…..Hi. Everyone. Anyone who still reads this that is. Sorry this has been so, so delayed. Life has taken a turn for the insane. A lot happened, medically and financially. It was rough going. So I hope this chapter is up to par. To those I owe oneshots, please remind me so I can get to them. Sorry, again. /slow exit out.

The clouds had cleared away and in their place was the glaring sun, greeting all who were unfortunate enough to be out at such an early hour. That would include the huddled pair out on the muddy ground in the middle of camp.

America groaned and with one hand rubbed at his eyes. The other was currently wrapped around the small form of Andrew. He looked at the tousled red hair with a smile. It hadn't been the best night of sleep but he reckoned that Andrew had slept better than he had in days. Moments later he began to grumble as he slowly woke up.

"G'morning." America said cheerfully, watching as the camp began to come to life. He felt Andrew stiffen and then pull away. A glance over confirmed that the poor boy's face was flushed red with embarrassment no doubt. America kept from smiling as he arched his back, rolling his shoulders with the movement to elicit a few gratifying pops.

Andrew was back over by his post, which wasn't too far away and that was when America realized that a few more prisoners had been added to the camp. Faces that weren't familiar and looked less dirty than those who had been here longer. Had something else gone wrong?

He was analyzing the camp, making mental notes so that he would remember for when he got out of here. Since it was only a matter of time. He was plotting out escape routes, making head counts and trying to identify just where they were. America was so engrossed in his plotting that he didn't pay much attention to the murmuring voice. It was just a nagging annoyance.

Only when Andrew bumped his thigh with his small foot did he look over and that was when he realized that mumbling sound had been Canada speaking,

His head tilted back to rest against the post so that he could (sort of) look down his nose at his twin. "I can't understand you when you're whispering. You really should speak up." America's voice was playful, but he had no doubt his northern brother would recognize the cold tone laced in his advice.

Canada opened his mouth, but before he could say anything America interrupted, "Then again you sure seem to like letting Arthur do all the talking. Never could stand up for yourse-" This time America was cut off as his brother knelt down very close in front of him, reaching around to unlock the manacles and glaring at him nose to nose.

"He wants to talk to you," there was a short pause, enough for Canada to sigh, "again." Then with a surprising bit of strength Canada dragged America to his feet. He turned to Andrew and offered a reassuring smile before being led away by his brother.

He hadn't realized it at the time but the cuffs had been on tighter than was necessary. Slight abrasions circled each wrist. America rubbed at them while they walked towards the same tent he had been in just the other day. He had honestly expected England to try something more, well dramatic. Like leave him tied to that post for days on end until he begged to be taken back or something absurd like that.

Canada was being quiet, but that wasn't unusual. It wasn't the comfortable silence that used to hang between them whenever they were with one another though.

There wasn't a chance to try and talk with Canada anymore, they were at the tent and his brother was standing aside; waiting for him to walk in first. Even though it went against all his instincts America strutted into the tent. He could have sworn that the second he stepped inside his shoulder began to ache, a steady beating pain reminding him of what England had done just the other day.

Canada silently stepped in behind him, but stayed at the edge of the tent's flap. After his eyes adjusted to the darker interior he closed the distance between himself and the desk England was seated behind. He knew the drill by now, and plopped down in the chair directly across from the island nation.

Whatever he was working on it was apparently important since he didn't spare a glance for America. Instead he kept on writing in that infuriating flourished style with a neutral expression on his face. America was beginning to wonder if he should say something, even glancing back at Canada who looked just as impassive as England.

Just as he was starting to fidget in the rigid chair England set aside the papers and leaned back in his (more comfortable looking) chair. The light didn't quite reach his eyes and it was hard to tell if England was looking at him or merely off to the side.

"You are making this difficult on me." A heavy sigh punctuated his complaint. Before America could gloat about it he continued. "Not the war mind you, but how I should handle your punishment." Then he was leaning forward, with one elbow on the desktop so he could set his chin in the palm of his hand.

"You don't seem to care about your own wellbeing," England gestured with his other hand towards America's wrists, "and you hardly have any sense about you." This time his gaze flicked to the wound on his shoulder. "So how am I to make you understand how very much trouble you have caused not only myself but my allies as well?" His question was obviously rhetorical.

The topic didn't make America nervous, but it was the way in which England spoke that elicited a shiver out of him. Despite the warning bells going off in his head, he spoke. "You ain't seen trouble yet."

