Dear Guest: Why so certain that America would call England Britain, not UK? England's probably given America his proper name at some point (probably several points, actually, if America's ever come up with an unflattering nickname for him, which he probably did at some point), which America easily shortened into UK. That's my reasoning, anyway. Regardless, thanks for the review.

Dear USA Guest: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the fic. As for stereotypes, I doubt that is, by definition, what the countries think of each other in Hetalia, though it certainly is often true (for example, England's interactions with America as opposed to Japan correspond remarkably well with the two countries' (different) stereotypes about the English, though this may be an overly good example, as Japan and the US are the two countries the author has lived in). I just doubt that a personification's opinion of another personification always corresponds well with what their people's base opinion of that country's people is. After all, some of them no doubt work together fairly frequently/closely, which would suggest that they'd get a more thorough impression than conveyed by stereotypes. All that said, it could certainly be funny to write a fic on that premise—titled something along the lines of 'How Stereotypes Get Started,' and all about the opinions the nations have for each other and the situations that caused those opinions. Dibs! (Kidding. I have my hands full with life and this fic.) Speaking of which, if anyone does write a fic along those lines, please PM me, I'd like to see it.

Wow, I had some long responses to anonymous reviews there. Happy new year, everyone! Enjoy!

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England downed his face in the sink's cold water, having put America's glasses on the stand. What was I THINKING...

He looked up into the mirror, only to be unhappily reminded that the bodyswap problem was still not fixed.

Oh yeah, he sarcastically reminded himself, I wasn't.

Every bit of America's hair was dripping water down his face—except, of course, Nantucket, which managed to remain spitefully uptight and cheery.

England glared at it. It refused to budge.

In fact, in his opinion, its slightly sputtering waving was strikingly similar to someone sticking their tongue out. Nyah-nyah-neh-eh-eh-heh. Or maybe neener-neener, since the bloody nuisance was American.

England sighed and gave up, soaking his head with water again.

His eyes flew open as he suddenly heard the bathroom door open, and, accompanying it, the clack of high-heeled shoes and a dangerously high-pitched voice.

England bolted for a stall, cursing himself for not noticing that he'd run into the wrong restroom and reluctantly thanking the establishment for setting up a restroom in which the stalls were not immediately visible from the door.

I seriously need to get out of America's body, he thought morosely. First the stupid hair, now this…I swear, it's rubbing off on me. Any more and I'll start spouting crap about hamburgers and superheroes.

He shuddered at the thought.

He quickly realized that there were actually two girls (Why do they have to travel in packs? Heh.) who started to chatter about hair and who was doing what with who.

And kept talking. And talking. And talking.

Go to the restroom and leave already! England silently screamed, struggling with the urge to take his frustration out on something, anything. What the heck are they doing, anyway?

He risked a peak through the stall crack.

The girls were putting on makeup and doing each other's hair.

Oh #$%, England thought, slumping back down onto the toilet seat. I might be stuck here for hours.

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It had been a fairly quiet bar when the two nations had come in.

This was no longer true.

Most of the people had been sitting down when they came in.

This was also no longer true.

The bar tender sighed, looking at the haphazardly shoved-away tables and overturned chairs and the multitude of people dancing to rowdy music in the center of the bar who were rapidly spreading the mess. It was good to see everyone having fun, but he knew he'd have quite a mess to clean up after hours tonight. He glanced toward the restrooms, wondering if the blue-eyed man who had fled after singing would emerge and drag out the large-eyebrowed one who'd started all this. Given that said blue-eyed one seemed to have dug himself a hole in the restroom, or else had a very severe case of diarrhea, it didn't seem likely.

A lamp got dented by a carelessly flung arm with a loud bang.

Someone's going to have to pay for that, thought the unenthusiastic bartender.

He grabbed the phone under the counter and dialed.

"Yes?...Yes, this is the owner of the bar you saw recently. I just wanted to check that my insurance premiums are paid up…Why?...Oh, nothing…."

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America was thoroughly enjoying himself.

He wasn't completely sure what he was doing. The room was spinning more than a bit, there were weird splotches of color swimming through the air, and he knew that alien was not supposed to be standing on the ceiling. That space was reserved for Spider-man, duh.

But whatever he was doing, it sure was fun. He winked at a girl who briefly rubbed against him, and she giggled.

He grabbed her arm and swung her around, laughing until he tripped and sent them both tumbling down on top of each other. They snickered, drunkenly high-fived (resulting in something more like a forcibly inflicted facepalm on the girl's part) and picked themselves up.

He staggered around a bit more, tried to grab a colorful balloon that someone blew up, realized it was actually a lamp, and jumped back, briefly screaming out the pain of touching the rather hot light fixture, before stumbling over to the karaoke machine.

..Prettty …music….

He sat down in front of it, somewhat hypnotized by the pretty flashing lights. Flashflashflash.

"HeheHe. Hic."

He reached out to grab the pretty little colorful words, and ended up knocking the thing over, where it continued to spew forth music.

Disappointed by the sudden lack of lights flashing in front of him, he struggled back up and went off to see if that one chick would dance with him again. She was cute. America decided he liked her.

He soon found another girl and proffered his arm, but was, sadly, shot down, at which point he put on such a dejected face that the girl reluctantly agreed to a short spin.

America was careful not to step on her toes or anything, and it wasn't long before the girl started enjoying herself a bit more.

Even so, she soon inched her way out of his grip and back to her boyfriend. America, saddened, worked his way back to the bartender to demand another bottle of sake.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" The bartender cautiously asked.

"Heck no!" America loudly proclaimed. "It'd take waaaaay more than this to get the hero down!"

The bartender stared at him like he was delusional. To be fair, it wasn't an entirely unjustified presumption.

"Gimme," America whined.

"…I think you should go see your friend first," the bartender stated.

"…Friend?" America replied, feeling confused.

"You know. The one that went to the bathroom?"

"Oh yeaaaah. Canky. Cranky? Heh. That dude. Whatever. Okay!"

"Good luck!" The bartender said, pushing the country off the stool and guiding him in the direction of the bathroom.

America stumbled off in the right direction.

"Thank goodness," muttered the bartender, who was rather relieved.

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A/N:

The "Why do they have to travel in packs?" bit was a quote from the Harry Potter movie (the fourth one).

I liked this chapter, honestly. And there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it setup for a funny incident I'd like to write down the road.

Cool, my end author's note is fairly short. I think that's generally what you're supposed to shoot for.