Oh my goodness. This took me FOUR MONTHS to write. I just got stuck so many times, and distracted by other fics. I apologize for anyone who has waited for this since I finished Separation in January.
That being said, welcome to the oneshot on the life of G.W., my OC for Washington, D.C. There won't be a lot of other capitals showing up in this, as this is centered very much around him and America.
I hope you enjoy this, I labored for a long time lol.
Disclaimer: G.W. is mine, America isn't, and neither is Hetalia.
EDIT: After I posted this, I realized I omitted an entire sentence. It doesn't really detract from the story, but I couldn't leave it alone. Also fixed up the lines.
Rain is an interesting thing. Sometimes it falls at the most convenient times. This was one of those times. The rain had been falling earlier, as a battle raged and one man broke away from another. It still fell as the one who broke away walked over the muddy ground. He was barely a man, still young enough to be in his teenage years, with blond hair that the rain plastered to his head save for one strand that stood defiantly upwards. He wore the blue uniform of the Revolutionary Army. As he walked, his boots squelched in the mud and his eyes, blue like his uniform but of a different shade, more like the sky, overflowed with tears that were hidden by the convenient rain.
He had done it. America had stood up to the British Empire, and won. But even as he rejoiced in his victory, the image of a crying, defeated, once-great empire kneeling in the mud in front of him flashed in his mind. He tried to shake it away, droplets flinging outward from his face to join the rain.
No. No sadness. This was what he had wanted. Freedom. Independence. No reason to cry, not even the fact that he had reduced the man who had raised him to tears…
Nope. Heroes didn't cry, and that wasn't even a reason to.
He kept walking, heading toward a small forest. Maybe he could spend some time alone in there and think. Yes, thinking would be nice, much nicer than going back to the army's camp and finding that France and Prussia had gotten drunk on some of his whiskey.
He hadn't gone far into the forest, though, when he spotted a flash of yellow. The sight gave him pause, and he just stood there, eyes searching the area where he had seen it. There it was again. It looked like someone's hair. It was small and rather close to the ground, so it was probably…a child!
America began to follow the flash as it journeyed through the forest. What's a child doing in the forest while it rains? He thought. He followed it deeper into the forest until it emerged into a clearing and stopped. America hid behind a tree and finally got a good look at the object of his pursuit.
As he had thought, it was a small blond child. His hair-he was pretty certain the child was a boy-stood straight up, despite the fact that it was soaked with rain. He wore white clothes not unlike the ones America himself once wore. He couldn't have been more than two or three years old. When he turned around, America's breath caught in his throat. The boy's face was like looking in a mirror that turned back the clock.
As America watched, the boy dragged a log longer than he was tall, and almost as big around as himself, by one of its branches toward a tree where other logs made a sort of lean-to. When he was just about there, the branch snapped off, and he was sent sprawling in the mud, knocking over his lean-to. He lay there for a moment, stunned, before he started to cry.
America was by his side in a second, helping him sit up. "You alright, kid?" The boy nodded, sniffling and rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing out here by yourself? Where are your parents?"
"Don't got none," the boy replied. "The townspeople said they found me in the church. They didn't like me, 'cause I grew too fast. They told me to go away." He looked at America with fearful eyes. "Are you gonna tell me to go away, mister?"
The question shocked America, and he gazed at those blue eyes so much like his own, and so afraid of being turned away. He smiled. "Not a chance, kid." he said, gathering the muddy boy in his arms. As he did, his breath hitched and he felt a strange tugging in his chest. (1)
Just as the feeling was passing, the boy sneezed. Worry crept into his mind, and he placed a hand on the boy's forehead.
It was very, very hot.
His worry turned into alarm as the boy began shivering. He shed the blue coat that was part of his army uniform and wrapped it around him. Standing, he said "Let's get you someplace where you can dry off and warm up."
The rain had let up by the time America ran into camp. As he rushed toward the medical tent, a figure stepped away from one of the fires and into his path. He skidded to a stop and realized it was France.
"Amérique, there you are! Come, Prussia and I were about to toast your victory. I opened a bottle of my finest wine for the occasion." His congratulatory smile vanished, however, when he noticed the boy America was carrying. "Mon Dieu! Est-il malade?"
America nodded. "I found him in the forest. He says he doesn't have parents. I've gotta get him to the medical tent!"
"Non. The tent is too crowded. No place for a petit garçon to rest. Come, we will take him to your tent. Pierre, viens-ici!" Paris was instantly at his father's side. "I need you to bring water and a towel to Amérique's tent. Vas, vite!" Pierre nodded and rushed off.
Soon, the boy was lying on America's cot, every spare blanket they had piled on him and a wet towel on his forehead. He slept fitfully, whimpering occasionally. France and America sat watching him.
"What was he doing in the forest?"
"Trying to build a lean-to out of logs."
"Did no one take him in?"
"He told me the townspeople said he was found in a church, and they chased him out because he 'grew too fast'."
France stood and leaned over the fevered boy, studying him. "I believe I have heard of this boy. A few weeks ago, I visited a town that had the most belle women. Many of them spoke of a boy that was discovered in the church. He was just a baby when they found him. Within a few months, however, he was a toddler, and could speak full sentences at only a few weeks old. None would tell me what became of him. Now, it seems I know." There was silence for a bit as France continued to study the boy.
A thought suddenly occurred to America. "France, is…is this boy like us?"
