IV – Here On Earth
The rain is coming down hard but you're not surprised. This is, after all, November, and, after all, London. You see the car pull up outside through the window and avert your gaze instead to the mirror hanging over the fireplace. The flames are roaring and the room is warm and quiet and tidy and comfortable, books lined neatly on the shelves and the mahogany desk immaculate.
Not even a month before, in rain just like this, you and he were shovelling mud in the trenches.
Your bosses have been in discussion and his, well, he doesn't seem to want to know what he wants for America. It was him, after all, who proposed the idea of League of Nations but it doesn't look like America himself is actually going to be involved in it, at least not anymore, and of course there was that whole strange abstaining-from-involvement only to come crashing in heavy-handedly at the last minute – not that you didn't appreciate it, what with Russia throwing up his hands and deciding that he had more important things to contend with (although you thought you saw the telltale signs of that sickness in him a few times – you just didn't offer to go get your sewing kit).
When America first turned up in Flanders, you almost laughed at him in his brand new out-of-the-packet uniform. It sort of looked like yours but it wasn't green, more a sort of tawny, tan, almost like sand. He was proud of it, put his hands on his hips and asked "Ain't this uniform so flattering?"; you merely arched an eyebrow because it looked good on him but it was impractical. It dirtied easily and he wasn't in the trench five minutes before he had mud all over him and looked like he'd been there longer than you.
That made your eye twitch a little in annoyance.
But he was eager. He smiled and grasped you by the shoulders and said "I'm here, England! Look, I mobilised! I came to help!".
You let him load guns and line up shells. He was inexperienced in this kind of warfare. You think he might have suffered a mild case of shell-shock because after the third night (and a particularly devastating attack by Germany) he started sleeping in your bed with you and clung like a child when you tried to push him out because there wasn't really enough room in the narrow cot for you both.
He slipped his hand into yours after you had lined up your fatalities. It reminded you of the Black Death, the pitiful cries of "Bring out your dead!" while the church bells groaned, and you couldn't help but think that war was just another sickness – even war like this, the so-called "righteous" kind.
You glanced at him and suddenly wished he hadn't come. You'd have thought him selfish if he hadn't but at least he'd have been safe.
(Not that it stopped you from wanting to bind his wings with barbed wire from No Man's Land to stop him flying away and leaving you all alone again.)
You have time enough to check your appearance in the mirror – uniform clean, neat and perfectly pressed, your hat at just the right angle, your new(est) medal pinned carefully to your chest exactly where His Majesty put it – before the office door opens and there he is.
His uniform, too, is clean and well-ironed and he's wearing his hat – although it's different to yours, yours is a proper officer's hat and his is a little garrison cap perched slightly askew atop his blonde head – and he has a few medals of his own scattered here and there across his broad chest. He has one from His Majesty too. He grins at you and salutes; American-style, palm facing down.
You smile blithely and salute in return; British-style, palm facing out.
"England!" he says brightly. "How are you?"
"Well enough, considering what we've just dragged ourselves through." You gesture towards the interior of the room with the same hand that saluted. "If you'd like to come in?"
He nods, drops his arm and saunters into the room. He's starting to get something of a swagger in his step and you think dimly that it might be worth cracking him on the back of the head with something to try and beat it out of him before it develops into something irreparable.
There will be time aplenty for that, however. For now, you implore that he takes a seat at the desk, and, after you pour him a splash of brandy, you push both it and the freshly-written Treaty of Versailles towards him.
"France has already looked at it," you say. "This may shock you, but he and I are both in agreement for once."
"I'm shocked," he replies mildly, perhaps to humour you a little; he's pushed down his glasses to read the document over the top of them. "Germany isn't going to like this one little bit, you know."
"That's rather the point," you say coldly. "It's designed to make him think twice about starting another war."
"I thought that was what the League of Nations was for."
"Well, yes – not that all of us seem to be terribly for investing ourselves in it, hm?"
His blue eyes meet your green ones; he shrugs but looks a little uncomfortable.
"It's theoretical—" he begins lamely.
"Oh, don't give me that rot!" you snap, slamming your hand down on the desk and making him jump.
