Foreword

I know it's frowned upon to do this before a fic even starts but I want to be honest about the topics in here. This fic focuses on the occupation of France and the escape lines that defied the Nazi's. So at a lot of events are based on real events.

And that brings us to triggers. There will be violence in this story, it will not be explicit. It is my hope that this fic comes across as a story of fighting back and being brave against tremendous odds. But it's not all going to be badassery and snarky jokes.

The closest we're getting to rape will be the implication that if you slept with a German life would a bit easier. Rape is a serious crime that did happen during the war and still happens today. No judgement on people writing stories that contain it, but to include it here because APH America is in a female body feels cheap.

The holocaust will be mentioned in so far as terrible rumors and persecution against the its victims. It is something that we should talk about but I'm dealing with a pretty specific time period and going by the rule of who knew what when, the inclusion of the concentration camps and similar events would be just to ramp up the tension and I don't want to be disrespectful. (To be clear the Allies knew about the concentration camps before they were liberated.)

All that being said, hello. Before we actually begin, I just want to say that for each historical fic I write I do at least a couple hours of research. For this one I did hours upon hours (but am by no means an expert). I kept a list of all my research materials so if you find this interesting or want to know more about something mentioned here, please don't hesitate to ask for that list. (It includes many forms of media if a podcast, comic, or video if that is more your jam.) Seriously, if you haven't heard of an app called hoopla, look into it. You just need a library card and you can borrow so many ebooks, audiobooks, movies, exct… (I don't know if it's US only.) It made research for this so much easier and affordable.

That's all for now. As always reviews are always appreciated even if it's criticisms. If you think I could do better, especially given the topics in here please let me know.

Crashing In

A Wake

1943

America wakes up with a jolt. He moves to rise, but his hand slips and his arm gives out under him. He flails. Then he falls and crashes into the ground. There's something on top of him. It isn't heavy but it is everywhere. He tries to roll to away but only tangles himself tighter. He thrashes on the floor, kicking his legs until the fabric shifts and tears. He lets out a laugh that is more air than anything else. Hair rushes into his mouth and he spits it out.

He stumbles to his feet. The sheet's still clinging to his legs. The floor is cold under his feet. His legs, his everything really, are still weak and heavy. They flex their fingers as feeling and knowledge return. Their inhuman strength is still out of reach. He knows it will return but it makes him nervous. It will take a few days. Until then, he has to be careful.

He hates dying. It is always disorienting. One minute you're minding your own business, and the next you're somewhere else, maybe hundreds of miles away in a new body, wearing who knows what. He's heard some stories from other nations of spending a full day jumping from body to body, never having a moment to adjust to one because a battle had killed so many. Honestly, he has to wonder if that wasn't half the reason for staking a body back in the day. And, finding your way back home was never easy. Not in the least because an unfamiliar man bursting into the highest offices of government tends to spook some people, and those people often have guns or swords or something else that could land you in another body all over again.

America sets a hand on the table he had fallen from. His legs are still unsteady and a little stiff. Rigor Mortis hasn't set in yet, they always have to be freshly dead anyways, but it might as well have. He's practically freezing. He shoves his hands under his arm pits and freezes.

The nation blinks in surprise. He takes a deep breath feeling his chest rise and then he lets it out slowly. He looks down.

Alright then.

Ok, they will admit it, not to anyone else though, they can get a little carried away, caught up in ideas and plans for the future or what they were doing now to make those dreams reality. And maybe that comes across as oblivious.

So maybe they could have handled this a little better. It would be more dignified if they'd taken a moment before trying to spring up and into action. But it isn't every day they died. (And to be fair it was very confusing to be flying mid barrel roll and then wake up wrapped in an old sheet.)

America didn't die very often. No matter how much their bosses criticized their diet or England scolded their recklessness, they had died way less than most nations. They'd kept their original body for over a hundred years, that was more than half their life. So comparably, they died way less than others. (France had died like six times during the Reign of Terror. And they still bitched about how short their hair had been for all of the two weeks they had had that body.) And yeah, Canada had never lost his first one, but it wasn't like it was a competition and if you counted fatal wounds than Canada would have a death count too. But that would mean that America's would also be a bit higher, and none of that mattered because it wasn't a competition.

Their current body, well now it was the last body they had had, it looked a lot like their first. It had darker coloring and maybe was a bit stockier. But it had served him well. It was probably blown to bits now considering it had been too broken to heal. Maybe their fuel tank had been hit. This body, well, they a set hand over their chest absently, this one felt very different.

They look around the room. They don't think it is a morgue, not an official one at least. It's dark with no windows and smells too musty to be anything but a basement. The room is quiet as a grave except for their own breath. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Who would want to be locked up with a corpse? It is overwhelmingly dusty in here. They can see every footprint on the floor. They follow them to a patch of dust-free ground, leaving another set bare footprints behind. They reach for the door as a flash of color catches their eye.

They bring their hand closer to their face. Green. It's chipped but still clinging to their neatly trimmed nails. Their lips turn downward at the sight. That wouldn't do. They toss the idea of blue or white, but no their nails should be red, either a bright shade or dark like blood. Red is just classic and bold. It's patriotic even. With that decision, they take a deep breath and prepare to make another one.

