Who do you trust the most?
As a country, there are certain things in your history that are undeniable. Certain consequences, certain connections. Ties you can never fully break.
For England, she's been here for ages. That could be anyone. For America, there is only one.
It's these sorts of things that keep her up at night.
Not that that's the only reason for why she couldn't sleep, what with the after effects of war and bombings and all.
No, it's the nightmares that keep her awake—America is what she thinks about when she is awake, and alone. And scared of the terrors her mind holds for her, scared of what news the dawn will bring.
Not that she lets them control her, or anything; no, Brits are nothing of the sort, are they? They won the war and everything. They put themselves back together and carried on.
…with America's help.
And that's when she starts thinking.
It's those incontrovertible truths, those undeniable ties. The pain, the tears, the heartache. The way he'd picked her up so carefully amongst the rubble, the way he'd treated her like she would shatter, like glass.
The way that, after all these years, he's still picking her up and putting her back together, even though she cuts him with her glass shards. Even though the job hurts him to do, he still does it.
At least he knows it's hurting her, too.
She frowns slowly and gently rubs her chest, the fragmented burns, cuts and scars from the Blitz through the bandages. Even though the attacks were at the start of the war, they haven't healed, and here's to hoping that they close up and fade away soon. But the ache doesn't go away, and she doesn't know if it's because of them or because of him.
"Come on, England, you need to go home."
"All of us need to go home, America!" France snaps irritably through the pain from his leg. "But we still have work to do!"
America rolls his eyes, out of weariness more than annoyance. "Then I'll do it! She needs to go home, and you need to go home, too," he responds as he eyes France's leg—snapped clean in two, right at the knee. But that's not the only thing he's suffering from. Pride is a wound it takes decades to heal, and he'll need a lot of healing for this.
Ah, well—the war in Europe is over, and now they can hand things off to their leaders. More or less.
"—p-please, just let me see him!" Italy sobs as she's dragged away by two guards taking her down the hall, the opposite way from where they're keeping Germany. America sighs. Europe is a complete mess. It's on these days when he wishes he just hadn't gotten involved with European affairs, but after what they'd seen—those emaciated skeletons barely crawling out of Auschwitz—he knows he'd had no choice. He had to join the fight. And he was still fighting, he couldn't even believe he was standing across from Japan at the meet to dissolute the Axis—Japan, who's suddenly trying to talk—
"—just allow Italia-san one visit—"
"No, she can't have a bloody visit!" England finally snaps and it startles him because it's in his defense, his enemy otherwise she would have no quarrel with Japan and she really shouldn't be yelling like that with her chest injury—
"—your bloody 'friendship' DESTROYED the modern world!" she screams, her voice shrill and unforgiving, face twisting into a sneer. "You instigated mass murder and yet you sit there with the gall, the bloody arrogant nerve to demand a visit with the man who started it!"
"England!" someone shouts and there's a hand on her swollen wrist from flying the bomber and all she can see is red rage, so much rage, pent up pain and exhaustion and agony, the injustice of it all nearly making her mind go numb, how he's demanding to be seen when all she can hear is the screams of the mourning finding bodies all over London—
"Elizabeth!" he hisses and she's tugged back from the table, back to Earth. "Enough."
She's panting heavily from exertion, her chest aching with every breath as America's warmth radiates out next to her, her mind dully registering a power and command in his voice that she's never heard before. She takes a painfully clarifying breath and looks up, emerald eyes darting accusingly across the long table to Japan.
Japan takes a concise breath and meets all their eyes for one second each, assessing what must be the same look of exhaustion, accusation, betrayal on their faces. Assessing the way that America is standing behind England so closely, yet somehow managing to make himself appear to be in front of her, protecting her, the gentility of his hand cradling her broken wrist to his chest contrasting brutally with the fierce look of warning in his eyes, a warning directed at him, with a very clear meaning behind it…
He nods silently and takes his leave, hands folded customarily as he calmly retreats without a word—the loss of his friends is deep, but they lost their war, and he has battle strategies to plan. America eyes him warily until he leaves, and everyone breathes again.
America's breathing hard, trying to expel the tension amongst them as England's anger dissipates—she's too tired, been through too much without time to build up her energy—or her country. They're all tired of war, but the Blitz just annoyed her—if it had actually achieved some strategic purpose, she might have some grudging respect for it, but mindless destruction only caused her anger, and pain. And speaking of pain…
"England," he breathes into her ear and she is painfully aware of his proximity to her person and a strange stickiness in her chest, thick like mucus or some unresolved tension.
America swallows, his eyes wide with worry. "England, your chest is bleeding again…" he mumbles quietly, trying not to draw any more attention to her.
Oh. She sucks in a sharp breath and looks down, mutely noticing the soft pink spots appearing through the thick white bandages wrapped around her torso and the sudden loss of body heat as America lets her wrist fall from his grasp. She twists away slightly, protesting wearily.
"C'mon…just let me change them, real quick, England, come on…" he continues worriedly, trying to coax her into acquiescence.
She frowns, turning her head away, unable to meet concerned cerulean pools through thickly cut wire frames. "America…you can't," she mumbles embarrassedly, mentally noting the extent of the damage, how high up the bandages went. "…just let the doctors do it," she finishes, eyes shooting up to meet his once, to make sure he understands.
America frowns resignedly, and she duly notes how odd the expression looks on his youthful face as he turns and exits the room, looking for the female nurse that had bandaged her earlier.
France, China, and Russia all disperse, back to their war-torn countries, political meetings with their leaders and time to assess the damage. They'll meet again, England is sure of it; the actual fighting may be over, but mutual destruction from the war will last forever.
She doesn't like being alone with them, sometimes; most times she doesn't mind it, but most times America is annoyingly right by her side, full of remarkably stupid ideas and his oh-so-boundless optimism. And sometimes she's angered by him, exponentially so, how he's so unaffected, so far removed from all that they've been through, how he came out of the Revolution stronger than ever while she had to leave her Empire behind—
The door slams open again and she's jilted out of her familiar misery as America walks in, and she regards him warily, subconscious apprehension about her chest combined with the current war, their past wars, how she alternately loved and hated him in general, how she never really knew how she felt about him…
Of the relationship between England and America, one could say any number of things. And even though most of America's actions could be defined as rash or hot-headed, England knows that deep down, she would follow him anywhere. So her next course of action shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did.
"The nurses have been dismissed already," America reports, breathless. "And the doctors are all from the Reds," he adds quietly. Shit. Her already painful chest pounds slightly harder as the thought of Russia's Soviet doctors pawing at her draws into more focus. She knows how America feels about them, and she can't deny that she might feel the same way. Asking France is out of the question, for obvious reasons, even though she doubts he'd do anything…China is most suited for this kind of thing anyway, but being alone with him, with any of them, right now…
America meets her eyes.
"Who do you trust more, me or them?"
In a split second, her decision is made. She exhales harder and grabs his wrist tightly, surprising him. "Just get me out of here," she whispers.