(This is unfair. You were already irritable with the whole situation. You were looking for an excuse to pick on him.)
"It is theoretical!" he protests vehemently, puffing out his cheeks in that silly childish way of his. "If everyone is united then there would be no reason for war – we would talk through our issues and resolve them without fighting."
"Alright." You are still impatient but you push yourself up onto the desk with one hand, sitting directly in his field of vision, very close to him, to ensure that he gives you his full attention. "Alright, that much I will give you. But in that case, why are you choosing not to join? Good god, it's rather like throwing a party and then not showing up yourself because it's not your sort of thing. Do you not see the flaw in that, America?"
He shifts awkwardly again.
"Yes," he replies. "You can call me a hypocrite if you want. But as I said, it's a theory. It does not take into account personal differences or characteristics... My boss has proposed the formulation of the League of Nations in order to prevent another European war; however, it has been decided that I do not entirely fit the profile of a League member and so—"
"You will not be joining," you finish for him. You sigh and try to keep a reign upon your patience.
He is very good at making you angry, even now.
"Well, thankyou very much for your concern," you say icily. "How pleased I am to know that the great United States of America is disquieted so much about European affairs that he takes it upon himself to police us." You slide off the desk again, wanting to be away from him, and your tone changes – you cannot even accommodate sarcasm any longer. "How dare you impose your "solution" upon us!"
"And what's this?" he bursts out, snatching up the Treaty of Versailles and shaking it at you. "Do you really think breaking Germany's back is going to solve anything? What you and France are imposing on him is worse than the League of Nations proposal! He won't thank you for this, England!"
"Ha," you reply haughtily, your grin twisted and sardonic, "as if I'd have that Kraut thank me for anything. We've reduced him to nothing and I see no better way of going about telling him so. He should be glad if I saw fit to let him lick the mud off my boots after the mess he's made of Europe."
America looks at you in disgust.
"You're so damned arrogant," he says frostily, throwing the document back on the table and standing. "I'm not having anything to do with this. If you want to handle it like this, fine, have it your way, but I'm not getting involved."
"Ah," you reply, "I might have known your helpful interventionist attitude wouldn't last. Well, I suppose that's fair. Europe's problems are Europe's problems, nothing to do with you – not that that mind-set fits entirely with your precious little League of Nations idea—"
"Don't throw the help I gave you back in my face!" he interrupts, sounding rather hurt. "I know I owe you for that Zimmerman Telegram thing but if it wasn't for me you'd still be waist-deep in mud in Flanders!"
"Oh, how very kind of you to not be self-absorbed for five minutes." You fold your arms as you turn to him again. "I suppose I really shouldn't be frightfully surprised that you'd go running back to your isolationism the first chance you got, however." You observe the annoyed flush on his face and feel that he has no right to have it. "I might be arrogant but at least I'm not selfish."
"Selfish?" He seems stunned. "I'm here, aren't I? If I was truly as self-absorbed as all that, I wouldn't have come at all!"
"You came at the last moment because it benefitted you to do so," you say in a low voice. "I asked you for help several times before that and you refused."
He glowers.
"That's because I'm not at your beck and call," he replies stiffly.
You meet his gaze for a moment, think of a dozen cruel things to say but don't voice any of them, and at length give only a terse nod. The war is over, you are both in full dress uniform with medals jangling and flashing in the firelight and you will both be gentlemen about this – there is no longer an excuse to be soaked through and covered in mud, your shirt half torn off, while trying to bayonet someone's eyes out.
Funny, though. The war was awful, the worst you've seen; the conditions were horrendous, the death tolls unbelievable, the trenches Hell-on-Earth, and yet...
You and he haven't gotten on so well in years. At night when you huddled together under the thin, worn army regulation blanket, you felt that little bit safer for the sound of his heart beneath her and hoped that he felt the same about yours. You kissed his brow goodnight and he complained that the bedbugs were already biting him as he cuddled close.
And somehow now, in a perfectly civil environment, you just want to punch him in the face and it seems like the feeling is mutual.
"Fine." You snap it, going to the desk and retrieving the Treaty of Versailles. "That's perfectly reasonable. Do not concern yourself over this. Thankyou for coming – I apologise for having wasted your time."
