Tomorrow Will Be Kinder (I Promise)

England coughs as he peers through the haze of smoke that fills his basement. He hopes Scotland isn't dead down there. It would only mean more work for him, and as much as his siblings seem to think he enjoys the paperwork, England would really rather be reading Shakespeare, Dickens, or Rowling by a fire with a cuppa in hand. Waving a hand in front of his face to get rid of the thinning smoke blocking his vision, England takes one step down the creaky stairs.

"Are you down here Scotland?" he calls, squinting in hopes of seeing something in the dimly lit room. An object whistles through the air. Dodging thanks to the reflexes he's built from years of war, England knows it would have squarely hit him in the head if he weren't as well trained. He hears whatever it was that flew by shatter behind him. Twisting his head around, England sees that the object was a bottle. Now, it's broken and oozing some acidic concoction–if the way his carpet sizzles is anything to go by, anyway. More than a little irritated, England shouts, "Oi! What was that for you wanker?"

A cut-off scream comes from below, it is soon followed by running feet and several more breakable items flying at him. Dodging nearly every one, he is almost against one side of the stairwell when a small body attempts to brush past him. "Hey!" England cries as he manages to grab what he thinks is an arm.

"Lemme go!" the tiny creature screams, lashing out with feet and teeth.

"Ah! Hey!" England yips, shimmying around the fighting figure.

"I'll kill ya! I swear ta ya!" they–a girl–yell.

Looking down at the girl, England is confronted with a familiar strong jaw, a messy red braid, and jade green eyes. Blinking, England whispers, "Scotland? Wilma?"

The girl stills for a moment, glaring up with hard eyes. "Yeah, who're ya?" she demands.

Coming down to his knees, England can't stop the horrified expression that overcomes his features. "Oh, Wil, don't youknow?"

The girl scowls more and crosses her arms. "Should I?" she sneers.

Point at himself, he whispers, "I'm England."

The girl scoffs. "He's just a runt."

Sighing, England asks gently, "Do you know where you are?" As an uncertain gleam comes to the child's eye, England presses, "Do you usually find yourself in people's basements? Does anything seem familiar to you?"

Scotland doesn't speak for a long while, her no more than ten-year-old face searching her surroundings and then, England's face. Finally, her young hands reach out to his eyes, tracing them with tenderness that is unusual to his sister. "I 'member those," she breathes, "I 'member that green."

England nods at this. "Okay, that's something," he said. "Do you trust me enough to believe me when I say you were much older before?" he inquires. Scotland's always been so doubtful of intentions and any good a person may perchance do (especially for her).

Her nose scrunches in a mixture of hesitation and irritation. "Duh, ya were barely waist-high the last time I saw ya," she grumbles.

England chuckles. "I'm glad." He sighs. "Now, why don't you come with me and we'll talk a bit more in the kitchen over tea."

Scotland seems to consider this. Soon enough she nods her head and says, "Yeah, fer a bit."

Sipping her tea–which she really likes–Scotland swings her legs beneath the table and answers her younger (or is it older?) brother's questions in shrugs and high and low hums. Sitting up a little straighter, Scotland asks her first question since they settled in the kitchen. "Where are Ireland an' Wales?"

Setting his mug down, England turns his head thoughtfully. Scotland easily picks up that he's deciding what to tell her. "Well," he begins, "they have their own homes–you do too–but you were over the other night on business and–oh, Northern Ireland does live here. You'll meet him later," he explains.

The girl considers the information carefully. Her brothers and her don't live together anymore, but that's not really a surprise, she supposes. They're all grown, after all. So, she decides to ask more about this new brother. "Northern Ireland, huh?" she remarks inquisitively.

England nods. "I'll find you a map later," he says. "You see, we once you, me, Wales and Ireland were all one big nation called the United Kingdom. A while back, Ireland decided to separate. However, a fraction of Ireland ended up staying with the UK. So, it took on its own personification." He smiles then. "He's called North," he tells her.

Scotland studies the smile that lingers on her brother's face. He seems strangely fond of this younger nation. Though, he has been looking at her with a similar smile since they came up for tea too, perhaps England just has a thing for young nations? Hunching back into her seat, she hopes the interest he has is innocent, not like–

"What do they all look like now?" she demands a bit too forcefully in an attempt to push away the stream of displeasing memories that are starting to come to her mind's eye.

England's face lights up. "I can show you," he says, getting up. The blond then walks over to the counter and brings over a strange, shiny, flat object. Flipping it open, it makes a whirring noise as England taps his fingers on the funnily lettered squares. "Here," he murmurs, pushing it at her.

Fumbling with it, Scotland only glances at the standing part once she's fixed the oddly light book-thing the way it was in front of England. She gasps. It's a small group, but she recognizes them. She sees England, frowning in a chair, Wales just as lithe as England, but far calmer, seated a little higher on the arm of said chair beside England. Wales even grins mischievously at whoever painted the picture and then there's Ireland smirking and tall, hand squeezing England's opposite shoulder and next to him–it's her! Taking in the womanly figure and smiling face, Scotland dreams longingly of the person she will be, looking a little off to the side, she notices a skinny boy standing half a foot away from the rest of them fiddling with something (a rock? A toy?) in his hands.

"That's us?" she whispers awe.

England smiles at her. "It is," he answers.

Scotland feels tears pool in her eyes. Chewing her lip, she scrubs them away with her arm and says fiercely, "I want that, I want it so bad."

Her brother's hand reaches across the table and rests it lightly on her own. "You'll have it," he promises. "It took a great deal of time and effort, but we're nearly the family I think we all want," England explains to her.

Getting up from her chair, Scotland, in a rare show of affection, comes around the table and hugs her little brother that isn't so little around the neck and begs, "Please don't be lyin'."

England pats her small back, but doesn't say a word. Distrusting what experience has taught her, Scotland chooses to believe his lack of verbal reassurance and in favor of the physical kind means England wants her to feel that this family of hers is solid, based here in reality–not in sounds that fade and can be forgotten.

Female!De-aged!Scotland, that's different, wouldn't you say?

Thank you very much for reading and please review.

EDITED: 2/5/16