"Like us, and yet not like us." was the reply. "He is like us in that in just a few short months, he went from infancy to his toddler years. He has no parents, and seems to have just appeared." France scratched his chin. "How big were the logs he was carrying?"
"One of them was bigger than him."
"Then he also has unnatural strength, much like you. But he is not like us in that he is ill simply from being in the rain too long. Non, Amérique, I think he is more like Pierre."
America blinked as France's meaning slowly dawned on him. "You mean…he's a capital? Buy whose?"
"Pense, Amérique. It is someone in this tent." That one dawned even more slowly on America.
"He's mine?"
"Oui. It makes sense. You have just become an independent nation, and he appeared just a few months ago. Son visage is a mirror of your own, as I'm sure you have noticed. And he seems to have inherited your strength, though I'm sure his will never equal yours." Before France could say more, their young charge started mumbling. France leaned in and listened for a bit, then looked back at America. "If you need any more proof, then écoute."
America stood and came over. He leaned down over the sick boy, eyes widening at what he heard.
"We…hold…these truths…to be…self-evident, that…all men…are created…equal…"
Shocked, he could only look up at France.
"Felicitations, Amérique. Tu es un père."
America stepped down from the carriage, then turned to lift down the boy-his capital, his son-over the carriage steps that were too large for him. The second his feet touched the ground, he was gazing about at the buildings of Philadelphia with wide eyes. "Daddy, is this really me?" he asked breathlessly.
"Sure is," America replied, heart fluttering at being called "Daddy". The boy was young enough that he accepted the fact that a total stranger was his father without question, and had no qualms about calling him "Daddy". America, meanwhile, wasn't sure if he would ever get used to parenthood. "What do you think?"
"It feels…weird." He said, tiny brow furrowed. "It feels like 'not yet'."
"What do you mean?" When all he got was a shrug, he let it drop. With the boy's small hand in his own, they entered the printshop they had been standing in front of. Once they had crossed the threshold, he called out "Hey, Ben, are you home? It's Alfred!"
Ben Franklin emerged from a back room, smiling warmly. "Hello, Alfred. I must admit I had expected to see you sooner."
"Sorry, I was a little…occupied." he said, gesturing to the boy at his side. "I found my capital just after the battle, and I had to get him settled." He lifted the boy into his arms so Ben could get a good look at him.
"So he's Philadelphia?" Ben asked with a twinkle in his eye.
America nodded. "His name is Philip Jones." When Philip wrinkled his nose, he laughed. "He doesn't like it, so I said he could change it when he's older, if he can think of a better one."
"Well," Ben said, "It is an honor to meet you Philip. I am Benjamin Franklin, editor and publisher of the Pennsylvania Gazette."
"Hello Mr. Franklin," Philip said shyly. Then he seemed to get over it. "Daddy told me lots about you. Did you really make our Franklin Stove?"
"Yes, that is one of my inventions." Ben replied.
"And he said you tried to cook a turkey with lectrissy!"
"Not one of my finest moments."
Philip bonded quickly with Ben, and was soon scurrying about the printshop, asking about this or that thing. His favorite was the printing press. Ben quickly set up a page and allowed him to pull the lever to print it. The page read: "Printed on October 17, 1782 by Philip Jones in the printshop of B. Franklin."
Ben settled the boy down by allowing him to play with the movable type. As tiny hands arranged the letters into gibberish, he and America talked. They talked about how the printshop was faring, Ben's time visiting France, the end of the war, and the new government that was going to be set up. Soon the conversation turned to the blond bundle of joy.
"Parenthood is a great responsibility, Alfred." Ben remarked as they watched Philip examine a "T". "It is both rewarding and heartbreaking. Do you think you're ready for it?" (2)
America laughed. "Of course I am. I'm the hero!"
Ben looked at him, eyebrows raised. "I know you too well for that. You're scared." America's shoulders slumped. Ben really was too smart for his own good.
"…I don't have a clue how to be a father." He confessed. "I'm only just starting out as a country. Now I have to raise my capital!" he glanced at Ben. "Got any clever little sayings for this?"
Ben laughed and placed a hand on America's shoulder. "I wouldn't worry. You'll be able to figure it out along the way, and you have friends who have been down that road. It will all turn out fine."
America glanced at his tiny son and hoped Ben was right.
Small shoes tapped on the streets of Philadelphia as Philip wove through the people on his way to Independence Hall. Anyone looking at the small blond boy clutching a package to his chest would have guessed him to be five years old. He was certainly taller than he had been when America had found him, but his face was still round with baby fat.
He entered the building, quickly going down the hallway to the correct room. The inside was just as he left it; the delegates from 12 of the States (he didn't get why Rhode Island didn't send anyone) were still arguing over the legislative branch. Philip made a mental note to let Uncle Ben know he had remembered a big word like legislative.
He tapped on said man's arm to get his attention before drawing a roll out of his package, passing it up to him. Uncle Ben accepted it with a warm smile. Philip scurried around the room, giving bakery treats to Uncle Thomas, Uncle Alexander, Uncle John, and Uncle Sam. (3) He was often sent out to the bakery whenever he got bored or the arguing became particularly heated.
He quietly stole up to the last person he had to deliver to. He tugged on the man's sleeve and whispered "Grandpa George." George Washington (4) glanced down and gave him a smile. As he leaned down for his treat, he whispered to Philip, "You have sugar on your nose."
