Did someone say more fic? No? Well, how embarrassing for me, then. I've been doing a ton of writing recently, and since I am far too lazy to get myself a fic journal (and, really, why would I even need one? I've already got a perfectly good journal here), I'm posting a bit more of it for...posterity, really, but who knows? Maybe it'll bring someone some joy. And so, I present to you with much pride, Chapter One of my newest WIP; Watch the Skies, my Axis Powers Hetalia Superhero AU. Because, come on, who doesn't want to read a story in which America is literally the hero?

Title: Watch the Skies (part 1/?)
Genre: Drama/Romance
Author/Artist: three guesses
Character(s) or Pairing(s): (In this chapter) England, America (with some one-sided US/UK), France, Canada (with some slight France/Canada), and China. More characters will be included in later chapters.
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Warnings: AU
Summary: For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the Justice system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.



It’s half past six in the morning, and Detective England Kirkland is still sitting at his desk, even though his shift has long since ended (it is, in fact, scheduled to begin again quite soon). He’s leaning on one arm, chin propped on his hand, half-dozing even as he reads yet another report of a superhero sighting downtown. This time it’s a botched attempt at a carjacking, the would-be car thief left in an unconscious heap on the sidewalk by Gradheit. A blurry black-and-white photograph of the imposing hero is attached to the report with a paper clip, and England tries not to look at it for too long; of all the heroes that currently call Axis City home, Gradheit is the only one who’s probably more frightening than the baddies he fights. It’s something about the huge, hooded cloak, England decides, and the way you can’t see his eyes.

Setting the report aside, England reaches for a small bottle of aspirin on the corner of his desk, shakes two of the pills into his hand, and downs them with a mouthful of cold Earl Grey. He can’t remember a time when he hasn’t had a headache.

“Detective Kirkland?”

England startles, knocking over his mug of tea. Brown liquid sloshes across his desk, staining the report on Gradheit before he can get it out of the way. England swears quietly and rights the mug, doing his best to keep the damage to a minimum.

“Good morning, Canada,” he says tiredly, wiping rather ineffectually at the ruined report. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Canada sets down his backpack and the thermos he’s holding and moves to shift the remaining paperwork away from the spreading pool of liquid. He looks horrified, and a little like he might cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to surprise you like that. Hold on, I’ll get some paper towels.”
He hurries to the break room, all the way yelling apologies over his shoulder. England looks down at the paper in his hand; the photograph of Gradheit is soaked through, all the gradients of grey blotched and bleeding into one another. He plucks it out from under the paper clip and throws it away.

“Here, let me—” Canada has reappeared, armed with an entire roll of paper towels, and he quickly sets to soaking up the mess. “I hope the tea didn’t do any lasting damage,” he says, sounding worried.

“No, it’s nothing to worry about,” replies England. He can always have Canada type up a clean copy of the report, if need be, and there are already hundreds of pictures of Gradheit on file. He’ll probably already feel bad about it for the rest of the day, there’s no point in making his guilt any worse.

Canada collects the mass of used paper towels into a large wad and deposits it delicately in the trash can next to England’s desk. Then he stands, wiping his hands on his pants, and frowns.

“You stayed here all night, again, didn’t you?” When England gives him a questioning look, he adds, “The tea was cold. Besides, you look exhausted, and that’s the same tie you wore yesterday. Have you slept at all?”

“A bit,” shrugs England. He doesn’t mention that this is only because he fell asleep on his desk halfway through a stack of witness testimonies from the recently thwarted robbery of the Allied Municipal Bank. “Mostly I’ve been sorting through reports. There are more of them every day; it’s beginning to get overwhelming.”

Canada makes a disapproving noise. “You’re going to make yourself sick, Detective Kirkland,” he informs England gravely.

Granting the younger man a weary smile, England shakes his head. “I appreciate your concern, Canada, but—”

“If you get sick and have to take time off, then who am I going to train with?” interrupts Canada. “Detective Bonnefoy is the only other person who’s been authorized to train new recruits for the Superhero Taskforce.” He gives England a meaningful look, and England chuckles.

