Bite the Hand that Feeds You

[historize]

Title: Bite The Hand That Feeds You
Author/Artist: historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, France and Canada
Rating: PG-13 for some language and fighting (pretty violent fighting at that, between Papa!England and Young!America) and, this time, England's bad thoughts
Warnings: I did make two or three references in this to America's original inhabitants. The Native Americans. England's sort of contemptuous tone towards them is, obviously, not my own. Also, England is a jerk in this. I have no personal hard feelings to England. I just don't imagine England as being lovey all the time. But, France does actually attempt to justify England's actions. So England fans and those from England, don't kill me. I love England and I love you guys.
Summary: I would consider this to be, sort of a prequel to Red Potatoes. (Though it wasn't as fun as Red Potatoes.) I have been wanting, for some time, to write about bits and pieces of the American Revolution so I finally sat down and did it. (As a note, in the original place I posted this in, I posted Red Potatoes first--which was why I noted it to be a prequel there.)

France getting involved before The Boston Tea Party has no significance other then an interaction between the characters themselves and doesn't necessarily reflect the actions of the countries. After all, the French didn't join up until the war had already started. But I really like Papa!France.

Originally posted here.



He struck him.

America spun in a complete circle and hit the wall, leaning on it. He forced down his tears and staggered up. England was already grabbing his collar. “You insolent, ungrateful brat! How dare you! Who do you think you are, boy?!”

America struggled, trying to pull away but England shook him roughly. “You are not a nation. You are a colony. And I expect you to act like one!”

America coughed, spitting. “My people have natural rights, you know!”

England’s mouth fell open, as if he couldn’t believe what the boy was saying. He struck him again. America hit the floor on his front.

His stomach was turning and sunlight was etching its way across the floor. It filled in the smooth grooves like little golden puddles. America had sanded this floor himself for days to a smooth, splinter-free finish. And now he was trying not to drool on it as a red spit oozed from his lips.

“I don’t care what you want, boy.” England voice was hard. “I speak for what you want. You don’t speak for you.”

“B-but…what you’re doing…” He choked. America was trying so desperately not to cry. He pushed himself up on his knees. “What you’re doing…is wrong.” He looked up.

And America’s stomach went cold and he knew, instantly, that had been the wrong thing to say. He started to tremble.

England was staring down at him, eyes getting wide and green turning black and he reached down and grabbed him by his hair. “What?” He picked him up and slammed him against the wall. “You think you know, boy? You think you know how to do something I’ve been doing since you were nothing more then dirt on the back of some savage’s heel.”

America stiffened and his eyes jerked up and there was a spark in them that England wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. “What would I know of any Indians?! You and all the other Europeans killed them!”

England blinked. Shock crossed his features first and then the fury replaced it full force. “Why you….little ingrate—! Why….you…uncivilized bastard—!” He shook him. “Fine.”

He grabbed America by his scruff and drug him towards the front door. Only to have it open before he was even halfway across the kitchen.

France stepped inside, with Canada, who was about as tall as France’s hip and he was holding his elder’s hand. France’s face went from contented smile to shocked bewilderment in a flash. “What is going on?”


England shook America by his collar. “I’m taking the boy outside to be punished. As if I need to explain myself to the likes of you. What are you doing here anyway?”

“It looks like you’ve done plenty,” said France, face becoming stern. “His nose is bleeding.”

“He needs a little more of a reminder of his place in the world.” His grip tightened.

America couldn’t get away and he was still trying not to cry. That was mostly unsuccessful. He was shaking badly, staring at the floor.

Canada reached out to him. “Alfred…”

America’s eyes shot up, showing desperation. “Matt--!” But then England was dragging him out. He nearly tore the door America had spent so much time building off its hinges and he threw him into the front yard.

Canada gave a little whimper and ran to the window, watching desperately.

France seemed to fight with himself and then went with Canada, putting a hand on his shoulder and the other on the window sill. He wouldn’t kill America, would he? England loves that boy. But if anyone knew England’s unpredictable rages, it was France. I’ll do something if it gets too bad. Poor Alfred. What did you say this time?


“Stand up, boy!”

America had landed hard on the wood pile. He staggered up, panting a little.

“Well, come on then!” England took off his hat and overcoat, tossing them onto the grass. “You want to believe you can toss around with nations. Go ahead and try, boy.”

