Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Pairings: Iceland/fem!America, possibly some others.
Friday, 8 January 2016: So, immediately after uploading chapter 13, I went to go see Star Wars: The Force Awakens. And during the movie, when I was doing absolutely nothing with my hands, my left (dominant) hand decided to acquire a nasty case of tendonitis in the wrist. I've been keeping it in a brace all week and this chapter was very slow to type around the brace, so I'll be fixing spelling errors after my wrist's little bitchfit dies down. But for now, enjoy the chapter!
One Thousand Years More: Chapter Fourteen
When Iceland came down for breakfast the next morning, he thought a second Cold War had suddenly erupted while he slept. Canada kept to one side of the kitchen making pancakes, while Finland stayed on the other side and made a smattering of breakfast sandwiches that would suit the tastes of everyone at the table. Iceland blinked between them; the electric current of their competition could probably power a hybrid car…
The table, placed and oriented very deliberately between the two nations, sported a very odd seating arrangement. The Scandinavians all huddled at the extreme end of the table near Finland. Sealand sat near the center, fascinated by the atmosphere. America – wearing her lopapeysa again, Iceland could practically feel his cheeks blooming – lounged in her seat near the extreme end of Canada's side with such carelessness that she almost looked oblivious to the mood, until Iceland saw her look up from her phone, survey the situation – which hadn't changed one bit – and grin slightly ruthlessly.
Iceland was so excited for the afternoon's events. By which of course he meant he was terrified.
And the first hurdle, of course, was figuring out where to sit at the damn table. If he sat next to America, that would look all kinds of suspicious, not to mention treasonous. Even sitting in the middle placed him under scrutiny. But huddling in the back with his older brothers put him in the crosshairs of the challenging gazes America currently exchanged with Denmark, and watching the actual Cold War play out had given him enough experience with that sort of tension.
Oh god, the Cuban Missile Crisis, oh god.
He cursed said God for making him think so intensely about which chair to sit his ass in so early in the morning before deciding on a relatively safe space between Sweden and Sealand. There. Just enough to prove his loyalty to Team Nordic, and just enough to not enough to draw America's ire, no matter how joking it seemed.
The only good that came out of the breakfast was its quality. Finland and Canada seemed to be competing with each other in all kinds of ways this morning, so Canada's pancakes were "out of this world", according to America, much more acclimated to his cuisine, and Finland's breakfast sandwiches were delicious. Iceland, personally, preferred light food in the morning and only chose the protein-heavy servings because he knew he would need them direly this afternoon.
From what he had gathered, the initial idea of a sniper competition had taken root and grown into something much more wild and dangerous – an all-out paintball fest. The sniping competition would take place as planned, but Canada and Finland decided to get the games going by having a four-vs-four paintball competition on an arena that Sweden had taken great pains (and funds) to reserve for just them – nobody wanted a clueless human bumbling into the middle of something as ferocious as this.
Iceland realized that, in order to have equally-sized teams, two people from "Team Nordic" were needed on "Team North America". Of course, he didn't have any particular preference where he ended up, not at all, but he couldn't help but wonder if the two chosen people would simply resort to sabotage. He almost groaned as he realized he was "jumping the gun" yet again; they still needed to get to the actual arena, and that meant a drive either packed into the van with five other people, or huddled into the back of America's rental vehicle.
All of this whole paintballing/sniper contest fiasco was fascinating. It really was.
After a tense half an hour of eating and subdued chatter, the nations started drifting to grab their phones, wallets, jackets, and spare clothes. Finland and Canada both packed with the same serene smile on their faces, and combined with their almost tangible maniacal desire to take a pair of rifles and fill the air with lead, even Sweden gave them a wide berth, muttering very softly about how the family resemblance never stuck out more.
Finally, all eight nations assembled by the front door, carrying the things they wanted to bring for the day. They filed out of the cabin and waited as Sweden locked up behind them, and Denmark mocked the twins' choice in rental car while Finland started loading things into the Nordic van.
"Can I ride with Canada? Please? I want to ask him more about Vinland! Oh! And I want to know more about America's languages!" Sealand suddenly spoke up, tugging on Sweden's sleeve. "It's really crowded in the van and there's only two of them in that car so there's more room. Please?"
