![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
everythingismagicTitle: You Can't Take the Sky From Me [FF.NET Chapter Two] [ Writing Journal Chapter One ]
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, GermanyxItaly, future pairings: PolandxLithuania, GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, SpainxRomano, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 2,929
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: “A hero can never be below a pirate,” America reasoned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
England stepped away from the beam and walked toward America. “How heroic will you be when I throw your bloody arse off this ship?” He paused for effect. “It’s a long way down.”
Note: Thank you SO much for the great feedback on the first chapter of this. I am really, really wowed by all of you. I do plan on replying to your comments tomorrow. Here's the next chapter!
England’s eyes widened as they adjusted to the dark of his ship’s deck, the gas lights and stars being the only things that lit his way. He could make out the massive shape of a biplane from where he stood, as well as a silhouette of a man standing over it. He cursed to himself and kicked the wood of the deck. Bloody France. It’s got to be him.
The pilot had not yet turned around to look at him, seemingly concentrating too much on his plane to notice England’s presence. He was close enough to make out the details on the back of the man’s bomber jacket- a fifty, embroidered in white leather. Knee-high black boots were worn over his dark brown pants, and England knew that when he turned around, he’d be wearing the same vest and tie under his jacket that all military aviators wore. He could make out short, medium blonde hair peeking out from his aviator’s cap, and his goggles were propped up on top of his head.
Not France. He scowled nonetheless, and silently pulled his rapier out of its sheath. Swift as a fox and twice as silent, England stepped forward and pressed the cold steel of the blade against the pilot’s neck.
In the quiet, he could almost hear the way the heartbeat of the aviator sped up. He was terrified. Well, good. England watched as the other man slowly turned his head, revealing to him a very young face. There was grease smeared across his forehead and around his eyes, almost comedically, as if he’d stuck his hand in the engine and then wiped the sweat off his brow, replacing it with grease. England was struck by his wide blue eyes, bright and expressive beneath wire-rimmed glasses. He didn’t look scared. In fact, he looked relieved.
England scowled further and put a bit more pressure on the rapier. “I thought you aviator military scum knew to stay the hell off of my ship.”
And then the soldier did the least expected thing England could imagine. He smiled, and there was even a light laugh to his voice as he spoke. “Oh good. I was so afraid you were a ghost!”
England nearly dropped the rapier but instead just let it fall limp to his side. “A ghost?” He asked dryly.
The pilot smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head with one of his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I mean I radioed ahead and no one picked up. So I thought this was maybe… a ghost ship, you know?”
He caught the flash of the double bar insignia on America’s chest and rolled his eyes, wondering about the military’s standards these days. “You’re joking? A captain?” He asked skeptically.
“Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” He replied, enthused.
“Well good for you. I don’t call military by their titles. It’s hardly worth the trouble to call them by their name.” England rolled his eyes and stiffened his grip on the rapier.
The aviator stomped his feet and pointed his finger at England. “I’m a hero! Where do you get off acting like you’re better than me?”
“Because I am. The sky-pirates who are left have remained independent to their own devices. We won’t become puppets of the World Military. That makes us better.” He sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. “Anyway, since you’re too daft to realize it, I was asking your name.”
He blinked. “Oh uh, America. It’s America.”
England leaned up against a wood beam and smirked. “Okay America. You may call me Captain. Captain England Kirkland of the Taliesin Pirates, to be precise.”
America shrugged. “Okay Caaaptaaaiinn Kirkland of the Taliesen Pirates.” His expression was what England might chance to call devious.
“Captain, you idiot,” he snapped.
America crossed his arms, leaning up against his plane. “That’s what I said. Do you want me to salute too?”
England slammed his hand against the beam. “"This is MY ship. You call me by what I tell you, or I’ll string you up and---"
“A hero can never be below a pirate,” America reasoned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
England stepped away from the beam and walked toward America.“How heroic will you be when I throw your damned arse off this ship?” He paused for effect. “It’s a very long way down.”
America leaned back further, his hands behind his head, against the cockpit. “I have a parachute! Although I’d rather not lose my plane.”
“Bollocks. If I throw you right now, there’s no way you could grab your ‘chute in time.”
