So this might seem like a weird fic to update at this time of year given that The Waning is still hanging over my head like Poe's pendulum - however, I do recall promising that this fic was going to get weird and so it will. In fact, the turn it takes in this chapter is fitting for an October update, I think! ;3
And England Keep My Bones
IV
America sits amidst the smoke, folding and unfolding the letter absently, impatient. He spares another glance at it even though he knows it off by heart, even knows the flicks and swirls of the words, the splatch of ink in the bottom left corner.
Alfred,
Arthur will be in New York for two weeks on business, commencing November 14th. He said the other day that he has not seen you for much too long (I was as surprised that he mentioned it at all). Perhaps you might use this opportunity – wisely! - to patch things up between you.
Matthew
P.S: I am by no means encouraging you to once again begin your obssessive and inappropriate courtship of him. He has not forgotten the incident with the skull.
Canada does, of course, have his uses – he is much kinder than America or England. Still, much of this letter is misinformed. The truth is that nobody has seen America for a good long while – he has spent his time either out manifesting his destiny or holed up at home. He has much to occupy himself with these days, after all. And that besides, he and England don't need to "patch things up", per se – it's not that they ever fell out, at least not on a scale of one-to-1776. It's more that England wasn't very appreciative of his effort to restore Shakespeare's skull to him and America was by turns offended, sulky and thoroughly pissed off. All that, however, was well over a year ago. He hasn't seen England since, true, but a year is nothing to a nation.
(Plenty of time to build, however.)
Still, a few curt telegrams across the Atlantic later and here he is in Grand Central Terminal, awaiting England's train. His business is finished and he has allotted America but a day and night of his time. No doubt he's expecting an apology of some sort – or, at the very least, to be thoroughly impressed. America couldn't vouch for either happening but he has at least made his bed.
He springs up as the train at last pulls into the station, jamming Canada's letter into his pocket. He has dressed nicely for the occasion, not wanting to give England an excuse to savage him right off the bat, and adjusts his cravat in the sleek shining paintwork of the train as it at last judders to a halt. England will be in first class, of course, and America bounces on the balls of his feet outside the first carriage as the smart porters come to each of the doors to open them. It swings back, acutely silent, and after a long moment England emerges from the plush cavern within. He is completely in black, his heavy travelling cloak buttoned right up to the throat, his hat in his hand. He is like oil and gold, solid and sudden in the heart of grimy New York, rich beyond measure – the most powerful man in the world, Caesar reborn. He doesn't move a muscle, turning his keen bright gaze fixedly on America. He must have noticed the stupid grin by now.
"Welcome to New York, sir," the porter says briskly.
"Thank you," England replies, not taking his eyes off America. "Alfred."
America blinks. "O-oh!" He stumbles forward, thrusting out his hand. "Of course!"
England takes it delicately, coming down the trembling ladder, and stands for a moment very carefully putting on his top hat just-so as the porter retrieves his luggage.
"Where is your hat, Alfred?" he asks, not really looking at him.
"I don't like wearing one. My hair sits oddly enough as it is."
"Hm." England is unimpressed, gesturing vaguely about the busy terminal – populated by men and women in hats, admittedly. "You really ought to make more of an effort in polite society, you know."
America snorts. "As if I have the time for that. Besides, out on the Frontier–"
"Oh, of course. Been out chasing the Natives again, have you?"
"Hey, they started it."
"Well, strictly speaking I started it," England says. "I and Francis and Ned and Antonio and Ludwig... Still, you're good at finishing the job, aren't you?"
America scrunches his nose cheerfully. "I suppose so."
"Your luggage, sir." The porter steps down with the two leather suitcases.
"Thank you." England nods to him, giving him a hugely generous tip – although this is because he has more money than he knows what to do with rather than being careless with it (America, meanwhile, is sick to death of being scolded by Canada for his own stupidity with cash).
The gesture is not lost on the porter, who pockets the bill with a fervent nod. "Thank you, sir, you're much too kind – can I take your cases to your cab, it's the least I can do–"
"It's alright, I have them," America interjects coolly, snatching them up, one in each hand. They look heavy but he's so strong they weigh nothing to him. "Come on, Arthur." He leads the way through the bustle, England tipping his hat to the porter and following him rather lazily, putting on his gloves.
