Also, this fic is set probably about two years ago, sometime when Theresa May was still in office, when I began this fic.
By the way, this fic will be finished relatively soon. I finally have an ending, it just took me, you know, three years to find one, which is why this was so slow. IF anyone really wants an end, it's coming. About five more chapters to go.
CH 24
America drives the Lincoln in the mid-afternoon light, England looking forlornly out the passenger window. They were quiet, too tense to speak, afraid things would escalate should sound escape them. America's knuckles white against the leather steering wheel, as he drove through the rolling hills and farmland of Virginia.
He was scared, something he would not usually admit out loud, but it permeated his skin, and he felt like England was getting it through osmosis or something. But England had reason to be scared too, he reasoned. War between them was never pretty. It was typically very emotional, a lot of crying and drinking and gunfights. He really didn't want them sobbing against each other again.
America sucks in a breath at the thought. He really needed to focus. Thinking about what could happen in a day and a half was not helping his vibe. The Capitals. That was the current problem. Finding the capitals that were probably being beaten and tortured and it was all because he was a goddamn dumb—
"America, stop crying, please. It's really not helping."
England's tone was unempathetic, but he handed America a handkerchief and sighed.
"Really, America, my dear, you are still such a child."
"I'm not a child," America whines and wipes his eyes
"Then cry like an adult, like me," England states, as if it was the answer to everything.
America stares. "You mean bottle everything up and then one day, die?"
"Precisely." England smiles.
"You know, I do remember that one time, at that bar in Boston—"
"This is not the time, America!" England huffs and crosses his arms, and pointedly precedes to look out the car window again.
England was having his own worries, and yes, he did endeavor to keep them to himself bottled up inside. But unlike his fellow man, he really didn't have the luxury of one day dying. But, you know, that's what alcohol is for, England thought. He was going to get so drunk with London after all of this was over, go pub hopping all over the British Isles. Tell his best friend how much he appreciated him while he was too sloshed to keep that stiff upper lip. He may even invite America again and sob all over him as he always does.
But that was after all of this was said and done, and this was nowhere near done. He also needed to focus on the present moment.
England ran a hand over his face. This was such a huge mess, Parliament and the Queen were suiting up for war, actual war, in less than two days with another one of his former colonies. America was strong though, and this wouldn't turn out well for either of them. Alfred was a blundering fool that forgets there are other countries out there and an arrogant prat who believes himself superior, but he had a good heart and his principles were from the right place. He just had a hard time implementing them effectively. Hopefully, all in good time, England thought, all in good time.
A war would tear them apart.
And England, rarely as he admits it, really did like America.
But the moment, yes, at the moment. They needed to find their capitals. Poor London and Washington, probably alone and scared. Or pissed as all hell.
The thought brought a small smile to his face as he stared out at the Virginia farmlands. London, the spitting fire at his captors like the stubborn brit he was. And Washington was no weakling either—
England's eyes flicker to the side mirror.
That's peculiar. England frowns.
"America, how long has that truck been behind us?"
America looks at the rearview, "Since we got off 80, why?" he says flippantly.
England looks confused, "Your highway?"
America frowns. "Yes?"
"How long ago was that?"
"About 65 miles." America answers.
England looks toward the heavens. "Name a time, please, America, I don't understand your measuring system, if only you used the metric system like the rest of us—"
"What's your point, old man?" America snorts.
"That truck, how long has it been behind us?" England punctuates.
"'bout an hour and some."
"And?" England prompts.
"Some?"
England puts his face in his hands and leans forward in anguish. Just when he thinks America is grown, capable, and intelligent, he is reminded of his formal colony's unique kind of chronic stupidity.
"How you've become a world superpower, is still beyond me."
America pouts. And then, "Oh my God, they're following us."
England throws his hands up. At least he finally reached the point without England saying it outright. "Yes. Yes, they are. Now are we going to do something about it?"
America looks put off. "On these roads? I dunno, England, these are country roads…"
"And we're in a Lincoln, yes, I'm aware. Now step on it, Nascar."
