Good grief, it's an update! o.O Well, a new fic, at least, and I'd say it's about time given that it's coming up to two months since I posted anything at all. Part of the reason for my AWOL-ness is that I just spent two and a half weeks in the lovely US of A, mostly pestering Narroch (who herself wrote on my profile, whilst it sported a Stars and Stripes in place of its usual Union Jack, that I was in America and that he really liked it. I'm not sure if it's a good thing that Hetalia has made even transatlantic travel something to giggle immaturely at, exactly, but it certainly makes everything more fun, including planes that say 'Virgin America' on them. …When am I going to be mature? I feel like I'm long overdue becoming sensible… T.T).
Anyway, while I was in the US, one of the many adventures that Narroch and I had on our amazing totally-official-gay-USUK-notepad-paper To-Do List was to go see Captain America. This we did – it was an interesting experience, not so much because of the movie (although it was in the bane of my life: 3D) but because of the strange Fork and Screen set-up, buuuuuuut I digress. The film was great and I'm sure I wasn't the only person who thought 'lol USUK' as early as the first trailers for this film when it became apparent that the Cap's love interest Peggy Carter was British. Interestingly, that isn't the only reason for my springing on this almost-too-easy-crossover bandwagon – and it is easy, because Alfred and Captain America seem like they would be great bros if they existed alongside each other. Nonetheless, Narroch and I were talking in the car at some point and I said it would be interesting if, conversely, Alfred didn't like Steve Rogers/Captain America because he was jealous of him.
It certainly would be interesting grounds for a Personification-of-the-United-States-of-America Face-Off. X3
This contains SPOILERS for the film Captain America: The First Avenger and if you have not seen it, are planning to and do not want it spoiled, I really would recommend that you don't read this story... at least until after you've watched it. :3 (Also, it just... helps to have seen it, haha.)
This is dedicated by necessity, I feel, to Narroch, as a thanks for putting up with me and my demands, taxiing me around four states, taking me to McDonald's/Cracker Barrel/Panera Bread and providing the soundtrack to our shenanigans with Lady Gaga's Born This Way album, to name but a few of the highlights!
One of U.S.
"This blows," America announces over his Superman comic book, barely sparing a glance over its flimsy horizon at the stage and the suffering symbol upon it. "Let's go somewhere and fuck."
"No," England replies serenely, not looking up from his knitting. "It's far more entertaining to sit here and wager on how long it's going to take for that twitch in your eye to burst a blood vessel."
"Haha, you're such a fuckin' wit, England – a regular Charlie Chaplin." America pulls a petulant face at him and drops his comic to the side, folding his arms instead. He exhales deeply through his nose as he watches the man on the stage – a familiar figure by now, famous and well-loved, the beaming face of war bonds. "This is a goddamn joke – he just dresses up all pretty like Uncle Sam on the Fourth of July and gets all the glory. I could do that job in my sleep but nobody asked me, did they?"
England looks up ever so briefly, looking at the man in his garish costume.
"It looks like a frightful occupation to me," he says. "Be glad they roped him into it instead of you. He's of no help to anyone up there. Well, nobody here, anyway."
America snorts and pulls his cigarettes and a lighter out of his uniform pocket, lighting one up. He doesn't offer England one because he's pissed off at him for opting to sit here and mock him over taking the offer of a round of rough, clothed, half-assed sex against a splinter-riddled crate in one of the muddy ammunition tents. His loss.
"I still don't see why he gets a comic book," America grumbles, gnawing irritably on his cigarette. "And they all have him punching Nazis in the face on the cover. I bet he ain't never punched no Nazi in the face."
England scrunches his nose in displeasure at his mangled grammar.
"I'll give you that," he mutters, "but it's all about making money, nonetheless. Money that we need for the war. Surely you can see that."
