The Cold War Therapist [CountryhumansxReader]

Ein Arschloch

Translation: An asshole

The soles of your shoes clacked against the old wooden planks. Everything was old: The paintings on the wall and shelves filled with books, from classical, renaissance, romance and so many other eras.

They filled the loneliness that the white walled void with no human beings whatsoever shaped.

Normally important co-politicians would meet Germany at the very end of the hall, where a huge, dark, old portal stood, with carvings of plants and animals that seemed to come to life when you looked at them for a long time.

You had to enter a small door, hidden between two bookshelves. It was his bedroom.

You extended your hand to knock on the dark wood, however it flung open before you had the chance to, forcing you to jump back.

"Ah. Entschuldige. [Oh. Sorry.]" A tall man with rectangular glasses and a boney jaw looked down at you before he quickly turned around to close the door. Although his words were polite, his sunken eyes seemed untouched and cold.

The first heartbeats that fluttered with surprise started taking a lot of shapes.

Jealousy. Shame. Anger. Loss.

You kind of understood, being a German right now wasn't easy.

Wherever you went, they heard your American accent and letting go of the past wasn't that easy.

The cloud of fear, depression, misery and deep, heart twisting shame hung in the streets and whenever someone spoke, the loss in their voice made their breath sour.

If the people wouldn't have been relived that the war was over, you would've probably gone insane. Relief always tasted like fresh air.

"Kein Problem. [No problem.]" You smiled.

"Sie sind aus Amerika, ja? [You're from America, right?]"
No smile from his thin lips.

"So ist es. [That's right.]" You smiled a little more, trying to be friendly.

But apparently that only made him more angry so you quickly composed yourself.

"Vater Staat ist schwer erkrankt. Fieber von 42 grad. Keine Ahnung wozu Sie zu gebrauchen sind, er ist kaum ansprechbar. Wenn Sie aber schon da sind, wechseln Sie bitte das Tuch auf seiner Stirn wenn es seine Körpertemperatur erreicht hat.

[Fatherland is very sick. Fever of 42 Celsius. No idea of what use you can be, he can barely talk. But if you're already here, change the cloth on his forehead as soon as it reaches his body temperature.]"

"Ich sehe was ich tun kann. Danke. [I'll see what I can do. Thank you.]" You extended your hand to shake his.

He pretended like he didn't see it, gave you a short nod and quickly left, big steps with a straight posture, his medical bag clutched in his one hand.

You watched him leave and homesickness arose.

They really make sure that you don't feel like you belong here, don't they.

Turning around, you took a deep breath to compose your thoughts and emotions.

Being around sick people was never fun, and if he really had a fever of 75.2 Fahrenheit (which was enough to kill a person...)

Maybe I shouldn't have taken this job.

Clutching the cold handle with sweaty hands, you braced yourself for whatever misery you were about to face.

Three, two, one.

The Shock hit you like a train.

With a thump your weak knees banned you to the floor. Your heart jumped from slow pulse to quick pulse to slow pulse to quick pulse over and over again. You were shivering and you were sure that the veins in your eyes had popped.