|| I didn't notice this had been filled until I was partly through this fic, so I figured I'd post it anyway. ||
“It’s for good luck,” says England, pausing in the middle of hammering to smile reassuringly down at his colony. “So that I don’t have to worry about you when I’m gone.”
America scowls from the bottom of the ladder. “I can take care of myself,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest, daring England to correct him.
The older nation holds back a sigh as he finishes nailing the horseshoe in place. “I know you can, but you’ll let me do this for my peace of mind, won’t you?”
“I guess,” is the response, but England knows he’s won.
In a moment he’s there beside America, sweeping him up into his arms despite the colony’s protests that he’s too big for hugs now, that England shouldn’t treat him like a kid anymore because one day he’s going to be just as big as England, he’ll see!
He ignores him and holds him close, staring up at the talisman and praying that America’s inability to see the supernatural means that they won’t pay any attention to him.
-
He leaves the door open that night, long after he’s sent America to bed. If ghost stories manage to scare the child he doesn’t want to know what even the presence of the aos sí would do to the child. They are different from the harmless faeries he tells America of; they are older, dangerous, and cruel.
And they are not his own. They belong to Ireland, to Scotland, and they favor him less than they do his siblings.
So England waits, just inside the door for them. He doesn’t need to call for them - the Fair Folk are always nearby, even in this land – he will feel them before he sees them.
And feel them he does – the air is heavy and cold; there’s an ache in his bones that reminds him just how old he is and how much older they are and how they will continue long after he is gone.
“Clever, clever,” comes the taunt with the sudden wind. “You protect him though he does not know.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “He is mine.”
Laughter, and there is a woman standing on the path to the door. England doesn’t fail to notice that she keeps her distance, the look of obvious discomfort on her face. And even that is breathtaking in its beauty, for there is nothing that the aos sí do that is not beautiful.
“He will not always be so. You cannot pretend that he will continue to need only you.”
England grits his teeth, forces himself to remain calm. “He is mine,” he repeats. America is his, will always be his. France will not have him, and the Fae will not have him.
Her face darkens; he can see the anger flare momentarily behind cold eyes at his defiance.
“Then you must break him, make him yours.”
“I will do no such thing,” he growls, his anger and disgust evident even as she laughs at him.
“You will not have another choice if you wish to keep him.”
“Then I will find one.” With that he slams the door shut, cutting off her mocking laughter. England takes a deep breath and forces his heart to stop racing. The iron above the door protects him – her words cannot get him here.
Except that they do and he finds himself making his way to America’s room. England looks in, not sure what he’s trying to prove, and finds America still asleep amidst twisted sheets. He must have disturbed him, for the lump in the bed stirs and America looks at him through sleepy eyes.
“’Ngland?”
“It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”
America doesn’t ask any further questions for once and curls up again, quickly falling back to sleep.
He smiles fondly, quietly shutting the door and leaves the young colony to his dreams.
Ooooh, perfect blend of surreal, adorable and ominous. Baby!Americaaaa. ♥ And protective!England flsjkfsljsff I love it when he gets to strut his stuff. 8D I love this second fill just as much as the first. ♥
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(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 10:41 pm (UTC)(link)“It’s for good luck,” says England, pausing in the middle of hammering to smile reassuringly down at his colony. “So that I don’t have to worry about you when I’m gone.”
America scowls from the bottom of the ladder. “I can take care of myself,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest, daring England to correct him.
The older nation holds back a sigh as he finishes nailing the horseshoe in place. “I know you can, but you’ll let me do this for my peace of mind, won’t you?”
“I guess,” is the response, but England knows he’s won.
In a moment he’s there beside America, sweeping him up into his arms despite the colony’s protests that he’s too big for hugs now, that England shouldn’t treat him like a kid anymore because one day he’s going to be just as big as England, he’ll see!
He ignores him and holds him close, staring up at the talisman and praying that America’s inability to see the supernatural means that they won’t pay any attention to him.
-
He leaves the door open that night, long after he’s sent America to bed. If ghost stories manage to scare the child he doesn’t want to know what even the presence of the aos sí would do to the child. They are different from the harmless faeries he tells America of; they are older, dangerous, and cruel.
And they are not his own. They belong to Ireland, to Scotland, and they favor him less than they do his siblings.
So England waits, just inside the door for them. He doesn’t need to call for them - the Fair Folk are always nearby, even in this land – he will feel them before he sees them.
And feel them he does – the air is heavy and cold; there’s an ache in his bones that reminds him just how old he is and how much older they are and how they will continue long after he is gone.
“Clever, clever,” comes the taunt with the sudden wind. “You protect him though he does not know.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “He is mine.”
Laughter, and there is a woman standing on the path to the door. England doesn’t fail to notice that she keeps her distance, the look of obvious discomfort on her face. And even that is breathtaking in its beauty, for there is nothing that the aos sí do that is not beautiful.
“He will not always be so. You cannot pretend that he will continue to need only you.”
England grits his teeth, forces himself to remain calm. “He is mine,” he repeats. America is his, will always be his. France will not have him, and the Fae will not have him.
Her face darkens; he can see the anger flare momentarily behind cold eyes at his defiance.
“Then you must break him, make him yours.”
“I will do no such thing,” he growls, his anger and disgust evident even as she laughs at him.
“You will not have another choice if you wish to keep him.”
“Then I will find one.” With that he slams the door shut, cutting off her mocking laughter. England takes a deep breath and forces his heart to stop racing. The iron above the door protects him – her words cannot get him here.
Except that they do and he finds himself making his way to America’s room. England looks in, not sure what he’s trying to prove, and finds America still asleep amidst twisted sheets. He must have disturbed him, for the lump in the bed stirs and America looks at him through sleepy eyes.
“’Ngland?”
“It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”
America doesn’t ask any further questions for once and curls up again, quickly falling back to sleep.
He smiles fondly, quietly shutting the door and leaves the young colony to his dreams.
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(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 11:20 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 11:39 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 06:35 am (UTC)(link)This is so adorable!
♥