America slipped his hand into the cockpit behind him and came out with the parachute. He waved it above his head. “Throw me off and I’ll take you with me. Happy landings for both of us.”
England gritted his teeth. The gas lanterns lit America well, and he was infuriated to see that the young aviator looked not in the least bit intimidated by his threats. On the contrary, he looked amused. “Why are you not at all scared? You’re on the ship of one of the world’s most illustrious sky-pirate captains, and you’re amused. Is your skull just too thick to comprehend the danger?”
America started laughing now. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to take you seriously in pajamas and a crooked hat. Oh and because I’m too awesome to be scared.”
England’s eyes widened, taken aback. His face flushed, and he shook his head, willing it to stop. “You fucking moron!” He ran toward America and pressed the younger man’s hands against his plane, holding them there with all of his might. England was shorter than him and far slighter in figure, but his strength was nothing to scoff at.
America winced, wondering if the pressure against his wrists would leave a bruise. For a moment he actually looked scared, but he regained his composure. “What the hell, England?”
“Captain, you aviator filth.” He leaned up to his full stature, and then pulled the pilot down to meet his gaze. The two were mere centimeters apart, and England’s breath was hot against America’s face. The heat combined with the chill of the night air was fogging up America’s glasses, and the feather on his hat tickled his forehead. “Now you are here, on my ship, the Victoria. I don’t care how many honors or awards or shiny pins you’ve been given by the World Military. It’s my ship and you are under my command as long as you are on it!”
America gulped. “Oooh, England,” he said his name intentionally, gaining an odd sort of enjoyment from riling up the pajama-clad pirate. “So pushy!”
England’s cheeks reddened at America’s tone of voice. “Do all aviators have filthy minds like France or something?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He blinked and gestured with his hands as much as he could, considering they were pinned. “I didn’t mean it that way at all and--- hey wait, you know France, France Bonnefoy?”
England loosened his grip on America’s wrists. “What pirate doesn’t know France? For better or worse, usually for worse. He’s always popping up on ships or at ports, ‘looking for booty’ as he says.” He turned slightly green at the thought.
America cracked a grin and laughed. “Ahaha that so sounds like France! That bastard.” He paused. “But that does mean he’s going on a lot of unscheduled flights. I might have to talk to him. I’m his commander after all.” He thrust out his chest, showing off his shiny new rank.
The pirate exhaled deeply and removed his hands from America, putting them on his hips. “Wait, you’re in charge of France?” He nodded, and England almost felt sorry for him. He shook his head. “That’s enough about France. Why are you here anyway?”
The pilot turned back to his plane’s engine and held up the flashtorch. “Just need to fix my plane! Didn’t really want it to crash into the ocean, so I landed it here. Like I said, I did send out a radio to you all…”
England scratched his head, leaning back against the wooden beam he’d used earlier. “Bloody hell, Prussia. He must have fallen asleep AGAIN.” America blinked in confusion, as England turned around, facing the door to below deck. “PRUSSSIAAAA!!” He bellowed, his voice reverberating in the open sky. It echoed back to him, and he shouted the name once again for good measure.
A few moments later, the sound of a gunshot startled America. England seemed unphased by it, and he also just let out an exasperated sigh at what followed. “Prussia, you fucking moron!” Yelled a new voice. Another gunshot.
England was about to head to where the ruckus was coming from, when a blonde and very angry looking man skidded out onto the deck, rifle in one hand. With his other hand, he was dragging a white-haired man behind him by the scruff of his collar.
“Switzerland and Prussia,” England introduced. “Switzerland is… my gunner, as is obvious.”
“Captain, sir. Prussia fell asleep on watch again.” The gunner gritted his teeth. “Why the hell do you even bother with him?”
“Because I’m awesome,” quipped Prussia. Switzerland gripped the other man’s collar tighter.
“Great, now we've got two idiots up here proclaiming their greatness.” England rubbed his forehead. “This is Prussia. My first mate, regretfully. He was probably on the piss all night and fell asleep.”
“How much did you drink anyway? You reek,” Switzerland mumbled to the other pirate.
Prussia shrugged. “Dunno. I didn’t count this time.”
America snickered. “Hah, and I thought my crew was trouble.”
