Redcoat
Title: Redcoat
Genre: General
Characters/Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating/Warnings: PG13, America being a horny SOB, but nothing explicit.
Summary: One morning, America wakes up face to face with England's past and the memories of the American Revolution fresh in the air. Originally for the kink-meme, now edited.
~
Note: Original prompt asked for modern!America meeting redcoat!England.
The first thing that England realized when he woke up was that he was in a completely unfamiliar room. The second thing he realized was that he was laying down in bed, fully dressed. Belts, breeches, boots, red coat...hell, even his tricorn hat was still on. Startled, the Nation quickly swung out of the bed before sitting back down on the edge. He tried not to think about how rude he had been (what sort of gentleman forgot to at least take off his boots before going to bed?) and concentrated on gathering his thoughts.
Scanning the room, England tried to pick up clues on where he could possibly be. The furniture was all rather generic (a little too plain for his tastes) but they were all well built and well used. The bedsheets (despite being all piled up in a bundle on the other side of the bed) were of good quality. Oddly enough, there were no candles, and a quick peek under the bed revealed that the chamberpot was also missing. Yet over all, there was nothing too out of the ordinary about the room itself, except for the temperature. It was pleasantly cool, almost too perfect for reality.
Seeing as his location gave him little to go by, the Briton tried to think back on his last memory.
Blood and dirt and death in the air. The boom of cannon fire, the cries of the dying. A tattered flag that was yet still so startlingly new, red and white stripes and a square of blue. Thirteen stars.
Saratoga.
Fuck.
England snarled at the memory before squashing it ruthlessly. He did not need to remember America like that...America with that vicious smile on his face, America firing at England's men (America firing on England), America winning. England hissed in anger. America's recent victory was likely to catch the interest of France. Damn frog always enjoyed fishing in troubled waters. America had no right to be standing on the battlefield, a rifle in his hand. He was too young, too naïve to be in war, to be independent. The boy wasn't even two centuries old...How dare he think he no longer needed England! America was staying part of the British Empire, even if England had to drag the boy back kicking and screaming. Even if America hated him...
Dread suddenly coiled in England's stomach. America...America hated England now. England's precious, precious little boy...(England shoved away the little voice that reminded him that America was not really a child anymore; he was taller than England.) England didn't want to be at war with the boy, but he didn't want to lose his little colony, his darling child. The mere thought made England's stomach twist into knots.
And just as his stomach started to roll, a hand was suddenly rubbing his belly.
England sputtered in indignation as the pile of covers behind him sprouted arms that were drawing the Nation backwards into an embrace. England tried to pull away, but the arms were too strong (freakishly strong, like America's, only more so). And then there was a nose nuzzling his lower back and one of the hands began inching lower.
“Get your bloody hands off me!” England shrieked, trying to twist away. Oh God, why hadn't he noticed that those covers were hiding another person? It would be just like France to swoop in when England was feeling low and try to take advantage. But when had France become so scarily strong?
The nose at his back nuzzled harder and England swore he felt a grin press up against him.
“I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow,” a sleepy voice murmured, thick with desire, “And you got all dressed up for me too, you kinky bastard.”
That voice was not France's. It was far too rough and casual to be the Frenchman's smooth tone.
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?!” England growled, still trying to pry off the arms. The Empire felt his face heat in mortification as a hand started unbuttoning his breeches.
“Is this another version of your pirate costume?” the voice purred, as a mouth wandered up his back to the nape of his neck. England gasped as there was a flash of tongue against his flesh.
“What on earth...this is the uniform of the British Army!” England hissed, slapping the hands away.
All movement stopped and the arms around him loosened. England quickly moved away, putting some distance between himself and the bed. He whirled around to face his “bedmate” his hands itching for a weapon.
England froze. There, laying on his stomach, was a half naked America.
“W-wh...” England sputtered, his mind shutting down. America was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose trousers. His little boy, his darling colony...His enemy, his rebellious child...
