The Gift You Can't Return
By Blaklite
Translations at the bottom.
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Chapter 10: Counting Chickens
"Ivan?"
"Mmmm…"
"I~va~n…"
"Mmmmm, what?"
"I can't sleep," Maddison whispered, sitting on the edge of Ivan's bed with her hand on his bare shoulder. "The baby won't stop moving."
Groggily, Russia lifted his face from the pillow and looked up at her. In the dim light of his digital clock, he could see weariness in her features. Glancing at the clock, he caught sight of the numbers 2:41.
"I tried everything I could think of to get her to calm down…" Canada continued. "But nothing worked. And…I dunno, the thought popped into my head that maybe she…wanted to see you." Ivan shifted so he was sitting back against the headboard. "So…I was wonder-"
"Come here," Ivan demanded softly, drawing back the blankets. Carefully, Maddie slipped into bed to sit between his legs with her back to Ivan.
"Lean," he commanded again, though it was more of a suggestion this time. Obeying his request, Maddie let herself rest against his broad chest, her head pressed against his shoulder. She closed her eyes as she felt Ivan's hand reach up her loose t-shirt and begin to rub her belly.
A few quiet moments passed before Ivan stated a simple pronoun: "She."
"What?" Maddison asked, the beginnings of sleep starting to reach her as the baby calmed down a little.
"Earlier, you called ze baby 'she'."
Maddie thought about it for a moment, and recalled that she had said 'she'. "It was…an automatic reaction, I suppose. England thinks it's a girl. I kinda like the idea of having a daughter."
"And eef eet's a boy?"
"Whether male or female, I will love my child no less than any other parent."
"Don't you vant to know?" Ivan asked curiously. He sure did, but it wasn't his choice to make alone.
Despite all the time she had already dedicated to this subject, Canada thought on it once more now that she was faced with a choice. Ultimately, she went along with her original decision. "I want it to be a surprise. It might be good to have an ultrasound just to see if she's okay, but…I'd just rather it be a surprise. Did you want to know?"
"Eet might be useful. Zen I vould know vhat colours I should decorate ze baby room in," Russia said, his smile present in his voice.
Maddison chuckled. "Ivan, I didn't know you were into home décor."
"Francees ees a good teacher. I vas zinking somezing neutral, een case eet ees a boy. Maybe green, or ye-" He was cut short by the gasp that passed through his lips. He had been rubbing Maddie's belly when he felt movement under his fingertips. The baby had kicked! His child, their child, was strong, and healthy, and alive, and now he could tell this for himself. It felt amazing, being this close to a miracle. He was stunned speechless.
"It's really something, isn't it?" Maddie stated more than asked, smiling at Russia's shock. She had felt the baby kick inside her. Ivan's massaging must have lulled the baby to turn around, leaving the kicks to strike outward instead of at her kidneys. Now, maybe, she'd finally get some rest.
"Da…" he answered, unable to really say more at the moment. Maddie just chuckled, and turned her head, her face coming to rest against Ivan's. But she quickly turned away, her features scrunching up in discomfort.
"Nnnng, stubble…I hope it's a girl. This way, when I kiss her good-bye before sending her off to university, I don't have to feel a patchy attempt at growing a beard against my cheek."
Ivan chuckled. "You mean like zis?" And with that, he began to rub his scraggly cheek against her smooth one. This incited tired laughter from the Canadian woman, though she protested by trying to squirm away unsuccessfully.
"Geez," she managed to blurt out between breaths. She'd finally managed to wedge her hand between their faces, and push the Russian away, both of them smiling. "You're worse than Gilbert." With those words, it was as if time stopped, and Maddison immediately regretted what she'd said. Her hand fell away even as Ivan stopped his shenanigans. They sat there for a long time, neither moving, both scarcely daring to breathe let alone look at each other.
"Are you happy…like zis?" Are you happy with me? Is what he really meant to ask.