He doesn't move. You ignore him for a long moment, neatly arranging the document in pristine order and opening the desk drawer to put it back. You take off your hat at long last, no longer seeing the need to be so proper about it all if he's going to be so difficult, so unyielding, and smack it onto the desk's surface next to his untouched brandy (you are exceedingly surprised that he didn't knock it back – he drank like a fish in the trenches).
"Well?" you bite out at long last, glancing up at him. "What's the matter with you, boy? We're done here. You may take your leave."
He blinks at you – whether it's because of the sudden formalness of your voice or the words themselves or simply because you called him "boy" you aren't quite sure. He opens his mouth briefly but then shuts it again, apparently not knowing how to answer.
"For God's sake, America!" you shout, losing your temper. "Get out of my sight, won't you? Spread those awful wings of yours and go soaring away into your spacious skies. Leave us to our problems and we shall leave you to your seclusion."
You sink into the chair yourself and link your hands and press your forehead against them. You fought in those trenches for almost three years without him – you don't need him preaching at you about your arrogance. Perhaps he has a point but after four fucking years you feel like you deserve to be allowed to gloat and rub Germany's face in the fact that he got the hell beaten out of him – at least just a little.
After all, it's not like you didn't get the hell beaten out of you too.
"England?" America (who still hasn't left) pauses for a moment, and then presses on with a sudden rush of breath: "Things aren't... they're not great between us sometimes, I know, but... I'm willing to forgive if you are."
"Get out," you groan. You don't look at him. You can't.
He obliges this time. Maybe he swaggers again, you don't know because you don't look, but the office door closes and he's gone.
The entire time you were in those trenches with him, holding him close when he shook and letting him hold you when you were cold, you never once said you were sorry and neither did he. You thought – foolishly, naïvely – at the time that it didn't matter, that he was ready for the world, that you could still take his hand and lead him out into the sun with you when it was all over—
But he's not prepared for it. He's still not ready to be on the world stage like you and you know now that you are probably to blame.
(You don't stay angry at him. He tucks himself away in his nest again and you go back to being glad that he is safe.)
"America," I say, hoping that I do not come across as too much of a hypocrite, "I think you might have a bit of a drinking problem."
"Yes," he agrees. He looks at his (fourth) scotch critically and is intoxicated enough to be honest. "Yes, I think so too."
"Well, then perhaps you should take it in a little more moderation."
He looks at up me with that obstinate, determined look of his.
"Actually," he counters, "I'm going to stop altogether."
—
Honestly, I have to admit that I was not entirely inclined to believe him at the time, but America did actually stop drinking. Completely. For about a decade.
In the long run I do not believe it did him much good – unless we are talking about the welfare of his innards – because he started having a lot of trouble with gangsters and crime rings not long after he went absolutely teetotal, but I suppose I have to give him points for effort. In truth I believe that he only started drinking again – in a far more modest manner, thanks heavens – because of the terrible time he has had of late. Wall Street crashed and hit him the hardest and he has been sick again recently – another of his strange illnesses, his lungs seemingly full of dust so that he coughs and coughs without respite.
He distracts himself with more pursuits of grandeur like his World's Fair – he built a huge dam to tame one of his largest rivers and sculpted a vast monument to four of his presidents and he likes to make what he calls "movies". I have to admit that even I enjoyed his newest offering, a full-length colour animated feature based upon one of Germany's fairytales, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
A pity, then, that Germany and I are not exactly on good terms at this moment in time.
"Do you really think he's going to start another war?" America asks in a low voice.
"I am unsure as to what he is planning at the moment," I admit. "However, to say that he hasn't exactly been very happy with France and I for a while now would be something of an understatement."
America opens his mouth and I head him off sharply:
"And don't you dare even think of saying anything along the lines of you having told me so."
He grins at me and lifts his glass to his mouth to take a drink of the bourbon I got especially for his visit; and at this, before he can even wet his lips, another of those obscene coughing fits takes him, wracking his whole body as he barely just slams the glass down again and doubles over.
It is painful to be in the presence of because there is nothing I can do except watch him cough himself half to death.