"I don't care." America is quite tempted to tap his ash off on England's knitting but decides that he doesn't want a ten-inch needle embedded into his eye socket. "The point is that he's a damn glory-hog. Captain America, huh? Well, I am America – but nobody wants my freaking autograph, do they?"
"Don't be so childish," England sighs. "I can see perfectly well why you're irritated but it doesn't justify it. Just when I think you're being mature, you surprise me." He shakes his head. "I can't believe you're jealous of a man in a star-spangled costume."
"Because it isn't fair," America insists. "I'm America. I should be the one who gets to ask my people for their help. Instead I'm just some ordinary, faceless soldier, one of thousands serving. I'm special – and yet I'm not."
"Ah." England finally looks at him, arching an eyebrow. "I see. You want his job." He nods towards the stage, where the heroic figure in that bright costume is being jeered at by those ordinary, faceless soldiers wet through to the bone with rain and mud and worse. "That's funny – because it looks to me that he'd quite like to have yours."
—
"Hey," America whispers in England's ear, "check out girl-you."
"Girl-me?" England already knows who he is referring to and doesn't look up from the table-sized map spread out before them. "She has a name, you know. Don't be disrespectful."
"Yeah, but she is girl-you."
"Be quiet," England hisses. "You'll have Colonel Phillips kicking off again. Why you constantly feel the need to talk when he's talking is beyond me."
He kicks America's shin under the table for good measure and nods towards the grizzled, sharp old American officer in question; they are all around the main table in the map room of the War Cabinet Rooms beneath Downing Street, pushing around little flags and ships and coloured pins. Phillips is leading the discussion, with Peggy Carter (or England's female counterpart, apparently) to his right handing him the appropriate markers to best illustrate his plans; Steve Rogers sits to her right, his hands clasped together on top of the desk, listening very attentively. Out of the costume, instead in his US Army uniform, with that blonde hair combed back and his blue eyes bright and focused, he almost looks rather like—
"Hey." Despite having just reprimanded him, England can't help leaning in again with a smirk. "Check out well-behaved-you."
"Tch." America rolls his eyes. "I don't see the resemblance."
"Your glasses must be fogged up. He's the spitting image of you. Just... rather more well-mannered. And with good eyesight."
"Oh, yeah?" America belatedly kicks him back. "Well, look at girl-you. She does that little hand-on-the-hip thing that you do. And..." He jabs at England's neck above his shirt collar, making him squirm irritably. "She's totally hot for well-behaved-me."
"Was." England inclines a little closer to breathe his answer right into America's ear. "I think they may have had a little spat."
America shoots him a smug little grin.
"She's still got it burning bad for him," he says confidently. "She keeps shooting him that frigid ice-bitch look that you do when you're mad at me but really want to make up so we can get back to bumping uglies. What is it about us Yanks, huh, that makes you guys want to drop your cute little teacups and—"
"America!" Phillips suddenly roars down the table; both America himself and Rogers jump violently, the latter shooting Phillips a confused, almost-hurt look. "Not you, Rogers," Phillips snaps, jabbing his finger in America's direction. "Him. Actual America. Shut the hell up when I'm talking."
America scowls and folds his arms, slouching in his chair. Rogers averts his gaze back down at the map for a moment before flickering it up again to look quickly, curiously, half-shyly, at America; their eyes meet and America sticks his tongue out at the young man across the table, making him blink and causing both England and Carter to shoot him a weary look of disgust.
"Yeah," he mutters, more to himself, "I'm actual America. Suck on that, Captain Glory-hog."
He spends the next portion of the meeting pestering England – but it's not to annoy England himself. Those little touches, fingers curling around his arm, knuckles brushing against his cheek, palm to his shoulder, an arm completely around his waist... they're to annoy Rogers, they're directed at him, they're snide, silent little remarks of I've got guy-her, what's taking you so long getting girl-him, huh, Cap?
