[Fic] Heroes & Monsters (2/?)
Title: Heroes & Monsters (2/?)
Author: meridianvase
Characters: England/America
Rating: PG-13 (maybe R, it depends on your sensibilities)
Warnings: Language, blood, Romania popping in (entirely necessary), ust, weirdness, also somewhat long.
Summary: America circa late 19th century has a vampire problem and asks Victorian era England for help. England goes all Van Helsing and tries to ignore how good America is at handling a crossbow. No vampires in this chapter, but it's looking like there's going to be a brawl in the next one.
Almost forgot the link to Part One, of course
“Keep your back straighter, now. No, you’re hunching over again,” England placed a correcting hand against America’s stomach, forcing him into a proper upright position.
“Just let me make the damn shot before you go telling me I’m doing it wrong! It’s not like I’ve missed one yet,” America said smugly, and not without reason. They’d been practicing with the crossbow for two hours now and the boy had yet to miss the target. Beginner’s luck, England wanted to reason, but he knew America, for all of his social foolishness, was almost incomparable wherever blunt force was concerned. Spain, the poor fool, had certainly learned this in their short-lived battles from the past few months.
The young nation released the trigger and hit the center of the tree easily, erupting into a chorus of “Bull’s-eye!” for what must have been the eight thousandth time that day. No matter how many times he fired the perfect shot, he never tired of cheering himself on.
“Did you see that? Right in the middle! I told you I’d be good at this.”
“Your talent for hitting trees will surely come in handy when your opponent is completely immobile,” England sighed, his eyes on the darkening, cloudy sky. “Tomorrow we will work on far more practical moving targets.”
“And I bet I’ll be great at that too. Hey wait, don’t pack up! Can’t I shoot just a few more times? Please?” America instinctually reverted to the pleading voice he’d used successfully many times as a child. Learning a new weapon was at least a million times more interesting than enduring the monotonous lecture from last night. He’d fallen asleep halfway through the lesson, snuggled against the arm of the chair, and had woken the next morning covered in a quilt. He wondered with some amusement how long it had taken England to realize that his pupil was dozing. Today, England had taken America’s short attention span into consideration and foregone another verbal lesson in exchange for letting him play with the crossbow long enough to satisfy him.
A raindrop landed squarely on England’s nose. They’d best get in before the storm hit, he didn’t want his equipment to rust, and what good would America be in the rain at this point in his training? America in the rain, the heavy drops soaking through his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow and turning the fabric translucent until it clung to his firm body as he handled the crossbow, flexed those lovely tan muscles and-
Oh for the love of God control yourself this was not the time for such carnal distractions.
“No, come along now, no point staying in the rain, you might get wet-I mean a cold,” He stiffened, then busied himself with packing up the arrows and stakes.
“Fine,” America pouted, but secretly noticed England’s point when the rain began coating his glasses, blurring his vision.
Fortunately, the forest behind the inn had provided enough room and targets to make for the perfect training grounds, so they had little way to walk before they reached the sheltering back porch of the quaint hotel.
“Come in, come in!” the innkeeper’s wife called as she hustled to open the backdoor. “Hurry now, it’s going to start pouring any minute!”
The kindly old woman was somewhat protective of the Englishman and the American, the only guests she had left and the only distraction from the town’s unnerving silence.
“Thank you miss,” Alfred said, accepting the warm towels she offered the both of them (“In case it had started raining you know, oh you both must be exhausted!”).
“I’ve made stew for supper. It isn’t much but it’ll keep you warm! We’ll be eating at six!” She chimed before bustling back to the kitchen and leaving her guests awkwardly obliged.
England cleared his throat. “Well, we’d best… make ourselves respectable. Lessons will continue after dinner.” He heaved his bulky supplies up the staircase with masked difficulty.
America sighed after him. “When are we going to actually go out and fight, England? If we wait any longer the whole town’s just gonna disappear! Poof! And it’ll be all your fault because we wasted so much time sitting around reading dusty old stupid books and drinking tea like a bunch of, of non-heroes, when we could’ve gotten rid of those bloodsuckers on the first night!”
“I refuse to argue on this subject any further,” England said to the door to his room. “I have explained again and again why this training is necessary but you don’t seem capable of listening.”
“You don’t see capable of getting your head out of your-“
“We can read another chapter tomorrow rather than continue physical training, if that is what you desire, America.”
Upon hearing no smart reply from his protégé, he inferred that the young man had stormed off to his room, and turned to shut his door behind him. He leaned his back against the frame, closed his eyes and savored the quiet. Seven straight hours of America was too much for anyone to handle.
“I can tell he was your colony, England.” A familiar, accented voice came from his bed, which creaked as the voice’s owner stood to move closer. “Do you know how?”
Suddenly, her hot breath was on his ear: “He is just as clueless as you are.”
Sharp green eyes snapped open. “What are you doing here, Romania?”
“I do not need an invitation, Anglia.” She played with the buttons on his shirt with dark, downcast eyes.
“To enter my room, yes, you would need an invitation,” He stated, shrinking from her prying touch.
“Maybe you did invite me, but you forgot, hmm?” The nation winked and uncomfortably encroached upon England’s personal space for a few moments longer before turning with a sweeping dance, her long skirt billowing out like a parasol and her curly, russet hair flying across her handsome face. “What nice toys.” She plucked a stake from the floor where it had fallen from England’s grasp. “Are you teaching your America to play with these?”
“That,” He snatched the stake back with a growl, “is none of your concern. I don’t understand how you got in here in the first place!” A slight, earthen breeze tussled his hair-of course: she’d crawled through the window like a right thief. “What business is this of yours?”
“Vampires,” She smirked. “Is that not what I am so famous for? My Count Draculas and my gypsy curses, yes? I see what you write about me. You must think my land is filled with nothing but bats and thieves… But do not pretend naivety, England. I am here for the same reason you are.”
“And what reason is that?” He kept his distance, but she honed in yet again, amused by his discomfort.
“Curiosity,” She pressed against him with a sultry smile before fluttering away again like a dark-winged bird.
“You do not honestly believe I am here out of selfish interest, do you? I have a job to do here! This is not a, a safari. The boy needs to know how to fight his own demons.”
“Ah, you enjoy playing his teacher again, don’t you?” Her voice sliced to a whisper. “But do not pretend you are not driven by desire.”
“Desire? What are you on about? That is ridiculous, I do not in any way desire A-“
“You do, though. You desire to see what hides in your America’s forests. You desire to know what magic echoes within the houses of his people.”
“Oh. Well yes, of course I have a slight interest in America’s darker realms, but…”
“But you are afraid.” She received a piercing glare. “Not… afraid. Embarrassed, yes. I heard about your rendezvous with Louisiana. Poor Anglia. Your pride is so silly and strange.” She giggled and pinched his reddened cheeks.