America’s eyes, wide and frantic, didn’t meet his. He seemed to back into himself, trying to think of escape. He had the desperate look of a cornered animal.

“You little coward.”

America blinked and his eyes flashed up to England’s. “I’m not.”

“You are. You’re so ready to command me but not really able to back any claim. You’re a stupid, sniveling little coward. A lazy, unrepentant lay-about who has the brass to made demands and expect them to be met for free! ”

America reached up, wiping his tears away. “I’m not!”

“Then prove it, boy. Show me how badly your people want to be treated as if they still live in England.”

That riled him, as England knew it would. He had raised this boy and he knew him better then he knew himself. Predictably, America ran at him. And predictably, England batted away the hand that tried to grab him and punched him.

America reeled back, stumbled and fell, fingers digging into the dirt. Blood was all over his face and clothes now. But he stood again. England smiled a little, looking smug and opened his arms. “You see,” he said, patronizing, gentle, condescending. “You could not survive without me. You would have to beat me before you could even consider—“

Unpredictably, America swung and unpredictably, England felt something cold and hard strike down on his nose. He stumbled, more shocked than hurt and looked at America, who was holding a good-sized, now blood-splattered stone in his hand.

To his credit, the boy looked determined, if creepy, covered in blood and dirt like he was. It would remind England later, of himself, which he tried never to think about ever again. England touched his nose and looked at his glove. He rubbed the red blood between the black leather of his thumb and middle finger. His eyes drifted up.

America was still shaking. He swallowed hard when those green eyes came up. That was not a good look. Not at all. He took a step back, preparing himself. England was staring at him, slowly removing his gloves. I’ve done it now, America thought. He’s going to kill me. He bit his lip and strangled a whimper. No. I won’t die. Not in front of Matthew. He reached down to the wood pile, picking up a club-like piece he’d chopped from a tree limb.

But by the time he’d straightened, England was suddenly to him.

He hadn’t seen or heard him move, just felt hands grip his throat. Panicked, America swung wildly and the stick whacked England over the head but he only brushed it off and lifted America right off his feet.

America gagged, trying to kick at England. England removed a hand from America’s throat and held him up with one clenched hand, while he wrenched the stick from the boy with the other. He threw it aside disdainfully.

And suddenly, all the air left America’s chest when he found himself hitting the dirt. England was on top of him then. It seemed to happen slowly at first. England pinning him down, raising his fist, winding back and the strike came and America saw stars. And then it was fast and hot and wet. There was sticky blood in his mouth and on his face. Dirt and grit and small pebbles ground into his skin, stuck to the blood and matted in his hair.

He did start to cry then but silently. It would be too much effort to sob. To shudder. To scream.

England hit him again and again, picked him up like a ragdoll, threw him into the ashes of a fire pit from the previous night and then went down on him again. He was raging at him, yelling and cursing but he wasn’t aware of it. His vision was tinged in red.

Inside the house, at the window, Canada moaned. “Alfred!” He started to cry as well and he turned to France, yanking on his arm. “Francis! Francis! Please! He’ll kill him!”

France had been watching in horrified fascination but Canada’s pleading brought him out of it. He stayed his hand. “All right. Y-yes. Arthur.” He scrambled to the door and ran out. His hat flew off along the way and he dove on England.

England had just raised his fist again when he was tackled by a pale-blue blur. His back hit the dirt and he instantly struggled. He received no punch, just a resounding slap right across his face.

“Arthur! Snap out of it! You’re going to kill him!”

England blinked and his eyes changed but he didn’t relax. “Get off of me!”

France held him down. “I won’t allow you to beat the boy to death. He’s a child.”

Beside them, America gurgled, blood bubbling between his lips.

France looked over at him and England took the opportunity to throw him off. He got up and stared down at the wet mess that was his ward. France jumped up and stood in front of the prone body.

“He is of no concern to you, France.”

France glared “Our people aren’t at war for the moment but we can interact as Arthur and Francis, not always as England and France. Alfred is a child. You went overboard.”

England suddenly realized he was panting; his fists were shaking. “The boy is a rebellious brat.”

France said nothing else, simply held his ground. England sneered and looked in the window at Canada, who was pressed up against the glass. He looked back at America, scoffed and turned on his heel. Picking up his gloves, hat and coat, he walked out of the yard, heading for his carriage.


