July 1754

Albany Congress for the Unification of the Colonies

America fidgeted, pulling at the new fabric of his jacket. The room was warm and no one seemed to agree on anything except the fact that they disagreed. He looked around the space where delegates were spread out at desks covered in documents and notes. The governor of New York sat at the head of it all trying to wrangle an agreement that would, in theory, keep them safe against the advances of the French and their Indian allies. If only everyone had shown up, America thought.

From his spot he could hear Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania talking to Thomas Hutchinson of Massachusetts. If the entire meeting was going to be lost, he'd at least wanted to talk to the former man about some of his inventions. Maybe Mr. Franklin had something that could stop war coming down on his head.

"Unification is the only real way we will all be safe."

"Yes, I have considered the concept as well, but it appears we may be the only two. Beyond that dreadful plan from London."

"Indeed, although if this," a hand waved to indicate the room, "is any proof it may take London's mandate."

America had been told more times than he could count that eavesdropping was rude, but when the two middle-aged men noticed him sitting close by they did not seem to mind.

"Mr. Hutchinson, have you ever had the pleasure of meeting America himself?" said Franklin. America greeted the other man. "What do you think of all this, America?"

"The meeting or the rest of it?"

"Your choice."

America looked down at his hands, remembering the events on the frontier. When he had written to England about what happened, he had hoped he would come. Instead he got a letter that was half-chastisement and half praise. England seemed excited over the prospect of a sneaking frontier war with France. "I don't know how I feel about any of it." he admitted.

Hutchinson leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder and patted America on the shoulder, a fatherly gesture, "While I've never met Britain, I would wager you are his pride and joy. He won't let anything happen to the colonies."

America knew Hutchinson meant that England would do all he could to stop France from taking him. He knew that deep down, but it already felt as though something had happened to him, that something had changed forever.

Retired in his quarters that evening, America couldn't sleep. He lit a candle in his room and went over to the small writing table in the corner. He addressed the note to England, wanting to tell him of the results of the Albany congress.

I think that France is very angry with me this time. He added, after he had completed what he thought was a good account of everything that had been said and suggested at the meeting. However, he did make a point to leave out some of Mr. Franklin's opinions regarding the conduct of those in London in charge of colonial trade. He chewed on the end of the quill trying to think if there was anything else that he should say.

Remembering, he pulled out a letter he had tucked into the back of one of his books. The letter started with no endearments, and he would have hardly recognized it if not for France's elegant handwriting. It was like nothing he had ever written to him before.

America. You are not so little anymore that I can turn a blind eye to your youth or inexperience. While I have tried to protect you and your brother from the more gruesome aspects of my relationship with England, I will not do so anymore. If you are going to stand against me personally, I will not hold back. Think before you allow England to make you fight his battles for him. France.

America brushed the tip of the quill against his mouth, considering what he would write to England.

France has written to me. I think he wants you to fight him, not me.

He paused again, touching the inky nib to the paper a few times before committing to his words.

I know I can fight him. I've been reading your books and trying to listen to the commanders. I know the land better than you. I can do this. I will do my best for you.

Affectionately yours,

America

He sealed up the letter and tucked it with the few others he had written while idling the days in the wilderness waiting for an attack. Next post he planned on sending them all to England, hopefully he would be proud.

Spring 1755

London

The letters sat in in neat piles on his desk. England frowned over them, worry and excitement at the prospect of another war vying for position as the dominant emotion. A hint of rage at France's audacity also threatened to defeat all the emotions he could feel. Scotland's boots entering his vision brought his attention to the presence of his brothers.

"If you would kindly get your feet off my papers," he said, shoving at Scotland's boots, "And why do you look so smug?"

"Just admiring how you will somehow find a way to be indignant with France although it was your darling boy that started it."

"If France had not been sneaking about they would never have crossed paths."

"You have the most fascinating fictions, Sassenach. I thought Ireland was the yarn spinner in the family." He leaned forward and tapped at the letters from America. "I actually thought you had ordered the boy to do something. And yet it is actually luck that is going to give you a chance to lay into France as you've been desiring for years." England watched him, a cool expression on his face. Scotland had not come quietly back into his house, and England was reluctant to let him out of his sight.

