Admit that the waters around you have grown, and accept that soon you'll be wet to the bone…

And you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone, because the times are a changin'.

-Bob Dylan, Times Are a Changin'

War is not inevitable and religion does not belong in politics. (But it always gets mixed in there anyway) No man is no man's master, and no country is another's ruler. Imperialism is bad, so are alliances. Neutrality is best. Europe is just a huge time bomb, reset after each conflict. The bloodthirsty, barbarian countries eagerly wait for each click of the blood stained clock.

World War I changed his perspective on many things, many people. People he once looked up to were monsters; people he hated were his comrades.

(The word comrade seems oh so dirty now.)

"Cigarette?" Francis asked.

America shakes his head. "I don't have a light."

"I do." France puts the cigarette between America's lips. His thumb brushes his lower lip as he lights it, harmlessly flirting as always. Back in the day Francis would often flirt with a young America to anger his protector. Maybe he was starting again, which wasn't a good idea. But it would be funny.

"Thanks." America smiles, unsure. He knows France is mostly safe, and has stuck with him all night. The other men in the small pub in the ground floor of the inn he is more than slightly suspicious of. China, someone he has heard much about and has seen less, was sitting on his left, away from the other two men who he seemed to dislike. He had a cup of water in his hands, pretty wise decision, and his eyes were flickering about like a tiger in a bear trap.

Speaking of bears. Russia, a man who he remembered from his childhood and on, one of his sure allies, maybe, if he hadn't recently been turned into a communist and wasn't a regular freak. He sat serenely on the other side of France in a tan jacket and a brown hat pulled over his ears, loudly emblazed with a red star. The bottle of beer France had ordered him was untouched, and he was swigging something from a canteen.

And…the last of them. He hadn't arrived yet. America shifted uneasily and took a drag from his cigarette. He wasn't sure how he felt about being on his side again. Especially after how he took the other's side in the Civil War. That still burned quite a bit. While the wound was still fresh he wondered if he wanted only that-

He had joined in the Great War rather reluctantly. And the whole time England had been angry towards him. Downright pissy.

But that was a long time ago, and he would forgive him if he asked for it. It wasn't really about him. The only reason he was here was because of his little Hawaii…Germany's laughable telegram…and some other shit he rather not rehash.

(Maybe a bit of nostalgia.)

(Maybe. )

His stomach curled as France placed a long fingered hand on his thigh. He gently moved his leg away, trying to be polite to his ally. Something flashed in France's eyes-delight. He loves a good chase, and, Goddamn, America accidently became his new project. Fuck.

No England to protect him this time…

"What are you thinking about so hard, Alfred?" France murmured. He leaned on the table and put his chin against his palm, his hair hiding his right eye.

"England." He said honestly. "I was thinking about how pissy he was last time I came over here. And during the Civil War-"Really?" Francis interrupted. "He seemed much happier than usual during the Great War, considering the circumstances, but perhaps I am mistaken."

"I think you are. He really seemed like he got off on being a dick." He remembers that France had supported the Confederacy too. He moves slightly away from him, hopping away on his bar stool. Might as well sit by the commie. At least the commie actually likes him. Not all these pretenders who want his vital regions or hate his guts.

"Angleterre can't help but be what he is." France smirks.

"Where is he, anyway? Way to be late to your own party." He needs to get here fast. He was tired from flying the plane over, and sleep deprivation was making his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. But he couldn't sleep until they had their meeting. Grrr.

"He will be here soon." France was now trying to catch America's eye, who was glancing around, searching for a messy mop of blonde hair. Maybe…no-wait-no…

"England is almost always late, Amerika. How do you say it-patience is a virtue?"

"A virtue I don't have." He grinned at the Russian, trying to be friendly this time. Reeeeally. Remember the old days-ice fishing, fucking, and haggling over baby Alaska…

Good times, good times.

Russia's eyes glint, and a small smile crawls across his face. (Will you become one with me, Amerika?) America admits he's an attractive man, when he's not being a huge freak. He had been likable, before. In fact, he could once call Russia one of his best friends. Not anymore. Maybe the only reason it bothered him that he of all people was a commie was that he used to be a friend. Maybe.

Russia moves closer to him, and America stifles a sound of contempt. But his train of thought softens his anger. He really isn't a bad guy.

"So, Amerika, you are finally here." He remarks. "I wonder what took you so long-did you get lost?"

