Rebirth

Truth be told, he was happy he didn’t have to argue with her. Especially of making a scene would’ve been counterproductive to what they were both trying to achieve in that very moment. Once her hand was on his arm, he lead her in the direction he was already heading in. 

Convenient that he was already done with his errands he had to run for the day. With the cover of the rain, his neighborhood was quiet which was both a blessing of not having to be questioned about the girl on his arm, but it made his own anxiety spike. Connor could never win.

With handing off his umbrella to Italy, he took out his keys, careful to turn off the security before unlocking the security door and then his house door.

“I’m home!” He called out to the dark house, and once Italy was inside and out of the rain, he locked the door and turned the security back on.

“Now…” Connor looked the girl up and down before holding his hands out, “Your coat, and your story.”

By the time he was finished speaking, the sound of two sets of paws followed a large golden retriever and a large ragdoll cat who both peeked curiously at the front door.

He takes her to a quiet neighborhood, and a fairly nice one. He turns off a security system and unlocks a security door before his house door. It doesn’t assuage her anxiety - it feels like she’s stepping into a cage. But she’s not sure she could get away either, even if she tried. 

He takes her in, takes her coat, and asks to take her story. She sighs, running a hand through her wet hair. 

There was many thoughts and ideas and conspiracies that chased each other in his mind as she refused to answer immediately. The paranoia was growing but instead of commenting immediately, he stood, and offered his arm to her, which was safely under the cover of the umbrella. He couldn’t care less about being wet, but the young lady minded.

“Then come on. My place is a lot warmer, dryer, and secure than just a cafe or something.”

Connor kept an eye on the people around them, watching for any outward reactions of them talking or being seen together, but the people around them continued on with their lives without a stutter.

“...alright. Thank you.”

She’s dubious about heading back to his place, if only because it opens up even more alternatives that aren’t in her favor. But...

Really, what choice does she have? She’s already caused a scene as it is. No one is paying them too much mind, but people are starting to notice the longer she’s still gathering her waterlogged things, the longer a man looks over her with an umbrella and concern. She uses his arm to stand, and hoists up her damp art case. 

Huh. He couldn’t say he’d ever heard of that one.

“Lavinia? Never heard of you….uhh, I’m Canada. Or Matthew. Whichever you would like.”

She’d really hoped that by playing dumb she could play this off... maybe she can? Does he think Lavinia is a country? No matter, it can work in her favor if she keeps the act up. He’ll leave, see Lavinia is definitely not a country, think it was just a fluke or something... yeah.. and tomorrow she can bleach and cut her hair. Change up the look or something. 

She can’t skip town before midterms - she spent too damn long on those paintings to dump them without some form of gratification. 

Her quick change in demeanor had him dropping down to a knee to get on her level. There was no reason to be standing over the poor girl when she was looked like she was about to piss herself. 

Finally taking in her words, however, he frowned in confusion. 

“You– don’t know– I’m America. Ya know, the big ol’ US of A? And why can’t I tell anyone? Are you on the run?”

Connor dipped his head down to lean in closer to her, a hand coming up to block any one from really reading his lips, “Is someone chasing you? If so what do they look like and do you need help getting to where you’re going?”

He drops down to kneel beside her and she’s about 2 seconds from bolting into oncoming traffic.

“I’m- I guess?” she says in response to his question. America. Yeah, she supposed it made sense to run into an America, in America. “Just. Hiding in general. From everyone. Other nations - can we get out of the rain?”

She’s got about everything stuffed in her bag again. She gives a last looks at the ruined painting and crumples it up into a mushy ball. Running is looking less and less like a good option. Maybe she can run later, once she’s got a better bearing of things - she can run somewhere else, change her name- But running is expensive... 

il-rinascita​:

The rain was never really his favorite sort of weather. Those who did like it were more like the melancholy sort and he definitely felt like a sunny day fit most people. Unfortunately, the melancholy won today with the heavy rain beating down on any one daring to be out. He gripped his raincoat closer to his form as his umbrella fought the wind and much to his relief was keeping much of the water from his head.

It couldn’t be said for the poor girl who was losing an ever tiring fight with mother nature and the rush of cars trying to get home. Before he really realized it, he was already by her side, scooping up the soiled paint and handing it back to the girl–

“I…Italy?” The question was just loud enough to hear over the rushing water as he slowly stood, careful to keep the umbrella over both their heads. 

“What– what are you doing here?”

Someone was helping her, even though it was already a losing battle. Luckily the watercolor case was a tin so hopefully those were still salvageable. Not like she could afford to replace those right now anyway.

“Thank yo-”

Oh shit. 

Five years since she popped back into...something, some kind of existence, some 500 years later than her last memories. Five years since she fled that life, had hidden low in America - a place she’d believed she could lie low and meld into the diverse place for the time being. All gone to shit because she tripped on a stupid curve. 

“God- god dammit- no!” 

She plops back on her knees on the hard asphalt, looking up at him (and his umbrella, how thoughtful-) with a mixture of dread and desperation. In a hushed voice she says:

She’s headed back from Plein Air class, which was already a disaster because of the rain, when she trips - slips, rather - on the still-wet curb of the sidewalk and faceplants into the asphalt. Her things spill into the waterlogged curb, soaking the wooden case in the greasy water, particularly her still wet panel, now facedown in the water. With scraped skin and flourish of obscenities, she pulls the painting back out - as if it was any use. The watercolor is now more of a dirty looking water ombre, and to make it worse, this is when a car swings around the curve, hitting a pothole and splashing her bent form with even more nasty water. 

"So....who are you?

She looks at him. She looks around. 

"....do I look like-"