“You’ve still not provided a reason for your trespassing.” He batted her hands away and stroked his cheek where her long nails had almost drawn blood. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Romania; whether you are curious or not, this remains none of your concern.”
In a lewd act that earned England’s bugged-out eyes, the dusky nation reached in her blouse to retrieve a small vial she’d hidden in her ample bosom. She casually tossed him the glass, which he fortunately caught without fumble.
“The last of the mixture made with Mercy’s heart. In case one of you fools gets bitten.”
“Thank you,” He examined the smoky mixture of ash and water. “I-wait, how did you get this?”
“Work,” She grinned, exposing sharp, cat-like teeth and… were those fangs? No, certainly not... “Hard work. And I do not work for free.” She prowled toward his apprehensive frame.
“I didn’t ask for your help to begin with,” he protested.
“Your payment begins now.” In less than a heartbeat she pounced upon him, tangling her hands in his blonde hair and dragging him down into a vicious, suffocating kiss, all tongue and teeth, sharpened, deadly teeth, and Oh God he should have known, he’d had his suspicions.
He shouted when she sunk her feline fangs in his neck; tossed her off with his shoulder and grasped his wound. Blood. It wasn’t a deep bite-was it deep enough to get infected? He reached for the stake hidden beneath his waistcoat-but no, that wouldn’t do anything. You couldn’t kill nations, not with bits of sharpened wood. Where did she go in the first place? Blood seeped through his fingers; that bite was harder than he’d thought. The vial! Where was the bloody vial? Not in any of his pockets… on the floor?
Romania’s laughter rang in his ears like the bells of Hell. “Are you looking for this?” She twirled the vial between her fingers, laughed again at England’s terrified and angered expression.
He lunged for the glass--unsuccessfully, much to her amusement, when he discovered that he’d been tied from behind and was now trapped in a humiliating position on the floor. Sneaky fucking gypsies and their bloody Heathen tricks, may they all rot in Hell.
“You, y-you…” He was practically shaking.
“I what, darling?”
“I’M HERE.” America plowed down the door with all the subtlety of a freight train, shirt half-buttoned and in lieu of one shoe. He had obviously been in the middle of dressing himself when he heard his mentor’s cry of distress, sending him into hero mode. There was no time for looking sensible when heroics were involved.
In the heat of clinging to his life, England had no time to be embarrassed by the physical state of the wide-eyed young man rearing to fight with confidently raised fists, his sole thoughts being that of his survival and of purging himself of the venom now poisoning his veins. Oh God in heaven, he could feel the putrid disease coursing through him. Romania, on the other hand, was overtaken by the pleasure of America’s frenzied image panting in the doorframe, brimming with the mindless valiance that for a moment reminded her of England’s knights of old. This was exactly what she had expected.
“So this is the lovely young America. Ah, I see why you adore him so, my Anglia. His eyes are as blue as your skies are not,” She leaned in close, too close, her hands slipping into his shirt…
“So help me God Romania if you lay one more hand on that boy I will burn you to the ground, I will scorch your lands and feed your children to demons and each night I will raise you from the dead and I will cut out your heart with a rusty spoon while you are screaming and vomiting for mercy, and that would be a fair punishment compared to the thousands of others I could devise in a few thoughtful minutes.” And she knew he would. He’d already begun muttering an incantation under his breath: a warning.
“Down now, England. All of those evil thoughts could end up hurting you instead. You know this, yet you always seem to forget.” She flashed her set of glistening canines. “Besides, I just want a taste.”
America was hazy with astonishment as the strange, dark-haired woman with the funny accent leaned forward and drew her warm tongue along his blushing cheek, from the line of his jaw to an inch below his eye. She pulled back, cradled his chin and turned his head from side to side in silent scrutiny. He was a big one alright, though most of his physical presence lay in his strength. Behind that muscle he was a babbling, nervous thing, his cheeks stained violent red with the floundering embarrassment that only comes from being raised by England and would never truly fade, no matter how powerful and charismatic he became with age. America was sputtering, caught between wanting to tear away from the revealing gaze of the beautiful woman whose skin smelled like dead roses and forests at nighttime and wanting to sink beneath her fingers and drown in that scent, surrounded by her creamy skin. He was starting to feel strange, the way he felt when he saw pretty girls in dresses with low necklines or, um…
England’s chanting grew louder.
“Very nice. Well, I will leave you to save your damsel in distress, Sir Alfred the Brave.” She took a seat on the bed above England’s writhing form.
“… Wait, what am I supposed to be doing?” The clueless boy asked.
“Your England will explain.” She pulled up her legs and turned over to lay on her stomach and cross her ankles in the air in a most un-lady-like fashion, knowing it would irritate Victorian England in ways even injecting him with a vampiric poison couldn’t.
He craned his neck to snarl at her before turning his attention back to the very confused young man standing before him. “Come here, lad. This is an important lesson for you to learn.”
“Another lesson?” He groaned. “But I’m hungry! I thought you said we were eating dinner first.”
Selfish, ungrateful little-“Do you see this, America?” He revealed his tiny wound: two clear, red dots marring his pale neck.
Oh my God, England had been bitten. England was infected and he was going to turn into a vampire any minute and he knew what he had to do, he didn’t want to do it but he knew he had to, he had to be the hero, he couldn’t let another vampire run loose, he had to be brave. Tears sprung in his eyes as he retrieved the stake hidden in his waist and held it in position.
“It’s okay England I can do this I’m a hero I know you wouldn’t want to live this way,” Big, hot tears rolled across his cheeks as he neared the smaller nation, his wooden stake shaking in his grasp.
“No America, don’t!” He crouched, unable to protect his head with his arms pinned behind his back. “Just, wait, let me explain!”
“It’s for the best England I can’t let you become one of them I can’t…” He closed his eyes and swung clumsily before letting the stake tumble from his grasp. Sobbing uncontrollably, the way he did when England discovered that he’d broken one of his priceless vases while playing catch inside the house so many years ago, he fell to his knees. “Oh England I can’t do it I’m so sorry!” He wrapped his arms around the restrained older nation whose face was now an unappealing shade of purplish-red. “T-turn me, England! I don’t want to be alone! Canada’s so boring and no one else l-likes m-me, n-not like you do. And I, I really like-love, I mean…”
“O doamne, this is too much. I am starting to feel truly evil,” Romania sighed as she floated off the bed. “England is not infected with vampire venom. It is a potion.”
“I knew it!” England cried in a voice muffled by America’s shirtsleeve.
“No you did not. You have always believed I was a monster, me and the rest of the eastern countries you fear, you silly island. In the part of your mind with sense, perhaps you knew I would not be stupid enough the change you even if I was a creature of the night, but you always listen to your idiot head first.” In less than a second she’d released the red-faced Brit from his bindings.
“So wait… what the Hell is going on?” America stood, completely puzzled yet again.
“An enormous waste of our time,” England dusted himself off as he stood. “Well, almost an enormous waste. I’ll be taking that vial.”
