Chapter Text
June 2nd, 1945
Damascus, Mandatory Syria
.
England swallows down his anger and pulls himself up, blinking France’s name out of his mind best he can. It takes him a few minutes to calm down and keep himself from thrashing the makeshift table and perhaps a wall or two, but he does it. He does it.
He sweeps the treaty up in his hand, the ink still wet. Then, in spite of his pounding head and thrumming heart, he forces himself to calm down, shoving his hands into his pockets and schooling his expression. He walks out the door without looking back.
“You’re a coward.” France’s voice whispers in the back of his mind. He grimaces and promptly pushes all thoughts of France aside.
Fuck France. Really.
He marches back to his part of the camp, lips a thin line. He doesn’t need to take that shit from anyone, especially someone who has a good portion of his army at gunpoint by way of England’s.
England isn’t the one who threw up his arms and surrendered to Germany at the slightest sign of trouble. He isn’t the one who stops and smells the fucking roses, he isn’t the one who backs away, the one who leaves without a bloody word in the middle of the-
This is stupid. This is so, so stupid. He needs to stop thinking about France so much or it’s going to be the end of him. He frowns, snapping his fingers in front of his eyes and shaking his head, indulging in perhaps more bruxism than necessary. He continues back to the camp without so much as another thought in France’s direction.
The camp looks like a bomb hit it, and for a second England worries that one actually did. The disorganization turns out to be nothing more than human vice, though, which leaves him more peeved than relieved. His cot suffers from similar anarchy, sheets tossed about haphazardly with no regard for order in the stacks of yellow paged books or the radio antenna peeking out from a tossed laundry bag serving as a pillow.
There’s a faint ringing in the back of his ears, and he’s wondering if that’s the tinnitus finally setting in or if he’s just going crazy. He dismisses it, instead electing to fall face first atop his cot and shove his face into his makeshift pillow, not really wanting to get up. Let someone else solve the fucking problems and fight the damn wars and do the bloody diplomacy for once. He could drink tea and eat biscuits and read poetry for a while by the seaside. That would be just lovely…
Buzz.
He glared vaguely in the direction of the noise. “Shut up,” he mumbled into the sheets.
It didn’t, and eventually he was forced to blindly grope at the bedsprings until his hand caught on the radio and he could shove it blearily at his mouth. “‘Ello?” He said, not really feeling like opening his eyes or placating whoever thought to call him or moving in general.
“England?” Who the fuck was this? Someone annoying- god, that could be anyone. France? No, less of a stupid accent. That idiotic French politician that he still couldn’t recall?
“Ye?” He mumbled into the receiver.
“Are you drunk? Already? Wait, what time is it there?” Shuffling noises intercut with static. Wait, he knew that voice. America.
Of course. Who else.
“-The fuck do you want? ”
“-Eight in the morning. Fuck, England, I have more right to be drunk than you.”
“‘M not drunk. Just don’t want to talk to you. Perfectly normal behaviour.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been awake for forty eight hours straight-”
“Try ninety six you novice-”
“Oh no wonder you’re in such a bitchy mood today, that makes sense-”
“Fuck you. I had to deal with France today, you’d be pissed too if you had to talk to that bloody-”
“-no England, I wouldn’t, because I don’t hate everyone around me-”
“-Fuck off.”
“I can’t, I’m across the Atlantic.”
“Try harder.”
There’s a coughing sound from the other end of the line and what sounds like a sigh. “Goddammit,” he’s pretty sure he hears. “I’m just trying to call you to talk business. Can we do that, England? For three seconds?”
“Business is personal for us,” England says. He hears America sigh.
“Yeah, well, bring your personal issues to Potsdam, ‘cause you and me have a meeting with Crazy Commie to discuss what we’re gonna do with Fuckwad Fascist.”
“You know, ‘Fuckwad Freedom Fighter’ has a really nice ring to it? Triple alliteration. Almost poetic, really.”
“What the hell are you on,” America says. England wonders whether he’s unimpressed or upset with England's poetic genius.
England doesn’t say anything in response. “If this is so important, then why the hell is it you calling? Is my boss dead or just stupid enough to talk to you?” Fuck, fuck, why did he say that, America wasn't supposed to know-
There’s a dead ring of silence. When he finally talks, America’s voice sounds scratchy. “Yes, actually, believe me, I don’t call you because I enjoy it. I, actually- I just needed to talk to you about. Y’know. What we said earlier.”
