[Fanfic] - The Perils of Bird-Sitting, and Other Absurdities (1/1)
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters or Pairings: Germany, Gilbird (and a bit of Italy)
Word count: 2,915
Summary: They’d never gotten along. But when Gilbird goes missing while Prussia’s away, Germany starts to worry.
Written for hc_bingo for the square: Loss of limb/limb function (I went the ‘limb function’ route. And by limb, I mean wing.)
That wretched bird was at it again.
“And stay out!” Germany yelled after the little feathered nuisance. He slammed the front door shut and trudged into the living room to pick up his beer, now soiled with bird droppings. That glass was from his last bottle and he was now left with nothing, save for thoughts of avian homicide.
“Why couldn’t you have taken your damn bird with you,” he muttered to empty air as he poured the amber liquid down the sink and diligently washed the glass, careful to remove every drop of water with the dishtowel once he was done.
Obviously, he wasn’t expecting an answer. Prussia had left earlier that day to meet France and Spain in Ibiza. Something about Spain having access to a large hotel room and unlimited alcohol for the weekend. Or perhaps the week, Germany wasn’t quite sure and for once wasn’t bothered. He figured the less detail he knew about this particular trip the better.
It had always been this way with Gilbird, he reflected, crossing the kitchen to put the clean glass away in its proper place and swapping it out for a smaller drinking glass. Even when he was a child the bird never liked him, going out of his way to steal his belongings and peck at his fingers until they bled. He suspected that Gilbird always knew he’d eclipse Prussia one day, even back then, and hated him for it. Still hated him for it.
Try as he might, Germany found he couldn’t resent the little bird for loving Prussia. He could however, resent him for ruining perfectly good German beer. That was practically a crime. Pouring a very unsatisfying glass of water, he sat back down on the couch and turned on the television. After flipping fruitlessly through all the channels (what was the point of having so many if they all played the same nonsense) he settled on the program deemed least horrifying and tried to relax. An hour or so later he could take no more and the television was turned off.
The ring of his mobile phone shattered the silence and he jumped, then looked around furtively to check that no one had caught the embarrassing reaction before remembering he was alone, and was doubly embarrassed. He fumbled for the phone. “Hello?” he answered, not bothering to look at the display.
“Germany!” a very enthusiastic Italy greeted him.
A warm smile spread across his face. If anyone were to ask him why he liked Italy, he knew he would have no concrete answer. Italy was Italy, and apparently that was enough for Germany.
“Hello to you, too.”
“I was out talking to pretty girls and there was a street performer and he was singing opera in German and it was beautiful and why did you never tell me you have beautiful opera!” He said it all in one long breath and, after taking the time to parse the sentence, Germany was dutifully impressed at his lung capacity.
“Well,” he hesitated. Why did he never bring up his country’s opera, or any of his arts for that matter? It was nothing to be ashamed of, quite the opposite in fact. “I never…I didn’t think…” He took a deep breath and started over. “You had always wanted to be my friend for my military strength,” he admitted quietly. “I never thought to mention the opera.” It was true, he realized, not knowing what else to say.
“Germany, that’s silly!” Even when speaking, Italy’s voice had a song-like quality to it that always baffled and amused him. “Of course I want to know about your opera.”
Sometime during their conversation he had ended up reclined against the corner of the couch, hand tracing geometric patterns into the cloth of the armrest, the type of pointless idling he usually never allowed himself but which seemed so natural to his friend. Listening to Italy had relaxed him after the fiasco with the beer, and he appreciated it.
He smiled and nodded before realizing Italy couldn’t see him. “Yes, of course.”
“Oh good, I’m so happy.” The voice sounded small in his ear but was still completely Italy. “Because I was afraid that you wouldn’t want to and that -”
“I would very much like to,” he cut in. Italy could go on for a long time if left unchecked and all the talk of music made Germany realize that he hadn’t heard Gilbird’s incessant choir of cheeps and tweets in a while. Normally, Gilbird took every opportunity to fly irritatingly back and forth in front of the television, or chirp in his ear when he was on the phone, or engage in some other annoying pursuit when Prussia wasn’t around. His prolonged absence was strange.
He felt a sudden need to reassure himself that his brother’s bird was indeed alright. The relief at his absence was quickly turning to concern. “I will check this season’s performance schedule,” he continued. “However, now I must see where Prussia’s pet bird has wandered off to.”
“Okay, then. Tell Prussia I say hi! He’s so funny!”
Germany hung up and stood.
The infuriating bird wasn’t really locked out, he reassured himself, regardless of the front door. The attic window was open, and the path down to the rest of the house clear, so he could always fly back in if he wanted. Germany might have been angry but he wasn’t cruel. He spared a thought that maybe the bird had gotten himself in some sort of trouble (though, like his master, he was notoriously hard to take down).
