Disclaimer: This being fan-fiction, I do not own Hetalia by Hidekaz Himaruya.
Warnings: f!Britain, imperialism, mild sexual situations, other.
I was watching clips of Gladiator the other night and completely forgot about the "am I not merciful" scene. So.
Dictionary definition adapted from the Cambridge Dictionary online and Wikipedia.
Mercy
mercy
noun
(Middle English, from Anglo-French merci, from Medieval Latin merced-, merces, from Latin, "price paid, wages", from merc-, merxi "merchandise")
kindness that makes you forgive someone, usually someone that you have authority over:
- She appealed to the judge to have mercy on her husband.
- The prisoners pleaded for mercy.
- The gunmen showed no mercy, killing innocent men and women.
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"Let's end this," her voice called, and America span around from the desk to face the wooden doorway. She was leaning casually against it, arms folded across the curve of her breasts. He would have expected her men to charge into the room and point their weapons at him, but she was alone. The only redcoat he could see was the one she was wearing. She looked smug.
"Britain," America hissed. "What are you doing here? Get out."
Her smile grew wider and he could see the canines in her teeth. She waited a moment, no doubt for the dramatic effect, and then started to walk towards him slowly. America backed up into the desk, instinctively, and Britain clasped her hands together.
"I am here," she declared, clearly enjoying herself, "to negotiate peace."
"You don't know the meaning of the word."
"Oh? Was it not you who declared war? Again?"
"It's the only language you understand."
"Well then," she grinned, pulling back slightly, "As much as I enjoy our witty banter, it is time to end this. You should be grateful, that I would even entertain–"
America lunged at her. She didn't even flinch; she leaned back as she grabbed his forearm, using his momentum to swing him around again, face down onto the desk he had been backing into. He struggled like that for a few moments while Britain worked to secure her grip on his arms. He tried to kick her but she stepped aside, and before he knew it his hands had been tied behind his back. America struggled for a few more moments until he gave up, breathing heavily into the wood.
"So rude," she scolded, "to attack someone when they are speaking to you. Who on earth raised you?"
This time, America did not rise to the bait.
"Such a quick learner," she mumbled, as she tugged America to sit on the chair behind the desk with an inhumane strength. America could feel himself pale slightly at that; she had never been able to lift him so easily, not since he was a very small child–
"My war with France is now over," she said, leaning onto the sides of the chair. Into his face. He did not look at her. She continued: "do you know what that means? For me, for the world?" She leaned closer. "For you? I forget, nothing goes on outside of your pretty little head, so I ask you: do you know what the end of my war with France means, for you?"
She waited for his answer. America told himself that she would be waiting for a long time.
"Oh well," she sighed, straightening up. "You were never very interested in international affairs." She shifted the chair America was sitting on with that casual strength of hers, so as to position him properly at the desk. She walked around the desk to face him on the other side, a strange parody of a civil meeting. He tested the rope binding his arms; they were tied to the back of the chair.
"I'm sure the diplomats will smooth out all of the paperwork," she went on, "but the fact of the matter is that there really is no point in continuing this silly war of yours. Your greatest concerns, of trade and impressment, no longer exist." She touched a finger on a ledge in the room. Wood.
"However, my greatest concern," she ran the finger across the ledge, "That is, the security of my North American territories," she looked at the grime collected under her finger, pulled a displeased face before she wiped it on the ledge again, "I am a bit cross about. What has your dear brother ever done to you?" She turned to look at him, expecting an answer.
"I don't understand why he stays with you," America eventually mumbled.
"He said that you invaded him."
"Maybe so." What a hypocrite, he thought. He hadn't done anything she hadn't a dozen times over–
"How unpleasant. Do you even know what it feels like to be invaded?" She turned to him again, walked towards him again. "Rape and pillage, as it were. As is tradition."
He paled again, leaned away from her. There had been a time when he would have given her everything she had wanted, back then, both body and material, but not like this–
Britain laughed at him.
"Oh don't look so frightened, America." She was back behind the desk with him, and she leaned down, again, to murmur into his ear. "I won't get up to much, simply not in the mood." She leaned in closer. "I'll punish, of course – you have been a naughty boy, after all – but I'll leave your residents alone." She was whispering now, and America strained to hear her despite himself. "After all. Am I not merciful?"
.
He watched on from the hill as Washington burnt. There was nothing he could do.
.
Another great war, just like the last. Wasn't the last supposed to be the very last? America had probably hoped so, optimistic as he was. But she knew better. Europe was as addicted to war as she was.
She felt exhausted.
America walked into the stuffy old room, in the bunker hiding under London. Britain still wasn't sure if he should have been allowed here, but she was in no position to argue. She barely wanted to, anyway. Her boss liked America, and maybe if she was honest with herself, she had a soft spot for him as well.
"More meetings," she mumbled in greeting as he approached. America smiled at her and sat down opposite her. He didn't look like absolute shit, unlike her. America probably woke up refreshed even after sleeping on the ground for half a year. Ah, one of the many beauties of youth. She didn't even have the energy to envy him.
She still had dried sweat sticking to her skin. Fuck, she needed a bath.
