My muse is like a rather needy puppy that needs plenty of feed. And by feed I mean feedback. Review!

Holy cow this section is long. It helps make up for the relative shortness of the last two, I suppose.

JAGartist: England always looks fabulous in red *random sparkles*, and it's amazing how many meanings can be found in it. It amazed me too when I first had the idea of this story. Could the color red really be a constant thread in their relationship? But then I was like, "oh yeah, I could totally write something about his red in WWII and WWI was gone but not forgotten and the washed-away red of the Revolution, and of course I'd have to show him scary and bloody so the French and Indian War too and oh yeah before all that started with Chibi!America and what if America tried on his big brother's clothes in a moment of hero worship or spite oh and I should also show Red!England in the war of 1812 and of course show how that started but then I need something to connect the feelings of mutual anger and betrayal of before with the tentative friendship of 1917...hrm... And my friend PirateTree gave me the most marvelous idea ever. That was my train of thought, thereabouts. My trains of thought are very long and tend to go off the rails and kill innocent people, but it's all in good fun so who cares! Ahahaha. Ha.

ScatteredSands: Very much agreed here—I really shouldn't have been laughing as hard as I was when I read the story for the first time and then wrote it up for myself, since it was about the terrorization of my own ancestors and the burning of my own capital, but Cockburn's such a glorious ass and such a magnificent bastard that I can't help but love him. (Not that I'd want to meet him in person…) And his name, too? Pffff. Too perfect. Seriously, was he Red!England in disguise or something? I'm actually becoming convinced of it, since Red!England is even more of an ass that normal England is…and during his whole white-horse-gloating-strut-of-victory thing he did help make sure the soldiers didn't start torching private property…hmm…

AllHeroesWearHats: Thanks! :D This fic is still pretty early in the writing process, so make sure you point out anything else you think needs fine-tuning.

JuniperGentle: Hey, I'm a firm believer in "better late than never," especially when it comes to awesome things like your review!

(1) The Red Ranger would have been America, hands down, if he hadn't been too busy fanboying with Japan. Sometimes, the two of them…it's almost as bad as when Japan and Hungary unite in search of yaoi.

(2) I wanted this first demonstration of the exact moment of change between Red!England and Bigbrother!England to have a snap-of-the-fingers sort of feel. My favorite line in that section is the one with "warm blankets and cool mint"—it's somehow precisely what I imagine Bigbrother!England to be.

(3) Great! That's exactly what I was going for in a nutshell. Red!England is a figure of terror, beauty, dark amusement, and above all power in every form. I enjoy lovely imagery for things that aren't in the least lovely ;) After a scene like America witnessed, with England picking ears off his clothes and France perving and both of them snarking like they aren't in the middle of a bloody battle and Canada rolling his eyes…I have the feeling afterwards he ran into the woods and laughed hysterically/cried for a few hours. It's interesting displaying the older countries to a new member of the club—they've been fighting for so long against one enemy or another that they view some things as completely normal that shouldn't be at all.

(4) Yes, this is my second-favorite scene. Y'all haven't met my favorite yet. Somewhere about halfway through writing it I looked up a synonym for "cloak" since I didn't want to be writing it over and over again, and "mantle" popped up. The thought "America trying on England's mantle…England's mantle" sort of pranced through my mind as I stared in wonder for a moment…and then I jumped on that idea and rode it wherever it would take me. My father (an excellent alpha reader, btw) read over this section and had a rather Toy Story 3-esque reaction. His little girl just went to college, you see. England reading a French writer? Anything for America.

(5) Good, good. Revolutionary war fics are only slightly more numerous than 9/11 fics…sigh…

(6) I admit, I didn't make the sea connection with that figurative language until you pointed that out. I love my subconscious sometimes ;D And the emerald thing: it annoys the skittles out of me when every other word in a fic is about "England's emerald eyes" and "America's sapphire eyes" so I try to use jewel adjectives about eyes sparingly, and only when calling someone's eyes a clear and hard crystalline structure actually has a point. *Phew* Rant done.