Forty five minutes later, he’d double checked the attic, circled the house twice, braved Prussia’s room, even searched his own room and still found no sign of Gilbird. His previous concern was rapidly becoming full blown worry. As much as he disliked the annoying bird, he didn’t wish him harm. Not to mention Prussia would be inconsolable if anything happened to his longtime companion. For all his brother’s plethora of faults, he was unwaveringly loyal, and the bond between Prussia and his bird ran deep.
He went back outside for another casing of the house. The sun was low in the sky and a moderate wind whipped at his face and clothes. Germany was determined to find Gilbird before full dark fell and conditions worsened. “Gilbird,” he called out, not for the first time. A faint high pitched sound reached his ears and he whirled, trying to place it. It didn’t come again. Was it Gilbird? He didn’t know, but it was the only lead he had, and so he gave it his best guess and headed off to the small copse of trees behind the house.
“Gilbird!” he shouted again. The wind was less intense amongst the trees and this time he definitely heard a high tweet ring out. “I’m coming.” A tight knot formed in his stomach. He went in deeper.
A fleeting glimpse of yellow halfway up a nearby tree caught his eye. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought, but climbed up anyway to investigate. Luckily, it wasn’t a particularly large tree and there were plenty of supporting branches.
There was barely enough light filtering in through the leaves to see, but he found Gilbird, tangled up in a mess of thread-like string, loose ends thrashing around wildly in the wind. The bulk of the string was caught around one wing, tethering him to a thick branch and twisting the wing at an unnatural angle. It was probably broken, he thought. The other wing beat frantically, only making it worse.
Germany himself was perilously balanced on a more or less upright branch nearby at about the same height. “Calm down,” he said, getting the bird’s attention. “You’ll only hurt yourself worse.”
The sound of his voice caused Gilbird to pause, raising his head to stare at Germany and looking startled to no longer be alone. He gave a sad sounding chirp and pulled against his mangled wing.
With a pang, he realized that the bird was startled because, with Prussia away, he hadn’t been expecting anyone to come searching. Germany remembered what it was like to not have friends around, remembered his life before Italy came along with his absurdness and his laughter that seemed so intrusive at the time but with which he now couldn’t imagine life without. It sparked an unexpected rush of sympathy for Prussia’s bird friend. Shaking the thought aside for the moment, he refocused on what had become a rescue mission.
“Yes, I see. Just stay still and I’ll get you out of here.”
Legs clamped firmly around the branch holding his weight, Germany slowly reached out both hands across the empty space to work at untangling the mess. He spared a quick thought to hoping that the integrity of the branch would hold and not dump him to the ground in a painful heap, then put it out of his mind.
He squinted in the dimness. This wouldn’t do; he needed more light to work. Awkwardly, he retracted one hand to dig into his back pocket and retrieve his phone, unlocking it and shining the resulting light onto Gilbird. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.
Scanning the mess of string intently, Germany calculated its loosest point and gently pulled one-handed at it, hoping some loose ends would give enough slack to slip the bird free. No such luck. At the slight jostling, Gilbird let out a pained cry, which was instantly stifled. The action was so like his brother, Germany thought, never wanting to show weakness. No wonder the two of them got along so well.
“I’m sorry, you’re stuck pretty badly.” He tried to be soothing, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. Italy had told him before, and not for the first time, that what he thought was soothing and gentle usually came across as intimidating to the rest of the world.
Reactivating the phone, which had gone into standby, he tried again in a different spot with the same results. It was futile. However Gilbird was ensnared, it was too knotted for him to make any headway.
“This isn’t working. I need to fetch a scissor.”
Gilbird gave a long tweet and Germany wondered if he was agreeing with the plan or asking him to stay. Erring on the side of caution (a strategy he often used in social situations), he added, “We may not get along, but you have my word I’ll return.” This seemed to mollify the bird somewhat and Germany gave a quick reassuring pat to his feathered head before pocketing his phone and descending the tree.
He ran to the house, snatched a pair of tiny nail scissors from his bathroom, and ran back in record time. Soon he was back up in the tree. When his head came level with Gilbird’s he could swear the bird looked surprised.
“I told you I’d come back,” he scolded.” See, I’m not so bad, am I?” Even if you did defile my beer, he barely refrained from adding.
There was another small chirp, which Germany took for assent (it was the same tactic he used when dealing with his brother, for better or worse).
Cutting wasn’t as delicate as untangling, so although the sun had set, he didn’t need to take the phone back out. Carefully, he leaned across and snipped at the string connecting Gilbird to the branch. There were still remnants wrapped around the wing itself, but he would deal with that once he got them inside. It was difficult to tell in the poor light, but Germany was fairly certain his initial suspicions of a broken wing were correct.