"Regardless of who started it, England will be obligated to do something about it now." said Wales, looking between his two brothers. England smiled at him.

"Quite right." He returned to his desk shuffling through the reports. He missed the look that passed between his brothers. "I will be taking to the sea. Wales-"

"Yes, yes, I will see to it." he said, taking the papers that England handed him across the desk.

"Scotland-"

"I'll wait until you have returned before having another go at you." An awkward silence. "Or rather, perhaps you could let me take a shot at dear France myself. He's shit for an ally sometimes." England looked at him, trying to quell the suspicions of which he knew he should take heed. His brothers had been trying, not very successfully, to work better together. Perhaps he could give Scotland a chance.

"When I have work for you, I'll send orders."

Scotland raised an eyebrow, "Then I will await my orders." The stress on the final word gave England a small taste of satisfaction that he'd needled his elder brother in some way.

"And I will go see the king." He excused himself from the room and walked through the palace. The place had changed so much since his rulers had first moved to this place. The tapestries of centuries past had been replaced with art and images of a far more modern bent. Some of the rooms that would once have held displays of medieval armor had been replaced with scientific instruments and maps of the world that were updated for accuracy as his ships sailed around the globe. The words "British Empire" drifted from the lips of modern courtiers and England felt pride in the idea. Yes, he liked the sound of empire. Those in the privy chamber looked up at him as he passed, heading straight for King George II who was settled in his chair, discussing an account book with a member of Parliament. The elderly man waved his fingers, dismissing the one he spoke with and greeting his country with a paternal smile.

"You look pleased about something."

"As I'm sure you have heard your Majesty, the French have made a move against the American colonies."

"Yes, I have heard. I intend to send our fastest ships to intercept their troops before they ever set foot on our soil in North America. I presume you would like to accompany them?"

"Yes, if I could be spared."

"You will best serve me in intercepting our enemies." England bowed to him and was soon off to meet with the Admiral of the Fleet and to assign himself to a ship. His heart sang, until he had set foot on a warship again, he had not realized how much he missed the smell of gunpowder mixed with the ocean breeze. How much he had missed waiting for the wave to crest before firing his musket at an enemy marine.

At sea for several days with no sight of a French ship England though on America's letters. He had hastily packed several of them into his trunk before leaving. They did not carry any particularly vital information that his brothers would need there, so he thought he could bring them with him. He had caught Wales watching him, and wondered if his brother thought he was being a sentimental fool. At the moment, at home on the ocean, he didn't care. He felt the boy's impatience to fight with France, infectious. England was willing a French color to appear on the horizon so he could have the satisfaction of thwarting France's plan before it was even underway.

That boy of yours started it. Scotland's words seemed petty now, even though England had felt pleasure that America had given him every excuse. He was a good lad, a shining example of what his colonies would be. America's cleverness and industry was filling the treasury of the British crown with gold, and now he had sparked the seeds of a war that could be quite profitable indeed. He felt a surge of pride, America was big enough now to stand with him as he crushed France into the dirt. He'd been meaning to put a crimp in his stride for years, conflict was brewing, the nations of the Continent twitchy with it for years.

A young officer interrupted his imaginings of what he would say to France when they came face to face. He held up a spyglass. "On the horizon, my Lord." He held out an arm in the direction. Raising the glass to his eye England looked. So it was a ship that black speck on the horizon. Too far away to see a name or guess at its origin. He lowered the glass.

"What does the Captain intend?" he asked.

"To pursue."

"Carry on." He had chosen his ship well, the man in charge as eager for a confrontation as he was.

They sailed, gaining ground on the ship slowly as the wind was against them. England appealed to any deity he could think of in his long history for a fair wind to push them closer or for more ships to appear along the horizon like beads of a shattered necklace. As the days passed it was far more likely this was a merchant vessel, a troop ship would not travel alone.

A week later a fortuitous wind caught the sails and carried them towards the vessel. While French it was, military it was not. The ship did not put up any resistance when they made it clear they wished to board.

"I saw them pass in the distance." the captain said. England waited patiently for more, when none came he turned his face away. The man muttered under his breath in French, "You English dogs will not catch them before they reach the shores."