I fetch him a glass of water but he coughs so much that he cannot take it from me; by the time his frightful bout has eased he has in his hand a palmful of damp dust, clotted with saliva and the fluid of his aching lungs. It is not smoking and it is not alcohol which has done this to him, but rather the agricultural damage done to his lands. I have looked at him in this manner before and wondered if he is strong enough to recover – and he has – but I cannot help but feel that he is very unwell, far more so than he pretends to be. His face is almost always of a ghastly pallor, he seems to have lost weight and his coughing keeps him up half the night so as to make him seem permanently exhausted.
He smiles through it all, because that is what he is wont to do, but his strength swings in roundabouts and he has always been rather sickly. I expect to outlive him. We will all outlive him, we Europeans, and we will go on waging war against one another long after he has become the dust that he coughs. He was not made for this world. He is not a war machine like us. I believe that I see that now.
I hand him the water and his thanks is so breathless that I barely hear it. It will do nothing, I know, but wash the taste out of his mouth. It cannot cleanse his lungs and rinse away the dust that cripples him. It must be utter torment, it must irritate and itch when he breathes and then scream and bleed when he tries to cough it up. His coughing drives me mad, too – because I cannot stand to listen to him suffer and because I could do without him being sick when I can dedicate no time to helping him recover. I have other things to contend with at the moment – things like Germany, whom I feel is greatly restraining himself from telling France and I to go fuck ourselves every time we speak with him. It doesn't help that Russia seems to be becoming increasingly friendly with him and that Poland ignores every warning France and myself give him about Germany possibly doing a little bit of border-hopping in the near future.
If it comes to war – and I have a feeling that it might – I do not intend to haul neither America nor Canada in with me again, since America in particular, as I have already noted, is really in no shape to hold his own against anyone at the moment, least of all a rearmed and pissed-off Germany; but I hope he understands that things might get beyond what France and I can control. War is different these days – changing, mutating, spreading to engulf anyone who happens to be in the path of its destructive swell. They are larger, bloodier, more barbaric than I have ever seen before, and war is certainly no novelty to me by now.
America was impressed by my technology during the Great Exhibition and eager to show off his own at the Chicago World's Fair. True to his word to me, a mere decade later he had created an aeroplane, something with which we were able to own the skies. He thought he was being generous – he, who can fly on his own, wanted to share that gift with the rest of the world. And certainly, yes, we have accepted his tentative offering. My own Royal Air Force will act against Germany if his Luftwaffe acts against me.
But technology. Our horrifyingly-fast advancements since the beginning of the century. Cars, bombs, gas, grenades, machine guns, missiles, planes, submarines, tanks, torpedoes, zeppelins. Machines of war for war machines.
America, let the dust have you. Do not become like us.
"No offence, because your boss seems like he knows what he's doing and all, but..." America hesitated, looking sidelong at England.
"I know what you're going to say," England sighed, not looking up from the document. "Everyone says it."
"So, um..." America twisted his garrison cap absently in his hands, looking around the office for a moment. "...Can I?"
"If you must."
"He's crazy."
"Warmongering, I think, is a better description."
"Well, yeah, that too."
"And half-American."
"Don't pull that card again," America muttered.
He huffed a bored sigh and fidgeted with his hat some more. He didn't know why he'd had to get all dressed up for this – it wasn't like he was going to war or anything. He was just looking over and signing some agreement to sell stuff to England.
England – who, as usual, was at war.
America and his new boss had been disappointed by the complete and utter failure of the League of Nations; it hadn't really been England's fault, he hadn't been looking for another scrap so soon after the so-called Great War, but the Treaty of Versailles had – to put it mildly – rubbed Germany up the wrong way (not that America was going to say that he'd told England so, absolutely not) and he and his new boss had decided sometime back in the 1930s that they didn't want to play by the rules anymore. He'd been forcibly separated from Austria and so had clubbed together with Japan and that idiot Italy instead and the three of them were currently running riot in Europe and France (surprise surprise) had surrendered and now England was being bombed left, right and centre and had the tenacity but not the money to keep acting like a persistent cock-block to Germany—
At least, while America resolved to remain neutral.
