Wow, do I fail at life or what guys? So about two months later here's the next chapter of this... -dies- I'll try much harder to not do that again! Sorry! This story takes me a while because I have to look up a lot of things and I actually had to rewrite a big part of this. Um, not that it's an excuse.
Also, I just want to throw it out there, whatever you think is going to happen in this story... you're probably wrong -laughs- You'll see eventually~
Big thanks to Reigning Rats and Naroki for helping me look some stuff up~
Waking up the next morning is perhaps the most unpleasant experience America has had in decades. The first few seconds are alright. And then everything hits him all at once. A hangover the size of Alaska leaves him with a booming headache and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. England's rough treatment, which his intoxication hasn't seemed to magically wipe from his memory like he thought it might, leaves him aching across his entire body. For a moment America wonders if the sweet release of death might not be more welcome to this.
With a loud groan he opens his eyes and slowly sits up, looking down at himself. Bruises, hickeys and bite marks make their way down his whole body, some places bearing imprints of fingers and teeth. He groans again and turns blearily to glare at the man who should be in the bed with him but isn't. America looks around the room, the quick movement making him queasy. Closing his eyes then opening them slowly he reaffirms more slowly that he's alone in the room.
His clothes are carefully folded on a chair next to his bag and boots, which sit side by side like soldiers at attention. America starts to slide out of the bed and as he tries to ease into a standing position pain shoots down his backside. He grits his teeth. Fuck that hurts! Damn England, he had really abused his poor body! Taking advantage of a drunken soul in need of shelter, some gentleman. Gentleman rapist is more like it! Though, unfortunately, America can't even pretend to have forgotten how he had begged Arthur for more. Truly humiliating.
Bracing himself, he stands and a sharp pain shoots up his spine. He winces and starts to walk forward, limping a bit. The initial pain, while awful, is the worst of it and he manages to only cringe a little with each step. Stupid England.
America goes to his pile of clothes then realizes it isn't what he was wearing before at all. A new outfit... And a piece of paper rests on top of it written in elegant handwriting. 'Wear this.' Oh, well good to know he has a choice in the matter...
Grumbling, America dresses slowly. The clothes fit better than what he wore the day before and are both cleaner and of a better quality. He still feels like a doofus in them. Once he's managed to dress himself he contemplates whether bashing his head against the side of a desk will make him feel better. And he bets there's no such thing as pain killer in this time period. Or if there is it's something weird.
It suddenly occurs to him that England might have gone through his bag. He quickly looks at it but the knot is still the one he had tied and he lets out a relieved breath. And where is the pocket watch...? America looks around with increasing panic—England had seemed tempted to steal it before—then relaxes when he sees it is resting on England's dresser.
"There you are, you little bastard. Look what mess you've gotten me into. I feel like death warmed over then killed again you little..." He's talking to a watch. Awesome.
Giving it a nasty look he clicks it open out of a desire to see the time before remembering it's frozen and doesn't actually work. He's about to close it up again when he notices something and freezes. The hand...Not the hour hand, it is still perfectly centered on the twelve. But the minute hand...It has moved. Definitely. Not an 'oh maybe it's a trick of the light' like he figured it had been before, but undeniably in a different spot. It has crawled from the twelve to a little past the two.
"What the..." He frowns and stares for a while. There is no second hand and it doesn't budge once in the time he stares (not that it's for very long, his attention span is too short) but there is no denying that it has moved at some point. America shakes the watch and holds it to his ear not sure what he should be listening for. Finally he shrugs and clicks it shut, tucking it safely into a pocket. He has no idea. Must just be broken, that's all.
Looking a little more presentable and still feeling like shit, America finds his way out of the room. He shuffles through the house, searching a bit half-heartedly before heading towards the kitchen area. Might as well see if he can find something to eat that will be easy on his stomach.
As he enters the dining room he comes across England, who is writing away, dressed impeccably and looking a bit wistful. He glances up for only the briefest moment as America enters the room then scratches something down, shakes his head and scratches it out, writing something beneath it. "Good morning, Alfred. Would you like some ale?"
What, that's it? After all the lewd things he had done to him last night? A good morning and ale? As if he wants alcohol anyway. America scowls a bit and walks over to him, trying to read over his shoulder. "No thanks, don't really want some now." Or perhaps ever again. "What are you doing?"
England presses the tip of his quill to his lower lip, leaving a small black dot before jotting something down. "Not that it is particularly any of your business but if you must know, writing a sonnet."
