[FIC] A Soft Reboot
Title: A Soft Reboot (4/?)
Rating: PG (Subject to change)
Warnings: Swear words
Summary: Once every couple centuries, the nations inexplicably disappear and are reborn as humans. But the memories and nationhood gradually return and they have funny ways of getting back to each other.
*
It happens like this: Liechtenstein is sitting on a sofa next to him, purple in her dress and a ribbon in her hair. She is focused on her embroidery, the swoop and loop of her hand dipping in and out Switzerland's peripheral vision. He is reading the paper, reading about the oncoming heatwave (he's been feeling feverish), and the glint of her needle loops down but doesn't complete its journey. The needle drops.
She bends forward, her small hand pressed to her suddenly pale forehead. A tiny choked gasp leaves her.
"Lilli?" Switzerland turns sharply, body tight with concern. He reaches forward to touch her. "Lilli, what's wrong?"
"Broth-"
And then she is gone.
Her dress crumples and folds in on itself. Her embroidery falls. It lies unfinished in the wide, empty scoop of the skirt and her stockings slither into her brown, patent shoes. Liechtenstein's ribbon swoops and loops down, just like her needle did, and Switzerland stares at the clean sunlight streaming through the space she used to inhabit, at the dust motes that move eagerly to fill it.
She hadn't even had the time to look at him with wide, rabbit eyes before she had vanished. Didn't have the time to cry out as every atom of her being shook and vibrated and collapsed in on itself.
The needle swings, hanging off the edge of the sofa and the letters she had been creating out of red thread remain incomplete.
Switzerland doesn't know what to do and he stares for a good while longer.
It takes him ten minutes before his hands would stop shaking enough to tap out Germany's number on his phone.
*
It is six in the morning and England's nerves are already being rubbed raw. The taxi to Heathrow airport is late, it's raining and he is on the verge of putting the kettle on for another pot of tea. (But if he does, the taxi will arrive just as he's finishing taking the tea bag out and then he'll have to wash up because he doesn't want to leave dirty dishes over the weekend and it's too much to think about this early in the morning.)
He jumps as his phone vibrates against his thigh in his pocket and the pew pew pew of retro-game explosions fill the morning. He smiles into the phone but pretends he's not.
"Have you been fiddling with my phone again, Alfred?"
America laughs, warms England like tea. "I had to! Come on, Big Ben chimes? How full of yourself can you get?"
"I don't whinge about your California Girls ringtone."
"That's cuz you like it," America is already in Düsseldorf, eating croissant and cold cuts by the Rhine. He watches a flock of ducks fly low over the river, watches the sun strikes their feathers and makes them gleam bright magnesium white. He leans back in his chair, presses his mouth against the mouthpiece and breathes in England's static breaths along the airwaves. "Can't wait until you get here," he says. "I forget how quiet Europe is."
"Quiet suits me."
"That's because you're a dinosaur."
"Ha. Ha. Ha." The sound of tyre on gravel announces the taxi's arrival and England stands. "Taxi's here. I'll text you when I get in to Düsseldorf, okay?"
"Alright. Don't strain yourself too much - oh, I found tickets for a football game! Didn't think that I'd find something awesome like here in sauerkraut and sausage land."
"I hope you mean actual football and not your bastardisation of the sport."
America just laughs again. "Later old man."
England gets in to the taxi, debates briefly whether to read the newspaper or not. He knows already what's happening inside him, but doesn't want to think about it, really. He flicks through it anyway, just to give his hands something to do, and pauses on an article about the proposed Welsh assembly referendum and wonders why he paused. England hasn't heard from his brother for a while and this isn't unusual. But he's still worried for some reason and thinks about calling Wales.
But England doesn't, feels the weight of his phone inside his pocket, and says to the driver instead, "Wake me up when we get there, please." Before he falls asleep, England reaches deep, down inside himself, where the western hills of Wales lie and he can't feel anything.
*
Germany looks more tired than usual, the bags under his eyes full of the sleep he didn't get. Italy pats his hand as they sit together in one of the conference rooms in the Düsseldorf Rathaus. It's midday and they're waiting for the others to arrive for an informal-but-still-important meeting.