Ordinarily, Finland wouldn't have cared, but his competitive streak seemed to actually be affecting his judgment. Before this could turn into a weird logistics-are-loyalty argument, Iceland spoke up. "I wanna have some room to stretch my legs. I'll ride with them too."
The fact that he was barely asking for permission did not go unnoticed. Silence permeated for a second before Norway – of the four of them, Norway – spoke up. "Whatever works. I just want to get there already. If we're late to our match we'll miss the lunch hour."
Well. It seemed his older brother was taking steps, a little at a time. Iceland was more than a little appreciative of that.
Iceland blew a puff of air, and with that settled, he ambled over to the rental car with his hands in his pockets. Sealand, emboldened by the act, hurried over to the opposite side. Neither twin seemed perturbed; Canada, in fact, looked a little grateful. Without any more fuss, the rest of the Nordics loaded into the van and took the lead on the road.
"All right, just keep following them," Canada suggested in a voice close to praying. "Then we won't get lost."
"Excuse me? I only made one wrong turn and that was because the numbers on the exit ramp were faded!" America feigned outrage. "I was doing just fine the whole trip!"
Canada muttered something about "the whole trip" taking less than an hour, because of America's chosen velocity as much as the actual distance traversed.
"I could do it again and be at this place an hour before them," America quipped.
Iceland's heart sank as he glanced up and, through the rear-view mirror, saw an intense flash of something spark in Canada's gaze. However, he seemed to remember himself a moment later. "You almost gave me a heart attack last time. And we have passengers now, we'd just get told off, if not arrested."
America snorted. "Thanks for reminding me: never take Iggy on the Autobahn. Fuckin' killjoy," she muttered darkly.
Both Canada and Iceland snorted, and Sealand used the opportunity to lean forward in his seat. "So, America, how easy is it to speak something like Swedish?"
"Well, I already sort of said it's easy for me to pick up on new languages, and actually putting in the time to memorize vocab does help a lot. Spanish is way easy for me now. For something like Swedish… I dunno. I just have to be really calm, and settle my senses into my people that emigrated from Sweden and still speak Swedish. And then I find that it all just clicks. So, when I'm not thinking about anything in particular, I get the basics of a lot of languages, and then if I focus it all-"
"America, you lost half of your audience around the time you started talking about things clicking," Iceland said, voice deadpan.
"… huh?" She blinked.
"You started transitioning into Swedish around 'click'," Canada muttered.
"Well, what did you expect to happen?" she groused.
"… Point."
Sealand seemed fascinated by the ability, and started wondering out loud if he could do something like that too. Iceland doubted it, more because of the population of Sealand than any other reason… but, hypothetically, if Sealand had ten inhabitants that spoke twenty languages between them and Sealand had no official language, would it be possibly that he could be even more fluent in all those languages than America? It was an interesting thought exercise.
While he was pondering this, Sealand had gone back to asking Canada about Vinland, who gave honest if not vague answers to a lot of Sealand's questions. While time had blurred a lot of things for even Iceland, he definitely recalled some of the things Canada was relaying to Sealand; there had been at least one violent confrontation between the natives and the settlers, and nobody could forget the parlay between the Vikings and the Natives that had ended with the Natives bestowing Canada with his immortal polar bear companion, Nanuq – seeing the spirit suddenly manifest had caused even Norway to bowl over in shock.
That had been slightly funny. Well, more than slightly funny.
America kept silent while Canada and Sealand conversed – both chalked it up to her need to focus on the Swedish signage whenever she couldn't immediately see the Nordic van ahead of her. However, Iceland knew better, because at one point she shot him a glance in the rear-view mirror. She glanced to her right, at Canada, and quirked her brow. Does he know? About us?
Iceland barely shook his head. No. None of them do.
America's lips mimed a whistle. Whoa.
Their silent conversation came to an end, however, when Sweden's van made an exit off the highway and America had to engage more than just passively following. It took about fifteen minutes to get to the paintball arena, and another half an hour to get checked in, change into the spare clothes that no one cared about ruining, don their armor, and acquire their paintball weapons. The humans mostly left them alone, aware that they were serving important clients that happened to be self-sufficient.
