February, 1944
Matthew hadn't been exaggerating.
Eagle company had sprouted those crazy little red-white-and-blue marks on their jumpsuits where the Canadian flags had been only hours before. Fresh young faces, all, had stood at attention on the field while it was announced that America was officially siding with the Allies.
England recognized a few of the faces as regular patrons at the pub he had been frequenting for a year or more. One in particular, as the most likely to burst into song when he'd had a few drops of alcohol in him. (Canada had been often in his company, when not on a mission, or with his own squadron.)
He wasn't the pilot from the Blitz, however- to start with, he was shorter than England.
Their chatter had mostly subdued, and his own RAF pilots acknowledged them as 'damned good fighters' who took risks that nearly always paid off- and yet were not as prone to showiness as their Canadian counterparts. They were a somber bunch, at times, who opted to remain in the background- even after their true allegiance was revealed.
("Best fucking radar and sonar equipment in the world-" Matthew had offered once as they sat in the same pub after the fresh troops arrived. "I would have had to be an idiot not to use what was offered.")
Neither mentioned the alley.
But if one of them mentioned Alfred's name the anger no longer clouded Canada's face as it once had. Arthur didn't want to see it return, so he refrained from asking questions.
England was also surprised one morning, to turn from drawing his usual chalk figures and diagrams, and find a heavily bandaged Francis leaning in the doorway to the Allied meeting room.
"Angleterre," was his greeting, as though he had never been absent.
"You look a sight, Frog." returned England, "I thought you'd given up."
"A mere moment of weakness." The easy smile spread across Francis' face, "Besides, if America can fight, despite the handicaps he's been given, I would look a true fool not to make any effort."
"And we know you don't need any help there." Arthur sniped automatically. "Perhaps I shouldn't have confided in you. "
But he had, one drunken rainy night in the trenches during the last war, he had broken down and told Francis about that last battle, about the rain, the blood-
"Has the America been to any of the Allied forces meetings? If he-"
"No."
"Has Matthieu told you nothing about America?"
"No, and I... haven't asked." England scowled, turning back to the board and redrawing a few lines that might have been perfect already. "He's not as angry as he was then, but I don't want to risk it."
"You're a coward." The insult was delivered in a mild tone, as France took a seat. "You're afraid to find out for certain."
"In the years that you have been alive, Francis, have you ever heard of a country healing from an injury like ..that?"
"Surely you've seen such things in your days as a delinquent, Arthur." France leaned back in his chair. "Didn't you subjugate nations, conquer countries and rule the high seas with mayhem?"
"I have not, which is why I was asking you, idiot. In time of revolution, we're more succeptable to injury. I've destroyed nations, and seen them destroyed- " England paused for emphasis, refusing to rise to whatever bait that the word 'delinquent' had been in the past, "Never have I seen one of us survive a crippling blow like the one- I blinded him, for pity's sake."
"Not you personally, cher Angleterre." France reminded him, "He is a nation, however, and his wounds would have healed long ago. So, he's fine, just -"
"The last blow was struck in that nebulous time period between my surrender, and his acceptance. He was a nation as I laid him down. And even if- " England carefully replaced the chalk on the edge of the blackboard. "Just remember... how many scars do you carry from your battles that will never vanish?"
"I see." the serious expression was completely out of character for France. "However, he has survived whatever has been thrown at him with Matthieu's support, and his people are from what I gather, very competent."
"Competent." England sighed, and slouched into a chair. He should get some tea before the meeting, but he couldn't be arsed. "I've been living with rumors. My representatives have dealt with American officials- however none have seen anyone matching his description at functions where it would make sense for one of us to be present."
"Nor have mine." France winced as he shrugged, "Nor did I, when I visited to complete a land deal with him."
"When was that?"
"Years ago. The point is, Matthieu has been the only one of us to see him in the past hundred and fifty years. If you want to know how he is, and if he is still angry, you know who you have to talk with- and ce n'est pas moi."
Voices in the corridor gave England enough time to pull himself together. Not that he would admit to having been that close to weeping in frustration. He straightened up in time to see Matthew bounce into the room, a bright smile upon his face as he saw Francis sitting across from Arthur.
"Bienvenue!" he almost glowed, letting forth a stream of rapid French to France. Too fast for Arthur to follow. Francis responded in kind, and the pair seemed to ignore him.
He could hear the voices in the corridor getting closer, and as the large and familiar shape of Russia paused outside the door, he could see that Ivan was deep in conversation with someone who lingered out of sight.
But they were both speaking Russian, and Arthur could only wince in frustration. It might just be one of the Baltic states, but not understanding a word going on around him was annoying.
The laugh that preceded Ivan's entry stopped England cold.
Alfred.
For a moment, he considered jumping up and running, however his legs betrayed him by not moving.
America.
Here.
At a glance, he could tell Francis either didn't recognize the laugh, or was too embroiled in his conversation with Matthew. Was Alfred going to come in for the meeting? A shorter figure followed close behind Russia. Was it-
"Canada," Ivan was saying, "I would like to reassure you that I am not planning on invading you any time in the near future. Siberia is cold enough- and your brother is Злющий. How do you say- full of fire?"
"That he is." Matthew paused to smile at Ivan. "You should take him seriously."
The figure behind Russia proved to be Yao- which Arthur should have known by virtue of his height, dark hair, and the very fact that China was supposed to be there.
"All right then, shall we begin?" Matthew stepped to the front, making it obvious to England that America would once again, not be attending.
England let himself be distracted, watching the open doorway, almost expecting the slender blond figure to step in at any moment with the biggest smile on his face, apologizing for being late because he overslept, or some nonsense. Arthur's stomach tied itself in a knot. In his imagination, Alfred looked exactly the same- a sixteen year old body, a few inches taller than England- and a bright blue gaze looking down at him with all the joy- except...
"... how does that sound to you?"
"It sounds unbelievable." Francis was saying. Arthur had missed something important, most likely. "And incredibly generous, it would hearten my people beyond what I could ever expect- Matthieu-"
"It was America's idea." Matthew said gruffly, "He figured that your people needed some morale right about now- and there are French people outside of France who are already coming together to put this into action. We're hoping that it we can get there by this fall."
America's idea? England knew that some of the plans that Matthew had been presenting had been partially someone else's idea, as he usually began 'we think', but he'd assumed that it was his own generals, and perhaps America's generals-
"Unless someone has an objection, your own people will be the ones to liberate Paris" A faint smile, as Canada refused to meet England's questioning gaze. "Now, onto the next item-"
Those questions and queries would have to wait- there was still a war on, and that had to come before personal concerns.
Still, Arthur found himself glancing towards the door more frequently, not certain if he was hoping to see America enter, or afraid that he would.