...was staring at him as if he had seen a ghost.
“E-England?” America whispered, his eyes wide in shock, “W-Why are you wearing that?”
England scowled, about to come back with a clever retort, but then the memories of their last encounter on the battlefield surged up into his mind. The memory was a bucket of ice water poured down his spine.
“Don't play coy with me, bastard!” England snarled, his eyes flashing with rage, “After what you did to me, to my men! You killed them! All those men, gone!”
America looked like he had been slapped in the face, and he noticeably recoiled, “What the fuck, England? When was this?”
“You forgot the date already?” England spat, letting the anger overcome him and wrap him up in a red blanket of passion, “The 7th of October, 1777! Yesterday!”
America's mouth hung open, “...The hell? England, that was over two hundred years ago!”
In an instant, England felt the anger drain out of him, leaving him empty and cold. He must have heard that incorrectly, or America was lying...but that, that couldn't be...
“W-What?” he croaked, his mouth dry. America frowned and climbed out of bed.
“Look, Iggy,” America sighed, running a hand through disheveled blond hair, “I like it when we role-play, hell, Captain Kirkland is fucking hot, but don't you think you're getting a bit carried away?”
England barely heard the words. His mind was reeling. He looked at America. Really looked. The boy looked older than he did a day ago, his frame no longer awkwardly lanky with adolescence, but more filled out. Scars that England didn't recall slashed across his colony's skin, but they were old, faded. England startled when America's hand reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a pair of spectacles, and perched the frames on his nose. That was certainly new. America had gained yet another inch in height, and there was a five o'clock shadow ghosting his cheeks. America hadn't been shaving yet, from what England recalled.
This was not the America England remembered. This one was older and stronger, and judging from those scars littering his torso, this America had seen his fair share of wars. This America was not a boy, but a man. This America did not have the aura of a dependent colony, but that of a full fledged Nation, a strong one at that.
A half remembered and forcibly forgotten title (a Name of a Nation he dare not acknowledge) fluttered through England's mind along with the words “WHEN in the Course of human Events...”
“Y-you're the United States,” England whispered, his knees becoming weak as realization began to dawn on him, “Not the Thirteen British Colonies of America, you're the United States of America...”
“Well, yeah,” America scoffed, his entire posture casual and unconcerned, “Been so for the past two hundred plus years, just like how you're the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”
England's eyes widened, “And Northern Ireland?!”
One of America's eyebrows quirked up, “...England, are you alright? You're acting really weird.”
“What year is it?” England demanded, grabbing a hold of his colony's shoulders. America blinked in confusion.
“2009, duh,” America rolled his eyes, so casually it made England's heart ache, “Okay, obviously that outfit is getting to you...Off with it!”
“W-what?!” England sputtered as suddenly America's hands were everywhere, pulling at fabric and unbuckling belts.
“You take your role-playing too seriously, old man,” America teased as he stripped the older Nation, “You need to loosen up! Or get into your sexy butler outfit. Yeah, that would be awesome!”
“What the hell are you babbling about?!”
“Or your pirate costume!” America chirped, oblivious to England's protests, “Oh man, when you're after booty...best sex ever!”
“Sex?!” England gasped, his head spinning, “B-but I raised you! You're like my son! My little brother!”
“Not for the past two hundred years!” America grinned, stripping off England's coat, “Man, I love independence. And your ass.”
“You horny git!” England yelped as one of America's hands squeezed his buttocks, “What are you, part French?!”
“Mmm, yeah,” America laughed, as he sucked on England's neck, leaving a hickey, “Parts of me used to belong to France, remember?”
“Since when?!” England shrieked, just as America slid off England's shirt.
America paused as soon as England's torso was revealed, his fingers hovering hesitantly over pale flesh.
“Give me back my clothes, now,” England demanded imperiously, fighting down the blush. This was not happening. It was not. America was too young and innocent to be doing things like this! Except, he wasn't. America was older, tall, tan, and very handsome. Oh hell...England suddenly felt certain he was going to hell. There had to be a special place in hell for Nations like him who lusted after their own colonies.
