Family Ties [Part 15]
Feb. 25th, 2010 07:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hellzabethTitle: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, Ireland sibs, England, Scotland and France, America and Canada.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Babelfish Irish, guns, swearing.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
Aine was at her brother’s side in a blur of green and orange, pulling him into her lap, eyes wide and unsure, checking his pulse. “North? Hey, Éibhear!” she called, voice rising in pitch. Arthur hovered, kneeling nearby but aware that if he reached the Irish siblings his sister may instinctively lash out. “He’s burning up, something’s wrong in Belfast. Éibhear!” he wasn’t moving, only the barest rises of his chest indicates he was alive at all, and when Ireland pulled her hand away from her brother’s ear, it was hot and dripping crimson. Northern Ireland’s breath started to shudder. “Don’t you dare!” Ireland shrieked, and banshees couldn’t be louder. “Not now, a dheartháir, you can’t! I won’t let you!”
“Aine-” Arthur tried, knowing he was sailing dangerous waters. Indeed, she turns on him.
“Éist do bhéal! I don’t want to hear your voice at the best of times!” she snarls, livid and wild, her hair slipping out of her ponytail, copper wire curls in her eyes and catching those stray tears that she would never acknowledge were there.
“Jesus Christ, America, pick up.” Wales growls, pacing with the mobile against his ear. All he gets is dial tone. “The signal’s gone, they’ve hit the communications.” He threw the phone onto the desk, letting it bounce and slide. It settled on Russia.
Another crack like stone being split, and Northern Ireland’s chest stilled.
It was a horrible, empty void of nothing. Ireland couldn’t seem to catch enough breath to say anything, to even whisper a name, scream like she wanted and needed to. Wales clenched his fists until he could feel blood running from where his nails dug into his palm.
The minutes passed like this. Each felt longer than the last, until Ireland finally breathed. “His body is still here.”
England and Wales shared a look. It was true. Generally, if a Nation’s people had been truly wiped out, their body would vanish, or decay rapidly as the centuries caught up with them. Exceptions and technicalities occurred, but regardless, Éibhear looked like he had just fallen asleep, pale and bloodstained though he was. A thin ray of hope shone through the horror, fragile as glass. Using a strength that a woman of her size usually wouldn’t have, Aine lifted her brother up and onto the sofa, pillowing his head and gently wiping away the blood. Wales offered her a tissue, which she took without a word. She stood, staring at her fallen kin, face slowly filling with murderous rage.
“Aine…” Darren said lowly, not quite warning because that would get him killed. The Irish woman practically ripped her hair-tie out, storming out of the room. “Aine!”
“Feicfidh mé dó a mharú…” she muttered, going to next room with Wales on her heels, finding the cupboard and flinging it open, revealing an entire wall of guns. “Feicfidh mé a fháil air agus beidh air a mharú mé ar cad a rinne sé do mo dheartháir!” Strapping ammunition to her belt, loading semi-automatics. Wales didn’t want to get too close. England stayed away from her all together, keeping watch on Northern Ireland.
“Aine, we can’t just rush in!” Wales tried to reason, from a relatively safe difference. She wasn’t listening, instead shrugging on her tattered coat from the war, thick and heavy, and striding for the front door.
Before her hand touched the handle, it was repelled with a loud “bzzt”.
Both Nations paused in the hallway, before turning slowly to find England in the doorway to the lounge, fingers raised and glowing a soft green, pointing at the door. His breathing was laboured, but he was hiding it well. Using magic to seal one’s own house was one thing, but Ireland had wards of her own. This was much harder.
“Let me out, Arthur.” Ireland whispered softly.
“No.” England replied with as much strength as he could muster.
“Let me out.”
“No.”
Wide eyed, teeth bared, she crossed the distance in two strides and slapped England across the face. “Let me OUT!” she screamed at him. England just turned back to looking at her.
“…No.”
She hit him again. And again, and again, and when Wales tried to stop her she threw him off with desperate strength. England stood firm, with his hand still raised to hold the door shut, even as it started to shake slightly. The beating got lighter, punches to the face becoming beating fists against his chest, screams turning to sobs, until England wrapped his spare arm around her and let her cry.
“I have to- have to help him-” she stammered, trying to get a hold of herself. “Fuckin’- damn it- he didn’t even do- I’ve got to do something.”
It felt strange, Ireland allowing herself to be held, much less by England. “You’ll get your chance. We’ll all get our chance, but rushing in won’t help him.” He said softly.
“I-… I call dibs on first shot.” She gave a short laugh, half hysterical. England cracked a smile.
“First come, first served.”
-----
James could tell this would take a while.
