Season's greetings, everyone, and thank you and welcome to the USUK Christmas Oneshot Collection which is going to have killed me by Christmas Eve. XD Many of you will know, I'm sure, that five of the six stories which will be posted this week (...assuming I manage to get them all done! T.T) were chosen by 111 very kind FFNetters who voted on the poll displaying twelve fic prompts on my profile over the month of November. To everyone who voted, thank you so much – I hope at least one of your choices got in here! 111 voters was far more than I was expecting, especially since I didn't formally advertise the poll in any ANs, so I was extremely happy with your enthusiastic response! I really hope I'll manage to get them all done. Of course I'd planned to get them all done before this week began but I've been busy and I'm still busy and so far I've only managed to write two and a bit. Ughhhh, RL. GTFO.

About the collection title/fic titles: All of the titles are songs from the WWII period which I have done my best to match to the themes. As for the overall title, Bless 'Em All, this was a song made famous in 1940 by George Formby, a banjo-ukelele-playing unlikely superstar of the wartime era who hailed from Lancashire, England. The song was originally written in 1917 under the title of Fuck 'Em All (with different lyrics). I chose this song as the overall title of the fic collection because of its connotations of A Christmas Carol, in which Tiny Tim's famous words are "God bless us, every one" on Christmas Day. :)

In The Mood: A Glenn Miller staple released in 1939, this instrumental song remains one of the most famous and enduring sounds of WWII. If you haven't heard it... well, you actually have, I assure you. XD

SO. Without further ado, let us begin our Christmas Week Countdown! :) We'll start simple with a plain old canon fic – which incidentally won itself a landslide first place victory with 72 votes.

In The Mood

"Take your hands off me."

America slid his hands off England's shoulders with a low growl.

"Really?" he drawled. "Are you gonna be like this all night?"

England snorted.

"You know I can't stand it when you drape yourself all over me," he replied. "You weigh a tonne, to begin with."

"Tch, you can handle it – and like you'd have me say otherwise. We are at war, after all."

"Are we?" England knotted his tie. "I'd no idea."

America actually laughed.

"Oh, man, kitty has claws tonight, huh?"

"Kitty always has claws." England looked at him pointedly. "I mean it, America. I know this is a social affair but that's no excuse for our regular protocol to slip. We get away with a lot, being who we are, but I'd rather not push our luck."

"Ice queen," America lamented. "And we're being separated in January, too. I have to haul my ass back out to the Pacific and you're... uh, where are you going again?"

"Burma." England began trying to pat his perpetual sex-hair down. "It's going to be an ugly affair, I quite assure you. Guerrilla warfare, honestly." He gave an envious sigh. "At least you'll have a ship beneath your feet."

"England—"

"Still," England interrupted briskly, "we've a job to do. Nothing to do but to grit our teeth and get on with it."

America grinned.

"Not tonight, though," he chirped. "Tonight we don't have to worry about a thing – just great music, great dancing and great company."

"Mmm – and as to that last one, again, please keep your hands to yourself. Of course our bosses know but I still don't want them to have to be... subjected to it."

America rolled his eyes.

"England, they practically chased us together."

"That doesn't mean they want to watch you drool all over my face."

"Fine." America sighed it. "My hands are tied. Figuratively, of course."

"Of course," England echoed; he glanced at America, who had at least pried himself out of his beloved bomber jacket and shined his buttons and boots. He always looked good in his dress uniform, mostly because it was in pristine condition due to him never wearing it. "You've cleaned up nicely tonight, by the way."

America's expression brightened again as he smiled.

"Thanks. You too." His smile quirked mischievously. "I'd give up on your hair, though. The damage is done and your hair doesn't behave itself at the best of times."

"I know," England groaned. He licked his palm and dragged it firmly over a wayward spike curling up just over his left temple; it flattened for about half a second before bouncing up again. "Dash it all, perhaps I should just oil it all back..."