America, in the meantime, was staring quietly at England's chest, looking not so much aroused any more, but very, very confused.
“England,” America began softly, his head tilting to one side as he let his hands drop, “What happened to your scars from the Blitz?”
“The what?” England blinked, confusion written on his face. America blanched.
“Oh crap,” America cursed, jerking away violently from the Empire, “Today's the sixteenth, isn't it? Fuck, England warned me about this. Er, you warned me about this. Well, not you, you, but future you. Ah, fucking hell...”
America collapsed back down onto the bed, rubbing his temples.
“Hiya, lobster-back,” America waved weakly at England, “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
“So I really am in the future,” England murmured, as he too sunk down onto the bed. America nodded.
“England, you, er, future you,” America rambled, a hint of panic starting to weave into his voice, “told me that this would happen. 'Course, it sounded kinda crazy, but whatever. He, you, whatever, talks to fairies. Which is fucking crazy. The point is that you're here now, whatever we're doing isn't going to mess up history, 'cause if it messed up history we wouldn't be here right now. But don't go around reading any history books. According to England whatever we do now has already happened...er, future England...it's already happened to him, but he wouldn't tell me what exactly happened. But I suppose I can't really mess up, cause the world hasn't ended, and I'm still a country, not a fucking colony. And oh fuck, time paradox.”
“I-Indeed,” England sputtered, clutching his own head at the overwhelming onslaught of thoughts, “So, what now?”
“I don't know!” America cried, flailing about nervously, “I'd call you, uh, future you, to ask, but knowing him, uh, you, he's probably smirking at how much of an idiot I'm acting, and won't answer the phone. He's probably, you're probably, uh God damn it, England probably finds this fucking hilarious. He didn't tell me jack shit about what goes down other than you come here, we talk, and then you go back, and get your ass handed to you by me, uh past me, during the Revolution.”
“The British Empire will never lose to an upstart little colony!” England hissed. He stood his full height, his form rigid, his eyes glaring at the other Nation.
“Except you did, uh, do,” America pointed out calmly, never moving from his languid sprawl on the bed, “But hey, whatever make you sleep easy at night...And don't even think about pumping me for information on what's going to happen. Nope, I ain't gonna talk. I like how I am.”
“A perverted part French git with an Oedipus complex?” England snorted, crossing his arms.
“No,” America shook his head, “Free.”
And then, America looked at England with an expression on his face that the older Nation had never seen before. Suddenly, America was something strange and new, an untamed wild creature. England's stomach lurched when he caught a glimpse of power in the other's eyes. It was beautiful.
And oh so frightening.
England hated it. He hated not knowing his dear America anymore, his darling child. The fear of a parent for their child (the fear for a loved one) rolled in his stomach, completely dominating his earlier anger.
“What happens to us?” England whispered, reaching out to touch one of America's unfamiliar scars, “What happened to my little colony? My innocent little boy?”
“I grew up,” America smiled, catching England's fingers with his own, “And so do you.”
And out of the blue, America's mouth was covering his own in a gentle kiss. England felt his eyes flutter shut.
When he opened them again he was back in 1777, and a war was raging about him. He was in bed, properly dressed in nightclothes this time.
America was nowhere in sight.
“It was just a dream,” England sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair and down his neck, “Just a dream. America's still my colony.”
Except he's not quite sure, especially as his fingers brushed across a hickey on his neck.
~
England refused to believe that what he experienced was anything other than a wild fantasy. To accept it would be to accept that America would one day no longer be his colony, and that was something England could not allow.
Then came Yorktown.
America stood before him, rain sloughing off in him in heavy sheets and a musket in his hands. England knew he had lost this battle (lost the war) but he refused to accept it. Instead, he glared at America, his breaths coming out in heavy pants.
“Hey England, I will choose liberty after all. I am no longer your child nor your baby brother. From now on, I am independent. Acknowledge it!”
