Author's Note: This request was submitted by kandielric on Tumblr. It looks like it's going to be a three-shot. As always, if you'd like to submit a request for a fic, you can inbox me at my blog, Mandelene Fics! (Just be warned I'm incredibly slow with fills because I have a long list to get through first). ENJOY! :D


America has learned not to let himself get too attached, so when England takes him horseback riding, helps him catch his first fish by the side of the river, and teaches him how to waltz without tripping over his own feet, he makes sure not to smile too hard. He knows that before long, the man will slip away and disappear to some place halfway across the world and leave him to fend for himself for months with only the maid, Marybeth, to keep him company.

Of course, America will cry for a few days until he doesn't have any more tears to shed, wondering if England ever really cared in the first place. Nights when he can't sleep and the noises outside of his window become too eerie to bear, England isn't there to chase away the monsters. He isn't there when America gets stung by a bee in the backyard, so Marybeth is the one to apply salve and a dressing to his palm instead. She kisses it better, but it doesn't feel the same as when England does it. It's not as warm and tingly and healing.

These days, England only visits once a year for a few weeks. His excuse is always something along the lines of how America is old enough not to need his constant supervision, and how he has a bunch of other people who rely on him. He has an empire to maintain, and even though America knows what an empire is, he's unable to wrap his head around the sheer size of what the man is referring to.

Once upon a time, England told him he'd take him to Europe to see what it's like, and since then, America has been begging to go with him on his trips across the sea, but his mentor claims that he's still too young to make such a journey. After all, according to him, traveling on a ship isn't easy, especially not when one has to dwell on said ship for two months—sometimes even longer—just to get to a destination.

How come he's old enough to dress himself, clean his room, and do chores, but he's not old enough to see the world? England's always telling him how he's grown up enough to behave himself, but whenever America asks to do something actually fun, England claims he's too little.

So when they sit down for dinner one evening and England inevitably announces he'll be leaving the colonies in a few days, America musters up his most grown-up voice and asks, "Can I go with you?"

Unsurprisingly, England graces him with an incredulous furrow of his brows and resolutely says, "No."

"Why not?"

"We've had this discussion one too many times, America."

America resists the urge to whine. "But I promise I'll be good, and I won't cause any trouble! I'll do whatever you say, and I won't get in your way, and—!"

"I said, no, America," England repeats with cold eyes, refusing to be persuaded. "The sea is no place for a child."

"But—!"

"No. One more word out of you, and you'll earn yourself an early bedtime."

America slumps against the kitchen table and picks at his food with his fork, appetite lost. Sometimes, England treats him like such a baby, and he can't stand his condescending tone. Why does England bother telling him all of those cool stories about pirates and naval battles if he won't let America experience it for himself? Just once, he wants to know what it's like to stand on the deck of a proper ship and see the rolling waves of the ocean foam and glitter in the sunlight.

He knows England does some things he could probably get in big trouble for with the monarchy, but either England doesn't care or he's been granted some kind of immunity because he doesn't seem to worry at all about potentially being caught during one of his excursions. There's a name for those types of pirates—privateers.

America wants to fire the cannons and sing funny songs. He'd be the captain and the whole Atlantic would be scared to cross paths with him! He'd find treasure and break the laws of the Crown and—

"I can only imagine the inane scheme you're plotting right now," England says, breaking him out of his thoughts. There's a crooked smile on his lips. "You're staying in Boston, and that's my final decision. Finish your dinner."

America lets out a deflated sigh and shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth before washing it down with water. "When're you coming back?"

The previous smile on England's face is replaced with a frown, and America can see the sudden remorse and sadness in his eyes. "I'm not sure."

"So next year?" America asks, unable to repress the bitterness in his voice.

"That's not what I—"

"Or maybe two or three years? After all, I'm big enough to be on my own, right?"

England clicks his tongue. "You won't be alone, you'll have Marybeth here to—"

"Or maybe you'll never come back! Just admit it, you don't want to spend time with me!"

"America…"

"Just let me come with you!" America shouts, and a sob escapes him before he can try to stop it. He rises from his chair, kicks it back, and storms to the doorway, leaving the rest of his plate untouched.

"America, come back here, and let's talk about this like adults."

But America has already stopped listening. He stomps upstairs and into his room before slamming the door shut and throwing himself onto his bed, cheeks coated in uncomfortably hot tears. He's dreading the months to come—how he'll be expected to be strong and brave through the loneliness. England's right, he is still just a kid, and that's exactly why England shouldn't be leaving all of the time.

The bedroom door creaks open, and England walks in quietly with pursed lips. He steps over to where America is lying and gently puts a hand on his back, doing his best to be comforting without betraying his own emotions.

"America? I know you're upset with me," he whispers, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. "But you know I can't stay."

America's body shakes with another sharp sob as the hand on his back continues its rubbing.