"It'll be formalised in a few weeks between our bosses," America started, "but I wanted to talk to you first. In private." He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his fingers touching each other, open palmed. A century ago she would have told him off.
She smiled at him instead. "'Don't you think she looks a bit tired', I suppose is the saying?" His eyes flickered, but he didn't reply straight away. His face was unreadable. How strange.
"Maybe so."
He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the table. He started bouncing his knee, and she took it as nervousness. What was he nervous about?
"I," he started, clearly trying to get his words as perfectly as he could, "look to be the greatest power when this war is over." So sure. He was so sure they would win, no, she, still only she, why still only she, how could–
"And," he continued, "It will be me who decides how to handle the mess you have all made."
Her finger twitched.
"How Japan, how Germany, how Europe is to be judged and sentenced," he went on. "You too, Britain," he said more softly. "Your hands aren't clean, either."
They hadn't been for centuries, now. He had hated how Europe had conducted themselves. She understood.
"I know your economy is based around your empire, and that you are a nation dependant on trade. I'm… I'm not trying to destroy you." His eyes had taken on a strange intensity, and Britain had to look away. "I want…"
He breathed in sharply. Britain forced herself to look back at him and waited.
"I'll wait for the end of the war about… self-determinism… of…" She waited and waited, where on earth was he going with this? "I. You know."
She smiled, pity growing inside of her. "I understand. You're idealistic, and want to make the world a better place while we are all vulnerable."
"No!" America slammed his fits onto the table and Britain jumped at the suddenness of it. "You don't understand at all!"
"I–"
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up for once and listen to me!"
"I am listen–"
"Then stop talking!" America had leapt out of his seat in anger and was leaning over the table, resting the bulk of his weight on both hands. Every time she saw him he looked bigger. She hadn't felt so small in a long, long time.
He was breathing heavily. Hopefully he had also come to his senses, because they – he – had been making an awful racket. If her men came rushing in to end their private little meeting he had only himself to blame. Well, then. It was still his move. She waited.
He sunk back into his chair. "You don't understand," he said quietly, and for the first time he sounded broken. They sat like that, until:
"Help me to understand."
He looked at her, another, different, strange look in his eyes. He didn't look like the boy she knew at all.
More waiting. Endless waiting, it felt like to her. Eventually he sat up straight: "After the war you will decolonise, as will the other empires." She made to protest, but he continued: "And you will help me against other emerging threats to this new, free, world. You will comply wholly. You won't resist. All of this you will do, or I will stop helping you." Britain sank deeper into her chair. "And you will always be by my side, like I always wanted."
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I did." America looked into her eyes imploringly, as if she was the one with the power in the tiny, dusty room. "Just never the way you wanted it."
She felt queasy.
"And you will love me," America said quietly, as if Britain had never interrupted him. "Not as a mother loves a son, but as a woman loves a man."
She felt sick.
"As for Europe as a whole… there is no point in repeating the mistakes of the past." She ignored the jab. "There is no reason to prevent European prosperity if you can all behave yourselves." Ah, so there it was. "I am even willing to help you with loans to recover more quickly." How benevolent. "The same goes, of course, to Japan." How kind. "I have even left you some gifts in the bathroom, above ground, when you bathe later today. You will do it, won't you? You're covered in grime." How thoughtful. "Use them, please? I'll only be an hour or two, I have to talk to my boss about this meeting first." He smiled, and it looked so similar to his usual cheerful grins anyone else would have thought it was one. "Bathe for me first before I come back, okay? I want it to be perfect. Doesn't a hero deserve that much?"
America stood. So, so tall. Her neck hurt looking up at him, and her throat hurt too. It made it hard to swallow. In fact, Britain found she couldn't say a word. As America walked to the doorway he turned back to her to say one last thing.
"After all, am I not merciful?"
.
Maybe it was America's idea of a joke. At least that's what Britain thought when she saw what his "gifts" were: a pair of nylon tights, a tube of red lipstick, a can of tinned pineapple, and a tin opener. Normally she would have rolled her eyes but she wasn't in the mood, and instead she walked over to the hot water tap to turn it on. The bathtub began to fill. There was no point in turning on the cold water tap; the hot one would take a while to heat up. She fancied a hot bath, anyway.
She undressed and paused to look at the tights before putting them on. It felt strange after going so long without, especially without wearing underwear under them, but she supposed that was what America wanted. She opened the can of pineapple, and took that along with the lipstick to the now full bathtub. She turned off the tap. A hand mirror was resting face down on the floor next to the tub, and she picked that up too.
She sank into the water. Water was so soothing to her, always there and solid in its own way. She rested the mirror on her knees, and the lipstick on top of that so as not to get it wet. She brought the tin to her chin and ate greedily with her fingers. She then drank the juices from the tin, and so what if some fell into the water? The empty tin clattered to the floor. She sank further into the water.
The tights felt stranger still, now wet, but she ignored it. In the mirror she applied the lipstick, rubbed her lips together to make sure the makeup was evenly spread. She opened her mouth and ran her tongue over her teeth, careful to check for any traces of lipstick on them. When she was satisfied, Britain gave her reflection a toothy grin. She hoped America would like it.