#nedcanweek2017

[nedcanquen]

Le Loupgarou - Chapter 3 (NedCan Week 2017 - Joy/Sorrow)

This is so hilariously late it can’t even be for NedCan Week anymore but I managed to finally finish this next chapter, so why not post it?

This chapter does not have a happy ending (see the prompt that inspired it), but  it’s also not the end of the fic as a whole.

Tags: Werewolf AU, supernatural, Historical AU.

Pairings: NedCan

Image from Pexels

Now that he knows how to sleep, Leverett sleeps like the dead. Maybe his body is trying to make up for lost time, Matthieu has no idea how long it has been since his guest has been able to get a proper night’s sleep, but he knows the fatigue that comes from it so he doesn’t question it.

Maybe it was Leverett’s sheer exhaustion when they met that Matthieu had related to - so tired he did not care if he lived or died. Matthieu knew what that felt like. Years of working himself to exhaustion with the Jesuits and earning their praise, only to lie awake at night with the sound of silence surrounding him, wondering if there truly would be anything after this life. Sometimes he wondered if he should simply...die and see his family again in the village of souls, for surely as his people were almost gone from this world, the village of souls was now teeming with all the familiar faces that had left this world and then some. One day, deafened by the silence and the loneliness, Matthieu almost tried to return home, before remembering that his mother had wanted him to live as long as he could of this life. Why else had his uncle agreed to bring him here? But he was often tempted. The Jesuits earnestly believed that to take one’s life was to send yourself straight to hell, but they also called Matthieu an innocent, so would that not take him to heaven? Rather than deal with these contradictory lessons - between what he had learned as a child, to the irritating dismissal of the brothers when his beliefs did not match theirs - Matthieu began to think of how he could live without either his old world or the Jesuits. He tried to imagine something of his own, something for the future.

Nothing could have prepared him for this - waking up next to a man for the fifth day in a row, hours before he would turn into a wolfman. But they were making progress, Leverett had more spirit and strength in him now, no longer so tempted by death. Matthieu had found himself opening up more about the past, slowly and carefully, but Leverett always listened respectfully and never interrupted. It was only knowing that they had to prepare for the inevitable change later that day that made Matthieu pull himself out of bed and detangle himself from his bedmate.

“Sleep...” Leverett mutters, clutching him tighter. “Warm.”

Matthieu chuckled. “I need to rise. There’s much to prepare.”

Leverett reluctantly shifts and loosens his grip. Matthieu gets up and does what is necessary, but eventually returns to the bed and sits on the edge to try to coax the other man up. Matthieu cannot imagine what goes through Leverett’s mind every morning on a day he knows he has to change again, so he tries to be gentle about this. He doesn’t have to say anything, Leverett props himself up on his elbows and frowns slightly. “It’s cold.”

Well yes, that’s hardly news though. Because Matthieu takes too long to respond to the obvious statement, Leverett wraps an arm around Matthieu’s waist while he’s distracted and tries to pull him back onto the bed. “Really?! You’re a man! Not a puppy!” Matthieu yells with no bite.

“But it’s cold.” Was the petulant reply. “And by tonight I will basically be a puppy.”

Matthieu has to laugh at that, and decides to give up the fight for now. Who is he to deny Leverett some silliness on a day like today? Or a lie in? Whatever he needs to calm his nerves, their nerves. He lies down and changes his position a little so he can lie on his side a bit more to look at Leverett’s face and amused eyes. He doesn’t know why but with his lonely memories fresh in his mind, he has to acknowledge that right now, he’s the happiest he’s ever been in a long time. Leverett reminds Matthieu that there is warmth and some happiness to be found in this world - in helping a man find himself again, in sharing space, in working with someone. That in some ways, his little sanctuary out here needed this man in it to feel like home, even if it didn’t make any sense. Matthieu built this place to hide away from the rest of the world. He didn’t want to be swept up in it, to lose his humanity to the lawless port towns, money, desperation and blood. Sometimes he felt that he may just get away with hiding away for his entire life, pass on quietly before he had to face the reality of how broken and swept away his time was...and at other moments he thought that it was only a matter of time until the world found him. In his loneliest moments he wondered if hiding was the right thing to do even if at most times it felt like the wisest thing to do.

Leverett is from a nation of ships and wealth in countless form. A thriving nation with thriving cities, greedy and insatiable. Matthieu could tell, from the way Leverett spoke sometimes, that he missed it. He missed the life that he had before he was bitten. Given a choice, he would probably prefer to live in a town, than shut-in out here in the middle of nowhere, where he only had to face the potential of accidentally killing one man every month, and not everyone. Leverett can draw maps, read, write, and he’s seen the calculative gleam in his eye when Matthieu skins the animals for their pelts, when Matthieu makes medicine from the plants and trees he knows, when Matthieu moves through the forest. Matthieu knows that Leverett sometimes works so hard because he’s trying to distract himself, he’s frustrated he’s not doing more with his talents. If Matthieu had to guess, it’s about money, he’s seen the spidery numbers on loose sheets left on the table. He wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere in that mind of his, Leverett has calculated some shallow value to everything here.

“What happened? What’s wrong?!” Leverett’s urgent questions drove Matthieu from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Just now you...I mean, at first you looked happy. Joyful. It’s nice.” Leverett smiles and Matthieu realizes he hasn’t seen that look often. It’s a good look. “Then right after that you just...you looked so sad...”

Oh. Matthieu is a little open isn’t he? Well, he hasn’t really lived among people for a prolonged period of time in a while, there has been no reason to guard himself. Long, calloused fingers caress Matthieu’s cheek and Matthieu looks at Leverett in surprise. “Lev-?”

“Daan.” Leverett interrupts.

“What?”

“That’s the name my mother gave me - Daan. You can continue calling me Leverett, if you like, but I just wanted to let you know, that’s the first name I had.”

Daan. DA-ahn. Matthieu doesn’t make a sound but tries to get a sense of it, the tongue flicking on the roof in the front of his mouth, the slight exhale of breath to emphasize an ‘H’ sound, closing the mouth on the roof of the tongue. It’s a very straightforward name, it simultaneously suits and yet, doesn’t always suit the man now lying next to him.

Now lying even closer to him! What? “Loup-, I mean, Le...?” The fingers gently trace the shape of his lips.

“Something made you sad.” He’s now so close, voice dipped low and soothing. “That’s not right. Let me help you. Let me... banish the sadness, for just a little while, let me do something for you. I do owe you everything after all.”

Matthieu cannot think straight. He’s not naive about these matters, he’s just never put himself in the position of being in this situation before. But he cannot let Leverett, or Daan, or whatever this man ultimately wants to call himself be quite this reckless, so he sits up so fast he almost feels dizzy.

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.” Leverett, no Da...Leverett, he’s more used to Leverett, says in a too-controlled tone and Matthieu takes a breath.

“You don’t owe me anything. I want to make that clear. I may not know what it feels like to change into a wolfman every full moon but...” Matthieu looks around him and gathers his courage to say what comes next. “But it has been...nice...having you here. I wonder about you sometimes, if you’re happy being here. Having one man for company must be a world away from growing up in a thriving city.”

Matthieu feels the shrug more than sees it, feels the bedding shift as the other man sits up as well. “Same can be said for you. I’m not from your nation. The opposite, one could say.” He’s about to say something else but stops, there’s a pregnant pause. “And for some reason, you’ve never asked me to leave.”

Matthieu lets the silence last for a moment longer before saying. “So...you don’t want to?”

“As long as you let me stay with you...I want to stay with you.” He seems to realize something and lets out a short, unbelieving laugh. “And I want to make this clear - I’m only offering what you’re willing to have, but...I do... want you.”

Matthieu feels his own jaw drop. He’s been with others of course, before, soon after his escape from the brothers he sought intimacy until he found how shallow his encounters were. After realizing that he didn’t actually need them, and life in the ports and growing trade posts were not for him, he decided to start over. This though, this is different somehow, it’s never felt like this before. It’s like a wall has caved in, a dam burst, with the admission from Leverett that he wants to stay. “You really...um...alright.”

Was it because he was the only person there? Was Leverett so starved for touch? Matthieu had meant to ask, but didn’t. Matthieu feels his face grow warmer, and he doesn’t move away when the distance between their lips is slowly closed, slightly chilled fingers caress his cheeks. Leverett somehow steals away the doubtful voice that normally echoes in Matthieu’s head, normally given strength in solitude. Where he touches, with lips and gentle fingers, Matthieu feels his skin go numb, his heart singing with fast beats, echoed with his partner’s. Breaths, sensation, the touch of tongue to lips, then of lips and tongues greeting with tentative exploration, and melding into a dance.

Matthieu can’t tell when one breath ends and another begins, or where he ends and Matthieu thinks that they’re already one. One in breathing, one with touch, with loneliness, being lost and now found. Matthieu wraps his arms tightly around the other man, because even this close he’s too far away.

Then he has to pull away, because they have to stop now or they wouldn’t, and if they didn’t stop, they wouldn’t be prepared for tonight.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Matthieu murmurs, “I just...never want you to leave. And if we’re going to make that happen, we need to make sure we can get you back tonight. We’re deep in winter now, it’s not going to be the same.”

Matthieu can tell from the look on his face that he’s not going to argue this time.

If Matthieu hadn’t been so distracted by the kiss, or by the fact that he had woken up for five nights in a row, warm and happy, he would have paid more attention to the weather. Maybe it wouldn’t have helped. The storm built up quickly and now just a few hours away from the change, Matthieu looked at the blinding white outside hopelessly.

“You can’t run out in this.” Matthieu says with finality. “I don’t care if you’re a man, wolf or wolfman. If you run out tonight, you will die.”

“I can’t stay here!” Leverett has become more restless and irritable as the day has gone by. Unlike Matthieu, he’s still terrified of intense winter storms. Matthieu respects the storms, but he suspects that the Dutch nation didn’t have them quite like this.

“You won’t attack me.” Matthieu tries to argue, yet despite the panic that’s enveloping him, he feels and knows this to be true. “Wolves aren’t stupid, and I think...I’m your pack now. Or at least part of it. I welcome you here just as you are, this is no longer just my home, it’s our home! If you’ve attacked before, it was because you were scared. Everyone back where you come from believes you’d harm them, that for one night you’re far away. I don’t believe that. You’re you. I don’t think even in your wolf form you’d destroy your own home!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW!” Leverett throws his hands up in the air and paces.

Matthieu grabs him, tries to stop the pacing and the nerves. “All these months you’ve run away from me. I always thought it was some hidden desire of yours to get out of here, that you didn’t want to be here with me. But...it was fear wasn’t it? You didn’t want to hurt me, so you ran as far away as you could.”

Leverett looks around helplessly. “I can’t be here when I change Matthieu. It’s not just the risk of me harming you. It’s…” He looks around.

“What is it?”

Leverett shakes his head with urgency. “I can’t stay here.” He looks at Matthieu with a strange outward calm, but his eyes betray how terrified he is. “There are many creatures out there Matt, who can survive a storm like this.”

Matthieu feels the chill of fear in his chest at these words, wondering what Leverett has seen out there.

“And I think it’s time to find out if I’m one of those who can.” Leverett continues, but Matthieu’s not entirely convinced. “Believe me, it’s not a good idea to keep me chained up somewhere to ride out the night.”

Matthieu imagined that would just enrage the wolf, no one liked being chained up. He wasn’t stupid enough to hope that these months meant domestication. “Wasn’t planning to.”

“WHAT?” Leverett’s eyes are so wide, he can’t hide the panic anymore.

“I said I trust you not to hurt me.” Matthieu says, trying to reason. There’s no other choice really, if Leverett refuses to stay, well, Matthieu won’t let him kill himself out there. He’s prepared to fight Leverett and subdue him. In human form, he should be able to do it. Once Leverett changed, well, he’d figure that out once they crossed that point.

“You are insane!!” Leverett yells, panic has finally burst into explosive anger. “No, worse! You’ve given up on life! You’ve quit! You will hide out here in the middle of nowhere until you die and for what?! What useless reason? You are not cursed! You are strong and brilliant and you have so much to do in this world, to give, to make, but you’ve chosen to die and be forgotten here, what a waste! Go ahead then! Kill yourself! Kill the last of your people and your family’s efforts to make sure you lived! What a waste of their memory! Throw your life away but I won’t do it for you!”

The words are stabbing, and part of Matthieu’s mind can barely register the difference between the man who kissed him softly this morning with the one raging in front of him now, but there is the quiet voice inside that knows better, that despite the hurt, this is Leverett trying to escape, trying to make sure that he doesn’t hurt him. So Matthieu harnesses the hurt and anger, then runs and tackles Leverett before he can run out the door. “I know what you’re doing! It’s not going to work, I’ll fucking tie you up in here! I’m stronger than you until the moon rises!”

“LET GO!”  

They wrestle around on the floor. Matthieu is stronger but Leverett is cannier, a man used to besting opponents stronger and faster than him by playing dirty.

“Just stop!!” Mattieu yells. “You can’t wiAAH!” He curls up in pain after he’s kneed in the groin. Oddly, Leverett actually does stop, and through a haze of pain, Matthieu thinks he sees the regret and worry in his eyes. His hands, gently pushing Matthieu’s hair from his eyes and caressing his face are certainly sorry.

Then Leverett remembers himself and his face settles into a mask of determination. He stands and strides towards the door.

“Oh no you fucking don’t!” Matthieu yells through gritted teeth and manages to pull himself up. He grabs Leverett again, throws him down and drags him back into the cabin, kicking the door closed behind him. He grabs the rope that’s hanging by the door and strides closer. He didn’t want to have to resort to this, but Leverett is now too scared to think straight...

“I SOLD GUNS!”

Matthieu freezes.

“I sold guns. Biggest sale of my life. I was fourteen but even then I was tall for my age and they took me for a man, a trader in my own right. It took me a year to organize it, then I sold them for shipment to New Amsterdam. I knew that new lands were the perfect place to sell guns, I knew that native nations warred against each other and I didn’t care. I bought the startup capital for my own business, my mother her retirement, and my siblings a future out of a whorehouse. I thought I was so smart, I thought I’d keep going until I could form my own trading company that would stand all on its own. I was doing well, great even. Then I was bitten by a wolf.”

Matthieu still can’t move.

“So save your strength for someone who didn’t happily profit off the death of your people.”

There are three things that Matthieu wants to do right now: cry, kill, and reverse time. Maybe two are feasible, but he still can’t move. All he can do is feel.

Matthieu feels cold. It’s cold outside, it’s cold within. It’s cold in his chest and stomach, and the cold curls in his head, at the tips of his fingers and toes. He sees what his life once was, the only times he’s felt happy - the love he knew he had, the times his mother disciplined him but he broke the rules again anyway. He remembers what it feels like to know who he is, to be held by family, to smile and laugh. He remembers waking up feeling warm again, the purpose that comes from saving a man’s life, from giving up rabbits for one season. Then he remembers that he’s presently standing in a cold house, alone in whiteness, and all he has for company is a murderer. Daan shakily stands with tears running down his face. Matthieu does not care.

Daan takes step after step, Matthieu does not stop him. He barely looks at him. He’s trying his hardest to forget the last six months, to forget the warmth of companionship, to forget sleeping in each other’s arms, the kiss that morning. He tries to forget how living feels.

Matthieu still doesn’t move when he hears the door shut, the wind grow in intensity, whistling its furious and lonely song. He can’t breathe. He’s been crying and his nose is now fully clogged. Matthieu opens his mouth for air and finally feels the chill freezing the tears onto his face. The fire is low.

How long has he been standing here?

[aphcanada-inactive]

APH Aesthetics: NedCan | “Home”

NedCan Week 2017: Day 5 

[orbitinghetalia]

NedCanweek2017 Day 3 prompt: Warmth/Cold

[oneletterwrites]

Without You

For nedcanweek2017 (X)

Prompt: Joy/Sorrow

Summary: All the happy hours in the world would never balance out the day of sadness.

Warning for character death

--

Lars watches as Matthew smells the flowers. Flowers that Lars had actually brought him. They stand tall in vase of purple Matthew had brought down from a shelf in his kitchen somewhere. A small smirk comes to his face as Matthew catches him looking.

He asks what for and Lars just shrugs. Matthew rolls his eyes but comes closer. Lars gives his hand when it’s asked for and lets himself be dragged around the town Matthew lives in.

It’s a bright place. A cheerful place that compares to none in Lars’s mind. The people are laughing and enjoying themselves. Matthew joins in their laughter though there is nothing outright funny happening. Lars can only watch as the light in his eyes grows brighter.

They spend the day walking around. Though Lars admits to being pulled more so. It doesn’t really matter to him. He say the plea from Matthew for someone to hang out with. He immediately dropped what he had to do that day in order to visit an the regret he feels is none at all.

The smile on Matthew’s face when he showed up on his doorstep brought a sense of right to his chest. He didn’t think his presence could cause such a reaction but he’s happy it did. He’s not sure he’s ever been happier.

Being where he is, being pushed around and prodded to go this way and that to just be together, there is no where else he can imagine himself being. Doing work that he dropped to do this is long forgotten when Matthew tries to spoon feed him ice cream, then pancakes, and something else messy that tastes wonderful anyway.

They waste the day away. There’s not something in a 30 mile radius they haven’t done and wouldn’t do again. Every activity earns him a breathless red faced smile form Matthew that makes his heart leap into his throat. He’s been smiling more too.

When the day finally gets too dark to actually do anything else, Matthew piles blankets on him and sweet warm drinks in mugs that almost spill when Matthew drops down next to him. Something dumb is on TV and Lars isn’t paying attention to any of it.

His eyes keep glancing down to Matthew beside him. There’s a smile on his face that’s soft and content and no one would be able to pry the idea that Lars is the reason for it from his hands. The movie is forgotten in his mind as he keeps watching the colors flash in Matthew’s eyes.

His expression is gentle and both hands holding his mug to his face make him glow. He turns his head up when he spies Lars watching, an embarrassed smile crossing his face as he asks why. Lars smiles first, then realizing that’s not much of an answer, gives something else that’s not an answer.

It’s wondrous to see Matthew’s smile fall just to disbelief, not moving away for a second as Lars leans in closer to him. A smile stays with him as Matthew just watches him get closer. The kiss he places is soft, something sweet like the way he thinks of Matthew. It grows into something more tender when Matthew presses back against him.

Maybe he had wanted to do that before, but he sure wanted to do that all day. When he pulls back he’s happy his prediction is right. The look on Matthew’s face is so worth it. The smile is shy but blissful, the look in his eyes beautiful and something Lars would want to see everyday of his life after.

A few kisses later and movie that neither remember the main characters name they are tangled up limbs on the floor. Matthew’s head on his chest and a content sigh shared between them. There’s no place Lars would rather be.

--

It should be raining. Lars is sure it should be but there are only some clouds that are fluffy and white. The kind Matthew liked most so he supposes it’s the perfect kind of weather. It’s the least that the world could do for him.

He knocks on Matthew’s door but he knows there will be no answer. He knocks again any way in a small hope he’s wrong. He’s not and he knows it when he has to pull the key from his pocket to open the door himself.

The flowers in his hand are at his side. They don’t need to be held up for any one. His steps are slow and steady. He walks past the living space, still with blankets strewn about from their adventures just a week before. The kitchen is bare. Mugs of now something cold sit untouched.

He pauses seeing the purple vase in the middle of the table. The old flowers are wilted, dropped and dying from lack of care. Lars goes to them dully. He reaches a hand out but something stops him from getting closer. His hand shakes and his vision gets blurry with tears that seem only natural.

Breathing becomes harder and he slumps to the chair that is kicked out next to him. The flowers her brought are crushed in his hand. Still he puts them on the table along with his arms. There’s a crushing in his chest that he ca’t quite place.

He drops his head to his arms and a hand gets tangled in his hair, pulling hard to cause pain so he knows this isn’t fake. It’s so real, as real as Matthew felt in his arms a week ago. As real as the tears that crawl their way out of his eyes and down his face to soak his sleeves.

Maybe it’s real but that doesn’t mean he has to believe it’s fair. Matthew had a light in him that the rest of the world had been unworthy to really see. There’s not a single person Lars can count that ever gave Matthew the time of day. Maybe they didn’t deserve him. Maybe nothing did.

Lars lets out a cry of pain, his chest clenching up like barbed wire has squeezed his heart. It’s not fair he decides. There had been nothing he could do to stop it. But he wishes he had anyway. Wishes there was something he could change that would somehow bring Matthew back to him.

There isn’t and it hurts him deep inside. He remains there in Matthew’s kitchen, waiting for something, anything, but there is nothing. Nothing left and yet he refuses to leave. He can’t. Not yet. Matthew deserves to be cried over, to be longed to have back. If no one else is going to do it then he will. It’s the least he could do.

[aphnetherlandsgooglehistory]

Nedcan Week Prompt Day Three: Warmth/Cold

[aphcanada-inactive]

APH Aesthetics: NedCan  | “Sun & Moon” (Updated)

NedCan Week 2017: Day 2

[jaouinedcan]

Weakness [NedCan Week: Day 7 - Past]

Ahhh I wasn’t supposed to be posting these so late.  Canada Day, am I right?  I really should have realized how little time I would have to spend on the computer and then the power went out

It came back pretty fast, but still.

Anyway, this is going to be another double fic day, one for each prompt.  The second one should be up soon after giving it one last reading.

For this one... it’s actually platonic NedCan, because Canada is still a child, but it lays a foundation for a future relationship to be built on, and is actually inspired by a certain canon interaction.  I’m sure most of you will quickly realize what I mean right away :)

The Netherlands had a weakness for children.

...Most definitely not in the way the others would gossip about when they thought he wasn't within hearing range, but in a way he considered to be infinitely more dangerous if they ever happened upon the truth.  For that reason, and that reason only, he refrained from taking any action to correct such rumours, and though it left him feeling slightly melancholic, welcomed the way that most of the others subtly limited his exposure to their younger charges.

After all, if they ever found out how difficult it was for him to say no to a child, he doubted it would be long before all his future trade negotiations would be filled to the brim with new colonies and fledgling nations looking up at him with doe-eyed innocence, politely asking for lower prices or debt forgiveness or a piece of candy, and he would be bankrupt before the year was through.

The rowdy ones like America were slightly less concerning as he was usually able to deflect their demands by shaming their caretakers for allowing such bad behaviour--since they would be distrustful enough to never let their charges out of their sight around him--but he was woefully unprepared to deal with well-mannered children speaking to him with nothing less than perfect politeness and respect.

Which was why, when a young Canada suddenly approached him on the pier without even a single chaperone within shouting distance, the Netherlands ended up burning his finger with the match he'd used to light his pipe.  The child had always obediently kept his distance from him in the past, and even more so since England was irritated by his trade with the rebelling America, but this time his face was set in determination and it was his little white bear who eyed him with cautious suspicion.

His last hope was for the flash of irritation in his expression thanks to the flame biting into his skin to be misinterpreted as a direct response to the child's sudden appearance, but, if anything, it seemed to only strengthen Canada's resolve.

"Mr. Netherlands," he said, standing as straight as a soldier, his quiet voice somehow overcoming the noise of his men loading the last of the crates aboard his ship, "I apologize for the interruption, but I must ask a favor of you."

Each word was carefully enunciated, as though he'd practiced the simple sentence for hours, and the Netherlands was defenseless.  He rolled the extinguished but still uncomfortably hot match between his fingers, chewed the tip of his pipe, internally screamed at himself for walking directly and intentionally into a trap set entirely by accident (or so he hoped) and evenly replied, "What is it?"

