Butterflies, Life, and Love
Summary: A celebration of familial love. England and baby!America made it through the horrible winter months and now are celebrating with a picnic outdoors in the summer sun. England realizes he has fallen in love with the child, even though he knows might hurt him in the end.
France did warn him, after all.
Half written and never finished or published until now, for my secret santa snowshoebombay’s prompt of America and England and butterflies.
America is younger than canon baby!America, I was thinking of the first brutal winters of Jamestown and Plymouth that killed many as they were not prepared for the cruel, cold and snowy weather.
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The baby laughed. England felt the warmth of the New World’s sun on the back of his head. Closing his eyes, just for one moment so that the babe would not get in trouble, he rejoiced to himself. They had made it through the brutal winter.
England had soothed and nursed the baby through chills, fevers, coughs and congestion. Tightened his own belt at the lack of food, and nursed America with what little he had. He had watched as one night the babe labored to breathe, America’s face a waxy picture of death in the pitifully small golden glow of the fire. England had to use the wood sparingly, but try to keep the fire roaring against the obscenely cold weather outside. Then they had to stay so close to the fire it scalded the side of the body facing it, and the bitter cold seeped all around them, through the cracks in the makeshift hut. The wind wuthered and found every nook and cranny in the structure and slid through them to the two huddled by the fire. England envisioned sometimes on the bleakest nights that the wind was fingers of death coming to snatch his little America from him.
They had made it through the winter alive.
America’s cheeks were flushed now with a healthy glow. The babe was now burbling and let a shriek of delight out as he rambled on his short legs and long dress in the green grassy field. He was chasing a butterfly. They were softly fluttering about, the little white and yellow grass butterflies. The sky above was as blue as little America’s eyes and the wild green grass was freckled with colorful wildflowers. England just basked in life, and celebrated it with this warmth and strange feeling that had coming stealing into his cold heart.
America stopped every once in a while on his toddler ramblings to glance at England, to see if he was still watching. England was watching, watching carefully to make sure the boy didn’t hurt himself, eat anything too odd, and noted the boy’s shift was too short, he would have to let it out again. A smile broke out on his face.
England couldn’t help it. The babe would stop and look at him, and he couldn’t help the soft doting smile that appeared on his face. America would then continue on for a bit, sometimes stumbling, sometimes stopping to stare at something with that look of intense curiosity that infants have, then ramble on and check to see if England was watching.
A shriek of dismay, so different from the happy ones earlier, now caught England’s attention. He sat up straight to see what was the matter. It appeared that the fluttering, yellow moth butterfly America followed had now turned and gone and flown back towards America. Now the butterfly was chasing the babe instead of the other way round.
The babe ran to England, holding his arms up to be held. England chuckled and made soothing noises to the baby. He slowly rocked America, as the babe laid his head on England’s shoulder. America, now feeling safe and sound in England's arms, popped up to look over the field, and softly gurgled as he sucked on his finger.
“Ah, didst the butterfly scare thee, little egg?” England softly kissed America’s baby cheek. The babe gurgled and then smiled at England. A full smile filled with sunshine and two tiny teeth. A smile that caused England to feel his heart warm and that feeling would radiated to his face where he smiled back at the baby.
They did this for a while. The babe enjoying being held and would watch England until he noticed. Then America would smile back sometimes accompanied by a baby laugh and then quickly look away. England then would watch the babe, as America would peer at something, until the babe would catch his glance and smile and laugh.
“You are an incorrigible flirt, my boy,” England chuckled.
America squirmed and as England was going to let him down to the ground again, a majestic monarch fluttered close by, and America stilled, and then rammed his face into England’s shoulder in fear.
Wincing from the impact, England talked to the babe, “He will not hurt us. He must think we are the strangest flowers he hast ever seen.” America peered over England’s collar. Little fists grabbed England’s white ruff decorated with blackwork of England’s own hand and stuffed the end lace England’s shirt in his mouth to chew on.
As America leaned into his shoulder England leaned back to enjoy the sun. The only thing moving was the gentle breeze. They had stilled enough where the butterfly landed straight on the top of his head. America stopped chewing and just stared. No shriek of fear came though. The butterfly’s wings spread in orange splendor, and suddenly America yelled in joy promptly deafening England and scaring away the monarch. England moved now to see America’s forgotten interest, the wet and wilted lace, flopping down his white shirt, and America’s little chubby hand reaching out to where the butterfly had been.
