Title: Because of the Butterfly Effect

Word Count: 1055 (edited 1135)

Rating/Warning: T for some language

Summary: An explanation through which England explains the chaos theory as it relates to their mucking around with powerful forces beyond the province of man

Theme; Jurassic Park

Note: I didn't feel so comfortable writing about dinosaurs unless they are the "Land Before Time" style ones. So, I restyled some of the ethical debates discussed in the film for today's theme. Actually, no that's not completely true, I just didn't feel it was plot appropriate to have dinosaurs in it without a better reason.

"Oh god, I'm dealing with amateurs," England groans into his hands, talking only to help him reason through the chaos unraveling before him—America's shallow breaths and intermittent trembling in his shallow slumber, the clandestine conversation transpiring below. "No wonder the PM, and your president were so frantic about that damn Bermuda Triangle piece of shit; there had been an increase in certain kinds of foreign involvement on the islands, but I had no idea. No idea! Russia?! Who knows how long that had been going on. Ugh, we wasted so much time. Why couldn't they just tell me!?" he huffs, letting himself talk, in hope it would alleviate his frustration and growing headache.

"What children! You do not know what you're doing!" he hisses into the quiet of the night. At this point, it would not make any difference if he tracks down Russia and guts him on the spot for fooling with forces he cannot possibly comprehend. "From just that meeting there is no knowing what our presence has done here."

America curls up tighter, flinching at his tone as though struck, and whimpers. "Huh? Engwand? Arthur what?"

He drops the hand he had clutched against his chest to card his fingers through the younger nation's hair; it is damp with sweat and his forehead radiates heat. "Shush, Alfred. It's okay." Only a dozen or so hours ago, he had been so strong, so full of life. Now, the nation curled in his lap, enfeebled and suffering from an incomprehensible force, and his essence, what makes him what he is, is being altered. Were he human, he might simple fade away. It is terrifying, being so powerless to help. "Oh, why did you have to go down there?" he mutters under his breath. "You don't know what you've done."

America stirs again, barely shifting his head. "What'd I do?"

"Hm?"

"What did I do?" He coughs from the effort of repeating the statement so quickly.

"Calm down."

"Tell me," he insists. Still stubborn. Maybe he isn't changed quite as much as England feared.

"Damn it, do you know how dangerous it was, doing what you did? What was done to you? To us?" What ever has happened, England does not feel the ill-effects as America does. He supposes that he should be grateful, but cannot bring himself to of it as fortune. Instead, he counts his blessings that he feels powerful enough to help America after such a distant trip through time. To one of his least favorite places in time.

"Don't understand," he breaths, the sound coming as a hiss.

"Messing around with time."

"How'd I do that? Didn't mean to," he whimpers, curling closer until he is practically wrapped around England's legs and waist.

"I know. I am not angry with you. It's just … our little jump through time here. You're already being changed. Somethings are meant to happen. Some events meant to take place. But, you see, we never know what those events are. We never know what's supposed to happen, what isn't. Russia. He is trying to obliterate you. Well, eliminate you as a threat."

Suddenly, America releases him, sits up and stares, his face stern and irritated. "Eng-" he coughs, still produces blood, and he looks at it as a scared child, but ignores it to address a different problem. "England, what are talking about?"

"Time travel. It's a violent, penetrative act that scars what you seek to observe, rapes what you try to adjust." That is no explanation, and he offers what he hopes is an apologetic look only to see shining tears in the younger nation's eyes.

"Love time-travel movies, I appreciate the science. But, your ranting, it sure reminds me of something. Can't think of what." He lays back into the hay and England's lap. "Can't think. Hurts."

"The Butterfly Effect. You remember that don't you, Alfred?"

"Like in Jurassic Park?"

England stares at him a moment to wonder how he choose that particular movie after the speech he just gave. He thinks. Tries to recall a couple of the key elements of the plot, "Well, somewhat. Anyone...thinking they can control time. It's ludicrous. Time works on the essence of chaos as well. Like nature, but bigger. You know, the unpredictability of complex systems, right? Of course, what am I saying? You taught me Chaos Theory."

"Does the flap of a butterfly's wings set off a tornado in Texas?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Or does a late night visit in 1762 cause or prevent a war in 1776?"

His eyes flash with familiarity—the fierce patriot that England recognizes—full of urgent alarm at his half-rhetorical question. It is some small victory that his mind is not all gone, that he is fighting the pull of the rewritten history undoubtedly unfolding within him. He jolts upright, only to crumple back to the hay in a coughing fit. "1776? What do you mean prevent a war in 1776?" Again, he coughs.

"Alfred, please try to keep still." He forces America gently back down and receives weak resistance; he can restrain him much too easily. He is afraid to trouble America further with their time travel dilemma at present, but, he seems to gain comfort from his voice. So, so he just talks, says whatever crosses his mind, words that America shared with him. "Consider a drop of water. You hold your hand flat." He lifts America's hand as he speaks, brushing his fingers across the back of other nation's hand. A drop of water falls on your hand. Which way will it fall? Off which finger?"

America hums as if to answer, but the quiet grunt is untranslatable.

"And another drop hits your hand. But, it doesn't go the same way. The path changed. Why? Tiny variations. The orientations of the hairs on your skin, the imperfections, the vessels and blood pumping through your hand. All the microscopic bits, never repeating, all vastly affect the outcome. That's the unpredictability." He pauses to take a deep breath; America has fallen asleep in his lap. Carefully, he lays back against their mound of hay and pulls the younger nation up against his chest, so he can wrap his arms around him and hold him through what remains of the night. "That's our problem."

There are a myriad of concepts, premises, theories he could play with to get them back home, and spells and enchantments he could use as a bandage on the potential damage done, but that's just the issue. There is no telling what damage is done. How extensive is it?. What will it effect? He can no sooner calculate these things as he can the pattern that grass will grow. He might as well ask Tinkerbell for her map to the London Eye via Seattle, Washington.

A/N: Hope that all made sense. Let me know if it didn't, and what it was that tripped you up and I'll fix it.

Originally, I was going to update BMCBP, but the universe had other plans for me tonight like dumping all my recent edits to the file. And, like keeping me awake past my bedtime, by clogging up my breathing passageways. It's hard to sleep when I keep panicking every time I lay down.