New Zealand ran a bar, and her mother hated it.
As she wiped the counter clear, she knew what he was thinking, how he greeted and thanked and apologized when they visited each other. Often, Japan and America would be hovering around, causing fuss, creating havoc in their own small little ways. Both Japan and America would acknowledge her, the former with a nod and the latter with a 'So how're we for nukes, sweet thing?' and she would smile and greet and let the memories they'd shared (The good ones, at least) put sincerity in her expression.
Japan was always fun to mess around with, with an occasional after-war dalliance between the two leaving nothing but humour in their chests contesting with the evident knowledge displayed on his face that she chose China (Of all people!) over him! While he was not complaining over something as trivial as affection, it was still a matter of pride. He never lost to China, final word.
She had enjoyed the time they had spent together. Even if he was somewhat… lacking… she had marvelled at his composure, his dignity, so alien and lofty to her own values. She rather liked to think that he preferred to drown in her free spirit, her rolling tussocks of brown hair and cream-chocolate skin warmed by southern sun and his questing hands. It was a pity they'd split after that, but his rather rigid personality and pretentious attitude had left them amiably drifting away from each other. They'd met in wartime, drifted together years after and then drifted apart, to her lackadaisical pleasure and his chagrin. She still had pictures of him in his housewife getup, and she made sure he knew she wasn't above resorting to blackmail.
America was a stranger, more complex case. They'd fought together in different lands in the Great War, and side by side in WWII. She'd lent him her bushmen for the times when he'd travel through rough terrain, he gave her much-needed cover fire. Her planes would fly over and clear the way for his tanks, their men shot, cheered and died together, she would keep him fed with meat and biscuits, he'd lend her chocolate and cigarettes to deal with stress. It started out with a business relationship, as she'd describe Mother Britain in glowing terms and he, with sad eyes, would nod and smile and take another drag before changing the subject. He had enough respect for the girl to pay attention to the way she froze up whenever Gallipoli was mentioned. She said it was a mistake, he agreed. They both knew it was incompetence and cowardice on England's part. She forgave. He knew it was a sign of things to come. They soldiered on regardless, fighting for the end.
When it came, they both stood, France emerging from the rubble and England covered in bandages, clearing the remnants of resistance with Russia in Berlin. Australia was out, helping Singapore back to its feet and Canada was still going over the wounded in Normandy. New Zealand, shaking on her feet, fell to her knees and let loose one long, loud hiss of relief, marking her official cry of surrender. America patted her back, mumbled something encouraging, then perked up and began marching back. She'd turned, her own voice breaking with the joy of victory and the pain of recent betrayal:
"Mother couldn't protect me. Singapore fell when most we needed him, and he promised us both, Australia and-…" She could not continue, she needed rest, she needed more cigarettes and chocolate and his sad-happy eyes. Eyes that burned with an energy just like her own, before horror and death dulled them like hers had undoubtedly been. He paused, said nothing, tried to say something, and settled for 'You think too highly of him'.
There was silence, wind blowing gently over craters, the smell of cordite and blood hanging in the air.
"Visit me when all this is over." She said, "When Japan falls to you, visit me. One last favour, America. This is all I want, right now."
He turned his head, his old happy smile creasing the sides of his face, and "You really think I'll win?" He asked, to which she matched with her own smile. "I've seen you fight, you old bastard." She threw a tired, playful punch at the air, "You'll smash 'em."
"He's real stubborn, is Japan." He mused, "He's got more spirit than me…"
"Then break it!" She laughed, "Break him and end this war! Break him and we win! Break the impossible! You're America! This is what you do!"
Looking back, she was ashamed with the youthful zeal and worship that she had once given her Mother, but it could never have been so bad as how she'd clung to America after Britain had left her behind. Maybe America had felt the same, looking into her unabashed eyes, her face covered in mud and filth and tears, shining with admiration for a new hero.
He learned then that becoming a hero was nowhere near as incredible as he'd hoped. New Zealand forced him to grow up and hate himself, for what he knew he was going to do, to force a child half his age to become an adult after only a hundred years of growing. She gave too much, like he did, like he used to, and he knew that neither of them had the will to give so much anymore.
"Yeah. It's what I do."
With that, he left. Shaking his head with dread, knowing the weapon he had kept hidden all this time would break Japan's fighting spirit, and the heart of little New Zealand. Some would acknowledge that he had been desperate to cull the fighting, most would reason that the casualties and slain innocents would have been more massive than any bomb, but there would always be some who saw necessity to be something callous.