France let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and whirled around, kneeling. “Alfred? Alfred?”

America’s eyes were only half-open and glazed. France picked him up and hurried with him into the house. “Matthew, get me some water from the stream.”

Canada didn’t question the order. He grabbed the pail that America kept by the door and ran out to the back yard. France carried America into his front room, laying him on the little cushioned bench he’d built for himself and started opening his blood-soaked clothes.


Ever since England had returned one day to find America much bigger, things had gotten bad. The boy England adored was still there in all of America’s mannerisms but he was becoming a powerful, rather opinionated, charge. England felt threatened by him. Every objection America uttered to the state his people were in was met by a raised voice these days. Only just today had it resulted in….this.

The top of America’s head only reached England’s shoulder. But he was getting bigger all the time. France worked his shirt off and leaned down to listen to his breathing. He hadn’t seen England lose his cool like that in quite some time. Not since his pirate days.

When Canada returned with the water, the tiny blond settled by America’s head, sniffling a little and biting his lip. He watched France closely as he wet a rag and started cleaning him up.


When America awoke, he hurt all over. He sat up slowly, stifling a little groan.

“Alfred!”

He blinked, eyes shooting over as Canada grabbed his arm. “Matthew…”

“Are you okay?”

“Um,” America looked down at himself. “I…I think so. Where’s…um…where is he?”

Canada shook his head. “Francis made him stop…and…he left. Are you sure you’re okay?”

America refused to let his lip wibble in front of Canada. He drew his wrist across his mouth. “Be okay, Matty.”

“I thought he was going to kill you.”

America shrugged a little, half-smiling. “He can’t do that. Who would argue with him, if not me?”

“You should leave that sort of thing to me, Alfred.” France came into the front room from the kitchen, a tin cup in hand. “I’m a professional.”

America took the cup and sipped, wincing a little. “How long was I out?”

“Three days,” France told him, settling back in a chair from the kitchen. “Matthew stayed by you the whole time.”

America looked at Canada, who was still peering at him, looking concerned. He smiled faintly at his brother and reached for him. Little Canada came forward carefully, hugging his brother. America looked over the top of his blond head at France, face somber. He would never ask Canada for assistance. His desire to protect his little brother was…

He looked down. “Matt…hey. Make sure you don’t get involved in this fighting between England and me, okay? I don’t want England thinking that we’re in this together.”

Canada blinked. “You’re my brother—“

“But England dictates you. And if it appears that we’re in it together…he’ll start hurting you too.” He paused a moment, debating with himself. “I think it’d be nice if you were on my side but…I don’t think you’re ready.” He looked into those matching blue eyes, trying not to appear pitying.

“You’re not ready, Alfred!” Canada said, voice rising. He stood up, looking down on him. “He almost killed you! France had to step in!”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Or…just stupid,” France cut in, looking completely uninterested. He studied his fingernails. “You have no standing professional military. England clearly underestimates you and, no offense, but for good reason. And you would be an idiot to think you could beat England on your own. Take a step back from childish delusions and look at the facts, Alfred.”

America looked away from Canada and France. “I can’t live like this, though. I can’t spend my whole life being the subject to him. He…he doesn’t know how to listen.”

France smiled. “And I think that’s one reason he hates this so much. You remind him of himself when he was just a slip of a nation. He was much smaller then you are now when he started fighting with me. He was easy pickings at first but he learned fast.” France chuckled, looking almost grudgingly respectful. “Stubborn and ugly as a mule. Hated being ruled by others. Hated being picked on by his brothers. Hated being kicked around by Spain and me. And before we knew it, he was big. You see, Alfred, unlike you and Matthew, who are growing very fast, England and I grew very slowly. I celebrate your quick growth—it means progress but to England, who has spent his whole life escaping one conquering army after another until he could defend himself—your quick growth means a threat. He can’t control you once you get big enough to defend yourself. Fighting and violence are the only methods of parenting he understands.”

