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heroescutiesTitle: Alfred Jones and the Lost City of Gold 3/? [FF.Net Link] [Previous Chapters]
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Action/Adventure/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England, Poland/Lithuania, Tony
Word Count: 3,232
Summary: Sequel to Alfred Jones and the Curse of the Pharaoh. America and England embark on a journey to seek out the Inca Lost City of Gold and are drawn into a web of mystery that spans three countries as well as into depths never before explored by another person. But they'll need more than just luck tackle this adventure, for the city is not just lost....it is hidden and well-protected by very strong magic.
Chapter 3 Summary: America sighed, running a hand up through his sweaty bangs. Okay, so England was keeping something from him again, just great. But this really wasn’t the best time to sit down and have a heart to heart chat about whatever the problem was. They were both injured, Australia was flying their supplies in, and they had to get those packs and to the closest safe place to stay for the night before the sun started to dip any further down on the horizon.
Notes: I'm so sorry for the delay on this. I know it's been like...2 months, but I hope people are still interested in it. Also, a major thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
socialholic for drawing this utterly beautiful fanart from a scene in chapter 2. Thank you again! Also yes, this is my writing journal rename herolessons. If you'd like to keep up on my stories, feel free to friend it! :)
America was bruised. Not just his back, that is, but his ego as well. This was a totally unheroic start to an adventure! Okay, so he’d been massively awesome and taken the brunt of the fall. Pretty heroic. But the whole tangled parachute and having to fall to his demise until England saved him? Not so heroic. Well, at least on his end it wasn’t. And while America didn’t mind England doing cool things like that now and then, he really needed to do some really awesome heroic things as well to balance it out.
Because hey, his memoir penned about Alfred F. Jones and his adventures needed to be as heroic as possible. Not just average heroic. Massively, amazingly, jaw-droppingly, heroic.
Though granted, Indiana Jones was scared of snakes, so perhaps this wasn’t too unheroic in comparison. Either way, America felt he really needed to up his heroism quota. And well, it’d be nice if his back wasn’t so bruised either. Because- yeah, OW.
He was leaning back against the tree at the moment while England cursed into the radio. It wasn’t getting reception, which wasn’t surprising considering the strange anomaly that was the Llanganates range. Who knew what crazy shit was going on up in the sky to keep the radio signal from going through?
But it was England’s sudden panicked expression and just a feeling that England was extremely worried about something that really caught America’s attention.
“Hey, you okay?”
“What?” He replied, distractedly. It seemed like he had been mumbling something under his breath. “Oh yes. Just can’t get the radio to patch through.”
“Give it here, I’ll try it.” America offered, figuring that if the radio was worrying England that much that he shouldn’t be fussing with it.
England handed it over, still glancing around as if there was something in the air America couldn’t see. America squinted. Well, maybe there was…some evil fairy or whatever crazy new imaginary friend England had thought up. It was definitely that look he got whenever magical things were involved though…
America picked up the radio, adjusted the signal and…it patched through immediately.
He blinked. “Err…Hello?”
“There you are, mate!” Australia’s relieved voice came through, “I was getting a might bit worried, given the weather round here and that drop you took. Are you both all right or do I need to come down?”
“Slightly banged up, but nothing broken. We could really use the ice packs we have in our supply bags though…”
“Right’o, just figure out where and I’ll drop them. You drifted a bit off target, so you’ll have to radio me the new coordinates to your location.”
Looking over to England, America blinked at the odd expression on his face. He looked downright incredulous; probably since the radio had just worked at first go when America had tried it.
“Guess it just needed my awesome,” America quipped.
England just scowled, seeming pretty sour over the whole thing. “Bollocks,” he murmured halfheartedly, before going back to staring off into the distance like something horrible was about to attack them any moment.
“Mate, you still there?” Australia’s voice came over the line.
“Y-yeah, sorry!” America said, focusing back on the task at hand. He could worry about England’s strange behavior later. “Booting up the GPS right now, so I should have some good ole Lat and Long soon!”
The GPS, like America’s glasses, had thankfully survived the crash landing better than they had; but America was still unsure if it would be able to pick up any satellites through the thickening clouds overhead.