Which he wasn't so resolved about anymore. Sure, he was still all for non-interventionism, but the fact was that he was still more inclined to side with England than Germany if push came to shove and England...
...couldn't hold Germany at gun-point without a gun. Or a tank. Or an aircraft carrier.
"This all looks good to me," England said, looking up. "Both of our bosses have already signed it, so... if it's alright with you, we can go ahead and make this official."
"Oh. Yeah." America lay quite a bit of effort into putting on an air of nonchalance. "Yeah, that's fine with me. Whatever you want."
England rolled his eyes, seeing through him, and picked up a pen, putting his own signature to the Lend-Lease agreement with a confident flourish. He looked up and held out the pen.
"Here, then," he said calmly, pointing to the empty line with a single slender finger. "If you'd be so kind."
America got up and approached the desk. He couldn't help suddenly feeling a little shy about it. He was honestly torn between crowing over England for needing his help and being flattered that he had asked – that he had come to him first out of any other potential ally.
(He'd dressed up in his full uniform because he'd wanted to make a good impression – to show that he was taking this all seriously. He'd even tucked his wings away under his jacket even though he'd wanted to keep them out because he was sincerely impressed by the Royal Air Force. They'd fought off the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain some months ago with unwavering determination. Great Britain was still safe. Germany couldn't touch him.)
He didn't let England know that he was shy, though. He grinned obnoxiously at him, practically snatched the pen and signed his full name – United States of America – firmly but carefully. Usually he scrawled but he could write nicely when he wanted to; he formed every letter perfectly, remembering how England had taught him to write years and years ago.
Sometimes he thought he deliberately butchered the letters when he wrote just to be spiteful and childish.
"And with that I'm a belligerent," he said, straightening. "Well, sort of." He stretched as though easing his tired muscles after having just done something of great merit.
Well—
"Do I get a thankyou kiss?" he asked, leaning towards England knowingly and laughing when he was pushed away.
"Sod off," England said; but he ruffled America's fair hair fondly.
"That's all you can say?" America pouted. "After I just—"
"Yes, yes, let's not get all full of ourselves over it," England sighed. "Just allow me to be sincere for a moment."
America blinked down at him, surprised, as England dipped his arms beneath his and wrapped him in a grateful embrace.
"Thankyou," he said. He was hiding his face. Blushing, probably. Such odd little behavioural tics he had – calmly blowing someone's brains out one moment and flushing pink with embarrassment over such a small, sentimental gesture the next.
America smiled and put a hand to his spine, patting him comfortingly.
"You're welcome," he replied quietly. "I'm your ally, England. I've got your back."
("In all seriousness," England said in a low voice, nipping at the shell of America's ear even as his hands worked blindly at the younger man's belt, intent on getting him out of his unneeded uniform, "it is nice to have you recovered from your Thirties Flu. If you must know, I never appreciated you coughing up dust into my mouth."
America smiled and put his own hat firmly on England's head at a skewed angle.
"Nothing says "Get Well Soon" better than your favourite ally begging you to sell him weapons, heavy-duty vehicles and barbed wire by the boatload," he replied.)
"Here."
England, his uniform jacket and officer's belt slung over a chair and in only his shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, handed America a shallow glass of whiskey with one hand. He was holding one for himself in his other hand and there was an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He seemed a lot more comfortable about giving America alcohol these days – although it was certainly true that America didn't drink nearly as much as he used to.
Even if he really felt like drowning himself in it some days.
"Thanks." America took it and knocked back a grateful mouthful before setting the glass down on the large desk in front of him with a hard clack.
His leather flight jacket was thrown over the same chair as England's garments, although he still wore his tan wool blazer as he pored over the map with a pen. It was an enlarged map of Europe and they had been giving extra special attention to the area between Great Britain and France. The English Channel (affectionately nicknamed by England as a "bloody lifesaver – honestly, France has no clue how to manoeuvre a boat and I'd prefer if it stayed that way") was heavily annotated with arrows and thick colour-coded lines to symbolise battalions, fleets and points of entry and England's tiny neat notes here, there and everywhere.
1944. This had been going on for much too long.
"I trust it is to your liking," England said, putting his own almost-empty glass down on top of Italy.