"And look like those young whippersnappers you're always complaining about?" America laughed. "Let the boys have their weird fashion and we'll just stick to what we know best. After all, you and I remember powdered wigs."

"I'm going to do it," England threatened, wrenching open the dresser and beginning to rummage around. "Where's that bloody oil?"

"We used it for more... uh, pressing issues, I think." America caught his wrists. "Seriously, you look fine. Don't sweat it, okay?"

"I will "sweat it" because I look downright—"

America kissed him, firmly cutting him off. England pulled at first, apparently determined to finish his sentence, but America held on to him and eventually he gave up, kissing back. They stood for a long moment, enjoying what was likely to be (much to America's chagrin) the final kiss of the night, both smelling of the same cheap cologne, and hands started wandering, America's creeping and spreading into England's hair to cause it further trauma, England's sliding over his chest and down to his waist and then—

There was a knock at the door, brisk and impatient, and they sprang apart.

"N-now that's what I meant!" England scolded breathlessly, prodding America in the chest. "No more of that tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," America replied drolly as England turned. "Get the door, good-lookin'." He smacked England's backside as he walked away – which, of course, made him wheel indignantly, finger wagging.

"Now, you see, this sort of behaviour is exactly why your troops have such a bad reputation!" he exclaimed crossly. "Christ, I sincerely hope you don't treat women this way! I suppose it's a good thing that you only shag me – at least I know how to put up with your dreadful attitude. Honestly, you can be such a pig at times that I really don't know where I went wrong—"

There was another, louder knock at the door and England cut himself off, tripping over himself to scramble to the door and wrench it open. Churchill was waiting on the other side of it, both hands resting atop his cane and a cigar clamped between his teeth.

"Sir," England said breathlessly, nodding to his boss. He jabbed his finger in America's direction. "Don't think I'm finished with you, brat."

America arched both eyebrows nonchalantly before turning his attention to Churchill and saluting him.

"Evening, sir," he said brightly. "We're ready to go when you are."

"Very good," Churchill grumbled. "We oughtn't keep the president waiting." He looked at England, flapping his hand towards him. "Do comb your hair, won't you? You look like you just got out of bed."

England flushed as Churchill shot a sly look at oblivious America.

"And you sound like it, too."

The hall was packed full of soldiers, WACs, Wrens, nurses, military doctors and allsorts of operations personnel, all dancing and talking and clustered around tables. The band wasn't Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman or anyone, just a plain military brass formation, but they knew all the hits and played them very well. The huge room was decked out with Christmas decor on every surface and fixture, wreaths and mistletoe and holly and paper garlands and electric lights, crowned with a large Christmas tree on the stage, green and glittering and guarded by a white angel perched in its topmost branches. There wasn't all that much alcohol, given the rationing, but it flowed freely enough and the atmosphere was warm and spiced with seasonal cheer.

It was a nice escape from the front and the home-front, a reminder that there were still good things about humanity, that friendship and love did still exist in the world, however well-hidden they seemed to be these days.

Despite the festivity, England was rather sulky, sitting at their small corner table picking absently at a mince pie between monosyllabic answers, slugs of whisky and self-consciously trying to smooth his hair down. America, sick of being rebuffed and angrily shaken off, had gotten tired of him early on and was drifting about between any tables of people who would have him; though came back briefly to inquire why England was scowling at him so much and did it have anything to do with him sitting with those three RAF pilots from Cambridge?

England told him in as many words to piss off and America shrugged and disappeared for a good hour, during which England positively wilted, muttering to himself as Churchill and Roosevelt made pleasant small-talk between themselves and more or less ignored him.

America eventually came back, more than a little tipsy from his rounds with just about every other person in the room, and wound his arms around England's neck, nuzzling against his face.

"Missed you," he whined. "Shoulda... come with me."

"Unhand me at once!" England ordered, prising him off and shoving him into his seat. "Good God, sometimes I don't know if you're deaf or just stupid."