“I don’t doubt that France would be overjoyed at the opportunity—well, well, speak of the Devil.” He looks up as the door to the room opens and a blue-clad young man hustles in, blonde hair pulled back loosely, the faint trace of a beard lining his jaw.

“Talking about me, again, are you?” France grins, striding across the room to set his belongings on the desk across from England’s.

“Hello, France,” says England at the same moment that Canada groans, “Good morning, Detective Bonnefoy.”
France’s eyes light up, and he slings an arm around Canada’s shoulders.

“You’re here awfully early, Canada. England isn’t forcing you to run errands for him, is he? I know what a hardass he can be—just say the word and I can have the Chief transfer you to my expert care.” He breathes the last two words against Canada’s neck, and Canada lets out a noise that borders on a squeak.

“It’s nothing like that,” he says quickly, all but shoving France away.

France looks like he is about to say something, but England interrupts him before he can speak.

“Canada is always here this early, France, as this is when he is supposed to be in. You, however, are not usually here. In fact, I think this is the first time you’ve been on time for work in years. What’s the special occasion?” He stands, mug in hand, to prepare himself a fresh cup of tea, watching France expectantly as he fills the kettle with water from the cooler.

“Ah,” says France, grinning slyly. “Well. I see someone didn’t read the paper this morning.”

England looks on uncomprehendingly as France turns to dig a newspaper out of his bag. He smoothes it out carefully and Canada, who is closer than England, catches sight of the front page and grows pale.

Forgetting his tea, England reaches for the paper and snatches it out of France’s extended hand. Half of the front page is occupied by the cheerful, winsome figure of Captain Hero and his stupidly infectious smile, posing with fluttering cape and hands on his hips with several freshly-saved orphans in front of the burning orphanage they had previously been trapped in. England stares at the image for much longer than he should—much longer than is normal or appropriate, certainly—focusing on the blue eyes that stare out from behind the red domino mask like they can see him.

Embarrassingly enough, he doesn’t even notice the headline until after his gaze has finished dragging itself down the length of Captain Hero’s costumed body, but when he does, he nearly drops the newspaper.

Captain Hero Named as Suspect in Recent String of Robbery/Murders


‘What?’ Several emotions strike England at once, but they’re varied and contradictory, tangled up like a fiercely knotted ball of yarn, and he can’t sort them out properly. The only thing he feels for certain is that he is about to make a monumentally poor decision, but at the moment he is running on aspirin and adrenaline alone, and hadn’t he gotten into this profession to pursue the truth?

“I’ll be right back.” England tosses his jacket over his shoulders, tucks the paper under one arm, and heads for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Canada stumbles after him, catching England by the arm. His eyes are wide and desperate. “Please don’t leave me alone with him,” he begs through clenched teeth.

England feels keenly that he deserves the betrayal evident in Canada’s expression when he gently pushes the younger man away. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s harried and dismissive, which he will feel absolutely rotten about later, but right now he can’t afford to care. “I’ll make it up to you,” he swears, but it’s as much to assuage his own guilt as it is to comfort Canada.

“Hey, you’re not skipping out on me, are you?” France is perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed disapprovingly.

“I’ll be right back,” repeats England. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, anyway. I’ve been here for almost twenty-four hours straight. You hardly ever show up, and when you do, you spend all day sitting on my desk eating and bothering Canada.”

At the insulted look on France’s face, England sighs. “Prove me wrong, then. Actually get some work done while I’m gone. There’s a stack of reports on my desk; Canada can show you how to proofread them, and the yellow forms over there need to be filled out.” Purposefully avoiding Canada’s eyes, England tugs up the collar of his coat and leaves the room like he is being chased.

The moment the door closes behind him, England lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a sob. He’s a breath away from panicking, and the newspaper under his arm feels like it is burning a hole into his skin. He rolls up his left sleeve to reveal a bulky silver watch, and his hand hovers over it hesitantly. He waits only as long as it takes for him to get out of earshot of the precinct building before he ducks into an alley and flips open the face, pressing the small red button that is revealed by the action. Then there’s nothing left to do but wait.