The gym was largely empty, if not for a few early morning starters. The Nation had been in here before they were even officially open, starting on the lower weights. He needed to get his strength back up. Being under England’s rule for so long meant he hadn’t had to actually do much, especially not since the end of the war. That’s not to say he was completely out of shape, but France had jokingly remarked on the little bit of pudge that was building around his stomach and. Well. Something had to be done.
He even had Rocky’s training montage music on his iPod.
An advantage to having accelerated healing; he never had to stop training. A sprain, bruise or pulled muscle was fixed near instantly. Sure, he’d never have that supernatural strength that America had from when he was a small child, but it was a start. He didn’t stop to contemplate on whether his army would get stronger if he trained or if he’d get stronger if his army got better. Those kinds of questions were dangerous. Greece was on the other team this time.
He was there for a good four hours, feeling the burn and actually not thinking about the fucked up mess life had become recently. Setting his mind on his task only, he was just about to break for lunch when—
“James?” called a familiar voice. Scotland rested the weights he’d been bench pressing in the holder and sat up. France sauntered in, looking rather out of place in his fashionable clothes amidst the tracksuits.
“Over ‘ere!” Scotland called back, waving to attract the blonde’s attention. Francis crossed the room to him, looking a little… ill. “Francis?”
The Frenchman ran a hand through his hair. “James, amor, I don’t know how to break this to you.”
“Just say it.” Scotland tensed.
“…We’ve made the first move.”
“On?”
France paused, bit his lip.
“For god’s sake just tell me!”
“Northern Ireland.”
Scotland stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slack. His hands gripped the sides of the bench, white knuckled.
“Son of a bitch.” He uttered finally, and this seemed to break the stillness. He stood, grabbing his shirt but not putting it on.
“James-”
“He’s provoking them, he wants this war to start in the winter so he can win!” striding for the door, out into the autumn air. France jogged behind him.
“James, you can’t do anything, he’s our ally-!”
“I bloody know that!” Scotland whirled around; face hopeless and angry and lost. “I know that…” He sat down heavily on a low wall. France shivered in the cold. “What’s the damage?”
France didn’t hesitate this time. “Belfast’s in chaos; the government buildings were attacked, followed by any kind of communication network. Our soldiers have spread from the coast to the city, and we’ve driven back the Irish army until they’re outside the old boarders.” His mouth was a thin line. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but there’s an information blockade from the inside. No news is getting out of Northern Ireland, but everything’s coming in.”
“Shit.” Scotland scrubbed the sweat off his face before it cooled his skin too much. “Poor kid.”
“I’m… actually kind of surprised you didn’t notice your troops being mobilized, cher.” France said, sitting on the wall next to him.
The red head took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. “Workin’ out since dawn, focusin’ too much on that to feel anythin’ else. Which was kind of the point.” Francis placed his hand on top of James’ own. “Maybe I should just burst my eardrums now before Ireland gets her chance to scream at me.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would stop her.”
-----
“Maaaaaaaatt, gimmie back my happy meal!” Alfred whined, reaching round his brother, who held the fast food out of his reach.
“Not until you do that paperwork you’ve been putting off all week!”
“But Maaaaatt, it’s boring!” Don’t fall for the pout, Canada, don’t fall for the pout.
“I’ll tell Mexico where you put Texas at night!”
Don’t fall for the pout or the watery eyes, Canada, you’ve survived 300 years with him, why aren’t you immune yet?
“If I make you pancakes, can I have it back?”
Oh goddamn it.
“Fine here-” the phone rang, and Canada dropped the hamburger into an apparently ravenous America’s lap. “I’ll get it.” It was the landline. He picked up. “Hello?”
“Matthew?”
“Darren!” Canada was surprised; usually Wales called using his mobile.
“Matthew, I have to make this quick, there’s an information blockade and it’s only Arthur’s magic that’s giving me a connection right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Northern Ireland’s been attacked, we need to get out of here.”
“Attacked?!” Canada yelped. Alfred choked on his burger behind him.
“Yeah, we-”
“Wales, hurry!” came England’s voice in the background, pained and gasping.
“We need back up, is what I’m saying. Tell Alfred that Arthur needs a hero or something”
“I do not you-“ came the protest in the background, but America heard anyway, jumping up out of his chair.
“Did someone say hero?!” he grinned, but it didn’t hide the concern in his eyes.
“We’re at Aine’s house—” static was beginning to interrupt. America moved close so he could hear. “Don’t— stupid— hurt— oh shit—!” It fuzzed into a loud hiss of static. The North American siblings shared a look, before the phone cut off to the familiar sound of “kolkolkolkol”.
Notes:
- I used Babelfish mmkay? Ireland says "Shut up" to Arthur. When she's grabbing her guns, she's muttering: "I'm going to kill him." then "I'm going to hunt him down and kill him for what he did to my brother."
- Arthur needs a hero.