They decided on a game of capture the flag, and since the nations were both tough enough and competitive enough to get rid of the elimination rule, they settled on defining an "elimination" as getting their bulky vests completely covered in paint. Time limit would be until 28:00, since they had to fly to Bern the next day for the World Meeting.
America geared up surprisingly fast, but then Iceland remembered the insane military complex she sported. The second the paintball gun was in her hands, she had gotten more serious than Iceland remembered ever seeing her, and already she was poring over a map of the arena as well as checking it against what she could see from the buildings. Iceland looked up when Canada appeared over her shoulder, more or less following her movements, and Iceland suddenly had second thoughts about immediately going with Team Nordic.
All three of them looked up when the argument between Finland and Sealand about whose team Sealand would be on rose in volume. Both Finland and Sweden seemed reluctant to let him be on the North American team, which only served to irritate the micronation more. Denmark and Norway were watching on slightly awkwardly, put out but the argument between their brothers and adoptive "nephew".
If this kept up, they would never get to the actual tournament. Denmark, Norway, and Iceland all seemed to realize this at the same time, because each of them, at the same moment, suddenly said, "I'll go with him."
Well, that was one way to stop an argument. And start another.
"Wait, so it's… two-verse-two-verse-four?" Canada asked. He quirked his brow. Sweden and Finland, against Canada and America, against Denmark, Norway, Iceland, and Sealand made for an interesting mental picture.
"I'm fine partnering up with Sealand," Iceland sighed. Well, here was a whole new dilemma.
"I'll be sure to make sure he doesn't get hit in the face," Norway added his own opinion.
"I wouldn't let a speck of paint get on him!" Denmark boasted proudly.
Sealand looked even more annoyed at being spoken about like he absolutely needed protecting, but America, oblivious again, stepped in. "I vote Denmark for Team Awesome!" she crowed. At everyone's curious looks, she shrugged. "No offense bro, but you're not as broad as either of them, so Denmark would be a balancing asset to our team." Canada looked simultaneously miffed and understanding at her assessment, while Denmark considered what it would be like being on the same team as America, beamed, and whooped. And then America decided to test the waters. "Plus, didn't he and Sweden, like, use to fight more than England or France ever did? They have the most wars between them, I think. It'll be just like old times!" she crowed, looking mighty proud of herself with hands on her hips.
Iceland silently facepalmed as Sweden and Denmark both blinked at the realization and sized each other up, no small amount of competitive and even combative gleam between them.
Even when playing diplomat, America brought gasoline to a house fire.
"Plus, Sweden is too smart to face off against Finland when he's like this."
"Yeah- wait, what?!" Denmark's challenging growl turned into indignant outrage.
Sweden and Iceland snorted. Finland giggled. Even Norway smirked. America laughed carelessly as she patted Denmark on the elbow and half-heartedly tried to appease him, flustering the Scandinavian nation further. Sealand, comparing Denmark and Sweden, finally decided that he would, in fact, rather be on Sweden's team if push came to shove, since that looked like it had a very real possibility of happening. After a minute, she gave up. "Okay, so Norway, Sweden, Finland, Sealand versus Canada, Denmark, Iceland, and 'MURICA! Let's get this show on the road!" And without waiting for a start signal, she grabbed all three of her teammates and their team flag and hauled them off into the woods.
Iceland sighed as she all but picked him up in her zeal. He could feel exhaustion creeping in already.
"You can climb, right, Denmark?"
"Uh-"
Canada made a zip-your-lips motion and shot a quick warning glare at America before pointing to the treetops and taking to one of the trees himself. America shrugged, nodded after her twin, and picked her own tree to climb.
Iceland stared after them incredulously. The coniferous trees obscured their vision of the ground below just as much as it gave them a better vantage point, and if anyone on the other team found them, they would be trapped, or at the very least easy targets. Denmark seemed to have the same thinking that he did, in addition to reservations about climbing up, as 'broad' as he was.
Why were they in such a hurry to climb the trees? Given that their match had just started, the other team was likely still on the other side of the forest, sitting around making their own plans. No need to fan out yet.
"I'll climb up and ask what they're thinking," Iceland volunteered.
"All right. I'll get to cover. Tell me what you find out when you know," Denmark replied, slinking off to do just that.
