[APH] God Particle [USUK]
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, England, France; USUK
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cussing, WWII, The Blitz, blood and gore. Character death.
Summary: When Germany wants something, he takes it.
Notes: This is kink meme de-anon week. Anyway, this is my very, very first kink meme fill. Prompt was: England dies for whatever reason - some terrible event in the future that effets the country, or maybe he just dies in a car accident or whatever, I don't mind. America was dating him, and mourns.
The house was in ruins. France’s breath hitched in his throat as he wandered down the snowy road, snow drifting lazily about them in the dusk, and he saw part of the glamorous front porch in cinders by the front door. His breath quickened and he felt the air stiffen between him and America, and suddenly America was off, stomping through the layer of snow that had fallen in his black combat boots, running as fast as he could up the remaining stairs and bursting into the house, the front door swinging lazily on only two hinges. France followed America inside, and settled his eyes on the parlor, where there were books thrown every which way, and the curtains were torn straight from the windows and the furniture looked as if it had been ransacked.
“This is just how Poland’s house looked...” he murmured to himself, and he clenched his fists. He heard America’s heavy footsteps running around upstairs, calling “England! Englaaaand!” as he ran. France pushed his way through to the kitchen, which remained mostly untouched. England’s countryside home had a large, beautiful country kitchen, and even in the lifeless dark, he could feel the happiness that once radiated from the marble counters. So many wonderful summer meetings had been held in this kitchen.
France turned to the door off to his side, the door to England’s study. It was an old-fashioned heavy oak door with old handles, a door that was rarely open. At this moment, in the half-destroyed house, however, it was open, swinging gently in the breeze that came in through the broken windows. France stalled for a moment, wondering if, perhaps, England would mind if he went inside-
America heard the gasp through the floorboards. He was standing at the end of England’s hallway, inspecting the stained glass window at the end, touching the cracks like they were silken threads. It was such a beautiful window, how could they smash even this?
America faltered, and, his heart racing, practically leapt down the stairs, nearly toppling over the handrail in his haste. He ran through the parlor, the sitting room, and the dining room, the air frigid, small tufts of snow forming on the carpet and on the furniture where it drifted through the holes in the walls.
“France?” America called out, wondering what had happened to the other man. America stepped forward in the light dusting of snow and heard the satisfying crunch of what sounded like snapping leaves. He glanced down and realized he was staring at frozen bits of paper-part of a calendar. The words November 1940 glared up at him in response, and he continued on, gulping.
“Alfred,” France called suddenly, and America felt as if his heart stopped. France almost never used human names. Something was wrong. America approached the sound of France’s voice, through the kitchen and into England’s study.
And that’s when he saw him.
Every single window in England’s study was broken, and as a result, the room was covered in a fine layer of snow. France was kneeling before England’s grand ancient desk, which, as America realized as he approached, was riddled with bullet holes. The wall behind it was as well. France was holding something in his arms.
No.
Alfred remained speechless, his throat dry and aching, his arms shaking. He felt as if he were about to pass out, but somehow he found the strength to fall to his knees beside France, and reach out his arms, taking the stone cold body and cradling it in his arms.
England was heavy, and absolutely freezing to the touch. His skin was as white as ice, and had a waxy thickness to it that frightened America. His olive green jacket was stained a very dark red, so dark it almost looked black, and he could see where the fabric had been ripped apart by bullets. America trailed his eyes over the broken skin, the ripped shirt beneath his lapel, the bits of shrapnel buried in his muscle. He could even see bits of a bone, in his collarbone and his neck, where he had been hit the worst, the muscle and the sinews all blasted away. The blood was dark, sticky syrup over his body.
His face was the worst. He had flecks of blood on his chin and on his cheeks, making his skin seem even paler, almost bluish. His eyes were half lidded, and his hair was a frozen, bloodied mess. His entire body was covered in a fine layer of snow, and if they had waited another week before coming to find him, he probably would have been covered.
France knelt in silence as he watched America, shocked and torn, touch England’s cheek gingerly. America wanted to react, he wanted to elicit some emotion, but he was numb. He felt as if he were outside his body, watching as some third party, witnessing an event that was happening to someone-but not to him.
America pulled off his leather glove and drew his long thin fingers down England’s face, catching his eyelids and pulling them down over his brilliant green eyes. He didn’t want to see the expression in his eyes, the one of fear, determination and calm-a look of certain death.
America shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped England’s torso in it, running a hand through his matted flaxen-colored hair as he went. He trailed his fingers down England’s chest, over the bumps that were caused by the bullets piercing the life out of his old muscles, down his stomach, down his thigh, over the hump of his knee, down to his ankle, where his pants exposed a dark red and grey argyle sock.