The gypsy deposited the glass container in his outstretched palm and sashayed toward the open window through which a stormy gust blew the lacey white curtains, puffing them up into false phantoms.
“And by the way,” She turned, one button-up boot balanced precariously on the windowsill. “The potion… it will not kill you, but it is far from harmless. I do not want to put its effects in indelicate terms for you, my sensitive one,” she layered on the sarcasm, “but I have heard that, in some cases, it is known to produce horrid, putrid sours on most… unsightly places. Some places become entirely unusable. I do not know how it would affect a nation, but on humans there is no cure or reversal spell. Just so you know.” She hoisted herself up the rest of the way and prepared to scale down.
“What do you mean ‘Just so you know’?!” England barreled across the room, his face so red it looked likely to erupt. “You answer me you filthy gyp! What did I do to deserve this, huh? DID YOU FORGET WHAT I SAID ABOUT THE RUSTY FUCKING SPOON?”
“There is one way to reverse it,” she smirked, grabbing hold of the rope left dangling against the wall.
“Well then tell me, you sadistic hell bitch!” he came close to screaming.
“Perhaps you should carry on with your practice, yes?” She winked and hopped out the window with seemingly no effort.
“What? Oh you cannot be serious.”
“Oh yes. I am very generous with my favors. Now you owe me double. Do not forget, or I may use my venom when I bite you next time!” Her fading laughter seeped into the walls, lingering to mock England’s furious embarrassment. “You have twenty minutes left!”
For a moment, America thought England was muttering a spell under his breath again, maybe something that would make Romania’s rope snap. Then he heard the word ‘fucking’ leave his lips and he realized that he’d been cursing quietly for the past two minutes. Sometimes he swore he and England spoke different languages. ‘Bugger’? Was that even a word?
Unable to stay silent any longer while England went on his muted rant, he awkwardly cleared his throat, casting the gentleman out of his foul-mouthed reverie and into the reality of his current predicament. He’d been made to look like a fool-few things angered him more than being made to look foolish, especially in front of… well, in front of anyone, really-but the fact remained that if he did not get this poison out of his system soon God knows what would happen to him and he didn’t care to find out.
“So… that was Romania,” America bit his lower lip. “She seems… kind of fucking weird, I’m not gonna lie. I think she likes me. So what’s in that thing she gave you? Some kind of magic thing? Does it kill bloodsuckers? Is it like, vampire repellant or something? Or does it-”
“America, I need you to suck this potion out, and I need you to do it now.”
“Huh? How am I supposed to do that?”
England’s hand flew to his face. “How do you think?”
He hung his mangled coat by the door and made to work on undoing as few buttons as he could manage while still bearing his neck and the marring bite. This is indecent You are falling prey to her heathen ways. You are disgracing yourself, your standards…
“Oh, shut up,” He muttered. When having to choose between proper etiquette and the possibility of never, er, engaging in certain procreative activities ever again, he was sorry but the barbarian in him won the fight.
“Is this another lesson?” America was beginning to look worried.
“You could call it that. It’s more like saving me from a lifetime of misery, but it could serve dual purpose.”
He finished unbuttoning. America was biting his lip again, avoiding looking at England’s less decent form at all costs, seeming far more like his timid brother than his normal, outrageous self. The prudence of Victorianism could turn grown men into fraying bundles of nerves, but no one could pretend that suppressed need did not reveal itself in darker places. Oh no, he mustn’t consider what activities America may be up to in the sanctity of his own bedroom. That was beyond his concern, the boy was grown now, and besides, from the blush on his face there was no way he was half as scandalous as England was behind closed doors. Those damn absinthe bars… He’d never forgive France. His stomach took a sudden lurch. That potion was rearing to settle in at any moment.
He paused while he considered how this procedure should be carried out: standing, sitting, or laying down? Oh God, that sounded terrible. Stop thinking, stop thinking… His stomach twisted again, making a growling sound like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Twenty minutes my arse.
“England, are you okay?” America asked, concerned, though keeping his distance from the man in the half-buttoned shirt who was now clutching his front and making a pained face.
“Just… get on with it, will you?” He staggered a bit before grabbing hold of the boy’s shirt with a grimace. The potion was filling him like alcohol, making him woozy and dizzy and what were those pretty little lights doing around America’s face? “Right. Snap out of it.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Talking to myself. America, this is very important so you have to listen to me. It may come inhandlatsuwell,” he slurred.
“What? England I don’t understand!”
“It may… never mind. I’ll ‘splain later, right now I need you,” He tugged on his shoulder with shaking arms, “to get this shit out of me or it will very be-it will bad very-it will be very bad.”
“But how?” America’s eyes were two full moons. He’d seen England like this before, but never due to a potion. He’d never seen anyone messed up from a potion before.
“You know how to get venom from a snake bite out, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Well…” And that was it-he’d lost the ability to talk. The potion was setting in. Panting heavily, sweat running down his face, he leaned his head against America’s collarbone and felt himself falling into a deep abyss.
“Shit,” The boy grabbed his shoulders and shook him slightly, as though trying to wake him from a dream; the older nation only slumped further.
“England? England this isn’t funny…” He steered his rag-doll form to the bed, where he fell against the quilt on his back, eyes closed, seemingly in a deep sleep.
“Okay,” America said to himself. His heart was beating at a mad pace as he tried to decide how to, uh, do this. Should he… straddle him? That’d be so awkward. He leaned down until he was at eye-level with the panting man’s neck, then twisted around a bit, maybe if he lay beside him-no… well maybe if he just… dammit, this was stupid, just do it all ready. Lying parallel to the older country, he bent his head and placed his mouth on his neck, almost like a kiss (no wait, not like a kiss, what the hell). A sharp, coppery taste filled his mouth. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he fastened his lips around the wound and began to suck, fighting the urge to gag at the poisoned blood he was extracting. Suddenly it became too much; he ran to the open window and spit red into the night. England was still unconscious, still breathing heavily and unsteadily. This was harder than he’d thought it was going to be. No less weird, he thought while lying down again, this time holding himself up by resting his forearms on either side of England’s head. Imagine it’s just juice, he reasoned, or wine. Yes, the British Empire was leaking cranberry juice. On his third round, he lay entirely on top of the English nation, making sure not to injure him as he lowered his head again and immersed himself in his task. It almost became fun, sucking with as much force as he could muster, letting his eyes close and his world dim to the simple action. He felt superior, in control, like a vampire huddled over his prey, but at the same time subservient to England’s request and in a terrible way it made him excited. Though there was still nothing enjoyable about a mouthful of blood. England would owe him for that.
On his fourth round, he sucked more fervently than before, excited by the skill he’d picked up at his task. England’s skin was turning purple around the scar, and he knew he was almost finished, but he almost didn’t want it to stop, almost wanted to stay here, fastened around his throat, feeling his warm, wiry body beneath him, so close, they hadn’t been this close in a while, and hey, he was pretty good at this sucking thing it seemed like, and it sort of felt good in a weird way. He wondered if it felt good to England too.
