A/N: A fic to commemorate the Dunblane Massacre, which took place on 13th March 1996. I was 11 years old at the time and it had a huge impact on my life. Some minor creative liberties taken, but this is Hetalia we're talking about. Still, take some time to remember those that lost their lives far too young on Sunday.
...
Mama, put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore.
That long black cloud is comin' down
I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door.
Scotland tilted the head of one of the snowdrops growing in his garden. He gazed at the little flower with a melancholy expression as he remembered the little girl this particular species had been named after,
"Far too young." He muttered, letting the head of the flower drop again with a sigh. The red-haired nation got up and stretched and glared up at the clouds, daring them to start snowing again. After a moment the Scottish man sighed again and started to trudge back indoors. His gloomy expression didn't lift as he remembered the event as though it had happened just the day before.
"Fer Christ's sake England will ye sit doon a'ready?" Scotland drawled as he flicked the page of his book over lazily. England glared at the red-haired nation,
"It would help if you gave me a hand you bloody moron." He snapped, "This place is not going to tidy itself." Scotland shook his head dismissively, flicking another page over,
"Ye're obsessed wi' this whole 'spring cleaning' malarky." He sighed, not even looking up from the book, "It's the same thing every year. It's only going to stay clean and tidy fer two days at the most, ye ken that right?" England snorted as he stalked over to the table and slammed Scotland's book shut,
"Only because you and Ireland insist upon using my house as a general dumping ground." He sneered, ignoring the glare he finally got from his oldest brother, "If you give me a hand in here then I'll let you slouch about the place for the rest of the day." He offered pushing a duster and a can of polish into the Scot's hands. Scotland scowled at the items, then at England again,
"Why should I hae tae help oot when ye've a'ready roped Wales into it?" He asked. England scowled right back,
"Because you're being a lazy arse!" the younger nation snapped, "Now get into that sitting room and get to polishing. The sooner you get started, the sooner we can all get a break." Scotland muttered as he stalked into the other room. He had been enjoying that book. It did not take long, however, for the Scot to become engrossed in the job. It was simple enough, but with the way England liked everything arranged and with the mood he was in, Scotland decided it would be a good idea to do the thing properly first time. England came into the room with two cups of tea, followed by Wales carrying a box of biscuits when Scotland was halfway done. The youngest nation gave an amused hum,
"So you can clean this place up properly." He said with sarcastic glee. Scotland grunted as he put the duster down,
"Only 'cause ye'll make me do it over if I dinnae dae it richt first time." He retorted, snatching his mug from out of England's grasp and taking a grateful swig." England chuckled as he sat down at long last,
"That was the intention dear brother." He practically sang, grabbing a biscuit and dipping it into his tea, "I'm just about done in the kitchen and Daffyd was about halfway done with the bedrooms so we should be finished by lunch time." He noted, taking a nibble of the biscuit. Scotland shrugged and started to make his way to a soft seat when he suddenly stopped and started staring off into space. Daffyd looked over to his oldest brother, a concerned look crossing over his face; it was never a good sign when nations did that. England also looked up with a slight frown,
"Scotland?" he called, hoping to snap his brother out of whatever it was. When he received no response he tried again, his voice wavering just a little, "Angus?" he called a little louder, hoping the use of his human name might work instead. Daffyd slowly got up out of his chair when Scotland still didn't respond, walked over to the older nation and waved his hand in front of the other's face. Still nothing. Wales sent England a worried look,
"Might want to stick the telly on." He suggested gravely, "I think there might be a problem up north." England set his tea down and got up as well, watching the oldest of them warily, jumping as Scotland suddenly semi-collapsed onto his knees,
"Leave them alone! They're just bairns!" he suddenly cried, his hands coming up to clutch at his head. Wales immediately grabbed Scotland and supported the older nation, lowering him to the floor. England dashed out of the room for a moment, reappearing with the phone held to his ear in one hand, the other clutching the remote for the TV. Wales sent his twin a confused look, to which England shook his head as whoever he was calling finally picked up,
"Hello, France?" England called, having to shout as Scotland started screaming, "We have a major problem over here..." he paused as he tried to hear what France was asking, "Never you mind you bloody frog! Just get your sorry arse over here right now!" he snapped. He paused again as France replied, "I'll fill you in once you get here." He said, his voice becoming quiet as he looked over to his brother, then the television. Wales held his brother close in an attempt to stop him from hurting himself. He chanced a glance at the television and froze,
"Dear god." He muttered as he watched the breaking news report that had interrupted whatever had been on just a moment before. He tightened his grip on Scotland as the other nation started sobbing.