It was then France noticed the shaking in America’s touch, and he saw the tears rolling down America’s cheeks, although America didn’t realize it at all. He didn’t acknowledge the tears, he only acknowledged England, and he pulled the beautiful face he fell in love with hundreds of years ago up to his own, and he laid a gentle kiss on the corner of England’s frozen lips, and curled his head into the crook of his own neck.
And he cried.
America buried his nose in England’s hair, and he cried. He scrunched himself up into a ball, and at first the tears came slowly but a dam had cracked within him, and instead he had wracking sobs that tore daggers into France’s very soul. America’s shoulders heaved and he lost so much breath he hiccupped, but still he cried.
“Arthur... Arthur Arthur Arthur...” America whispered the name over and over again like an unheard prayer. France could do nothing but watch the heartbreaking scene beside him, and he laid a heavy hand on America’s shoulder but America shrugged it off and pulled England’s head into his chest protectively, lifting his own head. His tears had left trails of shining white skin along his cheeks.
“There’s nothing anyone could have done,” France said in a low voice. He could see the guilt in America’s eyes, the normal clear blue clouded over with exasperation and grief. France didn’t even take notice that the knees of his trousers were soaked through and that his legs were freezing. He knew America had taken no notice of the layer of snow slowly forming on his own body. “When Germany wants something... he takes it.” America shook his head slowly, his hair swishing with every shake.
“He didn’t have to take everything,” America replied in a hoarse whisper. “Every time he attacks a country, he goes out of his way to make fucking sure he takes every last bit of that country.”
“Alfred-“
“That motherfucking Kraut is going to fucking pay,” America whispered, but France wished he had shouted it. The malice that had dripped from America’s comment was terrifying, because America was big, and he was powerful, and he could end the world with one word if he wanted to.
America slid his arms underneath England’s small frame, and he stood, holding England’s lifeless body with as much care and tenderness as if he were holding a babe. England’s head lolled back, his bones cracking slightly at the motion, his hair spreading like a halo in the darkness. America shifted his weight and held England up higher, and straightened himself. France just stared at the expression on America’s face. It held no sense of light or warmth, or his usual boyish charm. His lips were drawn in a thin line, and his nostrils flared as he began walking. France was struck at how much older America seemed at this moment. Even his cowlick seemed to stand straighter with a renewed sense of... hatred. His eyes were narrowed and there was nothing light about those blue orbs. All of the youth, love, and cheerfulness that America’s boyish features held before had been stolen away with the loss of England’s life.
“Reste en paix,” France murmured as America began walking back out of the house towards the run-down car they had used to get out into the English countryside.
And France knew, that the United States of America had changed forever.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cussing, WWII, The Blitz, blood and gore. Character death.
Summary: When Germany wants something, he takes it.
Notes: This is kink meme de-anon week. Anyway, this is my very, very first kink meme fill. Prompt was: England dies for whatever reason - some terrible event in the future that effets the country, or maybe he just dies in a car accident or whatever, I don't mind. America was dating him, and mourns.
The house was in ruins. France’s breath hitched in his throat as he wandered down the snowy road, snow drifting lazily about them in the dusk, and he saw part of the glamorous front porch in cinders by the front door. His breath quickened and he felt the air stiffen between him and America, and suddenly America was off, stomping through the layer of snow that had fallen in his black combat boots, running as fast as he could up the remaining stairs and bursting into the house, the front door swinging lazily on only two hinges. France followed America inside, and settled his eyes on the parlor, where there were books thrown every which way, and the curtains were torn straight from the windows and the furniture looked as if it had been ransacked.
“This is just how Poland’s house looked...” he murmured to himself, and he clenched his fists. He heard America’s heavy footsteps running around upstairs, calling “England! Englaaaand!” as he ran. France pushed his way through to the kitchen, which remained mostly untouched. England’s countryside home had a large, beautiful country kitchen, and even in the lifeless dark, he could feel the happiness that once radiated from the marble counters. So many wonderful summer meetings had been held in this kitchen.
France turned to the door off to his side, the door to England’s study. It was an old-fashioned heavy oak door with old handles, a door that was rarely open. At this moment, in the half-destroyed house, however, it was open, swinging gently in the breeze that came in through the broken windows. France stalled for a moment, wondering if, perhaps, England would mind if he went inside-
America heard the gasp through the floorboards. He was standing at the end of England’s hallway, inspecting the stained glass window at the end, touching the cracks like they were silken threads. It was such a beautiful window, how could they smash even this?
America faltered, and, his heart racing, practically leapt down the stairs, nearly toppling over the handrail in his haste. He ran through the parlor, the sitting room, and the dining room, the air frigid, small tufts of snow forming on the carpet and on the furniture where it drifted through the holes in the walls.
“France?” America called out, wondering what had happened to the other man. America stepped forward in the light dusting of snow and heard the satisfying crunch of what sounded like snapping leaves. He glanced down and realized he was staring at frozen bits of paper-part of a calendar. The words November 1940 glared up at him in response, and he continued on, gulping.