England let a rye smile creep onto his face. "Well, if that is the case then we may as well be at war." He turned to the lieutenant that had come on as commander ot the boarding party. "We seem to have captured a prize." The other man smiled and nodded, starting to bark orders to the contingent of sailors and marines that had accompanied them. Privateering, it settled like a cloak onto his shoulders and England felt the rush of it.

"You would not dare!" The French captain replied, his eyes widening as the English began to move below decks.

"If any of your men resists we will be forced to sink your ship into the depths. Or perhaps leave you in a long boat and take command ourselves. Do you understand me?"

The French captain nodded, resentment in his eyes. He imagined that it was France's face, it was the look he would have when word got to him about this. The man shouted orders at his own men who looked on helplessly as the goods were seized. In several hours they had taken what they wanted and left the ship to limp back to France or a Canadian port, whatever the captain dared.

Letters and orders passed between other British ships they came across. England was certain that one of them would eventually contain the call for all out war. Then things would get truly interesting. Despite the burgeoning hulls and the few French ships they were able to turn back, England worried about America. Word had become sparse. Perhaps the letters have passed me and are on my desk in London... he thought. If he did not see anything within the next two weeks he decided he would return to not only see the dispatch, but to ready infantry to support the British Irregulars in America.

"Ahoy!"

"Ahoy!" They had come across the other English vessel in the night, signalling each other with lanterns, but waiting until daylight for an approach in case it was a trick. The sea calm they were able to pull up beside one another, suspending ropes and boards so quick footed sailors could trade information and other materials. England leaned on the ships rail and observed the exchanges, one of the young ship boys came across a gangplank with a large bundle in his arms. He stopped in front of England.

"They were carrying post, sir." He offered the bundle to England who took it, quickly turning towards the captain's quarters where he would be able to spread the letters on the dining table, seeking a particular scrawling hand. He settled the personal correspondence aside and tucked military dispatches into a pile. There! He grabbed at the letter addressed to his human name from an Alfred Jones, a name they had picked out for America in front of the fire one evening years ago. He broke the seal and unfolded it. Several letters were bundled within the outer. The note was full of detailed descriptions of where he was and what he was facing. He tried to imagine the words in America's voice as he had last seen him, a thirteen year old boy trying to be brave.

"Any news?" the captain asked, ducking into the room. As he reached the table his own fingers began to brush through the envelopes looking for intelligence.

"I need you to take me back to London." He dreaded that he needed to go there first, but he needed the declaration of war in hand. "Then we will travel to America with troops post haste."

He would praise America for how well he had done so far, but he was determined to be there to help him through the rest.

January 16, 1756

London

Convention of Westminster

"Are we all in agreement?"

Prussia pulled the paper towards him and perused the terms of the agreement of friendship. He leaned back in his chair looking over the contract. England had the sense he was being weighed against other options, but then the teasing look he exchanged with Hanover shattered that notion. Prussia turned to Germany, who they had brought with him to the meeting. The fondness between elder and younger brother made England's heart ache. He needed to actually see America soon, but first this had to be dealt with. A fight with France in North America would be difficult if problems arose in Europe. He was determined to not let things fall around his ears.

Prussia handed the paper to Germany and had the boy read it, leaning down to point out various aspects of the contract. Hanover sighed and leaned toward England, "Don't worry, he'll sign it. As much as he'd love to pick another fight with Austria he doesn't have the numbers. He's going to hold onto Silesia as long as possible."

"Lover's words, Hanover?" said Prussia, smirking at them both. England tried to keep his face passive despite the flush he felt on his neck.

"As if you would know anything about that sort of talk."

"What? You should take it as a compliment. He's going to fight on my side all to keep your pretty face from being smashed in by France."

"And because he has an alliance with Russia who, although I doubt I need to remind you, would like to punch your face in."

"Nah, I think he's just decided to trade French bedsteads for German ones."

"Prussia!" England and Hanover said in unison.

"What?"

"Germany is present." said Hanover. The boy in question had buried his face behind the document. Only the top of his blond head was visible. Prussia reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Don't worry, it goes over his head. But the kid will have to learn how things work eventually."

"From you? The poor boy will think he'll only be able to show affection by bashing another over the head. I don't recall you having much prowess in that area, nor experience. Although, England, I suppose you can enlighten me."

England frowned at him, "And how would I do that?"

