Work Text:
Lydia never saw her brother’s work as something that would ever, in a million years, involve her. To her, the idea that she would ever be in a room where her brother worked is bonkers!
There was no reason to ever presume she’d be within a ten-foot pole of such things! Her brother was a Congressman, and was always the one interested in politics and — eugh — paperwork. A stupidly evil and boring thing, the sort of stuff she never wanted to partake in.
Yet, there she was, sitting in the car, insipidly eyeing the blurred road. Her brother was much the same, with dirty-blonde curls — and some gray hairs — that seemed to shape his pale face, and rosy cheeks — and pinkish nose — with wrinkles from age. His dark cerulean eyes were fixated on the road ahead, steeling himself for the consultation; variegated cars passed their own lone silver. Their colors mixed similarly to the paint on her palette she always had to clean after a few projects.
Thatch glanced at her and spoke with a twinge of distress. The light had been a bright carmine, nearly blaring. “Lydia, I know this is last minute, but I can’t just leave you home alone. You have to understand, I can’t just cancel on USA, you know?” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his face back on the road, with his eyes occasionally sliding back to her. “It will just be for an hour, I promise.” His emerald green suit was quite the eyesore for Lydia; however, she didn’t have the heart to inform him that an auburn brown vest and red tie with the navy blue pants may not be the best choice for subtlety.
She wanted to be rude and not respond to him, but his tone was so god-awfully pitiful that she had to respond. “Fine…” she grumbled out. It was always about that man, ‘oh, USA this, oh, USA that, blah!’ What a narcissistic personification he must’ve been. She had a feeling he just cruised on by and left others to deal with his mistakes. With the way her brother seemed so stressed, he was likely a conceited and useless man. She knew there was no need to be so frustrated with her brother or assume USA was an asshole; she just wished he’d trust her more and tell her what was wrong.
He nodded, appreciative of her compliance. “I am sure neither of us would want to be in this heat either.” He smiled weakly, and she joined in, smiling back at his… attempt at humor. Seeing her try to be positive, he continued. “So, you’re joining me on this consultation, but I promise we’ll leave you alone, and then we can go get something nice afterwards. I swear, no work, just you and me. It’s only a formality anyways.” She beamed, and when an evil idea formed, she looked back up at him, conspiratorially.
“It has to be something really bad for our health, Thatch.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, somethin’ absolutely horrible.”
She nodded. “Has to include copious amounts of red-40.”
Thatch shook his head and rolled his eyes. “A most important requirement, indeed.” Lydia nodded; at least she would be properly compensated. After that, their conversation reached an abrupt end; it left her wanting more, but her older brother likely needed some quiet.
She also liked it quiet too.
Sometimes Lydia wondered what he thought about in the silence; Thatch was always so cautious with his words, but sometimes she saw a glimpse of it when she heard his phone calls with his fellow Congressmen when he wasn’t aware she was listening to him.
He was always so… uneasy.
She glanced down at her lap, with the aged paperback being jostled around from the car moving so much. The edges of the book’s cover began to upfold, and the pages looked more like parchment with the years behind them, almost manila. She thought it made the book look ancient, and the spine curled in from being folded flat too many times.
The book was well loved; she quite liked this series, and she wanted to reread it. She whispered aloud, thrilled to reread it. It would be a nice distraction. “The Dragonet Prophecy.” She eagerly cracked it open, and right as she started to read the prologue, the car halted suddenly. She made a noise and was pulled back. She coughed and sneered at her brother, who looked apologetic.
He shrugged, and she grumbled.
She caught the small white noise of the car stopping; the familiar thrum of movement finally ceased, and she saw him unbuckling his seatbelt. She sighed and joined him, or well, tried to do so. The moment he saw her with the door handle clasped tightly in her hands, he gave her a stern look, and she made a comically loud “EUGH,” and slammed her head back on the headrest, a leather material that would avidly thirst over the heat of the sun, and leave the seats feeling sticky.
