Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.
Characters: England and America
Word Count: 1901, because I had way too much fun with this one.
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.
Warnings: England being politically incorrect.
"Absolutely not. Under any circumstances."
America's eyes widened as though he'd been slapped.
"But why?" he asked, voice inching higher and speaking of unimaginable betrayal.
"Because it's completely improper," England replied as severely as he could whilst standing in a nightgown. "Children sleep in their own beds. It isn't up for discussion."
Just behind the ragged left ear of his stuffed bear, the small pink lip began to quiver. England, however, was standing firm on this. They may not have had the most money and this may have been a vast, lonely country, but that was no excuse for a lack of discipline. Caving to every single night terror...perhaps that dirty frog France indulged in that sort of depraved, indulgent parenting, but this was his colony, by God, and he was going to bring his colony up properly.
"I can't go back! There are sounds outside my window! They're going to kill me if I go back in there!"
Even if said colony was looking over his shoulder into the black hallway as though it were equipped with a set of teeth.
"Those are just ordinary night noises and they are most certainly not going to 'kill you,'" England informed, even as he wrestled the softening in his heart, trying to keep it from reaching his eyes. "Now, you're going to turn around, go to your room, close your eyes, and go to sleep."
"Please!"
"No!"
"I'm scared!"
"Alfred!"
America gave a faint, thick, broken hiccup, trying valiantly not to cry; to keep a stiff upper lip, just as England had always instructed him. Through shimmering eyes as blue as the summer horizon, he stared balefully at his guardian.
England stared back.
America sniffed.
England sighed.
"Just this once."
The words had scarcely passed his lips, tasting heavily of his own weakness, when America's arms were around his waist and his cheek nuzzling the thick material of his evening wear. England gave him a loose embrace, inwardly cursing himself all the while. "Yes, yes...come on. Into bed with you before I change my mind." Moments later, the boy was flying past and burrowing into his sheets.
Well...well, it weren't as though anyone else needed to know. And in any case, who were they to judge? It may have been the custom of some other countries, less enlightened countries, to send their frightened children away into the dark, heedless of how it may affect their growth and development...he was not so negligent! And he would have at anyone who dared suggest he was! Thus decided, he returned to his bed with an entirely clear resolve...and didn't object when America nestled into the space between his arm and chest, golden cowlick bobbing like a little quail's.
"I really did hear sounds, ya know," the boy whispered. England reminded him that they were in the middle of the forest, surrounded by literally hundreds of noises on any given night. "Not like that. Really bad sounds, the scary kind. Loud ones."
"Likely just some foxes courting."
"What's courting?"
"Playing games. Go to sleep, now." America's eyes closed obediently, remaining so some thirty seconds later, when the voice rose again.
"England? Are there foxes where you live, too?"
"There are."
"And cows?"
"And cows, plenty of cows."
A breeze outside picked up, setting the tree limbs scraping the walls.
"...And birds?"
"America, we have all of those things in England. We have everything there. No more talking. Go to sleep."
To his endless surprise, America proceeded to do just that, nodding and uttering a "'night, England" that made him feel as though his centuries-old store of inner grit and fortitude had just been breached and replaced with several thousand baby chicks. The child's breath began to fall on his neck in little puffs that smelled of the berries he had been eating all day; if there had ever been an Arthur Kirkland who pillaged shores and swallowed rum like clear water, here was the proof of his undoing.
Slender, scrubbed fingers closed around a swatch of excess fabric, gently holding onto it. England closed his eyes.
Rum did no favors for his stomach, anyhow.
He was just beginning to slip into a soft half-dream, the focus of which was on fruit fool and wide brimmed hats, when he heard it...an absolutely blood-curdling scream piercing the air beside his ear. He jumped bolt upright just in time for America to fly against his chest, one knee colliding with his bladder and liver simultaneously (England didn't even know how that was anatomically possible.)
"Alfred! Alfred, what is it?" He choked out, trying to hold him with one arm, fumble around ineffectively for his flintlock with the other, and nurse his internal organs by sheer force of adrenaline.
"That's it!" America cried as though the gates of hell had opened before their door. "That's the sound!"
"What sound?"
"THAT!"
And even over his dry, shrieking sobs, England heard it too; a terrible, blood-soaked cry, like a woman screaming off in the forest. High and petrifying and close enough that they might have gone to the window and waited for her to come running by, pale as an hours old death. He was suddenly filled with nothing but sympathy for his colony, because it nearly set him quaking too.