"Interesting, I'd always assumed on that campaign..."

England shook his head vehemently while Prussia said, "Nah, while he does have a fine ass, not enough German in him. Although I suppose you've fixed that Hanover-"

England cleared his throat loudly and cut him off. He stood, the two elder Germans grinned with amusement while the youngest still had his face hidden behind the contract. "I have not had enough to drink to have this conversation, sign the paper!"

"Does that mean we can drink after?"

"If we must."

Prussia made a show of considering it, but his very presence here made it a done deal. He accepted the paper back from Germany whose cheeks were pink with embarrassment, which made England think not as much went over his head than his brothers thought. Prussia signed with a flourish. "Let's get a toast to celebrate our friendship!"

"Perhaps we should get Germany going on his studies before that." suggested Hanover. This is going to be a long night, England thought, especially if they think the rest of the evening should not involve young nations.

Hanover left first with Germany in tow. Prussia caught up to England in the doorway of the room.

"Don't worry about what I said, France has told me enough stories about you that -"

"Prussia," England took a deep breath before continuing, "Trust me when I say that I do not stay up late at night worrying over the fact that you don't find me an overly attractive bed mate."

The German laughed and took a swat at England's ass as he brushed past him into the hallway. England managed a punch to Prussia's shoulder before he was too far away, which made him cackle louder.

"Where are those brothers of yours?" shouted Prussia down the hall, "Let's make this a night to remember!"

July 1756

London

"Why did no one inform me while I was away that we were suffering losses! Edward Braddock died nearly a year ago passing his command to low level Regular and Irregular commanders!" England wanted to shove all of the papers off of his desk. He had been at sea for some time and yet no one tried to track down his ship, nor put in word at any port.

"Acadia was captured last year, extending your territory." Scotland said, brandishing a letter opener at the map. "Your commanders don't think it is wise with the stirrings of war on the Continent for you to go gallivanting off to your wee lad." He shoved a report from the Duke of Cumberland at England. "Not to mention your commanders are busy acting as pissants with one another."

"Go and fetch the Duke of Cumberland."

"What makes you think I would set foot anywhere near that man?"

"Then find someone else to fetch him, I don't bloody care."

Scotland shrugged and dropped the letter opener on the desk with a metallic clunk. England dropped into the chair behind his desk, trying to gather his anger. Not even America had written in the few letters he'd been able to gather about the mess brewing in the colonies. The comfort he had been planning to offer the boy was now going to be an earful about respecting orders and authority. Cumberland's report lay on the desk detailing the insubordination of the Irregular troops throughout New England in particular, refusing to march with the Regulars being only one of the issues. Lord Loudoun had been sent with the idea to bring them to heel, but England doubted it was going to make much of an effect. I've been too soft on him.

"Your requested my presence?"

"Yes, Cumberland. I want to know the state of the effort in North America."

"It is all detailed in my report."

"Quite, what I want to know is why we have not sent further troops to shore up the forces already present."

"We are primarily concerned with actions here on the Continent, now with the war official-"

"I am not asking that we do not look to strengthen our position on this side of the Atlantic," England said, cutting off the duke in his exasperation, "Your report says it, we were able to gain Acadia with forces with very little discipline. Imagine what we could do with a greater Regular position? Why are we wasting an opportunity to capture the whole of North America?"

"We have been considering the prospect. I take it you would wish to sail with the army?"

"For now at least. Perhaps my presence would also act as a reigning force on America."

"Lord Loudoun would no doubt appreciate that, it seems he is finding him a challenge." Cumberland considered the map that England had been examining as well as the dispatches and reports. "I will see if I can not expedite this process. I will inform you immediately when a date is set to leave." They nodded to one another and Cumberland exited the room.

England turned back to his desk and lay his hands possessively over the map of North America. To have America safe from France and finally gaining Canada under my roof officially, what couldn't we accomplish?

He smiled.

August 1756

Fort Oswego in the Ohio River Valley

The fort was half-finished, some wooden walls and earthworks were all that would stand between them and any enemies. America had thrown himself into digging earthworks alongside the other men. He'd tried to stay by the fort's commander, James Mercer's side like he had promised New York governor William Shirley, but he had quickly grown fidgety. Beyond that Mercer did not seem to know what to do with the guardianship of his teenage nation. The Lieutenant Colonel Mercer Mercer was far to busy to keep an eye on America.