But despite his worries, England still looked even worse. “England, you sure you’re all right?”
He snapped his head around and plastered on a neutral and less apprehensive expression. “Fine. Quite fine. Just hurry up and get our supplies.”
Now even more concerned about England’s strange actions, America took a deep breath and idly taped the side of his GPS as he waited for it to register. Finally, after what seemed like ages (but was probably just a minute or so) it connected with the satellites.
“Australia?”
“You got it?”
America punched it over to the schematic he needed. “Yep. Gonna read it off now. We’re at one degree, fourteen minutes and thirty two seconds south on the latitude and seventy eight degrees, twenty four minutes and fifty eight seconds west, longitude.”
“Hmm,” Australia thought as he calculated his whereabouts. “Looks like I’m ‘bout one click away from you two. Be there in a jiffy, mates.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for you overheard and signal you as we planned.”
“Got it. Over and out.”
Turning the radio off, America turned his attention to England. His shoulders were rigid, but it didn’t seem to be from pain. If anything, England seemed so distracted by something else he didn’t even notice that he was clenching his right fist tightly.
“England, your hand!” He cried out, reaching over to unclasp the injured hand that was now bleeding again.
For a brief moment, a look of panic flickered in England’s eyes before the pain in his palm registered. “Shite,” he swore. “Christ almighty...I’m being a right cock-up about this.”
America pouted, giving England a reprimanding glance before pulling his bleeding hand back into his grasp and beginning to fix up the loose rudimentary bandage. “Yes, you are. What’s going on England? This isn’t like you.”
The older nation bit his lip. “Just being a bit barmy, that’s all. All rattled due to our troubles so far, probably overreacting you know?”
Reaching over with his good arm, America wrapped it around England’s shoulders and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, everything’s going to be all right. We’ve been through worse than this, right?”
England stalled a moment before saying, and not all that convincingly, “I suppose you’re right…”
America sighed, running a hand up through his sweaty bangs. Okay, so England was keeping something from him again, just great. But this really wasn’t the best time to sit down and have a heart to heart chat about whatever the problem was. They were both injured, Australia was flying their supplies in, and they had to get those packs and to the closest safe place to stay for the night before the sun started to dip any further down on the horizon.
Giving England a smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder, America turned back to their two squashed bags that were looking more like pincushions than backpacks at that moment. Carefully, he began to rifle through his backpack, pulling out some of their maps and notes. Skimming them over, America began to look around for anything that might indicate where they were. If, as Australia said, they were about one click- that is, one kilometer- from where they were supposed to drop, it shouldn’t be too far to a safe place. But if they ended up on the other side of the river... America traced the blue line with his finger, grimacing as he read the contour lines around it. The elevations there were steep, and definitely not something he was looking forward to crossing in their current injured state.
“America,” England’s voice cut into his thoughts, “I hear a plane approaching, which is probably Australia since no one else is mad enough to be flying in these mountains.”
“Right, let’s send up the flare then.”
England, probably in hopes America would stop questioning him about his behavior, stepped up to handle it. Rummaging around in his pack, he pulled out the flare gun, loaded the colored flare they needed and stepped back.
But even as he shot the white flare high into the air to give Australia their exact locale, America couldn’t help but notice that England’s shoulders still looked too tense. Something he highly doubted had anything to do with England shooting the gun with his left hand or the pain in his right hand.
As the sound of Australia’s plane drew nearer, America began pulling out what they’d need to bring their other luggage down to the ground. Australia was going to drop it out of the main hatch of his plane, both large packs rigged with small parachutes with altimeters set to release them at a certain altitude. But with the way the wind was blowing in this area, and just the unstable nature of the entirety of these mountains, the three of them had developed a plan to ensure the bags landed safely within America and England’s grasp.
“Let’s see if all Australia’s boomerang throwing lessons paid off, huh England?” America quipped, pulling out a sleek brown boomerang, adorned with white designs. It was classic in look, but the make was all modern.
And most of all, it was made for long distance throwing.
“I’m not counting on it, just so you know,” the older nation remarked.