Part 16
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, Ireland sibs, England, Scotland and France, America and Canada.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Babelfish Irish, guns, swearing.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone. Oh yeah, and this somehow leads to World War Three.
Aine was at her brother’s side in a blur of green and orange, pulling him into her lap, eyes wide and unsure, checking his pulse. “North? Hey, Éibhear!” she called, voice rising in pitch. Arthur hovered, kneeling nearby but aware that if he reached the Irish siblings his sister may instinctively lash out. “He’s burning up, something’s wrong in Belfast. Éibhear!” he wasn’t moving, only the barest rises of his chest indicates he was alive at all, and when Ireland pulled her hand away from her brother’s ear, it was hot and dripping crimson. Northern Ireland’s breath started to shudder. “Don’t you dare!” Ireland shrieked, and banshees couldn’t be louder. “Not now, a dheartháir, you can’t! I won’t let you!”
“Aine-” Arthur tried, knowing he was sailing dangerous waters. Indeed, she turns on him.
“Éist do bhéal! I don’t want to hear your voice at the best of times!” she snarls, livid and wild, her hair slipping out of her ponytail, copper wire curls in her eyes and catching those stray tears that she would never acknowledge were there.
“Jesus Christ, America, pick up.” Wales growls, pacing with the mobile against his ear. All he gets is dial tone. “The signal’s gone, they’ve hit the communications.” He threw the phone onto the desk, letting it bounce and slide. It settled on Russia.
Another crack like stone being split, and Northern Ireland’s chest stilled.
It was a horrible, empty void of nothing. Ireland couldn’t seem to catch enough breath to say anything, to even whisper a name, scream like she wanted and needed to. Wales clenched his fists until he could feel blood running from where his nails dug into his palm.
The minutes passed like this. Each felt longer than the last, until Ireland finally breathed. “His body is still here.”
England and Wales shared a look. It was true. Generally, if a Nation’s people had been truly wiped out, their body would vanish, or decay rapidly as the centuries caught up with them. Exceptions and technicalities occurred, but regardless, Éibhear looked like he had just fallen asleep, pale and bloodstained though he was. A thin ray of hope shone through the horror, fragile as glass. Using a strength that a woman of her size usually wouldn’t have, Aine lifted her brother up and onto the sofa, pillowing his head and gently wiping away the blood. Wales offered her a tissue, which she took without a word. She stood, staring at her fallen kin, face slowly filling with murderous rage.
“Aine…” Darren said lowly, not quite warning because that would get him killed. The Irish woman practically ripped her hair-tie out, storming out of the room. “Aine!”
“Feicfidh mé dó a mharú…” she muttered, going to next room with Wales on her heels, finding the cupboard and flinging it open, revealing an entire wall of guns. “Feicfidh mé a fháil air agus beidh air a mharú mé ar cad a rinne sé do mo dheartháir!” Strapping ammunition to her belt, loading semi-automatics. Wales didn’t want to get too close. England stayed away from her all together, keeping watch on Northern Ireland.
“Aine, we can’t just rush in!” Wales tried to reason, from a relatively safe difference. She wasn’t listening, instead shrugging on her tattered coat from the war, thick and heavy, and striding for the front door.
Before her hand touched the handle, it was repelled with a loud “bzzt”.
Both Nations paused in the hallway, before turning slowly to find England in the doorway to the lounge, fingers raised and glowing a soft green, pointing at the door. His breathing was laboured, but he was hiding it well. Using magic to seal one’s own house was one thing, but Ireland had wards of her own. This was much harder.
“Let me out, Arthur.” Ireland whispered softly.
“No.” England replied with as much strength as he could muster.
“Let me out.”
“No.”
Wide eyed, teeth bared, she crossed the distance in two strides and slapped England across the face. “Let me OUT!” she screamed at him. England just turned back to looking at her.
“…No.”
She hit him again. And again, and again, and when Wales tried to stop her she threw him off with desperate strength. England stood firm, with his hand still raised to hold the door shut, even as it started to shake slightly. The beating got lighter, punches to the face becoming beating fists against his chest, screams turning to sobs, until England wrapped his spare arm around her and let her cry.
“I have to- have to help him-” she stammered, trying to get a hold of herself. “Fuckin’- damn it- he didn’t even do- I’ve got to do something.”
It felt strange, Ireland allowing herself to be held, much less by England. “You’ll get your chance. We’ll all get our chance, but rushing in won’t help him.” He said softly.
“I-… I call dibs on first shot.” She gave a short laugh, half hysterical. England cracked a smile.
“First come, first served.”
-----
James could tell this would take a while.
The gym was largely empty, if not for a few early morning starters. The Nation had been in here before they were even officially open, starting on the lower weights. He needed to get his strength back up. Being under England’s rule for so long meant he hadn’t had to actually do much, especially not since the end of the war. That’s not to say he was completely out of shape, but France had jokingly remarked on the little bit of pudge that was building around his stomach and. Well. Something had to be done.