“America?” The boy was brought back to Earth by a weak British voice. In an instant, their closeness went from warm and comforting to awkward and oh-God-I’m-so-sorry. America had gotten a little too zealous in his mission. His sweaty hair clung to his head, the top buttons in his shirt had come undone, and, most embarrassingly, he’d starting rutting against England sometime during his last round, leaving England’s clothes in complete disarray, his shirt un-tucked and askew. He now found himself with both legs wrapped tight around his frame, his chest held right against him and his hands grasping at the older man’s shirt. And his mouth still full of blood.
England looked at him as though he was an object in a museum, this boy caught in an act of uncommon indecency, slapped in the face by the sudden remembrance of inhibition. Blood leaked from his sealed lips and his cheeks puffed out, giving him the ridiculous appearance of a vampiric chipmunk.
“Go, spit, now!” He shooed him off with some reluctance. The boy had obviously sucked the poison out in time because England’s “unsightly places” were in full working order, it would appear. Of all the times for America to appear so dreadfully attractive, did it have to be now, with a mouth full of tainted blood?
It appeared they both needed to rethink their personal lives a bit. Something was not right with the both of them. That damn Romania probably left some kind of imprint in the atmosphere and it was causing them to act a bit insane.
“Wait, what are you doing?! Are you mad?!” England jumped from the bed, perhaps a bit too fast, and rushed to pull America away from the window. “Spit in the sink for Christ’s sake! Please don’t tell me you’ve been spitting out there!”
Mouth too full to talk, America shook his head no, but his guilty blush told otherwise.
“Oh God. Do you know what you’ve been doing then? You’ve been waving a bloody ‘Come Eat Me’ flag outside our window. You’ve just put up a sign that says ‘Hello, I’m stupid and delicious’. You’ve gone out and personally embossed invitations to an all-human feast and you’ve passed them out to every fucking vampire in town! Go ahead and spit, it’s too late now!”
America leaned out the window and spat, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and started to speak before realizing that the horrible taste hadn’t left yet. He ran to the pitcher on the bedside table, raised it to his lips and took loud, messy swallows of water.
“Well you’re welcome for saving your life!” He said, gasping when he’d finished. “It’s not like I knew all of that anyway! You could have told me!”
“I thought it was common sense, but I forgot that that is something you lack.” England opened his briefcase and began counting stakes in preparation. They had a long night ahead of them-a night England had hoped to postpone until America had been properly trained, but you couldn’t hope to follow any kind of ordered procedure when America was involved, at least not in England’s experience.
“Here,” he handed the boy a vial of holy water, “and here,” he retrieved his crossbow and supplied him with a few more stakes. “Strap them to your body any way you can.”
“Are we--”
“Yes, we are fighting vampires tonight. You’re welcome. You get what you want again.”
England was still angry when he finished fastening the extra stakes to his belt, still bitter when he attached the bottle of ash and water mixture to a golden chain (from his pirate days, yes he still kept a few around) and hung it around his neck. He retained a look of upmost composure as he sorted through his small arsenal (unfortunately he was unable to bring his largest weapons; damn, that ax would have come in handy). America looked utterly shocked when he offered him the largest crossbow he had.
“I trust you to be responsible with this,” England said as America’s eyes glazed over. He fondled the heavy and ornate weapon in a state of wonder. It must’ve cost a fortune.
It did cost a fortune, but England had others at home, and besides, he worked best with two smaller crossbows. America’s brute force required brutal weapons, but England’s dexterity made him just as deadly in his aim. Together they matched up quite nicely. If this venture went well, England could almost imagine pursuing future monster quests in the future, maybe after America had matured a little more and would stop pouring blood out of goddamn windows.
“We’ll have to inform the innkeepers before we go. I am sure they are already prepared for this,” he mumbled as he sorted through his crucifixes.
“We’re just gonna leave them here?” America sounded outraged. “They’re like, a hundred years old! They can’t defend themselves!”
“As long as they do not invite anyone in, they are safe. Vampires cannot enter a home unless they are invited,” England said, deciding against bringing up the fact that they’d already been over this. “But they are quite… crafty. They are known to fool people.” He glared intensely at his student. “Do not forget this. They could trick you into offering them your own neck to feed on if you gave them the slightest opportunity to deceive you.”
“I’m not an idiot, England,” he scoffed. “There’s no way I’d do something like that.”
“They’d seduce you,” his teacher stated.
“Seduce me?” the boy’s mind went straight to Romania, licking a trail up his cheek, then his body sliding against England’s and-wow. This whole vampire thing was getting to be a little too much, and they hadn’t even seen one yet.
“They would seduce you and you would be hopeless. Even more so than you already are.” England finished with his own preparations and turned to inspect America.
“Yeah, well, I know you’re only insulting me to cover up how jealous you are,” he said (hopeless, yeah right, he’d show him). “I’m just naturally good at this and you don’t want to admit it, woah, what are you doing?” A sudden tingle wracked his nerves as England’s hand unexpectedly reached into his shirt, his other hand darting to make sure his spare stakes were securely fastened.
“Checking.” He tugged at the rosary still hanging around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt: yes, it would stay. “Good. Well, there is no formal way of going about this. I suppose you’ll just have to follow me, and stay close. Go grab your coat.”
“Where are we going?” America ghosted a hand up to clutch at where England had held his rosary.
“Out,” England slung on his coat, grabbed his supplies, double checked himself one last time and made for the front door, hearing America race downstairs behind him and turning just in time to see the golden-haired young man shrugging on a gray topcoat over the obvious bulges in his shirt where his wooden ammo was safely lodged. He winced as the boy almost dropped his weapon in his efforts and came very close to firmly chastising him for his carelessness when, suddenly, his topcoat was on and he lost that look of franticness and he was the United States, fully grown and tall and strong and ready to fight whatever required being fought.
“Let’s do this,” he said vapidly and melodramatically, because of course no serious moment could be held for very long.
England sighed and nodded his head. He had absolutely no way of telling how this would turn out, and it tortured him to no end. He only hoped that the need to extract venom from a wound would not arise again, although to be honest he wouldn’t mind placing America in that position once more, not that he would risk his own safety just to have his mouth around his neck, and this was definitely Romania’s fault, definitely.
__________________________
* The thing about Spain is referring to the Spanish-American war and if you don’t know what it was about well then educate yourself with this link, my friend.
* I’ll explain the vial with Mercy’s ashes a bit later too, but it was common for people to burn the organs of people believed to be vampires or vampire victims and then drink a mixture of the ashes and water when they believed they’d been bitten. They usually became violently ill from drinking the ashes of diseased corpses and died so I’m not really sure how that tradition managed to stick around.
* No offense was meant by my description of Romania. England was just really freaked out by Eastern Europe at the time. Also, O doamne means something along the lines of "Oh my God", I think.
