AN: I seem to have fallen into an illness of my own since I am officially in love with writing about colonial America and his big brother England. I simply can't help myself. x)
Anyway, this fluffy story is nothing special, just a distraction to help me survive the last grueling weeks of my freshmen year of high school. :D I couldn't be happier to know that I have made it past the most awkward phase of my life. Anyway, enjoy and please leave a review if you have the time.
It had been a painfully ordinary day. England had tended to his usual business of filling out paperwork, talking to his boss, and discussing important issues with various nations. Therefore, it came as a complete surprise when little America had run into trouble when playing outside.
The day was mild. It wasn't particularly cold, but England hadn't allowed America to go into the backyard without a light jacket. He had seemed alright when he had stepped out this morning with his toy robots and trucks, knocking them into each other and making exaggerated sound effects while imagining tall tales in which he was always the hero.
However, it had been oddly silent lately from where England sat at his desk. He'd purposely cracked his window open so that he could hear his colony's voice from where he sat working. There seemed to be a lack of truck collisions and excited shouts of absurdity in the atmosphere.
"America?" he called, sticking his head out the window. Surely enough, little America was huddled against the tree in the yard, apparently sleeping.
That was most especially odd. England usually had to fight with America, and tell him countless stories before the child would concede to going to bed.
England worriedly stood from his desk and rushed downstairs, carefully treading his way across the grass as to not scare America should he wake. When he did not stir, England kneeled down next to him and gently shook his shoulder.
"America, lad? Wake up."
America let out a soft groan and opened his groggy eyes. They drooped as they caught sight of England.
"Let's get you inside. It's too chilly for you to be sleeping out here. You'll catch a cold."
England held out his hand to his little brother to help him stand, but the boy made no move to take it.
"Iggy," he mumbled, "I don't feel good."
Uh-oh.
Well, this really explained everything.
England stamped his hand to America's forehead.
Double "uh-oh".
Concern creased his face as he continued to feel the child's cheeks. He was uncharacteristically warm everywhere he touched.
"Oh, dear. I'm afraid you have a fever, America."
England scooped the child up into his arms and carried him back to the house, protectively pressing the boy's head into his shoulder.
"What's a fever?" America wondered idly.
"It's a symptom a person gets when they fall ill. No need to worry, though. We're going to drive this illness away. Actually, it's been quite a while since you've last fallen ill. You were barely a tot."
"My neck hurts," America whined.
England rubbed his colony's head in sympathy. He knew how awful being ill was for a "hero".
"I think you mean your throat hurts, lad. I'm afraid that's another symptom. You'll be alright. It's probably just the flu. It always comes and goes during this time of the year," England assured. He brought America back up to his bedroom and set him down in the luxurious bed, pulling the covers up to the little boy's neck.
"The best way to get better is for you to get lots of rest."
"But what about dinner?" America reminded, growing sleepy again.
"I'll bring a bowl of soup up to you later. Don't you worry about a thing. I'm going to take good care of you," England assured, smoothing back the colony's hair affectionately.
"But you can't cook soup," America protested.
"What? Of course I-"
"I like Mr. France's soup better," America admitted.
England's face grew red. That bloody frog, again.
"America," he said warningly.
America managed a cheeky smile.
"I'll be right back," England huffed.
He returned with a thermometer, a wet washcloth and a clean pair of pajamas for America to put on.
When it was time to get changed, America looked very confused.
"But it's not night-time yet," he said matter-of-factly.
"Well, as I mentioned before, you need lots of rest when your ill, and you certainly don't want to sleep in your play clothes, do you?" England explained.
America considered this for a moment, then willingly let England help him change. When he was settled in bed once more, England placed the cold washcloth on his colony's forehead.
America hissed, and shuffled away in shock. "Cold! What was that for?"
"It's to lower the fever, love. I know it's uncomfortable, but it's for the best. Trust me," England stated calmly.
America nodded and allowed England to readjust the washcloth on his forehead.
"I'm going to check your temperature now, America, so I need you to open your mouth for me, okay?"
America gave a shaky nod. He parted his lips slightly, and England adjusted the thermometer under his tongue.
"I don't like being sick," America muttered around the thermometer.