So Iceland hefted his paintball gun and started climbing a tree between the two the twins had taken, wondering when and how they learned to climb trees so fast, along with why they had chosen to do so at this point in the game.
By the time he had climbed high enough to maintain a conversation, Denmark had found cover in the underbrush (Iceland only found him because he waved to mark his location), Canada had found a wide and sturdy branch and assumed a sniper's crouch, and America had taken advantage of her light body to climb slightly higher, removing her mask and scoping out the forest with a pair of binoculars.
"I didn't realize we got binoculars", Iceland griped quietly, raising his mask himself.
" 'S not cheating if it's not officially against rules," America quipped.
"So… why are we up here? Denmark doesn't want to climb trees since he's so 'broad'."
America scoffed. "Well, we went over the rules for this game. Capture the flag, no penalty for close-range shooting (unless it's Sealand), elimination only happens if your entire vest gets covered in paint. I can guarantee you Finland's already in his own tree."
Well… she probably wasn't wrong, all things considered.
"So, Bro and I are scoping. He's got a better eye for these things so we'll be making our move in…" she checked her watch, "I'd say fifteen, twenty minutes."
Iceland raised an eyebrow. "We?"
"Well, with Broady guarding the flag and Canada serving as counter-sniper to Finland, that leaves you and me to actually get the enemy flag!" she explained as though it were the most natural thing in the world. All Iceland could conjure were horrific images of America dragging him into a suicidal charge against the combined paint onslaught of Sealand, Sweden, Norway, and Finland.
Oh god, Finland, oh god.
"I'm having serious misgivings about your plan." Iceland leveled an almost blank-faced glare at America. No use in hiding it.
America shrugged. "If you want to switch places with Denmark and guard the flag that's fine. I just need a support. Someone to recover the flag with me, all awesome and heroic-like."
Iceland's mind unconsciously supplied boastful cheers and triumphant victory shouting a la America, with the boisterous nation posed over the opposition's paint-splattered bodies, brandishing a flag and waiting for a shower of accolades. His eye twitched with amusement. Annoyance. One or the other. "Two things. One, I don't know how well Denmark would react to serving as support, and two, even if someone covered you, you're still charging on their base so you're their immediate target. Not much your support can do, regardless of who it is."
"Aw shit!" America seemed not to have heard him. "I forgot about these!" Iceland's eyes widened as he saw her fiddle with the elastic waistband around her ratty sweatpants, but sighed in relief when America did nothing more than pull four walky-talkies-
Wait.
Iceland started, then hissed, "How did you even-?!"
How did she even forget-
"Ah, the benefits of being the only female of the group and being forced into a different changing room," she sighed with amused tranquility. She sent one sailing into the neighbor tree, where Canada caught it without taking his eyes away from his scope. She sent two at Iceland, who barely managed to catch them, and equipped the last. "Get the last one to Denmark."
Iceland sighed and did as he was instructed.
Apparently Denmark did not get the memo, because a loud "OW!" rang through the clearing once Iceland had dropped it into the brush Denmark was using for cover.
After five minutes, an extremely vulgar back-and-forth hushed shouting match in which Canada displayed fluent and gratuitous Québécois French cursing telling Denmark to shut up, and quite a few more one-finger salutes than strictly necessary, all four of them were communicatingthrough the walky-talkies.
"Did you really need to throw that on my head, Ice? Geez."
"I didn't mean to," Iceland griped.
"Hey, guys? Can we kiss and make up and move on now?" America sounded slightly irritated. "We've got about eight minutes before we make our move. Canada, whatcha got?"
"No sign of anyone on the opposing team yet," he replied, voice terse. He was clearly agitated that he couldn't find Finland amid the foliage. Iceland considered telling Canada about Finland's tactics during the Winter War, but when he heard Denmark's muffled cackle he realized that it could be considered a form of cheating, if such a thing existed in a game like this.
"They'll make their positions known soon enough," America responded, voice ominous. "So here's our plan. Denmark, you're guarding our flag. Iceland and I will take their flag. Canada will cover us and open a fresh can of whipass. And we will totally dominate these bitches."
Iceland took some mild exception to his family being referred to as "bitches". America was nearly as competitive about this as her brother.
"How come I have to guard our flag?" Denmark hissed into the talker. Clearly he was miffed about not being able to blow off some steam against Sweden. "Iceland has seen less actual combat than any of us, he should be guarding the flag!"
