A/N: I really should only do one project at a time. Oh well. This has been rolling around in the back of my brain for a while and I want to see it actually typed out so that the thoughts will leave me alone.

But here is the obligatory "how my headcanon says they got together" story.

June 4th, 1944: Just off of the southern coast of England

England sat hunched over his desk, looking over the map of northern France. He really should put it away, he thought. After all, he had already memorized every scrap of information: every smooth black line from the printer and every one of the rougher ones of red, blue, and green added by the commanders. Besides, he probably wasn't even going to need it. Whether that was for better or for worse would be up to fate.

He sat and began to rub at the aches and pains in his chest and belly. He let out a harsh laugh; he'd never hurt this badly before. He'd survived invasions from all sides, a very bloody civil war, and many other conflicts that had been fought far away from his own soil, but never before had he ended up in such horrible shape. It couldn't be helped, though. He had had a good run as king, but it was his time. He wondered how long he had left: months? Weeks? Days? Who really knew? Maybe he would just collapse in the next few minutes and America would come back from the meeting to find him stone-dead.

Christ, when had he come to be so at peace with being a dead man?

He looked down and realized that he had been unconsciously tracing circles around the backwater town America was supposed to be dropped over. He scowled and folded the map shut.

"I'm not gone far enough for that sort of rubbish," he thought to himself, stowing the map back into one of the drawers of his desk and ignoring the image of his former colony: so bright and energetic, naïve but oh-so powerful, able to do stupid things like drag cars around for hours with that golden hair and million-dollar smile and what did he just say? Forget Germany, his mind was his greatest enemy in this war, constantly doing such things to him.

He stood and unbuttoned his uniform. Whatever the news would be, he wasn't going to be doing anything tonight. He might as well get his rest and take what comfort he could from his better-than-military-standard mattress and blanket. He had just managed to get down to his skivvies when there was a loud bang on his door. Even though he shouted for a moment, America just threw the door open.

England blushed bright red and reached for his dressing gown to attempt to cover himself.

America laughed, "It's okay."

"It is not 'okay,'" England spat, "I still would like some privacy, war or no war."

"Come on," America said, smiling, "It ain't like I haven't seen it all before."

England sighed, "Yes, and considering the terrible show of first aid that came with the event I have a right to be scared."

"Hey! All the books say to apply direct pressure!"

"Not if there's a huge piece of glass in the wound, idiot!"

America shrugged, "Hey, you lived."

England looked straight at him, taking in the deep blue of his eyes, "And for how much longer?"

"I wasn't thinking of that anyway," America admitted. There was a sort of fondness in his expression, a far-away look in his eyes, "I was remembering way back when I was little and you used to take baths with me."

With that innocent look on his face, England could remember it clearly too: the days when America only came up to his thighs, when he would look up at him with pure and unconditional love.

He would always come running the second he saw England and cling to him. They would do all sorts of things together: England would read him poetry or they'd draw pictures or just play together. America always ended up insisting that they play something with a winner and a loser, usually something that either involved tactics or roughhousing. Obviously, England would easily be able to win, but sometimes he'd let himself lose just to see the elation on America's face. He'd jump up and down shouting "I did it! I beat Engwand! I beat Engwand!"

At some point during the day, England would inevitably end up needing to wash the young nation (he swore that America knew he was coming and made sure to get absolutely filthy before he arrived so that he had to give him a bath). More often than not, England would need one too after his long voyage, so they'd save water and time and simply go together. The only time America ever sat still was when England was washing his back and hair. He usually sat on England's legs with the cutest little smile on his face, like nothing in the world would ever compare. But then if England tried to wash his arms or his chest, America would turn around and grab the soap in his chubby hands, claiming that he was a big boy and could do it himself. England usually indulged him, allowing himself to be amused at the determined way that America tried to use the too-big soap. He even allowed America to return the favor and wash his hair for him (the occasional soap in his eyes was worth it).

