House of Wolves [Denmark x Reader]

Chapter 1 And It All Came Crashing Down

{Your POV}

You woke up in a hard bed. Thin white sheets were pulled up close around you. You sat up, but gentle hands pushed you back down. You looked up, and Tino was looking down at you, smiling. "Good morning!" He said cheerily.
"Finland, it's pitch black out." You said.
"Still."
You laughed slightly and shook your head. "Where am I, anyways?"
"My place." He said, sitting back. "Oh, let me turn on a light." He reached over and flicked on a lamp, and it quickly illuminated the room, revealing wooden floors and walls. The room had a single window on the other side, and a door to your right. It reminded you of a log cabin Canada had taken you and Ontario to when you were younger.
Canada...
You bit back a cry. Hours ago, you were at Canada's house, when Germany and 'friends' had bombed you, causing half the house to cave in on itself. Canada had found some maple syrup and ate it, but it had been tampered with, causing him to go psycho. His twin, America, had no other choice but to use one of the only guns available and shoot him.
    Finland noticed your sad expression. "Oh, Y/N..." He said.
    "Is, is he..." You trailed off, not wanting to say the word.
    Finland nodded. "I'm sorry, Québec."
    You sat up. "It's okay." A lump formed in your throat, and you tried to push it down.
    "Sweden's on his way back for Denmark and the others." Finland said, trying to shine a bright light (and not the lamp) on the situation.
    But Finland could tell you that everyone was alive and well and everyone had accomplished world peace, and you would still be sad. Your brother just died, and you just sat and watched as you were airlifted to safety.
    "It's all my fault." You said.
    "Oh, Y/N, don't say that. It was best for him; you saw him. It's what he would've wanted."
    "It still hurts." You looked down into your lap, playing with your red die.
    When you were younger, you and England had worked on a red die. It was enchanted, so depending on what number you rolled, you got a weapon. The die was pretty good at reading the atmosphere; it never failed to give you a weapon best fitting for your situation.
    "Of course it does." Finland said. "That's normal. But you have to think of what Canada would want. He wouldn't want you to sit around and mope all day. He'd want you to get out there and do something."
    "When all this is over, he'd want me to do something. He'd want me to be happy."
    "When all this is over." Finland repeated. He swallowed. "Hopefully soon."
    You laughed. "Fin, it hasn't even properly started yet."
    He looked at you and smiled, a mischievous smile masked and covered with sweetness and innocence. "Oh, Y/N. I'm sure all those big scary countries have learned not to bomb me."
    You smiled and shook your head, looking back down at your hands. "What'd you do?"
    "I almost wiped them all out, but Mr. Sweden took away the good weapons." Finland frowned, and you laughed again.
    "Does this place have any food? I'm starving."
    "I have cookies!"
    "'Course you do."