"He was only doing his job," he says. "Rather well, too."
"You've a good word for everybody but me, haven't you?" America replies coolly.
"Goodness, are you going to sulk at me already, Alfred?" A sigh. "You invited me, after all. It would have been easier for me to simply sail straight home from New York."
America says nothing as they come to the hansom cab waiting outside. He puts England's suitcases in for him and helps him up even though he's fitter and stronger than he's ever been and doesn't need the hand, really.
"I should have invited Queen Victoria," America grumbles, clambering up opposite him. "She would have been less work."
England puts his hat in his lap, dusting it off. "She would not have accepted. She thinks you're a pain in the arse, to put it politely."
"How is that polite?"
"Well, she's not wrong, my dear."
America gives another snort, annoyed. "Big words from someone who liked Abraham Lincoln so much."
"Well, it was impossible to dislike that man. His intelligence and charisma were to be greatly admired."
"Like Mr Wilde, huh?" America scowls. "Or Mr Byron or... Mr Shakespeare."
"God, you're prickly. Are you still going on about that?"
"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"
"Perhaps so, you jealous little bugger." England folds his arms and settles back. "At least none of the aforementioned men behaved like a petulant child."
America clams up, irritated. Anything he says now will make it worse. Instead he stares fixedly out of the cab window as it trundles along the grey road towards the old house on Boston's outskirts. England, who will remember it well – it was his, after all – hasn't set foot in it for over a century. Getting him to come here now is momentous, a victory in itself. Perhaps he will shed the skin of Empire at the door.
"You have Matthew to thank for orchestrating this, anyway," England goes on after a long pause. He, too, is watching the world go by beyond. "He is the one who suggested I be kind to you and accept your invitation. I was not inclined to do so of my own volition."
America rolls his eyes. "Is that right?"
"Indeed."
"Matthew's the one who told me you were coming here to begin with. Quite the little shit-stirrer, huh?" He watches England through his eyelashes, waiting for his reaction – a hair-trigger with regards to his precious Canada, do-no-wrong golden boy. He wouldn't know how to revolt against England if the inclination bit him in the ass.
"Well," England says pleasantly, "you are twins, after all. I suppose you're going to have certain similarities that I can't do much about."
Ugh. America wants to be sick.
"You know Francis fucks him, right?" he blurts out. He wants so badly to be spiteful at this second.
"I am aware." England shrugs. "That is his business. He may be my colony but he is also an adult. It's none of my concern who he wants to engage himself with in that regard."
The impression America gets – from England's tone – is that he doesn't really care. His love for Canada seems pretty unconditional. How infuriating.
"Was that your silver bullet, Alfred?" England tilts his head at him. "Do you think I'll be so easily swayed?"
"I just felt that you should know, is all. I'd hate for him to... well, be doing things behind your back."
"The way you used to? Do you think I didn't know about your sneaking out at night to meetings with the likes of Paul Revere?" England gives him an icy smile. "You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?"
America flushes angrily. "Th-then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you shout at me – or stop me?"
"I suppose that was my mistake. I didn't take the rumblings of Revolution seriously until 1775. I didn't think any of your would have the nerve to actually do it. Besides, I thought you were just being difficult, that you wanted me to shout at you. You always were an attention seeker and I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction."
"Your mistake."
"Quite. I definitely underestimated your extraordinary need to get your own way." England grins knowingly. "But I'm wise to it now."
America gives a thoughtful nod. "Looks like it," he replies.
It takes about an hour to get to the house. America lives here most of the year more-or-less by himself, with just a few serving staff that come and go like moths, and the place is beginning to fall into disrepair. England, thankfully, seems too tired to notice what has become of the once-splendid townhouse built at his command, following America up the crumbling path. He doesn't comment on the cobwebs hanging from the doorframe, nor on the haze of dust thick like a fog in the hall. America sees him stifle a yawn as he locks the front door.