"You know what happened, Russia, don't play Fucky-Russki with me."

"Fucky-Russki?" He giggles. "Really Amerika, you are full of clever jokes tonight."

"Wasn't a joke." Amerika-I mean America- grunts. He sips his beer.

"You should not drink that." Russia says matter of factly. "It is almost as bad as your alcohol."

"My alcohol is fine. But I will admit this is shit." He grimaces. "I hate English beer."

Russia offers his flask solemnly. America's eyes flick to his face and to the bottle.

"Well, as long as this isn't some strange communist mating ritual…" America cautiously takes the cold metal flask from Russia's cold pale hands. For a moment their fingers brush together and Russia's mouth twitches. America pulls away quickly and raises the flask to his lips, takes a light sip. It is exquisite and expensive stuff, back home, and not something he gets much. Jack Daniels is good enough and cheap enough for good whiskey.

He takes another gulp and licks his lips. "Wonderful."

"What did you say, Amerika?"

"It's fine." He backtracks. "Better than this." He hands the vodka back sadly.

"I have more in my room." Russia says, smiling particularly. "I wouldn't mind sharing with my favorite capitalist friend."

"No, America, if you want good alcohol, you should go to my room later." France interjects. "The best wine is mine, always. We could have a few more drinks together…"

"No." China finally speaks up. "My rice wine is better! My food and drink are always better."

"Surely you jest, China."

Crap, not again.

"All of your food is good." America interrupted. "Your people come to my house all the time and share it with each other. Chop Suey, Stroganoff and Escargot are awesome."

"I have better food than Chop Suey…"

"What about English food, America?"

Oh-

America twists around on his bar stool, ending up with a face full of green sweater vest.

Shit.

"Hello, Arthur!" he says cheerfully. "It's about time!"

Then he looked at England.

Bruises, burns-his skin was covered in them. Two yellowing ones on his face. Bags and purple bruises under his eyes. Burns ran along his arms and on his chest-or what America could see of it, and his neck. Once he had asked England why he didn't trim his eyebrows, and he said he did. Now they were in their full, bushy glory, looking like an enthusiastic gardener's face bush.

America stands up. "Oh God, England." He says. "I'm sorry." And he means it.

England smiles at him, and it's like broken glass.

After that initial shock, he figures everything will be like normal-England and America quarrelling with France, Russia menacing China, the usual. They had booked a conference room a couple of floors up, room with a long table and a pretty cool view.

America outlines his ideas, gives some numbers, asks questions, gets in a few arguments, mostly with Russia, though he and France did bicker a few times. China was mostly quiet. England, surprising, agreed with most of America's plans, though he might admit that all of them were pretty awesome this time around. He was eager to use his new toys, the new technology. England's Air Force was…just…awesome. The things they could do…!

But of course, he needed England's cooperation. And what was the likely hood of that? He probably wanted as little to do with him as possible. America was fine with that, pleased as cherry pie. He didn't want England bogging him down with his old memories and bitter thoughts.

"Amerika," Russia says, smiling sweetly, "if you still want that vodka you should come up stairs with me."

"Un, no thanks, com-Russia, I'm pretty tired."

"It will only take a moment." His smile is positively dripping sugary sincerity.

"Really, Russia, I'm super tired. Long trip over the pond, you know. This is why I wanted this meeting over at your house or mine." He smiles charmingly. Be nice. "Need my strength up for the times ahead." His eyes darken slightly.

Russia laughs. It was a dark laugh that rang like funeral bells. "Well then, pleasant dreams, Amerika. I hope you sleep soundly and safely." He gets up and drifts off towards the door, after China who was trying to sneak off while his attention was adverted.

"Well, that just leaves us, hmmm?" France laughs uneasily. "I think I'll head up to bed as well, unless you two wish to join me…"

"No!" England and America chorused.

France left, laughing merrily.

"Damn, if another person invites me to have sex with them tonight…" America tosses a small smile at England, who was still sitting beside him, fussing with some papers and rolling up maps.

"You'll get used to it." He mutters. "Sorry that Russia is after you, France's bad enough, if you ask me."

"Eh, he's been like that for a while. Do something sexy and France will start chasing after you again, like it should be." He smiles and stands. "See you in the morning, England."

"Actually, America," America turns.

He coughs into his closed fist. "May I talk with you in private?"