England froze at the words, his head tilting up to stare into America's face. There was something in his colony's eyes that reminded the Empire of someone else, someone who shared America's face and voice and history, but aged by over two centuries of Nationhood.
Suddenly, America was something strange and new, an untamed wild creature. There was power in his gaze, and England was stunned yet again at how beautiful (how oh so frightening) that expression was. A stranger stood before England.
No. This could not be. England knew America. He knew his sweet child, the one untouched by war, untouched by scars. Yet, his fingers tingled with the memory of raised flesh, of hardship that would come.
“I won't allow it!” England found himself shouting as he's charging America. It was a simple twist of the wrist to send America's weapon flying through the air, to leave his child defenseless.
But even as he has the upper hand (but not really, because he is out numbered, his men are dying, and his general is calling the retreat) England found himself unable to pull the trigger. His mind is clogged with memories that won't happen for another two hundred years.
“I grew up,” an older America smiled softly as England touched scars that don't exist yet.
And England found the gun slipping from his fingers, his body following it. All his fingers could feel were the uneven skin of old scars.
“There's no point in firing, is there,” England whispered, tears running down his face to mingle with the rain, “...Fool.”
England sobbed in the rain, in the muck, because America has grown up, and is leaving him, and there is nothing England can do about it because the future has already been shown to him.
America will have scars that England doesn't remember. England cannot protect his boy anymore.
“You used to be...” America, the America of the present, murmured, “so big...”
“I grew up,” America, the America of the future, murmured, “And so do you.”
And England is crying (no, it's just the rain, just the rain). And as America leaves, England finds himself praying for the first time that his dream (his glimpse of the future where America loves him and smiles at him gently) is real.
~
Notes (a.k.a. The answers you never knew you wanted):
America's room being pleasantly cool: AC, bitches. In the original edition, I realized I put down that England remembered it being summer time, but then two lines down he remembered the battle of Saratoga being the day before which was in October...oops. It's corrected here.
Saratoga: The battle(s) of Saratoga was a key American victory. Because of this victory, France was persuaded into joining the war on the side of the Americans now that they had proof that the Americans really could hold out against the British.
“WHEN in the Course of human Events...”: These are the first lines of the US Declaration of Independence. Yes, the capitalization is exactly like that in the original document. (I have a handy-dandy pocket US Constitution/Declaration of Independence that I carry around almost everywhere...what? It's useful, and it looks awesome when I whip it out and read from it at the appropriate times. :P)
The United States versus the British Colonies of America: The term “United States” was first used in the the Declaration of Independence which was signed in 1776, which is why redcoat!England knew the term and referred to modern!America by it. For the most part, England would have referred to America as “British America” or the “Thirteen Colonies” during the 1700s.
...and Northern Ireland: Ireland (or Northern Ireland, for that matter) wasn't part of the UK until after the American Revolution, thus England's surprise at the addition of it to his title. And before I have people complain that the UK is actually 4 countries (Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland) I already know. While England only really represents the England part of the UK, his siblings are content with letting him represent all of them as the UK in public, thus why he gets to be called by the full title. The reason why the rest of the UK lets England do so? Simple: He has to do all the paperwork, go to all the meetings, babysit the colonies, and all the other annoying crap, while they get to relax and insult him for doing a crappy job and being a horrible brother.
America being part French: I'm sure plenty of people know this, but the Louisiana Perchance added formerly French territory to the original 13 colonies, doubling the size of the US at the time of its acquirement. There's also Vermont.
Yorktown: The battle of Yorktown was the last important battle of the American Revolution and it was the battle ultimately won the Americans the war. Yorktown is part of the Historic Triangle in Virginia, along with Jamestown and Williamsburg.
Hope you guys don't mind me taking a break from editing “Author!Anon” to de-anon this. For anyone who follows “Author!Anon,” um, well...wish me luck, okay? I'm making a long distance phone call tonight. Note to self: Write some badass!England soon to make the significant other happy.