"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "Tea – or a cup of coffee, maybe? It'll brighten you right up."
"I'm fine for sustenance," England says. "To be perfectly honest, I barely even need it anymore."
"Oh?" America is interested in this, given that England was definitely eating and drinking the last time he saw him – just a little over a year ago. "Is that common in nations?"
He, of course, is so very young by comparison so he wouldn't know.
"Not in ordinary nations," England says, "but certainly in empires. Ironic, isn't it, for imperial glory built on tea leaves?" He yawns again. "I do, however, still need to sleep – and I am most tired from the journey. Would you mind showing me to my quarters?"
"Of course." America hikes up his suitcases and leads the way, starting up the curl of the staircase. "I thought you... ah, you'd prefer to be in, well, your old room."
There is a beat. America hears England stop on the staircase for the briefest of moments.
"...Yes, I suppose that will be fine." "You hesitated."
"The thought just hadn't occurred to me, that's all."
"I didn't think you would want to share with me."
"You thought wisely. You're much too old for that sort of thing now."
America clears his throat and changes the subject.
"So... you don't eat anymore? At all?"
"I do now and then, mostly for appearance, and sometimes I take the odd cup of tea if it is offered – but the need has left me."
America, who is hungry right now, can't imagine that at all. "But you need to eat to live," he says. "How are you still alive? You haven't even lost any weight!"
"Well, we aren't human, are we?" England shrugs. "It doesn't really matter to me, you know."
"Huh." They come to the door of England's old room and America opens it, letting it swing back. "Well, as long as you still have use for a bed."
With a nod, England sweeps past him into the chamber, pausing in the middle of the floor. He looks lazily about, unclasping his cloak and letting it drop. America leans in and puts his suitcases next to the door – but he stands in the doorway, not daring to take a step beyond the threshold. It would shatter then, he thinks – England, Arthur, standing in the room that once was his when America too was his, captured like a snowglobe, dust spiralling in the sunlight. The room is greyish, ghostlike, out of use since the day England left in 1775 to meet his army in Boston Harbour. America cried on the bed that night but it hasn't been slept in since (and even then America hadn't known if he was upset over England or if he was really just feeling sorry for himself).
He had cleaned the room in anticipation of England's arrival, wiping away a century-worth of dust and grime, but the damage is done, the mirror mottled, the hangings of the bed sun-faded and thin. He notices England looking at them.
"I changed the bedclothes," he says defensively. "They're fresh on this morning."
"Oh, I'm sure."
England unbuttons his jacket and starts to undo his cravat. America watches him, every last little motion of his fingers, not even trying to hide it. He wants to seize him from behind, he wants to wind his hands about him, slither his fingers beneath his buttons, plunge his hand beneath his belt–
England catches his eye and turns away. "You can go," he says, his voice cool; not because he's shy but because America isn't. "I know where everything is."
America exhales and nods. "Fine," he says. "But don't sleep too long. I have something to show you."
"Is that why you invited me?"
"Obviously."
"It had better not be another bloody skull."
"It's not another skull, I promise." America smiles. "You'll be impressed."
"I'll be the judge of that." England waves over his shoulder at him. "Goodbye, Alfred."
America ducks out of the room with another nod. "Sleep well, Arthur." He closes the door with a decisive click.
The lock is an old one, early 1700s, and he no longer has the key.
"You really don't eat, huh?" America pauses with his own fork halfway to his mouth, watching England stir a watery cup of tea around and around. "Not even a piece of bread?"
"No." England frowns at him. "...I really oughtn't have told you that, I don't know what came over me. It was personal – vulgar, really, to be so forthright about it."
America smiles. "I don't mind."
"Well, it's not really any of your business, all the same."
"You are staying with me, though," America points out. "I would have noticed."
"Hm." England takes the tiniest sip of his tea, barely wetting his lips. "You have oil on your cheek, by the way."
"Oh." America rubs fiercely at his face, a smear of black grease coming away on his hand. "Thank you. I was working while you were asleep."
"I see." England doesn't seem like he much cares but America presses on nonetheless:
"I've been very industrious, Arthur. I really do think you'll be impressed."
