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It was 1870, and England was feeling extremely pleased with himself, a state everybody but his powerful British self would call 'hideously smug'. Their blunt summation was not far off the mark. Smug, yes. Shoving said smugness down the throat of every Tom, Dick and Harry...no. In fact, rather to the immense surprise of everybody who knew the snobbish, self-aggrandizing Brit, England was actually quite relaxed about the whole situation.
Sitting comfortably in his armchair in the middle of the spacious living-room in America's house, reading some lengthy novel he'd not even bothered to inspect before opening and reading its contents, England reflected on how he had already garnered the bulk of North-east America and Canada. He smirked smugly to himself. Things were going so smoothly, why bother blowing one's own trumpet on the matter when it was already so painfully obvious that the British Empire knew no bounds.
Chuckling to himself, the snooty former-pirate failed to notice the gleeful sky-blue eyes that were now inches from his own, as he stared into space with a look of won who'd just won the lottery and had already made sure the world bloody well knew it.
Inevitably, when the shamelessly sniggering Brit happened to glance down, he was face to face with what he thought were the eyes of the deceptively cute demi-devil he had tried and failed to summon the week before, and lurched back, falling out of his seat and shouting his head off.
"Oh God, oh bollocks, it's you! Look, I'm sorry but I just couldn't sacrifice our tea farms in Africa!" the powerful empire-nation babbled, all dignity and poise thrown clean out the window.
The demi-demon giggled.
Giggled.
Looking closer, he saw a chubby little face with bright blue eyes and a beaming mouth, clothed in a tiny white pinafore, like a girl.
"Hi Engwand!"
All of England's panic flowed out in a huge sigh of relief that sounded like the nation was slowly deflating.
"Oh, America...thank God..."
Getting up abruptly to save what little dignity he still possessed, if any, England sat back in his armchair, baby America hopping onto the left arm and perching there, gazing up at him wide-eyed and expectant. The overwhelming cuteness of the child made England suddenly get the urge to squeeze those adorably chubby cheeks.
Good God, what was happening to him?
"Whatcha doin'?" the baby nation asked, peering curiously at the novel lying on the floor, having been flung there in its owner's ungracious fall from the chair.
"Oh...just reading this book, but it's too complicated for you now," England said, snapping back to reality and picking the novel up.
"Oh."
They were silent for a few moments.
"Say Engwand," America spoke up, gazing intently up at something and pointing with one small hand. "What's that?"
England looked, and saw America was referring to the light bulb dangling from the ceiling.
"Oh, that. It's a light bulb," England explained patiently. "It was invented in 1835 by a man named James Bowman Lindsay. Although, the actual idea for it was born in 1802, and back then it looked nothing like it does today—it was only a battery. Still, great things come from small ideas."
Baby America's eyes were as wide as soup-plates, mouth agape.
"Wow..."
England's parental ego turned up a few notches. God he was so amazing.
"How does it make light?"America whispered, in awe of the tiny bulb.
Now, it should be noted that England was not a normally malicious individual. He had to be first sure he had the advantage before exploiting said advantage like crazy. This was one of those moments, when he looked down at the eager child with total, loving seriousness, and explained:
"Well, America, you see—a special power called electricity is carried by invisible imps that are so tiny they live in the wires that connect to the main bulb, who climb up the wall, through the wires [England traced the journey of the 'invisible imps' with his hand, America watching rapturously] and climb into the light-bulb, and settle down in it, thus making their shining light. However, the imp dies eventually, and when this happens, another imp will take the body away before we take the bulb out and replace it with a new one for the next imp. And so on and so on. Oh! One more thing..."
England leaned in to whisper, and little America followed suit.
"You should never take away a bulb until it goes out, or else the imp will die. When it goes dim, it merely means it's a little ill."
America stared, completely amazed. England had to fight with every bit of willpower in him to stop himself from collapsing with laughter.
Suddenly, the door burst open to reveal France in all his pompous, effeminate glory, flowing cape and hair and everything else England hated with all his being.
"Bonjour all!" he sang, posing dramatically in a way that made it all too easy for England to give the Frenchman a right royal kick in the vulnerable, but highly treasured, privates. But America was here, so the Brit restrained himself.
America waved.
"Hi France!"
England pouted.
"Bugger off, France."
France beamed.
"I love you too, Iggy!" he drawled, infuriating the Englishman all the more.
All of a sudden, the light in the room dimmed somewhat. Everyone looked up to see the light bulb had suddenly decreased its luminance, and now only gave off a faint orange hue.
"Oh snails," France cursed. "Another bulb gone. No matter, I'll replace it."
With that, the blonde moved into the centre of the room, reached up, and began unscrewing the defunct light bulb, unheeding to the obvious hazard. England knew, of course, but was the last person on earth that would tell him.
America, naturally, panicked.
"No, stop!" he cried, leaping off the chair and grabbing France's trouser-leg. "If you do that, the magic imp will die!"
England couldn't hold it in. Instantly the otherwise emotionally repressed nation collapsed in uncontrollable fits of laughter, sliding off his chair and banging his fist on the floor in hysterics.
"'Magical imp'?" France repeated incredulously, slightly disturbed by his rival's sudden violent mood-swing. "Did England tell you dis?"
America nodded seriously.
France rolled his eyes, England still rolling around the floor chortling, and knelt by America. "America, there are no imps in light-bulbs. The thing that makes them work is science and electricity, nothing to do with magical creatures."
America blinked.
"Oh, then..."
"Oui. What England told you was a huge fib, as he might say. Not true."
"Oh..."
Now all the two could do was watch the hysterical Brit giggle himself out.
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(In the modern day...)
England was pissed. This had been more or less his general state of existence these past hundred years, but having ended yet another meeting with absolutely piss-all having been decided upon save lunch arrangements (McDonalds, naturally), for the hundredth time in a row, he was angrier than usual.
Incidentally, only he and America were left in the meeting hall, England still being seated, drumming his fingers on the tabletop and glaring into space.
America noticed this, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to inflame the Brit's irritation all the more.
Now, it should be noted that America was not a normally malicious individual. He had to be first sure he had the advantage before exploiting said advantage like crazy. This was one of those moments, when he looked down at the angry young man with total, loving seriousness, and remarked:
"Say, Britain—remember that old cookery book you used to own?"
England twitched, and looked up at the smiling American with a look that would kill puppies.
"Yes, very well. The cooking book Mumsie gave me when I was a nipper [1]. You lost it," he muttered darkly, suddenly feeling the urge to strangle the young nation for the crime all over again.
America laughed like the whole thing was one big glorious joke.
"Oh, but I didn't!"
It took a few moments for his words to register in the Brit's mind. England looked at America slowly, unsure if he had misheard.
"...What?"
America beamed wider.
"I didn't lose it, I hid it! Under the floorboards of the old house [2], in fact! It should be still there, actually..."
England was too flabbergasted to respond, and simply stared at the younger, open-mouthed and speechless.
America laughed again.
"You were right, dude! Great things do come from small ideas! Later!"
Laughing hysterically, America jogged out of the meeting hall.
Now all England could do was wallow in his own grievous mistake; giving America knowledge of the art of huge fibs.
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END.
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NOTES:
[1] Nipper: informal, old-fashioned English word for 'small child', but can also mean the pincer of a crab or lobster.
[2] A reference to the novel 'The Tell-Tale Heart' by American poet Edgar Alan Poe, in which a murderer hides the body of his victim under the floorboards of his house to fool police. In the case of the novel, this tactic fails. It's an awesome read, you should check it out if you like short crime stories!