“America, if you could use your words to explain your thoughts to me, I don’t think we can get an etch-a-sketch across the Atlantic that fast-”
“Unthinkable, England, okay! I’m talking about Unthinkable!”
Oh.
That.
He remembers that.
America’s uniform is still slick with sweat when he walks in, and he smells like the fields and gunpowder and sweat and the devil- which is to say, awful. His shoulders droop as soon as he catches sight of England.
“Goddamn. I was really hoping not to see you.” He said, tossing his cap on the table and pulling out a chair, tossing his heels on the table and staring disheartenedly at the papers. England didn’t even bother to scold him for impropriety: wasn’t like the boy ever listened.
“Sentiment returned,” England said. He’d seen more than enough of America in the past few years- the boy was strong as all hell, but God, he became more and more of a nuisance the more time one spent around him. When they saw each other, they always seemed to be delivering bad news. (Though he could still recall the few times America had greeted him with a bright grin and practically crushed him in a hug, saying stupid things like, ‘we beat them, England, we did it’ and ‘this’ll all be over soon, I swear to you.’ They were crystal clear in his memory, but England didn’t like to think about them much.)
He pulled out a chair, sitting down across from his former charge and skimming his finger along the wood until he came across a pen. He had to punch it to paper a few times until the ink worked. Neither one of them said anything.
He supposed that was his job, to start this jilted parody of a conversation. He was the one who’d insisted America be here, after all.
“There’s-”
“I really don’t want to do this, England,” America said. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. The last time England had seen that look, he’d been on the opposite side of a musket. “Haven’t we fought enough? Two world wars in one century, and we’re already angling for three? You guys tryin’ to hit a record or something? Because I don’t know about you, but all I really want is to go home and eat non rationed food in a bed that doesn’t have the consistency of cardboard.”
England’s teeth dug into his cheek. You’d think he was fifteen, the way he talked.
“America.” he began, in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “You know just as well as I that Russia poses an incredible danger not only to Europe, but the world. I don’t think I got through a single meeting in the whole of the war where you two didn’t exchange sharp words of some sort. Just- for the love of God, just fucking read it.” He shoved the papers towards America, having already read them over more times than he could count.
America met and held his gaze, giving him a look that was every bit as stubborn as it’d been in 1773 when he’d pulled a knife on England at dinner and told him, once and finally, to fuck off. He looked as though he was seriously considering tearing the papers to shreds. It made England’s blood boil. The brat hadn’t been through a quarter of the things he had, and to think he was stupid enough to believe his enemies would give him an easy go of it- well, that was all well and good, but England had no plans of suffering for his ignorance.
But America picked up the paper, swung his heels off the table and looked it over. His hands were white knuckled, brow furrowed in concentration; he’d never like reading treaties, said the language was boring and just hiding bullshit. His lips moved as he read.
It took what felt like years, but finally America looked up. His lips were parted a bit, blinking as though taken aback. “England... “ His eye twitched, then his lips, as if he wanted to reflexively give a big smile even though the situation was completely wrong.
“...This is crazy. We can’t…. We can’t fucking invade Russia. We don’t have the manpower! Or the artillery!”
“Yes, and if we wait, soon he’ll have more infantry divisions, armoured divisions, and tactical aircrafts too.”
“But we still have the n-”
“You really think he won’t find a way to replicate it soon enough? Admit it, America, Russia is obviously the biggest threat to you and I and Europe and the whole of the civilized world. If we don’t strike while the iron is hot, we’re sure to get burned.”
“This is insanity, England.”
“And so is waiting for him to attack us. You think I want to see Europe under Communism, America? Or is it just that you care so little you would rather wait and see your enemy win than risk yourself?” He paused, palms flat on the table as he leaned in conspiratorially, voice low.
“Or is it that you’re emotionally compromised?” Because England knew all too well how one could mix up love and hate. He’d made that mistake once.
But that was a long time ago.
America jerked back, as if he’d been slapped. He stood without warning, his chair hitting the wall, eyes wide as saucers. He covered the room in two long steps around the table, jaw set.
