[Fanfiction] As It Shall Be My Desire to Make Them
America frowned and twitched his collar back out of England’s hands. “Quit it, England,” he said, trying hard to quash the slow, thick drawl that wanted to creep into his voice. He didn’t need that right now. That was the last thing he needed.
“The folds are uneven,” England snapped back.
America took a deep breath and told himself that it would be a bad idea to lose his temper over a little tiny thing like that. He couldn’t keep himself from tugging his jacket back into its former position all the same. “It’s just fine,” he said. “England, I don’t need this. Really.”
England’s mouth flattened into a tight line. “That’s all fine and good,” he said, “but what are you going to do if no one takes your proposal seriously? What then?”
America swallowed thickly. That was what he was . . . most afraid of. Trust England to go right for it, drag it out in the open without even a pardon. “Well,” he said, and his vowels were pure Boston now, thank God. “You could do something about that, couldn’t you? You could be helping, rather than just doing ‘good business.’ ” He could hear how bitter, how accusing, his tone had gone, and bit his tongue. He’d been trying not to get like that. He really had.
England looked stricken. “I . . . can’t . . .” he started.
“But maybe that’s what you want to see!” America didn’t know where these words were coming from, boiling up from someplace inside of him that was torn and hurt and curled in around a tight, throbbing gash right down the middle of him that was only getting wider. Wider and messier and bloodier, and he . . . he was losing it, losing his grip, losing everything, he could feel it slipping away from him, tumbling away, out of his hold, he- “You want to see me fall apart, don’t you? That’s what you’ve always wanted. See me fail at this.” He realized he was gasping, and his eyelashes felt wet. He’d taken a step forward, and he was standing over England, a lot closer than he should have been, and his fists were clenched. He swallowed tightly, painfully, and tried to take a deep breath.
He blinked, and England looked back at him. He was pale, his eyes huge and green and staring, the kind of blank, dull stare America had seen on the faces of wounded men.
“England-” America said in a whisper. He took a step back. He didn’t . . . he didn’t know what he felt, he didn’t want to go back on the things he’d said, but he’d never, ever, ever wanted to see that look on England’s face. Never again.
England took a deep breath, and then the look was gone, but there was no more color in his face than there had been. “I don’t want that,” he said, his voice brisk but rough, almost hoarse, painfully so. “That’s the last thing I want. You must understand. I . . . I can’t . . .”
“Can’t get involved?” America demanded. His voice sounded jeering and harsh, and he could feel a lump form in his throat at that . . . he’d never wanted to sound like that to England. His hand hit the wall behind England, even as he felt that lump in his throat tighten and twist at how strong, how damn brave England looked standing there, not even flinching, his slimmer shoulders perfectly straight and even and his head high.
“You wanted to be independent,” England said, and despite his erect posture his voice sounded thick and broken. He blinked, and looked away, then turned back to America and straightened his collar again. His hands were shaking, though, tiny little tremors that made him tug America’s collar out of place. England swallowed and tried to fix it again, his hands, his fingers tightening against the heavy black cloth. “Fine,” he said. “Go on, then. Just . . . go on.”
“England, I just want-” America started, but he couldn’t finish. He didn’t know what to say, what he wanted to say, what he’d even been thinking.
“I can’t,” England said rawly. “I . . . won’t recognize the Confederacy. But I can’t . . . no more than that.” He brought his hands away, and took a deep breath. “You wanted this,” he said. “Don’t-you can’t give up now. America. You . . . can’t.”
“You know I won’t,” America said. “You know it. Never.” He thought about back home. How guilty he’d felt to be relieved to leave, sick and nauseated and wrong deep down in his bones. How much he wanted to go back, how it was a pull even now, a pull that tugged, throbbing, through every inch of his body, to go back to where his boys, his men, were dying. He hurt, all over, but there was still sky and freedom and his people and his land and he was more than all of that. He took a deep breath. “England, I-”
England squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, shaking breath. “America,” he said. “Please. No more. Don’t push me. I’m asking you.”
“Just-” America said, and then he cut off in surprise, because England’s hands had settled against his shoulders. They squeezed there, hard, painful, his fingers strong and slim like a vise against America’s muscles. England’s eyes blazed up at him again, green and hard like sea water.
“Go in and speak to them,” he said. “Focus on what you’re going to say.” Those green eyes were burning into him-America swallowed hard. “Do it, America,” England said. He tugged on America’s lapels one last time, then turned him toward the hall. “And don’t-don’t ask me again. Please.” His voice grew thin, strangled, and America looked back over his shoulder, twisted around to look at him, winced as it pulled on wounded, straining muscles, but England’s hand was firm on his shoulder, turning him back. “Face straight ahead,” he said harshly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
America could feel anger rising up, hot and thick and burning behind his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll see. You’ll just . . . see about giving me orders now. Okay?”
