England had a long list of very good reasons to avoid America's house as much as possible. For one, the simple fact that the property was in the middle of bloody nowhere. What if there was an emergency? The winding road tacked on an extra hour of driving time from the nearest airport, and the grocery store was barely any closer. Nothing but trees and wildlife broken up by the occasional dilapidated shack, private road, or small ranch.

Another reason that England would never admit to anyone, was that this property also happened to be the same one they shared before That-Event-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Mentioned. He could hardly hear someone coming down the stairs without squeaky floorboards thrusting his mind back into bittersweet memories of better times.

And that wasn't even the chief reason for this evasion policy. But the Prime Minister was adamant that the document in his suitcase be taken straight to the American Representative.

An unusually harried-looking Canada was the one to answer the door. Did England imagine that hint of relief in his smile of greeting? "Arthur, thank God you're here."

Those words were not promising. England decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Which was the roundabout excuse he gave himself to play dumb in the hopes of avoiding whatever sheer ridiculousness was happening inside. "Why are you here?"

"It was supposed to be time off," Canada sighed in such a way that implied things had not gone to plan. "Things were busy back home, so I came here to avoid the nonessential paperwork. But then…well…" He moved aside, and England stepped over the threshold with the heavy air of a soldier marching to his death.

"They're in the dining room," Canada informed briskly. "I need to use the restroom-don't let them do anything stupid while I'm gone." Then he was running down the hall, as though to prevent England from arguing.

'They?'

England heard two voices, both frightening familiar in their own way.

"I think the limey's here."

"What does it matter when vodka is involved? Deal the cards."

England grimaced. Russia was here as well for God-knows-what-reason.

"Has your waistline gotten wider since we last spoke? You should consider chopping your-"

"If you finish that sentence, Vanya, I promise you'll wake up without eyes."

"Getting tired of teeth?"

"Well, I have been needing a little variety…"

'They always did bring out the worst in each other, didn't they? But neither one seems to mind…'

England cancelled that line of thought before it could go any further.

America's voice snapped him back into reality. "Iggy, dude, why you standin' out there like a weirdo?"

Instead of answering, England gathered his courage and entered the dining room. "I wasn't aware that you still used the word 'limey'."

America rolled his eyes. "Don't get all butthurt. Your default names for me are 'yank' and 'git'."

He had a point, not that England would admit it. His eyes moved to the table, which had what looked to be an active poker game. "I was sent to deliver this in person-don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you for sure."

"To get you out of the palace for a day," Russia suggested innocently. "Your presence must be getting on their nerves."

England scowled. "I dislike you. I don't think I say that often enough."

Russia smiled that disturbing smile of his, and England suddenly felt vulnerable. Russia was still much larger than England, geographically speaking. And where Russia lacked technology, he made up for with quantity…

America saw what was happening almost immediately. He reached over to smack the Slavic Nation upside the head. "Hey, none of that weird aura-pressure-strength-projecting crap in my house. It's not cool."

England took a breath of relief. Damn superpowers.

"You say that now," Russia retorted evenly, rubbing the back of his head. "But I seem to recall a little incident with-"

"That was different."

"Sure it was."

As America and Russia stared each other down with equivalently dark expressions, England wondered whether he should leave now while he had the chance.

Canada finally dashed back into the dining room, his expression looking only more frantic since his restroom break. "She's here."

Russia's knees bumped the table as he stood up with a soft curse. "I thought she couldn't track me here."

A quiet rasp filled the room, sending a collective chill down their spines.

"Big brother…"

Russia literally dove into the pantry and shut the door behind him. America quickly moved to lean on the door as though trying to appear casual. Canada sat down at the card table, gesturing impatiently to England that he should do the same. Utterly bewildered, England took the spot that Russia had been sitting in.

Belarus drifted into the room like a wraith, her eyes wild with obsession. Her gaze travelled over the three of them. "The tracker says he is here."

'There's a pair of tens in this hand,' England thought, frantically trying to think and act completely innocent because even after all these years, he still wasn't sure whether Belarus was a mind reader or did some kind of witchcraft.

"Then your tracker's a piece of shit," America declared from his position against the pantry. "'Cause he sure as hell ain't on my land. Might wanna check Mexico?"

Belarus regarded America with obvious suspicion. "I was there already. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing." America raised his hands. "See? No blood or rope burns this time."

England couldn't help feeling that he had the pieces to an important revelation, but couldn't quite get the puzzle to fit together properly. But he was too busy thinking benign thoughts to really consider it. 'And either the seven or face card could yield a decent play if that two can be traded…such a shame that they're all in different suits, though.'

Belarus looked to Canada next. Perhaps her expression softened-perhaps. "He is truly not here?"

"Nope." Canada picked up the abandoned card hand before him. "Wanna join? It's poker."

"I do not play," Belarus answered by way of denial. "I must go, now. I haven't checked Greenland."

When she was gone, America waited about three minutes before he turned and open the pantry door. "All clear."

Russia's muffled voice answered from within, "I might stay in here a little longer just in case."

"Oh, don't be a chicken shit." America reached inside and dragged Russia out by the collar. "And no, that's not where I keep the other alcohol."

"I'll find your extra stash one day, Fredka."

"Is it just me, or do they have an especially strange relationship?" England questioned so that only Canada could hear.

"Maybe they sense a subconscious kinship," Canada offered.

England shuddered at the idea. "Don't even joke about that."

"…Did you seriously eat all my Chips Ahoy while you were hiding?"

An unapologetic shrug. "I was hungry."

Canada gave England a bland look. "Who said I was joking?"

I've decided that Russia and America COULD be friends. At least in Hetalia. I shall use my super author powers to make it so.