...
It hadn't taken France long to arrive in the UK household and the moment he'd laid eyes on Scotland he had swept the older man into the tightest embrace he could muster and started rocking him in an attempt to calm him down,
"It's alright mon cher, I'm right 'ere, vous êtes sûr." He soothed, stroking Scotland's cheek. Scotland hiccoughed, gripping onto France like he was the only lifeline the Scot had,
"He... he went an' killed them Francis," he choked, "A' those bairns, they were just wee, totty bairns..." another sob and France just tightened his grip,
"Je sais, mon cher, je sais." He replied, his own voice beginning to crack slightly as the enormity of the situation hit him. England and Wales hovered nearby; neither of them wanting to get involved now that France had arrived. England sighed,
"I'll go put the kettle back on." He muttered, picking up the abandoned mugs and biscuits and heading back into the kitchen. Wales waited for a beat before following him out,
"I'll give you a hand." He sighed, leaving France and Scotland alone; hoping that by the time the tea was sorted that Scotland would have calmed down and they could try to work out how to manage the aftermath of this horrific occurrence.
...
Scotland stared at the sight that greeted him in the kitchen. England was standing by the kettle waiting for it to boil, while Wales and Ireland bickered over which biscuits to bring out. France sat at the table, flipping through a newspaper. The blue eyed nation was the first to notice Scotland standing in the doorway,
"Ah, mon cher," he greeted with a large smile, "you really shouldn't leave your door open like that. You might end up with some unwanted guests." He laughed. Scotland continued to stand in the doorway to his kitchen as England looked over his shoulder,
"What's with that look?" he asked, going back to making the tea, "Honestly you'd think I was here to poison you or something." He muttered. Scotland stepped into the room with a grunt and scowl at his youngest brother,
"An' here I wis thinkin' I would be rid o' ye fer the next two weeks 'cause o' a' the snow." He retorted. England pursed his lips, but didn't say anything, so Scotland turned his attention to Wales and Ireland instead, "And why are you twa even here?" he asked. Wales just shrugged,
"Arthur dragged me along and Seamus was already banging on the door when we got here." He explained. Seamus grinned at his fellow Celtic nation,
"Well things are a little tense back home right now and I needed a drink." He explained, "And you've still got half my bottles of Irish whisky sitting around here." Scotland rolled his eyes,
"An' folk ca' me a bloody alcoholic." He muttered, taking his seat next to France as Seamus voiced his own protests. The blonde nation chuckled,
"No accusations for moi?" he asked, a bright smile on his face. Scotland snuffed in amusement and shook his head,
"I a'ready ken why you're here, ghradhan," he said, "but it'll hae tae wait until this lot leave." France looked mildly offended,
"Actually, that was not my original intention," he replied, "though since you're making the offer mon couer..." he was smartly cut off by England placing a mug in front of each of them, his face set into a scowl,
"That's enough of that." He snipped as he fetched his own mug. Scotland looked up at his youngest brother, who was now sitting on top of the counter,
"Actually, whit dae ye want?" he asked. England shrugged,
"I can't come to visit my brother of my own accord without wanting something?" he asked. Scotland glared at him, causing England to sigh and roll his eyes, "Dear Lord Scotland, I'm not a heartless bastard you know, I actually remembered the date." Scotland looked at his brother in surprise, then he finally noticed the little mug that was sitting on the windowsill filled to the brim with snowdrops. He looked back to his brother, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, then to France, who laid a hand on top of his,
"I admit that it 'as been a while, but it's still nice to remember them, non?"Scotland managed a small smile as he laid his free hand on France's,
"Aye," he agreed, looking to the little mug again, "an', ye ken... ta." He said in a quiet voice, giving England a brief glance as he did so. England smiled back,
"It's no problem." He replied. Comfortable silence settled in the kitchen for a moment before Ireland piped up,
"Just for the record... Russia's more of an alcoholic than I am."