"Uh…" He flounders. "Sure, of course. But I really am tired, ya know-

"It will only take a moment."

"Okay…" Not much staying power, he supposes.

England smiles at him. (What does he want?) Turning, he gestures for America to follow. America grabs his briefcase and trails after uneasily. The two men walked though the long room together, their footsteps echoing loudly against the wooden floor. England led him to the inn half of the building, silent as a dead mouse.

The rooms they were staying in were pretty big, and all of them had the same layout but different colors. His own room was a light blue, with a warm cotton quilt with hexagonal patches with thing like flowers and ships and mountains on it, and feather pillows. It was heaven, really. Nice break before…

Anyway.

They were heading towards England's room, probably. He follows him towards the small hallway they were staying in. England took a skeleton key out of his pocket and stuck it in the lock of the door between America's and the wall. China was next door to the right, then Russia and France. America was just grateful France was a good distance from him-no nasty surprises in the night.

England opens the door and lets him in. "Sit there-he said, pointing to the white table and chair-"and I'll be right with you."

He sat, bemused, into the cushioned white wicker chair. The room was porcelain themed, blue and china white from the quilt on the bed, the paint and trim, and the carpet, which was ankle thick and cream coloured. Nice. If he was alone he would have took his shoes off and curled his toes into it.

England returned with a brass tea kettle and two glass cups. He walked back toward where he came with sugar, cream, and silverware.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any of that coffee you like."

That disgusting shit. I don't know how you drink that… blah blah blah. It looks like a cow plopped one right into your cup.

"Tea is fine." America says cautiously. He accepts the teapot from England and pours the tea into his cup. Its' aroma woke him up from his confused daze sharply.

England offers him the sugar and he took it gladly, giving himself four generous spoonfuls and stirring it. He sips his tea as England watches him over the rim of his cup, thoughtful.

"I thought you didn't like tea." He says softly.

America pauses. Tea was a sore subject. "I do. Well, not that bag stuff." He took another gulp.

"Ah." England steeples his fingers.

America looks at him expectantly.

England looks uncomfortable.

"Nice room you have here." America finally says. He flicks his tongue along his bottom lip nervously. "All the rooms in this hotel are pretty swell though. Russia's got velvet and silk sheets, you know that?"

"How would you know what Russias' sheets' look like?" England asks. Something in his voice sounds strange.

"I was asking him if he wanted his pillow mints."

"Aaah."

"…So?"

"I have a few things…" He sighs. "Thank you for coming here (finally) and joining us."

He looks at him apologetically. "I know. I should have came before, but-

"That's not important. You're here, and that's what counts." He nodded. "I do wish you had come sooner, but…" He coughs. "But, I just want you to know I'm grateful."

His ears perk up.

"I know we aren't the best of friends anymore…But I want to change that."

America stares.

"Frankly, I don't trust China or Russia. And you know how France and I are. You are, really, my only true ally in this war."

"Really." America looks unconvinced. Is unconvinced. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

England flushes.

"Look, England, I know you hate me with all of your little limey heart. So cut the shit, okay? You've hated me ever since 1776 and there's nothing more to it. I don't care about all that bull France says about bonds and ever lasting love. I just came over to help and you don't even have to say thank you, I promise."

Silence.

"You think I hate you?" England asks. His voice sounds far away, like he's talking though a can with a hole in the bottom.

"I know it."

"Why?"

"You act like you do. You make everything harder for me when you can. You allied with the Confederates over me."

"Your Civil War was a war between you and you. What was I supposed to do, how would I know which was really you? The Confederates were rebelling against the greater good, just like you always do."

"I think you wanted to weaken me and take over."

"W-what?" Disgust flashes across his face. "You think I would honestly do that?" He starts drumming his fingers against his tea cup. "What nonsense." He spits.

"You could get your former colony back. With the confederates separated from the Union, you could have taken them over, my lower half. Then on to the North…"

"Probably not. I'm not interested in your fat mouth."

(Hey! New York's a fine piece of real estate, bitch)

"What you interested in then, England?" He leans forward and props his elbow on the table, cups his chin in his hand. "Why are you playing nice?"

Englands' face twists violently. "Because I care about you, idiot! I don't want you to get killed here, on the continent! If we work together, we can do this…" His voice cracks and his face softens. "This isn't a game of toy soldiers, Alfred. This is war. You're young and inexperienced. And if you're hurt it will be my fault!"