It was ironic, given her background, that she had not learned the value of necessity.
When they next met a few years afterwards, he was flush with victory and barging into her house just as she'd finished tidying everything up. She cooked him pikelets ("More Butter! More Syrup!") and Kiwiburgers ("Beetroot and egg as toppings? How could you dare pervert the burger of Justi-NOMNOMNOM") and her own brands of ice cream ("What's this Raspberry Jelly wobbling on top of vanilla? Looks dirty."). She'd shown him around the countryside, played a little guitar, pushed him off a waterfall ("DON'T YOU DARE DO THAT TO THE MAIN HERO!!") and laughed at his jokes. She learned not to tell ghost stories, not to have him consult road maps, and most definitely not to imply that she could do anything better at the things he excelled at ("Britain's bad enough without you upstaging me too!"). She let him hold his hands at her sides and back, through her hands and over her waist as he played his new music and danced his strange (Yet curiously driven-to-the-bone fun) dances. Somewhere between the dance floor and the food and the casual swinging of arms there grew a… call it a link. Both drawn to Britain, both full of vim, both pioneers, both young ("Ish! Young-ish!") in the grand scheme of things.
They both awoke in the same bed in the morning after the night they discovered that neither of them possessed a trait to handle alcohol in large amounts. In among the screams of 'Oh Jesus!' and 'Bloody hell, how'd you get in here?!' and 'Where are my underpants?!', America calmed down and shouted that he'd been willing to ask for a defence alliance for a while. That had the bonus of calming down an irate New Zealand (And stopped him from being ejected with nothing preventing indecent exposure), but had the downside that she was far more willing to consider such a proposal in the circumstances than he'd hoped. She'd mulled it over for a while, discussing it with Australia first chance she got, and the both of them continued to err and uhm as an increasingly impatient US pressured them. Realising that there really wasn't anything to lose in the Treaty, she signed up a year later. She sent troops to Korea, sold him food, kept him warm and generally partook in his games; it was a pleasant time for the most part.
It wasn't a romance, any more than the occasional tumble between friends could be. But the relationship began to change from allies to 'Just good friends' to 'Good friends and business partners-gates' over the years. It was either her or the nukes, she told him. He chose the nukes, and then the alliance crumbled.
That had been around twenty years ago, she thought, still polishing the bar and checking the glasses. Then it'd been Japan. Then it'd been China, now…
The door clunked open, New Zealand knew the sound of his shoes. Crepe soles today, which meant he was feeling nostalgic. Must've been something in the air, she was feeling it too.
"The usual, Snailman?" She called out, not turning around from where she was checking the drinks in the cabinet. "I'm thinkin' you'll want a Rosé, got a Mount Difficulty '07 in specially for ya."
"You are an angel in heavy disguise and too much clothing, Cherie." France twittered, sitting down at the chair nearest the fireplace. "Perhaps a little snack, yes?" He motioned towards the fireplace, "Something light and sweet, something fruitful to mix with the wine."
"Pavlova, got it." She nodded to herself, remembering the level of the meringue in the fridge down the back of the kitchen. "You want the bottle or the glass, old man?"
"Bottle, please. The pouring motion keeps my mind alert."
"Didn't know you had one, Frenchie." She jibed, giggling at his indignant snort. "Grab the poker and stoke up the cinders, I've got a couple of blocks out back."
She pushed through the doors, lifting out the dessert to warm on the bench while she went out to the shed. Ignoring the rain, she stacked the pine blocks three-high on her arms, shifting the splinters away and running back inside over the cobbles. She didn't look at the reclining man lost in the armchair, staring at the undisturbed embers in the cast-iron fireplace while she arranged the wood and coaxed flame back into life, flooding warmth back into the room. She went back to the kitchen, washed up, served up the pudding with as much Kiwifruit as she could, grabbed the bottle on her way back and set them both down on the table next to the chair.
It was already an hour past closing time, and France had done things in the past that by rights she could have incarcerated him for, but sometimes good diplomacy was needed. Besides, when he wasn't pressing himself and his issues on every other nation on the Earth, France was surprising good company, and a font of correct wisdom. That he took New Zealand in as his protégé in winemaking helped as well, the student focused on quality over quantity like he instructed and kept a locale for him to lie low as repayment for his teachings.