"Well, yes…and no. I mean, I could do without the backaches, and sore feet, and needing to piss every ten minutes. But I wouldn't give this up for anything in the whole world, this life growing inside me. I can now understand why human women would want this more than once." Of course she knew that Russia wanted to know whether she was happy being here with him, but that wasn't a question she was ready to answer yet, not even to herself. After all, she had Gilbert, the love of her life who was waiting for her to come back home. But just where was home now? In whose arms did she fit most perfectly?
How dearly she wanted to escape all this, this drama and heartbreak, and just be free once more. But she had to stay for her child; she wasn't about to risk her daughter's life for her own peace of mind. If only everything had gone according to plan, then she would be in her own land right now, and she and Gilbert would be-
Sound disturbed her thoughts and drew her from her mind. In a gentle voice, Russia had begun to sing a lullaby. The foreign words washed over and through her like waves along the beach, easing her worries like the water easing footprints from the sands. Relaxing against the big man once more, Maddie started to feel herself drift off, the baby likewise calmed by the song. It would take Ivan, sick at heart, a bit longer to fall asleep.
The next day, Maddison went out of her way to avoid Ivan, staying for the most part in her room. She wanted to talk to Gilbert, but how exactly do you talk to someone about how you might be mentally cheating on them? Nuh uh, not an option. She was just so terribly confused and unsure how to sort this mess out.
And what about the baby? How would things turn out if she stayed with Ivan, or if she left for Gilbert? Would she be risking her child's mental state, and life even? How could she sacrifice her child's safety for her own selfishness?
If only there was someone she could talk to, someone who had experienced what it was like to have a mess of lovers, someone who'd had to choose between them all, someone who had been a mother before…
The phone rang twice before it was picked up. "Kirkland residence, Alice speaking."
"Hey, mom. Uhhhh, I was wonde-"
"Who is this?"
"It's your daughter."
"Which one?"
"Canada."
"Ah, yes. The quiet one. How are you, dear?"
"As alright as a pregnant woman can be I suppose. Ivan felt the baby kick the other day."
"He did? Oh, how exciting. I remember when Francis first felt you and your sister move. He cried like a baby…in public."
Maddison chuckled softly. "Sounds like a thing Papa would do. Look, I was wondering if you had some time to spare, so that maybe you could come visit me. I'd really like an excuse to get out of the house, and see a familiar face at the same time."
"Of course, dear. Let's see…" There was a rustling of papers. England must have been searching through her day planner. "Tomorrow is full, as is the day after, but the day after that I can schedule time off, and show up in the morning, is that good?"
"Perfect. I'll come meet you at the airport, kay?"
"Wonderful. There's this lovely little café I know that we can stop by if you'd like. They serve these delicious little Russian pastries…or at least used to. It's been a while since I spent any real amount of time in Moscow."
"Sounds good, mom," Canada agreed before England could go off on a story. "Just text me when your plane is suppose to arrive."
"That I shall. Farewell, dear."
"Good-bye, mother."
"Alice!"
A blank stare. "And you are…?"
"Your daughter Maddison," Canada responded, not phased in the least. She was in an unusually good mood, likely from finally being able to roam about outside of Ivan's direct supervision. Hugging her mother awkwardly thanks to the baby bump, she received a polite embrace in return. England was never one for public displays of affection.
"How are you, dearest?" the Englishwoman asked, smiling and trying to push the embarrassing moment of forgetfulness from her mind. Canada really needed to become more memorable. That, or England was getting, dare she say it, old.
"No different from the last time we talked. You look well." Indeed, the island nation did appear to have a spring in her step. Her proud smile confirmed this.
"Yes, well I've just concluded some trade agreements that I believe will greatly benefit the British populace."
Maddison raised an eyebrow. "So you conned some poor, innocent third world country into deeper free trade relations?" Matching coy smiles. "Alice, you dog."
