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hetaliasunshine2009-10-13 10:56 am
aphsunshineanon.livejournal.com) wrote in hetaliasunshine2009-10-13 10:56 am
[Fic Fill] Three-Axis Control
Title: Three-Axis Control
Author: Hildegard
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thewaterbandit
Characters: America, Canada, England; Orville and Wilbur Wright, a cabbage vendor, and a corpse.
Rating: PG
Words: 3200
Summary: America's first flight, Alaska's first border dispute, and the Cremation of Sam McGee.
Three-Axis Control
February 1900
On the B&O, somewhere between Clarksburg and Grafton, West Virginia
"Oh, the ACL's brand new!" America bounces in his seat. "You'll have to write me and tell me how it runs. I'm up north for a while. Oh, ha—" he realizes, "Wright me. You get it?"
"All the time," Orville says. America remembers; Orville's the younger one. He's got handlebar moustaches that bounce at the tips in time with the wheels of the train, click!-click, short!-long, and the hair's lost a bit of the curl it probably had when he got on the train back in Dayton. But Wilbur, the older one, doesn't have much hair at all, so he's looking pretty put together right now.
Heh. Wright now. America thinks they get that one all the time too.
He grins at them. Wilbur doesn't smile but he does nod. Orville keeps talking, though. "I could've sworn there was at least one play on it in that second letter we got from the Smithsonian."
"That must be where I heard of you first," America says. "You were up in Langley's face."
"That was Wilbur," Orville says.
"Man of few words?"
"No, just the right ones."
The two of them laugh to the rhythm of the wheels, yes sir yes sir. Wilbur just flicks an eyebrow at them and smiles, close-lipped and tight. America likes him too, or wishes he could at least.
"But this is really great," America says, getting them back on track. "And Langley's an ass anyway, so I hope you beat him out. "
"You're welcome. Any place we can reach you?"
"Exactly," America says. "Any place. But you're staying put in Kitty Hawk, right?"
"Anything but," Wilbur finally says, "if all goes well."
May 1900
In a cabin by a lake, somewhere in the Yukon, though whether it's in Canada or Alaska is rather the point
"Struck yet?"
Canada just glares at him and groans.
Okay, maybe not. "Hey, I haven't either. Won't matter if it's your side or mine until we find it, right?"
"America," Canada says, gusting through the steam of a hot mug of—coffee, or tea? America can't smell it from where he's sitting. And whose cabin is this anyway? "It actually matters a lot to me—"
America should ask. "Is that coffee? I mean, if it is, is there any more?"
"It's tea," Canada says, "and yes."
America grimaces, sticks out his tongue. "Tea."
"You don't have to drink it."
"Neither do you, you know? Coffee's better! It's ours, you know? I mean we grow it over here. On our side of the world? By which I mean not England's?" He gets up, comes over, and slings his arm over Canada's shoulders—and ha, that means he's closer to the warmth coming from the mug too!
Canada sort of sags under him, but lifts the mug to drink from it. "England's everywhere, actually." After he takes a sip, he sighs, and America can see his breath, this close. "Remember? The British Empire? The one the sun never sets on? The one I'm technically part of?"
"Doesn't have to be that way."
"America, we've had this conversation—"
"Guess we haven't had it enough. Look, you're self-governing now, right? It's time to make a clean break and—"
"—and give you all the gold in the Yukon, right?"
"Well, that'd be nice," America says. It's true!
But Canada—well, he doesn't spit, but he does kind of huff into the steam of the tea. "You know, America, sometimes I think you can't tell where you end and I begin."
"No," America says, "no, I can. You're there and I'm here."
"Then Manifest your own Destiny and let me have mine."
October 1901
On an insufficiently paved road, Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"YEE-HAH!"
"Watch out for that cart—"
"Got it, Orvy, don't—Jesus Christ, sir, look out!—"
"My cabbages!"
America skids the bicycle to a sideward stop in the dirt, then plants his feet down to keep from skidding any further. It works! And the wheels of the bike are still when one of the cabbages rolls into it, making the spokes shake like violin strings. Nothing else falls over.