Genre: General
Characters/Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating/Warnings: PG13, America being a horny SOB, but nothing explicit.
Summary: One morning, America wakes up face to face with England's past and the memories of the American Revolution fresh in the air. Originally for the kink-meme, now edited.
~
Note: Original prompt asked for modern!America meeting redcoat!England.
The first thing that England realized when he woke up was that he was in a completely unfamiliar room. The second thing he realized was that he was laying down in bed, fully dressed. Belts, breeches, boots, red coat...hell, even his tricorn hat was still on. Startled, the Nation quickly swung out of the bed before sitting back down on the edge. He tried not to think about how rude he had been (what sort of gentleman forgot to at least take off his boots before going to bed?) and concentrated on gathering his thoughts.
Scanning the room, England tried to pick up clues on where he could possibly be. The furniture was all rather generic (a little too plain for his tastes) but they were all well built and well used. The bedsheets (despite being all piled up in a bundle on the other side of the bed) were of good quality. Oddly enough, there were no candles, and a quick peek under the bed revealed that the chamberpot was also missing. Yet over all, there was nothing too out of the ordinary about the room itself, except for the temperature. It was pleasantly cool, almost too perfect for reality.
Seeing as his location gave him little to go by, the Briton tried to think back on his last memory.
Blood and dirt and death in the air. The boom of cannon fire, the cries of the dying. A tattered flag that was yet still so startlingly new, red and white stripes and a square of blue. Thirteen stars.
Saratoga.
Fuck.
England snarled at the memory before squashing it ruthlessly. He did not need to remember America like that...America with that vicious smile on his face, America firing at England's men (America firing on England), America winning. England hissed in anger. America's recent victory was likely to catch the interest of France. Damn frog always enjoyed fishing in troubled waters. America had no right to be standing on the battlefield, a rifle in his hand. He was too young, too naïve to be in war, to be independent. The boy wasn't even two centuries old...How dare he think he no longer needed England! America was staying part of the British Empire, even if England had to drag the boy back kicking and screaming. Even if America hated him...
Dread suddenly coiled in England's stomach. America...America hated England now. England's precious, precious little boy...(England shoved away the little voice that reminded him that America was not really a child anymore; he was taller than England.) England didn't want to be at war with the boy, but he didn't want to lose his little colony, his darling child. The mere thought made England's stomach twist into knots.
And just as his stomach started to roll, a hand was suddenly rubbing his belly.
England sputtered in indignation as the pile of covers behind him sprouted arms that were drawing the Nation backwards into an embrace. England tried to pull away, but the arms were too strong (freakishly strong, like America's, only more so). And then there was a nose nuzzling his lower back and one of the hands began inching lower.
“Get your bloody hands off me!” England shrieked, trying to twist away. Oh God, why hadn't he noticed that those covers were hiding another person? It would be just like France to swoop in when England was feeling low and try to take advantage. But when had France become so scarily strong?
The nose at his back nuzzled harder and England swore he felt a grin press up against him.
“I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow,” a sleepy voice murmured, thick with desire, “And you got all dressed up for me too, you kinky bastard.”
That voice was not France's. It was far too rough and casual to be the Frenchman's smooth tone.
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?!” England growled, still trying to pry off the arms. The Empire felt his face heat in mortification as a hand started unbuttoning his breeches.
“Is this another version of your pirate costume?” the voice purred, as a mouth wandered up his back to the nape of his neck. England gasped as there was a flash of tongue against his flesh.
“What on earth...this is the uniform of the British Army!” England hissed, slapping the hands away.
All movement stopped and the arms around him loosened. England quickly moved away, putting some distance between himself and the bed. He whirled around to face his “bedmate” his hands itching for a weapon.
England froze. There, laying on his stomach, was a half naked America.
“W-wh...” England sputtered, his mind shutting down. America was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose trousers. His little boy, his darling colony...His enemy, his rebellious child...
...was staring at him as if he had seen a ghost.
