"I am not saying you need to like him, Angleterre, but you must at least be willing to work with him," France snapped. The tightening grip he had on his drink threatened to cause the glass to shatter. Which would be unfortunate considering it was good French beer, something that could be hard to find in North America.

England scowled, refusing to concede even the slightest bit of ground. "You're one to talk," he sneered. "You don't even think he's sane. Prussia made a point to fill me in on your little rant back in Austin. I believe the keywords there were: lunacy, madness, unstable."

"I did not say he was sane," France retorted. Dear God, would a day ever come when England actually listened to him? "I said you have to work with him. And so far you have done all you could not to!"

England tossed back the remains of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the battered table of the dingy bar they'd found. "I'm here, aren't I?" he growled. "I could have sent Scotland or Wales. Hell, even Northern Ireland's presence would have been sufficient if I wanted to show a mere token of support."

He'd considered it. He'd held his phone, finger hovering over the "Call" button, silently contemplating shoving Wales across the pond to deal with that- that- insufferable, useless, lying son of a whore.

America hadn't been ignorant all these centuries. He couldn't have been. England refused to believe that twaddle. It didn't happen, not to their kind. None of them got that kind of luxury.

Which begged the question: What was America's end game?

Had it all been a ruse? Had he been working with those bastards in Austin all along just to gain the trust of the world he'd ignored?

Or was it something else? Some larger scheme by a desperate American government?

Who had even confirmed that America truly was "America"? He was a personification, England was willing to concede that, but they had only his word that he wasn't some new Micronation with delusions of grandeur!

Whatever was going on, England thought grimly, it was a cruel plan, one that counted on hoodwinking Canada into believing every bit of it. He had raised the boy, after all. He would have heard if there was a missing brother. He had sent several agents into investigating this "Alfred F. Jones, United States of America". Whatever the truth was, he would expose it.

"You are far too prideful to send your brothers," France hissed, interrupting England's train of thought. "Especially North - he is still but a child." Draining the last of his own drink, France glared momentarily at the bottom of his mug before waving for the bored waitress to bring them another round.

The pair sat in sulky, bitter silence for several long minutes, stirring only when new drinks arrived at the tiny booth they had crammed themselves into.

"Regardless of my personal feelings," England began after taking a long gulp from the new bottle of beer, "America saved my life in Austin. My magic demands that I repay that debt."

France rolled his eyes. Magic. It was tragic how tightly the children of the British Isles clung to that fantasy.

"Demands it," England snapped. "Or my life is forfeit." He scowled again. "As such, I will thank you to keep your froggy nose out of my personal business."

"But it is not personal, is it, my dear Angleterre?" France drawled. "Not as long as you are part of the European Union. You may have citizens clamoring to leave but they are a mere rabble. What happens to you and what you do impacts the rest of us."

"Hmph." England focused on his drink. France may call them rabble but there was a feeling in his gut about them . . . It reminded him too much of another 'mere rabble'. Well, that rabble had gone on to-

No.

No, he would not dwell on the past. That path was perilous to their kind. Dwell too much and be left behind. Or worse, destroyed for refusing to move on along with the rest of the world. "What do you want from me, then?" he finally demanded.

France preened slightly, pleased to finally (finally!) have England do something other than snap and snarl. "I, no, we would all benefit if you would but treat America as an equal. Not as a friend," France hurried to add. "Certainly, you should not feel compelled to act out a more intimate relationship than you truly feel. But you must work with America, not merely show up to meetings and harass his staff."

A grim look crossed France's face.

"I do not know if he can be trusted. Truly, his actions in Austin appear quite heroic, very Hollywood, you could say. But his plan was sparse and full of risk. He demanded obedience from persons he did not even know and after," France paused, taking a small sip to re-wet his throat, "after he moved from one emotion to another like lightning. He lashed out at some and coddled others seemingly at random.

"There are enough of our kind," France continued in a dark voice, "that have been so abused by their people that their minds have shattered under the strain. Are we truly to think that America, isolated and unaware of his exact nature for centuries, has somehow avoided all such damage?"

England gave a slow nod. "Even if we assume his story is true, his Civil War was quite harsh, even by our standards. And the scars of that conflict can still be seen to this day."

"You need not face him alone," France offered. "Or at least, not without allies. But we must all work together to understand him and what dangers he poses to us all."

"You have spoken with others about this?" England asked with narrowing eyes.

"Some, although not so plainly," France replied. His expression turned contemplative. "Those who were not in Austin are far less concerned about him. He fits so well, at a glance, in the stories told in his films and television shows. And the threat made to our kind in Texas seems almost farcical upon retelling."

