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Author's Note: De-anon from Minvasion.

Not too fond of this one, but then again, I never am. I really wanted to write a fierce and almost feral Canada though. Either way, Canada helps America after the civil war by cleaning up his wounds.

Songscape: music


Bloodclot.


Animal-tight, Canada bares his teeth. A thin glare. A tired grip of fingers on America's lapels. There is nothing that can pull them apart; not gravity, not loyalty, not politics, not history, and certainly not a mere human. There are things thicker than water. Blood. America is dried with blood.

It makes Canada's palms stick to America's clothes, which bunch and tighten in the dried brown of blood, frayed and damaged. Frayed. America is frayed from the inside out.

Canada touched the glasses on America's face. The lenses are dusty. Flecked with a single flutter of blood. Canada removed them, gentle not to aggravate the nose Canada thinks is probably broken.

With a kindness uncommon to growing up with a single siamese twin soul, Canada cleaned the glasses. Resetting them on the bridge of America's nose.

America's people leave a bowl of lukewarm water on the other end of the room, and try to push it towards Canada and his brother without getting too close to the feral-eyed nation. Their reticence says; we are not a threat, we are not a threat.

Canada cleaned the blood from America in all the places he can reach. Stripped America. Cleaned every area of his body, wiping off the war and pain from the maps with thick dirt, time, and rain. Wraps him warm, satisfied that the blood is cleaned away, and throws the blood-grimed washcoth into the corner of the room. Softly watches over America, eyes reflecting the firelight America's people have stoked up. The heavy-lidded gaze is that of a wolf, crept close to a fire, and lost in the flames. Some primordial instinct sitting by a fire. Some primitive sense of affection, basic. Raw even. Thicker than water.


May your quills be ever sharp.