Breathing slowly, in and out, as though struggling to remember how, England slumps against the brick wall of the alley and closes his eyes. He can’t do this anymore—he doesn’t know how he’s kept it up this long. This constant, fierce conflict of interest within his own heart is exhausting him mentally and physically; he’s near to useless at work, barely able to think about what he ought to when he ought to be thinking about it. Canada has noticed the change, and England is sure that France has, too, though his fellow detective has yet to mention it.

He feels a breeze, hears the soft pat of superhuman feet landing next to him. He opens his eyes, and a huge, dopey grin sneaks onto his stupid face. His heart beats excitedly, erratically, as if trying to leap right out of him. Pressing a hand against his chest, England feels tired, stupid, and suddenly very happy.

“Yo, England. Where’s the fire?” Captain Hero grins at him like a toothpaste advert, and the way this makes England’s knees buckle is just irritating, really. “You look tired.” The hero’s brow puckers with concern, and he reaches out to trace the bruises under England’s eyes with a careless thumb. England bats him away.

“Have you seen this?” He remembers why he’s come here, why he risked calling Captain Hero to a spot only a few blocks away from a building full of people who wanted to see him in handcuffs. (As if handcuffs could ever hold him.) England thrusts the newspaper at Captain Hero’s heroic chest (he’s heroically proportioned all over, really, and England always tries so very hard not to notice this, but rarely succeeds), and the Captain takes it with a puzzled expression.

“Oh hey,” is the first thing he says when he sees it. “I’m on the front page! Again.” He grins cheekily, but it doesn’t last long. As soon as he spots the headline, his face drops so drastically that it would be comical under different circumstances. His lips move silently as he continues to scan the story, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as if he simply cannot understand what he is reading. He looks up at England, resembling nothing more than a kicked puppy.

“Is this for real?” His voice is soft, wounded.

“Of course it’s ‘for real’,” snaps England, because what he really wants to do is wrap his arms around the other man and comfort him, to run his fingers through that wild blonde hair and smile at him and promise him that everything will be alright. But he’s tried that, and experience tells him that this cold aloofness is much more effective. “Do you think I would go through all the trouble of making a fake newspaper just to mess around with you?”

Captain Hero frowns. “But…I don’t understand. I’m a superhero; I help people. How could anyone think that I would do something like this?”

It’s that ridiculous, unceasing optimism, the naiveté that refuses to be defeated, that England will never stop loving him for. He remembers when the smile that Captain Hero now flashes for the world was saved exclusively for him, back when that vibrancy and borderline-selfish determination to do good were part of something that was England’s alone. He knows it’s probably selfish of him to miss those days—no, not to miss them, maybe, but to want them back the way he does—but the longing is like breathing, something he cannot get rid of any more than he can dig out his own marrow.

“You had to know that something like this would happen. How long did you really think that this hero thing would last?” Captain Hero stares morosely at the paper, and England lets out a frustrated breath. “The police have been looking for a way to destroy you since you first put on that blasted cape; you know that. You make them feel useless and inadequate.”

Captain Hero blinks, surprised, and looking like England has just slapped him. “Is that how you feel?” he asks.

Of course that’s how he feels; that’s how he always feels around the younger man, but this is an unwanted answer to an unasked question, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Is it?” Captain Hero takes a step forward, suddenly serious, and England wonders whether he has properly understood the question after all.

“America…” He means it as a warning. This can’t become personal, can’t be about the two of them, because that would mean that England is betraying his brothers on the Force, going behind their backs for a pretty face and a smattering of memories he ought rightly to forget, and that isn’t what this is about at all. This is about principles, about defending the right of man to help the people around him, even if it meant stepping on a few overinflated egos along the way.

“I’m not going to answer that. We have much larger things to worry about at the moment, and—are you pouting at me?”

“Heroes don’t pout,” sniffs America, and he’s so childish, but this does woefully little to diminish England’s desire to do very, very adult things to him (and he is most undeniably pouting, but England won’t be the one to point it out). He still has that serious expression in his eyes, though, looking at England as though trying to read something on his face, and his lips are moving, too, but no sound is coming out. His lips press into a thin line, and he holds the newspaper up in one hand.