“I daresay I will,” England said.
America’s fists clenched at that mocking tone, that coolness in his voice, and his could feel his shoulders straighten and square, the firmness of anger traveling all the way down his spine. “Damn it, England,” he muttered under his breath.
A hand, hard and slim and familiar, brushed against his back, a soft pat that didn’t even hurt over the worst of his wounds, horizontal over his spine. But maybe he’d imagined that. America wasn’t sure. He couldn’t think about it. He set his jaw and clenched his fists and walked into the meeting room, and away from England.
England closed his outstretched hand into a fist, too, and then slammed it against the wall behind him so hard that bruises began to rise, before he turned on his heel and strode stiffly down the corridor. No one could see that moisture clouding his eyes as he walked away, after all, and if it rained in London for the rest of the day and into the night, well, that wasn’t unusual.
End.
Notes: The title comes from a quote by Abraham Lincoln.
From Wikipedia: The British working class population, most notably the British cotton workers suffering the Lancashire Cotton Famine, remained consistently opposed to the Confederacy. A resolution of support was passed by the inhabitants of Manchester, and sent to Lincoln. His letter of reply has become famous.
"... I know and deeply deplore the sufferings which the working people of Manchester and in all Europe are called to endure in this crisis. It has been often and studiously represented that the attempt to overthrow this Government which was built on the foundation of human rights, and to substitute for it one which should rest exclusively on the basis of slavery, was unlikely to obtain the favour of Europe. Through the action of disloyal citizens, the working people of Europe have been subjected to a severe trial for the purpose of forcing their sanction to that attempt. Under the circumstances I cannot but regard your decisive utterances on the question as an instance of sublime Christian heroism which has not been surpassed in any age or in any country. It is indeed an energetic and re-inspiring assurance of the inherent truth and of the ultimate and universal triumph of justice, humanity and freedom.
I hail this interchange of sentiments, therefore, as an augury that, whatever else may happen, whatever misfortune may befall your country or my own, the peace and friendship which now exists between the two nations will be, as it shall be my desire to make them, perpetual."
-Abraham Lincoln, 19 January, 1863
There is now a statue of Lincoln in Manchester, with an extract from his letter carved on the plinth.
“The folds are uneven,” England snapped back.
America took a deep breath and told himself that it would be a bad idea to lose his temper over a little tiny thing like that. He couldn’t keep himself from tugging his jacket back into its former position all the same. “It’s just fine,” he said. “England, I don’t need this. Really.”
England’s mouth flattened into a tight line. “That’s all fine and good,” he said, “but what are you going to do if no one takes your proposal seriously? What then?”
America swallowed thickly. That was what he was . . . most afraid of. Trust England to go right for it, drag it out in the open without even a pardon. “Well,” he said, and his vowels were pure Boston now, thank God. “You could do something about that, couldn’t you? You could be helping, rather than just doing ‘good business.’ ” He could hear how bitter, how accusing, his tone had gone, and bit his tongue. He’d been trying not to get like that. He really had.
England looked stricken. “I . . . can’t . . .” he started.
“But maybe that’s what you want to see!” America didn’t know where these words were coming from, boiling up from someplace inside of him that was torn and hurt and curled in around a tight, throbbing gash right down the middle of him that was only getting wider. Wider and messier and bloodier, and he . . . he was losing it, losing his grip, losing everything, he could feel it slipping away from him, tumbling away, out of his hold, he- “You want to see me fall apart, don’t you? That’s what you’ve always wanted. See me fail at this.” He realized he was gasping, and his eyelashes felt wet. He’d taken a step forward, and he was standing over England, a lot closer than he should have been, and his fists were clenched. He swallowed tightly, painfully, and tried to take a deep breath.
He blinked, and England looked back at him. He was pale, his eyes huge and green and staring, the kind of blank, dull stare America had seen on the faces of wounded men.
“England-” America said in a whisper. He took a step back. He didn’t . . . he didn’t know what he felt, he didn’t want to go back on the things he’d said, but he’d never, ever, ever wanted to see that look on England’s face. Never again.
England took a deep breath, and then the look was gone, but there was no more color in his face than there had been. “I don’t want that,” he said, his voice brisk but rough, almost hoarse, painfully so. “That’s the last thing I want. You must understand. I . . . I can’t . . .”