The child was startled silent, having undoubtedly expected some sort of rebuke, and even his bear exchanged its expression for a more disarmed curiosity.  The Netherlands cast his gaze to the side, trying to appear disinterested as he took a long drag from the pipe.  What could the boy possibly need from him so badly that he would come to speak to him (almost) alone, despite all the things England had undoubtedly warned him about?

He recovered after a moment, pressing his lips firmly together before opening his mouth again to speak.  The Netherlands hadn't made a conscious decision to look back to him, but this time it was Canada who looked away, staring down at his feet, head slightly bowed.  "I need to go to England, but I don't have enough money to purchase safe passage across the Atlantic.  I was hoping that you might be willing to accept payment in instalments, or perhaps grant me a loan?"  He seemed to deflate a bit with each word, as though disheartened by his limited spending power.  Yet, even with his limited wealth, he was still an important English asset, so why was money an issue?

"Surely if England needs to see you, there ought to be room aboard one of his vessels," the Netherlands remarked, well aware that if any of his sailors had overheard, they would have experienced some sort of internal crisis upon the realization that he had not automatically accepted a profitable deal; with the majority of the cargo sold to America, they had plenty of unused space for both the boy and his bear, and between the two of them, probably did not need to eat as much as an average human male.  He likely could have offered a discount and still made a substantial gain, if only he could shake the image of the poor child scrimping and saving to pay a bill amounting to less than what coins England might accidentally drop in the gutter over the course of a year.

The Netherlands had nearly worked himself up into indignation on Canada's behalf for having to purchase safe passage instead of England footing the bill if it was an urgent enough trip that couldn't wait for one of his own ships to arrive in North America, but then the young colony surprised him with a face flushed bright red.  "It isn't something he called me over for--I mean--he would have sent a ship or come himself if he had to talk to me, but it isn't that.  I just... I know that he's been having trouble fighting America and there isn't a lot that I can do to help, but I thought that maybe if I could at least visit him it would help to cheer him up a little, and then I decided that if I'm going to go then I should go right away rather than wait for the next British ship, and also I thought it would be a nice surprise if I went without sending word...!"

The boy trailed off in embarrassment, probably feeling childish speaking such excited thoughts in front of his impassive mask.  Yet it was exactly that sort of innocent enthusiasm that the Netherlands could not dismiss.  Canada's urge to help England in any small way he could had lead him to someone he had been taught to avoid.  If the Netherlands truly was as dangerous to children as so many nations believed, then he could have simply abducted the boy right then and there since he hadn't told anyone about what he'd been planning, let alone where he'd went.  The mere thought left him feeling so anxious for the young colony's safety that he didn't dare let him out of his sight, lest a truly dangerous individual take advantage of his misplaced trust.

And yet, being too eager to accept him aboard the ship could backfire by reminding him to be suspicious of him but not human men, so the Netherlands attempted to steer the conversation to a logical solution.  "If it's meant to be a surprise, I cannot accept payment, as that would land your name on the ship's manifest, and I cannot guarantee that we will not be intercepted by the British naval blockade.  If they were to catch us and see your name upon the manifest, not only would the surprise be spoiled, but I would face some tough questions from the British navy about why one of their young colonies was aboard my ship.  You understand?"  He smoked a bit more as Canada processed all that, curious if he would spot the holes in his argument, as though Dutch ships didn't skirt the law as it was, smuggling and secret manifests not his bread and butter, and pseudonyms not the proverbial butter knife.

Canada had so much more to learn about the world, because his shoulders dipped in disappointment as he whispered, "So it's impossible, then..."  The Netherlands almost didn't hear him speak.

A more worldly creature would have noticed this as an opportunity for a bribe to convince the Netherlands that smuggling the young colony was worth the risk, but in Canada's case, it was off the table anyway as he couldn't even afford the honest fare.  There really was only one option, and it seemed that Canada was too straight-laced to even consider it, so it would be up to him to suggest it.

The Netherlands held on to a last mouthful of smoke before softly exhaling to the side and tapping the ashy remains of the tobacco out over the side of the pier, then eased himself into a lighter tone, as though he were telling a story while he cleaned his pipe.  "Life aboard a ship always comes with a handful of surprises, be it the weather, encounters with foreign ships, or unexpected landmasses.  Now and then people will even sneak aboard and stowaway.  Cats sometimes, too, though they're less of a concern, since they hunt the rats that would otherwise ruin our food stores.  Human stowaways, though...  They all have their own personal reasons, though I doubt any of those have ever made it across the Atlantic undiscovered.  Yet, even so, it isn't as though the ship can turn back simply to return that one individual.  Usually these people are arrested and confined, but in some cases, if they can be trusted, they are allowed to work off their debt on the ship instead of being handed over to the authorities at the destination.  Were the stowaway a child... I'd think that they'd be able to pay for their smaller meal portions through simple chores like washing dishes.  Does that sound fair?"  He swiftly closed his pipe into its carrying case and pocketed it, then continued to roll the match between his fingers, it having long since grown cold.

He couldn't say for sure when Canada picked up on the suggestion since he was focused on the pipe, but he certainly didn't expect the bear to speak first, whining, "He's telling me to eat the ship rats, isn't he?"

"Shush," Canada replied, quietly, perhaps in wonder, "they're basically tiny beavers, and you eat those all the time."

"I want fish..." the bear complained, but ultimately agreed to the terms, judging by how it quieted back down and began to nudge Canada toward the ship.  Well, it wasn't as if they wouldn't also be doing a bit of fishing to supplement their diets along the way, so there likely would be a fish or two as a reward for dealing with the rats.

Canada didn't allow himself to be moved just yet, though, and thrust out his hand toward the Netherlands, who took it and gave a solid shake.  "It's a deal, then," he said, and released the boy's hand, leaving the match in his grip.  He inspected it curiously--the Netherlands always preferred some sort of material contract, and it would work fine as a symbol soon to be discarded.  It was better that way--after they landed in Europe, the Netherlands didn't expect he'd be seeing the boy any more often than usual--which was almost never.

He didn't expect the child to pocket it, but he did, and his smile was dazzling.  The Netherlands worried that he'd been found out for a moment--then told himself that he could demand payment from England later if anyone mentioned anything about his unusual generosity.

It was easy to sneak the boy onto the ship while his crew finished up the loading and prepared the ship to set sail.  They were used to giving him some space before they disembarked, so he took advantage of that to escort Canada and his bear to his private quarters, locking them in just in case while he went about various tasks, resolute in his decision to protect the boy from any danger that the more unsavoury members of his crew might pose.  He'd keep the boy in sight at all times, even during his dish washing chores--he'd pass the time by cleaning the rest of the kitchen, since he tended to do so after meals anyway.  The crew did not clean up after themselves anywhere close to his personal satisfaction, and the last thing they needed were rats drawn to the kitchen by crumbs left on the floor.

Canada insisted on helping set up a makeshift bed using the bench in his quarters normally reserved for the ship's captain or other important guests needing a place to sit while they discussed various subjects.  While the boy laid out the blankets, the Netherlands explained the ship rules.  Treating the crew with respect was a given, but responding to the name 'Matthijs' would take some getting used to, though it would be a necessary alias if the British did in fact intercept their ship.  He is perhaps a bit confused about why he had to stick close to the Netherlands, but didn't argue, likely believing that it was to prevent him from causing trouble like his southern brother would have when he was younger.  Whatever the case, he didn't seem to take offense.

Later on, after North America began to vanish into the horizon and the Netherlands smuggled extra portions of food into his room, Canada quietly but excitedly talked about how surprised England would be to see him, and after he mused aloud about all his ideas, the Netherlands ended up agreeing to allow Canada and his bear to hide behind him so they could pop out suddenly right in front of him out of nowhere when he least expected it (not that England would expect it at any time).

The Netherlands listened attentively as the boy went from one topic to the next, talking about all sorts of things.  It was odd to see him like this, since he'd always been so calm and quiet alongside England during their various encounters.  He had to wonder if that was his true nature, or if he just had a lack of people around who didn't tend to speak over him.  If that was the case, the Netherlands was fine with granting him his full attention and open ears.  There weren't many things more pleasant to listen to than a happily chatting child, after all.

He tired himself out soon enough, and protested when the Netherlands guided him to his own sturdy bed bolted to both the floor and the wall instead of the bench, which was smaller and lacked any protective edges to prevent him from being tossed off in choppy seas, but he was already out of steam to begin with, and soon enough, the Netherlands had him snugly tucked in with the blankets smoothed out perfectly over him.  His slight form only occupied half the bed, and his bear curled up at his feet with room to spare.  Canada suddenly remembered that he had to do the dishes but the Netherlands reminded him that the stowaways hadn't been discovered yet.

The boy quieted down while the Netherlands put out most of the candles and lanterns, but he thought he heard him mumble something about returning the favor one day with interest, and the Netherlands noted the match clutched in one hand, smiled slightly, and got to work on his accounting and other paperwork from that day's activity.

He didn't take Canada's words seriously at the time, but he did remember them, and to his great fortune, his secret weakness remained undiscovered.

The only difference was that every time they came across each other since, Canada would smile at him and wave.  The Netherlands just had to wait for England to turn away before he could wave back.

[England: Canada, he... didn’t do anything odd to you, did he?  Or give you any strange offers?

Canada: No, Mr. England...  Oh, but he did give me this! *holds up burnt matchstick*

England, yelling at the Netherlands from across the room: HOW DARE YOU TREAT MY COLONY LIKE A RUBBISH BIN!!!!

The Netherlands, relieved: I’m safe...

[jaouinedcan]

Hypothetically Speaking [NedCan Week: Day 7 - Future]

In which Canada and the Netherlands discuss a future possibility.

There are some Adult Situations in this, but it doesn’t quite delve into nsfw territory, at least in my opinion.  Just a bit of suggestion and a fade to black, really.

"If I were to annex a group of islands in the Caribbean," Canada sleepily murmured into the Netherlands' skin, "would you want to help with their development?"

The Netherlands had been drifting off, himself, comfortable and content with the way Canada snuggled up to his side after their lovemaking, light breath teasing his neck, but the fog was largely cleared from his mind as he tried and initially failed to understand the inquiry as anything other than an admission of imperialist thoughts from the very last nation he would have ever expected to hear them from.  He lifted his head up so he could see Canada's face and hopefully determine that he was having a very strange post-coital dream, but the other nation just squinted up at him in a very familiar way between tiredness and lacking the glasses safely stowed away in their case on the nightstand.  It was the only way to be perceived as more than just a general blur.

"You realize that we are in a hotel room in between UN meetings don't you?" he asked, with just a hint of hesitation.

"Yeah?" Canada replied, his brow wrinkling in confusion for a moment as he took in what appeared to be a concerned expression on the Netherlands' face.  Then he realized what he'd said had been misheard--well, misinterpreted.  "Oh!  No!  It wouldn't be done against their will, Ned."  He smirked.  "You thought that I was going to invade them~"

"Shush," he protested, trapping Canada's head beneath his chin to hide his embarrassment.  "I am half asleep and half convinced this is a nightmare."

"It's a pleasant dream," Canada promised, trailing his fingers down the Netherlands' chest and certainly not stopping there.  "You can be sure of that."

The Netherlands smacked Canada's hand away, but he was sure that it was obvious he wasn't actually mad; just a bit slower to recover his libido in comparison to someone who had inherited a bit more than just blond curls from France.

"The islands?" he asked, returning to the previous subject in the meantime.  They often had small conversations in bed together, so his curiosity could easily sated before he was distracted from it by wandering hands.

"Mm," Canada relented, winding his arms around the Netherlands but obediently keeping his hands above the waist for now.  "Turks and Caicos.  They're British territories, but some of my politicians have been attempting to get permission to annex them off and on for, hm, almost a hundred years now?"

"Ah, I know of them," the Netherlands replied.  "I have a handful of islands in the Caribbean still--they meet up from time to time and seem to get along well enough."  He paused.  "After a hundred years, though--has something changed?"

"Yes and no," Canada claimed.  "I haven't personally given it much thought since England refused the first time, and the idea never made it past the House of Commons since, but one of my MPs met up with Turks and Caicos' Premier recently to discuss it, so public interest has increased, but nobody's actually gotten around to talking to anyone in the UK yet."

"You're thinking about it now, though?"  Something must have changed if he'd decided to bring it up now after seventy years of never mentioning it to him.

"Something might actually happen this time," Canada ventured.  "Considering the timing."

The way he'd said that implied that the Netherlands could probably guess, so he thought back to Canada's recent activities related to the Caribbean... and quickly came to the rather obvious conclusion that a certain superpower was likely involved, as he always seemed to be entrenched in all of Canada's foreign relations.  "This is about how you've been encouraging America and Cuba to bury the hatchet, isn't it?" he asked, leaning on an elbow so he could lift his head up again to study Canada's reaction, and whether or not he was going to admit the real issue.

Canada's eyes glittered with mirth.  "On the one hand, I couldn't just let them continue on hating each other forever.  It wouldn't be right."

He nodded his head toward the Netherlands, inviting him to guess the rest.  "On the other hand, now you'll have to share your Cuban beach vacations with obnoxious American tourists."

"Can you really blame my people for craving a tropical paradise all to themselves after having to endure Americans invading every other aspect of their lives?"

The Netherlands had maintained a love-hate relationship with the Atlantic for several decades now, considering the way it kept both America and Canada at a distance.  "Of course not," he assured Canada, who still appeared more amused than anything, "but what would stop Americans from vacationing in Turks and Caicos anyway?"

"Why would they vacation in a Canadian territory when they could go to an actual foreign country?" Canada quipped, somehow expressing both bitterness and affection at once for the way America's people treated Canada on a more friendly note than the rest of the world--which would have been perfectly fine if many of them didn't go further with that than necessary and viewed him as the 51st state.

"Hm, it'll be their loss, in that case, and Cuba's loss or gain depending on your perspective.  As for Turks and Caicos--how would they feel about the arrangement?"  The Netherlands had met them once or twice, informally, on the occasions when he'd been visiting his territories and they'd stopped over to socialize with their neighbours.  They were still very young, in their pre-teens at most, and very easygoing, only serious in their attempts to call out their friends from their boring business meetings to play pirate games instead.  After a while, the Netherlands had to give in and allow his charges to be excused early from his economic lectures.  He'd always had trouble saying no to children, and though no one would be able to tell from his perfectly neutral expression, he enjoyed watching over the islands as they played, and was glad that they were able to remain so carefree... especially since his own childhood hadn't had much room for fun and games.

Canada was quiet for a moment while he considered the question, then replied, "I don't think that they have strong feelings one way or the other, really.  Though... I'd like to think that they'd prefer their caretaker to be closer at hand in emergency situations, and--no disrespect toward England--I would have many more opportunities to visit them while he has to split his time among the entire Commonwealth.  And, not to complain, but... I do wish that he would have been able to spend a little more of that time with me when I was young... and though at least Turks and Caicos have each other for company... I worry that is not enough, and while they're content to enjoy their childhood for now... they also deserve the opportunity to learn and grow, before... before the rest of the Caribbean moves on without them..."

Canada was growing far too melancholy, so the Netherlands pressed a soft kiss to his lips, interrupting him before he could sink into an actual depressed state over the fact that England had always been more invested in America during the times he was able to make the trip across the Atlantic at all, and whether he'd been an enemy or ally at any given moment hadn't made much of a difference.

"Whether you become their primary caretaker or not, you are still their older brother within the Commonwealth," the Netherlands assured him.  "You are still able to send them help in emergencies, visit them if they're lonely, and welcome to invest in their future.  England isn't going to turn away your honest hope to help raise them."  A couple centuries earlier it would have been different, but nowadays, the former British Empire was much more willing to allow members of his Commonwealth to move independently.

He could tell from the way Canada didn't turn his head or avert his eyes that he had succeeded in putting his fears to rest--or at least, most of them.  A hand relocated to the back of his neck, pulling him close enough to feel his breath against his lips.  "I'm going to visit them again soon if you want to make a vacation out of it," he suggested.

"A tempting offer," the Netherlands replied, "though I must insist I take the opportunity to introduce you to Bonaire, Sint Eustatius, Saba, and their grown siblings, Aruba, Curaçao and Sint Maarten."

"Of course," Canada agreed, and much (much much) later they shared a few photographs.  While Canada busily complimented how well the Netherlands had raised his island nations, the Netherlands himself was thoroughly charmed by one candid picture in particular of Canada helping two children build a sand castle, all three of them half soaked and covered in sand, the photo partially obscured by a furry white paw.  All three of them were caught in the middle of happy laughter.

[Notes: This conversation would have taken place while Obama was still president, so the situation has changed a bit since.  On the one hand, relations between America and Cuba are going downhill again, and on the other, nobody seems to know yet how Brexit will affect the British Overseas Territories.  If it ends up really screwing over Turks and Caicos’ economy, they might try to join Canada since we just signed CETA recently, which would allow them to continue trading with the EU, and they’d also benefit from NAFTA, and any future trade deals that Canada hashes out (last I read on the subject, we’re still trying to get TPP going even without America).  The same couldn’t be said so easily about them joining America instead for, uh, some pretty obvious reasons tbh.  If any of this actually happens, and goes smoothly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the British Overseas Territories considered joining Canada (or declaring independence), too, but then again, I’m sure the UK would negotiate hard for them to stick around, since it would be pretty embarrassing for all their territories to abruptly jump ship.  Then again, they might have their hands full trying to keep Irish unification and Scottish independence from happening, and I’m sure the EU will take certain steps to punish the UK as much as possible in order to make them an example for the rest of the countries considering leaving the EU...  I mean, who really knows where all of that will ultimately bring us.  I’m feeling so fortunate to be Canadian right now, you guys; the rest of the world looks so crazy from here

btw I did read an actual for-real article about how Canada would benefit from having tropical beaches of its own now that we have to share Cuba with Americans, lmao]

[orbitinghetalia]

NedCanweek2017 prompts Home/Journey (day 5) and Earth/Sky (day 6) combined. Star Trek au.

[jaouinedcan]

Small Hours in the AM [NedCan Week: Day 1 - Together / Apart]

I’m going to try to post something every day for NedCan Week, though a few might be late since I haven’t started writing for three of the prompts yet.  This first one was a warm up and almost reads more like an essay than a fanfic, but I’m still fond of it.  The rest will be longer and more immersive.

There were particular times of the day when Canada and the Netherlands would ensure that their personal cell phones were fully charged with their ringtones off silent, and if one of them happened to receive a call it was very rarely not placed by the other.

For the Netherlands, who tended to rise and fall with the sun, it was easy for him to set aside some time before heading into the office for the day.  He would take his phone from its charging station on his nightstand, retrieve one of the prepared breakfasts he stored in his refrigerator--he bought them in bulk to save time and money--and carried them both outside along with his Holland Lop, which he released into its outdoor run to enjoy the fresh air.  Eating in the yard was preferable to leaving crumbs in his kitchen and if the weather was good he took the opportunity to work in his flower garden.  It was quiet and peaceful during the early hours of the day and he was rarely interrupted, even by the phone, but when it did ring he was quick to answer, yanking off his gardening gloves first and checking the caller display second.  It had been a government employee once when he hadn't looked, and it had been months before he'd even begun to recover his stoic reputation among the various aides and building staff once they all heard about how gently he'd greet his sweetheart over the phone.  They still smiled at him sometimes.  It was terrible.

For Canada, who was more of a night owl and tended to arrive at and depart from the office at later times than the majority of his government, the calls were slightly more common and the timing far more erratic, though they were always received at some point in the evening.  Sometimes he was still in his office, finishing up paperwork after dismissing his aides for the day.  Other times, he quickly pulled over to park on the side of the road or stepped out of line in Tim Hortons.  Most of the time, though, he was already at home, enjoying either a late dinner or snack, snuggling on the couch with his dozing polar bear, watching hockey live or prerecorded depending on the season or how late he was coming home.  Regardless of the game's intensity, when the phone rang, he paused or muted it immediately to answer.  He was usually in too much of a rush to verify the caller, but when it wasn't the Netherlands it was America, and the softly spoken endearments were considered an ongoing in-joke rather than a case of mistaken identity.  He had a harder time guiding the conversation to a quick resolution just in case the Netherlands tried to reach him in the middle of it, but it was easier once he added call waiting to his cell plan; America was surprisingly accepting of a quick interruption ("Sorry, but there's an important call on the other line; I'll call you back later, eh?") considering how much of the time he spent talking instead of listening.

The calls themselves were varied and depended solely upon what the caller needed at the time.  More often than not it was enough to simply hear the other's voice and they'd talk about more or less nothing at all, how their day had been, what the weather was like, how their siblings were, and how long it would be before they would see each other again.  Other times they were bothered enough to explain why they couldn't sleep or what had caused them to suddenly wake with a racing heart and a stifled shout.  There were even occurrences where neither of them had much on their minds to put into words, so Canada would start to sing the latest earworm or the Netherlands would recite his favourite poems from the latest anthologies, translating where required as Canada learned Dutch bit by bit with a clear bias for the prettiest words favoured by poets.

Whatever the case the caller would eventually be lulled to sleep, not to call again that morning or night but would text a quick thank you when they woke several hours later in a much better mood.  As for the one left awake, they'd regard their cell phone for a short while after, consumed by thoughts of how much more difficult it had been to contact each other over the past seventy years before technology had progressed to its current point, how more often than not they'd failed to reach each other at all and resorted to written letters to cope when phone lines were unreliable or unreasonably expensive, or left messages with aides when Canada wasn't at his desk, or waited a few minutes and called a second or third time just in case they hadn't heard the phone ring or had stepped outside for a minute or hadn't gotten home yet.  There had even been times that Canada had been so anxious to talk to the Netherlands he'd had to leave messages at the Hague for him to call back as soon as he'd arrived at the start of the workday.  Everything was just so much easier now.

There was exactly one reason why they were grateful for the Atlantic keeping them at such a great distance; instead of feeling guilty about waking each other for comfort during small hours in the AM, they could rest easy knowing that the other, while still thinking of them, could just as easily go back to pulling weeds or watching their game or reconnecting with their brother without feeling even the slightest hint of grouchy sleep-starved resentment.  On the contrary, they were happy to know they were both safe, and loved, and not so far apart that they could not enjoy a conversation together.

Headcanons: Most of the time it's Canada worrying too much to fall asleep and the Netherlands reliving the worst parts of the war in nightmares, but sometimes it’s vice versa.  It depends on how much stress they’re under at the time.

As for time zones; Amsterdam, Netherlands is 6 hours ahead of Ottawa, Canada

[nedcanquen]

Le Loupgarou - Chapter 1 (NedCanWeek 2017 - Sun/Moon)

It’s NedCan week! That means it’s time to crank out some fic that still features our favorite couple but is a little different from Mr 7th Floor (I try anyway). 

This fic is short multi-chaptered thing to fulfill several of the prompts for NedCan week. This first chapter fulfills day 2: Sun/Moon.

Way back when I tried to write a fic about 17th-century trade wars, I wrote about a Matthew/Matthieu who was French/Wendat (Huron) and escaped the genocide of his people as a result of the Beaver Wars by living for a time with Jesuits. I took that basic premise to write another Matthew/Matthieu.

Tags: Werewolf AU, supernatural, Historical AU.

Pairings: NedCan

Image from Pexels.

