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valmora"incentivization" - <500 words, america and canada in a diner on 7 december 1941 (North America time). gen except for two period ethnic slurs. characters not mine and no money made.
wishing you a memorable 8 december japan time.
“So,” America says, leaning his elbows further on the table and dragging on his cigarette. Canada wishes he had one, but he’s too proud to ask and it wouldn’t make him happy, anyway; the boys who want them are in Europe.
“So?” Canada repeats.
“I’ve been thinking that I oughta check less at the –” and his face goes pale right before he screams, cuts off his own voice with a snap of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.
The other people in the diner look over, frowning, and then look away when America doesn’t move, hands clenched on the edge of the table. Canada wonders if it’ll snap.
“Don’t look,” America grits out, “but I think my left leg is bleeding.”
Canada looks anyway. It is. There’s a growing bloodstain seeping through America’s khaki trouser leg right over his knee. “You’re going to need help walking.”
“You bet I’m not.” He stands, somehow, but his face turns green. “Iron supplements,” America mutters, mostly to himself, then, “Remind me when I’m bandaged up. Iron supplements.”
“How can you – ” Canada starts.
America laughs, too loudly, and shouts over at the waitress behind the counter, “I’m gonna use your pay phone, hey?”
“Sure, honey,” she says, not looking over. America hobbles to the phone booth; Canada stands next to him and touches the edges of the bandage on his own arm, wondering what happened. If it’s worse, or better, than his boys on the battlefields in the name of Britain and the Commonwealth.
“Hey, I’m making a collect call to –” America rattles off a phone number, then waits. Says his legal name, not his real one. Grins, but it’s more like a grimace.
“My knee just feels like it got the Lusitania,” he says. “What happened?”
A long silence. His smile disappears, slowly, by stages, draining off his face. His trouser leg is getting increasingly red as the blood trails down.
After thirty seconds America slams his fist into the side of the booth. “That yellow bastard,” he snarls, and Canada doesn’t know –
“What happened?” he asks. America grabs a pen out of his pocket and writes on a scrap of paper left next to the phone, japs pearl harbor naval losses
Canada swears, spares a moment to think of Malaya and Hong Kong, then grabs the phone out of America’s hands. “Sorry, Canada here, I’m going to hang up because your Nation is bleeding and needs bandages.” He hangs up. America frowns at him.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“I did. People are starting to stare.”
“Ignore ‘em. I’m at war.” America sounds triumphant, but his hands shake and he needs Canada's shoulder to walk as they leave.
wishing you a memorable 8 december japan time.
“So,” America says, leaning his elbows further on the table and dragging on his cigarette. Canada wishes he had one, but he’s too proud to ask and it wouldn’t make him happy, anyway; the boys who want them are in Europe.
“So?” Canada repeats.
“I’ve been thinking that I oughta check less at the –” and his face goes pale right before he screams, cuts off his own voice with a snap of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.
The other people in the diner look over, frowning, and then look away when America doesn’t move, hands clenched on the edge of the table. Canada wonders if it’ll snap.
“Don’t look,” America grits out, “but I think my left leg is bleeding.”
Canada looks anyway. It is. There’s a growing bloodstain seeping through America’s khaki trouser leg right over his knee. “You’re going to need help walking.”
“You bet I’m not.” He stands, somehow, but his face turns green. “Iron supplements,” America mutters, mostly to himself, then, “Remind me when I’m bandaged up. Iron supplements.”
“How can you – ” Canada starts.
America laughs, too loudly, and shouts over at the waitress behind the counter, “I’m gonna use your pay phone, hey?”
“Sure, honey,” she says, not looking over. America hobbles to the phone booth; Canada stands next to him and touches the edges of the bandage on his own arm, wondering what happened. If it’s worse, or better, than his boys on the battlefields in the name of Britain and the Commonwealth.
“Hey, I’m making a collect call to –” America rattles off a phone number, then waits. Says his legal name, not his real one. Grins, but it’s more like a grimace.
“My knee just feels like it got the Lusitania,” he says. “What happened?”
A long silence. His smile disappears, slowly, by stages, draining off his face. His trouser leg is getting increasingly red as the blood trails down.
After thirty seconds America slams his fist into the side of the booth. “That yellow bastard,” he snarls, and Canada doesn’t know –
“What happened?” he asks. America grabs a pen out of his pocket and writes on a scrap of paper left next to the phone, japs pearl harbor naval losses
Canada swears, spares a moment to think of Malaya and Hong Kong, then grabs the phone out of America’s hands. “Sorry, Canada here, I’m going to hang up because your Nation is bleeding and needs bandages.” He hangs up. America frowns at him.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“I did. People are starting to stare.”
“Ignore ‘em. I’m at war.” America sounds triumphant, but his hands shake and he needs Canada's shoulder to walk as they leave.
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Date: 2009-12-08 02:27 pm (UTC)