slightly desperate way of forcing him to keep in contact. But…Arthur had thought he was an angel. So far, he hadn’t seen anything to prove differently.
Title: Stories
Genre: Humor
Character(s) or Pairing(s): USUK, random college kids
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of sex, swearing, severe idiocy
Summary: America bragging about his exploits, until he gets caught of course.
61. Stories
America liked hanging out with normal people sometimes. I mean, countries were cool and all, but sometimes just being with his own people was way more fun. Like now. America looked about twenty, so he’d subtly invaded a college campus in California, and was having a great time with a group of sophomores and juniors.
England would disapprove of the current topic, America knew. But that was why he dated England instead of talking shit with him. England never really understood the point of bullshitting when he could honestly say he’d once controlled most of the world. He’d had crazy nights with every gender and nationality as well, and God knew that topic just depressed the hell out of America. So it was refreshing to hang out with college kids and brag about his girlfriend, who happened to be male, but they didn’t know that.
“And man, damn,” America chuckled. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had sex with a Brit in police uniform.” He tipped back in his chair until only two feet touched ground, propping his heels on the table in front of him. The four guys he was talking with starting commenting, highfiving America and each other. What better way to spend the afternoon than chilling in an outdoor café, reliving his exploits with England?
“Dude,” one guy started. “Tell me you got a picture or something!”
He did, of a girl version of England even. Japan had designed female versions of most of the countries and this one in particular America had had rendered in 3D in as much reality as possible. It looked like England, but with long pigtails, breasts, and less intense eyebrows. The picture America showed his temporary buddies was of England’s female self in Catholic schoolgirl uniform, glaring just softly enough that it looked like a pout.
The guys whistled, impressed. “You are one lucky man, my friend.”
“Yeah, I know,” America answered, smug, as he flipped his wallet closed again. “I mean, she can’t cook for shit, and she’s all stuffy sometimes, but my Annie’s sexy as hell and absolutely adores me. It’s pretty chill.” He leaned forward suddenly, thinking of a made-up tale. “Hey, did I tell ya about the time she introduced me to-”
“Do go mentioning the Sex Pistols, now, love. You’ll date yourself horribly.”
America froze. He knew that voice. He knew that tone, too, and it meant consequences were on the horizon. Consequences like having to endure England’s cooking for a week, or being restricted from sex for even longer. Bad consequences that were rapidly approaching if America didn’t start talking fast.
“Hey!” America turned around to see exactly what he’d expected. England standing behind him with arms crossed, looking anything but pleased. “We were just…um…”
“You were just what?” England’s eyes narrowed to slits and his fingers began tapping impatiently against his arm. Behind him, America heard one of the guys mumble about brother-in-law and cringed. Shit, he was totally screwed, wasn’t he?
“I’m no one’s brother-in-law,” England snapped at whichever guy had spoken. “I don’t know what this moron has been telling you, as I only caught bits and pieces, but he doesn’t have a girlfriend. And if he doesn’t come up with some very good explanations, he won’t have a boyfriend for much longer either.”
Confused muttering sounded from behind America, and his pride stung, but this was the time to do damage control, not defend his status as an alpha male to a couple of college guys. “Babe, I just- You know what my country’s like! I just wanted to brag about you and every time I mention you’re a dude, people roll their eyes and walk away. I didn’t lie, I just, you know, changed a few details.”
“Oh, just a few details?” England’s posture became only marginally less stiff, and America knew he was nowhere near out of the dog house. “Like, hm, I don’t know, my gender? My entire personality?! I heard that bit about shagging in the airport, and I would never-!”
America stood as England huffed and turned to walk away. “Arthur! Come back! You know how guys talk!” The younger nation took off after the quickly retreating Brit, still shouting apologies.
It was silent at the table. Then, finally, the awkward silence was broken.
“If he wanted to brag about that, he should just talk to my sister.”
“Yeah, isn’t she all weird about gay guys?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t call it ‘gay’, she calls it some Japanese name. Yow-ee, I think?”
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A/N: asdfghjkl! Deadline approaching and three more to go!!