America stared at him. “But when I was little—“

“He was kind. Ha, I had never seen him so domestic. In the hundreds of years I’ve known England, he was never so kind as he was to you. But understand that that was entirely new to him. He was a strict father to you but he does love you. He tried but at his core, he is what he is. An arrogant, rebellious, aggressive elitist who doesn’t tolerate dissent or differences because, as a child, those things got him beat up—they divide loyalties and a nation can weaken. But, those traits aren’t entirely bad. Haha, I’m shamelessly arrogant. As is any nation with any sort of age. But really, he shouldn’t be all that surprised that you’re growing up so rebellious and aggressive. After all, you learned it from him.”

America looked at Canada. “Well then…what about Matthew?”

France chuckled and reached out, picking up Canada and placing him on his knee. “Matthew spends more time with me. And I hope to teach him to watch first and calculate just how much action matters. After all, this large continent with two little Englands running around? You both would have been at war at your borders by now. So I took it upon myself to stay with Canada. He gets my superior culture, food and good looks and England still gets to claim him. For now.”

“It’s almost like you’re married.” America wrinkled his nose.

“And divorced,” said France with a strangely cryptic smile.




Something about America’s tobacco made it taste different than French tobacco. France, of course, still loved his own but America’s had an interesting flavor that he found he quite enjoyed. The taste was remarkable. Maybe it was because the country still had a fresh, clean air to it. It wasn’t as crowded and dank as Paris could be in its dark quarters. It wasn’t the industrial, coughing, cancerous monster that London was.

France licked the thin paper and rolled himself a cigarette. He’d actually bought the tobacco from a local former who had a face full of tan lines and laughter. His flashy clothes had pointed him out right away as a foreigner and while some of the people were suspicious of him, others were downright accepting. It was almost strange to meet so tolerant a group.

He smiled. The Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend. He lit the tobacco. It would only be a matter of time, certainly. Ever the opportunist and which, as a country, was not a bad way to live; he walked down the quaint dirt roads until he wound back to America’s house, where the boy was outside again.

That boy did like the outdoors. He enjoyed using his hands and he was big enough now to make his own wagon wheels and definitely strong enough to control his horses. France could almost forget, looking at the agile figure run swiftly after a horse and leaping on, encouraging Canada to do the same, that when he’d been a toddler, he was throwing bison around. The amount of time that it had taken for America to understand his potential strength…

He shook his head. The boy had broken teacups with a touch. The poor child had been in tears when England had returned one day. He showed his benefactor his hammers and a dead puppy he’d tried to keep as a pet. The hammers were scuffed but otherwise unused because every time America struck something, it fell to pieces. Every bone in the poor puppy’s body was broken because he’d tried to play with it. So England had taken a few months away from Europe (which was how France had heard the story) so he could try and teach America how to handle things delicately—so that he could interact with his people.

Humans certainly were breakable things. The old nations had never learned from anyone that they had to be careful with their humans. It came through painful experience, usually.

We are a bit like parents, aren’t we? He smiled and made his way toward the boys. Terrible, awful parents. “Alfred?”

America looked down from his horse, a massive, dark thing, and said, “What is it?”

“You need to decide if independence from England is something you really want. When England returns, I may not be around to keep him from tearing your head off. So you need to make a commitment. But, if you do choose to rebel—“ and here, France raised a hand, “—I will assist you.”

America did the slightest of double-takes. “You….will?”

France nodded. “You may say that England wouldn’t have anyone to argue with if you weren’t around but don’t forget—I have been around for longer then either of you. Traditionally, England is my rival and I always jump at the chance to get his eyebrows in a twist.”

America jumped down from the horse and France blinked. Is he…taller? It took him by surprise. He hadn’t noticed. He was taller. His hair came to France’s nose. How had he not noticed? In the last month he’d shot up a couple inches but…then again, France had him stay in bed for that first week after England hurt him. And yes…he looked down…the boy’s trouser cuffs were awkwardly high again. “You’ll need some new clothes, Alfred.”

America looked down and shrugged. “Might as well not. Every time I make new clothes, I seem to grow out of them.”

I bet you do. “Well, I’ll leave that to you then. But yes, if you decide to rebel, do send someone along to Paris.”

America shot a hand out and France hesitated but then gave in, promising himself new gloves and shook with him. Somehow, even then, he had not expected the calloused, rough grip and suddenly, the dirt on his gloves didn’t matter.

He’s almost a man.

His smile stretched into something more predatory.

America, in his blissful ignorance, didn’t notice.