~Time skip brought to you by time skips~

    You stood outside of the log building, that was actually much larger and complex than expected.
    Finland stood beside you, holding onto his hat, while you shielded the Finnish sun from your eyes and your long, brown hair from blowing into your face due to the wind from the incoming helicopter.
    The two of you stepped back further and covered your ears as the chopper came in for landing, and a door opened, and a sashaying France came out, running to the side and throwing up in some bushes.
    "Awe." Finland said. "I just planted those."
     Next emerged England, who collapsed on the hard ground. "I'm never flying again." He muttered into the grass and you laughed.
    America stepped out. He had his arms wrapped around himself, and all colour was gone from his face. He looked more like he'd just been shot, rather than just shooting his brother. He sank to the ground next to England (who was spitting dirt out of his mouth) and brought his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his knee caps.
    Then, Denmark fell out of the helicopter. Literally fell; he missed the last step and tumbled out. He yelled "I'm so done with today!" into the ground, before standing up and wiping dirt and grass from his face and pants.
    He turned around and saw you, and smiled. "Québec."
    You ran towards him. "Denmark!" You cried. He was okay. Everyone was okay.
    He opened his arms for you, and you ran into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him. You moved one of your hands to his cheek, holding his face, and he wrapped his arms around your waist.
    You then felt a wet, cold, thick substance hit your hand, and you pulled away, looking at your hand.
    Blood.
    Blood was on your hand. You looked up at Denmark, and blood was trickling down his face.
    You ripped another piece of fabric from your shirt, and used that to wipe the blood away. You had ripped the first piece earlier to clean up America's face from when Canada had clawed him.
    You continued to wipe the blood away from his face, Denmark averting your concerned gaze. You wiped the blood away all the way up to his forehead, where a gash started from the centre of his forehead and tracing down to near his ear. It was close to his hairline, and dried blood was caked into his blonde hair, making it look somewhat auburn.
    "Oh, Denmark." You said, gently tracing this gash with the cloth. He winced. "What happened?"
    "It's nothing." He said, pushing your hand away. "I'm fine."
    "Denmark, you're bleeding." You retaliated.
    "We ran into some trouble after you left, that's all."
    You sighed. You knew you weren't going to get much out of him. He was stubborn, after all. He could be in a full body cast and still say he was fine.
    You turned around. "Finland, take Denmark inside, please." He nodded, and ran over while Sweden stepped out of the helicopter, and Fin muttered a small 'one minute' and veered off course to Sweden, wrapping his arms around the Swedish man's waist. Sweden patted him on the back, stopping over and kissing him on the top of the head. Finland then let go and went over to Denmark, struggling to see the gash on his forehead.
    You then went over and knelt in front of England.
    "Hey." You said. "You okay?"
    He sighed and sat back, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, no." He titled, showing you a small gash on his side, as if someone had taken a sword and hit him in the side with it.
    It was small and it wasn't deep, but it still bled a lot.
    "Does it hurt?" You asked, and he shook his head. "Go inside anyways, you'll need to get it cleaned and some bandages."
    He nodded and stood up. "I'm glad you're okay." He smiled at you.
    You stood up. "Yeah, well, you're not. Inside. Now."
    England walked inside, and you looked over to France, who was still throwing up in the bushes. Sweden had circled to the back of the helicopter, so you couldn't see him. You looked down at America, and the closer you looked, you noticed he was shaking slightly. You had the feeling that it wasn't because he was cold. You knelt back down.
    "Alfred." You said, and he looked up. "Are you okay?"
    He shook his head. "He's dead, Québec. And it's my fault. I'm supposed to be the hero, but some hero I am."
    "Don't think like that, Alfie. Wha-"
    "Don't call me that." He cut you off.
    Canada had originally come up with the nickname, so you figured it was probably a sore spot for him right now.
    "Okay, America. But still, don't think like that. What would Canada want? For you to sit around and mope? No." You said, thinking of what Finland had told you earlier.
    He looked up at you. "But I..." He trailed off. "Québec, you don't understand. No one does. I just can't move on like the rest of you. You didn't know him like I did! He didn't deserve it, not him. He was innocent, but yet, I shot him, I did it, it's my fault. It's all my fault, just like everything else!"
    "America." You said. "Would you rather have him alive and in pain and unhappy, or dead and well and happy? America, he's okay now, he's in a bett-"
    "I don't want to hear that. It's not a better place. Don't guilt me into thinking it is. Because it's not."
    You shifted so you sat on the ground beside him, and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him. But he jumped, wincing, and cried out in pain.
    You pulled your arms away, and on your arm that touched his back was more blood. You turned around to look at your brother's back, and a deep, large gash that started at his right shoulder and traced across to his left hip was there. It was deep, very deep, as his jacket was soaked through with blood and ripped apart.
    "America." You said. What happened back there?
    He pushed you away, harder then he probably intended, and you fell back.
    When you pushed yourself back up, America was sobbing into his lap. You had never seen him this distressed before, and it set you on edge.
    "It's my fault!" He said. "Everyone's either hurt or dead because of me!" He said the word dead with more force then the rest.
    "America, it's not all your fault, okay? Don't blame yourself for everything." You told him. He looked at you, tears in his eyes.
    "But what if it is?"