Being rewritten, because YAY.


England sat down in his comfy ottoman, setting his steaming tea down next to him gingerly. He quickly opened up his well-thumbed novel to the dog-eared page, quickly getting enraptured with the story. He reached for his tea blindly, eyes scanning the page, when someone pounded on the front door. England knocked his tea over, cursing.

England jumped out of his chair, hissing in annoyance when he accidentally stepped in some boiling tea, and marched over to his front door. The doorbell began to ring, and continued until England slammed his fist against the oak.

"Who in the bloody hell—"

"England~!" America's cheery voice called through the wood. "Let me in! I've brought fun times…" He let out a laugh. "It's me, see? I'm fun." There was a pause, "Open the door!"

England rested his forehead against the door frame, fighting the amused grin that threatened to spread across his face. "Aren't your elections going on? Shouldn't you be, oh, I don't know, seeing who will run your country for the next four years?"

"I'm trying!" Came the peppy response. "You won't let me in."

England blinked. "America?"

"Mh-hm?"

"I don't bloody run your elections on the telly." England snorted, "Besides, the results will be slow anyways. Go hang out with those enlightening—"

"I brought booze!" America knocked something against the door. Not that England knew off the top of his head, but it sounded a bit like a full rum bottle.

England sighed again, slowly unlocking the door to peer out at America. "I got drunk with you last week."

America grinned and held up the alcohol enticingly. He stood there like a bloody git, all decked up in his bomber jacket uniform, with some American brand coffee cup in his hand, and an overnight bag in the other. But his pale complexion identified him as sick. Like Italy and Greece, America had an ever present cold or headache; hemorrhaging money, as it was.

"I promise the TV won't get thrown out the window… Like last time." America sashayed in past England, making a b-line for the same room England had been relaxing in earlier. "Hey, why's there tea everywhere?"

America pointed at the TV, eyeing the small election bars that where slowly moving their way across the screen. "Go! Go you little—"

England snorted and kicked America in the side, draining the last of his alcohol from his tea cup. "Shut up! Trying to listen to the… the…" England squinted at the screen. "The, wass'it called…" England knew he was sufficiently drunker than America. But, damn it! What was that little talker person called…

"Woo! My man!" America cheered, pointing at the screen. "That there, with the funny hair, is P.Q.!" America grinned.

England snorted and squinted again, looking at the windswept man. James P. Queman peered out of the TV with warm, chocolate eyes and a sincere smile. England thought he looked like he would be a good grandfather.

"James," America continued, nudging England, "can drink like there's no tomorrow." America swept his hand around the room. "Shot glasses everywhere. Couldn't beat him at my own game. Nice kids, though."

England chortled, which game out more like an oink. "How did you even find this… This…" He pointed at the TV, snapping his fingers. "Starts with a C-H… Channel!" England sat up, nodding triumphantly. "How'd you find this channel?"

America frowned at the TV, watching the results. "It was on the BBC, 'er something…" England noticed America often sounded like a Texan when he became tipsy, and less like a Northerner. When he was plastered, however, he started to sound like a Californian. "That, the woman, there, she's," America poked England again, "I haven't even met her yet."

England nodded. "She looks scary." He tried to focus on the blonde woman on the television, but was distracted by America again.

"Ohhh-!" America wiggled in his seat, causing England to laugh and fall over onto America. "Rosery has this in the bag! Look at her! She's smoking Queman! You can do this, P.Q! I believe in—Don't jump up that high!"

England struggled to sit up again. "Is it over yet? How indecisive could—"

America stood up, cheering. "Ohh! Alicia Rosery takes the popular vote at an astounding sixty-five percent! The first female president—This is almost as monumental as Ob—"

England pulled America back down onto the couch, cursing. "I've got people living upstairs! You'll wake them!"

America laughed. "England, you live alone."

England raised an eyebrow, muttering, "As far as you know…"

America let out a happy squeal. "I hope she changes everything, England, I really do. All that acid rain, pollution—"

It was at this point England, quite drunk and tired from the night's activities, collapsed next to America. It took another half-hour of rambling for America to realize England was sound asleep. Chuckling, he shut the TV off and collapsed onto England, sighing contentedly.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"Fuckkkkkk." America reached blindly for his phone, wondering who in the hell would call at such an early hour. England shifted under America as he lifted the phone to his ear, pressing 'answer.'

"Peter's Porno Pala—"

"This is the personification of the United States, correct?"

America furrowed his eyebrows, lifting the phone away from his face to look at the caller ID. "So, you're the new boss lady?"

There was a confused pause at the other end of the line. "I… This is Alicia Rosery, yes. I expected you here to be debriefed. I was informed that you're at… England's… house?" She sounded exasperated almost. Annoyed, if America didn't know any better.

"Yeah. I was gonna' come back but…"

"I don't have time—nor do your people—for you to be lazing about with your friends. I expect you to be on the first flight back to your home." And then the line went blank.

Alfred scowled at his phone. "Nice to meet you, too." He threw his phone across the room. America smirked when he heard a window break.


:D ?