"I'm the bitch who raised you after all. Now, let's get something to eat. Airline breakfasts are terrible," the shorter blonde stated, pulling along her daughter as they walked out of the terminal arm-in-arm.
Maddie took a moment to look about the little coffee shop before commenting on it. "This is quaint. Kinda retro."
England nodded, sipping delicately at her tea. "Indeed. It hasn't changed much since the 70s. I'm surprised it's still here, really."
"You were here during the Cold War?" Canada asked incredulously, forcefully keeping her tone at a whispery pitch.
"Yes, doing some espionage work, as it were."
"And Ivan didn't, doesn't know?"
Alice sighed. "I rather suspect he did, which is why I was partaking in information collecting missions. He and his KGB already knew about MI6's presence, so why bother hiding from the truth? It led to some interesting behind-the-scenes banter and battles between the two of us."
"Uh-huh. 'Battles', right. Are you also going to express just how large and skilled Ivan's 'pipe' is?" Maddison asked, slightly annoyed (and maybe jealous?) at how it seemed everyone had slept with Ivan before she did.
The look itself that the British nation threw her was enough of an answer. "What? Of course not. I'm not like your sister, sleeping with the enemy behind everyone's back. Though, I suppose you did your fair share of that as well. Undoubtedly, you both got that from your father."
"You mean, the same father that slept with you while you two were at war?" Maddison teased, repressing a chuckle when her mother averted her eyes for a second and blushed.
"That…that is something completely different. And you shouldn't talk, dear, it's sleeping with the enemy that has you in this predicament."
The Canadian bristled at this. "Yeah, well we were both piss drunk. And it's not like we sought each other out like you and dad tend to do every other week. How is Francis by the way?"
"His dick's still attached. For now, at least."
Canada was forced to shakily replace her hot chocolate mug on the table as her body shook with laughter. France and England's relationship was the stuff of legend, especially among the nations. It only took 1.53 seconds for them to go from trying to strangle each other to death to making out in the middle of the conference room sans clothing, and vice versa. Most nations boiled down their behaviour to both of their needs to blow off steam through weird (and sometimes kinky) hate sex. But Maddison Williams knew that their relationship had much less to do with hate, and much more to do with love. Strange, twisted, violent love.
As the silence stretched out, the atmosphere became more sombre. England would not meet her eyes, seemingly engrossed in idly stirring her tea, but Maddie could tell something was bothering her. Gently, she reached over and placed her hand on her mother's arm.
"I'm afraid for you, Maddison," the elder confessed, still not lifting her eyes from the table. "I'm afraid the same thing will happen to you as it did to me."
"What do you mean, mother?"
The Englishwoman was silent again, contemplating her words. She stopped fidgeting with her tea to place her hand over her daughter's, and looked up at her at last. "Did I ever tell you the story about how you and your sister were born?"
"Very vaguely, why?"
"Well…"
Alice couldn't remember the reason for his visit, but in that moment it didn't matter.
"Bloody frog, that was my new petticoat."
"Je t'achèteras un autre, bouges ta jambe."
"Demanding, aren't we?" England huffed as she was divested of her last article of clothing and thrown back onto the mattress. The Frenchman was not far behind, attacking her neck with kisses and love bites. There was something feverish in his actions tonight, a passion he seemed barely able to control. Their sexual encounters were always passionate, but rarely were they this…needy. Francis almost always took the time to be romantic, making sure she was comfortable, generally being the best of lovers.
But tonight he was desperate to touch her, to feel her and be more than close to her. And it was alright because she felt it too, the boiling in her blood from the discovery of new lands, wild and untamed. Just as their love making was that night.
("TMI, mom. T.M.I."
"You should have been there at the end of the Hundred Years' War. After that many decades of sexual tension, neither of us could get out of bed the next day.")
"Must you leave tomorrow, Angleterre?" The Frenchman murmured into her collarbone. She knew this question was coming and he knew what the answer would be. But just to spite him Alice took her time in answering him, instead opting to twirl his golden hair around her index finger a few more times. It was much too fun to toy with him.