“You don’t believe I did this, do you?”

The question is nothing if not somber, and the moment seems incredibly significant for some reason. What England does now will matter, so of course he snorts and retorts, “Don’t be stupid, America. If I really thought you’d killed somebody, do you honestly think I would’ve come to warn you about it?”

America laughs. “Yeah, I guess not.” He glances down at the newspaper, again, but this time his smile falters only a little. His eyes rise slightly, and he gestures towards England’s wrist. “I forgot all about that thing. I’m amazed you still have it.”

England jumps when America reaches out to grab the wrist that bears the silver watch with his free hand.
“How long ago did I give this to you?” He runs a thumb along the band, his gloved touch glancing every now and then across bare skin, and England jerks his hand away.

How long ago was it? England sighs. It’s felt like several lifetimes from where he’s standing.
A shrug. “When did you quit the Force—three years ago? I’m amazed the bloody thing still works, personally.”

“Three years,” confirms America, sounding almost guilty, which is something so unfamiliar and unsuspected that England isn’t sure how to feel about it. “You’ve never used it, before. Have you been wearing it this whole time?” He laughs, a little condescendingly, but without any intended cruelty. “Why?”

“Why indeed,” mumbles England, his tone distinctly bitter, almost self-deprecating. The honest answer to that is embarrassing, the memory behind it locked up where England keeps the things that leaves him breathless with tears when he accidentally dreams about them.

“I used to think it might be useful,” he says finally. “I suppose I just got into the habit of putting it on every morning.”

“Sure, sure,” grins America, elbowing England playfully in the side. “You wear it because it reminds you of me, don’t you?”

He doesn’t notice the way England sucks in a breath at that, stiffens (he has no idea how fucking perceptive he is, because he never means to be); he’s caught in the shallow world of his own humor, laughing for the sake of hearing his own laughter. The words are thrown away carelessly for the sole purpose of teasing England, and this might be what hurts about them the most—the words themselves might be the sword, thinks England, but the way they’re said, how quickly they’re forgotten…those are the sharp edges.

Scowling, England edges away from America, tearing the watch off his wrist and shoving it into the pocket of his coat.

“Well, forgive me for trying to be a friend,” he hisses. “I’ll be sure to avoid that in the future.” He turns to leave, but America catches him by the shoulder.

“Wait—c’mon, hey, don’t go, England. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I haven’t seen you in ages.” He has England by both shoulders, now, so the detective has given up his attempts to storm off, they’d only make him look foolish anyway. “Whaddya say we go grab something to eat, huh? I’m dying for a burger.”

“It’s seven in the morning,” replies England incredulously, never mind the fact that he is expected back at work or the fact that leaving Canada alone with France will not only guarantee that no work gets done, but creates a situation comparable to leaving for holiday with the stove on, the kitchen floor covered in petrol, and the cat bowl full of matches. Provided, of course, that this is all somehow a metaphor in which the cat gets molested.

America grins, crumples the newspaper into a ball with one hand and tosses it over his left shoulder. “Never too early for a burger,” he insists. “Come on, I’ll buy.”

When he grabs England’s hand (lacing their fingers together, which is exciting and incomprehensible), it stops being a choice. Suddenly, England is starving, and how can you say ‘no’ when Captain Hero asks you out to breakfast?

Unconditional surrender, however, is unacceptable, and England has always found wit to be quite an effective form of subtle defiance. He raises an eyebrow.

“Were you planning on wearing that, then? I don’t know of many restaurants that allow capes.”

“They allow mine,” replies America knowingly. “And then they give me meals for free. Actually.” His smile is so infuriatingly smug—England bites back a mad longing to lick it off his face.

“Well I’m not going out in public with you looking like that,” he retorts dryly. “Besides, do you realize what would happen to me if I were to be seen out at breakfast with Captain Hero? I’d be promptly fired, at the very least.”