"Is it one of those flying machines you're always talking about building? It'll never work, you know. You'll break your bloody neck."
"I will not. It'll fly, I just need to work on it some more." America pouts. "Anyway, it's not that."
"Well, goodness, I really cannot wait."
His sarcasm is painfully obvious but America only grins at him, going back to his food. "You've never seen anything like it," he promises. "And I made it just for you, Arthur – just as you made me those wooden soldiers all those years ago."
"Oh, those. I'd forgotten all about them."
"I still have them somewhere."
"I'm not surprised." England glances lazily about the room – still furnished with the wheezy old trappings of the century before. "It seems that you never throw anything out."
America shrugs. "They're all perfectly good things. A little dusty, perhaps, and a little worm-eaten – but still usable."
"It's like a morgue," England says crisply. "...Or a shrine."
America's smile quirks higher. "I hadn't considered."
After dinner, they retire to the lounge. America wants to take England straight down to the basement but England, as is his way, is awkward and dismissive, saying he wants to smoke first. He settles in the armchair in front of the fire, cigar smouldering between his fingers, perfectly still, not speaking, barely blinking. His eyes are on the painting of Washington above the mantlepiece but he's not exactly glaring, just sort of observing, simmering. America sits on the opposite couch, one leg crossed over the other, jiggling anxiously.
"Do stop that," England says.
"You're not even looking at me!"
"I can see you in my peripheral. That's an annoying habit of yours that you've never grown out of."
"Too bad, huh?" America clears his throat. "Do you want some bourbon? It's from Kentucky."
"I'm perfectly alright, thank you." England actually glances at him, almost smirking. "Trying to get me drunk?"
America purses his lips. "As if you need the help, Arthur."
England laughs, tapping off his ash. "Fair cop."
He looks away again, falling silent, and America watches him intently. He doesn't know what to make of him, really. Even now, he's surprised that he came. It would have been easier for him to have stayed in New York. Perhaps he has a motive.
Still, pot, kettle and all that. He envies himself a century-and-a-half before – the ease with which he had clambered into England's lap, the warmth with which he was received. Motive, again, had been different – back then he had wanted a kiss goodnight, not a good night's kiss – but still, that portrait of George Washington is something rather like a wall. (That and the letters that England didn't so much as open, never mind read.)
"Alfred, you know I'm not stupid, don't you?" England says suddenly.
America jumps, startled by the question. "O-of course I–"
"Because I know what you're up to. I've told you before – last year, in fact, when you had the nerve to climb up into my quarters to show me that wretched skull." He takes another mouthful of smoke. "I know precisely why you're so interested in me all of a sudden. You didn't give a rat's behind until about a decade ago."
America flushes angrily. "That's not–"
"Of course," England interrupts lazily, "the peculiar thing is... if you really wanted to, ah, "marry into power", so to speak, you needn't have budged. You were always my favourite. I would have rewarded your loyalty by now." He points with his cigar at the portrait. "You really have him to blame, you know. You might argue that he robbed you of your birthright."
"Yes – him and Jefferson and Adams and Franklin, to name but a few." America smiles sourly. "But then maybe I would have been a millstone. Maybe you wouldn't be so powerful now if you'd been burdened with me all the while."
England shrugs. "I suppose we'll never know, will we?"
America gives a tight nod, leaning back against the sofa, seething. England has pre-empted him, forcing him to drop the pretence. He knows he doesn't have much to bargain with. If England doesn't want his body then he's not going to want much else.
"So is that your way of saying No Way in Hell?" he asks coolly. "Did you really come all the way here just to tell me that – because you needn't have bothered. You could have just finally replied to one of my fucking letters."
"Oh, you're offended." England rolls his eyes. "You know, despite everything, I still find myself rather fond of you, Alfred. Lord knows why – but that's why I came."
"But you're not interested."
"Not in sleeping with you, I'm afraid. But that's all a means to an end anyway, isn't it? That's not really what you want, either. The only thing you lust after is my power."
"I don't think you're being very fair," America growls.
"Well, it's the truth. I've known you far too long to pretend that it's anything but. That's really why you rebelled against me in the first place. You wanted more power and I wasn't willing to give it to you."
