...I feel like I should probably update something, hahaha. T.T

In other news, I was recently at Shakespeare's grave in Trinity Church in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Apparently it's a great place to find Shakespeare, Jesus and Pokémon.

And England Keep My Bones

III

Night has long fallen when his cab pulls up outside the tall crooked residences of the university, the greenish moon gloaming between the Gothic peaks. It's too dark to see the face of his watch properly but he guesses that it must be about ten o' clock. He steps down onto the gravel with his suitcase, fishing out the driver's payment from his top pocket. He can't remember much about shillings and half-crowns and probably hands over too much.

"Keep the change," he says vaguely, starting away.

"You're too kind, sir," the driver mumbles in reply, already lashing the reins at the horse's shoulder. He can't wait to be away from him, it couldn't be more obvious. America is not offended – this is not unusual behaviour in humans, who seem to sense something monstrous about nations even if they are uninformed. People like Wilde – like Shakespeare – are oddities.

The cab crunches away into the night, leaving America alone at the gates of the residency. The tall peaks of the university buildings crest beyond, a fortress-nest of knowledge. The night is so quiet that he confesses to feeling a little unnerved himself, half-way regretting his rash decision – he should have waited until morning. Still, he doesn't feel that he has time to waste – England's attention span is so savagely short these days – and his business here is a macabre one, after all. The backdrop is fitting, if nothing else.

He makes his way down the path, heavily overhung with unkempt trees, towards the arched door of the residency. The place doesn't look unlike a church – as is the fashion in Britain, it seems. The weighty brass knocker is even in the shape of a grimacing gargoyle. The whole place gives off an air of manufactured drama, just the home for the sort of man who would graverob William Shakespeare and then brag about it in The Argosy.

He raps loudly on the door, the slam of cold brass echoing in the night. There is a long moment of pause – and then he hears the clatter of footsteps beyond, the clanging of keys, the sharp slither of the bolt. The door creeps open a foot or so to reveal an elderly porter with wispy hair and bifocals.

"Good evening, sir." He glances America up and down – not without suspicion. "The hour is a late one indeed."

"It is," America agrees, "and my utmost apologies for calling at such an improper time. There is, however, an urgent matter that I must discuss with Dr Chambers."

The porter gives a nod, though his eyes narrow a touch. "You have an appointment with him so late?"

"I admit that it is unusual."

"You are affiliated with the University?"

"The American Embassy, in fact."

The porter blinks. "Is Dr Chambers in some sort of trouble?"

"Oh, no, rest assured." America smiles broadly at him. "This is merely a meeting of mutual interests."

"Very well." The porter steps aside, nodding him into the hallway. "Do come in. You'll find Dr Chambers in the rooms on the third floor. All I ask is that you keep it down, the hour being what it is."

"Of course." America nods his thanks and crosses the hall, starting up the staircase. It's an old building in need of freshening up, the carpet balding underfoot, the floral wallpaper faded, the gaslamps bracketed just a little too far apart so that pitch darkness hangs between their reach. The dust, he thinks, can't be much younger than Shakespeare himself.

He comes to the third floor door, squinting at the card in the slot; he can just about make out 'F. Chambers, PhD' in greyish ink and wastes no time in rapping smartly on the wood, the sound bouncing away down the dark staircase. Too loud, too lurid, like most everything he does. He hears a thud and some shuffling beyond – promising, promising. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as he waits, studying Chambers' name on the card. It's strange to see it handwritten after so many occasions reading it in gritty print, proclaiming its owner's misdeed. What utter gall to confess in The Argosy, of all places...

Dr Chambers, incidentally, is not what he was expecting. When he finally creaks the door open, America sees a youngish, thin, rather mousy-looking man with scrubby hair and ill-fitting glasses. He is down to his shirt-sleeves, rolled to the elbows, and looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He is not exactly the picture he painted of himself in his Argosy story – tall, strapping, hungry for adventure – and thus not precisely what America had pictured.

"Dr Chambers?"

The man shrinks back a little, his fingers curling around the door. "Indeed, sir. May I help you?" He eyes America warily, glancing at his suitcase.

"You most certainly can. I hope you will forgive the lateness of the hour and the suddenness of my calling but I felt the matter most urgent." America smiles at Chambers, who seems rather alarmed, recoiling. "You see, I would like to enquire about the skull."

Chambers frowns. "Skull?"

