Title: Watch the Sky
Genre: Superheroes (with some drama and a heaping helping of angsty romance on the side)
Pairings: (in this chapter) some one-sided USUK; France/Canada (Franada? what are the kids calling it these days?)
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Warning: AU, slash
Word Count: (in this chapter)5,895
Summary: For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the Justice system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.
Disclaimer: All yours, Hima-pops, and I promise you it puts not a dime in my lonely, lonely wallet.
Important Author's Note and Stuff: this story has been very, VERY heavily edited as of 15 November, 2012. I've recently rediscovered it, you see, and still apparently have such a soft spot for the thing that I decided to spruce it up and send it back out into the world for all you darlings. Paul Valery (a man, I think, most well-known for this particular quote) once said that a poem is never finished, only abandoned, and golly if that doesn't suit how I fell about this story to a T. But I don't intend to abandon it any time soon, no sir.
It's half past seven in the morning, and Detective England Kirkland is still sitting at his desk, though his shift has long since ended (it is, in fact, scheduled to begin again quite soon). He's leaning on one arm, chin propped on his hand, half-dozing even as he reads yet another report of a superhero sighting downtown. This time, it's a botched attempt at a carjacking, the budding car thief left trussed up in an unconscious heap on the sidewalk by Rache. A blurry black-and-white photograph of the imposing hero is attached to the report with a paper clip, and England tries not to look at it for too long; of all the heroes that currently call Axis City home, Rache is the only one who's probably more frightening than the villains he fights. It's something about the huge, hooded cloak, England decides, and the way you can't see his eyes.
Setting the report aside, England reaches for the small bottle of aspirin on the corner of his desk, shakes two of the pills into his hand, and downs them with a mouthful of cold Earl Grey. He can't remember a time when he hasn't had a headache.
"Detective Kirkland?"
England startles, knocking over his mug. Brown liquid sloshes across his desk, staining the report he was reading before he can get it out of the way. England swears under his breath and rights the mug, doing his best to keep the damage to a minimum.
"Good morning, Canada," he says, wiping ineffectually at the ruined report. "My apologies, I didn't see you come in."
Canada sets down his backpack and the thermos he's holding to shift the remaining paperwork away from the spreading pool of liquid. He looks horrified, and a little like he might cry.
"I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to surprise you like that. Hold on, I'll get some paper towels."
He hurries to the break room, all the way yelling apologies over his shoulder. England looks down at the soggy papers in his hand; the photograph of Rache is soaked through, all the gradients of grey blotched and bleeding into one another. He plucks it out from under the paper clip and throws it away.
"Here let me—" Canada has reappeared, laden with what appears to be every mildly absorbent paper product he could carry, and he sets quickly to soaking up the mess. "I hope the tea didn't do any lasting damage," he says, sounding worried.
"No, it's nothing to worry about," replies England. He can always type up another copy of the report, if need be, and there are already dozens of pictures of Rache on file. Canada will probably spend the rest of the day feeling guilty as it is, there's no point in making him feel any worse.
Canada collects the mass of used paper towels into a large wad and deposits it delicately in the trash can next to England's desk. Then he stands, wiping his hands on his trousers, and frowns.
"You stayed here all night, again, didn't you?" When England gives him a questioning look, he adds, "The tea was cold. Besides, you look exhausted, and that's the same tie you wore yesterday. Have you slept at all?"
"I thought I was the detective here." It's meant to be joke, but it comes out angry and sharp. England spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture and sighs. "A bit," he says, and doesn't mention that this is true only because he passed out cold on his desk halfway through a stack of witness testimonies from the recently thwarted robbery of the Allied Municipal Bank. "Mostly I've been trying to get through this backlog of paperwork. There's more of the stuff every day, so it just keeps piling up. To tell you the truth it's beginning to get overwhelming."
Canada makes a disapproving noise. "You're going to make yourself sick, Detective Kirkland," he informs England gravely.
Granting the younger man a weary smile, England shakes his head. "I appreciate your concern, Canada, but—"
"If you get sick and have to take time off," Canada interrupts quickly, then hesitates. "I—it's just, Detective Bonnefoy is the only other person who's been authorized to train new recruits for the Taskforce." He gives England a meaningful look, and England grimaces.