Philip turned red and scrubbed at his nose with his sleeve. "The baker's nice," he said, "He gave me a free pastry." The man gave him one last smile before turning his attention back to the arguing.
He made his way over to where America sat, climbing into his lap. His errand and full belly made him feel sleepy. He watched the delegates with heavy-lidded eyes. The ones from bigger states wanted the number of representatives to differ by population, while those from smaller states wanted each to have the same number. Rubbing his eyes, he looked up at America. "Daddy, I like them both." He said with a yawn.
Next to them, Mr. Sherman (5) started, gaining a look of sudden inspiration. As Philip drifted off to sleep, he noticed the man stand, gaining everyone's attention. His sleepy mind registered the word compromise…he'd have to ask Uncle Ben what that meant…
Sighing, Philip fell asleep.
Philip stood in front of the door, hand raised to knock. In the time the time following the creation of the Constitution, he'd had a growth spurt and now looked about eight. His arms and legs were starting to look long and rather awkward, so it wouldn't be surprising if he was as tall as America one day.
He rapped gently on the door, then stepped back, bouncing up and down in excitement. He'd had a great idea, which all his uncles liked and his daddy had given him the go-ahead for. Now, he needed one person's permission.
When he heard the words "Come in," he burst through the door, grinning. "Grandpa George!" He called. "I gotta talk to you!"
Washington watched the excited capital amusedly. America may have started calling him "Boss" after he became President, but to Philip he would always be "Grandpa". "What is it?"
Philip took a deep breath. "It's about my new city!"
The decision had been made to build a new capital city that wasn't a part of any state. Philip was thrilled, because Philadelphia always felt wrong. The connection was there, but it seemed…what that word Uncle Ben taught him? Oh, yeah, temporary. He had already visited the area it would be in, and had felt the connection, and it had felt so right that he had started laughing.
Grandpa George made a gesture for him to continue. "It's gonna be named Washington, for you, so my name's gonna be Washington, which I like better than Philadelphia-"
"Philip." Washington said, trying to keep the boy who was quickly earning a reputation for having a mouth that ran faster than his brain on track. It would be best to head him off before he started listing reasons why he didn't like Philadelphia.
"Right, sorry! Anyway, you know how Daddy named me Philip? Oh, yeah, you just said it. Well, I don't like it. And Daddy said I could pick a new one when I got older, and now I'm older, and I know what I want for my name!"
Washington raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Grinning, the boy declared "Grandpa George, I want your name! I wanna be George Washington Jones! Oh, please, can I, can I, can I?"
Washington looked a little taken aback and didn't answer right away. Philip stood, holding his breath, and waited. All he could think was Please say yes, please say yes, please say ye-
Suddenly Washington gave him a warm smile and said "I would be honored."
With a cheer, the newly christened George tackle hugged him, forgetting that he was stronger than a full-grown man and sending them both to the floor. But he didn't care. He was too happy, and his grinning lips let out the words "I'll be G.W. for short!"
The glass of the window was cold against his nose, but he didn't remove it, because America was coming back today, and G.W. was not going to miss his return.
He was scared. This was his first war, and it had been going on for two years now. He'd only been alive for the last few months of the Revolution, and hadn't even been aware it was happening. Now there was this war, and since its start he only felt safe when his daddy was home. When he was out fighting, G.W. would wake up screaming from nightmares of being captured. (6)
When the familiar figure of America came into view, he tore himself away from the window and ran out the door, launching himself into his arms. He didn't leave his side until he was tucked into bed.
"Daddy," he said as America pulled up the covers, "You won't let Mr. England capture me, will you?"
America ruffled his already wild hair. "Of course not, G.W., I'm the hero! And heroes don't let their sons get captured." That was enough reassurance for him to drift off to sleep. The question and answer had become part of their nightly routine at the start of the war, and there was no variation in it whenever America was home.
But it couldn't prepare them for the events of that night.
That night, two things woke America, neither of them good. The first was a scream that his mind didn't register at first. The second was pain. His heart felt like it was on fire. He gasped, clutching at his chest. He had a vague, half-formed idea of what was going on, but he couldn't grasp it until another scream, followed by a pained and scared "Daddy!", had him leaping out of bed and rushing to his son's room.
G.W. was writhing on his bed in pain, his fingers scrabbling at his chest and his mouth letting out a scream at varying intervals. Frantic to know what was going on, America ripped off the boy's nightshirt. He had to fight to keep down his bile at the sight that met his eyes.
Shiny burns started in his left upper chest area and extended down. Even as he watched, more appeared, spreading across his chest and stomach and starting to make their way to his back. The smell of scorched flesh reached America's nose.
America swore. He had known England was close, but hadn't imagined this would happen. Ignoring his own pain, he scooped up G.W. and started running. He had promised his son he wouldn't be captured. He intended to keep it.
Torches were flung into buildings, setting them ablaze. A pair of green eyes beneath blond hair and bushy eyebrows tracked the flight of one such torch. Not every torch was thrown; some had their flames held against something until it caught.
England watched the capital burn. The men had strict orders to only burn public and government buildings, and were doing a good job of following them. (7) He felt some thrill at doing this, at getting back at America for leaving him.
