Sweethearts Week - Day 5 [When I'm Not Lookin']
Title: When I'm Not Lookin'
Word Count: 1,877
Pairing: USxUK
Rating: G~
Warning: Potential sappiness?
Summary: Songfic. America contemplates the different sides of England. Compliment to "When You Say Nothing".
A/N: Inspired by Blake Shelton's "Who Are You When I'm Not Lookin'?"
The other song America is listening to is "Old Memories" by Stephen Collins Foster from 1853. The lyrics can be found here.
This is a hot mess! Down to the wire, but I was determined to have it done, since I wanted it to compliment England's part...
So here it is, unedited, and written all in one go, as my strange mind willed~
Constructive criticism is welcomed!
Song lyrics (not all lyrics from the song were used, just select ones)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a warm, lazy, summer’s day, accented with the softest whispers of wind to cool him, and the low hum of cicadas in his ears. It was just the kind of day that would have been perfect for napping underneath the shade of a tree, as he often would, but America had something more pressing to do first. The apple trees in his back yard were finally heavy with ripened fruit, and he was eager to pick a good mess of them before the bugs and animals had their say more than they already had.
And so there he was, out in the hot, noonday sun, deep wicker baskets settled in the grass and earbuds planted firmly in his ears, blasting a variety of songs ranging from rap to old drinking songs (even a little classical, if he was feeling honest with himself), and from over two hundred years of good American, and sometimes otherwise, music. He had expertly climbed up into some of the upper branches by now, and each apple he picked, he dropped down into one of his baskets on the ground, humming to himself as he did so.
Shimmying to the music, despite being perched rather precariously in a tree, he reached up and plucked another apple, trying with all his might to resist taking a bite. The fruit was beautiful this year, and he couldn’t wait to bake some fresh homemade apple pies with them; or jam, even. England loved jam, especially the homemade kind; maybe he could send him a jar or two to eat with his ‘muffins’.
He was sure it’d make the older nation happy, and damn if England didn’t need it sometimes. He was a hard worker, and he took so many things seriously, and besides, there were a bunch of things going on in England this year, and all of those big events had to be planned extensively; it wasn’t a wonder to America that England might get more cranky than usual with all of that and more on his shoulders. Then again, in America’s opinion, it was rare if England wasn’t cranky. And those were the really awesome days.
He paused for a moment to sit back a bit and take a sip of water, just as the last few bars of “Old Memories” faded to be replaced by a slow, mellow country song, and he let his thoughts wander.
My oh my, you're so good-looking. Hold yourself together like a pair of bookends.
He faltered at the familiar drawled lyrics, and burst into a wide grin, chuckling to himself at the irony of the song’s timing.
“Dude, you have no idea.”
But then, perhaps Blake Shelton wasn’t one to appreciate the finer aspects of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Few could. England had the unfortunate habit of hiding some of his greater qualities from people, overshadowed by his sometimes awkward social skills, by his brusque attitude. But America knew from personal experience that, while England often acted like that out in a public setting, he really could be softer when he was at home. He thought it was a part of England that often went unnoticed, as most of the nations, particularly those from Europe, had memories of an England that conquered or, further in the past, was conquered himself, back in an age where turmoil was the order of the day, and ruthlessness was not an option- it was a necessity. He himself had fond memories of an England who loved and adored and nurtured, an England who had given all that he was in order to care for a small child. It was a time that America had seen England smile not only occasionally, as the England of the present hardly did in a true fashion, but all the time. The way his eyes would light up when telling thrilling tales of dragons, and knights and princesses, the tender care he had taken in soothing all of America’s ills and fears. That England was still here, somewhere, but only ventured out on wonderfully rare occurrences that America treasured each and every time, something that America strived to bring out in any way possible.
Do you pour a little something on the rocks? Slide down the hallway in your socks?
He couldn’t help but snicker again. Of course, England’s drinking habits were world-renowned; not to say that he was a drunkard, of course, but when he did drink, someone usually knew about it, one way or another. To everyone else, he was a feisty drunk, and he had been known to do some pretty spectacular things; some that inspired awe and fear, and others not so much.
