Misreported and Misremembered

characters to Himaruya (sort of), title sort of from a Nixon quote
warnings for: misinterpretation of historical facts, complete crack pairing, angstyness, etc


In the beginning, America's looking at him with these big blue eyes and England's not meeting his eye and New Zealand has already let out a resigned sigh –

"30 men, mates. But that's it."

He doesn't want to think about the rather pretty Asian girl that America is going on about, because this isn't even his problem – he has other things to worry about, like that ballet thing and his squash game and he was pretty sure Marty the Koala was getting a cold.

No time at all for America's stupid wars.


He actually sees her for the first time on August third – sometime in between noticing there weren't any eucalyptus trees around these parts and hearing about Will's new baby girl, there is a slim woman in a green uniform, watching them get off the plane.

Australia gives her a quick wink and a salute, but she ignores him.


She doesn't ignore him when that Sergeant gets his weapon caught in her damn rice paddies and accidentally shoots himself.

No, while he's mourning his fallen countryman, she's laughing to herself and calling him "even more pathetic than that American bastard."


She hits him, hard, on the nose.

It stings quite a bit.

But her eyes are still very big and warm and brown. Sort of like a koala.

Pretty, sweet. Innocent.

He has green eyes. Pretty, he supposes. In a manly way.

But not nearly as pretty as hers.


He and America and New Zealand are sitting are marching through the jungle sometime in January – America still hurt over the Kennedy thing and back from a visit with his new president, is whining about the bipolar fucking weather.

Australia and New Zealand are trying to ignore him – or Australia is, New Zealand is using his knife to carve a sheep out of a piece of scrap wood, so he's obviously succeeded.

And then there's a fuck of a lot of loud explosions and he wakes up in a very white room, with a quickly scribbled card from his prime minister.


He sends a few more soldiers.


"It's hot." America whines and England scolds him about something or other and France makes some pervy joke about "what else is hot."

Australia plops a hat on his head and another to protect New Zealand, because the kid burns easily.

The weather is kind of hell, anyway.


It's almost like the entire war is some kind of joke – "An Australian, a little kid from New Zealand, an Englishman, and a blonde American walk into a bar with a crazy Vietnamese girl and they all start to point guns at each other."

There's not really a good punch line for that one, though.

Maybe he'll come up with something.


"Hey Viet –"

America is stopped before he can even get half a sentence off, his nose turned into some kind of bloody mass.

Australia should probably help, but instead he just chuckled a bit.


Sometimes she fights alongside him and other time she's hitting him over the head with a rice paddle or he's staring into the barrel of her gun and other times he finds her kneeling on the dirt, coughing up blood all over her precious rice paddies.

He rubs her back for a little while, and manages to get some water into her. Because yeah, his forehead is still bruised from the last time they met, but England taught him to be chivalrous and you can't just ignore a sick girl.

He's not that idiot Yank though, and he knows it'd be stupid to ask if she's okay when she's so obviously not.

"I hate America."

He wonders if she's referring to that new order the president gave, or just in general.

And instead of asking, because he was raised by England, of course he's going to be socially fucking awkward, he offers her more water and tells her a very stupid story about kookaburras.

"I don't like you very much either."

And then she's standing up, whacking him on the nose for good measure, and walking away.


"I think I'm in love."

New Zealand, instead of replying, continues to pat his sheep.

The smaller boy steps on his face on the way out and Australia can't help but think that his nose has suffered a lot of abuse this year.


"Sometimes – I don't even know which side I'm supposed to be fighting for."

Australia wants to say something to that, something that will make her eyes go all bright and make her stop twisting her ponytail around like that, something that will wash the blood stains out of ao dai and make her straw hat – he still hasn't learned what they're called – look less ragged…

But he's never been very eloquent with words, so instead he wraps his hand around hers and stands there with her.

It's all he can do.



That and send a few more soldiers.


He goes home for Wheatley's and Swanston's funeral. He remembers Dasher – all bright eyes and thick shoulders, loyal to the end.

Australia thinks he deserved more than death and a shiny little medal, but he dresses in black anyway and sits next to his wife and children at the funeral.

It smells like eucalyptus and sunlight – he missed that smell.


He finds her, first thing, when he gets back.

She's holding a gun and aiming it right at America's head.

He looks at her through all the explosions and all the jungle – still not one damn eucalyptus tree – and all he sees is a war torn little doll with bright, bright eyes.