“Point taken,” America concedes. “We’ll stop off at my place first, then, and I’ll change. How’s that sound?”

England hesitates, which America takes as a ‘yes.’

“Alright, then!” he says cheerfully. “How d’you wanna do this?”

“I beg your pardon? Do what?”

America has both of his arms held out and is looking over England appraisingly.

“We’re not gonna walk,” he says, as though this should have been obvious, and the moment his comment clicks, England nearly chokes on the horrified noise clawing its way up the back of his throat.

“You don’t mean…we aren’t going to fly?”

It doesn’t even seem that America has heard him. “Now, the way I see it,” he continues. “We’ve got two options: I can either hold you around the waist, like so…” Without any further warning, he steps forward and wraps both arms around England’s torso, drawing him in until England’s face is pressed into the crook of his neck (there is no way America can miss the way England’s cheeks heat up, the way his heartbeat races like a startles rabbit’s). “And you would just have to put your arms around my neck to hold on.”

“This hardly seems efficient,” England points out, pushing America away (which is more difficult than it ought to be, as his arms seem intent on carrying out America’s suggestion). Any longer in that close proximity and he would undoubtedly have done something he would very quickly have regretted. If he allows himself to think about it, it certainly begins to seem like the things he avoids doing these days are more and more often the very things he wants to do most.

“Hm,” says America, and it’s purely England’s own wishful thinking that makes it seem like the hero’s cheerful expression wavers. “I guess I could carry you bridal-style, then.”

“Absolutely not,” replies England immediately. He cannot think of a valid point to back up this vehement refusal, so he settles instead for a determined glare. When America’s only response is to look thwarted and hurt, England sighs, raising a hand to knead at the bridge of his nose.

“Perhaps now isn’t the right time,” he suggests. He’s come to rely on the fact that the right thing to do is usually not what he wants to do (and while this does not always offer him a certain solution, it does narrow down the options nicely), so he swallows his immediate instinct to acquiesce to America’s proposed solution and, instead, tosses the entire offer away. “I think we might be better suited meeting later—after my shift ends, perhaps. That should be a more appropriate hour for a burger, at any rate.”

The moment the suggestion leaves his mouth, they both know how this is going to end. America crosses his arms across his chest, raises both eyebrows, and a knowing smirk uncoils across his lips. England looks at America out of the corner of his eye as he tries to hold his ground, as if this more limited view of him might reduce the irresistible magnetic pull of his smile. Finally, a thoroughly frustrated England lets out a soft, resigned sigh and throws up his hands in irritation.

“Bridal style it, is then,” he relents.

…

For what feels like the hundredth time since Detective Kirkland’s unexplained departure, Canada peels Detective Bonnefoy’s hand off his knee and returns to his work (it’s been over four hours, and he is trying not to worry, so even the tedium of paperwork is a welcome distraction). Detective Bonnefoy sighs hugely, pushing back his chair to stand and stretch. He leans down and plucks the pen deftly from between Canada’s busy fingers, waving it teasingly back and forth.

“It’s not your job to do England’s work, you know,” he informs Canada when the younger man snatches it away again.

“I know that.” Canada doesn’t remind Detective Bonnefoy that this is, in fact, his job. “But Detective Kirkland can’t do it all on his own, however much he tries. There’s too much of it.”

Detective Bonnefoy does not seem to get the hint.

“I don’t see any harm in taking a break,” he persists. He gestures towards the stack of papers in front of Canada with disdain. “Put that away for now. I’ll order lunch.”

Canada tries to protest—at the very least because it’s just passed eleven in the morning—but Detective Bonnefoy is already on the phone, speaking animatedly to the owner of the Chinese restaurant down the street and, from the sound of it, ordering enough fried rice to feed a small army. He seems to know the other man fairly well, following up his order with a lengthy and slightly flirtatious conversation that is punctuated with large, airy hand gestures and several jokes of a distinctly sexual nature. Canada clears his throat loudly and begins to pile his completed work neatly on the corner of Detective Kirkland’s desk. The noise catches Detective Bonnefoy’s attention.

