Wrong Side


England had a gentlemanly need.

He wanted to protect those who were near and dear to him. Often being on the receiving end of a beating, he felt a great desire to shield the others he cared about.

America's existence was painful.

He had been ecstatic to be the caretaker of such a little, adorable colony—although, even he would admit he'd been wary. Taking the position of caretaker also meant being horribly responsibly for any failure.

Then the wanker had to go and declare independence. Also it didn't help that he became a ridiculously strong brute that needed England's shielding no more than a cat needed a canary as bodyguard.

It hurt. Damnit, it hurt.

The scrapes on his arms and legs were nothing to England. The only thing on his mind was the heavy, larger body covering his—protecting him.

A mop of blond hair shifted, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. A splotch of blood hideously dripped from a stained hairline.

"England, you forgot that here we drive on the right side of the road again?"

He was not crying! He was not!

Bloody git.


Notes: A little 'breaking into the fandom' ficlet. According to the web, England drives on the left side (at least in some areas). I don't know how much to believe the web, but until someone tells me that's incorrect, I'll believe it to be true. Just assume England had a moment of blanking on this—it happens to the best of us. Also, if you couldn't tell, America tackled England out of the way of an oncoming car. I don't own Hetalia, this was written for fun.