“Dost thou really want to eat such a creature?” England chided America. “Here, lad, go give them chase.” The babe was set down, and promptly ran off a bit, and turned to look at England. Tiny perfect eyebrows quirked at England’s amused expression.
America then ran off with another shriek of happiness.
“In my sights, lad!”
The babe was now testing him, running farther and stopping to look to see if England had given chase to him yet. England lazed back on his elbows, giving off the air that he did not care that his babe was too far for his comfort. He called to America, “If thou strayest from me, lad, I will give chase, as quick as you chase these bewingéd creatures.”
The babe delighted at England’s gruff chastisement. He just gurgled laughter and chased in the matter before, his stumbling baby steps now following a white moth flying towards England.
England closed his eyes for a minute enjoying the warmth again. He knew America was most likely hungry, when was the babe ever not hungry? He had brought them out to this field to celebrate. He opened the canister of food he brought with to the picnic. The noise of England pulling out wooden bowls caused America to look up and be distracted from his chase.
Running in curiosity to examine the unwrapping of the food, the babe’s blue eyes took it all in, sometimes questioning with a burble and point of a chubby finger. England pulled America to him. He winced as America sat himself down too hard onto England’s lap. As the baby sat there England felt America’s strange, sticking up, front piece of hair tickling his face. England spooned some food and lifted it causing the baby’s mouth opened like a little bird in a nest. America sat patiently and ate from England’s carved wooden spoon, sometimes letting England getting a bite in, but mostly pulling England’s arm down when he tried to feed himself.
If this could be forever, England thought, softly fingering through British America’s flyaway hair. The babe didn’t heed it, intent on his food. Such peace, England thought, such happiness, it was almost too good.
He tucked away the moment as a memory to recall in future unpleasant times.
“I love thee,” he whispered to the back of the small child’s head, “I should not, but I do.”
The baby looked at him enquiringly, a smile breaking out on his face. Ah, England thought, he wished the afternoon would last forever.
This was a happy life. This was a beautiful memory celebrating his realization of his love for British America. The young colony just yawned into the hazy afternoon air, still clinging to the end of the wooden spoon, tucked his head against England, and slowly fell asleep.
France did warn him, after all.
Half written and never finished or published until now, for my secret santa snowshoebombay’s prompt of America and England and butterflies.
America is younger than canon baby!America, I was thinking of the first brutal winters of Jamestown and Plymouth that killed many as they were not prepared for the cruel, cold and snowy weather.
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The baby laughed. England felt the warmth of the New World’s sun on the back of his head. Closing his eyes, just for one moment so that the babe would not get in trouble, he rejoiced to himself. They had made it through the brutal winter.
England had soothed and nursed the baby through chills, fevers, coughs and congestion. Tightened his own belt at the lack of food, and nursed America with what little he had. He had watched as one night the babe labored to breathe, America’s face a waxy picture of death in the pitifully small golden glow of the fire. England had to use the wood sparingly, but try to keep the fire roaring against the obscenely cold weather outside. Then they had to stay so close to the fire it scalded the side of the body facing it, and the bitter cold seeped all around them, through the cracks in the makeshift hut. The wind wuthered and found every nook and cranny in the structure and slid through them to the two huddled by the fire. England envisioned sometimes on the bleakest nights that the wind was fingers of death coming to snatch his little America from him.
They had made it through the winter alive.
America’s cheeks were flushed now with a healthy glow. The babe was now burbling and let a shriek of delight out as he rambled on his short legs and long dress in the green grassy field. He was chasing a butterfly. They were softly fluttering about, the little white and yellow grass butterflies. The sky above was as blue as little America’s eyes and the wild green grass was freckled with colorful wildflowers. England just basked in life, and celebrated it with this warmth and strange feeling that had coming stealing into his cold heart.
America stopped every once in a while on his toddler ramblings to glance at England, to see if he was still watching. England was watching, watching carefully to make sure the boy didn’t hurt himself, eat anything too odd, and noted the boy’s shift was too short, he would have to let it out again. A smile broke out on his face.
England couldn’t help it. The babe would stop and look at him, and he couldn’t help the soft doting smile that appeared on his face. America would then continue on for a bit, sometimes stumbling, sometimes stopping to stare at something with that look of intense curiosity that infants have, then ramble on and check to see if England was watching.