America's smile doesn't waver. "Why, Shakespeare's skull, of course. I read your tale in The Argosy and I was most interested."

Chambers stares at him for a beat, unblinking, before giving a sudden dismissive wave of his hand.

"Goodness, to come here at this time of night for that!" he scoffs. "You must realise that I made that ridiculous story up. Writing such lurid tales for the likes of The Argosy is easy money." He begins to close the door. "Goodnight, sir."

"I'm afraid I don't agree." America puts his foot in the gap, stopping him from shutting it. "The details in your story are too uncanny. How else could you know that the grave has no vault, no coffin and is barely three foot deep?"

Chambers stops dead, going very white. His eyes become wild and hunted, staring America down.

"I... th-those details were–"

"Exactly correct. An acquaintance of mine can attest to their truth."

Chambers whitens even more. "The grave... has been examined...?"

America smiles cheerily at him. "Perhaps you'd care to discuss it."

Chambers looks like he'd prefer nothing less but now he's in a corner. A nerve in his cheek wavers as he takes a step back, allowing America within. "Please."

"Thank you." America steps inside, very pleased with himself; aware of Chambers shutting the door quickly behind him.

The rooms are typical of an academic, small and smoky and every surface laden with books and papers and various bric-a-brac. It is barely lit, just a single gaslight burning low on the far wall, casting hulking shadows of piles of books like misshapen spines up the faded paper. He feels satisfied with himself at being here. England will be worth the effort.

"Can I bring you anything?" Chambers asks warily. "A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"I thank you but no." America turns to him. "I really am only interested in the skull."

Chambers is quiet again, looking him up and down. At length his body sags in defeat. "You are from the police, sir?"

America laughs. "Rest assured, I come on no-one's order but my own. I am not here to arrest you, Dr Chambers."

Chambers' eyes dart upwards again. "Then... you are an academic? A collector?"

America shrugs. "A little of both, perhaps, though neither is an official title. I found your story in The Argosy to be of most interest."

Chambers gives a groan, raking his hands back through his hair. "I should have known better than to tell the truth, even in a publication like that. I had hoped that readers would think it mere fiction."

America tilts his head. "Then why confess at all?"

"Foolishness. I suppose I had hoped to frighten a certain gentleman." Chambers glances at him. "You have read the story, of course, and you should know that all of it is true, including my motive. I was at a gathering and the conversation came around to the ghastly past-time of collecting skulls. A certain aristocrat confessed that he should like to own the skull of William Shakespeare and offered a prize of ten guineas to any man who brought it to him. This seemed too good an opportunity to make such a sum and I accepted the challenge. The details of my adventure you know from The Argosy – what you do not know is what happened next." Chambers' voice lowers. "On my return from Stratford, I arranged to meet with the gentleman to discuss the terms of the transaction. He was not very receptive, even reluctant, and when at last I was permitted to bring him the prize, he refused to believe that it was the skull of Shakespeare. He accused me of having taken the skull from the nearest churchyard despite my recounting of the tale to him. All in all, he refused to pay a single penny for the wretched thing."

"And so you were stuck with it," America finished.

"Yes. I tried to sell it by others means – contacts in academic circles – but nobody would believe that it was truly the skull of Shakespeare. Still, my possession of it made me nervous – I had desecrated the most famous tomb in Britain to retrieve it, after all. I wrote the story for The Argosy, leaving the aristocrat's name a secret, in the hopes that he would become nervous about being exposed and would pay to keep me quiet." Chambers twists his hands together. "However, I confess at this point that I am no longer interested in the money. I would give him the skull at no charge at all if only he would rid me of it."

"Then you still have it."

"Regretfully."

Definitely worth the trip.

"Well, Dr Chambers," America says, "I would be very glad to relieve you of it."

Chambers looks at him guardedly. "You genuinely want it?"

"I most certainly do."

"And you believe that it truly is the skull of Shakespeare?"

"I do not see what reason you have to lie about it – not to me, at any rate."

"Well, I certainly have no objection to you taking it." Chambers actually seems to wilt with relief. "In fact, I would be very grateful."

America has no doubt of this, following at Chambers' beckon to the farthest and darkest corner; hidden away here, snugly buried beneath a pile of books, is a battered old chest. It is locked tight and Chambers unearths the key, wrapped in newspaper, from beneath a loose floorboard. The chest opens with a screech of thirsty hinges, a cloud of dust exhaling upwards. Chambers waves it away, coughing as he unwraps the ancient red curtain he has hidden his prize within the folds of. He gently lifts the skull out, a smooth yellow-grey in the gaslight, and hesitates a moment before offering it. America takes it, feeling its cool weight in his palms, looking unblinkingly into the blank eye sockets.