While France had seemed interested, or maybe just mildly amused by his Southern accent, it generally got a scowl out of England. This time was different. Before he knew what had happened he was dragged forward across the desk by the dry, bloody fabric of his shirt and scrambling for purchase on the slick mahogany wood.

"War certainly hasn't improved your manners." England ground out between clenched teeth.

America inhaled deeply; one hand reaching out to shove away England but faster than he had thought possible his wrist was snatched by the elder nation. The edge of the desk bit into his hip and to keep himself from ripping the already ruined shirt he had to steady himself with his only free hand.

"You may not care for me," England spoke softly, so quietly that Canada probably wouldn't even be able to hear him, "but I know that you care for your people."

He tossed America back, who landed unceremoniously in the chair. "This is ridiculous. You brought me here to what-Threaten me? Americans are already fighting, and dying to be free. Of course I care about them." Where was England going with this? That nagging, ominous feeling was back.

Shouting made him turn his head, just in time to see a soldier drag in the kicking and flailing form of Andrew Jackson. He turned slowly back towards England, eyes wide. "En-Arthur? What do you think you're doing?"

Instead of answering him England stood up and walked around the desk until he was near to the soldier who had a firm grip on Andrew. Upon seeing America he had stopped fighting the soldier so much, instead looking between the nations uncertainly.

"You refuse to see reason, but then when finally confronted with it you seek to blame others. If you want to be independent so badly you should have realized by now how to accept fault when it lies with you." England gave a nod and the soldier let Andrew go, who stood there stiffly.

Making sure he moved slowly, America got to his feet, hands held out in a placating manner. "Please, Arthur you don't have to. Alright? I get it. This, he's just a kid for crying out loud." That earned a glare from the 'kid', but America wasn't about to mince words right now. "Arthur-"

"A child doesn't enlist in the militia and act as messenger for soldiers." England's voice was calm and collected, his face blank of any emotion. He took another step closer, turning to face America as he placed one hand on Andrew's shoulder. "So what choice then is there?"

Andrew recoiled, roughly shoving at England's hand and then looking to America. "Don't let them bully you."

"As uncouth as you." England commented before then stepping back and nodding to the soldier who was slipping the rifle off of his shoulder.

America was beginning to panic. This wasn't going at all how he wanted. "This isn't right!" His voice broke on the word 'right.' Andrew put on a brave front but he could see the innate childlike fear just behind his eyes. Not even a full grown man would face down a rifle point blank with unwavering courage.

"You're a damn coward!" America shouted at England who watched the scene with an infuriatingly impassive stare. Not willing to wait any longer he stepped forward, moving quickly to tackle the redcoat before he had a chance to shoot Andrew.

He could see the uncertainty in the soldier's eyes as he lunged for him. For once things would work out. Just this once he wouldn't let someone else down. He was a breath away from reaching the soldier when he was tackled mid jump by someone he had forgotten about.

With an 'oomph' all the air was shoved out of his lungs as he landed on his back. Anger took over him as he tried to shove Canada off. A gasp of 'no' was all he managed as he rolled over just in time to see Andrew take a bayonet to the shoulder.

Red crept in on his vision, blurring the edges of everything as he watched Andrew crumple to the ground and try to stop the bleeding with his thin hands. America's fingers dug into Canada's shoulders, muscles tensing as he thought about just how hard he was going to throw his brother.

Then Andrew was being lifted and taken away. When he was gone all the fight left America, his entire body going limp as he instead stared upwards and thought about the matching wounds both he and Andrew had now. Even though his was from a bullet and not a bayonet. How much blood could a kid his size lose and still live?

Canada had eased up off of him and England was kneeling nearby. He was speaking but America wasn't listening. No, something else had his attention. Nothing physical, but just a feeling. His head tilted, gaze unfocused as he tried to listen for something.

He wasn't left waiting for long.

A series of shots followed by the unmistakable sound of artillery. America came crashing back to the present, only now Canada was standing and listening as England gave orders. His timing was good, considering England had turned to him at that very moment to address him.

"Don't do anything that will force my hand again America." England gave him a hard look before running out of the tent, no doubt to speak with his generals and figure out what exactly was happening.

That left America alone with his brother. He sat up slowly, sitting cross legged on the ground and looking at Canada. A year ago, heck even a few months ago he wouldn't have guessed his brother capable of what he had done.