Then they'd go to their separate rooms, even though America would come in maybe an hour later claiming that he had a bad dream so that they could cuddle all night. England would roll his eyes and complain that America should learn to be brave and handle his dreams on his own, but he never put up too much of a fight when America scrambled up next to him, tucked his head under his chin, and snuggled so close to his chest that a card couldn't fit between them. Almost as soon as he got into that position, the boy would fall asleep. England would lean down and give him a little kiss atop his head and whisper, "I'll love you every second until I die, my darling." Usually America would let out a little noise and wiggle a little bit. England liked to pretend that it was because he heard his words and understood and not because he had simply moved.

The modern, adult America sighed, closed his eyes, and pulled off his glasses. He ran his free hand through his hair, that single stubborn cowlick bouncing right back up as it had for over three-hundred years. He looked so much younger like that, England thought, almost like he did when he was England's America.

No. He shook his head. Even if they had become close friends, his relationship with America was so different now. His baby was never coming back because he had grown into something completely different, and wasn't it good for the world? After all, America's strength might be enough to finally stop Germany. Who cared what it meant for half of a soggy little island?

"Anyway," America said, putting his glasses back on and opening his eyes, "I didn't come here to reminisce."

"Oh, so you're going to be responsible for once?"

"I'm plenty responsible," America said, scowling, "you're the one who still owes me your family's weight in gold."

"I'd rather not think of that right now," England said, wincing at the thought of the sum of his debt. He'd be paying the boy off into the next millennium, "So what are the plans?"

"The weather guy says that this is gonna pass and they just put it all off until tomorrow."

"That's good," England said, "It would be a waste to leave after all this preparation."

"I know, right?" America asked, laughing his irritating laugh, "But yeah, Operation Neptune is on."

"And we get to have our revenge on that Kraut bastard. Oh, it'll be a lovely day." England sat down on the edge of his bed and smirked.

"Don't waste all your 'about to kill you' smiles on me, okay?" America asked, "I can totally handle it because I'm the hero, but they're still freaky."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities."

"I said I can handle it," America said, scowling.

"I'm certain," England said.

"Shut up!" America shouted, blush starting to appear on his cheeks.

Watching him, England was struck with the sudden desire to hold him close and calm him, pet his hair maybe. Although, America was taller than him and the difference was even more pronounced since he was wearing boots while England was barefoot. Maybe America would hold him instead, so big and solid. He'd look down and lean forward just a little bit so that-

"Hey! You in there, England?"

England straightened up. Dammit, what about this war was making him think of things like that more and more often? He just scoffed, suppressing a blush of his own and said, "Well, since you're so immature, I was thinking about things that deserved my attention."

"Well, if it's about your nasty-ass scones it explains why you were drooling. I'm gonna go and let you jack off about your gross food. See you later, jackass." America said, turning around and leaving England alone in his cabin, which had never quite felt so cold and large.

That night, he dreamed of America and was grateful he was probably going to die the next day so that he wouldn't have to own up to what he had done to the sheets.

The next day, England was pacing upon the deck of the ship. Another boat would be coming soon to pick him up. Injured or not, he was still a nation and it would be a shame not to have an immortal man on the front lines. It would be several hours until the actual invasion began, but England was already quite nervous.

He had never been this worried about a single battle in his life. After all, this was an all-or-nothing attack. If they lost, he'd be pretty much undefended. He was teetering on the edge of death as it was, it would only speed up his demise for Germany to be able to conquer him too. Still, he'd gotten this far by holding his head high and pretending that all his wounds were nonexistent, so he may as well keep calm and carry on. All he had left was his dignity, and Hell would freeze over before he'd give that up.

Then America climbed up to the deck. He looked very stern and determined up until he realized that England was watching him, when he froze, tugged at his collar, and then walked towards him slightly less surely. The rational part of England's mind supplied that maybe he was just worried about the invasion too. However, another part (probably that traitorous piece that kept giving him that image of America holding him, which had been completely random and meaningless to begin with) said that there was no way that it was something that simple.

"Hey," America said.

Ever articulate, England responded with, "Hi."

"Um," America bit his lip, "Is that your boat out there?" he pointed to a ship getting closer and closer.

"Yeah, I suppose it probably is."

"So… uh… what beach are ya going to?"

"Gold. We think that the defenses will be heavier there."

"Right. They said that at the meeting."