When she stopped looking up at the ceiling, she saw him arrive with a pair of crutches, and she grumbled as Thatch gently helped her out of the car. He closed the door behind her and passed her the book she tried to read. Right before the car stopped hastily, of course. Thatch sensed her frustration and ruffled her hair; she squeaked indignantly, and after begging him to fix her hair, he complied.
When they walked to the US Capitol, she no doubt looked like a gaping fish; she had seen it before from afar, but being this close was a different feeling entirely. Thatch snorted and guided her to the building.
✦
The rest of the trip to the consultation was a blur, generally from her struggling to walk and from his doting on her. He kept eyeing the cast on her left leg, questioning how comfortable it was, or her proficiency with the crutches. She complained the entire time, as was her right, and it seemed her brother almost regretted bringing her along with him — success?! But he quickly seemed to dismiss that notion, and she felt like shaking him.
She didn’t, for his sake, of course. He just seemed so… troubled? She didn’t wish to bother him any more than he already appeared to be.
When they arrived at the personification’s office, Lydia felt her indignation once more arise. She had never met with the man, but she was sure he would be insufferable. While she festered with that feeling, Thatch stood at her right, facing a door with a golden plaque; the occupant’s name engraved right in the center; the edges were a beaded inset. The text centered on the plate was in all caps and, despite just being words, felt so imposing: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, with a subtitle below it, “ADVISORY BRANCH.”
Thatcher stilled, his hands ghosting the door handle. He seemed to genuinely worry over this, and it left Lydia faltering in her indignation.‘Is he ashamed of me?’ She wondered internally, but shook that thought away; he would never be ashamed of her, because she was simply the best younger sister ever. He said so, just as much as he looked over her cast.
And!
He promised her that, so she had a feeling that was one promise he would never break.
She weakly knocked her arm into his elbow and grinned. “Alright, Thatch, let’s not be late to a meeting we left early for. I was taking a nice nap, you know?”
He exhaled all his jitters and nodded, once more ruffling her hair — with less force — and added, “How do you always know what to say, you twerp?” Lydia thought what she said wasn’t anything special, but her brother clearly needed it, and she wasn’t one to dismiss her name.
“It’s because I’m the best sister, duh,” Thatch snorted and shook his head.
“You ruined it; it’s all going to shit now,” he said sarcastically. He brimmed with nerves, yet Lydia could tell he was thankful she was joining him.
‘Of course he’s thankful I’m here,’ her mind added, incredibly relieved.
He took a step forward and knocked at the door thrice, mindful of his volume. After the strike of the third, a thick silence lay between the siblings. Followed by a clearing of one’s throat and a soft, “Goodness me…” They looked at each other, curious, and the voice continued, “Oh dear!” Seemingly startled, they hadn’t entered themselves. There was a shifting of stuff being moved around, followed by a thump! And a careful “Oh good heavens, where had I left that wretched thing…?” proceeded by a small grunt.
Lydia wondered if she was in an alternate timeline; maybe on her way there they fell through a portal. This… wasn’t the man she was expecting.
The doorknob twisted, and the door pulled inward, and there he was, the man of the hour, one that Lydia thought she knew. He pulled at his shirt collar and looked away, bashful. “Oh dear, I had expected you both to walk in, ignore my uncouth manners; please, excuse the hiatus; welcome in.” He moved aside and welcomed the pair into his office.
Lydia paused and tilted her head to the left. ‘Uncouth? Who the hell talks like that? A selfish idiot who wants to talk down to people?’ When she looked at her brother, he seemed unfazed and shook USA’s hand. Actually, now that she looked at them, Thatch seemed relieved to see him. “USA! How have you been?” He seemed familiar, which bothered Lydia, because, obviously, she had seen him before, from photographs, to transcriptions in her textbooks. But his general demeanor was familiar.