* I never thought I'd write a fanfic this long
Author: meridianvase
Characters: England/America
Rating: PG-13 (maybe R, it depends on your sensibilities)
Warnings: Language, blood, Romania popping in (entirely necessary), ust, weirdness, also somewhat long.
Summary: America circa late 19th century has a vampire problem and asks Victorian era England for help. England goes all Van Helsing and tries to ignore how good America is at handling a crossbow. No vampires in this chapter, but it's looking like there's going to be a brawl in the next one.
Almost forgot the link to Part One, of course
“Keep your back straighter, now. No, you’re hunching over again,” England placed a correcting hand against America’s stomach, forcing him into a proper upright position.
“Just let me make the damn shot before you go telling me I’m doing it wrong! It’s not like I’ve missed one yet,” America said smugly, and not without reason. They’d been practicing with the crossbow for two hours now and the boy had yet to miss the target. Beginner’s luck, England wanted to reason, but he knew America, for all of his social foolishness, was almost incomparable wherever blunt force was concerned. Spain, the poor fool, had certainly learned this in their short-lived battles from the past few months.
The young nation released the trigger and hit the center of the tree easily, erupting into a chorus of “Bull’s-eye!” for what must have been the eight thousandth time that day. No matter how many times he fired the perfect shot, he never tired of cheering himself on.
“Did you see that? Right in the middle! I told you I’d be good at this.”
“Your talent for hitting trees will surely come in handy when your opponent is completely immobile,” England sighed, his eyes on the darkening, cloudy sky. “Tomorrow we will work on far more practical moving targets.”
“And I bet I’ll be great at that too. Hey wait, don’t pack up! Can’t I shoot just a few more times? Please?” America instinctually reverted to the pleading voice he’d used successfully many times as a child. Learning a new weapon was at least a million times more interesting than enduring the monotonous lecture from last night. He’d fallen asleep halfway through the lesson, snuggled against the arm of the chair, and had woken the next morning covered in a quilt. He wondered with some amusement how long it had taken England to realize that his pupil was dozing. Today, England had taken America’s short attention span into consideration and foregone another verbal lesson in exchange for letting him play with the crossbow long enough to satisfy him.
A raindrop landed squarely on England’s nose. They’d best get in before the storm hit, he didn’t want his equipment to rust, and what good would America be in the rain at this point in his training? America in the rain, the heavy drops soaking through his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow and turning the fabric translucent until it clung to his firm body as he handled the crossbow, flexed those lovely tan muscles and-
Oh for the love of God control yourself this was not the time for such carnal distractions.
“No, come along now, no point staying in the rain, you might get wet-I mean a cold,” He stiffened, then busied himself with packing up the arrows and stakes.
“Fine,” America pouted, but secretly noticed England’s point when the rain began coating his glasses, blurring his vision.
Fortunately, the forest behind the inn had provided enough room and targets to make for the perfect training grounds, so they had little way to walk before they reached the sheltering back porch of the quaint hotel.
“Come in, come in!” the innkeeper’s wife called as she hustled to open the backdoor. “Hurry now, it’s going to start pouring any minute!”
The kindly old woman was somewhat protective of the Englishman and the American, the only guests she had left and the only distraction from the town’s unnerving silence.
“Thank you miss,” Alfred said, accepting the warm towels she offered the both of them (“In case it had started raining you know, oh you both must be exhausted!”).
“I’ve made stew for supper. It isn’t much but it’ll keep you warm! We’ll be eating at six!” She chimed before bustling back to the kitchen and leaving her guests awkwardly obliged.
England cleared his throat. “Well, we’d best… make ourselves respectable. Lessons will continue after dinner.” He heaved his bulky supplies up the staircase with masked difficulty.
America sighed after him. “When are we going to actually go out and fight, England? If we wait any longer the whole town’s just gonna disappear! Poof! And it’ll be all your fault because we wasted so much time sitting around reading dusty old stupid books and drinking tea like a bunch of, of non-heroes, when we could’ve gotten rid of those bloodsuckers on the first night!”
“I refuse to argue on this subject any further,” England said to the door to his room. “I have explained again and again why this training is necessary but you don’t seem capable of listening.”
“You don’t see capable of getting your head out of your-“
“We can read another chapter tomorrow rather than continue physical training, if that is what you desire, America.”
Upon hearing no smart reply from his protégé, he inferred that the young man had stormed off to his room, and turned to shut his door behind him. He leaned his back against the frame, closed his eyes and savored the quiet. Seven straight hours of America was too much for anyone to handle.
“I can tell he was your colony, England.” A familiar, accented voice came from his bed, which creaked as the voice’s owner stood to move closer. “Do you know how?”
Suddenly, her hot breath was on his ear: “He is just as clueless as you are.”
Sharp green eyes snapped open. “What are you doing here, Romania?”
“I do not need an invitation, Anglia.” She played with the buttons on his shirt with dark, downcast eyes.
“To enter my room, yes, you would need an invitation,” He stated, shrinking from her prying touch.
“Maybe you did invite me, but you forgot, hmm?” The nation winked and uncomfortably encroached upon England’s personal space for a few moments longer before turning with a sweeping dance, her long skirt billowing out like a parasol and her curly, russet hair flying across her handsome face. “What nice toys.” She plucked a stake from the floor where it had fallen from England’s grasp. “Are you teaching your America to play with these?”
“That,” He snatched the stake back with a growl, “is none of your concern. I don’t understand how you got in here in the first place!” A slight, earthen breeze tussled his hair-of course: she’d crawled through the window like a right thief. “What business is this of yours?”
“Vampires,” She smirked. “Is that not what I am so famous for? My Count Draculas and my gypsy curses, yes? I see what you write about me. You must think my land is filled with nothing but bats and thieves… But do not pretend naivety, England. I am here for the same reason you are.”
“And what reason is that?” He kept his distance, but she honed in yet again, amused by his discomfort.
“Curiosity,” She pressed against him with a sultry smile before fluttering away again like a dark-winged bird.
“You do not honestly believe I am here out of selfish interest, do you? I have a job to do here! This is not a, a safari. The boy needs to know how to fight his own demons.”
“Ah, you enjoy playing his teacher again, don’t you?” Her voice sliced to a whisper. “But do not pretend you are not driven by desire.”
“Desire? What are you on about? That is ridiculous, I do not in any way desire A-“
“You do, though. You desire to see what hides in your America’s forests. You desire to know what magic echoes within the houses of his people.”
“Oh. Well yes, of course I have a slight interest in America’s darker realms, but…”
“But you are afraid.” She received a piercing glare. “Not… afraid. Embarrassed, yes. I heard about your rendezvous with Louisiana. Poor Anglia. Your pride is so silly and strange.” She giggled and pinched his reddened cheeks.
“You’ve still not provided a reason for your trespassing.” He batted her hands away and stroked his cheek where her long nails had almost drawn blood. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Romania; whether you are curious or not, this remains none of your concern.”
