She doesn't know why she did it, Elizabeth thinks as she turns slowly and unbuttons the basic cotton shirt she'd put on. It really was just the lesser of two evils, right? She casts her gaze to the floor as Alfred turns on the light he needs to see and grabs some scissors, bandages, and medical tape, courteously leaving her side of the room in quasi-darkness. But at the same time, the question seemed so inane—did she trust him, really, Alfred?
She looks up at him as she thinks it, the perpetual frown creasing her worry-lined brow. She swallows as she sits reservedly on top of the high table. Well, we're about to find out.
Alfred turns and stops slightly, most likely taken aback by all the mismatched purple spread across the pure, soft alabaster—but is he staring at the bruises, Elizabeth wonders, or is he staring at me?
She blushes at the thought, and he gives her a sad smile, wishing he didn't have to do this, she knows as he leans to either side of her to set things on the table. She has a right to feel so apprehensive, she thinks as the heat from his body radiates off of him in waves. I mean, we haven't been so close to each other since—
Elizabeth inhales sharply as she notices how close his face is to hers, drawing her attention and anxiety. Her eyes follow him warily as he opens his mouth to speak, and the tension between them is tangible as they simultaneously realize that the only thing separating him from her naked chest is a whole roll of bandages and two strips of tape.
Alfred swallows. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and looks down to pull off the first strip.
She gasps involuntarily as she hears the tape rip, and she's not sure if it's from her pain or his proximity. The temperature in the room increases rapidly with every strap he unrolls, moving closer and then pulling back, his strong, muscled arms wrapping around her. Tension and proximity and hot hot hot and suddenly it's drowning her, worse than the bombings or even the Great Fire, as all she can think of is what she had seen in the mirror—my God, the scars, ooh, they're so bad—what's he going to think when he sees them? Elizabeth didn't have very…pronounced breasts in the first place, hardly any at all, and she tries so hard to shake it but all she can think is no no no I'm not good enough for him—
Her eyes fly open and she grabs his wrist roughly, reflexes flying into action as he's about to unroll the last sticky red strip. His motion forward is halted and he leans in slightly, before pulling away.
"Lizzie? What's wrong?"
She feels like she's dying—his voice sounds so distorted through the heat, so deep and velvet—and he called me Lizzie. Oooh God, what must he be thinking, that made him call me Lizzie?
It was the unspoken rule, the preconceived commandment—he'd gained so many things after their war, but he'd lost all right, all privilege to call her Lizzie. And now that he did…
This is insanity, Alfred thinks—no, pants—heavily. His throat has gone dry and his head feels so fuzzy—if only she knew how touching her at all sends shivers down my spine—
He tries not to picture it, to have Lizzie like this, panting and wanton and hot, so hot, her skin is on fire, everywhere I touch—and yes, he knows he's not supposed to call her Lizzie but it's all he can call her now, it's like they're no longer America and England in his mind—oh, in his mind, that traitorous little place, was it wrong for him to imagine her hair, sweeping across his stomach?
He pushes it all back, to have one moment of clarity to ask her, "What's wrong?" and he thinks it's the biggest mistake he's ever made, because her eyes fly open and her breathing gets labored and all he can think is honey, you're dying, as that last thin strip stuck together with so much blood falls away from her breasts and he can't help his eyes from glancing down to look at all the destruction the Blitz had done to her.
His eyes just widen and he breathes, "My God," as she gives a horrified moan at the mess. Pale white scars that are older than him by centuries are completely obscured by the torn red skin, black burn patches and bloody, bloody cuts just elongated across her chest. The cuts are trickling blood, red rivers down the valley of her breasts to her gently shaped abs to the ribs that are standing out a little bit more than they should be.
Alfred closes his eyes and tries to keep calm, the heat that was drowning him now colder than ice. The tension is still thick between them, and his traitorous mind still wants to go to bed with her, but now to take care of her, to bandage her up and carry her home and hide her in blankets, away from the world. This woman has been the one constant in his life, even through all the wars and their heartache. Elizabeth has always prided herself on staying on top, never letting the waves knock her down, but now he's seeing her in a way he's never seen her before, and that strange sticky feeling makes him want to both lash out with rage and curl up and cry. People are just ignorant, can't they see what they're doing to her?!