The personification adjusted his glasses — the shade of dandelions — and smiled timidly, and moved out of the way so Thatch could help her through. He grinned weakly, “Oh, goodness, all the same as you know, quite frenetic and beleaguered by my work.” Thatch shook his head and patted USA’s back. He was quite the plump man, with the American flag plastered across his face, carmine skin that seemed to have the occasional white blemish, and an amber tie. With honey patches stitched at the elbows, matching the golden straps resting across his shoulders. ‘He would know what they’re called. Wouldn’t he? Bastard.’ His white dress shirt did little to disguise his physique, though, considering he seemed none the wiser to her scrutiny, he likely didn’t care. With blue-gray slacks that seemed a tad too long for him and folded a bit over themselves on his brown dress shoes.
She narrowed her eyes at USA and clunkily shuffled into the room. She avoided him as best as possible; Thatch seemed disheartened, but USA made no show if it bothered him or not.
As she dragged into the office, she saw two chairs prepared already, and made a beeline for the closest one to the door. Her brother snorted and made no move to stop her. Once she settled onto the chair, she placed the crutches beside her and exhaled, relieved to be sitting down once more. Her book was placed right on her lap, delightfully displayed for her enjoyment. Thatcher walked into the office, and USA stood by the door to serenely shut it.
He nodded, watching Lydia take her seat, and clasped his hands together, with his entire demeanor radiating… timidity…? Anxiety? Apprehension? Urgh! What’s the right word! “I am most appreciative of your punctuality, Winslows…” She huffed, already loathing his nonstop talking. She dug into her pocket to pull out her phone to listen to music and block out whatever conversation the two older men were going to have. However, she found herself at a loss.
‘What? Where are they?’ She dug through her pockets, searching for her phone and headphones. She groaned and looked at her brother to complain that she left her phone in the car, but Thatch paused, checking the pockets of his own clothing. “Oh, darn it.” He looked distraught and shook his head. It seems they both were a bit scattered today. “Good grief, I’m so sorry, USA. I left my phone in my car; I’ll be right back to pick it up.” Thatch saw her expression and nodded, now ready to also retrieve her phone.
He walked to her and crouched down, meeting her just below eye level. He looked up at her, his face begging her to listen. “Please behave; don’t bother Mr. United States here, okay?”
She rolled her eyes and looked away. “I am not five years old.” After Thatch stared at her sternly, she sighed and nodded. “Okay, fine, I won’t bother him. I promise.”
He smiled and held out his pinky finger. “Pinky promise?” He inquired. She hastily took it upon herself to announce:
“I am not a little kid!”
Followed by her compliance and interlocked pinky finger in his.
He stood and patted himself before turning back to USA, despite the notable lack of dust on his clothing. There, the two men walked to the door, and United States waved him off, assuring him there was no issue; that Thatch was welcome to take his time and didn’t need to knock upon his return. And he, once more, unhurriedly shut the door. He turned himself right around and steadily sauntered back to his seat. He unceremoniously sat in it and made an “oof” sound, and scrunched his nose at the chair’s despairing groan from his clumsiness.
United States shook his head and sighed.
He peered at her and adjusted his tie gracelessly, and cleared his throat. “Welcome to my office, Miss Winslow.” He smiled, and she noted his canines peeking out, with his rounder cheeks purging any sort of intimidation he may possess.
His politeness was insufferable.
✦
Lydia remained silent and observed him.
The sclerae of his eyes were a midnight blue, with the only pop of color in the sea of blue being his irises; he had heterochromia. His right iris was a sharp scarlet, striking against the darkness, while his left was a more subdued cobalt, blending in with the darker sclera; his gaze appeared uncanny. The man’s grin and lax demeanor were constant, and he hummed, unbothered by her choice to ignore him.
She never met a personification before — Lydia recognized, quite tardily — or was never this close to one, for that matter.
Her brother probably did; it would explain his unrelenting obsession with government. She was sure he had met United States when he was a kid; it could explain his familiarity; maybe she could ask Thatch if he remembered.
Later.
After this consultation, and when they were free.