But America was all optimism, and well, he was in need of some new heroic act to put in his memoir. He shot England a cocky grin, eyed the spot where Australia was about to drop the bags, and cocked back his left hand to throw, lifting up his right arm to aim and…
His right arm, specifically his still-swollen elbow twinged sharply and he hissed in pain. That wiped all tension from England’s face right off, replacing it with nothing but wide-eyed concern.
“America, your elbow…” He was there at his side immediately, fussing over the swollen joint.
Well, so much for heroics, America thought to himself. He needed a good right arm to extend out and act as an aim for the horizon. And, he was running out of time.
“England, we’ve gotta do this together. Now listen quickly, I don’t have much time to explain,” he said, moving to stand closely behind England, his words ruffling through the shorter nation’s choppy hair. “I need you to be my eyes.”
“What?”
America lifted up his good left arm and slowly, but gently as to not hurt England’s right hand, lifted up his right arm in front of him. “Level this out with what you’re aiming for. In this case,” America saw the plane open the hatch and the bags go toppling out of it. Once their parachutes deployed, they would only have a minimal amount of time to catch the ropes with the boomerang and drift them closer.
“Aim for the parachute ropes. Right above where they attach to the bags by about twelve centimeters.”
England nodded, leaning back flush against America’s chest. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”
Wrapping his right arm delicately around England’s waist, America held himself steady against him, ready to throw when the time was right. He estimated the direction of the wind, cocked the boomerang to a forty five degree angle off of that, and pulled it back. “England, now!”
England, with the same tenacity America was certain he had back in his pirating days, fiercely focused on the target, bringing his right arm up with a snap, his bandaged hand acting as the point America would aim with.
“Let’s hope what goes around comes around!” He joked as he let the boomerang fly.
The blur of brown pierced the sky, whirling past tree branches and nearly missing some of them. America only had a small pocket of open air to work with, after all.
Finally, just as he’d asked of England, the boomerang snagged the ropes of the parachutes about five inches up. The yank of the boomerang trying to return did just as they’d hoped it would- cause the parachutes to drift towards the owner of the boomerang.
America cheered, and leaned forward to press a kiss to England’s temple. “All right, now we’ve got to catch it.”
“We’ve got to what?” England asked, incredulous.
“Normally you catch the boomerang with two hands,” America noted. “But either it’ll disengage from the ropes and I’ll need you to help me catch it or…”
England saw where this was headed, “Or it’ll drag the bags all the way back and we’ll have to catch them.”
“Right.”
“Remind me again why I let you and Australia talk me into this idea?”
America laughed, “Because I’d just handed you a mug of your favorite tea?”
England snorted, “Figures you bribed me.”
“Incoming!”
Sure enough, the boomerang (with the two parachutes and two bags still being dragged with it) was right within their grasp. Without a word, America and England stepped to either side, each of them using their uninjured arms to reach up and grab a backpack. The boomerang, now freed from its towing job, went soaring past America’s head until it skidded to the ground after hitting a tree.
“Seems like it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, huh?” America asked, already starting to dig through the bag in search of a first aid kit.
England, who was looking a bit more relieved than he had been, swatted America’s hands away from the first aid kit he was fumbling with. About to protest, America was silenced as England pecked a quick kiss to his lips.
“You can bandage my hand all you want once I get an ice pack strapped to your back, all right?”
America just nodded, nuzzling his face in England’s hair a moment before giving his partner a wide grin.
“Doctor away, darling!”
------------------------------------------------
America was quite certain his current look could be referred to as “heroically battered.” In fact, he was so certain that this look had great hero-potential that he was just about to pull out his cell phone and snap a photo of himself for his memoir- all tousled blonde hair, khaki adventuring wear, a bandage on the cut on his left cheek, and a swath of gauze holding about three ice packs to his back. This had the effect of making his chest (which was showing a bit since he had several buttons unbuttoned) look very, well…heroic. Add in the gauze holding an ice pack to his elbow and it surely looked extremely, awesomely heroic.
“You’re a right mess, you know that?” England remarked; all furrowed brows and worry.
America pouted. “What? I thought I looked rugged. See-” he pointed to his bandaged chest showing through the opening in his shirt, “Doesn’t this look heroic to you?”
England flushed red. “Heroic… is not the word that comes to mind, no.”
