Sky

[crazymonkey7137.livejournal.com]

Title: Sky
Author: crazymonkey7137
Characters: America
Rating: G
Warnings: None that I can think of!
Summary: America helps his citizens.

Why no....I totally don't have a shizz load of fic just sitting on my computer, waiting to be posted.

When his people need him the most, he comes.

That sounds very dramatic and it’s not one hundred percent accurate. Too many of his people slip through the cracks and fall into the gutters before he is able to stop them, before he even really know about them. But he tries as best as he can. He is the land of opportunity and he tries so hard to be what his people need.

It’s one of those days, where the weather is just off enough to be irritating but not enough of any one thing to deserve too much complaint. All in all, it would be a rather average, if not good, day.

It isn’t.

It isn’t because a woman standing next to him is unhappy. Maybe she’s unhappy at the weather or because of a falling out with a friend; maybe she’s stubbed her toe or accidently caught her finger in her car door. Maybe she doesn’t even have a reason. Maybe she woke up today and thought, “Today, I’m going to be unhappy.”

It doesn’t sit well with America, who tries so hard to put on a smile despite what it makes others think of him, despite the derisive snorts from England.

He sidles up to her, all easy grace, fluid like the Mississippi or the Colorado, depending if he’s in the east or west. The woman is squinting at her phone as if she can’t quite make out the words on it, or the figures on it, or something. And yeah, he’s young and America knows his growth is kind of unprecedented but even he gets confused by the rapid switches in technology, the constant creative destruction that his country relentlessly demands.

“You okay?” he asks, and it’s not hard to, like it would be for others. The thing is, he honestly, genuinely wants to know. The straightest path has always been the truest.

Her head jerks to the side to stare at him, as if surprised that anyone even noticed her frustration, too caught up in their own. “What?”

“Are you okay?” America repeats.

She looks a little annoyed to be interrupted from staring at her phone. “Yeah,” she says, eyeing him like he’s about to do something dangerous, like steal her phone or assault her. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“Well,” America says brightly, a grin worming its way onto his face. “It’s good to know that you can understand ‘cause it makes things easier. I mean, I guess I could try sign language but all I know are some words like ‘same’ or ‘good day’ or ‘party’. Which, you know, fun for parties but not good for actual conver—“

“Are you stupid or something?” She demands, a little impatient foot beginning to tap away. Her phone hasn’t left her grip, poised to be dialed if he makes a sudden move.

And it pains him, sometimes, to see how much his people have changed. It amazes him, too--the depth of his people’s innovation, their willingness to grow, to expand, to push forward and onward, always aiming for a brighter future, always striving for the American dream. But at the same rate that they grow, so does their cynicism, their apathy, their bitterness, their distrust and their hate. But they are his people. And he has a duty to them.

America looks at her, takes in the little imperfections her make-up cannot hide. When she was seven she broke her right arm, at ten she fell in love with the neighbor boy. At sixteen she lost her pride and her virginity and at seventeen built a wall to shield herself. At twenty-two she met another boy and at twenty-two and three-quarters rushed into a marriage she didn’t think she wanted. She’s twenty-eight now, and she hates her husband and her job, but she doesn’t want to abandon her relatively easy life for the unknown.

She’s wary of him, standing just out of his reach and looking more annoyed as the seconds tick by without some kind of response. She’s concluded by now that he’s probably not all there in the head. America looks up past her head, into the blue sky and the sun. The glint off his glasses makes her wince.

“It’s okay,” he states finally, still looking at the sky.

The woman looks at him likes he crazy, which he gets. “I have no idea,” she starts to say but gets choked on the words, tears bubbling up and out. Her phone makes a dull clack from where it hits the ground in her haste to scrub away the tears before they can mess up her make-up. America grabs the thin wrist—she doesn’t really eat anymore because a few weeks ago her husband told her she was getting fat—and simply holds it, as she looks at him.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “It’s okay to be scared or frustrated. It’s okay to want more. It’s okay to be discontent or unhappy. And if you want to break free, that’s okay too. But don’t stay where you’re miserable,” he implores. “The only shackles that exist are the ones you put on yourself.”

He knows he’s not good with his words, and that he’s not always good with his people. He stumbles and he falls, and he makes mistakes which haunt him. Racism and sexism and paranoia linger like dark shadows that he purposely tries to ignore. But so long as there is an open sky above him and solid ground beneath his feet, America will keep striding forward, unraveling the chains which attempt to stop him. He can only hope his people do the same.

“You know,” America tells the woman conversationally, “the sky really is beautiful.”