Eastern Canada - early 1700s

It came from Europe. It certainly was not a monster that was native to his home, Matthieu could tell by how clumsily it moved through the forest. ‘Moved’, more like stumbling and crashing, as bad as those new traders fresh off the boat who got themselves killed within the first day - those who had no business being here. Sometimes Matthieu wondered about his unknown father, who had given him his too-pale skin, hair and eyes, physical attributes that made these newcomers seek him out for business more readily than they did his kin. Still, their goods were of good quality, and hunting a creature this clumsy would be easy.

So Matthieu hunted - not just for the tools, tobacco, fur, and other products worth a fortune in trade, but also because he didn’t want some foreign menace tearing his home apart - foreign diseases, an animal that could easily feast on too many native ones to throw everything off balance. He’d already seen what such things could do, he’d kill any new thing before it could do that.

He was lucky it was summer, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to track it for this long. But now he’s willing to speed up. It’s time to end this. He had tracked it for most the night under the light of the full moon, and whatever it was, it wasn’t trying to hide, or couldn’t. Broken branches, scattered leaves, blood and the smell of something foreign in the wind assaulted Matthieu’s senses. He works alone, even though he grew up doing this in a group of young boys, then men, just like him. But now his people are gone, and Matthieu has no one to work with. The Beaver Wars have all but decimated the only people he had ever known. The only reason he’s alive, is because he favors his father’s looks. His mother’s brother had brought him to a French settlement when they heard the enemy was coming, and the Jesuit brothers adopted him without question.

He exists between two worlds and belongs to none, like the land he was born in, in conflict - fought over between nations that have no business being here but they are transforming it nonetheless. His ability to hide and blend in between all these peoples, to speak their languages - to disappear into the forest, or town or port when he needs to - keep him alive. It’s a lonely life, but it’s the only one that he now knows. In his early and more naive years, Matthieu refused to work for any of the Europeans unless they were French, he also would not look at any Haudenosaunee (the Iroquois) if he could help it - those who killed his mother and took his cousins from him. As he grew older, his attitude and practicality had to change. The way he saw things, the English were going to win and if he were to survive, he would have to learn to at least live with them. He was making progress with that but it was still difficult to accept the Dutch - the ones who sold his people’s enemies their weapons without reserve, who had sealed the fate of his family. Until yesterday at least.

They had sought him out - Matthieu had built a reputation for himself as a guide, tracker and hunter. He accepted few jobs but it appeared that despite their parsimonious reputation, these Dutchmen were willing to pay him a lot of money.

Maybe he should have hired more to join, but there was something about this deal that made him suspicious - too good to turn down, which would mean a knife in the back as soon as the job was done. But also odd. There was something those Dutch sailors were refusing to tell him, it was in their stiff manner when they presented to him the silver bullets to kill the thing with.

The tracks seemed to confirm part their story at least, or what Matthieu could understand from their clumsy command of his language - large beast, brought for labor, escaped, kill on sight. The few things that didn’t make sense were the last two descriptors of the ‘beast’ - dangerous, intelligent. For the first few hours, Matthieu had been cautious, convinced that the beast was leading him into a trap, with how obvious the trail was. The other curious thing was, there seemed to be three tracks - a man’s, a wolf’s and the beast the sailors spoke of. It’s possible another hunter and his dog was also trailing this beast, which was the other reason Matthieu was cautious - some would kill before sharing possible spoils - but now he is not so sure.

It is only now that the third possibility occurs to him and he freezes in fear, could it be? No, but…? Their hesitance to talk, the special bullets. Matthieu is young, confident, stupid and has lived apart from his people for too long if he was only putting this together now. But if it’s European how can it be a Wendigo?! And it’s summer! Matthieu banishes his banal thoughts and is able to move again. There was no wisdom that said Wendigos were native only to his land, that was like saying that those baser instincts such as greed, hunger and desperation were unique to his people - why would such a creature be restricted to his own home? But Matthieu had stopped believing in Wendigo during his time with the Jesuits, not because they had convinced him entirely about the truth of God, but because if Wendigo were real, this whole land would be covered with them. The wars had proven that all the nations were selfish and greedy enough to be filled with nothing but Wendigo. But now Matthieu’s mind returns to his childhood and considers. Yes, Wendigo were said to hibernate in summer but they could be awoken.

Had those fools attempted to trap and use one for profit? For labour? Knowing how greedy these traders could be, how dismissive of things they could not see in front of their own eyes and calculate the worth of, it wouldn’t surprise him. And wouldn’t a European Wendigo be just as hopeless navigating his forests as a fresh European man would be?

Whatever it is, it is too late to leave and come back with a full party to lay traps, though it is likely smarter to do so. Matthieu’s curiosity is getting the best of him, as it always does. He carefully, quietly, takes his musket and moves on. The tracks show that the creature has hunted, and is slowing. The trail of blood tells Matthieu it is eating but there’s no evidence of an animal’s neat eating habits here, it is more akin to a human that has starved for days. The scent is getting stronger now, and it’s growing lighter around him, soon the sun will rise. The beast is slowing almost to a stop, so he guesses it has found a place to hide during the day, after the mess it has made overnight. Matthieu quietly climbs a tall rock to get a better shot. He will lose all advantage of surprise if he misses.

What he sees doesn’t really resemble any Wendigo he’s heard about, but the stories range. This beast is covered in heavy grey fur with a hint of a reddish hue. It looks more like a giant wolf than a man, save for its very long hind legs and the clear sign of five fingers and toes rather than paws, albeit with claws. It feeds on a wild boar, which says something about the strength this creature must have despite how clumsy it is in the forest.

Matthieu takes aim, and he’s about to shoot when the first ray of sunlight hits the creature and it freezes, turning abruptly, which makes Matthieu lose his shot. The rest, well, it makes him freeze.

Though the face has a long snout, it’s eyes are nothing like any wolf’s eyes that Matthieu has ever seen. They’re confused and afraid, and they’re green - green like a grassy field. And human.

What Matthieu sees next freezes him in his spot. The creature seems to fight itself, reaching towards the sunlight and snapping back, snarling at it, before inevitably crawling into it, submissive and defeated. Then the change happens and the thing howls in agony - fur falls off in matted clumps to reveal pale flesh, the claws turn brittle and fall off, bones painfully crack into a different shape and the snout shortens back to a man’s face. The howl turns into a human scream and doesn’t end. The man screams himself hoarse as he curls up in pain, his body outside of his control. The sound and sight makes Matthieu’s heart clench in his chest, tears of sympathy sting his eyes. It’s difficult to witness anything endure this kind of pain but he knows he can’t do anything to help, at least not yet.

Matthieu has no idea how much time has passed from the beginning of the transformation to when it seems to have ended, but the man now lies on his back, staring into the sky at nothing. He breathes heavily and tears run down his blood-streaked face. His eyes are the same.

Those eyes flicker to him and widen slightly, before closing. When he opens his eyes, they’re dull. Matthieu only now realizes that he’s breathing just as hard, he can barely process everything that he has just seen. But if nothing else, he knows this isn’t a Wendigo - Wendigo do not change back.

The man speaks, but Mattieu narrows his eyes, he can’t understand Dutch. He jumps down from his rock and walks closer. It’s probably stupid, there’s no guarantee that this man is harmless just because he’s now naked and appears weak but…Matthieu also knows he’s not going to kill him right at this moment, unless he obviously threatens him.

The man freezes for a time but doesn’t close his eyes. He looks at Matthieu in confusion then and tries again. “French?”

Matthieu nods. “Yes, if I must.”

He nods. “I just said, if you’re going to help me, help me. If not, then to get on with it and kill me. I’m too damn tired to fight.”

Matthieu narrows his eyes, still pointing his musket at the man. He knows that the likelihood of him killing the man are rapidly dropping but he still wants answers. “What are you?”

The eyes close with pain. “Loupgarou.” The man sighs as if that’s the answer. Matthieu doesn’t know that word, though he thinks he knows half of it. Loup means ‘wolf’, but garou…? The man speaks. “They said if I laboured for them I could earn a cure. The others...when I met the others I knew it was a lie.”

Others? “There are more like you? How are you-”

“A wolf bites us, or a dog, I don’t fucking know anymore. Sometimes you just get sick and die, sometimes nothing happens, sometimes you turn into a loupgarou - every full moon, you have to change. You have to leave everyone you know, or you may hurt them, so if you’re going to help me, point me to water and let me go, or shoot me and be done with it!”

Matthieu makes a split decision that he hopes he won’t regret. He has no idea why he’s doing it, except that the alternatives feel wrong. While the man is still too exhausted to move, after this latest outburst, Matthieu sets down his travel bag and pulls out spare clothes and dampens a cloth with some water.

“What are you doing?!”

“Dressing you. After this, I will give you water, and you will help me cut up that boar you managed to kill. If it isn’t sick, we’ll cook and eat some and then, you are going to help me bring it back to my home, we’ll dry and preserve it, and I won’t have to hunt for weeks. On the way you can help me think of something to tell the sailors who hired me to kill you, so that they will leave you alone.”  

The man looks incredulous. “Wh...No! You can’t keep me around! Didn’t you hear me? I’m a threat, I’m dangerous!”

“Once every full moon.” Matthieu scoffs. “Which has just passed. Which means we have a month to figure out what to do with you. Now stop whining and make yourself useful. Do you have a name Mr Loupgarou? Or is that what I’m expected to call you?”

The man makes a face. Impossibly terrifying but Matthieu knows he’s just trying to cover his own terror, and perhaps surprise. Matthieu holds his ground and stares right back at the man. Finally the other relents. “This is supposed to be a new world. Why don’t you give me a name?”

Matthieu chuckles without much humor. He wonders if the man can understand what a new name truly means. Matthieu is lucky to still have his, a French name for the French father he never knew, though he had often wished he had a more common name among his nation when he was younger. But his cousins who had those Wendat names had been taken by the Haudenosaunee. If they survived, according to the customs of war, they had by now been given the names of those who had died before them. Matthieu, one of the few survivors of his nation, got to keep his name, only because it had never belonged to that nation to begin with. The world he was born in was dying so fast, so maybe the man had a point about new names and new beginnings. “You may regret leaving that choice up to me. Come on.”

Matthieu stops and looks back after he hears no footsteps behind him. He freezes at the expression the man has on his face. Matthieu doesn’t know what to call it - amazement? Amazement and disbelief with something else he’s never seen before. He feels a rush of heat to his face. It’s not fear, though the rush of adrenaline is familiar. Matthieu figures it’s just exhaustion from the night and it’s time to return home. Thankfully the man realizes that Matthieu is not leaving without him and moves. They return in relative silence.

Notes:

Matthieu was born into the Wendat nation, more commonly known as the Huron, who lived north of present-day Lake Ontario (in what is now the province of Ontario). From what I could discover online, ‘Huron’ was a name given to this nation by the French (it meant something like ‘ruffian’) so they didn’t call themselves that. It’s sadly difficult to discover accurate information about Canada’s First Nation’s online, but when I tried to find out what this nation would have called itself, Wendat was what I could find. I may be wrong, and if I am, please let me know and I will change it. 

The Haudenosaunee Confederacy are more commonly known to us as the Iroquiois, again, ‘Iroquois’ is not the name that this nation called itself, it was coined by the Algonquin, who were allied with the Wendat/Huron. The word means ‘enemy’. The Iroquois lived kinda south and east of Lake Ontario (present-day New York...yeah in my other fic, Matthieu is Wendat/Huron, and Alfred was born to the People of the Flint/Mohawk, who were part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy...it was all kinds of interesting for their relationship as brothers). 

The Beaver Wars were fought for monopoly over the beaver fur trade (and other reasons) and while the French were allied to the Algonquin and Wendat/Huron, the Iroquois were allied with the English and the Dutch, the latter of which made a lot of money off selling weapons to fuel the war. The war ended with an Iroquois victory and the near genocide of the Wendat/Huron, not entirely by blood (though there was a lot of killing), but also through forced assimilation. Captives were taken in by the victorious side, given different names and from then on became Haudenosaunee. Another reason for the wars is believed to be that the Haudenosaunee were trying to replace the people they lost due to European diseases. There was a custom that prisoners of war were adopted into the victorious nation and given the names of those who had died before them, so some of Matthieu’s cousins are actually alive, they’re just not legally his cousins anymore.  

Loupgarou is French for ‘werewolf’. 

Again, any mistakes in facts are all mine. 

[jaouinedcan]

The Angel from my Nightmare [NedCan Week: Day 4 - Joy/Sorrow]

Silly Alternative Title for a Serious Fic: Go Home, Ned, You’re Drunk

Indonesia declared independence from the Netherlands following WW2.  Out of desperation and belief that they needed the Dutch East Indies to recover their economy, the Netherlands attempted to take back their colony from the revolutionaries.  The war and what followed was as complicated as it was terrible and both sides were responsible for awful things, so while this is written from the Netherlands’ point of view and Indonesia doesn’t actually appear, I stayed away from portraying either nation as solely ‘good’ or ‘evil’ and tried to root them both in a moral grey area.

He walked into the makeshift office, weary but determined to maintain some semblance of dignity even as he felt the devastation deep in his bones; hidden wounds that had no chance to heal before they were opened again.  Despite his best efforts to avoid thinking about it, he felt the eyes of the world upon him, their judgement lacking mercy.  They were all extremely aware that he and his forces had limped all the way there, and now, after extensive, bloody, desperate fighting, he must have exhausted every ounce of international sympathy available.  Even England and his brothers within the United Kingdom, after fighting for him by proxy while he'd been busy picking up the pieces of his shattered and starving nation, had turned against him once America began to speak out against his actions.  Never mind that she was capable of and had committed her fair share of wartime atrocities.  Never mind that it wasn't so long ago that England was in this very same situation, except without the sheer depth of desperation behind his actions.  Never mind that England had never needed America the same way the Netherlands needed the Dutch East Indies.

And yet, now that America was threatening to cut him out of the Marshall Plan and every dollar of its aid and investment, he was now in the even more tenuous position of being unable to afford a war he could not afford to lose while the rest of the world did little more than send him dirty looks from afar.  He could no longer see a future in which he was not bankrupt and universally reviled while his people continued to starve with no hope for employment until they finally began to despise the fact that they had been born Dutch.  Would he truly have survived the Nazi occupation only to die while struggling to get back on his feet?

It was with those desolate thoughts that the Netherlands stepped over the threshold and into the office.  It seemed that most of his officers were out, either sleeping in the dorms or out drinking, enjoying what rest they could in the current stalemate, but his new switchboard operator, recently promoted to desk work by a bullet to the knee, was still occupying his desk, his heavily bandaged leg stretched out before him.  Perhaps he considered that 'rest' in itself, as he was still learning how to manoeuvre with the aid of crutches.  From where he sat, it was likely more work to get up and return to the dorms than it was to sit and stay.

That was fine--someone had to stay behind to receive emergency messages, regardless--but what gave the Netherlands pause was that the young man, horrifically slender thanks to malnutrition in his late teens and sombre at best since the Netherlands had met him mere weeks ago after he was released from the infirmary, was excitedly speaking to someone over the phone line, his enthusiasm rolling waves of cheer throughout the otherwise empty room.  So focused was he on the conversation, he hadn't noticed the door open, let alone his nation now quietly observing him.  Quietly, because it had been far too long since the Netherlands had seen one of his people so honestly happy without the aid of alcohol, he lacked the resolve to interrupt even though protocol dictated that he should discipline the boy for tying up the line with a personal call.

Though, how could it be personal?  The military lines should not be so easily accessible by civilians, and this switchboard in particular took several hurdles to actually reach, since it was set aside for his use, after all.  The only calls coming through ought to be from the royal family, the government, top military brass, or the increasing messages from other nations calling him an asshole because his first act as a liberated country was to subjugate another budding nation that had just declared her independence.  He usually ended up disconnecting those calls after a few moments of hearing the same rant he'd endured before, delivered by nations he carried more respect for--or used to respect more, at least.  Sometimes one of them would talk like they'd been the ones to personally save his country (usually England or America) and he would reward that nonsense with a few knocks of the receiver against the wooden desk before hanging up as noisily as possible.  Those calls were the most bittersweet because once he managed to dial himself back down from impotent rage, he quite comfortably settled into a few choice memories of the nation that actually had saved him, and how far and beyond simply chasing German soldiers out of his borders he had gone to protect his people's safety, health, and identity.  The Netherlands still sometimes laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling in wide-eyed astonishment, stuck on the thought that they barely even knew each other before Canada had appeared out of nowhere to spirit him away from that Nazi camp, carried him on his back right out from under their noses, and whispered all fifteen stanzas of the Wilhelmus into the night, calling him back from the brink as he stumbled over pronunciation with a strange accent of mixed French and English.

He shook himself out of that memory, still clear enough that he could feel the phantom texture of hair against his face, and focused again on his young soldier chatting happily into the receiver.  Between the healthy glow in his cheeks and the smile on his face, the Netherlands wondered if the boy knew exactly who (or perhaps in this case 'what') he was talking to, because now that he had gone through the mental checklist of who could be calling to get that sort of reaction from one of his citizens, there really was only one entity that could get a Dutch heart racing with just the sound of their voice.

The Netherlands, meanwhile, didn't need to hear it--just the realization was enough.  Unfortunately, that brief jolt of joy sent him careening into a deep well of anxiety as he understood that it was finally Canada's turn to shame him for his actions, and out of all nations, he was the only one with the right to say 'I didn't liberate you so you could turn around and become an oppressor'.

He could have been killed at any moment during the war.  He could have surrendered to oblivion, leaving his people to struggle without a unifying spirit binding them together.  It would have taken years or decades after he vanished, but they would have eventually allowed their land to be claimed by neighbouring countries, once most of the population left for nations with stronger economies and land not torn apart by explosions and trenches, and soon enough there would be no 'Dutch' people left walking the earth as they chose to embrace other nationalities in his absence.  He'd carried on back then for their sake, knowing that his strength was also theirs, clinging to the edge of a cliffside crumbling around his fingers until he finally caught that offered, steady hand, but if he had to look up now and see those eyes dull with disgust and disappointment, the Netherlands would have preferred to fall.

Perhaps he had felt the sudden descent into despair, because that was when the Netherlands' presence was finally noticed by his young soldier, who immediately began to panic, apologising quickly into the receiver before setting it aside and trying to stand.  The Netherlands held up a hand to stop him, a moment too late to prevent a painful wince as he jostled his wounded leg against the desk.  He approached in case the boy needed help, but he settled back into the chair on his own and hastily swept his arm across watering eyes to maintain at least some sense of decorum--he was still Dutch, after all.  "I'm sorry, sir," he said, and though it was unlikely he knew he was speaking to his own nation, he instinctively knew of his importance, and strived to be considered capable, just as he would for any of his official superiors.  It certainly didn't help that the Netherlands' neutral expression could be considered anywhere between 'bored' to 'severe'.  "I didn't mean to get so carried away on the phone..."  He glanced at the receiver again, though it appeared to be more out of longing than regret.

Of course, the Netherlands was still in no mood to reprimand him, and though he already knew the answer, it was easiest to avoid the subject of discipline to simply ask, "Who is it on the line?"

It was enough to ease the boy back into a more muted form of his earlier excitement.  "It's a Mr. Matthew Williams calling for you, sir," he explained quickly before going on a brief tangent.  "I had the pleasure of meeting him once back in Holland--he'd been visiting homes all over the city and one night he and a few soldiers were invited over by my parents for supper.  The rations they brought with them fed us for a week, and Mr. Williams was the one who introduced my sister to the soldier she would marry later that year.  I recognized his voice immediately and he started telling me how well my sister has been doing in Canada--I'm going to be an uncle soon!  Can you believe that, sir?"

Indeed, the form of this young, skinny, injured and malnourished boy was hardly fitting for the image of an 'uncle'.  "Congratulations," he said, instead.  "Surely there must be a letter well on its way."  It was likely that the sister was unaware of her brother's service, so the news would have gone to their parents first before it could be passed along to him.

"Thank you, sir," his soldier replied, growing wistful.  "I was just a boy when she left."  He was still a boy now.  "She went on a boat with thousands of other women--a lot of them already with young children--and I heard that there were even some men among them that had married Canadian nurses.  She promised to write often, and I all but memorised the dozens she sent before I was conscripted, but none so far have reached me here."  The wistful expression began to erode into desolation as he glanced down at his ruined leg, the light leaving his eyes.  "I wish..."

The Netherlands wasn't prepared to hear the rest of that sentence, whether it was 'I wish I could have stayed in Holland' or 'I wish I wasn't Dutch' or 'I wish I could have married a nurse and gone to Canada with my sister even if it meant that I would be lovingly heckled for the rest of my life for being a male war bride'.

He couldn't stall the inevitable much longer.  "Finish your conversation," he interrupted, nodding toward the receiver.  "Transfer it to my office when you are done.  There is no hurry."

The soldier was torn between surprise and gratitude, as though he'd just remembered he was speaking to someone not exactly known for idle conversation.  "Th-thank you, sir!  It won't be for much longer!"

The Netherlands nodded and left the open area for the small room that functioned as his private office.  He looked back once more before he closed the door, not bothering to lock it.  The boy was already back on the phone, happily chatting with the nation he was enamoured with, discussing his newly Canadian sister, making it no secret how he longed to see her and his imminent niece or nephew.  He went to his cabinet and poured himself two fingers of Canadian whisky, then brought the glass and bottle to his desk.  If the coming conversation was going to kill him, then he wasn't about to let the carefully rationed gift go to waste, and if his last act as a nation was to allow one of his soldiers a few more minutes to hear news of his sister, that was fine.  Maybe Canada could remember him fondly for that, if nothing else, and find a way to reunite the separated siblings along with countless other families.  Hell, he could take each and every one of his orphaned citizens and the Netherlands would be grateful for it.  He couldn't think of another nation he trusted more to take care of them--he'd already been taking care of them within their own borders as it was.

He'd finished two glasses and was drinking straight from the bottle by the time his phone began to ring, and the gentle buzz was doing well to take the edge off his anxiety.  One hand reached for the receiver while the other grasped for his pipe before he remembered that he'd finished off the last of his tobacco weeks ago, then decided to chew on the tip anyway as he answered the phone.  "Hallo," he greeted as gruffly as he could manage, but the receiver was slippery in his grip and he nearly dropped it when, instead of hearing any sort of greeting in return, Canada, almost frantic, began with an apology of all things.

"Ned, I'm sorry!  I didn't mean to waste your time like that!  I recognized your switchboard operator's name and voice and started talking to him and got carried away!  Please don't reprimand him for my mistake!"

The Netherlands had to grasp the receiver with both hands, else it would have ended up on the floor.  His pipe was left dangling from his lips, forcing him to mumble around it.  "Ah--I... won't."  A bit of careful manoeuvring later, and his pipe was back on the desk and his palms were wiped off on his pants.  "Don't think that kid's smiled since the medic told him he'd likely rely on a cane for the rest of his life."  Then he glared at the whisky bottle for loosening his tongue because Canada sure as hell hadn't needed to hear that of all things!

"Oh, my God, Ned, I'm so sorry..."

One of these days, he was going to find out who taught Canada to apologise for things that weren't his fault, and... Okay, who was he kidding?  He didn't need another reason to punch England, but this would be his favourite one, and it would be a good excuse to sock France, too, while he was at it.  Maybe he could get the opportunity to break his hand on America's face, too, because it couldn't be a coincidence that he never apologised while his northern neighbour apologised often enough for both of them combined.

