AN: I don't even know where this came from. I've been trying to work on the next chapter of Kizuato Ga Nokoru, I've been working on another NiChu one-shot (that might not be posted for a while, everyone pray for Japan), and I've been planning out an AU UKUS fic on top of everything else that's being planned, like an eventual Rus/Prus and the AU NiChu fic that only needs to be written now. Well, today in German, I was studying for APUSH and this idea came to me: What if America isn't the hero he thinks he is? What came out was a very depressing drabble that may or may not have developed a plot…should I continue it? Please let me know if you like it. Thanks for reading!
To be a hero, that was all he ever wanted. Nothing more, nothing less. He spent his entire life striving for heroism, to be someone people could count on to save them, to protect them. He longed to be a symbol of freedom, of liberty, of democracy, of what is right.
He had been unable to do that.
He could only apologize again and again to the trembling nation before him. The poor European country was being sent back to a world of abuse once again. It wasn't his fault. The Depression had come so quickly; there was nothing that could be done about it. But why did the Baltic nation have to suffer? Heroes always protected people from what would hurt them. He couldn't do that.
There was nothing he could do when the Iron Curtain descended across Europe. He was supposed to be better than the Soviet Union! Why couldn't he do anything but apologize and apologize? He had never seen Austria so crushed, almost heartbroken. Germany had…no, he didn't want to think about that, about Germany's face when the Soviet Union had ripped his brother away. Hungary had…begged, pleaded for help and assistance. "The Soviets are coming!" she had cried desperately. But he couldn't help her, he couldn't fight the Soviet Union. Explaining why to Austria had been the hardest thing that he had ever done. A hero would have done something about it. Something, anything.
He had almost killed Japan. He remembered it so clearly. He remembered his boss ordering it, he remembered flying over their target, and he remembered dropping the bomb. Bombs. He regretted it the moment they exploded. He had tried to rebuild Japan, help the Asian nation heal. He could only do so much. He couldn't take away the years of radiation poisoning the man had suffered through. He couldn't bring back the lives that were lost, he couldn't erase the scars the raven-haired nation now bore. A hero wouldn't have attacked someone so brutally.
He couldn't save China from communism. He couldn't bring about Korean reunification. Trying to help Vietnam only hurt the small nation even more. He failed them. He failed them all.
Perhaps his biggest failure as a hero was betraying the one who loved him the most. He could still see the trembling nation, reduced to sobs. Never before had the all-powerful…empire…seemed so small, so vulnerable.
England never had completely forgiven him, had he?
America sighed as he watched the waves lick the rocks that stuck out in the water below. Leaning against a thick tree, he gave a stone near the toe of his foot a good kick, watching as it shot down into the water.
No, he still saw the hurt that shone in the former empire's emerald eyes when they met America's own blue.
Not just in England's eyes, but in everyone's eyes. He had failed them all.
"What in the world would possibly compel you to come out here, you git?" A thick accent shouted from behind him. America turned his gaze back to the road at the sound of the smaller nation's voice. The Briton stomped over to Alfred, hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt as he hunched against the fierce wind.
"Hey dude," he grimaced as he heard himself; he sounded so monotone. No, he didn't want to look at the island nation. He turned to the view in front of him, of the cliff that dropped off only a few feet away, the long fall that followed, the crashing waves that waited below.
The American felt the Briton approach him, leaning against the tree next to him. Not wanting to meet England's face, Alfred continued to stare steadily at the ground, shifting uncomfortable before kicking another rock off the cliff.
"Alfred…" He winced at the sound of the accented voice. The tone was almost fearful. Cautiously raising his eyes from the ground, he allowed his blue to meet the brilliant green of the man in front of him. Those bushy eyebrows were furrowed in…concern.
A heavy gust of wind blew through the area, almost shaking the tree behind the two nations. Next to him, England had hunched closer to the American, his blonde hair flying area with the wind.
"Let's go, Alfred. This is no place to be right now," Arthur stated firmly, grabbing America's arm and pulling the taller man away and back to the road.
Maybe he'd been wrong, America thought as rain began to fall heavily with another gust a wind.