“Ah—yes, well, I have to go. Duty calls, you know…Yes, yes, I’ll talk to you later…You, too.” The detective hangs up and shoots Canada a smile. “I hope you’re hungry.” His tone is casual, but there’s something about the way he says this—the way he says everything—that starts a blush tearing up the back of Canada’s neck.

Embarrassed for a reason he cannot place, Canada looks down at his hands, unable to meet Detective Bonnefoy’s eyes.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles.

“Canada,” croons Detective Bonnefoy fondly. Without warning, he throws both arms around Canada’s shoulders and presses their cheeks flush together. “You really are much too uptight for someone so young and cute.”

“I’m not uptight,” protests Canada, squirming in the older man’s embrace. “Please, Detective Bonnefoy—”

“France,” corrects the detective immediately. It takes Canada a moment to process that his voice sounds muffled because his face is nuzzled against the side of Canada’s hair. He says something else, but it is too muffled and soft to hear, almost more breath than speech, and Canada knows he should push the older man away. This is highly inappropriate behavior—they’re at work for goodness’ sake—and irresponsible, disrespectful, and oh God what would Detective Kirkland say if he walked in on them like this? On top of that, Canada is positive that he has never given Detective Bonnefoy any sign that such attentions would be welcome (alright, maybe he had caught Canada staring at him one too many times during Canada’s first week of training, before the younger man had learned to be more subtle, but other than that).

When a mouth skims along the line of his jaw, Canada’s breath hitches in his throat. “Detective,” he says firmly. “Please cut that out.” He leans away from Detective Bonnefoy and raises a hand to interrupt the amorous activities. He feels he ought to be doing more—yell at him or hit him or shove him away—but Detective Bonnefoy always back off when Canada asks him to, albeit reluctantly.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Canada tells him, his expression serious.

Detective Bonnefoy reaches out to twist a strand of Canada’s hair between thumb and forefinger. His smile goes straight to Canada’s heart.

“Why not?”

This a question that Canada should be able to answer very easily, quickly, and in a dozen different, equally convincing ways. When he realizes that he can’t, he makes several choked, breathy noises and, panicked, grabs at Detective Bonnefoy’s hand to untangle it from his hair.

Their fingers catch, and Canada thinks longingly of paperwork.

“You better be behaving yourself in there!” The door slams open to reveal a dark-haired young man with a mildly annoyed expression and arms full of brown paper bags that smell like heaven.

Canada gasps in surprise, pushing himself away from Detective Bonnefoy so quickly that he nearly knocks over the chair he’s in. “D-Detective Wang!”

Still smiling and calm, France raises a hand in greeting. “China, what are you doing here? Is that lunch?” He reaches for the bags that his fellow detective is carrying.

Detective Wang purses his lips and pulls the bags away. “England called me to say he wasn’t feeling well. He asked me to fill in for him and make sure that you don’t bother Canada too much.”

Detective Bonnefoy pouts, which only earns him a rather nasty look from Detective Wang.

“Detective Kirkland is sick?” asks Canada, concerned. He shakes his head. “I knew this was going to happen with the hours he’s been keeping.” He isn’t the type to tell anyone ‘I told you so,’ but…

“He’s probably just playing hooky,” says Detective Bonnefoy dismissively, not taking his eyes off the food.

Canada shakes his head. “You’re the only one who plays hooky around here,” he tells Detective Bonnefoy, unable to keep a certain measure of fondness out of his voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Detective Kirkland take a day off since I started here. He’s probably the hardest working person in the entire precinct. No offense, Detective Wang,” he adds shyly.

Detective Wang shrugs. “None taken. Besides, I’m sure England’ll be fine. Have something to eat and don’t worry about it, okay?” He sets down the bags and begins to unpack several large Styrofoam boxes from within.

Detective Bonnefoy grins excitedly and grabs a pair of chopsticks. “I’m starving. Hand me some of that rice, would you, China?”

Detective Wang complies, immediately turning to tuck into a greasy heap of noodles of his own.

