It does my shriveled little Grinch-heart good to hear your encouragement, y'all! When I'm filthily rich, you'll all get...well, probably little more than a peppermint. But still!
Lady Beslan: Ah, if I could I'd put in the specifics of every blink in their conversations...but that would probably get me flamed into the next week (admittedly I'd deserve it!), and I'm not remotely fire-retardant. Thanks for the love :D
Koure: I'm glad you think I managed to slap something new into the Revolution scene-as I wrote it I was more than a little paranoid I was just repeating the same old lines and the same old emotions. Thanks!
ScatteredSands: I had to watch the America's Storage closet scene several times to make sure I got the details right, and it was very annoying because water inexplicably kept welling up in my eyes and I got the same feeling in my stomach as when I realize all the rum-er-chocolate is gone. I have no idea why this happened. ;)
En Route from the U.S. to Spain, 1811
America is woken from a fitful sleep by the sounds of panicked shouting up on deck. Mind still foggy, limbs uncoordinated, his attempts to get out of the hammock end with him in a sprawled, tangled mess on the floor. Rather glad one of the actual sailors hadn't seen him in such a state, he manages to stagger to his feet. His stomach doesn't much like the quick movement, but his stomach never likes anything to do with the sea so he tells it to shut up and stop being cowardly. He's pretty certain heroes don't get seasick, after all.
Hopefully whatever this commotion is isn't too serious. He's got boring diplomatic stuff to take care of with Spain, and he just wants this whole trip over and done with so he can focus on what's really important in his own lands. At least Spain knows how to throw a good party, unlike some nations he could name.
He fumbles open the door onto deck and steps out, only to be met with a very bright shade of red, a very sharp sword held before his eyes, and a very familiar voice silkily drawling in his ear.
Perhaps it would have been better to just stay in the brig and puke his guts out in peace.
"And who's this?" England says with mock surprise. "What's your name, young man?"
"You know very well what it is, Kirkland," America says. "What do you want?"
"That's Captain Kirkland to you, boy. And we've had word there might be some pathetic deserters from His Majesty's Navy aboard this vessel, isn't that right, men?"
There's a mumbled chorus of "Yes Cap'n" from the British sailors, who stand guard over the disarmed and wild-eyed American crew.
"Well, these are all my countrymen, Captain. There is no one here for you to steal."
"I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Jones. Some of these men definitely look like deserters to me."
America lowers his voice so he won't be overheard. "I've heard of the crap you've been trying to pull over the last few years, England, but this takes the cake. You really are a jerk."
"And you never fulfilled your promises to the Loyalists."
"The Articles of Confederation didn't give the central government the power to enforce that sort of thing, you know that. And not only have you been stirring up the Indians, but you didn't relinquish the western forts in the Ohio Country!"
"Still an idiot, I see. I haven't been stirring up your natives and I have no idea how that idea managed to get lodged in your thick skull. It's certainly not my concern your government is weak and pathetic. You barely have an army and even less of a navy; frankly, it'll just make it that much easier to eventually conquer you again. Once I run out of worthier targets, of course."
England smiles, a bright, hard curve that more in common with his gleaming blade than with actual mirth, and America remembers the stories he had heard of England's privateering days in the 1500s. He had been awed when he was young, though disappointed that England would always refuse to tell him stories of that time. Later on he dismissed them as more exaggeration than truth. Upright, duty-bound, pinky-out England running around with ruffians and criminals, avoiding his own government? He had laughed at the thought. But seeing England now, with that cutlass in his hand and that look in his eyes, it is far too easy to see the wildness and ruthlessness in him, to understand why Spain twitches towards his battleax whenever piracy is mentioned.
But America cannot let this bully of a country cower him. He's his own nation these days, the beginning of a powerful one, and he doesn't take this sort of treatment from anyone, especially not tyrants. Especially not someone who just blatantly lied to his face about the Indians. He had been there at Tippecanoe, and knew a British gun when he had one pointed at him. England really must think him stupid not to see something as obvious as that. So, veins roaring with fury, he strikes back, insult for insult, with what he knows will hurt England the most.
"If you're still pissed off about the Revolution, I don't blame you. Having thirteen little colonies beat your imperial ass must have been quite a blow to your pride. And since aside from your pride you really don't have anything or anyone, it's no surprise you're still obsessing about it. But it was your own fault I did it, you know. Frankly, the way you were acting made it that much easier to break away." He hisses it, low spiteful words that snap like whips.
