June, 1865

"The last time I saw this building, it was on fire."

That was the first thing to come out of Canada's mouth as the carriage pulled up to the White House.

"He had it coming," England reminded, eying the northern Nation critically. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Solemn violet eyes strayed towards the grand building. He seemed unsure of himself. "Right…"

England watched his possession for a moment longer, before deciding to change the subject. "Regardless of how you may feel about that, we are here for a different reason."

"So you say," Canada answered in a strangely neutral voice. He disembarked from the carriage without another word, leaving England alone with his grim thoughts.

625,000 estimated dead-

Some of the bloodiest battles ever-

Have you seen the pictures?

The South is in tatters-

President Lincoln was just assassinated…

England leaned back in his seat with a sigh. He wished more than anything that he could order the driver to just take him back to his ship so that he might get as far away from this continent as possible. But he couldn't do that. He was already here, after all, and he had appearances to keep up.

And though he would never admit it, he couldn't help but wonder how America was faring with all of this. Civil war was the ultimate test for a Nation, and it happened to mostof them at least once. But this one…An incredibly violent civil war, followed immediately by sudden reluctant national reform and the first successful assassination of his leader. The boy was undoubtedly miserable.

'But I'm not here to ensure he is alright. This visit is purely a political formality. I don't care about the idiot Yank.'

He breathed, and stepped off the carriage. He resolutely ignored the somber sentries placed at each side of the entrance as he entered the large foyer, and immediately considered leaving. He didn't like it here-it felt hard to breathe. His stubborn composure suddenly began to waver.

'Turning back now wouldn't befit a Nation of my position. I don't care what some barely unified bunch of bumpkin states thinks of me, so I'd best start acting like it!'

With skill borne of centuries of practice, he forced himself to calm. Or at least to appear calm. He still wished he could leave before anyone saw hi-

"Sir Kirkland?"

England forced himself back into reality to study the human that had just addressed him.

Rather stocky, with a swarthy complexion and a broad forehead to accompany his strong jawline and dark eyes. He was dressed all in a somber black. England blinked. "I beg your pardon, but do I know you?"

"Andrew Johnson," the man supplied, offering a hand. "Your colleague, Mister Williams, said you would probably be here."

The English Nation accepted the proffered hand. 'The current leader of this awful cluster of rebellious yanks, if I remember correctly.'

"Are you here to see Alfred?"

'Ah, straight to the point. An American through-and-through. Pleasantries are wasted on these people, I swear.'

England automatically shook his head. "No, I am actually here to discuss trade."

"Since when did trade agreements require the presence of the actual Nation?" President Johnson inquired gently.

"Since I felt like getting on a boat and coming here," England retorted, a trite coolly. He absently tossed his walking stick to his other hand. "I fail to see how that is pertinent."

Johnson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watching England with those soul-piercing black eyes. Neither of them moved.

England was getting to be uncomfortable, now. 'Why won't he say something?'

"He's recovering."

"I'm sorry?"

"Alfred. He's getting better. The wounds have almost completely closed, and he's stopped arguing with himself. He still doesn't socialize as much as he did before, though."

And why did England feel a flash of relief with those words?

'I don't care about him!'

He managed a barely polite smile and said, "Arguing with oneself is a common symptom. The fact that he's stopped is a sign that America is flourishing under your leadership." 'Should be my leadership. This wouldn't have happened under me. Serves him right, the bloody upstart.'

Johnson inclined his head, though he obviously wasn't fooled by England's polite words. "Let us move to the-"

The sound of a door being slammed open interrupted the rather uncomfortable exchange.

"Please talk to me!" Canada pleaded, chasing after his twin. "We won't be able to move past this if you don't at least listen to what I have to say."

America looked, quite frankly, awful. His clothing, a long jacket over a roughspun shirt and trousers, was still too loose on his wide frame, having lost weight in the recent conflict. His sparkling blue eyes had dimmed almost to a pale, stormy grey and his hair was choppy and lifeless, as though he'd been tearing at it and it was only now growing back. His skin had an unhealthy pallor to it.

