A/N: Request by thecheshireandphantom on tumblr for UKUS in the aftermath of a horror movie.


England knew the routine all too well. There would be wailing and clutching and scratching, he would end up bruised and tired with no hope of a restful night ahead, and worst of all, he'd actually have to sit through the type of film America liked to see. Granted, America (the country, not the man, or man-child, as England tended to think of him) had made some decent and perhaps even artistically sound films, but those were not to be the ones England had the privilege of sitting through on the occasions that his complete dolt of a boyfriend decided they should have a proper "date night."

"Date night", England knew, meant one of two things: either dinner out followed by sex, or going to the movies. It it was the latter, there was further bifurcation in the potential outcomes: if it was an action movie, America would probably start getting handsy in the car on the way back and then there would be sex, but if it was a horror flick, as was the case on this particular date night, then England was doomed to become a sexless human shield.

It was actually quite fun to see America overreact in a public setting; in a theatre, his screeches and jumps were shared by the audience at large, and England could people watch if the film was boring, as it often was. There were very few things in the supernatural world that scared or shocked England any more, and even the most high tech and high budget projects did a poor job of capturing the true terror of their all-too-real inspirations. He never told America that, of course, since he did want to be able to live his life without the other permanently attached to his hip in fear, as was the case now that they had arrived back at the tiny New York apartment and England stood at the stove, waiting for milk to heat up.

This was the second step in the routine. Panic was always quelled with something chocolatey: if it was warm out, it would be ice cream in an ugly coffee mug in the shape of Darth Vader's helmet, and if it was cold out, it was hot chocolate that England had to work diligently not to scald and spoil past drinkability. America watched as England stirred the milk, chin heavy on England's shoulder and arms loosely linked around his waist.

"Can you get me the cocoa powder, love?"

America reached over to open a cabinet, but hesitated, fingers recoiling back into an unsure fist.

"What's wrong?" England looked over his shoulder to see America's face going pale yet again and his eyebrows drawn together in discomfort. He clucked his tongue as he realized what had America so worked up, and shook him off to retrieve the cocoa himself.

"Nothing's going to leap out at you from the cupboards, America, I promise."

America flinched when the hinges squeaked and leaned against the counter as close to England as he could. "Shit, don't say stuff like that! You don't know, it could happen."

Shaking his head as he started to whisk the powder into the saucepan, England used his best "rational and soothing" voice as he said for the hundredth time, "There's nothing living in your apartment, love. We've been through this, remember?"

"Yeah, okay. But you'd tell me if there was something, right? You'd know, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would know, and yes, I would tell you, and yes, I would find a way to get rid of it." England was subjected to more back to chest cuddling after he located the vanilla extract and put a generous dose of it into the cocoa. "I don't understand why you're so upset over this film. There weren't any monsters or aliens. It was all psychological."

"Ugh, exactly! Demon possession is, like, a whole 'nother bag of dicks." England snorted, not quite sure what the turn of phrase meant, and America whined in his ear. "Seriously! It's not like you can see it coming! There's no warning. You just wake up one day and you're nothing but a meat suit for some nasty spirit thing!" He buried his face in the crook of England's neck and shoulder, having scared himself again, then peered into the saucepan. "Hey. Don't burn it."

"Tch, I'm not! Get cups." England set to searching the back of the cupboard above the stove where America kept all his sugar and honey until he found the bags with three types of marshmallows. He had once foolishly put a single large one in America's drink, only to be lectured on proper marshmallow usage. The big ones were for toasting, and making s'mores and eating straight out of the bag, while the little ones were to be used in hot beverages because they dissolved better. The third bag was an assortment of disturbingly rainbow coloured marshmallows, and England never did quite understand what their use could possibly be, and frankly, he didn't want to find out.

America visibly warred with himself again before gritting his teeth and opening the cupboard with the dishes, reaching in as fast as he could and slamming the door shut once he had managed to snag two coffee cups. He placed them on the counter with a sigh of relief then fidgeted and flailed like he was covered in ants, laughing at himself a little.

The cocoa was enjoyed in silence, America leaning back on the counter and England standing between his spread legs, a position that was bit odd for drinking, but gave America the option of holding on to him every now and then. England took the empty cups and the saucepan and put them in the sink, but America stopped him before he could turn on the faucet.

"Leave it. I wanna... I wanna go to bed."

The third step in the routine was always kissing. Not the passionate, evolving type of kissing that led to sex, but the sugary sweet kind that England found both frustrating and pleasant. It was not an easy task to get into pyjamas and brush teeth and plug in the rocket-shaped night-light while leaving tiny, fluttering kisses here and there, and being repaid in kind, but England always managed it.

At last, America was curled up with his head on England's lap, covered in his "protection blankie", breathing slowing down as the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair lulled him toward sleep. England didn't particularly like having to sleep sitting up, but it was better than the alternative of being kicked or crushed when America would inevitably have a nightmare.

"Feet tucked in?" England asked, knowing how paranoid America got about body parts sticking out in places where monsters could grab them. America nodded from inside his blanket cocoon and yawned.

"Thanks. For putting up with all this, I mean."

England chuckled softly and tucked some America's hair behind his ear. "Well, it's my job to protect you from all the bad things, isn't it? You know I'd never let anything hurt you, not even your own foolishness."

"Yeah, you're pretty badass."

"Oh, hush. Go to sleep."

The fourth and final step of the routine happened without America's knowledge. The fact of the matter was that for all of England's reassurances, he knew he couldn't possibly protect America from everything terrible and scary in the world, whether supernatural or all too tangible and dangerous. A prayer ghosted across England's lips, half said aloud in the glow of the tacky night-light while America snored gently in his laps. An ancient prayer, a charm almost, in a language that was older than England cared to remember.

It was all a routine, but what happened after it was finished was never certain. America might be terrified of movie monsters and scary stories and the shadows of his own childish imagination, but there were things in the world- things seen and unseen- that could not be controlled. That, more than anything, scared England.