This isn't in chronological order. I'm just jumping around from time period to time period. Perhaps later I'll go back and put them in sequence.
It was the new year, but the war was still uncertain. Every moment of existence was spent in excruciating anticipation, as the situation could change at any instant, leaving Britain scrambling to get himself out of a disadvantaged and precarious spot, or sprinting to widen his lead. At the moment, the Allies seemed to be gaining an edge, if for nothing else than the promising offensive movements of the Soviet Union. While Germany had taken a sizeable amount of land in his eastward expansion, it appeared he'd only made another enemy he couldn't afford.
Technically, it was still the holiday season. In times of peace, England would be celebrating it with his own honored, familiar traditions, but he could not afford to do any such thing under the difficult circumstances. Regardless of how much he desired to take time off, the tasks at hand were unrelenting in their urgency. If he did not continue to throw forth his best effort, he would be conquered by the unyielding brutality of his adversaries. It was all he could do to return home for a day or so at most, but only for the purpose of gathering his wits about him once more. He could draw up more plans, and try to get a leg up.
Exhausted from his travels and incessant strife, and stretched thin by the unfathomable demands of the war, England unlocked the door to his small house for the first time in months with the mixed emotions of relief and sorrow, knowing that even though it was a relatively short time since he'd been here last, he was a still a much more tried and jaded person than when he'd left.
Turning on the lights and entering the home, England closed and locked the door behind him with a deep breath of tentative solace. The air within the foyer was still, and the entire house was silent. It was a delight to the ears after having been assaulted by the unsavory and taxing sounds of explosions and death.
England laid his heavy suitcase on the hardwood floor and removed his boots before walking to the kitchen. He retrieved a steel kettle from the cupboard and filled it with water, placing it on the stove before walking to the living room.
Old reports covered the coffee table, showing where he had been four months previously. He didn't stop to look over them, because doing so would only make him more surfeited with the recognition of how much he'd done in that time. Gathering the papers in a jumbled pile, he moved them to the waste bin, casting them away without allowing himself any second thoughts. He fetched the newest assessments as the whistle from the kitchen alerted him to the water having boiled, and after strewing the pages across the table, he strolled back to the stove and prepared himself a cup of Earl Grey.
Carrying the cup and saucer back to the parlor, he sat down on the antique sofa and closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax for a few moments. In his opinion, there was hardly anything more soothing than a cup of tea, which he now began to sip with a deep breath to assist in pulling himself together.
When he opened his eyes next, he was met by two cerulean orbs gazing back at him. "Hello!"
England's deep breath turned into a sharp intake of air and tea, the latter making it into his airways and threatening to enter his lungs and nose. He began to cough violently, attempting to expel the liquid from his now burning respiratory system. He doubled over, dropping the tea and holding a hand to his chest as he continued to struggle, the porcelain shattering upon hitting the hardwood floor. For a moment it felt as if he would asphyxiate, as the burning grew in intensity until he could hardly bear it, and he began to lose focus in his vision. But then he was able to draw in a deep, gasping breath, his lungs functioning normally once more. Desperately, he panted to regain his composure. Oxygen scarcely felt so good.
Looking back up, England saw that the child appeared concerned, and now leaned over the table a bit to observe him.
"Are you alr-"
"Who the bloody hell are you?!"
The boy withdrew a bit, startled. "O-Oh, well..." he paused, thinking about that for a few moments. It was a very good question, and he didn't quite know the answer. He was clay, waiting to be molded into some defined entity. At the moment, he was still waiting to be assigned a purpose, but deep within him, he was able to produce his title.
"Fort Roughs..." His brows furrowed in confusion, blue eyes looking up to England in bemusement. "I think...?"
"Fort Roughs?" England mumbled, "Why, that's a silly-" He stopped then, recalling a military installment being made in Essex. Construction was nearly completed, and it would soon be ready to send to sea. However, it wasn't a well-known structure; People around the country were largely focused on more pressing matters, such as trying to avoid being blown to pieces. Children weren't in the habit of pretending to be random naval establishments, and there was no logical explanation as to how the boy entered his locked, secured home.
"No," England contended, "That's not possible. Forts don't just come to life!"
Once gain, the boy had become flustered by England's incredulity. Clasping his hands together, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, averting his eyes from the nation to avoid his scrutinizing gaze, which seemed to be demanding an answer that the lad didn't possess. He imposed a question, his voice faint and nearly inaudible.
England blinked, staring at him in puzzlement. "Pardon?"
Looking up, the boy repeated, "What is a fort?"
"He's so short!" The lofty male stated, looking down at Fort Roughs over rectangular, wire glasses.
Instinctively, Fort Roughs stood tall - at least, as tall as he could be when he crested the four foot mark by only a few inches. He didn't know who the man in front of him was, but he sensed an importance about him that nearly rivaled that of England. Gazing up to him, Fort Roughs offered a hand and a curious, friendly smile. "Hello!" he chirped, excited to have the other's attention for the time being.
The man reached down, accepting the hand shake with digits impressively larger than Fort Roughs'. His grip was acutely firm, nearly to the point of causing discomfort - but somehow Fort Roughs was able to tell that he was trying to be gentle.
"Hey there!" he responded in a bright, optimistic voice, "You look like a scrappy little thing. What's your name?"
The compliment elicited a wide grin from the naval base. Beaming, he rose to his toes, his body extending to better look the taller man in the eyes. "I'm Fort Roughs!"
The man produced a hearty chuckle, greatly pleased with that answer. "Roughs, huh? You ought to be pretty strong, th- wait." He paused, releasing the boy's hand and turning to look at England. "Did I hear that right?"
England, who was pacing in a small, tight line nearby glanced up to the man and nodded. "He's a fort, yes."
"A fort." The man repeated, brows furrowing in confusion. "And... You're not screwing with me, are ya?"
"What do you take me for? Do I look like I'm interested in pulling some childish ruse?"
Fort Roughs had only been alive for half a day, but he was able to tell that England most certainly did not look interested.
"Hm..." The dirty blond-haired male turned to look at Fort Roughs, staring him up and down for a few minutes. "...Yeah, I guess I can see it," he stated, producing a befuddled sigh, "But I don't know. I just didn't think something like this was ever possible - I mean, nothing like this has ever happened before."
"Don't you think I know that? America - you twat." England sighed in exasperation, stopping and turning on his heel. He stared at America - so that was the man's name - with an exhausted and wholly unamused expression. "What the bloody hell should I do with him?" he said, not even casting a glance toward the subject of the conversation.
Fort Roughs crossed his arms, glaring up at England with a brand new emotion: vexation. He didn't exactly comprehend his distaste at the time, but he knew that he certainly did not like being ignored.
"Don't ask me," America responded with a shrug, "he's your creation. Just take care of him, and make sure he grows up to be big and strong!" At the latter half of the statement he looked down to Fort Roughs, casting a confident smirk in his direction - it was as if he were silently alluding to some secret that only the two of them knew, and for an instant, Fort Roughs felt as if he had a close friend. "You never know! Maybe someday he'll grow up to be a superpower."
Fort Roughs, captivated by the fixating stare of the large nation in front of him, did not perceive England tense at these words. Neither did he notice when his fatherland huffed, muttered a few curses, and strolled away - not until it was too late, and the sudden absence left him feeling confused, anxious, concerned, and wondering why America's gaze turned cold as he stared at the trail of the British man.