"...And you're not now, either."
"I'm afraid not." England taps off his ash again. "So that, dear boy, is where we stand. If you were planning on creeping into my room tonight, I'd advise you to think again."
"H-how low do you think I am?!"
"I don't think I really want to put a number on it."
"Well, that is fucking rich coming from you, Arthur!"
"Of course." England shrugs. "You did learn from the best." He takes one last drag on his cigar and neatly stubs it out. "Anyway, what is this thing you're so desperate to show me? Let's get it over with so I can retire. I have some legislation to catch up on."
America shoots him an ugly look. "Oh god, how exciting. You know you have people who will do that sort of thing for you, right?"
"That is what I would expect from you, Mr Manifest Destiny. I, however, prefer to do it myself."
"Now who's slavering for control?"
"Power and control are not the same thing." England rises. "Now come along."
America does get up, huffing and puffing like a teenager. On the subject of control, he knows that he is no longer in charge (in his own house, yet!), something that must be rectified at once.
"After you," he says tightly, holding open the door. "Do you want to change, perhaps? We'll be going down into the basement."
"I daresay we won't be long." England rubs roughly at the faint smear of oil residual on his cheek. "It's only another of your contraptions."
America pulls his head away. Being touched by him now is unwelcome. He might as well have spat on a handkerchief. He could be tender, at least (...or does he fear that might be too encouraging?).
"I think you get off on being heartless, Arthur."
England smiles, halfway-shrugs. "Perhaps."
"If I declared my undying love for you and got down on my knees and begged you to be mine, you'd still tell me to piss off, wouldn't you?"
"Naturally. You'd be lying, of course."
"Heh." America musters a grin. "Maybe so."
He takes up a lantern and leads the way through the wheezing old house to the basement. Every now and then he feels compelled to look back over his shoulder – just to check that England is still there, still following. England catches his eye and smiles indulgently.
"What's the matter? Afraid I'll stab you in the back?"
"I know you, Arthur. You'd stab me from the front."
The keys jangle as he unlocks the heavy basement door, sending it swinging loudly against the wall. The place is broad and dark and cold, heaped with crates and clutter along the lengths of the walls. The middle of the chamber, however, is dedicated to his project, cleared to make room for the table, the tools. The stink of burnt oil simmers in the stagnant air. There's another smell, too, earthen and foul. Decay, pure putrefaction, eau de battlefield. They both know it well.
"Christ, what in hell are you doing down here?" England asks.
"Homemade morgue." America, sarcastic. "I just loved the Civil War that much."
"Oh, I daresay."
England has his handkerchief over his nose; America sees it as he puts down the lantern, rolling his eyes.
"Please. As if it's any worse than a Medieval street."
"And how would you know?"
"I can read, remember? Pardon me if it's not Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde–"
"Well, quite. The Argosy is more your thing, isn't it?"
"For light reading. I confess I am far more interested in science these days." America crosses to the table, over which there is a large sheet thrown. "I mean, electricity is completely amazing. We haven't harnessed even half of what it can do. I mean, lights are swell but that's only the beginning!"
England has dropped his handkerchief in favour of examining his pocket watch. "You're babbling," he says.
America only grins. He's too buoyant to be bothered by him now. "Well, if we're going to discuss reading material... You've read Frankenstein, right?"
"Of course. I was privileged to read Mary Shelley's original handwritten manuscript at one of our meetings, in fact." Now England eyes the table and the sheet warily. For the first time, he seems the tiniest bit on edge. "...I know it is your particular favourite, you little ghoul."
"Oh, you remembered!" America smiles. "I was hoping that this would be fun for both of us. So you recall the skull, of course. I said it was Shakespeare's, you said it wasn't–"
"Alfred, what–"
"Well, I realised that I had all the evidence and you had none. There was no reason for you to believe me, was there? I mean, you're right – I could have stolen the skull from a nearby morgue. So I got to thinking – what would be the best way to convince you that this really is Shakespeare's skull? And the answer took a while to come to me, I admit, but it's so obvious now: get him to tell you himself."