But America had seen him somber and disheartened by the effects of drink as well, burdened by memories of the past. And it was baffling to America that one day they could be out drinking after a meeting with a few people, and England’d get a little rambunctious and have to be carried home, but several times he’d been that disheartened former empire, tears threatening to fall as he placed blame on America, and France, and several others. He was sure England wasn’t two people, yet the two reactions were virtually polar opposites, and they both seemed to be flashes of England’s true self, someone unburdened by the cares of what other people thought of him and what he did, and something that was so rare that, even though he did have to carry him home, no matter the reaction he had that night, America was still happy that England managed to find a way to be himself, though it had the unfortunate side effect of a hangover the next morning.
When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?
A blush to tinged his cheeks, and he dropped an armful of apples rather abruptly at the line, causing some of the fruit to bust onto the ground in a sticky mess.
England, being England, had a neat and proper place for everything under normal circumstances, even his dirty laundry, which often got America into trouble, because America refused to acknowledge that these rules existed. But there were times when England didn’t care about the neat and the orderly, not entirely, anyway. Those nights when their thoughts were for nothing but one another, so caught up that everything else was thrown to the wayside. It wasn’t a frequent occurrence, but there were days when England actually let his guard down, opting to feel comfortable in his own home, and he would smile at America temptingly, luring him up the stairs wordlessly, slowly undressing himself on the way up and leaving America, never one to miss out, scrambling behind him and slipping on the trail of discarded clothing. And America loved being intimate with England, of course he did, for so many reasons, but one of the greatest of those was that England wasn’t encumbered by thoughts of anyone else but America, who thought England nothing short of perfect, flaws and all, and was therefore uninterested in any other opinion.
Do you break things when you get mad?
Ah, there it was, the side that everyone knew about England. The ghost of the formidable Empire, that would sometimes creep up when England was truly enraged, and had been the reason that the Italian brothers often hid from him. America had only seen glimpses of this side of England, and it was one that he probably didn’t want to see more of. The few times he had faced England in war, his former colonizer had been a force to be reckoned with, despite the inner turmoil he had been facing. But America couldn’t bring to imagine a truly fearsome England. During those times, England had been his loving guardian, smothering with so much love and protection that the idea of a fierce England was unimaginable, or he was reminded of that rainy day on the battlefield, of the man he had always loved knelt in the mud, tears melding seamlessly with the raindrops that underscored the turmoil in both of their hearts.
Who are you when I'm not around? When the door is locked and the shades are down?
America knew that there were parts of England that he would never see. He would never, for instance, see the childhood innocence that England may have had, whether it had been short-live or not, burned away by frequent, unrelenting wars. And he knew that England treated each nation differently, judged by the history he shared with them, but he couldn’t help but want to observe England as he interacted with everyone, drinking in everything that made him what he was. There were so many variations, so many contradictions, but it also fit, somehow. It was complicated, just like England, just like the bond they shared together. They were similar, yet different, and everything depended on certain situations and scenarios and people, and despite whatever they faced, they still found themselves pulled together, hopelessly bound, and America loved every bit of it.
Do you listen to your music quietly?
England really did prefer the quiet and solitary, when left to his own devices… and that was the opposite of America on the average day, and yet he couldn’t help but be hopelessly attracted to it nonetheless. England could be loud, and overbearing, particularly around France, but he was also reading and gardening and embroidery, gentle and pleasant, like Japan and Canada often were. And above all England was proud. He always tried so desperately to maintain an image of being in control, and his ideals of a ‘gentleman’, but then he would become embarrassed when America kisses him at the airport, or France says something stupid and he goes into a tirade. And how fun it was to pick at England and make him reveal his true self, not the false image he tried to project upon everyone, even though the other nations already knew it was a sort of act. And England would sometimes play back, aware of what America was doing, and it never ceased to bring a smile to America’s face, even the bickering. It was all just a game anyway, their own rules of flirting with one another while in public.
But there was one constant thought that plagued him, the one thing that he always wondered, had never been able to discover….
And when it feels just right, are you thinkin' of me?
Deeming his work suitable for now, America jumped down to the ground with a heavy, jarring thud, his feet squishing into the apple mess he’d caused earlier, but his mind didn’t register that fact, he had other things on his mind. He hefted the baskets onto he shoulders easily and trekked them towards the house. His nap could wait. For now, he’d put on the apples and, if luck was on his side, he could Skype England while he waited, because a phone call was never enough sometimes.
Phone calls never let him see the England he loved- all of the cute, quirky, stodgy, contradictory traits that made up one perfect, indescribable man.
