Guess what. I'm a liar. I said two parts. It will be three. (Nobody is surprised.)

I have been awol for a while, it's true (this was a 4th July fic – it is now September). Much of this is due to an extensive trip with my long-time partner-in-crime Narroch, where we spent time both here in the UK and then in the US. This is a relevant detail because while we were in Narroch's home country, we went to Washington DC, where we hung plaintively around the railings separating us from the statue of Alexander Hamilton in front of the Treasury. This was due to roadworks in front of the building, meaning that access to the statue was blocked off and we couldn't get close enough to hang off his feet like the massive weebs that we are.

Lin-Manuel Miranda, you have much to answer for.

How Lucky We Are

II

The battle is over but the field does not fall silent, drenched with the debris of the dead. Dying men cannot keep quiet, writhing in their gravesoil, buried alive in mud. The snow has melted beneath cannons and horses and boots. Red, blue – it's hard to know what colour they started out in.

As for America, he's never been so filthy in all his short life. He's lost his rifle somewhere in the quagmire, the mud sucking it out of his grip when he went down face-first. A British cavalryman shot him in the side of the skull, leaving him for dead – to bleed out, to drown, to have someone else finish him off – but he awoke some time later with no bullet hole and no gun. This is the third battle in a fortnight where he hasn't killed a single human. Perhaps it is his fault they didn't win this. What's left of the American forces is making a hasty retreat, salvaging all they can, leaving those that can't be helped behind. America sits with his chin on his knees, letting them pass him, watching the bloom of red flooding the battlefield as the British move forward. They, too, have lost a lot of men – and the Union Flag they carry is torn and dirty, limp in the frigid air. England is not among them. America knows this – knows he's still in Boston – but he always looks, always watches, just to make sure.

(Sometimes he sees Canada and their eyes meet and then dart away. How he envies him, clothed in crimson.)

Alexander Hamilton stops before him, his boots caked, his coat torn, his hair matted. He looks like he barely got out of there alive.

"We are retreating," he says. He sounds weary, impatient. "You have to get up."

"Did we lose?" America asks dully. "Again?"

"We are at a tactical disadvantage on this terrain."

"But they keep pushing us back – won't we always be at a tactical disadvantage?" America sighs. "Look at all these dead men – and for what?"

"Such is the price of our freedom," Hamilton says tightly. "Equally we cannot turn back now or they will have died for nothing."

"Yes," America mutters. He buries his face in his knees. "Instead they have died for me."

"Given how little you have put into the independence effort thus far, I think you give yourself too much credit."

"My apologies, Alexander," America says, muffled against dirty buff. "I know you are not doing this for me. You are an opportunist. You are here for yourself."

"And you are absent for the same reason," Hamilton snaps. "The will of the colonies cannot be subdued by the tantrum of a child. We will not stop for the king, we will not stop for England and we will not stop for you."

"Yes, I quite see that." America glances up at him again. "I see that you answer only to George Washington."

"I have the utmost respect for the general. He will see to it that this war is won and that we get our freedom. He is the one who truly cares for your people."

"They are not my people. They are England's."

"They would argue otherwise." A pause. "We would argue otherwise."

"Well, you are of course free to argue whatever you like. I will never accept it. I am America, after all, and it is not what I want."

"What you want does not matter. You do not live as we do. You do not die as we do."

"And I do not love as you do," America says. "Or so I am told."

Hamilton exhales through his nose. "It is clear that you do not love us," he replies. He pushes the butt of the rifle against America's shoulder as he steps past. "Now get up."

America does not, barely blinking. He sits immovably in his spot, listening to the frigid squelch of Hamilton's boots, the earth threatening to bury him with every step. No such luck – people like Hamilton don't seem to die. The red is advancing, spilling like a bloom of poppies between the bodies – it's hard to tell the difference between the British and the bloodshed.

He doesn't hear Hamilton turn but moments later he is seized by the back of his collar.

"I said get up!" Hamilton bodily hauls on him, trying to pull him to his feet. "Can you not see their advance? Soon they will be upon us!"

America goes defiantly limp, Hamilton dragging him though the soup of mud like a cannon. It proves too much, too exhausting, and Hamilton lets him go after a few feet. Perhaps he is too heavy, too much of a burden.

"What will you do, Alexander?" he asks, lying perfectly still, filth sinking to the bone. "Go back to Washington without me? Whatever will he say to you coming back so empty-handed?"

"You punish us so," Hamilton says disgustedly, "when all we do is for you. I cannot fathom your cruelty."

"I am not a human. I am unfathomable. Your energy will be better spent elsewhere."

"You think too highly of yourself."

"Not as highly as you think of me. I do wish you wouldn't. What does it matter what colour coat I am wearing in the end?"

