#Only the OGs remember Deidre

[oumaheroes]

Would you write an america and england fluffy drabble?

If domestic counts as fluffy, I sure can indeed

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Another Man's Trash

From his spot on the rafters, America watched England teeter up the ladder to the attic, a full mug in each hand, and took pleasure in offering him no assistance.

‘Took you long enough,’ he said when England was safely up and crouched under the oddly crooked roof supports. He took the mug England held out to him before it had the potential to become a weapon, ‘I thought you’d died down there.’

‘How kind of you to come and check on me.’

‘After what you’re making me do, you deserve it.’

‘’Making’ you do? I deserve death for asking for your help?’

‘Yes.’

‘Noted.’

England hunkered down a foot away and eyed the section of rafters, or lack of, which America was guarding. There wasn’t much natural light to see by. The attic spaces of England’s huge country manor were partitioned and sectioned off between the different wings, some used as servants’ rooms, others for proper storage. This particular section was one of the more abandoned, quickly and haphazardly boarded, and with were only two, small windows to fight against the dust flecked darkness. The hole which America was sat next to was lighthouse’d by a several flashlights, and he could see more by the light from the room below than he could from the small, round, single paned window above it.

England nodded at the room below, bones on the right side of his face sharp with yellow flashlight. ‘Shouldn’t be too long left.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me? There’s still a huge hole in the floor.’

‘Ceiling.’

‘Whatever.’

‘We’ve done most of it.’

‘Done? The whole thing needs replacing.’ America waved his arm wide, coffee still in hand, and England watched its trajectory with alarm. They’d cleared this area of the attic when they’d first started work, the ancient objects and historical junk which had previously occupied the space piled high or scattered about whatever space up here that remained, but hot coffee through the already abused boards probably wouldn’t end well. ‘This boarding is hundreds of years old, I’m surprised any of it is still weightbearing.’

‘It’s well made.’

‘It was well made, like a billion years ago.’

‘It’s not that old.’ England rolled his eyes at the look America gave him and took a sip of his tea, ‘The whole thing doesn’t need replacing, and the main beams are fine. That bit only rotted because of the leak in the roof.’

America opened his mouth and then closed it again, sensing that arguing this point wouldn’t actually get him out of the damn attic any faster and might, in fact, trap him into helping for a much longer project. It was bad enough that his quick summer stay to the UK had been consumed by this; if England accepted an additional idea that he proposed, there was no way to wiggle out of it peacefully. Instead, America glared up at the spot of roof they’d spent the better part of the last few days fixing and waterproofing.

‘You’re lucky I was visiting. If I hadn’t noticed the stain in the guest room ceiling you’d be fucked.’

‘Hardly.’

‘And you wouldn’t have been able to do this by yourself.’

England made a non-committal noise, ‘I would have been fine.’

‘Sure you would.’

‘I would have. It would have taken longer though, certainly. And I’d rather someone I trust than some random builder who has no idea how old this all is. Far too difficult to explain and it would have been an utter ball ache finding a specialist.’ England turned away, placing his mug down and busying himself with the stack of floorboards waiting patiently for them along one of the beams.

America smiled and shook his head. That was as close of an acknowledgement of thanks or gratitude as he was likely to get. Enough too that England considered him competent.

He tried his coffee, mournfully noting that England had reverted, likely out of habit, to making the instant stuff rather than the proper beans. Either that, or America had torn his way through the good coffee that England kept handy for what he called his ‘overly picky’ guests. ‘How old is this part anyway.’

‘This part of the house?’ England handed him a measuring tape and a board, the wood thick and heavy. They’d need to cut them to size, then add the insulation, then plaster the ceiling- actually no, fuck that. England could deal with the decoration himself, America had already splintered his hands tearing out all of the sodden stuff that was there before. ‘Not that old. I think I had this wing built not long after I found you. Maybe my first trip home afterwards.’

America let out a whistle, ‘Hate to break it to you, but that’s too old.’