“You have France, and besides Prussia is only my first mate because he won some ridiculous bet.”
Prussia had writhed from Switzerland’s grasp and was now standing up, brushing the dust off his deep blue breeches and vest. A white peasant shirt hung sloppily underneath. Switzerland was dressed similarly, but in green and with a thick leather belt around his shoulder. It was filled with ammunition. It appeared that England was the only one of the pirates to run around in his pajamas.
“A bet?” America inquired, blue eyes curious.
“I drank ‘em under the table,” Prussia bragged. “He thought he could outdrink me, but I was still going strong when he started rambling about fairies and unicorns and crying about how they were his only friends.”
“Sod off, Prussia!”
“Wait, you were making fun of me for ghosts and you did that?” The aviator was laughing now.
“I was drunk!” England argued feebly. His face reddened in embarrassment.
Prussia surveyed the biplane and the young man next to it. “So we’ve been talking a while, but you still haven’t introduced the boy toy.” As if in response, Switzerland cocked his gun and aimed it pointedly at the military insignia on America’s chest.
“THIS IDIOT?” England snapped, motioning wildly with his hands. “He’s just some pilot who landed on the ship to make repairs.”
America stepped forward and pointed to his chest defensively. “There’s no way in hell I’d choose to even be seen with a pirate, let alone…”
Prussia smirked and snickered, raising his arms and shrugging. “I don’t know. I mean Switzerland drags me out here and you’re here in your pajamas with a reasonably attractive aviator. Didn’t know military was your type but… you know.”
England was at Prussia’s throat, grabbing him by the front collar and lifting him off of his feet. “"Prussia, damn it. By god, I swear I'll tie you to the mast and leave you there for days.”
“My plane was dying. I needed to land it quickly,” America reasoned. “And I’m a Captain by the way, Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” Prussia and Switzerland both looked unimpressed. “…Just America is fine though.”
England dropped Prussia rather unceremoniously and stepped between the gunner and first mate duo and the pilot. “All right, that’s enough. I’m bloody exhausted, and Sealand and Liechtenstein will wake up and never get back to sleep if we keep up this racket.”
Switzerland nodded silently and turned around, cocking his gun over his shoulder and giving America one last weary glare before walking away. Prussia snickered and muttered something under his breath about ‘England needing some time alone with his guest’ before running away. He closed the door to below deck behind him and Switzerland, leaving America and England alone again.
England cursed to himself and rubbed his forehead.
“Your crew is completely incompetent!” America stated, matter of factly. “Although I suppose that’s good since you’re pirates. Probably best you suck at it.”
The pirate captain gritted his teeth in attempt to contain his anger. “Prussia is an imbecile, but he’s a brilliant swordsman. Switzerland is a nutter, but he’s the best gunner I could hope for.”
“Oh well, my team is competent AND we’re heroes, so…” America was leaning back against his plane again.
England rolled his eyes. “You are absolutely insufferable, and by the way, you’ve got grease all over your face.” America’s eyes widened in realization, and he removed his glasses and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now if you want to repair your plane, I’ll let you. On two conditions.”
“I don’t make deals with pirates.”
“Get stuffed! Christ, it's nothing terrible.” England grumbled. “The first condition is that you don’t, under any circumstances, get us in trouble with the military or law enforcement once you leave. You leave, and you don’t tell anyone to come after us. Don't breathe a word about our whereabouts.”
“You’re not going to be doing any raids or stealing or anything tonight, are you?” America queried.
England stomped his foot. “No, you knob-end. We’re not nicking anything tonight. We’re almost five hundred kilometers from even an island. I’m going to sleep.”
“Okay, fine then.”
“Secondly.” England held up two fingers. “You are to be gone by morning. I don’t want to see military scum on my prized ship for any longer than I have to.”
“Your loss then, ‘cuz I’m pretty awesome.” He dodged as England tried to kick him in the shin. “But fine. I’ll be gone by morning.”
The pirate captain nodded. “Good, I’ll be glad to get rid of you. Night then.” And before America could reply, he’d departed under deck with a wave.