More than that, however, was the understanding. Both had harsh ties to Britain, both had tasted betrayal in war, both had allied to the US until circumstances denied such formalities. Both loved the culture of relaxation, of sitting in cafes with a good coffee and cake just watching the world pass by. The blending of troubled beginnings and post-trauma zen made life perfectly bearable, a concoction they both drunk from the same cup with earnest. Here, in this warm, cosy place where rain was seen and heard but never felt, France relaxed after a hard day of whatever.
"Euro for your thoughts, old man?" She asked.
"Britain and America are fighting over ethical issues. Again." He sighed, "I can see where you and Australia get it from. A small island fighting a huge tract of land… America and Britain, Japan and China, Germany and Russia, You and Australia. The small combat the big and revel in the beauty of conflict."
"We do sports, old man. Don't compare me and Oz to Mom and Yankmaster."
"My apologies."
He took another sip. She watched the Pavlova deflate slightly.
"Business is good?"
"China's been visiting a lot, ever since the free trade deal, never pays his tab. Japan's still guzzling the mead, I'm thinking of setting up reservation hours for the two of them, they stay too long."
"You just keep too nice an inn. Everyone deserves to unwind."
"Flatterer."
He finally grabbed a teaspoon and sampled a taste of the Pavlova, carving a thin slice of kiwifruit and eating daintily.
"Australia says that he came up with the recipe."
"That's Bullshit. I did."
"That's what he said, too."
"He's lying."
"He said that you were, too."
"I'm right, he's wrong. Don't get me started on ANZAC biscuits."
"Well, given how you and your mother used to be, I wouldn't be surprised if you copied his recipe for Eton mess."
"Britain can't cook. He can't make wine, he can't brew liquor worth discussing, he never learned how to have fun. Why would I copy his stuff?"
"Why indeed. But agreed, England has no ability at making people feel at home."
"Whatever. You heard about Russia? I haven't seen him in a while."
"He's charging around his home, drunk half the time and crying like a baby the rest. Keeps trying to molest the old Blocs. I wouldn't bother anticipating that gigantic pervert."
"Sounds like a compliment, coming from you."
"Your contours are soft and your words are sharp, student. How you wound this old man so!" He laughed, slipping another mouthful of wine. "How you've changed, from some wide-eyed hero-worshiper in the Antipodes to a cynical, cautious speakeasy girl. You're going to have to look for a new profession, though."
"Oh? Speak well, old man, and I might have a bottle of '56 Brut in the back that needs a good friend to go home with." She smiled, living for these moments when her old comrades spoke their minds."
"Drinking my own wine? Oh, I'll go blind, girl!" He laughed again, fingering a line down his chest, through the buttons. "But seriously, little Oiseau, I do not think it will be profitable for you to run this place. Everyone comes here to be alone, to speak and let their troubles hang somewhere else. Sooner or later, there'll be so many coming that this little inn will forge more problems than it destroys."
He swilled the last dregs in his glass, and downed it."Such is the price of fame. Of having a beautiful bartender, fine food and drink, and a warm chair to put up your feet and think."
"That would've been so, but after the last casket of mead, Japan gave me a nice ol' idea. I already told you about it."
"Hmmm?"
"Reserved time slots for attendance. I'll downsize the number of seats and make the place more aesthetic. A haven for up to four people, where secret meetings are held in comfort, the neutral ground. And I can charge more!" She beamed, turning into a frown when France chuckled.
"You think about money, and manipulation, and other Idealistic things. America certainly rubbed off on you." He wiped away an errant tear, "Regardless, I think it's a good idea. And 'The Neutral Ground' sounds like a good name for such a place, if you can stand Sweden and Switzerland giving you funny looks."
"Thanks, old man. Guess you're better for things other than wine and women, eh?"
"Only when I'm in the company of both, my dear."
Ten minutes of small talk and a wrapped bottle of champagne, France was heading out the door. Promises to say hi to Britain and Germany next time he was in, and to deliver a gift of grape vines soaked in bottles of olive oil to Italy, who she had doted on in the past. Another ten minutes to clean up the glasses and the plate, check the fire and finally lock the doors.
The Antipode Inn was closed.
Britain watched as France hailed a taxi and drove back home. He watched the light in the topmost room of the Inn blink on, watched shadows move across the curtains, watched the light blink off again.
The only colony that had made him feel like he was wanted as a parent; it wanted him no more.
Britain's only daughter, New Zealand, was a bartender.
He hated it.