'What took you so long?' one of his more isolated and devastated communities had demanded once the Canadians finally rolled in.  Canada had endured their misplaced rage with apologies, holding back tears as he stripped himself of everything minus his uniform, weapons, and ammunition, giving everything he could.  The Netherlands didn't see him eat for a week after, and it was only over a bottle that he had finally admitted that the Canadian forces had been preparing to liberate Holland nearly a year ago, but America and England had prioritised Operation Market Garden instead and he couldn't have gone on his own without the diverted supplies and support.  How could any of them have known that the Germans would destroy the dykes, flood the farmland, and sentence twenty thousand people to die slowly by starvation?  'What took you so long?' his people had cried, clutching photographs and mementos of their children, their parents, their grandparents, as the Canadians stayed to distribute food and supplies, to rebuild dykes and buildings and homes, while England, America, and all the rest left for glory in the Battle of Berlin, leaving only Canada to apologise and pick up the pieces.  It wasn't long before his people learned the whole story and stopped blaming Canada for not being strong enough to charge in on his own, but, hey, as long as he wanted to hit people for teaching Canada to apologise for other nations' mistakes, he may as well start with himself, right?

He probably shouldn't have slapped himself while the phone was still pressed to his ear, because Canada definitely heard the impact along with his muted gasp as the heat spread across his face, mimicking a blush.  He really ought to be thinking more about his words and actions, but the whisky was making that a bit difficult.  Canada was calling out in concern, now, so he better actually say something not stupid.

"You shouldn't apologise," he finally managed to interrupt.  "Both him and his sister, and their parents, and possibly even their entire community--they would all be long dead were it not for you.  Don't even try to tell me that anyone else could have done what you did for them.  Your Canadian soldiers, never learning the meaning of giving up, pushing on and completing objectives that other generals called impossible...  And can you name anyone else who could have put military action on hold in order to negotiate with Germany to allow your planes to drop food and supplies for my people?  Would Germany have trusted any other nation aside from you to keep your word?  That rapport you built with him over two world wars...  Hell, it isn't even a joke to say that Germany respected you more than your so-called allies ever did..."

He was rambling and exaggerating and Canada knew him well enough to know what that usually meant.  "Ned, have you been drinking?"

"A little."  There was still half a bottle left of that whisky to go before he could disappear.  "But that's not the point.  Don't apologise for his leg.  He's only here because of me.  The fact that he was alive enough to be conscripted is just an unfortunate coincidence, you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, just a bit of humour in his voice.  "But, listen, I need you to have at least a partially clear head for this so you'll remember...  Well, I guess I could just call again in the morning to remind you, but I wouldn't want you suffering from a hangover either, so go easy, all right?"

"All right," he agreed, though it still remained up in the air whether or not he would last the night at all.  "You better... go ahead and tell me what you called to say."

Canada was quiet for a moment, and the Netherlands' anxiety deepened with each second until he finally asked, so quietly, "Ned, what's wrong?"  Then, when he was too stupefied to respond immediately, added, "Don't tell me that you're fine because I can hear quite clearly that you're not."

"What... do I sound like?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Like you're carrying the world on your shoulders.  Tired...  Resigned..."

That was accurate enough.  The world was on his back, after all.  They could hop off at any time and leave him be, too, if they had any generosity whatsoever.  "Sounds about right," he agreed, resisting the urge to reach for the bottle because Canada had just asked him to lay off the booze.

"Will you talk to me about what's going on?" Canada asked.

Why couldn't he just hurry up and pass along the message that his government had ordered him to say?  That Canada wouldn't stand for the Netherlands' actions and threaten to cancel all aid until each and every soldier was on a boat enroute to Europe?  "You don't live under a rock... or an igloo... or anything that would block out the news, Canada.  You already know everything there is to know about it."  The big bad Netherlands imposing his will upon the innocent victim Dutch East Indies...  Hell, he may as well get used to the idea of calling her Indonesia because there was no way for him to win the war now... if there ever was in the first place.

"I've heard plenty of opinions," Canada pressed on, "but I've yet to hear what you have to say about it."  The Netherlands held his tongue for a moment too long, and Canada pulled out the big guns, whispering in his gentlest tone, "Trust me, Ned, I've seen both sides of this.  It's never easy, or as black and white as everyone likes to pretend."

In his Golden Age, the Netherlands could have crushed the telephone receiver in his grip.  Right now, the plastic only creaked a bit, but his small gasp was louder when a blood vessel popped in his hand, prompting him to share his pain.  "I'm... worried," he said, choking on the words because he'd very nearly said 'I'm scared' which would have been nothing short of mortifying even though he could trust Canada to keep the conversation to himself.  He'd never told a soul about the state he'd been in during the liberation, emaciated and in tears over a picture of tiny Princess Margriet born in Ottawa in a maternity ward hastily declared temporarily extraterritorial so she would only inherit her mother's Dutch citizenship and thus remain eligible for the throne, while Canada fed him small portions from his rations and told him about how his people had celebrated her birth in the street alongside Dutch-Canadians and that they'd even flown the Dutch flag over their parliament building, knowing that such an open display of national pride was not possible back in their occupied homeland forced to endure the swastika.

He found a brief safe haven in that memory, the two of them huddled in an abandoned cottage while they waited for extraction because Canada wouldn't wait another moment to feed him something and allow him some rest, knowing that even just a few bites would give his people enough strength of spirit to hold out for just a few more days until aid could reach them.  Canada had covered him in a blanket and had him pull on his uniform jacket, Canada himself left in a simple white undershirt but showing no sign of minding the cool pre-dawn air.  He'd been surprised when Canada wrapped an arm around his torso, not so much by the intimacy--he'd been raised by France in his earliest years, after all, and he did just spend a couple hours carried on the young nation's back--but the warmth of his touch had been shocking now that he was aware enough to feel it.  What little he'd known about Canada previously had mostly amounted to a cold, frozen wasteland only marginally more welcoming than Russia, but that day, Canada had smiled and said that not many nations were aware of it, but there was rarely a single moment in which there were not a hundred wildfires burning in his vast wilderness, many of them burning for years at a time.  Even during winter, the embers would continue to smolder under a blanket of snow, waiting for spring to spread again.  'Not even General Winter can snuff them out,' he'd claimed with wry amusement, and the Netherlands understood a little better why that soft spoken and polite nation's soldiers were among the most formidable on the battlefield.

"Why are you worried?" Canada asked, because it seemed that he would not be satisfied until he'd chased away each and every demon from his borders, corporeal or otherwise.

"My economy won't be able to recover without her," he said, the words springing forth like ocean waters flooding in from a bombed out dike.  "I've been through depressions before, but none so terrible as this.  I don't have the finances or the infrastructure to recover on my own.  The Nazis stole everything of value they could take with them, from art to bicycles, and bombed the rest.  Supply routes are still in shambles, many bridges are still unsafe to cross, and railways are still a work in progress.  Not to even speak of the farmland still flooded--I can't even pay my people with food and countless people are still begging in the street for their next meal.  Industries and their assets have to be rebuilt before they can even do something about reducing unemployment and so many remain homeless even now.  Without my hand in East Asia, the only money coming into my country is foreign aid and investment, and my efforts to take back Indie... Indonesia is so internationally unpopular that I may not even have that for much longer.  Not only that, but instead of anyone actually reaching out to help me out of this mess, all I've been getting is rants from former empires blind to their own sordid pasts telling me I'm no better than Hitler himself...!"

The Netherlands slumped back in his chair, still feeling awful, but somehow lighter, or at least empty, as though he had just finished confessing his sins to a priest.  "Have a drink, Ned," he suggested, once it was obvious his rant was complete, and the Netherlands obliged, taking a swig directly from the bottle.  Canada waited to hear the long exhale after swallowing, then asked, "Setting everything else aside... are you ready to let her go?"

He couldn't have missed his effort to call her by her chosen name, after all.  "Canada, all I want to do right now is go home."  The fact that he couldn't was eating him alive.

"Hold on for just a bit longer, then," Canada assured him.  "With a bit of luck, I think we can work something out."

"Hah?" the Netherlands asked, not feeling particularly eloquent at the moment.

"It took a lot of fancy footwork... but I finally got a foot in the door.  I've established rudimentary diplomatic ties with Indonesia and convinced her to reconsider peaceful negotiations with you.  I can't promise much but I think she might be open to the idea of letting you keep control of some areas in return for her sovereignty over the rest.  She seemed receptive to the idea that the transition to self-government would be easier with a smaller area to work with--at first.  She's definitely going to want you to pull out completely one day soon, but if we play our cards right, I'm sure we'll be able to stall that until you're well on your way to a full economic recovery."

"Hah?" he said again, because what.  He couldn't even picture Canada and Indonesia standing in the same room without some sort of hurricane of pure ideological differences raging around them.

"I'm not going to lie, Ned--we get along about as well as oil and water but we should be fine as long as nobody lights a match.  It's just that I find her methods in her fight for independence awfully barbaric while she considers my gradual separation from the United Kingdom a bit... Well, let's just say that she thinks I'm a wuss and leave it at that, eh?"

That sparked a round of ugly, half-drunk laughter that quickly spread to the other end of the line.  To consider Canada of all nations a wuss...  Did Indonesia even know who had liberated the nation she was currently in a stalemate with?  He really ought to tell her sometime that choosing not to fight was no sign of weakness, because if Canada had chosen differently, he could have taken all her islands for himself within the year.  She was not so heavily fortified as the Germans has been, after all, and Canada was no stranger to her current preference for guerrilla warfare.  'La Petite Guerre', he'd overheard France muttering under his breath on several occasions, and Canada had been conscripted to fight for the United Kingdom against the Boer in South Africa as well, which would have been an uncomfortable personal connection if the resulting peace treaty had not been so generous toward the Dutch-descended farmers, and the Netherlands had to wonder if Canada had a hand in that decision as well.  Indonesia didn't have any tricks up her sleeve that Canada hadn't seen before and overcome.

They settled down after a while and spent a few moments simply breathing into their receivers.  The Netherlands, with a smile on his face and a glowing heart, could barely believe that he'd been mentally preparing to fade from existence only minutes ago.

"Oh--" Canada suddenly began the conversation anew.  "Before I forget, I was also supposed to tell you that I've gotten America on board with this, too.  He said that his boss won't strike you out of the Marshall Plan as long as you maintain the current ceasefire and make a sincere effort during the negotiations.  You can handle that much, can't you, Ned?" he gently teased.

"It sounds like all you'll actually need me to do is sign the dotted line," the Netherlands replied.  "You've already done all the actual work on your own."  He sighed into the receiver.  "After nearly an entire decade now of coming to my rescue, I'm so deeply in your debt, I'll be sending you tulips until the end of time.  What I ever did to deserve this first-rate Canadian service is what I'd like to know."

"What you did?" Canada replied, feigning surprise, still teasing.  "Oh, no, Ned, it wasn't like that at all.  You see, England pretty much sent Princess Juliana and her daughters to me almost without asking first, like he'd known from the start what they were going to do and wanted nothing to do with it, because the way it happened, it surely must have been planned somehow.  Princess Juliana denied it, of course, but I saw that twinkle in her eye when little Princess Beatrix toddled over and stared up at me, knowing without having to be told exactly who I was.  She tugged on my shirt sleeve and I crouched down to hear what she had to say.  'Mr. Canada?' she asked, in heavily accented but recognisable English--she'd had to have been practicing, you see--and so I replied, 'Yes, Princess Beatrix?' and I think she was surprised that I knew her name already and had been planning to introduce herself, so I'd thrown her off a bit, but she recovered like a champ, staring me straight on with her wide open innocent eyes as she said, 'Please save Mr. Ned.'  And you know as well as I do that you can't just say no to a request like that, and I take my commitments to little princesses very seriously."

"Oh, my God," the Netherlands replied, halfway between astonishment and laughing himself sick, "she's done the same exact thing to me every time she wanted a piece of candy.  It's an inherited skill.  Queen Wilhelmina was livid every time she caught me giving candy to young Princess Juliana, though she's been much more lax with me indulging her granddaughters."

"Ah, that was a common trend back in Ottawa as well--she and her sisters would corner me on every opportunity whenever I had to return to the capital for one reason or another.  They caught me unprepared once and I've been compulsively hiding treats in my pockets ever since--and that included while I was fighting on the frontlines."

"I consider that a fine habit to have," the Netherlands objected.  "I lost count of how many times I noticed you and your soldiers giving chocolate to any small child that approached them.  You shouldn't overlook the effect that had on morale, when all those kids ran home to their parents with wide smiles and excited voices telling tales of their everyday adventures, sharing the streets with their heroes."

"If we're talking about morale, don't forget the effect those smiles had on my troops, either.  So many of them lost dear friends and family among the ranks, but they found solace in the happiness of those children.  They could look into those wide open innocent eyes and tell themselves 'this is why I'm here'."

The Netherlands had never been much for affectionate gestures, but right now he longed to reach out and hold Canada close.  As a sorry substitute, he pressed his lips against the receiver, imagining it to be his temple or cheek, or mouth, or perhaps even the nape of his neck, if he ever were to find himself physically carried away from his troubles on Canada's back again, or even if he simply drank himself into such a sorry state that he was unable to even walk home.  If that were to happen, he hoped to at least be able to hold on to the memory, if nothing else.  "Canada," he asked, after a moment, wetting his dry lips, "will you be mediating at the upcoming negotiations with Indonesia?"

The audible sigh was an answer in itself, and he slumped a bit in his chair as Canada explained, "If my relations with Indonesia were anything more than tenuous, I might have been able to be an effective mediator.  But she has so much more respect for America and his revolution, he was the better choice to handle it.  Honestly, it was considered a better use of my time to mediate between your government and America's than anything else, and as I mentioned earlier, he's already fully on board with the idea."

"I see," he said, trying not to sound too disappointed.  But, well, the whisky struck again.

He certainly wasn't expecting Canada's tone to abruptly turn playful.  "So, you see, instead, I'll be accompanying America to a short series of meetings with you prior to the peace negotiations with Indonesia.  He's got to have a good understanding of your side of the dispute, after all, if he's going to do the job properly.  And even though I won't have an official role in the talks with Indonesia, my government is still prioritising aid to the Netherlands.  I've been asked to stick around to provide personal support.  I might even be able to talk my way into attending the negotiations alongside the UN's Security Council--one of my generals is the current president, after all.  And if all else fails, I doubt anyone would notice if I just... snuck in."

It was almost unfair how easily Canada was able to pull him out of his darkest thoughts, but he wasn't going to complain.  Well, he might complain about having to endure America's presence, but certainly having Canada there as well would help offset at least some of his resentment towards the nation who seemed to have completely forgotten the Dutch role in his independence.  Canada, on the other hand, had negotiated for independence entirely on his own and at his own pace, and his reward, it seemed, was a slow reaction to his presence in the international community.  His tendency to fade into the background on the world stage given his significant contributions was troubling, but the ability to move under the radar of other countries was also an invaluable asset.  And yet...  "I'd notice," he said, and planned to say more, except he suddenly got hung up on the earlier phrase of 'personal support' and what that was supposed to mean.

"Well that would be the point," Canada joked back, falling into his odd self-depreciating humour, and it's just then that the Netherlands realized that the younger nation was actually flirting with him, had been flirting with him for at least the past few minutes now, and he had no idea how to respond aside from his somehow successful, painfully honest sentiments that he would not have been able to confess were he not drunk, but still simmered under the surface while sober.

"I'll always notice you," he said.  "I'll never forget you.  Your face is burned into my memory.  I see you in every act of kindness and heroism, and in places like this, where such things are few and far between, I dream of you instead."

He couldn't imagine what sort of face Canada was making at that moment.  Was he smiling?  Blushing?  Did his jaw fall open slightly in surprise?  At the very least, he hoped his heart had jumped in a brief burst of excitement, because it wouldn't be fair if he was the only one with a racing pulse.

"I'm going to keep reaching out to you," Canada whispered back.  The Netherlands could barely hear him, and only because he was concentrating so hard on his voice.  "One day, after all this, I hope you'll take my hand."

"I want to," the Netherlands insisted.  His free hand even stretched out over his desk, almost knocking over the bottle.  The glass clattered noisily as he struggled to keep it upright, succeeding just in time to hear his response.

"You're drunk, Ned," he replied, though there was no trace of judgement or accusation to be found, "but that's okay.  You're not in a position to make that decision right now, anyway.  Just keep this in mind--I'm not only keeping a promise I made to a two-year-old princess anymore.  That time we spent hiding together in that abandoned cottage, waiting for my soldiers to catch up to us--I still think about it every day.  I met a side of you that no one else knew about, and I wanted so badly to impress you..."

"You did," he said.  "You do."  How many months had he carried that photograph of little Margriet through active battlefields?  How many hours had he spent learning the Dutch national anthem from Juliana in the early years when England preferred he stay home and train pilots and sink German U-boats threatening the shipment of food and supplies to the allied forces?

"It's mutual," Canada said, surprising him.  "Your reputation was awful, Ned.  Everyone told me that you were stingy and obsessed with money, and it seemed only Princess Juliana and her daughters thought differently--except they also said that you were stingy and obsessed with money, just in a more endearing tone.  When I found you, I was halfway expecting you to demand ledgers and accounts from your government the second I pulled out my radio to report our position.  Instead, you just asked question after question about your princesses and even wept over Margriet--not exactly something one would expect from a miser.  You... you almost died, Ned.  The Nazis took everything else from you, but they couldn't take your love for your people away.  All they could do was try to force you to give up--but you didn't.  You didn't give up, Ned.  Love kept you alive."

"You kept me alive," the Netherlands argued, but not really, because in his opinion, the phrases may as well be synonymous.  "Little Margriet--during the worst times, when I felt myself slipping, when I was reaching out for something, anything, to hold on to--I felt her, in a place that should have been well out of reach.  I couldn't see her, but I knew she was there.  A little Dutch princess you refused to take away from me.  I couldn't fade away without having known her--or the nation that kept her and her family safe until their return."

"I couldn't let myself become an accessory to murder," he explained, and there was a hidden sadness there, likely blaming himself for all sorts of past failures, there being no nation on earth without regrets, but the Netherlands was drunk and not so easily distracted from the surfacing memory of that tiny angel in Juliana's arms as her mother carried her off the ship toward him and Canada.  Beatrix and Irene, five years older than he'd seen them last had raced to his side first, excited to be home and tugging on his trousers until Canada stole their attention with a few pieces of that ever-present candy.  The Netherlands would greet them properly later, but at that moment, he'd been trapped under Margriet's gaze.  Her eyes had been caught on his gaunt face and feeble form for an eternal moment before she lit up like a lamp, smiling and reaching for him.  She'd never met him but she knew him anyway; never seen someone in such a sorry state but loved him anyway.  Juliana let him hold her and the Netherlands only gave her back when he felt his arms were about to give out.

He'd turned his head back toward the other girls after a moment to watch them cheerfully converse with Canada about all he'd missed after having to leave them behind in Ottawa to fight for their country.  He'd crouched down to speak to them face-to-face and gave them his full attention, and if he noticed their father, Prince Bernhard, silently judging such behaviour in between directing nearby sailors and overseeing the unloading of his family's possessions, Canada certainly didn't mention it or make any effort to appear more dignified.  On the other hand, the Netherlands and Juliana were like-minded in finding his uninhibited affection for the girls endearing as he shared their enthusiasm over their schooling, the voyage, and especially their baby sister whom he'd barely gotten to know himself before he'd left, and was barely a baby at all anymore.  While he was still distracted, Juliana had stepped a bit closer to conspire with her nation, wanting ideas on how to thank Canada for providing shelter for both her and her children and for everything he'd done for the Netherlands, and the answer that sprung from his lips was as apt as it was mortifying to watch that knowing smile slowly curve across her face right before she asked which colours would be best.

Back in that abandoned cottage, in-between inquiries about his displaced royalty and the status of the liberation effort, Canada had told him a number of things about himself, sometimes asked and sometimes unprompted, filling the silence of the night with quiet words as they waited for their military escort.  As it happened, they wouldn't arrive until after dawn, and considering his state, it was unsurprising that the Netherlands eventually fell asleep, drifting off after he'd been encouraged to lean against Canada's shoulder.  When he'd woken again, many hours later, the sun was rising and he'd been moved to sleep on his back, his head propped up against a makeshift pillow that turned out to be a rucksack minus anything hard or with sharp corners.  He'd looked up to see Canada, still dressed down to his undershirt, leaning against the wall next to a broken window with his rifle resting against his shoulder while turning his head just enough to see outside with minimal risk of being seen.  He was attentive but not quite tense, so rather than worrying about whether German soldiers had found them first, the Netherlands decided he must have been roused by the slight crunch of glass beneath Canada's combat boots as he made his rounds through the single room structure, pausing at each door, window, and hole in the wall to watch for any sign of activity.  He endured a brief twist of guilt as he understood Canada would not have had an opportunity to sleep at all that previous night, but even as he hoped the allied forces would arrive soon so he could rest, the Netherlands caught himself hoping for the moment to last long enough to fully commit to memory.  He hadn't painted for years, even before the war, but now he wanted to know if he could replicate the sun shining in his hair, reflecting off his eyeglasses, and lighting up those curiously violet irises.  He wondered if he could successfully showcase the strength he could see beneath the thin white material of his undershirt.

The moment was interrupted as Canada released his breath and the Netherlands realized that he'd been holding his, too, and followed suit.  Canada ducked under the window and mirrored his previous stance, gazing out from the other side this time to minimise his blind spot as much as possible.  After a few minutes of the Netherlands trying to decide which pose had better lighting and composition, Canada stepped away from the window entirely, intending to continue on to the next vantage point before suddenly stopping, then crouching down.

It took a while for the Netherlands to see it, too--he'd had to lift his head a bit and ignore the protests of his bruised everything--but once his sight overcame the small pile of rubble on the floor, he could clearly see the small white tulip blooming just inside the building, its bulb displaced by a mine, bomb, or shell that had blasted a small hole in the wall, letting in just enough light for it to thrive right where it was.

Canada reached for it and the Netherlands thought for a brief panicked instant that he was going to pluck it from the earth, but, instead, he gently brushed his fingers against the soft petals and breathed deep to enjoy its subtle scent while a peaceful smile blossomed on his face.

The Netherlands felt frozen in that instant for a lifetime, but it was still not long enough before a distant echo of an engine summoned Canada back upright, this time looking through the window with the aid of his rifle's scope, but his finger carefully extended instead of resting on the trigger.

The sound was joined by more engines and the distinct crunch of tires on gravel.  Whichever army it was, they'd have to move quickly, so the Netherlands grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up.  It was impossible to do so soundlessly, so he ended up distracting Canada for a moment, his eyes flashing over to meet his briefly before his attention was back out the window, but his stance didn't falter and a few anxious seconds later, he lowered his weapon and leaned it against the wall so he had both hands free to help the Netherlands to his feet.  The smile on his face was one part relieved, one part reassuring, and altogether charming.  'Good morning, Ned,' he'd said.  'Let's take back your country.'