"The last ship for the New World for weeks leaves tomorrow morning. I cannot demand that the captain delay in setting sail just so that you can hold off going back to Versailles."
Francis groaned. "Mais Angleterre, ma belle, jolie Angleterre, you are my only 'ope and saviour, my only rescue from zose wolves wrapped een silk and satin. Surely you will not abandon me in my time of need?" It sounded like playful begging by the end of it. When Alice looked down, her gaze was met with blue orbs twinkling in mirth. She couldn't help but smile, though it was tight, somewhat severe.
"Seeking salvation in the bed of a whore. A Protestant whore, no less."
Shifting suddenly into a serious mood, Francis took her by the chin and forced her to look deep into his eyes. "Do not zink of yourself like zat. You are not selling out from ze Spanish Match. As for being a Protestant…" He brought their lips within millimetres of each other. "I'll just 'ave to convince you of ze benefits of catholicisme."
England, rather forcefully, tugged her chin free of the Frenchman's grip, leaving France confused by her own sudden mood shift. "I believe you've already tried that, or have your people suddenly come down with a case of historical forgetting? Does Hastings ring a bell?"
You were only a little bit pagan at the time, it wasn't a big deal, thought Francis. He didn't voice this, however, as he knew she was just trying to goad him into a fight. Plus, doing so would put him at risk of being castrated. "Why are you acting so coldly, mon amour?"
England fell silent after that, her anger fading away to be replaced by sadness. She was looking off to the side and biting her lip, afraid to tell him the truth. "I don't want it to hurt in the morning when I have to watch you walk out that door," she finally conceded.
Sighing, Francis snuggled in closer to her, their naked bodies pressing together for comfort. He hated that he had to leave her, that sometimes they had to be apart for years, and even decades. They both wanted desperately to be together, to be bound to a single household like normal human couples. But such goals were unreasonable, such dreams unreachable. They each had their duties, and rarely did they intertwine, at least on friendly terms.
"Zis ees not ze last time we shall see each ozer," he stated reassuringly. "As soon as my presence at court ees no longer needed, I will be on ze first ship to ze New World."
She squeezed him tighter in response. "Do you promise me?"
"Demande-moi, et je te promettrais le monde."
With a skip in his step, and the maid chasing after him, Francis barely knocked on the door before entering England's Boston bedroom. "Angleterre! Je suis retourné!" He spotted her immediately sitting at the window in her nightgown, her back to him. How unusual, Alice never sat around the house in her night clothes, believing in being prepared at all times. Even her long, untamable hair was left to flow freely towards the ground.
"Francis?" she called out in disbelief, rising from her seat just as he embraced her. They kissed, passionately yet tenderly, and all the while France could feel her stomach pressing tightly against him, keeping them slightly apart. They broke apart, and he chuckled. "Angleterre, I zink you've gained some we-" He gasped as his hand registered the roundness of her midriff. Was she…?
"There's something I think you should know," she said. "I'm with child."
Francis felt his power of speech leave him as he rubbed his hands over her swollen belly. Somehow, he managed to croak out, "Pour combine de temps?"
"Around six, six and a half months, or so the doctor says. I'm rather larger than I should be, though. He believes that I may be carrying twins."
"Twins? Je serai le père des jumeaux…I am ze fazer, oui?"
She struck him on the arm for his stupidity, causing him to wince at her strength. Great, now she was a violent, overpowered empire with mood swings. "Of course you are, you dolt! You're the only person I've slept with at all in the past decade, let alone the past year."
In that moment, Francis couldn't even think up a good comeback to that. He was going to be a father, the father of his own flesh and blood, and the mother of his children was none other than the one woman he loved above all others. Suddenly, the dream of living together didn't seem so distant.
