A/N: In my mind, the Conference Room is one of those huge stadium-like things with the chairs all going up like steps, spread around the stage in a semicircle. Countries sit according to the first letter of their name (i.e. England is in the E section).
I feel bad about not giving you guys anything, so here is something I've had sitting around. I finished it up because hey, it's Sunday night and I have nothing better to do. Enjoy!
America closed his eyes. He would never admit that he was tired, not normally. This time was different. Normal had no place in the nightmare his life had become.
He drew his knees to his chest and pulled up the collar of his bomber jacket. Was it usually so cold in the conference room? He looked at the ceiling, out the window at the gray day. Anywhere but the papers in a semi-neat stack in front of him. He couldn't bring himself to see all the red ink. Boy was he angry.
"America? Why are you here so early? The meeting doesn't start for a good half hour." England paused at the door, staring at the broad-shouldered figure curled up on himself in the chair. He had a cup of tea in one hand, and held a book of fairy tales under his arm. America straightened, leaning back in his chair slightly.
"Just getting some work done. I played some hardcore Pokémon with Tony last night." He shrugged, but it felt stiff. His hands clenched and released under the table, picking up speed at an alarming rate. If Arthur didn't leave right now, there might be some holes in the wall.
"Are you alright?" He shifted the book under his arm and toed the door open a bit more. God dangit.
"Yes. Go have sex with France or somethin'. Leave me alone." As predicted, England raised his monstrous eyebrows.
"What's wrong with you, boy?" England pushed the door open more, and stepped inside. "I won't have you speak to me with such disrespect!"
"Quit treating me like a kid!"
England could almost see America's hackles rising. An angry retort about just who had once held the greatest empire in the world rose in his throat like acid. He took a steadying breath and bit his tongue. Calm down, be the mature one.
"Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Just please don't imply that anything is going on between that frog and I."
America choked back a sob. Good heavens, was he crying? Comforting was never really his thing, but he decided to have a go. He hated seeing America cry, rare occurrence though it was. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"
"Why do you care?" America spat. He rubbed at the tears pooling in his eyes. "Y-you think you're better than me, just like everyone else!"
"America…"
"No!" America leapt to his feet. "Don't deny it! Americans are fat and stupid. They're ignorant, and think they're the best thing since sliced bread. Isn't that what you Europeans always say? Huh?" England took a step back. This was unexpected. Had McDonald's been closed this morning?
"Lad? Calm down-"
"I won't calm down! I've got something to say!" America stomped over to the podium and pulled the microphone up to accommodate for his height. If it were anyone else, they would have been right in England's face. America didn't work that way. He had to take the position of a preacher. Up front and commanding, but still safely removed from the situation.
"Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic?" Then again, he did create Hollywood.
"Shut up!" He paused, for a moment seeming unsure of himself as his amplified voice echoed around the room. The insecure frown vanished as his eyes hardened. "I'm not going to take all this bull from you guys anymore! I'm the hero, and heroes don't deserve to have the people that they're trying to help talk crap about them!"
"We've told you a thousand times, lad, you're not helping anyone. You're just making things worse. We all know you have good intentions, but you can't stick your nose into other people's business."
"Some people don't know how- wait, I'm not helping anyone?" He seemed to deflate, shoulders sagging, as if his bomber jacket suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. "But I thought…I thought they needed me." His choked voice tugged at England's heart.
"No, lad. Remember the baby birds?" Many years ago, on a rare sunny day in England, America had found an abandoned nest. He climbed into the tree, somehow trampling England's flowers in the process, and "rescued" it.
The nest left scratches on his hands and rubbed an earthy stain onto his freshly washed shirt. Nevertheless, he sprinted back to the house, the weakly tweeting babies crushed against his chest.
"Iggy, Iggy, look what I found! Will you help me save 'em?" England looked away from his battle plans to see a grubby faced little boy beaming up at him. He shoved something half-rotten and smelly into his face.
"What is that?" England wrinkled his nose. The mound of twigs and dirt was slowly migrating from America's hands onto the Persian rug.
"It's a bird's house! The mummy wasn't there, and the babies were chirping, so I decided to adopt them! They look hungry." America frowned down at the "house" and England saw three wide-open, bright pink mouths, making an unearthly squawking noise. Attached to those gaping mouths were thin, wrinkly bodies the color of maggots. Needless to say, he jumped back hurriedly.
"Mother of God!" Hand on chest; he tried to calm his heart. America giggled.
"Cute, aren't they? This one's Sam, that one's George, and the grumpy-looking one's Arthur." The little boy smiled at the birds, his bright blue eyes full of light. "That makes me a hero, cos I saved them, right? Now they're gonna be safe. I runned all the way here to show you!" He looked back up at England.
"Ran." England corrected automatically. "And yes, that was very kind of you to save them, but baby birds can't-"
"What do they eat? Can I give them milk? Babies like milk, right? We gotta go find some! C'mon Arthur, Sam, and…whatever your name was." America skipped out of the office, chattering happily like boys his age are wont to do.
"George," England muttered to no one in particular. "His name was George, your king."
"I remember." America gripped the podium, knuckles turning white. "They didn't make it. I couldn't save them."
"You can't save everyone, America." England's voice was soft, almost gentle.
"But I want to. I'm the hero! I mean, they were so helpless, and I was so sure..." England didn't know if America was even still talking about the birds. Even if his bosses only "helped" to get oil and other things to benefit themselves, America always genuinely felt for the people. The boy was so earnest and sincere, he had always been.
"America, sit down please." Germany stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Afghanistan is going first."
America jumped, and looked with wide eyes at the man behind Germany. The two glared at each other for half a second before America hopped off the stage and went to his seat in the A section.
The Middle Eastern country went to the podium to get his presentation ready. Other countries began to file in, standing around in groups before wandering to their seats. France leaned over the back of England's chair from the F section and whispered something in his ear.
"You bloody frog! Don't insinuate such things!" The Frenchman "honhonhon-ed" and ruffled his hair.
"I thought you didn't speak my language, mon ami." A coy smile made his blue eyes twinkle.
"You've said that quite enough for any fool to figure it out!" England's retort seemed rather half-hearted to America. But then, he knew that England had always had a soft spot for the Frenchie.
"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" France asked again. Unfortunately for him, at that moment Switzerland and Liechtenstein were passing by.
"Bruder, what does "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir" mean?"Liechtenstein tugged on her big brother's sleeve.
Switzerland growled audibly, hand flying to his concealed pistol. He scanned the room, looking for the offending French-speaker.
His angry green eyes found France in the action of crawling under England's chair.
"YOU!"
France looked up, bonking his head on the underside of the chair. England squeaked, his feet hovering six inches above the floor.
"I'm going to bash your head in, Frenchie!" Switzerland yelled. In French, ironically. He pulled out his gun and waving it around (carefully avoiding hitting Liechtenstein), he charged England's chair. France wiggled out from under it, and ran up the aisle to the back of the Conference Room. Switzerland ran after him, cursing like a sailor now that his little sister was out of earshot.
America looked over and winked at England. The older nation glared back at him, but he thought he saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. America gave him the thumbs up, and mouthed "I think the sexual-assult rate just went down."
He could have sworn that England's almost-smile blossomed into a grin, but then Germany yelled at them all to shut up and another World Meeting began.