“Oh, by the way, France,” he adds through a full mouth, gesturing at Detective Bonnefoy with his chopsticks. A noodle dangles precariously on the tip, and Canada watches it fall to the tabletop with a soft splat. “Korea asked me to tell you that he says hello.”

They eat for a while in companionable silence, Canada picking at his food and trying to ignore the fact that Detective Bonnefoy is scooting increasingly closer to him. Knowing that Detective Kirkland is ill at home is better than not knowing where the man is at all, he supposes, but not by very much. He remembers the way Detective Kirkland had rushed out of the office, looking pale and harassed, and the incident doesn’t seem related, but it refuses to leave his mind.

After a while, Detective Wang throws away his empty container and goes to the file room to collect the day’s new batch of reports.

“If you stick to those old reports while France and I start going through the new stuff, we might be able to make a dent in them before England gets back,” he points out, and Canada is more than willing to help. He doesn’t have too much more to do on his end, so he continues to pretend to eat while he waits for Detective Wang to return.

“May I?” Detective Bonnefoy is leering at him (and somehow it’s charming, but it’s beyond Canada how this is possible), chopsticks raised and aimed at Canada’s food.

“Oh,” says Canada. “Um. Sure. Go ahead.”

Grinning, Detective Bonnefoy allows himself a generous mouthful of Canada’s nearly untouched lo mien, watching the younger man thoughtfully as he chews.

“Not a fan of take-out?” he asks finally.

Canada stares at his food to avoid making eye contact with Detective Bonnefoy. “I like it,” he replies quickly. He’s just not that hungry, but he can’t tell Detective Bonnefoy why. He can’t explain why he’s so worried, not without causing serious problems for himself and the rest of the Taskforce. He thinks for a moment that whatever Detective Kirkland has come down with must be contagious, because suddenly he’s starting to feel very nauseous.

Detective Bonnefoy offers him a dumpling, but Canada refuses it with a little shake of his head.

“Are you feeling alright, chéri?” He raises a hand to Canada’s forehead and makes a tsk sound with his tongue. “I hope you’re not ill, as well.”

For a moment, Canada leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed. He feels a little like crying, which just makes the other urges he’s fighting at the moment seem even more ridiculous and obscene.

“I feel okay,” he replies. “I think it might be the food. I don’t have this kind of thing very often.” This is a blatant lie (he more or less lives on stuff like this, since his cooking skills don’t reach much farther than toast and cereal), but it’s an easy lie to tell.

Detective Bonnefoy sighs loudly. “I wish you would let me buy you some real food,” he says, glancing sideways at Canada. “I know this great little bistro—”

“Alright,” says Canada, so casually and quietly that France is sure he has misunderstood the detective-in-training. For a moment, he just watches Canada, blinking in startled confusion as the younger man calmly begins to clean up the remains of the take-out.

“What?” he asks at last.
…
Three years earlier, Officer England Kirkland fiddles with the radio in his patrol car, the cuffs of his uniform, a loose thread on his trousers. From the passenger seat, his partner laughs.

“You’re awfully fidgety today,” he notes.

England raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re fidgety all the time,” he replies.

His partner sighs, nodding, and leans back in his seat. “It’s nervous energy. There hasn’t been much action around here, lately, in case you haven’t noticed.” He frowns, tucking blonde fringe under the brim of his cap. “I’m getting bored.” The way he says the last word makes it sound almost dirty.

England laughs. “What did you think it would be like when you got into this? Twenty-four hour car chases and explosions?”

“Well, yeah,” replies his partner, as if this should have been obvious. “That’s what it’s like in the movies.”

He’s painfully naïve for someone his age, but England would have him no other way. He laughs. “Welcome to reality, America. It’s nothing like the movies.”

America heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Well it should be. I didn’t become a police officer to sit around all day in a smelly car while my butt falls asleep,” he complains.

“Why did you become a police officer?” It’s something England has always been curious about, but this is the first time it’s come up of its own accord, naturally, without him having to force it into the conversation.

Without a moment’s hesitation, America responds, “I wanted to be a hero.”



I need to get a liiiiife.
Enjoy! :D