A/N I actually had this done on Sunday, but I haven't had access to a computer, and once I did get my hands on one I ended up doing hours of research on where the heck this should take place. I ended up settling on the Lake District because it's so bloody beautiful and fairly secluded (comparatively speaking), and most of the distances and calculations and whatnot that come in subsequent chapters are correctish, but please don't go and measure them all or something... I ended up so sick of looking up topographical maps and railway maps and road conditions and average car speeds in the 1920s that I eventually threw in a few educated guesstimations. So just... please don't question them; I realise they may be slightly squiffy XP

Anyhoo, thanks so much for the reviews and faves! They really do motivate me. And SamuraiSal1, fear not, I'm a sucker for happy endings ^^

I feel like this chapter is a litte... weird...? But I have a plan now, so the next one should be better.


I sigh, closing my eyes because I don't know where to look. I'm such a fool, letting a simple kiss get me tied into knots. Of course there was a reason behind it; this is the British Empire we're talking about. But God, it would be nice to be treated like a human being for once and not a mere pawn.

"Okay," I say resignedly, running a hand through my hair. If he wants me to play along, fine then, I'll play along—but not as a pawn. I'll be my own king, thank you very much. "Whatever. You're sick, dude, but whatever. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

England's mouth drops open and he stutters for a moment. "Well—yes."

"Cool. I'll be going then." I heave myself to my feet and head for the door.

"Y-you can't just walk away! You can't just leave!"

I'm sorry, England, am I upsetting your precious little plan to break me? I look over my shoulder, already opening the front door. "Watch me."

"The next bus to Windermere doesn't come until tomorrow morning!"

...Oh.

I keep my badass expression plastered on my face and pretend like I knew that all along. "Looks like I'll be getting some exercise. You always say I need it."

England's expression is gradually changing from shocked and scandalized to an all-too-familiar "What the hell are you thinking, America?" face. "It's over twenty-five miles."

"No problem for a hero like me."

He says nothing but his expression shifts again, this time to "Oh Lord, what kind of child did I raise?"

I step outside and call back to him, "Let me know when I can finally trust you," then slam the door.

I sigh again into the damp, chilly air. I have no intention of walking twenty-plus miles, love handles or no love handles. I march briskly down the dirt road with enough stoic determination to strike fear into his bones if he's watching me from a window; I turn the first bend; I find a choice rock that's not too wet; and I sit down to wait for some kind of vehicle to pass by so I can hitchhike.

And then, of course, it begins to rain.

Oh, English weather; you never fail me, do you? I rest my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist as I feel my clothes become heavier with water. Unlike certain others I could mention.

I wonder why I'm here, in Britain, again. When I broke away, didn't I want to be free? Didn't I want to be seen as an equal in the War of 1812? Didn't I agree to fight in the Great War alongside my longtime foe because I wanted the world to see me as a powerful and independent nation?

So why am I back here again, feeling like I'm still being used?

Even though it's technically daytime, the thick cloud cover and the trench walls block out the sun and create the illusion of night. England and I have a damp and crumpled map out and we're running over the attack plan one last time as the rain seeps into our clothes and slithers coldly down our backs and drips off the ends of our hair.

"I'm leading the dangerous heroic charge into No Man's Land, yeah?" I'm scared shitless, really, but I'm doing my best to put on a brave front.

England hesitates. "Well, yes and no. You are in fact leading the charge, but hopefully it isn't too risky. If our reports are correct there's a convenient hole in the German fortifications right here"—he points to the map—"and since we have French troops backing you up—"

"Oh, that's reassuring," I interrupt, cracking a grin. One side of England's mouth curves into a smile of sorts.

"Never fear, the frog is here. Being the unstoppable military force that he is, we'll probably have no need of them, but I may as well mention that several hundred British reinforcements should be here within the hour."

"So you'll have my back?"

He looks up at me, the smile spreading to the other side of his mouth, and nods once, firmly. "Yes, I'll have your back."

And shortly after that I run headlong across a muddy minefield littered with barbed wire and partially decomposed bodies, completely fearless.

Now some of the water running down my face isn't rain. I just want to be rid of this cycle of trusting and having my trust betrayed again and again. I should've learned long ago that those eyes the color of poison meant danger, but then England would smile in that beautiful way of his and I'd make the same mistakes all over again in spite of myself.

Wait. Did I just call him beautiful?

I drop my head and batter away at it with both fists, as if I could somehow beat the thoughts out of my mind or at least kill them where they were. It's disgusting to think of my big brother as beautiful, even though his hair shines like gold in the scattered rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and floats like spider's silk in the wind coming off the Atlantic; even though his eyes are as deeply verdant as the Kent forests; even though he smells like an earthy blend of tea and tobacco and bluebell woods after a gentle rain; even though when he raises his voice I can hear the crashing of the waves against the white cliffs of Dover; even though that smile of his makes my heart leap into my throat and when his lips touched mine I swear to high heaven the world stopped turning.

England shouldn't be beautiful to me.

Except he damn well is.

I take off my glasses and violently scrub the rain off them with my equally wet shirt, only succeeding in smearing the water all over them. Why, why can he not see me as an equal? Is there nothing I can do to become anything more than a device to him? And most importantly- or so it seems to me at the moment—what changed to make me suddenly feel so differently about him?

A car honks from the road and I jump out of my skin, dropping my glasses in the mud. I hurriedly feel around for them and slap them back on my face only to find that I can see nothing but mud, bits of grass, and a rather startled black beetle. In frustration I whip them off again, stand up, and tramp over to the red blur that I can only assume is the car that caused all these complications. The passenger door opens as I reach it and I realize that the driver's offering me a ride. I clamber in, dripping rain and mud all over his leather seats, and slam the door behind me.

"Thanks, man," I say, flicking the beetle off my glasses and doing my best to mop off the worst of the mud. Warm calloused hands pry them from me. A handkerchief is procured. Texas is handed back to me after a few moments in a significantly cleaner condition. And I finally notice that the car smells of tea and tobacco and bluebell woods.

"Oh," I say.

"Another dazzlingly brilliant remark from the United States of America," says England.

"Shut up," I counter, and place Texas back on my face.

Surprisingly, England doesn't look furious, condescending, or even smug. He just looks rather weary and long-suffering, like he's tired of having to take care of a brat like me.

"Windermere is farther away than I'm willing to drive at this time of evening, so I'll take you as far as the nearest sign of civilization. You might be able to find a friendly farmer who'll be willing to take you to town in the back of his cart the next time he gets around to going."

"...And how long might that take?"

"No more than three weeks, I'm sure."

Three weeks in an English village in the middle of nowhere? No thanks. Already I know my only viable option, but I ask anyway just to give him the satisfaction of saying it. "Or?"

"Or there's that bus tomorrow morning."

"Fine." I let him win, but I prop my muddy shoes up on his nice clean dashboard just so he knows I'm not beaten yet.