He blinked a few moments before he stopped being insulted and blushed as well. “Oh. Well,” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “The Great Plains could always use some more British tourism, if you catch my drift?”
England, who was still in the process of changing from his thorn-torn jumpsuit into his khakis, gave America a very pointed look.
“What? Maybe later?”
England crossed his arms over his bare chest. “You’re incorrigible,” he groused before turning around to dig his shirt out of his bag.
America caught his wrist, his body warm against England’s bare back.
“You, Mister Kirkland, need to stop being so tense.” He punctuated his last word with a rub of his fingers into the knot of muscles where England’s back swept up to his neck.
He hummed appreciatively, but his words were his usual grump. “We still need to get our tent up before the sun goes fully down, ah…” he paused as America’s fingers worked at a muscle right by his shoulder blade.
“Shh, just relax…” America murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of England’s ear.
“America, I’m just noting- ah, a little to the left there, yes that’s it – that due to the storms in this region we couldn’t take our tents with any sort of metal supports. And you know…know how…”
England sighed as America rubbed soothing circles as best as he could with his bum elbow, leaning back into the other nation’s touch.
“Know what?” America asked, a hint of mischief in his tone. He knew he was getting England to loosen up whether he liked it or not.
“That…” England hesitated, his train of thought quite elsewhere as America’s gentle hands continued their motions. “That…that those wooden supports take longer to get set up.”
“Ah,” he replied, reaching around as best as he could with his injured elbow to rub at England’s temples. “Well once the hero’s magic fingers are done here, we can do that then.”
“You…you’re…”
America grinned. “Amazing? Wonderful? The most awesome boyfriend in the history of ever?”
England snorted, his eyes starting to drift closed. “Putting me to sleep, you git.”
At that, he jerked his hands back. “Ah, sorry!”
But England just shook his head, turning to face him with a sliver of a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “No. Thank you. I rather…needed that.”
He turned to America, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his lips, his good hand clutching at America’s open shirt while his bandaged hand pressed to the bandages on America’s chest.
Without a single word, America simply knew that England had been so tense because he was worried about his injuries. Then again, the bruise on his back sounded pretty terrible from all the swearing England had done on seeing it now that it’d had a while to get right nasty and turn colors.
With a fond smile, America gently took England’s bandaged hand and lifted it up to his lips, pressing a light kiss on the bandages where they ran over his palm.
“Figured you could use some awesome to help your hand while we get the tent up.”
England rolled his eyes. “You are the one who needs the fussing. Your back looks like Jackson Pollock’s Summertime: Number 9A from the Tate Gallery.”
America blinked. “Is it really all those colors?”
“Most of them. Thankfully not much dark purple or black, and I think the green is from grass stains, but yes…plenty of warm purple, yellows and reds.”
On hearing this, America just smiled. “Glad to know you think my back is a work of modern art, England.”
At that quip, England reached over to America’s bag, picked up his Indiana Jones hat and shoved it on the younger nation’s head. “Oh hush, you.”
America started to laugh, but stopped abruptly, his hand darting out and grasping England’s shoulder.
“England, don’t move for a second, okay?”
England blinked. Following America’s gaze, he saw what had caused the sudden concern.
Standing a couple meters away from them, about three feet tall while down on all fours, rustling through the forest’s undergrowth, was a large bear. It was completely black outside a splotch of golden-beige around its eyes, making it stand out rather starkly against he mostly green and brown surroundings.
America gave England’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he felt him tense up. Encountering wildlife in areas that rarely saw humans was always risky business as you could never quite be sure how the animal would react.
That and even America was certain England was thinking back to their last adventure and their unfortunate encounter with a certain possessed evil duck.
With a heroic flourish (well as good a flourish as he could manage with his elbow still aching) America adjusted his fedora and stepped towards the bear.
“Hey little guy, you’re not going to do anything evil to us are you?”
The bear cocked its head and America really, truly, hoped that it was out of curiosity and not because it was plotting his demise.
-------------------------
[Notes]
1) Jackson Pollock was an influential American painter and a major figure in the abstract expressionist movement.