"Wh-what?" Americas' eyelids flutter and his mouth drops open. "Who put you up to this? Your boss? France? Trying to make some kind of weird union or something? Well, I don't need it. Because, believe me or not, I can take care of my fucking self. I've gone to war with some of the most powerful countries in the world-the British Empire, France (with your help, but who gives a shit and don't say anything) excreta. I lost some, but I'm not any worse for wear. In fact, I'm pretty awesome. And, anyway, you didn't make a big deal out of it last time!"

"Last time was different. I felt…the same I do now, but…" He shifts in his seat. "While a union sounds interesting…" He glances into Americas' eyes and looks away-"I don't think it would be ideal. I just want to be friends with you. Look, I want to forget about the past and concentrate on the now. Is that too much?"

America noticed he didn't address the "I'm just as good as you are' part. But he ignored it and attacks the other interesting tidbit. "So, in other words, the exact thing I said a few years ago, but this time you haven't thrown any Tennyson at me." His body relaxes. A union with Britain. That would be…strange. "I don't think you can do it."

"What?" He snorts attractively. "How not?"

"You're an old man. You always have your mind stuck in the past." America smirks. "You'll change your mind by tomorrow, I bet my bottom dollar on it. You hate me too much to forget."

He sighs and taps his fingers. "How can I prove my sincerity?" Underneath his newly made mask, he was boiling.

America smiles. "How do we generally prove our sincerity to each other?"

England blushes a deep scarlet. "What are you implying?"

"What do you think I'm implying? But it doesn't matter. You can prove your sincerity by forgiving and forgetting. But you can't, can you?" He leans in. "I'm wondering…why."

"We can talk about this some other time." He sounds uncomfortable.

"Or we could talk about it now."

"I don't think…"

"Why, England?"

England looks at him and smiles. It was an ugly smile, and America could tell he was going to say something nasty. He took a sip of tea.

"You want to know why I was bitter, Alfred?"

"Yes." Quick, to the point.

"Why I will never forget?"

"Yes."

His smile grew and he sets his teacup down, leans in.

"When you were younger," He whispers softly, "I remember looking in your eyes and seeing the sky and the sea. I remember your skin was as soft as silk and as white as cream. And I treasured you because you were beautiful."

"But…" He raises a hand and slides it onto America's face. It is warm and familiar, callused. "You grew up. Bigger every day. By 1720 I couldn't stand it anymore. Your laugh, your optimism, your blind loyalty, your body. I wanted you. I wanted you more than anything."

England's fingers trace his bottom lip. He parts them in surprise, gasping.

"And then you left me. You left me."

His awful smile breaks and he turns away, twines his fingers together in his lap. His face is pale and his eyes are full of old misery. America's heart fills with compassion he rather not act on, but he does anyway. He brushes England's hair out of his face and presses down a wild lock of bang.

"But I came back where it counts."

England glances at his face, raising his lashes in confusion.

America brushes his thumb lightly along the purple marks under his eye, the yellowing bruise under his cheek. "I don't know exactly what we are to each other, or what we will be, but I know we care about each other." He flashes him a grin. "I'm the hero, and I don't let the people I care about get hurt."

"A little late for that, don't you think?" England murmurs. "I'm already full of holes."

"Well…yeah. I wanted to come earlier, but…"

."

"It's fine. You still came, I suppose, and that's what matters."

They sit in slightly awkward silence for a few moments.

America grins cheekily. "Okay, enough with this sappy stuff. Tomorrow, let's get down to business. I got some maps and some plane crap I need you and you only to look at, top secret stuff. But now I have to get some sleep."

England smiled and touches his face. "Alright." He clears his throat. "But finish your tea before you leave. That shit's bloody expensive, you know. Especially with that truckload of sugar you added."

"Sheesh…."

A/N:

2:34 AM 7/29/10

This is so freaking fluffy it's driving me nutso.

I originally had this a lot more piss and vinegar and less sugar. While helping my great grandmother with a garage sale I saw an ancient brass teapot with a porcelain handle, which made me picture England pouring America tea with it while he sits in a white wicker chair. And a rotting England would be included, like the scene in IT where Beverly goes back to her dear dad's house and meets that sweet old lady. You might remember that. :D

Also, you can consider this Jackonary verse.