"Right."

They stood there for a moment, the wind blowing in their faces.

"So is there a reason you came to speak to me, or are you just being as stupid as usual?"

America winced, and England was confused, since he was usually harsher with far less of a response.

"Well, I- I-"

"Captain Kirkland," A young private said, coming up to them and saluting, "I was told to tell you that you have about ten minutes."

"Thank you," England said, "You may go."

"Sir!" The private said, saluting and then walking away.

America bit his lip again and looked slightly scared. Then he swallowed and glared. England didn't bother watching him. It wasn't like he understood the boy anyway.

"Look, England, I gotta tell you something."

"What?" England asked, turning back but trying to look as unattached as possible.

"I- I-" He looked absolutely lost again, but this time England kept eye contact, watching America search for his words, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Then he shook his head, grabbed England by the collar and smashed their lips together.

England scrambled for a moment. What the hell was America doing? More importantly, why was England just sort of pawing at his uniform instead of pushing him away? But, oh, it felt good too… America was clumsy, holding his shoulders too tightly and more mashing their faces together than anything else, but he was every bit as big and warm and solid as England had dreamed.

Dammit! He was responding far too strongly for America's lacking technique. It had been too long, far too long. So instead of shoving America away like he should have, England found himself holding the younger nation and kissing him back. He ignored the nagging doubts that said America had somehow found out about what he felt and was doing this to taunt him, just enjoying the moment.

America ended the kiss as fiercely as he had initiated it. Eyes sparkling with determination and passion, he said, "Now don't you dare die on me."

He turned around and marched away, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Wait just a moment!" England shouted, stomping after him, "You can't just do that and walk away! We need to talk about this, America!"

"Then do what you gotta do and meet up with me later," America looked over his shoulder and grinned at England, "See ya 'round, England." And with that, he descended back down to wait until his plane was due to take off.

"America!" England chased after him, but was stopped by a couple of very uncomfortable looking young men.

"Captain Kirkland, sir," one of them said, voice shaking, "I'm sorry but you need to wait for your ship."

"Bollocks to my bloody ship! I need to catch that Yank!"

"Sorry, sir," the other one said, "But we were ordered not to let you below deck."

England almost asked who would do that, but to these men he was only a captain; there were many other ranks above him. The fact that he was the British Empire wouldn't mean much to them at the moment. So instead he just huffed and went to wait for his ship.

He would get America if it was the last thing he did.

June 16th, 1944: Normandy, France

England was beginning to lose hope in America. They'd been searching for over a week and there was still no sign of him. The little bastard was probably hiding; refusing to take responsibility for what he had done. Hell, it was probably his fault that his paratroopers had gotten so lost. After all, England's had all landed just fine while America's were scattered all over the bloody map.

He was getting quite irritated, which was not a good state of mind to be in when around a lot of men with a multitude of weapons available. So instead of killing someone, he decided to go off into the woods to try to relax. If he found an old oak he might be able to summon some of his friends. They always cheered him up. In fact, even thinking of them made him smile just a bit.

However, getting lost in the thoughts of his magical companions kept him from noticing that something was creeping up on him until a large twig behind him snapped. He turned and stared wide-eyed at the bushes. He reached back for his gun only to find that he had left it back at camp. His thoughts were nothing but a stream of obscenities. Then a large German Shepherd came out of the bushes, growling.

Wonderful, he had survived being on the front lines of the largest aquatic invasion the world had ever known and he was about to be killed by a fucking dog.

"G-good dog?" He asked, "Friendly dog?"

It began to bark loudly. Shit! It was going to give away his position. He needed to run away and get back to where he had people with guns. He backed away slowly, because the last thing he needed to do was be chased by German soldiers and an attack dog.

"Roxie?" England froze, "What's wrong, girl?"

There was the sound of brush moving, and England looked to see America coming out of the bushes. The two of them just stared at each other for a few seconds, slack-jawed and completely in shock. The barking of the crazed dog seemed to fade into the background as England just looked at the other man, who was in surprisingly good shape. He was covered in dirt and didn't look as though he'd shaved in about two weeks, but he seemed to be completely unharmed.

