A/N: Before you ask, there have to be some British people for whom Peri didn't fail to be a sex symbol.
The time had come. The dinner things were cleared away, the drinks poured, the Escorts banished to some remote corner of the house (though they wouldn't stay there long); and England was about to introduce America to Classic Who.
He'd chosen "Timelash" for the occasion. It wasn't a quality serial, not at all, but it was close enough to Alfred's tastes and attention span to perhaps pique his interest.
And he'd chosen wisely: America laughed at all the awkward bits, made fun of Peri's screaming (in fact, he kept up a running commentary; England tired of it by the middle of the first episode, but America didn't seem to notice), and feigned surprise when Herbert's identity was revealed. Then, at the end, he started asking awkward questions.
America was impressed. He'd thought his people had invented So-Bad-It's Good; but this was hilarious. The only thing that could make it better was the MST3K treatment. So he gave it one.
What made it so funny was that it was so completely predictable—except for one moment at the end, when the Sixth Doctor picked up Herbert's calling card and revealed who he was. (He knew the name "Morlock" had sounded familiar!) Then the Doctor and his Companion went back to bickering.
"Wasn't that chick supposed to be American?" he asked as the credits rolled. "'Cause she's not nearly cool enough."
"Yes," England replied distantly, "she's American." America was surprised—he'd expected England to apologize for Peri's horrible accent.
There was something else in his tone, something America wasn't sure whether he'd really noticed. He decided to tease England about it anyway. "You think she's hot, don't you?" he said.
England's ears turned red. "What? No I don't, you idiot!"
He was right! America poked England in the ribs and grinned. "Yeah you do. Lookit your face!"
He glanced back at the TV, though England had turned it off. "And her clothes..." He gave England what he thought was a Significant Glance.
"Well, what about you and...and your Hannah Montana, or whoever you've got?" England huffed.
America thought hard for a moment, looking for a difference. "That's different," he said when he had something. "She's one of mine. This chick isn't British!" An idea struck him. "Y'know, I'm kinda starting to see a pattern here..."
"Pattern? What pattern?" England demanded.
"You think my people are sexy," America declared.
"I do not!"
"Oh?" America wondered briefly if he was pushing his luck, and decided he wasn't. "What about Jack Harkness?"
"John Barrowman's a Scot, you cretin! And his character isn't even from Earth!"
"Yeah, but...he-he grew up near Chicago! And he's got the accent. An American accent...isn't it sexy?"
England crossed his arms and faced away from his ally. America decided it was time to stop needling...not that he would back down. He draped his arms around England's shoulders. "Come on, admit it," he wheedled.
"Hmph." England resisted, he really did, but reason was the loser of this game. He relaxed backward into America's arms.
Sarah wandered through the living room a little later, wearing a white lab coat as a bathrobe belted by a wide striped scarf wrapped around her several times. Realizing that the two Nations would have no need of her in the near future, she contented herself with pulling a camera from her pocket-space and taking a few pictures. Then she picked up the trailing ends of her scarf and wandered back upstairs.