An icy fist formed in England's gut and his mind suddenly flashed back to burning poison, sharp knives, and angry fists. His grip on his beer slipped slightly, causing him to fumble the drink. "If there are any who doubt what happened that day," he snarled, forcing his mind away from the nightmares that had plagued him since that awful, awful day, "send them to me, and I will make it clear to them how wrong they are."

France winced internally, scolding himself for forcing England to relieve those memories, even for an instant. England and Japan had come the closest to death that day out of all of the nations present. The pain and suffering the terrorists had inflicted on them remained close to their minds.

His neighbor, France knew, had been struggling to cope with his close brush with a permanent death. Even now, his friend was as white as a ghost and a faint tremor could be seen in his hands.

France's phone, lying forgotten the table between them, suddenly buzzed, the force of which caused the phone to slide along the slick table surface.

Each Nation started in their seats, jostling the table. England's grip slipped causing his bottle to precariously approach the edge of the table before he was able to establish a firm hold on the half-full container. France's hand jerked, causing his glass to totter back and forth, the pale liquid sloshing out onto the table.

Swearing, France quickly scooped his phone up and grabbed some of the thin paper napkins sitting at the edge of the table, dropping some on the pool of beer and using the rest to form a small barrier to contain the liquid.

England stumbled to his feet, surprising himself slightly with how unsteady his gate was, and wobbled over to another booth to grab more napkins. When he returned, he found France reading something on his phone.

"Canada is outside," France announced. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "He seems to think we cannot be trusted to behave ourselves around alcohol."

"Well, he's definitely right about you," England replied. He held the napkins out to France. "I never have a problem with alcohol."

When Canada finally entered the bar, England and France were well embroiled in an argument about an incident involving two bottles of sherry, a cask of ale, and a rather indignant goat.

"Do I even want to know?" Canada sighed as he approached the booth and heard the topic under debate.

France took a deep breath, drawing his shoulders back, ready to launch into a full telling of the nefarious tale.

"No, just no," Canada groaned holding his hands up in defeat. "It's getting late," he pointed out. "We should all head back to the hotel. You both are flying back tomorrow, aren't you?"

"The day after tomorrow," England corrected. He clutched his beer tightly and hunched down in his seat. It was clear he wasn't ready to leave.

"Come, petit," France slid further down the booth and gestured to the now empty space. "We have hardly spoken these past several days."

England gave a loud snort. "You've been far too busy clutching at America's coat tails," he muttered. He glared at his nearly empty bottle, imagining America's face in its place.

"Not this again," Canada groaned. Defeated, he dropped into the open seat, knowing he had no chance of dislodging the Europeans until they'd had a chance to complain about his brother. "Alright, what did he do this time?" he asked, bracing himself for the impending verbal onslaught.

France hummed slightly. "It is not his conduct this week that is of concern," the Frenchman began. "He is refusing to further explain his history. And there is still far too much mystery over the events back in April, and his role in them, for comfort."

"Explai-" Canada stared disbelievingly first at France and then at England. "What do you expect, an autobiography? He's told us everything we need to know! And what do you mean 'his role' in the Austin incident?" A sudden realization hit him. "You don't actually think he was in on it or something? That's insane!"

"More insane than the idea that he just innocently failed to meet a single personification during the course of his entire life?" England looked incredulous. "That doesn't happen to us. We find each other. We're drawn to each other. He must have been actively working to avoid us, there is no other explanation!"

"Or, hey, think of this," Canada snapped back, "North America is a giant fucking continent!" This. This again. He was so tired of this argument! "For that matter, you have no idea what you're talking about. He did encounter the native Nations. They tried to kill him! And if you'd bothered to actually speak with him instead of about him, against him, maybe he would have told you that himself. So yes, yes he was actively avoiding encountering our kind because all of his previous encounters had gone really very spectacularly poorly."

England opened his mouth, ready to continue the argument.

Slamming his hands down onto the table - and not noticing the alarming crack that sounded - he pushed away from the booth and sprang to his feet. "No! Enough. I'm done. We have been over this time and again, ad nauseum, since Austin, and I will no longer sit idly by while you malign my brother. I'm going back to the hotel. Good night, gentlemen!" Without another word, he stalked out of the bar.

France and England stared after him in shock. Canada had never exploded like that before, not once. Not during the World Wars, not during difficult international negotiations, not even when England had ignored his requests for independence for decades.

"I think," France finally ventured, "Canada is in need of us now more than ever." There was obvious concern in his eyes.

England nodded, looking stricken. "America has him completely brainwashed," he agreed. "We'll get him back," he promised.