Except, well, the guy with the cart of cabbages. But he could just be scrambling to pick them up.
"You all right, sir?"
The vendor just glares at America and Orville. America tries to cheer him up with one of his brilliant smiles! …it doesn't work. Or if it does he doesn't show it. Ha! Maybe the man's like England that way.
Orville pays for some of the damaged cabbages while America checks the bike over to make sure there really isn't anything wrong with it. There isn't—even the third sideways wheel between the handlebars is fine, except it's still spinning.
Orville explains why as they wheel the bike back to the shop. "I think we just invalidated the Smeaton coefficient."
"Because it's spinning?"
"Precisely. If the wings were really balanced, the wheel would have stayed still, even before you mowed that man down."
—you know there might have been better words to use than that, Big Bill died only a few weeks ago, but Teddy's pretty awesome so America doesn't know what to feel. And he lets that slide. So America laughs. "What's next?"
"Perfecting three-axis control. Wilbur's building a wind tunnel and trying to find people other than Lilienthal who might have theories on what went wrong."
"You ever thought you guys might be doing something completely new?"
"All the time," Orville says, looking over his shoulder at the wake of the bike in the dirt. "But so does everyone else."
March 1902
In that same cabin by the same lake, in the same Yukon, still undisputedly contested
"But you get three delegates on the committee!"
"So do you, Canada."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do!"
"The third guy's English!"
"You're the one who keeps saying you're a part of England."
"This isn't about that!" Canada yells—some snow crunches on the windowpane, which is still shaking. America thinks he really ought to get that checked out. "And it's not about gold, or about land, or even about the goddamn port, America!"
"Then what—"
"I have people there!" This one shakes the walls too. America looks at them, wonders how it's still winter out there and then remembers, oh, we're fighting over a frozen wasteland of what's-it-called, fjords, which is a funny word to think even if he doesn't think it aloud. Oh. Right. Canada. "People! My people, and First Nations people, and all the people who've come here looking for all that gold and land and oil—"
"Wait a second, there's oil?"
"Yes! I mean no! I mean shit! Fuck! America! The point is that I'm here, and my people are here, and we want what's here." Canada's panting a little, leaving big tufts of steam in the cabin air. It's kind of…weird, to see Canada all riled up. That's not something America sees every century. Even during that whole…eighteen-twelve-thing. That wasn't riled up so much as cold and creepy. But he got better!
And Canada being angry is actually kind of nice. It means America's magic is working, after all! That's how a hero gets things done.
America wants to hug him. "You done?"
—wow, when Canada gets really angry he looks like France with a hangover!
October 1902
A wind-tunnel, just outside Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"So you think you almost fixed the Smeaton number?"
"Mhm," Wilbur says, noncommittally. Or something like it, but it's still noncommittally. That's a fun word, noncommittally, with all the double consonants. He should try to use it out loud today.
America comes around the side of the glider and leans over, stretches his arm almost the whole way over the top wing. Actually, it would be cooler for him to stretch both of his arms out at the same time, like they are the wings. He tries that. "Good," he says, both to the noncommittal mhm and, meaning, "This is really good canvas. Where do you get it?"
Wilbur mumbles something that America can't quite pick up.
Okay, America can take a hint. So he talks to and touches the glider instead. "So once you figure out how to make this fly, you'll attach an engine to it and make it fly alone?"
That gets another "Mhm." At this rate America's gonna have to force the word noncommittally into a sentence.
"…can we take it out for a spin?"
"No."
Well, that's a word at least?
January 1903
There's a cabin in the Yukon and at least one of the people in it is dead. You ever heard that joke? You know, the one where it's really a plane crash? Never mind.
"And where are you from again?"
"Tennessee," the man says.
He repeats it, for Canada's benefit too, since Canada's here. "Tennessee. What town?"
"Plumtree."
"Must be a small one."
Canada, meanwhile, has brought the blankets and mugs and a pot of—probably tea, even though coffee's better. But it's harder to lug a coffee press to the Yukon than it is to bring some tea, so that might be why. America just won't drink it. Even if it's really damn cold out there. Not to mention in here.