And he's a little sick of this war.


Later, she's sitting in some camp with some bowl of soup – weak brown color, with noodles and some kind of green thing.

Vietnam offers him some, almost like she's apologizing.

He takes a bite, but it's nothing compared to some good shrimp and maybe some raspberries or a good wine.


An apology is an apology.


America offers no such apology.

He finds his cousin of sorts playing ping pong with some other soldiers.

The blonde is losing, and Australia takes over for the winner.

"Hey, mate. You okay?"

America reacts as if he didn't have a gun pressed to his head only two days.

"Of course! Man, me and Viet were just joking around."

"She hates when you call her that."

"Nah, that's just her jokin' around. You can totally tell."

Australia rolls his eyes and drops the paddle.

He's sort of done with these stupid games.


The postcard from back home is from his new prime minister, who he really should go home and meet, and it's a lot of long and flowery language –

The thing about "anti-war demonstrations" and "arrest" catches his eye.


"America – do you ever think we might not win this thing?"

"Jackie-boy! That's a stupid question. We're the heroes here, so of course we're gonna win."

Before he can even mutter something about how he really hates the name "Jackie-boy," America and his stupid blue eyes are gone.


It's finally cooler around November, and he'd like to enjoy it, except that he's being drowned in fifty billion gallons of water.

He throws his hat away because it's practically disintegrating.


He loses 15 men in the Battle of Coral.

The enemy (whoever they are – he's not sure anyone knows) lost more than 100, so it's kind of like a victory.

He himself got a shard of shrapnel in the leg and America's head is bleeding and New Zealand got a broken nose –

He doesn't even want to know how bad Vietnam is, though. Her and her pretty eyes.


America has this crazed look in his eyes when he marches back to the camp.

He's coated in blood.

"The fuck – what the hell happened?" He asks, jumping up from the fire he was trying to start in the pouring rain.

"Nothing." The blonde muttered.


"It was a fucking massacre." Vietnam hissed. "450 – unarmed… Women and children –"

She's pointing a gun at America again.

"It wasn't that bad, Viet. I really think you're over reacting –"

Australia flinches at the sound of the gunshot.


He goes home again, back to his sun soaked streets and warm beaches and bright flowers and okay, he can't help but notice that sometimes, when he sees a particularly red one, he flinches like it's blood.


It's nice to be home.

Most of the people want him there, apparently. 55% of them. And there are protests in Melbourne and Sydney and everywhere else, people crawling through the streets and screaming for him to leave the girl with the pretty, bright eyes.

They're all sick of the war – just like him.


But then he goes back and he sees her, coughing up blood again, face wet with tears and rain – and he can't just leave her here.


"I don't need you, you know. You can go home anytime you want."

He ignores her.

But if everyone wants him to leave – why is he still here?


His prime minister takes away a few soldiers.


But he's there less – and it's getting worse, each time he goes back.

But there are riots in the street and he's got to take care of his country first. He's always been selfish like that.


He takes away even more soldiers, until there are barely any left.


In January, America is all bright blue and blonde and red-like-blood – waving some kind of peace agreement in the air. The glare that Vietnam is giving him could melt iron.

But still, peace is what they've been hoping for – what Australia has been hoping for.

He should be happier than this.


On June 30th he plans to leave for good.

His pack is full of crumpled letters from New Zealand and his prime minister and a few dried leaves and his ruined hat. His nose is forever broken and sunburned and his heart is a little bit heavier.

She comes to see him off.

It makes him feel a little better, because she didn't do that for America.

"I – You – Thanks."

He's staring into her eyes – all dark and big and something makes his heart flutter – and her ponytail is falling down and she has a fading scar over her cheek and a burn on her chin.

He kisses her – slow and simple and a little bittersweet.

(She doesn't even hit him at the end of it – so it's something like a victory.)

"I'll miss you too.


It's the longest war he's ever fought, which really isn't any surprise – her eyes are just that bright and he's always been a sucker for pretty girls.


this started out as humor. assfdl. i swear to god it did. because i was rambling my head and then i was like – Viet and Australia would be pretty together - then i actually researched aussie's involvement in the war and it turned into this angst bucket.

um. if you're confused - there's only one vietnam in my head. and since half of vietnam was with america&co and half wasn't. yeah. that's where the bipolarness comes from.

thoughts/reviews would be great, please&thankyou