(7) Furious!Canada is scarier than Sweden and Russia. Remind me not to go to a hockey game with him. The Italics: Agreed, though it does look a bit better when all the chapters are strung seamlessly together in Word. If I ever get around to it I'll probably switch things so the italics are the alien-era bits and the non-italics are the flashbacks. Thank you for this lovely review! And I hope your brother enjoyed it too :)

ANYWAY

The Convention of Peking, The Second Opium War: October, 1860

America wouldn't have expected it to take so long for a guy to sign away his life and pride, but these are Europeans and Asians, after all. The kinds of people that can spin out a war for a hundred years doubtlessly do everything else at the same pace. He adjusts his glasses yet again as the interminable treaty signing continues. He's mostly gotten used to having Texas and its accompanying clarity of vision over the past fifteen years, and the movement is more habit than necessity at this point. The seats are uncomfortable and in the beautifully decorated room, but he hasn't been sleeping well lately and can't care less at this point. In addition, not only is it nice and warm here, but also the low buzz of conversation around him isn't helping to keep him…from…falling…falling…

There's abruptly a twisting, painful jerk in the pit of his stomach and spots flare before his eyes before, slowly, subsiding. It's nothing new these days, but it surprises him back into wakefulness just the same.

He blinks and twitches himself further awake. Falling asleep at an important event like this will not endear him to any of the older countries. He certainly doesn't need to give them any more excuses to think him young and weak. As the speakers droned on during the signing, he tried surreptitious pinches and doodling on his notes, but it's into the fourth hour now and he's running out of diversions. Resolutely America turns to his companions, studying them closely in the hopes of distracting himself.

China's face is as controlled and stoic as ever, but his calligraphy on the treaties is too sharp, jagged and sickly, the blackness of unbalanced strokes stark against the white paper. The gold embroidery on his elegant robe gleams in the lamplight, but it is a dull shine, reflecting the light instead of creating it.

France chatters cheerfully to nobody and about nothing in particular, hands gesturing expansively, heedless of the wine glass in one hand. The movements have splashed some of the red wine over his starched white cuffs. It seems he's a jolly drunk and a jolly victor. No surprise there, but it had been a surprise to America when England and France united in the war against China. America supposes the thought of oriental riches begging to be leeched away can unite even those two, however temporary it may turn out to be.

Russia placidly beams around at everyone in that vaguely creepy way he has but America can tell he's keeping an eye on England the whole time. England completely ignores Russia, though, just sits and watches China with hooded eyes and a self-satisfied smile, absently rubbing a corner of his scarlet cloak between long fingers. No wonder he looks so pleased; he's finally getting his opium trade legalized, among other tasty concessions. Relations between England and America are much better these days, at least as far as politics are concerned. As people instead of countries, though, they've barely exchanged a sentence since 1814.

India stands behind England, demure and polite in a way America had never managed when he accompanied England to meetings. "Jewel in the British crown" indeed. Had England finally found the perfect, obedient little colony he said he always wanted back in 1811? America swallows the familiar bitter taste and turns his thoughts firmly back to Russia. He snorts. Think about that: preferring to think about Russia rather than anyone else, what a joke.

Just last year Russia offered to sell him Russian America, and for a very reasonable price, too. America's considering taking him up on it, but the way things are going at home he thinks now might not be the best time to drain his coffers.

Because 'things' are certainly going, and they're going south in more than one sense. Some of America's southern states have sworn they will separate from him, break away and make their own country. How can they even think to do that? Not to sound like Russia, but they're all one, one nation and one America. Sure the states have their differences, but can't they just talk it over and talk it out? Why resort to secession and war when his states know how much it will hurt him, know how much it will hurt themselves?

But then his eyes alight once again on England, and an unpleasant realization hits him like a bucket of ice down the collar. Ah. So that's how it is. They think they're fighting against tyranny, struggling for liberty. That would be perfectly acceptable—after all, what's more American than fighting for freedom?—except that the tyrant here is him, his very existence holding them down. But he's not, how could they even think that, it's ridiculous, he's just trying to keep everyone happy! And a large minority is very unhappy in their shackles and another large minority isn't happy the majority isn't quite all right with that—

Now there's really no way he is going to tell England what's happening. He can see his response now, a flat look followed by a drawled 'So they want to separate from you. And they think their voices aren't being heard. And wasn't there something about tyranny? Hmmm, no, I can't imagine where I've heard that before.'

Why was he even considering telling the man his troubles anyway? He didn't need England, hadn't for a century and never would again, and England would never need him. He had certainly been able to walk away from his ex-colony without much of a hit to his economy.