In a lewd act that earned England’s bugged-out eyes, the dusky nation reached in her blouse to retrieve a small vial she’d hidden in her ample bosom. She casually tossed him the glass, which he fortunately caught without fumble.
“The last of the mixture made with Mercy’s heart. In case one of you fools gets bitten.”
“Thank you,” He examined the smoky mixture of ash and water. “I-wait, how did you get this?”
“Work,” She grinned, exposing sharp, cat-like teeth and… were those fangs? No, certainly not... “Hard work. And I do not work for free.” She prowled toward his apprehensive frame.
“I didn’t ask for your help to begin with,” he protested.
“Your payment begins now.” In less than a heartbeat she pounced upon him, tangling her hands in his blonde hair and dragging him down into a vicious, suffocating kiss, all tongue and teeth, sharpened, deadly teeth, and Oh God he should have known, he’d had his suspicions.
He shouted when she sunk her feline fangs in his neck; tossed her off with his shoulder and grasped his wound. Blood. It wasn’t a deep bite-was it deep enough to get infected? He reached for the stake hidden beneath his waistcoat-but no, that wouldn’t do anything. You couldn’t kill nations, not with bits of sharpened wood. Where did she go in the first place? Blood seeped through his fingers; that bite was harder than he’d thought. The vial! Where was the bloody vial? Not in any of his pockets… on the floor?
Romania’s laughter rang in his ears like the bells of Hell. “Are you looking for this?” She twirled the vial between her fingers, laughed again at England’s terrified and angered expression.
He lunged for the glass--unsuccessfully, much to her amusement, when he discovered that he’d been tied from behind and was now trapped in a humiliating position on the floor. Sneaky fucking gypsies and their bloody Heathen tricks, may they all rot in Hell.
“You, y-you…” He was practically shaking.
“I what, darling?”
“I’M HERE.” America plowed down the door with all the subtlety of a freight train, shirt half-buttoned and in lieu of one shoe. He had obviously been in the middle of dressing himself when he heard his mentor’s cry of distress, sending him into hero mode. There was no time for looking sensible when heroics were involved.
In the heat of clinging to his life, England had no time to be embarrassed by the physical state of the wide-eyed young man rearing to fight with confidently raised fists, his sole thoughts being that of his survival and of purging himself of the venom now poisoning his veins. Oh God in heaven, he could feel the putrid disease coursing through him. Romania, on the other hand, was overtaken by the pleasure of America’s frenzied image panting in the doorframe, brimming with the mindless valiance that for a moment reminded her of England’s knights of old. This was exactly what she had expected.
“So this is the lovely young America. Ah, I see why you adore him so, my Anglia. His eyes are as blue as your skies are not,” She leaned in close, too close, her hands slipping into his shirt…
“So help me God Romania if you lay one more hand on that boy I will burn you to the ground, I will scorch your lands and feed your children to demons and each night I will raise you from the dead and I will cut out your heart with a rusty spoon while you are screaming and vomiting for mercy, and that would be a fair punishment compared to the thousands of others I could devise in a few thoughtful minutes.” And she knew he would. He’d already begun muttering an incantation under his breath: a warning.
“Down now, England. All of those evil thoughts could end up hurting you instead. You know this, yet you always seem to forget.” She flashed her set of glistening canines. “Besides, I just want a taste.”
America was hazy with astonishment as the strange, dark-haired woman with the funny accent leaned forward and drew her warm tongue along his blushing cheek, from the line of his jaw to an inch below his eye. She pulled back, cradled his chin and turned his head from side to side in silent scrutiny. He was a big one alright, though most of his physical presence lay in his strength. Behind that muscle he was a babbling, nervous thing, his cheeks stained violent red with the floundering embarrassment that only comes from being raised by England and would never truly fade, no matter how powerful and charismatic he became with age. America was sputtering, caught between wanting to tear away from the revealing gaze of the beautiful woman whose skin smelled like dead roses and forests at nighttime and wanting to sink beneath her fingers and drown in that scent, surrounded by her creamy skin. He was starting to feel strange, the way he felt when he saw pretty girls in dresses with low necklines or, um…
England’s chanting grew louder.
“Very nice. Well, I will leave you to save your damsel in distress, Sir Alfred the Brave.” She took a seat on the bed above England’s writhing form.
“… Wait, what am I supposed to be doing?” The clueless boy asked.
“Your England will explain.” She pulled up her legs and turned over to lay on her stomach and cross her ankles in the air in a most un-lady-like fashion, knowing it would irritate Victorian England in ways even injecting him with a vampiric poison couldn’t.
He craned his neck to snarl at her before turning his attention back to the very confused young man standing before him. “Come here, lad. This is an important lesson for you to learn.”
“Another lesson?” He groaned. “But I’m hungry! I thought you said we were eating dinner first.”
Selfish, ungrateful little-“Do you see this, America?” He revealed his tiny wound: two clear, red dots marring his pale neck.
Oh my God, England had been bitten. England was infected and he was going to turn into a vampire any minute and he knew what he had to do, he didn’t want to do it but he knew he had to, he had to be the hero, he couldn’t let another vampire run loose, he had to be brave. Tears sprung in his eyes as he retrieved the stake hidden in his waist and held it in position.
“It’s okay England I can do this I’m a hero I know you wouldn’t want to live this way,” Big, hot tears rolled across his cheeks as he neared the smaller nation, his wooden stake shaking in his grasp.
“No America, don’t!” He crouched, unable to protect his head with his arms pinned behind his back. “Just, wait, let me explain!”
“It’s for the best England I can’t let you become one of them I can’t…” He closed his eyes and swung clumsily before letting the stake tumble from his grasp. Sobbing uncontrollably, the way he did when England discovered that he’d broken one of his priceless vases while playing catch inside the house so many years ago, he fell to his knees. “Oh England I can’t do it I’m so sorry!” He wrapped his arms around the restrained older nation whose face was now an unappealing shade of purplish-red. “T-turn me, England! I don’t want to be alone! Canada’s so boring and no one else l-likes m-me, n-not like you do. And I, I really like-love, I mean…”
“O doamne, this is too much. I am starting to feel truly evil,” Romania sighed as she floated off the bed. “England is not infected with vampire venom. It is a potion.”
“I knew it!” England cried in a voice muffled by America’s shirtsleeve.
“No you did not. You have always believed I was a monster, me and the rest of the eastern countries you fear, you silly island. In the part of your mind with sense, perhaps you knew I would not be stupid enough the change you even if I was a creature of the night, but you always listen to your idiot head first.” In less than a second she’d released the red-faced Brit from his bindings.
“So wait… what the Hell is going on?” America stood, completely puzzled yet again.
“An enormous waste of our time,” England dusted himself off as he stood. “Well, almost an enormous waste. I’ll be taking that vial.”