Two months later, it was autumn in the northeast. America had lit two fires in his front yard to help drive the mosquitoes away. Barefoot and covered in a layer of dirt, he grabbed the stiff broom and swept off the front porch.

“There,” he murmured. “Chores are done. Everything shut tight for the night.” He looked up into the early fall twilight. It’s beautiful here. He smiled and stripped off his shirt, heading around the back of the house to go down to the stream.

England arrived about five minutes later. His black carriage stopping outside the house, England gave himself a moment to think of exactly how he would talk to America and then dismissed the notion and got out. He noted the fires and looked into the house, seeing the netting over the windows and wrinkled his nose. This country did have such a bug problem. It wasn’t like much he had ever seen. Especially the damned mosquitoes.

A quick tour of the roughshod house told England that America was not in it (but that he was adding on another back room). But the warm stove indicated that he was around somewhere. So England laid down his hat and went out into the back, heading down to the stream while his driver brought a small trunk into the house and then left.

America was there, dressed only in his breeches; he was hardly any different-looking then his farmers. There were some red scars on his back, though England didn’t remember leaving any—perhaps from some other accident? He watched, approaching silently, as America got down into the stream and cupped the cool, clear water in his hands. The boy tossed it in his face and then on his sun-browned shoulders. He washed the filth of his work away and England could only watch.

America was becoming strong and handsome and England should have been proud. Well, he was, in a way but…the instinct to keep himself at the top was a strong one and while he was proud of what his America was becoming, he also feared it. He had wanted the boy to be…less like England. More docile. Able to be controlled. He had wanted to show him off. Bring him to meet other nations and have him bow and exhibit all that was good and glorious about England’s culture. But the boy…was…different…

He frowned severely.

England, of late, was rumored to be a repressed sort. But watching America wasn’t doing much to uphold that rumor. In his delinquent days (and there was debate about whether or not he was out of those), he had coupled often. He fucked France as often as fought him. Sometimes with Spain, it seemed to happen in the midst of a fist-fight. They suddenly wouldn’t be fist-fighting at all—but struggling for dominance on one of their ships. Prussia had been as much a thorn in his side, as well as a wild fuck that usually involved an edged weapon.

Of course, none of them were his lovers. He considered himself too superior for that. And it was messy and dirty and rough and, in some ways, would be considered repulsive for someone of his standing but he was no delicate charmer. It was like, in London, he had a certain class of people that had a stylish way of slumming in the seedier areas of the city even though they were much higher class. England played up the rich formalities of office but he did not bother to rose-tint something as raw as sex. He didn’t love any of them but he’d looked forward to fucking some of them. (Especially Prussia.) So, lovers were non-existent. France had lovers. England fucked.

The desire to fuck his ward right now was strong. He smothered that. He was restrained. Only nations did that sort of thing. Wards were different. They were like children. And while part of his desire was certainly coming from watching him bath, England was well aware that the other part came from a desire to keep the boy under control. He approached the stream.

It was when he moved then that America seemed to become aware of his presence. He whipped around, tensed and then started when he saw who it was. His mouth fell open. “England.”

England lifted his eyes so that he was looking down on him. “I came to make sure you were doing all right.”

America was watching him warily. He waded out to a limb that he’d laid his shirt on, rinsing it in the stream water and took it off. He wrung it out and made his way back, climbing out of the stream. “I’m doing fine.”

England noticed right away how guarded America was being. “Have you laid your supplies in for the winter?”

“I started that awhile ago. You didn’t go up to the attic?”

England’s eyes narrowed just a hair. He had not, after all. “No. I didn’t.”

“But you searched the rest?” America posed the question innocently but it was loaded with assumption. He started walking back towards the house, slapping imaginary dirt from his wet breeches.

“I looked for you inside first,” England replied and fell into step beside him. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized it. He did a double-take. His mouth fell open. When America had been in the stream, he hadn’t noticed but walking next to him…

America was his height.

America seemed to feel his eyes and he glanced over and did the tiniest of double-takes himself, realizing he didn’t have to look up. Both of them stopped at the same moment. They gazed silently at each other.

America broke eye contact first, looking down and then up. “I’m going to go hang my shirt on the porch to dry and put the kettle on. Are you staying long?” He turned, starting to walk away.