"Hm?" America glanced briefly at him, then gestured vaguely to the map. "Oh, yeah, it's... it looks okay, I mean, I know we've discussed it about a thousand times, but—"
"I meant the whiskey," England interrupted casually, searching his pockets for his lighter. "Scottish." He paused as he located the lighter – a gold Zippo – and lit up his cigarette. "I meant the whiskey there too, not the map." He snapped the lighter closed and pocketed it again, taking the cigarette between his first two fingers and letting it dangle from his limp hand as he exhaled, seeming to thoroughly enjoy it, and approached the desk to look at the map himself. "The map is fine. The plan is fine. I don't know what you think you're doing with that pen, lad, but Canada is going to be going in from where you have it poised. Let your baby brother have his glory, eh? There's more than enough to go around."
"Of France?" America smirked, amused. "You can say that again." He reached over and took the cigarette from England's hand, taking an appreciative drag of it himself. "Ah, that's the stuff. I ran out days ago. I seem to get less and less of them each month."
"Me too," England countered with a wry smile, taking his cigarette back rather firmly. "Bloody rationing."
A moment later, however, he untucked the near-empty packet from his belt and offered it to America.
"Still," he said, "I'll let you have one as long as you promise not to fuck up on June 6th."
"That's not fair," America sighed, taking a cigarette anyway. "How can you expect me not to fuck up? You've all been killing each other for centuries. I'm still pretty new at this, remember?"
"Yes, I remember." England extracted his Zippo again and America leant towards him so that he could light him up. "You've taken to it like a fish to bleeding water, mind."
"Well, I'll try not to fuck up, then." America grinned. "I gave you that lighter."
England shrugged – whiskey-drugged, mellowed, so that he did not get flustered or defensive about it.
"It's a good lighter," he said simply.
"That's because it's American."
"Piss off." But England smirked. "Let's not forget that the cigarette giving you so much pleasure right now is British."
America laughed and reached for his glass again. England watched him do it through a haze of smoke.
"The whiskey," he pressed. "How is it?"
America looked down at the liquid amber flashing at the bottom of the crystal for a moment, swilling it this way and that, before taking another sip of it. He tilted his head, appearing to give it some thought, before he swallowed.
"'S'alright," he decided meaningfully, his eyes flickering towards England. "You know, considering it's British."
He'd been half-expecting England to actually take offense to that, to yell and sulk and call him names, but the older man actually laughed again, shaking his head. England was an oddball, that was for sure – war honestly improved his humour.
"America, I shall personally tip all of your Coca-Cola into the harbour," he said, putting his hand on his back as they both turned towards the map again.
A few more annotations here and there, a brief argument about an RAF flight path being in the way of an AAF one, a shared sentiment that France would probably turn out to be useless in this instance too. England's hand stayed on America's back the entire time, between his shoulder blades, on his spine, as though pushing him, guiding him.
It was a comfort America wasn't sure he needed anymore.
(Although later, when they had drained their glasses and stubbed out their cigarettes and discarded much more than their jackets, America spread his wings out and up so that they were almost like a 'V' – their shared symbol these days – and England sighed into him, his hand on Lady Liberty.
"Keep 'em flying," he murmured, half-joking; and America realised that England had been doing what he had always been doing.
Checking to see if his wings were still there.)
A drink. A splash in the fountain. A sprinkling of confetti and a hug and a mass street parade to celebrate victory.
America had had other things in mind.
In the empty map room – vacated, all but abandoned, due to the good news that sticky August morning – America supported England's smaller form on his thighs (the island nation almost sitting in his lap, back against a sprawling, detailed map of the Atlantic Ocean) and thrust in and out of him with a certain kind of relieved abandon and celebrated that way instead.
we won we won we won. He held England's officer's belt to keep him secure (the leather was a different kind to that of his bomber jacket). we won won won won won. He bit at England's neck beneath his unbuttoned shirt collar and loose tie and made sure to mark him as his own. we won we fucking won—
(He listened to England's gentle repetitive rhythm of "Oh America"—)
"I'll bet you can smell it on me." America's words weren't without a little bitterness – a little accusation. "Taste it on me."
