Author's Note: So, this is one of those stories that I've wanted to write for the longest time, but never had the time or courage to actually write. Please let me know whether you'd be interested in reading more of this story by leaving a review or favoriting/following it. As usual, thank you for the amazing support. :)

"I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'"

–The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

She was just about the most beautiful thing in the world in that little moment that they shared together—he was sure of it. It was a pure and unadulterated beauty that wasn't commonly seen, left untouched by scars and insecurities in such an obvious way that he envied it, wondering how anything could ever be so free.

He admired her as she stood in the straw-like grass that reached just up to her waist, curious blue eyes peeking at him uncertainly. Immediately, he felt an inherent magnetic pull that reeled him over to her, realizing rather belatedly in his confusion that he had uncovered a part of the New World, and that she was an embodiment that had been previously left invisible to the rest of the earth.

And she was just a tiny doll, wheat-colored hair spilling over her thin shoulders as she looked up at him as though he were some sort of deity.

"Who're you?" she mumbled around a thumb that had found its way to her mouth, brows furrowed suspiciously.

He nearly laughed at her adorably affronted look and took off his feather-adorned hat with a humble bow, boots crunching against the soil. Carefully, he took her hand in his and planted a gentle kiss on it politely; a common gesture in his native land.

"I'm terribly sorry for not introducing myself sooner, my dear. I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And, I suppose that you must be America," he said, eyes flashing with all of the opportunities he saw for this child.

She cocked her head to the side in response before pointing to a spot quite some distance away. "Did you come with that other strange man?"

He took a moment to follow her inquiry. "France? Don't pay him any mind—he's notorious for doing more harm than good, I'm afraid. Now, aren't you cold? How long have you been out here unaccompanied?"

"No, I'm okay," America assured with a little squeak, cowering ever so slightly. "I've been in the woods since forever."

"Forever, you say? That's a rather long time, hmm? Well, out of mere good conscience, I can't allow for that. Why don't you come along with me? We'll find you some proper attire and a warm meal."

America simply shook her head for a moment and took a step back, wary of his intrusion upon her land. However, there was something about this man that seemed homely and familiar, as though she'd been missing his presence all this time. After some deep deliberation, she ventured a few steps forward, accepting his proffered hand with finality.

And she seemed to know, almost instinctively, that he was one of her kind. It filled her with relief to know that she was not the only one—not the only being who grew so slowly and seemed to age just as gradually.

Or so it seemed. Though she did not know it yet, she would one day discover that she and this man were not as alike as she would have liked to think.

"I will be your guardian from now on," he said with an awkward and uncomfortable smile.

Not truly understanding the implications of such a statement, America nodded, walking away from her life and delving into a history that she never sought to seek.

"Try and catch me if you can!" America screeched as she sprinted down the streets of a bustling Boston, feeling her hair beat against her back as the early evening wind tickled her skin. She adored summer, taking in the sights and smells of the lively city as the stifling heat died down with the setting sun.

From behind, she could hear her closest friend, Charlie, struggle to catch up with her long strides. "Slow down, will ya?"

"NEVER!" America responded immediately, enjoying the 'whooshing' sound ringing against her ears as she raced down the next block, making her way for a little clearing of grassy field just off to the east. She stole a glance at the view of the harbor, too distracted to realize that Charlie had made up for the previous differential in distance.

Then, she was being tackled to the ground and left wriggling in the grass, kicking and shrieking as she fought off Charlie's playful punches. When he slowed his assault, America could feel a bubble of laughter rise out of her throat, feeling wonderful in her gut as her breath escaped her and seemingly cloaked her in joy.

The laughter was contagious, and soon Charlie was giggling as well, cheeks a rosy red as sweat rolled down his temple.

"Got you!" he cheered with damp, almond-colored hair. "Told ya I was faster than you. I can easily outrun any girl!"

America huffed, rolling over onto her stomach and sticking her tongue out at her attacker. "Whatever. You know that you lost, and then you had to cheat by tackling me to make yourself feel better."

"Liar!"

"Nuh-uh. I wouldn't lie about something like that."

"Uh-huh, I guess we're just gonna havta have a rematch to prove that I'm the fastest."