A year ago America wouldn't have even considered what he was about to do.

"I'm sorry it's…It's been like this." Canada began quietly, fingers dancing along the buckle that kept his own rifle across his back. "A-Alfred, I don't like this."

On the surface America understood. He really did. His brother wasn't one for war, but that didn't seem to stop him from participating when England came calling. Didn't stop him from doing what he had done.

America stayed silent, watching Canada with a level stare. "The sooner this is over, the better." Canada added in a hushed whisper.

"You're as much a coward as he is."

With that he lunged at Canada, who jerked aside in surprise but was unable to completely avoid the attack. The two fell to the ground once more, this time on America's terms. He fought for a hold on Canada, managing to snap the buckle so the rifle wasn't a problem anymore. That left some more room for maneuvering.

Even with surprise on his side America was struggling to get the upper hand. He took an elbow to the nose. Canada squeaked out a 'sorry' but then followed it with a knee to the ribcage that had America wheezing again.

America stopped moving and became dead weight for a second. Enough to throw off Canada's balance and slip behind him so he could wrap an arm around his throat.

"Not as sorry as I am." America mumbled as he sent his twin into a forced sleep.

Once he was certain Canada was out he got up and quickly exchanged their clothes. He rushed for the flap, intent on finding Andrew before it was too late. Just as he was about to step out he glanced over his shoulder and felt a stab of guilt hit him square in the chest. Groaning he moved back to Canada and picked him up. There was a cot in the tent that would have to do for now. He set him down and covered him with a blanket.

Now at least he could leave with a somewhat clean conscious.

The camp was in chaos. Somehow the prisoners had gotten loose from the looks of things and the British were quickly being overwhelmed. That wasn't his problem though. The trail of blood in the dirt caught his attention and he set off running.

There was a lot of blood, more than there should be. It made his stomach clench and turn in unpleasant ways. The trail stopped at the prisoner side of the camp. America looked about frantically before spotting the familiar mess of hair amidst bodies of soldiers.

He ran over, sliding on his knees the rest of the way as he reached out and turned over the still form.

"Andrew?" His voice cracked for the second time today.

A small groan was his reward and America nearly whooped and danced on the spot. Instead he pulled him closer and looked at the wound. Andrew had torn off part of his own shirt to wrap around the wound and stop the bleeding as best he could.

"Com'on we're busting out of here." America offered in a pathetic attempt at humor. Andrew cracked open his eyes and rolled them, which was a good sign.

The camp was now being lit on fire; it was time to get out of there. America lifted Andrew who weakly wrapped his arms about his neck as he carried him out and towards the nearby forest. "They got theirs didn't they?"

America turned his head, catching glimpses of the fire and imagining he saw England in them. "Sure did Andrew." That didn't mean his plan was flawless though. Sooner rather than later England would figure out what he had done. He and Canada often got mistaken for one another, but…

Shouts pulled him from his thoughts. Soldiers had apparently noticed one of their own leaving and thought something fishy was about. "Great, just great. Hang on kiddo." America picked up the pace, ducking behind a tree just as shots were fired off. He ran, as fast as he risked with Andrew on his back and then decided a new tactic was needed.

Things hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd initially assumed they would. Then again his plan had been somewhat half-baked and not that ready to come out of the oven. No going back and changing things up though so they were stuck with the current situation.

Said situation involved a heaping dose of hiding from redcoats in a tree while trying not to drop the very precious cargo on his back. The things America did for his people-Really. When the sun went down it would be much easier to sneak the rest of the way towards the city and then meet up with some of the resistance. It was only a matter of time, and England didn't have the resources to waste on looking for him forever.

Just a matter of time.

Unfortunately that thought didn't make it any easier to balance on the tree while holding his breath to keep quiet and prevent the kid on his back from toppling over. Speaking of, Andrew's breathing was still shallow and it made America nervous. Maybe he should risk moving in the sunlight just to get him to some other people faster. People who knew how to treat wounds.

A glob of white fell right onto his shoulder, and America glanced up in time to see the guilty bird fly off. His eye twitched.

"How are you doing?" America whispered. He wanted to make sure Andrew was still al-Was alright. The battle was still going on not far away and he hadn't made much progress towards Philadelphia.

"'Mtired." The slurred speech couldn't be a good sign.