Smoldering embers under a blanket of snow.  'Red and white,' he'd told Juliana, uncomfortably aware that she'd never say a word yet he'd never hear the end of it, either.  He hadn't even known at the time that they just happened to be Canada's national colours, but he would later claim to have been aware all along while he privately marvelled at the coincidental clash of symbolism.  Canada was fire and ice, but also love and peace, all of the above in perfectly measured amounts.  If he could travel back in time, he'd make a point of shaking King George V's hand for his prophetic vision.  He'd said that to Canada once over drinks, but he'd just laughed and said that it was more along the lines of red for England and white for France than anything else, but the Netherlands preferred his own opinion, partially because it was better, but mostly because he couldn't see England and France coming together to create anything other than an unholy abomination.  Canada smiled weakly at that, and the Netherlands decided that he must have been switched with America at birth, which of course lead to a round of laughter because while Canada wasn't always up for jokes about his family's various eccentricities, his brother was always fair game.

"Ned?" Canada asked, over the line.  "Are you still there?"

"Yes," he said, quickly, hoping that he hadn't been caught daydreaming for too long, because Canada wouldn't mention it either way.  Shit, what had they been talking about again?  "I was just--thinking."

"Thinking?" he repeated, sounding a bit nervous, but the Netherlands decided he meant it as a joke and beat him to the punchline.

"Dangerous, I know," he said, trying to mimic Canada's earlier teasing tone.

"That's not what I--" Canada started, then stopped, sighed, and tried again.  "Thinking about what?"

"About... you," he answered, for a lack of anything more eloquent.  "About me.  About... how I could be walking through hell barefoot but barely notice the burning if you were there with me.  About how stupid I was to just... run away at the first opportunity and bury myself in misery when I know, I know, I know everything is better when you're around.  About how I sat here for years, talking myself out of calling you until you finally came to dig me out again.  About how I should be stronger than this.  I just..."

Canada waited for him to trail off instead of interrupting.  "You're not stupid or weak, Ned.  You're just not ready and that's fine.  I'm patient.  I can wait.  Honestly, I'd rather wait even if you were ready."

The Netherlands wiped at his eyes furiously.  Nobody could see him but that didn't make it any less embarrassing.  About the only thing that could be worse would be if he dissolved into unintelligible sobbing, but thankfully he hadn't yet fallen so far.  "I miss you," he said, once his voice felt more stable.  "I'm sorry I left and didn't call."

"I miss you, too," Canada replied, his voice sounding just as watery.  "I'll call you tomorrow and every day after until I see you again if that's all right?"

"Please," he agreed, because he couldn't trust his sober self to manoeuvre the tangled web of emotions long enough to connect the call.  "I wish you were here."

"I'll get there as fast as I can, I promise.  Just hold on a little while longer, okay?"

He's drunk, and if Canada were with him, he'd hold on to him until one or both of them passed out, and possibly until one or both of them woke up again and who knows how much longer after that.  Without a war being waged around them, Canada wouldn't have to get up and stand on guard like before--not in this stalemate that would hopefully last until the end.

"I love you."  The words tore out of him like a confession of guilt; a sober impossibility, hopefully temporary, because Canada's breath hitches and he doesn't deserve to wait for something that would never happen just because the Netherlands was afraid of his own feelings.  He deserved to hear it every day until the end of time, so he said it again.  "Canada--I love you."

"I--" he began, choked, and struggled.  "I... I know.  I could see it in the way you stared sometimes.  I could feel it in the way you lingered nearby even if you have somewhere else to be.  Most of all, I could tell when you keep your distance when you thought other people were looking.  I know all that because... because I did it, too, maybe just a little less noticeably because I hid under the cover of small talk while you were more conservative with words, but I did all that, too, and I'm scared, too, because sometimes I think you think I'm perfect and flawless, and I'm not, Ned.  You want to know someone else who isn't ready to be in a relationship?  He's on the phone with you right now freaking out because not only is it illegal in his own house for him to be with another man, but he can't even know for sure if that other man would even still like him if he ever slipped up and revealed any number of his countless flaws and failures!"

Honestly, he'd been expecting a gentle rejection before all of that--and he hadn't been expecting a rejection at all, really, because he wasn't nearly so oblivious to feelings to not know when someone was interested in him... most of the time.  This was just the first time he'd experienced those feelings himself and had absolutely no idea how to handle them, and they'd just grown stronger and stronger until he lost his mind and hopped on board a boat to Indonesia without so much as a 'see you later!'  Ironically, it was in this pit he'd dug for himself that he found a leg to stand on and support the near hysterical Canada.  "You realize you're talking to the newly liberated Netherlands using American foreign aid dollars to finance an attempt to reacquire his recently independent former colony, don't you?  Jesus Christ, no wonder America is so pissed off at me--that's just all around awful.  How can you even stand to talk to me?  God would absolve your sins without question if I simply stood beside you in comparison."

Sure, he was being a bit facetious there--he did have a front row seat to the not-so-black-and-white confrontation, after all--but it was worth it to hear Canada recover enough to softly snort back at him.  "I think you're forgetting that all you need to do to absolve sins is to confess them, and you just did, didn't you?  Not to mention the way you wear your flaws on your sleeve like badges of honour."

"'Stingy and obsessed with money'," he repeated.  It was an accurate assessment.  "Something about needing love to survive, too--you shouldn't leave me with a deficit like this.  It's cruel and fiscally irresponsible."

"Damn it, Ned," he complained, "you weren't supposed to be drunk for this.  Are you even going to remember in the morning?"

He retrieved a piece of pen and paper from his desk, unconcerned that it was already full of words and simply flipped it over to use it's unused side.  "Don't worry, I'm taking notes."

"Fine," he sighed, but the Netherlands discerned a smile.  "I love you, too.  I love you, too, I'll call you in the morning, and I'll see you in a couple weeks.  Good luck deciphering your drunk handwriting with your hangover tomorrow."

"...'hangover tomorrow'..." he repeated as he hastily took down the words, his handwriting definitely affected, though hopefully still readable with a clear head.  He frowned a bit as he looked it over and noticed his creative spellings of various words, wondering if he would be able to 'designfer' that last line at all--and then realized that Canada hadn't meant for him to write that part down at all... or maybe he did, and that was why he was snickering a bit over the line.  "Brat," he complained, but it was easier to smile than to maintain the frown.

He laughed another moment more before reeling himself in.  "You should probably get some rest.  Don't forget to drink some water before you sleep, all right?"

"All right," he agreed, and though he hated the thought of hanging up, added, "Good night."

"It's only noon over here," Canada teased him.  "I won't be sleeping until after I call again, so wish me a good night then."

"Good day," he amended, briefly baffled by the fact that they were quite literally on opposite ends of the Earth and yet he couldn't feel the distance anymore.

"Good night," he replied.  "Sleep well; sweet dreams."

"Impossible not to, while I'm dreaming of you," the Netherlands insisted.

"I'll be thinking of you, too," Canada promised and hung up the phone.

The Netherlands waited another moment before returning the receiver to its cradle, then paused a moment more before he stood up, left the pen and paper on the desk to find in the morning, and drank from the pitcher of water he kept on hand.  That duty done, he started to put away the remaining whisky, but thought better of it, grabbing a clean glass and pouring out a small amount before putting the bottle away, intending to save the rest for when Canada arrived.

His switchboard operator was dozing when the Netherlands stepped out of his private office, but he roused when the glass lightly clattered against the wooden desk.

"A toast," he explained, "to our mutual Canadian friend, who first returned our country to us, and will now be returning us to our country."

His soldier stared back up at him, and he could see the moment that understanding dawned.  Had his eyes not already been shining with moisture, they would have been after the whisky burned down his throat.  "Mr. Williams...  He must be an angel..." he whispered upon recovery.

The Netherlands knows that even angels could fall from paradise, like Lucifer himself, and understood Canada's worries about being worshipped rather than simply being loved.  He didn't correct the soldier, though, as nations were just as otherworldly a notion to humans, and just as beautiful and terrible as angels could be.

His young soldier was soon relieved from his post for the night by an equally young pair with a deck of cards to amuse themselves with, so the Netherlands accompanied him to the dorms.  The night was quiet aside from the occasional patrol; the city under a strict curfew.

"When you return to Holland," the Netherlands spoke up, "you should speak to your parents about emigration.  There are far more opportunities overseas even for you with your injury than there will be at home.  Canada will continue to welcome Dutch refugees for quite some time."  He imagined he should be feeling guilty about being unable to provide for his people, but at least they had a safe place waiting for them.

His soldier nodded, smiling again.  "The way Mr. Williams spoke of my sister and the community she joined, it seems like they brought Holland with them instead of leaving the Netherlands behind.  He called them Dutch-Canadians instead of just Canadians who were formerly Dutch...  It would be such an honour to be both Dutch and Canadian instead of just one or the other..."

Liberating their land, stopping the war, and providing homes for his people without ever once asking them to give up their identity... his heart truly had held out for the best before it had finally fallen.  "Ja," he agreed, smiling too.

[Me: *gets fuzzy feelings from reading about real world NedCan postwar relations for the nth time*

Me: Oh, hey, the Indonesian War of Independence happened right after WW2 didn’t it?  I wonder if Canada tried to get involved...

Me: *googles ‘Canada Indonesia relations’ after a few other searches and opens the wiki entry*

Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????]

[jaouinedcan]

After the Accident [NedCan Week: Day 3 - Warmth/Cold]

I’m a little conflicted about posting this but I decided it was a story that should be told.  There are a lot of fanfics out there where characters deal with depression, but a significant portion of them are wish fulfillment fantasies written by struggling teens, and I think it’s important for them to know that it isn’t healthy to wait for someone to suddenly appear and sweep you away from it all like how some popular media would lead you to believe.  Love certainly isn’t out of reach for anyone, but it won’t make a difference if you don’t do anything to save yourself, and sometimes saving yourself is as simple as holding on to the idea that there are people who need you now, and there will be people who will need you in the future.  Instead of waiting for a hero, you can become a hero.  There are people who need help every day, and you can reach out to them in your own unique way.

The NedCan in this can be platonic or pre-relationship, depending on your preference; I went out of my way to write this as unromantic as possible, because dealing with depression isn’t romantic in the least.

WARNING: This fanfic deals with depression and passive suicidal ideation, along with descriptions of injuries, medical procedures and panic, but there is no self harm involved.

Before the accident, Matthew felt like he'd been fading into the background of other people's lives, slowly and steadily, like a glacier caught him by the toe and he stood and watched as the ice gradually crept up his leg.  He hadn't known at the time that there was a word for the way he felt--depression--but that would come well after.  Before, he hadn't understood that he had been the one withdrawing rather than being left behind.  His twin brother Alfred was well known but also had complicated relations among the rest of the school, always in the midst of some sort of drama and therefore drawing plenty of attention.  In comparison, Matthew actually had a more stable group of friends and was well-liked among more casual acquaintances, but he misinterpreted their friendliness as forced politeness since the conversation would inevitably transition to something Alfred had done.

It wasn't anyone's fault, really, as a chemical imbalance in his brain was mainly to blame, drawing faulty conclusions from things regular people did while leading regular lives, but as Matthew started to believe that people only spoke to him because they wanted to speak to his brother, his reaction was to start declining group invitations to movies and fast food places since he didn't feel like good enough company, which led to less invitations as his friends began to assume he was too busy with hobbies or schoolwork to hang out, which led to strengthening Matthew's belief that he was nothing more than an easily forgotten tag-along in his social circles.  The timing was especially bad as the school year came to an end, and though his accidental self-sentenced isolation had resulted in more time to study for finals and achieve better grades than usual, it led to the loneliest summer vacation of his life.  The disconnect with his formerly close friends persisted into the new school year at the new high school full of students he'd never met or felt he hardly knew anymore, and he'd completely lost the motivation to do anything about it as he went through the motions of life doing all the things he supposed he was expected to do instead of anything he actually wanted to accomplish because nothing really interested him anymore.  He did his share of the household chores, completed his homework, even beat Alfred to getting a driver's license, but gained no satisfaction from any of it.

If his less-than-life had continued on like that, Matthew might not have lived much longer at all, but, like a disaster sent straight from the heavens to cleanse the earth of its impurities, the accident changed everything.

Maybe the only reason he'd thrown himself out of the path of that wildly careening sports car had been to spare the gift he'd just bought for his mother's birthday, since that had been the first thing to pop into his head, but when he looked up from the curb, scraped head to toe by sharp pieces of broken glass and gravel, another reason to live cemented itself deep in his bones as he watched that same car plow directly into a cyclist further down the road and continue on its wayward path out of sight, leaving an otherwise empty street behind.

Later on, Matthew would be slightly amazed with himself for getting up and running over despite the pound or so of debris that would be extracted from his face and limbs, but at that moment, he truly hadn't felt a thing even as he dropped heavily to his knees next to the cyclist's writhing form, trying so desperately to breathe that his whole body was heaving like his lungs should have been.  The first thing Matthew did was try to get him to stay still to avoid further harm, pressing his shoulders to the ground as carefully as possible, but it was still enough of a shock to remind the cyclist's body how to inhale, an explosive gasp of air tearing through him before he choked it back out with a wrenching sob.  His face was covered in blood thanks to a deep gash on his forehead but Matthew still recognized him from school.  They'd never spoken but he was a year older and had a younger sister in some of Matthew's classes who talked to her brother often in the hall where he'd overhear them speaking as he passed them on the way to class.  Their names were Jan and Emma.

"Jan," he said, pronouncing it just as Emma would; Yaan.  "I'm Matthew.  You're going to be okay.  Just stay still."

For all his struggles to introduce himself to new people, the words came so naturally it was like he was born to say them.  Without even having to think about it, he reached into the plastic bag still snagged around his elbow and tied the long blue and white scarf around the head wound, retrieved his cell phone from his pocket to call 911, put it on speaker and set it down on the road by Jan's ear to free up his hands and check for more injuries.

Jan, in a rightful panic, grabbed his wrist, needing something to hold on to as he continued struggling to breathe.  He bled from numerous places, but none so bad as his forehead, so Matthew eased Jan's grip into his palm instead so he could squeeze his hand back just as tight while he spoke to the 911 operator and followed her instructions until the ambulance arrived.  Jan didn't pass out until they were halfway to the hospital, having dragged Matthew into the ambulance along with him by his hand, and he was surprised that the paramedics allowed it until they finished stabilising Jan and one of them started taking a look at his torn up arms, the sight of which ended up disturbing him enough to pass out, too.

He woke later in a hospital bed, bandaged up and clean, stiff and sore, his mother already standing and crying over him before he finished prying open his eyes, and he knew then and there that he could never put her through something like this on purpose, ever.  His father was out in the hall talking to a doctor, looking back in through the window in relief, and Alfred awkwardly stood off to the side, uncharacteristically quiet and pale as he tried to joke about how it would be a while before anybody mixed them up again, and Matthew did his best to smile for him but he was sure it came out twitchy and crooked as it pulled at the bandages taped to his face.

A police officer invited himself inside to take his statement soon after, and the memory was still so fresh he had no problem describing the accident and even remembered seeing that same sports car parked in the school parking lot and who it belonged to, which he felt conflicted about sharing but it seemed that they'd already been arrested.  He tried to ask how Jan was doing, but when the officer asked for a description, Matthew realized for the first time that more than one person had been hurt that day and fell into an uneasy silence until he was assured that there were no fatalities reported thus far though a few were still undergoing surgery and others were in critical condition.

The officer left to collect his next witness statement and his father came in to explain that the doctor wanted to keep him overnight for observation to be sure that none of his numerous cuts and scrapes got infected.  His mother insisted upon staying with him through the night and Matthew didn't object, more for her sake than his since this was the first time one of her sons had been hospitalised.  Before Alfred and their father left, though, they had to help him to the bathroom since his cut up knees buckled under his weight and his arms were far too shaky to keep him steady on the provided crutches.  An evening meal went a long way toward helping him regain some strength in his limbs, and he asked every nurse making their rounds how Jan was doing, enduring their inability to give him any worthwhile answers until Emma herself finally found her way to him.

"Matthew... it is 'Matthew', right?" she asked, remembering him from some of the classes they took together.  He'd helped her and a few of their classmates with in-class assignments before when they seemed to be struggling with the curriculum.  Her face was red and puffy from crying, like his mother's, and he'd had to wonder how she'd managed to evade hospital staff to make it to his room after public visiting hours but she must have charmed the nurse hanging around just outside the door--he'd answered his mother's questions more generously than Matthew's earlier, so he must have had a weakness for women's requests.

"Yeah," Matthew replied, letting his mother help him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, so determined was she to do what she could in a situation where she could not do much.  "How is... how is Jan?"

Her eyes shone anew but she didn't break down.  "He just got out of surgery a little while ago.  I couldn't tell you the whole list of injuries like the doctor did--I didn't even know what half the terms meant--I just know that there's a lot of internal damage and broken bones; ribs, leg, and collarbone.  One of his lungs collapsed and they're worried about his head, but... but they said he's stable now, and he's sleeping.  They let us see him for a little while and he looks awful, but he's alive and the doctor said that's because of you, because you were there to help him and call an ambulance.  If you hadn't been there--if the first responders only found him after they started searching the streets for the drunk driver responsible for all the other accidents--my brother would be gone."  The tears spilled over her eyelids but she stayed steady and stepped closer.  "You think so, too, right?  You saw him.  You were right there."

"Emma..." he started and trailed off, because it was true, and also because he couldn't imagine what it would have been like if it had been Alfred or his parents left to die in the street.  "I know."  What his family would be feeling if he hadn't thrown himself out of the vehicle's path.  "You're probably right."  What would have happened to Jan if no one had been there for him to hold on to and call for help.

"Thank you," Emma said, her voice shaking.  "Matthew, thank you for saving my brother."  She took great care to embrace him gently, minding his bandages, but she shouldn't have worried since his clothes had mostly protected his torso aside from a few bruises and scrapes here and there.  It hurt more to return the hug, his arms stinging in protest, but his thoughts were clearer than they'd been for months.

While he didn't know how to help himself, he knew now that someone had needed him more than he'd ever thought possible, and that was an idea he could hold on to.

Emma had to leave after a while, but she told him where her brother's room was if he wanted to visit him later.  Matthew wanted to visit him right that instant, but asking would have been unreasonable.  Besides, she'd already told him that Jan was sleeping.  Disturbing his rest would have been selfish, not to mention that he shouldn't interrupt the limited time his family had to see him before they finally wore down the hospital staff's patience and were sent home.  He wasn't sure if a family member was allowed to stay overnight with patients in serious condition, but he wasn't going to pry, either.

In the morning, his limbs didn't bother him as much as they did the day before, but that might have just been the pain medication building up in his system.  The hospital let him borrow a wheelchair to get as far as his mother's car, but before they left, she took him to Jan's room without Matthew even needing to ask, wanting to see the other boy's condition for herself.  He could hear her gasp from behind the wheelchair when she saw him through the hall window.  Jan was hooked up to multiple machines tracking his vitals along with the IVs feeding him plasma and saline and a respirator controlling his breathing, and there was hardly an inch of skin not covered by sterile white bandages or casts.  Someone had taken the time to wash the scarf and left it folded in a small cubby with the rest of his clothes from the accident, but Matthew didn't have the heart to tell anyone, especially his mother, that it was originally meant to be a present for her.

Emma was there, spotted him quickly, and immediately introduced him to her parents and little brother.  Luca was still in junior high and took after his brother in appearance, though the difference in height and hairstyle meant that they probably weren't ever mistaken for each other like he was with Alfred.  His mother got a little emotional as they all thanked Matthew in turn, gently grasping his hands instead of attempting handshakes, and there was an exchange of names, phone numbers, and promises to help each other in any way they could.  Matthew took the opportunity to ask if he could visit Jan again and was told that he could come by at any time he  wished.

He would visit every day until Jan was released from the hospital and was sure to talk to him at least once a day forever after, but before then, Matthew had some healing of his own to do.  He'd been forced to take the rest of the week off from school to recover, but he spent a few hours at the hospital every morning before returning home after noon since Alfred would bring a few people over after school every day to see him, with one notable exception that they'd whisper about when they thought he was out of earshot.  He only saw Ludwig after returning to class that following Monday--he'd never seen him so quiet, pale, and withdrawn.  His older brother was out on bail but suspended indefinitely and there were rumours that he'd confessed to the drunk driving charges to protect his little brother, the actual driver.  Matthew didn't know what to believe, since he hadn't had the time to glance through the windshield before diving out of the way, and he wouldn't have escaped almost unscathed if he'd tried.

Jan might have known for sure, having had the clearest view from atop his bicycle rather than the other injured pedestrians and witnesses on foot, but he spent the next two weeks unconscious and it would be a while after before he would piece together his scattered memories and even then he wasn't confident enough to confirm anything beyond the fact that they had both been in the car.  His confusion was compounded by the fact that he'd spent the first twelve years of his life in Europe, where steering wheels were installed on the right side instead of the left, but in the end it hardly mattered; Ludwig matched every hour of Gilbert's court ordered community service with volunteer work, and they'd both been too young to face actual jail time no matter who had been driving.  As the years went on, they would both spend a lot of time talking to kids at events hosted by MADD, SADD, and other organisations, doing what they could to prevent other people from repeating their mistakes.

Before that, though, Matthew would spend hours at the hospital every day keeping watch over Jan as he slept, giving his family the chance to leave every now and then to take care of various responsibilities, trusting their son and brother in his hands while they spoke to doctors and police and insurance companies and school officials.  He had the most opportunities to be alone with him during the first few days, while Emma and Luca had to go to school and their parents had to put in a few hours in their workplaces to prepare their business associates to carry on without them for a while.  He spent those times with the door shut and Jan's hand clasped tightly in his, talking about all the things he couldn't tell anyone else, because talking to people in comas was supposed to help, if not Jan, then maybe himself, and he didn't know of any other way to help anyone.

Slowly, over the course of days and weeks, Matthew started to feel better, unloading all the heaviness into the illusion of a sympathetic ear, sparing the conscious of his darkest thoughts.  The last thing he wanted to do was upset the people who cared for him.

One day, though, he was interrupted from his quiet monologue when Jan squeezed his hand and he looked up to see bleary, half open green eyes silently regarding him, and he hit the nurse's call button faster than he'd ever done anything in his life.  Once she came in, she ran right back out again to return with a doctor within seconds and they checked him over, determining that there was no sign of major brain or nerve damage, but it was too soon to rule it out completely.  The nurse hurried off to contact his family while the doctor continued talking to Jan, asking him various yes-or-no questions to be answered with one blink or two, trying to discern how much his patient remembered about the accident  and the days preceding it.  Jan's family was quick to arrive, having been found in the hospital's cafeteria, their personal code of cleanliness forbidding them from eating where people slept, and by the time the respirator and feeding tube were gently extracted from Jan's throat, Matthew had completely forgotten what he'd been talking about.

Jan remembered, though, and while he wasn't able to start talking right away, he said as much the next time they were left alone together and his throat had recovered enough to permit scratchy speech.  "Matthew," he said, his voice audibly sore, "if you can't tell your family then you have to say something to a doctor.  You can't go on like this.  I won't let you."

Matthew looked down at his hand; Jan had reached out to grab it, holding it tight and with just as much urgency as the first time.  He looked back up again to see Jan staring at him with calm, solid determination, absolutely immovable, squeezing at his insides with diamond-forming pressure that burned like fire.  The slowly receding glacier previously overtaking him stood no chance in the waves of heat cast out from within, flooding his face with hot tears.  It was the first time he'd cried in months of forcing himself to be strong, and the first time he thought it might be okay to not be a perfect person, because Jan refused to let go of his hand and even encouraged him to come closer until his other hand gently cradled Matthew's head against his unbroken clavicle like how he imagined Jan would hold the pet bunny Emma had told him all about.

