You know the drill: I do not own Hetalia, R&R.

Chapter Two: Tending the Enemy

Britain knew this day was coming. He knew when he first met New England that there would be trouble across the sea. If only he could have visited more, if only the king had not tried to take advantage of her, then maybe he wouldn't be holding his wounded arm and dragging his foot behind him as he came up to the quiet house with the big porch he had come to know over the last several years.

She protested religion. That was why she was sent here. Her following of Protestants that hadn't been burned at the stake, the Queen had wanted them out of her country, so her majesty came up with the plan to send New England and her followers to the New World. Britain knew it was a bad idea, so he tried to visit as much as he could, maybe win over New England and convince her that the Britain rule was what was best, but no. Royal upon Royal kept him busy across the ocean, and when he did come it was due to some assignment given to him that tended to just annoy New England more.

He hissed in pain as he made his way up the stairs to her door. She would be the one to stop this. America was protecting her and her followers, so her word would stop this madness. He banged on the door by swinging his arm. It didn't take long for New England to answer.

"Britain? What it the-"

"You have to stop him!"

"Stop who? Oh Lord, take a seat," N.E. pulled up and chair and gently forced him to sit. She cupped his face, looking him over gently, those blue-gray eyes scurrying across his wounded person.

He couldn't say it, not yet, not while he actually was a concern to her. The closest she ever got to worry when it came to him was when he was tackled by her dog, Barker, some years back. She had asked if he was all right, and helped him up. Seeing the look of concern over her face, feeling her gentle, calloused hands over his body checking wounds, he couldn't tell her that this was because of her "little brother."

"Britain, what happened?" She grabbed a bucket of water that sat off the steps of the porch, most likely rain water. She tore some of the ruffles from the bottom of her skirt to make a quick rag and start cleaning his wounds.

Watching as she sacrificed her blue dress to take care of him, he had to force himself to even think about why he was there. "America," he breathed out.

She stopped dabbing, "What?"

He knew he needed to tell her, he couldn't be nursed by her knowing that her pride and joy had done the damage. "America revolted. I-I came to visit. One my way I received news about some of our tea ships being attacked by men dressed as Indians. When I docked, a group of men attacked the ship. They were chanting about how they wanted freedom, that they wanted America."

N.E. blinked and rested her hands on Britain's arm as she thought about what he said. She knew America was in Boston, getting some more learning form Benjamin Franklin, and she had heard about the attacks on the ships, in fact she was the one that mentioned the idea to America, but here she was tending to Britain's wounds on her porch. She looked into his green eyes, calling out for help. His furrowed brow with his bushy eyebrows and his hair, an even wilder mess than usual, she continued to dress his wounds with the scraps of fabric from her skirt as she thought about what to do. He just looked so miserable, too miserable to just dismiss. "I-is that tar?"

Britain squinted and looked to see black splattered on his sleeve. "One of our men," he winced as his tried to straighten up, "They made me watch was they stripped, tarred, and feathered him. Some of it must have splashed on me."

Rolling up his sleeve to see the burn left by the hot tar smoldering through his clothes, N.E. knew that this was excessive. Tormenting men that are just following orders, it was uncalled for and unfair war play. She had taught America to have more respect than that.

Grazing her thumb over the swelling of Britain's cheek, she concluded that she was a patriot, she was proud of America, but she was going to have a stern word with him about his actions after she tended to his enemy. She saw too many of her followers burned because of their beliefs, and even if she disagreed with the enemy's beliefs, she never resorted to torture.

He focused on her concentrated look, the anger and disappointment as she tore off another piece of her skirt, revealing her white petticoat. "Why not just use bandages instead of tearing up your lovely dress?"

Surprised out of her thoughts, her cheeks went a little pink as she said, "You need to be tended to quickly," she went back to her work, "and I don't remember where I put my medical supplies. America hurts himself so often doing stupid things. I taught him how to tend to his own injuries, and I haven't seen any of my supplies since, shy of on a couple of wounded animals I find about on my land."

"I'll buy you a new one," he groaned as she put pressure on his leg, "A nice one, blue, from back home."

"I don't need a nice dress, Arthur," she surprised him with the use of his real name, "A nice dress with only get destroyed here. I do all of the work when America is gone, it'll get torn and stuck on things."

"Two dresses then, made for hard work on the farm," he urged, "I have to do something after you have done this for me."

She tied off the splint on his leg, let out a heavy sigh, and stood up. "You can make sure you and America come out of this alive," she started for the door and turned back with a solemn face, "and you can forgive me for what I am about to do."

Britain watched her walk away, trying to not fall out of the chair, confused as to what she meant.

When she came back, she had her shotgun and a grim expression. She pointed it toward the country she had served and tended to, "The American Revolution has begun, and I am a patriot. I will not persecute you like others did or will, but I will tell you to get off my land."

He didn't know how to respond except to listen and obey. Standing up from the chair he headed from where he came, turning back to see New England distressed in her rocking chair, her face in her hands. She was right, the war had begun, and she was torn between the two countries that she had come to depend on and care for. He would forgive her, he already had, and he was going to do his best to make sure he and America did come out alive.