England blinked. He’s…treating me…like… He struggled with this for a moment. Like…we’re equals. Anger flashed in his gut but, he could not allow himself to lose control like he had last time. He hated France but if there was a moment that he was grateful to him, it was then. He took two hurried steps and then slowed to a casual walk, not wanting to seem as though he was bothered. “The night, unless you object.”

At the porch, America flapped his shirt over the railing he’d built (it hadn’t been there at England’s last visit) and headed into the house, taking his kettle down, filling it with water from a pitcher and setting it on the wood stove. “I didn’t expect you,” America said, tone carefully neutral because, of course, England saying ‘unless you object’ meant nothing at all. He knew England didn’t care whether he objected or not. “The room you usually take has supplies in it. I’m building another room.”

England lifted an eyebrow. “Then I will take your room.”

America’s back was to him but he saw how those bare shoulders stilled. How his jaw locked. He glanced back at England.

England lifted an eyebrow.

America grit his teeth and turned away. “All right.”

England had expected a fight so he watched even more carefully. He did not count the boy’s submission as a victory as America resented him and was trying to hide most of it. England had never been uncertain about what was going through America’s head until now and he found the experience unsettling. He had to wonder just how much he was hiding.

Maybe he should attempt to compromise a little? Of course, he should respect his colony a little? Oh, came the thought, but to sleep next to him… That would not likely end well. America would either get irritable or England would be tempted and that wasn’t good. It wasn’t…right?

He forced his eyes up, watching America get a little canister of tea down and spooning it into his tin cup to steep. He passed the tin cup to England without a word or glance and then got a clay cup down for himself.

England took it. He was not used to tin cups anymore. He had glass and ceramic and china but America made due with what he had. And he had his personal cup. His tin cup that he’d used since childhood and was now letting England drink from and he had four hand-made clay cups that someone in the nearby village had fired for him. America didn’t drink any tea (after all, it was being taxed). He put some in England’s cup and made motions as if to put some in the clay cup but ended up putting in nothing except hot water.

England noticed, of course, but could also guess the reason. He quietly sipped his tea.

America sipped the hot water but he was getting fidgety. The quiet was oppressive. The room became darker as night fell and America gladly set his cup aside to light his lantern. He set it on the table. “I’m going outside.”

“You’re going to sleep out there?”

America glanced back. England’s green eyes shimmered in the lantern light. “Probably.”

“That’s foolish.”

America seemed to just manage to keep himself from biting back. He said, after a moment, “If you’re going to sleep in my bed, then I might as well sleep in the grass. It’s nicer than a wooden floor.”

“Your bed is large enough for both of us.” England silently damned himself as soon as the sentence left his mouth.

America clearly had not expected that. He stiffened a little. “I’m not a child anymore. It wouldn’t…”

England chuckled. “You have spent far too much time with your humans. I see that I need to introduce you to other nations soon.”

America’s look of apprehension switched to puzzlement. “What?”

England, after a moment, mirrored the look back. “You surely don’t think the idea of men sleeping next to each other as odd do you? I assumed your religious radicals would want such men put to death but your people who care more about survival don’t give a whit for such an innocent gesture.”

America suddenly realized what he meant and felt his cheeks flash with unexpected heat. “I…that wasn’t….it at all….” He shifted, looking away. He had never considered the idea that England might….well….but, anyway. “I would never have thought you would…do something to me…like that.”

England was both surprised and amused by the flush and he folded his arms to listen to his ward stammer.

“I mean…I understand that people can be close without being—well. I mean, not everyone is like France.”

“So what was your concern?”

“I. Um.” America looked away, biting his lip. “Well…honestly, you. But not in a…a…sexual way.” His face went a deeper red.

And England found himself much less amused. “You are afraid I will hurt you so you were going to say you were certainly too old to share a bed.”

America glanced back and forced his eyes to meet England’s. “I’m not going to let you do that again.”

“That was a fluke, Alfred. I lost my temper. You pushed me too far.”

America’s eyes smoldered but whatever his thoughts were on that, he didn’t voice.

England snorted. “Do I have to order you to share a bed with me?”

America was thinking. He licked his lips, took a deep breath and looked up at him. “I would like to sleep outside, Sir.”

England’s eyes narrowed and he rose from his chair like a phantom. “The night air could be bad for you. Go up to your room and change out of those filthy breeches. You will sleep inside with me.”