“E-England?” America whispered, his eyes wide in shock, “W-Why are you wearing that?”
England scowled, about to come back with a clever retort, but then the memories of their last encounter on the battlefield surged up into his mind. The memory was a bucket of ice water poured down his spine.
“Don't play coy with me, bastard!” England snarled, his eyes flashing with rage, “After what you did to me, to my men! You killed them! All those men, gone!”
America looked like he had been slapped in the face, and he noticeably recoiled, “What the fuck, England? When was this?”
“You forgot the date already?” England spat, letting the anger overcome him and wrap him up in a red blanket of passion, “The 7th of October, 1777! Yesterday!”
America's mouth hung open, “...The hell? England, that was over two hundred years ago!”
In an instant, England felt the anger drain out of him, leaving him empty and cold. He must have heard that incorrectly, or America was lying...but that, that couldn't be...
“W-What?” he croaked, his mouth dry. America frowned and climbed out of bed.
“Look, Iggy,” America sighed, running a hand through disheveled blond hair, “I like it when we role-play, hell, Captain Kirkland is fucking hot, but don't you think you're getting a bit carried away?”
England barely heard the words. His mind was reeling. He looked at America. Really looked. The boy looked older than he did a day ago, his frame no longer awkwardly lanky with adolescence, but more filled out. Scars that England didn't recall slashed across his colony's skin, but they were old, faded. England startled when America's hand reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a pair of spectacles, and perched the frames on his nose. That was certainly new. America had gained yet another inch in height, and there was a five o'clock shadow ghosting his cheeks. America hadn't been shaving yet, from what England recalled.
This was not the America England remembered. This one was older and stronger, and judging from those scars littering his torso, this America had seen his fair share of wars. This America was not a boy, but a man. This America did not have the aura of a dependent colony, but that of a full fledged Nation, a strong one at that.
A half remembered and forcibly forgotten title (a Name of a Nation he dare not acknowledge) fluttered through England's mind along with the words “WHEN in the Course of human Events...”
“Y-you're the United States,” England whispered, his knees becoming weak as realization began to dawn on him, “Not the Thirteen British Colonies of America, you're the United States of America...”
“Well, yeah,” America scoffed, his entire posture casual and unconcerned, “Been so for the past two hundred plus years, just like how you're the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”
England's eyes widened, “And Northern Ireland?!”
One of America's eyebrows quirked up, “...England, are you alright? You're acting really weird.”
“What year is it?” England demanded, grabbing a hold of his colony's shoulders. America blinked in confusion.
“2009, duh,” America rolled his eyes, so casually it made England's heart ache, “Okay, obviously that outfit is getting to you...Off with it!”
“W-what?!” England sputtered as suddenly America's hands were everywhere, pulling at fabric and unbuckling belts.
“You take your role-playing too seriously, old man,” America teased as he stripped the older Nation, “You need to loosen up! Or get into your sexy butler outfit. Yeah, that would be awesome!”
“What the hell are you babbling about?!”
“Or your pirate costume!” America chirped, oblivious to England's protests, “Oh man, when you're after booty...best sex ever!”
“Sex?!” England gasped, his head spinning, “B-but I raised you! You're like my son! My little brother!”
“Not for the past two hundred years!” America grinned, stripping off England's coat, “Man, I love independence. And your ass.”
“You horny git!” England yelped as one of America's hands squeezed his buttocks, “What are you, part French?!”
“Mmm, yeah,” America laughed, as he sucked on England's neck, leaving a hickey, “Parts of me used to belong to France, remember?”
“Since when?!” England shrieked, just as America slid off England's shirt.
America paused as soon as England's torso was revealed, his fingers hovering hesitantly over pale flesh.
“Give me back my clothes, now,” England demanded imperiously, fighting down the blush. This was not happening. It was not. America was too young and innocent to be doing things like this! Except, he wasn't. America was older, tall, tan, and very handsome. Oh hell...England suddenly felt certain he was going to hell. There had to be a special place in hell for Nations like him who lusted after their own colonies.