They bundle Mr. McGee up real well, and even if he's from Tennessee he drinks the tea (heh, it all rhymes!), and Canada sits on his other side on the fur-covered bench. He's glaring at America like America seriously just set his bear on fire or something, and America makes his what did I do? face and Canada just keeps glaring,
Fine. America'll just be the most awesome host that Sam McGee's ever had!
"So what brings you here from Tennessee, Mr. McGee?"
"Gold," he says, with chattering teeth so that it sounds like guh and cold. "Like everyone else up in this frozen hell, right?"
"That's my frozen hell to you," Canada says.
"You mean mine," America corrects. "Mr. McGee's from Tennessee. Which means that he belongs to me." –okay, this is just too easy.
"We're not talking about Mr. McGee, we're talking about the land, America—"
"Besides," Mr. McGee says, "I'm dead anyway."
"Doesn't make you any le—"
—d—
—dead—
—dead oh Christ oh Christ it's a ghost it's a ghost "Canada you brought a ghost into the cabin take it away take it away—and stop laughing—Canada stop laughing at me—"
December 1903
A post office, Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"You're applying for the patent?" America leans over the counter and bats it with his toes. "Please tell me you're applying for the patent. Seriously, I want to hear you say yes just so I can tell Langley to suck it—"
"We're not applying for another patent," Orville sighs. Wilbur, behind him, is stoic as usual, and looking kind of surly in the cheeks. Kind of like England, actually, only without the eyebrows. And, well, he doesn't talk. Maybe he's more like Sweden. "We've been doing test runs all week. It worked—"
It worked, that's good enough for America, "Then Langley can suck it!"
"—but it crashed, and we're shipping it back to Ohio."
"—What?"
"We're sending it back to Ohio," Orville says again. "And then ourselves too. I mean, we're moving back."
"But what about the—Orville you said it was working—"
"It worked," Orville corrects. "And then it didn't. So we're going to try something different. And, well…we can't do it in Kitty Hawk anymore."
"But the weather's perfect!"
"Not in December."
"It's even colder in Ohio!"
Orville sighs. "America…you've been an amazing help. An amazing incentive, to be honest." America's never been called that before. "But we need some time to make it actually work—not just leave the ground for ten seconds."
"Then I'll come with you to Ohio! I mean, it's my country."
"America…" And that's a completely different sigh, and Orville scratches his moustache and says—apologizes, "We need you to not think about us."
That's even more confusing than we're moving to Ohio.
"You've got other stuff to worry about right?"
"Wright," America says—and then groans. "Wrong."
Later in December, 1903
It's not quite a cabin anymore but it's still in the Yukon, though this time none of the people in it are dead. Yet.
"England, thank goodness you're here," Canada says, standing up and pushing his chair back. It drags on the bearskin rug. "Do you want tea? I have tea."
"Tea would be splendid," England says, and takes off his hat to beat the snow off by the door. He hangs it neatly on a wall peg and then starts undoing his coat before he even looks at America.
So America coughs.
England keeps patting snow off his coat and boots. After that he turns around and comes to the table. There was a folder somewhere in his coat or his baggage and he drops it on the table next to America's coffee, which he brought and made himself this time since Canada's no help at all. There's still snow in England's eyebrows, and America snickers.
"Stuff it," England tells him. Like America's gonna listen. "I've just brought Alverstone's resolution."
Canada asks from the doorway, "Alverstone?" He puts a cup and saucer in front of England with a little packet of tea that might have been loose a few seconds ago.
"Richard Webster. The judge I sent over."
"Right," Canada says, and America thinks, I wonder how they're doing. "So when do we kick America out?"
America starts, "Like hell you're gonna—"
"We're doing no such thing." England opens the folder and slides Canada the papers. "America, the panhandle is yours, god help us all."
—well that strikes America pretty dumb for a second. Dumb in the silent sense, not the stupid one—wait a second—wait— "England, are you serious?"