"I don't doubt that France would be overjoyed at the opportunity," he says, glancing up as the door to the room opens and a blue-clad young man hustles in, blond hair pulled back loosely, the faint trace of a beard lining his jaw.
England sighs again. "Speak of the devil."
"Talking about me, again, were you?" Grinning, France strides across the room to set his belongings on the desk across from England's.
"Hello, France," says England at the same moment that Canada yelps, "Good morning, Detective Bonnefoy."
France's eyes light up, and he slings an arm around Canada's shoulders.
"You're here so early, Canada! England isn't forcing to go on errands for him, is he? I know what a hardass he can be, but you shouldn't let him intimidate you with those terrifying eyebrows of his. If he's bothering you too much, just say the word, and I'll have the chief transfer you to my expert care." He breathes the last two words against Canada's neck, and Canada lets out a noise that borders on a squeak.
"It's nothing like that," he says quickly, all but shoving France away.
France looks like he's about to say something, but England speaks before he can.
"Officer Williams is always here this early, France, as this is when he's supposed to be in. You're the one who hasn't been on time for work in years. What's the special occasion?" He stands, mug in hand, to prepare himself a fresh cup of tea, watching France expectantly as he fills the kettle with water from the cooler. He's almost surprised when France doesn't pout and try to protest the accusation.
Instead, he turns to dig a newspaper out of his bag. "Ah, well. I see someone didn't read the paper this morning," he says.
England looks on uncomprehendingly as France smoothes it out carefully, and Canada, who is closer, catches sight of the headline and grows pale. Forgetting his tea, England reaches out for the paper and snatches it out of France's extended hand. Half of the front page is occupied by the cheerful, winsome figure of Captain Hero and his stupidly infectious smile, posing with cape fluttering and hands on his hips. He's surrounded by several starry-eyed children, all artfully arranged in front of the burnt-out husk of the orphanage run by the Sisters of the Holy Roman Order. It's an old picture, but it's not so strange that England recognizes it; the orphanage had gone up in flames during a rash of arsons not long after the start of Captain Hero's superheroing career, and his successful rescue of its entire population—the nuns as well as the children—had been a huge story. Still, England stares at the image for much longer than he should—much longer than is normal or appropriate, certainly—focusing on the blue eyes that stare out from behind that red domino mask like they can see him.
Embarrassingly enough, he doesn't even notice the headline itself until after his gaze has finished dragging itself down the length of Captain Hero's costumed body, but when he does, he nearly drops the newspaper.
Axis City Savior A Cold-Blooded Killer?
Police Name Captain Hero as Suspect in Recent String of Robbery/Murders
Several emotions strike England at once, but they're varied and contradictory, tangled up in his chest like a fiercely knotted ball of yarn, and he can't sort them out properly. The only thing he feels for certain is that he's about to make a monumentally poor decision, but at the moment he's running on aspirin and adrenaline alone, and hadn't he gotten into this profession to pursue the truth?
"I'll be right back." England tosses his jacket over his shoulders, tucks the paper under one arm, and heads for the door.
"Wait, where are you going?" Canada stumbles after him, catching England by the arm. His eyes are wide and desperate. "Please don't leave me alone with him," he begs through clenched teeth.
England feels keenly that he deserves the betrayal evident in Canada's expression when he gently pushes the younger man away. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's harried and dismissive, which he'll feel absolutely rotten about later, but right now he can't afford to care. "I'll make it up to you," he swears, but it's as much to assuage his own guilt as to comfort Canada.
"Hey, you're not skipping out on me, are you?" France is perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed disapprovingly.
"I'll be right back," repeats England. "I don't know what you're complaining about, anyway. I've been here for almost twenty-four hours straight. You hardly ever show up, and even when you do you just spend all day sitting on my desk and harassing Officer Williams."
