So, I've made some changes to this chapter as well. Same reason as stated in chapter 2.

Chapter 4

It took Alfred over twenty minutes to make his way back downstairs. Dinner was set on the table, and Arthur had some scones baking in the oven, but America said nothing. Nothing at all. He sat down at the kitchen table, and stared out the window in silence. His gaze, shifting and unsettled, wandered back and forth between England and the garden, in perpetual conflict. He had opened his mouth several times to say something, but always returned to the ever-darkening horizon outside the window (stormy, just like expression that marred his wide blue eyes). England desperately wanted to shake him out of his stupor. To throw his arms around him and...now was not the time for that.

"Let's eat before it gets colder."

America merely nodded.

They ate in companionable silence, but a silent America was alarming. Neither looked up from their plates, nor did they exchange any of their typical heated, playful scoffing at having to occupy the same space, even though England knew both of them enjoyed each other's company. During the meal, the tension eased around Alfred's eyes. Eventually, a wistful smile ghosted across his face, but did not reach his eyes.

Halfway through their meal a waif of smoke dispelled the calm.

"My scones!" England nearly toppled his chair in his dash to the oven. "Fuck," England muttered, waving a towel over the scorched scones. "They're ruined."

"Understatement of the year," America coughed.

The first thing he says was snarky. Lovely. England huffed, and glared across the kitchen. "No need to get cheeky. Besides, I think I can salvage a few."

"Even if you manage that, I'm not eating them. You can keep your cooking to yourself, Arthur." The same flippant comments, delivered with the usual sarcasm, but without the glowing smile. There was just something empty in bantering this way.

"Suit yourself." Arthur abandoned his latest ill-fated attempt at baking and returned to the table. During the rest of the meal, he fought the urge to charge up from his seat and demand to know what was the bothering him. He almost screamed when Alfred finished and set his silverware along the side of the plate with barely a clink. He always clinked and clanked the cutlery. England found that he missed berating the younger nation about his table manners.

Alfred wasn't staring at his plate or the table anymore, and he would consider that a vast improvement, but those intense blue eyes bore into Arthur instead. They probed with the same caution, doubt and scrutiny that America used to peer at Russia in the midst of the Cold War. England couldn't stand that kind of cold consideration from someone so dear to him.

"What is it?" England growled.

America shook his head.

"There's obviously something. Out with it or stop staring at me."

America shrugged, and glanced back down again.

England's scowl deepened; this was infuriating. "Alfred! Look at me," he hissed—angry and hurt at the continued silence.

"Geez, make up your mind all ready, Arthur."

He could no longer conceal his frustration. "You will tell me what the bloody hell is the matter with you! Right now! Or so help me!"

The younger nation looked up from the table as though stricken. "A-Arthur?" He swallowed hard. "Th-there's nothing wrong. Can't I just enjoy a quiet meal with you?"

A quiet meal? What kind of nonsense was he babbling about? "You have never had a quiet meal!" England could have kicked himself for saying that aloud.

"Maybe that's the point?" He huffed.

"What?"

"Nevermind. Just calm down and eat. It's okay," America muttered and looked down. ('It's nothing,' he thought he heard America mumble to the kitchen tile, but he wasn't sure.)

"No, what do you mean?"

"Just drop it," he whispered. Oh, he really was being serious. "Don't worry. It's probably just the jetlag anyway."

"What is the matter with you, America?" America would just keep avoiding the problem, and let it fester. He sighed, pushing both of their plates to the side, and took hold of his hands. "Alfred, love, tell me?" His voice dropped to barely a whisper.

"I told you already. I'm always with my boss's kids all the time. While I eat. While I work. Sometimes while I sleep! I've hardly gotten to do anything else in months. Even my video games are collecting dust." He pouted. "On top of that, I worry about my people and Mattie and you and the rest of the world."

"I had no idea you spent that much time with them." No wonder he hadn't seen America between meetings.

"New understatement of the year."