Dammit, how do his thoughts always circle back to England? It's his fault, sitting there grinning like the cat that's just caught the canary. Or, rather, like the lion that's just caught the red-crowned crane.

There is another twinge of pain and a wave of queasiness rolls through him. It takes a minute before he can think coherently again, and he takes a steadying breath.

Okay. It's only seven states outright threatening to leave right now if Lincoln wins, and there are thirty-four total states. That's only a…fifth. A hero would totally be able to handle losing a fifth of himself. And surely only seven would leave (not that they would anyway, this is all theoretical hahaha) and other slave-holding states wouldn't leave too. Right? Right.

America rubs his forehead. It's pretty pathetic when a country can't even lie properly to himself.

England rises and begins speaking about trade or something equally tedious; America really doesn't care at this point in the convention. He ignores the actual meaning of the stream of words, just lets that smooth accent wash over him, the familiar tones flowing gently through his mind.

He can't help but remember what had happened just a year before at the Taku Forts, how Commodore Tattnall had violated American neutrality to swoop in and save a British and French squadron under heavy fire. When reprimanded, the man had just laughed, shrugged, and said "blood is thicker than water" as if it explained everything. And, watching England's fingers dancing on the table in ancient, absent habit, wiry shoulders thrown back proudly under the red mantle, every syllable and twitch so familiar and dear to him despite the years and their estrangement, America can see how those words might actually do so. They aren't even related by blood, but something is there and it's far thicker than any water. His usual broad grin becomes slightly more genuine at the realization.

But then even England's voice fades away as he feels an all-too-familiar pull in his stomach, like someone's reaching into him and is grasping, clawing, dragging away his insides. This time it's far worse than before, a wrenching yank that makes his knees go weak and his vision hazy. He breaks out in sweat as a shivering roll of heat pulses through him, bile rising in his throat.

"Git. You're not even listening, are you? America? America!" The words echo oddly in America's ears, and if he didn't know better, he'd think England actually sounds concerned. Yet he has no time to consider this further because he feels like the world has suddenly stopped spinning and he doesn't know where to put his feet, and warm hands are grasping his shoulders but he can't see because everything's going distorted and dim as dark waves crash over him…

~o0O0o~

When the black waters recede and he opens his eyes, feeling far too comfortable, for a moment he can only see red. America's woozy mind takes a minute to attempt to reason this out, and it comes to him slowly. There's some sort of thick crimson cloth covering him, and despite the fact that the Chinese couch he's lying on was made for uneasy sitting and elegantly couched intrigue, he's feeling ridiculously comfortable because the heavy cloth smells like—oh hell. He sits up quickly, too quickly, and his head reels.

England sits in a chair beside the couch, book in hand and jacket hung neatly by the door. Despite the century of distance, it's an achingly familiar scene. Back then whenever America was sick he'd wake up to find England waiting patiently, one hand propping up a book, the other wrapped comfortingly around America's. America looks down to find this latter part of the ritual is not repeated, though, and his hand feels cold and bare without England's clasp. He supposes he'll just have to do this single-handedly then. Ahaha. Ha.

America resolves not to ask him about what happened when he passed out. No doubt England would delight in telling him exactly how badly he messed up and precisely how he offended absolutely every person in the room, yadda yadda yadda, and he's not exactly in the mood to be chewed out by someone who lost any authority over him a long time ago.

He manages to admit to himself that he also can't bear to ruin with England's harsh words any private wishes he has about the owner of the hands who caught him. It was probably Russia anyway, the bastard.

England turns another page and, without looking up, says "How are you feeling?"

America takes stock. He's got a headache, nausea, and the now-subsided ache in his abdomen that feels less like a healing injury and more like a snake lying in wait to strike again. "Fine."

"Really." England said flatly, raising his sardonic gaze to meet America's.

"Really! In fact, I feel great."

"Are you sure about that? Because from what it looks like, you have at least a headache and nausea…and if I'm right about the way you're holding that arm, some sort of stomach injury."

America hurriedly pulls away the arm he's been unconsciously pressing to his middle. Stupid England can be far too clever sometimes, oxymorons be damned.

"I'm fine," is all America says in reply. "Where's Texas?"

England wordlessly hands him the glasses, still looking at him in that annoying, careful way.

America has no intention of answering any more personal questions and accordingly opens the mental file where he keeps his verbal deflecting strategies. Deploy distraction tactic one: laugh and joke. He chuckles. "I won't tell Texas he was temporarily conquered by Great Britain if you won't."