He hears a sharp intake of breath from his red companion, and then England swiftly turns until he faces America directly, the cloak brushing America's arm, and suddenly the icy line of the sword is pressed far too close on his throat. Every flutter of America's heightened heartbeat pulses against the edge. He has a horrible sense of déjà vu as he stares into England's eyes, hard and green as emeralds. Not so long ago he had been in this same position, but this time all uncertainty, all care and emotion is excised from England's face as though with a doctor's scalpel. Any particle of the England he had known was gone, replaced by a face of stone and a wall of impenetrable red. America dearly wants to swallow, but he's afraid he might cut his own throat by doing so. Just because as a nation he probably won't die from the action is no reason to do so needlessly.
England's voice is such a low snarl it barely sounds human. "If you don't stop your lip I'll just have to cut them both off, so shut your yammering maw and listen carefully. What you don't seem to realize, you insolent wanker, is that the only reason you are not currently beaten within an inch of your life, trussed and tossed into the deepest bilge water of the Queene right now is that I do not particularly want to have to fight an upstart ex-colony when I have better enemies to destroy and more valuable lands to conquer."
"You have no right to press naturalized American citizens!"
England's sword is as rigid and unmoving at America's throat as if it is his arm that is the steel, not the weapon. The only movement between the two is the faint billowing of the long red cloak in the sea breeze, the same wind drying the cold sweat on America's forehead. They don't bother with blinking; America's too busy scowling at his former brother and England's too busy glaring back.
"I am perfectly within my rights as a British captain to both impress British-born men into service and bring deserters of the Empire back into the fold. Since I can see someone who fulfills both of those criteria in front of me, I suggest you stop talking. Now."
And with that, the blade is flicked away from America's throat and England walks back to the crews, turning his back on America with an arrogance that makes the younger man's blood boil. England gestures to five of the heavier-browed American sailors. "If I'm not mistaken, these men here are deserters. Bring them aboard."
"No way, you asshole!" America bursts out. "You're just picking them because their eyebrows are nearly as monstrously huge as your own!"
England sends him a disapproving look. "Tsk. I certainly didn't raise such a mouth. They're obviously British, and I'm also picking them because they look capable, compliant, and quiet. If only I could have done the same when I was picking colonies."
"Ha, you're certainly one to talk about cursing! You've got the mouth of a sailor and the morals of a pirate."
"Yes. Yes I do. But your childish self and your feeble country can't exactly do anything about that, can you? So, Mr. Jones, have a pleasant trip, be sure to say hello to Spain from me when you see him…oh, and drink plenty of water for that seasickness of yours. Come on, men. The day's young yet." He spins smartly on his heel and swaggers back to his ship, leaving an infuriated and confused America behind.
As the Faerie Queene—honestly, couldn't he think of a better name after centuries of seafaring?—sails on its merry way, America is left with clenched fists, a tight jaw, and a depleted crew. This…this was too much. England was going down, giant army or no, ships-of-the-line or no. If he had to go through Canada to get to him and personally punch his too-clever mouth, he didn't care.
"Men! Turn this boat around. The Spanish can wait. We've got something more important to do at home."
~o0O0o~
As far as America was concerned, England practically asked for the War of 1812. But that's the way he always acted, wasn't it? He had found at a young age that letting people in his heart would inevitably end in pain; with siblings like his, how could he not? And when he had tentatively opened those doors again to a little nation with eyes as blue as his spacious skies and hair like amber waves of grain, he was pushed away with a loaded gun.
So nothing was safe, nobody was beyond suspicion, and there was only one way to act. Get hurt, hurt them back tenfold. Get too close, push them back. Hide behind harsh words and harsher red so they can't see they succeeded in causing pain. No man is an island, Donne famously said. Yet England was one in every sense of the world, lonely and rainy and forever alone in splendid isolation.
Now England stood before him again, all hard lines and sharp angles. And that expression—oh the last time America had seen that particular smirk weaseling its way onto England's face, it had been mirrored by Canada as the two played Pin-The-Flaming-Torch-On-The-White-House.
Seasick America: It might be only my head!canon, but I don't see America as a very ocean-minded nation or person. It was an odd sort of reversal that in WWII America was the one in the Pacific Ocean campaign and England was the one trapped in a mostly-land war. I bet they laughed about that. Oh how they laughed.
America's language: America noticeably swears much more here than he does anywhere else, and yes, it is intentional. He's going through a rebellious phase in more ways than one, and the fact that America using obscenity annoys England is all the more reason for him to do so.