The moment he was free, Gilbird tried to take flight. Prussia’s damn bird was every bit as stubborn as he was, clearly not wanting any more help than was absolutely necessary. But with only one working wing, the endeavor was doomed to failure.
It was only Germany’s honed reflexes, hand shooting out to pluck the falling yellow blur from the air, that saved the bird from a long plummet. He heaved a great sigh, part relief and part exasperation. “You’re just as stupid as your master.”
In his hand, Gilbird twisted his head around and gave a sharp bite to his middle finger.
The shock of pain caused him to impulsively jerk his hand back, nearly dropping the stupid bird in the process. “Are you trying to get yourself killed!” he yelled. Forcing himself to calm down, he looked away and added, “I didn’t mean it like that. I care for him too, you know.”
There was no response and when Germany glanced down he could see why. The tiny chick had started shaking in his palm, though whether from the chill of the wind or the close call was hard to say.
Cautiously, one hand climbing and the other cradling the injured Gilbird protectively against his chest, Germany made his way back down the tree and into the house.
Back home, and with better light, he laid a towel down over the kitchen table and set Gilbird on it, the better to cut away the last of the string and inspect the twisted wing. There was no doubt now that it was broken and unusable in its current state. He went and retrieved the first aid supplies.
Germany had basic field medic training, but never had occasion to use it on anything not human or nation. But he gave it his best shot and soon the damaged wing was securely wrapped.
“There,” he said, “that’s better. But no flying for you until it heals.”
Gilbird’s response was to hop up and down repeatedly. Again, Germany had no choice but to assume agreement. But when the bird continued bouncing, it came to him that perhaps this was not a correct interpretation. Perhaps he was looking to be picked up, since he was unable to fly.
Great, he told himself sarcastically, not only was he a bird-sitter, but now also a bird-courier. He wondered if this could maybe signify a new, more amicable phase of their relationship, or if he was being manipulated. No answer was forthcoming. Deciding it didn’t matter either way, he extended his index finger and lowered it in front of Gilbird, who happily jumped on.
Unfortunately, having his wing wrapped up and immobilized must have made it difficult to remain balanced and Gilbird stumbled and fell the short distance onto the table with a series of distressed chirps.
“Shit!” Germany cursed, carefully lifting the bird into his hands, mindful of jolting the injury further. “Are you okay?”
But, in another similarity to Prussia, Gilbird seemed to brush the incident aside. He fluttered his good wing and looked intently at the top of Germany’s head.
There was absolutely no way that Germany was letting the bird nest in his hair the way Prussia was fond of doing. Aside from being utterly ridiculous, it was dangerous for Gilbird in his current state. As a compromise, he shifted him into a single hand and brought him up to his shoulder instead, not withdrawing the hand until he was sure Gilbird was settled in securely.
Apparently that was acceptable, and Germany felt what he hoped was an affectionate nip at his ear.
“If you shit on me,” he warned, “you’re going in Prussia’s room and I’ll leave you there until he returns.”
Gilbird nestled into the crook of his neck and chirped in his ear. This time Germany didn’t have to guess. That was definitely agreement.
It was getting late, but it was still too early to retire for the night. So Germany (along with his hitchhiker) trekked to his room and grabbed the book he was reading, on loan to him from Italy. He then stopped by the kitchen to collect the towel he’d used earlier and prepare a small dish of water for Gilbird. Bringing everything back to the couch, he placed the towel on the coffee table to make a small resting area and placed Gilbird and the water on top of it, then settled onto the couch with his book.
Not ten minutes had gone by when Gilbird started making noises again.
“Yes?” Germany asked.
No response, just a steady hopping that Germany was beginning to learn meant pick me up.
“You’re going to be very high maintenance about this aren’t you?”
The hopping continued unabated.
Well, Germany figured, he already had one high maintenance friend. At least he wouldn’t have to tie this one’s shoelaces. He put the book down and again scooped the bird into his hands.
“Alright,” he gave a resigned grumble. Where do you want to be?”
Gilbird sat down, apparently making himself comfortable.
“Oh, no,” Germany said in response. “I can’t read with you there.”
The only reply was Gilbird’s head nudging against the edge of his palm.
“Fine, I suppose you’ve had a rough day. But don’t think this is going to be a normal occurrence.” He shifted the bird back into one hand and, with the other, began lightly scratching his tiny yellow head. Gilbird gave a happy tweet and angled his head for better access. Eventually, he grew quiet and Germany realized he’d fallen asleep in his palm, exhausted from the day’s ordeal. He set Gilbird down gently on his lap and resumed his book, occasionally reaching one hand to ruffle the soft feathers.
He supposed being a bird-courier wasn’t so bad.