It was the blasted mutt that broke the spell. It wandered over to America and licked his hand, making him look down at it.

"What the hell is going on here?" England demanded.

"Well," America smiled and straightened up, "I got blown way off course and landed in the middle of nowhere, so I've been wandering around. I found Roxie here," he patted the dog on the head and it yipped almost playfully, "She took a liking to me and wound up taking me to a German camp so that I could get some supplies, and we've been looking for civilization ever since."

"You've been wandering around the wilderness with one of the Enemy's dogs for ten days. And you're perfectly alright."

"Well, I only ran into Roxie about two days in, but pretty much."

England put his head in his hands, "And none of this surprises me in the slightest."

"Oh! I actually have a pretty sweet place set up. Wanna see?"

"Not really," England said, looking back up at him, "Everyone's looking for you. We need to get back to my camp and tell the generals we've found you."

"Aw, come on. I've been out here for long enough; they can deal for a couple more hours."

And with that, he grabbed England's wrist and dragged him into the brush. It turned out he had found a cave near a small spring, and it more resembled the dwelling of a Neanderthal than anything else. Just inside the mouth of the cave but far enough away that wind was unlikely to get in there was a small fire ring filled with ashes. America's guns, along with a spear made of a knife tied to a long stick were leaning up against the wall next to the fire. He'd stolen a mattress and it was a little deeper in so that if there was a cold night the fire could protect him. He seemed to have a sort of nest atop the mattress made of a few sheets but mostly clothes. Behind that there was a large pile of supplies, mostly rations but also oil, rope, pens and paper, and a few other things that England didn't bother to identify. And, fuck, it smelled just like a poorly-ventilated space inhabited by someone who hadn't bathed in several days.

Smiling brightly, America left him and plopped down into his nest, "So what do you think?"

"How quickly we regress into our most primal forms when given the chance," England replied, wrinkling his nose.

America's smile faded, and for some reason England didn't want to see that happen.

"But, I suppose that given what you had, this is quite decent," he admitted. Bracing himself for the smell, England walked into the cave and sat next to America.

"You think so?" America asked, looking at him.

England thought back to his childhood and the decades upon decades when he survived with less, using a unicorn as a pillow and relying on the good grace of the faeries to keep him warm and fed, "Yes, you did rather nicely."

America smiled.

Both of them watched as the mutt scratched her ear and start to gnaw on a bone in the corner.

"So," America said, "You made it."

"I did," England said, knowing he didn't mean to the cave, "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything, really," America said, "I just reminded you that you've got something to live for."

"Is that all that was?"

"Well," America turned to him, "That depends."

"I won't hurt you," England said softly, "Not again."

The younger man nodded, "Never again."

"I can't promise forever."

"You have before."

England let out a harsh laugh, not wanting to bring up the implications of America's statement yet, "And we both know how that ended."

"You kept your promise," America said, touching his cheek.

"And you were always a manipulative little shit."

"Only when it was that important," America said, smiling, "Say it again."

"No."

"Why not?" He looked honestly worried, like England didn't mean it or something.

England just smiled, "Because you deserve more than words."

America looked at him blankly for a moment and England gave him a real kiss: as skilled and purposeful as he remembered how to do. America wrapped his arms around his waist and reciprocated, either learning or remembering quickly. England worked his mouth open and dove in. He tasted as bad as he smelled, maybe worse. To make up for it, he felt amazing. He wasn't even talking about the physical sensation, because America's tongue wasn't quite talented enough to reduce him to jelly and his whiskers were rather itchy. But England just felt that this was right, that he should have been kissing America years ago.

Given, he probably could have. They could have made love when they were both shaved and clean and whole. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he was there, next to America, and finally making the connection that they'd missed so often.

They were both smiling like fools when America pulled away.

"Come on, babe," he said, "I wanna give you your reward for keeping Operation Overlord going while I was MIA."

"You're not going to say you're giving me your cock or something, are you?"

America just smiled and reached for England's jacket.

"Aren't we moving a little fast?" England asked.

"We don't have much time," America said, "you wanna get back, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but we've just- we've only- and now we're-"

"You're really articulate today, aren't you?"