The labor was far more diverting than the books England had sent him, outlining ancient battles between nations that had since disappeared. Recently, he had written to England for books about battles with France, but he had not yet received word back. As far as he could tell, France was not in North America, although one of his new commanders had recently arrived. The scouts said that man was on his way here.

He paused, wiping the sweat off his brow and looking down the path towards Fort Ontario. The smaller fort was just as thin as Fort Oswego, with the cannon emplacements pointing towards the river. America's stomach grumbled and he lay a hand on it. There was not enough food, hadn't been since the safety of the supply train had been destroyed. He planned on asking permission to ride out in order to meet up with some suppliers or to head back to the big cities to see what was happening in the assemblies. He knew that Governor Shirley was trying to keep America and his people away from the regulars, especially after the disastrous battle in Virginia last year. When America had written to England about that battle, he had chosen not to mention that General Edward Braddock was, what he thought, a blowhard and unwilling to listen to reason. He imagined that England wouldn't have appreciated the fact America was grateful he'd been killed.

Leaves rustled in the forest. It's just the wind, he told himself. He couldn't see anything beyond the dense foliage, but a cold shiver still ran down his back.

"Someone step on your grave, boy?" asked one of the soldiers digging beside him.

"I hope not."

He told himself it was just nerves and went back to work. He tossed and turned in bed all night, his anxiety keeping him wakeful.

The boom of a field cannon startled America right out of his blankets. At first he thought it was particularly loud burst of thunder, but no rain sounded on the top of the canvas shelter. Then it came again and again, he had never heard one fired in battle before. He grabbed his musket and hurried out with the rest of the men. He looked in the direction of the noise, during the night the French and their allies had come through the trees and dug trenches. They had built platforms for their cannons and were pounding at the sides of Fort Ontario and Oswego.

"Pull the men back from Fort Ontario!" Mercer ordered and a subordinate officer jumped to carry it out. America squinted at the smaller fort, confused at Mercer's order. Then he saw it, their cannon defenses were facing the wrong direction! Even if they had been turned to fire the cannon crews had no defense and were completely exposed. With the men pulling back from that position there was no outer defense. The cannons would tear through their flimsy defenses. Despite the warmth of the August morning, America felt his entire body chill with fear.

He made his way over to Mercer who ordered him to stay by his side. America nodded, afraid his voice would shake in the noise of cannons and the pops of musket fire. The booms had now redirected towards Fort Oswego.

America turned, intending to ask Mercer what they should do, but the man was gone in an instant, blown away by a cannon ball. Across his body, America's eyes met with the fearful white face of the man who was now in command. It took several exchanges of fire for the man to collect himself enough to order a cease-fire. America stepped carefully over Mercer's body to ask the man, "We're giving up?"

"I will not have us slaughtered." he said through clenched teeth. He turned and ordered someone to bring up the white flag.

Huddled with the other soldiers, America watched the French troops swarm into the fort. Their commander, Montcalm, had decided that they had given up too soon to be worthy of the honors of war. They were all prisoners now.

And America had been wrong, France was very much present in North America. He had spotted America immediately. "Imagine meeting you here, mon petit Amerique." he said as he plucked America from the rest of the troops. Despite the endearment, America had never heard his voice so cold.

"I didn't think you were here... Canada brought me your message."

"He is a good boy." France led America away from the noise of men negotiating. America felt as if he were caught in a bear trap, even if France's arm over his shoulder seemed friendly.

"What are you going to do to me?"

France chuckled. "You have always been so direct."

"That doesn't answer my question."

France stopped their progress. He lifted his arm to pat America on the cheek. "You will be my guest in Montreal until dear Angleterre makes his intentions absolutely clear. And then you will be my prisoner until he cedes the valley."

"You think I'll just go with you?" America flinched when France grabbed him hard by the upper arm.

"You do not have a choice."

Screams erupted from the direction of the fort. They turned to see that chaos had erupted between the French and their Indian allies. America saw his chance. He shoved France as hard as he could, knocking him off his feet and into a tree. Without a look over his shoulder he tore into the forest, running as fast as he could.