My oh my, you're so good-looking. But who are you when I'm not looking?
Word Count: 1,877
Pairing: USxUK
Rating: G~
Warning: Potential sappiness?
Summary: Songfic. America contemplates the different sides of England. Compliment to "When You Say Nothing".
A/N: Inspired by Blake Shelton's "Who Are You When I'm Not Lookin'?"
The other song America is listening to is "Old Memories" by Stephen Collins Foster from 1853. The lyrics can be found here.
This is a hot mess! Down to the wire, but I was determined to have it done, since I wanted it to compliment England's part...
So here it is, unedited, and written all in one go, as my strange mind willed~
Constructive criticism is welcomed!
Song lyrics (not all lyrics from the song were used, just select ones)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a warm, lazy, summer’s day, accented with the softest whispers of wind to cool him, and the low hum of cicadas in his ears. It was just the kind of day that would have been perfect for napping underneath the shade of a tree, as he often would, but America had something more pressing to do first. The apple trees in his back yard were finally heavy with ripened fruit, and he was eager to pick a good mess of them before the bugs and animals had their say more than they already had.
And so there he was, out in the hot, noonday sun, deep wicker baskets settled in the grass and earbuds planted firmly in his ears, blasting a variety of songs ranging from rap to old drinking songs (even a little classical, if he was feeling honest with himself), and from over two hundred years of good American, and sometimes otherwise, music. He had expertly climbed up into some of the upper branches by now, and each apple he picked, he dropped down into one of his baskets on the ground, humming to himself as he did so.
Shimmying to the music, despite being perched rather precariously in a tree, he reached up and plucked another apple, trying with all his might to resist taking a bite. The fruit was beautiful this year, and he couldn’t wait to bake some fresh homemade apple pies with them; or jam, even. England loved jam, especially the homemade kind; maybe he could send him a jar or two to eat with his ‘muffins’.
He was sure it’d make the older nation happy, and damn if England didn’t need it sometimes. He was a hard worker, and he took so many things seriously, and besides, there were a bunch of things going on in England this year, and all of those big events had to be planned extensively; it wasn’t a wonder to America that England might get more cranky than usual with all of that and more on his shoulders. Then again, in America’s opinion, it was rare if England wasn’t cranky. And those were the really awesome days.
He paused for a moment to sit back a bit and take a sip of water, just as the last few bars of “Old Memories” faded to be replaced by a slow, mellow country song, and he let his thoughts wander.
My oh my, you're so good-looking. Hold yourself together like a pair of bookends.
He faltered at the familiar drawled lyrics, and burst into a wide grin, chuckling to himself at the irony of the song’s timing.
“Dude, you have no idea.”
But then, perhaps Blake Shelton wasn’t one to appreciate the finer aspects of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Few could. England had the unfortunate habit of hiding some of his greater qualities from people, overshadowed by his sometimes awkward social skills, by his brusque attitude. But America knew from personal experience that, while England often acted like that out in a public setting, he really could be softer when he was at home. He thought it was a part of England that often went unnoticed, as most of the nations, particularly those from Europe, had memories of an England that conquered or, further in the past, was conquered himself, back in an age where turmoil was the order of the day, and ruthlessness was not an option- it was a necessity. He himself had fond memories of an England who loved and adored and nurtured, an England who had given all that he was in order to care for a small child. It was a time that America had seen England smile not only occasionally, as the England of the present hardly did in a true fashion, but all the time. The way his eyes would light up when telling thrilling tales of dragons, and knights and princesses, the tender care he had taken in soothing all of America’s ills and fears. That England was still here, somewhere, but only ventured out on wonderfully rare occurrences that America treasured each and every time, something that America strived to bring out in any way possible.
Do you pour a little something on the rocks? Slide down the hallway in your socks?
He couldn’t help but snicker again. Of course, England’s drinking habits were world-renowned; not to say that he was a drunkard, of course, but when he did drink, someone usually knew about it, one way or another. To everyone else, he was a feisty drunk, and he had been known to do some pretty spectacular things; some that inspired awe and fear, and others not so much.