The gypsy deposited the glass container in his outstretched palm and sashayed toward the open window through which a stormy gust blew the lacey white curtains, puffing them up into false phantoms.
“And by the way,” She turned, one button-up boot balanced precariously on the windowsill. “The potion… it will not kill you, but it is far from harmless. I do not want to put its effects in indelicate terms for you, my sensitive one,” she layered on the sarcasm, “but I have heard that, in some cases, it is known to produce horrid, putrid sours on most… unsightly places. Some places become entirely unusable. I do not know how it would affect a nation, but on humans there is no cure or reversal spell. Just so you know.” She hoisted herself up the rest of the way and prepared to scale down.
“What do you mean ‘Just so you know’?!” England barreled across the room, his face so red it looked likely to erupt. “You answer me you filthy gyp! What did I do to deserve this, huh? DID YOU FORGET WHAT I SAID ABOUT THE RUSTY FUCKING SPOON?”
“There is one way to reverse it,” she smirked, grabbing hold of the rope left dangling against the wall.
“Well then tell me, you sadistic hell bitch!” he came close to screaming.
“Perhaps you should carry on with your practice, yes?” She winked and hopped out the window with seemingly no effort.
“What? Oh you cannot be serious.”
“Oh yes. I am very generous with my favors. Now you owe me double. Do not forget, or I may use my venom when I bite you next time!” Her fading laughter seeped into the walls, lingering to mock England’s furious embarrassment. “You have twenty minutes left!”
For a moment, America thought England was muttering a spell under his breath again, maybe something that would make Romania’s rope snap. Then he heard the word ‘fucking’ leave his lips and he realized that he’d been cursing quietly for the past two minutes. Sometimes he swore he and England spoke different languages. ‘Bugger’? Was that even a word?
Unable to stay silent any longer while England went on his muted rant, he awkwardly cleared his throat, casting the gentleman out of his foul-mouthed reverie and into the reality of his current predicament. He’d been made to look like a fool-few things angered him more than being made to look foolish, especially in front of… well, in front of anyone, really-but the fact remained that if he did not get this poison out of his system soon God knows what would happen to him and he didn’t care to find out.
“So… that was Romania,” America bit his lower lip. “She seems… kind of fucking weird, I’m not gonna lie. I think she likes me. So what’s in that thing she gave you? Some kind of magic thing? Does it kill bloodsuckers? Is it like, vampire repellant or something? Or does it-”
“America, I need you to suck this potion out, and I need you to do it now.”
“Huh? How am I supposed to do that?”
England’s hand flew to his face. “How do you think?”
He hung his mangled coat by the door and made to work on undoing as few buttons as he could manage while still bearing his neck and the marring bite. This is indecent You are falling prey to her heathen ways. You are disgracing yourself, your standards…
“Oh, shut up,” He muttered. When having to choose between proper etiquette and the possibility of never, er, engaging in certain procreative activities ever again, he was sorry but the barbarian in him won the fight.
“Is this another lesson?” America was beginning to look worried.
“You could call it that. It’s more like saving me from a lifetime of misery, but it could serve dual purpose.”
He finished unbuttoning. America was biting his lip again, avoiding looking at England’s less decent form at all costs, seeming far more like his timid brother than his normal, outrageous self. The prudence of Victorianism could turn grown men into fraying bundles of nerves, but no one could pretend that suppressed need did not reveal itself in darker places. Oh no, he mustn’t consider what activities America may be up to in the sanctity of his own bedroom. That was beyond his concern, the boy was grown now, and besides, from the blush on his face there was no way he was half as scandalous as England was behind closed doors. Those damn absinthe bars… He’d never forgive France. His stomach took a sudden lurch. That potion was rearing to settle in at any moment.
He paused while he considered how this procedure should be carried out: standing, sitting, or laying down? Oh God, that sounded terrible. Stop thinking, stop thinking… His stomach twisted again, making a growling sound like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Twenty minutes my arse.
“England, are you okay?” America asked, concerned, though keeping his distance from the man in the half-buttoned shirt who was now clutching his front and making a pained face.
“Just… get on with it, will you?” He staggered a bit before grabbing hold of the boy’s shirt with a grimace. The potion was filling him like alcohol, making him woozy and dizzy and what were those pretty little lights doing around America’s face? “Right. Snap out of it.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Talking to myself. America, this is very important so you have to listen to me. It may come inhandlatsuwell,” he slurred.
“What? England I don’t understand!”
“It may… never mind. I’ll ‘splain later, right now I need you,” He tugged on his shoulder with shaking arms, “to get this shit out of me or it will very be-it will bad very-it will be very bad.”
“But how?” America’s eyes were two full moons. He’d seen England like this before, but never due to a potion. He’d never seen anyone messed up from a potion before.
“You know how to get venom from a snake bite out, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Well…” And that was it-he’d lost the ability to talk. The potion was setting in. Panting heavily, sweat running down his face, he leaned his head against America’s collarbone and felt himself falling into a deep abyss.
“Shit,” The boy grabbed his shoulders and shook him slightly, as though trying to wake him from a dream; the older nation only slumped further.
“England? England this isn’t funny…” He steered his rag-doll form to the bed, where he fell against the quilt on his back, eyes closed, seemingly in a deep sleep.
“Okay,” America said to himself. His heart was beating at a mad pace as he tried to decide how to, uh, do this. Should he… straddle him? That’d be so awkward. He leaned down until he was at eye-level with the panting man’s neck, then twisted around a bit, maybe if he lay beside him-no… well maybe if he just… dammit, this was stupid, just do it all ready. Lying parallel to the older country, he bent his head and placed his mouth on his neck, almost like a kiss (no wait, not like a kiss, what the hell). A sharp, coppery taste filled his mouth. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he fastened his lips around the wound and began to suck, fighting the urge to gag at the poisoned blood he was extracting. Suddenly it became too much; he ran to the open window and spit red into the night. England was still unconscious, still breathing heavily and unsteadily. This was harder than he’d thought it was going to be. No less weird, he thought while lying down again, this time holding himself up by resting his forearms on either side of England’s head. Imagine it’s just juice, he reasoned, or wine. Yes, the British Empire was leaking cranberry juice. On his third round, he lay entirely on top of the English nation, making sure not to injure him as he lowered his head again and immersed himself in his task. It almost became fun, sucking with as much force as he could muster, letting his eyes close and his world dim to the simple action. He felt superior, in control, like a vampire huddled over his prey, but at the same time subservient to England’s request and in a terrible way it made him excited. Though there was still nothing enjoyable about a mouthful of blood. England would owe him for that.
On his fourth round, he sucked more fervently than before, excited by the skill he’d picked up at his task. England’s skin was turning purple around the scar, and he knew he was almost finished, but he almost didn’t want it to stop, almost wanted to stay here, fastened around his throat, feeling his warm, wiry body beneath him, so close, they hadn’t been this close in a while, and hey, he was pretty good at this sucking thing it seemed like, and it sort of felt good in a weird way. He wondered if it felt good to England too.