At the insulted look of France's face, England scowls. "Don't give me that. You love proving me wrong; why don't you actually get some bloody work done while I'm gone? For starters, there's a stack of reports on my desk that Canada can help you to proofread, and the yellow forms over there need to be filled in. If by some miracle you finish all that, there are always more in the file room." He waves a hand dismissively, not sounding particularly hopeful. Then, purposefully avoiding Canada's eyes, England tugs up the collar of his coat and leaves the room like he's being chased.
The moment the door closes behind him, England lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a sob. He's a breath away from panicking, and the newspaper under his arm feels like it's burning a hole into his skin. Rushing through the precinct, he rolls up his left sleeve to expose a bulky silver watch, and his hand hovers over it hesitantly. He waits only as long as it takes him to get out of earshot of the building before he ducks into an alley and flips open the face, presses the small red button this action reveals. Then there's nothing he can do but wait.
Breathing slowly, in and out, as though struggling to remember how, England slumps against the grimy brick of the alley wall and closes his eyes. He can't do this anymore, doesn't know how he's kept it up this long. This constant, fierce conflict of interest within his own heart is exhausting him mentally and physically, and it's already begun to impact his performance at work, barely able to focus on the task at hand for how his mind is a thousand miles and three years away, where it very firmly ought not to be. It's not sustainable. Not apposite.
He feels a breeze, hears the soft pat of superhuman feet landing next to him. Cracking one eye open, a huge, dopey grin sneaks its way into England's stupid face, and his heart beats excitedly, erratically, as if trying to leap clear out of him. He presses a hand against his chest, feeling tired, ridiculous, and suddenly very, very happy.
"Yo, England. Where's the fire?" Captain Hero grins at him like a toothpaste advert, and the way this makes England's knees buckle is just irritating, really. "You look tired." The hero's brow puckers with concern, and he reaches out to trace the bruises under England's eyes with a careless thumb. England bats him away.
"Have you seen this?" He remembers why he's come here, why he risked calling Captain Hero to a spot only a few blocks away from a building full of people who want to see him handcuffs (as if handcuffs could ever hold him). England thrusts the newspaper at Captain Hero's heroic chest (he's heroically proportioned all over, really, and England always tries so very hard not to notice this, but so rarely succeeds), and the Captain takes it with a puzzled expression.
"Oh hey," is the first thing he says when he sees it. "I'm on the front page! Again." He smirks cheekily, but it doesn't last long. When he spots the headline, his face drops so drastically that it might be comical under different circumstances. His lips move silently as he continues to scan the story, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as if he simply can't understand what he's reading. He looks up at England, resembling nothing more than a kicked puppy.
"Is this for real?" His voice is soft, wounded.
"Of course it's 'for real'," England snaps, because what he really wants to do is comfort him, to step forward, expression soft and reassuring, to promise him that everything will be all right and wrap his arms around him and never let go. But he's tried that. And experience tells reliably him that this cold reserve is better for everyone, in the long run. "Do you honestly think I'd go through all the trouble of making up a fake newspaper just to mess around with you?"
Captain Hero frowns. "But, I don't understand. I'm a superhero. I help people. How could anyone think I'd do something like this?"
It's that ridiculous, unceasing optimism, the invincible naiveté, that England will never stop loving him for. He remembers when he was one of the select few who ever got to see the smile that Captain Hero now gives thoughtlessly to the press' cameras, back when that vibrancy and borderline-selfish determination to make good were part of something that was England's alone. He knows it's probably selfish of him to miss those days—no, not to miss them, perhaps, but to want them back the way he does—but the longing is like breathing, something he can't get rid of any more than he can dig out his own marrow.
"You had to know that something like this would happen," he says. "How long did you really think this hero lark could last?"
Captain Hero stares morosely at the paper, and England lets out a frustrated breath.
"The police have been looking for a way to break up your little gang since the lot of you put on your blasted capes, you know that. You make them feel useless and inadequate." He half expects the other man to point out that not all the members of the Alliance of Superheroes actually wear capes.
He doesn't.
Captain Hero blinks, surprised, and looking like England has just slapped him. "Is that how you feel?" he asks.
Of course that's how he feels; that's how he's always felt around him, but this is an unwanted answer to an unasked question, so England keeps his mouth shut.
"Is it?" Captain Hero takes a step forward, suddenly serious, and England wonders whether he's properly understood the question, after all.