He's breathing so hard it hurts, and my God, it has to hurt her too, I'm surprised I can't see her lungs moving from all the combined destruction. Her chest bleeds freely as her people's tears flow, both of relief and of sadness. His hands are shaking as he tries to reach for a towel to wipe off the blood.
"You…should have gotten…stitches," Alfred breathes out shakily as he reaches for some salve, stopped by her words and her hand.
"To what point?" Elizabeth breathes just as unsteadily. "It'll scar anyway. Let them see," she whispers defiantly, and he glances up from the hand on his arm to the look in her eyes—they seem different than earlier. There is pain, yes, but also confidence now, and pride—let others say nothing of Brits and their pride—and something darker in those jade pools that makes his stomach clench, something dark and hidden that he's damned if he recognizes but he's wanted her to look at him like that for decades, maybe more. Looks she's only ever given France, to her shame, or maybe Spain, when he was an empire. Alfred's seen her fighting in battles and knows that look in her eyes—that deep part of her soul that was crying out for vengeance, and that traitorous part of her body that wanted to use him to get it.
For vengeance, his mind repeats, but she's done with fighting, and they'd won the war—so why does she still feel like she's—
"Why did you yell at Japan?" Alfred breathes, to get to the point of what had started this insanity. He feels like there's just nothing between them anymore, not just literally as he pushes the blush down, but no barriers or tensions, forgotten battles or past wars. It's so bare between them, no walls or cloudy emotions or mental filters to stop their true thoughts from escaping or past desires from making themselves known.
Elizabeth sighs despairingly, tired eyes revealing her tortured soul, the century-long fight of I-love-him-I-love-him-not that she knows is about to slip smoothly from her grasp.
"Because he's keeping you away from me," she whispers brokenly into the silence, still not knowing why she does it, but doing it all the less. "The rest of our war is over, but you're still fighting him, and you don't deserve that," she finishes defiantly, that faint glimmer in her eyes matching the one from earlier. "Not at all."
Understanding dawns in his crystal blue gaze, mixing with glimmers of that ever-present optimism and darkening shades of something Elizabeth doesn't want to name. Alfred realizes that she's still fighting through him, that she won't rest until his war in the Pacific is over and done with. That, though England came out the victor, Lizzie's spoils are written as clearly here, on her chest, as they will be in history books. That she wants payback, the final say. To know that they've truly won.
Maybe it's revenge, or the last vestiges of her Empire…but whatever drive in her that still wants to claim the world, to make her name known all throughout, flows out of her and into him just as simply as the oxygen they share. He exhales and closes his eyes, leaning his forehead down to hers. The heat dulls the flickers of static that otherwise would have sent shockwaves through their nerves, instead letting thick drops of heat go sluicing through their veins in their place, leaving them with only tranquility, complacency. Finally, no screaming matches or harsh reprimands—just total, absolute trust.
A wrecking ball, of sorts, or a wave knocking hard upon the shore.
She closes her eyes and they breathe the same breaths as all of her walls come crashing down around them, simultaneously loud and utterly silent explosions leaving them with…what? This tension won't last, Elizabeth knows this as well as Alfred. What they're feeling now only exists in this room, that once they leave, everything will go back to normal…Alfred doesn't know why, but while they're here…when in Rome…
She won't take the salve, he knows, and she'll more than likely refuse the bandages if he asks her outright. He spares a slight chuckle for her stubbornness. Damn English pride…time for an epic plan.
Elizabeth notices his laughter, frowning adorably at him. "What's so funny?" she murmurs, her breath giving the slightest hitch at his feather-light touch of her chest.
Her reaction creases his brow as he gently guides a knuckle to her chin to tip her face upwards. "Just trust me, okay?" he mumbles through the heat as he reaches for the damp towel with his other hand, putting his plan into action.
She makes a beautifully non-cognizant face as she meets his eyes, drowsy from pain or the heat. "What—"
"Trust me," he breathes as he captures her lips with his.