Annoyed, embarrassed by his horrible behaviour, England elbows him away; it's perfectly clear that America has completely lost interest in whatever Phillips is saying, instead directing his attention towards one-upping his perceived rival, and he determinedly keeps it up until England swipes a pin stuck into Occupied Denmark and jabs it into America's thigh instead. America yelps, Phillips shouts again, Rogers begins to look rather fed-up, Carter shoots America her iciest glare and order is somewhat restored when America decides to simply sulk for the rest of the discussion, jabbing at Vichy France with a plastic battleship.
"You're being really quite awful today," England hisses at him as everyone rises and begins to gather papers and equipment. "Do behave, for goodness' sake. You're not doing anyone much credit, least of all yourself."
"Who cares?" America replies sourly. "You've got the almighty Captain America here, it's not as though you need—"
"America!" Phillips' voice rings sharply throughout the small room and America cuts himself off, glancing towards the colonel. He is not even looking at him, however, instead at Rogers' side. "Captain America, that is," he goes on. "Join me in ten minutes. We've a mission tonight that we'll need you for. Can't do it without you, son."
Rogers nods and salutes, his gaze sliding towards Carter, who is still over at the desk with her documents, quite deliberately not sparing him a glace. Her lips are a tight little line, white beneath her lipstick. America, meanwhile, clenches his fists, his eyes darkening.
"America." England tugs at his sleeve, trying to head off the obvious oncoming collision. "Come on, love. We're done here. Let's go."
America pulls away from him, stepping forward.
"Hey," he says hotly, looking directly at Phillips. "What about me, huh? It's like you said. I'm actual America. I'm your goddamn nation in the flesh. When do I get to go on a covert mission that you can't do without me?"
Phillips raises an incredulous eyebrow at him as he goes to the door.
"When you're a goddamn hero," he says icily. He walks out, the door swinging closed behind him and leaving a dreadful silence in his wake.
Rogers says nothing, looking at America almost sympathetically – as though he understands. (He does. He must do. He was the one waiting his turn before this. He was nobody, nothing, much less than America has ever been. It's America, really, who doesn't understand. Spoilt, self-centred, envious America.) He holds America's gaze, however, when their eyes meet again, standing his ground.
America's fists clench tighter still and his shoulders arch for a brief moment as though the muscles are coiling, readying – but then they suddenly relax, with his fingers unfurling, and he gives a cold, faux little laugh, waving his hand dismissively at Rogers.
"You're right, England," he says smoothly, calmly, too smooth and too calm. He puts his arm around England's shoulders with the aim of leading him away like a prize. "We're done here. Let's go somewhere and fuck."
Rogers flinches as Peggy Carter finally slams down her documents onto the desk and storms out past the three of them, her high heels clacking angrily with every step. America merely raises his eyebrows as if he's surprised but it was deliberate, it was obviously deliberate (though America was trying to rile Rogers, really, not Carter herself, she's just the subject, the girl-England, the vulgarly-implied receiving end if only Rogers had the balls, so to speak), and England disgustedly pushes away from him.
"Don't be so bloody obscene," he spits.
America appears amused.
"Obscene?" he repeats idly. "That's not what you say when you're horny as hell and ripping my belt off—"
England reels back his fist and punches America squarely on the jaw. He doesn't quite go down but he stumbles a bit, righting himself against the desk and rubbing his palm to his jawline with an angry grunt of pain. He raises his eyes to meet England's, furious.
"Don't give me that look," England snaps. "You jolly well deserved it and you know it. Using me as a fucking weapon... This isn't even about us, after all." He glances coolly over his shoulder at Rogers, who is regarding them both in dismay. "If I were you, Rogers, I'd hit him another smack in the gob. He's just looking for a way to get something, anything, over on you." He eyes America again coolly. "It's pathetic, really. I wonder if you're still proud to represent him now that you've seen just how spiteful he can be."
Rogers straightens up, looking at America himself as the nation spits out some blood and wipes his mouth on his cuff. America seems interested in rising to the bait himself, smirking.