Cutting through the noise at the defeated fort he heard France cursing him and England in the same breath.

October 1756

Albany, New York colony

"Lord Loudoun, why are the men quartered in the field? What is the plan for winter?" England said as soon as he'd been shown to the Commander in Chief's presence. He had been shocked to see many of the soldiers had not been put up in any form of shelter in the town. He had been met by Loudoun's second in command, Abercromby, who had filled him in as they traveled into the town where the commander had set up his headquarters. It did not sound at all promising.

"The colonists are refusing to respect quartering laws. It was a challenge to find placement for those that did. I had to wrest these very rooms by force!" England pressed his mouth tight, suppressing the sigh, apparently America's insubordination was going to have to be dealt with first.

"Have you seen him?" It did not take Loudoun long to figure out who he meant.

"I know he was ordered back into the town to await for you, but I don't have time to babysit. The colonial legislatures are causing me enough headaches as it is."

"I believe he was able to gain a room at one of the farmer's homes near the outskirts of town." said another man, who looked as though he was long suffering something. With the terseness that seemed to define Loudoun's face, England could very well guess it was the commander that caused the lines.

"Understood. If you will excuse me." Loudoun waved a hand and England set out into the town. It took several inquiries with residents that looked at his red military jacket suspiciously until he found out where America had holed up. As he approached the farm, he half-tempted to see America trying to escape out into the forest beyond, but he rationalized that it was probably just his disappointment talking. He had been concerned and it turns out his concern should not have been for America's well-being, his concern should have been over his loyalty. I thought I taught you better than this.

A woman stood at the door as he dismounted his horse, watching him as he tied up the animal to a post and came closer. "Madam, forgive me for disturbing you, but I was told that an Alfred Jones was staying here and I need to speak with him immediately."

"And you are?" the woman asked.

"Arthur Kirkland." Her eyes widened briefly. Perhaps America had been hoping he was not really coming and had only told his hosts that there was a minor possibility that England himself would be arriving on their doorstep. The door opened a few minutes later and he was ushered inside to a small dining room. He was surprised at how fine the furniture was, but he had heard that joiners and other craftsmen were making their way further and further into the colonies. When America wrote him regularly he had told him all about fine little inventions, although silence had crept up in the last year.

"He will join you shortly. I am working on supper I will bring you some when it is ready."

"Thank you." England said, he settled his hat on the back of the chair and settled in at the head of the table. A small clock nestled above the stone mantle ticked in the quiet. He could hear footsteps on the wooden floorboards, footsteps that hesitated on the other side of the door. England shored himself up for the scolding he would serve America, readying it on his tongue.

When America appeared, however, all of the angry pretense dropped from him. America did not look an inch smug or pretentious as the lords would have had him believe. He was taller than when England saw him last, his body looking more like a human's at sixteen. His face was paler than he had ever seen it and he looked thin beneath his green uniform. America looked every inch the nervous boy England had first imagined when he'd received that letter telling him of France's threat.

England was out of his chair in a moment, crossing the distance between them and pulling America into an embrace. The boy was taller, America had surpassed him by an inch at least. For a moment, America didn't respond for a moment as though he were surprised by the affection, but then he tightened his arms around England and buried his face in the shoulder of his coat. A wince from America caused England to release him.

"Are you injured?"

"Fell off my horse two days ago."

"It hasn't healed?" England asked, worry flooding him.

"It is. I'm pretty sure if I had been human I would be dead now." He ushered America over to one of the chairs and took a seat in his own. Silence stretched between them.

"You've grown taller." England said, breaking the awkwardness.

"Isn't that what war does? You should see Canada, he's a lot skinnier than me though." With the way America's thinness pulled over his bones, England was worried about how he would feel when he saw the other North American. "The French general doesn't like him, sends him out to the worst places. I don't think France knows."

"Where is France?"

America shrugged, "I don't know. I haven't seen him since he very nearly captured me at Fort Oswego."

"France had a hold of you!?"

America stared down at the table and ignored his question. "And I can't very well ask Canada. And it's not like I really want to go looking for France." England watched him, but it was clear America did not want to talk about what had happened. France was going to be sorry for this.