"America. What's going on?" Hmmm. Distraction tactic one has failed. Activate distraction tactic two: anger and unresolved issues.

"What do you care, anyway? It's not as if it matters." Oops, that comes out more bitter than he intends.

"The United States is a valuable trading partner; its loss would negatively impact the economy of the British Empire. While the impact would be small, it would still be negative." Unfortunately, England's much better at smoothly dodging loaded questions and hitting back backhanded compliments than he is. Time for distraction tactic three: outright lies and England-aggravating rudeness.

America sighs heavily and, rolling his eyes in mock defeat, pretends to examine his much-chewed fingernails. "It's just some unrest building between my states. Soon enough the caffeine will wear off and they'll go back to shooting spitballs at each other. It's nothing to get your hoity-toity Victorian knickers in a twist about."

Nose wrinkled in distaste at the uncouthness of the last comment, England regards him for a long moment, sharp eyes pinning the younger nation to the bed, and America forces himself not to squirm under that gaze.

"Look, just don't start poking your big European noses into this. It'll resolve itself on its own, in a good ol', democratic, American way, and we don't want opportunistic vultures circling and egging people on."

"Disregarding the…fascinating mental imagery prompted by your lattermost statement—" but he's interrupted as America begins to cough into a hand, enormous, hacking coughs that continue for a good half a minute before he manages to get control of his throat. At the sight of his hand America quickly wipes his mouth with it and slips it under the cloak still on his lap. There are certain advantages to having a blood-red cloak that he has not appreciated until this moment, but now he can see why ever-practical England keeps it around.

England's giving him another one of those annoyingly perceptive looks, and America has the feeling that if he doesn't know exactly what is going on he certainly suspects.

America thrusts out his chin defiantly and hurriedly turns England's attention away from whatever direction his thoughts are going. "As I was sayin', this is an internal matter and will remain so, all right? We'll resolve this on our own or die trying."

His choice of words is not the best.

"…Or die trying," England repeats softly, looking away.

"Yeah," America replies, voice just as soft, looking down at his hands fisted in the red cloth.

They let the silence seep around their averted gazes, snaking down in long cotton tendrils to coil between the two.

"America—"

"England—"

Their eyes meet and America tries to put as much confidence and strength into the look as he can. He will fix this on his own, and any European intervention will do more harm than good. It will imply the young United State cannot solve its own problems, has to run back to the mother countries for help. And he will not have that, not when it took so long to get away in the first place. He narrows his eyes as he looks into England's, and he sees more understanding than he would have expected.

England leans back in his chair, book closing with a soft snap. "Well then, America, if you're so certain you are now recovered from your swoon, are absolutely…fine, as you say, and will continue to be so, I suppose I will have to keep my large European nose in my own business and head back to the treaty signing. I'll make sure the frog doesn't bother you either."

"Yes, I guess I should too. Though it's awful boring."

Despite their words both remain seated, again looking everywhere but at each other as another uncomfortable pause washes through.

America speaks again. "Er…and England, you might want to look into alternate sources of cotton. I have this…feeling there might be difficulties in your shipments from my South. Just sayin'."

England eyes him a moment and walks back to his jacket by the door. "Very well."

"Wait, don't you need your cloak back? Here."

He doesn't turn to look at America, continues buttoning his jacket with his face to the exit. "Oh, just be sure to give it to one of the maids to wash." He waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I can't be having blood that actually matters to me stain it for once in its life. Dried blood is the devil to clean off, after all." And with that little bombshell, he opens the door and strolls out without a backwards look.

~o0O0o~

Blood was thicker than water, but was it thicker than tears? Despite his own pigheadedness, despite England's ability to hold a grudge long past it going stale, despite everything…it seemed so.

Even though red was one of his three national colors, America had never felt the war-red was his own. There was a reason why his selves chose grey and blue during his Civil War, and not just because the dye was cheaper than red. There was a reason that whenever he wore England's reds it was so temporary. No, the battlefield's blindingly bright shock of scarlet belonged to flashing green eyes, a blur of shining steel, and a short but never slight build.

So England's never gotten America's blood on his reds before. All this time, and England never so much as pinpricks America. He's more a man whose actions are more to be believed than his words, and considering all the times he's had a weapon (figurative or literal) held at a defenseless America and in the end decides not to hurt him...