America, in the meantime, was staring quietly at England's chest, looking not so much aroused any more, but very, very confused.
“England,” America began softly, his head tilting to one side as he let his hands drop, “What happened to your scars from the Blitz?”
“The what?” England blinked, confusion written on his face. America blanched.
“Oh crap,” America cursed, jerking away violently from the Empire, “Today's the sixteenth, isn't it? Fuck, England warned me about this. Er, you warned me about this. Well, not you, you, but future you. Ah, fucking hell...”
America collapsed back down onto the bed, rubbing his temples.
“Hiya, lobster-back,” America waved weakly at England, “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
“So I really am in the future,” England murmured, as he too sunk down onto the bed. America nodded.
“England, you, er, future you,” America rambled, a hint of panic starting to weave into his voice, “told me that this would happen. 'Course, it sounded kinda crazy, but whatever. He, you, whatever, talks to fairies. Which is fucking crazy. The point is that you're here now, whatever we're doing isn't going to mess up history, 'cause if it messed up history we wouldn't be here right now. But don't go around reading any history books. According to England whatever we do now has already happened...er, future England...it's already happened to him, but he wouldn't tell me what exactly happened. But I suppose I can't really mess up, cause the world hasn't ended, and I'm still a country, not a fucking colony. And oh fuck, time paradox.”
“I-Indeed,” England sputtered, clutching his own head at the overwhelming onslaught of thoughts, “So, what now?”
“I don't know!” America cried, flailing about nervously, “I'd call you, uh, future you, to ask, but knowing him, uh, you, he's probably smirking at how much of an idiot I'm acting, and won't answer the phone. He's probably, you're probably, uh God damn it, England probably finds this fucking hilarious. He didn't tell me jack shit about what goes down other than you come here, we talk, and then you go back, and get your ass handed to you by me, uh past me, during the Revolution.”
“The British Empire will never lose to an upstart little colony!” England hissed. He stood his full height, his form rigid, his eyes glaring at the other Nation.
“Except you did, uh, do,” America pointed out calmly, never moving from his languid sprawl on the bed, “But hey, whatever make you sleep easy at night...And don't even think about pumping me for information on what's going to happen. Nope, I ain't gonna talk. I like how I am.”
“A perverted part French git with an Oedipus complex?” England snorted, crossing his arms.
“No,” America shook his head, “Free.”
And then, America looked at England with an expression on his face that the older Nation had never seen before. Suddenly, America was something strange and new, an untamed wild creature. England's stomach lurched when he caught a glimpse of power in the other's eyes. It was beautiful.
And oh so frightening.
England hated it. He hated not knowing his dear America anymore, his darling child. The fear of a parent for their child (the fear for a loved one) rolled in his stomach, completely dominating his earlier anger.
“What happens to us?” England whispered, reaching out to touch one of America's unfamiliar scars, “What happened to my little colony? My innocent little boy?”
“I grew up,” America smiled, catching England's fingers with his own, “And so do you.”
And out of the blue, America's mouth was covering his own in a gentle kiss. England felt his eyes flutter shut.
When he opened them again he was back in 1777, and a war was raging about him. He was in bed, properly dressed in nightclothes this time.
America was nowhere in sight.
“It was just a dream,” England sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair and down his neck, “Just a dream. America's still my colony.”
Except he's not quite sure, especially as his fingers brushed across a hickey on his neck.
~
England refused to believe that what he experienced was anything other than a wild fantasy. To accept it would be to accept that America would one day no longer be his colony, and that was something England could not allow.
Then came Yorktown.
America stood before him, rain sloughing off in him in heavy sheets and a musket in his hands. England knew he had lost this battle (lost the war) but he refused to accept it. Instead, he glared at America, his breaths coming out in heavy pants.
“Hey England, I will choose liberty after all. I am no longer your child nor your baby brother. From now on, I am independent. Acknowledge it!”
