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America/England 1C - England sewing America's clothes

[anonymous]

After the meeting finally subsided, England waited until the room had more or less emptied. America was still trying to cram his things in his own briefcase; it was brimming over with hastily scrawled drawings and paperwork that likely hadn’t seen the light of day for quite a while. England approached tentatively, the kit still secure between his fingers.

“America…”

“Huh? Oh, England!” America brightened. “It was a good idea today, right? Because you didn’t say anything, so-”

“Your button.”

America looked at him blankly.

“On your jacket,” clarified England, ears going slightly red. “It’s come loose.”

Chin met collarbone as America tried to crane his neck to peer down and patted at his jacket. He found the swinging button and made a face. “Okay, and… How does that matter?”

“It looks stupid. Give it to me.”

“My jacket?” America looked at him in pure horror. “Never!”

England’s head already hurt. Why did that seem so normal now? “Never mind,” he said through his grinding molars. “You can just walk around looking like a moron at the meeting you’re hosting in front of half of the European nations. Fine. Bloody fantastic. In fact-”

The jacket hit him in the face. England spluttered.

“If you’re gonna be that way,” muttered America, crossing his arms over his chest. His tie was crooked.

Well, the method hardly mattered; he had the jacket. England felt the wired coil inside of his stomach relax, the fabric familiar and heavy in his hands. He sat on the edge of the table and popped open the sewing kit, deftly threading a needle and biting the thread off with his teeth. There was no point to tightening the button when a new job would leave it secure and attached.

It took only two minutes at most. England pulled the thread through confidently and felt the button settle as it should. He bit the line of thread again and knotted.

Deep inside, a heady glow of contentment curled like a cat. That’s better.

England put away his things and looked up at America, who had been suspiciously quiet through the whole thing. He blinked. There was a very odd expression on America’s face: wide blue eyes were nevertheless intent, but his mouth twisted as though upset.

“What is it?”

America swallowed and held out his hand. “Nothing. I’d like my jacket back if you’re done making it look uncool.”

“Ungrateful brat,” England groused, handing it over. The warmth (like leftover body heat, a colony that had always been too big to fit in England’s hand-me-downs) slid out of his grasp and into America’s.

America shrugged the jacket on, his face pensive. He fingered the button, newly repaired, as if it were foreign to him now.

England frowned at him and went to repack his briefcase.

Perhaps it was just the open window letting in a breeze that liked mischief, but as England bent over his chair, he could have sworn he heard America murmur something before the door shut. It wasn’t quite a thank you, but it had a pleasant tone.

He was glad to have been busy. He wouldn’t have known what to say, otherwise.