Speaking of America…there. England finally spotted him, dressed as though he had been startled out of bed by the attack, and running with a small form in his arms. England snorted. It figured that America would be making sure no one was in danger…but something was off. Instead of setting the child (judging by the form's size) down somewhere safe and heading into another building, America kept running. England could tell that he was headed out of the city. That wasn't like America. Ordinarily he would have stayed to help as much as he could.
Out of curiosity (and a small *coughnotcough* desire to gloat), he moved so that he was in the young Nation's path. America skidded to a halt, glaring angrily when he realized who was in front of him. England opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short when he got a good look at the child America held.
His eyes widened as they took in the child's (no, the boy's) wild blond hair, the burns spreading across his torso, and his face-the same face that used to look at him with adoration, that was now glaring at him-it was America's face. The truth crashed into him like a ton of bricks.
He hadn't thought that America would have found his capital so quickly. He himself had been on his feet as a country for nearly a century before London, his Charles, appeared. He should have expected it-America had matured so quickly, and it seemed the boy was no different, for he looked about ten, and in such a short time…
America and England stood staring at each other until the boy let out a weak cry of pain from an obviously raw throat. America tore his gaze away at that and ran around England.
England let them go. As America disappeared into the night, all he could do was stare after him and think What have I done?
After encountering England, America had run without stopping to the nearest town. He had immediately shouted for a doctor upon arrival, not caring who he woke up. He didn't have to explain anything; G.W.'s injuries, coupled with the orange glow in the sky were sufficient. Soon the burns were treated and a kind old couple had lent them their spare bedroom. America had laid his son on the bed and set himself up in a chair next to it. The woman had come up with food in the morning and again at midday, but neither meal had been touched. He'd hardly moved since the doctor left, having bandaged the wounds and given G.W. something to make him sleep so that he was in as little pain as possible.
A knock on the doorframe caught his attention, and he leapt to his feet when he saw who it was. The teenager standing in the doorway was a carbon copy of England, but with smaller eyebrows. "London," America said, a little coldly.
London stepped into the room. "Hullo, Mr. America. It's been a while."
"What are you doing here? Did England send you? And since when did you call me 'Mr.'?"
"Since you became independent," London replied, choosing to answer America's last question first. "Dad doesn't even know I'm here. He's still sleeping off last night's alcohol-"
"Toasting his victory?" America interrupted, tone icy.
"More like trying to forget what he saw. That's how I knew about him." he gestured toward the bed. "Can't get Dad to shut up when he's drunk. I came to help." He pulled a small pot out of a bag he held. "I brought some burn salve that did me great wonders when my city had a fire. It should help get rid of some of his pain."
America, a little surprised, just nodded and allowed the capital to approach. London got to work quickly. As he undid the bandages, G.W. stirred with a tiny whimper, blearily opening his eyes. London paused to give him a smile. "Hello there. My name is Charlie. What's yours?"
"G-G.W." was the reply. "It's short for George Washington."
"A fine name." Charlie said, still working on the bandages.
"I picked it out."
"Did you really?" G.W. nodded, then his eyes trailed down to see what Charlie was doing. "Doctor said not to touch those," he murmured.
Charlie chuckled. "He said that so you wouldn't hurt yourself more. But I know what I'm doing." By then he had finished undoing the bandages, so he opened the pot of salve and picked up a cloth. "Alright, G.W., I have something I'm going to put on your burns to help them feel better, but it will sting a lot at first." He quickly slipped G.W.'s smaller hand into his own. "Instead of thinking about that, I want you to think about squeezing my hand, alright?" At G.W.'s nod, he dipped the cloth in the pot and started to dab it on the burns. G.W. hissed and grimaced, and Charlie winced as he started to squeeze the older capital's hand. After a while, his face relaxed as the soothing properties of the salve took effect, though it obviously still stung every time it was applied to an untreated burn.
Soon, Charlie had finished and rewrapped the bandages. Once he had given G.W. more of…whatever it was that put him to sleep, he gestured for America to step out with him. After closing the door softly behind them, he sighed and flexed the fingers of the hand he'd had G.W. squeeze. "He's definitely your son," he commented before handing America the pot of salve. "Apply that once a day. They won't need much more treatment, and should heal fine on their own. It will take longer than it would for you, but not as long as for a human." He paused. "They will probably scar," he added quietly.
America nodded mutely. As Charlie turned to go, he reached out to stop him. "Thank you, Charlie."
Charlie gazed at him, then his lips turned upward into a small smile. "I was getting tired of you calling me London." he remarked. Then his smile vanished. "This won't be the last time he's hurt so badly. We tend to take the brunt of what happens to our cities, though you will always feel it here." He placed a hand on his heart. Then he turned again and left, calling out "Goodbye, Mr. America." over his shoulder.
"You were right."
Canada turned, startled, to see Charlie standing in the entrance to his tent. "About what?"
"Mr. America's capital." Charlie replied. "It took me most of the day, but I found him." He came in and sat down next to Canada. "Dad saw him last night. He came back after the battle and started drinking. With the way he was going on, it wasn't hard to get him to say which direction Mr. America ran with him." He paused, then continued with a sigh. "His name is George Washington Jones, G.W. for short. He looks almost exactly like Mr. America, except that his hair stands straight up. He's pretty strong-" here Charlie rubbed his hand "-but young-looking, around ten. He must have grown up quickly."