Sighing to himself, America turned on his flashtorch and went back to work on his beloved plane. He had an extra of the belt he’d snapped, so he quickly outfitted the plane with a new one, then attempted to figure out what else had happened. He coughed as the steam entered his nostrils when he stuck his upper body deep within the machinery. His legs were hanging out the back, kicked slightly off the ground, which would have looked amusing enough to anyone who was watching him. He felt like he must have spent an hour down there, finagling with the machinery and the bits and bobs that made it all work. And indeed, when he looked at his precious stopwatch, it was three a.m. He’d been working on the plane for about two hours. His eyelids felt heavy and he suppressed a yawn. Even the cutting chill of the high altitude weather did little to keep him awake. He shivered and zipped his bomber jacket up all the way. America had no trouble staying awake while flying. The thrill of it, a few bottles of his favorite caffeinated cola, and his records always kept him going. But here it was silent, and there was only the wind in the sails and the slight lull of the ship as it rode across the night sky. He sat down next to his plane, the engine’s steam mechanism winding down from the last test America had run on the new belt. Between the soft patter of the plane dying off and the sway of the ship, it was only a matter of minutes before it lulled him to sleep.
America’s eyes slid open to meet with the full brunt of bright morning sunlight. It was just past dawn, he knew right away. He'd flown enough early mornings to recognize it. The sun beamed through a cloudless sky, and it would have been beautiful had it not been practically blinding him. He yawned. Then he cursed. You are to be gone by morning, he recalled England’s words. The pirate captain was obnoxious as all get out, and he’d have loved more than most anything to duke it out with him. But he had a mission in Medved, and that was his priority. He hadn’t even finished fixing the plane before he fell asleep. Kicking himself inwardly, America stood up. His joints hurt from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. It was then that he noticed that something had slipped off of his front. He picked it up. A blanket. He vaguely recalled shivering the night before, although it was warm enough now. America ran his fingers across the blanket- cream with gold embroidery along the sides. A unicorn and a lion met up at a crest in the middle. It was warm, but it was also valuable. He bit his lip and pondered where it had come from, although he had a pretty good idea.
And when his finger slipped across a variance in the embroidery in the upper right corner, he adjusted his glasses and read the tiny letters initialed there in fine gold thread- E.K. He wondered why he wasn’t surprised.
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, GermanyxItaly, future pairings: PolandxLithuania, GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland, SpainxRomano, Belarus--->Russia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 2,929
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: “A hero can never be below a pirate,” America reasoned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
England stepped away from the beam and walked toward America. “How heroic will you be when I throw your bloody arse off this ship?” He paused for effect. “It’s a long way down.”
Note: Thank you SO much for the great feedback on the first chapter of this. I am really, really wowed by all of you. I do plan on replying to your comments tomorrow. Here's the next chapter!
England’s eyes widened as they adjusted to the dark of his ship’s deck, the gas lights and stars being the only things that lit his way. He could make out the massive shape of a biplane from where he stood, as well as a silhouette of a man standing over it. He cursed to himself and kicked the wood of the deck. Bloody France. It’s got to be him.
The pilot had not yet turned around to look at him, seemingly concentrating too much on his plane to notice England’s presence. He was close enough to make out the details on the back of the man’s bomber jacket- a fifty, embroidered in white leather. Knee-high black boots were worn over his dark brown pants, and England knew that when he turned around, he’d be wearing the same vest and tie under his jacket that all military aviators wore. He could make out short, medium blonde hair peeking out from his aviator’s cap, and his goggles were propped up on top of his head.
Not France. He scowled nonetheless, and silently pulled his rapier out of its sheath. Swift as a fox and twice as silent, England stepped forward and pressed the cold steel of the blade against the pilot’s neck.
In the quiet, he could almost hear the way the heartbeat of the aviator sped up. He was terrified. Well, good. England watched as the other man slowly turned his head, revealing to him a very young face. There was grease smeared across his forehead and around his eyes, almost comedically, as if he’d stuck his hand in the engine and then wiped the sweat off his brow, replacing it with grease. England was struck by his wide blue eyes, bright and expressive beneath wire-rimmed glasses. He didn’t look scared. In fact, he looked relieved.
England scowled further and put a bit more pressure on the rapier. “I thought you aviator military scum knew to stay the hell off of my ship.”