America shrugged, reached over and took England's decimated mince pie, sinking his teeth into it; he crumpled the foil wrapper and flicked it at England's temple, making him wince when it hit him dead on.

"Ha!" America said with his mouth full of mince pie. "Bullseye."

"I'm going to flay you alive," England ground out furiously, rubbing at his temple.

Roosevelt smiled and Churchill raised his hand to call for more whisky.

"Don't you boys want to dance?" Roosevelt asked, glancing between them over the rim of his glass.

"No," England slurred.

"Yes!" America sprang up, knocking over his glass; he fumbled to right it, slapping his wet palm against England's shoulder. "C'mon, c'mon, let's go!"

"I don't think so." England composed himself enough to straighten, gripping at his glass. "There are plenty of girls – go and pester one of them."

"I thought you didn't want me talking to girls?" America teased. "I thought I was a pig you didn't know where you'd gone wrong with?"

"You are."

"So I guess you'd better come supervise me!" America seized England's arm and tugged, all but hauling him out of his seat. "Keep an eye on me, you know? Both eyes, even!"

"Stop manhandling me!" England righted himself, swaying a little bit. "I don't want to dance with you. I wouldn't dance with you if we were the last two people on earth!"

America laughed.

"If we were the last two people on earth," he reasoned, "I guess we'd have more to worry about than dancing. But! We're not – so let's go."

"I said no, you absolute brat!" England seethed, wrenching his wrist free. "Go on, bugger off."

"Meow." America stuck out his tongue at him. "You're gonna be leaving some serious scratch-marks down my back tonight, huh, kitty-kitty?"

England stiffened.

"You've some nerve," he said icily, "insinuating such things—"

"Seriously?" America pointed wildly between Roosevelt and Churchill, the latter of whom arched an eyebrow amusedly. "You think they're stupid? Like I said, they practically threw us together—"

"Enough!" England shoved America aside, storming past him. "I've had enough of this. You are unbelievable sometimes—"

"You're unbelievable!" America flung back, becoming irritated. "Acting like it's some huge big secret!" He pointed violently at their unfazed bosses once more. "He knows, he knows, everyone knows – so stop acting like you wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole and come and dance with me!"

England simply shot him an icy look before turning on his heel and stalking off. America floundered for a moment, waving his arms as his tongue stumbled over dozens of possibilities to call after him. At length, he simply looked towards Roosevelt and Churchill and exhaled deeply and frustratedly, shrugging.

Churchill tipped his glass.

"That, my dear boy," he said archly, "was a challenge – one I wouldn't let him get away with if I were you."

"I wish they wouldn't put up such a front," Roosevelt sighed. "I can't say I... approve, exactly, of their liaison but it's so good for relations that it would be shooting ourselves in the foot to forcibly separate them." He examined the bottom of his glass thoughtfully. "With that said, I'd like to know who they're putting on this little act for. They might be all over each other in private but it doesn't look very good for them to be at each other's throats in front of the men."

Churchill snorted.

"The men are far better behaved," he replied gruffly, "so I shouldn't worry about them following suit. I've yet to see any of the soldiers use language as foul towards one another as England subjects your poor lad to."

Roosevelt raised his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't be so quick to diminish America of any fault. He delights in winding people up – and no-one better than England. He's been trying to ignite jealousy with his behaviour this evening, make no mistake." He huffed. "Honestly, I could crack both of their heads together."

"Mmm." Churchill lit himself a cigar, taking the first puff of it silently and thoughtfully. "Then what would you prefer, Mr Roosevelt? For them to be like us – friends in public and with knives in each other's backs in private?"

Roosevelt gave a sharp smile.

"I agree that their bond is not compromised by politics as ours is," he said, "but then all the more reason for them to get along, surely. I'm so tired of their petty squabbling in front of us."

Churchill shrugged.