Canada nodded. He had figured that, since America grew up so fast, his capital would show up sooner than expected. It was why he stayed in his tent the previous night; sure, America had burned his capital city, but Canada's capital hadn't shown up yet. He hadn't wanted to be involved in hurting a child. No nation would willingly and knowingly hurt another nation's capital-their bosses usually left them no choice, though.
They sat in silence for a while before Charlie stood. "I'd better go check on Dad," he said with another sigh. "That might be the most I've seen him drink since the Revolution. He won't be happy when he wakes up." Understatement of the century. Charlie exited the tent, leaving Canada alone once more.
He sighed and petted Kumajiro, who stirred and gazed at him. "Who're you?"
"I'm Canada."
It really wasn't his fault. Sure, he was supposed to stay with Charlie and Pierre, but G.W. had thought that with the way they were looking at each other they would appreciate being alone for a bit. And he hadn't meant to offend that butcher, or nearly fall into the baker's stove. He didn't remember much after that; fire caused him to panic and bolt with no clue where he was going since that night. He'd been found hours later, shivering in the Library of Congress.
But it didn't matter, he was punished. "I'm afraid you can't come to the theater with us if you won't stay with people." Uncle Abe had said (8). He kicked a wall in frustration.
"It's bad enough having to keep an eye on you without you throwing a temper tantrum," Charlie said from his spot on the couch with Pierre.
"But I wanted to see My American Cousin!" G.W. replied. He began to pace. Charlie knew most of his frustration came from spending most of the Civil War with Canada (Uncle Matt wasn't there half the time, though he said he was!" "Who?" "…I dunno."), so he just sighed and turned back to Pierre. The room was quiet except for the sounds of the now physically thirteen-year-old capital's footsteps.
Charlie's patience was wearing thin when a dull thud was heard by where G.W. had been pacing. As he turned, he said "Did you trip or knock something…over…" he trailed off at seeing the younger capital motionless on the floor.
In a flash, the other two were at his side. After confirming that he hadn't hit his head, Charlie and Pierre's eyes locked. Only one thing could make a capital just collapse: assassination.
"Monsieur Amérique's boss…" Pierre said.
"We can't do anything about it." Charlie said sadly. "Let's just get him in bed." Pierre nodded, and the two lifted G.W. off of the floor and carried him to his room.
G.W. woke up hours later feeling groggy. He looked around himself, wondering just how he got to his bedroom-the last thing he remembered he had been pacing, and had suddenly felt very dizzy before hearing a faint gunshot and the words "Sic semper tyrranis". (9) He shook his head to clear it and slipped out of bed. Once in the hallway, he came across Charlie walking toward his room. "Good, I was just coming to check on you." he said. "How do you feel?"
"Alright," G.W. responded. "What happened? Did I trip?"
"No…not really. Charlie said slowly. "You just passed out." G.W. stared at him, not quite comprehending. Charlie sighed. "I take it this is your first time. There's no easy way to say this…It's very likely that someone killed Mr. Lincoln."
G.W.'s knees felt weak, and he leaned heavily against the wall. "What…but…no…" He wanted to scream that it was impossible. He wanted Charlie to say he was joking. But somehow, deep down, he knew it was true. He stood there, numb with shock, until Charlie stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. It was then that the tears came.
"Huh? Dad, what're you holding?"
Canada sighed. "I'm Canada."
G.W.'s eyes widened in recognition of his uncle. "OH! Sorry Uncle Matt. But seriously, what are you holding?"
Canada looked down at the bundle in his arms. "This is your cousin, G.W."
"My cousin?" G.W. walked over and peered at the bundle. Sure enough, a blond baby was sleeping in Canada's arms. "You mean…Ottawa's shown up?" Canada nodded. "Cool! When?"
"When Sir Macdonald (10) was elected."
"Wow!"
Canada smiled. "Would you like to hold him?"
"Heck yes!" Canada passed him the baby, gently guiding his arms into the proper positions. "What's his name Uncle Matt?"
"Jean-Claude Williams."
"That sounds all French!" G.W. said with a laugh, causing Jean-Claude to stir. He blearily opened his violet eyes. "He looks a lot like you Uncle Matt."
"That happens a lot. Didn't you notice?"
"Of course! I'm not an idiot!" At the look Canada gave him, he amended "That much."
Her skin was so pale and smooth, it looked like porcelain. It was amazing how her ebony hair caught the light and how her brown eyes sparkled-
"Wow, this girl must be something."
"Wha-!" G.W. jumped, startled, trying to both turn around and untangle himself from the pillow he had been wrapped around at the same time. As a result, he tumbled unceremoniously off of his bed and onto the floor. From the doorway, Charlie and Pierre erupted into fits of laughter.
Red-faced and scowling, he picked himself up. Paris and London were regular visitors of his, and over the years he had come to see them as older brother figures. That included teasing on both ends, and often G.W. frustrated Charlie to no end so that his nickname was now Git.
"You need to learn not to think out loud, Git." Charlie said after his laughter died down. G.W.'s blush deepened as he sat back on his bed. Stupid mouth…
"So," Pierre said as he sauntered over and sat next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Who is the fille?"
G.W. fidgeted. "Tokyo," he murmured. "Dad and I went to visit Mr. Japan to make friends so we can hunt whales in his waters."
"Isn't Mr. Japan in isolation?" Charlie asked, also coming to sit on the bed.
