INTRO

This fic is based on the strip "Davie" and episode 6 of World Twinkle. It is my first fic, but one of the only few that will be canonverse. Thank you and enjoy!


America sweeps his black and gold fountain pen across the last of his paperwork.

"Hell yeah! I'm finally done!" He cries in relief.

An official pokes his head through the door, signaling for America to please try to be a little more considerate of the time and place. Which, apparently, happened to be a government office.

America quickly sits down, reevaluating his outburst, before he decides that it doesn't matter. He is Mr. United States, and such a small little action can't have that big of an effect on his reputation. Besides, those who worked with him him knew that his little outbursts were pretty common.

America grabs his glasses and jacket and breezes past the guard at the front door.

"Wait! Mr. America! You need an escort!" The guard hurried after him.

America laughs, and his loud voice travels through the empty halls. "Dude, is this your first day? As if anyone can bring down these babies." He flexes his biceps, which were lighter in tone than his previous summers. America's expression frowned slightly at the sight. Now, there is another reason to head out.

With a whoop, America dashes down the stairs. The security guard, too slow to catch up, falls behind, huffing for breath. Another man walks up to him, giving him a sympathetic pat on the back and laughs good-naturedly. "You're probably new. This...is a very common occurrence around here. At least he got his work finished this time."

America grabs the railings on the staircase, hoisting himself onto them right as he was running. Gravity and his momentum brings him soaring down, and he felt as free as a bird. He makes sure to balance himself as he goes, very careful not to fall. Though it didn't exactly matter. Even if he got hurt, small wounds like those would heal in a matter of hours. But if he got a single scratch on him, his boss would always somehow find out, and give him another long lecture about being reckless again.

As America leaps down the last staircase, he flashes a smile to the woman sitting at the front desk, provoking another "Be careful now, Mr. America!" As he ran out the door.

"Fresh air!" He exclaims. Finally. He missed the freedom of the blue sky. Today, it was free of clouds, making them look astonishingly clear, and big.

America begins to walk to slow his heart rate down. Once in a while, he would wave to a passing civilian. If they knew who he was, their eyes would widen at the encounter and they'd wave back excitedly. If they didn't know who he was, they'd give a polite smile and nod, suddenly feeling a bit heartened for some unknown reason.

America digs around for his car keys in his many pockets before he found them. He slid it into the lock of his 1990 burgundy F-150 and hops in, starting up the engine. It took a few tries—his car is old, but it held a lot of memories, and America never had the heart to throw it out. When the engine finally turns over, a radio station blasted a certain country song.

America whistles a merry tune along with the music and backs up into the road. He heads for the countryside, back to the old house.

.

Like the truck, America's old house is also something he never found the heart to abandon. The crusty, rundown thing had already been and patched up several times. White paint was peeling from both the exterior and interior walls. The doors are stubborn and refuse to open, creaking as America forces his way inside. The place is always covered with cobwebs and dust, no matter how often America cleaned.

It looks like an old stuffed animal that had gone through years of love and wear, with a child who tried to mend all its broken parts. It doesn't seem to be able to take anymore repairs. Still, America holds onto it like it was his most prized trophy.

After dropping off some of his belongings, America heads outside to the garden and picks a large tree with good shade. He plops down, back leaning against the trunk. The summer breeze feels good against the heat, and birds sing songs amidst the tangle of branches and leaves.

Looking out the field, America sees a house in the distance. It felt a bit nostalgic, though he can't remember why. It was as old as his own, but had been sitting in neglect and vacancy for years. It had already fallen into ruins, which made the old nation a bit sad.

America feels better, however, as he spots flowers growing over the house. They had spread from the very field that was behind his house: a pale shade of indigo, thin stems clinging onto the earth for dear life.

They were everywhere. A beautiful, but invasive, species. From a distance, they almost look like waves rolling along the beach shore. Their rustling mimic the ocean currents, splashes of water against water.

America sighs. It's that season again. How many years have gone by already, since he had planted them? He can't seem to remember the reason for planting the flowers. He does recall that they were originally from England, and that he had taken the great effort to search far and wide for them before he found them. But why...?

The face of a boy comes to mind. Golden-brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles on his cheeks. The overalls he wore were from an older era.

America wonders who the boy was. Was he the one he wanted to find the flowers for? The face is very familiar. When he forces his brain to think harder, he suddenly finds a name.

Davie.

The name makes his heart lurch. His breaths quickened, and he has to calm himself down.

Once he did, he gave a final sigh that seemed to drain all of the earlier burst of energy out of him. America's eyelids begins to droop. He doesn't want to think about it anymore; it took too much work and it made him vey confused. The world falls into a soothing rhythm around him. The rustling begins to sound like murmuring voices.

As America closes his eyes, he realizes that the voices sounded closer to the laughter of two children.