'Glasses. When did he get glasses?'

Madison frowned. England overheard the President mutter, "I didn't think he would actually do it…"

"Do what?" England asked, simultaneously curious and apprehensive.

America froze at the sound of his voice, head slowly turning about to look at him. Their eyes met, and England found himself searching for any trace of the bright little colony he'd found in the field that on fateful spring day.

He wasn't there. But then, how could he be? This was an entirely different entity. A haggard, distrusting young man with such obvious anger and terrible sadness plaguing him that England doubted there would be any going back to those happy times.

'But I don't care. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care!'

He clapped a hand over his mouth. He'd said that last one aloud-practically yelled it, in fact. And now everyone present was staring at him as his callous declaration echoed throughout the White House.

America's face, unexpectedly, twisted into a sardonic smile. A bitter perversion of the carefree expression England had been accustomed to, several decades ago. "We know that, Britain. No need to holler." He slung something over his shoulder as he said this. England saw that it was a small rucksack.

"Don't leave," Canada said, desperation tinging his voice. "We still need to talk."

The western Nation rolled his eyes. "Oh, no. Mister 'Empire' over there summed it up quite nicely, I think. You hate me. He hates me. Everyone hates me. No one cares."

Canada stopped, his expression stricken. "Alfred-"

"Don't call me that," America abruptly hissed, rearing on his brother. "You don't get to call me that."

England felt vastly unnerved, as those words were eerily similar to the words of another that he'd heard about three centuries back.

Greece staggered as though he'd been physically struck. 'Phoebe...'

The woman drew back her bow, dark eyes shining with madness. 'You have no right to that name-none of you do! Hell, I have no right to that name. Nor my title. Not after what I've done.'

Canada looked devastated. England surprised himself by taking a half-step forward. "You're still recuperating. It would not be wise to leave just yet."

America wordlessly brushed past them, not even looking to his President as he pushed open the doors to the exit.

"America, you don't know what going without contact from another Nation would mean for-"

But it was too late to warn him. The doors were pushed open, and the blond Nation blurred into nothingness in the afternoon sun like a mirage.

'He figured out intraborder teleportation by himself,' England realized with a twinge of sadness, and an even slighter smidgeon of pride. 'Something else that I never got to teach him.'

President Johnson reclaimed the Empire's attention with a polite cough. England turned to see the generally stoic man's face display perturbation. "Should I be worried?"

England exhaled slowly. "I'd rather not go into detail. But it would be…highly unpleasant, if you do not locate him. For the greater good of our kind, I would suggest you find a way to have him see his brother." 'Not because I care. Caring doesn't work.' "You would hear no objection from me or mine if he ever formally visits Canada for that purpose."

The northern Nation bit his lip, his expression tragic. "If he'll ever want to see me again."

"This is not. Your. Fault," England firmly reminded. "He's just being a git because he can't get over a stupid war that he started."

"Which one are you to referring to, exactly?" Canada demanded in an unexpected burst of passion that actually made the Empire start. Then he subsided, violet eyes trailing to the floor in immediate regret. "Britain," he said, much softer than before, "what if he never moves past this? What would that mean for the world?"

"Nothing," England reassured, mostly for his own sake. "He'll never be especially relevant to the fate of the world." Only after the words passed his lips did he remember that the President of the United States was still in the room. "No offense intended, Mister President."

"Forgive me if I don't share your view," Johnson offered tersely, his tone indicating that the matter should be considered dropped. "Now let us hurry with those trade agreements, because I apparently have a sick, immortal teenager to find."

Another historical one-shot, because they're so fun to write. Also because I'm setting up for a larger undertaking in the near future, so watch out for that.

Tell me what you thought on your way out?

Later dudes. ^J^