England examined herself in the mirror. She was wearing her regular pigtails, but she wore makeup. She never wore makeup, but this was a special occasion. Black eyeliner was worn on her eyes, and red lipstick on her lips.
"I thought I forgot how to put on his bloody stuff..." she mumbled to herself and chuckled. She smoothed out her short but flowing black dress. England didn't usually wear dresses either, but, hence the makeup, this was a special occasion. She pulled on a dark gray sweater and bit her lip. Would someone be able to figure her out? England patted her barley-noticeable bump and sighed. She hadn't told anyone about it. Not even the father, who she never got along with anyway. But...she was sad. Sad that the baby will never be able to see it's biological father.
A small tear ran down England's face when she thought of this. I mean, she barley had an ounce of feelings for the father, but this baby...it may never know a father. He was dead. Dead. Died in war.
England pulled on a pair of black heels and winced at the pain of her swollen ankles. When would this stop? Her brother, Scotland, would be here any minute to pick her up. She checked herself out for a second, and then walked down her stairs.
"'Ey, lass! I'm 'ere!" Scotland's voice came from the front door. England frowned. He may be her brother, but he sure is annoying.
When they arrived at the graveyard, England laid a bunch of roses at his grave. They were his favorite flowers. She didn't bother going to the funeral. Nobody else she knew went anyway.
She kneeled down at the grave and began to talk. "Francis..." She started. "You're going to be a father in about 8 months. I'm sad that the child won't be able to see it's bloody-git of a father, but happy at the same time. If it did ever see you, I'd probably be disappointed." England hung her head and started to cry. Not for France, but for the child.
She sat there for a while; tears spilling out of her eyes, until a gloved hand was placed on her shoulder. England looked behind, and found none other than the American.
"C'mon," he said, holding out his hand. England took it.
Usually, she would deny this kind of request, but this was different.
"Alfred?"
"Hm?"
"I'm pregnant."
America looked at England. "It is his?"
England nodded.
"Did you ever..." The American squeezed the Brit's hand, "love him?"
England shook her head. "Not like a love you."
A small smile spread across America's face. He put his arm around England's shoulders and kissed her forehead.
"I'm going to tell everyone but the baby that it was yours." England finally said, sighing.
"Alright," he pulled the Brit closer, "in that case, marry me."
"Fine, you wanker."
England planted a short but sweet kiss on the American's lips. He simply smiled and imagined life as a family.