England sighed, "Well, I'm sorry for having a sense of decency."

"You should be."

He kept working on England's clothes, finally getting the last of his shirt buttons undone.

"Didn't you hear me?" England asked, "I said we should go back."

"I've been listening, and you haven't said no. Now," America looked up, "I'm going to just ask you: do you want me to stop?"

With those huge blue eyes staring at him, England couldn't say a thing, but he slowly shook his head. He knew he made the right choice when a huge smile broke out across America's face and he leaned in to kiss him again. It was a busy kiss, America working to free them from their trousers while England ravished his mouth. America's hands proved to be more dexterous than his hands, quickly removing both England's trousers and y-fronts and starting to palm his cock.

England groaned into the kiss. He wasn't hard yet, but he was getting there quickly with America's skilled fingers dancing across his shaft in combination with the occasional heavier touch.

"Get a lot of practice with your right hand, do you, boy?" England asked pulling away.

America just laughed, "Isolationism does that to a guy. I'd be surprised if you were any better."

England smiled but pulled off his undershirt instead of saying anything. He wasn't going to admit to anything their first time. He pushed America back into the nest more easily than he had expected and kissed him again, allowing his fingers to brush across the younger nation's skin, reveling in how smooth and perfect it was. However, America wasn't reacting like he had before by licking England's tongue right back or shivering happily. He was squirming like he wanted to get away.

"What's wrong?" He asked, sitting up immediately.

"What happened to you?" America asked, carefully tracing the edge of one of the bandages tied around England's chest.

"Oh, it's nothing," he replied, placing his hand on top of America's, "some of my wounds opened up again during the battle."

"You shouldn't be here," America said, "We should take you back to camp and have you lie down and-"

"Ssh," England said quickly, "I'm alright. They're small wounds."

"But then why are you wrapped up like a mummy?"

"Because I'm well enough that I like to move around and they'd all fall off otherwise."

America laughed, "That sounds just like you, doesn't it?"

England forced a scowl, "I'm not a hyperactive child like you!" He was secretly just glad that America had just accepted the lie and prayed that he wouldn't grab at his sides.

"Still," America flipped them over, "If moving a lot might mess you up, maybe I should do all the work."

England sighed and resigned himself to bottoming. He usually preferred to be on top, but he would rather be on the receiving end than be giving to his hand later that night, especially since it was America he was going to be fucked by. As the younger nation covered his fingers in oil, England willed himself to relax. He'd been around more than he would like to admit and he knew full well how to ready himself. He closed his eyes and waited for America to work a finger into him.

However, to his surprise, he felt nothing. Then America let out a very shaky moan and laid down atop his chest. England looked down to see America's arm bent behind him and out of sight. He was shuddering and moaning and blushing a beautiful shade of pink.

"A-America-?"

He opened one blue eye, pupils wide with arousal, "Yeah?"

"You're-?"

America let out a shaky laugh, "I don't wanna hurt you more. Besides," He let out a moan, probably adding another finger, "I'm greedy and this feels so good."

England just watched his face as he worked himself open. He had never been with a man who actually preferred bottoming, but America was always an anomaly, wasn't he? After a few minutes of the most arousing show England had ever seen, America pulled his hand away and wiped it on one of the pieces of cloth. He took a bit more oil and grabbed England's cock, coating it in the slick liquid.

He positioned himself above England and gave him a reassuring smile before he began to slide down. England threw his head back and closed his eyes. America was hot and slick and soft: absolutely heavenly. It was abominable how slowly he was moving, though. England needed to be completely buried in that soft heat. He needed to flip America over and fuck him into the mattress, but he held himself back. Who knew how long it'd been since America was with another man? He grit his teeth and gripped the blankets to try to restrain himself. Even when America had completely taken him, he was still shaking. However, it wasn't just the normal, "Fuck, why did I do this it hurts so badly" shivering.

Then it occurred to England that America was laughing.

England opened his eyes enough to glare at him, "And what, may I ask, is so funny?"

"That look on your face," America admitted, grinning, "You're trying so hard!"

"Shut up! I'm doing it so I don't tear any of your tissue!"

