"A House Divided"--Hetalia
Kink Bingo fill for Begging. Civil War America needs England's help. I did have a vague time frame, but then I got distracted by Wikipedia and trying to figure out how states would work in Hetalia (before deciding that there's just too damn many of them to bother with).
"I didn't expect to see you," said England. "I thought you'd be...occupied."
America grinned savagely. "I've no intention of being occupied." He looked slightly ragged and more than a bit unhinged--classic symptoms of a raging case of civil war.
England had noticed the signs of it thirty years ago. Maybe he might have seen it sooner if they'd been on better terms. Maybe it had always been coming, but that would've meant some of it was his fault.
The last he'd heard from America had been...well, typical of a nation in America's condition. There'd been a letter, written in an even shakier, sloppier version of America's careless hand. Apparently England was to show neither harshness, disrespect, or even impatience towards any part of America--all of which was still America. At that point England had been quite inclined towards harshness and impatience to any portion of America he could get his hands on and had given up on trying to decipher the rest.
"I need your help," said America.
England smirked. "Do you?"
"Please," said America. "He doesn't understand me--I want it to go back to the way it was meant to be."
"Is that so?" England could barely keep from rubbing his hands together and cackling. Oh, how he'd waited for this! And in less than a century, America had come crawling back! Well, not literally crawling--not yet, anyway, but he was going to. And the best part of all was that he'd be able to make American grovel at his feet, and the young nation would thank him for it.
"I never wanted a strong federal government," said America.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Please, just get him to leave me alone," said America. "He's the one who forgotten that we're supposed to respect individual liberties! And the institution of slavery!"
"Er, right. Yes." They seemed to be getting off track. Still, no one was exactly fit for company during a civil war. "And you need me to help you."
America nodded. "I'll do anything."
"I'm not sure I'm convinced," said England.
"Please, England."
"If you really want my help, you'll address me as the British Empire," said England. "And I think you should be on your knees. If you want my help." He hoped it wasn't obvious how stunned he was when America actually did it. England had assumed America would just laugh and tell him to drop dead.
"Please, British Empire," said America. "I'm going to die without your help."
America babbled on, frequently contradicting himself and pleading pathetically. England only half-listened as he tried to think of what he'd demand in exchange for the possibility of assistance--because where was the fun if he offered his help after only a little bit of groveling? He'd wait until America was on the verge of tears--maybe actually weeping as he looked pitifully up at England. And then he'd ask why he should bother or maybe he should just offer to think about it. America sounded very much like someone who'd have his hopes raised at the mere suggestion that England might consider his suit. And then once his hopes were raised, they could probably dashed until an even more interesting performance could be coaxed out of him.
England glanced down at his former colony/current supplicant. The younger nation looked tired and poor--somehow he even managed to look smaller. Something wasn't quite right.
"France won't acknowledge me," America was saying. "Not unless you will."
"What on Earth are you talking about? France acknowledged you--without my bloody goodwill--before anyone else did."
"I mean now," said America. "I...I really thought you all'd help me. He'll kill me if you don't."
"Who's he?" England asked. He suspected he already knew the answer.
"That damn yankee."
"That's you," said England. "You're the--"
"I am not!"
"Then who exactly are you talking about?"
"United States."
America hadn't come to grovel and humiliate himself--a fraction of him had. (Sadly it was still over a hundred years before England could know that he'd thought America's civil war symptoms would manifest like Fight Club, but were instead more like that one episode of Star Trek. It'd be another twenty before he could wonder if America would suddenly turn into...the other half of America like Mr. Hyde turning back into Dr. Jekyll.)
All the fun seemed to have gone out of it now that he realized how bad it actually was and what he was actually being asked. "Go home, America," said England. He would have asked what this portion of America was calling himself now, but he suspected it would only lead to trouble.
"England!" Confederate States grabbed the hem of his jacket.
England gently pried his fingers loose. "Go home and finish your war. You'll feel better in a few years."
"You don't understand. He's got all the factories--I've got farms." Confederate States clutched his hands. "He doesn't really want me back; he just wants to hurt me."
"You're not a new country. You've just got a particularly nasty case of civil war," said England. "I'm sure you won't even remember most of it--you can barely remember what happened fifty years ago as it is."
"But I'm supposed to be the hero," Confederate States whined. "I'd be winning if not for his superior strategy and his blockade."
"Blockade," said England, visions of high seas adventure and ridiculous profits dancing in his head. "Perhaps we could work something out. As long as you remember that I'm completely neutral." He was thought of the sleek, fast ships he could build and how good it would be to remind America--either of him--who still ruled the waves. He so thoroughly enjoyed thinking about the look on America's smug face that he didn't even notice how relieved and grateful Confederate States looked.