"At least there isn't a bloody Russian inserted between them to balls things up," he pointed out acidly.

Roosevelt nodded.

"As I said," he repeated dryly, "all the more reason for them to get along."

"Here, kitty-kitty-kitty." America wound himself around the back door, espying England sitting on an empty ammunition crate outside with a cigarette clamped between cold fingers. "Have you retracted your claws?"

"I will after I've done permanent damage to your face." England was quiet for a moment, taking another inhale on his smoke, before giving an impatient snort. "Are you serious? I thought you were at least coming out here to apologise for your awful behaviour – but instead you're just going to keep on—"

"My awful behaviour?" America cut in. "What about your awful behaviour?"

"Forgive me," England said coldly, "but I don't recall insulting you."

"Uh, yeah, that's because you insulted everyone! You act like I'm not good enough for you and you wouldn't even dream of havin' a wild tumble with me and you insult our bosses' intelligence by trying to stick to that story when it's like duh you'd have a wild tumble with me, we do it pretty much every night of the damn week and sometimes during the day, too—"

"Now wait just a—"

"So I'll apologise for calling you a scratch-cat after you apologise for being a huge jerk."

"You were trying to make me jealous!"

"You were being a little bitch!"

England threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

"America, I'm not some sweetheart you picked up back on the farm at home," he snapped. "You can't have me sitting in your lap in public and you jolly well know it. I told you before we came out tonight to behave yourself and you didn't!" He folded his arms. "How else do you expect me to react?"

"You could at least be nice! I told you some of my best jokes and you didn't even pretend to laugh!" America sighed crossly. "You know, you're a pretty horrible person sometimes. I know you're kinda drunk right now but that doesn't change the fact."

England was quiet for a long moment.

"I know," he said after a very long pause, his voice low. "I know I am."

"Good," America replied shortly, turning away again to head back into the building. "Well, now that that's settled, come and see me inside when you're ready to get on your knees and grovel for forgiveness."

He reached for the handle, meaning to slam the door behind him, and paused only when he heard England give a sudden unexpected sniffle.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" America wheeled again (a little too quickly, almost overbalancing and catching himself on the doorframe) and pointed accusingly at England. "Are you crying?"

"No," England choked out. His head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking.

"You are!" America bounded towards him in three steps, flapping his arms. "No, no drunken crying! Unfair play!" He took England's face and made him look up at him; his cheeks were wet. "God damn it! Now I feel guilty!"

"I'm sorry," England whined. "I-I know I'm not... not very nice s-sometimes—"

"Okay, well, I'm sorry I made you cry," America replied hurriedly. "And that I called you a nasty scratchy kitty-cat. Like, a lot. Stop crying, okay?"

"I'm so terrible to you a-and you just... just take it all in your stride—"

"Oh, man, you're drunker than I thought," America grumbled as England clutched at him. "You must be in Stage Two. You know, first you get bitter and pissy and you sound like you're being logical but you're not really and then you get to Stage Two and start crying over stupid stuff that happened like a million years ago and then..." America snapped his fingers. "And then Stage Three, where you get really happy and giggly and kinda horny!"

"—I suppose it's no w-wonder that you broke away from me b-back then—"

"Yup!" America seized England by the waist, threw him over his shoulder and straightened up, striding back towards the building. "Let's go get a couple more glasses down you, then! Stage Three is always my favourite!"

Two rounds later and they were swaying against one another on the dancefloor to the slow and serene swell of Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade. England had his cheek pressed firmly against America's shoulder and was more or less leaning his weight on him, unable to stand up straight on his own anymore. Every now and then one of them lost their balance a little bit and they both stumbled, righting themselves with raucous laughter quite unbecoming of the atmosphere.

"Hey." America tapped England on the arm and pointed upwards when he had his drowsy attention; there was a sprig of mistletoe fixed to one of the lights directly above them. "Look at that."

England squinted at it.

"Mistletoe," he affirmed seriously.