And then the soldier did the least expected thing England could imagine. He smiled, and there was even a light laugh to his voice as he spoke. “Oh good. I was so afraid you were a ghost!”
England nearly dropped the rapier but instead just let it fall limp to his side. “A ghost?” He asked dryly.
The pilot smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head with one of his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I mean I radioed ahead and no one picked up. So I thought this was maybe… a ghost ship, you know?”
He caught the flash of the double bar insignia on America’s chest and rolled his eyes, wondering about the military’s standards these days. “You’re joking? A captain?” He asked skeptically.
“Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” He replied, enthused.
“Well good for you. I don’t call military by their titles. It’s hardly worth the trouble to call them by their name.” England rolled his eyes and stiffened his grip on the rapier.
The aviator stomped his feet and pointed his finger at England. “I’m a hero! Where do you get off acting like you’re better than me?”
“Because I am. The sky-pirates who are left have remained independent to their own devices. We won’t become puppets of the World Military. That makes us better.” He sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. “Anyway, since you’re too daft to realize it, I was asking your name.”
He blinked. “Oh uh, America. It’s America.”
England leaned up against a wood beam and smirked. “Okay America. You may call me Captain. Captain England Kirkland of the Taliesin Pirates, to be precise.”
America shrugged. “Okay Caaaptaaaiinn Kirkland of the Taliesen Pirates.” His expression was what England might chance to call devious.
“Captain, you idiot,” he snapped.
America crossed his arms, leaning up against his plane. “That’s what I said. Do you want me to salute too?”
England slammed his hand against the beam. “"This is MY ship. You call me by what I tell you, or I’ll string you up and---"
“A hero can never be below a pirate,” America reasoned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
England stepped away from the beam and walked toward America.“How heroic will you be when I throw your damned arse off this ship?” He paused for effect. “It’s a very long way down.”
America leaned back further, his hands behind his head, against the cockpit. “I have a parachute! Although I’d rather not lose my plane.”
“Bollocks. If I throw you right now, there’s no way you could grab your ‘chute in time.”
America slipped his hand into the cockpit behind him and came out with the parachute. He waved it above his head. “Throw me off and I’ll take you with me. Happy landings for both of us.”
England gritted his teeth. The gas lanterns lit America well, and he was infuriated to see that the young aviator looked not in the least bit intimidated by his threats. On the contrary, he looked amused. “Why are you not at all scared? You’re on the ship of one of the world’s most illustrious sky-pirate captains, and you’re amused. Is your skull just too thick to comprehend the danger?”
America started laughing now. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to take you seriously in pajamas and a crooked hat. Oh and because I’m too awesome to be scared.”
England’s eyes widened, taken aback. His face flushed, and he shook his head, willing it to stop. “You fucking moron!” He ran toward America and pressed the younger man’s hands against his plane, holding them there with all of his might. England was shorter than him and far slighter in figure, but his strength was nothing to scoff at.
America winced, wondering if the pressure against his wrists would leave a bruise. For a moment he actually looked scared, but he regained his composure. “What the hell, England?”
“Captain, you aviator filth.” He leaned up to his full stature, and then pulled the pilot down to meet his gaze. The two were mere centimeters apart, and England’s breath was hot against America’s face. The heat combined with the chill of the night air was fogging up America’s glasses, and the feather on his hat tickled his forehead. “Now you are here, on my ship, the Victoria. I don’t care how many honors or awards or shiny pins you’ve been given by the World Military. It’s my ship and you are under my command as long as you are on it!”
America gulped. “Oooh, England,” he said his name intentionally, gaining an odd sort of enjoyment from riling up the pajama-clad pirate. “So pushy!”
England’s cheeks reddened at America’s tone of voice. “Do all aviators have filthy minds like France or something?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He blinked and gestured with his hands as much as he could, considering they were pinned. “I didn’t mean it that way at all and--- hey wait, you know France, France Bonnefoy?”
England loosened his grip on America’s wrists. “What pirate doesn’t know France? For better or worse, usually for worse. He’s always popping up on ships or at ports, ‘looking for booty’ as he says.” He turned slightly green at the thought.
America cracked a grin and laughed. “Ahaha that so sounds like France! That bastard.” He paused. “But that does mean he’s going on a lot of unscheduled flights. I might have to talk to him. I’m his commander after all.” He thrust out his chest, showing off his shiny new rank.