"Consider it a gesture of gesture of good will," England says, and stirs then sips the tea. "Cheers."
"But you can't do that!" Canada's still standing. There's more wind railing outside, more hail on the windowpanes. "My people—"
"Canada, are you or are you not a British subject?"
"I—"
"My people have no need to see the Pacific ocean from here when they already roam it. I for one am content to let America stand as a buffer against Russia—"
"But Russia and I are fine together, England—"
"—and besides, it's neighborly. Come now, Canada, consider how disadvantaged America is by not being under British auspices any more, and do be charitable."
America blinks. "Wait, who are you calling disadvantaged?"
"Shut up, America, I just threw you another line of longitude. If your brother can be charitable, you can at least be grateful." He puts the teacup back in the saucer. It clinks.
The wind outside sputters and dies like a tank out of gas. Canada's reading Alverstone's message furiously—seriously, you could strike flint with his eyes—and America's tapping his heels on the bearskin rug, dancing in his seat. "Told you so, told you it was mine! England, did you just do something nice for me?"
"Not in the least," he scoffs, and drinks more tea. "You call this nice? It's a frozen wasteland of fjords!"
Before Canada can say that's my frozen wasteland of fjords or something like that—his face looks like he's about to—he reaches over to America's coffee cup and drags it to his lips, taking a gulp that would put a fish to shame.
"That's the spirit!" America says. "Next thing you know you'll be kicking the old man out just like me."
Canada just slumps back into his chair and sighs.
America extends a hand. "I promise I won't kick your miners out."
After eyeing it, and England, Canada reaches back and takes it. He smiles, thumbs America's palm. His hand's pretty warm.
October 1905
In the skies over the Huffman Prairie, Dayton, Ohio, or at least he'll be there in a second
America tucks himself into the controls. His belly is the belly of the plane—his hips swivel the wires and the wings, his eyes see just past the nose of the propeller, and he smells grass and spruce and oil and, not too far off, somehow, the Great Lakes. Far overhead, a formation of gulls is pressing south.
He tells the brothers, "Let ‘er rip!" and rushes up the catapult rail to join the birds.
The first thing to feel the blast is the flaps of America's hat and the ends of his scarf—he's confused for a second before the sound of the engine kicks in and that fills his ears and shakes his shoulders—and then the wheels are rolling on the ramp, as fast as the propeller flickering in front of him beyond his goggles and glasses and—
—and there's no ground. There's a hollow jerk and a dip in the air and no ground, nothing at all, nothing under him but the hammock of the plane and even that, that's a part of him now. The wings grow out of his arms and the tail out of his legs and a wriggle of his hips tilts his body entirely, and that's it, that's everything, him and the air. Twenty feet—thirty feet—tall enough to see the whole course, the circles that Orville and Wilbur have been flying around the field for days, and America can't be jealous anymore because he's here too. He's free. He should have fought for this, he'd fight a million wars for this, but he doesn't have to because it's his, his to begin with.
If he really squints, through his goggles and glasses, he can see the city's border. It doesn't exist at all, just like the ground.
America laughs—the laughing shakes his hips and that makes the wings tip a bit too far roll, but he straightens up right after that, keeps on the course. A stretch of his hands and he turns, a jerk of his foot and the plane tilts upward, out of its long shadow—once the shadow clears America can see Wilbur and Orville smiling at him. Orvy's cheering and Wilbur's—not looking serious for once! And—
Oh! Oh, that explains everything!
America shouts, over the wailing wind and the roar of the engines and the pounding of his heart, "Hey, Wilbur! How'd you lose your teeth?"
And Wilbur yells back, kind of cheerfully, "Hockey!"
"What?"
"I was playing hockey!"
"Oh! Awesome!" The propeller chops up America's shout into little fragments of word that bounce back, and then off America's smile too. "Don't worry! George Washington didn't have any either!"
~-~-~-~-~-~
Citations
The B&O and the ACL. The ACL was built in 1898.
Who'd wanna kill a man of good will like Big Bill?
A frozen wasteland of fjords.