America grinned coyly. "You're on, but not today because it's too hot."

With a groan of agreement, Charlie nodded and stood up, stretching his arms. "I know! I feel like I'm melting! My mom wants to go up north for a few weeks because it's colder there. My dad said that we might even move there!"

"Move?" America exclaimed with sudden alarm, getting up and brushing her hands clean with the help of her dress. "You can't move away! Who would I race with?"

Charlie shrugged, kicking a stone. "I dunno… Danny's a pretty good racer. Not as good as me, but still…"

America shook her head discontentedly and tugged on his arm firmly. "You have to stay here."

"I'll try," he consoled promisingly, looking up at America with a sly grin. "But we'll always be friends even if I do move. Right, Amelia?"

The human name caught her off guard for a moment, considering that she didn't use it often. Nonetheless, she recovered and returned the smile, bobbing her head in approval. "Definitely! What would you do without me? It'd be hard to find someone else to always lose to."

Charlie blushed angrily. "I don't always lose! I just go easy on you because you're a girl."

"What's that supposed to mean? Who cares if I'm a girl?"

"Everyone knows that girls aren't as tough as boys."

America crossed her arms. "Who told you that?"

"My Dad says that boys are supposed to be nice to girls because they aren't as strong as boys, and it's rude to be rough with them."

America frowned deeply, looking terribly troubled. "I think that's stupid. I'm as strong as any boy.

"Yeah, I know, but that's what he said. Amelia, it's getting late, and I have to go home for dinner. I'll see you again soon."

America nodded once more and watched Charlie's retreat back to his house, letting out an irritated sigh. "Okay. Bye, Charlie."

Realizing that it was about high time for her to get home too, America made her way back to the main road, quickening her pace as the sky continued to grow darker. When she reached the familiar house, she knew that she was due for a firm scolding and hoped that a well-practiced pout would aid her plea.

"There you are!" England announced with a click of the tongue, quite distressed. He greeted her in the foyer, stowing his reading glasses into the front pocket of his wrinkle-free shirt, which was now sticking to his perspiring skin. "Where in the world have you been? I was about to go out searching for you, but I see that you have finally graced me with your presence—covered in the usual muck and grime."

Lowering her eyes to her dress, America noticed the grass and dirt stains that England was scowling at. With a guilty expression she smiled at her guardian apologetically. "I'm sorry. I was just playing around."

"Mmm," England hummed thoughtfully, crouching down to get a better look at the colony. "You've made a mess of yourself again, you do realize? A bath is in order."

"Yuck, do I have to?"

England nodded sternly. "Yes, and I'll have no arguments. It's been a trying day and my patience is thinning. You've already missed dinner, mind you."

Conceding the minor loss, America followed England into their designated laundry/bath room, watching as the man went about filling up the wooden bath with water from the well. The homemade lye soap was brought out as well, and America rethought her complacency as England rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and waited for America to get into the tub.

"I heard that you can get sick if you bathe too often," America said matter-of-factly, hoping to use reason to convince the older nation to relent on the washing.

England scoffed, shaking his head as he dipped a hand into the water to test its temperature. "That's complete rubbish. You'll be just fine, believe me. Now, hurry up, I haven't got all day."

"I don't know if I—AGH!"

America felt arms coil themselves around her waist before she was dropped into the tub with a bit of a splash, spluttering as England dunked her head into the water mercilessly.

"That'll teach you not to roll in filth," he chided with a mischievous smile.

"It's COLD!"

"Yes, a miraculous feat considering this heat-wave we've been experiencing."

America groaned, shivering from the drastic temperature change before flicking her fingers in the water and splashing a bit of it at England's face. "Ha!"

The look on the older nation's face was priceless, in America's not-so-humble opinion. His eyes widened at the blatant act of betrayal before he prepped his hands to dunk America's head into the water again.

"AH! No, stop it!" America shrilled gleefully, flopping about in the tub as England let his usual demeanor of stern empire dissolve for a moment. It was a rarity for the man to let his guard slip so easily, and it would be a nicety that America would learn to miss in the future. "I surrender! Boys aren't supposed to be mean to girls!"