"Yeah!" America nodded happily. "You know what we have to do, right?"

England nodded gravely.

"Absolutely."

"What, then?"

"Well, get it down, of course."

"You got it. We can put it on our table! It'll look lovely!"

"Right, well, you lift me up and I'll grab it."

"Masterful military strategics!" America bent to lift England up under his thighs, pushing him up to reach the measly bit of mistletoe taped to the light fixture. "Get it, get it!"

"Hold me still!" England scolded, pressing one hand to America's shoulder as he strained to grasp the sprig. "And lift me higher, I can't quite reach it—"

America obeyed but, in his inebriated state, holding England's weight so high overbalanced him; he staggered back three steps and then fell, England managing to seize the mistletoe just before he went down with him and they landed in a heap in the midst of all the slow-dancing couples.

"Victory!" America whooped, holding the bedraggled clipping, still clutched in England's hand, aloft.

The whole light fixture came crashing down on top of them as Moonlight Serenade finished with a moodful flourish.

The crushed bit of mistletoe sat like a trophy in the middle of the table, long forgotten. Churchill, on his fourth cigar, rolled his eyes as Roosevelt gave an uncomfortable swallow and leaned across the table.

"Uh, perhaps you boys should..." The president frowned, glancing helplessly at Churchill for a moment. "...Head on to bed?"

No answer.

"I mean, you've already destroyed half of the room by being ridiculous and now... well—"

"Your behaviour is bloody inappropriate," Churchill cut in drolly, "but of course don't mind us at all."

They didn't. Nestled up together in the very corner of the booth, America and England were very drunk and very interested in one another and not much else. England was straddling America's lap and there were hands in hair and fingers loosening ties and toying with buckles and buttons and mouths against each other and on jawlines and throats and lower still.

Roosevelt cleared his throat.

"Boys, come on now," he said weakly. "This isn't very... ah, very..."

Churchill smirked, taking a drag on his cigar, before flagging over a waitress and asking for a jug of water.

"I can see this is the first time you've had to deal with this," he said to the president as the waitress trotted off. "I credit myself with rather more experience – after all, they've been at it since the Great War and this certainly isn't the first time they've forgotten my company."

Roosevelt arched an eyebrow.

"And your experience is to sober them up by making them drink water?" He sounded sceptical.

Churchill snorted.

"Good lord, no," he drawled. "I've found that they don't take kindly to being drenched just when they're getting in the mood, though. It sort of kills it a bit, I suppose."

They both shot a glance at their nations; America had England's belt off and was opening up his jacket, their mouths fused together the whole while.

"I hope that waitress hurries," Churchill went on nonchalantly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Still, Mr Roosevelt, you did say you wished they'd be nicer to each other in front us and the men." He gestured towards them; England was fumbling clumsily with America's topmost button and they were both giggling. "There you have it."

"Indeed." Roosevelt rolled his eyes and reached for his glass. "Next time I'll be more careful what I wish for."


Whoo, one down, five to go! As this was the First Place Winner in the poll, I can't help but feel that this was the one everyone was waiting for – so I hope you all enjoyed it!

It's all downhill from here, u gaiz. (jk, jk~)

I was actually very surprised by some of the prompts which made it into the Top 5 – and, incidentally, rather surprised at some of the ones which lost out! The "ghost" prompt, featuring wounded RAF pilot Arthur and recently-killed US Air Force pilot Alfred, was at the second spot for almost three weeks and then somehow got knocked off and finished at about eighth! O.o It was really interesting checking on the poll from day to day and seeing what was where – and I think the Final Five, though not necessarily the Top 5 that I would have picked myself (though two of my favourites did get in at Spots One and Two, so I can't complain!), do end up offering us quite a bit of diversity in theme and genre, so hopefully there will be something here for everyone!

Please come back for the second place winner tomorrow and thanks for reading! :3

RobinRocks

xXx