America grins like a maniac and he smashes the gas pedal to the floor. Tires spin rapidly on the pavement, screeching and kicking up smoke as the rubber burns. The car goes. England regrets.
England grabs the seat in terror.
America laughs at him and drifts expertly around a turn. He's been driving fast and furious for years, England has only gotten a taste of it on the motorcycle and in the sports car. America, the country of high-velocity car racing, takes the wheel very seriously, loving every second of it.
He takes a look at the rearview mirror. The black truck has picked up speed, and so has the black car behind it.
"There are two of them?" England shouts.
"This is getting out of hand!" America growls back. He speeds around the car in front of him, noting how the truck follows. He takes a sharp turn at street that blends into the forest.
"What are you doing?" England yells.
"Trying to lose them!"
"I'm not sure this is the best way to go about this, this road has nowhere to hide!" England grouches.
"Oh, well then how 'bout you drive!"
England huffs and lifts up his chin in disdain. "There's no time, now!"
"No shit! Really?" America hammers the point with a drift around a tree-lined corner. Maybe this wasn't the best idea, the road is terrible and obviously hasn't seen any real care for decades. He grits his teeth when branches brush the car. At least the truck behind him is no better off. And the black car behind the truck is gone. Perhaps it wasn't meant to handle this gritty country road.
Man, I really need to work on infrastructure, America thinks to himself.
But his Lincoln wasn't really meant to handle this road either.
"The other car is gone." England helpfully points out.
America chooses not to comment. It seems they have come to a series of small bridges, with bubbling creeks beneath them. Pretty, but now was not the time to enjoy the country nature.
"Well, this is quite nice isn't it? I've always liked Virginia." England says.
"Well, you know what isn't nice? Driving in a car chase, don't you have anything helpful to say?" America snaps at him.
"America, look out!"
Around a turn, the black car comes barreling out of nowhere, and the driver isn't as prepared for a collision as the race-hardened country. America jerks the wheel to avoid the other car, and swerves off the road, down into the bubbling creek below. He and England brace for impact, and the front of the car smashes into the creek bed, jerking them like a baby's rattle before the airbags deploy, effectively smooshing their faces. The car groans, and creaks, and intermittent those sounds, America and England can only sit and hear the sounds of their pursuers driving away. It seems they've achieved their goal.
They both groan in pain, exhaustion, frustration, among other things.
America coughs. "Are you good?"
"Am I good?" England reflects softly, his voice elevating as he speaks. "Am I good, he asks. My government is about to declare war, my capitol is missing and is probably in great agony, and I was just driven off this bloody road, and you have the absolute gall to ask me, 'Am I good?'" He shouts at him.
America pushes the airbag away from his face, "Yeah, you're good." He muscles his way out of the car, listening to England mutter angrily "am I bloody good, I'll show you who's bloody good," as the brit makes his own way out of the ruined vehicle.
America stands in the creek, water running over his sneakers as he takes in the scene. Despairs descends over him as he realizes the consequence.
"Oh, fuck."
How are they going to reach their capitols now?
Landon imagines hissing at the man in front of him and thinks that he would feel absolutely no shame in that uncivilized behavior. Still, he holds his tongue, the poor man came in just to give him some water. He's a capitol, so he could technically survive well enough without it, but it's still better to stay hydrated. And who is he to turn down something when freely given.
The man pours a small cup into Landon's mouth a little too quickly and it drips down his face, and Landon laments not having his hands free to wipe his face with his handkerchief. Or, you know, having his hands free to escape. He could do with both at the moment if he just had his hands free.
This is truly degrading, he thinks, when the water tickles as it dribbles off his chin.
The man pulls it away before the cup is finished. He takes a quick glance at the water that's left in the cup and shakes it out over Danny's head. Landon seethes.
"Oi!" He shouts, twisting his head around and yanking the best he could while tied to a chair, "Piss off!"
"You watch your mouth, or you won't be getting no mo' water," this man threatens, and this man, how rude!
Landon feels fire and fury and suddenly regrets not hissing at the man earlier, but it's never too late to start.
"Get out." He hisses, wishing he could spit fire like the dragons of myth.
