The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
-
-
September, 2010; London, England
-
"Hey, England? Have you seen my shoes?"
England can't see anything other than the inside of his own eyelids, and he'd prefer it to stay that way. He opens his mouth to tell America as much, but discovers in the process that he can't quite summon up sufficient energy to speak. Instead, he just grunts in what he hopes is a suitably negative-sounding fashion, and then turns over, dragging the duvet along with him, pulling it close around himself in an effort to trap the lingering remnants of America's body heat against his skin.
"I swear I left them right here," America continues in his normal speaking voice, which sounds cacophonously loud at whatever ungodly hour of far-too-fucking-early in the morning it is.
England likes to ease into the day gently and quietly, with a lukewarm shower followed by lukewarm tea, and, most importantly, with all conversations before eight o'clock - if they honestly can't be postponed to a more reasonable time - conducted in hushed, measured tones.
He puts his pillow over his head along, and then holds its ends down, covering his ears.
Unfortunately, his makeshift earplugs do little to muffle the noise of America slapping his hands down on the floor in exasperation, nor the subsequent racket he makes as he stomps around the room, opening and then slamming closed drawers and wardrobe doors.
England deliberately slows and deepens his breathing, but to no avail. What little drowsy warmth he'd managed to hold onto when America first slipped out of his bed has seeped away from his body, and with it, any chance he might have had at getting back to sleep, even though it's only...
He lifts one corner of the pillow, and glances at the clock on his bedside table. The glowing numbers proclaim it to be six o'clock. Not as bad as England had anticipated, but still far-too-fucking-early for him to be up when he has no need to be.
"Why don't you come back to bed?" he thus suggests. "We can look for your shoes together later."
"I can't," America says, sounding gratifyingly rueful, but adamant all the same. "I've got that big meeting back home tomorrow, remember? I'll never make it if I miss my flight. Look, I'm just going to—"
He doesn't finish his warning before turning the light on, and even through England screws his eyes tightly closed as quickly as possible, it's too late. The sudden brightness feels to pierce his head all the way through to the back of his skull, snapping his mind into full alertness.
He sighs, and starts pushing himself up into a sitting position. "I'll help you look," he says.
-
-
There is no evidence of America's shoes in any of their more usual habitats, such as the porch, hallway floor, or kicked under one of the sofas in the living room, so England widens his search to encompass the unusual. He searches the pantry, cellar, and attic, even though he hasn't seen America so much as step a foot inside them, on this visit or any of his previous ones.
He very nearly doesn't check the garden, reasoning there's no possible chance that the shoes could have found their way there. It's been pissing it down without pause for the entire duration of America's brief stay, and he and England hadn't ventured outside once as a consequence.
But there, in the garden, they are, nestled beneath one of England's rosebushes.
America, when England calls him over to collect them, doesn't seem perturbed by their bizarre location. He's in too much of a panicky rush by that point, seemingly, and just pours out the rainwater that has collected within them, shoves them on his feet, and - after pressing a fleeting kiss to England's cheek - hurries away to jump in the waiting taxi that will take him to the airport.
England, however, lingers in the garden long after America has left, staring down at the shallow depressions that the shoes had pressed into the recently-turned soil of his flower bed.
Whilst randomly relocating footwear is far from the most terrifying manifestation of the art he's ever encountered, it does have the unmistakable whiff of magic about it. Quite literally, in fact. When England leans forward to check, there's a faint hint of burning sulphur - of spent magic - clinging to the leaves of his rosebush.
If his morning's inconvenience had been the work of a curse, then it had been of the very mildest and pettiest kind. The kind that Scotland had delighted in laying upon him when they were children.
He can't think of anything he might have done recently to warrant such treatment - much less what America might have done; it had been his shoes that had gone walkabouts, after all - but where he and Scotland were concerned, no excuse was too small.
And the curse was so small that it's not really worth expending the magic it would take to retaliate against it. England should be the bigger man. He should—
He can imagine Scotland's smirking face with horrible clarity; how smug he must be, thinking of the frustrations he'd brought to England's day from afar.
When he returns to the house, England heads straight down to his cellar, where his spell books are stored, and spends the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon reading up on the sort of curses that might be suitable for revenge.
-
-
The next time America stays the night at England's, his glasses have disappeared the bedside table when they awake. England finds them behind one of the bookcases in his library.
The next time, it's the keys to his hire car, which eventually resurface in the middle of a pile of towels that are stacked in the airing cupboard.
When he tracks America's lost mobile phone down to the boot of his Bentley, England finally recognises that there's a pattern to all of it.