"Alas, poor Yorrick," he says blandly. He glances at Chambers. "Right?"

Chambers gives him a tight smile. "I suppose so." He looks quickly at the empty chest. "Will you take it?"

"I would be glad to." America tucks the skull under his arm. "My acquaintance will find this most interesting. I thank you on his behalf."

"He is an academic too? A scholar of Shakespeare, perhaps?"

America grins. "Something like that, you might say."

Chambers doesn't seem like he cares much either way, weighed down with the suddenness of being free from his idiocy. America considers idly what he will fill that chest up with now, what he will fall for next. Just how foolish is this man, anyway?

He stashes the skull in his suitcase, nestled neatly between his shirts and pyjamas. He wonders what England will think of Shakespeare smelling of fresh laundry. He locks the suitcase and picks it up, turning with a nod to Chambers.

"Again, I thank you. I confess that this has been easier than I was anticipating."

"No, it is I who must thank you," Chambers replies, "and most profusely indeed, sir. I was beginning to despair of what I should do with the thing. I never should have stolen from a grave so very clearly marked with a curse."

"Oh?" America grins lazily at him. "Do you believe in that sort of thing?"

Chambers knots his finger together. For a moment he is quiet. "Not as such," he says at length, "but I cannot deny that I have been plagued with both misfortune and a general ill ease since I stole the skull, a feeling that I cannot explain. I assure you that I am very glad to be rid of it."

"Well, I'm not really the superstitious type – I'm more interested in science." America beams at him. "Besides, I get on well with the misfortune of others. It always seems to work out best for me."

"You were not gone long," Canada says uneasily. He is still in his coat and hat, summoned to the Embassy by America by telegram within minutes of him being through the door. "You must have travelled all night." He pauses. "I trust your endeavour was... fruitful?"

"The absolute jackpot, Matthew." America, who hasn't slept, throws his suitcase on the bed and rips it open, beginning to tear through it. "I went to see this Dr Chambers and I confess I was not expecting him to still have the thing–"

"Wait." Canada frowns. "He actually agreed to see you at such an hour?"

"I suppose I didn't give him much choice."

"What a surprise." Canada rolls his eyes. "And he showed you the skull?"

"Better." America unearths the skull from a bundle of shirts and presents it to his twin. "He gave it to me."

Canada wrinkles his nose in disgust. "For a price, I expect."

"No, he gifted it to me. He was glad to be rid of it. Some superstitious nonsense about a curse on the tomb, said it was giving him bad luck or something."

Aside from disgust, Canada doesn't show much feeling one way or the other. "And how can you be sure that it really is Shakespeare's? That could be any old skull, idiot."

"Would a sane man hide a plain old skull within a locked chest? Do not forget that I called upon him unannounced – he would not have had the forethought to fabricate such conditions for my benefit."

"Perhaps he is not sane," Canada says meaningfully. "And neither, I fear, are you."

"I am perfectly sane," America says. He looks at the skull. "Aren't I, Bill?" He makes the skull nod fervently, the loose jaw rattling. "See?"

"...You're not really going to bring Arthur that awful thing, are you?"

"Of course I am. Look at all the effort I went to! Besides, he said he wanted it."

"I doubt he meant it literally, Alfred."

"Well, how else could he have meant it?" America looks at his watch. "Anyway, to hell with you. I'm going to go and give it to him right this instant."

"You cannot." Canada looks relieved. "He has business to attend to today. He will not be back until late this evening."

America is quiet for a moment, annoyed (less at England and more at Canada, actually). Finally he tosses the skull back into his suitcase and slams it shut.

"Fine," he says. "I can wait."

"You will have to," Canada says coolly. "Francis and I are having dinner tonight. Join us, please, and put this nonsense out of your head."

"...You have told Francis, haven't you?"

"I haven't told Francis," Canada sighs. "I hardly need to – he will say the exact same thing as me."

"That I shouldn't substitute a stolen skull for a bouquet?"

"That you're an idiot with a dangerously one-track mind."

America snorts. "That'd be rich coming from him. You might be flavour of the month but we all know he'll fuck anything with a pulse – Arthur included."

"Alfred–"

"Besides, I think about other things."