The pirate exhaled deeply and removed his hands from America, putting them on his hips. “Wait, you’re in charge of France?” He nodded, and England almost felt sorry for him. He shook his head. “That’s enough about France. Why are you here anyway?”
The pilot turned back to his plane’s engine and held up the flashtorch. “Just need to fix my plane! Didn’t really want it to crash into the ocean, so I landed it here. Like I said, I did send out a radio to you all…”
England scratched his head, leaning back against the wooden beam he’d used earlier. “Bloody hell, Prussia. He must have fallen asleep AGAIN.” America blinked in confusion, as England turned around, facing the door to below deck. “PRUSSSIAAAA!!” He bellowed, his voice reverberating in the open sky. It echoed back to him, and he shouted the name once again for good measure.
A few moments later, the sound of a gunshot startled America. England seemed unphased by it, and he also just let out an exasperated sigh at what followed. “Prussia, you fucking moron!” Yelled a new voice. Another gunshot.
England was about to head to where the ruckus was coming from, when a blonde and very angry looking man skidded out onto the deck, rifle in one hand. With his other hand, he was dragging a white-haired man behind him by the scruff of his collar.
“Switzerland and Prussia,” England introduced. “Switzerland is… my gunner, as is obvious.”
“Captain, sir. Prussia fell asleep on watch again.” The gunner gritted his teeth. “Why the hell do you even bother with him?”
“Because I’m awesome,” quipped Prussia. Switzerland gripped the other man’s collar tighter.
“Great, now we've got two idiots up here proclaiming their greatness.” England rubbed his forehead. “This is Prussia. My first mate, regretfully. He was probably on the piss all night and fell asleep.”
“How much did you drink anyway? You reek,” Switzerland mumbled to the other pirate.
Prussia shrugged. “Dunno. I didn’t count this time.”
America snickered. “Hah, and I thought my crew was trouble.”
“You have France, and besides Prussia is only my first mate because he won some ridiculous bet.”
Prussia had writhed from Switzerland’s grasp and was now standing up, brushing the dust off his deep blue breeches and vest. A white peasant shirt hung sloppily underneath. Switzerland was dressed similarly, but in green and with a thick leather belt around his shoulder. It was filled with ammunition. It appeared that England was the only one of the pirates to run around in his pajamas.
“A bet?” America inquired, blue eyes curious.
“I drank ‘em under the table,” Prussia bragged. “He thought he could outdrink me, but I was still going strong when he started rambling about fairies and unicorns and crying about how they were his only friends.”
“Sod off, Prussia!”
“Wait, you were making fun of me for ghosts and you did that?” The aviator was laughing now.
“I was drunk!” England argued feebly. His face reddened in embarrassment.
Prussia surveyed the biplane and the young man next to it. “So we’ve been talking a while, but you still haven’t introduced the boy toy.” As if in response, Switzerland cocked his gun and aimed it pointedly at the military insignia on America’s chest.
“THIS IDIOT?” England snapped, motioning wildly with his hands. “He’s just some pilot who landed on the ship to make repairs.”
America stepped forward and pointed to his chest defensively. “There’s no way in hell I’d choose to even be seen with a pirate, let alone…”
Prussia smirked and snickered, raising his arms and shrugging. “I don’t know. I mean Switzerland drags me out here and you’re here in your pajamas with a reasonably attractive aviator. Didn’t know military was your type but… you know.”
England was at Prussia’s throat, grabbing him by the front collar and lifting him off of his feet. “"Prussia, damn it. By god, I swear I'll tie you to the mast and leave you there for days.”
“My plane was dying. I needed to land it quickly,” America reasoned. “And I’m a Captain by the way, Captain Jones of the thirty-fifth unit of the Aquila division of the World Aviation Force!” Prussia and Switzerland both looked unimpressed. “…Just America is fine though.”
England dropped Prussia rather unceremoniously and stepped between the gunner and first mate duo and the pilot. “All right, that’s enough. I’m bloody exhausted, and Sealand and Liechtenstein will wake up and never get back to sleep if we keep up this racket.”
