15 February 1942
"It's not supposed to be this way!" England shouted hoarsely over the roar of gunfire and triggered mines, tearing open a new round and jamming the cartridge into place with hands shaking from adrenaline. "What in God's name has gone wrong with the world that I'd be forced to accept help from you? For fuck's sake, your military isn't even ranked above Poland—Poland!"
"Hey England," America called back, squinting through cracked and grimy lenses. He grinned brightly and snapped England a cheery salute. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Enough for me to choke you with, now man your fucking gun, America. God, I hate Singapore. Pass me a grenade, lad."
Late December 1944
"A delightful excursion this has been. And which charming American should I thank for this particular shitshow?" England asked sourly. He sat on the creaking, threadbare cot and pulled off one sodden sock, wringing it out and grimacing at the veritable stream of muddy water that leaked out.
"Fuck off. If it all went the way it was supposed to, we'd have crossed the goddamned Lamone by now and kicked Italy's ass." America was sitting across from him on his own cot, eyes clenched shut and dirty fingers rubbing tight circles at his temples, spreading the mud there into a ruddy warpaint. His glasses were long gone and his now-frequent migraines notorious and pointedly avoided.
"Wonderful. And due to some piss-poor planning, now we're quite stuck in Italian mountains for the fucking winter with Germany sneering down at us from the Senio and Italy not far behind—"
"What the fuck do you want me to do?!" America exploded, surging up to tower over England's seated form with barely-restrained violence and a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I'm not the fucking Messiah that I can bless all our fucking tanks into walking on water—"
"Then perhaps you should included that in your preliminary designs!" England shot back, rising swiftly to his feet so that they were nearly nose to nose. "At least then you might actually be useful instead of just deadweight that I have to drag about—"
"Nobody asked you to come; this is the U.S. Corps! You could've joined back up with your own Tenth Infantry back in October—"
"India was handling them well enough on her own, but I bloody well should have—"
"Then why are you here?"
England inhaled and shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to attempt to ward off the oncoming headache. He exhaled in one sharp gust of breath, opening his eyes and fixing his gaze on the angry lines furrowing America's brow (ones, he noticed with resignation, were becoming etched deeper every day this whole farce carried on).
"It's not supposed to be this way," England began.
"No shit," America interrupted.
"None of this is supposed to be this way," England shouted. "You're supposed to be some ignorant fool half the world away who's happy building factories, playing at being a democracy, and pretending to not know where Belgium or Slovenia or Finland is—"
"Then I am so very sorry," America broke in icily, "to be such a disappointment. But you wanted me here so bad, so here I am, a day late and all those dollars you owe me short."
"Go to hell."
"Why not, the food's probably better."