One of the things you learn about America if you spend enough time around him is that he’s strong as hell, but he telegraphs his moves. England sees the punch coming from miles away. He blocks easy, slides his palm down so he catches America by the wrist, and locks his gaze.
“Is that it, America. Is that it.” He tilts his head, sure his smile is all teeth. “Don’t lie to me.”
“No,” America says, eyes burning. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, you- you- Goddammit, England, I’m not some paramilitary force you can just jerk around on puppet strings when you need help! Just because you’re- because you’re a paranoid freak doesn’t mean I have to play along with your games! I don’t want to invade Russia, we don’t need to invade Russia, and for fuck’s sake I’m not- I’m not you , I don’t fuck my enemies out of some sick- why the hell are we even bothering with this! I’m sick of war, England, and I thought you might be too, after doing this twice in thirty years! And on the home front, of all things!” He ripped his hand from England’s grip. England couldn’t stop him. America was stronger.
He looks breathless, cheeks red and breathing hard. He’s blinking and England wonders if those are tears in his eyes, because his voice is harsh and accusing as could be. “But no- you’re just a crazy warmonger, aren’t you! And you play games with people’s heads because it’s all you know how to do, and you’re paranoid and manipulative, and, and you haven’t changed one damn bit! And here I was-” He looked at England like he’d lost something, then shook his head.
“-Never mind. Keep your plans. Just don't expect me to play along with your games. I’m not a kid, England. You don’t get to treat me like one. You don’t fool me anymore.”
He walked out the door without so much as a glance. England had no intention of chasing him.
He had been right, after all.
“I remember that.” He says, voice perfectly even. “What does it have to do with anything?” After being around for more than a few centuries, one would think he’d have a better grip on his emotions that this. It didn’t show on him physically, of course- his expression was perfectly neutral, posture relaxed- but still he felt a curl of anger in his chest at the memory, at America for bringing it up.
It was ridiculous, he told himself, and smiled into the receiver. America coughed, static breaking up his voice as he talked.
“Well, uh. You really think R- he would do that? The thing you proposed? The thing we were supposed to be preparing for?”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t believe it, America.” Although it had been his boss that suggested it. But he didn’t disagree.
“Yeah. Uh. Right. Well. How likely do you think that is?”
How likely is it that Russia will establish a sphere of influence over Europe, of which he’ll eventually use to create a base for Communism to spread of the world? I don’t know, do you believe the sun is warm? The sky blue? Yourself an optimist?
He doesn't say any of that. Instead, he asks, voice clipped; “Why do you ask?”
There’s another pause, and this time England just overhears the detestable sound of paper shuffling. “Just wondering,” America says, and his tone is casual enough to pass off for just about anyone, anyone who hadn’t spent the last three years watching him scream and bitch and plan and celebrate and stress on just about any occasion casual diplomacy could manage.
Goddamnit, America. England cursed to himself, trying to organize his cot but only ending up tossing his already lamentably disorganised sheets to the rotted wood flooring, taking down an ancient copy of Great Expectations with it.
He shook his head. Potsdam, right. “When do I need to be there by?” So many messes to clean up, he was starting to lose track.
“Starts tomorrow.” America says. England looks out over the ruins of Damascus and resists a sigh. “And you couldn’t have told me this any earlier? ” He tries and fails to keep annoyance form bleeding into his tone.
“Hey, it’s not my fault you boss didn’t tell you!”
“Yes, and you’re not the one who has to do a nationwide cleanup from bombing…” He mumbles to himself. “And I still have to tie up the loose ends with France’s surrender….” He hears some faint noise from the other end of the line, something like ‘What, France surrendered? Again? To wh-’ But he doesn’t really hear it.
“...And get back to you by the seventeenth.”
“Yeah.” America sounded like he hadn’t caught most of that and didn’t care. “Sure. See you. Don’t die on your way, and get there early so Russia doesn't take the best seats.”
He hangs up. England looks out over Damascus. It’s completely ruined, and he has no time to pick up the pieces, nor ensure the frog is finally out of it. His eye twitches, curling a hand lazily in the tumbled sheets. He thinks it’d be nice to just sit here, a moment further.
But the sun is bright in the dawn sky and he has business to attend to. He curses Germany's name, then America’s, then Russia’s, then France’s for good measure, and pushes to his feet.