Switzerland nodded silently and turned around, cocking his gun over his shoulder and giving America one last weary glare before walking away. Prussia snickered and muttered something under his breath about ‘England needing some time alone with his guest’ before running away. He closed the door to below deck behind him and Switzerland, leaving America and England alone again.
England cursed to himself and rubbed his forehead.
“Your crew is completely incompetent!” America stated, matter of factly. “Although I suppose that’s good since you’re pirates. Probably best you suck at it.”
The pirate captain gritted his teeth in attempt to contain his anger. “Prussia is an imbecile, but he’s a brilliant swordsman. Switzerland is a nutter, but he’s the best gunner I could hope for.”
“Oh well, my team is competent AND we’re heroes, so…” America was leaning back against his plane again.
England rolled his eyes. “You are absolutely insufferable, and by the way, you’ve got grease all over your face.” America’s eyes widened in realization, and he removed his glasses and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now if you want to repair your plane, I’ll let you. On two conditions.”
“I don’t make deals with pirates.”
“Get stuffed! Christ, it's nothing terrible.” England grumbled. “The first condition is that you don’t, under any circumstances, get us in trouble with the military or law enforcement once you leave. You leave, and you don’t tell anyone to come after us. Don't breathe a word about our whereabouts.”
“You’re not going to be doing any raids or stealing or anything tonight, are you?” America queried.
England stomped his foot. “No, you knob-end. We’re not nicking anything tonight. We’re almost five hundred kilometers from even an island. I’m going to sleep.”
“Okay, fine then.”
“Secondly.” England held up two fingers. “You are to be gone by morning. I don’t want to see military scum on my prized ship for any longer than I have to.”
“Your loss then, ‘cuz I’m pretty awesome.” He dodged as England tried to kick him in the shin. “But fine. I’ll be gone by morning.”
The pirate captain nodded. “Good, I’ll be glad to get rid of you. Night then.” And before America could reply, he’d departed under deck with a wave.
Sighing to himself, America turned on his flashtorch and went back to work on his beloved plane. He had an extra of the belt he’d snapped, so he quickly outfitted the plane with a new one, then attempted to figure out what else had happened. He coughed as the steam entered his nostrils when he stuck his upper body deep within the machinery. His legs were hanging out the back, kicked slightly off the ground, which would have looked amusing enough to anyone who was watching him. He felt like he must have spent an hour down there, finagling with the machinery and the bits and bobs that made it all work. And indeed, when he looked at his precious stopwatch, it was three a.m. He’d been working on the plane for about two hours. His eyelids felt heavy and he suppressed a yawn. Even the cutting chill of the high altitude weather did little to keep him awake. He shivered and zipped his bomber jacket up all the way. America had no trouble staying awake while flying. The thrill of it, a few bottles of his favorite caffeinated cola, and his records always kept him going. But here it was silent, and there was only the wind in the sails and the slight lull of the ship as it rode across the night sky. He sat down next to his plane, the engine’s steam mechanism winding down from the last test America had run on the new belt. Between the soft patter of the plane dying off and the sway of the ship, it was only a matter of minutes before it lulled him to sleep.
America’s eyes slid open to meet with the full brunt of bright morning sunlight. It was just past dawn, he knew right away. He'd flown enough early mornings to recognize it. The sun beamed through a cloudless sky, and it would have been beautiful had it not been practically blinding him. He yawned. Then he cursed. You are to be gone by morning, he recalled England’s words. The pirate captain was obnoxious as all get out, and he’d have loved more than most anything to duke it out with him. But he had a mission in Medved, and that was his priority. He hadn’t even finished fixing the plane before he fell asleep. Kicking himself inwardly, America stood up. His joints hurt from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. It was then that he noticed that something had slipped off of his front. He picked it up. A blanket. He vaguely recalled shivering the night before, although it was warm enough now. America ran his fingers across the blanket- cream with gold embroidery along the sides. A unicorn and a lion met up at a crest in the middle. It was warm, but it was also valuable. He bit his lip and pondered where it had come from, although he had a pretty good idea.
And when his finger slipped across a variance in the embroidery in the upper right corner, he adjusted his glasses and read the tiny letters initialed there in fine gold thread- E.K. He wondered why he wasn’t surprised.