The Cremation of Sam McGee, which is actually a rather funny story.
And of course, Wilbur and Orville.
Author: Hildegard
Recipient:
thewaterbanditCharacters: America, Canada, England; Orville and Wilbur Wright, a cabbage vendor, and a corpse.
Rating: PG
Words: 3200
Summary: America's first flight, Alaska's first border dispute, and the Cremation of Sam McGee.
Three-Axis Control
February 1900
On the B&O, somewhere between Clarksburg and Grafton, West Virginia
"Oh, the ACL's brand new!" America bounces in his seat. "You'll have to write me and tell me how it runs. I'm up north for a while. Oh, ha—" he realizes, "Wright me. You get it?"
"All the time," Orville says. America remembers; Orville's the younger one. He's got handlebar moustaches that bounce at the tips in time with the wheels of the train, click!-click, short!-long, and the hair's lost a bit of the curl it probably had when he got on the train back in Dayton. But Wilbur, the older one, doesn't have much hair at all, so he's looking pretty put together right now.
Heh. Wright now. America thinks they get that one all the time too.
He grins at them. Wilbur doesn't smile but he does nod. Orville keeps talking, though. "I could've sworn there was at least one play on it in that second letter we got from the Smithsonian."
"That must be where I heard of you first," America says. "You were up in Langley's face."
"That was Wilbur," Orville says.
"Man of few words?"
"No, just the right ones."
The two of them laugh to the rhythm of the wheels, yes sir yes sir. Wilbur just flicks an eyebrow at them and smiles, close-lipped and tight. America likes him too, or wishes he could at least.
"But this is really great," America says, getting them back on track. "And Langley's an ass anyway, so I hope you beat him out. "
"You're welcome. Any place we can reach you?"
"Exactly," America says. "Any place. But you're staying put in Kitty Hawk, right?"
"Anything but," Wilbur finally says, "if all goes well."
May 1900
In a cabin by a lake, somewhere in the Yukon, though whether it's in Canada or Alaska is rather the point
"Struck yet?"
Canada just glares at him and groans.
Okay, maybe not. "Hey, I haven't either. Won't matter if it's your side or mine until we find it, right?"
"America," Canada says, gusting through the steam of a hot mug of—coffee, or tea? America can't smell it from where he's sitting. And whose cabin is this anyway? "It actually matters a lot to me—"
America should ask. "Is that coffee? I mean, if it is, is there any more?"
"It's tea," Canada says, "and yes."
America grimaces, sticks out his tongue. "Tea."
"You don't have to drink it."
"Neither do you, you know? Coffee's better! It's ours, you know? I mean we grow it over here. On our side of the world? By which I mean not England's?" He gets up, comes over, and slings his arm over Canada's shoulders—and ha, that means he's closer to the warmth coming from the mug too!
Canada sort of sags under him, but lifts the mug to drink from it. "England's everywhere, actually." After he takes a sip, he sighs, and America can see his breath, this close. "Remember? The British Empire? The one the sun never sets on? The one I'm technically part of?"
"Doesn't have to be that way."
"America, we've had this conversation—"
"Guess we haven't had it enough. Look, you're self-governing now, right? It's time to make a clean break and—"
"—and give you all the gold in the Yukon, right?"
"Well, that'd be nice," America says. It's true!
But Canada—well, he doesn't spit, but he does kind of huff into the steam of the tea. "You know, America, sometimes I think you can't tell where you end and I begin."
"No," America says, "no, I can. You're there and I'm here."
"Then Manifest your own Destiny and let me have mine."
October 1901
On an insufficiently paved road, Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"YEE-HAH!"
"Watch out for that cart—"
"Got it, Orvy, don't—Jesus Christ, sir, look out!—"
"My cabbages!"
America skids the bicycle to a sideward stop in the dirt, then plants his feet down to keep from skidding any further. It works! And the wheels of the bike are still when one of the cabbages rolls into it, making the spokes shake like violin strings. Nothing else falls over.
Except, well, the guy with the cart of cabbages. But he could just be scrambling to pick them up.