England froze at the words, his head tilting up to stare into America's face. There was something in his colony's eyes that reminded the Empire of someone else, someone who shared America's face and voice and history, but aged by over two centuries of Nationhood.
Suddenly, America was something strange and new, an untamed wild creature. There was power in his gaze, and England was stunned yet again at how beautiful (how oh so frightening) that expression was. A stranger stood before England.
No. This could not be. England knew America. He knew his sweet child, the one untouched by war, untouched by scars. Yet, his fingers tingled with the memory of raised flesh, of hardship that would come.
“I won't allow it!” England found himself shouting as he's charging America. It was a simple twist of the wrist to send America's weapon flying through the air, to leave his child defenseless.
But even as he has the upper hand (but not really, because he is out numbered, his men are dying, and his general is calling the retreat) England found himself unable to pull the trigger. His mind is clogged with memories that won't happen for another two hundred years.
“I grew up,” an older America smiled softly as England touched scars that don't exist yet.
And England found the gun slipping from his fingers, his body following it. All his fingers could feel were the uneven skin of old scars.
“There's no point in firing, is there,” England whispered, tears running down his face to mingle with the rain, “...Fool.”
England sobbed in the rain, in the muck, because America has grown up, and is leaving him, and there is nothing England can do about it because the future has already been shown to him.
America will have scars that England doesn't remember. England cannot protect his boy anymore.
“You used to be...” America, the America of the present, murmured, “so big...”
“I grew up,” America, the America of the future, murmured, “And so do you.”
And England is crying (no, it's just the rain, just the rain). And as America leaves, England finds himself praying for the first time that his dream (his glimpse of the future where America loves him and smiles at him gently) is real.
~
Notes (a.k.a. The answers you never knew you wanted):
America's room being pleasantly cool: AC, bitches. In the original edition, I realized I put down that England remembered it being summer time, but then two lines down he remembered the battle of Saratoga being the day before which was in October...oops. It's corrected here.
Saratoga: The battle(s) of Saratoga was a key American victory. Because of this victory, France was persuaded into joining the war on the side of the Americans now that they had proof that the Americans really could hold out against the British.
“WHEN in the Course of human Events...”: These are the first lines of the US Declaration of Independence. Yes, the capitalization is exactly like that in the original document. (I have a handy-dandy pocket US Constitution/Declaration of Independence that I carry around almost everywhere...what? It's useful, and it looks awesome when I whip it out and read from it at the appropriate times. :P)
The United States versus the British Colonies of America: The term “United States” was first used in the the Declaration of Independence which was signed in 1776, which is why redcoat!England knew the term and referred to modern!America by it. For the most part, England would have referred to America as “British America” or the “Thirteen Colonies” during the 1700s.
...and Northern Ireland: Ireland (or Northern Ireland, for that matter) wasn't part of the UK until after the American Revolution, thus England's surprise at the addition of it to his title. And before I have people complain that the UK is actually 4 countries (Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland) I already know. While England only really represents the England part of the UK, his siblings are content with letting him represent all of them as the UK in public, thus why he gets to be called by the full title. The reason why the rest of the UK lets England do so? Simple: He has to do all the paperwork, go to all the meetings, babysit the colonies, and all the other annoying crap, while they get to relax and insult him for doing a crappy job and being a horrible brother.
America being part French: I'm sure plenty of people know this, but the Louisiana Perchance added formerly French territory to the original 13 colonies, doubling the size of the US at the time of its acquirement. There's also Vermont.
Yorktown: The battle of Yorktown was the last important battle of the American Revolution and it was the battle ultimately won the Americans the war. Yorktown is part of the Historic Triangle in Virginia, along with Jamestown and Williamsburg.
Hope you guys don't mind me taking a break from editing “Author!Anon” to de-anon this. For anyone who follows “Author!Anon,” um, well...wish me luck, okay? I'm making a long distance phone call tonight. Note to self: Write some badass!England soon to make the significant other happy.