America seizes hold of the sheet and whips it off triumphantly. On the battered table is a grotesque assortment of metal bars and springs and pistons and some bones, too, all bolted together in the vague form of a human body. Crowning this, placed atop a spine woven of mismatched vertebrae and gleaming wires, is the skull.
"...Well?" America looks at him expectantly.
England, who seems by turns shocked and completely revulsed, scowls at him. "Please tell me this is your idea of a joke."
"Science is no joke, Arthur!" America seizes him by the arm and pulls him closer to the table; taking him by surprise, perhaps, because otherwise he would have been immovable. "Come on, you need a better seat than that!"
"For what?" England's voice is withering. "Alfred, this is completely depraved." He takes a step back. "Dismantle it at once. Regardless of whose skull that is, this is incredibly disrespectful."
"I most certainly will not dismantle it! Do you have any idea how long this took me to put together?" America looks subtly at the staircase, at the open door. If he doesn't do this quickly, England is going to walk out on him. "Anyway, I did it for you so, uh, you're welcome."
"I am not going to thank you for this!" England snaps. "How dare you suggest that I be grateful!"
"Oh, but you will be," America says, moving around the table. "Just wait and see."
He drops to his knees, pulling back the heavy oilcloth dropped over the generator. This he has fashioned himself for his needs, a pick-and-choose exercise from the work of both Edison and Tesla: a heavy iron case conceals the dangerous inner workings, known in his experience to give off sparks, and a simple lever transfers the harnessed power into his creation. A few last-minute tweaks this afternoon have ensured that England will not make a fool of him now.
Speak of the devil, England is brushing down his waistcoat in disinterest. What else can he expect from a creature that doesn't even have an appetite any more?
"Alfred, I'm going back upstairs," he says coldly. "I pray that you put that skull back where you found it – and the other bones, besides."
America ignores him, working quickly – connecting wires, flipping switches. A faint whine begins to build, echoing off the bland basement walls, and with it comes the sizzle and burn, the stench of science. He can feel his hair beginning to stand on end. England turns again, perhaps to scowl at him once more for good measure, and America takes hold of the lever and slams it downwards. At once a bomb of manufactured electricity surges up the tangle of wires and all throughout the construction atop the table; bones and mechanics alike twitching and trembling madly as the energy pulses through it. He gives it about half a minute, practiced, and then shuts it off. The thing falls still, smelling of burnt bone, smoking.
England, his eyes narrowed, looks at America. "Is that it? After all your talk?"
"Give him a moment," America replies, straightening. He folds his arms, tilts his head, lowers his voice. "...William?"
There is a long pause – and then the skull slowly turns towards him. The shoulders quiver, the elbows bend, and his creation slowly begins to push itself up. America claps his hands together delightedly, pressing his fingertips to the curl of his smile. He looks up at England over his glasses – but even slightly blurred, he can see the look of utter disbelief on the smug bastard's face.
"Oh ye of little faith," he says cheerfully, "on all counts. You can apologise any time, Arthur."
"I'm not apologising to you, you little swine," England hisses; but he's not looking at him, his green eyes fixed on the constructed being on the table. "This is... this is absolutely–"
"Unbelieveable? Amazing? The most incredible thing you've ever seen?" America examines his nails. "I rather put Wilde and Byron to shame, do I not?"
England looks directly at him. "This has to be a trick," he says flatly. "You couldn't have done this, Alfred."
America smiles pleasantly at him. "You think I'm too stupid."
"I don't think you're too stupid, in fact," England growls. "I know how fucking intelligent you are – it's maddening to see you play the fool as you so often like to." He looks again at "William". "But this... this is impossible, you couldn't have—"
"Arthur, you're the one who's stupid if I have to tell you again that this really is Shakespeare's skull. I had to do all this just to get you to believe me and you still deny it?" America shakes his head. "But fine, if you insist on being difficult..."
He hoists up the creature from the table and sets it upright on the floor, pulling away the wires connecting it to the generator. It wavers a little, taking an uneven step forward, and he holds on until it balances itself.