2) The Tate Modern in London is Britain's national museum of international modern art. It is home to Pollock's Summertime Number 9A.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Action/Adventure/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England, Poland/Lithuania, Tony
Word Count: 3,232
Summary: Sequel to Alfred Jones and the Curse of the Pharaoh. America and England embark on a journey to seek out the Inca Lost City of Gold and are drawn into a web of mystery that spans three countries as well as into depths never before explored by another person. But they'll need more than just luck tackle this adventure, for the city is not just lost....it is hidden and well-protected by very strong magic.
Chapter 3 Summary: America sighed, running a hand up through his sweaty bangs. Okay, so England was keeping something from him again, just great. But this really wasn’t the best time to sit down and have a heart to heart chat about whatever the problem was. They were both injured, Australia was flying their supplies in, and they had to get those packs and to the closest safe place to stay for the night before the sun started to dip any further down on the horizon.
Notes: I'm so sorry for the delay on this. I know it's been like...2 months, but I hope people are still interested in it. Also, a major thank you to
socialholic for drawing this utterly beautiful fanart from a scene in chapter 2. Thank you again! Also yes, this is my writing journal rename herolessons. If you'd like to keep up on my stories, feel free to friend it! :)America was bruised. Not just his back, that is, but his ego as well. This was a totally unheroic start to an adventure! Okay, so he’d been massively awesome and taken the brunt of the fall. Pretty heroic. But the whole tangled parachute and having to fall to his demise until England saved him? Not so heroic. Well, at least on his end it wasn’t. And while America didn’t mind England doing cool things like that now and then, he really needed to do some really awesome heroic things as well to balance it out.
Because hey, his memoir penned about Alfred F. Jones and his adventures needed to be as heroic as possible. Not just average heroic. Massively, amazingly, jaw-droppingly, heroic.
Though granted, Indiana Jones was scared of snakes, so perhaps this wasn’t too unheroic in comparison. Either way, America felt he really needed to up his heroism quota. And well, it’d be nice if his back wasn’t so bruised either. Because- yeah, OW.
He was leaning back against the tree at the moment while England cursed into the radio. It wasn’t getting reception, which wasn’t surprising considering the strange anomaly that was the Llanganates range. Who knew what crazy shit was going on up in the sky to keep the radio signal from going through?
But it was England’s sudden panicked expression and just a feeling that England was extremely worried about something that really caught America’s attention.
“Hey, you okay?”
“What?” He replied, distractedly. It seemed like he had been mumbling something under his breath. “Oh yes. Just can’t get the radio to patch through.”
“Give it here, I’ll try it.” America offered, figuring that if the radio was worrying England that much that he shouldn’t be fussing with it.
England handed it over, still glancing around as if there was something in the air America couldn’t see. America squinted. Well, maybe there was…some evil fairy or whatever crazy new imaginary friend England had thought up. It was definitely that look he got whenever magical things were involved though…
America picked up the radio, adjusted the signal and…it patched through immediately.
He blinked. “Err…Hello?”
“There you are, mate!” Australia’s relieved voice came through, “I was getting a might bit worried, given the weather round here and that drop you took. Are you both all right or do I need to come down?”
“Slightly banged up, but nothing broken. We could really use the ice packs we have in our supply bags though…”
“Right’o, just figure out where and I’ll drop them. You drifted a bit off target, so you’ll have to radio me the new coordinates to your location.”
Looking over to England, America blinked at the odd expression on his face. He looked downright incredulous; probably since the radio had just worked at first go when America had tried it.
“Guess it just needed my awesome,” America quipped.
England just scowled, seeming pretty sour over the whole thing. “Bollocks,” he murmured halfheartedly, before going back to staring off into the distance like something horrible was about to attack them any moment.
“Mate, you still there?” Australia’s voice came over the line.
“Y-yeah, sorry!” America said, focusing back on the task at hand. He could worry about England’s strange behavior later. “Booting up the GPS right now, so I should have some good ole Lat and Long soon!”
The GPS, like America’s glasses, had thankfully survived the crash landing better than they had; but America was still unsure if it would be able to pick up any satellites through the thickening clouds overhead.
But despite his worries, England still looked even worse. “England, you sure you’re all right?”