England chuckled airily, relenting for a few seconds before grabbing the bar of soap and continuing his playful rough-housing. "You don't say? And who told you that?"

"Everybody knows it! You have to be nice to me or else!"

Highly amused now, England raised an eyebrow at the little girl whom he'd grown to treat like a daughter. "Or else what?"

"Or else you'll be in big trouble!" America warned, shaking the water out of her hair before sighing again, swatting at England's hands with a new look of dissatisfaction and effectively ending their playing. "England, can I ask you something?"

Growing serious once more before scrubbing America's face clean with soap, England tilted his head to the side at the child. "Of course you can, love."

"What's wrong with being a girl?"

England furrowed his brows, carefully rinsing off America's face to avoid getting soap or water in her eyes. "That's an awfully strange question. Why do you ask?"

"I've just been thinking about it…"

"Well, I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with being a young lady," England murmured warmly, fetching a towel as he deemed America to be clean once again. Then, he began to help her dry off as she stood barefoot in front of the tub.

"But how come I'm not a boy?"

England felt his heart rate speed up, surprised by the follow-up question. "Because you were born a girl."

"But maybe I don't want to be a girl."

"Well," England said with a light cough, rubbing at his neck. "You don't exactly get to choose your gender, my dear. It's…predetermined for you."

"Why though?"

England bit his lower lip, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the sweat on his neck. "Well, that's just the way the world works, I'm afraid. Things simply are the way they are, and we can't change them. Now, enough of these philosophical questions of yours. Let's get some supper in you and then we'll get you ready for bed, all right? Lord knows that if we don't usher you off to bed soon, I'll never get any paperwork done in a timely manner."

America hovered behind England as they entered her bedroom, accepting the fresh nightgown that England presented her with after a moment of searching through the dresser. She slipped it over her head, feeling small as it engulfed her and seemed to swallow her figure.

"England?"

A long sigh, followed by, "Yes, America?"

"Am I strong?"

"Certainly," England replied absently, folding some shirts and organizing them by color. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be worried about America's uncharacteristic behavior, but he supposed that he would address it only if it became a future issue. "Now, let's find you some supper, or you won't be able to keep up that strength of yours."

After a quick and uneventful meal, America soon found herself in the familiar bedroom once more, drowsy and pleasantly full after a day of energy depletion caused by endless play. She laid atop the bedcovers, warding off the heat by opening her window as wide as possible. Then, she waited impatiently for England to come in and read her a story, which was their customary nighttime ritual.

And, sure enough, England arrived just a few minutes later, still dressed in his proper attire as though he did not plan on turning in for a while.

"What story are you going to read?" America mumbled with what little wakefulness she still retained, blinking languidly.

"That depends on which story you'd like to hear," England returned, standing by one of the many bookshelves in the room.

America pondered the titles of stories in her mind before finally making her decision. "Can you read one of King Arthur's tales?"

England smiled and gave a little nod, lying down next to America and stretching out his legs wearily. Instantly, America edged closer to the man, resting her head on his chest habitually, completely at ease. It seemed that she was the only one who could toy with England's heartstrings with hardly any effort, sending the ferocious empire to his knees in order to cater to her every whim.

"How Arthur drew forth ye sword," he began, clearing his throat, "So when the morning of Christmas Day had come, many thousands of folk of all qualities, both gentle and simple, gathered together in front of the cathedral for to behold the assay of that sword."

America smiled contentedly, nuzzling her face into England's shoulder and attempting to read the words that he was uttering to no avail. She had begun learning how to sound out basic written syllables, but still could not make out the mysterious strings of words coded into each sentence.

She could feel herself drifting away, lulled by the steady lilt of England's voice. She wasn't sure how far they'd made it through the tale, but she did manage to catch the conclusion.

"Thus, Arthur achieved the adventure of the sword that day and entered into his birthright of royalty. Wherefore, may God grant His Grace unto you all that ye too may likewise succeed in your undertakings," England read, lowering his voice as America's breathing slowed.

In fact, he was nearly whispering now.

"For any man may be a king in that life in which he is placed if so he may draw forth the sword of success from out of the iron of circumstance. Wherefore when your time of assay cometh, I do hope it may be with you as it was with Arthur that day, and that ye too may achieve success with entire satisfaction unto yourself and to your great glory and perfect happiness."