England's language: Brits, yes, I know something of how bad a word 'wanker' is, even if as an American I don't entirely feel its punch. England's seriously pissed off at that moment, and I don't mean drunk. Americans, 'wanker' is a very, very bad word that you should not say when taking tea with the Queen or with your British friends.
"capable, compliant, and quiet": Ah, but England, you did! His name is Canada, and...you forgot about him again, didn't you...
HISTORICAL NOTES
The Loyalists, the Articles, and the Forts: The Articles of Confederation was the the very weak prequel to the Constitution. The government created by (lasted 1781-87) it really didn't have much control over the headstrong and authority-leery colonies - heck, it wasn't allowed to tax or raise an army, just ask for them. Part of the Treaty of Paris that ended the Revolutionary War stipulated that the Loyalists whose stuff had been seized during the war would be compensated and they would be allowed to return to the States to resolve business without being attacked in the streets or arrested. But most of the states just said "Hey, it's the Goodyear Blimp!" and ignored the stipulations. In return the British stuck out their tongues and refused to give back the western forts in the Ohio Country, which was another of the stipulations in the Treaty.
I get the feeling if the two were just shouting "You do it!" "No, you!" "Mooooom, he started it!" "Nuh-uh!" for about thirty years or so.
The Native Americans: Skirmishes with Native Americans happened regularly as Americans began the the great western spread, the first inklings of Manifest Destiny. With tensions already as they were, the sight of the natives appearing with British-made weapons naturally made Americans rather suspicious, but the British insisted they had nothing to do with it, and for the most part this was true. American freaking out over this reached a height in 1811 at the Battle of Tippecanoe.
Impressment: Just about nobody wanted to be in the Royal Navy other than England himself, and for very good reason. It sucked. It sucked in a way that made your now very short life miserable beyond belief. So the Navy had something called the Press to fill in the gaps in the crew, so to speak. If you were a man and sorta knew what a ship was, you'd sit down in a pub with some very nice gentlemen who kept paying for your drinks and wake up in the middle of the Atlantic with a new occupation. Unsurprisingly, desertion was common, and so the British would hunt down men they thought were deserters, often boarding American ships and searching them for them.
America's particularly mad here because England has been being a supreme asshole when it comes to impressment and American citizens. Y'see, most people in America were naturalized, that is, they weren't born on American soil, but gained their citizenship after immigrating or after independence was gained. But the British were all like "What'chu talkin' 'bout? They were born British and we can press them if we want. Shut up and go back to playing with your toy boats."
This ashamed and infuriated the Americans because they weren't able to protect their ships and men from search and seizure.
On the American side, they were doing very sneaky things with avoiding paying duties and crossing their fingers behind their back while insisting that, "No, of course we're not trading with the West Indies! Whatever gave you that idea?"
It's like America is a canker sore that England can't help but poke, and America can't help put poke back.
Ships-of-the-line: These were battleships, also called man-o-wars, with multiple masts and decks. When war broke out, the United States had a whopping none. The U.S. Navy was eighteen years old at the time, and had barely a dozen ships, with its most powerful being three frigates (three masts and two decks). Whereas the British had eighty-five ships in American waters, including eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates. Fortunately for the American side, though, the British ships were undermanned even with impressment and foreign & criminal recruits; conditions in the Royal Navy were horrific and not a good way to live past thirty-five. Still. Just about the only reasons the U.S. was not crushed rapidly were that their naval people had some experience with combat already and that Great Britain had a little French rascal named Napoleon to deal with. And when Britain managed to go all Lord Nelson on him and focus on the Americas...well, you'll see in the next chapter.
"Go through Canada to get at him": Canada's still property of the British Empire, and his closeness and resources is making him look pretty tasty. And all the War Hawks in Congress don't help at all...
"No man is an island": Written famously by English poet John Donne in "Meditation XVII". I think Donne must have written this specifically for England, it just so perfectly fits him. Do I smell a oneshot?
Splendid Isolation: A phrase used to refer to British foreign policy in the late 19th century, but I think it can be applied to England for so much more. I can just hear him insisting that he's fine, dammit, and his isolation is splendid and completely intentional, and he doesn't need any-bloody-body, especially not that tosser America, and pass him another brandy already, can't you see he's thirsty?
And that, my friends, is the way too long Author's Note that you all just skipped :D Don't worry, they get longer!