He wrapped the little body in his arms, hushing into the wave of flaxen hair. "Shh, shh, America...my Alfred. It's only a panther. Just a large cat." The boy's face was pressed tight between his neck and shoulder, arms locked behind him. "Just a large housecat, wanting to make some noise."
"A cat?" England nodded.
"That's right. And it's off in the forest, and can't possibly get in through these heavy walls to reach us."
The trembling lessened off, just the slightest. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
To his utmost relief, America quieted enough to turn from him, actually daring to look at the darkened window across the room. He was just about to allow himself the satisfaction of a smart bit of parenting when the infernal thing decided that was the perfect time to begin screeching again, sending the boy right back into his arms again and filling England's head with visions of musket fire and fur rugs. Let that teach it to frighten his child.
"Why do they have to sound like that?" America despaired.
England, exhausted and rapidly ticking through a list of things he despised about this savage mess of a land mass, abandoned all pretense of poise and blurted out, "Because they're ridiculous creatures, that's why." He sighed, opting for a different approach. "You know, America. You're rather fortunate to actually know what it is making those frightening sounds. When I was your age, we believed in any number of horrible beasts living out amongst the hills."
"Like panthers?"
"What? No. There are no panthers where I live."
The little brow furrowed in consternation. "I thought you said they had everything in England."
Oh, blast all.
"We do! Of course we do! Everything but panthers." He rushed on before America drew any more attention to his fumble, as he knew he would have done. "And do you know, I was absolutely terrified of the bugbear."
America raised his head from the crook of his guardian's neck. "Bugbear? What's a bugbear?"
"A great, ratty old bear that lived in the darkest part of the forest." If nothing else, he knew this would get America's mind off panthers. The boy was forever trying to bring home cubs he found in the wilderness.
"Like the ones around here?"
"Much bigger! With flaming red eyes and claws as long as your body. Great gobs of weed and muck hanging from its fur, walking the paths at night, looking for children to carry off to its den and swallow whole."
"That's so cool!" America exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed as the trade that had just occurred – a fear-stricken child for an over-stimulated one – began to make itself very apparent to England. He wondered if there would be time to nap tomorrow, somewhere between the cooking and the mound of sewing to be done. "I want to see one!"
"Well, I'm sorry. Because there are no bugbears. The old people made them up as a story to keep children from straying into the forest."
America's face fell. "Oh...so they're not real? Kind of like unicorns?"
"America. You know unicorns get offended when their existence is called into question."
"Sorry. Umm...so kind of like the Deer-Woman?"
"...What in Heaven's name is a 'Deer-Woman?'"
"She's half-lady, half-deer," America stated matter-of-factly. Disregarding England's horrified expression, he went on with an air that suggested he was positively thrilled to know something the older country did not. "She has the deer half on the bottom and the lady half on the-"
"Alfred! Where are you learning such vulgarity?" he demanded, suspecting France.
"From the people who lived here first."
"I thought I told you to keep away from those people!"
America ducked his head sheepishly. "Sorry..."
"I'll say you are," England scolded, more bitingly than necessary. Roanoke may never have held a place of warmth or closeness in his life, but his loss often stole into the older country's mind. The thought of the same fate befalling America – his America – who borrowed his socks and begged him for stories and took his heart in ways Roanoke never had..."Perhaps I should carry you back to your room right now?"
America's eyes widened in oncoming panic.
"No! No, I'm going to sleep! I'm going, see?" And he threw himself down against the bed, wrapping the blankets around himself in less time than it took England to feel like a complete and utter monster, paranoia or no.
"Oh, come now," he said with another sigh. "I'm not going to carry you back."
"...You aren't?"
"Quite certain." And then, with a smile, "But no more talk of...Deer-Women. Understood?"
A bitten lip signaled the laugh he was stifling. For a moment, England thought he recognized himself at that age. "Understood."
America couldn't become Roanoke, he realized. They were simply bound too close to slip apart now.
In the silence that followed, England could hear the earliest of birds sending up the first notes of their dawn chorus. The crickets had ceased their chirping; although the heavy tree cover cast their home in complete darkness, he could imagine the sky fading to grayish-blue with the coming sun. He pulled the blanket up to America's chin.
"That panther's gone to bed by now," he whispered, curling in close. "We should do the same."
The little voice was soft in its reply. "'Kay..."
"Good night, America."
"'Night, England."
Just above the sounds of morning, their hearts were beating together out of sync...and that was just fine. England slipped into the spaces between, where quiet reigned; headed for what was sure to be the most peaceful sleep he'd ever found.
"England? Do they have pumpkins where you come from?"
