And so we get to the first of our flashbacks! I love little!America, he's just so stinkin' cute. England obviously feels the same way...
Oh, and I admit, I did steal the name of England's ship from Mithrigil and Puella Nerdii's US/UK fics. It was just so perfect for the kind of person England is. In recompense, y'all should mosey on down to read their very excellent work (much much better than mine) at http(:)/mithrigil(.)livejournal(.)com/425100(.)html
Jamestown, Virginia, 1640
America laughs as he runs down to the docks, breaking into a half-dozen jumbled songs as his ecstatic mind leaps from thought to thought. For there is a ship pulling into the harbor, and he can just feel England on it! Racing onto the pier, he bounces in uncontainable joy as the ship inches closer.
England always meets America at their house whenever he comes back from Europe. America isn't supposed to come down to the dock since silly England thinks he'll get in trouble for some reason. And normally America tries really hard to be good and do what England says—sometimes for ten whole minutes!—but this morning he woke up with the oddest, most unshakeable feeling that England was nearby, almost on his soil. So he ran down to the harbor and just like that, here was England's ship, the Faerie Queene, approaching the shore!
As the ship nears America barely resists the urge to start yelling for England, as it's "unbecoming of a young gentleman," whatever that means. But he's just so happy. It's been months and months since England has visited, far too long for the little boy. His big brother is a very busy man, always off doing things that England refuses to explain other than the annoying "You'll understand when you're older." Sometimes England comes back with his arm in a sling or winces when America hugs him enthusiastically. Sometimes he doesn't come back for so long America fears he never will.
America tries to be patient when he's gone, to be a strong young colony with a stiff upper lip as England says, but his big words and ready smile always begin to flicker as night approaches. He never had problems when he lived and slept on his own in the wilderness, but these days the nights are bad without England. On the nights it storms, the wind screams and thunder shakes the house into a terrible moaning that chills America no matter how many blankets he piles on his bed. He is sure that is the sound the dead make, and all through those nights he feels the cold fingers of ghosts plucking at the edges of his quilt as he shivers and cries into the darkness. Only when England is home can he sleep through the storms, safe and warm and cradled gently through the night, the sound of England's soft breathing creating a barrier from the raging elements and clutching ghosts.
But now England is back, for at least a month! America does a little happy dance as the ship creeps slowly closer. He peers at the men running around on deck, squinting a little. Should they be that blurry? At any rate, he can't seem to find England anywhere.
The red-cloaked captain with the broad crimson hat is striding around with his back to the growing crowd on land, bawling orders at the seamen. One of the men doesn't move fast enough for his satisfaction, it seems, and the captain moves like a snake to cuff him smartly in the back of the head. The man's voice has got the same accent as England, but his tone is harsh and commanding and absolutely frightening as he roars at the sailors with words America has never heard before. He's got a gift for languages and is already a nation of many peoples but these biting words are unknown, dangerous-sounding, and intriguing. He files them away to ask England about later.
Still England's nowhere to be seen, and America begins to fear his strange new sense had been wrong—but no, the presence of England feels even closer than before—and a thought freezes him in place: what if England is hurt or sick below deck? His heart twists painfully in his chest at the thought. Fists now clenched into tiny, white knuckled balls, mouth dry, he waits.
Ropes are tossed and secured and a gangplank is laid from the pier to the Queene. The captain is tall and broad and brimming with brutal power and America really doesn't want to face him but he'd know better than anyone what has happened to England. What if…what if there'd been a mutiny and this terrifying man had taken over? What if England had been hurt and even now might be- might be- no, America refuses to consider it.
England always protects America, and it is time to repay him. For once America will help England, be his (what's the word from England's stories? ah yes) be hishero and rescue him from the clutches of this scarlet-shrouded fiend. He squares his tiny shoulders and walks up behind the man, hands shaking but chin firm. The man's even taller up close, towering and looming and—if America wants to be honest—scarier even than ghosts, and America is certain he can see a darkness writhing around him like the grasping hand of death.