"...Sonnet..." America has been brutally fucked by a man who writes sonnets for breakfast. He will never, ever, ever live it down. Not in his entire life. He groans and sits down heavily in the chair next to him, wincing as he does. The small smirk that twitches on England's lips is not lost on him.
"And tell me, what is wrong with sonnets?" England glances up at him, capturing and keeping eye contact this time.
"...Nothing, nothing is wrong with them at all." It's not like he wants England to go off on a rant about the majesty of sonnets or some crap like that.
England's smirk grows and he makes no attempt to conceal it. "Hmph, undoubtedly you are from a country, class, or both in which the sonnet is not an appreciated art."
Why is England such a dick? He wonders if he smashes the other's face hard enough into the table that he passes out if that will effect the future. Huffing and holding his irritation in, he ignores the comment and instead asks a question. "Who are you writing it for?"
If anyone. Seriously, who would England write a sonnet for?
A bit of color touches England's cheeks and America gapes for a moment, not sure if he's seeing things correctly. "Her royal highness Queen Elizabeth."
The answer takes America aback and then he grins, a small chuckle escaping him. "Oh yeah? Well that's expected I suppose. The English do have a bit of a love affair going with the queen don't they?"
England is up on his feet in a flash, grabbing America by the hair and pulling his head back sharply. His green eyes flash coldly. "Do not speak so flippantly about Her Majesty or I shall see you beheaded! Elizabeth is twice the leader her father was and has made me into one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen. You will show proper respect you lowly cur."
Eyes wide with surprise, America tries to nod then winces as it further pulls his hair. This is in no way helping his headache. "S-sorry, I didn't mean-"
"God save the Queen," England says severely.
America stares at him a moment more before softly murmuring, "God save the Queen."
After another tense moment England loosens his grip, his fingers slipping through golden locks. He reaches down and grabs America's chin, tilting his face slightly. "You have lovely bone structure. I enjoyed looking you over properly this morning as you slept. My claims look stunning on that pretty skin of yours."
America jerks his chin away, glaring silently at him. England returns it with a smirk then sits back down, calmly looking over his writing. "Are you sure you would not care for some ale? The flavor is quite good."
Crossing his arms and totally not pouting, America glares at the table. "I said I don't."
"Suit yourself." England pours himself a cup then continues to scratch away.
America watches, still feeling a bit taken off guard by England's violent outburst. He does remember England speaking fondly of Queen Elizabeth but has never thought much about it. England liked a lot (though not all) of his royalty. America never had fondness for any king or queen. In fact he detests the idea of it so much he had encouraged the law forbidding any from so much as having that as a title in his country.
Then again...Isn't Elizabeth the queen that declared herself married to England? America looks at England shrewdly, who is now copying whatever sonnet he has written on a fresh piece of paper. Well, he'll just have to make sure not to piss him off like that again. No talking about the Queen then. Whatever shall they talk about now? He holds in a snort of amusement. "Can I have food?"
Much to America's annoyance, England refuses to respond until he has finished copying down everything. Finally he looks up at him, expression far less intense than it had been. "Of course you can have food. I think you want to know if you may have food."
Rage goes through America. He doesn't give a fuck what the difference between 'may' and 'can' are! He just wants some goddamn food and aspirin. "May I have food or do you starve your guests?"
England frowns slightly and stands again. "I will bring you something."
Once England is well out of earshot America mutters, "Asshole." He crosses his arms on the table and buries his head in them. He feels awful. Head pounding and hurting where England had pulled his hair, body aching, stomach churning. Worst night ever. And this isn't exactly turning out to be a rosy morning after either.
And England... He's certainly more interesting in this time period but he's a lot more insufferable too. Walking around like he's ruler of the world or something. Then again at this point he is pretty powerful. It's still disgusting the way he acts. Such a creeper, too. A shudder goes down America's spine as he imagines England smugly looking his body over, proudly observing each bruise and suck mark he made.
"Here," a voice interrupts his self-pity. America sits up and England places a plate in front of him. "You know, you have dreadful table manners."
"I haven't even done anything yet!" he whines.
England clicks his tongue. "Trust me, I can tell. Now stop draping yourself upon the table."
Once again America contemplates how much more he can possibly damage the time stream by crushing England's head against something than he's already caused by simply being here. He finally looks down at the plate and almost bursts into laughter. England might be a lot different but he still seems to possess no cooking skills. Whatever is on the plate is totally unidentifiable. Luckily for America he has very little sense of taste and can stomach the crap. Which he does at a very slow pace, testing out how well his stomach will respond.
As he tries to eat England sits and watches him, sipping the ale from time to time. It's a bit unnerving. "What?"