She huffed and opened her book, grateful the older man wouldn’t bother her as she attempted to read. The silence felt awkward.
Keyword: attempted.
She struggled to read with the awkward atmosphere and eyed the man in front of her with envy. How he seemed to be so incredibly tranquil reading from a paperback likewise. It was on his desk, lying flat, with its sheer weight and size capable of keeping it from losing his place. Luckily for him, it seemed he was near the beginning to reread. It had pen blemishes, sticky notes, and highlights over the book.
She thought it was a silly picture book with the numerous aircraft diagrams, before he flipped the page and realized it looked more like a textbook with the multi-column layout of text with headings on these columns and the multiplicity of diagrams.
Lydia didn’t want to admit it, but she would have to… she was envious of his apparent ease of concentration, while she struggled to read the first sentence of the book she deeply enjoyed. The prologue’s first sentence was simple; it begged her to read! It was so interesting; she knew because she had already read it!
Even then, his apparent love for reading a textbook — or whatever it was — also bothered Lydia!
He was so weird. She enjoyed reading; that wasn’t the issue she had with the man. It was how monotonous and dry it felt to read stuff so procedural that it lacked any substance. She didn’t need the text to sit down and explain everything in such needless detail!
Lydia could never sit still while reading her school-assigned readings; it always annoyed her teachers. ‘The only positive was that it never failed to actually put her to sleep.’ She thought, dismissively. ‘Unless one of these stupid books is about something cool—like dragons, I am not reading it.’
He flipped the page once more and spent a moment observing an aircraft in golden hour, climbing into the serene atmosphere, with several other images in the corner and a handful of notes written into the book.
She reluctantly looked back at her lap and peered at the first sentence from the prologue: A dragon was trying to hide in the storm.
Lydia felt like Hvitur, the IceWing in a storm, attempting stealth, but just like him, her effort was noticed when the personification’s eyes once more slid to her, curious. He said nothing, observing her, left in thought. She gulped and looked back down at her book. It was likely not his intention, but he reminded her of Burn, a SandWing who struggled to claim the throne and caught Hvitur in the storm.
She looked back up at him and met his gaze. She diffidently spoke, questioning about the paperback in his possession: “Um… What book do you have there?”
United States, in his nonstop observation, with eyes that seemed to study every detail of Lydia, softened. He hummed and placed a sticky note on the line he was reading and shut the book calmly. “It is one of Rolls-Royce’s galluptious reference texts.” He rotated the book to now allow Lydia to view it properly, and even pull it closer and hold it. “It is one of my more morose delectations.” She raised an eyebrow at the phrasing, but remained silent. She read the title: The Jet Engine, in the bottom left corner, with the company Rolls-Royce listed in the top right corner. When she attempted to pick up the weighty text, she didn’t expect it to weigh as much as it did.
Lydia made a face, and he smiled and nearly giggled, and continued: “Oh, please, excuse my galvanic dilection; I merely find myself to be a massive enjoyer of these things.”
She nodded and mumbled out a not-so-surreptitious “Oh, I can tell that you’re a massive fan.”
He continued, “I get that quite a bit, literally and metaphorically.”
She paused, confused. ‘Was that a joke?’ She wondered, but the man had already continued in his nonstop chattiness.
“Regardless of my general appearance or my obdurate predilection for aeronautical engineering,” So he did catch her joke; that’s not good, possibly… “I am intrigued about what you have on your person.” He made a gesture for her to place the book on the table, and she reluctantly placed it on the table. The smaller paperback with Clay, the MudWing on the cover, contrasted with United States’ much larger reference text, with two plane engines pictured above the clouds.
He looked at her curiously and asked, “May I see your novel? If not, I wholly understand, Miss Winslow.” She nodded at him, and his grin grew. Lydia wondered how a man could simply smile that much for that long without his cheeks hurting.