Canada doesn't bite. "I dread to think." He turns away. "Dinner, 7 o' clock – and don't bring that damned skull."

Ultimately this works out for the best – for as wont as he was to turn up on England's doorstep unwashed, unshaven and having not slept, the likelihood of him even getting past the aides would have been slim indeed. Instead he sleeps until three o' clock, bathes thoroughly and spends the rest of the afternoon gently cleaning the skull with a soft cloth. It seems quite imperative to him that they both look their best – cue Round Two with the dreaded bow-tie when the time comes to dress for dinner. He does, of course, bring the skull with him to the club, carefully wrapped inside the emptied-out suitcase, and he sees Canada eye it in despair as he sits down. Luckily France is a master of getting Canada drunk very quickly – likely how he ever got him into bed in the first place – and America doesn't have to be very concerned with him. France is in a cheerful mood, doing most of the talking, and by the end of the meal he is more interested in luring Canada back to his hotel room, allowing America to make his excuses and escape without arousing too much suspicion.

He doesn't know precisely what Canada means by "late", given that sometimes England stays out all night and sometimes he's in bed by nine, depending on his mood. Either way, America doesn't intend to give being turned away a chance, creeping around the back of the vast townhouse and settling in the bushes with the suitcase at his side. From here he can see the windows and balconies at the back of the house: those of England's room and his study. The lights are off in both – either he's downstairs or he's not back yet – but America can wait. He draws his legs up and rests his chin on his knees, perfectly content. It's a warm night and he's well-rested. Besides, Canada doesn't know what he's talking about. Only a sane man could be this patient.

He's beginning to nod off when he hears the doors creak open, shaking himself fully awake to see the lights on in Engand's room. Better yet are the curtains billowing and, after a moment, England himself stepping out onto the balcony. He comes to the rail and turns, leaning his back against it as he lights up a cigar. America fumbles with the case, wrenching it open and pulling out the skull. He scrambles from his hiding place and sprints across the grass, coming to a halt beneath the balcony. He hides the skull behind his back.

"Arthur!" he calls. He can barely contain himself.

England jumps. He whirls, his green eyes livid, cigar smouldering. He exhales through his nose when he sees the culprit.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he snaps. "You frightened the bleeding life out of me!"

"My apologies," America chirps, "but this could not wait. I have brought you a present."

"Alfred, I am really not in the mood for your childish nonsense right now."

"Ah," America grins up at him, "but this is neither."

He brings out the skull, holding it upwards like a trophy, stretching up on the balls of his feet to get it as close to England as possible. There is a long pause, stretched and painful.

"What the hell is that?" England drawls. He exhales again, tapping off his ash.

"It's Shakespeare's skull," America says. "Obviously."

England arches his eyebrows. "Precisely how stupid do you think I am?" His tone is growing impatient, dangerous.

"It really is, though, Arthur!" America waves it hopefully at him. "Here, have a better look." He pulls his arm back, ready to launch the skull at the balcony. "Catch!"

"Don't you dare throw that thing at me!" England snaps.

America stops, pouting. "It's not a thing," he says. "It's Shakespeare's skull."

"It's a skull, certainly – one you pinched from the nearest morgue, I've no doubt. Your behaviour beggars belief sometimes."

America doesn't know what to say. England not believing him hadn't entered his head, not even fleetingly. He blinks owlishly up at him, clutching the skull, dumbfounded.

"Enough of this," England says coolly. "It's almost midnight. Get yourself home before I come down there and put my foot up your backside." He turns abruptly and stalks away. "Goodnight."

"Et tu, Brute!" America shouts after him; and perhaps there's a pause before the slam of the balcony doors.

He could admit defeat and go home, of course, but England will probably tell Canada and then Canada will come to the Embassy tomorrow morning (grouchy with a sore head and a sore ass) and tell him gloatingly that he told him so – which is something that he wants no part in. The balcony isn't high and there is wooden latticework for the rosebushes, an easy climb for him with the skull tucked inside his jacket. He clambers over the rail and creeps across the balcony, keeping just out of sight. England hasn't drawn the curtains and America watches him slinking about half-undressed with a book and his cigar, a long green velvet robe thrown over his unbuttoned shirt. He remembers him doing that back in Boston, pacing while reading, picking up books halfway through dressing. He is easily distracted, always disinterested. Perhaps he has grown bored of Shakespeare's skull already.

(His attention must be arrested.)