"You all right, sir?"
The vendor just glares at America and Orville. America tries to cheer him up with one of his brilliant smiles! …it doesn't work. Or if it does he doesn't show it. Ha! Maybe the man's like England that way.
Orville pays for some of the damaged cabbages while America checks the bike over to make sure there really isn't anything wrong with it. There isn't—even the third sideways wheel between the handlebars is fine, except it's still spinning.
Orville explains why as they wheel the bike back to the shop. "I think we just invalidated the Smeaton coefficient."
"Because it's spinning?"
"Precisely. If the wings were really balanced, the wheel would have stayed still, even before you mowed that man down."
—you know there might have been better words to use than that, Big Bill died only a few weeks ago, but Teddy's pretty awesome so America doesn't know what to feel. And he lets that slide. So America laughs. "What's next?"
"Perfecting three-axis control. Wilbur's building a wind tunnel and trying to find people other than Lilienthal who might have theories on what went wrong."
"You ever thought you guys might be doing something completely new?"
"All the time," Orville says, looking over his shoulder at the wake of the bike in the dirt. "But so does everyone else."
March 1902
In that same cabin by the same lake, in the same Yukon, still undisputedly contested
"But you get three delegates on the committee!"
"So do you, Canada."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do!"
"The third guy's English!"
"You're the one who keeps saying you're a part of England."
"This isn't about that!" Canada yells—some snow crunches on the windowpane, which is still shaking. America thinks he really ought to get that checked out. "And it's not about gold, or about land, or even about the goddamn port, America!"
"Then what—"
"I have people there!" This one shakes the walls too. America looks at them, wonders how it's still winter out there and then remembers, oh, we're fighting over a frozen wasteland of what's-it-called, fjords, which is a funny word to think even if he doesn't think it aloud. Oh. Right. Canada. "People! My people, and First Nations people, and all the people who've come here looking for all that gold and land and oil—"
"Wait a second, there's oil?"
"Yes! I mean no! I mean shit! Fuck! America! The point is that I'm here, and my people are here, and we want what's here." Canada's panting a little, leaving big tufts of steam in the cabin air. It's kind of…weird, to see Canada all riled up. That's not something America sees every century. Even during that whole…eighteen-twelve-thing. That wasn't riled up so much as cold and creepy. But he got better!
And Canada being angry is actually kind of nice. It means America's magic is working, after all! That's how a hero gets things done.
America wants to hug him. "You done?"
—wow, when Canada gets really angry he looks like France with a hangover!
October 1902
A wind-tunnel, just outside Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"So you think you almost fixed the Smeaton number?"
"Mhm," Wilbur says, noncommittally. Or something like it, but it's still noncommittally. That's a fun word, noncommittally, with all the double consonants. He should try to use it out loud today.
America comes around the side of the glider and leans over, stretches his arm almost the whole way over the top wing. Actually, it would be cooler for him to stretch both of his arms out at the same time, like they are the wings. He tries that. "Good," he says, both to the noncommittal mhm and, meaning, "This is really good canvas. Where do you get it?"
Wilbur mumbles something that America can't quite pick up.
Okay, America can take a hint. So he talks to and touches the glider instead. "So once you figure out how to make this fly, you'll attach an engine to it and make it fly alone?"
That gets another "Mhm." At this rate America's gonna have to force the word noncommittally into a sentence.
"…can we take it out for a spin?"
"No."
Well, that's a word at least?
January 1903
There's a cabin in the Yukon and at least one of the people in it is dead. You ever heard that joke? You know, the one where it's really a plane crash? Never mind.
"And where are you from again?"
"Tennessee," the man says.
He repeats it, for Canada's benefit too, since Canada's here. "Tennessee. What town?"
"Plumtree."
"Must be a small one."
Canada, meanwhile, has brought the blankets and mugs and a pot of—probably tea, even though coffee's better. But it's harder to lug a coffee press to the Yukon than it is to bring some tea, so that might be why. America just won't drink it. Even if it's really damn cold out there. Not to mention in here.