"It's for the best. You're safer here, and I'd never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you," England murmurs. "Here in the colonies, you're protected. Contrary to what you may believe, my life isn't glamorous. There are dangers to consider… I'm not doing this to hurt you."

America pulls his pillow close to his chest and mumbles, "It feels like you are."

England frowns and squeezes his shoulder. "Please try to understand."

It doesn't matter. England can try to rationalize things as much as he wants, but it doesn't serve to make America feel any better about the situation. In the end, England still packs his belongings and makes arrangements for the trip, and no amount of tears can stop him.

He'll be leaving first thing in the morning.


By all standards, Marybeth makes a fine caretaker. She's organized, spry, and has a perpetual smile on her face. She does, however, have one fatal flaw—she's hopelessly naïve.

After America says goodbye to England and watches him get in his carriage, he asks Marybeth if he can go and sit in the yard. He claims he needs to get some air, and she thinks it's because he's overwrought with sadness over England being gone. So, she lets him go out unsupervised, and America takes the perfect opportunity to climb the fence and run away. By the time she realizes he's missing, he'll already be too far away for her to catch him.

It's not far to the docks on foot, and America races there as fast as his legs will carry him, hoping to catch England's ship before it departs.

He's on a mission. If he sneaks onto the ship and doesn't get caught until they make landfall again, he'll have proven to England he really is mature enough to handle a life at sea. The man will be impressed, and they'll get to be with each other all of the time.

It's ingenious.

He's sweating from exhaustion by the time he makes it to the docks, but it's all worth it because he sees England boarding the ship. In fact, he's just close enough to see the crewmembers grovel at his arrival. One by one, they bow their heads and refer to him as either "Captain" or "sir," and America is amazed by the amount of authority England seems to have over them.

He looks incredibly regal in his crimson robes and plumage, and America himself can't help but feel a little small by simply being in his proximity.

Now he just has to figure out how to get himself on board as well.

The crew seems to be loading some of the last crates of cargo onto the ship, and if he's clever about it, America's sure he could hide inside one of them, preferably one that's not entirely full with food or other supplies.

He finds a half-empty box with gauze and textiles inside, and before he can second guess his decision, he slips into it. Unfortunately for him, it's disgustingly hot inside of the crate, and he can almost feel the summer sun's rays being absorbed by the wood as one of the crewman lifts him up and carries him on deck.

He just barely bites back a yelp of fear when he's dropped down the hatch, and he and the box fall with a thud to the lower deck, rattled. Thankfully, he isn't hurt in the process, and someone pushes him into the hold of the ship where the rest of the extra food and resources are stored.

When the commotion around him stops, and he's sure no one's going to come by any time soon, he crawls out of the crate with a quiet groan and stiff muscles. It's still humid and hot, but he hides behind a row of crates and rests against the wall behind them, thinking that if maybe he doesn't move around too much, he'll cool off.

He's not sure how long he sits in place, but it must be a good while because the ship lurches with life and begins to move, occasionally swaying from side to side.

And then, he hears England shouting commands and using colorful words he's never heard before. He's tempted to laugh at catching his caretaker using such foul language, but then he notices the sheer venom in England's tone, and he shudders in response, feeling sorry for anyone who's in trouble.

From what he gathers, they aren't heading for Europe. Instead, their course is set for the Caribbean.

America's not sure how he feels about that news, but with England on board with him, he's not as scared as he should be. He treats himself to an apple from one of the food barrels and readies himself for a long journey, wondering what adventures await.

He should be more careful with his wishes.


"I've money in my pocket, love,
And bright gold in store;
These clothes of mine are all in rags,
But coin can buy more."

The men are singing again, and all America wants to do is vomit. Much to his chagrin, he has become very aware of how prone he is to seasickness. As the others cajole and pass around a bottle of rum, he keeps his distance and hides in one of the dark corners of the hold, one arm wrapped around his churning, bloated belly. Two days at sea, and he's already considering flinging himself overboard. This was not what he had in mind when he decided he wanted to experience the life of a pirate.

"Though black my hands my gold is clean
So I'll sail afar,
A fairer maid than you, I ween,
Will wed this Jack tar."

He really hopes he doesn't actually get sick. Everyone will smell it if he does, and he'll be caught within minutes. He didn't suffer for the past forty-eight hours just to be discovered so soon.

Just then, the ship rocks violently backward, and America has to dig the heels of his shoes into the floor to keep himself from sliding out of his hiding spot. A few seconds pass, and the ship rights itself, but the men are visibly startled by all of this and they climb up to the deck to investigate.

A crack of thunder gives them all an answer, and America squeezes his eyes shut in fear. Of all of the places to be caught in a storm, this is certainly not the location he would have chosen. Swiftly, he staggers onto his feet and sneaks his way over to the open hatch, trying to listen in on what's happening.

A heavy door comes flying open, and England comes marching out of the captain's quarters, boots squelching against the wet floorboards as his robes billow behind him. Over the wind and rain, America can only pick out parts of the conversation.