"I know," he leaned down to kiss England's cheek, "But I think it's cute."

England blinked. He'd been called a lot of things in his life, but not cute. He was never cute.

But then America was smiling down at him and finally moving up and down and every conscious thought promptly left. Instead of beginning slowly and working his way up to a decent speed, he just started happily bouncing up and down on England's cock as though he did it every day.

"Holy fuck!" England shouted, gripping America's hips.

"Oh, you know it, baby!" America replied, throwing his head back and moaning.

England tried to guide him and help him go faster yet, but his hands were slick with sweat and kept slipping, much to America's amusement.

"Dammit," England whined, "Why are you so good at this?"

"Well, darlin'," he said, voice slipping into a southern drawl, "After bein' a cowboy for so long you learn how t'ride just about anything."

Fuck, even if he was just lying America knew which buttons to press.

England wanted to kiss him so badly, but it would interfere too much with their rhythm, so instead he grabbed one of America's hands and pressed his lips against each of his knuckles, not caring that it was a little too gentle for this.

"Can't wait until you're better," America said, "I'm gonna bring you back to my place and you'll bend me over the table and the counter and my desk and whatever else you can bend me over. We'll make love on every surface of every house I own. I don't wanna be able to look at nothing without remembering a time we fucked on it!"

America kept babbling on but England wasn't listening anymore. He couldn't bear to hear it. America was just teasing him. He obviously didn't feel that way. Not really. Those were just the ramblings of a man getting dangerously close to orgasm.

England tried to shut out his words before he started to believe them and just focus on the fantastic feeling of America all around him, still hot and wet and soft and perfect. He focused on his frantic breathing and heartbeat, trying to try either one of them to his even more frantic thrusts. He was so busy trying to ignore reality that his orgasm caught him by surprise. He didn't even notice that he was coming until about half-way through. Quickly, he reached up to pump America only to find him already doing just that. Instead, England grabbed for his sack, fondling it so that he could at least help his partner a little bit. America moaned and came, pulling England deeper and milking him for every drop.

The younger nation pulled away and flopped down next to him.

"So what did you think?" He asked, "I mean, I know it wasn't ideal with uh… all this," he gestured around the cave to show what he meant, "But I thought it was… yeah." He lost steam and looked away.

"All things considered," England said, "I think it may have been one of the better shags I've ever had in my life."

His eyes grow wide, "You really mean it?"

England backpedaled, "Erm, well, that is to say-"

America was positively beaming, "Well then, I've got a lot to live up to after we both get to shower and shave."

England frowned, "America, what do you think this makes us?"

"Oh," America said, "Uh… I thought that we would- well, that there'd be an 'us,' you know?"

The boy looked so plaintive, so vulnerable. America had been so many things to him: his son, his brother, his enemy, his ally, his friend, his secret crush… lover was the next step, wasn't it?

"I-if that's what you want, I think we can make it work," England said.

America smiled and pulled him close, "I- I- I lo-" he took a deep breath, "You're cool, thanks England."

"It's nothing," England said, pressing his face against America's chest. He didn't think that he could say it any more than America could.

There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they would take a short nap before heading back. However, as England was falling asleep, he felt America kiss the top of his head.

"I'll love you every second until I die, my darling."

England was glad his eyes were shut as tightly as they were or he would have cried. For the first time in months, he went to sleep without worrying if he would wake up again.

June 16th, 2044: New York, New York

England banged on the door to the toilet.

"For fuck's sake, America! I've never even met a woman that's taken that long after a shower. We're going to be late for our own party!"

He wasn't even answering him. Grumbling, England threw open the door. America was just standing there shirtless, looking at his reflection. He was leaning on the old plastic counter, looking at the glass sadly.

England came closer, trying to see what America was seeing. He wasn't having one of those moments when he went back to obsessing about his weight, was he? But then he saw America run his hand over his chest, feeling the little lumps of scar tissue. Some were small, but one or two of them had barely healed over. England wrapped his arms around America, placing his hands over the other nation's slightly broader ones.

"Sorry, babe," America said, faking a smile, "Just getting caught up in the past, ya know?"