America grimaced. "Okay, we're going to get going alright? So just stay awake until then." He began to gingerly make his way back down the tree, keeping an eye out for any soldiers out looking for him. He'd abandoned the red jacket he'd borrowed from Canada since it was too obvious a target. Hopefully that would be enough to get him safely to Philadelphia.

"Why don't you tell me about your family?" America suggested, alert for any trouble as he walked along, avoiding twigs and leaves as best he could.

Andrew sighed and shifted a little. "You knew about Robert. They practically starved us." Even near death he managed to hold contempt for the British, his words cold and precise. "Got smallpox too. Thought Robert would survive, but he didn't." There was a pause. "I did."

America nodded, but this wasn't the sort of memories he wanted Andrew clinging to, not now. "What about your mom?"

This time when he spoke Andrew's voice had softened. "She's great. She has been writing, trying to get me out of that camp. Miss her." The way he was phrasing his words made America a little worried. From what he could tell Andrew was well spoken, and carefully formed sentences. The missing words weren't like him.

"What about yours?"

America blinked a few times. "My wha-Oh." The question had caught him off guard, enough to make him stop walking for a moment. "You mean my mom."

"I…" There was no right way to really answer this question. The silence stretched on, as America fumbled to find the right words to explain. Maybe he was just tired from the war. When had been the last time he'd eaten?

He shook his head. "I'm not really sure, but like you I've got a brother, two really I guess." America offered the alternative, hoping Andrew wouldn't press the issue. "You actually met them. They were the two back in that tent."

"Damn redcoats?" Andrew mumbled.

"Hey language, but yes, I guess." They spoke in whispers, as they had since they'd left the camp. The more distant the sounds of gunfire, the better. It made America a little less edgy. "Want me to tell you about them?"

"Alright."

Francis squinted at the approaching dawn. It crept over the horizon, bringing with it the fresh light of a new day. It would have been a beautiful sight, were he not recovering from a night of somewhat questionable activities with Prussia.

So as it was he glared at the brightening sky. They had moved from the center of the city nearer to the edge to better keep an eye out for England and any attacks he might try from the South. Prussia seemed convinced none would come. France was not so certain.

"Réveiller!" France called out in a sing-song voice. His only response was a few choice words in German and the sounds of his fellow nation waking up.

He began stretching out, and was in the midst of getting that bothersome crick worked out of his neck when he began hearing shouts in both French and English.

Curiosity prickled at him, but it wasn't enough to entice him from where he was. Only when he saw a familiar form stumbling through the camp did he realize just what the soldiers had been calling out to one another over.

"Mon Dieu…" France didn't run out to meet him, but he did walk slightly quicker than befit someone of his standing.

His brisk jog served him well as he arrived just in time to steady America before he toppled over. France looked over the ragged and torn form of the nation he hadn't expected to see so soon. "Amerique, you are full of surprises." He spoke warmly, eyes widening as he noticed the boy on his back.

"And you brought a stray."

America finally looked up at France, a gathering of soldiers circling the two. "Bonjour Francis." He offered a rather pathetic smile that nearly cracked France's carefully crafted composure. Then America's eyes widened substantially and he did a fluid movement that France would not have thought him capable of. In seconds the small boy was in his arms instead of on his back and he was pressing him towards France.

"Please get him to a doctor."

France had no choice but to catch the child before America dropped him. "Mon chéri, I think that it would be best if you-"

"Je vous en prie." America spoke to France but his focus was on the boy, face pale and looking like a lost boy himself. France heaved a sigh but nodded. He gave a French soldier instruction on what to do with America while he carried the boy off to the doctor just outside the camp and in the ruins of Philadelphia.

He looked at the pale, dirt covered child in his arms with a frown tugging at the edges of his lips.

"You are a very lucky boy." France murmured with a bemused sigh.

Right. Not much historical notes, like at all. Andrew Jackson obviously never suffered a bayonet to the shoulder, but he did lose his brother to smallpox. As I mentioned before (I think?). His mother, Elizabeth was a very interesting woman from what I found. She served as a nurse on a prisoner ship but contracted a disease(cholera) and died as a result. Leaving Andrew an orphan at 14.

Also those behind the attack on the camp will come to light soon.

Annnnd those wounds on America's wrists have double meaning, no really. Don't forget about the South! /goes back to hiding