They slowly open the door. They peek their head out. No one. It is just as quiet as in the cellar. It's nearly as dark too. A thin line of slivery light lay on the floor to the right. They look around as they slip in. There's a barred window perched over a sink. To the left of the window there's a bare spice rack and behind that a set of wooden of chairs and a table.

Ok, so this is definitely a kitchen, which probably means they're in a proper house. America moves slowly and silently. Walk quietly and carry a big stick, they think as they go from the kitchen to a sitting room. Sure, they don't have a stick or the strength to swing it, but it's a work in progress.

They creep from the kitchen into a hallway. There's a set of stairs to the right and a door at the far end in front of them. They tilt their head. There's an old rug sitting just in front of the door. Shoes line the wall. Probably an exit. They could make a run for it. But the only thing they are wearing is a long shirt, and it only goes as far as their knees. Plus, there might be blood in their hair or something. They should make sure they didn't look like death warmer over first. Or they may as well wrap themselves up in an American flag and walk straight up to the nearest German officer. Surely that would be just as an effective means of evading Germany's attention.

Slowly they test the stairs. America keeps low, pressing a foot down and listening for a creak, and then moving as quickly as possible, which is still rather slow. They make sure to place their feet as close to the wall as possible to lessen the creaking.

At the top of the stairs they can finally hear sounds of life. Snoring slips out of the door. America silently curses, biting their lip to hold the words in. While waking up in an empty house is very creepy and suspicious, it would have made things easier. There is a possibility that whoever is sleeping could wake up and if they did…well they're probably a family member or close friend and there is no easy way of getting out of that. (Although they suppose there is also a small chance that the sleeping person is a murder and if America had to lose this body to death, well at least they wouldn't have wasted much time.)

America listens hard to the two doors nearest to him. Nothing. They pivot to the left first.

Moonlight spills onto gleaming tile flooring. They can see a mirror from the door but not their reflection. They frown in the mirror's direction. Oh, it is tempting. It would just take a moment to examine their new body. They allow themselves an angry sigh and close the door. They flick a lock of hair away from their face and turn to the last quiet door.

This room is just as dark as the rest of the house. America glances at the door down the hall as he slips into the bedroom. They pause and strain their ears once more. A smirk slips onto their face. They are so fucking stealthy. England should be jealous.

An empty bed is pressed against the wall. A small dresser sits beside it. Little bottles and stationery are scattered across it in little groups. A large mirror reflects the bottles. There is also a flashlight, a picture frame, a collection of papers, and other objects. America walks over and picks up the flashlight. There is no way they can turn away from something so useful. Speaking of useful… raiding the closet is their best bet.

The wardrobe door refuses to open. America leans back on their heels and squints at the door through the dark. They see missing flecks of paint at the top corner of the door. They press a hand there and dig their fingers in. The door opens with a low creak. Shoes line the bottom and dresses hang above. They browse through each dress, occasionally pausing to judge one or another. This body had had good taste. Even though some of the dresses were obviously older or had been recut, the tailoring had been done neatly and they look great. The stitches are all straight and sturdy. New trim has been added to cover old worn hems. Resourceful, America thinks. A little war didn't stop all life. They feel a little pride and fondness for who their body had been.

Unfortunately, their good work causes a small problem. Walking through towns where someone could recognize this body is difficult, doing it through possible enemy territory is risky, and doing it in a dress that could make men forget about pressing orders is less than ideal.

They settle for a green one tucked towards the back. Clearly not the most loved. The sleeves are longer than most of the dresses and the material worn, but if they have to sleep in a ditch it will be the best option. America holds the most practical boots to their chest and moves them on to the bed. It is neatly made but wrinkles linger in one spot. Someone has been sitting there, probably trying to hold the memories of when the dead girl had last used this room before it lost all the little traces of her.

They slip the gown off the hanger and pull on their new old clothes. They look again at the dresser. Their body is nothing but a dark shape in the room. America forces their eyes away. Their hands drift over the objects on the dresser. They slip a hand mirror and a tube of lipstick into their pockets. They pick up the papers and bring each one close to their face. One is a little notebook filled with handwritten paragraphs and sketches. Another is a couple sheets with deep creases down their center. These are also covered in handwriting and smell faintly of roses. The last set of papers is probably what America is looking for. It is all thick typeset and has several shapes stamped on it. They tuck the stack of papers and the notebook under their arm. They leave the change sitting in a small dish. It would have helped immensely, and it would have been too cruel.

As well prepared as possible, America is ready to go. They press their ear to the door, listening for the snoring. Then they retrace their steps. At the door they gather a dark brown and a matching cap that hung on the rack. They pull both on and tuck strands of soft hair back behind their ears.

England had told him once about a vampire panic he had caused many years ago by doing this, making it obvious that the dead had risen. Not that any amount of deception would have worked this time. Waiting to be buried is risky and embalming is too common now a days and there is no time to waste in a war.

America eases the door shut, careful to make sure it is silent.

There are no road signs outside the house. Nor are there any lights of civilization to follow. It isn't unexpected with the air raids, but it doesn't help America make any decisions. There aren't even any stars in the sky to give them a little light. So, America walks from the front door to the road. The crunching of gravel under their feet is the only sound to be heard. Standing in the center of the dirt road they spin around; once, twice, and they walk forward.