“Alfred,” France called suddenly, and America felt as if his heart stopped. France almost never used human names. Something was wrong. America approached the sound of France’s voice, through the kitchen and into England’s study.
And that’s when he saw him.
Every single window in England’s study was broken, and as a result, the room was covered in a fine layer of snow. France was kneeling before England’s grand ancient desk, which, as America realized as he approached, was riddled with bullet holes. The wall behind it was as well. France was holding something in his arms.
No.
Alfred remained speechless, his throat dry and aching, his arms shaking. He felt as if he were about to pass out, but somehow he found the strength to fall to his knees beside France, and reach out his arms, taking the stone cold body and cradling it in his arms.
England was heavy, and absolutely freezing to the touch. His skin was as white as ice, and had a waxy thickness to it that frightened America. His olive green jacket was stained a very dark red, so dark it almost looked black, and he could see where the fabric had been ripped apart by bullets. America trailed his eyes over the broken skin, the ripped shirt beneath his lapel, the bits of shrapnel buried in his muscle. He could even see bits of a bone, in his collarbone and his neck, where he had been hit the worst, the muscle and the sinews all blasted away. The blood was dark, sticky syrup over his body.
His face was the worst. He had flecks of blood on his chin and on his cheeks, making his skin seem even paler, almost bluish. His eyes were half lidded, and his hair was a frozen, bloodied mess. His entire body was covered in a fine layer of snow, and if they had waited another week before coming to find him, he probably would have been covered.
France knelt in silence as he watched America, shocked and torn, touch England’s cheek gingerly. America wanted to react, he wanted to elicit some emotion, but he was numb. He felt as if he were outside his body, watching as some third party, witnessing an event that was happening to someone-but not to him.
America pulled off his leather glove and drew his long thin fingers down England’s face, catching his eyelids and pulling them down over his brilliant green eyes. He didn’t want to see the expression in his eyes, the one of fear, determination and calm-a look of certain death.
America shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped England’s torso in it, running a hand through his matted flaxen-colored hair as he went. He trailed his fingers down England’s chest, over the bumps that were caused by the bullets piercing the life out of his old muscles, down his stomach, down his thigh, over the hump of his knee, down to his ankle, where his pants exposed a dark red and grey argyle sock.
It was then France noticed the shaking in America’s touch, and he saw the tears rolling down America’s cheeks, although America didn’t realize it at all. He didn’t acknowledge the tears, he only acknowledged England, and he pulled the beautiful face he fell in love with hundreds of years ago up to his own, and he laid a gentle kiss on the corner of England’s frozen lips, and curled his head into the crook of his own neck.
And he cried.
America buried his nose in England’s hair, and he cried. He scrunched himself up into a ball, and at first the tears came slowly but a dam had cracked within him, and instead he had wracking sobs that tore daggers into France’s very soul. America’s shoulders heaved and he lost so much breath he hiccupped, but still he cried.
“Arthur... Arthur Arthur Arthur...” America whispered the name over and over again like an unheard prayer. France could do nothing but watch the heartbreaking scene beside him, and he laid a heavy hand on America’s shoulder but America shrugged it off and pulled England’s head into his chest protectively, lifting his own head. His tears had left trails of shining white skin along his cheeks.
“There’s nothing anyone could have done,” France said in a low voice. He could see the guilt in America’s eyes, the normal clear blue clouded over with exasperation and grief. France didn’t even take notice that the knees of his trousers were soaked through and that his legs were freezing. He knew America had taken no notice of the layer of snow slowly forming on his own body. “When Germany wants something... he takes it.” America shook his head slowly, his hair swishing with every shake.
“He didn’t have to take everything,” America replied in a hoarse whisper. “Every time he attacks a country, he goes out of his way to make fucking sure he takes every last bit of that country.”
“Alfred-“
“That motherfucking Kraut is going to fucking pay,” America whispered, but France wished he had shouted it. The malice that had dripped from America’s comment was terrifying, because America was big, and he was powerful, and he could end the world with one word if he wanted to.
America slid his arms underneath England’s small frame, and he stood, holding England’s lifeless body with as much care and tenderness as if he were holding a babe. England’s head lolled back, his bones cracking slightly at the motion, his hair spreading like a halo in the darkness. America shifted his weight and held England up higher, and straightened himself. France just stared at the expression on America’s face. It held no sense of light or warmth, or his usual boyish charm. His lips were drawn in a thin line, and his nostrils flared as he began walking. France was struck at how much older America seemed at this moment. Even his cowlick seemed to stand straighter with a renewed sense of... hatred. His eyes were narrowed and there was nothing light about those blue orbs. All of the youth, love, and cheerfulness that America’s boyish features held before had been stolen away with the loss of England’s life.
“Reste en paix,” France murmured as America began walking back out of the house towards the run-down car they had used to get out into the English countryside.
And France knew, that the United States of America had changed forever.