The man puts up his hands in supplication, but Landon has seen the man beneath the skin and knows the action does not reach the heart. Here, there is no heart, just rot.
Landon knows cruelty, from himself and from humanity. But sometimes, it still surprises him.
However, it seems the universe has granted Landon a small mercy, for the man takes his cup and leaves Landon to his dreary prison.
He hangs his head as the door clicks shut and he feels exhausted from that one interaction. And had Danny been back from the void, he may even admit just how depressing this all is. Briefly put, Landon is sad, full stop. He wants this to be over. He has no desire to be stuck here, with Danny somewhere in the nether.
Landon has done terrible things, he's been around a long time and has had the time to regret and accept the actions and wars he's been part of since the beginning of his existence, but he doesn't think he deserves this, this blatant act of terror.
England must be going crazy by now; Landon could imagine Blitz level hysterics. England had no part in this, it wasn't even happening in his own lands. At least, not happening with this level of conspiracy in the "deep state". England is only involved because Landon got involved, and England, while selfish, has learned to take care of his own. If Landon hadn't gotten this far in, he wouldn't have ended up in this room, and then England could sleep easy.
Not that Landon regrets it.
Poor America. A country with such a strong heart and a blinding optimism couldn't see cancerous growth taking place. He probably has no idea how to deal with any of this, and Landon pities him. It may be his fault for not bothering to deal with any of the signs, but that doesn't mean he deserves to have his heart ripped from him, nor is America beyond hope.
And by the gods of old, Danny sure doesn't deserve this. Poor child hasn't had a clue of who he even was until recently, and his disconnect from his own government has just about pardoned him from their crimes. He's a sweet kid, someone Landon could groan and poke fun at their countries with, because God forbid, he do that with Paris. No, Danny is just fine, thank you.
He's his Watson. That's what Landon wanted.
Landon is jerked out of his thoughts when the ugly gray door opens. Two men enter, one grinning with a missing tooth and the other wearing a MAGA hat and a sporting an unkempt beard. If dumb had a look, Landon thinks, I have discovered two different species of it.
"Looky, looky," Toothy taunts, "Little London bridge has fallen down."
Just what I need. London looks supremely unimpressed.
"Clever, did it take both of you to come up with that, or just the one?" Landon remarks, dry as a desert.
Toothy hits him with a left hook, and Landon feels his lip split. He licks at the blood, tasting the iron, and Toothy just pants in front of him like a beast.
"Say that again, why don ya!" Toothy snarls.
Landon fixes him with a patronizing look and pursed bloody lips. "Now, what good would that do? Did I stutter?"
Toothy snarls again. Landon lifts an eyebrow and turns to address Beardy.
"Pardon me, sir, it's dangerous to let wild animals loose in enclosed spaces."
Toothy goes in for another hit, but Beardy pulls him back. Still, the glint in Beardy's eye did not put Landon at ease. Toothy was angry, but Beardy looked cruel, and Landon was desperately looking for a way to navigate this.
"That's 'nough, Jim," Beardy says, "It don't matter, he'll be getting' it soon 'nough."
Jim (Toothy), grunts, and seems put out that he was stopped from swinging, but he pulls away from Beardy and backs off. Landon watches.
"And what is 'it' that I'll be getting? I'm afraid being imprisoned means that my intel is rather lacking." Landon probes, hoping for some kind of information.
Beardy smiles, and Landon briefly feels pity for any man, woman, or child that ever has to look at this man.
"I heard if we try hard 'nough, we can end you," Beardy drawls, "And I'd been lookin' forward to tryin' out a few of ma new guns."
Chills went down Landon's spine, but he remains composed, "Oh really? And what would 'ending me' accomplish?" he asks, ignoring the latter part.
"Didn't ya hear?" Beardy says, eyes alight with a manic sort of sparkle, "War. And America's new beginning."
That's not what I wanted to hear, Landon thinks. He sighs but does not react. He doesn't want to give them any reason to try anything else.
"Is that all, gentlemen?"
Beardy looks at Danny's slumped figure and Landon's mouth twitches. Whatever Beardy's deciding, Landon doesn't want it.
"Let's go, Jim," Beardy says.