"...You are eating it. It is alright?" When America looks at England he quickly looks away, putting on an air of total disinterest. "Well, I am merely asking on behalf of my guest."
Ah, so that's it. How many 'guests' has he murdered in cold blood with his horrific morning after breakfast? The world may never know. "It's edible."
England seems to huff at that and America smiles softly to himself. Small victory for him. "You know, I'm really surprised you haven't offered me tea, to be honest."
A perplexed frown comes to England's face. "...Tea? Why would you think I would have tea let alone offer it?"
America pauses and stares at him. "...You don't have tea?"
"Of course not. While I have tried it before it is vastly uncommon in Europe let alone England. Is there tea where you live?" He looks at America doubtfully.
"W-well um...I just..." He shuts his mouth, not sure what to say. He has always assumed that England pretty much came into existence with a cup of tea in his hand. Finally, a bit late, a response comes to him. "No, I just thought if anyone would have such a...rare...delicacy it would be you."
"Try the Orient if you have interest in such things," England says dismissively.
Feeling uncomfortable with his slip, America thinks about how to change the subject. "Er, I...could I, I mean, is there somewhere I can wash up? Take a bath?"
"A bath? Yes, that can be arranged. Do you bathe quite often?"
America stares at him, crinkling his nose a bit. "Of course I do."
England tilts his head then chuckles. "Such a troublesome guest. But an interesting one none the less. Very well."
Rude! He isn't troublesome, there's nothing troublesome about wanting to be clean! Especially after the night the fiend put him through. "Well, so sorry to be such a bother."
England stands and touches his shoulder lightly. "Finish your breakfast, I'll set things up."
With that England leaves the room. America continues to eat, frowning. The Great British Empire is a total dick. Time passes and America finishes eating. As he begins to wait he gets antsy, bouncing his foot. His annoyance grows. What, has England forgotten about him or something? This is getting ridiculous. Laughing at him off in some room as he writes lame sonnets?
Deeply irritated, America is just about to go look for him when England reappears. "I'm finished. Quite a lot of work you know. Come along then."
Curious as to what could have possibly taken so long, he follows England. He stops short as they enter a room. What appears to be a tub made of wood or something sits near a lit fireplace. England impatiently gestures him further into the room. "I haven't all day you know. Undress."
No way...Is this for real? Ah, how hard it is to remember a time before running water... Such distant memories. Whatever, he'll take what he can get. Very aware of England's eyes on him, America removes his clothes and sets them in a bit of a heap in a chair. England scowls at the pile then at him but doesn't tell him to fold them. So that's one plus.
America makes a move towards the bathtub when England stops him, grabbing his arm. "Just one moment. We have to clean you up first."
Clean him up...Isn't that what the tub is for? But England is picking up a cloth, dipping it in the water and rubbing what is probably soap into it. "Hold your arms out."
Grumbling quietly, America does as he says. "I can bathe myself you know."
"And I could care less." He proceeds to wash America, being surprisingly gentle as he wipes him down. Thorough, efficient, and yet almost (and definitely embarrassingly) doting. America gets a weird sense of deja vu from his childhood. The only thing that shatters the illusion is the occasional stray grope and intimate caress. Once England has rubbed him down thoroughly enough to leave a blush on America's face, he leads him to the bathtub.
America frowns a bit as he sees the water. Hardly looks like it'll make him clean so much as dirty him up again but it could really be worse. Slipping into the shallowly filled tub, he feels another wave of irritation at the time period as he finds the water infuriatingly lukewarm. If only he could have been sent to the future instead. Now that would have been awesome and surely more hygienic. He decides to pretend he's camping. It works more effectively than it probably should as he starts to adjust to the water.
England kneels down behind him and dips the rag into the tub, wringing the water against America and letting it roll down him. "Now that you are more sober, I wish to ask Alfred. Do you truly have nowhere to go?"
"...No, I can't say I do." Saying that makes him feel a bit antsy. Like admitting yes, he is in a spooky house all by himself to the mysterious midnight caller on Halloween night.
"Mm, then you will stay with me for so long as I tell you to. I doubt I'll be letting you go any sooner than it might take for one of these to heal." He strokes one of the bite marks he had left behind.
Now doesn't that sound creepy. America gingerly touches the bite mark on his inner thigh. Now that he thinks about it, he heals faster than normal people. These marks are going to disappear way before they should. England is sure to notice. Actually, considering countries can usually sense each other he's amazed England hasn't yet. Maybe because he's misplaced in time? Who knows, time travel stuff gives him a headache, cool as it may be.
America frowns and turns his head. "Are you saying you're keeping me captive here or something?"