They bundle Mr. McGee up real well, and even if he's from Tennessee he drinks the tea (heh, it all rhymes!), and Canada sits on his other side on the fur-covered bench. He's glaring at America like America seriously just set his bear on fire or something, and America makes his what did I do? face and Canada just keeps glaring,
Fine. America'll just be the most awesome host that Sam McGee's ever had!
"So what brings you here from Tennessee, Mr. McGee?"
"Gold," he says, with chattering teeth so that it sounds like guh and cold. "Like everyone else up in this frozen hell, right?"
"That's my frozen hell to you," Canada says.
"You mean mine," America corrects. "Mr. McGee's from Tennessee. Which means that he belongs to me." –okay, this is just too easy.
"We're not talking about Mr. McGee, we're talking about the land, America—"
"Besides," Mr. McGee says, "I'm dead anyway."
"Doesn't make you any le—"
—d—
—dead—
—dead oh Christ oh Christ it's a ghost it's a ghost "Canada you brought a ghost into the cabin take it away take it away—and stop laughing—Canada stop laughing at me—"
December 1903
A post office, Kitty Hawk, North Carolina
"You're applying for the patent?" America leans over the counter and bats it with his toes. "Please tell me you're applying for the patent. Seriously, I want to hear you say yes just so I can tell Langley to suck it—"
"We're not applying for another patent," Orville sighs. Wilbur, behind him, is stoic as usual, and looking kind of surly in the cheeks. Kind of like England, actually, only without the eyebrows. And, well, he doesn't talk. Maybe he's more like Sweden. "We've been doing test runs all week. It worked—"
It worked, that's good enough for America, "Then Langley can suck it!"
"—but it crashed, and we're shipping it back to Ohio."
"—What?"
"We're sending it back to Ohio," Orville says again. "And then ourselves too. I mean, we're moving back."
"But what about the—Orville you said it was working—"
"It worked," Orville corrects. "And then it didn't. So we're going to try something different. And, well…we can't do it in Kitty Hawk anymore."
"But the weather's perfect!"
"Not in December."
"It's even colder in Ohio!"
Orville sighs. "America…you've been an amazing help. An amazing incentive, to be honest." America's never been called that before. "But we need some time to make it actually work—not just leave the ground for ten seconds."
"Then I'll come with you to Ohio! I mean, it's my country."
"America…" And that's a completely different sigh, and Orville scratches his moustache and says—apologizes, "We need you to not think about us."
That's even more confusing than we're moving to Ohio.
"You've got other stuff to worry about right?"
"Wright," America says—and then groans. "Wrong."
Later in December, 1903
It's not quite a cabin anymore but it's still in the Yukon, though this time none of the people in it are dead. Yet.
"England, thank goodness you're here," Canada says, standing up and pushing his chair back. It drags on the bearskin rug. "Do you want tea? I have tea."
"Tea would be splendid," England says, and takes off his hat to beat the snow off by the door. He hangs it neatly on a wall peg and then starts undoing his coat before he even looks at America.
So America coughs.
England keeps patting snow off his coat and boots. After that he turns around and comes to the table. There was a folder somewhere in his coat or his baggage and he drops it on the table next to America's coffee, which he brought and made himself this time since Canada's no help at all. There's still snow in England's eyebrows, and America snickers.
"Stuff it," England tells him. Like America's gonna listen. "I've just brought Alverstone's resolution."
Canada asks from the doorway, "Alverstone?" He puts a cup and saucer in front of England with a little packet of tea that might have been loose a few seconds ago.
"Richard Webster. The judge I sent over."
"Right," Canada says, and America thinks, I wonder how they're doing. "So when do we kick America out?"
America starts, "Like hell you're gonna—"
"We're doing no such thing." England opens the folder and slides Canada the papers. "America, the panhandle is yours, god help us all."
—well that strikes America pretty dumb for a second. Dumb in the silent sense, not the stupid one—wait a second—wait— "England, are you serious?"
"Consider it a gesture of gesture of good will," England says, and stirs then sips the tea. "Cheers."