On second thought, Landon really wants it.
The men leave out the door with a clang, and Landon looks to high heaven for guidance. He stares at the ceiling, hoping with every fiber of his being that some miracle will happen. Hell, he would take Paris coming through the door in next week's fashion if it would save him and Danny.
Danny really needs to wake up, he needs to wake up now and say something, anything.
"What the fuck?" Mumbles behind him.
Landon stiffens like a board and feels movement, actually living movement and the warmth of a living being at his back. It's a miracle, Landon is so grateful, thanking the heavens. He could do anything right now, achieve everything; he could tell his friend how happy he was.
"Yeah, 'what the bloody fuck,'" Landon snarls, suddenly pissed, "that's the understatement of the millennia, we need to get the bloody hell out of this sorry excuse of a building."
Danny straightens up slowly behind, compartmentalizing that things seemed to have changed, and wondering how they got from Washington to a gray room. And he was wondering what he did to deserve all this anger.
"Yes?" He tries, hoping that was the correct answer to whatever Landon was saying.
"'Yes'?" Apparently not.
They weren't getting anywhere with this.
"Landon?" Danny tries.
Landon takes a deep breath. "Yes, Danny?"
"Whas happened?"
Landon takes another deep breath and begins the depressing explanation.
At the end, Danny responds. "Oh."
"'Oh'? What do you mean 'oh'?" Landon gripes, "I think this deserves a little more than 'oh'!"
Landon halts before he speaks again when he feels Danny trembling behind him. Landon sighs, he didn't mean to get so angry, but it just happens sometimes. Danny didn't deserve it, and now he has to fix it.
"Lad, this isn't your fault, don't beat yourself up over this," Landon says softly, "None of this is your fault, and we'll get out of this, I promise."
Danny speaks, and while Landon is glad that he speaks, he can't help the truth in Danny's words.
"Please," Danny says, somber, "don't make promises you aren't sure you can keep."
"Fine, then," Landon settles, "but we can't give up hope now, or we definitely can't keep that promise."
Landon has realized many things in his long life, it happens, you know, when you live. You realize that things are more or less, different than you think. You learn and you separate, you live and you combine, you take ideas from others and make a few yourself. But, Landon knows, he has realized that giving up hope means giving up everything. Without it, living is not really living. And this is the lesson he wants to impart to the young capitol at his back.
He has hope right now, and he needs a plan. There has to be some way out of this drab gray hole in the ground.
"We need to get out of here," Danny imparts, helpfully.
"No bloody shit." Landon wonders when his mouth got so filthy, but all this cursing is really helping to relieve some of his tension. "We need to get out of these ropes."
Danny hums.
"Would a knife work?"
Landon huffs, annoyed, "Of course, if we had one."
"Then get the one out of my boot."
Landon is suddenly pissed off again. "You have a bloody knife in your bloody boot?!"
"Yeah, it's been there for, like, 120 years—"
"Disgusting!"
"—and if I can't reach it but you may be able to!"
The brit surrenders to fate and Danny does some contortionist wiggling to bring his foot up and as close to Landon's hand as he could. Landon puts all his two brain cells to focus on getting his fingers into Danny's sweaty combat boot.
Danny has a total of three kinds of shoes. Dress shoes, converse, and combat boots since his old cowboy boots now rest in retirement on a shelf in his room. And never has he been so thankful for wearing his combat boots where he keeps his knife from his years in the west.
Landon grunts at feeling the foot-warmed leather of the knife's sheath. He never imagined that at one point in his life he would go driving his fingers into a sweaty boot looking for a knife. Still, this isn't the worst thing he's ever done. He pulls out the sheathed knife from the boot.
It's difficult, but not impossible, and after some embarrassing fumbling (this is far from the first time Landon has used a knife), he gets the knife out of the sheath and begins to cut.
He hardly cuts a single thread when the door begins to open. He jerks the knife back into the sheath far faster than he got it out and shoves the sheathed knife in the back of his pants, where hopefully, none of these men will look.
The man from earlier, the leader, oblivious to Landon's fumbling, greets them with a smile, but neither feel comfort.
"Good, you're awake."