"Captive? I don't need to keep you captive. You are at the heart of my country. I would love to see you try and escape the English Empire." England leans in and licks the side of his neck, giving it a light nip.
Well doesn't England sound smug. This is boding ill with him. Maybe he should try getting away. But where is he supposed to go? This whole situation sucks. Dumb magic watch. He shivers as England's arm slips around him, pressing the cloth to his chest.
England leans against America's damp back as he runs the cloth along him. "In all seriousness, what country are you from Alfred? You seem rather well traveled."
"Nowhere in particular," America mutters. "I...get around." He has no idea how much he gets around.
"Maybe you really are a spy," England practically purrs into his ear. "The Queen is rather tolerant of torture you know. I would hate to have to use it to extract such a minor detail."
America grabs England's wrist loosely. "What, you don't trust me? Besides, I could easily just tell you any country, couldn't I? Doesn't make a difference. Somethin' more honest about my not saying, isn't there?"
With a small snort England snatches his wrist free and pulls away from him. "You truly do have spirit Alfred. A rather brash spirit at that. I like that about you. But do not push your luck too much, mm?"
Giving his shoulder a small nibble, England stands and uses a dry cloth on his hands. "Feel free to soak as long as you please. Do know that no matter how much you delight in this luxury I will not feel obliged to draw you a bath too frequently. It is rather a bother."
America turns to face him for the first time, blinking up at him almost lazily. In all honesty he could haul up the whole tub filled with water on his own but...well, obviously he doesn't want to mention that little detail. How frustrating. It's like having to be a full fledged human or something. "Yes captain, my captain."
England raises an eyebrow at him but seems amused despite his rather unpleasant behavior and attitude. "I must go out for a while to see Her Majesty about some foreign annoyances I took care of for her. Do try to behave yourself. And I would much prefer if upon my return you were still here and not wandering about the city."
America is tempted to roll his eyes and refrains. "I'll see what I can do."
He can tell England is struggling with how to respond to his cheekiness. It obviously irritates him but he can't quite bring himself to get fed up. Of course not, America is super lovable and awesome, duh. Even if it's not the same as in his own time, he likes that he can fluster England a little bit even in the past.
Finally England smiles tightly. "Please do. I will return later. I await the evening with abated breath."
The twinge of sarcasm with the undertone of 'I will definitely bang you when I get back' makes America grin at its absurdity despite himself. "Have fun."
Shaking his head, undoubtedly from America's oh so unbearable stupidity, England gives a final bow of his head and leaves the room. America leans back in the tub and tries to think. So England will be out a while reading sonnets to the Queen or whatever, he needs to think about what to do. Is it in his best interest to stay here? To try and leave, potentially get caught? So long as he's anchored in England he might find a way out of his current predicament. It's not like he knows where else to go for a problem like this. But it also means getting violently sexed up or potentially breaking all of England's bones.
Rubbing his temples, America wishes he had superpowers. Not because they will help him in this situation, just because they would be cool. Like, flying, or mind reading, or the power to turn things into hamburgers at will. With a stupid grin on his face, America wastes his time imagining a whole epic of him as Burger Man, no longer even vaguely on task.
Precious time slips away, the minute hand of his pocket watch crawling ever so slowly forward.
Historical Notes:
Queen Elizabeth I – I feel that England would have been very fond of Elizabeth. She helped herald in what is considered the Golden Age of England. Plus, as I mentioned in the last chapter note, she referred to herself as being married to England and with Hetalia thrown in that's just good historical fun. And there really was a lot of torture (horrible, horrible torture at that) going on under her rule.
England without tea – Yes, there was once upon a time when tea did not exist in Europe, let alone England. In fact, England was pretty much the last major country in Europe to get tea. It was introduced to them by the Dutch around 1652 or so (from one source). In fact, aforementioned source claimed that the Dutch even brought it to one of their colonies in America (where New York now is) two years before England got it. (I didn't look into it enough to confirm this as fact, but thought it was hilarious). Tea was also originally referred to as Cha but no one would know what I was talking about if I said that, now would they? (Like America would know that anyway) And I could go on about the other useless info I found out about tea and tea trading but I won't. Ah, but as a country I just...felt like England would have at least tried it visiting with China or something.
Bathing – Bathing in the Elizabethan Era was a bitch, but people did do it to minimal degrees. Hair was washed separately and people washed themselves before soaking in wooden tubs that sometimes had water so dirty it was unfit to drink. This tub was left near the fireplaces to help warm the water up. For the lower class bathing was even more difficult and thus done even more infrequently.