"America, Listen to me. I shall be fine. I'm sure that Canada will as well. You worry about the world far too much. You should really just mind your own business sometimes. We nations can take care of ourselves."

America muttered to himself in a tone that sounded both obdurate and crestfallen, refusing to meet England's eyes.

"I've," England looked to the side, "I've missed you."

"How long has it been since we had time like this? The last world meeting?"

"No. Longer." England looked back at America. "A year and a half. Not a long time for a nation, but still too long."

America sighed as he did when he was young. "'M tired, Engwand."

The younger nation groaned and slumped down until his head fell with a thud against the table. His hands, usually full of power with fingers that continually fidgeted to keep raw strength from crushing something—everything—rested loosely but securely around England's. The grip had changed. This was wrongly, inexplicably familiar. The sudden contradiction between this protective grip and the sudden shaking of those hands startled Arthur. A sniffle came from behind the blond fringe hanging down in front of America's face.

"Stop crying on my table, git."

Alfred lifted his head back up, and wiped his nose on a napkin. Arthur rounded the table and stood in front of him. America wrapped his arms around his midsection, hugging him tightly as he did when he was a young colony.

Sniffling turned into soft laughter. That was more like it. "Sorry Arthur. But this is kinda nice."

"What is? Clinging on to me like a big lummox?" England didn't really mind it, and didn't shift to disentangle himself from the embrace., but held him tighter.

"That and the quiet. Tired of all the nonsense. It's always calmer when it's just the two of us. You're usually pretty quiet, you know? Usually."

"Because you're not. Usually," England chuckled. He refrained from stating explicitly that America was correct in his assessment. They complemented each other so well. Too well.

"Because it's never calm in my country."

"Because you hardly know how to be quiet."

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "My people certainly don't. I always have to compete with their voices in my head. How did you ever put up with me when I was a kid?"

"It wasn't easy, but it was simpler when you were still small and cute. And there were fewer people."

"'M still cute." Alfred glanced up at him, a boyish pout, more reminiscent of a smirk, curled his lips. Much better, indeed.

"Keep trying to convince yourself of that, darling." Arthur bent down and kissed his forehead. "Now release me."

Instead, Alfred stood and ruffled England's hair.

He brushed the hand away. "Cut that out, twat!"

"Sure, sure." America let their foreheads touch, and giggled when England's eyebrows touched his skin. He sighed. again "Tired." His voice low and weary again. "I'm heading to bed early."

"Hm, Very well, Alfred." Strange...the clock in the parlour had only just struck half passed eight a few minutes ago.

America turned and went to leave the kitchen, but stopped, leaning against the doorframe. "Arthur?"

He blinked, waiting. "Yes, Alfred?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"It is, 'May I ask you a question.'" England smirked. "What is it?"

"It's...well...Um."

"Come on. Out with it." America frowned and his mouth wagged open and closed a few times, trying to form the question. "You can ask me anything?" he encouraged.

"W-well-um." He sighed. "Would it be all right if I looked through your library?"

"Well, of course. But, whatever for?" England fought against the shiver that raced down his spine. Alfred wanting a book?

"Oh, just thought I might read myself to sleep or something." Alfred scratched the back of his neck and heaved such a yawn his face looked in danger of splitting. He was lying, but that didn't matter he was welcome to just about anything in his library if it got him to read. "Heh, although, I might not need to."

He raised an eyebrow. "Alfred, are you quite all right?" England had grown tired of asking that.

"You know, you don't have to worry so much about me, Arthur."

"I know. Go to bed, Alfred. I shall be up soon. The Hitchhiker's Guide novels are along the far wall next to the window, but you know that," he said to his back as America turned to wander down the hallway.

Notes

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, favorited and follow my story. I really appreciated it. :)

Extra thanks to my beta, Jami-Bunny who is getting my writing all straightened up.

Sorry that I don't have a regular update schedule for this story. I'm just getting chapters as they are edited.