A short sound of objection came out of America’s mouth. He drew himself up to argue but England spoke again before he could. “Now, Alfred.”

America barely seemed able to keep control of himself but he stalked past England went upstairs. At the second floor landing, he went down the hall and opened the door to his own room. It was bare and neat. His collection of books was stacked in the corner, all very much used. The bed frame, which has caused him much hassle, was built from split logs and rope and a mattress stuffed with ticking. It was covered with a quilt one of his people had made. A very pretty blue and green and yellow. When he lit the lantern, he couldn’t imagine England appreciating it, somehow. The thought made him scowl and he went to his chest and opened it up, pulling out a nightshirt he hadn’t wore in ages. He changed quickly and sat down on the side of the bed closest to the door so he would have an escape route if necessary.

England appeared a few minutes later. America had to assume he’d put out his lantern and left it downstairs, as England came up empty-handed except for a folded piece of clothing.

America glanced up at him and then away as England removed his gloves and changed his clothes. The silence was tangible. America wanted to get out. Every instinct was telling him to get out. Go to the grass and stars and sleep out in the comfort of his land. Even his dangerous animals seemed nothing compared to staying in here with England. When he looked up again, England was pushing up the sleeves of the cream-colored fabric. There was heavy scarring on his arms but America already knew about them. England was covered in scars, especially on his back and chest.

… but to England, who has spent his whole life escaping one conquering army after another until he could defend himself…

America looked down at the quilt and stood to turn it down. A little part of him felt guilty. Maybe he should still try and reason with England?

England turned down the other side and they got into bed a little awkwardly. America hadn’t actually slept in the bed for the majority of the summer. It was too hot, so he’d slept outside in a rope hammock. He lay down on his back. It seemed a neutral position. He didn’t want to face England but didn’t want to turn away either.

He waited for a long time, silently, knowing England was watching him. Until, finally, England sighed very, very faintly and turned on his side, away from America. He sighed silently in relief and turned on his side as well, away from England.

Quietly, his voice drifted from the darkness. “You really are determined, aren’t you?”

America blinked and paused, not sure how to respond.

“I know you dislike the taxes but we are in debt. We need you.”

“…I know…” America murmured back. “But you’re making my people hate you.”

“Some nations separate themselves from what their people feel.”

America frowned, suddenly thinking of Canada. “I wouldn’t be theirs if I did that. I’d just be your puppet.”

England frowned too. You are my puppet and it suggests far more that you don't know it. He said nothing.

America slept badly, waking up every hour and wishing it would be dawn so he could leave. England, on the other hand, seemed to be sleeping rather well and only awoke once. America was actually the one who roused him because America awoke to the sound of him moaning.

America turned over and looked down. England’s face was scrunched up in pain, fingers digging into his nightshirt. America just watched for a long moment, wondering if he should just let him suffer; wondering what he was dreaming about.

But, at his core, America couldn’t watch him in pain, even if England enraged him. He grabbed his shoulder. “England,” he said, quietly.

England cried out, gritting his teeth and his hand whipped up, grabbing onto America’s shoulder. He grit his teeth at England’s grip and shook him harder. “Arthur!”

England’s eyes shot open and all his brain registered was a dark, large assailant and he jumped, tackling the figure. Both bodies fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard.

“England!”

And England stopped, having his attacker pinned to the floor, he suddenly saw him. “Alfred….” He lost the strength in his arms and slumped down onto him. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I was dreaming…”

America held onto him a little awkwardly. So much of the time, England could be right next to him but he always felt a thousand miles away. He missed the times when he’d been a child and England had been so open around him. In England was a distance, an aloofness that America couldn’t reach or even hope to match. When I am a Nation, he thought, I won’t be that way.

He held England quietly, until the other stood. The good thing was that the tension between them seemed momentarily broken and when they climbed back into bed, they faced each other.

America dreamed about the civilian deaths in Boston in 1770. He still wasn’t quite used to the feeling that he got when his civilians were killed. It was like a hit to the gut and he started to get cuts and bruises that seemed to appear and disappear.

When he awoke, sunlight was filtering into the room. He found himself burrowed against England's chest, who was still asleep and had a hand in his hair. America pulled back awkwardly and scrambled, getting out of bed and changing into his breeches, then hurrying downstairs to get his shirt off the porch.

