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The museum was dead quiet, save for the soft notes of the background music that were coming through the speakers overhead and the whispers of the families and school trips milling around nearby. Most of the groups moved slowly around the lobby and would, eventually, disappear into the branching wings towards the exhibits. The majority of them would look on passively, reading the plaques, studying the artifacts, wonder how people could’ve lived the way they did, and then they would completely forget everything they’d learn and move on to the next one.
It didn’t work that way with America. To these people, her citizens, each exhibit was of a history long passed. They’d only ever learned about it through history books and abandoned artifacts. To her, they were memories, once living and breathing and real. Like the stiff, dusty collection of old farm workers clothes that were protected behind thin panes of glass. They’d once been tested by the harsh, beating rays of the midwestern sun and soaked in the sweat and blood of the worker who had worn them. America herself had worn such an outfit once. After the Civil War and Lincoln’s assassination, she’d gone west to escape the incessance of DC politics and found herself working as a farm hand on a ranch in Oklahoma. She’d worked on that ranch till Roosevelt had managed to hunt her down and bring her back to the White House in the early 1900s.
“Are you alright?” a familiar voice asked her, snapping her out of her reverie and back into the present day. England stood next to the bench she’d taken a seat on, looking down at her with the slightest hint of concern. Even some of England’s history was in this museum, though it probably wasn’t wise for them to visit the Revolutionary War exhibit that had been set up.
“Yup!” she chirped back with a brilliant smile plastered onto her face. She hopped up off the bench and took England’s hand in her own. “I was just thinking.”
“A rarity for you,” England quipped. Fifty years ago, America would’ve taken offense because England would’ve probably meant it. But the venom behind the insults had long faded and, instead, they were accompanied by a soft, almost imperceivable smile and a warm, playfulness in her eyes.
America gave a humorous snort and swung their hands back and forth as they continued down the museum's long hallway. “There’s just a lot of memories here.”
England gave a knowing hum, “Maybe a museum wasn’t the best date idea.”
“I don’t know,” she said back, glancing around at the wall of old western clothing. The nostalgic feel was probably similar to what England felt when she saw memorabilia from her old pirating days. “I kinda like it.”
“Feeling nostalgic, love?” England asked her in amusement.
“Maybe a little,” she answered. She gave England a small, sheepish smile. England had never told her about her pirating days, just as America had never told her about her New Frontier days. There may have been a decade or two where she’d gone outlaw. The small smile turning into a smirk at the thought.
It was something that was immediately wiped off of her face when she saw the next exhibit.
Civil War.
She hadn’t even known it was here. Maybe England had been right, maybe a history museum hadn’t been a good idea for a date.
“America?” England called, concern weighing heavier in her voice than before.
America wasn’t listening. Instead, she was staring at the entrance to the exhibit, marked with a large map of the United States during the Civil War - the Union colored in a deep blue to the north, the Confederacy colored in deep red to the south. Further into the exhibit, England could see mannequins dressed in the opposing uniforms and large pictures of Abraham Lincoln.
England grabbed America’s forearm and led her to one of the benches near the wall. She sat America down on the bench and flashed a reassured smile at a concerned looking family coming out of the exhibit before turning her attention back to her girlfriend. The other woman had gone still and pale, and her blue eyes were glassy and distant.
“Amelia?” she called again, kneeling down in front of her and giving her a gentle shake. “Amelia?”
As if a switch had been flipped, America’s eyes snapped to her and she took a shaky breath. The younger nation attempted a smile, but what came out was feeble and didn’t reach her eyes. It didn’t suit her at all.
“I’m okay,” she told her. England didn’t believe that at all. “I’m okay, it just...it just took me by surprise is all.”
“Maybe we should leave,” England suggested, trying to think of any other activity they could do to get America away from the exhibit. She’d had her fair share of civil wars, true, but none quite as vicious or bloody as America’s had been. She could only imagine the effect it had on the poor girl every time someone brought it up, especially with its outcome so prominent and impactful as hers had been.
“Yeah…” America eventually said shakily, “yeah, I think you’re right.”
Together, the two nations stood up and made their way to the lobby of the museum.
“Hey, England?” America spoke up when they stepped out onto the street. “You were right, maybe the museum wasn’t the best idea.”
There was a long, awkward silence between the two women and they continued down the street. England didn’t know if there was anything she could say to make anything better, but then again she’d never really been the consoling type.
“It's okay to feel like that.” she finally said. “And to have that kind of reaction. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not…” America mumbled underneath her breath. “It’s just...not something I like to remember.”
“Rightfully so.”
England looped her arm through America’s and gave her arm a small pat, instead of choosing to continue the conversation. If America ever wanted to talk about it, she would. England certainly wasn’t going to force her too.
With the conversation’s awkward end, the two women continued walking, content with the silence between them.