"America." He means is as a warning. This can't become personal, can't be about the two of them, because that would mean that he's betraying his brothers on the Force, going behind their backs for a pretty face and a smattering of memories that he ought rightly to forget (ought rightly to have forgotten a long time ago), and that isn't what this about at all. This is about principles, about defending the right of a person to help those who need them when nobody else can, even if it means transgressing the boundaries of what some regard as Right.
"I'm not going to answer that. We have much larger things to worry about at the moment, in case you hadn't noti—are you pouting at me?"
"Heroes don't pout," sniffs America, and he's so childish, but this does woefully little to diminish England's desire to do very, very adult things to him (and he is most undeniably pouting, but England won't be the one to point that out). He still has that expression in his eyes, though, looking at England as though trying to read something in his face, and his lips are moving, again, but no sound is coming out. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he holds the newspaper up in one hand.
"You don't believe I did this, do you?"
The question is nothing if not somber, and the moment seems incredibly significant for some reason. What England does now will matter, so of course he snorts and retorts, "Don't be stupid. If I actually thought you'd killed someone, would I come to warn you about it?"
America laughs. "Yeah, I guess not." He glances down at the newspaper, again, but this time his smile falters only a little. His eyes rise slightly, and he gestures towards England's wrist. "I forgot all about that thing. I'm amazed you still have it."
England jumps when America reaches out to grab the wrist that bears the silver watch with his free hand.
"How long ago did I even give this to you?" He runs a thumb along the band, his gloved touch glancing every now and then across bare skin, and England jerks his hand away.
How long ago? It's felt like several lifetimes from where England's standing.
A shrug. "When did you quit the Force? Three years ago? Personally, I'm amazed the bloody thing still works."
"Three years," confirms America, sounding almost guilty, which is so unfamiliar, so unexpected that England isn't sure how to feel about it. "You've never used it before. Have you been wearing it this whole time?" He laughs, a little condescendingly, but without any intended cruelty. "Why?"
"Why indeed," mumbles England, his tone distinctly bitter, almost self-deprecating. The honest answer to that is more than embarrassing, the memory behind it locked up where England keeps the things that leave him breathless with tears when he dreams about them.
"I used to think it might be useful," he says finally. "I suppose I just got into the habit of putting it on every morning."
"Sure, sure," America grins, elbowing England playfully in the side. "You wear it because it reminds you of me, don't you?"
He doesn't notice the way England sucks in a breath at that, stiffens (he has no idea how fucking perceptive he is, because he never means to be); he's caught up in the shallow world of his own humor, laughing for the sake of hearing himself laugh. The words are thrown carelessly away for the sole purpose of teasing England, and this might be what hurts about them most; the words themselves might be the sword, he thinks, but the way they're said, how quickly they're forgotten—those are the sharp edges.
Scowling, England edges away from America, tearing the watch off his wrist and shoving it into the pocket of his coat.
"Well, excuse me for trying to be a friend," he hisses. "I'll be sure to avoid that in the future." He turns to leave, but America catches him by the shoulder.
"Hey, wait. C'mon, England, don't go. I didn't mean to make you angry. I haven't seen you in ages." He has England by both shoulders, now, so really any attempts to storm off would only look foolish, at this point. "Whaddya say we go grab something to eat, huh? I'm dying for a burger."
"It's eight in the morning," replies England incredulously, never mind the fact that he's expected back at work or the fact that leaving Canada alone with France will not only guarantee that no work will get done, but creates a situation comparable to leaving for holiday with the stove on, the kitchen floor covered in petrol, and the cat bowl full of matches. Provided, of course, that this is all somehow a metaphor in which the cat gets molested.
America grins, crumples the newspaper into a ball with one hand and tosses it over his left shoulder. "Never too early for a burger," he insists. "C'mon, I'll buy."
When he grabs England's hand, it stops being a choice. Suddenly, England is starving, and how do you say 'no' when Captain Hero asks you out to breakfast?
Of course, he'll be damned before he ever lets America know he feels that way. Pulling his hand away, he raises an eyebrow. "I hope you were planning to change? I don't know many restaurants with dress codes relaxed enough to allow capes."