-
-
"I know it was you, because I found everything that was stolen stashed away in your favourite hideyholes," England tells George, hunkering down on his haunches to bring himself closer to the gnome's diminutive level.
George stares up at him, its pitch black eyes glittering and, to England's mind, looking thoroughly unrepentant.
"Well, it stops now. It's just not on. America's my guest, and in this house, guests are to be treated with respect. Understand?"
As George can barely understand more than three words of human speech by England's last count, it's doubtful it does understand, but its wrinkled little face does contort into an expression which chooses England chooses to interpret as thoughtful. Likely, it's simply reacting to the stern tone of his voice, but England has found just that to be an effective curative for his fae's more obnoxious conduct in the past, where reasoning with them is impossible.
"Just... Just stay out of America's way in the future," he says, gingerly giving the gnome's tiny shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "And please leave his belongings alone."
George bobs its head in what looks to be an accepting nod, its mouth splitting wide in a grin, showing off every one of its jagged, yellowing predator's teeth.
-
-
America's belongings do remain safe on his next visit, which is more that can be said for the nation himself.
He and England had just settled down together on the sofa in the living room after dinner, where England was to be subjected to one of America's dreadful, far-fetched films about bad CGI aliens that he'd somehow been cajoled into watching, and the instant America slides his arm around England's shoulders, drawing him close against his side, George manifests at their feet in a puff of glittering smoke.
Before England can react, George opens its mouth and sinks its teeth deep into America's leg.
"You little shit!" England says, lunging for the gnome, but it pops out of the material plane again before he can close his hands around its scrawny little throat.
"What the hell was that?" America asks, rubbing at his calf where pinpricks of blood are already starting to well through the fabric of his jeans. "It felt like something bit me!"
"It did," England says, patting America's bowed back apologetically. "It was one of my fae, I'm afraid."
Although America no longer reacts to England's talk of the fae with the derision he used to, but, lacking the Sight and, before now, lacking any evidence of their existence, he's still a sceptic. He rolls his eyes a little. "Why would it do that?"
"I have absolutely no idea," England has to admit.
-
-
Two weeks and countless hours of research later, England's still clueless, and - very reluctantly - concedes he may benefit from an outside perspective on the matter. To that end, he invites Scotland and Wales to partake of a few beers together at his local, where they always get most of their best thinking done.
Two heads are better than one, after all. And three should surely get to the root of the matter in no time.
"It sounds like it's jealous to me," Scotland says after England has finished his account of George's recent forays into petty larceny and unprovoked violence.
Or perhaps not.
"Jealous?" England repeats dubiously. "I'm not sure they're capable of it. I've certainly never seen one act like this before. Do any of your fae ever get jealous?"
"There's nothing for them to get jealous of," Wales says, morosely peering down into the rapidly dwindling depths of his pint.
England ignores him, not wanting to risk getting drawn into yet another uncomfortable conversation about the current woeful state of Wales' love life, and turns in his seat to make it clear it that he's giving Scotland his full attention, instead.
Scotland rewards this partiality by taking his sweet time about answering. He drains his own pint, then nods meaningfully at the bar, all in silence.
When England returns with a fresh round of drinks, he finally sees fit to say, "Naw, the ùruisg love France." He frowns. "Perhaps a little too much, actually. They keep stealing his hair; snatching it off the bristles of his brush and the like, you ken. Turns out they've built themselves a little nest, or shrine, or something out of it up in my attic."
"How odd," England says, but only because he doesn't want to antagonise his brother when he still needs his help. Privately, though, he doesn't think it particularly strange behaviour. The fae are often mirrors to their nations, and he wouldn't be at all surprised to discover that Scotland had made his own creepy hair-shrine-thing at some point in the past.
"Aye, but me and France... They've had centuries to get used to it, right? Your fae, they're used to you being..." Scotland flushes slightly, and he takes a turn at contemplating the inside of this pint glass instead of meeting England's eyes. "Well, they always had your undivided attention before, and this thing with America's still really new to them, isn't it. They probably just need some more time to come round to the idea."
"Fantastic." England groans. "And what do you suggest I do in the interim? I don't want America to get bitten again, but I have no intention of stopping inviting him to stay, either."
He doesn't want George to think he's won and succeeded in driving him off, in any case.
Scotland just shrugs uselessly, but Wales pipes up with: "I wonder if training George might help? I used positive reinforcement with my gwyllgi when he started chasing cats, and it worked wonders."
"But George isn't a dog, Wales. Spectral or otherwise."
"Well, it can't hurt to try," Wales insists. "Do you have any better ideas?"
England doesn't. "I suppose I can give it a go," he says.
-
-
Notes:
-
ùruisg - brownies
gwyllgi - spectral black dog of Wales