"Shh, I know, lad. No one does. Now, don't talk while the thermometer is taking the reading," England said sternly.
"38.1," he announced moments later.
"Is that bad?" America asked carefully.
England tried to stow away his concern. "It's a little high, but-"
America nibbled on his lower lip in fear, traitorous tears biting at his eyes.
"Oh, don't cry, love. Everyone gets the flu. You're going to be just fine. This fever will break," England soothed, rubbing the top of America's head like he always did when the boy was upset. He knew America loved it.
"What if I don't ever get better? I don't feel good at all, Iggy," the boy sobbed, drenching England's sweater vest as the elder embraced him in a tight hug.
"Shhh, just rest, poppet. You're going to be just fine," England repeated and gave his colony a reassuring squeeze before standing up and turning out the light.
"Try to take a nap. I'll be right downstairs if you need me," England announced.
"I don't want to sleep." America whined.
"Yes, you do. You just don't know it yet," England replied, slightly annoyed at America's defiance. He closed the door just halfway so that he would be able to hear any sounds of distress, and returned to the kitchen where he began to prepare some soup.
It was horribly silent without America's rambunctious self traipsing about. England quietly finished the soup and decided to leave it out to cool for a bit while he lounged on the couch in the sitting room. He turned on the television and before he knew it, he had dozed off as well.
The creaking of floorboards woke him around fifteen minutes later. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and groggily sat up. To his surprise, he found America's feverish blue eyes a few feet away from the edge of the couch. Apparently, he had been attempting to walk on the tips of his toes in order to sneak his way into the kitchen.
The boy seemed oblivious to the fact that England had been roused awake. The elder suppressed a smirk and feigned sleep, waiting until America had his back turned. When the boy seemed to think that he had succeeded with his escape plan, his back turned away, England grabbed him by his waist and spun him around in the air.
America yelped in shock, but then giggled as England twirled him around a few times.
When England was finished, he placed America directly in front of him and kneeled down to be at eye-level with him. America's giggles quieted and he looked at his older brother with guilty eyes. His face resembled a deer caught in headlights.
"And what, dare I ask, are you doing out of bed, young man?" England asked with an exaggerated tone of curiosity.
"I wanted some scones," America replied with a deep frown.
"Hmm," England smirked. "Maybe when you're feeling better. For now, I have some chicken soup waiting for you on the counter."
America's lip curled up in disgust.
"Your face is going to get stuck like that one day," England warned teasingly, feeling America's forehead. "Come, love. It's back to bed for you until this fever runs its course."
America crossed his arms and huffed discontentedly; Nantucket flopped around as he did so.
England retrieved the bowl of soup and a silver spoon from the kitchen before guiding America back upstairs and into his bedroom. The boy plopped himself down on his bed with an exasperated sigh.
"I don't want soup," he grumbled. "I want scones."
"Hush," England chided, gathering some soup onto the spoon and holding it out for America to eat.
"I can do it myself!" America assured, trying to pry the spoon away from his brother's fingers.
Always so bloody stubborn.
"I don't want you to burn yourself. You might spill it."
"But I won't spill it!" America exclaimed, and England caught a glimpse of his usual excited demeanor.
"No, love. Sit tight and humor me. Let me feed you. It'll put my nerves to rest," England replied, trying to make it seem like this was more for his own benefit than America's. America couldn't stand making England worried, so he simply settled down and nodded, determined to keep England happy.
It took a few spoonfuls of soup for America to say with a slightly pallor look on his face, "I don't feel so good, Iggy."
England set the bowl of soup down on the nightstand and put a gentle hand on America's shoulder.
"Are you going to be sick, lad?"
America nodded his head sharply, clutching his stomach.
England didn't hesitate in standing up and sweeping the boy up into his arms. He rushed him into the bathroom down the hall and set him in front of the toilet. England sat down behind him, rubbing his back.
Tears spilled out of America's eyes and he shakily leaned back against England's chest. Moments later, his stomach flipped and England's little colony retched, sobbing as his elder brother held Nantucket and the rest of his hair out of his face. When he was done expelling the contents of his stomach, he let England console him and help him brush his teeth clean again.
