At the Docks

A Twizardck Production

I wasn't fast enough. I was never fast enough. Standing there on the docks, arms wrapped around my chest, I tried not to cry. He had left me. He had left me again.

The sails were on the horizon now. It'd be months before he reached his destination. Months before he finished up whatever was going on back there. Months before he'd come back to me. Even though just last night he'd sat on the bench next to me and promised to stick around for a while.

I was pretty sure that a while was not half a day. For when I had woken up he had already been gone, the house still and empty and scary. The ship already had set out.

Now the tears did come. "You promised!" I heard myself scream as I collapsed into a heap on the planks, rolling up into a ball. The normal noises of people of the docks went on behind me, paying no attention to the small boy having a tantrum. They assumed my mother would come and take me home, scold me for straying too far away, wipe away my panicked tears.

But I knew better. I'd sniffle and whimper and feel all sorts of sorry for myself, but eventually I'd have to get up off the ground and trudge back to the closest home I had. I'd have to see if the maid was around and beg her for some food – scones and tea if she would be so kind, for that's what he would make me. Tonight I'd have to tuck myself into bed and read my own bedtime story, sing my own lullaby. Try to keep dry eyes through the night and forget his name tomorrow.

Yet I couldn't go yet. I couldn't let go of the lingering hope that he had just been out getting some food and when he'd come back home to see me gone he'd look to the docks. And he'd come and get me, pick me up and raise his thick eyebrows in annoyance. But he would never stay upset for too long. After a while he'd smile and hug me. Make me promise not to run off on him again.

Make me promise not to break promises.

Make me promise not to be like him.

I waited there the entire day, my feet dangling in the water, shoes clutched in my hand to keep some street urchin from stealing them. Every once in a while a sailor would ask if I was lost and I would shake my head and mumble a "No sir." I could never get lost in the Americas. How pathetic would I be then?

The sun set and the stars came out, but I still stared over the Atlantic.

"You really did leave," I murmured, feeling hot tears run down my face again. "You left me… When you… Promised." Hiccupping obscured my words and I hugged myself again, now for warmth as much as comfort.

Quiet footsteps came up behind me. Then stopped. "So this is where you've been all day." Exasperation leaked into a mild tone, accented British, already strange to my ears that were starting to take to the tones of my Massachusetts home.

Raising my head, I refused to turn, afraid that it was just my imagination. "E-England?" Another hiccup resounded from my throat.

A tall, warm body came up beside me. Arms hugged me. "America, who else would it be?"

"C-can't be England, he left." I still denied the longing to turn and face the apparition – for I was sure that it was one. I didn't want to be proven crazy.

A slight chuckle answered me. "America, I don't break a promise. I said I'd stay a while. There are other ships back to Europe. And I'm not needed there yet."

Now I allowed my head to move, looked straight at the illusion that might not be fake, hardly daring to breathe. My eyes wandered around the face and the body and the expressions and automatically knew that this was not something my imagination could think up. This was the real thing.

My arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around my brother and guardian. He hadn't left me at all. He'd been looking for me this whole time.

We sat there that way for a while, England and I, my feet still dangling in the water, his in the ocean up to his knees. I could feel my tears slowly draining away.

"Can we go home now?" I asked, feeling my head droop onto my shoulders. "I'm getting tired."

There was a rustle of movement next to me as England stood. "Let's go then America," he said, a smile audible in his voice. He picked me up off the ground and held me away from him so he could look into my blue eyes. His were green and full of laughter. "I've got some scones ready for you."

"Gross," I decided, leaning up against his neck and breathing in the comfort that he radiated. Secretly I was happy; he was giving me just what I wanted to make certain that he was really there. "You can't cook, England."

He laughed and let it go. We stayed in companionable silence all the way home. And everything was all right.

At least until the next time, when he really would leave me.

O.o.O

Author's Note: The idea for this story came from inside my brain when I was feeling a whole bunch of angst. And then all of a sudden I was happy again. It was weird… So I felt I needed to make it into a fanfiction. And what better characters *cough* victims *cough* to use than the British Empire and Colonial America? Of course, I just used their normal names here… But anyway, it's just a bunch of fluff that I wrote between 9:15 and 10:00 this very night, and am now putting up. I hope you enjoy and review!

And do not worry; I'm working hard on "Rise of the Fallen Land." The next update should be sometime late this week or next week. It would already be up, but school… Please be patient with me!