"You'll have to forgive him, he's always a bit disorientated when I first wake him up," America says. "He needs time to warm up, I suppose."
"You've... done this before?"
"Of course! I wasn't going to wait until you finally showed up to try it. What if it hadn't worked?" America puts his fingers to the skull's worn-down teeth and pries open the jaw, revealing a greyish sewn-in tongue. "Alright, you still have your tongue. I though a rat might have gnawed it out."
"You put a tongue in the skull?" England asks sharply.
"Of course." America rolls his eyes again. "He wouldn't be able to talk otherwise, would he? I mean, it still isn't great – hardly the eloquent William Shakespeare you remember, I'm sure – but it's the best I can do for now."
England clenches his fists. "For the last time," he says, "that is not Shakespeare's skull."
"Oh?" America tilts his head at the quivering creature. "What's your name?"
There is another long pause, processing, and then:
"William... Shake... speare."
The voice is croaky and leaden, a real effort, but America turns gleefully towards England.
"See?"
England is looking rather ashen-faced by this point but he shakes his head. "Th-that means nothing," he says. "You could have taught it to say that when asked!"
"He's not a parrot," America says, offended. "Fine – William, what is your occupation?"
Another pause. "Play... wright."
"Good." America points at England. "And who is this? Do you know him?"
A laborious nod.
"What is his name?"
"Arthur... Kirk... land."
America looks again at him. "See?"
"None of that means anything," England snaps. "Those are all simple questions with simple answers. Even my name is something you could have taught him."
"Alright then." America steps back. "You knew him, after all. You ask him something."
"Oh, I'm not indulging this nonsense of yours any longer–"
"Ask him something, something I wouldn't know, and if he can't answer you then I'll admit defeat." America looks piercingly at him. "Isn't that fair?"
England is silent for a moment, his jaw set, and then he gives an angry sigh. "Alright, if it will shut you up..." He comes a step or two closer, eyeing the creature up and down, thinking for a moment. "Very well, then, William... The night you and I and Ben Jonson got drunk and sneaked into the Rose at one in the morning, rewrote one of Marlowe's plays and replaced the original with our copy for the next day's rehearsal... What year was that?"
He looks at America, smug once more. America purses his lips, annoyed; that isn't a fair question to ask man who's been dead for three hundred years, especially not if he was paralytic at the time. There is a considerable wait of silence. Unsurprising.
"I knew it," England says. "That is not a story that I ever told you, Alfred, so you couldn't have trained him to–"
"1592." A creak, another pause. "On the... fourteenth night... of May."
America side-eyes England. The look on his face says it all.
"He got it right, didn't he?" He nudges him. "Didn't he?"
England is lost for words. He shakes his head in disbelief. "This... can't be... You couldn't have–"
"But I did. For you."
England opens his mouth to speak but suddenly William reaches out and seizes his hand, clasping it within his fizzing cages of steel and bone. With trembling effort, the being drops to one knee, pressing the curve of his yellowed skull to England's hand.
"This royal... throne of kings... this scepter'd isle... this earth... of majesty... this seat of... Mars..."
England has gone very white, looking down at him, completely still; and William mumbles thickly, struggling over the words, oblivious.
"What's he saying?" America asks. "That's from one of his plays, isn't it?"
"It's Richard II," England says faintly. "Act II, Scene I."
"Oh, yes. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England." America smiles slyly at him. "No wonder he was your favourite. He clearly worshipped you."
"He used to do this," England says. "Exactly what he's doing now, on his knees and all, when he was drunk. He did it that night on the stage. It was a joke. We all used to laugh."
England is not laughing now. He looks desperately upset, like he wants to wrench away his arm but can't bring himself to.
"Well, now you get to relive those times, all thanks to me," America says cheerily. "Better than sitting in a dark room with Oscar Wilde, don't you think?"
"Alfred–"
"Of course, I don't plan to leave him like this. I was studying how they make their wax models at Madame Tussaud's and I think I can make him look like he's properly alive again, skin and hair and eyes and the like. You remember what he really looked like, you can help me."