The reason England for once actually says something concrete about his relationship with America with the last comment about blood - heck, the reason he's so unaccountably gentle and Pre-Revolution-y in the second half of this flashback - is because he's seeing the possibility that he will not always be the one to threaten America with death and inevitably let him go. In a strange, twisted way it's his way of protecting him. And being a veteran of civil wars himself, he can't help but give some comfort, even if it's in a decidedly England way.

Here and in the next few chapters, watch out for a certain word. Need I tell you or will you...cotton on to it yourselves?

Historical notes:

The Second Opium War: China showed how displeased it was with the whole occupation and unfair trade-deals thing (can't imagine why), and in response Britain and France united (shockingly, for them) in order to crush China, burn a few palaces, and renegotiate some trade deals even more to their advantage than before. It didn't help that China had imprisoned and mistreated some Western citizens. Russia and America each sent envoys and were neutral during the war in an attempt to see if they could negotiate some sweet, sweet concessions for themselves. England and France were actually going to burn the Forbidden City, but since the treaty signing was nearby they decided to torch the Old Summer Palaces instead.

The Convention of Peking were the treaties signed in 1860 between China and Great Britain, France, and Russia each.

Texas: Texas joins the United States in 1845. Yay, America can see!

Russia eyeing England: The two are now deep in The Great Game or Tournament of Shadows, the strategic rivalry between the Russian and British Empires from about 1813 to 1907, especially in Central Asia. It began when Russia went all "Become one with Mother Russia" with his southern neighbors and got a little too close to the "jewel in the British crown," India. Things happened, as things generally do, including the British arming people in the Middle East in the hopes they would fight off the Russians and it all going badly from there (wonder where we've heard that before) and the Crimean War (1853–1856).

Russian America: Alaska, of course! Russia was rather worried about supplying and protecting such a distant colony in case of British attack as a result of The Great Game (remember, Canada doesn't gain independence until July 1, 1867, so Britain could still hit Alaska through Canada at this point). This, along with the overhunting of fur animals and competition from British and American hunters, led them to offer to sell it to America in 1859. But then a certain little war broke out, and the U.S. didn't take them up on their offer until March 30, 1867 at 4 a.m. after an all-night negotiation session. Alaska was a good buy, at two cents per acre, though it wasn't until 1896 with the Klondike gold strike that the investment really began to pay off.

Commodore Tattnall: Here's a quote from one of my sources: "During his two years in the Second Opium War, Commodore Josiah Tattnall violated American neutrality while commanding the chartered steamer Toey-Wan, when he came to the assistance of a British and French squadron under fire from the Taku Forts at the mouth of the Pei Ho or Hai River. His explanation of his action, "Blood is thicker than water", subsequently became a famous slogan." The phrase was certainly around long before that, but it was really that event that hit it off. Have I mentioned I love it when history backs up what I plan to have my characters think? I admit I had another of those squee-moments when I read about this.

America's symptoms: If I wasn't completely clear, seven of the southern states were threatening to secede at this point and it's not having a good effect on the person made up of all of them. America really shouldn't have been allowed to leave the country in his condition, but I get the feeling he really, really wanted to be anywhere but home right now with all the shouting going on between his states. Anything to take his mind off his problems...not that they did, as you see here. At the election of Republican and noted abolitionist sympathizer Abraham Lincoln, seven states did secede and four more followed when Lincoln requested a volunteer army. The southern states argued, among other things, that what they were doing was just like what the colonies did with Britain, that their voices weren't being heard (at least not heard loudly enough), that the federal government had no right to messing in state business, and that they could live and subjugate people however they pleased, thank you very much.

"The lion that's just caught the red-crowned crane.": The lion is an animal symbol of England (one of the more prominent ones, anyway) and the crane, especially the red-crowned crane is a national animal symbol of China.

Victorian knickers: England's currently in heart of the Victorian Era, in all its fusty, monocled glory. Be glad I didn't have him speak like a terribly stereotyped manner, what?

European neutrality: The Union really, really didn't want any European intervention on either side of the conflict, considered it an internal affair to be settled internally. The Confederacy, on the other hand, based much of their bid for freedom on the hope that Britain's large textiles industry would cause them to help the cotton-pickin' South, and where Britain went France would follow. This wish was called King Cotton. But the Union mostly got what it wanted. Mostly. And that's the topic of the next flashback…