"I try to defend you against him, you know," Hamilton snaps. "Washington says that you are like this, a wild little beast with no heart, and I speak on your behalf–"

"How kind of you, Alexander, given that you are not even one of England's."

"Yes, I see that you give me no ammunition! How can I defend you?"

"Defend me? You wish to die for me."

"I will not die for you here," Hamilton says savagely. "Not like this."

He is distracted. The advance is making him skittish, his boots pacing in the slush. "Get up," he orders again. He makes no move to seize him this time. "They will be upon us."

America does not move, looking up at the white sky. "Let them come."

"If they find you lying here, they will take you as a prisoner!"

"A fine prize to present before England I would make, I am sure." America tips his head right back, looking at Hamilton upside-down. "...Don't you agree?"

Hamilton freezes, genuinely alarmed. Then he goes for his pistol, whipping it from beneath his battered coat – but America is too quick, he really can move like lightning when he wants to, rolling to his feet and running. He hears Hamilton curse behind him, fumbling with his unprepared gun, and doesn't look back, sprinting down the hill with renewed vigour. The mud sprays beneath his soles, his coat sticks to his back, he doesn't know if they'll even be able to tell he's in blue.

The shot goes off and hits him in the middle of the back – Hamilton has good aim even at this distance – and he stumbles but doesn't go down, saving himself, straining to get away, get out of range. Hamilton won't be able to load again in time but he might use his rifle–

It doesn't matter. He closes in on the victors, plunges into the heart of their slow and careful advance. Dozens of men in red look up, startled by the violence of his arrival amidst them, burning a hole like a comet. A commander squints and sees a bit of blue, shouts an order, and suddenly he's surrounded, bayonets flashing silver. He puts up his hands. Now they will do the work for him.

As for Hamilton up on the hill, how on earth will he explain this to Washington? America doesn't look back to see if he's still there. Poor fools, all of them.

They should have known better.


They must know who he is – what he is – for they do not treat him too unkindly. They tie his hands but the rope isn't knotted too tightly and he is given some biscuits and water for the journey. Clearly they want him in the best of shape to present him as a prize. He is about the only prisoner uninjured, listening to the muffled groans of wounded men who call themselves Americans and Patriots as they trundle towards the British camp. He wonders if they know that he sits amongst them, delivered into the hands of king and country quite by choice – that they lay down their lives for him but he will not take up his gun for them. He wonders where France and Prussia are, what they will say when they hear. He wonders how Hamilton will word this. He wonders what Washington will do now.

The travelling takes them more than a day. He doesn't know where they are but he senses the camp must be close to Boston, recognising the scent over the burning of fires and gunshot. The commander who ordered his capture comes to collect him, separating him from the other prisoners. He's a captain – newly-promoted, young, probably in lieu of a sudden violent death above him – keen-eyed and stern-faced.

"I know who you are," he says in a low voice. "Which begs the question... why did you run amidst us unarmed? You must have known that you would be captured." His eyes narrow. "If your purpose is to spy on behalf of Washington then know that I will have you shot here and now, boy."

'Boy' almost makes him snort with laughter. It makes his head hurt to think how many times this young man's age he is already. This is the folly of them all: he has the face of a child and they treat him as one. Even Washington, who warns of his nature, doesn't take him with the caution that he should.

Still, he is no stranger to playing his young body to his advantage. "I was confused," he says, blinking stupidly. "I ran the wrong way."

"Indeed." The captain is unmoved, completely unconvinced. "That sort of idiocy is not a desirable trait in a soldier."

"I am not a soldier," America says, looking at the ground, "so you will excuse my foolishness."

The captain seizes his chin, forcing him to look up once more. "Not a soldier, perhaps," he growls. "I confess that I know not what you are, exactly – but that you are of unspeakable value to both Washington and to the general. He has requested that you be taken alive and in good health. Strange, when you look to be little more than a drummer boy."

America pulls his head free. "Then will you please take me before him," he says placidly. This man raises no emotion in him and he will not cry or beg.

The captain takes back his discarded hand, fingers flexing. He seems on the edge of whipping it across America's face. He doesn't want to have to explain the bruise and the bleeding lip to England – that's the only thing stopping him. At length he presses his lips together and gives a terse nod.

"Very well." He beckons sharply, turning away. "Come – but do not expect to be treated gently. He has not been in the most amicable of moods lately."

America says nothing, following. He knows that England is worried and stressed and tired. He knows exactly why.

"Perhaps he will torture you," the captain goes on unkindly. "That is why he wanted you captured in the best possible condition."