“America?” The boy was brought back to Earth by a weak British voice. In an instant, their closeness went from warm and comforting to awkward and oh-God-I’m-so-sorry. America had gotten a little too zealous in his mission. His sweaty hair clung to his head, the top buttons in his shirt had come undone, and, most embarrassingly, he’d starting rutting against England sometime during his last round, leaving England’s clothes in complete disarray, his shirt un-tucked and askew. He now found himself with both legs wrapped tight around his frame, his chest held right against him and his hands grasping at the older man’s shirt. And his mouth still full of blood.
England looked at him as though he was an object in a museum, this boy caught in an act of uncommon indecency, slapped in the face by the sudden remembrance of inhibition. Blood leaked from his sealed lips and his cheeks puffed out, giving him the ridiculous appearance of a vampiric chipmunk.
“Go, spit, now!” He shooed him off with some reluctance. The boy had obviously sucked the poison out in time because England’s “unsightly places” were in full working order, it would appear. Of all the times for America to appear so dreadfully attractive, did it have to be now, with a mouth full of tainted blood?
It appeared they both needed to rethink their personal lives a bit. Something was not right with the both of them. That damn Romania probably left some kind of imprint in the atmosphere and it was causing them to act a bit insane.
“Wait, what are you doing?! Are you mad?!” England jumped from the bed, perhaps a bit too fast, and rushed to pull America away from the window. “Spit in the sink for Christ’s sake! Please don’t tell me you’ve been spitting out there!”
Mouth too full to talk, America shook his head no, but his guilty blush told otherwise.
“Oh God. Do you know what you’ve been doing then? You’ve been waving a bloody ‘Come Eat Me’ flag outside our window. You’ve just put up a sign that says ‘Hello, I’m stupid and delicious’. You’ve gone out and personally embossed invitations to an all-human feast and you’ve passed them out to every fucking vampire in town! Go ahead and spit, it’s too late now!”
America leaned out the window and spat, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and started to speak before realizing that the horrible taste hadn’t left yet. He ran to the pitcher on the bedside table, raised it to his lips and took loud, messy swallows of water.
“Well you’re welcome for saving your life!” He said, gasping when he’d finished. “It’s not like I knew all of that anyway! You could have told me!”
“I thought it was common sense, but I forgot that that is something you lack.” England opened his briefcase and began counting stakes in preparation. They had a long night ahead of them-a night England had hoped to postpone until America had been properly trained, but you couldn’t hope to follow any kind of ordered procedure when America was involved, at least not in England’s experience.
“Here,” he handed the boy a vial of holy water, “and here,” he retrieved his crossbow and supplied him with a few more stakes. “Strap them to your body any way you can.”
“Are we--”
“Yes, we are fighting vampires tonight. You’re welcome. You get what you want again.”
England was still angry when he finished fastening the extra stakes to his belt, still bitter when he attached the bottle of ash and water mixture to a golden chain (from his pirate days, yes he still kept a few around) and hung it around his neck. He retained a look of upmost composure as he sorted through his small arsenal (unfortunately he was unable to bring his largest weapons; damn, that ax would have come in handy). America looked utterly shocked when he offered him the largest crossbow he had.
“I trust you to be responsible with this,” England said as America’s eyes glazed over. He fondled the heavy and ornate weapon in a state of wonder. It must’ve cost a fortune.
It did cost a fortune, but England had others at home, and besides, he worked best with two smaller crossbows. America’s brute force required brutal weapons, but England’s dexterity made him just as deadly in his aim. Together they matched up quite nicely. If this venture went well, England could almost imagine pursuing future monster quests in the future, maybe after America had matured a little more and would stop pouring blood out of goddamn windows.
“We’ll have to inform the innkeepers before we go. I am sure they are already prepared for this,” he mumbled as he sorted through his crucifixes.
“We’re just gonna leave them here?” America sounded outraged. “They’re like, a hundred years old! They can’t defend themselves!”
“As long as they do not invite anyone in, they are safe. Vampires cannot enter a home unless they are invited,” England said, deciding against bringing up the fact that they’d already been over this. “But they are quite… crafty. They are known to fool people.” He glared intensely at his student. “Do not forget this. They could trick you into offering them your own neck to feed on if you gave them the slightest opportunity to deceive you.”
“I’m not an idiot, England,” he scoffed. “There’s no way I’d do something like that.”
“They’d seduce you,” his teacher stated.
“Seduce me?” the boy’s mind went straight to Romania, licking a trail up his cheek, then his body sliding against England’s and-wow. This whole vampire thing was getting to be a little too much, and they hadn’t even seen one yet.
“They would seduce you and you would be hopeless. Even more so than you already are.” England finished with his own preparations and turned to inspect America.
“Yeah, well, I know you’re only insulting me to cover up how jealous you are,” he said (hopeless, yeah right, he’d show him). “I’m just naturally good at this and you don’t want to admit it, woah, what are you doing?” A sudden tingle wracked his nerves as England’s hand unexpectedly reached into his shirt, his other hand darting to make sure his spare stakes were securely fastened.
“Checking.” He tugged at the rosary still hanging around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt: yes, it would stay. “Good. Well, there is no formal way of going about this. I suppose you’ll just have to follow me, and stay close. Go grab your coat.”
“Where are we going?” America ghosted a hand up to clutch at where England had held his rosary.
“Out,” England slung on his coat, grabbed his supplies, double checked himself one last time and made for the front door, hearing America race downstairs behind him and turning just in time to see the golden-haired young man shrugging on a gray topcoat over the obvious bulges in his shirt where his wooden ammo was safely lodged. He winced as the boy almost dropped his weapon in his efforts and came very close to firmly chastising him for his carelessness when, suddenly, his topcoat was on and he lost that look of franticness and he was the United States, fully grown and tall and strong and ready to fight whatever required being fought.
“Let’s do this,” he said vapidly and melodramatically, because of course no serious moment could be held for very long.
England sighed and nodded his head. He had absolutely no way of telling how this would turn out, and it tortured him to no end. He only hoped that the need to extract venom from a wound would not arise again, although to be honest he wouldn’t mind placing America in that position once more, not that he would risk his own safety just to have his mouth around his neck, and this was definitely Romania’s fault, definitely.
__________________________
* The thing about Spain is referring to the Spanish-American war and if you don’t know what it was about well then educate yourself with this link, my friend.
* I’ll explain the vial with Mercy’s ashes a bit later too, but it was common for people to burn the organs of people believed to be vampires or vampire victims and then drink a mixture of the ashes and water when they believed they’d been bitten. They usually became violently ill from drinking the ashes of diseased corpses and died so I’m not really sure how that tradition managed to stick around.
* No offense was meant by my description of Romania. England was just really freaked out by Eastern Europe at the time. Also, O doamne means something along the lines of "Oh my God", I think.
* I never thought I'd write a fanfic this long