After he calmed down and washed his face, Matthew told Jan about the scarf his family was so curious about, having never seen Jan with it before, and how in the moment he'd thought to protect it before even considering saving his own life.  Jan took to wearing it every day after his release from the hospital as a reminder to Matthew of all the things he had to live for and to never stop taking his new prescription or miss his appointments, like a silent pact they kept between them as their friendship flourished and deepened over the course of their lifetimes.

Many of the people in town knew that Matthew had saved Jan, but only a select few ever learned that saving Jan had also saved Matthew.

(Notes: Never forget that there are people out there that need you.  In this fanfic, both Matthew and Jan were struggling to survive in different ways, and neither of them could have made it on their own.)

[nedcanquen]

Le Loupgarou - Chapter 2 (NedCan Week 2017 - Warmth/Cold)

Here is chapter 2!

Tags: Werewolf AU, supernatural, Historical AU.

Pairings: NedCan

Image from Pexels

4 months later 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t asked Mr Loupgarou to leave (Matthieu had not decided on the man’s new name yet, but he responded to this one even if he had the funniest look on his face whenever he heard it).

Maybe because Matthieu was lonely. He had been born into a large community and had been given to a small and foreign group right before his family had been erased in years of senseless war. When he reached manhood and realized that he was unwilling to join the brothers, Matthieu left and had since lived on his own, a far cry from where he had started. Maybe he had also been bored. Now he had the additional challenge of having to stalk and find Mr Loupgarou every full and tend to him. There was purpose in it beyond simply trading for things and making some money. Maybe because of that, Matthieu could not bring himself to ask the man to leave. Neither did it seem, was the man in a hurry to. Matthieu had no doubt that once Mr Loupgarou adjusted to his condition and got his bearings, that he would leave. Mr Loupgarou had told him that he had been born in a busy and bustling port city and grew up in the brothel where his mother had worked. Such an environment was a completely different world from this solitary home that Matthieu had built himself in this hidden portion of the forest. Sometimes, when Matthieu found work as a guide, he would take steps to hide the place before he led parties deep into the forest, down the long riverways and further on, before finding his way back. It was amazing that this strategy seemed to work each time. Matthieu didn’t know why he wanted one home to return to, rather than to wander and make his way where he saw fit, but he did.

Sometimes he wondered if he could even ask the man to leave - wouldn’t it be dangerous for everyone else? So far, the man-wolf form had not harmed Matthieu but Mr Loupgarou insisted that he had very little control over himself while changed. Come each full moon, he was mostly intent on running away, as far as possible from Matthieu as he could get. He was effective at it for the most part, Matthieu was just a normal man, there was no keeping up, but he could easily follow the trail left behind. The urgency was to find Mr Loupgarou in his fully human form as quickly as possible after he changed back - he was always exhausted and vulnerable during this time, sometimes passed out, and there was no telling what or who would prey on him given the chance without Matthieu there to protect him. He had done so already, several times.

It didn’t mean that Mr Loupgarou wasn’t often an annoyance though. He brooded often in a way that brought a dark mood to everything, probably because he was prone to sharp words. In the first few weeks of his stay, he would do nothing without being explicitly being ordered to. Matthieu did not blame him for his moods, he cannot imagine what being cursed by something as simple as an animal bite had to be, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed seeing it. Mr Loupgarou also had to be reminded to bathe frequently or risk being locked out, like a child, but Matthieu knew from experience amongst the Jesuits that Europeans simply did not wash as often as they should. Thankfully Mr Loupgarou was no freeloader and after he became familiar with the work, he would find ways to busy himself before the moods could hit him too hard - chopping more wood, preparing food, cleaning the meat, gathering edible plants - all skills that Matthieu had taught him and seemed to keep the dark brooding at bay for the most part. Mr Loupgarou also seemed to have an affinity for flowers, and had to be taught several times not to pluck the poisonous ones, no matter how beautiful. It seemed however that he was most occupied at night, sitting by a dim light and mapping the surroundings around the cabin. Matthieu was not comfortable with having his home mapped out, this was his secret hideaway, but he was amazed at how accurate the map was and too fascinated to really put a stop to it.

“You could find work as a surveyor.” He had said once.

Mr Loupgarou scoffed. “A surveyor who is at risk of eating the entire party come the full moon.”

Almost every conversation about a potential future ended like that so Matthieu knew not to waste his time arguing the point. “I will need you keep that particular map a secret. I hide here by choice.”

“Of course.” Mr Loupgarou emphatically assured him. I had no intention of sharing this it’s just...something I can do that calms me down and gives me a sense of purpose.”

“Alright then.” Matthieu hoped that he could believe him, and that once Mr Loupgarou left, he wouldn’t sell the map for some kind of profit. Men could have honest intentions in one moment, and change it the next, this he knew.

The weather was cold now, and rabbit stew would do wonders for the body. Matthieu brought home several rabbits from his hunt, feeling quite proud of himself until he saw the look on the other man’s face. Mr Loupgarou looked like he wanted to cry. It was so incongruous and unexpected, since the man otherwise tried his hardest not to show much emotion.

Matthieu decided to ignore that look for now. He wanted his rabbit stew.

Mr Loupgarou couldn’t bring himself to eat either, preferring to chew on the preserved foods, not that it was a good idea to survive off that even for just one meal in this weather. Matthieu had more for himself.

In the coming days it was easier to see that after the meat had been sliced, dried and preserved, Mr Loupgarou could attempt to stomach it, but the fresh rabbit stew made the man sick. Matthieu wasn’t having any of it - if he didn’t eat, he would be of no use.

“So, you love rabbits. I don’t know what else to tell you, except that when it snows like this, it’s easier to trap them than waste energy trying to hunt something else down when prey is more elusive or dangerous, and movement is difficult.”

“I know.” He huffed as he swung the axe down on a thick log of wood. “I try.”

Matthieu nods. “May I know why?”

After a furious swing of the axe, Mr Loupgarou put it down and sat on the stump. There was silence for a while but Matthieu waited him out. Finally the man took a breath and asked, “Did you ever have pets growing up? Animal companions?”

Ah. “A dog.” Matthieu answers. He smiles in the memory of the dogs that lived with them, even along with the sadness when they passed on. One of the happier times he can recall while living with the Jesuits was being tasked to care for the sheepdog that lived with the brothers. “You had a...rabbit as an animal companion back where you come from?” Matthieu tries to think of what possible help rabbits can be - they can’t hunt, they hide well, maybe they could teach one where to hide?

“Several...you could say. They lived everywhere in my city, and they were usually skittish but...there was a family that lived on a small circle of green next to the brothel I grew up in. They were so used to us they weren’t scared, probably because we fed them occasionally.” He smiles and it’s the warmest sight Matthieu has ever seen, it lifts years off the man’s face and makes him look for a time, beautiful. “They’re just...sweet. I made friends with one when I was a small boy and I took care of her. She went everywhere with me, until…”

Matthieu sighs. Maybe he’ll be able to trap more squirrels instead, but they had less fat in them, which was needed for a long winter. Maybe he could extract more sap from the maple trees to boil into sugar. He’ll have to lay different traps but it’s entirely doable. It’s a shame that Mr Loupgarou had not managed to take down more boars since their first meeting. Whatever it is, he doesn’t have the heart to take away the one single thing the man still smiles over.  

He doesn’t say anything about this decision, but nods and turns to prepare for the different routine he’s going to have tomorrow. “I’ve thought of a name for you then.”

“Finally. At first I was worried, but I think anything is preferable to Mr Loupgarou.”

“Mr Rabbit.”

Mr Loupgarou laughs and Matthieu finds that this laugh brings a furnace to his chest, chasing away the chill. “Seriously Matthieu? I mean, I suppose I could respond to that but…”

Matthieu laughs in return. “No, but...Leverett. Your name is now Leverett.”

“Leverett? As in ‘young hare?”” Matthieu nods and ‘Leverett’ grins, shaking his head. “Somewhere, far away, my sister and brother are laughing and they do not even know why. Leverett it is then.”

“You have siblings?” He had never mentioned this before.

“A half-sister and a half-brother.” His smile dimmed and Matthieu regretted asking.

No more was said of family that day.

It felt like something shifted between them after Matthieu gave Leverett his name. In the weeks that followed the silences became more companionable, relaxed even, and Matthieu learned just how observant his guest actually was.

“You’ve stopped hunting rabbits.”  

Matthieu stirs the squirrel stew and shrugs. “We’re not desperate. If we were though, there wouldn’t be a choice, we would have to eat anything we can get. This has been a bountiful year so don’t let it lull you, there will be desperate winters, so it is best to remember that even with this reprieve.”

Leverett nods in understanding, comes closer and looks him in the eyes. “Thank you.”

His voice is so heavy with gratitude that Matthieu freezes for a moment. “I’m glad you can stomach squirrels. Do you think you can bring down a boar again?” He manages to joke and smiles just to make sure that Leverett (he’s actually missing the ridiculous Mr Loupgarou nickname) knows he’s joking.

They smile together, and Matthieu looks at Leverett and notices again, the odd shade of green his eyes are. He stares, a little too long, Leverett does not look away.

--

There is something heavy between them. A tension that Matthieu cannot define but it grows all the same. He’s not sure what he can do to lessen it and he doesn’t want to. It’s just that Matthieu finds himself looking too long, at Leverett’s back when he throws in new logs to keep the fire going, at his face when he hunches over his never-ending map, now illustrated with fantastical and beautiful drawings of plants, animals and fantastical creatures decorating the corners. Leverett does not seem to discourage him, he seems almost pleased. It frustrates Matthieu all the more. This is his home, Leverett is his guest, but Matthieu feels more and more like everything is about to change. Leverett may not be selling guns, but this one odd cursed stranger seems destined to do what his kind have always done - change everything that Matthieu has known. He can’t blame Leverett for this, because Matthieu had decided to take him in.

Overall, it’s not fair. But he still can’t find it in himself to ask Leverett to leave.

“Have you always been on your own?” Leverett asks in the quiet. He’s looking up from the paper he’s scribbling on for a change. It’s a little surprising, since neither of them are great talkers, usually going through the day in their own heads and respecting each other’s tendency to do so. Maybe it was fair for Leverett to know a little about him, since Matthieu at least knew a little about the man. But it was hard. Matthieu often tried to get through his days forgetting his old life, that way he could avoid thinking about how absolutely destroyed it was, and he could see the man he rescued simply as a man who he had helped and not think about the nation he came from, or the role it had played in his own people’s demise. It was easier to give him a French name, with a meaning as innocent as ‘young hare, to hear about his fondness for the animals, than to think about people who looked like him selling guns.

“I lived with a community of Jesuits for a while. I didn’t want to take vows so I ran away.”

Leverett gives out a harsh laugh. “I don’t blame you.” After a pause. “You’re too…” It’s funny to see him careful with his words. “You weren’t raised entirely by Jesuits” He says knowingly. “Were you adopted by the Indians? You look European and you have a French name but you’re not...you’re not French, at least, nothing like any Frenchman I’ve ever met.” He says with finality and humor. “That’s a good thing.”

Matthieu cannot smile. It’s tempting to dismiss the conversation, turn around and ready himself for bed, but for some reason, Matthieu feels himself close off. It must have shown on his expression because Leverett actually recoils slightly, his eyes widening in alarm.

“I did not mean to intrude. I-”

“My nation no longer exists. Your people sold the guns that killed them. That’s why I live here, alone.”

He can see Leverett’s face twist into shock before he controlled himself again, considering this information. After a long moment, he sighs, the weariness in his shoulders is evident. “Beaver wars?”

Matthieu nods.

“There were many nations the Iroquois warred with. If I may...which was yours?” Matthieu had to chuckle at Leverett using that name for the Haudenosaunee. The Algonquin had allied with his nation in the Beaver Wars. They gave the Haudenosaunee the name ‘Iroquois’, and it was an insult. It appeared the Europeans thought that was actually the name of that confederation. A small vengeance.

“My people...were the People of the Bear. We were part of the Wendat nation.” Leverett showed no recognition of this name. “The French called us the Huron.” Now Matthieu saw recognition light up in Leverett’s eyes.

“You grew up near the Great Lake then? Or by a river? The French call your people river dwellers.”

Of all the stupid things. Matthieu barely resists rolling his eyes. “Who doesn’t live by water? The Iroquois used to live on the opposite side of the Great Lake and you can’t travel efficiently without the rivers. Everyone needs water and the rivers.” He says as if speaking to a child. Leverett bristles slightly.

“Believe me, I know that, but I also know that not everyone lives by the water. I asked because that’s what my nation, my people are known for. Living with the water.”

Matthieu wondered if he heard that right ‘with’ not ‘by’. “I confess, I know little about the Dutch Republic. I avoided any and all of your people for a long time. The contract to hunt you was actually the first. So, is your home...an island?”

He cannot read Leverett’s expression now, but eventually the man answers. “No, though there are islands. It’s just that…” It looks like he’s trying to find the words. “Your father’s people call my nation The Low Countries. There are provinces that have hills and the like but not mine. A lot of my home is…” He takes a bowl and places his hand horizontal to the lip. “Think of my hand as the sea. And imagine this is a long bowl with a flat bottom. A good portion of my country is like this. Our land is very flat, there are no mountains, sometimes we’re not sure if we can even call some of it land. There’s nothing to serve as a barrier from the sea. It floods often, and...honestly, flooding used to kill more people than wars do. But...it is our home and we will keep it, against Spaniards, other invaders, even against the sea. We’ve dug canals, built dykes, we’ve made something that used to threaten us into an advantage. The canals allow for efficient transport, improving our trade, giving us the wealth to sail...even to the other side of the world. But that’s now. For the longest time, we were so very poor, conquered, we drowned often, we barely survived.”

It was a very European thing, Matthieu mused, that this conversation had started because Leverett had wanted to know more about him, but still ended up talking about his own nation instead.

“I’m...sorry. If you do not wish to talk about it with me…”

Matthieu shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to begin, how to describe what life was like.”

Leverett shrugs. “Then, if you want to, just start anywhere, anything, whichever good memory comes to you first. Only if you want to, otherwise you can tell me to fuck right off.”

Matthieu is a little amused at that, wondering why he’s never wanted to tell this man to fuck right off. “Not tonight. But one day.”

Five nights before the next change, Matthieu realizes something just as he is about to fall asleep. Leverett sleeps late, or rather, he doesn’t attempt to sleep when Matthieu does, and he is always the first to rise, already busy by the time Matthieu opens his eyes - or so he had assumed.

“Do you sleep at all?”

Leverett turns from the fire, the flickering flames cast strange shadows across his face. He shrugs. “I just have trouble falling asleep, so rather than toss and turn, I prefer to sit and think or do things.”

Matthieu wonders if this is one of those instances where the wolf is dominant over the man. “Wolves prefer to hunt at night. Is it...that?” Has he been forcing the man to do work with little sleep?  

Leverett smiles at him. “Even when I wasn’t turning into a loupgarou every full moon I was more productive at night.”

That’s not really a ‘no’ so Matthieu figures Leverett doesn’t even know the answer, himself. “Could you sleep when you were with the others...like yourself?” He usually didn’t talk about them, from what he gathered from Leverett, they were all killed when the ship arrived Port Royal, with only Leverett escaping.

“There was little sleep, we were hired to work so we did. We were stronger at night...I suppose. I don’t even think most of them were there because of the promise of that cure. That was...frankly, too good to be true. I think we were there because…” He stops for too long and Matthieu gives up on sleep, adjusting the furs so he can sit up and listen properly.

Leverett is silent, gazing at the crackling flames, and Matthieu waits for him to speak. The cold wind howls outside and Matthieu thinks of the times before when he’s had to listen to the lonely wail and think that he and the wind had something in common.

“Because we were the same.” Leverett finally finishes. “The curse was a great equalizer, more than gold, nation or God could ever hope to be - rich, poor, farmer, merchant, banker, whore, Catholic, Protestant, Jew, Moslem, any kind of person or identity you could think of...we were nothing but monsters there,each trying to earn redemption and a respite from the loneliness of our curse. Each of us had struggled for a time on our own, too proud. All of us had seen each hope chipped away until all that was left was this one last desperate gamble, that we all knew couldn’t be true. But at least we were together, something...I don’t know. It was better, not to be alone.” His voice breaks at the last word and Matthieu is on his feet before he knows what he’s doing. He finds a cloth and brings it over, places his hands on Leverett’s heaving shoulders and lets him cry with his face buried in his hands. Matthieu’s heart twists, it’s physically painful to see Leverett like this.

Matthieu sits next to him and holds him. Leverett grasps him tight with a sigh of relief and sobs into his chest, hunched over as much as he is. Matthieu doesn’t move, he runs his fingers through Leverett’s hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

Here the crackling flames and the sound of Leverett’s breathing drown out the wind’s lonely wails. It helps, oddly, especially because Leverett is a silent crier.

After the tears seem to have dried, Matthieu realizes that he doesn’t want to move. Still, they can’t sit there all night though. “Sleep?”

Leverett stiffens and pulls away. “I’m sorry to keep you up.”

“Well then, you can help me sleep in return. Come on, it’s cold.” It wasn’t a lie, this was going to be a harsh winter. Matthieu took Leverett’s arm to lead him to his bed.

“Wait...help you, you mean share the bed?!”

Europeans, Matthieu wanted to roll his eyes as he thought of sleeping with his family in the longhouse, warm with each other’s company. Then again, Leverett had been born in a brothel, he would think of these things differently. Still it didn’t excuse him (or Matthieu either) for not realizing the obvious until now. “When you found all those other people who had the same ailment as you, it felt better didn’t it?” Matthieu asked. “I guess you slept in close quarters, you worked more at night with your extra strength to keep the ship going, you worked out a hierarchy amongst yourselves…a leader, a second, would-be claimants and the weakest of the pack?”

He can feel Leverett’s confusion. “How did you know?”

Matthieu bites back a sigh - of course this man, raised in a town next to rabbits would not know much about the behavior and social dynamics of wolves, so Matthieu explains.

“Well fuck me.” Leverett rolls his eyes as he finally realizes what Matthieu is saying. They had been so concerned about his humanity, and perhaps Leverett had been desperately holding onto it, that he had avoided the parts of him that were now wolf. Wolves were lonely without a pack, without their own sense of communal order, without trust.

“Wolves sleep in piles, and believe me on a night like this one, I really don’t mind. It’s an unusually cold night, it’ll help us stay warm, come on.” Feeling oddly self conscious, Matthieu lay down on his bed and lifted the furs in invitation for Leverett to join. After a moment’s hesitation, the other man did and Matthieu covered them both.

It was somewhat awkward at first, the bed was built to be comfortable for one, though it could squeeze two. Still, Leverett was unusually tall for a European, and Matthieu often wondered what kind of a brothel he must have lived in to be this well-fed and well-educated. Whatever it was, it was nothing like the sorry things that had been built here.

After some maneuvering and the occasional chuckles, they found something comfortable for both of them. Leverett’s head lay on his chest, his arms and legs wrapped around Matthieu, and Matthieu is grateful he’s too tired to be shy or awkward, so he just holds him and revels in the warmth they have together.

Right before Matthieu drifts off to sleep, he hears Leverett’s breathing even out and feels his body fully relax. Matthieu falls asleep with a smile.

[jaouinedcan]

Sunny Daze [NedCan Week: Day 2 - Sun]

Alternate Title: Internal Screaming, The Fic

I’ll be posting another fanfic for the second half of today’s prompt [Moon] in a while, once I go through a final edit.

I really enjoyed writing this; it’s very silly and cute, so I hope everyone has fun reading :)  It’s intended to take place in the late 1950s, so the Netherlands is mostly recovered and shaking off the last of the war’s effects.

It was Saturday so he ought to have been able to sleep in without a worry, but while it was nice to have a constant companion, the downside of owning a pet was that you actually had to roll out of bed at a decent hour in order to feed them.  Or, in Canada's case, where the pet in question had the strength required to accomplish such a feat, he often ended up getting dragged out of bed via any limb within reach.

"I'm hungry," the polar bear whined, though it was Canada, yanked halfway off the bed by his arm so that his head had knocked against the floor, that ought to be complaining.

"Good morning," he said, instead, pulling himself upright and grimacing a bit as he rubbed the small lump forming on his temple.  It should disappear soon enough, but it would continue to smart until then.  Trying to put the throb out of his mind, Canada retrieved his eyeglasses from his bedside table and put them on gingerly, successfully avoiding the bump.  "What would you like to eat?"

"Salmon," the bear answered immediately, having obviously decided well in advance.  At least he wasn't indecisive, because that would be annoying to deal with before his morning coffee.

Fish was fine for a polar bear's breakfast, but Canada's choice for morning protein was bacon and eggs or peanut butter on toast, or... actually, a bacon and egg sandwich sounded amazing right now, and if he was still hungry after that he was pretty sure he still had leftover pancakes in the fridge... unless a certain someone had raided the fridge overnight, anyway...

With that plan solidifying in his head, Canada walked barefoot into his kitchen and started up his coffee machine first before he was encouraged to finish the trip to the icebox by insistent pawing with the hint of claws catching on his flannel pyjamas.  Well, if he was that hungry, then he probably hadn't nicked the pancakes after all, so Canada allowed the display of impatience without a word.  It wasn't like it was terribly complicated to feed his pet anyway.  He kept that icebox at a reasonable temperature to avoid the fish freezing solid, but even if it did, the powerful jaws of a polar bear would still make quick work of a fish popsicle.  All he really had to do was unlock the box, remove the packaging, and hand over the fish raw.  There wasn't much of a need to even rinse it off, though Canada sometimes did anyway if it looked particularly grisly.

"Thanks," his polar bear said, his manners always better when he got what he wanted.  Canada left him to his meal with a quiet reflexive 'you're welcome' as he walked away to wash his hands at the kitchen sink, then got started on fixing his own breakfast while waiting for the coffee pot to fill.  Bread went in the toaster, eggs and bacon went in the pan, and within a couple minutes, he was seated at his kitchen table, caffeine beginning to kick in just enough to ground himself in yet another quiet, uneventful mid-autumn Saturday morning, wondering what he ought to do that day in between meals until Hockey Night in Canada began its weekly broadcast.

He was halfway through leisurely eating his sandwich when his polar bear finished licking his paws and the floor clean, then began wandering around the room searching for any elusive crumbs he'd missed, only to stop suddenly by the window and turn his head back toward his owner.  "He's been standing out there for half an hour."

Canada was initially flummoxed by the amount of words pouring out of his pet's mouth, used to only a few syllables every now and then until closer to noon, when he got a little more verbal.  Then the meaning of the words sunk in and he nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee but at least he avoided spraying it everywhere.  He quickly rose to his feet, unfortunately hit his knee on the table, grimaced, then demanded to know, "Why didn't you tell me someone was at the door?!" in a voice more like a pained hiss than an actual shout.

"I was hungry."

Canada was so mortified he was certain that his soul was ready to leave his body and vanish into the vast wilderness of the Rockies or the boreal forest never to be found again, but somehow he managed to limp his way over to the door, hastily putting together an apology for not hearing his unusually patient visitor's knocking.  Or had his polar bear answered the door and just left them there with a forgotten promise to fetch him?!  Oh, Goddddd...

Meanwhile,  the Netherlands, who definitely hadn't gotten around to knocking yet, was silently lamenting his inability to hold his Holland Lop while he smoked, but he wasn't about to put her health at risk, and simply watched her contentedly hop around Canada's front yard instead.  Some of the neighbours glanced toward him with concern as they went about their daily lives, but they quickly looked away from the force of his stare.  The glare was borne more out of irritation toward himself than anyone else, but nobody needed to know that.