"Perhaps," America echoes absently. He looks up at the sky as he follows the captain through the camp. The sky is a brutal grey, bruising towards dusk. It's going to snow again. It's certainly cold enough. He barely remembers what warmth feels like. Long winter nights spent before the fire in England's arms with a leather-bound book seem like a century ago. Those skeleton walls wouldn't keep the wind out now.

"But then," he goes on, barely addressing the captain, "what would he get from me that he does not have already...?"

Stopping abruptly before the tent, the captain gives him an ugly look. "I confess that I cannot fathom why you are so highly-prized," he says coldly. "You seem to be little more than a common whore to me."

He ducks within the tent, no doubt to inform England, to claim the glory of the capture for himself. He's the sort of man who would be desperate for England's approval – ignorant, perhaps willfully, that England was France's whore once (that both of them were Rome's).

The exchange is brief. The curtain is hurriedly wrenched back and England emerges, unkempt, half-dressed. His wild eyes fall on America, who stands impassively before him with his hands tied.

"...You were captured," he sighs. He sounds scared and relieved all at once. "I almost didn't believe it."

"That I would be this stupid?" America sees the captain emerge from the tent over England's shoulder. He doesn't look very pleased.

"Reckless, perhaps." England waves his hand dismissively at the captain. "Thank you for bringing him. You may go."

He is spared no further glance, England taking America's shoulders and steering him forcefully into the tent. It is an officer's quarters not unlike Washington's, with a desk and a large table for maps and battle plans taking centre stage. There is some limp form of bedding in the far corner, although he knows that England actually doesn't sleep all that much. True nations can go for weeks without food or rest, particularly when they are at war. That is when they drop the act. Washington knows this. So does Hamilton. That's why they watch him the way they do. They are waiting.

As soon as they are alone, England pulls him close and embraces him tightly, shuddering a sigh of relief against his shoulder. America nuzzles into his hold as much as he can. He wants to hug him back but cannot, his hands still lashed.

"It has been too long since I last assured myself that you were safe," England mutters, rubbing at his hair. "You did not receive my last letter?"

"Washington sent me away from the camp. He said he had need of me further north."

England exhales. "He is not a stupid man. We have, I fear, been much too careless."

America shrugs in his arms. "What is the point of being immortal and powerful if we must answer to humans? I care nothing for tea or for taxes–"

"We are not immortal." England tightens his hold on him. "Difficult to kill, yes, but not unkillable."

"I was shot in the head and yet here I stand."

"You will never die at the hands of a common soldier. We'd be no good for war if that was the case."

"Then–"

"Enough of this talk," England says briskly, releasing him. He examines him at arm's length. "Look at the state of you. We must get you cleaned up at once."

He has, of course, brought the battlefield in with him, crystallized with encrusted filth. He is almost used to it, the tight dry itchy feel of a second skin, but England unties his wrists and burdens him with undressing. The tent is freezing, barely a barrier against the frosted night beyond, and his frigid fingers fumble with buttons and cords. He desperately wants England to help him, to take up the bayonet shining on the desk and cut him out of bloodied blue – not sexual, just because he aches all over, he wants to sink, to sleep, to wake in his burned bed back in Boston–

But England is busy with his back to him, warming up water in his tin shaving dish. He has the cloth he uses to clean his gun in one hand, a gritty sliver of soap in the other. America struggles out of the last of his clothes and stands shivering, silent, his shed skin pooled at his feet. It has been a long time since England has bathed him, babied him so, even if it is kindness without substance. He thinks of how gentle France and Prussia are with each other, the tenderness of fingers through hair, and how cold are their words and their eyes. He has never thought of England being exactly like them.

England comes to him. He puts the bowl on the desk and scrunches the rag in it, beginning to scrub America down. The water is barely lukewarm and the grit in the soap is like sandpaper and England is rough, clinical, washing away the war.

"Ouch." America squirms away from him – in vain, seized immediately. "Must you be so zealous?"

"My apologies," England replies, not sounding very sorry at all, "but you are as filthy as if you had not bathed in weeks."

"I told you, I was shot in the head. I know not how long I lay there before reviving."

(Not to mention being hauled like a dead horse through the mud by Hamilton, though he omits this detail. It seems irrelevant now.)

England snorts. "Even so, would it kill Washington to keep you halfway presentable? These men insist on taking you from me, they will even engage in war, and yet cannot keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed."

"Who cares about that now?" America insists. "I am quite happily your prisoner-of-war. I am not going back to them."

"Indeed you are not – not while I live and breathe." England pauses, the damp cloth cool on America's belly. "...I confess," he says quietly, "I never thought the enemy that would try to take you from me would be my own."

"They call themselves mine."

"I know."

"I do not accept them as such. I refuse."

"I understand that – but you must remember that most of them were born on this soil. They are more powerful than you realise and must be taken seriously."

