Tired didn't even begin to explain the way his muscles ached, how he had to keep rubbing at his eyes as he stared down at his documents, sheer will keeping him from falling asleep on them; being tired… America hadn't felt that tired in a long while, so long he couldn't even remember when the last time had been (or maybe it was just that his brain didn't function anymore. It could happen, especially after what, three days with minimum sleep and barely enough time to eat?), only that it had been… long ago.
It was eating him from the inside, with dark circles under his eyes and fingers failing to grip on a pen –the kind of weariness that made every day seem like the previous.
Piles and piles of documents in front of him, so many he didn't even see the desk underneath anymore. Was there even an end to them?
America picked a new one up from the growing pile and groaned –it was another complaint; those seemed to be endless, Nation after Nation coming up with some sort of bullshit that they demanded him to fix. Cars, jobs, food… every inquiry, every request was the same.
A yawn stopped his thoughts from wandering too far from the subject he was reading about, and his jaw opened so wide he thought it'd dislodge.
He was so very tired.
Sometimes, being a Nation didn't look like it was worth the effort. Of course, one couldn't just stand up and stop being one, nor would America just want to. Besides, every Nation had to go through bad periods, and America's logic side nodded in agreement and prodded him to continue working.
The pile had to end at one point.
The others didn't really hate him for his work –nor did they despise him or judge the way he did his job. They were just as busy as he was.
Still, the small, lingering seed of anger inside him was growing more and more with every single file he had to read, with all the insults he received and the sneers from older nations who thought he had to do better –he was a super power, a strong, powerful nation, and he had to show it…
It was enough –didn't they know how it felt? To be constantly under pressure? They had to know, yet why couldn't they just back off and let him breathe, for once?
Another yawn, this time longer. America rubbed at his eyes again, his sight wavering slightly until he was unable to decipher the small letters on the white paper. As it was, he had a dire need to take a bath and eat, but more than this, he needed some hours off to rest.
'Maybe one more document, and then I'll go sleep' he decided.
He couldn't concentrate anymore on his work, and he knew when to just stop and give up. He could wake up early in the morning and just work a bit more, and surely he would manage to finish up everything.
Or if not the next day, maybe in the next few days, he would do it.
He was a hero, after all –heroes never gave up. Never.
Besides, nobody was scheduled to meet with him for at least a week –he would do it!
England's face flickered through his brain, a hard, disappointed voice commenting on his lack of commitment for his work, but America simply waved a hand in the air, dismissing the mental image of his once–caretaker with a grimace.
This wasn't the time to think about him, or anyone else, either.
Signing the last document with a flourish and a small stamp that certified the authenticity of his signature (there had been problems regarding that in the past, and he had promised himself to never do the same mistake twice), America stood up.
The motion made his back crack in three different places, and when he stretched with another yawn, his joints protested loudly; wincing, America shook his head and exited his office, ready to drop off to bed and finally let himself go to a well deserved rest.
He had so much work to do that he didn't even want to wake up at all.
'Damn it all' he grunted as he reached his bedroom, falling down on the huge bed without even taking off his clothes. 'Why has it to be just this… hard?'
Feathered Friends Part 1a
Tired didn't even begin to explain the way his muscles ached, how he had to keep rubbing at his eyes as he stared down at his documents, sheer will keeping him from falling asleep on them; being tired… America hadn't felt that tired in a long while, so long he couldn't even remember when the last time had been (or maybe it was just that his brain didn't function anymore. It could happen, especially after what, three days with minimum sleep and barely enough time to eat?), only that it had been… long ago.
It was eating him from the inside, with dark circles under his eyes and fingers failing to grip on a pen –the kind of weariness that made every day seem like the previous.
Piles and piles of documents in front of him, so many he didn't even see the desk underneath anymore. Was there even an end to them?
America picked a new one up from the growing pile and groaned –it was another complaint; those seemed to be endless, Nation after Nation coming up with some sort of bullshit that they demanded him to fix. Cars, jobs, food… every inquiry, every request was the same.
A yawn stopped his thoughts from wandering too far from the subject he was reading about, and his jaw opened so wide he thought it'd dislodge.
He was so very tired.
Sometimes, being a Nation didn't look like it was worth the effort. Of course, one couldn't just stand up and stop being one, nor would America just want to. Besides, every Nation had to go through bad periods, and America's logic side nodded in agreement and prodded him to continue working.
The pile had to end at one point.
The others didn't really hate him for his work –nor did they despise him or judge the way he did his job. They were just as busy as he was.
Still, the small, lingering seed of anger inside him was growing more and more with every single file he had to read, with all the insults he received and the sneers from older nations who thought he had to do better –he was a super power, a strong, powerful nation, and he had to show it…
It was enough –didn't they know how it felt? To be constantly under pressure? They had to know, yet why couldn't they just back off and let him breathe, for once?
Another yawn, this time longer. America rubbed at his eyes again, his sight wavering slightly until he was unable to decipher the small letters on the white paper. As it was, he had a dire need to take a bath and eat, but more than this, he needed some hours off to rest.
'Maybe one more document, and then I'll go sleep' he decided.
He couldn't concentrate anymore on his work, and he knew when to just stop and give up. He could wake up early in the morning and just work a bit more, and surely he would manage to finish up everything.
Or if not the next day, maybe in the next few days, he would do it.
He was a hero, after all –heroes never gave up. Never.
Besides, nobody was scheduled to meet with him for at least a week –he would do it!
England's face flickered through his brain, a hard, disappointed voice commenting on his lack of commitment for his work, but America simply waved a hand in the air, dismissing the mental image of his once–caretaker with a grimace.
This wasn't the time to think about him, or anyone else, either.
Signing the last document with a flourish and a small stamp that certified the authenticity of his signature (there had been problems regarding that in the past, and he had promised himself to never do the same mistake twice), America stood up.
The motion made his back crack in three different places, and when he stretched with another yawn, his joints protested loudly; wincing, America shook his head and exited his office, ready to drop off to bed and finally let himself go to a well deserved rest.
He had so much work to do that he didn't even want to wake up at all.
'Damn it all' he grunted as he reached his bedroom, falling down on the huge bed without even taking off his clothes. 'Why has it to be just this… hard?'