"That's because you've never been out with Captain Hero," America tells him knowingly. "I can't even remember the last time I got charged for a meal when I was suited up." His smile is so infuriatingly smug-England bites back a mad longing to lick it off his face.
"Well I'mnot going out in public with you dressed like that," he says dryly. "Besides, do you have any idea what would happen to me if I were to be seen out at a meal with Captain Hero? I'd be promptly dismissed, at the very least."
"Yeah, yeah," America concedes. "I'll change my clothes so you don't lose your boring job."
"I happen to enjoy my work, I'll have you know," says England, which is true enough. Sometimes. "We can't all abandon honest law enforcement to go gallivanting off into the sunset playing cowboys and superheroes."
America gives a short, snorting laugh. "What? Dude, you're so weird. I already said I'd change. We'll stop by my place before we go anywhere else. Happy?"
England hesitates, which America takes as a 'yes'.
"All right, then!" he says cheerfully. "How d'you wanna do this?"
"I beg your pardon? Do what?"
America has both arms held out and is looking over England appraisingly.
"We're not gonna walk," he says, as though this should have been obvious, and the moment his comment clicks, England nearly chokes on the horrified noise clawing its way up the back of his throat.
"You don't me—we aren't going to fly."
If America actually hears the objection, he gives no sign. "Now the way I see it," he continues. "We've got two options, here: around the waist or bridal style."
"What?" says England, because this is not happening.
"Well I can either grab you around the waist like this—" Without any further warning, America swoops forward and wraps both arms around England's torso, drawing him in until England's face is pressed into the crook of his neck and this is not happening. There's no way he can miss the way England's face heats up, the way his heartbeat kicks up to race like a startled rabbit's, but his only reaction is to add, "And you just have to put your arms around my neck or something to hold on."
This is not happening. England flails frantically until America steps away, screws his eyes shut and takes a long, slow breath. "This hardly seems efficient," he points out once it feels as though he has a little more control over himself. Any longer in that close proximity and he would undoubtedly have done something he would very quickly have regretted.
"Hm," says America, and it's purely England's own wishful thinking that makes is seem like the hero's cheerful expression wavers. "Would you rather do bridal style? Or I guess I could carry you on my back."
"Absolutely not," says England immediately (and so help him if the next words out of America's mouth are anything close to "fireman's carry"). He can't think of anything to back up this declaration that America would find particularly convincing, so he settles instead for a determined glare. When America's only response is to look distinctly unconvinced, he sighs, raising a hand to knead at the bridge of his nose.
"Perhaps now isn't the right time," he suggests. He's come to rely on the fact that the right thing to do is usually not the thing he wants to do (and while this does not always offer him a certain answer, it does narrow down the options nicely), so he swallows his immediate instinct to acquiesce to America's proposed solution and, instead, tosses the offer away entirely. "I think we may be better suited to meet later—after my shift ends, perhaps? That should be a more appropriate hour for your burger, at any rate."
America crosses his arms across his chest, his cheeks puffed out in a ludicrous, thwarted expression. "Geez, dude, I'm not gonna force you to hang out with me if you really don't want to, you know."
"It's not that I don't want to," says England a little too quickly. America brightens noticeably. England looks at him out of the corner of his eye as a knowing smirk uncoils across America's lips, tries to hold his ground, as if this limited view of him might reduce the irresistible magnetic pull of America's smile. Finally, a thoroughly frustrated England lets out a soft, resigned sigh and throws up his hands in irritation.
"Damn it. I…bridal style then, I suppose," he relents.
…
For what feels like the hundredth time Detective Kirkland's unexplained departure, Canada peels Detective Bonnefoy's hand off his knee and returns to his work (it's been over four hours, and he is trying not to worry, so even the tedium of paperwork is a welcome distraction). Detective Bonnefoy sighs hugely, pushing back his chair to stand and stretch. He leans down and plucks the pen deftly from between Canada's busy fingers, waving it teasingly back and forth.
"It's not your job to do England's work, you know," he informs Canada when the younger man snatches it away again.