"I'm going to kill you, you monster!" England shouted as another contraction ripped through her. She was close now, he'd been told. She'd entered labour some twenty hours earlier, and Francis had been pacing the hallway outside the bedroom since. The midwife had kicked him out shortly after Alice's water had broken. That didn't stop England's screams of pain or shouts of profanity from reaching him. It was only in the past hour that she'd started directing her anger towards him, though those had begun to taper off as well.
Had Francis been in a more stable mind at that moment, he might have marveled at the sheer mess of emotions he was going through. He was angry, with himself for having done this to her, and with the world for placing such a burden on women. Guilt was there as well, telling him it was entirely his fault just as England shouted so at him. Wondering whether she would survive, whether their children would survive only fueled the panic. But excitement was mingled in there as well; after all these months, he was finally going to be able to meet his children, and he and England could begin their lives together raising the newborns. He worried a bit that they would be forced apart again by duties and politics, but had just as easily decided that he simply didn't give a fuck. He was staying with England whether their kings liked it or not.
Suddenly, tiny cries erupted from beyond the barrier. Francis was frozen in shock, wanting desperately to enter the room. The unmistakable screams of a newborn continued, announcing the birth of a new life to the world. Once again, Alice's periodic shouts of agony resumed, and he could tell she was exhausted. But her job wasn't finished quite yet.
France wasn't sure how long he'd been standing in the same position for since his mind went blank after hearing the first cries of his child. Just before one of the maids assisting in the birthing opened the door and solemnly bade him enter, he'd caught the quiet sounds of crying. Another maid, Angeline, stood next to the bed holding a wrapped bundle, and rocking it in soothing, fluid motions. Francis's heart skipped a beat when he saw a tiny arm poke out from the bundle. His heart stopped, however, when he noticed England sobbing to herself with a second bundle in her arms. The Frenchman looked to the midwife, but she only shook her head sadly.
Unable to speak, Francis made his way to the bed, and sat on the edge of it. It felt like time had slowed down, like everyone was moving underwater. No, it couldn't be. The second child could not be…dead.
When at last the two nations looked at each other, Francis felt his heart break in two. He'd never seen Alice this tired, this hurt, nor this heartbroken. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to tell him something, but there were no words in that moment that could possibly describe her pain.
Gently, caring for the cold child's head, she placed the bundle in his arms. The child didn't appear truly dead, no, just sleeping. For a moment, he believed just such, lightly stroking a tiny, tiny cheek with his finger, willing it to be warmer than it was. "Ouvres tes yeux, petit. Ouvre-les pour papa."
Against all odds, the child did as it was told and opened its blue, blue eyes just a fraction, letting out a yawn before closing them again, oblivious to its own miracle.
England was the first to break from the trance, taking the new life back into her arms. "My baby! Oh, you're alive, you're alive." A few choked sobs wracked through her again, but from joy this time, and not sorrow. "Merci, Francis. Merci pour ce cadeau." She motioned for Angeline to bring the other child forward, depositing the bundle in France's now empty arms. "Je te présente nos filles."
Their daughters…Wait, DAUGHTERS?
"I suppose we're lucky to have had two. Otherwise, we'd have to go to war over what to name them." A few days had passed since the birth, and England had regained much of her strength. She was walking around, but was confined to the house. Against her wishes of course, but even she could only protest so much before soreness and tiredness demanded she lie down again. "This way, you can pick a sweet, little French name, and I can choose a good, strong English one."
"Zere are plenty of good, strong French names," France countered weakly. Alice was recovering just fine, but he still didn't want to overly upset her.
"They all sound so flouncy in that accent of yours that I really can't tell."
"What names were you zinking of, ma belle?"
"Alison."
"Zat ees razer egotistic of you, chèrie. Is zat ze only one you want?"
"Yes, and what of you?"
"Hmmm." Francis had been pondering the question for a long time. He'd finally decided on a name two weeks before the birth, but he'd been expecting sons at the time. "I was zinking Mathieu would be good, but I see now zat zat won't work." He thought for a moment longer. "Madeleine."