America was already asleep, and with as much gentleness as he could muster, England carefully coaxed her to move her head away from his shoulder and onto the pillow so that he could stand. When he'd managed to do so, he couldn't help but smile once more at her resting form, going against his better judgment by placing his forehead against America's and planting a chaste kiss on her nose.

"You're more powerful than you realize," he murmured softly. "Sleep well."

He knew it wasn't right—growing so attached to a colony and spoiling it as a result. As much as he took on the role of parent for America, there was still an important distinction that separated colony from empire, and a certain amount of respect that had to follow. She would remain to be just an extension of him, and he couldn't let her be anything more than that. She could never truly be his child, and, at the end of the day, she would always be just a resource for the motherland.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said agonizingly into the dim corridor, pinching the bridge of his nose before returning to his office.

"America! Come and help me sort out these groceries, please."

"No! I can't—I'm busy!" America shouted from the top of the stairs, sounding extremely frustrated.

England opened his mouth in disbelief. Who did this child think she was? How dare she claim to be too busy to help out around the house? England hardly asked her to do more work than fundamental chores that were meant to help her build a sense of responsibility, but obviously his efforts were failing him.

Making his way over to the stairs, England searched for the young girl, only to discover that she had already disappeared into the washroom. Thoroughly peeved now, he ascended the stairs and knocked firmly on the closed door that America had taken refuge behind.

Producing his best 'no-nonsense' voice, he braced himself for one of the child's tantrums. "You do not say 'no' to me. I want you standing in front of me in exactly three seconds, am I understood?"

"But I'm—"

"One."

America groaned, throwing something onto the floor in rage.

"Two."

She opened the door and slowly made her way out, shamefaced.

"Three."

England had to admit that he'd grown resistant to many of America's strange behaviors after living with her over the years, but apparently, he hadn't seen it all yet. The young nation who stood before him was bedraggled and dressed in a rumpled skirt and creased shirt, hair strewn in every direction after she had attempted to tie it into a ponytail.

Taking a moment to mentally prepare himself for an interrogation, England finally found the voice to speak. "May I ask what the meaning of this is?"

"I'm trying to get dressed and ready all by myself," America clarified for England as though he were extremely slow.

"While I admire your effort, you should have called me for help."

"I couldn't ask for you for help."

"Why not? You can always come to me."

"Cause you're not supposed to ask for help when you're getting ready for a date," America explained unhappily, irritated that she was being kept from finishing her makeover.

England felt his blood turn cold as he choked on the air in his lungs. "D-Date? What date?"

"I'm in love, England," America insisted with a roll of the eyes before re-entering the washroom and attempting to fix the crooked ponytail. She made it seem as though the situation was so blatantly obvious and that England was the uneducated one in the room who was struggling to follow along.

"In love? You're six!"

"No, I'm not six in human years!"

"Well, that may be true, but you are six physically. You don't know what love is just yet," England rationalized, suddenly wishing that he'd just stayed in the kitchen and put away the groceries like he'd initially intended to do.

"Charlie says that anyone can fall in love, and it doesn't matter how old they are!"

"Who is this Charlie boy? I'd like to meet him."

"He's my boyfriend."

England gaped at the child, glancing down the hallway and back at the little girl with a look of utter incredulity. When had he missed this?

"Boyfriend? Who gave you permission to have a boyfriend, might I ask?"

"I don't need permission."

England put a hand on his hip, leaning against the doorway. "Oh, really? We'll see about that. America, as long as I'm around, you will not be having a boyfriend for a very, VERY long time. In fact, chances are that you won't be dating at all. You're a nation! It's—it's improper!"

"I'm big now and you can't change who I love!"

Dear God, who put these ridiculous thoughts into his child's head? He knew he should've distanced America from the human children. It just wasn't natural for her to take on their lifestyles and customs.

"And where is this date taking place?" England asked, conflicted between just letting the child's phase run its course and nipping it in the bud. She was still so young, and odds were that she wouldn't even remember this little romance in the future, so what harm could possibly come out of it?

"We're going to be in the yard."

"Our yard?"

"Yup."