A shriek of dismay, so different from the happy ones earlier, now caught England’s attention. He sat up straight to see what was the matter. It appeared that the fluttering, yellow moth butterfly America followed had now turned and gone and flown back towards America. Now the butterfly was chasing the babe instead of the other way round.
The babe ran to England, holding his arms up to be held. England chuckled and made soothing noises to the baby. He slowly rocked America, as the babe laid his head on England’s shoulder. America, now feeling safe and sound in England's arms, popped up to look over the field, and softly gurgled as he sucked on his finger.
“Ah, didst the butterfly scare thee, little egg?” England softly kissed America’s baby cheek. The babe gurgled and then smiled at England. A full smile filled with sunshine and two tiny teeth. A smile that caused England to feel his heart warm and that feeling would radiated to his face where he smiled back at the baby.
They did this for a while. The babe enjoying being held and would watch England until he noticed. Then America would smile back sometimes accompanied by a baby laugh and then quickly look away. England then would watch the babe, as America would peer at something, until the babe would catch his glance and smile and laugh.
“You are an incorrigible flirt, my boy,” England chuckled.
America squirmed and as England was going to let him down to the ground again, a majestic monarch fluttered close by, and America stilled, and then rammed his face into England’s shoulder in fear.
Wincing from the impact, England talked to the babe, “He will not hurt us. He must think we are the strangest flowers he hast ever seen.” America peered over England’s collar. Little fists grabbed England’s white ruff decorated with blackwork of England’s own hand and stuffed the end lace England’s shirt in his mouth to chew on.
As America leaned into his shoulder England leaned back to enjoy the sun. The only thing moving was the gentle breeze. They had stilled enough where the butterfly landed straight on the top of his head. America stopped chewing and just stared. No shriek of fear came though. The butterfly’s wings spread in orange splendor, and suddenly America yelled in joy promptly deafening England and scaring away the monarch. England moved now to see America’s forgotten interest, the wet and wilted lace, flopping down his white shirt, and America’s little chubby hand reaching out to where the butterfly had been.
“Dost thou really want to eat such a creature?” England chided America. “Here, lad, go give them chase.” The babe was set down, and promptly ran off a bit, and turned to look at England. Tiny perfect eyebrows quirked at England’s amused expression.
America then ran off with another shriek of happiness.
“In my sights, lad!”
The babe was now testing him, running farther and stopping to look to see if England had given chase to him yet. England lazed back on his elbows, giving off the air that he did not care that his babe was too far for his comfort. He called to America, “If thou strayest from me, lad, I will give chase, as quick as you chase these bewingéd creatures.”
The babe delighted at England’s gruff chastisement. He just gurgled laughter and chased in the matter before, his stumbling baby steps now following a white moth flying towards England.
England closed his eyes for a minute enjoying the warmth again. He knew America was most likely hungry, when was the babe ever not hungry? He had brought them out to this field to celebrate. He opened the canister of food he brought with to the picnic. The noise of England pulling out wooden bowls caused America to look up and be distracted from his chase.
Running in curiosity to examine the unwrapping of the food, the babe’s blue eyes took it all in, sometimes questioning with a burble and point of a chubby finger. England pulled America to him. He winced as America sat himself down too hard onto England’s lap. As the baby sat there England felt America’s strange, sticking up, front piece of hair tickling his face. England spooned some food and lifted it causing the baby’s mouth opened like a little bird in a nest. America sat patiently and ate from England’s carved wooden spoon, sometimes letting England getting a bite in, but mostly pulling England’s arm down when he tried to feed himself.
If this could be forever, England thought, softly fingering through British America’s flyaway hair. The babe didn’t heed it, intent on his food. Such peace, England thought, such happiness, it was almost too good.
He tucked away the moment as a memory to recall in future unpleasant times.
“I love thee,” he whispered to the back of the small child’s head, “I should not, but I do.”
The baby looked at him enquiringly, a smile breaking out on his face. Ah, England thought, he wished the afternoon would last forever.
This was a happy life. This was a beautiful memory celebrating his realization of his love for British America. The young colony just yawned into the hazy afternoon air, still clinging to the end of the wooden spoon, tucked his head against England, and slowly fell asleep.