He snapped his head around and plastered on a neutral and less apprehensive expression. “Fine. Quite fine. Just hurry up and get our supplies.”
Now even more concerned about England’s strange actions, America took a deep breath and idly taped the side of his GPS as he waited for it to register. Finally, after what seemed like ages (but was probably just a minute or so) it connected with the satellites.
“Australia?”
“You got it?”
America punched it over to the schematic he needed. “Yep. Gonna read it off now. We’re at one degree, fourteen minutes and thirty two seconds south on the latitude and seventy eight degrees, twenty four minutes and fifty eight seconds west, longitude.”
“Hmm,” Australia thought as he calculated his whereabouts. “Looks like I’m ‘bout one click away from you two. Be there in a jiffy, mates.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for you overheard and signal you as we planned.”
“Got it. Over and out.”
Turning the radio off, America turned his attention to England. His shoulders were rigid, but it didn’t seem to be from pain. If anything, England seemed so distracted by something else he didn’t even notice that he was clenching his right fist tightly.
“England, your hand!” He cried out, reaching over to unclasp the injured hand that was now bleeding again.
For a brief moment, a look of panic flickered in England’s eyes before the pain in his palm registered. “Shite,” he swore. “Christ almighty...I’m being a right cock-up about this.”
America pouted, giving England a reprimanding glance before pulling his bleeding hand back into his grasp and beginning to fix up the loose rudimentary bandage. “Yes, you are. What’s going on England? This isn’t like you.”
The older nation bit his lip. “Just being a bit barmy, that’s all. All rattled due to our troubles so far, probably overreacting you know?”
Reaching over with his good arm, America wrapped it around England’s shoulders and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, everything’s going to be all right. We’ve been through worse than this, right?”
England stalled a moment before saying, and not all that convincingly, “I suppose you’re right…”
America sighed, running a hand up through his sweaty bangs. Okay, so England was keeping something from him again, just great. But this really wasn’t the best time to sit down and have a heart to heart chat about whatever the problem was. They were both injured, Australia was flying their supplies in, and they had to get those packs and to the closest safe place to stay for the night before the sun started to dip any further down on the horizon.
Giving England a smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder, America turned back to their two squashed bags that were looking more like pincushions than backpacks at that moment. Carefully, he began to rifle through his backpack, pulling out some of their maps and notes. Skimming them over, America began to look around for anything that might indicate where they were. If, as Australia said, they were about one click- that is, one kilometer- from where they were supposed to drop, it shouldn’t be too far to a safe place. But if they ended up on the other side of the river... America traced the blue line with his finger, grimacing as he read the contour lines around it. The elevations there were steep, and definitely not something he was looking forward to crossing in their current injured state.
“America,” England’s voice cut into his thoughts, “I hear a plane approaching, which is probably Australia since no one else is mad enough to be flying in these mountains.”
“Right, let’s send up the flare then.”
England, probably in hopes America would stop questioning him about his behavior, stepped up to handle it. Rummaging around in his pack, he pulled out the flare gun, loaded the colored flare they needed and stepped back.
But even as he shot the white flare high into the air to give Australia their exact locale, America couldn’t help but notice that England’s shoulders still looked too tense. Something he highly doubted had anything to do with England shooting the gun with his left hand or the pain in his right hand.
As the sound of Australia’s plane drew nearer, America began pulling out what they’d need to bring their other luggage down to the ground. Australia was going to drop it out of the main hatch of his plane, both large packs rigged with small parachutes with altimeters set to release them at a certain altitude. But with the way the wind was blowing in this area, and just the unstable nature of the entirety of these mountains, the three of them had developed a plan to ensure the bags landed safely within America and England’s grasp.
“Let’s see if all Australia’s boomerang throwing lessons paid off, huh England?” America quipped, pulling out a sleek brown boomerang, adorned with white designs. It was classic in look, but the make was all modern.
And most of all, it was made for long distance throwing.
“I’m not counting on it, just so you know,” the older nation remarked.