"Alfred–"
"And I think with some fresher organs, like a real heart and a new tongue and probably a brain, haha, he will be far more articulate. Then you can have a proper conversation with him and it'll be just like old times. Isn't that what you wanted, Arthur? Didn't you want Shakespeare back?" America points to his creation, still mumbling his famous words against England's skin. "Look, I got him for you. Isn't that worth at least a kind smile?"
England's eyes dart towards him. He looks a little bit unhinged. "Are you truly suggesting that you thought I would have wanted you to do this?"
America blinks. "Well, no, not exactly, but–"
"William Shakespeare was my friend. How could you think that I would want you to turn him into... into this?"
"Look, you said you wanted the damn skull and then I got you the damn skull and you didn't want it, you wouldn't even believe me, so what else what I supposed to do?!"
"What else?!" England explodes, pulling away his hand. "If you truly believed that it was Shakespeare's skull then why didn't you put it back in the grave?! That's what I wanted!"
"Then you should have said so! I'm not a mind-reader, Arthur!"
"I didn't say so because I didn't believe you. You're a goddamn opportunist, do you blame me?!"
"Well, the joke's on you because I was telling the truth. It really is his skull, just as I said, and now it's too late to shove it back in his grave." America nods again at his creation, the empty eye sockets turned up towards England. "Besides, look how happy he is to see you."
"Well, I am certainly not happy to see him – not like this." England seizes the front of America's shirt, twisting it in his trembling fist. "Turn him off and take him apart, immediately. I'll take the skull back to Trinity Church myself."
"After all my hard work? I don't think so."
"You don't think so? You had absolutely no right to do this–"
"Well, gee, I was just trying to please you! You don't care about anything I do, Arthur, no matter how hard I try. We were so close when I was a child–"
"But that isn't what you want now," England says coldly. "You've already admitted that."
"Well, obviously flowers don't work!"
"And did you honestly think that I would throw myself into your arms – into your bed – when I saw this?!"
"Yes. No." America shrugs hopelessly. "I don't know."
England looks at him in disbelief. "You're completely insane."
"Well, I guess I'm willing to try anything."
"So it would appear." England releases his shirt. "It stops now, Alfred. I believe I've made myself perfectly clear."
"Crystal."
"Good. Now turn him off."
England turns his back on him very firmly and America really is left with no choice but to shuffle angrily towards the generator in obedience. Once again, he has been dealt a crushing defeat – and this one seems very final. There is no way England will ever visit at his invitation ever again. He has blown it, well and truly, but what else could he have done?
"I'm so very sorry," England says; and America looks up hopefully again. Perhaps he has recognised his harshness, his unreceptiveness to America's many efforts–
No. He's talking to William, a gentle hand on the stolen skull.
"I'm sorry that he has done this terrible thing to you," he says, "and I'm sorry that your bones were moved against your wishes. I will personally return your skull to your grave, Will, I promise."
Will. Will. That is it.
He kills the current coursing through the construction's makeshift body, watching it twitch and tremble and then fold lifelessly in on itself. England catches it, cradling the skull in its descent so that it won't crack or smash on impact.
"Thank you," he says stiffly, not looking at America. "Now unbolt his skull from this abomination. I'm leaving tonight."
America does not reply, hoisting up the generator by the lever and the handle. It's heavy as hell but he's immensely strong, always has been, and it's really nothing to him. It is, however, enough to crush a skull.
"Alfred?"
England hears him move behind him but he's not fast enough; he turns just in time to see America swing the generator towards him. He probably doesn't see much else because the impact kills him immediately, his body dropping next to William's amidst an arc of splattered bone and brain and blood. If he wants to make a fuss about skulls, his own is completely pulverised.
Still, he won't stay dead for long, especially not now he's an empire. America knows he has to work quickly, tossing the generator aside. He moves William to the table first, then England, and begins to build.
...Well, I did promise that it got weird. Frankenstein-weird, in fact! XD (Tbh this was foreshadowed so heavily in earlier chapters in my usual very unsubtle manner that I am surprised nobody called me on it!)
There will be one more chapter (more of an epilogue sort-of-thing) and THEN The Waning, I PROMISE. T.T