"Hello, Poppet."
Massachusetts spits in his face, her green eyes glaring. England doesn't flinch, however. He's dealt with mutinies before. He takes the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the saliva from his cheek, still smiling.
"What a way to greet your father. After all I've done for you, you can't manage a pleasant 'good evening, England?'"
"I hate you."
"It's the accommodations, isn't it? Well, I'm sorry, but you were causing so much trouble that you had to be tied up. But don't worry, poppet, I'll untie you once you prove that you won't do anything foolish, and then you and I will live peaceably in this house together."
"In my house? Never! Get the hell out!"
A sharp smack seems to echo in the small bedroom. England isn't smiling anymore.
"You'll refrain from using such language, Sarah," he spits, "Despite the fact that I let you sail ships and learn math and science, you are still a lady and you will act as such."
"Ladies don't get tied up, unless it's by a villain," Massachusetts retorts, "Arthur."
Another slap reddens her other cheek, and England leans down to grab the colony's chin. He knows that her face will have bruises soon enough. If she stops talking back that's all she gets.
"You forget, poppet," he leers, "That I was a villain long before you were even born. How else do you think I acquired my empire?"
Massachusetts glares, but says nothing.
"Oh, and by the by…"
England thumbs the colony's cheek bone, as if daring her to shed a tear at his words.
"You're no innocent, either. All those people sentenced to die for witchcraft? They were never truly guilty, were they, Sarah? You know what real magic looks like. Their blood is on your hands, and you were hardly more than a baby. You've recently had a taste for tarring and feathering my loyal subjects, haven't you? Do you know what that does to a human? They're just trying to live their lives, Sarah…"
Still smirking, England pulls away from his captive. She's trembling, eyes glassy, holding back tears with every fiber in her body. The empire turns and walks out, not bothering to untie his colony and closing the door. He hears her quiet sob from inside.
It is not enough. Not yet.
But it is a start.
England waits a week to untie his captive. When he removes her restraints, she glares weakly and tries to stand. He barks out a laugh when she collapses. Already so weak, and she's only been deprived of food, water and sleep for a few days. He will win this war easily.
"Need some help, poppet?" he asks, using the same tone of voice he did when she was small and couldn't reach a high shelf. His hand, however, presses down on her back- effectively pinning her to the ground.
"Get your bloody hands off me," Massachusetts snarls, or tries to. Her voice is hoarse with thirst, and she doesn't even have the strength to lift her head. Her words are muffled and garbled by the carpet pressing against her cheek and lips.
"Still not willing to play nice? That's a pity, I was going to let you have some supper…"
"I don't want your food, your taxes, or you!" the prone colony shouts. England wrenches her up by her hair.
"Now see here," he growls, "I am your empire. You obey me. You will do as I say, or things will go bad for you. Do I make myself clear?"
"You're a tyrant."
"And you're an unruly little brat."
Tired green eyes clash against angry emerald ones. The colony and empire speak at the same time.
"I never claimed any different."
England is glad that his kind are not like humans: they can go months without food or water, as long as their land is not starved, they never have to eat. This is not to say that they do not feel the crippling hunger pains, or burning thirst, they just do not die from it. It makes for a convenient way to wear down a captive nation or colony's will power. Humans can take refuge in the fact that their inevitable death will free them from the torture. Nations must wake up every day knowing that their insolence will only extend their punishment into eternity.
It has been three months since England has captured Massachusetts. The colony is looking worse for wear. He thinks he's come a long way- the colony's stubbornness it wavering. Some days she acts as if she can throw him out of her house by sheer willpower alone, but other days she can't even look him in the eye.
He forces himself to stay at least a little drunk whenever he's in the house now, which is almost always. He reminds himself that a father must be strict with his children, and an empire even stricter. He's spoilt the colonies for too long, and now they think they can do as they please? His children will find that he is not to be meddled with.
After over a year, America finally manages to dislodge England from Massachusetts' Boston home. An entire regiment of troops storms the merchant house and hauls England out. The empire, America notes, smells heavily of rum. After making sure England is in secure hands, the younger man sweeps through the house looking for anymore British troops and the house's owner.
He finds her hiding in an upstairs bedroom, emaciated, pale and shaking.
"Massachusetts?" he murmurs softly, reaching for her, "Massachusetts, it's me. It's Papa…"
"P-Papa?" the younger colony murmurs, "It's… about time you got here…"
She gives him a weak smile, then collapses into his arms. America scoops her up and places her in bed, then asks a neighbor lady to make some broth. In the weeks that follow, the up-and-coming nation makes sure no one else- not military personnel, not maids- touch his daughter.
"You should be back with your regiment," Massachusetts informs him one afternoon. They are at the dining room table, eating Sheppard's pie. America shakes his head.
"I want to make sure you're alright."
"America, if you don't get out there and fight, we will lose. I can take care of myself now."
"But…"
"No buts!" Massachusetts snaps. America bites back a sigh. All of his children are stubborn, but Massachusetts is one of the most willful of them all.
"Get out there and fight, and there will be no need to protect me! I may only look like I'm fifteen, America, but I'm stronger than you know. Now hop to!"
Knowing that spark in her green eyes means that Massachusetts will throw him out on his ass if he argues, America nods his consent.
"Alright, alright. I'll be gone first thing in the morning, ok?"
True to his word, America is gone by the time the sun rises on the bay. Massachusetts goes about her morning chores and eats her breakfast, making sure everything in the house is put to rights. She hurries out of the house, getting a quick lunch at a nearby tavern and then meets her contact in the merchant district. Her accounts are dealt with neatly, protected for the next five years.
Back at home, she pulls a hidden key from her vanity that England had never found. It opens the secret drawer of her wardrobe which holds a nearly-completed uniform of dark, continental blue tailored to her measurements, along with a rifle, powder and ammunition.
"I can take care of myself," she murmurs.
A/N: Whew! That took a lot to write. . England's so mean, isn't he? He was slated to be a lot worse, but I do want him to be redeamable, so...
Yeah! In response to the Boston Tea Party, the British made Boston harbour an illegal port, trying to cripple the colonies' industry. They also took over Boston, but then got walled in by the Colonial Militia, then got kicked out in March of 1776. This was debatabley when the revolution really got underway.
I'm going to try to keep these chapters in chronilogical order. Let's see how I do! Review will spur me on~