But America was all optimism, and well, he was in need of some new heroic act to put in his memoir. He shot England a cocky grin, eyed the spot where Australia was about to drop the bags, and cocked back his left hand to throw, lifting up his right arm to aim and…
His right arm, specifically his still-swollen elbow twinged sharply and he hissed in pain. That wiped all tension from England’s face right off, replacing it with nothing but wide-eyed concern.
“America, your elbow…” He was there at his side immediately, fussing over the swollen joint.
Well, so much for heroics, America thought to himself. He needed a good right arm to extend out and act as an aim for the horizon. And, he was running out of time.
“England, we’ve gotta do this together. Now listen quickly, I don’t have much time to explain,” he said, moving to stand closely behind England, his words ruffling through the shorter nation’s choppy hair. “I need you to be my eyes.”
“What?”
America lifted up his good left arm and slowly, but gently as to not hurt England’s right hand, lifted up his right arm in front of him. “Level this out with what you’re aiming for. In this case,” America saw the plane open the hatch and the bags go toppling out of it. Once their parachutes deployed, they would only have a minimal amount of time to catch the ropes with the boomerang and drift them closer.
“Aim for the parachute ropes. Right above where they attach to the bags by about twelve centimeters.”
England nodded, leaning back flush against America’s chest. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”
Wrapping his right arm delicately around England’s waist, America held himself steady against him, ready to throw when the time was right. He estimated the direction of the wind, cocked the boomerang to a forty five degree angle off of that, and pulled it back. “England, now!”
England, with the same tenacity America was certain he had back in his pirating days, fiercely focused on the target, bringing his right arm up with a snap, his bandaged hand acting as the point America would aim with.
“Let’s hope what goes around comes around!” He joked as he let the boomerang fly.
The blur of brown pierced the sky, whirling past tree branches and nearly missing some of them. America only had a small pocket of open air to work with, after all.
Finally, just as he’d asked of England, the boomerang snagged the ropes of the parachutes about five inches up. The yank of the boomerang trying to return did just as they’d hoped it would- cause the parachutes to drift towards the owner of the boomerang.
America cheered, and leaned forward to press a kiss to England’s temple. “All right, now we’ve got to catch it.”
“We’ve got to what?” England asked, incredulous.
“Normally you catch the boomerang with two hands,” America noted. “But either it’ll disengage from the ropes and I’ll need you to help me catch it or…”
England saw where this was headed, “Or it’ll drag the bags all the way back and we’ll have to catch them.”
“Right.”
“Remind me again why I let you and Australia talk me into this idea?”
America laughed, “Because I’d just handed you a mug of your favorite tea?”
England snorted, “Figures you bribed me.”
“Incoming!”
Sure enough, the boomerang (with the two parachutes and two bags still being dragged with it) was right within their grasp. Without a word, America and England stepped to either side, each of them using their uninjured arms to reach up and grab a backpack. The boomerang, now freed from its towing job, went soaring past America’s head until it skidded to the ground after hitting a tree.
“Seems like it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, huh?” America asked, already starting to dig through the bag in search of a first aid kit.
England, who was looking a bit more relieved than he had been, swatted America’s hands away from the first aid kit he was fumbling with. About to protest, America was silenced as England pecked a quick kiss to his lips.
“You can bandage my hand all you want once I get an ice pack strapped to your back, all right?”
America just nodded, nuzzling his face in England’s hair a moment before giving his partner a wide grin.
“Doctor away, darling!”
------------------------------------------------
America was quite certain his current look could be referred to as “heroically battered.” In fact, he was so certain that this look had great hero-potential that he was just about to pull out his cell phone and snap a photo of himself for his memoir- all tousled blonde hair, khaki adventuring wear, a bandage on the cut on his left cheek, and a swath of gauze holding about three ice packs to his back. This had the effect of making his chest (which was showing a bit since he had several buttons unbuttoned) look very, well…heroic. Add in the gauze holding an ice pack to his elbow and it surely looked extremely, awesomely heroic.
“You’re a right mess, you know that?” England remarked; all furrowed brows and worry.
America pouted. “What? I thought I looked rugged. See-” he pointed to his bandaged chest showing through the opening in his shirt, “Doesn’t this look heroic to you?”
England flushed red. “Heroic… is not the word that comes to mind, no.”