The Englishwoman snorted. "You Catholics and your Biblical names."
"Things sounded like they were going so well. What happened?"
"Unfortunately, dear, sometimes national interest outweighs our own…"
It had been buzzing in the back of Francis's mind now for a month. He was the happiest he ever thought he'd be, helping England care for their little girls. They already knew which one was going to be a handful and which was going to be rather introverted. But there was something that kept nagging at him…
He'd received several letters from court, telling him to return to Versailles. He threw each one into the fireplace. He would not abandon England, or his daughters.
Until that night when he had no choice.
The buzzing had gotten so loud, so impossible to ignore, that he hadn't been able to sleep at all that night. He tried to; in desperation he had placed his hands over his ears, though he knew the sound was not physical. What he should have done was gotten someone to tie him down, for the nature of nations is to be greedy and selfish, a nature they cannot escape.
Succumbing at last, France untangled himself from England's side, and silently dressed himself. He didn't want to do this, but he had no choice. Leaning down, he placed a delicate kiss to England's forehead, pulling back before his tears could spill onto her peaceful face. In a few brisk strides, he was standing before the crib, mournful gaze on the bundles of joy, fast asleep like their mother.
"Je suis désolé, Angleterre. S'il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi." And with that, he was scooping little Madeleine into his arms, and fleeing north.
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Translations
Je t'achèteras un autre, bouges ta jambe – I'll buy you a new one, move your leg
Mais Angleterre, ma belle, jolie Angleterre – But England, my beautiful, lovely England
Mon amour – My love
Demande-moi, et je te promettrais le monde – Ask it of me, and I'd promise you the world
Angleterre, je suis retourné – England, I have returned
Pour combien de temps ? – For how long ?
Je serai le père des jumeaux – I'm going to be the father of twins (male twins are assumed)
Ouvres tes yeux, petit. Ouvres-les pour papa – Open your eyes, little one (masculine form). Open them for daddy
Merci, Francis. Merci pour ce cadeau – Thank you, Francis. Thank you for this gift
Je te présente nos filles – I present to you our daughters
Chèrie – Dear
Je suis désolé, Angleterre. S'il vous plaît, pardonnez-moi – I'm sorry, England. Please, forgive me
Notes
Hundred Years' War: Lasting from 1337 to 1453, the Hundred Years' War was fought between England and France (and their respective allies) for control of the French throne which became vacant in the wake of the extinction of the House of Capet. Though the outcome of the war remained uncertain throughout the decades, in the end the House of Valois (of France) secured the throne, and England lost almost all the territorial gains that had been won throughout the war.
Spanish Match: Suggested sometime around 1614, the Spanish Match proposed the marriage of Prince Charles, son of King James I of England, and Infanta Maria Anna, daughter of Philip III of Spain. The motion was highly unpopular among the Protestants of England and the majorly Protestant House of Commons who did not want to see more Catholic influence enter the country. The memory of the Anglo-Spanish War was, likewise, still fresh in everyone's mind, and in the end the marriage did not occur.
Thirty Years' War: During the time of the flashback, the Thirty Year's War is in progress. One of the largest causes of this war was tensions between Protestants and Catholics, beginning first in the Holy Roman Empire, though these tensions had existed since the beginning of Protestantism. It ended with the Treaty of Westphalia.
Battle of Hastings: The October 14, 1066 Battle of Hastings secured Norman rule in England with the death of King Harold II on the battlefield. The Normans attempted to impose many aspects of French culture on the British.
A Note From Blaklite: I know, I know. I'm a terrible, terrible human being. If anyone is still around and reading this thing, hats off to you, dedicated readers! I know it's a bit disappointing that most of this chapter has FrUK, but it's over now, and the story will soon return to its regularly scheduled RusCan goodness. I'll try to update again before the next Ice Age, as well.
Also, anyone catch the Portal reference?