Captain Arthur Kirkland knew how he was described: fearsome, wild, unpredictable, dangerous. It was a reputation he'd once taken fierce pride in, a reputation he'd cultivated with ease. His empire was spreading. He could take what he wanted, go anywhere. The sea was his and soon the rest of the world would follow. He was the greatest. He was the strongest. He was…

… losing his touch.

It was all he could come up with. How else to explain the odd sight his crew was likely marveling at?

Little Alfred, his colony, sat on his shoulders, laughing gleefully as the ship sliced through the cerulean water. Captain Kirkland laughed with him, inordinately pleased to see the delight on the boy's face. The two of them were in the bow, gazing out across the ocean and at the small island that was growing bigger with every passing minute.

He had organized this trip for the singular and simple purpose of entertaining his little brother. Surely he was going mad?

Captain Kirkland snorted. He was England, the greatest nation in the world. He wasn't going mad.

(He was just going soft.)

The sun beat down on the little isle, high in the sky by the time England sprawled out on the white sand to keep an eye on America. It was as hot as hell, but a fairly constant southern breeze kept it from becoming unbearable. Even so, the older nation had removed the trappings of his overcoat and excess clothing in favor of the plain shirt and breeches he wore underneath, much the same as America. It didn't matter who saw them here; the isle was nothing more than a strip of land, uninhabited but for a few small animals, and most of the crew had remained on the ship, with only a few coming along as a matter of principle. They waited with the longboat, well used to their captain's eccentricities.

(Had England known that last fact, he might have realized that his going soft was not a recent development.)

America stood just outside the reach of the waves, inching forward as they retreated and scuttling back as soon as they advanced. He was highly reluctant to touch the water, and frustration was etched across his small face.

England watched, amused. "It's not going to bite!" he said.

America made sure he was well out of range of the waves before glancing back at England and answering. "It won't stop moving," he told England plaintively.

"Well, no," England said reasonably. "It's the sea."

America's frown deepened. He looked back at the waves and took a minuscule step forward.

"I'm going to be old and gray by the time you get there," England told him.

(He was no longer young, no longer the person he thought he was. It didn't make any goddamned sense.)

"No, you won't!"

"Oh, really? At the rate you're going, we'll both be old!"

America took this challenge to heart and scrunched up his face, crossing the last few inches. He gasped when the waves touched his feet, jumping back, and England chose that moment to make his move. He got up, strode forward sneakily, and lifted America, moving into the water until he was waist-deep and America was being splashed by it.

"E-England!" America protested, then dissolved into giggles as a particularly high wave sent sea spray into his face.

"You see?" England said warmly. "It's not so bad."

"Guess not." America looked down curiously from his position, then leaned forward, stretching towards the water. A moment later, England's face received a considerable amount of saltwater. He spluttered and stumbled, and America squirmed out of his grip and jumped into the water with a triumphant shout.

What followed was a splash war of epic proportions that left them both exhausted by the time they emerged back on shore.

England collapsed onto the sand, and America immediately climbed into his lap. The older nation laughed. "No rest for an old man?"

(It was odd how his subconscious mind kept bringing that up, forcing it out of his mouth before he had time to consider what he was saying.)

"You're not old." However, America was frowning again, blue eyes full of consternation, and he reached up a small finger to hesitantly touch the eyepatch covering England's right eye.

England winced, turning his head away slightly. "Ah, don't touch that."

"Does it hurt?"

"It's healing." He shook his head at the look on his colony's face. "Don't worry, America. It's fine."

"What happened to it?"

England shook his head again. As mighty as his ships were, they could not win every battle, and some part of him usually paid the price for heavy losses.

(It was a story he'd actually shared with all of his associates, boasting of how his privateers had gallantly recovered from the blow to strike back. Why, then, was he reluctant to share it with this small boy?)

America wasn't satisfied with his silence, but the boy also took on a curious expression. "England," he said. "What's it like to be a pirate?"

(There it was again, that reluctance.)

"It's… quite freeing, actually. There's something wonderful about being outside the boundaries of land." It was the best answer he could come up with and an answer that could be applied to any ship, any naval travel.

(What was wrong with him?)

"Doesn't it make you stronger?"

"Well, yes. Privateering can strengthen any nation. It's a great asset, America. Remember that." There was no harm in giving him such advice, even though it felt like a lie.

(Why was it a lie? It did help. It was just him that was different.)

Something clicked.

"Then I want to be one!" America declared. "I'm gonna be a pirate just like you!"

England laughed. "Oh, you will, will you?"

America nodded vigorously.

"I highly doubt it."

"It's true!" America said indignantly.

"You're not the pirate type, my boy."

"But I'm going to be like you!"

Uttered under different circumstances, the words might have made England glow with a fierce pride. But he didn't want America to aspire to this… something he was becoming frighteningly detached to.

He didn't know how or when it had happened, but somehow… he'd been tamed. The part of him that no longer wanted the life of piracy he'd become obsessed with grew larger every time he found himself in America's company, and this time, it threatened to take over completely. How could it not, when there was a tiny boy in his lap who was depending on him, who looked up at him with a trust a pirate should not earn?

(How had such a small thing had such a profound effect on him?)

America was scowling at him, utterly determined now. "You won't change my mind!" he said. "I'm gonna be as good a pirate as you!"

"Piracy is overrated, if you ask me."

America blinked, startled by this sudden change. "Really?"

"Quite. I'm in the mood for something new."

(Perhaps he himself wasn't all that different. It was just a different mood that had taken him, that was it.)

America appeared confused. "But… you're a great pirate! Why would you stop?"

England grinned. "Where's the challenge if I'm already the best?" he asked. "You and I can both find something new and better, a greater challenge. What do you say to that?"

America took several moments to consider this, and then his face lit up, brightened by the prospect. "Okay!" he said happily.

There was no mystery to it, England thought, smiling down at his charge. He supposed he was getting rather soft and sentimental, because he knew he had already found a greater challenge. And what he was giving up, well… it didn't matter. Not that much, really.

Not when it was for love of a little brother.