He started with his chores right away, where normally he might have enjoyed the morning a little more, now he just wanted to be out of the house that held England in it. He tended to his animals and picketed his horses and cow out in the side field, then went to get eggs from his chickens. He only needed a few for himself but he wasn’t feeling very hungry that morning, so he left them by an iron pan for England to fry and took a small basket of them down the road and into the little village, where he traded them with young McCleary’s wife for a loaf of her bread.

By the time he returned, England was up and burning the eggs, letting tea steep while he did so. He saw this (and smelled it) through the window and so he appeared in the house long enough to get the bread wrapped in cloth and into the cupboard and then went outside, muttering an excuse about hollowing out a stump so he could smoke some of his meat.

England watched him from the house, swallowing his chewy eggs whole. America went at his chosen stump with gusto. He split the middle and hacked chunks of wood out. He paused once, wiping sweat from his brow and removing his shirt, laying it on the grass. England moved out to the porch, watching his lean, strong charge start a small fire inside the stump and chipping off charred bits as it burned out. England had not done such work in a long time. He usually counted going to war as his exercise. So he watched.

Eventually, America seemed to forget he was there and he started to whistle and hum. He handled the axe much better then most of his other tools. (And England had to wonder if that was because of America’s…Indians.) He was passable with his sword but would likely never beat England in a fight. His aim with a pistol was surprisingly good, given that pistols weren’t all that accurate in the first place.

Two hours later, America was sitting a now-hollow log on top of the stump and putting blocks of wood over the top. He’d made notches on the inside so that he’d be able to hang strips of meat inside and keep a smoldering fire inside the bottom of the stump.

America let himself fall back onto the grass and close his eyes, a breeze ghosting his hair.

Unwittingly, it reminded England of his first time on a ship. And he had to wonder if the way he'd felt on that ship was the way America felt about this place.


England left later that evening and, after all his hard work to stave off his irritation, America was almost feeling good towards him. But when his driver arrived, it all went downhill again.

England put on his hat and informed him, with a straight face, that he (and his people) would be paying for England to house a regiment of troops along the east coast and he had better start letting his ships into port in New York.

America blinked. “What? You already tax us to pay the salaries for the officials already here. And to pay for your war. And skirt any smuggling. And they don’t let your ships port because they don’t agree with your taxes because my people aren't represented by your parliament! They can refuse to take a shipment! They didn’t touch the cargo!”

England raised his chin. “I need you, America. Don’t shirk me now.”

America glared daggers.



Three months later, America was laughing and snickering with a large group of men. They were all dressed as Indians, something that America himself found sort of…well, he wasn’t sure. It had felt entirely natural but he was aware that these men weren’t…them....

Maybe if I really tried sometime….I could remember those people…it was so long ago…it hurts my head when I try and remember….

He attempted not to think about it. After all, they were donning the clothes to go to the Boston harbor.

America had not actively been participating in his people’s rebellious acts. This would be the first time that he joined them. No one knew who he was—that is, as their Thirteen Colonies. He was just Alfred Jones to them. And they had a great deal of joking and muttering before they made their move.

When they did, there were war whoops and they swarmed the wharf, followed by a curious crowd. They had a great deal of fun dumping England’s tea into the harbor. And America had to laugh when he thought how angry his mentor would be when word reached London.

And angry England was. He raged and ranted and swore, cursing his decision not to kill that damn boy back in the summer.

To the east of England, France roared with laughter when he heard the news. “The Boston Tea Party! That boy is something else!” He cheered and poured himself a glass of wine. “I love it!”



And then came what the colonists called the “Intolerable Acts” and finally, in 1775, in Massachusetts—the first shots were fired. America was there for them. They were all stunned by their victory.

And then America sent Benjamin Franklin to Paris.

It had been difficult to tell the humans who exactly he was. He had never asked England or France how they convinced their rulers that they were real. He discovered that all he really needed was true intent for them to know and a handshake. A touch. And abruptly, something would pass over their faces and they would know.

Franklin would end up sending back French ships and a letter about a Prussian Baron who would help whip his men into shape.

America read the letter three more times on the scheduled day of the Baron’s arrival. Grabbing his musket, America hurried down to the wharf with his commanders. He was a little nervous.

He’d never met Prussia before.