We'll Cross That Bridge When We Get To It

Black Clouds Loom Overhead

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Thus some characters may be OOC

London, England: November 11, 1918

Soft panting was the only sound that could be heard throughout the empty park as the woman slowed her pace to one of leisure. Her chocolate ankle-height boots connecting softly with the ground beneath her. The hard-concrete pushing back against her aching feet helping to calm her erratic heartbeat and center the spinning world around her. Where was she heading? That hadn't been of concern to her when she had spat the words at him.

"Out." She growled at her adoptive father; eyes aflame. England's aggressive stance instantly deflated at the pure disdain woven into that singular word. Without even waiting for him to so much as stammer a half-wit reply to her words, she left. There wasn't a single string of words in the English language he could have strung together that would have mended his fuck-up.

Canada did a quick one-eighty on her heels, relishing the way her long skirt flowed through the movement along with her. Taking a shaky deep breath, she firmly planted her feet on the cold ground and let her head fall back until it lay near perpendicular to the dark sky above her. Closing her eyes, Canada forced herself to unclench her palms and relax her tense shoulders. 'Relax, Madeline, relax' was the mantra she repeated seemingly endlessly as she rolled the appendages within their sockets. The seconds drifted into minutes as she thought of nothing but letting go.

Pale eyelids slowly opened. Letting loose a steady and deep sigh, she narrowed tired eyes at the path before her as she resumed her quick-paced stroll through the park. Thick black clouds inched ever closer overhead; however, Canada took no heed of the danger those clouds promised. Instead, the strawberry blonde's focus was directed at the memories of the fight she'd just ran from.

It was ironic really, it should have been a night of celebration, of joy. But leave it to England to ruin a perfectly good evening with an argument. Now, she knew of a few people that might have argued that the evening had already been ruined by being forced to spend the night at home. But the fact of the matter was that Canada had actually been grateful for England's clipped proclamation of, "Get in the car, we're heading home."

The past four years spent in trench warfare had taken quite a toll on her sanity. She found herself constantly on edge, as though this peace wouldn't last, and she'd suddenly be thrown back into the muck of the trenches. Where gunfire and the wails of the damned were suffocating. That gnawing gut-wrenching feeling had been the very reason she'd been unable to tear her eyes away from her younger siblings for more than a moment. Terrified something horrible would befall them the second she wasn't watching.

She hadn't missed the way England's piercing emerald eyes kept coming back to herself and her adoptive siblings. To anyone else, England might have looked confident and threatening, if not predatory. Despite being dulled slightly by disinterest, as though this meeting was below him, those watchful sharp eyes gave him the appearance of a lion waiting to strike. But Canada knew him better than that, he had always been able to ooze confidence and power even when he wasn't in as much control as he wanted one to think. Having lived with him as long as she had, she could read him like a book. Could see what others could not.

His rough hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly they shook. His back painfully straight without the chair's support. The way he looked about ready to jump into action at the drop of a pin. At the time she'd wanted nothing more than to gently lay her hands over his and stop their shaking and tell him that she felt it too, that she would never leave him, and she would help him work through whatever was bothering him 'so can you please let the creases on your forehead smooth? I'm right here, by your side.'