"But you can't do that!" Canada's still standing. There's more wind railing outside, more hail on the windowpanes. "My people—"
"Canada, are you or are you not a British subject?"
"I—"
"My people have no need to see the Pacific ocean from here when they already roam it. I for one am content to let America stand as a buffer against Russia—"
"But Russia and I are fine together, England—"
"—and besides, it's neighborly. Come now, Canada, consider how disadvantaged America is by not being under British auspices any more, and do be charitable."
America blinks. "Wait, who are you calling disadvantaged?"
"Shut up, America, I just threw you another line of longitude. If your brother can be charitable, you can at least be grateful." He puts the teacup back in the saucer. It clinks.
The wind outside sputters and dies like a tank out of gas. Canada's reading Alverstone's message furiously—seriously, you could strike flint with his eyes—and America's tapping his heels on the bearskin rug, dancing in his seat. "Told you so, told you it was mine! England, did you just do something nice for me?"
"Not in the least," he scoffs, and drinks more tea. "You call this nice? It's a frozen wasteland of fjords!"
Before Canada can say that's my frozen wasteland of fjords or something like that—his face looks like he's about to—he reaches over to America's coffee cup and drags it to his lips, taking a gulp that would put a fish to shame.
"That's the spirit!" America says. "Next thing you know you'll be kicking the old man out just like me."
Canada just slumps back into his chair and sighs.
America extends a hand. "I promise I won't kick your miners out."
After eyeing it, and England, Canada reaches back and takes it. He smiles, thumbs America's palm. His hand's pretty warm.
October 1905
In the skies over the Huffman Prairie, Dayton, Ohio, or at least he'll be there in a second
America tucks himself into the controls. His belly is the belly of the plane—his hips swivel the wires and the wings, his eyes see just past the nose of the propeller, and he smells grass and spruce and oil and, not too far off, somehow, the Great Lakes. Far overhead, a formation of gulls is pressing south.
He tells the brothers, "Let ‘er rip!" and rushes up the catapult rail to join the birds.
The first thing to feel the blast is the flaps of America's hat and the ends of his scarf—he's confused for a second before the sound of the engine kicks in and that fills his ears and shakes his shoulders—and then the wheels are rolling on the ramp, as fast as the propeller flickering in front of him beyond his goggles and glasses and—
—and there's no ground. There's a hollow jerk and a dip in the air and no ground, nothing at all, nothing under him but the hammock of the plane and even that, that's a part of him now. The wings grow out of his arms and the tail out of his legs and a wriggle of his hips tilts his body entirely, and that's it, that's everything, him and the air. Twenty feet—thirty feet—tall enough to see the whole course, the circles that Orville and Wilbur have been flying around the field for days, and America can't be jealous anymore because he's here too. He's free. He should have fought for this, he'd fight a million wars for this, but he doesn't have to because it's his, his to begin with.
If he really squints, through his goggles and glasses, he can see the city's border. It doesn't exist at all, just like the ground.
America laughs—the laughing shakes his hips and that makes the wings tip a bit too far roll, but he straightens up right after that, keeps on the course. A stretch of his hands and he turns, a jerk of his foot and the plane tilts upward, out of its long shadow—once the shadow clears America can see Wilbur and Orville smiling at him. Orvy's cheering and Wilbur's—not looking serious for once! And—
Oh! Oh, that explains everything!
America shouts, over the wailing wind and the roar of the engines and the pounding of his heart, "Hey, Wilbur! How'd you lose your teeth?"
And Wilbur yells back, kind of cheerfully, "Hockey!"
"What?"
"I was playing hockey!"
"Oh! Awesome!" The propeller chops up America's shout into little fragments of word that bounce back, and then off America's smile too. "Don't worry! George Washington didn't have any either!"
~-~-~-~-~-~
Citations
The B&O and the ACL. The ACL was built in 1898.
Who'd wanna kill a man of good will like Big Bill?
A frozen wasteland of fjords.
The Cremation of Sam McGee, which is actually a rather funny story.
And of course, Wilbur and Orville.