It was a simple enough plan.  He just had to knock on the door and hand over the box.  He'd done this sort of thing before, with other recipients.  Hell, he'd accompanied much larger gifts to Canada than this one small box before.  Every year since 1945 had brought him to Canada's shores on a ship full of tulip bulbs, and he'd enjoyed the overwhelmed gratitude every time as he paid back whatever slight fraction of the depth of his debt he could afford, bit by bit, even as he wondered if it was even fair to think that he'd ever break out black ink in his books again now that he had the gall to gain any sort of satisfaction from Canada's happiness.  Was it so dramatic of him to not consider ever ceasing sending him thousands of tulips every May?  ...Certainly not now that the Canadian government had decided to match the delivery with an annual tulip festival, purchasing even more to spread among both the public and private sectors.  It was already a tradition he didn't intend to break.

Yet, he'd been bothered to note that, while Canada had happily shared the tulips with all the people who called his land home, it seemed that he'd yet to keep any for himself, and the Netherlands would wonder why that was, if it weren't already so obvious.  It had started with Princess Juliana's initiative, not his, so Canada must have assumed that they were for his people to enjoy and to take even one for his own garden would be a disservice to them.  After all, it was his soldiers that had risked their lives in the war.  Canada himself would have survived under America's protective umbrella indefinitely even if Europe had fallen completely to the Axis Powers.

So.  Here he was, on Canada's doorstep with a box of tulip bulbs specifically for him and him alone to take and plant in his own garden and enjoy for himself because he couldn't stand it any longer--he couldn't deal with Canada never realizing just how important he was to him.

Now if only he could settle his nerves long enough to actually knock on the door.

...Shit, he'd already burned through his whole supply of tobacco.  Now he would have to go buy more, but maybe walking to the closest store and back would help him to calm down?

That was, of course, the moment Canada threw open the door, saying, "I'm so sorry!  I must have missed hearing you knock..." only to trail off and continue on in surprise, "Mr. Netherlands?!"

Canada hadn't expected to see him, and the Netherlands certainly wasn't expecting to be greeted by a frantic male with an impressive case of bed head still in his pyjamas.  As a fierce blush rose up Canada's face, the Netherlands' pipe fell from his open jaw and clattered noisily on the porch, spooking his bunny into returning to his side.  They were caught in an otherwise silent staredown until Canada's polar bear peered around his owner, munching on some sort of sandwich.  "There's food inside if you're hungry," he said, which turned out to not be entirely accurate as his owner would be forced to endure his embarrassment regarding his state of undress in the Netherlands' presence while reheating pancakes and awkwardly making small talk that his guest was far too distracted to respond to properly, but at least it got them moving.

Just as soon as the younger nation placed a small stack of pancakes in front of him alongside a glass of orange juice, a stick of butter, and a jar of maple syrup, he hastily excused himself upstairs to get dressed.  As he left, the Netherlands thought he heard a low keening whine drawn out under his breath, but certainly couldn't blame him for being embarrassed.  He was struggling to recover, himself, and he'd started out already fully dressed.

He turned his head to the side after putting down the box of tulips beside the plate, and found Canada's polar bear upright and staring at him.  "Are you gonna eat that?" he asked, after a long moment, and the Netherlands tucked his bunny under his opposite arm just in case as he used his free hand to spread butter and pour syrup to his taste.  The fluttery feeling in his stomach wasn't hunger but maybe a full belly would help him avoid making a fool out of himself and Belgium had already given him an addiction to sweet breakfasts so if he started feeling queasy then it wouldn't be the sugar to blame.

He let the polar bear lick the plate clean after he was done, hoping that would be enough to avoid any more subtle implications regarding his bunny's snack potential.

After Canada finished his delayed morning routine and got dressed in casual-but-not-too-casual clothes, he had to give himself a pep talk before he was finally able to leave his room again.

"All right, Canada," he said to his reflection in the small mirror hanging by his closet, which he often used to psyche himself up before important meetings and events where he was required to make a speech, "you can do this.  You can walk out there and have a nice and pleasant chat with Mr. Netherlands.  It's not your fault that he decided to visit without calling ahead and caught you straight out of bed, and he wouldn't judge you for your appearance on a Saturday morning.  This should be a day off for him, too, after all, and for whatever reason he decided to share a bit of his time with you even though he probably has a lot more important things to do and oh-maple-I-left-him-alone-in-the-kitchen-with-whatshisface!"  The thought of his polar bear bothering him somehow was enough to get Canada racing out of his bedroom again.  Thankfully, his house was a modest size so he didn't even have a chance to run out of breath, but he did slide a bit on the kitchen tile in his sockfeet, only saved from a disastrous fall by quickly grabbing the door jamb on his way past.

Thankfully, his guest was distracted by a polar bear messing his face with syrup and failed to notice his clumsiness.  That one piece of luck didn't slow down his racing heart, though, and he ended up stuttering a bit through his nerves as he wet a towel to start cleaning off his pet's sticky maw.  "S-s-so what brings you here today, Mr. Netherlands?"  It was a lot easier to talk to him while busying himself with a task that made it easy to avoid looking him in the eye.

However, the Netherlands must have been waiting for his full attention, choosing to take the time to stand and walk over to him, extending a small package into his field of vision before finally responding.  "I came to deliver this," he said in an enviously even tone.

Canada looked up from his crouch next to the struggling bear, who managed to escape the horrors of being cleaned and hurried off elsewhere, and that was a mistake because beyond the lid of the box he could see the Netherlands standing there with his usual impassive expression, and even if he didn't already know that it was a carefully constructed mask designed to keep others at arms length and he was the only one who actually knew that for sure thanks to being the one sent to help him through what was probably the worst disaster in his nation's history, he thinks he would have gotten a hint of something below the surface thanks to the way he carefully cradled his bunny in the crook of his elbow and continuously brought him gifts without even a word about expecting anything in return.  He was pretty sure that the Netherlands wanted to get closer to him because he was feeling grateful for the help, and normally Canada would have had no problem making a new friend, but... but...

The Netherlands cuddling his bunny like that was just way too cute and Canada was seriously starting to doubt that he'd be able to limit his feelings to friendship at this rate!

With those thoughts alongside his still rapidly beating heart, Canada was definitely struggling to keep calm as he forced his body to move, reaching out with one hand to accept the gift as he rose up to his full height again, setting the soiled towel next to the sink, intending to throw it in the wash later.  "O-oh," he said, mentally kicking himself for his lack of composure.  "Thank you, Mr. Netherlands...  Should I open it now?"  He felt silly for asking, but Dominion Day had come and gone and he wasn't entirely sure if the Netherlands was aware of that, and if not, certainly didn't want him to feel guilty about missing it.

"Yes," the Netherlands said, simply, nodding toward the box and shifting the bunny in his arms now that he had both hands free, going so far as to start gently stroking the fur at the base of its ears and Canada had to avert his eyes or die where he stood.  Good thing he had a present to focus on, and he took the opportunity to do so, carefully undoing the twine tying it together, then setting the box on the kitchen table in order to remove the top, revealing a dozen or so tulip bulbs packed in cotton.  The sight of them was so familiar that it immediately helped put Canada at ease.  He really should have known, to be honest.

He turned back to face the Netherlands with an easy smile.  "The tulips you send me always bloom so beautifully; thank you again, Mr. Netherlands.  My parks and civic buildings just wouldn't be the same without them anymore."  He paused, though, confused about one particular thing.  "But... you've never shipped them this early before...  I'll have to give my warehouses a heads up..."

"No," the Netherlands replied, having turned his gaze toward the window.  Something must have caught his attention outside but Canada couldn't see anything special from where he stood.  "These are for you; for your yard."

"Ah--oh... um..." Canada started, caught by surprise and a significant bout of awkwardness as the smile fell from his face.  "Well, I mean, thank you very much, but I... I have some... bad news...?"

The Netherlands quickly looked back toward him, likely just as surprised as him.

"I... I don't... actually have a flower garden...?"

The Netherlands was thrown so off balance that he ended up turning around and walking out through Canada's back door without an invitation, finding it to be just as he'd said.  It had been impossible to not notice that no flowers grew in his front yard apart from a wayward dandelion here and there, but his backyard was encircled by a fence designed to keep out wildlife, only, instead of flowers like his own yard boasted, all it protected was a large maple tree and a vegetable garden.

Well, the mystery of why Canada never took any of the tulip bulbs for himself was now solved, but the Netherlands found the answer entirely unsatisfying and he looked over the yard, overcome with woe.  Was Canada just... not as interested in the tulips as he'd assumed...?

"I'm sorry," Canada said, having followed him out the door to stand beside him.  "I really do like the tulips you send...  It's just that the growing season here is so much shorter than places further south that I put all my attention into farming crops instead of flowers.  Agriculture techniques, technology, and science have improved to the point that harvesting enough food for everyone is no longer a problem, but... I just never got into the habit of keeping flowers... much less learn how to care for them..."

He didn't think he was imagining the disappointment in Canada's voice, and when he glanced over at him, he appeared crestfallen.  An idea formed in his head and he followed it silently to a workable conclusion.  He'd been planning on spending the day in Canada regardless, so spending the day with Canada wasn't out of the question as long as Canada was fine with it.  Trying not to sound too eager, he asked, "Would you like to?"

Canada's breath hitched in his throat, surprised in the middle of an inhale, but he quickly turned his head with another dazzling smile that melted his insides like the butter on his pancakes.  "Yes!"

The Netherlands was able to endure it a little while longer this time before looking away, this time at the bunny in his arms.  Surely it wouldn't be a problem to carry her around a bit longer?  Hopefully it wouldn't bother any of the shopkeepers.  "You'll be needing some supplies," he explained, though he likely had most of what he needed already to care for his vegetables.

"I have a small truck," Canada offered.  "We can go now."  And that was that.

It was a good thing Canada could drive because the Netherlands preferred bicycles.  He had been escorted by a driver from his embassy when he'd landed at the airport earlier that day but he wouldn't dare dirty one of their vehicles and carrying around a couple bags of soil would have been as unwieldy as it was messy to the point that the Netherlands would have actually preferred to pay for delivery rather than ruining his clothes.  As luck would have it, the local Canadian Tire was only a few kilometres away, and they stocked everything on the list, though Canada tossed a few extra things in the cart he must have needed for other projects along with a wide-brimmed straw hat.  They stopped by a grocery store, too, as Canada mentioned wanting to prepare a fresher lunch rather than more reheated pancakes, and the Netherlands tagged along to offer suggestions, going so far as to mention that the work might occupy them well into the late afternoon so they might need to plan supper in advance as well.  In the end, they were lucky that Canada's polar bear had refused to come out of hiding before they left the house because there was no room left in the cab.  As for his bunny, nobody had asked him to leave either store, but he did end up getting a lot of attention from women and children.  He'd gotten bored with it after a while and started glaring at people to keep them away, while Canada laughed a little, completely unconcerned.

Canada behind the wheel was a far more notable occurrence.  The last time he'd been driven around by the younger nation was just after the war when they'd joined the ranks of soldiers delivering food and supplies to the most remote regions of the Netherlands, and his driving was just as calm, focused, and precise as it had been back then, even as he made small talk.  The Netherlands' own driving skill was not nearly as good, having so little practice.  After all, why pay for gas when cycling was free?  He did enjoy watching Canada drive, however, so he ended up continuing on letting him drive instead of adding to his own experience.

It was close to noon when they returned to the house and unloaded most of Canada's purchases minus the bags of soil, so they went ahead with lunch before getting to work.  Canada pulled a fish out of a large icebox for his polar bear who appeared out of nowhere once food was mentioned, and then went out into his garden to pull up a fresh carrot for the Netherlands' bunny.  As she happily munched it on top of the kitchen table (he refused to release her on the floor since he was still concerned about the bear's likelihood of mistaking her for food), they prepared their lunch together, the Netherlands following Canada's lead since he very rarely ever cooked for himself.  He hated making a mess of his immaculate kitchen.

While they ate, the Netherlands gave him a crash course in caring for tulips along with a general explanation for several other varieties of flowers if he chose to expand his collection at a later time, offering to assist with more specialized advice later on over the phone if he wasn't available in person.  Canada already knew how to contact him and had on several occasions already, always careful to match up their differing time zones to reasonable hours, but the topics thus far had been mostly limited to serious topics such as how reconstruction was going after the war, aside from the yearly discussion about the tulip delivery, so he was looking forward to discussing one of his favourite hobbies in more detail instead.

"Front yard or back?" he asked Canada as they rounded up the dishes from lunch and breakfast, intending to take care of them all at once following supper, wanting to get started on the flower garden while the weather was good.

"Back," Canada replied, easily, smiling to himself as he scraped off a few lingering bits of food from a plate into his garbage can.  "They're for me, after all, and I spend more time in my backyard than out front.  It'll be safer for your bunny, too, away from the street and the fence keeping out the predators that sometimes wander into town."  He didn't mention the predator living in the house itself, but the little polar bear had already wandered off to enjoy an afternoon nap.

Before they got started , Canada fetched some old clothes from his room for them to change into, since the Netherlands hadn't brought any clothes he was willing to get dirty.  The fit was... not perfect, but workable, the denim riding low on his hips thanks to his slimmer frame, and  the shirt not long enough to completely cover his torso when he lifted his arms thanks to his height.  The Netherlands had changed in the restroom, and when he stepped out, he found Canada in a similar outfit topped off with a straw hat that wasn't the one he'd bought earlier, because that one was offered to the Netherlands.

"I know I have a reputation as a frozen wasteland but I still get a lot of sun in autumn; you definitely need to cover your head when you work outside, here."  He smiled in satisfaction when the Netherlands tried it on and found it fit nicely after sweeping his hair back with one hand.  "There, your face should be safe from sunburn now."  It wasn't the first time he'd worn a sunhat to block the sun while planting tulips, but it was the first time he felt blessed for doing so, enjoying the happy expression on Canada's face.

They didn't waste any more time before heading outside, Canada hurrying to his shed to pull out a wheelbarrow to transport the soil from his truck bed, and the Netherlands following him after releasing his bunny to collect a few shovels, trowels, and other tools and supplies.  Canada only had one pair of gardening gloves, but he let the Netherlands borrow them, not minding getting his own hands dirty.  Canada reappeared shortly with the wheelbarrow and they briefly discussed the best place for the garden as they left the bags of soil on the grass, eventually settling upon a stretch of lawn along the back wall of the house, and they got started digging up the grassy earth, filling up the wheelbarrow again.  It seemed as though the earlier warning about the sun was accurate, judging by the spreading flush on Canada's face, though it seemed to be caused by the increasing temperature rather than an actual burn, so he didn't mention it as they moved on to lining the flower garden with a long strip of aluminum to prevent the grass from growing past to take over the fertile new soil that they worked together to empty into the hole directly from the bags.  From there it was simple enough to retrieve the box of tulip bulbs from inside and plant them, carefully leaving the dirt loose beneath them to avoid letting future rainfall drown them.  When that was done, Canada rolled back on his knees to rest on his ankles beside the Netherlands with a content sigh, seeing a job well done, and used his arm to wipe the sweat off his face, unknowingly leaving a streak of dirt along his jawline.

"Canada," he said to get his attention as he pulled off one of the gardening gloves, leaning over and reaching out to brush the grime off with his thumb.  Getting dirty in the process was annoying, but it wasn't like he wasn't planning on washing his hands after going back inside anyway.

Well, that was the plan, but then their eyes met and the Netherlands was frozen between thinking 'oh' and 'oh no'.

When they started the project Canada had no idea just how hard it would be to focus on the job, but then the Netherlands began to shovel dirt into the wheelbarrow and his shirt rode up every time he lifted his arms and suddenly it was a struggle to pry his eyes away and continue working.  He was lucky that the Netherlands was completely absorbed in the task, but if he was caught staring then he was prepared to mumble some half truth about how relieved he was that the Netherlands had healed up nicely from his war wounds and the lingering muscular atrophy had reversed, though he could still use a little more meat on his bones to ensure perfect health, and, oh, that was starting to sound creepy even in his own head so he was glad that the Netherlands didn't seem to notice his wandering eyes in the least.

With sheer force of will, he managed to make it through the afternoon without embarrassing himself, but maybe he let his guard down too soon because when the Netherlands said his name and touched his face and leaned in close and locked their eyes, Canada's heartbeat rushed in his ears and the next thing he knew, his hat had tumbled off, his hands were cradling the Netherlands' face, and their lips were pressed together.  His eyes had shut tight at some point, and after a moment of stillness, the Netherlands' hand drifted down from his cheek to the back of his neck, holding them together more steadily as he began to lean into the contact.  Emboldened, Canada started to move his lips in delicate motions, drawing one kiss into half a dozen quiet smicks and smacks until he felt the Netherlands' hand start to shake, and, worried that had been too much, leaned back to check, allowing them both to take a breath in the process.  The Netherlands leaned forward with him, chasing just one more kiss, but unwisely opened his eyes, probably intending to ensure his aim, ending up freezing upon meeting Canada's gaze, a flush rising all the way from his neck to his forehead.  Canada tried to stop himself, he really did, but between that and the dark smudges of soil transferred from his fingers, the Netherlands looked so silly and endearing that he couldn't help the laughter bubbling out past his lips, and that spooked the Netherlands into backing off, slipping out of Canada's grip as he took his hand back and covered the lower half of his face.  Unable to stop but unwilling to let the Netherlands think he'd done something wrong, Canada leaned forward again, this time to encircle his torso in his arms as he rode out the remainder of the laughing fit on the Netherlands' shoulder, attempting to explain himself several times only to wind himself up again, relieved when the Netherlands began to relax again.

The Netherlands had endured countless social kisses over the course of his existence, sometimes from the overenthusiastic, but mostly wherever and whenever it was considered customary.  This was, however, the first time he found himself enjoying it and craving more, even as he began to start feeling overwhelmed, his thoughts swirling in panicked little circles of 'what now' and 'what next', only to be overcome by a massive flood of 'what if' following Canada's unexpected laughter, before easing down into quiet relief after a short time in Canada's embrace, finally lowering his hand from his face to rest upon Canada's hip, though the other still desperately clenched the removed gardening glove in its grip while all ten toes slowly uncurled in his shoes.

He waited until Canada regained enough control of himself to explain, "I'm sorry, Netherlands, I just--I'm just so happy and relieved and glad and--I swear I didn't mean to make such a mess of you!"

He'd felt like such a figurative mess that he didn't understand that he'd meant it literally until Canada pulled back and tried to use the relatively clean patches of skin on his forearms to brush the dirt off the Netherlands' face, presumably with only moderate success judging by the way his lips twitched in barely contained mirth.  He didn't even know that he'd dirtied his own face first and that the Netherlands only wiped the barest bit off before they'd been caught in the moment, but the Netherlands didn't mention it as he silently accepted Canada's attention until he finally gave up and stood, holding out a hand to help him up.  It was still as dirty as ever, but, again, the Netherlands was planning on washing his hands soon anyway.

"Let's go in and wash up," Canada suggested, stooping down to grab his fallen sunhat.  "I can empty out the wheelbarrow some other time."  Presumably, some other time when the Netherlands was not there to distract him from the chore in favour of better ways to spend time together.

He nodded and followed Canada inside after collecting his bunny.  She had been bold enough to dig up another carrot but he doubted that would be a problem.  He ended up staring at his face in horror in the restroom for a while, then scrubbed himself clean, changed back into his much cleaner clothes, and fixed his hair before returning to socialise some more, finding Canada hanging up both hats by the back door, already seeming to expect more time working in the garden with company.

The Netherlands ended up staying well into the evening until Canada drove him back to his embassy, but before then, they enjoyed more conversation, another meal, and a broadcast of Hockey Night in Canada, wherein the Netherlands finally understood why a shellshocked Denmark had warned him back in 1949 to never ever ever play a game against Canada.

"What colour are they?" Canada asked as he slowed to a stop in front of the building, finally succumbing to curiosity.

He played with the idea of telling him to wait until spring to find out, but it seemed cruel now that his intent had been all but stated outright.  Originally, he was supposed to have at least six months to decide whether to let the flowers speak for themselves or to play it off as simply knowing Canada's favourite colour.  "Red," he said, instead, and Canada, more knowledgeable about flower meanings than most thanks to his earlier lectures, smiled like the sun and kissed him again.

(Notes: Denmark faced Canada’s national men’s hockey team in 1949 where they endured their worst defeat in history with an end score of 0-47, and has never won a game against them to this day.  Damn Canada, cold!  Denmark does win most of his games verses the Netherlands, though, so at least he can count on his buddy for a more even match :) I only found one game where the Netherlands faced Canada in the 1980 Olympics, and they lost 10-1; so they got wrecked pretty bad but at least they weren’t utterly destroyed and managed to score a goal.)

[jaouinedcan]

Home is Where the Journey Takes You [NedCan Week: Day 5 - Home/Journey]

I was initially on the fence about Nyotalia, but oh man did I ever fall for Nyo!Netherlands when I read “The Raven’s Call”   👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌there👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit

...So yeah I wanted to spread the love a bit and also give props to paladinquen for the inspiration; I also really liked the name they chose for her so I went with it for this fic, too :)

Anneke de Boer had her whole life mapped out by the time she was ten.  She was going to inherit her father's shipping company, manage it from her mother's flower shop, marry the most capable man in sight to take charge of the ships, and have a few children to carry on the family business after she retired.  It was a simple and clear-cut plan.  She didn't even have to be in love with the man she would marry since it was far more important to find someone with smart business sense.  Since her father was one of the most successful men in town, Anneke didn't think she's have much trouble interesting someone, and, indeed, a few young men began making a habit of visiting her and her father once she grew older.  It seemed as though everything was going perfectly as planned, and she continued focusing on her education as she left negotiations to her father, trusting him completely as he weeded out the smooth talkers hoping to simply live off her family's wealth like a parasite instead of contributing to it and ensuring that her family name would carry on in prosperity.

It startled her how easily it all came undone once the Netherlands were invaded in 1940 as she teetered on the cusp of adulthood.  Her father's ships did not return, his warehouses were commandeered by the invading army, and their home was used as a residence by the men assigned to control the city.  Even her suitors disappeared, either having lost interest or their lives through resistance efforts.

Most of their possessions, wealth, and assets gone, they moved into her mother's flower shop.  It was an unfathomable difference between having a private room to herself and sharing a small storeroom with her parents and sister, which shrank further yet when one of her father's most trusted business associates came to them under the cover of night with little Luca in hand and a desperate plea, and then she had a little brother, too.  The townsfolk closed ranks and spoke of little Luca de Boer as if he had been theirs all along, and when the German soldiers asked them why he had no papers, Anneke feigned humiliation at having a son while still so young herself, saying he was raised as her little brother instead to avoid bringing shame upon her family and harming her marriage prospects.  Luca was lucky that his facial features were so miraculously similar to hers, because the soldiers moved on without asking any more questions.  They never saw his father again and no one else would come to collect him, but that was fine.  Little Luca became so precious to them it wasn't long before he was truly considered a de Boer in every way that counted.