“Can’t get involved?” America demanded. His voice sounded jeering and harsh, and he could feel a lump form in his throat at that . . . he’d never wanted to sound like that to England. His hand hit the wall behind England, even as he felt that lump in his throat tighten and twist at how strong, how damn brave England looked standing there, not even flinching, his slimmer shoulders perfectly straight and even and his head high.
“You wanted to be independent,” England said, and despite his erect posture his voice sounded thick and broken. He blinked, and looked away, then turned back to America and straightened his collar again. His hands were shaking, though, tiny little tremors that made him tug America’s collar out of place. England swallowed and tried to fix it again, his hands, his fingers tightening against the heavy black cloth. “Fine,” he said. “Go on, then. Just . . . go on.”
“England, I just want-” America started, but he couldn’t finish. He didn’t know what to say, what he wanted to say, what he’d even been thinking.
“I can’t,” England said rawly. “I . . . won’t recognize the Confederacy. But I can’t . . . no more than that.” He brought his hands away, and took a deep breath. “You wanted this,” he said. “Don’t-you can’t give up now. America. You . . . can’t.”
“You know I won’t,” America said. “You know it. Never.” He thought about back home. How guilty he’d felt to be relieved to leave, sick and nauseated and wrong deep down in his bones. How much he wanted to go back, how it was a pull even now, a pull that tugged, throbbing, through every inch of his body, to go back to where his boys, his men, were dying. He hurt, all over, but there was still sky and freedom and his people and his land and he was more than all of that. He took a deep breath. “England, I-”
England squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, shaking breath. “America,” he said. “Please. No more. Don’t push me. I’m asking you.”
“Just-” America said, and then he cut off in surprise, because England’s hands had settled against his shoulders. They squeezed there, hard, painful, his fingers strong and slim like a vise against America’s muscles. England’s eyes blazed up at him again, green and hard like sea water.
“Go in and speak to them,” he said. “Focus on what you’re going to say.” Those green eyes were burning into him-America swallowed hard. “Do it, America,” England said. He tugged on America’s lapels one last time, then turned him toward the hall. “And don’t-don’t ask me again. Please.” His voice grew thin, strangled, and America looked back over his shoulder, twisted around to look at him, winced as it pulled on wounded, straining muscles, but England’s hand was firm on his shoulder, turning him back. “Face straight ahead,” he said harshly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
America could feel anger rising up, hot and thick and burning behind his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll see. You’ll just . . . see about giving me orders now. Okay?”
“I daresay I will,” England said.
America’s fists clenched at that mocking tone, that coolness in his voice, and his could feel his shoulders straighten and square, the firmness of anger traveling all the way down his spine. “Damn it, England,” he muttered under his breath.
A hand, hard and slim and familiar, brushed against his back, a soft pat that didn’t even hurt over the worst of his wounds, horizontal over his spine. But maybe he’d imagined that. America wasn’t sure. He couldn’t think about it. He set his jaw and clenched his fists and walked into the meeting room, and away from England.
England closed his outstretched hand into a fist, too, and then slammed it against the wall behind him so hard that bruises began to rise, before he turned on his heel and strode stiffly down the corridor. No one could see that moisture clouding his eyes as he walked away, after all, and if it rained in London for the rest of the day and into the night, well, that wasn’t unusual.
End.
Notes: The title comes from a quote by Abraham Lincoln.
From Wikipedia: The British working class population, most notably the British cotton workers suffering the Lancashire Cotton Famine, remained consistently opposed to the Confederacy. A resolution of support was passed by the inhabitants of Manchester, and sent to Lincoln. His letter of reply has become famous.
"... I know and deeply deplore the sufferings which the working people of Manchester and in all Europe are called to endure in this crisis. It has been often and studiously represented that the attempt to overthrow this Government which was built on the foundation of human rights, and to substitute for it one which should rest exclusively on the basis of slavery, was unlikely to obtain the favour of Europe. Through the action of disloyal citizens, the working people of Europe have been subjected to a severe trial for the purpose of forcing their sanction to that attempt. Under the circumstances I cannot but regard your decisive utterances on the question as an instance of sublime Christian heroism which has not been surpassed in any age or in any country. It is indeed an energetic and re-inspiring assurance of the inherent truth and of the ultimate and universal triumph of justice, humanity and freedom.
I hail this interchange of sentiments, therefore, as an augury that, whatever else may happen, whatever misfortune may befall your country or my own, the peace and friendship which now exists between the two nations will be, as it shall be my desire to make them, perpetual."
-Abraham Lincoln, 19 January, 1863
There is now a statue of Lincoln in Manchester, with an extract from his letter carved on the plinth.