Pierre nodded. "Oui. Papa visited him once, and he wouldn't come out of his room." He smiled in remembrance. "Papa said he would only open the door to see the chaton he had brought."
"Dad didn't give him much choice," G.W. said. "Sakura-that's her name-and I went in another room while they talked." He sighed in longing. "She's so pretty…and fun…"
"Someone's smitten." Charlie said. "At least it's Tokyo. Having a crush on another capital is better than having one on a human."
Pierre laughed. "He would know. Tell him about your first crush." He winked at G.W. "Charlie once had feelings for William the Conqueror." (11)
"Pierre!" Charlie cried. "It's bad enough remembering on my own!" The other two laughed at the flustered Brit, though G.W.'s was short-lived. "What do I do?" he asked them.
"Tell her." Pierre stated simply.
"But what if she laughs at me or thinks I'm creepy? What if she doesn't feel like I do?"
"It would be worse not to know one way or the other." Charlie said.
Pierre nodded. "It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all."
"I don't think that fits, hopeless sap." Charlie responded teasingly. Pierre clutched his heart in mock pain. The two chuckled and leaned in for a kiss, forgetting about G.W. until he said "Would you mind not doing that while I'm sitting between you two?" The comment earned him a pillow to the face that sparked a three-way wrestling match.
So it was that on the next visit to Japan G.W. had every intention of asking Sakura out. He spent the voyage piecing together what he would say and daydreaming about her; he chin-length black hair, her lively brown eyes, and the way she liked to twirl so that the sleeves of her kimono billowed. When they arrived, he recalled her telling him her name meant cherry blossom, so he bought a bouquet of them (Pierre had said flowers were perfect for this situation). Japan gave him a knowing look when he saw the flowers, his fidgeting, and the way his eyes searched for the other capital. "Sakura is in her room, G.W.-kun." he said.
G.W. brightened, bowing like he had seen Japan and Tokyo do, and said "Thank you, Mr. Japan." before making his way to Sakura's room. As he walked, he rehearsed what he would say. "Sakura, I like you a lot. Would you be my girlfriend? Sakura, I like you a lot. Would you be my girlfriend? Sakura, I-" When he approached the door, and excited giggle from behind it stopped him. Sakura's voice came clearly through the paper walls.
"Oh," she said with another giggle. "I'm sure he'll like how I look in this kimono! I'm so happy Otou-san said I could visit him!" G.W. tilted his head curiously. His heartbeat quickened as a thought struck him; maybe she was talking about him! He pressed and ear to the sliding door, eager to hear more.
For a few minutes, all he heard was more giggling, her feet pattering around the room, and snatches of a song he didn't recognize. Finally, she said something.
"Bao-kun, aishite imasu!"
G.W.'s heart plummeted to his toes, taking his stomach with it. He didn't know what that phrase in Japanese meant, but considering the way she had said it and how she had been acting, he had a good guess. Sakura liked someone, a lot, and it wasn't G.W.
The door slid open, and he quickly pasted on a smile while hiding the bouquet behind his back. "Konnichiwa, G.W.-kun!" Sakura said brightly.
"Uh, h-hi Sakura," he replied with fake cheerfulness. "Nice to see you again."
Sakura looked at him, reading something in the atmosphere, but to G.W.'s relief she didn't question it. "It's a beautiful day. Let's walk in the garden!"
"Sure," he replied. He followed her out as she talked in her easily excited way. The flowers disappeared somewhere along the way; Japan would find them hidden in a large vase as he cleaned one day.
G.W. remained friends with Sakura, and never told her about his crush. He didn't get over it until years later, when on a trip to Berlin he saw a despondent blond girl sitting on a couch.
Ingrid was very different from Sakura. She was blond and blue-eyed, just like G.W. Where Sakura's hair was short, neat, and smooth, Ingrid's was long and looked as though all she did with it was give it an obligatory brushing before tying it into low pigtails with tattered ribbons. Sakura's kimonos were always clean and well mended, but streetwise Ingrid's dresses were always torn and dirty, and she once told him that she counted the scuff marks on her shoes daily.
The most significant difference, however, was, in G.W.'s mind, their eyes. Sakura's were full of life, excitement, and energy. In Ingrid's blue orbs, however, was sadness, longing, and a flash of inner steel. She was a girl of action; if she didn't like something, she'd do something.
G.W. met her when she was in the middle of a situation she certainly didn't like but could do nothing about. America had caught wind of the wall that separated her side of the city from her brother's and decided to see it for himself. G.W. had begged to tag along, wanting to meet the girl his dad had talked about for years.
"The Hero is here!" America called out as they entered the house. G.W. said "And his son too!" in a normal tone, seeing as Germany was right in front of them. The man nodded to them in greeting. "Guten tag America, G.W." As the adults began talking, G.W. slipped away and began looking for Ingrid.
He found her in the living room, staring blankly at the wall above the T.V. He started at the sight; she looked so sad, and like she had so much pain. It reminded him of when he saw Charlie after America finally entered World War II. The Blitz had left him covered in burn and shrapnel wounds, and the pain coupled with the many deaths had left his eyes looking empty, like how Ingrid's were now. Pierre had been captured, so he couldn't be there, and G.W. had tended to him-repayment for that day in 1814.
G.W. did not want to see anyone else like that. So from the moment he laid eyes on West Berlin, he resolved to make her smile.