England rubbed a hand over his chin. "I see. Well, I suppose I'll have the opportunity to meet this fellow and have a word with him. Until then, allow me to help you tidy up a bit."

"I can do it myself!" America insisted, never one to be left feeling inadequate or inferior.

"I'm sure you can, but indulge me."

The older nation lifted up the abandoned brush that had been thrown to the ground, raking it through America's hair and wondering whether or not his skills as a hairstylist were advanced enough to attempt to braid the dark blonde locks.

After much deliberation, he tried his hand at making a simple and straightforward braid, tying the end off with the band that America had found.

"Much better," he noted with satisfaction, deciding whether or not to have America change into some less rumpled clothes. Chances were that she'd just make a mess of the next batch of clothes as well, so having her change would be futile. Instead, he tried to flatten out some of the wrinkles with his hands, relenting after a moment to admire his work.

"Do I look okay?"

"Fabulous," England grumbled sarcastically, patting America's shoulder and guiding her downstairs. By the time they'd reached the living room, there was a knock on the door. "I suspect that's our young bachelor now."

Unable to reach out a hand in time to pull her back, England watched hopelessly as America swung open the door and greeted Charlie with a hug. When they had separated, Charlie stepped across the threshold and held out a hand.

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland! I'm Charlie Webb!" he said brightly, shaking the older man's hand formally.

England bit back a laugh, finding it rather amusing that a boy who barely reached his hip was taking his America out on a date in the backyard.

"A pleasure," England remarked, shaking the tiny hand and inviting the boy inside. "If you don't mind, lad, I was hoping that I could have a brief word with you."

Charlie nodded his head enthusiastically as America went into the kitchen to find them some suitable snacks. "Uh-huh! I mean—of course, sir!"

"Please, have a seat," England gestured toward the couch before sitting in the armchair opposite from the boy, contemplating how to approach this situation in a way that would be clear for such a young pair of children. "I'm sure that you understand that I care for Amelia very much, and would hate to see her put in harm's way. As such, I must ask you to treat her with the utmost respect, and if there's any trouble, you shall have to answer to me."

Charlie nodded jovially once again, unfazed.

England pursed his lips, raising a brow at the boy. "You must be well aware that you are both quite young to be dating. I will, therefore, take up the task of chaperoning this little meeting every once in a while."

"England! Stop bothering him!" America urged, returning to the living room with some scones and biscuits. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go."

The man chuckled, resting a hand on his temple dubiously as America led the boy into the yard. "Have her home by sunset!"

And so, the day went on while England periodically checked up on the children every twenty minutes to ensure that everything was still in order. The two played out in the yard, chasing each other and making a ruckus. England considered going back to his desk to finish up on some work, but he knew that it would be impossible for him to focus and that the noise outside would be far too distracting. Nonetheless, he would allow the pair to have their fun for one day.

But he promised to himself that he would make sure that this would be the first and last 'date' in the near future, simply due to the fact that he couldn't bear the stress of picturing America with other boys, especially when he reminisced on the type of young man that he'd been in his early youth.

Thankfully, he didn't have to be the one to break the children's hearts because when he stepped outside for his next patrol, everything seemed to have been already handled for him.

"It's time to come inside, you two. Would you like me to escort you home, Charlie?"

The boy shook his head. "Thank you very much for having me over, Mr. Kirkland. I can get home just fine on my own. Bye, Amelia and Mr. Kirkland! Have a good night."

"Goodnight to you as well," England retorted, shutting the door behind the boy before turning to America. "Did you have a swell time on your date?"

"Yeah, but we broke up."

England felt a weight being lifted off of his shoulders. "Oh, my apologies, poppet."

"It's all right. He just didn't understand me."

"Hmm, well, how unfortunate then. How did he misunderstand you?"

"He wanted to get married, and I told him that I'm not ready for that. He also said that when we get married I'll have to take care of him and help him clean his room. I don't want to do that either."

It was obvious that the child didn't understand the severity of what she had said, so England decided to think nothing of it. However, he still wished that he could understand the child's intentions more deeply, puzzled by her sudden need to experiment with human-like concepts and questions.

Truth be told, she was blooming into a rebel right before his eyes.