Handling a Sword
by jedishampoo
From a prompt by twsakura on tumblr a while back, for UK and US's first meeting after the Revolution. Un-beta-read, pardon! Gen-ish with some stuff under the surface. Also contains mentions of past FrUS.
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June, 1785
Lord Carmathen's carriage clip-clopped and jostled its way along the cobbles to St. James's Palace. London bounced by through the window, grimy, smoky, crowded. Exciting. America pulled his head back in just a little, knowing he was a gapeseed but trying not to look like it.
He heard a sniff and a shuff-shuffle of papers from inside the carriage. Mr. Adams's mouth was moving but no sound came out as he checked and re-checked his notes, practicing what, in but a short while, he would be saying to King George III himself. He sniffed again.
America went back to his window and his gapeseeding. Hawkers hawked and smells stank. He'd been here before, decades ago, and had met the old King George. His beefy hand on America's then-small one had been scratchy with calluses.
"Großvater George is pleased with the tobacco crop this year, mein junger Bursche. Are you learning the proper way to handle a sword?"
"Oh, give me one and I'll show you, sir!" America had cried.
"Yes, yes," England had clucked and taken America's hand back into his smooth, long-fingered one. Such a gentle and caring tyrant he'd been. "Let us not pester his Majesty further."
America'd thrown off those shackles of tyranny, of course, huzzah! But now England's despotism had taken another form: instead of nursing his Revolutionary wounds like he should've been these last few years, he'd been beating up France and expanding his mastery of the seas and taking over world trade. America needed those seas and that trade, needed amity with England. But they'd last parted so bitterly!
England hadn't even shown up in Paris for the signing of the treaty. He'd furthermore refused to let his delegation sit for a painting of the whole thing, so America had a half-finished Benjamin West leaning against the wall of his front parlor, covered in dusty canvas like a shamed thing. Lord, did England know how to hold a grudge.
America wished for a moment that he wasn't going to St. James, that he was one of those rivermen out on the Thames, poling his barge and winking at the ladies like a rogue. Or maybe he should be a hawker out on the pier, waving enticingly illustrated pamphlets and shouting about the wondrous opportunities in America.
The carriage and his fantasies halted at the giant stone gates of St. James. As the door was opened Mr. Adams coughed. "I am conscious of this honor, my young sir, and hope to do us both credit."
"Of course you will. You're our most experienced diplomat now," America told him. Mr. Adams's spine straightened and his lips firmed; America could sometimes say the correct thing.
When he stepped out onto the street the cobbles under his feet thrummed with age, with the chill of the ancient bones buried under London's cosmopolitan exterior. This ground remembered being Londinium, and remembered the footsteps of King Henry's seven wives, and ... everything.
Nations were strongest on their own soil, Prussia had told him, and America could well credit it. His land spoke to him through his boots of deep, rich soil and a vast, unbroken frontier. This land spoke of civilization and culture, the things in the books that England had often foisted upon him. America supposed he should aspire to such things.
"So be nice," he told himself. He pulled at the hem of his jacket, straightening it, and followed Mr. Adams up the steps and into the palace.
Bewigged old men with their noses in the air led him and Mr. Adams through a succession of rooms, which were lined with rows of even more wigged and powdered footmen - all with their noses in the air, of course. Their group walked up some stairs and down another hall to the King's bedroom, where the King didn't sleep at all, if that wasn't the silliest thing.
"The tyrant himself," Mr. Adams whispered for America's ears only as he bowed and began the intricate dance of people meeting British royalty.
It was all a play, all about appearances, one America had never understood. France had tried to teach him the diplomatic game, but France was ... France. His methods involved a great deal of wine and cuddling. Unclothed. It wasn't unpleasant stuff, but America wasn't so sure those methods would be successful on England.
Though he supposed he could imagine England naked, and that would make the proceedings less taxing. And perhaps more humorous?
America swept his gaze about the crowded room and ah, there England was, in the corner, fully clothed and glaring at them all from under his massive eyebrows.
England showed no sign of being of the mud- and blood-spattered fellow America had last clapped eyes on; he wore his fanciest kit, his fur-lined cape over a black jacket stacked neatly with gold and silver medallions, and black knee breeches over white silk stockings. His nose was in the air - no surprise, that - and he regarded America with a cool, green gaze.
At least he, America, had no dance to perform. He stepped over to the corner to be as polite as he'd been instructed. "Howdy, England. Lord, you look tired," he lied. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"
England's eyes widened a little, then his lip curled up in something that was nothing like the smile he'd used to bestow upon America after years apart. "Good afternoon. You are as refreshingly provincial as ever, America."
America clapped his jaw shut over a belligerent retort. That had been a lie, too, he knew it he just knew it; America had been in France and his clothes were French and France had assured him he was bang up to the nines-
- naked -
America's stomach fluttered. On the other side of the room Mr. Adams was giving his prepared speech a voice at last, if a shaky one, about recommending his country to His Majesty's benevolence and restoring esteem, and all the things America should be saying to England. America cleared his throat.
"What do you think of my ambassador? He's doing it all proper. You should be interested to see that."
England's eyes glinted in the lamplight. "An ambassador from America. Good heavens, what a sound!" he said.
"Sounds good, doesn't it?" America said, curling his fingernails into his palms. "Being a sovereign nation is all sorts of new and remarkable."
"It will be fascinating, seeing how long your democratic experiment across the ocean lasts," England sniffed.
America felt his neck heat. Being nice was for the faint of heart. "Ha ha! I'll have two oceans soon, you know," he said, and let England chew on that.
"You'll have your scalp removed if you try." England crossed his arms.
America glared and England glared back - glared up, in fact, reminding America that he was bigger and he was freer and why was England being such a soreheaded old curmudgeon, anyway? They were supposed to be diplomatic, and America had been trying very hard-
-Naked. France, when teaching diplomacy, had sometimes offered tidbits of information in, er, intimate moments, like when America had been spread naked upon his bed once, worn out and blushing from his crown to his toes, and France had murmured in his ear that one could always tell when England was really angry, because he'd be at his most politest.
Well, at the moment, England was not being polite at all.
Not far away His Majesty was - oh, Lord, he was asking Mr. Adams about not liking France, and it was true, Mr. Adams hadn't cared much for France.
England heard them, too, and suddenly he averted his glare from America's and uncrossed his arms, letting them drop to his sides. He fluttered his fingers as if they'd lost circulation, and America watched, fascinated. And then His Majesty was bowing and Mr. Adams was walking backwards: it was time to go already, and America hadn't said a thing he'd wanted to say about alliances and trade.
"Well," he mumbled, and then flummoxed his brain trying to think of what to say next, how to win a battle where swords were words. "Uh. It was good to see you again. Farewell!"
"Good-?" England said, and his jaw dropped, which was funny, and then his cheeks pinked, which was surprising. "It ... Farewell, America."
America turned to leave because there was no backing out for him. It ... well, it had been good to see England. He walked out in a hurry, his mind holding onto that last image of England's flushed cheeks, so that he might decide later what it had meant.
End.
Thanks for reading!
Notes: King George II was German, a farmer and a fighter. Pardon my bad babelfish German. And "An ambassador from America? Heavens, what a sound!" was what a London newspaper had to say about Mr. Adams's visit to the court of St. James. They were being snarky. I got a lot of my information from the biography of John Adams by David McCullough.