He even had Rocky’s training montage music on his iPod.
An advantage to having accelerated healing; he never had to stop training. A sprain, bruise or pulled muscle was fixed near instantly. Sure, he’d never have that supernatural strength that America had from when he was a small child, but it was a start. He didn’t stop to contemplate on whether his army would get stronger if he trained or if he’d get stronger if his army got better. Those kinds of questions were dangerous. Greece was on the other team this time.
He was there for a good four hours, feeling the burn and actually not thinking about the fucked up mess life had become recently. Setting his mind on his task only, he was just about to break for lunch when—
“James?” called a familiar voice. Scotland rested the weights he’d been bench pressing in the holder and sat up. France sauntered in, looking rather out of place in his fashionable clothes amidst the tracksuits.
“Over ‘ere!” Scotland called back, waving to attract the blonde’s attention. Francis crossed the room to him, looking a little… ill. “Francis?”
The Frenchman ran a hand through his hair. “James, amor, I don’t know how to break this to you.”
“Just say it.” Scotland tensed.
“…We’ve made the first move.”
“On?”
France paused, bit his lip.
“For god’s sake just tell me!”
“Northern Ireland.”
Scotland stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slack. His hands gripped the sides of the bench, white knuckled.
“Son of a bitch.” He uttered finally, and this seemed to break the stillness. He stood, grabbing his shirt but not putting it on.
“James-”
“He’s provoking them, he wants this war to start in the winter so he can win!” striding for the door, out into the autumn air. France jogged behind him.
“James, you can’t do anything, he’s our ally-!”
“I bloody know that!” Scotland whirled around; face hopeless and angry and lost. “I know that…” He sat down heavily on a low wall. France shivered in the cold. “What’s the damage?”
France didn’t hesitate this time. “Belfast’s in chaos; the government buildings were attacked, followed by any kind of communication network. Our soldiers have spread from the coast to the city, and we’ve driven back the Irish army until they’re outside the old boarders.” His mouth was a thin line. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but there’s an information blockade from the inside. No news is getting out of Northern Ireland, but everything’s coming in.”
“Shit.” Scotland scrubbed the sweat off his face before it cooled his skin too much. “Poor kid.”
“I’m… actually kind of surprised you didn’t notice your troops being mobilized, cher.” France said, sitting on the wall next to him.
The red head took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. “Workin’ out since dawn, focusin’ too much on that to feel anythin’ else. Which was kind of the point.” Francis placed his hand on top of James’ own. “Maybe I should just burst my eardrums now before Ireland gets her chance to scream at me.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would stop her.”
-----
“Maaaaaaaatt, gimmie back my happy meal!” Alfred whined, reaching round his brother, who held the fast food out of his reach.
“Not until you do that paperwork you’ve been putting off all week!”
“But Maaaaatt, it’s boring!” Don’t fall for the pout, Canada, don’t fall for the pout.
“I’ll tell Mexico where you put Texas at night!”
Don’t fall for the pout or the watery eyes, Canada, you’ve survived 300 years with him, why aren’t you immune yet?
“If I make you pancakes, can I have it back?”
Oh goddamn it.
“Fine here-” the phone rang, and Canada dropped the hamburger into an apparently ravenous America’s lap. “I’ll get it.” It was the landline. He picked up. “Hello?”
“Matthew?”
“Darren!” Canada was surprised; usually Wales called using his mobile.
“Matthew, I have to make this quick, there’s an information blockade and it’s only Arthur’s magic that’s giving me a connection right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Northern Ireland’s been attacked, we need to get out of here.”
“Attacked?!” Canada yelped. Alfred choked on his burger behind him.
“Yeah, we-”
“Wales, hurry!” came England’s voice in the background, pained and gasping.
“We need back up, is what I’m saying. Tell Alfred that Arthur needs a hero or something”
“I do not you-“ came the protest in the background, but America heard anyway, jumping up out of his chair.
“Did someone say hero?!” he grinned, but it didn’t hide the concern in his eyes.
“We’re at Aine’s house—” static was beginning to interrupt. America moved close so he could hear. “Don’t— stupid— hurt— oh shit—!” It fuzzed into a loud hiss of static. The North American siblings shared a look, before the phone cut off to the familiar sound of “kolkolkolkol”.
Notes:
- I used Babelfish mmkay? Ireland says "Shut up" to Arthur. When she's grabbing her guns, she's muttering: "I'm going to kill him." then "I'm going to hunt him down and kill him for what he did to my brother."
- Arthur needs a hero.
Part 16
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Re: Irish
Date: 2010-08-25 09:53 pm (UTC)