He almost blew it. His mouth got ahead of him and he ended up saying something about "Soviet territory", which was what her brother was. As she turned away from him, he realized his mistake, and his frantic apologies and rants about his stupidity caused her to smile, if only so he wouldn't feel so bad about himself. When they went to lunch together, he noticed how she disinterestedly sipped at her water, and he knew she hadn't eaten in a while when she devoured the meal he ordered for her.
From then on he would go with America on his trips to Berlin. Each time, he and Ingrid would have a meal or two together, and walk around her half of the city, always starying away from the Wall.
"So, Charlie came by to visit, and I couldn't wait to show him how cool I looked with my new sunglasses." G.W. said one day, telling her about how he started wearing sunglasses on his head. "And England was there too, because he and Dad had started getting along again. Anyway, Dad told me to put the sunglasses lower so they were just above my eyes. Then he said 'See Iggy, with the sunglasses on his head he looks just like you!' And England said 'Shut up, you bloody git! I don't wear glasses!' which got me, Charlie and Dad laughing, and when he realized we were making fun of his eyebrows, he was furious!" G.W. laughed at the memory. Then, to his surprise, Ingrid started laughing too. It shocked him, because when she wasn't sad she seemed to have taken stoicism lessons from Germany. The sound sent tingles down his spine, and he wanted badly to hear it again.
It was probably then that he realized he was falling in love with her.
"Charlie, what am I supposed to give a totally awesome, tough-as-nails German girl for Christmas?"
"Jean-Claude, what kind of pictures should I put in this locket?"
"Sir, do you think you could engrave this for me?"
Grinning, G.W. slipped the small box in his pocket as he walked back to where he'd left Ingrid. The locket was a great idea! Sure Ingrid wasn't into girly things, but Charlie had pointed out that lockets weren't always girly. After he had managed to find a picture of her brother Hans, he became stumped on if he should leave the other window empty or maybe find a picture of Germany or Prussia. When Jean-Claude suggested putting in his own picture as a way of letting her know how he felt, G.W. had almost broken his cousin's ribs in a hug.
His eyes caught sight of a commotion where he had left Ingrid and he picked up the pace. A couple of boys went flying; his dad was involved. He arrived just in time to hear Ingrid, nose bleeding and bruises slowly forming, scream at America.
"You promised I'd get bruder back, and look! A wall separates us! Your promises are empty!" At that, she turned and ran, brushing past the stunned G.W., who found himself unable to move for a second. Ingrid must have gotten into a fight, and America had stepped in, playing hero. Ingrid's emotions had chosen that moment to boil over.
G.W. ran after her. She'd gotten a sizable head start, and once or twice he lost sight of her. He rounded one lase corner and was met with the sight of a tall, long concrete wall covered in graffiti; the Berlin Wall.
Ingrid was kneeling in front of it, a hand on the surface. Not once in ten years had she shown any desire to go near it, let along touch it. "Bruder…" she said, her voice barely audible to him. "What life worth without you?"
G.W. was not going to have her thinking that if he could help it. "It's worth living so that you're still around the day you get to see his face again." he said, causing her to whirl around. He walked over and knelt beside her. "I heard what you said to Dad."
Ingrid's face hardened. "Are you going to tell me he's the hero, and I shouldn't get mad at him?"
"Are you kidding? If I had a nickel for every time someone was justified in wanting to throttle him, I could've prevented the Great Depression!" G.W. laughed at his own joke, hoping Ingrid would join in like she had sometimes before. When she didn't, he let it die with a sigh. "Ingrid, do you know why my dad made that promise?" Maybe if she understood where America was coming from, she'd actually believe the promise.
"He just wanted an opportunity to play hero." Ingrid's tone was bitter and cynical.
"No, that's…" G.W. started to protest, but stopped himself. He wasn't that much of an idiot. "Well, I'm sure that's part of it, actually." They were talking about America, after all. "But the rest…" he trailed off. He knew his dad's motives, but wasn't sure how to explain them. He had an idea, but…oh, what the heck. He started to remove his coat, and action that did not go unnoticed by Ingrid. "G.W., what are you doing? It's freezing!"
"I have to show you something." was all he said. Once his coat was off, he moved on to the white button-up shirt and American flag T-shirt that had become part of his signature look as of late. When the T-shirt cleared his head, he heard Ingrid gasp as she took in the scars on his chest, stomach, shoulders, and back, remnants of the Burning of Washington. Speaking softly, he briefly told her of the fire, and of America's fear as he carried him to safety. His eyes meeting Ingrid's, he said "When Dad saw Hans' warning to you, and the way Germany held you that night, it reminded him of that. Look, I don't know how long it will take, or if Dad will have anything to do with it, but I'm sure the Wall will come down. You've just gotta have hope."
He could tell how badly she wanted to believe him, but she lowered her gaze and whispered "Hope just seems to slip through my fingers."
Determined to see a smile, he said "Then I'll just have to hold onto enough for both of us!" When Ingrid laughed a little, he inwardly fist pumped as he reached into the pocket of his discarded coat, saying "Now, for the reason I had to leave you…" He drew out the small box. "I've never been able to visit during December before, so…Merry Christmas."
Granted, this wasn't how he had imagined giving her the locket, but he eagerly watched her open the box, followed by-at his prompting-the locket itself. Her breath caught at seeing the pictures. "Hans…" she breathed.