He blinked a few moments before he stopped being insulted and blushed as well. “Oh. Well,” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “The Great Plains could always use some more British tourism, if you catch my drift?”
England, who was still in the process of changing from his thorn-torn jumpsuit into his khakis, gave America a very pointed look.
“What? Maybe later?”
England crossed his arms over his bare chest. “You’re incorrigible,” he groused before turning around to dig his shirt out of his bag.
America caught his wrist, his body warm against England’s bare back.
“You, Mister Kirkland, need to stop being so tense.” He punctuated his last word with a rub of his fingers into the knot of muscles where England’s back swept up to his neck.
He hummed appreciatively, but his words were his usual grump. “We still need to get our tent up before the sun goes fully down, ah…” he paused as America’s fingers worked at a muscle right by his shoulder blade.
“Shh, just relax…” America murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of England’s ear.
“America, I’m just noting- ah, a little to the left there, yes that’s it – that due to the storms in this region we couldn’t take our tents with any sort of metal supports. And you know…know how…”
England sighed as America rubbed soothing circles as best as he could with his bum elbow, leaning back into the other nation’s touch.
“Know what?” America asked, a hint of mischief in his tone. He knew he was getting England to loosen up whether he liked it or not.
“That…” England hesitated, his train of thought quite elsewhere as America’s gentle hands continued their motions. “That…that those wooden supports take longer to get set up.”
“Ah,” he replied, reaching around as best as he could with his injured elbow to rub at England’s temples. “Well once the hero’s magic fingers are done here, we can do that then.”
“You…you’re…”
America grinned. “Amazing? Wonderful? The most awesome boyfriend in the history of ever?”
England snorted, his eyes starting to drift closed. “Putting me to sleep, you git.”
At that, he jerked his hands back. “Ah, sorry!”
But England just shook his head, turning to face him with a sliver of a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “No. Thank you. I rather…needed that.”
He turned to America, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his lips, his good hand clutching at America’s open shirt while his bandaged hand pressed to the bandages on America’s chest.
Without a single word, America simply knew that England had been so tense because he was worried about his injuries. Then again, the bruise on his back sounded pretty terrible from all the swearing England had done on seeing it now that it’d had a while to get right nasty and turn colors.
With a fond smile, America gently took England’s bandaged hand and lifted it up to his lips, pressing a light kiss on the bandages where they ran over his palm.
“Figured you could use some awesome to help your hand while we get the tent up.”
England rolled his eyes. “You are the one who needs the fussing. Your back looks like Jackson Pollock’s Summertime: Number 9A from the Tate Gallery.”
America blinked. “Is it really all those colors?”
“Most of them. Thankfully not much dark purple or black, and I think the green is from grass stains, but yes…plenty of warm purple, yellows and reds.”
On hearing this, America just smiled. “Glad to know you think my back is a work of modern art, England.”
At that quip, England reached over to America’s bag, picked up his Indiana Jones hat and shoved it on the younger nation’s head. “Oh hush, you.”
America started to laugh, but stopped abruptly, his hand darting out and grasping England’s shoulder.
“England, don’t move for a second, okay?”
England blinked. Following America’s gaze, he saw what had caused the sudden concern.
Standing a couple meters away from them, about three feet tall while down on all fours, rustling through the forest’s undergrowth, was a large bear. It was completely black outside a splotch of golden-beige around its eyes, making it stand out rather starkly against he mostly green and brown surroundings.
America gave England’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he felt him tense up. Encountering wildlife in areas that rarely saw humans was always risky business as you could never quite be sure how the animal would react.
That and even America was certain England was thinking back to their last adventure and their unfortunate encounter with a certain possessed evil duck.
With a heroic flourish (well as good a flourish as he could manage with his elbow still aching) America adjusted his fedora and stepped towards the bear.
“Hey little guy, you’re not going to do anything evil to us are you?”
The bear cocked its head and America really, truly, hoped that it was out of curiosity and not because it was plotting his demise.
-------------------------
[Notes]
1) Jackson Pollock was an influential American painter and a major figure in the abstract expressionist movement.
2) The Tate Modern in London is Britain's national museum of international modern art. It is home to Pollock's Summertime Number 9A.
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