Well, now Iceland wanted to cover America just to spite Denmark. "You got a problem with my training, Dan?" he snapped.
"You don't even have a standing military."
"I have a Coast Guard!"
"I have Mounties," Canada interjected unhelpfully, the barest tinges of amusement leaking through his serious voice.
"And I have half a mind to put you both on guard duty," America deadpanned.
"Dan, if you have a problem with my combat skills, maybe I should remind you that you were the one who taught me military tactics," Iceland griped. Which was true enough; when Denmark had lost Norway after the Treaty of Kiel, he gave Iceland, Greenland, and the Faroe Islands a hell of a time when it came to politics and military. Iceland went through all the rounds himself and had faith in his abilities; hell, that, plus his overprotective relatives, was part of the reason he chose not to have a standing military in the first place.
Denmark was still fishing for a retort when Canada suddenly shushed them. "I see movement. Left of that tree with the red stripe running down it," he reported. The bickering three snapped to attention and subtly moved so they could see Canada's marker, but whoever it was couldn't be spotted by the rest of them; Canada just had an eye for it.
Iceland felt the beginnings of apprehension knot in his stomach despite knowing it was just a game, albeit a highly competitive one. Screw Denmark, he was backing America up. He had something to prove now. He watched as America silently vacated her position in the tree, making her way quickly to the ground. He followed suit, dropping down about ten feet from the ground.
He hurried over to her and crouched defensively while she pressed her back to a tree, pulled her rifle closed to her, and glanced around the bark for opponents. She looked highly dangerous, competent, and… pretty. Iceland was going to stick with pretty, because this was not the time, nor the place, to get distra-
"Okay, here's the plan," America whispered, and Iceland internally wanted to slam his head against a tree for getting distracted. "While we're still undetected, we'll make our way towards their base using stealth. I'll be moving in through the middle of the field, but Iceland, since you'll be the one getting the flag, you head that way," she gestured vaguely to his right, "and sneak around undetected."
Wait, what?
"Why am I the one who's getting the flag?" he practically snapped, now entirely sure that he should have switched guard duty with Denmark.
"Because they'll be expecting an American Hero charge," she explained. "And I bet you after half an hour, tops, Denmark is gonna ditch guard duty to go fight Sweden. So we have to move fast and we have to make it count. So, we got our plan?"
Iceland felt many things at that moment. Nervousness akin to fear, for what he was being asked to do. Irritation that he'd had very little say in any of it, because classic America had simply doled out the roles to play. A visceral sort of ferocity at the thought of charging into danger and kicking some ass. And a sense of wonder about him that he couldn't quite qualify as he quickly studied America's face.
He thought of Suðurland.
She had barely reached his knees at full height back then, but even as a child she had carried that same look with her into battle. A seriousness about her features warned all people against crossing her, and that expression on the face of a child that could wield a sword and a bow and toss a bear through a tree proved doubly intimidating. America had long since lost toddler pudginess in her cheeks that gave way to a world-weary sort of battle wisdom, but it seemed that, through all her centuries, she remembered the very first lesson Iceland had ever given to her about battle. When you are fighting, the fight is your whole world. Nothing else matters.
For a brief moment of time, he couldn't tell whether it was Suðurland or America looking at him. He only shook himself out of his thoughts when she tilted her head with curiosity. "You ready, bro?"
He was fairly certain the wording was deliberate. He was much less certain about whether or not he liked it. "Yeah."
She grinned, and offered him a fist bump. "All right," she muttered into her talker. "We're moving out!"
End Chapter Fourteen
1) Finnish breakfast sandwiches sound good. It's doubly hilarious when you contrast that against the recurrent mämmi dish in SaTW. Personally, being almost as much a seafood-loving freak as Norway (coastal states represent!), I'd go for salmon soup.
2) Norway's taking baby steps to a better relationship with his brother, finally.
3) Italy driving Japan on the German Autobahn. Just sayin'.
4) I know nothing about either paintball or military tactics so that's a lot of winging it. And it is definitely going to take less than half an hour for Denmark and Sweden to go at each other.
5) More badassery next chapter! I'm still not entirely sure who's going to win this little paintball match. It could go either way.