America almost laughs. "B-but they declared war against you," he says. "You – Great Britain. You're a superpower, you're–"

"A fool," England interrupts. "I did not take them seriously – at least not at first. That is why France and the others offered their support when they did."

"But what does that matter? Washington's forces are being pushed into continuous retreat, I have witnessed it myself–"

"At the cost of thousands of my men."

"And what of it? They are all your men when it comes to it. Let them wipe each other out and leave us be!"

England looks up at him sharply. "Do you speak to Washington like this?"

America scowls. "P-perhaps not so boldly," he confesses, "but the sentiment is much the same. Our feelings for one another are known and mutual."

"I expressly told you to betray no emotion before him."

"Why not? Why should I do as he says with no argument? He thinks he knows what is best for me without my consent; he treats me as though I am a child!"

"You are a child, America."

"Not to him!" America snaps. "How many years beyond the lifespan of any man have I lived? Even Benjamin Franklin is but a babe-in-arms compared to me, despite the youth of my body! They should be the ones who tip-toe around us, England!"

"America, please–"

"They build churches in worship of their invented all-powerful gods – while we walk amongst them!"

"Yes, gods are a human invention," England agrees flatly, "and so, I'm afraid, are we."

America falters, frowns at him. "What?"

"Humans create culture, custom, language. Those are the bricks that build nations. What do you think we are, America? We do not fall from the sky or spring from the earth. We are their invention. That is why we are at their mercy."

America says nothing. He cannot speak. England rinses out the cloth and switches sides, sponging over his shoulder blades.

"I know it is not what you wanted to hear," he says, "but it is the truth."

"Then why can't they kill us?" America asks dully.

"An ordinary human cannot. What can one man do against a nation? But one who is powerful, who holds your fate – a monarch, a dictator, a military leader–"

"Washington."

England exhales. "Yes. That is why I told you not to show him any weakness."

"Washington would not kill me, no matter his hatred – not after all this."

"I think you underestimate how little they need you. You are of far more value to me."

"B-but... I'm America, I–"

"You're a colony. They want a nation. If you will not accommodate them then you are worthless."

America shakes his head fiercely. "B-but I have been forthright with my feelings. They know I will not betray you. Washington, he... he knows about us, England. He as not said as much but I know he does. Why has he not killed me?"

"Perhaps he is banking on you changing your mind. As creatures we are, after all, opportunists."

"England, I will never betray you." He clenches his fists. "I will never choose humans over you."

"I know," England sighs. He presses a kiss to his raw shoulder. "Besides, none of it matters now, as you say. You are with me where you belong."

America nods. He falls silent as England washes his back, the water almost cold now. The shivering, which hadn't ever really stopped, is becoming worse. He folds his arms tightly across his chest.

"Not long now," England soothes, "and then we'll get you some warm clothes and something to eat."

America nods again, his teeth gritted against the chill; then sucks in a sharp breath as England rubs the cloth over the small of his back.

"You are injured," England says, rinsing away the mud, gently dabbing at the wound.

"Mm." America grimaces. "I-I forgot about it."

"This is a bullet wound." A pause. "You said you were shot in the head."

"I was. That... that was later, when I was captured–"

"Nobody would shoot you in the back when you were being taken into custody."

"I was running away, England. My side was retreating so I made the most of it."

He hears England breathe in – sharp, on-edge. "...Who did this to you?"

Nothing. England shakes him. "America, tell me. This wasn't from an ordinary soldier."

"It was Alexander Hamilton."

"Hamilton?" England drops the cloth, comes around to face him. "That's... he's Washington's–"

"Chief staff aide." America shrugs. "So what?"

"So what?" England seizes his face. "Do you not understand the danger you're in?"

"He was trying to stop me getting away. He didn't succeed."

"That is irrelevant. It means that Washington gave him an order to shoot you."

"You don't know that. Hamilton is reckless–"

"The wound would have healed if Hamilton had acted on his own. That order came from Washington. He'd rather see you dead than my captive."

"I got away. It doesn't matter."

"Is Hamilton still alive?"

"I suppose so. They were retreating when I ran."

"Then it does matter. He will tell Washington what you did. He will know it was deliberate."

America takes England's sleeve. "But I am with you now," he says. "You will protect me."

England's grasp on his face loosens, becomes gentler. He rubs his thumb over his cheek, clean and pink from the cold.

"I confess I do not know how much longer I can keep you safe," he says quietly. "This... changes everything. If even Alexander Hamilton can inflict damage on you, then Washington's power over you is..."

"I don't understand." America looks searchingly at him but England won't meet his gaze. "England...?"

"Well, it should be obvious," England says, not unkindly. His eyes are on the maps, the campaigns, the victories and losses and dead men. "I am losing the war."