"Someone took pictures of you two the day you appeared." G.W. explained, inwardly deflating. She didn't seem to have noticed the other picture. "Do you like it?"
Her reply came breathlessly. "Yes…" He gently took it from her hands and clasped it around her neck. As he drew back, Ingrid stopped him by grabbing his arms.
"Ingrid," he said, confused. "I gotta put my shirt on. I'm cold-"
He broke off when warm lips pressed against his, startling him. His brain shuddered to a halt, then started up again. Ingrid's kissing me, he thought. She's kissing me! Without another thought, he closed his eyes and relaxed, kissing back.
Too soon, they pulled apart, and Ingrid smiled at him. "Warm now?"
A bit dazed, G.W. was for once short of words. "Yeah…"
"Good," Ingrid laid her head on his chest. "Merry Christmas."
G.W. could only think one thing.
Best. Christmas present. Ever.
"Wow…"
It was only one word, spoken in a strong German accent that turned the first "w" into a "v", and so soft as to be barely audible, but it was enough for the bow to still on the strings, for blue eyes to tear themselves away from the sheet music, and for G.W. to lower his violin, turning to see Ingrid in the doorway of his room. He smiled at his girlfriend. "Oh, hey. I didn't hear you come in."
"I figured," she responded, stepping further into the room so that he could see her twin brother Hans behind her. "We've been waiting for twenty minutes."
"Ah, sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I started playing and lost track of time."
Hans shook his head as he came in. "With you, people would think you meant video games." he commented amusedly. "I never would have guessed you played the violin."
G.W. laughed. "Honestly, I never feel the need to mention it."
"How long have you been playing?" Ingrid asked as Hans wandered over to a picture frame on his wall.
"Pretty much my whole life. I started when I was barely big enough to hold one. Uncle Thomas taught me, along with how to read and write."
"Well, you're really good."
"Thanks."
"G.W.," Hans spoke up, still looking at the picture frame. "Who's Philip?"
G.W. glanced over. The frame contained his most treasured possession; a piece of thick printing paper, yellowed with age, its only adornment the words "Printed on October 17 1782 by Philip Jones in the printshop of B. Franklin" in plain black text. "Oh, heh, that's me." The twins gave him odd looks, so he elaborated. "See when Dad found me, the capital was in Philadelphia, in Pennsylvania. So Dad named me Philip. After they started building my city, I changed my name. I never like Philip."
"I agree." Ingrid said. "G.W. suits you better."
"Yes, it does." Hans agreed.
G.W. laughed and added in "It sounds way more heroic!"
The twins gave exasperated eye-rolls, and Ingrid said "What is it with Americans saying they're the hero?"
"I'm not the hero," G.W. said, confusing Ingrid and Hans. That's Dad. I needed a more heroic name because…"
He put on his blinding grin, identical to his father's, and winked, giving a "thumbs up" sign.
"I'm the hero's son!"
And done! *dies* That took so long DX.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Please review!
Translations:
Mon Dieu! Est-il malade?-My God! Is he sick?
Petit garçon-little boy
viens-ici-come here
Vas, vite!-go, quickly!
Belle-beautiful
Pense, Amérique-Think, America
Son visage-His face
Écoute-listen
Felicitations, Amérique. Tu es un père-Congratulations, America. You're a father.
Lectrissy-what I imagine a cute little toddler might say when trying to say "electricity"
Fille-girl
Chaton-kitten
Otou-san-Father
Aishite imasu-I love you
Konnichiwa-Hello
(1) This sensation America is feeling is basically him connecting with his capital.
(2) I imagine Ben speaking from experience on this-his own son was a Loyalist and left during the Revolution. Ben never really talked to him after that, except to just drop by and take over raising his grandson. Also, the turkey thing, I'm not sure if that's true, but I heard he figured out how to store electricity in jars and tried to cook a large turkey with it, but ended up shocking himself.
(3) Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, John Adams, and Sam Adams, some of the Founding Fathers.
(4) I figured Grandpa George would be appropriate, since Washington is known as "The Father of Our Country".
(5) Roger Sherman, delegate from Connecticut at the Constitutional Convention. Came up with the Great Compromise, also known as the Connecticut Compromise, separating the legislative branch of the American government into two parts; the Senate, where each state has two representatives, and the House of Representatives, which has less power than the Senate and where representation is based on population.
(6) I imagine that as talk of war started, someone explained it to G.W., and also explained that one often tried to capture the enemy's capital. Naturally, for someone as young as G.W. (mentally and physically), this would be very scary.
(7) The Burning of Washington in 1814 was revenge for America burning Canada's capital, but we often credit the British for it. The fire was only for public and government buildings, and there were some ladies who convinced the general in charge, General Cockburn, not to burn the building of a newspaper that had mocked him because it was too close to their homes. He had it demolished instead, and every "C" of their movable type destroyed so they couldn't write about him anymore.
(8) G.W. calls all of the Presidents "Uncle", like with the Founding Fathers. They actually have to deal with disciplining him, because seriously, America can be a great dad but I can imagine him being a bit too laid-back about punishment…
(9) The words John Wilkes Booth shouted as he jumped out of the President's Box and onto the stage at Ford's theater right after shooting Lincoln.
(10) The back of my school's agenda lists the first Canadian Prime Minister as Sir John A. Macdonald.
(11) William the Conqueror was the Duke of Normandy, a French guy. In 1066, he conquered England and became king.