But America had seen him somber and disheartened by the effects of drink as well, burdened by memories of the past. And it was baffling to America that one day they could be out drinking after a meeting with a few people, and England’d get a little rambunctious and have to be carried home, but several times he’d been that disheartened former empire, tears threatening to fall as he placed blame on America, and France, and several others. He was sure England wasn’t two people, yet the two reactions were virtually polar opposites, and they both seemed to be flashes of England’s true self, someone unburdened by the cares of what other people thought of him and what he did, and something that was so rare that, even though he did have to carry him home, no matter the reaction he had that night, America was still happy that England managed to find a way to be himself, though it had the unfortunate side effect of a hangover the next morning.
When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?
A blush to tinged his cheeks, and he dropped an armful of apples rather abruptly at the line, causing some of the fruit to bust onto the ground in a sticky mess.
England, being England, had a neat and proper place for everything under normal circumstances, even his dirty laundry, which often got America into trouble, because America refused to acknowledge that these rules existed. But there were times when England didn’t care about the neat and the orderly, not entirely, anyway. Those nights when their thoughts were for nothing but one another, so caught up that everything else was thrown to the wayside. It wasn’t a frequent occurrence, but there were days when England actually let his guard down, opting to feel comfortable in his own home, and he would smile at America temptingly, luring him up the stairs wordlessly, slowly undressing himself on the way up and leaving America, never one to miss out, scrambling behind him and slipping on the trail of discarded clothing. And America loved being intimate with England, of course he did, for so many reasons, but one of the greatest of those was that England wasn’t encumbered by thoughts of anyone else but America, who thought England nothing short of perfect, flaws and all, and was therefore uninterested in any other opinion.
Do you break things when you get mad?
Ah, there it was, the side that everyone knew about England. The ghost of the formidable Empire, that would sometimes creep up when England was truly enraged, and had been the reason that the Italian brothers often hid from him. America had only seen glimpses of this side of England, and it was one that he probably didn’t want to see more of. The few times he had faced England in war, his former colonizer had been a force to be reckoned with, despite the inner turmoil he had been facing. But America couldn’t bring to imagine a truly fearsome England. During those times, England had been his loving guardian, smothering with so much love and protection that the idea of a fierce England was unimaginable, or he was reminded of that rainy day on the battlefield, of the man he had always loved knelt in the mud, tears melding seamlessly with the raindrops that underscored the turmoil in both of their hearts.
Who are you when I'm not around? When the door is locked and the shades are down?
America knew that there were parts of England that he would never see. He would never, for instance, see the childhood innocence that England may have had, whether it had been short-live or not, burned away by frequent, unrelenting wars. And he knew that England treated each nation differently, judged by the history he shared with them, but he couldn’t help but want to observe England as he interacted with everyone, drinking in everything that made him what he was. There were so many variations, so many contradictions, but it also fit, somehow. It was complicated, just like England, just like the bond they shared together. They were similar, yet different, and everything depended on certain situations and scenarios and people, and despite whatever they faced, they still found themselves pulled together, hopelessly bound, and America loved every bit of it.
Do you listen to your music quietly?
England really did prefer the quiet and solitary, when left to his own devices… and that was the opposite of America on the average day, and yet he couldn’t help but be hopelessly attracted to it nonetheless. England could be loud, and overbearing, particularly around France, but he was also reading and gardening and embroidery, gentle and pleasant, like Japan and Canada often were. And above all England was proud. He always tried so desperately to maintain an image of being in control, and his ideals of a ‘gentleman’, but then he would become embarrassed when America kisses him at the airport, or France says something stupid and he goes into a tirade. And how fun it was to pick at England and make him reveal his true self, not the false image he tried to project upon everyone, even though the other nations already knew it was a sort of act. And England would sometimes play back, aware of what America was doing, and it never ceased to bring a smile to America’s face, even the bickering. It was all just a game anyway, their own rules of flirting with one another while in public.
But there was one constant thought that plagued him, the one thing that he always wondered, had never been able to discover….
And when it feels just right, are you thinkin' of me?
Deeming his work suitable for now, America jumped down to the ground with a heavy, jarring thud, his feet squishing into the apple mess he’d caused earlier, but his mind didn’t register that fact, he had other things on his mind. He hefted the baskets onto he shoulders easily and trekked them towards the house. His nap could wait. For now, he’d put on the apples and, if luck was on his side, he could Skype England while he waited, because a phone call was never enough sometimes.
Phone calls never let him see the England he loved- all of the cute, quirky, stodgy, contradictory traits that made up one perfect, indescribable man.
My oh my, you're so good-looking. But who are you when I'm not looking?