‘It’s the youngest part of the house.’ England huffed, ‘I’ve been living here for about two thousand years in one way or another lad, a few hundred years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.’

‘I’m not gonna bother giving that a response.’

America peered down through the hole, cautiously perching on the edge of the rafters to see into the bedroom below. His room of all rooms; he’d had to relocate himself to Canada’s. He was sure his brother wouldn’t mind.

‘Mind yourself.’ England warning, hand twitching as if to grab him when America leant even further forwards, ‘We don’t need an A&E trip on top of everything else.’

‘I’m not gonna fall.’

England tutted and looked away, ‘And haven’t I heard that before.’

‘Stop moaning, you’ll go grey.’

‘You’ll make me go grey.’

‘You’d look more your age, at least.’

‘Piss off.’

‘That’s not a very nice thing to say to- oh.’

‘What?’

In the process of measuring the width of where the first board would go, America’s eye caught on something wedged in the insulation. It must have slipped between the older boards when they became warped by the water, or even lost between them years previously. It was deep in the insulation, not budging when America poked it experimentally with the tip of his finger. Shifting his weight, he reached out further across the hole to tug it free, ignoring England’s muttering to come around the other side and get it like a normal person and the hand he rested on America’s shoulder to steady him.

The object was small and wooden. It looked, of all things, like a thick stick, but as America worked it free it was revealed to be a very short, very crude spear. About half a foot long at most, it was roughly sharpened at both ends with a groove in the middle for a handle.

America turned it over, baffled, ‘What the hell is this?’

‘You tell me. You made it.’

America blinked, ‘Did I?’

‘Hmm.’ England wore a soft smile, ‘I left you alone with a penknife; either that or you took it without me noticing. You brought that to me and pronounced it as a “hunting weapon.”’

‘Huh.’ America rolled the stick in his palm and laughed, ‘You’re a sentimental bastard, you know that?’

‘Shut up.’ England coloured, ‘You would have been devastated if I threw it away.’

‘Uh huh. And that’s the only reason you kept it.’

‘Yes.’ England clicked his fingers and held out his hand, ‘Now give it here and let’s get on with it, it’ll be dinner soon and we need to order something early unless we want to eat at stupid o’clock tonight because by fuck am I cooking after all this.’

America grinned and settled himself more comfortable on his beam, long legs dangling down, ‘And what are you going to do with this very impressive hunting weapon?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Can I have it?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Alfred. Stop talking and give it here.’

America peered down once more, imagining the family room further along the warren of hallways of the manor, ‘Can I put it with Deidre downstairs?’

‘Christ- will you leave that bloody statue alone.’

‘I think Uncle Rhys did a very good job with her.’

‘I think Rhys needs therapy.’

‘Aw. Don’t be mean to her, she’s beautiful.’

‘It’s terrible.’

‘She’ll look good with something to hold. Will make that lump of hers on her chest look more like an arm than a third boob.’ America held the odd stick to his chest in imitation, ‘See?’

‘Fine.’ England threw his hands up and shifted backwards as if to prompt America to do the same. ‘Put it with the statue if you want but stop leaning so far over the edge.’

‘Stop being such a fanny fart, I’m holding the beam.’

‘Yes but that could crack.’

America held on with one hand and sat further forwards, grinning as England swatted at his knee, ‘I thought you said the main beams were fine and strong?’

‘With how your great lumpen weight is swinging from it anything coul-‘

England was interrupted by a sharp, distinct crack of old, dry wood. America froze. A fine sprinkling of dust showered down from the roof, settling onto his knees like snow. They watched each other wide eyed, waiting to see what would happen and America trying not to think about the very heavy slate of the roof not that far from his organs. When nothing immediately collapsed he sat up properly, letting go of the beam slowly as if afraid of spooking it. On the other side of the hole, England buried his head in his hands and groaned.

‘Why. Why.’

America laughed nervously and gently patted the beam. ‘I guess I’m buying dinner?’

England didn’t reply.

‘Cool... cool. Nice.’