America pushes down the handles and throws the doors open, striding forcefully into England's chamber. England starts, dropping the book, vulnerable a moment as he backs against the desk. America watches the drop of his ribcage as he exhales, the gleam in his eyes as they darken.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growls. "I believe I bid you goodnight."

"But parting is such sweet sorrow." America smiles cheerily at him.

"Did you learn a few choice lines before coming here?" England asks in disgust. "To better garnish your theatrics?"

"You say that as though it was not you who taught me to read, Arthur – yes, and armed with Shakespeare, too."

"I am surprised you recall any of it."

"I can remember things if I need to."

"Then perhaps you will remember that I told you that I was having none of this nonsense from you." England wraps his robe about himself. "How dare you come into my quarters uninvited. You will leave at once, Alfred."

"I won't," America replies, taking out the skull once more. "Not after all the effort I went to to secure this for you."

England's green eyes flash. "If you think that I will believe for even one instant that that is the skull of Shakespeare then you are–"

"And why couldn't it be?" America argues. "I went to visit Dr Chambers myself last night, Arthur. This is the skull that he took from the tomb in Stratford. He had it hidden away and had no prior knowledge of my visit. He could not have counterfeited the conditions."

"It is you whom I suspect of having counterfeited the conditions," England says coldly. "Now confess that you stole the skull from some poor bugger's grave and be done with it."

America is hurt. "I cannot confess that," he says, "for everything I have said is true. I called on the tale's author, Dr Chambers, and relieved him of his spoil. Here it is."

England folds his arms. "And why would you have done such a thing. You'll forgive me but it seems like a lot of expenditure for a bit of sport."

"It was not for sport. You said you wanted the skull, Arthur – so I got it for you." Again America holds it out. "So here."

There is a long moment of silence. England does not take the skull, instead staring America down, unmoved, his eyes piercing. America feels the back of his neck begin to prickle; he is not afraid of England but his scrutiny is unpleasant to be on the receiving end of.

"Well?" He asks it sulkily, defensively.

"Well what?" England looks at his nails. "You can take that skull back where you found it, for a start. I certainly don't want it."

"But Arthur!" This is not the grand welcome he had pictured, fast crumbling into yet another failed and humiliating encounter with England's apathy towards him. "It really is Shakespeare's skull! I went all the way to get it for you, I–"

"Indeed," England interrupts. "...And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

"I..." America trails off, his voice sticking in his throat. The words won't come to his mind, never mind his tongue.

"For me?" England goes on. "As a gift – out of the goodness of your heart?"

It sounds so idiotic in England's mouth. America steps back, allowing him to slide past. He wants to seize hold of him, grab him tight, pin him down, but he doesn't dare, instead watching the glitter of the gaslight on green velvet as he moves away. He blends in, a vibrant jewel amidst the clutter of his conquests proudly displayed on every surface: maps, books, weapons, ornaments, jewellery. He never used to be so materialistic – never used to want frivolities like sugar cane and skulls.

He is barefoot, he notices. He hasn't seen England barefoot since Boston.

"Matthew..." America clears his throat, watching England play idly with a carved elephant on his desk. "Matthew says that you don't forgive me, that... you never will."

"Hm?" England glances at him. "I suspect it's the other way around, Alfred."

"...That I don't forgive you?"

"For keeping you as colony for all those years, for refusing to let you go without a fight." England nods at the skull. "That's why I don't believe you would do anything for me out of sheer kindness."

America bristles, wrong-footed. "M-maybe I was trying to... to impress you!"

England snorts. "Impress me? But I'm just Arthur – the stuffy overbearing old tyrant you fought so hard to get away from, remember? You're a fine, strong young nation. What do you care about impressing me?"

America glowers, saying nothing. England smiles.

"Again," he says calmly, "exactly how stupid do you think I am? There's only one reason you want me now, isn't there? ...You're the most power-hungry little bastard I've ever come across."

"That's right," America says dully, looking hard at the wall. "I want into your bed, Arthur, so I can kill you in your sleep." He runs his nails over the curve of the skull, letting out a breath.

"And then usurp me," England adds cheerfully. "Steal my crown – and then I'll be another murdered king, Caesar or Duncan or Lear." He looks pointedly, piercingly, at America. "...Yes, perhaps Lear is the best fit of all."

America is resentful, not meeting his eyes. "You're mad," he says.

England smiles at him. "Et tu, Brute?"