"E-Excuse me, sir." His voice comes out as weak as his brother's. The captain doesn't seem to hear him. America swallows hard. He has to do this, has to face this man to save England! England's hero would stand brave and strong and punch this man in the gut if he had to.
He tugs firmly at the cloak and tries again. "EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT DO YOU HAVE ENG—er, AN ARTHUR KIRKLAND ABOARD?" America winces as the echoes fade away. He always forgets his physical and vocal strength when he's agitated.
Abruptly the captain spins on his heel to face him, and a startled America jumps back, a handful of the thick red cloth tearing off in his grip. He stares at the face more familiar than his own twisted into a perversion of its gentle self, scowling brows over hard jade eyes, a sneering frown carved deep into a tight granite visage. This is England's face…but this terrifying stranger is not his big brother.
America's petrified gaze is trapped on those cruel eyes for what seems like an eternity, terror making his thoughts churn and flail as though swimming through molasses. But suddenly the red cloak is pooled on the ground, the hat falling to join it, and his England stands there with eyes like warm blankets and cool mint with his hands outstretched for a hug.
"America, what have I told you about coming down to the docks, it's dangerous here!" he scolds, but his smile betrays him. "You've certainly grown since I was last here. We're going to need to cut your hair and let out your hems—have you been eating your vegetables and doing your chores?
"Are you quite all right, America?" America is still reeling with the revelation and finds himself unable to utter a word.
"Ah, did I scare you, little one? I'm sorry. When I'm not with you I have to pretend to be very scary and commanding or the men won't obey me. And if that happens then I won't be able to kick the blasted frog's pasty ar—rear end, and we don't want that to happen, do we?"
The little boy nods, tentatively. "It's just pretend? And- and- I wasn't scared. I'm never scared."
"Most certainly on all counts, America. Now do I get my hug or not?"
America beams widely and flings himself into England's arms, tells him all about the things that had happened when he was gone, all the butterflies he had nearly caught and the bunnies he chased, the bear that helped him down from the tree when he got stuck "What did I tell you about climbing trees when I'm not there, America? You could have been injured!" and how of course he did his chores.
"But how did you know my ship was arriving today? Don't tell me you waited at every ship that arrived in the harbor, that's just ador—dangerous."
"Oh yeah, England! This morning I woke up (and made my bed of course) I had the strangest feeling that you were nearby. And I was right!"
America isn't sure, but he thinks England looks a little sad as he speaks. "That means you really are growing up, America. That's your nation-sense developing. Soon enough you will be able to sense all sorts of things about your country and other nations." He gently brushes some of the hair out of America's eyes, his own pensive and distant for a moment. "My apologies, what were you telling me?"
America opens his mouth to tell him about what he thought of the terrifying England in the red cloak and hat, but for some reason decides not to tell him. The whole episode just feels kind of embarrassing now.
Instead he keeps his plans to be England's hero to himself. Imagine, little America saving England! It seems almost ridiculous now that he's calmed down. If he tells England his brother will just chuckle and ruffle his hair, like he thinks America isn't serious. He'd better wait until he's as big and strong as England to rescue him. Yes.
~o0O0o~
England did not let America see him in his "work clothes" for a long time after that. And when he did again America began to see them as a comfort, almost, because the red was there to protect him and his people. For reasons he wasn't sure he understood at the time he kept the little bit of red torn from England's uniform, though, hid it when England fussily began looking for it to repair the tear. Never forget, it said whenever he looked at it. Never forget that England is not always who you think he is.
He still had it today, pressed into a picture frame for safekeeping and kept in his storage room. The dye should have faded centuries ago, yet it remained as vibrant and menacing as it had that day on the docks. And though he had been sure he hadn't forgotten, had never forgotten, the sight of Red England before him yet again floored him nonetheless.