"I know that." Canada doesn't remind Detective Bonnefoy that this is, in fact, sort of his job. "But there's too much for Detective Kirkland to do it all on his own, even if he tries his hardest. And I really don't mind helping."
Detective Bonnefoy does not seem to get the hint.
"I don't see any harm in taking a break," he persists. He gestures towards the stack of papers in front of Canada with disdain. "Put this away for now. I'll order lunch."
Canada tries to protest, but Detective Bonnefoy is already on the phone, speaking animatedly to the owner of the Chinese restaurant down the street and, from the sound of it, ordering enough fried rice to feed a small army. He must know the person on the other end of the line fairly well; the order is followed by a lengthy and slightly flirtatious conversation that is punctuated with large, airy hand gestures and several jokes of a distinctly sexual nature (then again, Canada wouldn't really be all that surprised if Detective Bonnefoy didn't know the other person at all).
Canada clears his throat loudly and begins to pile his completed work neatly on the corner of Detective Kirkland's desk. The noise catches Detective Bonnefoy's attention.
"Ah—yes, well, I'm afraid I have to go. Duty call, you know..Yes, yes, you too. Á bientôt." He hangs up and shoots Canada a smile. "I hope you're hungry." His tone is casual, but there's something about the way he says it—the way he says everything—that starts a blush tearing up the back of Canada's neck.
Embarrassed for a reason he cannot place, Canada looks down at his, unable to meet Detective Bonnefoy's face. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbles.
"Canada," croons Detective Bonnefoy fondly. Without warning, he throws both arms around Canada's shoulders and presses their cheeks flush together. "You really are much too uptight for someone so young and adorable."
"I'm not uptight," Canada protests, squirming in Detective Bonnefoy's embrace. "Please, Detective Bonnefoy—"
"France," corrects the detective immediately. It takes Canada a moment to process that his voice sounds muted because his face is nuzzled against the side of Canada's hair. He says something else, but it's too muffled and soft to hear, almost more breath than speech, and Canada knows he ought to push Detective Bonnefoy away. This is so inappropriate, they're at work for goodness' sake, and irresponsible, distracting, and oh God what would Detective Kirkland say if he walked in on the two of them like this? On top of that, Canada is positive that he's never given Detective Bonnefoy any sign that such attentions would be welcome (all right, there was a slight chance he'd caught Canada staring at him one too many times during Canada's first week of training, before Canada had learned to be more subtle, but other than).
When a mouth skims along the line of his jaw, Canada's breath hitches in his throat.
"Detective Bonnefoy," he says firmly. "Please cut that out." He leans away from Detective Bonnefoy and raises a hand to interrupt the amorous activities. He should probably be doing more, yelling at him or hitting him or shoving him away, but, as always, Detective Bonnefoy backs off when Canada asks him to, albeit reluctantly.
"You shouldn't do that," Canada tells him, expression serious.
Detective Bonnefoy reaches out to twist a strand of Canada's hair between thumb and forefinger. His smile hits Canada in a way that makes his chest ache.
"Why not?"
This is a question that Canada should be able to answer very easily, quickly, and in a dozen different, equally convincing ways. When he realizes that he can't, he makes several choked, breathy noises and, panicked, grabs at Detective Bonnefoy's hand to untangle it from his hair.
Their fingers catch, and he thinks longingly of paperwork.
"You better be behaving yourself in there!" The door slams open to reveal a dark-haired young man with a mildly annoyed expression and arms full of brown paper bags that smell like heaven.
Canada gasps in surprise, pushing himself away from Detective Bonnefoy so abruptly that he nearly knocks over the chair he's in. "D-Detective Wang!"
Still smiling and calm, France raises a hand in greeting. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, China, but what are you doing here? It's your day off isn't it?" He reaches for the bags China is carrying. "Ah, is that lunch?"
Detective Wang purses his lips and pulls the bags out of his reach. "Don't just pelt me with questions the second I walk through the door. I'm here because Detective Kirkland called me to say he wasn't feeling well. He asked me to fill in for him and make sure you don't bother the trainee too much."
Detective Bonnefoy pouts, which only earns him a rather nasty look from Detective Wang.