She mulled him over while he observed her own novel. ‘Unless he was just a joyful moron. Though that didn’t make sense, did it? He clearly adores planes and stuff… He has to know at least a few things, and he’s an advisor. So he has to be at least a little competent.’ He gently peeled the book open and glanced at it, curious about the contents. ‘Is this a persona then?’ She wondered while he skimmed through the infographics at the beginning about the different species.
Lydia thought about asking him something incredibly silly, and yet that silliness left her nervous. This man has been alive for centuries, hasn’t he? “Do you like reading aloud?” She asked suddenly, her voice far too loud for the room.
He jolted and made a squawk of a noise at Lydia’s question; he looked mortified and set the book down, turning it back to Lydia. He cleared his throat and ignominiously replied. “I would not be earnest in agreement, nor disagreement, for I ofttimes find no reason to do so.” He paused, and hastily corrected, “Well, I do often have orations with notes… but reading a technical novel? Oh lo’ the empyrean axis, no, I have naught the—”
She quickly waved him off and spoke, “No, no, I mean, like fiction novels?” She found the man uncanny, especially when he tilted his head curiously. His general diction was insufferable; he reeked of pretentiousness, yet she couldn’t stop the questioning she had for him. “Like um… my book.” Her voice began to soften as she kept speaking, gesticulating awkwardly as she spoke. “I just… I can’t focus on reading without something to keep my mind from wandering, and I don’t want to wait for my brother, so I’m just wondering if you’d be okay with reading it…?” She hunched over and looked down.
A silence rested between the two of them, and Lydia was about to add on some half-hearted apology for even suggesting such an idea when United States continued. “Well, the orthodox response from me would be to decline; I find myself sans vindication for obviation.” At her own scrunched-up face, he improved his tone, “While I would normally decline such requests, I find myself without proper reason to abstain from obliging.”
She sighed.
But better.
He took the book once more and opened it to the prologue, and she waved her hands. “No, no, read the dragon species bios and the prophecy; it will make a lot more sense when you do.” He raised an eyebrow at her but obliged.
“Very well, I trust your knowledge, Miss Winslow.” She nodded, thankful, and let the man begin reading from the species of dragons. “A NightWing guide to the dragons of Pyrrhia…” A page flip: “MudWings: They have thick, armored brown scales; large flat heads with nostrils on the top of their snouts—”
Lydia interrupted him, thrilled: “MudWings are my favorite, actually. They’re so cool.”
He stilled. “They are?” It bothered her how genuinely interested he seemed. He was quite talented at pretending to care about things; she had to give him that.
She nodded. “Mhm!”
He smiled. “I see,” and continued reading through the guide.
✦
By the time Thatch returned, USA’s sonorous voice had been on the last lines of the first chapter, holding the novel between his fingers while he leaned back in his chair; his left hand held a pencil he twirled on occasion, and the other held the novel.
Lydia noticed her brother enter, about to apologize for the delay, when the words caught in his throat upon seeing the personification holding her book and reading from it. “...back to his parents, whoever they were… What if they could do it?”
He was about to continue when Lydia waved her hand, and he turned to her, about to examine what she meant, when he stilled himself. He cleared his throat and set the book down, with an unreadable expression, nearly sly but also a nervous grimace. Lydia knew he would have a word for his feelings, but he remained still, uneasy. He spoke, “Ah… I am jubilant to see your retrocession, Sir Winslow.”
The man nodded and looked at them awkwardly. “I see Lydia kept you entertained.”
The personification was flushed and bit his lip. “I— well, she is a profoundly prodigious charge to you, sir; I wished to corroborate her comfort and repose, as I would do with any ward — transient or not — and well—”
Her brother began to laugh at USA’s wimpy justification. “It’s fine, USA; I’m glad you both were entertained while I was absent.” He coughed awkwardly and nodded, and Lydia sighed as the two men situated themselves to get back on track for whatever consultation they planned. Thatcher sat down and ruffled her hair triumphantly.
She squawked at Thatch, and he began to laugh once more, and United States joined in, but this time she wasn’t quite so bothered by USA joining in.