"There, there," England patted his back. "As they say, better out than in."
America made a face in disgust, but said nothing as his little hands swiped at the tears streaming down his face.
"It's almost bedtime, poppet. Would you like me to read you a story?"
"No, I don't want to go to bed again. I feel hot."
"That's the fever," England explained, feeling the colony's forehead again. "And that means you should still be in bed until it gets better."
America wanted to cry again. This was all unfair.
England searched for a solution to prevent the waterfall of crocodile tears that were sure to present themselves within the next few, but crucial, seconds.
"Okay, love. How about I get you a spare blanket and you can sleep on the couch for a little while? I'll be working downstairs for a bit longer anyway," England compromised.
America sniffled. "Okay."
Soon, America was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, resting snuggly against the pillows England had brought down for him. One hand was resting under one pillow, while the other was tightly clutching his teddy bear.
He looked simply precious. England bit back a wide smile at the picture-perfect moment, and continued to work on some paperwork that still needed to be completed. He set his quill down an hour later, a yawn escaping his mouth and put away his writing tools. He gathered little America into his arms, blankets and all, and traveled up the stairs. He set him down on his bed, where the cold washcloth soon made another appearance.
America stirred fitfully in his sleep, groaning.
"Shhh," England hushed, and began to hum quietly as he smoothed back America's hair affectionately.
"Looks like I'll be spending the night in here," England whispered to himself as he periodically checked America's fever. He really didn't want to leave him alone tonight, so he pulled up a wooden chair from the corner and sat by America's bedside. Out of all the colonies he'd had, America was certainly the only one who had grasped such a soft spot in England's heart. He was different. He was special. He was destined for great things. It was inevitable.
And it terrified England to death.
He did not sleep soundly that night.
Something was tickling his nose. It was a strange sensation to wake up to, and also one that England certainly didn't appreciate. He sat up in the wooden chair he had dozed off in and began his investigation.
It didn't take too long to find the culprit. America was now wide-awake, painting England's nose a bright green with his finger paints.
"America!" England cried out, jumping up with surprise in his seat.
"Good morning, Iggy!" America greeted gleefully.
England blinked a few times and stole a look at himself in the mirror across the bedroom. His face was a collage of bright greens, blues, and reds. He groaned and angrily turned to America, who put his paint covered hands up as a sign of surrender.
"America," England growled.
America broke into a fit of laughter, falling to the floor and trembling with pure bliss.
England was glad to see that the little boy was feeling better and more mischievous today, but that didn't mean that he was pleased with his new make-over.
"This is not funny," England scolded. "Look at the mess you've made! And I'm the one who has to clean it up now."
America's laughter died down upon the realization that he had caused England so much grief. He frowned and pouted as England put away the finger paints and lifted his colony into his arms to get him cleaned up. He briskly washed the boy's paint crusted hands in the sink, and then worked on scrubbing the paint off of his own face. In the end, his complexion seemed to be marred with some spots of red from the harsh scrubbing, but no major harm had been done.
"Are you mad at me, Iggy?" America asked woefully.
"Yes," England snapped, drying his hands on a towel and storming out of the bathroom.
Tears fell from America's eyes, and he broke into a harsh coughing fit as a result of getting too worked up.
England stopped in his tracks in the hallway and ran back to the bathroom, petting America's hair and patting his back as the fit passed.
"I'm sorry, love," England whispered. "I didn't mean to snap. I suppose I'm just a big grump from sleeping in that chair all night. I know you were just joking around before. I'm not pleased with what you did, but I could never be angry with you."
America nodded and sniffled.
"Are you hungry, love?" England asked softly as he kissed America's forehead soothingly, checking his temperature. He was still warm, but not nearly as warm as he had been last night. He was improving slowly.
America shook his head in negation.
"How about just some juice and toast then? If you don't eat, you'll never get well." England stated firmly, and carried America down to the kitchen.
"Okay," America reluctantly replied. "Can I go out and play today?"
England frowned. "No, I'm afraid not, lad. You're still running a mild fever."
America pouted. "I feel fine."
"Oh, really?" England asked rhetorically, unconvinced.
As if on cue, the colony broke into another fit of harsh coughing.