"I didn't expect to see you," said England. "I thought you'd be...occupied."
America grinned savagely. "I've no intention of being occupied." He looked slightly ragged and more than a bit unhinged--classic symptoms of a raging case of civil war.
England had noticed the signs of it thirty years ago. Maybe he might have seen it sooner if they'd been on better terms. Maybe it had always been coming, but that would've meant some of it was his fault.
The last he'd heard from America had been...well, typical of a nation in America's condition. There'd been a letter, written in an even shakier, sloppier version of America's careless hand. Apparently England was to show neither harshness, disrespect, or even impatience towards any part of America--all of which was still America. At that point England had been quite inclined towards harshness and impatience to any portion of America he could get his hands on and had given up on trying to decipher the rest.
"I need your help," said America.
England smirked. "Do you?"
"Please," said America. "He doesn't understand me--I want it to go back to the way it was meant to be."
"Is that so?" England could barely keep from rubbing his hands together and cackling. Oh, how he'd waited for this! And in less than a century, America had come crawling back! Well, not literally crawling--not yet, anyway, but he was going to. And the best part of all was that he'd be able to make American grovel at his feet, and the young nation would thank him for it.
"I never wanted a strong federal government," said America.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Please, just get him to leave me alone," said America. "He's the one who forgotten that we're supposed to respect individual liberties! And the institution of slavery!"
"Er, right. Yes." They seemed to be getting off track. Still, no one was exactly fit for company during a civil war. "And you need me to help you."
America nodded. "I'll do anything."
"I'm not sure I'm convinced," said England.
"Please, England."
"If you really want my help, you'll address me as the British Empire," said England. "And I think you should be on your knees. If you want my help." He hoped it wasn't obvious how stunned he was when America actually did it. England had assumed America would just laugh and tell him to drop dead.
"Please, British Empire," said America. "I'm going to die without your help."
America babbled on, frequently contradicting himself and pleading pathetically. England only half-listened as he tried to think of what he'd demand in exchange for the possibility of assistance--because where was the fun if he offered his help after only a little bit of groveling? He'd wait until America was on the verge of tears--maybe actually weeping as he looked pitifully up at England. And then he'd ask why he should bother or maybe he should just offer to think about it. America sounded very much like someone who'd have his hopes raised at the mere suggestion that England might consider his suit. And then once his hopes were raised, they could probably dashed until an even more interesting performance could be coaxed out of him.
England glanced down at his former colony/current supplicant. The younger nation looked tired and poor--somehow he even managed to look smaller. Something wasn't quite right.
"France won't acknowledge me," America was saying. "Not unless you will."
"What on Earth are you talking about? France acknowledged you--without my bloody goodwill--before anyone else did."
"I mean now," said America. "I...I really thought you all'd help me. He'll kill me if you don't."
"Who's he?" England asked. He suspected he already knew the answer.
"That damn yankee."
"That's you," said England. "You're the--"
"I am not!"
"Then who exactly are you talking about?"
"United States."
America hadn't come to grovel and humiliate himself--a fraction of him had. (Sadly it was still over a hundred years before England could know that he'd thought America's civil war symptoms would manifest like Fight Club, but were instead more like that one episode of Star Trek. It'd be another twenty before he could wonder if America would suddenly turn into...the other half of America like Mr. Hyde turning back into Dr. Jekyll.)
All the fun seemed to have gone out of it now that he realized how bad it actually was and what he was actually being asked. "Go home, America," said England. He would have asked what this portion of America was calling himself now, but he suspected it would only lead to trouble.
"England!" Confederate States grabbed the hem of his jacket.
England gently pried his fingers loose. "Go home and finish your war. You'll feel better in a few years."
"You don't understand. He's got all the factories--I've got farms." Confederate States clutched his hands. "He doesn't really want me back; he just wants to hurt me."
"You're not a new country. You've just got a particularly nasty case of civil war," said England. "I'm sure you won't even remember most of it--you can barely remember what happened fifty years ago as it is."
"But I'm supposed to be the hero," Confederate States whined. "I'd be winning if not for his superior strategy and his blockade."
"Blockade," said England, visions of high seas adventure and ridiculous profits dancing in his head. "Perhaps we could work something out. As long as you remember that I'm completely neutral." He was thought of the sleek, fast ships he could build and how good it would be to remind America--either of him--who still ruled the waves. He so thoroughly enjoyed thinking about the look on America's smug face that he didn't even notice how relieved and grateful Confederate States looked.