"No, no that's all right. Once he catches word that I am here I'm sure the frog will show his face." He asked America after the battles he had been in and let the boy talk as he tried to examine his state. England interrupted him when he started on a story about a mission that involved only Irregular forces. "America, why won't you work with the Regulars?" America looked away from him, as if considering his words. He was saved from an immediate answer by the arrival of food and England waited until America had finished a plate before inquiring again.

"Their expectations are unreasonable. Major General Winslow has been trying to tell Lord Loudoun."

"Unreasonable?" England raised an eyebrow. "How?"

America looked down at his hands, "They aren't professional soldiers... I'm not. And I don't know if I like all of the harsh rules."

England sighed, "Discipline is necessary to trust your soldiers to do what they must."

"I read all of your books, lots of times." He pulled some more food onto his plate and started into it, buying himself time by keeping his mouth full. England folded his napkin over his own empty plate. He watched America's hands, he was holding the fork all wrong and... what was that? England reached across the table and caught America's right hand. He pulled back the sleeve as America tried to get his arm back.

"Have you been struck?" A red weal of raised skin cross the back of America's hand and wrist. America didn't look at him, but frowned at the hurt.

"I was trying to explain to Lord Loudoun that the men don't like being put under the orders of strangers and that to respect that we're just volunteers and he hit me with his cane."

"When?!"

"Not long before you arrived."

"Why didn't you say so immediately?!"

America shrugged. "It doesn't hurt so much anymore and it will be gone by tomorrow."

"And tomorrow I will be having words with that man."

Shaking his head, America said, "That would probably just make him angrier with me and my people. Besides, don't you want us to follow all those rules about whippings and other punishment?" England remembered when the slip of paper regarding the Solicitor General's decision regarding the standard that volunteers in the Americas would be held to, at the time he had thought little of it. Holding the men of British America to the same standard seemed the most feasible for a cohesive force.

"There are many disciplines beyond those." he said.

"Well, those are the ones that the assemblies have issues with. We've been doing just fine. They don't want to serve with the Regulars if they are going to lose their rights." England could feel the scolding he'd crafted during the Atlantic crossing creeping back onto his tongue. He held it in, but only because America was obviously tired and hurt.

"We can revisit this in the morning. I have been away too long and I will get everything sorted." He realized he still gripped America's wrist and he loosened his hold. "Will I be able to acquire lodgings here?"

"I'll give you my bed. I can sleep in the barn or in the woods with the men."

"That is preposterous, surely there are other arrangements. The beds have not become so narrow?"

Strange, England thought, why would that embarrass him? A flush had crept up America's neck and spilled onto his cheeks. "No, we should both fit."

"It's settled then." It was not so uncommon after all to share beds when there were few to be had. And besides America had been a constant presence in his bed when he was little. No different, America had just grown taller after all.

America scraped the last few morsels off his plate before tossing his napkin across the tableware. "I'll have to go inform the family that you will be quartering."

Despite himself, England winced at the subtle nudge that he wasn't entirely welcome. America's aloofness throughout the dinner had been rather strange as well. Getting up from his chair and leaving the room America didn't even glance back at him once. Perhaps he had been away too long and not given America as much attention as he should. Well, that was going to change.

The family was not particularly happy at the notion of England's presence, and America could sense that they only agreed for his sake. He hurried to tidy the narrow room. It had once served as the eldest son's, but he had been killed in battle weeks tidied up his things as best he could, while his heart pounded in his ears. His cheeks burned.

"It's only England." he muttered as he stuffed his spare change of clothes, an extravagant luxury, into the small knapsack he had brought from Williamsburg. Remembering the poem he had taken a stab at writing, he grabbed the paper from the small writing table and shoved it into the bag. The room cleared of mess and any incriminating poems, he paused. Dsuk was just coming on, he should go back to the common room to sit with the family... and England.

England, who had dominated his thoughts more and more as he'd ducked from fort to fort, in sometimes hair-raising flights through the woods, was here. America was torn, wanting to keep his distance or to beg England to hold him as he'd done when he was very small and reliant on England to heal all his hurts.

He caught sight of himself, the reflection inside of the window glass, and tried to pull himself tall. He straightened his clothes and pulled his sleeves lower, over his hands. Only one of those options would make him appear grown up and that was what he was determined to be.