"Yes, you're certainly feeling all better now. How could I have possibly thought that you would have to spend another day in the house? Silly me." England muttered sarcastically.
America sulked, taking a seat at the kitchen table wearily.
"You're in need of some cough syrup after your breakfast, poppet. That cough is absolutely wretched."
America made a face of discontent. "I don't need any disgusting medicine."
"I think you mean that you don't want any medicine. However, you do need the medicine, much to your displeasure." England retorted. "You should still be resting until you've sufficiently recovered."
"I don't want to go to bed! I just got up!" America protested.
"Okay, you can rest on the couch and watch some telly, but you are to stay put for the remainder of the day. No playing."
"That's no fun," America sighed, but didn't push the argument further. He would accept this small victory for the meantime. Watching television was better than having to stay in bed.
England finished preparing breakfast and placed the juice and toast in front of America. He indulged in some eggs and tea for himself.
"Thank you, Iggy." America whispered as he took a sip of his juice.
"You're very welcome, love. There's no way I could have messed up in making toast."
America giggled. "I like your cooking."
"Oh, really? That's a first," England smirked into his mug as he drank his hot tea.
"I'm used to your cooking. It's not like Mr. France's, but I still like it because I know you make it specially for me. I know you do it cause you love me since I'm your little brother."
England grinned. "Yes, America, you're a wonderful little colony, and I love you very much."
"I'm glad you're my brother, Iggy," America smiled, nibbling feebly on the toast.
England smiled in return. When they finished their meal in the warm silence of the room, England retrieved a small bottle of cough syrup from the pantry and poured it out onto another dreaded spoon.
"Open wide, love." he coaxed, flourishing the spoon around in an exaggerated way that made America giggle. He opened his mouth hesitantly and forced himself to swallow the terrible substance, sticking his tongue out once the syrup had gone down.
"Bleh."
England smiled and ruffled his hair, "Good lad. Go lay on the couch. I'll bring your blanket and pillow."
A few hours passed by smoothly. America was being very compliant and had even taken a nap for a little while before waking up for dinner. His fever was almost completely broken by that point, and the twinkle had returned to his eyes.
England on the other hand, was feeling a little under the weather himself. He'd tried to be very stoic about it when he handed America his porridge and sat down at the kitchen table with him, perusing a spare newspaper.
"Aren't you eating?" America asked quietly.
"I'm not too hungry. I'll have something later," England had assured, but America was growing increasingly suspicious. An abrupt sneeze moments later had been the icing on the cake.
"Oh, no!" America cried out. "You're not sick too, are you?"
"Don't be silly," England dismissed the idea with a wave of a hand, but another sneeze accompanied the first.
England groaned.
America seemed to have made up his mind and was set on helping his older brother feel better again.
"If you don't eat, you'll never get well," the colony mocked, pointing to the porridge.
England glared at him. "I'll be fine, America. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself."
America shook his head disapprovingly. "You need to rest, Iggy. No paperwork until you're better."
England resisted the urge to smile at America's cuteness.
"You're absolutely right, Dr. America. What would I do without you?"
America shrugged. "You'd be doomed."
England laughed, and wrapped his arms around his colony, kissing his head.
"Go to bed, Iggy. You havta get better soon," America said sternly, pulling away from England's clutches.
"Okay, okay," England surrendered with a wide grin, "I'm going. It looks like we're both going to be stuck inside for the rest of this beautiful day."
"It's okay, I'll take good care of you," America said confidently.
"I don't doubt that," England smiled. "You've still got a cough, so don't start running about again."
"Honestly, Iggy. I'm able to take care of myself," America waved off England's concern just as the man had done moments prior.
England chuckled, but felt his heart sting a little at the words. Was it true that one day America wouldn't need big brother England anymore? Was he no longer going to need someone to prepare him food, sing him lullabies, and read him bedtime stories? Was he really going to be self-sufficient one of these days?
The thought was difficult for England to wrap his head around.
He felt America tug at the hem of his t-shirt.
"Hmm?"
"Can I stay with you in your room today?" America asked hopefully.
"Of course, lad." England replied.
Well, he'd be there as long as America needed him.