Over the course of the next five years, conditions continued to deteriorate, but nothing was quite as terrible as the final winter of their occupation, when all they had left to eat were the tulip bulbs left in the storeroom and Anneke was forced to get creative.  As people succumbed all over the city to hunger and the cold, her family scraped along until liberation, though it came at the price of her father's peace of mind.  She knew that he blamed himself for being unable to provide for his family--he apologized often and spent long hours sitting up awake when he should have been sleeping, going so far as to eat smaller and smaller portions of the food she brought home, insisting that she share the rest of it with her siblings.  Despite her best efforts, he nearly willed himself into an early grave, bedridden for weeks before the Canadians marched through their streets.  While her mother kept a close eye on Emma and Luca, jumping up and down with pieces of chocolate melting all over their hands, she'd dragged her father's moldering mattress all the way to the shop's front door to watch the parade.  It was the first time she saw him cry, and it would not be the last, because instead of passing on he slowly recovered over the next few months and became much less concerned with keeping up appearances.

There was one last blow as the reforming Dutch government sought to punish Germans and their supporters, but Anneke endured it with her head held high.  Her family wasn't able to return home since it had been destroyed in an allied strike, but she didn't mind that so much as the townsfolk silently staring at the back of her suddenly bared neck as she went about her errands, and so limited her time outside as much as possible.  Some of the other girls refused to go outdoors at all, and she could hardly blame them.  She, at least, had been fortunate enough to not fall in love.  There had been some good men in the German army--she'd had the sense to avoid them, but some of the girls in town were so desperate for companionship in such trying times that they'd been drawn in by any hint of affection.

When they'd been gathered in the street to face their punishment, Anneke, repulsed by the whole spectacle, took the scissors from the official stepping up from behind her and cut her hair herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of shaming her and the other girls for making the best of a bad situation.  Some of the other girls were shocked out of their tears as she threw down the scissors and walked away.  When Emma told their mother as she helped her even out the mess she'd made, Anneke caught her smiling in the mirror's reflection, and remembered what pride felt like.

Even so, Anneke disliked the attention and kept to herself, taking care of the flower shop as money began to pour back into the city.  It was easier to handle than going out into the street since the majority of her customers were Canadian soldiers, the one group of people with a bit of money to spare for non-essentials, though it was the young Dutch girls capturing their hearts who enjoyed the gifts they bought.  It had been the same story over the course of the occupation, though she only sold flowers to the Canadians.

One day, about a week after cutting her hair, a new customer came in.  She'd long since learned the names of the others and their beaus along with their favoured arrangements.  It was all part of being in business, knowing what the customers wanted and ensuring that she kept the most popular items in supply.  This soldier was unfamiliar, though, and she went through a mental checklist of the local girls who were still single, trying to match him with one.  He seemed either shy or nervous, pacing among her displays, so the girl may have approached him, first, but all the more assertive girls were already dating, to her knowledge.

Anneke tried to decide whether to leave him be or greet him.  It was in good business sense to welcome him to the shop, but if he was skittish--and she couldn't fault anyone who fought the Germans for suffering lingering anxieties--it was possible that surprising him would cause him to leave and she'd lose a possible regular customer.  All of a sudden, though, he steeled himself and approached the counter.  "Hallo," she said, having the decision made for her.

"Hello," he replied, standing straight like he was facing his commanding officer.  "Do you speak English, miss?  Au Français?"  He had a quiet way about him, but she had no trouble hearing his voice in the otherwise empty shop.

"My English is better."  There hadn't been many French nationals in the city willing to let her practice, especially once the occupation began and speaking anything but German in public became increasingly dangerous.  "What are you looking for today, sir?"

He seemed relieved; most of the soldiers she'd encountered spoke English, so maybe his French was weak, too.  "I'm afraid I don't have the faintest idea," he admitted.  "It's for a girl, of course--I don't exactly have family nearby--but I don't know what she would like.  Do you have any suggestions, miss?"

"What is her name?" she asked.  "I may know her preferences."

"We haven't yet been introduced," he said, and offered his hand.  "I'm Matthew Williams."

She was a bit taken off guard by the abrupt change of subject, but shook his hand anyway.  "Anneke de Boer."

"On nuh kuh," he repeated carefully, getting a feel for the pronunciation.  "Anneke, if you don't mind me asking, what is your favourite flower?"

She heard that question often; men often assumed women liked certain kinds as a collective.  Well, he was in luck at the moment, because Anneke had plenty of her favourite in stock at the moment.  "For soft feelings of affection, tulips are best.  As with roses, the colour of choice for romance would be red.  If your intention is to pursue a Dutch girl's heart, even if her English is not good, the meaning of a red tulip is clear."

Matthew smiled, pulling out a handful of coins from one of his pockets.  "That sounds perfect; I'd like to buy one, please."

She counted out his change first, then lead him over to the tulips, pulling an attractively shaped one out of the bunch for him.  When she held it out for him to take, though, Matthew enclosed her outstretched hand between both of his, instead.

"Anneke," he said, "I hope to see you tomorrow at the town centre."  Matthew then released her hand and bowed his head slightly toward her before turning and walking back out into the street, leaving the tulip in her hand.  She stared out after him until he stepped out of sight.

She isn't sure how long she stood there, but it couldn't have been long because Emma and Luca tumbled out from behind the counter, obviously having snuck in through the back door.  "Anneke you have to go," Emma insisted, bringing her from English back to Dutch.  "He's the one who always has sweets!"

Indeed, both Emma and Luca held up hands marked with melted chocolate, but Luca looked a bit unsure.  "He wouldn't let me and my friends play in the field by the hospital yesterday, though..."

Emma tugged on his ear.  "That was because they haven't finished clearing out the land mines, Luca!  We really have to work on your English before you get blown up!"

"I'm not going to get blown up!" Luca protested with a pout, holding one hand over his ear and licking the other one clean of chocolate.

"Listen to what the soldiers tell you, Luca," Anneke said, backing up her sister, "and you will not get blown up.  The fields are too dangerous to play in, so you will have to stay in the city for now."

"Okay..." he agreed, though he still looked put out.  "I hope they get all the mines soon.  I want to go out exploring like the boys in books do.  It's not fair."

"It isn't fair," Anneke agreed, helping to placate him by acknowledging the injustice, "but it is better than before and it will continue to get better from here on out.  If business keeps up at this pace, I will be able to buy you a football in time for your birthday."

Luca's eyes opened wide  as saucers.  "Really, Anneke, really?!"  At her nod, he launched himself around her legs, burying his face in her skirt.  "Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!"

Anneke ruffled her little brother's hair with her free hand, and looked over to her sister, who thoughtfully licked her fingers.  Luca was still a boy, but Emma was well on her way to leaving childhood behind her.  Anneke suspected that she even had a good idea how she'd kept them all fed over the last year, though she'd hoped to spare her from the knowledge.  "Anneke," she said, eyes locking on the tulip, "I was just kidding about the sweets.  You know that, right?"

She wanted to find out who told her and tear a strip from their hide.  "I know, Emma."

"Still," she said, lips curling into an encouraging smile, "he's really nice, always asking us how we're doing, and I don't think he even knows we're family so it isn't just to get into your good graces.  You should go see him tomorrow.  I can look after the shop.  Luca can stay here, too, and I can help him with his English in between customers and you can have a day off and have some fun for once."

Anneke considered it.  With their father at the Allied hospital and their mother working to help care for him and the rest of the recovering townsfolk and soldiers, Emma and Luca were mostly left to run free, but maybe it was time to allow them a little more responsibility.  "If you really mean that," she decided, "then I will go."

She brought the tulip to the back room and left it on the table in a cup with sugar water so it would last longer.  When their mother returned from the hospital with their supper, she saw it, took a long breath, slowly exhaled, and once she was done, looked more at ease than she had since the occupation began.  Anneke brought up the football idea before she could ask.

The upper ranks of the Allied military were supposed to discourage romantic relations between their soldiers and the civilians they protected, but such regulations were doomed from the start.  Young people were drawn to excitement no matter what their elders had to say about it, and while Anneke considered herself an exception to the rule, she still liked to see people around her having fun.  In the weeks following liberation, the most exciting thing was to meet the Canadian soldiers, and it was inevitable that romance would result.  She profited from it directly, and swiftly heard about the unsanctioned social gatherings in the town centre.  Someone would bring a radio and everyone in attendance would drink and dance.  The generals could not dictate where the troops spent their off duty hours and forbidding contact with the locals would lower morale, so many of them were in attendance and flirted with the girls who came to see them in open defiance of military policy.  It had only been a few weeks and already there were at least a dozen couples dancing, clearly besotted with one another.  She wished them well.

Matthew found her quickly.  There were not many Dutch girls with short hair willing to walk the streets these days, so she stuck out like a sore thumb.  "Anneke," he said, "I'm glad you're here.  Would you like to dance?"

It would be easier to talk to him in motion rather than awkwardly standing off to the side, leaving them vulnerable to eavesdroppers.  "Yes," she said, raising her arms and inviting him to step toward her, allowing him to take one hand in his, settling the other on her waist while she rested hers on his shoulder.  Up close, she realized they were either the same height or very close to it and his eyes were a very peculiar pale blue that seemed to shine violet in the light.

"Thank you for coming, Anneke," he said, once they'd found their rhythm.  "I've been wanting to meet you for a while now."

That was the thing she was the most curious about.  How did he know her?  She avoided the streets as much as possible and yesterday had been his first time visiting the flower shop, so when had he developed an interest in her?  Well, all she had to do was ask.  "I'm a little confused how I managed to make such a strong impression, given I've been keeping to myself lately."

"Yes, I've noticed," he agreed, smiling faintly.  "I'd have thought I would have run into you before now, but I ended up having to ask around to find you again.  I'm not surprised you didn't notice me back then in the crowd.  I was one of several soldiers assigned to the area to prevent any violence from breaking out."  So that was it.  She really should have guessed, but that still didn't explain his interest in her.  "I have a pretty good idea of what you said back then, but I wanted to know for sure.  Would you be willing to translate it into English for me?"  He made a good effort of repeating the Dutch phrase that must have echoed in his mind for the past week.

Matthew could have asked almost anyone in town.  He could have asked her yesterday, too, if it mattered that much to him, but maybe he had noticed her siblings spying on them.  Or maybe going in such a roundabout way was a Canadian custom.  Whatever the case, she had no reason to not answer.  He'd either like it or hate it and if it disturbed him the worst result would only be her mother's disappointment.  "In English, what I said was 'I will not be shamed for the things I have done to protect my family'."

His eyes closed for a moment as his lips curved further upward, likely focusing on matching the words to his memory.  "Yeah," he said, softly, "that was the feeling I got."  An odd pressure began to form in her chest as he opened his eyes again.  "Anneke, I've yet to meet a woman quite so resilient as you.  You're amazing; I hope you know that."

Anneke wasn't quite sure how to respond, so she didn't, and continued to dance with him.  When she didn't excuse herself as the first song ended and the next one began, Matthew took it as a sign to restart the conversation and they began to introduce more of themselves to each other.  As the afternoon wore on and Matthew's remaining off duty hours ran low, they agreed to meet each other again (and again and again...)

It was months later, after her father returned from the hospital, that the other shoe dropped.  Her mother had told him all about Matthew and he'd pried what information he could from Anneke when she closed the shop on Sundays to take Emma and Luca to see him.  He insisted that she invite him over for dinner at the first opportunity and she indulged him.  Matthew had already met her mother and siblings several times and got along with them well, especially as he insisted upon washing the dishes himself after meals, but he was nervous about meeting her father.  She gently teased him for worrying about nothing, but that was before she learned what they quietly discussed together when her father pulled him outside to talk over a few cigarettes.

"He's going to propose to you, soon," her father explained after Matthew left, knowing how much she hated surprises.  "I think you should accept."

"Father--" she started to protest, but he was having none of it, reaching out to grasp her hand and squeeze it tight.

"Anneke, the sacrifices you have made for this family are far over and beyond what any father would expect from their child.  You see me, here, a mere fraction of the man I used to be, unable to provide for you a future that does not involve you toiling away without a passing thought toward your own happiness.  I did not even have to meet Matthew to see that you care for him more than you would admit, but I did wish to see him and verify that he felt the same.  I'm sure you clearly remember the day that Luca was brought to us, but I never imagined I would understand the depths of his father's desperation and anguish.  He could not provide a life for his child, and so brought him here to us.  I cannot give you the future you deserve, and so I ask you now to go with Matthew and live your life as you wish.  That is all I can do for you, my darling child."

She forced the words out of her throat, tight with emotion.  "Father, I cannot leave you and Mother to raise Emma and Luca alone.  You still need me here.  You can't have me leave you this way.  How am I to help from halfway across the world?"

"Emma is nearly as old as you were at the start of the occupation," her father reasoned with her.  "It is her turn, now, to step into the responsibility you will be leaving behind.  She will spend a few years running the flower shop with your mother and I supporting her in every way we can, and once she reaches your age, she, too, will leave us to pursue her own happiness, and so it will go on with Luca after her.  It is my fondest desire as a father to see my children more successful than I was during the height of my career.   You know this, Anneke."

"Yes," she was forced to admit, eyes beginning to burn.  He'd told her many times over the course of her life.

"You will not be leaving us so soon," he assured her.  "The mission is far from over.  I expect the soldiers to stay for many months to come, but Matthews tour will expire soon enough and when it does, his government will be all but forced to take his wife back with him.  Until then, we will enjoy the time we have left together."

Her father, hunched over his cane, stood shorter than her.  It was the first time an embrace between them had her chin resting atop his head rather than vice versa.

The proposal had been simple, the ceremony had been small, and the honeymoon limited to a one night stay at the nicest hotel in the city, but it suited them both just fine.  Life continued on as before, but Matthew was unable to stay in her company for longer and longer stretches of time until he was finally relieved of his duties and sent back to Canada.  Her own voyage was postponed until much later, all sorts of bureaucratic nonsense to be done as governments worked together to organise the travel details of tens of thousands of war brides.  During their separation, they wrote letters often, the latest of which detailed Matthew's efforts to build a house for them on his parents' property and how he planned to prepare several flower beds out front and back just for her.  She hadn't even had to ask.

The ship was filled to the brim of women and children borne to them over the course of the war.  Most of them boarded in Great Britain because that was where most Canadian servicemen had spent at least a portion of their time in Europe.  She got along with the rest of the women well enough, but after a time, she'd gotten weary of the noise in the larger gathering areas and made her way to a more secluded area on the upper deck, where she would spend the majority of her time aboard.  Something about the open air and sea breeze just felt right.  If people were reborn into new lives after passing on, then she must have been a sailor in a past life.

She found her brother-in-law, Arthur Kirkland, leaning against the railing shortly after the stop in Great Britain.  She wasn't surprised to see him in a surly mood--British men were proud, just like most men everywhere, and he didn't take kindly to being teased as a 'male war bride'.

Anneke leaned on the railing beside him, recognising him on sight from the description Matthew had provided.  Arthur had met and married her husband's sister back in Canada before Matthew had been deployed, as it had been one of the safest places on Earth for Commonwealth airmen to be trained.  She'd been warned about his height but she was still surprised that the British Airforce allowed him to become a pilot.

Arthur glanced over at her and said, "Well, you may as well bloody get it over with," as he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, lighting up without another word.

"I'm Anneke," she said instead of teasing him as he expected.  "I'm making the assumption that you're Arthur Kirkland?"

He seemed surprised, nearly dropping his cigarette, obviously having refrained from introducing himself to anyone on board as of yet.  "And how would you know that?" he asked, suspicious, looking as though he half expected an assassination attempt.

"Because I am Matthew's wife?" she asked in confusion.  He was supposed to have known that they would be on the ship together, but clearly, he did not.

"Damn it, Amelia..." Arthur grit out, the pieces falling into place.  "The worst part is that I have no idea if she forgot to mention it or did this on purpose just to vex me."  He took a long drag of his cigarette, then took it out of his mouth and extended his free hand to shake hers.  "Arthur Kirkland at your service.  It'll be good to have some sane company on board; can't see Matthew going for anyone without a lick of sense.  Should have married him myself."

She was surprised enough by the joke to stifle a laugh, and Arthur allowed himself a satisfied smirk as she replied.  "I heard from Matthew that Amelia could be a handful at times.  Best of luck to you," she wished him.

"I'll need all of that I can get," he griped, then sighed, casting his gaze over the side of the ship.  "God, I miss that woman.  Having to go back to England for years without her was almost unbearable, but at least I could be sure she was safe.  My family lost everything in the blitz and were scattered to the four winds; I'm sure you have the general idea, being Dutch.  You know, I had the honour of flying some of the Operation Manna missions.  We had to fly so low I could make out individual people dancing in the street."

So he had placed her accent after all.  "I imagine it was quite different, flying a bomber to save lives rather than take them."

He smiled again.  "I have to say, it was one of just a handful of reasons why I was glad to have chosen the Royal Air Force over the navy."

Ships were as British as tulips were Dutch.  "Why didn't you join the navy, Arthur?"  He seemed to be enjoying himself on the sea.

Arthur used an arm to indicate his entire body.  "They would have taken one look at me before folding me into a suitcase and loading me onto a submarine with the rest of the sardines.  There was no way I was going to risk getting on one of those deathtraps when what I really wanted was, well, this.  The fresh open air, the salty spray, the freedom of an endless expanse of ocean...  Hah, at least piloting a bomber meant a bit of time here and there on aircraft carriers."

She was glad that he mentioned his size first so she could likely escape his ire if anything unwise slipped out of her mouth.  Anneke wasn't used to being around men so much shorter than herself.  "I see," she replied.  She would have felt claustrophobic, too, crammed into small spaces with strangers, though it hadn't been so bad sharing small spaces with family.  "Had I the choice, I may have preferred to spend my life aboard a ship like this one," she said, wistful.

"Why not?" Arthur wondered.  "If the lad liked you enough to ship you across the Atlantic, I doubt he'd be opposed to giving the sea life a shot."

It was Anneke's turn to smile.  "Unfortunately for my sea legs, I fell in love with flowers first."  There was no person on Earth able to get everything they wanted, but she could enjoy this part of the journey while it lasted.  That really was all that anyone could do.

Anneke and Arthur got along so well they were nearly siblings as heart by the time they disembarked, having enjoyed the voyage and explored the ship in mutual interest.  Unfortunately, the train was another story, the jarring motion of the rails putting them both on edge to the point that they could barely stand the sight of each other after a few hours.  Even worse, there were still several hours left to go.  The sheer size of Canada was almost unfathomable to both of them; the whole of Europe could easily be set inside with room to spare.

They were very nearly the last few off the train.  The moment they stepped out onto the platform they instantly began to feel better, and Anneke's eyes locked onto the western horizon in wonder, having never seen anything quite as spectacular as the mountain range in the distance.  "Would you look at that..." she mumbled, amazed.

Arthur was a bit more used to the sight.  "I'll bet you haven't seen much more than gently rolling hills before, back in the lowlands."

"No bet," she replied, since he would win hand's down, and dragged her eyes away.  "Did we arrive on schedule?  I half expected Amelia to tackle you straight out the door from all you've said about her."

He looked down at his pocket watch to check, and therefore completely missed seeing his wife barrel toward him.  "Artie!!!" she called out, and he looked up just in time to yell in outrage as she grabbed him around the middle and raised him over her head.  Even Amelia had a few inches on the poor man and Anneke held back a chuckle for the sake of his pride already under fire as she began scanning the crowd for her husband, who couldn't be far behind.

"Anneke," he said, approaching from the side, and she turned to see him.  He looked just as handsome out of uniform, and just as happy as he had been on their wedding day.  After a long moment of ignoring the loud struggle beside them, they stepped forward to meet in the middle of their stride, reaching forward to lay a hand upon each other's face, drawing themselves in for a long awaited kiss that slowly transformed into a full embrace as they sought to pull each other even closer, their heads tucking into the curves of the other's neck, taking in the familiar scents they'd missed so much.  "How was the trip?"

"Exhausting," she complained without a hint of exasperation.  "Please tell me the farm is a stone's throw away at the most."

"I'm so sorry," Matthew replied, contrite.  "There's still a few hours of driving to get there."  Anneke moaned in horror directly against his shoulder, and he tried to comfort her.  "I'll drive as smoothly as possible so you and Arthur can sleep, I promise."

"I'm in the back seat with Artie!" Amelia declared.

"You'll be up front with me so Arthur can rest," Matthew overruled.

Amelia howled in indignity.  "Mattie, I haven't seen Artie in years!  You can't do this to me!"

Matthew pulled back from Anneke and turned them both to face his sister and Arthur, who had freed himself from his wife's manhandling but looked nearly ready to give up the ghost.  "Anneke, this is my twin sister, Amelia.  Amelia, this is Anneke, my wife."

"Don't just ignore me, Mattie!" Amelia complained, but shook Anneke's hand anyway.  "Hey there, Annie, I'm sure we'll get along great as long as you aren't half the spoilsport my brother is."

"Oh, for God's sake, Amelia," Arthur said, finally at his limit.  "Calm down a tad, would you?  Let me rest a bit now and I'll give you my full attention once we arrive."

"You have a deal, mister!" Amelia accepted, then leaned in close to Anneke.  "I'm not gonna let him leave my room for a week."

"Amelia!" Matthew and Arthur protested in sync.  Her sister-in-law wasn't very good at whispering.

Matthew and Amelia's parents were good, hardworking people; farmers born from farmers.  They grew crops rather than flowers, but they were interested in her expertise.  In time, they might be willing to allow her a portion of the land to grow a few varieties to sell.  It would be wonderful if she could open up a flower shop one day.  She'd been told the winters could be brutal, though, so she'd have to look into building a sturdy greenhouse.  Before that, though, there was something else far more important to put their savings towards.

She was taken for a tour of their home-in-progress.  Until it was finished, they would be using Matthew's old room in his parents' house, but that was fine--it wasn't much smaller than the storeroom back in the Netherlands and didn't have to double as a kitchen.  The new house, on the other hand, would be much bigger--possibly even bigger than the house she'd grown up in.  They would have enough room for both them and Amelia and Arthur to stay until they settled upon their own plan.  There were a few possibilities between moving south to America or living full time at an air base, but the only thing they knew for sure as of yet was that they had no interest in taking over the farm, which was perfect, because she and Matthew would be happy to have it.

"Once Amelia and Arthur move on, your parents can move into the secondary master bedroom--theirs and ours will be on opposite ends of the house for as much privacy as possible.  The kids' bedrooms will all be upstairs; Emma and Luca will have great big windows to see all the way out into the field and plenty of space they can use to store whatever catches their fancy in town.  There'll be a few extra rooms we can use for storage at first; we can clear them out once we decide on when to start trying for kids of our own, but until they're big enough for their own space, we'll have the nursery in the room right next to ours.  I've plotted out the gardens, too, you see there?  It'll be great to see tulips popping up everywhere in spring like they did in the Netherlands."

If there was no such thing as perfection, this was pretty damn close.  Anneke looked over the properly with a smile, squeezing Matthew's hand tight as she turned to regard the vast open field untouched by conventional warfare.  "Luca is going to love it here."

[Notes: I hope I did nyo!Netherlands justice here; I waffled on whether or not to write her smoking, but in the end, I decided the timing didn’t work; tobacco would have been rationed around the time she would be considered old enough to smoke and she would have spent what little money she had on necessities instead.  Once she gets her family all together again, she might get into the habit, but not before.

I felt a little odd about mostly putting the romance on the backburner, but I felt it was more important to visit all aspects of Anneke’s life, journey, and development.  I might write a few drabbles in the future set in this AU to help flesh out their love story a bit more.]