"Detective Kirkland is sick?" asks Canada, concerned. He shakes his head. "I knew this was going to happen with the hours he's been keeping." He isn't generally the type to tell anyone 'I told you so', but.
"He's probably just playing hooky," says Detective Bonnefoy dismissively.
Canada looks down at his hands. "You're the only one who plays hooky around here," he tells Detective Bonnefoy, unable to keep a certain measure of fondness out of his voice. "I don't think I've seen Detective Kirkland take a day off since I started here. He's probably the hardest working person in the entire precinct." He startles a little and adds, "Um, I mean, I hope I didn't offend you, Detective Wang."
Detective Wang shrugs. "No offense taken. Besides, I'm sure England'll be fine. Have something to eat and don't worry about it, okay?" He sets down the bags and begins to unpack several large Styrofoam boxes from inside.
Detective Bonnefoy grins and grabs at a pair of chopsticks. "I'm starving. Hand me some of that rice, would you, China?"
Detective Wang complies, immediately turning to tuck into a greasy heap of noodles of his own.
"Oh, by the way, France," he adds though a full mouth, motioning at Detective Bonnefoy with his chopsticks. A noodle dangles precariously from the tip, and Canada watches as it falls to the tabletop with a soft plat. "Korea asks me to say hello."
They eat for a while in companionable silence, Canada picking at his food and trying to ignore the fact that Detective Bonnefoy is scooting closer and closer to him. Knowing that Detective Kirkland is ill at home is better than not knowing where he is at all, Canada supposes, but not by very much. He remembers the way Detective Kirkland rushed out of the office, pale and worried and harassed, and the incident doesn't seem related, but it refuses to leave his mind.
After a while, Detective Wang throws away his empty container and goes to the file room to collect the day's batch of new paperwork.
"You stick to all this old stuff," he instructs Canada. "I'll make this lazy guy help me with the new reports. We might be able to make a dent in them before England gets back that way."
Canada nods his understanding, more than willing to help. He doesn't have too much more to do on his end, so he continues to pick at his food and pretend to eat while he waits for Detective Wang to return.
"May I?" Detective Bonnefoy is leering at him (and somehow it's charming, but it's beyond Canada how this is possible), chopsticks raised and aimed at Canada's food.
"Oh," says Canada. "Um, sure. Go ahead."
Grinning, Detective Bonnefoy allows himself a generous mouthful of Canada's nearly-untouched lo mien, watching the younger man thoughtfully as he chews.
"Not a fan of take out?" he asks finally.
Canada stares at his food to avoid making eye contact. "I like it fine," he replies quickly. He's honestly just not that hungry, and he knows exactly why, but it's not something he can explain to Detective Bonnefoy, can't explain the anxiety and concern that are making him distracted and distant. There would be consequences Canada doesn't even want to think about, for the rest of the Taskforce as well as for him, and he won't be the reason for that. He thinks for a moment that whatever Detective Kirkland has come down with must be contagious, because suddenly he's starting to feel very nauseous.
Detective Bonnefoy offers him a dumpling, but Canada refuses it with a little shake of his head.
"Are you feeling all right, chéri?" He raises a hand to Canada's forehead and makes a tsk sound with his tongue. "I hope you're not ill, as well."
For a moment, Canada leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed. He feels a little like crying, which just makes the other urges he's fighting at the moment seems even more ridiculous and obscene.
"I'm fine," he replies. "It's probably just the food. I don't have this kind of thing very often." It's a blatant lie, but an easy lie to tell, and one that Detective Bonnefoy doesn't dispute, despite the fact that he's almost certainly seen Canada eat takeout at work more times than he can count. Instead, he fixes Canada with a quick, appraising look before sighing hugely and turning away.
"I wish you would let me buy you some real food," he says, a familiar start to a familiar offer. "I know this great little bistro downtown—"
"Okay," says Canada, so casually and quietly that Detective Bonnefoy seems caught totally off-guard. For a moment, he just watches Canada, blinking in startled confusion as Canada calmly begins to clean up the remains of the takeout.
Then he reaches out, touches the back of Canada's hand.
"What was that?"