"I do," England said, "And you shouldn't. It never does you any good."

"But it's hard. It's only been ten years and I've already…"

"Come with me," England said, leading America to the window of their living room, "Now look. What do you see?"

"A bunch of people with their heads down rushing through the rain."

"They've got somewhere to go," England said, "This is still a massive city with a lot of people who have a lot of jobs and do a lot of productive things."

"I know, I know." America sighed and turned back to England, "But how the hell did you make it through the fifties? I feel like I'm gonna just keel over and die."

"So did I," England pointed out, "And sometimes I wanted to. But if I remember correctly, at the time I had this idiotic blond boyfriend who alternated between telling me it couldn't possibly be that bad and hiding under tables because he was afraid of the 'dirty commies.' Either way, I had my hands full."

America laughed, "Well, I have a husband who flip-flops between telling me to get my head out of the clouds and talking to his imaginary friends, so maybe I'll make it."

"I know you will," England said, kissing him.

"How?" America asked.

"Well," England took a step away, "Half of the supposedly new television programs that are coming out are copies of mine, McDonald's is having their Monopoly promotion again even though no one has ever liked that game, and most importantly," He took America's left hand and kissed his wedding ring, "You promised me you wouldn't leave."

America smiled, "Yeah, but the line's 'do death do you part,' not 'I'm gonna live forever so I can keep fucking my sexy husband.'" England chuckled, and then America said, "I do remember, though."

"I'll love you every second until I die, my darling," England said for what had to be the millionth time, holding him close.

"And I won't give you an excuse not to," America said.

"If you don't for the next twenty-four hours, we've set an amazingly high milestone."

"Yeah. Hey, did you know that the population was just over two-billion when we got together. It's fucking insane."

"Did you look up random facts about 1944 so that you can make all sorts of statements like that today?"

"Maybe."

England sighed, "Such a shame that I'll need to file for divorce after we got so close to a century."

"Hey, we've only been married for a quarter of that. But you can go do that while I go and put the rest of my clothes on so that we can go out and make fun of the rest of the world by pointing out that we have tons of sex even if we're both broke now and have been together for longer than most people have been alive."

"Sounds good."

"You know," America said, going back into their room, "I'm kind of grateful for all this, even if I can't have my penthouse or all the newest games anymore."

"Oh?" England asked.

"Yeah," he leaned back out past the doorway, "Because I've always been jealous of all those old couples who sit together on park benches and feed pigeons. All those years and they've both gotten so old, but they're still together and really in love. That's us now, England."

And even though he was talking about how both of them were well past their glory days, he smiled as brightly as if the entire world was his. England couldn't help but smile back.

Crash-Course through D-Day: Basically, the invasion was first planned for June 5th because the conditions had to be just right for the boats to be able to make the landing. However, there was really, really bad weather on the 4th. The invasion might have been cancelled, but a meteorologist predicted that it would clear up so that the invasion could take place on June 6th, which it did. The main countries involved were Canada, America, and Britain (although there were smaller groups from other countries). The British had Sword and Gold beach, both of which were easier to take than Juno (taken by the Canadians) and Omaha (think Saving Private Ryan). However, as England said, Gold was better defended. In addition to the invasion by sea, paratroopers were dropped over various French villages. The British had an orderly landing and accomplished their objectives. The Americans, however, were scattered around for several different reasons and many of them sort of wandered around for several days. This confused the hell out of everyone, but especially the Germans so it was okay. Also, Operation Neptune was the codename for the landings, which were part of Operation Overlord, the entire battle of Normandy.

Future notes: Obviously this is all my speculation, but my thoughts are that at some point in the near future the US will lose a lot of its power. However in the aftermath, one of two things will happen: either there will be a major interior collapse spawning several different smaller countries or there will be enough cultural bonds to keep America together but everyone will have less money. As the latter is a lot less sad, I went with that one.

Also, we seem to be moving towards countries being bound together with trade while still maintaining their own national characters. However, due to the major distance between America and Europe they most likely won't politically join together for a long time (if ever). However, my hope is that within the next few years gay marriage will be legal throughout the US, at which point America and England could be married as people even if not at countries.