"—change the course..."
"Sir! We have company!"
"Ahh… I see a slimy frog in the distance," England growls.
"Should we ready the cannons? Or raise our flag?"
"There's no need. They appear to be taking on water as we speak."
"We could take her over and pilfer her before she sinks."
"Captain, it appears they're surrendering."

It's quiet for a long minute, and Alfred waits to see what will happen next, jolting when another clap of thunder catches him by surprise and a mist of rain comes spraying down the hatch.

"Should we leave them to Davy Jones' locker?"
"Bugger all… Fish them out. We can have them walk the plank later if they don't prove to be useful," England decides. "And be quick about it!"
"Aye! Go on, lads!"

America braces himself as another powerful wave jostles the ship, and there's a whole lot of shouting above him before he hears extra pairs of boots come pounding on deck. He risks taking a peek through the hatch and sees England standing just a few feet away. He has the collar of someone's shirt in his fist as he says, "You again."

The man he's holding has long, wavy blond hair curtaining the sides of his face and amused blue eyes. They're both absolutely drenched. "Oui, I know you've missed me, Angleterre. I did not think I would meet an old friend out here. Running errands for the Queen again, are we?"

England rolls his eyes and lets go of the man's collar with a disgusted curl of his lips. "Cleave him to the brisket, lads!"

The man laughs and shakes his sopping wet head. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

A crewman takes out his cutlass and holds it to the man's shoulder, and there's a calculating expression on England's face.

"Arthur, mon amie. If you had wanted me dead, you wouldn't have brought me here."

"The thanks I get for saving your arse," England hisses before commanding his crewmember to put down his sword. "I've changed my mind. I'll deal with this frog myself. Take him to the—"

Alfred doesn't catch the rest of the sentence because something, or rather, someone, comes careening down the hatch and knocks into him, tossing him to the ground. He groans and rubs his head as he collects himself, and he's stunned to see that there's a boy sitting directly beside him with wide, terrified eyes and a stuffed bear.

"Who're you?" America asks the boy, and when the kid turns around to face him, he feels like he's going to vomit all over again.

And that's because this strange boy looks almost exactly like him. They could be twins.

America is immediately wary of him, and he stands up to his full height and puffs out his chest, trying to seem tough and intimidating. "Are you some kind of ghost, or demon, or something? What do you want from me? I-I'll beat you up!"

The boy quivers and holds his stuffed bear up to his face, hiding behind it. "Non!"

"What're you doing here? I-I know the captain of the ship! He'll toss you into the sea if I tell him to!" America warns, brandishing two fists. "So? What's it gonna be? You bilge-sucking rat!"

He's heard that insult used around on the ship, and he hopes he sounds big and powerful when he says it. It seems to have some kind of effect on the boy because he takes a couple steps back and releases a frightened whimper.

"Say something, demon!"

"D-Don't hurt me!" the boy says in broken English, tears running down his rosy cheeks.

"Answer me, then! What are you?"

"Canada."

"Canada? What's a Canada?" America asks, unimpressed. Reluctantly, he lowers his fists.

"My name is Canada," the boy clarifies with a sniffle.

"Oh. OH. You're that Canada! England's told me about you. You're France's colony, right?"

"Oui."

America frowns, confused by this boy's weird speech. "Wee?"

"I mean, yes."

"Okay, well, I'm America, and you'd better watch your back because I'm not someone you wanna mess with, kid!"

Canada rubs at his swollen eyes and sniffles again. "I d-don't want to fight."

"Yeah, because you know you'd lose!" America huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll let you off the hook this time. So, how'd you end up here, Canada?"

"I-I went onto France's ship even though I wasn't supposed to, and now he's going to be really angry," Canada explains, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, that's okay! I'm not supposed to be here either, actually," America admits with a reassuring grin. He's just beginning to feel confident about the entire situation when the thunder comes back with fury and scares the living daylights out of him again. He pales and his feet become ice cold.

Canada steps forward, puts a hand on his shoulder, and asks, "Are you scared of the storm, too?"

"Nuh-uh! Who do you think I am? Some kinda baby?" America gasps, insulted. A second round of thunder follows the first though, and he jumps half a foot into the air.

Canada, the cheeky kid, smiles knowingly at him.

"All right, so maybe I'm a little scared. Look, I can't stand around here all night. I've gotta hide before someone finds out I'm here."

"Can I hide, too?"

"You promise to be quiet and not tell on me to England?"

"I promise."

"Okay. You can sit in my corner with me then," America agrees, leading the way back to his place behind the storage crates. "You gotta stay close to the wall and out of the light, okay?"

"Okay."

The thunder rumbles again, and America instinctively reaches out his arms and tightens them around Canada, breathing hard. Half a second later, Canada's arms coil around his waist as well.

"I'll protect us," America says, even though he's not so sure he's capable of keeping that promise.

Canada seems to believe him though, silly boy.