As if to make a point, he pressed upwards and took England's open mouth in a kiss. England didn't resist him, tilting his head, one arm still around America's broad shoulders to anchor himself whilst his other hand pushed back America's blonde hair and stayed there.
"Everything I've done," America whispered, breaking the kiss but his mouth still close, still so close. "Everything I'm capable of." He paused long enough for England to kiss him once, twice, losing count; and, between them, breathe "All my destruction—all my devastation—all my ruin."
"Yes, I can taste it." England brought his other hand up to the side of America's face, his touch gentle as his fingertips went beneath the arm of America's glasses. "All of it. Your power."
He stopped, as if for breath, resting his forehead against America's and closing his eyes. Their rhythm remained but in the sudden silence between them the noise outside was deafening. The cheering, the singing, the celebration. In the midst of such heightened sensitivity, England fancied he could hear every pop of every champagne cork, every step of every drunken dance, every brush of cloth against skin as soldiers embraced sailors embraced survivors.
"I should be proud, shouldn't I?" America's voice was strangely hollow. His hand shifted on England's thigh, over the strap of his holster with his loaded Browning still tucked into it, as they slowed, slowed so much that they were nearly stopped despite the fact that they were both getting closer (close, still so close).
"Proud?" England echoed. "Perhaps." He stroked America's cheek. "But despite all I say, I do not take you for a total fool, America. I know you better than that. Be proud if you like, but also be prepared. I doubt you even begin to realise how powerful you have become – what this war has done to you, done for you – but it will become apparent, not just to you, but to everyone. Do not be surprised if you at length become an object of hate – an enemy of those who do not understand."
"My power?" America laughed under his breath. "You can taste that? Smell it? Feel it?"
"I know it," England countered calmly. "I have tasted it before."
—
"We'll be as one."
America blinked at the words, twining his fingers together with England's as they sat close together in the back of the car.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Isn't that what they're saying?"
"Mm." England shifted his head on America's shoulder; he was falling asleep against him but he couldn't help it. "Special... Relationship, I think is what he called it..."
America put his other arm around him to make him more comfortable.
"It fits," he laughed gently. "We've spent the past four years fucking at every opportunity as though it was going to win us the war."
"It improved... improved relations, you twit," England retorted drowsily, curling into his embrace.
There was still something of a joke in his voice. Wars were different, the world was different, America was different and all he could do was laugh.
Black Death – Bout of plague that swept all of Europe in the 1300s, killing almost half of the population.
Zimmerman Telegraph – In WWI, Germany decided it would try to get Mexico to side with it against the USA by offering it Texas and other places taken from it by the US once the war had been won. The telegraph sent by Germany to Mexico was called the Zimmerman Telegraph. Unfortunately for Germany, British intelligence officials intercepted the telegraph and gave it instead of President Woodrow Wilson. This was one of the reasons the USA entered the war in 1917.
Garrison cap – the little boat-shaped hat worn by lower-ranked soldiers in the armies of several countries. America is seen wearing one in the anime briefly, in the episode where he phones Russia to ask for 25cinch/whatever condoms.
League of Nations – Precursor to the present-day United Nations, this was proposed by President Woodrow Wilson to prevent another war on the scale of WWI. However, the US Congress, rather set on returning the USA to isolationism, ironically wouldn't allow America to join, nor to ratify the Treaty of Versailles.
In the segment dealing with the interwar period: Mentioned in passing here are Prohibition and the abolishment of Prohibition in the United States, the Dust Bowl (why he keeps coughing up dust), the construction of the Hoover Dam and Mount Rushmore, the Wall Street Crash/Great Depression and the release of the first full-length, colour animated movie, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, by Disney in 1937.
Crazy, warmongering and half-American: Sir Winston Churchill, ladies and gentlemen. All are apt descriptions. XD He is the guy who coined the term "Special Relationship", FYI.
Officer's belt: The leather strap that England wears on his uniform, cutting diagonally across the chest from the right shoulder. It is also often called a Sam Browne belt after its inventor, Sam Browne, an officer in the British army in the Victorian period.
As a random aside: The section about them doing it in the map room was the first part of this fic I wrote.