That's Sticky Business
Word Count: 1125, (edited 1246)
Rating/Warning: K+, brief passing mention of fighting
Summary: England contemplates their situation and tries to help America with the use of a little magic. Also, has their trip back in time had any effect on England? Perhaps.
Theme movie: Harry Potter
Note: I really hesitate to admit this...but, I haven't seen much Harry Potter, just the first movie, and I've read even less. What hints are here, mentions of Time-Turners, are merely from a bit of research. (Please don't hurt me!)
Carefully, England extricates himself from the pretzel of America's limbs, and rests the young nation's head on a small tussock of hay covered in one of their modern shirts, tucking some more around him so, if he starts into another coughing spasm or even a seizure, God forbid, he will not fall off the edge of the loft. Against his better judgment, he glances down at America; his physique appears solid enough, long limbs and dense musculature all unchanged. And, then he sees it, that sneaky bit of moisture on his cheeks and slight quivering of his shoulders. He looks closer. Upon appraising the intangible, preternatural space any nation occupies, instead of the hulking, pulsating, intensity of a superpower, he perceives all the clout of a child, innocuous and, dare he think it, docile. He has always considered it dangerous to think of America as anything approaching docile, but, now, he wonders. This is not the same America he once witnessed fighting despite multiple bullet wounds in during World War II.
Something is changed. He doesn't want to contemplate how their presence here has affected history.
The young nation's coughing fits and fading in and out of consciousness is proof enough, and that could not be coincidence. England knows the effects of time-travel. That is why every book on magic that has ever existed cautions against it. He previously had no knowledge of its immediate effects on the physical body; no one ever recorded it. He knows now. Is it because America is a nation and tied to his country, its people, its history that he still lives?
With a sigh, England pulls out his wand from his boot. He cannot consciously allow America to remain in such pain, so he casts a small spell to remove some of his suffering, though he cannot remove it altogether, because he cannot eliminate its true source. Like treating symptoms, but ignoring the disease. The lines in America's face soften. That's something, at least.
However wrong it feels to leave America up in the loft—as though he were abandoning a baby—he has to move, he has to think. As quietly as he can, he descends to ground level to brood alone.
For a while, he wanders around the barn, idly exploring its small spaces.
Their mere presence in this era is an aberration against the natural world. How long had they been here? He does some mental calculations. Six hours, he guesses. Far too long. Oh, what he would give for a Time-Turner. Not that it would help them. He knows they must return through the same means that they arrived.
Even if they went back, the damage is done. History is already altered. What did their future-present have in store for them. He doesn't even know what events in their current-present have been altered. What will they find when they return?
The thoughts madden him. His calming walk has served only to agitate him further.
England spins on his heels; upset at the seeming futility of the situation, he kicks at the metal bindings of a stall door. Crunch. They bend and break on contact. He hadn't been able to do that in decades. He stopped resorting to physical demonstrations of his anger years ago. He merely felt the contact, felt no pain. He was sure that he would have come away with a sore toe. But, nothing.
Suddenly, he cringes at the loud sound he had made, though the echo has died. The barn is silent, and he is relieved that he did not disturb America. With glance up at the loft, he sighs and ventures back to where he remembered seeing an old cart, sturdy, but broken down by even Seventeenth Century standards.
England approaches it slowly, regarding it as one would a sleeping bull. It's metal fittings are still stout and inflexible. It was the wheels and wood planking that sent it to this quiet retirement as surplus hay storage for the horses. He runs a hand along the thickest fittings, where the horses would be harnessed. There, the metal is thicker than his bicep and his fingers cannot fit around it. He wraps both hands firmly against it, cannot clinch his fingers closed. With a deep breath, he flexes his hands and braces himselfHe remembers this feeling, forgot how much he missed it.
"England?" America calls quietly from the loft, distracting him. He sounds panicked at being left alone. "England where are you?"
The following whimper, startles him and his hands twitch. Squeak. Snap. The metal bends and twists in his hands as though it was nothing but a twig. That feels wonderful, like a cool breeze on a sunny day filling his lungs. He feels so alive.
And, now, with his heart in his throat, things have just become even more startling.
Slowly, he lowers the fittings to the ground, and backs away.
"England? What's going on?"
"Ah, nothing. Nothing for you to worry about," he replies, finally.
"Could you come back up, please?" At one point, he had been rather shy, but never so reserved.
"Of course." England's brow furrows at the timidity in the younger nation's tone and hurries back up to the loft.
"Oh good," America sighs when his head pops into sight. "I heard loud noises down there." Carefully, he rises and hastens on shaky hands and knees to hug him, as he used to a long time ago; England ushers him away from the edge and back to the make-shift bed. "I'm glad you're okay."
"You need to be sleeping. You're ill."
"I couldn't get comfortable without you," he pouts.
"Oh, so needy."
He whinges, "I am not!"
"Whatever you say. Come on," he lays down, easily pushing America down as well, even though he attempts to resist; it is futile. England's grip is too firm, and America's too weak.
"Can't sleep." America coughs; he no longer looks so pained, but he still coughs blood.
"Here, let me help you. Lay down. Rest your head on the pillow," England murmurs. He drapes his fingers over his eyes and mutters a few words. This will put him to sleep for a good six hours. He doesn't know what to do with America, besides give him the rest that he needs. But, really, it's time that they do not have, time that they require, and time that they cannot afford to take. Time that he needs to think. So, he supposes that it doesn't matter.
Soon, America's eyes flutter and close.
As he recalls the soft, reverential smile America gave him upon his return to the loft, and contemplates the feel of the metal braking in his hands, he wonders what, exactly, is it that they had changed. If he could, would he change it back again? And, he realizes, time-travel is far sticker business than he gave it credit. And, he gave it plenty of credit.
A/N: Sorry for the update delay. Again. Just a few more chapters left of this. I hope my readers are still enjoying it. :)