It's all they ever seem to do nowadays: have meetings. (Even Italy had managed to perfect the time of packing to just seven minutes. His travel kit is always ready and suits hang on doors around the house, waiting for him to throw into his suitcase.) Germany, tired of the pointless blathering, would shuffle his notes and stand up and say, "We'll leave this for tomorrow." That was the bell ringing at 4:30 at the end of class and everyone would rush to the bar and think about the past and the time they actually felt excited about things.
Italy says something and it goes straight through the airspace above Germany's head. He shakes his head and apologises. "Could you repeat that?"
"Ve, is Germany tired?"
Germany pinches his the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. He had been up all night arguing with one of the more nationalist members of his government about Turkish immigration and how, no, he couldn't just tell them to politely fuck off, things didn't work like that. The human hadn't left until Germany had said that he'd at least talk to Turkey, something he had no intention of doing, and was only able to collapse into bed when the first stars were winking out in the light of dawn.
Then the phone rings some hours later and Germany would have flung it at a wall if he had the energy. On the other end of the line, Switzerland is in near hysteria, his voice rattling in Switzerdeutsch, which Germany can't really understand even with a full night's sleep. He mumbles something about dealing with it later and please use High German next time and then hangs up and turns his phone off.
He gets a few more hours of sleep and wakes up and after remembering, he feels the heavy lump of guilt form somewhere in his chest. So he calls Switzerland with an apology ready on his tongue: he was stressed and tired and completely incoherent, so what was it that you wanted to talk about?
Switzerland doesn't pick up.
Germany tries two more times before thinking, 'He must be busy.' But that doesn't dislodge the lump that turns into tight knot in his stomach. The knot is still there now as Italy rubs his thumb over the fleshy part of his hand, tangled as hair in a plug hole. He tries again, one more time.
(What Germany doesn't know is that Switzerland's phone is in the folds of his crumpled green uniform. The buzz of its vibrations against the wooden floor and the swirl of dust motes are the only sounds in the now empty house.)
He snaps his phone closed with a sigh, which prompts a concerned look from Italy. But other nations begin to trickle in and Germany has to focus on now. (He asks France whether Switzerland or Liechtenstein has called and when France says no, he can't hide his concern.)
Germany manages to focus, manages to focus on Russia and America and Canada and China and France and Japan. (England is late due to some union strike at the airport. British Airways?) He focuses until Italy's phone goes off in the middle of the meeting. It's part unusual because Italy's phone usually lies forgotten at the bottom of his suitcase and also part usual because he's forgotten to turn it off. Germany doesn't even have time to berate him for not switching it to silent before Italy flips it open with exuberant, "Big brother Spain!" But the light in his eyes turns to puzzlement as he tilts his head and says, "Belgium? No, I haven't seen her. Is everything - she's huh? Gone?"
This strikes something like familiarity in Germany's mind and the Swiss-German that he couldn't understand that morning is suddenly horrifyingly clear to him. ("She's gone, she's gone, please-") and the knot in his stomach tightens and tangles. He takes the phone from Italy, whose level-headedness is starting to tilt and slide into panic. "What's going on?" he says and France's eyes pierce through him from the other side of the table.
"Freija's disappeared." Germany can hear Romano swearing in the background and crashes that sound like tables being flipped over. Spain's voice is hoarse, but urgent. "She's - she was staying with us in Madrid and went out last night."
"Belgium didn't come back?"
Spain makes a strangled noise and Germany hears the rustling of Spain running his hand through his hair in agitation. "No, she did come back. She- "
Germany finds out that she came back in the form of a sparkly dress and high-heeled shoes, lying at the bottom of the stairs of Spain's house. Romano had accompanied her that night, got her back into the house safely and she had stayed downstairs to get some water while he went to bed.
Her earrings and necklace and the smashed glass glint in a puddle of water on the stone floor.
Germany hands the phone back to Italy. He calls Switzerland and listens to his voice mail again and feels his stomach sink down and down into dread. 'What is going on?'
China watches the proceedings calmly and he nonchalantly asks France whether Seychelles has contacted him recently and the way the colour drains from his face only secure, cement China's suspicions. "We're dying," he says. And he laughs and says it again with an air of relief as everyone stares.
"We're dying."
*
Posted to FF.net and the main APH comm