"Well?" he prompts. "What about it, Cap? Still want to fly the flag?"
"I don't represent you," Rogers replies firmly at length. "You're flawed, arrogant and petty. You are all the things wrong and I am all the things right. I represent the idea of you. I am your ideals. I am your vision. I am your dream."
He smiles sharply and America eyes him warily, hopelessly, clearly taken aback.
"That's why I'm Captain America and you're just... well, just America."
—
"I expect you heard." England leans against the door and watches America's back. "About... Rogers, I mean."
"Mmm." America's voice is toneless as he clears out his desk, the stacking of old papers mechanical, unorderly. "Crashed the thing right into the Arctic, right?"
"That's right. Apparently... it was the only way. I mean, with the plane going down at that speed, I suppose—"
"Yeah." America pauses briefly but doesn't turn around. "Heroic death for a hero. huh? Fitting you might say."
"You sound... subdued," England observes dryly.
"Of course I am. A man just died, England."
"He died saving your cities."
"I know. I'm not fuckin' stupid, you know."
"Well, I just need to be sure."
"Sure of what?"
"Sure that you're... subdued for the right reason. He died a hero and everyone will know it. You know that everyone will know it." England pauses. "I just... want to know that you're not jealous of a dead man's glory."
"Ha." America exhales. "Am I that awful?"
"You're capable of it. We all are, you know. Resentment is one of the worst things about the world. It's the kind of thing that starts wars."
"And what if I am resentful?"
"W-well, then, I—"
"Not of him," America goes on breathlessly. "Not of who he was. Not of what he did. Of both of those things, I mean. He wasn't like us, England. They called him a Super-Soldier when they pumped all those chemicals into him but he still wasn't like us. You and I and Russia and Germany and Japan... We can't die. He could."
He turns towards England finally, his eyes wet, his young face helpless.
"So he wasn't like us – and he wasn't like me. He was right, you know, when he said that I was just America. I'm everything, the good and the bad, everything dirty and ugly and undesirable that comes with a country. We're greedy and hateful towards each other and so we start wars, as you said, in our own names, for our own grandeur. That's why I'm down here. I realised that I'm where I belong – in the mud with all my men. This is where I deserve to be, and where you deserve to be, England, and where Germany deserves to be. But he wasn't like that, even though it was what he wanted. Instead they gathered up all the little scraps of goodness left, anything they could salvage from my Old Glory, and clothed him in it. They made him be different. He was created without corruption. He was supposed to save me."
"He did save you, America," England says quietly.
"I know. He did it because he was one of mine." America starts to cry. "He did it because he was one of us."
...Not that he actually died but there we are. XD
(Ironically, Captain America wasn't created free from "corruption" in RL, considering he was a massive propaganda campaign during WWII – something which the film played on to make the thing all kinds of delightful meta.)
Admittedly this jumps around quite a bit, particularly concerning America and his behaviour/feelings towards Steve Rogers, but I rather like it this way: as little incisions into the film rather than a complete, solid storyline running alongside Captain America itself. I sort of feel that this is all it needs. Another way of going about this would, of course, have been to actually have America/Alfred be Captain America and England/Arthur be Peggy Carter, but somehow I liked the idea of them existing alongside/interacting with their film "counterparts" better.
Uh, in case anyone forgot (since admittedly I had to Wikipedia it), 'Phillips' refers to Colonel Chester Phillips, the character played by Tommy Lee Jones.
Part of the film does actually take place in the War Cabinet Rooms underneath Downing Street, which you can go and see if you visit London! C:
…You know, this just makes me think that my cracky notion for Alfred to meet up with Stan Smith of American Dad! is still a totally brilliant idea. Stan would utterly worship the ground Alfred walks on and I think Alfred would probably be okay with that, lololol. (There's even an episode where Roger refers to Stan himself with "He's like America: the guy!". I think they would be good friends!)
Thank you for reading!
RR xXx