Warnings: f!Britain, f!France, mild sexual situations.
The last chapter was supposed to be a stand alone fic, but I wasn't happy that I was getting across what I wanted. So here's a second part, which hopefully makes what I wanted to write a bit clearer. Maybe. Let me know.
You'd Better Go In Disguise
And I call your name; she's a lot like you
Britain was washing the plates as she remembered how America had liked to hang witches when he was still a child, his eyes lit up with the simple delight of it. She had told him off gently about how he was behind the trends in Europe, still too indulgent with his behaviour, but quietly tucked his tendency towards hysteria away somewhere in the back of her head. It shouldn't have bothered her; goodness knows that she had her own psychological quirks. This was nothing she couldn't handle.
She dried off the last plate and placed it on the rack, positioned it carefully so as not to let it slip through the bars and crash on the floor. And handle it she must; she had made her decision during the war. If she couldn't have the world in the palm of her hand, as it grew ever more clear to her and the rest, then he would.
All she had to do was hang on the end of his arm and coo at his every decision. Her empire on the brink of collapse and this man the clear protégé to take her crown; the choice was obvious. Perfidious Albion, France would never let her live it down, but Britain was not as deluded as her to think that they stood at the same level as America. And Britain had done worse than whoring herself in the name of power.
At least Britain agreed with most of what America did. It was always best when the lie ran in parallel with the truth.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist, as America rested his head on her shoulder. He hummed to himself and the vibrations travelled through the both of them. She turned to place a kiss to his forehead. He turned to kiss and suck at her neck. So greedy. So insecure. She understood hunger; she hoped there wasn't fear.
"I'm still here," she murmured as he lifted her dress. Really, now. She remembered the first time they did this, that extra night they had to wait because the weather was bad, that day before the invasion, and back then she thought that they might have been making love. She doesn't believe that any more. She shouldn't have back then, either. She should have known better.
It hurt now as it had hurt the day before on the grass, as it always did when he wasn't careful. She wasn't sure if he knew, and if he did would it be different? She likes to think so. Even if she doesn't believe in love, she still believes in him. She will always indulge him. She can't not.
"I won't leave," she continued. He gasped and stilled, and then wrapped his arms tightly around her. She couldn't breathe. He stayed there for a moment, still crushing her ribs and her into the sink, before he pulled back and let her go. He wanted to ask her if she enjoyed it, she knew, but he was afraid that she'd tell him the truth.
Those witch hunts. Back when they had met for the very first time, England had asked New England if he was afraid of her. Britain had asked the Thirteen Colonies the same question again, many decades later. Both times he had said no. The second time she had called him stupid.
Back in the twentieth century, America asked her if she was afraid of him. "Yes," she had replied, still facing the sink, back straight, her hands resting on the counter. America nodded, at least understanding that much. He started to reach out to her, but then let his hand fall back to his side. What could he say, what else could she say? Should she ask about his latest achievements, talk about her own? Her latest pride, "from cradle to grave"? It would only upset him more.
Yes. Britain was a great many things, but she wasn't a fool.